I'm sleepy

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Daryl Dixon:

Nightmares

Play fighting

Keeping warm ৻ꪆ

Taking it slow Taking it slow 2 ৻ꪆ

Headcannons

Shitty burger joint

Pure Relaxation

Home and Healing

So this is love

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Travis (Gossip):

Class crush

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Logan Howlett/Wolverine:

Art class

Shut up and listen to the music

Old clothes

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Karl Heisenberg:

Headcannons

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Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier:

Personal hair care

One room, one bed, one hell of a night

The prison was rarely quiet—there was the constant groan of the fence line, the rhythmic thud of chores, and the sound of metal against concrete. But today, there was a soft, shimmering sound that didn’t belong. It was airy and sweet, weaving through the stagnant, humid air like a ribbon. It caught Daryl at the end of the corridor, making him tilt his head as it pulled him off his path. He expected a radio that caught the ghost of a signal, or maybe a music box someone had salvaged from a run. As he rounded the corner, the sight made him freeze. 

You sat on a crate, wiping the same spot on your holster repeatedly, your movements synced to the slow, three-beat rhythm of a waltz. “So this is love” drifted through the air from a battered CD player salvaged from a run. Daryl had seen you bloodied, exhausted, and lethal enough to kill a walker without blinking—but he hadn’t expected this. He hadn't expected the half-closed eyes, the faint smile tugging at your lips, or the way you tilted your head to the melody, as if you were miles away from the rot and the walkers. You hadn't looked this at ease since the CDC—that fleeting moment of hope before the world narrowed back down to survival.

Watching you, he caught a glimpse of who you might have been before the world fell. That softness made his chest ache with a sudden, violent need to shield you. The world had tried to grind everyone down to nothing but bone and instinct, yet here you were, clinging to something beautiful. It was a defiance many had lost and it was as fragile as the silver disc spinning in the player.

He lingered in the doorframe's shadow, simply watching. He didn't want to move; he was terrified that the mere scrape of his boots would break the spell, dragging you back into the harsh, gray light of the prison. He wanted the song to last because he wanted to burn the image of your happiness into his memory. 

When it finally neared the end, he finally stepped forward. Still distracted, you didn’t notice him until he cleared his throat. “Watcha listenin’ ta?” 

You reach over to the CD player, turning the volume down rather than off. “I found a Cinderella soundtrack. I thought it’d be nice for Judith, but… I guess it was better for me,” you said with a small, sheepish laugh bubbling up.

Daryl didn’t offer a grin, but the hardness in his eyes softened. He didn’t mock the choice, nor did he lecture you on the lack of room for fairytales in this world. “Betta than tha noise out there.” 

You finally looked down at the holster in your lap, realizing you’d spent the last five minutes polishing the same spot. “Is it ridiculous?” You began, looking up to catch his gaze. “Finding peace in a children’s movie?” 

He shifted his weight, taking a couple steps closer but still leaving a respectable distance. “If it keeps your head right, it ain’t a waste.” 

​You let out a soft laugh and set the holster aside. “I think you’d appreciate the story, Daryl. It’s about someone who’s treated like dirt but ends up being the most important person in the room.” You tilted your head, watching him. “Sound like anyone you know?”

​He scowled, though without heat, his eyes darting to the concrete. “Don’t start with that,” he grumbled, but he didn't turn to leave. He hated how easily you peeled back his layers.

​To everyone else, Daryl Dixon was just the tracker—the muscle, a man who survived on rainwater and spite. But you looked at him with the same quiet focus you gave the music, as if he were the miracle the song promised. It terrified him. He shifted his weight, thumbs hooking into his belt loops. “Who treated her like dirt? Her own folks?”

​“Her step-family,” you explained softly, leaning back against the cool stone wall. “They tried to make her believe she didn’t deserve anything more than the cinders she slept in, but she didn’t let that define her. She kept her heart kind, even when the world was anything but. In the end, she got her happy ending.”

​Daryl snorted—a sharp, cynical sound that echoed in the quiet hall—but the scoff died quickly as his gaze lingered on you. He looked back at the CD player, where the disc spun in a slow, silver blur, the next track playing quietly between you. You could see the wheels turning behind his eyes, the way he weighed his own life against the story of a girl in the ashes.

​He wanted to argue. To tell you there were no miracles in this world, only luck. He wanted to say he wasn't the kind of man who earned a happy ending, but then he looked at your face. Seeing the tension drain from your shoulders, leaving you looking more alive than you had in months, the argument died in his throat.

He stood in the silence, filled only by the faint, dreamy music. This time, he didn't brush it off. He looked at you—really looked at you—and realized that if you still believed in kindness after everything you’d witnessed, he had no right to call it a fairy tale. He certainly had no right to crush the dreams keeping you going.

​The moment hung between you, fragile and heavy, until the thud of boots echoing from the corridor broke the spell. Rick appeared, the weight of leadership slumped across his shoulders. His gaze narrowed, landing first on the source of the music before shifting to you. 

​“We can’t be wastin’ batteries,” Rick said. His voice was level and firm, but there was a sharp edge of annoyance to it—the sound of a man who was counting every supply. 

The light in your eyes didn’t just flicker; it completely shattered under the crushing weight of reality. Your hand trembled as you reached for the player, your stomach twisting with a sudden, sharp guilt at wasting supplies on something so useless. “Sorry, I–” your voice shook as you began, your head dropping as you prepared to click the power off.

“Let ‘er listen.”

The growl was low, vibrating through the air before Rick could say another word. He blinked, clearly surprised. Daryl was the first to nod, the first to point out what was practical and what wasn’t, usually was the first one to scoff at anything that wasn’t a survival necessity.

Rick’s eyebrows shot up, his head tilting toward him. “Daryl, we’re low on—”

“I’ll find more,” Daryl interrupted, his voice sharp and final. He didn’t even look Rick in the eye. His gaze was entirely on you. “Ain’t doin’ no harm.”

Rick looked between the two of you, his jaw tight. He didn’t have the energy for an argument over a few batteries. With a weary sigh and a final, lingering look of disapproval, he turned and disappeared back into the depths of the prison.

Daryl began to follow, but he stopped after two steps. He shot a look over his shoulder, his eyes searching yours. He wanted to make sure Rick’s words hadn’t completely ruined it—that the reality of this place hadn’t choked out the small bit of light he’d just witnessed. You didn’t turn the music back up; you just started at the holster in your lap, the shame still burning in your chest. He hated seeing that look on you—the way you had folded back into yourself. 

“Don’t turn it off,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “He’s just cranky. Listen ‘til the damn things die.”

A heavy sigh escaped your lips, the tension finally draining out of your shoulders. A small, genuine smile broke out—not the dreamy one from before, but one of deep, quiet gratitude. Rick’s reprimand had stung, but Daryl’s words had much more of an impact. He was giving you permission to hold on to a piece of yourself, and that meant everything.

He lingered for a second longer than necessary, as if making sure you weren’t going to cry, before he finally vanished around the corner, the sound of his boots much heavier than the music.

The woods surrounding the prison were thick with the smell of damp earth and rot, a heavy reminder of the world beyond the fences. Daryl moved silently, his eyes scanning the floor not for tracks or movement, but for a flash of color that didn’t belong. He was supposed to be checking the snares and checking for signs of a fresh herd. Maybe even hunting a buck. But he wanted to give you something that Rick couldn’t take away. Something that didn’t need batteries or permission.

He pushed deeper into the woods, the orange light of the fading sun barely flickering through the dense trees. The shadows were warning him that he should be getting back inside the gates, but just as he was about to turn around, he saw it. A flash of deep, vivid crimson against the tangled green. Wild raspberries.

To him, finding these berries in a patch of thorns felt like a miracle. The dirt was sandy and crumbly, little patches of grass browned from struggling to grow. It was a miserable, dead place, yet it had produced something sweet.

He dropped his crossbow into the dirt beside him and sank to his knees, not caring that the reckless habit could get him killed if a walker stumbled out of the brush. His hands parted the thorny branches away, the sharp briars cutting through the rough calluses of his skin, drawing thin lines of blood. Lacking a basket or bowl, he pulled a relatively clean rag from his pocket and laid it across his palm. He treated the tiny berries with more care than he treated his own wounds, picking until his knuckles were slick with blood in a dozen places and ignoring the sting.

“So this is love...”

​He grunted, shaking the thought away, but he couldn't shake the image of you—that dreamy trance, the way you looked so damn beautiful without the world’s weight crushing your shoulders. The lyrics you’d explained kept rattling in his brain like a stone in his boot. He looked down at his bleeding hands, at the bright red juice staining his skin. If this wasn't love, why the hell was he on his knees in the dirt, bleeding for you?

He carefully folded the corners of the rag over the berries, cradling the small package in his palm. They were a little squished, the deep red juice already seeping into the cloth. It was a piece of the world that hadn’t rotted yet. 

By the time Daryl slipped back through the prison gates, the sun had completely dipped below the horizon. Night had fully settled over the cellblock. The moon was a sharp sliver in the sky, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. The prison was quiet now, except for the low, distant groans of the fence line, but as Daryl walked down the corridor toward his own cell, he stopped.

It was faint, barely louder than a breath, but it instantly hooked into his chest. 

You were humming.

It was the same tune from earlier, rolling softly through the dark block. Daryl took a deep, quiet breath, his boots making almost no sound as he shifted his path and stepped toward your cell. He stopped by the entrance, leaning his shoulder against the metal bars as he lifted the blanket covering your doorway just slightly. In the dim moonlight, he could see you sitting on the edge of your cot, your knees pulled up to your chest as you looked out the small window. 

The dreamy look was back, but it was muted by the shadows, a little heavier now that the day was over. He didn’t announce himself as he stepped in. Based on your faraway look, you wouldn’t have noticed him anyway. 

“Still at it?” he muttered, though there was a strange, nervous energy in his voice.

You gasped softly at the sound of his voice, though you weren’t truly startled. “Guess I am. I can’t get it out of my head.” You said with a small, embarrassed smile that pulled at his heart.  It was a look he wouldn’t mind seeing again.

Daryl didn’t reply right away. He stepped fully into the little space, his eyes briefly sweeping over the few minor comforts you’d managed to find to make the concrete cell look more like a room. There were some postcards pinned to the walls and some pictures from magazines. 

“That song... it’s about... findin’ somethin’, right?” he asked, the words hesitant as they left his mouth.

You tilted your head, your smile softening. “It’s about finding love, Daryl.”

Daryl looked down at the stained, folded rag in his hand, then back up at you through the dark fringe of his hair. “Thought it just sounded like... hopin’ for somethin’.”

Before you could fully process the vulnerability in his voice, he slowly extended his hand, unfolding the fabric. His knuckles were raw and crisscrossed with thin, dark lines of blood, some cuts still weeping. “Found these for ya.” What he didn’t say was that he had spent two hours wandering dangerous woods in search of them.

You stood up, stepping closer to look at the bundle, but your eyes immediately bypassed the fruit and landed on the state of his skin. “Oh, Daryl… Your hands are all torn up.” 

“Ain’t nothin’.” he grumbled quickly, shifting his weight and tucking his other hand—the more mangled one—safely behind his back. “Just eat ‘em ‘fore they go bad.” 

You hesitated for a second, looking from his guarded expression down to the bright, crushed berries in his palm. Carefully, with two hands, you took the bundle from him, your breath hitching when you almost lost a berry. When the cloth is secure in your hand, you bring one up to your lips, his eyes tracking each of your movements. The moonlight caught in his gaze, making them shine.

“So this is love, huh? Bringing me half-squashed raspberries?” You said with a teasing smile. 

“Don’t go startin’ with that fairytale bullshit,” he mumbled, his voice rougher than usual as he tried to swallow down the sudden flutter in his chest. He was deeply grateful that the shadows hid the flush on his cheeks. 

You popped another berry into your mouth, the sweetness sharp and fresh compared to the stale crackers and bread you were used to eating. “They’re perfect. Thank you, Daryl.” You looked down at the bundle, then back up at him. “Did you have any?”

Daryl shook his head. “Nah. Picked ‘em for you.”

“You went through all that work and you didn’t even have one?” You said with a bewildered laugh.

Then you pinched a plump, dark red raspberry between your fingers. Instead of putting it in your own mouth, you stepped closer into his space and brought it up to his lips.

Daryl froze. His eyes tracked your fingers, his gaze catching the faint moonlight until his blue eyes practically shone in the dark. He didn’t move, barely even breathed, entirely paralyzed by the sheer gentleness of the gesture. For a second, you thought he might pull away, but then his jaw softened. He leaned forward just a fraction and parted his lips, taking the berry from your fingers.

The brush of your fingertips against his chapped skin made him have to repress a shudder. He chewed slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. The rich, sweet flavour bursted against his tongue, reminding him how long he’d had something that didn’t come out of a can. 

“Good?” you murmured, your voice dropping a register in the quiet of the night.

“Yeah,” he managed, the word rough and gravelly in the back of his throat. 

The silence settled over the cell again, thicker this time, heavy with a tension that didn’t feel dangerous—just entirely unfamiliar to him. You turned to set the bundle down on your cot, still humming the melody under your breath without even realizing it.

When you turned back around, the sight made your breath hitch. 

Daryl was standing in the center of the room with his head ducked low, his greasy shaggy hair falling forward to form a dark curtain that hid his eyes from you, the moon highlighting the texture. His shoulders were hunched and his jaw was set tight. He was more vulnerable than you’d ever seen him. His hand was extended to you, with his palm facing up and his fingers curled in. The moonlight caught all the crimson lines in his skin. He didn’t look up at you. He couldn’t.

“Don’t… Don’t know the steps,” he muttered to the floor, his voice so low and gravelly it was barely a whisper. “But I can stand still if you need somethin’ to lean on.” 

For a long moment, you couldn’t move. You stared at his open palm, your heart hammering against your ribs. The sight made your gaze blurred slightly, a sudden prickle stinging your eyes. Of all the things you expected from the hardened tracker, this was the furthest from it. It was the bravest, softest thing he had ever done. To anyone else, he was nothing more than muscle, sharp edges, and defensive growls. But here the raw honesty of his posture struck you right in the chest. He looked so incredibly beautiful in his awkwardness, taking more courage to offer you his bloodied hand that it would be to face a herd. 

Not letting him wait a second more, you closed the small distance between you. Your hand settled his palm, his skin was warm, rough as sandpaper, and mapped with fresh scabs. He didn’t close his grip right away, but the way his fingers curled around yours was so cautious, so gentle, it made your throat ache. With your free hand, you reached up, your fingers lightly brushing the side of his face. The coarse hair of his beard scratched against your palm as you gently coaxed him to look at you. 

“You don’t have to know.” You whispered, your voice a soothing balm in the quiet. “Just sway with me.”

Slowly he tilted his head up, his eyes locking onto yours through the mess of his hair. He looked completely out of his depth here, but his gaze told you that he trusted you. His eyes were so pretty, you thought. Strands of dark, messy hair parted just enough to reveal them. Caught in the stark, silver beam of the moon, they were guarded yet intensely focused, a deep, liquid blue that reflected the moonlight and everything he couldn’t bring himself to say.

You closed the rest of the distance between you and took his other hand, the one he had tried to hide behind his back, and gently guided it to your waist. “Hold your hand here, like this.” 

When his palm brushed the curve of your waist, he instinctively brought it a few inches higher, resting on your ribs rather than your hip. The touch felt too intimate, a heavy weight he wasn’t sure he had the right to claim. He didn’t want to press his luck, and more than anything, he didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable. He wanted to hold you, but more than that, he wanted you to feel safe.

“Like that?” he breathed, looking for any hint of discomfort in your eyes. 

“Perfect.” You said, resting your hand on his chest. The leather of his vest beneath your hand was still cool from the night air. 

You gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, grounding him in the quiet space between you. Then, ever so softly, you began to hum with a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You shifted your weight in a slow, easy sway. Daryl, as promised, stayed rigidly still, watching you enter that dreamy world once more. The dust motes in the surrounding air, caught in the silver beam of the moon, made your dirty work clothes look like they’re shimmering with magic dust. The way the moon caught the edge of your relaxed shoulders, the way you swayed with your eyes half closed, made him feel as if he were holding something incredibly precious.

Slowly, the rigid tension in his posture began to bleed out. He didn’t try to step or follow, but as you swayed, he let his body follow yours. The initial awkwardness that left him rigid faded into the quiet shadows of the cell. His hand on your ribs softened, his fingers spreading out slightly to feel the rise and fall of your breath.

Your eyes fluttered shut as you rested your head against his chest. Against his broad frame, a profound sense of safety washed over you. The world outside the walls was loud, chaotic, and violent, but pressed against him, the noise of the apocalypse faded into nothing. Beneath your ear you could hear the frantic beat of his heart slowly into the rhythm of your hum. 

He swallowed hard, his throat tight as he felt the complete surrender in your posture. He brought his chin down slightly, his rough cheek brushing against the crown of your hair before finally resting his head against yours. He closed his eyes, finally letting out a long, shaky breath he felt like he’d been holding since he saw Rick dim your world. 

Daryl wasn’t just hearing the song anymore. He was feeling it.

With each hum, the low, sweet melody vibrated directly against his chest. Every soft, rhythmic breath you took penetrated his skin, sinking deep past his ribs to where his heart was beating. The melody seeped into him, smoothing out the rough edges of his thoughts until the rhythm of your humming became the only thing holding him together.

He never knew what heaven was supposed to be like–during his life he was shown different versions of hell, but now, heaven was right here, wrapped in the safe, breathing warmth of your body against his chest. The key to all heaven is mine, the song had promised, and for tonight it belonged to him, held tight in his bloodied, calloused palm. But he was a man who was used to things being ripped out of his grasp every time they started to feel good, or real. He wasn’t sure if tomorrow you would still look at him like this. His grip tightened on you, his hand moving down from your ribs to the small of your back, anchoring you closer to him, and his nose buried itself in your hair. He was terrified that if he let go, the key would turn, the lock would click, and he’d be locked out of heaven forever.

You felt the sudden, desperate tension lock up his muscles, and heard the sharp catch of his breath above your head. It was a familiar grip you knew all too well. Your humming softened and your saying paused for just a moment. As your hand slid from his shoulder, it traced the leather of his vest before wrapping securely around the back of his neck, your fingers tangling into his messy hair. You felt a shudder run through his broad shoulders as he processed the weight of your response. A sigh left his lips against your hair, and his grip loosened just a fraction. As that long, shaky sigh leaves his lips, his entire chest deflates against yours. His broad shoulders dropped, the heavy, defensive hunch finally straightening out as he leaned into you.

Slowly, without a single word, you began to sway again. You picked up the melody right where you left off, your voice a low, soothing vibration. The rhythm of his breathing changed. It shifted from shallow, ragged pants to deep, rhythmic rises that matched yours. His fingers relaxed against the small of your back, no longer gripping you out of terror, but cradling you out of a profound, quiet devotion. 

The tightness in his chest unraveled until the suffocating pressure that had lived behind his ribs for years simply evaporated into the cool night air. For the first time in his life, his heart had wings and it could fly, just like the song said, carried entirely by the steady rhythm of your voice. You weren’t going anywhere. You were right here, holding onto him just as tightly as he was holding onto you. Knowing you were choosing to stay in his arms, matching him, unburdened his soul in a way he didn’t think was possible. 

As the melody wrapped around the two of you in the darkness again, he felt a quiet, staggering realization in his chest. So this is the miracle that I’m dreamin’ of. The song’s line echoed in the quiet depths of his mind, no longer a silly lyric. He had been waiting all damn day to see you like this again, to see that small smile return, and to prove to himself that the cruelty of this world hadn’t won. He’d been carrying the image of you around since the afternoon, a quiet obsession he hadn’t known how to quiet down that had driven him to dig his bare fingers into a briar patch. Now, with the weight of your head resting against his chest, it was you, choosing to hold on to him in the dark, that was his damn miracle he had been hoping for. 

Until tonight, love was a word part of a phrase I’ve often heard. A line that hit too close to home. To Daryl, it had always been a useless, heavy word, a concept that belonged to other people, to better families, to a life he’d never live. For the first time in his life, the word didn’t feel like a weapon used to disappoint him or a lie told to keep people happy. It felt like this. It was the way your fingers tangled unbothered in his dirty hair. It was the way he had offered to be completely vulnerable in your presence, and instead of breaking him down, you had met him there. It was the way you didn’t flinch at the rough sandpaper texture of his skin or the dark, dried blood on his knuckles, but instead treated his hands like they were something worth holding.

He didn’t just want to protect this side of you anymore. He was entirely, helplessly consumed by it. This was it. This was the thing people died for. This was what it felt like to want to keep someone alive, not just so you wouldn’t be alone, but because the world was simply better with their light in it.

The final notes of your humming tapered off into a breathless whisper, yet neither of you moved. The silence that returned to the cell block didn’t bring the cold, heavy weight of reality back with it. Instead, it felt like a warm blanket wrapped tightly around the space you shared. You didn’t pull away, and Daryl didn’t let go. If anything, his grip remained steady, holding you against the solid planes of his chest. With your eyes still closed, you simply let your head remain heavy against his shirt, your cheek pressing into the worn material. His heartbeat was slow now, a heavy, reassuring sequence that echoed right through his ribs. It was the steadiest thing in this broken world. 

His chin nudged into the crook of your shoulder, the movement feeling natural, as if his body had been waiting for months for this. His arms, usually reserved for the weight of his crossbow, held you carefully, almost reverently. He kept you pressed close enough that there wasn’t a gap of air between you. He held you as if he were memorizing the way your weight shifted naturally against his, the way your warmth soaked through layers of fabric and dirt. He didn’t trust his own voice to break the stillness, so he let his actions do the talking.Slowly and reluctantly, he pulled away, but kept your hand in his as he gave you a small, awkward twirl, making you laugh. It was such a genuinely beautiful sound, a reward in itself.

You stumbled slightly, the sudden movement catching you off guard, but making your heart swell. “You’re not that bad a dancer.” You said warmly as he pulled you back in. 

“Tha’ wasn’t really dancin’...” he mumbled while keeping his head down again, his hair acting as a curtain to keep you out.

​“You still won’t look at me?” you asked softly, brushing his hair back, trying to coax him into meeting your gaze.

His stiffened beneath your touch, his jaw tensing so hard beneath your fingers you could feel the muscles jumping. He kept his gaze entirely on your feet, his jaw working as if he were trying to chew through his own restraint. He knew what would happen if he looked up and saw that soft, unwavering gaze of his. He’d break past the barricades that always held him back. 

“Daryl?” you whispered, the plea in your voice stripping away the last of his defenses. He didn’t want to look. Looking meant acknowledging that this was real, but he couldn’t ignore that tone. 

Daryl finally stopped fighting, his shoulders slumping as if the very air had been knocked out of him. When his gaze finally fell on yours, he didn’t feel the judgment or pity that he had come to expect from the world. He only saw you; steady, open, and dangerously soft. He wasn’t just looking, but searching. Searching for some desperate sign that this wasn’t a dream he was about to wake up from. 

He wasn’t just looking for an answer; ​he was looking for permission. You could see the internal war raging behind his eyes, the way his pupils dilated as he drank you in. He didn’t need to say anything; his gaze dropped to your lips for a fleeting, tortured second before snapping back to your eyes, a silent confession that screamed, you don’t know what you’re doing to me. You leaned in just an inch, your fingers sliding from his hair down to the rough, bristled line of his jaw, tracing the edge of his bottom lip—giving him all the permission he needed.

The contact of your skin against his broke down the last of his walls. He didn’t hesitate. He moved with clumsy, desperate speed, his hand at the small of your back splaying out as he pulled you into him and the other cupping your cheek. Then his lips met yours, with a rough urgency, a frantic need to prove you were real. He was so overwhelmed he almost stumbled, his heavy boots scuffing against the concrete before he caught his footing. 

The kiss wasn’t polished or practised–it was rough and starved. His teeth hit yours a couple times, a testament to his lack of experience and his overwhelming need. He groaned into the kiss, his body pressing you back until your shoulders hit the cold stone of the cell wall, leaving you stumbling to match his pace. The sweetness left by the raspberries on your tongue was addictive, leaving him chasing it. 

You were caught in a strong current you couldn’t fight but more importantly didn’t want you. His hands were frantic, not sure where to be. One moment they were gripping your waist, pinning you to the wall. The next they were gently tracing the soft skin of your jaw, then getting tangled in your hair. As his mouth moved over yours, you felt his entire world pouring into the kiss. He was a man who spent his life surviving by closing himself off and was now wide open. 

You felt him everywhere: his palms wandering, the scratch of his stubble, and the grounding weight of his body against yours. You pulled him closer, your fingers digging into the worn leather of his vest, desperate to pull him out of the cold, harsh reality of the prison and into this burning moment. Daryl’s hand shifted from your cheek, his fingers weaving firmly into your hair to tilt your head back, granting him better access. A dizzy sensation took over you, not just from the moment but the raw intensity of him. 

Beneath your hand you could feel his heart beating, syncing with the fast pace of your own. Finally, your hand tugged on his hair so you could catch your breath. He seemed to realize how hard he was pressing you against the stone, and he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours and his nose brushing yours. His breathing was heavy, fanning against your face in long huffs. “That’s why…” he started before swallowing heavily, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “That’s why I wouldn’t look at ya. Knew that would happen.” 

You let out a shaky, breathless laugh, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw before coming to rest, cupping his cheek. “I’m glad you did.” You whispered. 

​He stared into your eyes for a long, searching moment, his vulnerability laid bare in the moonlight. “Was it… was it okay?” he asked, his voice suddenly small and sheepish.

“You’re lucky teeth don’t bruise.” You couldn’t help but let out a loud, bright, genuine laugh. 

His cheeks turned a shade of red that the dim light couldn’t hide. “Didn’t mean to…” he started, his voice trailing off as his gaze dropped to your lips again. He leaned in, his lips ghosting over yours with a moment of hesitation before gently pressing into them. This kiss was the complete opposite of the first. It was stripped of the frantic, starved desperation, much slower and more deliberate. He moved with caution, wanting this to be enjoyable for you. His hands, which gripped you with white-knuckled intensity, slid with careful tenderness until they cradled your cheek. He took his time, learning the shape of your mouth and learning how much pressure to apply. This time he didn’t push you against the wall but pulled you close to his chest. 

With a soft breath he pulled back slightly, his lips still brushing against yours as he whispered, “How was tha’?” 

“Better.” You answered softly, keeping your eyes closed as you closed the distance once more for one final peck. Then they lazily open as he takes a step back. 

His gaze swept over to the door for a lingering second, but before he could get a word out, you hooked a finger around the collar of his shirt. “Uh-uh. You’re not going anywhere, mister.” 

You dragged him across the cell, and his feet moved with you before his brain could register. You looked up at him as you sat on your bed, then suddenly dragged him down with you. Daryl didn’t put up a fight, though his body remained stiff, unsure and unused to the proximity. He hovered over you awkwardly. 

“Lay down, Daryl,” you said softly, but firm enough that he complied without a second thought. His arms came across your waist and his head rested right on your chest, just under your head. 

“This good?” He asked, searching your eyes once more in the moonlight. “Not hurtin’ ya or anythin’?” 

“Mhm,” you answered, brushing his hair back. Then you reached for a berry from the bundle beside your bed and brought it up to his lips. This time he didn’t fight. He leaned in, letting you feed him, and his eyes fluttered shut as he chewed and savored the flavor—the sweetness reminding him of your lips.

You ate a berry of your own, keeping your eyes on him the whole time. The look was tender and filled with warmth, something he wasn’t used to, but damn, he was starting to get used to it quickly. He stayed quiet, his cheek pressed against the steady rise and fall of your chest, finding peace he thought was gone in this life. 

You reached for another, your fingers brushing his bottom lip before you pressed the fruit into his mouth. He caught your wrist before you could pull your hand back, pressing a warm kiss to the center of your palm. He kept your hand there, pressing your palm against his stubbled cheek. “Been thinkin’ bout you all damn day.” He admitted faintly, without a second thought. 

You felt the vibration of the confession right against your chest. You threaded your fingers into his hair, scratching gently at his scalp. “Really? All day?” 

He nodded while leaning into your hand. “Wanted ta see ya like that again.” 

You felt the warmth of his breath against your palm as he spoke, and your heart gave a happy squeeze. “Like I was this morning?” 

“Yeah,” he murmured while looking at you through half hooded eyes. “Like the world wasn’t gettin’ to ya. Like you were still... you.” 

You traced a slow, soothing line across his cheekbone. “Well, it worked.” 

Daryl hummed a low, gravelly sound of contentment, his hands tracing small patterns on your sides. “Good.” He said as his eyes fluttered shut. 

His eyes stayed shut, but his mouth opened each time he felt your fingers brush against his lips for a berry, waiting for you to offer him another piece of fruit after you’d eaten your own. The bundle of raspberries eventually came down to just a few berries. “Last one.” You whispered. 

You pressed the final berry between his lips and he took it gently, his tongue grazing your fingertips. He licked his lips as he settled, then shifted, pulling your body closer until you were molded perfectly against him. “Falling asleep now?” You asked, your lips pressed against his hair. 

“Mhm,” was the only answer he gave, his breath already deepening into the heavy rhythm of slumber.

“Then goodnight, Daryl.” Your voice drifted, soft and drowsy as your own eyes began to grow heavy. You tucked your face into his neck, inhaling the scent of night still lingering on his skin. 

It was supposed to be a quick run for supplies. Easy. In and out. But nothing could ever be easy in this world, could it? Which is why Daryl was stumbling and staggering more than a damn walker as he made it back to your shared cabin. The world spun like a broken compass, turning every forward step into a battle and every breath into a ragged scrape against his throat. Sleek warmth dampened his shirt, but he ignored the anguish. He fought to make it back, refusing to leave you wondering where he was. He couldn’t bear to put that worry on you. Not tonight. Not ever if he could help it. The sting of his wounds, the burning in his lungs—it was all just background noise. The genuine fear was causing you the slightest bit of hurt—a prospect far more agonizing than the physical pain he was currently enduring.

The cabin’s silhouette finally pierced the fog of his pain, cutting through the blurred greens and browns of the woods. Just a few more steps, then he could collapse onto the worn out couch, or into your arms, and you’d take over. You always did. The cabin was a dark contrast to the surrounding woods, but the inside was warm and cozy, hidden by old oaks and tall pines with a stream close by. It wasn’t just four walls and a roof–a luxury in this world–but a promise. A lifetime ago he promised to find you a home so the monsters of this world—not just the walkers—couldn’t touch you. It had been a struggle to secure, and for the longest while, he’d feared he would never stumble upon this little patch where the rest of the world could melt away. You had made it a home after he’d left the interior entirely to you, grunting approval at whatever you decided, even if he didn’t quite understand the purpose of every little trinket.

Finally, he painstakingly climbed onto the small porch, the rough wood scraping against his boots as he fumbled for the latch, his fingers stiff and clumsy, the metal cold against his burning skin. The door swung inward with a creak, revealing the sanctuary beyond as he stumbled through the door, blood dripping from, well, literally everywhere. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his shirt torn and stained with dirt and fresh blood–some of his own and some from walkers with one sleeve completely ripped off at the shoulder. He collapsed against the wall with a pained grunt, his crossbow slipping from his grip.

​“Fuck… fuckin’ hell...” He bit down hard on his bottom lip, stifling any further sound as he fought to stay upright. You had expected Daryl to come home a little scratched up—maybe a few new bruises or a shallow cut like he usually brought back from a run—but you weren’t expecting this.

“Oh, my god… What happened!?” Fear laced your voice—a tone he hated. You had been waiting on the couch, ready to head out if he didn't appear soon. Seeing him torn up sent you rushing over, your hands on him in a whirlwind of concern before he could even register your movement. You caught his crossbow and set it aside, your eyes scanning the mess of wounds.

​“Long story. Ran into a herd. Just—just need ya ta patch me up.” His voice was strained, each syllable a visible struggle. 

​Without another word, you guided him to the couch. The first-aid kit and a bowl of warm, soapy water sat waiting; you knew he’d return with scrapes that needed tending. “Just relax,” you said, your voice barely a breath as you bit back a hundred questions. You’d get the grunted story later, once his focus wasn't consumed by pain. Daryl sank into the cushions, defeated by exhaustion. As his adrenaline wore off, a sharp, surging ache rushed in to take its place. Every ounce of defiance drained out of him, leaving him completely compliant. You’d mended him so many times that he didn’t just trust you—he’d given you his life to hold.

​“Easy now. You’re home.” The words were a quiet vibration intended to soothe the frantic beat of his heart. You moved quietly, sliding a pillow behind his head to take the strain off his neck. As he settled, you brushed the hair back from his forehead, your fingers lingering for a second to let him know he was safe. You didn’t need to ask if he was thirsty; the rasp of his voice alone was enough.

​You reached for the glass of cold water you had waiting, the condensation chilling your palm. With your other hand, you gently cupped his cheek, your thumb stroking over his stubble as you brought the glass to his cracked lips. “Small sips.” Despite your words, he gulped greedily. Water trickled down his chin, but most of it found its way down his parched throat. Once the glass left his lips, his head thumped back against the pillow with a heavy, exhausted sigh.

​“I need to get your shirt off before you rest. You gotta help me out, then you can collapse.” A hint of regret seeped into your tone; you knew he was dying to just close his eyes, and the last thing he needed was more movement. He complied anyway, lifting his arms with a grunt of pain and exasperation.

You carefully peeled off his vest, the worn leather smelling of smoke and sweat. Then you grabbed the hem of his shirt, peeling back the torn fabric where the worn cotton clung to the dried blood and damp with sweat, revealing a canvas of raw and bloody flesh. The moment the ruined fabric finally clears his shoulders, the last of Daryl’s strength completely evaporates.

​“Anythin’ need stitches?” he grumbled, already dreading the answer. His chest, usually a familiar landscape of muscle and old scars where you liked to rest your head, was now a brutal tapestry of fresh trauma. Streaks of dried blood, dark and crusty, smeared across his skin. Deep bruises were already blooming—a garden of purples and greens that looked like heavy clouds beneath the surface. A cluster of shallower cuts had begun to crust over, sticky and dark. His coarse chest hair, usually a wild, untamed patch, was matted with blood, sweat, and grime. Despite the gore, it wasn’t as bad as the times he’d crawled home half-dead; the absence of deep gashes meant he would be spared the agony of a needle and thread.

​“Jesus, Daryl,” you breathed, fingers hovering over his skin, not yet daring to touch. “No stitches, I don’t think. Just a lot of surface wounds.”

Those words brought a long, relieved sigh from Daryl; he hated getting stitches as would literally anyone. When you reached for the rag, he tensed, bracing for the familiar sting of alcohol. A small hiss left his lips as the rag touched his skin and you mumbled an apology, the sound barely audible over the harsh rasp of his breath.

“Sorry.” You softened your touch, the rag now gliding rather than scrubbing, trying to be as gentle as humanly possible. Each smear of dried blood you wiped away revealed another bruise, another scrape, another testament to the brutal world.

You dipped the rag in warm, soapy water, washing away blood and alcohol before wringing it out until it was just damp. The steam curled gently from the bowl, carrying the faint, comforting scent of lavender, a rare find you’d stumbled upon in a deserted pharmacy, now reserved for moments like these. ​“You were prepared today,” he observed, his eyes fixed on you as he tried to focus on something other than the pain.

​“I knew you’d have at least one scrape.” Your words matched his quiet tone. You wrung out the cloth once more before meeting his skin again. “What happened? You look like you lost a fight against a barbed fence,” you added patiently, leaving him room to stay quiet if he chose.

​As much as Daryl wanted to laugh at the remark, his chest hurt too much for that kind of air. “Told ya. Ran inta a herd.” His voice was thin with exhaustion. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d fallen asleep while you tended to him; he rarely wanted to talk when he was this drained, but you had to know what happened, even if you only got a few mumbled words for now.

​“Did we… did we lose anyone?” you asked cautiously, already dreading the worst.

​Daryl shook his head firmly. “Nah. Didn’t let tha’ happen. Jumped into the herd before they did.”

​The knot of fear in your chest unraveled, but you couldn't help an exasperated sigh. He had always been so selfless—a quality you both loved and hated. But this man, your man, always came back to you, no matter how mangled. It was a promise he refused to break.

“You’re not going on any more runs for a while.” you remarked. Though your tone remained low, it held a slight, stern edge.

​A low growl rumbled in his chest, vibrating against your fingers. A protest built on the tip of his tongue, only for the words to fail him. He tried to muster the energy—tried to form the argument about responsibility, about necessity, about how he’d be fine after a night’s rest—but the heaviness of exhaustion won. It was a weariness that would take more than just one night to beat. Instead, his gaze drifted to the steam swirling above the bowl. It was oddly satisfying watching the wisps dance and dissipate into the air, carrying that rare, comforting scent of lavender. It was a stark contrast to the stinging copper of blood and sweat.

With a deep inhale of relaxing lavender, his eyes fell shut. If it weren’t for the agony pulsing through every nerve ending, these moments would have been his favorite. He loved the quiet intimacy—the way he could be broken, hurting, and vulnerable, and you would put him back together without judgment or question.

​Maybe they were his favorite, even with the pain. It was in these moments that he had you completely. Every ounce of your focus, your unwavering care, and your fierce, protective love was poured into him. He’d never had that before. Not like this.

Through your lashes, you watched the battle play out on his face. The flicker of defiance in his eyes slowly dimmed, replaced by a weary acceptance that tugged a small smile to your lips. There you go, you thought. You got through to him. As your fingers ghosted over his skin, he felt the cool, damp cloth against a particularly nasty scrape on his ribs. The faint sting of antiseptic followed, but even that was tolerable—muted by the sheer relief of your care.

​His eyelids felt heavy, a pleasant weight dragging them down. He could drift off right here, right now, with the gentle rhythm of your breathing and the feather-light touch of your fingers being the last things he felt before surrendering to the dark. He’d done it before, more times than he could count—waking up hours later, tucked under a soft blanket you’d thrown over him.​ To fall asleep in front of anyone else would be an invitation to death, a sign of weakness he’d never allowed himself. But with you, it was different.

​In a world where everything was temporary, you were constant. He could hardly believe it—someone who didn’t flinch at the sight of his torn flesh or complain about the grime, but quietly mended it instead. He’d seen people turn away from the grisly reality of survival, but you never did. He’d come back looking like a half-eaten deer carcass more times than he could count, reeking of sweat, fear, and walker guts, and yet you were always there with a first-aid kit. 

How? The question echoed in his exhausted mind as your fingers, as gentle as the wings of a butterfly, traced over his skin. He didn’t know how he’d found someone like you, but one thing he knew for certain: he wasn't letting go. He’d spent years putting others first and never letting anyone close, but for once, he felt like being selfish. This wasn't the kind of selfishness that hoarded supplies or abandoned the weak; he had spent a lifetime sacrificing, but he refused to sacrifice you. 

​You didn’t rush, taking your time to gently wipe away the crusty blood, the caked-on dirt, and the sticky sweat that clung to his coarse chest hair. Your touch was feather-light, almost hesitant, as if you were afraid of causing him more pain.

​He let his head loll back against the couch, the subtle shift of his body a silent invitation for you to continue. He trusted you—not just with his wounds, but with the raw, exposed core of himself that only emerged in these quiet, desperate moments.

Each gentle swipe of the rag revealed more bruised skin, yet each wipe brought the promise of comfort. He had lost count of how many times he’d been in this exact position—half-naked and vulnerable, surrendering his battered body to your capable hands.

The sting of antiseptic, the bite of a needle, the rough press of a bandage—these were the familiar rituals of survival. But with you, it was different. It was softer, gentler, and not just because you tempered your touch. It was because the hands mending him were yours.

​He knew the rhythm of your ministrations—the way you’d pause to assess his wounds or stop to check in on him between treatments. He knew the way you softly cursed under your breath each time his body twitched, even when it wasn't a full flinch of pain. He felt your eyes searching his face, making sure he wasn't holding anything in. He recognized the bite of your lip and the furrow of your brow as you poured all your focus into a deeper wound. Like now.

When you reached one of the deeper, more jagged wounds, you encouraged him in that soft voice that always made him melt. “Breathe through it. You’re doing so good.”

​You didn’t just tell him to breathe—you breathed with him, your steady exhales coaxing his own rapid ones to slow. Then came that praise, making his chest swell not with pain, but with a tingly warmth. Growing up, praise had been as rare as a filling meal, and it was usually followed by a backhanded insult. From his father, it was non-existent; from Merle, it was a form of mockery.​ But from you? From you, it was like being wrapped in a warm blanket after being in the cold for so damn long. Too long. It was a whispered promise that he was seen.

​“That’s it, Daryl,” you encouraged, your voice a silken thread weaving through the fog of his pain. He felt his shoulders drop, the tension bleeding out of them like the very blood weeping from the tears in his skin. With each deep breath you took, he mirrored you, until his lungs finally found their own rhythm.

​Under your gentle coaxing, his body gave in, ignoring years of built-in instincts. His shoulders, usually hunched in defense, relaxed; his jaw went slack, and his fingers finally uncurled from their fists.

​“That’s it, sweetheart. Just like that. You’re so strong—you always are.” Your voice was a soft whisper, a gentle current guiding him through the rapids of pain. It had been a long time since he’d felt the need to brace himself against you. While every fresh scar brought its own agony, his body had finally learned that your touch was the one thing that didn’t hurt. Even as you reached for the antiseptic, his muscles remained supple under your hands. When the sting finally came, it wasn't the jagged jolt he was used to, but a mere prick.

​You leaned closer, your breath ghosting over his skin as you examined the fresh wound you had just cleaned. “This one’s a bit deep,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him. Your voice was a low hum that vibrated through him. “Might leave a scar.”

​He grunted, a low rumble in his chest. “Got plenty already. One more ain’t gonna make a difference.”

​You answered with a soft, mournful hum, the sound heavy with a grief he didn’t seem to share. He had a lifetime of trauma etched into his skin, and each new mark felt like a fresh insult to the man he was trying to be; it killed you to see the world still trying to carve pieces out of him. You hated every single mark on him—every faded line and raised ridge that told a story of hardship. You hated that his body was a canvas of suffering, a living testament to a world that had never been kind to him.

​And yet, despite it all, he still stood, still fought, and still came back to you. You might not have been able to stop the world from scarring him, but you could—and would—be the one there to heal him.

​Once the wound was cleaned, you reached for the small medical kit you’d laid out beside you, pulling out a sterile gauze pad and a roll of fresh, tan bandage. You pressed the gauze over the cut with the lightest touch possible, using just enough pressure to protect the raw flesh without causing him pain. ​Daryl let out the slightest hiss of discomfort, but it wasn't a sound of genuine agony.

“Almost done, baby. Just a little more.” ​You unrolled the bandage, smoothing it over the gauze before securing it with a few strips of medical tape. Then, like always, you gently pressed a kiss to his skin right above the bandage—a ritual you performed every single time, no matter how small the scrape.

​It might still scar, but if he let you take care of it, it would eventually become nothing more than another faint line on his body—one hidden among the jagged marks that hadn’t been treated correctly until you came along.

With the last strip of medical tape secured, you smoothed out the bandage with quiet reassurance. “You’re okay. I’ve got the worst of it done. You just breathe, and let me take care of the rest.”

​Daryl let out a slow breath—a sound that was less a grunt of pain and more a sigh of relief. There were only a few more scrapes and cuts to go. The sharp edges of pain, which had been constant since the herd, began to soften, then blur. There was still a dull ache, but under your care, it faded into the background.

​He cracked an eye open to watch your focused expression. He traced the soft furrow of your brow, the slight pout of your lips as you concentrated, and the way your hair fell forward, which you kept brushing out of the way.

​With his life experience, Daryl had seen far too much. He’d seen the raw, visceral terror in a man’s eyes just before the dead tore him apart, and the cold, unfeeling glint in the eyes of men who were still living but just as gone. He’d seen cities swallowed by vines, highways choked with forgotten cars, and the silent, terrifying majesty of a world reclaimed by wilderness.

It was the kind of rot that could make a man forget beauty ever existed—and for a long time, he had. That was, until he truly saw you. Not just the face you showed the world, but the soul you kept tucked away just for him.

​He’d seen plenty of pretty things in his life, both before and after the world went to hell: sunrises over untouched forests, the fierce beauty of a doe protecting her fawn, the delicate lacework of frost on a spider’s web. He’d never admit he found any of those things beautiful, of course—that was a weakness. But when it came to you, he was okay with being a damn weak man.

​The woods had always been his only sanctuary, the one place calm and silent enough to bring him ease, but that peace had shifted. He no longer needed to disappear into the trees to find a moment of stillness, or make excuses for why he’d stayed away so long. He didn’t need the woods anymore. He just had to be with you.

​“God, you are so beautiful.”

​The words fell from his lips without a thought—a quiet, raw, honest grumble. They were so faint with relaxation that you could have easily missed them, but the smile that suddenly tugged at your lips told him otherwise. That honest little smile—a soft, shy curve that barely touched the corners of your mouth—made his heart soar.

​He wasn't embarrassed that he’d let the words slip, not like he would have been when you first met. The tension in his shoulders eased. The clench in his jaw released. The residual adrenaline from the attack finally melted away, like wax under a flame.

With a sigh, you traced the path of another nasty scrape—a long, angry red line carved into his forearm. It wasn’t as deep as the last, but it was still raw, still weeping a little. You reached for a fresh cotton swab, dipping it in antiseptic and trying your best to stay focused on the task at hand. ​But with his praise still hanging heavy in the air, your pulse fluttered against your will. His whispered “beautiful” echoed in your mind, making your heart skip a beat and your concentration fray at the edges. “Just a little sting,” you murmured.

​You dabbed the cool, biting liquid onto the raw skin, the antiseptic bubbling white against the red. Under normal circumstances, this would have elicited a low grunt or a sharp intake of breath, but Daryl remained utterly still. His gaze was fixed on you with unwavering affection, still anchored to the sight of you.

​You expected the usual low rumble of a complaint or the familiar tightening of his jaw, but there was nothing—just that same intense, warm look in his eyes as he watched you reach for a fresh bandage. Slowly, you leaned down, your eyes never breaking contact with his as you pressed a lingering kiss over the very edge of the bandage. It was a silent vow, a way to seal the healing with something far more potent than medicine.

​He didn’t say a word. Instead, he turned his palm upward, gently brushing his thumb over your cheek. It was a silent thank you that said more than words ever could.

​As you worked on a scrape on his chest, you missed the look of a man who would have taken a dozen more wounds just to feel your caring touch. Before your fingers could reach the next mark, he caught your hand in his, giving it a firm, grounding squeeze.

​When you met his gaze, you were dragged into its depths. His eyes—usually so guarded, so quick to scan for threats—were now open, vulnerable, and utterly captivated, his pupils blown wide as he took you in. It was the gaze of a man who had walked through hell and found his personal heaven in your presence.

​He lifted your hand to his lips, leaving a reverent kiss against your skin. “You’ve got such a damn beautiful heart,” he started softly, his lips brushing against your knuckles with every word. “You’re the last good thing left in this world.”

​He knew you deserved so much more than a few mumbled words and a couple of soft touches, but now, as you patched up the pieces of him, it was the most he could offer.

But later. Later, once the wounds were healed and the quiet calm of night had truly settled, he’d find other ways to show you. He would find ways that didn’t involve words he couldn’t grasp, but pure, unadulterated sensation.

​He’d let his calloused hands trace every soft curve of your body; he’d let his lips devour every inch of your skin, burying himself deep within you until you both forgot the world outside and all the pain that came with it.

​​“Daryl,” you breathed, the name barely more than a catch in your throat. Your thumb, still damp with antiseptic, traced the rough lines of his palm—a silent anchor for both of you.

​A heat you couldn't suppress crept up your neck, settling in your cheeks. Even after all this time, the way he could just drop a truth like that—raw and unshielded—still caught you off guard. You felt the pull to look away, to hide the sudden vulnerability in your own eyes, but you stayed. You didn't pull your hand back; instead, you leaned into his space, letting the distance between you disappear.

​You could feel the slight tension in him, that old instinct to recoil now that he’d said too much. Before he could retreat into himself, you spoke, your voice low enough that he had to strain to hear it.

​“Your heart is beautiful, too,” You let the confession hang in the air while your fingers ghosted over a shallow scratch on his chest. “And I wouldn’t trade these scrapes for anything, if it means I’m the one who gets to take care of you.”

​Your words were simple and pure, settling over him with a weight that felt like home. It wasn't just the things you said; it was the way your hands lingered as you cleaned his skin, the quiet looks you gave him, and the way you always managed to provide comfort exactly where it hurt the most.

​This feeling in his chest whenever you were near—this low, steady hum of safety—was unlike anything he’d ever known. When he’s with you, he forgets the scars, the losses, and every damn thing that has ever tried to harden his heart.

​He opened his mouth, searching for a way to tell you how much you mattered, how much better you made the world feel. But his throat was tight, choked by a rush of incoherent emotion he couldn't begin to name.

​You brought his hand, still resting in yours, up to your mouth. You kissed it exactly the way he had kissed yours moments before.

​“You can tell me more about how you feel in a little bit, alright? After I get you cleaned up.”

​A small smile tugged at his lips. He responded with a single, low grunt that was almost like a purr vibrating in his chest. He could actually use a minute to articulate what he wanted to say. He knew what he felt—mostly. But putting those feelings into actual words? That was the damn hard part.

​“Another sting.” You knew his aversion to the sharp, icy burn and the way it made his muscles tense, so you always gave him a moment to brace himself for the fleeting discomfort. Your eyes met his in a silent apology as you saw the tightening of his jaw and the flare of his nostrils.

​“Almost done,” you reassured him.

​One eyelid lifted as he looked over your work. His chest and torso were covered in bandages, and his skin no longer smelled of blood and dirt, but of fresh antiseptic and soap. It was another job well done—physical evidence of your quiet devotion—but you weren’t quite ready to pull back yet.

With a small, playful smile, you leaned in until your face was just inches from his. With a fresh cotton swab, you began dabbing an insignificant scratch over his collarbone—a mark so faint it didn’t require a second thought, let alone medical attention.

​Daryl wasn’t a man who missed much. He watched the mischief dancing in your eyes and felt the warmth of your breath against his skin. He knew you were teasing him, and he was more than happy to play along. A low, gravelly hum vibrated in his throat as he finally closed the distance, cutting off your "work" by pressing his lips firmly against yours.

​Neither of you could keep a straight face; the kiss was broken by soft, breathless huffs of laughter and giggles that bubbled up between you. Your playful mood had completely rubbed off on him. Each time he tried to deepen the kiss, his lips pulled into an uncontrollable smile, making the contact clumsy and sweet rather than desperate.

​The lightheartedness was a stark contrast to the man he had been just hours ago. All day, he had worn a permanent scowl as he weaved through the woods. The familiar crinkles at the corners of his eyes remained, but the hard edge of his typical glare had vanished, replaced by the soft, warm lines of a genuine smile. Out there, he was a man who didn’t let his guard drop for a second, but here, it completely washed away.

​Once your lungs finally began to beg for air, you pulled back. “There,” you whispered, finally setting the medical supplies aside. “All patched up.”

​With the last of the bandages tucked away, the room fell into a heavy, resonant quiet. You wiped your hands, but the phantom heat of his gaze still burned against your skin. You knew his body—perhaps better than he knew it himself. You’d given him shoulder massages that made him groan in relief, foot massages that finally let him rest after miles of tracking, and scalp massages that put him to sleep instantly while his head rested on your chest. You had even worked for months to earn the trust required for him to fully surrender to you in bed—to let you take him, to feel his weight and his heat until he was completely undone in your hands.

You had thought that meant he was entirely open with you. You’d seen him bare, touched the most private parts of him, and you had thought that meant he was entirely open with you.

​However, Daryl always drew a line at his back. You’d asked him about it before—a few times, actually—but he had always shut it down with a sharp, dismissive grunt or a firm shake of his head. Sometimes he wouldn’t even look at you, turning away so you couldn't press further. But tonight, the air was different. The silence stretched between you, thick with a question you hadn't yet asked, as you lingered by his side.

​“Daryl,” You spoke his name tentatively, the sound barely disturbing the stillness of the cabin. “I know what your answer usually is, but… a back massage might help you right now.”

​You kept your gaze on the floor, already bracing for him to shoot the idea down instantly. But only silence met you.

​His gaze remained fixed on his hands, his shoulders rising and falling slowly with each breath as he actually contemplated it this time. He realized you had already seen him at his most vulnerable—crying, bloodied, and even violent—and still, you had never left. You had held his heart in your hands numerous times and never once broken it. If he could trust you with his life and his soul, maybe he could finally trust you with the history written in the skin he kept hidden.

“You’re real persistent, y’know tha’?” he rasped. The words were low and rough, but they lacked their usual bite. He didn’t look at you as he began to shift, his movements stiff, as if his muscles were physically resisting the choice he was making. “Just... don’t go lookin’ too close, yeah? And don’t make a big deal outta this.”

​​“I won’t,” The promise was a mere exhaled breath against the silence. You knew how fragile this was. One wrong word, one look of pity, and he’d spend the rest of the night—maybe the rest of the week—behind the walls he’d spent a lifetime building. You didn't let the gravity of the situation break the peace you had built.

​“I could turn the lights off,” you suggested, offering a safety net in case the exposure felt like too much. 

It was a tempting idea, but as he mulled it over, he knew that if he let you turn the lights out, he’d just be hiding in the dark again and he was tired of hiding from uou. He ran a rough palm over his face, the stubble rasping against his skin, before firmly shaking his head. “Just get it over with.”

​“Okay. Lay down on your stomach for me and get comfortable,” you encouraged him softly.

He turned away, his movements jerky and forced, as if every instinct in his body was screaming at him to stay guarded. You watched the internal war play out in the rigid, trembling line of his shoulders but then, he finally lowered himself. Once he settled, you finally saw them—the silver, crisscrossing lines of a childhood defined by fear rather than love.

You knew that even with his back turned, he was bracing for the weight of your pity or the sting of your shock, so you didn't let your gaze linger. Instead, you bypassed the medical supplies and grabbed the bottle of lotion from the coffee table. It was the scent you wore to bed every night—a soft, floral fragrance that Daryl was quietly obsessed with.

​As he settled against the pillow, he buried his face in his arms, hiding himself away even as he exposed his greatest shame. The silence was thick, broken only by the rhythmic pump of the bottle. As the lotion pooled  into your palm, the scent filled the air. There was a hitch in his breath the second he recognized it—the smell of your skin against his as you settled in for the night.

​He didn’t move, waiting for that first dreadful touch on his back. But you didn't start there. Once the lotion had warmed between your palms, you placed your hands firmly along his shoulders, beginning to knead the iron-hard muscles.

​It was a safe place—a place you had touched a hundred times before. You focused entirely on the tension at the base of his neck, respecting his boundaries by using a familiar touch to ease the way toward the more vulnerable parts of him. It was a silent promise that you would only go as far as he was ready to let you, meeting his trauma with a steady, unwavering patience.

​“Just breathe, Daryl,” You leaned into the rhythm of his lungs, guiding him with the steady cadence of your own breath.

​Under the weight of your palms, with the scent of you acting like a sedative, you felt the first real sign of surrender. The rigid line of his spine finally began to soften.

​“That’s it,” You kept the praise light and rhythmic, a calming tether as he began to yield. “You’re doing so well, baby.”

​You leaned into your hands, applying just enough pressure to turn the tension into the good kind of pain that leads to release. He let out a long, shuddering groan, his forehead digging deeper into the pillow as you whispered the words he needed most.

​"You're safe." You let the words settle over him like a weight, grounding him in the present. “I'm not going anywhere, Daryl. Not tonight, not ever."

A tremor ran through him at the mention of your commitment. It was the one thing he feared losing more than his own life. To Daryl, commitment was something that always vanished when things got ugly—but here you were, staring at the ugliest parts of his history and leaning closer.

​“Smells like you,” he muffled into the pillow, comforted by the fact, his voice thick and raw. He had tried so hard to hold onto the tension—to keep his guard up, expecting your fingers to drag up the ghosts of his past. He had been certain the weight of his history would be too heavy for you to lift, and that the bad memories would flood back the second you touched his skin.

​But instead, a long exhale left him—a sound that started deep in his chest and ended in a soft, broken whimper he couldn't quite catch. His fingers, which had been gripping the pillow so hard his knuckles were white, finally fell flat against the fabric. He was no longer drowning in the past; he was drowning in the scent of flowers and the steady, healing rhythm of your hands.

The war inside him began to quiet. As he settled, you let the very tips of your fingers trace over his shoulder blades—slipping just past his safe zone—before returning firmly to his neck. He flinched, a small, involuntary tensing of his muscles, but he didn’t pull away.

​“See? This isn’t so bad,” you whispered. To prove it, you let your fingers dip down again for a second longer before retreating. “You’re doing so good.”

​“Am I?” The question was muffled by the pillow, barely a rasp. He wasn’t just asking; he was reaching out, desperate for more of that reassurance in your voice.

​“The best,” You leaned down to press a lingering kiss to the crown of his head, sealing the praise against his skin.

​Finally, you let your hands slide down his back. Your fingers sprawled out as they rested there, letting his skin acclimate to the heat. But as your palms finally made full contact with that history of pain, his entire body went rigid. He had promised himself he wouldn’t flinch, but he couldn’t help the way he squirmed. A vibration started deep in his chest, a jagged sound that smoothed out into a sigh as the knot finally gave way. 

​It wasn’t that your touch hurt—it was the sheer wrongness of being touched there with kindness. He was fighting his own nervous system for you. He was doing it because he had finally realized that his "no" didn't just protect his scars—it pushed you away, rebuilding the very walls that kept him isolated. He had seen the way your eyes dimmed just a fraction every time he shut you down, and he couldn’t stand being the reason that light flickered out.

​“Easy,” you breathed, keeping your hands perfectly still until his body registered that the touch wasn’t a threat. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

​Daryl forced in a deep, jagged breath, his ribs expanding almost painfully against the cushions. ‘It’s just her,’ he repeated over and over in his head like a mantra. ‘She’d never hurt you.’ 

But his nervous system was telling a different story. He could feel the phantom sting of old wounds as if they were fresh, his skin crawling under your touch. Every instinct screamed at him to rebuild the walls he knew so well, but he was determined to let them fall.

​“M’tryin’,” he grunted into the pillow, the word strained and muffled.

​Your hands began to glide upward, your palms sweeping from the small of his back toward his shoulders with slow, deliberate pressure. “I know you are. You’re doing so well. Just one breath at a time.”

​You weren’t massaging just yet; you were letting the weight of your palms override the weight of his memories. For a long, agonizing minute, his body remained locked in a state of defense, until the warm reality of your presence finally began to drown out the echoes of the past.

​His forehead dropped heavily back into his arms with a long, weary sigh. He wasn’t fully relaxed yet, but the fight was draining out of him. 

​The lotion coating your palms settled against the heat of his skin, letting your hands glide seamlessly over the silver lines. You kept the pressure to a minimum at first, giving his nervous system time to adjust to the sensation of being touched without an ulterior motive.

​Slowly, ever so slowly, his breathing deepened into a steady, effortless flow. As he inhaled, the scent of the lotion—that familiar, safe smell of you—seemed to finally reach the parts of his brain that had been stuck in survival mode. He let out a breath he’d been holding for a lifetime.

​“That’s… better than I thought,” he confessed quietly, the words vibrating into the pillow beneath him. The rough edge of his voice had smoothed out, replaced by a drowsy, vulnerable weight.

​“I told you I had you, sweetheart,” A small, private smile tugged at your lips as you felt his resistance finally dissolve. Your voice was warm and grounding, an anchor in the quiet room. “I’m going to start on the knots now, okay? Let me know if it gets too much.”

​A low, muffled grunt was the only permission he gave as he buried his face deeper into the crook of his elbow. As your hands moved lower, the rough sounds softened into small, involuntary moans he was too dazed to suppress.

​Leaning in with your weight, you weren’t just unraveling physical knots; you were unbinding years of every burden he had ever carried. He wasn’t just letting you touch his back; he was letting you reach into the parts of him he’d kept locked in the dark. Under your fingertips, the scars felt like raised, silken ridges—a permanent, silver texture that broke the warmth of his skin.

​The memories of his past, which had been screaming so loud just minutes ago, were finally drowned out by the scent of your lotion and the rhythmic pressure of your hands. He’d expected to spend the night clinging to those ghosts like a lifeline, but they slipped from his grasp with every steady glide of your palms.

​The realization left him breathless. He had lived so long with such a constant, dull ache that he’d forgotten what it felt like to be light. Every other massage you’d given him had merely scratched the surface, soothing the weariness of a rough day. But this? This was what broke the dam. As the tension washed away, it took more than the physical pain with it; it cleared out the emotional wreckage he had been quietly drowning in for decades.

​He would always cherish the way you could melt the stress from his neck or lull him to sleep by scratching his scalp, and he knew he’d still crave those moments—but those were temporary fixes compared to this. The shame of his scars hadn't vanished entirely, but it had been shadowed by your touch.

​In your hands, there was no repulsion and no pity—only the unwavering tenderness of a love that didn't flinch. Most importantly, you never pulled away. As you worked, the old urge to twist away, to hide the silver geography of his skin, finally went quiet. Beneath your hands, his history was just skin and bone—not a source of shame, but a map you were learning by heart. He would let you see them every night, would let you touch them every day, if it meant finally feeling this utterly unburdened.

​“Don’t stop,” he groaned, the words thick and heavy as he fell into a deeper state of relaxation.

​As his muscles finally began to loosen, you leaned in, pushing your weight behind your elbow. You glided it along the length of his back, tracing the deep channels of muscle a few inches from his spine. The pressure was intense, bordering on unbearable, but it was exactly what he needed. If a simple shoulder rub could leave him euphoric, he could only imagine the peace waiting on the other side of this ache.

​Daryl’s fingers curled into the leather of the couch, his knuckles turning white as he braced himself against the blinding, sharp heat of the release. “It hurts,” he rasped, the words broken and breathless. “But don’t... don’t stop.”

​Your movement slowed to make it bearable, but you didn't pull back. “Let everything go, and it’ll feel better. I promise.”

​The point of your elbow sank into the dense, iron-like knots. Under that heavy pressure, the tension had no choice but to surrender; it was like chiseling away at marble made of pure stress. The sensation was thick and suffocating, reaching deep into his bones. Daryl’s breath caught, and he held it until his lungs burned, afraid that even the slightest movement would shatter the fragile progress you were making.

​He was a man who had survived every kind of pain and torture the world could throw at him, but this was different. This wasn't a wound being inflicted—it was the walls he’d spent a lifetime building finally being torn down, one brick at a time.

​“Don’t hold it in. Breathe through it,” you coaxed, your voice a gentle anchor.

​“Can’t...” he choked out. His eyes were squeezed shut so tight that stars began to dance behind his lids, a silent battle against the tears he was still fighting to hold back.

​“Yes, you can,” you encouraged. Your tone was soft enough to pull him back from the jagged edge of panic. You shifted, moving away from the sharp, focused pressure of your elbow and returning to the broad, sweeping warmth of your palms.

​Daryl’s breath hitched in short, rapid stutters before finally breaking into a long, relieved moan.

​“How’s that? Better?” you asked, your voice barely a hum.

​“Mmm...” A soft whine was the only response he could manage—a low vibration of pure, unadulterated relief. ​Taking it as a sign to continue, you pressed into his back again. This time, the sensation was less agonizing. Despite the lingering ache, he was actively leaning into the touch now, his body finally understanding that the sweet relief would always follow the pain. With every inch you gained, you could feel the last of the resistance bleeding out of him, leaving him heavy and whole.

​“There ya go,” you whispered tenderly. Your fingers trailed across the small of his back, the skin now supple and warmed by the lotion. “The hard part is over.”

​A sound—somewhere between a half-sob and a sigh of ragged relief—fell from his lips. As he finally let go, two hot tears escaped his shut eyes, soaking silently into the fabric of the pillow. The sweet relief you had promised was finally flooding in, and he was too exhausted to fight the tide.

​Your hands continued their slow, rhythmic sweep, washing away the lingering ghosts of pain and smoothing over the peace you had created. Beneath your palms, the muscles that had felt like granite earlier were now soft, almost dough-like.

​“‘S gone,” he murmured. His voice was so thick with exhaustion it was barely a breath, a ghost of a sound in the quiet room. “All of it… just feels… quiet.”

​You leaned in to press a lingering kiss to the top of his head. “Good. That’s how you should feel.”

​As you felt the steady, heavy rise and fall of his ribs, a small, proud smile tugged at your lips. He wasn’t just resting; he was trusting. You didn’t need a thank you or a whisper of praise; there was no greater reward than seeing him utterly and completely vulnerable.

​“M’gonna...” he started, his voice thick and slurred with sleep.

​“You’re gonna what, Daryl?” you asked fondly, though you already knew the answer.

​“Think ‘m gonna crash…” he finally managed, burying his face further into the crook of his arm.

​“Go right ahead, Daryl. You earned it. I’ll be right here.” Even as his breathing slowed, your hands didn’t leave his skin, ensuring the last thing he felt as he drifted off was the warmth of your palms. His body felt entirely weightless against the couch, sinking deeper and deeper with each breath.

​Just as the silence began to pull him under, a soft mumble left his lips. “Love you… so damn much.” Those few words were the final seal of his surrender.

​“I love you, too,” you whispered, just before his breaths deepened into the slow, relaxed rhythm of a heavy sleep.

​A part of you still couldn’t quite fathom that he had finally let you in this far. Ever so slowly, your fingers traced along one of the raised, silvery lines—not out of curiosity, but to acknowledge the history written there without letting it define the man sleeping beneath you. You lingered there for several minutes, letting the heat of your hand rest over the center of his back, ensuring his dreams stayed peaceful while marveling at the weight of his trust.

​Eventually, the lotion soaked completely into his skin, and your own limbs grew heavy with exhaustion. Leaning down one last time, you pressed a kiss to his hair, then reached for the wool blanket at the end of the couch. It was the same one you always draped over him after his long runs. As you tucked the edges around his shoulders, you realized that while the wool would keep him warm, it was the memory of your touch that would finally keep the cold of his past at bay.

While James spent the winter with you, he was able to gradually let go of his past. It was a struggle, but with you, it was easy for him to build himself a future. Now that it was spring, he had the opportunity to leave the house and explore the world, even though the mere thought terrified him. You promised him you two never needed to leave your small town because in the life before him you never did. It wasn’t very big, but it did have things to make life cozy. Like a nice little café, so he could find better coffees he didn’t want to spit out, and the little shop you work at. He always hated when you had to leave for work, but of those times you brought him along with you and the old lady you work for accepted him immediately. She was sweet like that. 

Even with the warmth of your presence and the quiet comfort of the house, every day was a deliberate act of learning to simply be. Simple tasks, like choosing what to wear or what to eat, would often leave him staring blankly, overwhelmed by the sheer number of options. His mind, accustomed to strategy, survival, and combat, struggled to grasp the rhythm of a life without threats. His biggest threat now was when Venus got zoomies. He’d watch you do simple tasks without a second thought while they were complex puzzles for him. His hands, once so adept at loading a gun as quickly as possible, fumbled to simply turn the pages of a book. He’d try to help with chores, but the mundane nature of them baffled him. Why fold laundry so neatly when it would just be worn again? Why spend so long deciding on a meal when sustenance was the only goal? He’d often just sit, observing you, trying to decipher the unwritten rules of this new existence.

Some mornings he still jolted awake, heart hammering against his ribs, muscles tensed, waiting for the bark of an order, the urgent command to move, to prepare for a mission. His eyes would snap open, scanning the dim light, searching for threats that weren’t there. For a terrifying beat, he was back there, in a cold cell until he recognized the warm glow of the sun flickering in through the curtains. He’d take in a deep, shaky breath as he registered the soft blanket thrown over him, the weight of a purring cat on his chest, and the curve of a worn but cozy couch under him. He was no longer there, he was here. He was home. He was safe.

It was during one of those rare afternoons when he came to the shop with you because he couldn’t stand being away from you. He stayed in the back, hidden away from the customers, often tapping his leg anxiously. The familiar scent of old paper and dried flowers usually offered a strange kind of calm, but today, his nerves were haywire. When he heard the familiar voice of the old lady, he forced himself to appear calm, tilting his head up curiously.

“James, dear.” She cooed, her voice gentle as always, while approaching him. It still sounded weird to be referred to as James, especially by someone other than you. “I have a little something for you.”

And little it was. He watched as she extended her cradled hands out to him, parting them slowly to reveal a tiny, impossibly small ball of white fluff nestled within. Two big sapphire blue eyes met his, with a little pink twitching nose, and ears that were too big for its small head. He gasped as he saw this tiny kitten. He was used to receiving gifts from this sweet lady, but he hadn’t been expecting this.

“Every soul deserves something soft to hold on to.” She said as she gently placed the kitten in his waiting grasp. She immediately nuzzled into the warmth of his organic hand rather than the cold metal, gloved one. He could feel the delicate thump of her tiny heart beating against his skin, a rapid, fragile rhythm. Her tiny claws felt like needle pricks against his skin as she kneaded her paws against his palm. She already accepted him.

He immediately lifted his head and met your eyes, his own filled with emotion as he silently asked if he could keep her, to which you simply nodded. This is exactly what he needed. A little life to care for as he found his own.

“She’s so small.” You whispered, stepping closer and placing your hands on his shoulders as you looked at the kitten in his hands. “She’ll need to be bottle-fed for a while.” This he needed. A small, vulnerable life to care for, to nurture, to watch grow. A tangible reason to focus on the present, to learn the gentle rhythm of a life without threats, a life of quiet, unwavering love.

He held his breath, terrified he might crush her with an accidental squeeze, terrified he might drop her. Every instinct screamed at him to protect this fragile life, to shield her from a world he knew was brutal. He had spent a lifetime taking life, ending it, breaking it. Now, here was something that needed him to nurture it, to keep it safe, to simply be there. He was so focused on her he barely heard the old lady tell him her name was Alpine. Everything else around him was blurred.

Alpine. This little thing was his. She would rely on him for everything—for warmth, for food, for protection. She looked up at him, those wide blue eyes holding an innocence he hadn’t seen in decades.

A breath hitched in his throat as he felt a sting behind his eyes, a sensation so unfamiliar that it startled him. It was a profound, overwhelming tenderness, a sense of responsibility so pure it almost hurt. He would guard this tiny creature with his life, to learn how to be gentle. He had to.

He tucked her gently under his chin, feeling the impossibly soft fur brush against his stubble and most vulnerable part of his throat. Her purr, a tiny motor, vibrated against his throat, a sound so utterly innocent and full of trust. He squeezed his eyes shut before any tears fell. This was a profound, aching tenderness that resonated deep within his core, making his chest feel both full and light at the same time. He had never felt this kind of overwhelming, yet undeniably good, sensation before, and he craved more of it.

Once the weather got warmer, you two began heading into town more often. The town you live in may be small, but it has a really nice farmer’s market. He loved going to it with you on your days off and trying new foods. He was too afraid to go to it alone even though it was just down the street. If anything were to happen, he relied on you to protect him. Kinda ironic, really. This killing machine relied on a small girl half his size in case anything ever happened. You definitely changed him. He’s still worried about Hydra finding him, especially since he’s started going out in public. He always wears either a long sleeve or light jacket despite the warmer weather to cover his metal arm so he would appear normal, and he always stayed by your side.

His hand is squeezing yours tightly–a subtle sign of the anxiety he felt as you two walked through the stands holding different types of vibrant fruit. Then a rich, dark fruit, reflecting the sun, caught his eye. They were so much darker than the bright fruits he was used to seeing. “What are those?”

You follow his gaze then smile. “Plums.” You say simply. “Would you like to get some?” He quietly nods, walking over to the stand with you. He never talks to the vendors, always letting you do all the talking. He’s eyeing the fruit curiously as you fish out your wallet. “I’ll take like seven of these.” You say with a smile. Seven? That seemed like a lot to him, but he didn’t bother saying anything. He hasn’t figured out just how much you like spoiling him.

As you hand the vendor a few crinkled dollar bills, he watches the transaction, his jaw subtly clenched. He wasn’t watching the vendor’s hands for a weapon, not anymore, but a sudden move, or a sharp word. These were the triggers he was still learning to disarm within himself.

You picked seven of the ripest fruit you could find–dropping six in the paper bag the vendor gave you and handing the last to him. “Here.” The plum was almost black, the shiny skin reflecting the spring light. His fingers brush against yours as he takes it in his hand–feeling over the smooth skin in his fingers before bringing it tentatively up to his lips. You watched silently, wondering when you’d get to feel those lips on yours, but you were letting him take his time. His teeth sink through the thin skin with a soft, satisfying pop, and then into the sweet amber flesh within. His eyes close and his brows furrow from the taste. It wasn’t just sweet; it was complex, vibrant, a taste that felt entirely new and utterly alive. Some of the juice seeped from his lips as he took a slow bite, which he quickly licked up. His tongue runs over his lips as he lets out a slow satisfied hum. “These are now my favourite.”

“Plums are your favourite?” You ask with a smile. You love whenever he finds a favourite of something. It feels like such a win. With a gentle tug on his hand, you guided him deeper into the market while he continued eating his plum. Even after countless visits, the bustling atmosphere, the sheer volume of unfamiliar faces, was a battlefield he navigated with suppressed anxiety. He’s always scanning faces–looking for threats and anyone who could be linked to his past. He knew it was ridiculous. No one like that would be in this little town.

You knew the signs by now and wanted to distract him. “Any other stands you’d like to visit?” He forces his gaze away from the people to the booths, searching for anything pleasant rather than a threat. Then, a golden glint caught his eye. It was a little rustic stand with many glass jars of various sizes filled with a warm golden liquid. That was new. He hadn’t seen that stand before, and he’s visited most of the ones here multiple times. “That one.” He mutters while reading a hand carved wooden sign that says ‘Local Honey’.

You smile as you guide him over. “Look, they have samples. I know how much you love those.” You take a small popsicle stick and dip it into one of the available jars before bringing it to his lips. He watches your hand then the golden drop on the stick before tentatively wrapping his lips around it. The rich sweetness of the honey coats his tongue, a comforting counterpoint to the vibrant tartness of the plum still lingering from his last bite. He likes this just as much as the sweet maple syrup that you drizzle over his pancakes each morning. He opens his eyes, looking at you with an expression that is softer, less guarded than before. “Can we… can we get some?” His gaze flickered to the jars, then back to you, with a hopeful glint in his eyes.

“Of course we can.” You say warmly. You’d buy anything and everything from the market to make this man happy. “Pick a couple jars.” His eyes roam over the jars, reading the different flavours on the labels–deciding which samples to try. Lavender sounded soothing, he liked orange blossom, blackberry also sounded good, he wasn’t sure about mint, and he definitely didn’t want the spicy one. Who would ruin such a sweet taste with spice? After a couple samples he reaches out to grab two jars. Lavender and Blackberry. “Those two?” You asked, confirming. His eyes lingered on the other jars before finally making his decision–nodding as he met your eyes.

After you pay, he can’t help but ask–maybe he should have asked before you bought them. “What do you… eat it with?” A small laugh leaves your lips. His question is so damn innocent. “You can mix it with tea, or you can try it over your pancakes. Oh, you might like mixing it in with some warm milk.” That has him wondering what the lavender one would taste like in a cup of warm milk before bed.

As you two keep walking, the warmth of your hand, the gentle pressure of your fingers intertwined with his, was the only anchor in the swirling chaos of unfamiliar faces and unpredictable movements. He knew reasonably that he was safe. He was with you in a small, quiet town, far from the shadows of his past. But his body couldn’t let go of being tense all the time.

Despite his anxiety, he really did enjoy his time outdoors. For decades, negative space: the absence of light, the absence of choice, the absence of feeling had defined his world. Now, everything was saturated. The colors were too bright, the sounds too sharp, the emotions too close to the surface. It was exhausting, but it was also undeniably alive. You felt the slight tremor in his hand, a familiar tell, and squeezed gently. “One more stop?” You asked. You could see he was getting overstimulated and would need to switch up the environment soon. He nodded, wanting to prolong his time out here. “Yeah.”

“Would you like to get something to go with your honey?” He silently nodded this time, wondering what you had in mind. As you two weave through people in the market, his eyes find the stand you’re dragging him towards. There are a lot of different loaves of bread on display and a couple smaller things like muffins.

There are loaves of all different shapes and sizes in wooden crates and wicker baskets. A round sourdough sat in the center of the display, its crust deeply scoured and dusted with flour. Beside it was a bunch of long golden brown baguettes promising an irresistible crunch. Then his eyes drifted to a dark, rich pumpernickel, then to a lighter rye bread coated in seeds. They all looked so irresistible.

You pick up one of the small samples and hand it to him. “Try a few.” His teeth crunch down against the crust then sink into the pillowy inside. The flavors and textures contrast each other nicely, and the bread’s warmth only adds to the experience. He loved the texture of the crust and the slight saltiness of the inside. Then, you hand him another sample you’re sure he’ll like since it’s sweet.

He takes the second sample, his fingers brushing yours momentarily once again. This one was softer than the first, with a tender crumb that practically melted in his mouth. A delicate sweetness, almost buttery, hinting at a richness that would undoubtedly complement the floral notes of the lavender honey or the fruity tang of the blackberry. He could already imagine dipping a piece of this into one of his newly acquired jars, the subtle sweetness of the bread mingling with the intense, natural sugar of the honey. “This one.” He says with no need to think it over as he takes another bite. You flag down the vendor. “We’ll take one of these, please.”

He smiles when he acquires another goodie. You bought him lots of stuff but not much for yourself. He’ll be making sure to share with you when you both get home. Just as you finished visiting the last stand is when the pleasant chatter of the market began to sound more like loud noise–too many voices overlapping, the sun and bright colours of fruit and flowers suddenly blinding, and all the smells of roasting nuts and baked goods suddenly made it impossible to breathe.

You could tell it was time for him to leave–not back home though, just somewhere quieter. “Hey James.” You say softly to ground him in. “Focus on me. Since the weather is getting warmer, I think it’s a perfect time for you to try iced coffee. It’s very sweet.” His mind immediately focuses on your voice, blocking everything else out. Iced coffee. He knew what that meant. You two would be heading to the little cafe just a block away. He likes that place. It’s small and cozy with dimly lit fairy lights, and the scent is always consistent–a nice rich scent of brewing coffee beans. He nods immediately before he gets a sensory overload.

In the coffee shop, he’s hovering closely behind you in line. He’s swiftly taking in his surroundings–seeing where everyone is. There’s one person in line in front of you, a barista behind the counter, the other two just went into the back, there’s a mother and two kids off to the side, and an old man that won’t stop staring at him in the corner. It’s that man who’s making his anxiety flare. Then he sighs heavily when you’re both next in line. He leans into your shoulder like a shy little kid as he waits for you to order for him. “Hi, two iced caramel lattes.” You say to the barista, keeping the order simple, then turning to James. “Do you want anything else, like a muffin perhaps?” He quickly shakes his head, desperately wanting to sit down so he can catch his breath, but he refuses to leave your side. You take his hand in yours and give it a tight reassuring squeeze.

He squeezes your hand back, a silent acknowledgment of the comfort it provided. His eyes, though, continued their swift movement. Even as he leans into your shoulder, seeking comfort and a shield from the overwhelming sensory input, part of his brain is still analyzing and preparing. It’s not something he can turn off, not yet, hopefully one day because this is exhausting. It’s just how he sees the world, a testament of his past as the Winter Soldier, always on alert. You squeeze his hand again, and the warmth and familiarity are a temporary anchor, pulling him back from the edge of those ingrained instincts, reminding him he’s safe, he’s here, with you.

The barista soon hands you the two lattes while her eyes skim over James. He didn’t like that. It was the same way you looked at him, but he didn’t like it coming from another person. It felt wrong. It was the same slow, appreciative sweep that you sometimes gave him when you thought he wasn’t looking, or when you were feeling particularly playful. He thought it was just a special look he got from you, not anyone else. She didn’t know him like you did. Why would she look at him like that? He hasn’t realized just how handsome he is. The Winter Soldier never viewed himself as handsome. He only ever viewed himself as an asset.

His confusion mounted, the analytical part of his brain trying to categorize and understand her gaze. It wasn’t a threat assessment, not exactly. It was… focused. And then he realized where her eyes had settled, just below his waist. A slow, dawning comprehension, mixed with an unfamiliar flush, crept up his neck. That’s what she’s looking at? He didn’t understand. It was just… there. Always had been. He’d learned long ago that his pants always seemed to strain a little. He knew his pants, no matter the cut or fabric, always seemed to highlight the… prominence there.

He squeezed your hand again, a silent plea for you to pull him away from this woman’s intense, assessing gaze. However, his lip curled, baring his teeth just slightly as a warning–a hint of the past he tried to keep away bubbling to the surface, but this time he didn’t care.

“Pick a table.” You say, letting him choose a place that was comfortable for him since he’s still so tense. He softened as soon as he heard your voice, choosing a table in the back out of sight, letting out a prolonged exhale as he sat. You smile as you slide his coffee across the table towards him. “I think you’re really going to like it.”

His lips wrap around the straw as he takes a sip. The latte is rich with silky caramel and creamy milk. The caramel flavor has hints of vanilla and brown sugar, which adds depth and complements the espresso. He doesn’t get a hint of bitterness, which he likes. “It doesn’t taste like ass.”

“So you like it?” You say with a hint of amusement and fondness. “Mhm.” He hums while already taking another sip–the cool liquid like a soothing balm as his anxiety washes away. His shoulders drop inch by inch, and his jaw slowly softens. The tension around his eyes–although still present and alert lessened. Then his eyes landed on you, and for the first time since the market, the frantic scanning stopped. He focused intently on your face, on the gentle curve of your smile, the way your hair framed your features, the light catching in your eyes.

You were so pretty. So incredibly, effortlessly beautiful. It wasn’t just physical beauty, though. It was the way you looked at him, with such unwavering patience and understanding, the way your presence alone could soothe the storm raging inside him. Only you could calm the thoughts that plagued his mind. He didn’t understand why, but he couldn’t deny the urge to be around you constantly. Maybe it was the way you effortlessly navigated his world, always knowing what he needed before he ever did.

He knew duty, rage, fear, numbness–but this soft, overwhelming pull, this desire to simply exist in your presence, to protect that gentle smile, to soak in the quiet understanding in your eyes… it was a feeling he’s never felt before. One he didn’t know how to differentiate. His mind is so adapted to strategizing and analyzing threats, but this feeling was completely lost on him. He reached across the table, his fingers finding yours, a silent, desperate plea for connection as he tried to process this uncharted territory. You happily take his hand in yours and press a small kiss to the flesh of his palm. He’s a little clammy. You assume it’s either from his previous anxiety or the weather. “Are you doing ok?” You ask warmly.

He simply nods. It wasn’t a lie–he did feel ok, just confused and so utterly warm around you. He feels a swirl of different emotions, but it’s not like an intense storm this time. It’s more like a soft wind.

He held your gaze then, as if searching for an answer he knew he wouldn’t find. His usually sharp eyes were clouded, reflecting a vulnerability he only shows you. He squeezed your hand gently, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken connection between you. The soft wind inside him felt… safe. Grounding even. He wanted to say something about the foreign feelings he felt, but the words got caught in his throat. He didn’t know what words to use, or even how to describe what he felt in a way that made sense. The only way he knew how to express himself was through this simple touch.

His eyes were glued to you the whole time at the cafe, watching your expressions as you rambled about what you wanted to do later tonight. You wanted to make lemon and herb chicken with some roasted veggies you got from the farmer’s market. He loved the idea, even though he never truly cared what you decided to make. He always loved it. Your voice soothes him as you ramble, and he finds you so cute when you laugh at one of your own stupid jokes. These weird feelings you make him feel have gotten stronger in this moment.

Later that night he said he’d help you cook, which really means he’s going to hover behind you and touch you each time you set the tongs down. He gazes over your shoulder as you flip the chicken. He takes the tongs from you as he leans into your back. “I’ve got it.” He grumbles into your shoulder, but he doesn’t let you leave.

You lean your back into him, a soft sigh escaping your lips. “You’re being cute tonight.” The warmth of his body against yours is a comforting, familiar weight at this point. You know this isn’t just about him taking over the cooking; it’s about him needing to be close, needing that physical connection even as he performs a simple task. The tongs click as he flips the chicken pieces in the pan, the aroma of herbs and sizzling skin filling the kitchen. He felt a warmth bloom in his cheeks. “I’m not cute.” He grumbled, the words muffled against your shoulder, but a smirk tugged on his lips. He loved the way you saw him, the soft edges you found in a man who felt he had none.

For months you took care of him, carrying his every burden. He wanted to lift that weight, even if it was just by making dinner for a night. It was a small way of giving back. You’d anticipated his needs, offered comfort without question, and asked for nothing in return. He saw the subtle lines of fatigue around your eyes sometimes. He knew, deep down, that he was not a burden to you even though sometimes he felt like it. He knew you didn’t see him as an exhaustion, despite the months of patiently navigating his anxieties. Still, he recognized the quiet strength it took. He wasn’t blind, he saw the subtle sag of your shoulders throughout the day, the way you rubbed your temples when you thought he wasn’t looking, or the quiet sigh before his next barrage of “what if” questions for an hour. He saw the way your smile, usually so bright, sometimes thinned at the edges. He knew how well you hid it, but he used to be the damn Winter Soldier. Of course, he noticed the signs. It was exhausting for him to manage himself, he could only imagine what it must feel for you.

Once dinner is done and you’re serving two plates, he does his favourite task—feeding the cats. He smiles as the food he pours clinks in their bowls–the sound bringing them both into the room. He gives them an equal amount of pets before meeting you at the kitchen table. The chicken, golden-brown and glistening, cooked perfectly, tender and juicy beneath its crispy skin. The roasted vegetables—sweet and slightly charred—lay beside it, making the plate colourful. He watched you take your first bite before cutting into his own. The first taste is a burst of tangy lemon, chased by the aromatic depth of rosemary and thyme, clinging to the satisfyingly crispy skin.

He chewed slowly, savouring not just the meal, but the moment. The soft clinking of silverware, the low purrs of the cats winding around his legs, and the quiet intimacy of the kitchen. This was his sanctuary, built around your presence. How could one person, with your gentle laugh and your patience, dismantle a lifetime of conditioning? When he’s with you, it feels like that shadow of his past fades from your bright presence. His mind is less focused on threats and more focused on… well, you. How do you do it? Why are you able to soothe his deepest concerns simply by being here?

That night he couldn’t sleep. He’s lying there on the couch with Venus snuggled against his side and Alpine on his chest. He’s watching the tv trying to distract from all the thoughts in his head. You always put the tv on for him at night since he has such a difficult time sleeping in silence. The silence let him remember his time at Hydra. The soft glow of the screen filled the living room in blues and greys, and the quiet sound of dialog was a constant presence. It wasn’t the silence that echoed with the metallic clang of a locked door, or a sharp bark of a command, or the chilling whisper of his own fear.

He watched the flickering images, not truly following the plot, but letting the flow of it wash over him. He wasn’t thinking about Hydra this time but rather, you again. It was another romance movie playing. He didn’t get why so many scenes were reminding him of you. Maybe it’s because you always put on these types of movies, but there’s gotta be a more complex answer than that, right?

He watched a couple on screen share a quiet moment, a hand brushing a cheek, a soft smile then a kiss. What that would be like, he wondered. He had an entire lifetime of feeling nothing but numbness, but you brought out all of his repressed feelings. You two have had cute little moments, like in the movie. Like earlier when you kissed his hand. Would it be so bad if it were something more? The thought terrified him, but not in a fear he’s come to know. He didn’t know what this sensation was, this persistent, growing feeling that seemed to center entirely around you. He knew it was completely, utterly new. It scared him more than any mission he’d ever faced, precisely because he had no protocol for it, no way to control it, and no idea how to protect himself from it.

James tried shifting his focus again so he could finally get some sleep. His fingers lightly scritch behind Alpine’s ears. She was still significantly small, a tiny bundle of warmth against his chest, especially compared to Venus, who was also pretty small but seemed a giant next to Alpine. But she’s gotten bigger, and no longer relies on being bottle-fed. He remembered those first few weeks, the meticulous schedule, the tiny bottles, the worry that gnawed at him if she didn’t finish her formula. It was exhausting, but now that those days are over, they’re cherished memories.

These two have been a constant comfort to him. Whenever he sits down, they’ll hop in his lap, or they’ll lie with him when he lies down, and they walk under his feet so damn much. He used to be skilled at avoiding landmines; now he can’t even avoid these two cute little shits. They don’t judge, don’t question, and don’t demand anything but gentle affection and the space beside him. They looked at him with such adoration, such complete trust. It was a feeling he hadn’t realized he craved, this sense of being utterly cherished, of being the most important person in their small world. It made him feel… special. Maybe he wanted the same with you. Their soft purrs began to fade, and the colours from the TV blurred as he finally fell asleep.

However, he still hasn’t gotten out of the habit of waking up early, but today he’s using that to his advantage. He’s had some practice in making pancakes, so he thought he’d surprise you with breakfast before you left for work. He burned the first two, but all the others came out a perfect golden brown. Then he cut up some strawberries from the farmer’s market to add to them and sprayed a lot of whipped cream over your plate of pancakes. He got the idea from one of those cooking channels that play while you’re at work. He hasn’t told you he’s been watching them just so he could surprise you in this moment.

A small smile appeared on his lips when he heard the familiar sound of your footsteps down the stairs. “I made you breakfast.” He says shyly while showing you the plate in his hands. You can feel your heart fluttering. “Aw, you cooked without me? These look amazing.”

“I- I couldn’t figure out how to work the coffee machine. Sorry…” He mutters sheepishly. You’ve made him coffee each morning, and he wanted to do the same. He’s seen you use the machine before, but he just didn’t know what to do, and he didn’t want to accidentally break it, so he left it alone.

“It’s pretty advanced technology, huh?” You lightly tease, bringing a small smile to his lips. “It’s fine. I can handle it.” You thought about showing him how the coffee machine works, but you like having him rely on you over something so simple. Once you’ve brewed two cups of coffee, you join him at the kitchen table.

You settled into your chair, taking a moment to appreciate the sight of the perfectly arranged plate. He sat opposite you, a nervous energy radiating from him, his eyes fixed on your face. You took your first bite, and a soft sigh escaped your lips. The first bite of your pancakes is heavenly. A perfect balance of fluffy batter, the sweet-tart burst of fresh strawberries, and the cool, creamy decadence of the whipped cream. You can’t help but smile fondly. He cooked all by himself without your help for the first time.

“Oh wow, these are perfect.” You murmur warmly. He watched you, every movement, every subtle shift in your expression, as if you were the most fascinating thing he had ever seen. His own plate of pancakes sat mostly untouched, his focus entirely on you. A flush spread across his cheeks. He could tell you genuinely meant what you said. “I’m glad. I wanted to do something for you… You do so much for me… like cook each morning. I thought you could use a break.” He mutters, remembering the countless mornings you’d spent making sure he had coffee, making sure he ate, making sure he was comfortable before heading off to work.

You squeeze his hand, which is resting next to his plate. “This is really sweet. Thank you.” You give him another squeeze before picking up your fork again. The warmth of your hand lingered on his skin. He wanted to feel that contact for longer. His pupils, already wide in the dim morning light, expanded further, swallowing the blue of his irises until his gaze was a dark, intense pool fixed solely on you filled with nothing else other than pure unfiltered adoration.

He could feel his heart rate spiking the longer he looked at you. He didn’t understand, but it made his body feel warm as his blood flowed. It wasn’t enough. Even with you sitting across from him, so close he could reach out and touch you again, a strange ache settled in his chest. It was a longing for something more, something he couldn’t quite name. He wishes he could come up with a name for it. It would make things so much easier.

Under the table, his leg began tapping nervously as you finished your last bites. The coffee probably didn’t help. He knows you have to leave soon, and he can feel his anxiety rising. “Will you be coming home at the same time?” He always confirms each morning. He gets incredibly anxious when you’re even just a few minutes late.

“Yes.” You say in a soft, reassuring tone as you sip your coffee. You don’t mind him asking each morning. You try everything you can to soothe his anxiety each day. He wishes he could prolong breakfast with you, but you’re soon up and about getting ready while he stays seated thinking about what he should do today. Then he feels that satisfying goodbye kiss of yours to his head, closing his eyes and leaning into your lips as a pleased hum leaves his lips. “Goodbye. Be safe.” He can’t help a slip of worry in his voice.

You ruffle his hair, the gesture just way too tempting before heading to the door. “I will. Have a good day.” Then he hears the clink of the door closing. He hates that sound. The entire day is stretched out before him, an uncharted territory. In his past life, every minute was accounted for, every action dictated, every objective cleared. He was a weapon, a tool, always pointed in a specific direction. Now, he’s just… him. And ‘him’ doesn’t know what to do with himself for the next eight hours.

He could clean, but the house is always so clean. Read maybe? No, his attention span feels so frayed, and he knows he won’t be able to pay attention to anything on the TV. He feels like such a useless couch potato when you’re gone. He could sit outside for a bit–you have a very nice backyard with a lot of privacy—but he typically finds himself staring at the tree he collapsed under as he bled out. He knows that moment changed his life, but he still doesn’t like thinking about what caused it. What he was running from that day which led him here.

With a heavy sigh, he rests his cheek in his hand. Maybe he should get a job. Maybe at the shop with you? He knows the old lady you work for would give him a job in a heartbeat, but an ordinary job felt so wrong for him. That’s not what he was made for. He’s felt detached lately, not used to having no purpose, nothing to prepare for. He loves having a life here with you and loves that he’s finally away from Hydra even more, but he has this ache that has him feeling he should be doing something. Something more than just a job, like an average person. He longs to make up for his past, but the life you’ve given him hasn’t exactly made that possible for him. It’s just too average. He’s not average, and he knows he’ll never be. Lately, it’s felt like he’s been trying to fit in a box that’s just too small. He has no urge to leave you or this life, just that he needs to do something more.

The day has barely begun, and already, he’s counting the minutes until you return so that your presence clears his mind. How was he going to survive until then? He wants to do more for you, to repay you in some way, but he doesn’t know how. It’s all so frustrating. Eventually, he finds Alpine resting quietly on the couch and buries his face in her fur as he sleeps with her, hoping to clear his head for one lousy minute.

The day dragged on long and slow as he tried every little thing to occupy himself to fill your absence, but it didn’t work. He spent most of his day curled up with Alpine, finding comfort in her soft purrs.

Then finally, the familiar click of the front door opening echoed through the house. In the evening, he loves the sound, but hates it in the morning. He was all over you before you could utter a greeting, his arms wrapping around you in a tight embrace, burying his face in your hair, inhaling your slightly sweaty scent like it’s the only thing grounding him to reality. Since you’re exhausted, his embrace feels surprisingly nice, and you feel yourself melting into it. “Hey… You ok?” You murmur softly, recognizing something was off.

He just hummed, a low, pleased sound against your shoulder, not wanting to let go. His mind, which had been a chaotic mess all day, suddenly felt… clear. Not empty, but focused. Focused on you.

The whole night he was all over you. It was endearing as much as it was annoying. It was hard to cook with him following you around in the kitchen, and when you ate dinner, he brushed his leg against yours under the table and took your hand in his each time you set your fork down. Each time you got up for a drink or something, he followed, and each time you sat back down, he sat closer. Then, when it was time to watch a movie before bed like always and he clung to you.

You loved that he found solace in you, but it was also… a lot. You can’t help but wonder, did something happen? He hadn’t said anything to you all day, just clung to you. You didn’t know what triggered this sudden profound clinginess. You were used to him being quiet and even brooding, but tonight this was different. Actually the past few days, his behaviour has been slowly changing.

He didn’t understand it. He, who had been trained to be self-sufficient, to operate alone for days, weeks, months, now felt a hollow void when you weren’t within arm’s reach for a few minutes. His hands, once so adept at wielding weapons, now longed only to hold yours. His body, once a perfectly calibrated machine, now felt incomplete without the warmth of your side pressed against his.

He wanted to tell you, but how could he explain something that went beyond all his reason? Adjectives and verbs didn’t feel right. What you made him feel was unexplainable.

He could break down battle plans within minutes, predict an enemy’s next moves just by a subtle change of body language, and even analyze complex data. But this? He couldn’t apply any of that to this. There was no formula, no algorithm for this. He couldn’t explain how you so drastically changed his behaviour. There was no battle plan to dissect, no enemy to predict, no data to analyze. He tried his usual methods, trying to observe his behaviour. How his pulse raced and his muscles tensed when you left, but when you were back everything eased and slowed. He couldn’t predict anything when it came to you. Was it from how emotionally numb he had been for all those years? Was he experiencing normal emotions, but they just felt overwhelming because he hadn’t felt them for years?

He felt so damn frustrated. He could handle an interrogation without breaking, dismantle a security system in minutes, calculate the trajectory of a grenade immediately, but why couldn’t he do this? A part of him felt the need to give up, but he refused to give in. Why were emotions so hard? It’d be easy to tell you what he felt so you could help him, but he just couldn’t. Were there words for these feelings he just didn’t know? He’d spent decades in a controlled, predictable environment. This was so open, with so many branches, it felt overwhelming. Was his system starved of genuine human connection for so long, simply overreacting to the first taste of it? He was terrified, but the urge to feel more with you was so intense.

Then he felt you begin to shift as the movie rolled the credits, pulling him back into the present. That meant you’d be heading to bed now, but he didn’t want you to leave yet. He wanted to be with you longer, but he reluctantly let you up, watching you yawn as you stood and stretched. Your body felt stiff after having this heavy-ass man laid on you the entirety of a movie. “I’m heading to bed now. I’m exhausted. Goodnight, James.” His touches lingered as you stood, like he was trying to keep you here, and when you gave him his goodnight kiss on his head, he desperately leaned into it, trying to absorb every last bit of warmth and comfort from your touch. His gaze softened into something almost mournful as he watched you step out of the living room, making him feel raw, aching loneliness. He couldn’t just let you go. Not now. Not when the fragile connection he was struggling to understand felt so strong. He suddenly pushed himself off the couch before his brain had a chance to overthink his actions.

You were surprised when he followed you out of the living room. “Oh? You’re not going to bed yet?” He could see how tired you were. The bags under your eyes, the way you kept yawning and fidgeting tiredly. He should leave you alone for the rest of the night, but his heart wouldn’t allow it. He glanced at the stairs that led to your bedroom then back at you. “I actually thought I could join you?” He visibly cringed when he heard how meek his voice was. Meek. The Winter Soldier would never have sounded so meek. But this? This soft, almost pleading question, barely above a whisper. This wasn’t a programmed response, a calculated move. This was him. This was the man who had softened into something new, something different, something better.

“For more cuddles?” You gently teased, with a small smile. You knew he didn’t want to let go of you anytime soon. Sleeping with him, cuddled together under a bunch of blankets and some actual room to sprawl out on the mattress, did sound nice. This was a big step for him, but if he was ready, you weren’t going to deny him. “Sure.” You said with another yawn, gesturing upstairs.

Once he took one step into your room, he didn’t go any further without your permission. He’s only ever been in here briefly before while he waited for you to grab something. This was your space, and he respected that. He had already made himself at home everywhere else. You pause at your bed when you realize he didn’t follow and with a sigh you grab his hand. “C’mon. Get comfy.” You say softly to soothe him. That tone works every time. He waits for you to get settled before joining you under the covers. His body is stiff since this is a new territory, but he slowly relaxes into the soft mattress beneath him. It’s nothing like the cold, hard surfaces he grew accustomed to sleeping on. It was almost too soft.

His focus quickly switched when you draped an arm over his chest. You looked so beautiful, all sleepy and vulnerable. He can’t believe someone felt safe enough with him to actually share the same bed. Was this ‘comfort’? Was it ‘belonging’? The words felt too small, too inadequate for the tidal wave of sensation that threatened to overwhelm him. He tried to identify the sensation so he could label it and file it away.

With a deep inhale–catching a whiff of your shampoo–he wraps an arm around you and allows himself to finally relax with a yawn. He then pulls you closer, pressing your chest against his while burying his nose in your hair. Your shampoo is a comfort to him. The warmth of your body melted the usual chill of his past.

He tried to drift to sleep, to succumb to the warmth of your body, but it didn’t come. It was hard in a new environment. His mind was too occupied mapping out the room, his mind still ever vigilant. He took in every detail he could see in the dark and what he remembered from the few times stepping in here. He could make a blueprint of your entire room–a habit that was still ingrained in him. Every surface was messy and cluttered; there were lots of tools that never made it back to the garage, clothes draped over a chair, and lots of little trinkets that suited you.

Not that he minded. He liked holding you in his arms as you peacefully snored against his chest while the cats lay by his head on the pillow. Even as his mind raced, his body felt utterly safe. He silently wondered if this was what intimacy felt like. Where vulnerability isn’t a weakness but a comfort. Not like all those kissing scenes he saw in those movies, but he has begun wondering about those…

He then closed his eyes, but not to sleep, rather to fully immerse himself in this experience. Your subtle scent of shampoo, your breaths, the gentle pressure of holding you to his chest, and even the purrs from the cats. The blueprint of your messy room soon faded into the background. The tension of being in a new environment faded, and he was no longer anticipating attacks. For once, he wasn’t being sent off on a mission and tracking down a target: he was simply being. Existence always meant fighting, but this is a feeling he’d much rather experience.

His face is in your hair again–inhaling the scent before his lips tentatively pressed against your scalp–a move he subconsciously made but glad he did. That felt right. Something finally felt right. He checks to see if you stirred at all before testing the gesture again–holding his lips there for a few seconds longer, then he pulls away again to check your face. You’re so soft and your guard is always down, unlike anything he’s ever seen before. 

Then, he finally pressed a proper kiss to your head, his lips making a faint sound he was afraid would wake you, but it felt right again. His lips lingered as he let out a sigh he didn’t know he was holding in. He pulls back just enough to comfortably rest his cheek against your hair. Finally, his body began to feel heavy with exhaustion and content. Such a nice feeling. The most he ever felt when falling asleep was unease or even fear.

This was the quiet, profound stillness that his soul had craved for decades. No orders, no missions, no pain, just this overwhelming sense of being held and holding.

That next morning he woke up with you still in his arms. He had no urge to get up yet. For decades, waking had been an abrupt, almost violent affair. His eyes would snap open, instantly assessing his sterile room, the hard cot, the angle of the door, the distance to his weapons, waiting to be assigned a new mission or be tested on. But this morning he felt groggy but content, without that painful readiness to get the day started. This wasn’t the Winter Soldier waking up–it was just James.

With a flutter, his eyes opened slowly, a soft haze still clinging to the edges of his vision. The first thing he registered wasn’t a threat but the comforting warm weight of you against his chest. He’s half tempted to go back to bed, to sleep in till noon like you do on your days off. He’s never had a chance to sleep in. It reminds him of all the freedom he now has.

His eyes flutter back closed as he listens to your soft snores. You’re still in a deep sleep, so that means he’ll be here for a while. Perfect. His breaths grew heavy as they mingled with yours, but he didn’t exactly fall asleep. It was hard because he didn’t want this moment to end with him falling back to sleep. The warmth of your body kept him grounded.

When you wake up, you’re greeted with a tight, warm, comforting embrace. The sound of his heart and breathing right against your ear. The sight of his face is still a bit blurry from sleep, but his eyes are closed and his expression is so utterly relaxed. It’s a sight you haven’t seen before. You’ve seen him relaxed before, but never like this. Then his eyes flutter open as he meets your gaze, realizing you finally woke.

He leans in, pulling you closer until his lips meet your scalp, pressing a few soft kisses. “Oh, that’s new.” You mumble groggily while leaning into his touch, with a soft sigh escaping your lips.

His lips, much warmer than the rest of his skin, trail from your scalp to the skin behind your ear, pressing his nose against you as he leaves a few more kisses. The trail follows your jawline until his lips meet your pulse point. Such a vulnerable point of your body, and for once he has no intentions of hurting. The pace of your pulse underneath his lips gave way to what you’re feeling. It’s slow with every beat of your heart. Relaxed. You felt relaxed with him. Safe even.

He was still half-asleep, his eyes fluttering closed again even as his lips continued their tender exploration. A soft groan rumbled from deep in his chest, full of unfiltered content he never thought he could feel. His hand, which had been resting lightly on your back, began to move, stroking slowly and deliberately, from between your shoulder blades down to your spine, then back up again. It wasn’t a demanding touch, but a possessive one, as if he was reassuring himself that you were truly there, warm and real in his arms.

Then his lips found your shoulder, kissing over every inch of exposed skin he could reach. A soft murmur escaped your throat, a sound he felt rather than heard, confirming his theory that you were relaxed. Each touch was a question he didn’t know how to ask, a reassurance he desperately needed. He was a man who had been denied warmth, denied touch, denied simple human affection for so long, and now, here it was, smoothing out the jagged edges of his soul.

Then, an undeniable firmness began to assert itself. His breath hitched, a small, almost imperceptible sound, one you didn’t notice thankfully. His eyes, which had been closed in blissful contentment, snapped open, wide with a sudden dawning realization.

Oh. Oh, hell. Fuck.

A flush crept up his neck, an uncomfortable warmth entirely separate from the cozy intimacy of the moment. It had been… years. Decades, probably. The Winter Soldier hadn’t had this type of reaction. It was a purely biological, inconveniently human response, and it was loud.

He had been so focused on you in his arms he was blissfully unaware of what had stirred under the sheets. Morning wood.

He tensed, just barely, his carefully cultivated calm threatening to shatter. This wasn’t part of the tender, beautiful morning. This was… embarrassing. He hadn’t ever experienced an emotion as strong as embarrassment in such a long damn time, and it was an awful feeling. He didn’t want to disrupt this fragile peace, this quiet domesticity he was only just learning to savor. He certainly didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable. That was his most major concern.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed thickly, trying to subtly shift his hips to create some distance, some… space. But you were nestled so perfectly against him. He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, a silent plea to the universe. His lips, which had been so eager to kiss you just moments ago, were now pressed into a tight, thin line. Don’t move. Don’t breathe too deeply. Just… be a normal, non-aroused human being, James. Just for a little longer.

You hadn’t noticed it, still exhausted from just waking up, but he knew it was just a matter of time until you did. How could he avoid that? Then his mind finally settled on something. “Coffee?” He murmurs, exaggerating the grogginess in his voice. A small sleepy smile tugs on your lips, and he lets out a long, relieved sigh as you pull yourself off of him. “Yea, I’ll make you coffee. You sound exhausted this morning.” You press a small kiss to his cheek before crawling out of bed.

Once you’re gone, another heavy sigh escapes his lips. Just breathe. Take some deep breaths, he told himself. God, now you were making him respond physically to you. He didn’t understand. What was it about you? A shaky breath escaped him, and he scrubbed a hand over his face, pushing back the unruly strands of hair that had fallen across his brow.

His hand drifted down into his pants, a reluctant, almost disgusted exploration of the evidence of his body’s betrayal. He never dared to touch himself there before. He knew he was… big down there, but it wasn’t something he ever dwelled on. It was just… a part of him and his anatomy. A rather inconvenient part, actually. The insistent throb was still there, a hot, heavy weight pressing against his palm, demanding attention he absolutely refused to give it. He’d never felt it before, not truly. Never felt the blood rush, the tissue swell, the insistent, almost aggressive demand for release. He hadn’t known it could feel like that, could want like that. Below his waist, that had always been… a blind spot. A biological necessity, for the inconvenient but unavoidable act of urination. Nothing more. A minor inconvenience in an otherwise perfectly engineered killing machine. He’d never touched it, not in any way that wasn’t purely functional. There was no curiosity, no self-exploration, no fleeting moment of personal pleasure the Asset would ever experience. The Winter Soldier had been mostly detached from his body, just being used as another weapon. But now his body was finally awake.

It soon faded to a dull ache now, beginning to soften now that you were gone, and he pulled his hand away. He pushed himself up, leaning against the headboard, the lingering scent of your skin still on the sheets, on his pillow. His mind, now fully awake, felt sharper, clearer, but also infinitely more troubled.

He hadn’t felt such an undeniable physical response in… well, he couldn’t even put a number to it. This simply never triggered during his years as the Asset. The Winter Soldier didn’t get morning wood. The Winter Soldier didn’t feel a sudden, overwhelming urge to hold you close to his chest forever.

But James… James apparently did. And it was all because of you.

His brow furrowed, a deep crease forming between his eyes. He didn’t understand. He was supposed to be recovering. Healing. Learning to live again. Not… not experiencing this deep, undeniable urge to be around you constantly. It was confusing enough for a man still trying to remember himself.

He rubbed his temples groggily as he came down the stairs right when you finished making the coffee. “Oh, I was just about to bring this up to you. Are you alright?” He nodded as he took the mug from you but didn’t respond verbally. You were used to him staying quiet at this point, but you could tell by the look on his face something was off, but you don’t push.

“What do you want for breakfast?”

“Not much.” He murmurs while watching the coffee swirl around in his mug. You could tell something was wrong.

“Are you doing alright?” No answer, like usual. You sigh heavily because it’s basically impossible to get him to open up, so instead you set your mug down as you hug him from behind. This usually works. It was a quiet invasion of his personal space, one he wouldn’t have tolerated from anyone else, yet from you, it was soothing. His eyes flutter closed, and he sighs with a shudder of profound relief as your smaller frame supports some of his weight. All of his swirling thoughts simply evaporated like morning dew under the warm sun. In that moment, there was only the steady beat of your heart against his back, the gentle rise and fall of your breath, the soft press of your breasts, and the way you nuzzled against him to let him know you were there. You couldn’t help but squeeze your arms around his waist.

He hadn’t even realized how truly tense he’d been until that tension bled out of him. He didn’t know how you did it, only that you did. Maybe the why was less important than the undeniable what. What it was, was a profound sense of belonging. It was like stepping out of a blizzard and into a sun-drenched meadow, the world suddenly warm, quiet, and impossibly soft. Which basically happened to him.

You, meanwhile, felt a different kind of satisfaction. Your fingers, already interlocked at his front, tightened almost possessively. God, his waist. It was so narrow compared to his broad chest and shoulders. It was so damn easy to grab, to hold on to, to just squeeze.

“Would you like to spend the day at home?” You murmur against his back, already knowing the answer. His mind is way too frazzled to deal with the chaotic world. He nods, his hands slipping over yours with a squeeze. “Mhm.”

You could tell something or even multiple things have been on his mind lately, but today it’s been very obvious. He was less responsive than usual, even for him. Today you’ve been fighting to drag the simplest ‘yeah’ or ‘mhm’ from him. It wasn’t dismissive, you could tell. It was more like the words weren’t reaching him, or perhaps, he simply couldn’t find the energy to form a coherent reply.

He followed you from room to room, a silent shadow, not intrusive, but always present. There was so much trouble in his eyes today. You didn’t know how to get through to him. You knew he wasn’t deliberately trying to be distant.

Lunch soon followed. He ate, but with little enthusiasm, pushing food around his plate more than actually consuming it. Every now and then, he’d let out a sigh, a sound that spoke of a weary soul carrying a burden too heavy to articulate. You tried to engage him, asking about mundane things like the weather, Alpine, movies. But all of his answers were one worded. It was like trying to catch mist in your hands.

After clearing the table, you found yourself drifting towards the garage, a familiar comfort zone where you could lose yourself in your work. James still followed you around like always into the workshop of your garage while you worked on one of your small inventions. They reminded him of all the awful inventions he had seen at Hydra, but you explained to him what you wanted to do with yours. You had only good intentions, and you enjoyed tinkering, so he didn’t mind watching you even though he never fully understood what you were doing.

He looked so lost, so vulnerable, even in his stillness. You knew better than to push, knew that forcing him rarely worked, but seeing him like this was unbearable. You caught him tracing the patterns of his metal arm. He was wondering what he was like before he got it. The James he was trying to excavate from under layers of ice and blood was harder than any mission he had ever faced. The Asset hadn’t known this quiet desperation, this yearning. The Asset never felt the warmth of another body under his hands. The warmest thing his hands felt was the warmth of blood from icy death. The Asset didn’t feel emotions. But James… James was a mess of inconvenient emotions and inconvenient erections.

You tried to focus, to lose yourself in connecting tiny wires, but the air was thick with his unaddressed turmoil. It was hard to focus with him looking like that in the corner of your eye. Your hands weren’t steady and practiced like they usually were. You weren’t losing yourself in your work. It was just frustrating. You picked up a miniature screwdriver, but the weight felt wrong and unfamiliar. Usually, the delicate work of soldering a miniature circuit board was a meditative act.

Your gaze drifted to him again. He was still tracing the metal patterns on his arm, his eyes distant, unfocused like yours had been on the circuit board under your fingers. You weren’t actually doing anything. You were mimicking familiar motions, tweaking things that didn’t need to be touched, like you were waiting for the motivation to come. You couldn’t do this. You couldn’t focus with him sitting like that just a few feet away, so with a sigh you set down your tools.

“James.” You started softly, your frustration at your inability to work faded to concern as soon as you saw the look in his eyes. He was lost. Oh, so utterly lost… “What’s wrong?” You asked, your voice barely audible, filled with a tenderness that hoped to coax, not demand. You let the question hang in the air until he’s ready to answer.

He meets your gaze only for a moment before looking down at the metal of his fingers before rasping out, “Nothing…” It was more like a plea for you to drop it, a confession that he didn’t have the words, or the strength to explain. He was building walls, you could tell, but you weren’t going to let him retreat. Not today.

You sigh again. That was the answer you knew you would get but were hoping you wouldn’t. You cup his cheek in your hand, gently guiding him so he meets your eyes. “It’s not nothing. I can see that, whatever it is, has been affecting you. Try to tell me what it is, even if it’s just a little bit.” You knew he wouldn’t open up easily, but you had to try. For him.

His gaze, when it meets yours, is brimming with a battle of different emotions. Enough to tell you he wanted to reach out, even if he didn’t know how to build the bridge himself. “I don’t know how to… how to say it. It all feels like a mess.” His voice drops almost to a whisper, laced with a raw frustration that vibrates in the air.

“Then let it be a mess when you tell me.” He wasn’t expecting you to say something like that. His brows furrow slightly, like he wants you to clarify. “Let it be messy as you tell me just so you can get it out of your system… And maybe… maybe I can make sense of just a bit of it.” His shoulders slump as he listens to you go on. He was so busy trying to find specific words to tell to the point that it overwhelmed him. Still, he struggled to come up with the simplest of words. His thoughts didn’t sound like words, but more felt like fog that filled his head. “It’s like… trying to grab smoke. I know it’s there; I can feel it choking me, but I can’t… I can’t hold on to it, can’t show it to you.” His brow furrows, a deep crease forming between his eyes. You let the weight of his head fall into your palm as you smooth out the crease of his brows with the thumb of your other hand. “That was pretty good. Can you continue?” You say with such a tender, reassuring tone. That’s the most you’ve gotten out of him in weeks, and you want to pull out a bit more so you can understand without scaring him off again.

“It’s just a constant hum of... wrongness. A weight I can’t lift, but can’t describe either. I don’t know how to tell you what it is, because I don’t even know myself.” The admission was a profound act of trust, a laying bare of his deepest, most agonizing confusion. You felt a pang in your chest, a deep ache for the man before you. His words, though still vague, were a revelation. He wasn’t just struggling with memories; he was struggling with being. The sheer burden of not understanding himself, of feeling fundamentally broken, was a weight no one should carry alone. You felt like you wanted to cry for him.

You pull his head to your chest as you play with his hair, offering him the most comfort you can… and so he can’t see the tears swelling up in your eyes. Your fingers, which struggled with your tools moments ago, effortlessly glide through his hair. “Oh, my sweet baby boy.” Your voice wavers, thick with unshed tears, but you swallow them down, forcing strength into your tone. You couldn’t break when he was already so broken; you had to hold yourself strong for him. “You don’t have to know. Not right now at least. Just let yourself feel. Sometimes surrendering and letting yourself feel is better than fighting to figure it out. Even just for a little bit.”

Those words—simple enough but profound—seem to unlock something within him. It wasn’t extravagant advice he needed to hear—it was simply knowing you cared. He didn’t speak, but you felt the subtle shift in his weight, a deeper slump against your chest like a surrender. He took a small, shaky breath, then another, and another until his breathing deepened, and that’s all his mind focused on. The asset knew how to regulate his breathing so he didn’t get winded, but James needed to know how to calm his worry. It was something you taught him.

You thought words have died off now, until you both decide to go back into the house and you certainly weren’t expecting the first words to be said to be from him, or even be this, “I’ve been thinking I should learn who I used to be but I don’t know where to start.” He quietly admits. Your fingers pause in his hair. Of course, you wanted him to heal, to find peace, to reclaim whatever pieces of himself had been lost. The thought was terrifying for both of you. There’s just so many unanswered questions that follow that. So many you don’t even want to face. You loved this James, the one who was here, in your arms, vulnerable and confused but present. Once he learned who he was, he would change, your relationship would change, even your life would change. So many changes. And maybe… Maybe the man he finds himself to be will no longer need you. You’d like to think he wouldn’t let you go, but you don’t know how different he’ll be compared to the man in your arms. But you’ve thought about it. You swallow hard before forcing your words out in a gentle tone. It’s all going to change… “I could take you to the Avengers. I’m sure they can help.”

He hesitates—that name striking a chord with him. He used to be told they were the enemy that could never be trusted, that must be killed, but he’s recently learned otherwise. By the news and by you. They were people you admired. But how good was your judgment? He adored you, but you took in a man who almost choked you out. “What if they don’t? They should imprison me for what I’ve done.”

“They won’t.” You quietly reassure before he has a chance to keep thinking along those lines. “Not after you tell them everything that’s been done to you.” You’re not sure what he’s gone through because he’s never really talked about it, but you could tell that it was bad. You’ve known that for a long damn time, since you met him. You could see the little signs. His silence stretched, a heavy blanket woven from years of conditioning and the fragile thread of new trust.

You try a different approach as you go back to playing with his hair. “You know, maybe if you go there, you can put in a good word about me and get me a job. That way, I’ll always be close by.”

“You’ve thought this out, haven’t you?” He mutters, a part of him wondering how often he’s on your mind and if it even comes close to how much you’re on his.

“I have.” You quietly admit. “I want only what’s best for you but I alone haven’t been able to give it to you.” He’s still weary, he’s used to being told to distrust the Avengers, but based on what you’ve told him about him, they may be the only ones that can help.

“It’s a big step, I know,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. “And it’s terrifying. For both of us.” You add so he knows you understand what he’s feeling. That he’s not alone in this. He had more questions to ask. So many, but he held back. It was going to be painful and so unpredictable he hated it, but you’d be there, so it’d be fine, right? You make everything ok. He tries to redirect his thinking. He had thought about paying you back, and getting you a job you’d love, that so happens to keep you close to him? That sounds perfect. He tries to focus on that and not all those terrifying emotions.

You murmur against his hair again. “Don’t think it’s a decision you need to make at night. You can take weeks or even months.” You press a lingering kiss to his head before tilting his chin up and meeting his eyes. “But tonight I don’t want you to even think of that. Just focus on relaxing, alright?” His Adam’s apple bobs as he nods. He can do that… right? His mind is still a jumbled mess, but in an hour or so with you and a couple movies and other mundane rituals you two have, he’ll be fine, right?

His mind suddenly focuses on how much he relies on you, and now he’s thinking about how it was you who found him. If he had stumbled into any other backyard, he would have frozen to death, or been shot, or returned to Hydra. Not meet a slightly insane woman who welcomed him into her home and offered him hot cocoa right after he had his hand around her throat. You are truly weird but amazing. It wasn’t just that you put up with him; you saw him. From the very beginning. You saw the fear behind the trained killer’s eyes, the lost man beneath the hardened soldier.

He didn’t know who he’d find himself to be. He knew that whatever it was would be complex, and he didn’t know how it would change him. But he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that no matter what horrors his past unveiled, no matter how much he might change, he would never, ever find anyone else who understood him, who tolerated him, who loved him, quite like you did. You were his everything.

He suddenly realizes he didn’t even mention the emotions you’ve been making him feel, but maybe he’ll tell you another time. He’s laid out enough emotions today, leaving his mind to feel numb. His eyes close as he rests his head in your hands and just… gives up for a little bit. Something he so desperately needed. No thinking or worrying, just focusing on you right here and the pure comfort you bring and the wonderful life you gave him.

When his head moves to your shoulder, he catches a glance of the locked chest he’s sure has all his old weapons. You quite literally locked away that part of his past. You made him build a new life where he absolutely loves the littles of things.

It was hard to believe that he stumbled, half-dead, into the path of the one person in the entire world who could not only save him but show him how to live. It felt so unreal, but feeling your arms around him, he didn’t have to worry this was a dream he might wake up from. Out of all the forgotten corners of the world he could have collapsed in, it was yours. Your beautiful warm little corner was everything he needed. This. This was his reality now.

Later that night, you found him curled on the sofa, his head tucked against the armrest, eyes closed. His breathing was shallow, almost imperceptible. He wasn’t sleeping, you knew. He was just… existing. Trying to find a moment of peace within the relentless assault of his own mind. He was a man adrift, trying to navigate a new ocean with a broken compass, and the most bewildering, beautiful, terrifying current in that ocean was you. He wasn’t thinking of anything else that had worried him hours ago. You cleared that part of his head.

“Ready for bed?” You whisper, knowing he needs quiet. A small ‘mhm’ leaves his lips as he nods, not bothering to speak, open his eyes, or even move. “Well, why are you lying there, silly? You sleep with me now.” He raises his head in surprise while looking over your face. You were using a playful tone, but you were completely serious. He had thought last night was just a one time thing. He keeps lying there, his eyes glued to you with subtle confusion. But when you turned and called for him to follow you, he stood. “C’mon. I know my bed is a lot comfier than that couch.”

He could tell something was different with you from your tone. Not exactly off, but you were up to something. Once he’s in your room, he practically collapses onto your bed, the weight of the day catching up to him. You were right. Your bed is so much comfier than the couch, and it’s just what he needs. His swirling thoughts were taking a physical toll on him. He was sore and exhausted. It was something the Asset never felt, and it sucks, but it feels so human. His eyes had already fallen shut before even settling on the bed but snapped open when you suddenly wrapped your arms around his neck. What is up with you? Why are you acting so differently? Wait– Oh. This is like when you’re clingy. It’s always been him who was the clingy one. He could hardly believe it. This was new, and utterly delightful.

How could he not eat up this moment? His arms wrap around your waist as he pulls you flushed to his chest, his head immediately ducking into the crevice of your shoulder, leaving little kisses like he did in the morning. Each press of his lips is a silent thank you, a declaration of the feelings he hadn’t yet voiced. You in return tighten your grip around his neck, your fingers tangling in the hair at the base of his neck. It was so damn soft. Of course, he has better hair than you.

A soft, delighted giggle bubbled up from your chest as his stubble tickled your neck, a sound so pure and sweet it made his own heart swell. You were practically vibrating with a joy you could barely contain. You’ve waited months for this part of him to come out. He had been so used to being the one reaching, the one craving closeness, and now you were practically melting into him.

His lips, oh, his lips were the softest you had ever felt. His head stayed buried in the crevice of your while inhaling your scent and soaking up your warmth as his kisses, once precise and tender, grew sloppier, and wet, almost feverish. He was truly letting go at this moment. His lips moved over the hollow of your throat as you tilt your head back to accommodate him. His lips leave behind a warm, wet trail that makes you squirm.

Oh, he likes this side of you. Giddy and clingy like you can’t get enough of him. He’s stopped worrying if you could ever truly like a broken man like him. This just proves it. He feels so valued and cherished. You really are the one for him, huh? He knows he doesn’t even have to look for others. It’ll always be you.

His breath, once calm and slow, depends into heavy sighs against your warm skin. Not of arousal but from profound, overwhelming affection he can’t handle. It’s like he’s high off your presence. His hands, which were on your back, holding you close, began to roam up and down. He was getting bold.

Soft hums and content groans left from deep in his throat as his lips moved higher up your throat. The damp heat of his mouth, the gentle rasp of his stubble, the warm, unsteady sigh of his breath. It was intoxicating. He could feel the race of your pulse under his lips. You hitched a leg over his, pressing your hips firmly against his, a silent plea for more, for closer, which makes him squeeze you tighter in return. You tilted your head back further, offering him more access, your fingers still tangled in the silky strands at the nape of his neck, gently tugging, urging him on.

You nuzzled against him, rubbing your cheek against his stubble, making a smile pull on his lips. “Mmh, perfect.” You murmured barely audibly. Now it was your turn. You tugged on his hair, pulling his head back just enough to press some kisses along his jaw. His eyes flutter closed as he smiles contently and squeezes you again. Your nose followed his jaw before pressing into the hollow below his ear before pressing a bunch of small kisses to his neck. They were so soft and light compared to his earlier ones. Then your arms squeezed around his neck again as you tried to burrow deeper against his chest. You were absolutely, ridiculously, overwhelmingly lovey-dovey, and he loved everything single damn second of it.

When you pulled away just enough to breathe, his lips were right back on the crevice of your shoulder, where your skin is the warmest, as his lips followed the same trail again. Up your throat, while lingering on your pulse point. His lips settled over the rapid thump of blood right beneath your skin, feeling the rhythm beat against his mouth. It was a silent language he knew like Morse code. He’d learned to decipher fear, adrenaline, pain, deception, all through the frantic symphony of a human heart. As the Asset, a racing pulse meant adrenaline, fear, a target’s last desperate struggle. A steady, slow beat meant control, or worse, unconsciousness. He’d learned to read the stories of bodies through their heartbeats, a brutal, necessary skill in a world of silence and violence. Back then, it was a tool, a way to measure the breaking point of others. A pulse never lied. But this… this was different. You were relaxed but also so very excited. Your pulse was strong and deep with frantic joy.

He pressed his lips firmer against your pulse, a silent promise to protect that wild, beautiful beating heart. A heavy, pleased sigh brushed past his lips against your skin. In your arms and in your warmth, he felt a safety he never knew even existed. His lips, still damp and warm, began their slow, deliberate journey again. However, this time it’s slow and tender, not clumsy. He was pouring every ounce of emotion into those kisses. Each one lingered until his lips moved barely an inch higher. Each kiss was a whisper, a silent declaration of ownership and adoration.

Your nails rake against his scalp as you brush the dark locks of his hair back from his forehead. When you moaned softly as he kissed under your jaw, his breath hitched. He wanted to drown in that sound, to coax it from your throat again and again. He pressed his lips back against your skin where they left, his brows furrowed as he heard a small sigh pass your lips. His lips very slowly move higher and higher, almost reaching yours, then he hesitates.

Hesitation. Why was he hesitating when this was what he wanted? What was he thinking? The assassin he used to be never hesitated. He may have changed, but if he could do all those brutal missions in the past and survive? He could do this. So he goes for it, pressing his lips against yours, cupping the back of your head with one hand, and trailing his metal one up and down your back. The surprised squeak you made quickly faded into a delighted moan as his lips finally, finally found yours, getting exactly what you wanted. Your eyes, which had fluttered open in that first startled moment, now drifted shut.

Months. It had been months of you holding back because he wasn’t ready, and you were already prepared to wait many more. For months, you’d been lovingly, patiently tending to his fractured soul, and that was enough for you. You would have waited a lifetime if that’s what it took for him to finally, truly lean in. But tonight… he just went for it.

His lips still hesitated, silently questioning if it was right for him to pull such a bold move, but yours met his immediately. All his doubts melted when you leaned in. His mouth moved over yours, slow and worshipful at first, then deepening with an almost painful yearning.

Your fingers in his hair were pulling, tugging, urging, needing him closer. Your leg still wrapped around his waist tugged him closer. He got the message, rolling over onto his back so you were lying on his chest, bringing a small laugh from your lips. He’s so damn cute. Every touch, every press of skin, every soft gasp that escaped your throat, was a language he was just learning to speak but desperately wanted to be fluent in.

His hands, one metal and one flesh, framed your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones as his kiss deepened. His tongue, hesitant at first, became bolder as it met yours. He was drowning in you, in the sweetness of your mouth, the soft sighs that escaped your lips, the way your body melted into his. This kiss was his confession he couldn’t give to you with words, but he did find some. They were simple, but they conveyed exactly what he felt for you. He pulled away just enough to speak, his lips brushing against yours in a deep murmur, “I love you.”

You pulled away the rest of the way so you could meet his eyes, which are pooling with relief and desire. You didn’t hesitate to repeat his words in your own soft murmur. “I love you too.” A slow, tender smile, one that reached the very depths of his soul and crinkled the corners of his eyes, spread across his face. You pressed your mouth to his, not for another deep, passionate kiss, but for a series of soft, open-mouthed pecks, tasting him, savoring the soft give of his mouth, the faint warmth of his breath. You kissed the corner of his mouth, the Cupid’s bow of his upper lip, the slight pout of his lower lip. He closed his eyes, cherishing each kiss and smiling when your hair fell into his face. You placed one hand over his chest, feeling his heart beating rapidly.

Your weight on his chest was the perfect anchor for all the overwhelming emotions he felt. Love. Relief. Even fear. Joy so potent it felt like pain, a sweet ache behind his ribs. He felt like he was drowning in the most beautiful way possible. It was too much, and yet, not nearly enough. He felt the rise and fall of your chest against his and tried to mimic it. It was fast but slower than his. Breathe in, breathe out. Slow, steady. Like a sniper preparing for a shot, but it was still so much. He, the Asset, the silent weapon, the man who had mastered the art of feeling nothing, was now drowning in everything. He had been so damn good at controlling himself that this moment had him at a loss. Should he keep lying here and enjoy your kisses? Should he give you some in return? Was this right? Wrong? Should he give in? Pull away?

Another deep breath in, and out. He wanted to calm down, but not fully. Even if this dizzying connection–this profound tenderness–this love for you–was too much to contain his chest it made him physically hurt, he wouldn’t have it any other way. It wasn’t pain he wanted to run from, but rather run toward. It was overwhelming, yes, but so much damn better than feeling nothing. It made him feel human. Your hands were still on his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart, and he realized slowly that you knew. You felt the chaos within him, and despite that, you stayed. Still, kissing him with such adoration, like you’ve been waiting forever for him to tell you those words–which he figures you have. You did a good job hiding it until he was ready, and he truly did appreciate that.

And as your soft lips continued their tender assault, mapping every curve of his mouth, he understood. It wasn’t just that you had done a good job hiding your feelings; it was that you had never crossed a line. You had never taken a step he wasn’t prepared to take first. Not even just this but everything. Absolutely everything. He can’t think of a thing you’ve done you never made sure he was comfortable with first. You cared–he knew that–but was it also a way you showed your love? He wanted to say more, to explain the depth of his understanding, the depth of his love, but words still felt too small. Words always felt too inadequate when it came to you.

He knew with certainty what would have happened if you hadn’t been so meticulously, impossibly patient. If you had pushed even a whisper too hard. He would have left and returned back to the shadows, telling himself it was for your own safety, which would have led to his own heartbreak. He feared he would have become the Asset again. Fearing that would make him lose the memory of you. Then he felt your fingers curl around his shirt, right around his heart. You felt it speed up, didn’t you? His focus shifted again. He was here with you, and none of that happened because you were so unbelievably patient.

You pull your head up with a heavy gasp for air–stopping your onslaught of tiny kisses all over his face. You could tell he was still overwhelmed not by looking or even touching him but simply because you were too. You knew, however overwhelmed he felt, it must be ten times worse than yours. “I should probably let you breathe, huh?” You said while trying to catch your breath yourself. He may be overwhelmed, but the look on his cute dumb face says he’s blissed out with an almost drunk smile. God, how could he get you to do those kisses again? His hair is tasseled over the pillow, his breathing heavy, eyes closed as he simply just smiles.

Too much. Not enough. Those conflicting thoughts faded with the sound of your voice. He simply nodded while licking his lips, tasting remnants of you. With a content sigh, you ease your weight off his chest by settling against his side. His eyes, still closed, fluttered open, blinking slowly as if waking from a dream as he looked at you. The first time you saw those eyes, they were cold and icy without a drop of emotion in them. Now they were filled to the brim with warmth. The ice that was once there—a barrier between him and the world—finally melted away. You were his warmth. Those were the eyes of a man who found his anchor, his refuge, his entire world. You were the air he needed to breathe after years of suffocating in toxic gas.

Without a word, his arm hooked around your waist as he pulled you snuggly against him–both your heads now sharing one pillow as you gaze into each other’s eyes, reading all the words that were left unsaid. Your hand, still curled around his shirt above his heart, felt it begin to slow into a steady but intense thump. The pain of joy was still there, a sweet, lingering ache, but it was no longer overwhelming. It was just… love.

The flood of these emotions exhausted him, but those emotions weren’t going to let him fall asleep anytime soon. His body was still buzzing, even though his mind felt blank, almost numb in the most perfect way. His emotional overload began to fade. He was here, safe, loved, and utterly cherished. And so were you. Oh, you were most definitely cherished. You truly are everything to him, the very foundation of his being. Without you, he’s incomplete. If it weren’t for you, he’d be a different man entirely. He had spent a lifetime being erased, becoming a blank slate for others to write their violence upon. But you had rewritten him. You had filled the emptiness with color, with warmth, with the terrifying, beautiful chaos of feeling.

He shifted slightly, his gaze still locked with yours, before slowly, deliberately, letting his head settle against your chest. The steady, rhythmic thrum was a balm to his overstimulated senses. His muscles, which he hadn’t realized were so tense, softened against you. He felt himself slipping. Not into sleep but into this perfect peaceful moment. This was a surrender he didn’t think he was capable of. This was a release of burdens he thought would be permanently etched into his soul.

Getting Daryl to bathe is a fucking nightmare. He hadn’t bathed the whole time you two were together, and you were over it. You’ve told him countless times how foul he smells when you two cuddle, and he always says he’ll get around to bathing but never follows through with it. You finally got an idea that might work, so you find him in the living room of your little shared cabin and cross your arms. He knows that stance. He’s in trouble. “What’d I do this time?”

“You havn’t taken that fucking shower like I told you.” Oh great, this again. He can tell you’re pissed. “I’ll get around to–” You cut him off before he can finish. “Uh-uh. I’ve heard that too many times to believe you.”

“S’a waste a wata anyway. Why would I botha bathin’ if I’m just gonna get filthy ‘gain?”

“Because if you don’t, I won’t be cuddling with you again.”

His eyes narrow in annoyance. Cuddles with you is his favourite thing, you definitely know that. “Ya wouldn’t.” He said with a hint of a challenge.

“Oh, but I am because it’s gotten to the point I can’t be around you without gagging.” You say sternly.

His gaze drops as he contemplates. On the one hand, he doesn’t want you to withhold cuddles from him, on the other, he’s a stubborn ass. You’ll probably break and cuddle with him again, eventually. “I ain’t doin’ it.”

“What if I take a bath with you? Make it nice and romantic?” His shoulders tense a little. You two haven’t seen each other bare because Daryl has been so afraid of intimacy, but he has to admit the offer is tempting. “I ain’t want no sappy ass romance… But fine.” You get a big dorky smile when he reluctantly agrees and takes his hand in yours. “Well, c’mon then.”

With each step towards the bathroom, he can feel his anxiety rising. He can’t back out now. He knows you’ll lose your shit. A small scoff leaves his lips as he steps into the bathroom with you. There are candles all along the edge of the tub. “How long ya been plannin’ this?”

“All morning.” You say with a big smile. He watches as you crouch and light all the little candles with the Zippo he found for you. He stands there awkwardly, trying to prolong some time before he has to take his clothes off. You turn the faucet on, letting the water run over your hand as you check the temperature, then add lots of bubbles. You can sense his anxiety as you stand back up, cupping his cheeks in your hands as you give him a reassuring smile. “Let all those worries wash away. I’m not going to judge you, and you’re not going to scare me away.” He closes his eyes momentarily as he feels the softness of your hands. Then they pull away and gently grab his vest. “Ready to take this off?”

He’s not, but he swallows thickly and nods anyway. His muscles are rigid as you pull his vest off, but a small smile tugs on his lips when he sees how gentle you’re being with it as you fold it up. You know how much he loves this thing. You press a kiss to his lips before your fingers meet the edge of your shirt. “My turn.~”

He watches in anticipation, his gaze locked on your movements. He’s still rigid, still awkward, but now there is a flicker of genuine eagerness mixed in with the fear. His breath hitches when he finally sees your breasts in your worn out bra, your nipples poking through just slightly. He knew if you could reveal yourself to him, he could do the same with you. His turn. Still, his fingers hesitate before finally tugging his shirt off. A small smile grazes your lips as you take him in, remembering the story behind most of those scars over his chest and torso. “Perfect.” You mutter softly, easing some of his anxiety.

You finally unhook your bra, catching Daryl’s attention once again. The worn cotton fabric of your bra slips easily from your shoulders, hanging around your elbows before you let it drop entirely. He had seen glimpses of your cleavage before but never this. This was completely different. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from your nipples. They were already hard, a pretty pink that stood out sharply against the plumpness of your breasts. You knew the effect you had over him, but you’re not using that to your advantage just yet. Then, your fingers hook around your pants, tugging them down. He should probably do the same. He fumbles with his belt clumsily, distracted by the sight of you undressing, watching the way your tits jiggle with every slight movement.

You couldn’t help looking at him once he’s completely undressed. He avoids your gaze, focusing instead on the steam rising gently from the running water like it’s interesting. Your eyes traced from his belly button, following his happy trail down to the dark tangled hair above his groin. His cock was immediately noticeable, heavy, resting low against his body. Even in its soft, almost shy state, it possessed an undeniable thickness, a size that promised to be overwhelming when aroused. The head, or what you could see of it, a dark pink tucked beneath soft wrinkled foreskin. Below his nuts hung low, full and heavy in a slightly wrinkled sack.

He finally looked up, catching your gaze, and you could see the intense vulnerability in his. He saw the curiosity, the acceptance, and, most importantly, the profound affection in your own look.

You flick the light off, the warm glow of the candles illuminating the small room. Then you turn the faucet off, checking the temperature of the water again before stepping a foot in. “Come on, handsome.”

He’s standing there with his hands folded over his crotch but not exactly hiding it then steps in with you, the warmth surprising him but he quickly gets accustomed to it as he lowers himself into the water, the bubbles offering a minor form of privacy. The warm water felt heavenly against his tense muscles.

You’re both sitting at each end of the tub, facing each other, legs tangled together. The bubbles offered Daryl some privacy, but not to you. His eyes kept not so subtly catching glimpses of your tits as little droplets run down them.

The surrounding air is already warm with steam, filled with the smell of the bubbles and the candles burning beside you. The light of the candles is a rich, honeyed orange. Daryl was used to harsh sunlight or absolute darkness, this warm, gentle illumination is almost… comforting. Not sappy like he originally thought.

You cup his cheeks in your hands, brushing a strand of hair back. “Let me wash your hair for you.” He swallows thickly as he nods. He always loves when you play with his hair. You pour some water over his hair with your hands. He tilts his head back, letting the warm water cascade down his back. You run your fingers through the wet stands before uncapping your bottle of shampoo and pouring a generous amount into your hands. “Close your eyes.” You whisper, and he does so.

A small groan leaves his lips as you begin massaging the shampoo into his hair, your nails scratching against his scalp. You keep your movements slow and circular until the shampoo is a dense white foam. The scent of soap is honeysuckle and lavender. It smelled of spring. “Feels good, huh?”

He lets out a heavy sigh, letting his tensions leave him as he leans his head in your hands, trusting you completely. “‘M gonna smell girly.” He finally spoke.

“Soap doesn’t have gender, Daryl.” You gently remind him. He’s still getting used to unlearning sexist stereotypes.

He tilts his head to the side, trying to silently guide you to his sweet spots. His breathing deepens as he relaxes. His thoughts of constant worry and survival are finally quiet now, focusing on just this moment.

Your fingers move down, massaging the back of his skull, where his hair meets his neck, pulling another sigh from him. That was the spot. That was the sweet, aching release he hadn’t known he needed.He carries so much tension with him. You’re hoping to relieve it with this bath.

His head falls further into your hands. He wasn’t just leaning into your touch, he’s surrendering, finally letting his guard down. Your fingers move back up, rubbing along his temples. His breathing, which was rapid from anxiety, is now deep and slow. You pressed your thumbs lightly behind his ears, right where the jaw hinges, and he groans again. The tension is his body is seeping out like the steam from the water.

You worked your way from his temples, down to the nape of his neck, then back up to the crown, each circular stroke a deliberate act of comfort and care. Maybe… just maybe a bath wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe this relaxation was exactly what he’d been starving for. He felt a soft smile tug at the corners of his lips. His eyes remained closed, long lashes damp with steam. Maybe he didn’t mind his hair being washed. Not when it was your hands, your touch that brought profound peace.

“Ok, time to rinse. Keep your eyes closed.” You cup your hands and pour water over his hair. He doesn’t move, holding still while the warm water cascades over him. You repeat the process until the foam washes away, leaving his hair dark and sleek against his scalp. You run your fingers through it one last time, making sure all the soap is gone. Then, you press your lips to his hairline. “You have beautiful hair, Daryl.”

He leans into your lips, humming lowly in response. His eyes flutter open when he feels you applying more stuff to his hair. “Didn’t ya just wash ma hair?”

A small laugh falls from your lips. “This is conditioner. It makes your hair soft.” A small grumble leaves his lips, but he doesn’t protest. He’s watching your tits through very hooded eyes, hoping he’s being subtle. Water droplets warmed by the bath clung to your skin, dripping down the curve of your breasts, hypnotized him.

Your hands move expertly through his hair, massaging in the rich creamy conditioner then focus on the tips, where the hair gets the driest. It’s slick and cool against his scalp. Then, your hands slide down, squeezing the tension out of his shoulders. His brows furrow. “Ya ain’t gonna rinse my hair?”

Your fingers are nimbly working on the knots in his muscles. “You have to let it soak before you rinse it.” He nods, even though he doesn’t really get it.

He inhales sharply when you hit a stubborn knot, but he doesn’t pull away. He trusts what you’re doing. Your hands ease up as you apologize. “Sorry.” He simply grunts in response, his eyes squeezing shut as he breathes through it. Every worry, every near-miss with death, and every sleepless night were being rubbed out.

Your hands move down to his thick biceps, squeezing and massaging. His skin is warm and wet from the water, the warmth of the steam helping ease his muscles. You’re massaging deeply–deep enough to hurt, but the good kind of hurt, the kind that promised relief. He slowly sinks deeper into the water, letting it submerge his chest.

You lean into the pressure, using your palm to grind against the knots. His flesh felt less like muscle but more like granite. He hadn’t realized how much his anxiety affected his muscles. That would explain why he’s been constantly sore lately. He had just thought he was getting old, or maybe that the weight of the world was finally pressing down too hard.

You press your thumbs into the muscle beneath his elbow on his forearm, where the constant strain of drawing the bowstring resides. He hisses lightly through his teeth, but this time, a wave of intoxicating relief instantly followed the pain. “Just let go. Next time you feel tight or sore, let me handle it.” He simply grunts, too focused on the feeling of your hands on him.

You work the length of his forearm, using long, firm strokes, pushing the blood through the constricted tissue. Then you focus on the inner wrist of his dominant hand, easing the grip he always keeps locked down. “Are you feeling better?”

His voice is rough and strained. “Hurts… But yeah.” You ease the pressure you’re applying, not wanting to cause him further discomfort. Soon you bring his hand to your lips as you kiss his knuckles, meeting his eyes. “A warm bath also relaxes your muscles.”

He nods, actually replying this time. “I’m seeing that.”

You had almost forgotten about his hair. When your fingers leave his skin, he doesn’t need to speak. The heavy, slow exhale that left his lungs was thanks enough. You run your fingers through his hair before finally rinsing it again. “Oh, it’s so silky now. I’ll definitely be playing with it a lot.” A faint smile tugs at his lips. He can imagine falling asleep tonight while you gently stroke his hair.

Next, you grab your loofah and pour a lot of soap on it because he definitely needs it and start with his chest. “God, I’m gonna spend the next hour scrubbing you.” You murmur. He closes his eyes, leaning back against the tub, letting the warmth of the water take over. Your deep scrubbing softens each time you pass a scar–the loofah barely grazing it. Each scar was a memory you didn’t need to speak of, a story held in the texture of his skin. You wanted to clean the grime of the world off him, but never the history.

For Daryl, being cared for had always meant patching himself up, eating a hurried meal, or simply surviving another night. This, however, was different. This was tender. A softness he thought was lost in this world, and even if it wasn’t, it was something he didn’t deserve. Every breath he took wasn’t in preparation of his next move; it was him letting go–finding utter relaxation.

You let go of the loofah, letting it float freely in the water as you massage the soap on his body deeper into his skin. He groaned as he now felt the pleasure of your hands on his body. He could feel the extra tenderness in your touch. Like a silent way of you communicating that he’s safe with you. “You’re so handsome, Daryl.” You murmur, drawing a small smile from his lips.

He sinks deeper into the water with a heavy sigh as you rinse his chest. His eyes are still closed, trusting, vulnerable. He’s so utterly relaxed, so exposed, and you find yourself wondering just how long it’s been since anyone touched him like this. Since anyone cared for him like this–if ever. Despite the massage, his body was still subtly tense. You had a bold idea–one that could end terribly. Your hand slipped under the water easily, finding his cock. You knew it had been forever since he or even anyone else has touched him there. To your surprise, and perhaps a little to his own, he was already semi-hard, a testament to how deeply relaxed and trusting he’d become under your ministrations.

He gasps at the sudden touch but doesn’t fight against it, feeling like a deer caught in headlights. He doesn’t know whether to give in or not. His mind is screaming at him not to–it’s such a vulnerable act but another smaller part is telling himself to give in. You’re both sitting here naked, he might as well, so he shifts slightly, a subtle lean into your touch rather than away from it.

Your thumb rubs over the tip, causing another gasp to escape from his lungs. He leans back against the tub while sinking further into the water, finally letting his body relax. The warmth of the water and the softness of your hand got to him. A long raspy groan leaves his lips as he tilts his head back and closes his eyes. “God daaamn…”

“Just let go. I gotchu, Daryl.” You mutter reassuringly. He swallows thickly before managing a nod. You feel him begin to throb in your hand as the rest of his blood flows down to his dick. Each gentle stroke of your fingers with the warmth of the water sends waves of pleasure through him. The warm water became almost a natural lubricant, making your touch glide with ease, each movement soft, which he found himself leaning into. His breath hitched, a low, guttural sound rumbling from his chest as your thumb traced the head of his cock, the warm water swirling around the delicate skin. It was this whole moment that was unraveling him.

The bubbles part around your hand, swirling with the movement, and you finally caught a glimpse of him under the water. You pressed your thumb against the pink head of his cock again, swirling the warm water around it, then trailed your fingers down the shaft, milking him slowly and deliberately trying to build up tension. A low, desperate whine broke from his lips as his hips squirmed, trying to get you to do more than just tease him.

His breath comes in ragged gasps now, a desperate, broken rhythm. The soap and warm water had done their job of relaxing him, and now, your hand was doing the rest, pulling him towards a needed explosion. You sped up the pace slightly, watching the tension coil in his body, knowing exactly how long it had been since he had allowed himself this kind of release, this kind of pleasure that was purely his own. His hips buck trying to meet your strokes, to push deeper into the pleasure you were giving him. Each time your palm swept down the length of him, the water pushed against his sensitive skin.

“God, please…” He rasped, his voice thick with a vulnerability you’d rarely ever hear from him. He was stripped bare, not just of his clothes but his defenses. You had total control over him at this moment. The thought would have terrified him during any other movement, but now? He couldn’t bring him to care. You could play and break him, and he would be perfectly content that you were touching him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt anything so intensely, so purely good. It drowned out all his other thoughts. The thought of how vulnerable he was flickered, only to be extinguished by the water sloshing around him.

Your grip around his cock tightened, bringing a broken whine to pass his lips, then the sound of water splashing and his heavy pants as you sped up the pace. More broken up breaths and quiet swears fell from his lips while he could feel his body getting closer to climax.

The air is thick with desire and steam. Each stroke was a discovery of sensations he had long forgotten and didn’t want to forget again. Years of tension were coiling deep in his gut, ready to explode. His breath hitched, a strangled moan caught in his throat as his hips lifted off the bottom of the tub, bucking instinctively, desperately trying to get closer, to push deeper into the source of this incredible feeling.

“Just let go.” You said with one final squeeze to the base of his cock, feeling it spasm in your hand. With that encouragement, he shattered, his body convulsing. Your fingers stay wrapped around him, your fingers kneading the base of his shaft, milking out every last drop.

The warm water around him turned cloudy with his release, a milky white cloud expanding around your hand, then slowly disappearing. His body went limp and heavy, sinking deeper into the soothing warmth of the water. The tension that had been a constant companion for so long finally bled out of him. You kept your hand wrapped around him for a moment longer, feeling the last throbs of his release, before gently letting go. His cock, now soft and spent, bobbed gently in the water.

You shook your hand in the water with a small ‘belch’ sound as you rinsed off his cum. Daryl’s breathing is still heavy as he comes down his high. His eyes lingered on your wet hair, already starting to curl at the ends, and an idea sparked, warm and inviting. The thought of giving back, of tending to you with the same gentle care you’d just shown him, filled him with a quiet joy. “C’mere.” He grumbled lowly, and you happily sunk into the water and against him.

He reached for the shampoo then began applying it to your hair, mimicking the way you did it to him. “Like this?” Your eyes flutter closed as you sighed. “Just like that.”

His head dips down as he presses some kisses to your shoulder. “That was… I needed that more than I knew. Ya made me feel so damn good.”

“You’re gonna get soap in your eyes, dumbass.” You say the last part affectionately but took advantage of his face being so close by pressing a quick peck to his lips, drawing a pleased hum from them. His fingers, usually so adept at handling a crossbow and gutting walkers, began a somewhat clumsy attempt at massaging the shampoo into your hair. They weren’t quite sure where to go, getting tangled in the wet strands. It wasn’t the practiced, soothing massage you’d given him, but it was so Daryl. Each awkward rub and fumbling sweep is still filled with such affection.

“You’re… really trying, huh?” You tease slightly.

“Oh, shut up.” He grumbles back. His calloused fingers, though still a little lost, tried again, tracing patterns through your scalp. This time, he was gentler and slower.

“You’re doing great.” You lied with a little smile. “No, really, I can tell you’re trying.”

“You always… always make sure I’m alright.” He paused, his fingers stilling for a moment. “This ain’t much, but…”

“It’s perfect.” You whispered back while leaning into his embrace, feeling both warm from the water and his arms. He might not know the perfect circular motions, or how to lather your hair, but he knew how to care. And right now, that was all that mattered. His hands eased up until the crinkles around your eyes relaxed and you let out a sigh. His hands finally found a rhythm that didn’t have you wincing. Was it actually doing anything to wash your hair? You’re not sure, but at least it feels good now. “That’s much better.” You murmur, letting all of your weight lean into his chest.

“Good.” He breathed, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of your ear. The pads of his fingers, so rough from holding weapons, felt so damn soft in your hair. He wasn’t just washing your hair; he was cherishing you, making up for unspoken affection. Every movement was deliberate, slow, as though he savored the task. You closed your eyes, letting the tension seep from your shoulders.

“Gonna rinse now. Keep ya eyes closed.” He murmurs against your shoulder before pulling away. You tilted your head further back to make it easier for him. He cupped the water in his hands the same way you did and watched the bubbles cascade from your hair into the water. Then, his fingers run through your hair as the last of the bubbles disappear. Then he grabs the bottle of conditioner. “I use this next?”

You peek your eye open to see what bottle he grabbed before closing again and nodding. “Mhm.” He massages some into his hands before applying it to your hair. The silky texture was much easier to work with, massaging it effortlessly into your hair. He could feel it being absorbed into your hair and softening it. “This shit really works, huh?”

“You thought it didn’t?” You ask while glancing over your shoulder.

“Thought it was just anotha thing ladies used ta make their routines more complicated.” His fingers, now slick with the product, moved with a newfound precision. He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. “Guess I stand corrected.” His fingers ran through your hair with an ease they hadn’t found with the shampoo.

“Did you use that eight-in-one bullshit?” You ask in a semi-serious tone, which makes him laugh.

“Nah, but Merle did. I just used whateva was already in the shower.” His fingers continued their gentle work, kneading your scalp, working the conditioner deeply. When he’s satisfied every strand is coated and silky, he gives your head a final, tender rub. Then, without a word, he pulled you back against his chest, cradling you securely. “Now it’s gotta sit?” Your back nestled perfectly against his front, the warmth of his body and the water enveloping you. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you close, and you felt the soft press of his cock against your lower back.

“Yes.” You say, bringing an annoyed grunt to his lips. He wanted to keep playing with your hair and wash it out already. “You know what you could do?” You asked while grabbing your bottle of body wash. He already got the picture without another word. The bottle is already in his hands, smelling the familiar scent as he rubs his hands together, creating a rich, creamy lather. His hands snaked around your body, now slick and warm, glided over your collarbones. He started with slow, deliberate strokes across your chest, right above your breasts. A soft sigh escaped your lips as he worked his way downwards, his fingers spreading wide to cover more of your skin, cupping your breasts in his hands. He ducked his head, pressing a hot open mouth kiss to where your neck meets your shoulder.

His fingers traced lazy circles over your breasts while occasionally squeezing them, an almost unconscious kneading. He was comforting himself as much as he was pleasuring you. Each movement was deliberate, a slow exploration of your flesh. His fingers weren’t just washing, they were worshipping. His touches were always shy, tentative and even hesitant. But this was different. This was a gentle pushing of boundaries he’d previously respected, but now gained the confidence of crossing.

You leaned your head back against his shoulder, exposing your throat, to which his lips moved higher, pressing a wet kiss right to your pulse point before nuzzling against the curve of your neck. Then, with a sigh that seemed to melt into your skin, his hands slid from your breasts, wrapping around your waist as he pulled you tightly against his chest, crushing you with a desperate need to have you close. You could feel the face pulse of his heart between your shoulder blades.

His hands slip under the water, tracing gentle little patterns along your stomach that felt innocent but undeniably intimate. He couldn’t stop squeezing, couldn’t stop seeking out every curve and of your body. His hands, restless and seeking, couldn’t stay still. They moved from your stomach to your thighs, then back up your sides, exploring every inch of skin they could reach beneath the water’s surface. The water, the scent of you, the feel of your soft skin pressed against his, were dissolving the rough edges he’d built around himself over years of hard living. He didn’t know what it was about the steam-filled air, the soft glow, or the way the warm water hugged every inch of them, but he felt an unfamiliar, overwhelming surge of clinginess. The warm water seemed to amplify the warmth between your bodies. He pressed his forehead against your damp hair, a low groan rumbling in his chest.

“My hair is ready to be rinsed whenever you’re ready.” It takes Daryl a moment to process your words. He was so utterly, profoundly gone, lost in all the warmth that surrounded you. He pulled back just enough to look over your shoulder, his eyes hazy with affection. “Hmm? Oh… Yeah, I gotcha.” His voice is thick with almost sleep-like contentment. His arms reluctantly unwrapped from your waist as he began to rinse your hair. His fingers continued to thread through your hair even when all the conditioner washed away.

Then his hands slip from your hair and squeeze your shoulders the same way you squeezed his, drawing a pleased sigh from your lips. “Can we just stay here for a while?”

“Why? Starting to like baths now?” The only response you get is an annoyed grunt. Then even more annoyance as you pull the cover off the drain, the water level slowly getting lower. “The hell ya doin’??” He growled with bewilderment. He’d finally found his peace, found his warmth, and you were threatening to pull the plug on it.

A small laugh leaves your lips as you turn the hot water on. “Thought I’d warm this back up for us.” The new hot water swirled around your legs, chasing away the chill that had just begun to creep in. He didn’t say a word, but the way he tucked you in, pressing his chin onto your shoulder. The damp curve of your neck was like the best he’d ever known. He shifted slightly, settling deeper into the new, warmer water of the tub, pulling you with him until you were both perfectly pressed together. There’s no more washing or scrubbing, he just gets to sit here with you in his arms, in a warmth that felt like the coziest blanket until the water cooled once more.

The water, now almost scalding but perfectly comfortable, made his already relaxed body feel perfectly heavy with comfort. You broke the silence softly. “Do you know what we get to do after this, handsome?” A small, almost sleepy ‘Hmm?’ left his lips. You rest your hands over his that lie on your stomach under the water. “Well, we get to put lotion on each other, then… We can keep cuddling under some nice soft blankets.”

“Sounds perfect.” He hummed in response, sounding drunk off this moment between you. The hot water seemed to slow his anxious pulse. This was… peace. A word he rarely thought, let alone ever felt. Each inhale he took was deeper than the last, each exhale letting go of everything he always carries, melting away years of tension.

The icy wind from the snowstorm stung the soldier’s lungs and the exposed wound on his abdomen. The Winter Soldier was disorientated and had barely escaped from a mission that went so dreadfully wrong. From the blurry vision of blood loss and the thick snow falling, he couldn’t see more than a few inches in front of him. He couldn’t find a place to camp out in, to patch up this bleeding wound.

Maybe it was from all the blood he’s already lost, or how frigid it is, or how much snow was on the ground. Either way, his footsteps got too heavy to handle. He reaches an arm out, using a tree to leverage himself as he collapses, desperately trying to keep pressure on his wound. Then, that blinding white that surrounded him faded to black. What a pathetic way to end.

Your car struggled against the icy pavement as you pulled into the driveway. You knew a storm was coming, a bad one at that, but thought you might have some time to go out and buy supplies. Those supplies being: hot chocolate and cat food. The storm wasn’t supposed to hit until tomorrow, maybe later tonight at the earliest. You shudder as you open the car door, grabbing the paper bag which held your very useful necessities. There was too much snow to further pull into your driveway, so now you have to walk.

Your house is set further back off the road, giving you all the privacy you needed from the small town you lived in. You can already feel melted snow seeping into your boots. You’ve been out too long. It’s time to hide away from the storm in the warmth of your little home. But something caught your eye. Such a contrast to the snow, you couldn’t have missed it.

Blood.

An injured animal, perhaps? It wasn’t uncommon for a hunter’s deer to wander away from him, but who in their right mind would hunt during this? There’s no possible way to see down a scope. Before you know it, you’re cautiously following the trail of splattered blood. It wasn’t just a mere little trickle. Whatever it was, is close and bleeding out. What are you going to do once you find it? It’s not like you can exactly care for a wounded deer, but perhaps you could offer it comfort in its final moments.

That was no deer. That was a man. What the Winter Soldier had assumed was dense woods was really some property in your backyard. The police. You should call the police. Shit, if you did, they’d find all the illegal inventions you’ve been making in your garage. That’s the real reason you needed all that privacy, but it wasn’t a lie when you said the reason is that you hate people.

There’s a gash on his side, his warm blood melting the surrounding snow. It looks like he tried to cover the wound with a cloth, but his attempt was futile. The cloth is completely drenched in blood, whatever its original colour was now stained with a dark crimson.

That’s no normal man, his uniform clearly said so, but that metal arm made it obvious enough. He’s clearly important to someone. Ok, you can handle this. Clean him up and send him on his way so that whoever is looking for him doesn’t find you as well. You drop the paper bag as you slowly approach.

He’s dangerous. That much you could tell, but he’s unconscious for now. You hook your arms under his armpits, grunting as you struggle to drag him through the snow. He’s fucking heavy, and that metal arm probably weighs about half as much as him. Fuck, how are you going to get him up the stairs of your porch?

It was a struggle, he almost slid out from under you back down the steps a few times. You’ll obviously be laying him down on the couch. There’s no way you’re getting him upstairs to the bedroom.

You shove the door open, any lingering snow on your clothes already melting from the warmth of your house. You take a rapid breather before dragging whoever this is from the kitchen into your living room. It was pathetic how much you struggled to get him from the floor up two feet onto the couch. Hopefully, you can get the blood out of your cushions. The first thing you do is grab all the weapons you see. What the hell are these for? What trouble have you just gotten yourself into? You pat him down, pulling out any hidden weapons. Knives, smaller guns, and a couple little grenades.

You make sure he’s not going anywhere before rushing into the garage, locking his weapons away in the trunk you use to lock up your stuff. Then you grab the first aid kit next to one of your abandoned projects. You’ve hurt yourself enough times with your inventions, so you have practice when it comes to stitches. You shed your coat, dropping it to the floor as it leaves a puddle of melted snow. Your cat has already taken an interest in him. She keeps rubbing against his hand that is dangling off the couch. You shove her away as you try to figure out how to remove his top. It’s not some normal shirt. It’s some form of protection, but it didn’t do that well against whatever cut him.

Your eyes widen once you manage to get the top piece of his uniform off. Not from the nasty wound, but from those fucking muscles. He’s obviously trained to hurt. What have you gotten yourself into? Why did he have to show up in your backyard?

You grab a rag, stroking away the blood that stains his skin so you can better see the wound. It’s not deep, but it’s long. Looks like his top might have thick enough to stop the force of whatever hurt him from going in too deep.

You take a deep breath as you apply the antiseptic and some numbing cream even though you’re sure he’s too unconscious to actually feel any of this. It’s going to take you a while to sew this up, and you hope to hell he doesn’t wake up while you’re in the middle of doing it. You thread the curved needle then it pierces his flesh. No reaction. Not a flinch or a slight change to his breath. Let’s finish this quickly before he wakes up. The thread begins to pull the gash closed as you make more stitches.

Your moves are practiced and precise. You’ve never stitched a wound this big before, but all the little ones you’ve done to yourself have prepared you for this moment. Finally, the most dreadful moment is over for you. You tie off the knot, then look over the stitches. You’re impressed with your work. Then worry floods you again. He didn’t stir at all. He’s not in a coma, right? How do you check the signs of a coma? And what do you do if he is in one? You can’t care for a man in a coma! Ok, deep breaths. He’s probably just unconscious from the blood loss.

You prep some bandages before covering the work you’re so proud of. Once the bandages are secured in place, you stand, looking over him before you leave the room so you can put the first aid away and wash your hands.

Of course, now is when he wakes up. This is not where he passed out, and it most definitely isn’t one of Hydra’s facilities. He looks around, his vision a little blurry, but he can make things out. Is this… is this someone’s house?? Then he notices the bandages on his stomach. What the hell? He cannot come up with a reasonable explanation for that. Who the hell in their right mind would take him in and patch him up? Maybe someone who wants to use him to their advantage.

His eyes quickly flutter closed as he hears someone moving around. Are they coming back? Perfect.

You enter the room again, looking him over once more. He’s pretty damn handsome. Terrifying but handsome. He’s still out. You should check his pulse. As you lean in, his hand reaches up and grabs your throat. Before you can react, he shoves you against a wall. You groan lowly. That hurt like hell. You look like a completely normal civilian. Now he has even more questions. His voice is low and grave. “Who the hell are you?”

Your hand claws at his wrist, but it’s useless against the metal. You should have called the police. Who cares if you got into a little trouble with some contraband? At least this man wouldn’t have killed you. “You’re going to pop your stitches.” You say in a strained voice.

He glances down at his abdomen, a faint amount of red overtaking some of the white bandages. You did that. Why would you do that? “Answer my question.” He says a bit rougher, adding a little more pressure to your throat. “Y/n! I’m Y/n!” You say desperately, gasping for air.

That’s not a name he recognizes. Definitely not the name of any of the enemies. Are you really just an average civilian? “Who do you work for?”

The question confuses you, but you answer anyway. “An old lady at her little shop.” He looks all over your face, looking for any subtle signs that you’re lying, but he doesn’t find any. He’s conflicted and confused with so many questions. “How did you find me?”

“What? You were in my backyard.” His grip loosens just a little. Did he accidentally wander onto someone’s property? God, he did this to himself. “Where am I?”

“Honeywood Valley.” You answer quickly before you pass out from a lack of air. Then you gasp and rub your throat when he suddenly pulls away. He’s in some little village. There shouldn’t be any enemies around. “Give me your keys. I need to leave.” He demands. He needs to contact and find his handlers.

“There’s no way you can drive in this storm.” You protest. He glances out the window. He hates that you’re right. He could barely maneuver through those heavy winds while he was walking. He couldn’t possibly drive through that. Oh no, is he seriously stuck here with you?

“Can I ask your name?” You say once you finally catch your breath. Maybe you’ll report him to the police once the storm passes.

He’s reluctant at first, but it’s so obvious to him you’re not a threat. “Winter Soldier.”

“That’s not a name!” You protest, annoyed he didn’t give you an actual name. He has a subtle look of surprise. Did you just talk back to him? “That’s what I’m called.”

“So you don’t have a name? That’s so sad. Where did you come from?” You know you’re asking too many questions, but you can’t help it. You need to know who you’re talking to.

“That is no concern to you.” He says sharply, finally looking around the living room he stands in.

“I mean, it kinda is. You showed up in my backyard and now you’re in my house.”

Again, his gaze is piercing and cold, meeting yours, flexing his metal fingers, a reminder of how he almost choked you to death. His tone is a low, threatening promise. “You’re asking too many questions, Y/n. If you ask another, I will break your neck before you can scream. Do you understand?” He waits for a nod before he continues. “I may be stuck here, but you… You’re the one trapped with me.”

Oh, you fucked up. A sickening wave of dread and understanding passes you. Your eyes roam over his body. He looks like a sculpted statue. His skin is still flushed from the cold, his nipples perky and beaded, basically begging to be pinched. It was a dangerous, suicidal thought: to reach out and pluck that sensitive flesh, to make him gasp, to see if he’d kill you before you could squeeze them tightly.

God, why did this threat have to be so gorgeous? “I get it. You’re scared in an unknown environment. Ok maybe not scared, but I definitely am. You’re scary as hell. You can stay here and rest until the storm passes. I can get you some fresh clothes.” You might as well get on his good side if you’re both stuck together.

He was about to tell you to stay where you are, but he can’t bring himself to worry about what you’re going to do. You’re obviously not a threat. So he sits on the couch and nods. “Fine, go.” He watches you leave then looks around for escape routes. Lots of windows, the front door is right there, the back door over there. He looks over his bandage. You did well. You must have experience. As he looks over he suddenly realizes something. You took all his weapons off of him. Heh, at least you’re smart. His brow raises as he feels something suddenly brush against his leg. Oh, it’s a cat.

You’re in your room looking for any clothes that will fit him. One of your baggy hoodies will do and hopefully your ex’s sweatpants will fit him. You come back with the folded clothes and hand them to him. “You can change here so you don’t have to go upstairs to the bathroom. Be careful with your stitches. I’ll give you some privacy. I gotta grab something from outside.”

“No.” He says quickly. “I’m not letting you run.”

You snort in amusement. The sound surprises him. “Run? In this storm? I was going to grab some cat food I dropped to save your sorry ass.”

“Fine.” He says reluctantly. He doesn’t want this furry little critter to starve. Once you leave he looks back down at it before tentatively reaching out to pet it. Animals are great at sensing threats, so why does this one seem to like him so much? It mustn’t be that bright. At least it’s cute. He changes as you head outside. This hoodie smells strongly of you. Then he pulls the pants on. They’re tight, but they’ll work.

You come back in, setting down your stuff on the counter. The paper bag they were in disintegrated in the snow. The cat food is fine since it’s in a plastic bag, but your box of hot cocoa is soggy. Hopefully, the inside didn’t get too wet. You come back into the living room to check on him. “You decent?” You ask as you peek your head in, maybe to catch a glimpse of him changing. He quickly pulls his hand away from the cat, not wanting to appear vulnerable. You glance over at his clothes. The navy hoodie fits fine, but the grey sweatpants are tight. You can clearly see the outline of his junk. His cock is obviously thick, even in its relaxed state. It’s pressed snuggly against his thigh with a slight curve to it, the head of his cock bulging against the fabric. “Uh, sorry about the pants. My ex wasn’t so, uh… Thick.” You’re not sorry. Definitely not. That’s one hell of a sight.

He simply grunts in response. Your kitty keeps rubbing against his leg, bringing a small smile to your lips. She’s a beautiful light grey cat. “Her name is Venus. The sweet old lady I work for found her and gave me her since she has like seven.”

Venus weaves around his legs in a figure-eight, brushing against his legs, demanding more pets. He feels oddly vulnerable. He’s not used to such normalcy, and it scares him. The warm home, soft clothes, a cute little kitty. It’s nothing he’s used to. Since he’s still refusing to pet her, you pick her up and plop her in his lap, forcing him to hold her in place. You sit next to him. You can tell he’s not used to this. You don’t know what’s considered normal for him, but it’s not this.

“So you seriously don’t have a name? Do you mean you don’t go by it anymore?” You ask as a way to start a conversation. You can’t help your curiosity.

He sighs, beginning to pet the cat now. He knows you’re not going to drop this. “I mean, I don’t have a name. I’m nothing but a soldier without any past memories. If I did, it’s gone now.”

You certainly weren’t expecting him to reveal that. “So you don’t remember who you are? You poor thing… What if I call you Logan? Like Wolverine. He doesn’t remember who he was either.”

He shakes his head. If he’s going to be called a name, he wants it to be the one he used to be called, not a new one. “No. Winter is fine.”

“What about Daniel?” He can’t help his face contorting in confusion. That was so completely random. “Uh, no.”

His scrunched up face makes you laugh. “I’m gonna find the perfect name for you.” He looks unamused. He can already tell he’s not going to be able to stop you. Daniel. What the absolute hell is this woman? He threatened to kill you, even had his hand wrapped around your throat, and you’re teasing him.

He’s focusing on Venus for comfort. The first comfort he’s had in years. This little cat is the first thing not naturally afraid of him. He knows Hydra will be looking for him, but this small town will be the last place they’ll guess to look. Maybe this could be his chance to escape. He no longer has that urge to contact his handler just so they can put him through hell again.

You stand up, feeling very awkward with your new house guess. “Have you ever had hot cocoa before? I can make you some.” He’s surprised by the offer but doesn’t let it show. He’s not allowed to accept things like that, but something in him broke. “Sure.”

You smile when he accepts, then you leave the room once again. Now that you’re gone, he pulls the kitty impossibly close, feeling her purr, her warmth, how she snuggles even closer. He looks at the mess of fur that covered his new clothes. It all feels… nice. He shouldn’t feel this, but he can’t help but.

Curiosity soon gets the better of him. He sets the cat down carefully just for her to walk underneath his feet as he makes his way into the kitchen. He stands there as he watches you, almost finding you intriguing.

“So are you called Winter because you’re cold, the icy stare, or because it almost killed you?” He has a very unamused look but can’t help but play along. What is wrong with him? “Very funny.” He says flatly, crossing his arms as he watches you mix in the powder.

“It’s almost done.” You say. He pushes himself off the wall as you slide a mug towards him. He grabs the mug, looking at it before bringing it to his lips. “Wait- let it cool-“ And he just took a sip, completely unaffected by the hot temperature. “It’s… sweet.” The steam curled around his face, smelling strongly of chocolate and something vaguely like vanilla. It’s thick and rich, unlike anything he’s ever had before. His meals were always bleak and bland. The most he’s ever drunk was water. As the liquid runs down his throat, it makes his chest feel warm and almost… full. It’s slightly comforting.

“Too sweet?” You ask with a touch of anxiety but subtle hope.

“No.” He managed, his voice low. He didn’t know how to articulate that this simple cup of sugar and milk was somehow dismantling years of conditioned emotional absence. “It’s… good.” He swirls the warm liquid around in the mug, watching as the tiny marshmallows melt. Then he brings the mug back up to his lips.

You blow on your own mug of cocoa. “The storm isn’t going to pass for a few days, so guess you’re stuck here for a while.”

He froze, the mug halfway to his lips again. The steam, which had felt comforting moments ago, now felt suffocating. A few hours, he could manage. A night he could endure, keeping his walls high. But days? Being stuck with you. Experiencing more comfort. Comfort that would make him want to stay. That was a weakness.

You set your mug down and cross your arms trying to make yourself serious. “Since this is my house, I have a few rules. Rule one: Don’t go into my garage.” He interrupts you before you can continue. “Is that where you stashed my weapons?”

“No.” You say flatly, not giving away that you’re lying. “Uh, rule two- wait, no, I guess it was just the one.”

He can’t help rolling his eyes. You’re insufferable. “I don’t have a spare bedroom, but I guess you can sleep on the couch. Just gotta keep the living room clean.”

The soldier in him screamed. Danger. Vulnerability. This is how they break him. Days of this… comfort. But then there was the other part, the one that had let Venus curl into his lap, the one that had taken the mug of hot cocoa, the one that had felt a flicker of something like warmth in his chest. What would it feel like to wake up without a mission, without the fear of being tortured? To just wake up and live normally. Part of him wanted to experience that. “Fine.” The words left his lips before he could think the possibility over longer.

A small smile tugs at your lips. “Well, get comfortable.” A part of you was terrified. He almost killed you moments ago, and now he’s going to spend the next few days here, but you saw the way he pet Venus and the way his demeanour subtly changed after that first sip of cocoa. That’s a man who’s never experienced the little things in life.

“I’ll grab you some blankets and pillows then I’ll make dinner in a little bit.” He watches as you retreat back upstairs. He still can’t wrap his head around any of this.

Later he’s sitting on the couch while you’re cooking, desperately trying to get used to these unknown feelings. He hasn’t said much more to you. Venus is back in his lap, offering him some comfort. Then his head perks at the sound of your voice.

“Winter, dinner is ready.” At least you’re not using some random ass name. He quietly comes in and sits at the spot you gesture at. He glances at the food, realizing he’s never had a home cooked meal before.

“Sorry it’s not something better. I don’t have that many ingredients.” He doesn’t care about that at all. You made beef stroganoff. It was a messy bowl of creamy, pale sauce clinging to thick egg noodles, ground beef and flecks of seasoning. None of the food he’s ever eaten had fucking seasoning. He tentatively brings the fork up before finally taking a bite. He was so used to eating just for nutrients, never for taste. This was amazing. The taste is creamy, rich, and savoury. The beef is cooked to a tender perfection, almost melting in his mouth. With a smooth, velvety texture, the sauce perfectly coats the beef and noodles, making every bite a satisfying experience. He might just get hooked on your cooking.

“That good, huh?” You tease while eating your own food.

“It’s... adequate.” He managed, the lie sounding unconvincing to his own ears, and he was so damn good at lying.

“Adequate hmm? Well, you’ve got a bit of adequate sauce on the corner of your lips.”

He licks his lips, mulling over the fact that it might not be so bad living here despite your teasing. He could live a life where people worry about washing dishes, not detonating bombs. Maybe, just maybe, being stuck here for a few days wouldn’t break him. It might just fix him a little.

“You’re going to want seconds. Don’t even deny it. I can tell.” He doesn’t answer, simply keeps eating. Your lips form a thin line. Maybe you can get him to talk more. You decide to go with something simple just to see how he’ll react. “What’s your favourite colour?”

His mind went blank. He’s never been asked that before. He’s been asked to kill, target, and torture. Not something so… mundane. “That is irrelevant information.”

“Is it?” You ask in a soft tone. A tone he wasn’t used to. “What are you going to do when this storm passes? Go back to whatever people turned you into this?” You gesture vaguely towards him, pulling a small growl to his lips. “See, I think that’s the problem. You’ve only ever been allowed to deal with ‘relevant information’. Have you ever just… existed?” Your voice gets softer with that last word.

He looks down at his now empty bowl. Existing. He’s never just existed without a purpose. What does that even feel like?

“I don’t have time for existential philosophy.” He says lowly with a growl.

“You have five days minimum.” You say almost sternly. “You’re stuck here as the snow comes down, so you have all the time to decide if you prefer blue or green.” You go back to eating.

He looked out the window. He had no genuine preference over colour. He had no interior life. He had almost a week with no missions, nothing. A week where he could potentially build one.

“Purple.” He muttered almost involuntarily, keeping his eyes on the window, letting himself enjoy watching the snow fall. It looks nice now that he’s not bleeding out in it.

You blink in surprise. “Purple? Why purple?”

“It’s… calming.” He murmurs again.

You smile, a small, genuine and relieved smile. “Purple. That’s a good one.” You stand up, taking his bowl to give him a second serving. When you give him the bowl back, Venus hops up in his lap just as he’s about to take a bite. He looks down at her in surprise. “Give her a noodle. She loves them.” He’s confused but listens, fishing out a noodle from his bowl and dangling it in front of her snout, watching in amusement as she gobbles it up. (My cat loves noodles.)

“Don’t let her guilt you into giving her anymore.” You sit back down, watching the two fondly. He gently pushes her off his lap just for her to hop back up. This little fur ball is awakening a softer side he didn’t think he had. Instead of pushing her off again, he accepts she wants to be in his lap, lightly petting her as he eats and pushing her away each time she tries to get on the table.

Later that night he’s lying on the couch, feeling overwhelmingly cozy. You pop in to wish him goodnight. “Let me know if you need anything. My bedroom is just upstairs.”

He nods once, grumbling lowly. “I will.” A little smile tugs at your lips. “Be careful with your stitches and goodnight.” He nods again in response. He’s half tempted to snoop around, maybe even see what’s in the garage, but he decides against it. Once you’re gone, he spots the kitty coming into the room. He sits up cautiously, groaning slightly in pain before making kissy sounds to the cat then whispering softly. “C’mere.” She hops right up on his chest and starts kneading bread before laying down. He runs his fingers through her fur, letting her softness and comfort lull him to sleep.

He’s up early that morning, the soldier part of him didn’t allow him to sleep in. He’s been lying on the couch, still petting Venus. Eventually he hears your footsteps on the stairs and quiet yawning, then the sound of food being poured into a metal bowl. He sets her back down and whispers. “Go on. Eat.” However, she stays in place, looking up at him with those big eyes.

You’re curious as to why she didn’t come rushing over like usual, so you decide to check the living room. You smile when you see the sheer amount of cat hair clinging to his hoodie, especially on his chest. “Nice night?” He’s waiting for you to tease him about the cat, but it never comes. That’s when he finally meets your eyes. “Want coffee? Then I’ll make breakfast.” That’s another drink he’s never had before, so he nods, wondering if it’ll be as good as the hot cocoa from last night. He doesn’t hesitate to follow you into the kitchen, watching you already work the coffee machine. Then the smell of it brewing wafts in the air. It’s a scent he’s smelled before but never had the pleasure of trying. He keeps watching you as you grab two mugs and some creamer. Then he watches as you pour the steaming hot coffee into both mugs with a splash of creamer.

He doesn’t bother hiding his smile as you push the mug with cats on it towards him. It’s not the mug you gave him last night. He decides to blow on the hot liquid this time, smelling it hit his face before finally taking a sip. His face scrunches up in disgust, and he has to refrain from spitting it out. That’s nothing like hot cocoa. “That is disgusting.” He strains out.

You can’t help but smirk. This is the most emotion you’ve seen him express, and it’s disgust. “Here, try more creamer.” He watches as you add a generous amount of creamer to his mug, then he tries another sip. It’s manageable now. “Do you ever get used to the taste?”

“Judging by your reaction, you won’t. I think you’re going to like this stuff.” You say, shaking the bottle of creamer. Your tone is nice and light. He likes it much more than your teasing one. He stands there awkwardly for a moment before taking a seat at the table. He’s still not used to not receiving commands over every little thing. He watches you, wondering what you decided to make for breakfast, but doesn’t ask. He continues to sip his coffee, trying to will himself to like the taste.

You soon set a big plate of pancakes down in front of him, covered in extra maple syrup since he obviously has a sweet tooth. “Enjoy, Alexander.”

Oh, there we go. “We’re not doing that either.”

You can’t help a playful pout as you sit beside him. “Aw, but I love that name.” He rolls his eyes. At least that name is better than fucking Daniel. He cuts into the stack of pancakes and finally tries a bit. The pancakes are light and airy, with a soft, slightly spongy texture. They are golden brown, cooked to perfection, with a slight crispy edge. The maple syrup is warm and thick, each pancake soaking up its sweetness. Such a classic breakfast he’s never had before. It felt more like a treat than breakfast.

You glance out the window. The snow has stopped for now. “I’m gonna go into town when I’m done with my food and get you clothes that actually fit.”

He follows your gaze out the window. It’s stopped snowing. He can leave now. “Has the storm passed?”

“Eh, no. It’s going to be on and off. I want to make it into town before the roads get any worse. Did you seriously not see the forecast?”

He could still leave. It would be a risk, given that it will keep snowing, but he could. Except he has an intense urge to stay. He glances at you as you eat. You’re weird. Like really weird. He can’t understand you at all, and your teasing drives him crazy, but now that he thinks about it, you’re not so bad. Just eccentric and way better than the people at Hydra. Maybe a few more days wouldn’t hurt. A few more days of actual food, of not being on guard, of not having to think about the next target or the next command. He could probably put up with your teasing. The mission… the mission could wait. Or maybe, just maybe, it could be abandoned altogether. That idea, once unthinkable, now felt strangely liberating.

He clears his throat, setting his coffee mug down. “How far is the town?” He asks, trying to keep his voice neutral, but a flicker of something, concern maybe. “With the roads getting worse and all.”

“It’s just down the road, so I just have to drive in a straight line.” You lightly joke.

He nods, trying to push down his concern. He can’t let himself get attached. It was a form of weakness.

“I’ll also pick up some more numbing cream for your stitches.”

“You don’t have to.” He says dismissively. “I’ve endured worse pain. It doesn’t bother me.”

You ruffle his hair as you stand with your now empty plate. “Here’s a crazy idea. Here, you don’t have to endure any pain.”

A flicker of annoyance crosses his face, but he doesn’t flinch away. That was the first touch he hadn’t flinched from. A brief moment of human contact. Your words echoed in his head. Who was he without constant pain? Could he actually be someone other than a ruthless killing machine? He hated that he wanted you to continue treating him like any other average person. He’s starting to long for it.

You lean against the table as you give him a smile. “Don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone.”

He watches as you pull your jacket in then leave out the front door. He could be gone in thirty seconds. He could leave, go back into the woods and be right back on track now that the snow has momentarily stopped. But his body didn’t move.

You’ve given him freedom, and freedom meant he could make choices himself. His choice was abundantly clear. He wants to stay.

It wasn’t too long until you were home again. You push through the door, shaking the snow off before coming over and handing him a paper bag. “I got you clothes, and numbing cream. Also, a razor and shaving cream.”

He takes the bag and looks down at it. Stuff. He has belongings now. Mundane everyday items, but they were his. It’s decided. He’s staying.

He sets the bag down, looking at the clothes you’ve gotten for him. Mostly baggy, warm, and soft. He glances back up when you come back in with a bag of bandages. “Come to change them for me?” He asks, silently hoping he’ll get to feel your hands.

“Uh, actually, I want to prep you for a bath. These are waterproof.” A bath. When was the last time he had a bath? It was always quick, cold showers after missions. His fingers curl against the hem of his shirt. “So you’re doing it?”

You can feel warmth spreading through your cheeks. You were going to give the bandages to him and let him do it, but if he’s going to let you touch him, who are you to deny that? He’s handsome as hell. “Lean back.”

He pulls off the hoodie you gave him, leaning back against the couch. A little bit of blood seeped through the bandages, but other than that, they look like they held up well. You sit next to him as you carefully pull them off. He’s seeing his stitches for the first time. He’s had stitches a lot, so he knows what looks good. “You did that?”

You hum in response while nodding. “Well, no one else did it.” He watches as you clean the stitches. You obviously have experience, but from what? His gaze is blank but not cold like usual. Then he shivers as you apply the numbing cream. It was still cold from being brought in from outside. “Did I hurt you?” You ask gently while pulling your hands away.

He shakes his head. “Just cold.” Your touch feels warm despite the cold cream. He’s watching you intently as you bandage him back up, trying to figure out where you could have possibly learned this from. He watches the way your brows furrow just slightly in concentration as you smooth the edges of the first waterproof adhesive strip over the line of stitches. Your fingers, warm and careful, pressing down gently while sealing the wound away behind bandages.

His gaze, usually a shield of ice and analysis, softened until his eyes felt heavy, weighted down by a sensation he couldn’t name, just that it felt peaceful.

“Alright. All done. Bath time. Grab some clothes.” You leave to go rinse your hands, and he rummages through the bag, picking out the softest pieces. Then he hears your footsteps heading upstairs, and he follows. He leans against the door frame as he watches you draw a bath. “You’re going to bathe me?” His tone is flat to hide his subtle hope.

You pause, not expecting that question. “I wasn’t going to… but if you need me to, I can. Are your stitches still painful?” He nods, even though it’s a lie. It was a pain he could manage, and the cream was already relieving it, but he wanted your touch.

You guess you’re doing this then. You squirt a bunch of bubbles in the bath so he has some minor form of privacy. “Uh, let me know when you’re ready.” You step out of the bathroom and close the door to allow him to undress the rest of the way. When he does, he tentatively steps into the water, then makes sure no water is soaking through his bandages.

His voice comes out rough. “Good.” You step back in and almost laugh at the sight. He looks ridiculous among all those bubbles. You sit on the edge of the tub with a barely contained smile. “Is the temperature ok?”

He nods. “It’s relaxing.” Your smile gets a tad bigger. You grab your shampoo and conditioner. “Good, good. I’m going to touch you now.” He’s never had someone warn him when they’re going to touch him. He appreciates that you did. His eyes close as you cup your hands and pour some water over his hair. Then he audibly sighs when you massage the shampoo in. “Yea, see? This is what you’ve been missing out on.”

You like the way he leans his head into your palms, silently asking for more. “You have such nice hair.” A little smile tugs at his lips from the compliment. Even though his bandages are waterproof, he can still feel the warmth of the water soothing the pain in his side. This vulnerability, letting someone care for him, treat his needs, even his wounds, was terrifying but undeniably pleasant.

The water and bubbles covered everything beneath his chest, so you could still see his broad shoulders and pecs, but you could also see how his muscles were visibly relaxing. He loves that his hair is going to smell like yours, that your specific scent is going to linger on him.

He groans softly when you rinse out the foamy shampoo, the warm water soothing him even more. Just when he thought you were finished with his hair, you massage something else into his hair. You can tell he doesn’t know what it was and laugh. “This is conditioner. It helps keep your hair healthy and makes it very silky.” He nods in understanding. He’s only ever used shampoo on his hair before. He can feel his hair getting silkier as you massage it in and run your fingers through it.

“What about Sebastian?” You tilt his chin up, looking over his face, making sure the name suits him. “You look like a Sebastian.” He can’t help but sigh. He thinks you’re so weird, but he’s beginning to get used to it. A faint smile tugs at his lips as he teases back. “You’re getting better, but still no.”

You can’t contain your own smile. He’s warming up to you, actually teasing back. “I don’t think ‘Winter’ is going to suit you much longer.” He can’t help but silently agree. That little voice in his head that used to fight against his soldier side has completely taken over.

His eyes flutter closed as you rinse out the conditioner, feeling how silky his hair now is. He keeps his eyes closed as he hears you uncap another bottle of soap, letting you do whatever you need to. He sucks in a little breath when he suddenly feels the roughness of a loofa gliding over his chest. “Sorry, I should have warned ya.” Your touch gets a little softer as you massage in the soap against his skin.

Despite the rough texture, it feels pretty nice. He closes his eyes once more. His nipples harden as the loofa brushes over them. You move lower, avoiding the bandages. His breath hitches as the loofa finds its way down his abdomen. “Better?” You ask, washing around his torso. He manages a small affirmative grunt.

You took your time, circling around his torso, cleaning the broad chest, gliding the loofa over his collarbones. You’re careful to avoid the area near the bandages and any lower, instead letting the soapy water run down, washing away any dirt and grime.

You soon rinse him off and set a towel on the side of the tub. “I’ll let you finish up and get dressed. I’ll be right outside if you need anything.” You give him a small smile before leaving.

He sighs heavily, staying in the water for a minute more before getting out, the cool air hitting his skin, causing goosebumps to form against his skin, and his cock shrivels a little as his balls tighten close to his body. He dabs himself dry so he can quickly put on the new warm clothes you got him. He ruffles his hair with the towel, feeling how soft it is before finally getting dressed and meeting you again.

“So, what’s your favourite movie?” You ask. His favourite movie? He didn’t even have a favourite colour yesterday, let alone a movie. He was about to dismiss your question until he remembered what you said yesterday. “Uh, I don’t know.”

“Well, let’s find you one! We’ve got all day to watch movies, and do you know what you don’t do during a movie?” His brows furrow, wondering where you’re going with this. “Talk! We don’t have to talk. We can just watch movies and find you your favourite.” A small smile tugs at his lips. You found him an activity where he doesn’t have to talk but you can still connect. “That sounds… Nice.”

You practically light up. You’re glad he’s actually working with you. “Ok, first we gotta get you some dry bandages and make some popcorn. Have you ever had that?” He silently shakes his head. “I think you’re going to like it. I’m gonna add caramel to it for you.” He smiles again. You’re really giving into his sweet tooth.

You did exactly that. Replaced his bandages, ate lots of popcorn and had more hot cocoa as you watched a bunch of movies, and Venus stayed in his lap the whole time. You picked some of your favourites and made sure not to pick anything with a lot of violence or gore. You thought violence might trigger things for him. He thought you were just really into romance and comedies, not that he minded. He liked your little commentary and how you explained references he didn’t get. Then he had found his favourite. The Princess Bride. You had told him what a classic it is.

“You know, Inigo is a really nice name.” He sighs heavily, but not with annoyance this time; it’s almost amusement. “It is, but not for me.”

You stand up, ruffling his hair. He closes his eyes, a soft hum leaving his lips as he leans into the touch. “I’m gonna go make dinner and brainstorm more names for you.”

He hated this name game you were playing, but he had to admit, your determination to find a name that fit his face was endearing weirdly. No one ever spent that much energy on him. He considered the day. It had been the most profoundly peaceful twenty-four hours of his life. He lived a basically normal day for once. Yesterday he was this dangerous asset, but today he was discussing Rodents of Unusual Size with you. Maybe he could live here a little longer after the storm passes. Either long enough to remember who he used to be, or to build himself a new sense of being. Then he realized something. He hadn’t heard the soldier part of him at all today. The only voice he heard was a small whisper in the back of his head, the one that fought against his programming. His thoughts were finally his own for once.

The next few days were all the same. Each morning he’d wake up, you’d make him sweet breakfast, then change his bandage. Then you two would spend the rest of the day watching movies, while Venus would stubbornly refuse to leave his arms, and you ask him simple questions that helped shape his identity. It’s a routine he’s started to enjoy. So this is what it’s like to just live day to day.

This morning he heard the familiar sound of your feet coming down the stairs. He spots you in the kitchen and hesitates before coming over. He approaches you from behind, leaning his chest into your back as he wraps his arms around your waist. It’s something he picked up in one of those romantic movies that played while he went to bed last night. You were at the coffee machine, prepping two mugs like usual, then gasped as he suddenly touched you. You didn’t hear him. His footsteps; silent and lethal but with no malice behind them. He could kill three men before the first one hit the floor, and here he was, rubbing his cheek against your head like a cat. Your hands slowly rest on his wrists as you took a deep breath after being startled. This wasn’t just an embrace, he was surrendering himself to you.

A softer gasp left your lips as he nuzzled his face in the crevice of your neck. Then he took your hand in his as he slowly turned you around. You caught the vulnerability in his eyes, his guard fully down for the first time. He gently took your wrist and moved your hand to his chest, placing your palm flat over his heart. He could feel the way his own heart thumped heavily against his ribcage, the beating quickened from your touch alone. He didn’t know how to express what he felt through words, this was the only way he could think to convey how he feels.

A small smile twitches on your lips as you realize you’re the cause of his racing heart. “Heh, I might keep you around a little longer.” A heavy relieved sigh leaves his lungs. That’s what he’s been longing for these past few days. He knew the storm would be ending soon, and he didn’t want to leave, and if he did, he had nowhere else to go. After realizing what comfort feels like, he would not be returning to Hydra.

He pulls you back into him when you’re about to step away. His voice is quiet, almost desperate. He still wants to be close to you. “I can help with breakfast this morning.”

“Have you ever cooked before?” He shakes head, realizing he might not be that much of a help. You let out a little sigh. “It’s ok. We’ll start with something simple. Pancakes again?” He can’t help but smile as he nods. His favourite. He leans into your back again as you pour some coffee into both mugs. “I think I’m going to call you Romeo.”

This time he can’t help but ask. “Why Romeo?”

“Because you’re being romantic.” You lightly tease. He doesn’t mind that tone this time.

“Still no.” He takes the mug from your hands, purposefully brushing his fingers against yours.

A smile tugs on your lips when you get an idea you know he’ll like. You grab a can of cat food and show it to him. “Would you like to feed Venus? She loves this stuff.”

He nods quickly, taking the can from you as you set her bowl on the counter. She’s already rubbing against his legs and meowing at the sight of the can. Then, when the can cracks open, she stretches against his leg, trying to get the food. You’ve never seen him smile so much before. He stays crouched as he watches her devour the food he just gave her. You pour some pancake mix and water into a bowl, ready for mixing. “Ready when you are.”

He looks over his shoulder before standing up. Right, he promised to help. You hand him the bowl along with a big smile. “Ok, whisk it well. It needs to be nice and fluffy.” Easy enough. He takes the whisk in his metal hand and begins stirring it way quicker than his other hand could manage. Whelp, you weren’t expecting that, and of course his hand isn’t going to cramp or anything. You watch him for another minute before taking the bowl back, speaking in a fake unamused tone. “Ok, I think you got it.” Then you glance over his arm. It really is astonishing. “You’ve gotta let me look at your arm one of these times.” He’s surprised to hear the genuine curiosity in your tone and asks a simple, “Why?”

“Oh, because I’m an inventor. Or at least I’m trying to be. That’s why I didn’t want you in the garage. All my shit is in there.” He feels a little spark of worry, thinking about all the things Hydra made, what they tortured him with, what they turned him into… “What have you made?”

“Not much yet.” You say with a defeated sigh. “It’s mostly wrecked kitchen appliances, but you need a permit to run experiments, and… I do not have one…” He nods, his curiosity peaking now that he realizes you haven’t made anything dangerous, anything that could hurt him.

“I officially have no secrets from you.” You say with a little laugh.

“What about the location of my weapons?” He asks, even though he knows damn well they’re in the garage.

“Ok, maybe just the one then.” You say with a small smile. Then, you turn the stove on. “Here, I’ll show you how to not burn them.” He watches intently, listening to all your instructions. Of course he fucks up and burns his first one even though he did everything you said. You laugh as you reassure him. “It’s ok, it’s ok. Everyone messes up the first one. You just need some practice.” After a couple smaller pancakes, he gets the rhythm down.

He flips the final golden-brown disc with a proud little flick of the wrist. “See? Practice.” You murmur, nudging him gently with your shoulder as you turn off the heat. “That one is for historical purposes only.” You say as you shove the burnt pancake aside. He can’t help but smile at your quirky demeanour.

Once you two are seated, he picks up his fork, looking down at his plate of pancakes; fluffy, slightly imperfect, but made with his own hands. The first meal he’s ever made for himself. They may be a little wonky, ok very wonky, but they still taste good.

“You know, the Wolverine’s name is actually James.” He chokes on his coffee and brings a hand to his chest as he coughs. You thought he just really hated that name suggestion this time. “You ok? What’s wrong?”

Should he tell you that name sounded familiar? That he’s almost certain that used to be his name. There’s no way you just figured it out like that. “That name… It just-” He sighs heavily, his voice softer now. “I’d like you to call me that… To see how it feels…”

You’re about to squeal in excitement, but you decide against it when you take in his demeanour. However, he can still hear the restrained excitement in your voice. “I knew I was going to find you the perfect name! James, it is. I like that name.”

“It’s… a lot to take in.” He finally admitted, meeting your gaze, trying to project a calm he didn’t feel. He didn’t want to ruin your enthusiasm, didn’t want to dim that bright smile. But he couldn’t pretend this was just a simple, fun new nickname. For him, it made him wonder about all the things about himself that he’s lost. He’s not ready to face that.

“It’s ok, take it slowly. Would you like to watch more movies to distract yourself, James?” You tested his name softly. It felt so weird being referred to with an actual name. He didn’t like what it made him feel, but he’ll push through it. He’ll have you use the name for a while, and if it still doesn’t feel right, he’ll ask you to stop. “The Princess Bride, please.”

“As you wish.” You laugh fondly, giving him a reassuring smile. “I think that’s your comfort movie.” He nods, mulling over the idea that he’s finding things that bring him comfort.

After breakfast, you two are sitting on the couch, a familiar scene now. As the movie begins, he can’t help fighting himself. There are words in the back of his throat he just can’t get out. After a few more minutes of struggle, he finally coughs them out. His voice is soft, with a hint of anxiety and hope. “Can I lie on your chest?” He’s already bracing himself for rejection.

You smile, reminding yourself not to tease him. You open up your arms and gesture him closer. “Sure, c’mere.” He lets out a very long sigh as he gently lowers himself onto you, his head cradled by the softness of your breasts. “Oof, you’re heavy.”

He quickly lifts his head. “Did I hurt you?” You shake your head as you pull him back down. “No, no, I’m fine, though you should have seen me when I dragged your unconscious ass in here.” He laughs with you. You run your fingers through his hair as you think about the progress he’s made in just a few days. He went from choking you without hesitating to immediately worrying that he accidentally caused you harm.

He closes his eyes as you rake your fingers through his hair. The sensation is just too soothing for him not to. You press your lips to his hair as you murmur. “Sleepy? You just had coffee.” He just grumbles in response. He hadn’t realized how tense he was until the moment he finally collapsed into you. He nuzzles his head closer against your boobs. He’s resting on the softest thing in the world right now. He catches whiffs of your body wash, the same stuff you used to clean him. Then there was your heartbeat. Just a steady, content thump-thump, drowning out the frantic, confusing thoughts that usually plagued him.

His eyes flutter open when he feels Venus’s wet nose nudge his hand. He tiredly pats her head before she hips up on the couch. He pulls her close as she starts purring, resting his hand on her belly. “James…” You said, your voice soft, breaking the silence. “Do you like the purring? It’s scientifically proven to be therapeutic.”

He nods. He always liked when she purred, it felt nice. He hadn’t realized it was literally therapeutic, but her presence always calmed him. Her warm weight, the incredible softness of her dense fur, the simple, undeniable fact that she was choosing to trust him.

As he focused on the sound of your breathing and your heartbeat, he couldn’t stop his thoughts from being consumed by you. Your smile, your scent, your awful but endearing teasing, how you give into his sweet tooth but, most importantly, how you helped him find his identity. He’s not a soldier, or an altered asset, or even an emotionless assassin. He’s just James. His favourite colour is purple, his favourite movie is The Princess Bride. He loves pancakes, and hot cocoa just as much as you, along with anything else sweet. He has a huge soft spot when it comes to a certain furry little creature. You helped him find all of this. He couldn’t help falling for you.

In the past, silence had been dangerous. Stillness meant listening for a threat, waiting for a fight to begin. But here, the stillness was filled. It was filled with your scent, the warmth of your skin, the subtle rising of your chest, faint movie dialogue, and the deep content purr of a feline resting against his side. He hesitates before muttering, his tone filled with vulnerability. “Thank you for the warmth you've given me.”

Just your luck, huh? Honestly, how didn’t you see this coming? You and Bucky don’t get along, and to make matters worse, you both always have to complete missions together. It was about time you both had to share a room, considering how often you get stuck together. This mission went on longer than expected. Totally Bucky’s fault. (It’s really not, but you’re still going to blame him.)

This one was long and difficult, which left you both irritable and ready to curl up for some much-needed rest, except it’s late and the base is too far away. You two are both too tired to drive, so you found the closest spot to crash for the night. A motel. Already off to a terrible start.

And because the universe hates you, since it’s so late, there’s only one room available. Should have seen that coming. Should have seen this coming too. You both groan when you open the door to see there’s only one bed. The paint is chipping off the walls and faded yellow. The floor is faded in various spots from where so many people have walked.

“I’m not sleeping on the floor. It’s fucking filthy.” Bucky chimes in before you can even suggest that. You know he’s used to sleeping on the ground; it’s a soldier thing, right? You would have argued, but you’re way too exhausted, and you’ve got to admit, the floor really is disgusting. Your boots stick to it with each step as you walk to the side of the bed further from the door. You toss your bag and collapse onto the bed, lying on your stomach. At least the bed is clean; it smells like detergent. “Fine. I don’t care. I’m too tired to argue with you tonight.”

Bucky notes which side of the bed you take. “Oh, so I get murdered first?” (Schitt’s Creek reference) You’re beyond exhausted, so this is just the right time to start problems, right?

You lift your head from the pillow and groan. “You’re able to take on an intruder, asshole.” His lips form a thin line. Ok, fair enough, but he’s not letting you off the hook that easily. “Oh, so you think I will naturally protect you?”

See this? This right here? That’s why you hate him so much. You suddenly sit up, glaring harshly at him, making it clear you are in no mood for his bullshit tonight. “You’re so fucking lucky I had to use that grenade, or I’d blow up this room with the both of us fucking in it!” A small smirk forms on his lips. He loves your creative threats. He’d never admit it, but he’s used some of them on enemies. “Ok, I get the picture.” He says it a little softer.

“You know…” He starts, trying to ease the tension. “You’re acting like sharing a room with me is a nightmare. It might be a bit of fun. Like a sleepover. Just ask anyone who’s shared a room with me.” He says with a genuine smile, hoping it’ll work. It’s not that he wants to hate you, but you make it hard for him to like you. His teasing is always like clumsy attempts to connect with you. He had no other way to get you to respond to him, even if it was always with anger. 

“I’m sure your body pillow thinks you’re great.” You say coldly.

His smile instantly fades, sighing heavily in defeat. He tries so hard with you. He never understood what he ever did wrong. He pushes it back, trying to deflect with teasing. “Oh, you’re just jealous. My body pillow and I have a very satisfying relationship. Can’t say the same for your lonely nights, huh?”

You take one of the extra pillows and fling it at him hard. It hits his chest with an ‘oof,’ but he catches it. It was one of those heavy feather pillows. He regretted his words as soon as he said them. He knew it had been forever since you were with someone, and he heard the last relationship ended so well. Not from you directly because you never share anything with him. He hasn’t seen you go out with anyone the whole time he’s known you.

“Sorry.” He says timidly, setting the pillow back down on the bed gently, not trying to disturb you as you sit there.

He watches as you dramatically plop down against the bed again, your face buried in the pillow beneath you. Ok, still mad. “You’re not even going to take your boots off?” He asks as he heads to the bathroom with his bag to change.

You groan again, covering your ears with the pillow to drown out his voice. “I will in a fucking minute. You know, you could sleep in the bathtub.”

“Nope, this thing is filthy, too.” He says, peeking his head out from the bathroom as he takes off his shirt, not at all bothered about privacy. He knows you wouldn’t look up anyway with the state of exhaustion you’re in. However, you would have found a wonderful sight if you did. His chest flexes as he shreds his shirt off, his skin still glistening from lingering sweat.

There goes that idea. You were hoping to take a bath tomorrow to clean off but also to ease your sore muscles. “You could go sleep in the truck…”

“Eh, no. We both chipped in to pay for this room. Neither of us is sleeping in the truck.” Dammit, that’s true. You can’t argue against that one. It’s only fair.

He steps back into the bathroom as he changes, not bothering to close the door fully. You’re already drifting off, not even bothering to take your boots off.

Bucky’s gaze falls straight to your ass when he steps out of the bathroom. He hates how fucking hot you are in tactical gear. He quickly snaps his gaze away. That’s enough of that. You clearly have no interest in him, so there’s no point in ogling you and getting his hopes up.

He shakes his head, not bothering to tell you to take your boots off again. He turns off the light before pulling the covers over him as he settles in bed. “Stay on your side of the bed, and don’t you dare fucking kick me.” He’s felt you kick him before with those boots on, and he definitely doesn’t want to feel it while trying to sleep.

You prop yourself up on one elbow, hair sticking to your face as you glare at him. “Don’t you dare get a fucking boner!” You snap, way harsher than his tone.

Woah, where the hell did that come from? He was admiring the way your hair was sticking to your face until you brought that up. Something obviously bubbled up there, but he couldn’t tell what, and he wasn’t going to try to figure it out. Not now, at least. He’s just as tired as you are and just wants to sleep. “Trust me, you’re the last person who would give me one of those.” He grumbles, not actually meaning those words at all as he turns his back to you and faces the door.

After a minute or so, he glances over his shoulder at you. You are also turned away from him. Your shoulders are tense as hell as you lie there, obviously not comfortable sharing a bed. It’s clear to him that you’re uncomfortable. He’s not sure if it’s because you’re sharing a bed with a man or because it’s him or even a combination of both, but he definitely doesn’t want to make you more uncomfortable. He couldn’t imagine how irritable and defensive you would get, so he scooches closer to the edge of the bed, just enough so he doesn’t fall off, putting more distance between you two.

You can feel him scooting further away and can’t help but wonder if it’s because of you. Does he really hate you that much? Your brows furrow as you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to push down all the thoughts that are bubbling up.

He’s very aware that you’re probably lying down over there, overthinking the situation. Honestly, he scooted away because he’s respectful and giving you space. He’s not sure why you’re so uncomfortable, but the last thing he wants is for you to be more uncomfortable. Yeah, he might be a dick towards you, but he knows when to cut the act and be a decent guy. “Go to sleep, Y/n.” He grumbles in a sleepy tone, but it’s in a way softer tone he’s never used with you before.

Your shoulders slowly relax, taking a deep breath to clear your head, letting sleep finally take you over.

As anyone could have probably predicted, later that night, Bucky suddenly woke up from a nightmare. He’s sweating, and his breaths are coming in short, labored pants. The remnants of a nightmare he can’t even remember still cling and make his heart thump painfully against his ribs. He tries to regulate his breathing, bringing a hand up to rub his face, the other one clutching his chest. His movements are jerky and rough, shaking a bit as he sits up. He’s still half asleep and not entirely aware of his surroundings. He runs a hand through his messy hair and glances around the dark room as he remembers.

He was kind of hoping for a nightmare so you’d wake up and comfort him but just gave his hopes up. Maybe he’s been reading too many romance books lately. He sighs when he looks over at you. He didn’t predict that you’d also be having a small nightmare. Your breaths are soft but rapid. Not as bad as his, but he’s not going to let you keep suffering through it. Looks like you changed your clothes while he was sleeping. Tactical gear really isn’t comfortable to sleep in. He scoots close as he gently shakes your shoulder and whispers softly. “Hey, hey… Wake up.”

Your brows furrow as you reach up and rub your temples as you wake. “Ugh, why are you up?”

“Same reason I just woke you.” He gently teases, hoping maybe it’ll help ease you and not piss you off like usual. You groan when you realize he must have also had a nightmare, turning your back towards him. You knew he got them. Never told him you got them as well.

Bucky scoffs softly, annoyed by your reaction. It’s a bit easier to ignore his own nightmare now that your presence distracts his mind. “Are you so repulsed by me that you don’t even want to face me?” His words come off as annoyed but also genuine.

Your shoulders tense as his words sink in. You’re quiet for a long moment before muttering, “No…” He was expecting you to snap back with an irritated comment, but instead you fell quiet. He frowns slightly in confusion, wondering why you didn’t snap. He sits up fully in bed as he looks at you, not really seeing your face since you’re turned away, but he continues anyway. “Then why the hell do you act like you hate me? I know it’s not just because of my teasing.” His voice has a slightly more awake tone as he speaks, frustration and irritation mixing with genuine confusion.

You huff and roll your eyes. This was the last thing you wanted to talk about, let alone face. “Do we really need to have this conversation now? It’s too late for this shit.”

“Yes. I think we do.” He says in a firm tone that makes it clear he’s not going to back down. He folds his arms across his chest, waiting for you to give an actual answer. He’s obviously not going to wait till morning for this, so it’s easier for you to avoid. You always avoided this topic when he’d ask why you hate him playfully, even though he was always serious. You sit up as well. “Does it really matter?” You ask, still trying to deflect.

“Yes, it matters. I’m tired of being at each other’s throats all the time, especially considering we always end up stuck together.” He retorts, his frustration clear in his tone and the way he runs his hand through his hair.

You huff as you struggle to come up with words. To come up with a lie or even how to tell the truth. It’s not exactly like you want to tell the truth because then he’ll know how you truly feel. That you have this big stupid crush that you have no idea how to handle without aggression. You felt a paralyzing fear of rejection. It was better to just push it away. “I, uh—it’s… ugh!” You groan in frustration. Why the hell is this so damn hard?

He waits patiently, studying you. You’ve never acted like this before, and it almost scares him. You always carry yourself so confidently; you’re never at a loss for words like this.

“Dammit! Just tell me why you hate me! Is it something I said? Something I did? Is it because of who I used to be!? Just give me an actual answer!” He snaps desperately. He’s tired and cranky and still on edge from his nightmare.

“I DON’T HATE YOU!” You snap back just as desperately. You sure as hell don’t want him thinking you hated him because of his past. You didn’t. You’re looking right in his eyes, cheeks flushed, hoping he can read you so you don’t have to struggle with words again. Hoping he can feel what you’re thinking.

He realizes that maybe the anger and irritation he’s always interpreted as hatred is a cover for something else. He takes in your frantic expression, the flush of your cheeks, the desperation in your voice, the slight fast pace of your breath, and the way you couldn’t form any words. A small smirk tugs at his lips, a hint of disbelief in his tone. “Heh, you have a crush on me.”

Your body tenses, afraid of his reaction. He can see you’re bracing yourself, and his smirk grows into an amused smile. He can’t help but feel a little smug at the realization that you have a crush on him. “Damn, you really do, don’t you?” He softly teases, tilting your chin up with two fingers.

Teasing again? Yeah sure, you pretended to hate him, but his teasing really did get on your nerves. “Oh, come on, Barnes, now is not the time for your teasing.”

His fingers on your chin move to the side of your neck, his thumb brushing over your pulse point. “Oh, I think it’s a perfect time for my teasing, actually. I would have never figured you had a thing for me.” He leans in so his face is closer to yours. He’s taking a risk, but the way your pulse is rapidly beating against his fingers makes him think you just might like this.

You can’t help but wonder if he’s leaning in for a kiss. But of course, that stupid, stubborn side of you has to ruin things. You felt a strong need to suddenly protect yourself. “It’s not like I want to.” You mutter, instantly regretting your words. You finally got this off your chest, and you just ruined it. He backs up, his fingers brushing away from your skin. He can’t tell if you’re in denial or genuinely mean those words, but either way he’s not going to push it.

A simple soft ‘oh’ leaves his lips, falling quiet, trying not to reveal your words may have just shattered his heart. He was hoping you’d want something. Maybe it’s just a crush with no proper feelings behind it. After a moment, he finally finds his voice. “So you’re telling me you don’t want to have feelings for me?”

You wish to God those words hadn’t slipped from your lips. You feel so shitty and worried that you might have just fucked things up. “No, Barnes, I—don’t listen to me.” You say softly with defeat.

“Don’t listen to you?” He mutters, not trying to hold back how harshly his words come out. “I’m supposed to just ignore the words that clearly came from your mouth?”

Yeah, you fucked this up with words you don’t even mean. “James, I didn’t mean them. It’s been so long since I... I just don’t know what to do.”

He was about to block you out until you said his first name. You only ever call him that when you’re dead serious. He always loved when you called him his first name. It always made him feel a rush of butterflies. It was the closest thing to connection between you two. He’s starting to realize that it’s not just him that fights against your stubborn side. You do as well.

You’re waiting for him to lash out and tell you how aggravating you are. You know you deserve it. You just played with his heart like that. But he doesn’t yell, he doesn’t snap, and he doesn’t say or do anything. He just sits there. For a few minutes he’s silent, staring down at the mattress between you two. Then, he shifts, lying down but facing away from you. He lets out a sigh before quietly speaking. “Just go to sleep, Y/n.” His tone is flat, devoid of any real emotion. He doesn’t want to think about this right now. He’s trying to push it down.

That’s not at all what you wanted. Before you can think, your body moves on its own, straddling his hips so he’s forced to look up at you. That’s a sight he’s wanted to see for so long. He doesn’t put his hands on your hips like he so desperately wants to. He’s too stubborn right now. “No, Bucky, don’t act like me. Let me fix this.” You say desperately. A tone he’s never heard from you before.

Bucky. You never called him that. It was always his last name or his first name when you were scolding him. You refused to call him that. Said nicknames felt too personal. That the two of you were only teammates. He holds back from flipping you off of him, secretly willing to give you a chance even though his voice doesn’t reveal that. It’s flat, lacking any emotion. “How?”

Your body tenses as you hesitate to answer, scrambling for any ideas as your breath picks up from anxiety. “I-I-uh…”

He couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Of course, you didn’t have an actual plan. He’s not sure what to expect from you in this moment, but his patience is wearing thin. “Oh, come on. Don’t seriously give my hopes up again–”

He gets cut off when your lips press against his, with an amount of tenderness no one could fake. It was a bold move for you, but it worked. His mind blanks for a second, almost not believing he’s feeling your lips. Then his eyes flutter closed, tilting his head back against the pillow as he kisses you back, letting all the tension from his body fade. He lets his hands run up your thighs before his fingers dig into your hips desperately.

Your hands are on his cheeks, holding his head still as you kiss him; soft, little, but desperate whimpers leave your lips, vibrating against his. You can feel his chest rising and falling heavily underneath you.

When you finally pull away, Bucky has a small, sleepy but blissed-out smile on his face, with a bit of drool on his chin, his hair fanned out against the pillow. He wanted that for so long. His eyes are still closed as he catches his breath. When he finally does, he mumbles softly with a bit of a laugh. “Heh, I think you fixed it.”

You can’t believe that fucking worked. “You’re not still mad?” You ask, your words coming out a little winded. You feel you still deserve his anger.

Anger was the last emotion he was feeling at the moment. He could barely form any coherent thoughts, let alone be mad at you. He shakes his head with a lazy smile. “How could I still be mad with the way you kissed me like that?”

You didn’t think your kissing skills were that good, and it had been a long damn time, too. You slowly crawl off of him, lying beside him as your eyes roam over his face. He rolls over to face you, his arm tucked under the pillow under his head, meeting your gaze. Without a word, his other arm hooks around your waist and pulls you into his chest, one leg wrapping around your hips, trapping you against him.

“You smell like sweat, Barnes.” You grumble softly, but without the usual bite.

“And you smell like gun oil. We’d make a great cologne.” That brings a small laugh to your lips. You can feel him nuzzling his nose against your hair. You’re sure it reeks, but you’re too tired to say anything.

Bucky starts to pepper kisses along your neck and shoulder, being gentle and sweet with his motions. When he gets to a spot that he especially likes, he nuzzles his nose into it and then presses some open-mouth kisses, tasting the saltiness of your skin from your sweat. His metal hand slips under your shirt, following the curve of your spine, startling you from the sudden cold temperature.

You groan, lightly shoving his chest. He’s so used to that gesture being rough and harsh. “Stop, I’m trying to sleep.” You whine softly. Oh, he’s going to end up loving that tone.

“Then go to sleep. I’m not stopping.” He murmurs against your skin, pulling you just a tad closer. With a sigh, you close your eyes, not bothering to fight with him. You know he’ll be stubborn if you do, so you fall asleep with Bucky gently worshipping your skin. He doesn’t stay up much longer than you, feeling relaxed and at bliss with you in his arms. He finds peace not just in having you, but in being your safety net.. “Mmh, finally mine…”

Just as you fell asleep with kisses against your skin, you woke up the same way. He’s leaving kisses anywhere his lips can reach. His arms wrapped securely around your waist, you pressed your back against his chest. He’s never seen your expression so relaxed before. “Mmh, wake up. I want to touch you.” He grumbles roughly against your shoulder.

You groan when you wake up and see the morning sun painting the room orange. That means it’s way too early. You were about to just go right back to sleep until you felt Bucky press his morning wood against your back. “I thought you said you weren’t going to get a boner…”

He chuckles against your skin, pressing wet kisses on your shoulder between words. “Well, I lied.” His kisses start moving up your neck. “When I said you’d be that last person to give me one, you’re really the first one. Plus, it’s morning.” His lips move to your ear, his hotel breath brushing against it as he jokes very softly. “But… maybe it’s just my gun.”

You glance at his belt with his gun in the holster, sitting on top of his bag. “Uh-huh…” You mutter in an obviously unconvinced tone. He grinds his hips against you again, feeling very needy this morning. How could he not? He just found out the woman he thought it’d never work out with wants him.

A heavy sigh leaves your lips before you grumble. “Please, it’s too early.”

His lips don’t seem to leave your skin once. An amused laugh leaves his lips, his voice quiet and rough. “Really? I thought it’d be a good way to wake you up.” He pushes his boner back against you again. How could you deny yourself that? You could feel that he’s big.

“What about protection?” You say, tiredly looking over your shoulder at him. He presses one last kiss to your neck before getting up. “I know damn well there’s some condoms in this room.”

You prop yourself up on your elbows, rubbing the sleepiness from your eyes. Then, you process his words. “Ew, Barnes, I’m not using random motel condoms.”

He laughs softly as he pulls a pack of condoms from his bag. “That’s not what I meant.”

Your brows furrow. “Do you just bring some of those everywhere?”

He smirks with a shrug. “You never know what might happen.” He climbs back into the bed, hovering over you. “So can we do this?” He says, a bit hopeful.

“Well, I have no other excuses. Just be gentle.” He nods, already taking his shirt off just a bit too desperately, muscles flexing just for you. “Yup, you’re tired, and probably still sore.” Your eyes roam over his body, finally not feeling guilty for looking at him in such a way.

His hands glide up your body until he reaches your shirt. “Can I take this off?” You nod sleepily, a gentle smile on your lips as you lean forward. He tosses your shirt onto the end of the bed with his, not onto the floor since it’s filthy. His eyes linger on your exposed chest for a second before leaning in and capturing your lips as his hands knead your breasts.

He pushes his hips against yours, making you shudder, moving closer until there’s barely any room between you. His brows are knit in concentration as he kisses you, his tongue slowly twirling against yours. He’s trying to go slow even though he’s been waiting for this moment forever.

A string of saliva connects your lips as he pulls away. His fingers trail down until they reach the waistband of your pants. “Permission?” He says lightly, meeting your eyes.

You playfully roll your eyes as you nod. “Yeah, Bucky.” He has to bite his lip to keep from smiling too much. You called him that again… He gently pulls your pants off, leaving your underwear on as he ducks his head down and starts pressing open-mouth kisses to your inner thighs. Your breath hitches, and your toes curl as your fingers lightly tangle in his hair. “You can pull if you need.” He whispers.

Your eyes flutter shut, and a long sigh leaves your lips, leaning your head back against the pillows. He loves the sight. Your head tilted back, the sun casting a warm, pretty glow against your skin, your expression soft and needy, unlike anything he’s seen from you before. He watches your expressions as he gives you more kisses on your thighs, his eyes fixed on your face.

Your fingers curl around his hair as he moves higher up. He runs his tongue over your panties and then teases your clit through the fabric. “No, no, no. Don’t tease.” You whine while tugging his hair.

“But I live for teasing.” He laughs, the sound vibrating against your clit, causing you to squirm. “Well, don’t now.” You protest weakly with another tug to your hair, like that does anything but make him want to tease you more.

He sucks your clit through the fabric, not listening to your words at all. Then he spreads your thighs a little more, pulling your panties to the side as his tongue swipes over your entrance. “Can I remove these?”

You lift your hips up impatiently. “Obviously.” His fingers wrap around the waistband and tugs them down. Then he buries his face against you, his nose nudging your now bare clit and making you squirm. His tongue circles around your entrance a couple times before pushing in.

He hikes your legs up over his shoulders so he can get a better angle. His tongue pushes in and out before pressing a few kisses against your folds, his stubble scratching against your inner thighs.

You tug on his hair, arching up into his mouth as faint sleepy groans leave your lips. Finally, his tongue circles around your clit, then presses a kiss to it before his lips close around it, and he very softly sucks on it.

Your stomach clenches, and you let out a very broken-up moan. You gently pull his head a little closer. “D-don’t stop.”

He lifts his head just a little, looking at you from behind hooded eyes. “Sensitive, huh?” His head dips again as he continues. You can feel warm heat settling in your belly. He listens as your breathing picks up, your moans getting louder. All for him.

He keeps using his mouth on you until you’re dripping and squirming, breath hot and needy. He finally sits back up, licking your juices off his lips, which are also glistening in his stubble. “Think you’re ready?” 

You nod, too tired and blissed out for words. You watch as he pulls his pants and boxers off, obviously trying to tone down how excited he is. His cock springs free with a slight, low thwack against his stomach, already throbbing with his pulse. His tip is slick, swollen and red. 

 A laugh escapes your lips as you watch him struggle to find the condoms that got lost in the bedsheets. He finally finds the small foil packet, letting out a low, satisfied grunt, as he tears it open with his teeth.

Once he’s ready, he positions himself between your legs, one hand on your knee as he spits on the other and pumps his cock a couple times before lining his tip up to your folds. He looks down at himself before smirking and murmuring lowly, his tone just making you wetter. “You’ve earned every inch of this.” Then his tone switches up, back to that soft caring one. “Ready?” You nod, already bracing yourself for his size. 

You gasp when he slides a few inches in. He watches your expression before bottoming out. “Are you doing ok?” He asks softly, letting you get used to his size before he does anything more. 

You swallow thickly, the slight pain you felt already fading. “Uh-huh.” He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. “Tell me if you need me to stop.” 

He pulls out about halfway, then slowly slides back in, hitting your sweet spot, making your toes curl. His pace starts very slow before getting just a tad faster. 

His breathing is heavy, his hair covering his face as he looks down at you, his hands on both of your knees, keeping you spread open. His thrusts are deep and sensual, staying soft since you’re still tired. 

You smirk, tilting your head back as you give in to one desire you’ve been pushing down for so long. “Choke me~” Bucky stops mid-thrust from your tone. It was so filthy, something he never expected from you but something he’s totally imagined. He hesitates before wrapping his flesh hand around your throat, adding just a little pressure. 

Your hand gently wraps around his wrist, your tone still low. “Wrong one.” He swallows thickly. He purposely didn’t use his metal one out of risk of hurting you, but he’s starting to realize you may be a lot kinkier than he imagined. He replaces his hand with the metal one but doesn’t add any pressure. It’s just resting there. It’s not what you wanted, but it’s good enough. You know he’s always very gentle with that hand when he doesn’t need it for fighting. 

Even if he’s not actually choking you, the sight is still getting you off. It’s just as you imagined. He’s all sweaty, pumping into you with heavy breaths with his hand wrapped around your throat. His thrusts are slow but deep, hitting that one spot over and over again, making more heat settle in your stomach. 

He leans in close, his hand leaving your throat as he buries his face against your neck as he starts with some more kisses before easing into some light hickeys. He wants the entire team to know you’re his when you two get back. It takes your mind a moment to catch up, but it’s already too late. You wanted to wait before you told the team, but he obviously had other plans. Your eyes squeeze shut as you feel him sucking on the skin along your shoulder and neck. The pleasure intensifies, a dizzying spiral of sensations you’ve both forgotten. You claw at his back, nails leaving behind thin red trails. It’s a pain he doesn’t mind. His thrusts get slower but much deeper, more sensual even. He’s almost desperate.

He reaches down, his hand finding your clit, slow and teasing, as if to gauge more reactions from you. Your hips buck involuntarily, spreading your legs even more as you squirm, the tension building to an unbearable escalation. “Mmh, Bucky…” you moan, your voice barely a whisper. He grins, wanting to hear you call him that more. He keeps thrusting, each one deliberate, each movement designed to push you closer to the edge. You feel the familiar tremors start, threatening to unravel you completely. 

He can feel your walls squeezing around his dick, making it twitch in anticipation. He can’t wait to see you like this, completely vulnerable, all for him. Everything about you right now goes against your usual guarded nature.

One hand tugs on his hair as your nails dig into his shoulder with the other as you get closer. It’s been a damn long time since you last felt this damn good. His metal hand returns to your throat, this time with the gentle pressure you craved. His other hand begins to circle your clit a little faster, urging you closer. You let out a strangled gasp, the combined sensations threatening to overwhelm you. 

You’re clinging to him desperately, arms wrapped around his shoulders tightly. He loves how close you are, like he’s the only thing anchoring you. With a few more deep thrusts you finally lose control, your body erupts, with pleasure exploding through you. You arch your back, your walls clenching around his cock as you let out a final, pathetic whine. Bucky follows, his own release a guttural but desperate sound against your neck, his legs shaking a bit as he cums, pressing his cock deep inside you. He stays lodged in deep, feeling completely spent, his hips still twitching against yours, feeling the last wave of pleasure. He completely emptied himself, his release full of his suppressed tension. Your arms stay hooked around his neck, holding him in place. You can feel him still throbbing inside. You could almost feel all the tension he let out, how long he's held back for your sake. 

Then he collapses on top of you, his weight a comforting presence. He gently kisses the hickeys he littered over your skin. The moment lingers, the aftershocks of your climax slowly fading. He slowly pulls out, leaving you aching, and rolls to his side, pulling you close. “God, you’re incredible.” You’re too tired and content for words, so you offer a single hum. He leaves you to lay on his chest until you start to catch your breath. He presses a rough kiss to your damp hair before rolling to the edge of the bed and peeling the full condom off his limp cock. It hangs from his fingers, heavy and full, the milky white sack seeming almost ready to burst with how full it is. Every drop is  filled with a release of tension, desperation.“I’ll help you clean up. Be right back.” He gives his cock one final squeeze, his eyes momentarily fluttering shut as he tilts his head back and groans. Then he leaves. 

You’re left snuggled with the sheet of the bed as he heads into the bathroom. You can hear the sink running and him muttering excitedly to himself. The sound brings a smile to your lips. He’s such a big dork. Your dork now. You spot a damn towel in his hand as he comes out. “That’s clean, right?” You say, groggily.

He gives it another sniff before nodding. “All good. Let’s get you cleaned up, Doll.” Your hair is stuck to your face, and your skin is flushed and slick with sweat. Bucky gently dabs the towel across your forehead, brushing some hair back then glides the towel down your neck, careful to avoid the red marks blooming there. He takes his time, watching each soft expression cross your face. He then turns his attention to your chest, carefully wiping away any lingering traces of sweat. You lean into his touch, relishing the simple act of being cared for, your chest fluttering. Your toes curl and you groan when he gently wipes over your folds. Then he tosses the towel away when he’s finished, hovering over you once again.

His hand gently traces over your cheek. “I love the sight of you.” He murmurs, his voice still thick with residual arousal. You tilted your head back for a kiss. His lips meet yours in a soft, lingering press, a promise of more to come. When he finally pulls away, he’s smiling, a genuine, happy grin. He finally got the girl he’s been pinning for all this time.

He lays down beside you, pulling you to his chest. “Are you doing ok? Still tired?”

You close your eyes, feeling content resting on his chest like this. “A little bit." 

"There was a coffee machine in the lobby.”

"I am not having motel coffee.”

A small laugh leaves his lips at your stubborn tone. "We could find a coffee shop and have a nice little coffee date.” 

"That sounds nice… but in a little bit. I want to keep lying here." 

He squeezes you, pressing a few kisses to your head. "Sounds good to me.” He's staring up at the ceiling as he mulls over what just happened, his hand idle tracing patterns on your back. Last night you went from threatening him with a grenade to resting on his chest like you’ve laid there a millions times before. 

A little thought enters his mind that won’t seem to go away. Bucky's teasing was always a way to test the waters with you without making himself vulnerable, like asking serious questions in a playful tone, just to see if he'll actually get an answer. But now, he doesn't need to ask in a false teasing tone, he feels like he can finally use a serious tone without you snapping at him. "What was your nightmare about?" He asks softly with genuine curiosity.