premise. in which entails your daily life being in a relationship with the one and only eccentric wanderer. (alternatively: wanderer's love for you comes in many forms. you welcome them all the same.)
warnings: established relationship, hurt-comfort, slice of life, wanderer is called kuni. jealousy (wanderer), angst. FLUFF fluff fluff. wanhida family goals
a/n: ITS SCARAMOUCHE WANDERER SEASON his event broke me btw [in tears]
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# observation one: unconventionally clingy
early on in your relationship, this side of the wanderer remains quite privy to himself alone. this is because he has a very, very uncanny similarity to an aggressive and guarded cat that hisses when given an ounce of affection.
this does not mean he doesn't like your outlandish and grand displays of affection, though; its actually the opposite. (LOL)
the true crux of the matter lies in his inability to let down his guarded pride to admit that he thinks your affection is his lifeblood. (basically, “ew, affection... do it again”)
he's a menace (affectionate), and if you were one for critiquing that aspect of his character, you wouldn't have been in a relationship with him by now, anyway.
however—there is always a however when it comes to him—this does not mean that wanderer doesn't come across points of anxiousness over the fact that his less than affable personality may be something you will grow sick of one day.
he knows he isn't the best choice of a romantic partner; seriously, what were you even thinking... but when he establishes that you are indeed now an irreplaceable part of his life (which will take a long time, good luck), he clings to you with a fierce desperation underneath all that thorn and bristle.
this is part of his visceral fear of abandonment—you are the one thing that he adores, cares for with his entire being (nahida as a close second), and to watch you slip away from him due to his own misgivings will spell out a death sentence for him.
(so please, treat him gently; cradle his cracked palms and broken psyche, and slowly, emphasis on slowly, but surely, he will learn to return in kind.)
this ‘clinginess’ comes forth in his proximity to you. once he has felt comfortable with your relationship, wanderer is quite unafraid to show how touchy he is in his own way.
whether that is to get groceries in your shared home, following after you like a second shadow when you go to the grand bazaar, or even shooing away people that harass you (tba), the wanderer's gaze and all his efforts are always directed to your will.
(you dubbed this as ‘scary cat boyfriend privilege’—and are rewarded with a painful flick to the forehead. ouch.)
—☆★☆—
“where are you going?” the slender hand that stops you from leaving your comfy bed does little to help your need to fall back into the blissful arms of sleep.
“just going to go get some water, kuni.”
waking up to the sight of the wanderer in all his divine glory certainly isn't one of the things you expected in your life, but you welcome it all the same. leaving a simple kiss to his forehead, you pry your hand away with a gentleness you reserve only for him.
he flushes, a lovely red adorning cheeks, to the span of his neck. oh, how you love seeing him melt.
“you won't take too long?”
he doesn't need to breathe, but he sucks in a breath anyway, face twisting to a deep set frown—your telltale sign that your kunikuzushi had a nightmare.
an unanswered question. you won't leave?
your hand caresses the silky soft strands of his purple hair, that in which wanderer nuzzles into. he doesn't seem keen on telling you, and you respect that. you'd wait for him as long as he'd like.
“of course i will. not going anywhere, silly.”
why would i? you convey in that same gesture. i love you.
the tightness of his face relaxes, his grip on your hand loosening. right—you weren't. (you were not going to abandon him.)
“hurry up and come back, then. it's far too early.” his voice is still thick with sleep, though that doesn't temper his signature sass at all.
i love you too. goes unsaid.
your grin sharpens, teasing. “aww, don't miss me too much, okay?”
anddd there's the signature scowl. “...never mind, don't come back.”
“hey!”
shuffling to hide his face from you, wanderer sports a genuine smile, hidden from your sight.
because in your presence, the wanderer stills, and all thoughts of a doomed eternity fall short of how he commits himself to you—wanderer loves and loves, loves you, for you nestle in the space his heart was meant to be, holding onto the mere wisps of your identity and weaving it into the mosaic of his soul.
it's silent save for when you plop yourself back to the bed, bearhugging wanderer and complaining about waking up early again because you stayed up all night playing tcg with him. (he's at 10 wins and 5 losses and he was not going to be caught lacking).
“you do realize that's entirely your fault, right?” he gloats. “it's not my fault my card bested that lawachurl of yours.”
“what?! no way, mister! my all geo team is still superior, mind you-”
once, wanderer wondered about the concept of infinity.
everlasting devotion. of unabashed care and trust. as he listens to your ramblings as the night falls to day, he figures that what you currently share fits that concept just fine.
# observation two: (very) jealous tendencies
it isn't in wanderer's intention to be jealous. well, so he says.
really, he isn't! after all, what was there to be jealous of? absurd! looks, intellect, an extensive range of vocabulary not limited to insults and creative verbal attacks; wanderer boasts quite the sizable number of pros that get most people falling at his feet. (his outward personality leaves much to be desired, however, but his snark does have a certain charm. probably).
and of all the bashful akademiya seniors and well-intentioned young women (and men), you managed to get into a relationship with this black cat of a derisive puppet. this is an achievement worthy of celebration, for not just anyone can take the wanderer and burrow into his many, many guarded walls and claim the title of being his lover.
yet, wanderer is the more jealous one in the relationship.
he knows that you won't cheat on him, and trusts that you won't look at others in such a way. but still, your boyfriend can't help but doubt. be patient when working out his jealousy, for it is a double edged sword—on one hand, wanderer was so adorable when he was jealous; sulky, clingy, hot you name it! and it was very flattering, knowing that he loved you enough to want to keep you all to himself.
but, the other side was quite... a piece of work. should you attempt to tease him about such a thing, it ends in three ways. one, him flying off to god knows where and leaving you alone (😐), two, restricting you from hugging and giving him affection (😭), and worse, giving you the silent treatment (😨). choose your ammunition wisely.
and from this, be prepared for the wanderer to monopolize your attention all to himself— with said admirers mysteriously off the grid or too afraid to approach you for fear of his wrath. i'll say it once: a jealous wanderer is a force to be reckoned with. (and we love him for it)
(he was chided endlessly by nahida for this; “you're scaring all the researchers that want to do a thesis review with [name]!” she says.
a sly smirk was his only reply).
—☆★☆—
“what, and here i thought he had more bark left in him.” wanderer huffs haughtily, with the researcher dashing away as if his life depended on it.
“you'll get scolded by nahida again, you know. i don't think the dendro archon's trusted aide should boast a terrifying reputation.”
he snorts. “lesser lord kusanali has better things to do than chide me for harassment.”
“but you don't have better things to do than scaring away poor kimiya?”
that gets you an eye roll that could reach massive highs of ‘what about it?’ from your boyfriend. “you're overthinking.” (translation: you're right).
“uh huh, sure i am.”
“whatever. who you talk to and interact with is none of my concern. it's not like i care about such things anyway.” he retorts. “i'm not possessive.”
so he says. “by the way, his pickup line was pathetic—‘are you anemo because your beauty blows me away’? atrocious.”
your eyebrow raises in return. really, who was speaking about “not caring” and then judging right after? well, it's fine because he was kinda right.... cyno would definitely get along with that guy.
“it was sincere! i think he has to be commended for his efforts, no?”
“you call that effort?” his face scrunches to a dissatisfied frown.
kinoya, kimiya—he doesn't even remember his name anymore. wanderer doesn't care for those that waste his time, and more especially to those that attempt to get close to you in particular. honestly, what a cheap trick.
and you! you were seriously humoring that moony researcher earlier. you even smiled at him! wanderer seethes, crossing his arms. “its quite irritating, knowing that they flock to you under the guise of—what was it he said? right, ‘shared academic pursuits.’ it was too obvious.”
“first of all: that's rude, second, he really needed help! anyone would feel sorry for him.” you tut, pinching the smooth of wanderer's palm. you wisely decide not to comment on how he immediately interlocks hands with you.
you snicker. “and he was only asking for advice on his research topic, silly.”
“hah! how nice — you're defending him now.” it's incredible how wanderer has the uncanny ability to be just like an annoyed cat that dunked itself into a bucket of cold water; and the way he frowns at you only makes you let out an even worse fit of laughter.
wanderer drinks in the sound, resonating it with the beat of his soul, your laugh the heartbeat echoing deep within his veins. he is reduced to nothing with you—with you, his face relaxes; wanderer may be indifferent to humans, but with you, your mere existence is enough for him to falter like a human, weaken like a human.
and weakly, perhaps in an attempt to save face, he speaks, “you didn't deny it.”
“deny what?”
“...defending him.” (if he were a cat, his ears would definitely fall flat right now).
you let out another light laugh, but sparing your lover the torment, you cling to the side of his arm instead.
“i never had such intentions.” stating it quite firmly, “i'm only saying that there's no competition to be made, darling.”
he gives you a skeptical look in return. “was there even any?”
“none at all.” you lean closer to him, and the wanderer leans into the touch of your hand on his cheek. “since you're winning.”
the flustered blush you receive and the subconscious squeeze of his hand in yours conveys all you need to say.
that did the trick. wanderer's smile is satisfied—smug. “clearly, you managed to make the right call for once.”
“well, i could hardly resist you.”
afterwards, you note that the wanderer's pace doesn't seem as fast as usual anymore. no matter the jaw dropped stares of others at the two of you cozying up together, he never let go of your hand once.
(the next day, kimiya comes to you with a sheepish smile saying that he'd like to focus on his own without your help.
“was it your doing?” you look at the wanderer by your bedside table fastening his vision in pace, voice deadpanning.
“hah? why would i waste my time over some insignificant mortal?” he replies, but as he's putting on his hat, you see him smile to himself.
if you ask anyone who knows the wanderer on a personal note, you'd find out that he is, indeed, quite considerate—hidden underneath alllll that snark and aloofness and haughtiness, the wanderer cares for those who have helped him in some way, and with you as his partner (romantic), that care is multiplied tenfold hundredfold.
this quality of his, despite being endearing on paper and practice, is reminiscent of that of an aggressive mother hen; if you count wanderer as a hen that pecks someone incessently to show his care.
he chides you like an exasperated young maiden, but the soft way he handles your bruised arm littered with injuries from your recent run in with some strange fontainian seahorse contradicts his harsh scoldings.
(“bested by a fish? are you serious?”
“excuse you, i needed to get it's horns for materials, okay?!”
“...remind me why i'm stuck with an idiot for a companion.”
“uh, because i have a great personality, and you love me?”
“a decision i've made that's quite hard to defend, honestly.”
you stick your tongue out at him. yes, his habits also become yours.)
or how he tells you you're hopeless at cooking, but always manages to excuse himself to cook for you the moment he notices even the slightest decline in your health. one concern though; he throws the bento towards your head—so minus points for domesticity. (...he has cut heart shapes into the vegetables before and has never been the same since.)
if there's anything you can count wanderer for, he will do it. you could ask him to attempt to pluck the very fabric of reality for you, string together the stars and leave them at your feet, and he will do so, huffing all the while (he never means it). he's just smitten like that; not that he would ever verbalize it—yet. his hushed and vulnerable whispers of asking you to let him stay by your side are your closest road to his admittance.
he will not serenade you with ‘shallow declarations of love,’ as he tells you, but you know that he will always be there for you, for better or for worse.
—☆★☆—
fury is an emotion wanderer was once very accustomed to—it reminds him of electric violet, of three betrayals and of yearning for a constitution he was never fated to reach.
and fury tugs at the strings of his being the moment he sees the droplets of tears fall from your eyes, blurring your vision.
“who did it?” something bitter and violent manifests in his countenance, his vision pulsing angrily with gales threatening to harm. (it does not harm you, though. it never does.) “who did this to you?”
his grip on your shoulders tightens the more you refuse to answer, both from anger and fear. you're never this silent; and his panic increases when you opt to bury yourself in his neck. wanderer sighs.
“hey. i'm asking who made you cry like this, idiot.”
“...”
“fine, i won't call you an idiot, then.” but impatient way he speaks the syllables that make your name betrays his worry. “just talk to me.”
“...can we just stay here like this?”
“....”
“sorry, that was a little-” you say, voice strained, pulling away; but the wanderer tugs you close, allowing you to hide from the world that seems so out to get you. (he knows that feeling well, after all.)
it's he who entangles himself with you, listening to the steady rise of your heartbeat, wiping away your tears.
“i didn't say you couldn't hug me, stupid. it's fine. do as you like.”
if it were a person that did this to you, that would've been better murder was never really out of the table with him, but when faced with something he is unable to solve for you; whether it be a bad day, bad luck, or even something he cannot control, wanderer finds himself at a loss.
because the concept of love, with you, is foreign—terrifying, even. betrayal and scorn were his guiding compass, and to be rid of it and to be seen by you, held by you, and to know that you were not going to follow in the footsteps of those he once clung to was far too good to believe. (yet he tries. for you.)
returning your embrace only passively, he tries to scramble for words of comfort—and when he fails to find the nerve to do so, he does the only thing he can allow himself to do.
with the kindness and gentleness he fostered (still fosters, thanks to you) from his memories as the kabukimono, the wanderer holds you, if only to remind himself of his place by your side, unchanging and adamant—as you remind him of his place beside yours.
he leads you to calm yourself down, albeit roughly as he tells you to stop fussing over trying to help him get you something wipe your tears with—and for all his flushed visage, he lets you cling to him, seeking his comfort.
i'm here, it goes unsaid. wanderer knows you'd pick up on it anyway. please talk to me.
(“if i die from this, i'll come haunt you as a ghost.” you shake like a leaf in his arms, clutched tight and staring at anywhere but the ground. who comforts someone by putting them almost 80 feet up in the air? heights are so not your thing.
“like i'd let you.” wanderer says, rolling his eyes. “and you're shaking too much. just keep your eyes on me, will you?”
“...was that flirting?”
“i will drop you.”
“wait, i'm kidding!” a particular breeze leaves you in goosebumps, with wanderer tightening his grip on you. “don't let me fall, please?”
“are you stupid?” he snaps, but urges you to look at the sight of the sunset on the horizon. his hold is more gentle this time, too. “why would i let you fall? now stop shaking and hold on to me.”
you think you fell just a little harder for him that day.)
—and if you decide to press a kiss to the back of his nape as a way of thanks, you're rewarded with a playful gale and a little zap to deter you in response.
“watch it, [name].” he says, but the shifty eyed way he doesn't meet your eyes isn't fooling anyone here; neither is the red on his cheeks. “you're too close.”
“hehe, sorry, sorry, couldn't resist.”
nonetheless. he supposes the growing smile on your face in place of your tears are sufficient payment for wanderer's efforts. hmph.
he'll let it slide for today.
(he does a lot of that when it comes to you.)
# deciding conclusion: totally in love with you (real not clickbait)
saying it outright: being with the wanderer is not a smooth road. it is full of hardships, hurt, and learning. there will be many times when his built in self destruction (read: abandonment issues) will kick in, hurting you in the process.
getting him to say ‘i love you’ will seem impossible at first, and there will be times when his doubt pierces your heart and renders it tattered to pieces. he's doing his best chat, pls help him
he will not be able to utter sweet words of adoration like you do, or return your embrace as easily as you would with him—and there will be many moments when he will feel as if he's not enough.
but nourish your affections, stay consistently by his side, show him that he is worth loving, worth staying for, and like the foundations of a steadily built tower, his trust and love for you too will grow.
(it will sometimes feel tiring, it will feel hopeless, and it's more than what you've bargained for, but it will all be worth it in the end.)
because you know he cares; it's in the way his expression morphs into helplessness when he sees your face fall in an argument, how he doesn't push you away when you kiss him and shower him with hugs, and when his hands lock tightly in yours in a sea of people, with you only in his sights. how his eyes betray him to look at you with fondness and warmth.
(it's wordless whenever wanderer decides to hold you tight at night, hugging you like his last lifeline. especially after a disagreement, with only the quietude of the night to observe.
he said some hurtful words today. that much he knows.
“are you asleep?” his voice is muffled against your shirt, and he may not need to breathe, but he inhales your scent anyway, memorizing the sight of you in his arms like a promise. “...you probably are.”
silence. “i'm sorry.”
“.....”
his lip trembles, his grasp on your arms bruising if not for your non-awareness. there's a wetness growing against your shirt, and small sniffles.
“i'm sorry.” and gently, so gently, wanderer presses his forehead against your shoulder, feeling the rise and fall of your body. “i shouldn't have snapped at you and told you those sorts of things.”
i'm sorry i hurt you.
please stay.
please don't let go of me.
i need you.
i love you.
when morning comes, you wake up to the sight of the wanderer in your bed, face nuzzled in your chest.
there are tearstains on his face.)
getting him to be open and vulnerable is akin to keeping a rusty, torn boat afloat; it will not be easy, no, but you know that he tries, (so very hard) to make it work. that he fights desperately against his own clumsily strung tethers and rebuilds himself anew, if only to understand and perceive you—to love you as you deserve.
and when that time comes, wanderer will cling to you, desperately, completely, and make sure your efforts will never ever make you regret giving him the chance to open up and be with you.
—☆★☆—
“what would happen if we ever broke up?”
dropping such a bombshell in the middle of having the wanderer on your lap was not how he thought things would go to, granted how pleasant the atmosphere was—he'd agreed to going on a much needed date (your words) with you after lesser lord kusanali had just graded him on one of his essay papers. (he got an a, obviously)
you don't think you've ever seen such a distraught look cross wanderer's face—aside from the time you finally beat him at tcg (5 out of 4); and you've never seen him look so angry either.
rather, he looked scared.
“what brought this idea on?” he tries to lodge out the words, trying to act coherent. but underneath, a storm brews—his hands are shaking. wanderer feels like he's swallowed a bag full of needles.
am i not doing enough? was i too harsh on them when i scolded them for fighting that damn mechanical desert robot? he's scared. or... do they really....
the mere idea of you being tired of him—sick of him, and ready to leave him behind leaves an ugly, disgusting feeling. like acid on his skin.
perhaps, you don't love him anymore? wanderer panics, senses going overdrive. was it that argument months ago when he hurt your feelings? he knows you know he apologized, and he's doing everything in his power to make sure he wasn't repeating that mistake anymore—but why would you say this out of nowhere?
or maybe it's because he didn't notice you feeling uncomfortable in your relationship? no, you would have definitely told him if so. then what is it? you don't just say things like this out of nowhere so seriously-
“i mean... at this point, i think i wouldn't ever want to break up with you.”
“...what?” wanderer blinks.
“you heard me.” cupping the sides of his face with your hands, you restate your words with more vigor. eyes determined. “i don't think i've ever loved someone so much as i love you. heck, not even close! kuni, if we break up, i might actually never recover.”
and the wanderer falls. how could you even say such a thing?
“that's... you're shameless.” he states it like an insult, but his hands go up to hide his eyes, hiding his embarrassment from your romantic words. “why would you even say something so out of pocket like that? you utter fool. you almost made me think i-”
- would lose you. even thinking it made him feel nauseous.
“why are we still dating then? but really, i mean it. i love you too much.” you coo, and that, in return, leads the wanderer to release an exasperated, weary sigh. if he were human, he's sure his blood pressure would never be normal because of you.
but contrary to his attitude, he relaxes his face and allows you to hold him. lightens up, even. you continue, rambling on, “be honest, you know you love me.”
“unfortunately.”
and that brings out such a bright and dazzling smile on your face that the puppets sarcastic smile is replaced by a real one when you huff and smack at his head. (all is well.)
“you're so unromantic.”
indeed, being with this strange, eccentric puppet was certainly a challenge in more ways than one. nonetheless, you know he cherishes you—because with you, the wanderer is different. he's bristly, infuriating, and honestly a pain (lovingly), but he cares for you.
he tells you to stop ogling at his pretty face and do the dishes, yet he never minds the attention at all. he tells you that you were a fool for accidentally getting yourself injured by eremites because you wanted to save some fungi, but follows you anyway and makes sure no one messes with you.
he says he probably wouldn't miss you while you're gone, but is always the first person you see when you return to sumeru city. it's these little things that make you love him, and you know the feeling is mutual—even if he'll act indifferent about it in the meantime.
“hey, kuni?”
wanderer's eyes are closed, serene. once he knew that you were not, in fact, going to break up with him, he relishes the feeling of his head resting on your lap. it was safe, warm, and everything to him; but he'd rather let the world burn before he tells you. “what?”
“thank you for letting me love you.”
....
“...idiot.” is all he says. you can feel him shift to the side so you won't see his face. “you don't have to thank me for that. that's so sappy...”
(and if you ever saw the slight sheen of glossiness in his eyes, you keep it to yourself.)
i should be thanking you. he thinks instead. i'm glad you love me.
so many things pop up in his head for this, so many unspoken words—and he may not be able to convey such things to you; he might never be able to, but you know that he loves, loves, and adores you.
because you accepted his past, his sins and his imperfections and treated him with tenderness and care. and you know that no matter how many sides of the wanderer you have yet to explore, you will love each one.
and that is enough for him to never let go.
a/n: IM CRYING I FINISHED THIS RIGHT ON TIME AFTER HIS EVENT and his growth has come so far,,, so proud of him 🥹
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Don't know if this counts as something you want to answer, but how do you think he’d react to recent gas prices?
This is a very important question, John remembers when gas was like $1 a gallon so he’s definitely like Jesus Christ. He 100% keeps an eye on the prices because he loves his mustang and taking it out for drives so he’s always watching the prices increase. With the modern prices he’s very shocked and a bit perturbed because although he has money and the prices don’t really hurt his pocket he thinks it’s outrageous. That would be like spending $3-$4 on a king sized candy bar…. Wait.
Anyways John mainly feels bad for those who do not have the money to keep up with the gas prices. He always feels a little bad when he sees the last person at his gas pump only put $5 in. That’s barely even a gallon these days.
Synopsis: An overheard conversation between John and Mrs. Hoskins fractures something you didn’t realise was already cracking. What follows is a slow, quiet fallout—missed glances, restrained words, distance that grows sharp enough to wound. When an unexpected attack leaves both of you bloodied and barely alive, the truth can no longer stay buried. In the aftermath, John confesses something you never anticipated, and what follows is more about finally being seen.
Smut Warnings: making out, breast/nipple worship, body worship, dirty talk, fingering, cunnilingus, jerking off, praise kink, breeding kink, reconciliation sex, marriage kink, multiple orgasms (male and female), unprotected piv (not oopsies!), creampie (also not double oopsies!) (these two are desperate to have babies together now), aftercare.
Fic Warnings: angst, reader is dumb and cannot communicate (neither can John), original minor character deaths, gun use, violence, blood and injury descriptions, near death experiences, PTSD symptoms, flashbacks, very brief mention of panic attacks and disassociation.
Word Count: 16.5k
A/N: this is the fourth sequel in the Mrs. Walker (For The Mission, Right?) series. this fic can be read as a standalone as all references to previous fics are easily transferable without prior knowledge, however I highly recommend reading them because I’ve worked hard on this series, and because I’m asking you pretty please with a cherry on top :)
The lights above your office buzz faintly as you sit behind your desk, sleeves rolled up, glasses nudged down your nose, budget spreadsheets open across three separate holo-screens. Numbers blur together after the fifth hour; requisitions, repairs, emergency funds rerouted again because someone decided to level half a training deck last week. You’re three tabs deep into the quarterly logistics budget, mid-mutter in something deeply unprofessional about vibranium cost inflation, when the door opens without a knock.
You don’t even look up at first. You just sigh softly, your pen still moving across the tablet screen, as you reconcile a supply overage with a deployment requisition. Only one person in the tower ignores the placard on your door that says LOGISTICS DIRECTOR — MEETINGS BY APPOINTMENT.
You know who it is by the weight of the footsteps, the particular confidence of someone who assumes they’re welcome everywhere they go. John’s presence announces itself to you like pressure, like gravity shifting for you to orbit him.
“Logistics Director,” John says, voice warm and smug. “You look busy.”
You snort quietly. “An incredible observation, Agent.”
“Tell me you’re almost done.” His voice is lower, edged with something restless.
You sigh. “If you’re here to distract me, Walker, I will personally redirect your entire armour budget to office plants.”
You hear John grunt, kicking his toe at the foot of your desk.
“Cruel and unusual,” he replies, skating his fingers across the corners of acquisitions and endless spreadsheets splayed out before you.
Your eyes are still locked on the computer screen in front of you. “John,” you say without looking, tone dry. “If you’re here to complain about weapons allocations again, I swear to God—”
He doesn’t let you finish.
He’s behind you before you can swivel your chair. A hand braces on the edge of your desk; the other slides lightly around your jaw, thumb tipping your chin up just enough that you have to look at him.
He’s in uniform—the uniform. U.S. Agent blues pulled taut across his broad frame, seams stretched just enough to hint at the strength beneath them. The jacket sits snug across his shoulders and chest, tailored within an inch of its life and still barely containing him. Dark fabric, sharp lines, polished hardware—everything about it is severe and controlled, all discipline and authority. And then there are his eyes.
Ice blue. Bright and unguarded. A stark, almost unfair contrast against the dark colours of the uniform, made even more striking by the beret angled just so instead of the helmet. It makes him look more human somehow. More approachable.
More dangerous, too.
“Hey,” he murmurs, and then he kisses you.
It’s fast. Heated. His tongue swipes over your lips—teasing yet insistent, breath shaky as you lean into him—but he doesn’t push deeper. His body is tight with restraint—muscles locked, posture rigid like he’s holding himself back by force—but his lips soften against yours almost immediately, like instinct overrides discipline the second you touch him back. It’s all promise and restraint; his tongue swipes again at your lips, like a date he refuses to finish. It’s just enough to steal your breath and leave you chasing the rest.
For a moment, you think—absurdly—that you could stay here all day. Just this. Kissing him between spreadsheets and crisis reports, forgetting the tower, the budgets, the constant emergencies. Let the world burn quietly outside your office while you memorise the way his mouth fits yours.
And then he pulls back.
Cool air rushes in where he’d been, brushing over your lips, your skin suddenly too aware of the absence of him. You make a sound of protest before you can stop yourself, fingers curling instinctively in his uniform, feeling the solid heat beneath the layers of fabric. You blink up at him, heat blooming in your chest and absolutely nowhere else, because he has not earned more than that.
“Oh, that is cruel,” you say flatly. “You can’t kiss me like that and then leave.”
John grins down at you, smug and boyish and wearing his U.S. Agent uniform like it’s second skin. The beret sits at a lazy angle on his head, shadowing his eyes just enough to make him look insufferably pleased with himself.
“Good afternoon to you too, darlin’,” he says. “Also, I absolutely can.”
“You’re supposed to help all civilians,” you point out, swatting at his chest, “not just swoop in here, kiss one senseless and emotionally compromise the Director of Logistics, and just disappear again.”
He hums, pretending to think about it. “Funny you say that.”
Your brows knit together. “Why?”
“Well,” he says casually, leaning back against your desk, crossing his arms, “there was this lady earlier. Asked if she could kiss me after I saved her from fallin’ off a five storey building.”
You stare at him, unimpressed. You reach up and yank the beret clean off his head.
“Hey—!”
You glare. “Unacceptable. I preferred the helmet. You’re way too snarky when I can see your face. Makes me think about you flirting with other women.”
There’s a beat of silence before he laughs, surprised, hands coming up in surrender. “You’re jokin’.”
“Am I?” You grumble, dropping the beret onto your desk. “Because you’re being very smug for a man who just bragged about getting kissed by a stranger.”
“Almost,” he corrects gently.
Then he steps closer, close enough that the arms of your chair bumps into his thighs. You feel him there, solid and warm, before his hands even settle on your shoulders.
He bends, lips brushing the top of your head, then your temple, and finally, slowly and deliberately, the hinge of your jaw. Each kiss lingers longer than the last, grounding you despite yourself.
“You’re it,” he murmurs. “The only woman I could ever dream of.”
Your chest tightens in that familiar, dangerous way. You turn your head, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “And you’re the only man I’ll ever love.”
John freezes—just for a second, but you feel it.
He exhales, shaky and disbelieving, and when you pull back you see it: the blush spreading from his cheeks, down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his uniform.
It’s sweet—it always is. It never stops being sweet.
“Oh,” you say, smiling. “There it is.”
“Don’t—don’t tease me,” he mutters. His eyes flicker between yours and your lips, heat darkening the blue, hunger there and something softer tangled below it.
Before you can respond, the air beside your desk ripples.
Both of you jump.
Ava phases through the wall, solidifying with a grin already pulling at her mouth. “Wow. Sorry,” she says, sounding entirely not sorry at all, “did not mean to interrupt… whatever that was.”
“You’re gonna give me a heart attack,” John snaps, hand flying to his chest.
Ava laughs. “Please, you’re fine. Anyway—Walker, you’re needed. Mission briefing in ten.”
John groans. “Of course I am.”
He leans down, kisses you again—this one is firm, grounding, no teasing at all.
“I’ll see you tonight,” he says.
You nod. “Don’t forget we’re seeing Mrs. Hoskins in a couple days.”
His expression softens immediately. “I know.”
“And you,” you add pointedly, eyes flicking to his beard, “need to tidy that up before seeing her.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, rubbing at his beard sheepishly before saluting you with two fingers, grabbing his beret as he walks out.
“Please do!” You call out behind him, right as his hand pushes the door open. Before it can swing shut behind him, you call out one more time: “She’ll judge if you don’t!”
His laugh echoes down the corridor.
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The thing about Logistics is that nothing ever arrives all at once.
It trickles. It staggers. It arrives late, mislabelled, rerouted, or half-destroyed by decisions made three departments away by people who will never have to explain the consequences face-to-face.
You start your mornings early. Too early for most of the tower—lights dimmed, corridors hushed, the city outside still half-asleep. It’s the only time your inbox doesn’t feel like a living thing, multiplying faster than you can kill it.
By 07:00, you had already flagged three discrepancies in the Atlantic supply chain—vibranium composite plating requisitioned twice under two different project codes, a fuel allocation approved without your sign-off, and a medical shipment tagged as nonessential by someone who has clearly never watched a quinjet come back missing half its wing.
You draft emails carefully—firm but neutral, corrective without accusations. You’ve learned that tone can make or break an entire operation.
By the time the tower wakes properly, you’re on your second coffee and fielding calls from department heads who sound far too cheerful for the amount of money they’re about to ask you to move around.
“—we just need it expedited,” one of them says, voice tinny over the speaker. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “It is a problem when expedited means bypassing customs clearance. Again.”
A pause.
“Well, can’t you just—”
“No,” you say calmly. “I can’t just. If we move this shipment without authorisation and something goes wrong, it comes back on me. And on you. And on the people using the equipment when it fails.”
Silence.
Then, grudgingly: “Fine. We’ll wait.”
You hang up and exhale slowly.
This is the job. Not heroics, not headlines, just keeping the machine running without letting it crush anyone underneath.
By the time you leave, the day has worn you thin in small, unglamorous ways. Your shoulders ache. Your head hums. You stop at the market on the way home, pick up something easy for dinner, because you know John will be back late and neither of you will want to think too hard.
John gets back late that night.
You hear him before you see him—the familiar cadence of his steps in the hallway, the soft clink of gear being dropped just inside the door, the exhale he doesn’t realise he makes once he’s home. The door clicks shut behind him, sealing the rest of the world outside.
You’re halfway through reheating leftovers when his arms slide around your waist from behind, solid and warm, his chest fitting against your back like it always has.
“Hey,” he murmurs into your hair, voice low and tired.
You lean back into him automatically, muscle memory taking over, letting his weight ground you. His hands rest at your hips, thumbs pressing lightly, like he’s checking that you’re real.
“Mission okay?” You ask.
“Routine,” he says. “Nobody died. So, yeah, good day.”
You hum, flipping the lid back onto the container, the small domestic choreography seamless. He kisses the side of your head, then your neck, lingering like he’s trying to tuck himself into the space between your skin and your bones.
You eat together at the counter—knees brushing, shoulders touching. He steals a bite of your chicken without asking; you don't comment. You are more than aware that you’re already far too full to finish your plate, but this moment is too precious for you to move. The quiet between you is easy, filled only by the clink of cutlery and the distant city noise filtering through the windows.
He talks while he eats—about the briefing Ava crashed through earlier, about Bucky’s scowl and Yelena’s running commentary, about Bob nearly falling asleep halfway through and jerking awake like he’d been shot. His hands move as he talks, animated even now, even tired.
You laugh at the right moments.
You tell him about the procurement audit, the way one misplaced decimal nearly cost the tower six figures. He listens, really listens—brow furrowed, nodding along even though none of it is his world, even though it’s all numbers and policies and invisible disasters averted.
“That’s why you’re scary,” he says fondly. “People think guns are dangerous. They’ve never met someone who controls the budget.”
You snort, shaking your head, and for a moment—just a moment—the day loosens its grip. The tower fades. The noise recedes. It’s just this: shared food, shared space, the quiet understanding that tomorrow will come whether you’re ready or not, and tonight, at least, you don’t have to face it alone.
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Mrs. Hoskins’ garden feels lived-in rather than curated, the kind of place shaped by habit and affection instead of rigid planning. The earth is dark and rich, freshly turned in places where she’s been working that morning, still holding onto moisture; it smells deep and grounding, loam and decay and life all tangled together. The sun beats down relentlessly, baking the top layer of soil until it cracks in fine lines, heat radiating upward so it clings to your skin. Sweat trickles slowly down your spine, catching at the waistband of your jeans, the air heavy enough that every movement feels deliberate.
Her garden smells like damp earth and roses—rich, loamy soil turned dark by careful watering, sweetened by blooms that have been coaxed into abundance through years of patience rather than force.
The flowerbeds crowd close together in soft, unruly rows. Roses climb trellises along the fence, their petals thick and velvety—cream, blush, deep red—some already shedding onto the soil below. Lavender spills over the stone edging, fragrant and dusty, brushing your calves when you kneel too close. Black-eyed Susans and coneflowers tilt their heavy heads toward the sun, bees wobbling drunkenly between them. Further back, sunflowers stand tall and stubborn, their broad leaves casting pockets of shade over neat rows of vegetables.
Beyond the flowers, the garden turns practical. Tomato vines sag under their own weight, skins taut and fruit still warm from the sun when you brush past them. Courgettes sprawl wide, leaves broad and slightly abrasive against your arms. Peppers glow green and red beneath glossy foliage, while runner beans climb their poles in neat spirals, delicate white and scarlet blossoms giving way to slender pods. Strawberries hide low to the ground, flashes of red beneath thick leaves, tempting but already claimed for later.
Closest to the kitchen wall is Mrs. Hoskins’ herb corner—compact, intentional, laid out for convenience rather than beauty. Rosemary bushes grow thick and woody, their scent sharp and resinous when disturbed. Thyme creeps low between stones, releasing a warm, savoury aroma underfoot. Basil sits fat-leafed and bright in its pot, sweet and green, while parsley and chives cluster nearby, forever reaching for the light. Mint threatens to overtake its container despite her efforts, cool and clean smelling, close enough that she can step out mid-recipe and snip a handful without a second thought.
You work slowly among the beds, fingers stained with soil, the sun pressing down on the back of your neck, sweat slicking your skin. Somewhere behind you, John sits with Mrs. Hoskins on the patio, the scrape of chair legs faint against stone. He’s sprawled a little—legs spread open, forearms resting on his thighs—one broad hand curled loosely at the hem of his shorts, thumb rubbing absently against his skin. His other leg won’t stay still, knee bouncing in quick, restless succession as he listens, tension bleeding through the casual posture no matter how hard he tries to look relaxed.
Mrs. Hoskins leans toward him, teacup cradled in both hands, sunlight catching the fine lines at the corners of her eyes. She looks tired, sicker than she did the last time you saw her—sicker than she’ll ever let on—but her smile is still bright when she laughs at something John says. John nods along, shoulders rolling forward as he listens, that familiar crease forming between his brows. Every now and then he laughs, the sound warm and unguarded, and the jitter in his leg slows for just a moment before starting up again, betraying an undercurrent of energy beneath the surface, even here, even now.
You can’t hear their conversation from where you are, but you catch the rhythm of it—the way John leans forward when he listens; the way she gestures gently as she speaks. They laugh together now and then, and something inside your chest loosens at the sound.
They head inside to wash up, and you finish the last row before stepping onto the patio, only to freeze when voices drift through the open kitchen window.
“That woman is so special, John,” Mrs. Hoskins says gently. “You can’t let her slip through your fingers.”
John exhales. “I know.”
“Get a ring on her before she thinks she’s never got a chance.”
“I know,” he repeats, the words pushed out through his teeth, clipped and restless. The words come out sharper than he seems to mean. “I just… don’t know. Okay?”
“Well, a woman like that can’t wait forever,” she replies. “She’s the one. Lemar would say the same.”
Silence.
“He would,” John murmurs.
You clear your throat loudly and step inside. They both look up like nothing happened—smiles polite, conversation safely rerouted.
The drive home is quiet. Too quiet.
When you get inside, John kisses you like he’s trying to anchor himself—both still streaked in dirt and soil, his hands firm and his voice rough with want, praising you as he tells you how you drive him wild in the garden—and later you let yourself disappear into the familiar rhythm of him, even as something inside you stays strangely distant. It aches somewhere behind your ribs.
I just don’t know. The words ring in your head the whole time, a mantra constantly reminding you that he doesn’t really know how he feels about you—about this, about the two of you, about loving you more than whatever this currently is to him. It sounds absurd, almost unreal, but it’s his own words.
After, you shower alone.
“I’ll cook,” he says softly, watching you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks.
You don’t meet his eyes.
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You don’t realise how loud silence can be until it starts answering you back.
It follows you through the tower in the days after Mrs. Hoskins’ house—lingers in the spaces between conversations, settles into the pauses where you’d normally reach for John without thinking. Nothing has changed, not visibly. He still kisses you goodbye in the mornings, still texts you when he lands somewhere dangerous, still comes home with that same tired smile that shifts into something warmers when he catches sight of you.
But something has shifted.
You catch yourself editing your words more carefully around him, trimming honesty down to something safer. You talk about work in summaries instead of details. You listen more than you speak. You wait.
Waiting has always been familiar to you—waiting for approvals, for shipments, for outcomes you can’t rush no matter how badly you want to—but you’ve just never had to wait like this before.
The days slide by in a blur of meetings and approvals. You sit in rooms full of people who underestimate you until you correct them; who assume Logistics is administrative rather than strategic until you remind them that nothing moves without you.
You negotiate contracts. You reroute shipments. You authorise emergency reserves and deny frivolous requests with equal calm. And, somewhere between the spreadsheets and the signatures, a thread of unease winds itself tighter around your ribs.
John is busy. More missions, more briefings, more overseas treaties enhanced with the New Avengers presence. He comes home exhausted but affectionate—hands warm, voice soft, always reaching for you like a habit he can’t break.
You still catch yourself watching him more closely than before.
The way his jaw tightens when his phone lights up with Olivia’s name, how he steps into the hallway to take the call, voice lowering—not secretive, just considerate. The way he smiles when he talks about their son, pride bright and unguarded.
It shouldn’t bother you.
You tell yourself that over and over, like repetition might make it true.
Your days fill with crisis management after crisis management.
A supplier in Eastern Europe fails to meet quantity requirements for reinforced hull plating, which wouldn’t be an issue except half the Atlantic fleet is due for refit within the month. You spend three hours on calls rerouting stock from secondary depots, eating into emergency reserves you’d hoped never to touch.
By the time you escalate to the company director, your patience is already frayed.
“This is unacceptable,” you say into the speakerphone, keeping your voice level through sheer force of will. “Your contract specifies minimum output. You’re failing to meet it.”
He laughs—actually laughs.
“Listen, sweetheart—”
You cut him off instantly. “If you call me that again, this conversation ends and your contract gets reviewed for termination.”
A beat of stunned silence.
Then, petulant: “We’re doing our best.”
“Your best isn’t enough,” you reply coolly. “Meet your quota or I will find someone who can.”
You hang up before he can respond and stare at the wall for a moment, pulse ticking hard in your throat.
You don’t have the energy to be underestimated today.
All the while, you can hear John saying I just don’t know clear as a bell, as though he’s stood in front of you, trying the words out in his mouth like he’s learning how to speak them before he looks you in the eye and repeats them again and again and again.
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John gets home while you’re still reviewing alternate suppliers.
He drops his bag by the door, leans in to kiss you, and pauses when he feels the tension in your shoulders.
“Long day?” He asks.
“You could say that,” you reply, not looking up.
He hovers for a second, uncertain, before pressing a kiss to your hair and heading for the kitchen. You hear him moving around, the familiar domestic soundtrack grounding and strangely distant all at once.
When he comes back with two beers, he sets one beside your laptop.
“For later,” he says. “You’re in the zone.”
You hum in acknowledgement.
He watches you for a moment longer than necessary.
“You sure you’re okay?” He asks again, quieter this time.
The question lands heavier than it should.
“I’m fine,” you say, sharper than intended.
His brows knit together. “Hey—”
“I said I’m fine,” you repeat, softer but still clipped. “I just need to finish this.”
He nods, backing off immediately. “Okay. I’ll—uh—I’ll be in the other room if you need me.”
Guilt flickers through you, quick and unwelcome.
You don’t call him back.
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It’s Olivia’s call that breaks everything open.
You’re halfway through approving an emergency transfer when John’s phone lights up on the counter. He glances at the screen and, for a split second, you can see a shift in him as he exhales—something loosening in his posture.
“I should take this,” he says.
“Of course,” you reply automatically, though that small, stubborn knot tightens itself behind your ribs.
He steps into the hallway, voice dropping the moment he answers.
“Hey—yeah, I got it. No, tomorrow works. I’ll take him to the appointment.”
You try to focus on the screen in front of you, the spreadsheets and memos blurring under your gaze. Your chest contracts with a quiet, aching gnaw.
“Yeah, I remember. Last time was a mess, wasn’t it?” He chuckles, low and easy. When was the last time he laughed like that with you? “No, no, he didn’t cry, but that might’ve been easier. Complained a helluva lot, but that’s just him, ain’t it? Takes after you and how you hate the doctor’s.” There’s a softness there you don’t hear often. Not reserved for you—just different. Familiar in a way that predates you entirely.
“He’s been fine,” John continues, smiling faintly. “Just routine. I’ll text you after.”
He laughs quietly at something she says, and the sound twists painfully in your chest—sharp enough that you have to swallow hard.
You hate yourself for it.
This is his son. His first love. His past and his responsibility.
You have no claim here.
“Yeah, three’s perfect,” he says, and you hear him laugh again—a short, warm sound that makes something hollow in your chest twist—and catch sight of John leaning against the wall with a soft smile on his lips. “I’ll bring him by a little early if you don’t mind. Oh, and thanks for the other night, Liv—you’re a lifesaver. Can’t do this without you.”
You try to convince yourself not to listen, but every word, every laugh, every faint catch in his voice as he talks about his son feels like a reminder: this life existed before you. A life you weren’t born into. A life you can’t compete with.
When he hangs up and turns back to you, the smile fades immediately.
“Hey,” he says carefully. “You alright?”
Your heart tightens so suddenly you think—just for a second—it might actually stop.
Your breath catches in your throat. You want to tell him the truth: that you feel like an intruder in his life; that you’re temporary, a shadow trying to squeeze into a home that already existed; that the woman who raised his son, who knows him from the start, who bore the child you cannot, might still hold his heart.
Instead, you swallow and nod. “Yeah,” you say, forcing it. “Of course.”
He studies you like he doesn’t believe you, but doesn’t know how to push without making it worse.
“Liv just wanted to confirm the paediatric appointment,” he adds, unnecessarily. “I’ll be gone a couple hours tomorrow.”
“I know,” you reply. “It’s fine.” The words feels thin and empty.
He nods slowly, and you see the hesitation in his eyes—the unspoken question of whether you’re okay, or whether you’re silently cracking under the weight of his other life. “Okay.”
Later that night, you lie awake beside him, listening to his breathing even and deep. His arm is heavy across your waist, protective, anchoring.
You stare at the ceiling and catalogue every stupid, spiralling thought in your head.
He hesitated.
He has a family already.
You’re temporary.
You can hear the steady rise and fall of his chest, the calm evenness of his breathing. And yet you can’t stop cataloguing every little thought that threatens to undo you:
He’s been married. Once.
He has a son with his ex-wife.
He used to want her back—maybe he still does, in some quiet, buried corner.
You haven’t borne him a child.
You weren’t there through his history. High school, college, the mistakes, the triumphs, the slow shaping of the man he became.
You didn’t love him then. You didn’t know him then.
The weight of it presses down on your chest. You feel too new, too temporary, too unworthy. How could he ever choose you over a life he built long before you arrived?
You press your face into the pillow, breathing shallowly, trying to convince yourself that this ache is just nerves. That maybe logistics will help you, like it helps with the timing of deliveries, the chaos of schedules. Some things are delayed, yes. Some things never show up at all.
And maybe, you think bitterly, you are one of the things that never should have shown up at all.
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Tension doesn’t announce itself.
It settles; it waits. It learns your routines and then presses exactly where you’re weakest.
You notice it first in the small things.
The way John hesitates before touching you, like he’s checking for permission he never used to need. The way you flinch—not away, but inward—when his hand brushes your lower back. The way conversations trail off before they reach anything substantial, both of you circling the same subject without daring to land on it.
At work, you’re sharper than usual.
You dismantle an entire proposal in under five minutes during a cross-department meeting, pointing out inefficiencies and risk exposure with clinical precision. When someone tries to interrupt you, you don’t slow down.
“You asked for my assessment,” you say coolly. “I’m giving it.”
No one argues.
Later, an analyst pulls you aside, eyes wide. “Are you okay?”
You offer a tight smile. “Perfect.”
You’re lying, but not in a way anyone can prove.
That evening, John cooks again. It’s your special ragù, the one that you taught him nearly two years ago before either of you had an inkling of your future lives together.
It’s a peace offering—you know that much. He moves carefully around the kitchen, deliberate in a way that makes your chest ache. He sets the table properly. Lights a candle like it’s a date instead of a Tuesday night.
You appreciate the effort. You just don’t know how to meet it.
Dinner passes politely. You talk about missions and schedules, about supply reroutes and equipment audits. Nothing personal. Nothing dangerous.
Halfway through, he sets his fork down.
“You’ve been pullin’ away,” he says quietly.
The words hang between you, heavy.
“I haven’t,” you reply automatically.
John doesn’t raise his voice. He never does when he’s serious. “You have. You don’t look at me the same. You don’t—” He stops, jaw tightening. “Did I do somethin’?”
The question hits harder than accusation ever could.
You swallow. “No.”
“Then what is it?” He presses, just a little. “Because it feels like I’m losin’ you and I don’t know why.”
You stand abruptly, chair scraping back against the floor.
“I’ve had a long day,” you say, tone clipped. “I don’t want to do this right now.”
His expression shutters—not angry, just hurt.
“Okay,” he says, too quickly. “I didn’t mean to push.”
You nod, already retreating down the hallway like distance might protect you from what you don’t want to say.
Behind you, the candle flickers.
Sleep doesn’t come easily that night. John had stayed up, freezing leftovers and cleaning up, eventually cracking himself open a beer and turning on the TV. You know he wasn’t actually watching it—the volume was too low, and John only watches TV at a volume that a geriatric grandpa would watch it at. Despite John’s super hearing, he’s incredibly deaf when it comes to anything unrelated to field work.
He came to bed an hour later and immediately wrapped his arm around you, tugging your back to his chest, linking his fingers with yours as he tucked your joined hands between your breasts right where your hear beats.
Your mind churns—numbers, conversations, imagined futures spiralling out of control. You replay the words you overheard at Mrs. Hoskins’ house until they lose all original context, reshaped by fear and exhaustion.
I don’t know.
You don’t hear John get up until the bed dips beside you. His arm lowers, wrapping around your waist carefully, like he’s afraid of startling you. He presses his face into your hair, breath warm and familiar.
“Hey,” he murmurs, “I’m sorry if I pushed earlier.”
Guilt twists in your stomach.
“You didn’t,” you whisper. “I’m just… tired.”
He exhales slowly. “You don’t gotta carry everything alone, you know.”
You close your eyes.
You don’t answer.
The next few days pass in uneasy truce.
John takes his son to a baseball game while you stay late at the tower, deliberately scheduling a procurement review you could have handled remotely. You tell yourself it’s practical. Necessary.
You’re well aware that it’s avoidance.
When he gets back, he tells you about the game—how his team won, how his kid was brave when he fell, how proud he is. You smile. You listen. You even mean it when you say you’re glad.
Later, alone in the bathroom, you grip the edge of the sink and breathe through the ache in your chest.
You don’t want to be jealous.
You just don’t know where you fit.
The argument, when it comes, is small. And, honestly, it’s stupid and you know it.
He forgets to tell you he’ll be late. You’ve waited with dinner cooling on the stove, irritation simmering low. When he finally walks in, apologetic and tired, something in you snaps.
“Would it kill you to send a text?” You ask, sharper than you mean to.
He blinks. “I—I thought I did.”
“Well, you didn’t.”
“I was caught up—”
“And I’m just supposed to wait around?” You interrupt.
He stiffens. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what it feels like, John.”
The silence that follows is thick.
John rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know how to fix this,” he admits quietly. “I feel like every move I make is wrong.”
Your chest tightens.
“I don’t—it’s not you,” you whisper, “it’s me, John. It’s always been me.”
And for the first time since you’ve known him, John looks genuinely lost.
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The thing about disasters is that they almost always announce themselves in advance.
Not with sirens or explosions—those come later—but with small failures no one wants to acknowledge. A missed delivery. A delayed response. A system flagged yellow instead of green and quietly ignored because there’s always something more urgent demanding attention.
You see it before anyone else does.
A supplier misses a deadline. Another quietly revises their quantity estimates downward without approval. Security requisitions sit unanswered for twelve hours longer than protocol allows.
You log everything.
You always do.
By mid-morning, you’ve escalated three issues to Facilities and one to Security, attaching documentation and risk assessments that spell out exactly how badly things could go wrong if the gaps aren’t addressed.
The replies come back slow and casual.
We’ll monitor it.
Noted.
Probably nothing.
Probably nothing gets people killed.
You’re in your office when the call comes in—another argument with the same useless company director who still hasn’t grasped that you are not a secretary and you are not bluffing.
“This is an Avengers facility,” you say, voice sharp through the speaker. “If you cannot meet contractual obligations, I will terminate the agreement and blacklist your company from all future federal work.”
“You wouldn’t dare—”
“I already have the paperwork drafted,” you cut in. “This is your final notice.”
He swears. You hang up.
Your hands are shaking when you finally lean back in your chair.
You think about texting John, about telling him you have a bad feeling you can’t quite quantify; a pressure behind your eyes, a sense of something leaning towards collapse.
You don’t.
He’s ten floors down and yet you’ve never felt so apart from him, but you can’t even bring yourself to send a text without a chorus of I just don’t know, I just don’t know, I just don’t know spinning its web in your mind.
Instead, you storm three floors down to Security, tearing their line manager a new asshole as you explain that him “monitoring it” is useless when you have already monitored the situation and have deemed it unsuitable and, quite simply, unacceptable.
You’re back in your office, knee deep in a supply delivery that has turned into a nightmare—quantities off by nearly twenty percent, documentation falsified, the same misogynistic director arguing in circles on loudspeaker.
“This isn’t how this works,” you snap. “You don’t get to decide what acceptable losses are.”
A shout echoes somewhere below.
Then another.
Your blood runs cold.
“What the hell was that?” The man asks.
The team alarm goes off.
Red lights slam on overhead, bathing the walls in violent glow. The calm white florescent flicker wildly—once, then twice—before several of them explode with sharp pops, plunging sections of the corridor outside your office into shadow. Your office lights are last, including the warm coloured lamp in the corner. The air fills with the shrill, teeth rattling wail of alarms layered over one another, deafening even with your hand slapped over your ears.
“—they’ve got guns!” A voice shouts distantly. “They’re in the building!”
You hang up without a word.
A loud bang cracks through the tower, followed by a BOOM that punches through the tower like a fist. The floor lurches beneath you, throwing you sideways as ceiling tiles cascade down. Glass shatters. Paintings tear free from their mounts and crash from the walls. Your desk skids, slamming into the filing cabinets, as everything not bolted down becomes airborne.
Training kicks in.
You’re out of your chair and moving before fear has time to sink it's teeth in, shoving your phone into your pocket as you bolt for the weapons room. Smoke already curls along the ceiling, acrid and metallic. Red lights strobe, painting faces in flashes—panic stricken, disoriented, streaked with tears.
People surge past you in the opposite direction—employees, analysts, interns—all with faces white and sallow, their eyes wide and frantic, hands clawing at the walls as they stumble and run. Some are barefoot, some are bleeding, all of them running. One assistant grabs at you, her manicured nails sinking in, babbling for you to run, that there’s men with guns, but you snatch your arm away before she can anchor herself to you.
Gunshots echo again, closer now.
You duck into the weapons room, palm automatically slapping against the biometric panel. You grab a sidearm, checking the weight, fingers moving in muscle memory.
John taught you this, over and over until it stuck.
The hallway being is chaos.
Several doors along the corridor slam shut without warning—classified areas triggering automatic lockdown protocols. Reinforced glass seals in place as red indicators flash. Inside, people pound on the windows, screaming and begging to be let out, the glass smeared with sweat and blood. You catch eyes with one of them for half a second before the crowd carries you on.
You hit the stairwell and nearly collide with the wall of bodies surging inside it.
People are running down—tripping, sliding, falling over one another in blind terror. Others are forcing their way up, faces twisted with desperation as they flee the sound of gunfire and screaming from below. Someone shouts conflicting orders. Someone else shoves you hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.
The stairwell becomes a bottleneck of fear.
Gunshots ricochet through the concrete shaft, deafening, impossible to place. The alarms echo until everything blurs together into noise and movement and heat. You shoulder through, shouting, cursing, flashing your weapon just to carve a path forward.
The corridors below are worse.
The smoke is thick enough to sting your eyes; the smell of burning insulation and ozone coats your tongue. You hear shouting—foreign accents, frantic and sharp—and boots pound against tile. Something crashes nearby.
The first intruder rounds the corner and you fire without hesitation.
He goes down hard, weapons clattering against the floor.
The second barely has time to raise his weapon before you put him down too.
The third tries to run. You don’t let him.
Adrenaline surges, white hot and dizzying, hands steady even as your heart hammers so hard that it hurts. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a traitorous thought flickers:
John would be proud.
And then you see him.
He’s on the floor, crushed beneath a support beam torn loose by the explosion, twisted metal pinning him at a brutal angle, the concrete and rebar spider-webbing around it. His shield lays several feet away, scorched and useless.
Blood pools beneath his head, bright and spreading fast, soaking into the grit of the tiles and tangling in his golden hair. One side of his face is smeared red. His chest rises shallowly, unevenly. His face is slack—eyes fluttering, unfocused, lips cracked and parted—barely conscious.
“No,” you whisper, the word tearing out of you like something alive.
You sprint to him, dropping to your knees, hands shaking as you take him in. There’s a gunshot wound high in his chest, hastily packed with gauze that’s already soaked through. Another wound mars his shoulder, bleeding sluggishly, a piece of shrapnel thankfully cutting off the blood seeping out.
His breathing rattles, wet and wrong.
“John,” you sob, afraid to touch him wrong. “Hey—hey, stay with me! Look at me.”
His eyes crack open at the sound of your voice, glassy but recognisable.
“You… shouldn’t be here,” he slurs weakly.
Relief and terror crash together so hard you almost choke on it.
Before you can respond, footsteps thunder into the room. Another intruder barrels through the smoke.
You don’t see him in time.
Pain detonates through your thigh as the bullet punches clean through. White hot agony pierces you, drops you forward with a scream torn from your throat. You fire blindly, vision swimming, and hit him square between the eyes. He drops instantly, body hitting the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.
John’s eyes widen in horror. “You’re hit—baby, you gotta go. Get help. Please.”
“Go fuck yourself,” you choke out through tears. “I’m not leaving you.”
You wedge yourself under the higher end of the beam, squatting as it presses into your shoulder blades. Every muscle screams as you try to stand, cold metal biting into your shoulder blades, trying to give him space to pull free—
Footsteps again.
Two more intruders.
Gunfire erupts.
One bullet slams into John’s shoulder. He cries out, body jerking, his head snapping to face you as his skin pales and pupils swallow his irises whole. Another punches you in the stomach, knocking the air from your lungs as you crumple.
For half a second, the world tilts, black creeping in at the edges, but then adrenaline slams through you like a defibrillator. You roar and shoot them both dead before they hit the ground.
Blood pours from you. From him. From both of you. It’s pooled around you both, the cherry red a stark contrast to the sterile white tiles, slick beneath your palms.
You scream and push—with everything you have left, harder than you thought possible—and the beam shifts just enough.
John drags himself free.
You collapse, crawling toward him, limbs barely responding. He leans down, presses his forehead to yours.
He whispers your name.
“It’s okay,” you tell him, voice shaking. “I’ve got you. I’ll get us out.”
John goes limp in your arms.
You drag him, inch by inch, toward the emergency lift you memorised months ago during a routine audit no one else thought mattered. You punch in the code with trembling fingers and haul both of you inside.
The doors slide shut.
You slump beside him, vision fading.
As the lift begins to descend, you see something slip from his pocket—a small black box, tumbling across the floor.
Then everything goes dark.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Consciousness returns in fragments.
Not all at once—never kindly—but in jagged pieces that don’t quite fit together. Sound comes first: a soft, rhythmic beeping that drills straight into the back of your skull. It’s steady. Persistent. Too regular to be comforting, too clinical to ignore. It threads itself through everything else, anchoring you whether you want it to or not.
There’s a smell, too—sharp antiseptic layered over something metallic. Your mouth tastes like copper and chemicals, tongue thick and useless when you try to swallow. It feels like your body belongs to someone else, like you’ve been poured back into it wrong.
You blink.
Light punches behind your eyes. The ceiling swims into focus—white and glaring, edges blurring and doubling as though it can’t decide which version of itself to be. Tubes trail from your arms, taped down with practised precision. You register them dimly, distantly, the way you’d notice furniture in a stranger’s house.
Pain exists, but it’s muted, cushioned by something heavy and artificial flowing through your veins. Beneath it, though, you feel it: a low, insistent current, like pressure building behind a dam. Something aches deep in your abdomen, tight and sore, and your thigh throbs with a slow, pulsing heat that flares when you try to shift. Nausea rolls through you, thick and sudden, and you still instinctively despite yourself.
Hospital.
The word lands fully formed, heavy with understanding.
And then memory surges back without warning.
The tower.
Red lights.
Smoke.
Gunfire.
John.
Your breath catches sharply, panic clawing up your throat before you can stop it. Your heart kicks hard against your ribs as you try to sit up, every instinct screaming move, find him, now—
Pain detonates in response. White hot for half a second before the haze drags it back under. Somewhere nearby, a monitor chirps angrily, protesting the movement.
“Hey—hey, easy.”
The voice cuts through the noise, grounding and unmistakable.
You turn your head slowly and see Bucky standing beside the bed. His arms are folded tight across his chest, shoulders hunched like he’s bracing for impact that never came. His expression is too careful. Too serious.
Your stomach drops.
“John,” you croak. Your throat burns, voice scraped raw. “Is—”
“He made it,” Bucky says immediately, like he knew the question before you finished forming it. “Barely—but he’s alive.”
The words knock the air out of you.
Relief hits first—violent and overwhelming—followed immediately by everything else. Your chest caves in on itself as a sob tears loose, ugly and unfiltered. You don’t try to stop it. Tears spill hot and relentless, soaking into the pillow as weeks’ worth of terror and restraint collapse all at once.
Images flash behind your closed eyes, uninvited and sharp:
John pinned beneath the beam. Blood everywhere—too much blood. His face slack, eyes fluttering.
You screaming his name, convinced you were already too late.
In one flash, worse than the rest, you see it the other way around—him dying because you didn’t make it back in time. The beam crushing him down. His hand reaching out for someone who never comes.
Your breath stutters violently.
“They said you were both basically dead when they found you,” Bucky continues, voice low, steady, like he’s anchoring himself as much as you. “Trauma team didn’t think either of you were gonna pull through.”
You let out a weak, breathless laugh through tears. “Figures.”
He huffs once—something like a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth before it disappears. “You don’t do things halfway, do you?”
You shake your head minutely and immediately regret it, a spike of pain blooming behind your eyes. “Can I see him?”
Bucky hesitates.
Before he can answer, the curtain shifts and a nurse steps in, calm and composed, movements efficient without being cold. She checks the monitors with a practised glance, adjusts something at your IV.
“Not yet,” she says gently but firmly. “You both need more rest. Your blood loss was extensive—you’re lucky you made it out at all.”
Lucky.
The word feels hollow. Wrong. You think of the people locked behind those security doors. Of the chaos. Of how close everything came to ending permanently.
Your eyes slide shut again as exhaustion crashes over you, heavy and inevitable. The painkillers pull tighter, dragging you back toward the edge of sleep—but not before another memory slips through.
A nurse earlier. Different shift. Sitting quietly by your bed, checking vitals, fingers warm against your wrist. She’d been humming under her breath—soft, absent-minded. A melody you hadn’t heard in years.
The song your mother used to sing while washing dishes.
The one she sang quieter after your sister died.
You remember wanting to cry then, too—wanting to ask her to keep humming, afraid the sound would disappear if you acknowledged it.
“Okay,” you whisper now, voice barely there. “Just—just tell him I’m awake. Please.”
Bucky nods without hesitation. “I will.”
The beeping steadies again. The pain dulls. And as sleep pulls you under once more, the last thing you hold onto is the certainty that John is alive—and that, for now, is enough.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Time stretches strangely after that.
It doesn’t move forward as much as it folds in on itself—minutes stretching into something viscous, hours dissolving into nothing at all. You drift in and out of sleep, painkillers blurring the sharp edges of reality until everything feels like you’re watching your own life through fogged glass. Faces come and go—doctors with clipped voices and kind eyes; nurses checking vitals, adjusting drips, murmuring reassurances when you twist in the sheets like a reflex; a therapist who sits at your bedside at one point, voice low and careful, talking gently about trauma responses and shock like it’s something you can pencil in between physio appointments and medication schedules.
When you wake properly again, it’s to the sound of voices.
Bob is the first one you focus on. He’s sitting awkwardly in a chair by your bed, posture stiff like anything here could break him. He’s clutching your favourite blanket—one that you’re fairly certain he stole from you while you and John moved out of the Tower and into your own home together—with both hands, skin pulled taut over his knuckles, almost like it might bite him. He brightens immediately when he sees your eyes open, unfiltered relief glowing across his cheeks.
“Hey,” he says. “I brought this. They said you were cold.”
He tucks it around you with exaggerated care, like he’s handling something fragile. Your chest tightens despite yourself.
Yelena is perched on the edge of the bed with a bag of contraband snacks, unapologetic, and entirely unbothered by hospital rules. She holds it up proudly when she catches you looking.
“Hospital food is crime,” she declares. “I am humanitarian aid.”
You huff a weak laugh, the sound rough but genuine.
Alexei looms just behind her, arms crossed, vibrating with barely contained energy. “You should see footage,” he booms, already leaning forward. “Very inspiring. I replayed it six times. You squat like champion weightlifter.”
Your brow furrows. “Footage?”
“Oh yes,” he continues, delighted. “Security cameras survived. There is moment—very good moment—where you lift support beam. Two hundred and fifty kilos!” He slaps his chest proudly, as if he did it. “John is trapped like crushed beetle, and you—” He makes an explosive lifting motion. “—just decide no.”
Yelena grins sharply. “He would not stop cheering. Nurses very unhappy.”
Alexei ignores this. “You hold it long enough for him to crawl free. This is strength. Real strength. Not serum nonsense.”
Ava leans against the wall, arms crossed, eyes bright with something fierce and proud. “Security only just released the rest of the footage,” she says. “You were so badarse.”
You snort, immediately wincing when it jolts every part of your body. “Did you just—”
“Badarse,” she repeats cheerfully. “British pronunciation. Much scarier.”
Bob laughs first, a startled sound like he didn’t mean to. Yelena follows, then Alexei, who doesn’t understand the joke but enjoys the energy anyway. Even you manage a crooked smile.
Ava pushes off the wall, stepping closer. “You took down three intruders on your own,” she adds, quieter now. “Disarmed one with a fire extinguisher. Another you kicked down a stairwell. We didn’t even realise half of it was you until the timestamps lined up.”
Yelena tilts her head, appraising you. “You are our secret Avenger,” she decides. “No costume. Just rage and excellent timing.”
For a moment—just a moment—the weight lifts. The room feels warmer. Safer. The laughter is careful, restrained by IV lines and healing bones, but it’s real. It settles something in your chest you didn’t realise was shaking loose.
They stay for a while. Talk around the worst parts, orbiting the edges without crossing them. Stories, small updates, gossip from the Tower; they fill the space with warmth and presence until, eventually, exhaustion creeps in like a tide. Your eyelids grow heavy. A nurse appears, gentle but firm, ushering them out with practised efficiency and quiet smiles.
Bob squeezes your hand before he leaves. Ava mouths rest. Yelena taps your foot lightly, affectionate in her own way. Alexei promises to bring more footage.
The door closes.
The room quiets again.
And inevitably—mercilessly—your thoughts drift back to him.
Alive.
Barely.
You see it again in flashes: John slumped and bleeding, barely conscious, his weight dead and dragging. How much it took out of you to haul him across the floor, your muscles screaming in protest, your vision tunnelling at the edges. How every metre to the emergency lift felt impossible.
You remember thinking—cold and detached in the back of your mind—that you wouldn’t make it. That another intruder would come hurtling around the corner. That you’d collapse before cover. That you’d both die there because you couldn’t drag him any faster.
You remember not caring about yourself at all, only that you couldn’t let go.
The machines hum softly beside you, steady and alive. Somewhere else in the hospital, John is breathing. Healing. Surviving.
You close your eyes and hold onto that truth, even as the echo of fear lingers, heavy and unshakable, behind your ribs.
You don’t see John for another two days. When you finally do, it’s because he insists.
You’re propped up in bed, half-awake, when the door opens, and there he is.
He looks wrecked.
Bruised, stitched, arm in a sling, moving with the careful, pained precision of someone whose body betrayed them recently. Crutches clatter to the floor the second his eyes land on you.
“John—!” You start, alarmed.
He doesn’t listen.
He stumbles across the room and leans over you, forehead pressing to yours, breath shaking.
“I thought I lost you,” he whispers.
Your throat tightens painfully. “I thought I lost you.”
He lets out a broken sound and you tug him closer, guiding him carefully onto the edge of the bed. He curls toward you instinctively, like he’s afraid to let go now that he has you again.
“I was never gonna leave you there,” you say fiercely. “Never.”
He swallows hard. “Thought you were gonna leave me before.”
You pull back just enough to look at him, confusion knitting your brows. “What?”
He shakes his head, trying to wave it off. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does,” you insist gently. “What do you mean, baby?”
His hands tremble as they trace slow, grounding lines up and down your arm.
“You pulled away from me,” he admits quietly. “After we saw Lemar’s mom… you stopped lookin’ at me. I thought—” His voice breaks. “I thought I did somethin’ wrong. Or you realised you deserved better than me and just didn’t know how to say it.”
Tears spill over, unchecked now. “I thought that was the end of us.”
Your own sob answers him.
“Oh my god—John, no,” you whisper, cupping his face and kissing his cheeks, his brow, anywhere you can reach. “I was just—I overheard you talking to Mrs. Hoskins about a ring, and you hesitated. I thought it meant you didn’t want that. Didn’t want me.”
He lets out a shaky laugh through tears. “Darlin’—”
“And then Olivia’s been around more,” you continue, voice cracking. “And she’s the mother of your child, and I got scared. I thought it’d hurt less if I pulled away first.”
Something in his expression shifts.
Realisation.
He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid of spooking you, and pulls out a small black velvet box.
Your breath catches.
The same box you saw tumble across the lift floor. You see now that it’s velvet—deep and dark, the kind that drinks in light—and finished with delicate gold hinges and a small gold latch at the front, polished smooth from being opened and closed too many times by nervous fingers. John holds it like it carries weight beyond its size, shoulders squared but breath uneven. He glances up at you once, eyes flicking to your face and back again, a soft, almost boyish smile tugging at his mouth before he finally opens it.
John eases the small velvet box open like it’s something alive—something that might spook if handled too roughly. The hinges give a quiet, breathy click, intimate and final, and the lid folds back in a slow, careful arc.
The light catches first.
A clean, luminous shimmer blooms across the stone, scattering fine sparks that skate over the inside of the box and across John’s knuckles. The band is warm-toned gold, polished to a soft, liquid gleam; not ostentatious, not sharp, but shaped in a gentle, continuous curve that feels purposeful—meant to be worn, meant to stay. It looks solid without being heavy, like a promise that understands longevity.
The diamond rests in a delicate setting, lifted just enough to let it breathe. Each facet is precise and impossibly clear, edges sharp in a way that speaks of careful craftsmanship rather than flash. It doesn’t scream for attention; it glows instead—steady, assured, certain of its place. The kind of brilliance that feels intimate, like it’s meant to be noticed only by the person who wears it.
Your chest tightens as you take it in.
It’s beautiful, yes, but more than that, it’s thoughtful. Nothing excessive, nothing performative. Just intention made tangible. You can almost see John in it: the restraint, the quiet certainty, the way he loves without spectacle but with everything he has.
He swallows beside you, thumb brushing the edge of the box as if to ground himself. “I saw it,” he says softly, voice rough around the edges, “and I just—” He exhales, a shaky little breath. “It felt like you.”
The ring waits between you, patient and shining; a small, perfect thing holding the weight of a future neither of you can quite speak aloud yet.
“Darlin’,” he says quietly, voice breaking on the word, a smile fighting through the tears that cling stubbornly to his lashes. His thumb brushes over your knuckles like he needs the reminder that you’re real, that this moment isn’t something he’ll wake up from. “I didn’t hesitate because I don’t wanna marry you.” He swallows hard, jaw flexing as emotion tightens there. “I hesitated ‘cause I’ve been scared—scared of waitin’ for the right time and missin’ it altogether.”
A breathy laugh slips out of him, thin and fragile, nothing like his usual bravado. “I’ve almost asked you seven times now,” he admits, shaking his head at himself. “Seven. Every time I thought—not yet. What if I jinx it? What if I don’t get to keep you?” His eyes shine openly now, unguarded and earnest in a way that feels devastating. “Kept chickenin’ out.”
Something inside you gives way completely.
You let out a sound that’s half-laugh, half-sob, and then you’re grabbing him—careless of wires and IV lines, of aching muscles and tender bruises—pulling him down to you as your mouth crashes into his. It’s desperate and messy, salt and breath and relief all tangled together. His hands come up instinctively, clutching at you like he’s afraid you might slip through his fingers if he doesn’t hold tight enough.
The heart monitor erupts into protest, sharp and insistent.
“Hey—” he huffs against your mouth, laughing through tears. “Easy—”
“Ask me,” you plead, breathless, forehead pressed to his, your voice shaking with too many feelings all trying to escape at once. “Please, John, ask me.”
He draws back just enough to look at you, eyes flicking over your face like he’s memorising it all over again. He opens his mouth.
“I—”
“Yes,” you say immediately, voice cracking as relief floods through you. “Yes. A thousand times, yes.”
His face crumples in the most beautiful way—pure, unfiltered joy breaking through exhaustion and fear. He laughs, a wet, disbelieving sound, and leans his forehead against yours, eyes squeezed shut as if he’s holding back another wave of tears.
“Guess I should’ve finished the question,” he murmurs, breath warm against your lips.
Later—when the room has settled back into quiet, when the lights are dimmed and the machines hum softly instead of screaming—you shift carefully toward him, mindful of sore muscles and healing skin. He adjusts without being asked, arm coming around you with gentle certainty, his hand warm and steady in yours.
You rest your forehead against his, eyes closing as you breathe him in.
Whatever comes next can wait—plans, timelines, the world outside this room.
You’re still here.
So is he.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Healing is not a straight line—you learn that quickly.
It doesn’t move forward so much as it circles, doubles back, stalls without warning. Some mornings you wake clear-headed, pain muted to a dull, tolerable throb, optimism fragile but present—something you can cup carefully in your hands. Other mornings your body feels like it’s betraying you all over again—muscles stiff and uncooperative, scars pulling tight beneath your skin, memories pressing in too close for comfort. The doctors call it normal; it is a trauma response, your nervous system relearning that the danger has passed.
You hate how much sense that makes.
John visits every day once they allow it. At first, it’s awkward—two hospital beds pushed too close together, IV poles and monitors tangling where intimacy used to be easy. You’re both learning the limits of your bodies again, mapping new boundaries with care instead of instinct. He heals faster; everyone expected that. The serum woven into his cells does what it was designed to do—knits bone, repairs muscle, accelerates recovery like time itself has been bent in his favour.
But it doesn’t touch his mind.
You see it in the way he startles when machines beep too sharply; in how his jaw locks when a gurney rattles past too fast. He sleeps in short, fractured bursts, breath hitching like he’s still pinned beneath the weight of that beam. Sometimes he wakes already apologising, already reaching for you like he needs to check that you’re still here.
You do the same.
Neither of you talk about it at first—the flashes of memory that arrive uninvited, the way your hands shake when you imagine how close you came to not making it in time; how close he came to dying alone, thinking you’d never reach him. Instead, you take note of each other’s tells. When he goes quiet, you press your foot against his calf, grounding him. When you drift too far inward, he nudges your hand, thumb tracing slow, steady circles against your skin until your breathing evens out again.
He never complains—not about the pain, not about the nightmares, not even about the fear that sits heavy behind his eyes when he thinks you’re not looking.
He helps you sit up. Adjusts your blankets. Brings you terrible coffee and apologises like it’s a moral failing. Sometimes you just sit together in silence, hands linked, letting presence do the work words can’t. The quiet becomes its own kind of medicine.
You notice how careful he is with you now.
Not distant—never that—but reverent. Like he understands exactly how close he came to losing you and isn’t willing to take a single second for granted.
His touch is steady, deliberate; every kiss placed like a promise. It scares you a little.
It also makes you love him harder.
The tower doesn’t pause just because you nearly died. Within a week, messages start trickling in—carefully worded emails from department heads, Security briefings marked for when you’re ready, Facilities reports apologising for gaps they should have taken seriously earlier. You read them all. You always do.
From your hospital bed, you review incident logs and cross-reference your own flagged warnings, documenting timelines with the same precision you bring to everything else. You don’t do it out of bitterness.
You do it because accountability matters.
When Bucky sees what you’re working on, he exhales slowly. “You know you don’t have to do this yet.”
“I do,” you reply quietly. “This can’t happen again.”
He nods. He understands.
Logistics isn’t just about moving things—it’s about making sure the cracks don’t widen into graves.
John watches you work sometimes, expression soft and awed; something like pride and fear and love all tangled together. “You lifted a damn beam off me,” he says one afternoon, still shaking his head like the idea hasn’t fully landed. “Shot three guys. Took down the rest. Got shot twice. And now you’re auditing security response times from a hospital bed.”
You glance up at him dryly. “I’m very efficient.”
He laughs, then sobers; his fingers tighten around yours just a fraction. “I don’t tell you this enough, but I’m proud of you. Not just for what you did. For who you are.”
Your throat tightens.
“John,” you say softly. “I don’t need you to put me on a pedestal.”
“I know,” he replies immediately. “That’s why I’m tellin’ you like this.”
He leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple.
You heal together—not quickly or cleanly, but deliberately; you learn how to hold the weight of what happened without letting it crush you.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The ring stays hidden for now.
Not because you’re unsure—never that—but because you want the moment to belong to you, not the machinery that swallows everything the two of you touch. You want a stretch of time where the promise lives quietly between your hands, where it’s allowed to be tender and ordinary instead of polished into a press release. John understands immediately. He always does with things like this; the big emotions, the fragile ones. He presses his thumb over the place on your finger where the band will eventually sit, like he’s memorising the shape of it already.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he says. Not if. Never if.
Recovery stretches on in its strange, uneven way—appointments stacked on appointments, physio sessions that leave you shaking and breathless, long nights where sleep comes in pieces and dreams come sharp. The ring stays tucked into the velvet box in John’s bedside drawer, wrapped in a pair of your socks because he doesn’t trust himself not to knock it over otherwise. Sometimes you take it out together, sitting cross-legged on the bed, just to look at it. You don’t put it on yet. It feels ceremonial, like a threshold you’ll step over together when the world stops tilting quite so violently beneath your feet.
In the meantime, life insists on continuing.
You tell the team eventually, in pieces. It starts small, almost accidental. Ava notices first—she always does. You’re in the common area of the tower, leg propped up on a chair while you review a security schematic, when she squints at your hands.
“Hold on,” she says slowly, eyes narrowing with theatrical suspicion. “Why does John keep looking at your left hand like it personally offended him?”
You freeze.
John, across the room, drops his coffee.
There’s a beat of silence—one of those suspended moments where the universe seems to hold its breath.
Then Ava gasps, loud and unrestrained. “Oh my God,” she shrieks, clapping her hands together. “You’re engaged!”
“Technically not public knowledge,” you say, wincing as she barrels toward you.
Too late.
She grabs your shoulders carefully—she’s learned, at least—and beams at you like she’s personally responsible for the event. “This is incredible. This is iconic. This is—” She stops abruptly, eyes flicking to John. “Wait. How long have you been sitting on this?”
John rubs the back of his neck, ears turning red. “Couple weeks.”
Her jaw drops. “You absolute monsters! I could’ve been screaming about this for weeks.”
“You scream about most things,” he points out mildly.
She ignores him. “I need pictures. When do I get pictures?”
“When I’m not in physio sweatpants,” you reply dryly.
She accepts this with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. But I’m planning something. Don’t ask what, just know it’s happening.”
You tell Yelena next—or rather, John does, because he makes the mistake of mentioning it casually while she’s sharpening a knife in the kitchen.
She goes very still.
Then she looks up, eyes glittering. “Show me.”
John blinks. “What?”
“The ring,” she says flatly. “Now.”
You comply, sliding the velvet box across the counter. She opens it with reverence, examines the ring closely, then nods once.
“Acceptable,” she declares. “If it were ugly, I would have had to kill you.”
John snorts. “Good to know.”
She snaps the box shut and shoves it back toward you. “Pictures. Many pictures. And I get to help plan something—does not matter what you say.”
“We’re not planning a wedding right now,” you protest.
Yelena smiles sweetly. “You think this is about a wedding?”
Bob is last—and the most unexpected.
You’re sitting with him in the lounge, both of you half-watching something forgettable on the screen. He keeps glancing at you, fidgeting like there’s something stuck in his throat.
“What?” You ask gently.
He takes a breath. “Are you… are you wearing new jewellery?”
You blink. Then you laugh softly, because of course he noticed.
You tell him. He stares at you for a second, processing, then his face crumples entirely. He covers his mouth, eyes filling as a broken sound escapes him.
“Oh,” he says thickly. “That’s—oh, that’s so good.”
He pulls you into a careful hug, shaking with it. “I’m so happy for you. You deserve this. Both of you.”
You let him cry. You don’t rush him. You know better than anyone how much he’s been holding onto.
You video call your parents and brothers next. Your pop—who has never had the strongest of emotions—let's out a gruff, “least he asked me first,” and your mom sharply elbows him in response as a tearfully happy grin grows on her face. She warbles out a quick, “congratulations!” before she breaks down in tears and begs you to wear her own wedding dress. You grimace quickly, forcing a tight smile and a nod, fully knowing you would never wear that atrocious 80s full-length sleeve garb even if you had a gun to your head.
John’s parents were next on the list. You hadn't expected much fanfare, not after what he had explained about his family, how the aftermath of the house fire cracked a chasm between him and his parents’—his mom, in particular—and how they all rarely speak.
Mrs. Hoskins is last.
You don’t plan it—it just happens. You and John drive out to see her on a quiet afternoon, the kind of day that feels borrowed and gentle. She’s sitting in her garden when you arrive, hat perched crookedly on her head, pruning shears resting in her lap. The roses are in bloom; everything smells like sun-warmed earth and lavender.
She looks up and smiles when she sees you. “There you are,” she says fondly. “Was wonderin’ when you’d come by.”
You sit with her on the bench. John hovers for a moment, then settles on the grass at her feet, leaning back on his hands like he’s done a thousand times before. The three of you talk about nothing at first—about the weather, about the tomatoes refusing to ripen, about a neighbour’s dog that keeps digging up the herb patch.
Eventually, you take a breath.
“There’s something we wanted to tell you,” you say softly.
She turns to you, immediately attentive. “Alright.”
You hold out your hand.
She sees the ring before you say a word.
Her breath catches. She brings a hand to her mouth, eyes shining as she looks between you and John. “Oh,” she whispers. Then she’s crying—open, unrestrained tears spilling down her cheeks as she cups your face in her hands.
“Took him long enough,” she says through a watery laugh.
John groans, dropping his head back against the bench. “I knew you were gonna say that.”
You laugh, tears slipping free of your own as she pulls you into a careful hug. “I’m so happy,” she murmurs. “So happy for you both.”
She reaches for John then, gripping his hand with surprising strength. “You don’t let this one go,” she tells him firmly.
He squeezes back. “Never planned to.”
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The proposal doesn’t happen the way people expect it to.
There’s no crowd gathering instinctively, no hush falling over a room full of strangers waiting for a cue. No phones lifted, no lights dimmed for effect, no carefully staged choreography designed to turn something private into something consumable. There’s no kneeling on polished stone floors, no nervous laughter meant to soften spectacle.
It doesn’t feel like a moment so much as it feels like a continuation.
It happens quietly—because quiet has always been enough for the two of you.
It happens on a Tuesday.
You’re back at work full time now—still easing, still pacing yourself through longer days, but undeniably yourself again. The ache that once lived constantly beneath your skin has softened into something manageable, something familiar. Scars pull now and then when you move too quickly; pain flares and fades like weather. You know how to listen to it without letting it dictate you.
The tower hums around you, alive but no longer oppressive. You’ve noticed the shift gradually—the way its rhythms have changed now that systems are reinforced, redundancies doubled, oversight sharpened. Supply chains are stabilised. Procurement audits read cleaner. Security briefings no longer sound like apologies delivered too late, but plans built to prevent the worst from ever needing to happen.
You stand in your office at the end of the day, jacket slung over the back of your chair, reviewing a final report when John appears in the doorway.
There’s a subtle shift in the space—pressure redistributing, gravity still and always adjusting slightly to accommodate him. When you glance up, he’s leaning against the doorframe, broad shoulders relaxed, arms loose at his sides. He’s still in uniform, beret tucked under one arm, the dark fabric pulled taut across his frame in a way that makes him look carved rather than dressed.
He doesn’t interrupt. He learned the shape of your focus early on; learned that breaking it feels like pulling a thread that unravels more than just the moment. He waits instead, watching you with that quiet attentiveness that still catches you off guard. Like he’s rediscovering you in moments you’re not performing anything for him—when you’re just you, elbows-deep in systems and solutions.
“You ready?” He asks eventually.
You glance up, smiling faintly. “Five minutes.”
He nods, patient, and disappears again.
You finish what you’re doing because you always finish what you start. Some habits are flaws; others are foundations. John has never tried to dismantle yours, only learned how to build himself alongside them.
When you step out into the corridor, the tower is quieter than usual—shift change rolling through, lights dimmed slightly, the city outside glowing low and gold through the glass.
John waits by the lift.
He offers you his arm without thinking.
You take it without hesitation.
Dinner is simple. Not rushed, not ceremonial—just familiar food eaten slowly, conversation wandering between work and nothing at all. He tells you about a training run that went poorly because someone misjudged a landing zone; about the way he had to bite his tongue through a debrief that felt like it missed the point entirely. You tell him about an intern who caught a discrepancy early enough to prevent a six-figure error; about how proud you were that they trusted their instincts enough to escalate it.
“You’re rubbing off on people,” he says fondly.
“That’s terrifying,” you reply dryly.
He laughs, warm and unrestrained, the sound settling into you the way it always does—like gravity finding its centre.
Later, you curl together on the couch, legs tangled in a way that has nothing to do with need but everything to do with comfort. The TV murmurs quietly, a forgotten background noise, the quiet stretching comfortably between you. His thumb traces slow, idle circles against the back of your hand, grounding in a way that still feels miraculous.
This is how he loves you—not loudly, not extravagantly. In presence. In patience. In showing up again and again, even when there’s nothing dramatic to prove. In learning when to speak and when to stay quiet. In knowing when you need a hand at your back and when you need space to breathe.
And you love him the same way.
You love him in the quiet mornings when he brings you coffee without asking. In the evenings where you sit side by side doing entirely separate things, content in shared silence. In the way you watch each other heal—not trying to fix, not trying to rush, just staying.
There’s no dramatic pause when he speaks again. Just certainty.
“I don’t wanna wait anymore,” he says quietly, eyes fixed on the place where his thumb meets your skin.
You turn toward him, heart steady rather than racing. There’s no jolt of panic in you, no sense of being cornered by expectation or a timeline.
“I know,” you reply.
He exhales a soft laugh, relief threaded through it. “Good.”
He reaches into his pocket—not hurried, not nervous this time. The velvet box appears between you, familiar now; not heavy with doubt, but warm with meaning. He doesn’t fumble. His hands are steady, sure.
He doesn’t kneel, he just takes your hand in both of his, grounding and real.
“I don’t need a perfect time,” he says. “I don’t need things to be easy. I just need you—choosin’ me, every day. Like I’m choosin’ you.”
Your chest aches, sweet and full.
“You already know my answer,” you say softly.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I do.”
You take the ring from the box and slide it onto your finger yourself—because this has never been about being asked so much as it’s been about deciding. About stepping forward together deliberately. About choosing a future not because it looks impressive from the outside, but because it feels right on the inside.
The gold settles against your skin like it belongs there.
John’s breath stutters just slightly when he sees it in place.
He kisses you then. It starts as a soft press of his mouth against yours, a seal of the promise just made. His lips are warm, a little dry, moving with a tenderness that makes your throat tighten. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking the line of your cheekbone. You can feel the slight tremor in his fingers, holding you as if you could disappear beside him. You kiss him back, letting your lips part just enough to taste him—coffee and the mint he’d popped earlier, and underneath it, just John.
It deepens, turns hungry in the space between one heartbeat and the next. His other arm wraps around your waist, pressing you against him until there’s no space left. The softness vanishes, replaced by a consuming need. His tongue slides into your mouth—not asking, just taking—and you open for him with a low sound that gets swallowed by his kiss. He tastes like want, like a thirst finally being slaked after too long a drought. Your hands fist in the soft cotton of his t-shirt, pulling him closer, needing him nearer.
You break apart, gasping for air. Your forehead rests against his, your breaths mingling in the scant inch between your mouths.
“Take me to bed, John,” you whisper, the words rough.
He doesn’t answer with words. He just stands, his arms sliding under your knees and behind your back in one fluid motion, and lifts you from the sofa. You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face against the warm skin of his throat, kissing the freckles along the column of his throat, breathing him in as he carries you through the up the stairs to your shared bedroom. His steps are sure, his hold on you unbreakable.
He doesn’t lay you on the bed so much as he places you in the centre of it, following you down without breaking contact. The mattress dips under his weight as he settles over you, his hips slotting between your thighs even through the layers of your comfy clothes. He’s looking down at you, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide.
His eyes cut down quick, skimming across the stretch of fabric over your hips. His lips part, tongue dipping out to wet them; his cheeks flush darker, extending down his throat and below the collar of his t-shirt.
“Look at you,” he says, voice thick. “Just… look at you.”
He kisses you again, and this time there’s no softness left. He’s kissing you like a stray dog tearing into a piece of meat, rabid and uncontrollable; his hands grasp at any part of you they can, fingers pressing into your skin hard enough to leave bruises. You arch into him, meeting that wildness with your own, your nails scraping down his back. You can feel the hard ridge of his cock straining against his sweatpants, pressing insistently at the junction of your thighs.
Your hands find the hem of his t-shirt and yank it up without ceremony, impatience burning through you in a way that feels almost dizzying. He breaks the kiss only long enough to pull it over his head and toss it somewhere behind him, forgotten the second it leaves his hands.
John rests there above you, bare-chested in front of you—solid, and unapologetically real. His shoulders are broad enough to cast you in shadow when he leans in, muscle built not for show but for impact, for bracing and holding and enduring. His chest is wide and powerful, rising and falling already with uneven breaths, the faint sheen of sweat catching the light. Dark hair dusts across him, thicker at the centre of his chest before trailing down over his stomach in a soft, natural line. There’s a subtle curve at his belly—not weakness, just humanity—where the hair grows denser before disappearing beneath the loose waistband of his sweatpants. It makes something low and needy coil tight inside you.
Your palms slide over him, reverent and greedy all at once, mapping warm skin and solid planes. Muscle jumps beneath your touch instinctively, a reflex he never quite lost; strength answering contact without thought. He shudders when your fingers spread over his ribs, thumbs brushing the edges of scars that barely mark him anymore.
You see them now if you look closely—faint, pale lines where bullets once tore through him. Evidence of violence softened by time and serum, his cells rebuilt so thoroughly they refused to remember the damage properly. The super serum healed him fast, clean, almost unfairly; but it didn’t erase the knowledge of what those wounds meant. Didn’t erase the memory of how close he came to bleeding out beneath a fallen beam, pinned and helpless, eyes glassy with shock as the world burned around him.
The thought hits you sideways, sharp and sudden.
A flash of red lights. Smoke. Blood slicking his skin. Your hands slipping as you dragged him, inch by inch, convinced with every second that you were too slow, too weak, that another intruder would round the corner and end it all before you could get him to cover. The memory hums at the back of your mind, distant but insistent, like a bruise you keep pressing without meaning to.
Your grip tightens on him.
The want that floods you is overwhelming—not just desire, but need. A desperate, grounding urge to feel him here, solid and breathing and warm beneath your hands. To remind yourself that he’s alive. That you’re alive. That the world didn’t take this from you.
John’s breathing turns ragged as he looks down at you, ice blue eyes darkened with something fierce and unguarded. His hands hover at your waist like he’s afraid to hold too tightly, like he’s still learning that he can touch you without breaking you—and that you won’t disappear if he does.
“You okay?” He murmurs, voice rough, low.
You nod, even as your chest aches. “I just—” Your hands splay over his heart, feeling the steady, stubborn beat beneath your palm. “I need you.”
Something in his expression breaks open at that. Relief, want, devotion—all tangled together. He leans his forehead against yours, breath mingling with yours, and for a moment the world narrows down to skin and heat and the simple miracle of shared space.
Your own shirt is next.
John doesn’t rush it, but there’s nothing gentle about the want behind his hands. He grips the soft fabric at your waist and pushes it up, fingers flexing like he needs to feel the act of taking it from you. The movement is rough edged, urgent, driven by something deeper than hunger. You lift your arms without being asked, heart thudding as he drags the shirt over your ribs, over your shoulders, until it’s gone and forgotten somewhere on the floor.
He freezes for half a second.
Not because of modesty, but because seeing you like this still hits him like a physical blow. His breath catches audibly. The flush that’s already spread across his chest deepens, climbing his throat, touching the sharp line of his jaw. His eyes drop to your breasts, held in a simple cotton bra, and something reverent settles into his expression. Like he’s looking at something sacred rather than something he’s entitled to.
“God,” he exhales, barely a word.
His hands come up again, slower now, palms warm as they skim your sides. There’s a tremor in them you feel immediately—not weakness, but restraint stretched thin. He presses his forehead briefly to your shoulder, grounding himself, before his lips follow.
His mouth presses to your skin—soft, lingering kisses that leave warmth blooming in their wake. He moves deliberately, carefully, as though every inch of you deserves attention. When he reaches the faint scars that map your torso, his breath stutters. He pauses there, lips hovering, eyes dark and shining.
These are the marks the world left on you.
The ones he almost lost you to.
“These…” He whispers. “These scare the hell outta me.”
He kisses them anyway.
One by one, slow and reverent, his lips trembling just slightly as they press to healed skin. The touch is so careful it aches. His thumb follows, tracing gentle lines between each scar, connecting them instinctively, like he’s drawing meaning where there was once only violence. A constellation only he knows how to read; a map of survival, of stubbornness, of you still being here.
“I hate that you have these,” he murmurs quietly, thumb brushing one pale line again. “But I love that you lived.”
Your throat tightens.
He looks up at you then, eyes fierce with devotion, with relief, with a depth of feeling he doesn’t bother trying to hide anymore. His hands slide to your back, holding you close
“So pretty,” he murmurs, the words almost a groan. He bends his head again, his mouth closing over the fabric covering your nipple. The heat of his mouth, the dampness seeping through, makes you cry out. He sucks hard through the material, his teeth grazing the sensitive peak until it’s a tight, aching point. His hand finds your other breast, kneading, his thumb rubbing circles over the nipple until it’s just as hard.
You fumble with the ties of his sweatpants, pushing them and his boxers down over his hips. He kicks them off, and then he’s naked above you. You look down between your bodies.
His cock springs free, thick and already fully hard, curving up toward his stomach. The skin is a shade darker than the rest of him, smooth and stretched taut over the prominent veins that run along its length. The head is flushed a deep, ruddy red, beading with moisture at the slit. It’s a heavy, solid weight in your hand when you wrap your fingers around him, and he makes a choked sound, his hips jerking forward into your grip.
“Your turn,” he growls, and his hands are on your leggings, dragging them and your panties down your legs in one impatient pull. The cool air of the room hits your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his gaze as he looks his fill.
You’re spread open before him, completely bare. Your folds are slick, glistening in the low light, a deeper colour than the skin of your inner thighs. The outer lips are full, parting slightly to reveal the softer, wetter skin within. You’re sensitive and pulsing inside, desperate for John to touch you. He stares, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
“Christ,” he breathes. “Look at you. All for me.” One of his hands comes down, not touching you yet, just hovering over the thatch of hair above your pussy. “So perfect. So fuckin’ ready.”
He finally touches you, one blunt fingertip sliding through your slickness from the top of your slit all the way down to your entrance. You jolt, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat. He does it again, slower, collecting the wetness, then brings his finger to his mouth and sucks it clean, his eyes rolling back.
“Taste so good, baby. Always taste so good.”
He doesn’t make you wait. He lowers his head between your thighs, his breath hot against your skin a second before his mouth is on you. His tongue is flat and broad, licking a long, slow stripe from your entrance up to your clit. You cry out, your back bowing off the bed. He does it again, and again, until you’re shaking, your hands fisted in the sheets.
Then he focuses on your clit, sucking the little bundle of nerves into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it with a relentless, perfect rhythm. One of his hands slides under your ass, lifting you into his mouth, while two fingers of his other hand push inside you, curling, searching. They find the spot inside you that makes you see white, and he presses there, rubbing in time with the suction of his mouth.
“John—John, please—” You’re begging, but you don’t know for what—for him to stop, to never stop, it doesn’t matter.
John let’s go off your ass and you look below to see his arm moving beneath him, the muscles in his shoulder and bicep rippling with each movement. Listening closely, you can hear a wet, slick slide of skin on skin, and you realise that John is jerking himself off to the taste of you.
Your head flings back and you moan out into the cool air of the bedroom, your eyes rolling back in your head, vision bleaching out, your body twisting under his fervent ministrations.
He growls against you, the vibration shooting through your entire body. You glance back down and see John’s eyes roll back as he slides his tongue into you, slurping obscenely at your wetness. His breath hitches against you and his tongue falters when he hisses out a low moan, followed by a whine that dissolves into a whimper. His hips twitch and thrust into his palm before they stutter and still. You can feel the heat of his cum splash against your thighs, soaking the sheets below him.
He pauses only for a few seconds before he delves back into you, his hand coming back up to grip your hip; the fingers of his other hand twist deeper inside you, curling up to press firmly into that spongy spot that is so desperate for contact.
“Please, John, wanna come,” you manage to keen out, head thrashing side to side on the pillow. You reach down to grab at his shoulders, his hair, nails scraping along his skin until red marks trail where you’ve held him. He grunts into you, suctioning his lips around your clit, sucking the peak of it into his mouth, tongue laving hot strokes along it all the while. It punches a whip sharp whine out of you, and every muscle and sinew in your body tenses, back arching up off the mattress, mouth dropping open in a silent scream.
“Come for me, darlin’. Let me feel it. Be my good girl and come on my tongue.”
The words, the praise, the relentless pressure of his mouth and fingers, it shatters you. Your orgasm rips through you—a violent, pulsing wave that makes your thighs clamp around his head. You scream, the sound raw and broken. He doesn’t let up, drinking you in, licking you through the convulsions until you’re sobbing, pushing weakly at his shoulders.
He crawls back up your body, his mouth wet with you, his cock leaking against your stomach. He kisses you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
“Need to be inside you,” he pants against your lips. “Right now.”
You nod, unable to form words. He reaches between you, guiding himself to your entrance. The broad head of his cock presses against you, spreading your swollen lips. He pushes in, just an inch, and you both groan in unison. He’s so thick, always stretching you exquisitely. He holds there, his whole body trembling with the effort.
“Look at me,” he says, his voice strained.
You open your eyes, meeting his. They’re black with need, his face a mask of desperate control.
He sinks the rest of the way into you in one long, slow, devastating slide that fills you completely. You feel every inch of him, the hot, hard length of him buried to the hilt. Your inner muscles flutter around him, trying to adjust, and he drops his forehead to yours with a shattered groan.
“So good. You take me so good. So fuckin’ tight and perfect for me.”
He starts to move, pulling out almost all the way before driving back in. The pace is slow, deep, each thrust a deliberate claiming. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles at the small of his back, pulling him deeper. The new angle makes him brush against that spot inside you with every stroke, and little sparks of pleasure begin to build again, low in your belly.
“Are you gonna take care of me, John? Hmm? You're gonna put a ring on me, claim me? Then fill me up until I’m crying your name and my belly’s all round? Is that it?”
“Fuck, yes, darlin',” John pants into your mouth, his tongue lolling and drool pooling at the corners of his lips. “‘M gonna fuck you full, again and again. Everyone’s gonna know I’m yours, what I do to you—” He growls low in his chest, sharp enough that it punches out of him, when you tug at the hair at the nape of his neck. You see his eyes roll back and the drool trickle down his chin.
“So good to me, baby. I’ll do anything for you, John.”
His next thrust is harder, pushing deeper into you; a sudden, jolting twitch of his hips that shunts you further up the sheet until he pulls you back into his hips.
“Feel so good ‘round me. So fuckin’ good. You’re gonna wear my ring, carry my babies,” he’s babbling, unable to stop talking as he thrusts faster into you, “and I’m gonna be your man—”
“My husband.” You cut him off, and he snarls like an animal locked onto its prey. He brings one hand down the skin of your torso, stopping briefly to knead your breast and pinch a nipple, taking the skin into his mouth to suckle on it.
“My wife. Mine.”
The word unleashes something in him. His thrusts lose all rhythm, becoming frantic, pounding. The bed frame knocks against the wall with a steady, urgent thud. You can feel the slap of his skin against yours, the wet, slick sounds of him moving in and out of you. You’re both slick with sweat, sliding against each other. The coil inside you winds tighter and tighter, fed by his words, by the possessive fury of his movements, by the feel of the new ring on your finger digging into his shoulder where your hand is braced.
“Gonna come,” he grunts, the words slurred. “Gonna fill you up. Wanna feel it, baby? Wanna feel my come inside you?”
“Yes, yes, please, John—”
“Such a good girl. My perfect, good girl. Take it. Take all of me.”
His rhythm stutters. He drives into you one last time, burying himself so deep you feel him in your throat, and holds. A raw, ragged shout tears from his chest. You feel the first hot, liquid pulse deep inside you, a sudden flood of warmth. Then another, and another, a relentless series of spurts that seem to go on and on, painting your walls with his cum. His whole body locks up, muscles corded and rigid, as he empties himself into you.
The sensation of him coming—the feel of that hot rush, the filthy, perfect words falling from his lips—tips you over the edge again. Your own orgasm crashes over you, less sharp than the first but deeper, a rolling wave of pleasure that makes you clamp down around his still spurting cock, milking him for every last drop. You sob his name, your body convulsing under his.
He collapses on top of you, his weight a welcome anchor. You can feel his heart hammering against your chest, feel the rapid puff of his breath against your neck. He’s still inside you, softening now, but he makes no move to pull out. His arms come around you, holding you so tight it’s almost painful.
You don’t know how long you lie there, tangled together, slick and spent. The only sounds are your slowing breaths and the distant hum of the house.
Finally, he shifts, lifting his head to look at you. His eyes are soft now, hazy with satisfaction. He brushes sweat damp hair from your forehead.
“You okay, darlin’?” He asks, his voice rough.
You nod, a slow smile spreading across your face. “More than okay.”
He smiles back, a lazy, contented thing. He glances down at your hand, still splayed on his shoulder. The gold band glints in the dim light. He brings your hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the ring, then to your palm.
“Mine,” he says again, but this time it’s a vow, not a claim.
“Yours,” you agree.
He finally slips out of you, and you feel the immediate, warm trickle of his release between your thighs. He doesn’t go far, just rolls to his side, pulling you with him so your back is against his chest. His arm wraps around your waist, his hand splaying possessively over your lower belly.
“Gonna clean you up in a minute,” he mumbles into your hair, his voice already thick with sleep. “Just… wanna hold you like this.”
You settle against him, the solid warmth of his body surrounding you. Your eyes drift closed, the scent of sex and sweat and him filling your senses. The last thing you feel before sleep takes you is the gentle weight of his hand on your stomach, possessive and firm, and the cool metal of the ring on your finger.
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@witchygagirl (hope you still enjoy being tagged in my John Walker fics!)
Synopsis: You bring John home to meet your family, only to unravel and reopen old wounds. Behind the weight of buried grief, a locked door full of ghosts, and a family that never recovered, John keeps you whole as he becomes the only safe place you can fall apart in.
Smut Warnings: blowjob, dirty talk, fingering, mild deepthroating, making out, dry humping/grinding, premature ejaculation, risky sex (having sex in readers childhood home with family there), shower sex, cunnilingus, quiet sex, multiple orgasms, hair pulling, body worship, overstimulation, spit play, dom/sub dynamics, gentle-ish dom!John, marking, emotional/comfort sex, praise kink, size kink, mild choking/breathplay, mildly rough sex, prone bone, unprotected piv (oopsies!), creampie (double oopsies!!), aftercare. (there’s a lot of tags because there’s 3 separate sex scenes lol oops)
Fic Warnings: past character death (sibling), past car accident (mentioned), using sex as a way to avoid feelings, unprocessed grief, childhood trauma, anxiety, depression, estranged family dynamics, familial grief, angst.
Word Count: 15.7k
A/N: this is a sequel to Mrs. Walker (For The Mission, Right?) universe, and part of Good Boy Behaviour. I recommend reading Mrs. Walker prior to this fic in order to understand the full scope of their relationship, however Good Boy Behaviour can be read as a standalone if you wish to.
You spend the entire morning pretending you aren’t counting the hours until John’s flight lands.
The clock on your phone glows too bright in your hand. Eleven minutes since you last checked. Thirty-two before that. Your pulse bumps hard every time you glance down again, like your body wants to rehearse seeing him before your eyes actually do.
It’s pathetic, really, how often you check the time; how you keep rereading the last text he sent (“Landed. Miss you already.”) with a ridiculous flutter in your stomach. You try to busy yourself—laundry, half-hearted cleaning, filling out logistics reports, reorganising a drawer you haven’t opened in months—but nothing helps. Your nerves sit high in your chest, sharp as glass; they don’t dull, not even when you breathe deep or force yourself to sit still.
You should be excited. John is coming home for a few weeks, real time off, real time with you, but instead your stomach knots tighter with every passing minute. You’ve been dreading this visit for months—the return, the house, the heaviness that never really left after Jess.
Even thinking her name sends a tremor through your ribs.
You swallow around it, pretending it isn’t there.
You inhale slow, but the breath sticks halfway down, catching under your ribs. The room feels too small. The walls feel too close. Your fingers twitch at your sides; you shake them out like tension might drip out of your fingertips if you try hard enough.
John doesn’t know the details. You’ve told him there’s family tension—that everyone still carries their own mess, that you don’t always cope well with being back home, that the emptiness the swallowed you all whole has a way of hollowing you out sometimes—but you didn’t tell him how bad it really is. You didn’t tell him why the air always feels wrong inside that house, why you haven’t slept a full night under your parents’ roof in over a decade, or why the mere idea of walking past her locked door makes the back of your throat burn.
You never told him what you saw, and what you can’t unsee.
You hear the click of the lock at your front door and you almost drop your phone. Before you can move, John steps inside; broad shoulders, duffel bag slung over one arm, sunburn from the airport glare, eyes softening the second they land on you. He fills the doorway before the morning light can. He looks tired, like someone who’s been starving for weeks and found just the thing they’ve been missing.
You don’t even realise you’re moving until you’re in his arms with your face pressed against his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. He holds you tight—firm arms around your waist, warm breath against your hairline—and something in your chest loosens. Not entirely, but enough.
“Missed you,” he murmurs into your hair, voice low and rough. He always sounds like that when he first sees you, like he hasn’t spoken in days and you’re the only person he remembers how to talk to.
“You were gone two weeks,” you mumble into his collarbone.
“I know,” he answers, mouth brushing your temple. “For you? Definitely too long.”
You roll your eyes, but your chest warms anyway.
A laugh slips out of you—quick, breathy, escaping before you can shape it. John feels it against his chest and his arms tighten a fraction, like he’s memorising the sensation before you can pull away.
He leans back just enough to look at you, his hands still on your waist, thumbs brushing small circles into your sides. His gaze searches your face. He always notices everything—every shift, every swallowed emotion, every thought you try (and fail) to hide.
“You alright?” He asks quietly.
“Yeah,” you lie. It’s immediate, automatic, almost habitual.
His brow rises, barely, like he’s humouring the lie. He’s patient. John’s always been patient with you, but he doesn’t call you out.
His thumb strokes your hipbone once, warm and grounding, before he steps back just enough to look you full in the face. Your chest tightens at the sudden space, even though it’s only inches.
“Big week,” he says softly. He’s trying to ease you in, to not spook you. “Your mom texted me again. Somethin’ ‘bout a roast first couple nights we’re there.”
The words hit your stomach like a dropped weight. Your muscles tense, breath thinning fast. John notices instantly.
Your shoulders pull up a fraction. Your jaw clicks tight.
You nod. “Yeah. She’s excited.”
“And your dad,” he adds. “Garden tour. Guess I’m gettin’ the full welcome package.”
You grimace and John laughs. He knows exactly how dramatic your pop gets about his plants.
But the humour fades quickly.
John catches the shift in your shoulders, the way your fingers fidget with the hem of his shirt. His expression softens again; he touches your cheek with the back of his knuckles—slow, tentative, careful. He’s always so careful with you.
“You’re worried,” he says, not asking. “‘Bout goin’ back.”
Your throat tightens. You nod.
“It’s just… things are still tense,” you say slowly. Your words taste thin, watered-down compared to what you mean. “Everyone’s—we’re still dealing with our own stuff.”
John waits. He doesn’t push.
“It never got better,” you admit, and your eyes sting before you can stop it. “Not really.”
“Hey,” he murmurs. His hands come up, cupping your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. “I’m with you. Whatever happens, whatever you need.”
You close your eyes, just for a moment, pressing into his palms.
“I didn’t tell you everything,” you whisper.
“I know,” he says gently. “You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”
You breathe, slow and shaky, and then you step out of his hold—not because you want to, but because if you stay, you’ll fall apart. And you can’t. Not yet. Not before you have to step foot in that house again.
John watches you, his eyes soft, mouth neutral, jaw tight like he’s holding himself back from reaching for you again.
“Come on,” you say finally, forcing calm into your voice. “We need to pack.”
You’re halfway through folding clothes when the tension twists again—deep, sharp, familiar.
John notices. Of course he does.
He comes up behind you, arms wrapping around your waist, chin resting in the crook of your shoulder. His body is a warm, solid weight—steadying you, grounding you.
“You’re shakin’,” he murmurs.
You hadn’t noticed.
“Just nerves,” you say. Your voice shakes too.
John presses a soft kiss to your shoulder. Slow, deliberate, patient.
“You’re not doin’ this alone,” he reminds you quietly.
Your chest pulls tight—painful, grateful—because part of you still doesn’t believe that. Part of you is still standing at the front door of your parents’ house, thirteen years old, screaming her name as she runs out into the street.
You shake the memory off, shove it deep, where it always goes, and force yourself to keep packing.
You pull your suitcase from the closet, wheels thudding once against the hardwood. The sound runs up your spine like a snapped wire. Your breath slips shallow, barely hitting your chest before it turns thin again.
John notices.
He’s folding a shirt, one of the soft blue ones that look almost too good on him, and the motion slows. His head tips slightly, just enough to catch the way your shoulders lift a fraction too high, the way your fingers pinch the zipper with unnecessary force.
He doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches you.
Your stomach tightens. Heat prickles along your collarbone like someone’s running a warm finger there.
You crouch to open the suitcase, but your knees feel unsteady—your balance shifts, breath catching halfway down your throat. The tension starts at your ribcage, tightening inward, pressing your heartbeat against bone.
Behind you, the mattress dips.
You don’t turn. You’re trying to fold a sweater with hands that keep wanting to curl into your palms.
You lay it flat. Smooth the sleeves. Try again.
Your fingers tremble once.
Just once.
John sees that too.
The bed shifts again as he stands. You hear his steps before you feel him—slow, heavy, deliberate. The air changes around you, thickening with his presence until the room feels smaller, the walls warmer, your pulse louder.
He stops behind you, close enough that heat rolls off him and sinks under your shirt.
Your back straightens too fast.
His hand lifts, hesitates, and then settles gently on your upper back. Not pushing. Just resting. Warm and steady, the weight of it melting down your spine until your shoulders loosen on a long exhale you didn’t mean to release.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, quiet enough you feel it more than hear it. “Breathe.”
Your chest expands; slow at first, then again, deeper, your ribs shifting under his palm. He keeps his hand there, thumb tracing a slow, grounding line along the base of your neck.
Your knees grow warm.
You lean forward slightly, not to avoid him, but because your body reacts before your mind does. Like gravity pulls you toward something solid.
John’s hand slides up, fingers brushing the back of your neck. Your pulse jumps against your throat, sharp and fast under his touch.
You inhale slow, and the breath trembles on the way out. Not breaking, just shaking loose.
He feels that too.
You try to fold another shirt, but your hands won’t stay steady. Your thumb catches the fabric wrong; your breath stutters.
John steps closer.
The heat of his chest touches your back—barely, just enough that you feel the shape of him through your shirt. Your pulse kicks. Your stomach drops and tightens at the same time.
“You don’t have to pretend,” he says, voice low beside your ear. “Not with me.”
Your throat closes for a second. Air slips thin through the space between your teeth.
Then his hand slides down—slow, careful—until it rests at your waist. His thumb presses lightly into the fabric, right above where your breath shudders hardest.
Your body leans back into him before you can stop it.
He lets you. He braces you with the weight of his presence alone.
“Hey,” he murmurs, breath brushing the shell of your ear. “Look at me.”
You turn your head just enough to see him from the corner of your eye. His face is close; his jaw tense, brows soft, gaze locked entirely on you.
You know your eyes have flickered to his lips by the way they part quick, how his tongue dips out to wet the bottom lips, and how his breathing shudders.
“John…” You whisper his name. It sounds like a ghost in the quiet of the house.
You slide one hand up his forearm, mapping out the freckles and moles along the way up his bicep, until you meet the soft cotton of his t-shirt sleeve. You continue on, feeling his breathing change—deeper, heavier, less controlled—as both hands skate across the broad expanse of his chest.
“Darlin’—” You cut him off with a swift press of your lips to his, one hand tugging at his belt until it finally comes loose; the other tangles at the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling his head down to deepen the kiss.
You use the moment he speaks to slide your tongue against his—messy, spit-slick, gasping for air—and John finally responds.
He wraps his arms around you. One hand settles at the base of your spine, his pinky slipping under the waistband of your jeans in a way that feels reminiscent of how he held you during your dance in the club; his other hand pulls you hard against him, knocking the breath from you. You feel encompassed in him, surrounded by the sheer size of him.
You slide a hand into the waistband of his boxers and wrap your hand around his already half-hard cock. The first two strokes are rough like sandpaper, and John grunts out in one single breath.
“God, wait—too dry,” he hisses, brows furrowing, his eyes darting between yours and the sight of your hand shoved down his pants.
Your fingers curl loosely as you lift your hand between you, offering it like something meant to be witnessed. John’s eyes track the movement instantly. The air feels heavier for it.
You draw in a slow breath, letting it fill the quiet space between your parted lips. Your tongue moves—subtle, a small shift he can see, the kind meant to be watched. Then you lean forward just a fraction, never breaking eye contact.
The spit gathers with deliberate patience, the moment stretched thin and intimate. When it finally falls, it does so in a slow, warm ribbon into your waiting palm—a soft sound, a faint sheen catching the light.
John’s gaze doesn’t flicker. He stares at your mouth, at how the spit has caught on your bottom lip and sticks there, hanging down your chin. He lunges forward and his tongue laves at your chin, your lips, lapping up the saliva you left behind. The noise he makes is part-man and part-animal, almost a snarl but not quite.
When you finally stroke his cock again, wet from your spit and the pre-cum that leaks from him like a faucet, he does actually snarl—the bridge of his nose tightening, lips pulling back just enough to show the edge of something feral beneath the surface. It isn’t loud; it’s the kind of sound that lives in his throat, low and rough, more breath than voice.
His eyes stay locked on you. The tension in his jaw clicks once, a warning or a claim—you can’t tell which, and maybe that’s the point.
Regardless, you grin at how quickly he’s succumb to pleasure at your hands.
You need this. You need the steadying, mindless pleasure of you and him, to lose all thought in him.
You slowly drop to your knees, the hardwood floor beneath you unbending, as you undo down his zipper and pull out his now fully hard cock from the confines of his boxers.
The tip of his cock is already strained and ruddy, dripping with his pre-cum, slicking the length of his cock as it twitches in the cool air of the bedroom. His musk is overwhelming; he smells of heat, sweat, and something sharp and distinct like gunpowder.
Your lips part and your tongue darts out to catch the bead of moisture glistening at his tip. The taste is heady and salty. A low, approving groan rumbles from his chest, vibrating through the air between you.
You open wider, taking the broad, smooth head of his cock into your mouth. Your tongue swirls around the sensitive ridge, tracing its shape, and you’re rewarded with another twitch and a fresh, salty burst of pre-cum. Your own pulse is a frantic drumbeat in your ears—a stark contrast to the steady, controlled rhythm of his breathing above you.
You sink lower, taking more of his length into the wet heat of your mouth. The stretch of your jaw is immediate; a familiar, aching burn you’ve come to crave. You push further, feeling the head nudge against the back of your throat. Your body instinctively rebels, a slight gag reflex seizing you, and you pull back with a wet, choking gasp for air, a string of saliva connecting your lip to his slick shaft.
You expect a command, a demand to continue. Instead, his hand comes to rest gently on the side of your head, his thumb stroking your temple. His touch is tender—always tender, waiting for you to move first—and you peer up at John beneath your lashes.
He looks at you like you rise and set the sun each day.
“Look at that,” he whispers, his tone full of a dark, possessive wonder. “A pretty little mess for me. You been thinkin’ ‘bout this, hmm? Been touchin’ yourself to the thought of my cock in your throat, yeah?”
The humiliation you might have expected is instantly re-framed, transformed by his voice into something sacred. Your weakness is not a failure; it’s a gift you’re giving him. It’s a proof of your effort, your submission. The heat in your cheeks intensifies, but it’s mixed now with a surge of pride so potent it makes you dizzy.
Emboldened, you dive back down, your purpose renewed. This time, you relax your throat, willing the muscles to obey, to open for him. You take him deeper, until your nose is buried in the coarse hair at his base, and you stay there, holding him in the constricting heat of your throat. The world narrows to this single, suffocating point of connection. Black spots dance at the edges of your vision. Your lungs scream.
Just as you feel you might break, you drag yourself back up, gulping the cool air in ragged, desperate heaves. Drool drips freely from your chin onto your chest.
“God, you’re beautiful. Love you so much,” John’s babbling now, somewhat incoherent, but he’s always able to tell you he loves you—he always finds a way. “Take it easy, darlin’, easy now girl.”
You moan around him as you descend a third time, your own need now a throbbing, desperate ache between your legs. You move on him, establishing a rhythm—down until your throat spasms around his girth, then up to gasp and taste the air—each descent deeper, each surrender more complete than the last. The sounds are obscene: wet, gagging, rhythmic suction, punctuated by his increasingly ragged praises.
“Feel so good. You’re heaven, just like you’re made for me—” A sharp hiss punches out of him then. John throws his head back, jaw dropping wide open as he heaves in deep drags of air.
You can feel the tension coiling in him; the way his thighs tremble, the pulse of his cock against your tongue growing more urgent, more insistent. You know what’s coming.
You redouble your efforts, hollowing your cheeks, sucking hard as you plunge down one final time, burying him to the hilt and holding perfectly still.
A guttural, shattered sound is torn from him. His hand fists in your hair, not to guide you, but to anchor himself as his hips give a final, shallow thrust. “Jesus—yeah, right there. So fuckin’ good.”
The first hot, bitter pulse hits the back of your throat. You swallow reflexively, again and again, as he empties himself in you. His release seems to go on forever; his body jerks with the force of it, his whispered praises devolving into incoherent, blissful groans. You drink him down, swallowing every last drop until he softens in your mouth, spent and sensitive.
You gently release him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as you look up, your vision still blurry with unshed tears. His face is a mask of slack, sated ecstasy. He looks utterly undone.
Without a word, his hands are on you, pulling you up from your knees and pushing you back onto the edge of the mattress. You land with a soft bounce, the cheap springs groaning in protest. He kneels on the floor before you, his eyes dark and intent, and tugs your jeans off before he pushes your thighs apart. The cool air of the room kisses your wetness, and you flinch at the exposure.
His gaze is locked there, taking in the sight of you—swollen and slick, soaked and dripping just from the taste of him.
“Look at you,” he murmurs into your skin, pressing wet kisses to your thighs. “Did so good for me. Gonna treat you so good now.”
His fingers, still warm from his own body, find your centre. One long, calloused finger slides through your folds with an expertise that steals your breath. He circles your clit once—a slow, teasing promise—before he plunges two fingers deep inside you without warning.
You cry out, back arching off the mattress. The stretch is immense, filling you perfectly. He doesn’t pause, setting a relentless, punishing rhythm; his palm grinds against your clit with every deep, driving stroke. The squelching sound of your own arousal is loud and obscene in the quiet of your shared bedroom—a lewd counterpoint to his ragged breathing.
“That’s it, darlin’,” he growls, watching his fingers disappear into your wet heat, eyes focused on the creamy ring at the base of his knuckles with each push in. “Cum for me. Wanna make you feel good.”
The pressure builds with terrifying speed, a white-hot coil tightening deep in your belly. Your hips buck against his hand, meeting his thrusts, chasing the sensation. You’re babbling, pleading, though you don’t even know what for. The world dissolves into pure, raw sensation.
“Baby, oh my God, I’m—I’m gonna cum,” you barely manage to whimper out between your cries and moans, choking out the words as your back arches taut like a bow line.
He curls his fingers inside you, pressing hard against a spot that makes you see stars, and his tongue slowly drags across your clit with a featherlight touch.
It detonates. Your orgasm rips through you—a blinding, seizing wave of pleasure that whites out your vision. Your internal muscles clamp down on his fingers, milking them in a series of violent, uncontrollable spasms. A broken scream is torn from your throat as you shatter; your body convulses under his unyielding touch. He holds you there, pinned to the bed by his hand, until the last tremor subsides and you collapse—boneless and utterly spent, into the rumpled sheets.
He slowly withdraws his glistening fingers, bringing them to his lips without breaking eye contact. His tongue flicks out, moaning at the taste of you, and a slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face.
You’re flushed and spent, the simmering heat slowly ebbing out of your bones as you sink into the duvet below. You know you’re grinning wild, like a cat that got the cream, from the way John is looking at you: exasperation, unadulterated love, and a hint of concern bleeding in through the edges.
You look away to the abandoned clothes you were packing only thirty minutes ago. “We still need to finish up, John.”
You move to stand and your knees wobble. John catches you, letting out a huff of laughter, before settling you back down on the bed.
“I’ll do it. You just sit there, yeah?” He mutters, grabbing some wet wipes from the dresser. He cleans your legs and your wet centre, wiping down your sweat too, leaving the used wipes on the nightstand.
“Can’t have you wobblin’ ‘bout like a new born fawn now.” He chuckles. You reach over and grab a used wipe, launching it at his face.
He ducks easily, catching it midair before throwing it right back at you.
Two hours later and the bags are zipped, the car is ready, and John is loading everything into the trunk with easy strength and an excited grin that makes your stomach twist in an entirely different way.
He’s happy. He wants this. He wants your family, even if you barely know how to want them yourself anymore.
You get in the passenger seat; John gets behind the wheel.
He reaches over, links his fingers with yours, giving you a reassuring squeeze.
“You ready?”
You lie again. “Yeah.”
John brings your knuckles to his mouth, kisses them, and you feel like a ghost with how numb you are.
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The drive feels shorter than it should. You spend most of it with your forehead leaning against the window and John’s hand resting warm and steady on your thigh, his thumb rubbing slow, absent-minded circles that calm your nerves until they don’t. The closer you get, the thicker the air feels in your chest—like you’re inhaling water instead of oxygen, like your lungs can’t remember how to work on their own.
John notices every shift in your breathing. He squeezes your thigh gently, a silent reassurance that you don’t quite know how to take.
“You’re quiet again,” he murmurs, eyes flicking from the road to your face and back again.
“I’m fine,” you reply sharply.
He doesn’t call you out, but he doesn’t believe you either.
By the time the driveway appears—white stones crushed into a narrow path, hedges taller than they used to be, your mother’s flower boxes overflowing—you feel like someone’s pressing a heavy hand against your sternum. The house rises in front of you, familiar in a way that makes your stomach twist; the shutters are the same colour, the porch the same wood you used to sit on with your brothers during summer storms, but the air sits different—thicker, colder, pulled tight with the same tension that never really left.
John parks. The engine stops. Everything goes quiet.
“You okay?” He asks softly—more careful now, like you might bolt.
You nod. You don’t feel your head move.
John reaches over, cups the side of your face, thumb brushing under your eye—not wiping tears, just checking if they’re there.
“You want a minute?” He offers.
You shake your head quickly. You don’t trust yourself to stay if you pause now.
He nods once and gets out of the car. You follow on shaky legs.
Your mom opens the front door before either of you reach it.
“There she is!” She calls, voice bright—a little too bright, an edge tucked in the consonants that feels like a blade—and she steps out, arms open wide.
You let yourself be hugged. Her familiar perfume, the faint smell of fabric softener, the way she always squeezes twice like it’s a secret code between you. Over your shoulder, she spots John and straightens, her smile widening.
“And this must be John,” she says, stepping back.
John—sweet, too-polite John—smiles warmly, extends a hand.
“Ma’am,” he says.
“Oh, don’t you dare ‘ma’am’ me, I’m not that old,” she laughs, pulling him straight into a hug before he can respond.
John stiffens for half a second—surprised, but then his hands settle respectfully at her back. When she lets go, his cheeks are pink.
Your pop appears next, coming in from the side garden with gloves still on his hands, wiping dirt on his jeans before shaking John’s hand with a firm, assessing grip.
“So you’re the soldier,” your pop says. “Where’s your shield at, son?”
“We’re both taking a vacation, sir,” John answers—straight-backed, polite, respectful; you can practically hear your pop melting.
“Good,” your pop grunts. “Hate when they take good men and don’t give ‘em time off.”
John actually blushes at that.
Your brothers appear last—Michael in the hallway leaning against the wall with crossed arms, pausing for a few seconds before walking down the porch steps, whereas Josh is bounding down the stairs two at a time.
“Fuck, she actually brought him,” Josh gushes, eyes wide and jaw dropping open like he’s out catching flies.
You glare. “Don’t start.”
He grins at you, then claps John on the shoulder hard enough to jolt him.
Michael’s smile is softer, more genuine. He shakes John’s hand quietly, eyes bright with something like relief. He’s always been the gentle one; the one who took the grief and swallowed it until it hurt to breathe.
John smiles at him, warm and real, and something in your chest tugs.
Your mother ushers everyone inside—talking too fast, too excited—and John follows, taking your hand as he goes, fingers interlacing with yours in a silent I’m here.
Inside, everything smells the same. Too much the same.
The air hits you.
John steps closer—subtle, not crowding—his hand brushing the small of your back. A quiet, grounding touch.
He takes everything in carefully—the framed photos, the polished floorboards, the coat rack, the hall table with the bowl of keys—and then his eyes fall on the one thing you didn’t want him to see yet.
Her door. Jess’ door.
Closed. Locked. Still.
The height chart on the doorframe stops too early; the gap is too small, the last line is too low.
John’s eyes linger, brows drawing together in quiet, instinctive concern.
You look away immediately, your throat tightening.
Before he can ask, your mom is shooing everyone into the kitchen, pulling John in with excited chatter about dinner plans and recipes and how she heard he cooks.
He glances back at you—checking, always checking—but lets himself be dragged into the room.
Your brothers flank you instead.
“Still weird seeing her door like that,” Josh mutters.
“Hurts less if you don’t look,” Michael adds quietly.
You swallow hard.
John’s voice floats from the kitchen. It’s low, polite, trying to follow your mother’s pace, and you focus on that sound like a lifeline.
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After dinner, you take John into your room. It hasn’t changed much. New bedding, new lamp, but the bones of it feel the same. Your suitcase sits half-open; John’s sits neat and zipped beside it.
You show him old keepsakes and collectables until he laughs at the extensive notes you would take for every individual item.
“Explains how you got into bein’ a Logistics Director of all things,” he teases, skimming through one of your many notebooks.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” You gasp out at him, your hand clutching at your heart.
“Just sayin’ nothin’, darlin’,” he murmurs back, his smile slipping into something rougher. You peek at the page he’s on and see the words Jessica and mom’s in her room and why did she run. You snatch it out of John’s hands before he can read any further, before he flips over the page and sees the downward spiral you took to like a fish takes to water.
He stands at the window, looking out into the dim garden—hands in his pockets, shoulders tense in a way you recognise. He’s thinking, processing, but he’s giving you space.
You step behind him, resting your forehead between his shoulder blades. His back rises and falls under your touch.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re okay,” he murmurs, voice quiet inside the dimness of the room.
“I know,” you whisper into his shirt.
He exhales, long and slow, like he wants to believe you and knows he shouldn’t.
His hand finds yours; he pulls you around him gently, presses you back against the windowsill, stepping close, close enough that his body heat sinks into you.
“You’re shakin’ again,” he says softly.
You hadn’t noticed. Again.
His thumb strokes your hip—slow, steady, grounding.
And then, something shifts.
Heavy. Warm. Charged.
John’s eyes flick to your mouth—brief, instinctive—before he catches himself and looks away. He’s holding something back, something thick and hungry, something that makes your pulse spike.
“We’re in your parents’ house,” he reminds himself more than you.
“Yeah,” you breathe.
His jaw tightens.
He leans in just enough that his breath brushes your ear.
“If we weren’t,” he murmurs—low, strained, “I’d have you under me already.”
Your breath catches sharp in your chest, and your fingers curl into the front of his shirt.
John grips the windowsill beside your hip, white-knuckled restraint.
“Not here,” he mutters. His voice sounds wrecked. It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than you. “Not yet.”
You nod, but your body presses closer anyway, your thigh brushing his. His breath stutters when your hips graze the thick, hard line in his jeans.
“Darlin’…” He warns.
“We’re alone,” you whisper.
His control cracks, just slightly, enough for him to kiss you.
It starts slow—soft, warm—but builds fast; he kisses you harder, mouth hungry, tongue brushing yours. His hand slides to your waist, pulling you against him with a low, quiet groan he tries, and fails, to swallow.
Your fingers tangle in his hair and he shudders, tilting his head further to the right until his nose presses firmly into the apple of your cheek, his tongue sliding rougher against yours.
Your hips jerk, grinding against firm lines of muscle in his thigh. Your clothed pussy already wet and sticky through your jeans, catching on the fabric of his own trousers. He presses you tighter against the sill and grinds into you; slow, desperate, a quiet, breath-breaking whine escaping his throat.
He catches it too late.
You freeze. He freezes.
A beat later: “Everything alright in there?” your pop calls from the living room below.
John’s eyes widen in horror; yours widen in disbelief. You slap a hand over your mouth, choking back laughter that bubbles too fast to contain.
“Uh—John just stubbed his toe!” You shout out, voice cracking.
Your pop grunts something vaguely sympathetic and you hear the familiar squeak as he settles back down in his armchair.
John drops his head to your shoulder, mortified, his hips still pressed to yours. You can feel him trembling in restraint.
He mutters, “I’m gonna die.”
You burst into silent hysterics, your whole body shaking as John collapses into you, face flushed deep red, breath still uneven.
He groans again, and you feel the faint, warm stickiness seeping through the front of his jeans against your thigh.
“Don’t,” he warns when he feels you start to laugh harder.
“I—" you wheeze, "—I’m not saying anything.”
“You’re dyin’ to.”
“Maybe.”
He nuzzles your neck, still somehow gentle.
“Fuck,” he whispers; voice low, breath warm. “One day in your parents’ house and I’m already losin’ it.”
You kiss the side of his jaw.
Despite everything—the heaviness, the memories, the door down the hall that still makes your throat burn—you feel something warm settle under your ribs.
Maybe this won’t be all bad.
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The morning starts gentle—sunlight slipping through your childhood curtains in thin warm beams; the birds outside too loud, John asleep beside you, breathing slow and even. He takes up more space than the bed allows—broad shoulders, heavy limbs, the kind of presence that makes old shadows feel smaller.
You lie there for a while, watching his chest rise and fall, his hand resting palm-up between you like he waited for you to take it even in his sleep. You trace the edge of his fingers, slow and careful. He doesn’t wake, but his hand twitches like his body recognises yours before his mind does.
Down the hall, the house hums—floorboards creak, the kettle boils, someone coughs in the bathroom. Childhood noises, familiar rhythms. Your stomach tightens anyway; your lungs thin out.
John stirs, eyes blinking open slowly, pupils soft and warm. He sees you first thing and smiles—gentle, sleepy—like he’s been dreaming of this exact moment.
“Mornin’,” he murmurs, voice rough, low, still heavy from sleep.
“Hey,” you whisper back.
He reaches out, fingertips brushing your jaw. He looks at you like he’s memorising you.
“You look nervous,” he says quietly.
“I’m always nervous here.”
John nods, slow and understanding. He leans in, presses a soft kiss to your forehead—nothing heated, nothing heavy—just grounding.
“Whatever happens today,” he murmurs against your skin, “you stay with me, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
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Your pop puts John to work immediately.
“Hold this—no, the other end—Jesus Christ, these young men don’t know a spade from a shovel—”
John follows him around the garden with saint-like patience—lifting heavy things, hauling bags of soil, crouching beside flowerbeds while your pop gestures animatedly at various plants like they’re sacred relics.
From the kitchen window, you watch them—your pop lecturing; John nodding with intense focus like he’s being briefed for a mission. Your mom stands beside you, drying dishes, smiling fondly.
“He’s lovely,” she says softly.
You hum a noncommittal agreement.
“No, I mean it," she adds, glancing at you. "He looks at you like you hung the moon.”
Heat creeps up your neck. “Stop.”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic. He adores you.”
You have no argument there because, outside, John glances toward the house, searching for you, and when he spots you through the window, he smiles—slow, sweet, eyes softening like the sight of you is enough to settle something deep inside him.
Your stomach flips.
Mom nudges you, a knowing smile on her lips that you don’t quite understand. “See? Absolutely smitten.”
With the table set for lunch, the food steaming, everyone talking at once, and John's hand settled steady just above your knee, you’re so close to forgetting everything between then and now.
Your brothers tease each other; your pop complains about the neighbour’s new fence; your mom shoehorns John into every topic like she’s decided he’s part of the family within 24 hours.
The empty seat feels like a gorge, cut deep into the earth below your feet, yawning wide until it swallows any peace you had thought you could rest in.
At one point, John leans toward you, his knee brushing yours under the table, thumb rubbing circles at the your jeans seam at your knee. You inhale shakily.
“You okay?” He whispers.
You nod, eyes on your plate.
Your pop launches into a story. Michael interrupts and your mom tells him to hush. Everyone laughs—everyone except you.
John notices. Again.
When dessert comes out—your mom’s apple crumble—Michael shifts the conversation without warning, without malice, but with all the subtlety of a grenade going off.
“You remember when she used to help make this?” He says, smiling vaguely at no one. “Used to sneak extra cinnamon in. Drove mom insane.”
Your chest seizes. Your fork slips. The air changes.
Josh goes rigid beside you.
Your mom’s smile falters, but only for a second; she recovers too fast, too brightly.
John’s brow furrows, subtle, confused.
Your pop clears his throat loudly, trying to redirect.
“So, John, what’s the strongest thing you’ve ever had to lift? Something military related—”
But Michael isn’t paying attention—he’s staring at the doorway down the hall.
The one with the locked door at the end.
The one with her height marks frozen in time.
John follows his line of sight, eyes settling on that closed door. He doesn’t ask, but he feels the shift. His gaze flicks to you, quietly searching.
Your hands shake.
Your mom stands abruptly.
“Who wants tea?” She says, too loudly.
Josh whispers, “Stop.”
Michael stabs at his portion of dessert with his fork, the metal tines screeching against the plate almost as unpleasantly as the change in the air. “What? He was gonna find out eventually.”
John sits perfectly still.
The tension snaps taut across the table.
You push your chair back too fast, legs scraping, and mutter something about needing air.
John is outside before you take three steps on the porch.
You stand on the porch, hands braced on the wooden railing, breathing shallow, rapid breaths that don’t help. The sky feels too wide, the garden too quiet, and the house behind you too loud with unspoken things.
John steps beside you—close but not touching, giving you space you can’t use.
“I didn’t—I didn’t know you had a sister,” he says softly.
You close your eyes tight. Your throat closes.
He waits.
“You didn’t ask,” you manage.
He nods, accepting it, not pushing. “Do you… want to tell me?”
You shake your head. “I can’t. Not yet.”
He nods again—quiet, patient. “Okay.”
A long pause. A breeze moves through the garden.
Then: “He shouldn’t have said it like that,” John murmurs. “He didn’t mean to hurt you, but it wasn’t right.”
You nod once, jaw tight.
John steps closer, slowly, until his shoulder touches yours. His hand brushes the small of your back—barely there, but grounding.
“We can leave if you want.”
You shake your head quickly. “We just got here.”
“We leave whenever you say,” he murmurs. “One day, two weeks—I don't care. You come first.”
The words hit deeper than you want to admit. You swallow hard, eyes burning, and lean into him just enough that your arm brushes his.
He takes that tiny movement and wraps it into something warm—sliding his hand from your back to your waist, pulling you gently into him. You let your head fall to his chest—exhaling a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
He presses his lips to the top of your head—soft, steady.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers.
And for a moment, you let yourself believe him.
By the time you and John re-enter the house, the tension has settled into a cautious quiet.
Your brothers sit in the living room—older one flipping a remote between his fingers; younger one staring at the carpet. Your mom wipes down an already clean counter; your pop rearranges the mugs on the drying rack like they personally insulted him.
John heads to the kitchen to help out of habit, instinct, and that’s when it happens.
Your older brother follows him in.
You hear low voices—quiet, hushed—but sharp.
John doesn’t raise his voice; he never does.
Michael does.
“I didn’t tell her you knew,” he snaps.
“I don’t,” John replies, calm. “Not really.”
A pause. Then, Michael exhales—long, shaky.
“Jess was thirteen,” he says, voice cracking. “She ran out after a fight. A car hit her.”
Your lungs stop.
You stand frozen in the hallway—unable to move, unable to breathe.
John’s voice is low, gentle; devastated on your behalf. “And she saw it, didn’t she?”
Michael swallows audibly. “Yeah. She followed her out the door.”
John goes quiet. Too quiet. You hear him breathe in sharply, like the truth hits him straight in the chest.
You can’t listen anymore. You move to the stairs, taking one step at a time as your vision twists at the edges, your hands shaking. You don’t bother to close the bedroom door behind you—you know John is close by.
A moment later, quiet footsteps follow behind you, and the door clicks shut.
He doesn’t speak. He just stands behind you, close enough that you feel his heat at your back, far enough not to crowd you.
You whisper, “Now you know.”
John’s voice breaks a little. “Oh, darlin’…”
You brace your hands on the chest of drawers, your breath shuddering and vision blurring.
And then his arms wrap around you from behind, slow but firm, pulling you back against him—chest to your spine, his cheek against your temple.
You let yourself crumble into him, silent tears, shaking breaths.
John holds you tighter, unmoving, unshaking.
“I’m right here,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. I swear I’ve got you.”
In that moment, you believe him completely.
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The first week blurs together—slow mornings, long afternoons, family rhythm settling around you like a quilt stitched from old aches and familiar warmth. John fits himself into it with a grace that shocks you; he adjusts, watches, listens, learns the currents beneath every conversation.
And, every day, he gets a little bolder in how he touches you.
Not overt, never disrespectful under your parents’ roof, but enough to make your knees weaken and your breath catch.
A hand at the small of your back when he passes behind you in the kitchen. A thumb brushing the inside of your wrist when your mother says your sister’s name. A look across the dinner table that feels like a hand between your thighs.
Your brothers notice, obviously, and tease you relentlessly—though never unkindly—and you know they had a late night porch chat with John two nights ago, beers in hand a threats laid out quick if he would ever hurt you. You heard it from your bed, your window wide open in the overbearing heat of the spring storm about to hit.
John took it in stride, smirking into his glass every time they joked about you “finally bringing home someone who isn’t a coward”.
But the house is small. The walls are thin. And desire builds quietly, like steam behind a closed door.
It happens late one night, halfway through the visit, after everyone’s gone to bed.
You and John have been sharing your childhood bedroom, the one with the faded posters still taped crookedly to the walls. You insisted on separate blankets—respectability politics, childhood guilt, your mother’s hopeful smile—but John is six-foot-two and runs hot as a furnace, and somehow you always end up tangled anyway.
Tonight, he slips his arm under your pillow and pulls your back flush to his chest. His breath brushes your shoulder, his thighs slotting behind yours, and his hand settles low on your waist—too low to be innocent, too high to be indecent.
“Can’t sleep?” He murmurs.
You swallow. “No. Too many thoughts.”
“‘Bout today?” His lips graze your skin, accidental but devastating.
“About everything,” you whisper.
He hums deep, thoughtful, and it vibrates through your spine.
“Come here.”
He shifts, guiding you to roll onto your back, his chest half over yours. The mattress dips with his weight; the air thickens between you.
His hand slides up your ribs—slow, teasing, reverent—stopping just under the swell of your breast.
You arch almost imperceptibly.
“John…” You whisper—half warning, half want.
His voice dips lower. “You sure?”
You nod, needy and helpless under his hands..
He kisses you, deep and careful, hungry beneath his crumbling restraint. His tongue slides against yours—unhurried, claiming; a slow burn that wraps around your spine and squeezes. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone as he slants his mouth over yours again and again—each kiss a little harder, a little less controlled.
Your fingers bunch in the fabric of his t-shirt.
His hips press down, just slightly, just enough for you to feel the hard line of him through denim.
You gasp softly into his mouth.
John groans, muffled, quiet and desperate. “Darlin’, don’t make that sound here.”
But he moves again, a slow, sinful pressure grinding down into the softest part of you. The friction rips a breathy whimper from your throat before you can stop it.
His forehead drops to your throat. You feel him shudder.
“John—”
“Shhh,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “I got you.”
He kisses your neck—damp, slow, dangerously soft. His hand slips under your shirt, palm spreading over your stomach, then higher, skimming the underside of your breast but never cupping. His restraint is maddening.
You lift your hips in a silent plea.
He curses under his breath, hot and ragged, a man trying very hard not to lose control in your parents’ house.
“Fuck—okay,” he breathes. “Okay, darlin’, I got you. Come here.”
He fits a thigh between yours.
You almost break.
Your hips rock instinctively, slowly, searching for relief. John’s breath stutters against your throat as he feels you grind down against him.
“That’s it,” he whispers, a half praise and half plea. “Use me.”
Your body moves without conscious thought—hips rolling, breath trembling, thighs tightening around his leg. Your shirt rides up; his jeans brush deliciously rough against your inner thighs. You grip his shoulders, nails dragging lightly through fabric.
John bites back a moan.
“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” he groans, voice cracking at the edges.
You drag your hips again. John growls, quiet but animal, and his hand clamps down on your hip, guiding you into another grind. His body trembles above you, his breath breaking in uneven bursts as he moves with you, against you, into you.
You’re both panting now.
The mattress creaks.
The house is too quiet.
And then—
“Shit, shit, wait—hold on,” John gasps, voice strangled—a warning.
You freeze, thinking he’s stopping you, pulling back, regaining control.
He isn’t.
His whole body locks up—hips pressed tight against yours, thigh wedged perfectly between your legs—as he shudders hard and muffles a loud, broken whine into your shoulder.
He cums in his boxers, hips rocking with each pulse.
The shock of it steals your breath—the heat of him, the twitch of his muscles, the soft helpless noises he makes as he rides the aftershocks.
He buries his face in your neck, panting and trembling, holding you like you’re the only solid thing in the room.
From down the hallway, muffled by your bedroom door, your pop’s voice floats in:
“You two alright in there?”
You slap a hand over your mouth. John goes dead still.
You manage to speak, your voice strangled with suppressed laughter, “We’re fine! Watching a movie!”
Silence.
Then, your pop: “Alright, then.”
The moment the footsteps fade, you collapse into soundless hysterics.
John groans into your throat, mortified. “I hate this house,” he mutters, voice hoarse and wrecked.
You kiss his temple—giddy and breathless, still shaking—as he slowly, slowly stops trembling through the last of it.
The morning after John cums in his jeans on your thigh, the house feels different.
Not suspicious, not hostile, just quieter. More aware.
Your mother keeps giving you knowing little looks.
Your father avoids eye contact like a man who knows too much.
Your brothers smirk every time John enters a room, like they can sense something happened but can’t pinpoint what.
John handles it all with soldier-level composure.
Well… mostly. Every time your father speaks, John flushes red from the neck down.
You don’t help; you keep sending him tiny, malicious, hidden smiles over breakfast, enjoying the way he squirms in his chair every time your thigh bumps his under the table.
He glares. You grin. He looks away first.
You win.
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Your brothers warm up to him faster than expected.
It starts with your Michael, tossing John a toolbox and saying, “Come help me fix the gutter. You look like you lift recreationally.”
John deadpans, “Something like that,” and follows him outside.
You watch from the kitchen window as they work side by side—Michael talking, John listening; the kind of quiet, tentative bonding that only happens between two men trying to figure out how much of themselves to reveal.
Your younger brother, Josh, joins them with beers.
You brace for tension.
Instead, within ten minutes, all three are laughing at some dumb joke about your pop’s old lawnmower.
You feel something strange and warm loosen inside your chest.
Maybe this visit won’t break you. Maybe it’ll stitch something back together.
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Your mother ropes John into cooking dinner.
She does it casually—too casually—handing him a wooden spoon with an innocent, “You look like you know what you’re doing in a kitchen. Mind helping me finish this sauce?”
John blinks—caught off guard, but pleased.
“Uh, yeah. I can help.”
You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching them with a warmth that feels like a blanket around your ribs. Your mother, stirring the pot, asking questions; John answering politely, slowly, like he’s picking each word with care.
“So,” she says, “where’d you learn to cook this well?”
John’s hand freezes mid-stir.
You freeze.
He glances over at you—quick, shy, too fond—and your stomach flips violently as he blushes all the way to his ears.
And then, soft as a sigh, he answers:
“Your daughter.”
Your mother’s brows rise in amused surprise.
You choke—actually choke—on nothing. John tries not to smile, failing miserably.
Your pop, passing through, mutters, “Christ,” under his breath.
Your mother beams. “Well. She finally did something right.”
John bites his lip, but the smile is unstoppable.
You don’t know where to look, so you stare at the stove like it’s personally offended you.
Dinner is better than it has any right to be.
Your family fills the table with chatter—gentle teasing, old stories, even the ones that rest against painful memories. But nothing breaks. No one snaps. No one storms off. The air stays light—tinged with grief, yes, but not smothered by it.
John fits into the conversation like he’s been at this table for years.
Your mother watches him with quiet approval; your father with guarded respect; yours brothers with a growing, reluctant fondness that’s only half-teasing now.
You watch him like you’re learning him all over again.
The way he laughs is unrestrained, warm, a little shy. The way he listens to everyone. The way he keeps one knee pressed against yours under the table.
John feels like yours, and you feel like his.
After dinner, you walk. Not far—just down the quiet streets you grew up on. John walks beside you, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, like he’s giving you room to speak if you want but not expecting you to.
You don’t talk at first. You let the night breathe around you.
Crickets. Distant cars. The hum of porch lights.
Eventually, you say, “I haven’t been to her grave since the funeral.”
John doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t need to.
You add, “I can’t go in. I just… can’t.”
He nods—slow, gentle, understanding running deep in the soundless space between you.
“Then we won’t go in,” he says quietly. “We’ll stay in the car. Or outside the gate. Whatever you need.”
Your chest squeezes.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Outside the gate.”
The cemetery is quiet.
You park across the street, the headlights off, the night heavy and still around the iron entrance.
Neither of you speaks. You don’t even move.
The world narrows to the sound of your breath and the weight of a memory you’ve carried like a stone in your pocket for years.
“I used to sit here,” you whisper, “every time pop drove past for work. Every time my brothers went to school. Every time we came home from church. I’d look at that gate and think, if I go in, it’ll be real again.”
John doesn’t speak, but his hand finds yours. Your fingers lace with his automatically.
He squeezes once. You squeeze back.
And you sit there together—fingers entwined, breaths syncing, hearts beating through old shadows—until the weight in your chest loosens just enough for you to breathe without shaking.
When you get home the house is dark, but your room is warm, lit by the soft lamp you left on.
Sheets neat. Pillows rearranged slightly, like your mother had fussed even though she pretends she no longer does.
John closes the door behind you, and the tension in your spine finally eases.
You turn to him.
He looks at you with the kind of softness that cracks something open inside your ribs, light spilling in where guilt used to sit.
He steps toward you—one pace, then another—slow, deliberate, giving you time to stop him.
You don’t.
His hands lift to your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks, palms warm against your skin.
Your breath stutters. Your body leans toward him instinctively.
“Hey,” he whispers. He sounds almost reverent. “You did real damn good.”
You swallow hard. “Doesn’t feel like it.”
“It will,” he murmurs. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. But you’re tryin’, and that’s everythin’.”
You close your eyes.
He kisses your forehead and you melt into him, the warmth of his body your first real shelter all week.
His hands slide down your sides—slow, soothing, lingering just enough to send a gentle, simmering spark through your bloodstream.
Not lust. Just a want, an inevitable push and pull between John and you since your first late night baking lesson in the tower kitchen.
You rest your forehead against his chest.
In this quiet, gold-lit moment, you feel the house loosen its grip on you just a little more.
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The shower is already running when you slip inside the bathroom; steam curling up the mirror, blurring your reflection until it looks like a stranger watching you back. You shut the door behind you. The soft click feels louder than it should, like something locking into place inside your ribs.
John is in the shower, shoulders bowed under the spray, water streaking down the broad line of his back. His head lifts the second he hears you—sharp, aware, like he’s been waiting for you to come find him.
“You okay?” He asks, voice low like he already knows the answer.
“No.”
It’s the only real, honest thing you’ve said today.
You step into the shower without giving yourself time to think. The heat hits your skin all at once, soaking your shirt in a second, turning your breath shallow. John reaches for you instinctively—hands landing on your waist, firm, steady, grounding. You melt into him before you can stop yourself.
He kisses you hard—no hesitation, no space, just heat and teeth and the kind of urgency that’s been simmering for days. Your fingers tangle in the wet hair at the back of his neck; he groans into your mouth—quiet, desperate, like he needs you just as badly.
When he backs you against the tile it’s not rough enough to hurt, but just enough to make you gasp. John swallows the sound immediately; his mouth crashes against yours again, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head so you don’t hit the wall.
Everything is water and breath and the thud of your pulse pounding under your skin.
He breaks the kiss only long enough to rest his forehead against yours—your breaths mingling, warm and uneven.
“You’re shakin’, darlin’,” he murmurs.
“I just can’t—” You exhale hard, your voice catching. “I can’t do this house anymore. I can’t keep pretending. I can’t sleep here, I can’t breathe here—”
“I know,” he whispers, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “I know, sweetheart.”
The pet name hits harder than the water pressure; it knocks something loose inside you. You lean in, kiss him again—messy, needy, all the fear from the last week channelled into the heat between your mouths.
John’s hands drag down your body, slow and deliberate, gripping your hips like he’s holding you together. The kiss deepens; your chest presses to his as the steam thickens around you.
Then he exhales a rough groan, loud enough that it echoes off the tile.
Your eyes widen. His too.
You slap a hand over his mouth.
John freezes, then laughs against your palm; a low, breathy sound that vibrates through your fingers. He softly kisses the heel of your hand before biting, just enough to make your breath hitch.
“Quiet,” you whisper, even though you’re the one who’s breathing harder now.
His eyes darken, blue deepening like a storm rolling in across open fields. His fingers curl around your thigh, dragging you closer. Your wet clothes cling to your skin, your pulse thrumming against every point where he touches you.
He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“You started it,” he murmurs, his voice shredded, a tease wrapped in gravel.
You press your hand harder against his mouth when he tries to kiss you again, his breath catching behind your palm. His eyes flutter half shut and something hungry flickers there, tempered only by the tenderness he never drops, not even when he’s holding you like this.
Your bodies press together under the pounding water—heat rising, breaths quickening, tension coiling tighter with every small shift of his hips against yours. John’s grip firms at your waist; guiding you, grounding you, steady even when he’s barely holding back.
You pant softly against his cheek, your forehead pressed to his temple, your free hand gripping the slick skin of his shoulder for balance.
He groans again, quieter now, muffled into your palm, but still rough enough to make your knees threaten to give.
“John,” you breathe. You don’t even know what you’re asking for, just that you need him close, need this anchor before the memories drown you.
He turns his head enough to kiss your wrist—slow, reverent—then reaches up, taking your hand from his mouth only to lace your fingers with his.
“I’ve got you,” he says, steady and sure, the kind of promise that sinks into your bones. “Whatever you need, I’ve got you.”
He kisses you again, slower this time—deep and consuming, but gentle where everything else in your life feels sharp.
“Need you.” You breathe out, tilting your hips up until his cock slips between your thighs.
His eyes darken instantly; storm-blue, dangerous in a way that’s never unsafe.
His fingers curl around your thigh, lifting, guiding, pulling you even closer. Your soaked clothes slide against his body. Everything feels more sensitive, more electric. He leans in, lips brushing your ear.
The water keeps pouring down your back. Your breath warms his lips while his hands explore your body with a loosening sense of control that somehow feels even more intense than anything else.
John pulls your soaked clothes off of you, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to each part of your skin he exposes. His tongue dips out at your hips, lapping at the stretch mark painted across your stomach, trailing down your pelvis until his nose is pressed against your clit and his tongue is deep inside of you. His beard scratches at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, a sensory overload as you lose yourself in overwhelming pleasure.
Every sound you make stays trapped in the steam of the shower. Every sound he makes stays swallowed in your skin. The whole world disappears into steam, breath, and the soft, uneven rhythm of your hearts trying to match each other.
One hand tangles and pulls at his hair while the other fists in your mouth, trying to quiet your feverish moans as John tongue fucks you through not one or two, but three orgasms. He’s hardly breathing while he loses himself in your taste, his eyes shut and brows knitted together, one hand stroking his cock fast and rough until his eyes flutter open and roll into the back of his head.
He cums hard; his hips jerk in short, wild thrusts. He rests his cheek against your wet thighs before he stands up and wraps his arms around you, tucking you into him.
He takes care of you like that—close, quiet, intimate—until the trembling finally eases out of your limbs and your forehead rests against his chest, your breath hitching in the aftermath of everything you didn’t say.
John’s arms wrap around you, sure and protective, holding you there under the water as if he can shield you from the ghosts waiting outside the bathroom door.
“Let’s leave tomorrow,” he murmurs into your hair. “Let’s just go home.”
And this time, you don’t argue.
You just let him hold you, let him be stronger than the memories for both of you; let the weight lift off your chest, just a little, just enough to breathe again.
The house feels heavier after the shower, like the walls soaked in everything you didn’t say and are now holding it against you. You and John walk back to your childhood bedroom with damp hair and matching exhaustion, both of you wrapped in oversized towels that used to feel comforting when you were a kid.
Now they just feel like borrowed time.
Your brothers are downstairs arguing about something meaningless—TV volume, takeaway containers, who left the back door open. It's the same kind of argument they’ve had for years; loud, pointless, looping on itself. A soundtrack to a house that never healed.
John glances toward the noise, then back at you, eyes softening when he sees the way your shoulders tense.
“You don’t have to stay another second you don’t want to,” he murmurs.
“I know,” you say. You don’t move.
You sit on the edge of your bed—still the same mattress from when you were seventeen, still too soft in the middle, still creaking under the smallest weight. John sits beside you and the mattress sinks toward him like gravity is stronger around his body.
“Talk to me,” he says gently.
But talking feels impossible—wading through molasses, through mud, through memories that still sting like fresh bruises.
“I thought I was ready,” you finally manage. “To come back. To see all of this again. To be here long enough to breathe it in without choking.”
His hand covers yours—warm, steady, thumb brushing over your knuckles like he’s drawing you back into the present.
“And you did,” he says. “You tried. You lasted longer than you should’ve.”
You laugh—small, shaky, not even close to amused. “That’s not an accomplishment.”
“It is,” he insists, voice firm but not sharp. “Because you didn’t come back for the house, you came back for them. For your family. For the version of you they remember.”
“And who is that?” You mutter. “Because I’m not her anymore.”
He shifts closer, knee brushing yours, chest angled toward you like he wants to shield you from your own thoughts.
“She’s still here,” he says softly. “She just doesn’t live in this house anymore.”
Something inside you cracks, quiet but deep. You lean into him instinctively, your forehead pressing to his shoulder. John lifts a hand to the back of your head, fingers slipping into your damp hair; his touch is slow, lingering, patient.
You breathe him in—soap and warm skin, and something steady you don’t have a word for.
“It’s like the air is different here,” you murmur into his shirt. “Like it gets trapped in my chest before I can even inhale.”
He hums, a low vibration against your cheek. “Because this house remembers everythin’.”
Your throat tightens. “Yeah.”
“And you’re not meant to live inside memories,” he says. “Not anymore.”
You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are so blue they almost hurt to hold.
“Then why does it feel like leaving is failing?”
“Because you were a kid when everything broke,” he answers quietly. “And kids always think it’s their job to fix what adults couldn’t.”
Your breath stutters.
That hits too close. Way too close.
Before you can respond, someone knocks on your door with two soft taps.
Your mother’s voice filters through. “Sweetheart? Can you two come down in a bit? We’re thinking of playing a movie.”
John glances at you. You can tell he’s ready to follow your lead, no matter what you choose.
“Yeah,” you call back, forcing a lightness you don’t feel. “We’ll be down soon.”
Her footsteps fade. Silence fills the room again—thick, stretched tight.
John brushes a thumb along your jaw, lifting your chin just enough that you’re looking at him again.
“You don’t have to stay for a movie,” he murmurs. “We can pack your things tonight, leave before it gets dark.”
Your eyes flutter shut, your breath catching.
“Would that make me a bad daughter?”
“No,” he says immediately, without hesitation. “It makes you human.”
You lean into him again, this time with less trembling. His arms wrap around you—slow, gentle—and you let yourself sink into that hold, let yourself believe him, let yourself stop being strong for one goddamn minute.
When you finally pull away, the decision is already settled inside you.
“Let’s leave tomorrow morning,” you say. “Early. Before anyone’s awake.”
John nods, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.
“I’ll pack the car,” he says. “You won’t have to lift a finger.”
You laugh softly, tired but real. “You don’t have to baby me.”
He smirks, crooked and warm. “I’m not babyin’ you. I’m lookin’ after you.”
Your cheeks heat—ridiculous, considering everything you’ve just done together—but his grin softens the embarrassment, turns it into something warm.
He leans forward, pressing a slow kiss to your forehead, then another to your temple, then one featherlight kiss at the corner of your mouth.
“Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s get through the last night.”
And you do.
You go downstairs; you sit between your brothers; you watch an old movie your pop loves; John’s hand finds yours under the blanket and squeezes every time the room goes quiet in a way that feels wrong.
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You wake before the light.
Not because of an alarm, or a noise, or your mother knocking on the door—just the kind of instinctual jolt that hits when something in your body knows it’s time to go.
The room is dim and cold; the air tastes like old memories you’re not willing to swallow again. John is still wrapped around you—chest pressed to your back, arm slung over your waist, breath warm against the nape of your neck. His hold is heavy, protective, the kind that makes you want to stay for one long, reckless second.
But you blink, inhale, and that old weight in your sternum returns.
Not panic. Not dread. Just… fullness. Too much emotion; not enough room to hold it.
You shift slightly. John stirs immediately—of course he does—his fingers tightening at your waist before his eyes even open.
“Mmh, what’s wrong?” He murmurs, voice thick and low with sleep.
“Nothing,” you whisper. “It’s just time.”
His eyes crack open at that—blue, soft with understanding. No questions, no hesitation. He presses a sleepy kiss to your shoulder, then pushes himself upright, rubbing his face.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “Let’s go.”
The two words unravel something tight inside your chest.
You slip out of bed and dress quietly—hoodie, jeans, socks that don’t match because you packed the matching ones days ago. John moves efficiently, silently, tugging on clothes and reaching for the bags already packed by the door. He slings both over one shoulder like they weigh nothing.
Before you open the bedroom door, you pause, hand hovering over the handle.
John notices immediately.
“You good?” His voice is gentle; his hand finds yours without trying.
You nod—too quick to convince anyone. “It’s fine. It’s just… weird. Leaving before they wake.”
“It’s better this way,” he murmurs. “No guilt, no sad eyes, no speeches.”
“Yeah.”
You take a breath and open the door.
The hallway is dark—the kind of dark that knows you, that grew up with you, that saw everything you didn’t talk about. The carpet creaks under your feet; the smell of old wood and cold air clings to the walls.
You stop outside your sister’s door.
Not to open it—no one opens it.
Not to touch the handle—no one touches it.
But your fingers brush the doorframe, tracing the faded marks.
Thirteen years old.
The last line. The last height measurement.
Your breath stutters, just for a moment.
John says nothing—he simply stands behind you, close enough that his warmth reaches your back without touching you. He gives you space; he gives you presence. Not a sound from him.
That’s why you love him.
Not the noise, but the quiet he offers you.
You drop your hand and exhale shakily.
“Okay,” you whisper. “I’m ready.”
And this time, you mean it.
John steps up beside you, intertwining your fingers before leading you down the stairs. The house is so still it feels like it’s holding its breath. The only sounds are the hum of the refrigerator, the soft click of the light switch as you leave it off, and your own heartbeat in your throat.
When you reach the front door, you hesitate again.
Not because you want to stay, but because leaving means acknowledging the part of you that still thinks you’re abandoning something unfinished.
John turns to you, his free hand cupping your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye in a gesture that feels too tender for the cold morning air.
“Hey,” he whispers. “Look at me.”
You do.
“You’re not running,” he says. “You’re choosin’ yourself. That’s different.”
You swallow hard. Your eyes sting. Not enough to cry, just enough to make breathing difficult.
“Okay,” you whisper.
He presses a soft kiss to your forehead—slow, lingering, like he’s sealing the moment into something safer than memory.
“Let’s go home,” he murmurs.
You nod.
And together, hand in hand, you step out into the early morning air.
The drive is quiet.
Your town looks different in the dawn light—washed out, pale, almost unreal. The streets you used to bike down. The corner where you’d waited for the school bus. The hill you used to sled on when winter felt like magic instead of exhaustion.
It all passes by like scenery from someone else’s life.
John doesn’t speak unless you do; his hand rests on your thigh, warm and steady, grounding you every time your thoughts drift too far.
Halfway down the highway, he glances over.
“You thinkin’ about her?” He asks gently.
You don’t need to ask who.
“Yeah,” you whisper.
“You want to talk?”
You shake your head. “Not yet.”
“Okay.”
And that’s that. No push. No pressure. Just space.
When you pull into your driveway in Dobbs Ferry, something in your lungs loosens—just a fraction, but enough to make your eyes close in relief.
John parks, leans back in his seat, and watches you carefully, like he’s assessing whether you’re about to break or breathe.
“Home,” he says softly.
You nod, voice caught somewhere behind your ribs.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Home.”
He reaches over, takes your hand again, squeezing lightly.
“You did good,” he murmurs.
“Did I?” You ask—small, uncertain.
He leans in and kisses you—gentle, warm; deep enough that it sinks into your bones, still slow enough that your breath stutters.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. Your breath mixes in the quiet space between you.
“You survived,” he whispers. “And you got out before it swallowed you again.”
Your throat closes up; a soft, broken sound escapes before you can stop it. John cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, steadying you through the tremor.
“Come inside,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
And you follow him—out of the car, into your home, into the place where the ghosts don’t know your name.
The house is warm when you walk in—quiet, dim, familiar in a way that doesn’t make your chest ache. Your keys hit the entry table with a soft clatter; you toe off your shoes while John sets the bags down, rolling his shoulders once like he’s shaking the road off his skin.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
You’re not sure what you’re waiting for. Maybe for the ghost of the old house to follow you in. Maybe for the guilt to crash into you. Maybe for the numbness to return.
Instead, everything inside you feels jittery—too tight, too full, like you’re stretched thin and buzzing at the edges. It’s not panic exactly; it’s something quieter but stronger, something you’ve been holding at bay for days.
John sees it the second he turns around.
His expression changes; softens, sharpens, a mix of concern and certainty settling across his features like he’s been expecting this. He moves slowly, deliberately, walking toward you with the measured calm of someone approaching a trembling animal.
He stops just in front of you, close enough that his warmth reaches your skin without touching it.
“Darlin’,” he murmurs, voice low. “Look at me.”
You do—quickly, obeying before your brain catches up.
His eyes flicker. He notices.
“Tell me what’s going on in that head,” he says.
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. The words are stuck somewhere behind your tongue.
He steps closer, lifting a hand to your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, guiding your gaze back to his when it threatens to drop. His touch is gentle, but the control behind it isn’t.
“It’s okay if you don’t know,” he says quietly. “Just breathe.”
But the breath you drag in is shaky; the one you release trembles so hard your shoulders follow.
That’s when his expression shifts—decisive, understanding, a quiet firmness settling over him.
“You’re wound up,” he says softly. “Stressed. Holdin’ too much.”
His thumb strokes your jaw.
“And you need help comin’ back, don’t you?”
You nod; small, instinctive.
His voice drops, steady and commanding but warm enough to wrap around your spine.
“Use your words.”
Your breath shudders. “Yes.”
His eyes darken with satisfaction, care, and something protective threaded through the dominance.
“Good girl.”
The praise hits you like a physical touch. Your knees weaken, breath catching on a sound you don’t quite make.
John notices everything.
He steps behind you, fingers brushing your waist as he guides you gently—never rough, never rushed—toward the bedroom. You follow without hesitation; your body knows what it needs even if your voice doesn’t.
The lights stay low; the room feels like a cocoon.
He stops you beside the bed, turning you to face him. You look up at him, shoulders curling inward like you’re trying to shrink around the trembling.
John lifts your chin with two fingers—firm enough to still you, gentle enough not to frighten.
“Colour?” He murmurs.
“Green,” you whisper, immediate.
His breath leaves him in a soft exhale.
“Good,” he says. “Then listen to me carefully.”
He steps closer, a warm, steady hand sliding to the back of your neck, his forehead nearly touching yours.
“You’re not in that house anymore,” he breathes. “You’re not in that hallway. You’re not by that doorframe.”
His thumb rubs the nape of your neck. “You’re here. With me. Home. Safe.”
Your throat closes on a sob you barely catch.
“There she is,” he murmurs, seeing the crack. “Come here.”
He pulls you into him, one arm wrapping around your waist and the other cradling the back of your head as you break—not loudly, not dramatically, just a soft, stifled collapse into his chest.
He holds you through every tremor, breathing slow and deep against your hair until your lungs finally sync with his.
When the shuddering eases, he tilts your chin up again—slow, checking, giving you time to pull away if you need to.
You don’t.
His voice is low, rough, softened only by affection.
“You need to let go. Am I right?”
Your breath stutters. “Yes.”
He kisses you—slow at first, then deeper, firmer, his hand gripping your jaw in a way that centres you instantly. Your knees weaken again; he supports your weight without effort.
When your breath breaks against his mouth, he murmurs:
“That’s it. My good girl.”
He steps you backward toward the bed—your hands gripping his shirt, his touch guiding you with gentle pressure at your hips. When the back of your knees hit the mattress, he doesn’t push you down; instead, he pauses, searching your face.
“You still with me?” He asks.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
His thumb drags over your lower lip, slow and possessive. “Open.”
You do, without hesitation.
His breath trembles; not with doubt, but with restraint. His eyes flicker down to your mouth, then up to your eyes, confirming, always confirming.
When he leans in, his voice is low, rough, intimate.
“Hold it.”
And he lets a warm thread of spit fall onto your waiting tongue.
Your breath catches, your body reacting before your mind can. He cups your jaw, thumb sweeping your cheek as he studies your expression like he’s memorizing it.
“Don’t swallow,” he murmurs. “Not yet.”
Your pulse thrums. Your knees shake.
He sees all of it, and approves.
“My good girl.”
The praise hits harder this time.
He kisses you then; deep, slow, dominating your mouth with careful intention, guiding your head with his hand in your hair as the tension finally begins to unspool inside you.
You melt into him—into the kiss, into the command, into the safety of his control, into the home he makes out of your body.
And when he finally pulls back, your chest is heaving, your eyes glassy, your mind blurred at the edges in a way that feels blissfully quiet.
John brushes his thumb over your swollen lower lip.
“Now,” he murmurs. “Swallow.”
Your whole body shivers.
His smile is soft, satisfied, unbearably tender.
“There she is,” he whispers. “So good for me, yeah? Now come here.”
He lowers you gently onto the bed—slow, careful, treating you like something precious as the last of the tension drains out of your shaking muscles.
He undresses you gently, slowly, his fingers tracing each mark on your skin while he takes you apart without a single word.
He looks wrecked—hair damp with sweat, chest rising and falling in hard, hungry breaths, his belt unfastened and hanging open as if he couldn’t be bothered to finish the thought of getting undressed. His jeans cling to his thighs, to the heavy bulge still straining inside them, and the sight makes your mouth go dry.
“Come up here,” you whisper, but it comes out wrecked, thin and pleading.
John shakes his head slowly, crawling up the bed with deliberate, predatory purpose; his hand slides up your thigh, gripping just a little too hard, thumb pressing into the tender flesh there. You gasp, hips twitching up to meet him, and he gives a low, dark sound of approval.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough, thickened with arousal. “Completely fucked out and beggin’. I haven’t even touched you yet, darlin’.”
You don’t even notice your legs spreading until he settles between them; his hands are big and warm around your knees, pushing them up, folding you open for him. The warm air hits you and you shiver—slick, swollen, needy. He takes in the mess he’s made, the wet sheen on your thighs, the way your body pulses when he breathes on you.
Then he bends down and licks at you—one long, slow drag of his tongue straight through the centre of you—and your whole body jolts. Your hand flies to your mouth to muffle the desperate sound that tears out of you, but John grabs your wrist and pins it above your head.
“No,” he growls, hot breath hitting your sensitive skin, “let me hear you. Haven’t got to hear you for weeks.”
He eats you like a man starved—tongue circling, lips sucking, the sharp edge of his teeth scraping you just enough to make your vision spark. You’re already so sensitive that your hips buck helplessly, thighs clenching around his head. He just groans against you, palms sliding under your ass to pull you harder onto his mouth.
You’re babbling before you even realize it—“John, John, please—oh, God, I can’t—”
He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even slow down. He holds you there, pinned and trembling and desperately close to coming again.
“John, fuck, please—”
That’s when he pulls back, face wet with you, lips swollen, eyes dark enough to drown in.
“You’re not comin’ until my cock’s inside you,” he says. The tone of command hits you low in your belly. “You understand?”
You nod fast, chasing the moment he might finally give you what you’re begging for.
He grins, slow and wolfish, as he pushes himself up, finally shoving his jeans and underwear down. He turns you, then, and the rough, worn fabric of the mattress cover scrapes against your cheek as you land on your stomach, the air rushing from your lungs.
His weight settles over you—not crushing, but claiming. You feel the hard, hot line of his cock against the curve of your ass, and you feel his pre-cum in steady drips trickling down your inner thighs. His fingers, long and calloused from a life you can only guess at, trace the delicate indentations of your vertebrae; one by one, from the nape of your neck down to the small of your back. The touch is proprietary, a mapping of territory. You shiver, pushing your hips back in a silent, desperate plea against the mattress.
He answers by gripping your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there, anchoring you. You hear the shifting of his body behind you, then the blunt, insistent pressure of his cock head at your entrance, nudging through your slickness.
John notches himself at your soaked entrance, teasing you with short dips of the tip of his cock before pulling back out. He drags the length of his cock through your folds while one hand grips the hinge of your jaw to open your mouth wide, allowing all your loud, wanton noises to escape you with ease.
“John, baby, please. I’ve missed you, missed your cock in me,” you beg, writhing under the sensations that just aren’t enough. “Been waiting for this, for you—for us—”
He doesn’t plunge, he eases in—a slow, inexorable invasion that makes you gasp into the sheets. The stretch is magnificent—a deep, burning fullness that seems to reach into the very core of you. He gives you every inch; a measured, torturous slide until his hips are flush against your ass, his body blanketing yours.
He stills for a moment, letting you feel the complete reality of him inside you, the way your body works to accommodate his girth. A low, satisfied groan vibrates through his chest and into your back.
“God,” he pants, forehead dropping to your shoulder blade, “so fuckin’ tight—shit—”
You clench around him and he swears, hips sputtering forward in a helpless jerk that makes you cry out. He bites the sound off with a kiss—hard, messy, all teeth and tongue—one of his hands sliding into your hair to hold you exactly where he wants you.
Then, he moves.
His first thrust is a long, smooth withdrawal, followed by a hard, precise slam back into the hilt. It punches the air from your lungs. The second is harder, faster. A rhythm is born—not a gentle rocking, but a driving, animalistic piston of his hips. Each inward stroke is a claim, the tip of his cock hammering against that deep, tender spot within you that makes your vision blur. Your fingers clutch at the mattress, searching for purchase as the force of his fucking drives you forward with every snap of his hips.
A choked sob escapes you, a sound of overwhelming pleasure-pain. Your eyes roll back, your jaw goes slack. A thin line of drool escapes the corner of your mouth, soaking into the sheet beneath your cheek. The world has narrowed to this: the slap of his skin against yours, the wet, rhythmic sound of his length driving into your soaked depths, the coarse grate of the mattress under your skin.
His hand slides from your hip, around your side, fingertips skimming your ribs. It doesn’t stop until his palm is pressed flat against your sternum. Then he pulls. He pulls you back, up, until your spine is a taut, arched bow and your back is pressed against the solid wall of his chest. Your head falls back against his shoulder, your throat exposed to the humid air of the room.
His mouth finds your ear, his breath hot and ragged.
“That’s it,” he rasps, his voice all gravel and smoke. “Look at you. Taking it, taking all of me.”
His hand slides up from your sternum, his fingers splaying across the column of your throat. He doesn’t squeeze, he just holds. His thumb presses gently into the hollow beneath your jaw, and you feel your own frantic pulse hammering against his palm.
The new angle is devastating. His cock feels even deeper, every thrust a direct strike to your womb. Every other thrust shunts you forward on the sheets, but but pressure of his hand on your throat is a constant, dizzying reminder of his control, pulling you back into him. It sends a fresh flood of heat between your legs, making the slide of him even wetter, even more obscene.
“Listen to you,” he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Hear how wet you are for me? My good girl, yeah?” He punctuates the question with a series of short, brutal thrusts that make you cry out; a broken, guttural sound that seems to come from somewhere ancient inside you.
“So damn responsive,” he groans, thrusts getting harder, sharper, deeper, “every sound, every squeeze. Darlin’, I can feel how close you are already…”
You moan, hips bucking instinctively against him, but he presses a hand to your lower stomach—just above your pelvis—stopping the motion. His thumb brushes your clit in cruel, delicious circles, pushing you closer to the edge again while his other hand still pins you firmly.
“Feel that?” He hisses. “That’s me.”
The pressure of his hand pressing down on you has you whining low, your head thrashing side to side, tears welling in your eyes and spilling out as your orgasm climbs inside of you in crashing waves.
“Feel so good, John—oh my God, baby—” You wail out, voice cracking as his cock twitches inside of you. “Love you, love you so much. Feels—fuck, yes—feel so good in me!”
Your eyes roll back. You can’t hold on. You can’t do anything but feel him, take him, let him drive those last few strokes right where you need them.
“Good girl. Take it, take it for me, darlin’—oh, fuck, yes—” John whines, mouth hanging wide open, his eyes locked on you.
His other hand snakes around your hip, his fingers finding your clit. The contact is electric, rough and perfect. He circles the swollen nub in time with his thrusts, the dual assault shattering your coherent thought.
You feel the change in him first—the rhythm of his hips faltering, growing jagged and desperate. The low growls in his chest become more frequent. His fingers on your clit press harder, move faster.
“Gonna fill you up,” he grunts, the words strained in his throat. “Gonna feel me for days, drippin’ me out of you. I’ll fill you back up when you’re empty. Make sure it takes.”
The promise is what breaks you. The coil of pleasure that had been winding tighter and tighter in your belly snaps. Your orgasm rips through you with the force of a shockwave, a white-hot detonation that seizes every muscle in your body. You convulse around his cock, a series of violent, uncontrollable spasms that milk his length. A raw, screaming sob is torn from your throat as the pleasure whites out your mind, leaving nothing but pure, shuddering sensation.
John drives in harder, deeper, the sound of your bodies colliding echoing through the room. Your nails dig into the sheets, your thighs shaking, but he holds you there, controlling every angle, every pulse. When your body tries to jerk away, he grabs your hair, tilting your head back, making you meet his gaze.
John presses a wet kiss to the corner of your mouth, grunting and whining, holding onto you tighter and tighter. His mussed up dirty blond hair frames his face, sweat building at his hairline and forehead, cheeks ruddy, and lips wet and kiss swollen. His brows are knitted together, pupils blown and eyes squinted in concentration. He looks glorious—marble carved into art, priceless and all yours.
He loses control seconds later; thrusting hard and desperate, burying himself as deep as he can go. He shouts—a ragged, unfiltered sound of release—as your internal clenching pulls his own climax from him. His jaw clenches, his head drops to your shoulder, and his body shudders against yours. The grip on your throat softens to a caress as he empties himself inside of you.
He stays there for a moment, buried to the hilt, both of you panting, slick with sweat, utterly spent. His forehead rests against your shoulder blade. His breath is hot on your skin. Slowly, his hand leaves your throat and slides down to cup your breast, his touch almost reverent now. His voice, when it comes, is a husk of its former self, worn down to a soft, awe-filled whisper.
“Good girl.”
Your whole body melts.
You slump into the sheets, quivering, still clinging to him as your racing hearts slowly begin to sync again.
He collapses against you, chest heavy, hands still holding your hips gently now, fingers tracing idle, soothing patterns across your skin. The heat hasn’t left, but the harsh rhythm is replaced by slow, steady breaths. You cling to him, tangled together, feeling his warmth seep into your trembling body.
“Shh,” he murmurs, voice low and soft now, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You did so well, so good for me.”
You press back against him, legs curling around his, letting yourself melt into the lingering ache of satisfaction. He hums, a rumble against your shoulder, then your throat, the hinge of your jaw, and finally a soft kiss to your lips.
His hands stroke your back slowly, thumbs circling over the tense muscles.
“You okay?” He asks, voice tender but still carrying that quiet dominance, the undertone of possession lingering.
“Yeah,” you whisper, catching your breath. “I—everything was perfect.”
He grins, brushing his nose against yours. “Good.” His hands drift to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek gently. “My strong girl, hmm?”
You nod, curling tighter, leaning into him, warmth and trust flooding your body. The intensity is fading, leaving behind the sweet ache of release and the grounding press of being held, controlled, and cared for all at once.
He kisses the top of your head, then your temple, lingering over your skin with a gentleness has you relaxing fully for the first time in week’s, letting yourself sink into his touch.
All you can think of is what John said in the heat of your impending orgasms: him, filling you up again and again until it sticks, hiding you against him as he stays inside of you; and you, full of him, waddling into the kitchen as he cooks breakfast, pressing a kiss to his spine as he links your fingers together in your left hands, matching rings clinking, while there’s gentle kicks in your rounded belly—wait, what.
As you slowly drift off in John’s arms, his fingers skating up and down your spine, you think to yourself if John could ever be ready to marry again...
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tag list: @witchygagirl (I remembered you wanted tagging in anything John or Lewis related, so here’s the sequel to Mrs. Walker that I’ve been promising for like a month now, lol!)
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Synopsis: John Walker softens for you in the quiet spaces. A lazy afternoon movie marathon takes a turn when a scene on-screen exposes a desire he never expected to feel. In the privacy of your room, he lets go of command—of control, of every mask he wears for the world—and gives himself entirely to you.
Smut Warnings: starts fluffy and remains soft the whole time, BDSM themes, dom!reader, sub!John, bondage/restraints, praise kink, “good boy” kink, power exchange, safe word discussion, mild size kink, mild voice kink, unprotected piv (oopsies!), cowgirl position, creampie (double oopsies!), mild overstimulation, subspace, bodily fluids mention, super serious and loving aftercare.
Word Count: 3.8k
A/N: takes place in the Mrs. Walker (For The Mission, Right?) universe, but can be read as a standalone). also, John is super soft and subby! if you’re not into that then stay far, far away :)
The low hum of the television doesn’t ask anything from either of you. It simply exists, a familiar purr settling into the walls of the common room, stirring the air with a drowsy warmth. The space is a patchwork of lived-in comfort and state-of-the-art design: sprawling leather sectional, a few mismatched throw blankets someone (Bucky, probably) claims they don’t care about, and a glass coffee table perpetually smudged by takeout containers and ring-shaped ghosts from abandoned mugs.
John’s arm rests behind your shoulders, his bicep a steady ridge of warmth you’ve come to rely on. Over the last months he’s learned how to soften: shoulders losing their rigid set, voice losing its bark, touches losing their caution. He pulls you closer when he sighs.
Your head is nestled against his chest, right where his heartbeat thumps a slow and steady rhythm. If the world asked you to explain safety, you’d point to this exact moment. This exact man.
You inhale. He smells like fresh linen detergent and the faintest hint of cedar soap he pretends isn’t expensive.
The late afternoon sun spills in the floor to ceiling windows, every surface flashing to a brilliant gold. John’s skin is luminescent under the rays; the reflection of the sun in the glass coffee table spreads across the entirety of him and you can’t help but admire how he glows—the curve of his crooked nose, his hair a messy, golden halo, catching the sun like spun wheat. Every highlight turns to fire. He looks mythic, something a sculptor might have carved in reverence.
You can hardly believe how breathtaking he is. You can’t look too long without feeling a sweet ache.
You force yourself to look back at the TV when an explosion pulls you out of your reverie. A car flips, a villain screams, and John winces with empathy—not for the hero, but for the poor stunt driver.
The show is some espionage thriller, all car chases and quippy one-liners, until it isn’t.
The scene shifts. The music swells. Suddenly, the screen is filled with a different kind of tension altogether.
The actress, all sleek limbs and fierce concentration, moves above her partner who is stretched out beneath her, his wrists bound to the ornate headboard with dark silk. It’s not just the act itself; it’s the expression on her face—a look of utter, focused control. And his, a portrait of blissful surrender.
You feel the change in John before you see it. The muscle in his arm twitches behind your neck; a subtle tension wires its way through his frame, the relaxed sprawl gone rigid. You assume he’s uncomfortable, maybe even embarrassed, witnessing something so intimate and raw in the common room.
You turn your head, the question should we change it? already forming on your lips, and the words dissolve into nothing.
John isn’t uncomfortable.
His eyes are locked on the screen, his pupils so wide and dark they’ve nearly swallowed the blue-grey of his irises. His eyelashes, pale and surprisingly long, flutter with each quick, shallow breath he takes. His lips—usually set in that firm, thoughtful line—are parted and bitten a raw, tempting red. A flush, hot and unmistakable, paints his cheeks and spills down the strong column of his throat, disappearing beneath the soft cotton of his t-shirt. His free hand presses into the couch cushions, palm first, fingers flexing once before curling tight as if gripping on for control.
He senses your gaze and flinches. That moment alone punches the air right out of your lungs. His eyes snap away to fix on a corner of the ceiling. He tries to subtly withdraw his arm from behind you.
Oh no you don’t.
You fist your hand in the soft fabric of his shirt, holding him in place. Your other hand comes up, your fingers gently finding the line of his jaw, the rough texture of his close-cropped beard a stark contrast to the heat of his skin. You turn his face back to yours.
“John, baby…” You murmur, your voice low and infused with a wonder you can’t hide. “Are you turned on right now?”
His recovery instincts misfire spectacularly.
“No.” He blinks, the flush on his neck deepening to a crimson tide. “Uh, no—what—why would you think that?” The words stumble out of him, voice cracking like fractured glass.
A slow, wicked grin spreads across your face. You shift, swinging one leg over his thighs so you’re straddling his lap, facing him fully. The common room is silent; the rest of the team are scattered across the city, enjoying a rare day of peace. It’s just the two of you.
“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about!” You assure him, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. Your hips make a slow, involuntary roll against the firm plane of his stomach, and you feel the hard ridge of his arousal trapped beneath his jeans. A spark of pure lightning arcs through you. “I think it’s incredibly hot that you get so worked up over something so… little.”
His eyes search yours, frantic and vulnerable, looking for any trace of mockery. He finds only genuine, heated curiosity.
“I just—” He starts, his voice gravel rough. His throat works around words that refuse to cooperate. “It’s not somethin’ I ever thought of before, y’know. Didn’t expect that would be anythin’ I’m… into.”
You lean forward, bracing your hands on the back of the couch on either side of his head, caging him in. You can feel the warmth of his breath on your lips. His hands hover in the air, unsure where to land. Unsure if he’s allowed.
“What about it, though?” You press, your voice a low hum. “Is it her? Being in charge? Or is it… him? Letting go?”
John’s eyes squeeze shut for a moment, a low sound rumbling in his chest, something between a groan and a plea. “Darlin’, please…”
“Tell me,” you whisper, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. You press down against him again; a slow, deliberate friction through the frustrating layers of clothing. He’s fully hard now, a fact he can no longer hide. His hands come up to grip your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there—not pushing you away, but holding on as if you’re the only solid thing in a spinning world.
“Talk to me, John,” you coax. “I’m not laughing.”
His gaze flickers everywhere your eyes aren’t. His chest rises, falls. Rises again. He looks terrified to want something. He squeezes his eyes shut.
“The—the letting go,” he finally rasps, the admission torn from him. His eyes open, and the raw, unguarded need in them makes your own breath stutter. “The thought of just… givin’ it all to you. All of it. No thinkin’. No orders to give. No leadin’. Just you.”
The honesty of it, the sheer vulnerability, winds you. This man, this strong, steady pillar of a man, wants to fall apart in your hands.
“You’re such a good boy for telling me,” you breathe, and the words have an immediate, electric effect. A tremor races through him, like the syllables cracked some sacred seal. His grip on your hips tightens unconsciously. His lips part, something like a whimper catching in his throat before he can silence it. You smile, tracing the line of his brow.
“The team won’t be back for hours. Why don’t we go to your room? We can explore this, if you want.”
He shakes his head, a quick, almost frantic motion. His gaze drops to your collarbone, shy again. “Can we—can we go to yours? Feels safer there. More like… mine.”
The admission is a gift. His room is sterile, functional; a soldier’s quarters. Your room is yours—all soft blankets, warm light, and the scent of your perfume. He doesn’t just want to try this; he wants to be yours in it. He wants to be surrounded by you while he lets go.
Your heart squeezes tight.
“Of course,” you say, your voice thick with emotion.
You switch off the TV, plunging the room into a sudden, expectant quiet. Sunlight remains your only witness.
You straighten, palms resting lightly on John’s chest. His heartbeat flutters beneath your touch like a caged bird. He looks dazed—eyes wide and glassy with adrenaline and want, but tethered to you by something deeper.
You slip off his lap, your knees weak beneath you. You stand and offer your hand; a silent invitation.
He sits there for a beat, staring at your hand with a reverence that steals your breath. Then his palm meets yours, his larger palm enveloping yours, fingers lacing tightly between your fingers. The connection is simple and profound. You lead him to the elevator, and he follows—a quiet, eager shadow.
The ride up is silent, filled only with the sound of your shared breathing and the soft chime of passing floors. Awareness blooms in every breath. John stands tall yet uncertain beside you, his fingers still locked with yours. His reflection in the polished doors looks ready for deployment, muscles coiled with vigilance.
You turn to face him fully, your free hand raising to his chest. You feel the thud if his heartbeat beneath your palm—too fast, too loud, every beat sending a tremor through him.
“You still with me, John?”
“Yes.” His answer is immediate. No hesitation.
The elevator glides to a stop with a soft ding.
John doesn’t move immediately. His fingers tighten in yours, anchoring himself to the moment, to you. You let him take the first step when he’s ready.
He follows you down the hall. More sun, more too-white walls, more art Valentina probably paid too much for. But here, nearer your quarters, it feels quieter—the air speaks in whispers rather than commands.
Your door recognises your touch and clicks unlocked. You push it open and step inside, drawing John with you.
Inside your room, with the door clicking shut behind you, the world narrows to this space, to this man.
Your room is everything the rest of the tower isn’t: warm, soft, lived in. The late afternoon light filtering through gauzy curtains paints the walls in gentle amber. A few framed photographs rest on a dresser. The bed is layered with blankets in favourite textures; pillows in soft, mismatched tones of your favourite colours. The subtle scent of your perfume hangs in the air like the memory of laughter.
It feels like you.
The way John’s shoulders drop tells you he feels it too.
You turn to him, raising your intertwined hands between you. You bring his knuckles to your lips, pressing a soft kiss there.
He moves first, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin. He leans in, and his kiss is not what you expected. It’s not hungry or desperate—it’s slow, reverent; a deep, lingering exploration that tastes of mint and the unique, warm flavour that is purely John. Your hand comes up to rest on his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart against your palm—a wild counterpoint to the patience of his mouth.
You break apart, both breathing a little heavier. His eyes are still dark but now the edge of panic is gone—instead it’s replaced by a dazed, trusting warmth.
“We need a safe word,” you tell him softly.
He frowns, confused. “Don’t need one. I trust you.”
“I know you do,” you say, squeezing his hand. “But it’s for me, too. I need to know you can tell me if it’s too much. I need to feel safe taking care of you.”
He considers this, his brow furrowed in thought. After a moment, he nods. “‘Shield’,” he says. “S’my safe word.”
You smile. “Okay. ‘Shield’.”
“I want to take this slow,” you say. “We go one step at a time. You tell me what feels good.”
He nods quickly, eyes locked to yours, breath trembling.
“What do I do?” He asks in a whisper.
“You just be here.”
A soft exhale leaves him, barely audible—relief, fear, anticipation, all tangled together.
Your voice lowers. “Let me ask one thing.”
His head lifts. Attention fully given.
“There’s no rush to get anywhere,” you say. “But if something feels overwhelming, if you need to stop—tell me. Out loud.”
He hesitates only a second before answering. “I promise.”
“Good.” You smile. “Now, how do you want to start?”
His eyes widen slightly. You can almost see his thoughts scatter like startled birds. You give him an easier question.
“Touch is okay?”
“Yes.” He answers too quickly, then softens it. “Yeah.”
You step into his space, raising both hands to his shoulders. Your touch is careful, sliding down his arms, fingertips mapping the lines of muscle there. You take your time; exploring not with hunger, but with gratitude.
John watches you like each brush of your fingers rewrites a rule inside him.
His breath catches when you smooth your palms along his sides, thumbs brushing the soft cotton of his shirt. You lean in enough that he can feel your breath warming the base of his throat.
“Let me get you comfortable,” you say gently.
You guide him to sit at the edge of your bed. The mattress dips under his weight, creaking faintly. He studies the blankets beneath his hands, like absorbing their softness is a task that requires full concentration.
“Hey,” you coax, tipping his chin up with a single finger. “Eyes here.”
He obeys instantly.
You smile. “That’s my good boy.”
His inhale shakes. The phrase wraps around his chest like a ribbon, drawn snug.
The undressing is a slow, collaborative dance. You push the soft cotton of his t-shirt up over the hard planes of his stomach, his chest, and he raises his arms obediently so you can pull it over his head. His skin is warm and smooth under your palms, mapped with the faint silvery lines of old scars you’ve traced countless times. You lean in, pressing your lips to one on his shoulder, and he makes a soft, gratified sound.
Your own clothes follow, his hands surprisingly steady as he unbuttons your jeans; his knuckles brushing your hip bones, making your skin prickle with anticipation. He pushes the denim down your legs, and you step out of them. Soon your stood at the base of the bed between John’s legs, bathed in the afternoon light filtering through your window, bare to each other.
You take a few steps away, aware of John’s hands reaching out after you. You look into your closet, your fingers finding what you’re looking for: two of his suit ties he had left previously in your room; one a deep navy, the other a charcoal grey. The silk is cool and smooth in your hands.
He watches you, his chest rising and falling steadily, his expression one of unwavering trust. You guide his back onto the bed and he lies down without a word, his head on your pillows. You take his left wrist first, looping the navy tie around it in a secure but simple knot, then tying the other end to the left post of your headboard. You repeat the process with his right wrist and the charcoal tie.
He tests the bonds once, not to break them—a single flex of his super-soldier strength would snap the silk like thread—but just to feel the give. To feel the restraint. The muscles in his arms cord with the movement, and a fresh wave of heat washes through you. He’s choosing this.
You crawl onto the bed, settling yourself between his legs. His cock lies hard and flushed against his stomach, and the sight of him like this—spread out, bound, entirely at your mercy—is the most potent aphrodisiac you’ve ever known.
John watches you with eager, heavy lidded eyes, brows furrowed when you make no other move touch him.
“What do you want, baby?”
The only response from him is a whine, the arch of the neck bending back until he’s staring at the ceiling, mouth parted open as he pants wildly.
“Words, John,” your tone is firm, louder than before. “I need you to talk to me.”
“Shit—darlin’, want your pussy on me. Please.”
John is beautiful when he begs.
John Walker, Captain America, U.S. Agent, willing to give his entire self just to you.
You lower yourself over him, positioning yourself so your slick, hot core aligns with the length of him. You’re soaked, dripping down your inner thighs already. You press down; a slow, rolling grind that coats him in your wetness but doesn’t let him inside.
His eyes slam shut. A guttural groan tears from his throat, and his hips buck up instinctively, searching for more. The silk ties pull taut.
“Darlin’…” He pleads, the word ragged. “Please…”
You continue the agonisingly slow rhythm, your own breath coming in short gasps as the friction builds a delicious, coiling pressure low in your belly. “Please what, John?”
His head thrashes on the pillow. “Touch me. Fuck me. Anythin’. God, anythin’, just—please…” The begging is raw, unfiltered, and it fans the flames of your own desire until you’re trembling with it.
You still your hips, leaning over him until your lips are inches from his. Your pointer finger traces the sharp, familiar line of his jaw beneath the scratch of his beard. His eyes open, glazed with need.
“What’s your safe word?” You ask, your voice barely a whisper.
A shudder runs through him.
“Shield,” he rasps instantly. “But I don’t need it. You’re everythin’ to me.”
The words undo you. You shift your weight, tilting your hips just so. The broad, ruddy, slick tip of him notches at your entrance, and you start to sink down.
The sensation is immense—a slow, stretching fullness that has you both gasping. You pause, letting the feeling ripple through you, watching his face. His eyes are wide, locked on yours, his lips parted in a silent ‘o’ of overwhelmed sensation. You sink another inch and his back arches off the bed as a strained, choked sound escapes him. His hands curl into desperate fists.
You begin to move; a slow, deep undulation of your hips, riding him in a rhythm that is pure torture. He’s begging again, a continuous, breathless stream of ‘faster’ and ‘please’ and ‘darlin’. The muscles in his arms and abdomen are rigid, strained to their limits as he holds himself back from breaking the fragile bonds, from taking over.
“Tell me, John. You gotta tell me what you want.” Not a demand, but a request.
A high pitch keen punches out of John, his head thrashing side to side; his hair mussing up so that it frames his head on the pillow like a halo again.
“Harder, faster—fuck—want you ridin’ me so hard your legs shake,” he sputters out. It’s a half-snarl that quickly devolves into a desperate whine as he loses his mind.
You succumb quickly to John’s pleas. You lean forward, pressing your palms to his chest for balance, tucking your calves closer to his body for support, and you ride John as hard and fast as you can possibly go.
John’s eyes immediately roll to the back of his head, jaw dropping wide open. You reach one hand up to his mouth, your thumb brushing against his bottom lip, and he sucks your thumb in without hesitation. His tongue laps and coats your thumb in his saliva, moaning lowly when you press your thumb deeper in.
“So good, baby, feel so good in me,” you mutter, barely coherent as your pleasure climbs in you like the tide rolls in.
You lean forward, your breasts brushing his chest, and put your mouth next to his ear. “You’ve been so good for me, John,” you whisper, your voice husky with your own rising pleasure. “My good boy.”
The effect is instantaneous. His entire body seizes. A broken, whimpering cry is torn from his throat as his climax crashes over him. His eyes squeeze shut, his head throws back against the pillows, tendons standing out in his neck. His legs shake violently, uncontrollably. His body bows off the bed, held taut like a bow line, tied only by his wrists.
Suddenly, he folds inward, his knees coming up to frame your body as his hips jerk through the waves of his release. The convulsive tightening of his body presses his lower stomach firmly against your sensitive clit, and the coiling tension inside you snaps. A sharp, stunning orgasm rips through you; milking him, drawing his release out as you pulse around him, overstimulated and shuddering.
He collapses onto the mattress, loose limbed and utterly spent, his chest heaving. The room is silent except for the ragged symphony of your breathing.
You gently untie his wrists, your fingers smoothing over the faint red marks left by the silk. Reaching across to the top drawer in your nightstand, you pull out some anti-inflammatory cream. You twist the cap off and carefully apply the cream to the slight abrasions on his wrists. John remains pliant throughout this, lifting his arms only when you apply a small amount of pressure—other than that, he lays entirely still, his eyes fogged and glazed over, cheeks ruddy and chest heaving as he slowly comes down.
You fetch a warm, damp cloth from the bathroom and return to the bed, meticulously cleaning your wetness painted across his lower torso and thighs, and your joint cum spilling down his sensitive shaft and balls. You fold the cloth over to a fresh side and wipe the sweat from his brow, his arms and chest too.
The whole time, he watches you through hazy, half-lidded eyes; a slight, involuntary tremble still running through his limbs.
“You were so good,” you murmur, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple. “I love you. You’re so incredibly beautiful like this.”
You lie down on your back beside him. With a soft, weary grunt, he flops onto his stomach and drags himself half on top of you, his face burying itself in the curve of your neck. One heavy arm wraps around your waist, the other tucks under your pillow. His breathing begins to even out, slowing into the deep, steady rhythm of sleep.
You card your fingers through his damp hair, holding him close, surrounded by the warm, musky scent of him and the profound silence of the tower. His hand—the one draped over you—finds yours and his fingers slowly, sleepily, intertwine with yours once more.
Your bodies fit together with thoughtless precision, as if the tower was built around this moment instead of the other way around. His legs shift slightly, aligning yours with his.
You lie there in the quiet aftermath, the warmth of his body a comforting weight, his breath a soft whisper against your skin. You focus on the feel of his fingers laced through yours—a simple, steadfast connection. You watch the afternoon light begin to soften and stretch across the ceiling, and you wait.
Synopsis: You and John drift from wary colleagues to quiet companions over a string of late night conversations, cooking lessons, and training sessions—just two insomniacs finding fragile peace in the loneliness of the night. Eventually, you’re assigned an undercover “married” surveillance job in a sleepy coastal town and you both slip into domestic rhythms: still half-asleep breakfasts, markets, porch dinners, stakeouts, until under the dim lights of a club while tracking down your target, you and John finally let down your walls.
Smut Warnings: making out in public, cunnilingus, fingering, handjob, blowjob, brief deep-throating, marriage kink, unprotected piv (oopsies!), multiple orgasms (male and female), lovey dovey sex, overstimulation, creampie (double oopsies!!), slightly submissive John (he’s soft af), praise kink galore!
Fic Warnings: mild violence, minor injuries, brief alcohol use, some swearing, insomnia related to depression, brief mention of PTSD symptoms. reader and John are the most oblivious idiots. also, John Walker cannot cook for shit.
Word Count: 16k
part 2 | part 3 | part 4
It’s long past midnight when the building finally exhales.
The air inside the New Avengers compound is different after hours—slower, softer, almost human. The mission boards go dark, the hallway lights dim to amber. The day-crew of heroes, bruised and loud, have scattered to their rooms. The silence that follows them feels like the low tide: everything pulled back, the exposed floor glistening in the dark.
You’re still at your desk, of course. Logistics never sleeps—someone has to track field gear rotations, fuel manifests, and who’s forgotten to log their weapon serials again. You tell yourself you’ll shut down after this last report, but the numbers blur, edges slipping. Eventually you give up and wander toward the kitchen, seeking caffeine or comfort. Whichever answers first.
The corridor is cool against your bare arms. Your sneakers squeak once on the polished floor, echoing into the stillness. The HQ feels too large at this hour, all those empty rooms waiting. You hum under your breath just to fill the quiet.
When you round the corner, light spills from the kitchen doorway—low, golden, unexpected.
John Walker stands at the counter in a t-shirt and sweatpants, hair damp as though from a late shower. His back is broad, shoulders bracketed in shadow. He’s staring down at a mixing bowl as if it might salute him.
You blink. “You’re baking?”
He turns, wide eyed, caught in the act.
“Tryin’ to.” The Southern drawl in his voice is thicker when he’s tired. “Didn’t wanna wake anyone with the blender, so I’m doin’ it the old-fashioned way.”
You step closer and the smell hits: bananas, butter, sugar.
“Banana bread.”
“Supposedly.” He lifts a wooden spoon, globs of batter sliding off. “No guarantees.”
“Need help?”
He hesitates just long enough for you to see pride war with common sense.
“Yeah,” he admits finally. “Reckon I’m in over my head.”
You wash your hands at the sink, water hissing over your skin. He watches in the reflection of the window above the basin. You can feel it. Not in a threatening way; just curious, almost grateful. You dry your hands, move beside him. The bowl is half mixed, chunks of banana still defiant.
“Here,” you say, taking the spoon. “Fold, don’t stir. Otherwise it gets tough.”
He leans an elbow on the counter, close enough that your shoulders nearly touch.
“Fold, huh… didn’t think bakin’ came with combat tactics.” He teases, a wry smile caught at the corner of his mouth.
“You’d be surprised.”
You work the batter, feeling his gaze linger on your hands. The air between you shifts—not sharp, but dense, like the pause before rain. When you glance up, he’s smiling, faint and lopsided.
“You always up this late?” He asks.
“Most nights.”
“Can’t sleep?”
“Too many logistics.” You shrug. “My brain keeps lists. It doesn’t know how to turn off.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Mine keeps replayin’ things. Different kinda insomnia.”
You look at him then, really look, and note the lines at the corners of his eyes, the faint bruise along his jaw that even the best med-gel hasn’t erased. The man wears his restlessness like armour.
You slide the loaf pan closer. “Grease that, please.”
He obeys, reaching for the butter, movements careful. You realise you’ve never seen him this domestic—John Walker, soldier, super-soldier, whatever title they’re using this week, holding a stick of butter like it’s ordnance.
“You do this often?”
“Bake? Hell no. My mom used to, though. Guess it just stuck in my head.”
Something softens in his tone, nostalgia edged with loss. You don’t pry; you just guide the batter into the pan and let the conversation trail into quiet. The oven ticks as it preheats, the hum of the fridge filling the pauses.
When you reach for the oven door, he stops you. “I got it.”
His hand brushes your wrist—warm, rough, calloused. The contact is brief, but it jolts something in you; a static that hums beneath the ribs. You pull back a fraction too quickly. He notices, mouth quirking.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he murmurs.
“You didn’t.” Your voice is steady. Your pulse is not.
He slides the pan inside, closes the door with a soft clang. The smell of sugar and banana thickens as heat blooms. He leans back against the counter, arms crossed, watching the oven window like it might reveal secrets.
“Guess we wait,” he says.
“Forty minutes.”
He tilts his head, half-smile returning. “That long, huh? What do logistics people do while waitin’?”
“Usually file paperwork.”
“Well, that’s not happenin’.” He nods toward the stools. “Sit. Keep me company.”
You do. The stool’s metal frame squeaks as you settle. He grabs two mugs, pours coffee, strong and dark, and slides one toward you.
You sip—it’s terrible. “This is a war crime.”
“Hey, I’m learnin’!”
You laugh—quiet, surprised. The sound makes him glance up, eyes crinkling.
Silence again, but softer this time. Outside, wind rattles the glass; inside, the oven’s warmth fogs the window. You watch him, the way his shoulders ease when he isn’t pretending to be anyone’s Captain, how the furrow between his brows is gone, just smooth skin under the glow of the dim kitchen lights.
“You know,” he says after a while, “most folks still keep their distance.”
You look up.
“From you?”
He shrugs, gaze fixed on the mug. “Hard to blame ‘em. Reputation follows you, even when you try to do better.”
“You are doing better,” you say simply.
He studies you for a long beat, like he’s weighing whether to believe it. Then he nods once, slow. “Thanks.”
You catch the faint tremor in his exhale. Relief, maybe. Or disbelief.
The timer on the oven ticks steadily. You tap the counter rhythmically, filling the hush. He mirrors the motion with one finger on his mug, and eventually your rhythms sync without meaning to.
Minutes stretch.
The air smells sweeter now, golden brown rising behind the glass. He moves first, crossing to check the loaf, and when he bends to peer inside, his shoulder brushes yours again. Neither of you steps back.
“Looks done,” he murmurs.
“Needs five more,” you whisper, though you’re not looking at the bread.
He straightens slowly, eyes catching yours—blue, tired, too earnest. For a breath the world narrows to that line between you. Then the timer dings, sharp enough to break the spell.
You both laugh, too loud. He pulls the pan out, sets it on the rack, steam curling upward.
“Moment of truth,” he says.
John cuts a slice and hands it to you on a napkin. You bite in and instantly moan. It’s warm, dense, sweet enough to make your eyes close.
“You did it.”
We, you mean, but he grins like the praise belongs entirely to him. “Not bad for two insomniacs.”
The clock on the wall reads 1:47 a.m.
You wash the dishes together—you scrub, he dries. The rhythm becomes easy, companionable. Every so often your arms brush and every time it happens, neither of you comments.
When everything is put away, he leans against the counter again, watching you gather your notebook from the stool.
“You should try sleepin’,” he says gently.
“Should you?”
“Touché.”
You meet his eyes, and there it is again: that weightless moment where the room feels too small for what hangs between you.
He smiles, small and crooked. “Same time tomorrow?”
You open your mouth to protest—say it was coincidence, that you shouldn’t make a habit of this—but what comes out instead is, “Sure. Maybe I’ll teach you how to make something else.”
He raises a brow. “You volunteerin’ as my instructor?”
“Well someone’s got to keep you from poisoning the team.”
His laugh rumbles low in his chest. “Deal.”
You turn to leave, the aftertaste of banana and coffee lingering. At the doorway, you glance back once more.
He’s still there, hands shoved into pockets, watching the loaf cool like it’s some small miracle. The overhead light paints his hair gold at the edges, softens the scar near his temple. For a second you imagine reaching out—tracing that light, that warmth—but the thought alone feels too intimate.
Instead, you whisper, “Goodnight, John.”
He looks up, smile slow. “Night.”
You walk the hallway back to your room, pulse still quick, skin buzzing as though you’d stood too close to something electric. You tell yourself it’s nothing; just a late night, shared quiet, flour on his hands.
But when you lie in bed, you can still smell the banana bread, the faint trace of his cologne under it, and you know sleep won’t come easy.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
It’s been a few nights since the banana bread truce that neither of you have named. The kitchen still smells faintly of cinnamon and sugar; maybe that’s imagination, or maybe the scent really did settle into the corners, like a secret. The few nights since have been filled by conversations of meals you like to cook and what he would like to learn from it. You’ve not spent a long amount of time together since.
You come in late again, laptop under your arm, half a dozen unfinished reports open. The soft humming of the refrigerator is the only sound until you notice movement. It’s John again, bent over the counter, sleeves rolled up, a jar of tomatoes open beside him.
“Trying again?” You ask, leaning on the doorway.
He glances up, half smiling. “Graduated from banana bread to real food. Thought I’d tackle your fancy pasta sauce.”
“My ragù?” You echo, incredulous.
He shrugs, a little sheepish. “You mentioned it the other night. Figured I’d surprise you.”
You set the laptop aside, roll your sleeves. “You’ll burn the base if you don’t stir now.”
“I was just—”
“—watching it smoke?”
He laughs, a low sound that catches in his throat. “Guess I was hopin’ you’d walk in before it caught fire.”
You take the spoon from his hand, his fingers grazing yours for just a brief, warm, deliberate second.
“You could’ve asked for help.”
He leans back, arms crossed, watching. “I knew you’d show up anyway.”
You turn away quickly, pretending to focus on the pan. “Confidence suits you.”
“So does you bossin’ me around.”
You pretend not to hear that.
The sauce sputters, filling the air with the smell of garlic and tomato. He moves beside you again, too close for reason, his arm brushing yours every time he reaches for something. You tell yourself it’s coincidence.
“How long till it’s done?”
“Two hours or so. Ragù doesn’t rush.”
He grins. “Patience. Got it.”
For a while the kitchen fills with the rhythm of small noises: spoon against pan, the faint hiss of the stove, the occasional clink of metal when he moves too fast. You guide him through chopping onions, and his knife technique is as reckless as you expected. Quite clearly the only knife skills he possesses is from brute force; years of military training and field experience, rather than the basics of just cooking. You wonder why he never learnt as a kid.
“Slow down,” you say, covering his hand with yours. The muscles in his forearm go still under your touch. You feel his pulse where your wrist meets his.
He’s watching you. Not your hand, not the onions—you.
“Like this,” you whisper, curling his fingers around the knife handle properly. “Let the knife do the work.”
He nods, but you don’t move your hand right away. The kitchen is quiet except for the faint scrape of steel on wood.
When you finally step back, your breath feels too shallow.
“You ever teach combat with that kind of patience?” He asks, voice rougher than before.
“You’d have to ask the trainees.”
He chuckles. “They probably don’t get this close, though.”
You roll your eyes, but your cheeks betray you, heat blooming quick across your face. You stir the sauce again just to do something with your hands.
Time stretches. He moves around you easily now, learning your rhythm. Every so often his fingers brush your elbow as he reaches past, and every time it feels intentional.
He opens a bottle of cheap red wine, pours a little into the pan, a little into two glasses. The sauce darkens, the scent deepens.
“To your first successful ragù,” you toast.
He clinks his glass against yours. “To my excellent teacher.”
The wine is dry, sharp on the tongue. You let it linger. Conversation drifts—missions, small talk, the kind of comfortable nothing that feels like belonging. Somewhere between the stories you realize you’ve stopped thinking about work entirely.
He watches you as you talk, eyes softened, the set of his shoulders unguarded.
“You ever miss normal?” He asks quietly.
You blink. “Normal?”
“Before all this.” He gestures vaguely—the HQ, the endless work, the people who don’t sleep. “I used to think normal was borin’. Now it sounds like peace.”
You stir the sauce, slower now. “I think peace is overrated. People forget it’s just the space between storms.”
“Still,” he murmurs, “space sounds nice.”
The sauce bubbles, thick and ready. You ladle some into a bowl, slide it toward him with a spoon. “Try it.”
He does, blowing on the steam. His expression shifts—surprise, then a grin that lights up his whole face. “You’re somethin’ else.”
You laugh. “It’s just sauce.”
“Nah.” He leans on the counter, still smiling. “You make it look easy.”
He doesn’t mean cooking, not really. You feel it in the pause that follows, the way the air stretches thin between you.
He sets the spoon down. You can see him thinking—maybe about stepping closer, about saying something you both might not be ready for, or maybe he’s just thinking about what meal he’d next like to learn.
The sound of the door sliding open cuts through the silence.
Yelena walks in like she owns the place, hair messy from late training, sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder. Clearly you and John aren’t the only ones with insomniac tendencies.
She stops at the sight of you both, eyebrow arching.
“Well, well,” she drawls. “Domestic bliss. How touching.”
John straightens instantly. “It’s not—”
“—a date? Please.” She grins, leaning on the doorframe. “You’re making dinner together at one in the morning, all friendly like. If that’s not love, it’s at least co-dependence.”
You groan. “Yelena—”
She winks. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell. The team would only die from cuteness.”
John mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a curse. You catch his eye, and for a heartbeat you both almost laugh.
Yelena snags a piece of bread from the counter, dips it in the sauce, tastes it. “Hm. Not bad. You might survive marriage after all.”
Then she’s gone, footsteps fading down the hall, leaving the door to swing shut behind her.
Silence rushes back in. You exhale, shaking your head. “She’s never going to let that go.”
John’s shoulders relax, a slow grin creeping in. “Guess not.”
You look at each other and then, without meaning to, both start laughing; the kind of laughter that breaks tension rather than builds it. When it fades, he’s still looking at you, eyes crinkled at the corners.
“You know,” he says softly, “I kinda like it when she calls us that.”
“Co-dependant? Married?”
“Friends.” His smile tilts. “Maybe both.”
You can’t find an answer that doesn’t sound like confession. The air smells of tomatoes and warmth and something almost sweet. He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear—a simple gesture, but it steals your breath.
“Thanks for teachin’ me,” he murmurs.
“For cooking?”
“For stayin’.”
You swallow hard. “You’re welcome.”
The clock hums quietly. The sauce thickens on the stove. You should move, clean, end the moment before it becomes too much. But you don’t. You stay there, shoulder to shoulder, the faint brush of his arm against yours a heartbeat that neither of you interrupts.
Finally, he clears his throat, half smiling again. “You think Yelena’s watchin’ from the hall?”
“Definitely.”
He chuckles. “Then we better behave.”
You nod, but neither of you steps away.
When the food is packed into containers and the lights are dimmed, you find yourselves lingering again at the doorway—the same place you left him nights ago.
He shifts, as if he wants to say something, then just lifts a hand, a small, hesitant wave. “Goodnight, chef.”
“Goodnight, student.”
You walk back to your quarters with the smell of ragù clinging to your hands, the sound of his laughter caught somewhere in your chest. The reports on your laptop will still be there in the morning, but for the first time in a while, you think maybe you’ll sleep.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
By the time the sun climbs through the tall windows of the training hall, the air already smells like metal and sweat. The floor gleams, newly waxed, lines bright under the lights. You’re not usually here this early—you live more in the hum of night—but John had found you in the mess hall yesterday morning, coffee in one hand, a grin in the other.
“You keep everyone else in shape with your schedules,” he’d said. “Maybe you should get a little field time too.”
You’d laughed it off. He didn’t. And now here you are.
He stands at the far edge of the mat, already warm, t-shirt darkened along his back. He looks different in daylight—not as sharp, somehow. Just a man, stretching a shoulder, rolling his neck.
“You don’t have to go easy on me,” you tell him, toeing the mat’s edge.
“Who said I was gonna?” His voice is all play, though the corner of his mouth betrays a smile. “C’mere. We’ll start slow.”
You drop your bag, step forward, the mat giving under your weight. The smell of resin and detergent clings to the air. Somewhere a ventilation fan hums; otherwise, it’s quiet enough to hear the soft thud of his boots.
“Alright,” he says, gesturing for you to mirror his stance. “Basic block first. You remember?”
You nod. He shifts forward, a blur of motion, and your arm comes up a second too late. His palm stops just shy of your shoulder.
“Close,” he says, and steps back. “Try again.”
You reset. This time you move faster. The smack of his wrist against your forearm stings, but he grins. “Better.”
After a few rounds, your pulse evens out with the rhythm—step, block, breath. He corrects you occasionally, voice low, steady. Each time he touches your arm or shoulder to adjust your stance, your breath catches. He’s careful, gentle even, but the warmth of his hand lingers longer than the instruction requires.
“Loosen up,” he murmurs behind you. “You’re thinkin’ too hard.”
“I’m trying not to get thrown.”
“That’s your problem.” He steps closer, one hand on your hip, the other guiding your wrist. “You’re waitin’ for it. You gotta move with it.”
His breath brushes your ear; your skin prickles. You nod, though you’re not sure what he said. When he steps back, the air feels thin.
“Again,” he says.
You turn, block, twist, and this time, when he pushes, you move with it. Momentum carries you both, his arm looping around you to break the fall. The world tilts for a second. You land half on top of him, mat groaning beneath the impact.
For a moment neither of you breathe.
Then: “Guess you learned quick.”
You push up on your elbows, heart hammering. “You didn’t let go.”
“Didn’t want you hittin’ your head.” His grin is breathless, eyes bright. “Teamwork.”
You mean to roll off him, but his hand is still at your waist, steadying you. The contact is light, tentative, and somehow louder than the hit of the fall. When you finally move, he lets you go slowly, fingers trailing away as if he doesn’t quite trust gravity.
You sit back, brushing hair from your face. “I think I’m done for the morning.”
“Already?” he teases, sitting up beside you. “I was just about to teach you the fun stuff.”
“I think we’ve had enough ‘fun stuff’ for one day.”
He chuckles. “Fair. You did good, though.”
You glance sideways. “Good enough to survive?”
“More than that.” His tone softens. “You listen. That’s half the fight.”
It’s meant as encouragement, but the way he says it hits deeper than you expect. You look away, pretending to fuss with your shoelace.
When you stand, he rises too, wiping his hands on a towel. The sunlight catches the scar on his forearm, turning it silver.
“Thanks for not throwing me through a wall,” you say.
“Would’ve ruined my reputation as a gentleman.” He offers a hand. “Lunch?”
You open your mouth to refuse—to claim you’ve got work, reports, something—but the warmth in his eyes disarms you. “Fine. Lunch.”
He grins, that easy flash of teeth that always feels like a victory.
The cafeteria is nearly empty at midday, just a few stragglers nursing energy drinks and post-mission bruises. You sit across from him, trays between you, the smell of overcooked pasta wafting up like a ghost of the ragù you made days ago.
He’s relaxed now, shoulders loose, hair still damp from a quick shower. You watch him gesture as he talks—hands big, expressive, as though he’s sketching the story in the air. You find yourself smiling without meaning to.
He catches it. “What?”
“Nothing. You talk with your hands.”
“Blame my mom. She said it made me look sincere.”
“It works,” you say before you can stop yourself.
The words hang there. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t joke. Just studies you a second longer than comfort allows.
You clear your throat, stab at your pasta. “So, what’s next on the John Walker curriculum?”
He laughs quietly. “I’ll let you pick next time.”
“Next time?”
“Don’t tell me you’re quittin’ after one lesson.”
“I might.”
“No, you won’t.” His voice dips lower, friendly but certain. “You like gettin’ better at things. I can tell.”
You want to deny it, but he’s right. You look at him over the rim of your glass, and for a second everything else—the noise, the chatter, the low buzz of lights—drops away. He looks back and the air shifts.
You’re the first to break it.
“You’re insufferable.”
He grins. “And yet here you are, havin’ lunch with me.”
You shake your head, but the smile that slips out is real.
Later, when you’re back at your desk, you keep thinking of the moment on the mat—the weight of him above you, the press of his hand at your waist, the way his voice softened when he said good. You tell yourself it’s just adrenaline, leftover from the training. But when you pass him in the corridor that evening and he gives you a small, knowing nod, your stomach flips.
The next morning, he finds you again.
“Round two?”
You should say no. You don’t.
This time it goes smoother—fewer stumbles, more laughter. You learn to dodge, to block, to use your balance. He praises you often, small words that land like sparks.
“Perfect form.”
“That’s it, right there.”
“See? You’re learnin’ faster than you think.”
By the end of the hour your muscles ache, your hair sticks to your neck, and you feel, against all logic, proud. You’re gathering your things when Yelena appears in the doorway, towel slung over one shoulder.
“Well, well,” she drawls, echoing her kitchen entrance from before. “What a surprise. You two again.”
John groans. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
“No.” She grins at you. “You are glowing, you know. Must be all that training.” She draws quotation marks in the air.
You roll your eyes. “It’s called exercise.”
“Sure. Exercise.” She waves, already backing out. “I will leave you lovebirds to cool down.”
The door swings shut. John sighs, rubs the back of his neck. “She’s relentless.”
“She’s observant,” you counter, then wish you hadn’t.
He looks up, eyes bright with amusement. “That so?”
You meet his gaze, refusing to flinch. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.”
You can’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “But you keep showin’ up.”
The words land somewhere in your chest and stay there.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Morning slides over the compound in pale light, washing the walls with the colour of sleep left half-unfinished. You’re still at your desk when the mission alert pings—a small op, low risk, just reconnaissance with Bucky and Ava. You were only supposed to observe, log readings, send coordinates. Easy work. The kind of assignment that reminds you why logistics suited you; no spotlight, no weapons, just order.
Still, your pulse quickens as you pull on the tactical vest. It smells faintly of oil and dust—John’s doing. He’s been the one to double check your gear since you started training with him.
He finds you before you board the quinjet, a shadow filling the doorway. “You sure about this?”
You glance up from your checklist. “It’s recon, John. I’ll be back before lunch.”
He folds his arms, unimpressed. “That’s what they always say.”
You smile, because he worries in a language that sounds like argument. “I’ve got Bucky and Ava. Literally nothing’s going to happen.”
He hesitates, jaw tight, then hands you a small comm unit. “If anythin’ goes sideways, call me.”
“Even if it’s just a paper cut?”
“Especially then.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. You want to reach out—just touch his arm, reassure him—but the engines roar to life and the moment scatters. You take a step away before John salutes you, shooting a wicked grin your way despite the hard lines on his face showing fear and worry.
The flight is uneventful. Below, the forest stretches like a green ocean. The mission site is a derelict research outpost, long abandoned, its roof half-collapsed and covered in moss. You step out into the cool air, the ground soft with pine needles.
Bucky scans the perimeter, metal arm glinting. “Quick in and out,” he mutters.
Ava nods. “Ten minutes.”
You log readings from the sensors, scribble coordinates, listen to the wind through the trees. For a while it’s peaceful, then the peace breaks.
A shout—Bucky’s, you note in a panic—and the crack of gunfire.
You drop behind the nearest crate, adrenaline surging. A handful of mercenaries spill from the tree line, shouting orders. They shouldn’t be here; this place was supposed to be clean. Ava fires back, Bucky moving fast, efficient. You press your comm, calling for extraction, but static answers.
Then one of the mercs breaks toward you.
Training takes over before thought does. You remember John’s voice: move with it, don’t wait for it.
You duck under the swing of a rifle butt, drive your elbow into his ribs, twist as he stumbles. The motion feels foreign and familiar all at once. You grab the fallen rifle, aim low, fire once. The man drops.
The forest goes quiet except for the ringing in your ears.
Bucky calls, “You good?”
“Fine!” You shout back, though your arm stings, blood welling where the rifle grazed your skin.
It’s over in minutes. Cleanup, confirmation, the sharp smell of burnt powder fading. The quinjet hums low as it descends to retrieve you.
Bucky glances at you as you climb aboard. “Walker’s gonna have a field day when he sees that.”
You glance down. Your sleeve is torn, blood spattered at the edges, a bruise already blooming along your shoulder. “It’s nothing.”
He smirks. “You’ll see.”
The hangar looks different when you come back—louder, bigger, like it looms an ever present threat or promise of danger on either sides of the doors.
John’s already waiting just beyond the ramp, hands on his hips, the set of his jaw all military precision. The moment his eyes find you, the precision cracks.
“What the hell happened?”
Bucky holds up both hands. “Relax, Walker. It was a hiccup.”
“A hiccup?” John steps forward, gaze raking over you. Not invasive, just desperate to catalogue every bruise. “She’s bleeding!”
“It’s a scratch—” You start but he’s already there, taking your wrist, turning your arm gently to check the cut. His touch is firm, careful.
He looks at Bucky again, voice low. “You were supposed to keep it clean.”
Bucky rolls his eyes. “She handled herself fine—better than fine, actually.”
That draws John’s attention back to you. “You fought?”
“Had to,” you admit. “One of them got close.”
His brow furrows, pride and frustration battling behind his eyes. “You take him down?”
You nod.
For a heartbeat he just stares, and then something in him eases. His hand is still on your arm, thumb tracing the edge of the bruise.
“Good,” he murmurs. “That’s good. You did exactly what you were supposed to.”
His voice softens further, each word landing like a pulse: “You listened. You stayed calm. That’s what I taught you. You were—” He catches himself, breath hitching, then finishes quietly, “—damn good out there.”
Heat floods your face. It’s ridiculous, the way praise feels heavier than pain. You manage a small smile, but your throat feels tight.
“John,” you whisper, “I’m fine.”
He seems to realize then how close he’s standing. His hand drops, reluctant. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”
Ava appears, half smiling. “She’s tougher than she looks.”
John exhales through his nose, nodding once. “I never doubted that.”
Bucky claps you on the shoulder, a little too hard, and mutters, “told you.” He and Ava head off, leaving you and John alone beside the humming jet.
The hangar smells of oil and ozone. Somewhere a wrench clatters, echoing. He leans against the ramp, rubbing a hand over his face.
“You scared me,” he admits finally.
“You scare easy.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Not for myself.”
You don’t know what to do with that, so you focus on your sleeve instead. “It really was nothing.”
“I know,” he says again, quieter. “Doesn’t make it easier to watch you walk back hurt.”
You look up. “John—”
He cuts you off with a shake of his head, half-smile returning.
“Don’t worry. I’m proud of you, alright? You listened. You kept your head.”
The praise comes out unguarded and it hits you like sunlight breaking through cloud. He doesn’t notice the way you freeze, the way the world tilts around the edges, he just keeps talking—soft, rambling—something about your form, about how all those hours on the mats paid off. His eyes are bright with pride, his grin a little crooked, and he never looks away from you.
And you? You’re trying not to drown in it.
You nod, hoping he doesn’t see the flush creeping up your neck. “Thanks, John.”
He clears his throat, as if realizing he’s said too much. “You, uh, need the medbay?”
“I’ll manage.”
“Still,” he says, gesturing toward the corridor. “Humour me.”
You follow. The hallway lights buzz overhead, bright enough to make everything feel too real. He finds a first aid kit, guides you onto a bench. The antiseptic stings; his fingers steady the bandage with surprising gentleness.
When he’s done, he lingers a second too long, tape still between his fingers.
“There,” he murmurs. “Good as new.”
You smile. “Guess you do know a thing or two about fixing people.”
“Tryin’,” he says. The word carries more weight than the situation demands.
The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable.
Finally he stands, flexes his shoulders. “You need rest. Orders.”
“From who?”
“From me.” His grin is back, a little less sure. “Unless you’re plannin’ to argue with your trainer.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He nods, satisfied. But when you reach the end of the corridor, he calls after you.
“Hey.”
You turn.
He hesitates, then just says, “I’m really proud of you.”
You swallow around the sudden knot in your throat. “I know.”
He smiles once more—soft, almost shy—then disappears into the noise of the hangar.
That night when you’re finally alone, tucked away in your quarters, you trace the edge of the bandage and think about the look on his face when you stepped off the jet—anger, relief, fear, all tangled together. You think about the way his voice softened when he said good.
Outside the rain begins to fall against the windows, a steady rhythm like white noise. You close your eyes and let it drown the low thrumming in your chest. You’ve been trying to keep things orderly, logical, the way you manage schedules and inventory. But people aren’t inventory, and feelings don’t follow protocols.
The bruise on your arm throbs in time with your heartbeat—a reminder that you can hold your own now, that you can fight, but it’s also a reminder of him, of every quiet word and careful touch.
You pull the blanket over your shoulders, whispering into the dark, “I’m fine.”
And maybe you are. But the space between fine and feeling too much has never felt narrower.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
For two days after the mission, the compound moves around you in its usual rhythm—morning drills echoing from the gym, the quiet clatter of dishes in the kitchen, the low hum of engines somewhere below. Everything feels normal except you.
You move through your routines like someone wearing borrowed skin. The bruise on your shoulder fades from purple to yellow, but the memory of John’s voice hasn’t dulled at all. Proud of you. The words loop in your mind when you’re supposed to be working. They leave you warm and uneasy at once.
You’ve been avoiding him. Not intentionally at first, but then you realize it’s easier this way—no need to explain the flush that rises every time he looks at you, or risk hearing that tone again, the one that made your heart stumble.
So you keep to your desk. You trade late nights in the kitchen for coffee in your room, and tell yourself it’s just temporary.
By the third night, the silence feels like a punishment.
On your fourth day dodging John, you’re in the storage bay, inventorying the latest shipment of field gear, when you hear boots on the metal stairs behind you. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is.
“You gonna keep hidin’ down here forever?”
John’s voice is half amusement, half something heavier. You straighten, clipboard still in hand. “Not hiding. Working.”
He descends the last few steps, arms crossed. “You’ve been ‘working’ every time I’ve looked for you.”
“Maybe you’ve just been looking too often.”
That earns a small, crooked smile. “You don’t make it easy not to.”
You exhale, setting the clipboard aside. “John—”
He cuts you off gently. “You don’t have to explain. I just wanted to see how you’re doin’.”
“I’m fine.”
He studies you like he’s measuring the truth in your face. “You don’t look fine.”
“Because I didn’t put on makeup for the inventory room?”
“That’s not what I mean.” His voice softens. “You scared me out there, you know.”
You look down, fingers tightening on the edge of the crate. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.” He takes a step closer. “But I keep seein’ it. You out there, gettin’ hit, blood on your arm. And I can’t stop thinkin’—” He stops himself, swallows whatever words come next. “Doesn’t matter. You’re okay. That’s what counts.”
The air between you hums. You can hear the faint buzz of the overhead lights, the echo of water running somewhere in the pipes.
You force a laugh. “I think I’m supposed to be the one worrying about you, not the other way around.”
“Maybe we can both worry.” He leans against the crate beside you, arms folded loosely now. “Seems fair.”
You don’t answer. The quiet stretches until it starts to feel heavy.
He clears his throat. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, if that’s why you’ve been keepin’ your distance.”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
You hesitate. Because the truth is simple and dangerous: you’re the reason I can’t think straight anymore. But you can’t say that. Not when he’s looking at you like this—earnest, worried, kind.
“I just needed space,” you say instead.
He nods slowly. “Space, I can give you. Just don’t disappear, alright?”
You smile, small and tired. “I’m here.”
“Good.” He pauses, then nudges the edge of the crate with his boot. “You know, I keep replayin’ that fight. You moved like you knew exactly what to do. Made me proud as hell.”
There it is again, that word: proud. You look away quickly, hoping he doesn’t see the way it hits you.
“Thanks,” you manage.
“I’m serious,” he insists. “You’ve got instincts. You just needed a push.”
You shake your head. “You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not,” he admits. “But you don’t quit. That’s what matters.”
The sincerity in his voice is almost unbearable. You try to find a safer subject. “You’ve been training with Yelena too, right?”
He chuckles. “She doesn’t need trainin’. She just wants someone to spar with so she can win.”
You laugh softly. “She says the same thing about you.”
“Yeah, well, she’s wrong.”
He grins, and for a moment the tension thins enough to breathe again.
You finish the inventory together, though you don’t really need help. He insists on staying, passing you gear tags, double-checking serials. Every time your hands brush, the air feels charged.
When the last crate is sealed, you wipe your palms on your pants. “Thanks for the help.”
“Anytime.”
You should leave now. Say goodnight, walk away, go back to pretending this is ordinary. Instead, you linger.
“John,” you say quietly.
He looks up. “Yeah?”
You open your mouth, then close it again. The words won’t line up. You want to tell him he makes you feel safe and unsteady all at once, that his voice sits behind your ribs even when he’s gone. Instead, you just say, “you don’t have to worry so much.”
“Too late for that,” he murmurs.
Something breaks loose in your chest. “Why?”
He hesitates, then shrugs, eyes dropping to the floor. “Because I care, I guess.”
You go still. The air feels like static. “You guess?”
He laughs softly, without humour. “Fine. I care. There. You happy?”
“Maybe.”
You both stand there, caught between laughter and something heavier.
Finally, he exhales, long and slow. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”
“You keep saying that.”
“‘Cause it keeps bein’ true.”
You don’t realise you’ve stepped closer until you can feel the warmth coming off him. The smell of soap and gun oil clings to his shirt. His eyes catch the light, blue gone soft at the edges.
“John,” you whisper, warning or plea, you’re not sure.
He shakes his head once. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna cross any lines.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“But you looked like you might want to.”
You laugh, startled, half embarrassed. “You really think you know me that well?”
He smiles—a quiet, almost tender thing. “Maybe not yet.”
The silence that follows feels like standing on the edge of something vast. Then the overhead lights flicker, snapping both of you back.
He clears his throat. “Come on. Let’s get outta here before someone finds us hidin’ in the storage bay.”
You nod, relief and disappointment tangled together.
The walk back to the main hall is quiet. Your footsteps echo side by side. At the junction, you stop. He turns, hesitates like there’s something else he wants to say, then just nods.
“Night, darlin’.”
The nickname slides out without thought, soft and familiar. It shouldn’t make your heart trip the way it does.
You smile, trying to play it off. “Goodnight, soldier.”
He grins, shaking his head as he walks away.
Later that night you dream of the forest again—not the fight, but the moment before it, the air still and heavy, the way everything seemed possible. When you wake, your pulse is quick and your hands ache for something that isn’t there.
You find yourself back in the kitchen before dawn, out of habit or hope. The counters gleam under the soft light, the smell of coffee drifts through the air. You stand there for a long time, waiting for nothing in particular. The sun threatens to break through the clouds and over the horizon.
Then footsteps.
He appears in the doorway, hair tousled, eyes half lidded, still mostly asleep.
“Couldn’t rest either?”
You shake your head. “Old habits, I guess.”
He joins you at the counter, wordless, pouring two mugs. The silence feels different now—not avoidance, but understanding.
“Thanks,” you say, taking the cup.
“For what?”
“For not letting me disappear.”
He smiles faintly. “Wouldn’t let you if I tried.”
You both laugh quietly. The sound feels like a release.
Outside, the first hint of sunrise paints the sky. You sip the terrible coffee and think that maybe, just maybe, the quiet between you isn’t something to escape. Maybe it’s where you both finally learned to breathe.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Time smooths itself over the sharp edges of the mission, but it doesn’t erase them.
Three weeks, maybe four, since the forest, since the bruise on your arm faded to yellow and then to memory. Three weeks of quiet orbit—John on one side of your days, you on the other, circling something neither of you has the courage to name.
You see him everywhere now.
In the hallway outside the gym at dawn, hair damp from a run, steam rising from his coffee. In the common room at night, half-asleep on the couch, watching old movies he pretends not to like. In the cafeteria, leaning too close when he talks to you, his voice low, eyes soft.
Each time, there’s a moment—small, fragile, stretching longer than it should. You talk about nothing: inventory rotations, bad jokes from Alexei, how Yelena keeps stealing the good cereal, Bob’s never ending hoard of books to read in a corner. But, underneath it, something hums, low and fragile. You can feel it when your elbows brush on the counter top, when your laughter overlaps his. The air has weight now, charged and bright, like a wire drawn too tight.
Late one night, you find yourself back in the kitchen—your kitchen, the one that started this entire quiet madness.
It’s almost two in the morning. The lights are low. You’re making tea, trying to unwind after hours of data logs. You don’t even flinch when you hear the door slide open—you already know it’s him.
He leans on the doorway, voice rough with sleep. “You got somethin’ against normal hours?”
You smile without turning. “You’ve been awake too, haven’t you?”
He walks in, barefoot, the floor creaking slightly under his weight. “Guess I’m predictable.”
“Guess we both are.”
He comes to stand beside you, shoulder brushing yours. You can feel the warmth radiating through his t-shirt.
“What’s the flavour tonight?” He asks, peering over your shoulder into your mug.
“Chamomile.”
“Boring.”
“You say that every time.”
“And you still drink it.”
You grin. “Because it works.”
“Does it, though?”
You glance up, and for a breath, you’re too close. His face is half-shadowed, half-lit, eyes fixed somewhere lower than your own.
“Not yet,” you whisper.
He laughs softly, the sound low, fond. “Maybe it’s the company that’s keepin’ you awake.”
“Maybe,” you echo.
The kettle clicks off. You pour the tea, hand him a mug even though he didn’t ask for one. He takes it anyway, fingers brushing yours. The touch is fleeting, but it leaves a trail of warmth that doesn’t fade.
The next morning, the compound feels alive again. Yelena catches you in the corridor, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion.
“Why do you look so rested?” She asks, trailing you like a cat.
You blink owlishly. “Because I slept?”
She grins. “Sure. Slept. Is that what you kids call it now?”
You roll your eyes. “Yelena—”
“Oh relax, I’m joking,” she says, though her smirk doesn’t fade. “Mostly. You and Walker, you are becoming very… cosy.”
“Cosy?”
She spreads her hands. “I mean, look at you two. You train together, eat together, do late-night tea ceremonies together—”
“How do you even know about that?”
“Please,” she says, flipping her braid over her shoulder. “Everyone knows. You two glow.”
You open your mouth to argue, but she’s already walking away, calling over her shoulder, “don’t forget to invite me to the wedding!”
You groan, pressing your palms to your face. When you drop them, John is standing halfway down the hall, watching you with open amusement.
“Should I even ask?”
“No,” you mutter. “Yelena’s being Yelena.”
He chuckles. “What’d she say this time?”
“That we’re ‘cosy’.”
His grin widens. “Cosy, huh? Could be worse.”
“Don’t start.”
He raises his hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
But he’s still smiling when he walks beside you, and you can’t help but match it.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Days stretch into something soft and unhurried. You find new excuses to be near him, and he finds just as many to linger.
He helps you rearrange the storage bay even though you tell him you can handle it. He insists on carrying boxes, rolling up his sleeves, muscles flexing under the fluorescent lights while you pretend not to notice.
When you pause to check the clipboard, he reaches past you for a wrench, close enough that you can feel his breath stir the hair at your temple. Neither of you moves. The hum of the lights fills the silence.
He clears his throat, steps back, mutters something about needing better ventilation.
You hide your smile behind the clipboard.
A week later, during a team briefing, you sit two seats apart. John listens intently, jaw tight, arms crossed; that soldier’s focus you’ve come to recognize. But, every so often, he glances your way. Small glances, barely there—enough to make your pulse quicken.
When the meeting ends, he catches up with you in the hall.
“Dinner later?” He asks, casual like he’s talking about training schedules.
“Sure,” you say, and it feels like the easiest word you’ve ever spoken.
Dinner isn’t fancy—leftover pasta, two beers, the kitchen lights turned low. He perches on the counter instead of sitting, long legs dangling. You lean against the opposite counter, facing him.
Conversation drifts like the steam from your plates, lazy and comfortable. He tells you about his first mission after joining the team, how everything went sideways and he ended up knee-deep in mud and three klicks out from evac. You tell him about your first day on logistics, how you accidentally rerouted three shipments of medical supplies to Valentina’s private hangar.
He laughs so hard he nearly drops his fork. You throw a napkin at him; he catches it easily, grinning.
The moment feels light—no tension, no fear—just two people sharing space in the quiet glow of the fridge light.
For a minute, though, he looks at you differently—softer, quieter—and the laughter fades between you like the last echo of a bell.
“You ever think about what we’d be doing if we weren’t here?”
You blink. “You mean if you weren’t an Avenger, and me your cooking tutor by night and badass logistics director by day?”
“Yeah—normal jobs, normal lives. None of this shit.”
You smile faintly. “You’d be terrible at normal.”
He chuckles but his smile fades for a half second. “Maybe. Tried it once and I failed at that.”
You look away sharply, remembering that John was married once. A wife, a kid, a house, the white picket fence—he had it all, and then he didn’t.
“I could try doin’ somethin’ else I suppose.” He breaks the sudden silence, stretching his shoulders as he rolls his neck.
“Doing what?”
He shrugs, thoughtful. “Something simple. Fixin’ things. Buildin’ stuff. You?”
You trace a circle on your glass with your thumb. “Maybe a bakery. Or a café. Something small.”
He grins. “You’d be good at that. You got the patience for it.”
“And you’d fix the espresso machine when it breaks?”
“Every time,” he promises.
For a moment you let yourself imagine it—sunlight on worn wood floors, the smell of coffee and sugar, his laugh echoing across a room full of vibrant colours and customers. It’s so vivid it hurts.
You open your eyes and realise you’re staring at him. He’s still watching you, head tilted slightly, like he’s memorising your face.
“What?” Your voice is barely above a whisper.
“Nothin’,” he says. “Just thinkin’ how easy it is, sittin’ here with you.”
The words hang between you. You could reach out and touch them, fragile as glass. You want to answer—to tell him it’s easy for you too, that it feels like breathing after years of holding your breath—but the words lodge in your throat.
So you just smile. “We make a good team.”
He nods, eyes still on you. “Yeah. We do.”
Later, you walk him to the hallway, both pretending it’s coincidence that you’re heading the same direction. He stops at his door, one hand on the frame.
“Goodnight,” he says.
You look up at him, heartbeat loud in your ears. “Goodnight.”
He hesitates, then adds, “Sleep well, alright?”
“You too.”
He smiles and disappears inside.
You stand there for a long time, staring at the closed door, feeling the weight of everything unspoken pressing at your ribs. You wish he would call you darlin’ again.
The next morning, Yelena corners you again.
“So,” she says, leaning against the wall. “You two are practically joined at the hip now. It’s adorable.”
You sigh. “Yelena—”
“I’m serious!” She insists. “You smile more. He smiles more. It’s disgusting.”
You let out a huff and roll your eyes. “Glad we can entertain you.”
“Oh, you do,” she says, grinning. “But seriously, you’re waiting for what? Permission?”
You blink. “What do you mean?”
She shrugs. “You both look like you’re drowning. Maybe someone should just throw you a life raft.”
You don’t answer. Because maybe she’s right. Maybe the space between you and John isn’t safety anymore—maybe it’s just distance neither of you know how to close.
That night, you find him in the training room again, pacing. He looks up when you enter, surprise flickering into a smile.
“Couldn’t sleep?” You ask.
“Could ask you the same.”
You step closer, the echo of your footsteps filling the quiet.
“I keep thinking about what Yelena said,” you admit before you can stop yourself.
His brow lifts. “Should I be worried?”
“She said we look like we’re waiting for something.”
He considers that. “Maybe we are.”
You meet his eyes, searching. “What are you waiting for?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. The silence between you hums like a held breath.
“Don’t know,” he says finally. “Maybe a sign.”
You laugh softly, though your chest feels tight. “You’d probably miss it if it came.”
“Maybe,” he agrees. Then, after a pause: “Unless you showed me.”
Your heart stumbles. “John—”
But he’s already shaking his head, smiling gently. “Forget it. It’s late.”
You nod, though the moment burns between you, bright and impossible to ignore.
As you leave, you glance back once. He’s still standing there, head tilted toward the door you just closed, like he’s waiting for you to come back.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The morning briefing feels ordinary, right up until it doesn’t.
You’re sitting at the end of the table, notes half-finished, when Director Cho scrolls through the assignment list on the big screen. Words flicker by—surveillance, extraction, recon—until two of them freeze mid-slide: Walker, [You].
“Assignment 24-A,” she says. “Low-threat observation. Civilian cover recommended. You’ll pose as a married couple in the target zone to monitor Dr. Kralov’s communications. No combat expected.”
There’s a pause. You glance at John. His eyebrows lift, like he’s waiting for the punchline.
“M-married?” You barely manage to eek out.
Cho looks unamused. “It’s the simplest way to justify two people living together in a quiet neighbourhood. You’ll have full briefing packets in an hour. Departure tomorrow.”
Yelena, two seats down, is the first to recover. “Congratulations,” she says brightly. “I love a good fake marriage. So romantic.”
The room snickers. Bucky whistles low. “Finally makin’ it official, huh?”
John groans. “You’re all children.”
“Children who are so happy for you,” Yelena says, clasping her hands in mock sentiment. “I will start planning the honeymoon.”
You cover your face with one hand. “Please don’t.”
But even as the teasing continues, something settles deep in your chest—a strange mix of dread and anticipation.
Married. Pretend, yes. But still. Married.
Later on in the briefing room, you read through the mission packet while John leans against the wall across from you. His voice is calm when he finally breaks the silence.
“You good with this?”
You nod, scanning the details. “Observation only. No field action. Should be fine.”
“Not what I meant.”
You look up. “Then what did you mean?”
He shrugs. “The cover story. The ‘husband and wife’ part.”
“I can handle pretending to like you.”
He grins. “Ouch.”
You can’t help smiling back. “You’ll survive.”
“Hope so. Hate to think of what Yelena’d do if I blew our cover.”
“She’d probably throw us a real wedding just to spite you.”
He laughs, and the tension dissolves.
“You know,” he says, crossing the room to stand beside you, “this could be a nice change. Quiet job. Just us. No gunfire.”
“Don’t jinx it.”
“I won’t,” he promises. Then, softer: “But I am lookin’ forward to it.”
You don’t ask why. You’re afraid of the answer.
The next morning, the team gathers to see you off. It’s half tradition, half spectacle.
Yelena hands you a duffel bag with a wink. “For your honeymoon. Snacks and disguises. Mostly snacks.”
Bucky folds his arms. “Behave yourselves.”
Ava smirks. “Or don’t.”
John groans again, muttering something about babysitting. You just roll your eyes and head up the ramp of the quinjet.
When the doors close behind you, the laughter fades, and the hum of the engines fills the space instead.
You glance at him. “You know they’re not gonna let this go.”
“Probably not,” he admits. “But that’s their problem.”
You buckle in across from him, trying not to notice the way the sunlight catches the scar on his jaw, or the way he’s watching you when he thinks you won’t notice.
The flight is long enough for silence to become comfortable. You trade mission notes, share a few bad jokes, argue over which playlist fits a surveillance op better—his old rock ballads or your instrumentals. You win. Barely.
By the time you land, the sun is sinking. The safe house sits at the edge of a sleepy coastal town—white walls, blue shutters, a small garden blooming with rosemary and salt air. It looks more like a holiday rental than a field station.
John unlocks the door and steps aside. “After you, Mrs. Walker.”
You give him a look. “Don’t start.”
“Too late,” he says, grinning as you pass.
Inside, the air smells faintly of dust and sea spray. A small kitchen, a sitting room, two bedrooms—or rather, a bedroom and an office, according to the cover story.
He drops his bag by the couch. “Feels weird, huh?”
“What does?”
“Actin’ like normal people.”
You smile faintly. “We’ll manage.”
You set up your laptop, syncing the feed from the listening devices already planted in the target’s house a few blocks away. John unpacks groceries, muttering about how he’s forgotten how to shop for anything that isn’t protein powder or instant coffee.
When you glance over, he’s squinting at a carton of milk like it’s suspicious.
“What are you doing?” you ask.
“Tryin’ to figure out if this is expired or just… European.”
You laugh, the sound surprising you both. “You’re hopeless.”
“And yet here you are, married to me for the week.”
“Under protest.”
He presses a hand to his chest in mock injury. “You wound me.”
“Not yet.”
The exchange hangs in the air for a heartbeat too long before you both turn away, smiling into the silence.
Dinner is simple—pasta and, unfortunately, a cheap jarred Bolognese sauce—but you eat it on the back porch where the air smells of the ocean. The town below glows with warm lights, the faint hum of music drifting from somewhere down the street.
John props his feet on the railing, beer in hand. “Almost feels like vacation,” he says.
“Without the part where we’re spying on someone, maybe.”
He tilts his head. “You always gotta ruin a good moment with facts?”
“Occupational hazard.”
He chuckles. “You ever take a vacation?”
You think about it. “Not really. Never had the time.”
He studies you for a moment. “Maybe you should.”
“Maybe after this mission.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
You sip your drink, watching the horizon fade into violet. The quiet between you feels different here. Not fragile, but peaceful. It feels like it belongs, just like you two.
“You know,” he says softly, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you relax before.”
“I’m relaxed.”
“Sure.”
You glance over. “And how would you know?”
He smiles, slow and genuine. “Because when you’re not relaxed, you talk too much.”
You laugh under your breath. “Guess that makes you an expert.”
“Guess it does.”
“When you’re not relaxed, you don’t talk at all.” You quip back.
“Mhmm…” John hums in agreement, eyes glazing over before they sharpen on you. “I’m always talkin’ ‘round you, though.”
The wind shifts, carrying the smell of salt and rosemary. You sit there for a long while, listening to the sea and to the steady sound of his breathing beside you.
Later, inside, you go over the recon equipment again. The transmitters are working perfectly and the feed shows nothing unusual.
John stands by the window, looking out at the street. “Kinda quiet, huh?”
“That’s good,” you say. “Means we’re doing our job.”
He turns, leaning against the frame. “Still feels weird, playin’ house again.”
“You’re adapting fast.”
He smirks. “Didn’t think I’d be good at it, not after…” A pregnant pause. You can see John start to spiral.
“Who says you are?”
He comes back to himself, back in this moment with you, and grins. “Harsh.”
You grin. “Truthful.”
He walks closer, stopping just short of the coffee table.
“So, what’s next? We cook dinner, watch TV, argue about dishes?”
“You volunteering to do dishes?”
“Not a chance.”
You laugh again, and he smiles like the sound alone could keep him standing. The clock chimes, soft and distant. The moment passes.
He stretches, grabs his jacket. “I’ll take first watch.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Yeah, I do.”
You don’t argue. You know it’s how he works—always alert, always protecting.
“Fine,” you say, heading toward the bedroom. “Wake me in a few hours.”
He nods. “Night, partner.”
“Goodnight, husband.”
You mean it as a joke, but the word lands differently. You see his breath hitch and his eyes widen infinitesimally.
You turn away before he can see your face.
You don’t sleep well. You can hear Bucky’s shout, gun fire, Ava yelling “run!”. You also feel John’s hands on your skin, how delicately he held your arm in his hands, how his fingers trailed across every part of you as he worried over what other injuries you could have.
Sometime past midnight you wake to the sound of quiet movement. You pad out to the living room and find him still by the window, watching the streetlights flicker on the wet pavement.
“You were supposed to wake me,” you murmur.
He glances back, surprised. “Didn’t want to. You needed the sleep more than me.”
You step closer, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders. “Any movement?”
“Nothin’. Town’s dead.”
You join him by the window. The rain has turned the street silver, and the reflection of light glints across his face, softening the lines of worry.
“Looks peaceful,” you whisper.
He nods. “Kinda nice, ain’t it? Pretendin’.”
“Pretendin’?”
“Yeah. That this is just… life. You and me. Quiet town. No ops, no reports. Just—” He stops, shakes his head. “Forget it.”
You look at him for a long moment. “I don’t think you want to forget it.”
He meets your gaze. The room hums with the sound of rain and the small distance between you.
“No,” he admits softly. “I don’t.”
You stand together like that, side by side, until the rain fades and the clock ticks into the next hour.
When you finally head back to bed, the words still echo in your head.
Kinda nice, ain’t it? Pretendin’.
You lie awake staring at the ceiling, the quiet of the house pressing close, and realize that for the first time in a long time, pretending feels dangerously close to truth.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
Morning slips into the house quietly. You wake to the sound of seagulls outside and the smell of coffee that’s somehow both burnt and comforting.
John’s already in the kitchen, barefoot, hair still damp from the shower. He’s wearing the t-shirt from last night, the one that clings to his shoulders. The light catches in the steam from the cup he holds.
“Hope you like it strong,” he says.
You take the mug he offers, sip, and promptly grimace. “Strong is one word.”
“Authentic?”
“Charred.”
He laughs, head tipping back. The sound bounces off the tiled walls and makes the place feel like home for a second.
He’s been different since you arrived here—softer around the edges, slower to fill silence with nerves or noise. You realize you’ve started matching him, the rhythm of your days folding easily into his.
After breakfast you head into town to maintain the cover and also to follow your target in the hopes he meets with someone, to gather information where you can.
The market sits at the end of a cobbled street, stalls lined with crates of fruit, flowers, fish packed in ice. It’s ordinary; that’s what makes it so disorienting.
You take the list from your pocket. “Bread, olive oil, wine, fruit.”
“Got it,” he says, grabbing a basket. “You sure we don’t need a wedding cake while we’re at it?”
“Very funny.”
He grins, nudging your shoulder as you walk. “Come on, Mrs. Walker, smile for the locals.”
You do—partly because it sells the act, partly because it’s impossible not to.
At the produce stand you stretch for a bunch of herbs hanging from the top hook but it’s just out of reach. Even on your tiptoes you barely brush against them, your mouth twisting as you stretch higher and higher.
John’s hand appears above yours, his chest pressed against your back, easily plucking it free. He radiates heat like a furnace or a wildfire, burning you with him, pressed from chest to toe behind you.
You go very still.
He doesn’t step away immediately. The seconds tick by slow, your breaths in sync. You turn your head slightly to look at him and you feel his lips brush against your ear. A shiver runs through you—not cold, not nervous, but something else entirely.
“Got it.” His voice whispers low and rough. You can feel his heartbeat grow erratic.
“Thanks.” The word smaller than you meant it to be.
He moves past you to pay the vendor, oblivious to the heartbeat that’s now somewhere in your throat.
You wander through the rest of the market, and something changes. Every smile from a vendor, every passerby calling “nice day for it, huh?” feels like a mirror held up to the fiction you’re living. Married couple on holiday. Shopping for dinner. Easy, happy.
Except it isn’t fiction, not completely.
When he carries the bags in one hand and automatically takes yours with the other to cross the street, you don’t pull away. The gesture is natural, protective. He laces his fingers with yours like it’s natural—normal, even—and you trace your pinky finger across his calloused skin.
You let him keep it until the sidewalk ends.
Back at the house, the afternoon hums warm and lazy. The sea air drifts through the open window. You unpack groceries while he fiddles with the transmitter hidden in the kitchen radio.
“Still clean,” he says, glancing at the signal monitor.
“Good.”
He shuts it off and leans against the counter, watching you slice tomatoes. “You always cook this neat?”
“It’s called being organised.”
“Looks like surgery.”
You flick a tomato seed at him. It lands on his sleeve.
He stares at it, mock affronted. “You realise you just assaulted a government operative with a vegetable?”
“Fruit,” you correct.
He laughs. “You’re hopeless.”
“You say that like it’s news.”
The air between you feels different now—lighter, but edged with something alive. He takes the knife from you carefully, starts chopping with exaggerated precision.
“See?” He says. “Teamwork.”
“You’re still cutting them too thick.”
“Critic.”
You roll your eyes, but your smile stays.
That evening you eat on the back porch again. The ocean is silver in the fading light. He pours wine into mismatched glasses, the kind that clink softly when they touch.
“To successful espionage disguised as domestic bliss,” he says.
You lift your glass. “To convincing performances.”
You both drink. The wine tastes of salt and stone.
He sets his glass down, watching the horizon. “You ever think about how easy it’d be to forget the mission? Just… stay here?”
“Wouldn’t be much of a mission then.”
“Maybe that’s the point.”
You glance at him. “You sound like you want to.”
He doesn’t answer right away. The breeze shifts his hair across his forehead. “Guess I’m just thinkin’ how nice it is, pretendin’ everything’s simple for once.”
You look down at your glass. “Pretending is easier than wanting.”
He turns toward you. “That mean you want somethin’?”
You hesitate. The question hangs between you, warm and dangerous.
“I want dinner not to burn,” you say finally, standing.
He laughs quietly, shaking his head, and follows you inside.
Later, after the dishes are washed and the surveillance notes logged, the two of you end up in the living room. A small lamp pools light across the couch. The sound of the waves seeps through the walls.
He sits at one end, you at the other, both pretending to watch a rerun of some local game show.
Halfway through, he sighs. “You realise we’re terrible at this?”
“At what?”
“Relaxin’. Bein’ normal.”
“I think we’re improving.”
He tilts his head toward you, eyes catching the lamplight. “Yeah. Maybe we are.”
The host on the TV shouts something in a language you don’t understand. You laugh and John does too. The sound fills the small room, folding over the static of the old speakers.
For a while, it’s easy.
Then he stretches, an arm draping along the back of the couch. The movement is lazy, thoughtless—except it isn’t. His fingertips brush your shoulder, light as breath. He leaves them there.
You keep your eyes on the TV, pretending you don’t notice. But your pulse gives you away.
“Too close?” He murmurs.
You shake your head. “It sells the act.”
“Right,” he says, voice low. “The act.”
The silence that follows feels like the space between lightning and thunder.
By midnight, you’re both too awake to sleep. You end up back in the kitchen, a half-finished puzzle of mismatched leftovers spread across the counter. He sits on the edge of the table while you make tea again.
“This part of the job,” he says, “the downtime… it’s weirdly nice.”
“Because we’re not being shot at?”
“Because we get to just be.”
You hand him his cup. “You’re not supposed to enjoy surveillance.”
A wry smile, something behind it you don’t quite understand.
“Guess I’m doin’ it wrong.”
You smile into your tea. “You always do.”
He laughs, soft and tired. “You know, I think Yelena would actually explode if she saw us right now.”
“Then it’s a good thing she’s not here.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Good thing.”
His foot nudges yours under the table, not hard, just enough to say I’m still here. You nudge back.
The kettle clicks as it cools, the clock ticks away. The moment stretches, thin and delicate.
You meet his eyes over the rim of your cup, and for a second the cover story doesn’t feel like a story at all.
Then he looks away, smiling to himself. “We should get some rest.”
“Probably.”
Neither of you move for the longest time. A minute stretches into ten, into twenty, before your eyes start to feel heavier than lead and your limbs feel like you’re wading through water. John notices (of course he does) and shuffles closer to you, his arms brushing against yours. You tilt your head to his shoulder and let out a deep breath, a quiet hum of satisfaction and comfort slipping out of you before you know it.
When you finally turn off the lights and head down the short hallway, you pause at the two bedroom doors. The house creaks, old wood shifting in the cool night.
He stops behind you. “Sleep well,” he says, voice softer now.
“You too.”
He hesitates, then adds, “Goodnight, partner.”
You smile at the word. “Goodnight, John.”
You close your door, lean against it for a long time, heartbeat loud in the quiet.
Through the wall, you can hear him moving around—setting his watch on the table, turning off the lamp, pacing once before the mattress sighs under his weight.
You lie down, eyes open in the dark. The sea keeps whispering outside, and somewhere between the waves and your own breath you realize that every line you drew to keep things professional has already blurred.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The day unravels slow and quiet.
You’ve been in the little seaside town nearly a week and the routine has begun to feel suspiciously like a life.
Morning coffee. Walks to the market. Evenings on the porch. Every motion rehearsed for the mission, but each one stitched with something genuine.
Tonight is supposed to be the last piece. The target is attending a private dinner and then a club—the perfect opportunity for surveillance. Easy work, according to the plan.
Dinner, drinks, maybe a little dancing. A cover to match the night.
You try to think of it like that: a cover.
By seven, the house smells faintly of perfume and cologne. You stand before the mirror adjusting the collar of your dress shirt, tucking the comm wire behind your ear.
John waits in the doorway, tie loose, jacket slung over his shoulder. His reflection meets yours in the glass.
“You look…” He starts, then shakes his head. “You look good.”
You turn, smiling. “That’s the point, isn’t it? Blend in.”
“Yeah,” he says, but his voice catches. “Blend in.”
He’s wearing dark slacks, a crisp shirt rolled at the sleeves, his beard grown out and hair just a little longer; his badge and weapons are left behind for once. You’ve seen him in a dozen different uniforms, but somehow this—unarmoured, human—fits best.
“You ready?” You ask.
He grins, recovering. “Let’s make a night of it, Mrs. Walker.”
The drive into town is measured in blocks, streetlights, and John’s hand resting on yours. It’s unnecessary—you’re alone in the car, no hidden cameras or surveillance—but you don’t move your hand, not even a single twitch.
The restaurant is all soft lighting and polished wood. The target sits two tables away, chatting easily, oblivious. You and John order wine, talk in low voices, laugh when the waiter jokes about honeymooners.
“Guess we’re convincing,” he murmurs.
“Or you’re just very charming.”
“That can’t be it.”
The wine is dry, the food rich. Somewhere between the first glass and the second, you forget to check the time. By the third, you’ve both stopped pretending not to look at each other.
He leans across the table. “We’re supposed to head to the club after this, right?”
You nod.
“Then we should probably slow down on the wine,” he says, pouring another half glass anyway.
You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” he says, eyes steady on you. “I’ve heard that before.”
You can’t look away. You pretend the flush on your cheeks is from the alcohol.
The club glows like a heartbeat in the dark—bass thrumming through the floor, lights flashing soft blue and gold. You slip inside, shoulder brushing his. It feels strange to be in a crowd again after so many quiet nights; the press of people makes the air electric.
He finds you a spot near the back where you can see the target at the bar. You both settle into the rhythm of observation, easy and practised, but then the song changes—slower, heavier—and he turns toward you.
“Dance with me,” he says.
You blink. “Here?”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re working?”
He grins. “We’ll have a better view of the room.”
You hesitate, but he’s already offering his hand. “Trust me,” he says softly. “It’s just a dance.”
You take his hand.
The crowd sways around you, bodies moving in time with the low pulse of the music. His arm finds your waist, warm and sure; your fingers brush the back of his neck. The contact is careful at first, cautious, but it doesn’t stay that way. The song draws you closer, until the air between you disappears.
The mission fades. There’s only the sound of your breath, his heartbeat against your ribs, the way he looks at you like he’s memorising every line of your face.
He leans down, mouth close to your ear. “You okay?”
You nod, though words feel impossible. “Yeah.”
His hand tightens slightly at your hip, guiding you through the rhythm. You don’t realise you’re holding your breath until he whispers in your ear.
“You can breathe, y’know.”
You laugh, shaky. “Can’t tell if this is part of the act anymore.”
“Maybe it doesn’t have to be,” he says.
The words land heavy. You look up and he’s already watching you, waiting. You could say something, make a joke, step away. You don’t.
You move closer instead.
The kiss happens like an exhale, inevitable and slow. Warmth floods through you, everything else fading—the noise, the light, the whole room narrowing to this single point of contact.
It’s not perfect; it’s too hungry, too human, a week’s worth of silence breaking all at once. His tongue slides with yours like you’ve kissed a thousand times, like you know each other inside and out. John grunts, his hold on you tightening, pulling you flush against him as one hand slips down your back to your waist, then your hip, then the small of your back. His pinky finger grazes lower at the curve of your ass and your breath hitches.
You pull back just enough to see him smile, dazed and unsure.
“That part wasn’t in the mission brief,” you whisper.
He laughs quietly, breathless. “Guess I’m improvisin’.”
You want to say something clever, but all that comes out is: “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t.
For a moment, time bends—the noise of the club receding, the press of people becoming background hum. You feel his hand grow steady at the small of your back, anchoring you. It’s not about the kiss itself so much as what it means: the choice to stop pretending, to risk it.
When you finally break apart, the world rushes back in—music, laughter, the target moving somewhere across the room. Reality, returning.
He brushes his thumb along your cheek, eyes soft. “We should probably get back to work.”
“Probably.”
Neither of you moves. Your skin is thrumming low, arousal pooling deep in your bones.
Finally, you take a step back, steadying yourself. “John.”
“Yeah?”
You shake your head, smiling. “We’ll talk after the op.”
He grins—that small, real grin that starts in his eyes. “Count on it.”
The rest of the night passes in a blur of lights and coded glances. You finish the surveillance, file the footage, secure the data. Everything runs exactly as planned, except for the part where your heart refuses to slow down.
Back at the house, you close the door behind you. The silence hums like static.
He sets the gear on the table, looks at you across the room. For a long moment, neither of you speak.
“About earlier,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. “I—”
You cross the space between you before he can finish. “Don’t apologise.”
“I wasn’t gonna.” His voice drops. “I was gonna say it felt… right.”
You swallow hard. “Yeah. It did.”
He exhales, relief and disbelief tangled together. “Guess I’m not crazy then.”
“No,” you say softly. “Not crazy.”
The air shifts again. It’s familiar now, but deeper, surer. You stand there, inches apart, the weight of the night pressing down around you.
He smiles, small and tired. “We should sleep.”
You nod, though neither of you moves.
Then he says it, so quiet that you almost miss it: “I loved gettin’ to love you, even if it was just pretend.”
The words hit like a pulse through the dark.
You meet his eyes, breath catching. “John…”
He steps closer, hesitant. You reach up, touch his jaw, the faint scrape of stubble under your fingers.
“I’m not pretending anymore.”
“Good,” he whispers. “‘Cause neither am I.”
He lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh and leans forward until his forehead rests against yours.
Outside, the ocean keeps breathing, steady and endless. Inside, the quiet is full of something new—not the tension that’s haunted every room between you, but the relief of finally stepping across it.
You stay like that until the clock blinks past two. Just two people in a borrowed house, a world built out of lies, and a truth that somehow feels more real than anything else.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
The morning drags in slow, sunlight spilling through thin curtains, heavy with salt and warmth. You wake first, the house still quiet, the ocean murmuring somewhere beyond the window. For a long time, you just lie there, watching the pattern of light move across the ceiling, trying to make sense of what happened.
It would be easy to call it a mistake. It doesn’t feel like one.
When John appears in the doorway, hair tousled, a faint bruise at his collar from some unseen scuffle in the crowd, you know the truth before he speaks.
“Hey,” he says.
You sit up, heart thudding. “Hey.”
Neither of you seems to know what to do with your hands; his hang loose at his sides, yours knot in the sheet. The air between you feels as fragile as glass.
“About last night—” He starts, brows furrowing quick under your gaze. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” you tell him. And it’s true, mostly. Just different now.
He steps closer. “We still got a few hours before extraction. Figured we could debrief, check the equipment, maybe—”
“—pretend everything’s normal?”
He huffs a laugh, stops a few feet from you. “Never been much good at pretendin’.”
You meet his eyes, pulse quickening. “Could’ve fooled me.”
He takes that as invitation or challenge, you’re not sure which. He crosses the last bit of space, stopping close enough that you can see the flecks of grey near his temples, the pale scar at his jaw.
“You sure you’re fine?” He asks again, quieter now.
You nod. “Are you?”
He laughs under his breath. “No. Not really.”
Then the quiet folds in around you. The floorboards creak; outside, a gull cries somewhere above the surf. He reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist, feather-light, as if checking whether he’s allowed to touch you. You don’t pull away.
The contact steadies into something firmer, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. It’s nothing more than that, but you feel it everywhere.
“I keep thinkin’ about last night,” he says. “About how easy it was. How right it felt.”
You exhale, a tremor running through it. “Me too.”
“Guess that means we can stop pretendin’,” he murmurs.
“Guess so.”
He’s still holding your wrist, and now his hand slides up to your shoulder, then to the back of your neck. You’re moving before you realize it—toward him, toward the warmth waiting there. The kiss is slower this time, deliberate, as if you both want to learn the shape of it.
It builds by degrees, a careful escalation: his palm against your jaw, your fingers clutching his shirt. The world outside the two of you fades again—just heartbeats, breath, the soft scrape of fabric.
When you part, he’s grinning, eyes bright. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”
You smile, dazed. “Maybe I do.”
“Yeah?”
“I think so.”
He laughs, low and unsteady, and presses his forehead to yours. “Hell,” he whispers. “I’m in love with you, y’know.”
You stop breathing. The words hang there, raw and simple, as though he’s only just realized them himself.
You could tease him, deflect, hide behind the usual rhythm, but the truth pulls itself out before you can stop it. “I love you too.”
He stills, then a slow, disbelieving smile spreads across his face. “Say that again.”
You do.
The rest of the world disappears for a while. You don’t think about the mission, or the data, or the team waiting back home. Just his heartbeat against your palm, the taste of sea air, the soft cotton sheets beneath you, and the sound of his laugh when you pull him down to kiss him again.
John peels your sleep shirt and shorts off, almost reverent in the way he holds you. He’s gentle, hands shaking, breath caught in his chest when you’re finally bare before him.
His fingers skate across your skin—your freckles, scars, the stretch marks at the fat of your hips and stomach—until they reach the groove of your hips and pause. He looks up at you and you nod, your lips parted wordlessly and panting hard.
You’re already soaked when he slides two fingers through your folds. A low moan escapes him and his eyes flutter shut briefly, head tilting forward to rest his forehead against your thigh, his heated breath breezing over your clit. You shudder, just once, and your moan breaks through the silence.
“John, please,” you plead, “just—touch me.”
His eyes snap open wide, peering up at you between your thighs, as his tongue dips out and laves hot and wide over your entrance, through your wetness, and finally peaking at your clit. It’s a slow drag, savouring every taste of you. He growls at the slick heat of you before he delves in, nose pressed against your clit as he eats at you like a man starved with a five course meal finally spread out in front of him.
His arms tuck under your thighs, hands curling around them, yanking you hard onto his face. You wail out, hands tangling in his hair, the sheets, the pillows—anything to ground you in this moment.
“Taste so fuckin’ good, darlin’,” he growls into you between licks. “Can’t believe I’ve been missin’ out on this for so long.”
You’re scratching at his shoulders, nails scraping along his scalp, heels digging into his back, hips grinding forward as you ride his face harder and harder. Your eyes roll back, jaw dropping open, drool pooling at the corner of your mouth before it slides down your jaw to the hollow of your collarbone and finally the pillow below you. Your back arches, sharp and taut, as your orgasm slams into you like a hurricane—unseeing, without warning, tearing you apart as John’s tongue slips into your cunt and slurps at you obscenely. The noise is absolutely filthy and it forces a short second orgasm rippling through you before you pull John’s head away roughly, right as the pleasure crosses over to overstimulation.
You’re panting and so is he. You don’t think he took even a single breath as he ate you out.
You take a minute to regain your strength and some semblance of sanity. John rests his head against your stomach, his arms now wrapped around your torso, holding himself tight against you.
When your legs finally stop shaking and you can lift your arms without twitching, you take John be his jaw and pull him up to you, face to face. His jaw and beard is soaked with your wetness—slick and shiny—and his pupils are blown wide, no span of the dark blue circling his eyes as he stares at you.
Your hands slowly make their way down to the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it up until he raises himself up to rest on his knees, slipping it off while he scrambles clumsily to take off his pants. When he’s naked on top of you, you give yourself the chance to finally look at all of him.
He’s built like an ox—thick, broad, muscles strung tight across the planes of his chest and shoulders—and there’s a little fat at his stomach and hips, his belly softened and a trail extending from his bellybutton down to frame his cock. You salivate at the sight, your hands trailing down everything you look at; staying a little longer at his hips, grabbing at the skin there, before you notice how thick and strong his thighs are.
“Holy shit, John…” You murmur, shock and awe evident in the way you speak.
John squirms under your gaze, a slow flush crawling from his cheeks to his chest.
“Used to be bigger, better—lost a lot of it after the—” His jaw ticks. “After my divorce. Usual stuff, y’know.”
“No! You’re beautiful.”
You mean it; he’s absolutely gorgeous. You can’t believe he doesn’t see it himself.
“I—uh—what—” He’s stumbling over his words, but you can see the effect yours had on him: harsher breaths, body trembling, pupils dilated wider, cock jumping at the praise as pre-cum slicks the thick, uncut red head of it.
You sit up, mouth aligned with his throat, leaving wet kisses across his neck and shoulders up to the soft skin below his ear. He shudders at the gentleness of them, his hands skimming over your shoulders down to your waist, tucking you closer to him.
He doesn’t notice one of your hands reaching for his cock until it’s wrapped around it, your thumb dipping into the slit of his cock and the foreskin around it, pressing it back until the pressure pushes more pre-cum out in steady drips. You use his slick to rub your hand up and down his cock—slow, teasing, testing—and he whines like a dog in heat.
“Oh, fuck, darlin’—” You cut him off with a sharper stroke. Quicker, just once, just to see his reaction.
“Y’can’t just beg me to stop teasin’ and then do the same. That’s mean—that’s what you are,” he laughs into your mouth, chest heaving, lips hovering.
“Guess you’re right there, husband,” you quip back, a smirk at the corners of your mouth.
John almost snarls at the word husband before you start stroking him hard and fast, giving him no chance to catch his breath, tearing a growl from his chest as he lurches forward, his forehead resting in the curve of your neck.
His breathing is staggered and he’s cursing your name, begging you for something, anything, you don’t really know—all you know is that John is losing himself in your hand, already leaking like a faucet and pulsing in your palm. You can’t wrap your whole hand around him—he’s thick, girthy, the tip almost flared with each pump up of your hand. You bring your other hand up to wrap around him fully, both hands stroking in tandem. The colour of his head is a deep, burnt red. It looks inviting, so you lean down to lap at it with the tip of your tongue, moaning wantonly at the sharp, tangy taste.
John jerks in your hand, the head of his cock popping past your lips. You suckle gently, eyes fluttering closed as the heat of him settles on your tongue. You can’t reach any further with the angle you’re sat at, so you take one hand off his cock to motion for John sit up. He raises himself up on his knees until his cock is at eye level with you, bobbing freely in the cool air. You look up at him from under your lashes and your breath catches in your throat—he looks stunning. Divine. Like a Renaissance statue. All perfection, marble, moulded by the Gods, and here he is in your hands—quivering, begging, whimpering, all for you.
You take him back in your mouth, sliding the weight of his cock on your tongue until the tip is pressed to the back of your throat. You gag, just once, before taking a breath in and pressing forward until John’s cock is lodged firmly in your throat. Tears well in your eyes at the pressure, your drool dripping down his cock to his balls and thighs—it’s lewd, messy, everything you could ever ask for—and it rips a broken moan from John. His hands scramble at your hair, just holding you there, not pushing you down, as if he needs to ground himself before he loses himself entirely.
He cums. Hard. Hips jolting forward, hands reaching for the headboard behind you, a sharp whine turning into a wail, and you distantly hear the crack of something breaking. You pull back slightly to taste him as he comes in long pulses on your tongue.
John is huffing out your name, sitting back on his haunches, herding you on your back again. He presses his mouth to yours desperately, opening your lips wide on his tongue, tasting himself mixed with you.
It’s obscene how he kisses you. Utterly gone, ravenous, no care for how he’s licking out his cum from your mouth—he just wants to taste you again and again and again, no matter how he gets it.
“Did so good for me, John. So, so good, baby,” you whisper into him as he mumbles incoherently, his palm taking hold of your jaw to pull your mouth open wider, his tongue mapping each groove of your mouth, spit and teeth clicking with each minuscule separation. When John finally pulls back, a faint strand of spit is caught in the morning rays of sun between you, quivering before it breaks away. The air between you seems to hum, thick in the cover of the night, and he lets out a rough, quiet sound that could be a sigh or something deeper.
John’s eyes linger on you, dark and heavy, before he slides himself between your splayed out legs. His half-hard cock brushes against your stomach, tucking itself in the arc of your hip. He hisses, low, his hands trailing across your sweaty skin—across the arch of your throat, over your tits, your pebbled nipples; a quick, sharp pinch that has you keeling in his grip—until one hand rests at your hip and the other is tucked under the nape of your neck for balance.
“Can I fuck you, darlin’? Want it—want you—so bad, honey,” he’s begging, all wet eyed and bottom lip trembling as he speaks. You shush him with gentle coos—“that’s okay, baby, you’re so good for me, hmm? So good for asking, baby,”—and stroke at his cock until he’s fully hard again.
His breath hiccups, clearly overstimulated, but he won’t back down. Never has, never will.
John takes a hold of his cock—red and purple and sensitive—before notching the head of his cock at your entrance. He hesitates, just a half second, so you press your heels to his back and push him inside you.
God, he’s so big—you don’t know why you’d not thought of what a stretch he would be. You keen under him, throwing your head back sharply, a sharp breath punched out of you as he slides in and bottoms out with one full thrust in.
You feel steady with your hands balanced at the nape of his neck, fingers carding through his hair as John pauses and his cock twitches inside of you.
You wait for him. You can’t even imagine what he’s feeling right now—pleasure, relief, grief, nervous, an unending onslaught of what he used to have and what he could potentially have with you.
Eventually you feel John come alive under your hands. His muscles twitch and turn, his head tilts up to look at you. You clench once around him and he groans, pulling back not even an inch before he grinds deep in you. He guts you out, hollows you; creates a mould of his cock inside your wet cunt.
“John,” your voice just a rasp, barely above a whisper, “c’mon, fuck me, please.”
He jolts at that. A quick, sharp, full body twitch at your words.
“Gonna make love to you, darlin’.”
His thrusts are gentle, a grind into you more than anything—like he can’t stand to pull too far out of you, like he would die without being inside of you.
You’ve never known the difference between fucking and making love. You’ve just always assumed it was words and that was all; that there’s no difference in how a cock feels in you, just raw pleasure with one end goal in mind. But this—under John, held by John, loved by John—is making love. You finally understand what it is and it is glorious. You’ve never felt so overwhelmed and all-consumed in your entire life.
You’re not kissing now; your lips are just brushing against each other, breaths mingling, foreheads pressed together. It’s so stupidly intimate that you could cry.
Each grind in presses the base of his cock against your clit, your orgasm slowly climbing higher and higher, gripping tightly onto you as you lose yourself in pleasure and John’s nonsensical babbling. You can feel his cock twitching inside you, hear your wetness squelching obscenely, feel it trickling down the curve of your ass to the sheets below. You can feel how soaked the bedsheets are—you know they won’t survive this, not even with a hundred washes. You’ll have to throw them away so some poor sod never finds them.
Suddenly, John pushes deeper, hips twitching, thighs shaking, before a near howl escapes him like it was punched out of him, and his cum shoots out inside you in thick, heady pulses, filling you up until you can feel how full you are. John keeps fucking you, keening high in the back of his throat as overstimulation overcomes him, but determined to make you cum again. His hand slips between your bodies and his thumb circles your clit tightly, fast, desperate for you to cum on him before his sensitive cock determines he has to pull out.
“Please, darlin’, just give me one more, yeah?” His rough voice is all you need to send you over the edge one more time.
Your body locks up, pulled tight at the seams, mouth opened wide in a soundless scream. Your hands rake through John’s hair until you yank hard, uncaring as your orgasm tears through you like a tsunami—an unending onslaught of pleasure, drowning you, suffocating you.
With one final crest, you let out a pitiful whimper, and your body goes limp. John whines and slips out of you, slumping to your side.
Everything else blurs. The sunrise shifts, casting a golden light across the room. The moment holds.
When it finally fades to quiet, the house feels smaller somehow, warmer. He brushes a strand of hair from your face, voice rough with wonder.
“Didn’t think this kinda thing happened for people like us.”
He sounds just as wrecked as you.
“What kind of thing?”
“This,” he says. “Peace. Belongin’. You.”
You rest your head against his shoulder, smiling into his freckled and tanned skin.
“Maybe we finally earned it.”
He laughs softly, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Maybe.”
Outside, the ocean keeps its rhythm, steady and endless. Inside, two cups of forgotten coffee cool on the table. You let the quiet stretch, hand still tangled with his, the light slowly turning gold around you.
For once, you don’t think about what comes next. For once, you just let yourself be here—heat and light and the small, certain weight of someone who chose to stay.
Warnings: explicit sexual content, aphrodisiac, sex pollen, dubious consent due to aphrodisiac, established relationship, blood/injury, rough sex, multiple rounds, overstimulation, size kink, strength kink, manhandling, prone bone, possessive sex, feral Steve Rogers, gentle Steve Rogers, protective Steve Rogers, praise kink, breeding kink, creampie, unprotected sex, aftercare, emotional hurt/comfort
Summary:
Steve Rogers has always been gentle with you.
When a mission exposes you both to an aphrodisiac, quarantine forces him to confront the difference between protecting you and holding himself back.
Author’s Note:
steve rogers sex pollen fic for everyone who has ever looked at that man and thought “okay but what if he actually used the super soldier strength”
Steve knew how to be careful with you.
Most of the time, that was one of the things you loved most about him. He remembered which old injuries needed gentler hands, which silences meant comfort, and which meant space. Steve was good at care.
He was simply worse at understanding that care and gentleness were not the same thing.
You had tried to tell him that carefully, then less carefully. You had asked him to hold you down harder. You had asked him not to pull back so quickly when his fingers tightened on your hips. You had told him more than once that you liked feeling how strong he was.
He listened every time, and he tried because that was who Steve was. Then, inevitably, you would feel the moment he remembered himself. His hands would ease. His body would shift, giving you room you had not asked for. His mouth would soften against yours as if tenderness could cover the shape of what you wanted.
You loved him for that, too, which made the frustration even more complicated. Steve had spent too much of his life being turned into an object, a weapon, a symbol, a body that belonged to everyone except himself. You understood why he treated his strength as something that needed rules.
You just wished he would believe you when you told him that you were not asking him to forget the rules.
You were asking him to trust you with them.
The HYDRA lab was colder than it should have been.
That was the first thing you noticed when the mission turned bad, not the broken glass or the blood on your glove or the technician crawling toward the console with one shaking hand. The cold came from the ventilation system overhead, pouring through the room in steady white streams that disturbed the pale gold vapor spilling from the ruptured canister at the center of the floor.
You had already inhaled by the time Steve shouted your name.
It had happened too fast. You had thrown yourself into the technician before he could reach the alarm override, and your shoulder had struck his ribs hard enough to knock the air out of both of you. He went down. You went with him. Something cracked under your elbow.
The canister hit the floor.
For half a second, the room looked almost beautiful. Gold mist rose through the emergency lights, turning the lab red and amber at once, and you thought absurdly of sunlight in dust.
Then your throat burned.
You coughed, rolling away from the technician, and Steve crossed the room in three strides.
“Don’t breathe,” he ordered.
You looked up at him through watering eyes. “Little late for that.”
He did not smile.
That scared you more than the chemical.
Steve’s hand closed around your arm, steady and warm through the sleeve of your suit. His grip was firm enough to anchor you, but even then, even in the middle of a contaminated HYDRA lab with alarms beginning to shriek overhead, you felt the restraint in it. He was holding you like something injured. He was holding you like something he could accidentally hurt.
The thought should not have made heat curl through your stomach.
It did.
Natasha’s voice cut through the comm. “Status?”
“Exposure,” Steve said. His voice was controlled. Too controlled. “Unknown agent. Canister breached. We both caught it.”
There was a pause.
You hated the pause.
“Symptoms?” Bruce asked.
You opened your mouth to answer and nearly embarrassed yourself.
Because there was pain. There was heat. There was dizziness and a strange, liquid weakness in your knees. But underneath it all was something else, something low and humiliating and far too recognizable to deny. It moved through you with the same terrible certainty as fever.
Your fingers tightened in Steve’s suit.
You did not mean to do it. One second, your hand was braced against his chest because standing had become more complicated than it should have been, and the next, your fist was curled into the dark tactical fabric over the star.
Steve went still without pulling away, which somehow made it worse. His body changed before his face did, the breath he took too careful, the muscles beneath your hand locking as if he had turned himself into a wall through discipline alone. When you looked up, his pupils were blown wide, his jaw clenched so tightly that a muscle jumped near his cheek.
“Steve,” you said.
His eyes dropped to your mouth.
It lasted less than a second.
Then he stepped back.
The loss of him hit you with embarrassing force. It was not just emotional. Your body noticed the absence of his heat like it had been denied something necessary, and frustration flashed through you so sharply that you almost reached for him again.
Almost.
“Don’t do that,” you said.
His eyes lifted. “Do what?”
“Act like I’m the hazard.”
His expression shifted, pained and stubborn in equal measure. “You’re not.”
“You just moved like I was.”
“You’re contaminated,” Clint said over the comm, which was unhelpful even by his standards. “Technically, he’s right.”
“Clint,” Natasha warned.
“What? I’m just saying, this feels like a situation where nobody should touch anybody.”
You closed your eyes. “I hate all of you.”
“You say that when you’re scared,” Steve said quietly.
You hated him a little for knowing that. You loved him more for saying it softly enough that only you could hear, even with the comms open.
“I’m not scared,” you lied.
Steve’s gaze moved over your face. You wondered what he saw. The flushed cheeks, probably. The sweat beginning at your hairline despite the cold air. The way you were breathing too quickly. The way your hand had curled into a fist at your side because you did not trust yourself not to reach for him again.
His own color was high. It was subtle, because Steve’s body did not betray him easily, but you knew him better than most people alive. You knew the signs. The tightness around his eyes. The careful set of his shoulders. The way he kept his hands loose when he wanted to clench them.
Bruce’s voice came back, low and focused. “Extraction in two minutes. Masks on. Don’t touch the canister, don’t touch any exposed surfaces, and try not to touch each other.”
You laughed once under your breath. “Great.”
Steve looked like someone had put him in front of a firing squad and asked him to stand still.
Natasha reached you first.
She came through the lab doors in a sealed respirator with emergency masks in hand, her eyes sharp above the clear visor. She took one look at you, one look at Steve, and understood too much.
That was the problem with Natasha. She was never unobservant when you needed mercy.
“Mask,” she said.
You took it. Your fingers did not work properly on the strap.
Steve moved.
Then stopped.
You saw the exact moment he caught himself, and something inside you twisted.
Natasha saw it too. She stepped between you both without comment and fastened the mask for you, her gloved hands efficient and careful. You stared past her shoulder at Steve. He stared back, miserable and fever-bright, and did not cross the three feet between you.
The ride back to the compound on the Quinjet was worse.
Bruce sealed the rear med bay, which meant you and Steve were isolated from the rest of the team but not from each other. You sat on opposite sides of the compartment, trying not to watch the width of his shoulders, the tension in his hands, the way he kept himself perfectly still because motion had become dangerous.
“You need to stop looking at me like that,” he said.
Your gaze snapped to his face.
His eyes were closed.
“I’m not looking at you like anything.”
“You are.”
“You have your eyes closed.”
“I can still tell.”
It should have been funny. Instead, the heat in your blood sharpened.
“You’re doing it too,” you said.
Steve’s eyes opened.
He looked wrecked.
“I’m trying not to,” he said.
That was worse.
Your fingers curled against your thigh. “Steve.”
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you.”
The words landed too softly to be an accusation. You looked away first because your eyes had started to sting, and you did not know whether that was the chemical, frustration, or the awful tenderness of being known by someone who was still trying to deny you what you wanted.
“I know you too,” you said.
Steve did not answer.
When the Quinjet landed, medical was waiting.
Bruce met you in full protective gear beside Dr. Cho and two nurses you recognized, all of them moving with the efficient calm of people who were worried and trying not to make it worse. Tony hovered behind the quarantine barrier, tablet in one hand, expression caught somewhere between fear and a joke he knew better than to say.
Mostly.
“So,” Tony said as you and Steve were ushered into adjoining decontamination stalls, “good news, bad news, horrifyingly awkward news.”
“Tony,” Bruce said.
“I’m just setting expectations.”
You peeled off your gloves with more aggression than necessary. “If you say anything about HR, I’m coughing on you.”
Tony took a step back. “Noted.”
The decontamination process was necessary and humiliating in the way medical procedures often were. Your suit was sealed away. Your skin was scrubbed clean. Your temperature was taken three times. Blood was drawn. Your pulse was monitored until the sound of it began to feel accusatory.
Steve was on the other side of the frosted partition.
You could hear him.
That was the worst part. His voice was low and steady as he answered Bruce’s questions. Yes, elevated heart rate. Yes, increased body temperature. Yes, heightened sensory response. No, no loss of consciousness. No, no hallucinations.
Then Bruce asked something too quietly for you to hear.
Steve did not answer right away.
Your entire body went alert.
“I’m managing it,” he said at last.
Managing it.
You pressed your eyes shut.
The phrase felt like him. Like all the disciplined, self-punishing restraint that made him both wonderful and impossible. Steve managed pain. Steve managed fear. Steve managed his anger, his grief, his strength, his desire. He managed himself so carefully that sometimes you wondered whether he understood there was supposed to be a difference between control and loneliness.
A nurse handed you a loose medical shirt and soft pants through the decontamination slot. You changed behind the privacy shield with hands that shook more than you wanted to admit.
By the time they moved you into quarantine, your skin felt too small.
The containment suite had been stripped down to a bed, a couch, a bathroom, a table with water and medical supplies, cameras in the corners, and a glass wall with privacy film currently turned opaque.
And Steve.
He entered a few seconds after you, wearing gray medical sweats that did absolutely nothing to make him less distracting. The shirt clung to his shoulders. The pants hung low on his hips. His hair was damp from decontamination, darker at the roots, and when he looked at you, you saw the same hunger he had been trying to hide since the lab.
Only now there was nowhere for either of you to go.
The door sealed behind him.
A red light blinked once above it.
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
Steve’s brows drew together. “What?”
“This is absurd.”
His mouth softened, almost. “Yeah.”
“We have fought aliens.”
“I remember.”
“You punched a robot through a wall last week.”
“It was trying to kill Sam.”
“And now we’re trapped in horny jail because HYDRA made perfume for war criminals.”
For one blessed second, Steve looked like he might actually laugh.
Then your breath hitched.
It was small. Barely anything. A minor betrayal of your body as another wave of heat rolled through you, stronger than the last. But Steve heard it. Of course he heard it. His expression changed immediately, humor gone, concern rushing in to take its place.
He stepped toward you.
Then stopped again.
Your patience, already thin, tore.
“Steve.”
His hands flexed at his sides. “I’m trying to do this right.”
“I know.”
“I need you to understand that.”
“I do.”
“No.” His voice roughened, and the sound went through you like touch. “You don’t. This isn’t just—” He stopped and looked toward the opaque glass as though Bruce could somehow help him find the words. “This isn’t normal.”
You almost laughed again, but it would have come out wrong. “I’m aware.”
“It’s affecting judgment.”
“Yes.”
“It’s affecting inhibition.”
“Also, yes.”
“It’s pushing your body toward something you might not choose if you were clear-headed.”
That hurt. Not because it was unfair. Because it was almost fair, and almost fair was where Steve did his most damage without meaning to.
You crossed your arms, partly to hold yourself together and partly because the loose shirt brushed your skin in a way that made it difficult to concentrate. “You think I wouldn’t choose you?”
His face tightened. “That’s not what I said.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m saying I don’t want to take advantage of you.”
“You’re dosed too.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“No,” you agreed. “It makes it complicated. But don’t stand there and talk like this is something happening to me that has nothing to do with us.”
Steve looked away.
The room hummed around you. Air filtration. Medical monitors. The low electronic pulse of containment systems doing their job. Beyond the glass, someone was probably watching your vitals spike in real time.
You stepped closer.
Steve noticed immediately. His eyes snapped back to yours, warning and want tangled so tightly that you could barely tell which was winning.
“Don’t,” he said.
You stopped. Not because you wanted to, but because his voice mattered. Even now. Especially now.
“I’m not going to touch you if you tell me not to,” you said.
His throat worked.
“But you don’t get to decide what I want by being afraid of it.”
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then Bruce’s voice came through the speaker.
“I’m sorry to interrupt.”
You looked up at the ceiling. “No, you’re not.”
“I’m really not,” Tony added, farther from the microphone. “But Banner is.”
Bruce ignored him. “We have preliminary results. The compound appears to be a synthetic neurochemical stimulant. It’s targeting adrenaline, dopamine, oxytocin pathways, and likely other endocrine responses. The simplest explanation is that it was designed to heighten arousal and attachment under stress.”
Steve’s expression went blank in the terrifying way that meant he was angry.
“HYDRA was using it for compliance,” he said.
“Likely,” Bruce said.
Your stomach turned.
For a second, the heat receded beneath disgust. HYDRA had always been good at finding new ways to make bodies into battlefields. You looked down at your hands, flexed your fingers, and wished you had broken the technician’s jaw instead of his ribs.
Steve moved before he remembered not to.
He crossed two steps toward you, then caught himself halfway.
This time, the aborted comfort hurt less. You could see the anger in him now, the protective instinct that belonged to you and to every person HYDRA had ever tried to use. He wanted to touch you because he was worried. Because he loved you. Because the idea of that chemical in your blood made him look like he wanted to tear the whole lab apart brick by brick.
“Treatment?” Steve asked.
Bruce hesitated.
Tony made a faint sound in the background. “Here comes the awkward news.”
“Supportive care,” Bruce said carefully. “Hydration, monitoring, temperature management. Sedation is an option, but your vitals are already volatile, and with Steve’s serum involved, I can’t guarantee a predictable response.”
You looked at Steve.
Steve was staring at the speaker.
“What else?” he asked.
Bruce was silent for long enough that your face went hot for a reason that had nothing to do with the drug.
“The compound appears to metabolize fastest after peak hormonal release,” Bruce said finally, with the pained professionalism of a man who had attended too many universities to deserve this conversation. “In plain terms, sexual release would likely shorten the active period. Possibly significantly.”
Tony, because he was Tony, said, “Or, as absolutely no doctor should put it—”
“Do not,” Bruce snapped.
Tony lowered his voice and said it anyway. “Fuck it out.”
You covered your face with both hands.
Steve looked like he might commit a felony.
“I’m muting him,” Natasha said from somewhere beyond the speaker.
“Hey—”
Tony cut off abruptly.
“Thank you,” Steve said tightly.
Bruce sighed. “To be clear, no one is instructing you to do anything. The door remains sealed until we’re certain you’re not contagious and your vitals are stable. What happens inside quarantine is up to you, within safety limits. If either of you wants sedation, we’ll discuss it. If either of you wants privacy, we can disable visual monitoring and keep vitals only.”
Your heart was beating so hard you could feel it in your teeth.
Steve said, “How long if we wait it out?”
“Based on your current levels? For her, maybe eight to ten hours if we wait it out.” Bruce hesitated. “For you, Steve, your system is burning through it faster, but the serum is making the spikes worse. Shorter duration, higher peaks.”
Another wave hit as if summoned.
Your knees softened. You caught the edge of the table, breath leaving you in an unsteady rush, and Steve was there before you could tell him not to be. His hand closed around your waist instead of your arm or elbow, and the difference was immediate enough to steal the air from your lungs.
The pressure was firm, instinctive, and devastating.
You made a sound.
Steve froze.
So did you.
It was not loud. It was barely more than a breath broken around his name. But Steve heard it, and you felt his grip tighten once before he forced it loose.
He tried to step back.
You caught his wrist. “Don’t.”
His eyes found yours.
“I can’t be objective right now,” he said.
“Neither can I.”
“That’s the point.”
“No, Steve. The point is that we know what’s happening. We know it’s chemical, and awful, and not how either of us would have chosen to spend our Friday night.” His mouth twitched despite himself. “But you also know this isn’t coming from nowhere.”
The almost-smile disappeared.
“You know I want you,” you said. “You know I wanted you this morning. You know I’ll want you tomorrow when this is out of our systems.”
His voice was low. “That doesn’t mean—”
“It means you don’t get to pretend the drug invented it.”
The words landed.
“I’ve asked you before,” you said, quieter now. “I’ve asked you to stop being so careful. I’m not saying that to pressure you. I’m saying it because I need you to stop acting like wanting you like this means I’m not myself.”
Steve closed his eyes.
“You want rougher,” he said.
“Yes.”
“You’ve wanted that for a while.”
“Yes.”
“And I keep pulling back.”
You nodded.
“I know my strength,” he said. “You don’t always know what it feels like from my side. You ask me to hold you down, and I want to give you what you want. But then I feel how easy it is to move you, and all I can think about is what happens if I misjudge it.”
Your anger softened so abruptly that it almost hurt.
You let go of his wrist and covered the hand he had resting on your waist.
“You’re allowed to trust yourself,” you said.
His laugh was silent and humorless.
“You trust me in combat.”
His expression shifted.
You pressed his hand more firmly against your waist. “Trust me here.”
Steve looked toward the glass wall.
“Bruce,” he said.
The speaker crackled. “I’m here.”
“Visual monitoring off.”
A pause.
Then Natasha’s voice, gentler than before. “Done.”
The opaque privacy film deepened until the glass became a flat gray mirror. You could still see your reflections in it, blurred and strange. You looked flushed, unsteady, your hand over Steve’s. He looked like a man trying to stand at the edge of a cliff without looking down.
“Vitals remain monitored,” Bruce said. “Audio?”
Steve looked at you.
It was a question.
Even now, it was a question.
Your throat tightened. “Off unless we call you.”
The speaker clicked.
Silence settled over the room.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then Steve said, “I need you to say it again.”
Your pulse jumped. “Which part?”
His eyes were darker than you had ever seen them. “That you want me.”
You stepped closer. His hand slid more fully around your waist, not pulling yet, but ready.
“I want you,” you said.
His breath left him slowly.
“I want you when I’m sober,” you said. “I want you when I’m clear-headed. I want you sweet. I want you careful. I want you in all the ways you already know.”
His fingers tightened.
You felt it through the thin cotton of the medical shirt.
“And I want you rougher than you let yourself be.”
Steve’s expression changed.
It was not the chemical alone. You knew that. The drug was there in the fever-bright heat of his eyes, in the tremor that moved through his hand, in the way his control looked painfully thin. But underneath it was recognition. Not surprise. He knew. He had always known.
He had just never fully believed he was allowed to answer.
“You say red, I stop,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And if anything feels wrong, you tell me.”
“I will.”
“I can’t promise I’ll be as gentle as I usually am.”
The words moved through you like a match struck in the dark.
“I’m not asking you to be.”
His hand went still at your waist.
Then, very carefully, Steve pulled you to him.
It was not rough. Not yet. It was barely more than a closing of distance, his body meeting yours with enough restraint that you could feel the shape of what he was holding back. But after hours of aborted touches and careful avoidance, the contact hit hard enough to make your knees weaken.
Steve caught you.
This time, he did not let go.
His arms came around you properly, one at your waist and the other across your back, his hand spreading wide between your shoulder blades. He bent his head until his forehead rested against yours. You could feel him shaking.
Not from weakness.
From refusal.
From the effort of not taking too much too fast.
“Steve,” you whispered.
His eyes closed. “I’m trying.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know if that helps.”
“It does.”
Your hands rose to his chest. His heart was racing under your palm, strong and fast and alive. For a second, you forgot the chemical. You forgot HYDRA, quarantine, cameras, and medical monitors. There was only Steve in front of you, still trying to be good in a situation designed to make goodness difficult.
You kissed him first.
Or you meant to.
You pushed onto your toes, and Steve met you halfway, his mouth catching yours with a sound that was almost relief. The kiss was hot, clumsy by Steve’s standards, a little too hard at first before he corrected himself.
Then you bit his lower lip.
Not hard.
Enough.
Steve made a sound against your mouth that you had never heard before.
Everything changed.
His hand tightened at your back, pulling you in so suddenly that your breath broke. The kiss deepened, lost its careful shape, and became something hungrier and less practiced. You felt the couch strike the back of your legs and realized he had moved you there without asking your feet to cooperate.
Your heart kicked.
Steve felt you tense and stopped instantly.
His mouth lifted from yours. “Tell me.”
“No,” you said quickly, almost offended by how fast he had pulled himself back. “No, I’m not scared.”
His eyes searched your face.
You reached for his hand, put it at your hip, and held it there.
“I liked that.”
Steve stared at you.
The realization came slowly. You watched it unfold across his face, not as shock but as reluctant understanding. The movement had not frightened you. The suddenness had not hurt. His strength had not been a mistake to apologize for.
You liked it.
His gaze dropped to where his hand covered your hip.
“Oh,” he said, very softly.
Your breath caught.
Because that was the moment.
Not the exposure, not Bruce’s terrible explanation, not the locked door or the privacy film or the heat crawling under your skin. This was the moment something between you tilted. Steve looked at your body under his hand and understood, maybe for the first time without softening the knowledge into something safer, that you were not merely allowing him to be stronger with you.
You wanted it.
His thumb moved once over your hip.
Then his hand tightened.
Your eyes fluttered.
Steve saw that too.
The look on his face changed again, and for one dizzy second you thought: Oh.
The realization startled you with its simplicity. Steve had not been waiting for permission to become someone else, and the aphrodisiac had not uncovered some secret cruelty buried beneath all that gentleness. He was still Steve, which was the part that made your chest ache around the heat.
But he liked this.
He liked your trust. He liked the way you responded when he stopped treating his strength as something shameful. He liked being asked for the power he spent so much time containing, and maybe the roughness itself was not the fantasy he would have chosen alone, but your wanting transformed it in his hands.
Steve Rogers did not secretly want to ruin you.
Steve Rogers wanted to give you what you asked for and had just realized that giving it to you did not make him a danger.
It made him yours.
“Tell me again,” he said.
His voice was lower.
You swallowed. “What?”
“What you want.”
You did.
Not all at once. Not crudely, though there would have been room for that in another version of the night, one without poison in your blood and medical staff outside the door. You told him where you wanted his hands. You told him you wanted his weight. You told him that when he moved you, when he held you still, when he stopped asking your body to pretend it did not know exactly how strong he was, it made you feel trusted too.
Steve listened.
He always listened.
Only this time, he did not translate every word into a warning.
The next wave of heat took both of you under.
It started with his mouth on yours, slower than you expected and rougher than he usually allowed himself to be. He kissed you like he was still giving you time to change your mind, but his hands had stopped pretending they did not know what they wanted. One stayed locked around your waist while the other slid up your back, spreading wide between your shoulder blades and pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies.
You made a small sound into his mouth, and Steve went still for half a second.
“Still with me?” he asked, breathless.
“Yes,” you said immediately. You caught his jaw in your hand and made him look at you. “Still with you.”
Something in him broke open at that.
He kissed you again, and this time he let you feel him. Not carelessly. Never carelessly. But fully. His grip tightened at your waist, and then he lifted you as if it cost him nothing at all. Your legs wrapped around him on instinct, a sharp breath leaving you when his hands caught under your thighs and held you there, suspended against his body.
“I like it,” you whispered before he could ask. “I like when you move me like that.”
His jaw flexed.
Then he carried you to the bed.
He lowered you onto the mattress with maddening control, following you down until his body covered yours and his weight pressed you into the sheets. It was not enough to trap you. It was enough to make your thoughts blur at the edges, enough to make your hands fist in his shirt while relief moved through you so sharply it was almost pain.
“There,” you breathed.
Steve’s face changed. “There?”
You nodded, pulling at him until he understood. “Stay there.”
For once, he did.
His body settled over yours, heavy and warm and solid, and the sound that left you was embarrassing in its honesty. Steve’s eyes dropped to your mouth. His hand slid to your hip, fingers firm through the thin cotton of your pants.
“You really do want this,” he said, like the truth had finally reached a place in him deeper than fear.
“I’ve been telling you.”
“I know.” His voice went rough. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize right now.”
His mouth twitched, but the heat in his eyes did not soften. “Bossy.”
“You like it.”
His hand tightened at your hip. “Yeah,” he said, low enough to make your stomach pull tight. “I do.”
Then he kissed his way down your throat.
Steve had always been careful with his mouth. Gentle presses, patient attention, the kind of tenderness that made you feel cherished and occasionally made you want to scream. This was different. His lips dragged over your skin. His teeth grazed beneath your jaw, then closed lightly at the side of your neck, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to make you arch under him.
His hand caught your waist and held you down.
You froze, but not from fear.
Steve felt the change and lifted his head immediately. “Tell me.”
You swallowed, heat rushing into your face. “That was good.”
He looked at his hand where it held you against the bed.
Then he did it again.
Not harder. More deliberately.
His palm spread over your waist, his fingers pressing into the soft give of you, and he held you in place while his mouth returned to your neck. Your body reacted before your pride could stop it. Your knees shifted around his hips, your back trying to arch even though his hand kept you exactly where he wanted you.
Steve made a sound against your skin.
It was not gentle.
It was hungry.
The noise went through you so intensely that you nearly forgot how to breathe. You pulled at his shirt, impatient now, and Steve let you drag it up only so far before he took over. He sat back long enough to pull it over his head, flushed and broad-shouldered and breathing hard, his eyes fixed on you like he was done pretending looking was enough.
You reached for him.
He caught both your wrists in one hand and pinned them carefully above your head.
Your breath stopped.
So did his.
For one suspended moment, neither of you moved. Steve’s grip was firm, but not painful. His fingers circled your wrists with terrifying ease, holding you in place while his free hand braced beside your shoulder. He looked down at you, and you watched the exact second he understood what the expression on your face meant.
Not fear.
Want.
“Okay?” he asked, his voice low.
You tested his hold, just enough to feel that you could not break it unless he let you. Your pulse kicked hard, your body going hot and liquid beneath him.
“Very okay,” you said.
Steve’s eyes closed for half a second.
When they opened, something steadier had settled there. Still fevered. Still affected. But listening.
Always listening.
He lowered his mouth to yours again, kissing you while he kept your wrists above your head. His other hand moved down your body, slow enough to give you time and firm enough to make the touch impossible to ignore. He found the hem of your shirt and dragged it up, his knuckles brushing your ribs, his palm flattening briefly over your stomach as if he needed to feel you breathe.
“I’ve got you,” he said against your mouth.
“I know.” You lifted your head as much as his hold allowed. “That’s why I want it.”
The words hit him hard. You felt it in the shudder that moved through his body, in the way his grip tightened for one second before he made himself loosen it again.
“Steve,” you said softly. “You can hold me tighter than that.”
His eyes went dark.
Then he did.
His hand closed more securely around your wrists, still careful of the bones, still perfectly aware of his own strength, but no longer treating you like you might disappear beneath it. The pressure pinned you to the mattress. His body covered yours again, and this time when you arched against him, he did not pull back.
The kiss that followed was messy and deep, full of heat and teeth and his breath catching when you rolled your hips up against his.
After that, patience failed both of you.
Clothes came off in pieces, interrupted by kisses and Steve stopping only when he needed to look at your face. By the time there was nothing between you, his hands had learned a new kind of certainty. He touched you slowly at first, watching what made your eyes flutter and your breath break. Then he touched you with more confidence, his fingers firm on your thighs, spreading you open beneath him while his mouth moved lower.
You grabbed at his hair.
Steve looked up immediately.
“Don’t stop,” you said.
His mouth curved, barely.
Then he lowered his head again, and the room slipped sideways.
You lost track of time under his mouth. You knew only heat, his hands on your hips, the rough scrape of his jaw against your inner thigh, the obscene tenderness of how closely he watched you while he took you apart. Every time your body tried to twist away from the intensity, his arm came across your hips and held you there, keeping you open for him until your hands fisted in the sheets.
“Steve,” you gasped.
He lifted his head just enough to answer. “Too much?”
“Not too much. Don’t stop.”
His gaze held yours for another second, making sure.
Then he gave you exactly what you asked for.
When you came, it was with his name broken in your mouth and his hands holding you through it. He stayed there until the last tremor passed, pressing kisses to your skin as if gentleness had not disappeared at all. It had only changed shape.
By the time he crawled back over you, you were shaking.
Steve kissed your cheek, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth. “Still with me?”
You laughed weakly. “Unfortunately for your ego, yes.”
His smile flickered. “My ego?”
“You look smug.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
He kissed you before you could say anything else, and you felt him hard against your thigh, hot and heavy and barely restrained. The contact made both of you go still.
Steve’s forehead dropped to yours.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
The question was quiet, but there was nothing casual in it. Not after everything. Not with both of you still fevered, still shaking, still aware that wanting was not enough unless it stayed a choice.
You touched his face. “I’m sure.”
His eyes searched yours.
You held him there. “I want you inside me. I want you to hold me down. I want to feel you tomorrow.”
Steve’s breath left him in a shudder.
He reached between you, and even with everything your body wanted, the first press of him made you inhale sharply. Steve stopped at once, his arm trembling beside your head.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Yes. Just slow.”
He kissed you, soft now, almost unbearably sweet. “Slow,” he promised.
He gave you slow. He gave you patient. He gave you every inch with his jaw clenched and his body shaking from the effort of not rushing, even as the chemical burned through both of you and made restraint feel like cruelty. Your hands slid over his shoulders, down his back, nails pressing into muscle as he filled you.
When he was finally seated deep, he went still.
You could feel his heart pounding.
For a moment, neither of you moved. The weight of him pinned you down, his chest against yours, his breath hot at your cheek. You had wanted his strength, but this was more than that. This was trust made physical. This was Steve giving you the part of himself he feared most and keeping it careful because you had asked him not to hide it.
You turned your head and kissed his jaw.
“Move,” you whispered.
Steve did.
The first thrust was measured, deep and controlled, and it drew a sound out of you that made his rhythm falter. His hand slid beneath your knee, lifting your leg higher around his hip, changing the angle until the next thrust made your eyes squeeze shut.
“There?” he asked, voice strained.
“Yes. There.”
His control thinned.
You felt it in the way his hips drove forward, still precise but harder now, each thrust pushing you deeper into the mattress. His hand found your waist and held you still, not letting you slip away from the force of him. The bed creaked beneath you. Your breath came in broken pieces. Steve’s mouth moved against your throat, your shoulder, anywhere he could reach.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, rough and low.
“It’s not.”
His grip tightened.
A helpless sound escaped you.
Steve groaned. “You like feeling me hold you down.”
“Yes.”
His hips snapped forward harder, and pleasure flashed through you so brightly that you grabbed at his arm. Steve stopped immediately, body locked above yours.
You shook your head before he could ask. “Don’t stop. I just—Steve, it felt good.”
For a second, he only stared at you.
Then he laughed once, breathless and disbelieving, and buried his face in your neck. “You’re going to kill me.”
“You’ll live.”
“I’m not sure.”
You smiled against his skin. “Steve.”
He lifted his head.
You wrapped your legs tighter around him. “Harder.”
The word changed him.
Not into someone else. Never that. His hand came to your face first, thumb brushing your cheek with aching tenderness. His eyes held yours, giving you one more chance, one more breath, one more place to stop.
You did not take it.
Steve kissed you, and then he stopped holding back.
He fucked you like he trusted you to know what you wanted. Like he trusted himself to listen. His body drove yours into the mattress, strong and relentless, one hand gripping your hip while the other braced beside your head. You felt surrounded by him, overwhelmed by him, held down by him, and the pleasure of it was so sharp that tears burned at the corners of your eyes.
Steve saw them.
His rhythm broke. “Sweetheart—”
“Good,” you gasped, pulling him back down. “It’s good. Please.”
His face twisted, desperate and tender all at once.
Then his mouth was on yours again, swallowing the next sound you made as his hand slid between your bodies. You came hard enough to lose the shape of the room. For a few seconds there was only Steve, his weight, his voice saying your name, his hand firm at your hip as he held you through every shaking second of it.
He followed soon after, burying his face in your shoulder with a broken sound as his body went rigid over yours. Even then, even at the edge of himself, he was careful. His hand cradled the back of your head. His weight shifted just enough not to crush you. His mouth pressed against your skin, trembling and reverent.
For a long time afterward, neither of you spoke.
Steve stayed inside you, breathing hard, his body still covering yours. You could feel him everywhere: in the ache of your thighs, the heat between your legs, the solid pressure of his chest against yours. His hand moved slowly over your hair, almost dazed.
“Too much?” he asked finally, voice wrecked.
You turned your face into his palm. “No.”
He exhaled.
“Intense,” you admitted. “But not too much.”
His eyes closed like the distinction mattered more than anything else you could have said.
You touched his cheek. “Come here.”
“I’m already here.”
“Closer.”
A faint, exhausted smile crossed his face. “That might be a medical impossibility.”
“Try.”
He lowered himself carefully, giving you more of his weight again, and you sighed with the comfort of it. His arms came around you. This time, when he held you, he did not loosen his grip before you asked.
You smiled against his shoulder.
“There,” you whispered.
Steve kissed your temple. “There.”
The serum made the whole thing absurd.
You knew Steve’s stamina. You had been dating him long enough to understand that ordinary human limits were, for him, more like polite suggestions. But the aphrodisiac took everything the serum already made unfair and pushed it into something almost ridiculous. Each time your body went loose and heavy with relief, his pulse would begin to slow for maybe a minute before another spike hit him, heat coming back into his eyes with an apology already forming on his mouth.
The third time it happened, you started laughing.
Steve looked stricken. “What?”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
His ears went red.
Actually red.
Even fevered, overwhelmed, and visibly fighting the urge to pull you back under him, Steve Rogers blushed because you had implied his recovery time was inconvenient.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
You laughed harder, then winced because your body was beginning to feel like you had survived both sex pollen and a full Avengers training circuit. “Don’t apologize. Just bring me the blue drink.”
He brought you the blue electrolyte drink. He opened it. He held it for you even though you were capable of holding it yourself, and when you gave him a look, he gave one right back.
“Hydrate,” he said.
“You’re such a romantic.”
His mouth curved, tired and fond and still hungry in a way that made your exhausted body consider mutiny.
“You love me,” he said.
“I do. Unfortunately.”
His smile faded into something softer.
The drug did not take that from him. It sharpened want, stripped patience, twisted need into something urgent and physical, but it could not manufacture the way Steve looked at you when he forgot to be afraid. That was yours. That had always been yours.
You reached for him.
He came.
The hours passed in heat and fragments. The bed. The couch. The cold bathroom tile against your feet when he helped you drink water between waves because even compromised by HYDRA’s poison and his own impossible stamina, Steve Rogers still cared about hydration. The first time his control slipped enough that his body covered yours fully, his weight pressing you down into the mattress in a way that made your mind go bright and empty with relief. When you told him harder, he believed you. When you told him wait, he waited. When you told him yes, he stopped making yes prove itself over and over before he accepted it.
At some point, Bruce’s voice came carefully through the speaker after a long warning chime, asking for a verbal status check. Steve had wrapped you in a blanket by then, one hand braced on the mattress beside your hip, his body angled between you and the rest of the room as if the sound system itself might threaten your modesty.
“We’re alive,” you called, because Steve looked like he might combust if forced to answer.
Bruce paused. “Vitals are improving.”
“Great,” you said.
“They’re still elevated.”
“No kidding.”
Steve put his face in his hands.
Bruce, clearly fighting for professionalism, said, “Do either of you require medical assistance?”
You looked at Steve. Steve looked at you.
His hair was a mess. His mouth was swollen. There was a red mark on his shoulder you were fairly sure you had put there with your teeth at some point, which meant Captain America was going to leave quarantine with visible evidence that his girlfriend had briefly lost her mind.
You felt a little proud.
Steve saw your expression and narrowed his eyes.
You smiled at the ceiling. “We need more water.”
“Sending it through the transfer drawer.”
“And maybe food.”
“Also sending food.”
“And if Tony is anywhere near the observation room, tell him I can still kill him from quarantine.”
A faint sound came through the speaker that might have been Natasha laughing.
Tony’s voice, farther away, protested, “I have been nothing but respectful during this medical crisis.”
“You told us to fuck it out,” Steve said.
“I said what the science implied!”
Natasha said, “Muted again.”
The speaker clicked off.
You closed your eyes and let your head fall back against the pillow. “I’m moving to Canada.”
Steve sat beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. “Why Canada?”
“I don’t know. It was the first place that came to mind.”
“You hate being cold.”
“I’ll adapt.”
His hand settled over your ankle beneath the blanket, warm and heavy and careful again.
The care made your chest hurt.
You opened your eyes.
Steve was looking at his hand on your ankle, thumb resting lightly against the bone as if he were cataloging every possible bruise before it appeared.
There it was.
The crash.
“Steve.”
“I’m okay,” he said.
“You are a terrible liar.”
His mouth tightened.
You pushed yourself up carefully. Every muscle objected. Steve moved to help you, then hesitated, his hand hovering near your elbow.
You stared at it.
He started to pull away.
“Oh, don’t you dare.”
His eyes jumped to yours.
“You don’t get to spend hours proving you can listen to me and then go right back to treating me like spun glass.”
The words were sharper than you intended, but you did not take them back. You were tired and sore and still flushed with the chemical’s fading heat, and you could not bear the thought of waking up tomorrow with Steve further away from you than he had been before.
His hand closed carefully around your elbow.
He helped you sit.
Then he let go.
You sighed. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He looked down.
The room was cooler now, or maybe your skin was finally returning to itself. The sheets were tangled around you, towels abandoned near the edge of the bed, and Steve had arranged water and protein bars on the table with the grim practicality of a soldier preparing supplies during a siege.
You touched his hand.
He went still, but he did not pull away.
“I remember,” you said.
His gaze lifted.
“I know you’re going to worry it was all fever and chemicals and that I’ll wake up horrified. So I’m telling you now. I remember asking. I remember you listening. I remember you stopping when I said wait. I remember you giving me water like the world’s most overqualified nurse.”
That got the smallest breath of amusement from him.
“And I remember liking it,” you said.
His expression closed.
You squeezed his hand before he could leave you from six inches away. “Steve.”
His voice was quiet. “There will be bruises.”
“Probably.”
“I was too rough.”
“You were rougher.”
His eyes met yours.
The distinction mattered. You could see him hearing it.
“You were not too rough,” you said. “If you had been, I would have told you.”
“You were drugged.”
“So were you.”
“That doesn’t cancel it out.”
“No. It means we talk about it like adults who were put in an awful situation by people who wanted to use our bodies against us.” Your throat tightened, but you kept going. “HYDRA did that. Not you.”
Steve looked away.
You shifted closer, giving him time to stop you.
He did not.
“The worst part,” you said softly, “is that I’m afraid you’re going to use this as proof that you were right to hold back.”
He did not answer.
That was answer enough.
“I don’t know how not to think about what could have happened,” he said. “I don’t know how to look at marks on you and not wonder if I misjudged. I don’t know how to be that with you without worrying I’ll become something I can’t take back.”
You cupped his face.
He went still.
“Listen to me,” you said. “I do not need you drugged. I do not need you out of control. I do not need you to become someone else. I need you listening. That’s all I’ve ever been asking for.”
His eyes closed.
You leaned forward and pressed your forehead to his.
“Sometimes I want sweet. Sometimes I want slow. Sometimes I want the way you touch me when you’re trying to remind me I’m safe.”
Steve’s hand rose to your waist, hesitant but there.
“And sometimes,” you continued, “I want to feel your strength because I already know I’m safe with you.”
His fingers tightened, not by much, but enough for you to notice.
You smiled.
His eyes opened, and this time he saw you clearly. You were tired and sore, sober enough to know what you were saying, and still leaning into his hand.
A long breath left him.
“I don’t know if I can promise to get it right every time,” he said.
“You don’t have to.”
His thumb moved once at your waist. “I can promise to keep listening.”
Your chest softened. “That’s the whole thing, Rogers.”
He huffed out a quiet laugh.
Then he kissed you.
It was gentle.
You let it be.
Gentle was not the enemy. Careful was not the enemy. You loved this part of him, the sweetness that survived war and serum and ice and every person who had tried to make him into something less human than he was.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours again.
“I love you,” he said.
“I know.”
His eyes narrowed.
You smiled. “I love you too.”
“Better.”
“You’re needy after sex pollen.”
His face went pink.
You laughed, and this time it did not hurt as much.
The speaker chimed before Bruce’s voice came through again, cautious but relieved. “Your levels are dropping. Steve’s are still elevated, but trending down.”
You patted Steve’s cheek. “Negative refractory period and slow toxin clearance. Tragic.”
Bruce coughed.
Steve closed his eyes. “Please don’t say that where he can hear you.”
Bruce, sounding like he regretted medical school, said, “You’re both past the worst of it.”
Past the worst of it.
You leaned into Steve and felt his arm come around you. Still careful. Always careful. But when you tucked yourself closer, he did not loosen his hold to give you space you had not requested.
He kept you there.
That felt like victory.
Several hours later, the door unsealed.
By then, you had showered, changed into clean clothes from the transfer drawer, eaten two protein bars, half a sandwich, and something Tony claimed was a recovery smoothie but looked like melted radioactive mint chip. Steve had refused to let you drink it until Bruce confirmed it was safe. You had refused to let Steve throw it away until you got to take a picture.
For blackmail, obviously.
The chemical had faded to an afterglow of exhaustion and tenderness by the time Dr. Cho cleared you both for release. She examined you first, clinically calm, making notes on your vitals and checking the places where bruises had begun to rise along your hips and thighs. Steve stood on the other side of the room pretending not to watch while absolutely watching.
Dr. Cho glanced between you once and said, “Any pain beyond expected muscle soreness?”
“No.”
Steve’s jaw tightened.
You shot him a look.
Dr. Cho’s mouth curved faintly. “Any dizziness? Nausea? Confusion?”
“No.”
“Do you feel safe leaving quarantine with Captain Rogers?”
Steve looked as if the question had physically struck him.
You answered without hesitation. “Yes.”
Dr. Cho nodded as if she had expected nothing else, then turned to Steve. “Do you?”
That surprised him.
It surprised you, too.
Steve blinked. “Do I what?”
“Feel safe leaving quarantine with her.”
For a second, he looked almost offended on your behalf. Then the question settled, and something complicated moved through his face.
“Yes,” he said quietly.
Dr. Cho made another note. “Good.”
When she left, Steve stared after her.
You bumped his arm with your shoulder. “Told you. Smart woman.”
He looked down at you. “You planned that?”
“No. I’m just choosing to take credit.”
His smile was small but real.
The hallway outside quarantine was empty except for Natasha, who leaned against the far wall with a paper bag in one hand and the expression of someone prepared to murder Tony Stark if necessary. She took in both of you with one sweep of her eyes, pausing only briefly on the marks high on Steve’s neck that his shirt did not fully cover.
Her brows rose.
Steve’s ears went red again.
You took the bag from her. “Please tell me that’s food.”
“Your actual clothes,” Natasha said. “And food.”
“I’ve never loved you more.”
“I know.”
Steve cleared his throat. “Where’s Tony?”
“Banned from this floor,” Natasha said. “Possibly forever, depending on whether he makes the T-shirt.”
You stared at her. “What T-shirt?”
“The one he absolutely should not make.”
Steve looked up at the ceiling like he was asking God for strength, and despite everything, you started laughing.
He looked at you like you were the sunrise and a headache at the same time.
Natasha’s expression softened by a fraction. “Go home. Sleep. Hydrate. Don’t let him brood too much.”
“I don’t brood,” Steve said.
Natasha and you looked at him.
He frowned. “I don’t brood that much.”
“That’s progress,” Natasha said, and walked away.
The elevator ride to Steve’s floor was quiet without being uncomfortable. Your body was exhausted in a deep, humming way, and Steve kept his hand around yours as if he had decided, finally, that touching you after quarantine was allowed.
“You’re thinking,” you said.
“I do that.”
“Dangerous habit.”
His mouth curved, then faded.
When the elevator doors opened, he did not move right away.
“I don’t want that to be the only time,” he said.
Your heart tripped.
Steve looked straight ahead into the empty hallway, jaw set as if he were bracing himself for enemy fire. “Not like that. Not because of the drug. I don’t want that again.”
“Me neither.”
“But what you asked for.” He glanced at you then, uncertain but honest. “I don’t want to go back to pretending I don’t hear you.”
The tenderness that moved through you was almost worse than the heat had been.
“Okay,” you said.
His brows drew together slightly. “Okay?”
“We don’t go back.”
Some of the tension eased from his shoulders.
“We talk,” you said. “When we’re rested. When there’s no toxin, no quarantine, no Tony making commentary from behind glass. We figure out what we both want. What’s okay. What isn’t. Where you need reassurance. Where I need you to stop deciding for me.”
Steve absorbed that.
Then he nodded. “I can do that.”
“I know.”
His eyes softened. “You sound very sure.”
“I am.”
“About me?”
You squeezed his hand. “Always.”
That one hit him. Steve could take praise in public if it were about Captain America, but give Steve Rogers certainty in private, and he looked like you had handed him something fragile enough to frighten him.
You loved him so much that it made you ache.
“Come on,” you said softly. “Take me to bed.”
His eyes darkened before he could stop them.
You pointed at him. “To sleep.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it very loudly.”
“I have never thought loudly in my life.”
“You are a patriotic foghorn.”
He laughed then, a real laugh, tired and warm in the empty hallway. It followed you into his apartment, into the quiet space that smelled like laundry detergent and coffee and the faint cedar soap he liked. You changed into one of his shirts because your clean clothes were in Natasha’s bag and Steve’s were closer. He pretended not to watch you do it.
The bed felt impossibly soft.
Steve climbed in after you with unusual caution, lying on his back at first as though he did not want to presume. You let him suffer for approximately three seconds before rolling into his side.
His arm came around you.
Careful.
Then, after a pause, firmer.
You smiled against his chest.
“There,” you murmured.
Steve’s chin brushed the top of your head. “There?”
“That’s better.”
His hand spread against your back.
The weight of it was warm and solid and exactly enough.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. His heartbeat slowed beneath your ear. Yours followed. The city beyond the windows moved on without you, full of noise and light and people who had no idea that the world had narrowed for a few hours to a locked room, a terrible chemical, and the difference between fear and trust.
You were almost asleep when Steve said your name.
“Hm?”
“I was scared,” he said quietly. “Not of you. Not really of the drug either. I was scared I’d find out there was a part of me I couldn’t control.”
You lifted your head.
“And then I was scared because I could control it enough to listen,” he said. “Which meant all the times before, when you asked and I pulled back, it wasn’t because I couldn’t do it safely. It was because I didn’t trust myself.”
Your throat tightened. “It frustrated me. Sometimes it hurt my feelings. Not because you wouldn’t do exactly what I wanted, but because it felt like you trusted your fear more than you trusted me.”
His face softened with pain.
“But I understand why,” you said. “That doesn’t erase it. It gives us somewhere to go.”
His hand covered yours.
“I don’t need perfect,” you said. “I need honest. And I need you to stop looking at my bruises like they’re evidence in a murder investigation.”
A startled laugh broke out of him.
You grinned. “Some of those are mine emotionally.”
He shook his head, but the guilt in his eyes eased. “You’re impossible.”
“You love me.”
“I do.”
“Unfortunately?”
His smile softened. “Never.”
That was unfair. You were too tired to be expected to survive Steve Rogers saying things like that while looking at you like you were the only place he had ever wanted to come home to.
You settled back against him, hiding your face in his shirt.
“Go to sleep,” he murmured.
“You first.”
“I can do this all night.”
“Negative refractory period and no sleep requirements. Tragic.”
“Please stop calling it that.”
“No.”
He sighed, but his arm tightened around you, and this time there was no fear in it.
Only warmth.
Only weight.
Only Steve, careful with you because he loved you.
And finally, finally, strong enough to understand that careful did not always mean letting go.
credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider and @saradika-graphics for the Captain America divider
PAIRING: post-endgame!bucky barnes x female reader
WORD COUNT: 430 (whoops 😃)
WARNINGS: angst, hurt/comfort, established relationship, no use of y/n.
SONG PROMPT: total eclipse of the heart by bonnie tyler
LYRICS: “We can take it to the end of the line.”
NOTE: sorry for the double upload! they’ll be another one tomorrow (hopefully), and then the last two should be smooth sailing and on schedule. can i be trusted to keep my word though? . . . probably not.
event masterlist | day twenty-five | day twenty-seven | m. masterlist
Five years without Bucky, and you still can't get him out of your head.
You can't move his stuff out, even when Steve offers to lend a hand, even when he gently suggests that it might help you heal.
But how can you heal from something you don't even understand?
Half of the world disappeared, disintegrated in front of the remaining population's eyes like dust.
And Bucky was one of those people.
But when people started reappearing out of thin air again, five years after the Blip, you get a call.
Steve.
He gives you an address, tells you to meet him there. He has something important he needs share.
That's how you find yourself standing outside the Avengers compound, or at least what was left of it.
No Steve in sight, but someone else is waiting when you get there.
Someone familiar, someone your heart hasn't been able to let go of.
"Hi, babydoll." He says softly.
Oh.
You have a visceral reaction to those two words alone, and your legs are moving before your brain can even catch up, barrelling into him and wrapping your arms tight around his neck.
"Bucky." You sob, it's the only thing that comes out of your mouth, "What happened? What happened, where did you go?!"
"Shhhh, baby, it's okay," He rasps.
"It's not okay!" You lean back to shove weakly at his chest, tears streaming down flushed cheeks, "You can't— don't tell me that! Five years. You've been gone for five years—"
"I know," He placates, still keeping you within arm's length, "Steve told me, c'mere, don't— don't push me away."
You throw yourself back at him, and he catches you like always does.
"Don't ever do that again!" You gasp into his shirt, fingers curled tight into the fabric.
"Never," Bucky breathes, tilting your chin up so he can look down at you properly. Your lips brush together, taking each other in as he swipes away your tears.
"We can take this to the end of the line," Bucky whispers against your mouth, hopeful and desperate, "You and me, whatever you want, whatever you want."
You grapple at his uniform, still choking on your tears, nodding frantically.
There's a hitch in his breathing as Bucky brings you to his chest. You missed this, the warmth of him, the way he surrounds you and can make you feel safe just by wrapping his arms around you.
"I love you, Buck," You gasp shakily.
He presses a hard kiss to your temple, "I love you too. So much. I'm never leaving you again."
🏷️: @metal-armed-muse @kileyking @nightfirecomit @juniebjonesin @chocolatemilkshakex @spring-soldier @spideyskywalker @phoenix-in-writing @buckytakethewheel @i-loveyoubutyourenotmine @erina00 @m1rrorcr1ss @stanmarvelous @sassandscribbles + to be added to the tag list? comment on this post or send in an ask!
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Summary: You and Bucky have been dating for six weeks, and sex is still a little clumsy and awkward. Until it isn't.
Word Count: 2.4k
Warnings/tags: smut; lots of giggly/clumsy sex; p in v; praise kink (kinda); dirty talk; one instance of pussy pronouns; marking (fingers on back, light bighting); sweat licking; bucky's a very very very soft top; bucky & reader are in a new relationship
Notes: i'm not sure what this is. just something i had in my wips for a while and i got random inspiration for it this weekend. giggly sex is fun and hot and giggly sex with bucky barnes would be even funnier and hotter :)
You and Bucky have been dating for exactly six weeks.
Not that anyone’s counting. (You both are. Secretly. Bucky has it written down in his notes app, you’ve been crossing off days on the calendar on your fridge.)
Six weeks of him tugging your hoodie strings to pull you closer when no one’s looking, of the kind of late-night talks that drift into early-morning ones. It’s kind of a precarious middle ground, long enough that you already know exactly how he takes his coffee every morning, but short enough that your heart still does that funny little flip when his name pops up on your screen.
Domesticity settled with a terrifying ease. You know the weight of his arm draped over your waist in sleep, and he knows you being too quiet during a movie watch means you’re already falling asleep, even if you deny it a hundred times when he asks you about it. In certain situations, words no longer need to be spoken. Quick glances exchanged across a crowded room say ‘get me out of there’ or ‘you look incredible’. Six weeks is enough to make that kind of familiarity start to kick in.
And then, there’s the bedroom.
Inside those more intimate four walls, the practiced cool of the last six weeks tends to evaporate. It’s the one place where the “newness” of it all still feels just as electric and charged. And, occasionally, a little bit clumsy. The breathless “is this okay?” whispered against a collarbone, his hands sometimes hovering a second too long, unsure if he should grip tighter or be gentler. The awkwardness of trying to be sexy while accidentally kicking him in the shin, or a stray elbow hitting the wrong spot.
Neither of you is new to sex, obviously. Bucky had his fair share of it back before the war, even if it’s been a few decades since he’s been properly introduced back into the game; and you also didn’t lack experience, with your list of boyfriends and hookups that never quite made you feel like you do now. But sex with real feelings comes with a whole extra instruction manual that most people don’t talk about. How two very naked people learn to fit their bodies together when hearts are involved, too.
You hadn’t imagined it would be like this, the first time. Or the second. That even Bucky, who usually moves with soldier-like precision, would become a mess of soft sighs and flushed skin, wonderfully undone under you, over you, around you. Every touch feels like a first (sure, many of them are), and there’s a tentative reverence to it, a mutual understanding that you’re both still learning the map of each other’s skin.
Tonight you’re in his bedroom. The lamp on the nightstand casts a soft golden light over the dark vibranium of his left arm, and your fingers are dancing over it to the rhythm of a song that only exists in your mind. Bucky’s above you, weight braced on his forearms as his lips press against yours in a filthy kiss.
Already, you’re both a little sweaty, a little desperate.
He shifts his hips, lines himself up and pushes in, giving you that little pause at the beginning that’s both him waiting for permission and also letting you adjust to his size. Both are a testament to the way he’s always a gentleman to you, even when you’re practically begging him to fold you in half.
You arch, sigh his name… and then his phone starts going off on the nightstand. Unbearably loud and with a very specific, extremely annoying soundbite: a loud air horn.
Freezing mid-moan, it takes you half a second to realize what’s happening before you snort so violently you almost choke.
“Bucky, what the fuck?”
Bucky drops his forehead to your collarbone with a defeated groan. “I’m gonna murder Sam.”
"Why..." You can barely get the words out through the giggles. "Why is his contact sound a literal air horn?"
“It was funny at 3 a.m. last month,” he mumbles. “I was half drunk on your martinis.”
You laugh harder, unapologetically so, and your whole body shaking with laughter does interesting things around Bucky that make his hips jerk involuntarily.
“Fuck, baby, stop laughing, you’re gonna make me…” he cuts off with a helpless sound as you clench on reflex from giggling.
He retaliates by rolling you both so you’re suddenly on top, all the while the sheet is tangled around his ankle like a boa constrictor. He yanks, pulls, then his knee bangs something and his arm hits the bedside table. The lamp on it wobbles and the low, dancing lights on the ceiling make the scene look like it’s out of a low-budget horror flick.
You both stare at it, wide-eyed.
“Don’t you dare fall. We just fixed the trust issues from last week,” you whisper to the lamp. And by trust issues, you mean that one time Bucky decided to throw your bra against the lamp so hard it fell and broke the lightbulb.
Bucky wheezes. “I’m being cockblocked by furniture and my best friend. This is rock bottom.”
You choose that moment to move, a slow grind of your hips that works wonderfully at making his eyes cross. “Technically, you’re cockblocking yourself. You picked his ringtone, Bucky.”
“I was clearly a different man thirty days ago. One who didn’t understand the consequences of his drunken actions,” Bucky gasps, hands sliding down your body and settling at your hips to anchor you, thumbs digging into the soft give of your skin as he helps you ride him. The air horn finally cuts off, and you lean down, brushing your nose against his, hair falling like a curtain around both your faces.
“Think he’ll call back?”
“Let’s not keep talking about Sam,” Bucky murmurs, lips half curled up as he moves with an upward surge, doing his best to drag your attention back to him. It works, because you sink back down, the laughter in your lungs turning back into a shaky exhale. It’s still a little messy, sheets bunched awkwardly between your shins, but nothing really matters anymore when the cool of his vibranium hand fingers your inner thigh, squeezes, then moves up your stomach, crawling over the skin, before it reaches one of your breasts and palms it slowly.
“You okay?” he whispers, voice dropping into that gravelly register that makes your toes curl every time. You simply nod, unsure that the right words can find you in time before you make a fool of yourself by only babbling some sounds. Your hips roll forward, Bucky meets you by thrusting up as you shift your weight to find that sweet angle again. Doesn’t take for you to find it, hands clawing at his shoulders and nails leaving its usual faint red marks behind. “You’re so beautiful, baby.”
The praise makes your breath hitch in your throat, because it settles just like everything else in your relationship. Sweet, slow, still new, a little bit unexpected. Like you still can’t believe someone like Bucky Barnes would look twice your way, let alone have him under you, in his bed, calling you beautiful. He looks at you with a quiet sort of awe that makes the words land somehow deeper, branding themselves into your bloodstream. His thumb grazes your nipple, and you arch your back immediately.
“Bucky… fuck, you’re gonna make me cum if you keep talking sweet like that.”
He chuckles, and pulls you down until his lips are grazing the spot in your neck where your pulse is hammering. “That is kinda the point of what we’re doing.” The statement is punctuated by a sharp thrust up that steals the breath out of you, and you respond only with a high-pitched sound that is definitely not a laugh this time.
“You always make such pretty noises,” he tells you, vibranium hand sliding up from your breast to cup your jaw, cold thumb tracing the line of your lower lip. His flesh arm fully bands around your waist and keeps you pressed flush against his chest, so tight you can barely move your hips. Six weeks is enough that you recognize this: he’s about to fuck you so good you’ll see stars for an hour after.
The bed beneath you creaks in steady protest as Bucky begins fucking up into you, his movements a little harder, deeper, eyes locked on yours as if he is memorizing the exact way you look every time he pushes home. Your fingers find the sheets under him, bunching the fabric until your knuckles go white, while your lips find his in a messy kiss, tongue, spit, some not-so-sexy teeth sometimes. Every time he hits that specific spot, your toes curl and you moan into his mouth, and his arm around your waist only grips you tighter. To this day, you still wonder how he’s been the first man in your life to find that spot so quickly. And how he sticks to it every time you make love to him, like he’s got a radar in his point pointing directly to it.
“Bucky,” you whimper, the name a prayer into his lips. You try to move, but his arm is solid around you, refusing to let you move an inch.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers back, shifting his legs so they’re bent at the knees, giving him a better angle to slide into your heat. “Just feel me, baby. You don’t need to do anything else.”
The friction builds, an electric coil in your lower belly that’s winding tighter with every thrust. Sweat slicks his chest where it presses against yours, a few drops pooling around his neck. Your eyes glint, and you consider reaching out and licking a stripe over him, but your mind slips. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, the thought flickering through your heat-fogged brain like a dare. Maybe six weeks is too soon to get a bit kinky? Are you still in the “best behavior” phase?
Maybe coincidence, maybe the universe giving you the answer you were looking for, you hear Bucky speak in a quiet tone, right into your ear.
“She feels so good around my cock.”
The words sound more like a thought he couldn’t keep inside than a deliberate statement, the kind of blunt, dirty talk that is too far removed from his polite “is this okay?” that you’re used to. But he doesn’t retract it, and your heart trashes. You hadn’t realized that Bucky, always-a-gentleman Bucky, had this particular gear in him, and it’s a revelation that shatters your “best behavior” hesitation. If he can say that…
You lean up, your tongue darting out to lick a salty, searing stripe from the hollow of his throat up to the edge of his jaw, right where beads of sweat had been pooling before.
Bucky freezes for a heartbeat, then moves his vibranium hand to the back of your neck and pulls you close until he can bury his head in your neck and inhale before his teeth gently dig into the skin. You moan, and he knows enough of you to know how good that felt to you from your sounds alone. A wall is breaking tonight. You like that. He does, too.
His pace changes, no longer steady, just urgent now, with the kind of friction that makes you see colors behind your eyelids, a building pressure that almost sends your heart beating its way out of your chest. The clumsiness hasn’t left the building; your leg cramps once when you move it slightly further away, he yelps when you pull his hair a bit too hard once (before asking you to do it again right after). But it’s part of the heat, now.
“Bucky, please,” you sob into the crook of his neck as the first waves of your orgasm begin to lap at the edges of your mind.
You’d been used to men who thought the word please meant faster, harder. Now you’re in bed with a man who knows a please when you’re right about to cum means keep doing just that.
And oh, he does.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice thick. “Let me see you cum.”
You’d barely realized you had even closed your eyes, but you force them open anyway, vision swimming, only to find him watching you intensely, face flushed, jaw locked tight. And he keeps that soul-destroying rhythm that has your nervous system screaming until the coil in your belly snaps.
It starts as a low tremor that radiates from where you’re joined, heat that turns your bones to liquid. Your fingers dig into his shoulders and you sob, moan, maybe a mix of both, as a thousand golden sparks dance behind your eyes. All you can feel through it is the solid weight of him holding you tight.
Bucky doesn’t look away for a single second, because seeing you come apart is what does it for him, too. His muscles turn to iron, his entire body shuddering with beautiful force that has the bed frame groaning in protest. He thrusts one last time, buried as deep as he can go, and stays there until the world finally stops spinning.
When he finally rolls your bodies so you're both laying on your side, but still connected with arms wrapped around each other and legs slung over hips, he presses a soft kiss to your temple.
“You okay?”
You nod, still catching your breath. “Best sex of my life. Kinda also the most chaotic.”
He huffs a laugh, nose brushing your hair. “We’re gonna get better at being smooth.”
“Don’t you dare. I want more of this.”
His expression softens, something tender and a little awed flickering across his face.
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
“Yeah.”
He kisses you slow this time. No rush, just the two of you learning what this feels like when it’s quiet too.
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going on a date with bucky barnes and it all goes so nicely, so sweetly, so smoothly. you both had so much fun, chemistry and a good time. he's charming, witty and he keeps flirting and complimenting you at every chance he gets. he held your hand all night long, neither of you even noticed it, it just happened naturally, your cheeks hurt from how much you're smiling and both of your hearts are at ease.. that's until the date comes to an end, it's time to pay and you ask him if he wants to go 50/50.
that would be the first time he lets go of your hand that night, it's unintentional just happened out of pure shock. "50... what.." the confusion on his face, you'd think he's an alien seeing earth the first time.
"you know.. 50/50.. we'll split the bill between us"
"split the bill?" he asks and you just nod, he'd blink at you, "50/50.. splitting the bill.. what is this about, i asked you on a date"
now it's your turn to be the alien seeing earth for the first time, "we are on a date, bucky. this is a date"
"no, it's not a date."
"it is a date"
"you're asking me to split the bill, this is not a date"
"oh my god sam was right, you can be such a drama queen." you laugh, he just stares at you, blankly. "it might've been a while since the last time you went on a date so let me break it down for you.. these days, people who go on dates split the bill, they go 50/50" you shrug, "it's normal"
"it's normal? you've done it before?"
you nod, "every date i've been on has been 50/50 yeah"
bucky nearly flips the table. bucky who spent all of his three dollars in the 1940's trying to win a teddybear for a girl he had a crush on, bucky who used to save up most of his income in an old shoe box underneath his bed so he can take his girl to a nice diner, bucky who went to the florist to get you a bouquet of roses and didn't even ask for the price just handed his credit card because to him your smile is priceless, bucky is about to have a stroke.
"you've never been on a date" he says, face still blank.
"yes i have"
"no you haven't. this is your first date." he says, "i'm your first time." he smirks and you blush at the possible implication. "50/50.." he scoffs under his breath, "what else are you gonna tell me next? i should walk on the inside of the sidewalk? keep my jacket on when you're cold? sleep further from the door? not open doors for you? jesus sweetheart what has the world come to?"
you hide your smile, you love it when he rambles like that, he's so calm yet so offended all at once somehow, it's funny and endearing. "what's wrong with walking on the inside of the sidewalk?" you joke and he rolls his eyes making you laugh, "so.. no 50/50? are you sure?" you ask one last time, hands on your purse on your lap.
he keeps his eyes on you as he pays the bill, glaring playfully, gets up and pulls out your chair before putting his black leather jacket on your shoulders, "no doll," he offers you his hand which you quickly hold, intertwining your fingers with his, and opens the door with his metal hand, "no 50/50."
summary: After waking up from surgery still under anesthesia, you meet a ridiculously pretty stranger who claims to be your boyfriend. Convinced he's too perfect to be real, you spend the next hour flirting with him.
word count: 2.1 k
warnings: fluff, post-surgery / anesthesia humor, memory loss (temporary), established relationship, bucky barnes being soft, tooth-rotting fluff, mild embarrassment, idiots in love.
a/n: how crazy is that there's already +400 people following me now? I started working on this thing when I was a bit under 300 and timing was crazy. So I saw this tiktok & came with this silly idea lol not used to writing this much fluff, but I hope you enjoy it. (Also, update on rockstar!Bucky coming soon.) | dividers by @enchanthings
You blinked down slowly, the world swimming into focus in patches of white and blue. Hospital room, beeping machines, and— oh.
There was a man sitting beside your bed. A really really pretty man. Dark hair, sharp jaw, shoulders that looked like they were personally crafted by Michelangelo. And his eyes, of the most ridiculous shade of blue you've ever seen.
"Hi," you breathed, the word slurring slightly. "Are you real?"
The pretty man's lips twitched into a smile. "Yeah, sweetheart, I'm real. How you feeling?"
"Floaty," you admitted, trying to lift your hand but it felt like it weighted a thousand pounds. "Everything's… soft. Are you a nurse? You're the prettiest nurse I've ever seen."
He laughed and the sound made your fuzzy brain light up. "I'm not a nurse, baby. I'm Bucky, your boyfriend."
You squinted at him suspiciously. "No."
"No?"
"No," you said firmly. "Because if you were my boyfriend I'd definitely remember. I would remember so hard you'd be all I ever thought about. I'd be insufferable about it."
"You're insufferable about it," he said, grinning now. He reached out and took your hands, his thumb stroking over your knuckles. One hand was warm, the other was cool metal. "You literally have a folder on your phone called 'Bucky being pretty' with like three hundred photos in it."
Your eyes went wide. "I do?"
"Yes, you do."
"…can I see?"
"After you're more awake." He was trying so hard not to laugh. "The nurse said you'd be loopy for a bit."
"I'm not loopy," you insisted, then immediately contradicted yourself by reaching up to poke his face. "You're loopy. Your face is loopy. Too pretty, not fair." Your finger booped his nose. "Boop."
Bucky caught your hand before you could poke him again, pressing a kiss to your palm. The gesture was so tender it made your drugged heart skip. "You tell me that a lot."
"Well, it is true." You tried to sit up and failed spectacularly. Bucky immediately stood up, his hands gentle as he helped adjust your pillows. "Woah, you're really tall too. How tall are you? Like eight feet?"
"Just six feet, baby."
"That's so many feet." You grabbed at his jacket as he tried to sit back down. "Wait, come back. I need to look at you more."
"I'm right here." But he stayed standing, letting you stare up at him with unbashed wonder.
"Your eyes are blue," you announced, like you'd discovered something groundbreaking.
"They are."
"Like… aggresively blue. Who gave you permission to have eyes that blue? That's illegal, you should be arrested." You gasped suddenly. "Wait, are you a criminal? Is that why you're in the hospital? Are you on the run?"
"I'm not on the run, I'm here because my girlfriend had surgery and I wanted to take care of her and make sure she was okay."
You processed this slowly, then after a minute of silence, you said: "Your girlfriend is so lucky."
"Yeah?" His smile was soft, affectionate in a way that made your chest warm even through the drug haze.
"Yeah. I hope she knows how lucky she is, if I had a boyfriend that looked like you—" you sighed dreamily. "I'd never let you leave, I'd just stare at you all day. I'd cancel plans, I'd call in sick to work 'sorry, can't come in, too busy looking at my boyfriend's face."
Bucky actually had to cover his mouth to hide his laughter. "That so?"
"Mmhmm…" You tried to focus on him but everything kept going a little fuzzy at the edged. "What's your girlfriend like? Is she pretty? She's probably pretty, you seem like you have good taste."
"She's beautiful," he said quietly. "Smartest person I know, funny, brave as hell, a little reckless sometimes, which gives me heart attacks. But yeah, she's pretty perfect."
Your drugged brain felt emotions about this that you couldn't quite name. "Wow, you really love her."
"More than anything."
"That's…" your eyes were getting misty. "That's so nice, everyone should be loved like that. I wanna be loved like that." You looked up at him with the saddest eyes. "Do you think anyone will ever love me like that?"
Bucky's expression did something complicated. He sat back down on the edge of your bed, taking both of your hands in his. "Baby… sweetheart, I'm talking about you. You're my girlfriend."
You blinked slowly. "…I am?"
"Yes."
"But…" You looked down at your hands, then back up at his face. "But you're so pretty."
"So are you."
"And nice, you seem really nice."
"You're nicer."
"And you have good hair." You reached up to touch it and he let you, patient as a saint while your clumsy fingers carded through the strands."It's so soft, do you condition? What's your routine? I need your routine."
"You bought me the conditioner," he said, amused. "You did a whole presentation about hair care."
"I did?" You perked up. "Was it good? Did I use a PowerPoint?"
"It was very thorough, had charts and everything."
"Past me is so smart." Your hand dropped from his hair to his face, cupping his cheek. Your thumb traced his cheekbone, then down to his jaw. "You have a really good bone structure, like… really good. Are you a model?"
"Not a model."
"You should be, you'd be great at it. You'd just stand there being pretty and everyone would throw money at you." You gasped dramatically. "Do you even have a job?"
"I'm an Avenger."
Your jaw dropped. "Like… the superheroes?"
"Yep."
"Oh my god, you're a superhero! A pretty superhero." You looked at him with renewed awe. "What's your power? Is it being pretty? Because that should count."
He was fully grinning now. "I've got a vibranium arm. Super soldier serum."
"Can I see the arm?"
Bucky glanced at the door, then shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his sleeve, revealing the black and gold vibranium arm. Your drugged gasp was deeply gratifying.
"That's so cool!" You grabbed at it, running your fingers over the plates. "It's pretty. You're pretty. Everything about you it's pretty… do you sparkle in the sunlight?"
"That's vampires, baby."
"Are you a vampire?"
"No."
"Are you sure? Because you look like you could be a vampire. A really hot vampire." You squinted at him. "Smile, let me see your teeth."
He humored you, smiling wide. You peered at his teeth very seriously. "Okay not a vampire, just a regular pretty person." You seemed satisfied with his conclusion. "Can I tell you a secret?"
"Always."
You leaned in conspiratorially, nearly falling out of the bed. Bucky caught you easily, steadying you. "I think I have a crush on you."
"Do you now?"
"The biggest crush. An embarrassing crush." You bit your lip. "But you have a girlfriend so I shouldn't be saying this… that's not good etiquette, I apologize." You tried to look serious. "I respect your relationship, even though I'm dying inside.
"Noted," he was shaking with silent laughter now. "What if I told you that you're the girlfriend?"
"Then I'd say you're lying because there's no way—" you gestured vaguely at him. "—that someone who looks like that would date someone like me."
"And what's someone like you?"
"You know, regular, average… not a superhero. Probably have weird hobbies." You paused. "Do I have weird hobbies?"
"I don't thinks is weird, but you enjoy collecting vintage objects—"
"See? Boring."
"I think it's cute."
You stared at him. "Okay, but if we're actually dating—which I still don't believe—but IF we are, then I need to know some things…"
"Shoot."
"Have I kissed you?"
"Many times."
Your hand flew to your mouth. "Oh my god."
"Just yesterday you kissed me goodbye like five times because you kept forgetting things and having to come back inside."
"What else? What else have we done? Have we—" You lowered your voice to a whisper. "—held hands?"
"We live together."
The machine monitoring your heart started beeping faster. "We what?"
"We share an apartment… have for three months now. We meal prep on Sundays—"
"That's so domestic!" You clutched his hand tighter. "Oh my god, am I living my dream? Is this real life?"
"Very real life."
"Prove it. Tell me something only my boyfriend would know."
Bucky thought for a moment, his smile going soft. "You talk in your sleep, usually about work, but sometimes you just say random stuff. Last week you had a full conversation whether cats understand democracy. You also steal all the blankets and I have to burrito wrap you to get any covers. And when you're really tired, you make me play with your hair until you fall asleep."
Your eyes were getting watery again. "That sounds nice."
"It is nice, the best part of my day."
"Even the blanket stealing?"
"Even that."
A nurse peeked in, smiling at the scene. "How's our patient doing?"
"She's very high," Bucky said.
"I'm in love," you corrected, squeezing his hand. "With him, this pretty man. He says he's my boyfriend but I think he might be a hallucination because he's too perfect."
The nurse laughed. "He's been here since they brought you in, hasn't left your side."
"Really?" You looked up at Bucky with wonder.
"Really," he confirmed.
The nursed checked your vitals, adjusted your IV and gave you some ice chips to suck on. "The anesthesia should wear off in another hour or so. You'll probably be pretty tired though."
After she left, you went back to staring at Bucky. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Anything."
"If we're dating, can I kiss you?"
His smile could've powered the sun. "You don't have to ask for permission, sweetheart. But maybe wait until you're a little less loopy?"
"What if I forget? What if the drugs wear off and I forget that I'm allowed to kiss you and I just pine forever?"
"Then I'll remind you. Like I do every morning."
"Every morning," you repeated dreamily. "We have mornings together. Plural mornings."
"So many mornings." You yawned suddenly, the exhaustion hitting you. Bucky stood and adjusted your bed so you could lie back more comfortably. "Get some rest, baby."
"Will you stay?"
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Promise?"
"Promise." He settled back into the chair, but kept hold of your hand.
"Bucky?"
"Yeah?"
"When I wake up and I'm not high anymore, will you still be this pretty?"
He brought your joined hands up and kissed your knuckles, his eyes crinkling with tat smile you'd apparently been cataloging in a folder for months. "Guess you'll have to wait and see."
"Can't wait," you mumbled, eyes already drifting closed. "Gonna wake up with the prettiest boyfriend in the world."
"Get some sleep, sweetheart."
"Okay, but just so you know—" you forced your eyes open one more time to look at him. "—if we really are dating, then I'm the luckiest person alive."
"Funny, I was thinking the same thing."
You fell asleep with his hand in yours, the steady beep of the monitors, and a smile on your face.
Two hours later.
You woke up slowly, the fog clearing from your brain. Everything came back in pieces—the surgery, the recovery room, and oh god, Bucky. Your boyfriend Bucky. Who you'd apparently hit on while high.
He was still there, slouched in the in the uncomfortable hospital chair, scrolling through his phone. When he noticed you were awake, his whole face lit up.
"Hey," he said softly. "Welcome back, how you feeling?"
"Mortified," you croaked. "Please tell me I didn't say anything too embarrassing."
His grin was evil. "Define too embarrassing."
"Bucky—"
"You told me I should be arrested for having blue eyes. You asked if I sparkled in the sunlight. You said you had a crush on me and then apologized because you didn't want to disrespect my relationship."
You covered your face with both hands. "Oh my god."
"Oh and you called my face 'loopy'". He was definitely laughing now. "And you said you'd call in sick to work just to stare at me all day."
"I hate you."
"No you don't. You love me, you told me so multiple times, very emphatically." He stood and came to bed, gently pulling your hands away from your face. "For the record, I recorded about five minutes of it."
"You what?!"
"For posterity." His eyes were sparkling with mischief. "And for the next time you try to say I'm not pretty."
"I didn't—I don't—" You couldn't even form a defense. "You are pretty."
"So you keep telling me." He leaned down and kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips. "Feeling better?"
"Physically, yes. Emotionally, destroyed."
"Well the good news is the surgery went great. The bad news is I'm definitely showing that video at our wedding."
"Bucky!"
But you were smiling, and so was he, and honestly? You'd embarrass yourself a hundred times over if it meant waking up to that face. Even if you already knew you were allowed to kiss it.
I'm very new to posting here but please enjoy 4.1k words of soft Bucky smut!
Do It Properly
You’re not sure what wakes you in the end. Whether it’s a creaky floorboard, a rustling of your sheets or merely the change in the air that another person brings. Whatever the reason, you open bleary eyes and squint into the darkness, reaching for your phone to check the time. You only notice another presence in your bedroom when he clears this throat and steps forward to the end of your bed.
You let out a tiny ‘eep’ of surprise before your mind registers who the shadowy shape belongs to, but you recover quickly enough to ask, “Bucky?”
Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes; centenarian, former Winter Soldier and current cat-dad stands looking defeated by your feet.
“Hey,” he responds hoarsely, and you scramble for the switch on your lamp, desperate to see him properly.
The light starts low, gradually brightening the room as it warms up, bringing Bucky into visibility. He looks… well. You’ve seen him worse, definitely. He has this issue (you think it’s an issue, he doesn’t see the problem) in which he throws his whole body into fights with reckless abandon, his own well being taking a backseat when you’re not on missions to remind him that he should look after himself. That he needs to look after himself so he can come back home to you.
His right hand is bandaged which means it must have been pretty bad – they generally don’t bother wrapping up the super soldiers as most of their injuries have faded by the following morning, but it’s his face that really makes you gasp.
“Buck!” you whisper, horrified, as he shuffles forward, bashful under your gaze. “What happened?”
He shrugs off his jacket and you’re hit with the scent of gunpowder and smoke as he chucks it unceremoniously on the floor by the desk chair where Alpine is curled up. Al activates with an inquisitive puurp? arching his back in an elongated stretch to greet his daddy. Bucky turns to scritch the feline’s ears, rolling his shoulders at the same time. You take that to mean, don’t ask but you can’t ignore the angry red welts around his neck, the dark purple blooming under both eyes and Bucky’s wince when he huffs a laugh at Alpine when he kicks his back legs against his fingers as he tickles his tummy.
“Bucky…” you try again, shucking back the covers and reaching for his shoulder. You kneel on the bed and run your hand down his back soothingly, pretending that you’re not looking for further injuries. “You get your nose broken honey?”
Bucky ducks his head and looks at you through his eyelashes pitifully.
“Sam set it back already. Took the shield to the face,” he admits slowly, enjoying your touch as you ease the muscles in his shoulder and at the base of his neck with your fingers, searching out the pressure points that make him groan.
“Why, what’d you say?” you tease, gently.
Bucky huffs again, then cringes as it causes him pain, slumping close to lean on you.
“Wasn’t my fault,” he mumbles into your neck, pressing his forehead to your shoulder. His left hand comes up to play with the strap of your tank top and you shiver against the cool metal. “Steve doesn’t enunciate. He only warned me to duck after he threw the damned thing. Jerk didn’t stop laughing the whole way home.”
You press your lips together and stroke the back of his head, making sure he stays buried in your neck so he can’t see how you’re struggling to hide your amusement.
“And this? You get on Sam’s bad side too?” you stroke his neck lightly, brushing against the vicious bruising that decorates the delicate skin there. Bucky stiffens almost imperceptibly, and you realise that he can’t talk about it. Not yet anyway. You know he’ll come to you when he’s ready.
You heave a sigh and push at his shoulder until he straightens, tilting his chin up to look you in the eye. “You just let me know if I need to go kick bird-boy’s ass, yeah?” you grin, peppering kisses over his eyebrow, betting that it’s a pain-free area before pulling him close again.
“Thanks baby,” Bucky answers on a heavy sigh. You continue threading your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck, knowing the comfort of your touch is what he needs right now, rather than a dissection of his latest mission. You need the contact too, the physical reminder that he’s safe in your arms for the time being, though you make a mental note to ask the Captain why it looks like someone tried to garrotte your boyfriend. Honestly, what good is Steve if he’s not watching Bucky’s six when you’re not there?
You remain kneeling on the bed, letting Bucky use you as a crutch for as long as you can bare the weight of the 240-pound super soldier but eventually you have to push at his shoulder to get him to draw back. He harrumphs disappointedly but you know he’s not serious when his eyes drop from your face to skim along the length of your body, his right eyebrow raising appreciatively at the thin camisole and itty-bitty lace panties you’re wearing to counter the heat.
“Damn babydoll…” he begins, his hands hooking around the backs of your thighs to tug you along the bedspread, slightly closer to the edge. “You look good enough to eat.” He gives you a wolfish smile that has you admittedly a little weak in the knees and goes to duck towards your tits but you push at his forehead with a scoff.
“Uh-uh Barnes, don’t even think about it. You need a shower.” With your hands on his hips, he allows you to keep him at arm’s length while you slide from the bed and steer him towards your bathroom, his expression shifting from predatory to a dopey pleased grin as he allows you to take care of him.
“You gonna join me, sugar?” he asks, leaning against the sink as you turn the knobs and crank up the heat to a frankly dangerous degree because Bucky really doesn’t like the cold. You turn to catch him stifling a yawn into his fist, still fully dressed and you gesture at him impatiently.
“I don’t know, you gonna be able to keep your hands to yourself Sergeant?” You start unbuckling and tugging at his clothing, fighting with the supple leather that moulds to his arms as Bucky endeavours to stay awake. It’s a testament to how tired he actually is when you drop to your knees to wrestle his trousers down his legs and he doesn’t make a lewd joke, though you do see his half-hard length give a valiant twitch in his boxers before you tug those down too.
You help him into the shower, thankful that you don’t see any other bruising on his body but knowing that doesn’t mean he isn’t hurt before you go to gather his clothes up into your arms. You don’t get that far though, as the glass door slides back open behind you and you’re tugged into the near-scalding water still in your sleep clothes.
“Buck!” you squawk, pressing yourself away from the water ineffectually as the spray soaks the front of your vest anyway. He crowds you up against the tiles that are already slick with condensation, effectively ensuring that no part of you has stayed dry.
“Mmm, you said you’d join me…” he mutters into your shoulder, nuzzling against your damp skin as his hands play with the lace covering your backside.
“And you said you’d keep your hands to yourself,” you huff playfully, reaching for the bar of Imperial Leather soap because old habits die hard and for Bucky the saying is doubly true. You lather the soap between your fingers and start moving it along his shoulders and back where you’re able to reach.
“No…” he drawls, slipping his fingers beneath your panties to stroke over the skin of your hips and ass as he presses his now very interested cock against your lower stomach and rocks you against him. “I didn’t answer and you interpreted my silence as agreement,” he murmurs. “I was very careful about that.”
You draw back and are faced with his incredibly pleased smile, almost impish in his glee that he’s managed to wrangle you into the shower with him for him to do as he pleases. You don’t have the heart to shatter his illusion with the truth, that you’d follow him anywhere under any conditions.
He tickles the soft skin between your thigh and hip and you squeal. You love seeing this side of Bucky, almost child-like in his mischief, even if the activity that you’re doing is very adult.
“Hmm, very clever…” you muse, drawing the soap down his right arm before sliding it up the other, ridding his skin and left arm of two days of sweat and gunpowder before starting to work on his chest. Bucky lets you work for a few quiet moments, watching your movements with half lidded eyes. You glance up at him and snort at the expression on his face; he’s hard for you but obviously can’t decide if he’s more sleepy or horny.
“Relax Buck,” you implore, working soap over his hips and kneading the bone there before making your way down his lower back, eliciting a sinful moan when you hit a knot and the muscle releases.
Bucky mumbles something into the skin of your neck between sweet kisses and you use one hand to tilt his head to the side when you ask him to repeat himself.
“Magic hands,” he slurs, rocking himself in time with your ministrations. “Magic, angel hands. Y’so good to me darlin’.” He pulls back and busies himself with playing with the strap of your tank top. “Wanna be good to you too.” Bucky’s hands drift southward to the waistband of your underwear, dipping his fingers in and teasingly raking his nails over the sensitive skin of your pelvis.
You shudder and feel his cock jump in response. Abandoning your task, you let the soap slide from your grip, ignoring the dull clunk as it hits the porcelain of the tub and instead wrapping your hand around his length and giving him one firm stroke from root to tip.
Bucky grunts, his hips jerking forward towards you. His hand slips fully between your thighs and you let out a sigh when his clever fingers part your folds to trace over your clit gently. Your natural slick mixes with the hot water still beating down on you both creating a heavenly slide that Bucky uses to his advantage, his movements becoming slightly rougher as you pant in his ear.
“That’s it baby, that feel good?” his voice is gruff as your desire heightens and he dips his forefinger into your core up to the first knuckle just to feel you clench around him when he strokes over the top of your clit just right. “Mmm, certainly seems like it feels good.”
You just have the wherewithal to register the slightly mocking tone in your boyfriend’s voice and retaliate with another firm tug on his member, the soap suds lingering on your palm making the glide smooth and slick, cutting off the rest of his sentence when it devolves into a whine.
You continue to jerk him slowly, reveling in the stuttering mess that you’re able to reduce him to with such a simple touch.
“Mmm, so sensitive honey,” you coo into his ear, increasing your pace incrementally. Bucky is completely at your mercy, his hand slackening in your panties and the coil in his stomach tightening with your movements. He rocks upwards on a gasp before straightening and grabbing desperately at your wrist.
“Stop – stop,” he pants, squeezing the base of his dick to stave off the orgasm that had crept up unexpectedly. “Fuck, almost made me blow my load in your hand baby, shit.” Your giggle sets him off with a growl and Bucky hoists you up into his arms, shredding your underwear with a wolfish grin.
“Bastard,” you say playfully, nipping at his bottom lip as he steadies you on a convenient shelf that you’ve only needed to replace three times since Bucky moved in with you.
“You gotta learn doll, none of your underwear is safe around me.”
As if to prove his point Bucky grabs a fistful of your top at chest level and you can see the gears turn in his head as he gets ready to yank and separate the body from the straps –
“Wait!” you call, throwing out an arm to catch his. “Just gimme a minute, damn,” you mutter, peeling the offending piece of clothing from your body and letting it drop to the floor with a wet thwack. “Running out of pyjamas thank you very much, some hopped-up super soldier keeps shredding all my clothes.”
There’s no remorse on Bucky’s face as he eyes your tits hungrily and you wonder when you lost your soft, sleepy boyfriend to this sex-starved menace. Deciding to tease him just a little more, you cup your chest, stroking lightly over your nipples and watch as his pupils dilate fully.
Bucky feels barely restrained, watching as you enjoy the delicate grace of your own touch and damn near drooling, desperate to get his mouth on your tits. He’s captivated by your movements.
“You okay there, Sarge?” you question, punctuating your words with a soft gasp as you apply more pressure to the sensitive peaks of your breasts. You arch your back a touch, your chest lifting just an inch or two closer and Bucky is salivating.
“More,” he requests, the whimper in his voice dampening the order. He recognises the tone for what it is – a plea – and he’d give almost anything to have his hands on you but – god – the way you’re writhing and panting before him, the slick folds of your cunt on display when you let your thighs fall open – Bucky can’t help but think you’re a goddess. He watches you for a minute longer, his body so tense that even the slightest touch might shatter him but what’s a goddess for if not to be worshipped? And Bucky will supplicate at your feet for eternity for you to rid him of his wrongs and cleanse the days before you. He’s been the luckiest son of a bitch for over a year now and he knows he’ll find heaven within you, that you lay peace and forgiveness down before him with simple caresses and erase his guilt with your lips.
You gift him a coy smile and let your hands drop, twining your fingers with Bucky’s and drawing him close until he’s stood between the ‘v’ of your legs, sharing your breath and feeling the heat rolling off your skin.
You tilt your head up and slant your lips against his, dragging his hands up your body to replace where yours had been on the mounds of your chest, encouraging him to squeeze and play as he wishes as you hook your calves over his hips and urge him closer still.
You chance a quick glance up at his face to find that he’s completely enraptured with your chest, snorting a laugh even as he feathers his thumbs over your nipples, raising goosebumps up your arms.
A shudder runs through Bucky’s body when he feels the tip of his cock brush against the heat between your legs and he tilts his hips forward to glide his length along you, delighting in your gasp when he grinds down against your clit.
“You want this?” Bucky asks, his expression split between cocky and desperate as he rocks against you, spreading his hands over your lower back and digging his fingertips into the meat of your ass.
“Mmm,” you whine, your head lolling back to rest against the shower tile, waiting for him to start pushing forward, for that first divine stretch that feels like nothing else –
But it’s not forthcoming. You crack your eyes open and lift your head questioningly.
“Please baby,” Bucky whines, pressing his hips into yours again. You reach up to stroke his cheek and just stop yourself from frowning.
“You need me to say it, Buck?” you ask softly, still running the tips of your fingers along his stubbled jaw, enjoying the scruff that pulls at your fingers.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah –“ each breathless plea is punctuated by an eager grind against you and you bite your lip against a moan when you feel his cock throb from where it’s trapped between your bodies.
“Okay honey,” your voice is shaky with desire for your man but you fight to keep your tone clear so he knows exactly how much you want him. “Please fuck me Bucky – I want it so bad, needed it the whole time you were gone – ah!”
You’re barely through your sentence when he thrusts into you, burying himself to the hilt before stopping just as quickly as he’d begun.
“Fuck,” Bucky hisses. “Fuck, that’s so good.”
“Mmm,” you whine in response. “Need you to move honey.”
He raises his head and shoots you a look. It’s one that you don’t get very often but you cherish the pinched eyebrows and lip trapped between his teeth as he fights to stop himself from coming prematurely.
“Needja to be patient baby,” he gasps out, his hands clutching at your thighs bruisingly as his Brooklyn accent slips into place. You can almost see his thought process as he runs through baseball statistics and multiplication tables in his head. You’re sweating by the time the tension finally drains from Bucky’s shoulders and you can’t stop yourself from clenching down on him when he gives a couple of gentle test-thrusts.
“You’re not helping,” he grunts, as he gets a better grip on your slippery skin to hoist your legs higher, and you’re honestly not sure if he’s speaking to you or your pussy.
You don’t have time to dwell on it though, as Bucky lets you know he’s ready with a sharp snap of his hips and a grunt from deep in his chest when you dig your nails into his shoulders in surprise.
“Careful with the claws, kitten,” Bucky groans before really laying into you.
You cling to one another as his hips snap into yours orchestrating a rhythm of skin hitting skin that is only amplified by the water. The bathroom echoes with your lovemaking, even as you bite at your lip – it’s still the middle of the night and you share walls with two other apartments in this block, not to mention your poor downstairs neighbours.
It only takes a few moments for Bucky’s rough strokes to build your pleasure high enough for you to stumble and a sharp moan of his name escapes you.
“Oh god honey,” Bucky pants, uncurling his left arm from around your waist to reach out and grab the top of the shower door for stability. “That good, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you pant, “S’good Buck, it’s good.” Your words escape you in a staccato, hiccoughing rhythm that he punches out of you in time with the movement of his hips. You tip your head back and Bucky takes the opportunity to litter a series of sweet kisses against your neck, whispering words of devotion in between the brushes of his lips, drinking in the ecstatic sounds that you’re making.
“Fuck sweet girl, you’re so good, s’good, don’t wanna leave, never gonna leave ya again, love you so much baby,” Bucky’s inner monologue escapes without direction as your pleasure climbs, his words encouraging your end almost as much as his movement.
“Please – please Bucky,” you stutter out, dropping your hand between the two of you to stroke at your clit, your desperation for an orgasm acute after being without him for too long.
“Me, honey, let me,” Bucky insists, leaning his upper body away from you slightly to find the best angle. His practiced fingers find you easily and you feel yourself clench involuntarily around him when his thumb massages you in just the right pattern. The moan that you let out is quiet but so desperately needy that Bucky hisses when his cock throbs in response but by that time it’s too late for you anyway.
You dive off of the precipice, arching your back and feeling your pussy pulse uncontrollably as you’re ignited from the inside. Bucky pushes in to the hilt one final time before he too lets go, whimpering quietly as he joins your bliss.
You remain entwined beneath the water for a few long moments, relishing in the feel of one another before Bucky tilts his head back to look at you, his eyes still hazy with lingering pleasure. You know he’s not able to get drunk but if you saw him like this at any other time you’d assume he was intoxicated. You snort internally and go to make fun of his pussy-drunk expression when –
“Marry me.”
You slap your hand against the shower wall, groping desperately for the button that will halt the stream of water beating against the glass because you think that you just heard your super soldier boyfriend propose to you while he’s still very much inside you.
“What, Bucky-what?!” you finally locate the off switch and shower ceases, leaving the pitter-pattering of water droplets as the only sound in the room while you and Bucky stare at one another. “Did you just – ”
“No.” His response is short and sharp, cutting over the end of your question, as though he can’t bear to hear the words leave your lips. When you blink at him, he has the gall to look guilty and his shoulders drop in defeat. “I said – I – ” he takes a moment to clear his throat twice before speaking again.
“I said marry me. I’m sorry.”
Silence reigns again while you absorb the shock of his words.
“Bucky…” you begin slowly, wriggling back slightly to bring attention to his cock still buried to the hilt and his hips still fit snuggly between your thighs. “…are you proposing to me while you’re still balls deep?”
Bucky groans and lets his head drop to your shoulder as your laughter rings out but you wrap your arms around his neck and squeeze him as close to you as you possibly can, hooking your ankles one over the other at the small of his back so he can’t escape you.
“I – I had a plan, and a ring –” he starts to explain into your neck but you silence him with a tug to his hair so that you can meet his eyes. The concern etched on his face disappears almost as soon as he sees your joyful expression and he gifts you the softest, sweetest smile in return before taking a deep breath in and you just know what’s going to come next.
So you reach up quickly and place the tops of your fingers over his mouth.
This man – this man who has been through so much more than anyone should have to, who has survived horror and death and the loss of his autonomy only to come through the other side still able to love – deserves to have exactly what he wants. He deserves to have this moment, his proposal, exactly as picture perfect as he’s always imagined. And so although you know you’ll say yes, that you’ll marry him in a heartbeat, you halt Bucky’s next words.
“Wait,” you instruct gently. “Just wait. Do your plan – give me the ring.” You don’t explain further but brush your lips against his once, twice and whisper, “I love you.”
“I love you sweetheart.” Bucky responds just as quietly, and you feel the full force of his devotion and adoration hit you when he rests his forehead against yours briefly.
The moment is ruined when he steps away from you to turn the shower back on to wash away the evidence of your lovemaking with a mumbled; “It’s a good thing you didn’t say yes, Sam woulda never let me live it down if I’d proposed like that.”
You shuffle under the warm spray and wrap your arms around Bucky’s waist to gaze innocently up at him. “Oh – I’ll definitely be telling Sam about this,” you state. “My pussy game is so good that I got a marriage proposal? Bucky, I’m telling everyone.”
Your squeal echoes off the tiles as Bucky growls and digs his fingers into your waist in retaliation, grinning wickedly, and barely able to stop himself from sprinting to his underwear drawer to recover the ring nestled at the back.
It's Bucky's first time since the 40s. It's a good thing you really like him.
Word Count: 752
Warnings: SMUT, 18+ only!
“Oh fuck…” His whole body shudders against yours before locking up, his muscles tensed almost to the point of pain. “M’not gonna last… how’m I supposed to last?” His words are whispered with desperation into your neck where his face is buried, burning with a humbling mix of embarrassment that he’s about to blow so soon and the primal need to get his come in you as quickly and as much as possible. His hips twitch at just the thought and a low whimper escapes through his gritted teeth.
“S’okay Buck,” you soothe, running your hands gently over his straining neck before migrating to his shoulders and back. “You can relax… no pressure.” You’re a hypocrite of course. You’ve never been less relaxed in your life, lying there with this beast of a man held in the cradle of your legs, as he throbs deep within you while he tries to find an ounce of composure has you feeling like the most powerful person in the world.
You’re also fighting against the urge to moan wantonly into his ear and roll your hips up for some friction because you’ve never been this full. You know that none of that is going to help Bucky at the moment so you tamp down the wildness within that has you desperately wanting to flip him over and just ride. Regardless of how much you want this, you can’t risk overwhelming him - it’s just not about you right now. Intimacy has been a long and difficult journey for Bucky and -
“Oh god,” you gasp before immediately biting your lip to shut your damned mouth.
“Sorry, m’sorry,” Bucky pants, stilling his movements again and daring a glance at your face. “Did I hurt you?”
“No baby, it’s good, you’re good. You’re so good Bucky.” Your words are a bit garbled as they leave your mouth but Bucky continues pumping his hips gently, the panic receding from his eyes rapidly as static takes over his brain at the feeling of you wrapped around him.
“Ngh, don’t say that.” Bucky grips your thigh with the intention of keeping himself grounded against the exquisite pleasure, but it only succeeds in him pulling your leg up higher over his waist allowing him to nudge into you just that fraction deeper and you find you can’t help yourself. You cry out in bliss, clenching around his cock as Bucky ruts into you without conscious direction. A final scratch of your nails up his back is what finally tips him over the edge, his mouth dropping open as he pants through his orgasm because he’s pretty sure it never felt like this before and holy crap he’s still coming, pulsing and filling you up so much it’s already leaking back out around where he’s inside you.
“Sorry,” Bucky gasps, shivering at the sensitivity as he finally starts to come down.
You give him as soft a smile as you can manage as you slip away from the edge that you were just starting to climb. Bucky’s arm shakes and he lets some of his weight rests on you as he huffs a deep sigh, hanging his head and gearing up to apologise again, correctly, but furrows his brow when you cut him off by tilting his chin up and gracing him with a brief but firm kiss.
“Buck. It’s okay,” you mutter into the small space between you, hoping that he can hear the sincerity in your words. “Today wasn’t about me. It was for you-”
“No,” he cuts in sharply. “It was meant to be about both of us and I-”
“Nuh uh,” you interrupt - you can both play that game. “We talked about this. Your first time this century is way more important than me getting an orgasm. ‘Sides…” you give him a flirty little smile, “... I sort of hoped this wouldn’t be the last time we’d be doing this.” You punctuate your statement with a cheeky little pulse around where he is still buried within you and he hisses even as his dick gives an interested kick in response.
“You - you’ll let me… again?” It’s ridiculous how cute you find it that even with his dick fully inside you Bucky still struggles to verbalise wanting to fuck you.
“Mhmm,” you say coyly. “It’s almost like I really like you or something.”
“Or something,” he echoes, a rueful grin finally breaking through as he skates his hand down between your bodies, determined to make this repeat performance one to be remembered.
Bucky thinks you're too young for him, despite the fact that he's already half in love with you.
The first time James Buchanan Barnes looks at you too long, he nearly walks into a glass door.
Sam laughs so hard he wheezes.
“Man, that is embarrassing,” Sam Wilson says around his grin.
Bucky scowls at him, rubbing his shoulder where it clipped the frame. “Shut up.”
Sam’s eyes slide toward you across the compound gym.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the mat with Alpine sprawled in your lap, completely unaware of the catastrophe you’ve apparently caused. One of the recruits is talking your ear off while you nod politely, scratching behind the cat’s ears.
“You got it bad,” Sam says.
“I do not.”
“You walked into a door.”
“Poor design.”
Sam snorts. “Sure.”
Bucky ignores him. Mostly because there’s nothing he can say without sounding defensive.
Or worse.
Truthful.
Because the problem is this:
You’re too young.
Not immature. Not reckless. Not incapable.
Just young.
Young in the way sunlight is young. Like fresh starts and futures and people who still buy furniture instead of inheriting ghosts.
And Bucky—
Bucky is over a hundred years old with blood on his hands that will never come clean.
So no.
Absolutely not.
Not happening.
Unfortunately, his heart seems to have missed the memo.
You join the Avengers in the least dramatic way possible.
No alien invasions.
No secret prophecies.
No world-ending catastrophe.
You’re simply very, very good at your job.
You’re a trauma medic attached to a relief organization the Avengers occasionally partner with, and after patching up three agents, one diplomat, and Sam Wilson himself during a mission in Madripoor, Fury offers you a permanent position.
You say no.
Twice.
The third time, Pepper Potts calls personally.
By the fourth offer, you finally cave.
Which is how you end up living in the compound three floors beneath a supersoldier who actively avoids you.
At first, you assume he just doesn’t like people.
Natasha informs you otherwise.
“Oh, he likes people,” Natasha Romanoff says dryly over breakfast. “Just not many.”
You glance toward the empty seat Bucky abandoned the second you walked into the kitchen.
“…Did I offend him somehow?”
Natasha actually chokes on her coffee.
Across from her, Sam suddenly becomes deeply fascinated by his cereal.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothing,” Natasha says immediately.
“Absolutely nothing,” Sam agrees.
You narrow your eyes.
Neither elaborates.
You begin noticing things after that.
Little things.
Bucky always leaves the room when you enter it—but somehow your favorite tea always appears stocked in the kitchen.
You mention once that the compound hallways are freezing, and two days later there’s a thick knit blanket folded neatly outside your door with no note attached.
You complain about a stubborn cabinet hinge in your apartment.
The next morning it’s fixed.
No one admits responsibility.
But when you thank Bucky casually over dinner just to test a theory, he nearly inhales his drink.
“…Wasn’t me.”
You smile slowly.
“Okay.”
He stares at you like you’re dangerous.
Which is ridiculous.
You’re wearing bunny slippers.
The age gap becomes obvious one night during a movie marathon.
You, Sam, Peter, and Bucky are sprawled across the common room while some absurd eighties action movie plays on the screen.
Peter groans dramatically. “This CGI is awful.”
“It looked good at the time,” you argue.
Bucky turns his head.
“At the time?”
You freeze.
Sam bursts into laughter so violently he almost falls off the couch.
“Oh my God,” he gasps. “She thinks the eighties are ancient history.”
“They are ancient history,” you defend.
Bucky stares at you with something between horror and disbelief.
“You were born after the eighties?”
“…Yes?”
“The nineties?” he asks weakly.
“Yes.”
Peter pipes up helpfully. “She was born in 1998.”
Bucky looks like someone shot him.
You blink. “Are you okay?”
“No,” Sam says gleefully. “He is not.”
Bucky stands abruptly.
“I’m going for a walk.”
Sam loses it completely.
After that, Bucky avoids you harder.
Which would almost be impressive if he weren’t terrible at hiding the fact that he cares about you.
He watches you constantly.
Not in a creepy way.
In a protective way.
Like he’s making sure you’re breathing.
You catch it in fragments.
His eyes tracking you during missions.
His body subtly positioning between you and danger.
The way he relaxes when you laugh.
The way he goes still when someone touches you for too long.
You start understanding the truth before anyone says it aloud.
Bucky Barnes is in love with you.
And for some insane reason—
You’re falling for him too.
It happens slowly.
Then all at once.
You fall for his quietness first.
Most people assume silence means emptiness.
Bucky’s silence is full.
Heavy with observation. Care. Thoughtfulness.
He notices everything.
The exact way you take your coffee.
The songs you hum absentmindedly.
Which nightmares leave you restless.
You realize he starts leaving the compound gym earlier on mornings after you wake from bad dreams.
Like he’s trying to make breakfast before you get there.
Like feeding people is the only comfort he knows how to offer.
And God.
When he smiles?
Rare. Small. Crooked.
It feels precious.
Like discovering something hidden beneath ice.
The problem is that Bucky refuses to let anything happen between you.
The closer you get, the more distance he forces between you afterward.
You’ll spend hours talking on the roof at night—sharing stories and terrible coffee and quiet laughter—and then he’ll avoid you for three straight days.
It hurts more than you expect.
Because you know he feels it too.
One night, after a mission in Prague, you finally corner him.
He’s sitting alone in the hangar cleaning his weapons when you walk in.
“Did I do something wrong?”
His hands stop moving instantly.
“No.”
“Then why are you avoiding me?”
“I’m not.”
You fold your arms.
He sighs.
“You shouldn’t be down here.”
“Bucky—”
“You should be out with people your own age.”
The words hit like cold water.
You stare at him.
“…What?”
He doesn’t look at you.
“You’re young. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”
“And?”
“And I’m not…” He swallows hard. “I’m not someone you build a future with.”
Anger sparks sharp and immediate.
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
His jaw tightens.
“You think this is a joke?”
“I think you’re scared.”
That gets his attention.
Steel-blue eyes snap to yours.
“You don’t know what I am.”
“I know exactly what you are,” you fire back. “You’re kind. You’re loyal. You’re infuriatingly self-sacrificing. You bring me tea when I’m stressed and pretend you didn’t. You stay outside the medbay when I work late because you think I don’t notice.”
His expression fractures slightly.
“You deserve someone better.”
“No,” you say softly. “I deserve to choose.”
Silence stretches between you.
Raw.
Fragile.
Bucky looks wrecked by it.
By you.
“You don’t understand,” he whispers. “I remember too much.”
Your anger fades instantly.
Slowly, carefully, you walk toward him.
He goes perfectly still.
“I know,” you say gently.
“You’re twenty-seven.”
“Twenty-eight.”
“That’s not helping.”
Despite everything, you laugh quietly.
His eyes close briefly like the sound physically affects him.
“You’re gonna wake up one day,” he says roughly, “and realize you wasted your life on an old man with too many ghosts.”
You crouch in front of him.
“James.”
He looks at you helplessly.
“You are not hard to love.”
Something inside him breaks.
You see it happen in real time.
Like a wall finally cracking after decades under pressure.
His metal hand flexes once.
“You shouldn’t say things like that to me.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to believe you.”
Your heart aches.
So you do the only thing that feels right.
You take his hand.
Both of them.
Flesh and metal.
Equally.
“I mean it.”
Bucky stares at your joined hands like he’s never seen anything so devastating.
Then he pulls away.
Not harshly.
Worse.
Carefully.
Like it costs him everything.
“I can’t.”
And he leaves.
You cry exactly once about it.
Natasha finds you sitting on the kitchen counter at two in the morning eating dry cereal from the box.
“You look terrible,” she says.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
She takes the cereal from you.
“…He said no?”
You nod miserably.
Natasha sighs the sigh of someone deeply exhausted by male stupidity.
“He loves you.”
“I know.”
“Unfortunately, he’s also an idiot.”
A startled laugh escapes you.
Natasha bumps your shoulder lightly.
“Give him time.”
Time, unfortunately, turns out to involve disaster.
Because of course it does.
This is the Avengers.
Nothing emotionally significant can happen without explosions.
The mission in Bucharest goes sideways fast.
An arms deal.
Bad intel.
Too many hostiles.
You’re there strictly as medical support, tucked safely in the quinjet several blocks away.
At least, that’s the plan.
Then the building collapses.
Your comms erupt with shouting.
“Medic down—”
“—need extraction—”
“Where’s Barnes?”
Dust fills the air.
You’re dragged from the wreckage half-conscious with blood running down your temple and your left leg trapped beneath concrete.
And then Bucky arrives.
You’ve seen the Winter Soldier before.
Cold.
Efficient.
Terrifying.
But this?
This is different.
This is rage.
Pure, horrifying rage.
He tears through debris with his metal arm like the rubble personally offended him.
Someone tries to stop him.
That person immediately regrets it.
“BUCKY—” Sam shouts.
Bucky ignores everyone.
His eyes find you.
And you swear the entire world stills.
“Hey,” you whisper weakly.
He drops to his knees beside you.
Hands shaking.
Actually shaking.
“Don’t move,” he says, voice rough with panic.
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
Your attempt at humor nearly destroys him.
You can see it.
Blood loss makes everything hazy, but one thing becomes crystal clear:
Bucky loves you so much it terrifies him.
He lifts the concrete slab like it weighs nothing.
The second you’re free, he gathers you against his chest.
Protective.
Desperate.
Your face presses against tactical gear and leather and the frantic pounding of his heart.
“You’re okay,” he mutters, like he’s trying to convince himself. “You’re okay.”
“I’m okay.”
His forehead rests briefly against your hair.
For one tiny moment, the world disappears.
No missions.
No history.
No fear.
Just him.
Just you.
Then your pain catches up.
You hiss sharply.
Bucky immediately pulls back. “Medbay. Now.”
The quinjet ride is chaos.
You fade in and out while Bruce works on your leg.
Bucky never leaves your side.
Not once.
At some point you wake to find him sitting beside your cot, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he’s praying.
“You stayed,” you murmur.
His head snaps up instantly.
“Yeah.”
“You hate medbays.”
“I hate hospitals.”
“Still counts.”
A faint huff of laughter leaves him.
Relief flickers across his face just hearing you joke again.
You watch him quietly.
Disheveled hair.
Blood on his gloves.
Exhaustion carved into every line of his body.
And underneath it all—
Love.
So much love.
“Bucky.”
His eyes meet yours.
“Come here.”
He hesitates.
Then obeys.
You shift carefully, making room for him beside the cot.
“Doll—”
“Please.”
That word wrecks him every time.
He sits carefully beside you.
You lean into him immediately.
No hesitation.
His entire body locks up.
Then slowly—
Slowly—
He wraps an arm around you.
Like holding you is both instinct and privilege.
You rest your head against his shoulder.
“I meant what I said before,” you whisper.
Silence.
Then quietly:
“I know.”
“You still think you’re too old for me?”
A long pause.
“…Yeah.”
You snort softly.
He looks offended.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” You tilt your head back to look at him. “You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think you’re using age because it’s easier than admitting you’re scared someone might actually love you enough to stay.”
Bucky goes still.
Dead still.
The truth lands hard.
You see it.
And because apparently you enjoy emotional violence, you add gently:
“I think everyone leaves you eventually, and you’re trying to leave first.”
His breathing catches.
For a second you think he might walk away again.
Instead, he whispers:
“You make me want things.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
“What kind of things?”
“A home.” His voice is barely audible. “A future. Somethin’ normal.” He swallows hard. “Kids, maybe.”
Your eyes sting unexpectedly.
Bucky looks horrified he admitted that aloud.
“You’d be a good dad,” you say softly.
He laughs once.
Broken.
“No, sweetheart. I wouldn’t.”
“You already are.”
His brows pull together.
You smile faintly. “You take care of everyone. Especially the people you love.”
The word hangs there.
Love.
He doesn’t deny it this time.
Instead, he reaches up carefully and brushes hair away from your face.
His fingertips linger against your cheek.
Warm flesh hand.
Not the metal one.
Like he still thinks the other might hurt you.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers.
Your heart pounds.
“Why would I do that?”
His eyes darken with emotion so intense it almost hurts to look at.
Then finally—
Finally—
He kisses you.
Soft at first.
Tentative.
Like he’s waiting for the world to punish him for wanting this.
But the second you kiss him back, everything changes.
His hand slides behind your neck.
He kisses like a man starved.
Like he’s been holding himself back for months and doesn’t know how to do it anymore.
It’s not frantic.
It’s worse.
Careful.
Reverent.
Every brush of his mouth says something he doesn’t know how to speak aloud.
You pull back breathless.
Bucky’s forehead drops against yours.
“I’m in so much trouble,” he mutters.
You laugh softly.
“Because you kissed me?”
“Because I’m never gonna stop wanting to do it again.”
Dating Bucky Barnes is surprisingly domestic.
You expect intensity.
Drama.
Brooding declarations in the rain.
Instead, you get:
Quiet mornings.
His hand at the small of your back.
Shared coffee.
Movie nights where he falls asleep with his head in your lap despite insisting supersoldiers “don’t nap.”
You get Alpine deciding you’re her favorite human.
You get Bucky standing in the kitchen at midnight making grilled cheese while listening to you ramble about terrible reality television.
You get a man who loves fiercely but carefully.
Like your happiness is something precious he’s been entrusted with.
The age gap still bothers him sometimes.
Usually in small ways.
Pop culture references.
Technology.
The occasional existential crisis when you tease him about being born before penicillin.
“You are never saying that sentence again,” he informs you gravely.
You grin. “You were literally alive during swing dancing.”
“So were old people in the nineties.”
“You are old people in the nineties.”
He glares.
Then kisses you to shut you up.
Which honestly feels like a win.
The real turning point comes six months later.
It’s after a mission.
A bad one.
You wake in the middle of the night to find Bucky sitting on the edge of the bed staring at nothing.
Nightmare.
You recognize the signs now.
Without speaking, you move closer and press against his back.
His shoulders tense briefly.
Then sag.
“You okay?” you whisper.
“No.”
Honest.
Always honest with you now.
You wrap your arms around his waist.
“You wanna talk about it?”
Long silence.
Then quietly:
“I saw you die.”
Your chest aches.
“In the dream?”
He nods once.
You press a kiss between his shoulder blades.
“I’m still here.”
“For now.”
The fear in his voice destroys you.
You turn him gently until he faces you.
“You know what’s really unfair?” you murmur.
“What?”
“You think loving you is a burden.”
His eyes flicker downward.
“But loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”
Emotion crashes across his face so openly it startles you.
You touch his jaw softly.
“I’m not going anywhere, James.”
And for the first time—
He believes you.
You can actually see it happen.
The shift.
The surrender.
His walls finally lowering completely.
Bucky pulls you into his lap and buries his face against your neck.
Holding you so tightly it feels instinctive.
Necessary.
“I love you,” he says roughly.
Not tentative.
Not fearful.
Certain.
“I love you too.”
He kisses you afterward like he finally understands he’s allowed to.
A year later, Sam finds Bucky in the compound kitchen staring at a jewelry website with naked panic.
Sam nearly drops his smoothie.
“Oh, this is serious.”
Bucky slams the laptop shut.
“Get out.”
Sam grins slowly. “You’re proposing.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re absolutely proposing.”
Bucky scowls.
Sam’s expression softens unexpectedly.
“You happy?”
Bucky glances toward the hallway where your laughter echoes faintly from another room.
His entire face changes.
Softens in a way that would probably terrify his enemies.
“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “Yeah, I am.”
He proposes on the roof.
No audience.
No elaborate setup.
Just the city lights below and cold evening air curling around both of you.
You’re rambling about something completely ridiculous when he interrupts suddenly:
“I wanna spend the rest of my life loving you.”
You blink.
“…What?”
Bucky looks nervous.
Actually nervous.
More nervous than when facing down armed mercenaries.
“I had this whole speech planned,” he mutters, frustrated. “Was supposed to be better than this.”
Your heart starts pounding.
He drops to one knee anyway.
“I know I’m older than you.”
You snort through sudden tears. “Slightly.”
“Brat.”
You grin shakily.
Bucky takes your hand carefully.
Reverently.
“But every good thing I have now started with you.” His voice roughens. “You made me believe I could still have a life after everything.”
Tears spill down your cheeks immediately.
“So yeah,” he says softly. “Marry me?”
You don’t even let him finish reaching for the ring box before you’re kissing him.
Bucky laughs against your mouth for the first time since you’ve known him.
Pure happiness.
Unrestrained.
“Yes?” he asks breathlessly.
“Yes.”
Again.
“Yes.”
He slides the ring onto your finger with shaking hands.
Then pulls you into his arms like he never intends to let go again.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Warnings: thigh riding, oral sex (f receiving), masturbation (male)
Length: ~2.100 words
Summery: Zemo offering you the best seat in the house
Notes: I think we can all agree that immediate post-prison Zemo would be an absolute feral, touch-starved mess once you managed to break through his walls. Also, I think that I got the years right on how long he had been in prison but honestly the Marvel timeline is so hand wavy that idk.
Also (also) we, as a fandom, talked way too much about that coat (which is distractingly amazing) and not nearly enough about that belt buckle (which have me on my knees).
AO3
“Zemo,” you moaned against his mouth, your hands clutching at the soft collar of his ridiculous coat. He had you trapped between his own strong body and the kitchen counter in the safe house, one hand in your hair while the other was harshly grasping at your hip.
“My name, drága,” he rasped as he caught your lips in another hungry kiss, “say it!”
“Helmut,” you all but whimpered, his harsh tone mixed with the feeling of his soft lips on yours were starting to scramble your thoughts. You felt your reward in the form of his thigh slide in between your own legs, making you moan again.
He’d had his hands on you for barely five minutes and yet as you rubbed yourself against his thigh, you could feel how ruined your underwear were. It was unfair, really, how wet he could make you with just a smug look, standing there in his stupid coat and oversized belt buckle.
You had to break the kiss to catch your breath though you felt his lips go straight to your neck, seemingly unwilling to break contact with your skin for long.
“Take off that ridiculous coat,” you whispered, trying desperately to claw back a little bit of dignity as he started moving his leg in-between yours.
He gave a small laugh against the column of your neck, still intent on leaving a mix of open-mouthed kisses and small bites to the delicate skin there. “If it is so ridiculous, why have you not been able to keep your eyes off of it since we met, hmm?” He raised his head to look you in the eyes, his head tilting as he took in your flushed face and hard breathing. Not that he looked any more unaffected: his pale cheeks had gained a rosy flush, his lips were swollen and his already dark eyes looked almost black. He gave a small nod and kept his eyes on yours as he slid the coat of his shoulders, folded it once and placed it neatly on the table next to you. His hands stayed on the counter top on either side of your body, caging you in but letting you take the next step, his eyes never leaving your face.
You gave him a small, reassuring smile and reached up to let your fingertips slide over his jaw. His eyes had remained as hungry as ever but you sensed trepidation in them too, though you were unsure why he would suddenly be so nervous.
“Much better,” you practically purred as your hands now had free rein to explore the full expanse of his upper body. You ran them down his neck, feeling his quick pulse under your fingertips; out over his strong shoulders and down his pecs, feeling soft fabric of his no doubt expensive sweater.
By the time you had worked your way down to his stomach, he seemed to have lost patience and surged forwards to catch your mouth in another one of his hungry kisses, both of his hands coming up to cradle your head. You could feel the muscles in his stomach clenching and unclenching under your hands and for a moment nothing else existed but the feeling of his soft, cherry-blossom flavoured lips and the crisp smell of his aftershave.
Your reverie was broken, however, as he moved his leg, still trapped between yours, more insistently against your core, making you moan into the kiss. Having had enough of this foreplay and desperately needing to actually feel him, you moved your hands further down, fumbling a bit as you tried to blindly open his belt.
“Ah ah, drága.” Rarely had anyone moved as fast as he had caught both of your wrist in his hands, holding further up his chest as the two of you stared at each other, heavy breaths mixing in the quiet apartment.
“What’s wrong?” you asked and your brow furrowed when you noticed the almost embarrassed look in his eyes.
“I’ve been in a jail cell for seven years with a camera following my every move. If you continue, it is going to be a very short night for both of us, I’m afraid.” He didn’t sound angry, per se, but there was a certain coldness in his voice, though you suspected it was mostly to cover up his embarrassment.
“You know we don’t have to-”
He silenced you by pressing his thumb to your mouth, his hand cradling your jaw. “Unless you tell me to stop, I am not resting until I have had you screaming my name.” He emphasised his point by pressing his thigh more firmly against your core, making you moan as he caught your clit perfectly. “Come, my dear, I know just what to do with you.” His smug smile and the playful glint in his eyes were back as he led you away from the kitchen and over towards the large couch in the middle of the room.
His lips returned to the side of your neck while his long slender fingers massaged your hips as he held you firmly against him. You could feel his hard member strain against his pants though you knew better than to reach for it, however much you longed to do so.
“Will you let me taste you?” he asked as he trailed his lips up the side of your cheek before catching the lobe of your ear gently between his teeth.
You nodded weakly, your head swimming at the thought of him between your thighs, and you let out a small whimper.
“Need to hear your pretty voice, drága,” he rasped against your ear.
“Yes! Please, Helmut, anything; you can do anything,” you babbled and your head tipped back as his clever tongue found the soft spot below your ear.
“Having you come on my tongue shall suffice; for now, at least.” He sounded almost matter-of-factly although as he pinched your chin and brought your face back down to look him in the eyes, you saw humour dancing in there too. “Now, take off your clothes, all of it, and come sit on my face.”
Your hands were already grasping at your own clothes before his words became clear in your mind. “Wait, sit on…?”
“My face, yes.” He rather cavalierly laid himself down on the couch and patted his chest, indicating your seat.
“Someone could see,” you said hesitantly and shot a look at the front door, mere metres from the both of you. You weren’t expecting Sam and Bucky back for hours but with the amount of uninvited guests you had already had… well you never knew.
“Then they will see the most beautiful woman in the world, taking her due pleasure,” he shrugged his shoulders but still shot you a reassuring look when you continued to hesitate. “No one will come, drága.”
“You’re insane,” you laughed though you went back to shedding your clothes, leaving it in a pile on the floor. You shivered as the cold air hit your skin and felt your nipples pebble. You wanted to cover yourself up but when you saw the look in Zemo’s eyes, you instead walked over proudly and stood in front of him. He looked starved and in a sense you guessed he was – seven years was a hell of a long time without any physical contact, from himself or others.
“Magnificent,” he breathed as he guided your legs to sit on either side of his shoulders, your hips hovering over his chin. He kissed the up the insides of each of your thighs as his hands slowly guided your hips down to sit where he wanted you to.
At the first contact of his tongue with your lips, you almost sat up again, the intensity of the pleasure that shot through you almost making you want to retreat. His hands, however, had stayed on your hips, both to hold you down and to rub reassuring circles against your skin.
You almost felt more than heard him moan against you, the vibrations in turn making you moan. “So sweet, like the freshest summer fruit; and so wet you could drown in it.” He all but growled that last part and one his hands left your hip to come down between your legs, moving your lips to either side, exposing you fully to him. He licked a hard line from your entrance to you clit and your hand flew from the armrest of the couch to bury itself in his hair, feeling his silky strands slide between your fingers. He swirled his tongue around your clit, once, twice, and you couldn’t help bucking your hips against his face and your hand tightened in his hair. A steady stream of moans and mewls fell from your lips and was soon joined by his own deep moans, as he felt you starting to take your pleasure from him.
He gave your clit a flick before moving his tongue back to circle your entrance, earning himself a broken moan of his name from you. You curled in on yourself to look down at him, immediately finding his eyes already upon you, and he held your gaze as his tongue penetrated you, moving insistently against your tight walls. With a long moan, you had to break eye contact, already you could feel pleasure rolling through you, gathering in the pit of your stomach.
He found his pace, going between circling your entrance and broadening his tongue as he licked against your walls with the occasional bump of his nose up against your clit, which had you seeing stars every time. You hadn’t realized he had removed his hand between your legs until you felt it slide up your ribcage and close around one of your previously neglected breasts. He rolled your nipple between his fingers, pinching it, and you felt yourself clench around his thick tongue.
“S-so close,” you mewled, struggling to find your words. “Need you; Helmut, please, come with me. Want you, ah-,” you had to swallow hard as his hand found your other breast, tugging harshly at your nipple. “Want us to come together.” Though your eyes felt heavy, they still managed to find his and he gave a small nod. The last hand on your hips left and you heard the tell-tale sound of his heavy belt buckle opening.
You desperately wanted to see him, to feel him in your hand, inside of you, but judging by the deep moan he let out against your core as his hand presumable made contact with his own hard member, that would have to wait.
“Come for me, then,” his breathing was hard and his words sounded muffled, as he seemed unwilling to move too far away from you. “Let me hear you scream.” His tongue made one final swirl around your entrance before he closed his lips around your clit, sucking hard at the same time as his hand tweaked your nipple.
It had the desired effect, as you vision whitened and you bowed over almost completely, the sound that left your throat more of a shriek than his name as your climax ran through your body like wildfire. If you had been able to look behind you, you would have seen his own hips arch off the seat as he came in his hand, cum spilling out onto his dark pants. Instead all you felt was the vibrations from his groan against your still clenching cunt, threatening to send you head first into another orgasm.
You whimpered, feeling slightly overstimulated, and slid off of his face and down to lie on his still rapidly rising and falling chest.
“We need to get you a bath,” you breathlessly laughed as you took in his beautiful face, currently smeared with your slick.
“In a moment,” he agreed, his eyes still closed as he tried to get his breathing back to normal. “I also do not think that counted as you screaming my name; don’t worry, though, we will simply have to try again.”
You looked up to see a cheeky smile spreading on his face though his eyes remain closed, evidently still luxuriating in the feelings coursing through him. You groaned and let your head fall back down onto his chest, the muscles in your thighs still twitching from overexertion.
