#john walker request

Bucky: The hot water cascades down your skin as you run your hands through your wet hair. You tilt your head back ever so slightly and keep your eyes shut to relish the feeling of the water trailing down your body. It cleansed you of the day's hardships, relaxing the tight muscles in your shoulders in the process.

You barely register the soft knock before the door opens slightly. When you turn your head to peer through the foggy glass, Bucky stands in the doorway with his hand clutching the handle.

“Hey… mind if I join you?” Bucky’s voice is low. His eyes shamelessly drag down the length of your body, drinking it all in for his own pleasure.

You know better than to rely on your voice so you nod your head timidly. You try to distract yourself and turn back to the shower head. But your heart begins to race when you hear the rustle of his clothes.

He steps in behind you only a moment later. His metal hand grazes your waist first; it's cool against the heat of your skin and his flesh hand tucks damp strands of hair off your neck.

Neither of you speaks at first. He simply presses close, his forehead resting against your shoulder and his lips ghosting over damp skin. You feel him breathe in slow and deep like he’s grounding himself with you.

When you finally turn to face him, his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, his lips slightly parted. His hands find your hips. He kisses you like he’s starving—soft at first, then deeper and wetter. His tongue sliding against yours. The water pounds against your backs as his hands slide down to lift your thigh, pulling you closer.

“You’re killin’ me,” he murmurs against your mouth. His voice ragged as he trails his mouth down your throat, sucking hard enough to leave bruises.

You let out a soft hum, teasing. “Good.”

Desperately needing you, Bucky leans forward to capture your lips once again, but the hand that shoots out lays flat against his chest and stops him. His brow furrows in slight confusion until he watches you sink to your knees in front of him.

“Fuck,” he groans, running a hand through his wet hair, cock already hard, thick, flushed dark.

Coming face to face with his hard length, you can't help but wrap your hand around him, stroking his length slow and deliberate. You glance up at him to watch the way his stomach tenses at the first stroke. His jaw clenches, lips parting on a broken breath as you lean in and lick a slow stripe along the thick vein.

“Shit,” he groans, leaning back against the tile.

You take him into your mouth—slow at first, inch by inch, until the thick head nudges the back of your throat. His breath punches out of him in a guttural moan. His metal hand grips the back of your head, trembling with restraint.

“Oh baby, fuck—” Bucky sounds so desperate, drunk on pleasure.

The heat of your mouth drives him insane. He can’t tear his eyes away, jaw clenched as he watches you suck him deeper, cheeks hollowing, water streaming down your skin. His thighs tense when you moan around him, the vibrations wrecking him completely.

His groans only grow louder as you suck him deeper, water streaming over both of you. His metal hand fists in your hair, his thighs trembling as you hollow your cheeks, working him with your mouth. He guides your head gently, thrusting his hips to fuck into the warm of your mouth. You happily take all that he has to offer.

“Please—please don’t stop,” he gasps, utterly wrecked, his thighs trembling as you take him deeper, swallowing around him. “You feel so fucking good—shit, I’m close—fuck, you’re gonna make me—”

He can’t even finish the sentence. His body tenses, hips jerking as the first pulse hits.

“Fuck—fuck—” Bucky groans, voice breaking completely as he spills in your mouth. It's hot and thick.

His metal hand gripping you like he’s barely holding on. His breath comes in ragged moans, head thrown back, his entire body shaking with the force of it.

You swallow around him, the warmth filling your mouth as he chokes on another broken gasp. His thighs tremble. He looks down at you—wrecked, flushed, eyes blown—watching you take every last drop with a look of dazed, breathless adoration.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, barely able to stand. “You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

He pulls you up gently—hands cupping your face—pressing soft, trembling kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your forehead as the water pours down around you, his heart pounding so hard you can feel it through his chest.

John: The bathroom door clicks shut and the lock gets set in place. You already in the shower, but you don't look towards the noise. The quiet drag of his footsteps on tile sends a shiver down your spine. You know exactly who it is. You don’t need to look to feel the weight of his gaze raking over every inch of your wet, bare skin.

The door to the shower slides open slowly and he steps in behind you. Before you can even draw in a steady breath, his hands are on your hips—big, rough palms that roam over slick wet skin. His chest presses flush to your back; his cock already hard and heavy against the curve of your ass.

"Look at you," John's lips brush against the shell of your ear teasingly. The rasp of it makes your stomach clench.  "You drive me crazy."

His fingers trail up, gliding over your ribs, sliding higher until they cup your breasts—palming and teasing. The rough pads of his thumbs brushing across peaked nipples as you shiver under the steady assault of his touch.

“You gonna be good for me?” he murmurs, teeth grazing your ear. “Gonna let me have you the way I need?”

Despite fighting everything in you to let him have you right there, you decide to flip it. You turn slowly to face him.

The water is running down the curve of your spine, your chest is brushing his as you look up at him through soaked lashes. Without a word, you sink to your knees on the slick floor.

John’s breath punches out of him in a low, wrecked sound. His cock twitches, hard and flushed. Then his hands fall uselessly to his sides because his control is slipping fast.

His cock is already hard, thick and heavy against his stomach, and when your hand wraps around him, his head tips back with a guttural growl.

“Fuck, sweetheart… ”John grits out. You take him into your mouth, sucking him deep, and working the underside of him with your tongue.

His hands tangle roughly in your hair, guiding you faster, groaning low and dark every time you moan around him. Your lips wrap around the head, tongue circling, tasting the salt of pre-come as you suck gently, then deeper. His fingers brush the wet strands of hair out of your face so he can get a better look at you.

“Look at you… fuck, you’re so good—so good for me—” John praises.

Every time you hollow your cheeks and swallow around him, his groans grow louder—rough, filthy sounds that let you know exactly how close he is.

“Shit—fuck—” His hips jerk forward. His hand is tightening, but he still fights to keep it controlled. You only take him deeper, your hand stroking the base in time with the slow bob of your head. “Fuck—gonna—gonna come—don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—”

You suck harder, moaning softly around him, and it’s over.

With a strangled groan, his whole body jerks, muscles locking tight as he spills in your mouth. His thighs tremble as you swallow, your hand stroking him through it as he pants your name like a curse.

“Fuck—fuck—” He shudders violently, his fingers still tangled in your hair, his cock twitching with the last aftershocks as you pull back and lick him clean just how he likes it.

When John finally manages to catch his breath, he lets out a wrecked, breathless laugh—still shaking, still ruined—before reaching down to pull you up and kiss you hard, tasting himself on your tongue, his hands gripping your face like he can’t let you go.

“Next time,” he murmurs roughly against your lips, voice still shot, “I’m not letting you get away with just that.”

Bob: When you made the announcement that you were going to shower and extended the invitation for him to join you, Bob was quiet as he followed you into the bathroom. He watched your every move—the way you laid your clothes out with careful hands, the soft way you folded a towel, the small hum of contentment as you tested the water temperature.

There was something so gentle in the way he looked at you. Like you were something fragile he didn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch.

He didn’t turn away when you started to undress. His eyes followed each slow reveal of skin, and he mirrored your actions without a word—shedding his layers until there was nothing left between you.

By the time the bathroom filled with steam, you stepped under the spray, sighing as the heat hit your skin. He came into the shower behind you and closed the shower door softly.

“Hey,” you murmured softly, offering a shy smile over your shoulder.

His tongue darting over his lips and he swallowed hard. “You’re… you’re beautiful,” he said, voice quiet almost like he was embarrassed to admit it.

He stepped closer, hands tentative at first—tracing the curve of your waist, fingertips feather-light as though still asking permission. His breath was shaky, his chest rising and falling faster as his hands slid over slick skin.

When you turned to face him fully, his eyes were wide, dark with something soft and achingly sweet. He captured your lips with his own, slow and gentle at first.

His tongue glides against your lower lip, tasting the water dripping from your mouth. He exhaled against you, then kissed you deeper this time, his hands sliding up your back to pull you closer, pressing your bodies together beneath the stream.

“God, I love you,” Bob whispers against your mouth. Your lips curve into a beautiful smile.

When you pulled back, you held his gaze, your hands trailing down his chest. Then, without a word, you sank slowly to your knees on the slick tile.

Bob’s breath caught sharply. His eyes went impossibly wide, mouth parting in shock as his back hit the cool tile wall behind him. His cock was already hard—flushed and heavy—and he made the softest, broken sound when your hand wrapped around him.

“What are you—” Bob started, voice trembling, but it cut off in a sharp gasp when you leaned in and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the flushed tip. "You don’t have to—"

“Let me take care of you,” you whispered, looking up at him through wet lashes. That look you gave him made him cave.

“Oh Jesus—” he choked out, his head falling back for a split second before his eyes snapped back down, locked on you like he physically couldn’t look away.

The first pass of your tongue made his knees nearly buckle. His hand darted out and clutched at the wall for balance. The other buried instinctively in your wet hair, not to push but to anchor himself.

When you sucked him in deeper—slow, unhurried, your hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t take—he let out a wrecked, breathless moan.

“Baby—oh my God—” Bob’s voice cracked, soft and desperate, his eyes glassy as he watched the way your lips stretched around him, the way your cheeks hollowed. His whole body trembled, hips barely rocking forward, his self-control fraying fast.

You moaned softly around him, the vibrations making him whimper—an actual whimper, soft and helpless. You move your head a little faster, taking as much of him in your mouth as physically possible.

“Please—fuck—please don’t stop,” Bob gasped, his breath coming faster, the pink flush rising all the way to his throat. “Feels—feels so good—Jesus, I—”

His voice kept breaking—his cock twitching deep in your mouth—as you worked him steady, your eyes never leaving his flushed, wrecked face. He looked overwhelmed, lips parted, brows drawn tight like he could barely handle it.

“I—baby, I’m gonna—” His voice dissolved into a moan. His hips jerking helplessly as he came hard.

The hot salt of it filling your mouth in thick pulses. You swallowed around him, soft and slow, still stroking him gently as he shuddered, his legs nearly giving out. You greedily swallowed just about everything.

His hand trembled against your head, his breath torn from his lungs in broken little gasps: “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—fuck—”

When you finally pulled back, wiping your mouth, he was staring down at you with wide, dazed eyes, still breathless, still red, still visibly shaking.

“Are you okay?” you teased softly, standing to press a kiss to his jaw.

He let out a weak, wrecked laugh, pulling you into his arms and resting his forehead to yours.

Yelena: The two of you were circling each other during another sparring session. You duck under her arm mid-swing and land a clean hit to her side. You circled back into stance, muscles coiled and ready again.

The air between you crackled with challenge—and maybe something a little more personal beneath the friendly fight.

“Come on, Belova. You’re slow today.”

Instantly, Yelena stands up straight and her entire fight stance goes back to normal. Her hands fall back down at her sides, her shoulders drop like she's no longer in the mood.

She narrowed her eyes at you instantly. “No. Absolutely not.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Belova? You trying to sound like Valentina?” she teased, clearly disgusted. “That’s gross.”

You laughed. “I didn't think you'd hate it so much."

She rolled her eyes playfully. "It's not the name. It's the way you said it. Felt a little degrading."

You grinned. “Maybe that was the point.”

She rolled her shoulders, cracking a smirk. “Well, if you want to keep playing that game, you better be ready to lose.”

You laughed, stepping back into your stance. “Bring it on.”

Bucky: The mission had gone sideways, not catastrophically per se. It was messy, chaotic, and just sloppy work. During the height of it all, Bucky went off script which made you more mad than anything. You refused to speak to him on the way back to the safe house.

You stormed through the front door first, tossing your gear onto the couch with more force than necessary. He followed, though slower and more casual—like nothing had just happened.

“We made it out, didn’t we?” Bucky called out. He began peeling off his gear.

You didn’t turn around. “Barely.”

He sighed. “Oh, come on—”

"I'm not talking with you about this," you quickly cut him off, giving him a warning glare. You were still fuming and frustrated with him. And he knew it. "I'm going to go shower."

He says something under his breath. You stop walking. You turn back to face him ever so slowly.

"What was that?" You were seething now.

“What? Don’t give me that look—” Bucky shakes his head.

"Barnes."

He knew exactly what that meant.

The name cut through the air like a warning shot. He straightens immediately, swallowing thick and realizing the severity of your seriousness. You never use that name — not unless he’s in big trouble.

He watched you for a moment, jaw ticking like he was deciding whether or not to push his luck. Eventually, Bucky took some quiet calculated steps towards you. He watched you carefully, waiting for any more warning signs.

"Oh...I know that tone," Bucky said cautiously. He kept his movements limited, but still few closer to you. "You're mad at me."

You crossed your arms over your chest and spun around on the heels of your feet so that your back was facing him. You didn't even want to look at him right now, still beyond annoyed and frustrated by his reckless behavior.

“I hate it when you’re mad at me,” Bucky admitted softly as if trying to win you back. “Especially when you call me that. You say it like I’m someone you don’t even like.”

You threw a brief glance over your shoulder, still keeping composure. "Well, right now, I don't."

He cracked a small, sad smile. “Fair.”

Another beat passed. The tension had softened, but it was still there just coiled tight between frustration and care.

Bucky took a step closer. “Is there anything I can do to fix it?”

Finally, you willed yourself to turn around in order to face him head on. His breath caught in the back of his throat as he awaited your reaction. You looked at him, really looked, and let out a slow breath.

“Stop acting like you have to handle everything on your own.” Your voice still laced with venom.

“I’m trying,” Bucky nodded. “Old habits die hard.”

You scoffed, a sound almost playful. Your tight demeanor slowly melting away because he always seemed to know just the right thing to say.

"Will you forgive me?" Bucky wondered, catching your gaze and sounding hopeful.

Though you sported a soft smile on your lips, you still weren't willing to just cave into him like your normally did. He needed some punishment; otherwise, he'd never learn his lesson.

You strode towards the bathroom without saying another word, leaving him to watch your retreating figure. You didn't give him an answer, but he knew what this meant for him.

"I take it that means I'm sleeping on the couch tonight?" Bucky called after you.

"Damn right."

John: It was one of the many moments when John simply wasn’t listening. His eyes were fixed on his phone, scrolling endlessly through messages, articles, and whatever had his face on it.

You needed help carrying a heavy box into your room. Struggling near the doorway, you carefully set it down and looked over at him expectantly. You wiped the sweat from your brow.

“John,” you called, but he didn’t look up. You tried again, a little sharper this time. “John.”

Nothing again. You placed your hands on your hips, clearly annoyed that he wasn't listening to you at the moment. It was time to bring out the big guns.

"Walker!" That got his attention real fast.

He looked up, confused. He put his phone down. “Yeah?”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just watched him with your arms crossed over your chest.

"Wait. Did I do something?” John observed, seeing the obvious look of annoyance in your eyes.

“You weren't listening to me," you explained to him blankly.

“Okay…” He frowned. “But very rarely do you ever call me by my last name. It almost sounded like I was in trouble."

You blinked, raised a brow at him. “Do you want to be in trouble?”

He shrugged, sending you a slight smirk. “I mean… not unless it’s the fun kind?”

Your shoulders slumped. “Walker.”

He grinned nervously. “There it is again! Is this a dominance thing? A flirting thing? Am I—am I supposed to salute you right now?”

You leaned closer. “I could make you.”

Alexei: Getting ready for another mission, Alexei was already decked out in his gear, but there were very few times where he wasn't wearing the suit anyways. He quickly fitted his helmet securely on his head when he heard his name being called loudly down the hallway.

“Shostakov!"

"Uh oh.” He said to himself.

Hearing his name like that made his blood run cold and the color drain from his face. He cautiously made his way to the door and stepped into the hallway to find you standing there with your hands on your hips. Giving him that look.

“Shostakov?" Alexei repeated, clearly confused because you rarely said his last name like that. "What is this, prison? You trying to sound like KGB agent or angry ex-wife?”

You snorted. “You don’t like it?”

“I hate it,” Alexei made sure to enunciate. “Call me Alexei. Or Red Guardian if you are feeling romantic.”

You raised a brow. “Romantic?”

He winked. “Well, you calling me Shostakov—I assume you’re mad at me. I cannot allow this. Come here.” He held out his arms exaggeratedly.

You laughed, dodging around him, but he followed anyway.

“You wound me. You treat me like I'm some careless brute.” Alexei was always one for the dramatics. You threw a glance over your shoulder.

“You are a brute,” you explained to him. “Especially with that whole tall, loud, intimidating thing going on.”

His eyes gleamed instantly. He snapped his fingers like he'd just discovered something remarkable. “Ahhh. Now I see. You are flirting poorly, but enthusiastically. This I admire.”

You stopped in your steps, spinning around to face him. He held his hands up in surrender, almost afraid you'd hit him or something. “I am not flirting poorly.”

He took your hand, placed it over his chest. “Feel this? This is the heart of a man falling for you because you called him Shostakov with sass in your eyes and sin in your voice.”

You drew your hand away and grumbled under your breath. "At least I got your attention."

Ava: The whole team was gathered in the conference room for the updates, logistics, and information collected for an upcoming mission they were planning. The team sat in their designated seats, growing bored of listening to Valentina talk for hours on end.

By the end of the meeting, Valentina ordered you to hand out the files to each member. You dutifully passed them out in order.

You pass her a file without looking up.

“This one’s yours, Starr. Try not to phase through the intel this time.” You mentioned offhandedly.

Ava’s fingers froze on the pages. Her head lifted slowly, eyes narrowing. “You said that like I’m already guilty.”

You smile faintly. “You usually are.”

She cleared her throat, a little too loudly, and pushed to her feet. You both started toward the door, footsteps echoing softly in the empty hallway.

"You used my last name," Ava mentioned. Her eyes straight ahead so not to draw attention to them.

"Mhmm. Did I?" You teased.

"You usually only call me that when you’re annoyed.” Ava added. You were a few steps ahead, but she watched you from the corner of her eye.

You shrugged, not bothering to turn around. “Or when I want your attention.”

That stopped her—not physically, but you could feel the pause in her silence, the way the air shifted behind you. You didn’t look back.

But you didn’t need to.

She was already watching you. And you knew she'd follow.

Bob: You spot Bob fiddling with some tech gear in the corner of the room, completely focused. You walk up behind him, pretending to look serious. But really just doing it to mess with him.

"Be careful, Reynolds." You warned.

His head snapped up so fast you thought he’d given himself whiplash. He dropped the gear immediately like a child being caught doing something he wasn't supposed to to.

"If I catch you breaking another one of my gadgets, you’re going to owe me more than just an apology.”

He breathed a nervous laugh once he realized you were just messing with him. He put some distance between him and the table in front of him. He looked nervous, avoiding eye contact with you.

You tilted your head, noticing his odd behavior. “What’s with the face?” You asked.

“Well, you never call me that unless something’s wrong.” Bob noticed, now messing with his sleeves.

“Maybe something is wrong.” You smiled, but he misinterpreted it.

He panicked instantly; his hands flying up in deference. “I knew it. You saw the footage. I—I didn’t mean to break your favorite mug. I—It just slipped out of my fingers—"

You stared at him, mouth agape. “You broke my favorite mug?”

This time, Bob really flinched.

"You—you didn't know." Bob realized slowly, like he was only now realizing the true depths of his betrayal.

“No, Reynolds. I didn’t know.” You crossed your arms and he hated the way you used his name with that tone. “But I do now.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, honestly!” he rushed out. “Let me buy you a new one. Or—or fifteen new ones. Whatever you like. It's on me. I’ll handcraft one. I’ll invent pottery. Just—please don’t hate me.”

Your originally upset expression started to ease away at his idea. Your mouth twitched. The part of you that wanted to be mad stood no chance against his pleading eyes.

“You’d really buy me fifteen mugs?” You batted your eyelashes at him and he only smiled back.

"Whatever it takes to make you happy," Bob confessed truthfully.

You bit your lip, trying hard not to laugh. Your arms slowly dropped from their crossed position.

"You're lucky I like you," you silently forgave him and he couldn't help the smile that grew on his face.

"Why did you do that?" Her voice cracked along with her whole demeanor. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

She tried to push out any negative thoughts, determined to save you if it meant tearing everything else down. She wasn't going to loose you like she lost her sister.

Your entire demeanor was calm, too calm. You weren't panicked or struggling to breathe. It was almost like you were at peace, which was something she wasn't able to accept yet.

She snapped her fingers to try to get your attention, but your eyes were already growing more glossy and distant. "Hey, you stay awake, okay? We're going to get you help and then you'll be all better." Yelena sounded like she was trying to convince herself not you.

With each passing moment, your face grew more pale and the light was leaving your eyes. Your movements were limited and weakened. Very slowly, your hand shifted over her hand as if to comfort her or let her know that everything was going to be alright.

When Yelena lifted her head, her eyes were filled with unshed tears. Her face crumbled and her shoulders racked with heavy sobs. She shook her head and tried to deny it, but it was already too late for you.

“Stay with me. Please. I can’t lose you too.”

Bucky: The string of gunshots sounded like a roll of thunder. He shielded himself with his metal forearm, but somehow missed one fatal one. The bullet that ended up hitting you.

He whipped his head to look back at you, horror etched onto his face in sudden realization. He caught you before you hit the ground. His metal arm braced you against him as you slumped, blood soaking into your clothes at an alarming rate. He was careful to lean you up against a nearby wall.

"What were you thinking?" Bucky's voice was trembling with restrained fury. He pressed his hand hard against the wound; his eyes desperately searching for any sign of hope. “Stay with me. You're not going out like this. Not for me.”

"Bucky—" you tried weakly.

"No," Bucky cut you off firmly and sharply. "No, that's not fair."

His eyes searched your face—your weakening gaze, your pale skin. He was unraveling, panicking.

You reached up, your fingers just brushing his jaw, and he caught your hand in his, holding it tight against his chest. He fought back tears and couldn't bring himself to accept the reality laying before him.

He leans closer, his forehead against yours, jaw clenched. “You don’t get to go. You hear me? I’ve lost too many people—I won’t lose you too.”

The war around him meant nothing. The only battle that mattered was the one for your life, and he wasn’t ready to lose.

John: The firefight had been intense. John was barking orders, shield raised, adrenaline pumping — until a flurry of gunshots came barreling towards him. He raised his shield to deflect them and the dinged off the shield one by one. What he didn't account for was the ricochet.

The sound of a soft whimper tore his gaze away from the fight. You were keened over slightly with your hand hovering above your abdomen. The patch of blood growing deeper in color and spreading through your clothes.

“Shit—” John jumps into action.

He scrambled to catch you and gently lays you down on the ground.

“No. No, no, no.” John grips your shoulders like he can hold you together with brute strength alone.

He initially doesn't know what to do, too overridden with panic and the fear of losing you. His hands hurried to cover the spot of blood and he pressed down to slow the blood flow.

“What the hell were you thinking?!” John yells. His panic boiling over, voice far too loud. You flinched, barely, and he instantly regretted it. 

His hands moved instinctively, trying to cover the wound, pressing down hard though his vision blurred with horror. “I’m not mad. I’m not mad at you, okay? Just—stay with me. Stay with me.”

You weren’t speaking now. Just breathing shallowly, your face eerily calm, like the pain was fading. Like you were fading.

“Don’t do that,” John said quickly, panic catching in his throat. “Don’t go all peaceful on me. That’s not a good sign. That’s a bad sign. Stay awake. Talk to me. Yell at me if you have to.”

He cupped your cheek, rough calloused thumb trembling as it brushed across your skin. His expression cracked then—whatever armor he wore, whatever facade he’d built, it fell away completely.

“Don’t go quiet on me,” he begged, his voice ragged and breaking. “Please, you don’t get to die on me. Not after everything. Not after all the shit I’ve done. You’re the one good thing I’ve got. I can’t lose you too.”

The world felt still around him now, like time had slowed, narrowed down to your face, your breath, the warmth of your blood on his hands.

Ava: It was instinctive for her. She just phased and forgot you were right behind her. So you took the bullet meant for her. You dropped before she even realized what had happened. One second you were behind her, the next you were on the ground bleeding out and she felt something inside her snap.

“No,” Ava breathed, almost like she was still catching up to what her eyes were seeing. “No, no, no…”

It hit her in waves. Her breath caught in her throat, like her lungs refused to work. She knelt beside you in a flash, hands hovering over the wound, helpless.

“You were—behind me. You were right behind me.”

Ava’s hands pressed to the bleeding, her phasing flickering violently as her panic spiraled. The flickering wouldn't help you, but she couldn't bring herself to stop.

“I didn’t see you. I didn’t know you were there. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

"It's okay—" You tried to wave it off like it was nothing.

“Don’t talk, okay? Don’t waste energy. You’re going to be fine. You’re gonna be okay.” Ava was trying to convince you, but it sounded like it was more aimed to reassure herself.

And your eyelids fluttered.

Something inside her snapped. It was more panic.

“No, no—stay awake.” Her voice cracked, shaking as her hands desperately tried to hold you here, to keep you. “Don’t go quiet. Please. Don’t leave me like this.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper, trembling and raw. The tears now sliding down her face uncontrollably.

“You can’t go. Please. Not like this. Not for me.”

You managed to catch her eyes. A breath, almost a smile. Her hands phased harder. And then, neither of you were there.

Alexei: The shot cracked the air like a thunderclap and there was no chance to react. Even though Alexei didn’t see the gun, you had seen it and it took you less than a second to step in front of him to block it's path.

The bullet stole your breath away, lodging itself into your lung and knocking you back from the sheer force. And Alexei watched in horror as you collapsed to the ground.

“No—” His voice tore through the chaos. He tried to assess the damage, but it was already done and you were fading fast. “No, no, no… malenkaya, stay with me.”

You tried to breathe, but it came shallow, broken. Your fingers twitched against his chest, smearing red on the white of his uniform. He ripped off his helmet, tossing it to the side carelessly.

He pressed his hand hard over the wound, panicked strength shaking. “You were supposed to let me protect you. That is my job!”

He could see your eyes beginning to loose focus which sent another wave of panic into his veins. He saw the apology there before you could even try to form words.

“Don’t,” he choked out. “Do not say goodbye. You hear me?” His voice cracked, heavy and pleading. “You are too stubborn to die. You always yell at me for being stupid—so yell now! Come on!”

But you didn’t or you couldn't.

Your hand slipped from his chest, landing limply in his grasp.

For a heartbeat, he refused to understand. Then it hit him all at once and a sound tore from his throat, raw and broken, a man gutted by the silence that followed.

He pulled you close, rocking you like something fragile, whispering through tears, “You were supposed to live. You were supposed to live, dorogaya moya.”

Around him, the world kept moving— gunfire fading, shouts echoing — but he only held you tighter, as if he could anchor you back with sheer will.

And for the first time in a long, violent life, Alexei wept openly— not as a soldier, not as the Red Guardian but as a man who’d just lost the one person who ever made him feel human again.

Bob: The bullet sounded fast. He couldn't have predicted it. He didn't have time to react. It hit you and it wasn't supposed to.

Bob’s head whipped around at the sound; his eyes widening in absolute horror. He saw you drop, and the world simply stopped.

“No—!” The word left him in a strangled cry of disbelief.

The sky above twisted— clouds spiraling like they, too, had been torn open by what had just happened. He caught you mid-fall. Not fast enough to stop it, just fast enough to be the one who held you as you crumpled.

The heat of your blood soaked into the front of his suit. His eyes were locked on yours, wide in disbelief, like he couldn't fathom a world where you’d throw yourself in front of him.

“Why…?” His voice broke and cracked. “Why would you…?”

You smiled, barely. That soft, broken look that made it worse. Like you were already halfway gone and okay with it.

“No,” he snapped, his tone harsher than intended. “No, don’t do that. Don’t give me that look like it was worth it. Like I’m worth it.”

"You are..." you replied softly. "You've always been worth it."

His breath hitched and his head dipped, pressing his forehead to yours, fingers curled around your hand like it was a lifeline. Like you were his lifeline. He couldn't hold back the tears or the sobs that escaped his lips.

He hated how limp you'd become in his arms, hated watching the light leave your eyes, hated feeling your skin grow cold, and hated hearing the last breath slip past your lips. He hated it all.

The dark storm clouds above cracked with lightning and the rumble of thunder followed shortly after. The rain began to fall heavily, which matched the tears that fell down his face.

She appears in your doorway like a ghost with combat boots. “What happened? What's wrong?"

“Nothing,” you rasp.

She’s by your side in seconds, crouching next to the bed. Her eyes flicker over your face, your chest, your arm, looking for anything that could indicate a problem.

“Don’t lie. You made a noise. I heard the noise; it sounded painful.” Yelena observed.

“I just moved weird.” You waved her off.

“That’s because your ribs are broken,” Yelena says as a matter of factly. “You’re not supposed to move weird. You’re not supposed to move at all actually.”

She sits on the edge of the bed, one hand braced beside your leg like she’s keeping you grounded with touch alone.

Her voice drops. “You scared the shit out of me.”

You blink. “I’m okay—”

“You were gasping for air. I thought—” She cuts herself off and stands abruptly. “No. You’re not allowed to say you’re okay anymore. That phrase is banned. I decide what’s okay now.”

You open your mouth to argue, and she points a warning finger at you.

“Don’t. You’re not even allowed to breathe dramatically.” Yelena warns you teasingly.

Despite the pain, a weak laugh bubbles up in your throat. It was a bad idea, one that you instantly regretted. The moment you laugh, your ribs scream in protest, and you let out a choked gasp.

Yelena’s already at your side again, hand gently pressing a heating pad to your side, the other guiding you back down with infinite care.

“I told you not to laugh,” she mutters, softer now.

“Well, then stop being funny.” You argue back.

“You love my jokes.” Yelena claims.

“I love your stupid face. Your jokes are terrible.” You tell her.

You breathe through the pain. She adjusts the pillows behind you—fluffing, rotating, stacking—and you realize she must have done this a dozen times already while you were half-asleep or too drugged to notice.

She lowers the bed just enough that your body relaxes, and then she covers you with a blanket she definitely stole from someone else’s room.

“Do you need anything?” she asks. “Water? Tea? Wine?”

“Just stay with me?” You look up at her with pleading eyes.

Her posture softens. Without saying a word, she climbs into bed behind you, carefully settling in so she doesn’t jostle your side. She lies on her back but reaches over, her pinky hooking gently around your uninjured hand. You close your eyes.

She doesn’t let go of your hand the entire night.

Bucky: Being slammed head first against a wood table during a fight was not planned, but it happened anyways. Though you ended up defeating your enemy and taking them into custody, you certainly didn't walk away on steady legs. Your head was pounding and you knew something was wrong.

Turns out, after the diagnosis, you ended up with a severe concussion from that fight. One that would take weeks to recover from. Which meant you were benched from missions until you got the all clear sign from your doctor.

You sit on the couch in the dimly lit room, your head heavy, pounding like a drumbeat that won’t quit. Every light, every sound, even the faintest movement feels like it’s magnified a thousand times too loud.

Your vision blurs occasionally, and it’s hard to focus on anything—words, faces, even the simple pattern of the carpet beneath your feet.

Bucky is beside you, his presence steady and calm. He’s lowered the blinds hours ago and keeps his voice low and soft like he’s afraid of breaking you with noise.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, sitting close enough that you can feel his warmth, but not crowding you.

You try to answer, but your words come out slurred and slow. “I… think so…”

He nods knowingly. “Don’t push yourself. Just rest. I’ve got you.”

He stays silent for a long moment, watching you carefully, noticing the way you flinch when a soft breeze brushes your temple, or how your eyes close against the pain.

When you reach up to rub your forehead, your hand trembles. Without a word, Bucky takes your hand gently in his, holding it still. His thumb strokes your skin, slow and reassuring.

“Here,” he says softly, pulling a damp cloth from the side table. “Cool down with this. It’ll help.”

You lean your head back against the couch, letting the cloth rest on your forehead. His hand doesn’t leave yours.

Hours pass like this—quiet, slow. Bucky reads softly from a book he found, making sure his voice stays low, his words gentle. You can’t focus enough to follow the story, but the sound is comforting.

When you get thirsty, he’s the one who hands you a glass of water, carefully helping you lift it to your lips without spilling. At one point, you try to stand just to get to the bathroom.

“Stop,” Bucky says firmly, steadying you before you take a step. “You’re not ready.”

You lean against him, already exhausted. Your body feeling like it’s made of lead. He sighs, then carries you the rest of the way without complaint.

Back on the couch, he pulls a blanket over you, his arm curling protectively around your shoulders.

“You’re going to be okay,” he promises. “I’ll make sure of it.”

His voice is steady and sure, and you believe him, even through the haze of pain.

John: The explosion ended up being a lot louder than anticipated and you were much too close to the initial explosion point to go without injuries. When the dust began to settle and the fire subsided, the only thing that could be heard was an intense ringing sound. Your ears bled. You'd ruptured both your eardrums.

The world is muffled and pressured like you're forced to keep your head underwater. Words aren't clear enough to comprehend. It's very disorienting.

In recovery, the room feels strange and quiet, yet overwhelmingly loud in your mind. It’s like a muted world, but your ears are painfully sensitive to any sudden noise. Every movement of your jaw sends ripples of agony through your skull. Talking is nearly impossible, and the pressure behind your ears feels like it might burst your head open.

You try to sit up—slowly and carefully—but the room shifts hard to the left, and your stomach lurches. You let out a sharp gasp.

Before you can fall, John’s arms are already around you. He's been watching you carefully over the past few days, helping you get around and giving you painkillers. He’s rough around the edges, but right now, all his focus is on you.

“Easy—whoa, whoa,” John murmurs but it comes out so muffled you can't understand him. “That’s enough. You don’t get to fall over today.”

Your body trembles as the dizziness floods your senses. You shut your eyes tight, hoping the spinning stops. John presses his palm gently to the back of your head.

“Balance is gonna be messed up for a while,” John tries to explain. The rumble of his voice coming from his chest is oddly comforting. You rest your head against it. “Burst eardrums’ll do that. You’re not walking anywhere alone.”

When the pain flares up, you let out a groan of pain and cover your ears with your hands. John doesn’t hesitate—he fetches cold compresses, carefully places them against your temples and around your ears. His hands are steady and warm despite the cold packs.

“Just breathe,” John writes the words down on a notepad for you to read. You send him a weak smile back. “You’re doing better than you think.”

Ava: The night of your injury was a complete blur because you don't remember much from all the blood loss you experienced. From how the team retold it, you had charged an enemy head on and didn't account for the hidden knife they'd stashed behind them.

One swift swipe to the stomach made you drop to the floor; the blood pooling out faster than any of them could imagine. You'd just barely pulled through, having immediately been taken into surgery and five hours later, you came out.

What you had to show was a deep cut laceration across your abdomen that was held together with fifteen stitches.

The pain isn't immediate—it comes in pulses, sharp and deep, like your body is remembering it all over again. The stitches across your lower abdomen tug with every slight movement, pulling tight skin and bruised muscle with them.

You hiss as you try to shift in bed. And Ava is there instantly.

“Stop,” she says softly, appearing at your side like she phased straight out of the wall. She presses a hand gently to your shoulder. “You're going to tear the sutures if you keep moving like that.”

You swallow hard, trying to breathe through the pain. Sweat clings to your neck and back, your shirt sticking to your skin like gauze.

“I can’t get comfortable,” you whisper.

She adjusts the pillow behind your back, lifts the blanket carefully away from the bandaged wounds, and with the precision of someone who’s both been injured and cared for others, she begins checking the dressings.

“They held up through the night,” she murmurs. “No new bleeding. That’s good.”

You nod, but then flinch. Even that hurts.

Ava disappears briefly and returns with a cool cloth, gently wiping your forehead and the back of your neck. “You’ve been sweating again. Fever’s still low-grade, but if it spikes, I’ll have to call the doctor again.”

You manage a faint smirk. “So I don’t get to suffer in peace?”

Her lips twitch. “Not on my watch.”

She sits back beside you, legs crossed, her hand still resting lightly on the blanket near your side—close, but careful not to touch anywhere painful.

“I know how this feels,” she says quietly, not meeting your eyes. “Needing help. Hating that you need help. It messes with your head.”

You turn to look at her, slowly.

"But it doesn't make you weak."

Alexei: As soon as the quinjet landed back at base, Alexei had insisted upon carrying you to the medbay despite the fact that the only injury you received was a broken wrist.

When the doctor was putting the splint on, the first thing Alexei noticed was how quiet you'd gone. You sat still with your jaw tight and eyes glossy from pain, but stubbornly dry.

The splint around your wrist looked far too big for your arm. It was an ugly angle, swelling already visible beneath the white bandage.

Alexei hated it. Hates that he wasn’t fast enough to stop it.

“Let me,” he mutters. The doctor leaves the two of you alone in the medbay since his job was done.

His broad hands hover uncertainly for a moment before he starts gently adjusting the makeshift sling, wanting it to be just right. You flinch once, and his whole body goes rigid, like he’s the one who’s been hit.

“Sorry,” he says immediately, softer now. “You tell me if it hurts, da?”

You nod. The motion is small, weary.

He works carefully, slower than anyone’s ever seen him before. His hands—those huge, battle-worn hands—turn tender as he cares for you and makes sure the weight of your arm rests comfortably. Every once in a while he looks up, checking your face for any sign of discomfort.

When he’s finished, he sits back on his heels and exhales. “There,” he says. “Now you look like soldier who fought bear. Very brave.”

You laugh quietly, just enough to make his chest ache. He lives for that sound, the small proof that you’re still here.

He pulls a chair close, stays by your side. The silence stretches between you—comfortable and familiar. Then his gaze drifts to your bandaged wrist again, and something sharp twists in him.

“You should not have gone in first,” he says, not accusing, but hinted with slight anger.

“I had to,” you murmur. “You were cornered.”

He shakes his head, staring at the floor. “Next time, you let me be cornered. I can take it.”

You clench your jaw, just as stubborn as he was sometimes. “So can I.”

He doesn’t answer. Just leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. When he finally speaks, it’s quiet, raw around the edges.

“Still… I do not like seeing you hurt.”

You smile faintly at the confession.

Bob: You'd never heard the sound of a bone cracking, only in the movies when it happened to a character. Even then, you knew it was just movie magic sound effects and not the actual sound of a bone breaking.

There wasn't time to think about deflecting a metal pipe that came barreling down towards you. It collided with your collarbone hard. There was a sickening crack, sharp and final like the sound of dry wood breaking in a fire followed be silence.

The force from it knocked you down. A hot, electric scream escaped your lips as one of the other team members dealt with the enemy. Every breath that followed scraped against the jagged edge of the break. The tiniest movement sent shockwaves of pain through your shoulder.

Your collarbone was broken on your right side. You ended up in surgery for repairs and you had to keep your arm in a sling for a couple weeks.

Facing a long painful recovery, the shower has been running for a few minutes. The steam curling out beneath the bathroom door, but you haven’t moved.

You’re standing by the sink, exhausted just from the effort it took to walk there. Your arm hangs useless in the sling, your shirt clinging to your back, and every attempt to peel it off with one hand has ended in sharp pain and frustration.

You hear a soft knock on the door followed by that sweet familiar voice.

“It’s just me.” Bob calls from the other side. "How—how are you doing?"

You hesitate. The tears start to pool in the corners of your eyes.

“I can’t—” Your voice breaks. “I can’t get it off.”

The door creaks open slowly, just a few inches. He is dutifully keeping his eyes locked on the floor like he’s waiting for permission. He stands still for a moment.

“Want me to help?” He offers.

You nod before realizing he can’t see it. “Yes please.”

He steps in carefully and closes the door behind him to keep the heat in.

“Okay. We’ll go slow.” Bob says, finally meeting your eyes. He moves behind you, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt. “I’m going to lift it over your head. You tell me if it hurts, alright?”

“Okay.” You nod.

His touch is gentle. He lifts the fabric inch by inch, mindful of the sling, the bandages, the way your breath stutters when he brushes too close to a sore spot. He never yanks, never rushes. When you flinch, he pauses and waits for a sign to continue.

“You’re alright. Just breathe.” Bob encourages you. You try. It’s not easy.

Once the shirt is off, Bob carefully sets it aside, then crouches down in front of you, reaching for the waistband of your shorts.

“I can—” You begin to reach. Your hand trembles when you go to try, and Bob doesn’t say anything. Just waits with his palms up, offering—not assuming.

You nod once. He slides them down slowly, never looking at you like you’re fragile or something to pity. Just someone he cares about. Someone he’s here for.

The last pieces to remove are your underwear. At this point, your cheeks are hot from embarrassment and he helps you stripe away the last pieces of modesty shielding you. But he never looks at you differently.

Now bare, Bob grabs the clean towel you left nearby and holds it up like a shield between you. You take it to cover yourself up to the best of your ability one handed.

“You okay to get in on your own?” Bob inquires, respectfully not looking at your body. You nod. “Alright. I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

He gives you the faintest smile before backing out, careful to close the door behind him—but not all the way. Just enough that you could call for him if something happened.

There, Bob stands waiting patiently with his back pressed against the wall. He rubs his eye with his sleeve once, but isn't bored standing there.

Yelena: Getting prepped for another mission with the team, you spent a good deal of time getting into your gear. You zipped up your suit and turned to leave only to spot a familiar looking tactical vest draped across the back of a nearby chair.

You quickly take a glance at your surroundings, checking to see if anyone was watching you. When the coast was clear, you grabbed the vest that had so many pockets and slipped it over your shoulders. You made some adjustments to how it laid on you.

You liked the weight of it, the worn leather, the faint scent of her perfume mixed with gunpowder. You didn't notice the moment she came into view and stopped mid-stride.

“What the hell?" Yelena was taken back. She gestures at you with both hands, but can't hide the smile on her face. “That’s mine.”

You raise a brow. “And?”

“And you look insufferably hot in it, so now I can’t yell at you.” She makes it sound dramatic and playful at the same time.

She storms closer dramatically, tugging at the lapels like she’s going to reclaim it—but doesn’t. She looks at you skeptically.

“You’re keeping it, aren’t you?” Yelena asked.

"Maybe," you shrug.

"You can't keep it, it's my favorite." Yelena sports a clear pout on her lips. She tugs on it again. "Look at how many pockets it has!"

"Just let me wear it for the day," you plead with her and you knew she'd cave because you were giving her that look. You even put your hands together in a silent plea. "Pretty please?"

“Fine. I’ll just steal something of yours. Like your favorite hoodie. And then we’ll be even.”

You go to kiss her cheek affectionally and she pretends to not care by wiping it away with the back of her hand. "You're the best! Thank you!"

Bucky: It’s a lazy afternoon. You’re curled up on the couch in Bucky’s dark red Henley (the one from Civil War). The fabric warm against your skin and worn soft to the touch. You didn't even bother wearing anything underneath it because it fell past mid-thigh.

When Bucky walks in from a run and sees you, he actually stops in his tracks. He's sweaty and breathless. And his brows scrunch together in slight confusion.

“You—uh—what are you wearing?” Bucky's chest heaves as he attempts to regain his breath.

"Your shirt," you shrug carelessly.

You stretch out like a cat with your arms held way above your head. The said shirt, in the process, rides up along your thigh to expose just a little more skin. Bucky's gaze flickers down.

"Figured you wouldn't mind." You caught him staring and smirk teasingly.

“No,” he mutters and sets his gear down on a nearby chair. “No, just… wasn’t expecting to see that the moment I walked in.”

“Why? You’ve seen me wear less.” You tease.

“Yeah, but I wasn’t trying to be good then.” Bucky emphasizes and can't hide the growing smirk from gracing his lips.

He walks over slowly, kneels beside the couch, and lets his hand settle on your bare thigh where the hem rides high. Now, it's your turn for your gaze to flicker down to where his hand lay.

“You know this was my favorite shirt?” Bucky's fingers start to dip beneath the hem, drawing dangerously close to your heat.

“It still can be,” you say. Your fingers weave into his hair gently.

"You like messing with me?" Bucky beams at you.

“Maybe. You gonna do something about it?” You asks. Your legs part ever so slightly like it's an invitation.

“Not unless you ask real nice.” His lips ghost over your knee. And when you shift toward him, he smirks.

John: You were hanging out in the kitchen, sitting perfectly perched on the counter with a cup of coffee in hand. You were sporting John's West Point t-shirt and nothing else but socks. It hangs mid-thigh, swallowing your frame and the socks come up to your knee. You hear the front door creak open and a familiar bootstep on the tile.

“Huh,” John drawls having just come back from a workout. “Didn’t realize we were sharing closets now.”

“You leave your clothes around. I consider that an invitation.” You mumble and peer over the rim of your mug.

“Yeah? What else you think is an invitation?” John quirks an eyebrow at you in challenge.

"You tell me, Walker."

He steps into the kitchen fully with his arms crossed over his broad chest. His eyes scanning you with slow heat. You set down the mug and lean back, keeping yourself propped up with your hands behind you.

"That shirt looks better on you, I’ll admit,” John nods. His tongue wets his bottom lip. “But I’d rather see it on my floor.”

"Then you better do something about that," you replied. You uncrossed your legs slowly and deliberately, just to push him.

“Oh, I will." John takes long strides to meet you and cages you in with hands on either sides of your hips.

You said nothing, but looked up at him with sultry eyes. He leaned closer. The heat of his body pushed against yours. His breath hit your lips.

The two of you were teetering on the edge of caving into your desires. It was only when his fingers slid under the hem of the shirt and brushed the bare skin of your thigh that you nearly lost all composure.

“No panties?” John sounded surprised. His hand flexing. “Jesus, sweetheart.”

You bit your lip. He looked like he might snap.

"But you should know, sweetheart, you wear my name like that again?” He leans close, voice low, teasing your lips with his. “I’m not just taking the shirt. I’m making sure everyone hears who you belong to.”

Ava: You stood in front of the mirror wearing Ava’s signature black leather jacket which was open over a low-cut tank. You turn slightly to admire it from another angle because it really was a much different look on you. You'd always been more known to wearing softer, lighter things.

Nobody would expect to see you wearing leather, especially not Ava. So when she walks into the room from a mission, Ava stops dead in her tracks. Her expression unreadable behind her usual cool demeanor.

You catch her reaction in the reflection of the mirror. You quickly spin around to face her and show it off a little flirtatiously.

"What do you think?" You inquire.

"I think that's mine," Ava points out.

"Well, yeah." You look down at yourself. "You don't mind, do you?"

“No,” Ava shakes her head, stepping close. “I mind that you look better in it.”

She walks over slowly, eyes on your frame. You expect a snarky comment. Maybe a grumble. But instead, she just stares. She circles you once, fingers brushing over the collar, her tone measured.

“You know what leather means, right?” Ava quirks an eyebrow at you.

“Power. Control. Danger.” You reply.

She leans closer. Her lips barely brush your jaw. “Exactly. And I want all of it back.”

Alexei: You hadn’t thought twice about what you were wearing in the morning: just a hoodie you’d grabbed from the laundry pile. It was soft, smelled faintly of cedar and soap, and hung to your mid-thigh.

You were halfway to the kitchen when a familiar voice boomed down the hall.

“EY!”

You nearly dropped your coffee, blinking to snap out of a morning daze. Alexei stood there without a shirt on himself, staring and pointing at you like you’d just committed a federal crime.

“That is mine!”

You blinked, confused. “What?”

He stepped closer and jabbed a finger at you. “The hoodie! My favorite one! The one with little rip on sleeve. I was looking for it all week!”

You looked down at yourself. “Oh.” You tugged at the hem sheepishly. “Well… I found it.”

He walked toward you with mock outrage, his steps heavy, dramatic. “You found it? No, you stole it! Big difference.”

You laughed, backing up a step. “I didn’t steal it, Alexei.”

“Ah, you wear it like trophy!” he said, but his voice softened on the last word. “Look at you— sleeves too long, hood falling over eyes... you look ridiculous.”

He said it with a grin that could melt steel.

You rolled your eyes, brushing past him toward the kitchen. “Well, I'm wearing it now whether you like it or not."

He watched you walk right past him with an offended look on his face, but he followed you anyways. By the time you reached the kitchen, the rest of the team was already there with Bucky nursing a mug of black coffee, Yelena scrolling through her phone, and John complaining about the lack of decent cereal.

You were halfway to the counter when Bucky glanced up. “Nice hoodie,” he said casually. “Looks familiar.”

Yelena snorted. “That’s Alexei’s.”

Everyone turned.

Alexei, beaming like a proud parent, stepped right behind you and threw one arm around your shoulders. “Yes, yes, it’s mine! She cannot resist my rugged charm so now she steals my clothes.”

“Oh my God,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands.

John smirked. “That’s one way to mark your territory, old man.”

Alexei puffed up, grinning. “Territory marked! You see? She likes my smell. She feels safe in my things. It’s very—how you say—romantic!”

You turned to glare at him, cheeks hot. “You’re impossible.”

He chuckled, squeezing you closer. “Yes, but you still wear my hoodie.”

You tried to pry him off, but he only laughed louder, whispering just low enough so only you could hear him:

“You look beautiful in it, by the way.”

And that shut you up.

Bob: Being in your own bedroom, you were sitting on top of your bed and mindlessly flipping through an old magazine from your teen years. You recently acquired a particular blue crewneck that certainly didn't belong to you, but you had always been weirdly drawn to it.

It falls nearly to your knees, sleeves swallowing your hands. You bring one sleeve up to your mouth and rub the soft fabric against your lip, taking a moment to breathe in deeply. It still smelled like him—like warm vanilla and cotton. He somehow smelled nostalgic and divine at the same time.

You didn't even hear him when he walked into the room, slightly taken back by seeing you wearing something of his.

“Is that—? That’s mine…” Bob comments, pointing to it.

"I'm sorry," you look up at him innocently. "I got cold."

"Well, you could always start by putting on more layers." Bob notices how you went wearing anything else besides that; his eyes darting to the skin on your legs.

"Where's the fun in that?" You tease and send him a playful wink.

He walks across the room like he's in a trance. He stares down at you and his hand reaches up to brush the side of your face tenderly. You lean into his touch.

"You're dangerous like this," Bob smiles.

"Why? Because I look cute?” You wonder.

“Because you look like you belong to me,” Bob confesses. His eyes looked so soft, but there was an intensity behind them too. “And I don’t think I’m capable of handling that thought right now.”

“You wanna try anyway?” You suggest.

Bucky: The briefing room is cold and silent except for the sound of tension building between the two of you. Bucky leans back against the table, arms crossed over his chest, still in his black tactical suit, dirt and bruises fresh from the mission. His jaw is tight. His eyes are colder than usual.

“Why won’t you just talk to me?” you snap, breath shaking as you glare at him. “I’m not your enemy, Bucky. I’m on your side.”

He says nothing and keeps that stoic look on his face like he's unfazed.

“You don't have to do things alone anymore. You left me standing there while you ran headfirst into the middle of it, and I’m supposed to just stand by and watch you get killed?” You trying to help him see reason.

He shifts but still won’t meet your eyes.

“I’m tired of it,” you say, voice rising. “I’m tired of not knowing what you’re thinking. You shut me out every time something gets hard. You don’t let anyone help you. You don’t let me help you.”

“Because I don’t want you to get hurt,” Bucky finally says, voice flat but low.

You throw up your hands. “That’s not your decision to make—”

“You mean everything to me,” Bucky cuts in, sharper now. His eyes finally lift to yours. “I’m not gonna let something happen to you because of me.”

You take a step toward him. “And I’m not gonna sit here and let something happen to you, but you don’t even let me in long enough to try! You always—” You shake your head, hands clenched at your sides. “You always act like you’re on your own. Like you’re some kind of broken weapon instead of a—”

He moves fast.

One hand cups the side of your face, the other finds your waist, and then he’s kissing you—hard and without warning, swallowing the rest of your sentence like it physically hurt him to hear it.

His lips are warm, the kiss urgent, his breath ragged against your mouth. You stumble slightly but catch yourself on his chest, the cold edge of his vibranium arm brushing your skin.

Your anger falters. Your breath hitches. Your heart pounds.

He pulls back first, still so close you can feel the brush of his breath. His voice drops low. “You done yelling?”

You blink up at him, dazed. “...I might be.”

The corner of his mouth twitches—half smirk, half something softer. “Then come here.” And kisses you again.

John: It wasn’t your first fight and it certainly wouldn’t be your last. Both of you were too stubborn to back down, unable to admit that either of you were wrong. Every mission brought out the worst—and sometimes the best—in both of you. Mostly the worst.

The two of you are nose-to-nose in the hallway, your finger pressed into his chest like it might actually shove him backwards. The tension is crackling between you, loud and electric, almost louder than your voice.

"You’re reckless!" you snap. "You didn’t wait for backup, and we told you the sniper wasn’t alone!"

John scowls, his jaw tight. His eyes are wild with adrenaline, and under the anger is something else—something unspoken, simmering.

“If I hadn’t moved, you’d be the one with a bullet in your leg,” he growls. “But sure—let’s stand around and wait for clearance while you bleed out.”

“I didn’t need you to play hero—”

“You never do, do you?” he bites out. “You can’t admit when you’re scared, or when someone saves your ass, or when—”

“When what, John?” you cut him off, voice sharper than ever. You push harder, taking one single step closer until your chest is flush with his and there’s no room for either of you to breathe. “Go ahead, finish the damn sentence—"

His hand snaps out and grabs your jaw—not rough, but firm, grounding. Before you can fire off another word, he pulls you in and kisses you.

Hot. Hard. Immediate.

Your protest dies in your throat. It knocks the breath out of your lungs. Your hands fist in his shirt—whether to pull him closer or shove him away, you don’t even know. He kisses you like this has been burning a hole in him, like the only way to shut you up was to finally do what he's wanted to do for far too long.

When he pulls back, he’s panting, eyes locked on yours. You can still feel his breath on your lips. You stare at him blankly, wondering what the hell just happened.

“You talk too much,” he mutters, voice low and hoarse.

And then, like he didn’t just rearrange your entire reality, he turns and walks away, leaving you stunned, speechless, and burning in the hallway.

You don't follow. You can't. Not yet.

Bob: The Watchtower is quiet; the night swallowing everything except the low hum of the building around you. A low rumble of thunder sounded in the short distance followed by the soft patter of rain falling over the city.

The doors to the lounge slide shut behind you, and you don’t stop to see who it is because you already know. You haven't stopped moving and your heart won’t either.

“You scared the hell out of me,” you confess, pacing across the room. “You said you'd come to me if you had problems. That if something was bothering you—”

Bob stands just a few feet away. He watches you with wide, guilty eyes, shoulders drawn tight. He doesn’t even look real right now—too still, too statuesque, too… distant.

“I know,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I needed space."

“I understand that," you say, turning on him again, voice brittle with frustration and worry that you can’t seem to shake. "I do. I get that sometimes you need air, but you can’t just… you can’t go somewhere I can’t reach you. You can’t leave me behind like that."

He gaze drops away from yours like he's still riddled with his own guilt and can't bare to look at your face. His silence aggravates you slightly.

"You always do this—" you look away yourself, but his gaze flickers up. "You push everything down and you don’t talk to me and—”

“Please—” His voice cracks. His hand reaches out an inch but doesn’t quite make it.

You can’t stop. The panic’s still in your throat, still clawing its way out. “You don’t get to just come back and expect me to be fine, Bob! I care about you too much to just—”

Then suddenly—

His hands are on your face, soft but shaking.

And his mouth is on yours. Then he's kissing you. You melt against him before you can think, before the storm in your chest can catch up.

It’s not rough or hurried. It’s gentle in the way someone kisses glass—terrified of breaking it but too desperate not to try. His lips are warm, his breath shaky, his hands cold against your jaw as he holds you in place like he’s afraid you’ll vanish this time.

You go still. Your breath stutters. But you can’t stop your hands from gripping his arms desperately. The world shrinks to the feel of him—the way he kisses you like he’s drowning, like this is the only thing anchoring him here.

When he finally pulls back, your lips still brush with the ghost of the kiss. His forehead presses to yours. His voice is a whisper—raw, cracked.

“I’m here now," Bob murmurs. "I’m not going anywhere.”

Your eyes slip shut. Your breathing slows. His does too.

You swallow the knot in your throat and manage, quietly, “I hate when you do that.”

“I know,” he says softly. “But I had to.”

Yelena: In the training room, it was so quiet that you thought nobody was in there. You stepped into the doorway with the intention of turning off the lights that someone clearly forgot to turn off, but something stopped you.

Yelena was training in there. She was sitting on one of the mats, stretching forward with the precision of someone who could snap bones just as easily as tendons. Her blonde hair was pulled up into a tight ponytail, a few wisps escaping at her temples where sweat had already begun to gather.

You'd naturally stopped to watch her, clearly amazed by her flexibility. Her expression was unreadable in the mirror, focused and almost bored as if the warm-up was an inconvenience on her way to something more dangerous.

She reached further, spine long, gloved fingers brushing the tips of her toes until the movement made the muscles in her back flex and roll like coiled ropes under pale skin.

You caught her eye in the reflection for half a second. You tried to look away quickly. Her gaze flicked to you, sharp and teasing all at once, before returning to the mirror.

“You staring,” she said without missing a beat, lowering her leg and rolling her shoulders back with infuriating calm. “If you want to learn, you ask.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. No excuse, no joke. Just air and a faintly strangled noise that made her smirk grow wider.

“Ah,” she added, turning fully now, her hands braced on her hips. “So the cat has your tongue.”

"No," you claimed. You straightened your back and stuck your chin up. "The cat does not have my tongue, thank you very much."

“Mm,” Yelena hummed with a teasing smile still gracing her face. "Whatever you say. I still think you were staring."

You, again at a loss for words, could believe her. So you simply turned on your heel and left her to her stretches, not catching the way her gaze flickered up to watch you leave in the reflection of the mirro.

Bucky: You were already on your way to the training room with the upcoming mission briefing in hand. While you could hear the soft clank of metal coming from the weights, you were not anticipating the sight that would greet you as soon as you walked in.

The sight alone made you halt in your steps. Any thoughts or words you had prepared suddenly felt lost as if they flew right out of your head; you forgot what you came to tell him.

He was just there, lifting weights like it was the easiest thing in the world. Your gaze trailed down the length of his back, memorizing the stretch of his muscles with each lift. And seeing the sweat gliding down his back almost made you start to drool.

His reflection met yours in the mirror before you had a chance to look away. He smirked to himself; something you didn't manage to catch and he set the barbell down. He rolled his shoulders as he caught his breath; his metal arm flexing.

He turned around to finally face you, tossing a towel over his shoulder. His chest still rising and falling with each breath.

“Didn’t know I had an audience,” Bucky said, tone deep and lazy.

You swallowed hard, trying to form words. You pointed to the data pad in your hands. “I—uh—was just—”

He took a slow step toward you. His blue eyes looked sharp and amused. “Just what? Checkin’ my form? You can come closer if you wanna see better, doll.”

Your brain short-circuited halfway through trying to reply. His grin widened.

"N—No, no." You quickly snapped out of your daze. "I was just—coming to tell you that the—mission report is in. So—" you awkwardly handed him the data pad. "Here. Take it."

While Bucky did take the data pad from you, he also quirked an eyebrow at your abnormal behavior. You cleared your throat awkwardly and dismissed yourself before you could do anything else embarrassing. But as you left, Bucky's eyes trailed down your retreating form.

John: You'd been looking for him. Not having thought to check the training room, it was one of your last stops on this whole rabbit trail you went on just to find him in the Watchtower. Coming into the space, you could hear the sound of his fists hitting the punching bag, confirming your suspicions.

In the moment your eyes landed on his figure, all time seemed to slow down and you took in the sight. The sound of his fists hitting the heavy bag was hypnotic: quick, powerful, precise. Every strike landed with purpose, sweat glinting on his forearms and collarbone. You didn’t mean to stop and stare, but your body had other ideas.

As if he could sense your presence, John stopped punching. He didn't even turn around, just held the bag still and kept his gaze to the ground.

“You know, you’re not exactly subtle.” John's voice was laced with a teasing smirk.

You jumped, surprised that he caught you. He peered over his shoulder, smirking devilishly and you struggled to form an excuse.

Your mouth opened, words tumbling out half-formed. “No—hey, I—just—I wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t what?” He stepped closer, tilting his head, teasing glint in his eye. “Gonna admit I look good?”

You finally gathered your composure. "No," you said firmly, but your initial reaction was convincing enough.

He grinned, low and pleased. “You don’t have to say it,” he said, dropping his gloves onto the bench. “I already know.”

You rolled your eyes, forgetting how big his ego often was. And you suddenly remembered why you were looking for him in the first place.

"Came to tell you there is a meeting tonight at seven. Don't be late," you told him. You turned to walk away and he turned to face the punching bag again.

He smiled to himself, prideful over the fact that he'd left you speechless for the first time. It wouldn't be something he'd soon forget, nor something he would ever let you forget.

Ava: There was one thing that was certain: Ava trained a lot differently from the rest of them. While the others trained for strength, precision, and speed, Ava opted to train for endurance and stability. And unlike the others, her training was never loud or showy.

You watched silently as she phased through holographic projections like smoke. Her body moving in clean, lethal arcs. You'd watched her grow more confident in her powers and ability, something you greatly admired in her.

She blinked back into view right in front of you, her breath controlled, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’ve been standing there for a while.”

You startled. “I—uh—sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt—”

“You didn’t.” She stopped you. Her voice was low, almost curious now. “I just didn’t think I was that interesting.”

Your brain scrambled for a response, but nothing came out except a weak, “You—uh—you move really… well.”

She caught the faint blush ghosting your cheeks. Her lips twitched, just shy of a smile. “Careful,” she said softly. “Flattery sounds a lot like staring.”

You froze again, but her gaze softened, almost playful.

“It’s okay,” she added after a pause. “I don’t mind if it’s you.”

Alexei: You were not expecting to walk in on this. A massive obstacle course was set up in the training room, equipped with balance beams, hurdles, speed ladders, and such. It looked like something designed for elite agents. And there was Alexei… lumbering his way through it like a determined bear in a track suit.

He tried to sprint between cones, feet slapping the mat too hard, breath already heavy. When he attempted to vault over a low bar, it wobbled dangerously, and he caught it at the last second with a triumphant, “Ha! See? Graceful like panther!”

You tried not to smile. “Just… passing through.”

"Sure, sure." Alexei waved off, still panting and trying to catch his breath. "Although that's not what I'd call it."

Those words landed like a punch, heavy with intention that caused you to freeze. There was a glint in his eyes, like he knew something about you that not even you would share.

"What—" You almost laughed, feeling suddenly caught. "Oh, I wasn't—"

He raised his eyebrows, showing off that all knowing smirk of his.

"No need to hide your admiration. I know the Red Guardian is...overwhelmingly attractive," Alexei smirked, already posing and flexing like it was a performance.

“Pretty sure that’s not the word I’d use,” you muttered back.

“Come, come,” he beckoned, “feel the muscle! You will understand!”

Your face burned, and that only made him laugh louder.

Bob: As you walked past the training room, you heard the treadmill humming steadily and his strides gently thumping against it. It made you stop in your tracks and head back to the entrance, convincing yourself that you just wanted to check on how he was doing.

Peering around the corner, your gaze found him from across the room. He was running on the treadmill, smoothly and effortlessly. Bob looked calm as if every step was an anchor against the storm inside him.

Maybe it was the way the light caught the beads of sweat sliding down his face or the way his shirt was clinging to him in a way that felt unfair. He had a ring of sweat around his collarbone, soaking his shirt. You couldn’t look away from the sight.

When his pace slowed and he finally looked up, you panicked inside, too late to hide the fact you’d been staring. You tried to distract yourself with the nearest object, but just ended up looking lost.

He blinked, breath still even, confusion flickering across his face. “Hey,” he said gently, brow furrowing. He jumped off the treadmill. “Everything okay?”

You froze, eyes wide. “I—yeah—sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

He tilted his head, still looking a little puzzled and stepped forth. He placed his hands on his hips to help catch his breath. “You weren’t interrupting or anything.” He smiled slightly. “You just… looked surprised.”

You tried to speak again, but nothing coherent came out. He swallowed thickly, sending a nervous smile and nodding his head. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the heat beginning to rise.

“Was I doing something wrong?” he asked, almost sheepishly.

You managed a tiny shake of your head, heart hammering and cheeks flushing. “No. Definitely not wrong.”

That earned a shy, uncertain smile. “Oh. Okay.” He looked down at his hands, gesturing to the treadmill behind him. “Guess I’ll, uh… keep running then?”