your favorite chud writer

You wake up alone in bed. As you stare at the ceiling, you consider the possibility that John got a call to action. It's just as likely that he fled the instant he was awake enough to realize he did this again, you remind yourself as you ease onto the floor and start your morning stretches.

Oh, well.

You try not to think about it as you roll out your hip flexors. You'd never claim you didn't enjoy yourself, and maybe the astronaut can say the same, you reflect as you transfer into your wheelchair and leave your bedroom.

Yawning, you pass the living room, where John's on your couch with a cup of coffee and a large paperback book. You register what you've just witnessed and reverse, baffled, to demand, "Are you reading my wheelchair manual?"

"Yes," he replies without looking up. "Do you have one for your smart drive?"

"I bought that off a friend, so it's on my compu—" You cut yourself off by shaking your head and start over. "Wait, wait— Why?"

"What do you mean, why?" John repeats, looking up to frown at you. "I don't know how to fix it yet."

"Why would you—" You stop talking, blink at him, and echo, "Yet?"

"Were you looking for coffee?" John asks, setting down the manual.

"Yes," you remember, shaking your head and rolling away.

You might not awake enough to process this turn of events, you realize as you enter the kitchen. As exciting as it is for him to be here, the man's fascination with contraptions is a little worrisome. Spending time around you would definitely be a convenient way to expand his knowledge base but hopefully, that's not the primary benefit. You try not to spiral further as you set a mug beside your coffee machine and blink at it.

Does it look... different?

You can't possibly be distracted enough to have forgotten how your coffee pot looks.

At this point, you realize that John followed you into the kitchen because he leans onto the cabinet beside you. You look up at him to find him watching you with a strange mixture of pride and concern.

"So, you see..." he starts before trailing off for a moment, evidently considering his next words. John clears his throat and summarizes defensively, "I put it back together."

"So, you took apart my coffee maker," you prod.

"It was making a noise," John protests.

You pour a cup of coffee and slide the pot back into place. Now that it's moving smoothly, you realize that the corner where the glass attaches to the drip lid had been snagging on something in the chassis every time you moved the pot for the past several days. Still frowning, you glance up to find John watching you closely.

Ah, shit.

You might be the worrisome thing in this equation.

You smile up at him with a sincere, "Thank you."

"Hmm," John mumbles, frowning at you. "Really?"

"Let me check." You take a theatrical sip of your coffee and realize you have no idea if there's any difference. Yawning, you look back at him and admit, "Tastes the same. But it sounds better. Good work, handsome."

John ducks his head, deflecting your thanks with, "Is that sticking around as a nickname?"

"The truth is barely a nickname," you scoff. "Would you prefer dream boat?"

John frowns, rubbing his ears, and complains, "That's much worse."

You've begun to suspect he pairs that motion with verbal protests to avoid getting embarrassed in front of people. It's a theory worth testing.

"Absolute stud muffin," you inform him, setting down your mug and rolling closer.

"That's awful," he mumbles, the corners of his lips tweaking.

"Delicious hunk of a man," you gush, running your hands up under his shirt.

"Why are you keeping up the food theme?" John protests.

"Because you're the definition of a beefcake," you reply enthusiastically, running one hand up his lats while you stroke his abs with the other.

"That's close enough to good that you can stop now," John claims, trying not to laugh.

"Smartest eye candy in the Corps," you praise.

"Okay, thank you," John chuckles, squirming under your touch. "Knock it off."

"Total fucking knockout," you growl, grabbing his waist firmly in both hands.

"I hope you're swearing because you're running out of these."

"You're such a goddamn eyeful, you've gotta give me another minute," you croon, resting your chin on his stomach and gazing up at him like you'd like to eat him.

"Quit looking at me like that," John complains.

"How can I, when you never quit?" You tease.

"That's horrible," John groans as you kiss his abs and praise, "Showstopping intellect; heartstopping pecs."

"I'll let Guy know my pecs got namedropped," he attempts, batting ineffectually at your hands as you rove up his chest.

"You wanna share credit for how those make me—"

"You're done," John interrupts firmly, trapping your hands under his shirt with both hands.

"You're the sexiest thing I've ever seen," you growl, going to bite him.

"I'm not a thing," John scolds, running a hand through your hair. "I'm a man."

"Man of my dreams," you coo into his stomach.

John grabs your hair and pulls you off him, murmuring, "Say that again, honey."

You freeze, realizing that he's blushing furiously at the same time you understand how badly you've stranded yourself down a blind alley. You give up and sheepishly inquire, "What'd I say?"

"You called me the man of your dreams."

"Oh, good." You sigh in relief and smile up at him, adding, "I was afraid it might be something embarrassing."

John strokes his fingers through your hair and groans, "You're killing me."

"You know you're an all-time catch," you scoff. "Can't I enjoy your time in my bed?"

"Wh—"

"Have you had breakfast, or did you find my wheelchair manual while you were still annoyed with the coffeepot?"

"I don't know how I feel about either of those questions," John grumbles, opening the refrigerator and squinting at you around the door.

"Eggs?" You offer calmly.

He passes you the carton, grumbling, "All-time?"

"Are we playing coy, now?"

"No." John closes the fridge and leans against the door, scratching the back of his neck as he mutters, "I've never gotten that before."

"Your bashful act kinda sucks, Lantern," you tease, setting the carton on the counter so you can reach for him. "You know how people react to you."

John smirks, covering your hands on his hips with his own, and admits, "I hide behind Hal."

"Gotta go through Guy," you giggle.

"Definitely," he agrees. "He's much worse at blocking beauties than blows."

"Bad news, John."

He frowns down at you, pulling your hands off him and holding them in his own. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." You smile up at him and clarify, "He's been telling us to take a shot."

❤︎‬ EDWARD is aeons ahead of you when it comes to the skincare game. he knows what works for him, he knows what doesn't: the routine is boiled down to the most efficient version and he will absolutely not be adding anything extra until it's been thoroughly evaluated for quality and efficacy. picky diva.

that being said, if you notice any of your creams, serums, and/or face masks going missing… know that they just happened catch his eye! take it as a compliment, you've got taste. even with his theft, he expects to be undisturbed through his little process, but if you insist on being present, fine.

this tolerance for you will result in him fussing over the obviously incorrect way you apply certain products, and at some point, he's helping you more than you're helping him. being meticulous and controlling is practically a silent "i love you" from someone like him, so he expects you to be grateful.

"you clueless little thing," he says, voice dripping with that affectionate (and mildly condesending) tone that you've grown all too familiar with, "where would you be without me, hm? you had no idea that your order was all wrong." "does it really matter that much?" "if you care about doing things right? yes. chin up, dear."

❤︎‬ HARLEY has a lot of wonderful things that she brings to the table! a skincare routine is not one of them. unfortunately, she's the type to wake up in yesterday's makeup, touch up her eyeliner, and head out the door, ready to conquer whatever's thrown her way. she insists that she's managing on her own, but is definitely open to some TLC. to the shock of absolutely no one, her skin barrier's fucked.

harley chats the entire way through the routine, so sheet masks are not the most user friendly on her. those collagen masks that need hours to work? don't even think about it.

helping her take off her makeup is something that makes her heart swell with affection, no matter how much you do it for her. the fact that you care so much for her, even in the littlest things... you practically have to beg her to shut her eyes as you try to get her makeup off, she's too busy looking at you with that lovesick little gaze—

"this isn't coming off," you say, brows furrowing in confusion. you've spent a concerning amount of time trying to get her winged liner off. another gentle wipe? nothing. another? still no budging. "...baby, what did you use??" harley shrugs casually. "sharpie."

‪‪❤︎‬ to JERVIS, it's less about his skin and more about your skin making contact with his. it's no secret he likes having your hands on him. so if you wanna take care of him, go ahead.

has a preference towards the products that smell pleasant and enjoys those cute (and super ineffective) printed sheet masks that look downright terrifying when they're put on. no, he's not very concerned about results — just enjoys the time spent with you.

i shuddered violently at this image.

❤︎‬ JONATHAN doesn't care. he doesn't think too much about his skin, which is surprising for the condition it's in. it's definitely not great, but hey, it's also not awful. if you account for the frequent contact it makes with itchy burlap, yeah, he's not doing too bad.

and because he's not doing terribly, he might protest your attempts to get him to participate with your little routine — always insisting he's busy — but at some point, might decide to humor you.

he will also accidentally use all your expensive face wash in the shower or some other thing that will infuriate you and your wallet.

"that moisturizer cost over 50 dollars, jon. how fucking ashy are you?" "well, i didn't see your name on it."

❤︎‬ these prices are absurd to SELINA. she's high maintenance in other ways, but she does appreciate the fact that you're deciding to pamper her like this.

she's always secretly taking notes of the items you like — her heists are usually larger scale, but she figures that picking up something for you won't hurt. she expects you to thank her thoroughly though — nothing good in life is truly free, you know? would very much appreciate a lazy day for this sort of stuff to help her unwind after a particularly tiresome day.

casually mentions that she thinks it'd be a great aftercare activity... so, do with that what you will.

❤︎‬ WAYLON doesnt see the point at first. nothing's gonna fix what he's got going on. ...that's what all this skincare shit is about, yeah? he's really stubborn and hesitant to even let you try. the idea is useless at best, and at worse, scary to him. not that he outwardly admits it initially, he's nervous about you touching him.

after a bit of explaining (and a whole lotta puppy eyes), he caves. to you, it's not about fixing anything, it's just to care for him. …waylon's not used to the latter either. he feels a guilt he isn't able to verbalize when you spend so much time money and effort just trying to find products that work for him, which might make him pull away again, but he feels so loved when you insist on it.

will ask you what everything's for with each step. ends up being lots of moisturizer to keep his skin happy and reduce flare ups. nothing with fragrance, nothing that complicated — everything gentle. it's what he deserves :,-] <3

Steve froze, his mouth opening and closing like he was trying to find the words to explain the absurdity of the situation. "Pole dancing workout classes? Try it out in your own time, not the mission —"

"— I want to recreate that scene from Sin City," you interrupted, grinning, entirely too pleased with yourself. "Ooh, I hope they give me a prop. I want a whip."

Steve looked like he was contemplating immediate retirement. He pressed two fingers to his temple, closing his eyes tightly and taking a slow, shaky breath to regain his composure. He was the Captain; he was the leader; he was currently losing the battle of wits against his own team. He looked like a man trying to solve a complex equation while someone threw glitter at him.

Bucky sat in the corner of the van, hands resting on his thighs. He didn't speak, but his fingers drummed a steady, rhythmic beat against his pant legs. He watched the bickering with a faint, unreadable expression.

He didn’t know what Sin City was — it sounded like some post-war film he’d missed out on, something loud and sharp — but he noted the title away in his mind. If you were talking about it fondly, it was worth remembering later. He kept his gaze fixed on you, silent and watchful, just waiting for the green light to move.

"Fine," Steve finally bit out, his voice strained. "Keep your earpiece in. And for heaven's sake, keep your eyes on the VIP booth."

The music inside the club had teeth. It was low, heavy, and rhythmic, the bass moving through the floorboards and up into Bucky’s boots. He stood at the edge of the crowd with a drink he wasn't touching, trying his best to look like someone who belonged in a place where people actually enjoyed themselves.

He knew he didn't belong here. The lighting was garish — pulsing reds and deep, synthetic blues — and the noise was chaotic. The crowd moved in a fluid, loose language he’d only half-learned since coming back from the dead — elbows brushing, nobody clocking the exits, bodies swaying in a way that made him itch.

Bucky, however, was still clocking every exit, every shadow, and every shift in the air pressure. He was a creature of habit, and his habit was survival.

But then the stage lights shifted, and the air in the room seemed to pull toward the center.

He hadn’t meant to look. He tried to keep his gaze on the VIP booth where their target was currently sweating through a silk shirt, but his eyes betrayed him.

You didn't just walk onto the stage; you claimed it with each step. You caught the pole with one hand, a seamless transition into a slow, deliberate spin that sent your hair fanning out like a dark halo. You were moving like the music was a language you spoke fluently.

You twisted, climbing the chrome with fluid, disciplined strength, your muscles bunching and releasing beneath your skin. At the peak, you arched your back, hooking a leg around the pole before dropping into a controlled, breath-taking slide that had the entire room holding its breath.

You were twirling, rotating with a centrifugal grace that made the physics of the pole look effortless. You were putting on a show for the room — confident, a little showy, completely in control of what you were offering — and Bucky stood there feeling something loosen in his chest that he hadn't noticed was tight.

He knew this. Not this exactly — not the chrome pole or the particular cut of your outfit — but the shape of the moment.

Before the war, Brooklyn had its dancers.

There had been a girl at the Ritz who could hold a room still just by walking across it, and he and Steve used to sit in the back, nursing watered-down beers, watching the flappers move and feeling like kings just for being allowed in the room. Burlesque theatres downtown, where the performers were deliberate and bright, and the audience understood they were watching a craft.

You were doing exactly that.

It wasn't the way he sometimes felt around people now: that low-level hum of threat assessment that ran underneath every interaction. It wasn't the other thing, either — not the heat or the sudden spike of want that usually came with club settings — but something older and quieter.

It felt less like Bucky Barnes, the asset, the ex-assassin who was still learning how to exist in a room without cataloguing the exits, and more like James. Just James. Twenty-two years old, leaning against a wall with a drink in his hand, watching a girl who knew exactly how powerful she was.

He hadn't felt like James in a long time.

The weight of the mission — the extraction, the intel, the target in the VIP booth — felt miles away. He watched the way the light caught your skin, the way you threw your head back, the way you seemed to thrive in the centre of the chaos. You were magnetic.

Bucky felt a flicker of something almost possessive, a sharp, sudden desire to clear the room, to walk up there and pull you off the stage just so you’d stop looking at everyone else.

He didn't, of course. He just stood there, mesmerised.

You caught his eye while mid-spin, flashing him a grin that was bright and smug. Bucky’s mouth did something involuntary at the corners. He looked away, embarrassed by his own reaction, then immediately looked back. The mission was entirely off his radar and had been for approximately four minutes.

In the corner near the bar, Steve had both hands pressed over his face.

His earpiece was on. He could hear, faintly, the thumping bass of the club. He could not hear any mission-relevant information because neither of his operatives was doing anything mission-relevant.

He’d paired them together because Bucky had made a friend. His first real one since coming back. Steve had been quietly, carefully glad about it — the way you talked to Bucky like he was just a person, the way Bucky had started showing up to things he used to avoid, hovering near doorways less and sitting down more.

He had thought: This is good. They work well together. I'll put them on the next op.

He had not thought: And then she’ll do this, and he’ll make that face.

Steve took his hands off his face and looked at the stage. Then he looked at Bucky, who was standing at the edge of the crowd, stock-still and completely obvious, watching you with the focused, reverent attention of someone trying to memorise a masterpiece.

The contrast between Bucky’s usual guarded stance and his current, unguarded softness was so stark it made Steve’s chest ache.

He put his hands back over his face.

They were not getting any intel tonight. He already knew this. He was going to write a debrief that said 'situation assessed, no actionable intelligence gathered.'

Sam was going to read it and ask questions Steve didn't want to answer. Nat was going to smile at him from across the room in that way she had, and Bucky was going to be fine. Actually, a little more than fine.

Steve exhaled, his shoulders finally dropping an inch. He flagged the bartender down and ordered something that wasn't water.

He could tolerate one night of uselessness. He supposed, watching Bucky finally take a sip of his drink while refusing to take his eyes off you, that the mission had been a success in every way that mattered. The intel could wait for another night.

Right now, seeing the tension drain out of Bucky’s frame, seeing him look less like a weapon and more like a man, was worth the failure of the extraction.

He leaned against the bar, nursing his drink, and let himself watch, too. If Bucky was going to be distracted, Steve figured he might as well enjoy the show.

You turn up to pole-dance core workouts, but not his scheduled training schemes?!

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