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Summary: Restlessness drives you to slip beyond Jackson's protective walls, craving a taste of freedom. But when your solo adventure turns deadly, Joel Miller is there to save you – furious at your recklessness and terrified of losing you. Forced to shelter together overnight, tempers flare and long-hidden feelings rise to the surface. In the darkness, you discover that what you thought was unrequited love might not have been unrequited at all.
Warnings: Violence, Minor Gore (infected attack scenes), Strong Language, Age Gap, Angst and Arguing, Mild Sexual Content, Mentions of past trauma/loss
This is a work of fanfiction based on The Last of Us. I do not own The Last of Us or any related characters or settings; all original material belongs to their respective creators.
You felt the walls of Jackson closing in on you that afternoon. The safe, bustling community was a godsend in this world – a haven behind high walls – but sometimes you just needed to breathe air that wasn’t shared by a hundred other people. Sometimes you craved the quiet and the freedom of the open land beyond the gates.
That impulsive streak in you – the one Maria kindly called “mischievous” and others flat-out called “reckless” – won out in the end. With a hood pulled up and your backpack light on supplies, you slipped out through a side gate shortly after the noon patrol passed. It wasn’t the first time you’d snuck beyond Jackson’s perimeter to explore, and you doubted it would be the last. You told yourself you’d be quick and careful, back before sundown. After all, what could happen just a mile or two outside the settlement?
Crunching through a thin layer of snow in the woods, you relished the stillness. No one calling your name for chores, no watchful eyes on you – especially not Joel Miller’s. Just that morning, Joel had caught you lingering near the gate and fixed you with a stern glare. “Don’t even think about it, kid,” he’d warned. Kid. At twenty-two, you hated that word. You were an adult, not some helpless child, no matter that Joel was decades older. You knew he meant well, but his overprotectiveness only fuelled your urge to prove yourself.
You steeled your nerves and trekked further than you had planned, following a narrow creek that glimmered between frosted trees. For a while, it was peaceful. You even caught yourself humming a tune – a habit picked up from listening to Joel strum his guitar on rare calm evenings. The thought of Joel made your chest pinch with a confusing mix of affection and irritation. You were so deep in your thoughts that you almost didn’t hear the crunch of footsteps that weren’t yours.
A guttural groan echoed through the quiet woods. You froze, heart thudding. Slowly, you turned toward the sound. Between the trunks of two pines, a hunched figure shambled, its movements jerky and inhuman. Your breath caught – a Runner. Possibly more. Instinct kicked in: you slipped behind the wide trunk of an oak, fingers fumbling for the pistol tucked in your waistband. Your gloved hands trembled slightly as you flicked the safety off. You had only four bullets. You’d hoped not to need any.
A second groan sounded, this time from your left. Two of them. Peering around the tree, you saw the first infected stumbling closer, sniffing the air. Behind you, a dry branch suddenly snapped under your boot, loud as a gunshot in the silence. The Runner’s clouded eyes snapped in your direction, and it released a shriek, breaking into a sprint.
You barely had time to aim. You fired a panicked shot, and the bullet caught the Runner in the chest, staggering it but not stopping it. With a snarl, it lunged. You stumbled back, firing again. This time your aim was true – the shot blew through its skull, and the creature crumpled at your feet, dark blood spattering across the snow.
A burst of movement to your left – the second infected was already upon you, drawn by the gunfire. You yelped and tried to whirl around, but it slammed into you with brutal force. Both of you went down hard. The impact sent your pistol skidding out of reach. Panicked, you grappled with the infected as it clawed and snapped inches from your face. The stench of rot on its breath made your stomach churn. You strained to hold it back, arms shaking as its teeth gnashed closer and closer. Cold snow soaked through your jeans as you kicked and thrashed, a scream building in your throat.
A thunderous crack split the air. In an instant, the Runner’s weight went slack on top of you, its feral snarling cut off mid-scream. You gasped and shoved the suddenly limp body aside, scrambling back in bewildered terror. Your ears rang from the close-range gunshot. Dazed, you looked up to see a tall, broad figure striding out from behind a nearby tree.
Joel.
He lowered his rifle, face etched with panic and fury. In two long strides, he was at your side, hauling you up by the arm. Relief warred with anger in his dark eyes as they roamed over your body, checking for bites or wounds. “Jesus – what the hell are you doin’ out here?!” Joel barked, voice rough with adrenaline and fear. Before you could even begin to answer, a distant chorus of shrieks sounded through the trees – other infected, drawn by the echoing gunshots. Joel’s jaw clenched. “We need to move. Now.”
Joel didn’t give you time to argue. Keeping a firm grip on your arm, he broke into a run, half pulling you with him. You forced your rubbery legs to move, sprinting through the woods as furious screeches echoed behind you. Your heart thundered and your lungs burned with the frigid air, but terror drove you on. After a few frantic minutes, a small hunting cabin emerged at the base of a rocky slope. Joel practically shoved you through its rickety door, slamming it shut behind you. He dropped a heavy bar across the door just as an infected crashed against it from outside. Joel raised his rifle through a gap in the boarded-up window and fired; the thud of a body hitting the snow followed. Then there was silence, save for your ragged breathing in the dark.
Inside, the dusty cabin was dim and cramped. You stumbled a few steps backward, hands still trembling. Joel stayed by the door, listening. When no further scratches or cries came from outside, he finally turned toward you. In the gloom, you could just make out his face – flushed, eyes blazing.
“Are you bit? Hurt?” he demanded in a harsh whisper, still catching his breath. His hands gripped your shoulders, turning you toward the weak light to inspect you. You shook your head quickly, too winded to speak. A flash of profound relief crossed Joel’s face, his shoulders sagging slightly. But it lasted only a moment before fury overtook him.
“What the hell were you thinkin’?” he growled, voice low but seething. His glare was as sharp as broken glass. “You have any idea how stupid that was, runnin’ off alone? You could’ve died out here!”
Your shock and fear began to transmute into defensiveness now that the immediate danger had passed. Your temper flared to life. “I was fine,” you snapped back, though your voice trembled. “I didn’t ask you to come after me!”
Joel took an angry step closer. He was intimidating at the best of times, but furious like this – towering over you, face carved with anger and worry – he was something else entirely. “No, you didn’t ask,” he said, biting off each word. “But of course I came. You think I’d just let you–” He cut himself off, nostrils flaring. “Dammit, you shouldn’t have been out here to begin with. Sneakin’ out like a damn fool, like a… like a kid who doesn’t know better.”
There it was again – kid. The word struck you like a slap. You felt your face heat with a mix of anger and embarrassment. “Don’t call me that,” you hissed. “I’m not a child, Joel! I can take care of myself.”
Joel’s jaw clenched, his lips pressed in a hard line. “You got lucky,” he said, voice rough. “That was one infected. What were you gonna do when the rest came, huh? Did you even have a plan?”
“I–” you faltered. The truth was, you hadn’t expected so many. You hadn’t thought this far at all. Your lack of an answer was enough. Joel threw up his hands in frustration and began pacing the small room, boots grinding on the dusty floor.
“No, of course you didn’t,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, voice thick with exasperation. He stopped after a few strides and whirled back to you, eyes blazing beneath his furrowed brow. “Do you have any idea what it was like finding you like that? You think I need more blood on my hands?”
His words came out in a harsh rush. You blinked, your anger wavering in the face of something raw in his tone. “Joel…” you began quietly, not even sure what you meant to say – an apology, maybe – but he wasn’t done.
“I’ve seen too many people I… people I care about get killed because of dumb mistakes,” he hissed. “I am not gonna watch you die because you were too damn stubborn to stay safe.”
The intensity of his statement left you speechless. Joel’s chest heaved, his confession hanging in the air between you. People I care about. You heard those words, and hope and confusion warred in your heart. His fierce glare bore into you, but beneath it his eyes were shining with something that looked almost like fear.
Your throat tightened with a surge of emotion. You hadn’t fully realized, until this moment, that he truly was afraid – not just angry, but scared of what could have happened to you. You never imagined Joel Miller, gruff and guarded, could fear losing you. The realization left you equal parts guilty and strangely hopeful.
“I… I didn’t mean to make you worry,” you said, your voice much smaller now. The fight had gone out of you, replaced by remorse. You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly aware of a chill – the adrenaline was fading, leaving you shivering and drained. “I’m sorry,” you added, barely above a whisper.
Joel ran a hand over his face and through his hair, as if trying to wipe away the lingering anger. Dusk had settled outside, the cabin interior growing darker by the minute. He stood a few feet away, breathing hard and staring at you with an unreadable expression. In the heavy silence that followed, the wind picked up outside, rattling the cabin’s eaves.
After a long, fraught moment, Joel finally stepped back, leaning against the wall. His face turned away from you, half-hidden in shadow. Without the rush of shouting, an awkward tension crept in–thick, suffocating, full of unspoken words neither of you knew how to voice.
You realized you were shaking, the cold seeping in now that you weren’t moving. You hugged yourself tighter, teeth chattering before you could stop them. The day’s sweat on your skin was chilling you to the bone. Across the room, Joel noticed. With a heavy sigh, he shrugged off the worn canvas jacket he always wore and crossed back to you.
Gently, he draped it over your shoulders. You glanced up in surprise. His face was still set in a frown, but his touch was careful as he wrapped the sides of the jacket around you. The fabric was warm from his body heat and smelled of him–woodsmoke, leather, and something essentially Joel. The unexpected kindness made your eyes sting. “...Thank you,” you mumbled.
Joel just grunted in acknowledgment, avoiding your gaze. He moved past you to the small stone hearth in the corner of the cabin and crouched, checking if the chimney was clear. Finding it safe enough, he began arranging a few old logs and dry kindling that were stacked nearby. You sank down onto an upturned crate, Joel’s jacket cocooning you, and watched him work in silence. Outside, the wind howled, and a few flakes of snow drifted in through gaps in the roof. It was going to be a long, cold night.
Warm light soon flickered to life as Joel struck a match and lit the dry wood. The fire cast dancing shadows across the walls and illuminated Joel’s tired face. In the orange glow, you could see every line etched by time and worry on his features. He looked older than usual and utterly exhausted.
Joel watched her from across the small fire, his heart still hammering in the aftermath of what had happened. She sat wrapped in his jacket, staring into the flames. A slight tremor ran through her and the firelight caught the tear tracks on her cheeks. Joel felt a deep ache in his chest at the sight. He had come so damn close to losing her.
When he discovered she’d snuck out of Jackson, a terror unlike anything in years had gripped him. He’d tracked her into the woods, dread building with each step. The moment he heard her scream, his blood ran cold. Seeing her pinned under that Runner, he thought his heart was going to stop. In that instant, he’d flashed back to every person he’d failed to save before. Sarah… Tess… The thought of her becoming another name on that list had torn him open in a way he wasn’t prepared for.
Even now, with her alive and safe a few feet away, Joel’s hands were shaking. The anger he’d lashed out with was just fear in disguise. He hadn’t wanted to yell so much, but the thought of nearly losing her had ripped something raw in him. She might not understand it, but the truth was he cared for her more than he had any right to.
His eyes traced over her face, the way her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks. She was young and fiery and so damn brave. That stubborn, reckless streak of hers both infuriated and captivated him. Joel scrubbed a hand over his beard, exhaling slowly. He’d tried for months to ignore how he felt, to convince himself she was just someone he was obliged to protect. He told himself she was too young for him, that he was too broken and too old. But none of those excuses mattered when he thought he’d lost her tonight.
He knew now that he couldn’t keep this inside. Life was too short and too cruel to waste time hiding behind walls of silence. They were stuck here till morning–maybe this was the chance he needed to finally tell her. Joel swallowed hard, his heart pounding now with nerves instead of adrenaline. He cleared his throat quietly, mustering his resolve. His voice, when he spoke, came out low and tentative: “You warm enough?”
You looked up in surprise at Joel’s question. His tone was gentler now, the anger from earlier tempered by concern…and something else. You managed a small nod. “Yeah. I’m okay,” you said softly. “...Warm enough.” The thanks in your voice was implicit. The fire and his jacket had chased away the chill on your skin, but your heart still felt heavy with guilt and all the words unsaid between you.
Joel stood and moved toward you, then slowly sat down on an old trunk directly across from you. The crackling firelight danced between you, and in it you could finally see his face clearly. To your shock, the harshness from before was gone, replaced by worry and an exhaustion that tugged at your heart.
“Let me see,” he murmured, nodding toward your arm. You followed his gaze and realized for the first time that your forearm had a raw scrape, likely from being tackled to the ground. At some point, it had started bleeding, a thin trickle of red seeping through the torn sleeve of your flannel shirt.
Without a word, Joel retrieved a small first aid kit from his pack and quietly bandaged the scrape on your arm. His calloused hands were surprisingly gentle, the tenderness in his touch making your heart ache.
“Joel,” you said quietly after he finished, your voice almost lost under the crackle of the fire. He lifted his eyes from your arm to your face. You swallowed, mustering the courage to break this silence. “I... I really am sorry. You were right – going out alone was stupid.”
Joel didn’t answer immediately. He secured the last bit of bandage in place and flexed his fingers, as if ensuring the dressing wasn’t too tight. At last he murmured, “Just don’t do it again.” It sounded less like a scold and more like a plea.
“I won’t,” you promised, your voice earnest. “I’m sorry I scared you.” You hesitated, then added in a whisper, “I honestly didn’t think anyone would even notice I was gone.”
At that, Joel’s head jerked up, his brow knitted in disbelief. “You really think no one would care?” he asked, a roughness to his voice. “That I wouldn’t notice?”
Your breath caught. In the wavering firelight, you could see him watching you intently, waiting for your answer. You dropped your gaze to your hands, wringing them together in your lap. “I don’t know,” you murmured. “You’re always so busy… and you’re always telling me to be careful, to stay put. I figured you were just… being responsible. Doing your duty by keeping an eye on the younger folks. I didn’t realize…”
Joel ran a hand through his hair, and you saw him shake his head. “It’s not about duty,” he said quietly. Then, as if deciding something, he reached out and placed his broad hand over your knee. The weight and warmth of it sent an electric flutter through your stomach. Joel took a steadying breath. “It ain’t about Jackson, or Tommy askin’ me to look out for you, or anything like that.”
Your heart was thumping again. He was touching you so gently, yet your pulse reacted like it was life-or-death all over. “Then what is it about?” you managed, voice barely above a whisper.
Joel’s thumb brushed absently back and forth over your knee, a small, unconscious motion. He seemed to be gathering his words. When he spoke, his tone was uncharacteristically vulnerable. “I came after you because… hell, because I care, alright? More than I should.” His lips pressed into a tight line, as if frustrated at himself. “You must’ve figured that out. Why else would I be so damn scared of something happenin’ to you?”
You stared at him, hardly daring to believe what you were hearing. The fire popped, casting brief shadows across Joel’s face as he continued, his voice rumbling low. “I know I’m not good at saying this stuff. I know I come across as a grouchy old man who’s always on your case… but it’s only ’cause…” He paused, his hand on your knee, squeezing gently. “Because you mean somethin’ to me. A lot, actually.”
A stunned silence hung between you for a heartbeat. You felt a warmth blooming in your chest, overpowering the lingering chill. “Joel,” you breathed, your eyes stinging. You covered his hand with yours, the gesture making his breath hitch. “I… I care about you, too. More than I can even say.”
Joel’s eyes searched yours, as if making sure he hadn’t misheard. You let everything you’d been hiding show on your face now – the worry, the longing, the relief. A weak laugh of sheer disbelief escaped him, and he suddenly looked like that burdened, tired man you saw earlier had fallen away. In its place was someone softer, hopeful and utterly relieved.
“Darlin’…” he murmured, the old affectionate word slipping out like a caress. Your heart skipped at the sound of it.
Tears blurred your vision now, but they were different from the tears of panic you’d shed earlier. These were tears of relief, of long-held emotion finally given an outlet. “I’m sorry,” you whispered again, voice shaky, this time not for sneaking out, but for not realizing sooner how he felt, how you both felt. “I didn’t know…”
“I didn’t either,” Joel admitted, his lips twitching in the ghost of a wry smile. “Didn’t know how to tell you. Thought it’d be better if I kept my damn mouth shut.” He let out a soft, self-deprecating snort. “Nearly lost you today ’cause of that.”
“But you didn’t lose me,” you said. A single tear escaped down your cheek. Joel’s warm hand moved from your knee and, with a tenderness that stole your breath, he cupped your face and brushed the tear away with his thumb.
The next thing you knew, you were leaning in, and Joel was too. Your eyes fluttered closed as his lips met yours. The kiss was hesitant for only a moment, his mouth warm and chapped, tasting slightly of salt from your tears. Then you released a small sob against his lips, and Joel answered with a low, broken groan, pulling you closer. Months of pent-up yearning flowed between you in that embrace.
You rose onto your knees as he drew you in, and his arm wrapped firmly around your waist. You could feel him trembling ever so slightly. Your hands slid up over his shoulders to twine around his neck, fingers delving into the greying curls at his nape. He deepened the kiss, his other hand cradling the back of your head, as if afraid you might slip away unless he held on tight.
“God, I was so scared,” Joel murmured against your lips, voice rough with emotion. He broke the kiss just long enough to press his forehead to yours, eyes shut tight. “Seein’ you in danger like that… it… it about killed me.”
A soft whimper escaped you at his confession. You touched his face, fingers grazing the scruff of his beard as you tried to reassure him. “I’m here,” you whispered shakily. “I’m safe. Thanks to you, Joel.”
He opened his eyes at that, and the tenderness in his gaze nearly undid you. Gently, Joel tugged you down off the crate and into his lap. You went willingly, legs straddling his hips on the floor as the crate toppled aside. Neither of you cared. The moment you settled against him, Joel reclaimed your mouth in another fervent kiss. His arms enveloped you, broad hands splayed against your back to press you close, as if he needed to feel every inch of you to believe you were truly here.
Heat flared between you, a warmth far different from the fire on the hearth. You combed your fingers through his hair, marvelling at how right it felt to finally hold him like this. Joel’s lips trailed away from your mouth, peppering kisses along your jaw and up to your temple. Each brush of his lips was reverent, almost disbelieving.
“I got you,” he whispered, voice ragged. “Not gonna let anything happen to you, I swear.”
Your heart squeezed at the promise in his tone. You tilted his head back to meet his gaze. “I know,” you said, equally soft. “And I’m not going to scare you like that again. I… I’m not going anywhere, Joel.”
The relief and adoration in his expression were the last push you both needed.
That was all the permission Joel needed. He captured your mouth again in a searing kiss, and in the next moments, all the barriers between you fell away. Clothes were lost and inhibitions cast aside as the two of you explored each other with a desperate, tender passion. There, by the crackling fire, you became each other’s world – all gentle touches, gasped names, and heartbeats thundering in unison. Under the glow of embers, Joel made love to you with a reverence that brought tears to your eyes, and you returned every touch, every whispered endearment, in full.
Sometime before dawn, exhaustion finally pulled you both under. You drifted to sleep safely wrapped in Joel’s arms, your head on his chest. Just as you faded, you felt his lips press to your hair. “I got you,” he murmured, voice thick with contentment. “Not lettin’ go.”
You smiled and curled closer, fingers loosely entwined with his. “I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered back.
The night that began in fear ended in warmth and hope. Whatever tomorrow brought, you would face it together – with Joel by your side and his love guiding you home.
SUMMARY: The harshness of last winter has left hundreds of frozen Infecteds around the safe walls of Jackson. As a strategist from your job before the outbreak, you devised a smart plan. Maria assigns Joel to handle the cleanup work. However, you must work together as a pair to fulfil this task. How will it go with working with the rugged man the whole town has a crush on?
WARNINGS: Mentions of Infected and getting attacked by one, swearing, tipsiness, Joel being hot, slight age gap (Joel is in his mid 40s and Reader is in her early-30s). (Lemme know if I missed anything 😊)
WORD COUNT: 2,582
*not proof read*
ENJOY!
The morning routine was becoming a quiet ritual: the chilly warehouse, the single lantern, the scratch of chalk against the board, and Joel’s heavy-booted pacing. Today, however, there was a difference. The air wasn’t thick with confrontation; it was filled with an almost oppressive silence, a quiet acknowledgment of the truce declared the day before.
You were busy pinning a freshly drawn topographic overlay onto the map, cursing under your breath as the tack slipped.
“Use the hammer,” Joel’s voice rumbled from behind the desk. He was hunched over the main schematic, tracing a line near the riverbend with the tip of a Bowie knife.
“I don’t need a hammer for a tack,” you retorted, fumbling with the tiny metal point again.
“Stubborn,” he muttered. Before you could snap back, he stood up, walked over, and simply pressed the tack into the corkboard with the heel of his palm. A quick, brutal efficiency that left you momentarily speechless.
“Show-off,” you finally managed, turning back to your board.
“Practical,” he countered, returning to the desk. He picked up his knife again. “You’ve marked this area, Sector Six, as ‘High Risk: Thaw/Slope Instability.’ Why?”
You exhaled a breath, grateful for the return to business. “The snowpack on that ridge is melting rapidly, faster than the surrounding areas. The water runoff is creating a mud flow that’ll pool near that hollow. Any infected caught in it will be slowed down, but it also means the ground under us will be unstable. We need to hit it early, before the thaw peaks.”
Joel hummed, a low, thinking sound. He tapped the knife against the map. “So, morning assault. We move in fast, clear the hollow, and get out before noon.”
“Exactly,” you confirmed. You walked over, picking up a red marker to circle a small, tree-covered knoll on the map. “I’ve found a ridge line approach… it’ll give us the high ground and a clear line of retreat. Less footfall on the unstable terrain.”
He looked up at your face then, his gaze heavy and direct. “You’ve thought about retreat.”
“Always. A good strategist plans two steps ahead, and a better one plans for when those two steps fail.”
He stared at you for another beat, that unnervingly long, assessing stare, before giving a slow, almost imperceptible nod. “Alright, sunshine. Let’s clean house.”
****
The sun had risen just enough to burn off the worst of the early chill, leaving the air fresh and damp. As you and Joel rode out, the rhythm of the horses’ hooves was the only sound, a steady thud-thud-thud against the damp earth.
Unlike yesterday, there was no hostility, only a tense focus. You kept your eyes on the terrain, consulting your notes less frequently; you’d already memorized the route.
When you reached the designated drop-off point, a small plateau overlooking the hollow, you dismounted, the soft give of the pine needles cushioning your landing. The air smelled strongly of wet soil and pine.
“This is it,” you whispered, pulling out your binoculars. The hollow below was a mess of half-melted snow, dark mud, and snapped branches. You could already see them: a cluster of about five runners, their forms strangely distorted by the thawing mud they were trying to pull themselves out of.
“The ridge,” Joel pointed toward a narrow, rocky outcrop leading down into the hollow. “I’ll cover from here. You move. Take the left flank, keep to the high side.”
You frowned. “No, I’m going down with you. We agreed to partner-”
“And I agreed to keep us alive,” he cut in, his voice firm but quiet. “Your job is the overview, the flanking. The line of sight. Mine is the close-up.” He gave you a hard look. “You freeze again, you won’t be able to rely on me being next to you.”
The unspoken threat, the reminder of yesterday’s failure, stung. But you swallowed the retort. He was right about the strategy: two points of attack were better, and his position was optimal for his combat specialty.
“Fine,” you clipped out. “I move on your signal. Three shots, one second apart.”
He nodded, already checking the load in his shotgun. “Don’t stop moving.”
You crept down the ridge, rifle held tight to your chest, your boots sliding occasionally on the muddy pine needles. From your elevated position, you had a perfect, horrifying view. The runners were stuck, struggling, making a low, wet, groaning sound.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
The signal.
You took off, a sprint down the slope, weaving around the skeletal pines. Two runners had pulled themselves free of the mud pool, their movements sluggish but their attention instantly snapped toward the shotgun blasts echoing from above.
Your target was a third, larger infected that was flailing wildly near a root system. You aimed for its head, but the unstable ground threw off your balance. The bullet clipped its shoulder, making it shriek. A raw, gurgling sound.
“Move!” Joel yelled, his voice strained.
You pushed yourself harder, adrenaline surging. The two runners that had been freed were now scrabbling up your slope. You dropped to one knee, steadying your breath despite the panic rising in your chest. Focus on the pattern. Focus on the target.
You squeezed the trigger twice. Headshots. Clean, quick, and brutal.
But the one you’d clipped was now coming for you, faster than the others, fueled by the pain and the mud. Its arms churned uselessly as it dragged its lower half out of the mire.
You were out of breath, your heart hammering a wild rhythm. You didn’t freeze this time. Instead, you dropped your rifle, instinctively drawing your hunting knife, and dove sideways, sliding on the wet mud as the infected lunged. It missed you by inches, its rotten breath washing over your face.
You scrambled to your feet and saw your opening. The infected was heavy, bogged down, and off-balance. In a move that surprised even yourself, you used its own momentum against it. You planted your foot hard against its shoulder, shoving it further into the mud.
It went down with a sickening thwump. Before it could twist around, you were on it, driving your knife through the back of its skull, into the brain stem, pinning it to the earth.
The whole encounter lasted maybe forty-five seconds.
Silence returned, heavier this time, broken only by your own gasping breaths and the faint, lingering smell of copper and earth.
You slowly pulled your knife out, wiping it on a patch of grass before sheathing it. Your hands were shaking, but your eyes were sharp. You hadn’t frozen. You had reacted.
Joel descended the slope, his movement fluid and noiseless, his shotgun held loosely at his side. He stepped over the bodies, his eyes scanning the perimeter before settling on you.
You stood there, muddy, heart-pounding, but unbroken.
“Five,” you reported, your voice raw. “All cleared. We need to mark the area.”
He walked right up to you, ignoring the corpses. His expression was impossible to read, a thick curtain of reserve over a deep intensity. He didn’t comment on your mud-streaked state, your knife use, or the risk you took.
Instead, he did the unexpected. He reached out and brushed a smudge of mud from your cheekbone with his thumb. The contact was brief, rough, and startlingly tender.
“Good job, sunshine,” he said, his voice quiet, low. “You listened.”
He then turned away, leaving you standing there, the heat of his touch a startling contrast to the cold morning air, wondering if the only thing you heard was the pounding of your own heart.
The ride back to Jackson was quieter than the ride out. The raw energy of the fight had bled away, replaced by a deep-seated physical fatigue. You barely looked at Joel, still processing the feel of his thumb on your cheek and the unexpected, gravelly warmth of his voice calling you "sunshine." You were caked in mud, but the adrenaline had left a dry, burning sensation under your skin.
****
You spent the rest of the afternoon meticulously cleaning your gear and writing a final report, managing to avoid Joel entirely. The silence of the warehouse seemed vast after the morning's intensity.
By the time the sun dipped below the mountains, casting long, bruised shadows over Jackson, the settlement was coming alive. You had washed the mud off and put on your cleanest clothes, but you still felt the lingering cold in your bones.
You found yourself drifting toward The Tipsy Bison. It was a Friday evening tradition, a rare moment of release that Maria and Tommy encouraged to maintain morale.
The Bison was loud and warm, smelling of stale beer, woodsmoke, and fried dough. Children chased each other between tables, their laughter bright and fearless. Teens clustered in corners, whispering and giggling, experiencing a fragile sense of normalcy. Adults filled the long benches, clinking glasses and telling loud stories, their faces softened by the amber light of the kerosene lamps.
You grabbed a single glass of amber liquor, something strong and local, and retreated to a shadowed corner table near the back, feeling the familiar pull of solitude. You watched the crowd, an outsider looking in, letting the low, comforting hum of community wash over you without having to be a part of it.
You were halfway through your drink, the heat spreading pleasantly through your chest, when a shadow fell across your table.
“Mind if I sit?”
You looked up to see Joel. He wasn’t wearing his patrol gear, opting instead for a worn denim shirt that hugged his shoulders and familiar leather jacket. He held a glass of something dark.
“Suit yourself,” you replied, trying to sound indifferent as he settled onto the bench opposite you. He placed his glass down.
“Looks like you're having the absolute time of your life,” he observed, his eyes scanning your tired face.
You offered a small, bitter laugh. “Just contemplating how nice it is to be somewhere where nothing is trying to bite my face off.”
“Right,” he said, taking a slow sip. He didn’t press for more, just watched the crowd with a guarded intensity that never truly left him.
“I’m sure you’re happy you finally got to use your new rifle,” he said a moment later, turning his attention back to you.
You frowned, taking a sip of your liquor. “Is that what you call it? That was survival, not sport.”
“It was efficient. You didn’t waste the shots. You used the knife. You figured it out.” He paused, leaning forward slightly, elbows on the table. “You didn’t freeze.”
The direct praise felt earned, yet still awkward. “You yelled at me enough yesterday. I wouldn’t dare.”
Joel scoffed, a dry sound. “I don’t yell at you to scare you. I yell at you so you live.”
“And I appreciate it,” you said, meeting his gaze. “But a little less screaming and a little more teaching would go a long way.”
“I don’t teach,” he replied, his voice dropping lower. “I survive. And you’re catching on quick enough without a lesson plan.”
You smiled faintly, genuinely. “You’re not so bad yourself, cowboy.”
He didn’t react to the nickname this time, instead focusing on his glass. “You going to stay in this corner all night?”
“Probably. I’ve done my socializing quota for the year.” You finished your drink, the liquor hitting you faster than you expected on an empty stomach.
You felt a comfortable, slightly reckless buzz. “And plus I think its time to call it a night, before I decide to debate Maria on fungal resistance stats.”
You pushed yourself to your feet, slightly unsteady. The room tilted just a tad. You were fine, just a tad tipsy.
“Woah there, sunshine,” Joel said, his hand shooting out to grip your elbow, steadying you. His touch was firm, a solid anchor. “Looks like that liquor found your feet before you did.”
You pulled your arm back, forcing a straight line. “I’m fine. Just bloody tired. Good night, Joel.”
You started toward the door, but he was already standing, picking up his jacket.
“No, you’re not. I’ll walk you back to your cabin.”
“I said I’m fine. I’m a fucking adult. I can walk five blocks through a safe settlement.” You tried to sound stern, but your voice wavered slightly.
Joel simply put his hands in his pockets, his posture unyielding. “Goddamit I’m not asking, I’m saying. Besides, I need the fresh air.” He gave you a look that clearly communicated: We just spent a whole day covering each other's ass in mud and gore, don't argue over a five-minute walk.
You sighed, knowing arguing was pointless, and frankly, a part of you didn't want him to leave. “Fine. But no more philosophy on survival, okay? I’m done with tactical planning for the night.”
“Deal,” he conceded.
****
The walk through Jackson was silent at first. The town was quiet beneath the night sky, save for the muffled laughter escaping the Bison and the distant howl of the wind through the pines. The only sounds between you were the scuff of your boots on the dirt road and his steady steps beside you.
The air was cool, sobering you slightly. The easy banter from the bar now felt charged with an undercurrent of unspoken tension.
“Did you, uh… did you tell Maria about the cleanup today?” you asked, just to break the silence.
“Briefly. Told her the strategist was less of a liability today.”
You huffed a quiet breath, half-amused, half-annoyed. “Again with the backhanded compliments, Miller?”
“It’s the best you’re gonna get,” he said, his voice softer now. He didn’t look at you. “But you did good. You adapted. That’s more than most.”
You let the comment hang in the air, a small victory clutched to your chest. You glanced at him, noting the way the lantern light from a nearby cabin caught the harsh planes of his face. He looked tired, but focused.
Wait, were you just checking Joel Miller out?
As you neared your small cabin, the path narrowed. You instinctively brushed against his arm, a brief, electric connection of fabric and skin. You quickly stepped away, your heart rate kicking up.
“Look, about this,” you began, stumbling slightly over your words. “It’s all jokes right? The ‘sunshine’ and the ‘cowboy’… it’s just work.” You needed the boundary reset before the small spark of tension grew into something you couldn’t manage.
He stopped, turning to face you at your cabin door, leaning against its frame as you lean against your opened door. The light was dim here, leaving him mostly in shadow.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “Just work. Just surviving.”
He looked down at you, the intensity in his eyes overwhelming. You were close enough to smell the woodsmoke and worn leather clinging to his jacket. The energy from the bar had solidified into something heavy, palpable, and entirely too real.
You reached for your doorknob, your hand trembling. “Well. Good night, Joel.”
He didn’t move. He lifted a hand, and for a heart-stopping moment, you thought he was going to touch your face again. Instead, his fingers brushed against the collar of your wool shirt, a fleeting adjustment.
“Get some sleep, sunshine,” he murmured, the pet name dropping like a stone into the silence.
He finally stepped back, turning toward the path. But he didn’t leave. He waited, his back to you, until he heard the final, definite click of your door locking behind you.
🎀🎀🎀
TAGLIST <3: @tuquoquebrute
HERE IS CHPT 3!!!!
I keep refraining myself from just writing smut with this man, but then I remember how a slow burn is so fun to write hahahahahha...
Hope yall lovelies like this!
Lemme know what you think and if you'd like to get added to the taglist!
Lemme know what fic you'd like to see updated too!
PAIRINGS: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x White House Chief of Staff!Reader
SUMMARY: In a city where corruption runs deep, the White House Chief of Staff and Brooklyn’s Congressman are two of the few voices still willing to fight for what’s right. As they challenge the system together, their alliance grows into something more, but Washington is full of obstacles, and every victory comes with a price.
WARNINGS: FICITIONAL POLITICAL SCENERIOS (mind you this is a FANFIC, therefore all politics mentioned is NOT real), misogyny and a sexy Barnes, mild swearing, a kinda drunk guy that wont take a bloody hint.
WORD COUNT: 1, 981
*not proof read*
ENJOY!
The North Star Gala was exactly what Washington D.C. excelled at: turning grotesque amounts of money into a tasteful, yet utterly overwhelming, display of power. It was held in the grand ballroom of the Willard, the air thick with the scent of lilies and old money. Chandeliers dripped light over hundreds of figures, all clad in the city’s second uniform, black tuxedoes and jewel-toned gowns, as they swapped veiled threats and conditional favours over flutes of vintage champagne.
It was politics as theatre, and you hated every minute of the performance.
You stood tucked away near the far edge of the room, behind a massive floral arrangement that offered a small sense of insulation. In the hand that wasn’t nursing a crystal flute, your fist was clenched so tight that your fresh manicured nails were digging marks into your palms. It felt less like an accessory and more like a tactical shield.
Your dress, a rich satin the colour of deep emeralds, was an intentional power move. The fabric flowed over your figure, pooling at your feet, its elegance balanced by the daring cut: a high halter neck at the front gave way to an entirely backless design. A slit ran high up your right thigh, flashing a hint of black silk and the perfectly polished black stiletto heels that had already begun to pinch.
You took a slow, deliberate sip of the champagne, letting the cold effervescence cut through your irritation.
“Less tax cuts for big corporations is a socialist fantasy, Madam Chief of Staff. It starves the engine of American growth.”
Senator Lewis’s smug, dismissive voice echoed in your memory. You’d spent twenty minutes presenting a meticulously researched plan that demonstrated how closing one single overseas tax loophole could fund ten new community healthcare centres, and he’d countered with a three-word talking point. The sheer, deliberate obtuseness of it made your jaw ache.
The system wasn't broken; it was operating exactly as it was designed to, and it was crushing you under its weight.
You were so focused on composing your features, smoothing the frustration into professional neutrality, that you didn’t notice the change in the atmosphere around you until a tiny space of silence opened nearby.
“Trying to figure out which corner of the room Senator Lewis will hide his spine tonight?”
You spun around, startled, the motion too quick for the high heels. You caught yourself before you stumbled, looking up into Congressman Barnes’s pale blue eyes. He was standing close, radiating a contained heat that felt strangely welcome in the chilled air of the ballroom.
“Congressman Barnes,” you said, quickly recovering your composure. “Oh? Or are you here to report on the state of New York’s eroding civil liberties? I hear Senator Reynolds is still trying to fund more privacy invasions.”
He gave a dry, humourless half-smile. “I’m here because if I had to listen to one more person tell me how ‘the market corrects itself,’ I was going to correct them right through that glass window. And I’m certainly not going to ask Reynolds for a progress report on his personal profit margins.”
“Thank God,” you breathed, relaxing infinitesimally, grateful for the shared cynicism. “It's exhausting, isn't it? Listening to them pretend principle is the reason they’re voting for massive tax breaks. I swear, half the Senate should just wear corporate logos instead of flag pins.”
“They're not even good at pretending,” Bucky agreed, leaning his shoulder against the wall of the floral arrangement, a movement that brought him even closer. He took in the green dress, the severe line of the halter top, the whole look. His gaze settled on yours, serious. “You look like you’re ready to punch someone, Chief of Staff. And I fully support it.”
“It's frustrating when they don't even bother to debate the numbers,” you confessed, leaning slightly toward him, pulled in by the gravity of his quiet attention. “Lewis knows my proposal on corporate reform is sound. He just doesn’t care. He’s looking after someone else.”
He paused, holding your gaze, and then with quiet confidence, he plucked the untouched, crisp white napkin from the base of your champagne flute. He didn’t touch you, but the act felt intensely personal, a small, shared secret in a room full of noise.
“Tell me what Lewis is running from,” he murmured, his eyes now conveying the same quiet intensity he’d shown in the hallway. “Perhaps two heads are better than one at starving the corruption engine.”
Before you could reply, a third voice, overly cheerful and slightly slurred, cut through the tension.
“Excuse me, Chief of Staff? Didn’t recognize you all the way back here. Delegate Harrison, Appropriations Committee. Say, the band just started a Sinatra classic. Care for a spin?”
Harrison, a man whose tie was already slightly askew, beamed at you with the practiced carelessness of someone who expected an immediate ‘yes.’ He stepped past Bucky’s invisible perimeter and offered his hand with a clumsy flourish.
You offered a polite, strained smile, keeping your hands firmly clasped in front of you. “That’s very kind of you, Delegate, but I think I’ll stay here. I’m deep in a… policy review.”
Harrison chuckled, clearly not taking the hint. His eyes lingered on the exposed skin of your back, and he reached out, his fingertips grazing your shoulder blade. The casual invasiveness made your muscles instantly tense. “Nonsense. Can’t review policy all night. Come on, it’s just one dance. We can talk policy on the floor.”
Before you could formulate a reply that was both firm and politically acceptable, a fine line in this business, Bucky’s presence shifted with the speed and efficiency of a coiled spring. He straightened up from the wall, executing a subtle, almost imperceptible manoeuvre that brought his tall frame fully between you and the delegate. His suit jacket sleeve brushed your arm, a physical barrier without a single aggressive movement.
His voice, when he spoke, was polite, level, and utterly non-negotiable.
“Delegate Harrison. If you’ll excuse us. The Chief of Staff and I are in the middle of discussing the infrastructure bill’s language concerning the Brooklyn rail project. It’s an urgent timeline, but I’ll be sure to pass along your regards to the rest of the Appropriations team.”
He didn't make it a question; he made it a flat statement of fact. Harrison’s cheerful demeanour wilted under Bucky's steady, unblinking gaze. He mumbled a hasty, frustrated apology and retreated, pulled back into the ballroom’s current.
You watched him go, then turned to Bucky, your eyes filled with silent gratitude. “Thank you. I swear, they hear ‘no’ and translate it to ‘try harder.’”
“They hear what they want to hear,” Bucky observed, his gaze lingering on your face. But for a flicker of a second, his eyes dropped, taking in the way your shoulders remained squared, the slight lift of your chin despite the annoyance. He admired the poise. You were strong, you were proud, and you carried yourself like a shield, a breath-taking defence mechanism in that sleek green gown.
“The Brooklyn rail project, huh?” you bantered, letting the moment pass. “Are you sure you didn't just tell him we were discussing the merits of a good night’s sleep?”
Bucky allowed himself a small, genuine smirk. “Both are equally important to the country’s infrastructure. The main difference is the rail project might actually get funded, eventually.”
You laughed, a genuine, relieved sound that felt foreign in this room. “Hilarious, Congressman. Do you really hate it here this much?”
“Hate is a strong word,” he replied, finishing his champagne. “Disappointment is more accurate. But disappointment in D.C. is an everyday occurrence. I’m starting to think the city runs on disappointment and tax write-offs.”
You leaned back against the floral arrangement again, the tension easing out of your neck. “It certainly makes getting anything done feel like moving a mountain. Speaking of which, Senator Lewis is the whole range. I’m telling you, the man is protecting a network of shell companies tied to overseas shipping. We can’t touch him legislatively until we prove the direct corruption, and by then, the budget will be set.”
The conversation deepened instantly, shifting from shared cynicism to strategic planning. Bucky listened with focused intensity, occasionally interjecting with a precise, insightful question about jurisdiction or congressional oversight. He didn't offer empty solutions; he offered quiet, practical leverage points that only someone familiar with the system's cracks would know.
You talked for so long, immersed in the rare camaraderie of two people who saw the swamp clearly, that you didn’t even register the passage of time. The band cycled through three sets, the lighting softened to a late-night gold, and the crowd thinned.
You finally glanced at the ornate clock above the bar. The hands were resting squarely at 1:00 AM.
Your eyes widened slightly. “It’s past one. Oh, good Lord. I have a 6 a.m. brief with the President. I need to leave before I start insulting committee chairs.”
Bucky looked up at the clock, then back at you, a subtle regret darkening his eyes. “I understand.” He pushed off the wall and offered a slight, formal nod that was entirely undercut by the warmth in his gaze. “Let me walk you to the coat check.”
The walk across the ballroom was agonizingly slow and fast all at once. Every eye tracked the Chief of Staff and the Congressman from Brooklyn. They kept their voices low, talking about harmless, surface-level events, but the air between them thrummed with the weight of the last hour’s alliance. It felt like they were cutting a silent, shared path through the noise.
At the coat counter, Bucky was efficiently formal, retrieving your black wool coat. He held it open for you, his movements deliberate. As he guided the coat over your shoulders, his hands were briefly, necessarily close to the nape of your neck and the smooth, cool satin of the dress. The heavy, warm fabric of the coat settled around you, instantly covering the bare skin of your back. The sensation of his presence, solid and steady, was gone as quickly as it came, leaving a rush of unexpected warmth.
They walked out onto the grand portico of the Willard. The temperature had dropped, and the city hummed with a quiet intensity beneath the gala's muffled noise. The valet stand was busy, flashing its neon lights onto the pavement.
They stood side-by-side, separated only by a respectful few inches of space, waiting for the attendant to pull your car around. The banter died away completely, leaving a profound silence. It wasn't awkward; it was charged, thick with unspoken recognition and shared battle fatigue. His presence was solid, reassuring, and undeniably masculine beside you, a silent anchor.
Your valet pulled up: a sleek, dark sedan.
You turned to him, the tension making your voice slightly rough. “Thank you, Congressman Barnes. Truly. You kept me sane tonight.”
He stepped forward, his eyes locked on yours. “Any time, Madam Chief of Staff. We need allies where we can find them.” He reached past you, pulling open the heavy car door with a smooth, practiced motion. As you slid into the sedan, he rested his hand lightly, formally, on your elbow, a brief, guiding touch that sent a jolt up your arm. The gesture was old-fashioned, respectful, and devastatingly efficient.
He held the door for a moment, letting the noise of the city flood the space between you. Just before the driver could pull away, you leaned slightly forward and rolled the window down, just an inch.
“Goodnight, Congressman Barnes,” you whispered.
He paused, that familiar guardedness in his eyes softening just for you, a flicker of something dangerously close to vulnerability.
“Night, Madam Chief of Staff.”
He closed the door firmly. The sedan pulled away, leaving him standing alone on the pavement, watching you disappear into the D.C. night.
🎀🎀🎀
TAGLIST <3: @avengersfan25
This was by far the most fun chp i wrote in the entirety of my time writing fanfics lols...
Hope you like this one too!!!
Lemme know what yall think and if you wanna get tagged!
PAIRINGS: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x White House Chief of Staff!Reader
SUMMARY: In a city where corruption runs deep, the White House Chief of Staff and Brooklyn’s Congressman are two of the few voices still willing to fight for what’s right. As they challenge the system together, their alliance grows into something more, but Washington is full of obstacles, and every victory comes with a price.
WARNINGS: FICITIONAL POLITICAL SCENERIOS (mind you this is a FANFIC, therefore all politics mentioned is NOT real), misogyny and a sexy Barnes, mild swearing
WORD COUNT: 985
*not proof read*
ENJOY!
The heavy doors of the caucus chamber closed behind you with a thud that felt final. You pressed the folder of notes tighter to your chest, trying to steady the weight in your lungs. Hours of careful research, testimony from frightened citizens, all of it swept aside as if you were a child speaking out of turn.
You’d spoken about rights eroding under the crush of government surveillance, about how unnecessary this level of intrusion was when superhumans already patrol the skies. But the room hadn’t listened. Not really. To them, you were just a woman talking too much.
The sting burned more than you’d like to admit. You lowered your eyes and walked quickly, hoping no one noticed the crack in your composure.
Turning a corner too sharply, you collided with someone. Your papers shifted, a steady hand caught the edge of the folder and another steadied your arm.
“Careful,” came a quiet voice.
You looked up, startled, into the pale blue eyes of Congressman James Buchanan Barnes. He released you almost as soon as he touched you, stepping back with a restraint that felt practiced. His expression was unreadable, guarded.
“Apologies, Congressman Barnes,” you said quickly, squinting and rubbing your forehead. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
He studied you for a moment, his gaze calm but distant. “Long meeting?” he asked, tone mild, as though testing whether you wanted to answer.
You let out a tired breath, offering the smallest of smiles. “I swear to god, it is impossible to work with some of the representatives. You’d think having control on making bills, they’d actually give a shit about the country…”
His eyes flickered, a subtle shift, but he doesn’t respond right away. You almost think he’ll just nod and walk past. Then, after a beat, he asked quietly. “Isn’t the House Liaison usually the one going into those meetings?”
You pursed your lips and met his gaze, “Indeed, but I wanted to lay out the proposal myself.”
He raised a brow at this, “What was your proposal for?”
You took a deep breath and started. “Well, Our latest review of the data shows a troubling trend: civil liberties are steadily eroding under the weight of excessive government surveillance. With superheroes and vigilant citizens already playing such a prominent role in maintaining public safety, this level of intrusion is not only unnecessary, it’s counterproductive. Instead of fostering trust, it fuels fear. I believe those resources would be far better invested in areas that truly strengthen our communities, healthcare, infrastructure and education. Like actual initiatives that protect citizens without compromising their fundamental rights,”
Bucky nodded, a hint of something in his eyes. “No wonder you’re so frustrated. That issue should be much more at the forefront.”
Something in his voice made you pause. He wasn’t giving you sympathy, isn’t offering platitudes. Just a simple truth, delivered with a weight you don’t fully understand.
You held his gaze, softer now. “Thank you. That means more than you know.”
He gave the smallest nod, then stepped aside, letting you pass. Reserved, distant. But as you walked away, you could feel his eyes lingering, as if maybe, for once, you’d been heard.
You didn’t slow down until you reached the security checkpoint leading to the White House offices. The polished marble of the Senate side of the Hill was cold, but the small, controlled heat of adrenaline was still fizzing in your veins.
Congressman Barnes. James. Bucky. The name was so ordinary for a man who carried such a quiet gravity. He was the kind of person Washington wanted to forget: a veteran, a former ghost, a man who consistently voted against the establishment grain, yet who held his Brooklyn seat with an iron grip of genuine public loyalty.
You ran the conversation over in your head. His silence wasn't dismissiveness; it was attention. He’d recognized the core fight, the erosion of rights, and understood why it mattered. In a city where most people only offered lip service or a self-interested calculation, his simple validation felt like a lifeline.
When you finally reached your corner office, your aide, Sarah, looked up instantly from her desk, sensing the atmosphere.
“Bad meeting?” she asked, already reaching for your preferred black coffee mug.
“Beyond bad,” you sighed, dropping the useless folder onto your mahogany desk. “Senator Reynolds said my civil liberties proposal was ‘naïve idealism’ that was ‘financially indefensible.’ He’d rather funnel those billions into more retinal scanners and predictive algorithms.”
Sarah made a sound of genuine disgust. “Of course he did. He’s up to his neck in Northrup’s contracts.”
“Exactly. It’s not about security, it’s about profit. And the system just keeps protecting itself.” You walked to the window, staring out at the manicured lawn. “We need a win, Sarah. A real one. Something that cuts through the noise.”
“You’ve got the North Star gala tonight,” Sarah reminded you, consulting a tablet. “It’s a different kind of fight, but maybe better odds. You’ll have every Senator and corporate VP in the room. Just remember, the goal is to get Senator Lewis to agree to any form of corporate tax reform, no matter how tiny, before the budget vote on Friday.”
The fundraiser. The gilded cage where policy was really made.
You think about the jade-green garment bag hanging on your closet door back at your place. It felt almost like suiting up for battle. “Right. Corporate reform. Tax cuts. Let’s clean this shit. Tonight, we will try to win the war on a different front.”
You only allowed yourself one more fleeting thought of Congressman Barnes. He was going to be there tonight, too. You knew it. The important ones always were. He would be wearing the same expensive, understated suit, keeping the same distance.
And for some reason, the prospect of seeing his quiet frustration mirrored in the oppressive opulence of the ballroom made you feel marginally less alone.
🎀🎀🎀
TAGLIST <3: @avengersfan25
Okayyyy, here is chp 1!
I realised i wanted the snippet to be apart of chp 1 teehee SORRY..
BUT imma feed yall with chp 2, which is already done btw i just need to upload it hahhaha..
Lemme know what yall think and if yall wanna be added to the tag list!
i think the next fic i wanna update is Forced Coordination! (Lemme know what other fic youd want me to update)
SUMMARY: Amid a quiet life post-divorce initiated by Ghost himself, his past resurfaces when his ex-wife and their young children are abducted. He's thrust into a desperate race against time to save them, facing his own demons and fighting to protect his family at any cost. Question is, how far is he willing to go?
WARNINGS: Angst, kidnapping, psychological tension, a bit of swearing, divorce.
WORD COUNT: 1,741
*not proof-read*
ENJOY!
Simon didn’t check on the truck again. The moment his feet hit the pavement, Ghost took the wheel. The panic from minutes ago was replaced by a cold, surgical clarity. He retrieved the emergency burner phone from the duffel bag he’d grabbed in the rush, a cheap, unregistered device, and dialed the only number he could trust implicitly.
It rang twice before a familiar Scottish accent answered, thick with sleep but alert.
“Soap.”
“Simon? What in the hell’s going on? It’s two in the bloody mornin’-”
“They took them. All of them.” Simon’s voice was a low, guttural rasp, unrecognizable even to himself. “Her house. Front door ajar, back door forced. I checked the truck, empty. They’re gone.”
There was a beat of silence on the line, the sound of a man immediately snapping awake. Soap didn't waste a single second asking a pointless question like who or why.
“Location?”
“Her house. I’ll send you the address. Unmarked vehicle. No comms, no backup. Just you. Now.”
“On my way.”
The line clicked dead. The contact was an anchor, a tether to the world of strategy and action, stopping Simon from turning into a feral animal tearing up the street. He tossed the phone back into the duffel, then headed for the house, his steps silent despite the pavement’s crunch.
***
Inside, the living room was bathed in the bright colours of the abandoned TV, still playing the muffled sounds of Bluey. Simon moved like a dark current, every sense screaming.
The couch was messy, the half-folded laundry still sitting on the cushions, a still life of domesticity rudely interrupted. He could see the indentation where she’d been sitting. She was missing them. He was the reason she was sitting there alone, vulnerable.
He found the scene of the struggle near the kitchen counter. A splatter of crimson near the edge of the cabinets. Her blood.
Simon knelt, his gloved fingers barely brushing the floor. A cracked ceramic mug, its handle intact, the rest in large, jagged pieces. She hadn't gone quietly. The mug was meant to be a weapon, not just a dish. He imagined the sudden terror, the desperate scream she let loose, the fear that filled the house, and he felt a crushing weight of guilt. He had left her unarmed and alone.
He found her phone near the couch, smashed under the impact of a heavy boot, the screen a spiderweb of dead pixels. Yet, a single line of text remained faintly visible on the damaged display:
Something feels wrong. Can you call me?
The message was unsent. A fraction of a second too late. He stared at it, the single, crystalline image of her trying to reach him, being silenced before she could. The guilt solidified into a dense, metallic lump in his chest.
Moving to the back door, Simon confirmed the deliberate deception. The back door looked forced, a few scratches near the jamb, but a closer look revealed the lock mechanism itself was intact, simply picked with professional, minimal effort. They didn't want the police called; they wanted the narrative to be a random, violent home invasion, not a targeted snatch-and-grab.
He was still by the back door when the new burner phone, the one the abductors left on the counter, began to ring.
It wasn’t a number. It was just a cold, sharp sound slicing through the Bluey soundtrack.
Simon moved with unnerving speed, snatching the phone from the counter. He took two steadying breaths, forcing his heart rate down to a controlled rhythm, and answered.
“You’ve got five seconds.” The voice that came back was digital, distorted, stripped of any human cadence or hint of gender. It was just a filter, cold and designed to create fear.
“Simon Riley. Or should I say… Ghost. We've had your wife for a few hours now. She's resting. The children are sleeping, too.”
Simon remained silent, his grip tightening on the phone until the cheap plastic groaned. He wouldn’t feed them a reaction.
“Such a quiet home,” the voice continued, laced with artificial amusement. “She made quite a racket when we arrived. Quite the fighter. But you knew that, didn’t you? You wouldn't divorce a woman who didn't have fire.”
The reference to the divorce was a direct hit, confirming what Simon already knew: this was personal.
“Who the hell are you?” Simon’s voice was barely a growl, a promise of violence held in check by the need for information.
“You call yourself a ghost, Simon, but you couldn't haunt your own house. You left the battlefield to find peace, but we know what you left behind. You ran from the war, but the war never forgot what you took from you. We're just here to finish the collection."
Then came the calculated strike, the detail designed to shatter his composure.
“Rylan. He’s quite delicate, isn’t he? All those allergies. Tell me, Simon, did you remember to give Rylan his little blue inhaler? We're a little short on supplies here. He keeps touching his nose, and we wouldn't want to lose him to asthma before you’ve paid your penance."
Before Simon could reply, the voice added: "And Kyla. We had to take away her little doggy, you know? She was getting too attached. She's not crying now, but that silence is fragile, isn't it? Just like your reputation."
The immediate medical threat and the deliberate psychological cruelty struck him simultaneously. They knew his children's greatest vulnerabilities, Rylan's health, Kyla's need for comfort, and were wielding them as weapons.
“If you touch them, if you hurt one hair on their heads, I will hunt you down and I will burn you alive.” Simon spat, the last word pure venom.
The voice chuckled, a mechanical, grating sound. “Tsk, tsk. Always with the threats. We’ll be in touch, Ghost. You'll know what to do soon enough. Start clearing your conscience.”
The line went dead. Simon stood motionless, the phone smoking in his hand from the pressure of his grip. He wanted to scream, to smash the room apart, but the images of Rylan struggling for breath and Kyla's silent, broken distress froze him. Then the image of you being held hostage, holding the kids close like he knows you would. He had to be a Ghost. He had to be cold. He had to think.
***
A low engine sound followed by the soft click of a lock brought him back to the present. Soap MacTavish was inside within sixty seconds of cutting his engine.
Soap stopped a few feet away from Simon, his gaze sweeping the room, the shattered mug, the bloodstain, the dark figure of Ghost who looked like he was vibrating with contained violence. Soap didn’t speak, allowing Simon the silence he needed.
“They were watching,” Simon finally said, his back still to Soap. “They know the kids’ routine. They knew about Rylan’s meds. They know Kyla’s comfort toys.”
“Targeted,” Soap confirmed, his voice low and professional. “Clean. No obvious panic. They didn't want a long scene. Look at the back door, that wasn’t forced open by a smash-and-grab artist. That was picked by someone who knew what they were doing.”
They moved through the tiny house, an elite team performing a crime scene analysis in a domestic kitchen. Soap’s instincts were different from Simon’s, more focused on the how than the why.
“You missed somethin’,” Soap murmured, kneeling by the sill of the back door. “Too focused on the big picture, Simon.”
He pointed his tactical light at the wood floor near the base of the sill. Stuck in a small, almost invisible crevice was a fragment of material. Soap carefully used the tip of a knife to pry it loose. He held it up under the light.
It was a tiny, smooth, almost translucent shard, a specific type of high-grade polymer.
“Not glass, not wood. This is manufactured,” Soap said, turning the piece over in his fingers. “Looks like the casing for something electronic. Something that was deliberately crushed here to eliminate evidence.”
Simon reached out, his hand steady. He took the shard and examined it, his mind racing through supply chains and black-market components.
“A GPS tracker,” Simon identified, his voice tight. “They followed the kids. They followed the truck. They must have planted it on the luggage, or maybe the vehicle itself. They waited for me to leave the kids alone, and then they struck. Taking her first to draw me out, knowing I’d come back here to try and see what’s happened.”
“Or they kept an eye on the kids, after you left with them, and then came here for her,” Soap corrected, pointing to the smashed phone. “They wanted the clean, domestic scene here, but they wanted the kids to be alone, so you’d know they could get to you anywhere.”
The cold realization settled over Simon. He had initiated the divorce, thinking he was keeping his family safe by separating them from his shadow. All he had done was make them easier to steal.
Simon pocketed the shard. His personal grief was locked away. Now, there was only the mission.
He grabbed the duffel bag, pulling it over his shoulder. The black balaclava, rolled up tight inside, was already in his hand.
“Where are you goin’?” Soap asked, his voice firm, his eyes locked on Ghost’s.
“To find out who makes this plastic. And then to find the bastard who put it on my son’s luggage.”
“This is off-books, Ghost. You know that. Price can't help. This is just us. You and me. And if this goes wrong, we and your family are fucked.”
Simon looked at Soap, the only man who knew the depth of his failure and the scope of his capability.
“Right,” Simon said, his voice flat. “You and I, we just get answers.”
He tossed a spare, encrypted burner phone to Soap. “Don't follow. Don't contact me unless you have a name. You track that plastic. Find the source. I'll follow the blood.”
Simon Riley was gone. The black balaclava slid over his face, hiding the face of the desperate father. Ghost stepped out into the night, leaving the faint, cheerful sound of a cartoon dog behind him. He knew he had a limited window. He had to be faster than he had ever been. He had to be crueler. He had to be everything he was trying to leave behind.
Hey Lovelies!
Here's part 4 after a very VERY long time, sorry uni is being a pain in me ass...
This is mostly Simon's POV and ive kinda started part 5 which will be readers pov and being held hostage (writing that sentence felt weird lols) anywhoos, hope you enjoy this one and do let me know how it is!!!
also lemme know what other fics youd like me to update i think ill prbs update the Forced Coordination AND Liberty Under Watch next teehee..
Truly is the best movie I have seen from Marvel in a very, very long time.
CAN WE TALK ABOUT THE AMOUNT OF EASTER EGGS?!
Legit was kicking and screaming (AND screaming without the 's' for Bucky Barnes, cuz good googly moogly that thang was indeed very juicy)
solid 9/10
(also did anyone else notice the switch in tone when Bucky answered the phone, like he kept the others tied up in a warehouse, and Mel was on the other side of the line and like it was like UGHHHHHH)
Bucky (harsh) : Yes? 😡💢
PAIRINGS: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x White House Chief of Staff!Reader
SUMMARY: In a city where corruption runs deep, the White House Chief of Staff and Brooklyn’s Congressman are two of the few voices still willing to fight for what’s right. As they challenge the system together, their alliance grows into something more, but Washington is full of obstacles, and every victory comes with a price.
WARNINGS: FICITIONAL POLITICAL SCENERIOS (mind you this is a FANFIC, therefore all politics mentioned is NOT real), misogyny and a sexy Barnes (and more depending on the chapter)
PAIRINGS: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x White House Chief of Staff!Reader
SUMMARY: In a city where corruption runs deep, the White House Chief of Staff and Brooklyn’s Congressman are two of the few voices still willing to fight for what’s right. As they challenge the system together, their alliance grows into something more, but Washington is full of obstacles, and every victory comes with a price.
WARNINGS: FICITIONAL POLITICAL SCENERIOS (mind you this is a FANFIC, therefore all politics mentioned is NOT real), misogyny and a sexy Barnes
WORD COUNT: 529
*not proof read*
ENJOY!
The heavy doors of the caucus chamber close behind you with a thud that feels final. You press the folder of notes tighter to your chest, trying to steady the weight in your lungs. Hours of careful research, testimony from frightened citizens, all of it swept aside as if you were a child speaking out of turn.
You’d spoken about rights eroding under the crush of government surveillance, about how unnecessary this level of intrusion was when superhumans already patrol the skies. But the room hadn’t listened. Not really. To them, you were just a woman talking too much.
The sting burns more than you’d like to admit. You lower your eyes and walk quickly, hoping no one notices the crack in your composure.
Turning a corner too sharply, you collide with someone. Your papers shift, a steady hand steadies your arm.
“Careful,” comes a quiet voice.
You look up, startled, into the pale blue eyes of Congressman James Buchanan Barnes. He releases you almost as soon as he touches you, stepping back with a restraint that feels practiced. His expression is unreadable, guarded.
“Apologise, Congressman Barnes,” you say quickly, squeezing your eyes shut and rubbing your forehead. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
He studies you for a moment, his gaze calm but distant. “Long meeting?” he asks, tone mild, as though testing whether you want to answer.
You let out a tired breath, offering the smallest of smiles. “I swear to god, it is impossible to work with some of these representatives. You’d think having control on making bills, they’d actually give a shit about the country...”
His eyes flicker, a subtle shift, but he doesn’t respond right away. You almost think he’ll just nod and walk past. Then, after a beat, he asks quietly. “Isn’t the House Liaison usually the one going into those meetings?”
You purse your lips and meet his gaze, “Indeed, but I wanted to lay out the proposal myself.”
He raises a brow at this, “What was your proposal for?”
You take a deep breath and start. “Well, Our latest review of the data shows a troubling trend: civil liberties are steadily eroding under the weight of excessive government surveillance. With our superheroes and vigilantes already playing such a prominent role in maintaining public safety, this level of intrusion is not only unnecessary, and ridiculous, it’s absolutely counterproductive. Instead of fostering trust, it fuels fear. I believe those resources would be far better invested in areas that truly strengthen our communities, healthcare, infrastructure and education. Like actual initiatives that protect citizens without compromising their fundamental rights,”
Bucky nods, a hint of something in his eyes. “No wonder you’re so frustrated. That issue should be much more at the forefront.”
Something in his voice makes you pause. He isn’t giving you sympathy, isn’t offering platitudes. Just a simple truth, delivered with a weight you don’t fully understand.
You hold his gaze, softer now. “Thank you. That means more to me than you know.”
He gives the smallest nod, then steps aside, letting you pass. Reserved, distant. But as you walk away, you can feel his eyes lingering, as if maybe, for once, you’d been heard.
🎀🎀🎀
Here is another little fic to break the celibacy I've been practicing form writing, unintentionally ofc 🥲.
I'm planning to turn this into a series (ik amongst the THOUSANDS of other fics I need to updates, but your girl cant help herself)
Please lemme know what you think of it and im pretty sure there will be a tag list to it so if you wanna be on it just lmk! :)))))
I'm back in my Bucky vibes so here are more recommendations for you all. Lots of love to all the authors ♡
Our Family by @imaginativeavengers
After a long mission, Steve is forced to make an emergency landing and reveal a secret about Bucky not many people know.
ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ʙɪʀᴛʜᴅᴀʏ by @eviesaurusrex
It’s not his first birthday after Hydra, but the first birthday he thinks he actually wants to celebrate—only because of YN.
“ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴘɪᴄᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴜᴘ.” by @/eviesaurusrex
Usually, Bucky would pick her up wherever she is, but today, with a night out with some of her fellow Avengers (and her brother), it wasn’t possible that her secret boyfriend could come and pick her up, would it?
Hello Again by @sacredsorceress
after decades apart, you discover that your husband is alive and your brother has been keeping a secret.
rogers!reader
dog tags by @vxntagedior
bucky’s prized possession is what exposes your relationship with him
fem!stark!reader
the barnes’ au by @agentofkrypton
bucky barnes has settled down, living in a beautiful home in new orleans with his wife, a former avenger. these are the different stories of how they navigate being superheroes, spouses, and parents.
Big, Hormonal Heart by @t-lostinworlds
Remember Me by @espinosaurusrexex
After a fight against the most notorious Hydra agent of all, Steve and you discover that your assumed diseased friend Bucky is still alive. Old wounds resurface as you are confronted with the grappling reality that you have lived vastly different lives for the past 70 years. Will he remember your shared history? And most importantly: does he still feel the same?
Timeless Love. by @imtryingbuck
Bucky might have met the love of his life in the middle of a war, he just wished he was able to live a life with her.
Bucky Barnes Fic Recs by @s-123-dont-know
Static Verse Masterlist by @theconstantsidekick
Tony Stark’s sister’s a fucking badass, codename—Static. Here’s her story through the MCU.
my everything by @mrsbarnesblog
The last thing that Bucky ever expected to see was the love of his life from the past trapped in one of the Hydra bunkers in the cryofreeze chamber. Yet here he was almost two days later, staring at your still unconscious body through the window at the medical wing, imagining the horror and disgust on your face when you found out that he was no longer the innocent and happy boy you knew before.
Ashamed by @andyl394
Sneaking around with the Super Soldier wasn’t easy and all you wanted was to stop it, but what do you do when Bucky doesn’t seem to want the same thing as you?
Bucky’s Crush by @sleepypanda27
Sam is tired of Bucky not doing anything to get the girl he likes. So he helps out a bit.
“Guess I’m Just Good With Them” - 2 by @amathslutsguidetofandom
Promise Me | Part I by @winterarmyy
Y/N kept being reincarnated into the world for seemingly endless of lifetimes with the lasting, vivid memories of her past lover during the 40’s, Sargent James B. Barnes. While she thought this was a ‘punishment’ for her sins, she was also unknowingly oblivious to the fact that James was still alive somewhere, almost forever frozen in the time.
Who is This?: Chapter 1 by @sweetbuckybarnes
Bucky had a wife during the 40s, she was left heartbroken after the telegram arrived (missing, presumed dead). It's surprising when 80 years later, she was working behind a bar in Madripoor of all places!
metal arm brrr by @bombsonboard
Every problem needs a solution. Bucky just isn’t the biggest fan of yours
Your Name. by @/bombsonboard
Bucky doesn’t like to leave his room at the tower. And he doesn’t know who you are yet. But paths always cross.
suffocate me with your love by @rocketrhap3000
reader overhears bucky complaining about how clingy she is but doesn’t hear the full story, causing her to distance herself from him and unintentionally breaking both of their hearts
lost in translation by @/rocketrhap3000
when bucky catches you on the phone with natasha, he misinterprets something he overhears and accidentally takes it as a sign you're unhappy with your relationship, which causes an insecurity of his to come forward.
The Collection by @urdepressedslut
Bucky arrives home and panics when he notices you calling for him from your room, but upon entering— he realizes what you have been getting yourself into.
Enemies by @ro-is-struggling
You and Bucky don’t get along. He hates you from the moment he found out you used to work for Hydra and has no problem showing it. Until one day after an accident on a mission he discovers the truth about your past and realizes that you two aren’t so different after all.
Ponytails by @bbyboybucket
Not So Bad by @literaryavenger
It’s Bucky’s birthday, but he doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it.
Breaking Point by @aquaticmercy
You and Bucky had always hated each other. When Bucky gets injured during a mission, you start wondering if the hatred was just masking something else.
Of Heroes and Heartstrings (Part Two) by @/aquaticmercy
Bucky Barnes develops a crush on the researcher who interviewed him, so Bucky invites her to game night.
Hot Chocolate? By @/aquaticmercy
Bucky wakes up from a nightmare and can’t find you
In Another Life by @/aquaticmercy
Bucky is certain you only see him as a friend. It only took him travelling to a different reality to realise otherwise.
All These Things That I’ve Done by @/aquaticmercy
In which Bucky leaves behind a loving note every time he goes on a mission. But what happens when you stumble on a letter not meant to be found… yet?
The Marriage Certificate by @eunoiaastralwings
Your Baby’s Weird but Amusing Obsession by @/eunoiaastralwings
Found with Power by @lazydoodlesandfanfic
Bucky Barnes X Daughter!Reader
What Is Kindness? By @/lazydoodlesandfanfic
Bucky Barnes X Daughter!Reader
Project Winter (Part 1/3) by @multific
Project Winter was Hydra’s great plan to success. The plan was to gather one of their best soldiers and replicate them in order to create the perfect army. And what better way to replicate than to reproduce?
Precious Cargo by @chokemewanda
Wasn’t A Choice (2/2) by @justauthoring
Wait... Rogers?! M.List by @fanfic-for-readers
HYDRA by @waiting4inspiration
You’re Bucky’s next mission while he’s with the Avengers. He was given the mission because they think you’re still a HYDRA agent and that he might know you. He does remember you, but he can’t bring himself to hurt you because he remembers everything you’ve been through with him.
40s!Bucky x Reader by @pellucid-constellations
Mornings With All Of You by @sergeantbarnessdoll
Bucky enjoys his morning with his wife and kids.
You Have a Girlfriend? By @antiquarianfics
rebecca barnes by @buckybarnesdiaries
high security by @/buckybarnesdiaries
The Language of Flowers by @jobean12-blog
Flight Risk by @wkemeup
Bucky becomes a flight risk after a failed mission and is put in lockup under Steve’s orders. Even though Bucky won’t say a word of what happened, you camp outside the door to his cell so he knows he isn’t alone.
Eclipse by @/wkemeup
When a mission leaves you empty and broken, Bucky is determined to heal the wounds that linger deeper than the cuts on the surface.
Winter Makes Ice Masterlist by @subwaysurf45
you’re captured after a brawl at the Avengers building, Bucky and others must save you before Hydra makes a new Winter Soldier out of you, Bucky has given up that title.
How’s retirement, Bucky? By @brunchable
Bucky trying to find things to do to kill time, while also being a menace to Y/N and the neighbours. Prequel to ’Ouch, My face.’
Super Uncle Bucky by @/brunchable
Bucky, out of his element, struggles to handle three mischievous kids who put him through a chaotic tea party, leaving him covered in stickers and glitter as you laugh and document his defeat.
a sweet morning by @ughhheragain
Bucky hasn’t shaved in a while and you can’t help yourself.
cookies, kisses, and such by @stevebabey
didn’t know if you’d care if i came back by @nickfowlerrr
Imagine Bucky with a partner who isn’t quite…right by @gaysindistress
Beauty of Bucharest by @invisibleanonymousmonsters
Steve and Sam tried to find Bucky for 2 years. Maybe he wasn’t as alone as Steve thought.
Memories Don't Fade by @an-all-write-life
Bucky was happy, content with his life, and his relationship with you. Until an accident turns his world–and yours–upside down.
Untouchable - Masterlist by @dreamwritesimagines
What happens when Bucky Barnes falls in love with someone he shouldn’t have?
Little Dove by @pherelesytsia
During a mission Walker calls Y/N by a forbidden nickname.
Bucky Barnes x Rogers/Reader
Jealous by @sweetbbarnes
Bucky had no idea you could get so jealous over him. He’s not complaining, though
A Barnes Birthday by @itsprashimusic
You are celebrating baby barnes’ birthday, which is on the same day as your husband’s birthday.
Bucky Barnes Masterlist by @lives-in-midgard
A secret by @tweedlydumbtweedlydoo
You’re Steve’s younger sister and secretly dating Bucky and Steve finds out.
40’s!Bucky Barnes
I can see four kids and no sleep (part 2) by @scarlvtbitch
after seeing bucky with kids, you have a strong urge to jump his bones
Warmth by @vibraniumwing
a bucky barnes x reader blurb wherein you’re the only one who gets to see the soft side of the usually cold and stoic super soldier.
Storm by @bucky-barnes-diaries
Bucky comforts you when there’s a storm.
Kiss Me by @mycosmicparadise
“Sleepyhead” by @tom-holland-parker
Bucky doesn’t like to be touched but when you accidentally fall asleep on him one night he realizes he could never get tired of your touch
It Was Only a Kiss by @navybrat817
Dog tags by @baroquebucky
bucky is always wearing his dog tags, you like to keep your hands busy
first name basis by @/baroquebucky
in which only you can call bucky by his first name
Masterlist by @imaginespalace
AS OF 1949 by @spidermandes
a collection of y/n rogers losing her temper with the new man holding her brothers shield and wearing his shoes, and bucky barnes thoroughly enjoying it.
The One with the Necklace by @unwrittenlibrary
bucky gets you a gift that means more than happy birthday.
Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince by @fangirlovestuff
Your brother’s best friend, Bucky Barnes was a serious pain in your ass. Shame, since he used to be so nice when you were younger. Too bad he’s changed now in high school. Or has he? All it takes is some detective work, milkshakes and pranks for you to finally figure it out.
where dust devils are made by @ladyvesuvia
Being tasked to seduce the ex-Winter Soldier to add him into HYDRA’s recovering arsenal turns into a wreck when the fine line between mission and reality blurs as you begin seeing him as your beloved instead of your ticket out of doom.
Walking on Dangerous Territory by @thighs-of-betrayal-blog
John Walker never knows how to keep his mouth shut, especially when it comes to you and Bucky’s had enough of it
Breakfast In Bed by @sadadaptive-daydreaming
It’s your last morning with Bucky before he goes to war and the perfect send away is a five-course meal served between the sheets.
ain’t it a gentle sound by @loving-bucky-is-easier
loverboy, talk of the town by @curseofaphrodite
enemies to lovers but you’re always mad at him and he’s mad at everyone except you
Light in the midst of the darkness by @themorningsunshine
Sometimes he thought she was a segment of his imagination, a figure conjured up by his mind for a sense of peace among his tormentors. Why else would somebody as pure as her will be at Hydra? But then he realised the imagination of his broken mind could never be so beautiful.
Forget Me Not by @foreverindreamlandd
Bingo by @spilledkauffie
Soft hours by @avenging-fandoms
bucky comes back from a mission all pissed and mad at the world. you go to leave and give him some space before he grabs your hand and says “not you. i need you to stay” all timid and shy
A Little Old Fashioned by @gogolucky13
Bucky is a bit subtle in telling you he likes you.
a glorious, strawberry-stained, unapologetically chaotic mess.
chubby fists full of crushed fruit, cheeks stained red like a tiny dionysus on a sugar high. the kid is perched in the front of a shopping trolley, squealing with unfiltered joy as she squishes another berry against her lips and then—perhaps in a fit of generosity—smears it into her father's shirt. you coo.
coo, like something soft and maternal has cracked open inside you, and simon watches it happen in real time—watches you light up like you’ve just witnessed the first sunrise in human history. “oh my god,” you whisper, slowing your pace beside him. “look at her. look at her face.”
simon is already looking.
he can’t not look.
that baby is a walking portrait of everything he doesn’t have and everything he’s been trying not to want.
the pink sneakers with velcro straps. the milk-drunk eyes. the chubby elbow rolls. the cartoon rabbit on her bib, now stained a bloody red from berry carnage. she's a masterpiece of mess and joy, and simon’s knees suddenly feel like they've gone soft.
he’s staring. hard.
“si,” you tease, nudging him. “don’t gawk.”
“'m not gawkin',” he lies, mouth dry. “just… watchin’. 'lil gremlin’s got a good arm.”
as if to prove point, the baby flings half a strawberry across the market lane with frightening accuracy. it lands near the produce stall. she shrieks with delight.
you laugh. and something in simon cracks.
he can see it, clear as anything: your laugh at the kitchen table, a baby in your lap, sticky fingers tugging at your shirt, the sound of little feet slapping down the hall in the morning.
simon's not just looking at a baby.
he’s looking at a blueprint for the life he’s never let himself build.
and suddenly, he wants it so badly he could scream. “bloody hell,” he mutters, turning away like the sight physically pains him. “she’s killin’ me.”
you tilt your head. “what’s that, soldier?”
he looks at you with the wide, haunted eyes of a man on the edge. “i want one.”
SUMMARY: What happens when your recklessness almost costs you your life? Will John regret putting an end to your "hush-hush" relationship? Will he even care?
WARNINGS: A pinch of angst, inaccuracies of military operations, SMUT (MINORS DNI), p in v, oral sex (F receiving).
WORD COUNT: 3,821
*not proof-read*
ENJOY!
You didn’t mean to slam the door.
Not really.
But the second you saw him, really saw him, standing there in the low glow of your hallway light, his eyes unbearably soft, you froze. For half a second, your breath hitched, your fingers went numb, and then reflex took over.
The door had clicked shut. The deadbolt followed. Fast. Too fast.
The bouquet of tulips hit the floor with a soft rustle, petals crushed against the tile. You didn’t even look down.
You just… backed up.
Your spine hit the wall behind you with a dull thud, and suddenly you were gasping like someone had knocked the wind out of your lungs.
Not fear. Not surprise.
Just him.
You dragged a trembling hand through your hair, willing your body to calm down.
But your heart was beating out of rhythm. Your palms were sweaty. And your knees felt weak in a way that pissed you off.
“Fuck,” you whispered to yourself. “God, fuck.”
His eyes were what did it. That single glance.
So much packed into one silent stare, regret, guilt, need. And worse, hope. Hope that he hadn’t burned it all down for nothing.
And you hated, hated, how something in your chest had flinched at the way he’d looked at you, like he wasn’t sure if you were going to slam the door or kiss him stupid.
Hell, you didn’t even know which one you’d been closer to.
You sank to the floor, knees drawing up to your chest. For a long time, you just sat there in the dim light of your hallway, head pressed against the wall, staring blankly at the crooked bouquet. Rain pattered softly against the window, the only sound filling your apartment other than the soft ticking of the clock and your shaky breathing.
***
Two hours later, you were curled on your couch with a half-eaten pint of rocky road in one hand, a spoon dangling limply in the other.
The show playing on the TV was a blur. Some crime drama you’d seen a hundred times. It was just noise now.
Your phone buzzed once. Then again.
John Price - 2 New Messages
You didn’t open it. Just flipped the phone screen-down.
You weren’t ready. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But the words spilled into the silence anyway, murmured aloud like they’d been sitting in your throat all night.
“He fucking brought tulips.”
A bitter laugh slipped past your lips. You shook your head.
“Those are my bloody favourite,” you muttered to no one. “Of course he did.”
You remembered the first time you’d mentioned it, offhand, in the middle of a mission briefing, rambling about your mother’s garden as you waited for a data file to decrypt.
You hadn’t thought he was listening.
Apparently, he’d been listening to everything.
Another laugh, this one sharper, angrier.
“Seriously?” You turned your face toward the ceiling, exasperated. “You can’t give me space for more than twenty-four hours before you show up looking like some wet dream with a sad face and fucking flowers?”
You didn’t even know who you were yelling at. Him? Yourself? God? Take your pick.
Your chest ached. Not just with frustration or confusion, but with the weight of missing him. Of wanting to grab him by the collar and scream: "Why now? Why like this? Why after everything?"
Your fingers tightened around the spoon, knuckles whitening.
And underneath the hurt… you hated yourself just a little.
Because despite every good reason to stay mad, every memory of the ache his silence left you with, you still wanted him to knock again.
You still wanted him to walk through that door and say something, anything, that would make it make sense.
Even if just for a second.
Even if it ruined you all over again.
***
Your apartment. Still awake.
You didn’t hear the knock this time, you just stirred from some noise. The alarm clock on your nightstand was blaring the number 2:34AM.
It was the soft click of your door being unlocked that made your body jolt upright.
You grabbed the small pistol you kept tucked in the drawer of your nightstand, training kicked in fast. You didn’t think. You didn’t need to.
Until you saw him.
Boonie hat in one hand. Rain dripped from the hem of his jacket. His other hand held your spare key.
You blinked. “Did you seriously break into my apartment?”
Price met your eyes, unwavering. “Didn’t think you’d answer again.”
“I wouldn’t have.”
He shut the door behind him quietly, set the hat down on the table, and walked in like he’d never left. His eyes scanned the room with that same tactical calm, even though his jaw was tight and his boots were still soaked.
“You gave me the key,” he said, voice low, “in case of emergency.”
You narrowed your eyes and scoffed. “And you think this counts as one?”
He hesitated. “It does to me.”
That shut you up for a beat. The silence between you settled thick and heavy, punctuated only by the soft tick of the clock on your wall.
You folded your arms over your chest, standing barefoot on the wood floor in your tank top and shorts, eyes locked on him like he might disappear if you blinked.
“I could’ve died yesterday,” you finally said. “You didn’t even call me before the op.”
Price took a step forward, slowly. “I wanted to. Soap said you didn’t want to talk.”
“Yeah, well… I didn’t.”
“Didn’t stop me from trying.”
He took another step.
“I watched that dot line up with your head,” he muttered. “On that goddamn screen. Helpless. Couldn’t even blink without thinking it’d be the last time I saw you breathe.”
You turned your head, blinking hard.
“Don’t do that,” you whispered.
“Do what?”
“Talk like you still-”
“I do.”
The words hit you square in the ribs.
You scoffed. “You sure as hell didn’t act like it when you ended things.”
He ran a hand over his soaked beard, frustrated. “You know why I did it.”
“Because you were scared.”
“Because I care,” he growled. “Because every time you’re on the field, I think about your body in a coffin draped in that bloody Union Jack, and I can’t take it. I’ve buried too many already.”
You clenched your jaw, a lump forming in your throat.
“I don’t need you to protect me, Price,” you whispered. “I needed you with me.”
He closed the space between you, standing just inches away now.
You felt the heat rolling off him despite the cold in his clothes. His presence felt like smoke and gunpowder and all the years you spent trying to bury your feelings under mission briefs and comms chatter.
His voice dropped. “I never stopped wanting you.”
“I hate that I believe that,” you replied, breath trembling.
His hand rose slowly, brushing a strand of hair from your face.
“Do you still want me?” he asked, barely audible.
Your heart is hammered. Your lips parted to respond, but you faltered.
So he leaned in, gently. His forehead pressed to yours. A beat passed. Then another. His breath was warm against your skin.
“I dreamt about you last night,” he confessed. “You were wearing my dog tags. And not much else.”
Your stomach twisted, heat pooling dangerously low in your abdomen.
“You can’t say shit like that,” you breathed a small annoyed huff.
“Why not?” he murmured, you hear a slight smirk in it. “You’re not just some techie I bedded once. You’re the only one who ever made me feel like a man. Not a rank. Not a soldier. Just a man.”
Your hand found his shirt collar before you realized what you were doing.
You yanked him down and kissed him like you meant it.
And he responded like a man who’d been dying for it.
His hands were rough, warm, urgent. They roamed your waist and hips as his mouth claimed yours again and again, breath hitching with every touch.
He backed you up to the wall of your hallway, pressing you between him and the plaster, your fingers buried in the back of his damp hair.
“I missed this,” he murmured against your skin, trailing kisses down your jaw, along your neck. “Missed you.”
You tilted your head to give him more access, pulse fluttering wildly.
“You should’ve stayed gone if this was gonna make things worse,” you whispered, but you were already tugging his jacket off his shoulders.
“Might kill me to stop now,” he said. “So don’t ask me to.”
You didn’t.
You led him to the bedroom.
There was nothing gentle about it, not at first.
You needed to feel him. Needed to prove he was real. That this wasn’t another mission, another
He kissed like a man with regrets and desperation. You touched like a woman with nothing left to lose.
Clothes were discarded in fragments, each piece flung away like memories too heavy to carry between your bodies. Your breaths were uneven, catching on the ghosts of words you hadn’t yet said, your fingers digging into him like you were afraid he might vanish again.
He picked you up with a quiet ease, arms strong and familiar, the kind of hold you used to wake up to, back when things were simpler, or at least when they felt like they were. He laid you down gently, almost reverently, like he was placing you in a space he never thought he’d be welcome in again.
You leaned back on your elbows, heart thudding in your ears, watching him crawl forward with a hunger in his eyes that wasn’t just about lust, it was about longing. About time lost. About things he never said when he should have.
He settled between your thighs, and your breath caught as he pressed a kiss just above your knee. His hands gripped your legs, rough and steady, grounding you even as the anticipation made your skin buzz.
One kiss. Then another. Higher. Closer. His mouth was warm, lips brushing your inner thigh like he was trying to memorize the taste of your skin all over again. You felt him inhale deeply, like he was grounding himself in the scent of you, and your back arched as you ran your fingers through his hair, needing him closer.
Then he blew cool air over your core, and your hips jerked instinctively.
“Fuck,” you gasped, your voice cracking with need.
You felt the smirk against your skin before you saw it. His stubble scraped softly along your thigh as he nudged it open a little more, his tongue dragging over the creases of your hip. And then, finally, he pulled back the hood of your clit with practiced precision and closed his mouth around you, sucking gently, exactly how you liked. Exactly how he remembered.
Your hands tangled tighter in his hair as your whines grew softer, more desperate. He worked you open with a kind of reverence that made you feel fragile, precious, like he was worshiping you more than he was fucking you. His tongue circled and flicked, his fingers spreading you open and keeping you there, exposed, vulnerable, perfect for him.
And then you shattered. Quietly, all at once, with a sob caught in your throat and your thighs trembling around his shoulders. He didn’t stop. Not even when your legs tried to close, not even when your breath stuttered. He drank you in, greedy and slow, like he’d been dying of thirst.
He finally pulled away only when you were trembling and too sensitive to bear it. Then he pressed gentle kisses to your thighs, your stomach, the valley between your ribs, mapping the places he’d missed most.
When his mouth finally found yours again, you tasted yourself on his tongue. He kissed you like it hurt. Like he needed you to feel how much he still wanted you. His hands roamed, big and steady, cupping your jaw, sliding down your sides, brushing the underside of your breast before tracing the curve of your waist.
“You don’t know how much I missed this, princess,” he murmured, voice low and gruff against your throat as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck.
You tilted your head, baring more of yourself to him. “Your fault for losing all of it in the first place,” you whispered, the words coming out before you could stop them.
He stilled. The warmth of his breath paused against your skin. Slowly, he raised his head to look at you, eyes dark but soft, like he’d been expecting that and still wasn’t ready for it.
“John… I don’t wanna do this now,” you said, voice cracking slightly as you turned away.
His hand caught your chin, not harsh, never harsh, just firm enough to guide you back to him. “You wanna talk about this now… or after?” he asked gently, like it didn’t matter to him when, only that you would.
You hesitated. The ache in your chest made it hard to speak. You wanted to be angry, you wanted to ask why it took him so long to come back, why he left in the first place, but all of that was drowned beneath the way he looked at you, like you were something he was terrified to break.
So you nodded. Quiet.
“After?” he asked again, voice even lower.
Another nod.
And he understood. You saw it in the way his shoulders relaxed, in the way his lips parted like he might say something but thought better of it. Instead, he kissed you again, deeper this time, full of the things neither of you had the strength to say.
His hand slid down your stomach again, slow and deliberate, until his fingers slipped between your legs. You gasped into his mouth as he teased your entrance, the pads of his fingers sliding through the slick he left you in.
You whined, tucking your face into his neck, hips rising into his touch.
“I got you,” he breathed, almost like a promise. “I’ve always got you.”
You felt him shift above you, felt the drag of his skin against yours, the weight of him between your thighs. He reached down, guiding himself to your entrance, but paused just as he pressed the tip against you.
His eyes searched for yours again. “You sure?”
You didn’t speak. Just reached up, cupped his face in both hands, and kissed him. A long, slow, aching kiss. Then you whispered against his lips, “I need you.”
That was enough.
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, letting you feel every part of him. Letting you stretch around him until you were full. His forehead dropped to yours as he groaned softly, like the feeling of you around him undid something deep in his chest.
You gasped, your hands clawing at his back, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him in deeper. He began to move, a slow, rocking rhythm that said this wasn’t about chasing release. This was about remembering. Reclaiming. Ruining.
“God,” you breathed, “I forgot how good you feel.” You raked your nails down his back and squeezed your eyes shut at the stretch of him.
He bit back a groan, voice rough in your ear. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. I’ve been trying to forget and failing every fucking night.”
And he kept going. Steady. Intense. His hand slips between your bodies to touch you again, bringing you back to the edge with maddening precision. His thrusts grew deeper, more desperate, his breathing harsh against your skin.
You clung to him. Let yourself fall apart beneath him. With him.
And when you finally came, it was with a cry muffled by his shoulder and your body clenching around him so tightly it pulled him over the edge with you.
He groaned your name, low and broken, spilling inside you like he’d come home.
Then everything was still.
The only sound was your breathing, heavy, tangled, shared.
He didn’t pull away.
He just kissed your temple, held you tighter, and whispered, “We’ll talk. I swear. But not yet.”
And for once… that was enough.
***
Later, with your head on his chest and his hand resting softly on your hip, you listened to the rhythm of his heart. Slow. Steady. Unlike yours.
“You’re shaking,” he said, voice low.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
You looked up at him. “I just…,” you paused, and saw him furrow his brows, “I don’t want this to just be another goodbye.”
His throat worked around something unsaid. “It’s not.”
“You said that the last time.”
He looked away.
“I don’t know how to protect you and keep you,” he admitted. “They might be mutually exclusive.”
You sat up slightly, pulling the sheet with you. “Then let me decide if it’s worth the risk.”
“I’ve seen the kind of men who’ve lost women in this line of work,” he said. “They don’t come back from it.”
“And I’ve seen what it does to the women they leave behind, thinking silence is some kind of shield.”
Silence stretched between you like a canyon.
Then he sighed. “This op… the guy Gaz took out… he wasn’t alone.”
You stilled. “You think there’s more?”
“Laswell does. She wants to debrief. Top secret. No paper trail. They think the boy's father planted more than just communications jammers.”
“So, what now?”
“You’re being pulled from field ops. Temporarily.”
You blinked. “What?”
“You’re a target now,” he said. “They saw your face. You burned their intel. You pissed off the wrong people.”
Your stomach dropped.
You were used to working behind a screen. This mission was supposed to be short, tight, in and out. But now it was war.
“You’re not just valuable anymore,” he added. “You’re vulnerable.”
You narrowed your eyes as you sat up. “So you came here to tell me I’m benched?”
“No,” he said, reaching up to your bare shoulder and pulling you back in. “I came here because I thought I lost you yesterday. And I realized… I’d rather face hell with you than live a safe life without you.”
You stared at him, your chest tight with emotion.
“Besides,” he added with a soft smirk, “no one else can decode encrypted Russian subnets and call me out on my bullshit in the same sentence.”
You snorted. “Damn right.”
He laughed quietly, the sound muffled against your hair as you curled back into his side.
***
You hadn’t even fallen asleep yet.
You and Price were both lying there, tangled in silence, the adrenaline of the mission and the intensity of everything that had followed it still buzzing under your skin. His fingers absently traced the curve of your spine. You were just about to drift off when your tablet screen lit up on the nightstand.
The glow cut through the dark room like a searchlight.
You both turned your heads.
[TOP PRIORITY // Secure Line Incoming – K. Laswell]
Price cursed under his breath.
You sat up immediately, scanning the notification. “Shit,” you mumbled. “It’s encrypted. She's using Shadownet protocol. That’s… not casual.”
Price was already out of bed, pulling on his cargo pants and tossing your comms earpiece at you.
“Separate rooms?” you asked, already rising.
He paused mid-zip and gave you a look. “Unless you want her to know I spent the night watchin’ you sleep.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You were watching me sleep?”
Price smirked. “Only a little.”
You shoved his shoulder on your way past. “Get out, Cap.”
“Gladly,” he muttered, but you caught the flicker of his smile in the dim hallway light.
You ducked into your living room while he backtracked to the guest bedroom, just as the secure line crackled to life. You pulled up the holoscreen interface, slid on your headset, and accepted the call.
Laswell’s face appeared immediately, her expression hard and unblinking.
“Took you long enough,” she snapped.
You blinked. “Good morning to you too.”
“I don’t have time for pleasantries. Where’s Price?”
“Present,” John’s voice cut in, joining the call with his video feed activated. He looked alert. Like he’d been up for hours and not, in fact, in your bed 90 seconds ago.
“We’ve got a problem,” Laswell began, eyes flicking between you both. “The man Gaz took down yesterday wasn’t just some low-tier militant. We finally decrypted his sat data, he was part of a larger cell. Embedded deep in a recon network.”
You leaned forward, heart thudding. “How deep?”
“Deep enough that your name’s now on their list,” she said flatly. “And I mean by name, by rank... You didn’t just fry their local link, you nuked their remote access keys and rerouted their backups into our net. That’s a goddamn war crime in their book.”
Price swore under his breath.
You swallowed hard. “So they’re coming.”
“We believe so. Intercepted chatter says there’s movement, two-man team. Close range recon. We’re assuming they’re headed toward your last known residence.”
You frowned. “You’ve got Ghost running interference, right?”
“Already deployed. But we’re not taking chances.” Laswell tapped something offscreen. “I’m pulling you out of your flat. Both of you. Effective immediately. Safehouse Alpha-Two-Four.”
You straightened. “Wait, both?”
“Yes, both.”
Price cleared his throat. “Why both?”
“Because you’re both targets now,” she snapped. “You’re connected, and their surveillance proves it. They don’t see a field op and a tech asset. They see two people who ruined their access node, wiped their informants, and cost them a half-billion-dollar asset. You’re a threat together.”
You muttered, “Fantastic. Now we’re a team.”
Laswell’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Where are the both of you right now?”
“Home,” you answered.
“Home,” Price added.
There was a beat of silence.
Then Laswell’s eyebrow twitched.
“…You know, I find it interesting that you both answered the same second. Over a secure line. With matching acoustics in the background.”
You froze.
Price said nothing.
Laswell leaned closer to her mic, deadpan.
“Are you two in separate rooms… or just different corners of the same apartment?”
You blinked.
He rubbed his brow.
She sat back and gave the faintest smirk.
“Right. We’ll unpack that later. Safehouse coordinates incoming. You leave within the hour. And Price?”
“Ma’am.”
“Try not to get caught with your pants down again.”
The call ended.
You stared at the blank screen.
Then turned to the hallway where Price was leaning just inside the doorway, arms folded.
“Did she just-?”
“Yep.”
“She knows.”
“She always fuckin’ knows.”
You groaned, flopping onto the couch and covering your face with a cushion.
“So much for low profile.”
Price chuckled, stepping in and grabbing the go-bag from the floor. “Guess we’re roommates now, princess.”
You peeked over the cushion. “Don’t call me that.”
He slung the strap over his shoulder and gave you a knowing look.
“You didn’t seem to mind a few hours ago.”
You threw the cushion at his head.
He caught it. Smirking. Always smirking.
🎀🎀🎀
TAGLIST <3: @oniraki, @nijiru, @seraonthebeat
Hey Lovelies!
DADDY PRICE PART 2 IS UP!
Love this man to bits, I really enjoyedwriting this part hence why the almost 4000 words lols.
Lemme know if you wanna be tagged!
Also....
Lemme know what y'all think!
And the next that is up on the Need To Be Updated list is Need a Hand with Steve Rogers!
SUMMARY: What happens when your recklessness almost costs you your life? Will John regret putting an end to your "hush-hush" relationship? Will he even care?
WARNINGS: A pinch of angst, inaccuracies of military operations, SMUT (MINORS DNI), p in v, oral sex (F receiving).
WORD COUNT: 3,821
*not proof-read*
ENJOY!
You didn’t mean to slam the door.
Not really.
But the second you saw him, really saw him, standing there in the low glow of your hallway light, his eyes unbearably soft, you froze. For half a second, your breath hitched, your fingers went numb, and then reflex took over.
The door had clicked shut. The deadbolt followed. Fast. Too fast.
The bouquet of tulips hit the floor with a soft rustle, petals crushed against the tile. You didn’t even look down.
You just… backed up.
Your spine hit the wall behind you with a dull thud, and suddenly you were gasping like someone had knocked the wind out of your lungs.
Not fear. Not surprise.
Just him.
You dragged a trembling hand through your hair, willing your body to calm down.
But your heart was beating out of rhythm. Your palms were sweaty. And your knees felt weak in a way that pissed you off.
“Fuck,” you whispered to yourself. “God, fuck.”
His eyes were what did it. That single glance.
So much packed into one silent stare, regret, guilt, need. And worse, hope. Hope that he hadn’t burned it all down for nothing.
And you hated, hated, how something in your chest had flinched at the way he’d looked at you, like he wasn’t sure if you were going to slam the door or kiss him stupid.
Hell, you didn’t even know which one you’d been closer to.
You sank to the floor, knees drawing up to your chest. For a long time, you just sat there in the dim light of your hallway, head pressed against the wall, staring blankly at the crooked bouquet. Rain pattered softly against the window, the only sound filling your apartment other than the soft ticking of the clock and your shaky breathing.
***
Two hours later, you were curled on your couch with a half-eaten pint of rocky road in one hand, a spoon dangling limply in the other.
The show playing on the TV was a blur. Some crime drama you’d seen a hundred times. It was just noise now.
Your phone buzzed once. Then again.
John Price - 2 New Messages
You didn’t open it. Just flipped the phone screen-down.
You weren’t ready. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But the words spilled into the silence anyway, murmured aloud like they’d been sitting in your throat all night.
“He fucking brought tulips.”
A bitter laugh slipped past your lips. You shook your head.
“Those are my bloody favourite,” you muttered to no one. “Of course he did.”
You remembered the first time you’d mentioned it, offhand, in the middle of a mission briefing, rambling about your mother’s garden as you waited for a data file to decrypt.
You hadn’t thought he was listening.
Apparently, he’d been listening to everything.
Another laugh, this one sharper, angrier.
“Seriously?” You turned your face toward the ceiling, exasperated. “You can’t give me space for more than twenty-four hours before you show up looking like some wet dream with a sad face and fucking flowers?”
You didn’t even know who you were yelling at. Him? Yourself? God? Take your pick.
Your chest ached. Not just with frustration or confusion, but with the weight of missing him. Of wanting to grab him by the collar and scream: "Why now? Why like this? Why after everything?"
Your fingers tightened around the spoon, knuckles whitening.
And underneath the hurt… you hated yourself just a little.
Because despite every good reason to stay mad, every memory of the ache his silence left you with, you still wanted him to knock again.
You still wanted him to walk through that door and say something, anything, that would make it make sense.
Even if just for a second.
Even if it ruined you all over again.
***
Your apartment. Still awake.
You didn’t hear the knock this time, you just stirred from some noise. The alarm clock on your nightstand was blaring the number 2:34AM.
It was the soft click of your door being unlocked that made your body jolt upright.
You grabbed the small pistol you kept tucked in the drawer of your nightstand, training kicked in fast. You didn’t think. You didn’t need to.
Until you saw him.
Boonie hat in one hand. Rain dripped from the hem of his jacket. His other hand held your spare key.
You blinked. “Did you seriously break into my apartment?”
Price met your eyes, unwavering. “Didn’t think you’d answer again.”
“I wouldn’t have.”
He shut the door behind him quietly, set the hat down on the table, and walked in like he’d never left. His eyes scanned the room with that same tactical calm, even though his jaw was tight and his boots were still soaked.
“You gave me the key,” he said, voice low, “in case of emergency.”
You narrowed your eyes and scoffed. “And you think this counts as one?”
He hesitated. “It does to me.”
That shut you up for a beat. The silence between you settled thick and heavy, punctuated only by the soft tick of the clock on your wall.
You folded your arms over your chest, standing barefoot on the wood floor in your tank top and shorts, eyes locked on him like he might disappear if you blinked.
“I could’ve died yesterday,” you finally said. “You didn’t even call me before the op.”
Price took a step forward, slowly. “I wanted to. Soap said you didn’t want to talk.”
“Yeah, well… I didn’t.”
“Didn’t stop me from trying.”
He took another step.
“I watched that dot line up with your head,” he muttered. “On that goddamn screen. Helpless. Couldn’t even blink without thinking it’d be the last time I saw you breathe.”
You turned your head, blinking hard.
“Don’t do that,” you whispered.
“Do what?”
“Talk like you still-”
“I do.”
The words hit you square in the ribs.
You scoffed. “You sure as hell didn’t act like it when you ended things.”
He ran a hand over his soaked beard, frustrated. “You know why I did it.”
“Because you were scared.”
“Because I care,” he growled. “Because every time you’re on the field, I think about your body in a coffin draped in that bloody Union Jack, and I can’t take it. I’ve buried too many already.”
You clenched your jaw, a lump forming in your throat.
“I don’t need you to protect me, Price,” you whispered. “I needed you with me.”
He closed the space between you, standing just inches away now.
You felt the heat rolling off him despite the cold in his clothes. His presence felt like smoke and gunpowder and all the years you spent trying to bury your feelings under mission briefs and comms chatter.
His voice dropped. “I never stopped wanting you.”
“I hate that I believe that,” you replied, breath trembling.
His hand rose slowly, brushing a strand of hair from your face.
“Do you still want me?” he asked, barely audible.
Your heart is hammered. Your lips parted to respond, but you faltered.
So he leaned in, gently. His forehead pressed to yours. A beat passed. Then another. His breath was warm against your skin.
“I dreamt about you last night,” he confessed. “You were wearing my dog tags. And not much else.”
Your stomach twisted, heat pooling dangerously low in your abdomen.
“You can’t say shit like that,” you breathed a small annoyed huff.
“Why not?” he murmured, you hear a slight smirk in it. “You’re not just some techie I bedded once. You’re the only one who ever made me feel like a man. Not a rank. Not a soldier. Just a man.”
Your hand found his shirt collar before you realized what you were doing.
You yanked him down and kissed him like you meant it.
And he responded like a man who’d been dying for it.
His hands were rough, warm, urgent. They roamed your waist and hips as his mouth claimed yours again and again, breath hitching with every touch.
He backed you up to the wall of your hallway, pressing you between him and the plaster, your fingers buried in the back of his damp hair.
“I missed this,” he murmured against your skin, trailing kisses down your jaw, along your neck. “Missed you.”
You tilted your head to give him more access, pulse fluttering wildly.
“You should’ve stayed gone if this was gonna make things worse,” you whispered, but you were already tugging his jacket off his shoulders.
“Might kill me to stop now,” he said. “So don’t ask me to.”
You didn’t.
You led him to the bedroom.
There was nothing gentle about it, not at first.
You needed to feel him. Needed to prove he was real. That this wasn’t another mission, another
He kissed like a man with regrets and desperation. You touched like a woman with nothing left to lose.
Clothes were discarded in fragments, each piece flung away like memories too heavy to carry between your bodies. Your breaths were uneven, catching on the ghosts of words you hadn’t yet said, your fingers digging into him like you were afraid he might vanish again.
He picked you up with a quiet ease, arms strong and familiar, the kind of hold you used to wake up to, back when things were simpler, or at least when they felt like they were. He laid you down gently, almost reverently, like he was placing you in a space he never thought he’d be welcome in again.
You leaned back on your elbows, heart thudding in your ears, watching him crawl forward with a hunger in his eyes that wasn’t just about lust, it was about longing. About time lost. About things he never said when he should have.
He settled between your thighs, and your breath caught as he pressed a kiss just above your knee. His hands gripped your legs, rough and steady, grounding you even as the anticipation made your skin buzz.
One kiss. Then another. Higher. Closer. His mouth was warm, lips brushing your inner thigh like he was trying to memorize the taste of your skin all over again. You felt him inhale deeply, like he was grounding himself in the scent of you, and your back arched as you ran your fingers through his hair, needing him closer.
Then he blew cool air over your core, and your hips jerked instinctively.
“Fuck,” you gasped, your voice cracking with need.
You felt the smirk against your skin before you saw it. His stubble scraped softly along your thigh as he nudged it open a little more, his tongue dragging over the creases of your hip. And then, finally, he pulled back the hood of your clit with practiced precision and closed his mouth around you, sucking gently, exactly how you liked. Exactly how he remembered.
Your hands tangled tighter in his hair as your whines grew softer, more desperate. He worked you open with a kind of reverence that made you feel fragile, precious, like he was worshiping you more than he was fucking you. His tongue circled and flicked, his fingers spreading you open and keeping you there, exposed, vulnerable, perfect for him.
And then you shattered. Quietly, all at once, with a sob caught in your throat and your thighs trembling around his shoulders. He didn’t stop. Not even when your legs tried to close, not even when your breath stuttered. He drank you in, greedy and slow, like he’d been dying of thirst.
He finally pulled away only when you were trembling and too sensitive to bear it. Then he pressed gentle kisses to your thighs, your stomach, the valley between your ribs, mapping the places he’d missed most.
When his mouth finally found yours again, you tasted yourself on his tongue. He kissed you like it hurt. Like he needed you to feel how much he still wanted you. His hands roamed, big and steady, cupping your jaw, sliding down your sides, brushing the underside of your breast before tracing the curve of your waist.
“You don’t know how much I missed this, princess,” he murmured, voice low and gruff against your throat as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck.
You tilted your head, baring more of yourself to him. “Your fault for losing all of it in the first place,” you whispered, the words coming out before you could stop them.
He stilled. The warmth of his breath paused against your skin. Slowly, he raised his head to look at you, eyes dark but soft, like he’d been expecting that and still wasn’t ready for it.
“John… I don’t wanna do this now,” you said, voice cracking slightly as you turned away.
His hand caught your chin, not harsh, never harsh, just firm enough to guide you back to him. “You wanna talk about this now… or after?” he asked gently, like it didn’t matter to him when, only that you would.
You hesitated. The ache in your chest made it hard to speak. You wanted to be angry, you wanted to ask why it took him so long to come back, why he left in the first place, but all of that was drowned beneath the way he looked at you, like you were something he was terrified to break.
So you nodded. Quiet.
“After?” he asked again, voice even lower.
Another nod.
And he understood. You saw it in the way his shoulders relaxed, in the way his lips parted like he might say something but thought better of it. Instead, he kissed you again, deeper this time, full of the things neither of you had the strength to say.
His hand slid down your stomach again, slow and deliberate, until his fingers slipped between your legs. You gasped into his mouth as he teased your entrance, the pads of his fingers sliding through the slick he left you in.
You whined, tucking your face into his neck, hips rising into his touch.
“I got you,” he breathed, almost like a promise. “I’ve always got you.”
You felt him shift above you, felt the drag of his skin against yours, the weight of him between your thighs. He reached down, guiding himself to your entrance, but paused just as he pressed the tip against you.
His eyes searched for yours again. “You sure?”
You didn’t speak. Just reached up, cupped his face in both hands, and kissed him. A long, slow, aching kiss. Then you whispered against his lips, “I need you.”
That was enough.
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, letting you feel every part of him. Letting you stretch around him until you were full. His forehead dropped to yours as he groaned softly, like the feeling of you around him undid something deep in his chest.
You gasped, your hands clawing at his back, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him in deeper. He began to move, a slow, rocking rhythm that said this wasn’t about chasing release. This was about remembering. Reclaiming. Ruining.
“God,” you breathed, “I forgot how good you feel.” You raked your nails down his back and squeezed your eyes shut at the stretch of him.
He bit back a groan, voice rough in your ear. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. I’ve been trying to forget and failing every fucking night.”
And he kept going. Steady. Intense. His hand slips between your bodies to touch you again, bringing you back to the edge with maddening precision. His thrusts grew deeper, more desperate, his breathing harsh against your skin.
You clung to him. Let yourself fall apart beneath him. With him.
And when you finally came, it was with a cry muffled by his shoulder and your body clenching around him so tightly it pulled him over the edge with you.
He groaned your name, low and broken, spilling inside you like he’d come home.
Then everything was still.
The only sound was your breathing, heavy, tangled, shared.
He didn’t pull away.
He just kissed your temple, held you tighter, and whispered, “We’ll talk. I swear. But not yet.”
And for once… that was enough.
***
Later, with your head on his chest and his hand resting softly on your hip, you listened to the rhythm of his heart. Slow. Steady. Unlike yours.
“You’re shaking,” he said, voice low.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
You looked up at him. “I just…,” you paused, and saw him furrow his brows, “I don’t want this to just be another goodbye.”
His throat worked around something unsaid. “It’s not.”
“You said that the last time.”
He looked away.
“I don’t know how to protect you and keep you,” he admitted. “They might be mutually exclusive.”
You sat up slightly, pulling the sheet with you. “Then let me decide if it’s worth the risk.”
“I’ve seen the kind of men who’ve lost women in this line of work,” he said. “They don’t come back from it.”
“And I’ve seen what it does to the women they leave behind, thinking silence is some kind of shield.”
Silence stretched between you like a canyon.
Then he sighed. “This op… the guy Gaz took out… he wasn’t alone.”
You stilled. “You think there’s more?”
“Laswell does. She wants to debrief. Top secret. No paper trail. They think the boy's father planted more than just communications jammers.”
“So, what now?”
“You’re being pulled from field ops. Temporarily.”
You blinked. “What?”
“You’re a target now,” he said. “They saw your face. You burned their intel. You pissed off the wrong people.”
Your stomach dropped.
You were used to working behind a screen. This mission was supposed to be short, tight, in and out. But now it was war.
“You’re not just valuable anymore,” he added. “You’re vulnerable.”
You narrowed your eyes as you sat up. “So you came here to tell me I’m benched?”
“No,” he said, reaching up to your bare shoulder and pulling you back in. “I came here because I thought I lost you yesterday. And I realized… I’d rather face hell with you than live a safe life without you.”
You stared at him, your chest tight with emotion.
“Besides,” he added with a soft smirk, “no one else can decode encrypted Russian subnets and call me out on my bullshit in the same sentence.”
You snorted. “Damn right.”
He laughed quietly, the sound muffled against your hair as you curled back into his side.
***
You hadn’t even fallen asleep yet.
You and Price were both lying there, tangled in silence, the adrenaline of the mission and the intensity of everything that had followed it still buzzing under your skin. His fingers absently traced the curve of your spine. You were just about to drift off when your tablet screen lit up on the nightstand.
The glow cut through the dark room like a searchlight.
You both turned your heads.
[TOP PRIORITY // Secure Line Incoming – K. Laswell]
Price cursed under his breath.
You sat up immediately, scanning the notification. “Shit,” you mumbled. “It’s encrypted. She's using Shadownet protocol. That’s… not casual.”
Price was already out of bed, pulling on his cargo pants and tossing your comms earpiece at you.
“Separate rooms?” you asked, already rising.
He paused mid-zip and gave you a look. “Unless you want her to know I spent the night watchin’ you sleep.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You were watching me sleep?”
Price smirked. “Only a little.”
You shoved his shoulder on your way past. “Get out, Cap.”
“Gladly,” he muttered, but you caught the flicker of his smile in the dim hallway light.
You ducked into your living room while he backtracked to the guest bedroom, just as the secure line crackled to life. You pulled up the holoscreen interface, slid on your headset, and accepted the call.
Laswell’s face appeared immediately, her expression hard and unblinking.
“Took you long enough,” she snapped.
You blinked. “Good morning to you too.”
“I don’t have time for pleasantries. Where’s Price?”
“Present,” John’s voice cut in, joining the call with his video feed activated. He looked alert. Like he’d been up for hours and not, in fact, in your bed 90 seconds ago.
“We’ve got a problem,” Laswell began, eyes flicking between you both. “The man Gaz took down yesterday wasn’t just some low-tier militant. We finally decrypted his sat data, he was part of a larger cell. Embedded deep in a recon network.”
You leaned forward, heart thudding. “How deep?”
“Deep enough that your name’s now on their list,” she said flatly. “And I mean by name, by rank... You didn’t just fry their local link, you nuked their remote access keys and rerouted their backups into our net. That’s a goddamn war crime in their book.”
Price swore under his breath.
You swallowed hard. “So they’re coming.”
“We believe so. Intercepted chatter says there’s movement, two-man team. Close range recon. We’re assuming they’re headed toward your last known residence.”
You frowned. “You’ve got Ghost running interference, right?”
“Already deployed. But we’re not taking chances.” Laswell tapped something offscreen. “I’m pulling you out of your flat. Both of you. Effective immediately. Safehouse Alpha-Two-Four.”
You straightened. “Wait, both?”
“Yes, both.”
Price cleared his throat. “Why both?”
“Because you’re both targets now,” she snapped. “You’re connected, and their surveillance proves it. They don’t see a field op and a tech asset. They see two people who ruined their access node, wiped their informants, and cost them a half-billion-dollar asset. You’re a threat together.”
You muttered, “Fantastic. Now we’re a team.”
Laswell’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Where are the both of you right now?”
“Home,” you answered.
“Home,” Price added.
There was a beat of silence.
Then Laswell’s eyebrow twitched.
“…You know, I find it interesting that you both answered the same second. Over a secure line. With matching acoustics in the background.”
You froze.
Price said nothing.
Laswell leaned closer to her mic, deadpan.
“Are you two in separate rooms… or just different corners of the same apartment?”
You blinked.
He rubbed his brow.
She sat back and gave the faintest smirk.
“Right. We’ll unpack that later. Safehouse coordinates incoming. You leave within the hour. And Price?”
“Ma’am.”
“Try not to get caught with your pants down again.”
The call ended.
You stared at the blank screen.
Then turned to the hallway where Price was leaning just inside the doorway, arms folded.
“Did she just-?”
“Yep.”
“She knows.”
“She always fuckin’ knows.”
You groaned, flopping onto the couch and covering your face with a cushion.
“So much for low profile.”
Price chuckled, stepping in and grabbing the go-bag from the floor. “Guess we’re roommates now, princess.”
You peeked over the cushion. “Don’t call me that.”
He slung the strap over his shoulder and gave you a knowing look.
“You didn’t seem to mind a few hours ago.”
You threw the cushion at his head.
He caught it. Smirking. Always smirking.
🎀🎀🎀
TAGLIST <3: @oniraki, @nijiru, @seraonthebeat
Hey Lovelies!
DADDY PRICE PART 2 IS UP!
Love this man to bits, I really enjoyedwriting this part hence why the almost 4000 words lols.
Lemme know if you wanna be tagged!
Also....
Lemme know what y'all think!
And the next that is up on the Need To Be Updated list is Need a Hand with Steve Rogers!
