a/n: steve is a dirty dirty boy (and we love him for it).
w/c: 179. snippet.
warnings: 18+ explicit content mdni, nsfw, smut
Steve Rogers is a perfect gentleman.
Holding doors, pulling out your chair at dinner, giving you his jacket when there’s even the mildest chill in the air.
The perfect gentleman.
So, imagine your surprise when he has you sprawled out on his bed after a perfectly respectable dinner date, sucking your clit and licking between your folds like a man possessed.
He’s pulling your lips apart, nuzzling his nose deeper into your scent, suckling on your nectar as if it’s life’s very essence.
To him, maybe it is.
“Sweetest pussy I’ve ever tasted,” he moans into you, lapping at your centre over and over and over and over and over again.
Your hips buck uncontrollably, thighs clamped around his head and squeezing for dear life. “Please Steve, please it’s too much!”
“Just a bit more darling, almost there,” he moans breathily against your pussy, never letting up his ministrations.
You whine again, eyes fluttering shut, head falling further back into the sea of pillows adorning Steve’s bed.
“Let me have this darling, let me taste just a bit more.”
a/n: I wrote this at work, oops.
w/c: 542. blurb.
warnings: 18+ explicit content mdni, nsfw, smut, choking (consensual), military kink (briefly)
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Bucky had promised you a necklace. Something unmistakably yours, something he picked special for his special girl.
Bucky always keeps his promises.
His metal fingers hold your throat firmly - not enough to hurt, but enough to stop you from squirming out his grasp.
“Do you like it, doll?” He whispers softly in your ear, “I got it just for you.”
You can’t help but stare into the mirror at the foot of the bed.
You’re on his lap, his chest pressed flush to your back, cock buried deep inside you but not moving, just pulsing within your walls, enough to make you feral with desire.
“Go on, tell me you like it,” he pushes, tightening his grip slightly. The sound of the vibranium whirring cuts through the night air like a blade, making your heart thump and your walls clench.
You can barely get the words out, but you don’t want to be bad for Bucky. You are his good girl after all.
“I like- fuck,” his flesh hand grips your waist and starts to lift you gently from his lap before crashing you back down on his thick length, making you feel every vein, every ridge. It’s maddening.
“Yes, doll?” You don’t need to look in the mirror to know he’s smirking ear to ear, but you do anyway, because god he’s so beautiful when he wrecks you like this.
“I like it Bucky, I fucking love it, please I love it, love you- Bucky love you so much!”
He’s fucking you in earnest now, hips snapping up as he pulls you down with precision.
“Say thank you baby,” he pants, “say thank you to your Sergeant for getting his pretty girl a pretty present.”
“Nngh- thank you Sarge, thank you for my present, thank you thankyouthankyou!”
You all but scream as his fingers press deeper into the soft lines of your throat, the pace of his cock impaling you staying brutal.
His right hand comes down to circle your clit gently, the contrast between his hips and his fingers making you see starts.
“You gonna be a good girl and take the rest of your present now?”
“Yes Bucky, fuck yes, please, please,” you cry out.
With just a few more thrusts you’re tipping over the edge, the pleasure overwhelming, writhing helplessly in his lap as he works you through your orgasm.
He’s just behind you, the feeling of your sweet pussy milking his cock is too much for him to handle and he’s pumping you full of his release, groaning in your ear like a wild animal.
Both of you are drenched in sweat, panting, completely gone and thoroughly ruined by the other.
It’s perfect.
After a moment, you feel his left hand release your neck and begin to rub soothing patterns along your jaw, the cool metal of his fingers a pleasant contrast to the heat of your body.
He looks at you straight in the mirror, taking in how disheveled you look. How much he’s destroyed you. How much he’s put you back together.
He carefully brushes a strand of hair behind your ear before leaning in, his nose tickling your cheek and breath ghosting along your sweat soaked skin.
summary: you decide to deliver some Christmas cheer to your favourite professor. things get out of hand quite quickly...
w/c: 1,305
warnings: 18+ explicit content mdni, nsfw, suggestive themes but not outright smut, age gap (reader is university age).
a/n: MERRY CHRISTMAS from the Stantastic Association!! this was done as part of our Secret Santa fic swap, and I'm delighted to say that I got the amazing, beautiful, fantastic, sexy, stunning, and all the other adjectives Marta <3 @buckytakethewheel. you asked for some Professor Barnes and I hope I did everyone's sexiest professor justice (otherwise I'll just have to see him after class...).
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A soft blanket of snow had settled comfortably over campus, painting the grand old buildings in a layer of shimmering white. The floodlights from the walkways illuminated each crystal, casting an idealistic glow that looked almost romantic amongst the hustle and bustle of university life.
You moved carefully, your little heels crunching on the fresh snow, trying to keep your balance on the tricky patches of ice.
Once inside the English building, you brushed the snow from your outfit as best you could and made your way up the oak staircase, catching a few stray glances as you went. Sure, you weren't exactly dressed for the weather, but you thought it was a bit rude to stare (not that you could blame them particularly)!
Pushing your way past the last of the faculty leaving for the evening, you had one clear goal in mind: Professor Barnes' office. He liked staying late, getting his paperwork tied up before going home (probably to sip whisky in a study with dark mood lighting that shines gently off his metal arm, maybe a fire roaring in the corner, warming him up the way you wish you could if you just had the chance…).
Before your mind could wonder too much further, you stopped outside his office door, giving it three sharp knocks before you had a chance to think any better of it.
"Office hours are over," a deep voice came from the other side, tired and rough at the edges.
"I- I'm not here for office hours, sir. It's the Christmas candy cane drive," you managed to stutter out, hoping desperately he couldn't hear the tremor in your voice.
"The Christmas what now?" The voice behind the door sounded vaguely perplexed now and you dreaded having to stammer through your explanation again.
"The Christmas candy cane drive, sir, it's the campus-"
You stopped abruptly, face the picture of a deer in headlights as the door suddenly swung open.
"I didn't sign up for any Christmas candy…cane…thing…um…" Bucky's voice trailed off as he took in the sight before him.
There you were, cheeks red and rosy from the winter chill, tiny snowflakes melting in your hair, your eyes wide and sweet and the picture of innocence.
And then he looked down.
Patent red kitten heels housed white stockings that hiked up your legs, disappearing under the shorter-than-short hem of your Christmas getup - a velvety red dress with fluffy white trim, thin straps, and the lowest sweetheart neckline you could find that wasn't going to get you in trouble with campus security.
Clasped in your hands was a little hessian sack full of delicate, multicoloured candy canes, the hooks peeking out over the brim.
Silence stretched out between you both, neither able to make eye contact for more than a split second, and neither wanting to be the first to break the tension.
Eventually, Bucky was able to pick his jaw up from the floor. "You must be cold," he stated simply, eyes still not meeting yours.
"Uh yeah, a little I guess," you murmured, thankful that it was late enough for the corridor to be nice and empty as you stood before your professor.
He backed away from the door, holding it open wide enough for your to duck in under his arm as he swung it shut behind him.
"Sit," he motioned at the chair in front of his desk, which you gratefully took as your knees felt like they were about to give out. He leaned up against the varnished wood, brushing some papers aside.
"So…candy canes…" he prompted, facial expression not giving anything away.
"Uh, yes sir," you started before he lifted up his hand.
"Professor, not sir," he corrected, "you're in my class, you're not in an interrogation," he joked, a smirk gracing his lips.
"Oh right, sorry Professor," you twirled a candy cane absentmindedly in your hand as you continued to speak. "Well, the university wanted to raise some extra money, so they got volunteers for a candy cane drive."
Bucky nodded along slowly as you spoke, his tongue occasionally darting out to wet his quickly drying lips.
"I thought is wounded fun so I said I'd do the English faculty."
Bucky's eyes flicked to yours immediately, mouth opening in shock once again. "You'd do…the English faculty?"
"I- what I mean is- I said I'd cover the faculty, you know, asking if anyone wanted to buy some candy canes." You were sure your face matched the colour of your skimpy dress at this point, the heat from your cheeks cancelling out any left over cold from the outdoors.
"How generous of you," Bucky chuckled under his breath, scratching the silver of his beard.
"I just wanted to help - Christmas cheer and all that." With a slight burst of confidence you managed to meet his gaze for the first time since entering the room, surprised to see the hint of mischief in his icy blues.
"Well, you're certainly dressed the part," he mused, lowering his hand from his beard and gripping the table behind his back. "Was that outfit part of your little elf contract?"
"I'm not an elf!" You pouted, brow furrowing at his jab. "And the costume is mine, I thought it might boost sales," you admitted quietly.
"Oh really, that's not good business practice is it, little elf?"
"Stop calling me that, Professor," you grumbled, "I'm just trying to spread some cheer, no need to tease."
He took you in for a moment more before pushing off the table, hand reaching out to grab the candy cane you had been twirling. "So, how much is Santa chargin' for one of these nowadays?"
"£2.50."
"That's daylight robbery, he should be ashamed of himself." He took the cane anyway, peeling off the wrapper with his metal hand, fingers moving dexterously while you could do nothing but sit there and watch in awe.
Slowly, he brought the end of the cane to his lips, sucking it in pointedly. You all but combusted where you sat.
"Hmm, not sure on the flavour," he commented, taking the candy from his lips and staring at the tip.
"It's just peppermint," you countered.
"Try it."
What?
"Tell me what you think, I'm…curious."
This couldn't be happening, right?
You began to rustle in your little sack as you picked out another candy cane. Suddenly, Bucky's flesh hand came to rest on yours, stopping your movements.
"Gotta try this one, silly, otherwise how will you know?"
"Oh, yeah, right…" Placing the bag aside, your fingers reached out to take the candy cane from your professor, eyes locked with his the whole time.
Plucking it from his hands, you brought the end to your mouth, tongue poking out slightly to taste. "Tastes fine to me," you began, taking in Bucky's expression of raw, unadulterated lust. His pupils were blown completely wide, the blacks of his irises almost eclipsing the piercing blue.
Emboldened by how much he was enjoying the sight before him, you moved the cane to lick a long, thick stripe up the side. Rounding the tip again, you let your mouth fall open dramatically, hearing Bucky's breath hitch as his jaw ticked.
You fed the length of the stick into your mouth, pushing past your plush lips, sucking obscenely. Swirling your tongue around dramatically so that he would be sure to see, you hollowed out your cheeks before pulling the cane away with a loud pop.
"I dunno," you began. Bucky's grip on the table was like iron, seemingly moments away from losing his composure all together. "Tastes fine to me." Your wide smile gave away the pleasure you took from your teasing, unravelling your brooding professor before your very eyes.
Wrapped in blankets and candlelight, the soft glow painting your features in angelic tones. You felt the shift under the covers as his metal fingers brushed against your knuckles, just the lightest of touches, wordlessly asking for permission.
Your fingers flexed before reaching out, curling around the tips of his fingers before intertwining your hands completely. Neither of you dared to look at the other for fear of breaking the spell, but Bucky could have sworn he felt a little lighter that evening.
It continued the following week.
The rubble seemed endless, the building collapsing brick by falling brick, cascading down upon you both.
Bucky didn't hesitate. He launched himself at you, tackling you to the ground with immeasurable force, shielding your body completely with his own. Debris continued to fall but his eyes never left yours, blue ocean tides carrying you out to sea, never faltering in their devotion to keeping you safe.
When the walls stopped shaking and the dust settled in the most literal sense, he pushed himself up from the ground, still staring at you all the while.
"You're safe, doll." It wasn't a question. "I promise, you're safe."
His arms stretched down to yours, pulling you up on uncertain legs.
"I had it handled," you rasped, voice cracking on an exhale of empty laughter.
"I just had to be sure," he responded, hand squeezing yours reassuringly. "I'd be lost without you, you know."
It was soft and sincere and whispered like it was meant just for him, but you heard it all the same.
Your hand was still gripped tightly in his warm palm, so much so you could feel his pulse thrumming through his body, the adrenaline hit only just starting wane.
The pad of his thumb traced the back of your knuckles, painting delicate patterns for you to feel, easing the tension from your body one pass at a time.
When the cleanup crew arrived, you were both halfway back to the team's rendezvous point, walking hand in hand all the way.
It ended here, naturally.
You were sprawled out on the bed, sweat beading at your temples, your breasts, your back. Bucky had you laid out like a man come to devour - and devour he did.
Your thighs squeezed his head while his tongue delved deeper, deeper. Feeling the soft pliancy of your walls, licking broad stripes through your folds before swirling your sensitive nub, suckling down your juices as if they were sweeter than honey.
But no matter how you squirmed - how you thrashed your head or jolted your hips or flexed your heels into the muscles of his back - Bucky never released your hand.
The fingers of his left hand, cooler and grounding, splayed out over your stomach, pressing gently against the soft flesh and anchoring you, both to the bed and to him.
By contrast, the fingers of his right hand tangled with those of your left, gripping tightly as if scared to ever let you go. Bucky knew all too well how fleeting moments of peace could be, how easily the things you love could be lost, and he certainly wasn't about to take that chance with you.
And when you came, back bowed and voice crying out, it was with one hand tangled in Bucky's hair and the other hand linked with his. Right where it would always be.
a/n: think I might make filthy mouth!Steve Rogers a mini series, let me know what you think.
w/c: 218. snippet.
warnings: 18+ explicit content mdni, nsfw, smut
Steve had held your hand as you crossed the road that evening. Tucked a strand of hair behind your ear while you ate at that cute little diner down the street. Asked about your day, paid for that milkshake you wanted to try, called you both a cab home.
He was so unapologetically charming in every way.
The perfect picture of a doting boyfriend.
A picture whose paint was currently running down the canvas, dripping past the frame, making a mess of the walls.
“So tight darlin’, you’re always so goddamn tight.” He was panting by your ear, broad shoulders caging you against the wall, hands splayed beneath your thighs to keep them wrapped around his waist.
You couldn’t see straight, couldn’t think if your life depended on it. Your mind was just a jumble of Steve, more, please, Steve, yes, Steve Steve Steve.
“That’s it, squeeze me baby, squeeze my cock, suck me in that pretty pussy, fuckin’ squeeze me more.”
His thrusts were erratic, deep and sharp, pounding you against the wall so hard you worried it might crack.
“Let me fill you up beautiful, let me pump my thick load in you, make you mine. All mine, let me baby, let me just-“
Behind you, the plaster cracked and crumbled. Neither one of you noticed.
summary: your relationship with John had always been complicated, to say the least. but when things finally come to a head, words are said that cannot be taken back, and you both have to face your deepest fear that maybe - just maybe - you want the same thing.
w/c: 10.8k
warnings: 18+ explicit content mdni, nsfw, eventual smut, angst angst angst, hurt/comfort, arguing, john says some really messed up stuff in here, descriptions of feeling numb & despondent (possibly panic attack adjacent), alexei being a lovable goofball to offset some of the angst.
story tropes: slow burn, enemies to lovers, idiots in love, miscommunication, angst, hurt/comfort, eventual smut.
a/n: I've been working on and off on this for ages and I'm surprisingly happy with how it turned out! hope you guys like it too :)
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You hated these stupid galas.
They were flashy, loud, gaudy, and made you unfathomably uncomfortable.
Not that Val cared - it was "an important part of the job" apparently. Working the press, schmoozing financiers, building a 'brand image'. Complete bollocks in your eyes (and the eyes of most of the team), but still contractually required you guessed.
A newer addition to the Thunderbolts New Avengers, you were still finding your feet in a lot of ways. Not quite an outsider, but not completely in sync with the team's dynamics.
That was mostly down to John Walker.
No matter what you did, how you acted, what you said, he was there - judging. Criticising.
He'd known who you were when you'd joined the group. Not properly, of course, but he'd seen you in passing during the Flagsmashers debacle, heard your name over a debriefing once or twice.
FBI gone rogue. Mercenary. A little reckless but a whole lot more dangerous. Skilled but rudderless, drifting from one mess to the next.
When Val had introduced you, you gave a little wave to the group sat round the meeting table; anxious but excited to start a new chapter in your life - hopefully a more positive one than the last.
Alexei had all but bear-hugged you when you went to your new living quarters. "New blood is good, make team stronger, like shark on steroids!" He announced as Bob lead the tour of the Watchtower.
"Sorry about him, he's a little enthusiastic," he'd whispered loud enough for Alexei to hear.
"That's ok," you'd smiled, "it's nice to be welcomed."
"Speak for yourself." John was leaning against the fridge, beer in hand, scowling in your general direction. "Not all of us signed up to have some blood-thirsty merc running around the building without warning."
"Says you," you'd spat out on instinct. Obviously you knew who he was, his backstory, his history How could you not - it had been front page news for a month straight after the Riga incident.
John squared his shoulders up briefly, standing to his full height. "I'm just saying," he went on with a tone of authority, "Val didn't exactly give us a choice to have you here. The rest of them may not have heard of you, but I have, and I know you should come with a handler."
"What- big, tough, super soldier boy scared of a little girl? Gonna put me on a leash, big man?" You sneered at him.
He'd stepped towards you, peering downwards, chest rising and falling in quick succession.
"This is a pretty important gig for some of us, sweetheart, just try not to fuck it up like you usually do."
With that, he strode out the room leaving you reeling.
"Well that was fun," Yelena commented to no one in particular.
"He's an asshole," Bob said matter-of-factly, placing a hand comfortingly on your back, "you get used to it."
"He's not normally that bad though..." Yelena glanced at Bob, eyebrows pulled together questioningly.
"Do not worry about grumpy soldier, he has lot on plate from divorce and new hat," Alexei announced.
You blinked up at him.
"He has a hat now, not helmet," the giant Russian patted the top of his head lightly, "new style is difficult to manage, da. Makes him question self, maybe miss helmet sometimes."
Yelena groaned, pulling you towards the living room to continue the tour, while Bob looked more puzzled than ever.
You blinked confusedly at Alexei again before letting yourself be dragged along by Yelena. Inside, though, you couldn't forget what John had said.
The gala was in full swing now. You were dolled up as much as you could stomach to be - floor length dress in a silky baby blue, stilettos click-clacking gracefully as you paced nervously near the corner of the bar.
Trying to shrink away from prying eyes and unwanted questions.
Val always invited reporters to these things - everything that woman did was a press event, the whole world was her stage and your team were the reluctant actors playing your parts.
"Why do you hide, little one?" A jovial voice cut through your thoughts as Alexei sidled up next to you. "You are beautiful woman, strong, good hips. You should dance and laugh with others, not hide in shadows."
He was giving you his patented, 'award winning' smile, his eyes mischievous and definitely a little bit on the tipsy side.
"I'm not sure anyone wants to hear from the newbie," you muse. "Besides, I like people watching."
"Nonsense! Everyone want to listen to new pretty girl. How she take down three militia with only pocket knife! Excellent story, I tell many times already."
You rub your hand down your face, chuckling at his antics. Sure, you had done pretty well on your last couple of missions, even with limited supplies and a whole load of bad intel from the top. But it wasn't the sort of thing you wanted to brag about.
At the end of the day, you came back bruised and battered, as did everyone else. It never sat quite right with you to celebrate something that teetered so dangerously between life and death. Between right and wrong.
Alexei gives your arm a reassuring squeeze before stomping off to the bar for the tenth time that night, leaving you alone once again to glance around the vast ballroom.
Yelena catches your eye in the middle of the dance floor, clearly a couple of drinks down and enjoying herself as best she could (you knew she wasn't exactly a fan of public engagements either, but it was nice to see her let loose once in a while).
"I was worried you'd be dancing with my dad in a minute," she jokes as you walk over, slipping yourself between miscellaneous businessmen and party goers alike.
"I've seen Alexei dance before, I think I'll pass on that one," you shudder, remembering his last 'groove session' that resulted in a rack of broken wine bottles, an ambulance, and somehow a live parrot being thrown in the mix.
You were not keen to repeat the experience.
Yelena laughs softly and holds out her hand, dragging you further onto the dance floor.
The music is classical but upbeat, Val having spared no expense (as usual) to hire out half an orchestra for the evening.
As you and Yelena talk and sway gently, chatting about nothing in particular but starting to feel a little more at ease, you can't stop a gnawing feeling at the back of your head.
You are definitely being watched.
Years of training is burned into your core. You know when you are being observed.
Glancing round the room at deliberately casual intervals, you note John leaning against a pillar at the back of the ballroom. He's wearing a dark green suit, perfectly cut to his body, with a crisp white button up underneath. No tie, beard slightly shorter than usual. Clean-cut but effortless.
And blue eyes piercing into the side of your skull.
Bucky is off to his right, talking stiffly to a couple of politicians about a new packet that had been dropped on his desk earlier that day. Something about funding reallocation that he was bored of just thinking about but knew he needed to engage with to keep his backers happy.
John had been there too, trying to network, trying to improve his image and claw back his reputation one shred at a time. But then he'd seen you dancing, seen you looking so carefree and content and gentle and soft and--
It pissed him off.
There he was, doing everything he could to desperately convince the outside world he wasn't a monster, wasn't a failure, the screw-up they'd seen on the news; and you were happy as Larry dancing with Yelena. Head thrown back in a laugh, not a care in the world.
Your past was riddled with bodies, with scars and wounds and blood and god knows what else.
The only difference was, yours wasn't public.
It could have just as easily been you plastered all over the news, day in day out. Think pieces on why your career flopped, why you couldn't hack it in the FBI - their rules and regulations driving you mad, causing you to act out, to disobey at every opportunity.
It could have been you with hour-long video essays cataloguing why your family disavowed you, why you couldn't hold down a relationship, why you slept alone every night instead of wrapped up in the arms of another.
But no, your private life was just that - private.
John didn't have that luxury.
No, every time he flicked on the TV there was another round-table debate on where the government went wrong in assigning him to be Captain America. Every blog had some asinine junk typed out over and over again on why his marriage failed, why he couldn't see his own kid, why his best friend was dead and not him.
It was relentless.
And sure, John put on a brave face. Cutting remarks and snide comments, giving as good as he got. But it wears on a person, that never-ending violence against the soul.
It was wearing on John more than he could ever let you know.
Since that first introduction, your relationship with John had been...fractious.
It's not the constant bickering that annoys you though. The remarks, the insults hurled back and forth, the glaring across the briefing room.
No, you understand that. You understand hatred and contempt.
It's all the pieces in between you can't handle.
It's the way you are drawn to each other like magnets, inexplicably pulling together at all times.
It's the brushes of hands in the hallway, the pot of tea he makes for you every morning without you asking and without him acknowledging, the staying up to watch old westerns on the TV at 3am because neither of you can sleep, sitting comfortably apart on the sofa, neither of you daring to break the silence in case you couldn't put it back together.
It's the way Val only ever pairs you with John on any two-person mission that's sent the teams' way.
You'd questioned her as to why one morning after a late recon mission became an early morning intel meeting in the tower.
"You're the only two who get results together," she'd said causally, passing a stack of folders to Mel to carry. "The numbers don't lie - I pair either one of you up with someone else and mission efficacy decreases by at least 9%. Guess you're both destined to be black-ops BFFs." She flashed you a cold, insincere smile, gloating at your obvious discomfort with the facts.
You hadn't asked again.
No matter what you say to him, how hard you twist the knife out of anger and spite and fear, John will always be the first to get your pizza order in on 'team bonding' night, making sure he keeps a few slices back in the fridge so you can have them cold for breakfast the next day. Just like you like.
He teases you relentlessly for your odd pizza preferences, of course, but the second Alexei is reaching for your plate at the back of the fridge, he's swatting his hand away with a grunt and a glare, looking forward to seeing your eyes light up in the morning round the breakfast bar.
And after one instance where Ava 'accidentally' ate your last leftovers in a midnight kitchen scavenge, John started leaving a note on the plate.
'Sweetheart's.'
No one had nicked your pizza since.
He didn't question why he did it. He just did it. Like all the little things he does for you - it's second nature.
Something in him tells him, urges him, to care for you, no matter how hard he tries to fight it.
No matter what John says to you, lashing out with a sneer and a curse and cruel truths that hit just a little too close to home, you always still send him a cute photo or a funny meme you'd seen that day.
Every day.
And when the rain pours down, battering the windows of the Watchtower late at night, and the lightning streaks through the pitch-black sky and the thunder roars close behind, you send him a voice note.
Just one.
"You're safe, John."
Every time.
The only time you ever call him by his first name.
Because you know he needs it, and you know you need him to be safe.
You learned early on that John would never admit it, but the military had taken more of a toll on him than the others saw, and he would tense his jaw and clench his fist every time a car started too loud or a taxi blared their horn or a passerby hollered.
And John would never admit that on those nights, when the thunder was deafening in his ears and the rain was crashing down and everything was just too much, your voice was the only thing that could soothe him to sleep.
Played on repeat, over and over again, his head resting on his pillow, his phone propped up beside it.
Yeah - your relationship with John was a mess.
A confusing, heartbreaking, hopeful, fearful, mess.
John doesn't realise he's staring until it's too late.
Your eyes catch his across the room and hold them steady, gazing into his cerulean ocean, searching for something buried beneath.
You don't realise you're walking towards him until you're close enough to reach out.
Your fingertips graze his wrist tentatively, pulling him from his thoughts.
"You ok over here?" You tilt your head slightly, trying desperately to figure out what he's thinking.
"Y-yeah, fine." He splutters out lamely. "Jus' thinking."
"That's a new one for you," you quip, noticing the way his mouth twitches into an almost-there smile.
"Shuddup, sweetheart," he retorts.
A tense silence comes over the both of you, the weight of everything left unsaid between you. "Yelena and I were dancing," you offer as a means to break through the quiet.
"I have eyes."
"Right, yeah. I just meant-" you stutter slightly, heart thumping against your chest so loud you wouldn't be surprised if his heightened senses can hear it.
"I meant you could join us...if you want..." you trail off slightly at the end, gazing up at him still, the beating of your heart somehow quickening further still.
John pauses for a moment, sipping his glass of champagne before placing it on a little table next to him and glancing back at you. You notice the way his cheeks redden minutely and his hands tremble for a second before he clears his throat.
"You really want me dancing with Yelena after she threatened to 'gut me like a fish' this morning?" He forces out a terse laugh.
"Well you did eat her last protein bar after she explicitly told you not to."
"Still think it was a bit of an overreaction." His eyes are drawn to Yelena still dancing in the sea of impeccably dressed bodies before they land back on you in front of him.
"Maybe," you chuckle lightly. "Well, the offer's still open if you ever want to stop being a chicken." You bump his arm with your elbow jokingly, heart in your mouth.
'Just dance with me!' You want to scream, but you can't find the courage, the words lost in your throat before you can form them.
"I wouldn't mind not dancing with Yelena," John huffs awkwardly. "You know, what I mean is- if you wouldn't mind not dancing with Yelena too?"
He reprimands himself for stumbling over his words like a teenager, his cheeks burning red with embarrassment, fingers crossed over his heart that you'll understand what he means.
But you don't, because he's not really making any sense at all.
"Walker, you sure you passed English at high school? Because that didn't make a lick of sense," you giggle and brush your fingers against his wrist again.
He's a total goner.
He's about to explain himself - about to say that he doesn't want to dance with Yelena and doesn't want you to dance with Yelena and so maybe you should just dance together instead - he really is about to; but just then, two reporters sidle up from his left and barge their way in between you both.
"Sorry to interrupt," one of them says nonchalantly, "we were just hoping to ask you a couple of questions Mr. Walker."
The other one is scrolling through his phone, pulling up an extensive list of questions judging by his notes app.
You share a perplexed glance with John before lifting your hand up to wave, "I'll see you after?" You try for casual but there's a pleading tone in your voice that you can't seem to shake.
"Yeah, sure thing, sweetheart," he replies, taken aback by the sudden intrusion.
You give John what you hope is a casual 'good luck' look before walking back towards the crowd.
"So, Mr. Walker-"
"Uh, John is fine," he says, slightly stunted.
"Right, John, how do you find your title as 'New Avenger' stacks up against the title of 'Captain America?" The reporter with the notes app asks, while the other flips open a notebook and clicks a pen against the paper.
"What do you mean exactly?" John asks hesitantly.
"Well, you were previously a knockoff Cap and now you're a knockoff Avenger - just wondering which one you prefer, that's all." The reporter shrugs as if it's not big deal while his accomplice smirks into his notepad.
John's jaw clenches, the air immediately tensing around him.
You're not sure why, but you decide not to rejoin the dance floor.
You cant help but keep looking back at John and those reporters, wondering what he was going to say, hoping against all hope that he might have asked you to dance, might have asked you to leave this stupid party and go back to the Watchtower, might have asked you if you wanted to join him in his room, might have asked-
Not now, you try to drag your mind out of the gutter as best you can.
Ducking behind a marble column off to the side of the dance floor, you start to circle back towards to John. You pass by Bucky, now deep into a heated debate with a congressional staffer about motorbikes, and loop back to hover close behind John, but out of eyeline from the reporters.
Hopefully, they'll wrap up quick, then you can grab him and finish your conversation.
That hope dies as quickly as it came as soon as you can hear what those bastards are asking him.
"I take my job very seriously," John is saying, voice tight, teeth gritted, "I did as Captain America and I do on this team too."
"Right right, but Cap made you more money surely?"
"Huh?"
"Well that's why the wife left, right? You're not Cap anymore so the money dries up, the women leave, usual story."
It takes all your resolve not to smash a champagne flute on the nearest table and stab this fucker's throat with the shards, and you imagine it's taking John all his resolve too.
"The hell you say to me?" John almost can't believe what he's hearing, except that he's heard it a hundred times before.
"Sorry, didn't mean to touch a nerve," the prick with the notepad rolls his eyes and gives his buddy a sly glance.
"Exactly, we're just asking what the people want to know," the main twat states.
John wants to leave.
Actually, scratch that, he wants to punch one of them in the jaw so hard it crumbles. while kicking the other in kidney. He wouldn't even break a sweat, even before he had the serum, he'd fought off way worse and held his own.
But he doesn't because he can't. Not here, not in front of the press and the politicians and Val and the team and you. Somewhere in the crowd you were dancing happily with Yelena, he thought, and he would be damned if he was going to spoil that for you.
Besides, he could really do without more bad career press.
So he bites his tongue so hard he tastes that coppery tang lets them goad him more.
And boy do they.
They've run through his family history ("Just how disappointed were the parents when you lost that shield?"), his military career ("When you were stripped of the medals, did you have to pay to ship them back, or was it free postage?"), and are just starting on his parenthood ("How much is child support for an Avenger these days?") before he decides to change tact.
"Listen, I get what you're doing guys, I do. But I've got to get back to the team, so how about you cut the crap and give me a break already."
You can see his defeat even from behind him. His shoulders are slumped, his voice is rough and gravelly, exhaustion seeps out of his every pore.
Your heart is running away even faster than before, but this time you feel like the world is closing in on you, the vast ballroom too small, the noises too loud, everything too much.
You just want to reach out and drag John away, hold him to your body, kiss his stupid handsome face and whisper that 'It's ok, John. I've got you.'
But you don't, because your feet are glue to the floor, your body stuck, unmoving.
You don't, because you know John might never forgive you for it, and that thought is worse than any other.
So you stand there with one hand clenched into a fist by your thigh while the other steadies you on a nearby table as you try not to launch yourself at the two slimeballs still verbally berating John.
Your John.
"Fine man, fine," the asshole with the pen huffs out, upset his fun is ending, "we'll cut you a deal, alright?"
John lifts an eyebrow, desperate to have this ordeal over with.
"What?"
"A deal," the other one says like it's obvious. "We won't put out half that bullshit we asked you, but you gotta answer us the big one."
"The 'big one'?"
"Yeah, the question all our readers want to know about," the first dickhead chimes in.
John is cautious - he knows it's a bad idea, probably going to be something completely out of pocket about his sex life or his finances or his teammates - but he just wants this to be over with already. Just wants a break for once.
"Sure, fine, whatever."
The two assholes smirk at each other before the initial one pipes up.
"How long did it take to wash that dude's blood off the shield after you beheaded him?"
John's blood runs cold. The colour drains from his face, he starts sweating bullets as his hands shake uncontrollably at his sides, clenched into fists so tight he begins to draw blood with his nails tearing into his palms.
A few steps behind him, you're gripping the side of the table so hard you swear it starts to buckle under your fingers.
The two assholes laugh in his face, a vile, screeching noise against his ears, before they turn on their heel and saunter towards the bar, leaving John quivering with rage.
Neither of you move for what feels like an age. You're staring at John's back, tense and shaking, willing your feet to move.
But what would you even say?
'Sorry those guys mocked the worst day of your life. By the way, I was eavesdropping behind you the whole time. Care to dance?'
So you don't move, don't speak. Just watch.
Slowly, John stops trembling. His fists unclench, he rolls his shoulders back, loosening his muscles.
'Leave.' It's the only thought rattling around in his mind.
He wanted to find you, to grab you and hold you and sob into your shoulders and kiss your pretty neck and beg you to love him, to make it better, to make it all stop.
But he can't, because you're not like him. You're not marred by public opinion, not weighed down by judgmental eyes and sharp words laced with poison and disappointment. You're a whole person, not a shell, not a little broken toy soldier.
You're not like him.
So he doesn't seek you out. He shrugs his shoulders, slides the mask back onto his face, tells himself this is what he deserves.
He turns to leave.
He lifts his head.
He sees you staring.
'Deer in headlights' would be an understatement.
You're wide-eyed, panicked, and mortified beyond belief. You shouldn't be there, you shouldn't have heard any of it, but you did, and he now he knows it too.
John just stares at you, an unreadable expression on his face, completely unmoving.
You swallow the lump in your throat - it scratches your insides on the way down, bringing up guilt and bile in its wake.
Taking a step forward on legs shakier than you've ever felt, you know you have to try and fix this. "Walker, I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to listen in-" but before you can get any further, you're stopped in your tracks by his eyes, wet and shining and hurt, and then he's turning tail and striding away as quick as possible without attracting attention from the crowd.
And then he's gone, lost somewhere in the sea of revelry, and you're stood with your heart in your mouth and the disappointing realisation the world has not, in fact, opened up and swallowed you whole, despite your silent begging.
You'd never seen John cry before, not even during that mission a couple of months ago when he'd been stabbed just above the hip by some HYDRA reject who'd had a little too much home cooked super soldier serum and not got the memo that his team had crumbled to dust a decade prior.
He'd shouted out in pain and gripped his side for all it was worth, trying desperately to stem the flow of blood, but he hadn't ever shed a single tear (not in the presence of the team at the very least).
You had though.
You'd been inconsolable, ripping your jacket off and pressing it against the wound once John was back on the quinjet, whispering under your breath that 'it'll be ok, you'll be ok.' Only loud enough for John's ears.
You'd both known that you were saying it more to yourself than to him, reassuring yourself that he wasn't going to leave you, that he wouldn't abandon you like that - wouldn't make you live without him. Not when you'd both found quiet meaning in the way you hopelessly lived for each other.
John had stroked your hair with his bloodied hand, soothing you as you soothed him. 'I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart.'
The team didn't question it, a gentle understanding stretching between you all. A team of lost souls holding onto one another in your own, broken ways.
You hadn't left John's side in the medbay that night, not until he was discharged.
Neither of you had talked about it since, too afraid of what it meant, too cowardly to speak it into existence.
That's how you and John lived - a constant limbo of longing and fear; scared that the ice might crack beneath your feet if you stepped towards each other.
But now it had. Now the ice had shattered.
And you were plunged into the icy depth below.
And John wasn't there to pull you back out.
Before you could even think about what you were doing, your feet were moving of their own accord, making a beeline for the corner of the ballroom.
Those asshole 'journalists' were huddled in the corner, chatting away like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Like they hadn't just caused your world to fall apart in front of you, sneering while it crashed and burned into dust.
"Hey beautiful, can we help you with something?" One of them leered as you approached, clearly too stupid to sense your mood.
"Actually, I think you both can," you smiled saccharinely, "I was hoping I could be your next interview?"
They turned to each other before shrugging. "Sure thing sugar, 'suppose a few words from the newbie can't hurt our stats."
Your grin was almost inhuman now, spreading far too wide across your face to be comfortable.
You nodded towards a side corridor just behind you, "shall we then? Might be a bit quieter than out here."
"Lead the way," one of them said, before they both unceremoniously barged past you and down the corridor.
You quickly checked behind you before following them through the side door and deeper into the corridor, turning a sharp corner before coming to a stop beside them.
"So, first question then, what's a pretty little thing like you doing on a team-"
The slimeball didn't have time to finish his half-baked insult of a question before your fist connected solidly with the side of his nose.
A disgusting crunch of bone echoed off the marble walls, followed by a scream and the steady drip drip drip of blood onto the opulently tiled floor.
He collapsed in a heap, head buried to his chest, breath sharp and painful, blood oozing from the centre of his face in a steady stream.
"You psycho bitch!" His friend exclaimed as he made a move to dash in the opposite direction.
Reading his movements like a book, your left arm shot out and grabbed his jacket lapel before he could properly take off, the momentum sending him careening towards your front.
You quickly twisted out the way of his oncoming mass before planting a swift kick into his sternum, shoving him back into the wall with immense force.
He crumpled instantly, sliding slowly to the floor alongside his esteemed colleague.
Their gasps and whines of pain were all that could be heard in the empty hallway for a long moment, until, after a beat of blissful silence, you crouched down slowly to be eye-level with their pathetic, bloodied forms.
Voice deadly soft, laced with all the venom you could muster, you finally spoke. "If I catch even a hint that you fucks are so much as thinking about John Walker, even just for a second, I will disembowel you each slowly, methodically, and make each other watch. Do I make myself clear?"
They groaned in unison, eyes unfocused and drifting in and out of consciousness.
"Good, glad we got that cleared up," you smiled poisonously before pushing off the ground to stand again, leisurely waltzing back into the main atrium of the building.
You hoped against all hope that that would be the end of it. That would solve the problem - they wouldn't post about John, he would forget about this whole event, and things would go back to normal...right?
Your smile faltered as you entered the ballroom again.
It would never be the same. Not after tonight.
No matter how many glasses of champagne you tipped back, no matter how many stories your heard Alexei bellow across the room, no matter how much you scrubbed and scrubbed at your bloodied knuckles in the bathroom. You couldn't stop seeing his face.
Eyes cloudy. Wet with unshed tears. Fear and shame and guilt and unimaginable hurt plastered across his visage.
It wasn't fixed. The cold water was still pulling you under, the ice creeping into your bloodstream, seeping into your pores.
You couldn't fix it.
You kept scrubbing until your knuckles were raw, until your mascara ran down your face.
Happy face, happy face, you can fix this. You can fix it.
You couldn't fix it.
You were back in the ballroom, head down, looking anywhere but at people's eyes. 'Just a couple more hours,' you thought, 'a couple more hours and then you're home and dry.'
But life is rarely that simple, especially for your team.
You could sense Val approaching before you saw her, eyes ablaze with sharp anger and a grimace smile plastered on her face for the public to see.
She was flanked predictably by Mel, who looked almost as concerned as you felt, and John-
-no no no nonononononono not John, not now.
Before you could say anything, you were being swept away into a dark corner, bodies huddled and voices hushed but not less pointed.
"Show them the footage, Mel," Val doesn't even bother with pleasantries, too worked up over whatever the emergency of the day is.
Mel fumbles with her tablet for a moment before spinning it round to face you and John who are now stood side by side in the corner of the room, away from prying eyes as much as possible.
She presses play on a security cam feed. There's static for a moment, then a long stretch of nothing.
You feel your blood run cold.
It's the corridor. The corridor where less than twenty minutes ago you all but disfigured two civilians.
Oh god no.
The corridor on the feed is still quiet for a moment before there's movement. Two bloodied men turn the corner, both holding onto each other desperately for support, limping past the camera's view, leaving a damp trail of crimson in their wake.
The video stops.
Val is furious.
"Do either of you idiots have any idea the shitstorm you've caused?"
You and John don't look at each other, both trying as hard as possible to ignore the other's presence.
"This team I've put together," you decide now isn't the best time to start arguing about who created the New Avengers in the first place, "is hanging on by a thread." She accentuates the word, pushing it through gritted teeth, making it stick to your skin. "Now I've got the joy of paying off two wannabe private eyes so they don't hit us with our fiftieth lawsuit of the week."
"That feels like an exaggeration," you mumble under your breath. Val mercifully chooses to ignore it.
"What the hell does this have to do with us?" John asks, brows knitted together tightly, voice terse.
"You two were the last people seen with them," Mel states matter-of-factly. "Doesn't take much to put two and two together."
"I never touched them," John hissed, eyes avoiding yours at all costs.
"I don't care whether you did or not," Val retorts, "bad press is bad press, and either way, it's something your little band of screw ups can't afford, least of all you."
You flinch at her words.
John doesn't.
He absorbs them. Adds them to the collection. Another on a long list of his failings.
He stopped flinching a long time ago.
"I want both of you out of here. Cars are out back. You're both off duty for a week until this mess dies down." She states it with a finality that you know means there's no arguing.
Your body is wound so tight at this point, guilt seeping into your pores, taking shelter in your skin. You should have said something, should have fought for John - he wasn't even there for Christ's sake, he had nothing to do with it.
You finally glance at John as Mel is leading you both out of an emergency exit and ushering you into a black SUV.
His shoulders are hunched, posture deflated. You can practically feel the exhaustion emanating from him. Gone are the quips and jabs you're so used to, the flash of pearly teeth that always comes with a classic John one-liner. The boyish charm you've become more fond of than you'd ever admit.
In the back of the car it's like sitting next to a shadow. He doesn't move, eyes focused painstakingly on the floor as the car rolls along, his breathing quiet and shallow. You're only a seat away from him but you might as well be oceans apart.
Just as the car pulls up to the Watchtower, you think you should say something, anything, to break the tension.
But, when John clambers out of the car ahead of you, you catch the tail end of a noise - not quite a whimper, not quite a sob, but filled with so much pain in that split second you can barely contain your own anguish.
Before you're able to collect your thoughts, John is already long gone, and you're left sat in the back of the car staring at the empty tower as it looms above you.
What have you done?
It takes a total of one hour and twenty-four minutes for John to conclude that staring at the ceiling fan is not, in all likelihood, going to salvage whatever might be left of his relationship with you.
He's showered, changed into his civvies, paced his room, stared in the mirror, paced again, gone to the gym to sit on one of the mats, glared at the weight racks, and finally flopped on his bed to watch the fan go round and round and round and round.
This revelation comes to him when he realises the fan isn't even switched on.
He's not sure what happened tonight - what made him so emotional, what made you lash out at those reporters (because it sure as hell wasn't him), what made him so scared to just fucking talk to you already.
But there was only one thing that was going to fix it. You.
You always knew what to do, always had an explanation, always had a sarcastic comment when he was being too arrogant and a listening ear when he was too frustrated to joke and just needed to vent.
You always had a wide smile and soft hands and a faintly floral scent that made his head spin in the most terrifyingly pleasant way.
If anyone knew what to do to make this tension dissolve, to make this night make any lick of sense, it would be you.
It was always you.
John pushes himself off his bed with a huff before padding down the hall to your door, a route he was all too familiar with at this point.
Inhaling deeply for courage he raises one hand and delivers two firm knocks, his other hand braced on the door frame.
No answer.
He knocks again. "It's me- it's John." Still nothing.
He rolls his eyes and thumps on the door, hard. "Open the door, sweetheart!"
The door swings open, leaving his hand hanging in midair, about to thump again.
"You're paying for repairs if that left a dent," you huff, scanning the door quickly.
You're in your sweats, makeup washed off, hair sticking out every which way from lying in one position for too long. You've got dark circles under your eyes, holding the tiredness of being an Avenger or the tiredness of yearning hopelessly after a man like John Walker, you have no idea which and you don't care to think about it further.
John thinks you've never looked more beautiful.
"Thanks, I guess?" You tilt your head to the side slightly, confusion etched on your features. "I feel like shit if I'm honest though," you sigh quietly.
"I- uh- sorry sweetheart, I didn't mean to-," John's about to come out with what's sure to be an excellent excuse as to why he said the fucking silent part out loud, but he's stopped in his tracks when he sees into your room.
He's been at your door before plenty of times (too many to be a coincidence at this point), but he's never been in not properly, not when he's been paying attention like he is right now.
You step away from your doorframe a few paces to sit on your bed and he can't help but follow you in, eyes scanning the space.
You had barely unpacked.
Four months you'd been on the team and your room was little more than a blank canvas and a pile of half opened boxes.
There were no old movie posters on the wall, no photos in little frames dotted around your dresser, no rugs on the naked carpet beneath his feet.
Just a throw cushion on your desk chair in the corner, a little pot of different coloured pens next to a small, leather notebook on your bedside table, and a soft pink blanket strewn haphazardly over the bed.
Nothing else to say you live there. To say you exist. To say you belong.
His heart shatters quicker than he can pick up the pieces.
"Minimalist huh?" He says, trying to break the tension. You glance up at him from your spot on the bed. "Your room, I mean."
"Oh, yeah...something like that." Your eyes are staring unfocused at the spot on the ground just in front of John's feet. "Didn't really think about it."
"Why not?"
"Huh?"
He shrugs. "Didn't think you were leaving, did you?" John tries for levity but it's not landing, not at all.
"I guess..." you pinch your brows together, starting to lose patience with his line of questioning. Why does this matter now? What is he even here for?
"Didn't take you for the quitting type, sweetheart." He huffs out a laugh you both know it's forced.
"I'm not allowed to quit," you're staring straight at him now, eyes cold, piercing.
Now it's John's turn to be confused. "What do you mean 'not allowed'? Didn't realise you were a prisoner."
"Val has too much dirt on me. She knows it, and she made sure as hell that I know it too."
He's taken aback by your honesty, stepping forward a pace. Then another. "What...what do you mea-"
You're staring at the floor again, guilt and regret and anguish painted across your face, bright and loud. "I step out of line and I'm done. Big announcement, press tour, the whole nine yards." You gesture widely in front of your face, as if displaying a banner in the air. " 'Ex-FBI agent betrays country, goes on violent rampage, sells state secrets, sells out New Avengers, is generally a terrible person.' "
Your hand flops down into your lap, cradling your other hand, wringing your fingers together. "She'll eat me alive and spit my corpse back out to the press."
Your eyes lift to find John standing inches away from where you're sat. "So here I am. Stuck here." You shrug slightly, letting out an exacerbated sigh. "Sorry, but as much as you might wish I could, I can't leave. No matter how hard either of us try."
You can feel your eyes start to fill with tears, desperately blinking them away.
John sits next to you, his thigh a breath away from yours. "Sucks, doesn't it? Thinking everyone'll know your business." His sharp blue eyes find yours in the low light, searching.
He chuckles but there's no warmth to it. "Only everyone already knows my shit. All of it. Every fucking thing I've fucked up," he grips his leg until his knuckles turn white.
He's been trying to keep it together, keep his anger in check, broach the subject of the reporters calmly, but he is John Walker after all. And John Walker can't seem to keep his fucking mouth shut, no matter how much he wants to. "Guess we're even now, huh sweetheart?" He jeers.
You've been stabbed in the field before. Shot. Thrown around, beat up, walking the line between the living and the dead. This feels infinitely worse somehow.
"I don't understand- even how, Walker?"
"Don't fuck with me!" He's standing again, pacing in front of you, knuckles still bone white. "I get enough shit from everyone in here, everyone that's meant to be on my fucking side and we all know I don't need more crap from the press."
He's practically spitting, pointing wildly at you, at the wall, at anything.
You stand slowly, hands in front of your chest, palms facing outwards like you're trying to calm a wild animal.
"Walker, I can tell you're hurt but-"
"You make me sick, you know that?!"
Your hands lower slightly, "I what?"
"Walking in here like you don't got a trail of blood behind you, like you're fucking better than me because you don't got your name plastered on CNN every other week!" His accent is thick, voice rough and fraying at the edges.
"Walker I don't know what you're fucking on about!" You snap, confused and hurt in a way you haven't felt for a long time, and hope you don't feel again for a longer time still.
"Those reporters that you beat the shit out of, princess, because they what- got a lil' bit of dirt on ya? Couldn't handle the heat so you had to lash out like the fucking animal you are?!" He's practically screaming at you now.
"John I-"
"I talked 'em down, they weren't gonna print half the vile shit they wanted to on me, for once in my fucking life! But no, you just had to show off, had to rough 'em up because you couldn't take the heat on you for five fucking seconds!"
You're crying now, sobbing uncontrollably, but John can't stop himself.
"So what, they say they don't like your dress, huh sweetheart? Say they think your hair's looking a lil' messy, messy enough to break their fucking nose? You know what they're gonna say now? About you? About me?!!" He jabs his finger into his chest, eyes full of fury and voice laced with venom.
You're both a mess of tears and spit and snot and you can't tear your eyes away from each other. John's clearly aiming for maximum emotional damage, and it's working like fucking a charm.
"You think you want to leave, sweetheart? You think I want to stand here day after day and take it? HUH?!"
You crumple to floor, head in your hands, shoulders heaving and whole body shaking. You think you might be sick, might hyperventilate, and honestly it all sounds better than hearing John keep ripping you apart.
"I didn't ever want to hurt you, John!" You wail into the floor. "God- fuck- I ne-never--" You can't string a sentence together, can't think, can't breathe.
"Please stop," you whimper. To John. To yourself. To anyone that will listen. "Please."
Hours have passed. Or minutes. Or days. Neither of you can be sure any more.
John is standing over you, chest heaving, breathing harder than any mission he's been on, tears finally starting to subside.
You're still on the floor, hiccuping between laboured breaths and beleaguered sobs.
Finally, finally, you wipe your eyes with your palms, pressing the heels of your hands tight to your face and breathing deep.
The hiccuping slows and the shaking starts to calm.
Wobbling like a fawn standing for the first time, you grab the side of your bed and clutch the blanket tight, pushing yourself onto unsteady legs.
You don't look at John. You can't.
You simply breathe deep once, twice, and turn to your bathroom door at the other end of the room.
John watches, voice raw from screaming, body numb from the same.
He watches you step into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you, clicking the lock shut. Hears the shower burst to life.
He wants to walk away - what more is there to do after all? What more can he say?
But he can't bring himself to.
The more he stands there, staring at the bathroom door, the more he takes deep, shaking breaths, the more he can't make himself go.
So he does the only thing he can think to do and perches on the end of your bed. Waiting.
And the longer he waits, the more he realises.
What has he fucking done?
It's not your fault those reporters were scum. Not your fault they were needling him, ridiculing him. Not your fault you snapped. Fuck, he would have snapped too if he wasn't so fucking used to it by now.
If they treated you the way they treated him, no wonder you were pissed.
And the more he thinks that - wondering if they spoke to you the way they spoke to him - the more he wishes he wasn't such a goddamn coward and had knocked their lights out himself.
Wishes he had laid them out in front of you for even daring to speak to you like that.
And then it really hits him. No matter what those assholes might have said to you, he knows he just said much, much worse.
What has he fucking done?
And finally, finally, he realises something that brings him crashing back down from his thoughts and plummeting into the room: you've been in the shower a real long time.
John's at the door in just three strides.
"Sweetheart?" He shakes the door handle rapidly when you don't answer.
"Please sweetheart, open the door for me. Please!" His voices cracks at the end with desperation.
Still no answer.
He slams the handle down and the lock shatters like it was never even there.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to-" He stops short when he sees you, hunched in the corner of the shower, still in your clothes but soaked through and shaking like a leaf.
"God, sweetheart." He grabs a towel off the back of your door and all but dives into the shower, shutting it off quickly and wrapping you up in the towel's soft warmth in a singular, fluid movement.
"I've got you, shit- I've got you sweetheart." He realises he's crying again but he doesn't have the energy to stop it. He doesn't even care to, not when you're staring despondently at the wall, eyes glassy and breathing shallow.
"I'm going to lift you now, is that ok?" He murmurs softly, pressing you tightly into his body, soaking up some more of the damp between his own clothes and the towel.
You don't answer, still staring at the wall, so John lifts you ever so carefully, bundling you into his arms like you weigh nothing.
He gently lifts one of your arms with his, wrapping it around his neck, then does the same with the other.
"Hold on ok? Please hold on." You hear the whimper in his voice, bringing you back to reality ever so slightly, just enough to grip the back of his neck with your cold fingers.
You hear him sigh in relief at you registering his voice. "There you go, sweetheart. I've got you."
He steps out the shower with you wrapped in his arms and brings you back into the bedroom, placing you carefully on the end of the bed like he's terrified you might shatter into a million pieces if he moves too quickly.
"There you go beautiful, let's get you dried off now." He doesn't even think about what he's saying, just doing what he can to comfort you, to comfort himself.
You're shaking from the cold, but he's still shaking too.
Gently, reverently, he starts to pat you down with the towel, beginning with your damp hair and moving over your body. "We need to get you out of these clothes, sweetheart." He's looking at you like he's pleading. "Can you do that?"
You're still not focusing properly, so he places his fingers on your cheek and guides your face until you're looking right at him.
"Hey sweetheart, I said we need to get you changed, can you manage that for me?"
You stare at him, his eyes so painfully blue and so incredibly sorry. He's so fucking sorry.
You nod slowly, feeling his fingers still tracing the side of your face.
"There's my girl," he whispers, standing to grab you some dry clothes from your dresser.
He hears you shift behind him, peeling off your sodden shirt and shorts, sneezing once from the chill left by the water.
He smiles imperceptibly to himself, a fraction of the tension leaving his body as you start to come back to yourself.
After a beat he asks, "you decent, sweetheart?" You nod slightly, your body still feeling stiff and fuzzy.
John can't see your nodding, but he hears the shuffle behind him as you clamber into bed.
"Let me get that for you." His voice is whisper soft as he pulls back the covers, letting you settle in and get comfortable.
His eyes rake over you, warm yet pained, holding onto everything he wishes he could say if only he weren't so afraid.
You're wrapped in the bed sheets, eyes still hazy and red rimmed from crying, breath shallow but steady, fingers curling around the edge of the blanket.
Your hair is a messy halo above you, splayed out on the pillow. Gently, he leans forward and brushes a strand away from your face, tucking it behind your ear.
"That better, darlin'?"
Your voice is croaky and shaky, but still unmistakably yours. "Thought I was 'sweetheart'?"
John's lips twitch ever so slightly. "You'll always be my sweetheart, we both know that."
"Do we?" Your eyes are cloudy but your face is an open book, raw still from the events of the night, unable to hide what you've spent so long pushing down. "Doesn't feel like it anymore, Walker."
"Please don't do that." He sounds like he's been punched in the gut, his voice staggering. "Please don't go back."
You knit your brows together in confusion. "Walker, I don't-"
"I know I have no right to ask anything of you, not after what I've done to you tonight," his eyes are scanning your face desperately as if this is the last time he might be this close to you. After what he's said tonight, maybe it will be. The thought is too painful to entertain in the moment, "but please, don't send me back to 'Walker', not after I know what it's like to be 'John.'"
One of his hands is resting on the pillow next to your head, his fingers clenching and unclenching in an attempt to expel the tension his body his holding. An attempt that is currently failing.
His other hand traces patterns on the blanket, fingertips ghosting over yours occasionally, drinking in the slightest touch of you just in case it's his last chance. Just so he remembers how it felt to be so close, even if he never gets to be yours.
"Please, even if-" his voice chokes on a sob that threatens to escape, "-even if you can't be my sweetheart no more, don't make me- don't make me go back to just 'Walker.' He's a fuck up, ya know? He says things he doesn't mean when he's scared and he doesn't say the things he means because he's scared and -"
You cut him off by lifting the edge of the blanket to your left, exposing the bed underneath.
"Just get in, John," you try for indifference but the lilt in your voice betrays your fondness.
God he doesn't deserve that fondness. But Lord knows he's at its mercy.
He slides into the bed next to you, letting you shift so you're rolled onto your side and facing him as he's facing you.
For a while you just quietly exist next to each other. Breathing each other's air, relishing in each other's space. Broken and whole at once.
He tentatively stretches the fingers of left hand, ever-so-subtly brushing your right, drawing an invisible pattern as he braces himself for what he has to do next.
Because, after all these months of running, John knows he finally has to tell the truth.
"Sweetheart, listen-"
"I beat up those reporters."
"That- That doesn't matter now sweetheart, I'm not upset at you, I promise I'm not upset at you, I'm upset at me. I should have never let them speak to you, should have protected you like you deserve, I should have never said-" John's words almost roll into one as his mouth works to catch up with his mind.
You take that moment to link your fingers with his, stopping him in his tracks.
"They never spoke to me, John. I only went after them because of what they said to you."
Oh...
Oh.
"...oh."
You wait for John to process, gently flexing your fingers that are tangled up in his, grounding, reminding him you're still there with him.
When he finally speaks, it's all but a whisper in the dead of night, a soft prayer finally set free.
"I love you, sweetheart. You know that...right?"
Your breath gets stuck in your chest, your fingers stilling.
"I really need you to know that."
You think your heart is about to beat out your chest, and you're sure that he could hear it even without the super soldier senses.
You regard him softly, lovingly.
"Will you stay with me? Just...please don't run, John. My heart can't handle it anymore. Please stay tonight…"
John unlinks your fingers, reaching around the plush curve of your waist to pull you flush to his chest.
"I'm not going anywhere," he murmurs into your hair. "Never leaving you, not ever."
That's how you fall asleep, pressed into the broad chest of a soldier - your super soldier - a pair of broken hearts beating in sync at long last.
The soft morning light filters through your curtains, golden tendrils curling at the edges of your vision. Blinking awake slowly, you shift to find yourself wrapped snug against John's chest, his painfully blue eyes staring at you.
"How- how long have you been watching me?" You manage in your haze of morning fog.
"Mmm, couple minutes," John hums, fingers of his left hand stroking the side of your cheek absentmindedly. "You're pretty when you're sleepy," he muses.
"What about when I'm awake?" You huff.
"Most beautiful thing I've ever seen." He doesn't say it so much as states it. So absolute, so certain, that it makes your chest ache just a little.
"About last night," you begin tentatively, rolling over to face John completely.
"Sweetheart," he starts, propping himself up on one elbow, "I didn't meant to hurt you, I promise I didn't-"
"I love you too, John. So much. Pretty sure it's bad for my health at this point."
He regards you a moment before his lips find yours - soft, caressing passes that say more than any words ever could. His tongue darts out experimentally, licking it's way into your mouth as you groan, your body relaxing under the tenderness of his touch.
"I want to show you," he breathes between kisses, hands stroking up your sides delicately, "show you how much I love you. Want to make sure you know it every day if you'll let me."
One hand massages the back of your head carefully, the pressure of his fingertips in your scalp deliciously persistent. The other rubs circles on the top of your thigh, making sure to go no further without your permission, but offering something more if you want.
And god do you want.
"Show me John, show me how much you love me."
The noise John makes is feral - not so much a grunt as a growl - as he rolls you onto your back and pulls down your shorts and underwear in one fluid movement. You barely have time to think before his lips are back on yours, tasting, teasing, going from your mouth to your jaw to your neck then retracing their path all over again.
His hand is no longer on your thigh but between your legs, middle finger pressing into your pussy as the heel of his hand comes to grind against your clit.
"Fuck John-" you keen, hips bucking up off the mattress at the intensity of every sensation he's making you feel.
"That's it sweetheart, fucking scream for me," he pants into your neck, finger dragging out of your hole before plunging back in, eliciting a squelching noise that you'd find embarrassing on any other occasion, but John groans at the sound instead, causing your face to flush and thighs to tremble.
"So wet for me princess, so ready for me." A second finger joins the first, gently scissoring you open while his knuckles graze that spongy spot in your walls.
"John, I'm gonna- can't last," your fists clench the bedsheets for balance as you teeter on the edge of oblivion. But all too fast, he's pulling out, leaving you empty and pulsing around nothing.
"Sorry sweetheart, I know you're close, but I need you coming on my cock first."
Before you can formulate a response John is pushing the bulbous tip of his cock into your dripping entrance. Breaching you slowly, one hand rests beside your head for leverage while the other feeds inch by glorious inch of him into you.
The burn is immediate - he's so much bigger than anyone you've been with before - but it doesn't take long before the stretch gives way to a blinding pleasure deep in your core.
"Fuck princess, dreamed 'bout this so much." His pace is slow, grinding his hips deep into yours before pulling back and pressing into you again, over and over and over.
Your hands wrap around his back, nails digging into his shoulders, desperate for purchase on his shirt as his hips pick up speed.
"Want you to fall apart on me, ok? Come around my cock, let me feel you break for me." John barely knows what he's saying, the babbling words falling freely from his plush lips as he gasps for breath, trying desperately to keep it together for you.
"John, fuck John, love you, gonna come for you gonna come gonna —" your head falls back as you shatter, pleasure bursting from every corner of your body, hips rolling uncontrollably beneath John as you come harder than you thought was possible.
John works you through it, hips never faltering as your cunt flutters around him, whispering praise into your neck like they're his deepest kept secrets; "There we go sweetheart, just like that, doing so well for me, feel so good coming like that, I've got you."
Eventually, the feeling subsides as you come back to your senses. John's still moving within you, hips fucking into you at a leisurely pace that barely hides how close his restraint is to snapping.
"Shit sweetheart, gotta fill you up, that ok? Can I? Please say I can." His hips pick up speed again, one hand coming to grab your thigh and spread it open for him, letting his thrusts angle deeper inside you.
"Need you John," you murmur into his neckline, licking away droplets of sweat as they run down his chiselled jaw, "need you to come in me, wanna feel it."
Your words decimate any control he had left as he fucks into you in earnest. His thrusts are erratic, quick and sloppy, shunting you up the bed with every punishing snap of his hips. "Thank you, thank you thank you, fuck gonna have you leaking for me, want it dripping, want you to feel me, sweetheart." Warmth floods your walls, painted white from the inside as John pumps himself into you, marking you, taking you completely.
After a moment he pulls out, careful not to jostle you too much, panting into your neck as he tries to regain what little composure he might have had before he fucked you stupid.
"That was- fuck John, that was amazing!" You exclaim with a breathless laugh, fingers tangling into his sweat-soaked hair and pulling his head from the crook of your neck so you can smash your lips to his in a messy display of self indulgence.
The tips of his ears go red, pride blooming in his chest. "You weren't so bad yourself, sweetheart."
You both lie there, breathless and glowing, drinking each other in like this - raw and messy and hopelessly in love.
A buzz from your bedside table snaps you out of your daze, your hand fumbling clumsily for you phone with the weight of a super soldier collapsed on top of you.
"You could help, you know?" You scoff at him.
"Hmm don't think so sweetheart," he chuckles, eyes full of boyish mischief.
You huff as you finally manage to bring your phone to your face, seeing Alexei's name flash on the screen. You flip up to your texts, reading aloud.
"I'm sorry you left party early, little one. I saw Walker leave too - maybe you talk to him? You are both like eddy mane beans in sexually tense pod, you should open pod and see how things go, da?" Your brows furrow, trying to make sense of his words. "Also, I make breakfast. Come to kitchen soon please."
You pop your phone back on the nightstand, confusion pulling at you.
"I think he means edamame…" John offers thoughtfully.
"Ooohhh edamame beans…right…" You pause a moment, metaphorically scratching your head. "Still doesn't make much sense."
John laughs - a bright, full laugh that tugs your heart open and fills it to the brim.
Somewhere down the hall, Alexei smirks to himself while flipping a piece of bacon. He'd save you both a plate for later.
The only sound in the room was your panting - breath laboured and short as you tried to accommodate the tip of his finger.
“Breathe baby, just take some deep breaths. You’re already doing so good for me.” Bucky licked a stripe from your wet opening to your clit, circling with his tongue before moving back down again.
“Bucky!” Sobbing, you tried to follow his lead, taking a shaking breath in to steady yourself before relaxing on an exhale.
“There we go,” he whispered, pushing his finger completely into your hole, feeling your body soften as you relaxed into the sensation.
You wanted to try new things with Bucky - things you’d never wanted to with partners before. You trusted him more than anyone, and this was just one of the ways you could show him.
Bucky pumped his finger in and out slowly, periodically kissing the inside of your thigh, your clit, your ankle over his shoulder. The lube eased the stretch, letting it turn from uncomfortable to a pleasant tightness you could feel deep in your core.
“Need- need more, please, Buck.”
Never one to say no to his pretty girl, Bucky carefully added a second finger, pressing it past the muscles of your rim and sliding it in alongside the other.
“Beautiful, you’re taking me so well,” he whispered into your skin, breath tickling the nerves of your most sensitive areas.
You only had a few minutes before the operatives would find you, before your corner of the building would be searched, before gun fire would rain down and you’d be out in the thick of it once again.
But until then, you and John weren’t going to waste a second.
“Shit baby, you’re so fucking tight…gripping me like a vice,” John huffed in your ear.
Broad palms grabbed at any flesh they could find - your hips, your thighs, your ass - keeping you firmly in your place on his lap as he pounded into you at an immeasurable speed.
“Fuck John, you gotta slow down, please- I can’t-,”
“Course you can sweetheart, taking me so well, doing so good,” he praised, hips never faltering for a second.
Sweat poured down your body, dripping from your hair into your mouth, running down the swell of your breasts and falling between where your bodies were joined.
“You should see yourself,” John moaned into your hair, “so fucking pretty bouncing on my cock, letting me split you open on my lap. So fucking pretty.” He punctuated the last sentence with a particularly sharp thrust upwards, making your eyes roll back as you cried out.
“Feel you squeezin’ me baby, don’t hold back, come undone for me.”
You shattered at his words, writhing on his cock as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you. “There she is,” he cooed.
John’s enhanced hearing began to pick up voices in the furthest reaches of the building as the enemy ops stormed through the hallways.
“Just one more for me baby,” he whispered as his fingers carded through your damp hair. You were boneless on his lap as he slowly worked you up and down on his cock again. “Just gimme one more.”
