I could see him using temperature play with his tongue/mouth to make you feel the sensations a bit more intensely. leaving heated kisses on your thighs, or directly to your clit
seeing his pretty hair splayed between your legs would probably drive you insane-
incredibly passionate and has taken the time to get to know your body, the things that make you tick, etc. out of his adoration for you (maybe a bit for his own pleasure too)
biceps wrapped around your thighs hhhghhhhh
wants to see how many times he can get you to cum with just his mouth-
Toph:
messy eater 100%
she'd have her hands firmly placed on you, making sure you can't squirm or shift away from her (that grip is STRONG too, you aren't moving)
I imagine her heightened senses would make it fun for her, being able to pick up on your every tremble, jolt, etc. due to how in tune she is with them
super unrelenting, she'd def overstimulate and keep going after you cum just to get your reaction
Katara:
probably the one out of the gaang to get you there the fastest
because of this I imagine her spending a lot of time on foreplay, exploring your body with her hands, or her bending
gentle, but very intentional. she doesn't have to do much to get you drenched almost immediately
because of how in tune she is with your body, she'd be able to sense when you're getting fairly close too
Sokka:
hungryyy. doesn't leave behind any scraps
I could see him getting pussy-drunk really early too lol
lots of body worship, would probably talk you through it, praising you while he's down there
uses his hands to his advantage; making lightwork out of finding your g-spot while his mouth focuses on your clit once he notices you getting close
Aang:
very tender and sweet- will often steal glances at you, trying to read your expressions during it
holds you up like you weigh nothing while he eats you out- keeping you stable by holding you against a wall/another firm surface with your legs draped over his shoulders
just a liiitle handsy- feels up your ass and thighs while he's working, wanting to take in your softness. he also does it to ground you when he notices your breathing get erratic
sokka likes to lie back and watch you stubbornly do all the work until you need it. arms folded behind his head, blue eyes mirthy but not cruel, lips tight with the smirk so familiar and teasing it makes your tummy do backflips. his gaze travels downwards, over your soft stomach and chest that bounces with every lewd lift and drop of your cunt down on the stretch of his girth. how you struggle to make it to the hilt every time. how he can see himself kick deep inside you.
“atta girl,” sokka purrs with pout, kind of mocking you and the manner in which your face twists with frustration because just riding him isn’t enough. “look at you go, just aching for it.” he doesn’t mind when you switch from bouncing to grinding, swirling c shapes in his lap like the rush of water around a river bend — in fact, he prefers it, because sokka knows it feels so much better for you. fuller like a glass with a never ending pour of luxurious liquor, your movements are slicker and your thighs shiner as they bracket his lap — spreading your streaming arousal across his pelvis and abs filthily.
if even for a second, you slow down to catch your breath where its rhythm hiccups, sokka lands a cheeky tap to the curve of your ass. not harsh, not painful, rather encouraging — like you would to get a pretty show pony moving when it turns sluggish. “c’mon sweetheart, don’t give up now,” he coos with the air of someone who knows what he’s doing, pulling you to pieces and being the only one who can put you back together. “are you tired? need my help?”
i think riding sokka only goes on for so long, he gets impatient. hungry. finding your wrists where your palms brace either side of your head and slotting your fingers with his. he doesn’t take over, just adds to the motion — being the wave beneath your boat as he bucks up into you, languid and leisurely. pushing his cock past the right, clenching muscle of your entrance every time you push down onto him. his moans turn open mouthed, needy and follow your cadence — higher when he brushes against your g-spot, lower when you squeeze him and milky white runs down to his balls, marrying the fabric below your tangled bodies. he moans and whines and hiccups when you do, as though your pleasure is connected in an endless feedback loop.
when he really gets impatient, sokka’s fingers land at the nape of your neck and drag you down onto him. nipples brushing, stomachs contracting against one another — he bends his legs at the knee for leverage, pumping into you with short, deep thrusts that help his blunt cockhead glide against your sensitive walls, marrying your cunt with his claim of slick pre. you’re almost always squirting in sokka’s lap because he never lets up on the pressure spots you need him to find most…
ꮼ boyfriend!sokka can't help but be a hopeless romantic with you
ᦸ he might be an idiot, but an attractive, sweet idiot ⸝⸝ sexual themes mentioned ⸝⸝ not proofread.
boyfriend!sokka is a funny man, okay? We're aware? He's constantly trying to keep a smile on your lips from his shenanigans—and is beyond proud of himself whenever he's got you laughing hard enough to wheeze.
He loves the sound of your laugh, startling you in bed with kisses just to hear one giggle; it's always so cute whenever the noise slows & you're left smiling at each other like idiots.
boyfriend!sokka is far more affectionate than most would assume; he likes resting his head on your chest, your fingers tangled in his hair—sprawled out in bed, lying on the ground, or ducking into you during a hug—he lives for the feeling of your heartbeat in his ear.
The feeling of your fingers threading through the strands, or your lips brushing the scalp while teasing him for being so touchy, while still touching him, is always so intimate.
boyfriend!sokka has woken you up—more than once, unfortunately—to tell you an idea for a new weapon he could use as a non-bender, wanting to get your opinions first on how practical you'd think it'd be for him to have before sinking time and effort into it.
He loves bringing home his finished inventions to show you first & show you how he plans to use them and the main purpose each one has.
boyfriend!sokka uses his biceps for good—picking you up & carrying you around the apartment—though that's only as a joke to prove his strength whenever you try to tease him.
Though sometimes he will pick you up whenever he gets home & carry you straight to your bed, with his arm curled tightly around you to ensure you don't slip, complaining just how much he's missed you.
boyfriend!sokka yaps frequently. He'll yap half-asleep, drowsily mumbling into your shoulder, while getting ready, showering together, during aftercare, and he'll even talk your ear off during sex.
If he has the opportunity to talk to his pretty girl, he's going to take it, even if it's in an odd situation or just to tell you something stupid. The audible excitement always fills you with a sweet warmth.
boyfriend!sokka loves it when you scratch the buzzed sections of his scalp; he'll close his eyes & lean into your touch while pulling you close. It's always so visible to his friends how lovesick he is for you.
He doesn't care how it looks to others, with him being so receptive to your affections. You toy with his hair; he toys with yours. You kiss him on the cheek, he kisses you on the cheek, and he lives for the chance to show his friends how affectionate he is with you.
boyfriend!sokka is a passionate boyfriend and proud. He does not play around; he always thinks it's so stupid when he sees a boyfriend pretending not to be in love with their girlfriend.
He's always so excited when you start affection with him. Why would he pretend he's not melting at any given chance? Showing he's into it gets him more.
My favorite thing about Daeron is that he is very sad and troubled but he is also a little jokester as well, he has witty jabs, jokes, and isn't 100% serious and weepy, yet that is what I see many people portray him as, and I simply want more silly Daeron content.
Description: You and John Walker are nothing more than two idiots who can’t stand each other. But when a mission goes wrong and you fall through cracking ice, he does everything in his power to keep you alive.
Warnings/Tags: Enemies to ‘you saved my life, what are we now?’, hurt/comfort, drowning in frigid water, CPR, body heat. You might fall in love with him. Thunderbolts make a cheeky appearance.
Notes: This was the most voted option for my next fic, it’s uh … it’s a bit long, yeah 🤭. Enjoy 🫶🏼
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You'd lost a stupid bet to Yelena, so stupid you couldn't even remember what it was, but you were currently living the consequences of it.
Which meant being paired on a mission with none other than John Walker.
Yes, the myth, the legend, the annoying, all star american asshole.
You'd managed to avoid being paired with him for a while. After all, the last few missions you were together had ended in setbacks, for the simple reason you two just couldn't get along. We're talking about a history of missed targets, blown covers, a few stray bullets aimed in each other's general direction, and maybe ... one crashed jet.
So Bucky and Yelena avoided it at all costs when planning for missions.
That was until now, all because Yelena had gotten bored. A lost bet landed you back on another jet with him of all people.
Mission site was in the middle of a frozen forest, where sunlight hadn't touched the snowy ground in years. Even inside the jet, you could feel the cold creeping through the metal walls as you got closer to the drop point.
You were sent to retrieve intel from a highly guarded facility that had made enemies with Valentina. Maybe eliminate a few targets if it came to that. Quite standard, even easy if you actually knew how to work together as a team.
The worst part? Their security perimeter stretched for miles. Which meant you had to go through a rough landing between the trees, far away from the base, and then hike through thick snow and unforgiving cold just to get in there.
Any enhanced teammate would've been better than you. Either Bucky or Alexei ... maybe they just didn't want to stroll around for miles with Walker either.
Couldn't blame them.
So Yelena, influenced by Bob surely, thought it would be funny to send you. Now that was the worst part, doing all of it with him.
You didn't even know what it was about Walker that riled you up so badly. Maybe it was his superiority complex. Maybe it was his agressiveness when he didn't like the way you planned things. Or how he never took the blame when things went sideways, even when he'd done something reckless too. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the way he looked a little too good when he was pissed at you, those veins in his neck, chest heaving, strands of sweaty hair sticking to his forehead—stop.
Let's go back to 'You simply don't get along'.
It was easier to hate him than to name ...whatever the hell this was.
"Can you stop doing that? I'm trying to land this thing, or are you looking to crash another plane?" Walker snapped from the pilot seat, not even turning to look at you.
You stopped for a second, realizing you'd started pacing in the back of the jet. It was the only thing keeping your body warm, and your mouth shut.
Until he had to open his.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Is the super soldier getting distracted?" you said sarcastically. "Maybe if you actually paid attention to the plane this time, you won’t crash another one."
"We crashed because you couldn't sit still for five seconds … like right now."
"Wow, you're right. I brought it down with my bad attitude. My apologies, Cap."
You noticed the way his posture tensed on the seat, knuckles immediately flexing on the controls ... why was he so easy to rile up?
And why the hell was that kinda ... No. Stop it.
John didn't know what it was about you that riled him up so bad either. Maybe it was the constant defiance, that bratty attitude he just couldn't allow. Maybe it was how you never followed his orders, even when he was right. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the way you kept running your mouth and he could only think about his mouth on yours to shut you up—no.
He just hated you, that was it.
"Just sit your ass down and put on your belt. We're about to land," he muttered, trying not to sound like he wanted to throw you out mid flight. "I don't know how bad it's gonna be landing into the woods."
You figured it was better to comply, not for him, but because the mission hadn't even started yet and part of the bet with Yelena was to finish the mission successfully, without killing each other in the process.
A lost bet was a lost bet, after all.
You plopped down into the copilot seat beside him, letting your eyes roll as you buckled in. John just side eyed you.
"Good girl," he muttered under his breath, but loud enough for you to hear.
You went upright in your sit, looking at him with disbelief. "What the hell did you just call me?"
All you saw was a half smirk on his face, but before you could unbuckle and force him to say it again, the jet landed harshly into the snowy woods, trees scraping against the reinforced windshield as the aircraft rolled for some distance until it came to an abrupt halt.
You groaned when your head knocked hard against the leather copilot seat. From the corner of your eye, you saw his head snap toward you.
"You okay?" he asked, already unbuckling his belt.
If you really looked into it, it sounded a bit off from someone who had made very clear how much he didn't care about you. But apparently he seemed to have forgotten that for a moment, as he walked over and knelt in front of your seat, fingers working quickly to unbuckle you as he scanned your face for any signs of a concussion.
And for a moment you believed the hit gave you one, because there was no way in hell this was real.
John Walker...being nice to you? Caring?
You blinked a few times at the sight of him crouched at your feet, heart thumping so loud on your chest you were sure he could hear it. John's eyebrows furrowed to your lack of response.
You considered faking the concussion so you could blame your dazed state to that and not to the fact that his large hands rested on your knees like he wasn’t the last person who wanted to touch you.
"I'm good," you finally replied, barely audible, but enough for him to let out a breath he was holding.
Your eyes dropped to your lap, and he was suddenly aware of the placement of his hands. He quickly cleared his throat, standing up to somehow pretend to shrug it off. He grabbed his shield from the floor and tightened it up in his arm, maybe a little too hard so he could control his own heartbeat.
"Okay then … time to go to work."
You cleared your throat too, nodding and trying to ignore the heat that flushed across your cheeks.
Must've been the landing... yeah, just that.
——
The rough landing seemed to had messed with the jet's communication system, leaving you unable to notify anyone back at the watchtower that you'd made it safely.
You barely got two steps outside before regretting every decision that led you to this point. The stupid bet with Yelena. Stupid Bob.
Actually, scratch that ... Yelena was taking the yelling for the both of them.
Even layered head to toe with Valentina's high tech tactical suit, the cold crept in through every seam and zipper. The forest around you was quiet, and too white, just frost covered pines and the sound of boots crunching the snow below you.
And... him.
He walked ahead of you, carrying the map completely unfazed by the freezing air, head high and posture perfect, with that ridiculous bent shield attached to his arm.
"Walker, why do you get the map?" you asked, not even trying to hide your irritation.
"Because I actually know how to read it," he replied without looking back.
You rolled your eyes. Honestly, you didn't even want the map, your crossed arms were staying glued to your chest for warmth. Picking a fight with him was just the most entertaining way to stay conscious.
You walked in silence for about fifteen minutes before you started talking again, not because you had anything relevant to say, but because it kept your jaw moving.
"How much longer?" you asked, not intending it to come out as whiny as it did, but the cold sinking in your bones was making your brain foggy.
"Can't keep up, already?" he mocked. "Want me to take out the Sentry I keep in my pocket? Maybe he can fly us there."
You inhaled sharply, resisting the sudden urge to stab him. No one would know ... right? Mission incident.
Just an incident.
You shook your head, you still needed him to get out of there. That didn't mean you couldn't mess with him a little longer.
So you sniffled.
"You're so mean, John," you mumbled, voice laced with fake hurt.
He stopped in his tracks, shocked about two things. First, did you just call him John? And second ... were you sobbing?
He immediately spun around to check, and Jesus, not a single tear. Just a goddamn grin spreading across your face. His jaw was tight as he turned away, clearly realizing he'd been played.
"You're impossible," he muttered, shaking his head as he began walking again. You laughed.
"I'm actually cold ... not that you'd get it Walker, you're biologically incapable of suffering."
"Can you just be quiet for two seconds?" He groaned. "Maybe shutting up will help you preserve some energy."
"Oh, I'm sorry," you huffed, "Are we saving that energy for all the arguing we're gonna do later?" you were panting now, hating the way your breaths came shorter from the lack of oxygen.
He stopped again, turned just enough to glance at you over his shoulder.
"You good back there, or do I need to carry you?"
There was a part of it that sounded like he actually gave a fuck, but most of it was just him being sarcastic. Or at least that's what you told yourself.
"Oh, please," you scoffed, trudging past him in the snow. "I'd rather get naked here in the cold than be carried by you." He let out a short, dry laugh, and continued trailing behind you.
Yes, fighting with you was entertaining to him too.
The two of you went deeper into the snowy woods for a while, until the trail curved into a clearing. There, a wide, frozen lake stretched in front of you, splitting the path you were supposed to get across. It was lightly dusted in snow, surface thin enough to be a problem but not so fragile you couldn't maybe cross it if you were careful.
If you were careful.
Walker stepped in front of you, eyes scanning the amount of space the lake covered. He cursed under his breath, realizing going around was not an option if he wanted to get this mission done before the night fell and you froze to death.
"I don't like the look of this." He muttered, shaking his head.
It didn't take long for him to get into his I-was-a-soldier-once persona, running through scenarios in his head until he chose the one he seemed to be satisfied with.
Surprise, it was always the same one. He leads.
"Okay ... you're gonna have to stay right behind me. I'll check the ice as I go, you step where I step, got it?" He turned to you, lifting his eyebrows expecting an answer while you looked at him with an annoyed expression.
Yes, you knew it was the safest way to do it, he just didn't have to sound so condescending about it.
"Yes ... got it Walker, thank you," you rolled your eyes, eager for him to just go so you could get this over with.
He sighed, and turned his back to you. He adjusted his shield on his arm and stretched his neck from side to side. You snorted, why was he so dramatic all the time?
"Let's go," he muttered, before testing the first step by tapping into the ice with his boot.
You made your way like that, he gave cautious long steps, first putting part of his weight to test it, then all of it, before he could step forward with you behind him. You kept yourself close to him, as much as you told yourself you didn't enjoy it, the broadness of his back covered you from the chill air and his body was so warm you could feel it through his suit.
You didn't notice when he came to an abrupt halt, lifting his right arm up as a 'stop sign' a second too late, causing you to collide against his back.
"What the– ouch!" You cursed when you crashed into him. He didn't even budge from his spot, it was like hitting a wall. A six foot two brick wall. "Do you mind warning me before stopping like that? you are literally made of concrete," you complained, rubbing your forehead.
"I signed it when I stopped," he furrowed his brows, pointing the hand he kept in the air.
"You are supposed to sign it before you stop, soldier boy. Or how about you just talk like a normal human being?"
"Listen, I think this is a thinner section, so we have to walk through slower, s l o w e r, is it clear enough for you now?" he said, spelling the world 'slower' as he made a walking motion with his fingers on the palm of his hand.
God, stabbing him never sounded like a better idea.
"Jesus Walker, do you even hear yourself when you talk? Just because you're leading doesn't mean you have to be a dick about it." You were almost yelling, completely fuming at this point.
"If you don't like the way I lead," he snapped, gesturing sharply in front of him, "then by all means, go ahead, take the lead. Break the ice if you want. I won't catch you if you drown."
You narrowed your eyes at him.
He didn't expect you to actually move.
But you did. Because you'd rather drown out of spite than let him think he had the final word. So you squared your shoulders and strode right past him without hesitation.
His hand shot out to grab your shoulder. "What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm taking the lead," you shrugged, and he looked at you in disbelief.
"Are you serious right now–"
You yanked your shoulder from his grasp before he could finish. "Dead serious."
You kept walking without testing your steps, John's eye twitched at the sound of your boots hitting the ice. At this point you had forgotten how cold you were, just from the anger at him alone.
"Oh great ... yeah, keep stomping like that. You want me to throw the shield too? Maybe help you break it faster?"
"No, Walker, I don't want your stupid taco shield. Besides, I'm lighter than you."
You kept your pace, ice creaking faintly beneath you, but you ignored it. You were almost halfway through. When his firm hand latched onto your forearm, rougher this time, stopping you in your tracks.
"Stop doing that!" he snapped, holding you firmer so you wouldn't let go. "You can't just walk off and–"
"God, stop stopping me!" you shouted back, twisting violently in his grip. "Let go of me, Walker!"
But this time, he wasn't gonna let you. You exhaled loudly, feeling helpless, so you stomped your foot on the thin ice. Great … you were letting John Walker make you throw a tantrum. He just got angrier at your reckless move.
"I gave you an order!" He finally snapped, making your eyes go wide in surprise to his audacity.
Where the hell does this man get off?
You just stood there in silence for a few seconds that felt like an eternity, his grip still firm on your forearm. Your brows furrowed, chest rising up and down from the confrontation. You swore your head was about to explode.
"You know what, Walker," you muttered, your voice was low because you felt that if you raised it any louder you were about to have a stroke. "Maybe if you used half of the brain inside your big stupid head you would realize you're not the boss of me."
He opened his mouth to talk, but nothing came out. His posture relaxed slightly, letting out a frustrated sigh.
"I'm just trying to keep you alive," he muttered, like he was trying to make you understand something he couldn't quite put into words.
You saw a flicker of something different in his eyes, making you lower your arm to stop resisting against his grip. You wanted to believe him, you really did. Flashes of the way he'd looked concerned about you back in the jet invaded your mind.
But no. You wouldn't give him the pleasure.
"I don't need you to do that," you whispered, and when you noticed a slight falter in his grip, you forcibly pulled yourself back.
The sound of cracking ice didn't even register to him until it was too late. You turned around to continue making your way, planning to ignore him the rest of the mission.
"Wait, stop—" he blurted out, reaching a hand to stop you, but you had already stepped forward.
The clear layer beneath your boots gave way in an instant. Freezing water swallowed you whole as you lost sight on John, who stood on what was left of the ice on the surface.
It wasn't just cold, it was paralyzing.
Your breath got caught somewhere in your lungs, never making it out. You tried to swim up but everything was so heavy, your limbs, your thoughts ... the world. You could only watch as you were dragged down from the light above.
This was it. Your last dumb mission, stuck with him of all people.
John's knees hit the ground hard, scrambling to the edge of the crack you'd fallen in, peering into the dark, freezing water. But he could see nothing.
"Shit—shit ... where are you?” he looked frantically, but there was no way he could get you out like that, the current had pulled you under.
He inmmediatly dropped the shield attached to his arm, the goddamn map, and didn't even think twice before diving in. The cold punched the air from his lungs, but he didn't care, he could take it. You couldn't.
His eyes went wide in the dark, searching through the blurry water for you. Minutes passed, but he refused to acknowledge how long it was taking him to find you, how his enhanced body was already pleading for oxygen.
But then, in the distance he saw something. A figure ... your body, sinking like it didn't belong to someone fighting for their life.
Maybe you weren't fighting anymore.
No. God please … no.
He got to you in three large strokes, grabbed you with one arm, and pushed up, only to be met with thick, unbroken ice above. He cursed, accidentally swallowing some water. He slammed his fist into it once, twice, he didn't know how many it took until it broke wide open, cracks stained with the blood of his hand.
It didn't matter, he would heal.
John bursted through the surface with you held tight to his chest, coughing, ignoring the cold sinking into his bones as he dragged you into a thicker part of the ice like his life depended on it.
Because it did. Because yours did. But you weren't breathing anymore.
"No no no ... hey, hey, come on–" he groaned, laying your head on his lap, gently tapping your cheek, but you didn’t open your eyes. "Fuck."
He cradled your head to place you flat on the ice, and kneeled beside you. You were still, too still, the image of your limp body broke something inside him he didn’t even know was there.
"Don't do this to me," he muttered, as he started CPR with just one blood stained hand so his strength wouldn't crack your ribs on top of everything else. "Come on. Come on, don't– not like this ... I didn't mean it dammit!"
He shook his head, wet hair splashing cold water everywhere, aggressively wiping his eyes with his free hand, before going down to blow oxygen into your mouth.
"Breathe .. please breathe. You're not–you're not allowed to go out like this, you hear me?"
He kept just kept going, didn't plan on giving up, not on you. Compress, oxygen. Compress, oxygen. Over and over.
Until you finally jerked under him.
Water burst from your mouth in a choking cough, body lurching forward, your hands reaching out to cling on something, anything.
John.
He exhaled like he hadn't since he saw you go under the water and immediately scooped you up against his chest, a large hand placed behind your head to steady you. You gasped as you shivered, and he just felt this excruciating pain in his chest.
"Okay ... okay. You're okay," he mumbled, more to himself than you. "You're going to be just fine."
He just stroked your hair, as he kept muttering 'you're okay' 'you're alive'. You coughed a few more times, clinging into the heat of his chest that escaped the wet fabric of his clothes. That's when you realized he was soaking and shaking too, he'd actually pulled you out.
"You ... you went after me," you blurted out.
John wanted to punch himself in that moment. Repeatedly. Why did he have to say all those things to you? He knew damn well he would go after you every time.
He held you tighter, and placed a kiss on your forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, voice cracking, something you never thought would hear from him, but man was he holding you like his life depended on it.
You wanted to say something else, but your teeth began chattering uncontrollably. You weakly pulled apart to look at him, maybe to let him know you felt your body giving out, maybe to look at him clearly one last time before your eyes began blurring more. And he saw it, he knew.
"No–no don't do that. Stay with me, alright? Listen to me! Just this once."
You're not the boss of me, Walker, you thought.
He finally stood up, pulling you up into his arms, one hand braced under your knees, the other across your back. "We're heading back to the jet. I need you to stay awake for me."
You just managed to nod, curling against his chest.
He left his shield behind, Val would get it back and if she didn't who cares. That wasn't important to him now, you were.
He miraculously managed to make it out the frozen lake without it breaking again, running right back into the forest path you'd already hiked through.
At this point, he didn't feel the cold anymore.
Didn't feel the bite of ice in his clothes, or the burning ache in his chest as he launched himself through the trees. You were trembling in his arms, he knew you were getting worse the longer he took to get you to shelter.
"Hey," John barked, louder than he meant to, like volume would anchor you to him. "C'mon. Say something, just keep talking."
You wanted to roll your eyes and laugh at him. He sounded way too desperate, for someone who couldnt stand you this morning. "You suck," you managed to blurt out, and you felt his laugh vibrate in his chest.
"Good girl," he replied, trying to get you mad at him like he'd done earlier in the jet, just so you talked to him.
Just so you stayed alive out of pure spite.
But you didn't fight him this time, you didn't want to anymore. He could boss you around all he wanted as long as you could feel the warmth of his body. As long as he kept running through the woods, holding you like you were the only thing that mattered to him.
"Eyes open. Stay with me." He groaned, when he didn't get the reaction he wanted. "Just a little longer, alright? Yell at me, go ahead, just keep saying shit. Insult my haircut. Tell me I ruined your day ... anything."
You made a noise, maybe a word, but it sounded wrong. Your head lolled against his shoulder and your lips were turning blue.
"Fuck," he hissed. "You're not dying on me."
The jet was on sight now, slightly buried in snow between the crashed pines. The second he reached the ramp, he stumbled up with you in his arms, kicking the door open. The inside was less cold than outside, but it was not enough.
He laid you gently on the copilot seat, and turned to the controls, desperately flipping switches to get the jet's heating system going, and fiddling with the comms settings to try to get to the team.
"Bucky? Yelena? Anybody, come in–" he barked, looking at you over his shoulder. "We need immediate extraction."
Nothing came back, the signal was still down.
"Goddammit." He slammed the control panel, a let out a string of curses under his breath.
He finally turned to your figure on the seat, and felt his whole chest cave in. You weren't moving anymore, just breathing shallow and slow. He could hear your heartbeat slowing down as you stared at him with half lidded eyes.
The jet had barely warmed up. It was like being inside a fucking freezer. There was no time, he knew what he needed to do.
"Fuck it."
He stripped off his gear quickly. The heat of his body had already dried off most of it. Still, he got rid of his tactical suit, gloves, the compression shirt he wore inside, until he was left in his underwear, body steaming against the crisp air.
He knelt by your chair, then hesitantly placed his hands on your soaked layers.
"Sorry ... I have to do this," he muttered, as his fingers found your suit's zipper. "I know you hate me. I know this is the last thing you want ... but I need you to live more than I need your permission right now."
His hands were careful. Gentle, even as they worked fast. He took off all layers, except for your underwear. His jaw clenched the whole time as he tried to keep his eyes from looking more than necessary.
He then lifted you off the seat so he could sit instead, placing you on his lap. He pulled you as close as he could, chest to chest, arms wrapped around your freezing body trying to trap as much heat as he could between you. He tilted your face gently, tucking it under his chin.
And God, he was warm.
By this point you had stopped shivering, but he knew it meant you were just at the worst stage of it. Your lips were blue, skin worryingly lifeless, and you couldn't quite figure out what was going on anymore.
"I got you," he whispered, kissing your head like he did when he got you out of the water. But that time you'd gotten back to him. Right now you were drifting away. "I've got you. You're gonna be okay."
"John?" His name came out unsure. Like you didn't remember he was even with you. Like you didn't remember you never called him John.
"Yeah it's me ... it's Walker. You hate my guts, remember? ... come on, stay with me," he held you tighter, wishing there was a way to give you all the serum going through his veins, even if it was him dying instead of you. "I didn't mean it. Any of it. You can punch me when you get better. I'll let you."
His hands ran through your back, your arms, rubbing warmth into your skin, trying to coax you back.
"I'll carry you through another mile of snow. I'll lose all the bets to Yelena if it means you get to yell at me one more time."
He didn't know what he was saying anymore. And it's not like you were hearing him anyways, time got strange after that.
You drifted in and out, sometimes aware of his arms around you, sometimes lost in the static of your own head. But slowly, like fog clearing, your mind began to catch up with your body. You felt heat all around you, like you were wrapped in something solid and safe.
And... bare.
Your cheek was pressed to bare skin.
John Walker's skin.
You blinked against the soft rise and fall of his chest, his heart thumping under your ear.
"...you're warm," you whispered, barely audible.
For a moment, he thought he’d imagined it. But you shifted in his grip enough to let him know that you were there, that you were real again.
Thanks to him.
"You're alive," he exhaled. His hand instinctively cupped the back of your head, fingers threading carefully through damp strands. "Jesus ... you're alive."
"You sound surprised," you rasped, lips ghosting a smirk.
"I watched you fall through the ice." His voice cracked on the word fall. "Yeah ... I'm fucking surprised."
"I can tell ... your heart is racing," you mumbled, voice coming out hoarse from your dry throat.
The adrenaline was still screaming through his bloodstream. He wanted to play it off, crack a joke, maybe roll his eyes and say yeah, thanks for ruining the mission, but none of that came out.
"Yeah ... well," he breathed out. "You scared the hell out of me."
There. He said it. Fuck it.
"I thought you hated me."
"I tried to.. . God knows, you make it easy."
That made you huff a shaky laugh. He ignored the way his heart skipped to that. You were laughing again. Alive. In his arms.
"You're not exactly sunshine yourself, John."
John. His name sounded so pretty coming out your lips when you were not dying.
"I know."
That was probably the first conversation that didn't end with you wanting to punch him in the face. Something had shifted.
Maybe almost dying was all it took.
It was like the cold had finally frozen the part of your brain that hated John Walker. Or the heat of his body had melted the part of you that still tried to pretend you did.
You nestled your face closer to his neck, trying to soak in the impossible warmth of his skin. "I didn't mean it either ... you know. All the times I said you were insufferable."
He didn't say anything.
"I mean, you are ... but–" You exhaled. "I think I just didn't want to deal with whatever this was."
You felt his fingers twitch against your back, still careful, like you weren't almost naked in his arms.
"Yeah," he said. "Same."
John looked down at you, still cradled to him like glass. You were watching him now, really watching him, and not with the usual disgust behind your eyes. This time it was something... gentler.
And he was close. Too close. You could feel the heat of him everywhere, arms still locked around you like you belonged there. And his gaze had stopped hiding whatever had been buried under all those arguments and insults.
He tilted his head, eyes flickering down to your lips for a second too long. That's when something snapped inside you. You surged forward before your brain could catch up.
It wasn't cute, not at first. It was cold dry lips, desperate touches, and months of pent up tension crashing together. But then he softened, his hand cradled your face like you were something fragile, and yours clung to his neck like maybe if you held tighter, this wouldn't end.
But it did, because he pulled apart, like he was still holding himself back. He shook his head.
"I want you alive first ... fully conscious," he whispered against your lips. "Not ... not like this."
Of course he wasn't sure if this was real. If this was just some kind of 'thanks for saving me' type kiss. Like tomorrow you would wake up and remember you hated him, and he wasn't sure if he could take that.
You shook your head, you have never known what you wanted more than in this moment. Maybe it was the adrenaline wearing off. Maybe it was the brush with death.
"No," you shook your head. "Ive never felt more alive ... and I'm not wasting another second."
John opened his mouth to argue, but you kissed him before he could. You took all the strenght left in your body to kiss him deeper, until it was less about the anger, the insecurities, and more about everything else you hadn't said yet.
And you showed him, with your hands running through his hair, with your tongue playing with his, that this kiss wasn't a just a thank you, it was an apology ... a finally. Because you still didn’t know what the hell this was, but neither of you wanted to fight it anymore.
You pulled back breathless, but you were still so close that you could feel his chest rising and falling against yours. And then ... you both laughed.
Awkwardly. Like you didn’t know what to do with each other now.
"...What on earth was that?" you whispered, smiling through the adrenaline crash.
"I ...I don't know," he muttered, a little dazed.
You knew you should be panicking, overthinking. You should be denying everything that just happened. Yet still, you're both laughing again, naturally, like you didn't spend the last months wanting to stab each other.
Something loosened inside you, and you closed your eyes. His warmth, John was so damn cozy and soft ... almost unreasonably so.
Until he oppened his mouth again. Because he was still John Walker after all.
"So... what was that about you rather being naked around here than letting me carry you?" He allowed himself to tease you, because he could now.
Because everything you said in your stupid argument came true. You just didn't expect him to rub it in. You opened your mouth in surprise, hitting his chest, but this time it was playful.
"Haha, very funny. What was that about you not going after me if I drowned?" you snarked back.
He chuckled, and god ... it felt so easy now. He didn't have to say something mean back this time, too many months wasted on that.
So he just leaned in and crashed his lips against you.
Because you were cold. Because you were warm. Because your lips were right there and he just saved your life. And he was sick of pretending he hated the sound of your voice.
This time what interrupted your little make out you was the voice of someone else.
"... h-hello? ... guys come in. We got your message, Walker. Already on our way. Are you both okay?"
Yelena's voice coming out the jet’s comms made your tongues freeze mid kiss. You split apart like teenagers caught making out in a janitors closet.
You were suddenly aware of your very compromising position ... almost naked.
"Oh my god ... oh my god, John," you panicked, looking at the pile of wet clothes on the floor. "She's not even gonna let us explain it to her."
"Just ... don't answer yet," he hissed. "Give me a second to ... it's just my face, I can't—" He turned away from you.
"Are you blushing?" You chuckled through your panic.
"No ... It's the cold, shut up."
"Guys, do you copy? Hellooo ... this is Yelena … I swear to God if you two are dead, I'm going to be very upset."
You scrambled upright, before she thought about accessing the jets cameras or video calling, and tapped the console to talk to her.
"This is Walker and uh ... me," you said, voice slightly breathless. "We're alive, mission compromised. But we're... okay."
There was a pause, and you thought maybe you saved your asses.
"Why do you sound like you've been making out?"
You didn't answer immediately.
"Hold on ..." she hurried, and you panicked.
A white light flickered, signaling image was coming through. A fucking video call.
Before you could launch towards the control deck to cut the communication, a hollogram showed the inside of another jet, and Yelena's face. Or more accurately, Yelena's extremely judgmental face. Her eyes went wide, jaw almost falling to the floor.
"What the fuck are you guys doing?"
John cursed under his breath and reached blindly to get his tactical shirt, laying it over your shoulders to cover whatever was left of your dignity. Bob's voice came in behind her.
"Wait, wait ... move, lemme see—holy shit,” he covered his mouth with both hands, in half amusement, half disbelief.
Ava shoved herself into frame next, squinting. "Are you guys... naked?"
Bucky just peeked his head in. "They are."
You covered your face with both hands, muffling a mortified groan. John just tipped his head back and let out the most dramatic sigh of his life.
"I swear to god," he muttered. "We weren't ... we're not—it was hypothermia!"
"And your solution was...?" Yelena teased.
"Body heat, Belova," he snapped, rolling his eyes. "It's called first aid, look it up."
"Well ... clearly you got aided." Ava smirked at you.
Bob's voice chimed in again. "I bet that's not the only thing he—"
"BOB."
Yelena mouthed a sorry to the camera after shutting him up, and gently pushed him to the side. Ava disappeared next to them. Even off frame you could still hear their muffled laughs.
Bucky just scanned your face through the screen. "You okay?"
You nodded, because you were. You finally were. "He's really warm."
John cleared his throat.
"We need evac. She's stable now but still cold. Jet heating wasn't enough, I did the only thing I could."
"Copy that," Bucky nodded, biting his cheek to not say anything. "Reaching your coordinates, just please... put your shirts back on before we get there."
━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━
Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated, thank you so much for reading <3
Description: You leave quite an impression, short and sweet to be exact. John is obsessed. The way he can mandhandle you. Lift you up to reach things. Cage you under his body while his hand covers your entire face.
Tags/Warnings: no specific height mentioned but the whole thing is about being short, smut, size kink, John being down bad, dirty talk, praising.
Note: Someone asked me what I thought about John having a size kink with a short reader, so I just had to write a little something about this bc I'm 5'0 to be exact and I need a piece of that 6'2 man. Just a cute little something while I finish a longer angsty fic, enjoy 🫶🏼
The archive | Masterlist
━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━
John Walker absolutely gets off on being big.
Because he IS big. He's tall, back is broad as hell, he's got that healthy I've-been-an-athlete-my-whole-life body, and don’t even get me started on those large hands.
John knows he's usually taller than most people he meets, with the few exceptions of someone like Alexei for example. He doesn’t really think about it much, because it's been like that his whole life.
Until he meets you.
The first time he really notices just how much he towers over you? How he could lift you up and put you anywhere like it's nothing?
Yeah, you bet he’s done for.
He’s standing behind you during a mission briefing, pretending to listen to Yelena talk tactics, when suddenly his focus shifts. To you in front of him. Or more accurately, below him. The fact that your head barely reaches his shoulders fucks something in his brain chemistry.
After that? he just sees you differently.
He notices everything. How you always have to get on your tiptoes to reach anything. How your legs dangle when you sit on the kitchen stool. How he had to literally lift you over his shoulder to help you climb a wall in a mission. His heart, and something else, didn't leave him alone the rest of the day.
Or that one time you tripped and he caught your hand before you fell, your palm swallowed by his. He looked down at that size difference and again … his body betrayed him.
And once he has you? Once you’re his?
He's down bad.
He’s suddenly placing things on higher shelves in your room, in the kitchen, anywhere. Just so you have to ask for his help. Or so he gets to wrap his arms around you from behind and lift you. Preferably the last one.
One time Yelena caught on and screamed at him because she couldn’t reach the cereal box and “not all of us have a bodyguard to get shit down for us, Walker!”
He doesn't care.
When he sees you siting on a stool, feet not touching the ground. He’ll lean down, tilt his head and go, “You comfy like that, sweetheart?” and then lift you off the stool to plop you on his lap instead. “There. That’s better.”
But he doesn’t mock you for your height. Never. He teases, yeah, smirks when you try to reach something on your own, maybe picks you up when you least expect it just to hear you yelp. But he would never make you feel small in a bad way.
Why would he complain when it makes him feel like he’s got a purpose? Like he’s built just for you?
When he can just manhandle you whenever he wants to?
You could be just minding your business, stretching on a mat at the tower’s gym and John just decided he needed to fuck you in that moment. He just towers over you, sweeps you up, legs dangling in front of his chest as he places you on his shoulder to carry you fireman style.
“John!!”
“Yeah?”
“Put me down.”
“I am, baby. Down on the bed.”
You don’t protest any longer. You know it’s useless. And maybe you just want him to fuck you in that moment too.
And once he’s got you in bed, all laid out in front of him, that’s when it hits him. Really hits him.
How much of a smaller frame you have against his.
Like you’re small not just in the casual sense. In the fuck-it’s-making-me-feral sense.
You blink up at him, dazed. “You okay?”
He just stares. Then swipes his thumb across your cheek, down your throat, resting it right above your collarbone like he’s measuring you.
“Yeah. I just… damn.” His voice drops lower, a little hoarse. “I’ll never get tired of how you look under me.”
He cages you in, braced on his forearms, letting his weight sink just enough to press you into the mattress. He’s not even inside you yet and you already feel like you can’t breathe, wrapped in warmth and muscle and the scent of him. Under that unfairly broad chest, your hands flattening against it to keep you from completely losing it.
He glances down. “Look at that. Can barely see your hand on me.”
Then he grabs your wrist and holds it up to his own. Your palm being ridiculously swallowed by his.
He groans.
“Oh, I like this,” he says, and you feel the moment his restraint cracks, like it always does with you. “Fuck, I like this.”
It doesn’t take long until you’re naked, pleading to be absolutely wrecked by every part of him.
He’s obsessed with how your body looks under him. How your thighs spread wide to take him. How your hands can barely wrap around his arms, around his waist. How your mouth can barely take him.
“God, look at you baby. You sure you can take all of me?”
And sweet hell, you barely can.
He loves the way your body fights to take him. The stretch. The tremble. The way you gasp when he’s only halfway in. And he never rushes, he soaks it in. Watches your face contort with every inch, feels your nails claw at his shoulders, like he’s too much and not enough at the same time.
The way your hips twitch, the way your mouth parts when he bottoms out … it sends him.
“Hurts so good, huh? You always do so good for me, sweetheart.”
You blurt something out, breathless, shaky “so full… John” your head rolls back and he growls.
He lives for you being overwhelmed. He talks you through it in that low, his voice rough in awe. “Yeah that’s it, so full of me … you’re taking me so well, baby.”
His hand covers your entire face. Pressing you down onto the mattress, “So damn little… barely gotta try to hold you down, huh?”
You go dumb on it, completely lost on his giant frame, on the strength he still holds back, until all you can let out are those tiny, wrecked noises he lives for.
“Look at that,” he pants, pushing roughly. “You’re so full. You’re shaking, sweetheart. Think I’m too big?”
He begs to finish inside. Because you’re so small and soft and fucking perfect and he needs to feel it. “Let me, sweetheart. Let me fill you up, come on. Let me see how much your body can take.”
He fills you until it drips. He’s obsessed.
And after? He will straight up collapse on you, all sweaty and satisfied, while you’re still shaking from your high, caged under his entire body.
The cuddles hit different. You sleep on him, under him, around him. He wraps himself around you like a weighted blanket. “You okay under there?” he teases, knowing damn well you can’t move when he has his heavy arms around you.
Description: You leave quite an impression, short and sweet to be exact. John is obsessed. The way he can mandhandle you. Lift you up to reach things. Cage you under his body while his hand covers your entire face.
Tags/Warnings: no specific height mentioned but the whole thing is about being short, smut, size kink, John being down bad, dirty talk, praising.
Note: Someone asked me what I thought about John having a size kink with a short reader, so I just had to write a little something about this bc I'm 5'0 to be exact and I need a piece of that 6'2 man. Just a cute little something while I finish a longer angsty fic, enjoy 🫶🏼
The archive | Masterlist
━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━
John Walker absolutely gets off on being big.
Because he IS big. He's tall, back is broad as hell, he's got that healthy I've-been-an-athlete-my-whole-life body, and don’t even get me started on those large hands.
John knows he's usually taller than most people he meets, with the few exceptions of someone like Alexei for example. He doesn’t really think about it much, because it's been like that his whole life.
Until he meets you.
The first time he really notices just how much he towers over you? How he could lift you up and put you anywhere like it's nothing?
Yeah, you bet he’s done for.
He’s standing behind you during a mission briefing, pretending to listen to Yelena talk tactics, when suddenly his focus shifts. To you in front of him. Or more accurately, below him. The fact that your head barely reaches his shoulders fucks something in his brain chemistry.
After that? he just sees you differently.
He notices everything. How you always have to get on your tiptoes to reach anything. How your legs dangle when you sit on the kitchen stool. How he had to literally lift you over his shoulder to help you climb a wall in a mission. His heart, and something else, didn't leave him alone the rest of the day.
Or that one time you tripped and he caught your hand before you fell, your palm swallowed by his. He looked down at that size difference and again … his body betrayed him.
And once he has you? Once you’re his?
He's down bad.
He’s suddenly placing things on higher shelves in your room, in the kitchen, anywhere. Just so you have to ask for his help. Or so he gets to wrap his arms around you from behind and lift you. Preferably the last one.
One time Yelena caught on and screamed at him because she couldn’t reach the cereal box and “not all of us have a bodyguard to get shit down for us, Walker!”
He doesn't care.
When he sees you siting on a stool, feet not touching the ground. He’ll lean down, tilt his head and go, “You comfy like that, sweetheart?” and then lift you off the stool to plop you on his lap instead. “There. That’s better.”
But he doesn’t mock you for your height. Never. He teases, yeah, smirks when you try to reach something on your own, maybe picks you up when you least expect it just to hear you yelp. But he would never make you feel small in a bad way.
Why would he complain when it makes him feel like he’s got a purpose? Like he’s built just for you?
When he can just manhandle you whenever he wants to?
You could be just minding your business, stretching on a mat at the tower’s gym and John just decided he needed to fuck you in that moment. He just towers over you, sweeps you up, legs dangling in front of his chest as he places you on his shoulder to carry you fireman style.
“John!!”
“Yeah?”
“Put me down.”
“I am, baby. Down on the bed.”
You don’t protest any longer. You know it’s useless. And maybe you just want him to fuck you in that moment too.
And once he’s got you in bed, all laid out in front of him, that’s when it hits him. Really hits him.
How much of a smaller frame you have against his.
Like you’re small not just in the casual sense. In the fuck-it’s-making-me-feral sense.
You blink up at him, dazed. “You okay?”
He just stares. Then swipes his thumb across your cheek, down your throat, resting it right above your collarbone like he’s measuring you.
“Yeah. I just… damn.” His voice drops lower, a little hoarse. “I’ll never get tired of how you look under me.”
He cages you in, braced on his forearms, letting his weight sink just enough to press you into the mattress. He’s not even inside you yet and you already feel like you can’t breathe, wrapped in warmth and muscle and the scent of him. Under that unfairly broad chest, your hands flattening against it to keep you from completely losing it.
He glances down. “Look at that. Can barely see your hand on me.”
Then he grabs your wrist and holds it up to his own. Your palm being ridiculously swallowed by his.
He groans.
“Oh, I like this,” he says, and you feel the moment his restraint cracks, like it always does with you. “Fuck, I like this.”
It doesn’t take long until you’re naked, pleading to be absolutely wrecked by every part of him.
He’s obsessed with how your body looks under him. How your thighs spread wide to take him. How your hands can barely wrap around his arms, around his waist. How your mouth can barely take him.
“God, look at you baby. You sure you can take all of me?”
And sweet hell, you barely can.
He loves the way your body fights to take him. The stretch. The tremble. The way you gasp when he’s only halfway in. And he never rushes, he soaks it in. Watches your face contort with every inch, feels your nails claw at his shoulders, like he’s too much and not enough at the same time.
The way your hips twitch, the way your mouth parts when he bottoms out … it sends him.
“Hurts so good, huh? You always do so good for me, sweetheart.”
You blurt something out, breathless, shaky “so full… John” your head rolls back and he growls.
He lives for you being overwhelmed. He talks you through it in that low, his voice rough in awe. “Yeah that’s it, so full of me … you’re taking me so well, baby.”
His hand covers your entire face. Pressing you down onto the mattress, “So damn little… barely gotta try to hold you down, huh?”
You go dumb on it, completely lost on his giant frame, on the strength he still holds back, until all you can let out are those tiny, wrecked noises he lives for.
“Look at that,” he pants, pushing roughly. “You’re so full. You’re shaking, sweetheart. Think I’m too big?”
He begs to finish inside. Because you’re so small and soft and fucking perfect and he needs to feel it. “Let me, sweetheart. Let me fill you up, come on. Let me see how much your body can take.”
He fills you until it drips. He’s obsessed.
And after? He will straight up collapse on you, all sweaty and satisfied, while you’re still shaking from your high, caged under his entire body.
The cuddles hit different. You sleep on him, under him, around him. He wraps himself around you like a weighted blanket. “You okay under there?” he teases, knowing damn well you can’t move when he has his heavy arms around you.
pairing: john walker x fem!reader
summary: you’ve been undercover at plenty of events before. but this is the first time you’ve had to do it while resisting the urge to climb john walker like a tree. (spoiler alert: you do not resist)
tags: sam’s avengers!reader, spy!reader, bombshell!reader, strangers to lovers, instant attraction, john’s thunderbolts glow up needs to be studied because (and i cannot emphasise this enough) damn
warning(s): sabrina carpenter levels of horniness, reader wears a dress and heels, suggestive content (no smut just some spice lol)
word count: 6.2k
note: based on the sabrina carpenter song of the same name. this one is for all the lovely people who hyped me up when i made this post teasing this fic. i appreciate you all 🫶🏻
masterlist
Valentina’s gala had the kind of budget you only ever saw in Bond films and billionaire divorces: chandeliers dripping crystals, champagne flowing faster than tap water in most cities, a string quartet sawing away like they feared for their lives. Which, knowing Valentina, they probably did.
You had to admit, grudgingly, that the woman knew how to stage a spectacle. If you didn’t hate her guts, you might’ve given her props for putting on such a swanky event.
A waiter passed with a tray of champagne, and you accepted a flute like you belonged. The gown helped. Floor-length, slinky enough to earn second glances, heels sharp enough to qualify as weaponry. This was your job: blend in, dazzle, be the distraction if you had to.
“Status check?” Joaquín’s voice buzzed in your ear, familiar and excited.
“Currently blending seamlessly with the rich and powerful,” you murmured into your comm, lips barely moving. You gave the waiter a gracious nod as he drifted past. “Also, I may need hazard pay. Someone’s great-grandfather just winked at me.”
“You’re welcome,” Joaquín shot back. “I hacked your invite list slot next to the fun donors.”
“Fun is not the word I’d use. Predatory, maybe.” You sipped the expensive champagne and did a casual-looking sweep of the room.
“You sound stiff. Nervous?” Joaquín was a lot like a brother to you, and that included the annoying teasing.
“That’s the dress, I don’t get nervous,” you reminded him.
His chuckle softened into the more serious tone he reserved for work. “Keep your eyes open. Valentina’s pulling in half her contacts tonight, so he should be around here somewhere. If we’re lucky, you’ll find him before dessert.”
“And if we’re unlucky?” you asked lightly.
“Then you’ll do what you always do. Smile, improvise, and somehow walk out without a scratch.”
You smirked into your glass because Joaquín wasn’t wrong. The truth was, you’d always had your footing, even in rooms like this where the air smelled like money and ulterior motives. Confidence wasn’t just your armour, it was a second skin.
You were halfway through debating whether or not to start talking to people to blend in better when you saw him. At first glance, you assumed he was just another rich donor with a security clearance fetish. Then he turned, and you nearly choked on your champagne.
When did John Walker get hot? And no, you were not saying that lightly.
Last time you’d seen him, he’d been clean-shaven, hair regulation-short, jaw set like someone had carved it out of stone. A man so polished he squeaked. The kind of man you didn’t look at twice unless you wanted a lecture about “duty” or “protocol.”
Now? The universe must have gotten horny-drunk and rolled out a cosmic rebrand that was designed just to get to you.
The beard should’ve been illegal. Not full lumberjack, but just enough to rough up that all-American jawline. The hair was slightly longer, like he’d missed a couple of regulation trims, and you didn’t mind one bit. And the suit—dear God, the suit—hugged his broad frame in a way you were jealous of.
You would’ve remembered if John Walker looked like that last time you saw him. You prided yourself on your memory. Names, faces, floor plans, door codes. But this required a triple-take.
You told yourself it was just the spy in you, cataloguing details for later. But the catalogue was starting to feel suspiciously like a sexy fantasy, imagining big hands gripping your hips, a broad chest pressing you into a wall, that jawline scraping along the inside of your thighs.
Professional? Absolutely not. But your brain wasn’t exactly taking the professional route tonight. And because the universe loved irony, that was the exact moment his eyes found you.
John hadn’t been scanning the room for anyone in particular. He was too busy looking like he wanted to be anywhere else. But then his eyes caught yours, and then came the double-take. His gaze flicked down the line of your gown, back up to your face, and then down once more before dragging away. It was what you called the guilty man’s swivel.
That made you smirk. If John Walker was trying not to look aroused, he needed a lot more practice.
He’d separated himself from the crowd and stood by the bar, a lone figure nursing a glass of caramel-coloured alcohol. Bourbon, if you had to guess. He seemed like the type. His beard had a reddish tint, and the line of his shoulders said he was only half at ease. Not slouched but not rigid, caught somewhere between soldier and man.
You crossed the floor with the kind of casual elegance that only came from years of practice. John didn’t notice until you were leaning against the polished wood beside him, close enough to smell the bite of bourbon mingling with his aftershave. Woodsy, expensive, but not quite hiding the undertone of nerves.
“You know,” you said, letting your voice drip with mischief, “that’s a dangerous look you’re working with. Guess I should’ve expected you’d look good out of uniform.”
John’s head turned at once, sharp but wary. Those eyes, bluer up close than you remembered, narrowed just a fraction. “Excuse me?”
You tilted your champagne glass toward his jawline, letting your gaze linger a touch too long. “I didn’t mind the squeaky clean soldier look, but this is definitely better. Less Captain America, more Captain Unzip-My-Dress.”
In your comms, you heard Joaquín suppress a laugh. “Are you flirting with John Walker?! I literally can’t with you…”
John’s mouth twitched, defensive but betrayed by the smallest curve of a smile. “It’s just a beard.”
“Sure it is.” You sipped, letting the bubbles kiss your lip before speaking again. “And I’m just a girl in a dress. Doesn’t mean people aren’t staring.”
The tips of his ears went pink. John’s throat shifted when he swallowed, and you were annoyingly aware of how broad his chest was under that suit. How easy it would be to undo his tie, drag it down that chest, watch his composure shred thread by thread…
He huffed, looking down at his glass. You’d rattled him, and you liked it.
“D’you always offer strangers opinions on their facial hair?” he asked.
“Only if it takes up all my attention,” you said sweetly.
You let a moment of silence stretch between you. John Walker hadn’t had women flirt with him in the last couple of years, and you liked watching him squirm. The sounds of the gala filled the quiet; clinking glasses, someone’s too-loud laughter carrying across the floor.
Your instincts ticked through the signs automatically. The way his fingers gripped his glass too tight, like he needed something to keep him anchored. The subtle flex in his jaw each time you spoke, muscle working under skin. The nervous shift of his neck as a flush crept up the skin there.
Then there was the flicker of heat when his eyes couldn’t help but find you again. Like his body had already decided before his brain could catch up. You knew that look. You’d seen it in alleyways, in hotel rooms, in the sharp intake of breath just before someone kissed you like they’d been starving for days.
John wasn’t the only one. The sight of him this close—the warmth rolling off him, the steady thrum of restrained energy under that suit and tie—had your stomach warm in a way you hadn’t expected.
Your brain was already sketching out scenarios. John pinning you against the bar, his hips pressing into yours, his hand tangled in your hair. Not the mission, you reminded yourself, but oh, what a very welcome detour.
“You’re staring,” John muttered finally.
“Am I?” you mused, tapping a finger against the bar. “Maybe I’m just deciding whether you’re the same John Walker I remember.”
That got his attention. His head lifted, brow furrowed. “Do I know you?”
“We met once upon a time,” you said vaguely, swirling the bubbles in your glass. “You had a different haircut, more of that good old-fashioned military restraint. You were busy chasing anarchists, so I doubt I made an impression.”
John blinked, confusion softening into something a little sheepish. “Sorry. I met a lot of people back when I—” He hesitated, grimacing. Back when I was Captain America.
“Convenient excuse,” you teased. “Don’t worry. I don’t hold it against you.”
That earned you a huffed laugh, reluctant but real. His defences bent just enough for a grin to slip through. “Are you always like this?”
“Yes,” you said simply, lowering your voice just a notch. “When I meet someone interesting.”
John finally looked at you. His gaze slid languidly down the line of your gown, lingered at the shape of your hips, then snapped back to your face like he’d been caught doing something unbecoming.
Red tinged his cheeks. It made you think of another scenario where he might be flushed. You saw a preview of him looking down at you in bed, breath rough, hand braced on the headboard. The heat pooled low in your stomach, not at all unwelcome.
John Walker wasn’t supposed to be this gorgeous, but here you were. Leaning in close enough to hear the breath catch in his chest when you brushed your fingers against his wrist, and imagining what his breath would sound like between kisses.
You let him stew in the intensity of his own intrigue for a beat, then raised your glass. “To new beginnings.”
John blinked at you, a little dazed. After a beat, he raised his bourbon to meet you in a tentative toast. “To new beginnings,” he echoed.
Oh, this was going to be fun.
He still looked faintly rattled from your toast, like the bourbon had gone straight to his bloodstream. You knew the serum didn’t let him get drunk, so it had to be your effect on him. His fingers tapped once against the rim, then stilled like he’d ordered himself not to fidget.
“So,” John said, clearing his throat. His voice was deeper than it needed to be, like he was forcing it steady. “You said we’ve met. When was that, exactly?”
You hummed, feigning thought. “Oh, a few years ago in New York City. I think it was during that business with the Flag Smashers.” You let your finger trace the rim of your glass, slow and suggestive.
His brows drew together, suspicion threading the blue of his gaze. Then, his eyes lingered on your hand’s tantalising movement a second too long. “That was—” John hesitated, jaw flexing tight. “That was a rough time.”
“I wasn’t too close to the action.” You gave him a smile that didn’t explain anything. No need for him to remember you standing shoulder to shoulder with Sam and Bucky. Best to keep that little detail tucked away.
He seemed to accept the half-answer, though his mouth pulled taut. “Sorry if I don’t remember. I was a little tied up at the time.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” you murmured, letting your knee brush his as you adjusted your stance. You didn’t step away. Neither did he. “I guess I just have one of those forgettable faces.”
His gaze skimmed you now. Your throat, the curve of your mouth, the neckline of your dress. John shifted, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. “And what do you do now? What brings you here tonight?”
“Supporting the cause.” You motioned toward the stage, where Valentina was droning on. “It’s always fun to see who’s trying to save the world in a tux.”
“That’s vague,” John said, narrowing his eyes.
“Occupational hazard,” you replied sweetly. You let your fingertips graze the back of his hand on the bar as you set your glass down.
His hand twitched but didn’t move. It was just as big as you’d hoped. Your brain was already spiralling: his hand gripping your hip, tugging you flush against him, those broad shoulders pressing you down against polished wood, his voice rasping, stay still as he…
You had to bite the inside of your cheek to drag yourself back.
“God, you’re shameless,” Joaquín complained in your ear, and you had to stop yourself from laughing outright.
John, mercifully, thought your grin was for him. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing,” you lied smoothly. “Just thinking how odd it is that nobody else has scooped you up yet.”
He looked down, giving a faux smile. “Not really the most popular guy in the room, am I?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” You leaned in, close enough that your perfume wrapped around him. His eyes shut as he inhaled sharply, like he couldn’t help himself. “You look like you could throw me over your shoulder and run half a mile without breaking a sweat. It’s disarmingly sexy.”
The tips of John’s ears went scarlet again. His eyes snapped to yours, then away again, like he couldn’t decide if you were joking. You weren’t. In fact, you were very busy imagining exactly how it would feel if he did throw you over his shoulder.
“You can’t seriously be fantasising about this guy right now,” Joaquín hissed, his voice tinny through the comm.
“Shh,” you murmured as you took a sip of champagne.
“You’re trouble,” John muttered, almost like he meant it as a warning.
“Oh?” You brushed your hand against his forearm, delighted to feel him tense under the touch. His skin was hot through the fabric, the muscle rigid, straining.
John’s lips parted, then shut again, as if he had to physically bite back a response. Military training, public disgrace. The man was hardwired to keep himself contained. No doubt Valentina kept a tight ship.
But his body was already telling you everything you needed to know. His grip on the bourbon glass was tight enough to whiten his knuckles, and his knee was still pressed into yours.
Your brain obligingly supplied a picture of those same knuckles pressing into your hips, holding you down. His breath was hot against your neck as he muttered something filthy he’d deny the next morning. Where all of this was coming from, you weren’t sure. But you were determined to see if you could make any of it come true.
John exhaled sharply through his nose, like he was steadying himself. His gaze flicked to your mouth, then away. Then back again. He was losing the battle. God, what would he look like when that restraint finally snapped? Or when he stopped caring about who was watching?
You leaned in, your lips nearly brushing his ear. “Careful, John Walker. I think you might actually like trouble.”
His breath caught, audible this time.
The gala hum was louder now, the clink of champagne flutes and laughter ricocheting off crystal chandeliers. The string quartet had transitioned into something sultry enough to be mistaken for a slow jazz number. Music and mingling pressed around you, but all you felt was John’s eyes when he finally set down his glass.
“Do you dance?” he asked suddenly, like he’d had to wrench the words out of himself.
Your brows arched. “Depends. Is that an invitation?”
The faintest twitch pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Could be.”
Joaquín groaned in your ear. “Oh no. Don’t you dare—”
“Hiding in plain sight, fly boy,” you murmured under your breath, already slipping your hand into John’s when he offered it.
His palm was warm, callused, and immediately fired off images you had no business entertaining in the middle of a charity event. John led you through the crowd with unconscious ease, parting people like a tide. His hand shifted to your lower back, and he instinctively angled his shoulder between you when a sudden flash came from the photographers by the entrance. Protective and dangerously attractive.
On the dance floor, John hesitated a half-beat. You pressed closer, guiding his hands into place. One settled against your waist, hot through the fabric of your dress. The other clasped yours, his grip careful but firm.
“Relax,” you teased, catching his eye. “It’s just moving in time to the music. I promise it’s not a combat exercise.”
John’s jaw worked, but then he actually moved. Hesitant at first, then surprisingly smooth, his steps solid and sure. His body knew what to do even if his brain thought otherwise.
“See?” you murmured. “Not so bad.”
“Not sure I’d call this my natural habitat,” he muttered, a hint of rough amusement threading through.
“You’re doing just fine.” You let your thumb graze his palm. “Better than fine, really. I’d almost think you’ve been hiding this side of yourself.”
John’s gaze shifted to yours, blue eyes sharp, like he wasn’t sure whether to be suspicious or flattered. “What side’s that?”
“The one that knows how to take the lead,” you said, letting the word curl into something more suggestive.
You indulged the way John’s hand flexed against your waist, resisting the urge to pull you closer. His body was solid, pressed to yours, broad chest rising and falling against your shoulder. And your mind went straight off the rails: that same chest pushing you down into silk sheets, his weight anchoring you, that careful grip on your waist turning into something rougher, possessive—
You swallowed, forcing a smile to cover it. “Careful, John. Keep moving like that and people might think you’re enjoying yourself.”
His lips twitched again. John didn’t quite smile, but the tension in his shoulders eased. “Maybe I am,” he admitted quietly.
You covered the lurch of your heart with a grin, bumping your hip against his as the tempo shifted. “See? Now you’re catching on. Next thing I know you’ll be dipping me.”
His hand at your waist tightened, just slightly, like he was considering it. John Walker was unravelling, and you were more than happy to help pull the thread.
“You’re trouble,” he said again, but this time there wasn’t much heat in it. It sounded more like wonder.
You tilted your chin up, meeting his gaze fully. “I’d certainly like to be in trouble with you.”
The music smoothed into a graceful number that begged for something slow and close. John’s hand had steadied at your waist, his palm broad and warm, firm enough to make your stomach flutter. His eyes flicked down to yours, then away, as though every glance was dangerous.
Finally, his voice rumbled low, almost drowned by the swell of the quartet. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
John’s jaw flexed. “Flirting with me.”
Your smile curved slyly. “Is that what I’m doing?”
“You know it is.” His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you imperceptibly closer. John’s voice was rough, steady, but edged with something raw. “I know what people think of me. I’ve read the articles; the jokes about the B-vengers, the mistakes I’ve made. So why would you come anywhere near me?”
For a beat, your heart caught at the vulnerability in his tone.
“John,” you purred, leaning close enough that your lips nearly brushed the shell of his ear. “If I cared what other people thought, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be in your arms. And I certainly wouldn’t be imagining all the ways this night could end if you stop worrying about everyone else and just…” You let the pause stretch, edging your mouth towards his jaw. “Take what you want.”
“Jesus Christ,” John groaned quietly.
Filled with disgust, Joaquín echoed, “Jesus Christ.”
One second, you were swaying in rhythm. The next, John’s hand slid firmly down to your hip, his other clasping yours tighter. He spun you with surprising grace, then caught you cleanly in his arms, dipping you back in a long, practised motion that stole your breath. The room flipped, but all you felt was his arms, steady and strong, holding you.
His face hovered inches above yours, his breath mingling with yours. You licked your lips before you could stop yourself, and his eyes darted down to the motion.
“Careful,” John muttered, voice strained as he helped you upright.
“I wish you’d be less careful,” you shot back shamelessly, your lips just a breath away from his.
The heat in John’s gaze darkened, his jaw tight, his mouth hovering a fraction from yours. Every muscle in him screamed restraint, but the raw hunger was right there, barely caged.
You arched slightly into his hold, reckless, taunting. “If you keep looking at me like that, I might think you’re about to kiss me.”
“Maybe I am,” John rasped.
The world narrowed to his mouth, his breath, the dizzying heat curling low in your belly. His nose brushed yours, so achingly close, and your pulse hammered in your throat as if it might leap out of your skin to meet him.
Joaquín’s voice was a strangled whisper in your ear. “Don’t. Don’t you dare. I swear to god, I’ll turn my comms off.”
But you barely heard Joaquín. Because John had pulled you in, his body flush with yours, and his lips were hovering a heartbeat away from setting you on fire. For one perfect moment, you almost forgot there was a mission at all.
“Come on, John,” you teased, your lips slightly grazing John’s as you spoke. Your eyes were lethal despite your honeyed tone. “Just let go. How bad could it be?”
Something flickered in his gaze, hesitation mixing with the kind of heat that sent tingles down your spine. His jaw flexed, like he was fighting himself. “I don’t exactly do this kind of thing often.”
You weren’t feeling patient tonight. “I need you so badly,” you added softly, almost whining. John’s brows shot up, and you followed it with the knife twist. “Please? When did you get so hot?”
That did it. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.” John rasped, voice low, rough.
“Oh, I think I do,” you countered, shamelessly. “And I think you want it too.”
John caught your forearm, his palm hot where it wrapped around your skin, and tugged you off the dance floor. His grip was firm but not unkind; insistent and possessive. Your heart kicked up a notch, excitement thrumming through your veins as he cut a path through the crowd.
Your heels clicked over marble as you let him pull you along, and you couldn’t help the breathless laugh that bubbled out. “John Walker, man on a mission. I like this side of you.”
He didn’t answer, just threw a look over his shoulder that had your knees loose. His eyes burned, wild and wanting, and you wanted to be caught in that fire. The crowd blurred around you. John didn’t stop until he found a secluded corner past a marble column, dimly lit, the thrum of music muffled by distance.
And then he turned.
Your back hit the wall, cool stone against your bare shoulders, a jolt that made your breath catch. John’s body caged you in, heat rolling off him in waves. One hand pressed to the wall by your head, the other sliding firm against your waist, pinning you there without a word. You barely had time to gasp before his mouth crashed onto yours.
He was sharp and hungry, teeth grazing, lips parting like he’d been starving for this all night. You felt the drag of stubble against your skin, rough and perfect, and the way his chest pressed flush to yours, solid muscle caging you in. His kiss tasted of bourbon, smoky and hot.
You made a soft, involuntary sound into his mouth, half-plea, half-victory.
The sound you made seemed to snap something in him. Suddenly, John was everywhere—his mouth devouring yours, his body pressing you harder into the wall like he wanted to stamp you into the stone. His hand left your waist to grip your thigh, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp as he hiked your leg up against his hip.
You broke from his lips for half a second, breathless. “John—”
“Don’t say my name like that,” he growled, voice wrecked, before dragging his mouth down your throat. His teeth grazed your pulse point, and you swore you felt him smirk when you arched.
“Oh, I’ll say it however the hell I want.” You tangled your fingers in his hair and yanked, sharp enough to make him groan into your skin. The sound vibrated against your collarbone, low and filthy.
John kissed you again, messier this time, tongue pushing past your lips like he had to taste every part of you. He kissed like a man who’d gone without for too long, all need and no finesse, but you didn’t care. You bit his lower lip, tugged until he groaned, and then swallowed the sound like it belonged to you.
“You’ve been teasing me all night,” he rasped against your mouth, voice dark and uneven. “Do you know what you do to me?”
You laughed softly, wickedly, rolling your hips against the hard line straining his tuxedo. “I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
His grip tightened, a shudder ripping through him, and you swore you felt him whine into your kiss. That was delicious. You did it again—grinding, slow and deliberate—while your hand slid down his chest, feeling muscle twitch under your palm.
John broke the kiss with a gasp, forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and ragged. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Maybe,” you teased, ghosting your lips over his, not quite kissing. “Or maybe I’ll make you beg.”
The way his eyes darkened was lethal. He kissed you again, harder, teeth clashing, and this time his hands roamed—spanning your ribs, your waist, the curve of your ass like he needed to memorise every inch. You couldn’t keep quiet; every little gasp and moan muffled into his mouth.
For a moment, you thought about Joaquín still in your ear, listening to every filthy noise you made, and almost laughed. Until John’s thumb stroked the inside of your thigh and the thought scattered into static.
“You taste like heaven,” John muttered into your mouth, his words more breath than sound.
“And you,” you panted back, clawing at his shoulders, “taste like exactly what I want.”
The kiss turned molten again, all lips and tongue and teeth, your head spinning with heat and hunger. He wasn’t careful anymore. Neither were you. His control had finally cracked, and you weren’t about to let him rebuild it. You tugged at his hair until John groaned, pressed closer until he whined again, shameless.
Your fingers curled into John’s tie, tugging the silk free, hungry for more of him. The knot slipped loose, his chest rising unevenly against yours as you worked at the first button of his shirt. His breath hitched, lips dragging across your jaw, stubble scraping your skin.
Then, the world jolted. A metal hand shoved between you and John, wrenching him back. The force knocked your shoulder hard against the marble. You gasped, blinking up to find Bucky Barnes towering over you, eyes storm-dark, grabbing your forearm.
John reacted instantly. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he barked, fury rolling off him. “Let her go.” His grip closed around Bucky’s wrist, trying to yank him back.
Bucky ignored him completely. His gaze cut straight to you, unyielding.
“Really?” you snapped, pulling your arm back yourself. “That’s how you say hello after months? By dragging me away like I’m some asset?”
John’s head whipped between you, confusion etched across his face. “Wait. You two—”
“Yeah, we know each other,” you bit out, eyes still locked on Bucky. “I practically grew up with Sam. We’ve been working together for years—I thought Bucky and I were friends.” For the first time, Bucky’s expression faltered. “Is this seriously what it takes for you to talk to me?”
Bucky said your name gently, and John blanched. He only just realised you’d never introduced yourself to him. Of course, he recognised your name. You were a spy, the kind who’d toppled governments before working with the old Avengers. He’d met you briefly in New York City when you saved his life.
He couldn’t believe he didn’t recognise you.
“You could’ve just called, Bucky,” you went on angrily. “Or at least picked up the damn phone when I called. But no, you disappear, you ignore me. You have this petty, stupid back-and-forth with Sam—and what, you think that makes everything okay? You think ditching us is easier than facing the people who give a damn about you?”
John glanced between you both, stunned, still breathing hard.
Bucky’s mouth tightened. “This isn’t the place—”
“Oh, screw that.” Your voice cracked sharply across the marble. “You’re gonna listen, because I’m done with your bullshit! Sam went through hell to pick up that shield, and you know how much it meant to him to restart the Avengers. Steve and Sam broke every law in the damn country for you, Bucky! We stood by you when the world branded you a monster, and now you’re running errands for Valentina de-god-damn-Fontaine?”
Bucky’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t argue.
Your chest heaved, heart pounding, words cutting sharper with every breath. “After everything, you’re just a part of a government-sanctioned team calling themselves the New Avengers? You’re supposed to be Sam’s family! How could you still fight him on this after everything?”
Silence. Music drifted faintly from the ballroom beyond, muffled laughter and champagne chatter, oblivious to the storm in the corner.
John just stood there, frozen. His shirt hung half-unbuttoned, tie dangling loose, hair mussed from your hands. The flush on his face hadn’t cooled, only now it was from embarrassment rather than desire. His eyes darted from you to Bucky, only just realising the scale of the fight he’d wandered into.
Oh. Of course.
It clicked with brutal clarity. The way you’d teased him, the way you’d kept things vague, the way you hadn’t let him pin you down with a straight answer. You hadn’t been flirting with him because you wanted him. He’d just been a prop, a convenient cover. Something to lean on while you made your real play at Bucky.
“Right. Well,” John muttered, voice sharp with bitterness, “guess that explains it. I’ll just—” He gestured vaguely toward the party, a sardonic half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Get out of your way now that I’ve served my purpose.”
You turned on him so fast it almost made him jump. “Oh, no you don’t. You stay right there, handsome. I’m not even close to being done with you.”
John blinked. Once. Twice. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again without sound. The words didn’t compute. Hope sparked in the blue of his eyes.
Bucky grimaced. “Seriously?”
You swung a glare his way. “You don’t get to judge.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched, but you softened before he could shoot back. You sighed, your shoulders loosening as you stepped in and wrapped your arms around him. His body went rigid with surprise.
“I know this isn’t what you planned,” you murmured. “And I know it’s not easy. I just want my family back together again.” You pulled back enough to meet Bucky’s eyes. “We can make room on our team for the New Avengers. I just don’t want you guys fighting anymore. Please, Buck. Just call if you need me, okay? Joaquín had to pull some serious espionage to get me on the list tonight, and you know that’s supposed to be my job.”
Something in Bucky’s gaze eased off. He let out a breath and then hugged you back. His chin dipped against your hair. “I’ll do better,” he said gruffly. “For what it’s worth, I want to fix things too.”
When Bucky pulled back, catching sight of John, his expression twisted like he’d bitten into something sour. “But, yeah. Ew. This is like my little sister hooking up with my weird friend.” He jabbed a thumb toward John without looking. “I have to go before I throw up.”
And with that, he slipped into the crowd, vanishing the way only Bucky Barnes could.
You turned back to John. He was still standing there, shirt undone, tie crooked, hair sticking up from your fingers. “So all of this,” he motioned between the two of you, “That wasn’t about him?”
“No,” you said firmly, stepping closer. “That was about you being ridiculously hot. And unless I misread things, I’m guessing the feeling’s mutual.”
The corner of John’s mouth curved, a real smile finally breaking through. “Yeah, the feeling’s definitely mutual.”
Your hands smoothed down the front of his shirt, slow and deliberate, grazing each button as if you hadn’t been halfway through undoing them minutes ago. The fabric stretched over a muscle that had no business being that solid. You felt him swallow beneath your touch, his Adam’s apple bobbing like he was fighting to keep his balance.
“So,” John rasped, his voice pitched lower than before, like he’d had to drag it up from somewhere deep. “You’re a spy?”
You hummed, not looking up at him as your fingers slid to his undone tie. You tugged it loose the rest of the way, folded it without hurry, and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket. The gesture was domestic and filthy at the same time, and John’s eyes tracked every second of it.
“Guilty,” you murmured, brushing invisible lint from his lapel as if you hadn’t just been pinned against stone, kissing him breathless.
John shifted, clearly trying to redirect the heat crawling up his neck. “What are you then? Red Room? S.H.I.E.L.D.?” His voice cracked just faintly on the last word, like it took a lot of effort to focus.
You gave him a look, raised brows, sharp and offended. “S.H.I.E.L.D. was a government agency,” your tone dripped with disdain. “I like to fly under the radar more than that. My training was a little… off the books.”
The way you said it—low, conspiratorial, a ghost of a smile tugging your lips—made John’s pupils blow wide. He exhaled sharply, and you caught the flicker of want and envy across his face. John Walker was everything official, stamped, and sanctioned. You were everything he wasn’t: unbound, unsupervised, untouchable.
It was driving him crazy.
His jaw flexed. His hand covered yours where it lingered against his chest, and the contact felt like a spark. He was trying so hard to stay upright, to keep his head.
You softened, just a little, sensing the turmoil grinding beneath that square jaw. “For the record,” you said, smoothing the line of his collar. “I never planned this.” You tilted your head, letting your fingers graze lightly down his sternum until John drew in a sharp breath. “Joaquín and I just wanted to snap Bucky out of it. Find a way to compromise before this all gets messy.”
“I respect what the New Avengers are trying to do. But Valentina?” You shook your head. “It’s not her mantle to hand out. And whether any of you like it or not, we’d be a stronger team together.”
No one had ever said something like that to him without a smirk, without a qualifier, without making it about Steve Rogers. You weren’t mocking, you weren’t hedging. You were laying it bare. Your conviction was the sexiest thing he’d ever witnessed.
John let out a low laugh, breathless, disbelieving. “You really know how to mess with a guy, don’t you?”
“Only the ones worth messing with.”
Your brain, of course, already sprinted ahead. His hand over yours meant his hand on your thigh, pressing you open. His mouth on yours again meant his mouth lower, slower, anywhere you’d let him. It was obscene, the things you pictured with his heart beating under your palm.
“John Walker,” you whispered, letting the syllables curl like smoke. “You look like you’re about to crumble.”
He laughed again, almost a groan. “ And whose fault is that?”
“Mine.” You smiled, sultry and satisfied. “And I’m not sorry.”
“So, mission accomplished?” he asked, almost teasing.
“I don’t start things I can’t finish,” you replied. Your hands tugged at his lapels again. It was as if you couldn’t decide whether to fix him up or strip him further down. “And now that it’s over, I’d really like to get out of this dress.”
That snapped his focus. His gaze dragged down your body with zero apology, taking you in with the same hunger he’d been fighting all night. John’s eyes burned, lingering on the sensual neckline of your dress, on the sweep of your bare shoulder, the way it highlighted every curve. You saw his throat bob.
“That’s a shame,” he said, voice husky and reverent. “I really like it.”
You leaned in, brushing your mouth just shy of his. “I think you’ll like helping me out of it even more.”
For a second, he didn’t move. He looked like he was deciding if he was hallucinating the entire exchange. Then John Walker, all six-foot-one of muscle and chaos, caught your wrist and pulled you with him. This time, it wasn’t into a secluded corner, but toward the closest exit.
note: i never do tag lists but i appreciate all the people who commented on and reblogged my post so i wanted to tag you all in case you still wanted to read it!! here goes
edit : idk why it's taken me so long to update this (over a month) but @cueceekristi pointed out in the comments of this post that this end credit art of Alexei might be referencing this scene from Frankenstein (1931) where the monster picks flowers with a little girl
this one was driving me insane because i knew i recognised the reference, but i just couldn't place what it was, so tysm kristi !!
origamiaround
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