Hi I’m Ophie, 26, and I did learn how to read and now I’m making it everyone else’s problem. fic writer and enjoyer, and since cringe is dead I’m releasing my thoughts into the void. I’m a diehard marvel fan and I have far too many wips to count. I’ve also been known to dabble in BG3, star wars, and any other fucked up guys that strike my fancy.
— Masterlists —
Marvel
John Walker
Bucky Barnes
Bob Reynolds
Logan Howlett
[I will also take requests and prompt asks, just saying! Thanks for being here <3]
"come on, do it." dex says, his chin tilted up like a challenge.
he's insane, to say the least. it's obvious that he enjoys all of this from the beginning. he enjoys seeing you explode from his rage bait. he could come at the time just by seeing you standing tall over him while he's on his knees.
waiting. like a good boy.
the tip of the gun points at his forehead, and dex swears his eyes almost roll back at the feeling.
"do it."
he repeats, panting like a brat. his voice is oh so raspy, and it goes straight down to your core.
"you think you deserve it? to die?" you say, looking down at his pathetic state.
he's really pathetic, all bleeding and turned on from this.
"yes." he growls.
but you just click your tongue in disappointment, sliding the gun from his forehead down to his chin, playing with the tip against his lips, and you're not surprised when he opens his mouth, inviting the gun deeper into it.
your knees buckle at the sight. he's really a damn freaky guy.
um yeah.. so idk what possessed me after THAT clip—
content : you visit dex in the psychiatric hospital for the first time in months
pairing : dex x avenger!reader
word count : 716
warnings!! : mentallyill!dex
a/n : i’m obsessed with writing for dex atp
“You left me alone.” Dex’s words are numbed, subdued with the arrangement of pills in plastic cups between the pair of you. He hasn’t taken them today- not yet, but when he does, you can imagine what little life he has being sucked clean from him. He can’t even meet your eyes; just lifting his head feels like a chore.
And your eyes are too beautiful- in every shade of grey he experiences in this place, he’ll never find a colour the same as your eyes. He’ll never find anyone who looks at him so kindly without real reason. He’ll never find anyone who’s eyes soften when they land on his face. Dex tells himself it’s pity that you’re dealing him, in the hopes that maybe he can be unaffected by this all, but when you speak, and your eyes pull together, big and innocent, he can’t lie to himself like that anymore.
“I didn’t…” you whispered, fingertips nearly grazing his across the metal table. But they don’t, in the end. “I didn’t mean to.”
“They keep you from me?” He asked bitterly, thinking of the avengers. In their tower of righteousness, they must have told you:
Dex is no good for you.
Dex is evil.
Stay away from him.
So much, and so persistently, that you had begun to believe them, maybe. Dex hated to think anyone could steal you from him. This distance between the two of you was agonising, and he refused to admit he put it there either. Because the distance, ultimately, had driven you away from him. That would be his fault- losing the one thing he loved.
“No,” you murmured, with a hint of regret as you stared down at your hands. “No..uhm.. I couldn’t bring myself to see you.” The admission made Dex feel sick. Anything but that, he thought. Anything but that- anything but you willingly keeping yourself from him. He’d rather a hundred men holding you back, at least he could shoot them down. “We didn’t exactly leave it on the best of terms.”
“You mean, I got arrested and you ditched me,” Dex growled, glaring up at you.
“You killed a lot of people Ben.” Your eyes didn’t shy from his, nor did they hesitate under the weight of his stare, nearly murderous. “You worked for Fisk… it’s a lot to grapple with.”
“You said you’d be there for me. That you’d help me.”
“Yeah, I did. I didn’t realise the extent of it,” you admitted, sighing. “And that’s my fault.”
“So you’re giving up on me?” The doctor standing off to the side begins to tentatively creep in, and a sharp look from Dex, and a more apologetic one from you, sends him retreating back into his corner.
Dex had a problem with being alone. He couldn’t manage his own thoughts, or his own anger. Without his tapes, his guidance, his north star, he was a wreck, and his meds were the only thing that could tame him. He had no order. No stability. No nothing. Not even you- and you were the thing he needed most.
“I came to see you.”
“Why? To say goodbye- is this a goodbye?” He demanded from you again- Dex wanted, needed, answers. Though his voice trembled, and his hands did too, his voice spoke with urgency. You shook your head, despite yourself. Natasha had said it was best to cut the ties now before it all got tangled, but you couldn’t. You just couldn’t. “I don’t know… that’s not why I came here today..”
“It’s not? So why’d you come? To see the state you left me in?”
“Maybe.” You glanced down at the three plastic cups, filled each with two bright coloured pills. Red. Yellow. Blue. Green. Mixed. Your hand twitches towards his- again. But this time, it’s his palm that roughly closes over yours. “I could get better here,” he whispered, taking a desperate edge into his voice. “With the meds… and if you keep visiting me, I could get better.” He even seemed so sure of it- like he truly believed that. And you wanted it for him, even if you doubted it, you wanted him to be happy.
“Better? Yeah…” you agreed, slightly hesitant. “You can be better Dex.”
His hand tightened around yours. Maybe you understood after all. Maybe you wouldn’t leave him this time. Maybe.
Summary : You are not the only person hunting Anti-Vigilante Task Force. Luckily, your “competition” is Benjamin Poindexter.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x vigilante! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Reader is ex-SHIELD, sexual themes, Freak4Freak, violence, death, blood, injury/gunshot wound, emotional trauma/grief, slight mention of cannabis use, brief mention of having suicidal thoughts, codependency, biting/blood play, Dex has you in a headlock as one point. Mention of surgery. Dex finds out he likes pain and learns sympathy in the same story lol. Fluff, angst. Set between DDBA season 1 and season 2. (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 9.9k
Requested by : Anon
Notes : Most of the fic is inspired by the song Kitty Sucker by Frank Carter and the Rattlesnakes. Credit to this post by @truestaim for inspiring the more intimate scenes <3 Enjoy!
You didn’t meet Dex in a bar, or on a dating app, or on a night out, like any modern person would.
You met him at work.
Well, “work.”
Your work just happened to be ridding the streets from legally protected by emotionally corrupt Anti-Vigilante Task Force agents.
They weren’t exactly hard to track and they weren’t subtle when they swept through a place. They always used black gear, textbook formations, masks on, and a false sense of “order.” You’d been tracking them for weeks, picking them off where you could, dismantling routes, breaking patterns. Not out of heroism, really. You just didn’t like being hunted.
And they were definitely hunting you.
You were an “Asset Gone Rogue.” At least, that’s what you were in their files.
In truth, you were a former SHIELD operative. When the organisation collapsed, you were offered a government contract. You refused. After all, you were done working for people, for agendas. People are corrupt. Agendas were worse. The only person you trusted was yourself.
Because you refused, because apparently, if you weren’t loyal to them you were a threat, the CIA and FBI had labeled you as a high-risk individual, and you knew they monitored the hell out of you.
You didn’t mind, and you had nothing to be scared about. You had been on your best behaviour. You had been living a normal life since 2014. At least, as normal as it could be. Aliens still invaded, people still disappeared, the president turned into a rage monster, and you could be taken hostage by your own void of a mind any time. But hey. Privileges, right? At least you were still alive, and nobody was out to get you.
Until Fisk became mayor.
That’s when your profile got reactivated. Fisk saw many unaccounted for “assets” as a threat. So they slapped the label “vigilante” on you and processed your arrest warrant.
The first night they tried to get you, they shot up your favourite bar. Two bartenders got caught in the crossfire.
They were your friends.
Layla gave you staff discounts and went to concerts with you. Darren had a roommate who works in a dispensary. He’d get them for cheap and you would all get high on a rooftop, chatting shit about life and how absurd the existence of your consciousness was. You’d told them that one day, when they had saved enough money to open up their own bar, they’d need a bouncer. Private security was important, and you promised to volunteer.
Layla would laugh and ask, “You? C’mon. You’re not stopping nobody from coming in.”
Darren would say, “My cousin’s like 6’5. He can do the job.”
You’d laugh, because they didn’t really know your past. They didn’t know your skills and what you had done to survive. They didn’t know the blood on your hands.
You’d take a drag out of the blunt. “Trust me, man. I’m scary as fuck.”
They’d laugh and say, “If you say so.”
But now they were six feet underground because they were caught in the crossfire meant for you.
And no, you had never intended to go back to the life of being judge, jury, and executioner. But your friends were fucking dead. So if they want a vigilante, they’ll get a vigilante.
Your only advice to them: be careful what you wish for.
Because if there’s one thing you’re good at doing with your hands, it’s killing for sport.
—
What you didn’t expect when you started to hunt them… was competition.
On the first night, you found the warehouse already ruined. Knives where there shouldn’t have been knives. Pencils where they shouldn’t be pencils. And glass where they shouldn’t be glass, all stuck in lethal ways on the bodies of Task Force.
You crouched beside one, studying the entry wound left by what looked like a stapler.
You smiled a little. “‘M not the only one, huh?”
—
The second time you tracked AVTF agents, you found them alive.
It must be my lucky day, you thought to yourself, sliding your brass knuckles on.
Before long, you were seeing red, clashing metal against bone. You had knocked out the breath out of their lungs. The dull, sickening rhythm of a fight that had already been decided, you knew the pendulum was swinging in your favour.
One agent swung wide after you disarmed him. He was sloppy.
You stepped in.
Your knuckles cracked across his cheek with a sharp snap, his head whipping to the side before his body followed. He dropped hard, and he didn't move after that.
Another came at you from behind.
You didn’t turn.
You just shifted your weight and drove your elbow back into his ribs. You felt a crack; then pivoted and planted your fist straight into his jaw.
He folded.
You exhaled, rolling your shoulders like this was nothing more than a warm-up. Blood slicked your knuckles, dripping in lines down your fingers. You flexed once, admiring the work.
The man with the broken ribs, unfortunately, was still alive. He reached for a gun, only to be stopped by a throwing knife sent the direction of his neck. In response, he let out a blood-curdling scream.
You, however, was the one to take the knife off him, taking the pressure off the wound and letting him abruptly bleed out. You took the knife and sheathed it in one of your pockets.
Shiny, you thought. It’s mine now.
“Messy,” you heard a voice say from the darkness.
You tilted your head. Then, slowly, you turned.
The man you saw stood at the mouth of the alley like he’d always been there.
He was tall and lean, but the suit caught your attention first.
It was dark blue with silver accents. Sleek, almost seamless against his frame. Not tactical in the bulky, obvious way AVTF agents wore theirs. This was built for movement, not protection. A mask covered his face, but he was not concealing his identity. It was made evident when he took off his mask, presumably so you could get a better look at him. His hair was sandy blond or light brown, you couldn’t tell in the lighting. He had a scar on his cheek, but you kinda liked it. It suited him.
What unsettled you, however, was how his eyes tracked you.
Your lips curled into a smile before you could stop it.
“Oh?” you said, almost amused. “You got notes?”
His eyes dropped to your hands. To the brass knuckles, slick with fresh blood, catching what little light filtered into the alley.
“You were in my line of fire,” he said bluntly.
You let out a huff of laughter, glancing around at the bodies scattered across the pavement before looking back at him. “I’m pretty sure I was in the middle of my kill.”
To emphasize it, you stepped back, stomping hard onto the wrist of the last agent trying to crawl away.
You felt bone crunch under your heel.
You didn’t even look down when you finished it, dropping a quick, brutal strike with your knuckles that silenced him.
You lifted your hand slightly, tilting it so he could see the blood coating the metal clearer. “You see something unfinished?”
His eyes followed the movement again, but ended up at your face. “They were mine.”
Before you could stop yourself, you stepped toward him. Close enough to test, not close enough to threaten.
“Well.” Your head tilted. “You should’ve come down here and gotten your hands dirty with me.”
“I don’t need to be close,” he replied.
“Mm.” You hummed, unconvinced, dragging your gaze back up to meet his. “Shame. You’re missing out.”
“And you probably compensate for your terrible aim with proximity,” he said, stepping forward. You could see the depth of his eyes now, the exact shade of it. And they were beautifully hazel, like universes were swimming in them.
“It’s more fun,” you shrugged. “I like it when I feel it.”
You saw the smallest shift at the corner of his mouth. A smile.
“Oh,” you said with a cynical grin. “There it is. You do have a personality.”
The tension didn’t ease, but it changed. It was less of a standoff, more like respect being built in real time.
“Got a name?” you asked casually, like you weren’t standing in the middle of a massacre flirting with a stranger.
A fraction of a second passed before he answered. “Dex.”
It fit him.
You nodded once, like you approved. “Dex,” you repeated, tasting it.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “You?”
You clicked your tongue, shaking your head. “Tsk. Tsk.” You stepped a little closer. “I’m not that easy.”
Dex managed a real laugh. “I didn’t think you were.”
That sounded less like a dismissal, more like interest. It was the first time in a long time that Dex was interested in something he didn’t understand.
—
You kept running into each other.
Three days later, he had already finished circling the perimeter of a Task Force safe house you planned on infiltrating when you got there.
Two agents dropped before you even stepped into the scene, and you knew who it was immediately, and his methods were bound to flush them out of hiding.
You barely had time to crack your knuckles before an agent rushed at you, thinking you were responsible.
You handled him up close. It was quick and brutal. Four more came up to you and you handled them, too. Dex handled the rest.
When it was over, you glanced at the bodies, then at him. “You stalking me?”
“You’re predictable,” he replied.
You smirked. “And yet, here I am. Still alive.”
“…For now,” he said. There was something almost playful in it.
A week later, you found yourself dockside on a shipping yard, falling into place with him. At this point, you’ve started actively looking for each other before fighting.
This time, you moved without speaking, like you’d done this a hundred times before.
You drew them in. Dex picked them off.
At one point, you ducked just as a knife flew past your ear and dropped the man behind you.
You didn’t even look.
“Gotta be careful,” he called.
“Relax,” you shot back. “I trust you.”
Dex looked down, unsure of what to do with that information. “You shouldn’t,” he finally said.
You grinned. “Too late.”
By the time it happened again, it was a pattern.
You’d show up. He’d already be there. Or vice versa.
You caught his eye across the street once, both of you watching the same target.
You tilted your head as you fell into step behind him. “You gonna share?”
“Depends,” he shrugged.
“On?”
“Whether you slow me down.”
You stepped closer, just enough to blur the line. “Or speed you up.”
That got you a sweet smile. “We’ll see.”
And somewhere between the blood, the banter, and the way neither of you ever missed when it mattered—
“The enemy of my enemy…,” you trailed off once while glancing at him, as another body hit the ground.
Dex eyes locked on to yours.
“…is useful,” he finished. Whether or not he meant it, is a different question altogether.
After that meeting, you finally gave him your name.
—
Dex was already there on the rooftop of the insurance building when you arrived.
He was perched at the edge like he belonged to the skyline more than the ground, body angled forward, rifle steady. The city moved below him in noise and chaos, but up here, around him, there was only control.
“You’re late,” he said, not even turning.
He learned your footsteps, you realised. How flattering.
You landed behind him, boots scraping against gravel, rolling your shoulder like you hadn’t just sprinted across half the block. “Just got back from a hot date.”
That got a pause. Was he… jealous?
“Really?”
You gave him a deadpan look he couldn’t see. “Yeah. With candlelight and classical music. Maybe a little murder after dessert.”
His head tilted just slightly.
You breathed out, waving it off as you stepped closer. “Of course not. I don’t have time for dates.” You huffed, almost amused. “My laundry, though? That needed folding.”
As if relieved, you saw his shoulder relax, just a little.
“Target’s moving,” he said.
You leaned beside him, peering over the ledge. Three agents in a tight formation. It was predictable.
“Mm,” you hummed. “You taking the shot, or do you want me to make it interesting?”
“I’ve got it.”
You stayed anyway, close enough to feel the intensity rolling off him. The way everything in him narrowed down to a single point. It was… fascinating. A different kind of violence than yours.
His finger almost tightened on the trigger when you saw a light flickering across the street. On the opposite rooftop.
Your stomach dropped. This was a trap.
“Dex—”
The shot was fired through the air, and it was not his.
Your body moved before your brain caught up, instinct overriding logic. You lunged forward, slamming into him hard enough to knock his aim off just as the bullet tore through the space where his head had been, and into your shoulder.
It felt like impact, like it slammed straight through you, stole the air from your lungs, hollowed you out from the inside.
Your breath hitched as your body folded into his, vision staggering at the edges.
“Shit!” Dex caught you before you dropped, one arm locking around you like a reflex. He looked to the opposite rooftop, and that coward of an agent had gone. They probably saw that they got you and took it as a win, leaving to safety and decided to take him down another day.
Or maybe he was waiting for a cleaner shot.
“What did you do?” He demanded, almost a sneer.
You tried to laugh, but it came out thin and uneven. “You’re welcome?”
Blood was already soaking through your side, warm and slick, sticking fabric to skin. You could feel it spreading with every heartbeat.
Another shot rang out.
Oh, so that bastard was still there.
Dex knew he had to go now.
His grip tightened on you as he shifted, adjusted, fired, like the world had narrowed down to a single correction.
A body dropped across the street.
“You’re hit,” he said, attention turning back to you.
You huffed weakly. “Wow. Observant.”
Your knees buckled. This time, they didn’t recover. He held you up anyway.
“Why?” he asked.
You blinked, trying to focus on him through the blur creeping into your vision. “What?”
“Why the fuck would you do that?”
You let your head tip slightly, a crooked, strained smile pulling at your lips. “Wow. No ‘thank you’? I’m hurt.”
“You are hurt.”
“Yeah,” you breathed, looking at your wound and thinking oh well. “At least I’ll get a cool scar from it.” Your hand reached up, fingers tracing the healed cut on his cheek gently, impossibly intimately, “like yours.”
His teeth tightened and his grip shifted, almost like he was anchoring you in place. Almost as if he was scared to lose you.
What a foreign feeling, indeed.
“Stay with me,” he said.
You let out a small, shaky laugh. “That bad, huh?”
“Stay. With me.” You’ve never heard him sound so… serious.
Your fingers curled weakly into his jacket. “…Alright.”
For once, you didn’t fight him. You didn’t joke or deflect.
Your head dipped slightly forward, brushing closer to him as your strength started to slip in uneven waves. “You owe me,” you murmured.
“What?” He asked, as if he couldn’t believe where your priorities lay right now.
You managed the ghost of a grin. “Saving your life. Obviously.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” he managed, exasperated.
You exhaled, breath catching halfway. “Yeah… well. I did.”
He adjusted you again, more carefully this time, like he was suddenly aware of every inch of you he was holding.
“I’m getting you out of here,” he said.
You tilted your head just enough to look at him, closer than you had ever been before.
His eyes weren’t steady anymore.
“C-Careful,” you managed, voice fraying at the edges. “You’re s-starting to sound like you care.”
Dex tried not to look at you, not to panic. But then, he simply said, “I do.”
Your breath hitched, not from the pain this time.
“…Huh,” you whispered.
And for once, as you lost consciousness, head lolling back, you had nothing to say back.
—
You came back to the land of the living slowly.
You didn’t just wake up all at once. It started with fragments. From the faint hum of electricity, to the clean sheets beneath you. You weren’t at a hospital— there were no sirens, no shouting, no chaos, just… peace and quiet.
Your eyes open, just a little. You saw the ceiling first. It was clean. No cracks, no stains.
And it was definitely not your ceiling.
You shifted slightly, and pain flared sharp enough to drag a groan out of you. Your hand instinctively moved to your shoulder, fingers brushing over a clean, tight bandage, wrapped meticulously well.
Your eyes drifted, taking in the room. It was aggressively minimal. It had a bed, an armchair, and a tv. The kitchen, on the other side of the studio apartment, was spotless. Everything was placed with intention, like nothing existed here unless it served a purpose.
“You decorate like a serial killer,” you muttered, voice rough from disuse.
“You’re awake,” Dex said. He was standing by the window, half-turned toward you, like he’d been watching the city and listening for you at the same time.
You let your head fall back against the pillow. “Was hoping I died. This is disappointing.”
You could tell he was rolling his eyes, but he managed a chuckle. “Tragic.”
You could feel his attention on you as you turned your head slightly, meeting his eyeline. “…How long?”
“Eleven hours and forty-three minutes.”
“Mm.” You swallowed, throat dry. “You carry me all the way here?”
“Yes.”
A faint smirk tugged at your lips. “Didn’t know you cared that much.”
Dex shook his head, but he gave no indication of confirming or denying your theory.
You pushed yourself up to your elbows, wincing as your body protested. You tapped the space on his bed. “Come here.”
He didn’t move. “Why?” he asked.
You tilted your head, studying him. “I just got shot for you. The least you can do is sit.”
He stopped in his tracks, as if thinking what to make of that request. But in the end, he sat on the edge of the bed, not too close, not too far.
You watched him for a second. “You’re weird,” you said.
“Mmhm,” he managed a laugh.
“At least you’re self-aware.”
You let silence befall you again, but this time it stretched softer.
You leaned back slightly, exhaling through the lingering ache. “You ever get tired of it?”
“Of what?”
“All of it.” You gestured vaguely. “Of this.”
“No,” he said, and it was resolute.
You studied him, like you didn’t quite believe that. “I do,” you admitted quietly.
That earned his attention.
Your gaze drifted to the ceiling again, voice losing its edge. “When I left, I thought that was it. No more orders, no more handlers, no more… being pointed at things and told to make them disappear.”
Your teeth tightened slightly.
“I tried to be normal,” you continued. “Did the whole thing. I had a job, got friends, made a routine.” You managed a faint humorless smile. “Turns out I’m not built for normal.”
Dex didn’t interrupt. In fact, it surprised him just how much he liked listening to you.
“They came after me anyway,” you said. “Didn’t matter that I walked away. To them, I don’t get to just… stop being what they made me.”
“And that is…?” Dex looked at you now.
“A killer,” you replied, sighing, “that’s all I’m good for.”
“Well,” Dex started, and for the first time, you could actually detect the sympathy in his tone, “that makes the two of us.”
You watched him from where you were half-propped against his pillows, arm slung carefully across your middle, bandage still tight around your shoulder. The pain had dulled from unbearable to manageable. It was annoying, but distant. What wasn’t distant was him. The way he sat there, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped, eyes not quite meeting yours.
That was new.
“I knew who you were,” Dex finally admitted, breaking the silence. It was as if this secret had been eating him alive. “Even before you told me your name.”
“That so?” you replied lightly, like it didn’t matter. Like your name hadn’t gotten people killed before.
He nodded once, finally looking at you. “Your MO was familiar."
Your lips curved faintly. “Flattered.”
“I knew I read something about brass knuckles,” he continued. “Used by a close range combat specialist.”
You just watched him, eyes sharper now.
“I was a fed,” he added. “I read your files a few years ago.”
That made you smile properly.
“Yeah?” you said, amused. “How much did you remember?”
“You were on the FBI watchlist,” he said. “It said that you were ex-SHIELD with an impressively high body count. High adaptability. High lethality.” He paused. “It said that you were high risk and… that you were volatile.”
You let out a laugh, shaking your head slightly against the pillow. There was no bitterness in it. No anger, just acceptance. Like he’d told you your eye color.
Dex studied your face, like he was expecting more of a visceral reaction.
“You’re not bothered?” he asked.
“Should I be?” you shot back lightly. “You already kept me alive. Bit late to get scared of me now.”
“I’m not scared of you.”
You smiled at that.
The lights dimmed around you both as the sun set outside, the tension unwinding. You adjusted slightly, wincing as your shoulder protested, and he noticed immediately. His hand twitched as if he almost reached for you before stopping himself.
Your voice dipped, teasing again. “So you knew all along, and you still chose to work with me.”
Dex nodded as if it was never a question.
You raised an eyebrow. “That seems irresponsible for a federal agent.”
“I’m not a federal agent anymore,” he reminded, “and you are not as one dimensional as the files say you are.”
“Mm,” you hummed. “So what am I, then?”
He paused again.
You watched him carefully this time, vulnerability threading through every word.
“Am I a problem?” you asked. “A liability? ‘Enemy of my enemy’ and all that?”
His jaw tightened slightly. “No.”
You tilted your head. “No?”
“No,” he repeated, firmer now.
You let that sit between you for a second before pushing just a little further. “So what am I to you, Dex?”
He was thinking about it, you could tell. You saw it in the way his shoulders stiffened. The way his eyes now locked onto yours like he couldn’t look away even if he wanted to.
“A friend?” you offered. “Is that what this is?”
He didn’t say anything for a long time.
Then he shook his head.“‘Friend’ feels too tame.”
Your eyebrows lifted, interest sparking. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said.
You shifted slightly, leaning just a fraction closer despite the pull in your shoulder. “So what, then?”
For once, he didn’t look like he was calculating. For once, he just… felt present. “You’re…” he started, then stopped, like even he didn’t have a good word for it.
Your lips twitched. “C’mon. You made it this far.”
“You’re the only one I can’t reduce to a target,” He let out a faint exhale, “and the only variable I don’t want to correct.”
Ah. Okay.
Your expression didn’t change much, but it felt like the lens behind your eyes had shifted.
“I think…” you let a smile pull on your lips, “I like that answer better than ‘friend.’”
—
You didn’t go back to “normal” after that. It wasn’t an option anymore.
But you found something else, and it started the first night you cleared yourself to move properly again.
Dex watched the way you stretched, testing your muscles, the way you flexed your fingers like you were reacquainting yourself.
That’s when you caught him staring.
“What?” you asked, a hint of a smirk pulling at your mouth.
“You’re still hurt,” he said.
You scoffed. “I got shot three days ago. Do I look like I have a healing factor?”
“You’re arrogant. One day, it’s going to kill you,” he pointed out, as if your death was something he was dreading.
“You like that about me.” You grinned. The arrogance, you mean.
He paused, thinking. “I like you.”
“Jesus, Dex,” you laughed under your breath. “You’re not supposed to admit that.”
“I don’t see the point in lying to you.”
So now, working together became less of an accident. You stopped pretending you ran into each other. Now, you wouldn’t go into a fight without knowing the other had your six.
—
And afterwards… After the bodies were dropped and blood was spilled, you didn’t walk your separate ways. Instead, you kept each other company.
Which was new.
You’d sit on rooftops, legs dangling over the edge, boots tapping idly against concrete slick with drying blood.
The city stretched out below you.
You leaned back on your hands, breathing steadying after the fight. “You ever think about how weird this is?”
“Not really,” Dex said.
“You should. It’s weird.”
You were met with another bout of comfortable silence. Then, he said, “You talk more after fights.”
You smiled, glancing sideways at him. “Adrenaline. Makes me charming.”
“You’re already… that,” he said, like the word didn’t come naturally.
You blinked. “Is that a compliment?”
“It’s an observation.”
“Mmhm.”
Dex shifted closer. His hand moved, stopping just shy of yours.
You turned your head to realise how close he truly was.
Your eyes dropped to his mouth. He did the same.
Was he… leaning in?
Before you could meet him halfway, the church bells rang.
You flinched back on instinct, breath breaking as the moment broke clean in half. You dragged a hand through your hair, shaking your head slightly. “Timing’s shit.”
Dex didn’t look away. “…Yeah.”
—
Sometimes, you would sit on bridges.
You leaned against the railing, staring down into the dark. Dex stood beside you as you nudged his shoulders with yours.
“You ever think about it?” you asked once, more fragile than usual.
About jumping, you meant, and he knew that. About ending it all.
“Yes,” he said. It surprised him how easily he was admitting this to you.
You glanced back at him. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
You nodded, turning back to the water. “Me too,” you sighed, wishing the void beneath you were a giant pile of comfortable pillows. “But not anymore.”
“I—“ he managed to choke up, looking at you. “Me, too.”
The words didn’t feel separate. They felt… tethered. Like a promise neither of you meant to make.
The wind rushed up from the dark below, cold enough to sting. Your fingers curled tighter around the railing as you turned your head.
He was already right there.
You realised a terrifying truth: If you jumped, he would.
And worse, if he did, you wouldn’t hesitate to follow.
You took a deep breath and leaned in anyway.
Dex did the same, like he understood exactly what this meant. Like he knew what you were giving him.
Your breaths mixed, you lips barely a breath apart—
—and a violent blast of car horns tore through it.
You jumped back like the world had yanked you apart.
Reality crashed in as you turned away, swallowing hard, grip tightening on the railing like it was the only thing holding you in place now.
Dex sighed, knowing that it was not the time, it was not the place. “Right…”
You tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. “Yeah.”
—
Most nights, though, you’d take him to sit on a bench by the river, tucked away just enough that no one bothered you.
It had a plaque on it, one that you bought. One that said— in memory of beloved friends: Layla Gras and Darren Walsh.
You blew half your savings account paying for the goddamn bench.
So after most nights of fighting Task Force, you’d make your way there and sit with your legs stretched out. Dex would follow, and you’d lean into him without thinking.
You’d talk about nothing and everything. You’d talk about small things like the weather, but you’d also talk about deep shit. Real shit. Your days with SHIELD, and whatever he would offer from his past. You’d talk like this was a confessional booth, like you’ve sworn under oath in court— that’s how freely you divulge information about yourselves to each other. That’s how safe you felt around him. Ironic, considering his… professional reputation.
Today, you were sat there after ambushing more Task Force agents than you were expecting. You had gotten bruised, so you were pressing your fingers against your side with a small wince. “I’m getting sloppy.”
“You still won,” he said immediately, “shoulda seen those guys.”
You scoffed. “That’s a very you way of measuring success.”
“It’s the only way that matters.”
“Mm,” you hummed, unconvinced, but you didn’t argue. Your hand drifted down absently, brushing against your belt.
You froze for a second before pulling it free.
It was the knife you took from him on the first night you met.
You turned it in your hand. It was still in perfect condition, and of course it was. You’d taken care of it, maybe more than you needed to.
Your thumb traced the handle.
“Do you want it back?” you asked, holding it out slightly toward him.
Dex didn’t even look at it. “Keep it,” he said.
You blinked once, then let out a chuckle, lowering the knife back into your lap.
“Wow,” you said lightly. “How very sentimental.”
“It’s practical.”
“Is it?” you tilted your head. “Because I’m pretty sure you just gave me your weapon as a keepsake.”
“It’s not a keepsake,” he replied, but there was a slight delay. “You should use it.”
You laughed under your breath, shaking your head. “God, you’re unbelievable.”
You flipped the knife once in your hand before catching it again it was almost as if you were imitating him. “You know,” you added, voice quieting, “most guys give flowers.”
“I don’t think you’d like flowers.”
You turned to him, an eyebrow raised. “Excuse you. I love flowers.”
He finally looked at you properly, eyes scanning your face.
“No,” he said after a second. “You’d forget to change the water.”
Your mouth dropped open slightly. “That is—” you pointed at him with the knife, offended but amused, “—so disrespectful of you to assume.”
“You forgot to eat yesterday.”
“That is different.”
“It’s not.”
“It is,” you insisted, though you were already smiling. “One is basic survival. The other is… decorative responsibility.”
“That’s worse.”
You scoffed, staying silent for a long time.
This peace… was nice.
You looked out at the water, closing your eyes for a good five seconds before you opened them again. Then, you added, “I’d keep them alive if they mattered.”
Dex didn’t respond right away.
Your eyes dropped back to the knife, fingers tightening around it. “This matters,” you admitted shyly.
You didn’t look at him when you said it.
Instead, you carefully slid the knife back into your belt, adjusting it into place like it had always belonged there.
When your hand pulled away, you placed it on the bench.
Your fingers stayed there for a second… before you hooked your pointer finger around his.
You did it so casually, like it didn't mean anything. But it meant everything.
You leaned back slightly against the bench, shoulder bumping his just enough to close the space between you.
He leaned into your touch.
You smiled to yourself, eyes drifting out over the water as you let your thumb brush absently against his pinky.
Dex’s vision shifted to you, then to the small plaque fixed into the bench beneath you. He leaned forward slightly, just enough to read it properly.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew there must be a reason you brought him here like… what? Seven or eight times now?
He just never thought to ask because he didn’t know when the right time to ask would be. But it might as well be now.
His fingers adjusted, holding on slightly firmer. “Tell me about Layla and Darren.”
—
An hour later, the city had rolled further into early morning than night.
You stood from the bench after you laid your heart bare, rolling your shoulders once like you were checking in with your body before moving again. You were sick of being a walking sob story, however good it felt just to talk. You needed to move.
Dex stood a second after you did. “I’ll walk you home,” he said.
It came out a little stiff. Not forced, but unfamiliar.
You glanced at him, a smile pulling at your lips. “Oh?” you teased lightly. “Is that what we’re doing now?”
He frowned slightly. “What?”
“You know,” you shrugged, stepping past him, hands sliding into your pockets as you started down the sidewalk, “chivalry. Social norms. Walking a girl home.”
“I’m making sure you get back safely.”
You glanced over your shoulder at him. “Dex, I jump off rooftops for fun.”
“And you could still get hurt.” he replied evenly, falling into step beside you.
You didn’t argue.
The walk wasn’t long, but it stretched in that comfortable silence you’d both gotten used to. You walked shoulder to shoulder, naturally in sync.
By the time you reached your building, you slowed to a stop just outside the entrance. You turned to face him, head tilting slightly. “You wanna come upstairs?”
Dex didn’t hesitate. “Sure.”
“Wow,” you said, pushing the door open. “No internal conflict? No hesitation? I’m almost offended.”
“I trust you,” he said simply, following you inside.
Upstairs, your place was dark when you stepped in. You flicked the light on, yellow lights warming the otherwise dim apartment.
Dex’s eyes moved immediately, taking everything in.
It wasn’t what he expected.
It was… neat and intentional. Not sterile like his, but not cluttered either. There were actual decorations, like a plant by the window and books stacked alphabetically on your desk.
“Don’t look so surprised,” you said, kicking your shoes off and placing your keys onto the counter.
“I’m not,” he replied.
“You are,” you shot back, glancing at him. “You thought I lived in a cave or something.”
“I thought it would be less… personal.”
You hummed, walking further in. “Yeah, well. I tried the whole ‘normal life’ thing, remember?”
His eyes lingered a second longer, until it shifted to the second door, which was left slightly ajar.
You noticed.
“Ah,” you said, already moving toward it. “That one’s less aesthetically pleasing.”
You pushed the door open fully.
The spare bedroom, the shape of a square, was stripped down to nothing but function. All there was in there was a foam mat covering most of the floor, worn in places. A duffel bag was placed in the corner. There were a few taped-up sections of the wall where impact marks had clearly been… frequent.
You stepped inside first, gesturing lazily. “This,” you said, “is where I train.”
He walked further in, like he was mapping it out in real time. “You spend a lot of time in here,” he said.
You leaned against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed. “Keeps me sharp.”
He nodded once, like that confirmed something he already suspected. Then he turned to you. “Train me.”
“Are you serious?” you asked, pushing off the frame.
“Yeah.” He didn’t waver. “I know for a hand-to-hand combat specialist, you’re not particularly strong.”
“Ouch,” you said immediately, a hand pressing dramatically to your chest.
“What I mean is,” Dex continued, stepping closer. “I’ve seen you fight. You go against people twice your size. You’re not relying on brute strength, but you’re agile.”
You tilted your head slightly.
“I want to know how you do it,” he finished. “Teach me.”
Huh. You weren’t expecting this.
“Careful what you wish for,” you murmured, reaching up to shrug off your jacket. It slid from your shoulders, landing on the floor as you stepped onto the mat, rolling your wrists once like you were waking your body up again.
“C’mon, Dex,” you said, a hint of a challenge threading through your voice. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
—
Dex learned fast. That was the first thing you noticed.
The second was that he was not really trying to hurt you.
And that pissed you off.
His momentum slowed just slightly before impact. Then, he held back a counter that could’ve floored you but didn’t follow through. His grip was way too controlled.
You circled him lightly on the mat, breath steady despite the growing ache in your ribs.
“Again,” you said.
He moved.
You slipped under his strike, pivoted, redirected your palm and caught his wrist, your weight shifting just enough for him to hit the mat hard.
You stepped back, barely winded.
Dex stared up at the ceiling for a second before sitting up.
You could see it in his posture: restraint.
You narrowed your eyes.
“Godammit, Dex,” you tsked, pacing a circle around him. “You’re really committing to the whole ‘gentleman’ thing tonight, huh?”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” you interrupted, stopping in front of him. “You’re pulling your punches.”
“I’m adjusting,” he corrected, standing again.
“For what?” you challenged, tilting your head. “My feelings?”
His teeth tightened, his chin pointing to your bruised side. “For your condition.”
You scoffed, stepping closer. “My condition can handle you.”
A familiar flicker shot through his eyes.
“Or is it not that?” you added, voice lowering. “You worried you might actually hurt me, or…” You stepped in, close enough that you could feel his breath on your nose “…that you might not want to?”
Dex’s gaze locked onto yours, a darker want threading through it now.
“I’m not holding back,” he insisted.
“Liar.”
You moved before he could respond. This time, he didn’t hesitate.
He came at you faster, harder, and for a second, it almost looked like he meant it.
Good, you thought. The last thing you wanted was to be infantilised by the only man you might still have respect for.
You ducked, redirected, used his momentum, your body turning with his.
That was when he realised that calling you agile was the understatement of the century.
You weren’t overpowering him. You were using him. Every ounce of force he gave you became yours.
You twisted, hooked his leg, and sent him crashing down again.
This time, you followed him down.
Your knee pinned his arm before he could recover, your other leg sliding over his hips as you stabilized your position.
And suddenly, you were straddling his crotch.
Dex didn’t even try to move.
His chest rose under yours. His hands hovered blankly for a split second like he didn’t know where to put them… before settling against the mat.
Your hands pressed lightly against his shoulders, holding him there. You could feel the tension coiled on his muscles, beneath your palms.
And oh…
Oh.
You felt it.
Your lips parted slightly.
His pants were definitely more tight than they had been before, evident by how much it was actually pressing into your core.
“Wow…” you sighed, amused.
You shifted your hips, grinding into him ever so slightly, just enough to make the point undeniable.
His breath hitched, and his face, from his nose to his ears were getting red. You leaned down just slightly, close enough that your chest hovered over his.
“Fuck, Dex,” you whispered, teasing through it. “Does this get you off?”
His jaw clenched, and his eyes darted frantically.
He was embarrassed. How adorable.
When his hands finally moved, he grabbed your waist. It was firm, but not rough.
“Get off,” he said, but there was no real heat behind it.
You didn’t so much as flinch.
Instead, you smiled. “Make me.”
After a while, he moved.
Finally.
Dex didn’t shove you off gently this time. He fought, and you were pleased, even if lacking a hint of resistance. He did pivot, a torque of his shoulder, his grip locking at your wrist as he forced space between you.
You let him for half a second. Just long enough for him to think he’d reset the balance.
Then you twisted with him.
Your weight dropped, your hips shifting as you used his own pull to roll back in, forcing him to adjust, forcing him to react. The mat hit your knee, breath loud in both your ears now.
“Come on,” you taunted. “That all you got?”
That got something out of him.
The next movement was cleaner. He caught you off-guard, turned you, and in one controlled motion drove you into the wall.
His hand snaked around your upper chest, up to the throat line. He had caught you in a headlock, precise and controlled. His body pressed in, flush behind yours, close enough that you could feel the heat of him through the space he didn’t give you.
There was no room to turn properly. No easy escape angle. There was just his forearm locked under your, his other hand braced against the wall beside your head, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
You let out a quiet laugh, breath slightly uneven.
“Took you long enough,” you said.
Dex didn’t loosen his grip. He leaned in and whispered closely, lips touching the shell of your ear. “Is this what you wanted, pretty girl?”
You would be lying if you said you didn’t like it.
But you also liked winning.
So, without warning, you sank your teeth into his bicep, hard enough to draw blood, to taste the tang of iron on your delicate tongue.
Dex, and you swore you weren't expecting this, moaned. It was throaty and low and utterly angelic to your ears.
It wasn’t long until he released you, more because he was surprised by his own bodily reaction than pain.
You stumbled forward out of the hold, spinning on your heel to face him again, licking your lips like nothing had happened.
Oh. That was interesting.
You looked at his arm again, watching the thin bead of blood you drew still sliding slowly down his skin.
“You okay?” you asked. It came off as gentler than you meant it to be, but there was still a hint of mischief between your eyes.
Dex didn’t answer immediately.
He was staring at you like his internal system had just stopped compiling. Like the world had introduced a variable he hadn’t accounted for and now everything else was lagging behind trying to catch up. It was like his brain had stalled somewhere between what just happened and why did I like that so much.
You lifted his arm slightly. “C’mere,” you pawed at his wrist, bringing the scar closer to your lips.
The bite was tiny, and there was only a little chance that it would leave a mark long-term. You would feel sorry if only he wasn’t so turned on.
And then you did something so absurdly gentle in contrast to everything you were. You leaned in… and kitten-licked the blood from his skin.
“F-fuck,” he said in a gasp, looking down your tongue to your eyes.
Oh, your eyes were locked on to his. He could barely keep it together.
The way you did it was teasing. Infuriatingly intimate in a way that didn’t match the violence still lingering in your skin. It’s as if you enjoyed drinking in his blood.
As you lapped up the scar at the source, he went very still.
Then his breath caught, his hardware short-circuiting.
A low, husky sound slipped out again before he could stop it.
Not pain, or anger. But pleasure.
He exhaled through his nose, like he was trying to regain command of himself and failing in real time.
“W-what the hell are you doing?” he managed.
You wiped your thumb slowly over his wrist like nothing about this was unusual. Like you weren’t currently reprogramming his entire sense of restraint.
“M’ showing you how sorry I am,” you said mildly. “I didn't mean to hurt you.”
He couldn’t look away and how beautiful you looked, how innocently you were acting through all this. You were a freak, he decided. If that was what it took, he would go band for band.
“That’s not what this looks like.”
You hummed, almost amused. “No?”
Dex didn’t answer.
He couldn’t, because he was still watching your mouth like it had become the only relevant object in the room.
Then you tilted your head slightly.
“Tell me to stop,” you said, dead serious. “And I’ll stop.”
Dex didn’t move for a second.
Not because he didn’t want to, but rather because he was trying very, very hard not to.
His eyes stayed on your mouth, on the faint trace of blood still there, and finally gave up pretending that you were anything short of an infuriatingly all-consuming obsession.
When his restrained snapped, it didn’t snap clean.
It frayed. Then tore.
His hand came up fast and grabbed your chin, firm enough to stop your whatever teasing remark you were going to say mid-breath. It was fucking rough, and you could feel it in your cheeks.
He didn’t hear you complaining, though.
“Dex—”
That was all you got out before he kissed you, hard. This time, nothing could possibly interrupt you.
There was no easing in. It was clear that this was the result of pent up emotions he’d been holding back for months finally finding somewhere to go.
His other hand hit the wall beside your head as he pressed you back into it, trapping you. But it was not like you wanted to be anywhere else.
You met him halfway.
Your hands found the collar of his shirt immediately, fingers curling in like you were pulling him closer just to make a point out of it.
His breath broke against your mouth for half a second, like even he couldn’t keep pace with how quickly this had escalated.
And then he kissed you again, like he was testing if you were real or just another thing his mind had invented under pressure.
You reminded him that you were tangible every time.
Running your tongue through his, gasping into his mouth.
He had been dreaming about this for months. He had fantasised up multiple scenarios in his head, how it would lead to this and how he would do it. Not once did he think he would finally get a taste of your lips and have it taste like himself.
His grip shifted, one hand still braced against the wall, the other sliding to your waist, pulling you in like he was done pretending there was supposed to be space between you at all.
When he finally pulled back, it was only enough to breathe.
His forehead hovered close to yours, his voice rough around the edges in a way you’d never heard from him before. “Don’t you fucking dare stop.”
You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes and smiled through your lashes. A faint trace of red still lingered at the edge of your teeth as you bit his lower lip. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“F-fuck, baby,” he cursed through gritted teeth, lips finding you jawline, you neck, nipping and biting until he settled at your collarbone, where you made the most nice.
His fingers caught the edge of your top, hesitating for half a second, until you helped him undress yourself and him all the same. Clothes were just simply in the way, in his line of fire.
His hands were everywhere he could justify them being, at your waist, your back, your face, running down your breast all the way down between your legs. He was learning you in real time and refusing to stop long enough to overthink it.
And you weren’t any better.
Your hand trained the lines of his body, from his neck to his torso, but ended up trailing down his back.
It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him shirtless, or the first time you saw the scar. It was the first time you felt it, though, all rough edges and raised skin.
The first time you noticed it, you knew it was too precise to be anything but surgical, too severe to be anything but catastrophic. He had told you about it on his own free will; told you how his T8 and T9 vertebrae were shattered by Wilson Fisk, and how what put him back together wasn’t exactly medicine so much as an experiment.
He said it like it didn’t matter.
You knew better. Bodies don’t forget that kind of thing, even when they’re forced to heal. And right now, baring his soul to you, he let you trace it with the pad of your fingers ever so gently.
Dex broke from your mouth just long enough to breathe, but even that didn’t create distance.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
You blinked up at him. “Like what?”
His grip tightened slightly at your waist. “Like you planned this.”
You smiled.
“Did you?” He demanded. He didn’t wanna stop it, he just needed to know.
“C’mon,” you laughed, tipping your head back. “A girl invited you up to her place. You thought we were gonna bake cookies or somethin’?”
That got a reaction out of him, almost like a laugh, but it died halfway into another kiss before it could become anything stable.
This was going to be fun.
—
Dex woke up in your bed the next morning.
He was lying on his stomach across, one arm tucked under a pillow, the other loosely curled like he’d fallen asleep mid-thought and never bothered finishing it.
He noticed the soreness of his back in soft waves. There were scratches there, shallow and scattered. Dex exhaled slowly through his nose.
Right.
That had happened.
Then he felt you.
You were sitting next to him, cross-legged on the bed, close enough that your knee brushed his side when you shifted, casual enough that it didn’t feel like distance even existed as an option.
Dex turned his head and stopped when he realised you didn’t have any clothes on either. And everything he did to you last night was on full display. The sunlight streaming through the windows even shone on you like you were a piece of art in a museum.
Beautiful, he thought.
Gentle evidence of love bites bloomed across your skin, marks he remembered leaving. It was… very intimate in hindsight.
You were looking down at him already, like you’d been watching him wake up for a while.
“Morning, sunshine,” you greeted.
Dex made an unassuming sound and pushed himself up on his forearms.
He looked at you for half a second before reaching for you.
He kissed you. As if it was the most natural thing in the world to wake up and find you beside him and decide, without question, that this was what mornings were now.
You kissed him back, your hand sliding into his hair with an ease that felt like trust.
When he pulled back, it was only a little.
“Morning,” he said, raspy.
“Ah.” You smiled faintly. “He speaks.”
Dex let out a breath again, more awake now, more aware of every point of contact between you and him.
He shifted fully upright this time, sitting back against the bed.
You just reached down to your bedside table drawer and showed him a small tub of aloe vera. You traced the scars on his back your nails left last night as if they were maps of constellations.
You had nothing to be sorry about. He asked for it when he was chasing his high in you, feral and affectionate all the same as you were gasping for air and saying his name like a prayer.
He had said he wanted his spinal scar to have company. He wanted the marks to feel good for a change.
Eventually, though, his eyes drifted down to his arm.
Last night, it started with one bite mark. This morning, he counted five. Three on his bicep, two on his forearm.
Again, he was the one who wanted it.
You had been trapped between the mattress and his body, putting you in a similar headlock from behind as he pulled the most lewd noises out of your pretty little mouth. “Gonna bite your way out now, pretty girl?” He whispered then, while you drew another bead of blood. “Huh? You know you like it. You know I— hmph fuck! Take it. Take it, take it…”
And the rest were mostly incoherent mumbles and muffled sinful mewls from both of you.
If your neighbours didn’t hate you before for all the thudding, they would now for all the fucking.
Still, the small tub of aloe was a curious thing.
He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Don’t tell me you feel bad now.”
You shrugged. “I just want a clean slate for next time.”
Dex’s heart skipped half a beat.
“Next time?” he repeated, like he was wondering whether the phrase was hallucinated.
You leaned forward slightly, tugging him by the shoulder so he turned his back toward you.
“Yeah,” you said simply. “Turn.”
Dex didn’t argue as you scooted closer behind him, dipping your fingers in the herbal ointment. His hands rested loosely on his thighs the whole time, not resisting as the coolness hit his skin. You laid it on the scratch marks first, then on his surgical scar. Not to erase it. Just to make it hurt a little less. To acknowledge that it was part of him, even if it didn’t define him.
When you were done, you gently guided him to face you again. “I knew you were kinky.”
Dex couldn’t help but laugh.
“But I have a feeling,” you set the tub down, “that I was just barely scratching the surface.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Dex said honestly. “I’ve never done that before.”
You chuckled, biting your lower lip. “You are adorable, Poindexter.”
You let your hand come up, tracing along his jaw before settling against his cheek. Your thumb traced the scar there.
He swallowed, but not out of discomfort.
Slowly, you leaned in.
The first kiss you pressed to the scar was featherlight, but you didn’t stop there.
Then you pressed another kiss, just beside it this time. It was warm, like he was worth being careful with.
His hand twitched at his side. He didn’t move it. But somewhere in the back of his mind, there was a quiet, insistent thought that convinced him, I don’t deserve this.
But he wanted it anyway.
Your lips brushed his cheek again, closer to the corner of his mouth this time, and his eyes shut briefly, like taking affection in was easier if he didn’t have to see it happening.
When you finally pulled back, it wasn’t far.
“I think it suits you,” you murmured.
He didn’t trust himself to answer that.
Your attention drifted down, fingers slipping from his face to his arm. You picked up his wrist gently, turning it just enough to see the marks you’d left behind.
This time, when you dipped your fingers into the aloe, your touch was careful. He watched you smooth it over the faint crescents of your bite.
Then, his eyes shifted to you, your bare skin, and the marks he’d left behind.
His brow furrowed slightly before he could stop it. “You’re okay, right?”
He asked it without thinking. It caught him off-guard. He wasn’t even aware he was capable of this kind of sympathy.
You glanced up, meeting his eyes.
“More than okay,” you told him. “I’d tell you if I wasn’t.”
He searched your face for a second, like he was trying to confirm it.
He lifted his hand.
His fingers brushed your skin, starting at your collarbone, tracing one of the marks he’d left. His touch was lighter than it had ever been, like he was afraid of pressing too hard, of leaving something worse behind.
You didn’t flinch, so he kept going.
Down to your shoulder, pausing at the bullet wound he’d stitched himself. His thumb hovered there for a second before grazing over it.
He thought about that night, about how much blood you lost and how utterly lifeless you looked in his arms. He thought he was going to lose you, and he was terrified.
You didn’t see this, of course. You had the privilege of being out cold.
You didn’t see him break down, panicking for almost twelve hours straight, feeling like he wanted to claw his eyes out because he thought he was going to lose you. You didn’t see how nauseous he got when your heart beat skipped, or how shaky his hand had been when he stitched you up. You didn’t see him broken, tears streaming down as he folded his own body onto the kitchen floor, when he didn’t know if you would ever wake up again.
So, if you wanted to, he would let you pretend this was just fun. You could pretend there were no strings attached. That last night, you two were just fucking like animals without the certainty of labels.
But it will never be just sex to him.
So when moved his hands on to the bruises on your body, to the cuts that the task force left for you, the only thing he could feel was blood-curdling rage.
But when he glanced at your face, he was down to earth again. Just like that.
His hand settled at your waist after that, his thumb rubbing soft circles on your hip.
Your fingers found his again, idly tracing the lines of his hand.
“Don’t die on me.” He whispered, as if he was almost scared to say it, as if reliving the memory again and again, with no end in sight. It might be an abrupt thing to say in the moment. It might feel out of place. But right now, after being so close to you, he just needed to know. “Please.”
You didn’t answer right away. When you did, it was barely more than a whisper. “I won’t.”
Your thumb brushed lightly over his knuckles.
“You don’t either,” you insisted, looking into his eyes. Then you added, “I mean it.”
His fingers shifted under yours, turning just enough to lace with your hand properly this time.
It was almost impossible to reconcile this version of him— the lovesick man in front of you who would melt like putty in your arms —with the one stamped wanted, armed and dangerous. And yet… you wouldn’t have it any other way.
You leaned forward slightly, resting your forehead against his. As your breaths fell into sync, he wasn’t even sure where you ended and he began.
After all, who knew the enemy of his enemy would turn out to be the only person who truly understood him?
series: daredevil | pairing: benjamin poindexter x reader | 6.6k
warnings: suicidal ideation / lots of talk and jokes about death /canon typical Dex stuff / everyone has a lot of mental issues
summary: start of this universe
So where the fuck is he?
Is Matt Murdock really so bad of a boyfriend he neglected to show up for your opening night?
Dex thinks back on all his time following you - trying to recall if Murdock had come to any of your studio sessions or if he had even stepped inside the theatre before but nothing comes to mind. You’d gone on dates, mostly during the weekends when the law office was closed, and you practically lived at the man’s apartment, but the more he goes down the rabbit hole of your and Murdock’s witnessed interactions, he doesn’t come up with an instance where Murdock has been around when you dance.
Does Murdock even care about you?
Did he just waste months coming up with a way to torment the Devil for it all to mean nothing?
Would killing you even matter?
Hot white rage pulses through Dex and he decides he will make it matter. He will just need to improvise.
As Dex settles into his seat, he tries to not get frustrated over the fact he can't recall the name of the Governor’s Head of Security. Whatever his name is, he sucks at his job. There aren't even metal detectors set up at the entrance of the theatre and the stationed guards are only carrying tasers. He highly doubts the men even know how to use the weapons - they'd probably shit themselves at the first crack of gunfire, instead of doing their job and protecting the Governor.
Part of him wants to shoot her and the Mayor by her side, but that would distract from his message and he can't have that.
He needs to send his message.
But, maybe, if the universe is kind to him, the old hag will have a heart attack from the shock of his display or she'll die of boredom from having to watch her granddaughter perform. He has no idea how that woman is still in the company, but it must be nepotism. She is probably the worst one on the stage and it is clear her lack of skill is not proportional to her ego - he has seen her bitching about favoritism to the crew during rehearsals when the star of the show was on stage.
In his very humble opinion, you more than deserve to be the Swan Princess.
You are extremely dedicated to your craft and Dex may be a tad bit envious of the control you have over your body. You make leaping around the floor look effortless and there is a smoothness to the way you dance that has him almost understanding why people come to the theatre. If everyone was even half as good at conveying their joy and sorrows through movement alone, without it looking like they are concentrating on their choreography, the stories they are trying to tell might actually be entertaining.
You move like fabric in the wind - organic and without any sort of stiffness. It is a little bit mesmerizing to him because it almost reminds him of fighting. When you pirouette, he can visualize you extending it into a kick - your legs are extremely strong and he can almost feel the bruise he would get if he were on the receiving end of one.
You make it all look so easy and he may have more than one recording of your various performances so he can study you.
He could spend hours watching you dance.
He has spent hours watching you dance.
Everyday for months - every early morning practice and every time you’ve stayed late at the studio. He’s watched you move through every perfectly memorized placement and he’s watched as you lost yourself to music in freestyle. You’ve performed ballet, ballroom, hip-hop, and all sorts of things he doesn’t know the technical names of for him and he’s admired all of them. You have a deep passion for the arts running through you and it's clear you've poured your soul into expressing yourself through movement.
He’s almost sorrowful he’ll be losing the routine of following you, but that is more than overshadowed by the thrumming under his skin he gets before he finally gets to enact one of his plans.
Dex’s eyes flick down to the center floor seats, a few rows in where there is a single gap waiting to be filled, a scowl forming on his lips.
It is almost curtain call and Matt Murdock is nowhere to be found. He’s come to accept that the blind lawyer has a chronic issue with being on time, but one would think when his girlfriend is the prima ballerina on opening night for the New York City Ballet season, he’d be there before the doors close. But as the lights begin to dim, the seat remains empty - the reserved sign probably visible from the stage.
Dex clenches his jaw to tamper down his annoyance and part of him feels offended on your behalf. Not because he views you as anything beyond a target - but Murdock’s tardiness is disrespectful to all the time that you’ve put into training for this night and that is something that resonates in his chest. It has taken so much planning and preparation, on his part and yours, to get to this point and the man has the audacity to roll in late?
Maybe Dex needs to send a different type of message.
But that will be for another time.
For now, his eyes stay glued to the empty seat until you float on stage, and only then does he look at the performance.
It really will be a shame that this will be your final one. Dex has seen all the dress rehearsals, but seeing you dance in front of an audience is a different experience. Everyone’s attention is on you, but you move like you are truly Odette and are none the wiser to their gaze.
Even if Murdock wouldn’t be able to see how you are twirling, he knows the man would hear how each attendee’s breath is being held in awe, too caught up in your spell to remember basic bodily functions. He would know that no one, not even Dex, can keep their eyes off of you.
That is how the night continues - Dex alternating between glaring at where Murdock should be and watching you weave your tale.
And when the grand moment comes, when Dex should be sending his message and piercing your heart while Odette falls to her death, he stays rooted in his seat, letting the curtains close to applause instead of screams.
The buzzing in his head is so loud and so overwhelming that he does not process getting up and leaving the theatre with the crowd - he goes from glowering at the covered stage to standing in front of the fire exit you always use to sneak away without anyone seeing you. His fingers twitch at his side, wanting to throttle something as his carefully laid plans crumble around him.
Dex cannot believe Murdock truly just did not show up at all. If there had been some sort of disastrous event that required him to suit up, the Mayor would have been notified in some emergency manner, but the man had been there at the standing ovation. There are no alerts on his phone - nothing to signal the Devil is out on the town, dealing out Justice.
There isn’t even a sighting of him tagged on social media.
So where the fuck is he?
Is Matt Murdock really so bad of a boyfriend he neglected to show up for your opening night?
Dex thinks back on all his time following you - trying to recall if Murdock had come to any of your studio sessions or if he had even stepped inside the theatre before but nothing comes to mind. You’d gone on dates, mostly during the weekends when the law office was closed, and you practically lived at the man’s apartment, but the more he goes down the rabbit hole of your and Murdock’s witnessed interactions, he doesn’t come up with an instance where Murdock has been around when you dance.
Does Murdock even care about you?
Did he just waste months coming up with a way to torment the Devil for it all to mean nothing?
Would killing you even matter?
Hot white rage pulses through Dex and he decides he will make it matter. He will just need to improvise.
The gears in his head turn as he waits for you to emerge from the building - he is confident you will not be attending the after party and that you will be slinking away into the shadows the moment you are able to.
Dex is not the only one Murdock has betrayed and he doubts you are in any mood for celebrations. Beyond your one true passion, Murdock seems to be the only other thing in your life. You don’t go out with friends, you don’t have any other hobbies, and you seem to yearn only for his approval. He can’t really fault you for that, as he understands that sort of devotion, but it is why you were selected to be his target instead of Foggy Nelson or Karen Page.
It was meant to be a significant blow to the Devil.
And, in a fucked up way that only recently come to light, it was meant to be a gift to you.
Your dancing has brought some joy to Dex’s life the past few months and he had planned to repay your kindness by taking away your pain.
He does not need his FBI training to see you are actively suicidal. He recognizes the same Darkness that wrapped itself around his head tightening around your throat. He’s seen the blank, empty stares and the way your leg muscles twitch when the subway rolls into the platform, wanting to launch yourself in front of it.
Seven times he’s seen you stop yourself from crossing that yellow line and each time he wondered if he would have interfered or let you go. Three times he’s seen you sit with a bottle of pills and Jack on your dinner table. He saw you pick up a paring knife and trace it up and down the veins of your forearm, just needing a little extra push to draw blood.
You aren’t going to survive until morning and Dex needs to control that narrative.
The minutes stretch and drag and he stands there waiting until the metal door opens and you step into the cool night air.
You are no longer the beautiful swan captivating a crowd - you’ve changed into a sad black sweat suit and have scrubbed your face raw removing your makeup. Your eyes are exactly as he expects them to be - hollow and red rimmed.
You don’t scream when you realize you aren’t alone on the small fire escape. You stare at him for a moment, before your gaze flicks up and down his frame before settling in the center of his chest.
“Oh,” are your first words to Dex, “it’s you.”
The blandness of your words shock his system - he was so prepared for fear and for having to restrain you, but here you are, just standing in front of him like he’s anyone else in the world.
Dex quickly regains his composure before leaning in slightly to make himself seem even bigger, even more threatening, and confirms in a low voice, “you know who I am?”
“Bullseye,” you mumble, still not looking him in the eyes. “Benjamin Pointdexter.” Your hand tightens slightly around the bouquet of roses in your arms before you relax back into a state of aloofness. You seem to sway with the wind for a moment before you continue on, your voice barely audible, “I don’t know where he is.”
“I’m sure you don’t, sweetheart,” Dex replies, knowing he sounds like he’s taunting you, “but we’re going to find him together.” His hand shoots out and takes your bicep into a vice grip. You don’t even flinch at his touch - just slowly tilt your head down to see where he’s wrapped around you.
There’s no protest as he drags you down to ground level and begins to guide you through the alley ways to stay away from any lingering crowd. Surprisingly, you keep pace with him and the only noise that comes from you is the jangling of your water bottle against your keys in your bag. When the boundaries into Hell’s Kitchen are passed, and Dex diverts into the main roads, you comply with his threats to not call out to anyone for help. You are basically a doll he is puppeting around.
Only when Murdock’s apartment building looms over you, do you seem to come out of your dissociative trance - you turn your head to look at him, lips dipped into the slightest of frowns.
“Are you going to kill me?” you ask, not sounding scared at all. It's like you’ve already accepted your fate and just want confirmation.
“Yes.”
“Okay,” is your response and Dex wrinkles his nose at that, because even he can be bothered by such a blase attitude.
“You’d be dead either way,” he points out as he pulls open the door and pushes you into the lobby. “It will be quicker and neater than jumping in front of a train or trying to OD on some over the counter shit. I’m doing you a favor.”
You actually hum at that, going towards the stairs without him having to direct you there. He keeps his grip tight on you as he follows you up the steps, ready to use you as a shield if need be. “I was going to go to the bridge. Get washed out to sea.”
Dex huffs at that, because that sounds like a highly ineffective plan. “They’ve upped their patrols along the good spots - someone would have grabbed you before you could make it over the railing. And even then, there’s no guarantees the fall would kill you. You’d probably break your legs and back when you hit the water and you’d drown. Then wash up along the river and end up on the front page of some tabloid.”
“Maybe I want to drown,” you counter, some semblance of something finally in your voice.
“We can arrange that.”
The rest of the hike up to the apartment is silent and your hands are steady as you unlock the door to Murdock’s apartment.
Dex expects the unit to be empty - Murdock would have been on his ass otherwise - but he orders you to sit on the couch as he clears the space, bringing out his gun to do so. From the corner of his eye he watches you take a seat, dropping your bag and your flowers on the floor by your feet. He supposes you don’t care to put them in a vase if you won’t be around to admire them. After securing the area, he takes a few long steps towards you, holding out his hand and demanding your phone.
You dig it out from your hoodie pocket and give it to him without fuss. He drops it to the floor and stomps the life out of it, while you look on with disinterest. When he is done, he turns to fetch the broom hanging by the kitchen trashcan and gathers the mess into the dustpan to toss out.
Dex’s new plan is to wait for Murdock to return home and then execute you. He knows there is a blindspot in the kitchen, so no billyclubs will be able to fly through the window to disarm him before he can react. The Devil will not be able to stop him this time.
He will be sending his message tonight: that Dex is going to take everyone Matt Murdock has ever loved and force him to break his stupid code. Fisk couldn’t get Daredevil to kill, but he will.
Dex will.
He takes his position and lets himself relax into the waiting game - it is something he is very good at. Being a sniper - being a soldier - means needing to have patience and waiting to strike seems to be the only time he has an abundance of it.
Across the room, you sit like a statue, head tilted up towards the roof access door but otherwise completely checked out. Your posture is perfect as you wait for your end.
He's going to make your death quick. You won't even know it happened - one second you'll be there, then you won't be. There will be no pain. It will be merciful.
He's being merciful.
Dex wants to say something to you, but he knows he can't. Even the smallest of noises can alert Daredevil and he isn’t stupid enough to let himself be caught because he couldn’t keep his fucking mouth shut.
He knows what he would say to you, if he could open his mouth.
That's more than most people get. He’s never wanted to engage with a target before - he doesn’t see the point of taunting them before putting them down - why would he waste the breath talking during a fight? They wouldn’t even be able to process his quips - they’d be dead before he could get through any of his words.
But with you, he wants to make sure you hear him before you disappear into the Darkness.
He doesn't know why that bothers him.
Dex presses his tongue against the back of his front teeth and tells himself to get out of his own head. He needs to focus. Any lapse in focus can ruin what he’s worked so hard for.
He has not come this far to fail. His message will be sent. He will break Murdock.
The billboard outside flicks between ads, bathing the apartment in different neons for a perfectly silent and still three hours, forty seven minutes, and twenty seconds.
Gravel crunches under boots on the roof above them and Dex raises his gun so his bullet will go sweetly right into your brain stem. His finger brushes the trigger, but he waits to flex - needing for the perfect moment to occur so he can get his point across clearly. He listens as uneven footsteps drag their way to the access door, his brows knitting together just slightly. The Devil is clearly limping.
The buzzing in his head shuts off and everything narrows down to the room around him in anticipation for the fight that is about to occur.
The access door rattles as Murdock reaches it - probably needing to reach out to grab it to steady himself. Time slows to a crawl as Dex waits for the metal to fly off its hinges, but instead of any screeching or buckling, it is a muffled, but very frustrated, “fuck!” that echoes through the night sky.
Confusion courses through Dex, because in all his fights with Murdock, he’s never reacted like this. It has always been raw fury and wasting no time trying to pummel each other into a pulp. The man still behind the door is clearly extremely pissed off, but he is not using his ‘I’m pissed off but very specifically at Bullseye’ voice.
Is he too injured to realize that someone else is in his kitchen?
Dex’s gaze flicks to you and only because he has watched you for long and Knows you so well does he see that you have become alert. You are still not moving a muscle - just barely breathing as your eyes stay locked on the roof access - but you are once again Aware of your surroundings.
To your credit, you do not react at all when the door finally swings up and bounces off the wall with a tinny ‘clang’. The Devil stalks into the open concept apartment in his decidedly armor free Man in Black get up.
Or what is left of it.
His shirt barely qualifies as such anymore - it’s been shredded by some bladed weapon and it does nothing to hide the new deep clean cuts carved into the man’s torso. His left pant leg looks like it might have gotten caught in a fire - the multiple holes there have a distinct burn pattern and Dex can smell the lingering smoke from where he is standing. Blood coats the lower half of the Devil’s face, fresh from where his nose broken and still dripping like a faucet.
He’s barely holding himself up as he stumbles onto the landing, but he had clearly won whatever battle he had been in, so woo fucking hoo for him.
“Really?” Murdock croaks out, his speech slightly slurred from his beating but not lacking any in its bite. “You came here instead of going out?”
Daredevil never fails in his ability to be unpredictable, because in every scenario he had playing in his head, Dex had never ever thought of the possibility of being completely ignored. Even if he can’t smell an intruder with his face bashed in - shouldn’t he be able to hear him? He doesn’t fully understand what the fuck Murdock’s deal is, but he knows enough that it has to do with heightened senses and being able to detect heartbeats.
He feels like he is short circuiting - like he is frozen and he doesn’t know what to do because he cannot comprehend his plans failing because Murdock is not playing his part correctly for a second time that night.
For the first time in hours, your voice breaks the silence. You aren’t emotional - you don’t waver or wobble with your words- you are quiet and devoid of any other signs of life.
You’re waiting for Dex to pull the trigger.
“Where were you?”
It is the wrong thing to say and the wrong tone to use - even he knows that. The man in front of him is too caught up in his own rage and his own issues that he can’t tell you aren’t trying to pick a fight. You aren’t trying to do anything - you’re already as good as gone.
A sharp bark of laughter fills the air as Murdock starts to move forward, “where was I? Where was I?! I was out keeping the city safe, sweetheart! That’s where I was! I was where I was actually needed!”
He makes it down two steps before his ankles give out under his own weight and he has to grab onto the bannister to keep himself up. Murdock leans heavily into the railing, dripping blood everywhere, and you react in concern for him, standing up in an instant and going towards the stairs with your hands out like you could possibly catch him if he fell.
Dex tracks you with his eyes and gun, but the rest of him stays still as, despite everything he's not done, you try to help your boyfriend.
“Where were you?” you repeat, still just barely audible, but now there is a hint of a plea in your words. Dex has the feeling that the question you are asking does not equal the meaning you are intending. He is not good at picking up on that sort of thing usually, but he has studied the inflection in your voice. He knows what the different pitches mean - how you emphasize words to get your point across.
Murdock snarls at you like he’s some sort of cornered dog and Dex presses his tongue harder into his teeth. Daredevil is the most dangerous when he’s injured and angry and it will be any moment when he’s registered on his radar and the battle begins. To an outsider, Bullseye has the clear advantage, but he knows that isn’t the truth.
There’s a reason both men are still alive.
The Devil stumbles down more steps towards you, managing to keep himself up by sheer willpower alone. You rush forward, prepared to cushion his fall with your own body, but you stop short when you are swatted at. The dirty muay thai ropes don’t come close to connecting with you, but the message of ‘stay back’ is clear.
The repositioning of his aim is automatic - a hair up, a breath left and a bullet would find home in Matt Mudock’s skull. It is the intensity of his training that keeps Dex from pulling the trigger and removing the threat that is in front of you.
“You don’t get to do that,” the man hisses at you, the blood trapped in his nose making his words thick and stick together. “I told you - I told you I couldn’t promise anything with what has been happening with the Hand!” He makes another motion towards you, jabbing his grimy hand to point at your chest, like he’s accusing you of something. “You’ve seen what they’ve been doing - what they did to that woman! You expect me to - what? Sit there while they tear the city apart because you put something on my schedule?”
For what it is worth, you stand your ground and don’t back down from the raging man. You stand just steps below him, poised to keep him from crashing to the ground. Dex can’t see your face and he wonders if you are crying.
If the Devil is able to tell, he isn’t affected by it.
Your right hand raises up, your fingers shaking so badly you probably wouldn’t be able to hold anything, and you try to reach out to cup Murdock’s cheek.
Daredevil catches your wrist before you can even extend your elbow just as you yet again whisper out, voice cracking, “where were you, Matt?”
The two of you stand there, caught in something Dex doesn’t understand as he watches the scene unfold in front of him, his own mind confused about what he should do next.
He should be fulfilling his plan.
He should be ending your suffering and starting Daredevil’s.
But he once again can’t pull the trigger.
Without any idea of the situation he is truly in, Murdock distances himself from you, pushing your hand away with too much force and starting to climb the stairs backwards, “No. No! I’m not doing this with you. Not after tonight!”
The Devil turns, his feet thundering down as he reaches the landing again, and with just as much effort as he used to open it, the door is slammed shut, leaving you and Bullseye once again alone in the apartment.
The air is thick with tension as Dex tries to work out what had happened in the last minute and a half.
Murdock hadn’t been able to tell someone with a gun was in his kitchen because he had been too injured and too pissed off. Beyond the broken nose, he must have had a serious concussion or too much blood loss because Dex can’t think of another reason that Daredevil would just walk away from him.
If he was in his right mind or not completely fucked up, he would not leave anyone alone with Dex, especially his fucking semi-famous girlfriend.
But there Dex was, standing stock still with his weapon still aimed at where Murdock had just been, eyes locked on the door, waiting for it to reopen.
It doesn’t.
Forty two seconds pass, then the billboard across the street switches to a new ad, and the room goes from being a moody purple to being illuminated in a bright sunny orange. Dex feels like he is trapped in a dream or he is experiencing a new type of hallucination because nothing around him feels real.
As he moves to reholster his gun, his head starts to throb over the force of the anger washing through him. The disappointment and resentment he felt towards Murdock when he failed to kill Fisk pales in comparison to the rage building inside of his chest. This level of emotion is something Dex has never experienced before and he doesn’t want to just scream or kill Murdock.
Dex wants to sever his cochlear and olfactory nerves. He wants to put Murdock into True Darkness, to let him experience True Fear before ripping him apart limb by limb.
A quick and easy death is not in his future.
The world is pressing down on Dex, closing in and becoming overwhelming as the monster he has always tried to keep at bay roars to life inside of him, desperate to destroy everything around him.
Then, for the upteenth time that night, he is mentally knocked on his ass by you turning in place, like you are on a clock work gear and can only make minute movements, and looking right at him.
Tear tracks are highlighted by the remainders of your mascara, with fat drops still falling from your lashes. Your red glassy eyes lock with his, and even though you are feet away from him and he feels like his head is underwater, Dex hears you perfectly.
“Can I make a request?” your pretty pretty lips ask, barely parting to do so.
“A request?” he parrots in a croaky voice as everything that makes up Dex narrows down to you. The rest of the world - Murdock, Fisk, anything outside the four walls around him - disappears and there is only you and him left in the Darkness.
You barely tip your chin down in a nod, eyes darting away from his like you are expecting a similar outburst from him for daring to ask a question.
“Request away,” he finally manages to say, just before his feet start to act on their own and takes a step towards you. He has no idea what you could possibly want from him, but he hopes it is a desire to drown because maybe, maybe, you’d let him hold you under the water until you stop struggling instead of wanting to jump off a stupid bridge.
“Can…can I get some cheesecake before you…?” you gesture vaguely out to the room and Dex realizes that you still expect him to kill you.
He had told you he would, but he isn’t sure if he is still going to.
He doesn’t have a plan anymore.
-----
New York truly is the city that never sleeps because thirty minutes later, Dex is sitting across from you on a bench by the river, poking at a piece of cheesecake with a fork. You are taking small delicate bites of your own slice around the closest thing to a smile on your face he’s seen all night.
You have no qualms about him staring you down, memorizing everything about you he doesn’t already know as you enjoy your snack. His jaw ticks as his eyes keep going to darkening bruise encircling your wrist. It mars your perfect skin and is another glaring reminder of just how badly Murdock has hurt you tonight.
You might need a splint - Dex can already see the swelling happening and you don’t need physical pain on top of all the emotional and mental suffering you are dealing with. There is a pharmacy only a block away and if it is not a twenty-four hour joint, he’ll just break in to take what he needs. As he starts to wonder if wearing something on your wrist will hinder your dancing, he remembers the words he wanted to say to you all those hours ago.
Dex wets his lips with his tongue, then in a low, calm voice, tells you, “you were perfect tonight.”
Your fork freezes midair as your eyes go wide at his admission, like you have no idea what he is talking about and him breaking the silence will cause more to crumble down around you. He is quick to follow up with more, wanting to tell you exactly what he thinks of your dancing.
“You didn’t miss a mark. You’ve been practicing and practicing and you pulled it off. You were perfect. The spins, when you were the Black Swan - the um,” Dex snaps his fingers as he tries to remember the correct word - none of them are English and they all sound the same to him.
“The fouettes?” you supply, soft and sweet. You are searching his face, a hint of something positive in your features and no sign of fear or dread. Just curiosity.
He feels himself start to smile and he commits the term to memory, “yes, those. Thank you. The fouettes. That was impressive - and adding in the little improvised flair at the end made the crowd go wild.”
Your cheeks start to color and something in Dex crows at being successful at something that night. You look back down to your cheesecake, rolling your bottom lip between your teeth before giving a shy, “thank you.”
He lets you bask in his praise - something that is not easily given - as he takes a bite of his own dessert. He doesn’t remember the last time he stepped outside his pattern for food, and he’s glad he did. You actually know where to get good cheesecake.
You keep your eyes downcast as you boldly make more conversation with him, “were you…going to kill me during the show?”
“Yeah,” Dex tells you, not hiding who he is at all, shoving another forkful into his mouth. “The finale, when the White Swan throws herself in the lake. I figured it would be Poetic or some shit.”
You laugh at that - the smallest huff and your cheeks pushing up into soft mounds. He is quick to latch onto the feeling it gives him because it is so different from everything else he experiences.
He likes whatever you are doing to him. He likes you responding to his words with a smile instead of indifference. He likes this fluttering in his chest instead of the buzzing in his head.
“That would have been a nice way to go.”
“Better than jumping?” he prompts, curious the know where you are mentally in your journey towards suicide.
Dex knows the moment he leaves your side, you will be taking matters into your own hands - Murdock might have well signed the declaration of death himself before running off into the night. He’ll offer his services to you, free of charge if that is the road you want to go down, but he will not be taking your life to get some reaction out of Daredevil.
He’ll help you out of the Darkness on your terms, no one else’s.
You shrug at his question, eyes flicking up quickly to look at his face for just a second before going back down to the table. “I…don’t really like being cold…and with all the increased patrolling…” You trail off, but the little furrow in your brow tells him you want to say more.
So Dex waits, letting you mull things over as he finishes eating. Only when he tosses his trash away do you find yourself again.
“I had it all planned, you know? Not…not that. That came after…but before, when…” You wrinkle up your nose as Dex hangs on your every word, wanting anything you will give him before he has to let you go. “Before the show? All my life? This was my dream role, you know, ever since I learned about it? It’s all I wanted to do. I know it’s stupid and cliche, but…” You duck your chin so it is almost touching your chest, then admit to him, voice dropping so low he can only just hear it. “I promised myself that if I ever got it, my night would be cheesecake and a hot bath. And I have cheesecake. So, thank you. For that.”
Dex searches your face, not knowing what he is looking for. He thinks its sad that your reward for achieving your dream is something so mundane and thing inside him that is so fucked up is latching onto the fact that he has the ability to fulfill your second desire.
He can make sure you get a hot bath before you pull the preverbal trigger.
He can make you smile again before the sun comes up and the reality of everything sets in.
Dex will do that for you and it won’t be something merciful of him. He’ll do it as a proper thank you for giving him such a wonderful show.
For giving him such a wonderful night.
----
He means to just give you the keycard and let you be on your way.
He’s already slipped one of his knives and the bottle of muscle relaxants he took from the pharmacy into your bag. There’s plenty of liquor in the minibar. You will have everything you need to slip off to sleep, never to wake up again after you soak to your heart’s delight.
But, somehow, without his consent or initial approval, Dex finds himself in the suite’s bathroom, leaning against the counter while you test the temperature of the water before you fill the tub. You are probably about five minutes from passing out from the intensely physical and emotional night you’ve had, but for the moment, as he looks you over, you appear content. Your good hand is swirling through the shallow water as it heats up and your attention is on some romcom playing on the television that hangs in the room.
He never understood why there would need to be one in the bathroom, but he’s not going to comment if it is helping you relax.
Eventually, you plug the tub so it can fill and oh so gracefully push yourself up into standing. His eyes crawl up and down your form, taking in how your muscles sit on you and where your different strengths lay. He was not bullshitting about being impressed with your Black Swan performance - your athleticism is something to be admired. In your thirty two turns, you could stay centered, not tilting forward or moving about the stage as you twirled. You have control over your body that Dex could only dream to achieve.
You watch him examine you, tilting your head slightly as you do. He has no idea what you could be looking for, but you seem to find it because you turn away to start to unzip your hoodie.
“Do you want to join me?”
Dex thinks that to anyone else, it would sound like an invitation for sex or some other lewd act, but he knows that is not what you are asking of him. He has no desire for that and he thinks neither do you - you just do not want to be alone and in that moment, neither does he.
He doesn't want to lose you just yet.
So, his response is to start stripping and you are quick to follow suit. He keeps his eyes away from your intimate areas out of respect, but he can't help but zero in on the now purple ring on your wrist.
He should never have let Murdock touch you. Dex should have put him down the moment he had raised his voice at you. He had never respected or cherished you in the way you deserved. Murdock thought it was acceptable to lash out at you over his own mistakes.
It wouldn't be happening again.
Whatever you desire, until the moment your heart stops, will be yours, Dex decides. You like sweet, mundane things so it won't be difficult to spend the night with you. You want to take a bath and watch a movie and stop hurting. And if you get hungry, he'll order you room service and get all the cheesecake you want. He has nothing else to spend all his money on.
The water is near boiling when he steps into it, and only when he is mostly emerged does he understand exactly why you wanted a hot bath. He did not know his body was so sore.
He does not hold back his pleased groan.
But he does hold back his surprise when you settle against him, your back to his chest. You are a warm, pleasant weight against him and you show no hesitation in getting comfortable. He is no longer a stranger to you - he is a presence in your Darkness.
It's been so long since anyone's touched him in a kind way and between whatever it is you have bloomed in him and the streaming water, he finds himself relaxing back into the tub.
Your head finds his shoulder, turned so your nose is brushing his throat. Your breath skates across his collar bone, already evening out as you drift off into an unconsciousness you'll return from. You are sinking into him and the water like you just plan to float away.
He finds himself smiling at that and he drops his arm to wrap around your waist and keep you snug against him. He places his chin on top of your head, feeling like maybe the universe had smiled on him this night.
The Devil has lost the Swan Princess and Dex has gained an Angel.
Summary : You think someone has been following you. You were right.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x Antihero! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : reader is a thunderbolt/new avenger who has a prior relationship with Dex, morally grey characters, freak4freak. Sub!Dex and he has a praise kink. mutual obsession, stalking, mentions of violence, consensual but morally complex sexual dynamics, nudity. Ava and Yelena has a cameo! (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 6.7k
Requested by : Anon
Notes : It's my first time writing for Dex and of course it’s a Freak4Freak. The title is inspired by a line from the song Candy by Paolo Nutini. Enjoy!
The bar was alive, bathing you in violet lights while the bass was heavy enough to settle in your ribs. The sound of pool balls cut clean through the noise every few seconds. It smelled like cheap alcohol, citrus, and rusted metal.
You leaned over the table, lining up a shot you weren’t fully concentrating on, while Yelena paced slowly behind you like a critic waiting to tear you apart.
“If you miss this,” she said, voice dry, “I will revoke your right to hold that cue ever again.”
After all, it was you and Yelena against Ava, for lack of a fourth person. You just figured you’d take turns on a 2 v 1.
“Whatever,” you muttered, squinting down the line.
From the other side, Ava clicked her tongue softly, already unimpressed. “Just take the goddamn shot.”
You did.
The ball clipped the edge. It was close, but not enough, as it veered off uselessly.
Yelena made a satisfied sound. “Embarrassing.”
“Oh my god, shut up,” you laughed, straightening, heat in your face. “You’re both insufferable.”
“At least we are skilled,” Yelena shot back.
Ava smirked. “We?”
Girl’s night out with your new teammates had been fun. It had kept you distracted for months, and for a second, you had a taste of normalcy.
Only for a second, though.
“Okay, fine,” you said, grabbing your drink and leaning back against the table. “If we’re ranking insufferable, can we talk about the team?”
Yelena’s ears perked up immediately, like a puppy hearing the word snack. “Yes. We can always talk about this.”
“Thank you!” You exclaimed, rolling your shoulders from the strain last week’s mission gave you. A couple of rogue mercs in the Atlantic, but it was nothing you weren’t used to. “I have been dying to talk about how much John yapped during yesterday’s meeting.”
Ava snorted from the other side of the table, chalking her cue. “He does love the sound of his own voice.”
Yelena scoffed, crossing her arms. “At least he has a voice. Bucky just sulks in corners like a depressed statue.”
“And Bob—” Ava started.
“Oh, Bob is trying,” you said quickly, laughing. “We’re not dragging Bob.”
“Fine,” Ava allowed. “But Alexei...”
Yelena straightened immediately, eyes narrowing. “No. No one shit talks my papa.”
You raised a brow. “You do.”
Yelena waved her off. “It is different. When I do it, it comes from a place of love.”
You laughed again, shaking your head, warmth settling in your chest. The noise and banter grounded you. It kept things simple.
For a second, it almost felt like you could forget that feeling.
That sinking feeling like a silk ribbon pulling tight behind your ribs that someone was watching.
Your smile lingered a second too long as your eyes drifted, not enough for Ava or Yelena to notice, but enough that you were already scanning the perimeter. You clocked in every person, every door, every exit point.
Nothing.
It was early in the evening after all, maybe twelve other customers in the bar? If anyone was looking too long or out of place, it would be painfully obvious.
Still, you didn’t fully relax.
It wasn’t really a sight thing. It was the absence of feeling you couldn’t name. There was a gap in the noise, picked up by the kind of instinct you didn’t learn. You had survived long enough that the skill had carved itself into you subconsciously.
You adjusted your stance slightly, back no longer fully exposed to the room.
Ava was lining up her next shot. Yelena was mid-rant about John’s weird breakfast habits, hands moving as she talked.
Right. You must be imagining things.
Because if it was real, if someone was actually watching, you wouldn’t be the only one noticing it. Yelena and Ava were two of the best field agents you knew. They were stealth specialists, they would know, right?
You exhaled slowly, forcing your grip on the glass to loosen.
This was just stupid fucking paranoia. You chalked it up to a residual instinct you hadn’t shaken since before the team.
Besides, who the hell would be dumb enough to stalk three former assassins in a Soho bar?
No one, you concluded. At least, no one that wanted to live.
But still, your eyes flicked once more toward the mirror behind the bar.
And for the briefest moment, you could’ve sworn you weren’t alone in it.
—
By the time the three of you finally stepped out into the night, it was nearly two in the morning.
It had been a good night, and it turned out to be a loud one.
As it got later and more crowded, a handful of guys had circled in and out of the group. They were the only downside to the evening, as they were all too confident, too curious, too annoying. One had tried to lean over your shot like that would impress you. Another had slid a drink toward you without asking, already expecting a yes.
You hadn’t given either of them much more than a flat no before they could even try again.
Ava had noticed. Yelena had enjoyed it.
“‘You look like trouble,’” Yelena repeated now, her voice dripping with mockery as you all slowed on the sidewalk. “What does that even mean?”
“It means he thought he was being original,” you said, rubbing the back of your neck.
“It means he was idiot,” Yelena corrected.
Ava huffed a laugh. “The second one was worse.”
You groaned. “Don’t.”
“‘Can I buy you a drink?’” Ava mimicked, glancing at you. “While you were literally holding one.”
Yelena nodded, delighted. “And you just...” she made a dismissive flicking motion with her hand, “…’no.”
You shrugged, unable to help the small smile tugging at your mouth. “What was I supposed to say?”
“Anything more entertaining,” Ava said.
“I’m not here to entertain them,” you shot back.
“No,” Yelena agreed, eyeing you knowingly. “You are here to intimidate them.”
You snorted. “Please.”
Ava tilted her head slightly, studying you. “So what would work?”
You tilted your head. “What?”
“You shut them down so fast,” she pointed out, “there’s gotta be a reason.”
“They’re…” you shrugged as you passed a street lamp. You had to be very careful of what you say next. “…just not my type.”
Ava scoffed. There were a couple of men that seemed genuinely nice that you didn’t have a second look at. And she knew it wasn’t about looks, you weren’t that shallow. “And that is…?”
Yelena lit up immediately. “Oh, I know.”
You groaned, bracing for whatever over-the-top assumption she was gonna make. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do,” she insisted, stepping in front of you like she was presenting a case. “Girl like you?” She pointed vaguely. “You like… how you say… pet psychopath.”
You barked out a laugh. “A what?”
“Pet psychopath,” she repeated confidently. “Someone unhinged.” She crossed her arms. “I think you like reigning them in. You keep them on leash.”
Ava snorted. “I can see that, actually.”
You rolled your eyes hard, walking past her. “Sure.”
“Am I wrong?” Yelena pressed.
You didn’t answer, and didn’t want to.
They didn’t know much about your past love life. Not the full story, not even half of it, to realise her statement wouldn’t fit neatly into a joke.
So you let them have it. Let them speculate, let them laugh. It was easier that way.
As you reached an intersection, you stopped.
“I’m heading home,” you said after a moment, checking the time out of habit. Sure, you lived part-time in the tower now, but you still kept your apartment. Rent control, you’d say. That, and just in case shit hits the fan with the team. “Got some paperwork to finish. I’ll be back for briefing tomorrow.”
Yelena made an exaggerated, offended sound. “Again with paperwork.”
You chuckled but said nothing.
Ava narrowed her eyes on you. “If you are lying and just want to avoid us, we’ll know.”
“Noted,” you said, already stepping back.
Yelena crossed her arms, muttering something under her breath before sighing dramatically. “Fine. Go. Be boring.”
You smiled faintly. “Night,” you said as you waved, watching the disappear into little dots in the distance, heading for the safety of the watchtower.
—
You walked on autopilot, familiar turns and cracked sidewalks guiding you home. And still, even now, the feeling was there. You were either experiencing a psychotic break or someone was following you just beyond the edges of perception, and based on experience, you knew that neither thing was preferable to the other.
You scanned your surroundings, checking darkened windows, reflections, and passing figures.
Nothing.
You exhaled, rolling your shoulders. You were an Avenger. You’d handled worse than a vague, creeping sense of being watched, worse than a few idiots at a bar.
When you got to your door, you didn’t have to look to open it like muscle memory. The click of the lock echoed louder than it should have as you turned the key in the door.
This place has always been your apartment, ever since you moved to New York. No one else’s.
Yet he had stayed over, he slept over, he left traces of himself behind like a stubborn echo. He was the only one you ever let in your oh-so-sacred personal space.
You shoved the door open and stepped inside, shedding your coat. The noise of the city outside leaked through the cracked windows, and for a moment, everything felt… familiar.
Still, you looked over to see the couch he’d sprawled across. To your right was the imperceptible dent he had left on the wall where he’d leaned too hard one night. To your left was one of his shoes you never bothered to throw away.
You dropped your bag by the entrance, kicking off your own shoes.
Again, you’d told people, often, that you kept this apartment because of rent control. Truthfully, it was the excuse that stuck, but you knew better.
It had never been about the money. It was the memories, the spaces he had inhabited, however briefly. The way the apartment had felt alive when he was there, chaotic in the worst possible way, and you still couldn’t shake that feeling off.
You dropped onto the couch, letting the silence settle. You were safe here. You should feel safe here.
But even as you sank into the cushions, that thread of unease from earlier hadn’t gone away. You shook your head. Not real. Not real!
“Fuck,” you whispered out loud, before reaching for the stack of bills on the counter. If you said you were going to do paperwork, you were gonna do paperwork.
You were not a liar.
…Anymore.
—
You had peace for exactly thirty-two minutes. Thirty-two whole, perfect minutes where you could pretend that nothing from the past could touch you.
And then came the knock.
It was insistent. Every muscle in your body tensed before your brain even caught up. That rhythm was familiar, though your brain refused to supply who it was.
Whoever it was kept knocking, and they were knocking right out of your apartment door— which meant they either had the ability to pick the lock or they live in the building.
Was it Yelena or Ava? Did you accidentally take their access card in your bag? Was it your lovely old neighbor Mr. Finch? Did he want to borrow a bit of sugar again?
Still, you walked over. Your fingers hovering over the doorknob. A part of you screamed not to, that this was a trap, that this was your instinct telling you that whoever was on the other side of that door, was the one behind your uneasy feeling all night.
But you opened it anyway.
And standing there, bruised and a little bloodied, was Dex.
He had that sheepish, boyish grin tugging at the edges of his lips. Blood streaked across his cheek, fabric torn in places. He wasn’t injured enough to be dying, and certainly not enough to warrant your panic, but enough to make your stomach drop.
“No. Absolutely not,” you said, slamming the door with more force than necessary.
You should’ve known. You should have known if anyone were to stalk you, it would be him.
You could hear him chuckle on the other side, infuriatingly familiar. You pressed your back against the door, forcing your shoulders to relax, telling yourself you were an Avenger. You could handle this. You could.
Five minutes later, there was a second knock. This time at your window, the one opening onto the fire escape.
It was an annoying little tap tap tap, and he just wouldn’t stop.
You should tell him to fuck off. You should tell him that this was insane, that whatever part of him was out there bleeding, emotionally or physically, was not your problem.
You groaned, dragging your hand down your face, muttering, “Get lost, Dex.”
But he was there, balancing effortlessly on the fire escape like he’d done a thousand times before, body backlit by the moonlight. His grin was infuriatingly boyish, arrogant in a way that made your heart beat quicker. “Kicking me out of my own apartment?” he asked, muffled through the glass.
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “It was never yours. You just… slept over.”
His eyes looked to the side, smirking. “Huh. That’s why you still keep my old clothes in the drawer?”
“Fuck. off,” you said, drawing the curtains shut. Even as you did it, your chest felt tight, your stomach twisting, because you knew. You knew you’d never really stopped letting him in.
Your hand hesitated over the window again.
A part of you knew you shouldn’t. A part of you was angry at yourself for even considering it. And yet, you knew you wanted it. You wanted him.
You knew he could just break in, that he didn’t need you permission to go in. But he wanted it. He wanted your approval, he craved it, he fed off it.
Cussing yourself, you opened the curtains and window again and gave him exactly what he wanted, cold air rising into your heated space.
Almost surprised, he stepped inside. Your chest tightened as you let him in. You hated how your body betrayed you, how your mind scrambled for rationality while your instincts leaned forward, wanting to be close to him.
“This is a bad idea,” you said to yourself under your breath.
“Is it?” he asked, just close enough that you could feel his breath on your neck.
You didn’t answer. And in that charged silence, in the small space of your apartment, you could feel him watching you. It should be sinister. It should be uncomfortable. But instead, your twisted mind thought it was flattering.
As you forced yourself to look at him, it became obvious that the cuts weren’t just superficial. Bruises darkened under his shirt, his hands trembled slightly as he ran them along his sides, and the faint hitch in his breath told you he’d been pushing himself a bit too far and wouldn’t admit it.
“Jesus…” you breathed, stepping closer, eyes wide. “What happened to you?”
He gave a faint shrug, almost casual, and the ghost of that old, nervous grin touched his lips. “Killed a couple of AVTF agents,” he said lightly. “Some of them fought back.”
You blinked, heart lurching. He said it like it was nothing, like it was a joke.
“You’re… in worse condition than I thought,” you said, voice tight, and you guided him to the couch before he could protest. He sat, one arm slung over the backrest.
You knelt in front of him, already tearing open the first strip of gauze from the first aid kit you kept under your coffee table, lifting his shirt up halfway. “Fuck, Dex… you can’t seem to get outta trouble. Killing task force? Come on, I…” Your voice broke off. You didn’t even know what you were trying to say anymore. Protect? Scold? Save?
“You would’ve done the same,” he interrupted, shrugging again, that lazy, self-assured tilt of his head. “Just because you’re part of this reformed antihero bullshit… doesn’t mean you’ve changed.”
A tight ache squeezed your chest.
No, you haven’t. Not really. You were more aware of that than anyone else.
He just smiled at that, like he knew exactly what you were thinking and thrived on it.
You tore another strip of gauze, dabbing at the blood along his side. “Yeah, but you’re doing it in broad daylight,” you said quietly, voice tinged with frustration and disbelief. “I would’ve done them in on the down low.”
There it was, the truth. You hated how much you recognized a piece of yourself in what he’d done.
“That’s my girl,” he said, voice soft but certain, and the possessive smile returned. “You were so good. You would’ve made it seem like a freak accident.”
You rolled your eyes, pressing a little harder than necessary against the gauze at his side. “Don’t start,” you warned.
He hissed faintly at the pressure, but the grin didn’t leave his face. If anything, the pain just made him more present. “You let me in,” he said simply, watching you like that answered everything.
You didn’t look up. “You would’ve broken in.”
“Yeah,” he admitted, tilting his head. “But this is nicer.”
For a moment, the only sound in the room was your breathing and the city noise bleeding through the window. Then you leaned back slightly, tossing the bloodied gauze aside.
“Agents, Dex,” you said, voice flat. You finally met his eyes. “In the middle of the street? Really subtle. Real low profile.”
“They were sloppy,” he shrugged. “And annoying.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is to me.”
You finally looked up at him then with a sharp glare. “The point is you’re making noise. And when you make noise, people look. And when people look, they start connecting dots. And when they connect dots—”
“They find me?” he cut in. “Or they find you?”
Your jaw tightened. “You know I don’t care if they find me. You know I can take care of myself.”
His smile flickered dangerously. “You can pretend all you want— with the Avengers, paperwork, with girls' night outs— but you still think like this.” He tapped a finger lightly against your temple, and it felt so tender. He was always tender with you. “Like me.”
You grabbed his wrist, a little too fast, a little too tightly.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then his eyes dropped to your grip, then back up to your face, interest settling in.
“See?” he murmured. “There she is.”
You shoved his hand away, standing abruptly. “Shut up.”
But you didn’t step back. You didn’t even put distance between you.
“You’re mad,” he said, pushing himself up despite the injury. “But not for the reasons you think.”
“I’m mad because you’re reckless,” you snapped. “Because you’re stupid enough to think you can just, what? Walk back in here like nothing’s changed?”
“Something hasn't,” he countered, almost joyfully in how much of you has stayed the same.
Your breath hitched. It was barely noticeable, but he caught it.
He stepped closer.
You should’ve moved. You knew you should’ve. Every trained, survival-built instinct you had told you to create space, to regain control, to shut this down before it spiraled.
Instead, you stayed rooted.
“Those agents,” you said quickly, forcing the conversation back into a safer, tactical topic. “Fisk’s getting sloppy if that’s who he’s sending after you.”
That earned a scoff.
“He should’ve adapted by now,” you went on. “Instead, he’s sending uniforms into open streets like it’s gonna end clean.”
Dex smirked. “It didn’t.”
“No, it didn’t,” you agreed, meeting his eyes. “And now you’ve got even more heat on you. Congratulations.”
He didn’t look bothered. If anything, he looked amused.
“Maybe I don’t mind the heat,” he said.
“Yeah?” you shot back. “Because it’s not just you who gets burned.”
That landed in his heart as hard as a plane crash in the middle of a forest. But then his expression shifted again, softer, but in that calculated way he had, like he was choosing exactly which version of himself to show you.
“Maybe I don’t have to be on my own,” he said.
There it was.
You exhaled slowly, already shaking your head before he could even finish the thought. “No.”
“You didn’t even let me pitch it.”
“I know the pitch,” you said flatly. Of course you did. You’d helped write it.
The whole Bonnie-and-Clyde fantasy. You used to breathe it in like a drug you just can’t quit. You used to kiss the shell of his ear, biting his earlobe as you mapped out the idea of the two of you against the world, leaving nothing behind but wreckage of rotting bodies. His hands would roam on your body just the way you liked it, both of you half-drunk on adrenaline and the promise of violence dressed up as devotion.
Back then, it felt inevitable, like there was no version of you that didn’t end up there with him, in the dark, laughing at the fallout.
But you should know better by now.
Clinging back into that fantasy would not only be a disservice to your progress, but also to your friends.
It would be a disservice to Yelena, who was trying to shed her inner child assassin. It would be a disservice to Ava, who was trying to pay back all the things she’s done in search for a cure. To Alexei, who was finally becoming the hero he claimed he was.To Bucky, who was atoning for sins his mind wasn’t even responsible for. To John, who was trying to be a more present father, and to Bob who was simply trying to get clean.
You were trying, too. Maybe not as obviously, but you were. You were dragging yourself, piece by piece, away from that edge.
There was no balance here. No safe middle ground.
If you slipped back into that life, even a little, you wouldn’t just visit it. You’d sink.
If you started killing for sport again, Anti-Vigilante Task Force or otherwise, you can't be sure you’d even want to come back. Not if you were doing it with him.
Your voice came out quieter this time, but steadier for it. “I don’t want that anymore.”
After all that inner turmoil you had, he had the audacity to wink. “Sure.”
You wanted to slap him.
Before you could respond, he reached out quickly, fingers brushing your wrist, then sliding up just enough to feel your familiar pulse. He tilted his head, studying you again like a puzzle he already knew how to solve.
“You miss me,” he said simply.
Your stomach twisted. “No.”
“Yeah,” he breathed. “You do.”
You stepped into his space before you could stop yourself, grabbing the front of his shirt and pushing him against the wall. “Don’t put words in my mouth,” you snapped.
The impact knocked a breath out of him, but the look on his face?
He looked thrilled, as if your anger, your control, was exactly what he’d been starving for.
“I should put you in the fucking Raft,” you snapped, breathing uneven, your forehead nearly pressing against his. “Get a cell warmed up just for you.”
Dex didn’t flinch. He didn’t even pretend to take it seriously.
Instead, his lips curled crookedly. “Then who’d watch over you?” he murmured, eyes drifting down to your lips before looking back in your eyes. “Who’d take care of you?”
Your grip faltered, just slightly. What? What did he mean by that?
“Who’d be killing the task force for you?” he added, softer now, like it was intimate. Like it was a secret meant only for you.
Your stomach dropped. There were no right words for what you were feeling. Guilt, maybe, for feeling good about it at all.
“…y-you did that for me?” you asked, the words smaller than you meant them to be.
His expression didn’t change. If anything, it softened, just a fraction. In his eyes was the same dangerous devotion threading through everything he did for you.
“I know you’d want to,” he said, looking up at you with wide eyes. “So I did it for you.” He paused, only for a decor. “To prove I’m one of the good guys now.” His eyes flicked over your face, searching, craving. “Like you.”
Your lungs felt twisted in your chest. You did. You wanted to. You’ve argued with Val countless of times, but she said the same thing: it wasn’t good for optics.
“Jesus, Dex…” you breathed, shaking your head, frustration and a little bit of admiration boiling up under your skin. “You’re so… ugh— you’re just so fucking—”
Dex breathed in, those hazel eyes that you adored so much darting anxiously, as if waiting for a final verdict, a final judgement that would make or break his heart.
But that was the problem. You didn’t have a word for him.
There was no clean, clinical label that could contain what he was to you, what he had always been. Obsession felt too shallow, addiction felt too passive, and even love felt too tame.
“Jesus, baby…” you exhaled, not really meaning to call him that again, your grip tightening in his shirt instead of letting go. “You’re so—”
You’re so… wrong? Sick? Familiar?
You made a frustrated sound, that sounded like it belonged somewhere between a laugh and a curse, and before you could stop yourself, before you could talk yourself out of it…
You kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle or careful by any means. It wasn’t anything you could chalk off as a mistake.
You pushed up onto your toes, dragging him down into it, your mouth crashing into his like you were trying to shut him up, erase him, consume him.
Maybe all three at once.
For a split second, he froze. Not out of hesitation, but out of shock. It was as if he hadn't even expected you to give in first.
It didn’t take long for him to break, though, to melt into you.
His body gave way under your hands, tension unraveling so fast it was almost unsettling. A tiny, almost adorable, wrecked sound slipped from him. His hands came up like instinct, like muscle memory, settling at your waist, splayed over your skin, under your shirt. He did so gently, as if he needed permission even now.
The world knew him as unhinged, uncontrollable, but with you? He folded every time.
Your fingers tightened in his shirt as the kiss deepened, messy and heated, all teeth and tongue and frustration. You could feel the way he leaned into you, not taking, but responding, chasing whatever you gave him like it was oxygen.
And you hated it, because it meant you knew exactly what you were doing to him. It meant you liked it.
You pulled back just enough to breathe, your lips barely leaving his, your forehead brushing his as your chest rose and fell too fast.
“This is—” you started, voice cracked. “This is exactly why I shouldn’t have opened that window.”
“But you did,” he whispered, already leaning in again, chasing you without even realizing it.
Your stomach twisted because he was right.
You could lock doors, build distance, join teams, attempt to rewrite your life into a clean slate, but the second he was there, bleeding on your fire escape, looking at you like you were the only thing tethering him to the world, you opened it. Every fucking time.
Your hand slid from his collar to his jaw, tracing his raised scar with feather-light touch. “Dex,” you muttered, searching his face like you might finally see something that would make this easier. “You killed them and —what? You call that a favor?”
“If it keeps you safe,” he said simply without a shred of hesitation.
Your chest tightened, air clawing its way up your throat. “I never asked you to do that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
You let out a shaky breath, your grip loosening for half a second, just long enough to feel that familiar pull. That old gravity that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with the parts of you you pretended didn’t exist anymore.
He had never created that darkness. He had just matched it.
“I hate that you think like that,” you said, quieter now.
His eyes softened. “You don’t,” he said. “You just don’t get it yet.”
He made this so unbearable, so inescapable. He saw every ugly, buried instinct you’d tried to outrun, every thought you’d trained yourself to suppress, every violent, intoxicating urge you’d dressed up as restraint.
And instead of being repulsed, like any sane man at the bar would, he loved it.
“Dex…” you started, but there was no argument left in you.
His thumb brushed lightly against your wrist, right over your pulse, like he was feeling it race. “You miss me,” he said again.
You should’ve denied it. You should’ve stepped back, shut this down, reminded yourself of everything you’d built without him.
Instead, you leaned in again.
The second kiss wasn’t explosive.
It was worse because it was slower. It was deeper. It wasn’t as careless.
And he broke for it completely.
That same wrecked sigh left him again, his forehead pressing against yours as his hands tightened slightly at your waist just anchoring himself there like you were the only solid object left on earth. Like he’d finally gotten something he’d been starving for.
And the most fucked up part, was that finally, so had you.
No one else ever met you here. No one else had ever met you in the dark, in the contradiction, where wanting something didn’t make it right, but didn’t make it any less real either.
You exhaled against his lips, barely a whisper. “This is a bad idea.”
“Yeah,” he breathed back.
Neither of you let go, though.
Before you knew it, space between you collapsed again like it was never meant to exist.
You didn’t remember deciding to move, you just did. Your hands fisted further in his shirt, dragging him with you as you stumbled back toward your bedroom like gravity has shattered and he was the only thing pulling you down.
Dex followed without resistance, like a lost puppy.
There was something almost reverent in the way he let himself be guided, even now, unsteady from blood loss, from exhaustion, from you, but still so focused. Like every nerve in his body was tuned to find you, waiting, anticipating.
You shoved him down onto the bed harder than necessary.
The mattress dipped under his weight, and for a split second he just looked up at you. His breathing was uneven, pupils blown wide, lips parted like he’s waiting for a command.
“Look at you,” you muttered, more to yourself than him, chest rising and falling too fast. “You’re so easy.”
His throat bobbed, a fragile look flickering across his face, and it definitely didn’t belong to the man who laughs while bullets fly.
“Yeah?” he breathed.
You climbed over him before he could say anything else, pressing him back into the mattress, your hand sliding up his chest, over the bruises, the bandages you placed.
He hissed at the contact, but didn't dare pull away. If anything, he leaned into it.
“Stay still,” you murmured, but your voice has no real authority left in it.
“I am,” he said quickly, like he needed you to know, like he needed to get it right, to not fuck up this time.
Your fingers caught under the hem of what’s left of his shirt, dragging it up, exposing more of him. He was marked and bruised, and wrecked.
And he still came here. For you.
“You’re a mess,” you whisper.
A small, breathless laugh left him. “You like me like that.”
You said nothing because you did.
Your nails pressed lightly into his skin as your hands moved over him, mapping his body. You already knew him too well. His wafted immediately, back arching just slightly, breath catching, like every touch landed deeper than it should.
“Say it,” he started to beg, almost hesitant. “Please.”
“What?”
“That I’m…” he trailed off, swallowing, suddenly shy. “That I did good.”
There it was, that need.
“Dex…” you breathed, shaking your head. You shouldn’t give it to him, but you wanted to.
“You did good,” you said, unbuckling his belt and undoing his trouser. “So good for me, baby.”
And he fell apart. You could feel it in the way his hands tighten at your sides, in the way his breath choked out, in the way his head tipped back against the mattress like he’s overwhelmed by something as simple as your approval.
“Yeah?” he whispered, desperately tugging up your shirt like a cat pawing at his meal. He didn’t stop until your skin was bare, naked, and so… exposed.
“Yeah,” you repeated, your voice lower now, closer, your lips brushing just barely against his jaw. “You’re so eager to please, it’s pathetic.”
He let out a broken little sound and didn't even try to hide it.
Your nails dragged down his abdomen as you pressed closer, and he gasped, unfiltered. His fingers clutch at you like he was grounding himself, like he needed physical contact as he toyed with the band of your sweats.
“You want it off, sweetheart?” you murmured against his ear.
“Yes,” he breathed, and it came out too fast, too honest. “Yeah, whatever you want— just—”
He cut himself off with a sharp inhale as your hands tighten again, your nails leaving faint, angry trails down his skin.
“Use your words, baby,” you whispered.
“Yes.”
The room felt too small for the way everything had been building. It was tight, too hot, too full of everything you’ve both been holding back for way too long.
It was messy and desperate in a way that had little to do with the physical and everything to do with the fact that neither of you knew how to want the other halfway.
—
By the time you both came undone, by the time you chased each other’s high, it was already too late to come back down. He lit up all your senses at once, your hands gripping, his breath breaking, your nails dragging down his back as he clung to you like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart. And maybe you were.
And after your legs gave out, you collapsed against him, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, both of you breathing like you’ve just survived it all. Or ruined it. Or both.
His hand came up, resting against your back as you curled into him.
You reached and kissed the corner of his lips, tasting the blood and sweat on his skin. “I’ve missed you.”
All of his neurons lit up in happy colour, like a Christmas tree. It hit him all at once, like a switch flipped behind his eyes. You felt it in the way his breath hitched, in the way his fingers tightened just slightly where they rested against your waists
“You mean that?” he asked.
You hummed, brushing your mouth against his again, not quite a kiss this time, letting him feel it without giving him enough. “I said it, didn’t I?”
A disbelieving smile tugged at his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes, not fully. Those stayed locked on you, dark and hungry and searching, like he was trying to figure out if this was real or just another thing he made up about you in his head.
You traced your thumb along his collarbone, watching him break for it in real time.
“So…” you whispered, lips brushing just beneath his ear, “how long have you been watching me?”
Dex’s hand flexed once against your side.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. “A month, two?”
His eyes had gone darker, but there was not an ounce of guilt or regret there. It was the absolute conviction of possession.
“How long?” you pressed, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look you in the eyes.
“…A while.”
You let out a breathy laugh, like you weren’t sure if you should be impressed or concerned.
He was fucked up. You were fucked up. It made a kind of sense.
“Yeah?” Your head tilted, studying him. “Is that where my neighbor went?”
He held his eyes on you.
You tilted your head, struggling to remember what the scumbag looked like from memory. “You know, the insurance creep. The one who wouldn’t shut up about taking me out to dinner?”
Dex said nothing, which was answer enough.
You should’ve been horrified. You knew that. You should’ve been disgusted and angry because he did something in your name that you didn’t do anymore.
Instead, your fingers slid up into his hair.
“Of course you did,” you said, almost amused.
Dex watched you carefully now, like he was waiting for the moment you’d turn on him.
“You liked him?” he asked.
The idea alone made you want to lurch.
“Please,” you scoffed, shifting closer, your knee pressing into his thigh without thinking. “He made a living denying people the help they needed and bragged about it to anyone who would listen.” Your nails dragged lightly against his scalp. “I was two drinks away from breaking his fingers myself.”
Your grip tightened slightly in his hair, claiming.
Dex watched you like he was bracing for impact, like this was the moment you’d push him away. Instead, your thumb brushed over his lower lip, dragging it down just a little before letting it snap back.
“You really thought he had a shot?” you asked quietly.
His teeth tightened. “He thought he did.”
You leaned closer, your lips ghosting over his again, just barely there. “Mm,” you hummed. “That’s cute.”
Dex’s breath hitched.
“He talked too much,” you added, your voice dropping, your mouth brushing the corner of his lips again.
Your fingers slid from his hair to his throat, resting there, feeling the rapid pulse beneath your palm.
Dex didn’t move away. He even tilted into it. “I didn’t like how he was looking at you.”
Your fingers curled slightly against the sheets.
“They never just look at you," he said with absolution in his eyes. Oh, so there were more? “They think things.”
“And you don’t?” you shot back.
For a second, something flickered across his face, almost self-aware. Then it was gone.
“I’m allowed,” he said, resolute.
Fuck, he was impossible.
Your fingers slid back into his blond hair, tugging just enough to tilt his head so you could kiss him properly this time.
He melted into it immediately, like he’d been waiting for permission, like he’d been starving and you’d finally decided to feed him. His hands tightened at your waist, pulling you closer now as you slid your legs further in between his, not holding back as much.
You pulled back just enough to speak against his lips.
“He didn’t deserve to look at me like that,” you mumbled.
Dex’s eyes darkened. “No.”
Your thumb brushed his cheek affectionately.
“But you do,” you added.
He relaxed, like his entire body had to catch up with what you just said.
“Yeah?” he asked, as if for permission.
You smiled faintly, leaning in until your noses were almost touching. “Yeah.”
Your hand slid from his face down to his chest, pressing him back into the mattress just slightly. It wasn’t forceful at all, but enough to remind him where he was. Who he was with. Who he belonged to.
“You always have,” you whispered.
Dex exhaled like you’d just undone him completely.
After all the sins you’d committed, all the lines you’d crossed and never once thought to step back from, you knew there was a special place in hell for both of you.
But if you were going to burn for it, you hoped it wasn’t cold or empty.
You hoped it came with a bed that never cooled, sheets that would still straighten even after it was twisted beyond saving, and restraints strong enough for him. You hoped that place wouldn’t try to fix you, wouldn’t try to separate you, and you hoped that it would let you drown in every wrong thing that ever felt right.
Because if this was damnation, if this was the price of loving him exactly as he was, you didn’t want salvation. You just wanted him.
And maybe, that was the most unforgivable sin of all.
One day I will write and post an entire essay on why John walker is one of the most consistently characterized characters in the mcu and why he’s such a great commentary on the male loneliness epidemic and the pipeline of that to white supremacy and the key to overcoming that is a community but today is not that day
pairing: bucky barnes x former avenger!reader
summary: absolution never came easy to him. not in war, not in peace, not with your hands in his hair. it’s been fourteen months since they called him an avenger. fourteen months since he let you walk away. you asked him to come with you. he stayed. now you’re a memory he rewinds nightly—your laugh in his kitchen, your hand on his, your voice saying bucky like it meant something soft. he never said yes. but god, he never stopped wanting to.
word count: 3.1k
content warnings: 18+ mdni, character study, bucky's pov, heavy angst, unimaginable levels of grief and yearning, fem!reader, bucky needs a hug, love when a man is in NEED, oral (f!receiving), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, hair pulling, whining, use of pet names (sweetheart)
It’s been fourteen months since they called him an Avenger.
Not again. Not back on the team. Just… an Avenger. Like the name didn’t come loaded with blood and ghosts and public opinion polls. Like they could slap a title on him and it wouldn’t tremble against the weight of everything he used to be.
They called them the New Avengers after the incident in New York City, so scripted it made Walker nearly choke on his own smirk. Fontaine smiled like a pageant mother, polished and venomous, announcing her monsters like debutantes. And Bucky, God help him, stood there and let it happen. He let the crowd clap. Let the name stick.
It was easier than trying to explain how little of himself he recognized in the man on stage.
They’re a mess of a team—Bob still witnessing horrors from the confines of his mind, Ava flickering in and out like her faith in the mission, Walker gritting his teeth and pretending that guilt makes him noble. Alexei drinks too much and talks too loud, and Yelena keeps her knives sharp, her exits mapped.
And Bucky leads them. Somehow. Quietly. Stoically.
He tells himself it’s because someone has to. But the truth is simpler: it’s because he doesn’t know how to stop. How to let the world spin without trying to hold it together with shaking hands.
Most nights, he doesn’t sleep.
Sometimes he thinks about you.
Well. That’s a lie.
He thinks about you all the time.
.
He hasn’t spoken your name aloud in months, but it lives under his tongue anyway. Like the taste of old pennies. Like the first sip of whiskey after a long winter walk—hot, biting, familiar. He pretends he doesn’t still scan rooftops when he passes through small towns, doesn’t still look for the slant of your shoulders in crowded cafes or behind fences overgrown with honeysuckle. He pretends a lot of things.
There’s a photo saved in the notes app of his burner phone. Grainy, zoomed in too far, your back turned. Holding a chicken. You’d posted it on some burner account Sam found by accident—an alias, dumb and playful, like a name you would’ve given your first cat. The caption read: “One of us is emotionally stable and it’s not me.” You were laughing, he thinks. The picture didn’t show your face, but he knows your laugh. Remembers the way it sounded in his kitchen, too late at night, as you mocked his cooking and then sat in his lap to eat anyway.
You’d asked him to come with you.
That was the part no one knew. Not Dr. Raynor, not Sam, not even Steve. You hadn’t just left—not just vanished in the quiet way operatives sometimes do when they’ve seen too much and breathed in too many fires that weren’t their own. You’d stood in front of him, shaking with restraint, and you’d said it.
“I don’t want to do this anymore, Buck. I don’t want to keep pretending this is saving people.”
He’d looked at you like a man underwater, too slow to catch anything that wasn’t already halfway gone. You were all raw edges and conviction then—bloody-knuckled from a fight neither of you were supposed to be in, scraped up from dragging a kid out of a collapsed stairwell. He remembers how your hair was damp with rain, your voice calm in that terrifying, resolute way.
“Come with me,” you said.
It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a whisper. You weren’t a woman who begged. But it was the closest you’d ever come to laying yourself bare. And he’d heard it. Felt it. Let it pierce straight through him like a thread catching on old scar tissue.
He said nothing.
He watched your face crumble in the smallest, quietest ways—like a building set to implode from the inside—and still, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t reach out. Couldn’t give you anything except the same blank silence he always wore when he didn’t know how to be a person.
So you left. Took the bag already packed by the door. Didn’t even slam it. Just walked out with your shoulders squared and your heart in pieces, and didn’t look back.
He hadn’t meant to let you go. He just didn’t know how to say yes to something that felt like hope.
Because back then—God, back then he was still trying to figure out what wanting meant. Wanting something didn’t come naturally, not after years of being pointed like a weapon and told to fire. Wanting had been trained out of him. Beaten out. Frozen out.
And you—what you were offering—wasn’t just escape. It wasn’t a plane ticket or coordinates to some cabin in a country that didn’t ask questions. It was a future.
It was yours.
He’d have followed you anywhere if you’d asked in a way he could understand. But you weren’t built for manipulation, and he’d only ever been taught obedience.
So when you asked for something he couldn’t compartmentalize, couldn’t file into mission parameters or coded objectives—he froze. And then he nodded. Like a fucking coward.
Like he didn’t love you with every half-repaired piece of himself.
He thinks about that moment more than he admits. Thinks about what might’ve changed if he’d stood up and said, Yeah. Okay. Take me with you.
Last he heard, you were in Virginia. Somewhere with acreage and too much sun, where the satellites don’t reach so fast. Sam mentioned it once, offhand, like it was a rumor. “She’s got a cat now,” he’d said, like that was the most remarkable part.
Bucky can’t picture it. You, bent over a garden. You, reading in a quiet room. You, peaceful.
What he can picture is the last time he saw you. Rain. A motel. The quiet war of your backs turned to one another. You didn’t yell. You didn’t ask him to fight for you.
And he hadn’t.
You’d left behind a sweatshirt in his duffel. Navy, worn thin at the cuffs. He wears it now, sometimes, under the leather and the Kevlar, tucked close to skin like a secret.
.
There was the time when you brought up the courthouse on the Q train, just south of Atlantic Avenue. It’s late, and the subway car is near empty, all plastic echo and tired fluorescent buzz. A woman with too many plastic bags sleeps across from you both, mouth parted in a way that makes Bucky look away politely, as if modesty is still a reflex he knows how to honor.
Your hand is on top of his. Fingertips warm. Your thumb stroking the glimmering vibranium metal—like it’s not strange, like it’s not terrifying, like it’s nothing at all.
“We could just… do it, y’know?” you say. “Courthouse. One of those dumb Tuesdays. I’ll wear something I already own.”
You don’t look at him. You look at the window, at the way your reflection warps and bends with the flicker of passing tunnels.
Bucky swallows, throat clicking. “You’d marry me in a courthouse?”
You shrug. “Sure. Would you rather wait in line at the DMV together? Because that’s my second most romantic setting.”
He smiles, soft and cornered. “I just thought… you’d want something beautiful.”
“I do,” you say, and finally glance back at him. “But the part that’s beautiful is you. The rest is just staging.”
And God—he thinks he might cry. Just there, on a bench that smells like wet metal and too many years of bad decisions, with a poster peeling off the wall that says “SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING.” He sees you. He’s seeing you now, the way he didn’t let himself before. And still, he says nothing.
He thinks about a garden wedding. Somewhere green and far and full of things he doesn’t have to understand. Maybe upstate. Maybe not even this country. Something with color and quiet. You’d hate it, he knows—complain about the bugs and the lack of cell service and how long it takes to drive there—but you’d wear the hell out of a dress and lace your fingers through his and smile like he’s worth a thousand-mile detour. That’s what he wants. Not the spectacle, but the vision. You, with sunlight in your hair, smiling at him like he’s made of something safe.
But it’s easier to make a joke. Easier to deflect.
“What about Coney Island?” he asks. “We could get married on the Tilt-a-Whirl. Real classy.”
You snort. “You wanna puke on my vows?”
“Could be romantic,” he says. “Trauma bonding.”
“Bucky.”
His name in your mouth still wrecks him. Like the first time you said it, somewhere between Berlin and Lagos, when everything was cold and loud and uncertain. You said it like it was simple. Like it wasn’t attached to decades of war crimes and waking nightmares.
He never asked you to call him James.
And you never asked him to apologize for being broken.
.
It’s late by the time you’re back. The kind of late that doesn’t belong to any day anymore—just exists, unclaimed, in the hours between wound and healing.
You laugh when you kick off your boots. They thunk hollow against the apartment wall. “I feel like I’ve been running on caffeine and spite for fourteen hours.”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches you. The way you stretch, lazy and light, the way your shirt rides up at the hem.
He wants to touch you. Not possessive, not frantic—just close. Wants to lay you down and watch you breathe. Wants to kiss the skin behind your ear and the curve where your hip meets your thigh. All the soft, unguarded places. The ones only he knows by heart.
You step toward him, eyes warm.
“Bucky.”
He never gets used to that. Never will.
His whole chest cracks open at the sound of it. Like you’ve whispered something sacred and forbidden, just for him. A name that doesn’t carry the weight of blood and trigger pulls. Just warmth. Just want.
You press your hand flat over his heart, like you’re checking to see if he’s real. Like he might vanish if you blink.
“You keep looking at me like that,” you murmur, “I’m gonna start thinking you missed me.”
He huffs, quiet. “I always miss you.”
Your fingers slip into his hair. Soft, familiar. He closes his eyes when you kiss him—slow and sweet and deep enough that he feels it all the way through.
You walk him back toward the bed without saying anything else. He lets you. Lets your hands trace his collarbone, slow. His vibranium arm settles beside your head as he leans in, pressing his mouth to your neck, your jaw, the place just under your ear that makes you sigh like he’s found something secret.
“Bucky,” you whisper again, when his hands slip under your shirt. “You can have me. You always can.”
He never stood a chance against you.
So he drags himself, down, down, down past your hips, face to face with your cunt, and begs you, with the earnestness he learned a long time ago, before the war and the soldier, to show him how much of you he can have.
"Come on, sweetheart. Show me how much you want it."
You'd fingered yourself with one finger to start, until he clicked his tongue and added another. Couldn't take his eyes off your wrecked, frenzied pace like some sort of rocket. Watched the way your back arched and your hips jutted against his when you started to cum, and he pressed his mouth against your opening and tasted.
Didn't stop until you were pulling away and even then, when your breathing started to even out and your eyes became lucid again. "Again," he rasped. Like a starving man.
He loves the way you make a mess, every time. It physically—god, it drives him crazy—how someone can make his heart practically burst out of his chest. His tongue lazily lapping along your thighs, your folds, your clit, sucking and rolling and grazing his teeth against the soft bundle of folds.
"Bucky, Bucky, please—"
If it were up to him, he doesn't think his hunger would ever be sated.
Wrenches orgasm, after orgasm, after orgasm from your willing, pliant body until you're close to tears, fingers wrapped around the sheets like a lifeline and he has to reorient you back to his hair. Where you pull so deliciously, it makes tears spring up in his eyes.
.
The thing about memory is that it lies. That’s something he knows. He lived in fractured ones for years. But you—your memories cling true. Linger like ghosts.
He remembers your hands in his kitchen after. A chipped coffee mug. The time you tried to bake a pie and nearly started a fire because you forgot the filling. You’d licked cinnamon off his finger, grinning, and said, “It’s a personality trait now. Bad decisions, good pastry.”
You’d kissed him with sugar still on your mouth.
He remembers you sprawled on a motel bed, flipping through a paperback with your feet tucked under his thigh. He remembers the scar on your shoulder, the one you got on a mission neither of you were supposed to be on, and the way he touched it once like it was a question.
He sees your shadow in the face of every kindness. He feels your phantom laugh in every silence too long.
He doesn’t call. He doesn’t write.
But he keeps the screenshot. The one of you and the chicken. He stares at it when he’s too fucked up, too tired, too anything. He doesn’t remember the last time he heard your voice outside a dream, but he remembers the weight of you in his arms. Remembers the sound you made when you laughed into his neck, like it cracked you open.
He’s never deserved that sound. Not really.
But God, he misses it.
.
He finds himself in the observation room when the signal hits.
Bucky sees the jet through the satellite feed. Just a flicker of silver and blue, sharp-edged and strange, carving a line through the upper layers of Earth’s atmosphere like it belongs there. A "4" on its wing.
The room is silent but for the soft hum of the holographic display, and the sound of his own jaw locking tight. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even shift. But something in him—a thread, a tendon—pulls.
Yelena cocks an eyebrow. Bob goes quiet. And Bucky—
—Bucky just stares.
He doesn’t know why this moment is the one that does it. Why this, and not the Hydra facility they torched in Belarus, or the body they pulled from the wreckage last fall. But something shifts. Something breaks.
The thought lands heavy: you should know about this.
You always liked patterns, puzzle-boxes. Things that nested inside themselves. He used to find you at mission briefings with a pen tucked behind your ear, absently solving logic puzzles in the margins of your reports—Sudokus, cryptics, mazes with no entry point. “Keeps the brain from rusting,” you’d say, tapping your temple like it was a lock he didn’t have the key for.
But it wasn’t just the puzzles. It was the way you thought about the world: as something decipherable. As a system of signs and symbols that could be parsed, if only you looked at it from the right angle. Bucky never understood that. Still doesn’t. Not really.
When the world felt like it was breaking—when the walls closed in after a mission, or the memories returned out of order and too loud—you never told him to breathe. Never asked him to talk. You’d just sit next to him on the floor, lean your shoulder into his and murmur something like, “Entropy is just the universe trying to find its balance.”
And he’d laugh. Or try to. “That doesn’t help,” he’d say.
“I know,” you’d reply, grinning sideways. “But doesn’t it sound cool as fuck?”
You’d pick apart the world like it was a riddle, not a tragedy. You believed in equations of fate, in karmic symmetry. You’d say things like, “Every time we save someone, that has to go somewhere. That has to matter, even if we can’t see it yet.”
And he—God, he’d wanted to believe you.
There’s one night he can’t stop thinking about. Somewhere out there. The desert too loud with wind, the air gritty in his throat. You were both running low on sleep, bruised and dehydrated, holed up in the skeleton of a house that hadn’t been lived in for years. You were curled up under a jacket, shivering, your eyes half-lidded.
He’d sat beside you, back to the wall, gun across his lap. Watching shadows stretch long through broken windows.
“I think this one’s gonna go sideways,” he’d muttered, more to himself than anything.
You hadn’t opened your eyes. Just mumbled, “Then the next one’ll go right.”
“Where do you get that kind of faith?”
And you’d said it without missing a beat: “From you.”
He wonders if you’d answer his call.
If your number’s the same. If you’d still let unknown calls through, the way you used to—claiming spam calls were like horoscopes: always inconvenient, sometimes weirdly accurate. He used to roll his eyes at that, but secretly, he’d loved it.
He stares until the screen times out. Lights up again. Fades. It’s pathetic, this dance. Cowardice in increments.
Then, finally, a breath. A sound like surrender.
He dials. It rings once. Twice. Three times.
Every second is an ache. Every pulse of silence feels like the hollow of your absence pressing into his ribs. He can’t breathe.
And then—
Your voice.
“Hey.”
He forgets how to speak. How to move. All he can do is feel.
The sound of you, real and whole and alive, scrapes something raw in him. It’s not just memory now—it’s present tense. The now of it. The breath you took to answer. The rustle on your end of the line. The shape of your voice, unchanged.
You don’t say his name. You don’t need to.
He says yours like it costs him something.
Soft. Unsteady. Like it’s prayer. Like it’s regret folded into reverence.
There’s a pause. Then you sigh. He hears the tight release of breath through your nose, and he’s close enough to the memory of you that he can see your face. Head tipped back, eyes half-lidded. That expression you wore when you didn’t want to smile but couldn’t help it. The one that always cut him the deepest.
Ripped from your timeline and forced to fight for the state of the multiverse, the war ends and you're all that remains of the Thunderbolts of Earth-1303. Forced to settle on Earth-616, you fill the empty spot on the New Avengers and are surprised to find that this John Walker is nothing like the one you knew before.
[Reader is a mutant with enhanced physiology and an uncanny ability to never miss a target, similar to Bullseye, dubbed Killshot. Former resident of Earth-1303, current resident of Earth-616.]
john walker x fem!reader
words: 7.4k
cw: swearing, technically major character death, canon typical violence, descriptions or blood/injury, smut, oral sex (f!receiving), brief cowgirl, john's praise kink, confessions, the idiots are in love, no y/n but reader is referred to as Killshot (18+ MDNI)
a/n: i really love this concept and i will probably use it or something similar again! a few half-baked predictions for the mcu by pulling from 2015 secret wars. 1303 is meant to be the x-men universe that will be in doomsday, but since it doesn't have a designation yet i just made one up.
disloyal order of water buffaloes - fall out boy
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Never in a million years had you expected to be launched into a multiversal war and forced to fight the phantom faces of allies you’d lost long ago.
Hell, you don't even know how long it's been. Time could work differently in this world, and from what you’ve seen, most things do. The fight for your world started out as a righteous cause, spearheaded by Charles Xavier and his X-Men, and quickly devolved into nothing but a misguided war spearheaded by Victor Von Doom’s agenda. In your word— designated Earth-1303 by Hank McCoy— there were no more Avengers, no Fantastic Four. You had the the X-Men, fractured from loss and the bigotry against mutants, and your Thunderbolts, who were dysfunctional on a good day.
But the rival universe— Earth-616— had resources that far outmatched your world, all with the mind of Reed Richards to back it up.
You never really stood a chance. It was never clear who went first, what exactly happened to each member of your team. The not knowing was worse, the feeling that you somehow failed them all by not being there. By surviving instead of them. None of you were people designed to fight aliens, androids, or wizards— least of all you. And when the battle shifted from fighting each other to joining forces against Doom and his magic, the inhabitants of Earth-616 needed all the help they could get. Surviving felt like a punishment, until 616 offered you something you’d believed to be lost— a place.
The first time you’d come across any of The Thunderbolts of 616— here, they were controversially known as The New Avengers— it felt like the wind had been knocked out of you. One minute, you were taking down Doombots with expert precision, the next, an explosion rocked the ground and trapped you under the falling rubble of Castle Doom. Before you could even start to pull yourself out of it, the main slab pinning you down was thrown aside, and suddenly the ghost of John Walker was holding out a hand for you. Grabbing onto him was instinctual, taking his arm and pulling yourself up, just to then launch yourself into his arms. It was horribly out of character for the both of you, but given that you believed him to be dead, it felt fitting. In your relief— because if Walker was alive, then maybe Yelena was too. Maybe even Ava, or Bucky, or Alexei— you didn't think anything of the way he tensed under your touch.
You didn't think of anything else until he gently pushed you back by the shoulders and unclipped his helmet.
You saw it the moment he revealed his face. The angle of his nose too straight, his hair too shaggy, the unfamiliar beard lining his jaw. The mournful way he looked at you, like he’d already put the pieces together. It wasn’t the man you knew.
“Fuck, I’m sorry, I—” you stammered out, taking a few shaky steps backward, needing to put space between you and him. By then, you’d already seen your fair share of variants, but you hadn’t yet come across anyone important to you. Almost tripping over the rubble in your haste, this Walker reached back out for you, clipping his shield onto his back as he steadied you with a hand on your shoulder.
“Killshot, right? I recognize you,” he said slowly, like he wasn't entirely sure that he actually did. He dropped his hand, and you felt the crushing loss all over again.
“You know me?”
“I knew a ‘you’. Indirectly, anyway.”
Your eyes went wide again at his words. Indirectly? Knew?
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Then, another commotion started up a few meters away— more fucking Doombots. Walker turned to face it with no hesitation, pulling the shield off his back. The steel caught your eye then, the scuffs and scratches immortalized in the grooves. All in a slightly different pattern to the one you were familiar with, missing the jagged lines that you’d carved into your Walker’s shield during training after training.
“It means it’s a story for after we finish this,” he shouts back at you, securing his helmet back in place. “You with me, or what?”
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
On Earth-616, it was you who died at the hands of John Walker in the top-secret O.X.E vault that Valentina Allegra de Fontaine lured the would-be New Avengers to. His assignment was simple— track down the operative known as Killshot, see what she planned to steal, and then eliminate her and secure the lot. It was an echo of just about every mission Valentina had ever given him before, and he never expected this one to be different.
“So, uh, that agent I shot back there, was she— you knew her?” Walker had asked Ava sheepishly as Yelena was still trying to make sense of their exact location.
“She was a dirty secret of S.H.I.E.L.D, same as me,” she shrugged, accepting his offer of cactus fruit. “Had a tough life. She killed a lot of people, and then she got killed. Just like us someday."
John never dwelled on your death. He didn’t know you. You were a complete stranger. Only ever a mission, a means to an end. Shortly after the events of The Void, the thought crossed his mind that maybe if he’d waited a few more moments, you would have ended up a part of this rag-tag team. It wasn’t mourning, just a what-if in the back of his head. What terrified him was the fact it could have just as easily been him, or any of the other Thunderbolts that he’d come to see as family, as strange as it seemed. If Valentina had assigned him someone else, if his bullet hit a different target, nothing would be the same as it is now.
That was, until the Incursion came, and they all had to take up arms in a multiversal war to save everyone and everything he’d ever known. Despite the parallel universes, magic-wielding dictators, and several unfortunate run-ins with the Time Variance Authority, the strangest thing to happen was him pulling you, of all the possible variants,from the rubble on Battleworld. It was an odd twist of fate that a variant of you, among many others, had been left behind with no universe to return to.
So once the multiverse was saved and the dust settled, Bucky and Yelena agreed it was only fair they offer you a spot on the team, considering that, on a technicality, you were already a part of it.
“Killshot, huh? Well, we could use someone who can actually hit what they’re aiming for,” Bucky had said.
Yelena was the one to finally explain what happened to their you in this world— not that she ever really got to be theirs— delicately, with the entire team present and John fiddling his thumbs in the back. Somehow, he’d been half expecting you’d hear the truth and suddenly snap and seek vengeance. But instead, much to everyone’s surprise, you’d burst into laughter.
“She couldn't hold her own,” you told them with a shrug. “I should be grateful. It left a place for me now.”
So now, you live in the shadow of a you who never saw the light of day, never got a chance to be the hero. Sometimes, staying in this Watchtower feels wrong. If you look hard enough, there’s always something that’s just off enough to make your hair stand on end and your stomach churn. Your new teammates are somehow exactly the same and completely different. At first, looking at any of them for too long used to fill you with a distressing sense of deja vu. Your Yelena had dimples. Your Bucky’s vibranium arm was lined with silver instead of gold. Your Sentry was not Robert Reynolds— he never survived the O.X.E human trials according to the files from the vault. Your Ava had brown eyes. Your Alexei had less grey at his temples. You had no Antonia— she was the collateral damage in your universe.
And Walker. The John from your universe was someone who, in the end, did the real work to be worthy of the mantle he’d obsessed over. You two butted heads, but outside of that, he never really paid you much mind, despite your genuine efforts to keep his attention. Too busy trying to make up for lost time, tucking all his flaws back away in the government issued box and donning rose-tinted glasses. Always looking straight through you for just a glimpse of that past he never got over.
But the Walker from this universe stares at you like he’s looking at a ghost.
This John is a far cry from the one you’d known. He puts everything he has into what’s in front of him, instead of chasing a long-past legacy he never truly wanted anyway. And somehow, it didn't take long for that path to include you. The you and him that are here and now get along effortlessly, much to everyone’s surprise. Neither of you are the most welcoming of types, and yet there’s something unspoken that you found in him that day when he pulled you out. Initially, you’re worried you’re only chasing a facsimile of the man you could never have, that you don't actually favor him as much as you do the memory of the one you lost. But realization comes that this John is everything you’d always pretended the other was. And that feels scarier than any mad titan or conqueror you’ve faced in the last decade.
He’s strangely attentive. You aren't used to someone with his face and his voice offering to patch you up on the quinjet, asking your opinion on what to watch on movie nights, cooking your favorite meal for dinner. It almost felt fake, in comparison. Always checking on you after missions, sometimes, without saying a word. Just hovering in the doorway of the common room like he’s trying to make sure you’re still there. Knocking on your door to ask if you want any coffee— just because he happens to be on his way there.
But even stranger than that, he agrees with you.
John, in any universe you’ve come to realize, has an inferiority complex that runs for just as many miles as he can. It’s understandable, after the way his life has played out, but it makes him incapable of being wrong. During mission briefings, or even just casual discussions with the team, he’s always the first to disagree. He needs to counter, has to come up with something not just better, but the best.
Except, when it comes to your input, he’s suddenly silent. And you doubt it’s because of any of your stellar ideas. You two are consistently paired up for missions, because Bucky swears he’s never been able to work with anyone as seamlessly as he can with you. And you can’t say you mind. This world is still recovering from multiversal horrors, the work is never ending, but trusting John is effortless. He always has you running point, a show of trust in his own way, stationed at your back like an extension of your body.
If you thought you felt something for John then, nothing can compare to the torch you carry for John now.
And as the months pass and the two of you grow closer, you find it easier and easier to let go of the ghost of someone who never really even liked you anyway.
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
It’s been two weeks of back-to-back-to-back jobs. So intensive and high priority that the team has been paired off and split up across the world, and you and John haven’t even been back to The Watchtower since you shipped off initially. Just half-stocked safe houses miles from civilization. Hydra cells that popped back up after the Incursion. Reports of Stark tech from the other side of the multiverse falling into the wrong hands. A minor witch that Doctor Strange had reached out personally to ask for help with. And a plethora of Loki variants who did not have any intention whatsoever to save the day.
And now, the two of you are in the home stretch of the takedown of yet another Hydra bunker start-up. Taking turns sleeping on grimy floors and dust-logged beds of old Avenger’s safe houses hasn’t kept you in very good spirits, and you can tell from the rigid line of his shoulders that John is wound just as tight. Normally, before a fight, that unexplained gleam he gets in his eyes when he looks at you fades away. Replaced by the steadfast confidence that he, for some reason, has in you.
But this time, there’s no switch. Every time you catch his eye in the chaos he’s looking at you like he’s making sure you’re still standing. Every gunshot that goes off has his head snapping in your direction, that coil of violence inside him winding tighter and tighter with each body that drops to the ground.
For you, it’s not a difficult fight, especially after what you’ve already suffered through this week. Your mutation isn’t special, but it does give you speed, stamina, and strength on par with super soldier physiology— and perfect aim, every single time. The only downside is you’ve always been far too impatient to learn how to shoot anything more complicated than a pistol, so you’re the douche always bringing a plethora of knives to the gun fight. But it’s always worked out for you in the past, and it seems to be working just fine now as you seamlessly flit through Hydra soldiers, blades flying through the air with the utmost precision.
But staying humble has never been your strong suit. Once you get into the groove of dropping bodies, you have a bad habit of getting sloppy when it comes to watching your own back. It’s subconscious, you swear, but you’re always focusing your attention on the biggest threats to John instead. And it’s only gotten worse the better he watches yours in return.
Between your combined lack of rest, his tension, and your ego, something has to give.
And that something just happens to be John’s shoulder— so sudden you thought he was still on the other side of the room— as he jumps in front of you just in time for a bullet to pierce right through his suit. There’s no time for his shield to stop it, the bullet finding a new home in his bicep. But besides a choked grunt of pain, he’s still on his feet.
But the fight is still in full swing, and while your gut is screaming at you to run to him, your head tells you to stay put, and your heart pushes you to channel that protective rage into the knife you launch in the direction of the shooter. It nicks his carotid artery just enough to leave him bleeding out nice and slow on the filthy floor.
You paste yourself to John’s side after that, hyper vigilant to the point you’re metaphorically trigger-happy. Your knives are flying, a non-stop cycle of hitting your targets, kicking and punching your way through to retrieve your blades, just to turn and start it all over the second anyone gets even remotely close to him. Every time you even consider slowing down, you get a glimpse of the blood seeping into the fabric of his suit and the fury comes back tenfold.
The last man standing isn’t a very clever one, because he looks to the both of you from across the room, then to the mangled bodies of his fallen comrades, and makes a break for you anyway. Your knife and John’s bullet strike his chest at the same time, and he crumples to the ground with the rest of them. You move on from him just as quickly as you had with the rest— if you weren't so tired, and had more time, you would have given them far worse than they got. But John is the only priority running through your mind, and you quickly sheath the weapons you have left and turn to him. He doesn't seem to expect it, especially not when your hand wraps firmly around his bicep, tugging yourself closer to get a better look at the gunshot wound.
“Hey— ow. That’s not helping, you know,” he complains, trying to pull his arm back, but your strength is evenly matched and he doesn’t get very far. You ignore him, not saying a word, calculating eyes trained on the damage, from the singed fibers of his suit caught in the gaping hole that’s now carved into his body, to the bullet still lodged inside. With your other hand you feel for anything on his back, turning him at your whims to see if any fragments split and went through-and-through. His back is clear, thankfully, meaning extracting the bullet is within your skillset, and the two of you don't have to book it back to The Watchtower to get him a real doctor.
“Closest safehouse. Now,” you murmur, prodding at the angry edges of puckered skin, rolling your eyes when he flinches. “I need to get this out before you start to heal around it.”
“I’m fine—”
“I don’t care.” It’s a firm dismissal, but with an undercurrent of something softer. It's not that you don't care for his opinion, but you're not going to entertain the way his first instinct is to push down his own needs. And he damn well knows it too, because he quickly shuts up, reaching up with his uninjured arm to take off his helmet. He looks over at you in resignation, but you've known some version of him long enough to see the pain behind his mask. He frowns, then nods once, then twice like he’s trying to convince himself too, and then slips his gun into the holster.
“Five miles west. It’s all abandoned farmland— so we can drive, but we'll have no cover from above, so we have to move quickly.”
You finally release his arm with a gentle pat. “Great. And don't even try it, I’m driving.”
The trip out of the Hydra base and to the safe house is quick, effortless, and incredibly tense. You can’t recall a time when you and John have been this silent in each other’s presence, the only noise the roar of the old truck you hot-wired to make it here and his occasional stifled grunts of pain. Conversation between the two of you normally comes easy— or at least he finds it easy to ramble to you, and you find it easy to listen. But he doesn't try, and neither do you. Not a word is exchanged until you're finally barricaded in the dilapidated farmhouse, and you've got him on the floor propped up against the bathtub with first aid supplies scattered across the tile. The drywall here has certainly seen better days, but at least it’s been well-stocked by Valentina’s people.
John turns red when you gesture for him to take off the top of his suit. He looks so much smaller without the Kevlar and steel holding him up, awkwardly trying to fit his long limbs into the cramped space while leaving room for you to work. You, on the other hand, are still in your tactical suit, kneeling at his side while your mind runs a million miles an hour. You aren't accustomed to being protected. You’re a tank— deadly, efficient, and relentless. Your strength rivals that of a super soldier and your skill has never failed you before. It’s sufficed to say that you do most of the protecting, here and back in your original universe, taking most of the hits because you can give it right back ten times worse. So, John taking a bullet for you makes sirens go off in your head that you don’t know what to make of. It’s not a mortal wound by any means, and the serum he took helps him heal at an enhanced pace. But at the end of the day, he’s still capable of dying, even if he doesn't act like it.
The path the bullet took isn't a simple through-and-through, instead looking like it traveled upward before being stopped by his clavicle— which, according to John, is completely unharmed. Super soldiers and their damn super bones. The bathroom is small, outdated, and there’s only one bulb in the fixture above the mirror. At the very least, it has hot water. It’s not an ideal amount of space for this, but you’re not the ideal doctor either. You’ll suffer fifteen minutes of awkward proximity if it means patching him up to the best of your ability.
But less than a minute later and it's clear that you underestimated just how close you’d be getting.
Between the odd angle and the shitty lighting, you find yourself barely an inch away, leaning in quite a bit to make sure you're still giving him enough space. After the second time you break your examination to lean back to straighten your achy back for just a moment, John decides to take matters into his own hands.
“Look, just—” he stutters, nodding at the clearly uncomfortable way you're poised. Instead of elaborating further, he holds you by the waist with his free arm, using that super strength of his to haul you up. He slips his leg closest to you between yours, leaving you basically straddling his thigh. The hand on your hip stays in place, urging you to rest your weight on him. “There. Don’t need you breaking your back just to patch me up.”
You're not sure what’s left you more speechless— the feeling of his hands through your suit or the fact you're becoming increasingly familiar with the musculature of his thigh. “Better. Thanks,” you mumble. And it is, in fact, better. You don't have to lean across him uncomfortably, and you have a clearer view of the wound this way. The only problem left is hoping he can't hear the way your heart is suddenly racing. In an effort to bring it back down, you take a deep breath— in, hold, out, hold, repeat— and redirect your focus back onto the task at hand.
The silence settles once more, and you’re so caught up in controlling your own reactions, you barely register his. John’s fingers dig into your side before the tweezers are even close, bracing for the sting. There's still a light flush across his chest as he watches you work, and you have to stifle a shudder every time his breath ghosts across your temple. You've rarely been this close to him— either iteration— and certainly never this intimate. It makes your mind wander into dangerous territory, and for a half-moment, you indulge it.
How his hands would feel without your suit in the way. Other ways you could make him blush. The warmth of his breath on the back of your neck instead—
You’re close to cracking, and the quiet is the perfect environment to enable your overactive imagination. It’s obvious John has been biting his tongue to give you space. So, in order to quell your indecent thoughts, you voice the question that has been grating on you since the fight.
“What the hell were you thinking, Walker?” It’s a murmured query, your voice low as you concentrate on removing the bullet in his shoulder.
“I made a tactical decision,” he grunts as you stick sterile tweezers further into his flesh, irritating capillaries already cauterized by the heat from the gunpowder.
“Tactical decision? Are you delusional?” There’s a tiny clink as metal hits metal when your tweezers finally find the bullet. As carefully as you can, you start to extract it, mindful of his pain.
“See? Looks like I’ll live after all,” he grimaces as he watches you work, holding out his hand, urging you to drop the crumpled bullet into it as soon as it’s out. You oblige, not without attitude, swapping out the tweezers for a scalpel.
“Not if I kill you instead.” You gesture threateningly with the tiny blade. Glancing back up to him, you note the obvious bags under his eyes. His skin is just a shade paler than his normal sun-kissed glow, betraying his nonchalance. You set out on debriding the wound. “Why?”
“Look, I don’t know what you want me to say—” he shrugs with one shoulder, gesturing like he's the innocent one here. Your eyes flick down to the crushed bullet he’s rolling around in his palm.
“I want you to tell me why you jumped in front of the gun,” you demand. Fractured memories flash in your mind— the Incursion, the death, destruction, the loss. You hadn’t felt the same fear you did then until he pushed you out of the way. “You didn’t even raise your damn shield, Jo— Walker.”
“I don’t know!” He gestures frustratedly with his hand before letting it fall back to his lap. He avoids looking directly at you, laser-focused on the bullet. “The shield would have— it could have bounced wrong. I— just drop it, okay?”
You’ve never seen this version of him this agitated. Not even when Bucky tells him off for disobeying orders, not when Ava and Yelena gang up on him, and certainly never at you. He’s come to take everything thrown at him in stride, only subtle indications of his annoyance simmering under the surface. You know well what it’s like to make John Walker mad, and now you’ve succeeded in this universe the same as your own.
“Fine.” It’s your turn to pout, dropping the scalpel into the bowl of tools you’ll need to sanitize later.
“What are you doing?”
“Dropping it.”
You feel his eyes on you for a few more beats, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop while you rummage around for the sterilizer and gauze. But there’s no lie, no trick, just your presence, firm and unyielding. You can’t say you understand, but that won’t change that the two of you are here now. As requested, you don’t bring it up again. Instead, you quietly stew while you wash out his wound and pack it with gauze, finishing it off with a bandage on top.
“Shower. And then you’re getting the bed, and that’s final.” You pat his shoulder gently as a finishing touch, and then quickly pull yourself from the close proximity to him. It’s not until you’re standing at the sink washing up that you realize how jittery the close contact with him made you, and you aren’t sure anymore if it’s just from the concentration.
John grumbles something about you being bossy, but rises from the floor to do exactly as you told him.
════ ⋆★⋆ ════
Two hours later, the sun long since set, and the both of you are finally clean, fed, and patched up. It’s been quiet between you, but not nearly as tense as it was on the way here, this time fueled by utter exhaustion.
You’re just pulling some blankets from the linen closet when John appears in the doorway of the bedroom, dressed down in a spare pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that looks a size too small. Maybe you should have coordinated— the one you’re wearing is at least two too big. He still looks tired, but it’s softened into something less defeated looking. Leaning against the doorframe with his uninjured arm, he watches you sort through the linen to find the least musty option.
“You don’t have to sleep on the floor,” he finally says. “It’s a king. There’s room, you know.”
“It’s fine— “
“No, it’s not. You’re just as tired, and I’m pretty sure these floors are dry rotted. Plus, there’s no heating system— just, c'mon. We can share.”
You stare at him blankly for a few moments, rolling the proposition around in your head. Then, suddenly you're agreeing far too easily.
“Alright. I wasn't really looking forward to the floor anyway.” What you don't point out is the opportunity to keep a closer eye on him, just in case there ends up being any complications with his injury, or something that you missed, or—
It’s not lost on John either. “Wow, okay. I thought that would be harder,” he comments, trying to keep the delight off his face. “Well, I know I’m beat, so…” He stretches both arms over his head, notably gentler with his left as he yawns, and it's almost instinctual the way your gaze darts down to where his borrowed shirt rides up, revealing a toned stomach and blonde happy trail, as if you didn't just see him shirtless forty minutes ago. Somehow, the glimpse seems far more scandalous, especially now that it's sinking in that you're about to be sharing a bed with him. It’s not something you can honestly say you’ve never considered, but you never truly believed it might happen. And now you have to figure out how to not make it weird when you're already trying to compartmentalize him taking a bullet for you and the complicated feelings that he’s brought up.
You nod once, then again as you brush past him into the bedroom, immediately making it weird.
The two of you settle in, the old mattress not nearly as uncomfortable as you'd assumed it would be. You stay as close to the edge as you can without being too obvious, lying on your back and pulling the blankets up to your chin. It’s a relief when John slips under the blankets on the other side and does almost the exact same. The old farmhouse has a slight draft, and thankfully it’s early summer or else you’d be freezing. It’s dark except for the moonlight, opting to leave all the lights off so as to not attract attention, and quiet besides your steady breaths and the crickets chirping outside the window.
Minutes pass, you're not exactly sure how many, as you finally relax enough to entertain the idea of actually sleeping. More than an arm’s length away from you, John’s breathing is deep and even, and you don't look over, but you assume he’s long asleep until his voice breaks through the quiet.
“I panicked,” John confesses suddenly, like he needs to force the words out or else they’ll never come.
And you aren't quite sure what he’s even talking about. “Panicked?”
“During the mission. When I saw the soldier aiming for you. I panicked.” John rolls onto his side to face you then, the mattress bowing under his super-soldier weight. “I was moving before I could really even stop myself.”
You stay on your back watching the ceiling as his words sink in. “Why? You think I can’t handle it?”
“No! That’s not— I just feel responsible, protective,” he admits through gritted teeth.
“Responsible?” you scoff, finally turning towards him. You can just barely make him out in the darkness, the window behind him backlighting his silhouette. But his expression isn't the haughty one he’d normally wear while knocking someone down a peg— it's genuine, almost sheepish. It makes you drop your defensiveness. “You don’t have to feel responsible and I don't need you to protect me, you know.”
“I had to do something! I already got you killed once; can you blame me?” His voice is still low, but with enough urgency to get his point across.
And suddenly, you realize exactly what this is all about.
You take a deep breath in and out, scooting just a fraction closer to him. “You never did anything to me. You don’t have to make up for something that happened to someone else.”
“I shot you, point blank. And then looted your body and left you to burn with the rest of Valentina’s trash,” he argues against himself.
“It wasn’t me, Walker. You didn’t know her.”
“But I still see it, that I’m capable of—“ He huffs, sitting up and shaking his head. “But now I do know you. And I can't forget the look on your face as I put a bullet between your— her— eyes! I always wondered, what if I hadn’t been so hotheaded in that vault, if I had just believed Yelena? And then the multiverse answered my question. I don’t want to fuck it up a second time. You lost your Thunderbolts, the team that you knew and loved. I just want you to feel like you can have the same thing here, with us. In your world, I was important— “
“So, this is about your ego, too?”
“—I was important to you!” He doesn’t yell, but his volume increases just enough to get his point across. “The way you looked at me on Battleworld, before you realized I wasn’t him. Like I was your hero.”
For a moment, you have no response. You can only sit up, watching him with wide eyes as you try to decipher exactly what he means. And you aren't sure you can stand it if you’re wrong.
“He never actually paid me much mind, you know,” you start delicately, insistent on not conflating the two versions of him who, at the end of the day, you've come to realize couldn't be more different. “He was a part of the team, of course, but always working towards the unattainable. In the end, he got his family back, the title, the adoration— it felt like we weren't good enough for him.”
“Well, your Walker—”
“—He was never mine,” you interrupt with such vitriol that the implication is clear as day, and once you realize what you've said, you shrink back, avoiding his gaze.
“Then he was a moron.” He scoots closer to you, reaching out for your hand as he closes the distance. His gaze is so softer now, no longer trying to argue against himself. And you let him, staying where you are as he entwines his fingers with yours. You feel light as air and sick to your stomach all at once, and for the second time today, you can’t predict his next move.
“And you're not?” you attempt to tease, but it falls flat as he keeps leaning in towards you. Your head tilts back the closer he gets, eyes locked on his, lips parted.
“I guess that’s for you to decide.”
And you do.
At first, John is much more tentative than you’d thought he’d be. For all his peacocking and intensity, you didn't expect him to melt the moment your lips touch his. Maybe this is as unexpected for him as it is for you. Your hands bunch into the sides of his shirt and you pull yourself into him, as close as possible. As soon as you take the initiative to tease your tongue across his bottom lip, it’s like he finally wakes up. He makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a gasp, dropping your hand in favor of tangling his fingers into your hair. John moves his lips against yours with a fervor, parting to let you slip inside and taste him. All your frustration and anxieties from the mission fade away at once, and you ground yourself in the moment with him here and now. You push him back until you can straddle him, only breaking the kiss to position yourself over his lap. A tremor runs through him as you settle your weight over him, and he’s already half-hard.
You don't know who starts the pile of forgotten clothes on the floor next to the bed, only that it feels like relief when you press your bare chest against his. Mouth still attached to yours like it's the last thing he’ll ever taste, John cups your breasts, calloused fingers grazing over your peaked nipples. You groan softly, hips grinding down against his, your clit catching on his cock in just the right way. You’re both still clothed from the waist down, but between your thighs he feels huge— it seems he does have a good reason for all that overconfidence.
Reluctantly, and with a few pecks for good measure, John finally pulls away, and the two of you finally take a moment to look each other in the eye. His pupils are blown, flushed pink from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, lips reddened from your nips and bites. He’s startlingly handsome, especially underneath you like this, but as you go to finally say something, he beats you to it.
“Fuck, you’re so gorgeous,” he pants, still managing to sound borderline reverent while he’s trying to catch his breath. Hands splayed out over your thighs, he guides you into a rhythm as he grinds up into you, his lips trailing down your collarbone, moving lower and lower until you feel his teeth grazing your nipple. He takes turns laving his tongue over each one, eyes shut in pleasure as he moans softly against your skin. “Let me eat you out? Please?”
The way he begs might just be the hottest thing you've ever heard in your life.
You don't know if your own words will work right now with the way he’s watching you, so you nod your head eagerly. Propping your hand on his chest, you slip off your panties and go to move off of him. Instead, his grip shifts to circle your thighs and he pushes you up as he slides himself down. And then, you’re suffocating John Walker with your thighs. Your hands fly to his hair, and the grateful look he’s giving you from between your legs could be enough to send you over the edge all on its own.
Where he started off shy against your mouth, against your cunt that’s overwhelming every last one of his senses, he’s unabashed. He pulls you against his mouth like he wants to be crushed underneath you, his tongue wasting no time circling your clit. You’re practically dripping down his throat, tugging at golden strands for some sort of leverage while he pleasures you with an intensity you’ve never experienced. You wouldn’t have thought him to be so exceptional at this, as you’re being driven closer and closer to the edge. Wanton sounds fall from your mouth with no restraint, cooing your praises for him each time you catch your breath.
“John— so good, that’s it,” you cry as he wraps his lips around your clit. He’s devouring you and it only intensifies every time you manage to form words. The vibrations from his own muffled moans only add to the sensation, and you can’t help but rock your hips.
You gasp when you suddenly feel fingers running through your folds, collecting your slick mixed with his spit and spreading it all around, his tongue still lapping at you. He’s entirely pussy drunk; the sight of his brow furrowed in concentration from between your thighs almost enough to push you completely over the edge.
But it’s his fingers that really do you in, sliding two wet digits into your tight cunt. You cry out, in a way that you’d be embarrassed over if it didn’t feel so good. Nails digging into his scalp, you’re overwhelmed by the feel of his tongue, the pace of his fingers, the scratch of his beard over the tender skin of your inner thighs.
But it’s what he says, only pulling his mouth away for a split second, that has you immediately seeing stars and drenching his beard.
“That’s it, love, come for me.”
His warm words hold just a hint of that hidden Georgia drawl, and then he’s mouthing you through your orgasm. His lips and fingers don’t stop until you’re no longer capable of chasing them, borderline overstimulated, and even then he's reluctant to give this up. You inch down his body as you catch your breath, finally fully resting over the cut of his hip bones.
John sits up to chase you. He’s still in his boxers, the fabric brushing over your still-sensitive cunt as he attaches his lips back to yours. The warmth of his mouth mixed with the taste of you. It’s a dizzying sensation.
“Wow,” you sigh, forehead resting against his.
“Careful, or you’re gonna give me an ego,” he quips. When you open your eyes, he’s staring up at you with such adoration that it knocks the wind out of you.
“You already have an ego.”
You kiss him again, and again, pulling back every so often to get another look at him, to see if that glint ever fades. It doesn’t.
“It’s probably your fault.” He presses a kiss to your neck, pushing your hair back. “I wanna see you this time,” he groans. Your hips are rocking over his again, giving him just enough relief, but its not enough. It’ll never be enough. You pause, rising just enough to slide his boxers down and toss them somewhere behind you.
“Fuck, look at you.” Your eyes trace the lines of his body, openly ogling him. The lean muscle, the faint freckles on his collarbone, the marks you left on his neck. His cock stands proud and leaking between you, and you spit on it, letting it drip down slow. Head falling back against the dated headboard, he moans your name.
“—love, please. Ride me,” John begs, pulling you closer by your hips. Using that endearment again. It’s not one you would have expected him to use, but now that you’ve heard it, you aren’t sure you could live without it. You wrap a hand around his length, using your saliva to lube him up, dragging a thumb over his tip, adding his precum to the mix.
“You keep calling me that.”
He watches you, his eyes dark and unfocused. His grip on your hips grows tighter, threatening to bruise. To leave signs of himself on you. Proof that he was here. That he’s the one who’s making you gasp and moan— that he’s the only one who can.
“Calling you what?” he asks, feigning ignorance. His hips jerk up into your touch.
“You know what,” you reply, moving your hand slowly up and down his length. Your voice is low and breathless. “That’s the second time.” You lean down to nip at his earlobe. “Love.”
“It’s just a word,” he growls, a hint of a lie in his tone, “Just a harmless, little word.” He likes the way it sounds on your tongue. Like it’s just for him, not any other version. Your tongue flicking over his ear. God, he nearly moans.
You bite under his ear, teeth rough against his skin. “No, it’s not just a word,” you whisper. Your fist is still working him, slow and teasing. “It’s more. Isn’t it?”
“Don’t.” John says it like it’s urgent. Like if you don’t comply, you’ll both have some sort of problem on your hands. “Don’t ask me that.”
You lift your head to look at him for a moment, like you’re trying to see into him, trying to see something. He looks scared. Fragile. You can feel his pulse pounding against your lips. Like there’s something he’s afraid to let out. “I won’t then,” you assure. “We can take this slow.” His eyes flutter, and he leans into your touch, expression needy.
“…Slow is good,” he manages, his voice rough. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer. You angle his cock towards your heat, grinding your cunt over him. But neither of you have enough self-restraint to actually keep things slow, and as you sink down onto him, you almost forget to breathe. It’s almost too much. The way he looks, the way he sounds, the way he feels. Your heart feels like it’s about to jump out of your chest. You lean in, pressing your forehead to his, adjusting to the feeling of him inside of you. Your fingers trace the lines of his face—- his cheeks, his jawline, the faint scar lining his chin. All of his rough edges and concealed softness, they all make sense to you. They fit you. They make you feel like home.
Like this is exactly where you’ve belonged all this time.
hello all, my bad for being radio silent but I’ve been working on another Walker fic with a concept that I have been patting myself on the back for and I just really love it. Hopefully it will just be a one shot, but my biggest conundrum is assigning the reader a hero name/alias. How do we feel about that?
They have a specific skill set and mutation that’s semi important to the plot and the name ties to it very directly, but I’m not sure if it’s one of those things that turns people away from reader fics because it makes it less vague. It would only be used a handful of times and all other physical characteristics will still be completely blank slate. If anyone would like to offer any opinions I’d be happy to hear them! Thanks :)
summary: john is masturbating next to you, who he thought were sleeping, in a room with other people. you offer him help, telling him to finish in you instead.
cw: smut, masturbating, borderline voyeurism, p in v, back scratching, creampie, no use of y/n
wc: 1.8k
you and your teammates didn’t want to bother discussing sleeping arrangements after completing a hectic mission. you all booked this room to rest before a long drive back home.
as soon as the door to your two-bedroom motel room swung open, alexei and bob had already claimed the bed near the windows. meanwhile ava, yelena, and bucky are assigned to a different mission.
here you are, sleeping next to john walker on a lumpy and cheap double bed, a barrier of only one layer of pillows between the two of you. your back is turned to him; you’d imagine what it’d be like facing him without the wall of pillows, so you just avoided even facing his direction. a form of self-control.
the motel isn’t fancy enough to give you another blanket when you called for it, so you’re sharing one with walker. you’ve got goosebumps from the cranky air conditioner and the hypotheticals of sharing a bed with a super soldier you’ve been crushing on for months.
the continuous and consistent sounds from the air conditioner are disturbed by a rhythmic noise, like soft skin slapping, emerging from your right. you brush it off, not wanting to move since the mission was physically taxing.
after a few more seconds of the noise, the tiny space of the blanket you had was being tugged, the wall of pillows was shaking, and you occasionally heard soft grunts.
is walker jerking off?
you immediately sat up and looked over the wall of pillows. you see walker intensely shutting his eyes and biting his lip, the shape of a fist outlining the thin white blanket right above where his crotch would be.
“john?”
he widens his eyes. his whole body is freezing, not just from the air conditioner but from the embarrassment.
“hey… how long have you been awake?”
he inquires with a slight shake in his quiet voice, trying his best not to wake the two sleeping men on the other bed and not to let the shame shine through.
“i haven’t slept since we laid down.”
“god damn it.”
“you couldn’t do it in the bathroom?”
you whisper-shout. at the same time, you’re fighting the urge to break the walls down, figuratively and literally, and sit on his cock.
“fuck. sorry. i'm really sorry. i didn’t wanna get up, and… it looked like you were in a deep sleep.”
“unbelievable.”
you lie back down and cup your hot face with your cold hands. walker sits up and places his arm on top of the wall of pillows to appear casual and friendly.
“look, i was just… hard, and i couldn’t go to sleep so i had to… you know. relieve myself.”
“you gonna finish?”
“ha-ha. very funny.”
he rolls his eyes and faces away from you. after hearing the silence from you, he turns his head back to you with concern on his face.
“do it in me,”
you whisper as you raise yourself by your elbows. you look up at him through your eyelashes. he parts his lips and smirks, and releases a short sigh that sounds like a forced laugh.
“don’t mess with me like that.”
“i’m not gonna jerk you off. i’m tired. i’m offering you help, john.”
“so… you would rather i put my—“
“if you think this is a joke, you can just try to jerk off by yourself until the sun comes up and find that useless.”
his mouth is left partly open, tightening as he thinks of a response.
“otherwise, get on top of me,” you offer, swallowing your shame. his blue orbs scan your face, looking for a confirmation that you wanted it as if you didn’t already ask him to get on top of you. his eyes then slowly travel to your neck and cleavage, revealed by the blanket that slid off when you got up.
“are you sure?”
“i’m sure. i’m your friend, and i want to help you.”
“we must be a special case of friends, then.”
he breaks down the wall of pillows, a symbolic emotional and physical barrier the both of you have yet to discuss properly. you get on your back and put your arms to your sides. you inhale and exhale deeply to mentally prepare for the night you and he are about to have.
the careful but quick movements from the walker against the bedsheets emit rustling sounds, good enough not to wake your roommates. he hurriedly tosses the pillows to the edges of the bed, eager to hover above you under the shared blanket.
he brackets your flushed face in his elbows, face only an inch away from yours. he tugs on the hem of your shorts, like permission to take it off. you accept it by helping him slide it down your legs, the shorts sliding off along with your laced panties. you slowly lift your legs up and apart, allowing his already half-naked bottom half to go in between.
“you ready?” he asks in a whisper. you nod, and he holds eye contact.
you both gasp as he slowly pushes his cock into you, your walls welcoming it by hugging it. the feeling of being full of him meets and somewhat surpasses your dirty expectations of his cock.
“fuck, you’re so warm.” he quietly moans in your ear, his shaky breath tickling you. your hands grip the ball of his shoulders, releasing your pent-up sexual frustration all these weeks from waiting for this very position.
he silently waits for you to adjust to his size and for him to adapt to the amount of pleasure he has been trying to reach by himself. you plant a peck on his ear, which tells him he can begin moving.
he gently rocks his hips into your pussy. you bite your lip to suppress moans. your swollen red lips that look sugar-glazed tempt walker; he knows the moment he gives in to his temptations, nothing will be the same ever again.
a super soldier can lift a ten-ton truck, but even john walker struggles to fight the urge to kiss you like you and him belonged to only each other. you mentioned you’re his friend like setting the label in stone.
he was afraid to cross that line by kissing you at the same time he was inside of you. he places a hand under your knee lifts it more which allows him to enter into you more easily.
“john…”
you cup his face with your hands as he gently grinded onto you. his big and hard cock contrasts his gentle movements. how can a man who could destroy you fuck you so lovingly?
“you like this?” he asks.
“i do."
his lips now only a few centimeters away from yours.
“you want more?”
“i want more,” you admit as you fling your arms around his neck. your walls squeeze tighter around his cock at the sound of his low voice.
he began to quicken his pace and amplify the strength of each thrust. before you could release a moan and wake up your roommates, he shuts your mouth with a hand.
“not too loud."
he slides the other hand under your back, encouraging a bigger arch by pulling you closer to his body as if it isn’t close enough. your hips bucked so eagerly against his cock, making him want to ruin you more. your saliva wets his hand, but he doesn’t care. he’d jerk off with that hand.
a knot ties in your stomach. your hands travel to his back. your nails dig deep into his skin right under his broad shoulders, like an act of revenge for shutting you up.
several long red marks are left on his skin, following your nails as you scratch his back until you reach the sides of his ribs. he groans in pain and pleasure while still attempting to make sounds in the lowest volume possible.
it feels impossible. the soft skin slapping emerging from between your legs, the heavy breathing, the frustration in each thrust, the wish to fuck loudly, and the two clueless sleeping men make the sex feel impossible. but it’s happening. you don’t know how, but you’re leaving it all to walker.
he buries his face into the crook of your neck, and your fingers into his dirty blonde hair. his other hand joins the one under your back, putting the two of you in a hugging position. the pillows start to slide off the bed one by one as walker’s pace quickens.
“m’so close, princess. taking it so good for me," he manages to say in between his frustrated thrusts.
“feels so good, john,” you whisper, bringing him closer to climax. you feel your pussy squeeze tighter around his cock, pulsating as deep and fast as your heartbeat.
“yeah?” he moans into your ear, waiting for another praise. you look to your right to see alexei and bob still sleeping amidst the debauchery on your bed. alexei’s snoring was a signal for you to keep riling up walker.
“you fuck so good," you moan. you wrap your legs around his hips. he hugs your back tighter. you shut your eyes as they rolled back, preparing for the climax.
even though you could only see stars now, your visualization of the mess down there from your slick is accurate.
walker slams his hips onto you harder, fucking into you until he can feel your womb. with each thrust becoming increasingly inconsistent, you could tell he was near.
“fuck— right there.”
he presses his lips against yours, breaking the unspoken rule; you can’t kiss because you’re “friends.” he thrusts into you deeply, filling you up with his cum. you arrive at the same time. all you can do now is cover your mouth with a hand as walker buries his groans between your neck and your pillow.
your other hand grabs onto his bicep, releasing your pent-up sexual frustration into the grip.
he thrusts into you one last time, this being the deepest. you both lay there breathing heavily, staring into nothing as you process what happened in 7 minutes.
the hug you were giving each other loosens. he props himself up on his elbow, the other hand on your waist. he looks into your eyes before turning his head slightly to the side and kissing you slowly. he briefly separates his lips from yours, leaving yours slightly parted.
“show me your tongue,” he whispers.
as soon as he sees the pink flesh in between your teeth, he joins his tongue with yours and presses his lips against yours. his tongue softly massages yours, both gentle and hungry for more, like he’s not still inside of you.
Insomnia isn't special among the residents of The Watchtower. Your relationship— or lack thereof— with John has been at a standstill for months. But late night company turns into talks, and tonight, those talks turn into more, something neither of you are ready to name.
[Reader is a mutant with the power to manipulate blood, and has a serum-induced healing factor similar to Wolverine's. Former Widow and Avenger, current Thunderbolt New Avenger.]
john walker x fem!reader
words: 7.6k
cw: swearing, mentions of death, past abuse/neglect, infertility, smut, oral sex (f!recieving), p in v, creampie, only hints of sub!john, enemies to reluctant allies to enemies to ???, confessions, the idiots are in love, john calls the reader ‘Red’ (because of the blood shtick, he’s very creative) (18+ MDNI)
a/n: wow fucking finally, ive been swamped with a new job and was so worried id never find the time to finish this, but ta-da! i hope you all enjoy my silly little story, and sorry it took so long to make the barbie dolls kiss
alone together - fall out boy
Most nights, you don’t sleep. With your healing factor, you don’t need as much as the average human anyway, but more often than not you keep yourself up until the first rays of sunlight pour through the sprawling windows of The Watchtower.
It makes for a lot of time spent alone, which is fine by you, and a good amount spent alongside whoever else is having trouble that night. There’s always someone; almost a year into being The New Avengers, the team is tight-knit and heavily traumatized. Everyone knows that if they can’t sleep, they can come find you to keep them company. It’s a weekly debate between Bob and Yelena on whether or not you’re actually nocturnal, and it’s not helping the vampire allegations from Alexei.
When it’s Bucky, the two of you catch up on the long list of movies and music that you’ve missed out on over the decades— everything you enjoy he hates, and vice versa. With Bob, you swap books, forcing him to stomach your questionable horror schlock, while you trudge through yet another sci-fi novel about space fascism. You and Ava smoke on your balcony, even if it doesn’t do much for you thanks to your metabolism, but it soothes her pains, physical and mental. It’s rare that Alexei can’t find rest, but when it’s his turn, the two of you split a bottle of vodka and share war stories— he can’t get enough of your Avengers tales, and the anecdotes you have of Nat. Yelena likes video games, technology that escapes you but you partake in anyway to give her the satisfaction of victory that keeps her mind occupied. You have a secret little routine with everyone at this point, something that stays with just you.
And then, there’s John.
It’s been six weeks since your heart stopped and things changed between the two of you. Vitriol and insults traded for longing glances and stilted conversations. You’re learning how to be around him now that it isn’t a battle, your first instinct still to lash out. But you know that’s not what you are anymore, so as the mockery dies on your tongue, the silence settles, because you aren’t ready to acknowledge what you are.
Your midnight routine with him is new, ever evolving, and mostly by accident. It always starts with running into him in the dark, when John is too tired to keep up the pretense of not wanting your comfort. Usually, neither of you speak, sitting in the silence of everything left unsaid, alone together. Sometimes, you muster up enough guts to ask him what’s wrong, and he’s brave enough to answer.
Tonight, you find John in the kitchen, staring aimlessly into the fridge for so long that the alarm for the door starts beeping sharply, and you can’t bear to turn away. He straightens up with a muted curse, shutting the door, and almost jumps when he notices someone. His shoulders relax when a second later he realizes it’s only you, but he still rolls his eyes.
"Jesus, Red. You’re gonna give me a heart attack," he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his forehead. "You hungry, or just here lookin to bug me?"
He’s been feeling the shift too. Sometimes, all he sees when he looks at you is the memory of your cold and broken body. Other times, it’s the glimpse of the real you that you’d given him that night, still only half-alive in his doorway just to make sure he was okay. He doesn’t know what’s harder to grasp; the fact that you rose from the dead or that somewhere deep down you care about him. You made him tongue tied before everything, but it’s even worse now, and he can’t find the line between brushing you off and letting everything out all at once.
“Well, if you go into cardiac arrest, I can stop it.” you quip, fingers fiddling with the tie of your satin robe.
You push past him to lean against the edge of the counter. Despite your teasing nature, there’s not a hint of humor in your irises, only wide-eyed exhaustion. Dark circles line them, and your entire body is tense, muscles taut like a bowstring. It was a night where you’d tried to rest and were made to regret it immediately.
John knows that look.
During the day, you’re all sharp remarks and steadfast confidence, but he’s been watching you long enough to know when you’re not okay. He knows the exhaustion, the way you hold yourself, the fidgeting. It used to be a version of you that he didn’t care for, but with each accidental encounter he longed to do more about what was plaguing you.
"Nightmare, or just insomnia?" he asks, and it feels like knocking down a wall.
“Nightmare,” you answer without hesitation, but don’t elaborate, your voice hoarse. There’s a deep understanding between the two of you, even if neither one knows what to do with it. You meet his gaze, and your grimace softens. “How about you? What was it tonight?”
"Insomnia," John replies with a rough sigh, leaning against the opposite counter, his arms crossed over his chest. He regards you, the silken robe you’re wearing, one shoulder barely exposed to the room. He tears his gaze away reluctantly, focusing on the hectic collection of magnets on the fridge. "Same as usual."
You raise an eyebrow. "You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine?" You hide your request for vulnerability— for connection— behind the teasing. You’ve noted it’s easier for both of you to digest that way.
He lets himself look back over at you, amused by your smart mouth. "You gotta go first."
Your shoulders lift in a languid shrug, the gesture meant to be nonchalant but only serves to make the restlessness more obvious. Your eyes flick up from the alternating tiles on the floor to him, contemplative. You pause for a moment, a brief hesitation before the floodgates open, pushing yourself up to perch on the countertop. It feels like a turning point.
"Dreams of Hydra mostly," you admit, a bitter edge as the words echo in the dim kitchen. "Of waking up strapped down in some cold room, being injected with god knows what. Things I should be over by now."
John is surprised by the rawness. He wasn’t actually expecting a genuine answer, and definitely not one that made his chest ache in ways he can’t rationalize. He remembers your terror in The Void. Seeing you afraid is enough to rattle anyone, but he witnessed it almost firsthand.
"It’s not something you can just be over,” he responds a little too decisively. The idea of you beating yourself up for the crime of being used like that isn’t one that sits well with him. He sighs, shaking his head as if it will clear his racing thoughts. "I still dream about Afghanistan. About… about the orders we followed.” The silence hangs heavily in the room, broken only by the intermittent sound of the freezer rattling in the background. He doesn’t often talk about his time overseas, the story of what he did in the name of defending a country that never once intended to protect him. “Sometimes, Olivia pops up too. Reminds me how much I screwed that up." He glances up. “But the part that makes me feel horrible is the fact I don’t regret it.”
“Why don’t you regret it?” you ask quietly, appreciating the way he’s taken the spotlight off of you.
After several beats, he answers with a weary exhale, his shoulders slumped. “We got married because it was just another thing we were supposed to do. High school sweethearts, family pressure, society. It wasn’t long before we grew apart and both felt trapped. Eventually, it all came crashing down. And I just…” His words trail off into another heavy sigh, the guilt weighing him down, even after all this time. “I guess I got tired of doing what was expected of me. Of being who they all wanted me to be. That’s why I don’t regret letting her walk. Because it felt like the first time I’d done something for myself.”
You’re silent for a moment, letting his words sink in. You understand the weight of expectations; the pressure to be something different. The need to escape the mold other people had created for you. To steal back any bit of control you could, even if it put a wrench in things for others.
John huffs out humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Just... I wish I hadn’t gotten it all so wrong.”
Your voice is a gentle counterpoint to the weary acceptance in his when you respond. “I won’t deny that you made quite a few mistakes to get here, but when you aren’t given the room when you’re small, you make worse ones when you’re grown. Your country put you under the emotional equivalent of a hydraulic press and then had the nerve to dump you at the first sign of fracture."
The weight of your assertion hits close to home. Your insight into his life—his struggles—is unsettlingly accurate, almost uncanny. You see right through all the bravado and defensiveness, straight to the root of the wounds that might not ever heal.
"I..." he starts, voice hoarse, "I never really thought of it that way." He takes a beat, observing your expression carefully. "Is that what it was like for you? In the Red Room?"
Your focus falls to the floor again at his question. The memories of the Red Room— the pain, the isolation, the never-ending missions— flash through your mind. You take a deep, steadying breath, gathering the strength to give him a piece of yourself in return, something more than a flippant remark.
"In a way," you reply quietly. "I was an orphan in the middle of a war-torn country when they snatched me up, and suddenly I wasn’t alone anymore. I felt a duty to them, even if I didn’t agree with it. They told me who I was, what I was supposed to do, when I was supposed to do it. And I did it perfectly."
John listens intently, the furrow of his brow deepening as you explain. He hesitates for a moment, considering his next words. "But you fought back eventually, didn't you? Broke free." He says it with so much hope, as if he doesn’t already know how your story ends.
"That’s the funny thing," you scoff, "I didn’t. Not from the Red Room at least. I knew I was different, a mutant. And I managed to hide that from them for a long time. I was the best they had then, but the second I couldn’t hide my power anymore, they pawned me off to Hydra. I felt betrayed."
John can’t imagine what hiding must have been like, having to walk through life in fear of being found out, when you’re the strongest person he knows. He’s endlessly impressed by the way you’ve taken the way they trained you and turned it into something that’s all your own. Your brutality is an expression of love. Your criticism is borne out of care. That you give everyone on the team these pieces of yourself over and over, never letting them give in return. You’re so much more than what they made you, but he doesn’t know how to tell you. He realizes he’s been staring too long— captivated by the line of your jaw, the unguarded look in your eye, and the soft curve of your lips— and clears his throat, his gaze dropping from your face.
"Do you ever think..." he falters, the words sticking in his throat. "Do you ever think that maybe if we’d met under different circumstances… we wouldn’t have been such assholes to each other?"
Your eyes narrow curiously. His question hangs in the air, an unexpected deviation. The last time you heard him say anything so sincere was when you were barely cleared from your deathbed. You search him for any hint of falsehood or sarcasm, but find only the same sincerity from that night. You consider his question for a moment.
"I doubt it," you say bluntly, the familiar sharp edge in your tone returning. "We’re both stubborn, and we get on each other’s nerves, and… you make me want to stab you more often than not," you pause, eyeing him up and down, your gaze calculating. "But you know, we don’t have to wait for another life to be different."
He chuckles at your honesty, expecting nothing less, raising an eyebrow at your words. "What, you think some miracle’s gonna happen and suddenly we’ll stop pissing each other off?"
His genuine laugh is the last straw, making your knees feel weak with an emotion you don’t want to stifle by naming. You prop your palms behind you on the counter, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other, your robe shifting.
"Or maybe it’s worth looking into a different method to shut each other up," you taunt, low and tinged with that playful sarcasm you’ve mastered.
John scoffs, rolling his eyes, anything to not look at you right now. He’s used to your teasing, your mockery, and at first, he thinks that’s all this is. But then, he realizes you’re looking at him the same way you did that day in the gym, the memory of you underneath him flashing in his head. Still not entirely sure what’s happening, he takes a cautious step towards where you’re sitting on the counter, crowding into your personal space. He leans in, hands braced on the marble on either side of you.
You tense at the proximity, eyes flickering over his face, the disbelief. You’re caught off guard by the raw intensity of the moment, the sudden shift from the solemn conversation to the magnetic pull between you. Then, he drags one hand up your thigh, robe falling out of his way.
"John…" you rasp out, your breathier than you’d like, his given name a halfhearted warning. You can feel your pulse thrumming faster, cheeks flushing. He’s so close, his body warm and solid over you. The sound of his name on your lips, the way your body responds to his touch, ignites something deep within him, and he can’t keep it locked away any longer.
"You gonna tell me to stop?" His hand on your thigh moves higher, his thumb continuing its lazy circles, inching under the hem of your robe. Your breath hitches, heat pooling low in your stomach, mind at war over the urge to either pull back or give in. You know it should be the former, that you need to maintain the boundary, no matter how fragile. But the feel of his touch, the way he's looking at you... it's like you’re caught in his gravitational pull.
"This…" you manage in a low voice, "is a bad idea." John can see the hesitation in your eyes, the battle between desire and sense. But he can also feel you pressing into his touch, see the flush in your cheeks.
“Maybe it is,” he murmurs, his hand drifting higher, his fingers precariously close to your inner thigh. Your legs part for him like it’s second nature. “But does it matter?”
You can hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears, can feel the heat of his breath across your skin. Every rational thought vanishes from your mind, replaced by a rush of heated anticipation so intense that you can’t think straight.
“John,” you whisper again, but it’s not a warning. It’s permission. The sound of his name is like a spark to gasoline.
And he’s gone.
John’s mouth crashes into yours, hungry, desperate, impatient. You’ve been dancing around each other for months— longer than he’s even willing to admit to himself.
The stress practically bleeds from your shoulders as you kiss him back, like you’re relieved, giving him just as much as he’s giving you. It's all teeth and tongue, his grip on your waist tight enough to make you wish the bruises would stay. His other hand tangles into the hair at the nape of your neck, cradling your head gently.
He groans as you pull him closer, the sound horribly needy, and he’d be embarrassed in any other situation. Your bow into his touch, legs encircling his hips and pinning him between your thighs. He nips at your bottom lip, catching the sound of your gasp and licking into your mouth. He’s been dying to taste you again since that day on the mat.
Your pulse races as John changes course and his lips move down your jaw, and you can sense how his heart speeds up to match yours. He lingers at the sensitive spot under your left ear, sucking and nipping until you’re pulling him to your waiting mouth. He hauls you up, and in one swift movement he’s carrying you down the hall.
He gets you to his room in record speed, every step fueled by desperate need, slamming the door shut behind you. He wastes no time, pinning you to it, your back pressed firmly against the wood. He captures your mouth in another kiss, hard and needy and you can’t get enough.
Wandering hands explore him further, slipping under his t-shirt and grazing over the ridges of his abs, tracing the trail of hair under his navel to the waistband of his sweatpants. In return, John tugs at the tie of your robe hastily until he can push it off your shoulders, and you shuck it away, revealing nothing underneath but your— very obviously soaked— panties. He crowds you, grinding his hips into yours so you can feel exactly what you’re doing to him.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this, Red,” he groans.
“I—" you breathe, little more than a whine as you tug at his sweatpants. “I need you. Now.”
Biting back another embarrassing sound, he turns and crosses the room to his bed, tossing you onto the sheets. He pulls away to just look at you for a moment, staring like he’s committing you to memory. His gaze roams over you slowly, the curve of your waist, the flush of red on your chest, and the hitch of your breathing.
"You're so beautiful," he husks, laced with awe.
Then, he’s straightening out and tugging his shirt over his head, and you’re able to make your stunned reaction to him calling you beautiful look like it’s about him undressing instead. His chest is more sun-kissed than you were expecting, subtle freckles dotted across his shoulders. A set of dog tags rest on a thin chain at the center of his chest, framed by lean muscle on all sides. None of his strength is for show, meticulously honed over his years of service and there long before any serums. His pants are stripped off next, and he wastes no more time before crawling over you. He’s straining in his boxers, aching for you, his mouth finding yours again with fervor.
His hands and lips are everywhere, and it’s so much all at once. You’ve been alone and cold and untouched for so long and now, finally, you’re letting yourself have him. You’ve never been held like this, never felt wanted like this, like he can't breathe without you. You’re not supposed to want this, want him. But God, you do. More than anything else in the world.
Your head falls against his pillows, savoring the weight of him over you. The touch of his lips, his beard scraping your skin, all heighten the buzz running through your body, so much better than any of your fantasies. His cock is hard and insistent against your thigh, practically begging for your attention.
You arch your back, pressing your chest to his, a command for more. There’s something feral in the way he responds, hands cupping your breasts, squeezing firmly. He can’t get enough of you. He kisses you hungrily, his hands gliding across your sides, your shoulder blades, everywhere, desperate to touch as much skin as possible. His lips find your neck again, leaving hot, wet kisses that trail down your torso, detouring only to lap over each peaked nipple with dedication. He continues lower, his nose burying into your navel, inhaling deeply. He glances up at you, his eyes clouded with desire, the question on the tip of his tongue. You beat him to it, spreading your legs wilder, beckoning him closer.
"You wanna taste me, baby?" you purr.
John feels the heat in his gut flare at your words, your voice, your body. His tongue traces a path over your hip bone, down to your inner thigh. He takes a moment to marvel at the wet patch on your panties, pressing a kiss over the soaked cotton before urging them down your legs and flinging them to some forgotten corner of the room.
He’s homed in on your dripping cunt, and you swear he licks his lips. "Oh, I'm gonna devour you, Red."
He gets on his knees at the foot of the bed, pulling you to the edge by your hips, and tosses your thighs over his shoulders. He starts agonizingly slow, his tongue tracing slow circles through your folds, teasing, savoring. It doesn’t take you long to realize he knows exactly what he's doing, and it’s unexpected, but you’re sure as hell not about to complain. Every sound that slips from your lips only encourages him further, determined to prove something to you that he can’t quite put a name to. He alternates between broad, languid strokes and focused, pointed flicks, finding all the right spots that make you grind your cunt into his mouth.
“John,” you gasp again, hands tangling in his hair, your grip unrelenting. “You’re so good at this… so fucking good.” You swear you can feel him fighting a smug smile between your legs. But before you can call him on it, John flattens one hand over your lower stomach, holding your hips down, while the other circles your entrance. He teases only for a moment, sliding one finger, and then another inside. Your thighs clamp around his head as he fucks you with his fingers, curling them at just the right spots, his pace relentless. He watches you through it all, completely mesmerized by the way you look, how he’s the one making you feel so good.
“That’s it, baby—“ you sigh, the endearment slipping out without a thought. “Fuck. Keep going.” You’re a trembling wreck, your senses overwhelmed by his skilled tongue. The coil of pleasure tightens inside you, a breadth away from snapping. It’s so much, minding your reactions slips your mind, the moans and curses coming freely now. You’re incredibly vocal, constantly singing his praises, trailing off into unintelligible cries that only serve to push him further.
“I’m so close,” you choke out, “you’re gonna make me come.”
So fucking close.
And then, he does something with his fingers, a subtle crook as his lips wrap around your clit, and that's it. You shatter, your body arching off the bed, head thrown back, a strangled cry escaping you.
"J-John," you weep, shaking with the force of your orgasm. "Oh my god, fuck, so good.” John doesn’t let up, lapping at your cunt to draw out your high for as long he can. You have to pull him away once the overstimulation kicks in, reluctant to part with the taste of your release. The soft praises, the way you’d cried his name ringing in his ears, his cock uncomfortably hard, just from eating you out.
His eyes roam over your form, taking in the sight of you, debauched and flushed, chest heaving with each ragged breath. He doesn’t deserve this. Deserve you.
You lie there, still gushing through the aftershocks, your mind fuzzy and utterly sated. Every nerve ending crackles with electricity, your breathing shallow, skin damp with sweat. It feels like your body has been wrung out and put back together again in the best possible way.
You glance at John who’s patiently waiting for you to come down, but you catch the hint of doubt etched into his brow. Not regret, but the shadow of inadequacy. It brings a momentary gloom over you, baffled by how he could be insecure after giving you the best orgasm of your life.
“I take back what I said about you going down.” You grab his hand, the one that’s still covered in your cum, pulling him closer before he can wallow any longer. John goes willingly, his body settling over yours, and his eyes go wide as you bring his damp fingers to your mouth, tongue darting out to clean yourself off of them. “I guess your mouth is good for things other than running it.”
Your lips find his next, tasting more of your pleasure on his tongue and in his beard. He’s wound tight, the hunger thrumming beneath his skin, but the feeling of your kiss— and your characteristically vulgar compliments— settles the doubt within him.
“Fuck, you’re amazing,” you continue, pulling him into you with your legs around his waist. He rolls his hips yours, grinding his leaking cock brushing your cunt, both of you chasing that friction.
"You’re so goddamn perfect," he murmurs against your lips, rough with need. His hips speed up, soaking up the wetness at the apex of your thighs, even though the barrier of his boxers.
“You’re wearing too many clothes.”
You flip your positions suddenly and swiftly, just like that day in the gym, straddling his hips. Your weight settles over him, tugging his waistband down until his length is freed from the stifling cotton. That day, you’d felt him through his sweats, made up a picture in your mind of what he’d look like underneath. But nothing compares to seeing him in the flesh.
Your hands wander over him, appreciating every contour of muscle, every scar— even the one near his ribcage that was very likely your doing— every faint freckle that dots his shoulders. The way you caress him is firm and deliberate, and you’re lost in the moment, the reality of what’s between you settling heavily over your head.
John watches through half-lidded eyes, the rise and fall of his chest shaky as your lips and teeth trail over his chest. You leave little marks in your wake, making sure to leave your brand on him, even if he can’t do the same on you. He feels the shift too, and he’s terrified, but he never seems to know when to keep his mouth shut around you.
"I’ve wanted you since I first saw you,” he confesses suddenly. “You wouldn’t even give me the time of day back then." He knows it was wrong, that he was supposed to be happily married at the time, and it was something he never intended to act on.
And then, fate— better known as Valentina Allegra de la Fontaine— shoved you back together and locked you in a bunker and forced you to make nice to stay alive. He never thought it would actually end with you in his bed.
"That was three years ago,” you point out, his admission still sinking in. Your heart hammers in your chest, the reality of this hitting you in full and all at once. The depth of the desires he’s been denying, the need you’ve been ignoring.
"I’ve been holding back for years." John pushes himself up on his elbows, leaning against the headboard to be level with you. You’re both in anticipation as you scramble for the right way to respond, wide-eyed and entirely focused on the other.
“Stop holding back.”
And your wish is his command. He relaxes at the tentative acceptance of his feelings, and it’s more than enough when he’s still not sure how to describe them. He leans into you, and this time his kiss is slower, thorough. Your thighs cage his in, all of you on display just for him, his cock throbbing as you start to move your hips. He almost can’t handle the feeling, and he tries to ground himself as to not come in three seconds, and a different issue occurs to him instead.
“Are you on the pill— or something? Or do I need…” he trails off, wondering if he even has any. There’s been no one since or before Olivia, no reasons to be prepared.
Your stomach drops, John’s question sobering in a way you know he didn’t intend. You hadn’t really considered the fact that he was unaware of the Red Room’s ‘graduation ceremony’. It’s been such a constant in your life for decades— less of a sore spot and more of a mild ache that flares up on occasion— but one that doesn’t often cross your mind anymore. A bitter laugh almost escapes you, but you bite it back. You know you don’t technically owe him an explanation, but you decide he deserves one.
“I’m not— but—“ you start, faltering on how to put it into words without completely ruining the moment. “I can’t— I don’t have the equipment.”
John is struck still by the disclosure, his hands pausing where they were gliding over your sternum. It takes a second for his brain to catch up to what you’ve said, but then his eyes flick down, spotting the faint scar that runs vertically through your lower stomach. He puts together the pieces that he should have realized before now.
“It wasn’t my choice but— it’s fine, it was a long time ago,” you insist. It happened before the serums that made you invulnerable, making it permanent. You want him to trust that it’s safe, but don’t want to talk about it, don’t want to linger on another thing that they took from you— autonomy.
“Red—“ he starts, and you mistake his concerned tone for pity, interrupting him before he can continue.
“Don’t worry about it,” you plead. “I’m fine. I want to feel you.” You’re desperate for this to not turn into another therapy session, so you try to resume the friction with a shift of your hips, but his grip holds you still.
You say it all so flippantly, like it doesn’t matter, and he has to forcibly stop the groan that’s building in his chest as you rock against him. The need to make you forget everything that’s ever been done to you is overwhelming. His grip loosens, no longer possessive or rough, and he runs his knuckles over the sensitive skin of your stomach, meant as a comforting gesture.
“I’m sorry they did this to you, sweetheart.”
His voice is so warm. Your heart swells at the use of the term— so tender and familiar, so at odds with everything you feel you are— and you want more. But he’s still looking at you with worry, like what happened doesn’t sit right with him.
“Don’t look at me like that. I don’t want to think, I just want this… you.”
He can't deny you anything, not now. He has to give you what you need, and it’s this. Him.
You need him.
“You have me, Red. You have me.”
His grip on your hips loosens, no longer holding you in place but lightly kneading your flesh. You’re moving again, but it all feels heavier now, and you keep the pace languid, looking into his eyes. He’s content to give you the control, his body moving on your lead, driven by a need to make it good for you.
It’s not until you decide you’ve reduced him into a desperate mess underneath you that you finally change course, angling your hips so that the tip of his cock catches your entrance. His hips jerk and he can’t help it, driving up into you, groaning into your mouth. His hand tangles in your hair and you echo his sounds as you sink down on him, the stretch euphoric.
"God, you’re perfect," he growls, “you’re so goddamn perfect." The feeling of being inside you, of losing himself in you… it isn’t something he’d ever thought he’d experience, something he can’t put into words.
You lean up to capture his mouth, your tongue sliding over his, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer, wanting him as close as you can get him. The world around them disappears, nothing but the feel of him inside you, the taste of his moans on your tongue.
“Fuck,” you whisper. “You feel so good, filling me up so well, so deep."
Your little praises and the curses are more than enough to drive him crazy. He can’t think, thrusting up into your heat on pure instinct. He’s never felt like this, with anyone, like he’s enough. And as you gasp his name, your face clouded with pleasure, it hits him like a ton of bricks.
“I can't get enough of you," he pleads without any clear request. "Can't get you out of my head, out of my system…."
You can feel it building in your body, the heat and sensation coiling tight, pleasure building as you ride him vigorously, thighs flexing, your hands on his shoulders for leverage. You set a rougher pace, lost in him, drowning in the sounds he’s making. He kisses you again, mouth hungry and demanding. You can feel him growing closer, the way his rhythm is turning erratic, his blood is pumping, and you know he’s on the edge.
You cup his face, making him look at you, the words coming out in gasps of breath, “You’re so close, aren’t you? Are you gonna come for me?"
His eyes snap open, his expression raw and primal, his body coiled tight. His fingers dig into the meat of your hip firmly, leaving bruises that heal quicker than he can make them over and over, but it only adds to your bliss.
He cries out your name, thick with emotion. “Please.”
The word hangs in the air. He’s asking for something more than just this physical moment. You trace his swollen, kiss-reddened lips with your thumb.
“Please, what?”
He closes his eyes, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his body trembling under yours.
“Please,” he repeats, a ragged whisper, his lips brushing against your neck, “please don’t leave me… don’t leave me, please.”
He’s not sure he can bear the answer, but he needs you to know, to understand, that he needs you in a way that’s so much more than this moment. You suck in a breath, the words catching you off balance, your heart constricting in your chest. You want to tell him you won’t, that he’s stuck with you, just as much as you’re stuck with him. But the words stick in your throat, the truth feeling too big, too real. Instead, you wrap your arms around him, holding him close, pressed up against him, wordlessly offering yourself.
You’re giving him something he didn’t know he even needed, something comforting and safe and he doesn’t remember ever feeling this known before. He buries his face deeper into your neck, a small shudder running down his body. It’s too much, too intense, but he can’t stop it, can’t hold back.
“I’m gonna come,” he gasps, “baby, can I— please…” Your name on his lips, the low pleading, almost desperate edge to his voice.
“Go on. Inside.”
That simple, filthy command— it’s all it takes for him to snap, and his orgasm is crashing over him. It triggers yours a moment later, the way he’s filling you and the gravely way he cries out completely irresistible. Your name is on his lips, foreheads pressed together as you both come.
“Red… Baby, baby… God. You’re — You’re so good, you’re so goddamn perfect.”
John lays his head on your shoulder, snuggled close, the heat between you cooling to a simmer. You’re both still shaking slightly, the last waves washing over, and you stay this way for what could be hours, your fingers gently running through his hair.
You’re so goddamn perfect.
It rings in your head over and over, and you’re not sure if you want him to say it again or if you even want to respond at all. You don’t know what to do about this feeling, this feeling of wanting more.
He’s not moving, not yet, not ready to lose this contact, this moment. He’s always been a straightforward person, but all he can think of is how damn good this feels, your fingers brushing in his hair, the way you hold him, your praises echoing in his mind.
He finally lifts his head, moving just enough so that he can look at you. And he’s not expecting what he sees.
Your eyes are welling with tears.
Red flags are screaming in his head at the sight of your tears, his mind flashing over all of the ways that he could have hurt you, if he’s pushed too hard, if your wounds are still too fresh. He pulls back, panic making him tense. “Baby? Why are you—“
“I’m not sad,” you reassure him quickly, giving him a watery laugh, shaky as you reach up to dab at your eyes. Two months ago, you probably would have killed him for seeing you like this. That time seems so far away right now. “It was just— a lot, that’s all. I’m not sad, I promise.” And you mean it— you’re not sad, you’re completely overwhelmed with a million different emotions you don’t know how to deal with. You look at him, the concern on his face so unusual and sweet that you can’t help smiling.
“I’m not normally like this, I just— I was expecting a quick hate-fuck, not…” you trail off, terrified to be the one to voice the feelings first.
His concern eases slightly at your admission, his brow still furrowed with worry, but he lets out a shaky laugh. He had been thinking the same, a quick roll in the sheets and the usual brush-off he’s used to. He hadn’t been expecting you to let him past your defenses, or for every damn thing you say and do to make him want you more and more.
He reaches a hand up to your cheek, gently stroking away the tears from your skin. His hand is tentative, as if he’s unsure he’s doing the right thing.
“Maybe it’s a surprise for both of us.” His eyes roam over your face, taking in the way you look, all flushed and sated. “Can I— can I hold you?”
Your breath catches in your throat at the question, your heart fluttering like an over-excited kid. You’d never allowed yourself something so soft, not since you can ever remember, and you’re terrified of how much you want it.
Your response is low, like you’re trying to make sure you don’t scare anyone away. “Please. Yes.”
Relief washes over him, the tension in his body disappearing. He gently pulls you into his arms, settling against the pillows, shifting until you’re lying on his chest. Pulling the blankets over your tangled forms, John runs a hand through your hair, his touch so incredibly tender it feels foreign.
You tuck your head under his jaw, wanting to be as close as possible to listen to and feel the beat of his heart. He’s holding you like you’re something precious, something worth caring for, and it makes your throat tight again.
He’s quiet for a long time, his fingers tracing absent lines across your scalp.
After what feels like forever, he finally speaks. “What’s your favorite kind of ice cream?”
You’re caught so off guard by the question that you burst into a fit of laughter. You pull away so that you can look up at him, the question completely unexpected.
“That’s what you want to know right now?” you ask, an eyebrow raised quizzically at the question. “My favorite kind of ice cream?”
The sound of your laugh is like music, sending a jolt through his chest, and you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He grins down at you, his gaze filled with something adoration.
“Yup.” He grins wider at your skepticism. “Ice cream. It’ll be important for when I take you out.”
Your stomach does a flip. When.
You’ve never been one to entertain anything like the idea of a relationship, too caught up in life-or-death situations or your own baggage and grief to even consider the possibility.
“Neapolitan,” you answer simply, biting your lip to keep yourself from looking too enthusiastic. He can see it on your face, the way your expression turns sentimental at the thought of it.
“Neapolitan, huh? I should’ve guessed. You seem like the kind to have trouble making decisions.”
You playfully smack his shoulder, scoffing. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean? Let’s hear your favorite, then.”
His face contorts into a borderline theatrical facade of pain, his hand moving up to rub dramatically at his arm.
“Rocky road,” he says, trying not to crack while feigning hurt. “It’s a classic. And apparently, a sign of a stubborn personality.”
“So, I’m indecisive, but your favorite ice cream is the one with the most crap in it?” You rest fully on his chest, wanting to be closer to him, wanting to soak in the feeling of his touch. “It’s overcompensating,” you tease, tinged with affection.
He lets out a quiet oomph as you lean against him, his arm shifting to wrap more securely around your back as he brings you closer. The boyish smirk on his face grows at your obvious teasing. “It’s not overcompensating,” he argues, full of mock protest, “I think you just experienced firsthand how much I’m not overcompensating, actually. Compensating perfectly adequately.”
You can’t help but snort at that, your head lifting to see the self-satisfied grin on his face. It’s so unexpected, the banter, the lighthearted flirting. But it feels good, so good, in a way you didn’t know you were capable of.
“Oh sure,” you say dryly. “So, when are you taking me out then?”
His hand runs up and down your spine, his touch gentle, touch is so light it’s almost ticklish. “Tomorrow night.” His tone is so soft, so different from how he normally speaks. “There’s this barbeque place not too far from here, pretty good for New York,” he scoffs. “And then, ice cream.”
Your heart stumbles over itself, and for once you have no witty retort. Because he’s making plans. With you. For a real, actual date.
You swallow the lump in your throat. “That sounds… nice.”
He’s not sure how this is happening, but he’s sure as hell not about to question it now. “It’s a date, baby.”
You once thought the strangest thing you’d ever done was go through space and back in time to resurrect your friends. But really, it’s feeling safe and happy wrapped up in the arms of John Walker, and agreeing to go out on a date.
“You know the team is going to never let us live this down, right?”
That gets more laughter to bubble out of him, a wide, genuine smile on his face as the thought of the team seeing you together hits him. You’re right, of course. They’re gonna have a field day with this, and he’s going to have to take the brunt of their trades, because most of them are still a little bit scared of you.
He presses another gentle kiss to your forehead, smile lingering. “Think we can keep it to ourselves for a little while? Just us?”
You aren’t used to asking for things, but you want this, and you let herself be honest with yourself for once. “They mean well, and probably already have a betting pool running behind our backs— but I don’t want them to mess this up before we can figure it out.”
John nods, his own heart swelling at your words. This. He wants this too, more than he’s ever wanted anything, and he’s not ready to share it with anyone else.
“They’ll notice something is up if we aren’t constantly at each other’s throats, you know,” you add, a reminder that only a few hours ago the two of you had been feigning hate for each other for months.
John chuckles, because if anyone knows how hard you’ve been denying the truth, it’s yourselves. He’s not ashamed to admit that it was a bit like pulling teeth, lashing out at you when all he could think about was kissing you senseless.
“I’m sure we’ll still find enough to bicker over to make it look convincing.”
You’ve never wanted someone, not like this, and you know he’ll be able to see it all over your face if he looks. So, you bury your head into the crook of his neck, trying to hide the way you’re beaming as you respond. “We do a rather good job of hating each other, usually.”
He gently lifts your chin, tilting your face up so that he can see you clearly. He's not letting you hide, amused by how damn obvious you are, a reprieve from your typical cold demeanor.
“Don’t you dare hide from me, Red.”
You aren’t used to feeling so exposed. Your forehead rests against his, John’s hand moving to cup your cheek as you lean in, responding with a kiss gentler than the ones you’ve shared previously.
His breath catches at the soft brush of your lips, at the feeling of you under his hands.
“Say you’ll be here in the morning.”
You can hear his sincerity, the sound of it going straight to your heart.
You smile, an unfamiliar and tender smile, so delicate it’s like sharing a secret.
Insomnia isn't special among the residents of The Watchtower. Your relationship— or lack thereof— with John has been at a standstill for months. But late night company turns into talks, and tonight, those talks turn into more, something neither of you are ready to name.
[Reader is a mutant with the power to manipulate blood, and has a serum-induced healing factor similar to Wolverine's. Former Widow and Avenger, current Thunderbolt New Avenger.]
john walker x fem!reader
words: 7.6k
cw: swearing, mentions of death, past abuse/neglect, infertility, smut, oral sex (f!recieving), p in v, creampie, only hints of sub!john, enemies to reluctant allies to enemies to ???, confessions, the idiots are in love, john calls the reader ‘Red’ (because of the blood shtick, he’s very creative) (18+ MDNI)
a/n: wow fucking finally, ive been swamped with a new job and was so worried id never find the time to finish this, but ta-da! i hope you all enjoy my silly little story, and sorry it took so long to make the barbie dolls kiss
alone together - fall out boy
Most nights, you don’t sleep. With your healing factor, you don’t need as much as the average human anyway, but more often than not you keep yourself up until the first rays of sunlight pour through the sprawling windows of The Watchtower.
It makes for a lot of time spent alone, which is fine by you, and a good amount spent alongside whoever else is having trouble that night. There’s always someone; almost a year into being The New Avengers, the team is tight-knit and heavily traumatized. Everyone knows that if they can’t sleep, they can come find you to keep them company. It’s a weekly debate between Bob and Yelena on whether or not you’re actually nocturnal, and it’s not helping the vampire allegations from Alexei.
When it’s Bucky, the two of you catch up on the long list of movies and music that you’ve missed out on over the decades— everything you enjoy he hates, and vice versa. With Bob, you swap books, forcing him to stomach your questionable horror schlock, while you trudge through yet another sci-fi novel about space fascism. You and Ava smoke on your balcony, even if it doesn’t do much for you thanks to your metabolism, but it soothes her pains, physical and mental. It’s rare that Alexei can’t find rest, but when it’s his turn, the two of you split a bottle of vodka and share war stories— he can’t get enough of your Avengers tales, and the anecdotes you have of Nat. Yelena likes video games, technology that escapes you but you partake in anyway to give her the satisfaction of victory that keeps her mind occupied. You have a secret little routine with everyone at this point, something that stays with just you.
And then, there’s John.
It’s been six weeks since your heart stopped and things changed between the two of you. Vitriol and insults traded for longing glances and stilted conversations. You’re learning how to be around him now that it isn’t a battle, your first instinct still to lash out. But you know that’s not what you are anymore, so as the mockery dies on your tongue, the silence settles, because you aren’t ready to acknowledge what you are.
Your midnight routine with him is new, ever evolving, and mostly by accident. It always starts with running into him in the dark, when John is too tired to keep up the pretense of not wanting your comfort. Usually, neither of you speak, sitting in the silence of everything left unsaid, alone together. Sometimes, you muster up enough guts to ask him what’s wrong, and he’s brave enough to answer.
Tonight, you find John in the kitchen, staring aimlessly into the fridge for so long that the alarm for the door starts beeping sharply, and you can’t bear to turn away. He straightens up with a muted curse, shutting the door, and almost jumps when he notices someone. His shoulders relax when a second later he realizes it’s only you, but he still rolls his eyes.
"Jesus, Red. You’re gonna give me a heart attack," he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his forehead. "You hungry, or just here lookin to bug me?"
He’s been feeling the shift too. Sometimes, all he sees when he looks at you is the memory of your cold and broken body. Other times, it’s the glimpse of the real you that you’d given him that night, still only half-alive in his doorway just to make sure he was okay. He doesn’t know what’s harder to grasp; the fact that you rose from the dead or that somewhere deep down you care about him. You made him tongue tied before everything, but it’s even worse now, and he can’t find the line between brushing you off and letting everything out all at once.
“Well, if you go into cardiac arrest, I can stop it.” you quip, fingers fiddling with the tie of your satin robe.
You push past him to lean against the edge of the counter. Despite your teasing nature, there’s not a hint of humor in your irises, only wide-eyed exhaustion. Dark circles line them, and your entire body is tense, muscles taut like a bowstring. It was a night where you’d tried to rest and were made to regret it immediately.
John knows that look.
During the day, you’re all sharp remarks and steadfast confidence, but he’s been watching you long enough to know when you’re not okay. He knows the exhaustion, the way you hold yourself, the fidgeting. It used to be a version of you that he didn’t care for, but with each accidental encounter he longed to do more about what was plaguing you.
"Nightmare, or just insomnia?" he asks, and it feels like knocking down a wall.
“Nightmare,” you answer without hesitation, but don’t elaborate, your voice hoarse. There’s a deep understanding between the two of you, even if neither one knows what to do with it. You meet his gaze, and your grimace softens. “How about you? What was it tonight?”
"Insomnia," John replies with a rough sigh, leaning against the opposite counter, his arms crossed over his chest. He regards you, the silken robe you’re wearing, one shoulder barely exposed to the room. He tears his gaze away reluctantly, focusing on the hectic collection of magnets on the fridge. "Same as usual."
You raise an eyebrow. "You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine?" You hide your request for vulnerability— for connection— behind the teasing. You’ve noted it’s easier for both of you to digest that way.
He lets himself look back over at you, amused by your smart mouth. "You gotta go first."
Your shoulders lift in a languid shrug, the gesture meant to be nonchalant but only serves to make the restlessness more obvious. Your eyes flick up from the alternating tiles on the floor to him, contemplative. You pause for a moment, a brief hesitation before the floodgates open, pushing yourself up to perch on the countertop. It feels like a turning point.
"Dreams of Hydra mostly," you admit, a bitter edge as the words echo in the dim kitchen. "Of waking up strapped down in some cold room, being injected with god knows what. Things I should be over by now."
John is surprised by the rawness. He wasn’t actually expecting a genuine answer, and definitely not one that made his chest ache in ways he can’t rationalize. He remembers your terror in The Void. Seeing you afraid is enough to rattle anyone, but he witnessed it almost firsthand.
"It’s not something you can just be over,” he responds a little too decisively. The idea of you beating yourself up for the crime of being used like that isn’t one that sits well with him. He sighs, shaking his head as if it will clear his racing thoughts. "I still dream about Afghanistan. About… about the orders we followed.” The silence hangs heavily in the room, broken only by the intermittent sound of the freezer rattling in the background. He doesn’t often talk about his time overseas, the story of what he did in the name of defending a country that never once intended to protect him. “Sometimes, Olivia pops up too. Reminds me how much I screwed that up." He glances up. “But the part that makes me feel horrible is the fact I don’t regret it.”
“Why don’t you regret it?” you ask quietly, appreciating the way he’s taken the spotlight off of you.
After several beats, he answers with a weary exhale, his shoulders slumped. “We got married because it was just another thing we were supposed to do. High school sweethearts, family pressure, society. It wasn’t long before we grew apart and both felt trapped. Eventually, it all came crashing down. And I just…” His words trail off into another heavy sigh, the guilt weighing him down, even after all this time. “I guess I got tired of doing what was expected of me. Of being who they all wanted me to be. That’s why I don’t regret letting her walk. Because it felt like the first time I’d done something for myself.”
You’re silent for a moment, letting his words sink in. You understand the weight of expectations; the pressure to be something different. The need to escape the mold other people had created for you. To steal back any bit of control you could, even if it put a wrench in things for others.
John huffs out humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Just... I wish I hadn’t gotten it all so wrong.”
Your voice is a gentle counterpoint to the weary acceptance in his when you respond. “I won’t deny that you made quite a few mistakes to get here, but when you aren’t given the room when you’re small, you make worse ones when you’re grown. Your country put you under the emotional equivalent of a hydraulic press and then had the nerve to dump you at the first sign of fracture."
The weight of your assertion hits close to home. Your insight into his life—his struggles—is unsettlingly accurate, almost uncanny. You see right through all the bravado and defensiveness, straight to the root of the wounds that might not ever heal.
"I..." he starts, voice hoarse, "I never really thought of it that way." He takes a beat, observing your expression carefully. "Is that what it was like for you? In the Red Room?"
Your focus falls to the floor again at his question. The memories of the Red Room— the pain, the isolation, the never-ending missions— flash through your mind. You take a deep, steadying breath, gathering the strength to give him a piece of yourself in return, something more than a flippant remark.
"In a way," you reply quietly. "I was an orphan in the middle of a war-torn country when they snatched me up, and suddenly I wasn’t alone anymore. I felt a duty to them, even if I didn’t agree with it. They told me who I was, what I was supposed to do, when I was supposed to do it. And I did it perfectly."
John listens intently, the furrow of his brow deepening as you explain. He hesitates for a moment, considering his next words. "But you fought back eventually, didn't you? Broke free." He says it with so much hope, as if he doesn’t already know how your story ends.
"That’s the funny thing," you scoff, "I didn’t. Not from the Red Room at least. I knew I was different, a mutant. And I managed to hide that from them for a long time. I was the best they had then, but the second I couldn’t hide my power anymore, they pawned me off to Hydra. I felt betrayed."
John can’t imagine what hiding must have been like, having to walk through life in fear of being found out, when you’re the strongest person he knows. He’s endlessly impressed by the way you’ve taken the way they trained you and turned it into something that’s all your own. Your brutality is an expression of love. Your criticism is borne out of care. That you give everyone on the team these pieces of yourself over and over, never letting them give in return. You’re so much more than what they made you, but he doesn’t know how to tell you. He realizes he’s been staring too long— captivated by the line of your jaw, the unguarded look in your eye, and the soft curve of your lips— and clears his throat, his gaze dropping from your face.
"Do you ever think..." he falters, the words sticking in his throat. "Do you ever think that maybe if we’d met under different circumstances… we wouldn’t have been such assholes to each other?"
Your eyes narrow curiously. His question hangs in the air, an unexpected deviation. The last time you heard him say anything so sincere was when you were barely cleared from your deathbed. You search him for any hint of falsehood or sarcasm, but find only the same sincerity from that night. You consider his question for a moment.
"I doubt it," you say bluntly, the familiar sharp edge in your tone returning. "We’re both stubborn, and we get on each other’s nerves, and… you make me want to stab you more often than not," you pause, eyeing him up and down, your gaze calculating. "But you know, we don’t have to wait for another life to be different."
He chuckles at your honesty, expecting nothing less, raising an eyebrow at your words. "What, you think some miracle’s gonna happen and suddenly we’ll stop pissing each other off?"
His genuine laugh is the last straw, making your knees feel weak with an emotion you don’t want to stifle by naming. You prop your palms behind you on the counter, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other, your robe shifting.
"Or maybe it’s worth looking into a different method to shut each other up," you taunt, low and tinged with that playful sarcasm you’ve mastered.
John scoffs, rolling his eyes, anything to not look at you right now. He’s used to your teasing, your mockery, and at first, he thinks that’s all this is. But then, he realizes you’re looking at him the same way you did that day in the gym, the memory of you underneath him flashing in his head. Still not entirely sure what’s happening, he takes a cautious step towards where you’re sitting on the counter, crowding into your personal space. He leans in, hands braced on the marble on either side of you.
You tense at the proximity, eyes flickering over his face, the disbelief. You’re caught off guard by the raw intensity of the moment, the sudden shift from the solemn conversation to the magnetic pull between you. Then, he drags one hand up your thigh, robe falling out of his way.
"John…" you rasp out, your breathier than you’d like, his given name a halfhearted warning. You can feel your pulse thrumming faster, cheeks flushing. He’s so close, his body warm and solid over you. The sound of his name on your lips, the way your body responds to his touch, ignites something deep within him, and he can’t keep it locked away any longer.
"You gonna tell me to stop?" His hand on your thigh moves higher, his thumb continuing its lazy circles, inching under the hem of your robe. Your breath hitches, heat pooling low in your stomach, mind at war over the urge to either pull back or give in. You know it should be the former, that you need to maintain the boundary, no matter how fragile. But the feel of his touch, the way he's looking at you... it's like you’re caught in his gravitational pull.
"This…" you manage in a low voice, "is a bad idea." John can see the hesitation in your eyes, the battle between desire and sense. But he can also feel you pressing into his touch, see the flush in your cheeks.
“Maybe it is,” he murmurs, his hand drifting higher, his fingers precariously close to your inner thigh. Your legs part for him like it’s second nature. “But does it matter?”
You can hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears, can feel the heat of his breath across your skin. Every rational thought vanishes from your mind, replaced by a rush of heated anticipation so intense that you can’t think straight.
“John,” you whisper again, but it’s not a warning. It’s permission. The sound of his name is like a spark to gasoline.
And he’s gone.
John’s mouth crashes into yours, hungry, desperate, impatient. You’ve been dancing around each other for months— longer than he’s even willing to admit to himself.
The stress practically bleeds from your shoulders as you kiss him back, like you’re relieved, giving him just as much as he’s giving you. It's all teeth and tongue, his grip on your waist tight enough to make you wish the bruises would stay. His other hand tangles into the hair at the nape of your neck, cradling your head gently.
He groans as you pull him closer, the sound horribly needy, and he’d be embarrassed in any other situation. Your bow into his touch, legs encircling his hips and pinning him between your thighs. He nips at your bottom lip, catching the sound of your gasp and licking into your mouth. He’s been dying to taste you again since that day on the mat.
Your pulse races as John changes course and his lips move down your jaw, and you can sense how his heart speeds up to match yours. He lingers at the sensitive spot under your left ear, sucking and nipping until you’re pulling him to your waiting mouth. He hauls you up, and in one swift movement he’s carrying you down the hall.
He gets you to his room in record speed, every step fueled by desperate need, slamming the door shut behind you. He wastes no time, pinning you to it, your back pressed firmly against the wood. He captures your mouth in another kiss, hard and needy and you can’t get enough.
Wandering hands explore him further, slipping under his t-shirt and grazing over the ridges of his abs, tracing the trail of hair under his navel to the waistband of his sweatpants. In return, John tugs at the tie of your robe hastily until he can push it off your shoulders, and you shuck it away, revealing nothing underneath but your— very obviously soaked— panties. He crowds you, grinding his hips into yours so you can feel exactly what you’re doing to him.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this, Red,” he groans.
“I—" you breathe, little more than a whine as you tug at his sweatpants. “I need you. Now.”
Biting back another embarrassing sound, he turns and crosses the room to his bed, tossing you onto the sheets. He pulls away to just look at you for a moment, staring like he’s committing you to memory. His gaze roams over you slowly, the curve of your waist, the flush of red on your chest, and the hitch of your breathing.
"You're so beautiful," he husks, laced with awe.
Then, he’s straightening out and tugging his shirt over his head, and you’re able to make your stunned reaction to him calling you beautiful look like it’s about him undressing instead. His chest is more sun-kissed than you were expecting, subtle freckles dotted across his shoulders. A set of dog tags rest on a thin chain at the center of his chest, framed by lean muscle on all sides. None of his strength is for show, meticulously honed over his years of service and there long before any serums. His pants are stripped off next, and he wastes no more time before crawling over you. He’s straining in his boxers, aching for you, his mouth finding yours again with fervor.
His hands and lips are everywhere, and it’s so much all at once. You’ve been alone and cold and untouched for so long and now, finally, you’re letting yourself have him. You’ve never been held like this, never felt wanted like this, like he can't breathe without you. You’re not supposed to want this, want him. But God, you do. More than anything else in the world.
Your head falls against his pillows, savoring the weight of him over you. The touch of his lips, his beard scraping your skin, all heighten the buzz running through your body, so much better than any of your fantasies. His cock is hard and insistent against your thigh, practically begging for your attention.
You arch your back, pressing your chest to his, a command for more. There’s something feral in the way he responds, hands cupping your breasts, squeezing firmly. He can’t get enough of you. He kisses you hungrily, his hands gliding across your sides, your shoulder blades, everywhere, desperate to touch as much skin as possible. His lips find your neck again, leaving hot, wet kisses that trail down your torso, detouring only to lap over each peaked nipple with dedication. He continues lower, his nose burying into your navel, inhaling deeply. He glances up at you, his eyes clouded with desire, the question on the tip of his tongue. You beat him to it, spreading your legs wilder, beckoning him closer.
"You wanna taste me, baby?" you purr.
John feels the heat in his gut flare at your words, your voice, your body. His tongue traces a path over your hip bone, down to your inner thigh. He takes a moment to marvel at the wet patch on your panties, pressing a kiss over the soaked cotton before urging them down your legs and flinging them to some forgotten corner of the room.
He’s homed in on your dripping cunt, and you swear he licks his lips. "Oh, I'm gonna devour you, Red."
He gets on his knees at the foot of the bed, pulling you to the edge by your hips, and tosses your thighs over his shoulders. He starts agonizingly slow, his tongue tracing slow circles through your folds, teasing, savoring. It doesn’t take you long to realize he knows exactly what he's doing, and it’s unexpected, but you’re sure as hell not about to complain. Every sound that slips from your lips only encourages him further, determined to prove something to you that he can’t quite put a name to. He alternates between broad, languid strokes and focused, pointed flicks, finding all the right spots that make you grind your cunt into his mouth.
“John,” you gasp again, hands tangling in his hair, your grip unrelenting. “You’re so good at this… so fucking good.” You swear you can feel him fighting a smug smile between your legs. But before you can call him on it, John flattens one hand over your lower stomach, holding your hips down, while the other circles your entrance. He teases only for a moment, sliding one finger, and then another inside. Your thighs clamp around his head as he fucks you with his fingers, curling them at just the right spots, his pace relentless. He watches you through it all, completely mesmerized by the way you look, how he’s the one making you feel so good.
“That’s it, baby—“ you sigh, the endearment slipping out without a thought. “Fuck. Keep going.” You’re a trembling wreck, your senses overwhelmed by his skilled tongue. The coil of pleasure tightens inside you, a breadth away from snapping. It’s so much, minding your reactions slips your mind, the moans and curses coming freely now. You’re incredibly vocal, constantly singing his praises, trailing off into unintelligible cries that only serve to push him further.
“I’m so close,” you choke out, “you’re gonna make me come.”
So fucking close.
And then, he does something with his fingers, a subtle crook as his lips wrap around your clit, and that's it. You shatter, your body arching off the bed, head thrown back, a strangled cry escaping you.
"J-John," you weep, shaking with the force of your orgasm. "Oh my god, fuck, so good.” John doesn’t let up, lapping at your cunt to draw out your high for as long he can. You have to pull him away once the overstimulation kicks in, reluctant to part with the taste of your release. The soft praises, the way you’d cried his name ringing in his ears, his cock uncomfortably hard, just from eating you out.
His eyes roam over your form, taking in the sight of you, debauched and flushed, chest heaving with each ragged breath. He doesn’t deserve this. Deserve you.
You lie there, still gushing through the aftershocks, your mind fuzzy and utterly sated. Every nerve ending crackles with electricity, your breathing shallow, skin damp with sweat. It feels like your body has been wrung out and put back together again in the best possible way.
You glance at John who’s patiently waiting for you to come down, but you catch the hint of doubt etched into his brow. Not regret, but the shadow of inadequacy. It brings a momentary gloom over you, baffled by how he could be insecure after giving you the best orgasm of your life.
“I take back what I said about you going down.” You grab his hand, the one that’s still covered in your cum, pulling him closer before he can wallow any longer. John goes willingly, his body settling over yours, and his eyes go wide as you bring his damp fingers to your mouth, tongue darting out to clean yourself off of them. “I guess your mouth is good for things other than running it.”
Your lips find his next, tasting more of your pleasure on his tongue and in his beard. He’s wound tight, the hunger thrumming beneath his skin, but the feeling of your kiss— and your characteristically vulgar compliments— settles the doubt within him.
“Fuck, you’re amazing,” you continue, pulling him into you with your legs around his waist. He rolls his hips yours, grinding his leaking cock brushing your cunt, both of you chasing that friction.
"You’re so goddamn perfect," he murmurs against your lips, rough with need. His hips speed up, soaking up the wetness at the apex of your thighs, even though the barrier of his boxers.
“You’re wearing too many clothes.”
You flip your positions suddenly and swiftly, just like that day in the gym, straddling his hips. Your weight settles over him, tugging his waistband down until his length is freed from the stifling cotton. That day, you’d felt him through his sweats, made up a picture in your mind of what he’d look like underneath. But nothing compares to seeing him in the flesh.
Your hands wander over him, appreciating every contour of muscle, every scar— even the one near his ribcage that was very likely your doing— every faint freckle that dots his shoulders. The way you caress him is firm and deliberate, and you’re lost in the moment, the reality of what’s between you settling heavily over your head.
John watches through half-lidded eyes, the rise and fall of his chest shaky as your lips and teeth trail over his chest. You leave little marks in your wake, making sure to leave your brand on him, even if he can’t do the same on you. He feels the shift too, and he’s terrified, but he never seems to know when to keep his mouth shut around you.
"I’ve wanted you since I first saw you,” he confesses suddenly. “You wouldn’t even give me the time of day back then." He knows it was wrong, that he was supposed to be happily married at the time, and it was something he never intended to act on.
And then, fate— better known as Valentina Allegra de la Fontaine— shoved you back together and locked you in a bunker and forced you to make nice to stay alive. He never thought it would actually end with you in his bed.
"That was three years ago,” you point out, his admission still sinking in. Your heart hammers in your chest, the reality of this hitting you in full and all at once. The depth of the desires he’s been denying, the need you’ve been ignoring.
"I’ve been holding back for years." John pushes himself up on his elbows, leaning against the headboard to be level with you. You’re both in anticipation as you scramble for the right way to respond, wide-eyed and entirely focused on the other.
“Stop holding back.”
And your wish is his command. He relaxes at the tentative acceptance of his feelings, and it’s more than enough when he’s still not sure how to describe them. He leans into you, and this time his kiss is slower, thorough. Your thighs cage his in, all of you on display just for him, his cock throbbing as you start to move your hips. He almost can’t handle the feeling, and he tries to ground himself as to not come in three seconds, and a different issue occurs to him instead.
“Are you on the pill— or something? Or do I need…” he trails off, wondering if he even has any. There’s been no one since or before Olivia, no reasons to be prepared.
Your stomach drops, John’s question sobering in a way you know he didn’t intend. You hadn’t really considered the fact that he was unaware of the Red Room’s ‘graduation ceremony’. It’s been such a constant in your life for decades— less of a sore spot and more of a mild ache that flares up on occasion— but one that doesn’t often cross your mind anymore. A bitter laugh almost escapes you, but you bite it back. You know you don’t technically owe him an explanation, but you decide he deserves one.
“I’m not— but—“ you start, faltering on how to put it into words without completely ruining the moment. “I can’t— I don’t have the equipment.”
John is struck still by the disclosure, his hands pausing where they were gliding over your sternum. It takes a second for his brain to catch up to what you’ve said, but then his eyes flick down, spotting the faint scar that runs vertically through your lower stomach. He puts together the pieces that he should have realized before now.
“It wasn’t my choice but— it’s fine, it was a long time ago,” you insist. It happened before the serums that made you invulnerable, making it permanent. You want him to trust that it’s safe, but don’t want to talk about it, don’t want to linger on another thing that they took from you— autonomy.
“Red—“ he starts, and you mistake his concerned tone for pity, interrupting him before he can continue.
“Don’t worry about it,” you plead. “I’m fine. I want to feel you.” You’re desperate for this to not turn into another therapy session, so you try to resume the friction with a shift of your hips, but his grip holds you still.
You say it all so flippantly, like it doesn’t matter, and he has to forcibly stop the groan that’s building in his chest as you rock against him. The need to make you forget everything that’s ever been done to you is overwhelming. His grip loosens, no longer possessive or rough, and he runs his knuckles over the sensitive skin of your stomach, meant as a comforting gesture.
“I’m sorry they did this to you, sweetheart.”
His voice is so warm. Your heart swells at the use of the term— so tender and familiar, so at odds with everything you feel you are— and you want more. But he’s still looking at you with worry, like what happened doesn’t sit right with him.
“Don’t look at me like that. I don’t want to think, I just want this… you.”
He can't deny you anything, not now. He has to give you what you need, and it’s this. Him.
You need him.
“You have me, Red. You have me.”
His grip on your hips loosens, no longer holding you in place but lightly kneading your flesh. You’re moving again, but it all feels heavier now, and you keep the pace languid, looking into his eyes. He’s content to give you the control, his body moving on your lead, driven by a need to make it good for you.
It’s not until you decide you’ve reduced him into a desperate mess underneath you that you finally change course, angling your hips so that the tip of his cock catches your entrance. His hips jerk and he can’t help it, driving up into you, groaning into your mouth. His hand tangles in your hair and you echo his sounds as you sink down on him, the stretch euphoric.
"God, you’re perfect," he growls, “you’re so goddamn perfect." The feeling of being inside you, of losing himself in you… it isn’t something he’d ever thought he’d experience, something he can’t put into words.
You lean up to capture his mouth, your tongue sliding over his, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer, wanting him as close as you can get him. The world around them disappears, nothing but the feel of him inside you, the taste of his moans on your tongue.
“Fuck,” you whisper. “You feel so good, filling me up so well, so deep."
Your little praises and the curses are more than enough to drive him crazy. He can’t think, thrusting up into your heat on pure instinct. He’s never felt like this, with anyone, like he’s enough. And as you gasp his name, your face clouded with pleasure, it hits him like a ton of bricks.
“I can't get enough of you," he pleads without any clear request. "Can't get you out of my head, out of my system…."
You can feel it building in your body, the heat and sensation coiling tight, pleasure building as you ride him vigorously, thighs flexing, your hands on his shoulders for leverage. You set a rougher pace, lost in him, drowning in the sounds he’s making. He kisses you again, mouth hungry and demanding. You can feel him growing closer, the way his rhythm is turning erratic, his blood is pumping, and you know he’s on the edge.
You cup his face, making him look at you, the words coming out in gasps of breath, “You’re so close, aren’t you? Are you gonna come for me?"
His eyes snap open, his expression raw and primal, his body coiled tight. His fingers dig into the meat of your hip firmly, leaving bruises that heal quicker than he can make them over and over, but it only adds to your bliss.
He cries out your name, thick with emotion. “Please.”
The word hangs in the air. He’s asking for something more than just this physical moment. You trace his swollen, kiss-reddened lips with your thumb.
“Please, what?”
He closes his eyes, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his body trembling under yours.
“Please,” he repeats, a ragged whisper, his lips brushing against your neck, “please don’t leave me… don’t leave me, please.”
He’s not sure he can bear the answer, but he needs you to know, to understand, that he needs you in a way that’s so much more than this moment. You suck in a breath, the words catching you off balance, your heart constricting in your chest. You want to tell him you won’t, that he’s stuck with you, just as much as you’re stuck with him. But the words stick in your throat, the truth feeling too big, too real. Instead, you wrap your arms around him, holding him close, pressed up against him, wordlessly offering yourself.
You’re giving him something he didn’t know he even needed, something comforting and safe and he doesn’t remember ever feeling this known before. He buries his face deeper into your neck, a small shudder running down his body. It’s too much, too intense, but he can’t stop it, can’t hold back.
“I’m gonna come,” he gasps, “baby, can I— please…” Your name on his lips, the low pleading, almost desperate edge to his voice.
“Go on. Inside.”
That simple, filthy command— it’s all it takes for him to snap, and his orgasm is crashing over him. It triggers yours a moment later, the way he’s filling you and the gravely way he cries out completely irresistible. Your name is on his lips, foreheads pressed together as you both come.
“Red… Baby, baby… God. You’re — You’re so good, you’re so goddamn perfect.”
John lays his head on your shoulder, snuggled close, the heat between you cooling to a simmer. You’re both still shaking slightly, the last waves washing over, and you stay this way for what could be hours, your fingers gently running through his hair.
You’re so goddamn perfect.
It rings in your head over and over, and you’re not sure if you want him to say it again or if you even want to respond at all. You don’t know what to do about this feeling, this feeling of wanting more.
He’s not moving, not yet, not ready to lose this contact, this moment. He’s always been a straightforward person, but all he can think of is how damn good this feels, your fingers brushing in his hair, the way you hold him, your praises echoing in his mind.
He finally lifts his head, moving just enough so that he can look at you. And he’s not expecting what he sees.
Your eyes are welling with tears.
Red flags are screaming in his head at the sight of your tears, his mind flashing over all of the ways that he could have hurt you, if he’s pushed too hard, if your wounds are still too fresh. He pulls back, panic making him tense. “Baby? Why are you—“
“I’m not sad,” you reassure him quickly, giving him a watery laugh, shaky as you reach up to dab at your eyes. Two months ago, you probably would have killed him for seeing you like this. That time seems so far away right now. “It was just— a lot, that’s all. I’m not sad, I promise.” And you mean it— you’re not sad, you’re completely overwhelmed with a million different emotions you don’t know how to deal with. You look at him, the concern on his face so unusual and sweet that you can’t help smiling.
“I’m not normally like this, I just— I was expecting a quick hate-fuck, not…” you trail off, terrified to be the one to voice the feelings first.
His concern eases slightly at your admission, his brow still furrowed with worry, but he lets out a shaky laugh. He had been thinking the same, a quick roll in the sheets and the usual brush-off he’s used to. He hadn’t been expecting you to let him past your defenses, or for every damn thing you say and do to make him want you more and more.
He reaches a hand up to your cheek, gently stroking away the tears from your skin. His hand is tentative, as if he’s unsure he’s doing the right thing.
“Maybe it’s a surprise for both of us.” His eyes roam over your face, taking in the way you look, all flushed and sated. “Can I— can I hold you?”
Your breath catches in your throat at the question, your heart fluttering like an over-excited kid. You’d never allowed yourself something so soft, not since you can ever remember, and you’re terrified of how much you want it.
Your response is low, like you’re trying to make sure you don’t scare anyone away. “Please. Yes.”
Relief washes over him, the tension in his body disappearing. He gently pulls you into his arms, settling against the pillows, shifting until you’re lying on his chest. Pulling the blankets over your tangled forms, John runs a hand through your hair, his touch so incredibly tender it feels foreign.
You tuck your head under his jaw, wanting to be as close as possible to listen to and feel the beat of his heart. He’s holding you like you’re something precious, something worth caring for, and it makes your throat tight again.
He’s quiet for a long time, his fingers tracing absent lines across your scalp.
After what feels like forever, he finally speaks. “What’s your favorite kind of ice cream?”
You’re caught so off guard by the question that you burst into a fit of laughter. You pull away so that you can look up at him, the question completely unexpected.
“That’s what you want to know right now?” you ask, an eyebrow raised quizzically at the question. “My favorite kind of ice cream?”
The sound of your laugh is like music, sending a jolt through his chest, and you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He grins down at you, his gaze filled with something adoration.
“Yup.” He grins wider at your skepticism. “Ice cream. It’ll be important for when I take you out.”
Your stomach does a flip. When.
You’ve never been one to entertain anything like the idea of a relationship, too caught up in life-or-death situations or your own baggage and grief to even consider the possibility.
“Neapolitan,” you answer simply, biting your lip to keep yourself from looking too enthusiastic. He can see it on your face, the way your expression turns sentimental at the thought of it.
“Neapolitan, huh? I should’ve guessed. You seem like the kind to have trouble making decisions.”
You playfully smack his shoulder, scoffing. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean? Let’s hear your favorite, then.”
His face contorts into a borderline theatrical facade of pain, his hand moving up to rub dramatically at his arm.
“Rocky road,” he says, trying not to crack while feigning hurt. “It’s a classic. And apparently, a sign of a stubborn personality.”
“So, I’m indecisive, but your favorite ice cream is the one with the most crap in it?” You rest fully on his chest, wanting to be closer to him, wanting to soak in the feeling of his touch. “It’s overcompensating,” you tease, tinged with affection.
He lets out a quiet oomph as you lean against him, his arm shifting to wrap more securely around your back as he brings you closer. The boyish smirk on his face grows at your obvious teasing. “It’s not overcompensating,” he argues, full of mock protest, “I think you just experienced firsthand how much I’m not overcompensating, actually. Compensating perfectly adequately.”
You can’t help but snort at that, your head lifting to see the self-satisfied grin on his face. It’s so unexpected, the banter, the lighthearted flirting. But it feels good, so good, in a way you didn’t know you were capable of.
“Oh sure,” you say dryly. “So, when are you taking me out then?”
His hand runs up and down your spine, his touch gentle, touch is so light it’s almost ticklish. “Tomorrow night.” His tone is so soft, so different from how he normally speaks. “There’s this barbeque place not too far from here, pretty good for New York,” he scoffs. “And then, ice cream.”
Your heart stumbles over itself, and for once you have no witty retort. Because he’s making plans. With you. For a real, actual date.
You swallow the lump in your throat. “That sounds… nice.”
He’s not sure how this is happening, but he’s sure as hell not about to question it now. “It’s a date, baby.”
You once thought the strangest thing you’d ever done was go through space and back in time to resurrect your friends. But really, it’s feeling safe and happy wrapped up in the arms of John Walker, and agreeing to go out on a date.
“You know the team is going to never let us live this down, right?”
That gets more laughter to bubble out of him, a wide, genuine smile on his face as the thought of the team seeing you together hits him. You’re right, of course. They’re gonna have a field day with this, and he’s going to have to take the brunt of their trades, because most of them are still a little bit scared of you.
He presses another gentle kiss to your forehead, smile lingering. “Think we can keep it to ourselves for a little while? Just us?”
You aren’t used to asking for things, but you want this, and you let herself be honest with yourself for once. “They mean well, and probably already have a betting pool running behind our backs— but I don’t want them to mess this up before we can figure it out.”
John nods, his own heart swelling at your words. This. He wants this too, more than he’s ever wanted anything, and he’s not ready to share it with anyone else.
“They’ll notice something is up if we aren’t constantly at each other’s throats, you know,” you add, a reminder that only a few hours ago the two of you had been feigning hate for each other for months.
John chuckles, because if anyone knows how hard you’ve been denying the truth, it’s yourselves. He’s not ashamed to admit that it was a bit like pulling teeth, lashing out at you when all he could think about was kissing you senseless.
“I’m sure we’ll still find enough to bicker over to make it look convincing.”
You’ve never wanted someone, not like this, and you know he’ll be able to see it all over your face if he looks. So, you bury your head into the crook of his neck, trying to hide the way you’re beaming as you respond. “We do a rather good job of hating each other, usually.”
He gently lifts your chin, tilting your face up so that he can see you clearly. He's not letting you hide, amused by how damn obvious you are, a reprieve from your typical cold demeanor.
“Don’t you dare hide from me, Red.”
You aren’t used to feeling so exposed. Your forehead rests against his, John’s hand moving to cup your cheek as you lean in, responding with a kiss gentler than the ones you’ve shared previously.
His breath catches at the soft brush of your lips, at the feeling of you under his hands.
“Say you’ll be here in the morning.”
You can hear his sincerity, the sound of it going straight to your heart.
You smile, an unfamiliar and tender smile, so delicate it’s like sharing a secret.
[Reader is a mutant with the power to manipulate blood, and has a serum-induced healing factor similar to Wolverine's. Former Widow and Avenger, current Thunderbolt New Avenger.] (18+ MDNI)
Keep Your Heart, Cause I Already Got One
You Look So Good In Blue
This Is Side One, Flip Me Over
We’re Starting At The End
— one-shots —
Half-Doomed // Semi-Sweet
Ripped from your timeline and forced to fight for the state of the multiverse, the war ends and you're all that remains of the Thunderbolts of Earth-1303. Forced to settle on Earth-616, you fill the empty spot on the New Avengers and are surprised to find that this John Walker is nothing like the one you knew before.
continuing to update | last updated 28/05 - (need this man so bad omfg, tysm writers <3)
─── ✧ DRABBLES/BLURBS
nsfw hcs | @undyingdecay
he fucks like someone trying to win a medal for it.
enemies | @aquaholicsanonymousworld
team mates enemies to enemies who have hate sex.
domestic hcs | @/aquaholicsanonymousworld
nsfw hcs | @/aquaholicsanonymousworld
“Wasn’t plannin’ on stayin’ long tonight,” he mutters, swirling the amber liquid. “Then you had to go and look at me like that.” You smile, heat pooling low in your belly.
dating walker hcs | @purehypnotic
giving john head | @shadowheartshapedbox
what it’s like giving junior varsity captain america head ;)
─── ✧ ONE SHOTS
the way i love you | @randomnessfangirl
John Walker is the bane of your existence...but everyone else can see that there is potential for you to put your differences aside and reveal your true feelings for each other.
girls' night revelations | @zerosomnia
After venting some frustrations at girls' night, the reader realises that they are not just angry at Walker but that there's some other stuff going on too. A confrontation ensues that ends in some truths.
the soldier and the nurse | @blueberrypancakesworld
He was a soldier who, even as a hero, always tried to protect everyone with his shield. Even the best soldier gets hurt, though, and John finds himself in the infirmary of the tower, once again with a nurse he had visited many times before. This time, however, it seems different, because when concern meets amusement, two hearts finally find each other.
nocturnal guilt and training | @/blueberrypancakesworld
It is one thing when you don't concentrate, it's another when you let yourself get hurt to deal with your own pain. John finds himself in dark places from time to time, which is especially evident after the last mission, but the soldier wants to go through it alone. Yet his girlfriend is there to help him no matter how long it takes, they would make it together.
code yellow | @inlovewithquestionablecharacters
sex pollen with walker.
thunderstorms | @angellily920
johns a secret softie :)
and you came back to me | @/aquaholicsanonymousworld
him where they’re dating and reader gets badly hurt on a mission and the whole team is freaking out, especially John, man is going BRUTAL on the people who hurt reader.
off your game | @/aquaholicsanonymousworld
Working with the Thunderbolts meant swallowing your pride daily — but nothing bruised your ego quite like him.
honey, where is my shield? | @husbandjoel
you’re the fixer upper of weapons for the new avengers and want to do something for john walker’s upcoming birthday.
moral of the story | @starktonyx
You never expected to be blindly sent to kill your ex-husband, but when you cross paths again in looping shame rooms, it’s like going through the pain all over again.
patched up | @bruisedboys
john grudgingly patches you up after a mission — it gets more intimate than you both expect.
helmet | @gallavichsreddie1128
Y/N may be the only person on the planet that gets turned on by John in his helmet.
asshole | @/gallavichsreddie1128
Y/N hates John but he and everyone else are convinced that it’s just sexual frustration.
bad words | @/gallavichsreddie1128
Y/N and John are a secretly dating but put on the act of hating each other until one of them takes it too far.
need that | @blank-potato
You think everything he does is hot, and eventually he takes notice.
my kid's better than your kid | @/blank-potato
You and John's kids are in the same soccer league, and after you get into an argument on the field over your kids, you start seeing him everywhere. It's hate at first sight.
but why's it feel so good? | @sexy-monster-fucker
While out on a mission together, Reader and John stumble into a researchers trap. Leading to them being doused in an unnamed chemical.
the heart of the matter | @divinepoints
You had never thought that life would lead you back to John Walker. Or perhaps, that life had led the both of you back to each other. After all, this had been your world first.
pushing it down and praying | @swordgrace
your friendship with john is put on the line after you’re injured during a mission — what follows is something neither of you can anticipate.
you're the ache i asked for | @/swordgrace
forced into attending a gala event, you go to john for help with your dress. things turn incredibly heated.
a black eye and two kisses | @/swordgrace
john has a bad habit of running his mouth, especially during a sparring lesson — after taking it too far, he makes it up to you in more ways than one.
only pretend until it's not | @/swordgrace
you and john go undercover to infiltrate an arms dealing ring in paris. you take your roles a little too seriously.
bit the hand that needs you | @/swordgrace
after getting injured on a mission and dismissing your help, you can’t seem to shake why john doesn’t like you. the answer is more complicated than you thought.
proximity check | @/swordgrace
when a mission goes sideways, you and john are forced to hide together in a utility closet.
change | @johns-walker
when you get injured during a job, you and john have a genuine conversation for once.
boundless | @endofthelinegang
the quiet halls of Avengers Tower keeps a kind-hearted witch who begins to distance herself from John Walker after his cold, self-protective indifference makes her believe he hates her. but when her warmth fades and he’s left in the silence he created, John finally confronts his fear of not deserving her—and chooses, for once, not to run from something real.
your hero | @spookieloop
You and the rest of the Thunderbolts are going undercover to catch an arm's dealer at his favorite night club. Someone tries to spike your drink, and Walker teaches the scumbag a lesson. A violent one.
─── ✧ SERIES (including mini)
the things we don't say part ii | @/endofthelinegang
trapped between fury and longing, you and John Walker collide in a moment that’s been simmering for months—raw, reckless, and impossible to ignore. When a knock at the door threatens to shatter what little you have left, he finally says the one thing he’s been choking on: he wants you.
thunder rolls | @/endofthelinegang
this is the prologue of a series where you are bucky barnes little sister who has managed to make it this far with him, one little snafu has happened, you happen to have feelings for another super soldier one that your brother does not particularly like.
it only leads to trouble part ii | @mydearmando
you suppose it’s natural to touch people who you live and work with. you touch everyone on the team. walker does, too. so you don’t know why it bothers you so much when he touches you.
keep your heart, cause i already got one (ongoing) | @lauufeydottir
As the Thunderbolts make their way through The Void, Walker ends up a witness to one of your shame rooms, a past you've kept close to your chest for decades.
You're ignoring Walker. John craves your attention. He gets it the only way he knows how, by picking a loosing battle in front of the entire team. But after a mission gone horribly wrong, he realizes his feelings towards you aren't as nuanced as he's been telling himself to believe.
[Reader is a mutant with the power to manipulate blood, and has a serum-induced healing factor similar to Wolverine's. Former Widow and Avenger, current Thunderbolt New Avenger.]
john walker x fem!reader
words: 6k
cw: canon typical violence, swearing, graphic descriptions of blood and injuries, temporary character death, panic attacks/PTSD, implied suicidal ideation, enemies to reluctant allies to enemies to ???, the idiots are falling in love, john calls the reader ‘Red’ (because of the blood shtick, he’s very creative) (18+ MDNI)
a/n: sorry for using fall out boy lyrics for fic titles it will happen again. i hope I have everything in this properly tagged, but if Ive missed something feel free to let me know! the next part will likely be the last.
dead on arrival - fall out boy
For the next week, you stalk about The Watchtower like nothing ever happened between you and Walker. Like you didn’t goad him into a real fight. Like he hadn’t pressed you into the floor and kissed you senseless with his hand gripping your throat.
As if you haven’t been letting your fingers slip under your waistband every night since to the way his touch set off a hunger in you. You might have been the one who cut it off, but you couldn’t stop thinking about that day in the gym. It’s a complete disappointment that your neck goes through all the stages of bruising to healed in just a matter of hours, the mottled blues and yellows disappearing before your eyes in the mirror.
You’ve never played dirty like that in a fight before. You liked it, a lot, but you like beating Walker a lot more. The betrayed look he gives you every time you’re in the same room only fuels the fantasies running through your mind, the unbidden attraction for him taking up most of your time. But you’d die before admitting to such a thing, and since death is off the table for you, you keep your mouth shut. You stop antagonizing him. No longer watch his every move so you can correct his stance or the way he balances his weight. It’s strange, but still obvious enough that the rest of the team notices immediately. Even Alexei seems far too pleased when he points out the peace between you, like it’s some sort of victory.
And John seethes. The way you’d walked away from him, completely unbothered, when just moments before you were cementing yourself into every last contour of his being. And he could have forgiven that alone, but it was the way you’d been ignoring him ever since that’s been keeping him up at night. He gets his fill however he can, trying to push your buttons, watching you during meetings, sitting next to you at dinner, as if anything he could do might make a difference. Anything to get you to look at him again, even if its with your usual disdain.
At night, in bed alone, he can’t stop his mind from wandering to places he knows he shouldn’t be going. The moans that you’d let slip, how your body melted against his. The way you see through him so effortlessly. He’s never been so infatuated with anyone like this before. He feels out of control and embarrassed, even if he’s the only one who knows.
You can feel his eyes locked on you during meetings, mission briefings, training, and team bonding, his gaze rivaling even Bucky’s stare. He watches your every move like he’s a predator stalking its prey— but you both know that reality is the other way around, that you have all the power. Every so often, you’ll acknowledge Walker with an unimpressed glare, just to see the desperation in his stance. Always so obvious, your mutation picks up on the way his pulse jumps once he finally has your attention, even if just for a moment.
But John always needed more.
All the New Avengers are packed together in the briefing room, going over the details of a mission they were all shipping out on today. It was an all-hands-on-deck type of situation— Valentina had insisted because of good publicity— but also because it was Hydra. John has been antsy throughout the entire meeting so far, all his effort put into hiding the way he can’t keep his attention off of you. He’s missed most of the details Bucky and Yelena have discussed, only providing half-hearted murmurs of agreement here and there. And then, Bucky announces you’ll be the one to run point.
He has no idea why it’s the thing to finally set him off. Maybe because it’s more of you paving the way for him to follow, maybe it was just another hit to his already fragile ego. But it snaps him back into focus, placing his hands on the tabletop with just a little too much enthusiasm. Sometimes, he still forgets his strength. Across the table, there’s a restrained excitement on your face. It’s not uncommon for you to lead the action during missions— after Bucky, you do have the most combat experience— but getting the first crack at the enemy is always a thrill. Especially when that target is a rumored bunker of Hydra holdouts.
But John mistakes your excitement for haughtiness, your confidence making his blood boil. He can’t help it. He wants to put you in your place, to show you that he’s just as strong, important, and heroic. That he’s worth your time. And so, when the chance presents itself, he takes it. The words are out of his mouth before he can even consider shutting up.
“You sure you’ll be able to control yourself, Red?”
His comment was bold enough for everyone in the room to freeze, landing like a slap to the face. There’s a moment of tense silence, Yelena and Ava share worried glances, Alexei’s brow furrowing in confusion. Bucky’s jaw is clenched, already knowing exactly what Walker is insinuating. And you turn to face him, eyes narrowing as you stare daggers at him, any hint of your previous excitement long gone.
“Excuse me?” you ask, tone sharp and dangerous.
John keeps his gaze steady on you in return, even though his stomach feels like it’s tied in knots over the cold way you regard him. "You heard me." He’s doing this on purpose; they both know it. He knows he’s pushing your buttons, pushing your limits, and he’s enjoying every second of it, even though he knows he should stop. "You sure you’re gonna be able to control yourself this time? Or are you gonna go off the rails and make a mess of the place?" he clarifies, leaning back in his chair with a forced air of nonchalance.
You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your anger climbing. You don’t want to derail the meeting by getting into it with him in front of everyone— mostly because you fear you won’t be able to hide your reactions if things get as tense as they did last time.
“I really have no qualms about slaughtering nazis,” you reply, voice steady. “But maybe you should be worried about your own lack of restraint.”
He chuckles lowly, and though his bravado is faltering, he just pushes harder. "Just seems like you have a knack for flipping out in situations involving Hydra.” John shrugs, face turned into a grimace. “Just want to be sure that the rest of us will stay safe.” From you.
It’s left unsaid, and he knows he’s crossed every last line as soon as he feels a thrum he can’t explain rush through his body, his blood going static for a split second, until the sensation fades, leaving him numb in comparison. His initial reaction is that of betrayal, that you’d just used your powers on him— something that you are vehemently against outside of the context of wound clotting— but he can’t, not when he’s well aware of how much he’s fucking up and continuing to do so. It’s a silent threat, a reminder of what you could do if you wanted to like he’s implying.
“Guys—“ Yelena tries to interrupt but is quickly silenced by a gesture from Bucky. He knows trying to defend you will only make things worse, and the last thing they need before a mission is anyone else getting involved in this spat.
Your hands are clenched into tight fists, knuckles white, fighting with all you might to keep yourself from lunging across the table and taking a chunk out of his face. He’s damn lucky you only prodded at his blood instead of pulling it from his body quart by quart.
Instead, you swallow thickly, voice tight with rage, but a saccharine smile on your lips. "Watch your mouth, John." You’re using his first name again, something you’ve only done when you were underneath him on the training mat. His breath catches in his throat at the sound of his name on your lips, making his mind go to places he doesn’t want it to be going. But he’s stubborn and foolishly determined to get a rise out of you. Any kind of reaction, even just a single inkling of weakness, anything that could knock you off that pedestal he’s unintentionally put you on.
“Or what, Red?" John uses the nickname like a weapon.
A dangerous glint shines in your eyes that doesn’t match your grin as you rise from your seat, leaning across the table, your shoulders squared like a viper preparing to strike.
“Alright, fine. You wanna talk about it? Then let’s fucking talk about it,” you spit, your focus honed on him. As a group, you’ve done a lot of work since the day you all experienced The Void, letting go and accepting the things you all saw that day, understanding the guilt. It came easier to some than others, but you’d always known why that memory was chosen for you, you’ve just never had the guts to admit it. "The shame room you saw, Walker, wasn’t conjured because I feel guilt because of the massacre," you start, your voice low and measured as you bite the confession out. "I feel guilty because I enjoyed it."
The rest of the team know enough about your background to piece together just what you’re referring to, but they had no clue he’d ended up in your room by some cruel twist of fate. To you, it felt like an admittance of weakness that you leaned on him in that moment. And to him, the way you’ve held him at arms length ever since was digging a hole deeper and deeper in his soul.
Your words were the truth. Same as you’d called him out in the gym. They were set apart from the others, even if they were all trying to be better, you still craved the bloodshed, and so did he. At the end of the day, you were the most alike out of any of the team. Bucky hates the fight, even if it’s the only thing he knows. Yelena and Ava regret the pain that they’ve caused in their pursuits of cures and perceived justice. All of them have made active efforts to mend the peace that they’d shattered. Bucky crossing off the final name in his book, Yelena joining The Barton’s and Kate Bishop for family gatherings, Ava keeping in touch with the Pym-Van Dyne-Lang clan.
But you and Walker prefer to dig the knife in deeper, all under the guise of trying. You lied about your past to play superhero with the first iteration of The Avengers. You were never trying to own up to your mistakes like Natasha; you wanted to make them disappear. You should have died that day on Vormir, not her and not Clint, but you weren’t even capable of offering them that. and when The Avengers went away, you went right back to your old ways by running to Valentina for work. You actively refused to grow even if you did your best to change.
John took the serum, knowing it was more likely to go wrong than right just to feel deserving of the shoes the government groomed him to fill. Told himself over and over again while thrashing on the floor in some hotel bathroom in Europe that he can’t remember, the substance burning through him, the pain so excruciating he’d almost hoped it would kill him. He never truly regretted playing judge, jury, and executioner in Latvia to avenge Lemar, lying to his family about the person responsible, all to deflect from his own inadequacy.
He knows you’re telling the truth, just by the look in your eyes. And the worst part is, he understands it. You understand each other. What it’s like to enjoy the violence, to thrive on it. It isn’t a side of himself he’s proud of lately. But hearing you say it out loud, hearing you admit that same feeling. It stirred something him. Things he's been trying to ignore since The Void. And the last thing he expected you to do was to admit to it in front of the entire team. After all this time, you’ve finally rendered him speechless. No followup insults, no quips ready to fire. Just his jaw hanging open and the team’s suffocating silence.
And it makes his feelings for you even more difficult to rationalize as only lust.
His eyes flicker across the room, taking in the equally stunned looks from the rest of the team. The tension in the room is thick, and he can feel Bucky’s livid gaze boring into the side of his head. John’s fingers drum against the table, his mind racing as he tries to think of a way to dig himself out of the mess he’s made this time.
You turn to look at him, the look in your eye almost feral in the way you’re homed in on him. He’s about to open his mouth, to say something, anything to salvage the situation, but you beat him to it. "Are you done? Have you gotten your fill of trying to rile me up?”
"Yeah," he mutters. "I think I’ve had enough."
The rest of the briefing goes by without further incident, though the tension that settled over the room doesn’t dissipate and follows them onto the quinjet. But now, it’s John who’s avoiding your eye. The flight isn’t long, the advanced tech in the ship cutting hours off the trip to Bucharest. You’re endlessly grateful for modernism and all the disposable income Valentina has, because it’s less than half of the standard time that you have to be trapped in this hunk of metal with him.
————-
The mission itself is a blur, but John finds himself at your six more than a few times. He’s distracted, not just by the stunt he’d pulled earlier, but by the way you move in your tactical suit, just as ruthless as you were with him in the gym. He had an awful feeling in his gut, and it isn’t just his guilty conscience. He watches your every move, his instinct to protect welling up in the back of his mind, even if you might be the last person in the world who needs any.
And ultimately, it’s his distraction that gets you hurt.
You’re fighting your way through a labyrinth of corridors, taking down Hydra loyalists left and right. You’ve been fighting with your usual grace and precision, taking down opponents with ease. The rest of the team had split off into pairs— Bucky with Ava, and Yelena with Alexei— leaving you with Walker, who’s been… off. There’s not a trace of his usual intensity, his attacks sloppier than you’ve ever seen from him.
You’re picking up as much of his slack as you can without going overboard, his implication from earlier still echoing in your thoughts. You loathe the idea that you’d hurt any of the team— even him— accidentally or not. The control you have over your mutation is precise, but you’ve already taken a few deliberate hits; one gunshot to the shoulder, another through your thigh, and a knife to the ribs. It’s the price you willingly pay for access to your greatest weapon in a pinch, but it’s leaving you drained, your senses struggling to keep up as you push the limits of your healing factor and your pain tolerance.
It happens far too quickly. You spot a soldier coming up on Walker from behind while he’s taking far too long to deal with another, and you jump in without hesitation. He may be acting like a complete moron, but if he gets killed here, then you won’t be able to give him shit for it later. And you really should have seen it coming, but neither of you notice until a man with a stature twice the size of yours who’s obviously enhanced is already slamming you from the side. John turns just in time to see you fly across the room from the force, where your back collides with the wall, head bashing against the reinforced concrete with a sickening crack.
Your body is limp before it even hits the floor.
You don’t move, and suddenly he’s back in Latvia, the sound Lemar’s skull made when it collided with the stone pillar ringing in his ears, and his vision becomes more and more hazy with every second you don’t move, heartbeat climbing dangerously as he realizes he can’t hear yours.
You’re supposed to move, it’s what you do, getting back up after you’ve been knocked down. He’d seen you take a bad hit before, on many occasions. But your breath isn’t supposed to cease; your pulse isn’t meant to flatline. The blood isn’t so jarring with the way you always seem to be covered in someones, but it’s not supposed to flow from your body without your metaphysical command, pooling under your head and soaking into your hair. You were always saying you couldn’t die, with countless corroborations from others who’d seen you rise from the most lethal hits. But you’d never mentioned if you could come back once you had already died.
John had let his fear and boundless rage control him once before, and he’s about to let it consume him again. You were right, you were always right.
It’s like muscle memory takes over as he conflates Lemar’s final moments with the sight of you motionless on the floor. John moves without ever deciding to, acting on pure instinct. His need for vengeance is intrinsic, ramming his shield into the agent you’d been handling and knocking him out on contact. His stare is a million miles away as he goes for the one who did this next, tackling and inning him against the wall so hard it starts to splinter. The soldier struggles against John’s hold, but even his sheer bulk is no match for the prime serum in his veins. The crack of bone and splitting of flesh under his fists feels far away, his eyes locked on your prone body, still unmoving, still slack. His heartbeat pounding in his ears only serves to remind him of the lack of yours, his chest unbearably tight as the rage starts to suffocate him, and the soldier goes limp under his hands.
The second he lets the unconscious body thump to the ground he’s screaming into his comms, your name coming out as a frantic cry as he begs whoever on the team is listening to get over here now.
It’s Bucky who responds, far too calmly for John’s liking.
“Copy that, backup on the way.”
John doesn’t respond. He can’t, not as his shield clatters to the ground and he’s scrambling over to you. Every last synapse in his body feels caustic, your absence of life sending a violent wave of nausea through him. You’re supposed to be back by now. He’s seen you walk away from a shot through the heart, bomb blasts that carried so much shrapnel he couldn’t tell where the debris ended and you began, falls from eight stories high. He grabs onto your chin, forcing your drooping head from side to side as if it might bring you back.
You’re supposed to get up. He needs you to get up because if you don’t and everything is left like this, then he’s damned, and maybe he should just follow your lead and—
“Walker. Hey, Walker.” John registers the words, but it feels like he’s underwater. “Snap out of it.” He thinks he’s shaking as the voice slowly pierces through the fog over him. It takes him a few more seconds to realize it’s Bucky, vibranium hand on his shoulder, jostling him, trying to get his attention. It’s like a bucket of cold water has been thrown over him, trying to clear the panic from his mind as he mumbles about how you’re not moving.
“No pulse,” he rasps. “Why isn’t there a pulse?”
At first, Bucky only seems mildly concerned, but not scared, not like John. Then, he crouches down next to you, ignoring your blood smeared across the floor, flesh fingers pressing under your jaw to verify what John is implying. Out of everyone, Bucky has fought alongside you the longest. He’s seen the way your healing factor worked, seen you take a knife to the chest without so much as flinching, only to be screaming obscenities onto a pillow as your skin stitched itself back together— but always alive.
Then his face drops. He’d never seen you come back from death before.
The flight back to The Watchtower feels like an eternity. It’s bad enough when the team has to get you— or your body, they still aren’t sure— back to the quinjet. There are still Hydra stragglers, so while John lifts you into his arms, the rest of them flank him, weapons at the ready. You’re lighter than he’d expected, getting colder by the minute. He tries not to think about just how much of your blood is left seeping into the cracks on the concrete floor of the bunker, or how much is weaving itself into the seams of his suit, like even now, somehow, you’re still here, forcing yourself into the threads of his existence.
The New Avengers get back onto the jet with no further issues, the bunker left in shambles. Bucky and Ava jump into action as soon as John manages to get you lying on a bench, and he’s starting to believe that it’s less you and more corpse. The two work fast to get a transfusion set up, even if no one knows if it’ll make a difference. To his knowledge, Bucky is certain this is the longest you’ve ever been down, but they have to try.
The jet is eerily silent, the gravity of the situation settling over everyone. They’ve all been injured before, but they’d always gotten up eventually. The Thunderbolts haven’t lost one of their own, and none of them ever really imagined that it could be you. The only sounds in the hull are the low flatline of the monitor you’re hooked up to, the subtle sniffle Ava is trying to hide, and the occasional murmur from Alexei that you’ll be fine— you have to be.
Meanwhile, John’s boots are hollowing out a path into the floor, pacing up and down the aisle, checking your vitals constantly, like somehow, they’re going to change, that the next time he looks the flat line on the screen will have suddenly spiked and everything will be fine. But three hours into the flight and there’s still not a single sign of life. John keeps telling himself he’s only so wound up about it because of what he’s gone through before, that it has nothing to do with it being you lying there lifeless. Your taunt from last week echoes in his head, ‘—You can’t actually kill me. But you can find out how it feels to.’ In the end, you got what you wanted, because now he knows, and he hates the feeling. He stopped believing in a God a long time ago, but right now, he’s begging him for anything.
The quinjet is about thirty minutes out from the tower when it happens. a single beep from the machine monitoring your vitals, so out of left field that everyone thinks they’ve imagined it. Bucky hands the controls to Yelena and jumps out of the pilot’s seat, hot on John’s heels as they rush over. There’s still only a flat line on the monitor, your blood oxygen still zero. They watch with bated breath, John’s chest tight, and it’s been so long that he’s about to take another lap around the jet when it happens again.
Beep.
The line on the monitor jumps, the point spiking to the top of the graph before flattening again.
John waits until it finally happens again, quicker this time, to release the tension he’s been holding since the moment you went down.
Then once more. Two beats back-to-back, slow, but steadily climbing as your chest expands just a fraction. It’s a cruel sort of torture, having to wait and watch as your vital signs sluggishly come back to life. John is still on high alert, taking minor comfort in your heartbeat but watching, waiting for a twitch of fingers, a flutter of lashes. You’re paler than normal, the warmth from your skin is still absent, lips still tinged with the faintest hint of blue. There's still blood soaking your tactical suit, dried and matted into your hair. The rise and fall of your chest is so shallow, your body likely in an excruciating amount of pain, your healing factor working overtime between the physical trauma and the exhaustion. But it feels like the entire team takes a collective exhale, Bucky being the first to break the silence, his gaze flickering over to Walker.
“Thank God,” he sighs, the relief in his voice palpable. “She should pull through. It’ll just take some time.”
———-
Back at The Watchtower, John deliberately makes himself scarce as soon as the jet touches down. He can’t keep waiting, watching, pacing the halls of the medbay while the rest of the team looks at him strangely. This morning seems so far away, the way he’d picked another fight with you just to be sick with anxiety over you now. Bucky is the only one who might understand why, he was there in Latvia, but the rest of them act like he’s the one who got his head bashed in.
He disappears to the training room to pass the time, putting all this violent energy clamoring to get out to good use. He’s at the punching bag for so long he loses track of the time, the day, destroying several in the process. He stays until his knuckles are raw, until his muscles ache, and it helps, kind of. It takes his mind off of you— the sound of your skull cracking, the blood he scrubbed from his hands, how insubstantial your body felt in his arms— at least for a little while. But ultimately, he can’t get the sensations out of his head. It was too close, too close— the unbridled anger and helplessness that’s been hanging over him since Lemar’s death rearing its ugly head. He's still shaking when he drags himself back to his room after a scalding shower, the clock on his nightstand telling him he’d locked himself away for almost eight hours.
Fuck. He’s down bad, isn’t he?
John stumbles to his bed, collapsing onto it face first, sinking into the too soft and overpriced bedding that Valentina chose for the suites. And despite his utter exhaustion, he just keeps tossing and turning, replaying the mission in his head over and over and over and—
And then, there’s a quiet knock on his door.
He groans and rolls over, intending to ignore whoever it was. Probably Bucky, here to tear into him about all the shit he’d pulled today— yesterday at this point— or maybe Bob, who’s the only person who would go out of his way to see if he’s okay, but John doesn’t feel like he deserves his concern right now.
But the knock comes again, louder this time, and then your voice calls from the other side. “I know you’re awake, I can hear your blood pressure rising through the damn roof.”
He’s on his feet in an instant.
You stand—if you can even really call it that— in the hallway, all of your weight resting against the doorframe for support. Your eyes glassy, face still a little pale, but tinged with a subtle flush now that your blood has replenished itself. You felt like you’d been hit by a truck— or like you suffered a severe compound skull fracture, shattered spinal cord, severe exsanguination, and then came back from the dead— But you’re standing. Standing and alive.
John is silent for a long moment, his wide eyes skimming over you, like he’s surprised to see you in the flesh. You’re in your pajamas, an oversized shirt with the logo for Child’s Play on the front, Chucky’s mutilated face a little too ironic given the state of your own head, and flannel shorts just barely peeking out from the hem. You’re all cleaned up from the blood and gore of the mission, but you still look rough, and you feel even worse. Depending on how he looked at it, it was either a miracle you were alive, or you were some sort of freak of nature. Definitely both.
“I’m not a ghost, Walker,” you rasp, voice still rough from disuse.
“Red, what the hell are you doing here?” he probes, the words coming out strangled. His first instinct is to reach for you, to make sure you’re really here and not just in his head, but he remembers himself, remembers what the two of you are and keeps his hands to himself.
You smile, the gesture looking more like a grimace than anything else. “Thought you’d be awake. Figured I’d come check on you.” You try to stand up a bit straighter, but the pain flares up in your ribcage, and even though you try to play it off, John can see it clearly in your eyes. “Buck said you were having a rough time. It didn’t take me long to realize why.” You were there on the day that Lemar died in Latvia. You didn’t really know the man, disliked him on the principle of being involved in desecration of Steve’s memory. But you’d still tried to get his heart beating again, to no avail, as John ran off for his revenge. You’ve always wondered if the real reason he always hated you wasn’t because of the fight that ensued, but your failure that day.
John releases a long sigh, the guilt from Latvia and the mission today mixing and settling heavily on his chest. “Yea, well— I guess you would,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. He tries to change the subject as quickly as he can. “You shouldn’t be up, you know. You look like hell.”
You let out a dry laugh. “Wow, John, you’re a real flatterer, huh?” You sway on your feet, your mirth taking more energy than it should, your equilibrium still off. “But I’m alive. I wanted you to see that.”
John looks you over once more, your tired eyes, the mottled bruising around your collarbone, the visible effort it’s taking you to get just a shallow breath in. Just over twelve hours ago, you were dead, the memory of your corpse haunting him for just as long.
The relief hits him hard, almost taking his breath away.
He knows you’re stubborn, a fighter down to the bone. But seeing you like this, standing there in front of him despite the excruciating pain just to ease his? It made him ache in a way he couldn’t quite describe.
You feel pathetically weak. He’s never seen you so strong.
He huffed a wry laugh as you start to sway again, finally letting himself reach out to stabilize you, calloused fingertips settling against your freshly healed skin. "You look like you’re about to drop. Let me get you to bed, please." For a moment, you consider saying no, brushing him off. You told yourself the last thing you wanted was gentleness from him, but a part of you was starting to doubt that notion. But your body decides for you as the room starts to spin, and he’s quick to react, holding you with one arm firmly around your waist. "Hey— hey, I gotcha," he mutters softly, careful not to put any pressure on her healing body.
Silently, you allow him to shuffle you down the hall to your room, leaning into him instinctively, too exhausted to fight it.
John nudges your door open and helps you hobble to bed, holding an arm out for you to lower yourself onto the mattress. You try to bite back a wince as you settle among the pile of pillows Bucky and Ava arranged for you, still unable to comfortably rest your head back. He catches it anyway, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, pulling the covers over you. His fingers tremble as they brush against your skin, the realization that you’re alive finally fully settling over him.
Despite your exhaustion, you still notice the misty look in his eyes as he watches your every move carefully. You reach up, gently wrapping a hand around his wrist, holding onto him with more strength than you realized you had right now. His breath catches in his throat— he doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve your mercy. But for all the serum running through his veins, he’s not strong enough to pull away.
“I was distracted…” he trails off, voice tight.
“Yeah,” you acknowledge gently. “Yeah, you were.” It isn’t with judgement, just a simple observation. It surprises both of them. You know you could throw his comments from the briefing in his face. You could say ‘I told you so’. You could tell him off and never speak to him again outside of what was strictly necessary. But you can see it for what it is— an apology without words. He might be too prideful to give a simple ‘sorry’, but he felt it, and would for a long time, that this incident is already burrowing deep down into his chest and solidifying itself as one of his most dreaded fears.
"You...died,” he bites out, an anguished whisper. “I saw you go down. You stopped breathing. There was so much blood.”
You frown, your expression turning sorrowful at the mention of your death.
"Yeah," you agree softly. "I did." You know the look in his eyes, know it all too well. The sort of far away feeling you get when you replay your mistakes over and over again in your head. "But I’m here, John," you reassure him. "I’m alive. I’m right here. Can’t get rid of me that easily." As if to prove your point, you take his hand in yours, forcing him to rest his palm over your beating heart, your fingers interlaced.
The steady thrum of your pulse beats against his palm, the rhythmic thump a tangible reminder that you’re still here. John’s wide-eyed stare is locked on your intertwined hands, too afraid to look into your eyes and to see what he would find there.
"I don’t want to get rid of you,” he admits, his voice small and full of guilt. "I just...” he trails off, trying to find the words to express the things he’s feeling, the rage, fear, and shame that’s gnawing at him from the inside out. "You scare me.”
You blink at him, dumbfounded. You expected him to scoff at the notion, to try to deflect. Not for him to offer you a piece of himself that, admittedly, before the events of the last twelve hours, you would have used against him.
"I scare you?"
"You scare the hell out of me," John follows with a sharp sigh, his frown deepening as he looks at you like you have all the answers to the muddled mess of his mind. "I saw you go down and it was...” Like Latvia all over again. “I saw red. That Hydra soldier, I— why aren’t you pissed at me?”
Your expression turns serious, considering his question carefully before answering. “Because I understand.” Your voice a whisper, but your gaze held his, unflinching. It’s simple, but carries the weight of everything between you that neither is ready to confront just yet. You take a labored breath, chest rising and falling beneath his palm.
John doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t want to be so transparent, so easily understood by you out of everyone. So, he stays quiet, keeping a vigil at your bedside, thumb running over your shirt in comforting circles. After a few minutes, your eyes start to droop, the exhaustion catching up quickly. His heartbeat evens out to match the steady rhythm under his palm.
He stays at your side until he’s certain you’re finally asleep, and then a few hours longer. Watching your bruises fade, your breathing strengthen, just to silence his demons.
living in The Watchtower and seeing Walker everyday is no easy task, especially when all he wants is your attention and all you want is for him to disappear. It all culminates in a concerningly violent and sexually charged sparring match
[Reader is a mutant with the power to manipulate blood, and has a serum-induced healing factor similar to Wolverine's. Former Widow and Avenger, current Thunderbolt New Avenger.]
john walker x fem!reader
words: 4.7k
cw: canon typical violence, swearing, descriptions of blood and injuries, choking, implied suicidal ideation, self inflicted wounds, dry humping, enemies to reluctant allies and back to enemies, pining, john calls the reader ‘Red’ (because of the blood shtick, he’s very creative) (18+ MDNI)
a/n: hi again still consumed by thoughts of this fucking guy. It’s looking like this will have 3-4 parts, most of which just needs to be beta’d. thank you to those who enjoyed the first part!
nobody puts baby in the corner - fall out boy
You never talk about it, what Walker had seen of your guilt in The Void, but the experience haunts him all the same.
He thinks about it all the time, still trying to compartmentalize the memory of you in that bunker. How broken you were in that moment is burned into his brain and he hasn’t gotten it to go away. But there's a part of him that wants to keep it with him, because knowing a secret about you that no one else does makes him feel special for reasons he doesn’t want to confront. The rage he saw from you that day felt like looking in a mirror, reflecting the same urge in him that’s always simmering under the surface.
Despite the unexpected support he’d given you in that day, you still treat Walker harshly. If you can keep him at arm’s length, then maybe it won’t feel so humiliating that he knows you more intimately than you wanted him to. You look at him like you're just waiting for the betrayal. Even when he’s done nothing wrong, he can't stay in your good graces. He wants to talk about it. Wants a better explanation of what he’d seen, to understand your pain, to tell you that maybe it’s okay, but you never give him the chance.
He’s known from the start that you’re complex, that you had gone through hell, but he had no idea just how much. He didn’t realize the violence you were capable of, the restraint that you must be clinging to in every fight, or else everyone will see you for what you are. In Latvia, you’d looked at him like he was a monster, and that’s what really gets under his skin about the whole thing. How you still act like you're better than him. Like you aren’t one too.
And then it’s six months later. Six months of settling into The Watchtower, six months of varying levels of public scrutiny over the title Valentina bestowed upon them, six months of finally being an Avenger. And inadvertently, six months of you and John walking on eggshells around each other. He can’t back down from a fight, especially when you’re the one who's picking it. The two of you bicker more often than not, always filling the space between you with harsh words and heated insults.
Today’s argument has been building up for the last week, starting early Tuesday morning with an offhanded comment from John about your coffee habits. It escalated on Wednesday when you made fun of his beret, and now it’s coming to a head in the training room. You’re fully at each other’s throats, interrupting the drills you’d been running. You aren’t even sure how it got this bad. One minute, it’s your turn to lead today’s combat exercises; the next, he’s making some smartass comment because you dared to do your job and correct his too-wide stance.
"You just have to be the smartest person in the room at all times, don't you?" John snaps, clenched fists at his sides as he breaks form.
You scowl at his scrutiny, eyes narrowing as you bite back, "No, it's just that you’d rather be impulsive than prepared." You step closer to him, your footing precise and purposeful, still trying to keep your composure. "You're a disaster, Walker. You make decisions based on your ego and emotions, not logic. Strength won’t always save you."
John’s eyes are dark, his jaw clenched tight as you're on the edge of invading his personal space. With every word from your mouth, he’s getting more and more agitated— pissed even. Your proximity awakens that jittery feeling in his chest again, leaving him insecure. He could face his feelings head-on, take a step back and try to just talk to you, but instead his base instinct is to make sure you feel as bad as he does.
"Don't you dare lecture me on emotions," he sneers, pointing an accusatory finger at you. "You act like you're so much better, like you hold some moral high ground. But you're just as messy as me, if not more."
Your eyes flicker with offense, and you grit your teeth, taking a few more steps towards him until your chest makes contact with his outstretched finger. John pulls his hand back so quickly; you’d think the faint brush against your clavicle burned him.
"Moral high ground? Don’t make me laugh. You have the gall to talk about morals when everything you stand for is built on a crumbling foundation of personal gain and glory." You’re both alone in the gym now, the team already filtered out of the room five minutes ago, witnessing your spats enough times to know to make themselves scarce.
"Glory?" He laughs, the sound lacking any delight, "I do what I do for justice, not glory, Red." His gaze is unwavering, but his body tenses as you approach, nearer than he’d like you to be. "Oh, right, I forgot, you're such a saint, aren’t you? Your hands are clean, right? No Hydra skeletons in your closet at all, huh?" It’s a low blow, but it’s also the closest either of you has come to acknowledging that day in The Void, and he’ll keep prodding at the wound if it keeps your attention on him.
Your brows raise in shock as soon as the words leave his mouth, not bothering to school your features. You're taken aback by his boneheaded audacity. Months of shoving that day deep down and locking it away where it can't bother you, and here he is throwing it in your face.
"Watch it, Walker," you warn steadily, your tone increasingly hostile. "You don’t want to start something you know you can’t finish."
He stiffens at your warning, a subtle reminder of the fight in Latvia. John knows he's crossed a line, but he can't make himself shut up. "You think you've got me all figured out, huh?" John lets out another humorless laugh. He’s nervous, and you can tell because you can feel it in his pulse. "You judge me over my worst mistake, but your dirty little secret isn’t any better. I’ve seen what you're capable of, Red. And let me tell you, it ain't pretty."
"You’ve had it out for me for years, Walker,” you scoff. "I think you’re just mad because what you saw shatters your delusion of me being the enemy. But we’re not as different as you made us out to be in your head, are we?” You’re in his face now, forcing yourself into his orbit. “You think you know what I can do? You haven’t seen anything yet.”
"Is that a threat?" He snaps, his gaze cold as he looks down at you. "You really think you can take me on by yourself, huh?”
You stare him down, unimpressed, but it’s obvious from the grinding of your teeth that he’s getting to you too. You’re both too stubborn and prideful to back down now. Fine. If he wants a demonstration, you'll give him one. You’ve been itching for the chance to finish that fight from the vault, anyway.
"Let’s see how that shit stance of yours holds up in a real fight." You shift in your spot, not stepping down but back, reaching for your boot. There’s an old hunting knife stashed inside; serrated edges dull from decades of use. It’s the only weapon you’ve ever needed to carry. “I beat you bloody once, and I’ll do it again. I don’t need Sam and Bucky’s help.”
"A butter knife? You're gonna have to do better than that to handle me, Red," he mocks, an arrogant sneer tugging at the corner of his mouth. You’re so damn cocky— it's infuriating and alluring all at once. John stomps on the lip of his discarded shield to send it upwards and catches it in midair. He's itching to knock you down a peg, show you that he's not the pushover you like to think he is. You’re good, he'll give you that, but he's better. He has to be.
Your grip tightens on the hilt of the knife, your attention drawn to his shield. "It’s not the butter knife you need to be worried about," you warn. Holding your forearm out in front of you, you slice a vertical line from your wrist to the crook of your elbow. You’re unflinching, staring Walker down, switching hands and doing the same to the opposite arm. Blood pours from the alarming wounds like a faucet thanks to your radial artery, and you toss the hunting knife somewhere behind you. The scent of iron permeates the room, the tell-tale sign of your hemokinesis at work. Right in front of his eyes, the blood dripping from your arms starts to shift and slither through the air, pooling into each palm and solidified, until it resembles two macabre-looking scimitars. It’s one of your signature moves, but Walker knows it looks tougher than it actually is.
The two of you begin to circle each other, each step calculated and precise, each of you trying to predict what the other will do. The air is cloying with tension, both fueled by misunderstandings and resentment, and neither one is willing to give an inch. All bets are off as soon as you lunge forward, closing the distance with blinding speed. It’s an instantaneous clash, a brutal dance of blades and fists, pushing each other to the limit, and no one holds the upper hand for long. John can feel the adrenaline surging through him with every blow, every block, every parry. He knows he should be restraining himself, you’re his teammate at the end of the day and he shouldn’t be putting you at risk. But the anger boiling inside him is making it very hard to be rational.
Every time a hit lands, he wants to crawl out of his skin at the way it makes him crave your touch. Despite the discomfort, he pushes through, refusing to let you get the best of him. He tries to throw you off guard with a sudden feint, but you see it coming and block easily. Your eyes lock for a split-second, the understanding between the two of you that this isn’t just a spar to get it out of your systems, that it’s real.
You counter him with your own onslaught, your blades moving with expert precision, slicing through the air in a muddled red arch. You’re a whirlwind, not holding anything back. Your movements are fluid and effortlessly graceful, but there's nothing pretty about the bloodshed that follows in your wake. There’s sweat dripping down his face, his usual cocky demeanor replaced with a look of intense concentration as he blocks and dodges your relentless assault. You’re putting up more of a fight than he expected, but Walker is no pushover. He's stronger, just as deadly, and he needs this.
He throws himself at you unexpectedly, and when you move to block him, his shield crashes into your sanguine blades, and they shatter in your hands with a delicate crack, like picking at a scab. You roll out of the path of his shield before he can land a hit on you, wiping dried blood on your pants. The cuts you’d made on your forearms have long since healed, the process more painful than the initial slice, and the only indication you were ever bleeding at all is the red staining the fabric of your top.
You both pause, panting as you size each other up. John takes stock of you; sweaty, bloody, and a little bruised up, but your chin is high. You’re breathtaking, and it’s that same awe that he’d felt in The Void. He’s lost in thought and still catching his breath, foolishly expecting you to take a second to do the same. But you charge at him instead, going low. His stance— the very same one you’d criticized him for earlier— is too wide, and it’s far too easy to slip through his parted legs. One well-timed kick later, and his shield is knocked out of his grasp and clear across the room.
That was way easier than it was in Latvia.
Before John can even process what’s happening, you’ve already darted past him, a blur of motion. He turns too late, and his shield goes flying, clattering to the floor with a dull thud. Frustration builds up in his veins as he realizes his disadvantage, his best defense gone.
His jaw clenches tightly as he tries to keep himself composed, making a break for his shield. But you’re faster, lighter, and before he can even make it a few feet, you’re on him again, coming at him with such speed that he barely has time to react. He stumbles backward, narrowly dodging your punches and kicks, but he’s off balance, and it’s affecting his ability to bite back. The shield is out of the question now, and he needs to find a way to get the upper hand, and quickly. You’re ruthless, his thin t-shirt doing nothing to absorb your attacks, the force of your hits reverberating within his chest.
He can barely get a solid shot in, but he keeps trying. He watches your timing carefully, evaluating your move set, and finally, his fist connects with your jaw. You can hear the bone cracking in your ears, and when the pain finally registers, you’re almost shocked at the innate strength behind his punch. Almost. Still, you refuse to falter, taking the hit like a champ, head snapping to the side and then back to him just as quickly. Your ears are ringing as you reach up to wipe away the trickle of blood that flows down your chin, your fractured jaw already stitching itself back together. You only manage to smear it across your skin, the crimson a compliment to your complexion. You’re unfazed— if anything, it seems to have only fueled you further, diving back into the fray with a crooked smile.
It's a sick thrill, but John can’t deny the sense of satisfaction he gets as he sees the blood dripping down your jaw. Outside of your memory, he’s never seen you this way; almost feral, and it’s both horrifying and hot. But he doesn’t have time to dwell on the thought, because you’re throwing punches again, your movements even more aggressive than before. And he matches you blow for blow, neck in neck, both still determined to come out on top. You’re both breathing heavily, the exhaustion second to the need to prove the other wrong. The sounds of the fight are almost animalistic, punctuated by grunts of effort and stifled cries of pain.
Another perfectly timed punch to your ribs sends you flying backwards through the room, and you’re impressed that he’s actually been listening to you during training. You land in a steady crouch and sacrifice no time as you rush John, driving your knee up into his chest. It sends him staggering back just enough for you to somersault behind him and make a swing at the back of his knees. It’s not enough to bring him down, but that was never your goal. You grab onto his shoulders as he regains his footing, and you throw yourself onto his back. He swings at you as he turns, trying to pull you off, but you use his outstretched arm like a high bar, flipping yourself around him until you can wrap your legs around his neck.
John can feel your thighs squeezing him like a vice, your torso blocking his view. Despite the exertion that he’s feeling in his bones, he’s suddenly wired as your weight settles over his shoulders. He’d never admit to having this exact fantasy in a slightly different context, one that he's consistently tried to push as far down as he can. He tries to throw you off him, but your grip is too strong, elbows aiming at his head. He can smell you like this, and he tries to hold his breath to no avail, your scent overwhelming his senses. His vision blurs as your elbow connects with his cheekbone, so focused on getting you off that he forgets to block your strikes, letting you get in a few shots to the face. His next move is impulsive, his hands holding your back, his face almost pressed against your stomach as he slams you both down onto the mat. Your back meets the ground, and his weight comes crashing down onto you.
The air is knocked out of you as his mass crushes you into the mat. He’s fucking heavy, bulkier than he looks, his muscle not just from the serum, but earned, and the impact sends a jolt of pain up your spine. He’s so close, your hands pushing at him, trying not to dwell on the feeling of his firm chest or the warmth radiating from his skin. You don’t give in, knees digging into his sides, trying to ram your head into his as you scramble for an opening. Then, John makes a move neither of you expected, his hand suddenly wrapping around your neck and stopping your struggle. You don’t even have the shame to be disgusted by the heat that overtakes your fury, the thrill that runs through you when you notice the way he’s watching you.
He’s not sure what he’s doing; he’s running on sheer instinct and a dire need to win. And the feeling of your body under him, struggling and fighting, is making it even more difficult to think clearly. He grips your throat, fingers pressing into your skin just enough to stop your flailing. He leans in, his eyes locking onto yours, noses inches apart. There’s a tense, charged silence as you stare at each other, the tension shifting into something unknown. Your lips quirk up into a wry smile, sardonic and unnerving. It’s the same one he's seen you regard and enemy with countless times before the final blow— when they’ve played right into your hands.
“Enjoying yourself, John?” You tease with faux innocence, not bothering to hide your amusement. The use of his given name is unfamiliar on your tongue, but it’s fitting given the situation.
A disgruntled sigh escapes him at the sound of his name on your lips, the fingers on your throat flexing as he responds. "Shut up,” he mutters defensively, losing his nerve. He could snap her neck if he wanted to, they both know it, and yet he senses no fear from her.
You raise an eyebrow, tilting your chin in defiance. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Go on, get it out of your system, I dare you,” you rasp, vocal cords straining, but he isn’t cutting off your air supply. “You know you can’t actually kill me, but you can find out how it feels to.” Your skin flushes at the thought, your pulse pounding alongside the steady force of his hand. There’s a buzz running through you that’s probably just from the pressure, but you feel more alive than you’ve felt in a long time. It takes everything in you to hold back the revealing moan that threatens to fall from your lips.
Your taunts go straight to his head and his dick, his desire for you building at an alarming rate. He's not sure if he's ever been this turned on in his life or felt so shameful that this is what got him riled up. He tightens his grip on your throat ever so slightly, a small part of him wanting to push your limits and his, just to see how much of this you each can take.
"Don’t test me, Red,” he growls, “I’m not playing games.”
Your eyes flutter shut for a split second, your racing pulse betraying you. You know this is a stupid game you’re playing, but you can’t help the way your body reacts to his touch, the anticipation of what he’s going to do next. There’s also the fact you can’t actually die spurring you on— you’ve healed overnight from a broken neck before, even if the process is always more excruciating than the initial injury. It might be a twisted form of self-harm, but at least it’s yours.
Your lashes flit back open, watching him unnervingly. “I think you’re all bark and no bite,” you say, your mockery steady despite the stress on your windpipe. “Wanna prove me wrong?”
Walker’s fingers tremble on your throat, the urge to squeeze growing as you continue to goad him. He’s not going to hurt you, but part of him wants to, and you know it. He’s not supposed to lose control like this anymore; he shouldn’t be giving in to his darker instincts so easily when he’s trying to be a better man. He leans in, crowding over you, his face barely inches from yours, noses brushing. He’s never been as strong as he wants others to think, and the fact that you’ve so effortlessly seen past his walls is infuriating. He can’t resist anymore; the incessant need to prove you wrong, to get you to notice him, is all-consuming.
“You asked for it.”
You barely have a moment to think of some other snarky comeback before his lips are crashing onto yours with a ferocity that takes you by genuine surprise. The kiss is rough and borderline frantic, his teeth biting into your bottom lip as his tongue slips past to seek yours. He doesn’t waste time.
And you respond to it, your body moving beneath his as you match his intensity, nails digging into the jersey of his shirt. You can feel how hard he’s trembling, can sense the repressed need radiating from him. It’s really not the reaction you were going for by taunting him, but you’re not about to say no. It’s still a fight, the battle for dominance bleeding over into the way you indulge in each other. He’s overwhelmed by you already, the taste of iron on your tongue, your nails tearing into his skin, the noises you make. Your teeth drag over his lip and his hold on your neck loosens ever so slightly. He almost looses himself entirely, too close to relinquishing control before he remembers himself, fingers tightening.
You gasp at the added pressure on your throat, his weight digging into you, every muscle taut and ready, caging you in. The last time you saw him this way was in Latvia, bursting at the seams, and it's a personal victory that you can bring it out of him. You wrap your legs around his hips and grind yourself against him, a silent challenge to keep up with you. He might be on top of you with his hand around your neck, but you refuse to let him believe he has the upper hand. He groans involuntarily as your hips rock up into him, the hard outline of his cock under his sweatpants brushing over your cunt.
Your enthusiasm is stoking his ego, and his free hand skims over your body, savoring the contour of your curves and muscles beneath his fingers. It’s driving him insane, the way you move beneath him, arching into his touch as he slips under your shirt. He’s never felt passion like this, and for months he’s been lying to himself about his complicated feelings. He breaks the kiss, breathing fast as he tries to regain at least some of his composure, and glances down at you.
You look utterly debauched.
Your hair is spread out beneath you on the mat, tangled and unruly, your eyes just as wild. The blood from his left hook is still drying on your chin, and you can feel the process of your vessels bursting under the pressure of his fingers, the blood pooling blow the skin threatening to leave a bruise. Marks never last long on you, but somewhere in the back of your mind, this time you wish they would. There’s a defiant challenge in your eyes as you meet his heavy gaze, rolling your hips harder just to see the look on his face.
“So, which one of us is winning now?”
John’s mind is a mess, his body screaming for release, and your snarky tone isn’t helping. He tries to ignore the way you bat your lashes at him, his control slipping with every passing second.
“Isn’t it obvious?” he growls, his hand under your shirt moving higher, his touch uncharacteristically gentle. “You think I’m gonna go down that easy?”
You flash your teeth at him, a mischievous glint in your eyes, blood still in your gums. “Oh, I don’t think you’re really the type to go down at all,” you retort, using his phrasing against him, turning it into an insulting innuendo.
He feels a sharp stab of embarrassment at the double meaning of your mockery, quickly followed by arousal, his body reacting involuntarily. But his ego won’t let him back down, not now, not when you’re finally smiling at him with those pretty lips. The desire to knock you down a peg is fading fast, replaced by a desperation to have you in any way you’ll let him. He grinds himself against your cunt, the pressure growing more insistent as you find a matching rhythm.
“You’d like that, Red,” he mutters, his fingers grazing the curve of your breast, your skin so much softer than he’d imagined. “Admit it.”
“Why would I do that?” You laugh, the sound breathless. “You’re the one who’s desperate for it.”
“You think you still have a chance to come out on top,” he sneers, but it sounds forced, like he’s losing conviction. “You’re wrong.” Your skin burns his fingers, the movement of your hips making it hard to focus. But he’s determined to keep his composure, to not give you the satisfaction of seeing him squirm.
You lock eyes with him, your glare cloudy, still smiling like it’s all one big joke. “That's so?” Quickly, you pull your hands from his hair, grabbing for wrist of the hand at your throat. You use his distracted state to disarm him, legs locking around his waist and boots digging into the backs of his knees. Using all the strength you’re capable of, you flip your positions, a maneuver you could have done at any time. “What was it you said about topping?”
A stunned gasp leaves his lips as he’s practically thrown to the ground. He’s not used to being moved, and it’s just another thing about you that pisses him off and gets him going at the same time. He’s on his back now, with you straddling his hips, the rush he gets from you looking down at him completely unexpected.
John groans in frustration, his fingers finding your thighs, digging into your flesh. “You gonna start playing dirty now?”
"Oh, honey," you laugh, your sore voice thick with delight. A sly smile spreads across your face, like you know something he doesn’t. "I've been playing dirty this entire time."
And just as quickly as you’d gotten wrapped up in each other, you’re detangling yourself from him, however reluctantly. You’re halfway across the gym before he can even manage a protest, fully intending to leave him high and dry and wanting. The sting of your rejection builds in his chest, his body reeling from the sudden loss of your warmth. He rises to his feet, his eyes never leaving you as you stalk towards the door, your back to him. The way you move even now is predatory, like a leopardess prowling through the grass.
“What the hell, Red?” He calls out, his tone tinged with both desperation and embarrassment. “You can’t just walk away like that.”
Your grin only grows wider as he calls out to you, but you continue walking as if you didn’t hear him. You can feel his eyes burning a hole in the back of your head, sharp and intense, and it gives you a kick of satisfaction. You have to force yourself not to turn back, your heart telling you to stay here and explore this with him head-on. But your head, on the other hand, refuses to be defeated, not by him, not by anyone.
“Nice match, John,” you call back behind you. “Maybe you’ll finally beat me next time.”
And with that, you strut out the doors, never looking back, like he’s not worth another second of your time.
