hoooo buddy this one is a three-fer. i couldn't fit everything i wanted on the dual pages and adding a whole other double page felt like a lot, ergo: 3 of them
guess who's baaaccckkkk (its been like barely any time lol).
anyway, for some clarification, I put the events of Iron Lung in 379 eic. its never specified in the film (or the game? not sure about that one) what year it is, so i made it 379 eic for various timeline purposes that will be revealed later. Simon also told them this year in the previous page, if that wasn't clear. i just felt that he wouldnt mention it in the journal cuz like. he already knows the year, he's not gonna write it down.
alright that's the end of the scheduled uploads. lets see what happens to my upload schedule now.... also i have such an idea for each panel on that first page so im writing in what little task are happening in each in the close ups section
First - Previous - Next
close ups (+ transcript) \/
^ simon is making it up to rocky, helping him fix rocky's bed. this takes MUCH less time to do than when grace initially helped build it, despite 1 less limb in the equation
^ simon and grace are divvying up the clothes they have, seeing who gets what and which clothes they're gonna share. simon basically says "whatever" to "owning" any of the clothes options, despite grace's best effort to get simon to claim some clothes for his own
^ grace and rocky have a show they've been watching episodically day by day (just as an activity for them to look forward to and not go stir crazy), and damn them if some blood covered mutant human is gonna break their streak. you can headcannon for yourself what show it is
Theories:
1. They're an independent group of scientists that are paid to do illegal experiments by 3rd parties. Explains why they're lying about their experiments (you can't just "save stars") and maybe Rocky (Robot made by Grace? ACTUAL alien?) Will likely do psychological experiments on me, may have already started. Keep on your toes.
2. We're on the other side of the QR. Don't wanna think about this one too much, it'll hurt if it turns out to be wrong.
3. Honestly not sure about time travel. I never learned much about Earth history, but the year they're telling me (2026/2039 ad, EIC started around 1990ad I think?) makes no sense. They seemed confused when I used EIC and IMC. Our historical timelines don't match, but it's be bizarre to lie about...
C’s corner: Umm… yeah. So this happened. 🤔🫠 I’m not saying I planned for John Walker to end up here, but I’m also not complaining. Enjoy, loves. Behave yourselves… or don’t. John clearly won’t.
WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, explicit sexual content, intoxication, dubcon due to alcohol, rough sex, brat/brat tamer dynamics, dirty talk, choking/breath play, unprotected sex.
The door to the apartment clicked shut behind you, and you leaned against it for a second, giggling as the room tilted just slightly.
The night out with the girls had been loud, fun, and full of too many cocktails. Your cheeks were warm, your dress a little rumpled, and your inhibitions... somewhere back at the bar.
John was still up, sitting on the edge of the couch in gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt that stretched across his broad chest. He looked up the second you walked in, blue eyes scanning you with that familiar mix of concern and something hotter.
“Hey, spitfire,” he said, voice low and rough from the late hour. “You have a good time?”
You kicked your heels off and padded straight toward him, not bothering to hide the sway in your hips. “Would’ve been better if you’d come with me.”
You climbed right into his lap without asking, straddling him, your hands sliding up his chest and over his shoulders. “Missed you.”
His hands settled on your waist, steadying you. “You’re drunk”
“Mmm, maybe a little tipsy.” You leaned in and kissed the side of his neck, then dragged your lips up to his jaw. Your fingers slipped under the hem of his shirt, tracing the hard lines of his stomach. “But I know what I want.”
John exhaled slowly, thumbs stroking your sides like he was trying to behave. “You’re drunk, sweetheart. Not tonight.”
You rocked your hips once, deliberately, feeling him twitch beneath you. “I’m not that drunk. Just... warm. And horny. And you’re sitting here looking like that.”
Your hand drifted lower, palming the growing bulge in his sweatpants. “Come on, John. Don’t be boring.”
He caught your wrist gently but firmly, lifting you off his lap with that easy strength that always made your stomach flip. “Bed. Now. I’m putting you to sleep before you do something you’ll regret in the morning.”
You pouted but let him guide you down the short hallway to the bedroom, his arm solid around your waist.
The room was dark except for the city glow through the half-open blinds.
John pulled the covers back on the bed, all gentlemanly control, and turned to face you.
“Arms up,” he said quietly, reaching for the hem of your dress like he was going to help you change and nothing more.
That’s when the alcohol and the ache between your legs made you bold.
You stepped in close instead of obeying, pressing your body to his and sliding both hands under his shirt again, nails dragging lightly over his abs. “You always do this. Treat me like I’m gonna break.”
Your fingers dipped lower, tracing the waistband of his sweats, then cupping him again through the fabric, bolder this time. “I’m not made of glass, Walker. I’m wet, and I want you to fuck me. But you’re too much of a pussy to do it.”
The word landed like a spark on gasoline.
John went very still. His jaw flexed. Those blue eyes darkened to something dangerous and hungry.
“What did you just call me?” His voice had dropped an octave.
You grinned up at him, defiant and a little drunk-brave. “Pussy. You heard me. Always trying to be the good guy, the gentleman... scared to take what you want when I’m offering it.”
For one heartbeat he just stared at you.
Then the restraint snapped.
In one smooth, powerful motion John had you backed against the bedroom wall, your wrists pinned above your head in one of his big hands. His other hand gripped your chin, tilting your face up to his.
The kiss that followed wasn’t gentle. It was deep, rough, claiming, his tongue pushing into your mouth like he was punishing you for the word and rewarding you for it at the same time.
You moaned into it, hips arching forward instinctively.
He broke the kiss just enough to growl against your lips, “You want to see what happens when I stop being a gentleman?”
His hand left your chin and slid down, yanking the neckline of your dress down hard enough that the fabric tore a little at the seam. Cool air hit your bare breasts before his mouth closed over one nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing.
You gasped, back arching.
John released your wrists only to spin you around so your front was pressed to the wall. He shoved your dress up around your waist, hooked his fingers in your panties and ripped them down your legs in one impatient tug.
Two thick fingers pushed into you without warning, and the wet sound they made was obscene.
“Fuck,” he muttered, pumping them deep and curling. “Soaked. All that attitude because you needed my cock this bad?”
You pushed back against his hand, whimpering. “John..."
He pulled his fingers free, and you heard the rustle of fabric as he shoved his sweatpants down. Then the thick, hot head of his cock was nudging at your entrance.
“You called me a pussy,” he said, voice dark with lust and something almost amused. “Let’s see if you’re still saying that in five minutes.”
He thrust in hard, burying himself to the hilt in one stroke. You cried out at the sudden stretch, the perfect fullness.
John didn’t give you time to adjust, he set a deep, punishing rhythm, hips snapping against your ass, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise while the other slid up your back and into your hair, pulling your head back just enough.
“Still think I’m a pussy?” he rasped in your ear, pounding into you so deep you could feel him in your stomach. “Feel that? That’s me proving you wrong, baby.”
Your moans turned into broken little sounds every time he bottomed out. The alcohol made everything sharper, hotter, less filtered.
When his hand left your hair and slid around to rest at the base of your throat, not squeezing hard, just holding, controlling.
You didn’t flinch. You moaned louder, pushing back into every thrust.
John noticed.
His rhythm faltered for half a second. The hand at your throat eased immediately, thumb stroking gently over your pulse point.
“You like that?” he asked, voice suddenly rougher with concern even as he kept fucking you. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
You shook your head, pushing his hand back into place. “Don’t stop. Please... feels good.”
A low, filthy groan tore out of him. He tightened his grip just enough to make your head spin in the best way, and his other hand reached around to rub tight circles over your clit.
“Come on then,” he ordered. “Come on my cock like a good girl. Show me how much you wanted this.”
You shattered with a cry, walls clenching hard around him.
John fucked you straight through it, relentless, until your legs were shaking and you were babbling his name.
Only then did he let himself go, thrusting deep one last time and coming with a guttural sound, hot pulses filling you as he buried his face in your neck.
For a long moment the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant city noise outside.
John eased out of you carefully, turned you around, and caught you when your knees wobbled.
He lifted you like you weighed nothing and carried you to the bed, laying you down with surprising gentleness after everything that just happened.
He disappeared into the bathroom for a warm cloth, cleaned you up with soft strokes, then stripped off the rest of your torn dress and his own clothes before climbing in beside you.
You curled into his chest automatically, still buzzing. His arms wrapped around you, one big hand stroking slowly up and down your back.
“You okay?” he murmured against your hair. “I got... carried away.”
You smiled into his skin, sleepy and satisfied. “More than okay. That was... really hot. And I meant what I said. I'm not that drunk.”
John huffed a quiet laugh, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Still shouldn’t have called me a pussy.”
“You proved me wrong.” You tilted your head up, eyes half-lidded. “Love you, Walker.”
His expression softened, the dominant edge melting back into the man who’d tried so hard to be a gentleman earlier.
“Love you too, troublemaker.” He pulled the covers over both of you and tucked you closer. “Get some sleep. We’re talking about that mouth of yours in the morning.”
You were already drifting, warm and full and thoroughly satisfied.
The last thing you felt before sleep took you was John’s lips brushing your forehead and his quiet, amused mutter
C’s corner: Without further ado, here's my second Fourth of July fic featuring Bucky Barnes. I honestly can't believe I managed to get these two fics out before the holiday. Thank you loves, for all the support, all the love you've shown me in less than a year. I truly appreciate each and every one of you. 🫶🏽✨
WARNINGS: mostly fluff, soft angst, grief/missing Steve Rogers, bittersweet Fourth of July memories, fireworks, brief fireworks-related flinch/startle, found family teasing, emotional comfort.
✍🏽WC: 4.6K
SUMMARY: After noticing Bucky seems quieter than usual during the team’s chaotic Fourth of July planning, you learn the holiday carries a bittersweet memory for him. A fluffy, tender Fourth of July romance filled with found family chaos, old ghosts, boardwalk lights, and love under the fireworks.
The Fourth of July had not technically arrived yet, but the common room had already surrendered.
That was the first warning sign.
The second was Alexei standing in the middle of it wearing an American flag bucket hat, holding two sparklers like sacred relics, and loudly declaring, "Tomorrow, we honor tiny explosions!"
"Those are not tiny explosions," Ava said from the couch, barely looking up from her phone. "Those are fireworks. Which are famously large explosions."
Alexei waved one sparkler like he was conducting an orchestra made entirely of bad decisions. "Large tiny explosions."
"That makes no sense," Yelena said.
"It makes emotional sense."
John walked in carrying three grocery bags full of paper plates, chips, and what looked like enough hot dog buns to feed a minor league baseball team. "Why is there glitter on the floor?"
Bob, who was crouched beside the coffee table carefully sorting red, white, and blue napkins into three perfect piles, froze. "I thought it was festive confetti."
"That is not an answer," John said.
"It is a little bit an answer."
You stood near the kitchen island, trying very hard not to laugh into the pitcher of lemonade you were stirring. The whole place had been overtaken by pre-Fourth of July fever. Someone had hung star-shaped garlands crookedly across the windows. A plastic Uncle Sam hat sat on the counter. Red, white, and blue streamers sagged from the ceiling fan in a way that suggested no one had considered what would happen if someone turned it on.
A suspiciously large cardboard box marked fireworks sat near the door.
You were pretty sure none of you were legally qualified to handle that box. You were also pretty sure that wouldn't stop anyone.
John noticed you looking at it and pointed one warning finger. "Those are not getting opened until tomorrow."
Alexei gasped. "You wound me."
"You tried to light a sparkler with a kitchen torch ten minutes ago."
"For morale."
"For arson," Ava corrected.
Bob looked up, concerned. "Was it almost arson?"
Yelena patted his shoulder. "With Alexei, everything is almost arson."
Everyone was excited.
Even you.
You loved this version of the team, loud and ridiculous and weirdly domestic in the way only a group of heavily traumatized adults with access to government funding could be. Ava pretended she was above the holiday but had still claimed the best glow sticks. John acted like he was only there to supervise, but he had bought two differetn kinds of mustard. Bob had made a sign-up sheet for snacks. Alexei had declared himself "Minister of Patriotic Vibes." Yelena had threatened to defect from the party three times and still kept eating the red candy from the bowl.
It was messy.
It was warm.
It was almost normal.
But then John set the grocery bags down and glanced around. "Where's Barnes?"
The room shifted by half an inch. Not enough for anyone else to call it concern. Enough for you to notice.
"In the hallway," Yelena said. "Doing his brooding statue thing."
"He's not brooding," you said automatically.
Everyone looked at you.
You narrowed your eyes. "He's... thinking with atmosphere."
Ava snorted.
Yelena's mouth twitched. "That is what brooding people want you to call it."
You abandoned the lemonade before anyone could tease you properly and slipped out of the common room. The hallway was quieter, the distant rumble of the team fading behind you. At the far end, near the wide window overlooking the city, Bucky stood with his arms crossed, staring out at the early evening sky.
The sun had started to sink, turning the buildings gold at the edges. Somewhere below, people were already shouting and laughing, the city buzzing with impatient celebration even though the holiday was still a day away.
Bucky looked very still, not exactly sad, just somewhere else.
You walked up beside him, close enough that your shoulder nearly brushed his arm.
"Hey," you said softly.
His eyes flicked toward you, and some of the distance in them faded. "Hey."
"You missed Alexei trying to explain the emotional logic of explosions."
"I'm devastated."
"No, you're not."
"No," he admitted. "I'm really not."
You smiled, but it faded when he looked back out the window. His jaw was tight. His shoulders had that careful set to them, the one that meant he was holding himself together from the inside.
"You okay?"
"Yeah." He answered too quickly. "Just tired."
"Bucky."
His mouth twitched faintly. "That your interrogation voice?"
"That was my gentle concern voice. My interrogation voice comes with snacks and very pointed eye contact."
"Terrifying."
"I've been practicing."
He let out a quiet breath, but he still did not look at you. "It's nothing important."
The words landed wrong.
You turned toward him fully.
"You're important to me," you said. "So if it's in your head, then it matters."
Bucky went quiet.
Behind you, someone in the common room yelled, "No, Alexei, we are not testing fireworks indoors," and then John said something sharp enough to make Yelena laugh.
But Bucky stayed still.
After a moment, he looked down at his hands.
"It's Steve's birthday tomorrow," he said.
Your heart softened immediately. "I know."
"Every year, back then, we'd go to Coney Island." His voice had gone quieter, rougher around the edges. "Didn't matter how broke we were. Steve would act like he didn't care, like it was just another day, but he did. He loved it."
You didn't say anything, you just let him talk.
Bucky's gaze drifted back toward the window, but you could tell he wasn't seeing the city anymore.
"We'd ride the Cyclone if I could talk him into it. Which I always did, because I was stubborn as hell and Steve was dumb enough to follow me anywhere." His mouth curved, small and aching. "He'd get a hot dog, then complain it was too expensive, then eat half of mine anyway."
You smiled. "Sounds like him."
"Yeah." Bucky swallowed. "We'd watch the fireworks from the boardwalk. He'd look up at them like they were something sacred. Like all that noise and color belonged to him for one night."
His voice thinned.
"And I'd give him grief, because that was my job. But I liked it too." His eyes lowered. "I liked seeing him happy."
You reached for him slowly, giving him time to move away if he wanted.
He didn't.
Your fingers slipped around his.
He looked down at your joined hands.
"I didn't mean to ruin the mood," he said.
"You didn't."
"I know everyone's excited."
"They're excited because half this team has the emotional regulation of raccoons in a party store."
That got you a real laugh, soft but there.
You squeezed his hand. "You're allowed to miss him."
Bucky nodded once, but it looked like it cost him something.
You stepped a little closer. "Do you want to skip tomorrow?"
He looked at you then. "No. You were excited."
"I'm excited about spending time with you. The fireworks are optional."
The way he looked at you made your chest ache. Quietly stunned, like you had handed him something fragile and he didn't know whether he was allowed to keep it.
"You mean that?"
"Every word."
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then, from the common room, Alexei shouted, "WHO TOOK MY FREEDOM TONGS?"
Bucky closed his eyes.
You bit back a laugh. "We should probably go before he finds regular tongs and renames them."
"Yeah," Bucky said. "Probably."
But he didn't let go of your hand.
And neither did you.
By the time you made it back to the common room, the plan for tomorrow had somehow become louder, messier, and more dangerous.
John had moved the suspicious fireworks box onto the highest shelf he could reach. Ava had confiscated the kitchen torch. Bob was labeling coolers. Alexei was arguing that no one understood his artistic vision. Yelena was eating chips from the bag with the dead-eyed calm of someone watching civilization collapse in real time.
You barely heard any of it.
Coney Island.
The idea bloomed in your chest before you had fully thought it through. Bright, ridiculous, impossible to ignore.
They were not Steve. They could never be Steve. But maybe they could help Bucky make a new memory beside the old one.
Maybe grief did not always have to sit alone. Maybe sometimes, if you were careful enough, you could set a light beside it.
You waited until Bucky had wandered into the kitchen with John, distracted by whatever argument had started over condiments. Then you grabbed Yelena by the wrist and pulled her toward the hall.
"Coney Island," you said. "He used to go there with Steve every Fourth of July for Steve's birthday. I want to take him."
Yelena's expression changed.
The sharpness softened, just a little.
"Oh," she said.
"Yeah."
She stared past you for a second, like the entire conversation had become inconveniently emotional against her will.
"That is annoyingly sweet," she said.
"I know."
"I hate it."
"You don't."
"I hate that I don't hate it."
Within ten minutes, the entire team knew. Within twenty, the plan had grown legs, stolen shoes, and started sprinting without supervision.
John immediately took over transportation. "We are not all taking the subway with Alexei in that hat."
"It is a patriotic hat," Alexei said.
"It is a traffic hazard."
Bob volunteered to make a schedule. His first draft included snack breaks, hydration reminders, and a section labeled Potential Emotional Support Moments.
Ava looked at the schedule and said, "This is insane."
Bob's face fell.
Then Ava took the pen and added, "Backup plan in case of rain."
Bob beamed.
Yelena declared herself in charge of "not making it weird," which mostly involved threatening Alexei every time he referred to the trip as "Operation Sad Birthday Boy."
"It is not sad," Alexei protested. "It is healing."
"You are banned from naming operations."
"You cannot ban my gift."
"I can and I did."
You told Bucky nothing. Which was difficult, because Bucky Barnes noticed everything.
He noticed when you smiled at your phone too much. He noticed when John stopped talking the second he entered the room. He noticed when Bob looked at him with the moist-eyed sincerity of someone who had been entrusted with a secret and was physically suffering from it.
By late evening, Bucky caught you in the hallway and raised one eyebrow.
"You planning a coup?"
You blinked. "What?"
"Ava looks guilty. John looks organized. Bob looks like he's about to confess to a priest, and Yelena told Alexei she'd bury him under the boardwalk if he ruined something."
Your stomach swooped. "She says things like that every day."
"Under the boardwalk was specific."
You stepped closer and placed both hands on his chest, which was a terrible strategy if your goal was to stay focused. Bucky glanced down at your hands, then back at your face, his expression softening despite his suspicion.
"Do you trust me?" you asked.
His answer came without hesitation. "Yeah."
Your heart did something embarrassing. "Then stop investigating."
His mouth curved. "That an order?"
"Absolutely."
"Bossy."
"You like it."
He looked at you for a beat too long, and the hallway seemed to shrink around you. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I do."
Your breath caught.
Then Alexei's voice boomed from somewhere nearby. "I HAVE FOUND SUNSCREEN!"
You stepped back quickly.
Bucky looked toward the sound, then back at you. "Sunscreen?"
You smiled too brightly. "Skin safety is important."
His eyes narrowed.
You kissed his cheek before he could ask anything else.
It worked.
For about three seconds.
The next morning arrived warm and clear, the Fourth of July sky a perfect summer blue.
Bucky came into the common room wearing dark jeans, a black T-shirt, and suspicion.
Everyone else was already there.
Ava had sunglasses pushed onto her head. Bob held a backpack full of snacks. John had his keys in hand and the expression of a man prepared to execute a mission. Alexei wore the bucket hat again. Yelena wore a yellow sundress with boots and looked ready to fight both fashion and God.
Bucky stopped in the doorway.
"No," he said.
You walked over, smiling. "You don't even know what this is."
"I know this is a group activity."
"Correct."
"And I know I wasn't told about it."
"Also correct."
"That means I should be concerned."
"Only emotionally."
His eyes flicked over your face. "What did you do?"
You held out your hand.
He looked at it, then at you. Something in him softened before he even took it.
"Come with me?" you asked.
For a moment, he didn't move. Then he placed his hand in yours. "Always."
Alexei sniffed loudly.
Yelena pointed at him. "No."
"I said nothing."
"You were about to."
"I was breathing."
"You were breathing emotionally."
John sighed. "Everybody out."
The ride was ridiculous.
Alexei insisted on telling Bucky that the destination was "a place of great historical significance," which made Bucky look increasingly alarmed. Bob passed around granola bars. Ava controlled the music from the front seat and refused every request. Yelena sang half the words to every song anyway.
You sat beside Bucky in the back, your hand tucked into his.
He leaned close enough that his breath brushed your ear. "You know I could get this out of you."
You looked up at him. "You could try."
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth.
Your pulse tripped over itself.
"I could," he murmured.
"Barnes," John said from the driver's seat, not looking back, "no interrogating the surprise planner."
Bucky leaned back, amused. "You're all terrible at secrets."
"We are excellent at secrets," Bob said.
Ava looked at him through the rearview mirror. "You almost printed an itinerary."
"It had useful margins."
Bucky's smile was small, but it stayed.
When the car finally slowed near the boardwalk, his expression changed.
You felt it before you saw it.
The way his hand tightened around yours. The way his breath caught, barely there.
The Wonder Wheel rose in the distance, bright against the sky. The Cyclone stood like a wooden memory, all sharp turns and old bones. The smell of salt, sugar, fried food, and summer drifted through the open window.
Bucky stared.
No one spoke.
Even Alexei managed silence.
John parked, and for a few seconds, Bucky did not move.
You squeezed his hand gently. "We don't have to do anything," you said. "We can just look. Or we can leave. Whatever you want."
Bucky turned to you slowly, his eyes bright. "You did this?"
"Not alone." You glanced toward the others. "Everyone helped."
Alexei immediately puffed up.
Yelena elbowed him.
Bucky looked at each of them.
Ava shrugged like this was nothing, though her expression was softer than usual. Bob smiled carefully. John gave a small nod. Alexei pressed a hand to his heart. Yelena rolled her eyes, but she was smiling too.
Bucky looked back at you. "You remembered," he said.
"You told me something that mattered."
His face shifted.
There were a hundred emotions there, too fast to name. Grief. Gratitude. Surprise. Love, maybe, though neither of you had been brave enough to say that word yet.
It settled between you anyway, warm as sunlight on the boardwalk.
He leaned down and kissed your forehead. It was brief. It still made the whole world go quiet.
"Thank you," he whispered.
You smiled up at him. "Happy Steve's birthday."
He laughed, and it cracked something open.
The day unfolded like a postcard that had survived a war and still kept its color.
You walked the boardwalk first. Bucky stayed close to you, quieter than usual but not distant. Every so often, he would point something out. A place that used to sell ice cream. A corner where Steve had once gotten into an argument with a man twice his size over someone cutting in line. A game booth where Bucky had won a prize and Steve had spent the rest of the day pretending not to want it.
"What was the prize?" you asked.
"A stuffed bear."
"Steve wanted a stuffed bear?"
"He said he didn't."
"Which means he absolutely did."
"Yeah." Bucky smiled to himself. "I gave it to him before we got home."
Your heart squeezed.
Nearby, Alexei was trying to win a giant plush eagle from a ring toss game and failing loudly.
"This game is rigged against super soldiers!"
Ava somehow won on her first try and handed the plush eagle to Bob, who hugged it like it had chosen him in a prophecy.
John bought everyone lemonade. He pretended this was practical hydration and not affection wearing sunglasses.
Then came the Cyclone.
Bucky stood at the entrance and stared up at the old wooden tracks.
You looked at him. "Too much?"
He shook his head slowly. "No." His mouth curved. "Steve would haunt me if I came here and didn't ride it."
Yelena perked up. "We are riding the death machine?"
"It's not a death machine," John said.
"It is made of wood and screaming."
"That's most of Alexei's stories," Ava said.
In the end, all of you rode it.
Bob prayed quietly on the climb. Alexei whooped before the first drop and then made a noise no one could properly identify. John laughed so hard he looked briefly twenty years younger. Ava kept her hands in the air the entire time, terrifyingly calm. Yelena shouted insults at the track like it had personally challenged her.
Bucky sat beside you.
At the top, just before the drop, he looked over.
The wind had pushed his hair back. The sun caught in his eyes. For one dizzy second, he looked younger too. Not unscarred. Not untouched by everything he had survived. But lighter, alive in the middle of the noise.
You smiled at him.
He smiled back.
Then the coaster plunged, and you both screamed.
When it was over, you stumbled off laughing, legs unsteady. Bucky caught you by the waist before you could trip.
"You good?" he asked, grinning.
"No. I died. This is my ghost."
"Your ghost is cute."
Your face warmed. "Your flirting needs work."
"Got you blushing."
"That was the near-death experience."
"Sure."
His hands stayed at your waist.
The others walked ahead, loudly arguing over whether Alexei had screamed. He claimed it was a "battle roar." No one believed him.
Bucky's thumb brushed your side.
"You're really okay?" you asked softly.
His smile faded into something gentler. "I am," he said. "It's strange."
"Good strange or bad strange?"
"Both." He glanced toward the boardwalk, the people, the ocean glittering beyond it all. "I thought coming back would feel like losing him all over again."
"And does it?"
"A little." He looked at you. "But not only that."
You waited.
He took a breath.
"It feels like bringing him with me."
Your throat tightened.
Bucky looked down at you like he wasn't sure what to do with all the tenderness in his chest, like it had no place to go except through his hands, still warm at your waist.
"You gave me that," he said.
You shook your head. "You already had it. I just rented the transportation."
He laughed softly.
Then he kissed you. His mouth met yours in the golden noise of Coney Island, slow and warm and careful at first, then a little less careful when your hands curled into his shirt. The whole boardwalk moved around you, bright and loud and alive, but Bucky kissed you like he had found a quiet place in the middle of it.
Someone cheered.
You both pulled apart.
Alexei stood twenty feet away with both fists in the air. "YES! ROMANCE!"
Yelena grabbed his arm and dragged him away. "You are ruining the scene."
"I am enhancing it!"
"You are a public nuisance."
Bucky dropped his forehead against yours, laughing under his breath.
"I'm sorry," you said.
"For what?"
"My friends."
"Our friends," he corrected.
The word settled in your chest.
Our.
By sunset, you were all full of hot dogs, fries, cotton candy, and questionable amounts of lemonade. Bob had named the plush eagle "Liberty Kevin." Ava pretended not to know any of you. John carried a bag of souvenirs he claimed were "team supplies." Yelena had stolen Bucky's fries twice. Alexei had bought another flag hat, because apparently one was not enough for a man of his "visual importance."
When the fireworks began, you were all sitting on the sand.
The first burst lit the sky.
Bucky flinched almost imperceptibly.
You noticed. You always noticed him.
Without saying anything, you slipped your hand into his. He looked over at you.
"You can look at me instead," you said.
His eyes softened.
The fireworks cracked overhead, bright enough to turn the beach silver for a second.
Bucky looked at you, not the sky.
You leaned your shoulder against his. "Tell me about him," you said.
Bucky's fingers tightened around yours.
So he did.
He told you about Steve before the serum, stubborn and small and angry at every unfair thing in the world. He told you about Coney Island birthdays and cheap food and scraped knees and fireworks reflected in Steve's eyes. He told you about laughter that lived in another century and somehow still echoed here, tonight, beside the water.
And when he got quiet, you stayed.
No fixing.
No rushing.
No filling the silence just because it hurt.
The finale painted the sky in gold.
Bucky finally looked up.
For a moment, you watched the fireworks together.
The ocean caught the light and broke it apart. Gold scattered over the water. Red bloomed above the Wonder Wheel. Blue burned bright enough to turn Bucky's face silver at the edges.
He looked softer in that light. Not less haunted, just less alone.
Then he whispered, "He would've liked you."
Your heart stumbled. "You think so?"
"I know so." Bucky looked at you, and there was no hesitation in him. "He would've said I was an idiot if I didn't tell you how much you mean to me."
Your breath caught.
Behind you, the team had gone suspiciously quiet.
Bucky noticed too and glanced over his shoulder. "Are they listening?"
"Yes," Ava said.
"No," John said at the same time.
Bob whispered, "A little."
Yelena said, "Continue. We are emotionally invested."
Alexei sniffled. "I am not crying. The freedom smoke is in my eyes."
Bucky stared at them. Then he laughed. Not the small laugh, not the careful one.
A real laugh, warm and startled, pulled out of him by the sheer absurdity of being loved by a group of impossible people on a beach in Brooklyn while fireworks burst overhead.
You felt lucky to hear it.
He turned back to you, still smiling, but it changed when his eyes found yours.
The humor softened.
The world around you seemed to blur at the edges. The team behind you. The shouting from the boardwalk. The crackle of fireworks. The hiss of the tide dragging itself up the sand and falling back again.
All of it became background.
Bucky's hand rose to your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly along your skin. He touched you like you were something precious, something he was still surprised he was allowed to reach for.
"I thought today was going to hurt," he said quietly.
You covered his hand with yours. "Did it?"
"A little." His eyes searched your face. "But then you were there."
Your chest tightened.
"You don't have to choose," you whispered. "Between missing him and being happy."
His throat worked.
"I know." His forehead tipped closer to yours. "I think I'm starting to know that."
The next firework burst above you, gold pouring through the sky like spilled sunlight.
Bucky didn't look up. He kept looking at you.
"I love you," he said.
The words were quiet, almost too quiet for the noise around you, but you heard them like they had been spoken directly into your ribs.
For a second, you couldn't breathe.
Bucky's eyes flickered, just enough for you to see the fear beneath the courage. He had survived wars, monsters, gods, ghosts. Still, somehow, this was the thing that made him look uncertain.
Your heart broke open in the gentlest way.
You leaned in, brushing your nose against his. "I love you too," you whispered.
His breath left him all at once.
Then he kissed you. Soft at first. Like he was pressing the words somewhere deeper than sound could reach.
You kissed him back with both hands in his shirt, holding him there while the sky cracked open above you. His metal hand settled carefully at your waist. His flesh hand cupped your cheek. He tasted like lemonade and salt air and summer. He kissed you like the world had taken too much from him and, somehow, impossibly, given him this.
Given him you.
Behind you, Alexei made a wounded little sound.
Yelena hissed, "Do not ruin this."
"I am moved," Alexei whispered.
"You are loud."
"I am quietly moved."
"You are never quietly anything."
Bucky smiled against your mouth.
You laughed into the kiss, and he pulled back just enough to look at you.
There were fireworks reflected in his eyes.
For a second, you imagined Steve there beside the two of you, all stubborn heart and bright grin, watching his best friend finally let himself have something good.
Bucky seemed to feel it too.
His gaze lifted briefly to the sky, then lowered back to you.
"Happy birthday, punk," he murmured.
Your eyes stung.
Then Bucky looked at you again, the sadness was still there, but so was the light.
So was the love.
He wrapped his arm around you and pulled you close until you were tucked against his side, your head beneath his chin, his heartbeat steady against your ear.
The fireworks kept blooming over Coney Island. Bright, loud, a little messy, very much alive.
And this time, Bucky watched them with you.
Not because it didn't hurt.
Because it did.
Because love always made room for ghosts. Because grief could sit beside joy without swallowing it whole.
Because Steve was still there in the salt air, in the old wooden bones of the Cyclone, in the echo of Bucky's laugh, in every burst of gold that scattered over the water.
And because you were there too. Warm and real, holding his hand.
When the last firework faded and the sky went dark again, Bucky lowered his mouth to your temple.
"Thank you," he whispered.
You turned your face into his chest. "For what?"
"For bringing me back here." His hand slipped into yours. "For staying."
You squeezed his fingers. "Always."
And when he kissed you one last time beneath the smoke-soft sky, it did not feel like an ending.
It felt like a promise.
One made of salt air, old memories, new love, and the kind of light that knew exactly how to find its way home.
C's corner: Hello loves ❤️ So… I got a little carried away with this chapter. But honestly? John and Em needed this. After everything they’ve been carrying, they deserved a moment to just be soft with each other. Messy, emotional, tender, and finally honest in the way only they can be.
Thank you so much for all the love on this story so far. Every like, comment, reblog, and tag means so much to me, and to all of my followers, thank you for sticking with me and my emotionally complicated little corner of the internet.
I hope you enjoy this one. John and Em are deep in the feelings trenches now, and honestly… so am I. 🫶🏽✨
This is written in second POV, but reader will have a name, Mara Hart, it won't be used often, but will pop up every now and then, especially her nickname, Em, and from here on out Hart.
WARNINGS: 18+ only, MDNI, explicit sexual content, first time together, emotional intimacy, love confessions, mentions of grief, mentions of past violence/killings, military pressure/investigation, anxiety, guilt, trauma, protective john walker, soft aftercare, john being painfully tender.
✍🏽 WC: 11.7K+
SUMMARY:
After another long day pulls John away from you, worry and longing follow you straight to his apartment. What starts as checking in on him turns into something softer, heavier, and harder to ignore, as both of you are forced to face the feelings growing between you and the ghosts still lingering in the room.
TAGS: @iwritefanfictionsnottragedies, @quantumlethe, @qvicksilversass, @daylightandthedreamer, @mencantaleer, @amnatreal, @sebastians-love, @spectralexiletrace, @weasleyswizarding-wheezes, @lilulicious (to be added to the tag list CLICK HERE)
The church smells like floor cleaner, coffee, and old wood. It should be grounding, usually, it is.
The scrape of folding chairs across linoleum. The low murmur of volunteers sorting donation bins. The distant laugh of someone in the kitchen who has no idea the world has ever ended, or maybe knows and has simply learned how to laugh anyway.
You should be thinking about the stack of canned goods in front of you. You should be checking expiration dates, organizing labels forward, keeping count the way you promised Sister Agnes you would.
Instead, you are thinking about John Walker's hands. Because apparently your brain has no sense of community service.
You stare down at a can of green beans and see his apartment instead. The couch. The forgotten report. His mouth against your throat. His voice saying girlfriend into a military phone call like he had carved the word into stone before anyone could take it from him.
You had almost crossed a line.
No.
You had walked right up to the line, pressed your hands against its chest, and asked if it wanted to come closer.
If that phone had not rung, you know exactly what would have happened.
Your face warms in the church supply room. 'Perfect. Wonderful. Very holy.' you think. You set the can down too hard.
Across the table, Sister Agnes looks up over the rim of her glasses. She is tying little paper tags onto donation bags with the calm precision of someone who could probably shame a demon back into the ground with one look. "Everything all right, dear?"
You blink. "Yes."
She eyes the can.
You glance down at it. The green beans are dented now.
You smile weakly. "Aggressive sorting."
Sister Agnes hums, slow and deeply unconvinced. "Careful. Even vegetables deserve mercy."
"I'll apologize to them."
"See that you do."
There is no judgment in her voice. Somehow that makes it worse. She simply gives you one more look, gentle and knowing enough to peel paint, before going back to her donation bags.
You exhale through your nose and press both hands flat to the table. 'Get a grip, Mara.'
The problem is, you don't want a grip. You want John. The thought doesn't arrive gently. It lands heavy and honest in the center of you, no disguise, no exit strategy.
You want him.
His hands. His mouth. His rough little sounds when you touch that freckle on his ear. The careful way he asks if you're okay even when his whole body is shaking with the effort of holding back. The warmth of him in bed beside you, steady and alive, one arm always finding you sometime in the night like he's checking that you're still there.
You want him, and you're almost certain John wants you too.
You saw it in his eyes before the call interrupted. You felt it in his hands beneath your shirt. You heard it in his voice when he said your name like it cost him something.
Your fingers drift to your chest without permission. The wolf charm rests beneath your shirt, warm from your skin. You slip it free and hold it between your fingers.
For a moment, the church noise dulls around you.
The charm catches the light, small and familiar, and grief rises in you the way it always does. Not sharp enough to cut you open today. Not gentle enough to ignore either.
"I still love you," you whisper.
The words are so quiet they barely exist. You bring the charm to your lips and kiss it.
It's not a confession you need forgiven, not an apology, just the truth.
You love Bucky. Some part of you always will. That love sits in the marrow of who you became after the world broke apart. It's stitched into the old version of you, the one who survived on ghosts and knives and promises no one else could hear.
And still...
You love the way John looks at you like he's relieved you walked into the room. You love the way his apartment has started to hold your shape. You love the way he lets you be haunted without trying to exorcise you.
You love him too. The realization sits in you quietly. Just waiting for you to stop looking away.
Your phone pings in your back pocket. Your heart makes one stupid, hopeful little leap before you can stop it.
You pull it out.
John: I'm sorry, love. Got held up at base. I'm not going to make it to the church today.
Another message appears before you can type.
John: I'll call you when I can.
You stare at the screen.
You knew this would happen. You felt it coming all morning, that ugly little pressure behind your ribs every time you checked the door and saw someone who was not him. Base has been swallowing him whole lately. Free days. Nights. Mornings that were supposed to be his. Hours that were supposed to belong to neither mission nor report nor special review.
The military keeps taking pieces of him and calling it duty. You hate it.
You hate that he sounds sorry when he has no control over it. You hate that you can picture him standing somewhere fluorescent and sterile, jaw tight, shoulders squared, saying yes sir while someone else decides what part of his life gets to belong to him.
You type back before anger can turn into something sharper.
You: It's okay. Be careful.
Then, because you're trying to be a person who says what she means before the world punishes her for waiting,
You: I miss you.
The little delivered note appears. You lock the phone and slide it away.
For a second, you let your fingers close around the charm again. Then you tuck it beneath your shirt, pick up another can, and try not to dent this one too.
By the time evening starts smearing gold across the parking lot, most of the volunteers have gone home. The church doors are propped open behind you. The last of the supply tables are folded and stacked.
You and Lemar are clearing the parking lot. Which mostly means you are picking up empty water bottles while Lemar carries three folding chairs at once because he likes being useful and irritating about it.
"You know," he says, balancing the chairs against his hip, "for a place of worship, this parking lot has a real talent for collecting trash."
You stab a paper cup with the grabber in your hand. "Maybe the trash is seeking redemption."
"That cup looks beyond saving."
"You would know."
Lemar pauses. "Was that an insult?"
"You'll figure it out."
He grins. "There she is."
You roll your eyes and drop the cup into the trash bag.
Lemar shifts the chairs higher in his arms. "You've been quiet today."
"I'm volunteering. Quiet is allowed."
"With you? Suspicious."
"I can be quiet."
"Yeah, when you're plotting."
You look at him. "Do you want me to start plotting?"
"No, ma'am." He lifts one chair like a shield. "I choose life."
You huff despite yourself and tie the trash bag closed.
For a minute, the two of you move in silence. Comfortable silence, the kind that has earned its place. Lemar has always been too good at standing beside your damage without poking it just to see what color it bleeds.
That makes him dangerous in a different way.
You glance toward the street. Then at him. "Can you give me a ride?"
Lemar doesn't even try to hide his smile.
You regret speaking instantly.
"To where?" he asks, voice already too innocent.
You narrow your eyes. "Don't."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Yes, you do."
"I'm simply asking for the destination. Very normal. Very logistical."
"John's place."
Lemar's smile becomes a full event. The man has never met a moment he could not turn into a weapon.
"Hmm," he says.
You point at him. "No."
"I didn't say anything."
"You said hmm."
"Hmm is not a crime."
"It is when you do it like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're about to put on a bonnet and gossip from a porch."
Lemar laughs, bright and loud, and the sound bounces off the church brick. "Trouble," he says, "you have a key to the man's apartment and still ask me to drive you over there like this is a neutral errand."
You grab another empty bottle off the pavement. "It is a neutral errand."
"Right."
"I am going to check on him."
"Very neutral."
"He has been stuck at base all day."
"Mm-hmm."
"He might be tired."
"Naturally."
"And someone should make sure he hasn't worked himself into the floor."
"Someone."
You glare at him. "You are enjoying this way too much."
"I'm enjoying it a normal amount."
"There is nothing normal happening on your face right now."
Lemar presses a hand to his chest. "That hurts. This is my concerned face."
"That is your I know something and I'm about to make it everyone's problem face."
He laughs again and finally starts walking toward his truck. "Come on. I'll take you to your neutral errand."
You follow him. "You are never meeting anyone I date ever again."
"Too late. I knew John before you did."
"That is exactly the problem."
He tosses the chairs into the back of the truck and looks over at you. The teasing softens, not gone, just lowered. "He text you?"
You look down at the trash bag twisted in your hand. "Yeah."
"Base?"
"Yeah."
Lemar's jaw tightens for half a second.
You see it. He knows you see it. Neither of you says anything until you're both in the truck and the church starts shrinking in the rearview mirror.
The ride begins with the radio low. Some old R & B song hums through the speakers. Lemar taps two fingers against the steering wheel, less to the beat and more because stillness doesn't suit him when he's worried.
You watch streetlights flick on one by one. For a while, you let the quiet sit. Then you ask the question that has been clawing at the inside of your chest since John's phone call days ago.
"Do you think they know?"
Lemar's fingers stop tapping. He doesn't look at you right away. "Know what?"
You turn your face toward the window. Your reflection looks back at you from the glass, faint and ghostlike. "My past."
The truck rolls through a green light. Lemar's voice changes when he answers. Less playful now. All brother, all soldier. "Mara."
"The killings," you say, because if you don't say it cleanly, it will grow teeth. "The people I killed after the Blip. What I was doing when John and I met. When you found me."
Lemar is quiet.
You remember that night too well.
The warehouse stink of blood and dust. The sound of your own breathing, too calm for what you had done. You had been a ghost wearing skin, a girl sharpened into a weapon by loss, grief packed so deep inside you that mercy had felt like a language from another country.
John had looked at you like he could see the wound beneath the blade. Lemar had looked at John like, what the hell are we walking into? Neither of them had turned you in.
"They don't know," Lemar says.
You look at him.
His eyes stay on the road, but his voice is certain enough to put steel in the air. "John and I never made a report."
Your throat tightens.
He continues, steady. "Not about you. Not about what happened. Not about who you were before or what you did. In our files, that whole thing is smoke. Bad intel, dead end, nothing actionable."
"Lemar."
"I mean it." He glances at you then. "You're a ghost in our reports."
The words should comfort you, they do, a little. They also chill something old inside you. A ghost. You have been that for so long.
"I don't know if that matters anymore," you say.
"It matters."
"They asked John about me."
His mouth tightens.
You watch his hands on the steering wheel. "He didn't tell you?"
"He said they asked questions." Lemar exhales through his nose. "He didn't say details."
"They asked how long he knew me. What I was to him."
"Yeah," Lemar says quietly. "That tracks."
Your stomach twists. "With what?"
"I don't know yet."
"Don't do that."
"What?"
"That soldier voice." You turn toward him fully. "The one where you pretend uncertainty is strategy."
Lemar's mouth pulls into a humorless smile. "Learned from the best."
"John?"
"No," he says. "You."
That shuts you up.
The truck moves through the evening, tires whispering over pavement.
You stare at your hands.
"They can ask whatever they want," you say. "It doesn't change what happened."
"No. It doesn't."
"And if they find out, if they dig deep enough, if some buried thing crawls its way out..." You swallow. "I'm prepared for the consequences."
Lemar's head turns sharply toward you before he forces his eyes back to the road. "No."
You blink. "No?"
"No," he repeats. "I hate when you talk like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you already signed the sentencing papers in your head."
Your jaw tightens. "I'm being realistic."
"You're being cruel to yourself and calling it realism because it sounds more respectable."
The words land harder than you expect. You look out the window again.
Lemar softens, but only slightly. "Prepared doesn't mean deserving, Mara."
You close your eyes. "Don't."
"I'm serious."
"I know you are. That's why I said don't."
He sighs. "You did terrible things."
Your eyes open.
He doesn't flinch from it. That's the thing about Lemar, he can be kind without lying. It makes the kindness harder to survive.
"You did," he says. "And you also survived something that tore the world apart, both can be true. But don't sit there and act like consequences are the same as justice. They're not always."
You stare at him.
He keeps driving.
After a long moment, you say, "I hate when you're emotionally competent."
He smiles a little. "I know."
"It's unsettling."
"I contain multitudes."
You huff, but the laugh barely makes it out.
Lemar reaches over and taps his knuckles lightly against your knee. Quick. Brotherly. There and gone.
"He won't let them use you," he says.
You look down at where his hand was.
"And neither will I."
The threat in his voice is soft. It makes your chest ache.
"Thanks," you whisper.
He gives you a sideways glance, trying to pull the moment back from the edge before it becomes too tender to survive.
"Also, for the record, if you and John ever break up, I'm keeping you in the divorce."
You blink. Then you laugh, sudden and real.
"There's no divorce, idiot."
"I'm just saying, I was your brother first."
"You were never my brother."
He looks offended. "That is hurtful."
"You assigned yourself the role."
"And I have performed it beautifully."
"True, you are driving me to my boyfriend's apartment while bullying me."
"That's premium brother service."
You shake your head, but you are still smiling when his truck pulls up outside John's building.
Lemar puts it in park and looks up at the windows.
For a second, the teasing vanishes again.
"You sure you're okay?"
You follow his gaze. One of the windows is lit. John is home. The sight loosens something in your chest before you can stop it.
"Yeah," you say. "I'm okay."
Lemar looks at you.
You sigh. "I will be."
He accepts that because he knows it's the best truth you have.
He gets out with you anyway.
"I can walk myself upstairs," you say.
"I know."
"Then why are you getting out?"
"Because I want to see his face when you use the key."
You stop on the sidewalk and glare.
Lemar grins. "What? I've earned joy."
"You've earned silence."
"Never cared for it."
You mutter something unkind under your breath and head inside. Lemar follows, delighted.
The elevator ride is unbearable because he keeps looking at you. You stare straight ahead.
"Stop."
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're looking at me emotionally."
"That's your thing."
"I learned it from John."
"You two are terrible influences on each other."
You glance at him. "And you're loving every second."
"Deeply."
When you reach John's door, you pull the key from your pocket. It still feels strange in your hand. Not bad strange, terrifying strange, soft strange. The kind of strange that makes your ribs feel too small for your heart.
You unlock the door.
Lemar makes a sound behind you.
You turn before opening it. "No."
He presses his lips together.
"Do not say anything."
He holds up both hands.
"You're vibrating."
"I am full of support."
"You are full of something."
You push the door open before he can answer.
John is already there.
He stands near the hallway, towel in one hand, running it through damp hair. He has on a dark T-shirt and sweatpants, feet bare, shoulders loose in a way they only get when he's home and trying to pretend the rest of the world is not chewing through his patience.
He looks up at the sound of the door.
For half a second, his face is all soldier.
Then he sees you.
The tension around his eyes eases. His mouth softens. His hand stills with the towel half lifted, and the warmth that moves through his expression is so open that you almost forget Lemar is behind you.
"Hey," John says.
You step inside like you have every right to. Because apparently, you do now.
"Hi."
John's eyes flick past you to Lemar, then back to you. Amusement ghosts across his face. "You bring backup?"
Lemar steps in behind you. "Chauffeur. Emotional witness. General public nuisance."
Without looking back, you say, "At least you're self-aware."
"Barely," Lemar says.
John's mouth twitches.
You walk straight to him, rise onto your toes, and kiss him. Quick and soft. Possessive enough to make your own stomach flip.
When you pull back, John is looking at you like you just turned the lights on inside his chest.
Unfortunately, Lemar exists.
You glance over your shoulder at him. "Not a word."
Lemar holds both hands up, eyes wide with theatrical innocence. "I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
"I was going to say I'm leaving."
"You were not."
"I was eventually going to get there."
John laughs under his breath.
You point at him. "Do not encourage him."
"I breathed."
"You both use that excuse. I hate it."
Lemar grins at John. "For the record, this was apparently a neutral errand."
Your face warms. "Lemar."
"What? I'm supporting the narrative."
"You are seconds away from losing speaking privileges."
He looks between you and John, grin softening into something far too knowing. "She's mean when she's in love."
The apartment goes still.
Your entire body heats.
John's eyes flick to you.
Lemar's grin falters just enough to prove he knows he poked something soft. Then he clears his throat and takes one step back. "I'm leaving now."
"Great idea," you say too quickly.
John's eyes flick to you.
You look anywhere but at his face. "I'm going to take a quick shower," you tell him. "Lemar, thanks for the ride."
Lemar salutes you badly.
You glare at him because that is safer than any other expression. Then you escape down the hall before the apartment can grow more feelings.
The bathroom door shuts behind you. For a second, you stand there with both hands on the sink. Your reflection looks flushed. Nervous. Alive in a way that still catches you off guard sometimes.
You turn on the shower.
In the living room, John watches the hallway long after the bathroom door closes.
Lemar sees it. The man has made a hobby out of noticing what John tries to hide.
"You good?" Lemar asks.
John looks back at him. "Yeah."
"That was convincing."
John tosses the towel over his shoulder. "What?"
Lemar's teasing fades. There is no clean way into it, so he just steps through.
"She's worried about you."
John's jaw tightens. "Lemar."
"No. I'm saying it because she won't." Lemar keeps his voice low. "She's worried about all this military bullshit you're wrapped up in. The special review. The questions. You getting called in on days you're supposed to be off. She's acting like she can take whatever comes, but that doesn't mean she's not scared."
John looks toward the hall again. A muscle works in his jaw. "I know."
"Do you?"
John's eyes come back to him, sharp now.
Lemar doesn't back up, he never has.
John exhales and drags a hand over his damp hair. "I know she's worried."
"She asked me if they knew about her."
John goes very still.
Lemar's expression hardens. "About what happened after the Blip. About what you and I walked into."
John's voice drops. "What did you say?"
"I told her the truth. We never made a report. She's a ghost in our files."
John looks down. The words don't soothe him the way they should. Because now the military is asking questions about a ghost. And John doesn't like ghosts becoming targets.
Lemar steps closer. "You need to talk to her."
"I will."
"Don't just tell her everything's fine."
John's mouth tightens.
Lemar raises his brows. "That face means you were absolutely going to tell her everything's fine."
"I can handle it."
"I know you can handle a lot." Lemar's voice softens, but only a fraction. "That's not the same as letting her in."
John looks toward the hallway again.
The shower is running now.
He can picture you in there too easily. Wet hair. His soap on your skin. That look you get when you're pretending not to worry because you think worry is another burden someone else has to carry.
His chest tightens.
"I'll talk to her," he says.
Lemar studies him. Then, because he is Lemar and apparently allergic to ending anything with clean sincerity, he tilts his head toward the hallway.
"So," he says, "she has a key now."
John blinks at him. "What?"
"I'm just saying. Key to the apartment. Showing up after church. Kissing you like she pays rent here."
John narrows his eyes. "Lemar."
Lemar lifts both hands. "I'm observing."
"Get out."
"Gladly. Some of us respect boundaries."
John gives him a look.
Lemar's grin flashes. "Recent development. I'm proud of it."
"Goodnight, Lemar."
"Goodnight, boyfriend."
John's ears go faintly pink.
Lemar sees it, brightens, and wisely leaves before John can throw something at him.
The apartment quiets after the door closes.
John stands there for a moment, listening to the shower, feeling the shape of everything pressing in from all sides.
Base. The review. The questions. You.
You, who walked into his apartment with a key and kissed him like coming home. You, who loved a ghost and somehow still looked at him like he was something worth reaching for.
His hand curls once at his side. He's going to handle this, he has to.
When you come out of the shower, you are wearing one of John's oversized shirts and your shorts.
Of course, the shirt is his. Of course, it hangs off one shoulder. Of course, John Walker, decorated soldier, trained officer, certified man with working lungs, forgets how to breathe.
You walk into the room rubbing a towel through your hair, bare feet quiet against the floor. The shirt slips a little lower with each step, exposing the curve of your shoulder and the strap of your top underneath.
John is standing near the couch. He looks at you, then your shoulder. Then very deliberately back at your face like he's trying to be noble and losing a private war.
You notice. Your mouth curves. "What?"
"Nothing."
"That was not nothing."
"You're wearing my shirt."
"I wear your shirts all the time."
"I know."
"You keep looking surprised."
"I keep surviving it."
The words slip out before he can stop them.
Your smile softens in that dangerous way, the one that makes him feel seen and undone at the same time. You step closer. "Surviving?"
"Barely."
Your face warms, but you don't look away.
John reaches for you slowly, his fingers brush your exposed shoulder. A soft, careful touch.
Your breath catches.
John's thumb moves once over your skin. "You're cold," he murmurs.
"I just got out of the shower."
"Mm."
"That was an explanation, not an invitation to look concerned."
His mouth curves faintly. "I'm always going to look concerned."
"Sounds exhausting."
"Sometimes."
Your eyes lift to his. The air shifts slowly, the way a tide changes while pretending to be still.
John's hand stays on your shoulder, warm against the cool damp of your skin. His thumb traces a small path there, over and over, and your body betrays you by leaning into it.
He sees that too. But instead of kissing you, instead of letting the heat catch, he draws in a breath. "Lemar told me what you asked him."
Your eyes close for half a second. When they open, the softness is still there, but now it has armor around it. "I'm never telling Lemar anything again."
John's mouth twitches. "He cares about you."
"He has a terrible way of showing it."
"He drove you here."
"He mocked me the entire way."
"That's how he shows affection."
"I noticed. It's a hostile love language."
John smiles, but it fades quickly. His hand slides from your shoulder to the side of your neck.
"Everything's under control," he says.
You stare at him.
John already knows that look. It's the one that means you have found a weak point in his sentence and are preparing to stab it.
"Is it?" you ask.
"Yes."
"John."
"I mean it."
"You got called into base on your free day again. The military's asking questions about me. Lemar looks like someone shoved classified dread into his pockets." You step closer, fingers curling lightly around his wrist. "And you want me to believe everything is under control?"
His jaw tightens.
You soften your voice. "I care about you."
That hits him harder than the accusation would have. You see it land. The way his eyes change. The way his throat works once. The way his hand stills against your neck.
You lift both hands and cradle his face. "I care about you," you repeat, quieter. "That's what makes me worry about all this special review crap."
John closes his eyes for half a breath. When he opens them, the soldier has not disappeared. He's still there, still braced, still ready to shoulder the weight alone because that is what he was trained to do and praised for doing and punished for failing at.
But the man beneath him is tired.
Your chest aches. "Talk to me," you say.
He looks at you for a long moment. Then he covers one of your hands with his. "I don't know what they're looking for yet."
The honesty is small, but it matters.
You nod.
"They're reviewing my conduct. My reports. My recent operations. They're asking questions that don't line up with what they said this was supposed to be." His thumb brushes over your knuckles. "And now they're asking about you."
"Because of me?"
"No."
"You don't know that."
His expression hardens. "I know you're not the problem."
"That's sweet."
"It's true."
"Those aren't always the same thing."
"Mara."
The name comes out rough.
You stroke your thumbs along his cheeks. "I'm not saying I'm the problem. I'm saying I have been one before."
His face changes. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Talk about yourself like evidence."
The words knock something loose in you. For a moment, you cannot answer.
John leans his forehead against yours. "I can't tell you not to worry," he says. "That would be stupid."
"Mm. Growth."
His mouth twitches against restraint. "But I need you to know I'm not going to let them turn you into leverage."
Your breath catches.
"They don't get to use you to get to me," he continues, voice low. "And they don't get to use me to scare you."
You close your eyes for a moment. "I'm prepared," you whisper.
John pulls back enough to look at you. "I know you are."
You blink at him.
He doesn't say it like Lemar did. He doesn't argue. He doesn't soften the truth until it becomes something easier. He simply sees you.
"But you don't have to prepare alone," he says.
Your throat tightens. You hate him a little for that.
"You're getting dangerously good at saying the right thing," you murmur.
His eyes soften. "Only with you."
You drop your hands from his face before you do something humiliating like cry over emotional competence.
John catches one of your hands before it falls completely. His gaze moves over your face, searching. Then, because he must sense you're one tender sentence away from dissolving, he changes the subject.
"So," he says quietly.
You look at him. "So?"
His thumb moves over the back of your hand. "You used your key."
The shift is so soft, so carefully placed, that for a second all you can do is stare at him.
Then your face warms.
"I did."
John looks toward the front door, then back at you. "Felt kind of natural."
"Don't get emotional about a key."
"I'm not."
"You are."
His mouth twitches. "Maybe a little."
You narrow your eyes. "You and Lemar are unbearable in different fonts."
"He said this was a neutral errand."
"Lemar says a lot of things."
"He also called me boyfriend."
Your eyes close slowly. "I'm going to kill him."
John's smile finally breaks through. It's small, tired, and unfairly beautiful. "He seemed proud of himself."
"He should mind his business."
"He never has."
"He should start."
John's fingers lace with yours. You look down at them, then back up.
The room has gone softer at the edges. The worry is still there. It hasn't left. It sits in the corner like a patient animal with too many teeth.
But John is here. Warm. Barefoot. Damp-haired. Looking at you like you're the only thing in the room he understands.
You tug lightly on his hand.
"Come to bed."
His eyes darken. Not all at once. Not crudely. Just enough.
"Mara."
"What?" You lift your brows. "We share a bed now."
His mouth curves. "Yeah, we do."
"Very domestic of us."
"Terrifying."
"Deeply." You step backward, pulling him with you. "Come on."
The warmth returns first. Then the heat beneath it. Then the careful pause he always gives you, even now, even after weeks of shared beds and stolen shirts and kisses that have been getting less innocent by the day.
"You sure?" he asks.
You step closer until your body nearly brushes his. "Yes."
John's hands tighten at your waist.
"Okay," he says softly.
Then he kisses you soft enough that it almost hurts.
His mouth moves over yours with the kind of patience that makes your knees unreliable, one hand sliding from your waist to your lower back while the other comes up to cradle the side of your neck. He walks you backward carefully, not rushing, not pushing, just guiding you toward the hallway as if the apartment has narrowed to the path between his mouth and the bedroom.
You go willingly.
Your arms wrap around his neck, fingers sliding into the damp hair at his nape. He makes a quiet sound when your nails graze lightly there, and you smile against his mouth because you are becoming terrible with power.
John notices. "You're proud of yourself again," he murmurs.
"A little."
His mouth brushes yours. "Problem."
You huff a small laugh and slide your fingers higher. You find his left ear.
John's breath catches before you even touch the freckle.
Your smile deepens. "Already?"
"Hart."
There it is, that warning with no ammunition.
Your thumb brushes over the tiny freckle on his earlobe. John stops walking for half a second. The sound he makes is low, quiet, almost helpless. It moves through you in a warm, wicked little bloom.
"You are so easy there," you whisper.
His eyes open, dark and narrowed. "Keep talking."
"Is that a threat?"
"No." His hand slides lower on your back, pulling you a fraction closer. "It's a warning."
You brush the freckle again.
John's jaw flexes. Then his mouth is on yours again, hotter now, less patient.
You stumble backward into the bedroom, laughing softly against his lips when your heel catches the edge of the rug. John catches you immediately, one arm firm around your waist, the other braced at your side.
"Careful," he murmurs.
You look up at him.
The word hangs strangely between you. You have both been so careful. Careful with grief, with want, with the ghost under your shirt and the soldier beneath his skin. Careful has kept you safe. Careful has also become a door neither of you knows how to open without breaking something.
You lift your hand to his face. "I'm here."
His eyes search yours.
Then his mouth softens, and he kisses you again, deeper.
He walks you back until your legs hit the edge of the bed. You sit, tugging him with you by the front of his shirt. John follows with a low breath, one knee sinking into the mattress beside your thigh as he leans over you.
His hand cups your jaw. His thumb traces your cheek.
"You tell me if you want me to stop," he says.
You nod.
His eyes sharpen slightly.
You swallow. "I will."
"Promise me."
The demand should annoy you. It doesn't. Not when his voice is rough with want and still threaded with restraint. Not when his body is asking for you and his first instinct is still to make sure you know the door is open.
You touch his cheek. "I promise."
John exhales, then his mouth lowers to your shoulder.
The shirt has slipped again, leaving skin bare to the cool air and his warm breath. His lips brush the curve first, a barely-there touch that sends a shiver through you. Then he kisses you properly, open-mouthed and slow, right where your shoulder slopes toward your neck.
Your head tips back before you can stop it. A soft sigh leaves you.
Pleased.
John stills for the smallest second, then he does it again.
Your fingers tighten in his shirt. "John."
His name sounds different like this. Less like a warning. More like permission.
His mouth moves along your exposed shoulder, patient and devastating, each kiss placed with maddening care. His hand settles on your bare leg, warm against your thigh, thumb brushing once over your skin.
You breathe in sharply.
He looks up immediately. "Okay?"
You nod, already reaching for him. "Yes."
His gaze stays on yours for another beat, making sure.
Then his hand moves again, slow over your thigh, his palm callused and warm, sliding carefully until his fingers curl at your hip. He kisses you as he does it, mouth returning to yours, and you fall back onto the bed, pulling him down with you.
John follows. Always careful with his weight. Always aware of where his hands are, where your body is beneath his, how much room you have to move.
You hate how much that undoes you.
His body settles over yours, one hand braced beside your head, the other still on your hip. Your legs shift around him naturally now, no panic in the movement, no apology.
Just want, just the heat of him and the familiar weight of his breathing against yours.
Your hands slide under the hem of his shirt, fingers pressing to the hard warmth of his back.
John groans into your mouth.
The sound sparks through you. "There it is," you breathe.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark. "You like that too much."
"I like a lot of things too much."
His mouth curves, but the smile shakes at the edges when your hands move over his skin.
"Yeah?" he asks.
You nod, then lift your hips slightly beneath him.
John's eyes close. His breath leaves him in a rough exhale.
Your own sound follows, small and helpless, when his hand slides beneath the edge of the shirt you stole from him.
His fingers find your waist first. Warm skin to warm skin.
You both go still.
It's not the first time he has touched you there.
These past few weeks have shifted things between you, kiss by kiss, touch by touch, the line between comfort and hunger thinning until you can barely see where one ends and the other begins.
His hands have learned your waist, your ribs, the dip of your back.
Your hands have learned the weight of his shoulders, the warmth of his stomach, the soft, secret sound he makes when your mouth finds his left ear.
Nothing has crossed that final line. But innocence has packed a bag and fled the apartment.
John's hand slides higher beneath your shirt, over the skin of your side, thumb tracing the curve of your ribs. Your back arches slightly, a pleased moan slipping from your mouth before you can trap it.
His eyes snap to yours.
There's heat in them, but also something else. Wonder. Tenderness. That quiet, dangerous awe he gets sometimes, as if he still cannot believe you're here beneath him, touching him back.
"Don't look at me like that," you whisper.
His hand pauses. "Like what?"
"Like that."
His mouth lowers to your jaw. "Can't help it."
You turn your face, catching his mouth again before he can make you feel anything too large for your chest.
The kiss burns hotter.
His hand moves under the shirt again, slow and deliberate, pushing the fabric higher just enough for his palm to spread over your bare stomach. You stiffen for half a second.
John feels it immediately. He stops. His mouth leaves yours.
"Love?"
You open your eyes. The concern in his face nearly breaks you.
"I'm okay," you say.
His gaze searches yours.
You place your hand over his, holding it there against your skin. Against the place where grief has lived in a language no one else could read.
His expression shifts.
He understands. Not all of it, no one can, but enough.
His thumb moves once. Soft and reverent. The touch is not apology this time. Not pity or fear.
Just love before the word has arrived.
You pull him back down.
John kisses you with a sound low in his throat, and the heat returns, threaded now with something so tender it makes your eyes burn. His hand stays beneath your shirt. His fingers trace your side, your waist, your ribs.
Every touch asks, every breath listens.
And you answer.
With the arch of your body. With your hands in his hair. With the soft sounds you no longer try to swallow because you have learned what they do to him.
A small moan escapes when his mouth returns to your shoulder, when his teeth graze lightly over the skin there, not enough to hurt, just enough to make your fingers dig into his back.
John groans against you. "God."
You smile, dazed and warm. "What?"
His mouth brushes your skin. "Those sounds."
Your face heats. "Don't."
"I can't." He lifts his head, eyes heavy-lidded and bright with something unguarded. "I like the sounds you make for me."
The words move through you, molten and sudden.
You tug at his shirt before either of you can get lost in the size of that feeling.
"Off."
His mouth stills against your skin.
When he lifts his head, the corner of his mouth curves. "Bossy."
"You like it."
His gaze drops to your mouth. "Yeah."
He pulls back long enough to strip the shirt over his head.
You have seen him shirtless before. In the mornings, after showers. Half-asleep in blue-gray light while you pretended not to stare because you had dignity, allegedly.
This is not the same.
Not with him over you like this. Not with his chest rising hard, skin warm under the lamp glow, every line of him familiar and new at once.
Your hands go to him immediately.
John's breath catches when your palms slide over his chest, then lower, over the tense plane of his stomach. His control slips by degrees, betrayed by the sharp inhale when your nails drag lightly over his ribs.
You look up. "Oh."
His eyes narrow. "Don't."
You smile, slow and delighted. "There?"
"Hart."
You do it again.
John groans, low and helpless, his head dipping toward your shoulder. The sound moves through you like heat through metal.
"You make sounds too," you murmur.
His laugh breaks against your skin, rough and breathless. "Apparently."
"I like them."
He lifts his head, eyes darker now. "Yeah?"
You nod.
Something hungry flashes over his face. Then his mouth is on yours again, and he kisses you until every clever word scatters out of your head.
His hands find the hem of the shirt you are wearing, his shirt.
You lift your arms.
John pulls it up slowly, his knuckles brushing your stomach, your ribs, the lower curve of your breasts. He keeps his eyes on yours until the last possible second. Then the shirt is gone, and the air touches you everywhere.
For one heartbeat, you want to cover yourself.
Because your body has been a battlefield. A shelter. A weapon. A graveyard. Because being seen has never been simple.
John sees the flicker.
He catches both your wrists before you can move them inward and brings your hands to his mouth. He kisses your knuckles one by one.
"You're beautiful," he says.
Your chest pulls tight. "Don't say it like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you mean it."
He lowers your hands back to the bed on either side of your head and leans over you, his mouth near yours.
"I do."
The words burn.
You close your eyes, but John kisses them open again, one soft touch beneath your brow, then your cheek, then your mouth.
His lips move lower.
Your breath catches as he kisses the line of your jaw, the hollow beneath your ear, the place where your pulse is betraying you. His mouth drifts to your throat, reverent and slow, and then he stops.
Not because of you.
Because of the charm.
The little wolf rests against your chest, caught in the lamplight between your bare skin and his gaze.
For a second, the room changes shape.
John doesn't touch it. He only looks at it, then at you.
The silence is gentle, but it still cuts.
Your hand rises to the charm before you can think better of it. The metal is warm from your skin.
Bucky's ghost. Bucky's memory. Bucky's love.
Still there.
Still yours.
Still resting over your heart while John looks at you like he wants to be careful with every broken, breathing part of you.
Your throat tightens.
John's voice is quiet. "Love." He swallows. "You don't have to do anything."
The kindness of that almost hurts worse.
Your fingers curl around the charm. "I know."
"I mean it." His hand comes up, not to take it, just to rest beside yours on your chest, warm and steady. "I don't want you to feel like you have to choose."
Your eyes sting.
You look down at the little wolf, thumb brushing over the familiar shape. For a moment, you are somewhere else. Somewhere colder. Somewhere full of grief and blood and all the prayers you never said out loud.
Then John's thumb strokes once over your skin.
You breathe in. "I'm not choosing between ghosts and the living."
John's expression tightens, like the words have found somewhere soft in him and pressed.
You reach behind your neck with unsteady fingers. The clasp is small, suddenly stubborn, and your hand trembles once before John carefully covers it with his.
"Let me?"
You nod.
He shifts closer, his fingers brushing your hair aside with aching care. He unfastens the chain slowly, like the necklace is something sacred, not an obstacle. Like grief deserves gentleness even when you are setting it down.
The clasp gives.
The wolf charm slips into his palm.
John looks at it for a second, then back at you.
"You sure?"
You take the charm from him and press the cool metal to your lips. Your eyes close for half a breath. Then you set it carefully on the nightstand. Just resting there, safe in the low light.
When you look back at John, your chest feels unbearably bare.
No chain.
No metal.
No memory between your skin and his hands.
Only you.
Only him.
Your voice is soft when it comes. "Tonight, I want to be here with only you."
John's breath leaves him like something in him has come undone.
For a moment, he only looks at you.
His eyes are dark and bright, his face open in a way that makes your ribs ache.
Then he lowers himself over you again.
Skin to skin.
The contact steals every thought.
His chest presses to yours, warm and solid against the place the charm used to rest. His mouth finds yours, and when you kiss him back, something in you opens wider than fear.
John's hand curls at your hip. "You're here," he whispers against your mouth.
You slide your fingers into his hair. "I'm here."
His forehead drops to yours. "And I've got you."
You believe him.
The air between you changes.
Not all at once. Not sharply. It softens first, then warms, then deepens into something that makes your heart beat too hard.
John looks at the bare place on your chest where the charm used to rest.
Then he looks at you.
"I love you."
For a second, you forget there is a body beneath your skin. You forget the bed under your back, the warmth of his hand at your side, the careful tremble in his breath.
All you know is the shape of those three words.
They do not sound clean when he says them. Not perfect or polished. They sound dragged out of him, rough around the edges, too honest to be pretty. Like they had been living in his chest for weeks and finally broke the lock.
John is still above you. He looks like he has already accepted that the words are yours now, whether you keep them or hand them back. His thumb brushes beneath your eye once, careful and afraid and so warm it hurts.
"John," you whisper.
His name is all you have.
His throat works. "I didn't mean to scare you."
You shake your head. "You didn't."
His eyes search yours, still uncertain, still open in a way that makes something deep inside you ache. You have seen John Walker angry. You have seen him proud. You have seen him brave, stubborn, exhausted, protective enough to make your own fear bare its teeth.
But this is different.
This is John with his armor on the floor and his heart in his hands.
You lift your fingers from his hair and trace the side of his face. The movement is slow, because everything feels breakable now. His cheekbone. His breath. The space between his mouth and yours.
"I don't know what to do with that," you admit.
The truth lands softly.
John's eyes flicker, but he does not pull away.
"Okay," he says.
Just that.
Not wounded. Not demanding. Not trying to stuff the words back where they came from.
You almost hate him for that. For being patient when it would be easier if he pushed. Easier if he gave you something to fight, something to resent, something sharp enough to hide behind.
But John only lowers his forehead to yours and breathes you in like even your confusion is something he can hold.
"You don't have to say anything back," he murmurs.
Your throat tightens. "That's not fair."
His mouth brushes yours, barely a kiss. "I know."
"No." You close your eyes. "I mean you being good about it. That's not fair."
You feel his smile against your mouth.
"I'll try to be worse next time."
A laugh breaks out of you before you can stop it. It comes out shaky, almost wet, and John kisses the corner of your mouth like he loves that sound too.
Then the heat returns slowly through the cracks tenderness left open.
His body is still over yours, warm and solid. His hand rests against your side like he is afraid to move without permission now that the words have changed the room. Your legs are still tangled around him. Your fingers are still at his face.
And you want him.
God, you want him.
It is different now. Deeper. It does not crawl across your skin. It sinks beneath it, fills the hollow places, turns your heartbeat into something heavy and bright.
You tilt your face and kiss him.
John freezes for half a breath.
Then he kisses you back, slow at first, like he's letting you set the terms of this new world. His mouth moves carefully over yours, but his breath shakes when your tongue brushes his, and that tiny loss of control sends heat pouring through you.
You slide your hand down his chest, feeling the hard beat of his heart beneath your palm.
His hand flexes at your waist.
You kiss him harder.
John makes a low sound into your mouth, restraint fraying. You feel it in his shoulders, in the way his body lowers over yours, in the careful pressure of his hips settling between your thighs.
Your back arches.
Both of you inhale at once.
"Love," he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you. "We don't have to."
Your fingers curl against his skin. "I know."
"I don't want you to feel like this has to happen because of what I said."
Something inside you softens so violently it nearly undoes you. You cup his jaw. "John."
He goes still.
"I want you."
The words leave you quietly, but they hit him hard. His eyes darken. His mouth parts slightly. His fingers press into your skin.
You see the exact second he tries to make himself behave.
You decide, with great seriousness, to ruin that.
You lift your hips again, slow and deliberate.
John's eyes close. A rough breath tears out of him. "Mara."
"I want this," you whisper. "I want you."
When he opens his eyes, the look in them is almost too much.
Desire, yes. Enough to set the room on fire. But beneath it, something reverent. Something astonished. As if he has been handed something fragile and holy and is terrified his hands are too rough for it.
You pull him down by the back of his neck.
His mouth meets yours again, and this time there is no pretending the kiss is only a kiss.
John's hand cups your breast, his thumb brushing over you with a slowness that makes your breath fracture. He pauses, watching your face, learning the sound, learning the shape of your reaction beneath his palm.
His mouth follows.
Your back arches off the bed.
The sound that leaves you is not careful. It is not quiet enough. It is raw and soft and yours, and John reacts like it has gone straight through him. His hand grips your waist. His mouth becomes hotter, slower, patient in a way that makes your thighs tighten around his hips.
He stops. Looks up. Checks.
You nod before he can ask.
"Yes."
His mouth lowers again.
You learn him too.
The way his breathing changes when your nails scrape lightly over his back. The way his stomach tightens when your hand drifts lower. The way that tiny freckle on his ear still has the power to ruin him completely.
You reach for it.
John catches your wrist, eyes dark.
"Careful," he warns.
You are breathing hard, lips parted, body warm under his.
"You keep saying that."
His thumb moves over your pulse. "Because you don't listen."
"You like that too."
His mouth curves, but the smile disappears when you lift your head and kiss the freckle instead.
John shudders. A deep, broken sound pulls out of him, and his hips press down into yours before he can stop himself.
The contact makes you both gasp.
John looks at you.
There is no hiding what he wants now. No disguising it behind teasing, no wrapping it in restraint until it looks safer than it is.
He wants you.
All of you.
And you want the same.
Your hand slides down his chest to the waistband of his sweatpants.
He catches your wrist again, but this time his grip is weaker. Less warning. More plea.
"Mara."
You look at him. "Yes."
His jaw works. "Say it again."
Your heart stumbles.
You understand what he is asking. Not because he does not believe you. Because he needs to hear it with the world narrowed to this bed, this choice, this final step.
You lift your other hand to his face. "Yes, John."
His eyes close briefly.
When they open, something in them has changed.
Not control lost.
Control offered.
He kisses you then, deep and slow, and his hands move to your shorts. He does not remove them at first. He hooks his fingers in the waistband and waits. You lift your hips. That is all the answer he needs.
He draws them down your legs with care, mouth following the path of fabric and skin. He kisses your thigh, your knee, the inside of your calf, so tenderly that your throat tightens even as heat curls low in your belly.
When he comes back up the bed, you reach for him.
He lets you.
Your fingers push at his waistband, and this time he helps, shedding the last of his clothes with a breathless kind of impatience that makes you smile despite the pounding of your heart.
Then he is above you again. Skin to skin. The contact steals every thought.
John's chest presses to yours. His thigh slides between your legs. His hand curls at your hip, and the heat of him settles against you in a way that makes you gasp into his mouth.
He goes still immediately. "You okay?"
You nod, but your voice comes out shaky. "Yes."
His forehead drops to yours. "We can stop."
"I don't want to stop."
His eyes search yours.
You hold his gaze. "I don't want to stop."
The air leaves him in a slow, trembling breath. "Okay."
His mouth finds yours again as his hand moves between your bodies. The first touch makes you jolt from the sudden bright rush of sensation. John stills, learning you, waiting until your body eases beneath him.
"Tell me," he murmurs.
You swallow hard. "Softer."
His touch shifts instantly.
Your eyes close. "There."
He does it again.
Your fingers dig into his shoulders.
John watches your face like it is the only map he needs. He learns pressure. Rhythm. The places that make your breathing hitch and your hips lift toward his hand. He learns the little broken sound that leaves you when he touches you just right, and when he hears it, his own control fractures.
"Love," he says, voice rough.
You open your eyes.
He looks wrecked. Beautifully, painfully wrecked.
You reach for him too, fingers wrapping carefully around him. John groans, burying his face against your neck, his whole body shuddering at the touch.
You go still, startled by the power of it.
He laughs once against your skin, breathless and undone. "Don't stop."
So you don't.
You learn him by the sounds he cannot hide. By the way his hips move into your hand. By the tension in his arms, the heat of his mouth at your throat, the way his voice goes low and uneven when he says your name.
"Mara."
You love the sound. You love that it belongs to this moment, to his skin beneath your hands and his breath breaking against your jaw.
John pulls back enough to open the nightstand drawer with an unsteady hand. He finds protection, then pauses, looking down at you.
You nod before he can ask.
He prepares himself with shaking fingers, and the sight of him like that, careful even in his hunger, nearly undoes you.
Then he settles between your thighs again.
The whole room seems to hold its breath.
John leans down and kisses you once. A promise before the crossing.
"You tell me if anything feels wrong," he says against your mouth.
You brush his damp hair back from his forehead. "I will."
"I mean it."
"I know." You wrap your arms around his neck. "John."
His eyes meet yours.
"I trust you."
Something in his face breaks open.
He kisses you again, and as he does, he begins to push inside so slow your breath catches and holds.
Your fingers tighten at the back of his neck. John stills at once, body trembling over yours.
"Love?"
You breathe through it, eyes closed.
Not pain exactly. Pressure. Stretch. The overwhelming intimacy of being opened to someone who is looking at you like you are not something taken, but something received.
"I'm okay," you whisper.
His mouth brushes your cheek. "Look at me."
You open your eyes.
He's right there. Close enough that you can see the gold caught in his lashes from the lamplight. Close enough that his breath is yours. Close enough that the fear doesn't have room to grow teeth.
He moves another inch.
Your body yields slowly.
His jaw clenches. A rough sound slips from him, restrained and desperate.
"God," he breathes. "Mara."
You cup his face, keeping him with you.
He stops when he is fully inside.
Both of you go still.
There's no noise for a moment except your breathing.
You feel full of him. Surrounded by him. Held open not only by his body, but by the enormity of this choice, this trust, this warmth you have allowed into a room grief used to own alone.
John is shaking.
You realize it with a strange little ache. His arms are braced on either side of you, muscles tight, every inch of him holding back.
You stroke your thumb over his cheek. "You're shaking."
His laugh is barely sound. "Trying not to move."
The admission sends heat through you.
You shift beneath him experimentally.
His eyes close. His head drops forward with a low groan. You feel him everywhere. The sound makes your body clench around him.
John's breath breaks.
"Fuck," he whispers, and then immediately kisses your cheek like he has to apologize with his mouth.
You almost laugh, but the laugh turns into a gasp when he moves, just a little. A slow pull, a careful return.
Your whole body responds. Your nails press into his shoulders.
John watches you. "Okay?"
You nod quickly. "Again."
His eyes darken.
He moves again, still slow, still careful, but deeper this time. The sensation rolls through you, warm and startling and intimate enough to make your eyes burn.
He learns you one movement at a time.
Slow at first.
Listening to every breath.
Stopping when your body tenses. Continuing when your hips rise to meet him. Adjusting until the angle makes your mouth fall open and a moan spill out, helpless and sweet.
"There," you gasp.
John's control slips visibly.
His hand slides beneath your thigh, lifting it higher against his hip. The next thrust reaches something deeper, brighter, and your back arches off the bed.
John groans with you.
"There?" he asks, voice ruined.
You nod, breathless. "Yes. John, there."
He does it again and again.
The rhythm builds slowly. His body moves into yours with increasing certainty, and yours answers, hips lifting, thighs tightening around him, hands roaming over the damp heat of his back.
You learn the weight of him. The drag of him. The way his mouth searches for yours whenever the feeling threatens to become too much. The way he murmurs your name against your skin like he is trying to keep himself anchored. The way his hand finds yours on the mattress and laces your fingers together when your breath starts to shake.
You learn that he loves your shoulder. He returns to it again and again, kissing the bare curve like he has found a place of worship there.
You learn that the light scrape of your nails down his spine makes his rhythm falter. You learn that when you whisper his name right against his ear, John Walker loses the thread of every disciplined thought he has ever had.
And he learns you.
The place at your hip that makes you shiver. The pressure you like. The rhythm that pulls sounds from you faster than pride can catch them. The way your breath hitches right before pleasure crests too high.
His hand slips between your bodies again.
Your eyes fly open. "John."
"I've got you," he whispers.
He changes the angle of his hips, keeps moving inside you, and touches you at the same time.
The world narrows to sensation.
Heat.
Pressure.
His body over yours.
His voice in your ear.
"That's it, love," he murmurs, rough and tender. "Let me hear you."
Your body trembles.
You don't swallow the sound this time. You let it leave you.
John groans like it ruins him.
The pleasure builds, slow and relentless, coiling tighter with every stroke of his fingers and every deep movement of his body inside yours. You cling to him, breath breaking, face turned against his neck, your mouth finding any skin it can reach.
His pulse beats beneath your lips.
Alive.
Here.
Yours for this moment.
And there is nothing between you now. Nothing but his body, his breath, his hand wrapped around yours.
The pleasure gathers under your skin, rolls through your hips, your stomach, your chest.
John feels the change in you and follows it, his mouth at your throat.
"That's it," he whispers. "Let go. I've got you."
You believe him.
That's what breaks you open.
Not only the pleasure, though God, there is so much of it. Not only the way he moves inside you, deep and sure now, learning the rhythm that makes you fall apart beneath him.
It's the tenderness, the steadiness, he way he keeps one hand in yours while he takes you apart.
Your body tightens. Your breath catches.
John feels it. His voice goes rough. "Love?"
You cannot answer.
You can only cling to him as the pleasure crests, sudden and overwhelming, pulling a broken moan from your throat. Your whole body trembles beneath his. Your thighs lock around him. Your nails dig into his back as wave after wave rolls through you, bright and blinding and too much to hold in silence.
John watches you come apart.
The look on his face almost undoes you a second time.
Awe.
Hunger.
Love.
His rhythm falters, but he keeps moving, slower now, carrying you through it while you shake against him.
"That's my girl," he breathes, voice wrecked.
The words hit something deep. Possessive, but gentle. Reverent, not claiming what you have not given.
And tonight, you have given so much.
You pull his mouth to yours. John groans into the kiss. His body tenses above you, his control finally fraying to its last thread.
"Where are you?" you whisper against his mouth.
His eyes open, confused and dark.
You cup his face. "Stay with me."
The words do to him what his did to you.
His breath breaks.
"I'm with you," he says.
Then he lets go.
His hips press deep, his whole body shuddering as release overtakes him. A low, raw groan tears from his chest, your name caught inside it. He buries his face against your neck, shaking through it, holding you close without crushing you.
You hold him, one hand in his hair the other spread across his back. You hold him while he comes back to himself.
For a long time, neither of you moves.
The room is warm and dim around you. The sheets are tangled around your legs. Your skin is damp. John's breathing slowly steadies against your shoulder.
He is still inside you, still close, but the urgency has softened into something quieter, almost sacred.
Eventually, he lifts his head. His face is flushed. His hair is a disaster. His eyes are too soft for your survival.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
You nod, but he waits.
So you answer properly. "I'm okay."
His thumb brushes your cheek. "Any pain?"
You shake your head. "No."
"You sure?"
"John."
"I'm checking."
"I know." You touch his mouth with your fingertips. "I'm okay."
Only then does he exhale.
He kisses you once, soft and grateful, then carefully shifts away to take care of the condom and clean himself up. The loss of his warmth makes you shiver, and before you can complain, he is back with a damp cloth and that serious expression that means he has decided aftercare is now a military operation.
You stare at him.
He pauses. "What?"
"You're very focused."
His ears go pink. "I want to do it right."
The tenderness of that nearly kills you.
You let him clean you with gentle hands. Let him kiss your knee, your hip, the inside of your wrist when your fingers brush his. Let him pull the blankets back and gather you against his chest like he has been waiting his whole life to learn exactly how you fit there.
You end up half on top of him, cheek against his bare chest, one leg tangled over his. His heartbeat is still fast beneath your ear.
Your wolf charm rests on the nightstand. You look at it for a while.
John follows your gaze but says nothing. His hand moves slowly over your back.
"I'll get it for you," he says quietly.
Your throat tightens. You press your lips to his chest.
"Not yet."
His hand stills.
Then it resumes, careful and warm.
"Okay."
The silence stretches.
You trace a lazy line over his ribs, smiling faintly when his stomach tightens under your touch.
"Still sensitive there," you murmur.
John huffs a laugh into your hair. "Don't start."
You lift your head and look at him.
He looks exhausted now. Soft. Younger somehow, with the fight gone from his face and only the man left behind.
The man who loved you before you were ready to know what to do with it.
Something opens in your chest.
Quietly.
Completely.
John sees the change before you speak. His hand comes up, brushing hair away from your face.
"What?" he whispers.
You look at him for a long moment.
Then you lean down and kiss him.
It's not hungry this time. Not a question, not a distraction.
It's answer.
When you pull back, your mouth stays close to his. Your voice shakes.
You say it anyway.
"I love you."
John goes completely still.
You feel the words move through him before his face changes. His breath catches first. Then his eyes, widening slightly, shining in the low light. His hand tightens at your back like he is afraid he imagined it.
You smile, small and tearful.
"I love you," you say again, softer but steadier now. "I don't know what that means tomorrow. I don't know how to make it simple. I can't promise I won't be scared."
John's eyes search yours, raw and bright.
"But I love you," you whisper. "Tonight, I know that."
His face breaks. Not fully, John is still John. Even undone, he tries to hold himself together.
But you see it.
The way relief moves through him. The way wonder follows. The way all that careful restraint collapses into something tender enough to make your own eyes burn.
He pulls you down to him and kisses you.
Once.
Twice.
A third time, longer, his hand cradling the back of your head.
When he finally speaks, his voice is rough. "Say it again later."
You laugh softly against his mouth. "Demanding."
"Please."
That ruins you.
You touch his cheek. "I will."
John closes his eyes and presses his forehead to yours.
Outside, the city keeps moving. Somewhere beyond the apartment, the military waits with its questions, its reports, its special reviews, its teeth hidden behind official language.
But here, in John's bed, with your charm resting on the nightstand and his heart beating beneath your hand, the world narrows to his skin, your breath, the truth between you.
For tonight, there are no ghosts in the bed.
Only John.
Only you.
Only love, terrifying and warm, finally spoken out loud.
Can I plssss request 59 with John or Bob??? (“You want to come?” “Y-yes, I— please—” “Hm, but do you really deserve to?”)
You accidentally use some choice words to describe John's new shield at a press event, and he's going to make it a gaff to remember.
Rating: 18+ MDNI
WC: 3.6k (complete)
CW: Porn with plot, dom/sub dynamics, no use of y/n, reader is afab, use of pet names (baby, beautiful), reader is a thunderbolt/new avenger, romance, established relationship, orgasm denial, teasing, light angst, fingering, pinv, premature ejaculation, unprotected sex, cock warming.
Sick af dividers by @lobster-graphics
God, you hated these press events. The Ninth Circle at 8AM in a Marriott ballroom. Stale coffee, staler donuts. Gag. But you had made a solemn pact as a team to endure these PR gauntlets together. Nobody called out sick. Nobody slacked off. Divide and conquer. Still. You dreaded the repetitive questions, the fake laughter, the euphemisms and the hedging and the carefully worded answers and the gotchas. The hotel lobbies were never air conditioned enough, which meant you all had to stand around sweating your tits and balls off in your super suits, throwing each other miserable glances when the coast was clear, chipper, bright eyes gradually dimming to thousand-yard stares.
And it was even worse now that you and John had this thing. Whatever it was. Both of you were protecting it like a precious little flame that could be snuffed out at any second, which meant the public couldn’t get wind of it.
The other New Avengers knew, of course, because Yelena was the nosiest person in the northern hemisphere and if she knew, then Bob knew, and if Bob knew, then everyone did. But the world didn’t know, not yet. Without discussing it, you had taken positions at the press event on opposite sides of the room, separated by a vast sea of hideous carpet, mutually deciding that you couldn’t be trusted near each other.
Fingers would get brushed, sentences finished, inside jokes shared, cheeks goosed. Not that this was any better—fielding endless questions about John, watching him smile patiently through his own conversational minefield, watching that little notch appear between his brows when it got serious, watching his shoulders roll when they got stiff from the shield on his back.
Your mouth watered at the thought of rubbing the tension out of them later.
And fuck, he looked so good, filling out his uniform like it was painted on, like it was designed specifically to show off his juicy butt. You could never resist him when he was in the beret. God, it was cute, so much better than that goofy fucking helmet. You had to stop ogling him, or you were going to start drooling and give the ABC reporter in front of you something to really write about. She was nice enough, but it was hour three and your brain was beginning to melt out of your ears.
“Each of you are known for a signature look, a signature weapon,” the woman was saying, reading notes off of her phone. Your attention wandered, inevitably, back to John. He was done with his last interrogation interview and stood around fiddling with the cap on his water bottle, shooting you glances that you pretended not to covet like the last glazed donut in the box at the buffet table. “Sources are telling us John Walker recently replaced his shield, maybe an upgrade, any thoughts on that?”
It was a stupid question to begin with, and your brain—which was already exhausted—was half-occupied with John leaning against a wall, arms crossed, simmering blue eyes moving up and down your body like he was deciding how he would undress you the minute this was over.
You said something. You wouldn’t remember what, exactly, not until three days later when Yelena called an emergency team meeting in the common room.
The articles from the press event were trickling out.
You were the last into the room, and you could tell just from the color of John’s ears and neck as you came up behind him that it was bad. Genuinely, you did not think whatever had occurred was your fault. But then, you hadn’t really been dialed in on that last interview, so maybe you had tripped over your words or--
“The Internet is going crazy,” Yelena announced, tossing you her phone. Oh shit. You scrolled while everyone stared. The pressure built like a storm moved in just over your idiot head. Blood roared in your ears. Everyone, absolutely everyone, from the NYT to the seediest gossip blogs online, was speculating about a romance brewing among the New Avengers.
Specifically, your romance with John.
“Oh my God,” you mumbled, clutching the phone. In the corner, Bob snorted, then apologized when Ava hit him on the shoulder. That blood in your ears drained away entirely as you read over the interview snippet that had fueled the rumors.
It was that damn question about John’s new shield.
Yelena hurried over to you, ripping the phone out of your hand to read it aloud for God and everyone. “It’s big. It’s heavy. But John has the strength and stamina to handle it.” She barely got the words out, dissolving into wheezes as she hugged the phone to her chest. There was scattered cackling until the dams broke and everyone was laughing and laughing… It sounded like Alexei might spontaneously develop bronchitis from cough-laughing so hard. He was sliding down the inside of the bar, disappearing, until you heard his fist slamming against the floor.
Even Barnes cracked a smile.
“Oh my God,” you spun slowly toward John. He pinched the bridge of his nose, red-faced, lips pinched as the absurdity of the situation sank in. “I don’t…I don’t remember saying that,” you whispered, covering your face with both hands. “I was so braindead by then, I wasn’t thinking—”
“Oh, you were thinking,” Ava called from across the room. “Just not about his shield.”
Yelena went back to her phone with a groan. “Can’t believe this is how I find out Walker is packing heat.”
“Please. Like it was ever in doubt,” he muttered, letting go of his nose, a little smug maybe.
“They’re taking it out of context,” you insisted, flinching when John touched your lower back. “I really did mean the shield; it's steel, for God's sake, it weighs like sixty pounds…”
“I’ll bet!” Yelena squawked, by then back in the corner with Bob and Ava, the three of them enjoying the hell out of your discomfort.
“I’m so sorry,” you moaned, dissolving. John herded you into his arms, shaking gently with laughter as you decompiled into his chest. This was going to haunt you in the group chat for the rest of your lives. You couldn’t believe how well he was taking it. How the hell had you let something like that come out of your mouth with a reporter around? It’s big. It’s heavy. Jesus Christ.
“Hey,” he said softly, just for you, dropping his lips down to your ear. “We were never going to be a secret forever.”
Things went back to normal a little too quickly. You really had stuck your foot in your mouth, but John brushed it off so smoothly you started to wonder if he’d prefer you grab a megaphone and march down the block screaming about his huge dong. The rest of the team wasn’t letting it go, of course, managing to work in the words “big” and “heavy” when describing just about anything. At breakfast: Here comes big, heavy Walker. At training: Don’t hurt anyone, John, we hear it’s big and heavy.
It was driving you insane, but John just shrugged and let it roll off his back, sometimes shooting you a blushing glance that said: What can you do?
Not blurt out to the press that your secret super soldier lover is hanging hog, that’s one thing you could have done.
The only indication John gave you that he had filed the whole situation away for a rainy day was the sudden dry spell in your bedroom. That wasn’t like him. There were logical reasons, of course, too tired, too busy, then John got sent to Bangladesh for a mission; by the time he came back, Shield Gate was a week old. You couldn’t prove he was punishing you, but the feeling just sat cold and persistent in your gut.
You made sure to clear your schedule the night he returned to the Watchtower, cleaned your room until it was spotless, bought a bottle of his favorite bourbon, and crammed yourself into a pink lace bodysuit, high cut, sheer, exactly the sort of thing he loved to see you in, and you made sure the straps were just barely visible under your flirty sundress.
Alexei had made spaghetti, and it was more edible than anyone expected it to be. You didn’t have much of an appetite, pushing your noodles around your plate, hungry in a different way. You missed John, missed the way he flattened you into the mattress, the way he fingered you like salvation was hidden somewhere deep in your body, missed his hand finding its way to your waist when you drank your coffee together in the morning, his raunchy comments about the way your suit fit…
It had only been a week, but it felt like an eternity.
All the while, you had to sit through the social media shitstorm, heart squishing stupidly whenever a new article popped up speculating on your relationship. It just made the longing worse. If he was there, at least you could roll your eyes at it together.
But right then, right in front of you, John Walker ate like a man possessed, to the point that Alexei was moved to tears, convinced it was his Michelin-starred cooking and not the fact that John had driven himself ragged abroad. He didn’t take care of himself when you weren’t there, despite extra pairs of clean socks, protein bars, and hydration powders finding their way into his bag. There was a fresh cut over one eyebrow and a healing bruise on the opposite cheek. He hadn’t even changed out of his suit yet, his red and blue gloves balled up on the table next to his spaghetti.
You helped Alexei clean up. When you were standing on tip toes, attempting to put away a few clean dishes in the cupboards, John’s presence warmed across your back. He took the plates from you, stacking them in the higher place where they belonged, then gently took you by the waist.
“Meet me in the bedroom,” he murmured, whiskers brushing your cheek as he kissed your ear. Your brain stuttered, buffering for just an instant. Then, your chest flooded with heat, an ache starting in your belly that made your thighs clench. Finally. “I missed you so fucking much.”
It was genuinely embarrassing how quickly you made it from the kitchen to your bedroom, but you were in a post-shame mindset. You almost ripped the door off its hinges as you went, detouring into the bathroom to make sure you didn’t have spaghetti sauce all over your face.
John arrived a moment later, stopping inside the door before closing it behind him. He had just enough time to register the blurred missile streaking across the room before you jumped into his arms. John hitched you higher, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, kissing him until you were both breathless.
He let you down gently, scraping you the length of his body, the delicate fabric over your sex catching on the ridges of his suit and his belt. You shivered against him, nosing into his throat with a needy sound.
“Let me clean up,” he said, kissing the top of your head as he veered toward the bathroom. “I’ll just be five.”
“John—”
“Sh-hh, beautiful, I know.” He gave a low, dark laugh at your pawing, dodging away before you could grab on again. “Trust me. I know.”
You listened to the shower turn on with your jaw clenched. It was certainly longer than five minutes. Was he trying to kill you? By the time you heard the nozzle screech and his feet slap against the tiles, you were half-feral. Forget the lingerie reveal, he was in for a different sort of surprise. You whipped the dress over your head like it was burning you and tossed it into a corner, then climbed onto the bed and lay back against the pillows.
John emerged from a cloud of steam a moment later, toweling off his hair, naked and pink from the heat of the water. He stilled, towel bunched over his head, eyes landing on you and fixing while your gaze settled on his dick, watching it thicken as the lace pink bodysuit registered in his brain. You smiled shyly, though the thoughts running through your mind at the sight of him were anything but coy.
He slung the towel over the top of the open bathroom door and swaggered over to you like he was still in his stars and stripes suit. Your breath caught at the size of him, still exciting after all this time. His thighs grazed the bed, and he stood with his chest working, eyes darkening with lust as he took you in, dragging one warm, shower-soft finger up your thigh.
“This all for me?” he asked, adding the rest of the fingers on that hand, smoothing his palm down your leg and up the inside until he could firmly cup your pussy through the sheer fabric.
You nodded, robbed of every sound and word as he laid hands on you.
“Welcome home,” you finally managed to murmur. More complex thoughts fell away, leaving you dumb and shaking as he lowered his bulk onto the mattress. Carefully. Your bedframe wasn’t as strong as his.
“I’ll say.” John laughed softly, picking up your legs so he could sit, then grabbing you by the ankle. With a single, powerful tug he had you on his lap, facing away from him, sitting with your thighs stacked just outside of his. He stuck his nose into your hair, then your neck, inhaling you. “Every second, this is all I thought about.”
You nodded, shifting your hips back against him, teasing your butt against his hard dick. His teeth grazed your pulse, one hand climbing your abdomen to cup your breast, feel the softness, the weight, his other hand fitting itself back between your legs. He must have been as desperate as you were; he dug right in, fingers slipping beneath the tight, wet lace to plunge inside you.
“Fuck,” you whispered, arching.
“You were thinking about me,” he chuckled, breathing hard against your neck as he dipped deeper, fucking you possessively with two fingers. The sound made your ears burn. “Can’t remember the last time you were this wet for me…”
“M-Missed you,” you stammered.
“Poor baby,” John whispered, in a tone that made you whine. There was an edge to his voice that sent a chilled finger up your spine. You wondered which John had come home, the one that wanted to make you sweet putty in his hands or the one that wanted to get you begging and saying filth. “All alone in this big bed, nobody to fuck her—”
You gasped as his thumb raked firmly across your clit, playing you like the easy instrument you were. He was a precise man, thorough, and a fast learner. Once he knew the way to please you, he had been handed a grenade with no pin. Heat thrummed through your core, swirling in your belly, rising higher until you could feel the tight panic in your chest and throat.
He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your throat, groaning as he absorbed your frantic little bucks against his dick.
“You want to come?”
“Y-yes, I— please—”
“Hm, but do you really deserve to?”
Your eyes flew open. Your hips stilled. But John didn’t let up, stretching you around his two fingers with steady, relentless strokes. The pressure around your clit vanished as his thumb pushed roughly against the base of it, shocking your shoulders back. Sweat and shower humidity clung to your back, his chest hair slick against your skin.
His laugh was knowing, mocking, as he huffed it into your cheek. “Did you think I would forget?”
You squeezed your eyes shut, lips dry. “No.”
“No.” Gruff. Ominous.
You tried to rub against his cheek like an innocent thing, just a silly kitten, but John put an end to that quick, slipping his fingers out of you, leaving you to clench around absolutely nothing. Once you stilled again, he carefully folded his hand back over your pussy, resting it there, present but not enough to grind against.
“Do you really think you deserve something big?” he teased. “Something heavy?”
“Please,” you whispered, afraid and intoxicated by this new game. “I’ll do anything. I...” You opened your eyes, blinking them slowly. Did he want you to beg? Defend yourself? “I didn’t mean to. And it was heavy that one time I used it in a fight, and it felt big the time you fucked me on it—”
John took pity on you, the pads of his fingers ghosting up and down the seam of your sex again, drawing your attention back to the gooey feeling puddling in your stomach. Your eyes closed as quickly as they’d opened.
“It?” he prompted sternly.
“Your shield.”
“Uh-huh. And what else is big and heavy?”
“Your…your cock,” you whispered, that answer restoring the glorious pressure of his fingers pushing back inside you. You licked your lips, ready to get the next question right, too.
“And you love it so much you just couldn’t keep your mouth shut about it. Is that right?”
You nodded, moaning for him again, head falling back against his shoulder as his palm just grazed your clit.
“One more question, beautiful,” John promised, and you could hear the smile in his voice. You didn’t doubt his willingness to take this game as far as he wanted it to go, but his dick was throbbing against you, giving him away. He was sllck and swollen and ready to blow. “What’s big and heavy?”
“You,” you moaned, rewarded with another firm stroke across your aching clit. “You and your shield, John.”
You didn’t have time to enjoy your victory; it was brief, less than a second, and then you were flying across the bed, tossed onto your back. You met the mattress and the pillows with a whoomp that knocked the air out of your lungs. And you had approximately ten seconds to orient yourself, suck down one lone breath, before John had you pinned, legs spread and raised, knees hooked around his elbows.
Just as you suspected, he couldn’t hold back any longer. John bit out something unintelligible, eyes snapping shut as he pushed into you, just careful enough, hips stuttering at the first wet pull of your snug walls. He bobbed forward, nearly losing himself.
“Can’t…fuck…oh, Jesus, no…” It was rare for something, anything, to get the drop on John. But his need must have sneaked up on him. He slumped down against you, pressing a shivering kiss to your jaw. It sounded like he was being drawn and quartered as a single stroke finished him off. You felt him cum with a few sparse jerks of his hips, warmth spreading through you like a swallowed star.
“Jesus,” he whispered, coming back to himself with a groan. John buried his face against your neck, catching his breath in huge gulps. “Just stay like this with me,” he said, almost apologetic. He craned back, sagging down onto his knees, loosening his hold on your legs as he settled more comfortably between your thighs.
You reached for his face, pushing the damp hair back from his forehead.
“Missed me?” you teased, enjoying the tightened pucker of his expression.
“I’ll be…I’ll be ready,” he gasped, lashes fluttering as he unwound from his orgasm. He laughed, breathless, kissing you gently on the mouth. “Just give me a minute, beautiful. Fuck, you feel good.”
“Apparently.”
“There’ll be no living with you now,” he joked, groaning. But even as he kissed you, tongue rolling softly and sweetly into your mouth, you felt him hardening inside you. Your chest hitched as he twitched, thickening, the feeling so new and intimate it made your face hot with…something. You clenched your pussy around him, experimentally, just to see, and felt his dick respond, filling you almost as readily as it had a moment ago.
“John,” you murmured, wrapping your arms around his neck, gazing into his eyes. “This is nice.”
“Yeah,” he said. He touched his forehead to yours, grinding against you in short circles. “Yeah, it is.”
Your neck loosened as other parts of you tightened up, your abdomen rippling from the growing sensation licking out from where he was nestled inside you.
“I’m not mad, you know,” John said suddenly. “About the shield thing. I think it’s hilarious, you should see the family text chain.”
“I’d really rather not,” you said, miserable. “Your parents. Oh my God. I’m sorry. You know I’d never…I’d never embarrass you, not on purpose. That’s like my third press rodeo and I wasn’t—”
“Hey, stop, did you miss what I said?” he asked. He let your legs down further, letting go before bracketing your face with his warm hands. “I’m not mad.”
It was then you realized you were five seconds away from frustrated tears, that in the back of your mind, there was a building paranoia that he would hold a grudge about this forever. You bit back a sniffle. “You’re sure?”
“Honestly, it was cute. Only ever see you that flustered in my bed.”
You swished your lips to one side, glancing away.
John wiggled against you. “And I have to admit, it’s fun watching you squirm.”
“Is it?” you murmured, meeting his little thrusts with your own, angling your lower half to rub your clit against the hard ridge of his pubic bone. “Wanna make me squirm right now, big boy?”
“Don’t you mean big, heavy boy?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Hey remember two minutes ago when you prematurely ejaculated?”
“Yes, it was very memorable for me,” John said flatly, refusing to take the bait. He pecked a kiss against your lips, dragging out of your cunt before easing back in. Fully hard, it punched the air out of your chest and a moan out of your throat. God, he felt good. Big and heavy. “Okay, beautiful, time to make it memorable for you, too.”
C’s corner: Hi loves, here’s a little one shot featuring our favorite man (right?) John Walker, enjoy.
WARNINGS: PTSD, trauma response, panic/anxiety symptoms, fireworks and thunder as triggers, mentions of Afghanistan/war trauma, emotional vulnerability, hurt/comfort.
✍🏽 WC: 3.8K
SUMMARY: John Walker has learned how to survive the noise, but some sounds still drag him back to places he’d rather forget. When you become the person who helps him find his way through it, the quiet between you starts turning into something neither of you can ignore.
The thunder rolled over the compound like something alive.
It started sometime after midnight, low and distant at first, a warning growl beneath the quiet hum of the building. You had been half-asleep when the first crack split the sky, sharp enough to rattle the window beside your bed.
You opened your eyes.
For a moment, you stayed still, listening to the rain lash against the glass, listening to the storm gather itself like it had somewhere to be and a grudge to settle when it got there.
Another boom shook through the walls.
You sighed, rubbing at your face. Sleep was clearly not going to be generous tonight.
You pulled on a sweatshirt, padded out of your room, and made your way down the hall toward the kitchen. Warm tea seemed like the only reasonable answer to the weather trying to fistfight the building.
Most of the compound was dark. Everyone else had either learned to sleep through storms or had better curtains and stronger nerves than you did.
Then you saw the light from the common room.
It was dim, just one lamp glowing in the corner, soft gold spilled across the couch and coffee table. At first, you thought someone had forgotten to turn it off.
Then you saw John.
He was sitting on the couch, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped too tightly in front of him. He was barefoot, still in a gray t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair mussed from sleep. But he was not sleepy.
Not even close.
His shoulders were rigid. His jaw was locked. His eyes were fixed on the windows like he was waiting for something to come through them.
The thunder cracked again.
John flinched.
It was small. So small anyone else might have missed it.
But you didn’t.
“Walker?”
His head snapped toward you so fast your chest tightened.
For one second, he didn’t look like John Walker.
Not the sarcastic one who complained about Bob leaving mugs in strange places. Not the stubborn one who insisted on doing extra training even when Bucky called him a walking muscle cramp. Not the one who rolled his eyes when Alexei referred to him as “American blond soldier boy.”
He looked like someone else entirely.
Then recognition came back into his face, slow and embarrassed.
“Hey,” he said, voice rough. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”
You stepped farther into the room. “The thunder did.”
His mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. “Yeah. It’s loud.”
You glanced at the empty cushion beside him, then back at his face. “Can I sit?”
He looked like he wanted to say no. Not because he didn’t want you there, but because wanting you there scared him more than the storm.
After a moment, he gave a stiff nod.
You sat on the opposite end of the couch, leaving space between you. Enough that he wouldn’t feel cornered. Enough that he could breathe.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Rain scratched against the windows. The lamp hummed softly. Then the sky split open again.
John’s hands tightened.
You kept your voice quiet. “Does it always get bad during storms?”
He swallowed.
You thought he might brush it off. That was what John did best, sometimes. Built walls out of jokes and pride and all the things he thought he had no right to say.
But tonight, maybe the storm had already shaken something loose.
“Sometimes,” he said. “Not every time.”
You nodded.
His eyes dropped to his hands. “It’s stupid.”
“No, it’s not.”
“You don’t even know what I’m talking about.”
“I don’t have to know every detail to know it’s not stupid.”
That got him to look at you.
His eyes were tired. Not just from tonight. From years. From memories that had teeth.
The thunder rumbled again, quieter this time, farther off but still there.
John breathed in through his nose, slow and uneven.
“Afghanistan,” he said finally.
The word landed between you, heavy and careful.
You didn’t move.
He stared at the floor. “Thunder. Fireworks. Anything that sounds too close to a mortar, a shell, a blast.” His throat worked. “Sometimes I know where I am. Sometimes I don’t. Or I do, but my body doesn’t care. It just...” He shook his head, frustrated with himself. “It drags me back.”
Your chest ached.
John Walker, who always looked ready to take a hit standing up, sat beside you looking like the past had found a way to put its hands around his throat.
“You don’t have to explain more than you want to,” you said.
He let out a humorless breath. “That’s all there is. Loud noise. Bad memories. Me sitting out here like an idiot because I can’t sleep through weather.”
“John.”
He looked over.
“You are not an idiot.”
His expression flickered.
You shifted slightly, still careful. “Can I try something?”
Suspicion entered his eyes, not harshly, just habit. “What?”
“Grounding. Nothing weird. Just... helps remind your brain where your body is.”
“I know where I am.”
“I know you do.” You gave him a small smile. “But maybe the rest of you could use the memo.”
For a second, he almost smiled back.
“Okay,” he said.
You turned a little toward him. “Tell me five things you can see.”
His brow creased. “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.”
He looked around the common room like it had personally offended him.
“The lamp,” he muttered. “The coffee table. That ugly blanket Alexei keeps pretending isn’t his.”
You bit back a smile. “Three.”
“The rain on the window.” His voice steadied a fraction. “Your sweatshirt.”
“Good. Four things you can feel.”
He looked down at his hands. “The couch.” A pause. “My feet on the floor.” Another pause, longer this time. “My hands.”
“And?”
His eyes moved to you.
You held out your hand slowly, palm up, resting in the space between you.
He stared at it.
You didn’t push.
The storm grumbled beyond the glass.
John reached out.
His fingers closed around yours carefully, like he expected you to pull away. His hand was warm. Strong. Trembling just enough to tell the truth he wouldn't say out loud.
“Your hand,” he said quietly.
Something in your chest softened.
“Three things you can hear,” you said.
“The rain.” His thumb shifted against your knuckles. “The air conditioning.” His eyes stayed on your joined hands. “You breathing.”
“Two things you can smell.”
He inhaled slowly. “Tea.”
You blinked. “I haven’t made tea yet.”
“Kitchen always smells like it.” His mouth pulled faintly at one corner. “You make it enough.”
You smiled. “Fair.”
“And...” He breathed in again. “Your shampoo.”
Heat crept up your neck, sudden and traitorous.
“Good,” you said, softer than before. “One thing you can taste.”
John was quiet for a long moment.
Then he said, “Rain.”
Your fingers tightened around his.
The thunder rolled again, but this time he didn’t flinch as hard.
You stayed like that with him for the rest of the storm.
Sometimes you asked him questions. Sometimes you didn’t. Sometimes his grip on your hand tightened when the sky got too loud, and every time, you squeezed back.
You talked about small things. Safe things.
Bob’s habit of apologizing to furniture when he bumped into it. Yelena’s ongoing war against the compound’s “tragic” coffee selection. Alexei’s claim that he could outsing any man in America. Bucky’s ability to appear silently in rooms like a haunted house with good hair.
John laughed once.
It was quiet. Rusty. But real.
By the time the storm finally moved on, the windows were only streaked with rain, and the thunder had become a tired murmur in the distance.
John’s hand was still wrapped around yours.
Neither of you mentioned it.
Eventually, his shoulders lowered. His breathing evened. His eyes looked less like they were watching a battlefield and more like they were seeing the room around him.
The lamp. The couch. The ugly blanket.
You.
“I should let you sleep,” he said.
“You should sleep too.”
He nodded, but he didn't move right away.
When he finally stood, his hand slipped from yours reluctantly. Or maybe that was your imagination being dangerous.
“Thank you,” he said.
You looked up at him. “You don’t have to thank me.”
His face tightened with that familiar self-consciousness. “For dealing with me.”
You stood too.
“John, I wasn’t dealing with you.”
He looked away.
You stepped closer, not enough to crowd him, but enough that he had to hear you.
“If anything,” you said, “I should be thanking you.”
That made him look back.
“For what?”
“For trusting me with it.”
His expression changed.
Not all at once. Just a small break in the armor. A crack of light through something he usually kept bolted shut.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said quietly.
“Do what?”
“Make it sound like I did something brave.”
You held his gaze. “Maybe you did.”
For once, John had no comeback.
The following days, something between you was different.
Not dramatic. No grand confession. No cinematic music swelling through the compound speakers, though Alexei probably would have volunteered for that if asked.
It was smaller than that.
John saved you the last cup of coffee before Yelena could get to it.
You handed him a towel during training without him asking.
He started sitting beside you during movie nights.
You started noticing how often his eyes found you across a room.
And the flirting, somehow, began like a match struck in a dark hallway.
Small and bright. Impossible to ignore.
“You always this bossy?” John asked one afternoon when you corrected his bandage after a mission.
You smoothed the tape down and glanced up at him. “Only when someone needs managing.”
His mouth curved. “You think you can manage me?”
“I think someone should try.”
His eyes warmed.
Across the room, Yelena looked up from cleaning one of her knives.
“No,” she said flatly.
You blinked. “No what?”
“No to whatever that was.”
John frowned. “Nobody asked you, Belova.”
“I felt it happening in the air. I object.”
Ava, who had been leaning against the counter, took one look at your face and smirked. “She's not wrong. The air did get weird.”
“It did,” Bob said earnestly. “But not bad weird. Kind of warm weird.”
Bucky muttered. “Romantic weird.”
You covered your face. “Please stop.”
Alexei gasped from the couch. “Romance? In this house of weapons and sadness? Finally!”
John looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him.
You looked like you wanted it to take you too.
Yelena pointed at both of you with the knife. “Do not make this a team problem.”
Ava smiled. “It's already team problem.”
After that, there was no surviving it.
If John stood too close to you, Ava noticed.
If you laughed too hard at something he said, Yelena noticed.
If John brought you tea, Bob smiled like someone had handed him a puppy.
If you and John disappeared onto the balcony for ten minutes, Bucky stared at the door like he was considering filing an official complaint.
Alexei, unfortunately, was the worst of them all.
“I knew it,” he announced one evening when John reached above you to grab a mug from the cabinet. “The tension. It is thick. Like stew.”
John slowly turned his head. “Do you ever hear yourself?”
“Constantly,” Alexei said proudly. “I am my favorite sound.”
You nearly dropped your spoon laughing.
John looked at you, and his annoyance softened into something quieter.
There it was again. That look. The one he gave you when he thought nobody else could see. Like you were the only calm place in a room full of noise.
Weeks passed.
Spring folded itself into summer. The air grew warmer. The days stretched longer. The compound buzzed with the strange, restless energy that always came before a holiday.
The Fourth of July arrived dressed in heat and sunlight.
Alexei was thrilled.
Yelena pretended not to be thrilled but bought sparklers anyway.
Bob made a red, white, and blue dessert that leaned slightly to one side but tasted amazing.
Ava complained about the decorations and then quietly fixed them when one of the banners fell.
Bucky avoided the word “fireworks” with the intensity of a man refusing to summon a demon.
You noticed that John was quieter than usual.
Of course you noticed.
He still smiled when Bob offered him dessert. Still rolled his eyes when Alexei started singing loudly and incorrectly. Still stood close enough to you that your shoulders brushed when everyone gathered near the windows to watch the city lights glitter in the distance.
But there was something tight in his face. Something waiting.
You didn’t call him out in front of everyone.
You just let your hand brush his once. A question.
His fingers twitched toward yours. An answer.
The fireworks started around nine.
At first, they were distant bursts of color beyond the compound grounds. Soft pops. Little blooms of red and gold cracking open against the dark.
Alexei cheered.
Bob smiled.
Yelena said, “That one looks like explosion flower.”
Bucky muttered, “That is literally what it is.”
John stood beside you, jaw tight.
Then a louder boom went off somewhere nearby.
His whole body went still.
You looked up at him.
He wasn't watching the sky anymore. He was staring through it.
“John,” you said softly.
He blinked hard. “I’m okay.”
You didn’t argue.
Not there. Not with everyone around.
But you saw the way his hand flexed at his side. Saw the way his breathing changed. Saw how the celebration started turning into something else around him.
Another firework cracked, bright and violent.
John stepped back. “I’m going to get some air,” he said.
Bucky’s eyes flicked to him.
So did yours.
John didn’t wait for anyone to answer. He turned and left the room, shoulders stiff, moving quickly but not quite running.
You gave him a minute, then another. Then you slipped away too.
The hallway was darker, quieter, but the fireworks still reached inside. Their sound crawled through the walls, dull at first, then sharp when one burst too close.
You checked the common room.
Empty.
Kitchen.
Empty.
Balcony.
Empty.
Your chest tightened.
Then, as you reached your bedroom door, you found him standing outside it.
John looked up the second he heard you. He looked embarrassed. Miserable. Caught in the act of needing someone.
Your heart twisted. "Hey,” you said gently.
His hands were curled into fists at his sides trying to hold himself together.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
You shook your head. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t know where else to go.”
The words were quiet. Almost lost beneath the next distant boom.
Something in you broke softly.
You opened your door. “You came to the right place.”
He didn’t move.
“I can leave,” he said quickly. “I know it’s late. I just thought maybe you could... I don’t know.” His throat worked. “Help me stay here. Like last time.”
Your answer came without hesitation. "Of course.”
His eyes lifted to yours.
You stepped inside your room and turned on the small lamp beside your bed. It painted everything soft, warm, safe. Your blanket was rumpled from where you’d left it earlier. A book sat open on your nightstand. Rain was not tapping at the windows tonight, but the fireworks kept flashing faintly through the curtains.
You sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him. Then you patted the space beside you.
John froze. The vulnerability on his face turned into panic for half a second.
“You don’t have to,” you said. “The chair is fine too.”
He glanced at the chair. Then at the bed. Then another boom cracked through the night, loud enough to make the window tremble.
John flinched hard.
That decided it.
He crossed the room and sat beside you, his movements stiff and careful, like he was afraid of taking up too much space. Then, after another flash lit the curtains, he lay down beside you on top of the covers.
Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. Far enough that he could pretend this was only practical.
You lay down too, facing him.
His eyes were open, fixed on nothing.
“John,” you whispered.
His gaze shifted to you.
“Five things you can see.”
He exhaled shakily.
“You,” he said.
Your breath caught.
His eyes flicked away, as if he hadn’t meant to say that first.
“The lamp,” he added. “The book on your nightstand. The curtains. Your pillow.”
“Good,” you said softly. “Four things you can feel.”
“The bed.” His hand moved against the blanket. “The blanket. My shirt.”
He stopped.
You offered your hand, palm up between you. Just like before. This time, he didn’t hesitate as long.
His hand found yours.
“Your hand,” he said.
The fireworks popped in the distance. His grip tightened, but he stayed with you.
“Three things you can hear,” you said.
His eyes closed.
“The fireworks.” His jaw clenched.
You squeezed his hand.
He breathed in. “Your voice.”
“Good.”
He swallowed. “My breathing.”
“Two things you can smell.”
“Your shampoo,” he said, and this time his mouth twitched faintly.
You smiled. “You always notice that?”
His eyes opened.
“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
The room went quiet except for the distant celebration outside.
“And one thing you can taste?” you asked.
He looked at you for a long moment.
“Mint,” he said. “From the gum Yelena gave me.”
You laughed softly. “The one she said tasted like toothpaste and regret?”
“That’s the one.”
His smile was small, but real.
The fireworks continued, but they started to feel farther away. Or maybe John was coming closer to himself. His shoulders eased. His breathing evened out. The white-knuckle grip on your hand loosened into something warmer.
Neither of you moved away.
Time stretched.
The room became its own little country, bordered by lamplight and soft sheets and the sound of his breathing.
Eventually, John turned his head toward you.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
You gave him a look. “We talked about this.”
“I know.”
“Then stop thanking me for caring about you.”
His expression went still.
Outside, another firework burst, but it was distant now. Fading. A soft thud against the edge of the world.
John’s thumb brushed over your knuckles.
“You do?” he asked.
Your chest tightened. “Do what?”
“Care about me?”
The question was so quiet. So careful. Like he already had the answer tucked somewhere in his chest but was afraid to touch it.
You shifted closer.
“John.”
His eyes searched yours.
“Yes,” you whispered. “I care about you.”
He stared at you like those words had hit harder than any thunder.
Then his gaze dropped to your mouth, just for a second. A small, aching second.
You could have pretended not to notice.
His thumb moved over your hand again. “Tell me not to.”
Your heart stumbled. “Not to what?”
“Want this.”
The fireworks outside were barely there now. The sky was still loud somewhere far away, but inside your room, everything had gone quiet.
You moved closer, close enough that your knees brushed.
“I can’t tell you that,” you said.
John’s breath caught.
“Because I want it too.”
For one suspended moment, neither of you moved.
Then John leaned in.
The kiss was gentle at first. Careful. Almost disbelieving.
His mouth touched yours like a question he had been afraid to ask for weeks, and you answered by kissing him back.
His hand tightened around yours. Your free hand lifted to his jaw, feeling the rough warmth of him beneath your palm. He made a quiet sound, so soft you almost missed it, and the last of his hesitation seemed to unravel.
The next kiss was deeper.
Still tender.
Still John.
Like he was trying to prove he could hold something precious without breaking it.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His eyes stayed closed.
Outside, the fireworks faded into the distance, one last crackle of color somewhere beyond the curtains.
But John was here. Warm and breathing. With you.
“Still here?” you whispered.
His eyes opened.
This time, when he looked at you, the past wasn’t the loudest thing in the room.
“Yeah,” he said, voice rough and soft all at once. “I’m here.”
Your thumb brushed his cheek.
John kissed you again, slower this time, with the sky quieting outside and his hand still holding yours like an anchor.
And for once, when the world got loud, he knew exactly where to go.
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