Sooo I finished watching His & Hers over the weekend and had a minor conniption over Jon Bernthal. That man is FINE. I've always loved him in The Bear, The Punisher and in the Accountant (because Brax was THE BEST), but he absolutely killed it in this show.
Anyway, couldn't help myself, and wrote a mini fic (probably will have two or three parts), and full disclosure it's basically PWP, and extremely smutty and probably the most full on thing I've ever written. So, enjoy! I only own the ofc and obviously this is purely a work of fiction and has no bearing on JB the man himself x
Pairing: Jon Bernthal x OFC (Bea)
Words: 2.7K
Warnings: Swearing, SMUTTT, probably a bit of an implied age gap (Bea is early 30's, JB is mid 40's?)
**thank you to whoever created this gif 🙏
Bea
Bea pushes through the heavy wooden door of The Dead Rabbit, the January wind chasing her inside before the warmth engulfs her completely.
The pub pulses with life: low wooden beams overhead strung with amber Edison bulbs spilling golden light across scarred tables and crowded booths, the steady thrum of Irish folk rock weaving through bursts of laughter and the clink of glasses. Whiskey smoke curls thick in the air, mingling with the sweet bite of spilled cocktails and the faint vanilla of someone’s perfume. It’s Friday night in the Financial District—bodies pressed close, energy raw and electric.
She cuts through it like she owns every inch.
The black leather mini skirt clings to her thick hips and thighs, riding high with each step to tease golden skin above knee-high black boots. The tight white knit turtleneck molds to her full breasts, thin fabric hinting at the delicate white lace bra underneath—angelic, soft, a perfect deception for the fire burning in her veins. Matching white lace panties shift against her skin with every sway, a secret that makes her feel sinful even as the outfit whispers innocence. Long dark hair is swept into a high, glossy ponytail that bounces defiantly. Red lips bright and bold. Winged liner sharp as a knife.
Her friends tumble in behind her, already tipsy from pre-game wine at Jess’s loft.
Mia cradles a half-empty rosé like a baby. Jess grips a bright pink gin fizz, straw bobbing. They claim a high-top near the back, bags and jackets piling in chaos.
“Look at Miss Purity tonight,” Jess teases, eyes raking over the white turtleneck. “Lace bra peeking through? You’re giving Sunday school teacher who just discovered sin.”
Mia giggles into her glass. “But then she orders man drinks. Old Fashioned. Straight bourbon. Who is this woman?”
Bea slides onto a stool, crosses her legs so the leather skirt rides up another dangerous inch, ponytail swinging.
“I’m the one who runs the trauma bay at Mount Sinai,” she says calmly. “Tonight? I want someone else running me.”
They erupt—cheers, clinking glasses, Jess chanting, “Get railed! Get railed!”
Bea signals the server with a lazy wave. “An Old Fashioned, please. Extra cherries.”
The drinks land fast. Her friends sip their sweet, fruity things; she takes the bourbon like a challenge, the burn sliding down hot and smooth, spreading fire through her chest. One. Two. By the third, the room glows softer, her laughter sharper—bolder. The white lace underneath feels like armor: pure on the outside, wicked beneath.
She feels the pull before she sees him.
At the far end of the bar, surrounded by a loose knot of friends—three or four guys in dark jackets, laughing low, beers in hand—stands Jon Bernthal. The Walking Dead. The Punisher. The Bear. Jon fucking Bernthal.
Broad shoulders fill out a charcoal suit jacket, black button-down open at the throat, sleeves rolled to thick, veined forearms. Dark trousers hug powerful thighs. Stubble rough, eyes shadowed under heavy brows. Broody. Dangerous. Radiating that coiled intensity even while joking with his crew.
Their eyes lock across the crowded space.
No smile. Just heat—slow, deliberate, electric.
Bea holds it, lets her gaze drag over him: boots, long legs, chest, stubbled jaw, those dark eyes that look like they could devour her whole. Then she lifts her chin—a tiny, regal nod toward the bartender.
The bartender gets it. Pours a fresh whiskey neat, slides it toward Jon without a word.
Bea slips cash across the bar, fingers lingering a beat, then turns away. Her ponytail bounces once. Hips roll confidently as she walks back to the table like she didn’t just silently buy a Hollywood actor a drink in front of his friends.
Her friends miss nothing.
“Holy shit, B,” Mia whispers, eyes wide. “You just eye-fucked the entire bar and bought drinks for the guy with the Punisher face.”
Bea sips her drink, casual. “Actions speak louder.”
Twenty minutes later, her glass is empty again.
She stands—smooth, predatory—and heads back to the bar.
A fresh Old Fashioned waits: double pour, bitters, extra cherries speared like an offering. Next to it, his whiskey—refilled.
He’s separated from his group now, leaning one hip against the bar, body angled toward her spot. Up close, he’s overwhelming—tall, thick, radiating that raw, broody energy that makes her thighs clench.
She picks up her glass, takes a slow sip, eyes locked on his.
“You didn’t have to buy me back,” she says, voice low, teasing.
Jon’s crooked smile is pure danger. “Yeah, I did. You started it, sweetheart. I’m just playin’ along.”
His voice rolls over her—accent thick, gravel and smoke, the kind she already imagines growled low in her ear while he’s buried deep.
She leans in, breasts nearly brushing his chest, the thin knit doing nothing to hide how hard her nipples are under the white lace.
“Careful. I don’t do subtle when I’m tipsy.”
His eyes darken. “Good. Neither do I.”
He shifts—thigh sliding between hers, pressing firm, pinning her lightly against the bar. The contact sparks straight to her core.
“Name’s Jon,” he murmurs, like it’s just for her.
“Bea.” She lets the name hang, red lips curving. “And I know exactly who you are. But tonight? You’re just the guy staring like he wants to wreck me.”
Jon chuckles—low, rough, vibrating through the space between them.
“Wreck you? Nah. I wanna take my time. Peel that pretty white top off slow. See what’s underneath. Bet it’s lace. Bet you look like an angel even when you’re sinning.”
Her breath hitches. The lace bra suddenly feels too tight—too innocent—for the heat pooling between her legs.
She tilts her head, ponytail swinging, voice dropping to a whisper.
“Keep talking like that, and I might let you find out.”
His hand finally moves: fingertips grazing the bare skin above her skirt, tracing the edge slow and deliberate.
“Tempting. Real tempting.”
They stay like that—locked in heat, bodies inches apart, the bar noise fading. His friends glance over occasionally, smirking, but he doesn’t break eye contact.
The anticipation coils tighter.
Neither moves to leave.
Not yet.
The night is too good to rush.
Jon
Jon leans against the bar, one elbow braced on the polished wood, whiskey glass cradled in his palm like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
His crew is still laughing a few feet away—Mark telling some bullshit story about a set in Brooklyn, the others half-listening, beers in hand—but Jon’s attention is gone. Locked. Across the room, she’s moving back to her table like she didn’t just buy him a drink without a single word.
He watches her go: black leather skirt hugging those thick hips, swaying with every step; white knit top clinging to full curves, the faint outline of lace underneath catching the amber light like a promise; high ponytail bouncing, red lips curved in that quiet, dangerous way. She’s tall, confident, walking like the whole bar belongs to her.
And fuck—maybe it does.
He feels the pull low in his gut—raw, immediate. The kind he hasn’t felt in a long time.
The bartender slides the fresh whiskey toward him without asking. Jon lifts it in a silent toast across the room, even though she’s already turned away. She doesn’t look back. She doesn’t need to. The message landed.
His boys notice.
“Yo, Bernthal,” Mark calls, smirking. “You good? You look like you just saw a ghost. Or a really hot one.”
Jon takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving her table.
“Shut up.”
They laugh. He doesn’t.
Twenty minutes drag. He talks when he has to—nods, grunts, half-listens—but his body stays angled toward her the whole time. Every laugh, every toss of that ponytail, every time she crosses those long legs and the leather rides higher, he feels it like a punch.
When she finally stands again—smooth, predatory—he’s already moving.
He separates from the group without a word, steps up to the bar, signals for another round. The bartender knows the drill now: bourbon Old Fashioned for her, bitters, extra cherries speared. His whiskey refilled.
She arrives like she was always coming straight to him.
Up close, she’s even more lethal.
Golden skin glowing under the lights, big green eyes sharp and smoky, winged liner cutting clean lines. Red lips glossy, parted just enough to make him imagine them wrapped around—
He cuts the thought. Barely.
She picks up the drink he bought her, takes a slow sip, eyes locked on his over the rim of the glass.
“You didn’t have to buy me back,” she says, voice low, teasing, a soft foreign lilt curling around her words that he can’t quite place.
Jon’s crooked smile comes slow.
“Yeah, I did. You started it, sweetheart. I’m just playin’ along.”
He steps in closer—close enough that her heat hits him, close enough that the thin white knit does nothing to hide how hard her nipples are. His thigh slides between hers, pressing firm, pinning her lightly against the bar. The contact is electric. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. Just arches a fraction, like she’s daring him to push further.
“Name’s Jon,” he murmurs, voice dropping low, thick with that smokey accent he knows women hear in their dreams.
“Bea.” She lets the name hang between them, red lips curving. “And I know exactly who you are. But tonight? You’re just the guy staring like he wants to wreck me.”
The words hit him like a shot of bourbon—hot, fast, straight to the bloodstream. He chuckles, low and rough, the sound vibrating in the inch of space left between their bodies.
“Wreck you?” He leans in, lips brushing the shell of her ear, breath hot.
“Nah. I wanna take my time. Peel that pretty white top off slow. See what’s underneath. Bet it’s lace. Bet you look like an angel even when you’re sinning.”
Her breath hitches—just a fraction—but he hears it. Feels it. The way her thighs clench around his, the way her fingers tighten on the glass.
She tilts her head, ponytail swinging, voice dropping to a whisper that goes straight to his cock.
“Keep talking like that, and I might let you find out.”
His hand moves—slow, deliberate—fingertips grazing the bare skin just above the waistband of her skirt, tracing the edge of leather and heat.
“Tempting. Real tempting.”
He pulls back just enough to look at her—really look. Green eyes dark with want, red lips parted, cheeks flushed from bourbon and whatever this is between them. She’s not pretending. Not playing coy. She’s all in, and it’s fucking intoxicating.
“You always this bold?” he asks, thumb stroking a slow circle over the soft skin at her hip.
“Only when I’ve had three of these,” she admits, lifting the glass between them, “and only when the guy looks like he could pin me to the nearest wall without breaking a sweat.”
Jon groans low in his throat, grip tightening just enough to make her gasp.
“Careful, sweetheart. Keep talkin’ like that and I’m gonna test that theory right here.”
She smiles—slow, wicked, dangerous.
“Then test it.”
He doesn’t. Not yet.
Instead, he stays close—too close—letting the tension coil tighter. His thumb keeps tracing lazy circles on her hip. Her hand rests lightly on his chest, feeling the hard thud of his heart under the black shirt.
The bar noise fades. His friends glance over, smirking, but he doesn’t care.
All he sees is her.
All he wants is more time to let this build.
Because when it finally snaps?
It’s gonna be worth every second of the wait.
---
Bea’s hand lingers on his chest a second longer than necessary, fingers splayed over the hard thud of his heart beneath the black shirt.
Jon feels it like a brand—hot, deliberate, pulling him deeper into whatever this is. He doesn’t move his thigh from between hers; if anything he presses a fraction firmer, just enough to feel her pulse jump where their bodies meet. The bar is loud around them—laughter, glasses clinking, some guy yelling over the music—but it all fades to white noise. There’s only her: green eyes dark and steady, red lips parted, the faint scent of bourbon and something citrusy rising off her skin.
She tilts her head, ponytail swinging, and lets her voice drop low enough that only he can hear it over the noise.
“So, Jon,” she says, drawing out his name like she’s tasting it. “You gonna keep me pinned here all night, or are you actually gonna do something about the way you’re looking at me?”
He exhales a rough laugh through his nose, the sound more growl than anything else. “Sweetheart, if I do somethin’ about it right now, we’re both gettin’ arrested for public indecency.”
Her smile flashes—quick, wicked. “Is that a promise?”
Christ, she’s dangerous.
Jon shifts his weight, sliding his hand from her hip to the small of her back, palm flat and possessive against the dip of her spine. The thin knit does nothing to hide how warm she is, how soft the curve feels under his callused fingers. He leans in again, lips brushing the shell of her ear, voice gravel-thick.
“You know what I’m thinkin’ about?” he murmurs, breath hot against her skin. “How that lace is probably soaked through already. How those pretty thighs of yours are gonna shake when I finally get my mouth on you. How loud you’re gonna be when I’m buried so deep you forget your own name.”
Bea’s breath catches—sharp, audible—and her nails dig into his shirt just enough to sting. She doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t even try. Instead she turns her face toward his, red lips so close he can taste the bourbon on her exhale.
“You talk a big game,” she whispers, voice husky. “But I’m not the type to take someone’s word for it.”
His grip tightens on her back, thumb pressing into the soft flesh just above the waistband of her skirt. “Then let me prove it.”
He pulls back just enough to look at her—really look. Her pupils are blown wide, cheeks flushed deeper than the bourbon alone can account for, lips glossy and slightly swollen from biting them. She’s not pretending. She’s burning, same as him.
Jon glances sideways—his friends are still at the far end of the bar, Mark raising his beer in a mocking salute, the others grinning like idiots. He doesn’t give a shit. Let them watch. Let the whole damn place watch.
He brings his free hand up, slow, deliberate, and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, letting his knuckles graze the line of her jaw.
“Tell me what you want, Bea,” he says, voice low and rough. “Right now. No games. You want me to walk you out of here? Take you somewhere quiet? Or you want me to drag this out till you’re begging?”
She holds his gaze—unblinking, unflinching—and the corner of her mouth lifts in that dangerous little smile again.
“I want you to keep looking at me like that,” she says softly. “Like you’re already fucking me in your head. And then I want you to make it real.”
Jon’s jaw clenches so hard he feels the muscle jump. His cock is straining against his trousers, aching, and he knows she can feel it where their bodies press together.
He leans in one last time, lips brushing hers—not a kiss, not yet, just the ghost of one.
“Then finish your drink, sweetheart,” he rasps. “Because the second you do, I’m taking you somewhere I can show you exactly how bad I want you.”
Bea lifts the glass between them, eyes never leaving his, and drains the rest of the Old Fashioned in one long, slow pull. The cherry slides between her red lips; she bites down, holds his stare, then swallows.
The glass clinks softly back onto the bar.
She licks a stray drop of bourbon from her lower lip.
“Lead the way,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.
Jon doesn’t hesitate.
He takes her hand—big palm swallowing hers completely—and steers her toward the door, shoulder cutting through the crowd like it’s nothing.
His friends whoop behind him. He doesn’t look back.
All he can think about is the heat of her hand in his, the way her ponytail bounces with every step, the promise of white lace and golden skin waiting underneath that angelic outfit.
And how he’s going to spend the rest of the night ruining her for anyone else.
