john grudgingly patches you up after a mission — it gets more intimate than you both expect. post thunderbolts, no spoilers. 1k words
note: umm hi this is me forcing u to hear me out on him xx
“You’re not doing a very good job of that, Captain.”
John sighs loudly, his shoulders tense with irritation. “Shut up. And stop moving around.”
You grin to yourself. He’s fun to mess with.
“M’sorry, but your hands are really cold, John,” you tell him.
It’s true, they are, and he’s not being very gentle either. John wouldn’t have been your first pick for someone to patch you up after a fight, but you’d been unfortunate enough to be paired with him for this particular mission, and none of the rest of your team are back yet. You’re alone with him in one of the many bathrooms of Avengers tower. If you bleed out and die, you’re blaming it on his poor first aid skills.
“You wanna stitch this up yourself, then?” John asks you shortly. He’s got his big hand locked around your hip, holding you still while he stitches up the nasty gash spanning from just above your hip, up to the dip in your waist. His thumb presses into your hipbone. He’s not being rough but he’s certainly not being gentle — and while you’re not made of porcelain, you’d appreciate a bit of softness.
You shake your head. “No, thanks,” you sing-song.
John grumbles something under his breath that you can’t quite hear, but you catch words like useless and good for nothing. You don’t take it to heart. You’ve deemed him chronically grumpy, which he loathes, but you’ve decided it explains why he’s so mean all the time.
You let yourself fall back on your hands and watch him work. He’s standing in between your legs while you sit perched on the counter, your shirt pushed up over your ribs. He wasted a good amount of time letting you know how stupid it was of you to get hurt like this. After he was done grilling you, he grudgingly began to clean your wound, quite messily you might add. He’s halfway done stitching you up now, head bent over your ribs.
You think, secretly, that he looks quite handsome, concentrated like this. With his head bent over you, his hair all messy where he’s run his hands through it. You try not to think about how this position makes you feel. Sure, John’s a jerk, but you’re not blind. He’s handsome.
You realise suddenly that the silence is making you delusional, and you open your mouth to break it.
“Where do you think the others—“ you cut yourself off with a gasp when he pricks you hard with the needle. “Ow.”
“Sorry, I’m sorry,” John says quickly. He rubs his thumb over your hipbone twice, then lifts his gaze to yours.
“Sorry,” he says gently, wincing. “Accident.”
You blink at him. You don’t think you’ve ever heard the word sorry come out of his mouth since you met him. Not to mention the look on his face. Apologetic, gentle. Not something you’ve ever seen on him before. It suits him, but it’s still weird.
“It’s okay,” you say slowly. You shake your head, a little nonplussed. “It’s fine.”
John just stares at you. You stare back. Then he swallows. He must remember himself, then, because he goes back to frowning.
“Your fault,” he mumbles. He ducks his head again and gets back to work.
You want to ask how on earth that was your fault, but you’re too perplexed. If you’re not mistaken, you’re pretty sure John Walker was just soft on you. The absolute bare minimum, you know, but for John that’s like gifting you a bouquet of flowers and a kiss on the forehead.
You sit there, John’s hands all over you, and try to forget how he’d rubbed your hip, how he’d said sorry so quickly and so gently, how he’d looked at you like you weren’t just a thorn in his side, for once. You can’t forget it. How could you? It’s John. He’s not… soft. Like, ever.
You’re still thinking about it when the perpetrator in question finishes stitching you up. He snips the thread and straightens up. Your chest feels funny, like something’s tugging at your heart.
John lifts his head.
“You’re all done,” he says gruffly. He puts his tools down and tugs your shirt back over your stomach. “Try not to get so sliced up next time, alright?”
He’s back to sounding perpetually irritated again. Still, you find it difficult to ignore his hand on your waist as he smooths down your shirt.
“Why, ‘cause you care about me?” You joke weakly.
John rolls his eyes. He removes his hand from your waist to press it to the counter palm down, using it to hold his weight as he leans forward a bit. He’s not in your personal space, but he’s close enough, and the fact he’s standing between your legs doesn’t help.
“No,” he says in a low voice. “Cause you’re a nuisance to look after.”
You don’t know if he’s challenging you, threatening you, or if this is something else entirely, but you push yourself up with your palms pressed to the counter, leaning into his space. Whatever this is, you’re too stubborn to back down.
You tilt your head and plaster on a lopsided grin.
“Am I really?” You ask in a sweet, lilting voice.
John just looks at you. He’s closer now, so close you could kiss him, if you wanted. You’re not sure what you want, actually. But you can feel his body heat, and his broad shoulders block your vision of anything else, and he looks a bit like he wants to eat you. Or maybe kill you.
His hand creeps back towards your hip. He leans closer. Your heart hammers but you ignore it. John lowers his gaze. You’re pretty certain he’s looking at your mouth.
“You’re a brat, you know that?” He murmurs.
“Is that so?” You ask, feigning confidence. Really, your veins feel rampant with electricity. Your heart thud thud thuds in your chest.
“Mm,” John hums back. His thumb skips over the outside of your thigh. He’s breathing heavier than usual. You think you are too.
You don’t know why, but you reach up and touch his face. You drag two fingers over the rough stubble growing at his jaw. John shows no reaction on his face, though you notice his chest heaving so close to yours.
“Thanks for patching me up,” you whisper, so close now that your lips ghost over his when you speak. “You know, with how careful you were with the stitches, I’d say you actually care about m—“
John kisses you to shut you up. At least, that’s what he tells you afterwards.
-
thank u for reading! please consider reblogging if you enjoyed x
john walker x reader {kinktober prompt: wet dreams}
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. It’s just kinda hard to ignore when someone’s moaning my name like that.”
summary: john walker is the last person you expected to have a sex dream about - and it’s just your luck that his bedroom is right next to yours.
word count: 2.3k
warnings/tags: 18+ only mdni, smut and sexual themes, sex dreams, teasing and banter, tension, not enemies but they don’t get along to lovers, reader is afab, no use of y/n
author’s note: sorry not sorry i’ll always be a sucker for the “walker is weak for the reader calling him by his first name” trope
The scratch of his beard tickles the skin of your innermost thighs.
He’s been nestled between your legs for what feels like hours - long enough to have already pulled two orgasms from you with his tongue and long, dexterous fingers alone.
Your own fingers are laced through tufts of short, sandy blond hair, tugging hard enough to earn a low, throaty growl from him that vibrates against your already sensitive cunt.
Your thighs are practically shaking around his head, your body otherwise limp against the old safe house mattress.
“John—” you whine at the loss of contact when he pulls his index finger out of you.
“Could get used to you calling me that,” he grunts with a breathy laugh that fans over your folds.
“Your name?” You snort, half teasing and half serious. You’re borderline delirious in the afterglow of your climax and struggling to form a coherent thought.
He sits up on his knees, wrapping his fist around the length of his cock as he stares down at you with an expression that you can’t quite read. He shrugs. “You normally only call me Walker.”
He’s right. You don’t remember ever calling him John before now, but the name slipped through your lips without so much as a second thought.
And it didn’t feel wrong.
“Come here,” you murmur, pulling him down to you. He’s eager and more than willing to please - he doesn’t hesitate to do what you ask of him.
He hovers above you, one arm braced beside your head, caging you beneath him. His other hand trails lightly up your stomach before pausing at your ribcage as he looks at you almost expectantly.
“I’ll call you whatever you want,” you hum, wrapping your arms around his midsection to pull his chest flush against yours. “Just get inside me.”
You jolt awake, your heart hammering against your ribs. For a moment, you can still feel his hands on you. Still smell the musk of his cologne and taste him on your tongue. Then, your eyes begin to adjust to the darkness of your bedroom and reality sets in.
You just had a fucking sex dream about Walker - your teammate who lives to get on your every nerve, every chance he gets. John Walker, who just so happens to be sleeping in the room right next to yours.
As much as you want to deny it, you can’t. The sticky arousal between your thighs makes it difficult to pretend otherwise.
“Where the fuck did that come from?” You grumble to yourself, sitting up and swinging your legs over the side of the bed.
Walker is an objectively conventionally attractive man. Undeniably and annoyingly so. You aren’t blind. But a graphic, hyper-realistic wet dream?
What the fuck.
You need fresh air.
Skin still feverish, you don’t bother putting on a robe. In only a pair of shorts and a thin tank top, you tiptoe to the kitchen for a glass of ice water, fingers crossed that no one else is awake at this hour.
Luckily, all is quiet. You take your drink onto the balcony, hoping the night air will clear him from your thoughts.
By Manhattan standards, it’s calm tonight.
The city still hums far below - the distant rush of traffic and the occasional police siren - but from the very top of the Watchtower, the city almost feels peaceful.
The cool October air nips at your exposed skin, a welcome contrast to the heat still clinging to you from the dream.
You try to banish it from your mind but it’s futile. You can’t stop replaying the way his voice sounded, the way his hands felt trailing over your body. The warmth of him pressed against you, the feeling of his mouth on your skin.
It all felt so utterly lifelike. Even now that you’re fully awake, you’re having to convince yourself that it was a dream and not a memory.
A stupid, impossible dream, but still. Just a dream. People have sex dreams all the time. It’s not like it’s your first time ever having one, so why are you letting it rile you up so much? Just because it was about Walker?
The rusty creak of door hinges pulls you from your thoughts. You glance over your shoulder just as the balcony door eases open.
Of course. Of all the people in this building that could come check on you right now, of course it’s him.
“Do you always try to freeze yourself to death in the middle of the night, or is this a new thing?”
His voice is gruff with sleep, though a familiar lilt of amusement is still present. Normally, it would make you want to chuck the glass of water in your hand at his head. Now, it just sends a shiver up your spine.
You blame the breeze.
“Couldn’t sleep,” you mutter, turning back to the skyline so that you aren’t staring at him in his current state - hair tousled, loose fitting Army t-shirt, black sweatpants. It’s perfectly normal sleep attire and any other night, you wouldn’t bat an eye, but there’s something domestic about it that makes your heart race a little faster right now. “Just wanted to get some fresh air.”
“I guess that makes two of us.”
You hear him step closer, the soft thud of his bare feet against concrete. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but you don’t have to look to know that he’s staring at you. You can practically feel it - his eyes dragging from your bare shoulders to the hem of your shorts.
“You might wanna throw on a sweater or something if you’re going to stay out here much longer. Unless you plan on catching hypothermia.”
You shoot him a sideways glance. “Thanks, but I’m fine. It’s not that cold.”
Not anymore, anyway. Not now that he’s staring at you just an arms length away.
“I’m just saying,” he says, voice smug. “It’s forty something degrees and you’re basically naked and sipping ice water. Next time you need to… cool down in the middle of the night, maybe just turn your fan on.”
You force yourself to keep looking forward. “Didn’t realize Valentina assigned you to hallway patrol.”
He huffs a laugh. “You just sounded… restless.”
Your head finally snaps in his direction, your stomach somersaulting. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs, a bit too casually. He looks as if he’s trying his hardest to not smirk. “Just figured something is keeping you awake and wanted to check on you. That’s all.”
Restless. The way he’d say it made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Your cheeks heat up, the night air suddenly doing very little to keep you cooled off. He’s obviously trying to get some kind of reaction out of you, and you aren’t about to indulge him.
“Well, as you can see, I’m fine,” you huff. “You can go back to bed now.”
“Yeah, you look fine,” he retorts, voice suddenly low. “Definitely doesn’t look like you’re about to shatter that glass by squeezing it too hard or anything.”
Your eyes shoot down to the glass of ice water clutched in your hand, your knuckles visibly taut. You instantly relax your grip. You turn around to bite out some kind of snappy comeback, but he’s already retreating back inside the Watchtower with his back to you.
He closes the door behind him without saying another word, leaving you even more rattled than you had been when you first woke from your dream.
••••••
A week passes and with each day, you’re more and more convinced of one thing - somehow, Walker knows that you had a sex dream about him.
There’s two possibilities. The first - which you can admit is unlikely - is that he can suddenly read minds. The second - which makes way more sense - is that he overheard you. You aren’t exactly sure what it is that he overheard, but it had to be a moan or a whimper or something that let him know what you were dreaming about that night.
It’s the only explanation for his increasingly odd behavior over the last week. And by odd you mean uncharacteristically... considerate?
The following morning, when you finally got out of bed and made your way to the kitchen, everyone else was already finishing up breakfast. You were about to pour yourself a bowl of cereal when Walker made sure to let you know that he’d saved some waffles for you. Then, when you stopped for gas on the drive to a job in upstate New York, he handed you your favorite energy drink when he got back in the car. You hadn’t asked for it, but he got it for you, anyway.
And then there was the blanket.
A couple nights ago, you must’ve fallen asleep on the couch in the common room, because when you woke up around midnight, there was a heavy, camo blanket draped over you. The same one that normally sits folded at the end of Walker’s bed.
You’ve tried not to read into any of it too much.
But every morning, he’s asked you how you’ve slept. And every night, he’s told you sweet dreams with the same knowing, arrogant smirk.
By the end of the week, you have stopped wondering if he knows and started wondering when he’s going to actually say something about it.
You’re sitting at the kitchen island finishing up a mission report when he finds you late one evening.
“Didn’t think anyone was still awake,” he says as he grabs a bottle of water from the fridge.
“Paperwork,” you mutter, not looking up at him. “Some of us actually do it, you know.”
He chuckles, coming to lean against the counter directly across from you. He says nothing, but you can feel him watching you. The weight of his stare and the tension that’s been building for the last seven days finally makes you snap, slamming your laptop shut so it’s no longer blocking your view of him.
“Alright, what’s your problem, Walker?”
He blinks, feigning innocence. “Problem? I don’t have a problem.”
“Don’t play dumb,” you snort. “You’ve been acting weird all week.”
He raises a brow, still infuriatingly calm. “Weird how?”
You aren’t stupid. You know what he’s doing. He doesn’t want to say it. Doesn’t want to admit what he knows - wants you to be the one to break first.
“Saving food for me at breakfast. Buying me my favorite energy drink unprompted. Covering me up with your blanket—” You tick the incidents off on your fingers for emphasis.
“That was just me being nice.”
“You? Nice? Please.” You huff out a humorless laugh. “You wouldn’t be doing those things for no reason.”
You give him a look that says just fucking say it.
For a moment, he’s silent. He leans against the counter, staring at you with a gleam in his eyes and lips that threaten to upturn at the corners.
“Just thought that if I was nice enough, I might get to hear you say my name in your sleep again. That’s all.”
And there it is. The confession you’ve been waiting for. You don’t flinch. You don’t even blink, refusing to give him any sort of reaction.
He tilts his head as if in thought. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. It’s just… kinda hard to ignore when someone’s moaning my name like that.”
You hum. “You know, if you wanted to hear me say your name, there’s more effective ways of achieving that than whatever this little… charade you’ve been doing for the last week is.”
He huffs a laugh, then begins sauntering around the island that separates the two of you. You silently hope that he isn’t able to detect the way your heart rate spikes as he closes in on you. He purses his lips as he leans against the counter, so close that you can practically feel heat radiating from his body.
“More effective ways, huh?” He says, voice barely above a whisper. “I’d say whatever I was doing in that dream was pretty effective. Why don’t you tell me about it?”
Heat pools in your lower belly at the timbre of his voice and the way his eyes linger on your lips.
“Not sure if you’ve earned that yet,” you breathe.
“Damn,” he sighs. “And here I was thinking waffles would do the trick.”
You lean in, looking up at him from beneath your lashes, close enough for your breath to skim his jaw. “If you want details, it’s gonna take a little bit more effort than that.”
He gulps. Whatever smart remark he was thinking about making seems to die on his tongue. His hand finds the edge of your chair, spinning you towards him until your knees brush his thighs. His eyes dart from your lips to your eyes, seemingly looking for any sign of hesitation from you.
And then he leans down.
You tilt your head to meet him halfway. His hand comes to cup the side of your face, the pad of his thumb skimming your cheek as his lips slate over yours. It’s hesitant at first, like he halfway expects you to shove him away. But your hands settle on his sides, tugging him closer to you, and then his lips begin to move with yours.
It’s more tender than you ever imagined - even sweeter than it had been in your dream. There’s a faint, lingering taste of berry flavored Powerade from his evening workout that compels you to brush your tongue across his bottom lip. He opens up without hesitation, his free hand coming to rest against the side of your neck. His touch his feather light, a sharp contrast to his usual brute force.
He pulls away only when you’re both breathless. His nose still brushes against yours, his breath fanning over your kiss-swollen lips.
When he speaks, his voice is low and raspy in a way that you’ve never heard from him while awake. “Still think this is just a charade?”
thank you sm for reading. as always, comments and reblogs are very appreciated 🖤 dividers by @/enchanthings!
john walker smut w hair pulling AAAA I WANNA TUG HIS HAIR SOBAAD
Harder
Smut - Explicit content - NSFW - 18+ only!
Pairing: John Walker x Reader
Summary: You discover something that makes John Walker putty in your hands in the bedroom.
Warnings: Smut (NSFW) - 18+ ONLY - vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, pet names, language, hair pulling, sub-ish John Walker.
Send me more requests for Walker, pretty please! It's actually got my creativity going.
Sometimes sex with John was a fight for dominance. Lots of flipping back and forth over which one of you would get to be on top. Until you found a trick that would let you do whatever you wanted with him.
Your big, strong, super soldier apparently had a soft spot for having his pretty blonde hair pulled. Like eyes rolling back in his head, practically cumming on the spot weakness for it. You abused this weakness whenever you wanted.
The first time you discovered it, he was sitting up leaning against the headboard. With you in his lap riding him. You had taken to locking your ankles over his thighs to try and keep him from taking control when you were on top.
Granted, with his super soldier strength, he could easily just overpower you, but he was trying to get better about relinquishing control. It was not his favorite thing to do in or out of the bedroom. It was easier to go along with when you were busy bouncing away on his cock.
On this particular day, he was starting to get a little antsy, though. You could feel him trying to adjust his position so he fuck up into you. Not too pleased with the fact that you kept changing the pace whenever you could feel him getting close to cumming.
You warned him to try and stop his squirming.
“Behave John. Otherwise, I'm gonna get off of you, and you can finish this by yourself.”
Leaning to press a kiss to his lips as whined. Dropping his eyes down to watch where his cock was slotted into your cunt. Your slick visible on his shaft everytime your hips lifted.
“Please honey, you know I'm gonna stay hard. Please just let me cum. Fill you up once and then you can do whatever you want with me.”
At times like this, he sounded almost pathetic. Begging for release at your hands. You felt a new rush of heat soaking you, and you knew he felt it too. He decided to play into it.
“So wet. Pussy's so perfect. I need to cum. Come on fuck me harder. Pretty please, baby? I need it.”
Suddenly, you ran your hands up his neck and into his blonde hair. Scraping your fingernails in his scalp before gripping onto his soft locks. Yanking hard and pulling his head back so his powder blue eyes were locked on yours. His mouth fell open, and a deep groan pulled from his chest at the sharp sensation.
You could feel his cock throb inside you as you pulled his blonde strands. A devilish smirk on your face as you realized you had just found a new way to push him to the edge. You started bouncing on him with renewed force as you readjusted your grip on his hair.
“Oh you like that, huh baby? My big, strong man likes me yanking on his pretty blonde hair? I feel your cock pulsing inside me baby. I know how close you are just from that. Bet you're leaking so much pre cum too. All ready to fill my pussy full.”
Between the filthy words falling from your lips, your hips slamming down on him, and the feeling of your fingers tugging in his hair, he knew he stood zero chance of lasting. All he could do was enjoy the sound of your cunt sucking him in and plead for you to keep going.
“Please don't stop. Ride me just like that, honey. Pull harder. Pull my hair harder. I'm so close darlin’."
The harder you pulled and the faster you rode him the louder he shouted your name. Chanting it over and over like an appeal to the gods. The desperation in his voice pulling you closer to your own orgasm.
Only about 30 seconds more and a strained moan tore through John's throat. Loud enough, you were sure Yelena could hear it through the wall. His fingers were digging into your hips so hard they would leave bruises.
The feeling of his warm cum flooding your insides sent you over the edge with him. Your cunt milked his cock of every last drop as you pulled his hair so hard you were worried you were gonna pull it out of his head. Not that it seemed to bother him. If anything it felt like it made his orgasm last longer.
His breath was coming in pants as he let himself slide down the headboard so his head was resting on the pillows. His eyes closed, and arms fell to the wayside as you dismounted him. His head was still spinning from the little trip to heaven you just took him on.
“That was incredible!”
You settled in next to him and placed a kiss on his chest. Smiling at the awestruck expression on his face. Biting at his pec gently before teasing him about your new discovery.
“Didn't know you liked having your hair pulled so much, soldier.”
His eyebrows quirked, and a soft smirk settled on his lips. Wrapping his arms around you so you could snuggle into him tighter. He wasn't done with you yet for the evening.
“Neither did I.”
His words slightly slurred as he recovered from his orgasm. You knew he would be ready to go again in short order, but clearly pulling his hair gave John a climax on a whole other level. It was definitely something you would be using more often.
🌹💋 waking up on Valentine's day in John's bed (1k of fluff and mild smut)
You woke up between his sheets.
Limbs aching deliciously from the night before.
Heart full.
Everything was so fucking full of him.
You stifled a small groan in his pillow as you stretched your legs out, feeling the warmth of the blankets seep into your naked skin like a warm hug. Blinking one eye open, you spotted the trail of clothes John and you had left behind on the floor last night.
There was a glittery heel by the door, your dress right in the middle of his bedroom and then another heel, followed by his jacket and the dress shirt you had ripped from his chest. In sweet, aching revenge your ripped panties rested beside it.
The bed was a perfect mess, yet something was missing.
You breathed in the scent of him still lingering in the fabric, your hand touching the other side of the mattress that was terribly empty. But it was still warm – you knew anyway John would’ve not left you like this. (He could never resist in the morning, especially when you were naked and all sleepy in his bed, the evidence of your committed sins from last night still written all over your skin and between your thighs…)
Although you had slept in the safety of his strong arms all night, you already began to miss him.
“John?” You called out weakly, lazy as a cat as you rolled around in bed, swimming in the mixture of overflowing happiness and genuine satisfaction. There was some rustling in the bathroom, but you were soft and warm from sleep and in need of cuddles from your big beefy boyfriend. “Baby?”
You turned again and that’s when you saw it.
Standing on the small table beside the bed, was a gigantic bouquet of flowers.
You gasped underneath your breath, quickly sitting up as your head swam from the sudden motion, pulling the flowers to your chest in delight. It was big, the kind of arrangement you paid someone for, all shades of lovely pink and red.
Perfect.
You brushed your finger over one of the delicate roses, a feeling so big expanding in your chest, it made it hard to breathe for a moment.
The bathroom door opened and your glinting eyes shot over to John.
He was still shirtless, boxershorts hanging low on his hips, hair adorably messed up from your hands in them. It wasn’t only when you were sleeping with him; brushing through his hair and feeling the surprisingly soft strands glide through your fingers calmed you down more than any yoga routine ever could. And you knew you slept with your hand in his hair. John had told you before, because he loved it and never wanted it to stop.
John stopped in the middle of the room, his eyes turning a shade darker at the sight of his woman sitting naked in his bed, your chest only adorned by the flowers he had chosen for you. Some of the hickeys he had left on your neck and collarbone matching the red of the flowers.
Jesus, you were going to be the death of him one day and he’d go out gladly if it meant you were the last thing he ever was going to see.
“’morning, honey.” His voice was still raspy and heavy with sleep and he melted as you beamed up at him, clutching the flowers to your chest. “Happy Valentine’s Day, baby.”
“Hi.” You breathed out, leaning up and meeting him in the middle as he bent down to kiss you. “John, they’re so pretty. I love them.”
You liked pretty things.
You were the little golden magpie of the team, always on the hunt for pretty things that bewitched you. To John, it was still a miracle every day that you had chosen him.
He wasn’t…pretty.
He was a tough past and ugly cuts that healed slowly and a big mess he sometimes still couldn’t stand seeing in the mirror.
But somehow, to you, he was enough.
And when you gave him that bright smile that had nearly blinded him the first time he had been graced with it, the past slipped away.
“There’s more.” John mumbled against your lips, his thumb brushing over your chin as you affectionately nuzzled your nose against his. “There’s breakfast waiting for us…”
A kiss to your forehead.
“Everyone’s out, we got the tower to ourselves…”
You hummed happily as he sank down on the mattress, one knee digging into the space beside you as you took your face in his large hands.
“A long day ahead of us, doing whatever we want to do until I’ll take you out to dinner and spoil my pretty girl…”
You sighed as he kissed your lips open, welcoming his tongue in a shudder as he carefully pried the flowers from your hands and sank down on top of you.
“Everyone in that damn restaurant will think how beautiful you are and how fucking grateful I must be ti have a woman like you…”
Your hands slid over his chest, legs opening to welcome him between your thighs, slick from the vision he was painting for you.
“And then I’ll take you home and fuck you on every damn surface I can think of until you are satisfied and call it a good Valentine’s Day.”
Your thighs clenched together in anticipation and you knew by the glint in John's eyes that he knew you were ready to take him already. You'd never get tired of the possessiveness in his look, the all-consuming desire he held for you every second of the day.
“It already is.” You whispered between kisses and he shuddered from the simplicity of your words, his already hard cock nudging against your clit through the fabric of his boxers and making you moan. “I love you so much, John.”
“I love you, I can’t wait to make this day perfect for you…”
God, he didn’t know where to start.
There was so much, so many ways to love you and sate both of your hunger.
But in the end, it was always about you for him.
And he was going to show you just that.
“Just relax and let me do the work, okay?” He whispered in your ear, feeling you nod blissfully as his hand drifted down your body and cupped your core, thighs clenching in anticipation. “I’m gonna take care of you, honey. We got a long day ahead of ourselves…”
C’s corner: This is just a little chaotic fanfic with a fluffy ending requested by anon. Thank you so much for this request! I love creating chaos, especially Thunderbolts chaos. 🫶🏽✨
WARNINGS: Nothing but Thunderbolts chaos
✍🏽 WC: 3K
SUMMARY: You and John Walker accidentally invent a secret handshake. The Thunderbolts accidentally turn it into a team-wide crisis.
It starts because John Walker is unbearable.
Not in a serious way.
Not in a somebody take the shield away before this becomes an international incident way.
Just in the everyday, deeply irritating way where he catches the protein bar you toss across the kitchen without looking, then gives you one unbearably smug nod, as though the two of you have just completed a highly classified tactical maneuver.
You point at him.
He points back.
Your hands meet automatically, somewhere between habit and instinct.
Slap.
Backhand.
Fist bump.
Knuckles roll.
Two fingers hook briefly before you both snap your hands apart and point at the floor.
“Grounded,” you say.
John nods solemnly. “Severely.”
The entire exchange takes less than three seconds.
Ava, sitting at the kitchen island with a mug of tea, watches the two of you with narrowed eyes. "What was that?”
You grab another protein bar from the cabinet. “What was what?”
“That.”
John tears open the wrapper with his teeth. “Classified.”
“It looked stupid.”
“It’s not for you,” you tell her.
Ava stares at you. Then at John. Then back at you. "Good.”
She leaves the kitchen.
You wait until the door swings shut behind her.
“She wants one,” John says.
“Oh, desperately.”
That should have been the end of it.
Instead, it spreads.
By lunch, Yelena knows.
By dinner, Bob knows.
By the following morning, Alexei has somehow turned the existence of your handshake into a personal betrayal.
“You have secret gesture,” he announces, storming into the common room.
You lower your cereal spoon with the weary resignation of someone who already knows this conversation is going to be exhausting.
John, sitting beside you on the couch, doesn't look up from the mission report on his tablet. "It’s a handshake,” he says.
“A handshake is gesture.”
“Technically.”
“A secret gesture between teammates.”
You glance at John.
He glances at you.
Neither of you moves.
Alexei’s eyes widen. "You do it now.”
“No,” you say.
“You must.”
“It doesn’t work on command.”
“It is handshake. Of course it works on command.”
John finally looks up. “You can’t force chemistry, Alexei.”
Alexei puts one enormous hand against his chest. “Chemistry?”
You bite the inside of your cheek.
John’s mouth twitches.
Alexei looks between the two of you like he has uncovered an affair, a conspiracy, and tax fraud in the same thirty-second window.
“You have handshake chemistry?”
“Apparently,” you say.
“This is outrageous.”
From the armchair, Bucky turns a page of his book. “It’s a handshake.”
Alexei wheels around. “You are not bothered?”
“No.”
Yelena walks in carrying a bowl of grapes. “They have different endings.”
Bucky’s eyes lift from the page.
You stop chewing.
John freezes beside you.
Alexei whispers, “Different endings?”
Yelena pops a grape into her mouth. “I have been collecting data.”
“That’s not unsettling at all,” John mutters.
“The base sequence is slap, backhand, fist, little twisty thing.” She demonstrates badly with one hand. “But then it changes depending on mood.”
“It does not,” you say quickly.
Yelena looks at John.
John looks at you.
Neither of you dignifies that with an answer.
Ava appears in the doorway, tea in hand. “It absolutely does.”
“You said it looked stupid,” you remind her.
“It does. I can still recognize a pattern.”
Bob wanders in behind her. “There’s a pattern?”
“No,” you and John say together.
The room falls silent.
John slowly turns his head toward you.
You point at him.
He points back.
Slap.
Backhand.
Fist bump.
Knuckles roll.
You both tap two fingers against the side of your own necks before pointing at the others.
“Nosy,” you say.
“Extremely,” John agrees.
Yelena drops a grape.
Alexei looks devastated.
“You made one for us being nosy?”
“That one already existed,” John says.
“It did not already exist,” Ava says. “I saw you invent it.”
John shrugs. “It exists now.”
Bob takes a cautious step closer. “Can I have one?” He asks with such genuine hope that your resolve immediately begins to crumble.
John, however, is weak. “Sure,” he says.
You turn toward him. “John.”
“What?”
“There are standards.”
Bob’s face falls.
John points at you. “Look what you did.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You crushed him.”
“I'm fine,” Bob says, visibly not fine.
You sigh and stand. “Okay. Fine. Bob gets one.”
Alexei shoots to his feet. “Then I also get one.”
“No.”
“Why does Bob get handshake?”
“Because he asked normally.”
“I ask normally now.” Alexei clears his throat and clasps his hands behind his back. “Hello. May I please have secret chemistry gesture?”
“No.”
“This is discrimination against Russians.”
Yelena raises a finger. “I am Russian and I support this decision.”
“You are terrible daughter.”
While they argue, you turn to Bob. “Okay. Keep it simple.”
Bob nods intently.
You slap palms.
He misses the backhand.
You try again.
Slap.
Backhand.
Bob completely misses it. He forgets the fist bump and grabs your wrist.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
John leans against the couch, arms folded. “You’ve got to stop thinking about it.”
Bob looks helplessly at him. “How?”
“You just do it.”
“That is terrible advice,” Bucky says.
“It worked for us.”
You glance at John again.
He taps his fist lightly against yours. It's not part of the handshake, not technically. You tap back anyway.
Ava notices. "What was that one?”
“Nothing,” you say.
“That was new.”
“It was not.”
“It was.”
Yelena points at your hands. “You are creating additional gestures in real time.”
“We’re not creating anything.”
John reaches past you for the remote at the exact moment you hold it out to him.
Neither of you thinks about it, your palms slide together.
Twist.
Pull.
Knuckles tap twice.
John takes the remote. You drop back onto the couch.
The room goes silent again.
You stare at the television. John stares at the television. Slowly, you both realize nobody else is talking.
“What?” John asks.
Ava looks furious. “That wasn’t the original handshake.”
You glance down at your hand. “What wasn’t?”
“The thing you just did.”
Yelena nods. “She is right. That was an entirely separate handshake.”
“It wasn’t a handshake,” John says.
“What was it?” Bucky asks.
“A transfer.”
“A transfer,” Ava repeats flatly.
“Of the remote.”
“With choreography?”
You lean back into the couch cushions. “You’re all making this weird.”
“We are making it weird?” Yelena asks. “You two have developed a silent hand language.”
Alexei crosses his arms. “I want hand language.”
“No,” everyone says.
That's when the problem truly begins.
Somewhere along the way, you and John have accidentally developed an entire disciplinary system.
If John steals food off your plate, the standard slap-backhand-fist ends with you pressing your thumb down over his knuckles.
“Probation,” you tell him.
He chews your fry. “Worth it.”
If you interrupt him during a briefing, he catches your hand, taps your wrist twice, and points toward the hall.
“Benched.”
“You don’t have that authority.”
“I do in the handshake.”
If either of you makes an especially terrible joke, the handshake ends with both thumbs pointing sharply downward.
“Sent to Sam’s Avengers squad,” you announce.
Sam is not present to defend himself.
That does absolutely nothing to stop the category from becoming alarmingly specific.
John leaves a wet towel on the bathroom floor.
“Sam’s squad.”
You use the last of his protein powder.
“Sam’s squad, auxiliary division.”
He finishes the coffee and doesn't start a new pot.
“Sam’s squad, unpaid internship.”
You hide his boots after he calls your playlist “aggressively adolescent.”
“Sam’s squad, mandatory team-building weekend.”
That one makes him look genuinely disturbed.
“You take that back.”
“Apologize to My Chemical Romance.”
“No.”
“Then enjoy your trust fall.”
The others are no longer merely jealous. They are invested.
Yelena starts keeping score on the whiteboard in the training room.
HANDSHAKE OFFENSES
John: 17
You: 14
Alexei: 63, despite not participating
Bucky: 2
Ava: 4
Bob: 0
“I have not committed sixty-three offenses,” Alexei protests.
Yelena uncaps the marker and adds another tally. "You are complaining about the board.”
“This is dictatorship.”
Another tally.
“This proves my point.”
Another tally.
By the end of the week, everyone has attempted to create their own handshake with you.
Bob’s is gentle and involves one fist bump and a tiny finger wave. You let him keep it.
Ava’s is brutally efficient. Palm, wrist, release. It looks less like a greeting and more like she is checking you for a pulse.
Yelena keeps changing hers on purpose so you can never learn it. When you mess up, she acts disappointed in you as a person.
Bucky refuses to admit he wants one. He simply starts holding his fist out whenever you enter a room.
At first, you bump it normally.
Then, one afternoon, he adds a second knuckle tap.
You add a third.
His eyes narrow.
The next time, he switches hands.
You follow.
Three days later, John catches the two of you silently escalating beside the weapons lockers.
“Seriously?”
Bucky drops his hand. “It’s not a handshake.”
“Right,” John says. “It’s a transfer.”
You snort.
Bucky’s expression goes flat. “I hate both of you.”
John sticks out his hand.
Without looking, you complete the original handshake.
Slap.
Backhand.
Fist.
Roll.
Then both of you turn your thumbs downward.
“Sam’s squad,” you say together.
Bucky’s jaw tightens. “You know I’m friends with Sam.”
“Then you’ll settle in quickly,” John says.
Alexei is the final holdout. Not because he doesn't want a handshake. Because he wants the best handshake.
He spends days pitching ideas.
One involves elbow bumps. One involves saluting. One somehow includes a squat.
One requires you to lift him, which you refuse before he finishes explaining.
Finally, during a mission briefing, Valentina catches the team paying more attention to Yelena’s whiteboard tally than to the actual mission.
She stands at the head of the table.
Her gaze moves from Alexei, who is whispering suggested hand gestures to Bob, to Bucky, who is pretending not to practice his knuckle sequence against his thigh.
Then she looks at you.
Then John.
“What,” she asks slowly, “is happening?”
“Nothing,” you say.
“Team cohesion,” John says at the same time.
Valentina closes her eyes. “You two.”
You point at yourself. “Us?”
“Yes. Whatever this is, end it.”
John’s brow furrows. “End what?”
“The handshakes.”
The room revolts.
Bob gasps.
Yelena says, “Absolutely not.”
Ava sits forward. “You can’t ban them now.”
Bucky mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “This is bullshit.”
Alexei slams both palms on the table. “You see?” he cries. “Now outsider tries to destroy family tradition!”
Valentina stares at him. “This started six days ago.”
“Tradition must begin somewhere.”
You glance at John.
John glances at you.
His mouth twitches.
You know exactly what he's thinking because you're thinking it too.
Your hands meet under the table.
Slap, muffled against your knees.
Backhand.
Fist bump.
Roll.
Then a new ending, completely automatic.
Two fingers cross.
Palms turn outward.
Both thumbs point directly at Valentina.
“Grounded,” you whisper.
“Sam’s squad,” John adds.
Valentina’s eyes drop to your hands.
The room holds its breath.
She looks back up. “Did you just assign me to another superhero team?”
“No,” you say.
John nods. “Definitely.”
Valentina gathers her files with a sigh. “The mission is tomorrow at six.”
She walks to the door, pauses, and looks over her shoulder. “For the record, Wilson’s team has dental.”
Then she leaves.
There's a long silence.
Yelena slowly turns toward you. “That was devastating.”
John looks at his teeth in the reflection of his phone screen. "Do we have dental?”
“I don’t think we have payroll,” Ava says.
Alexei rises from his chair with the solemnity of a man accepting a great burden. "I have decided.”
Nobody asks.
He holds one hand out toward you. “My handshake will represent workers’ rights.”
You look at his hand.
Then at John.
John gives you a tiny shrug.
You take Alexei’s palm.
He immediately yanks you into a one-armed hug and lifts you off the ground.
“Alexei!”
“This is first step!”
“There will not be a second!”
Everyone starts shouting at once.
Bob tries to help lower you.
Yelena begins adding tallies to the board.
Ava threatens to phase through Alexei’s rib cage.
Bucky stands in the corner with his fist held out, waiting patiently for you to notice.
John watches the chaos for a moment.
Then he catches your eye over Alexei’s shoulder.
He points at you.
You point back.
Even while being carried across the briefing room by a delighted Russian super soldier, you manage the ending together.
Two thumbs down.
“Sam’s squad,” you and John say.
Alexei stops. His face falls. “This handshake is cruel.”
“It’s adaptable,” John corrects.
Somehow, that only convinces everyone they need their own.
Over the next month, the handshakes spread faster than any briefing ever had.
Bob practiced his every morning.
Alexei still insisted his workers’ rights handshake deserved reconsideration.
Yelena continued documenting new variations for “research.”
Bucky never admitted he had one. He simply kept holding out his fist whenever he saw you.
Somewhere along the way, the original handshake stopped belonging to just the two of you.
Maybe that was inevitable.
One quiet evening after another mission, the tower had finally settled into something resembling peace.
The silence that settled over the common room felt earned.
You stood at the kitchen sink, rinsing out two coffee mugs while the city glittered beyond the windows. Behind you, John leaned against the counter with his arms folded.
“You know…” he said.
“Hm?”
“I think we created a monster.”
You laughed softly. “We absolutely did.”
Comfortable silence settled between you. Months ago, it would have been awkward.
Back when every accidental brush of your hands lingered a second too long.
Back when every mission briefing ended with one of you finding an excuse to stand a little closer.
Back when everyone except the two of you seemed to realize you were hopelessly gone for each other.
Now he simply existed beside you.
Close enough for his shoulder to bump yours.
You bumped him back.
He smiled. “So.”
“So?”
“We have got handshakes for everyone.”
“We do.”
“But…” He scratches the back of his neck. “…we don’t really have one that’s ours anymore.”
You turn toward him. “What do you mean?”
“They belong to everybody now.”
You looked down at your hands.
He was right.
Somehow, without either of you noticing, the thing that had started as yours had become something the whole team shared.
Nobody had stolen it. You had simply shared it until it belonged to everyone.
John let out a quiet laugh. “I miss when it was just us.”
Your heart stumbled in the familiar way it always did whenever he said something unexpectedly honest.
“So…” You stepped closer. “We make a new one.”
His blue eyes brightened immediately. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He holds out his hand.
“No audience?”
“No audience.”
“No Alexei?”
“Especially no Alexei.”
You place your palm against his.
“Okay,” you whisper.
“Okay.”
You start slowly.
Palm to palm.
Your fingers slide apart.
His hand catches yours again.
Your knuckles meet.
Tap.
Tap.
His thumb brushes lightly across your fingertips.
Not part of the plan.
You smile anyway. “Horrible form, Captain.”
“I improvise.”
“So do I.”
Your hands separate for only a moment before finding each other again.
Neither of you plans it. Neither of you thinks about it.
Your knuckles meet once more.
His thumb glides slowly across yours before settling gently over your knuckles, holding there for the briefest heartbeat.
John looks down at your joined hands. “I think…" He looks back at you. “…we are missing something.”
“Oh?”
He nods once. "Last step.”
“What is it?”
Instead of answering, he gently tugs you closer. Close enough that your joined hands rest between your chests.
“So this is classified?” you murmur.
“Highest clearance.”
“I do not know if I can be trusted.”
“I think you have done all right so far.”
You grin. “I did invent probation.”
“You absolutely abused probation.”
“And you deserved every single one.”
“I probably did.” His voice has gone quieter. Softer. The kind of quiet reserved only for you. His thumb strokes once across your knuckles. "You ready?”
“For the last step?”
He nods. “Any objections?”
“None.”
He smiles. “Good.”
Still holding your hand, he turns it slightly until his thumb settles comfortably over your knuckles once more.
Palm.
Knuckles.
Thumb.
Then, without another word, he leans down and presses a gentle kiss to your lips.
It's not hurried. It's not dramatic. It's warm, familiar.
The kind of kiss that feels less like a beginning and more like the inevitable last step in a sequence neither of you realized you had been building all along.
When he pulls back, your foreheads rest together.
“…I like that step,” you whisper.
“I was hoping you would.”
“So…” You squeeze his hand. "Is that officially part of the handshake now?”
John pretends to think about it. “I think it is mandatory.”
“Mandatory?”
“For me.”
You laugh, the sound quiet enough that it never leaves the room.
“I can live with that.”
He steals one more quick kiss. “Good.”
Then he holds his hand out again. “One more time.”
You roll your eyes with exaggerated affection. “You are such a dork.”
“I know.”
You slip your hand into his.
Palm.
Knuckles.
Thumb.
Kiss.
From somewhere down the hallway comes Alexei’s booming voice.
“I KNEW THERE WAS SECRET FINAL STEP!”
You and John freeze.
Silence.
Then John sighs toward the ceiling. “…Straight to Sam’s Avengers.”
tws- breeding, unprotected p in v, daddy and mommy kink but a bit different, domestic, and sweet!
1k words :)
“gonna give me a kid? yeah sweetheart? i’ll keep going until it takes” John’s grip on your tits is a reassuring type of firm, his thumbs caressing up and down.
you whine and whine, fat globs of tears streaming down your face, it’s too much, but he knows you could take it. Your hands try to find any part of his body, but to no avail. Settling for John’s arm, holding them so time your nails leave an indent of his flesh. You can feel the warmth of his chest radiate off your shoulder.
“John… can’t, mmph, feels so full!” You swear you could feel him in your throat. He’s so unbelievably thick, it makes you understand why he’s so damn cocky.
Your moans reinvigorated his stamina, which, admittedly, was getting a bit sloppy. “ God, baby, you're so tight, your pussy’s just begging to be filled.” Your cunt grips him still, almost unable to move.
“Too much.. So deep!”
“ I know, I know, you can take it.. just keep taking it” You babble in response to his teasing, no longer coherently speaking.
Feeling him completely, ruined you. A deep visceral desire for john screams white hot fire inside you, and everything about him is not helping. His grunts, his pawing at your hips, his thickness. You’re almost annoyed at how good he is. Someone can’t be this insufferable and make you feel so good.
“ We can play house, you wanna play house? You can be mommy, I’ll be daddy” John pouts at you, even though you cant see ( but you can most definitely sense). He laughs a little bit, a bit in disbelief that he's really saying this, coaxing you to play along with his depraved, yet domestic game.
The sight is obscene. You’d been going at it for hours, your hair sticking to your face, flakes of mascara rings around your eyes. Your lips are a bit puffy and swollen. The night felt like a build-up to the top of a roller coaster, waiting to go downhill, waiting for the loop. You feel that exciting pit in your stomach, you feel when you're at a theme park. Your pussy clamps down on his dick in response to that word… that life conjured up in your mind… john being a daddy. Him holding a chubby little baby with filled out cheeks, his dads nose and your hair.
You could spend lifetimes kissing him, running your hands through his damp, messy blond hair. His biceps holding you in a gentle headlock, but you felt as if you were molded for his cock. Meant to be pounded into the mattress.
The scruff of his beard tickles your shoulder as he sloppy kisses to and from your neck. He bends your face to make eye contact as his thrusts get more and more tactical, efficient.
“ I wanna look into your eyes when I come ok? Wanna burn that image of you into my head. When I made you a mother.” John twitches at the possibility. Belly swollen, you in a baby blue empire waistline dress, barefoot, nipples all sensitive, waiting to be pinched by John’s callused fingers. Waiting to be licked.
“ You ready to have my babies? Christ you’re fucking soaked.” The walls of your pussy are swollen, thanks to the ramming of John’s fat cock. You pulse and flutter around him.
“fuck, john, daddy!” you exclaim, a bit unexpectedly, a bit too loudly.
He pauses for a second before responding. “Say that again, honey” you catch a breath in response to that nickname. homey and serious, a bit sarcastic, perfect.
“Yes daddy, ready to be a mommy for you!” You feel molded by his words, giving into his nasty desires. your words meshing into babbles, as you droll onto the pillow.
He pushes the plush of your ass up, as he uses it to push his cock in deeper. you can feel his heavy breaths, he’s getting closer. He whistles at the sight of it.
“please, need it in me” You whine.
“what. tell me what you need or I won't give it to you.” He’s getting mean, and impatient. He continues to drive deeper and deeper, plaps becoming louder and louder.
“ your cum! i need your cum john.” You embarrassingly plead.
“see where manners get you? all you had to do was ask!” He laughs. one final push, and you feel his tip brush with your cervix. Grunting and growling, almost animalistic, he pulses around you. like that white hot fire, he pumps his cum, sending a wave of shivers throughout your body. you feel his warmth spill out of your absurdly wet pussy. His primal urges fulfilled, he smiles and doesn’t look away from your gaze, as he squishes your cheeks.
“thank you thank you thank you” You string out expressions of gratitude as you feel euphoric ripples across your body, fucked out and full.
He rolls over next to you. Both of you are on your backs, your lashes make your eyes feel heavy. The both of you are tussled in the dunes of the sheets. He kisses your forehead with a tenderness that he didn’t show you while he was deep inside of you. A hand strokes your belly. He switches over the side of the pillow so that your head says cool while you curl into his biceps.
“ you’ll make a wonderful mom ya know. you’re sweet for no fucking reason, especially when you shouldn’t be.” John is sincere, and he’s s voice is gruff.. His gaze softens, and you swear you never noticed how honey and soft his hair was.
“ I’ll have a great daddy.” You tease.
“ Don’t start. I wanna give you a break. God knows you’re going need one.” Muttering under his breath toward the end of the sentence.
“John, what’s that supposed to mean?” You question a bit naively, a bit exhausted.
“ Well if you want to get pregnant, we need to keep going.“ You doze off, dead to the world. John figures he could get some sleep too, holding you in warm grip, a bit tight, a bit secure.
Warnings: John lowk being an asshole (per usual), mutual pining, slow burn, enemies to lovers?, teammates to lovers, tiny bit of angst, John's problems with vulnerability, teasing
A/N: hey guys! I am so sorry I haven't been posting at all during these past couple of days, my laptop froze for like 3 days (not even kidding it was so annoying) and my laptop has my Tumblr on it so I couldn't write anything but I came up with this little story because my boy John needs some love! hope you guys like it and hope you guys missed me!!
Requests: OPEN!
Enochsagels masterlist
summary: You never thought you’d catch feelings for John Walker—the stubborn, cocky man who drives you up the wall during missions. He’s frustrating, arrogant, and more than a little emotionally stunted. But under the sharp edges and reckless pride, there’s a man still learning how to be human again. A man who doesn’t realize that, in spite of it all, you see something in him worth staying for.
John Walker was the kind of man who filled every room he walked into with his presence—and not always in a good way. Loud, opinionated, cocky. He rubbed people raw, including you. Especially you.
It started with little things. The way he’d bark orders on missions, as if you didn’t already know what you were doing. The sarcastic comments under his breath whenever you challenged him. The constant need to prove himself, even when no one was keeping score.
“Walker, I don’t need you covering me. I had it handled,” you snapped after one mission.
“You call nearly getting blown up handled?” he shot back, jaw tight. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
You rolled your eyes and stormed off, but deep down, your chest ached with something more complicated than irritation. Because for all his flaws, John Walker cared. Too much sometimes. It was buried under arrogance and pride, but it was there.
And that was the problem.
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Over time, you started to see glimpses of the man behind the bravado. Late nights after missions, when everyone else was asleep, you’d sometimes find John sitting alone in the dark, his shield leaning against the wall, his hands clenched around a glass of whiskey he never finished.
“You’re gonna burn holes in the wall if you keep staring at it like that,” you said once, leaning in the doorway.
He didn’t look at you, but his voice was softer than usual. “I don’t sleep much.”
That was the first time he admitted anything to you without lacing it with arrogance. The first time you realized that maybe his bravado wasn’t confidence at all—it was armor. And it was cracking.
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The pining was unbearable. You’d catch yourself watching the way his hands flexed when he was angry, or how his laugh—rare as it was—lit up his face in ways you weren’t prepared for. You’d find yourself wanting to push past his walls, to get to the man beneath the asshole exterior.
But John made it hard. He’d snap at you during training. Tease you mercilessly on missions. Pick fights that didn’t need picking.
“You ever get tired of being a pain in my ass?” you shot at him once, exasperated.
He smirked, leaning close enough that his breath brushed your cheek. “Not when you look this cute pissed off.”
Your stomach flipped, and you hated yourself for it.
Because damn it—you wanted him. Even when you shouldn’t.
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The fight came after a mission gone wrong. You’d disobeyed one of his reckless calls, and it ended up saving lives—but John couldn’t see past the fact that you didn’t listen to him.
“You think you know better than me?” he shouted, pacing the room.
“I do when you’re about to get people killed!” you snapped back.
The silence that followed was deafening. His chest heaved, his fists clenched, and for the first time, you saw the manchild beneath the soldier—the boy still trying to live up to an impossible standard, lashing out because he didn’t know how else to cope.
He sat down heavily, running a hand over his face. “I don’t… I don’t want to lose anyone else.” His voice cracked, low and raw. “Not again.”
Your anger softened instantly. You sat beside him, close enough that your knees touched. “Then stop pushing people away, John.”
For the first time, he looked at you like he really saw you.
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The shift was slow. Subtle. But it was there.
He started listening more during missions. He started walking you back to your room after late nights, muttering something about “making sure you don’t trip.” He still teased you, still snapped sometimes, but there was a softness creeping in—a tenderness he didn’t know how to show without masking it in sarcasm or stubbornness.
One night, after weeks of dancing around it, you found yourself pressed against him on the couch, both of you half-asleep after a long day. His arm was heavy around your shoulders, his breath warm against your hair.
“You drive me insane,” he murmured.
You smiled into his chest. “You’re not exactly easy either.”
He tilted your chin up, his eyes burning with something unspoken. “But you’re worth it.”
And when his lips finally brushed yours—slow, hesitant, but full of every unspoken word—you realized he wasn’t just the asshole soldier who drove you mad. He was a man learning how to love, messy and complicated and imperfect.
But he was yours.
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Life with John Walker was never easy. He was stubborn, reckless, still rough around the edges. But in the quiet moments—the way his hand found yours under the table, the way he kissed your forehead when he thought you were asleep, the way he let you see the cracks no one else did—you realized that love wasn’t about finding someone perfect.
It was about finding someone who made all the chaos worth it.
