Description: You leave quite an impression, short and sweet to be exact. John is obsessed. The way he can mandhandle you. Lift you up to reach things. Cage you under his body while his hand covers your entire face.
Tags/Warnings: no specific height mentioned but the whole thing is about being short, smut, size kink, John being down bad, dirty talk, praising.
Note: Someone asked me what I thought about John having a size kink with a short reader, so I just had to write a little something about this bc I'm 5'0 to be exact and I need a piece of that 6'2 man. Just a cute little something while I finish a longer angsty fic, enjoy 🫶🏼
The archive | Masterlist
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John Walker absolutely gets off on being big.
Because he IS big. He's tall, back is broad as hell, he's got that healthy I've-been-an-athlete-my-whole-life body, and don’t even get me started on those large hands.
John knows he's usually taller than most people he meets, with the few exceptions of someone like Alexei for example. He doesn’t really think about it much, because it's been like that his whole life.
Until he meets you.
The first time he really notices just how much he towers over you? How he could lift you up and put you anywhere like it's nothing?
Yeah, you bet he’s done for.
He’s standing behind you during a mission briefing, pretending to listen to Yelena talk tactics, when suddenly his focus shifts. To you in front of him. Or more accurately, below him. The fact that your head barely reaches his shoulders fucks something in his brain chemistry.
After that? he just sees you differently.
He notices everything. How you always have to get on your tiptoes to reach anything. How your legs dangle when you sit on the kitchen stool. How he had to literally lift you over his shoulder to help you climb a wall in a mission. His heart, and something else, didn't leave him alone the rest of the day.
Or that one time you tripped and he caught your hand before you fell, your palm swallowed by his. He looked down at that size difference and again … his body betrayed him.
And once he has you? Once you’re his?
He's down bad.
He’s suddenly placing things on higher shelves in your room, in the kitchen, anywhere. Just so you have to ask for his help. Or so he gets to wrap his arms around you from behind and lift you. Preferably the last one.
One time Yelena caught on and screamed at him because she couldn’t reach the cereal box and “not all of us have a bodyguard to get shit down for us, Walker!”
He doesn't care.
When he sees you siting on a stool, feet not touching the ground. He’ll lean down, tilt his head and go, “You comfy like that, sweetheart?” and then lift you off the stool to plop you on his lap instead. “There. That’s better.”
But he doesn’t mock you for your height. Never. He teases, yeah, smirks when you try to reach something on your own, maybe picks you up when you least expect it just to hear you yelp. But he would never make you feel small in a bad way.
Why would he complain when it makes him feel like he’s got a purpose? Like he’s built just for you?
When he can just manhandle you whenever he wants to?
You could be just minding your business, stretching on a mat at the tower’s gym and John just decided he needed to fuck you in that moment. He just towers over you, sweeps you up, legs dangling in front of his chest as he places you on his shoulder to carry you fireman style.
“John!!”
“Yeah?”
“Put me down.”
“I am, baby. Down on the bed.”
You don’t protest any longer. You know it’s useless. And maybe you just want him to fuck you in that moment too.
And once he’s got you in bed, all laid out in front of him, that’s when it hits him. Really hits him.
How much of a smaller frame you have against his.
Like you’re small not just in the casual sense. In the fuck-it’s-making-me-feral sense.
You blink up at him, dazed. “You okay?”
He just stares. Then swipes his thumb across your cheek, down your throat, resting it right above your collarbone like he’s measuring you.
“Yeah. I just… damn.” His voice drops lower, a little hoarse. “I’ll never get tired of how you look under me.”
He cages you in, braced on his forearms, letting his weight sink just enough to press you into the mattress. He’s not even inside you yet and you already feel like you can’t breathe, wrapped in warmth and muscle and the scent of him. Under that unfairly broad chest, your hands flattening against it to keep you from completely losing it.
He glances down. “Look at that. Can barely see your hand on me.”
Then he grabs your wrist and holds it up to his own. Your palm being ridiculously swallowed by his.
He groans.
“Oh, I like this,” he says, and you feel the moment his restraint cracks, like it always does with you. “Fuck, I like this.”
It doesn’t take long until you’re naked, pleading to be absolutely wrecked by every part of him.
He’s obsessed with how your body looks under him. How your thighs spread wide to take him. How your hands can barely wrap around his arms, around his waist. How your mouth can barely take him.
“God, look at you baby. You sure you can take all of me?”
And sweet hell, you barely can.
He loves the way your body fights to take him. The stretch. The tremble. The way you gasp when he’s only halfway in. And he never rushes, he soaks it in. Watches your face contort with every inch, feels your nails claw at his shoulders, like he’s too much and not enough at the same time.
The way your hips twitch, the way your mouth parts when he bottoms out … it sends him.
“Hurts so good, huh? You always do so good for me, sweetheart.”
You blurt something out, breathless, shaky “so full… John” your head rolls back and he growls.
He lives for you being overwhelmed. He talks you through it in that low, his voice rough in awe. “Yeah that’s it, so full of me … you’re taking me so well, baby.”
His hand covers your entire face. Pressing you down onto the mattress, “So damn little… barely gotta try to hold you down, huh?”
You go dumb on it, completely lost on his giant frame, on the strength he still holds back, until all you can let out are those tiny, wrecked noises he lives for.
“Look at that,” he pants, pushing roughly. “You’re so full. You’re shaking, sweetheart. Think I’m too big?”
He begs to finish inside. Because you’re so small and soft and fucking perfect and he needs to feel it. “Let me, sweetheart. Let me fill you up, come on. Let me see how much your body can take.”
He fills you until it drips. He’s obsessed.
And after? He will straight up collapse on you, all sweaty and satisfied, while you’re still shaking from your high, caged under his entire body.
The cuddles hit different. You sleep on him, under him, around him. He wraps himself around you like a weighted blanket. “You okay under there?” he teases, knowing damn well you can’t move when he has his heavy arms around you.
pairing: john walker x fem!reader
summary: you’ve been undercover at plenty of events before. but this is the first time you’ve had to do it while resisting the urge to climb john walker like a tree. (spoiler alert: you do not resist)
tags: sam’s avengers!reader, spy!reader, bombshell!reader, strangers to lovers, instant attraction, john’s thunderbolts glow up needs to be studied because (and i cannot emphasise this enough) damn
warning(s): sabrina carpenter levels of horniness, reader wears a dress and heels, suggestive content (no smut just some spice lol)
word count: 6.2k
note: based on the sabrina carpenter song of the same name. this one is for all the lovely people who hyped me up when i made this post teasing this fic. i appreciate you all 🫶🏻
masterlist
Valentina’s gala had the kind of budget you only ever saw in Bond films and billionaire divorces: chandeliers dripping crystals, champagne flowing faster than tap water in most cities, a string quartet sawing away like they feared for their lives. Which, knowing Valentina, they probably did.
You had to admit, grudgingly, that the woman knew how to stage a spectacle. If you didn’t hate her guts, you might’ve given her props for putting on such a swanky event.
A waiter passed with a tray of champagne, and you accepted a flute like you belonged. The gown helped. Floor-length, slinky enough to earn second glances, heels sharp enough to qualify as weaponry. This was your job: blend in, dazzle, be the distraction if you had to.
“Status check?” Joaquín’s voice buzzed in your ear, familiar and excited.
“Currently blending seamlessly with the rich and powerful,” you murmured into your comm, lips barely moving. You gave the waiter a gracious nod as he drifted past. “Also, I may need hazard pay. Someone’s great-grandfather just winked at me.”
“You’re welcome,” Joaquín shot back. “I hacked your invite list slot next to the fun donors.”
“Fun is not the word I’d use. Predatory, maybe.” You sipped the expensive champagne and did a casual-looking sweep of the room.
“You sound stiff. Nervous?” Joaquín was a lot like a brother to you, and that included the annoying teasing.
“That’s the dress, I don’t get nervous,” you reminded him.
His chuckle softened into the more serious tone he reserved for work. “Keep your eyes open. Valentina’s pulling in half her contacts tonight, so he should be around here somewhere. If we’re lucky, you’ll find him before dessert.”
“And if we’re unlucky?” you asked lightly.
“Then you’ll do what you always do. Smile, improvise, and somehow walk out without a scratch.”
You smirked into your glass because Joaquín wasn’t wrong. The truth was, you’d always had your footing, even in rooms like this where the air smelled like money and ulterior motives. Confidence wasn’t just your armour, it was a second skin.
You were halfway through debating whether or not to start talking to people to blend in better when you saw him. At first glance, you assumed he was just another rich donor with a security clearance fetish. Then he turned, and you nearly choked on your champagne.
When did John Walker get hot? And no, you were not saying that lightly.
Last time you’d seen him, he’d been clean-shaven, hair regulation-short, jaw set like someone had carved it out of stone. A man so polished he squeaked. The kind of man you didn’t look at twice unless you wanted a lecture about “duty” or “protocol.”
Now? The universe must have gotten horny-drunk and rolled out a cosmic rebrand that was designed just to get to you.
The beard should’ve been illegal. Not full lumberjack, but just enough to rough up that all-American jawline. The hair was slightly longer, like he’d missed a couple of regulation trims, and you didn’t mind one bit. And the suit—dear God, the suit—hugged his broad frame in a way you were jealous of.
You would’ve remembered if John Walker looked like that last time you saw him. You prided yourself on your memory. Names, faces, floor plans, door codes. But this required a triple-take.
You told yourself it was just the spy in you, cataloguing details for later. But the catalogue was starting to feel suspiciously like a sexy fantasy, imagining big hands gripping your hips, a broad chest pressing you into a wall, that jawline scraping along the inside of your thighs.
Professional? Absolutely not. But your brain wasn’t exactly taking the professional route tonight. And because the universe loved irony, that was the exact moment his eyes found you.
John hadn’t been scanning the room for anyone in particular. He was too busy looking like he wanted to be anywhere else. But then his eyes caught yours, and then came the double-take. His gaze flicked down the line of your gown, back up to your face, and then down once more before dragging away. It was what you called the guilty man’s swivel.
That made you smirk. If John Walker was trying not to look aroused, he needed a lot more practice.
He’d separated himself from the crowd and stood by the bar, a lone figure nursing a glass of caramel-coloured alcohol. Bourbon, if you had to guess. He seemed like the type. His beard had a reddish tint, and the line of his shoulders said he was only half at ease. Not slouched but not rigid, caught somewhere between soldier and man.
You crossed the floor with the kind of casual elegance that only came from years of practice. John didn’t notice until you were leaning against the polished wood beside him, close enough to smell the bite of bourbon mingling with his aftershave. Woodsy, expensive, but not quite hiding the undertone of nerves.
“You know,” you said, letting your voice drip with mischief, “that’s a dangerous look you’re working with. Guess I should’ve expected you’d look good out of uniform.”
John’s head turned at once, sharp but wary. Those eyes, bluer up close than you remembered, narrowed just a fraction. “Excuse me?”
You tilted your champagne glass toward his jawline, letting your gaze linger a touch too long. “I didn’t mind the squeaky clean soldier look, but this is definitely better. Less Captain America, more Captain Unzip-My-Dress.”
In your comms, you heard Joaquín suppress a laugh. “Are you flirting with John Walker?! I literally can’t with you…”
John’s mouth twitched, defensive but betrayed by the smallest curve of a smile. “It’s just a beard.”
“Sure it is.” You sipped, letting the bubbles kiss your lip before speaking again. “And I’m just a girl in a dress. Doesn’t mean people aren’t staring.”
The tips of his ears went pink. John’s throat shifted when he swallowed, and you were annoyingly aware of how broad his chest was under that suit. How easy it would be to undo his tie, drag it down that chest, watch his composure shred thread by thread…
He huffed, looking down at his glass. You’d rattled him, and you liked it.
“D’you always offer strangers opinions on their facial hair?” he asked.
“Only if it takes up all my attention,” you said sweetly.
You let a moment of silence stretch between you. John Walker hadn’t had women flirt with him in the last couple of years, and you liked watching him squirm. The sounds of the gala filled the quiet; clinking glasses, someone’s too-loud laughter carrying across the floor.
Your instincts ticked through the signs automatically. The way his fingers gripped his glass too tight, like he needed something to keep him anchored. The subtle flex in his jaw each time you spoke, muscle working under skin. The nervous shift of his neck as a flush crept up the skin there.
Then there was the flicker of heat when his eyes couldn’t help but find you again. Like his body had already decided before his brain could catch up. You knew that look. You’d seen it in alleyways, in hotel rooms, in the sharp intake of breath just before someone kissed you like they’d been starving for days.
John wasn’t the only one. The sight of him this close—the warmth rolling off him, the steady thrum of restrained energy under that suit and tie—had your stomach warm in a way you hadn’t expected.
Your brain was already sketching out scenarios. John pinning you against the bar, his hips pressing into yours, his hand tangled in your hair. Not the mission, you reminded yourself, but oh, what a very welcome detour.
“You’re staring,” John muttered finally.
“Am I?” you mused, tapping a finger against the bar. “Maybe I’m just deciding whether you’re the same John Walker I remember.”
That got his attention. His head lifted, brow furrowed. “Do I know you?”
“We met once upon a time,” you said vaguely, swirling the bubbles in your glass. “You had a different haircut, more of that good old-fashioned military restraint. You were busy chasing anarchists, so I doubt I made an impression.”
John blinked, confusion softening into something a little sheepish. “Sorry. I met a lot of people back when I—” He hesitated, grimacing. Back when I was Captain America.
“Convenient excuse,” you teased. “Don’t worry. I don’t hold it against you.”
That earned you a huffed laugh, reluctant but real. His defences bent just enough for a grin to slip through. “Are you always like this?”
“Yes,” you said simply, lowering your voice just a notch. “When I meet someone interesting.”
John finally looked at you. His gaze slid languidly down the line of your gown, lingered at the shape of your hips, then snapped back to your face like he’d been caught doing something unbecoming.
Red tinged his cheeks. It made you think of another scenario where he might be flushed. You saw a preview of him looking down at you in bed, breath rough, hand braced on the headboard. The heat pooled low in your stomach, not at all unwelcome.
John Walker wasn’t supposed to be this gorgeous, but here you were. Leaning in close enough to hear the breath catch in his chest when you brushed your fingers against his wrist, and imagining what his breath would sound like between kisses.
You let him stew in the intensity of his own intrigue for a beat, then raised your glass. “To new beginnings.”
John blinked at you, a little dazed. After a beat, he raised his bourbon to meet you in a tentative toast. “To new beginnings,” he echoed.
Oh, this was going to be fun.
He still looked faintly rattled from your toast, like the bourbon had gone straight to his bloodstream. You knew the serum didn’t let him get drunk, so it had to be your effect on him. His fingers tapped once against the rim, then stilled like he’d ordered himself not to fidget.
“So,” John said, clearing his throat. His voice was deeper than it needed to be, like he was forcing it steady. “You said we’ve met. When was that, exactly?”
You hummed, feigning thought. “Oh, a few years ago in New York City. I think it was during that business with the Flag Smashers.” You let your finger trace the rim of your glass, slow and suggestive.
His brows drew together, suspicion threading the blue of his gaze. Then, his eyes lingered on your hand’s tantalising movement a second too long. “That was—” John hesitated, jaw flexing tight. “That was a rough time.”
“I wasn’t too close to the action.” You gave him a smile that didn’t explain anything. No need for him to remember you standing shoulder to shoulder with Sam and Bucky. Best to keep that little detail tucked away.
He seemed to accept the half-answer, though his mouth pulled taut. “Sorry if I don’t remember. I was a little tied up at the time.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” you murmured, letting your knee brush his as you adjusted your stance. You didn’t step away. Neither did he. “I guess I just have one of those forgettable faces.”
His gaze skimmed you now. Your throat, the curve of your mouth, the neckline of your dress. John shifted, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. “And what do you do now? What brings you here tonight?”
“Supporting the cause.” You motioned toward the stage, where Valentina was droning on. “It’s always fun to see who’s trying to save the world in a tux.”
“That’s vague,” John said, narrowing his eyes.
“Occupational hazard,” you replied sweetly. You let your fingertips graze the back of his hand on the bar as you set your glass down.
His hand twitched but didn’t move. It was just as big as you’d hoped. Your brain was already spiralling: his hand gripping your hip, tugging you flush against him, those broad shoulders pressing you down against polished wood, his voice rasping, stay still as he…
You had to bite the inside of your cheek to drag yourself back.
“God, you’re shameless,” Joaquín complained in your ear, and you had to stop yourself from laughing outright.
John, mercifully, thought your grin was for him. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing,” you lied smoothly. “Just thinking how odd it is that nobody else has scooped you up yet.”
He looked down, giving a faux smile. “Not really the most popular guy in the room, am I?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” You leaned in, close enough that your perfume wrapped around him. His eyes shut as he inhaled sharply, like he couldn’t help himself. “You look like you could throw me over your shoulder and run half a mile without breaking a sweat. It’s disarmingly sexy.”
The tips of John’s ears went scarlet again. His eyes snapped to yours, then away again, like he couldn’t decide if you were joking. You weren’t. In fact, you were very busy imagining exactly how it would feel if he did throw you over his shoulder.
“You can’t seriously be fantasising about this guy right now,” Joaquín hissed, his voice tinny through the comm.
“Shh,” you murmured as you took a sip of champagne.
“You’re trouble,” John muttered, almost like he meant it as a warning.
“Oh?” You brushed your hand against his forearm, delighted to feel him tense under the touch. His skin was hot through the fabric, the muscle rigid, straining.
John’s lips parted, then shut again, as if he had to physically bite back a response. Military training, public disgrace. The man was hardwired to keep himself contained. No doubt Valentina kept a tight ship.
But his body was already telling you everything you needed to know. His grip on the bourbon glass was tight enough to whiten his knuckles, and his knee was still pressed into yours.
Your brain obligingly supplied a picture of those same knuckles pressing into your hips, holding you down. His breath was hot against your neck as he muttered something filthy he’d deny the next morning. Where all of this was coming from, you weren’t sure. But you were determined to see if you could make any of it come true.
John exhaled sharply through his nose, like he was steadying himself. His gaze flicked to your mouth, then away. Then back again. He was losing the battle. God, what would he look like when that restraint finally snapped? Or when he stopped caring about who was watching?
You leaned in, your lips nearly brushing his ear. “Careful, John Walker. I think you might actually like trouble.”
His breath caught, audible this time.
The gala hum was louder now, the clink of champagne flutes and laughter ricocheting off crystal chandeliers. The string quartet had transitioned into something sultry enough to be mistaken for a slow jazz number. Music and mingling pressed around you, but all you felt was John’s eyes when he finally set down his glass.
“Do you dance?” he asked suddenly, like he’d had to wrench the words out of himself.
Your brows arched. “Depends. Is that an invitation?”
The faintest twitch pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Could be.”
Joaquín groaned in your ear. “Oh no. Don’t you dare—”
“Hiding in plain sight, fly boy,” you murmured under your breath, already slipping your hand into John’s when he offered it.
His palm was warm, callused, and immediately fired off images you had no business entertaining in the middle of a charity event. John led you through the crowd with unconscious ease, parting people like a tide. His hand shifted to your lower back, and he instinctively angled his shoulder between you when a sudden flash came from the photographers by the entrance. Protective and dangerously attractive.
On the dance floor, John hesitated a half-beat. You pressed closer, guiding his hands into place. One settled against your waist, hot through the fabric of your dress. The other clasped yours, his grip careful but firm.
“Relax,” you teased, catching his eye. “It’s just moving in time to the music. I promise it’s not a combat exercise.”
John’s jaw worked, but then he actually moved. Hesitant at first, then surprisingly smooth, his steps solid and sure. His body knew what to do even if his brain thought otherwise.
“See?” you murmured. “Not so bad.”
“Not sure I’d call this my natural habitat,” he muttered, a hint of rough amusement threading through.
“You’re doing just fine.” You let your thumb graze his palm. “Better than fine, really. I’d almost think you’ve been hiding this side of yourself.”
John’s gaze shifted to yours, blue eyes sharp, like he wasn’t sure whether to be suspicious or flattered. “What side’s that?”
“The one that knows how to take the lead,” you said, letting the word curl into something more suggestive.
You indulged the way John’s hand flexed against your waist, resisting the urge to pull you closer. His body was solid, pressed to yours, broad chest rising and falling against your shoulder. And your mind went straight off the rails: that same chest pushing you down into silk sheets, his weight anchoring you, that careful grip on your waist turning into something rougher, possessive—
You swallowed, forcing a smile to cover it. “Careful, John. Keep moving like that and people might think you’re enjoying yourself.”
His lips twitched again. John didn’t quite smile, but the tension in his shoulders eased. “Maybe I am,” he admitted quietly.
You covered the lurch of your heart with a grin, bumping your hip against his as the tempo shifted. “See? Now you’re catching on. Next thing I know you’ll be dipping me.”
His hand at your waist tightened, just slightly, like he was considering it. John Walker was unravelling, and you were more than happy to help pull the thread.
“You’re trouble,” he said again, but this time there wasn’t much heat in it. It sounded more like wonder.
You tilted your chin up, meeting his gaze fully. “I’d certainly like to be in trouble with you.”
The music smoothed into a graceful number that begged for something slow and close. John’s hand had steadied at your waist, his palm broad and warm, firm enough to make your stomach flutter. His eyes flicked down to yours, then away, as though every glance was dangerous.
Finally, his voice rumbled low, almost drowned by the swell of the quartet. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
John’s jaw flexed. “Flirting with me.”
Your smile curved slyly. “Is that what I’m doing?”
“You know it is.” His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you imperceptibly closer. John’s voice was rough, steady, but edged with something raw. “I know what people think of me. I’ve read the articles; the jokes about the B-vengers, the mistakes I’ve made. So why would you come anywhere near me?”
For a beat, your heart caught at the vulnerability in his tone.
“John,” you purred, leaning close enough that your lips nearly brushed the shell of his ear. “If I cared what other people thought, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be in your arms. And I certainly wouldn’t be imagining all the ways this night could end if you stop worrying about everyone else and just…” You let the pause stretch, edging your mouth towards his jaw. “Take what you want.”
“Jesus Christ,” John groaned quietly.
Filled with disgust, Joaquín echoed, “Jesus Christ.”
One second, you were swaying in rhythm. The next, John’s hand slid firmly down to your hip, his other clasping yours tighter. He spun you with surprising grace, then caught you cleanly in his arms, dipping you back in a long, practised motion that stole your breath. The room flipped, but all you felt was his arms, steady and strong, holding you.
His face hovered inches above yours, his breath mingling with yours. You licked your lips before you could stop yourself, and his eyes darted down to the motion.
“Careful,” John muttered, voice strained as he helped you upright.
“I wish you’d be less careful,” you shot back shamelessly, your lips just a breath away from his.
The heat in John’s gaze darkened, his jaw tight, his mouth hovering a fraction from yours. Every muscle in him screamed restraint, but the raw hunger was right there, barely caged.
You arched slightly into his hold, reckless, taunting. “If you keep looking at me like that, I might think you’re about to kiss me.”
“Maybe I am,” John rasped.
The world narrowed to his mouth, his breath, the dizzying heat curling low in your belly. His nose brushed yours, so achingly close, and your pulse hammered in your throat as if it might leap out of your skin to meet him.
Joaquín’s voice was a strangled whisper in your ear. “Don’t. Don’t you dare. I swear to god, I’ll turn my comms off.”
But you barely heard Joaquín. Because John had pulled you in, his body flush with yours, and his lips were hovering a heartbeat away from setting you on fire. For one perfect moment, you almost forgot there was a mission at all.
“Come on, John,” you teased, your lips slightly grazing John’s as you spoke. Your eyes were lethal despite your honeyed tone. “Just let go. How bad could it be?”
Something flickered in his gaze, hesitation mixing with the kind of heat that sent tingles down your spine. His jaw flexed, like he was fighting himself. “I don’t exactly do this kind of thing often.”
You weren’t feeling patient tonight. “I need you so badly,” you added softly, almost whining. John’s brows shot up, and you followed it with the knife twist. “Please? When did you get so hot?”
That did it. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.” John rasped, voice low, rough.
“Oh, I think I do,” you countered, shamelessly. “And I think you want it too.”
John caught your forearm, his palm hot where it wrapped around your skin, and tugged you off the dance floor. His grip was firm but not unkind; insistent and possessive. Your heart kicked up a notch, excitement thrumming through your veins as he cut a path through the crowd.
Your heels clicked over marble as you let him pull you along, and you couldn’t help the breathless laugh that bubbled out. “John Walker, man on a mission. I like this side of you.”
He didn’t answer, just threw a look over his shoulder that had your knees loose. His eyes burned, wild and wanting, and you wanted to be caught in that fire. The crowd blurred around you. John didn’t stop until he found a secluded corner past a marble column, dimly lit, the thrum of music muffled by distance.
And then he turned.
Your back hit the wall, cool stone against your bare shoulders, a jolt that made your breath catch. John’s body caged you in, heat rolling off him in waves. One hand pressed to the wall by your head, the other sliding firm against your waist, pinning you there without a word. You barely had time to gasp before his mouth crashed onto yours.
He was sharp and hungry, teeth grazing, lips parting like he’d been starving for this all night. You felt the drag of stubble against your skin, rough and perfect, and the way his chest pressed flush to yours, solid muscle caging you in. His kiss tasted of bourbon, smoky and hot.
You made a soft, involuntary sound into his mouth, half-plea, half-victory.
The sound you made seemed to snap something in him. Suddenly, John was everywhere—his mouth devouring yours, his body pressing you harder into the wall like he wanted to stamp you into the stone. His hand left your waist to grip your thigh, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp as he hiked your leg up against his hip.
You broke from his lips for half a second, breathless. “John—”
“Don’t say my name like that,” he growled, voice wrecked, before dragging his mouth down your throat. His teeth grazed your pulse point, and you swore you felt him smirk when you arched.
“Oh, I’ll say it however the hell I want.” You tangled your fingers in his hair and yanked, sharp enough to make him groan into your skin. The sound vibrated against your collarbone, low and filthy.
John kissed you again, messier this time, tongue pushing past your lips like he had to taste every part of you. He kissed like a man who’d gone without for too long, all need and no finesse, but you didn’t care. You bit his lower lip, tugged until he groaned, and then swallowed the sound like it belonged to you.
“You’ve been teasing me all night,” he rasped against your mouth, voice dark and uneven. “Do you know what you do to me?”
You laughed softly, wickedly, rolling your hips against the hard line straining his tuxedo. “I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
His grip tightened, a shudder ripping through him, and you swore you felt him whine into your kiss. That was delicious. You did it again—grinding, slow and deliberate—while your hand slid down his chest, feeling muscle twitch under your palm.
John broke the kiss with a gasp, forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and ragged. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Maybe,” you teased, ghosting your lips over his, not quite kissing. “Or maybe I’ll make you beg.”
The way his eyes darkened was lethal. He kissed you again, harder, teeth clashing, and this time his hands roamed—spanning your ribs, your waist, the curve of your ass like he needed to memorise every inch. You couldn’t keep quiet; every little gasp and moan muffled into his mouth.
For a moment, you thought about Joaquín still in your ear, listening to every filthy noise you made, and almost laughed. Until John’s thumb stroked the inside of your thigh and the thought scattered into static.
“You taste like heaven,” John muttered into your mouth, his words more breath than sound.
“And you,” you panted back, clawing at his shoulders, “taste like exactly what I want.”
The kiss turned molten again, all lips and tongue and teeth, your head spinning with heat and hunger. He wasn’t careful anymore. Neither were you. His control had finally cracked, and you weren’t about to let him rebuild it. You tugged at his hair until John groaned, pressed closer until he whined again, shameless.
Your fingers curled into John’s tie, tugging the silk free, hungry for more of him. The knot slipped loose, his chest rising unevenly against yours as you worked at the first button of his shirt. His breath hitched, lips dragging across your jaw, stubble scraping your skin.
Then, the world jolted. A metal hand shoved between you and John, wrenching him back. The force knocked your shoulder hard against the marble. You gasped, blinking up to find Bucky Barnes towering over you, eyes storm-dark, grabbing your forearm.
John reacted instantly. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he barked, fury rolling off him. “Let her go.” His grip closed around Bucky’s wrist, trying to yank him back.
Bucky ignored him completely. His gaze cut straight to you, unyielding.
“Really?” you snapped, pulling your arm back yourself. “That’s how you say hello after months? By dragging me away like I’m some asset?”
John’s head whipped between you, confusion etched across his face. “Wait. You two—”
“Yeah, we know each other,” you bit out, eyes still locked on Bucky. “I practically grew up with Sam. We’ve been working together for years—I thought Bucky and I were friends.” For the first time, Bucky’s expression faltered. “Is this seriously what it takes for you to talk to me?”
Bucky said your name gently, and John blanched. He only just realised you’d never introduced yourself to him. Of course, he recognised your name. You were a spy, the kind who’d toppled governments before working with the old Avengers. He’d met you briefly in New York City when you saved his life.
He couldn’t believe he didn’t recognise you.
“You could’ve just called, Bucky,” you went on angrily. “Or at least picked up the damn phone when I called. But no, you disappear, you ignore me. You have this petty, stupid back-and-forth with Sam—and what, you think that makes everything okay? You think ditching us is easier than facing the people who give a damn about you?”
John glanced between you both, stunned, still breathing hard.
Bucky’s mouth tightened. “This isn’t the place—”
“Oh, screw that.” Your voice cracked sharply across the marble. “You’re gonna listen, because I’m done with your bullshit! Sam went through hell to pick up that shield, and you know how much it meant to him to restart the Avengers. Steve and Sam broke every law in the damn country for you, Bucky! We stood by you when the world branded you a monster, and now you’re running errands for Valentina de-god-damn-Fontaine?”
Bucky’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t argue.
Your chest heaved, heart pounding, words cutting sharper with every breath. “After everything, you’re just a part of a government-sanctioned team calling themselves the New Avengers? You’re supposed to be Sam’s family! How could you still fight him on this after everything?”
Silence. Music drifted faintly from the ballroom beyond, muffled laughter and champagne chatter, oblivious to the storm in the corner.
John just stood there, frozen. His shirt hung half-unbuttoned, tie dangling loose, hair mussed from your hands. The flush on his face hadn’t cooled, only now it was from embarrassment rather than desire. His eyes darted from you to Bucky, only just realising the scale of the fight he’d wandered into.
Oh. Of course.
It clicked with brutal clarity. The way you’d teased him, the way you’d kept things vague, the way you hadn’t let him pin you down with a straight answer. You hadn’t been flirting with him because you wanted him. He’d just been a prop, a convenient cover. Something to lean on while you made your real play at Bucky.
“Right. Well,” John muttered, voice sharp with bitterness, “guess that explains it. I’ll just—” He gestured vaguely toward the party, a sardonic half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Get out of your way now that I’ve served my purpose.”
You turned on him so fast it almost made him jump. “Oh, no you don’t. You stay right there, handsome. I’m not even close to being done with you.”
John blinked. Once. Twice. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again without sound. The words didn’t compute. Hope sparked in the blue of his eyes.
Bucky grimaced. “Seriously?”
You swung a glare his way. “You don’t get to judge.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched, but you softened before he could shoot back. You sighed, your shoulders loosening as you stepped in and wrapped your arms around him. His body went rigid with surprise.
“I know this isn’t what you planned,” you murmured. “And I know it’s not easy. I just want my family back together again.” You pulled back enough to meet Bucky’s eyes. “We can make room on our team for the New Avengers. I just don’t want you guys fighting anymore. Please, Buck. Just call if you need me, okay? Joaquín had to pull some serious espionage to get me on the list tonight, and you know that’s supposed to be my job.”
Something in Bucky’s gaze eased off. He let out a breath and then hugged you back. His chin dipped against your hair. “I’ll do better,” he said gruffly. “For what it’s worth, I want to fix things too.”
When Bucky pulled back, catching sight of John, his expression twisted like he’d bitten into something sour. “But, yeah. Ew. This is like my little sister hooking up with my weird friend.” He jabbed a thumb toward John without looking. “I have to go before I throw up.”
And with that, he slipped into the crowd, vanishing the way only Bucky Barnes could.
You turned back to John. He was still standing there, shirt undone, tie crooked, hair sticking up from your fingers. “So all of this,” he motioned between the two of you, “That wasn’t about him?”
“No,” you said firmly, stepping closer. “That was about you being ridiculously hot. And unless I misread things, I’m guessing the feeling’s mutual.”
The corner of John’s mouth curved, a real smile finally breaking through. “Yeah, the feeling’s definitely mutual.”
Your hands smoothed down the front of his shirt, slow and deliberate, grazing each button as if you hadn’t been halfway through undoing them minutes ago. The fabric stretched over a muscle that had no business being that solid. You felt him swallow beneath your touch, his Adam’s apple bobbing like he was fighting to keep his balance.
“So,” John rasped, his voice pitched lower than before, like he’d had to drag it up from somewhere deep. “You’re a spy?”
You hummed, not looking up at him as your fingers slid to his undone tie. You tugged it loose the rest of the way, folded it without hurry, and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket. The gesture was domestic and filthy at the same time, and John’s eyes tracked every second of it.
“Guilty,” you murmured, brushing invisible lint from his lapel as if you hadn’t just been pinned against stone, kissing him breathless.
John shifted, clearly trying to redirect the heat crawling up his neck. “What are you then? Red Room? S.H.I.E.L.D.?” His voice cracked just faintly on the last word, like it took a lot of effort to focus.
You gave him a look, raised brows, sharp and offended. “S.H.I.E.L.D. was a government agency,” your tone dripped with disdain. “I like to fly under the radar more than that. My training was a little… off the books.”
The way you said it—low, conspiratorial, a ghost of a smile tugging your lips—made John’s pupils blow wide. He exhaled sharply, and you caught the flicker of want and envy across his face. John Walker was everything official, stamped, and sanctioned. You were everything he wasn’t: unbound, unsupervised, untouchable.
It was driving him crazy.
His jaw flexed. His hand covered yours where it lingered against his chest, and the contact felt like a spark. He was trying so hard to stay upright, to keep his head.
You softened, just a little, sensing the turmoil grinding beneath that square jaw. “For the record,” you said, smoothing the line of his collar. “I never planned this.” You tilted your head, letting your fingers graze lightly down his sternum until John drew in a sharp breath. “Joaquín and I just wanted to snap Bucky out of it. Find a way to compromise before this all gets messy.”
“I respect what the New Avengers are trying to do. But Valentina?” You shook your head. “It’s not her mantle to hand out. And whether any of you like it or not, we’d be a stronger team together.”
No one had ever said something like that to him without a smirk, without a qualifier, without making it about Steve Rogers. You weren’t mocking, you weren’t hedging. You were laying it bare. Your conviction was the sexiest thing he’d ever witnessed.
John let out a low laugh, breathless, disbelieving. “You really know how to mess with a guy, don’t you?”
“Only the ones worth messing with.”
Your brain, of course, already sprinted ahead. His hand over yours meant his hand on your thigh, pressing you open. His mouth on yours again meant his mouth lower, slower, anywhere you’d let him. It was obscene, the things you pictured with his heart beating under your palm.
“John Walker,” you whispered, letting the syllables curl like smoke. “You look like you’re about to crumble.”
He laughed again, almost a groan. “ And whose fault is that?”
“Mine.” You smiled, sultry and satisfied. “And I’m not sorry.”
“So, mission accomplished?” he asked, almost teasing.
“I don’t start things I can’t finish,” you replied. Your hands tugged at his lapels again. It was as if you couldn’t decide whether to fix him up or strip him further down. “And now that it’s over, I’d really like to get out of this dress.”
That snapped his focus. His gaze dragged down your body with zero apology, taking you in with the same hunger he’d been fighting all night. John’s eyes burned, lingering on the sensual neckline of your dress, on the sweep of your bare shoulder, the way it highlighted every curve. You saw his throat bob.
“That’s a shame,” he said, voice husky and reverent. “I really like it.”
You leaned in, brushing your mouth just shy of his. “I think you’ll like helping me out of it even more.”
For a second, he didn’t move. He looked like he was deciding if he was hallucinating the entire exchange. Then John Walker, all six-foot-one of muscle and chaos, caught your wrist and pulled you with him. This time, it wasn’t into a secluded corner, but toward the closest exit.
note: i never do tag lists but i appreciate all the people who commented on and reblogged my post so i wanted to tag you all in case you still wanted to read it!! here goes
okay I love bucky and all the boys honestly so can you write one where they get a goodnight kiss for the first time? love your writing btw!
Prompt: Bucky, John, and Bob receive a goodnight kiss
Warning: the implication of wanting to stay the night ;)
Thunderbolts Masterlist
It had been a long night; the gala ended up lasting way longer than anticipated. The Thunderbolts were being honored by Valentina, which was just another way for her to get good public press shots. Since it was hosted by her, that meant the guests of honor had to stay the whole time.
By the time the night was over, all of them were beyond exhausted and ready for a quiet night in the hotel room she'd booked for each of them. It was nice when he offered to walk you back to your room, even after spending many hours chatting and drinking together.
Bucky:
Walking side by side through the quiet hotel hallway, you carried your heels in hand. He kept his hands deep in his pockets; his eyes trained on the patterned carpet below and counting the steps until reaching your hotel room.
Coming to a slow stop, you paused for a second in front of your door. You turned to face him, rocking on the heels of your feet and clutching the room key tightly.
"You know..." Bucky tried to make it sound as casual as possible. He scratched the back of his neck and avoided eye contact at first. "We don't have to say goodnight to each other tonight."
A smile crept onto your lips at the proposal. "Enjoy my company that much, huh?"
"More than you know," Bucky spoke so softly, it nearly melted your heart right there.
Your eyes searched his as if trying to read him like a book. Instead of answering, you reached up and hooked two fingers into the front of his shirt collar — that small space between his open jacket and the buttons underneath.
You tugged gently, drawing him closer. His breath hitched when he realized.
And then your lips found his. One kiss that felt heavier than all the things he’d wanted to say. His hands found your waist automatically, like they belonged there and planned on staying there. Your fingers didn’t let go until it ended.
When you did pull back slowly, you looked up at him with an unreadable expression. Your fingers brushing down the front of his jacket. He leaned forward to chase your lips, but your hand stopped him.
“I’m going to bed,” you told him before he was able to take it a step further.
“I could—” Bucky began.
“Alone.” You smiled because Bucky looked only slightly disappointed.
"Right," Bucky nodded. He took a step back to give you space, shoving his hands back down into his pockets.
“But thank you for walking me.” You patted his chest twice and then headed into your hotel room for the night, knowing that you were leaving him wanting more.
John:
Coming up to your room, the laughter slowly began to die out. It was the kind of shared laugher that felt similar to a post-adrenaline high where everything felt lighter than it should. Shoulders brushed together teasingly.
John stopped short. He ran a hand through his hair and —for some reason— looked more nervous than his usual cocky and confident self. He kept gesturing with his hands, trying to sound casual.
“I mean… I could come in,” John suggested, fast and casual, like it wasn’t a big deal to him. He even shrugged. “Not for anything, just like—talk. I don’t often fall asleep right away and you—uh…”
He only stopped talking when he saw the amused look on your face. He narrowed his eyes at you as if trying to figure out what was going on in that head of yours.
"What?" John smiled. You shrugged.
“You’re cute when you do that,” you confessed.
“Do what?” John swallowed, shifting from one foot to another like a nervous schoolboy.
You took a step forward and slipped your fingers into his tie — right near the knot. His words died in his throat and he swallowed hard again.
“Talk like you’re not sure if I want you here.”
You gave the tie a slow tug — just enough to make him lean down to meet you. He didn’t resist. His lips parted like he might say something — but you kissed him before he could.
His hands came up like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you. But he did. Just you waist. Just enough for him.
It was unhurried and surprisingly soft for how much heat had built up between you. Your fingers stayed curled in his tie even as you drew away from him.
He stared down at you like you just handed him the world in the palm of your hand. You watched the way his eyes darted back down to your lips like he wanted another taste and he even dared ask.
“So, uh… does that mean—” John wondered.
“Goodnight, John.” You stepped away.
“Right. Right. Yeah. That.” John ran his palm over his mouth and down his beard. The door closed in his face and left him more flustered than he'd care to admit.
Bob:
The walk back to the hotel had been quiet for the most part. The air heavy with things neither had said out loud. He particularly had been quiet since the gala ended — not brooding, just stuck in thought. His shoulder brushed yours more than once. And you once caught him staring at you.
The two of you came to a slow stop in front of your hotel door. You fished your hotel card out of your clutch purse, holding it up for him to see. He sent you a tight lined smile.
"Well, this is me." You motioned to the door right behind you and Bob nodded without making eye contact with you. "I really enjoyed tonight," you tried to catch his eye.
"Yeah?" Bob glanced up, somewhat surprised. He smiled in recollection. "Me too."
You turned to scan your card against the reader, but Bob —with a sudden burst of courage— stopped you in your tracks.
“You don’t have to go in yet,” Bob said gently, drawing your attention back to him.
"No?" You quirked an eyebrow curiously.
“Y—You could come back to mine,” Bob almost couldn't believe the words coming out of his mouth. The moment he saw the look of surprise on your face, he quickly backtracked with: “Only if you want. I’m not—”
You smiled reassuringly and he looked so hopeful. Not expectant. Not pushy. Just hopeful.
He kept talking. And saw the way you moved closer to him.
"We could watch a movie, eat some snacks, or just talk if you want to." Bob's voice was growing quieter the closer you got to him. His eyes searching your face for some kind of sign of interest.
"Just talk?" You teased a little.
"Yeah," Bob squeaked, though he didn't mean to. He coughed and cleared his throat a little, shrugging it off like it was nothing. "Or any of the other things."
"Very tempting," You nodded.
"Yeah?" Bob looked up.
You were close enough to him now. You reached out to lay your hand flat against his chest, slowly dragging it up, and snaking it behind his neck. You pulled him down until your lips met his in a slow and deliberate kiss. He melted into it like he’d been holding his breath all night.
Your other hand moved to grab the lapel of his jacket— not to pull him any closer, but just to stay grounded. His hands hovered at the spot right above your waist, too fearful to place his hands there.
The kiss was warm, sweet, and slow. And he savored every second of it.
When you pulled away, you dragged both hands down the front of his chest to smooth his jacket flat again like you hadn’t just stolen all the air from his lungs. He watched your movements with hopeful eyes.
"I'm gonna have to pass tonight," you told him.
"Okay," Bob nodded. Not mad at all. Very understanding.
"But only because I like you too much to rush this," you confessed while you ran your hands down the front of his chest before withdrawing them carefully.
"Oh," Bob said mostly to himself, not catching on right away. And then: "Oh."
"Goodnight Bob." You smiled cheekily and slipped away before he had a chance to say anything else. The door closed with a soft click.
continuing to update, last updated 01/07, tysm writers for all these gorgeous fics!
includes smut and other nsfw content.
─── ✧ DRABBLES/THOUGHTS
enemies | @aquaholicsanonymousworld
domestic hcs | @/aquaholicsanonymousworld
nsfw hcs | @/aquaholicsanonymousworld
dating walker hcs | @purehypnotic
giving john head | @shadowheartshapedbox
the beard dilemma | @/fairytaleendingss
two bits | @vamplvs
cleaning johns wounds | @/vamplvs
sixty-nine with john walker | @sunsburns
switch!john | @sinner-as-saint
napping together | @zerosomnia
bossy!john | @bruisedboys
bickering with john | @loversrocktvgirl2
─── ✧ ONE SHOTS
the way i love you | @randomnessfangirl
John Walker is the bane of your existence...but everyone else can see that there is potential for you to put your differences aside and reveal your true feelings for each other.
girls' night revelations | @/zerosomnia
After venting some frustrations at girls' night, the reader realises that they are not just angry at Walker but that there's some other stuff going on too. A confrontation ensues that ends in some truths.
the soldier and the nurse | @blueberrypancakesworld
He was a soldier who, even as a hero, always tried to protect everyone with his shield. Even the best soldier gets hurt, though, and John finds himself in the infirmary of the tower, once again with a nurse he had visited many times before. This time, however, it seems different, because when concern meets amusement, two hearts finally find each other.
nocturnal guilt and training | @/blueberrypancakesworld
It is one thing when you don't concentrate, it's another when you let yourself get hurt to deal with your own pain. John finds himself in dark places from time to time, which is especially evident after the last mission, but the soldier wants to go through it alone. Yet his girlfriend is there to help him no matter how long it takes, they would make it together.
code yellow | @inlovewithquestionablecharacters
sex pollen with walker.
thunderstorms | @angellily920
johns a secret softie :)
and you came back to me | @/aquaholicsanonymousworld
him where they’re dating and reader gets badly hurt on a mission and the whole team is freaking out, especially John, man is going BRUTAL on the people who hurt reader.
off your game | @/aquaholicsanonymousworld
Working with the Thunderbolts meant swallowing your pride daily — but nothing bruised your ego quite like him.
honey, where is my shield? | @husbandjoel
you’re the fixer upper of weapons for the new avengers and want to do something for john walker’s upcoming birthday.
moral of the story | @starktonyx
You never expected to be blindly sent to kill your ex-husband, but when you cross paths again in looping shame rooms, it’s like going through the pain all over again.
come right on me... i mean camaraderie | @/starktonyx
You can't help the inappropriate thoughts that come out of your mouth during a mission, and John has to teach you a lesson, or multiple, about it.
patched up | @/bruisedboys
john grudgingly patches you up after a mission — it gets more intimate than you both expect.
helmet | @gallavichsreddie1128
reader may be the only person on the planet that gets turned on by John in his helmet.
asshole | @/gallavichsreddie1128
reader hates John but he and everyone else are convinced that it’s just sexual frustration.
bad words | @/gallavichsreddie1128
reader and John are a secretly dating but put on the act of hating each other until one of them takes it too far.
need that | @blank-potato
You think everything he does is hot, and eventually he takes notice.
my kid's better than your kid | @/blank-potato
You and John's kids are in the same soccer league, and after you get into an argument on the field over your kids, you start seeing him everywhere. It's hate at first sight.
what i'm about to do is not approved by the vatican | @/blank-potato
John sees you staring while he's cleaning his guns and decides to use your mouth instead.
but why's it feel so good? | @sexy-monster-fucker
While out on a mission together, Reader and John stumble into a researchers trap. Leading to them being doused in an unnamed chemical.
the heart of the matter | @divinepoints
You had never thought that life would lead you back to John Walker. Or perhaps, that life had led the both of you back to each other. After all, this had been your world first.
pushing it down and praying | @swordgrace
your friendship with john is put on the line after you’re injured during a mission — what follows is something neither of you can anticipate.
you're the ache i asked for | @/swordgrace
forced into attending a gala event, you go to john for help with your dress. things turn incredibly heated.
a black eye and two kisses | @/swordgrace
john has a bad habit of running his mouth, especially during a sparring lesson — after taking it too far, he makes it up to you in more ways than one.
only pretend until it's not | @/swordgrace
you and john go undercover to infiltrate an arms dealing ring in paris. you take your roles a little too seriously.
bit the hand that needs you | @/swordgrace
after getting injured on a mission and dismissing your help, you can’t seem to shake why john doesn’t like you. the answer is more complicated than you thought.
proximity check | @/swordgrace
when a mission goes sideways, you and john are forced to hide together in a utility closet.
change | @johns-walker
when you get injured during a job, you and john have a genuine conversation for once.
boundless | @endofthelinegang
the quiet halls of Avengers Tower keeps a kind-hearted witch who begins to distance herself from John Walker after his cold, self-protective indifference makes her believe he hates her. but when her warmth fades and he’s left in the silence he created, John finally confronts his fear of not deserving her—and chooses, for once, not to run from something real.
your hero | @spookieloop
You and the rest of the Thunderbolts are going undercover to catch an arm's dealer at his favorite night club. Someone tries to spike your drink, and Walker teaches the scumbag a lesson. A violent one.
short straw | @wintersarge
after being left behind for a mission, you and john are the only two in the tower. the only problem? you were sick and john was... well, john- completely clueless. what could go wrong?
dead-end heat | @buckyseternaldoll
After his divorce, John Walker hides out at the end of a dead-end road — quiet, wrecked, and alone. Until his new neighbor starts dancing naked by the window. And he stops pretending he’s not watching.
windchill | @sentrryy
walker doesn't seem too excited about the fact that captain america just saved your life. arguing ensues. and then making out follows.
problematic tower romance | @vividxpages
John liked to remind you that he was fifteen years older than you. You liked to remind him that you honestly didn't care.
under my skin | @flowersforbucky
what first begins as a series of bad luck shows you a different side of the man who normally drives you crazy.
only you | @cursedheartsclub
John Walker wasn’t looking for more. Not after everything. Not after the shield, the war, the wreckage. But then you showed up—hired by Val to watch his toddler son, Elijah Lemar—and somehow, without meaning to, you made yourself at home.
weapons don't dream | @maximoff-pan
You and John Walker have a past — you're a mind-reading ex-Hydra assassin and he's a disgraced soldier — similar in one too many ways. When forced to work together, old ghosts resurface, sparks ignite, and the line between enemy and something more begins to blur.
guilty as sin | @starrbishops
You hate how attracted you are to Walker, and you pull away from him because of it. He notices.
so high school | @/starrbishops
You and John have been together (sort of?) for a few weeks. You're still a little unsure on where you stand.
attitude check | @/vamplvs
john walker getting beaten into submission (willingly), being disciplined, and then being tenderly taken care of afterwards.
rough night | @/vamplvs
missions go wrong and john takes out his fustration on reader.
target aquired | @caracainn
he relives the stress that he caused you on a mission together.
─── ✧ SERIES
the things we don't say part ii | @/endofthelinegang
trapped between fury and longing, you and John Walker collide in a moment that’s been simmering for months—raw, reckless, and impossible to ignore. When a knock at the door threatens to shatter what little you have left, he finally says the one thing he’s been choking on: he wants you.
it only leads to trouble part ii | @mydearmando
you suppose it’s natural to touch people who you live and work with. you touch everyone on the team. walker does, too. so you don’t know why it bothers you so much when he touches you.
keep your heart, cause i already got one (ongoing) | @lauufeydottir
As the Thunderbolts make their way through The Void, Walker ends up a witness to one of your shame rooms, a past you've kept close to your chest for decades.
wildflowers and wild horses (ongoing) | @/swordgrace
cowboy!au, rodeo!au - John Walker is Belton’s best bronc-rider with a larger-than-life attitude, a chip on his shoulder, and a cocksure mouth. In the wake of his divorce, he’s pouring himself into winning the Belton Belt — a two week-long rodeo competition. He’s got something to prove. You are the manager of Bob Reynolds, your childhood companion and best friend. When Falcon’s Point Farms and its land are threatened by businesswoman Valentina Fontaine, you and Bob plan to win the Belton Belt — and the cash prize that comes with it. - The only caveat is the obstacle that is John Walker — and worst of all, you find yourself falling for him.
Summary : John Walker trying to manage his anger issues accidentally turns into a second chance at love.
Pairing : New Avengers! John Walker x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Tower-ish fic? FLUFF!!! divorce, co-parenting, you are John's crisis de-escalation trainer, workplace romance, Olivia has a new boyfriend, you are mentioned to have a sister and a niece, shooter mention, dental anxiety, food. (Let me know if I miss anything!)
Word Count : 17.3k
Requested by : Anons! This is a combination these requests: X X
Notes : First time writing a full fic just for John! I swear I intended it to be 5k words but I am incapable of restraint when it comes to writing, apparently. Enjoy!
John didn’t want Olivia back.
He didn’t sit outside her place mourning the life they had lost. He didn’t picture himself walking back through the front door, walking back into her life like no time had passed, picking up where they had left off. There was nowhere to pick up from. There was no bookmark wedged between the pages of their nonexistent marriage, waiting for them to find it again.
There were too many dead versions of them scattered between the two teenagers they used to be and the two adults they had become. The high school sweethearts to military couple pipeline was simple enough. What came after, though? The serum and whatever he was now? No, they simply were two different people. They simply grew apart.
John had made peace with the fact that they were over. The problem was that Olivia had started dating again first. Which meant she was winning the divorce.
Which was insane.
He knew it was insane. He knew divorce wasn’t a sport. He knew healing didn’t come with a scoreboard, and there was no prize for being the first person to look normal again. But this was John Walker we’re talking about, and Olivia moving on like a functional adult meant that she was beating him at life. And John was nothing if not competitive. As far as he was concerned, Olivia had points on the board and he didn’t.
John had government-monitored rage incidents and a search history full of “how to not hate your ex-wife’s boyfriend.”
Every other weekend, John would pull up to pick up his son, prepared to be mature, steady, and reasonable. A father, a grown man, a person who had done therapy-adjacent breathing exercises with Bob and therefore considered himself emotionally evolved.
Then the front door would open, and Olivia’s new boyfriend would be there.
The guy wasn’t even easy to hate. If he had been smug, John could have worked with that. If he had been condescending, or handsy, or one of those guys who tried too hard to prove he was comfortable around another man’s kid, John could have filed him away as an asshole and let the anger fester without feeling guilty.
The boyfriend’s name was Nathan, and Nathan wore clean sneakers and quarter-zips and had the calm face of aman who had never once been dragged into an international incident. He had neat hair, good posture, and a normal job. John didn’t know what the job was, because asking would imply interest, and John refused to be interested in Nathan on principle.
Nathan opened the door with his son’s bag on his shoulder, “Hey, John,” like they were neighbors.
Nathan remembered the stuffed dinosaur. Nathan knew the diaper bag needed the blue cup, not the yellow one, because the yellow one leaked if it tipped sideways. Nathan crouched to zip up tiny sneakers with patient hands while Olivia gathered a jacket from the hallway closet. So every time Nathan handed over the bag, John felt the score shift. Bing bing bing! 2-0!
Olivia: one emotionally stable boyfriend who knew the snack schedule.
John: one tactical vest in the trunk.
Nathan smiled at him one Saturday morning with a mug in his hand in John’s old kitchen.
He had signed the papers. He knew the house was Olivia’s now in every way that mattered. But his body hadn't received the update. Some stupid, territorial part of him still recognized the front hall and the little hook where his keys used to go. And then there was Nathan standing barefoot on the tile with coffee like he had spawned there naturally.
“Morning,” Nathan said. “Good to see you, man.”
John almost laughed. “Yeah,” he said instead. “You too.”
It came out flat enough that Olivia looked at him tilting her head.
His son squealed from the living room, and John stepped around Nathan to get him.
The kid launched himself at John’s legs with complete, reckless trust, and for half a second the whole world rearranged itself around the feeling of small hands gripping his jeans, his son shouting, “Daddy!” like John had never been anything other than wanted.
He bent down and picked him up.
There. That helped. That always helped.
For three seconds, the scoreboard didn’t exist. Then Nathan came out with the diaper bag.
“Packed extra wipes,” Nathan said. “He had a thing with the applesauce earlier.”
When John took the bag, his hand closed around the strap too tightly. “Great,” he said.
Nathan smiled politely. If he had been insincere in any capacity, John couldn’t spot it. “No problem.”
John wanted to bite through concrete. He hated that Nathan had packed the wipes. He hated that Nathan had been there for the applesauce thing. He hated that he knew there had been an applesauce thing at all. He hated that Nathan’s mug said something stupidly wholesome on it, probably from a farmer’s market. He hated that nobody was doing anything wrong.
Still, he knew Olivia was allowed to date. Nathan was allowed to be nice. Their son was allowed to be comfortable in the house he lived in, and in fact, John was relieved that he was. But that must mean John was allowed to feel complicated about it, too, right?
He was not, however, allowed to turn the whole thing into a personal war.
When he buckled his son into the car seat and glanced back toward the porch, Olivia and Nathan were standing side by side in the doorway. Olivia lifted a hand in goodbye, and Nathan did too.
John lifted his hand back because he wasn’t a monster. Then he got into the driver’s seat, closed the door, and sat there for one second too long with both hands on the wheel.
Winning. She’s winning!!! The thought flashed hot and stupid behind his eyes.
His son babbled a Bluey song in the back seat.
John looked at him in the rearview mirror and forced his grip to loosen. “Yeah, buddy,” he said, calming down almost immediately. “We’re going.”
He drove away like a normal person.
He made it three blocks before he muttered, “Goddamn Nathan,” under his breath like it was a curse.
His son repeated, “I call him Nay-fin because he has pet fish!”
John winced. “Don’t do that.”
“Nay-fin!”
“Buddy, please.”
“Nay-fin, Nay-fin, Nay-fin.”
By the time John pulled into traffic, he was considering whether crashing the car very gently into their mailbox when he came back counted as a setback.
—
There had been incidents, but not capital-I Incidents. John would have made that distinction very clear if anyone had been brave enough to stand in front of him and call them that.
They were simply… small things. Stupid things. Yes, he might’ve put a dent in the elevator panel because the doors stalled. Yes, he might’ve cracked a mug in the kitchen because Ava had asked him if he was “coping”. Yes, he might’ve punched a training dummy hard enough to take out half a weapons rack, which, in his defense, was what training dummies were technically for.
If anyone saw them as individual, isolated incidents, none of it would be considered catastrophic. Nothing made the news, no one got hurt, no country issued a statement. No blurry civilian footage hit the internet with his name trending in all caps. But together, apparently, it made his teammates raise an eyebrow.
Bob noticed first, which made it worse. Bob didn’t make accusations or corner John and tell him to get his shit together. He just stood in the training room after the dummy incident, staring at the wreckage with those worried eyes like the dummy had a soul. Later, he told Yelena that he thought John was “having a hard time.” Yelena told Mel because of course she did. Mel told Valentina because she was contractually obligated to, and Valentina, naturally, couldn’t have cared less. John breaking things barely registered as a crisis to her. It was just another line item in the budget, somewhere below ammunition, blackmail, and whatever Alexei kept charging to the company card under “team morale.” Then Bucky overheard.
So Bucky Barnes, of all people, ended up standing in front of him with his arms crossed and that irritatingly calm look on his face, like he had become the emotional adult in the room through some administrative error. Bucky, who had once looked like therapy was a foreign intelligence operation. Bucky, who had trauma spanning two centuries and nine decades. Bucky, who now apparently had the nerve to look John in the eye and say, “You need help.”
John laughed because the only other option was putting his head through drywall. “You’re lecturing me about anger?” he asked, because there were very few moments in his life where the universe felt this committed to humiliation.
Bucky’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t take the bait. “Yeah,” he said. “I am.”
“That’s rich.”
“Maybe,” Bucky said. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”
Bucky didn’t sound smug or superior. He sounded like someone who had already crawled through the same swamp and hated recognizing the mud on someone else’s boots. John hated being read like that. He hated that Bucky could stand there, calmer than him, more put together than him. His life had to be spectacularly fucked if the Winter Soldier was now the emotionally stable one.
“I’m fine,” John said.
“You punched an elevator,” Bucky replied.
“It got stuck.”
“For eighteen seconds.”
“It was still stuck.”
Bucky blinked at him in a way that made John want to throw something just to justify the conversation. “You hear yourself, right?”
Unfortunately, John did. He could hear exactly how insane he sounded. He could hear the pattern Bob had noticed. He could feel the way everyone had started looking at him, measuring the distance between him and the nearest breakable object in the room. It made his skin crawl.
Bucky sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Look, I don’t care if you’re pissed. Be pissed. But we can’t have another international incident involving you.” Bucky stepped closer, voice dropping, and John hated how serious he looked. “So you’re off missions unless you do a couple of crisis de-escalation training sessions.”
There it was, the leash. It didn’t belong to Val this time, who made him go on various suicidal black ops mission. It wasn't even the military’s. It was his own teammate’s.
“You can’t do that,” John said.
“I can.”
“Since when?”
“Since the team agreed.”
The team, huh? Is that what this has come to?
John’s nostrils flared. For one stupid second, he wanted to swing at him. Not really, and not all the way. It was just an old reflex, the urge to make the nearest solid thing pay for how cornered he felt.
Bucky saw it. “Don’t.”
John hated him for that, too. He hated everyone because they were right. John had been angry for weeks, if not months. He had been angry before, but this wasn't battlefield angry. Not useful angry. Not the kind of anger that pointed toward an objective and burned through it.
This was different. This was ugly, sour, domestic anger. Divorce anger. Nathan-knows-where-the-extra-wipes-are anger. It had nowhere honorable to go, so it kept finding walls.
“Who am I seeing?” John bit out.
“Someone I worked with during recovery,” Bucky said.
John scoffed. “Great. So you’re outsourcing me to your therapist?”
“She’s not a therapist,” Bucky shook his head, “she does oversight, that’s all.”
“Your anger babysitter, then.”
Bucky looked exhausted. “You’re really making my point for me.”
John stared at him. Bucky stared back. Neither of them moved, and then John snatched the file out of his hand because apparently that was what his life had become. Mandatory rage oversight, arranged by Bucky Barnes, because even a former Russian asset had managed to become more emotionally regulated than him. Fantastic. Wonderful. Humbling in a way that made him want to chew glass.
“Fine,” John said.
Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Fine?”
“I’ll go to the stupid sessions.”
John looked down at the file. Your name was printed neatly across the top, along with your credentials. He hated the font. He hated the folder. He hated the idea of sitting in a room while some calm, professional woman asked him where he felt his anger in his body. He felt it in his fist, obviously. He tucked the file under his arm and turned to leave.
Behind him, Bucky said, “For what it’s worth, she helped.”
John swallowed. That was it: proof standing right behind him that a man could crawl out of worse things and still become steady enough to lecture somebody else.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Well. Good for you.”
Then he walked away, already certain you were going to be the worst person he had ever met.
—
Two days later, John attended his first mandatory rage counselling session in an empty conference room on the thirty-second floor of the tower.
He had spent the entire morning in a foul mood about it. He had woken up angry, showered angry, gotten dressed angry, drank coffee angry, and glared at the file Bucky had given him angry.
The conference room was empty when he got there, because of course he was early. Not because he cared. Not because he was nervous. John didn’t get nervous about talking to some government-approved feelings babysitter in a glass-walled room with a bad view and a table long enough to host a hostage negotiation.
He was early because being late would have given Bucky something to say.That was all.
He stood near the window with his arms crossed, watching the city move beneath him like he had somewhere better to be. Which he did. Literally anywhere. A mission, a sparring mat, a shooting range, his truck. Nathan’s front porch, even. Jesus, that was how bad this was. He would rather stand in Olivia’s doorway and watch her boyfriend hand him the diaper bag than sit in a room and answer questions about his anger.
The door opened behind him.
John did not turn right away. It was petty, but he had already committed to being difficult, and there was no reason to abandon the theme this early.
“John Walker?” Your voice was not what he expected.
It was steady, but not cold. Professional, but warm. He turned, already prepared to be unimpressed, already prepared to hate the woman who thought she was brave because she could sit across from an angry man and ask him to breathe.
Then he saw you. And his first thought was: She’s cute.
John actually felt his brain snag on it.
You stood in the doorway with a bag on one shoulder and a folder tucked under your arm, dressed like someone who did home visits all the time. In this case, Tower visits. You looked composed without looking stiff, kind without looking naive.
John blinked. Then, he forced himself to snap out of it.
No. Fuck no.
That meant nothing.
He was just touch-starved, that was all. Recently divorced and hadn’t gone on a date in a while. A pretty woman walked into a room and his brain did the humiliating male thing it had been biologically programmed to do. That didn’t mean anything, right? That wasn’t a crush. That wasn’t even a thought worth dignifying.
He was just being a guy. A tired, divorced guy with bad impulse control and a mandated appointment.
You gave him a small smile, “Thanks for meeting me here.”
John looked around the empty conference room. “Didn’t really have a choice.”
“No,” you said, setting your bag down near one of the chairs. “You didn’t.”
Huh. He had expected you to soften the blow, to say something like, I know this isn’t ideal, or I understand this must be frustrating, or some other fluffed little statement designed to make the whole thing feel less like punishment.
John narrowed his eyes slightly. “That’s it?”
You glanced up from your folder. “Were you expecting me to pretend this was voluntary?”
“No.”
“Good. Then we’re already starting from a place of honesty.”
He hated that he almost smiled.
You pulled out a chair, but you didn’t sit at the head of the table. You sat along the side instead, leaving the chair across from you open. Not a power move, as John had learned to read. For a second, John had to remind himself that you had no reason to take an interrogation setup. John stayed standing.
“I understand Mr. Barnes spoke with you,” you said.
John scoffed. “That what we’re calling it?”
“What would you call it?”
“A threat.”
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
“Was it effective?”
John stared at you. You looked back, patient but not passive, pen resting lightly between your fingers.
He hated that question, but the answer was yes. Bucky threatening to bench him had been effective. Bucky telling him he was becoming a liability had worked because John could argue with feelings all day, but he couldn’t argue with being taken out of the field.
He pulled out the chair and sat down. “I’m here,” he said. “That’s what matters, right?”
“It’s a start.”
He leaned back, folding his arms. “And what, you’re gonna fix me?”
You didn’t flinch. You didn’t look wounded or challenged or impressed.
You just looked at him for a second, thoughtful in a way that made him feel more seen than he wanted to be, and said, “No.”
John blinked.
You opened your folder. “I’m going to help make sure you stop throwing government property through walls.”
For one full second, John could not decide whether to be offended or laugh. Offended won, but only barely. “It was one wall.”
You looked down at the page. “According to the report, it was two walls, one elevator panel, one training dummy, a mug, three chairs, and a decorative glass installation.”
“The glass was ugly.”
“I’ll add that to the mitigating factors.”
He did smile then, and you saw it. Even more unfortunately, you were kind enough not to look victorious about it.
Instead, you made a small note. “I want to be clear about something before we start.”
John’s shoulders tensed. “Here we go.”
“This isn’t therapy,” you said. “If you want a shrink, get a shrink. I have a recommendation list the size of a novella, but I am not that.”
His eyes narrowed. “I know.”
“Good. Then you understand I’m not here to hold your hand through a breakthrough.”
John stared at you.
You continued, voice even. “I’m not here to humiliate you. I’m not here to decide if you’re a good man or a bad man. I’m not here because the director of the CIA cares about your emotional well-being.”
John let out a humorless breath. “At least you know that.”
“Oh, I know that very well.” You clicked your pen once. “I work risk management and crisis de-escalation. I used to work in personal coaching, but now I work for corporate. I am not new to enhanced individuals. I’ve worked with soldiers, fighters, mercenaries, people who can turn a bad mood into a property damage claim. My job is to make sure you don’t cause another PR incident.”
“So I’m a liability.”
“You’re behaving like one.” you said. “Unlike therapy, I’m allowed to be harsh. I’m allowed to be direct. I’m allowed to be mean if mean keeps you from putting your fist through another wall. Got it?”
John leaned back, arms crossed. He still looked pissed off, obviously. That seemed to be his default setting. But now he looked interested too, against his will.
“So what?” he said. “You train me like a dog?”
You looked him dead in the eye. “If that worked, Mr. Walker, Mr. Barnes would've brought treats.”
For one second, he only stared. Then he laughed. You made a note.
His eyes dropped to your pen. “What are you writing?”
“That you’re trainable.”
—
By the second meeting, John had convinced himself the first one had been a fluke.
It was a weird day. He was in a bad mood and drank too much coffee. Of course John had noticed you were pretty. Anyone with a heartbeat and a preference for women would have noticed. That wasn’t a character flaw, nor was it a problem. That was certainly not the beginning of a little crush on the woman assigned to make sure he stopped damaging government property like an overgrown toddler with security clearance.
Except then you walked into the conference room again, two days later, with your bag on your shoulder and your folder under your arm, and John’s first thought was, oh, good.
Not, oh, fuckin’ great, therapy. Not, look, the feelings police have arrived.
You smiled at him. “You’re early again.”
John looked down at his watch like this was news to him. “Traffic was light.”
“You live in the building.”
“Elevators were fast.”
“You took the stairs,” you said, “I ran into Mr. Reynolds in the lobby. He mentions something about you always taking the stairs after the… elevator incident.”
His eyes ticked a bit.
You sat down across from him like you hadn’t just dragged him by the collar into the truth with one hand. “So. We can start with why you feel the need to lie about it. Panels in this building cost taxpayer money, and frankly, John, you are not interesting enough to justify a renovation budget.”
John leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed. “Are you always this charming?”
“Not always,” you said. “Sometimes I’m much worse, but I try to save that for people with better excuses.”
He hated that you were funny. He hated that your voice stayed even when he pushed. You let his attitude lay itself on a silver platter, looked at it, and then kept going like it was mildly inconvenient rather than intimidating.
John hated that you were basically a leash on him. He hated the way you could walk into a room, say his name once, and suddenly everyone expected him to behave like a domesticated pet with paperwork. He hated that you were basically a corporate muzzle with a company badge. Most of all, he hated that it worked. He hated that you were good at crisis de-escalation, that when you told him to sit down, he sat.
That session was worse than the first because he talked more. Not willingly or gracefully. John didn’t spill his guts; he leaked under pressure and acted indifferent when anyone noticed the puddle. But you were good.
You didn’t say, “Tell me about your feelings” like a shrink would. You asked practical things. What happened before the elevator stalled? What did he think before making the decision to do it?
He told you the elevator made a noise. He told you the noise reminded him of a transport door jamming during a mission that went badly.
You nodded.
John hadn’t realised until now, just how much that helped.
By the end of the session, he had only snapped at you twice, which apparently counted as improvement.
“That was progress,” you said, clicking your pen closed.
John scoffed. “Barely.”
He stood too quickly, because staying seated under your steady almost-smile felt too intimate. He picked up his jacket, glanced at you, then glanced away.
“Same time next week?” you asked.
“Yeah,” he said, and then, because his mouth had apparently decided to ruin his life, he added, “Works for me.”
Works for me. Like he was looking forward to it. Like this was a coffee date. Like he was not going to spend the next ten minutes in his room mentally punching himself in the face.
That night, he dreamed about you.
The first dream was almost merciful because it was vague. Your voice, mostly. The conference room, dimmer than it should have been, the blinds drawn over the glass walls. Dream-you said his name in his ears, and it sounded sensual.
John woke up annoyed at himself.
Fine. Whatever. People had weird dreams. That meant nothing.
Then it happened again. And again.
By the fourth dream, his subconscious had apparently lost all interest in being PG-13.
In the dream, you were still in the conference room, but you weren’t sitting across from him anymore. You were on the edge of the table, folder abandoned somewhere behind you, your knees bracketing his hips as he stood between them. His hands were on your thighs, warm through the fabric of your skirt, and he knew even then that he should not be touching you. He knew there were rules.
But dream-you did not care.Dream-you looked at him with your head tilted, eyes steady in that same infuriating way you looked at him in real life, except there was nothing professional in it now.
“You’re very good at pretending you don’t want me,” dream-you said.
John’s hand tightened on your thigh.“I’m not pretending,” he lied.
Dream-you smiled, and hooked one finger beneath the collar of his shirt and pulled him in like he weighed nothing at all.
The kiss was filthy. It was hungry and open-mouthed, your fingers in his hair, his body crowding yours back over the table until the folder slid off the edge and papers scattered across the floor. He could feel your legs tighten around him. He could feel your breath break against his mouth when he dragged one hand under your shirt and you said his name like you were giving in.
John woke up hard, furious, and staring at the ceiling like God owed him an explanation.
“Nope,” he muttered to the dark.
Fuck!
He spent the morning in the gym punishing a punching bag for crimes it did not commit, then took a cold shower and told himself, very firmly, that this was normal. He had been through a lot. You were pretty, direct, and unfortunately the person his idiot brain would latch onto after being emotionally starved for a year.
That didn’t mean anything.
It especially didn’t mean anything when he got dressed for the next session and changed shirts twice.
The fifth meeting was where you noticed.
Not the dreams, obviously. Christ. He would have walked into the Hudson before admitting those. But you noticed something.
“You seem tired,” you said.
John’s hand tightened around his coffee cup. “I’m fine.”
“You have shadows under your eyes.”
“I have a face.”
You paused, then you smiled down at your notes, and it was so small he almost missed it.
“Okay,” you said. “You have a face. Gotta do better than that if you want to be on the full mission roster again, John. I might have to tell Barnes you should work strictly recon only.”
He hated you.
Liar, liar, liar.
Still, he was starting to like the rhythm of the session. You didn’t chase him when he dodged, but you also didn’t let him disappear completely. You remembered details from the last session without having to flip at your notes. You asked about his son without making it feel like a test. You said Olivia’s name carefully, like you understood there was history there but didn’t assume the whole story.
You asked about Nathan once, asking how much of a liability he made him. John groaned so hard you actually laughed.
“I’m sorry,” you said, still smiling. “I shouldn’t laugh.”
“No, go ahead. My pain is hilarious.”
“It is a little pathetic that you hate him mostly because he packs a good diaper bag.”
“I don’t hate him.”
You looked at him and lifted an eyebrow.
John sighed. “Fine. I hate him a little.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s there.”
You didn’t write that down right away. You let it sit.
See, you never rushed to dissect the truth. You didn’t pounce like you had caught him revealing evidence. You just let the truth breathe for a second. Then you said, “Because he’s where you used to be?”
John stared at the window. His reflection looked back at him, eyebrows furrowed, shoulders too tight. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Maybe.”
It was the first time he had admitted it without turning it into a joke.
You didn’t say that was progress immediately, which was good, because he might have thrown himself through the window. Instead, you said, “That makes sense.”
John looked at you. His muscles loosened so suddenly it almost pissed him off. That was all he wanted, apparently. Not permission. Just someone saying the feeling itself was not insane.
Then, after the talking part of the session, came the training part of it. That’s the whole point of these meetings, right?
You weren’t gentle with him. You didn't treat his temper like a tragic creature that needed to be understood by candlelight. You treated it like a workplace hazard. Like bad wiring. Like a loaded weapon left too close to civilians.
“Again,” you said, tapping your pen against your clipboard. “You’re in a hallway. Civilian contractor panics. He raises his voice and gets too close. You do what?”
“Tell him to back the hell up.”
You sighed. “Try again.”
He looked at the ceiling like he was praying for patience, which was funny because you had been fairly sure God had blocked his number.
“I create distance,” John said tightly. “I keep my hands visible and lower my voice.”
“Beautiful,” you look pleased. “Look at that. A whole adult sentence.”
“Do you have to say it like that?”
“Yes,” you said, sipping your cold brew. “It’s how I stay awake.”
You circled him once, unimpressed, watching the set of his shoulders, the way his hands curled when he got annoyed, the way he always shifted his weight forward like every conversation was one rude comment away from becoming a contact sport. “There,” you said.
“What?”
“That.” You pointed your pen at his right hand. “You made a fist.”
“I didn’t.”
“Don’t lie to me when I’m literally looking at the problem. That’s embarrassing for both of us.”
John looked down. His hand was, in fact, half-curled. He didn’t even realise. He flexed his fingers open, irritated.
“That,” you said, “is the part we fix. Not your childhood. Not your marriage. Not whatever patriotic hellscape lives in your frontal lobe. That. The two seconds between insult and impact. That is my jurisdiction.”
You stepped closer, lowering your voice just enough. “When someone escalates, you do not match them, do you understand? You don’t get to make it a dominance contest because your ego gets lonely. You create space, you name the behavior, and you give one clear instruction.”
He looked unconvinced.
You sighed. “For example: ‘Step back. Lower your voice. We can talk when you’re calm.’ See? Simple.”
“I know how to talk to people.”
“You know how to issue commands,” you corrected. “That’s not the same thing. Golden retrievers know how to bark. We don’t make them hostage negotiators.”
His mouth twitched up into a smile before he could stop it.
You caught it instantly. “Oh, good,” you said. “There’s a sense of humor under all that rage.”
“Are we done?”
“No.”
You made him run the scenario again. And again. And again.
You played the panicked contractor. Then an angry civilian. Then a reporter shoving a phone in his face. Then a teammate ignoring his order. Every time he got too mad, you stopped him. Every time his posture turned threatening, you pointed it out. Every time his voice dropped into that dangerous register, you made him start over.
“Less divorced drill sergeant.”
He tried again.
“Better. Still terrifying, but now in a way HR can plausibly defend.”
John looked like he wanted to throw your clipboard through a wall. But he didn’t.
By the end of the session, he had forgotten to be hostile for nearly ten whole minutes.
—
Unfortunately, everyone else noticed him being weird about these sessions before he did.
It happened after the eleventh meeting.
He had put on some fancy cologne. Maybe he had sprayed once more than usual. Maybe twice. Maybe he had stood in front of the mirror afterward, frowned, and changed his shirt because the first one looked too tactical and the second one looked like he was trying too hard, which meant he had landed on the third shirt, which looked like he was trying exactly the right amount.
Whatever.It wasn’t a thing.
He walked into the common area afterward feeling, unfortunately, good. The session had gone well. You had smiled at him twice, called him out on his bullshit once, and told him he handled a frustrating call from Olivia better than he would have a month ago. He had pretended that meant nothing when it meant everything.
He was still thinking about it when Yelena looked up from the couch and sniffed the air.
John stopped walking. Ava, sitting beside her with a bowl of cereal, paused mid-bite.
Yelena sniffed again. “Oh,” she said. “Interesting.”
John’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
Ava looked him up and down. “That’s a lot of… smell.”
“It’s cologne,” John said flatly. “I wear cologne.”
Yelena leaned back against the couch, pleased. “People wear cologne. You are marinating in it.”
Ava looked him over, not unkindly. “The training went well?”
John pointed at her. “Don’t.”
Yelena’s grin sharpened. “Oh, it went very well.”
“I’m leaving.”
“You wore the good shirt,” Ava pointed out.
“Oh!” Yelena made a delighted little sound. “He knows it is the good shirt.”
John felt heat crawl up his neck. “I don't know what the hell you guys are talking about.”
“You have many shirts,” Yelena said. “Most of them say divorced military action figure. This one says”—she waved a hand vaguely—“please think I am emotionally available.”
Ava snorted into her cereal, which by the way, she was eating at four in the afternoon.
John stared at them both, wishing briefly and sincerely for a mission, an explosion, a portal to hell, anything. “I don’t have to stand here and take this.”
John left before he could prove exactly why Bucky had sent him to counseling. But he did not slam the door.
—
John had a dentist appointment that day, and he only found out his regular dentist was on leave while he was already in the chair.
Great.
He already hated the dentist on a good day, but most people did, though. Nobody liked being tilted back beneath a blinding light while someone told them to relax with cold metal in their mouth. Nobody enjoyed lying flat and useless with their mouths forced open, unable to swallow properly, unable to answer questions, unable to do anything except stare at the ceiling tiles while the scrape of instruments were shoved in there. It was an inherently vulnerable place to be.
The angle of the chair was bad enough. The bib against his chest, the plastic suction tube pulling at the corner of his mouth, the hygienist’s polite voice telling him to open wider, the scrape-scrape-scrape of metal against enamel was worse.
He had one hand curled around the armrest and kept telling himself he was being ridiculous.People did this every day. Accountants did this. Schoolteachers did this.
John was already in a bad mood when the hygienist leaned back, pulled off her gloves, and said, “Dr. Hayes will be in to do the final check.”
John went still. Hayes?
It was a common last name. That was what he told himself first. It could be anyone. New York was full of Hayeses. Thousands of them. Maybe millions.
Then the door opened.
The dentist stepped in wearing scrubs, gloves, a mask, and magnifying loupes pushed up over his forehead. For one glorious, stupid second, John didn’t recognize him. The mask hid enough. The entire situation was absurd enough that his brain tried to protect him by refusing to connect the dots.
Then the dentist looked at the chart and said, “Hey, John.”
John’s soul left his body.
Nathan.
Nathan Hayes, D.D.S., apparently.
John knew he should’ve listened to what he did for work.
Of course Nathan was a dentist. Of course Olivia’s boyfriend had a respectable job where he helped people and owned tiny mirrors and probably lectured about gum health with sincerity. Of course John had somehow ended up flat on his back, jaw aching, beneath the one man in the city he least wanted to see, while said man held a small, gleaming instrument between gloved fingers. There were levels of hell, apparently. This was a new one.
Nathan’s eyes crinkled above the mask in what John assumed was a smile. A normal smile. A professional smile.
“Dr. Miller’s on leave this week,” Nathan said. “I know this is a little weird. I can keep it quick.”
A little weird. Ha!
John stared up at him, pinned by the chair, pinned by the light, pinned by his own body’s immediate reaction to being trapped.
The overhead lamp hummed. The air smelled like mint paste, latex, antiseptic, and the sterile bite of metal, though it just smelled like a fresh magazine of bullets. The tray sat beside Nathan’s elbow, lined with instruments John’s brain catalogued before he could stop it: Probe. Mirror. Scaler. Suction tube. Polisher. Little hooked things. Silver points. Thin handles. Glass jar on the counter. Cabinet door half-open. Exit to the left. Nathan on the right.
John’s fingers tightened around the chair until the vinyl creaked.
He wanted to break something, but he didn’t, not even in a million years, want to accidentally hurt Nathan.
He didn’t want to hurt anyone. He just wanted out. Out of the chair, out of the room, out of his own head, out of being compared and found lacking by a scoreboard nobody else knew existed.
Nathan just adjusted the light and asked, “You okay?”
John felt the breath catch in his chest. “Fine.” It came out too flat.
Nathan paused, just barely. The hygienist glanced between them. He didn’t push, though. He nodded, lowered the loupes over his eyes, and said, “All right. Open for me.”
John almost laughed because there was no way this was his life.
No way Nathan’s gloved hand was braced near John’s chin, steady and gentle, while John’s whole body buzzed with the urge to move, to sit up, to take control of the room by force simply because lying still felt unbearable.
Still, opened his mouth.
The first touch of the dental mirror against his teeth made his spine twitch.
Nathan told the hygienist something about the back molars. He heard the scrape of the instrument traveled through his jaw in a way that felt too invasive and too loud. John stared at the ceiling and tried to breathe through his nose, but even that felt wrong, like he was barely holding the lid down on a volcano.
Then, Nathan’s phone rang.
He said something about being done anyway, and told the hygienist to take over as he went outside to take the emergency call.
Then he heard Olivia outside the room.
He caught it by accident. The door wasn’t shut all the way, dammit. It’s not like he was actively trying to eavesdrop.
“Hey, Liv. Everything okay?”
Nathan’s voice was quieter now, but John could still hear it, because the serum made sure there was no privacy from the things that would ruin him.
“Yeah. No, I can help. Give me twenty minutes. Is he still fussy?”
John’s vision narrowed around the ceiling light. His son.
Olivia had called Nathan because she needed help with his son, and Nathan had answered like that was normal. Like he was allowed to be the easy call. Like John was not sitting there twenty feet away with mint on his tongue and a paper bib on his chest.
The hygienist said something about rinsing. John did it automatically.
He wanted to break something. A tray. A light. The plastic cup. His own knuckles if that was what it took to keep the feeling from becoming bigger than the room.
Then your voice came back to him. You weren't there, but he remembered your advice: Name the feeling before it names you.
John squeezed his eyes shut for half a second.
Fear. Loss. Control. No. Lack of it.
That’s it. He felt out of control. His normal dentist already made him feel out of control, and Nathan holding metal near his mouth while Olivia trusted him with John’s son made him feel like control was a house fire and he was standing there with a cup of water.
His hands shook once against the chair.
He breathed in. Four counts. Held. Out for six.
He had mocked the breathing exercises when you taught them to him. He had called them tactical breathing with better marketing. You had looked at him and said, “Mock it while you do it correctly, then. You think you’re helping the team with that mouth?” He had almost smiled. He had done it badly on purpose. You had noticed.
Now he did it the way you had taught him. Again. Again.
By the time Nathan came back in, John hadn't broken anything.
By the time Nathan finished the appointment, John hadn’t said anything cruel.
By the time he got to his car, John could finally breathe normally again
He sat behind the wheel with both hands gripping it, staring through the windshield at nothing. His mouth tasted like fluoride. His teeth ached. His heartbeat was still too fast. He hadn’t shoved the tray over. He hadn’t crushed the armrest. He had recognized that he was standing on the edge and backed away from it.
So why did he feel like he was breaking apart?
—
He did not remember deciding to drive to your place.
Your address was in the file, because you, for some reason, hosted emergency sessions for selected individuals. Because you were a professional and John had no business using that information because he felt like he was coming apart.
But the thought of going back to the tower made his skin crawl, and you were the only person he could think of.
When he reached your building, there were two cop cars outside.
John stopped on the sidewalk, every nerve going cold.
Then the door opened, and two uniformed officers came out, speaking quietly into radios. Behind them, you stood in the entryway with one hand on the doorframe, your hair a little loose, your shoulders set. You looked… tired.
You looked up and saw him. “John?”
It was not your session voice. It was just your voice, surprised and worried all the same.
His throat tightened so suddenly he almost looked away. “I need to talk about something,” he said.
Your eyes moved over his face, quick and careful. He watched you read him the way you always did. “John, this isn’t—”
“I know,” he said quickly. “I know I shouldn’t be here. I know it’s not appropriate. I just—” His voice cracked, and he hated that it did. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
And because you were kind, you sighed and stepped aside. “Come in.”
The second your apartment door shut behind him, the effort of holding himself together finally gave in. He did not explode. Instead, he just stood there in your entryway, too broad for the narrow space, breathing too hard through his nose, eyes burning.
You turned toward him.
He reached for you before he could stop himself.
It was not a romantic gesture, at least not yet. Not like this. But it was too desperate to be anything casual. His arms came around you, and for one terrible second he held on like you were the only real thing left in the world.
You went still.
He felt the professional calculation, the boundary, the line drawn and redrawn in the beat between one breath and the next. Then your hand settled between his shoulder blades.
You hugged him back just enough to keep him from falling apart.
He closed his eyes. His face turned slightly toward your shoulder, not buried, but close enough that some aching part of him wanted to stay there. He wanted to press closer. He wanted to let the day end inside the mercy of your hand on his back.
He pulled away first because he had to. Because if he didn’t, he might forget himself.
Your eyes searched his face. “Sit down,” you said gently.
He did.
You brought him water.
He sat on your couch like a man trying not to collapse through it, staring at the glass in his hands while you took the chair across from him.
“What happened?” you asked.
He laughed once. “My dentist was out on leave.”
You blinked.
He rubbed a hand over his mouth, then dropped it. “Nathan was covering.”
Your face changed. “The Nathan?”
“Yeah,” John said. “The Nathan.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” He let out a breath that almost shook. “Oh.”
Then it came out of him in pieces: The chair. The light. The tools. The fact that everyone felt a little powerless at the dentist, but for him it had been worse, because he could hear too much and see too much courtesy of the serum and his body kept cataloguing exits and weapons like everything was a threat courtesy of the military training. He talked about Nathan holding tools in his mouth. Olivia’s voice outside. Nathan saying he could help with John’s son.
He stopped there.
For a second, all he could do was stare at the water glass.
“I wanted to break something,” he said, voice low. “There were so many things in that room. And I knew where all of them were, and I hated that I knew. I hated that my head went there.”
You were very still.
“But I didn't want to accidentally hurt him,” John said, and that broke slightly on the way out. “I didn’t. I don’t. He’s not doing anything wrong. He’s good to Olivia. He’s good with my son. He’s just—” He swallowed hard. “He’s there. And I hate him for being there, and then I hate myself because he’s just being a good boyfriend and a good dentist and I’m sitting there thinking about breaking the tray.”
He dragged a hand over his face. “I felt like I was losing control.”
You didn’t rush him. You didn't jump in to make him feel better. You didn't perform comfort.
Then you said, “But you didn’t.”
John shook his head. “It felt like I did.”
“John.”
He looked at you.
Your voice was gentler now, but no less firm. “You were in a setting that already makes people feel vulnerable. You had someone in your personal space holding metal instruments, and then the person holding those instruments was someone tied directly to a major emotional trigger. You recognized that. You recognized that you didn’t want to hurt him, or yourself. You used the breathing exercises. You left without escalating the situation.”
He looked down.
“You came here,” you added, trying to hide the painfully obvious amusement and failed. You chuckled a little, “And we do need to talk about that boundary. But the dentist’s office was not a setback.”
He stared at you.
“It wasn’t even an incident,” you said, almost proud. “Because you handled it.”
Oh. Right. This was the point.
Still, tears came before he could stop them. Not many, but a few hot and furious tears that blurred his vision before he wiped them away with the heel of his hand. “Fuck,” he muttered.
You tilted your head and gave him a box of tissues, and that somehow made him want to cry harder.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For crying?”
“For showing up here.”
“I’m glad you looked for someone,” you said, a faint smile along your lips, and it was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen.
John looked at you. Someone, you had said, someone?
That was a polite way of saying it. It was professional, safe enough to sit between you without making him admit what was probably painfully obvious on his face.
That someone had been you.
He could’ve driven around the city until the anger burned through the soles of his shoes. He could’ve wandered Manhattan like a lost man, fighting the urge to snap a street sign in half or put his fist through the nearest lamp post. But he had not done that. He had come to you.
You.
And there was a hint of something in your face when you said it that he couldn’t quite read. Professional concern, sure. But beneath it, he could’ve sworn he caught something warmer. Something that had no place in reports or progress notes or mandated training in empty conference rooms.
Fondness, maybe. Affection?
No.
No, he couldn’t do that to himself. He couldn’t convince himself of that. That was just heartbreak in a bottle, because there’s no way you feel the same about him, right?
Right?
—
After a while, when his breathing stopped sounding like it was trying to crawl out of his chest, John started noticing your apartment.
He didn’t even mean to. He just needed somewhere to put his eyes that weren't you.
The place was warmer than he expected. You didn’t seem like the sort of person who arranged throw pillows for emotional fulfillment, but there was a lived-in clutter that was almost charming. Books were stacked near the couch, a mug was abandoned by the sink. A cardigan was draped over the back of a chair, one sleeve turned inside out. Shoes had been kicked off by the door like you’d come home in a hurry and forgotten.
It was endearing, how human it all made you.
Of course you were human. You had a kettle. You had overdue-looking mail on the counter. You had a slightly crooked lamp and a blanket folded badly over one end of the couch. You probably had preferences about laundry detergent and favorite takeout and stupid little routines you did when no one was looking.
Then he saw the photos on the wall.
Sam Wilson, smiling beside you with VA badges around both your necks. You with Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers, caught mid-laugh. You with Natasha Romanoff in a theme park somewhere. And beside them a photo of you standing next to the late King T’Challa of Wakanda, doing a peace sign together.
Huh.
Apparently every person designed to make John feel like an underqualified replacement came with a personal connection to the old guard.
“You know them too?” he asked.
You followed his eyes and nodded. You looked almost embarrassed for a second. You, who had no problem calling him a patriotic parking violation to his face, suddenly shy because he had noticed your wall of impressive friends.
“Oh,” you said. “Yeah.”
He turned back to you, eyebrows raised. “You said that like it’s normal.”
That you knew two of the other Captain Americas, and yet you didn’t tell me.
For once, he wasn’t really angry about it. For lack of a better word, he felt blank. Like great, nothing I ever do will impress her.
You looked down at the mug between your palms, thumb brushing the handle in a small, unconscious circle.
“I used to work for Homeland as a hostage negotiator,” you said, as if it was nothing. “Then I worked with Sam at the VA for a while. Y’know, reintegration and risk assessment.” You glanced toward the photo of Sam again. “Sam was better with people than I was.”
Yeah, tell me about it, John wanted to say, but kept his big mouth shut for once and listened.
“He still is,” you said. “He could sit down beside someone and make them feel like they had room to breathe. I was more…”
“Mean?” John offered.
You looked at him with half a scowl. “Practical,” you corrected. “After that, he asked if I could consult with Steve and Nat on a few things.”
You shrugged, like any of that was casual.
His eyes flicked back to the photo of Bucky and Steve. “So that’s how this became your… niche?”
You huffed a small laugh. “Enhanced individuals with authority issues? Yeah, it pays very well.”
“Oh,” John said. It was a stupid answer, but the only one he had.
You looked down again, and he could have sworn you were hiding the beginning of a smile, and not even a professional one. Not the weaponized one you used when you were about to call him a liability in three syllables or less. This one was private. As if you were amused by him and trying to be decent about it.
He looked toward the door, partly because he needed to put his eyes somewhere else, and partly because the police cars outside had finally pushed their way back into his mind. The flashing lights had been turning the street blue and red for long enough that he had almost forgotten to ask the obvious question. “What were the cops about anyway?”
You sighed and looked down. You were anxious, and that set off the slightest alarm in his head. “You’ll probably see it on the news.”
John straightened. “What happened?”
You were quiet for half a second too long. Then you said, “I was on the subway earlier.”
John waited.
“There was a shooter in my train car,” you said. “I had to talk him down.”
Shit.
For a second, John couldn’t speak. His mind gave him the picture before he could stop it: Crowded bodies pressed too close together, nowhere to go, doors shut, the violent metallic shriek of the tracks. He saw a gun in someone’s hand pointed to you, standing there with nothing but your voice and the infuriating calm you used on guys like him when they were too angry to know they were scared.
Anger rose in him so fast it scared him. Not at you, but at the world. At the train. At the man with the gun. At the fact that you had been there, trapped underground, while he had been sitting in a car losing his mind over a dentist appointment like an idiot. At the fact that someone he…
Someone whose apartment he had come to, had been in danger. You had been in danger, and he hadn’t known. He hadn’t been there. He hadn’t been able to do a single thing with the useless, violent instinct that roared awake inside him now.
His eyes moved over you before he could stop himself: Your face, arms, torso. He was searching for blood. Bruises. A limp. Anything that signalled that you were anything but okay. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, John.” His name sounded different when you said it like that. You weren’t irritated. You were trying to reassure him.
It made the anger worse for a second because he had nowhere to put it. He couldn’t hit the past. Couldn’t storm onto a train that had already stopped. Couldn’t grab time by the throat and drag it backward until he was there between you and the danger.
He could only sit on your couch with his hands curled uselessly around his knees. And he could tell you knew what was happening, too. But you weren’t in a great state of mind right now, so maybe you couldn’t waste your energy to tell him to come down.
So he did a new-ish coping mechanism. He cracked a joke. “Kids these days, huh?”
He hated that that was what he said. He hated it even more when shook your head.
“No,” you said quietly. “He was a vet. Vietnam, I think.”
John’s attempt at humor died immediately. “Oh,” he said.
For a while, the room was silent.
The anger didn’t leave him. It lost the directionless edge and became… more familiar.
He looked at you again, at the fatigue under your eyes, the tension still sitting in your shoulders. He wondered how long you had been holding yourself still while he ranted about his stupid Nathan.
You had let him into your apartment while your own hands were still shaking.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
You gave a small laugh, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You’re not my shrink, John.”
“You’re not mine either,” he said. “And yet.”
That got him half a smile.
You leaned back slightly in your chair, studying him with that careful, cutting attention he had learned to dread. “Why do you wanna know?”
John swallowed.
Because you were in a train with a gunman. Because I care. Because the thought of you being scared makes me want to tear the world apart, and that is exactly the kind of thing you keep trying to train out of me.
He said none of that. He wasn’t brave enough. Not yet. “I’m asking as a friend,” he said instead.
Friend. The word felt small the second it left his mouth. But it was the only one he was allowed to use. Even that felt like reaching across a line.
You looked at him. Then your eyes dropped briefly to his hands. When you looked back up, your eyes had changed a little.
“Yeah,” you said finally. “Yeah, I am.”
John nodded once. He didn’t believe you completely. You seemed to know that, because your mouth curved faintly.
“Mostly.”
It was not what John wanted.
He wanted to do something. To fix something. To stand in front of something. To put his body between you and every terrible thing that had already happened, which was useless and stupid and exactly the kind of impulse you would probably write down in your notes with a little disappointed frown. So he just sat there, close enough to notice the tremor had started to fade from your hands.
And because you also used humor as a distraction, you gave him a sad smile. “The gunman has nothing on me, John,” you said, “I’m actually good at my job.”
John chuckled.
That, you were.
—
The next meeting was supposed to be easy. You had prepared a mandatory mission readiness evaluation for John. It would maybe take forty-five minutes, and be made up of observation notes, updated risk profile, and recommendation to Barnes by end of day. You had printed the forms. You had set up the conference room. You had brought three different colored pens because, apparently, somewhere between Homeland, the VA, and corporate risk management, color-coding had become very important.
Then your sister called. Which was how you ended up standing in the middle of a government training room with a clipboard in one hand, a half-eaten protein bar in your mouth, and your four-year-old niece sitting cross-legged on the floor beneath the evaluation table, coloring a dinosaur pink.
Her parents were both paramedics. This meant their lives existed in a state of organized chaos: Shifts changed and childcare fell through, so you had babysat her before. Sometimes, someone got stuck transporting a patient across town. Someone else got called in because two ambulances were down and the city, apparently, was held together by caffeine, duct tape, and exhausted women with emergency medical certifications.
Your niece’s name was Mina. She was four and a half and you loved with all of your heart.
You really did, but not in the way people were when they wanted credit for liking children. You didn’t coo or perform sweetness. You didn’t become a different person around Mina.
You were still you, efficient and as practical as a legal memo. But your hand automatically moved the juice box farther from the forms before Mina could knock it over. You noticed when she chewed on the end of the crayon and swapped it out without hesitation. You opened her apple slices one-handed. You brushed purple crayon dust off her cheek with your thumb, and Mina leaned into it without even looking up, like that touch was ordinary.
“Yes, I can take her for an hour,” you had said to your sister on the phone. “No, I cannot take her for six. I have work. Actual work with unstable adults.”
Your sister had said something frantic.
“Fine,” You had sighed. “And no, that was not a dig at your child. Mina is emotionally more regulated than half my roster.”
And now here you were. Mina was under the table, humming to herself as she gave a stegosaurus what appeared to be purple lipstick. Her plushie sat beside your shoe, slumped with the weary dignity of a stuffed rabbit who had survived a lot of childcare emergencies.
“You can use blue,” Mina said, holding a crayon up toward you without looking away from her dinosaur.
“I’m working.”
“You can work in blue.”
“I can’t evaluate a federal asset in crayon.”
Mina looked up at you, deeply unimpressed. “Why not?”
Hm. That was a good question.
“Because,” you said finally, “corporate is joyless.”
Mina nodded like this made perfect sense (it didn’t) and went back to coloring.
That was when John appeared in the doorway. He stopped dead when you looked up.
He looked at you. Then at Mina. Then at the juice box on the table. Then at the open packet of baby wipes beside your neatly stacked mission readiness assessment forms.
For several seconds, nobody said anything.
Mina looked him up and down with the suspicion of a tiny secret agent. John looked like he had walked into the wrong room.
You took the protein bar out of your mouth and said, “Before you speak, choose your words with the same caution you should be bringing to crisis de-escalation.”
His eyes came back to yours. “She yours?”
“Do I look like I have time to produce children?”
His mouth twitched.
You pointed your pen at him. “No.”
Mina crawled out from under the table just enough to examine him properly. She had your sister’s eyes, which meant she could look judgmental without trying. It was honestly impressive and slightly unsettling.
John noticed her staring and immediately adjusted. He shifted his weight back and lowered himself just a little, enough to seem less like an unwelcome wall.
“Hey, buddy,” he said. His voice was gentler than you expected.
Mina narrowed her eyes. “Who are you?”
“John.”
She looked at you. “Is he in trouble?”
John’s eyebrows rose.
You took a slow sip of coffee. “Constantly.”
Mina nodded with grave understanding, like she too had dealt with federal compliance issues. Then she held up her stuffed rabbit. “Auntie works with people in trouble.”
John’s gaze flicked up to yours. “I’m not in trouble,” John told Mina.
Mina considered this, then looked at you for confirmation. You tilted your hand. “He’s in evaluation.”
“What’s eval-vul-wation?”
“It means we check whether someone can behave in public.”
Mina looked back at John. John looked at you like he was trying very hard not to smile.
Mina held up her stuffed rabbit. “This is Mr. Bun. He has anxiety.”
John’s attention shifted immediately to the rabbit, not fake attention and patronizing adult attention. He gave her real attention, serious enough that Mina seemed to approve of it.
“Mr. Bun,” he said solemnly. “Good name.”
“He gets scared when people yell.”
John’s eyes flickered to you, and you just smiled brightly. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t train the rabbit.”
He didn’t quite laugh, but some of the tension left his mouth. His shoulders settled by a fraction. He looked down at Mina’s coloring page and, without thinking about it too much, picked up a green crayon she had abandoned near his boot.
“What’s the dinosaur’s name?” he asked.
Mina looked pleased, because this was apparently the correct question. “Princess Stomp.”
“Strong name.”
“She bites bad guys.”
“Useful skill.”
“John,” you said.
He looked up, innocent in a way that did not suit him at all. You went back to your clipboard immediately.
“Mission readiness evaluation,” you said. “Slightly modified.”
“Modified how?”
“My niece is present, so we will do our written evaluation first and the practical one next week. It means no shouting, no tactical demonstrations involving doors, no threats, no furniture damage, and no saying anything that will get repeated to my sister in law while she’s holding trauma shears.”
John looked at Mina, and she smiled back at him with a colourful crayon mark smeared on her cheek.
John looked back at you. “Trauma shears?”
“Both my sister and her wife are paramedics,” you said. “Which means Mina can identify a tourniquet, tell you why you don’t move someone with a suspected spinal injury, and constantly asks grown adults why they look tired.”
Mina, without looking up, confirmed, “He does look tired.”
John stared at her.
You pressed your lips together to hold back a smile. “See?” you said. “Gifted.”
John cleared his throat. “I’m fine.”
Mina looked at you. “He’s lying.”
You sighed. “We’re working on that, honey.”
John gave you a look. You gave it right back.
This should have been irritating. One more stupid thing shoved into an already overpacked day. Instead, John stood there with his hands loose at his sides, and Mina pushed a spare coloring page toward him like she had decided he was permitted to exist.
“You can color if your work is boring,” she told him.
John looked at the coloring page. Then at you. He picked up the green crayon.
Oh?
“You do realize,” you said, “If you draw during a mission readiness evaluation, I will include it in the report.”
John looked down at the paper. “What if it’s good?”
“That’d be more concerning.”
Mina leaned over to inspect his work after approximately fifteen seconds of scribbling. “That’s not a dinosaur.”
“It’s a tank.”
You looked up from your clipboard. “John.”
“What?” he asked defensively. “It’s not armed.”
“It has a turret.”
“It’s decorative.”
Mina frowned. “Make it a turtle.”
John paused. Then, in grave resignation, he drew legs and a head on the tank. Mina nodded approvingly. “Better.”
You stared at him. John did not look at you, but the tips of his ears had gone slightly pink.
You wrote something down.
John tried to look annoyed, but he was terrible at it with a child in the room.
He was not awkward with Mina. He was good with her. He listened when she spoke, even when she was explaining that Mr. Bun couldn’t sit near the door because he hates doors. He didn't laugh at her or rush her. When she dropped a crayon, he bent and picked it up without comment, placing it back beside her little hand like it mattered.
John Walker, who could turn a hallway into a warzone, somehow knew not to make a four-year-old feel small.
You hated that your heart noticed before your brain could tell it to stop.
John seemed to notice things you did for her, too: The apple slices you had cut into careful half-moons because Mina liked them that way. The way you reached down without looking when she leaned against your calf, your hand landing briefly on the top of her head before returning to your clipboard. The way you were brisk with her but never careless. Practical, but never cold.
You told Mina not to wipe her hands on your trousers, then handed her a napkin before she had to ask. You fixed the little cardigan slipping off her shoulder with one hand while reading John’s file with the other. You were not nurturing in an obvious way. You were efficient love. Competent love.
The kind that remembered snack preferences, packed extra socks, and still said, “No, you cannot lick the marker, even if it smells like grapes, because capitalism is trying to kill you.”
John watched you do it and felt his brain go very still.
Oh shit.
His crush had been manageable when it was only about you being hot. It was easier when he only thought of sinful things when he looked at your mouth. But this was worse.
This was you with a child leaning against your leg. You with crayons and classified paperwork sharing a table. You telling Mina no with the same clean confidence you used to tell John to unclench his fists.
John’s mind, apparently determined to ruin his life, supplied an image of you in a kitchen, feet kicking over the edge of a counter as he cooked dinner.
Oh, no, he thought. No, no, no.
No, because now he was thinking about coming home to you, and not even in the fun, stupid, crush way. Not in the she’s pretty when she’s mean to me way. Worse. So much worse.
Desire was simple. Embarrassing and inconvenient, sure. But it was simple. This was not simple.
Now he was thinking about the sound of your keys in a lock. About your shoes kicked off by the door. About you by a dining table, practical and beautiful, telling him not to hover while you cut apple slices into moon shapes because a child liked them better that way.
Now he was thinking about your coffee going cold because you got distracted helping a child zip up her cardigan. About your hand landing automatically on a child’s head when she leaned into your leg.
And then his mind went somewhere sweeter. His son.
Oh, God.
John imagined bringing him around you. He imagines the way you would speak to him like he was a person, not a prop in John’s life, not a fragile little extension of his failures. You would be direct with him, gentle in that dry, practical way that made care feel less like pity and more like a crutch.
You would remember what he liked. You wouldn’t let John dote, like he always did . You would probably look at him over his son's head after you woke up in his bed and say, “Stop making that face, John. He’s eating cereal, not defusing a bomb.”
Oh, no. Because that was it, wasn’t it?
He didn't just want to sleep with you. He wanted to build a life with you.
He wanted mornings, errands, and arguments about nothing. He wanted your jacket over the back of a chair. He wanted a second chance at something he hadn’t even let himself admit he still wanted.
Family. Not the perfect kind. A patched-togethed, difficult one.
And that was when John realized, with a stomach-dropping horror, that this was not a crush.
It had probably stopped being one weeks ago. Maybe it stopped being one the second you let him sit on your couch after the subway and asked for nothing from him but the truth.
He wanted to be with you.
“John?”
He blinked hard.
You were watching him, clipboard lowered, a bit concerned because he usually didn’t space out this long. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he said too quickly. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
You clearly didn’t believe him. Before you could say anything else, though, Mina tilted her head, looked from him to you, and said, “I think he likes you.”
John forgot how to breathe.
Mina hugged Mr. Bun to her chest. “Like likes you.”
John cleared his throat, desperate for a way out. “I don’t think she’s qualified to make that assessment.”
But you weren’t laughing. You just looked down at your clipboard, and there was… a flush on your cheeks.
For the first time since he had known you, you looked shy.
John’s heart did a stupid little flip.
Mina leaned against the table, peeking over it, pleased with herself.
You lifted the clipboard like it could still save you. “Back to the evaluation.”
John nodded once, and neither of you looked at each other for the next several seconds.
Mina sighed as if she was the only adult in the room.
—
By the time the written evaluation was done, the room had settled into a strange middle ground, where your printed leg forms sat beside Mina’s half-finished coloring page, and John sat still, trying not to look too pleased while you reviewed his final notes.
You read in silence for a moment, pen tucked between your fingers, your mouth composed in that way he had learned meant you were thinking rather than judging. Mina was near your chair, humming softly to herself while trying to fit Mr. Bun into your tote bag. She was failing, but Mina wasn’t one to give in easily.
John kept his eyes on the floor for as long as he could. It lasted maybe three seconds before he looked at you again.
You had that slight crease between your brows. The one that appeared when you were concentrating. Your jacket sleeve had ridden up your wrist, and there was a faint crayon mark on the side of your hand where Mina must have gotten you earlier. You hadn’t noticed. Or maybe you had and decided it wasn’t worth the battle.
Finally, you lowered the page.
Mina seemed to notice as she appeared beside your knee and leaned her whole weight into your leg. “Is John done?”
You set your pen down and rested a hand lightly on top of her head without looking. “He is.”
“Did he do good?”
John raised his eyebrows.
You looked at him for half a second, then down at Mina. “He did,” you said.
Oh.
Good. John let out a deep breath he didn’t even realise he was holding.
Mina nodded, satisfied, then looked up at him with a thumbs up. “Good job.”
He swallowed a smile. “Thanks, Mina.”
You seemed to notice his voice changed for her. It made you pause for just a breath while packing your clipboard into your bag.
John wanted to offer something. Anything. He wanted to stay in the orbit of this little half-chaotic scene for a few seconds longer, which was insane because he had spent most of the session being dismantled by a woman with a toddler snack container in her bag. “I can walk you to the elevator.”
You paused again, just enough for him to wonder if he had overstepped. You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “Sure.”
His heart made a hopeful jump.
Mina immediately lifted both arms toward him. “Uppies.”
John froze.
You looked down at her. “Mina.”
“My legs are tired.”
“You have been sitting on the floor for an hour.”
“They got tired from coloring.”
“That’s not how legs work.”
Mina only held her arms higher.
John’s gaze flicked to you, careful now. He was asking without asking.
Your eyes softened, assessing, like you were checking a bridge before letting a loved one cross it. Then you nodded. “My sister said any Avenger I trust is allowed to give Mina uppies.”
Any Avenger I trust.
You said it lightly, like it was just logistical. Like it didn't matter.
How well had he done on that assessment?
Because you’re not just tolerating him. You’re not just professionally managing him. You trusted him.
He must have looked as pathetic as he felt, because your smile softened by half an inch before you covered it with impatience.
“Well?” you said. “She’s not going to levitate.”
John crouched in front of Mina. “You sure?”
Mina nodded fiercely. “Uppies.”
So he picked her up carefully. Mina settled against him immediately, one arm looping around his neck, Mr. Bun squished between them. John adjusted his hold with the caution of a man who knew kids were not fragile exactly, but precious.
Your eyes glittered before you could stop it.
John saw it. He looked down at Mina quickly, like that might save him.
Mina rested her cheek against his shoulder and pointed toward the door. “Elevator.”
You cleared your throat and reached for your bag. “Bossy,” you murmured.
John looked at you over her head, a helpless sigh at his mouth. “She learns from her aunt.”
You shook your head and started walking out of the conference room.
And John followed you out with Mina in his arms, feeling trusted and doomed in equal measure.
—
That night, John Walker paced into the common room like a race car doing 200 laps in the Indy 500.
He wasn’t even sure when he had started. One minute he had been standing in his room, staring at his own reflection in the dark TV screen with his arms crossed, and the next he was out here, walking the same ugly little path around kitchen island like a man trying to wear a trench into corporate flooring.
Do not ask out your crisis de-escalation trainer. He turned at the window and came back. Do not ask out your team-mandated crisis de-escalation trainer.
He stopped, dragged both hands over his face, and made a noise between a groan and the beginning of a breakdown.
Because, sure. Fine. He could admit it now, in the privacy of his own head, where nobody could testify against him later.
He liked you.
No, actually, that was stupid. That was insulting. He didn’t just like you. Liking you would’ve been manageable. Liking you would’ve been noticing your mouth when you smiled, or standing a little straighter when you said his name, or feeling vaguely pathetic because you wrote a note down and he wanted it to be good.
This was worse. This was full-body, humiliating, high-school-level idiocy with the added horror of being a grown man with a divorce, a child, a government file, and a history of public property damage.
He liked you so much it made him feel unstable. He liked you so much that your approval pulled a physical reaction out of him. It got under his ribs. It made him want to show up on time and do the exercises properly. It made him want to be better in a way that had nothing to do with mission clearance and everything to do with the way you looked at him when he managed not to be the worst version of himself.
John resumed pacing.
And then there was the other problem. The worse problem. The problem so embarrassing he almost said it out loud just to hear how pathetic it sounded.
He hadn’t asked a woman out since high school.
High school.
He had no idea how to do this now. What did people even say?
Hey, I know you were assigned to me because I’m a liability, but have you considered dinner?
No.
What if he was bad at it? What if he came on too strong? What if he didn’t come on strong enough? What if you gave him that calm face and told him this was inappropriate in the same voice you used when he had to restart a de-escalation scenario?
John stopped again and stared at the ceiling.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
“Jesus is not here.”
John turned.
Alexei stood in the doorway wearing a robe and sweatpants. He had a bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other, like he had wandered in for a snack and discovered live entertainment.
John stared at him. “What are you doing?”
“Eating cereal.”
“At 9PM?”
Alexei looked down at the bowl as if this explained itself. “Yes.”
John exhaled through his nose and turned away. “Forget it.”
“No, no.” Alexei stepped farther into the room, eyes narrowing. “You are pacing.”
“I’m not doing this.”
“You are thinking about woman.”
John’s shoulders went rigid. How the fuck did he know?
Alexei gasped, delighted. “Ah! It is woman.”
“No.”
“It is the trainer woman.”
John closed his eyes. Great. So everyone knew before he did.
Alexei pointed his spoon at him. “Crisis lady.”
“Don’t call her that.”
“Oh-ho.” Alexei’s grin widened. “You defend title. Very serious.”
John turned back. “I said forget it.”
But Alexei had already moved to the kitchen island, and John was suddenly reminded that Alexei had never once taken a hint as anything but a challenge. “So ask her out.”
John stared at him like he had suggested setting himself on fire for morale. “I can’t just ask her out.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s my crisis de-escalation trainer.”
Alexei shrugged. “So be very calm when you ask.”
John blinked at Alexei, who looked pleased with himself.
“That’s not—” John stopped, dragged a hand over his mouth, and tried again. “There are rules.”
“Always there are rules.” Alexei waved his spoon. “Rules for missions. Rules for weapons. Rules for not microwaving fish in common kitchen. Rules can be respected. This does not mean you die alone.”
John hated that there was a point somewhere in there. Sure, you were his trainer, but you weren’t his counselor. You weren’t his therapist, or his doctor, or some sacred keeper of his deepest psychological wounds You were corporate. A well-paid professional brought in to stop enhanced idiots from turning emotional dysregulation into infrastructure damage. And honestly? People dated at work all the time, didn’t they? Accountants dated other accountants. Lawyers dated other lawyers. Half of corporate America was probably one badly timed office romance away from an HR seminar. So, yes, there were rules. But this wasn’t impossible. It wasn’t simple, but it wasn’t forbidden by the laws of God and man either.
“She’s assigned to me,” he said anyway. “It’s not like I can just show up and say—” He cut himself off.
Alexei leaned in. “Say what?”
“Nothing.”
“Say it.”
“No.”
“You want practice?”
“I will walk into traffic before I say it to you.”
Alexei nodded sagely. “Bad opening line.”
John glared.
Alexei ignored him and set his bowl on the counter. “You go to her. You say, ‘Hello. I like you. I understand this is problem. Can this be problem later, when you are not making me less angry?’”
John stared at him for a long second. “That is the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”
Alexei shrugged, just a little. “You are allowed to want things, Walker.”
John’s throat tightened. For a second, the common room felt too quiet. The city glowed cold beyond the windows. John stood in the middle of the room, feeling too big for his own life and too old to be this scared of a woman saying no.
Alexei picked up his spoon again. “Worst case, she says no.”
John looked at him.
“If you do nothing,” Alexei said, pointing at the floor, “you keep moping. Then we all suffer. I am already suffering.”
John looked toward the hallway.
He thought of you in the conference room. He thought of Mina announcing his feelings to both of you like she had been appointed by the God of crayons. He thought of the flush on your cheeks.
Maybe he was being stupid. Maybe this was a terrible idea.
Maybe he was about to ruin the one thing in his life that had started making him feel like he could actually become something other than angry.
But then again, maybe he wasn’t.
John grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair.
Alexei’s eyebrows shot up. “You are going now?”
“Yes,” John was already heading for the door. “Before I change my mind.”
—
By the time John reached your building, the bravery had started to wear off. That was inconvenient, considering he had already parked.
He sat in his car with both hands on the wheel, staring through the windshield at your apartment building like it was an enemy compound.
He wasn’t going to lie, he considered leaving.
He should’ve gone home. He should’ve sent an email, which was what normal people with impulse control probably did when they developed feelings for the person assigned to help them stop behaving like an angry forklift with a gun license.
John let his head fall back against the seat and shut his eyes.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “You can still not do this.”
Then he pictured Alexei’s disappointed face if he came back.
Nope. Not coming back to that.
John got out of the car.
The air was cold enough to bite through his jacket, which helped a little. It gave him something else to focus on besides the fact that he was walking toward your front door. He had faced down armed men with steadier hands than this.
By the time he reached your door, he had rehearsed and discarded six different openings.
Hi.
Too casual.
Can we talk?
Too ominous.
I know this is inappropriate.
Great start, Walker. Lead with the lawsuit.
I have feelings for you.
Jesus Christ, no. Absolutely not. Was he twelve? Was he about to hand you a folded note in the homeroom?
He stood outside your door for three seconds too long, staring at the chilled paint on the frame. Then he raised his hand and rang the doorbell before he could lose his nerve.
The apartment stayed quiet.
For one second, relief flooded him. You weren’t home. Great. Perfect. Act of God. He could leave and pretend he had made an attempt.
Then the lock clicked.
John’s spine straightened.
The door opened just enough for you to look out, and he immediately forgot every reasonable thought he had ever had.
You were in home clothes. You were wearing a loose sweater, your hair gathered messily away from your face, one sleeve slipping down your wrist.
Your eyes widened slightly when you saw him. “John?”
“Can I ask you something?” he said abruptly
Your brow furrowed, and you glanced behind you into the apartment before looking back at him. The hallway light caught the side of your face, and John thought it was the most angelic sight he had ever seen. “Why are you here?”
John opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Amazing. Wonderful. He had made it all the way across the city and failed at the first hurdle.
Your eyes moved over his face, reading him. He watched concern take over. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he said quickly. “I’m not- uh— this isn’t a crisis.”
You sighed, relieved. “Okay.”
“It’s not that kind of thing.”
“John.”
He swallowed. You were already drawing the line. He could see it happening. The professional part of you stepping forward because that was the safe thing, the right thing, and he knew it. He respected it.
He hated it.
“I know,” he said. “I know this is probably crossing every line.”
Your face went still.
Behind you, he could see the dim gold light of a lamp. There was a small pair of tiny shoes near the wall outside your unit, Mina’s, probably, because her parents were still clocking in a late shift.
“Mina’s asleep,” you said quietly. “So if this is going to be loud—”
“No,” John said, too quickly again. He lowered his voice at once, almost wincing. “No. I’m not here to be loud.”
Your eyes flicked back to him, and your pupils in them softened. “This,” you said, still quiet. “Is usually not the beginning of a calm conversation.”
“I know.” He looked down. “I know. I’m sorry.”
And he meant it.
John took one step back, creating more space between you before you had to ask him to.
He couldn’t make this worse by standing too close to you in a hallway like a man who didn’t understand how doors and boundaries worked. “I can leave,” he said. “I should probably leave.”
You didn’t say yes, though. In fact, you looked like you wanted him here.
Huh.
You didn’t step back and close the door. You didn’t give him the clean professional dismissal he had probably deserved. “What do you need to ask me?” you asked.
John let out a short breath.
This was it, then. The line was right there. He could still back away from it. He could make something up. He could say this was about his next session, or his evaluation, or some bullshit about the remaining paperwork. He could spare both of you.
Instead, he looked at you and found he was tired of being brave in every direction except the one that mattered.
“Okay,” he said, more to himself than to you.
Your mouth twitched into a small smile. “That’s not a question.”
There was that dry little edge he was so fond of. Fuck, he was done for.
“No,” he said. “It’s me trying not to make an idiot of myself.”
“Is it working?”
“Not even a little.”
You chuckled, looking over your shoulder again, listening for Mina. Your unit remained quiet. When you looked back, your voice dropped even lower. “John, whatever this is, you need to say it carefully.”
Did… did you know?
“I know.” John gulped.
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” Your fingers tightened around the doorframe. “I am still assigned to you.”
He nodded once. “I know.”
Your eyes searched his face.
That was another thing you had taught him, even if you had never meant to. How not to crowd. How not to fill the room just because he was nervous. How not to make the size of his feelings everyone else’s emergency. So he stood there, hands visible, shoulders tense but back, voice low.
“I’m not asking to come in,” he said. “I’m not asking you to make this easier for me. I’m not asking you to pretend this is normal.”
You tilted your head in curiosity, and he took another breath.
“I just need to say it. And then you can tell me to shut up, and I will.”
For a second, you said nothing.
The silence was deafening. He could hear someone’s television through a wall somewhere down the hall. A car moved along the street outside.
John immediately lowered his voice even more.
“I like you,” he said finally.
The words came out rough.
“I like you,” he repeated, because apparently he needed to make sure he had really done it. “And I know this is inconvenient.”
You didn’t smile, but he could tell you felt something.
It was not nothing.
It was so clearly not nothing that John felt his chest loosen, just a fraction.
“I don’t like you because you’re nice or some shit,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “You’re actually pretty mean to me.”
You looked down, cheeks burning with a smile you couldn’t help anymore. He almost smiled back, but he was too terrified to let himself have that much.
“And not because you’re helping me,” he added. “Not only that. I mean, yeah, maybe that’s part of it. You got stuck with me at a bad time and somehow made me feel less like a walking lawsuit, so I’m sure there’s some stupidpsychology in there.”
Your eyes narrowed faintly. “That was self-aware.”
“Don’t start.”
“Sorry,” you whispered, not sounding sorry at all. “Continue.”
Fuck, you were awful. He still adored you, though.
John looked away for half a second, then back at you. “You don’t let me get away with anything,” he said. “And I know I need that. I know that’s the whole point of why Barnes brought you in. But it’s not just that. You don’t look at me like I’m already a lost cause.”
Your face grew very still again.
This time, he knew it was because he had gotten too close to something real.
“You see me,” he said, and the words were quieter than he meant them to be.
Your breath caught on something that almost became a laugh.
He looked at you then. Your hand was still on the door. Your thumb moved once against the painted wood, a nervous motion. Your hair had slipped loose near your temple. You looked like you were trying to keep every feeling behind your teeth, and for the first time since he had known you, it didn’t quite work.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” you said.
“I know.”
“You really shouldn’t have.”
“I know.”
“You’re making this difficult for me.”
His heart flipped. “Am I?” he asked, before he could stop himself.
The hallway seemed to shrink around the two of you.
Your voice, when you spoke again, was very quiet. “Yes.”
Oh.
John forgot how to breathe for half a second.
“You need to understand,” you said, “that me saying that doesn’t change the rules.”
“I know.”
“I can’t encourage this.”
“Of course.”
“I can’t say anything that blurs the line.”
“You’re not.”
You looked back at him then, and the look on your face nearly ruined him.
You were being so careful.
You were so obviously trying to do the right thing, but the right thing looked like it hurt a little.
“And I can’t invite you in,” you said.
He nodded. “I’m not asking.”
“But I also…” You stopped. You closed your eyes for one brief second, like you were annoyed with yourself. When you opened them again, your voice had become a teeny bit more professional. “I also don’t want you to think I’m… dismissing what you’re saying.”
John swallowed.
Again, not nothing.
“Okay,” he said, because his vocabulary had apparently been reduced to one-word responses.
Your mouth softened. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” He nodded once, then again. “I know there are rules. I’m not asking you to break them. I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t want. But if there’s a way to transfer me to somebody else, or close this out, or whatever has to happen so this isn’t…” He grimaced, searching for the least terrible phrasing. “A whole ethical disaster.”
Your lips pressed together. He could tell you were fighting a laugh.
“A whole ethical disaster,” you repeated quietly.
“Is that not the technical term?”
“No,” you said. “But it’s vivid.”
“I’m trying to respect the seriousness of the situation.”
“You drove here at night to confess feelings to the woman.”
That time, you did laugh. Then your eyes widened slightly, and you glanced back into the apartment unit.
Both of you froze.
From somewhere inside came the faintest sleepy rustle, then silence again.
You turned back to him, relieved.
It was stupid, how much that he wanted you, even when you were just standing there in the doorway, trying not to smile because Mina was asleep, because rules existed, because the world was inconvenient.
John said the next part before could stop himself. “I’d like to take you out.”
This time, there was no joke to hide behind this time. No self-deprecation.
Your eyes changed again, and he saw the answer before you said anything.
And then your gaze dropped, just for a second, like you needed somewhere safer to look. When you looked back up, you had pulled yourself together.Mostly.
“John,” you said softly. “You can’t ask me out while I’m training you.”
“How many remaining?” He asked.
“Four.”
John stared at you. “Four,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
He looked briefly toward the ceiling like patience might be stored there. He thought the next session was the last, but apparently three more had been added for whatever fucking reason. He assumed Barnes had something to do with it (he was right).
You folded your arms loosely, still half-hidden behind the door, and there was something almost teasing in your eyes now. The kind that kept both of you on the correct side of the line while acknowledging that, unfortunately, the line was very much there and both of you could see it.
“You survived worse,” you said.
“People keep saying that to me.”
“Maybe you should start believing them.”
“I’d rather complain.”
“Ha.”
He looked at you again.
Your emotions were unguarded second, and he could see the things you weren’t saying. It wasn’t permission. It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t you reaching across the line.
But it was interest.
John lowered his voice. “What happens after?”
You went quiet.
Inside, Mina slept on, blissfully unaware that the adults were being stupid in the hallway. Thank god.
You looked at him for a long second, and he watched the argument happen behind your eyes. He watched you measure ethics against honesty, professionalism against whatever had just happened between you. He watched you decide exactly how much you could give him without breaking the rules you clearly cared about.
Then, finally, you said, “After four sessions, you can ask again.”
John nodded like you had just handed him coordinates for rescue. “Yeah.” He breathed out. “I can do four sessions.”
Your smile broke through.
Suddenly, he felt the bright, aching, want-to-be-good-for-you feeling climbing up under his ribs and made a home in his heart. The same feeling that made four sessions feel less like a punishment and more like a mission he intended to pass with honors.
He stepped back, giving you the space again.
“I should go,” he said.
“You should.”
Neither of you moved.
Your fingers were still curled around the edge of the door. His hands were loose at his sides. The hallway light hummed above you. Somewhere inside your apartment, Mina made one tiny sleepy sound and then went quiet again.
You lowered your voice even more. “And John?”
“Yeah?”
“Call me first next time, like a normal person.”
“I can do that.”
You lifted an eyebrow.
“I can learn to do that,” he corrected.
You smiled again and he felt hopeful. “Goodnight, John.”
He swallowed. “Goodnight.”
Then, before either of you could make it worse, you stepped back and closed the door gently, careful not to wake Mina.
John stood in the hallway for one second after the lock clicked.
He didn’t move.
For once, it was not because he was frozen or furious or trying to wrestle his way out of his own head. He just stood there, staring at your closed door while his heart skipped several beats, in a good way.
He could do four sessions. He could wait. He could earn it.
He could do it right.
For you, he wanted to do it right.
John turned toward the stairs with the stupidest smile of his adult life pulling at his mouth.
And for the first time in a long time, John wanted to be patient.
He didn’t throw anything through a wall that week, or any of the weeks after.
He did, however, spend the next day thinking about you the entire drive to pick up his son.
And when Nathan helped carry the diaper bag out to the car, John managed to take it and say, “Thanks, man,” without sounding like he was chewing glass.
Olivia noticed.
She gave him a small, knowing look while he buckled his son into the car seat. “You seem better.”
John tightened the strap, smoothed a hand over his son’s little jacket, and tried not to smile too much.
“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”
—
Eight months later…
John was standing in your kitchen wearing an apron Mina had picked for him.
It had tiny unicorns on it.
He had argued, briefly, that he was a tough superhero and he didn’t need to wear the unicorn apron. Mina had stared daggers at him, held it out, and said, “Chefs wear aprons.”
So now John was wearing the Unicorn apron.
And for the last six months, that was your life.
He had held up his end of the bargain: he asked you out after the sessions were complete, kissed you on the first date, and never looked back.
You stood beside him in your apartment now, trying not to laugh while he stirred soup on the stove. His son and Mina were in the living room, sitting cross-legged on the rug, making Mr. Bun and a toy dinosaur get married under a blanket fort. Mina had been another last-minute addition, because your sister and her wife had a last-minute shift. John had only looked at you and said, “Good. More taste-testers.”
You kissed him then and there.
Olivia and Nathan came over, too.
That should have been strange. Maybe it still was, in tiny little ways. But it was also sweet. Nathan brought dessert. Olivia brought wine.
Somehow, against all sense and probability, you and Olivia had become friends. And not even polite co-parenting-adjacent friends. Not awkward, mature, “we are all adults here” friends.
Actual friends.
It made no sense. You two were polar opposites.
Olivia was soft-spoken where you were snarky. Olivia asked gentle questions; you asked questions like you were trying to locate immediate weakness. And yet there you both were, basically best friends.
Olivia had started texting you pictures of terrible PTA emails. You had started sending her voice notes about work drama with all names redacted for legal reasons. The two of you had brunch without John once, which had made him pace the kitchen for twenty minutes until you came home and told him, very sweetly, that you weren’t going to break up with him because his ex-wife aired all his dirty laundry. Because “remember, there was nothing Olivia could say that wasn’t already in your file, honey.”
John made up for it by teaming up with your sister to make fun of your cute little snores. But anyway.
It was strange, but it had become one of the best things in his life, because his son had more people loving him in one room than John had ever known how to ask for.
“I can’t believe you finally learned how to make vegetables taste good,” Olivia said, poking at her plate.
John pointed his fork at her. “Don’t sound shocked.”
You leaned toward Olivia and said, “He needs praise or he gets difficult.”
Olivia nodded solemnly. “I remember.”
John looked between you both. “I hate this alliance.”
“No,” Nathan chuckled. “I don’t think you do.”
He was right. He loved it.
He loved watching you and Olivia lean over the table together, laughing quietly while Mina and his son bartered potato cuts like tiny criminals. He loved that Nathan could ask him about his dental health without making it a big emotional event.
And when John mentioned wanting to join a veterans support group, it felt… easy.
“After listening to your subway thing,” he said, glancing at you. “And everything else. I think it might help.”
Your hand found his under the table first.
Olivia smiled at him sincerely. “I think you’d be good there, John. And I think it’d be good for you.”
Nathan nodded. “Sometimes it helps to be around people who understand without needing the whole story.”
You just kissed him on the cheek. “M’ proud of you, sweetheart.”
John looked down, thumb brushing over your knuckles, clearly trying not to get emotional about everything.
Then his son looked up from his peas, very serious. “Do you get snacks at support group?”
John blinked. “Probably.”
His son nodded, satisfied. “Then you should go.”
Everyone laughed.
Later, in the kitchen, while the kids were distracted and Olivia was explaining something to Nathan, John caught you by the waist and pulled you gently toward him.
“Hi,” he murmured.
You smiled. “Hi.”
Then he kissed you.
It was supposed to be quick— it was most definitely not. Your hand curled into the front of his shirt, and John smiled against your mouth like he still couldn’t quite believe he got to have this. You, in his arms. Dinner in the next room. His son laughing. Olivia and Nathan not annoying him. Mina yelling something about Mr. Bun requiring surgery.
“John,” you whispered, laughing against his mouth. “Children.”
“They’re busy.”
You rolled your eyes, but kissed him once more before slipping out of his hands.
Near the end of the night, his son got sleepy and serious, leaning against John’s side while Mina sat on the floor beside him with Mr. Bun in her lap.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, buddy?”
He pointed between himself and Mina. “Are me and Mina cousins now?”
Oh.
John looked at you. You looked back, before glancing at Olivia. Olivia looked like she was trying not to cry, which immediately made Nathan look concerned, because Nathan was Nathan.
You smiled first, a wordless permission without making it a whole thing.
So John shrugged, easy as anything, and kissed the top of his son’s head. “Sure,” he said. “Think of it that way, kid.”
His son beamed.
Mina nodded once, very pleased. “Can I be the in-charge cousin?”
“No,” you and John said at the same time.
Olivia laughed. Nathan smiled. The kids immediately began negotiating cousin rules on the carpet.
For once, nothing in his life felt like a scoreboard. It didn’t even feel like a competition.
john walker - venom - "don't you dare tell anyone about this." "wasn't planning on it."
thank you lovely! implied smut/mature themes 16+!!
john walker x fem!thunderbolt!reader, 0.9k words
You wake up with John Walker in your bed, fast asleep next to you with his arm thrown over your waist.
You sit up so fast you almost break your neck.
What the hell? You panic, frantically feeling around for your phone in the dark, when you realise that your ensuite light is still on and the door half-open, a warm glow spilling onto your bedroom floor. A trail of discarded clothes, both yours and John’s, traverses from the ensuite to your bed.
It all comes back to you then. John, getting hurt on a mission while protecting you. You, urging him to let you patch him up rather than doing it himself — it was the least you could do after he saved your life. John, shirtless, sitting in your ensuite and staring at you with those dark, brooding eyes of his while you tended to his injured shoulder. His skin was warm under your touch, and your heart was thrumming in your throat. There was a sort of intensity in his eyes that you could feel reflected in your own gaze.
It’s all a blur after that. You don’t know who kissed who first, but there was a lot of tongue, and then a lot of touching, and it ended up with you naked against the mattress and John on top of you. Both of you sweating and gasping, moaning each others’ names. You must’ve fallen asleep not long after, because you don’t remember much else. The ache between your legs tells you all you need to know.
The first few hints of morning slip through the curtains. You apparently had enough sense to put some clothes on after the events of last night, because you look down to find you’re half-dressed, in your underwear and one of your sleep shirts.
John stirs next to you.
“What’re you doing?” He murmurs sleepily. His hand searches for you under the covers and finds your thigh, thumb skipping over your bare skin, “What’s th’matter?”
You feel dizzy. You don’t think he’s realised where he is yet. You swallow.
“John,” you say, like a warning. You can’t look at him. If you do, you’ll remember the way he kissed you last night, and your feelings for him will come crashing down on you all over again.
“What?” He mumbles, like he’s irritated. He rolls onto his back, clearly disoriented. “What’s… oh.”
John groans softly as he sits up next to you. He’s bare chested but for the bandage you’d wrapped his shoulder in last night. The sheets fall around his hips. You try not to look at the distinct V-shape at his abdomen that plunges downwards, disappearing into the waistband of his boxers.
“Hey,” he says with a wince. His voice is rough from sleep. Your eyes dart to his chest and back up.
“Hi,” you say back.
“Uhhh.” John rubs the back of his neck with his good arm. You ignore the way his bicep bulges with the movement. “Did we have sex?”
You nod, your face hot. “Yeah.”
You turn your face away from his, embarrassed and confused. You’re not sure what this means for you and him. You’ve liked him since you met him, but you’ve never had the guts to do anything about it, let alone tell him. You worry you’ve only gone and made it more complicated by sleeping with him. What does he want from you? What does he think you want from him?
It all floats around in your head and makes you feel lightheaded. Meanwhile, John runs a hand over his face and sighs.
“Hey, listen…” He touches your shoulder hesitantly. It’s a stark contrast to the way he touched you last night, so sure, so firm. Now he touches you like you’re made of glass. “Look at me?”
Despite your best efforts, you can’t ignore him. You twist to look at him. He’s already looking right back at you, hooded eyes boring into yours. There’s something in the way he looks at you that you don’t understand.
“It was… nice, right?” He asks you slowly, voice low. “You… did you like it?”
Feeling a bit like you’re stuck in a trance, you nod. His proximity, and the memories of last night that only get more and more vivid as the minutes pass, are making you dizzy.
“I… yeah. It was nice,” you say quietly. But what did it mean? You want to add.
John grins lazily, the side of his mouth quirking. “Yeah? You enjoyed it?”
You find yourself nodding, unable to do much else as your tongue seems to have turned to lead in your mouth. John leans closer, pushing his hand over your shoulder blade and spreading it over the space below your neck.
His other hand toys with the hem of your shirt. “So did I,” he murmurs.
You find yourself leaning into him like a moth to open flame, unable to stop yourself though you think you know how this will end.
In the half dark your hand finds his chest. He pushes his own hand under your shirt to hold your hip, and suddenly, you’re back where it all started.
You glance down at John’s mouth. “John…” you whisper.
John tugs you closer. He’s looking at your lips, “Hm?”
You swallow. Are you really about to do this again? You feel his warm hand climbing your ribcage under your shirt, feel his firm chest under your palm, and think, screw it.
“Don’t you dare tell anyone about this,” you say gruffly. You wrap both hands around his neck and get close enough to kiss him. “Alright?”
John grins. “Wasn’t planning on it, sweetheart.”
He kisses you, and it feels so good that you forget to wonder what it means.
ex-bf john walker x reader
word count: 7.6k
prompts: sex pollen // coming untouched // biting
disclaimer: drugs/sex pollen. intoxicated sex but fully consensual. emotions. slight mean john/dubcon elements but not really. authority kink ig.
a/n: this honestly has no correlation to the song. catch how many references I have to my other fics and I'll give you a lollipop. I'm really happy with this one... I hope you enjoy 🤍
✦ exes by tate mcrae ~ bri's kinktober 2025 ✦
the burning sensation prickles your skin, every inch of your body being consumed by a fire that you can’t put out.
you’re not entirely sure how long you’ve been pacing around your room, trying to distract yourself from the heat simmering under your skin. surely it’s been no longer than an hour, but given how shitty you feel, how badly you want to fall to the floor and scream out in pain until your lungs give out?
it feels more like days than a single hour.
you had followed every single protocol in the book. you’d acted accordingly, following the mission plan down to the very letter. you hadn't veered off course once, and yet you still managed to royally fuck up.
because you had to have fucked up so terribly in order to end up where you are now: on the brink of collapsing in on yourself, battling every urge in your body that’s telling you to stick your hand down the front of your panties and attempt to seek some relief with your fingertips.
you know it’s a bad idea.
you know it’s a bad idea because you learned the hard way, having tried a few times already to ease your suffering as such; each time, it’s only made the pain that much worse. a few motions of your fingers between your legs and you’re crying out that much louder, ripping your hand away while tears begin falling from your eyes.
you’re stronger than this. you’re stronger than the crying, and the pain, all of it. there’s no reason for you to be so worked up and so frustrated right now. you chose this life, and you know you’re more than capable of holding your own as an Avenger. a fighter, a hero, or something like that.
being a combatant means you always have to expect the unexpected, right? always be prepared for circumstances to change, for anything to go wrong. there are no rules on the battlefield. it’s do or die, kill or be killed.
of course, the potential of being grabbed, taken, and tortured is always a possibility when you go out on a job like these. you can’t write anything off in this line of work, hence you have to be prepared for anything and everything possible under the sun.
that’s why you train. you train your body and your mind to withstand whatever external pressures may be put on you, whatever tortures that could possibly be inflicted upon you to try and break your resolve. you’re stronger than it, stronger than whatever the enemy can do to you.
you always knew it could happen. anything could happen.
but dear god, this is a different kind of torture.
your own body is turning on you without offering you even a single second to breathe, and when you try to ease it on your own with the same stimulation that typically brings you pleasure, it feels as though your clit is being carved out from between your legs. every part of you aches beyond belief, and it’s like you’re in a sauna as sweat drips down your forehead, down the back of your knees, all over. it can’t even compare to the broiling in your tummy, the searing heat lingering between your thighs.
there’s a million ways to torture someone. there’s plenty of sick and twisted scientific minds out there, creative ones at that.
but who the hell thought a sex drug was a good idea? where’s the logic? what purpose does it even serve? who stands to benefit from this?
you’re not sure why you’re questioning it right now. all you know is that you have to keep your mind working, continue to try and think this through logically or else you might not survive. if you can’t keep your head together, if you can’t will yourself to withstand–
a knock at the door sends you spiraling as you lose what little composure you had managed to gather.
“go away,” you whine loudly, bringing both of your hands to the sides of your head, pressing the heels of your palms into your temples as though it will somehow minimize the emotional hurricane going on inside your skull. the last thing you need right now is to be bothered, to be questioned about how the operation went wrong, while you’re still utterly miserable.
“it’s me,” you hear from just outside the door, and your aching heart soars.
fuck. no, he can’t be here right now, you remember. this is dangerous for him, for the both of you.
you take in a deep breath, sounding so shaky in your ringing ears. you summon every ounce of self-restraint you have left before responding.
“John, I’m fine. please, for both our sakes, just go away.”
you wish you sounded more confident, that your voice doesn’t sound as pathetic as you feel right now. you drop your hands to your hips as you continue pacing through the room, waiting for the sound of his footsteps to indicate to you that he’s leaving.
instead, you hear the sound of him clearing his throat and speaking up again.
“look, Bucky told me what happened,” he begins.
oh.
for as much as you wish he was here of his own accord, he’s not. for as deeply as you crave for him to come to you, to seek you out on his own after your painful breakup, you know he’s not here because he wants to be. he’s here, knocking at your door while you suffer in silence, simply because he has to be.
if you were in any better state right now, you’d have been able to hold in the cry that rips itself from low in your throat. you’d have a much better grasp on the next words that come out of your mouth.
“yeah, I bet he did. he told you that I’m helpless and miserable and that you need to fix me, right? well, guess what? I don’t need your fucking help!” you yell back at him angrily.
you know the second you say it that it’s an overreaction. you’re lashing out because you’re in pain and can’t stop yourself from unleashing on him. but the mental and physical pain within you are clashing terribly, mixing into a gross fit of uncontrollable emotion inside your head.
you quit your pacing in the middle of the room and cinch your eyes tightly together as you pray that you’re not about to cry again. in your drug-addled mind, you want nothing more than for him to break down the door and touch you.
because under all the pain and heat and ache in your body, you’re so fucking horny. you’re desperate beyond a level of need you’ve ever experienced before, beyond anything you thought was humanly possible. you crave his touch more than anything right now; worse yet, you know it would help. you know you would feel better if you just let him in, but you still can’t let yourself give in.
you broke up for a reason, you remind yourself.
when he doesn’t respond to you after a few moments, your eyes begin heating up again, the tears falling faster. you step closer to the door, just close enough for your words to pass through the door. it’s purposefully not close enough for you to reach out to the handle, not close enough for you to unlock it.
you won’t be able to stop yourself from letting him in if you do.
“I’m sorry,” you say, softer this time. your voice begins to crack as you continue, “I’m sorry, it just hurts so fucking badly. I don’t know what to do.” a small cry escapes your lips then, stopping you from saying anything else.
“let me in,” he replies firmly when he hears your pained cry. you hear the knob jiggling as he attempts to open the door, only to find that you have it locked. his own voice grows louder and more definitive, closer to an order than a request at this point. “now.”
you tilt your head back to look up at the ceiling as though the heavens above will open up and grant you some form of mercy if only you just ask. every word he speaks to you from the other side of the door does nothing but douse the flame in your stomach with gasoline, the tone of his voice luring you in like a sailor to a siren.
you miss him beyond belief, and you know that now is most certainly not the time to rehash your breakup. but no matter how much they worsen the ache between your thighs, his words still serve to piss you off.
“we’re not doing this right now,” you grit out, beginning to pace again as the anger burns alongside the drug flowing through your veins. “we’re not doing this. don’t do this to me, not now of all times.”
“would you just listen to me for once? I’m trying to tell you–”
“no, John! you’re not telling me what to do!” you bite back quickly, interrupting him.
“damnit, no. that’s not what I’m trying to do!” he argues back through the door. you hear him take a sharp breath as he continues, clearly growing more wound up even as he tries to hide it. “can you open the door so we can talk face-to-face?”
“no,” you respond, except you’re not yelling now. you’re whining stupidly again because you can’t help yourself, you can’t stop yourself as his words only worsen every horny thought in your head. “I can’t open the door, I’ll do something stupid, something we both regret…” you trail off.
you know exactly what you would do. it would be something along the lines of jumping on him, climbing him like a tree and knocking the both of you to the floor. it would be something moronic like kissing his stupid, gorgeous face, reaching a hand down the front of his pants and begging him to give you what you need with your fingers wrapped so tightly around his cock. you would anything to work for, to earn the brutal fucking you need from him right now.
you let out a harsh sigh of frustration. can’t he see how hard this is for you? that you’re not deliberately trying to spite him, you’re trying to protect him? protect yourself?
trying to get over him over the course of the last few weeks has been difficult enough. waking up alone every day, lacking sleep, just to see him walking around with under-eye bags that mirror your own? not being able to tell him every little detail about your day, not being able to even go near him anymore?
not getting to hold him, not getting to feel him between your thighs every night?
it’s eaten away at your soul, carved away at your very being from the inside out even worse than this goddamn sex pollen is doing to you now.
which is why you can’t open the door. you can’t let him in to help you, to fuck you the way you want him to, because if you do, you don’t know if you’ll manage to survive the loss a second time.
“then just listen to what I’m saying to you. please, sweetheart,” he begs of you. his voice is still so soft and alluring, and the pet name feels like a fucking dagger to your heart.
you blink the water from your eyes and take another breath as you begin to reply.
“I can’t, we aren’t having this conversation right now–”
“fuck, you’re still just as stubborn,” he says with a small, reluctant laugh. it’s clear he means it with all the best intent, but your foggy mind can’t keep up with him right now.
your head is a mess. your emotions are still going haywire.
the tears begin falling from your eyes once more, loud sobs beginning to wrack through your body.
“please. I can’t. it hurts too bad,” you plead with him as you cry.
“listen to me. I know it hurts, sweetheart, I know. but if you let me in, I can help you, okay? look, I know you don’t love me anymore, and you don’t have to take me back… fuck, we can just forget all about it tomorrow if that’s what you want. but I know you, and I know what you need right now. please, baby, let me in and let me help you stop hurting. please.”
despite the fact that you’re only about half coherent and barely in your right mind, you still manage to hear each and every single word he says to you.
he’s wrong.
of course you still love him. does he think that you don’t? is that why he thinks you won’t let him in, that you simply don’t want him? because that couldn’t possibly be further from the truth.
and no, you can’t forget all about it tomorrow. if you let him in and you let him touch you, let him fuck this stupid drug out of your system, you won’t be able to let him go. you will take him back in a heartbeat because the pain of losing him has been so much worse than the fighting and arguing that came before you broke up.
why did you both give up so quickly, give in to the end of your relationship? do you both truly believe that you don’t deserve to have each other and that’s why the first big fight you ever had simply ripped you apart?
the way your stomach turns at the realization has nothing to do with the drug in your system, the heat coursing through your veins.
it’s the worst possible time to come to such a realization.
and although he was wrong about thinking that you don’t love him, that you can forget… he was right about one thing. he knows you, and he can take this pain away. he can give that to you, do this for you.
you just have to let him.
why couldn’t this have happened about a month ago, before you broke up? you’d already have gotten fucked and this drug wouldn’t even be in your veins anymore, wouldn’t be a problem anymore. if this had been a month ago, you wouldn’t be having an existential dilemma about the state of your relationship with the only man who can help you, the only man you want to help you.
and as you feel yourself practically soaking through your underwear to the soft cotton of your sweatpants, you finally break.
your trembling hands reach for the doorknob, opening it just enough for the lock to come unbolted. on the other side, John pushes the door open and forces himself into the room to take in the state of you in front of him: crumpled in on yourself, your face sullen and eyes teary, your whole body shaking with need.
as you reach your tired arms out in his direction with such a weary expression painted on your features, he doesn’t waste a second before putting his hands on your waist, steadying you and dragging your figure towards him to rest your body weight on his. his arms wrap themselves around you, so big and powerful and warm. you finally feel at home as you bury your face in his chest, inhaling his scent for the first time in weeks.
“it hurts, please. I need you to touch me, to fuck me,” you begin whining, tears seeping into the fabric of his shirt. your fingers begin grabbing at whatever you can reach, the flesh at his hips, the waistband of his pants, anything to try and encourage him to do something about your current condition.
“I’ve got you,” he promises you, gripping you firmer in his hold as you cry into his chest, forcing yourself to bite your lip in order to keep your whining and begging to a minimum. you let him drag you over to your bed, not once letting go of you as he lays you down and follows without another word.
as he assesses your state, he’s more than concerned. having heard the story about the mission going wrong and only talking to you through the door worried him beyond belief, but actually seeing you like this? he’s far more concerned at the actual sight of your distress in front of him.
your skin burns under his touch, all while you’re aimlessly grabbing and pulling without any real purpose or intention. you’ve practically lost all your inhibition and ability to act lucidly.
soft tears fall from your eyes as you tightly bite your lower lip between your teeth. your hips continuously jut upwards, seeking any kind of friction you can find, although the attempt is entirely futile as you fail to make contact with his body above yours. the loss only causes the pain and cramping in your stomach to worsen.
you bring your hand, balled up in a fist, to your mouth and bite down harshly on your knuckles to control whatever desperate pleas that might fall from your lips next.
“none of that,” he says, smacking your hand away and leaning down to speak directly into your ear. “come on, let go. it’s me,” he whispers, and fuck if the words don’t have you falling apart and moaning like a bitch in heat.
“oh god, John,” you whine out when you no longer have the comfort of your knuckles to help you keep quiet. “I need it so bad, please, I can’t wait anymore. I might die if you don’t touch me right now,” you cry out, desperation taking over.
“you’re okay. I’ve got you,” he whispers to you, his hands roaming up and down your sides as he coos at you in his best attempt to help you calm down.
another vehement cry threatens to escape from the back of your throat, and before you can stop yourself, you’re leaning into his neck adjacent to your chin. you’re not thinking straight as you sink your teeth deep into his flesh, hindering the volume of your deafening cry as you finally let it out.
he responds with a groan of his own, the suddenness of the bite in his flesh making his whole body jolt and his motions freeze in place. the pain feels more than pleasurable with the serum running through his veins, so enjoyable with the knowledge that it’s you. you’re finally under him again, regardless of the horrific circumstances under which it’s happening. you’re finally his again, even if only for now.
but maybe if he can do this right, make you feel good enough, you’ll love him again. maybe he can prove himself to you, show you that he can do better–
you cry out again as your hips begin surging up, seeking a pleasure he’s still yet to give you.
every second he spends dipping his fingers under the waistband of your pants feels like another hour of hell as your body grows more and more desperate for his touch. it feels like a taunt, a torment with every graze of his fingers against your skin that isn’t where you need it.
he continues to whisper softly in your ear as he discards of your pants, and you momentarily relax enough to let go of how tightly you’re biting into his flesh. he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss the contact when your head falls back against the pillow, more tears flowing from your eyes as you continue to wait as patiently as you can.
your mind is still foggy as you reach for the hem of your shirt. you proceed to yank and pull at it to no avail, letting out another weak sob when you realize that you’re incapable of taking off your own shirt. you hate this, being too weak to do such a simple task on your own thanks to the drug currently reducing you to nothing but a needy mess.
his hands come to assist and successfully tug the shirt over your head, revealing your bare skin to his eyes, now clothed in nothing but your underwear that are fully soaked through at this point. he mirrors the action, reaching for his own shirt and yanking it off before tossing it over the side of the bed, onto the floor and long forgotten.
his fingertips trace down your waist to your hips, until the point they reach your thighs. you don’t resist as he slowly spreads your legs apart and slots himself between them, pressing his pelvis up against yours.
“missed you so much, sweetheart,” he admits quietly as he leans in to kiss the tears off your cheeks, his hands rubbing up and down the skin of your outer thighs. his words have the intended effect of calming you and your cries as he continues, “been needing you so badly, and you don’t even know it.”
he’s right. you don’t know it, because he hasn’t made any effort to seek you out in the past few weeks. it’s been nothing but awkwardness and weird silence, neither of you attempting to bring up the fight that ended your relationship for fear of only making the situation worse.
but you know him by now, and you know his words are sincere.
you want to cry some more.
“I need you more, been missing you more than you know,” you whine, repeating his assertion back to him with more insistence as you thread your fingers through his hair near the nape of his neck.
“I know. I know, baby, I do. I’m so sorry it has to be like this,” he replies in that soft but deep tone of his. he continues to press kisses to the sides of your cheeks and your temples as your tears trail down all the planes of your face. “I’m gonna make it all better.”
those words are like a drug being injected directly into your system, goosebumps appearing all over your skin with a chill running through your spine. you want him so badly, your body even more so.
you let out a soft moan in response as he begins kissing down your face, your jawline, until he reaches your neck.
your whole body jolts all over again when he nips at your skin before placing a matching bite into your flesh, although far softer than the way you effectively chomped down on his.
“Johnny, please. you’re torturing me,” you whisper while attempting to wrap your legs around his hips to pull him closer. the more he touches you, speaks to you, the more worked up you feel. the need is crippling inside you as you start to feel more and more amped up. “I can’t fucking wait anymore, I feel like I’m gonna die.”
the sound of that pulls him back into reality and out of his head, urging him to draw back from where he hovers over you. he proceeds to shift downwards on the bed until he finds himself between your legs, resting his cheek on your inner thigh and pressing a kiss to the skin there.
“you look so gorgeous, you know that?” he begins, continuing to nibble at your flesh as he speaks up. you hear the change in his tone, can tell he’s starting to get ideas in his head as he continues, “you’re all desperate like this, and I’m the only one that can help you.”
you want to cry and scream and beg him to stop this nonsense and just fuck you already, rough and brutal and enough to forget about the painful heat rippling under your skin.
he’s choosing to withhold it from you, to tease you now? your burst of anger gives you enough clarity to bite back, “I’m sure Bucky would just love to–”
you don’t manage to finish your sentence as his next bite into your flesh is far rougher, a punishment for daring to even suggest such a thing.
“you’re mine,” he hisses, laying a mirrored bite on your other thigh to drive home the message. “if he ever tried to touch you, I’d fucking kill him.”
the moans you let out in response are shameless, your hips working overtime to try and seek out contact against whatever they can. the warmth in your belly grows, feeling tighter and more worked up as he speaks.
he sees the way your body responds and continues, softer this time, “I know it hurts. I’m so sorry you’re hurting, baby, but fuck. you don’t even know how pretty you look like this, do you?”
“goddamnit, John,” you protest, your whole body squirming underneath him as he drives you higher and higher.
“you’re so worked up, and you’re so fucking wet for me, my little rookie.”
and then it happens. your whole body, so pent up and craving any form of attention he could possibly give you, finally breaks. the twisting in your stomach grows tighter before finally relaxing, being thrown into a spontaneous orgasm with nothing but the sound of his words in your ears and the heat of the drug in your system.
“shit, baby, did you just–”
and then the pain only increases tenfold. you begin wailing, grabbing at him, begging him to finally relieve you of the misery you’re unwillingly being subjected to.
the suddenness of your demeanor switching causes his mind to go into overdrive, hurriedly working to tear your panties away from your skin and burying his face in your soaking wet cunt.
it’s the first bit of actual relief you’ve felt since you got dosed with this god-awful drug.
you begin whining his name repetitively, legs closing in on either side of his head and trapping him in place with his lips wrapped around your clit. your fingers tangle themselves in his hair to hold him as close to you as possible.
the heat continues to burn in your body, although the pains and aches finally ease somewhat as he makes you see stars behind your eyelids. as the drug-induced torment settles just enough for you to come back to your rational mind, you remember how much you missed this. how you missed getting to be his, how much you missed getting to share these moments with him.
because no matter the fact that you’re both only doing this out of obligation, you finally have him again. at least for now, he’s yours once more, and the rest of the world can fade away. you may be in pain, but you’re with him. he’s the only relief you could possibly want right now.
at least you have this with him. even if it’s the last time.
the echoing in the room is cacophonous with the sound of your desperate moans and cries filling the space, all the while you continue to try and drag him impossibly closer as though he won’t leave you again if you can just hold him tight enough.
you’re still teetering on the edge after your unexpected release, every inch of your figure screaming for something real, exactly what he’s giving you right now. his mouth is so warm on your skin, more sensitive than you think you’ve ever been before.
when his tongue starts in on your clit, you’re done for. the sensation is so profoundly heightened with the drug coursing through your system, a second orgasm wracking through you as you convulse softly underneath him. not once do you dare loosen your grip on him, doing everything in your power to hold onto him as he continues to work you through your release until your body finally goes lax against the bedsheets.
he places a few soft kisses to your inner thighs as he draws back before moving back into place above you. you instinctively withdraw your hands from his hair to wrap them around his shoulders as he inches nearer, your legs wrapping themselves around his hips to keep him there. you’re still burning up, but the release is enough to grant you a few short moments of peace.
if you were to open your eyes right now, you’d see the way he stares back down at you with all the love he has for you written all over his features. you’d see the desire in his gaze, his pure glee that you’re in his arms once more. how there’s nowhere else he’d rather be in the world than with you, right here, right now.
and as you should have expected in this moment of solace, he starts in on you.
“you came without me even touching you,” he begins, a small smirk forming on his face as he says it. “that was pretty fucking hot.”
you don’t even bother to look and see his prideful expression as your own contorts into one of annoyance. “it was the drug,” you protest as you begin to unwrap your arms from around his shoulders in exasperation.
“it was just the drug, huh? it had nothing to do with what I said, is that what you’re telling me?” he continues, that hint of ego still clear in his tone. he quickly adjusts to grab hold of your elbows, pushing your arms back into place around him.
you know he’s proud of himself, gently rubbing in your embarrassment, and you appreciate the soft banter after so many weeks of nothing between the two of you. it feels normal, feels good, as though nothing has really changed.
except he’s nearing dangerous territory.
“it has nothing to do with anything. it was just the drug,” you reiterate in a whisper, trying to ignore the way your body is beginning to burn again, the way the ache is worsening all over again.
clearly, though, you’re failing at suppressing the need as you begin to squirm underneath him once more.
“nothing to do with me calling you rookie, huh?” he taunts, and a trembling gasp falls from your lips against your will.
you hate the way the word gets you hot and bothered, the way it still turns you on despite the fact that it’s also the primary explanation for why your relationship came to an end in the first place. you hate how you respond to it so easily in this context regardless of how problematic it’s become in the field while you’re working.
so what if he took you under his wing, given that you’d been the most fresh-faced of all your teammates? so what if he helped teach you half of your skills, if all the time you spent together training was the reason you’d developed such a close connection?
except you’ve been doing this for too long now and spent too much time working in the field on your own to be a “rookie” anymore.
he couldn’t seem to understand the issue when you brought it up to him repeatedly, inevitably leading to the horrible break-up you’ve been regretting ever since.
“yeah, I think you liked that,” he continues, shifting closer until his hips are pressed up against yours.
pressing his clothed bulge up against your bare, dripping wet cunt.
“fuck, Johnny–”
“you like that?” he grits, voice low and resounding even as your blood begins rushing in your ears once more. your eyes roll back in your head as he grinds against you, the fabric of his pants rubbing up against your clit and causing you to mewl.
your hands scramble at his shoulders and your nails begin to dig into his skin. there will surely be scratch marks left for at least another day with the serum, you know there will be. when he wakes up tomorrow morning, they’ll still be there, a reminder of you still on him tomorrow. will he think about it, think about you? will he miss you? does he actually miss you, or were his earlier words just a lie to soothe you in your miserable state?
you must have begun rambling at some point, the drug in your body fooling you into thinking your thoughts were staying inside your head.
“of course I miss you,” he whispers so softly into your ear you almost don’t catch it. “but I figured you didn’t miss me.”
how the hell could you not miss him? doesn’t he know how much you love him, how much he means to you? how you need him with every fiber of your being?
“I do miss you,” you cry out, and yet again, tears begin forming in your eyes as your feelings from the breakup and the pain in your body rise again. “but it fucking hurts, so please– do something, please, John.”
he doesn’t hesitate as he moves to shove his pants down and off, your own shaky hands trying their best to reach down to aid him in the motion, even though you’re not of much help. when he looks back up at you, he’s met with the sight of your teary eyes and your flushed face as you rest your head against the softness of your pillow.
if you do grant him the privilege of touching you again, if you could even possibly consider getting back together…
he’s going to take you to his room and fuck you through his bed next time.
his hands come to your face, wiping your tears from your eyes and your cheeks with his thumbs before leaning in and kissing you for the first time since he set foot in your room. for the first time since the breakup, for the first time in what feels like forever.
it feels like home, like you’re finally where you’re meant to be, safe in his arms.
one hand tangles itself in your hair as he kisses you deeper, getting lost in the sensation of having you under him once more. the other finds its way back to your thigh, spreading your legs further before notching the tip of his leaking cock at your weeping entrance.
“gonna make it stop hurting,” he whispers to you as his fingers in your hair begin massaging your scalp slowly. he slowly pushes forward, stretching you out so perfectly and eliciting a loud whine from the back of your throat. his eyes never leave your face the entire time; he couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t soak up every moment with you, commit to memory every reaction you give him.
you’re too precious. getting to have you now, even under these circumstances, is too valuable to not savor it the way he wants to.
your limbs are all wrapped around his form, clinging to him like he’s your lifeline. he is your lifeline in this moment, even just the feeling of him seated inside you beginning to dull the aching in your body and the pain in your tummy.
a few seconds like this feels like forever to you in your frenetic state. your nails dig deeper into the skin of his back, and you can’t help but lean into his neck and bite down before letting go of the most humiliating whimper you think you’ve ever heard yourself produce.
once again, he doesn’t fight it. the sting urges him on, his hand on your scalp holding your head in place as he finally starts fucking into you. your jaw doesn’t let up, not once letting go even as your moans grow louder while he continues thrusting into you like it’s a performance, like he has something to prove to you. like you’ll take him back if only he can make you feel good enough.
anyone walking by your door would be able to hear the way you’re moaning and crying out, atypical of your usual self due to the drug amplifying every feeling in your body. they would hear the headboard hitting the wall in a perfect rhythm and creaking loudly thanks to the pure strength of your super soldier on top of you as he finally abates your woes from a mission gone wrong.
his hand on your leg shifts inward, reaching to rub his thumb over your clit. you jolt in response, but his pace doesn’t dare falter.
“you okay?” he grits out lowly between his own groaning and whining.
you try your best to manage a small mm-hmm in response. he must make out the sound without issue because his fingers between your legs begin moving faster, driving you into a third unexpected orgasm, your legs around his hips shaking uncontrollably and your bite on his neck digging deeper.
“you’re doing so good for me,” he tells you. “bet you got another one for me, don’t you, rookie?”
you moan out into the room at the sound of the nickname in your ears, your jaw letting go of his flesh and your head dropping backwards towards the pillow. his hand in your hair stops you from craning your neck back, instead pressing his forehead to yours as he continues.
“come on, what do you say?” he goads, and you’re reminded of what a fucking menace he can be when he wants to be.
usually by this point, you’d be overstimulated and begging and pleading with him to slow down. and just the way you like it, he’d keep going, making you take it anyways.
and right now, you are overstimulated. but the drug in your system supersedes your exhaustion, your body begging for more and more of whatever he chooses to give you.
to your dismay, his motions begin to slow and he withdraws his hand from its home on your clit. another loud moan escapes your throat as he proceeds to lay a harsh smack on your outer thigh before taunting you once more, “you wanna come again? you know what to do.”
you’re abashed, but all too eager to give in and give him exactly what he wants. “please, sir,” you whisper, your voice strained and squeaky as the ache in your body continues to grow as he withholds the pleasure from you.
your response must please him as he finally returns his hand to its rightful spot between your legs, grinding his hips back into yours and pressing his lips to yours softly. “good job, sweetheart. so good for me,” he whispers to you between kisses.
your entire form is weak and exhausted, your grip on his shoulders starting to lose purchase as your body gears up for another release. even as you falter, he follows, his lips not daring to leave yours.
“I’m– I’m gonna–” you mumble into his mouth.
“go ahead, rookie,” he whispers back softly, and you’re gone. yet another orgasm rips through you as you whimper desperately against his mouth, trying to grit your teeth through the painful pleasure as you squeeze him so tightly it might cause your stomach to cramp.
you finally settle for just a moment, softly brushing your nose against his and feeling the way he’s still rock hard inside you. he must be saying something to you, you think, as he slows until the point he’s not moving anymore. only then does the fog in your head clear, the pain coming back in full force.
and you want to cry again.
no matter how much he gives you, it’s not enough. no matter how many orgasms, no matter how perfectly he fucks you, the pain continues to course through your body.
“it hurts, it still fucking hurts,” you begin crying. “it’s not enough, John–”
your hands are still shaky as you bring them up to your face, sobs beginning to wrack through you once more. you try your best to take deep breaths to stop yourself from this embarrassment, wiping the tears from your eyes before they can fall.
“hey, hey, come on. it’s okay,” he tries, laying you back down on the bed and moving to lay next to you. “look at me.”
when you stubbornly refuse, he reaches his hands to yours and drags them away from your face, forcing you to meet his gaze.
“come on, you’re gonna be okay,” he assures you with so much confidence that you want to believe him, so much so that you do. he leans towards you and wraps his fingers around your hips to pull you into him before sitting back against the headboard and seating you in his lap.
“are you sure?” you cry, every inch of your body tired and hurting. you don’t know how much more of this torture you can take. “what if I’m not? what if–”
“you’ll be fine,” he reiterates. “what, don’t think I’m good enough to do the job? four orgasms wasn’t proof enough?”
when you begin crying harder at the sound of his words, he drags you to rest your weight against him and seats your face in the crook of his neck. “got plenty of time, and you know better than anyone that I can keep up with you, huh?”
just as he had hoped, you crack a tiny laugh in response. he lets out a small breath of relief at finally having lifted your spirits, even if only for a moment.
“yeah, fucking superhuman you are. you know who else–”
“that’s enough of that,” he says, his grip on your flesh turning bruising as he hurriedly yanks you down and splits you open on his cock without any warning. you can’t help the way you softly yelp in surprise, insanely overwhelmed and oversensitive, the suddenness sending shocks through you. “bring him up again and I’ll make you regret it, hmm?”
you throw your head back as the burning pain of him stretching you open once more settles into a beautiful pleasure that successfully eases the pain inflicted upon you by the drug. you can’t help but giggle a bit as you respond, “yes, sir.”
“yeah, that’s what I thought,” he says with a smirk, wrapping both arms around your waist and leaning in to nip at the skin of your neck, sucking deeper into the hickeys already forming on your skin. “I told you already, you’re mine.”
“yes,” you respond without hesitating. you slowly begin grinding your hips in time with the motion of him moving your body against his.
“yeah? you want to be mine again?” he asks as he gifts you a particularly deep thrust.
“yes!” you tell him, arms going limp and your knees growing tired even after only a few moments in this position. “yes, always.”
he takes that as his sign to continue his work on your neck, turning your flesh into a beautiful mess of marks and bruises that he left there, that will remind you of who you belong to long after this is over.
he just hopes that you still mean what you’re saying after the drug wears off.
as hopeful as he is that you do mean what you’re saying, he can’t be sure that you’re still going to want this, want him. he holds you as close as he can and listens with intent so as to commit to memory every sound you make.
you’re not sure how long you’re in this position with him holding up your entire weight for you, doing all the work as he fucks you slower than before but still so perfectly that you almost don’t even remember the drug in your veins.
“please,” you whisper to him. you don’t have to say another word; he knows, knows exactly what you need, exactly how to touch you just right to push you over the edge.
and when you finish for the fifth time, he can’t help but pull back just enough to watch your beautiful face twist and contort in pleasure. the sight of you going over the edge encourages him, fucking up into you just a few more times before finally letting go himself. the warmth floods your stomach, feeling him this deep inside you for the first time in weeks causing you to be overjoyed.
neither of you dare move, your body giving out completely as the drug finally wears off in its entirety. you both breathe in sync as you come down from the shared high with his arms still wrapped around you, holding you firmly against him.
“I love you, Johnny,” you whisper to him. “I’ve missed you so much.”
his hands only grow tighter around your figure when you finally say the three words he’s been dying to hear.
“you’re not… you’re not still drugged, are you?” he asks tentatively, cautiously. scared of what the answer may be.
“I think it’s gone,” you whisper. “I’m tired as hell, but… I feel like myself again, and I mean it. I love you.”
you don’t know how fucking happy that makes him to hear, a smile breaking out across his face as the words pass your lips.
“I love you. I’m sorry I fucked up so badly, I’ll do better, I swear–”
“I know. it’s okay,” you whisper back, meeting his eyeline and smiling in return.
your eyes finally trail down to his neck where you notice the outline of your teeth imprinted in his skin. “oh my god, I bit you really fucking hard,” you say, beginning to laugh even as you try to apologize.
“don’t worry. I got you pretty good, too,” he chuckles, tracing his fingers over the marks on your neck.
after a few minutes of sitting peacefully in the silence together, you pipe up again quietly, “thank you for being here for me, baby.”
he kisses you once more for a long few seconds before responding. “you don’t have to thank me, sweetheart. I’m always gonna be there for you. rookie.”
Pairing: John Walker (U.S. Agent) x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!
Summary: After getting injured during a mission, John decides to tend to your wounds
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Angst, Friends (well…kind of lol) to Lovers, John cares deeply about Reader (he’s protective), John’s got average medical knowledge because y’know…The war, Mentions of Blood/Gore/Wounds, Mentions of cleaning wounds, One Bed Trope Kinda? (Fuck I love tropes JFC)
Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (guys…wrap it up y’all), Fingering, Handjob, Dirty Talk, Breast/Nipple Play, Hair Pulling, Biting, Sucking, Accidentally Leaving Bruises, Thigh Riding?, Oral Sex (Female Receiving)
Author’s Note: Em from 2021 would be shaking her god damn head at current me writing for John Walker, but I mean…That separation and trauma really roped me into writing for him…So here’s another Walker fic y’all :) Enjoy <3
Word Count: 12,499
“Fuck! Walker, can you take it easy?! It’s already broken as it is!” You shoved your hand against the front of his chest, palm slapping against the grime-coated fabric of his uniform. The pressure barely moved him–he was a damn wall even when he wasn’t on a mission–but it was all you could do to suppress a scream as his fingers braced the sides of your face, with his thumbs pressing dangerously close to the aching center of your shattered nose.
Blood had long since dried on your hands, crusted thick under your fingernails and streaked like war paint across your cheeks. The worst of it had happened right after the incident, when you had cupped your nose with both hands in a desperate attempt to stop the flood. You had thought it was just a minor nosebleed, until the pain sharpened into something unmistakably worse–until the world tilted and everything smelled like rusted copper and fire.
Now, the safe house was barely lit–just one flickering overhead bulb swinging from the cracked plaster ceiling, casting long shadows over the crumbling concrete walls. The floor was cold and stained with water damage, and everything seemed to have this sort of medicinal look to it, like you were transported into a hurricane bunker from the 50’s. You sat on the edge of an old metal table, legs dangling and hitting against the drawers beneath you. The stale scent of gunpowder, sweat, and rust clung to everything, and a broken cot sat unused in the corner behind you, standing out because of how neat and crisp and clean the sheets looked.
John’s thumbs paused just below the swollen ridge of your nose, the pads of them rough and calloused from years of handling weapons and working with his hands. His knuckles were still raw–scraped during the mission, probably when he had shoved debris off your back after the second explosion hit.
“Unfortunately the cartilage and bone is shifted out of place pretty badly, so I really have no other options here…Do you mind being a little more graceful that I’m even doing this?” You let out a pained groan, tilting your head forward a little, before pressing your fingertips deeper into the material of his uniform, feeling the rise and fall of his chest under it–warm and solid.
“Yeah…I’m so grateful that you’re digging your fat thumbs into my face. Whoopee!” The sarcasm that laced your voice was dry, and brittle, using your only remaining defense like it was your version of a shield. You hated displaying your pain to other people, especially when you tried to be the person who everyone looked to for comfort, so being in this situation with John was not the most pleasant thing, and that was only regarding the emotional aspect of things.
He let out a huff at the comment. A sound too short to be a laugh, but not far from one either, as he adjusted his large thick hands, letting his thumbs slide a fraction higher, directly over the jagged bump where your nose had shifted out of place. You flinched on instinct when his skin touched the inflamed area, and you nearly threw a punch, but controlled yourself. He didn’t move a muscle, staying in front of you even though he could tell you may take your pain out on him at some point–he was grateful in those moments that he had the Super Soldier serum in his veins because he had seen you in action and didn’t want to be on the receiving end of things if he was just a normal person.
There was no visible split in the skin on the bridge of your nose–no true signs that screamed broken to the untrained eye…But John knew better. He had seen the impact. Saw the way you stumbled and went down after the blast, hands flying to your face like it had been caught on fire.
What was worse though was while you were disoriented, and crouched behind cover with your ears ringing and blood pouring from your nose like a faucet, you had taken another hit. This time with sharp, jagged shrapnel. It had sliced across your lower back, tearing clean through your suit and leaving a gash deep enough to knock you out of the fight completely–meaning John had to carry you all the way to the safe house.
You were appreciative that he was as attentive as he was being–even though he was causing you all this pain in the process of it all.
You had seen John like this before. Focused. Grounded. Exacting. Always the protector, always the fixer, always ready to shoulder the burden when shit hit the fan, like the true soldier that he was. But you had never been on the receiving end of that intensity. Not like this. Not when your skin was burning and your body was completely wrecked, and he was holding your face like it might splinter into ash if he didn’t get the angle right.
You didn’t wish for this. You never wanted to be broken just so you could end up in his hands–but now that you were, now that you were wrapped in the unwavering heat of his grip, something reckless bloomed beneath the pain. To be held like this, even for a reason so fucked up and messy–it made something stir low in your belly. Not from lust or comfort. But from the raw awareness of him…And a rawer awareness of yourself in his hands.
A smile almost came up on your lips just thinking about it…But then he spoke again, his voice low and edged in the usual brand of grit that always felt like he was warning you about something.
”I’ll take it, even if it’s sarcasm…I do take offence about the fat thumbs comment though.” He murmured, as his eyes flicked to meet yours–those stormy, steel-blue irises that had seen far too much battlefield carnage to be gentle but somehow softened when they settled on you like this.
“Now…” He continued, voice dropping a shade lower, “I’m gonna try again. So you’re going to have to hold still, alright?” You barely nodded, it was more of a twitch than anything else, but it was enough for him to proceed.
Then the pressure returned as his thumbs pressed in harder than before. Your whole body seized. Every nerve in your skill lit up like an electric grid, and the pain surged like a flashbang behind your eyes, detonating somewhere deep in your sinuses and cascading through your spine in a blaze of heat and nausea. It felt like your breath was ripped out of you as you let out a broken whine–something pitiful and ragged and nearly feral as it clawed its way up your throat.
Your hands acted on instinct, as the one balled up in a fist beside you came up to clamp down around his forearm. Your fingers digging into the armor like a vice, with your nails biting into the plates as if you could somehow transfer the agony you were feeling into him.
”Motherfucker…” You gasped, your voice wet and raw, “Shit, shit–John! Ow!”
But John didn’t move.
Not an inch.
He held you steady with those thick, bruised hands, his jaw tight and his breath slow, guiding you through it like he was your goddamn metronome. The heat of his body grounded you. His fingers–trembling just slightly now–never faltered.
And then the snap.
That sickening, wet click as the bone shifted back into place.
Your vision went white at the edges. Stars danced behind your eyelids even though they were wide open, locked on the ugly water stain overhead and that damn swaying bulb. You could feel his breath on your face–close, steady, just there–and when it was finally over, when the worst of it had passed, your body sagged forward.
Immediately, his hands shifted to catch you. One moved to cradle the front of your neck, while the other slid to the back of your head, anchoring you gently so you didn’t fall forward too hard against him. Your hands slipped from his arm as you shook a bit from the aftershocks of the pain that threaded through your nervous system.
”There you go…” He murmured, his fingers digging into your hair as lightly, “It’s all done now…” His tone had changed. There was less grit to it, and it was a little more…Careful.
Once you were leaning back slightly–with your head balanced in his palm and your weight resting just enough for him to steady you–he shifted. One hand stayed where it was, cradling you, while the other reached down to rifle through the battered first aid kit perched on the edge of the table beside you. The hinges of the metal box squealed faintly as he opened it, and after a moment, he retrieved a gauze pad, unwrapping it with a familiar efficiency.
You hissed softly when he adjusted your head again, tipping it forward just enough to keep the blood from draining down your throat. His hand pressed flat against your upper back for support, firm but still gentle. Then the first touch of gauze came–cool, and dry–dabbed under your nose with a feather-light precision, as you hissed.
”I got you…Just breathe.” He exhaled, barely above a whisper. But breathing felt like trying to inflate lungs made of broken glass. Your chest stuttered as you took in air in shallow sips, your teeth clenched against another pained groan. The blood was still coming, though not nearly as much as before–just a slow trickle now, painting your upper lip and clinging stubbornly to the crusted stains already drying on your skin.
He wiped it all away in soft, methodical strokes as the gauze swept carefully under your nose again, and again. Each movement came with a quiet breath from him, steady and anchoring–something to ground yourself in, something to focus on apart from the pain.
You let your eyes fall shut, letting yourself relax a bit in his hands, at the way he handled you a bit, until the bleeding stopped. Or maybe he was satisfied enough that you wouldn’t start bleeding all over yourself and your torn tactical gear again.
He set the crimson soaked gauze on the edge of the metal table with a quiet flick of his wrist, and you watched as he lingered in front of you, eyes scanning over your face like he was checking for another invisible injury, then when he was finally satisfied with his little perimeter check, he cleared his throat.
”Need a break before I start on your back?” You gave a faint, exhausted nod, because your voice wasn’t working yet, and your body was still trembling too much to form words.
”Ca–Can’t combine pain with more pain…I need a breather.” You muttered after a moment of gathering yourself. John hummed in agreement, a low noise echoing through his throat as he stepped back slightly, his hands leaving your body. Instantly you missed the contact, but you made sure to not show it.
To distract yourself you lifted your fingers to your nose slowly, running the tips along the ridge of it–ginger, and testing. The sharpest pain had dulled into a throb, like your face had been kicked in by a steel-toed boot and someone had hit pause right after. You winced at the sensitivity but didn’t pull away.
”Least it’s still attached,” You whispered dryly, glancing down at the bloodied gauze for a moment. John let out a short exhale through his nose–not quite a laugh, but very close. Then he turned, unbuckling the strap under his chin and pulling his helmet off. The metal table clanked softly as he set it down beside you.
His short blond hair was soaked with sweat, plastered to his forehead and curling faintly around the edges. There was a red pressure line that ran across the bridge of his nose from the helmet’s tight fit–he had put in multiple requests for an adjustment–and his temples glistened with sweat. He had bags under his eyes–a sharp exhaustion that didn’t come from physical fatigue alone, but from multiple sleepless nights.
He looked like hell, just like you, but he knew how to hold himself well enough so that people didn’t question it. Your gaze lingered longer than it should have, but he didn’t seem to mind–he actually enjoyed the fact you didn’t hide that you stared at him sometimes. There was a beat of silence, before he reached for one of the canteens on the battered shelf behind him–military-issue, scratched to hell, but sealed tight. He unscrewed the cap in one clean motion, but he didn’t drink from it himself, instead he offered it to you first, arm extended with silent insistence.
You took it, fingers brushing his for just a second longer than necessary. The moment crackled like static. Then you brought the container to your lips, tilting it slowly as cool water slid into your mouth, over your tongue, down your throat–relief flooding in gentle waves. A few droplets spilled from the corner of your mouth and trickled down your chin, cutting tiny rivulets through the smudges of blood and grime. You let them fall, letting the water do double duty–cleansing, cooling you from the inside and from the outside.
John watched in silence. His gaze wasn’t leering or crude–but it wasn’t innocent either. There was something in the way he stared, in the rigid line of his shoulders and the way his tongue dragged briefly over his bottom lip. Maybe it was the light catching on the droplets, or the sharp contrast between your bloodied skin and the glint of water, all he knew though was he was enamored by you…Which was happening more and more often recently.
You pulled the canteen away and swiped at your mouth with the back of your hand. “Thank you.” He gave a small nod, then wordlessly, he extended his hand out to you again. You glanced down at his open palm, and hesitated just for a second before returning the canteen to him, your fingers brushing his in that same slow, static-laced way.
That’s when you noticed it. A faint smudge of red clinging to the rim. Your blood. Just a smear—nothing dramatic—but it stopped you for a second, made your breath catch in your throat before you could say anything.
But he didn’t blink.
He lifted the canteen, and with that same worn, easy motion, brought it to his mouth.
You thought he might wipe it first. That would’ve made sense.
But he didn’t.
He drank from the same place your lips had been, from the same metal stained with your blood, and he didn’t flinch. Didn’t glance down. Didn’t pause. He tilted his head back, throat flexing with each quiet swallow, and then–almost theatrically slow–his tongue flicked across his bottom lip, catching a bead of water before he smacked his lips once and capped the container.
Your heart skipped again—too hard, too obvious. You could feel it beating against the walls of your chest, uneven and startled, like it had heard something it wasn’t supposed to.
He could hear it, too. You knew he could.
But he didn’t say a word about it. He just returned the canteen to the shelf behind him and finally looked back at you, jaw tight but eyes strangely soft.
“You ready for me to look at your back now?”
You bit the inside of your bottom lip and gave a slow nod. “Might as well stop delaying, right?”
He shrugged, but his voice gentled when he spoke again. “C’mon. I’ll help you down.”
You reached for him without hesitation this time. Maybe it was the pain still rolling in slow, nauseating waves…Maybe it was the water…Maybe it was the fact that he practically drank a little bit of your blood without even flinching. But your hands found his, and the callouses against your fingers were grounding–calming in a way.
You shimmied off the table, boots hitting the concrete with a dull thud that echoed through the hollow room. The metal creaked behind you, and for a moment, the silence seemed to tighten the space between you.
John stood still, broad shoulders squared, eyes trained on you with that unreadable expression he always wore when he was trying not to give too much away.
“I’ll only touch what needs fixing,” He mumbled, voice low and firm–but it was the kind of firmness that came with restraint, not indifference. Like he needed you to know he wouldn’t cross any lines.
“Reassuring,” You replied under your breath, dry again–but softer this time. Less biting. The edge had dulled, like the pain, and something else was starting to settle in its place. A hum beneath your skin. A pull.
You turned your back to him and began to work at the straps of your tactical vest, fingers trembling more from exhaustion than nerves–but they were there too, tightening in your gut like a drawn wire. Your shoulder muscles ached with every movement, and each zip and click of metal buckles felt like a slow reveal, peeling away your armor and the little bit of safety it gave you.
Each hiss and grunt slipped past your lips in ragged pieces as you tried to work the underlayer down over your ruined skin. You could feel the fabric sticking–bonded to dried blood and half-coagulated mess.
Behind you, John moved.
Quietly.
Efficiently.
And then his voice came again, just over your shoulder. “Let me.”
You didn’t answer aloud, just stilled your hands and nodded once.
His fingers brushed your side first. Just a graze, just a warning–but it was enough to send a chill racing up your spine. He moved carefully, undoing the last of the clasps at your waist and shoulders. The tension in his touch was subtle but unmistakable, like he was holding himself back from something. Like his fingers wanted to linger–but they didn’t.
The ruined underlayer peeled back with agonizing slowness. John was methodical, easing it up inch by inch as he tried not to aggravate the wound more than necessary. The air touched your exposed skin and you hissed–more out of instinct than anything–and he froze instantly.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” You lied, voice muffled as you clenched your jaw and braced your hands on the table edge again. “Just do it.”
He exhaled through his nose. It wasn’t from frustration, just from focusing so hard.
When the fabric finally lifted free of the wound with a sickening slosh, you almost collapsed again, feeling the cool air biting against your bare skin. You bit down on a whimper, sucking in a shallow breath as your knees buckled–but his hand was already there, bracing your hip, holding you steady.
It wasn’t sexual. It wasn’t even meant to linger.
But it did anyway.
Just a second longer than necessary.
“Hold still,” He said quietly, shifting to kneel behind you. You could feel his breath brush your lower back as he studied the damage, and when his fingers gently pushed at the unbroken skin near the wound, you flinched again.
“Jesus…” He muttered, not at you–but at what he saw. “It went deep.” You lifted your arm slightly, elbow bending just enough to glance down at him over your shoulder. His blond head was bowed in concentration, and his blue eyes were locked in on the mess carved across your lower back–lips pressed into a tight, unreadable line. That same rigid intensity he always carried in the field hadn’t left him, but it looked different when it was this close.
“That bad?” you asked, voice quiet, dry.
He hummed, not quite a sigh. “Yeah…It’s pretty bad. Nothing that can’t be patched up though.” His fingers shifted slightly, bracing against your hip again to keep you steady. “You still have your spine, at least.”
“Lucky me,” You muttered, a low groan following close behind. Your eyes slid back to the rust-stained concrete in front of you. “Just do what you need to do, Walker…” There was a pause–just long enough for you to sense the shift. The slight tilt of his head. The softening of his voice into something edged with wry amusement.
“Want me to talk you through it?” Your lashes fluttered at the comment. Eyebrows shooting up as the implication settled into your bloodstream like a heat flare. You didn’t even need to look at him to feel the grin he was probably not fully allowing to form. Your mouth parted–but nothing came out at first. You could feel your face warm up fast, blood rushing to the surface even though the rest of you still ached and throbbed with pain. There was a part of you that wanted to throw something at him. There was another part that wanted to hear it.
“…Excuse me?”
“I’m being helpful,” He said, voice irritatingly casual–but with a note of smugness he couldn’t quite hide. “You know, give you some commentary. Talk you through each step. Make it less scary for you.”
“Oh, fuck off.” You couldn’t help it–the words came out in a bark of laughter that felt half strangled, half disbelieving. You shifted your weight to one side to glare down at him, ignoring the flare of pain that bloomed through your lower back. “You’re such a shithead.”
“Technically I’m saving your life. Again.” His gaze lifted, locking with yours–and for a moment, you were caught in the crossfire of that blue steel. Unflinching. Focused. But with just the faintest crinkle at the corners of his eyes, like he was trying very hard not to smirk.
You rolled your eyes and turned away again. “Just shut up and patch me up.”
“As you wish, princess.”
That earned him a low groan and a muttered, “I will stab you with something dull if you keep that up.” John chuckled–really chuckled this time–and it rumbled out of him in a short, rough burst that made something tighten low in your gut. There was something about that sound–something warm and real, like a glimpse of a man beneath the shield. It was rare. Disarming even…And it made you want to draw more of those sounds out of him.
“I’m gonna use some antiseptic,” He warned from behind you, the edge in his voice returning, “It’s going to sting, so…Brace yourself.”
You let out a breath that came out shakier than you wanted it to. “I figured…But thanks for the heads up.”
He shifted behind you again, steady and quiet as always. You could hear the faint creak of his knees against the concrete as he reached up to grab the first aid kit beside you. The table rattled faintly when the box was set down at his level, followed by the hollow clink of supplies being shifted aside and the pop of a bottle cap being cracked open.
“Alright…” He muttered. “It’s happening.”
And then it did.
The antiseptic met your skin in one wet swipe–and your spine lit up like it had been struck by lightning. The sting bloomed instantly, acidic and hot, racing up your nerves like it wanted to burrow into your bones.
“Jesus fucking Christ, John!” You gasped, your head snapping back slightly as the pain surged through you, white-hot and brutal. Your eyes locked on the water-stained ceiling above, and you focused on the rhythmic sway of the bulb just to keep from screaming.
“I know,” He said, his voice frustratingly calm, and infuriatingly close to your lower back. “Just breathe through it…It’s gotta be done, Y/N.” His hand slid back to your hip again, grounding you with a steady grip–firm, warm, present. You couldn’t decide whether you wanted to shove him away or reach back and grab hold of him. Maybe both.
You hissed through clenched teeth, bracing both hands flat on the table as he continued cleaning the wound. Every pass of gauze dragged fire through your nerves. You could feel the sting radiate outward, down your thighs and up your shoulders, pooling somewhere behind your eyes and clenching your jaw until it ached.
But through it all–John stayed steady. Just like always.
“You’re doing really good,” He complimented, voice softer now. Like he could hear the tension starting to break under your skin. “We’re almost done.”
You hated how much that helped.
Your grip on the table edge tightened, fingers curling against cold metal, your whole body trembling with aftershocks. “You better not be lying to me right now.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” he muttered, and even though you couldn’t see him, you could hear the corner of his mouth twitch. “I don’t like getting punched.”
“You wouldn’t survive it,” You managed to reply, biting down on a groan as he dabbed the gauze over the deepest part of the gash again. “I’ve got spite strength. Ask Bucky.”
“Oh, believe me,” he muttered, “we’ve all noticed.”
That earned him a half-laugh from you. Breathless. Pained. But real.
And when it passed, when the burn started to dull into a low throb and the shaking in your arms began to subside, you felt the pad of his thumb brush against your side. Just a small pass of pressure, almost like a check-in.
Then came the sound of the gauze being tossed aside, and the faint rip of tape being peeled.
“Alright,” he said quietly, the soldier’s edge in his voice softening just enough to make it feel… closer. “I’m gonna wrap it now. You’re still bleeding a little, so I’ll keep it tight.”
You just nodded, too tired to reply.
He worked quickly, efficiently–but his hands weren’t cold. They didn’t treat you like a patient. They treated you like you. Like someone who mattered. The bandage coiled around your waist with even tension, and his fingertips brushed your ribs more than once as he adjusted it into place. There were moments where his breath caught–where he stilled for half a second longer than necessary–and you didn’t mention it, but you noticed.
And you knew he noticed the way your skin goose-pimpled under his touch.
When he finally secured the tape and tucked the edge down, he exhaled–like he had been holding his breath too.
You didn’t move. Not yet.
You were still hunched slightly, gripping the table, still trembling from everything your body had just endured. But now that the pain had receded just enough for the adrenaline to lose its grip…All that was left was the awareness of him.
Still kneeling behind you. Still close enough that you could feel the heat of him. Still bracing your hip with one large, steady hand. And now, with nothing left to patch, nothing left to fix…
He didn’t move.
“John?” You asked, your voice barely more than a breath.
A beat.
Then: “Yeah?”
You swallowed. “You gonna let go of my hip or…?” His touch left you immediately, like he’d been burned.
”Sorry…Sorry, I just spaced out for a second…” He said, hearing him shuffle behind you–the soft scrape of his boots and the clink of metal as he began gathering up the supplies he’d used. His movements were quick, deliberate–but quieter than before. Like he was trying not to disturb something fragile in the air between you.
You stayed still for a moment longer, chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths. Then you reached up instinctively, arms folding across your front as you pressed your hands over your exposed chest. It wasn’t cold. But you felt bare in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.
Turning, you faced him, voice soft but steady.
“Do you think they have any extra shirts anywhere in here?” John looked up from where he knelt beside the half-emptied first aid kit, and for a second, he didn’t answer. His eyes caught the light–just barely–and there was a flicker of something in them. A shimmer. Not lust. Not quite.
It was awareness. A crack of lightning in the stillness. But he didn’t let his eyes wander. Not once. They stayed on your face, locked there like it was the only safe place to look. His jaw flexed once, and then he cleared his throat, the sound clipped and abrupt.
“Yeah,” He replied quickly. “Probably in the dresser…I’ll go check.” He was already on his feet before the last word left his mouth. It was too fast. Too practiced. Like he needed something to do or he’d start noticing too much.
You watched him move across the room–shoulders tense, gaze locked downward like the floor had secrets only he could decode. His hand reached for the narrow dresser shoved into the corner, its paint chipped and warped from humidity, drawer handles rusted halfway through.
He opened the top drawer in one clean motion, then rifled through with a mix of precision and impatience, like he was grateful for the distraction.
You let your arms tighten across your chest just a little more, glancing down at yourself–at the ragged remains of your tactical gear now hanging loose around your waist, at the gauze pressed tight over the gash across your back. Your skin still stung, but it was different now. The pain had pulled back enough to make room for everything else.
Your heartbeat.
The heaviness in your limbs.
The heat blooming slowly in your belly from the way he hadn’t looked.
From the way he wanted to.
“Found one,” John called, voice gruff again as he pulled something out of the drawer. “Might be a size too big, but it’s clean.” You met his gaze when he turned around. He was holding up a dark grey shirt–standard-issue cotton, a little faded, but mercifully soft-looking and whole. No holes. No blood. Just fabric.
A perfect coverup.
You took a step forward, arms still crossed over your chest. “Toss it here?”
He hesitated. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” Your lips curled faintly. “Unless you wanna help me put it on, too.” That earned you a huff of a breath–more exhale than laugh, but the edge of it caught his mouth, tugging at the corner like he wanted to smile and wasn’t letting himself. He tossed the shirt to you with a practiced flick of his wrist.
You caught it easily, the worn cotton falling heavy into your hands.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.” His voice was quieter now. Rougher. “Take your time.” He turned again, giving you his back–retreating a few steps toward the corner of the room, where he suddenly became very interested in the contents of the dresser drawer again.
You unraveled the shirt in your hands and slipped into it, the soft cotton dragging across your still-aching skin, snagging gently where the bandage met the raw edges of your wound. The fabric smelled like dust and moth balls–like it had been folded away decades ago–but it was dry, and warm, and better than the ruined tactical gear, so you settled for it.
As you adjusted the hem, your fingers brushed absently along the curve of your hip. You turned just enough to glance back over your shoulder, watching John from beneath the fringe of your lashes.
“So…” You began, voice casual in a way that wasn’t quite natural, your tone feeling out the space between you, “you going to sleep in the bed with me tonight?”
He stilled. Shoulders tensing beneath the stretch of his uniform, spine going a little too straight. He looked at you slowly, eyes catching yours across the dim room.
“What?”
You motioned toward the cot behind you with a small tilt of your head, keeping your tone light but your gaze steady. “There’s only one bed,” You repeated, lifting a brow. “So…Are you going to sleep in it with me tonight?”
You didn’t wait for his answer.
Your fingers found the buckle at the front of your cargo pants, undoing it with practiced ease. The metal clicked softly in the silence. He stared as you shuffled toward the cot, one boot hitting the floor, then the other, your movement slow but intentional–wounded but not weak.
“I mean… if you’re okay with it,” he said, his voice lower now, the edges softened by something that felt almost shy, “I would like to. Kind of don’t want to sleep on the concrete and wake up with a sore back…”
You looked up at him through the half-shadowed room, head tilted slightly as your fingers moved back to the waistband of your cargo pants. He stood frozen, still turned halfway toward the dresser like he didn’t quite know whether to stay or retreat–like some invisible line had just been crossed and he wasn’t sure if he’d made a mistake.
You hooked your thumbs into the waistband slowly, eyes not leaving his as you began to shimmy out of the fabric. The pants slid down over your hips and thighs, dragging against the dried blood and sticky sweat. You winced slightly at the movement, but didn’t stop–not even when you caught the way his eyes flickered down.
He tried not to look. He really did. But his gaze dipped instinctively, just for a second, to where the cotton shirt barely skimmed the tops of your thighs.
And then he tore it away like it burned.
You caught that little flick of his jaw, the clench in his throat, and the way he swallowed hard without saying anything.
“I don’t mind,” You stated softly, voice calm–anchored. It wasn’t a dare. It wasn’t a tease.
Just honesty.
His gaze returned to yours slowly. The tension in his shoulders eased, just a little, but it didn’t disappear completely.
“…Okay,” He said again, quieter now.
You turned from him then and moved toward the cot. Your bare feet padded softly across the concrete, the sound almost too intimate in the stillness of the room. You pulled the thin blanket back and slid beneath it with care, hissing when your back grazed the mattress too sharply. You tucked the hem of the shirt between your thighs, letting your cheek rest against the pillow, your nose pulsing with a faint pain that radiated through the bone.
Behind you, John was still standing in place, staring like he wasn’t sure if this was real.
“Walker,” You murmured without looking, your voice already fading into exhaustion, “You coming, or do I have to drag you into bed too?”
Another beat.
Then you heard it.
The faintest chuckle.
Rough. Real. And definitely not one he meant to let slip.
“Alright, alright,” He muttered, and you listened to the sound of his gear being stripped off, the clink of metal and the sound of the fabric hitting the floor in uneven thumps. Then his boots. Then his belt. You didn’t look. You didn’t need to, because you were familiar with the noises.
Then the cot dipped behind you.
You felt his weight settle in, broad and solid, the mattress creaking under the strain of two battle-worn bodies. The blanket tugged slightly as he adjusted, and then–
Stillness.
Just the sound of your heavy breathing.
The cot creaked quietly behind you as John adjusted, trying to get comfortable without jostling the mattress too much. His movements were slow, deliberate, the kind of restrained caution you only saw from him when he was navigating landmines–literal or emotional. You could feel the weight of him settle in, his body stretching out just behind yours, the warmth of his skin bleeding through the air and through the thin layer of cotton separating you.
You swore you could feel it down your spine–his heat, his awareness, his hesitation.
The silence stretched for a while, until it cracked with him clearing his throat, just enough to ripple across the tension.
”I have a question…” Your eyes stayed fixed on the rust-stained wall just ahead, lips curling slightly as you exhaled through your nose.
“Can’t guarantee you a detailed answer,” You replied, voice soft, “But go ahead.”
There was a pause. A breath.
Then the mattress shifted again–just slightly. You felt it in your lower back, the way the pressure changed. His body had leaned forward. You could feel his breath now, warm and shallow against the back of your shirt. Too close to be accidental.
And then:
“Am I picking up flirtatious vibes from you…” His voice dropped a little lower, edged with caution and curiosity. “Or am I reading too deeply into things?” Your eyebrows arched up before your mind fully caught up to the words.
It was definitely not the question you were expecting, but you took the chance and rolled over–carefully, slowly, trying not to twist your back too much. The thin blanket shifted with you, brushing over your skin as you turned to face him. His eyes were waiting, blue and dilated, in the lighting. His bare freckled shoulders peeked out from above the blanket, his pale skin practically glowing under the lighting. You tried your best to keep your composure, keeping your eyes on his.
“Is it not obvious to you?” You asked, your voice low but steady.
The shadows flickered across his face in the dim light, catching the slope of his cheekbone, the cut of his jaw beneath his beard, and the tension carved into his brow. But it was his eyes that gave him away–how they locked on yours and didn’t waver. How his pupils dilated, just a little.
“I wouldn’t be asking if I knew for sure…But then again, I’d rather hear you say whether or not I’m overthinking…Never really been into playing the cat and mouse game.” He said, voice rougher now, barely above a whisper. You let out a little huff of a laugh, breath brushing the air between you, and shifted just a bit closer. The cot creaked quietly under the movement, a subtle shudder of fabric and frame that made the tension hum even louder in the silence. You could feel his body react before he even realized it had–his spine going straight, his jaw locking, and then that slow, unmistakable swallow as your hand rose between you.
Your palm found his cheek–warm and rough beneath the scruff of his beard, still damp with sweat. His skin twitched under your touch, a flicker of something that wasn’t fear, wasn’t pain, but felt like anticipation barely held in check. Your thumb swept along his cheekbone, brushing over the blond scruff, and you felt the way his breath hitched–so faint, but there.
“You’re not reading too deeply into things…” You murmured, and his breath caught—just the smallest stutter in the air between you, but it landed like a detonation in the stillness.
You saw it–the way his eyes widened just a fraction, like something in him hadn’t truly believed you’d say it aloud. And maybe that was the most telling part. He could catch your pulse quickening through a wall, hear your footfall in a building full of chaos, yet still he second-guessed when it came to you.
It made you smirk–soft and a little crooked, the kind that curled up only one corner of your mouth. Your thumb stroked again along his beard, savoring the rough texture under your skin, the steady flex of his jaw beneath it.
“I’m assuming you know when I’m staring at you,” You added, voice quiet but teasing, “and you know when my heart rate picks up when I’m around you… hence the reason I thought it was obvious.”
His eyes flicked across your face, lingering on your mouth for half a second longer than necessary. Then he exhaled, slow and unsteady, and it ghosted across your cheek like heat from a match.
“I try my best not to tune into that…” He admitted, his voice a rasp now, rough from restraint. “Hard to ignore sometimes though, I’ll admit.”
You felt your cheeks go warm instantly.
Not just from the confession–but from the way he said it. Like it cost him something. Like he’d spent the last few weeks pretending not to hear the stutter of your heartbeat when you laughed at one of his dry comments. Pretending not to notice the hitch in your breath every time he got a little too close during briefings. Pretending not to feel the way something shifted in the room every time the two of you were left alone for just a little too long.
You leaned in a little further, your forehead nearly brushing his now.
“And what about right now?” You asked, your voice a low murmur, your eyes trained on his mouth. “What’s my heart doing, Walker?”
His gaze dropped to your lips. Then back up.
And this time…He didn’t hold back.
“It’s…It’s going fucking crazy.” He whispered against your lips, and then he closed the distance.
His mouth met yours in a slow, aching press of heat and desperation–one that stole the breath from your lungs and made your fingers twitch against his cheek. You didn’t hesitate. Not even for a second. Your hand slid down from his face, gliding along the curve of his neck, then curling around the back of his shoulder as you pulled him in closer–anchoring him to you like gravity itself had changed course.
His arm came around you almost instantly, strong and steady, curling around your torso just below your ribs. The heat of his palm sank through the thin cotton of your shirt as his other hand–still warm, still shaking just slightly–rose to cradle your face. He was so careful with it, angling away from the tender swell of your nose and instead letting his fingers settle against your jaw, the heel of his hand cupping your cheek like he was afraid he might hurt you again.
But his kiss wasn’t hesitant.
It was full. Wanting. The kind that tasted like withheld breath and grit and something rough that had been softened only by proximity to you.
You made a soft sound–barely more than a hum–into his mouth, and your fingers slid upward, twisting into his hair. It was damp at the roots, curled slightly from sweat, and your nails scraped along his scalp in a way that made him groan low against your lips. The sound rumbled straight through you, and then his hand was moving again–down from your waist, along the length of your side, tracing your curves through the shirt he had just given you.
Then he trailed lower.
He gripped the outside of your thigh–firm, possessive, not rough–and lifted it slowly, dragging your leg up and around his hip with a deliberate slowness that made heat bloom deep in your core. His grip tightened just beneath the curve of your ass, his fingers digging into the tender muscle as he pressed forward, slotting the weight of his body flush to yours beneath the blanket.
You let him.
You wanted him.
The kiss deepened in the next breath, tongues brushing, mouths parting wider with every messy, greedy pass. It was heat and friction and bruised breaths. Your lips were already swollen, already slick from the motion of it, and when his teeth scraped gently along your bottom lip, you gasped–and that gasp fed straight into his mouth.
“Fuck,” He muttered, breath ragged as he broke the kiss for a half-second–only to dip back down and kiss you again, harder this time, “You taste…Delicious.” You grinned against his lips, then bit down–just slightly–before licking into his mouth with a slow, aching sweep of your tongue.
”Guess you just like the taste of dehydration.” He chuckled, but it melted into a groan when your fingers tugged sharply at his hair. His hips shifted forward, pressing between your thighs with more weight now, his knee nudging up until it was cradled against the heat of your core. You instinctively ground down onto the thick muscle of his thigh, the ache between your legs growing sharp with every short drag of friction. His leg tensed beneath you, solid as a slab of steel and just as unforgiving, and you could practically feel the twitch of his quadricep through the too-thin fabric of your underwear.
John’s hand slipped beneath your shirt and tightened on the sensitive skin of your hip, holding you there for just a second before guiding your motion again–slow, deliberate, dragging you across the hard ridge of his thigh until your breath broke in a stuttering gasp against his lips.
“Jesus Christ,” You whispered, the words caught between a moan and a plea.
That’s when he pulled back, just barely, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke–voice thick with heat and teasing restraint.
“You trying to get off on my thigh, sweetheart?” He rasped, the edge of a smirk ghosting across his mouth. “Or did you just miss the part where I said I was trying to be a gentleman?”
You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up–half breathless, half embarrassed, all turned on. “I definitely missed the part where you said you were trying to be a gentleman…I didn’t realize you were trying that hard.” He huffed, his thumb dragging slow and rough along your lower belly beneath the hem of your shirt, making your core clench with anticipation.
“Oh, I’m trying,” He muttered, guiding your hips again, grinding you in one slow, drawn-out stroke that made your thighs tremble, “But you’re making it really hard, Y/N.” Your hands slid over his shoulders, down his chest, feeling the heat of him bleed through skin and muscle. Every ridge of him was carved tight, twitching beneath your touch, and when your fingers slipped back into his sweat-damp hair, you felt the soft groan he let out bloom between your thighs.
“I think you like it when I ride your thigh,” you murmured against the shell of his ear, your voice a silken, low whisper that had his whole body freezing for just a second. Then his grip flexed, fingers digging into your waist hard enough to make you gasp.
“Fuckin’ love it,” he growled, dragging you forward again, the blunt muscle of his thigh rubbing right against your swollen clit through the soaked cotton. “You’re so wet for it, too…Jesus, Y/N…”
Your hips jerked with the next grind, instinct taking over now–chasing friction, chasing relief, chasing him. The heat between you was stifling, slick and sticky and laced with spit and sweat and breathless groans. Your lips found his again, desperate, messy, biting through the moans that broke out of you both.
He kissed like a man who never got the chance to–wild and greedy and reverent all at once. His beard scraped over your chin and your jaw and your throat, leaving tender burn-marks in its wake, and you wanted it, wanted all of it, every mark and bruise and swollen sting of heat he left behind.
“Keep going,” He muttered, voice breaking between kisses as he guided you forward again, thigh flexing, grinding you hard enough that you felt your body twitch against him instantly, “I want to feel you come right here.” You moaned raggedly, helpless to stop yourself from chasing the motion, thighs trembling as your fingers clawed into his shoulders, your body slick with sweat and need and the slow pulse of mounting pleasure.
And when he ducked his head, tongue flicking out to lick the sweat off your throat, then up to your ear to whisper, “You’ve wanted this for so long, haven’t you?”–you whimpered like you’d been cracked wide open.
“Yes,” You breathed. “God, yes…John, don’t stop–”
“Not planning on it,” He growled, dragging you faster now, harder, until your entire body was rocking in his lap, the rhythm slick and unrelenting and devastating.
His other hand came up to your breast, rough fingers palming it through the shirt, thumb grazing over your nipple until it peaked against the fabric and had you gasping again.
“Shit…Gonna come–” You choked out, but his mouth was already on yours again, swallowing your moan as he grinded you down one last time–
–and you broke.
Clenching, shaking, crying out into his mouth as pleasure surged white-hot through your body and lit up your spine like gunfire. Your thighs clamped around him, and your whole body pulsed with the aftershocks, breath torn from your lungs as your hips jerked once, twice more before finally going still.
You collapsed against him, heart pounding, mouth open against his jaw, and you felt his arms wrap around you–solid and warm and grounding. One hand on your lower back, careful of the wound. The other cupping the back of your head like he could still feel you trembling and wanted to anchor you there.
“…Holy fuck,” you breathed into his neck, still panting.
His laugh was low, rough, a little ragged, “You okay?” You nodded, even though your knees were jelly and your thighs were still twitching.
“I’m…I’m fucking amazing .” You replied. He let out a small laugh, kissing your temple softly.
”You know I have to clean you up now, right?” You raised your eyebrows slowly, still breathless, heart still thudding between your ribs.
“Clean me up?” You asked, your voice rasping from the edge of your orgasm, “What do you mean?” John leaned back just far enough to look at you properly, one corner of his mouth tugging into the faintest, filthiest smirk. The heat in his eyes hadn’t dulled–it had sharpened, simmered, focused entirely on you.
“Did you honestly think,” He started, voice a low rumble edged in gravel and sin, “I was gonna let my reward go to waste?” Your stomach fluttered at the implication, pulse stumbling in your throat as the haze of pleasure gave way to something more dangerous–more intimate. John Walker wanted to taste you. And not just in passing. He wanted to savor what you’d left behind, wanted to put his mouth on you like it was owed to him. Like you were the victory he was meant to claim.
You barely had time to catch your breath before he shifted again, reaching for the pillow his head had been resting on. He shook it out once, then tucked it in behind you gently, one hand steadying your hip while the other slid beneath the curve of your ass.
“Lay on this for me,” He instructed , gaze flicking up to yours. “It’ll ease the pressure off your back.” You blinked at him, lips parting as you shook your head.
“John, we can skip that…I just want you right now. Please.” But he just smiled. Soft. Sure. Like he knew something you didn’t.
“Trust me,” He whispered, running his fingers gently up the side of your thigh. “I’ll make it quick… Then you can have me however you’d like, alright?” Your breath hitched, the edge of a sigh escaping through your teeth. You bit down gently on your bottom lip, your body already betraying you by aching for more.
“…Okay,” You murmured, chest rising and falling faster now. “Okay.”
With careful hands, he helped you adjust, guiding you onto your back so that the pillow cushioned your spine. He was tender, attentive–positioning you just right without aggravating your wound, fingers brushing soothingly along your hip and outer thigh.
Then he moved to kneel between your legs.
The blanket was gone now–tugged down or kicked aside–and the soft cotton shirt you wore barely covered the heat pooling between your thighs. John’s hands found the waistband of your underwear, and he glanced up at you once more, silently checking.
You gave the smallest nod.
He slid them down slowly.
The wet fabric dragged against your inner thighs, clinging slightly before slipping away completely. He didn’t look away as he tossed them aside, his eyes burning into yours even as his hands returned to your legs, parting them gently.
“Fuck,” He whispered when he saw you fully, “You’re literally dripping.” You squirmed slightly, breath catching in your throat as his large calloused hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs brushing across the slick heat of your skin. Then he lowered his head and pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh.
And then another. Higher.
And then–
His mouth met your core.
You gasped instantly, your hips jolting at the overwhelming rush of sensation. His beard scraped against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs while his tongue flattened and licked one long, slow stripe through your folds. The warmth of it, the weight, the pure pressure–it was too much to the point where it overwhelmed you.
“John–fuck–” You whimpered, squirming as your hands clawed for purchase in the sheets.
He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through his mouth and into you like a low thunderclap. His arms slipped beneath your thighs, locking you in place, his hands flattening against your hips to keep you from writhing too far out of reach.
And then he dove in.
His tongue circled your clit with a focused, devastating rhythm. His beard rubbed raw and soft in tandem with each flick, dragging a burn up your thighs that only added to the chaos. Every touch sent fire arcing through your nerves, your body still over-sensitive from the orgasm that had just torn through you minutes before. You bucked against his mouth without meaning to, breath catching, fingers curling into fists at your sides.
He moaned like you were his favorite thing he’d ever tasted.
And maybe you were.
Your back arched, pain forgotten for the moment as your entire world narrowed to his mouth, his tongue, his beard, his breath. You could hear yourself moaning–high and helpless and keening with every flick of his tongue. You could feel your body trembling again, thighs twitching and core clenching around nothing as the pleasure built again, impossibly fast.
Then–his hand shifted.
One of those big, calloused palms slipped from your hip, trailing down your inner thigh until it reached the soaked, needy entrance he’d been ignoring. He teased the slick folds with two thick fingers, rubbing slow, messy circles around your opening, spreading your arousal until everything felt unbearably wet.
Your head fell back, a strangled moan clawing its way out of your throat. “John–” You barely had time to suck in a breath before he slid both fingers into you with one slow, steady push.
“Oh my God,” You gasped, your spine arching off the cot. His fingers stretched you instantly–thick and perfect, curling just enough to make your thighs jerk. The pressure made your eyes roll back, the burn of the stretch quickly melting into an overwhelming fullness that had your walls fluttering around him with desperate want.
“Fuck,” You groaned, hips bucking into his hand as your hands flew into his hair, threading through the messy blond strands already damp and tousled from your earlier tugging. You grabbed fistfuls like you couldn’t get enough–like anchoring yourself to him was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. John’s mouth pulled back from your clit just long enough for him to speak. His voice was wrecked–low, hoarse, filled with pride and pure hunger.
“You like my fingers, hmm?” He murmured, sliding them in and out with slow, teasing precision. “Like how full you feel?”
You nodded–rapid, helpless. “Yes…Yes, fuck, yes–” He grinned, breath ghosting over your clit as his blue eyes locked with yours, pupils blown wide.
“Can’t wait to see how you’re gonna react to my cock then…” Then he was gone again–mouth plunging back between your thighs, licking and sucking like a man starved. His fingers picked up pace, fucking into you deeper, faster, while his tongue circled your clit with ruthless precision.
You couldn’t stop it.
Your hips moved on instinct, chasing the pressure, chasing his hand, chasing him. The cot creaked beneath you with every desperate grind of your body against his face. The obscene wet sounds of his fingers moving into your soaked heat mixed with your gasps and the ragged groans he let out with every taste.
“I’m gonna…John…Fuck–”
He moaned in approval, fingers curling just right, and that was it.
You came hard, clenching down around his fingers as a cry tore from your lips, long and broken and full of heat. Your thighs shook, your chest heaved, your hands tangled deeper in his hair as you rode the waves of pleasure out against his mouth. He didn’t stop–not for a second. He worked you through every last pulse, licking you raw and filthy until your hips twitched from overstimulation.
Finally he pulled back, dragging his mouth from your center with a long, wet lick, eyes flicking up to your hot, wrecked face. You were gasping, sweat-slicked, trembling.
“Fucking hell,” You panted. He didn’t respond–not with words. Instead, he kissed the inside of your thigh once more before shifting up your body, bracing himself on one elbow as his other hand–still sticky with your release–slid beneath the hem of the oversized shirt.
“Let me get this off you,” He whispered, voice rough. You nodded, arms lifting weakly, letting him peel the shirt up over your head. His fingers were slow, careful, tugging it over your arms and then tossing it aside without a second glance.
And then you were naked beneath him.
Completely bare. Bruised and bandaged and still trembling from pain and pleasure alike–but his eyes didn’t flinch, didn’t drift, didn’t scan. They locked on yours.
Like you were the center of every war he’d ever fought.
His hand cradled your cheek again, thumb brushing the edge of your swollen mouth, and then he leaned down–kissing you.
God, the way he kissed you.
Hungry. Possessive. Starved.
You could taste yourself on his tongue. You could feel the mess of your slick smeared across his beard, smell it on his skin, and yet the kiss only deepened–your mouth opening wider to take him in, your arms winding around his back, nails dragging across the sweaty heat of his skin.
There was no hesitation now. No space left between you. Every movement screamed want, every grind of your hips against his made him groan into your mouth like he couldn’t take it anymore.
You moaned against him, whispering against the curve of his jaw between kisses, “Want you so bad, Walker…I need you…”
He pulled back just slightly, chest heaving as he looked down at you–completely naked, completely open, completely his.
And he nodded, gaze burning into yours. “You’ve got me, sweetheart. All of me.”
John sat back on his heels, chest rising and falling in short, ragged breaths as he pushed his black boxers down over his hips. The fabric dragged over thick thighs, caught briefly on sweat-slick skin before sliding down to his knees. He kicked them away with a careless shove.
Your breath hitched.
His cock stood hard between his legs–flushed deep pink and veined, the head gleaming with a bead of pre-come that glistened in the flickering overhead light. The cool air that kissed his skin made him twitch slightly, and your jaw clenched at the sight–every inch of him thick and aching. He was huge–bigger than anyone else you had ever been with–and it made your pulse stutter with anticipation.
You reached for him, fingers brushing up along his chest, over his clavicles, before resting gently at the curve of his neck. Your touch was deliberate. Warm. Commanding.
“Help me up,” You instructed, voice low, sultry, devilish. “I want to sit on it.” His head fell back just slightly with a low, guttural moan, the image you’d conjured clearly slamming into his bloodstream like a drug.
“Fuck, sweetheart…That sounds fantastic.” He rasped, already shifting forward to support you. His arms wrapped around you with practiced care, sliding beneath your thighs to lift you just enough to adjust your weight. You hissed softly at the movement—your back still tender—but his hold was steady, patient, and so damn careful.
He brought you upright until your knees straddled him and the soft skin of your inner thighs kissed his own. The heat of him sat just beneath you, thick and heavy, throbbing between your bodies.
The backs of your thighs rested against his, and his hands settled at your hips—wide, reverent palms splayed against your bare skin, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.
Then your hand moved between you.
You reached down with slow, sultry intent and wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock.
His whole body jolted.
“Shit–” He breathed out, eyes fluttering half-shut as his head dropped to your shoulder. “God, your hand–”
You stroked him slowly, just the way you knew would drive him crazy–tight and twisting, dragging your palm up to the slick head before gliding back down with pressure. His cock twitched in your grip, pre-cum spilling freely over your fingers now, and the weight of him filled your palm beautifully. You dragged your thumb through the mess at the tip, then used it to smooth your next stroke with a delicious, obscene sound that made him groan into the curve of your neck.
You didn’t bring him to completion–just to the edge. Just until his hips started to jerk up into your hand, until his breaths turned to curses and his grip on your waist became possessive.
Then you stilled. His eyes shot open.
“Why’d you stop?” You smiled, slow and sly, as you pulled your hand away, licking some of the precum off your palm, tasting the saltiness of it.
“Because I want to feel you inside me now,” You whispered. “So help me a little bit…” He moaned softly at your words, nodding quickly, both of his hands moving with precision and care. One hand braced your lower back as the other shifted to his cock, lining himself up against your entrance. The blunt head nudged through your folds, sliding against your slick with a quiet, filthy sound.
Then he looked up at you, eyes blazing with restraint. “You sure you want this, Y/N?”
You nodded. “I want it. I want you.”
He held your gaze as he slowly lowered you onto him, his hand guiding the head of his cock past your folds, nudging against your entrance until your body started to take him in.
The stretch was devastating.
Your breath hitched, back arching slightly as your walls adjusted to the thick pressure, inch by inch. You sank down slowly, his cock dragging through the tight heat of you with an unrelenting fullness that made both of you groan in unison.
“Shit,” He rasped, his forehead dropping to yours, “You’re so tight…And so warm and wet, taking every inch of me like a good girl…” Your fingers curled into his shoulders, body trembling as he filled you deeper, the weight of him pressing against your front in the most satisfying way. You were only halfway seated and already shaking from how intense it felt. John’s hand slid from your waist to your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly beneath your eye as you pressed your forehead against his.
“You okay?” He whispered, the roughness in his voice edged with concern.
You nodded, kissing the tip of his nose. “Keep going…Just like this.”
He obeyed.
His other hand settled firmly on your hip, squeezing the soft flesh there as he slowly guided you further down onto his length. Every inch was a stretch, every moment a slow conquest of your body by his, and when you finally bottomed out, seated fully in his lap with your walls pulsing around him–
It felt like your whole body lit up.
“Fuck,” You whimpered, lips brushing against his. “You’re so deep.”
John groaned, his jaw clenching as he fought not to move yet. “I know. God, you feel perfect…”
He stayed still, buried to the hilt, holding you against him as your bodies trembled together. He groaned into your mouth, swallowing another breathless moan as your hips slowly began to grind against him, the fullness inside of you making it hard to breathe–let alone think. The stretch was so deep, so utterly consuming, that every shift of your weight made your entire body feel like it was glowing from the inside out.
John’s hands gripped your hips tightly, but it wasn't to stop you, it was to guide you, to worship you in the only way a man like him knew how…By holding and pleasing you.
Then, with a low breath, he pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, trailing down your jaw, across your neck, and lower–peppering soft, almost reverent kisses along the curve of your collarbone. His lips were warm, damp with sweat and breath, and they dragged heat wherever they touched.
He licked a stripe of salt from the hollow of your throat, groaning softly as he tasted you, his mouth open and hungry against your skin. Then he found a patch just beneath your collarbone, sucking at it–slow and firm–until a bruise bloomed beneath his tongue. A mark. A reminder. A claim.
When he finally pulled back, his breath was hot against your skin as he whispered, “Lean back for me.”
His hand pressed gently but firmly to the center of your spine, and you obeyed–your body trembling slightly as you leaned away from him, your thighs still locked around his hips. Your chest arched toward him, exposing the soft swell of your breasts beneath the flickering overhead light.
“Jesus Christ…” He whispered, eyes locking onto the sight of you–raw, open, radiant.
He leaned in, mouth brushing over one breast with featherlight kisses before his lips latched onto your nipple, sucking it slowly between his teeth. The sharp contrast of heat and pressure made your back arch even more, a moan slipping past your lips as he dragged his tongue across the sensitive bud, flicking before sucking again–slow, firm, deliberate.
His beard scraped along your skin as he moved from one breast to the other, groaning low in his throat like he was feasting on something he’d been craving for too long. His grip on your hips tightened–enough that you could already feel the bruises forming, dark fingerprints blooming in your flesh with every desperate squeeze.
“Fuck, look at you…” He murmured between licks, voice low and ragged. “Your breasts in my mouth, your pussy squeezing my cock–you’re unreal, Y/N. You feel so fucking good riding me like this.” You gasped, dragging your hips in a slow, grinding circle as he sucked hard on your nipple, making your whole body jerk from the stimulation. The motion made his cock shift inside you, pressing deeper, and both of you moaned at the same time.
The rhythm built again–needier now. A steady drag of your soaked core over the thick length of him, the stretch made sharper by the angle of your spine and the way he watched you like he was memorizing every twitch of your body.
“Keep going,” He rasped, pulling off your breast with a wet sound, his mouth flushed and slick. “Don’t stop, Y/N…Fuck…You feel perfect.” Your hands reached forward, one cradling the side of his face, your thumb brushing just beneath his cheekbone. He leaned into it instinctively, even as his hips flexed up into yours, matching your rhythm with short, upward thrusts that punched the air from your lungs.
The heat was unbearable now–between your thighs, beneath your skin, tangled in the grip of his calloused hands. The stretch of him was devastating, the press of his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you with ruthless precision.
You moaned through your teeth, your grip on his shoulder tightening. “John–I’m–I’m getting close…” He grunted, shifting one arm to wrap tight around your lower back, holding you steady as his other hand cradled your jaw. His thumb pressed lightly to your cheek, angling your face toward his.
“Don’t you dare look away from me,” He said, voice thick and low, almost trembling. “Wanna see you when you come…Wanna look you in the eyes and take in every fucking second of it.” You nodded, staring at him, your lips parted with a whimper as the pleasure started to crest. Your gaze stayed locked to his–deep blue and blown wide, full of something feral and focused and entirely yours.
Then it hit you.
You gasped—head tilting back despite his grip, but your eyes stayed on his, even as your thighs started to shake and your cunt pulsed around him in desperate waves.
“Fuck–John—” you moaned, nails clawing into his shoulders as your orgasm tore through you, body convulsing around his cock as you held his gaze, wide-eyed and gasping.
He groaned, deep and broken, holding you down against him as his hips snapped up hard into yours, chasing his own release. “That’s it—fuck, baby, look at me, don’t stop—”
Your hand cupped his face, holding him close as you trembled through the aftershocks, thighs twitching around his waist.
Then he let go.
His head dropped to your shoulder as he buried himself deep—his cock pulsing thick and hot inside you as he came with a ragged groan that sounded like it had been torn from the depths of his chest. You felt it—the warmth of him coating your insides, spilling deep and steady until it began to leak out around the base of his cock.
“God, you’re taking my cum so fucking well…” He gasped, voice shaking as his hips jerked shallowly inside you. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer as you rocked against him slowly–your slick and his cum making everything unbearably wet and sensitive. He thrust up into you a few more times–lazy, shallow strokes that made your body jolt from the overstimulation–before his arms wrapped around your back, holding you close.
You collapsed against him, forehead resting against his damp skin, your breaths tangled with his as you both rode the high down, heartbeat by heartbeat.
Neither of you spoke for a long moment.
And then finally…John pressed his lips to your temple and whispered, voice thick with reverence–
“…You wreck me, Y/N…Jesus Christ. I hope you can keep up with my stamina because I think I’m going to keep you up all night.” Your arms tightened around him in the afterglow, every inch of you pulsing and warm, your bodies tangled so tightly it felt like there was no line between where you ended and he began. Your cheek rested against the sweaty curve of his neck, his skin still buzzing with residual heat and adrenaline. You felt his pulse hammering beneath your lips, matching the erratic rhythm of your own heart.
A soft huff of a laugh escaped you, half exhausted and half incredulous as you murmured, “I think I can definitely put up a good feat…But all night may not be doable.” John let out a low, breathy laugh in response, his chest rising and falling against yours. The sound was raw and real, a little disbelieving, a little dazed.
“Okay…” He exhaled, brushing his hand down the slick arch of your spine. “Is three rounds enough?”
You tilted your head and pressed a kiss to the dip of his collarbone, lips brushing over the salt-slicked skin, and whispered against it, “I can definitely manage that.”
He groaned, low and satisfied, like the weight of your words settled somewhere in his bones.
“Good…” He rasped. “Because I’m not done with you just yet.” But even as he said it, his body began to ease, muscles softening beneath yours, tension draining away slowly like melting ice.
The cot shifted beneath you both as you shifted together, limbs rearranging and tangling in a quieter kind of closeness. John rolled slowly onto his back and took you with him, keeping your body draped over his chest, one large hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head as you tucked it under his jaw.
The room around you remained quiet, just the occasional creak of the cot, the low hum of the overhead light, and the distant wind outside stirring through the window, howling in the night.
John’s thumb brushed slow arcs along your spine, tender and reverent, while your fingers traced lazy shapes over the firm plane of his pec. You felt grounded. Sore. Used in the best way. Your lower body still throbbed with oversensitivity, and your back stung with every brush of breath against the bandage, but none of it pulled you from the present.
“Y/N?” He murmured after a while, voice half-lidded with exhaustion.
“Mm?”
His throat moved beneath your cheek. “You sure you’re okay?”
You nodded slowly, lips brushing his chest. “I’m good. Better than good. Just… really fucking full.”
That made him laugh again, the sound rumbling deep under your palm. “Yeah,” he said, smug now. “You’re gonna be feeling that for a while.”
You lifted your head just enough to arch a brow at him. “Cocky.”
He grinned, lazy and satisfied. “You didn’t seem to mind.”
You hummed, then kissed his jaw before settling back into the crook of his neck. “Didn’t say I minded. Just noting the observation.”
He gave your ass a slow, possessive squeeze, and the motion made you yelp against his skin. “Observation noted,” he murmured. “But if I’ve got three rounds to work with tonight, I might need to take a few more notes.”
You snorted against his chest. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re addictive,” He whispered back, voice suddenly softer, the edge of heat replaced with something weightier. More intimate. “…This wans’t just sex, you know.”
You froze–just slightly. Just long enough for him to notice.
Then he added, quieter still, “Not for me.”
Your breath caught, and your hand slid slowly up to his jaw, tilting his face down until your eyes met in the dim light. The rawness in his expression gutted you a little–like he’d been holding that truth in for longer than he wanted to admit.
Your thumb stroked the edge of his beard, your voice barely audible as you whispered, “Not for me either.”
A beat passed.
Then he kissed you again–not with heat, not with hunger–but with that soft, gentleness you didn’t think a man like him was fully capable of until now.
And when you finally closed your eyes, letting your body relax fully into his, your heartbeat slowed until it fell perfectly into rhythm with his–two teammates tangled together in the quiet after the chaos.
