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.
Summary: Even though you're Walker's girl, you were sent on a mission with Bob, for extra protection. But what happens there, no one seems to have predicted...not even the two of you.
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong language, slight harassment, wet dreams, slowburn, cheating (sorry Walker's girlies), little Sentry intrusion, slight obssesion (not creepy though), protectiveness, frequent erection, unprotected sex (p i v), light fingering, clit teasing, change of position, praise kink, flirting
A/N: Hii!! Here's a little ⚠️WARNING⚠️ - this is ridiculously long, so if you want some short, quick smut without a plot… this is not the place... but I'm honestly so proud of how it turned out. Anyways, I hope you'll like this story/smut! If you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3
Masterlist
“Mhm, Bob,” you murmured, your voice low and breathy as your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, greedily inhaling your scent like he couldn’t get enough of it, like it grounded him, or maybe drove him even more insane.
His hips snapped forward with increasing urgency now, rhythm relentless, the bed beneath you both creaking loudly with each powerful thrust, no doubt anyone nearby had already figured out what was going on in Bob’s room.
You were so close, both of you teetering on the edge, your bodies colliding with wet slaps, breathless moans melting into Bob’s high-pitched whimpers. His balls felt unbearably tight, heavy with the release you’d begged him for the second your hands were on him. He was right there, trembling, tears beginning to slip down his cheeks from the sheer intensity of it.
Your mouth fell open, but the sounds that came out were caught in your throat, tangled up in pleasure. “Oh fuck, Bob, yes—”
And then Bob woke up.
His chest was rising and falling rapidly, lungs dragging in shaky breaths as his eyes stared up at the dark ceiling above. For a moment, he just lay there, heart pounding in his ears, body flushed and tense, until reality finally caught up with him.
He sat up abruptly, swallowing a curse under his breath as he glanced down at the familiar, uncomfortable dampness in his sheets.
Great. Just great.
Another night. Another wet dream. And once again… it was you. It was always you.
Bob let out a frustrated sigh, slumping forward as he braced his elbows on his knees and pressed his hands into his sweaty face. His skin was burning, not just from heat, but from embarrassment and helplessness.
How was this even happening again? How was it possible that every single night lately ended like this? He felt like some desperate, horny teenager.
It all started the moment Bob laid eyes on you.
You walked in dressed in all black, tight tactical suit hugging every curve, a pistol strapped low around your waist, sleek gloves sparking faintly with the electrical charge of those 500-volt shock bracelets you wielded like a damn goddess of war. Your hair was lightly tousled, damp with sweat, soft waves clinging to your cheeks kissed pink by heat and adrenaline.
You looked stunning.
Bob had seen beautiful women before. But this? This was different. That moment, in that gear, with that look in your eyes? It carved itself into his brain like a branding iron. From that second on, he knew he couldn’t let you go. And not because he wanted to possess you. No, he just… needed you in his life. Like oxygen.
And the worst part? You were always kind to him.
Whenever someone joked at his expense, sometimes taking it too far, you were the one who instantly had his back. The one who shut them down with a quiet but firm, “That’s enough.”
When Bob got hurt, rare as that was, you were the first to rush to him. The one with gentle hands and warm eyes who cleaned his wounds like he was made of glass.
You remembered the little things. You noticed him when everyone else forgot.
But the truth is that’s just who you are.
Soft-hearted and fiercely loyal. It wasn’t about him specifically.
Because if it were, you wouldn’t be dating John Walker.
And God, did that sting.
Bob hated himself for thinking it, but he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t help wondering, why him? Why John, a man whose wife had left him, who had a whole kid he rarely talked about? What did you see in him? What did he have that Bob didn’t? Strength? Charisma? Authority? A past soaked in blood? He’d never understand it. Probably not even on his deathbed.
Sometimes he wished he’d met you earlier.
Before the world had hardened both of you in different ways. Maybe then… maybe he’d have had a chance.
But he wasn’t an asshole. He wasn’t going to interfere. You were in a relationship, and he respected that. He wasn’t going to try and steal you away.
…But that didn’t stop him from occasionally ragebaiting John. From mocking him just subtly enough that only he noticed.
And you laughed every time. That laugh lit something up inside Bob he didn’t even know he had.
He lived for your laugh.
He would do anything to hear it every day for the rest of his life.
You were his muse. The proof that not everyone in his life saw him as a joke or a tool to be used.
You were the hope he clung to when the nights got cold and lonely.
But that’s also why the nights were unbearable.
Every time he closed his eyes, you were there—your voice, your face, your smile looping through his mind like a reel he couldn’t pause. Your soft laugh. The little hiss you let out when you accidentally cut yourself while slicing food. That look you gave someone when they said something that had double meaning.
You haunted him, not in the ghostly way, in the real way. Every day got harder. Every look between you and John tightened the screws inside his chest a little more.
And this morning was no different.
He dragged himself out of bed, hair a tousled disaster, face a little puffy from lack of sleep and the frustration of another night lost to fantasy. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to shake the shame off, and stepped into the kitchen, and there you were.
Standing in the morning light, bathed in soft gold like some divine punishment sent just for him. You looked perfect, even in your most casual state—fresh-faced, eyes still a little sleepy, a faint smile tugging at your lips as you poured coffee into your mug.
And then he appeared.
John.
He came up behind you without hesitation, pressing in close. Whispered something in your ear, and you laughed—soft and affectionate. Bob felt his stomach clench.
Then John’s hands settled on your hips. He dipped down, kissing your neck, again and again, murmuring things Bob didn’t want to hear. And you let him. Your eyes fluttered shut. You leaned back into him.
That’s supposed to be me.
Bob’s smile dropped. His chest tightened.
His hands curled into fists at his sides.
But he took a deep breath, forced his jaw to unclench, and looked away. Trying to keep it together. To be the good guy. Even as everything in him screamed otherwise.
He stepped forward. It took every ounce of courage he had just to open his mouth and say it.
“Morning.”
His voice was soft, unsure, wavering ever so slightly, like he was testing if he was even allowed to speak around the two of you.
You turned to face him instantly, your eyes lighting up with surprised delight, wide with hope. God, you looked so happy to see him. Like you wanted him there.
Bob almost forgot how to breathe.
Your smile? Bright, full of warmth, teeth flashing like sunlight. It hit him in the chest like a bullet.
He couldn’t help but smile back, the reaction almost automatic—goosebumps spreading across his arms. For a moment, it felt like the room belonged only to the two of you.
Then John turned too. His gaze trailed over to Bob, unimpressed, unreadable. He gave a nonchalant nod, like he was doing him a favor just by acknowledging him.
Bob forced his eyes away from him. He focused on you. Only you. That was the only thing that felt safe.
“How’d you sleep, Bob?” you asked sweetly, tilting your head. There was genuine curiosity in your voice, like you actually cared.
Bob’s heart skipped.
You were standing near the fridge, close enough that he had to brush past you just to grab something for breakfast. You didn’t move away. But John was still behind you—arms wrapped possessively around your waist, rocking you gently from side to side, his chin practically resting on your shoulder. He wasn’t saying anything, but he was watching Bob. Watching everything.
Bob wanted to lie. No—he needed to lie. Because the truth was that he’d had another dream about you, one where you were moaning his name, writhing under him, begging for more as he pounded into you, skin against skin, your hands in his hair and—
Yeah. That truth would probably get him punched into next week. So he swallowed it down and went with something safer.
“Fine,” he said, nodding like nothing was wrong. “You?”
He met your gaze for a second and the air between you felt like it cracked. You looked away quickly, a tiny giggle slipping from your lips as your eyes dropped to the floor.
Bob’s stomach twisted.
John scoffed. Loudly. Right by your ear.
Bob wasn’t stupid. He could read that moment like a book. You hadn’t slept alone last night. And he knew exactly who’d been in your bed.
“Yeah, I slept fine,” you answered at last, your voice soft and sweet as you smiled up at him.
It wasn’t fair. That smile shouldn’t have been for him. Not after that. Bob just nodded, forcing his face to stay neutral as he turned back to the fridge.
Cold air washed over him, but it wasn’t enough to cool the heat rising in his chest.
Every time he heard John’s voice—his stupid low chuckle, his little murmurs behind your ear—Bob felt the pressure building inside.
It was getting harder and harder to hold it in.
The other part of him was stirring. Clawing at the inside of his ribs, whispering things he couldn’t allow himself to think. He needed to leave. Now.
He grabbed the first thing he saw, a yogurt and a spoon from the drawer. Didn’t even look back. Didn’t say a word. He just walked out, his footsteps heavy and fast, before the mask cracked. Before Sentry slipped through the seams.
If he had to deal with this every morning for the rest of his life, he honestly didn’t think he’d survive it. He was barely surviving now.
He was trying so hard to keep his emotions locked away — really, truly trying — but how was he supposed to do that when he lived under the same roof as you?
When every time he turned a corner, there you were? And worst of all was the fact that you weren’t his.
Bob spent the entire day hiding in his room.
He’d come out only for the occasional snack or to raid the fridge, but otherwise he stayed shut away — curled up in bed with the curtains drawn, pretending the world outside didn’t exist. Sometimes a book, sometimes the TV, sometimes music. Anything that made reality fade.
Because the second he let it back in, it hit him like a truck. While he lay there alone, watching dust dance in the sunlight, John was probably fucking you senseless.
And that thought was eating him alive.
Right now, he had his headphones on, volume cranked to the max, Radiohead playing. Creep, his favorite. Always had been. It was the one song where he could hear himself. Where he felt understood.
He laid back on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling as Thom Yorke’s voice bled through his ears. His arms were folded across his stomach, hands loosely clasped. His heart felt heavy but numb.
He loved this. The moment when the music was so loud it drowned everything out.
When it stung his ears and made his brain go a little quiet. When all the feelings finally stopped screaming.
SLAM.
Bob jolted violently. Nearly fell off the bed. The door had burst open. Someone was standing in the frame. His headphones were off in a flash, his heart pounding, his ears ringing. It was Yelena. And she looked… pissed. And tired. Exhausted.
Bob blinked up at her, still recovering from the mini-heart attack. He didn’t say anything, just raised his eyebrows at her, like what the hell is going on?
“C'mon,” she said, tilting her head toward the hallway before dropping her grip from the door and walking off — leaving it wide open. Bob stared after her for a few seconds. Processing.
Then he slowly got up, hesitantly following the sound of her footsteps down the corridor.
When he walked into the common area, the atmosphere hit him like a wave.He immediately scanned the room.
On the couch: Alexei and Ava, watching something unfold. Not far off: Bucky and John in a very heated argument. They were practically in each other’s faces.
And then there was you.
You were curled up in an armchair like you were trying to disappear, your knees pulled close to your chest. One leg was bouncing nervously. Your fingers were busy picking at the skin around your nails. You looked anxious. You didn’t even notice Bob walk in. Your eyes were locked on the floor.
Bob’s heart twisted in his chest.
You didn’t look okay. You looked like something was eating you alive.
God, how he wished he could know what was going through your mind. He’d give anything to read your thoughts. To help you.
“I’M GOING WITH HER!”
John’s voice boomed, snapping Bob out of his trance. He was pointing at you now — angry, stubborn, pacing. Everyone’s eyes turned to him.
“No!” Bucky snapped back, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he was trying not to explode. “What part of no don’t you understand, Walker?!”
Again, every head in the room turned like it was a ping-pong match.
“Yes, I fucking understand—” John barked, “—but I’m telling you, I can do this with her!”
The tension was unbearable. Bob could feel it vibrating in the air.
“You’re really that naive?” Bucky growled. “You think this is about you?”
“Fine!” Bucky threw his arms up, sarcastic. “If you want your girlfriend coming home in a body bag, be my guest.”
Silence.
John’s mouth twitched.
He licked his lips, visibly seething.
And then… his gaze slowly shifted. To Bob.
His eyes narrowed like knives, locking onto him. Bob froze. He couldn’t look away. His body tensed, throat dry, heart hammering.
“Bob is the strongest one here, Walker,” Bucky’s voice was lower now, more calculated, calmer — but sharp. “They’ll be fine. He’s got this. And she’ll be safe.”
John looked at Bucky. Then at you. Then finally… gave in.
“…Fine,” he muttered, jaw still tight, eyes on the floor. His hands were braced at his hips in defeat. Bucky exhaled, relieved. And now… every single pair of eyes turned to Bob.
Oh God. Now Bob was sweating. Anxious, panicked, nauseous—he felt like he was going to pass out or throw up or both. His brain started racing. Thought after thought, he couldn’t process anything.
Bob stood still like a statue, as if moving might shatter him. His chest rose and fell with shallow, uneven breaths. His jaw clenched and unclenched. His fingers twitched at his sides, curling into fists and then relaxing again, over and over, like he was trying to hold himself together with nothing but willpower.
No one was speaking. No one was moving. They were all looking at him.
He waited, desperately hoping someone else would fill the silence, that someone would explain what was going on or why the hell he was being looked at like a solution to a problem he didn’t even know existed.
But all he got were expectant eyes. Unspoken pressure. Impatient glances. Anticipatory stares And so, finally, he forced himself to speak.
“…What’s going on?”
His voice cracked slightly, like his vocal cords hadn’t fully committed to the question. He looked around the room, eyes flitting nervously from Yelena to Bucky to Alexei, then to you.
Yelena stepped forward without hesitation. She slapped a firm hand on his back with a thud that made him flinch slightly.
“You’re going on a mission,” she said simply, like she was handing him a grocery list. Then she sat back down next to you like nothing had happened. Bob’s brain lagged behind her words.
“…What?”
His heart skipped a beat. Before he could even start forming a coherent thought, Bucky stepped in.
“We’ve got a situation in Paris. Needs to be handled quietly,” Bucky said, arms crossed. His tone was solid, clear, not open for debate. “We’ve decided to send you and her.”
Bob followed Bucky’s nod toward you. You.
He was going… with you?
Bob’s lungs stopped working for a full two seconds. His mind immediately began to spiral. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even blink.
“And the rest of us will stay here,” Bucky continued. “We’ll take care of things on this end. Keep America safe.”
That sentence barely registered. Bob was still stuck on the part where you and he were being sent away together.
“Departure’s tomorrow. Pack for two days.”
And with that, Bucky walked off. No discussion, no room for questions. Just orders. Bob stood like his feet had grown roots. His mouth opened. Closed. Nothing came out.
Two days. Just the two of you. In a foreign city. With no Walker. No team. No distractions. Just you.
Alexei and Ava exchanged a glance — a silent “Oh shit” moment — then turned their eyes on him again. Bob was still staring at the spot where Bucky had been. Trying to process. Trying to function.
His thoughts were a chaotic mess.
Does this mean something? Is it a test? Are they trying to see if he can handle it? Or is this just punishment for something he didn’t do? What if he screw this up? What if you doesn’t want to go? What if you hates the idea?
His overthinking screamed inside his head so loudly that he didn’t even hear Yelena until her hand landed on his shoulder again, lighter this time.
She gave him a soft, understanding smile.
The kind that said “You’ll be okay.”
He looked at her like she’d just spoken a foreign language. Still silent. Still frozen. Still… spiraling.
One by one, people started to leave. Even John — who didn’t spare Bob so much as a glance. Just cold dismissal as he walked out the door. And then you stood.
Bob’s eyes snapped toward you before he could stop himself. You moved quietly. Slowly. Like you were heavy inside. Like something was weighing you down. And for one brief moment before you walked out you looked at him and smiled.
But it wasn’t real. Not like the smiles you gave other people, not like the smile you gave him this morning in the kitchen.
This one looked tired. Distant. Bob smiled back, because that’s what he always did with you. But he saw it in your eyes.
Something was wrong. There was something brewing beneath the surface, something unspoken. You didn’t look angry. Or sad. Or scared. But you did look far away. Like you were stuck in a storm of your own thoughts. Bob’s stomach sank.
Was it about the mission? Was it something Walker said before Bob entered the room? Was it… Bob?
That last thought hit harder than the rest.
What if you didn’t want to be near him? What if this mission wasn’t just awkward, but actually unwanted? What if the idea of going away with him filled you with dread?
His chest tightened with anxiety. His heart pounded so loudly it was all he could hear. Because if that were true, if you didn’t want this, if he was the reason you were so quiet suddenly, so distant…
It would break him.
His smile faded the second you turned away and the silence in the room swallowed him whole. His chest tightened with anxiety. His heart pounded so loudly it was all he could hear. He just stood there, alone with tones of thoughts.
The next morning came far too quickly. A private jet was already waiting on the tarmac, sleek and glinting in the early sunlight, engines humming in idle like a beast ready to launch.
Bob had packed light, unsurprisingly so. Just one medium-sized backpack slung over his shoulder, stuffed with the bare essentials: two shirts, a pair of pants, fresh underwear, hygiene products. Simple. Nothing more than what he thought he’d actually need.
You, on the other hand, had a rolling suitcase. Not overly huge, but definitely larger than Bob’s backpack. You’d justified it, of course, “med supplies,” you told the others with a shrug. Sure, the meds were in there. Somewhere. But let’s be honest: that suitcase also held three extra shirts, a cozy hoodie you’d probably never wear, three types of lotion, two types of shampoo, and a curling wand you’d forget to use. Still, it made sense in your head, and nobody really questioned you.
Bob was already seated inside the jet, nervously rubbing his hands along his thighs. His fingers gripped the fabric of his pants like he was grounding himself. His eyes kept drifting to the window, scanning the runway anxiously, until he saw you. And John. Of course it was John walking you toward the plane. Who else would it be?
But something was off.
You didn’t cling to Walker like usual. You weren’t latched onto his arm or giggling into his chest. You looked… hesitant. Bob couldn’t hear what was said, but he saw the quick hug you gave John and the way you pecked him on the lips like it was out of obligation more than affection. Then you disappeared from his line of sight, making your way toward the jet’s entrance.
Please don’t be mad at me, Bob thought desperately, gripping his knees tighter. Please don’t blame me for being the one they chose instead of him. Please don’t hate me.
When you entered the cabin, you flashed him a polite smile, cheerful, but something about it felt forced.
“Morning,” you said sweetly, plopping down on the white leather seat directly across from him. The interior of the jet was the epitome of luxury. Creamy white leather. Gold-trimmed windows. Glossy surfaces. The kind of luxury that made Bob feel a little out of place, like someone might come over and ask him to leave for not being rich enough to exist there.
He nodded in return, managing a quiet, “Morning.”
Silence settled between you, thick and almost suffocating. Between you was a sleek glass table, completely clear of any clutter. Bob cleared his throat, awkwardly shifting in his seat. He couldn’t take the silence anymore.
“So, um… how do you feel?” he asked softly, trying not to sound too concerned.
You exhaled slowly and glanced out the window. “A little nervous, I guess. I just don’t know what to expect from this mission.”
He couldn’t tell if you were being honest or if you were just saying something neutral to end the conversation quickly.
He nodded again, pressing his lips together in a thin, tight line and avoiding eye contact. He could feel something the tension in the air. It was like trying to breathe through fog. He didn’t want to push you. He didn’t want to make it worse. But he wanted to help you. More than anything.
The rest of the flight passed quietly. Peaceful, even. Neither of you said much after that, both lost in your own thoughts. At some point, without even realizing it, you both dozed off, lulled to sleep by the steady hum of the jet and the soft, cushioned comfort of your seats.
It wasn’t long before the pilot announced that you were landing. Private jets really were fast.
A sleek black SUV awaited you both at the airport. You were taken straight to a five-star hotel in the center of Paris and it was breathtaking.
The lobby was a palace. A chandelier of cascading crystal hung from a ceiling so high it looked like it touched the sky. Every wall was white marble veined with gold, polished to a blinding shine. The floor was like a mirror beneath your feet, smooth and cold and spotless. A spiral staircase of pure brass curled upward like something out of a fairy tale, and twin elevators gleamed like champagne bottles in the light.
Bob could barely keep his eyes from darting around, like a kid in a candy store. And then you entered the room.
The suite was just as jaw-dropping.
The bed was massive, a king-size monster covered in white Egyptian cotton, six fluffy pillows, and a velvet runner at the foot that screamed wealth.
Two entire bathrooms, each its own spa-level experience: rainfall showers, glowing mirrors with touch-sensors, plush towels folded into perfect shapes. One had a soaking tub big enough for two.
The view? Floor-to-ceiling windows opened onto a balcony overlooking the Seine and the Eiffel Tower in the near distance. Paris glittered beneath a soft, pink morning sky.
Bob dropped his bag on a nearby armchair, heart fluttering, until he noticed something. Just one bed. There was only one bedroom. Only one bed.
He didn’t want to say anything, didn’t want to make it weird, didn’t want you to think he was thinking anything inappropriate, so he stayed quiet. Instead, he watched you, happy and radiant again, bouncing between the bathrooms and pointing at every golden detail like a kid seeing Disneyland for the first time.
“Gosh, I love it here!” you beamed as you launched yourself onto the bed beside him, sinking into the plush mattress.
Bob turned to you slowly, watching your pink cheeks, your wide eyes, your breathless excitement. God, you looked beautiful when you were happy.
You sat up on your hands, eyes scanning the room again — then frowned. “Where’s the second room?”
There it was. Bob chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh… I think this is it.”
“Oh. Okay.” You said it so casually, like it wasn’t even a problem. That caught him off guard.
“I can sleep on the floor,” Bob blurted out quickly, already searching the room for potential sleeping surfaces. “It’s really fine, I don’t mind—”
“Bob.” You turned toward him, your expression stern, eyebrows raised in an almost amused disbelief.
“You’re not sleeping on the floor.” You sat up straighter, your tone final. “You’re sleeping on the bed with me. End of story. We both need a proper night’s rest if this mission is going to be a success.”
You had a good point — a solid, reasonable, professional point — and Bob had no room to argue. He nodded obediently, feeling his cheeks heat up, and mumbled a quiet, “Okay.”
You smiled as your eyes roamed around the luxurious hotel suite, letting out a few light, silly mouth noises to fill the awkward silence. It wasn’t conscious, just something you did. You were clearly trying to stay cheerful, breezy, unbothered. But Bob wasn’t looking at the suite.
He didn’t care about the polished marble or the ridiculously oversized bed or the glowing fixtures that probably cost more than his first car. He was watching you. And God, he couldn’t get enough of you.
Every little thing you did was magnetic. Every glance, every soft sigh, every nervous flick of your hand through your hair, it pulled him in like gravity. You were mesmerizing without even trying. And right now, you were the only thing in the entire world he could focus on.
“I think I’m gonna test out these showers,” you announced casually, flashing him a warm, playful look before bouncing to your feet with happy energy and disappearing into one of the bathrooms.
Bob let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
Relief washed over him in waves, for a lot of reasons. Mostly because you looked happier. More relaxed. Or maybe it was all just an act. Maybe you were faking it, putting on a good face. But if it was an act, then damn — it was a good one, really convincing enough.
Maybe your change in behavior had nothing to do with him at all. Or maybe it had everything to do with him. And just like that, his mind spiraled.
He begged his brain as it started to churn with questions again — loud, relentless, and unanswerable. Why did you seem distant on the jet? Did you regret coming here with him? Were you pretending just to keep the peace?
He let out a frustrated groan and collapsed backwards onto the bed, covering his face with both hands. His brain was a torture chamber, and right now it was on full blast.
It was evening now. 7:48 PM.
In twelve minutes, you both had to be at the target location: a grand, historic opera house turned temporary gala venue for the night. It was a massive event — hundreds of guests, dressed to kill, dripping in designer labels and old money charm. A fundraising gala for some absurdly specific cause, backed by even more absurdly rich donors.
Not your scene. Not Bob’s either.
The two of you could only stomach that kind of ego and arrogance for so long before it started to rot your insides. Snobbery was contagious, and you weren’t about to catch it.
The plan was simple: get in, find a room with the bomb, deactivate it and get out. Fast, clean, quiet. No mingling longer than necessary.
Bob was already dressed and waiting by the door, his hands clasped in front of him, fidgeting with his fingers. He looked good. Really good.
A crisp, jet-black suit clung to his tall frame in all the right places. A pristine white shirt underneath, buttoned perfectly with a black bow tie at the collar. His trousers fit like they were tailored just for him, no belt needed. He wore polished formal shoes that clicked softly against the floor whenever he shifted his weight.
His hair was the same soft mess it always was, he hadn’t styled it, hadn’t needed to. It had that tousled, effortless charm that made him look both elegant and boyish at the same time. But he was nervous. He kept checking the time. He didn’t want to be late.
And then he heard the bathroom door open behind him and when he turned around, his breath caught in his throat.
You stepped into the room like you owned it. Like you owned him.
The deep wine-red dress hugged your body like it had been sewn directly onto your skin. Every curve, every dip, every slope was framed in that silky, perfect fabric. The slit on the right side revealed just enough of your leg to make his heart leap — every time you move, the slit fluttered open a little more, teasing him with glimpses of smooth, sculpted skin.
Around your neck hung a heart-shaped pendant, shimmering gently with each breath you took. Your earrings were bold, just dramatic enough to turn heads, not that you needed help. The dress was already doing 90% of the work.
Your hair was pinned up in a low bun at the nape of your neck, elegant and soft, with two wavy tendrils left loose to frame your face. They bounced with every movement, like they had a life of their own.
And your makeup? Lethal. Your dark red lipstick matched your dress perfectly, sensual and commanding. A touch of smoky shadow added mystery to your gaze, and the highlighter on the bridge of your nose caught the light just right. You looked like a goddess. A dangerous weapon. A walking fantasy.
“So… how do I look?” you asked, giving him a slow, teasing spin on your heels, voice light, confident. You knew damn well how you looked. And still, you wanted to hear it from him.
Bob just stared. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. His throat was dry and swallowing didn’t help. His hands trembled slightly at his sides, and his heart pounded against his ribcage so hard he was almost worried it would shatter his sternum. His skin prickled with goosebumps, and a chill raced down his spine even as sweat started to gather at his temples.
You were stunning. Devastatingly so.
He wanted to touch you. Taste you. Kiss that lipstick until it smeared all over both your mouths. He imagined the sound of your giggle against his lips. That sweet, mischievous laugh that wrecked him every damn time.
“…Perfect,” Bob finally exhaled after a few seconds, barely blinking, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he did.
You chuckled softly, your cheeks tinting pink — but you could blame it on the blush if anyone asked.
“You look like a whole snack too,” you smirked, returning the compliment with a wink before turning on your heel to grab your clutch.
Bob nearly buckled. His knees actually wobbled. His palms were sweating, his heartbeat was a war drum in his chest, and his pants suddenly felt about two sizes too tight.
Not now. Not now. Not now.
“Oh! And check this out,” you added suddenly, grabbing your clutch and sweeping the slit of your dress aside with one graceful hand.
Your leg slid out, long and toned, and more importantly, strapped to your thigh was a sleek little holster, a small but deadly-looking pistol nestled neatly in place.
“Pretty cool, huh?” you grinned proudly, clearly delighted with your stealthy accessory.
Bob stared like it was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen in his life. Which it was. His mouth opened again. Closed. Opened.
“O-oh… Are we really gonna need that?” he asked, voice trembling slightly, trying not to look directly at your leg like it was cursed.
You sauntered over to him, just close enough for your perfume to hit his nose like a drug.
“Probably not,” you said with a little shrug. “But you never know.”
And then you smiled again.
“I know you'll protect me though.” You leaned in just slightly, brushing your fingers across his shoulder, your voice softer, more sincere now.
The moment your hand touched him, his skin burned. He felt the warmth spread from your fingertips straight through his bones. He was sure there’d be a mark there later, a handprint scorched into his soul.
His breath caught. His chest tightened. He was completely, utterly undone.
If only you knew. If only you knew what you did to him just by existing. If only you knew how much it hurt, how much it thrilled him, to be near you like this and not touch the way he wished he could.
He tried to hold himself together, to keep his thoughts focused solely on the mission… but how the hell was he supposed to do that when you were walking just a few steps ahead and your ass jiggled with every single sway of your hips.
He forced himself to look straight, tried to keep his eyes locked on the hallway ahead—but he failed. Over and over again. His gaze dropped like a magnet, every. damn. time. And then, after a particularly long stare, the realization hit him. Were you even wearing underwear? Fuck.
The two of you stepped into the elevator, thankfully alone. Or… not so thankfully. Because now Bob was trapped in a small metal box with your scent wrapping around him like a drug.
His pants were getting tighter by the second, the fabric becoming a vice. He cleared his throat awkwardly, then braided his fingers together and inconspicuously held them in front of his crotch in a desperate attempt to shield his growing erection. Beads of sweat formed at his hairline, his hands trembled, and even his knees felt weak. He looked like he was about to pass out, but he was praying you wouldn’t notice.
You would’ve had to be blind not to.
“Hey, don’t be so nervous,” you nudged him playfully with your elbow, a mischievous grin on your lips.
Bob flinched like you’d just zapped him with a taser, his eyes going wide as he stared down at you. He swallowed thickly, but there was nothing in his throat to swallow.
“I-I’m not,” he stammered.
You giggled and tilted your head. “Oh yeah? So your legs are shaking, your hands are shaking, and you’re sweating like a sinner in church… from what, from excitement?”
Bob opened his mouth to protest, but your logic pinned him to the wall like a butterfly in a science class. He just stood there, blinking in silence, praying the elevator would speed up or plummet or explode or anything to get him out of this beautifully torturous hell.
“It’s gonna be fine, Bob,” you said, your voice now soft, sweet. “We’ve got this, okay?”
Your tone alone soothed him more than any pep talk ever could. He nodded slowly, exhaling with fake calmness. He pretended like he was anxious about the mission when in reality, ever since he saw you in that damn dress, the mission didn’t exist in his mind anymore.
You arrived at the venue a few minutes later than planned, pulling up in a sleek black limousine. Through your earpiece, Bucky’s voice nearly exploded.
“You’re late.”
You both winced as he scolded you like kids caught sneaking in past curfew, but thankfully, it didn’t affect the plan too much.
As you stepped inside the extravagant building, the air instantly felt thicker, oppressive. The kind of place where even the air wore a tuxedo. You and Bob exchanged a quick glance, both feeling the same tension coil in your stomachs. The crowd was overwhelming. Hundreds of rich, pretentious, ego-drunk snobs stood shoulder to shoulder, sipping drinks that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe.
Neither of you belonged here. And you both knew it.
Anxiety wrapped around your lungs like barbed wire, but you still had a clearer head than Bob. He was distracted. Not just by the people, but still… by you.
You turned to him briefly, your voice calm and grounding.
“Hey… deep breaths, alright? I’m right here.”
Your soft eyes anchored him, and for the first time since you stepped out of the limo, the high-pitched whine in his ears dulled.
Bucky’s voice crackled in again, more composed now.
“Elevator. Third floor. That’s where the VIPs are and the room with the package. Go. Now.”
Somehow, the two of you weaved through the suffocating crowd, brushing past tuxedos, glittery dresses, and enough perfume to choke a rhino.
You squeezed into the elevator just before the doors closed, crammed shoulder to shoulder with more millionaires than you’d care to count. It was almost comical how many rich people fit into one elevator. Like… how did this many billionaires even exist?
But your sarcastic mental spiral got cut off as the elevator dinged.
The third floor was a different universe. The air itself smelled expensive, leather, whiskey, money. Classical music floated gently from a nearby minibar. There were fewer people here, and everything was hushed: soft conversation, quiet laughter, the gentle clink of glassware. The lighting was warmer. Everything oozed exclusivity.
“We’re here,” you whispered.
Bob didn’t say anything. He was too busy looking around like a puppy on its first walk. Poor thing looked completely out of place, but aside from a few curious stares, no one paid much attention to him. They all assumed you two were just another power couple in the sea of power couples.
Bucky’s voice returned.
“There’s a guy on that floor—target has the access card. Dark suit, red tie, gloves. Get close, get the card, then meet Bob at the vault room.”
You nodded and scanned the room, squinting ever so slightly as you walked gracefully among the socialites. It didn’t take long to spot him. He stuck out like a sore, greasy thumb.
Slicked-back black hair, way too much gel. That red tie. A black suit tailored to intimidate. Gloves. Beard stubble and a tiny soul patch on his chin. His energy screamed arrogance. You could feel the toxic masculinity from across the room.
You sighed inwardly. This was going to suck, but like it or not, it was part of your job.
You walked past Bob, giving him a tiny glance as you moved, his eyes glued to you like a hawk. He posted himself near the corner, trying his best to look casual, though he probably looked more like a stalker. But he didn’t care. He’d rather look creepy than miss a single second you might need him.
You slipped right into character in no time. Your every movement screamed elegance, seduction, refined but deadly. You were a siren in crimson. You chose a barstool beside your target, letting the silky slit in your dress flutter just enough to catch the corner of his eye. Like clockwork, he noticed. Of course he did.
You raised a finger and signaled the bartender with graceful ease. “One martini, please.”
He nodded and got to work. You didn’t need to say another word. The fish had already taken the bait.
“Put it on my tab,” the man said smoothly, shifting closer to you with that smug glint in his eye like he thought he was God’s gift to women. You held back a groan and instead gave him a slow, sultry smile, glancing in his direction through your lashes.
“And what did I do to deserve that?” you asked, your voice a soft purr.
He licked his lips like a goddamn cartoon wolf and grinned wide enough to blind you with his unnaturally white teeth.
“For bein’ so damn beautiful, baby.”
You laughed, lowering your head slightly in mock shyness, hiding your grimace.
Up close, he was even more disgusting than from a distance. The kind of man who wore too much cologne and not enough humility. But you had a job to do, and this was just part of it. You couldn’t let your personal disgust mess with the mission. Besides, you knew that Bob still had his eyes locked on you from across the room.
And he did. He hadn’t looked away for even a second. He was watching everything. Ready to step in the moment he needed to.
“Guess it’s lucky to be pretty,” you said coyly, batting your lashes. At the same time, you subtly scanned the man’s body for the ID card you needed. Bingo.
His pocket. So stupid. One of the most critical items a man in his position could carry and he had it tucked loosely in a damn pocket. Well, that made your job easier.
“No doubt about it. So—where you from, sweetheart?” he asked, leaning in even closer.
You could smell his cologne now. It was strong, probably expensive, but even that couldn’t mask the stench of ego and sleaze.
“That’s a secret,” you whispered with a sly smile, letting a hint of mischief curl your lips.
The bartender slid your drink across the counter, and you accepted it with graceful ease, thanking him with a nod. You wrapped your fingers around the cold glass and lifted it slightly.
“Mysterious, huh? I like that…” he muttered, his tone thick with unspoken intent.
And then you felt a hand on your thigh. You froze mid-sip, your stomach tightening instantly. The contact was sudden and bold, and his fingers gripped with entitlement.
You tried to shift away, but the space was tight and his hold was firm. Too firm. You could feel your pulse quicken as his fingers crept higher, his breath warm against your ear.
“I know a place,” he whispered, his breath thick with lust. “Quiet. Just for us.”
You gagged. Literally. You almost spat your drink into his smug, greasy face. But before you could react, your saviour appeared.
Like a silent storm, Bob was suddenly there. His hand clamped down around the man’s wrist with shocking speed and strength. The pressure was immediate.
“Don’t touch her.”
His voice was low. Firm. Cold as steel. The kind of voice that could freeze blood mid-flow. The man scoffed, completely misjudging the danger in front of him.
“Hey, easy there, pal. We’re just having a bit of fun—”
CRACK.
The man yelped in pain as Bob’s grip tightened even further. His fingers began to tremble. Bob wasn’t just restraining him, he was crushing him. His jaw clenched, nostrils flared. Rage poured off of him in silent waves. His skin flushed hot, too hot, and his eyes started to glow. That sickly yellow color. The Sentry was coming out.
You stood quickly, placing a gentle but firm hand on Bob’s arm.
“Bob,” you said softly. “That’s enough.”
And like a switch flipping, everything stilled. The light in his eyes faded. His breathing steadied. His death grip loosened. Your touch, your voice, was the anchor that pulled him back from the edge.
Bob released the man, who staggered back clutching his wrist, muttering curses under his breath.
“We have to go,” you said simply, tossing a final sarcastic glance at the creep. There wasn’t a single shred of actual apology in your voice.
You grabbed Bob’s hand and tugged, spinning on your heel and strutting confidently away from the scene. Bob stumbled to follow, still processing the adrenaline rush, the shame, the panic… and your hand on his.
His thoughts were spiraling. He’d messed up. He probably blew your cover. You didn’t have the card, the mission was compromised, and now the target might alert security. All because he couldn’t control his goddamn jealousy.
“I’m sorry,” he started, breathless, struggling to keep up with you. “I—I just didn’t want—”
You suddenly stopped and turned to face him. Standing just inches from him now, your face unreadable.
Then, without saying a word, you reached into the neckline of your dress, your fingers dipping just slightly between your breasts before pulling out the ID card.
Bob blinked. His mouth opened slightly, but he was speechless. His brain short-circuited. How? When did you grab it? How did you store it there, how was it sitting so perfectly nestled between—
Oh.
You were so hot. It was almost unfair. Women like you should come with a warning sign.
“Relax, Bob,” you said with a wink, sliding the card right back into your dress like it was no big deal. “We’ve got everything under control.”
Then you turned on your heel and walked ahead, heels clicking confidently against the marble floor like the femme fatale goddess you were. Bob stood frozen for a second, processing. And then, like a loyal puppy, he chased after you, heart pounding and cheeks burning.
Everything was going according to plan.
Using the stolen ID card, you and Bob slipped unnoticed into the restricted area. With Bucky guiding you both through your earpieces, you hacked your way into keypads, unlocked encrypted safes, and finally reached the bomb’s location.
While you focused on the wiring, Bob handled the security system like a master—disabling cameras, jamming sensors, and muting any alarms that might expose you. Every second mattered.
“You’ve got twenty seconds before they notice the cameras are down,” Bucky’s voice crackled in your ear.
Your fingers worked quickly, eyes darting between colored wires. He’d already given you the right combination, you just needed to execute it perfectly. But one of the cables was thick. Too thick. The cutters slipped once, your grip faltering.
Bob noticed immediately. He moved instinctively, ready to step in and help, but paused. You looked stressed. Determined, but on the edge. He didn’t want to distract you with unnecessary words, afraid even his offer might break your focus.
“Ten seconds. Move your ass,” Bucky barked again, not exactly helping the rising panic.
Your palms were sweaty. Hands trembling. Your blood rushed like a storm through your veins, your heartbeat thundering in your ears. Every muscle in your body was clenched, locked in precision and fear.
“Five seconds.”
Bob stood by the door, watching both the hallway and you. The tension was unbearable. His suit felt too tight, too hot. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. He was clenching and unclenching his fists to stop himself from pacing or screaming.
“Three sec—”
“I GOT IT!” you shouted.
Before Bob could even react, you grabbed him by the shoulder and bolted for the side exit and you ran.
The hallway blurred past, lights flickering above you. When you reached the elevator, it was mercifully empty. You both tumbled inside and hit the button. The doors closed just in time.
Inside, you were both gasping for breath. Adrenaline still buzzed in your veins like electricity. Bucky’s voice came through one last time:
“Bomb’s disarmed. Mission accomplished.”
Relief hit you like a wave. A deep, whole-body exhale. You leaned against the wall and looked at Bob, your eyes wide with joy, heart still pounding. You were smiling.
“We did it! We actually did it!”
You turned to him, your eyes sparkling with adrenaline, your cheeks flushed, lips parted as you caught your breath. The glow of success made you radiant, like a goddess just returned from war.
And then, without any warning, your lips were on his. Your hands gripped the lapels of his suit jacket, tugging him slightly down as your lips collided with his in a way that was both desperate and deliberate.
Bob froze. Everything stopped. His mind, his breath, his muscles, completely paralyzed. He didn’t even kiss you back, because he couldn’t.
His eyes widened slightly, his body locked in place, and it was like the entire world had tilted sideways. Your lips were soft and warm, a subtle mix of cherry lip gloss and victory. There was a saltiness from the sweat still lingering on your skin, the aftertaste of your drink, and something purely, unmistakably you.
You tasted like fire, like danger. You tasted like everything he wasn’t allowed to want. And your kiss was alive, moving, pressing.
His arms hung uselessly by his sides, fingers twitching but not lifting. His breath got caught somewhere in his throat, stuck between a gasp and a prayer. His heart pounded like a jackhammer, each beat slamming into his ribs until it hurt.
He could feel his skin burn, not just from the heat of your mouth, but from his own spiraling internal chaos. Goosebumps rippled across his arms, and his knees nearly gave out under the weight of the moment. His brain wasn’t processing. It was glitching.
Was this real? Was this really happening? Is he imagining it? Hallucinate it? Dream it? No. It was too vivid and too real.
When you finally pulled away, his lips were still parted, stunned. His pupils were blown wide. He hadn’t even blinked or moved. He could still feel your lipstick on his skin, the pressure of your mouth, the way you clung to him for just one second too long.
He didn’t say a word. Couldn’t.
His body still buzzed from the electricity of that kiss, and his lips tingled, as if the ghost of your touch refused to leave. His chest heaved, lungs struggling to catch up with everything the rest of him just experienced.
The elevator dinged.
Like nothing had happened. Like the universe wasn’t burning down inside him. You stepped out, cheerful and light on your feet like you’d just won a game.
Bob didn’t move.
He stayed frozen for a few seconds more, still standing inside the elevator, staring at the wall like he’d been hit by lightning and had no idea if he was still alive.
His body ached, but not from pain. His throat felt dry, his chest was tight and his legs were weak. And somewhere lower… he was painfully aware of just how much he had reacted to you. To that kiss. To the idea of you.
The entire ride back to the hotel was a mental warzone for Bob. While you sat beside him in the car — relaxed, content, maybe even a little proud — he was completely wrecked. Destroyed from the inside out.
He stared out the window in silence, barely hearing anything. His thoughts were stuck on a loop, replaying that kiss in the elevator with vivid clarity. Your lips. Your scent. The taste of you on his mouth.
Why had you kissed him? Was it adrenaline? A heat-of-the-moment thing? Was it nothing to you? Did it even mean anything? And what about John?
Bob’s chest tightened at the thought. You were dating Walker. So… did that kiss break some invisible boundary? Or was this normal for you? A casual thing? Did you have some kind of rules, where making out with your “just friends” didn’t count?
The more questions piled up in his head, the worse it got. And to top it all off, he had a raging erection. It wasn’t just distracting, it was embarrassing. Painful. Relentless.
His pants were already tight, but now they felt like a punishment. He tried to shift subtly in his seat and placed his hands in his lap to hide the obvious bulge, hoping, praying it would go down.
But then there was you, sitting right next to him, practically glowing. You smelled divine, like warm vanilla and danger. Even if he’d tried to ignore the kiss, your perfume alone was enough to short-circuit his brain.
By the time you both got to the hotel, nothing had changed. If anything, it had gotten worse.
Bob walked into the room stiff and frustrated, not just mentally, but physically. Every part of him was on edge. His mind was racing. His body was screaming. And you? You headed straight to the shower like nothing happened. As if you hadn’t just rocked his entire existence in one spontaneous kiss.
He heard the water running, imagined it cascading down your back. He buried his face in his hands. He was fighting all his demons to not touch himself. To just survive it. But it was harder than he thought.
Every image was you. Your lips. Your thighs. Your breath on his skin. And that kiss… He sat on the edge of the bed, his back facing the bathroom you were currently in. He was staring at the floor, trying to calm down, trying to breathe.
After a while, you walked out of the bathroom. And Bob almost passed out.
You were wearing a two-piece pajama set that was clearly designed to ruin him. The top was practically a bra—short, clingy, with thin straps and a bit of lace. The shorts barely covered anything, hanging loose around your hips in the most tempting way possible.
Bob turned his head just slightly, only enough to catch a glimpse, and instantly regretted it. His cock twitched hard against the fabric of his pants, and he immediately looked away with a low grunt.
“Shower was amazing,” you said casually, towel-drying your damp hair, as if you weren’t singlehandedly ruining his entire existence.
Bob gave a barely audible grunt in response, still facing away from you, clenching his fists.
You dropped onto the bed beside him and continued, “You should take one too. Not that you smell or anything. Just… you’ll feel better after. Trust me.”
He nodded stiffly, then stood up, trying to keep his movements controlled, his hands strategically placed in front of him to cover himself.
You glanced sideways at him, but didn’t say anything. He hoped you didn’t notice. He took one step toward the bathroom when you called after him.
“Hey, Bob!”
He paused, poked his head back out around the doorframe, trying not to let his face betray the hell he was going through.
You gave him the sweetest smile in the world. “You were amazing today. Seriously. I couldn’t have done it without you.” His heart stopped. His throat dried.
You said it so sincerely, so warmly. It wasn’t just gratitude, it was admiration. Bob smiled back, shyly, ducking his head a little. “Thanks,” he mumbled. But internally? He was exploding.
He wanted to scream. Punch a wall. Melt into the floor. Or maybe kiss you again until you were breathless and begging. Instead, he quickly ducked into the bathroom and locked the door behind him, and finally exhaled.
Bob leaned his forehead against the door and clenched his fingers into a fist. He knew damn well, that this night was going to be really tough.
Bob didn’t sleep a single second that night.
Not because of the mattress, it was fine. Not because of the temperature, the room was cool and comfortable. No, it was because of you.
Because you were lying just a few centimeters away, in that ridiculous little pajama set, breathing softly, sleeping like nothing in the world had happened. While he had a throbbing erection and a mind that wouldn’t shut the hell up.
He’d spent the entire night staring at the ceiling, willing himself to think of anything other than that kiss. Than your laugh. Your lips. Your bare legs brushing against the sheets.
He’d tossed. Turned. Covered himself with a blanket, kicked it off again, tried to meditate, tried to count backwards from 100, tried to breathe—but nothing worked. His cock stayed hard like it had a vendetta, and his brain kept cycling through every possible reason why you kissed him, every consequence, every what-if and what-now.
By the time morning light seeped through the curtains, Bob wasn’t sure he was even human anymore. He felt like a hollowed-out wreck of hormones and confusion.
Then you stirred.
A soft sound, like a kitten stretching. A sleepy little sigh followed by a yawn. Bob’s eyes snapped shut. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He lay there like a corpse, playing dead, praying you wouldn’t speak or look at him or ask questions about the night before.
He heard you shifting beside him. The bedsheets rustling. The springs of the mattress creaked softly as you sat up. Bob held his breath like even inhaling would give him away.
Then, the soft patter of your footsteps. The click of the bathroom door. And finally, relief. Bob exhaled. A deep, unfiltered breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in for over a minute.
He rubbed his hands over his face and muttered under his breath, “What is wrong with me…”
He sat up slowly. Looked around the room. The bed you’d just left still smelled like you. It didn’t help. Not even a little. So he did the only thing he could think of — get out.
Bob made his way down to the hotel lobby and grabbed breakfast from the continental buffet. It was early enough that the dining area was mostly empty, which was good. He didn’t want anyone to see how wrecked he looked. Or ask him why he looked that way.
He loaded up two plates. Some waffles, fruit and maple syrup. When he got to the room, you were still in the bathroom. Shower running again.
Perfect.
He set everything up at the little table by the window — your plate across from his, utensils neatly placed, napkins folded. He even managed to make coffee, so he poured it into one of the mugs and set it beside your plate.
And that was when the bathroom door opened.
You stepped out, fresh scent followed you. You looked tired, sleepy, but beautiful, like some kind of dream in motion. Bob tried not to stare. He failed.
“Morning,” he said, voice a little hoarse from not using it all night.
You gave a soft smile. “Morning,” you started to echo, then your gaze dropped to the table. You blinked. Once. Twice.
Your voice was still raspy with sleep. “What is… all this?”
Bob looked from the table to you, then back again, suddenly awkward. He rubbed the back of his neck and stumbled over his words.
“I—uh—I just thought… I mean, you were still in the shower, and I figured you might be hungry, so I… I got breakfast. Hope you like waffles?” There was such sweet, ridiculous hope in his voice.
You stared at him, clearly surprised, your brows rising slightly. If you hadn’t still been half-asleep, you might’ve reacted more dramatically. But instead, you just gave a breathy little laugh and walked over to the table.
“Yeah,” you said softly, “I love waffles. Thanks, Bob.”
You sat down and looked up at him with those tired, gentle eyes — the kind of look that could pierce steel. There was no teasing, no flirtation, no games. Just sincerity.
And for a second, Bob thought he might actually die.
He looked away quickly, heart thudding. “You’re welcome,” he mumbled, then sat down across from you.
His hands shook a little as he picked up his fork. You didn’t notice. You were too busy chewing your first bite, eyes half-lidded in comfort, hair damp and messy, your body covered in that damn pajama again. Bob nearly stabbed himself with his fork.
For a while, the only sounds in the room were the soft clinks of cutlery against plates, the faint scrape of metal on ceramic, the delicate chew of breakfast in otherwise awkward silence.
Bob focused intensely on cutting his waffle into perfect, manageable squares — as if each slice could somehow distract him from the tension curling in his gut.
You didn’t seem to notice the quiet. You looked content, maybe even relaxed — happily munching away, one hand resting under your chin as you glanced occasionally out the window. Your shoulders were loose. Your posture soft. Meanwhile, Bob’s shoulders were up to his ears and his spine was stiff as a steel rod.
Eventually, the weight of the silence became unbearable, for him, at least. He cleared his throat, the sound harsh in the stillness, and forced out the first words he could think of.
“So… how did you sleep?” he asked, trying to sound casual. His eyes remained glued to his plate, as if looking at you would fry his brain like an egg on the sidewalk.
You smiled faintly. “Really well, actually. That bed was super soft — way better than ours.”
Bob gave a soft, breathy chuckle, nodding with forced enthusiasm. “Yeah. Definitely better.”
He shoved a bite of waffle into his mouth, mostly to stop himself from saying something stupid. Like how he hadn’t slept at all. Like how he’d spent the night with his dick hard as a rock, painfully aware of your presence in the room, and now couldn’t even look at you without remembering the taste of your lips.
You continued eating, unconcerned, completely unaware of the nuclear meltdown occurring across the table. Bob stabbed another piece of waffle with a bit more force than necessary.
Then your voice broke the silence again. “What about you? Did you sleep okay?”
Panic flashed across Bob’s face — just for a second. You didn’t notice. He hesitated, fork mid-air, mouth slightly open. His brain scrambled for a believable lie.
He couldn’t exactly say, “Terribly. I was hard and mentally spiraling because you kissed me and I don’t know what it means and also I wanted to cry and jack off at the same time.”
So instead, he went with the safest, blandest answer possible.
“Yeah,” he said. “Slept fine.”
You nodded, satisfied with the response, and kept eating. And then… silence again.
Bob took another sip of his coffee, trying not to visibly sweat. His gaze flickered up for a second, just long enough to look at you, and then dropped right back to the table.
Your legs were crossed, your thigh brushing against his under the table from time to time. Every accidental touch sent a jolt through his body like he’d been shocked.
Finally, desperate to shift the topic and reduce the volcanic-level pressure in the room, Bob asked: “So uh… do you know what time we’re heading out?”
This time, he managed to meet your gaze.
Big mistake. Your eyes were still a little sleepy, lashes casting soft shadows on your cheeks, your lips slightly sticky from syrup. He regretted looking immediately. He was so not okay.
You leaned back a little in your seat, rubbing your arms as if the air-conditioned room was just a bit too chilly. “Around six, I think. In the evening.”
That was hours from now. Way too many hours. And just like that, Bob felt the dread settle in.
All this time with you, in this room, in this city, with that kiss still echoing in his memory… What were you going to do? Go sightseeing? Lounge in robes? Pretend nothing happened?
Bob blinked, forcing himself to focus on the food again. He didn’t know what was worse — the fact that he still didn’t understand why you kissed him… or the fear that you might never bring it up again.
You finished the last bite of your waffle and took a slow sip of the now-lukewarm coffee, letting out a quiet exhale as you leaned back in your chair. With a soft grace, you slid away from the table and rose to your feet.
“I’m gonna step out on the balcony for a while,” you informed Bob, your voice calm but distant.
You didn’t wait for a reply—you just turned and walked away, completely unaware of the absolute devastation you left in your wake.
Bob’s eyes locked onto your hips the second you stood. He didn’t even try to stop himself.
The way your body moved in that light pajama set, how your hips swayed without effort, it was practically sinful. His jaw dropped slightly, completely involuntarily, and he felt himself twitch in his pants again, his arousal sparking to life like a cursed reflex.
He instantly shut his eyes tight and groaned inwardly, running a frustrated hand through his hair. It’s like every time she’s near, my hormones short-circuit my brain.
Trying to reset himself, Bob forced a cold shower, pulled on something clean, did his hair with trembling hands, and gave himself a stern internal lecture in the mirror about controlling his damn urges.
By the time he stepped out of the bathroom, he felt somewhat composed again. But then he saw you, still out on the balcony.
Still in that breezy little pajama set that didn’t do anything to shield his imagination. You were leaning forward just slightly, elbows resting on the balcony railing, your back arched in a way that made his self-control plummet again. Your hips jutted out, curves outlined perfectly by the light fabric, and your hair danced gently in the wind like some dream from a movie.
Bob closed his eyes again and sucked in a breath so deep it hurt his ribs.
Gripping the door handle like it might break under his fingers, he slowly opened it and stepped out onto the balcony, careful to shut it quietly behind him. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t turn. You hadn’t even noticed he was there. But he noticed everything about you.
The slight movement of your shoulders. The way your chest hitched just a little too sharply. The soft sniffle carried by the breeze. His heart sank.
You were crying.
He took a hesitant step forward, and that’s when you gasped sharply and flinched back, startled.
“Jesus Christ, Bob!” you said, one hand flying to your chest as your heart thudded wildly. “Don’t do that!”
You immediately looked away from him, quickly wiping your face, like that could erase what he’d already seen. Your voice was tight, almost embarrassed, and your gaze dropped to the floor.
Bob’s brow furrowed in deep concern.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, stepping closer. “Didn’t mean to scare you…”
You didn’t respond, just turned your gaze back toward the skyline as you composed your face again, pretending you weren’t unraveling.
He studied you in silence for a moment, then asked gently, “Why are you crying?”
You let out a humorless laugh, lowering your head in a kind of quiet defeat. Of course he noticed. Bob always noticed everything, that’s part of what made him so different from everyone else. He paid attention. He saw you.
You shook your head slowly, smiling bitterly at yourself.
“It’s stupid,” you muttered.
He didn’t speak, but the weight of his silence, the patience in it, urged you on. You knew he wouldn’t let it go. Not Bob. He’d ask every day till your death. So you spared him the slow torture of waiting and simply told him the truth.
“Before we left…” you began, pausing as your voice threatened to crack. “John got a text.”
Bob stiffened beside you.
“I’m not the type to go through someone’s phone. I’m really not. But… I don’t know. Something just felt off. Like—like the universe was trying to nudge me, y’know?”
You glanced at him then, and his expression made your chest ache. He was listening with such genuine intensity, his eyes full of concern.
“I looked,” you said quietly. “And the phone wasn’t even locked. It was just there. Wide open. Like it wanted to be seen.”
You gave a breathy, bitter little laugh. “Turns out he’s been talking to another girl. For a while, apparently. They send each other nudes, flirty messages… I think they’ve even been meeting up. I don’t know how long it’s been going on.”
You shook your head again, this time with disbelief. Your laugh came out sharp, ironic, almost self-punishing.
Bob was frozen. Stunned. He couldn’t find words, not because he didn’t care, but because the weight of it hit him like a punch to the chest. Everything suddenly made sense. The way you’d acted before the flight. The way you pulled away during conversations.
And the worst part was, that he was actually relieved it wasn’t about him. That he isn't the reason you were acting so distant.
But the guilt that came with that relief twisted in his stomach. You didn’t deserve any of this. Not a second of it. If he could have teleported across the world and shattered John Walker’s jaw, he’d have done it without hesitation.
“I… I’m so sorry,” he whispered, dropping his gaze to the ground, helplessly fumbling for something to say. Anything.
“It’s okay,” you replied too quickly. “I should’ve seen it coming. I’m never really enough. Not for anyone.”
Bob’s head snapped up, eyes wide, brows drawn together in a mix of disbelief and fury.
“Are you kidding me?”
You turned to look at him, and your lips trembled as fresh tears welled in your eyes.
“That’s not true,” he said, voice suddenly sharper. Almost angry—but not at you. At the idea that you could ever believe something so deeply, deeply wrong.
“You are—God, you’re amazing. You’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever met. You’re kind, and strong, and brilliant, and you. What Walker did? That’s his mistake. That’s on him, not on you. Not even a little. You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve any of it.”
His voice cracked, and he stepped closer.
“You’re the last person on this Earth who should ever say she’s not enough. Because, if anything—nobody’s worthy of you. And I swear, if I hear you say that again…”
You smiled through your tears, your lips trembling as emotion completely overtook you. You tried to speak, but your voice broke.
“Thank you, Bob,” you whispered, your chest hitching with a sob. “Really. Thank you.”
He couldn’t take it anymore. Without thinking, he reached out and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. It wasn’t a polite hug. It wasn’t soft. It was real. Fierce. Protective.
He held you like he was anchoring you to the Earth. Like he needed you to know that someone was here and not going anywhere. His strength wrapped around you, but not too tight. Just enough to make you feel safe.
You pressed your face into his shirt and let the tears fall freely now, surrounded by the steady heartbeat of a man who saw you as something so much more than what Walker ever could.
After you’d cried your heart out, enough that your chest no longer shook with every breath, you finally pulled back from Bob’s arms just a little, enough to breathe on your own again.
And that’s when you saw it.
A massive damp spot had soaked into the front of his shirt, right over his chest. It was undeniable. Your tears had completely soaked through the fabric. You froze for a second, mortified, and then gave an awkward little laugh — light, embarrassed, and slightly hoarse from the crying.
“Oh God… I’m so sorry,” you mumbled, your hand immediately reaching out to try and rub the wetness out of his shirt, instinctively brushing your palm over his chest in small, apologetic circles.
Bob just shook his head slowly, his voice deep and quiet, almost like a rumble.
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
But he didn’t move. He didn’t let go of your shoulders. He just… looked at you.
You kept fussing with his shirt, trying to clean a stain that wouldn’t budge, and Bob kept watching — silently, intensely. His grip on your shoulders remained firm but gentle, as if grounding you in place. His thumbs brushed your arms just slightly, unconsciously, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
It took a moment before you realized your hand had stilled against his chest, resting there now, fingers splayed.
You stopped. Your breath caught a little. And then, slowly, as if drawn by a magnetic pull, you lifted your eyes to meet his. He was already looking at you.
His expression was unreadable, but his breath had changed. It was deeper now, heavier. His chest rose and fell more rapidly beneath your palm, and you could feel the heat radiating off his skin through the fabric. His jaw was clenched ever so slightly. His pupils were wide. Your hand stayed right where it was, and your eyes didn’t leave his. Something changed.
The air around you seemed to grow heavier, thicker with electricity. Time slowed to a crawl as you stood there, caught in the eye of a storm neither of you dared move through. Your eyes flicked, just for a heartbeat, from his eyes to his lips, and back.
And then again.
Bob noticed. Of course he did. He wasn’t blind and your message was clear. And God, he wanted to kiss you. He ached to kiss you. He wanted to lean in, press his lips to yours and melt into you. He wanted to taste the salt of your tears, hold your face in his hands, and give you something good—something real.
And more than that…
He wanted to take away your pain, rewrite the damage Walker had done, show you what it felt like to be touched by someone who actually loved every piece of you. But he didn’t move.
Instead, his hands tightened slightly on your shoulders, not out of passion, but restraint. He took a deep breath, forcing oxygen into lungs that were already burning, and then… he looked away. Slowly. Reluctantly.
His eyes dropped to the ground, his jaw flexing with visible frustration, and his hands fell from your shoulders, landing limply at his sides.
He was pulling back. The rejection wasn’t cruel or cold, but it still hurt. Bob cleared his throat, his voice lower than usual and strained at the edges as he forced out a casual tone that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“How about… we get out for a bit today? Walk around the city. Just clear your head. Focus on something else.”
He didn’t look at you right away, as if the tension between you hadn’t just nearly boiled over.
The second he took a step back, creating distance between your bodies, you felt the warmth fade. Like stepping away from a fire. You exhaled softly and nodded.
“Yeah,” you said, your voice small. “Sure. Why not…” And though you smiled, it didn’t quite reach your eyes.
You spent the entire day wandering the winding streets of Paris, letting the city pull you into its charm one moment at a time. The two of you had no real plan, which made everything feel lighter — freer.
You visited quaint little art galleries hidden behind ivy-covered buildings, sampled pastries that tasted like heaven in flaky, buttery form, and wandered through the bookstalls by the Seine, where Bob picked up a dusty old volume of French poetry and pretended to read it in the most exaggerated accent, just to hear you laugh again.
And you did laugh. Again and again.
God, every time that beautiful sound burst out of you, it hit Bob right in the chest — like a beam of sunlight cutting through the fog that had been hanging over him ever since he met you. That laugh of yours… it lit him up inside. It made his heart ache and race all at once. He’d do anything to hear it again.
You two made memories — not loud ones, not dramatic, just yours. Feeding pigeons by the Notre-Dame. Getting slightly lost in Montmartre and not caring one bit. Sitting on a bench with crepes in hand, talking about everything and nothing. You snapped a photo of Bob mid-bite with chocolate on his lip, and the scandalized look on his face nearly made you choke from laughing.
It was perfect.
And maybe that’s why saying goodbye to Paris felt like more than just leaving a city. It felt like leaving a bubble. A space in time where you and Bob were just you two, away from the mess, the labels, the heartbreak.
But that bubble was about to burst.
Back in your hotel room, the bags were packed, the mission done, and the private jet was set to pick you both up in two hours. You sat together on the bed in the late afternoon light, warm orange spilling across the room as if trying to hold on to the moment too.
You were playing Uno. And you were absolutely demolishing him.
“What?! How is that possible?” Bob barked in disbelief as you laid down your final card with a smug grin.
You shrugged innocently, clearly enjoying his suffering. “What can I say? I’m just a natural-born champion.”
Bob narrowed his eyes at you, lips twitching, like he wanted to be annoyed, but couldn’t help smiling.
You scooped the cards back into a pile, starting to shuffle with practiced ease. There was a comfortable silence between you. The kind that only comes when two people have shared something real.
Bob watched you quietly, his elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on your hands and how effortlessly they moved. And as he looked at you, something stirred in his chest again — that question. The question. The one he’d been carrying around since the moment it happened.
He swallowed hard and finally took a breath. “Can I ask you something?”
You looked up from the cards, your eyes soft, open. “Sure.”
Bob hesitated, then asked, “Why did you kiss me? In the elevator…”
There it was.
Your eyes widened slightly, only for a second. And then you looked away, down at the cards in your hands. You stopped shuffling. You sighed softly, licking your lips before meeting his eyes again.
“I guess it was a mix of adrenaline and… joy. Relief. That we made it.”
Bob nodded slowly, letting out a quiet “Oh…” — but you could see the flicker of disappointment in his face. He’d hoped for something else. Something… more.
But you weren’t finished.
“And maybe it had something to do with the way you stood up to that guy. The way you protected me. It was really sweet,” you added, your voice more vulnerable now.
Bob blushed, looking away as he waved a hand dismissively. “It was nothing.”
“No, I mean it, Bob. Thank you,” you said firmly, your eyes locking onto his.
And just like that, you had him. Frozen and breathless, completely at your mercy. His throat felt dry. His heart thundered in his ears. He could barely even blink.
Then came your question, more dangerous one than Bob’s.
“Did it bother you?”
He furrowed his brow, confused. “The kiss?”
Your voice dropped to something softer, sensual.
“Yeah… Did it bother you?”
Bob’s breath hitched. He shook his head rapidly, almost too fast.
“No. No, not at all—God, no—”
“Do you want another one?”
You cut him off with that question, and it landed like a thunderclap. Bob froze. That was the last thing he expected. You, offering. Now.
He stared at you, stunned, his brain racing a mile a minute. Of course he wanted. He’d been craving it ever since. But then… there was John. The tangled, painful mess waiting back home.
But you… you looked so hopeful. So beautiful.
Your lips were soft and red, parted just slightly. Your hair was falling over your shoulder in waves, your eyes were glowing like firelight. He couldn’t resist. God help him, he didn’t want to resist.
He nodded. And he didn’t have to say a word. You knew.
You smiled — not just any smile, but that smile. The one that made his knees weak. Then, without breaking eye contact, you slowly set the cards aside, placing them neatly on the bed beside you. And then you crawled toward him. Graceful. Confident. Predatory.
Bob sat still, paralyzed by the sight of you on all fours, moving closer like some stunning, slow-motion dream. His cock throbbed instantly, hardening just from watching you approach like that — seductive, playful, powerful.
You moved right up to him, your face inches from his, and the tension was scorching. His breath caught in his throat.
You were close enough now that he could smell your perfume. Your eyes flicked to his lips again, and he swore his heart was going to leap out of his chest.
You were so close. So damn close. And Bob had never wanted anything more in his entire life.
You leaned in even closer, your lips now grazing his, teasing and testing the boundaries, seeing how far you could push before he finally snapped.
You were driving Bob insane, tormenting him in the best possible way. His fingers curled into tight fists at his sides, every muscle in his body screaming to act, to grab you, to kiss you until you forgot your own name.
But he held back. God, it took everything in him not to just lose it.
Your closeness, the way your breath mixed with his, how your mouth hovered barely an inch away from his—it was like torture. A sweet, slow burn spreading through every inch of his body. He clenched his jaw, trying to ground himself, trying not to completely lose control. But the tension between you was unbearable, like a lit match floating in gasoline.
You could barely hold it together either. Bob had been pulling you in like a magnet for a while now, but this? This was overwhelming. The way he smelled, the way his breath trembled under your presence, the way his growing erection strained against the fabric of his pants, even as he adorably tried to shift and hide it. You couldn’t take it anymore.
You gave in.
Your lips melted into his in a long, slow kiss. Nothing hurried, nothing rough. It was gentle, almost reverent. No roaming hands, no gasps or moans. Just a kiss. It was like the world had stilled, and all that existed was this connection, this breath between you.
But one kiss wasn’t enough. Not after all this time.
So you went in for another. Then another. And before you knew it, everything unraveled. The kisses turned hungry, desperate, messy. You were both gasping between them, your mouths colliding again and again, a tangled symphony of want and restraint falling apart. The slick, wet sounds of your lips filled the hotel room, echoing the firestorm of tension that had been brewing for far too long.
Bob couldn’t believe it was happening.
For a brief moment, he thought he must’ve fallen asleep. That this was some dream his lonely mind had conjured. But then he felt your fingers sliding up his neck, grounding him in reality. You were real. This was real. And his mind couldn’t comprehend how lucky he was to be here, like this, with you.
A low, guttural moan escaped him into the kiss, he tried to hold it back, not wanting to overwhelm you. He didn’t want to be too much, even if every nerve in his body was screaming to press you down against the bed and ruin you sweetly. But then you reached for his hands. You guided them to your hips, gently placing them there like an invitation—like a green light.
And God, Bob didn’t need more than that.
He squeezed your hips just a little, testing how far you’d let him go. Then his hands started exploring, sliding over your waist, your back, your sides like he needed to memorize the shape of you. His touch was strong but reverent, shaky with restraint but burning with desire. Your kisses turned deeper. Hotter. Sloppier.
You could barely breathe between them. His hands kept roaming, your mouths didn’t part for more than a second at a time, and your fingers tangled into the back of his hair while you moaned softly against his lips.
There was no doubt now, this wasn’t just a kiss anymore. It was the start of something that neither of you would be able, or willing, to stop.
The kisses became uncontrollable.
You weren’t even trying to hold back anymore. Your mouths moved in frantic, hungry rhythm—desperate and messy, teeth grazing, tongues tangling, lips crashing like you’d both been starving for this. Like you needed it to breathe. Like nothing else existed except this moment.
The air was thick, electric, your heart racing so loud you could feel it in your throat.
Bob moaned against your lips again, low and helpless, like he was falling apart in your hands. And in a way, he was.
You were everything he wanted—everything he had tried to resist. And now, now that he had the taste of you on his lips, he knew he was doomed. He couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop. Your fingers tugged at the hem of his shirt, almost as if asking for permission—but really, you weren’t asking. You needed him closer. Now.
You tugged hard.
Bob gasped into your mouth as you yanked at his shirt, and in the heat of it all, your bodies stumbled together onto the bed—him landing above you, your back hitting the soft mattress, and his weight pressing you down in the most intoxicating way.
And God, he looked down at you like he was witnessing something holy.
His breath was ragged, lips parted, chest rising and falling fast. His eyes darted over your face, then lower—your lips, your neck, your chest—and he looked absolutely wrecked by the sight of you.
“You have no idea… how long I’ve wanted this,” he breathed, his voice deep, rough, almost shaking. “You’re—fuck, you’re so perfect… You drive me insane…”
His words were messy, desperate, half-breathed into your mouth as he leaned back down to kiss you again. This time, it was slower—but burning, needy. Like he wanted to savor you and devour you all at once.
You could feel him, hard and throbbing against your thigh, his hips pressing into yours with barely contained urgency. And your hands? They were everywhere. Under his shirt, across his warm back, digging into the curve of his shoulder blades—feeling the strength, the heat, the way his muscles tensed with every motion.
“You’re unreal,” he whispered again, and the praise sent chills straight down your spine. His lips traveled from your mouth to your jaw, down to your neck, and he groaned when he felt you arch into him. “So beautiful… so soft…”
He was losing himself in you. In the way your body reacted to his. In the way you clutched at him, gasped when his teeth grazed your skin, whimpered when his hands roamed lower.
Clothes started disappearing fast—your shirt was up and off before you even realized he’d tugged it. His own was thrown somewhere on the floor without a care. Then your legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him even closer, and the friction made you both groan in unison.
Your fingers traced down his chest, drinking in the heat of his bare skin, the shiver in his muscles, the way he hissed softly when your nails scraped over his abs. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours as his fingers fumbled with the waistband of your pants.
“I need you,” he confessed, the words slipping out between panting breaths. “I can’t think—I just… I need to feel all of you…”
And you needed him too. Every inch of him. The weight of his body, the roughness of his hands, the worship in his touch. You helped him push your pants down, his right after, until you were tangled together, skin on skin, mouths locked, hands roaming like you were mapping each other with every stroke.
You moaned into his mouth as he pressed his hips into yours again, bare, hard, and trembling with anticipation.
Every touch sent a jolt through you. Every kiss left you aching. And the sound of Bob praising you—moaning about how much he wanted you, how incredible you were, had your whole body on fire.
You were both completely bare now, tangled together in the dim light of the hotel room.
His body hovered just above yours, one strong arm keeping his weight off you, the other hand trailing softly along your side—down your ribs, over your hip, across the curve of your thigh. The room felt overheated, or maybe it was just the two of you, flushed and gasping, your bodies trembling with need.
Bob’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, sweat already forming at his temples. His eyes scanned your face like he was trying to memorize every feature—like he couldn’t believe this was real. His forehead nearly touched yours, and he whispered your name like a prayer.
Then he felt it.
Your wetness—warm, slick, pooling beneath you and soaking into the mattress. The heat of you against his thigh, the soft, needy sounds slipping past your lips… it was too much. He felt his cock twitch, precum smearing across your skin, and he groaned, low and broken.
“Jesus…” he breathed, his voice was hoarse, ragged with restraint. You felt his fingers glide between your thighs, spreading your slick gently, reverently. His touch was careful and worshipful, but charged—like every brush of his fingertips carried volts of desire.
You gasped, back arching slightly as he teased you. Every touch made your skin burn in the best way. He kissed down your neck, lips soft and slow, like he didn’t want to rush—but you could feel the tension in his body, the tightness in his grip, the sheer willpower it took not to just lose control.
“You feel like heaven,” he murmured into your skin. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you…”
You reached up, your hands cradling his face, and your voice came out breathless but sure. “Yes, you do. Every second of this. Every inch of me.”
Bob’s eyes fluttered shut. A soft, trembling exhale left his lips before he opened them again, eyes burning into yours.
“Can I…?” he whispered, his voice thick with need but still full of care. “Please, can I be inside you?”
You didn’t wait. You nodded, eagerly, before he could even finish the question. That was all he needed.
He lined himself up, the thick tip of his cock nudging at your entrance. The heat between you was unbearable now, your legs wrapping around his waist as he slowly pushed forward.
And you were ready. So ready.
Your slickness welcomed him in, your walls stretching around him so perfectly it was almost too much. You both gasped at once, his name slipping from your lips in a whisper, while he let out a deep, guttural moan.
“God—” he breathed, barely able to hold himself still. “You feel… Jesus, you feel so good—”
He wanted to move fast, hard, deep, but he didn’t. Not yet.
Even with how desperately he wanted you, Bob was careful, tender. His hips moved slowly at first, letting you adjust, letting himself not fall apart instantly. His lips found yours again, this time with pure adoration. His hands gripped your hips, his thumbs brushing gentle circles into your skin.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered between kisses. “You’re everything. You’re all I’ve ever wanted.”
You whimpered against his mouth, rolling your hips up to meet his, silently begging for more. And he gave it to you. Inch by inch, thrust by thrust, the pace building gradually, steadily, until every movement had your breath hitching, your nails digging into his back.
Your bodies were slick, writhing, tangled in the sheets and in each other. The way he touched you, firm but cherishing, hot but reverent, made your whole body tremble. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, your lips again, whispering praises that had your heart melting and your core tightening.
And with every word, every thrust, every deep moan against your ear, you felt it too. Not just the pleasure, but the connection. The meaning behind it. The way he worshipped you, not just your body, but all of you.
And you were his. At least for tonight, in this moment, you were his completely.
The mattress creaked beneath your bodies, a quiet rhythm that matched your breathing. Shallow, desperate and tangled.
Every thrust sent waves of heat crashing through your nerves. He moved deep, steady, like he knew exactly how to take you apart and you were coming undone beneath him.
Your fingers gripped the sheets. His hair stuck to his forehead in damp strands, eyes dark with intensity and tenderness all at once but you swear from time to time, you could see a flickering of yellow glow in his pupils.
You could feel the muscles in his arms trembling slightly as he held himself over you, pushing in again and again, slow but deep, deliciously stretching.
You gasped, arching your back as another deep thrust sent sparks exploding behind your eyes.
“Bob—” you whimpered, nails dragging across his back. “Oh god, don’t stop—”
He dipped his head to kiss your throat, your collarbone, your jaw. Then suddenly, his hand reached for yours – he laced your fingers together, warm and strong, and guided your hand downward.
You blinked in surprise, breath caught in your throat. His voice rumbled low, filled with hunger and curiosity.
“Show me,” he murmured, placing your hand between your thighs. And then, he slipped his hand under yours. “Show me how you like it.”
Your whole body tensed. You hadn’t expected that. You were still panting, barely able to form words, but your hips shifted instinctively.
And so you guided him – showing him the pressure, the rhythm, the spot.
“Oh…” he muttered, catching on fast. His fingers picked up your pattern, teasing your clit in slow, precise circles, exactly the way you liked it. “Like this?”
Your head fell back with a moan. “Yes—fuck, yes.”
While he continued to move inside you, he never stopped playing with your clit – adapting to every little reaction of your body. You clenched around him, trembling. Your moans grew louder, higher, more desperate.
The bed groaned beneath your bodies as the pace increased, his hips slapping softly against yours now. Bob was close – you could feel it in the way his rhythm faltered slightly, in the way he buried his face into your neck, groaning deep into your skin.
And then he grunted and shifted. In one fluid motion, he flipped your bodies. Now you were on top of him, straddling his hips. Your palms landed on his chest, breath ragged, eyes wide with surprise.
His hands moved to your hips, clearly telling you to continue withou any words.
Your thighs were shaking, your body already tired, but he helped guide you – lifting his hips up to meet yours, thrusting into you from below. He never stopped touching you. One hand moved between your bodies, fingers circling your clit again as you rode him, slow and messy.
Your moans turned into cries, the pleasure building higher and higher as he kept you right there – perfectly on edge. You leaned forward, forehead against his, your chest pressed to his as his name slipped past your lips like a prayer.
He was panting hard, trying to hold on for you, to make sure you came with him.
You could feel it building inside you – that electric pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your core. Every stroke, every circle of his fingers dragged you closer, made your thighs shake, your breath stutter. Your hands clutched at his chest, fingernails digging into sweat-slick skin as your moans rose in pitch.
“Bob—” you gasped, your voice breaking. “I’m— I’m gonna—”
“I know, baby. Let go,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours, wild and dark and desperate. And then it hit you.
Your orgasm slammed through you like a wave crashing against the shore. Your entire body arched, lips parting in a strangled cry as your walls clamped down hard around him. Sparks exploded behind your eyes. Your vision blurred, jaw falling open as the pleasure flooded your system in pulsing, endless waves.
“Fuck—oh my god—!” you choked out, legs trembling uncontrollably. Bob groaned deep beneath you, his hips stuttering.
“God—damn, you’re so—so perfect—”
His voice broke into a rough growl as your orgasm milked him, your body shaking on top of him. His grip on your hips tightened, and then, with a strangled grunt, he came.
Bob’s whole body tensed beneath you, muscles rigid, breath caught. His head fell back against the pillows, mouth open in a raw, breathy moan. You felt the pulse of him inside you, hot and deep, and the way his hands trembled against your skin as he held you down on him, not wanting to let go.
“Ahh—f-fuck,” he groaned, voice cracked with the force of his climax.
For a moment, everything stopped. Just the sound of your heartbeat in your ears, your breath mixing with his, bodies shaking against each other. You collapsed against his chest, boneless, completely overwhelmed.
Bob wrapped his arms around you, one hand still stroking lightly over your thigh, grounding you.
“You okay?” he whispered into your hair, his voice soft now, reverent. You just nodded against his chest, still trying to breathe, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your ears.
For a while, neither of you moved. Your cheek rested against his shoulder, the steady thump of his heart loud and comforting beneath your ear. Then slowly, lazily, you rolled off of him—your hips lifting, a soft wet sound escaping as he slipped out of you.
You both groaned at the same time, your voices blending in low, exhausted tones.
Your combined release was… well, nearly everywhere – between your thighs, on your skin, smeared across the sheets. A delicious mess. You didn’t even care.
You shifted closer again, curling into his side and resting your hand on his chest. His skin was still hot to the touch. You watched the rise and fall of his breath – still rapid, then slowly calming – and felt a deep, quiet satisfaction flood your veins. Your body was light, weightless. Your mind? Blissfully empty.
No other man had ever made you come like that. Not even close. Honestly, they could all learn something from Bob fucking Reynolds.
Bob, meanwhile, was still staring at the ceiling like he was afraid this was a dream.
He couldn’t believe it. After all those months of quiet, aching longing, after wanting you so badly it hurt, you were now lying there, completely naked, tangled up in him like you belonged there. His heart swelled, his pulse only just returning to normal. His hand found your shoulder, and he began to trace slow, lazy circles with his fingertip.
But then… the silence got too loud.
And those thoughts came back. The ones that never truly left him alone. The ones that pushed their way into his mind, even when everything felt perfect.
John.
You were still with John. Or at least… you hadn’t broken up. And Bob—well, Bob had just slept with someone else’s girlfriend. Even if that someone had hurt you. Even if he’d cheated on you first.
But… had John actually slept with that girl in his phone? Or was it just the filthy messages? Bob’s voice cut through the quiet, low and uncertain.
“Are you gonna tell John?”
You didn’t answer at first. Your eyes were closed, your body relaxed, still floating in that perfect post-orgasm haze.
“I don’t know,” you murmured finally, voice sleepy, as if the question barely reached you.
That wasn’t enough for Bob. His anxiety rarely let him rest, and this moment was no different.
“Won’t he be mad?” he asked again, softer this time.
You sighed, clearly not in the mood. You had forgotten just how much Bob overthinks everything. Even now. Even after… that.
You groaned and pushed yourself up on your elbow, meeting his eyes. He looked worried. Vulnerable. You knew him well, knew how even the smallest crack in something could unravel him completely.
“Hey,” you said gently, brushing your fingers along his cheek. “I don’t want to think about that right now, okay? I just want to enjoy this moment… let it hang in the air for a while.”
Bob exhaled, nodding slowly. You were right. As always. Silence returned for a moment, this time softer. More settled.
You let your fingers begin to wander across his chest again, lightly dancing over his skin, teasingly seductive.
“But…” you added with a little smirk, “we do have quite a bit of time before the jet comes to pick us up…”
Bob raised an eyebrow, eyes trailing down to your fingers and then back to your face.
“Oh? And what exactly are you implying?
He knew. Of course he knew. But he wanted to hear you say it. Needed the confirmation. You leaned in, whispered into his ear with a sly smile:
“That we could go for another round.”
Bob let out a breathy laugh and shook his head in disbelief.
“You’re not tired?”
You raised an eyebrow, playful.
“Do I look tired?”
No. You didn’t. You looked radiant—flushed, glowing, gorgeous. Like a dream that had come to life just for him. Bob stared at you for a moment longer, full of wonder and something dangerously close to love, then sighed in mock defeat.
“God, you’re gonna kill me,” he muttered.
And then his hand was at the back of your neck, pulling you in again for another hungry, breath-stealing kiss.
You did, in fact, have more than enough time before the jet arrived. And by the time it did, you were both absolutely wrecked.
But it was so, so worth it.
THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!
I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.
summary: you should’ve known that a secret relationship with john while living with spies could only last so long. so, you’re not exactly shocked when yelena bursts into your room and finds you both in bed.
word count: 1.2k
a/n: reader has ice powers
“God, you’re so fucking beautiful.” John said. His voice came out soft and gentle. You couldn’t see his face in the dark room, but you could perfectly imagine that soft doting smile.
His limbs were intertwined with yours, perfectly melded together under the sheets. The mixture of the warmth his body was radiating and the feeling of his arms wrapped around yours made your whole body relax and feel fuzzy.
He nuzzled his face further into your neck, pressing kisses down your collarbone. “It’s getting late. You should head back to your room before you fall asleep.” You tried to pull out of his grasp.
His grip around your waist tightened, not letting you leave his side. “What if I stayed over tonight? Just wanna keep on holding you,” he said, peppering kisses on your face.
“It’s too risky. What if someone sees you leave my room in the morning? Or if they go to your room and can’t find you?” You made excuses. Of course, you didn’t want John to leave.
Your relationship existed strictly behind closed doors. Neither of you wanted to mess with the team dynamics. If they found out that you both were dating, you both would never hear the end of it.
So, you both settled for late nights in each others arms before one of you snuck out to go back to your own room.
“Please, sweetheart? I’ll wake up early and go back to my room. I just want to fall asleep with you in my arms, just this one time.” He begged you, sealing your lips in a kiss. You melted into the kiss, your hands sneaking around to the nape of his neck.
“Fine, but just for tonight,” You mumbled, against his lips.
“God, I love you.” He said, covering your face in kisses. You couldn’t help but giggle at the affection. “You’re such a dork. Now go to sleep.” You said, laying your head down on his chest.
You both should’ve known that secrets were absolutely a no-go in a tower full of spies.
Because while you both were falling asleep, unbeknownst to you, Bob, Yelena, and Ava were all in the kitchen. Yelena was making them all macaroni and cheese as a late night snack.
She left the kitchen for only a couple minutes, instructing Bob to watch the pan. When she came back, the pot was on fire and Bob and Ava were scrambling to find the fire extinguisher.
“How do we not have a fire extinguisher? How are we supposed to put out fires?” Ava snapped at Bob.
“What did you do?” Yelena yelled, watching the flames that were slowly growing out of the pan. She turned on her heel, running down the hall to your room to see you— the member of the team who had ice powers. It was the only solution Yelena could think of.
She slammed your door open, standing in the doorway. “We need your help in the kitchen.” She yelled, waking you up. The room was so dark that her eyes took a minute to adjust.
“Who started a fire this time?” You mumbled as you sat up and stretched the sleep from the muscles.
“What’s going on?” John grumbled beside you.
You froze as he spoke. You quickly swatted his side, pulling the blankets over his head. It was too late. Yelena had heard him.
“Walker? What the hell?” She asked, standing speechless.
“What were you saying about a fire?” You asked, quickly jumping out of bed and trying to distract her.
She stood frozen in place, trying to react to what she’d just walked in on. You raced past her towards the kitchen, tying your hair up in a ponytail.
When you got to the kitchen, you saw Bob and Ava trying to splash water on the fire. “What is going on?” A sleepy Bucky wandered into the room, followed closely by Alexei.
You shot a quick blast of frost over the pot, quelling the flames down. A soft sizzle filled the room as the pan cooled down.
“I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful next time.” Bob quickly apologized, giving you a sympathetic smile.
“You’re not getting off the hook that easy.” You heard Yelena yell as she rounded the corner, dragging John behind her.
“Yelena, c’mon seriously? Let me go.” John tried to pull himself out of her grip but she was more determined than he was.
“Wanna explain to the group why Walker was in your bed?” Yelena asked, looking at you.
The room was silent for a second, and then it exploded into chaos. Your teammates’ shock was clear as they all yelled at you and John. They asked questions like “why didn’t you tell us?” and “you guys are together?” and “how long have you been together?”
You couldn’t focus on what any of them were saying as all their voices blended into a large mess of noise.
Alexei was the first to step towards you. “I’m so happy for you both. Powerful heroes brought together with love.” He said, lifting you off the ground in a bear hug.
“I’m very happy for you two. But can I go back to bed now?” Bucky asked, grumpily.
“Go ahead,” you giggled as Alexei continued to hold you up in the air. You squirmed, trying to get down.
Finally, he set you back on your feet. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell us.” Ava said, looking between the two of you.
“That’s the point of a secret.” John said, walking over to you and looping his arm around your waist. They all resisted the urge to “aww” at the sweet gesture.
“Ewww wait does that mean…when I heard gross sex noises the other day from Walker’s room that was you two.” Yelena said, shuddering at the thought.
You smacked John’s chest. “I told you that we weren’t home alone, and you didn’t believe me.” You hissed at him.
“That’s disgusting. I’m going to bed.” Ava said, leaving the room.
“So, you knew I was seeing somebody?” John asked, looking back at Yelena. Thinking about it, you were surprised they hadn’t found out sooner.
“Well yeah but I just thought it was some girl we didn’t know, so there weren’t any mental images. God, I’m never going to get that image out of my head.” She said, disgusted.
“Well, I’m really happy for you guys.” Bob said, giving you both a cheerful smile. You nestled further into John’s side. “Thanks, Bobby.” John said.
“I think we should be proud of them. That’s the job of us super soldiers— to make more smaller little super soldier babies.” Alexei said, nudging John with his arm.
John froze and his cheeks turned pink. You both had worried about the team being apprehensive, but this was too far in the other direction. “That’s my cue to leave. My girlfriend and I are going to bed now.” He said, grabbing your hand and pulling you with him.
“Yes, go continue your family line.” Alexei cheered after you both.
John quickly pulled you back to your room. “You better love me because we are locking ourselves in this room forever and never facing them again.” He said, as he collapsed into your bed.
“Sounds like good plan to me.” You said, curling up into his side.
Summary: John can't get over the fact that you two never even dated, and he wants more from you than your current arrangement of coworkers, occasional friends, and friends with benefits.
A/N: I've had this in my drafts for ages and kept changing it every time I went to write it, I physically have no idea what number draft this ended up being. It was supposed to be smut, but it ended up not happening. I also figured he was going to win the poll anyway, so here it is early.
TW: Yearning - John pining for you - Friends with benefits - Slightly suggestive - Soft angst - Happy ending
Words: 5.3k
The bedside lamp cast long, distorted shadows that danced across the walls of John's apartment, a silent, flickering ballet. The window was cracked just enough to let in a soft, cool breeze, a welcome contrast to the humid air inside, carrying with it the distant symphony of New York nightlife—a cacophony of sirens, muffled laughter, and the steady thrum of traffic. John lay beneath the crisp sheets, his body a tight coil of tension. His eyes were wide open, fixed on the ceiling, one hand tucked behind his head while the other lay flat against his chest, feeling the steady, heavy thump of his own heart.
As he did most nights, he was thinking about you. His mind replayed the memories like a well-worn film. He saw the easy, genuine curve of your smile, the way your eyes would crinkle at the corners. He heard the sound of your voice, the way you'd call his name in a low, breathless whisper when he was beneath you, a sound that was both a plea and a command. He could still feel the phantom sensation of your bare skin against his—the warm press of your hips, the cool slickness of your back. He remembered the hungry way your lips felt against his heated skin, the way you looked at him as if he were a meal, all yours to devour.
A sharp breath hitched in his throat, a sound he barely recognized as his own. His eyes fell shut as he plunged deeper into the memory. He recalled the shocking sensation of your tongue dragging a slow, teasing path over his navel, the light, sharp scrape of your teeth grazing against his skin. He remembered the fire of your nails dragging down his back, tracing the line of his spine as he arched into your every touch, a willing bow to your command. In that half-dream state, he could've sworn he felt your weight above him, felt your body pressing him into the mattress below, heard the low, husky whisper of his name against his neck.
Then, just as quickly, the vision shattered. His eyes fluttered open, slowly, reluctantly. The mirage of you was gone, replaced by the familiar, dark emptiness of his room. Moonlight, stark and silver, glinted off the polished surface of his shield, propped forgotten in the corner. He let out a low huff, a mixture of frustration and longing, and pushed himself up. The blankets pooled around his waist, a heavy, suffocating weight.
Reaching for his bedside table, his fingers fumbled in the dark for his phone, the charging cable a tangled mess. The screen lit up with a jarring brightness when he swiped it open, the time a stark reminder of his solitude: nearly two in the morning. Surely you were asleep, lost to your own dreams, but the thought didn't stop him. He scrolled through his contacts, his finger hovering over your name. His mind raced, a frantic torrent of justifications and doubts, and his heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm against the quiet of the room.
Your relationship was a strange and fragile thing, a secret shame you two kept locked between yourselves. You were coworkers, two people constantly at each other's throats, as if the two of you had something to prove. To the world, you two were nothing more than a grudging partnership, two outcasts forced to work together. You were hardly friends, but were more than coworkers. Friends with benefits, he supposed, a label that felt both accurate and terribly incomplete. It was a purely physical arrangement at first, a mutual need for release, a way to forget the constant pressure and public scorn that dogged the two of you. Hate sex, some might call it. But lately, it felt like something else entirely. It was a desperate, almost primal need when one of you needed to forget whatever was eating yourselves alive inside. And tonight, it was you, consuming him from the inside out. He was craving you, your touch, your presence, in ways he had never craved anyone or anything before.
With a final, decisive breath, John reluctantly pressed the call button, putting the phone to his ear. After a few rings, a lifetime of anticipation in each one, you answered. He was surprised; he hadn't truly expected you to be awake, let alone answer his late-night call.
"John?" Your voice was a low, sleep-heavy rumble that sent a shiver down his spine.
He felt his heart skip a beat at the sound of his name, spoken with such a quiet intimacy. "Hey," he whispered, his own voice sounding thin and small in the cavern of the night. "What are you doing right now?”
You let out a soft sigh on the other end of the line, a sound that was both weary and laced with a hint of knowing amusement. John could hear the faint groan of your bedsprings as you shifted, followed by a low grunt as you settled into a more comfortable position. The sound painted a vivid picture in his mind: you, lying in your own bed, alone but not alone, listening to the silence of your room.
"You didn't have to call, John," you said, your voice a low, husky rumble that seemed to fill his small room. "You know you could have just shown up."
He scratched at the stubble on his chin, a nervous habit. You were right, of course. John wasn't an idiot. He was acutely aware that you knew exactly why he was calling, why he was breaking the unspoken rules of your arrangement. Why else would he be calling another man at nearly two in the morning, his heart a frantic drumbeat in his chest, his mind filled with memories of your touch? He didn't have an excuse, not a good one, anyway. He just couldn't bring himself to show up uninvited, to risk the possibility of you turning him away.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cool floor a sudden shock against his bare feet. The blankets fell away, a discarded weight. He was already moving, already reaching for the clothes he'd left draped over a chair, his body acting on a need his mind was still trying to rationalize.
"Yeah," he mumbled, the word barely a whisper. "I'll be there soon."
The line went silent for a moment before he heard the gentle click of you hanging up. He stood in the quiet darkness of his room, the moon's light still glinting off his shield in the corner, and felt a surge of both relief and apprehension. Soon, he wouldn't be alone. Soon, the memories would become real again.
With a fresh wave of adrenaline, John dressed quickly, the movements practiced and efficient. He pulled on a pair of dark jeans and a worn t-shirt, not bothering with anything more. The elevator ride down felt endless, and the hum of the city seemed to get louder as he stepped out onto the street. He hailed a cab, giving your address from memory, the details burned into his mind from all the times he'd dropped you off after a long night.
The taxi pulled up to your building, the streetlights casting a hazy orange glow. John paid the driver and stepped out, the cool night air hitting him with a jolt. He pushed open the heavy front door, the bell chiming quietly as he walked through the lobby to the elevator. He didn't have to check the floor number; he knew it by heart, just like he knew the pattern of the tiles on the floor and the faint scent of stale cigarette smoke that always lingered in the hall.
He found himself standing outside your door, his hand hovering over the bell. He could hear the faint murmur of a television inside. For a moment, he hesitated, a sliver of doubt creeping in. Was this a mistake? Was he overstepping? The thought was fleeting. He took a deep breath, dropped his hand to his side, and simply knocked. The sound was surprisingly loud in the quiet hallway.
The door opened after a few seconds. You were standing there, a soft, oversized hoodie hanging loosely on your frame, your hair a mess. You didn't say anything, but your eyes held a look that was both weary and knowing. You simply stepped back, leaving the door open in a silent invitation. John walked past you, the warmth of your apartment a stark contrast to the cold outside. He didn't look at you as he closed the door behind him. He just stood there for a moment, the silence between you thick with a thousand unspoken words.
Finally, John turned to face you. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until he let it out in a slow, silent exhale. He took you in, really seeing you for the first time in what felt like forever, and was struck by how much he hadn't been paying attention. There was the dark stubble on your face, a few days' worth of growth that he hadn't noticed before. Your hair was slightly longer, the curls on the back of your neck almost touching your collar. He saw the dark circles under your eyes—deep, bruised-looking bags that spoke of restless nights and long days. His gaze drifted to your nose, noticing for the first time the subtle but definite crookedness that spoke of a life lived on the edge, broken one too many times.
You walked past him, your movements fluid and quiet. Your hands found the hem of the soft, oversized hoodie you were wearing, and you pulled it up and over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it onto the back of the couch. As you moved, John's eyes were drawn to the muscles in your back—more defined, harder than he remembered. He saw the faint, jagged scar running across your pec, a mark he'd never noticed before, most likely from your time in the military. It was a brand on your skin, a silent testament to a life he only knew bits and pieces of.
John's mind raced, a frantic question pounding in his head: Why was he noticing all of this now? Why, in the quiet, tense space of your apartment, was he suddenly seeing every single detail, every small change, as if you were a new person entirely? He had been with you countless times, felt your skin against his, run his hands over your back, yet these details had never registered until this very moment. He felt a sudden, overwhelming sense of being an outsider looking in, of having missed so much of who you were.
You stopped halfway to your bedroom, turning to face him. One eyebrow was cocked in silent question. John, caught in his own thoughts, was still staring, his gaze now fixed on the way your boxers rode low on your hips, a distraction to keep his mind from the deeper observations he'd just made. He took in the way the fabric hugged your body, the taut line of your stomach, anything to get his thoughts away from the deeper things he was noticing.
You crossed your arms over your chest, a small, knowing smirk playing on your lips. "Something wrong, John?" you asked, your voice a low, teasing challenge.
John's head snapped up, his mouth parting slightly. He shook his head, a blush creeping up his neck. "No," he mumbled, his voice rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat. "No, you just… you look good. I just haven't… noticed until now."
You hummed in response, a low, noncommittal sound. You chose to ignore the strangeness of his words, the weight of his gaze. Instead, you simply turned and continued your walk to the bedroom, leaving him standing alone in the living room, a man adrift in a sea of unspoken emotions.
John remained rooted in the living room for a moment, the strange, heavy silence of the apartment settling around him. He felt like an intruder, a guest who had overstayed his welcome before he had even been offered a seat. But the sight of you walking away, that simple, silent invitation, was enough. He took a deep breath and began to follow you.
He moved slowly, deliberately, as if in a trance. He reached for the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it up and over his head, the fabric catching for a moment on his hair. He tossed it onto the couch, joining your discarded hoodie. He unbuttoned his jeans with a soft sigh and let them fall to the floor, stepping out of them and leaving them in a crumpled heap. He was now just in his boxers, the same way you were. He stood in the doorway of your bedroom, the frame a silent border between the two of you, watching you.
The room was dimly lit, the only light coming from a small lamp on your nightstand. You were sitting on the edge of your bed, your head bowed as you ran your hands through your hair. The air in the room was warm and smelled faintly of your cologne and something else, something uniquely yours, a scent he craved on most nights. He felt a sudden, powerful need to close the distance between them, to feel the warmth of your skin against his, to finally quiet the frantic rhythm of his heart.
John walked into the room, the scent of you, of your space, wrapping around him like a second skin. He knelt on the floor in front of you, the worn rug soft beneath his knees. He looked up, his eyes half-lidded, his gaze a mix of vulnerability and raw desire.
You, in turn, looked down at him. Your hand, slow and deliberate, came up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing against his bottom lip, the soft skin of his mouth, and lingered there. You tilted his head up slightly, forcing him to meet your gaze, your eyes searching his. The air between you was charged, thick with unspoken feelings and a longing that had been building for weeks. The touch was gentle, but the meaning behind it was anything but.
"So," you began, your voice a soft rumble. You broke the silence between you, pulling him out of his reverie. "How do you want to do this?"
It was an unspoken rule between the two of you—a boundary that had always been understood. Whoever initiated the encounter, whoever gave in first, was the one who got to decide how it would go. The question hung in the air, a silent challenge and a fragile offer of control.
John leaned into your touch, his breath fanning across your palm. The air was thick with the weight of his need, his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic rhythm that echoed in his ears. His eyes, still half-lidded, seemed to be begging for something more than just a physical release.
"I need you," he whispered, his voice a low, raspy sound that barely disturbed the silence of the room. "I want you."
It wasn't his typical needy tone, the one that was filled with a frantic desperation to forget. This was different. There was an underlying desire in his voice, a raw vulnerability you couldn't quite place. It was a want that was deeper, more profound than anything he'd ever admitted to before.
John moved closer, his head resting against your thigh as he looked up at you from behind his long lashes. His hands came to rest on the bed beside you, his fingers flexing and unflexing in a silent plea.
A slow, half-smile spread across your lips, a hint of genuine warmth softening the hard lines of your face. "I'm not sure what's gotten into you, John," you murmured, your voice barely a whisper, "but I'm not complaining."
You gently moved your hand from his cheek, the loss of your touch a sudden absence he felt keenly. You got up from the edge of the bed, and John's gaze followed you as you rose. Without a word, he shifted, a silent, almost instinctive movement as he went to lay down on the mattress, his head resting against the familiar pillows that smelled faintly of you.
You climbed onto the bed, your body moving with a fluid grace. You crawled on top of him, straddling his hips, and his hands came up to rest on your waist, holding you in place. The familiar weight of you was a comfort he craved so much—a grounding force that settled the frantic rhythm of his heart and quieted the racing thoughts in his head.
You leaned down, your lips brushing softly against John's, a feather-light promise. Your hands rested on his chest, and you could feel the rapid, frantic beat of his heart against his ribs. His muscles twitched beneath your fingers, a silent, nervous energy thrumming through his body. You realized, with a sudden clarity, that in all the times you and John had been together, you couldn't remember a single time his heart rate had been this fast. There was a desperate, almost reverent quality to his touch, a tension you were unaccustomed to.
John's eyes were closed, a low groan escaping his lips as he leaned into your touch. "I want to take it slow," he whispered, the words barely audible. "This time."
The words were like a bucket of cold water. You pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him, your brows furrowed in confusion. "Did you hit your head or something?" you asked, the sarcasm a shield against your surprise. "Last time I checked, this was never about making love.”
John's stomach twisted into a knot at that word, "love," slipping so casually from your lips. The word hung in the air between you, a heavy, unspoken accusation. Was he falling in love with you? The thought hit him with the force of a physical blow. You two had never even dated, and yet here he was, yearning for things he had never thought of before. He wanted to hold you, to call you his—his boyfriend, his lover. He wanted a future with you, not just these stolen nights. Was this the reason you always left him aching for more?
He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to breathe. He let his head sink back into the pillow, his eyes now fixed on the ceiling, unable to meet your gaze. "Forget I asked," he whispered, the words a quiet surrender to the fragile truth.
The silence that followed was thick and heavy, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the city outside and the shallow breaths of the two of you in the room. You shifted your weight, the movement a silent acknowledgment of his words. Your hand came up, your fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw. He didn't flinch away, but he didn't lean into the touch, either.
"John," you began, your voice a soft, low rumble. The name, spoken with such quiet sincerity, made him close his eyes. "You didn't ask."
He opened his eyes, meeting your gaze. Your eyes held no malice, no mockery—just a soft, quiet understanding. You leaned down, your lips brushing against his, a gentle, comforting kiss that held none of the usual urgency or hunger. It was a promise of something else, something deeper.
He closed his eyes again, his breath hitching in his throat as his hands came up to cup your face, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks. He deepened the kiss, a silent plea for more, and you responded, your lips moving in a slow, tender rhythm. The kiss was a conversation, a silent confession of a shared vulnerability. There was no desperation, only a deep, profound yearning.
John's hands tightened on your face, pulling you closer. "You don't have any idea what you do to me," he whispered against your lips, the words a raw, honest confession.
You slowly pulled away, your lips ghosting over his. He was right. You hadn't a single clue what you did to him, had no idea he wanted more than this arrangement, that it was no longer about escaping what was eating you both alive. It was now about John needing you in the way you wanted a partner to need you.
A small, knowing smile played on your lips. "Whatever it is," you whispered, your voice a low, teasing rumble, "it keeps you coming back. Glutton for punishment, aren't you, Walker?”
The teasing smirk on your lips didn't hide the underlying question in your eyes. John's hands, which had been resting on your cheeks, moved to the back of your neck, his fingers threading through your hair. He leaned in, closing the small gap between you, and kissed you again, his lips brushing yours as he spoke.
"Yeah," he murmured against your mouth, "I guess I am."
The kiss deepened, a slow, deliberate conversation that spoke volumes more than words ever could. It was a kiss of confession, of acceptance, and a silent promise of something more than just a fleeting moment in the middle of the night.
John's hands, which had been in your hair, now moved to your back, his touch gentle yet firm. He broke the kiss just long enough to sit up, his gaze never leaving yours, his eyes burning with a raw intensity. In one fluid motion, he laid you back against the mattress where he had just been, his body following yours without a moment's hesitation. The kiss resumed, deeper and more passionate than before.
John broke the kiss, his lips leaving yours with a soft, lingering pressure. He slowly began to trail a line of open-mouthed kisses, a path of fire from your lips, across your jaw, down the line of your neck, and over the curve of your shoulder. His hands moved to cup your face as his kisses continued, his lips leaving a trail of heat across your collarbone, before finally reaching your bare chest. His lips brushed against your skin, and you let out a soft sigh, your hands coming up to thread through his hair as he continued to worship your skin.
John's mouth was a searing brand against your skin, his kisses no longer slow and exploratory but hungry and desperate. He tasted you, breathed you in, and the scent of your cologne mingled with the raw, earthy scent of your skin. His hands, no longer cupping your face, moved to your hips, his fingers digging in just enough to ground you, to keep you in place as his lips blazed a path down your chest. He moved lower still, his lips brushing against the waistband of your boxers.
Your hands, which had been in his hair, now moved to his shoulders, your fingers digging in as you arched your back, a low groan escaping your lips. The room was no longer silent; it was filled with the sounds of your ragged breaths, the rustle of the sheets, and the soft, needy whimpers that escaped your lips.
John pulled away for a moment, his eyes, dark with desire, meeting yours. He moved so he was lying beside you, his arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you against his body. He kissed your forehead, your temple, the corner of your eye, each touch a gentle, loving gesture that was so far removed from the usual desperation of your encounters.
He held you, his hand splayed against the small of your back, his fingers tracing the line of your spine. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath a warm, comforting presence against your skin. "I've needed you," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I've needed you so much."
The words were a silent confession, a breaking of the last barrier between you. This was no longer about forgetting what was eating you alive. This was about remembering, about finding a place to land, a person to cling to in the chaos of your lives. This was no longer just about sex. It was about something more, something deeper, something that was just beginning.
You lay against John, his body a solid anchor in a world that felt suddenly, terrifyingly unsteady. Your brain, which had always been so good at compartmentalizing, at shoving feelings and vulnerabilities into a dark corner, was now trying to process this profound intimacy where there had usually been none. The usual script of your encounters was a dance of desperate, hungry bodies, a mutual need for release and oblivion. But this—this was a quiet confession, a fragile bridge built between two people who were supposed to be strangers with benefits.
His hand, which had been stroking the small of your back, stilled. He was a statue of coiled tension, waiting for your response. The silence hung heavy in the air, but this time it wasn't the comfortable silence of two people who knew each other's needs without words. It was a nervous, expectant silence, the kind that precedes a confession, or a rejection.
"How long?" you whispered, your voice barely audible. The question wasn't about the night, or the kiss, or his confession of need. It was about everything. It was about all the times you'd been with him, all the moments you'd brushed up against this vulnerability and walked away, choosing to ignore it. It was about all the nights he'd been lying alone in his apartment, thinking of you, wanting more. It was about finally understanding what was going through John’s head.
He let out a slow, shaky breath. "Long enough," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Long enough that I'm here, begging you to stay."
His words hung in the air between you, a silent plea and a fragile confession. This wasn't the John you knew, the one who was all sharp edges and guarded emotions. This was a man stripped bare, his heart in his hands.
You pulled away just enough to look at him, your eyes searching his in the dim light of your bedroom. "You don't have to beg," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "You never had to beg for me to stay. You never had to beg for something more."
You could almost hear his heart, the frantic rhythm of it pounding against his chest, a desperate drumbeat that echoed the longing in his eyes. His arms tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer, your bodies molding together in a perfect, fragile fit. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him, and felt the last of your own defenses crumble.
The room fell into a comfortable silence, save for the distant murmur of the city, a quiet symphony of distant sirens and muted chatter. The only other sound was the soft rustle of sheets as you pulled them over you and John, a silent, intimate gesture that spoke more than a thousand words. This was more than just a fleeting moment; it was a quiet promise, a fragile beginning.
You lay wrapped in the sheets, your body pressed against John’s, and the silence stretched between you. It was a comfortable silence now, a peaceful lull after the storm of his confession. He held you tighter, his head resting against yours, his breath a soft, warm rhythm against your neck.
"I just... I want more than this," he whispered, his voice a low rumble. "I want to wake up next to you, not just in the middle of the night. I want to know about your day. I want to be the one you call when something good happens, not just when you need to forget. I want to be your partner, not just your coworker or your… whatever we are."
His words, simple and honest, hung in the air, a fragile confession of a heart that was no longer guarded. He wasn't just talking about sex anymore; he was talking about a life with you in it. He was talking about a future, a fragile hope that he was now trusting you with.
Your brain, a jumble of emotions and thoughts you had always been so good at keeping at bay, was now trying to process everything John had just said. The quiet honesty in his voice, the simple plea for something more, was a vulnerability you had never seen in him. It was a terrifying, beautiful thing, and it made your own heart ache with a kind of hope you hadn't realized you were starving for.
You shifted in his arms, turning to face him, your eyes searching his in the dim light. You reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the faint stubble a familiar comfort against your skin. "John," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion, "I... I don't know what to say. We've never..." You trailed off, unable to find the words to describe the complicated mess of your relationship.
He simply looked at you, his eyes, dark and vulnerable, begging you to understand. "I know," he whispered. "I know it's a mess. I know it's complicated. But I can't... I can't keep doing this. I can't keep pretending that this is enough."
A tear, hot and unexpected, rolled down your cheek. You didn't even realize you were crying until John's thumb came up to gently wipe it away. "It's not enough for me either," you finally admitted, the words a raw, honest confession. "I just... I've been so scared. Scared of what this could be. Scared of what this could mean."
You buried your face in his chest, inhaling the scent of him, and felt his arms tighten around you, pulling you impossibly closer. The sound of his heart, a steady, comforting drumbeat against your ear, was the only thing that felt real.
"Me too," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Me too.”
You pulled back from his chest, your eyes still wet with tears, to look at him. His eyes, usually so guarded, were now wide open and vulnerable, reflecting the dim light of the room. He reached up, his thumb gently stroking your cheek, and he leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was a far cry from the hungry, desperate kisses you were used to. This kiss was soft, tender, and slow, a quiet promise of a future you hadn't even dared to dream of.
"I love you," he whispered against your lips, the words a gentle, fragile confession.
Your heart, which had been a frantic drumbeat in your chest, stilled. You closed your eyes, leaning into the kiss, the weight of his love a comforting presence. "I love you, too," you whispered back, the words a raw, honest confession that felt like a weight being lifted from your soul.
The words, "I love you, too," were a balm to John's soul. He pulled away from the kiss, his eyes, now glistening with a few unshed tears, searching yours. He reached up, his thumb gently stroking your cheek, and a small, genuine smile finally broke through his guard. It wasn't the cynical, half-hearted smirk you were used to seeing, but a true, heart-stopping smile that lit up his entire face.
"You have no idea," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, "how long I've wanted to hear you say that."
You reached up, your fingers threading through his hair, and pulled him back in for another kiss—a kiss that was no longer about need, but about a shared, fragile happiness. The kiss was slow and tender, a silent conversation between two people who were no longer afraid to be vulnerable. It was a promise, a confession, and a beginning all at once.
He pulled away, his forehead resting against yours, his breath a soft, warm rhythm against your lips. "I don't want to go back," he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly confession. "I don't want to go back to pretending that this is just... a hookup. A convenience. I want this to be real."
"It's real," you whispered back, your hands coming up to cup his face, your thumbs gently stroking his cheeks. "It's real.”
a/n: This is my first time writing for John Walker.. I remember back when TFATWS came out I hated this man and after seeing Tunderbolts* twice and reading some amazing work by others on here, I am writing him myself. I don't know how accurate my writing will be to his character but please enjoy.
Warnings: 18+, Slight Spoilers to Thunderbolts*, Established Relationship, Slight Domestic John, Slight Mention of Alexi and The Team, Alcohol Mentions and Consumption, Talk And Descriptions Of Creepy Male Friend, Nonconsensual Ass Touching, Sprinkled in John Hate, Mentions of John's Past, Avoided Argument, Angst If You Squint, PLOT, Smut, Unprotected, Oral (F and M Receiving), Blowjob, Cunnilingus, Slight Fingering, Slight Handjob, John Walker's (canonical) Praise Kink, Smut with Feelings, Implied PiV, I PROBABLY MISSED SOME..
Pairing: John Walker (US Agent) x F!Reader
Word Count: 3.3K
“You know, he’s only inviting you because he doesn’t know you’re inviting me.” John had always been weary of this friend of yours, you simply thought the US Agent was jealous. You knew he was a ticking time bomb half the time especially since joining the Thunderbolts which came before you figured out he was the man you wanted. When the realization dawned on you it was incredibly stupid. John was spouting off about his weapons and military service while Ghost and Yelena nodded and pretended to listen. Out of the blue you called the man a fucking idiot. “You’re a fucking idiot, John.” It was also the first time you used his first name in any context. He had to process the fact you called him an idiot over something he knew like the back of his hand and then immediately after the fact you used his name. He could tell that there was a tinge of something in your voice that made the comment less of a crude comment than he originally thought.
“You are paranoid.” You spoke softly and chuckled as you looked over at John who was lacing up his shoes. The outing was a simple bar night with your friends and Eli. It wasn’t something that went over your head when Eli’s gaze lingered a bit too long, or when he stood closer to you for a split second longer than he should have. The thought sent an uneasy shiver down your spine, nonetheless he was a nice friend and scared shitless of John. Partly due to John’s reputation but most people other than Alexi and soon the team were unaware of the relationship you held with the Dime Store Captain America. How Alexi found out you and John would rather forget then remember. A brief summary was an unlocked door, compromising positions, and Alexi misunderstanding boundaries for a moment.
“Alright.” John simply shrugged off your comment about him being paranoid. He didn’t want to be seen as overly protective even though that was exactly what he was. He didn’t even try to hide it sometimes but he still tried to deny the claims. His pride and ego would not let him say a single word on the topic. However, it was not just you who noticed Eli’s closeness. The man you told multiple times that the two of you were just friends and Eli just “accepted it”. John ticked his head to the side, a mannerism he picked up as a way to keep his anger at bay. Due to his time in the trenches this mannerism also quickly meant John was getting ready for a fight. John quickly stood as soon as his shoes were tied. Luckily, he was out of his typical attire: the spandex, armour, and tactical pants. The team practically lived in their uniforms and John took a bit more pride in his, even though he felt unworthy which he had opened up to you about after a long time of arguing.
“What does it take to get a super soldier drunk?” You ask as you notice the 6 '1 super soldier approach you from behind. Your eyes keep trained to the mirror as you're still picking out what shirt to wear. The difference between a shortsleeve with a V neck or a shortsleeve that almost looked like one of John’s that accidently shrunk in the wash. One was black and the other was a dark grey both nondescript due to the controversies behind being a superhuman, a hero, which still did not sit right in your brain.
“I can’t.” John spoke quietly as he stole a glance over your bare back before looking back in the mirror and over your shoulder. He mumbled his preference into your ear and you had to lightly shove him off you. You knew that rumbling voice of his would get you both into trouble again. John took the hint and stepped back with a shy smile that barely creased his lips. You knew he was dreading this meet up with other people, especially with how most people still looked at him. Much less your friends, much less Eli. John audibly rolled his eyes at the memory of having somewhere to be just as you finished pulling your shirt over your head.
“You’re sure we can’t just stay here?”
“And wait for Bucky to assign us another mission? I would rather go to the club and drink.” John looked at your eyes through the mirror and understood that there was no room for compromise, after all he did invite himself to this outing. John let out an audible groan which gained a glare from you and he immediately shut up.
——————————————————————————————————
When the two of you arrived at the bar you were immediately greeted by your group of friends. Eli was one of them and John tried to keep close to you despite seeing the questionable glances. He couldn’t blame your friends for being weary. You were quickly situated with John at the counter and even quicker you were turning your attention to your friends. He knew he invited himself along but the ignorance stung a bit.
John kept his eyes on you from across the bar, he was sipping on your drink that you gave to him because you “didn’t want to get too drunk” and John would have appreciated the sentiment more had Eli not been as close as he was to you. John was like a militant ready to shoot if anything went wrong. His mind was more occupied with Eli and you than it was with the fact he was currently sitting alone, he wasn’t sociable enough for your friends, or rather they still saw him as a killer. The only reason he had heard from you, that your friends even liked the Thunderbolts was because you were in the group.
John was about to take another sip of the smooth drink, still impressed that you knew how to keep your liquor, before he reacted. It was three strides and he stuffed himself in the middle of you and your friend Eli. He must have seen something before you did but the feeling wasn’t too far from as soon as John spoke. Eli’s hand had gone to your ass for some reason and immediately you jolted away as if you had been stung by a lit cigarette.
“She’s spoken for.” Was the brutally cold knife that cut through the silent air.
“By you, The Drug Store Captain America?” The tone of voice that left Eli’s mouth was more than accusatory. It was disbelief and pity, god John hated pity. John’s head ticked to the side once again before he had to remind himself not to cause a scene here. The anger bubbling under his skin was making his reminder a difficult thing to follow. He wasn’t going to lose you too.
“Yes and I suggest you don’t fucking touch her.” John was now in the man’s face. The anger he felt thinly veiled under his skin. John’s words came out more as a promised threat than a warning as he had intended. Though Eli’s drunken next words were what broke the camel's back for John.
“Or what? You’ll kill me? I don’t think she would like that very much.” You quickly reached for John’s chest both knowing that the comment was underserved and that he would be ready to fight. You simply tried to keep the super soldier away from Eli and John let you. He could have used his strength to walk into your hand and move you with him but he let you ground him. The reaction he was about to make was quickly silenced by your next words.
“John? Drop it. Enough damage has been done.” You looked up at him and noticed the look in his eyes. Your wording could have been better but you were also still in shock that Eli would try something like that. As soon as you realized John was distracted for a moment you took his hand and led him out of the bar. When the two of you were outside he went cold and took his hand back. Enough damage has been done, yeah..
——————————————————————————————————
“Enough damage?” John’s voice sounds of disbelief when the two of you entered the tower alone or at least from what the two of you gathered. That’s why he had been so cold when you tried to apologize on the way back for not heeding his earlier warning about Eli for telling him enough damage though you were quick to correct yourself. You blanked on how John would have reacted when all he was doing was trying to protect you. He wasn't a good guy but he was trying.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” You quickly interjected. You looked around the living space of the tower before looking back at John with a genuine look on your face which John noticed but he was already in his head.
“No? Then how did you mean it?” John steps up to her as if he was only half man and the other side was pure testosterone and super soldier serum. With a man like Steve Rogers the serum was accentuated with the personality traits of what made him Captain America and with a man like Walker his anger tended to be accentuated as well as his ability to be his own critic. There was never going to be another Captain America and the Government should have waited for Sam to take the shield because each time you argued with Walker he was a volcano festering yet ready to explode.
“I meant him. He ruined our friendship, John. That was the last straw.” You tried to remain civil and not raise your voice knowing an argument would fester. Now, John felt like a fool. He let his anger get a hold of him and snapped at the one person who he could trust. His ego wounded and his pride in the gutter. He was starting something out of nothing and he quickly took a step back, silently apologising. John nodded gently and looked over at you. He went from a steaming bull to a puppy who had just been scolded. You rolled your eyes teasingly and softly smiled over at him. Your smile was always contagious but it had not worked this time. John caught himself up in self-sabotaging and the desire to be more than he was.
“You did good.” You spoke gently before stepping forward to John. You noticed him puffing his chest out slightly as if he was preening at the compliment. He did pretty well.You chuckled before leaning over and whispering in his ear;
The only person allowed to touch me like that is you and a soft noise became trapped in John’s throat partly due to surprise at the comment you made.
“Damn right, I am.” The husk John’s tone took on was a welcome sound. Part of him wanted to remind you who exactly you belonged to while the other part was still fuming at the encounter at the bar. He had tried to warn you but he also did not want to come off as controlling. You pressed your lips against his Adam's Apple and another sound found itself lost within his throat. Neither of you were entirely sure how the progression happened but the both of you were standing in the kitchen John’s lips were on yours kissing like a man starved. He only pulled back to pull your shirt over your head and help you with his shirt. His hand quickly found your exposed thigh as he pressed you further against the hanging cabinet. He slotted himself between your legs yet he didn’t fully press against you. He looked up from where the skin of his hand was against yours and the space between the both of you.
“It’s okay.” You said as soon as you saw the look in his eyes. The haste need was momentarily tossed aside by reverence and the question of consent before he even opened his mouth. When he heard your words he removed the hand on your thigh and dropped to his knees. You were expecting him to tease you, to be needy and take, instead he threw you a curveball. Warforged fingers quickly slide down your panties, his eyes remaining on yours. His blue irises softened as he worked your panties off your ankles. His touch was possessive, enticing a fire to your skin. He took one last glance between the both of you and your face. The needy and anticipating look on your face forced a reaction from the hardness tenting in his jeans.
“Good boy.” Another small noise became trapped in his throat when you murmured the two words and scooted closer to the edge of the counter. Both of his hands went to the curves of your waist keeping you trapped against him with his inhuman strength, without another word he began. One of his hands kept your skirt hiked up as he licked a stripe against your cunt. When you moaned his name he let his tongue have a mind of its own. Within a matter of moments your hand was in his blonde hair and your legs tense over his shoulders. He was eating you out like a man starved, as if one moment all of this could go away and he would wake up alone. The need to please was higher than the twitch of his tented cock he groaned into your cunt. The taste, the sounds you made, the way his body reacted to how he was making you feel, the praise falling from your lips.
“Christ..” He took a moment to breathe. The breath of his words hot against your center before he continued. He got off on the cry of his name on your lips, he chuckled gently at just how sweet the sound was. The muscles in his shoulders taut as he tries to keep you from writhing too much. The both of you had to admit this was hot, even the cocksure part of John was incredibly proud to be on his knees.
“J-John!!” He simply hummed into your cunt as he knew what you were trying to express. You were close and he could tell as his teeth gently grazed over your clit. He brought his fingers into play as his tongue focused on your clit. Pumping his middle finger in and out, curling to meet your g-spot, a second finger irresistibly found your center and as soon as he felt you cumming on his fingers he pulled them away and lapped up what he could. He rode you through your orgasm before feeling you pull back on his hair.
“Can’t help it, you taste amazing.” He spoke with a cocky yet affectionate smirk. He pulled back and slowly got to his feet trying to look for your shirts in hopes that the rest of the team wouldn’t find them before you two did. Although, when you slid off the counter and went to your knees John’s search was quickly forgotten.
“It looks painful.” That was a sight.. You on your knees for him, thighs still clenched together. His mind buffered for a moment. Sure, there were times you had him finish in your mouth but the sight. Who in their right mind would refuse you. In a way he couldn’t blame Eli for wanting a shot with you but John was over the moon that at the end of the you choose him. It spoke more than the praise you gave him sometimes. He shook his head in hopes to find a response other than gripping the counter. If he pulled the counter would come loose with ease. Painful was an underestimate.
“He’s always like this when it comes to you.” John’s ability to protest the move to the bedroom or out of the openness of the kitchen was quickly thrown out of the window as soon as your hands worked to free him from his confines. He simply watched as you took care of him, his hips jolting forward at the soft and simple jerk. You knew his ticking points and just how long until you could leave him a goddamn mess. He wasn’t often an advocate for oral from you since he thought he was unworthy but the way you had your thumb brushing over his tip smearing his precum. His bicep flexed as he white-knuckled the counter. He tried to let you take your time, tease him, but his restraint was a ticking time bomb that sped up with every furthering touch.
“You’re so handsome, John.” He had half a mind to grab your jaw and open it, tell you to open wide and take him already. He was playing the fools game and treating you despite what he wanted. When you licked his tip slowly and teasing all that left his mouth was a guttural groan. His mouth remained open and his eyes screwed shut as short, quick bursts of air left his lungs. That egged you on just enough. Your first attempt to take him all the way down was met with a gag and an immediate deep groan from John. When coming up bob your head to set a rhythm before going again and again until you finally take him deep enough. When you do manage to take all of him his hand is immediately in your hair.
“Stop teasing.” You bobbed your way up his length and took his words as a challenge.
“Or what?” Your voice was already taking on a hoarse tone. John took on the challenge and chuckled looking down at you with lust blown and darkened irises.
“I won’t be able to play Mr. Nice Guy much longer.” You couldn’t help but roll your eyes amusedly. You knew he was lost to lust but his words were somewhat funny yet you also knew better than to get him to that point or his super soldier stamina would be the reason you saw stars until the early morning. You finally gave in and worked him with your mouth. What you didn’t fit was worked in your hand.
It only took a matter of seconds before John’s hand was in your hair again but this time he was guiding you and his hips were moving in tandem. This was what you wanted, him taking matters into his own hands while using your mouth. Not just had you said that when you pulled back again your actions more than proved it. He was not going to say no but God was his guilt going to eat him alive. When he pulled back again you praised him knowing the falsities behind his cocky attitude. You could hear it in each praise he tried to give you. His voice was filled with groans and swears, stumbles of breath and the occasional reminder that this is what you wanted.
“FUCK!” Was groaned loudly alongside your name with one final push deep into your throat as he came undone. He rode himself through his orgasm and as soon as he pulled back he took a moment to come down and help you up. The kiss, initiated by you, was what sealed the fate of tonight. You pulled back first but Walker’s hands were on your waist.
“We should clean up..” Both of you could be saved the embarrassment of being asked about the cleanness of the counter. Walker made a mental note to take care of the messes as he was finished with you. He had you walking backwards with his lips on yours, the counter on which he had you finish and wiping off the floor if needed was lost to his mind.
no but John Walker who doesn’t even know what puppy play is, really. he doesn’t fantasize about leashes or collars, doesn’t think about how the words would sound coming out of your mouth, doesn’t expect to have such a reaction to hearing something as simple as “good boy”
John fucking into you one night, face buried in your neck, hiding his sounds against your shoulder. You decide you want to hear him so you grab him by the throat, just enough grip to guide his head up but his pupils are blown and he’s whining as he pushes himself more firmly into your hand. “Good boy,” would slip out automatically, “my good puppy.”
And just like that, you’ve unlocked a whole new side of John
