𝜗ৎ a/n: thought about mistletoes and immediately had to bring my boy, john, into it...
𝜗ৎ 900 words..
‧ ₊ ˚ 🎄✩
It’s almost one in the morning when Ava finally drops her box of ornaments onto the floor and declares defeat.
“I’m calling it,” she says, rubbing her eyes. “If I see one more strand of lights, I’m gonna snap.”
Bucky doesn’t even look up from the couch. “You snapped three hours ago.”
“That was a warning snap,” Ava replies.
Yelena finishes tying a bow onto the banister and steps back to examine it critically. “It is… aggressively festive.”
Alexei beams. “That is the point.”
Bob yawns, already halfway to the hallway. “Wake me up if the tree catches fire.”
“You will smell it,” Alexei assures him.
One by one, they peel off—Ava dragging Bob along, Yelena nudging Bucky toward the hall with her shoulder, Alexei lingering just long enough to clap his hands together loudly.
“Good work, team!” he announces. “The spirit of the season lives!”
John gives a stiff nod. “Yeah. Night.”
Alexei’s eyes flick between you and John—just once—but there’s a glint there you don’t fully clock until later.
When the doors finally close and the footsteps fade, the building settles into a rare, peaceful quiet.
You sink down onto the edge of a table, stretching your arms overhead.
You look at the lights. “I will not survive another sixty-foot cord.”
John snorts softly. He’s leaned against the counter, sleeves pushed up, hair a mess from hours of work. “You said that twenty minutes ago.”
“Correct.”
John pauses. “And again ten minutes ago.”
“Correct. And I’ve meant it every time.”
He huffs out a laugh before he can stop himself, then clears his throat and straightens, clearly trying to get back into work mode.
“Okay,” he says, gesturing around. “Last sweep. Kitchen’s done, common area’s done. We just need to—uh—”
He stops mid-sentence. You notice right away.
John doesn’t freeze often. When he does, it’s usually because something has gone very wrong.
“What?” you ask.
He doesn’t answer. His eyes flick upward. Then back to you. Then up again.
You follow his gaze. Hanging directly above the doorway between the common room and the kitchen is a neat little sprig of mistletoe.
You stare at it for a beat. Then another.
“Oh,” you say flatly. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
John exhales sharply through his nose. “That’s… that’s stupid.”
You glance at him. His jaw is tight, lips pressed thin, like he’s staring down a bomb rather than holiday decor.
“It’s a dumb tradition,” he mutters. "It’s just—people forcing moments that don’t—”
You raise an eyebrow. “You okay there, Captain America?”
He shoots you a look. “Don’t.”
You tilt your head, studying him now, curiosity sparking. “You’re acting like it’s gonna jump down and bite you.”
“I just don’t like it,” he says. “It’s awkward. And manipulative. And Alexei definitely put it there on purpose.”
You hum thoughtfully, then hop off the table. “Well. Guess we should avoid walking under it.”
“Yeah,” he says quickly. “Yeah. Good plan.”
You step forward anyway—slow, deliberate—passing just under the doorway. Then you keep going.
Nothing happens. You turn back to him with a small, testing smile. “See? Harmless.”
He doesn’t smile back.
You start to walk past him, toward the storage closet.
His hand snaps out before he can stop himself.
It closes around your wrist—firm, unyielding—yanking you back into him hard enough that you gasp and collide with his chest. He’s already glaring down at you when his mouth crashes into yours. The kiss is rough, startling, exactly meant to knock the breath from your lungs.
His hands slide up, framing your face as the kiss deepens, deliberate now. You tip up onto your toes to meet him, misjudge it, and stumble—only for him to catch you instantly, hand gripping your waist to steady you.
You cling to him, arms hooking around his neck, and the sound he makes is low and wrecked. His mouth claims yours again, tongue slipping in for a brief, dizzying second before he breaks the kiss short.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, breath uneven, eyes dark.
“Satisfied?” he mutters. “That what you were waiting for?”
You smile and bop his nose with your finger.
He recoils with a quiet groan. “Don’t do that.”
“Don’t pretend you weren’t thinking about it,” you say.
He groans, shoving your shoulder lightly. You stumble back—right into him—and this time he doesn’t let go. His arms slide around you, holding you close.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
Then he sighs. “We’re gonna hear about this.”
“From who?” you ask.
“Everyone.”
As if summoned, there’s a loud, theatrical cough behind you.
You both spin around.
Alexei stands at the far end of the room, hands clasped behind his back, grin stretched wide and unapologetic.
“It worked,” he says proudly.
John groans. “You did this on purpose.”
Alexei shrugs. “Of course. You two have been circling each other like nervous teenagers for weeks.”
“We have not,” you protest.
He points at John. “You avoid eye contact.”
Then at you. “You get grumpy when he leaves the room.”
John pinches the bridge of his nose. “You manipulated us with Christmas folklore.”
“Yes,” Alexei says cheerfully. “You’re welcome.”
You try to glare, but it’s hard when he looks so pleased with himself.
John opens his mouth to argue—then stops.
Alexei’s smile softens, just a little. Proud. Genuinely happy.
“You are good together,” he says simply. “It makes the place warmer.”
John exhales, shoulders dropping. “You’re impossible.”
Alexei claps him on the shoulder. “But effective.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “Next time, just say something.”
“Where is the fun in that?” he replies.
He turns toward the hallway, whistling softly. “Goodnight, lovebirds.”
John watches him go, then looks down at you. “We’re never letting him decorate alone again.”
You squeeze his hand. “Worth it.”
He nods once. “True.”
🏷️ ───🦌⊹ ♡ he'd say he's all charm, no apologies.
@witchygagirl @walkerofshield @yeetaliano @novfr @archangelswing @xojadeelizabethox @bartonsparrow25 @hesaidgirlyoubetterhavefun @lightsabergirl @katieandersstark-blog @theloverofstuff @sh0t-inth3face @inafieldoflilies
The music from the party still hums faintly in your ears, a ghost of laughter and champagne clinking hanging in the back of your mind. But none of that matters anymore—not with the way John has you bent forward, your cheek pressed to the mattress, his weight pressing down on you like a promise and a warning all at once.
His thrusts are deep, relentless—like each one is a wordless claim. Your fingers claw at the sheets, your breath catching between moans as he fucks you harder than he has in weeks. Hes quiet except for the low, guttural sounds that slip past his clenched teeth; quiet except for the wet slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bed, and the way your name tears from his throat every so often like a snarl.
“Mine,” he rasps, voice rough and frayed at the edges. His hand tightens around your hip until it aches, until the bruise blooms beneath his fingers.
The moment you try to shift, his grip pins you in place. His chest is hot against your back when he leans in, his breath heavy, a growl coiled low in it. Then his tongue drags slow and wet across your cheek. It’s filthy—intentional. His kind of kiss when he’s past soft.
You gasp, shuddering, a sound somewhere between a whimper and a moan.
He laughs low in your ear, breath ghosting across your skin. “Mine,” he repeats, his hips snapping forward harder. “Every part of you.”
The second lick is slower, almost cruel in how deliberate it is. It makes your stomach twist, makes your body seize up with a tremble that’s got nothing to do with shame and everything to do with the heat pooling low in your belly.
You can feel how hard he is, how unyielding—every thrust a sharp reminder of just how far gone he is. His rhythm doesn’t break, doesn’t falter;he keeps you exactly where he wants you, your body jerking forward with each impact.
He fists your hair, yanking your head back just enough for him to breathe against your ear. “Do you even know,” he murmurs, voice dark, “how many fuckin eyes were on you tonight?” His thrusts get meaner with every word. “Every bastard in that room wanted what’s mine.”
“John—” you gasp, but it’s barely a sound.
He tilts your head a little more, licking a path down your jaw, then bites—not enough to hurt, just enough to make your breath catch. “You looked so fuckin pretty. Didn’t even realize it, did you?” His voice is ragged now, like the restraint he had earlier is gone. “Made me wanna drag you outta there right then.”
Your back arches when he snaps into you harder, his cock hitting deep, just right. He presses down on the curve of your lower back with one hand, forcing you to take every inch. The other hand slides up your throat, over your jaw, fingers resting heavy just under your chin as if he wants to control even the way you breathe.
His pace turns ruthless—thick, wet sounds filling the room, each thrust sharper than the last. Your vision blurs at the edges as your moans turn into needy, broken sounds. He’s making sure you’ll feel him tomorrow.
“Say it,” he growls against your ear. “Say who you belong to.”
“Y-you,” you choke out between breaths, body trembling.
His hand tightens around your jaw, a sound halfway between a laugh and a snarl rumbling against your skin. “Again.”
“Yours,” you gasp, louder this time. “I’m yours.”
And fuck—he reacts to it like he’s starving. His hips slam forward, deep and unrelenting, dragging a cry out of you as his hand slips lower to circle your clit in rough, fast circles. Your muscles clench, your body arching helplessly against him.
He licks your cheek again, slow and dirty, while whispering it against your skin like a vow, “Mine.”
The orgasm hits fast and hard, a pulse that ripples through every nerve as your vision goes white. He doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, chases his own high with a sharp grunt against your ear, pressing you down into the mattress like he wants to bury himself inside you and never let anyone else look at you again.
When he finally cums, it’s a deep, guttural sound—a low growl that vibrates against your back. His hips stutter, then still, and his weight settles heavy against you, keeping you caged beneath him.
You’re both panting, slick and shaking, your cheek still wet from the way he marked you.
His lips brush your ear—not soft, not apologetic, just him, rough around the edges. “Next time some asshole stares too long,” he murmurs, still half growling, “I’ll fuck you right there. Let em watch.”
And the worst part? The way your body reacts tells him you’d let him.
🏷️─── ‧ ˚ ꒰💌꒱ he’s got that look again — yeah, that one ₊ ˚ ⋆
@witchygagirl @walkerofshield @yeetaliano @novfr @archangelswing @xojadeelizabethox @bartonsparrow25 @hesaidgirlyoubetterhavefun @lightsabergirl @katieandersstark-blog @theloverofstuff @sh0t-inth3face @inafieldoflilies
Ი𐑼 part 4/4; dedicated to @witchygagirl .ᐟ.ᐟ happy birthday xoxo
1.5k words mwah
The house is too quiet when he comes home.
Boots off, jacket hung, keys in the bowl — but no “hey, baby” from the kitchen. No humming from the living room. Just the low hum of the fridge and the weight of something unspoken.
You’re curled up on the couch, half-watching a movie, half-pretending you don’t notice him standing there. He picks up on it immediately — the stiffness in your shoulders, the way you don’t turn your head when he walks in.
“Hey,” he says softly, that half-smile already forming. “You okay?”
You shrug. “Fine.”
He tilts his head, hands in his pockets. “That didn’t sound fine.”
You still don’t look at him, just mutter, “Doesn’t matter.”
John crosses the room slowly, the floor creaking under his weight. “Cmon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, crouching in front of you. “Talk to me.”
Your jaw clenches. “Who was she?”
He blinks, confused. “Who—”
“The woman from the gym this morning,” you say, a little sharper. “The one who thought it was funny to touch your arm while she was laughing.”
It comes out before you can stop it — small, stupid but real. His brows lift, then soften. “Oh. That’s what this is about.”
You roll your eyes. “You don’t have to sound so relieved.”
“I’m not,” he says gently, resting a hand on your knee. “I just didn’t realize it bugged you that much.”
“She was flirting with you, John.”
He exhales, quiet, rubbing his thumb along the seam of your jeans. “You’re right. She was. And I should’ve shut it down sooner.”
You finally glance at him — and the look in his eyes takes the fight out of you. Guilt and softness, the kind that only shows when he knows he’s hurt you without meaning to.
“I didn’t do anything,” he continues, voice low. “But I also didn’t do enough to make you feel safe. That’s on me.”
Your throat tightens. “I know it’s stupid, I just—”
“Hey.” He leans in, catching your gaze. “It’s not stupid. You love me. You see someone else get close and your brain starts telling stories. I get it.”
He moves closer, kneeling between your knees now. His hand slides up to your jaw, rough palm warm against your skin. “You could’ve told me instead of stewing.”
“I didn’t want to sound jealous.”
“You sound human,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your chin. “And I like it when you care.”
You huff, eyes dropping to his mouth before darting away. “You’re annoying.”
He grins, leaning forward until your foreheads touch. “Maybe. But I’m yours.”
You swallow. “Promise?”
“Every damn part of me,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Even the ones that don’t deserve you.”
Your breath catches when his thumb traces your bottom lip — not a kiss yet, just a quiet apology that says everything his words can’t. He presses closer, forehead still against yours, and you feel his breath when he murmurs, “Lemme show you, yeah?”
The question hangs in the air, heavy and soft and full of promise. You nod — small, wordless — and he exhales like that’s all he needed.
He doesn’t rush the kiss. He just leans in, slow and steady, until his lips brush yours like a vow.
° ˖ ➴ ──────── ⋆ . ˚
John’s got you folded under him like he’s trying to keep every inch of you where he can feel it. His arms are braced beneath your thighs, your legs hanging high over the solid muscle of his biceps, and his big hands are clamped around your jaw — thumbs digging in just enough to make sure you can’t look anywhere but at him.
Your breath catches every time he rolls his hips down into you. He doesn’t fuck mindlessly; he drives himself into you — a slow, hard drag that punches right into your softest spot and pulls a cry out of your chest. Your nails drag down the ridges of his forearms, leaving angry red trails that make him groan low and deep in his throat.
“Look at me,” he pants, the words wet against your mouth. “Right here, sweetheart. Don’t fuckin look away.”
Your lashes flutter but you keep your eyes on him — because he wants it. Because it’s him.
He crushes his mouth against yours in a wet, hungry kiss. It’s the kind of kiss that steals the air from your lungs, that leaves his taste smeared across your tongue. He swallows the soft whimpers you let out when he angles his hips just a little deeper, his cock sliding against every slick inch of you.
And then he breathes it — like a secret and a threat all at once.
“I love you,” he growls against your lips. “I love you so fuckin much it makes me crazy.”
Your heart lurches at the sound of it. You already know. You always know. But when he says it like this — breathless, rough, in the middle of him breaking you apart — it hits somewhere deeper than anything else ever could.
His grip tightens around your jaw until it’s hard to breathe, but you don’t want to breathe without him anyway. He looks down at you like he’s memorizing you, like if he blinks too long, he’ll lose the picture.
“I need you to know,” he rasps, hips slamming forward, making your body jolt against the mattress. “You’re it for me. Nobody else. Never fuckin been anyone else. Not like this.”
He kisses you again — open-mouthed, messy, possessive. His tongue drags against yours like he’s trying to own the sound of your moans, trying to brand himself into you.
“Every time I touch you,” he whispers against your lips, “I swear to God, it’s like my body remembers who it belongs to. You're the love of my life.”
Your toes curl when he rocks into you again, slow and deep, hitting that perfect place inside you over and over until you can barely breathe. Your hands clutch at his arms like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something solid.
“John—” you gasp, your voice breaking when his thrusts get harder.
His eyes lock onto yours, dark and burning. “Say it.”
“I'm the love of your life,” you choke out in a broken sob, breathless, raw.
He lets out a strangled sound, half-groan, half-plea. “Yeah. That’s it. Damn right you are.”
Your body arches when he fucks into you like that — like he’s trying to ruin you for everything and everyone else. The words come out on a sob. “You’re the love of my life.”
His jaw clenches. “Goddamn right I am.”
You feel it before it hits — the pleasure crawling up your spine, gathering tight and desperate low in your stomach. John watches every flicker across your face like it’s his favorite thing in the world. He leans in, mouth dragging down your cheek, kissing the salt of your tears.
“I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you smile,” he confesses, his thrusts slowing just enough to make you shiver. “Didn’t even fuckin stand a chance. Not one.”
Your chest shakes with a sob. His words are soft but his body is anything but — every thrust still heavy, sharp, brutal. You can’t tell if the burn in your chest is from the way he fucks you or from the way he loves you.
“John— I’m—” you gasp.
“I know, baby,” he growls against your mouth. “Cum for me. Let me feel it.”
And when it hits, it hits hard — a white-hot flood that makes your back arch off the bed, your legs shaking where they rest against his arms. Your vision goes blurry and all you can hear is the sound of your name falling from his lips like a prayer.
But he doesn’t stop.
He holds your jaw tighter, makes you look at him while he keeps pounding into you, chasing his own release with a kind of desperation that makes your heart stutter. He kisses you through it, breath hot, words spilling out between every thrust.
“I love you,” he pants. “I love you so much, it fuckin hurts.”
Another thrust.
“I’d burn the whole goddamn world down for you.”
Another.
“You’re mine.”
His hips snap harder, your cunt fluttering around him from the overstimulation. Your thighs tremble, tears streaking down your temples.
“Not done with you,” he groans, low and rough. “Not even close. You’re not walkin tomorrow, sweetheart. I’m gonna keep you right here — stuffed full of me. Gonna make sure you remember who fuckin loves you like this.”
Your fingers twist into his arms, nails biting into his skin as he drags another broken moan out of you. He kisses you one last time — deep, wet, desperate — before whispering against your mouth:
“Forever. You hear me? You’re mine forever.”
And you believe him. With his hands around your jaw, his body inside you, his love spilling out like something too big to hold — you believe every word.
★— three times john tried to take care of you and the one time you finally let him
彡✰ part 3/4; dedicated to @witchygagirl .ᐟ.ᐟ happy birthday xoxo
a/n: i had a fuckin blast writing this. omg.
3.2k words woahhh :0
gif creds @seaside-storm
THE FIRST TIME ᯓ★
The briefing room is too small for this many tempers.
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. A digital map flickers on the wall, shades of red marking hotspots. Bucky’s already grumbling, Yelena’s tapping her knife against her thigh like a metronome, Ava’s pacing with her hands shoved in her hoodie, Bob’s eating something that definitely isn’t allowed in the briefing room, and Alexei is—well—being Alexei.
You’re five minutes late, sliding in with John right behind you.
The moment the door clicks shut, the room’s attention snaps to you both.
General Hale stands at the head of the table, voice strained.
“…as I was saying, the objective is extraction only. No independent heroics, no shift in the plan.”
You’re skimming the packet when a voice snaps from across the table.
“You missed half the intel,” the young agent says sharply, pointing at your file. “Maybe if you’d shown up on time—”
You lift your head slowly.
Oh.
One of those guys.
“Maybe,” you reply coolly, “if you’d presented it clearly, we wouldn’t be confused.”
A few heads turn.
Yelena smirks. “And she’s off.”
The agent scoffs. “Right. Blame me for your lack of attention.”
You close your folder. “My lack of—”
He cuts you off, stepping a little closer than necessary, voice rising.
“Look, some of us actually take this job seriously, okay? We can’t carry every civilian-adjacent liability on our backs.”
The room goes still.
Bucky mutters, “Oh boy.”
Your jaw clenches. “Say that again.”
“I said—”
He steps in closer.
Too close.
John, who’s been standing behind your left shoulder quietly scanning the room, straightens instantly.
The change is subtle but unmistakable — spine locked, shoulders tense, jaw set.
The agent jabs a finger toward your chest, voice sharp.
“You’re a liability. And we’re tired of cleaning up after—”
“Hey.”
John’s voice slices the air clean through.
He doesn’t shove an arm out this time.
He doesn’t drag you back.
He just steps forward — one slow, solid step — and lifts a hand in a silent warning, palm facing the agent.
Not aggressive.
Just… final.
“Back off,” John says, low and edged.
Ava stops pacing.
Bob stops chewing.
Yelena’s brows shoot up like she’s watching a TV drama.
The agent bristles. “I’m having a conversation.”
“No.” John’s eyes narrow. “You’re trying to start something. With someone who didn’t ask for your bullshit.”
Your heart kicks but your pride spikes right after.
“John—” you mutter.
He doesn’t look at you.
He’s locked on the agent like a threat assessment he’s already decided on.
The agent scoffs, taking another step like he’s proving a point.
“You don’t give orders here, Walker.”
John’s smile is slow, humorless, razor-sharp.
“Oh, I wasn’t giving an order.”
He leans in slightly.
“That was me being polite.”
Your stomach flips for two different reasons.
The guy squares up like he’s ready to swing.
John immediately shifts — weight balanced, shoulder slightly forward, hand still raised in that casual but lethal “don’t test me” angle.
His tone drops into something dark and dangerous:
“Last chance. Step back.”
It’s not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just a fact.
The agent actually hesitates.
You, annoyed and heated, poke John in the arm.
“I don’t need a bodyguard.”
He doesn’t take his eyes off the agent.
“Yeah, well, I’m not about to let some jackass put hands on you.”
Your eyes widen.
“Hands on—? He wasn’t—John, I had it.”
Finally, he glances at you, frustration storming behind his expression.
“He got too close,” John mutters. “He pointed at you. In your face.”
“So?”
“So,” he snaps softly, “that’s not happening when I’m in the room.”
You blink — partly touched, mostly irritated.
“John. I don’t need you to—”
“Protect you?” he finishes. “Yeah. I’m aware. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna stand here like a statue while that idiot squares up on you.”
The agent scoffs from behind John. “She can fight her own battles—”
John’s head whips back toward him so fast Bucky actually laughs.
“Say one more word,” John warns, “and I’ll assume you’re volunteering for sparring drills with Alexei.”
Alexei cracks his knuckles loudly. “Yes. Good. I go easy on you… maybe.”
The agent finally throws his hands up and backs away with a muttered curse.
John exhales, unclenching slowly, like he’s forcing himself to find neutral.
You roll your eyes and hiss under your breath, “You can’t keep doing that.”
“Doing what?” he shoots back quietly.
“Jumping in like I’m made of glass!”
He blinks, confused, annoyed, hurt all at once.
“You’re not glass. I just—”
He grimaces.
“…reacted.”
You scoff. “John, I don’t need a shield.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “I know. But that doesn’t mean I’m not gonna step in when someone crosses a line.”
You take a breath, grounding yourself.
“So next time, let me handle it.”
He looks at you with those stupid conflicted eyes that make him look both dangerous and heartbreakingly clumsy.
“I’ll try,” he mutters.
“But if someone gets in your face again—no promises.”
From the table, Yelena whispers loudly to Bucky:
“I give them two weeks before they kiss.”
Bucky smirks. “Two? Bold.”
John flushes red.
You glare at both of them.
General Hale finally slams a folder on the table.
“Enough. Next person to talk gets reassigned to paperwork.”
Everyone shuts up.
But you can still feel John beside you — tense, warm, trying so hard not to look at you… and failing miserably.
THE SECOND TIME ᯓ★
The mission debrief is a disaster.
Everyone’s tired, irritated, and covered in minor cuts and bruises.
Ava’s pacing like she wants to throttle someone, Alexei’s loudly complaining about his shoulder, and John keeps rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to scrub the stress off.
You’re flipping through your report when Bucky strolls by behind you and mutters:
“Nice job today, kid. Real clean work… except for the part where you almost got everyone shot.”
You whirl on him.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Bucky lifts his brows, unbothered.
“Exactly what it sounded like.”
A few heads turn.
“Bucky,” John says under his breath, a warning but Bucky ignores him.
“You charge into the hallway without calling it out,” Bucky continues, waving his hand. “Lucky you didn’t take a bullet to the face. Or give someone else one.”
Your teeth clamp down so hard your jaw aches.
“I didn’t ‘charge into’ anything,” you snap. “I took the angle we agreed on.”
“Sure you did,” Bucky says. “In your head.”
You slam your report shut. “You weren’t even looking in the right direction to see—”
“Oh, I saw enough.”
“Good,” you bite out. “Then you can shut the hell up.”
The whole room goes quiet.
Bob drops a bag of chips.
Ava snorts under her breath.
Alexei whispers, “Spicy.”
John shifts like he wants to step in—but after earlier, he hesitates.
You shoulder past Bucky, muttering, “I’m done talking,” and leave the room before you say something that gets you put on cleanup duty for three months... again.
── LATER ──
You’re in one of the empty corridors outside the locker bay, leaning against the wall, rubbing your eyes with the heel of your hand.
You hear footsteps before you see him.
John stops a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders slouched like he’s trying not to spook you.
“You alright?” he asks quietly.
You sigh. “John—don’t.”
He hesitates.
Then, awkwardly, he holds out a snack.
Your snack.
The one you always buy on break.
The one the whole team teases you for being “weirdly obsessed” with.
He must’ve gone out of his way to grab it.
He clears his throat.
“Hey, uh… I thought you might… yknow… want this?”
You stare at it.
Your favorite candy in his giant hand, like it’s some peace offering he spent fifteen minutes psyching himself up to give.
But you’re too tired.
Too irritated.
Too raw from Bucky.
You shake your head.
“No. I’m fine.”
You step around him and start walking.
“—Hey, hold on,” John calls, frowning as he turns after you. “I was just tryin to be nice.”
You don’t stop.
“Yeah. Well. I don’t need anything.”
You keep going.
You don’t look back.
He stares at the candy in his hand, brow knotted, mouth tightening into a frustrated scoff.
“Great,” he mutters to himself. “Real smooth, John. Nice job.”
He drops his hand to his side, defeated.
“She could’ve just said thank you,” he grumbles.
“Or— I don’t know— not walked off like I tried to hand her poison.”
He kicks the toe of his boot against the floor, annoyed at himself, annoyed at how much he cares.
Bob passes by, glancing at the candy.
“Dang, man. Shot down?”
John glares. “Shut up, Bob.”
Bob raises both hands and wanders off.
John looks down at the snack again, sighs, and slips it into his pocket like he’s trying to hide the embarrassment.
He mutters to himself:
“Next time she snaps at someone, I’m keepin my distance. Not gettin involved. Nope.”
He takes two steps…
Then stops.
Rubs the back of his neck.
Grumbles:
“…Who’m I kidding.”
And keeps walking.
THE THIRD TIME ᯓ★
Morning hits the compound like a slow bruise.
The halls are dim and quiet — half the team still asleep, the other half pretending to be.
Coffee machines hiss somewhere in the distance.
Ava’s door is still shut.
Bob’s snoring echoes faintly.
John’s just stepping out of his room, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, hair a mess, shirt half-tucked like he got dressed in the dark.
He doesn’t expect to hear anything.
But down the hall…
through the thin walls of the residential wing…
He hears you.
Soft crying.
The kind people try to bury in a pillow.
The kind that only happens when something breaks inside you before the day even begins.
His whole body goes still.
He waits a second — because he’s not supposed to know.
He’s not supposed to hear.
But your breath hitches and the sound punches him straight in the chest.
He’s moving before he can second-guess it.
Two quiet steps.
Then he’s at your door.
He knocks gently with his knuckles.
“Hey,” he says softly. “It’s… it’s me.”
Silence.
Then a muffled, shaky inhale from behind the door.
He knocks again — softer this time.
“Can I… uh… check on you? Just for a second?”
Your voice is thin and uneven.
“John… please. Don’t.”
He swallows hard. “Did something happen?”
A beat.
Then, brokenly:
“I just… got some bad news, okay? I just—I need a minute.”
John’s face falls.
He leans his forehead lightly against the doorframe, voice almost whispering.
“I get that. I do. Just—if you want company… or someone to sit with you… I can do that. Doesn’t gotta be talkin.”
You sniff, trying to hold yourself together.
“Please just go. I don’t want anyone to see me like this.”
You hear him exhale — long, quiet, disappointed but trying not to show it.
“…Alright,” he murmurs. “Yeah. I’ll… I’ll go.”
But he doesn’t.
He slides down the wall beside your door, feet planted, arms on his knees.
He sits there, staring at the opposite wall, listening to your breathing hitch now and then through the thin drywall.
He doesn’t say anything at first.
Just sits with you in silence you don’t know he’s sharing.
Ten minutes pass.
Then fifteen.
At one point, he speaks—barely above a whisper, like he’s trying not to ruin the air around you.
“I’m right here, yknow. You don’t have to come out. Just… not leavin you by yourself.”
Your breath stutters behind the door.
He hears it.
He pretends he doesn’t.
Another five minutes pass.
You can’t take it.
You pull open your door.
John jumps a little, scrambling to stand before you can see how long he’s been sitting there.
His expression softens instantly when he sees your wet cheeks, swollen eyes, trembling chin.
You’re clutching your phone, knuckles white around whatever text or voicemail shattered your morning.
“Hey,” he breathes.
And the softness in that single word nearly breaks you again.
You open the door wider, wiping your face.
“I didn’t mean to snap at you,” you say quietly. “I just… I didn’t want anyone to see me crying.”
John’s expression softens in that way that hurts to look at.
“Yeah, well…” he clears his throat, trying for something gentle, maybe even funny. “At least you're not one of those ugly criers.”
You freeze.
John freezes.
The world freezes.
“…What?” you whisper.
John’s eyes go wide immediately.
“NO—no, no— I meant— shit— that came out wrong.”
You take a step back, arms hugging tight around your body.
“John. Seriously?”
He fumbles hard, panicking.
“I didn’t mean it like— it wasn’t a looks thing— I was tryin’ to make you feel better— the whole thing sounded different in my head— just forget I said anything, please.”
Your throat aches.
Your chest aches worse.
“Maybe you should’ve gone to your room.”
John’s shoulders fall like you punched the breath out of him.
“Please don’t say that,” he murmurs. “I—I wasn’t teasing you. I swear. I was trying to say you’re… you’re okay. That you don’t gotta hide from— I’m messing this up. I know I am.”
He reaches out — just a few inches — then pulls his hand back, unsure, ashamed.
“I just wanted to help,” he whispers, voice barely holding together. “I’m not good at this stuff, but I’m trying.”
Before you can answer, footsteps echo down the hall.
Ava rounds the corner, hair in a messy bun, hoodie half-zipped, expression sharp.
She takes one look at your face.
Then at John.
Her eyebrows shoot up.
“Oh. Hell no.”
She marches over, grabs your wrist gently and tugs you toward her.
“Cmon, sweetheart. Girl’s lounge. Now.”
You blink. “Ava—”
“No arguments.”
She shoots John a glare. “Walker, step aside.”
John lifts both hands like he’s surrendering.
“Yeah—yeah—okay. She’s all yours.”
Ava swings an arm around your shoulders, muttering soothing things under her breath:
“Idiot men… you’re okay… I’ve got you…”
She guides you down the hall toward the warm lights and soft blankets.
You let her.
You don’t look back.
But John watches you go.
He stands alone in the hallway, running both hands over his face in a long, miserable drag.
“‘Not an ugly crier,’” he mutters to himself. “You absolute clown.”
He leans his shoulder against the wall, eyes squeezing shut.
“She opened the damn door,” he whispers.
“And that’s the best line I had? That’s what I spent twenty minutes coming up with?”
He mutters under his breath, voice bitter:
“…Real smooth, genius.”
˗ˏˋ THE TIME YOU LET HIM ˎˊ˗
Everything goes to hell in under five seconds.
Gunfire ricochets off concrete. Ava’s phasing in and out to dodge. Bucky’s yelling something. Yelena’s tossing a grenade like it’s a baseball. John is somewhere ahead of you—charging through the chaos like he’s built for war—but he keeps glancing back, checking where you are.
You’re covering the rear, heart pounding, adrenaline flooding your system.
Then—
You lift your gun, pull the trigger—
Click.
Jam.
Your stomach drops.
You yank back, try to clear it, but there’s no time—
three hostiles turn the corner, rifles up, aimed straight at you—
And John sees it before you can even scream.
“HEY—!” he roars.
The rest is a blur:
He tackles you behind cover in one brutal, protective shove.
Shields you with his body.
One hand on your vest, gripping tight.
The other raising his weapon and firing clean, controlled shots.
Bodies drop.
Dust settles.
You’re underneath him, pinned to the wall by his arm, chest heaving into his.
He’s wide-eyed, breathless, shaken harder than he wants to show.
“You okay?” he demands—too loud, too desperate.
You nod.
Your voice trembles. “You… you saved me.”
He swallows hard.
“Yeah. Well. Someone’s gotta keep you alive.”
── LATER --- AFTER MIDNIGHT ──
The compound is dead quiet.
Everyone went to bed early—mentally wrecked, physically drained, too exhausted to even fight in the showers like they usually do after missions.
Except you.
Your mind won’t shut off.
Your hands still tremble from the way your gun jammed.
From the way John threw himself between you and three rifles like he wasn’t even thinking about himself.
You wander into the kitchen barefoot, expecting the room to be empty.
But he’s there.
John sits at the counter, elbows on the table, head in his hands.
Shirt rumpled.
Hair a mess from running his fingers through it a hundred times.
Shoulders heavy with thoughts.
He looks like he’s replaying the mission over and over, tearing himself apart for the parts he couldn’t control.
You freeze in the doorway.
He looks up instantly the second he hears you.
And his whole face softens.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
And then—more tender—
“Hey, trouble.”
Like he can’t help it.
Your breath catches.
You didn’t expect him to still be awake.
You didn’t expect him to look at you like that—
like he’s relieved you’re standing, breathing, here.
You take one step in.
And then another.
Your chest tightens, throat closing, eyes stinging with everything you tried not to feel.
“John…” your voice cracks. “Can— can I… get a hug?”
His brows lift in surprise.
“Of course,” he says immediately.
Like it’s the easiest question in the world.
Like he’s been waiting to hear it for months.
But he’s nervous.
It’s all over him.
He straightens up slowly, not wanting to rush you, like he thinks any wrong move might make you change your mind.
He stands in front of you, hands hovering at your arms, not touching yet.
“You sure?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
You nod.
He rests his hands on your shoulders gently.
It’s careful.
Too careful.
You lean forward and wrap your arms around him first, shaky, fragile, unsure.
And that’s all it takes for him to break.
Because he’s done holding back.
John exhales sharply, then pulls you in—
fully, firmly, completely—
wrapping his arms around you with a strength that feels like safety, not force.
He surrounds you.
One arm around your waist, the other around your upper back, pulling you tight against his chest.
Your face presses into the warm cotton of his shirt.
And you shatter.
A sob rips out of you—raw, unfiltered, terrified and grateful all at once.
His hold tightens instantly.
“Hey, hey… I got you,” John murmurs into your hair.
His voice is gentle.
Steady.
Real.
“I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re okay now.”
Your fingers clutch at his back.
Your knees weaken.
His arms only get firmer.
He breathes into your hair—slow, controlled, like he’s trying not to fall apart too.
“You scared the hell outta me today,” he whispers, voice cracking.
“I thought— I don’t even wanna say it.”
You sob harder into his chest.
He presses his cheek to the top of your head, breathing you in like he’s memorizing the fact that you’re alive.
Your heart swells painfully in your chest.
You whisper into his shirt:
“I’m sorry I kept pushing you away.”
He hugs you tighter—
so tight, it almost hurts—
his whole body wrapped around yours.
“It’s okay, kiddo,” he murmurs. “Not gonna hold it against you.”
🏷️ ─── ✮`, he’s still learning how to be gentle again .ᐟ.ᐟ
@witchygagirl @walkerofshield @yeetaliano @novfr @archangelswing @xojadeelizabethox @bartonsparrow25 @hesaidgirlyoubetterhavefun @lightsabergirl @katieandersstark-blog @theloverofstuff @sh0t-inth3face @inafieldoflilies
for @archangelswing, based on this ask
this big guy needed this and he says thank you (⸝⸝๑﹏๑⸝⸝)
1.2k words mwah
ᯓ★ ┈ ・꣑୧・ : ᕳ♡ᕲ
John finds you first...
Not because you were hiding — you were just curled up on the couch, lights low, wrapped in one of his old sweatshirts — but because he always seems to gravitate toward you when his day has run him into the ground. Heavy footsteps on the floor, a slow exhale like he’s trying to get his bearings, and then he’s there. Filling the doorway like he’s too big for this quiet little space.
You look up.
He’s already looking at you.
“Rough day?” you ask softly.
He huffs a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck — that boyish, nervous gesture he’d deny doing if you ever pointed it out.
“You could say that,” he mutters, stepping closer. “You okay, sweetheart? You look like you’ve been thinkin too hard.”
He’s still trying to be the strong one. Even when the shadows under his eyes tell the truth.
You move aside on the couch, patting the space next to you. “Cmere, John.”
He approaches— says nothing — then sinks down beside you with the weight of a man built thick through a lifetime — not bulky, not shredded, just solid. Strong chest and arms but padded too, that natural heaviness that comes with age and discipline and stress.
His arm comes around your shoulders automatically, the same way a seatbelt clicks into place. His arm is heavy, thick through the bicep, forearm warm where it drapes across your back. Even when exhausted, he holds you like he’s responsible for keeping your world steady.
“You need a hug,” you murmur against him.
“Yeah?” he replies, faintly amused. “Thought I was givin you one.”
“You’re allowed to need things too, you know.”
His breath catches — tiny, almost unnoticeable.
But you feel it.
For a moment he doesn’t speak. Just holds you tighter, his chin coming to rest on top of your head like he’s anchoring himself.
You feel the tension humming through him — the kind no amount of pretending can hide. So instead of letting him bury it deeper, you shift.
“John,” you whisper, brushing your fingers along the thick line of his forearm. “Sit back.”
He blinks at you. “What?”
“Sit back,” you repeat, already guiding him. “Let me hold you for real.”
He hesitates.
Guys like him don’t get held — not really. They get leaned on, relied on, pushed forward.
But he lets you move him.
He leans back slowly into the couch cushions, still looking at you like he’s not sure he deserves this.
Then you climb into his lap.
Straddle him.
You settle onto his hips, knees bracketing his thighs. His hands immediately slide to your waist, gripping gently but with that instinctive strength he always uses when he touches you.
“Sweetheart…” He swallows. “You don’t gotta—”
“I want to.”
You loop your arms around his neck and settle your weight against him. His chest meets yours, broad and warm and solid enough that you can feel his heartbeat through the layers of muscle and padded softness.
You hug him.
Fully.
Completely.
John lets out a slow exhale through his nose. His hands slide around to your lower back, pulling you snug against him, his head tucking near your shoulder. His breath warms your collarbone.
You run your fingers through his hair — short, thick, coarse in places, soft in others.
He shudders.
A full-body, involuntary tremor that ripples through his back and under your hands.
It’s not weakness.
It’s release — the kind he probably hasn’t let himself feel in years.
Your other hand rubs between his shoulder blades in long, slow strokes.
He melts against you.
His chest softens under your weight, his arms winding around your waist with a kind of quiet desperation he tries to hide. He sinks into you — not small, not diminished, just a big man finally letting someone else hold the weight for a moment.
You press your lips to his forehead.
A soft, lingering kiss.
He exhales shakily, breath warm against your throat.
You give him another forehead kiss.
Then another.
Slow, deliberate, grounding.
He holds you tighter each time, like the contact is filling cracks he didn’t notice until now.
After a few minutes, he finally lifts his head. His eyes are warmer now, clearer, though the edge of vulnerability still lingers there.
Your hand cups his jaw, thumb brushing over the dark scruff along his cheek. He leans into the touch without meaning to.
Then he kisses you.
It’s slow and certain at first, like he needs to taste calm before anything else. His mouth is warm, familiar, moving against yours with just a hint of that steady confidence he always carries. His hands slide up your back, palms spreading wide as if he wants to hold every part of you he can reach.
You deepen the kiss.
He answers immediately, breath warming against your lips, chest rising at a steadier pace now. The kiss turns hungrier — still gentle, but weighted with everything he’d been holding back all day.
Your hands return to his hair.
His hips jerk faintly beneath you.
A sound slips out of him — low, caught halfway between a sigh and a groan.
The sound of a man whose overwhelmed and trying to keep it together.
You kiss him again, slower, your thumb brushing the corner of his mouth.
And your free hand slips under the waistband of his sweats.
His breath stutters against your lips.
“Baby—”
You wrap your hand around him.
John curses softly, forehead dropping to yours. “Fuck… sweetheart…”
His thighs — thick, warm, solid beneath you — tense under your hips as you stroke him slowly. Not rushed. Just steady, comforting pressure.
His voice dips low, cracking slightly:
“You sure? I don’t wanna— I mean I— God, you’re gonna kill me.”
“You’re safe,” you whisper, rubbing the pad of your thumb along the head of his cock. “And you need this.”
He swallows hard. His hands grip your waist, not to guide you — just to hold on.
“You're so… you're makin me feel so good, baby,” he admits, voice shaking more than he wants it to. “Didn’t know how bad I needed you til… right now.”
Your foreheads touch as you kiss him again, slow and warm, your hand stroking him with gentle, deliberate movements. His breathing quickens, every exhale hitting your cheek.
He reaches for your wrist, trying to guide you, whispering, “Baby… slow—”
But the moment you give him a particularly tight, deliberate stroke, he can’t hold on. His hand drops from yours, sliding away, and his head leans back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut. The sound he makes — low, ragged, helpless — fills the quiet room.
“If you— fuck— keep doin that I’m—”
You kiss his jaw, his cheek, his forehead.
He lets out a low, ragged sound — a quiet, breathy, “Fuck… damn, baby…” pressed against your shoulder. Raw, warm, and completely caught in the moment.
“Cum for me, John,” you whisper. “I’ve got you.”
His hand slides up your back, gripping your shoulder as his body tightens beneath you —
And then he cums in your hand with a low, broken groan pressed against your neck. His body stiffens and shudders under you. His breathing is ragged, chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he opens them again.
You look down, catching the sight of him fully, the way his cock pulses in your grip, slick and warm. Your thumb traces over him as he trembles, and he can’t help but glance down too, watching himself respond so completely under your touch. His lips part in a shaky exhale, and a low, breathless sound escapes him — half shame, half helpless need.
His hands grip your waist, still holding you close, but there’s no tension left in his body. Just the heat of the moment, the quiet vulnerability, and the overwhelming relief of letting go in your arms. You press another kiss to his temple, forehead, jaw, feeling every shiver, every twitch, every soft groan that tells you just how much he’s melting into you.
His arms wrap around you immediately, strong and full-bodied, pulling you close as his breathing slowly evens out. Warmth radiates from him, chest rising and falling under yours.
After a moment, he presses a gentle, lingering kiss to your jaw.
Then another.
Then your forehead.
“Sweetheart…” he murmurs, voice rough but soft in a way he’d never admit. “You ever hold me like that again… I’m never lettin you off my damn lap.”
🏷️ ─── 🪼⋆. john deserves a break from being “strong.” ࿔ * : ･ ♡ @witchygagirl @walkerofshield @yeetaliano @novfr @archangelswing @xojadeelizabethox @bartonsparrow25 @hesaidgirlyoubetterhavefun @lightsabergirl @katieandersstark-blog @theloverofstuff @sh0t-inth3face @inafieldoflilies
Thinking about a thunderbolts manager reader who is always stressed out by the team. John goes to awkwardly apologize on behalf of the team after a meeting goes awry. Ends up with John eating her out while she partially rants about her frustrations and partially degrades him
My first inbox message !! Thank you for thinking about this...
John is definitely the type to notice when you're angry or stressed and instantly want you to take it out on him !! >.< (and we love him for that)
⭒ ---------- ⭒ word count 550.
The meeting had been hell.
Everyone was talking over each other, ignoring rules, and you’d seen John make things worse at least twice.
By the time you left the conference room, you could feel the migraine forming.
You barely got your office door open before a hesitant voice came from behind you.
“Hey.”
You turned. He was standing in the doorway, shifting his weight, looking like he wasn’t sure if he should be here.
“I, uh… just wanted to say sorry. For earlier. The meeting.” He scratched the back of his neck, glancing anywhere but your face. “I know I didn’t… help.”
“Understatement of the year.” You sighed, dropping your notepad on your desk. “John, I’m stressed out. I need to clear my head, not talk about that disaster again.”
You started toward the door, but he stepped in front of you, blocking the way.
“Maybe I could help you with that,” he said quickly, almost like the words slipped out before he could think better of them.
You gave him a flat look. “Help me… how?”
Instead of answering right away, he turned and pushed the door shut. The soft click of the lock sliding into place was somehow the loudest sound in the room.
He turned back to you with a faint blush on his cheeks, eyes darting up to meet yours only for a second before dropping.
“I could help,” he murmured. “If you’d let me.”
⭒ --- ⭒
Now, John was sprawled on your sofa — back against the cushions, head tipped back, your thighs on either side of his face. Your pants were tossed somewhere across the room, panties pulled to the side, and you were sitting fully on him while his hands held your hips in place.
You’d been mid-rant for minutes now, not even sure where one complaint ended and the next began.
“Yelena keeps cutting me off when I’m talking,” you said, looking down at him. “Bucky sits there smirking like it’s all funny.”
He shifted under you, body twitching for a better angle, shoulders pressing into the couch. All he could think was how hot it was that you were on top of him, complaining and ranting like he wasn’t tongue-deep inside you. The movement made you exhale sharply, your thighs tightening around his head.
“—and Ghost just vanishes whenever she feels like it and Red won’t follow half the protocol—”
“Mhm.” His groan rumbled up through you.
“And then there’s you.”
He groaned into you again, low and drawn-out.
“You’re always starting something just because you can’t sit still, " you said, rocking your hips slowly. "Making jokes when I’m trying to keep people on track.”
Another deep “mhm” from him — this one lower, like it pleased him to hear you say it.
“You like hearing me call you out, Walker?” you taunted, grinding down harder against his mouth.
“Mhm.” His hands tightened on your thighs, and you bit back a small moan.
“Pathetic,” you muttered, chuckling, moving your hips so he had to take more of you. He moaned again, the sound sending another warm jolt through you, and you pressed down harder.
“You’re worse than the rest of them,” you said, keeping your hips moving. “At least they don’t get off on me being pissed at them.”
So I work retail and the Christmas time has me overworked and stressed.
Could I humbly request John Walker taking care of an exhausted and overwork reader after they get home from a shitty work day (perhaps help them unwind in the bedroom as well)
Thank you, my tired soul appreciates you reading this.
⋆ a/n: the holidays absolutely took all of my time and energy. john would love nothing more than to take care of us :(
(p.s. ahem well I— uhhh yes I’m back haha lols) (enjoy this req. I tried to rush out before I decided to take a break but cried (a little) writing it from stress but now it’s been rewritten and made with loveee) IM HEALED!! :D
⋆ 3k words *moans*
‧ ₊ ˚ ✩ 彡
The apartment is quiet when you get home—Friday quiet, the kind that hums instead of rings. Your shoulders ache with the kind of exhaustion that seeps into bone, your brain still half-stuck in emails and deadlines and the way nothing seemed to go right today. You barely manage to kick your shoes off before the weight of it all finally settles.
John looks up the second the door closes.
He doesn’t say anything at first. He just takes you in—your slumped posture, the way your bag slips from your shoulder and thuds softly to the floor, the tired blink you don’t quite hide. His face softens instantly, concern melting into something warm and steady.
“Hey,” John says quietly, like he doesn’t want to spook you. “Cmere.”
You don’t even answer. You cross the room and walk straight into him, forehead bumping lightly into his chest. His arms come around you without hesitation—strong, sure, wrapping you up like he’s anchoring you to the floor. One hand settles between your shoulder blades, the other presses at your lower back, pulling you in until there’s no space left at all.
He hugs you wholly. Completely. Like he’s trying to hold you together.
You sigh into him, deep and long, the sound dragged straight out of your lungs. It’s the kind of sigh you don’t even realize you’re holding until someone gives you permission to let go.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, cheek resting against the top of your head. “That bad, huh?”
You nod against his shirt. He rubs slow circles into your back, steady and grounding, like he’s smoothing the stress right out of you. You feel your shoulders drop another inch.
“I’ve got you,” he says softly. “You’re home.”
That almost does you in.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumbs brushing gently over your arms. “Okay,” he says, shifting into practical-sweet mode, the one you love most. “First order of business—what do you want to eat?”
You blink, brain lagging. “I… don’t know. Something hot.”
“Hot is doable,” he nods seriously. “Any preferences? Salty? Comfort? Something I can dramatically overcook and then pretend was intentional?”
That earns a tired huff of a laugh from you, which he clearly counts as a win. His grin flashes, bright and relieved, like making you laugh is his favorite success metric.
“Surprise me,” you say.
He salutes you with two fingers. “Dangerous words. Sit. Couch. I’ll handle it.”
You barely make it onto the couch before he’s already moving around the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, humming under his breath. He talks as he cooks—little running commentary about the pan being “suspiciously loud,” or how he’s pretty sure the garlic is judging him. Every so often he glances over at you like he’s checking in, making sure you’re still there, still breathing.
At one point, when the food’s almost done and you’ve wandered back to the counter to lean against it, he steps between your knees and hooks his hands around your hips, pulling you gently against him.
“Hey,” he says, low and fond. “You did good today.”
Your throat tightens.
“I don’t think I did,” you admit.
He shakes his head immediately. “Nope. Wrong. You survived a shitty day without losing your mind or committing any crimes. That’s a win.” He squeezes your hips once—grounding, affectionate. “I’m proud of you.”
You laugh softly, pressing your forehead into his shoulder. He bends to kiss the top of your head, slow and lingering, like he’s sealing the moment there.
When he plates the food, he sets it in front of you like it’s something precious. “Careful,” he says. “It’s hot. Just like me, unfortunately.”
You snort. “John.”
“What?” He grins, unapologetic. “Too much?”
You eat while he stays close, one hand resting at your back. When you wince and roll your shoulders, he’s there instantly, thumbs pressing gently along your spine, working out knots with quiet focus.
“Tell me about your day,” he says. “Or don’t. I can just ramble at you instead.”
You mumble something about coworkers and deadlines, and he listens—really listens—responding with exaggerated outrage on your behalf and the occasional terrible joke meant to lighten the load.
Midway through, you glance toward the table where his half-finished Star Wars Lego set sprawls in all its ridiculous, intricate glory.
“How’s the… huge space thing?” you ask carefully.
His eyes light up despite himself. He tries to play it cool, but it’s hopeless. “The Star Wars Lego set,” he corrects, mock-stern. Then he scratches the back of his neck, a little sheepish. “I’m almost done. Just have to finish the last section and then—well. Then I get to admire it for an unreasonable amount of time.”
You smile at him. “I like it... I like seeing you work on it.”
He pauses, then smiles—soft, relieved, grateful. “Yeah?” He leans in and kisses your hairline gently. “Thanks again for getting it for me. I worry sometimes that I’m… you know. Too much of a nerd.”
“You’re exactly the right amount,” you say without hesitation.
His smile turns quiet. Real.
When you finish eating, he takes your plate from you, already yawning. “I’ll clean it tomorrow morning,” he mutters, stacking it in the sink. “Future John can deal with it.”
He comes back to you, hands sliding up your arms. “Anything else you need?” he asks gently. “Massage? Tea? Me standing guard while you pass out?”
You lift your arms toward him weakly. “Carry me to bed.”
His grin is immediate. “With pleasure.”
He scoops you up bridal style like you weigh nothing, holding you close as he walks down the hall. You tuck your face into his neck, breathing him in, the day finally loosening its grip.
John carries you the last few steps to the bed with effortless care, arms steady, sure. He lowers you gently onto the mattress, like he’s afraid of jostling even an ounce of the exhaustion still clinging to you. One hand stays braced beside your shoulder as he leans down and kisses you—soft, unhurried, just a brush of warmth meant to ground you.
He pulls back only a fraction, eyes searching yours, something quiet and reverent in his expression. Like he’s checking in. Like he always does.
Then he leans in again.
This kiss is deeper and slower, his mouth fitting to yours with intent. You part for him instinctively, a small sound slipping out as he takes his time, kissing you like he’s got nowhere else to be. His hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs warm along your jaw as his tongue slips gently against yours, coaxing instead of claiming.
You lift into him slightly, one hand sliding to the back of his neck for balance, for closeness. John follows immediately, careful as he shifts his weight and eases over you, bracing himself so he never truly presses down. His chest is solid against you, heat seeping through fabric, familiar and grounding all at once.
He nudges your legs apart with his knee, settling between them, close enough that you can feel him there—present, restrained, wanting. He breaks the kiss then, forehead resting against yours, breath warm and uneven.
“Can I make you feel good?” he asks quietly, voice low and sincere, like the answer matters more than anything.
“Yes,” you breathe, the word slipping out like a plea. “Please.”
Something soft and relieved flashes across his face before he kisses you again, slower this time, hands roaming your sides with reverent care. Your fingers drag over his back, feeling muscle shift beneath your touch, and when his hips rock just once—barely there—you feel how badly he wants you.
He kisses along your jaw, down the line of your neck, stubble rough against your skin in a way that makes you shiver. His hands trace your waist, thumbs pressing in like he’s memorizing the shape of you.
He pulls back only long enough to lift your shirt over your head, movements unhurried, eyes flicking up to watch your face the whole time. You undo your bra as his fingers work your zipper, both of you clumsy in that quiet, familiar way. When he eases your pants down, his mouth curves into a small, appreciative smile.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, like it’s a simple fact.
He leans back in to kiss you again as you shove your bra off onto the floor, his words brushing your lips between kisses. “We’re gonna take this slow,” he promises, voice warm and sure. “I want you so relaxed you forget everything else exists.”
You whine softly, half-laughing when you realize he hasn’t taken anything off yet. “John…”
He chuckles, low and fond. “You want me to?”
You nod immediately, another quiet sound slipping free, and he kisses you again—deep, lingering—before murmuring that you’ll have to help him. You tug his shirt free, kissing him as you go, fingers fumbling at his waistband until he takes over, pushing his pants down the rest of the way with a crooked grin
“I’m gonna take real good care of you,” he says softly, like a vow.
“Yes, please,” you murmur again.
He kisses your cheek, then trails his hands down your stomach, touch slow and deliberate, heat following wherever he goes. When his fingers dip lower, just teasing, you squirm beneath him, breath hitching as he smiles—gentle, focused, entirely yours.
His hand drifts lower, two fingers sliding through the slick folds of your pussy, making your hips jerk instinctively toward his touch. John’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles—gentle but insistent—sending sharp jolts of pleasure straight through you.
Your nerves, already frayed from weeks of stress and exhaustion, light up under his hands. You’ve been running on empty for so long, barely giving yourself time to breathe, and now—like this—you feel awake. Alive. Desperate.
A moan tears out of you, louder than you expect, starting deep in your throat before spilling into the space between you. John pulls back just enough to look at you, lips curling into a knowing smirk.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, eyes dark and gleaming with satisfaction, before he leans in and kisses you again—slow, deep, stealing the air from your lungs.
He slips a finger inside you, then another, stretching you open, filling you. A soft, needy mewl escapes you as you try to roll your hips into the movement, chasing more friction, more depth. John’s hands clamp down on your hips, holding you still, grip firm and grounding.
“Patience sweetheart,” he growls against your mouth. “I want to savor this.”
His fingers curl, reaching deeper, brushing that perfect spot inside you. Pleasure crashes through you in heavy waves, stealing your breath. You gasp, clutching at his biceps nails biting into his skin as his pace quickens. He knows exactly what he’s doing—drawing it out, building you up slowly, relentlessly.
Your stomach tightens, heat coiling low and fast, your first orgasm looming dangerously close. You try to warn him, words breaking apart between moans.
“John, I’m gonna—”
He cuts you off with a kiss, tongue sliding against yours, mimicking the rhythm of his fingers, making it impossible to think.
“You’re gonna what, baby?” he rumbles, voice low and teasing, full of promise.
“Cum,” you gasp, body going taut. “I’m gonna cum.”
John groans, deep and rough, the sound vibrating straight through you.
“Then fucking cum,” he urges, equal parts command and plea. “Let it go. I’ve got you.”
And you do. Your vision whites out as your body convulses, pleasure tearing through you in uncontrollable waves. You’re chanting fuck, fuck, fuck like a prayer, muscles clenching hard around his fingers, milking them as you come undone beneath him.
He doesn’t stop right away. His fingers keep moving, slow and deliberate now, dragging the pleasure out until you’re shaking and oversensitive. His breathing is ragged as he watches you, eyes blown dark with want and something heaveir—something that makes your chest ache. He looks like he could come untouched, just from seeing you like this, wrecked and open for him.
When the last tremors finally fade, he pulls his fingers free, unhurried, making you whimper at the loss. He brings them straight to his mouth, sucking them clean, never breaking eye contact. His gaze drags over you slowly, taking in every curve, every flushed inch of skin.
You fight the urge to hide your face as heat creeps into your cheeks, that familiar shyness rising despite everything. No matter how many times he’s seen you like this, there’s something about the way he looks at you—like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on—that makes your heart stutter and your body ache for more.
John pushes down his briefs just enough for his cock to spring free, hot and heavy against your thigh. He leans down, mouth tracing a path up your neck, stubble a delicious, grounding scrape.
“Gonna make you feel so good,” he growls, the words vibrating against your pulse. “Gonna make you forget your name.”
And you know he’s right. He already has.
He hooks his forearms under your knees, raising your legs until they’re draped over his elbows, opening you completely to him. The position is vulnerable, but with John, it feels like worship.
He lines himself up and then pushes in, so slowly you feel every thick inch as he stretches you, fills you, seats himself deep inside. He comes down over you, chest pressing to yours as he kisses you, slow and deep, matching the lazy, deliberate roll of his hips.
When he bottoms out, a loud, unabashed moan tears from your throat as he hits that place deep inside—the one only he ever seems to find.
“Please, John,” you gasp, hands fisting in the sheets above your head. “Faster.”
“Hm?” he murmurs against your neck, hips still maddeningly slow. “What was that?”
“Harder,” you plead, arching, desperate for more. “Faster, please.”
A dark, guttural fuck is his only reply. He pulls all the way out, leaving you empty and aching for a split second before slamming back into you. He sets a punishing rhythm, pistoning into your slick heat, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room, loud and obscene. Your moans are loud, but his are louder—deep groans and grunts he knows only make you clench harder around him.
He shifts, wrapping his arms around you in a tight bear hug, pinning you to his chest as he thrusts deeper, harder, movements turning feverish, desperate. Your eyes roll back, a silent, gaping moan escaping as pleasure overwhelms you, sharp and blinding.
“That’s it,” he pants, voice ragged in your ear. “You’re doing such a good fucking job taking all of my cock. So proud of you.”
The praise—the raw, filthy worship—makes you mewl and clench around him, your body responding to his words as much as his touch.
The coil in your stomach winds impossibly tight, too hot, too fast. You’re too far gone to warn him, but it doesn’t matter—John feels it. He keeps his rhythm, driving into you with relentless precision, and then your orgasm rips through you, violent and all-consuming. Your body convulses, pleasure so intense it borders on pain, and you cry out his name like a curse and a prayer all at once.
John slows to a stop, buried deep as you ride out the last tremors. He chuckles breathlessly and groans as your cunt clenches around him, pulsing tight and rhythmic, milking his cock. He stays there, weight solid and comforting, face buried in your neck as the world slowly comes back into focus.
He sits up, pulling out slowly, and you whimper at the emptiness. He wraps a hand around his cock, slick with your arousal, stroking himself as he watches you, gaze dark and possessive. Then he gently flips you onto your stomach. Cool air hits your back before he grabs a pillow and wedges it under your hips, lifting your ass higher. He thrusts back in, and you yelp at the oversimulation, face burning as your wet cunt greedily sucks him in.
John rolls his head back with a guttural groan and doesn’t waste a second.
The room fills with the sound of your whines, his huffs, hips smacking against your ass in a raw, rhythmic percussion. He grips your hips tight, forcing you back onto his cock with every snap of his waist. He’s going so fast, so deep, that you reach back instinctively, palm pressing to his stomach in a plea for mercy.
Instead, he grabs your wrist and pins it against your lower back, using it like reins to pull you harder onto him, control absolute.
“That's it, baby,” he growls, voice strained. “You treat me so good. Fuck—you’re too good for me, too good for making me feel this go—”
He cuts himself off with a sharp gasp as his rhythm falters, thrusts turning erratic as his orgasm crashes up on him.
“Cum all over my cock,” he commands, voice breaking. “Now.”
Your orgasm detonates, kicking his into motion, and as your walls clamp down, he spills inside you—hot, deep pulses that leave you shaking. Your overstimulated pussy clenches and milks him as he rides it out with a hiss, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your head.
He pulls out with a sharp breath and immediately gathers you to his side, kissing everywhere he can reach—your shoulders, cheeks, forehead. You smile shyly, exhausted, stress utterly annihilated. You lift your head just enough to nip playfully at his arm.
He chuckles, low and rumbling, before kissing your hairline.
He stays still for a long moment, thumb rubbing slow circles into your hip, before pressing a kiss to your temple.
“You need water,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Let me get you some.”
“No,” you whine, curling closer. “Stay here.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, the smirk audible in his voice. “I’ll be two seconds. I promise.”
You tighten your arm around his waist, anchoring him. “Just want to stay like this,” you mumble, already drifting. “Don’t go anywhere.”
John stills. The teasing fades, replaced by something heavier, softer. His hand covers yours, fingers lacing tight. His chest swells with a rush of affection that nearly steals his breath.
After a beat, he murmurs, “Okay.” He pulls the duvet up over you both, cocooning you in warmth. “Okay. I’m not going anywhere.”
🏷️ ─── ୧ ‧₊˚ john relaxes once you do.🎐 ⋅
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