#walker tag

[ex0rin]

Whumpcember 2022 - Day 4

@whumpcember Day 4: Shortness of breath

John Walker - 880 Words

character study, serum, injection, trauma, panic, reminder that this is a pro-Walker tumblr and I will fight about it (he doesn't deserve the hate he gets)

(my own gif for once! from here)

The blue of the serum is only one shade darker than his eyes. 

Walker’s been staring at the small canister for the last hour, holding the vial on the open flat of his palm - his workshop is dark aside from the single yellow light that hangs in the center of the space; he's in his underclothes now with his suit hung up along the wall.

The cowl and padded leather are the same colours as the flag he’s been pledging allegiance to for the entirety of his life. 

When it’s on he feels the weight of the position he’s in like a solid line of compression along his chest, a panic attack waiting to happen - it feels like the aftermath of a grenade just over a sandy ridge in Afghanistan and the screams of people he’d grown up with being blown to pieces; it’s too heavy to bear alone but the first holder of The Shield had done it with a kind of ease that Walker will never know.

Steve Rogers had been enhanced, not in the beginning but in the end at least - his time with the Avengers will always be what he’s remembered for, not everything that came before despite what the museum exhibit in his honour would have everyone believe; being a good man got him a well deserved respect but protecting the people of the world is what Walker was hired for. 

He’d like to be a good man too, if he could have both. 

Walker closes his fingers around the vial - the metal and glass smooth and cool against his skin and he closes his eyes, taking a slow breath and remembering back to what Lemar had said about the serum and how all it does is enhance the traits already inside of a person. 

He reaches up to pull off the plastic cap and hopes that he’s as good as he wants to be; as good as Lemar and Olivia and the whole of the American government seems to think he is. 

There’s a sharp pinch into the line of muscle along his throat as he shoves the canister in hard enough to cause the jet of serum to break through his skin and push straight into his bloodstream - he winces, pressing his eyes shut tighter; his breath stutters out and his fingers spasm almost immediately, the small vial falling from his hand and down onto the floor with a quiet sound of glass hitting concrete. 

His heart clenches, seizing inside of his chest and he clutches his now empty hand over it, digging his fingers into the soft fabric of his undershirt - he fists his hand into the fabric, twisting it all up until the movement drags his shirt up along his suddenly quivering abdomen. 

Walker chokes on the spit in his mouth, tipping forward to curl in on himself - he stumbles a few steps further into the garage, blinking his eyes open only long enough to regret the way the light is suddenly too bright, burning into his retinas; his other hand finds the edge of his workbench and he grips the metal. 

He can’t remember how to breathe. 

There’s cold liquid pumping in through his veins - spreading out into his body and leaving him shaking, knees weak and head pounding from it; his breath lodges somewhere back behind his throat, stuck down in his lungs and he gasps brokenly, the sudden lack of oxygen leaving him light headed and panting with no air getting back in. 

His fingers around the workbench clench hard enough that there’s a squeal of metal grinding beneath the tips of his fingers and he forces his pupil-blown eyes open to watch the way it bends and gives under his hand. 

Walker’s legs give out, knees buckling hard enough that he can’t even brace himself before he hits the concrete ground - small stones and dust rise up with the impact and his lips click shut with enough force that his teeth bite down into the soft flesh of his cheek, flooding his mouth with the warm taste of copper. 

He tries to gasp again, desperate for air but it feels like nothing can get through. 

He breaks out into a cold sweat at his temples, his hair getting damp and stuck along his forehead and neck and his body going sticky with the sudden sheen of it that coats him - he pulls at the fabric of his shirt, surprised when the material shreds apart around what he’d thought was a careful tug up towards his chest. 

Everything feels like too much. 

Walker can feel the too-fast beat of his heart, slamming up against his ribcage; he can hear the continued hitch of his panicked breathing and struggles to take in oxygen through his nostrils instead of his mouth - none of it seems to be working, there’s not enough air in the room for him to get enough. 

The lightheadedness is giving way to darkness and –

Before he fully collapses onto the floor, with blackness swimming in at the corners of his vision, he has a brief and terrifying thought that he shouldn’t have done this, that maybe everyone was wrong about him and – 

He doesn’t know what kind of man he’ll be when he wakes up.

But he hopes he's a good one.

[zoebittersweet]

WELCOME TO HELL

[ex0rin]

I just need ... I need a moment here:

WALKER MY BELOVED 😍

[ex0rin]

Whumpcember 2022 - Day 9

@whumpcember Day 9: Sacrifice John Walker - 650 words character study, violence, mild-to-moderate grenade based research, don’t cover grenades with your helmet and then put your body over it - it’s a bad idea overall

He hears the clatter of it rolling towards them before his brain catches up with the implications - there’s barely any time to think, let alone act; his blue eyes flicker around the bunker, at his unit, at the men and women he’s been put in charge of and he finds Lemar with just enough time to see the other man mouth the word “fuck,” before his helmet is off, wobbling over the floor to cover the fist sized projectile that’s just been dropped in front of them. 

Someone yells: GRENADE!

It might have been him. 

He curls around his helmet, stomach curving in against it - his legs pull up until the full circumference is being held against his body, his arms wrap around his knees as far as he can manage, holding himself around it; there’s scuffling all around him as his team, his friends who he’s spent one tour with already, all duck and brace and ready themselves for the blast. 

There’s a moment just before it goes off where he wonders if he’s been lucky enough to get a dud – 

And then the pain explodes outwards. 

The bare minimum of reinforcement from his helmet only goes so far to dampen the detonation - he feels it against his ribs first, like being hit with a truck; there’s a kind of silence that happens before his mind recognizes what’s happening where he’s sure he can hear the individual crack of every bone in his chest splintering around the force of it. 

The explosion bursts through his helmet, burning through his clothes and sending the strange, distant pinpricks of fire radiating out along his skin - it must be eating through his skin so quickly that his nerves don’t even recognize the pain from it. 

His body gets thrown back, knee and arm twisted into the wrong position, not that he’d be able to move anyway - he thinks he’s making a noise, some desperate mix of a scream and a sob as the bright flash of the blast dims down to nothing and leaves what’s left of their tent in absolute darkness. 

Which can’t be right, but maybe he can’t see anything either.

It’s strangely quiet.

Maybe he’s dead. 

He wakes up to white - white lights, white walls, a white ceiling above him. 

His entire body hurts and he can’t move anything. 

“You’re an idiot,” someone says, a deep, rough voice that he recognizes even through the fog of whatever cool-feeling drug is currently seeping into his bloodstream. 

He opens his mouth and it sets off a chain reaction of pain up along his jaw and down the line of his throat - he tries to clench his hands into fists as a way of dealing with the feeling but there’s no connection between what he wants and what he can do; he’s sure the low, scratchy whine is coming from somewhere in his lungs where his breath is supposed to live. 

“More of one for trying to talk right now,” Lemar starts and it’s Lemar which means that at least someone else made it - he wishes he could convince his head to turn to the side, just to confirm that it’s actually Lemar beside him, “‘Liv is pissed by the way, at me too. Says it’s supposed to be my job to stop you from getting yourself killed.”

“Kinda hard when you keep going out of your way to be a big goddamn hero.” and he catches the way the shadow by the side of his bed shifts before Lemar swims into his vision - the other man is bruised with stitches cutting across his cheek but he’s alive, he’s alive and that’s what matters; Lemar smiles, wincing through his own pain and he feels the warmth of a hand over his shoulder –

“John,” Lemar pauses - the weight stays, solid and comforting and the only thing he can feel, “thank you.”

Casual sidenote: hey remember that time Bucky was like "you ever jump on a grenade?" and Walker was like "yeah, like four times, it's this thing I do with my reinforced helmet"? okay cool, well, based on research I don't recommend it. Still mad about that scene btw cause like what the fuck Bucky (affectionate, but grumpy about it)

[ex0rin]

i couldn't let your birthday end without dumping some unsolicited torres whump in your inbox XD. happy birthday. love ya! 😘

ahh! Abby!!! 😭this was such a nice thing to wake up to! I'm always so happy to get unsolicited (but AMAZING) Torres whump from you! I'll always love that this is why we became friends originally aha nothing like bonding over scuffing up those perfect white shoes - you're such a wonderful person to have in my life I'm SO thankful for you ❤️

After the stifling heat of the packed ballroom, the November night air is refreshingly cool against Joaquin’s flushed face. He can’t stop grinning – high on the adoration of strangers, and more than a little buzzed from the champagne.

This is actually happening!

He still can’t believe it sometimes – that Sam gave him the wings, that he’s the fucking Falcon now. “Enjoy it,” he’d been told, at the start of this seemingly endless parade of galas and interviews and TV appearances. He hadn’t ever thought of himself as the kind of person to love the limelight, but yeah, he’s enjoying it.

He laughs to himself, loosening his burgundy silk bow-tie as he heads down the marble steps towards the formal gardens. It’s quiet out here, peaceful. He just needs a couple of minutes alone – to walk, breathe, ground himself, enjoy it. Then he’ll have to head back to the party; he’s the guest of honour, after all, and his adoring fans will be waiting.

Oh fuck, he really does have fans now. He laughs again, almost dizzy with the realisation, and his breath comes out in big, billowing clouds that drift up like smoke towards the stars. He tips his head back, watching them dissipate.

It’s a beautiful night, crisp and clear with a frosty full moon peeking out from behind a silhouetted row of bare poplars, and he wanders a little aimlessly, gravel crunching beneath his spotless dress shoes.

He’s not watching where he’s going, still staring at the moon, bright as a new dime on a dark navy bed sheet, when the path leads him around an immaculately manicured hedge and straight into the bulk of John Walker.

“Shit,” he hisses, shocked back to reality by the force of the collision. “Sorry, didn’t see you there. I...”

He recognises the guy almost immediately. He’s unmistakable, even dressed up in a regular black tux rather than the star-spangled supersuit he wore during his brief tenure as Captain America.

“Oh,” Joaquin says, “Hey, man.”

“Hey,” Walker replies, showing his palms as he takes a step back. “My fault. No worries.”

He’s slurring slightly, and Joaquin can smell the hard liquor on his breath despite the two feet between them. He looks like shit, golden hair dishevelled – eyes ringed with dark circles that somehow make his distinctive nose seem even more crooked. He’s aged about ten years in the two months since Joaquin last saw him, and there’s a vivid green and violet bruise blooming across his left cheekbone, yellowing at the edges.

“Shit,” Joaquin says again, taken aback. “What happened? You get into another fight with Barnes and Wilson.”

It’s the wrong thing to say; he knows it as soon as the words leave his lips. Walker’s gaze goes hard and furious, his stubbled jaw twitching as he clenches his teeth.

“The fuck did you just say to me?” he snarls.

“I...” Joaquin flounders. He lifts his shoulders in an awkward shrug, embarrassment filling the gaps left behind by his evaporating euphoria. “I was just joking, man. I didn’t mean...”

The punch catches him completely off guard. He hears himself make a weak yelping sound as Walker’s knuckles connect with the side of his face. Then he’s crumpling, left eye throbbing with a hot, immediate pain that puts another set of stars in the sky.

“Fuck,” he gasps, catching himself against the prickly hedgerow. “What the fuck?”

“You think that it’s funny?!”

Unnaturally strong fists grab at the front of his jacket, and he’s dragged back upright, his head spinning. Walker pulls him in close, close enough that Joaquin can feel the heat radiating off of his body. There’s something dangerous in his eyes, a barely restrained violence just begging to be let out. It sends an almost primal shock of fear down Joaquin’s spine.

“Am I a fucking joke to you?”

“No,” he mumbles. “No. I...”

Walker shakes him so hard that his teeth rattle. It feels like his brain is bouncing off the sides of his skull, like it’s going to liquefy and pour right out of his nose. He pushes hard against Walker’s chest, but he might as well be trying to move a mountain.

“I didn’t mean...”

“I know what you meant,” Walker hisses.

A quick kick sweeps Joaquin’s legs out from under him, and he’s on the ground before he can react, the heavy impact reverberating through his body. He tries to sit up, but Walker’s suddenly on top of him, big hands curling around his biceps and driving him back down into the gravel.

“You think that you’re better than me, huh?” Walker demands. He leans in, grabs Joaquin by the jaw like he’s trying to break it. “You think you’re a real hero, don’t you, pretty boy?”

ALSO: this Torres and this Walker pls:

[ex0rin]

bunch of Walker reblogs coming your way rn

[ex0rin]

hey, uh, I don't suppose any of you know of a WalkerBaron (18+ ideally) Discord kicking around? asking for a friend. the friend is also me.

[zoebittersweet]