#john walker preference

[bobbiereynolds]

Thunderbolts Preference: Finding Our You're Manic

Requested: ENNAAA THUNDERBOLTS ERA….. to kick it off (loved the other ones btw) could i request some preferences with the whole gang + reader struggling w/ mania?? wondering how they’d react, esp bob (yk because of sentry and all that..)bonus points if you can cram in some slips of mania/depression lapses 🤭 you always write them so beautifully i hope you like my vision ✨ - @vantasxstrider

A/N: Yesssssssssss!!!!!! Yes, yes, yes!!!! Omg ok I want to preface this with ya gurl only gets hypomanic, and mine looks/feels very different from the people in my family, so some stuff might be a lil odd lol but I'm also using my understanding/knowledge of full blown mania as well! Also! Here is a good overview for anyone curious about Bipolar Disorder 💕 I hope you like it my dude!!! 🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

Bucky is one of the first people to notice the change in you. Not just psychical (dilated pupils, fast talking, pacing and fidgeting more, telling him about your new ideas and plans for the future), but also mental. You had been depressed for a while and he hoped you were getting better, that it was finally going away. Slowly you started getting out of bed more, training with your teammates, attending meetings, etc. What he did not anticipate was that it would swing the other way and you'd become manic. You haven't slept in a few days and you're not the slightest bit tired. You have all these ideas and racing thoughts. He brings up the topic lightly, knowing you don't always recognize the symptoms until someone else points them out. He doesn't want you to be alone, so he stays up with you and makes sure you're doing everything you can to keep this in control.

Alexei is the last person to realize you're manic. He thinks you're just happier, more energetic, that you must've slept really well because you're so much more alive all of a sudden. You want to train with him and explore New York and watch every movie you've written down that includes some obscure actor you've never heard of and redecorate your room and talk to Valentina about the new designs you've made for your suit and, and, and. . . It isn't until Ava and Bucky, the "adults" of the team, tell him to keep an eye on you. He doesn't want to ask, he doesn't want to ruin the fun you're having, but it doesn't last forever. You're not having fun anymore. Your thoughts are so loud and they don't stop. It's constant, like bees buzzing, and though you try to focus, you can't. It's been days since you slept and Alexei's getting worried. That's when he takes their advice. He doesn't want you to hurt the way you are, he just wants you to be okay.

Yelena doesn't put it together at first. When you're manic, you get so paranoid. People watching you, stalking you, the whole world is out to get you. Little things too, like the dark, under the bed, in the closet. You know it's silly to be afraid of something, or someone, under your bed, but you ask her to check anyways. You can't get the idea out of your head and end up leaving your room all together. She asks how long it's been since you've slept and you admit it's been a while. Your room is too dark and you're too afraid to look out the windows. Someone could be watching you. She offers her room, saying she's checked and there is no one in there, no cameras, nothing. She stays up late to talk about other things you've been feeling. Your skin won't stop crawling no matter how many showers you take and your thoughts are racing. You have no appetite and, to cope, you've been drinking more than usual. She wants to help you, to make you feel better, so she reads up on how to help, what to do. In the meantime, she makes sure you rest, even if it's in her bed, and urges you to stop drinking, to take your meds instead.

Ava, like Bucky, is one of the first to notice you're manic. It's subtle things that give it away, things you don't recognize until she points it out to you. Talking faster, feeling energized by little sleep, spending hours in the training gym, eating less, etc. She never wants you to feel like you're some basket case they put up with and have to monitor. You're their friend, their teammate, before anything else. Ava hates that she has to ask this, but she wants to know if you've been taking your meds. You haven't. You stopped. You feel great, better than great, so you don't need them anymore. That is not what she wants to hear. No matter what you think or how you're feeling, you need to stay on them. She tells you this in a firm, but kind way, wanting you to know how important this is. Together you'd come up with a crisis plan on what to do if you ever went through an episode again. She sticks to it no matter how insistent you are that you don't need it. It's going to get worse before it gets better.

John is not the first person you would go to in this situation, but he's the only one up at three in the morning and you need someone to check in your bathroom if there are cameras. You swear you can see the little red dots that means they're on, that you can hear the small whirring of the cameras zooming in, but you also know, with Ava and Buckys help, that you're manic and it might not be real. Because they spoke to him beforehand, he doesn't come up with the jokes and quips he usually would. Instead he follows you to your room and checks the bathroom, genuinely looking around where you said they were and tells you there's nothing to worry about. he doesn't always understand what you and Bob go through, but he knows he could be better about in general. it is something that can take control and you are genuinely scared of someone watching you. If he can help in any way, he will. John offers to sit outside your bathroom door while you shower so you're not alone and, oddly, the idea brings you a lot of comfort. He never makes a big deal about him helping, it's the least he can do.

Bob understands 10000%. He hates that you're going through this, that you end up hurting yourself or others because your mind is too loud and your skin won't stop crawling and the world is brighter. You end up drinking more than you normally do to try to sleep, to calm your nerves, and that doesn't sit right with him. He cuts you off completely, knowing it's a slippery slope. He feels like he can do that, whereas the others might not, because he understands so well and because he can tell you stories of when he was in active addiction that he doesn't want you to repeat yourself. he stays up with you when you can't sleep, but does want you to lay down and at least rest. He talks to you when you're on your fifth shower of the day because it's the only thing that calms your skin, trying to make you laugh when the water burns. He's there for you in the highs and he'll be there for you when you crash and the depression comes back full force. You're grateful for one another. You don't have to explain anything to one another, you just get it.

[mallory524]

the thunderbolts when you’ve been kidnapped

pictures from pinterest

tags- guilt, fear, angst, kidnapping, guilt, canon level action/violence, injuries, mentions of arguing, implied drugging/beating, mention of Void

notes- This all ended up being way longer than I intended. Oops. I need to keep writing or else I’ll explode. The fixation is strong

Yelena

When you’re with Yelena, she can be so tender and sweet that it’s easy for you to forget the life she’s lived and the things she’s capable of. The day you don’t come home from what should’ve been a 10 minute grocery run, that tender side is gone - and boy is it sorely missed around the tower. When Yelena's upset, she lashes out at anybody who gets too close to her, and it gets ugly pretty quickly. Her words are cruel and vindictive, as if each member of the team is personally responsible for what’s happened to you. She knows the people who took you are doing it to lure in the "new avengers", but it doesn't matter. It's working. She's going to find you, and she's going to march right in there, guns blazing.

You're in bad shape when the team finds you, but you are able to walk out on your own two feet with just a little assistance from Yelena. Pay no mind to what happened to your captors. It's not important.

Yelena can't go "back to normal". You're trying to, but it's clear you're still shaken, and so is she. You keep trying to laugh it off and say that you've survived worse, and she knows you're just trying to change the subject, but she doesn't push it. She's not going to force you to open up if you're not ready. All she can do is make sure you know that she's always there to support you and listen if you ever do decide you want to talk about it. You do know that. As everyone in Yelena's life knows, she might be a bit rough around the edges, but she will always be there for you when it matters most.

Bucky

Bucky tracks you down very fast. He knows these people are doing this to get to him, so he tells the Thunderbolts to stay behind and let him do this himself. Good thing they never do as they're told.

The people who took you thought they had laid the perfect trap for Bucky Barnes, but all they did was set themselves up to be pulverized by the Winter Soldier. When he does find you, you're unconscious and clearly injured. Nothing serious, but it doesn't matter; he feels more guilty than he has in a long, long time. The team covers Bucky as he runs back out to the car with you in his arms, and you're immediately rushed to the hospital. The press is already there, waiting to ask Congressman Barnes all kinds of questions about what happened tonight, but after a few choice words from Yelena and Walker, most of them leave immediately.

Even when things slowly start to go back to normal, Bucky is constantly reminded of what happened. You're sitting around and laughing with the group one night, weeks after, and he notices a bruise on your shoulder that he'd forgot you had. He wakes up in the middle of the night a lot of nights to you tossing and turning and shaking in your sleep. He holds you and repeatedly reminds you that you’re home and that you are safe. He’s reminding himself, too. This is all hell for him. Every nightmare, every scratch, and every bruise is a reminder to him that he couldn't keep you safe. He rescued you and brought you back home, but it's not enough for him. This never should've happened.

Ava

Ava woke up to the sound of alarms and glass breaking. She phased through the walls to your room right away to make sure you were okay, but you were already gone. Nowhere to be found. She’s immediately panic stricken. Who did this? Why would they take you hostage? Where did they take you?

Ava’s desperate. When Ava gets desperate, her sense of right and wrong gets very skewed. You’ve been kidnapped, and that’s wrong. Everything she’s doing in an effort to get you back is right. Or that’s how she sees it, at least. The rest of the team sees this as Ava spiraling out of control. This is a mess. These people who took you do not realize what their "leverage" means to the team, especially to Ava. They do not know what's coming.

Your rescue was not easy, and it definitely wasn't pretty, but everyone's just happy that you're home. Adjusting to business as usual after your rescue is tough, but she's there for you every step of the way. If you don't want to sleep in your room for a little while because it doesn't feel safe anymore, Ava offers you her room. She'll sleep on the ground, she'll sleep next to you, she'll sleep in the other room, whatever you want. She'll demand more security features in your room and around the tower to make you (and herself) feel safe again. If the people in maintenance and security were to question the necessity of doing this, Ava would install these features herself. Nothing like this is going to happen again, and she doesn't even want you to feel like it's a possibility. You're safe now.

John

It all happened so fast. An explosive had gone off during a fight, he’d lost sight of you for a minute, and when the smoke cleared, you were gone. He frantically searched the perimeter, but it didn’t take him long to realize what had happened. Bucky practically had to beg John to get in the car, saying they could figure out their next move back at the Watchtower. John didn't want to stop looking for you, but he knew it was the only choice he really had. Everyone's really worried about you, but John is losing his mind. His brain is plagued with images of you, scared and alone and hurt. He's snapping at the team even more than usual, but they give him a pass just this once. Ava walked by his room one night and she could hear the sound of him softly crying through the door. She never mentioned it, but she went easy on him for a few days.

Down in a dark, cold underground base, you're going in and out of consciousness. Your body aches and your head's spinning, but the moment you register that it's Walker gently taking you into his arms, you smile up at him weakly. He caresses your face, and you can feel that his hands are shaking as they trace every little wound, no matter how small. All of Walker's anger has been replaced with a weary, guilty sadness. All that aggression, replaced with a certain gentleness. He carries you out, and although you don't see much of your surroundings, it's hard to miss what remains of the poor souls who thought they could stop John Walker from breaking in to save you. It's not too shocking, though. You know he would've torn the entire world apart if he had to.

Alexei

Missions and fighting and hero activities in general are usually really fun for Alexei. This is not fun. It's so rare for the team to see him like this. He's downright miserable. Since the moment he lost you, he hasn't slept. He works alongside the team all day long to find you, and when everyone's asleep, he just paces back and forth around his room, which gets more cluttered with garbage and papers and files with each passing day.

When they find you, nothing and no one can stand in his way. He's a real sweetheart, but let's not forget how strong he is or how much damage he can do. Believe me, there's a lot of damage done in the name of your rescue. All of that is worth it for Alexei when he finds you. He gently wipes at the sweat and dirt on your face, a lot of which is dry and caked on after you've been sitting down there for nearly a week.

Alexei is so relieved to have you home, but he thought he'd feel better. There's still something... off. The illusion of total safety has been shattered. He's not able to keep you from ever getting hurt like he thought he was. If you were to try to joke about what had happened to keep spirits up, or spin it to sound like a cool story instead of the worst week of both of your lives, he'd try to go along with it. But everyone notices how his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. He's proud of you and he usually loves hearing you're cool tough stories, but this one is hitting a little too close to home for him to fully enjoy it. Maybe because he was there. Maybe because he almost lost you for real.

Bob

Bob's terrified. The team came back from a mission, but instead of you pulling him into a big hug while the team fills him in on what happened like usual, everyone is frantic and you're gone. He's never felt so helpless in his life. He breaks down the second he's alone in his room. Whenever Yelena tries to talk to him, he insists he needs to be alone, or he doesn't even respond and continues just rocking back and forth on the floor and talking to himself.

When the team tracks you down, they tell Bob to stay behind. He keeps telling himself that they're right and staying behind is the responsible thing to do, but he just can't do that. He has enough control on the Void now to use his powers, right? The team is slightly horrified when Bob shows up out of nowhere, doing everything they told him not to do, but this isn't the time to worry about that. They're definitely not going to try arguing with him right now. He's a bulletproof human shield, more powerful than any of them could ever hope to be, so it's good to have him there to help. He crashes through walls, busts down doors, and disarms everyone in his path without breaking a sweat. Then they find you. Bob rushes to your side and tears apart your restraints with his bare hands, and in a second they turn back into the gentle hands you think of when you think of your Bob. He helps you to your feet and slowly leads you back outside. As tears start to roll down his face, Bob smiles a soft smile at the others, thrilled that you're safe again. They smile back at him, but it's like they're all holding their breath until you're all fully out of there. Void may not have made a formal appearance this time, but they know now what lengths Bob will go to and what risks he'll take to ensure your safety. The man is not helpless, and he sure as hell isn't weak.

[magicalqueennightmare]

Moving in Your Sleep Headcanon

(Also being a blanket hog)

Tony crashes hard when he finally does sleep so at first he doesn't really notice but after a while he starts coming to bed a little earlier and holy hell he sits there for the longest wondering just how you haven't managed to hurt yourself in your sleep. He ends up with about half an inch of bed left. The next morning? There's a california king being delivered. When you're both alseep and he feels a tug on the blanket? He lets it go. He knows its a losing battle and he'd rather not end up on the floor (he made that mistake once. Rhodey found out and never let him live it down)

Steve is also a restless sleeper which in itself is a hazard given he's solid muscle. Half the time you end up sleeping on top of him more than the mattress. Not that either of you mind. He was concerned however when he woke up and couldn't find you one morning. You fell off the bed, climbed under it and never woke up. As for hogging the blanket? He is simply amazed by how freaking strong you get when you're asleep and don't want to share the covers.

Clint doesn't get bothered at all. The man will be dead asleep and simply move to accommodate your movements. As for blanket hogging? He keeps about five blankets on the bed. You steal one? He moves the next one.

Sam has woke you up laughing from the way you move in your sleep. He finds it hilarious. Nights he's good and tired? He's tempted to just throw a sleeping bag on the floor next to the bed but knows you'll end up hurting both of you if you can't find him in your sleep. He buys you a body pillow with the excuse that it's good for your back when in reality he uses it as a barracade on nights you're moving around enough he's afraid he may catch an elbow to the gut. Keeps multiple blankets on hand so he can grab another one when you steal the main one.

Joaquin moves a lot in his sleep too. Both of you end up on opposite sides of the bed come morning most of the time. Sometimes you end up asleep on the foot of the bed instead of the head of it but you always find your way back to each other in your sleep. As for your blanket hog tendencies? Joaquin buys weighted blankets for you both. Helps slow down movements and makes sure you both stay covered.

Bucky had to share a bed with Steve one too many times when he was younger for your movements to bother him. You crawl across him in your sleep? He's not flinching. You curl onto your side? Ok. He enjoys when you randomly curl up on his chest like a cat. When you hog the blankets he is honestly just shocked "How the hell are you fighting my left arm?" you'll mumble something in your sleep and he just slips out of bed to grab another blanket.

John was in the army too many years for movement to bother him. He'll simply adjust his body for your movements to make sure there's no way you can hurt yourself. When you randomly end up curled up to him or on him? Yeah he loves that. When you hog the blanket? He's a little stunned. "Super serum my ass. Need to study the strength a woman gets when she don't wanna share a blanket"

[blakellyl]

how can anyone not see that this boy is the cutest bottom is beyond me

(and even if you ignore his looks and personality, Bob needs someone to give him all the love and care and Walker wants to love and care for someone. Like it’s right in front of y’all)

[spookieloop]

Your Hero [John Walker X Fem!Thunderbolt!Reader]

Word Count: 5148

Premise: You and the rest of the Thunderbolts are going undercover to catch an arm's dealer at his favorite night club. Someone tries to spike your drink, and Walker teaches the scumbag a lesson. A violent one.

Rating: Smut with plot. Reader is a mutant with the power to control blood, who John rescued from a bunker where she was held prisoner before the events of the fic. Oral Sex (F!Receiving), P&V penetration, fingering, sex outdoors.

Content Warnings: Graphic violence, John Walker being an asshole, terminally ill sibling in Reader's backstory, unprotected sex

Taglist: @stardustedseas @to-be-a-sunshine I wrote the fic

————

It shouldn’t have bothered you when John Walker blatantly ignored you and seemed to have a snappy comeback prepared for every time you tried to speak to him. He was like that with everybody.

It was just a part of his “charm.”

The rest of the group had already started warming up to you since you joined the New Avengerz—or whatever stupid name Val had you going by, and they were always quick to call him an asshole when he’d snap at you over seemingly nothing.

But unfortunately for you, you knew that he had a special reason to hate you—and you really couldn’t blame him, no matter how badly you wished he didn’t.

That just came with the territory of having your body piloted by a Hydra control chip for the past five years, using your mutant abilities to perform a series of high profile assassinations.

Your power over blood was always something that disgusted people, even other mutants. No one really liked to be around the girl who could halt the blood flow to a man’s heart without even touching him.

But then that government agent came to your door—or at least, you thought he was with the government. He told you that he knew all about your little sister’s illness, and how it was likely to be terminal without high end care.

A result of the gene you shared—stable in your DNA, but not in hers.

He told you he could make sure all of those expenses were taken care of, synthesize a cure from your own blood . . . if you came to work for him.

Top Secret. Covert.

You were told that you were going to disappear for at least the next ten years, but there was no way you could’ve known what was going to happen to you.

All you knew was that it was the only way to save your sister’s life.

So you signed your name on the dotted line.

You knew it wasn’t going to be pretty, but you could’ve never expected what was going to happen.

As it turned out, the “government agency” your new handler worked for was a Hydra hold out. And they weren’t relying on your willingness to kill on their behalf.

They installed a chip in your brain that piloted your body on their command, forcing your consciousness to take a back seat and watch every terrible thing they used your powers to do.

It came to an end last October, five years into your captivity, when the bunker where you were being held was hit with an EMP blast that fried all the tech inside—including your chip.

You may have been trapped in the lower lab behind a hermetically sealed door, but the hydra agents who’d made a toy out of your body were sealed in with you.

You didn’t give them quick deaths.

But that only left you locked inside the lab with their corpses, knowing that if no one came to get you, you’d have a much slower death by starvation.

Your saving grace came in the form of a series of loud bangs against the door, each one denting the thick metal further until it broke down to reveal your hero.

Fast forward to now, to the star-spangled asshole shoulder checking you on your way out of the meeting room.

“Excuse you, Asshole,” you grumbled, and he didn’t even bother to look back, flipping you off over his shoulder.

You peeled your eyes away from his retreating form, focusing on the task ahead of you.

Bucky briefed you all on the mission—the whole team was going undercover to catch a prolific arms dealer, one who liked to spend a lot of time at one particular nightclub.

At first, you wondered why the police didn’t just take care of it if it was that easy to find the guy, but apparently his security was great at spotting anyone coming for their boss.

And great at getting rid of them.

So it was the perfect job for a merry band of trained killers who had already proven incredibly difficult to kill.

The only problem was that the slippery rat most definitely had an escape route planned in case anyone came after him, so the team was going to have to go in looking the part.

As you pulled on a pair of fishnets and wiggled your way into the skin tight black dress that Valentina had sent for you, you couldn’t keep your mind off of Walker.

Even if he was a giant asshole half the time—okay, maybe a little more than half—he was still the one who saved you from that bunker.

He was still the one who saved your ass time and time again out in the field, since you were a massive target for anyone who knew what you were capable of.

You couldn’t even count the amount of times he’s grabbed you and pulled you behind his shield, holding you close to him with his unnatural strength and blocking you from gunfire.

Even through his body armor, you could feel the heat radiating off of him . . . and the heat in your cheeks.

But the minute the battle was over, he’d always put as much distance between the two of you as possible.

It was getting hard not to take it personally, no matter what the others had to say about it.

That was why it surprised you when you walked out into the hallway, and Walker’s booming voice carried down the corridor.

“You’re going on the mission in that?”

You whipped around to face him, and you realized that, for the first time since you’ve known him, he wasn’t wearing his usual red white and blue tactical gear.

He had a black muscle shirt beneath a navy blue button down that was left open just enough to show off a hint of reddish blond chest hair. His sleeves were rolled up—crisp, to military standards—over his muscular forearms.

Your mouth went a little dry, and you only realized you were staring at him when he raised an incredulous brow.

“It’s not like I chose it,” you protested, suddenly very aware of the dress’s plunging neckline when his eyes dropped to your chest, before darting back to your face as though he hadn’t just been checking you out. “Besides, we’re going to a club. We have to look the part.”

“Yeah?” He scoffed, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “Well I’m pretty sure if you bend over I’ll be looking at parts of you I’ve never seen before.”

Your jaw dropped in disbelief at his sheer audacity. You gave him an annoyed shove, but to your frustration he didn’t move even an inch, his intense blue eyes still burning into you.

“And why is it that you care, huh?” You fired back, holding his gaze. “You haven’t said one kind word to me since I joined the team, and all of a sudden I should be taking your fashion advice?”

He stared at you a moment longer, the finer features of his face twitching like he was going to blow.

“Fuck me, fine, okay,” he hissed, throwing his hands up in frustration. “What the fuck do I care if you spend half the night fighting off handsy strangers?”

He pushed past you, stomping down the hall the way he always did when something pissed him off—which was often—but you could’ve sworn he almost sounded . . . jealous?

Whatever it was, he stayed pissed off the whole ride to the club you were supposed to be infiltrating. He barely even looked at you, and if you did catch him looking, he turned away so fast you were surprised he didn’t get whiplash.

And when it was time to split up—it would’ve been suspicious if you all went in as a group—Walker was the last one out of the vehicle.

You could practically feel his eyes on you as he watched you in line, waiting for his turn to join the queue.

If you were honest though, it was actually sort of comforting.

It was silly, after all the dangerous missions you’ve been on—in and out of your own control—but standing here in a line with all these well dressed people, hearing the base of the music half a block away from the door, was making your heart race with panic.

You’d never been one for parties, even before Hydra ended your life as you knew it, and you were beginning to wish you’d worn those uncomfortable earbuds that Bob gave everyone.

Surely having something in your ears would be better than hearing all the noise around you.

And if you thought outside was bad, it was so much worse inside.

You would have rather been on the battlefield any day. At least when you got overwhelmed by bullets, Walker would swoop in and protect you . . . even if he did act like an ass about it later.

But here, you had to smile and dance along with the rest of the crowd, lest security catch on to the plan. If even one of you gave it away, the target could be evacuated before any of you can even find him.

At least you were allowed to have a drink or two to calm your nerves. If Walker’s shield couldn’t protect you from social anxiety, the fruity little number you were sipping on would have to do.

“Watch your drink.” You felt Walker’s breath on your neck when he leaned in to talk directly into your ear, tugging the hem of your dress down where you hadn’t realized it had started to ride up.

You spun around to face him, your cheeks blazing from the unexpected contact. “What?”

It was too loud to hear him if you stood at a normal distance, so he had to lean in close to talk to you, almost pressing his body against yours.

“I said, watch your drink,” He repeated, his expression painfully serious, contrasting with the colorful lights and the blaring music. “I don’t like the looks of some of the guys here.”

“Of course you don’t,” you huffed, smoothing your dress. “It’s a club, Walker. There’s going to be creeps.”

“Sure, but I don’t want to have to chase down some frat boy’s van if you get drugged.”

Every time he spoke and his breath fanned over your skin, it sent shivers down your spine. 

It was no secret that John Walker did things to your mind—he was an objectively attractive man, and the fact that he always seemed to be coming to your rescue didn’t hurt.

But you couldn’t afford to think like that. He hated you.

Didn’t he?

“Who made it your job to be my personal bodyguard, huh?” You challenged, leaning back just far enough so you could glare into those intense blue eyes, now widened with shock. “I didn’t ask you to come and save me.”

He looked at you like you’d slapped him, and your heart constricted at the realization that somehow, in some way, you’d wounded him.

But you were on a mission, and now was not the time to be trading verbal punches with the ex-Captain America. If one of you got a little too loud, said something a little too personal, you could blow the whole mission.

On the retreat, you turned away from him, but he grabbed you by the arm, his grip like iron, whether he was trying or not. “We’re not done here.”

“Yes, we are,” you protested, trying unsuccessfully to pull your arm free. 

He stared at you incredulously. “You thought you were going somewhere, huh?”

“I was going to the ladies room,” you spat. “Unless you want me to piss right here on your shoes.”

With that, he released you, but his eyes never left you, even as you pushed your way through the crowd to get away from him.

And it was a good thing too, because not thirty seconds after you sat your drink down on one of the small tables near the bathroom, one of the scumbags he’d clocked earlier leaned over and sprinkled something into your drink.

“Oh fuck no,” he forced through gritted teeth, and began making his own way through the crowd.

If the creep who had spiked your drink would’ve seen Walker coming at him, he would have been running for dear life.

Dropping any pretenses of blending in, Walker stalked toward his unsuspecting prey like he was in an active warzone, fingers twitching for the pistol concealed at his hip.

But even he knew better than that.

Draw a gun now, and not only would he blow the mission, but his new target would probably run before he could get a clear shot.

But he didn’t need a gun.

The man didn’t even notice him until Walker grabbed your drink off of the table and whipped it at him, shattering the glass in his face.

“What the hell, man?” He shrieked, but the music was too loud for many people to hear the commotion.

“You’re coming with me.”

It wasn’t a question.

Walker grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, his vice-like grip impossible to struggle out of as he dragged him out of the side door and into the alley.

“Let go of me, you fucking psycho!”

“Oh, I’ll let go of you.” Walker chuckled, a dangerous sound resonating in his chest.

Not even using half of his strength, he threw the man into the side of the dumpster, denting it with the impact and no doubt breaking a few of his ribs.

“Oh my god,” he choked out as Walker stalked toward him. “You’re fucking Captain America, aren’t you?”

“Not anymore,” he snarled, grabbing the other man by the front of his shirt.

He hauled him to his feet, only to punch him square in the face. The alley echoed with the sickening crack of a human nose breaking.

The scumbag dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes, trying to cover his face, but the blood still oozed through his fingers.

Walker’s boot rested on the man’s head, pinning him to the pavement.

“But the thing is,” he pushed down harder, forcing an agonized sob from his victim. “I don’t need a fancy title to protect women. Especially that woman.”

Captain America or USAgent, it didn’t matter. He still had the strength to crush that man’s skull like a watermelon.

And he did it, just as you walked out into the alley.

“Walker, what the fuck?” You hurriedly shut the door behind you so that no one else would see the grizzly scene and raise alarm bells. “I thought I heard you outside from the bathroom window, but seriously, What. The. fuck?”

“I can explain—”

You put a hand up to interrupt him, before gesturing down to the corpse beneath his boot. “You can explain why you’re risking the mission by murdering a civilian?”

“That civilian spiked your goddamn drink,” he all but shouted, barely managing to rein in his volume. “You know, the one I told you to keep an eye on.”

“I-I wasn’t going back to it—couldn’t find a trash can,” you stammered, frozen under his intense gaze. “But I . . .” Your eyes flitted to the corpse, then back to Walker. “You did this for me?”

“Of course I did,” he choked out, a little quieter than before, though the effort was an obvious strain on him. “He tried to hurt you, and I couldn’t just let that happen.”

“You could’ve stopped him without eviscerating him,” you pressed. “I know you’ve got a temper, but this . . . ?”

You gestured toward the viscera and brain matter on the ground around him.

“Help me clean it up,” he sighed, breaking the lock on the dumpster before flinging the lid open. “Can’t leave a dead body just laying around.”

Your eyes narrowed on him. He was dodging the question, blatantly so, but that didn’t make him wrong.

Effortlessly, he lifted the corpse and tossed it in, while you used your power over blood to pull the rest of the mess—including what was all over Walker—into the dumpster along with the body.

“There,” you huffed as he shut the lid. “Good as new. Now, do you want to explain to me exactly why you popped that guy’s skull like the world’s most disgusting water balloon instead of doing literally anything less gross to get rid of him?”

You weren’t going to ask why he killed him—one less rapist piece of shit in the world was a good thing, as far as you were concerned.

But you knew full well that Walker knew a lot of ways to kill a man that were a lot less gruesome—more efficient, like everything else he did. 

And since the two of you were supposed to be undercover . . . 

“Do I want to?” he scoffed. “No, not really.”

He stepped past you, reaching for the door handle, but you grabbed the back of his shirt.

You couldn’t have stopped him if he was intent on moving. You both knew that. And yet, he froze in his tracks.

“John.”

His first name felt foreign on your tongue, but hearing it made his heart feel constricted in his chest.

“I know you hate me for my past,” you choked out, still clinging to his shirt. “But we’re a team now. If I did something to you—”

“You think I hate you?” He whipped around, finally facing you. “Why would you think that?”

He genuinely didn’t understand.

He would’ve thought that the way he fussed over you, and the way he protected you on the field would’ve been enough to make that obvious.

Like the others always said—he’s an asshole to everyone. 

It wasn’t personal.

But . . . maybe it was to you.

“Oh, I don’t know,” it was your turn to scoff. “Maybe all the things you say and do when we’re not on the battlefield.” You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head as you looked away from him. “I get it though . . . Hydra operative and all that, even if I didn’t exactly have a choice . . .”

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, taking a step closer to you.

Not softly, but not roughly either—probably about as gentle as a man with his strength was capable of being, he grabbed your face, dragging your gaze back to his shining blue eyes.

Blue eyes that glimmered with emotion you’d never seen before. Not from him, at any rate.

“You . . .” He sucked in a deep breath, looking so unsure of what he was going to say next. “You make me crazy, you know that?”

“What—?”

“No,” he interrupted you, bringing a finger to your lips. “Don’t talk right now, or I’ll lose the stones to say it.”

Your brows knitted curiously. You didn’t understand why he suddenly looked so nervous here in this alley with you, as opposed to when he was on the battlefield, fighting for his life.

“I want you,” he choked out, like he was jumping on a grenade—no helmet this time. “When I first took you out of that bunker, yeah, I had my doubts about you, but when I found out what you’d been through, all I wanted to do was protect you—told myself that’s all I wanted.”

“But, why are you always so mean to me?” You shook your head, wanting to believe him, but it didn’t make any sense.

He ran his hands through his hair, letting out an exhale and looking up toward the sky for strength. “God, how do I say this without sounding insane?”

“Sound insane,” you encouraged him, taking his hands and looking up at him with big doe eyes, hanging on his every word. “Tell me.”

He squeezed your hands, so gently for a man of his strength that it made tears well up in your eyes.

The control he had to have to not crush you . . .

“I have ruined everything in my life I’ve ever loved. My wife left me—took my kid with her, and I deserved it.” He sucked in a breath, and you didn’t miss the broken shudder. “I’m a broken man, and I don’t deserve to try again with someone new.”

“You were trying to push me away.” Your lips twisted into a frown, and so did his.

“Yeah.” He nodded, trying to sniffle back the tears that were threatening to fall. “Thought it’d be better that way.”

“It isn’t,” you protested, staring up at him like he was the full moon, and you were a moth hopelessly following the light. “I want you to kiss me.”

“What?” His eyes widened, and you squeezed his hands a little tighter.

“Kiss me, John.” You added his name this time, and his breath hitched. “If you want to.”

“I want to,” was all he said before pulling you closer, crashing his lips against yours.

The kiss was feverish, hungry—no, starving.

John Walker was not the sort of man to do anything in half measures, and a thrill coursed through your body when he spun you both around and shoved your back against the wall, knocking the wind out of you with his strength.

“Fuck,” he gasped, backing away and assessing you with fretful eyes. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, now get back here,” your voice was breathy, broken by lust.

You grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him back over you, and he picked up right where he left off.

His teeth found your bottom lip, and you could feel the growl that resonated against his chest in your own from the way he had you pressed against him.

“Are we really doing this here?” He murmured against your lips, leaning back just enough so that the tip of his nose was touching yours, possessively pressing his forehead against yours. “In the alley where I just crushed a guy’s skull?”

“Crushed a guy’s skull for me,” you corrected him, carding your fingers through his hair to pull him close again. You kissed the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his neck just under his ear before you whispered, “I’m down if you are—”

He was.

You barely got the words out before he was kissing you again. Then kissing your neck, then lower, lower still until he was down on his knees, looking up at you like he was in prayer.

His hands ghosted up your fishnet wrapped thighs, but he stopped at the hem of your too-short dress. “May I?”

His voice was raspy with need, and you were so turned on by it that you could barely answer. “Yes.”

Please.

Please, please, please.

You wanted him to touch you in that moment more than you’d ever wanted almost anything.

And he didn’t keep you waiting.

Ripping open your fishnets like he was unwrapping a present, he wasted no time pushing your panties aside, throwing one of your legs over his shoulder, and dragging his tongue across your pussy.

You let out a gasp, and he groaned his approval.

“So wet for me,” he practically purred, easily sliding two fingers inside of you as he watched your face twist with the effort to keep quiet. “So pretty too.”

He leaned forward again, his hot tongue dragging across your needy clit.

“Hmm,” he hummed. “So sweet.”

“John,” you begged, running your fingers through his reddish-blonde hair. “Please.”

“Since you asked so nicely . . .”

His voice was teasing, maddeningly so, but it was impossible to be mad at him when his face was buried between your thighs.

He sucked your clit between his lips, at the same time curling his fingers inside of you in a beckoning motion, rubbing that sweet spot and making stars start to form behind your eyes.

His name fell from your lips like a prayer, and he growled against your sensitive flesh, running his teeth along that pink bundle of nerves.

“Not fucking you until you cum for me at least once,” he grunted. “Not gonna take my time when I bury my cock in you—still have the mission to think about.”

If anyone else had said that to you, you might’ve been offended. But this was John Walker kneeling down between your legs. Of course he was still thinking about the mission.

The man was nothing if not a good soldier.

But he was everything to you. Especially right now.

It didn’t matter if the whole world looked at him like a dishonored reject, you knew him better than that. You knew that no matter what an asshole he could be sometimes, he was a hero.

Your hero.

You had to bite down on your own palm to stop yourself from screaming when your orgasm hit you, bliss crashing over you like a tidal wave.

Your juices poured down over his wrist, and he licked every drop clean, blue eyes fixed on your face.

“Fuck,” he groaned, palming himself through his pants. “You cum so pretty.”

You couldn’t speak. You were pretty sure that if you tried all that would come out was incoherent babble.

Slowly, he rose to his feet, leaning in and caging you against the wall with his arms as you looked up at him, helplessly lost in the headspace of your ecstasy.

“Gonna fuck you now”—He pressed his forehead to yours, drinking in the sight of you drunk on the pleasure he gave you—“If that’s okay with you.”

You nodded eagerly, and that was all the permission he needed to grab the back of your neck and pull you into a bruising kiss.

The taste of you on his tongue was almost too good to bear—evidence that he wanted you every bit as badly as you’ve been wanting him ever since he pulled you out of that bunker.

The sound of his zipper coaxed your eyes downward, and you watched him shove his jeans and boxer-briefs down his hips to reveal his cock—hard and ready for you.

You wondered if the serum had an effect on his size, or if he was just naturally gifted. Either way, your teeth sunk into your bottom lip in anticipation of the stretch.

Manhandling you effortlessly, he hoisted your legs up around his hips. He held you up with one hand, lining the head of his cock up to your soaking wet cunt with the other.

He slid into you slowly, inch by inch, his face twisting into a tortured grimace as he forced himself to wait for you to adjust.

It was considerate—you were beginning to realize that the man was considerate to a fault, always thinking of others even if it wasn’t actually what they wanted.

“Fuck me, John,” you told him, like an order from his commanding officer. “I need to feel you fuck me hard.”

“Darlin’, you don’t know how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.” You felt his breath on your neck as he leaned in to whisper in your ear, “Just remember—you’ve got to be quiet or we’ll blow the mission.”

“The mission,” you choked out, lips parting in a silent gasp when he slowly pulled out and suddenly thrust back in, with a grin curling the corners of his lips. “I almost forgot about that.”

“Good,” he all but purred. “The only thing I want you thinking about right now is me.”

He’s all you could think about, especially when he carried out your orders and fucked you like he meant it.

You had to grit your teeth against the pleasure. 

His name was trying to tear itself out of your throat, and every time his cock rubbed against that sweet spot inside of you you felt like you were going to lose all composure.

Your body was still on fire from the first orgasm he gave you, still warm and reactive to every touch.

Every too-hard squeeze of your hip.

He gripped your soft flesh so tightly that you were sure it was going to leave a bruise. 

Even though your mutant abilities would heal you quickly, you hoped you’d at least get the chance to see the pretty purple blooms in the shape of his fingerprints before they went away.

Just the thought tipped you that much closer to the edge, lost in bliss as he rutted into you like an animal.

Raw and passionate in the dark alley, illuminated only by the moonlight.

You couldn’t hold it back much longer—just a few more thrusts and you were going to scream.

He could see it on your face.

“Here baby,” he cooed, his wrecked voice giving away just how close he was, before covering your pretty mouth with his palm. “I’ll muffle your screams if you want to let loose.”

You had never been so turned on in your life. The passion, the control it must’ve taken for him not to wreck your insides with his unnatural strength.

All at once, the dam burst even harder than the first time, and you did scream into his palm when you went careening over the precipice of ecstasy.

He wasn’t far behind, and your cunt clenching around him only dragged him over that edge with you. 

His thrusts became more erratic, and he sounded desperate when he whispered, “Gonna cum,” in your ear. “Where do you want—?”

“Inside,” you managed to form the word through your haze of bliss.

His whole body tensed, and a string of expletives along with a strangled moan of your name fell from his lips when he came, flooding your insides with heat.

He pushed into you a couple more times before he finally pulled out, letting you rest your shaking legs back on the ground as the evidence of your pleasure and his ran down your inner thighs.

“Fuck,” he groaned, chest rising and falling from the intensity of the orgasm. “Let me get that for you.”

He pulled off his shirt, not caring about the buttons that snapped off and scattered in the alleyway, before using it to clean your thighs.

Stuffing the ruined shirt into his back pocket, he turned his attention to your face again, eyes melting into yours.

“Tell me that wasn’t a one time thing.”

The confident bravado was still there, but you could see through it now—see the vulnerability around the edges.

“It wasn’t,” you promised him, carding your fingers through his hair to pull his lips against yours again, catching his bottom lip between your teeth before leaning back to look into his adoring eyes. “But we should get back inside.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat, looking away awkwardly. “The mission.”

You turned away from him, reaching for the doorknob, but he caught your wrist before you could open it.

“John—?”

He cut you off by dragging you into another heated kiss. “Just needed one more, to hold me over until the next time.”

Next time.

You liked the sound of that.

[deeokanee]

Bob never had a place he could call his own. He grew up with a roof on his head, but that's all he had at his parents' house. His dad made sure that Bob understood that that wasn't his house, he was just living in it because his father allowed him. Bob didn't need these constant reminders to know that place wasn't his, he felt it every day since he can remember.

He was barely 18 when he finally kicked him out. His mother didn't protest as her husband threw Bob out of the door, as he had done with all of his clothes too. He didn't blame her, she didn't want to get beaten when she could avoid it. He knew she'd never risk it for him, he wasn't worth that. He was a highschool dropout, and most importantly, he was an addict. He had been one since he was fourteen, and in the last year meth had replaced the painkillers. No one would want to call a junkie like him their son.

He went to crash on the couch of a guy he knew from his night job, mopping floors and washing dishes at a crappy local diner. It paid him barely enough to sustain his addiction.

He didn't have any other place to go. He wasn't under the impression that this man, older than him by at least five years, was his friend. He was just a colleague who had noticed the clear signs of addiction in Bob at first glance. First he got him hooked on meth, swearing that it was better than whatever crap Bob was using —he was so right— then he became his dealer.

But now that Bob paid this dude definitely too much money to stay at his place, his finances were even lower than they were before. He couldn't afford the drugs anymore, and the man surely wouldn't hand them out to him for free.

That's why, when the withdrawal made his anxiety skyrocket as his whole body shook uncontrollably, he started stealing some meth from the guy's stash. He took small amounts each time, hoping, praying that the owner wouldn't notice them being gone.

When that man found out, he kicked Bob in the ribs so many times that breathing became difficult for him for months, so hard that his father seemed gentle in comparison. Then he was out on the streets.

In the successive years, after he had lost his job because he was unpresentable even for that place, he slept in abandoned buildings with other homeless strangers. Not even when he was high out of his goddamn mind, he could mistake those places for a home.

He didn't miss his parents' house, not even when he slept on dirty, wet concrete floors with nothing but his old clothes to keep him warm. That has never been his home, and he was as alone now as he was before.

Loneliness was nothing new for him, so it didn't hurt. You can't miss something you never knew in the first place. He never had someone who cared for him, he understood that would never change.

Even when he was in highschool, living a seemingly normal life, he never created a bond with anyone. Not having even one friend, Bob felt ridiculous when he wondered about how having someone falling for him would feel.

He never expected romance, and he stopped craving it when he accepted that no one would want that with him. After all, his experiences with guys were always limited to hand jobs in empty locker rooms and secret hookups when those dudes' girlfriends were busy.

Bob knew that was all a man would ever want from him. Still, he was lying, when he told himself that letting sleazy men use his body in exchange for some money wouldn't make him feel filthy. It was what he was used to, so why did it make him want to rip the skin off his face? Not even being intoxicated during the act helped to ease the disgust he felt for himself.

Sure as hell, the shitty motels in which some of these men took him —the fancier ones, those who weren't pleased with just getting sucked off in a dark alley, those who wanted more from him, without paying a much higher price than the others— didn't feel homely at all.

He has spent all of his existence being a reject, it's all he's ever known. Those times are still fresh in his mind, after all it's only been a year since his life has changed in ways he still can't fully comprehend.

Despite him being in a better place in every possible way —he's clean, he has many friends, he's in love and he's loved—, he still can't fully believe that this is real. He can't wrap his head around it, because he's never thought he would deserve what he has now.

Sometimes he wakes up expecting to be on the street. He opens his eyes anticipating to be beaten, spat on and abused. He doesn't know when the memories will stop, when his mind will cease calling him a failure, a junkie, a whore.

Maybe it will never really end. But he could grow to accept it, now that he has people in his life who care for him, now that his voice isn't the only one he hears in his brain. Now that he has a place for himself that no one will dare to take away from him.

And still now, despite having his own room, a space only he can control, he hasn't spent a night in it in months. Not since he and John have started dating (even before that, to be frank). Someone could see this as a contradiction, or as Bob dwelling in old habits because he doesn't think he deserves better.

But the fact is, firstly, that sleeping at John's is better. His boyfriend's smell is everywhere. In the shower, in the closet, on the sheets.

Despite being in a place that on paper doesn't belong to him, he doesn't feel like he's taking up space, wasting space, for the first time since he was born. It makes him feel longed for, knowing that John wants him to be there, that he needs him to be there.

But there's even more to that. The fact is that feeling John's weight pressing on his body, his arms being wrapped around him during the whole night, is the most at home Bob has ever felt in his whole life. They could be in any place in the world, and it wouldn't change a thing. Bob would still feel like that's his rightful place in the world, and no one is going to take that away from him. He won't allow it, and John won't too.

[witchygagirl]

@magicalqueennightmare <- fanfic insanity including Bucky Barnes, John Walker, Corporal Lewis Ford, quite a few more marvel characters. One DC character and a couple walking dead ones

[infwctednyacifier]

Opinions on gacha kids?

*stares in I've been a gacha kid since I was like 7-8*

[gusdeservedbetter]

Also, something about Yelena and John both lingering to see if Bob is good, even though no one would blame them if they hurried to leave -because they're quite literally fleeing from death- or if only one stayed. No. BOTH linger until he gives them the ok. And I just, um, yeah 🥺

Maybe it’s just me, but this fleeting scene/moment in the movie where Bob is 1. wearing tactical gear (his sweet and fragile nature being paired with a traditionally “masculine” uniform made me feral) and 2. smiling as he gets shoved in the back of the military utility vehicle, knowing that (in his mind, to be part of something bigger than him, even if it was just for a little while) made him feel more alive than he could have ever imagined before.

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: after getting injured on a mission and dismissing your help, you can’t seem to shake why john doesn’t like you. the answer is more complicated than you thought.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 10.0K (sorry!)

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢���𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), teammates to lovers, angst, talk of insecurities, john is an asshole who’s emotionally constipated, mention of violence, wound tending trope, heavy kissing, groping, teasing, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, mild body worship, hair pulling, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, missionary position, john has a huge praise kink, aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: listen ,,, I know he’s a bad person & he’s flawed but he’s so well-written and hot … and it’s wyatt russell !! first time writing for john and I loved this, I hope you guys love it too! thank you so much for your support! 🫶

Ash floats through smoke-laden air in the aftermath of an explosion, chunks of a building blown into the streets, screams of civilians pounding within your ears. Time stills, as if it’s come to a crawl, and everything slows around you.

Missions still paralyze you from time to time, fear and doubt creeping in, keeping you frozen in-place. It’s gotten somewhat easier, adapting to chaotic situations, attempting to fit in with your new teammates.

A clammy perspiration clings to your flesh beneath your suit, the design nondescript. Valentina had pushed for something flashy, more in-line with your abilities, but you refused. The less that you stuck out, the better.

It wasn’t nearly as impressive as the rest of the team, healing powers at the expense of your own energy, but you were designated as the ‘medic’, for obvious reasons. Whenever someone was injured or too roughed-up, you were there to help.

“You still with us over there?”

John Walker’s snide quip emanates from the communication link sitting in your ear, and it’s enough to effectively shatter your stupor. It wasn’t a malicious remark — just a little annoying, likely furthered by his tone of voice.

Steve Rogers was someone you knew, years ago — an acquaintance, really, but he’d helped get you out of a bind with undercover H.Y.D.R.A operatives. When he wore the shield, when Sam wore the shield, it stood for something greater than themselves.

Walker had been thrown into enough turmoil already; losing the role of Captain America, murdering an innocent, losing his family. It was all his fault, he knew this — it didn’t make the pain any less, knowing he was at the root of it all.

The both of you butted heads more often than not, two differing personalities that clashed in verbal sparring matches or thinly-veiled hostility. You’d tried to empathize with him, but he made it difficult with his condescending attitude.

Bucky had played mediator more times than you could count — you didn’t enjoy getting angry, the feeling never benefited you. Nevertheless, you were trying to get along with Walker and learn to work better as teammates.

Things were progressing, albeit slowly. Even after extending the olive branch and being kind to him, maybe too nice, he still held some lingering indifference towards you.

“I copy.” In the aftermath of thwarting enemies of the state, you prefer to help the civilians, ensuring that they were out of harm’s way, healed. Jogging toward a group of people attempting to move rubble aside, you’re quick to assist.

“There’s still one more, if someone wants to take care of it,” Ava’s voice comes over the communicator, muddled by background noise of emergency vehicles. “Unless you need help.”

“I got it.” Quick to volunteer, Walker’s voice cuts in before dissipating. You’re busy helping move wreckage aside, freeing any trapped citizens and making way for ambulances. Wailing sirens fill the air, and things move swiftly.

The air smells of burning, intermingled with a twinge of copper, a streak of crimson splashed upon your cheek. It’s a shallow cut, something trivial and minor, muscles aching with a dull throb after the dust begins to settle.

Helicopters begin to circle overhead, the media soon to follow. It was some rogue section of former H.Y.D.R.A operatives that had caused this mess, and with the formation of the New Avengers, these threats seem to appear more often.

The public is torn — one side openly celebrating that there’s protection again, the other side scornful of a ragtag group of government rejects. You aren’t one to pay attention to the discourse, focusing on finding your own footing, building relationships and making amends.

Despite having the team to lean on, you had a complicated relationship with your own family. After your powers manifested, you became isolated, kept at a distance, prompting you to run away and find S.H.I.E.L.D, when it still existed.

Still, you felt alone sometimes, but the pain had lessened with the passage of time. Alexei, of all people, treated you like a daughter, and Ava proved to be a reliable friend, despite her constant grimace. The more you assimilated with them, the more the bitter sting dissipated.

The team was a conglomerate of fragmented pasts — scars, veiled wounds, regrets; but they had become your family, or something close, and that meant the world to you.

As first responders began to flood the scene, you regrouped with the rest of the team, scraped and battered from the fighting, but all intact. Bucky and Yelena typically helmed any media events following a battle, but this time, everyone wanted to go home.

“Look at us,” Alexei laughs, placing a hand on John’s shoulder, and Yelena’s. “We are good team! The best team that the world has ever seen!” He cheers, and you find his enthusiasm endearing. John winces, stepping away from the Russian’s hold.

“You say that after every mission.” Yelena points out, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. The jet is somewhere down the street, and you all begin the arduous process of walking back.

“It is to remind of the truth, of our strength.” Alexei boasts, gleeful as ever as he jogs to keep up with Bucky. Bucky’s taken to letting him pretend that he’s the “co-captain”, just to keep his spirits high.

Morale is Alexei’s specialty — there is never a dull moment when he’s around, and his enthusiasm evokes a small smile from you, curling at the corners of your mouth. Dull, throbbing pangs of sore muscle ebbs through your body.

Straggling along at the tail end of the group, you step through some of the smaller pieces of rubble, a majority of what remains to be disposed of by a clean-up crew. Your mind is elsewhere, and the idea of sleeping once you’re back to the Watchtower is very appealing.

John is there too, uncharacteristically quiet as he walks a pace or two ahead of you, and you notice the slight stutter in his gait. There’s crimson blooming from a gash on the back of his suit, a deep wound, and your brows furrow together.

He didn’t say anything about it, which is typical, but you can’t help but be concerned. You didn’t dislike John, simply abhorred his attitude and the way he sometimes believed that he wasn’t at-fault.

Closing the distance, you come up on his flank, softly clearing your throat. “You’re hurt,” You murmur, low enough for only him to hear. He has an issue with getting injured, as if his pride is simultaneously bruised, so you keep it cordial. “I can take care of it.”

He’s always been reluctant to accept your help, allowing himself to fester within the pain, as if it’s some sort of penance for all the wrong he’s done. His muscles ache, and the gash, bruises, and cuts don’t make anything easier.

“I’m fine,” Dismissive, John brushes your concern aside, focusing on getting back to the jet without collapsing. The serum does its part, easier to manage the pain, but it doesn’t take away the sting. “It’s not that bad.” He utters, hoping you’ll drop it.

It’s his tone again; bitter, indifferent, swatting your offer aside as if you’re more bothersome than helpful. For reasons you can’t explain, it makes you angry, as if he’s too good for your help. Your jaw clenches, and you try again.

“There’s nothing wrong with accepting help, John. When we get back to the Watchtower, I can —”

“I said I’m fine.” Walker retorts, snapping at you without hesitation. It’s born from an amalgamation of agony and his own innermost demons that he’s wrestling with. He stares ahead, not wanting to look at your expression.

Bewildered, you fight against getting frustrated with him, wondering if there’s something that extends beyond his surface-level condescension.

Though, you wonder what you did to make him hate you so much — you sparred about the past, sure, but you were trying to bury the hatchet.

As if pierced by something sharp, you scoff, attempting to smother the flicker of fury that burned within your chest. It overrides your judgment, mouth moving before you can tell yourself to stop. “What’s your problem with me? Jesus, Walker, I just want to help you.”

The both of you are far away enough for the rest to remain oblivious to your sudden squabbling, and John grits his teeth, a sharp inhale splitting his lungs. “I can handle this on my own.” His tone is edged, but there’s something more beneath the surface.

Cerulean hues issue a warning for you to drop the subject, and you do, albeit reluctantly. Anger diminishes into confusion, uncertainty; you didn’t understand. Despite your efforts, he continued to swat you away as if you were a pest.

The splinter of desperation in your cadence turns his stomach, verbal sparring settling into a tenuous silence. John steals a glance despite himself, noticing the forlorn look that is etched into your brow, as if you’ve done something wrong.

He knows it’s not you — never has been, it’s him. John’s agitation dwindles into guilt, knowing that your intentions were wholly good, selfless. It’s something that he wishes he could have, and he’s working on it, but the process is emotionally heavy.

Scorned, you keep pace with him, even if he’s pushed you aside, ensuring that he makes it to the jet intact. The rest of the team regards you with perplexity, though you’re dismissive of it, settling into the webbing of your flight-seat.

The aftermath is often hushed — bodies catching their breath, a wordless recuperation, senses beginning to climb down from heightened adrenaline. Bucky’s piloting you out, heading back to the Watchtower.

Exhaustion settles in, replacing the exhilaration that comes with missions, the surge of vigor in your bloodstream. Tilting backwards, your head meets the cool interior of the jet, engine’s idle buzz thrumming beneath your boots.

John sits beside you, unexpectedly, his strenuous sigh rattling your body, passing from the bulk of his bicep to you. His visage is contorted into a look of thinly-veiled wistfulness, glancing sideways at you, a faint grimace of apology.

Quiet, you don’t relocate, simmering in the silence without so much as a murmur. Copper stings your nostrils, the scent of his blood, and you pretend that it doesn’t phase you; it does.

Your arms loosely fold over your chest, listening to the drone of the quinjet. The ride home is short, shorter than expected, and you’re eager to crawl beneath scalding water and let it burn the rush away.

As Bucky prepares for landing on the helipad outside, your gaze flutters toward John, whose stare is attempting to sear through the metal walls of the jet’s interior. He seems gone, as if his mind is a thousand miles away.

It was the same look he had when you were in the Void with him; loathing, conflicted, ripping himself apart for you to see.

The jet tremors violently as it descends onto the helipad, the noise scraping against your ears, a sound that’s still jarring to you. John remains unphased — he’s done it hundreds of times, terse as the hull begins to open.

Saying something now seems meaningless, words fading to ash within your throat, raw from thirst. Your fingers idly curl into the sleeves of your suit, tension relinquished as the team begins to file out of the jet, bearing the bruises and scrapes from the mission.

When you enter the Tower, a sense of relief finds you, the comfort of home, shoulders slouched as you make for your room. Bob is lingering beside the window, a book in his hand, headphones dangling from his ears.

“Good work today,” Bucky calls, attempting to boost morale. He’s at the helm, trying to steer this ship in the right direction, but it’s harder than it looks. “Get some rest.” He moves toward the lounge, hoping to get a status update on the cleanup.

Alexei chimes in with an echoed remark about how everyone did a good job, mirroring Bucky’s own statement. A smile curls at the corner of your mouth despite yourself, feet dragging as you sluggishly stumble toward your room.

Through the light clamor, you don’t see John, disappearing through the tinted pane of your door, feeling it hiss and click behind you. Your room is warm, cozy; it’s a sanctuary you’ve created, making something within the ruins of your old life.

A hush falls throughout the Tower, typically a quiet evening after returning from a mission. Outside, the skies turn to a swirling ink, veiled by heavier clouds that signal the onset of rain.

Peeling away your suit, your flesh is exposed to the coolness of your quarters, glittering with a layer of perspiration, body speckled in light cuts and fresh bruises. The shower calls your name, inviting, and you marinate beneath the water for half an hour.

Bruises pulse with a dull ache, remnants of crimson swept away by the water, leaving you renewed as you change into loungewear. Perched along the edge of your bed, you towel-dry your hair, gaze flickering toward your door.

You shouldn’t be the one to apologize.

The thought of checking on John crosses your mind, and then it stays, leaving you frustrated and torn. You didn’t hate him, you never have; if anything, you were left wondering why the strange hostility still lingered, after everything.

Even then, your desire to help overrode the brief spat that you had. He was your teammate, and leaving him to lick his grievous wounds without ensuring his safety felt cruel.

A tremulous inhale invades your lungs, steeling yourself as you cross into the corridor, leaving your room behind. His quarters are down the hallway, towards the very end, marked by blanched lights on either side.

No one sees you, and you creep over the cold tile as if you might be apprehended in the process. The walk there feels as if it’s stretched on for an eternity, taunting you with each step as you make it to the tinted panel.

His lock is off, you realize, and you try to knock, the sound eerily soft. There’s nothing, only an awkward stretch of silence that makes you shift uncomfortably, the chill of the floor sending a shiver down your spine.

“John?” Abandoning the use of ‘Walker’, you idly pace before the door, weaving in idle circles as you wait for him to answer. Still, nothing — you wonder if it’s intentional, if he’s purposefully ignoring you to prove a point.

Intending to ask for forgiveness later, you slide the door open, stepping into his room with a twinge of anxiety. You shouldn’t be skulking around in here, but his lack of answer had you worried — more than you should’ve been, really.

“So much for knocking,” His voice cuts through your scrambled thoughts like a serrated knife, though lacking the sardonic poise. “Could’ve waited a minute.” John utters, and you spot him in his bathroom.

Startled, your gaze draws to him, attempting to patch himself up with bloodsoaked fingertips and a disgruntled countenance. His back is facing the mirror, head craned over his shoulder, blonde brows creased together, throat stirring with a noise of agitation.

“You didn’t answer.” With a weak protest, you hover in the doorway, shuffling forward to let it close with a subtle click. Everything seems devoid of personal decorum in his room, as if he’s still deciphering what goes where, some belongings still in boxes.

“You didn’t give me a chance.” John retorts, lips parted to make room for a strained sigh. He’s been harsh enough today — he recollects, composes himself, and lets his guard waver.

“I was worried about you.” The weight of your confession brings him pause, hand poised against his back, attempting to apply gauze. He’s failing miserably, cerulean hues darting toward you, arms folded over your chest.

John stops, jaw tense as he huffs with frustration, discarding the roll of gauze onto the bathroom countertop. The low glow of the light glitters against his skin, pleasantly sunkissed, muscles taut and broad, speckled in violet bruises.

There’s a rawness to him, sinewy yet firm, the honed strength of a trained soldier. He’s visceral, nothing grossly herculean, but he’s worked for his physicality, sacrificed plenty for it.

You realize you’ve been ogling him, gaze carefully tracing over the blonde hair smattered over his chest, trailing along his abdomen before it disappeared beneath his tactical pants.

Tendrils of heat snake across the back of your neck, a twinge of something desirous stirring within your stomach. You aren’t used to it, and you feel yourself attempt to rip your gaze away to something else; and you can’t.

He’s a man beneath it all, beneath the shield, the armor, the facade of an inflated swagger, all of the peacocking — he’s vulnerable, now. John’s countenance softens, startled by the sincerity that permeates your voice.

It’s unusual for him to be this quiet, as if you ripped the bravado and smugness right from his throat. Pacing forward, you decide to extend the offer again, hoping that he’ll accept your help and throw away the pride.

“I can help,” Your tone is disarmingly tender, something that John knows he’s undeserving of, given his behavior towards you. You vex him, but not because of your demeanor — he’s falling, and he’s trying to stop himself; he can’t. “Please.”

John concedes, head bobbing in a brief nod as he turns to face the mirror, lukewarm water ridding the crimson that stained his fingers. Coiled muscle cuts across his back, flesh littered in old scars and a colorful variety of bruises.

With a soft exhale, you awkwardly move into the doorway of the bathroom, blanketed by the pale orange of the lights, the distant buzz something of a comfort to you. The gash stretches from his left rib to spine, an ugly wound, oozing red that trickles over his back.

Scraped, calloused hands grip the edge of the counter as he props himself up, gaze flickering toward your reflection in the mirror. Your hair, still damp, tousled and disheveled, a cut on your cheek, mannerisms somewhat shrewd.

It’s quiet — too quiet for your liking, but you don’t want to be the one to break the ice. Wordlessly, you reach out, palm beginning to mist with wisps of a faint green, your powers manifesting.

“I’m sorry for today,” John murmurs, stopping you in your tracks. The mist wavers, concentration effectively shattered by his apology, which happened to be entirely unexpected. “About not letting you help me.”

“Is it something I did?” Your inquiry evokes a pang of melancholy, as if his heart is bleeding, still halfway stitched together. “Listen, I know we’ve had our differences, but I’m trying to move past it.”

John sighs, exiting through his nostrils; measured, restrained. “You didn’t do anything,” He’s learning to admit when he’s the problem, digits tightening against the dark granite; it groans beneath his grasp. “I don’t hate you.”

Relief blossoms within your chest, as if some weight is lifted from your shoulders. Still, you wonder what exactly is wrong with him, festering below the surface, something he’s trying to bury. “Be honest with me — what’s wrong?” You question, brows furrowing together.

He’s reluctant to tell you why he’s comfortable with sitting in the pain — why he feels he deserves it. John knows that you mean well, always looking out for everyone else, showing kindness when you didn’t have to.

“This is what I deserve,” John utters, cadence embittered, withholding a wave of emotion. Tears swim, unshed within his eyes, and he actively fights against it. “The pain — for what I did, for what happened.”

For Lemar, for Olivia, for the blood on his hands, for the son who’ll only know his father as a deadbeat. He hates himself, deep down — he’s learning to be a better man, if that were even possible.

His transparency startles you, attempting to process this information in a way that evokes empathy. No one on the team is truly, wholly good — there’s amends that need to be made, most of them in the healing process, including you.

It’s a bleak contrast from the man constantly barraging you with snarky remarks, constantly engaging in banter with you. You don’t remember him opening up like this with anyone else.

Still, your hand drops, fingers twisting together as you scramble to come up with some encouragement. You’re so accustomed to his general smugness and cocksure attitude that this blindsides you.

“Just because you’ve done bad things doesn’t mean that you deserve to suffer, or rake yourself over the coals again,” It’s gentle, sound advice — John’s eyes screw shut. “Everyone deserves to heal, including you.”

The blood on his hands feels heavy, like some anchor dragging him down. After being stripped of the role of Captain America, spiraling, losing his family, he briefly considered it — a way out. He was glad that he never went through with it.

In the Void, when you found your way into his room, it was the moment Lemar had been killed. Replayed, over and over again, unable to be prevented — but his reaction could’ve been.

He could’ve been a better man.

In the beginning, he tried to justify it, rationalizing killing someone in cold blood. After time passed, he knew how wrong he was, how he desecrated the shield, the mantle; all for something else, to sate his rage. No matter how much healing he did, that would haunt him forever.

“Thanks.” He grits, as if he doesn’t fully believe your words. John understands your intentions, that you’re being empathetic and kind despite the abrasive way he’s acted towards you. It makes him feel worse. “I am trying.”

“I know,” Placating, your digits begin to shimmer with wisps of emerald energy, your power manifesting. “I know you are, John.” Oozing with a tender amiability, you can hear the tremor in his exhale.

When you called him John, it startled him; he’d gotten so accustomed to ‘Walker’, but he didn’t mind this in the slightest. Despite the rough beginning the both of you had with one another, he was warming up to you.

Admittedly, he thought it was the right thing to do, not fully letting you in to protect himself. When you had cordial conversations, he felt your kindness shroud him like a warm blanket; you’d moved on from the past.

Quiet, your hand finally lifts to his wound, brows creased in concentration, energy expelled into healing mist as it curls around the flesh. It feels like cold water, albeit soothing, pluming over torn skin and blood until it sinks inward.

A low grunt rips through his throat, somewhat startled at the sensation of your powers; simple, but wildly effective. It’s as if he’d never been slashed to begin with; the bruises and scrapes don’t go away, but the rest of it does.

Strained, your arm quivers, resolve slipping as you step away, using the doorway as a form of support. You’re always a little weak after you’ve healed someone, almost as if it’s an exchange of life.

“Better?” With a tender smile, you watch as he nods, inspecting himself in the mirror; nothing left behind. “Next time this happens, I hope you’ll let me help you.” You prompt, and he chuckles; it isn’t the typical condescending chide he gives you, either.

“I can’t make any promises.” John’s tone loses that bite, the indifference; it’s disarmingly soft. “Thanks again, for that. I’ve been an asshole to you — wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to help.” He murmured, tone lacking mirth.

“You have, but that can change,” Lips remain poised into a smile, one that makes his heart lurch within his chest. “You don’t have to keep being an asshole.” Your remark makes him scoff, though it’s more of a bemused sound, than anything else.

“I’ll lose my charm,” John counters, but he’s being sarcastic — somewhat, at least. You suspect he’ll still remain sharp-tongued and smug, but lose the indifference with you. “I know it’s something I need to work on.”

Grateful for his acknowledgment, you finally feel your energy return, a slow ebb that spreads throughout your body. Leaning off of the doorframe, you awkwardly step aside, figuring that this was your queue to leave.

“For the record, I never disliked you,” He utters, jaw clenched as he carefully navigates on what to say next. “Never had a problem with you, either. Your problem with me was justified.” John shrugs, his stare even-keel.

Bewildered, you let the pang of surprise fester, head cocking to one side. “I never really had a problem with you, or disliked you,” After this, you were beginning to understand why he was an asshole sometimes. “It’s all in the past, now. I want us to move forward.”

John’s halfhearted smile oozed with sincerity, a genuineness rarely seen by others. “I can do that.” Even still, he wouldn’t blame you if you had some sort of gripe against him, but you were kind — you were good, even if you didn’t think so.

His gaze hasn’t left you, cerulean hues fluttering over your countenance; you’re beautiful, eyes beset by kindness, half-dried tresses strung over your crown. The shirt you’re wearing is a size too big, sweatpants baggy, too.

He’s acutely aware of how obvious he’s being, ogling you; he always thought you were pretty, but in the bathroom’s faint glow, you’re stunning. You weren’t subtle either, he knows this, catching your shrewd gaze as it lingers on his arms.

John’s hands reach for his shirt, black spandex all wrinkled, balled up, stained with dried blood. The tension becomes unusually thick, mere embers kindled to life, now a fire that he doesn’t know if he can extinguish.

“Can I ask you something?” Your inquiry pierces through the tenuous silence, and there’s some momentary relief you gain from it.

“Yeah.” John’s tone is barely above a whisper, warm; as if he’s trying to calm himself down, ease the tension. With his shirt still clenched in one hand, he’s offering you his undivided attention.

With arms loosely folded over your chest, your fingers idly pluck at frayed stitching on your sleeves, a fleeting distraction. “Why were you always indifferent towards me, if you didn’t hate me?” You’re not accusatory, just curious.

Shit — John’s mind is scrambling for an answer that doesn’t make him seem strange. He’s got feelings for you, and you’re slowly drawing them out into the open; he doesn’t know how to handle it.

“Sometimes it’s easier for me to not let somebody in,” He shrugs, gaze wavering, flickering toward the ground. The vulnerability is something he’s still growing accustomed to — rawness of pain, feeling his emotions, choosing the right way to cope. “Because of what’s happened.”

Even then, his explanation still feels like he’s covering up for something else. Nevertheless, you let it rest, offering him a threadbare smile. “We don’t judge here, if you haven’t learned that already,” You sigh. “I’ll be here for you, if you choose to let me in.”

He already has — he’s appreciative, nodding as a display of gratitude before he finds your gaze again. “Thanks.” John smiles despite himself, swallowing down the words that want to escape him.

Silence settles between, the same tension simmering like before, causing you to shift your weight. He’s staring again, but you’re oblivious to it this time, angled away, trying to figure out what to do next.

Chewing at the inside of your cheek, your shoulders begin to slouch with relaxation. “I should probably go — you need rest.” You blurt, fumbling over your words, maintaining a sheepish smile as you shuffle toward the door.

John doesn’t really want you to leave; and he knows it’s selfish of him. His lips part, as if to ask you to stay, but he’s frozen, rooted in-place. Still, he nods, quietly resigning to letting you go back to your room.

His feet feel anchored to the floor, each step a drag as he trails after you, following you to the doorway. He’s quiet, still deliberating, turning over every word, every action within his mind. John comes up short, watching as you stop to say something else.

The closeness is sudden, wracked with tension; you’re nearly brushing arms with him, gooseflesh crawling along your spine. You’re both reaching for the door panel simultaneously, fumbling, fingers ghosting over one another; you recoil like you’ve been burned.

In the slim proximity, he catches a whiff of your shampoo — vanilla and peach, something sweeter, causing his jaw to tick. He’s looking again, unable to stop himself, gaze wandering over your body, appreciative; he grips the door frame as a distraction.

When you catch his stare, it burns you, something incendiary, as if he’s searing you into his mind. A subtle hitch forms within your throat, and you’re prepared to tell him goodnight, end it there — but you won’t move.

Silence stretches on, the sort of contemplative quiet before the onset of a storm, the deep breath before the plunge. Bodies linger within arm’s reach, screaming, and you have the audacity to stare at him, doe-eyed.

Then, you say his name, a feather-light whisper, gentle and placating. It barely registers, but he hears it, notices the parting of your lips, the way you haven’t recoiled from the closeness.

John’s mouth is suddenly pressed against yours in a heated frenzy.

A sharp inhale splits your diaphragm, lungs quaking, filled with a sudden surge of ecstasy when he kisses you. There’s a gasp stuck in the back of your throat, swallowed by the snare of his mouth.

His lips are unexpectedly soft, a stark contrast to the sharpness of his smart mouth. There’s a charged passion that echoes beyond the kiss, as if he’s walking the fine line of restraint.

Bewildered, your head is spinning, brain foggy, as if someone knocked you out. Left reeling, you don’t know what to say, what to do. Though, you’re receptive, mouth shyly moving against his, hands frozen at your sides.

When he pulls away, gauging your reaction, you appear as shocked as he does.

Each breath is labored, wrought with the sudden sting of exhilaration, butterflies beginning to pool within your belly. “I’m sorry.” John’s voice is low, a pleasant hum within your ear, but you don’t seem upset by what he did.

“Don’t be.” Without pause, your lips fly to meet him again, reciprocating the kiss, one that seems sluggish and passionate instead of frantic.

He’s kissing you back, hand dropping from the door to your hip, calloused digits caressing you through your shirt. The gesture ignites a fire within your bones, unable to stifle your mounting excitement.

Shyly, your hands move toward his chest, soft like velvet, smoothing over his pectorals as he presses you up against the door. A low groan vibrates through his chest, reveling in the feeling of your skin touching his.

There’s a poised strength coiled within his body, firm, flesh and blood, chest rising and falling underneath your hands.

His kiss is disarmingly gentle, something unexpected, but not unwelcome. You feel his body nudge against yours, distance now nonexistent.

You don’t know what’s gotten into you, gotten into him, but you’re enjoying yourself — you want him, need him, starving for contact.

He tastes metallic, an amalgamation of copper and a natural musk. Digits idly smooth over the coarse, blonde hair that covers his chest, descending toward his groin. The thought alone makes your knees weak.

Each kiss sends you spiraling, clawing for his mouth, leaving you ragged, desperate for his touch. You can’t remember the last time someone kissed you like this — even then, your experience is thin.

His scruffy countenance melds with yours, bleeding heat, kissing you with enough vigor that it prompts you to hold onto him. Your heart gallops, races — it’s quick and erratic, beating in your ears.

Recoiling from the kiss, your fingers tremble, deftly tracing over his collarbone, over scar-kissed skin, over faint clutches of freckles. “John, I — Are you sure?” You whisper, hoarse, afraid that he might regret it all in the morning.

“Wouldn’t have kissed you if I wasn’t sure.” John murmurs, voice low, curling thickly as his hands rub circles into your hips. He’s strong, secure — you didn’t expect to feel so comfortable with him. “I’ve thought about it for a while.”

His lips make contact with your jaw, mouth clamoring over your skin, kissing the spot beneath your ear. Flush to you, his confession makes your bones lurch, and you wonder what else he’s thought about, too.

Flustered, you’re quick to melt into him, visibly smitten, as if you’ve wound yourself into a tight knot. John notices, mouth twitching into a smirk as he places a string of kisses beneath your jawline.

“John …” A soft mumble rolls from your tongue, hands beginning to trail from chest to shoulders, anchoring yourself to him. His beard burns against your flesh, a pleasant scratch, reminding you that he’s real, this is real.

Warm breath feathers over your throat, your jaw, your cheek — he’s still smirking, too. “You’re getting shy on me.” He mumbles, able to taste the heat that bristles from your flesh. A hitch forms within your throat, his remark making you burn.

“No,” Posturing a weak defense, your body succumbs, lips parted to make room for a dizzying sigh. “I’m not.” It’s pathetic, your retort, but he’s still grinning as if he’s caught you in a trap, attempting to reign in the smug attitude.

“Right.” John’s cadence is dangerously low, little more than a pleasant husk that scratches the back of your brain. He’s teasing you still, cerulean hues alight with mirth, fingertips barely skirting underneath your shirt.

He’s charming — too charming, and it makes your flesh burn with an embarrassed heat. His lips plume over your throat, hips brushing against yours, and that’s when you feel it. Something firm through his kevlar pants, briefly grinding against your pelvis.

A noise echoes from John’s throat, somewhere between a grunt and groan, causing you to smile, as if you’ve discovered his secret. “Already?” It’s playful, sure, but you’re simultaneously flattered that it didn’t take much work.

It’s his turn to blush, scarlet crawling over handsome features, red spreading towards his neck. “Can’t help it,” John mumbled, gaze briefly meeting yours. “You’re beautiful.” His low timbre made you shiver.

Unable to smother your smile, you urge him closer for another kiss, digits clamoring for the nape of his neck, toying with the blonde hair there. Each entanglement of lips seems to grow in fervor, charged with mutual excitement, passion.

His hands are fisted in your shirt against, giving it a soft tug, as if silently asking you for your permission. Mouths continue to clash, a mess of lips and teeth, tongue when John initiates it, eliciting a moan from your maw.

With a brief nod, he breaks from you, only to assist in removing your shirt, tossing it elsewhere in his room. You aren’t wearing a brassiere, which catches his attention, stopping in his tracks as he admires your physique.

“Jesus,” John sighs, rapturous, noticing the doe-eyed look you’re giving him again. Lips part, jaw unclenched as he not-so-subtly ogles your collarbone, letting it drift toward your chest. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Swallowing your anxiety, you feel yourself melt beneath his stare, incendiary enough to turn you to cinders where you stand. “The thought hasn’t crossed my mind.” Barely above a whisper, your gentle teasing evokes a half-smile from him.

A huff leaves him, hand steady as he kneads into your hip, dipping lower, grasping at your haunch as he lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his hips. You’re still kissing him, held aloft by John’s arms, bearing your weight without effort.

He carries you to his bed, gray sheets already disheveled, laying you down as he crawls on top of you. A soft exhale whistles through your nose, arousal beginning to coalesce between your thighs, warmth pooling in your belly.

“You sure?” John murmurs, wanting to ensure that you’re certain about this. He is, but he wants to make sure that all cards are on the table. He’s not used to this, to showing vulnerability, but it feels comfortable with you.

“Yeah, I am,” Gazes twine together, the only illumination being the glow from the bathroom, blanketing you in swirls of orange and shadow. “I want you, John.” Your admission is saccharine, steeped in a warmth that he clings to, savors.

Christ, he wants you, too — craves you more than air, cerulean hues glistening with a thinly-veiled ardor. It’s a sudden shift from how things were before, but the tension had finally come to a boiling point, and he was glad that it had.

Mouths connect instantaneously, eliciting a pleading moan from your throat, swallowed by his kiss. Your legs drop, spread apart to accommodate for his frame, lean muscle wedged between your thighs.

His palm kneads into your calf, dragging to the crook of your knee, caressing you over your baggy bottoms. Your hands thread against the nape of his neck, taking handfuls of his blonde tresses, ensuring that you weren’t rough with him.

Chests brush against one another, firm muscle exuding warmth, peaks of your breasts ghosting over his pectorals. Each kiss rips the air from your lungs, leaving you reeling, gasping as you feel his tongue prod against yours.

A whine bubbles from your throat, smitten, tongue shyly mingling with his as the kiss turns into a mess of passion. Your fingers are carding over the back of his skull, slipping over his hair as his teeth catch upon your bottom lip.

John grunts, the tent in his pants grinding recklessly against your core, friction causing both of you to writhe. As if to torment him, you roll your hips forward, evoking a groan from him, his gaze pleading with you to stop.

“Don’t,” He warns, strained, attempting to hold himself together. Your mouth quirks into a smile, one that he feels even as he kisses you again, your palm splaying over his shoulder. “Can I take these off?”

His hands curl into your sweatpants, fingers teasing the waistband as he waits for you to consent. As soon as you nod, accompanied by a breathy ‘yes’, he’s tearing into them, the stitching splitting apart beneath his inhuman strength.

A gasp slipped from your mouth, writhing beneath him to free yourself from the fabric, kicking them to the floor. John marvels at the sight of you, your body something perfect, malleable within his grasp, mouth planting a kiss against your jaw.

Cool air plumes over your heated flesh, offering some alleviation, a reprieve from the fever-pitch of your body. John’s hand smooths over your leg, squeezing into your thigh, digits flicking over the hem of your panties.

The brief gesture makes your head spin, desperate for him to touch you. He’s already got an idea in his head, calloused fingers rough like leather as he drags his hand between your legs.

Knuckles ghost over your clothed cunt, feeling the tangle of damp cotton, the way your throat sputters with a subtle gasp. Your thighs twitch, knees trembling on either side of him as your nails trace over the back of his neck.

“Christ,” He huffs, forehead nearly flush against yours, watching as you squirm from the brief caress. John repeats the motion, feeling your nails dig harder into his skin, mouth screwed open. “You like that?” His murmur makes you feel weak.

With a nod, you want more, hips urging into the friction of his hand. To your delight, he doesn’t torment you, doesn’t make you work for it as his fingers slip beneath your panties.

Two fingers stroke along your cunt, gathering the warm slick there with one sluggish swipe. To your utter bewilderment, he lifts his digits to his mouth, sucking them clean before he lavishes your throat in a myriad of kisses.

“John, please.” Moaning his name, the sight he just treated you to is sure to be burned in your mind forever, causing your thighs to rub together. Kissing a trail down your neck, he finds your sternum, mouth voracious, ceaseless.

A boyish grin settles onto his features, deriving enjoyment from your reaction, continuing to worship your flesh in rapturous kisses. No inch of skin is safe as he descends, lips pluming over your breasts, your ribs, navel; lower, and lower again.

You taste sweet, as if your skin oozed with sugar, and he’s savoring every piece of you, kisses steeped in a disarming reverence. His beard tickles your flesh, goosebumps cascading down your spine as he makes it to your waist.

His muscles flex, pulled taut as he crawls lower, face hovering beside your hip as he eases your panties down, letting them creep over your thighs. Everything feels hot, body set ablaze, arousal coalescing against your cunt.

Lips press to your thigh, shoulders creating space, bullying your legs apart. Digits flex, trembling as they lower to card through his tresses, gaze ensnaring with his own, causing you to shiver.

John kisses a trail over your inner thighs, toward the glistening heat at your apex, listening to your breath hitch. It’s labored, wrought with exhilaration as your back begins to arch.

That ghost of a cocksure grin feels like a hot brand against your thigh, softening when you make a strangled, pleading noise. Nearly prone against the sheets, he lets your legs recline against his shoulders, hands gripping your hips.

The first rake of his tongue over your cunt is agonizing, hot embers, scorching against your flesh as he laps traces the length of your slit. It’s sluggish, exploratory — he’s keen to know what makes you writhe.

With parted lips and eyes wrenched shut, a needy moan splits past your throat, unable to keep quiet. John’s chest stirs with a low grunt, greedy tongue deftly splitting past your folds, tasting you with a sudden fervor.

Still, he’s gentle, disarmingly so, careworn palms massaging into your hips, keeping you slotted against his face. The scruff of his blonde beard scratches ragged over the inside of your thighs, sandpaper to silk, the sensation pleasant.

John eases you into it, committing every detail of your body to memory; hoping there’s a next time, thumbs tracing circles into your skin. Lapping against your core, his ministrations slowly gather haste, nose grazing your clit.

A myriad of moans leave you, attempting to keep the sound hushed, as to not alert any unwanted attention. Your legs tense, flex on either side of his head before his shoulders nudge you apart again, mouth dragging over your cunt.

He maintains something of a rhythm, attempting to walk the line of restraint, as to not overwhelm you. Your body rattles beneath him, spasmodic tremors of delight rolling down your spine, waves of bliss felt all over, ebbing through your veins.

One hand haplessly fists at the sheets, fingers curled so tightly that you want to rip it apart. He’s too good at this, which surprises you — he doesn’t give that impression, initially.

The room feels like a furnace, bodies bleeding heat, each breath hoarse, tight with rapture. His mouth is a thing of perfection, pleasuring you as if it’s his sworn duty, tongue lapping at every inch of your cunt.

John’s gaze flutters from the task at-hand to your countenance, contorted into an expression of ecstasy, effortlessly pretty. His heart skips a beat; you’ve got him wrapped around your finger.

You’re wound up, coiled over and over again, into a tangle of heat, furled desire that’s begging to be released. Carding through his tresses, you gingerly scratch at his crown, briefly tugging on his hair, hips wantonly urging into his mouth.

“G—God, John,” A sheepish moan falls from your mouth, coupled with a sharp inhale that rips through your diaphragm. Your cunt clenches pathetically around nothing at all, back arched from the mattress. “So good at this.”

It’s an inkling of praise, but it’s enough, evoking some hunger from John, who's eager to please. The tent in his tactical pants is borderline painful, erection grinding against the bed in a pitiful attempt to alleviate some of the friction.

Driven to the brink, you feel as if you’re beginning to toe the line of some steep plunge, his lips urging you closer to a release. Everything feels hot, as if you might combust, arousal coalescing between your thighs.

John has you pinned down, nose ghosting over your folds, tongue still ceaselessly lapping at your core until there’s a shift in rhythm. He presses a kiss to your clit, listening to the tremor in your exhale, feeling your legs tense.

Teeth catch across your bottom lip, biting down with an absent pressure, digits beginning to lightly curl against his scalp. His name emerges from your mouth again, desperate and wanton, breathy as you squirm.

“You’re easy to rile up.” John murmurs from between your legs, a breathy chuckle floating from his chest when your fingers pull on his hair. He plants a reverent kiss to your thigh, teasing, but the break doesn’t last for long.

If it weren’t for his lips pursing around your clit, you might’ve clawed for a retort, but he rips any remark from your throat. The sudden ripple of bliss sends you reeling, choking on a simpering whine as you shift beneath him again.

His mouth gingerly laps at that sensitive clutch of nerves, shockwaves shattering through your body, tingles of ecstasy following suit. A strangled moan snares in your throat, slipping through when he drags his tongue along your cunt.

He’s right, though — you are easy to vex, and he’s mapping you out as if you’re intimately familiar to him already. John’s mouth is voracious, tongue endlessly greedy, eating you out as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

You’re getting close, body being pushed to a blissful oblivion, the white-hot heat that threatens to consume you. His hand drifts from your thigh to the slick warmth between, thumb seeking your clit like a missile, slowly circling around it.

“Fuck,” You moan, the expletive uncharacteristic of you, but he finds plenty of enjoyment in you saying it. His name is soon to follow, a bedroom hymnal, repetitive as it spills from your tongue, crying out his name to the ceiling. “J—John!”

It’s pathetic how easily he’s got you squirming, tension beginning to unfurl, the knot within your belly stretched to the brink. He’s careful, tender, intimate in a way that makes your features surge with warmth.

“That’s it.” John murmurs, timbre little more than a drawl as he coaxes an orgasm from you, thumb continuing to toy with your clit until you burst. He’s mesmerized, a super-soldier reduced to a lovesick boy, watching you with a thinly-veiled rapture.

With one simple circle of your pearl, you’re gone, ecstasy bleeding from you in one wave, nearly overwhelming. You’re blinded by euphoria, white-hot stars crossing your vision until you’ve melted into the sheets.

Nerves are frayed from bliss, tossed into the throes of pleasure, one that you may not fully recover from. Stars linger still, head foggy, dizzy from a desirous haze as you try to find a scrap of composure.

He tastes you again, one last time, committing it all to memory as he kisses your leg, kneeling in-between your thighs. You’re shaking, chest tight with drawn-out sighs, gazes ensnared, burning with adoration.

“You’re really good at that.” A soft whisper rolls from your lips, appreciative, but John looks like you’ve just called him perfect. He’s starved for praise, reduced to a mere beast, laying at your feet, preening for more.

John’s up on his knees, staring a hole through you, hands reaching for his belt. Driven by both excitement and instinct, you sit up, fingers clamoring with his own as you’re helping to wrestle his belt off, unzipping the front of his tactical pants.

“You drive me crazy,” John groaned, feeling you grow smitten in the wake of his admission, desperate to be inside of you. “Can’t think straight.” He utters, and you know it’s an intentional compliment.

He repositions himself, hunched in, blanketing you with his bulky physique, lean muscle glued to your frame. He’s much larger than you, you realize, listening to the shuffling of fabric, feeling his cock press incessantly against your navel.

You’re intimidated, bewildered by his size, startlingly large, unabashedly so. Swallowing the growing lump in your throat, your hands come to hook around the back of his neck, no space remaining.

As if to ignite the tension further, your mouth catches his, lips locking together in a heated kiss. You can taste yourself, an added layer of debauchery, but he’s groaning into your lips, fisting the pillow near the side of your head.

John’s other hand finds your thigh, kneading into your haunch as he steadies himself, cock heatedly grinding against you. Mouths tangle, clash — it’s a war of teeth and tongue, thirst instead of hunger, as if he needs you more than anything.

Wanton, exhilarated breaths drag between bodies, the warmth of his sigh pluming over your features, his beard ragged against your cheek. His blonde tresses are tousled, disheveled — he’s painfully handsome, kissing all over your mouth.

He withdraws, heads flush together, mere centimeters apart as he adjusts himself, cock nudging against your folds. You’re clinging to him, a twinge of anticipation churning in your belly.

“You alright?” He utters, low and husky beside your ear, actively restraining himself from being too spirited. There’s something intoxicating about the way you’re staring at him; it’s tender, more than he deserves, he thinks.

Slowly, you plant a kiss against the scruff of his jaw, and then beneath, where a yellowing bruise sits. Hands wander to the firm muscle of his shoulders, kneading over freckled skin.

John exhales; a drawn-out, contented sound that releases coils of tension from his shoulders. With a nod of consent, you let yourself get comfortable. He drags his cock over your cunt again, biting back a stifled groan.

“Go slow,” You squeak, body already sore from the mission — he might add to it, if he isn’t careful. His lips seal themselves to your throat, peppering your flesh in a myriad of sweet kisses, nose brushing over your jugular. “I need you.”

Serum-infused blood pumps through his veins, oozing raw strength, but he knows to rein himself in, head bobbing in a brief nod. “Say that again.” John grunts, cock prodding against the warmth of your cunt, preparing to push past.

His head is partially buried into the hollow between throat and shoulder, beard prickling your flesh, a satisfying sensation. An excitable buzz wracks your body, sending tingles all over, a throbbing pulsing from between your legs.

“I need you,” Wantonly, your palm splays over his shoulder-blade, nails digging into his skin, eliciting a low groan from your paramour. “J—John, please!” It’s a plea, a desperate one, spoken through a beguiling cadence, one that winds him into tight knots.

With a shudder, John is thirsty for your embrace, a man lost within a desert, finding his oasis. His forehead nudges beside your temple, hotly grunting into your ear, sending waves of ecstasy through your belly.

His hips slowly urge forward, flushed head of his cock pushing into you with mild resistance. Disarmingly gentle, John doesn’t move quickly or rough, heeding your words as he fists at the pillow, body kissed by perspiration.

The tightness of your cunt drives him to the brink of madness, huffing beside your ear, fighting against baser, lesser instincts. Clinging to him as if he might fade through your fingers, he moves at an agonizing pace, not wanting to hurt you.

He doesn’t, a husky groan ripping through his diaphragm when your hips accidentally roll, feeling his muscles tense beneath your hands. “Jesus,” John grits out, feeling your nails dig crescents into his shoulder. “You’re perfect.”

A moan tumbles from your parted lips, his cock filling you completely, nearly bottoming out as he sinks forward. Intermingled groans and hot sighs tangle in the thin space between, heat against heat.

Your knees squeeze near his waist, legs kept spread apart by his musculature, bodies clawing for one another, ardor thinly-veiled. John’s countenance is contorted into a look of concentration coupled with bliss.

“S’good,” You moan, having adjusted enough, allowing yourself a moment of composure; it won’t last, and you know it. “Move.” Breathy and wrought with exhilaration, you give him the signal to take things further.

John’s resolve is crumbling, foundation swept away in the wake of your affections, and your wanton moan doesn’t make anything easier. Propping himself up on one arm, the other holds steadfastly to your thigh, an anchor.

Foreheads knock together, noses ghosting over one another as he begins to thrust into you, bicep flexing with exertion. The first drag of his hips sends you reeling, and you know that you won’t last long — and neither will he.

A string of hoarse expletives flutter from his mouth, barely above a whisper, setting your bones ablaze as he pulls back and pushes forward.

The fit of him is tight, cock oozing with heat as he draws back again, following through as he jolts forward.

Beneath you, the bed frame creaks — faint, as if it shows some give with the super-soldier on top of you. Your digits coax him in for a kiss, mouths colliding in a messy clash of tongue and needy lips, fire feeding fire.

John groans into your mouth, pushing and pulling, hips urging into yours, cock filling you with each thrust. Between fervent kisses and pleading moans, your head is foggy, dizzy with desire.

He develops a rhythm, the pace steady, each drag of his hips ripping a moan from your mouth, and he earned it. His hand kneads into your thigh, squeezing on occasion when the pleasure mounts, muscles coiled within his stomach.

“Y—You’re perfect,” The praise leaves your tongue as a hoarse whine, a noise that leaves goosebumps trailing over John’s spine. It’s the validation he desperately craves, the veneration, knowing he’s doing something right. “Don’t stop.”

A husky, throaty groan pierces through his chest, the noise making you shiver, arousal slick and warm between your thighs. It makes each snap of his hips easier, cock sinking into you over and over again.

It’s unintentional, his shifting pace; it begins to climb, from drawn-out and steady to needy, rutting into you as if each stroke would be his very last. John is trying to keep himself controlled, but you make it so difficult.

He slows again, the pleasure mounting, a knot that is becoming frayed at either end, prepared to be pulled apart. His cock throbs incessantly, pulsing inside of you, feeling your cunt clench around him.

Perspiration glitters along his brow, glistening along his hairline as he hunches in over you, and you feel all of him, viscerally.

The bed frame rattles in protest, as if bowing to his strength, and he’s already tearing the stitching in the pillowcase beside your head. A soft gasp slips from your lips, his mouth ghosting over yours.

Grunts of ecstasy leave him in droves, cock easing in and out of your cunt as if you’re made for him. John’s countenance is one of bliss and concentration, frustration now dissipated.

Each snap of his hips drags you further into the throes of ecstasy, and he’s nearly there, cock spearing into you. His breathing is growing ragged, raspy as it curls beside your ear, hot breath pluming over your face.

Noises surge in volume, filling his room with the sounds of vigorous lovemaking; he doesn’t care if the team hears anymore. John’s rapturous groans make you shiver in delight, head flush to yours again, the closeness addicting.

Another grunt ripples through his chest, the sound stretched, the rest tapering off as his hips begin to stutter, pace erratic and desperate. He’s close, weighing the odds of finishing inside of you, nearly whimpering when your legs hitch around his hips.

His name spills from your lips like a confessional, sobbing to the heavens, feeling your body begin to unfurl with tension. Bodies move within one another, his cock buried deep, kissing your cervix with each thrust.

From the tension in his muscles alone, you can tell that he’s about to burst, combust like fireworks in your hands. You’re on the pill, and so you urge him closer, wanting him inside of you even still.

When your name emerges from John’s mouth, you’re awestruck, flustered by the way in which he says it so tenderly. “I’m on the pill.” It’s all you’re able to say before he’s swallowing your words, covering your mouth with his.

The kiss is voracious, needy — John is unable to mask how he feels about you, letting it all bleed into tangled lips as he cums. He releases inside of you with a groan, followed by a rush of warmth that blankets your insides.

Tingles of delight wrack your body, a subdued release that seems to twine with his, a muted buzz surging through your bones. John’s hips crawl to a sluggish rhythm, agonizingly slow, as if to absorb the last few traces of friction.

Each breath heaves for composure, shallow and taut with exhilaration in the aftermath, sweat-slick skin melded together. His forehead nestles against yours, labored breathing evening out quicker than yours as he stills.

His spend and your arousal feel slick between your legs, making a mess of his sheets, joined bodies bleeding heat. You’re reeling, slower to recuperate as he pulls out of you with a soft grunt, rolling over to lay beside you.

John doesn’t leave, cerulean hues glued to your countenance, as if his whole sense of gravity has been shifted, changed. It’s hushed, save for your labored sighs, in-tandem with one another.

Wordlessly, he coaxes you closer, muscled arm hooking around your middle, inviting you to lay against his chest. One palm remains splayed, flat against your ribs, soothing you with easy caresses.

“Are you still with me?” John’s wisecrack makes you blunder, a soft laugh escaping you, hand playfully bumping against his chest.

“Yeah,” Unable to smother your smile, you’re delighted to sink into his embrace, keeping your hand on his chest. The hair beneath is something you trace through, over muscle, over old scars and greenish bruises. “I …”

As you trail off, John’s head cranes down enough to brush his lips against yours, the kiss sweet, bristling with a thinly-veiled affection. He lets you finish your thought, watching as you sit up enough to see him fully, perched on your stomach.

“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.” You utter, agonizingly soft, cadence wrought with an amalgamation of sentiments. John’s trying to be better, and it’s something you want to be a part of, if he’ll let you.

Neither did he, admittedly; it’s something John’s willing to admit to. “The thought never crossed my mind,” He murmured, blonde lashes fluttering as his hand cupped your jaw, calloused and careworn over satin skin. “But I’m not perfect.”

“I know, that’s why I like you.” With a dazzling smile, he’s caught right in the crosshairs, lips parting with a placating huff. It turns into a hum of a chuckle, his hand still firm against your side.

In a gentle clamor, his lips find yours, beard tickling your skin again, the sensation wholly pleasant. The kiss lingers, something that feels closer to home, a newfound warmth that the both of you desperately crave.

John’s mouth twitches into a half-smile, a peculiar mirth beginning to touch his eyes. He feels you plant a kiss against his shoulder, and he knows he’s completely screwed — you’re falling, but he’s falling harder.

[bobbiereynolds]

Thunderbolts Preference: Getting Your Period

A/N: I have been thinking about this since day 1 of mine lol. I have PCOS and it's gotten so bad lately, like exactly when I was a teenager and everyone said I was overreacting. Ruined both my pajama pants and my sheets this morning, but I think writing will help 🖤

THUNDERBOLTS REQUESTS ARE OPEN

Bucky doesn't realize what's going on until you accidentally bleed through your pants on a mission. You escape to the nearest bathroom, cursing, angry at yourself, at your body for doing this right now when it's quite actually life and death. It's the one time you didn't wear black pants, too. He follows, fearing the worst, telling the others you're going on a little detour. Bucky stands outside the stall, knocking quietly, asking if you're okay. Finally, defeated, you tell him no. Emotions come rushing over you and you can't help but wipe away tears. Fuck. Everything hurts. Everything aches. And now you've got blood everywhere. You tell him you bled through, that you don't have anything (a pad, a tampon, clean pants). He tells you to stay there and you watch his boots disappear from beneath the door. You're not sure how long you spend sitting there, but he comes back eventually, handing you not only a fresh set of pants, but a box of each, too. You change quickly, hating that you wasted so much time on something so stupid. When you ask him where he got any of this he just shrugs, says he's gotta be prepared for anything. You thank him, but he brushes it off. He just wanted to help.

Alexei has no idea why you're crying, or that you even could cry, only that you are and there's no one else around to help. You're watching a movie that's not supposed to be sad, but somehow you thought about it too much and it's so happy you made it sad. He sits next to you, leaving space between you, even more confused. He saw this movie: nothing bad happened. So what was wrong? That's when he sees the warm blanket and the heating pad you're hugging against yourself and the snacks on the table (salty and sweet, of course) and it clicks. Oooooh. He's not exactly the most delicate with this though, and asks (humorously) "Red time again?" You nod, handing over the bag of M&Ms without looking over, grabbing the chips instead. Because the women in his life went through the Red Room, he never had to deal with this, but he heard about it from others, from the other husbands whose wives went through the same thing. Plus, recently, Yelelna gave him the rundown on periods and how to properly act instead of assuming the worst. He sits with you and watches whatever you put on. He gets you a cold drink and more blankets if you ask. Whatever he needs to do to make you more comfortable.

Yelena catches you one morning looking defeated, early, too early for your usual routine. She watches you pile your sheets, blankets, and covers outside your room, stripping the bed completely. She knows you love clean sheets, but this early? Then she notices a pair of pajama pants on top of the pile stained red. Oh. She knocks on the doorway, wanting to get your attention. She asks if she can help. You're embarrassed, telling her it's fine, you got it, but she's already scooping everything up in her arms, telling you she doesn't mind. You follow her through the floor towards the washing machine, coming up with every excuse in the book. Doesn't she have to train? John could already be waiting for her and you both know how he gets. It'll throw off her entire routine! Finally she stops and turns towards you, telling you she's not afraid of a little blood. She tells you to go back to your room and wait for her to put new sheets on. Don't move until she gets there. It's too early and you're too tired to fight, instead (for once) following orders. She helps you make the bed and tells you to go back to sleep. She'll worry about switching it over and folding everything. Your body hurts too much and the mattress is more than welcomed. She checks on you through the day and by sunset, everything is clean, blood free, and placed on top of you after coming straight from the dryer.

Ava knows exactly what time of the month it is because your entire demeanor changes. Usually, you're confident, stubborn, and not easily provoked. This week though, you doubt yourself too much. Your looks, your body, your fighting abilities. You can't make up your mind and you, usually stone-like in confrontation, are fighting with Valentina about the littlest things, giving her ultimatums she knows you don't actually want or care for. You hate the new costume she's designed and you won't be caught dead wearing it. It's actually not that bad, but she knows it's just how you feel about your body right now that makes it so heinous. Ava tries to take your mind off things, asking if you need anything. A heating pad, candy, pain killers. You break down, admitting you feel crazy, like you're losing it. She asks if maybe you're getting your period next week? Fuck. You apologize profusely, beating yourself up over it, but she's not one to villainize someone's hormones. She tells you it's normal, that you shouldn't be ashamed or embarrassed. You want to apologize to Valentina too, but she tells you not to. Someone needs to put her in her place once in a while. It's really not the end of the world.

John is your training partner for the day and he couldn't have picked a worse time. He's brutal on a regular basis, cut throat, but today is bad. You've already taken pain killers and used a heating pad and still, the cramps won't let up. Not even a little. Not realizing, he gets frustrated, says your mind is somewhere else, that you need to focus. He knees you in the stomach and that's the final straw. Picking yourself up, you throw down your weapons, telling him to fuck off before leaving. He's stunned. What did he do? He follows close behind, but you're not talking. You get to your room just in time to slam the door in his face. He doesn't take the hint, knocking and yelling through, asking you what he did wrong. He was always saying and doing the wrong thing, apparently. Angry, frustrated, and in pain, you open it, yelling in his face you got your period and that little stunt made your cramps 1,000x worse. He's stunned silent for once in his life. Finally, you tell him to go away, that you need your space. He listens, but he comes back a little while later, asking you to open the door. In his hands are the heating pad and a bottle of pills. He apologizes, remembering how his ex-wife's periods were brutal, asking if these will help. You thank him. He checks in every hour, apologizing again, asking you to tell him next time. You will.

Bob, truthfully, doesn't know that much about periods. He's got the basics down, but that's about it. It's strange that you're calling him when you're both in the tower, but he picks it up anyways. You sound so sad, so quiet, when you ask him if he can go out and pick up a box of pads/tampons for you. You didn't realize you were all out and there's no way you can do it yourself. It's too heavy. He's the only one here with you, otherwise you would have asked someone else. Despite having zero knowledge, he's more than eager to help. He comes back with multiple bags of boxes. He never knew there were so many options, so he just grabbed one of each. He asked around with the employees and picked up extra stuff: bubble bath, snacks, face masks, pain killers, etc. You thank him, apologizing profusely, hating that you had to ask for help with this. He shrugs it off though, grateful to help. He asks if he got the right ones and you come out, telling him he did a great job. You're embarrassed, but he really doesn't seem bothered, asking if you can open the pickle chips while you watch a movie. Of course, you say, and along with the many, many boxes of tampons/pads, it looks like he went through the snack aisle and grabbed a bag of each, too.

[mallory524]

Oh oh, can I request a sort of alternate ending to the kidnapping headcanons with each of the Thunderbolts where, when they are about to break into the building reader is trapped in, reader appears behind them all bloody and bruised, making them jump and her saying, “Did you guys come to save me? Aww, that’s so sweet, I feel so loved right now!!”

(OMG YES This is sweet and fun I love it)

the thunderbolts come to save you, but you've already handled it yourself

tags- fem!reader, mostly just silly and fluffy, mentions of kidnapping, mentions of blood and fighting and minor injuries, some language

Yelena

Yelena knows that you’re tough, but she doesn’t expect you to be able to get yourself out of this one. The group gets to where you’re being held, and you’re just sitting on the ground, with your back up against the doorway. You look like hell, but you’re free. This is not what Yelena had imagined. She thought she’d have to free you herself and toss you over her shoulder or something. She couldn’t be more happy to see that she was wrong about your state. “Oh, hey, guys! This is awfully sweet of you to all come out here. This is a long ways away from the city,” you say as you manage to get back up on your feet. Yelena looks at you, amazed, and runs up to hug you and kiss your temple. Walker mutters to Ava, “At this point we could’ve just called her an Uber.”

Bucky

Bucky did not want to think about what could be happening to you. He’s seen a lot of pain and hurt in his day, so he knows firsthand how ugly these situations can get. Luckily, it never got as bad as it could’ve, because you actually broke yourself out. Bucky did not expect to find you already fighting off your captors on your own when he arrived with the whole team. Bucky wants to help, of course. He gets one punch in. You thank him, like you haven’t just knocked out every other person on your own. “I was just about to look for where they hid my phone so I could call you to give me a ride home, but it looks like I didn’t even need to call! You guys are the best,” you say, as if you’d just been stranded at the airport. Bucky’s never been so proud.

Ava

The fact that the search for you was dragging on for days was only making Ava’s nerves worse. Leaving you in danger for so long made her feel so horrible, and sometimes she’d wonder if it was possible that you’d escaped on your own. She figured it was too much to hope for, but it made her feel a little better. Besides, it wasn’t too far out of the realm of possibility. She’d imagine finally reaching your location, and the people who were supposed to be guarding you would all be just as clueless about your whereabouts as she was. She never considered that they’d all be unconscious on the ground when she got there. “Ava!!” she hears you yell from behind. She spins around and sees you jogging (with a slight limp) down the hall to reach her. She’s astonished. “Aww you guys! Thanks for coming. That means a lot.” After that remarkably chill response, Ava looks at you like you’ve never been so beautiful and cool in her eyes before, and that’s saying something.

John

John was terrified the whole time you were missing. All day long, he panicked and thought about all the horrible things that could be happening to you at any given moment. He didn't sleep, he didn't eat, he led the whole search, and he was ready to do whatever to took to get to you. You can only imagine his surprise when you run out and cut his destructive rampage short. He keeps standing there and looking at you because this is not computing. You're just standing there with your hands on your hips, your clothes all tattered, with bruises and cuts all over you. You're clearly exhausted, but you manage a little smirk. "Awww, Walker! Were you worried about me?" He just tosses his silly folded shield to the ground and pulls you into a tight hug. "Yeah, yeah, whatever." He doesn't even put up a fight when you reach out to affectionately ruffle his hair or pinch his cheek like a grandma. He's just so happy you're safe.

Alexei

When Alexei gets there and realizes you’ve already broken yourself out, he is so shocked. Then he thinks about it for a moment, and he doesn’t know why he’s even surprised. Of course you solved this on your own! You’re such a badass. You always have been. It’s one of the first things he noticed about you, and it’s what initially drew him to you. He feels like he should’ve had more faith in you, but now’s not the time for that. Now’s the time to celebrate the fact that you’re safe. He lets out a loud, jovial laugh and wraps his arms around you, telling you over and over again how proud he is of you while wiping some blood from your forehead. Somehow, you always manage to surprise him. Everyone is thrilled that you’re back, but Alexei is absolutely beaming with pride and relief for the rest of the night.

Bob

Part of why the team originally didn’t want Bob to go on the rescue mission, besides the Void stuff, was because they didn’t know what kind of state you’d be in. Bob’s very new to this line of work, and they know how much you mean to him, so they thought it might be too much for him to handle if he ended up having to see you seriously hurt. Luckily that didn’t happen. Before they have the chance to break the door down, you walk out from the other side of the building, waving your arms. “Hey! I’m right here!” Bob rushes to hug you, and it’s so tight that all your words are kind of muffled. “Guys I got the whole search party? This is actually really flattering.” Bob pulls away after a while and he’s immediately worried again when he sees the bruising all over you. You make a “You should see the other guy” joke, but everyone knows you’re not kidding. They really don’t want to see the other guy.

[magicalqueennightmare]

Deep Sleeper Headcanon

like a knock out, appears dead sleeper

Tony may or may not have had an anxiety attack the first time he found you laying across a lounge chair, still as a corpse and it appeared like you weren't breathing. When you woke up to him in that state? It got intense for both of you. From then on out you had to sleep in a room where Jarvis could monitor your stats.

Steve had the misfortune to find you when you'd fallen asleep watching a movie in the common room. You were half off the couch and looked like you'd had a damn heart attack or something and nearly caused him to have one when he couldn't tell if you were breathing from a look.

Clint is knocked out next to you. Nat has planned yours and his funeral twice over because she's been sure you both were dead when she went to wake you for breakfast.

Sam get freaked the first time he found you in a weird position and couldn't tell if you were breathing. Checked your damn pulse and put his hand under your nose to check. After that he was a little more relaxed but still checked every time.

Joaquin damn near starts cpr the first time it happens. Luckily him moving you around woke you up.

Bucky felt like his heart would stop the first time he couldn't tell if you were asleep or... he never finished the thought. After that he made you promise to nap with him so he could keep a hand on you to make sure you're breathing.

John has every bad flashback there is when he thinks you're not breathing. When he realizes you're just sleeping he tries to play it off but you can see his hands shaking and ask him to lay down with you next time.

[dearwalker]

Alone in this shitty world (Bucky Barnes x Reader x John Walker)

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Word count: 2.4k

Description: After Yelena’s sudden outburst, the group scatters around the streets of New York. And, as if this wasn’t already the weirdest day of your life, you find yourself reaching to comfort the last person you ever thought you'd feel sorry for, John Walker. And Bucky is as confused as you are.

Content warnings: Supersoldier!reader, John Walker being a bitch as usual, protective boyfriend Bucky, mental health talk, hurt/comfort.

Note: After watching Walker’s storyline in this movie I felt like I needed to write some hurt/comfort with him. Enjoy!

Masterlist

"So, what kind of super serum you both get?" Alexei's thick accent cuts through the silence.

You were sharing the front cabin of a stolen truck, Bucky behind the wheel, you in the middle, and Alexei by the window. He'd already declared the ride to Valentina's location a 'super soldier party', clearly over the moon about the whole thing.

"I ... uh don't know. Regular? Hydra" Bucky is the first to answer, quickly brushing off what he considered to be an irrelevant topic. Alexei on the other hand, reacted like it was the only thing he'd been wanting to know the whole time.

"Hydra! Ohh, fancy" Alexei grinned wide, Bucky just huffed at his excitement. "I got something mixed, still good, still powerful" he puffed his chest a little. "And you, pretty one, what is your serum ah?"

"Uh ... mine was Shield's. It was developed from Steve's dna" You reply. Alexei's face lights up with more amazement. 

"Ayy Shield! Straight from captain Rogers. She gets the premium brand, ah winter soldier?" He speaks to Bucky like he was breaking news, the latter just nodded absentmindedly.

"A super soldier couple, ha! what are the odds? you two lovely creatures made for each other, strong, beautiful and dangerous. Like spy movie" his laugh booms through the cabin as he pats a heavy hand on Bucky's shoulder.

Bucky pretends to ignore him, eyes still on the road, but his smirk was undeniable.

You just gave Alexie an amused smile, then gently squeezed Bucky's hand resting on the wheel. Without hesitation, he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss on it without taking his eyes off the road. Alexei just watched with a knowing grin.

Bucky kept driving in silence, enjoying the calm before of the storm, because once you found Valentina, and her new shiny creation, at the former avengers tower, all hell broke loose.

God, how you missed being back in that truck.

Now, you were limping away from the tower where Bob– or Sentry now, whatever the hell Valentina was calling him now, had beaten the living shit out of all you. Your thoughts were cut short when you noticed Yelena snapping at everyone.

"What, it's my turn now?" Walker asked defensively, his tone only adding fuel to Yelena's anger.

"Oh no, you already know you're a piece of shit. And your family knows too" Yelena shots back without missing a beat.

"Wow" he muttered, his eyes dropping to the bent shield in his hands. He didn't argue to that, he didn’t know how to.

"Yelena, you're not alone in this–" you started, but she cut you off before you could finish.

"You shut up! We're all alone in this shitty world, you only say that cause you have Bucky" She cries out, her finger pointed at you like a dagger.

You didn't fight back to her, you knew she wasn't lashing out at you, not really. Maybe it was the pressure, maybe it was the just the fear taking over her.

Bucky turned to you, curious about your reaction, but your small smile was enough to say 'I'm okay'. She wasn't wrong, after all.

Then your gaze drifted to John, when you noticed from the corner of your eye his posture had shifted. It wasn't only anger you saw in him, it was something heavier. Something that stuck with you longer than it should've.

Normally you would just ignore Walker, silence had always been your preferred way to keep your sanity intact around him. But this time you couldn't help it, you kept your eyes on him a little bit longer.

And you saw it.

The way mentioning his family made his entire demeanor shift. The same reaction you saw the first time Bucky brought them up. And now Yelena had rubbed it in, like salt in an open wound.

You couldn't believe it, and would probably never admit it out loud, but you felt something for John Walker.

Pity.

The next thing you knew, the group had scattered, everyone going in different directions after Yelena's outburst.

And without really thinking, with Bucky walking by your side, you walked towards the same direction Walker had taken. You didn't exactly know why, but you felt like you needed to say something to him.

"This is a mess, doll" Bucky sighs, eyes scanning around like he would find an answer in the clueless people walking by. "I didn't think I'd come to this, but I think I should call Sam"

"Uh huh. Sure, let's call Sam. He can totally take down Sentry" Your tone was half sarcastic half distracted, as your gaze darted around trying to find John, who had walked fast enough to get lost in the busy streets of New York.

"I think he might know something– wait, are you okay, doll? What are you looking for?" Bucky stopped walking, but you didn't, giving him no choice but to catch up.

"Huh?" You ask, barely registering the question.

And then you spotted it, a flash of black and red cutting through the crowd, stomping rather than walking.

"There he is!" Your voice lit up, picking up your pace to reach your target. "Walker!" You shouted his name, loud and clear. No way he didn't hear you, not with his enhanced hearing. The way he sped up to get further from you confirmed it.

"Okay now, Walker?" Bucky asks, completely baffled. As far as he knew none of you could stand the guy.

"Listen honey" You say softly, weaving between pedestrians "I love you, but it wasn't cool to bring up in front of everyone that his wife took his baby and left him. They're just gonna keep throwing it in his face now"

Bucky shifted slightly, but still defensive. "Yeah well, he doesn't exactly make it easy not to"

"I know" you admitted. "But weirdly enough we're all stuck in this shit show together. We might as well try to work with him" You pause for a second, knowing you could catch up to Walker anytime now. "Just give me a second with him Buck, please babe?" You bat your eyelashes at him.

He gave you a long look, raising an eyebrow, clearly ready to protest. But he knew what you were doing. And you knew he knew.

"Alright" he grunts, rolling his eyes. "I'll be right behind you. With my favorite knife. In case you need me to stab him for you, doll" He flashed you an ironic smile, and you nodded back amused.

You turned back around and quickened your pace, finally catching up to Walker. Bucky kept his promise, a hand resting on his knife holder as he trailed behind you at what he considered a safe distance.

"Walker!" You called again, now standing just behind him.

"For fuck's sake, give me a break!" He came to an abrupt halt, turning around to face you, but still keeping his distance. "What, Y/N?” His harsh tone pulled you straight out of your rush.

"Wow, okay. I didn't really think this through" you admitted, realizing you hadn't actually planned what to say.

"You know what? I'm done. I'm done with everyone making fun of me. I get it, okay? I suck. What's new?" He threw his hands in the air dramatically, bitterly trash-talking himself.

"About what Yelena said—"

"Oh, I heard her just fine. And she's right, isn't she? You're all right. I'm a fucking asshole. That's why my family left, why everyone hates me" He continues letting the anger speak for himself.

But now that you stared at him for a little longer, instead of seeing the prick he portrayed in front of everyone, you could see underneath all that rage, there was something much softer.

Hurt.

So you didn't get defensive, instead, you speak softly to him.

"That's not true, John"

He froze. Taken aback by the fact that you've never called him by his first name before.

"Really? Be fucking honest with me" His voice cracked just slightly. "Cause everyone's made it pretty damn clear"

"We don't hate you" you said carefully. "You're just... hard to be around sometimes" You explain, his brows lifted at your honesty. "Look, I'm not trying anything here. I just want to talk, okay?. That's all"

He looks around, hesitant at first, but decides to drops his guard. He rolls his eyes before taking a step closer to you, never admitting he was curious about what you had to say. You pretend to not notice the sheen in his eyes once he's close to you.

He looks behind you, catching a sight of Bucky in the distance, arms on his hips, watching your interaction like a hawk.

"Don't worry about him, he's keeping watch" you brush it off, slightly amused.

And after a deep breath, you start. 

"So, you know how the serum works, right? It …enhances everything"

He gave a faint nod, prompting you to continue.

"It can make the good parts of you better, but it can also make the worst parts unbearable" you continue, letting memories you had buried down a long time ago, come to the surface. " When I first lost Bucky and Steve, back in the 40's, I was completely consumed by grief, by this ...” You pause for a second, searching for the right word. “Emptiness” you continued.

“They were all I had back then, and suddenly all my days just went by, all alone. Until one day Peggy Carter contacted me, offering me a spot on a super serum program. She said it was developed from the last blood sample taken of Steve” That seemed to finally peak his interest.

“It was quite experimental but I didn't mind, I had nothing left to lose. So I said yes, because I felt like that was my way to honor them, but deep down, I just wanted to be strong enough to destroy Hydra myself." You let out a bitter breath.

"As you can imagine, I was in no condition to take the serum. But once I did? that emptiness only grew louder. I lost control. I let all my pain out on the battlefield, told myself it was for the greater good. But really, I just wanted to hurt the world as much as it had hurt me" You confess to him, not being able to make eye contact. He didn't mind, he just listened attentively, finding he related to you in more ways than he could have ever imagined. "It went on like that for a long time, and I thought I would never stop feeling that anger. And then one day, the loss felt lighter, the emptiness began to fade away. That's when I finally stared seeing things clearer" You finally lift your gaze to meet his eyes through your glassy ones.

"That anger you feel inside you? It's real, it's the serum turning the volume up on your worst pain, but it's not everything you will ever be" You explain, and now it's his turn to drop his gaze to the floor. "I know what it feels like to drown in that, I know how hard it is to climb out of it, but trust me, it will fade eventually. I got Bucky back. I got my miracle. Maybe you'll get yours one day"

He bitterly chuckles.

"It doesn't feel that way. I'm just ... too messed up" He mumbles, and you shake your head.

"Look around, Walker. Every one of us is messed up too" you chuckle ironically, gesturing vaguely behind you. "We're all running on red numbers here. The only difference is, our worst mistakes weren't, you know... broadcasted to the whole world" You carefully admit, remembering his public incident back in Latvia.

You paused, then added softly. "I'm sorry yours were"

He didn't say anything right away, just blinked a few times, processing everything you told him.

"Thank you" It came out quiet, but it was honest.

It was is the kindest someone had treated him since the day his wife left.

"You know, it's never too late to start over with us" You admit, referring to the new dysfunctional group you had accidentally became a part of. “So, are you? with us?" You question.

He lingers for a second, before he gives you a small nod. He didn't have to say much, you could see how much your words meant to him by the way he looked at you. It was different than before.

You patted his shoulder gently and nod happily, before turning to head back to Bucky.

Walker notices Bucky's face shift into a smile the second he saw you coming. And just before you were too far away, you hear his voice once again.

"You know... I can see why he's so protective of you. He's lucky to share this shitty world with you" He grants, hinting back at what Yelena said earlier.  A smile tugs at your lips.

Before you could turn around to respond, a sudden explosion cracked through the air, followed by pedestrian’s screams. Chaos erupted in the streets as people began running in every direction.

You barely had time to process it before you caught the sound of something heavy crashing down, a huge chunk of concrete, straight above you.

In less than a second, two super soldiers blocked the blow, Walker with his dented shield raised above you and Bucky with his vibranium arm braced against the falling debris that shattered around them.

Even though you were as much of a super soldier as he was, Bucky still protected you like you were made of glass.

"Are you okay, doll?" he asked immediately. His hands swiftly dusting away little rests of concrete off your suit, eyes scanning your body for any injuries.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Walker doing the same, he was more subtle, but still watching you closely, making sure you weren't hurt.

"Yes. Thank you. Both of you." You nodded quickly, still catching your breath.

Bucky gave a short nod in Walker's direction, a silent acknowledgment.

Then your eyes lifted, and your heart dropped.

"Oh my god" You exclaimed, horrified at the sight. The people who had been running were now vanishing. One by one, melted into silhouettes.

You looked back to Walker, desperation setting in.

"You're with us, right?" You ask one more time.

This time, his nod came without hesitation.

"Great" you said, turning now towards Bucky. He nodded firmly, ready to jump into action. "Let's go"

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comments and reblogs save author’s lives, thank you so much for reading <3

[vamplvs]

notes: y'all i am so sorry this stupid mf (lovingly, mostly) has me in a chokehold, and its so bad. idk what thunderbolts did to me. i used to be a hater, and now i'm kicking my feet and giggling over him making me breakfast.

it's not uncommon for john to make breakfast for the team. he likes making pancakes, eggs, coffee, and anything else he learns they like. it's something he misses doing for people he cares about (though he is loathe to admit that he really cares for the thunderbolts), and after what happened after he became captain america when olivia-

“you’re a fool, walker,” yelena says over her coffee, having treaded into the room so quietly he couldn't hear her over the sizzling of bacon in the pan.

john is startled first, and offended second. “the hell did i do?”

“you know what you’re doing,” she replies, no further context added.

only half a moment later, you walk into the kitchen. "you are a saint, john," you say with a tired grin. in one smooth movement, you pull a mug from the cabinet and fill it with coffee. john watches you reach for it and only has half the mind not to grab it for you. "don't tell bob i told you this, but your coffee is amazing."

john snorts. "yeah, will do."

"you make any waffles or is it all pancakes today?" you take a seat at the counter, stirring in sugar and creamer to your coffee. there's a stack of pancakes for the team in front of you that you're looking at skeptically.

he immediately perks up, and before you know it, there's a plate of waffles sitting in front of you. "made them just for you," he says with a soft smile, "i know you prefer them, so..." he trails off, pointedly ignoring yelena's raised eyebrow.

"like i said, a saint, john, a saint."

you and yelena talk while john takes the time to clean up, scrubbing the fat out of pans methodically. by the time he's done, you've already run off to train with bucky, and john pretends not to be bothered by that. pretends it doesn't get under his skin in the worst way that you train night and day with bucky instead of him.

yelena sits at the counter with a smug grin on her face. "a saint, my ass," she laughs, "you are a fool, walker."

[barnesonly]

Hatred

john walker x reader

summary: You hated John Walker. You fought him before, nearly killed him for carrying the shield. Years later, you’re forced to work with him again—and when he saved your life, the hatred cracked.

word count: 5,4k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. enemies to lovers, angst to smut, curse words, mentions of death, injuries, mutual desperation, dirty talk, PiV, unprotected sex, rough sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, breeding.

You hated John Walker.

From the first moment you saw him step into frame, all grinning bravado and government-issue righteousness, you wanted to hit something. Preferably him.

He wore that shield like it meant something. Like it belonged to him.

He didn’t know Steve. Didn’t know what that shield meant. What it cost.

And maybe that’s what stung the most—how easily he wore it. How effortlessly he stepped into the space someone irreplaceable had left behind.

With every mission, every close call, your resentment festered. He called himself “Captain America” like it was a job title. Like he earned it. You’d catch him giving press interviews with that painted-on grin, answering questions like a politician, like a man who hadn’t watched the blood dry on his hands yet.

But you’d fought beside Steve Rogers. You’d seen him fall and get back up, not because the world expected it—but because he did. Because he couldn’t bear to do anything less. You knew what it really took to carry that weight—and it sure as hell wasn’t a shiny resume and a PR team.

John Walker… he didn’t have that in him. Not that kind of goodness. Not that kind of determination.

You’ve never had missed your chance to remind Walker of it.

The fight was over. The Flag Smashers were gone, the mission was a mess, and you were still standing on the side of the road somewhere in the middle of goddamn nowhere, heart pounding, blood rushing in your ears—with him behind you.

Captain fucking America.

You turned away from the road, from Sam’s exhausted voice and Bucky’s growl of frustration, trying to catch your breath. Not from the fight—you were used to the fights. It was the way he looked at you. The way he spoke. That unbearable calm in his voice like he’d actually done something good.

Like he thought he was helping.

“You know,” he said behind you, casual, too casual. “We actually made a pretty good team back there.”

You closed your eyes. Counted to five. Then ten. Somehow that heat behind your ribs didn’t fade.

You turned slowly. Met his gaze. Held it, even though it made something twist in your chest.

“Team? That what you think that was?” you asked, voice low and rough.

He shrugged, like he couldn’t see the storm building in your eyes. “I mean, we stopped the trucks. Nobody died. I’d say that’s a win.”

God.

You laughed. Sharp, bitter. It scraped your throat on the way out.

“You really believe this, don’t you?” you said. “You actually think you’re the good guy.”

John frowned, just slightly. “I’m doing what I was asked to do. What this country needs.”

“You think this country needs you?”

You didn’t mean to let that much venom slip out. But you couldn’t stop it now. You were tired. Angry. And something about the way he stood there, looking like the perfect soldier in that uniform that didn’t belong to him—it made you sick.

“You want to be seen as a hero so badly,” you whispered. “But you aren’t one.”

You stepped forward, and something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Uncertainty.

He didn’t move. You didn’t stop.

“You were handed that shield. You didn’t earn it. You didn’t carry it. And every time I look at you, I see a man playing dress-up in a uniform that belonged to someone who was ten times the person you’ll ever be.”

That landed. You saw it—the brief flicker of something raw in his face, like the words had actually hit bone.

He swallowed. His voice was quieter now, almost tired. “You don’t know me.”

“I don’t want to.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Too heavy. The wind whipped past your face, pulling at your jacket, and still—he didn’t look away.

But you did. You turned your back to him, jaw clenched tight, heart thudding against your ribs like it was trying to break out.

———

You thought it couldn’t get worse.

You thought you’d already seen the ugliest parts of him—the arrogance, the cocky one-liners, the way he walked into every room like the hero in someone else’s story. You thought your hatred for John Walker had already carved its place into your chest, a familiar wound, sharp but manageable.

And then came Lemar’s death.

And the shield—Steve’s shield—slick with blood that wasn’t his to spill.

You weren’t there when it happened. You didn’t see it fall. You were busy chasing one of the terrorists.

But then Bucky sent you the video. The footage that circled like vultures online—grainy, shaky, someone’s phone camera catching it all: the broken body, the gleam of the shield raised overhead, the fury in Walker’s face as it came down again, and again, and again.

Your stomach twisted when you saw him later. He was standing in the warehouse like a ghost, the shield still strapped to his back like he deserved it.

You should’ve stayed outside. You’d told yourself that. Let Sam and Bucky handle it.

But your feet carried you in before you could stop them.

He turned when he heard you, the edge of his profile illuminated by the fractured light through the busted windows. Eyes rimmed red. Hands twitching.

“Don’t.” Sam said behind you.

But you were already walking toward him. Sam didn’t even try saying anything again or stopping you.

You didn’t speak at first. You just looked at Walker and tried to find something left in his face that resembled a man.

You couldn’t.

He looked up at you like he expected a fight. Like he welcomed it.

“I didn’t have a choice,” he said, voice rough. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see what they did—”

“No,” you said quietly. “I didn’t see that. I just saw you kill a man with a shield that was never yours to carry.”

His jaw clenched, but you didn’t stop.

“You’re not Captain America. You never were. You’re a man with a suit and a name and a pile of bodies that you think justify themselves.”

“I lost my best friend,” he snapped. “What would you have done?”

“I would’ve done the right thing,” you whispered. “That’s what Steve would’ve done. That’s what any decent man would’ve done.”

He flinched like you’d slapped him.

Good.

But it wasn’t enough.

Your fist moved before you could stop it—sharper than the words, heavier than your restraint. You struck him clean across the jaw, the impact echoing off the steel walls. He stumbled a step, but didn’t go down.

He looked back at you with something wild in his eyes. Hurt. Guilt. Fury.

You saw his hands twitch again—and this time, he didn’t hold back.

He came at you fast. Not with full force, not like you were the enemy, but enough to knock you backward, enough to fight.

You hit the ground hard, rolled, came up swinging.

The two of you clashed in a storm of fists and broken breath. You weren’t thinking. Just moving. Just feeling everything you’d buried since Steve gave that shield away. Since Walker took it. Since he tarnished it.

You landed a knee to his ribs—he grunted, doubled over—and you could’ve stopped. Should’ve.

But you didn’t.

You shoved him back, threw another punch. He caught your wrist this time, eyes blazing.

“This what you want?” he hissed. “You want to hurt me? Go ahead. Get in line.”

You yanked your hand free. “You deserve it.”

And you meant it. Because something in you was cracking now—something deep and buried and filled with a grief you hadn’t wanted to name.

It wasn’t just about the shield. Not anymore.

It was about everything he wasn’t.

Everything Steve was. Everything you lost when the world decided to move on without asking if you were ready.

You were both breathing hard now, blood on your knuckles, bruises blooming under skin.

He stared at you like he didn’t know what he’d done wrong. Like he didn’t know how to be hated by someone who used to believe in what the shield stood for.

And now here you were. Staring at him back like you couldn’t forgive.

Staring at a man who wore your friend’s legacy like a weapon.

A man who made you feel like nothing in this world would ever be right again.

———

Everything changed after that day.

After the blood dried and the shield was stripped from his hands and everything he thought he was collapsed under the weight of what he’d done.

And few days later when Sam finally took the shield, when he earned it—stood tall and steady in a suit that actually meant something—you thought that was it. The end of it. Of him.

You figured you’d never have to think about John Walker again.

But time passed. The world kept breaking in new, creative ways. And now—now you were standing in a cold facility in the middle of nowhere, gripping a gun with your name on the target folder and a job from Valentina echoing in the back of your head like a dare.

Get rid of John Walker.

Get in. Get rid of him. Clean break. Simple.

You took it. It wasn’t like you, not really. But the hatred you had in the back of your head spoke louder than your heart and everything you thought you stood for.

Little did you know it was all a setup. A trap.

You should’ve known the moment you got the assignment. The briefing had been vague—too vague. No layout of the facility, no escape routes, just a location and a file with a familiar name stamped across it in thick black ink.

And then you walked into the belly of a concrete labyrinth and found other people—including Walker—standing there, weapons drawn, faces just as confused and angry as yours.

The doors sealed behind you with a hydraulic hiss. Locking down. Air pressure shifted, and red emergency lights flickered on like a funeral march. Somewhere deep in the walls, system roared to life. Not to protect you. To go up in flames.

Valentina had played you all like chess pieces, and now the board was on fire.

Ghost moved first, flickering out of sight, trying to go through the walls, which failed miserably. Bob stayed silent. Yelena cursed in Russian, muttering something about never trusting Val ever again.

And Walker—

God. Walker was standing with his hands raised slightly, like he thought someone might still shoot him. His face was tight, unreadable.

“What the hell is this?” he said, voice cutting through the silence. “This wasn’t the op.”

“No shit,” you snapped.

You hated how different he looked. Like time had pressed in on him. Like regret had left fingerprints all over his face. He wasn’t the clean-cut puppet from years ago anymore. Just a man left standing at the edge of the wreckage he helped build.

Gladly you all managed to get out. With Ava’s strange ability, Yelena’s plan and Walker’s „On your left,” when he smashed the power source. You almost punched him in the face just for saying that.

You didn’t want to work with him. You didn’t want to stand on the same side of any fight as John Walker. But when the truth about Valentina came out—about Sentry, about her plan to kill you all, and the experiments in Malaysia—you didn’t have a choice.

You told yourself it was temporary.

You told yourself he was just… useful.

And then you landed back in New York.

The Void descended with no warning—rupturing through the skyline, swallowing people like smoke through a keyhole. People screamed. Reality bent. You were thrown into the heart of it with no backup, no plan, and too much debris between you and the people you were trying to protect.

The city was collapsing, falling.

You fought through the chaos. Through the ripping wind and the shifting streets. Until something bigger caught your eye—a building fracturing at the base, tilting in on itself. Fast.

It was about to hit people below so you ran towards it—of course you did—hoping you’ll manage to save them.

You didn’t see the metal bar swing into your ribs.

You didn’t see the rubble above start to fall.

You hit the ground hard. Vision spinning.

And then came a a grunt. A thud. Arms around your waist.

You gasped as you were yanked sideways just before a concrete slab slammed into where you’d been lying.

Dust filled your throat. You coughed and blinked up.

There he was. Walker, blood on his cheek, breath ragged. His body practically covering yours like a shield.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did you.

The sounds of the city raged around you—sirens, crumbling steel, distant screams—but in that second, everything went still. His arms braced on either side of you, holding his weight just above your body, chest rising and falling against yours in rough, uneven gasps.

You could feel the heat of him through your suit. Smell the dust and blood on his skin. See the tight clench of his jaw as he checked the collapse behind you, as if making sure the danger had really passed.

And still… he didn’t look at you. He didn’t ask if you were okay.

He just pulled back, slow and steady, like if he moved too fast you’d shatter.

You sat up once he was off you, cradling your ribs, avoiding his eyes. You didn’t thank him. Couldn’t. The words felt too sharp in your mouth. Like admitting what he’d done would rewrite everything you’d believed about him.

And maybe it had.

Because he didn’t have to come back for you. He didn’t have to throw himself into the collapse. He didn’t have to look at you like that—like the grudge didn’t matter anymore. Like it never had.

You told yourself it was just instinct. Just battlefield protocol. But that moment stayed with you.

Long after the end of everything. After Void was sealed. After the city’s streets were crowded again.

You were brought back to reality from your thoughts when Val announced you as The New Avengers.

You didn’t even pretend to hide your reaction.

A scoff escaped your throat before you could catch it. You folded your arms, weight shifted to one side, glaring at the floor like it had answers.

This wasn’t what you signed up for.

You were supposed to survive the facility, stop Val, shut down the Sentry project. Then walk away. Back into the dark. Back into the part of the world that didn’t ask questions about how much you hated or trusted the people you bled beside.

But now?

Now there were press conferences being planned. Uniforms being discussed. Public names, joint assignments, coordinated housing.

And all of it included Walker.

You hadn’t spoken with him since that day.

You couldn’t.

Not after the way he pulled you out of that collapse. Not after the way he didn’t say a damn thing and somehow that meant more than words ever could.

You tried to ignore him whenever you passed him in the Avengers Tower but you could always feel his presence, heavy in your periphery.

He avoided you as well. Like he didn’t know what to do with it either.

This was supposed to be easy. He was supposed to be the one you hated. The one you didn’t have to forgive.

And now you’d have to see him every goddamn day. Train with him. Fight beside him. Sit across briefing tables trying to pretend like nothing had shifted inside your ribs the moment he shielded you with his body like it was instinct.

———

You weren’t sleeping. Not really. Your body ached from training and you tossed in bed every two minutes.

So you got up wandered the hallway in silence, the floor cold under your bare feet, hoodie hanging loose around your frame. You told yourself you were just getting water. Just stretching your legs.

But the second you turned the corner near the common room, you froze.

He was there. Walker. Leaning against the wall, head tilted back, arms crossed over his chest. In sweats and a T-shirt, no armor, no shield, no sharp edges. Just him. Just John.

You almost backed away but his gaze landed on you.

Shit.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked, voice rough from disuse.

You shrugged. “Didn’t think anyone else would be up.”

Silence bloomed, thick and pressing. You crossed your arms, suddenly cold despite the hoodie.

“I’m not gonna thank you,” you said. „For saving me back then.”

His mouth twitched like he almost smiled. “Didn’t expect you to.”

“I just—” you faltered, jaw clenching. “You don’t get to pretend like it didn’t happen.”

He nodded slowly, gaze steady. “I’m not pretending.”

You hated the way your stomach turned. The way your chest tightened when he looked at you like that—not smug, not superior. Just honest.

“I don’t get it,” you muttered. “Why’d you even do that?”

He exhaled through his nose. “Because I didn’t want you to die.”

You stared at him. Your throat tightened. “You hated me.”

“Maybe I did,” he said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I wanted you gone.”

He pushed off the wall, slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he should leave or come closer. His voice softened.

“I know what I did. Who I was. And maybe you’ll never forgive me for it. But that doesn’t mean I’d let you go down in a pile of rubble just to prove a point.”

Your lips parted, but no words came.

Because you wanted to be angry.

You wanted to throw the past back in his face. But all you could feel was the echo of that moment again—his weight over you, his arms around you, the silence between you burning louder than any scream.

“You’re still an asshole,” you said finally, voice flat, throat tight.

He huffed a laugh, low and tired. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”

That should’ve been the end of it.

You should’ve walked away. Shut the door to this half-buried thing between you before it cracked wider. But your feet didn’t move. And neither did his.

The hallway felt too quiet. Too still. Like the tower itself was holding its breath.

Walker ran a hand through his hair, eyes dipping down, jaw clenching. He looked like he was debating saying something. Like whatever it was might undo the last few years of distance you’d tried so hard to build.

“You know I’d do it again.” His voice was softer now, quieter.

Your chest went still.

He glanced up, eyes catching yours. “If it happened again. If everything was falling and you were under it.” He paused. “I wouldn’t think twice.”

The words shouldn’t have hit you the way they did.

But they did. Harder than any rubble ever could. Heavier than the shield he used to carry.

You swallowed, hard. “That doesn’t mean we’re—” You broke off. “That doesn’t fix anything.”

“I’m not trying to fix it,” he said. “I’m just… telling you the truth.”

Your hand curled around your arm. Fingertips digging into your sleeve. “You make it really hard to keep hating you.”

His mouth pulled into something between a smile and a grimace. “That’s not intentional.”

“Well, try harder.” You meant it to come out cold. Dismissive. But it sounded… tired.

Exhausted by everything you’ve carried for years—the blood, the betrayal, the fire in your chest that never quite settled. And now it’s shifting. Changing. Because of him and his stupid act of bravery.

Maybe that was it. Maybe he finally learnt how to do the right thing and became the man you expected him to be when he got the Steve’s shield years ago.

Walker stepped closer—not enough to touch, but enough that you felt the gravity of it. The pull.

“I don’t want you to hate me,” he said.

You didn’t answer because you didn’t know how to say “I don’t want to hate you either.”

So instead, you closed the distance between the two of you. Your lips crashed into his—no warning. No pretense.

Just heat and exhaustion and years of something tangled and unsaid breaking loose all at once.

You didn’t know why you did it. Maybe it was your way of saying thank you, even though you said you were’t going to do that. Maybe you hoped it would stop that burning feeling inside your chest whenever you saw him.

His lips caught yours like a second too slow, like he didn’t believe it at first but then he was on you.

Hands at your waist. Then your back. Then tangled in your hoodie like he needed to get under it, like the feel of you wasn’t enough with cotton in the way. His mouth was rough, warm, desperate. He kissed you like he’d been waiting for it since the day you told him you’d rather kill him than work beside him.

You gasped when his hand slid up under your hoodie, skin to skin, dragging heat across your ribs. He caught that sound in his mouth—bit your bottom lip like he couldn’t help it.

“You really wanna do this?” he muttered against your jaw, breath hot, voice thick.

“I wouldn’t be kissing you if I didn’t,” you snapped, and tugged him back in like you were trying to punish him for making you feel this way.

He groaned. Like the way you hated him turned him on more than anything.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was everything else—anger, relief, want.

You pulled him back with you until your spine hit the wall, your hoodie rucked up, your hips dragged against his thigh as he slotted himself between your legs. His hands gripped your waist, pulled you flush, and god—he was hard already.

You weren’t doing this to be sweet. You didn’t want slow.

You just wanted to feel something real after too long pretending you didn’t.

“Off,” you breathed, tugging at his shirt. “Take it off—”

He obeyed, pulled it over his head and tossed it behind him, and fuck—

You hadn’t let yourself think about what he looked like, but now you couldn’t not see it. The way his body moved. The way he breathed. The scars and wounds which still haven’t faded from the last mission he was on.

Your hands were on his chest, then lower—scraping nails along his abs as you dragged his waistband down enough to feel the heat of him straining against fabric.

John hissed. Caught your wrist gently but firmly. He kissed you harder, deeper. One hand sliding down the back of your thigh, hitching your leg up around his waist. His fingers pressed between your legs through the thin fabric of your sleep shorts and you gasped—hips grinding forward, aching.

“You’re soaked,” he muttered against your ear, breath ragged.

“Shut up.”

But you were.

You didn’t care.

All you cared about was the way he touched you—how fast his fingers slipped past the fabric, how his thumb pressed against your clit just right, how your hips jerked and your head hit the wall and you let out a sound that was definitely not subtle.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let me hear you.” he said and took of your shorts off for easier access.

You bit your lip. Nearly drew blood.

But he knew what he was doing. His fingers circled, slid inside, curled. You gasped again, louder this time.

Your hand gripped the back of his neck, the other fumbling for the waistband of his sweats. He helped you—pulled them down with one hand, never letting up with the other.

When he pressed the head of his cock against you, your hips lifted to meet him like instinct.

“No teasing,” you muttered. “Just fuck me.”

And he did. One deep thrust that filled you to the hilt, his head dropping to your shoulder with a low, guttural curse. Your fingers dug into his back, your leg tightening around his waist as he began to move—slow at first, then harder.

The hallway was filled with the sound of skin, breath, need.

It was rough, frenzied at first—your bodies crashing together like the only way to silence everything between you was to fuck through it. You held onto him like a lifeline, nails dragging down his back, and he rutted into you with all the restraint of a man who’d waited so long to touch you.

Then something changed.

He slowed. Just a little. Hands smoothing over your hips, your waist, up under your hoodie like he needed to feel you. Really feel you.

You tried to kiss him again, tried to draw him back into the rush of it, but he broke away and pulled out of you, which made you whimper at the loss. His lips began trailing down your jaw, your throat, your collarbone.

“Take this off,” he whispered.

His fingers slipped under the hem of your hoodie, pushing it up, revealing inches of bare skin as he went. He kissed every part he uncovered—slow, reverent. Like peeling you out of your clothes was something sacred.

He tugged it over your head. You stood there, naked in the dim glow of the hallway, chest rising and falling too fast, heat rushing to your cheeks. The clothing dropped to the floor with a soft thud, forgotten.

His gaze drank you in.

“Fuck,” he murmured. His hand lifted to trace the line of your breast, your ribs, like he didn’t trust himself to grab hold too fast. “You’re…”

You rolled your eyes, flustered. “Don’t get sappy on me, Walker.”

But your voice betrayed you—breathy, shaken, softer than it should’ve been.

His lips brushed your ear. “You’re so pretty like this.”

You felt it in your stomach. Low. Aching.

He kissed down your chest, mouth hot and open, leaving a trail that had your spine arching off the wall. His hands moved with him—down your sides, your hips, thumbs sweeping across your thighs as he sank to his knees like it was nothing. Like it was natural and you’ve had done it a thousand times before.

He pressed his mouth to your skin, just above your most sensitive area.

“I’ve thought about this,” he whispered.

You didn’t ask when. You didn’t need to.

Because you’d thought about it too. Even when you hated him. Maybe because you hated him.

Your hand found his hair, tugged gently.

He looked up at you—pupils blown wide, lips slick, chest heaving—and there was nothing cocky left in him.

Only want. And the sharp edge of something deeper. Something you didn’t dare name.

There was no hesitation. His mouth was on you in seconds—hot tongue parting your folds, lips wrapping around your clit like he knew exactly how to tear you open from the inside out.

Your back hit the wall with a soft thud, one leg draped over his shoulder, your hands scrambling for balance—fisting in his blonde hair, clutching at the smooth tile behind you, anything.

But it was him.

It was him holding you steady. Him on his knees like it was right where he belonged.

“Jesus, Walker—” you gasped, hips rolling forward before you could stop them.

He groaned like it encouraged him. His fingers dug into your thighs, keeping you pinned. His tongue moved in long, slow drags, then faster flicks—pressing and circling like he was studying you, learning every twitch and breath and curse that spilled from your lips.

You looked down at him and nearly choked on your own breath.

His eyes were on you. Dark, heavy-lidded, full of something close to reverence. Like he needed to see your face while he broke you open.

“You taste so fucking good,” he muttered against your skin, the vibrations making your knees buckle.

“Shut up,” you rasped, breath catching. “Just—fuck—keep going.”

And he did.

Tongue fucking you now, nose brushing your clit with every movement, jaw working with a kind of desperation you hadn’t expected. He wasn’t doing this for you to moan pretty. He was doing it because he needed to.

Your leg trembled around his shoulder. Your body started to tighten.

You could feel it—fast, sharp, barreling toward the edge like gravity, and he must’ve felt it too, because his grip tightened and his mouth slammed against your clit, sucking hard and fast while his fingers replaced his tongue, curling inside you—

You came with a broken cry. Your whole body went tense. Then loose like he’d knocked the fight right out of you.

Your hand clutched his hair, riding it out, legs shaking as he worked you through it—slow now, gentle licks, like he was savoring the last of it.

You gasped, tried to speak, failed.

John kissed the inside of your thigh once. Then again. Slow. Almost sweet. He looked up at you, lips slick, face flushed.

Your legs were still shaking. You dragged in a breath, swallowed hard, then whispered, “I need you.”

His brows lifted slightly.

You leaned down, fingers sliding into his hair again—not to pull him back this time, but to bring him up. Back to you. Where he belonged.

Your voice cracked, soft and raw. “I need to feel you inside me again, John… Fuck, please—”

It spilled out before you could stop it. His name. The please The desperate, aching want in your tone.

And you hated how much you meant it.

His mouth twitched—like he could barely process hearing you beg for him, like some part of him didn’t believe it was real. But then his hands were on you again, lifting you up into his arms without a word, carrying you back down the hall toward your room like nothing else mattered.

Like he couldn’t wait another goddamn second.

He kicked the door shut behind him.

Laid you down like you were something fragile—even though you both knew better. Even though you were already reaching for him again.

He groaned when he saw how wet you still were. How ready. How wrecked just for him.

You spread your legs and pulled him between them.

He knew what you wanted and didn’t hesitate. He buried himself in you deep and hot and so good it knocked the air out of your lungs.

“Fuck—” you gasped, head tipping back. “God, yes—”

He moved over you with that same rhythm he had before—hips rolling deep, like he was trying to memorize every flutter of your walls around him.

You clung to his shoulders, nails dragging down his back, needing more—more pressure, more stretch, more him.

“Harder,” you whispered. “Please, just—don’t stop.”

“Not planning to,” he growled into your neck.

Then he really started fucking you.

Harder. Deeper. Every thrust slamming into you like he was trying to chase the memory of hate from your body and replace it with this. With him. With the burn and ache and heat of wanting you back.

His hand slid between you, fingers rubbing quick, tight circles over your clit while his cock pounded into you and you swore you saw stars.

“John—fuck—John—” Your voice was wrecked. Your body was so close again, too soon and he could feel it.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Come on, sweetheart. I want to feel you come around me. Want you to squeeze my cock just like that—fuck, that’s it—”

You shattered.

Legs shaking, mouth open, nails digging into his skin, leaving crescent shaped marks as your orgasm hit so hard you almost sobbed.

He followed with a broken sound, hips jerking, breath ragged as he came deep inside you—head buried in your neck, arms tight around you like he needed to hold you together.

The silence that followed was heavy and full of everything you didn’t know how to say.

Your body still trembled slightly—aftershocks of what you’d just shared, what you’d just given. You could feel his breath against your skin, still uneven, still catching on the edges like he didn’t know how to slow down either.

He pulled out of you slowly and lay down next to you. Then, gently—tentatively—his fingers brushed a strand of hair away from your face. Like he was afraid you’d flinch. Like he wasn’t sure he had permission to be soft with you.

You didn’t flinch. You looked at him instead. Tired. Raw. Searching.

Neither of you said anything. Neither of you knew what this meant. What came next. What the hell to do with it.

You gave him a weak, shaky smile. Small. Almost embarrassed. But real.

Before you could change your mind, you shifted—just slightly—and curled into him. Buried your face in his chest, inhaling the scent of sweat and heat and him. Your arm draped across his waist like muscle memory.

And he… let you.

More than that—he pulled you in tighter.

One arm around your back. The other coming up to cradle the back of your head like you were something precious. His lips pressed a soft, almost hesitant kiss into your hair, and he exhaled slow, like it let something out he’d been holding for years.

⋆⁺₊✧ MASTERLIST

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