callsign-fox

[callsign-fox]

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Witness the incredible story of Webb’s journey – from an impossible idea to a scientific marvel – all through the eyes of the people who made it possible in our new documentary. Cosmic Dawn is streaming now on NASA+.

[callsign-fox]

Thunderbolts (2025)

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[callsign-fox]

The Broken Bed Frame

Pairing: fem!reader x Bucky Barnes

Prompt: Y/N and Bucky are secretly seeing each other and after a steamy night, Bucky tells the Thunderbolts he needs a new bed. They have a lot of questions.

----

The hum of the air conditioning in Avengers Tower was the only sound as Y/N lay tangled in sweat-slick sheets, one arm draped lazily across Bucky’s chest. His skin was warm beneath her palm, rising and falling with steady breaths, and his vibranium arm was still looped protectively around her waist, fingertips brushing the curve of her hip.

The room smelled like sex and victory. Mostly sex.

A lopsided grin tugged at Y/N’s lips as she stared at the crack in the ceiling. “So,” she murmured. “Wanna explain to everyone else why you’re going to be searching for a new bed frame tomorrow?” 

Bucky chuckled under his breath, deep and smug. “I’ll just say I rolled over too hard.”

“With me on top of you?”

“With enthusiasm.”

The broken bedframe groaned again as Y/N shifted, prompting another shared laugh before she leaned up to kiss him. The kiss was slow, unhurried, and a lazy reward for a long day of pretending they weren’t screwing each other stupid behind everyone’s backs.

----

The next morning the Thunderbolts were gathered in the common room of Avengers Tower, everyone in various stages of coffee-dependency. Yelena was sprawled on one couch, flipping through a magazine. Ava nursed her espresso slowly. Alexei was in a squat competition with himself. And John Walker was recapping his latest run like anyone cared.

Bucky strolled in late, hair damp from a shower, black Henley snug against his chest. He looked too pleased with himself, which immediately set off silent alarm bells for Y/N, who sat on the armrest near Ava, sipping from her mug.

“Morning,” he greeted, grabbing a mug.

“Someone’s cheerful,” Yelena noted, raising a brow.

“I’d be cheerful too if I slept for ten hours straight,” Ava added, blowing on her coffee.

Bucky shrugged casually. “Would’ve been longer if the bed hadn’t given out in the middle of the night.”

Y/N choked on her coffee.

A beat of silence followed.

“The what did what?” John asked, confused.

Bucky sipped, totally unfazed. “Broke right in half.”

Yelena sat up straight, eyes gleaming. “Wait—you broke a bed?”

“What were you doing?” Ava asked, narrowing her eyes.

“I thought you slept alone?” John frowned.

“Oh my god,” Yelena whispered, slowly turning to Y/N, whose face had gone suspiciously blank. “You okay? Did you—were you there?”

Y/N cleared her throat, forcing a neutral tone. “I’m sorry, I—you broke your bed?”

Bucky didn’t even blink. “Yeah. Thing just couldn’t handle the… pressure.”

Alexei barked a laugh. “You did the sex too hard, didn’t you?”

“Who was in the bed?” Ava asked, now entirely invested.

“Please tell me it was you,” Yelena said to Y/N with a wicked grin. “That’s the only explanation that would make this amazing.”

John frowned. “Wait, what is happening?”

Y/N blinked. “I mean—what makes you think I was—?”

“She was,” Bucky interrupted, with the casual grace of someone announcing the weather.

Everyone’s heads whipped toward them.

“Wait, what?” John choked. “You two are—”

“Oh finally,” Ava muttered.

“Called it,” Yelena smirked, pulling a crumpled twenty from her back pocket and tossing it at Ava. “Told you they were sneaking around.”

“I thought they were just flirting weird,” John said, looking mildly horrified.

Y/N rubbed her face, groaning into her palm. “We were very stealthy.”

“You’re terrible at being stealthy,” Yelena said. “You disappeared during the last mission debrief and came back looking like you were glowing.” 

Alexei raised his mug. “To broken beds and better orgasms.”

“Cheers,” Bucky said smugly, raising his coffee.

Y/N just sighed and gave in, nudging Bucky with her foot. “You’re lucky I like you, Barnes.”

He leaned back, totally unbothered, and grinned. “You liked me a lot last night.”

Yelena howled with laughter. Ava groaned. John looked like he needed brain bleach. And Alexei muttered something about “young people these days” as he dropped into a squat.

---

The teasing didn’t stop for the rest of the day.

Every room Y/N walked into, someone had something to say.

“You walking okay?” Ava asked sweetly as they passed in the hallway. “Need me to ice your knees?”

“Tell Bucky to reinforce the furniture next time,” Yelena said over lunch. “Or maybe don’t do gymnastics in the bedroom. Just a thought.”

Even Alexei, unbothered and casually nosy, had offered them both protein bars “for recovery.”

By the time dinner rolled around, Y/N had all but sworn to fake a mission request just to escape the tower for 48 hours.

She found herself in the kitchen late that night, post-shower, hair damp and knotted into a bun, wearing an oversized hoodie—his hoodie—and absolutely not hiding from anyone. Definitely not.

She was spooning Nutella straight from the jar when Bucky strolled in, shirtless, in gray sweatpants. The smug look hadn’t left his face since the Great Bedframe Confession of earlier.

“Hey,” he said softly, leaning against the counter like he hadn’t just blown up their secret and set it on fire.

“You,” she pointed the spoon at him, “have zero impulse control.”

His smirk deepened. “Did you want me to lie?”

“I wanted you to not volunteer the fact that we broke a bed having sex. There’s nuance, Barnes.”

He stepped closer, one hand bracing beside her on the counter. “You think they weren’t going to figure it out eventually? They had bets going. Yelena kept making heart-eyes every time we so much as breathed near each other.”

“She also asked me if you bark during sex,” Y/N deadpanned.

Bucky blinked. “Wait, what?”

“I don’t know, she said you give off ‘feral Golden Retriever’ energy.”

His lips twitched, struggling not to laugh. “I mean, I am loyal…”

She smacked his chest with the spoon.

He caught her wrist mid-swing, tugging her forward until she was pressed against him, sticky chocolate forgotten. His mouth brushed the shell of her ear. “You didn’t seem too worried about being quiet last night.”

Her breath hitched. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“You love me,” he said with that damn cocky grin.

“Shut up.”

“Say it.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes, then leaned in to murmur, “Fine. I love you, but I swear to God, Bucky, if you make anymore comments about furniture during a team meeting—”

“I’ll behave,” he promised, totally unconvincing.

----

Everyone was gathered again, breakfast spread across the table. Yelena was peeling an orange with a knife like a threat. John was mid-rant about proper chain-of-command. Ava was sipping her coffee with the detached energy of a woman who had emotionally clocked out months ago.

Y/N strolled in with Bucky trailing behind her.

Yelena’s eyes flicked to them, quickly noticing the smug smile on both their faces. 

She raised a brow. “So, did you break another bed last night or just the kitchen table this time?”

Y/N didn’t miss a beat. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Alexei spit out his orange juice from across the room.

John stood up. “I’m going back to my room. This is so inappropriate—”

“Someone’s jealous,” Bucky muttered.

“Of what?” John barked. “Your lack of boundaries?”

Ava sipped her coffee. “No, he's definitely jealous of the sex.”

Yelena held up a second crumpled twenty. “New bet: who’s next to hook up in this tower?”

Alexei grinned. “I volunteer.”

Y/N just laughed, reached over, and stole a piece of toast from Bucky’s plate. He didn’t stop her—he was too busy watching her with that look. The one that said mine without ever having to say a word.

Broken beds be damned.

[callsign-fox]

This obsession started over night 💁🏼‍♀️💁🏼‍♀️

Jesus Christ stop saying Bob! - US agent John Walker

[callsign-fox]

Hes sooooo beautiful I NEED to get on his nerves

[callsign-fox]

Bucky Gets Hurt

Pairing: fem!reader x Bucky Barnes

Prompt: Y/N discovers that Bucky got hurt during their last mission and didn't say anything. She becomes upset and he tries his best to calm her down.

Warnings: mention of sex, 18+ only, minors do not engage

----

The room was quiet except for the occasional car horn echoing faintly through the windows of Y/N and Bucky’s apartment. Y/N stood still in the doorway of the bathroom, her eyes fixed on the white bandage wrapped snugly around Bucky’s side. He hadn’t noticed her yet, he was facing the mirror, running a hand through his hair with a wince he tried to hide.

“Are you kidding me right now?” she said sharply.

Bucky jumped, turning toward her with guilt already written all over his face.

“Y/N—”

“You didn’t tell me you were hurt?” she asked, crossing her arms and leaning on the doorframe. “When were you going to? Or was I just going to keep thinking you’ve been extra grumpy for no reason?”

“It’s not that bad,” he replied quickly, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

She scoffed. “Oh, so not telling your girlfriend that you got stabbed during a mission is just… casual now?”

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

“That’s not your decision to make, Bucky!”

He let out a long sigh and turned around to face her, his back resting against the counter. “You were already freaked out about the mission. I figured if I told you, you’d—”

“What?” she cut in. “Care too much? Want to help? Want to actually know what the hell is going on with my boyfriend?”

He flinched, his jaw tight.

Y/N’s eyes narrowed. “Wait. Is this why you didn’t let me take off your shirt yesterday?” She threw her hands in the air, walking back into the bedroom and began to pace, Bucky following behind her. “Oh my God—Bucky, we had sex in the kitchen, and I thought you were just being rough and dominant and sexy—”

“I was being sexy,” he muttered defensively.

“Don’t even,” she snapped, glaring at him. “You didn’t want me to see the bandage. That’s what that was.”

Bucky looked at her, his face softening. “I didn’t want to ruin the moment.”

She held his gaze for a long, silent beat before turning on her heel and disappearing into the walk-in closet without a word.

Bucky exhaled slowly and retreated back into the bathroom.

When he finally reentered the bedroom, the air was heavy with tension. 

Y/N was already lying on the bed, back against the pillows, her legs stretched out. She was wearing his navy blue Henley, and the hem barely covered the tops of her thighs.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“You’re wearing that to rile me up,” he said, his blue eyes skimming her body.

“Yup,” Y/N replied, unapologetic and smug, scrolling aimlessly through her phone. 

“You’re still mad at me.”

“Also yup.”

He sighed, running a hand over his face. “Y/N…”

She didn’t look up. “I’m not mad because you got hurt. I’m mad because you didn’t tell me. I’m supposed to be your partner, Buck. You don’t get to shut me out just because you think you’re protecting me.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

She glanced up then, saw the guilt on his face, and the way he hadn’t moved from the doorway yet.

“Get over here,” she said, patting the empty space beside her.

Bucky crossed the room slowly, climbing onto the bed and moving to straddle her legs. He dipped his head and started placing soft kisses up her body, starting at her knees, moving up to her thighs, lingering there just long enough to draw a slow breath from her lips.

“Bucky,” she said warningly as he reached her hips, “I said I’m still mad at you.”

“I know,” he murmured against her stomach, lips brushing her skin. “But you’re wearing my shirt with no pants, and I’m a simple man.”

“Simple man with a stab wound,” she reminded him, pushing at his shoulders. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

He smirked. “This is rest. Very effective. Medically proven.”

She let out a reluctant laugh, trying to swat him away again as he kissed up between her ribs, lifting the shirt inch by inch.

“Bucky...”

“Y/N…,” he mocked softly, looking up at her. 

She met his gaze, lips twitching. “This doesn’t mean you’re forgiven.”

“Understood.”

“Seriously.”

“I’m terrified of your wrath,” he said as he nuzzled the underside of her breast. “Please don’t end me.”

She tried not to melt but failed entirely. “You're such a menace.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

He grinned before finally kissing her properly, slow and deep, like an apology with every press of his mouth.

His lips then returned to the curve beneath her breast, his breath warm against her skin as he gently nudged up the soft fabric of the Henley she’d very obviously chosen for effect.

Y/N arched an eyebrow. “You know this doesn’t get you off the hook, right?”

“I figured I’d warm you up before your sentencing,” he murmured, his voice a low, playful rasp.

Her hand slid into his hair—partly to keep him close, partly to remind him who was in charge here. “You’re going to have to grovel so hard after this.”

“I’m counting on it,” he said against her sternum before pressing another kiss there. “Groveling. Worship. Whatever you need.”

“Good. Because I’m pissed,” she whispered, her tone softening despite herself. “You got stabbed and hid it from me. What if it got infected? What if it reopened while you were—”

“Throwing you onto the counter and making you scream?” he finished innocently.

She groaned. “Don’t make me regret letting you back on this bed.”

Bucky leaned up on his elbows, eyes meeting hers. “Hey.” His fingers gently brushed a stray hair from her cheek. “I’m sorry. Really. I wasn’t trying to push you out. I just—sometimes I forget I don’t have to deal with things alone anymore. That I don’t want to.”

Y/N studied his face. There was sincerity in his eyes, a vulnerability that cracked through the sarcastic front he usually wore. Her thumb stroked along his jaw.

“I know it’s hard,” she said quietly. “But you don’t get to shut me out when things get messy. Especially when it’s your body. I love you—flaws, scars, stab wounds and all. Don’t make me fight to love you right.”

His throat bobbed with a swallow, and he dipped down to kiss her again—softer this time, slower. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers.

“You’re wearing my shirt.”

“I always wear your shirts.”

“But this one,” he said, his hands ghosting over her thighs and under the hem. “This is the shirt you wear when you’re mad and still want to make me suffer.”

Y/N smirked. “What can I say? I multitask.”

He chuckled, pressing another kiss to her jaw, then trailing them down her throat, slow and deliberate. “Tell me what you want.”

She let her head fall back against the pillows with a sigh, placing her phone on the nightstand. “I want you to respect me enough to be honest when you’re hurt. I want you to trust that I can handle it, and that I’d rather know than be in the dark.”

His lips paused at the curve of her neck. “I do. I’m working on it.”

“Good,” she said, then added with a smirk, “because you’re not getting laid until you earn it.”

He looked up with an expression that was all pout and no shame. “You are trying to kill me.”

“You’ll live,” she said, pulling him up for another kiss. “Barely.”

Bucky collapsed beside her dramatically, letting his head fall into the crook of her neck with a groan. “Torture. Pure torture.”

“Not torture,” she murmured, fingers lazily tracing the bandage on his side, “just…consequences.”

He turned his face into her neck. “Worth it.”

She laughed and curled into him, letting the moment settle.

The silence that fell over them was the kind Y/N both loved and hated. Comfortable because it was Bucky. Charged because… it was Bucky. And when he was curled up beside her, all warm muscles and stubborn apologies, it was harder to stay mad.

But she wasn’t done yet.

She shifted slightly, letting her leg drape over his hips, making sure the movement brushed just enough against him to earn a subtle hitch of breath.

“Seriously,” she whispered, fingers skating along the edge of the bandage. “You were just gonna walk around like nothing happened? Let me grind all over you on a granite counter like you weren’t low-key bleeding out?”

Bucky’s chuckle vibrated against her chest. “You weren’t complaining yesterday.”

She poked his shoulder. “I was distracted.”

His eyes fluttered open, and he gave her that classic smirk—the one that made her stomach flutter. “If it helps, I was also incredibly distracted. By your legs. And that ridiculous little noise you made when I bit your—”

She slapped a hand over his mouth. “Bucky.”

His eyes crinkled with laughter behind her hand.

She sighed, moving her hand back to his face and cradling it softly. “I mean it, though. I know you think you’re protecting me, but not telling me when you’re hurt? That’s not love. That’s fear. And I can’t fix what I don’t know about.”

He sobered under her touch, nodding slightly. “You’re right.”

“I usually am.”

“Except for the time you swore you could handle all five shots of tequila.”

“That’s different.”

“You almost punched Sam.”

“He said Die Hard wasn’t a Christmas movie. That’s not a disagreement. That’s war.”

Bucky laughed, and Y/N’s lips curled despite the lingering frustration in her chest. She reached down, tracing the hem of his sweatpants, her fingers brushing his waistband but not doing anything. Just reminding him she could.

He inhaled sharply.

Y/N leaned in, kissed the spot under his ear, and whispered, “Still not getting laid.”

He groaned, dramatically flopping onto his back. “You’re evil.”

“Smart. Sexy. Reasonably furious.” She curled up next to him and laid her head on his chest carefully, avoiding the wound. “And yours. Which is why you have to tell me this stuff, Buck. You’re not alone anymore. And if I have to seduce and emotionally wreck you into realizing that, I will.”

Bucky let out a half-laugh, half-sigh, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I don’t deserve you.”

“No,” she agreed. “But you’ve got me anyway. So try not to bleed out on the kitchen floor next time, okay?”

“Noted.”

They laid in silence for a long moment before Bucky’s voice cut through. 

“So… I can’t touch you at all? Like a twenty-four-hour sex ban? Or are there exceptions for accidental thigh grazes and overly affectionate cuddles?”

Y/N smirked into his chest. “Hmm. I might be convinced to negotiate. But only if you let me take your shirt off next time.”

Bucky groaned. “That’s just cruel.”

“Nope. That’s called trust building.”

And just like that, his arm curled tighter around her, his heart finally steady under her cheek.

They’d argue again—God knew they were both too stubborn for their own good—but tonight, they were soft. Still smoldering, still scarred, still figuring it out.

But in love.

Very, very in love.

[callsign-fox]

Keeping Secrets - John Walker/US Agent

Pairing: John Walker/US Agent x Fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ Foreplay/Oral

Prompt: John tries to hide the fact that he got hurt on a mission—but things don’t go quite as planned when you find out. Or do they?

The room was quiet, the way it always was after a fight—not the kind of fight that ended with shouting or slammed doors, but the slow, aching kind. The kind where silence said more than words ever could.

Y/N lay on their bed, sprawled like a siren in his favorite black silk nightdress, pretending to read a book. Her legs were long and bare in the amber light of the bedside lamp, her expression set in that unreadable calm she wore when she was absolutely livid.

Walker stood in the doorway, watching her like a man already halfway into enemy territory.

He’d just come out of the shower, hair damp, sweat from the night’s job washed off—but not the guilt. That still clung to him like smoke.

She had seen it when he’d peeled his shirt off, finally. The angry red scar slicing across his side. A knife, deep enough to have needed stitches. She hadn’t said anything right away. Just stared before turning and leaving the room.

That was definitely scarier than her yelling.

It had been an hour. She hadn’t moved except to turn the pages of that book she wasn’t actually reading. She just lay there, silent, taunting him with her body and her indifference like it wasn’t a weapon.

Walker stepped in, shutting the bathroom door softly behind him. She didn’t look up.

“You’re not even reading that,” he said quietly.

“Yes I am.” Her voice was flat, clipped. The verbal equivalent of slamming a door in his face.

He crossed the room slowly, crawling onto the bed like a man approaching dangerous territory. Because he was. But she didn’t stop him—she just kept her eyes on the page, like he wasn’t already sliding between her legs.

“You’re mad,” he said against her knee, kissing just above it.

“No, Walker,” she replied, flipping a page she hadn’t read. “I’m furious.”

Another kiss, higher this time, on the inside of her thigh. She sucked in a breath but didn’t pull away.

“You got stabbed and didn’t tell me.”

“I got a cut,” he corrected, fingers pushing up the edge of her nightdress. “There is a big difference.”

She finally looked at him, the book dropping onto her chest. “Are you being serious right now? You think because you downplay it that it makes it better?”

He kissed her hip, then the soft skin above it, fingers grazing up her sides. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d react exactly like this, and it was nothing.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“It was already healing—”

“How long?” she cut in, dropping the book beside her with a soft thud and finally looking down at him, fury and something else simmering behind her eyes.

He paused, caught in that moment between truth and deflection, his finger brushing lazily over her nipple through the thin silk. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t gasp. Just kept her gaze locked on his like she wasn’t unraveling beneath him.

“How long what?” he asked, pretending not to notice the way her chest rose just a little quicker beneath his hand.

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t play dumb. How long have you been hiding it from me?”

Walker didn’t answer right away. Instead, his hand slid down, palm dragging across the dip of her stomach, fingers curling under the hem of her nightdress like he had all the time in the world.

She did a damn good job of pretending not to be turned on—legs stretched out, lips pursed in that tight, unimpressed line, not a flicker of emotion on her face. But he knew her better than that. Knew every tell, every shift in her breathing, every way her body betrayed her long before her mouth ever did.

If he touched her now—really touched her—he knew what he’d find.

Wet. Warm. Waiting.

Still, she played it cool. That stubborn, glorious pride in full swing.

“Three days,” he said at last.

She blinked. “You’re kidding.”

But he wasn’t. And when his fingers slipped between her thighs, finding heat and slickness like he knew he would, her jaw dropped in spite of herself.

“You absolute—”

She choked on a gasp as he pushed two fingers inside her with maddening confidence, a slow grin stretching across his face.

“Three days?” she bit out, hands fisting the sheets beside her. “You came home bleeding and just didn’t say a word?”

“I said ‘hi,’” he teased, voice low against her neck as he kissed his way down it, lips brushing her pulse, slow and deliberate. “Pretty sure that counts.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t murder you in your sleep.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” he smirked, pumping his fingers slow and deep. “You’d miss me too much.”

“You overestimate your importance.”

“And yet your legs are wide open right now.”

She squirmed underneath him, hips giving away what her mouth wouldn’t. Her head stayed pinned to the pillow, expression set—like this wasn’t lighting her nerves on fire.

“Nothing? Not a peep?” he murmured against her skin. “That’s fine. I’ve got time.”

Walker came in with the killshot, thumb rubbing slow, excruciating circles over her clit. Her fingers dug into his shoulders then, nails pressing crescents into his skin.

“Fuck—You’re infuriating.”

“And you’re soaked.” He pulled back just enough to meet her glare, his smile maddeningly smug. “For someone who's furious with me, you're sure making it hard to believe.”

“You think this means I forgive you?”

“I think your body’s saying a hell of a lot more than your mouth is,” he said, curling his fingers just right, making her back arch against her will.

She hissed in frustration. “I should dump you. Find someone boring and safe. Who reports paper cuts.”

“Oh, please.” He chuckled against her chest. “You’d eat them alive.”

“They wouldn’t be as brazen as you.”

“They also wouldn’t make you come like I do.”

She opened her mouth, maybe to argue—maybe to say something sharp and clever—but then his mouth closed around her nipple through the silk and her breath hitched instead.

“You’re lucky I love you,” she muttered, voice low and wrecked now.

“I really am,” he said, the nightdress pushed up so he could kiss her stomach. “Because if I didn’t have that going for me, I think you’d actually kill me.”

“You have no idea.”

But her tone had softened, even if her body still hummed with tension. He could feel it—anger knotted up with desire, a coil inside her just waiting to snap. She wanted to stay mad. She was mad. But she wanted him more.

“It just scares me,” she said after a moment, voice quiet now, brushing the edge of a confession.

Walker looked up at her, the teasing falling away, just for a second.

“I know,” he said softly. “And I’m sorry.”

He crawled back up and kissed her then—slow, honest, nothing cocky about it. Just the truth, pressed to her lips.

Her fingers slid into his hair again, not pulling now. Fingers brushing through the blonde strands as he moved back down to her stomach.

“Next time, you tell me.”

“I will.”

“Promise.”

“I swear.” His voice was rough. Real.

She rolled her eyes—barely—then let out a low gasp as his tongue replaced his thumb, warm and slow against her clit. Her hand flew to his hair again, gripping tight this time, like she couldn’t decide whether to push him away or drag him closer.

“Oh God—John.”

Walker groaned low in his throat like he was savoring her, like the taste of her was the only absolution he needed. And maybe it was. He worked her with a patience that bordered on sinful, tongue moving in slow, teasing strokes, then faster—his fingers sliding back inside her, curling just right, drawing little sounds from her throat she tried so hard to hold in.

“T—this doesn’t mean you’re off the hook,” she gasped, her hips lifting off the bed.

“Didn’t say I was,” he murmured against her, not letting up for a second.

“You’re just—trying to distract me—”

“Is it working?”

“Shut up and—oh fuck—”

Her head snapped back against the pillow, thighs trembling around his shoulders as he doubled down. Her hands fisted the sheets now, jaw slack, her breath turning ragged and fast. Her control shattered in pieces—glorious, breathless pieces—as he pushed her right to the edge and held her there.

“Come for me,” he whispered against her, voice rough. “Come on, baby. Let me have it.”

She broke for him in a rush, pleasure crashing through her like a wave, blinding and hot and perfect. Her body arched off the bed, a strangled cry escaping her lips as she clenched around his fingers, pulsing through every slow stroke of his tongue until she was trembling beneath him.

Walker didn’t move until the last of it had passed, until she sagged into the mattress, boneless and breathing hard.

Only then did he kiss the inside of her thigh, a soft press of lips like a seal on a promise. He crawled up her body slowly, curling beside her, brushing her sweat-damp hair off her cheek.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, his cocky grin gone for now—just him. 

She blinked at him, chest still rising fast, lips parted like she wanted to say something.

Then she shoved him lightly with the back of her hand. “You’re an idiot.”

He grinned. “Yeah. But I’m the idiot who just made you forget your own name.”

“…Temporarily,” she said, biting back a smile.

He kissed her forehead. “I’ll take it.”

[callsign-fox]

❝ 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!)

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 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.

[callsign-fox]

THUNDERBOLTS* – 2025, dir. Jack Schreier

[callsign-fox]

"Ladies and gentlemen, meet The New Avengers!"

[callsign-fox]

Thunderbolts* (2025), dir. Jake Schreier

[callsign-fox]

Jesus Christ stop saying Bob! - US agent John Walker

[callsign-fox]

Never Have I Ever (Adult Edition)

Prompt: The Thunderbolts decide to play Never Have I Ever. Much to Bucky's dismay Y/N becomes a little to willing to share about their sex life.

Warnings: Mentions of sex, 18+, minors do not engage

------

The Thunderbolts were somehow not blowing something up, which was impressive. Following a rare successful mission with zero civilian casualties and only one minor fire (which Ghost put out with a fire extinguisher and a smirk), they’d earned some downtime at Avengers Tower.

That’s how they ended up sprawled across mismatched couches and beanbags in the lounge, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table, and a game of “Never Have I Ever: Adult Edition” already spiraling into chaos.

Bucky sat with his arm slung across the back of the couch, Y/N sitting with her back against the armrest, legs sprawled across the couch and onto Bucky’s lap. Both of them were holding half drunken beers in their hands. 

Walker leaned in with a wicked grin. “Alright, next one. Never have I ever had sex in a quinjet.”

There were some groans, a couple of eye-rolls, and then two people drank: Yelena, with absolutely zero shame, and—Y/N .

Everyone turned.

Bucky raised his eyebrows and looked down at her, amused. 

Y/N  shrugged with a smug little smile. “What?! Don’t you remember we were stuck on a stakeout for 36 hours, and it was raining. I got bored.”

“Oh, I remember,” Bucky said, smirking. 

Walker cackled. “You got bored? What about Barnes? Didn’t think he had the stamina for mid-mission extracurriculars.”

Y/N  turned to the group, clearly tipsy and way too comfortable. “Oh, Bucky’s got plenty of stamina. I mean, you don’t survive a century of war and Hydra brainwashing without learning how to go for, like, five rounds in one night.”

There was a stunned silence.

Ava choked on his drink. “Five?”

“Depends if we count the shower,” she added, thoughtful now, as if doing math. “And the floor. Oh! And that time on the balcony. Though that one was more of a quickie, technically.”

Bucky groaned and buried his face in his hand. “Y/N …”

But Y/N was on a roll.

“You guys don’t understand,” she said, leaning forward like she was sharing state secrets. “This man is a menace. Silent, broody, acts all mysterious, and then he—”

“Y/N !” Bucky hissed, bright red now. “I swear to God—”

“—broke the headboard. Twice.”

Ava wheezed. “This is the best day of my life.”

Red Guardian was nodding proudly. “Good man. Strong arms. Knew it.”

Yelena pointed at Bucky with a raised brow. “You didn’t even flinch when she started talking about this. How often do you two—”

“Never have I ever had sex on a rooftop?” Ava interrupted. 

Y/N smirked at Bucky and took a sip of her beer. She nudged him and he reluctantly took a drink as well. 

“Damn, you two need to slow down,” Bob muttered. 

Walker grinned wider. “Alright, my turn. Never have I ever hooked up with someone mid-mission. Like, you know, while still technically on duty.”

Yelena raised her glass slowly. “Well, technically I once had a quickie between two ops. Had to keep it quiet though—Walker nearly blew our cover trying to be discreet.”

Walker feigned offense. “I was being respectful!”

Ava laughed. “Respectful? You literally banged on the door like a gorilla.”

The room erupted into laughter, and even Bucky’s tension eased, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he glanced at Y/N .

“Never have I ever been tied up during sex,” Ava said with a mischievous smile, her eyes sparkling with a hint of challenge.

Y/N casually took a slow sip of their drink, trying to hide a small grin, while Bucky let out a low, amused sigh before following suit and taking a sip himself.

Bob leaned forward, curiosity lighting up his face. “Okay, seriously—what haven’t you done?” he teased, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

“I have to know…was Y/N or Bucky tied up?” Yelena asked. 

Y/N  smirked and leaned into Bucky. “Hey, what happens in Avengers Tower stays in Avengers Tower.”

“Unless Y/N decides to broadcast it like a podcast,” Bucky muttered.

“Guilty,” she said with a wink.

Another few rounds of “Never Have I Ever” confessions followed, each one more hilariously embarrassing than the last, much to Bucky’s increasing discomfort.

“Enough!” Bucky stood, gently lifting Y/N ’s legs off him like she was a landmine. “We are never playing this game again.”

Y/N  tilted her head back against the couch, grinning up at him. “You love me.”

“I love you less when you’re drunk and talking about my super-soldier stamina in front of everyone.”

“You love me most when I talk about your stamina.”

He froze, narrowed his eyes—and then bent down, grabbed her hand, and pulled her to her feet.

“Okay. That’s it. We’re leaving.”

A chorus of protests rose up.

“Nooo, come on!”

“She didn’t even get to the balcony story!”

“Bucky, come on, share one detail—”

“Do not encourage her!” Bucky snapped over his shoulder as he led Y/N  toward the elevator.

She gave the group a dramatic wave. “If the tower starts shaking later, mind your business!”

The elevator doors closed.

Ava turned to Yelenal. “Ten bucks says they’re doing it in there right now.”

Yelena sipped her whiskey. “Smart money’s on the elevator.”

[callsign-fox]

You're Not Subtle - John Walker/US Agent

Pairing: John Walker x Fem!Reader/Thunderbolt

Warnings: None!

Thought I'd change it up :P

The gala glittered like a diamond under the city’s night sky—soft jazz weaving through the air, champagne flutes catching the light, and a skyline full of stars that didn’t shine half as brightly as she did.

John Walker had eyes on her the second she stepped out of the elevator.

That dress—that dress—was a weapon in itself. Black silk, high slit, open back. It clung to her like it had been sewn onto her skin, daring anyone to look and risk forgetting how to breathe. And by the way heads turned, it might as well have come with a warning label: Approach with caution.

Walker stood near the edge of the ballroom, bourbon in hand, sharp suit tailored to military precision, doing little to disguise the fact that he was watching her and only her.

She didn’t speak to him through the comms. She didn’t need to. They both knew the mission, the target, the timing. Roman Almont—charming, arrogant, and filthy rich off tech no one was supposed to have. She was supposed to get close. Walker would stay close enough to watch, close enough to clean up if needed.

She moved with practiced grace through the crowd, her smile just coy enough to be inviting, her eyes playing a game only she knew the rules to. Almont didn’t stand a chance.

John watched her approach him, all honeyed laughter and casual contact. She leaned in as if whispering something risqué, brushing her hand down Almont’s arm and slipping her fingers into his jacket. With a single motion, she palmed his phone and held it behind her.

Smooth.

Effortless.

Walker didn’t say a word. He pushed off the marble column, took a long sip of his drink, and passed her by, grabbing the phone from her hand, exactly how they planned it. By the time he reached the bar, he’d already unlocked the phone and began downloading the tracer.

But he didn’t take his eyes off them.

From where he stood, he could hear Almont laying it on thick. “You’re dangerous, aren’t you?” the man said, voice low, syrupy. “I like that.”

Walker’s jaw tensed.

She shifted, trying to step away, but Almont followed. He caught her hand, brushing his lips across her knuckles. She gave a tight-lipped smile and turned slightly, but he stepped in again, cutting off her retreat.

That was all the invitation Walker needed.

The download finished and he tucked the phone into his sleeve before making his way toward them. Not fast. Not confrontational. Just smooth, relaxed—like someone who had all the time in the world and every intention of owning the room.

He arrived beside her like gravity had pulled him there.

“Evening,” Walker said, voice warm, effortless. His eyes never once drifted to Almont—they were locked on her. “Mind if I steal a moment?”

She turned to him, catching on instantly. “Depends who’s asking.”

He gave a slow grin, the kind that knew exactly how dangerous it was. His hand slid to the small of her back, fingertips grazing bare skin, and she instinctively leaned into his touch.

“John Walker,” Almont said, finally recognizing him. “Didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”

Walker gave a nod, casual. “It’s a good cause.” Then, with deliberate intent, he turned fully to her. “But I have to say…the company just got a hell of a lot more interesting.”

She tilted her head, amusement playing at her lips. “Do I know you?”

“No,” Walker said, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, “but I think we should change that.”

She laughed softly, and the sound wrapped around him like smoke. Almont shifted beside them, trying to regain footing.

“Excuse me,” he cut in, his voice tight. “We were in the middle of a conversation—”

“I’m sure you were.” Walker’s tone was light, unconcerned. He reached out and clapped Almont’s shoulder briefly before moving his arm downward and sliding the phone back into his pocket. His other hand stayed on her lower back, fingers spreading just slightly, grounding her, claiming her. “But it looks like she’s with me now.”

She didn’t argue. Didn’t even glance at Almont.

Instead, she leaned into Walker’s side fully, her body brushing his, the message clear.

Almont hesitated. His gaze flicked between them. Then he gave a tight nod, forced smile in place. “Enjoy your night.”

“Oh,” she said sweetly, eyes locked on Walker’s. “We will.”

When Almont disappeared into the crowd, she finally turned to face Walker fully, one brow arched. “You just had to insert yourself, didn’t you?”

He smirked. “You looked like you were about to start stabbing him with your hairpin. Thought I’d save you the trouble.”

“You didn’t even insult him.”

“I didn’t have to,” he said, stepping in close again. “You leaning into me like that said everything.”

Her heart skipped a beat—but her voice didn’t waver. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Guilty.” His voice dropped lower, his breath brushing her ear as he said, “Tracker’s on. And for the record? So am I.”

Her pulse thrummed in her throat.

“Stay close,” he murmured, not pulling away. “You know, just in case he circles back.”

She tilted her head slightly, her lips just shy of his cheek. “Are you flirting with me, Walker?”

His smile curved slow and deliberate. “That depends. Is it working?”

She let her lips hover near the edge of his jaw, so close he could feel the warmth of them. Her voice was all velvet. “You’re not subtle.”

“Wasn’t trying to be.”

She chuckled, low and quiet, her mouth brushing against his just enough to blur the line between accidental and intentional. A spark zipped through the air between them.

“You’re going to get us caught,” she whispered, lips still grazing his.

His hand slid a little lower on her back, fingertips now resting on the bare skin just above her hip. “Then I guess you’d better keep pretending you’re into me.”

She arched a brow, mischief dancing in her eyes. “Who says I’m pretending?”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The jazz played on, soft and sultry, the room humming with elegance and shadows—but between them, the air crackled like static before a storm.

Walker’s eyes searched hers, something unspoken flickering behind that confident smile. “Well,” he said quietly, “that’s gonna be a problem.”

She tilted her head again, amused. “Why’s that?”

“Because I was planning on using the rest of this mission to flirt shamelessly,” he murmured, thumb brushing a lazy circle against her skin. “And now I’m not sure where the act ends.”

She let a beat pass, the silence heavy and charged. Then she smiled—slow, knowing—and leaned in just enough to press her lips to the corner of his mouth, warm and fleeting.

“Then I guess we’re both in trouble,” she whispered.

Walker exhaled a breath that was half a laugh, half a curse, low in his throat. “Yeah,” he said, eyes still locked on hers. “The best kind.”

From across the room, Almont glanced back in their direction.

Walker didn’t look away.

Neither did she.

And when his hand slid into hers, guiding her effortlessly toward the dance floor, it was no longer just part of the mission.

Not really.

[callsign-fox]

STRANGER THINGS 5 Volume I, Nov. 26th Volume II, Dec. 25th The Finale, Dec. 31st