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❝ 𝐩𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: your friendship with john is put on the line after you’re injured during a mission — what follows is something neither of you can anticipate.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 13.0K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), friends to lovers, angst, jealous & angry john, descriptions of violence & injuries, wound tending trope, talks of insecurities, “she fell first but he fell harder”, confession of feelings, john is emotionally constipated, extreme levels of yearning, john’s praise kink, grinding, dry humping, dirty talk, making out, biting, hair pulling, fingering (fem!rec), handjob, mutual orgasm. aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this is a pretty big fic (sorry not sorry) and I worked really hard on it! I really hope that you guys enjoy, a lot of time & effort went into it! Thank you guys for your support! 🫶

John Walker doesn’t understand how to handle vulnerability.

He comes close, teetering along the edge in soft-spoken conversation through the early hours of morning, or in the aftermath of a particularly rough and arduous mission.

Validation was something he subconsciously craved, the desire to feel wanted, to feel as if he was greater than the sum of his parts. Losing his rank in the military and losing Captain America screamed inadequacy; he was learning to be better.

In that journey, somewhere, he found himself getting closer with you. It often manifested in the form of teasing and sarcastic jabs, banter to keep things light, but as months ticked by, he found himself opening up.

Vulnerability strikes fear into him, greater than that of a weapon being waved in his face, or thrown into any warzone.

There’s something effortless he’s found within you, something comfortable, and that scares him. It’s kept him distanced, watching from afar, attempting to keep you at-bay, knowing the consequences of what could happen if he let himself get attached.

Everyone who gets close to him always loses — Lemar lost his life, Olivia lost a partner, his son lost a father. John had come to the realization that he didn’t want to lose you, too.

On more than one occasion, you catch glimpses of a shattered man who’s still picking up the pieces, directionless; a man who’s trying to do good, but still can’t quite get it right.

It wasn’t easy, befriending him — his cocksure smirk and arrogance often warded away others, but you, in all of your optimism, had waded through without complaint.

He’s militant, rigorous, rough; though, you’ve managed to dig just beneath the surface, where a softer man resides. He’s known for sharing, for being zealously overprotective, and for his dry, sardonic humor.

It doesn’t come as a surprise to anyone on the team when your feelings are revealed.

The both of you are two halves to a whole, lamenting to a buried and burning flame, continuing to dance around one another.

Unbeknownst to either of you, the feelings are there, and it’s powerful — you want him, he wants you.

Admittedly, you felt that it was glaringly one-sided, you liking him; you assumed it’d be unrequited for the rest of your days. The more he began to keep you at a distance, the more accepting you became of the outcome.

On the quinjet, it’s hushed with preparation, the deep breath before the plunge. The mission is somewhere oceanic, aboard a hijacked S.H.I.E.L.D helicarrier swarming with mercenaries and thieves.

The darker realm of espionage, violence, and deception is somewhat newer to you. Before being inducted into the New Avengers, you were scouted by Valentina for your abilities, avoiding time in The Raft for something you didn’t do.

Now, it all feels strange — you’re traveling the world, you’re helping people, you’re a hero.

“You’ll drop in here,” Bucky’s brows are furrowed together, a visage of stoic calm, adopting more of a leadership role. He’d run thousands of missions, dismantled armies — none of this was unusual for him. “With Walker.”

Strapped into his webbed jump-seat, John bristles at the mention of his name, and yours. He gets heated before a mission, as if he’s working himself up, noticeably coiled like some predator waiting in the wings.

There’s a visible tension in his jaw, a weight in his shoulders, white-knuckling his still-bent shield as if it’s a vice. He isn’t nervous — just impatient, ready to get the job over with.

“Say we drop in, and it’s compromised,” With a low hum, you point to the scanned layout of the helicarrier, attempting to discern a backup plan. “What should we do?” It’s a fair question, and you’re worried about the specifics.

“Double back to here, and wait for Ava to clear the path to you,” Bucky affirms, peering at Walker, who’s partially tuned-in, partially brooding. “If all goes according to plan, you shouldn’t have to rely on the backup position.”

Bucky’s close to you; too close.

John catches it in heated glances, countenance riddled with the face of jealousy’s ire, blonde brows pinched together. Unfortunately, he doesn’t mask anything well, letting his sentiments reveal themselves, rear their ugly head.

Shoulder-to-shoulder, you’re leaning in; for you, it’s an involuntary thing. Bucky’s similar to an older brother figure, offering a sense of comfort when things seem to be too much.

Though, John doesn’t see it that way; all he sees is Barnes invading your space as if it belongs to him, and you’re none the wiser.

His abdomen twists into knots, as if he’s swallowing his rage, only to make room for misery.

John Walker doesn’t understand how to handle his own affections, either.

It was simple for him to pinpoint when exactly he realized he’d liked you, too. A few months back, he’d gotten sick with frustration, toiling over Olivia moving on, finding someone else. He couldn’t blame her after everything, but the fury hadn’t subsided.

Instead, he was left raw, with this amalgamation of emotions that had twisted into some catalyst, a maelstrom of everything he’d done wrong in life.

Through this tide of navigating newfound feelings, there were plenty of moments where he’d wanted to get closer.

John thought about it often; draping a blanket over your shoulder when you’d fallen asleep in the common room, hands brushing when you’d reached for the same object, bodies ghosting over another during training sessions, his lingering stares when he thought no one else was watching.

There you were, staying up with him into the early hours of morning, before dawn’s first scrap of light could pierce the black horizon. He thought about that night more times than he could count — he thought about how much you cared, how kind you were.

It was more than he deserved, admittedly. Without a shadow of a doubt, John knew that he didn’t deserve to have you in his life, let alone like you. Things were less complicated when he kept you distanced, even if it felt completely wrong.

He figured that you getting with Bucky was his punishment for fumbling your friendship and isolating you, avoiding you. Nothing hurt worse than seeing the look in your eyes whenever he dismissed you, or kept you at arm’s length.

Then again, he didn’t want to see your blood on his hands, or have to stomach the sight of your body if he messed up, or if he let you get too close.

If he wasn’t fast enough, strong enough, good enough to protect you — he didn’t want you to end up like Lemar.

Between Bucky droning on about the mission at-hand and Alexei attempting to give some inspirational speech, your eyes find John, brows furrowing together.

There’s an established familiarity, one strong enough for you to know that he’s upset about something, frustrated. He’s not as adept at concealing his emotions as he thinks he is; whatever he’s going through, it’s branded into his countenance.

As Bucky prepares for landing on the far side of the helicarrier, John’s forlorn 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 — somewhere else entirely.

For the past month or two, he’s pushed you away, shut you out as if he’s slammed a door in your face. It stings even still, an embittered thing, and you’re left to wonder why.

You were friends, closer to him than the rest of the team, much to everyone’s amazement. Something doesn’t feel right whenever you look at him, as if he’s dragging around a weight, unwilling to let anyone else shoulder the burden.

Your feelings for him seem to complicate everything.

Quiet, you decide to sit in the jumpseat beside him, buckling yourself in, pondering how to broach the tenuous silence that lingers between you. Before, he might’ve said something insolent or made a sarcastic remark; instead, you’re met with nothing.

“When we drop in, should w—” Before you can rationally discuss tactics, John interjects.

He cuts you off, as sharp as a blade. “When we drop, you stay on my flank and don’t engage unless I tell you to.” John gruffs, uncharacteristically quipped with you, and everyone else seems to notice, too.

Startled, you’re mildly taken aback, left confused as to why he’s treating you like this. You aren’t prone to outbursts or snapping back with the same cutthroat demeanor, resorting to a sullen silence.

Yelena grimaces, nose wrinkling in a thinly-veiled disdain. “Walker, relax. She is just trying to help.” She murmurs, still attempting to work around her twinge of uncertainty about him.

John’s haughty gaze floats toward Yelena, as if he’s winding up to say something callous. Instead, the words seem to turn to ash, retort buried somewhere in the depths of his throat.

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 this hundreds of times, terse as the hull begins to open.

“Ready?” Bucky calls over the comms, quinjet descending through darkness, making a quick flight for the small helipad toward the back of the vessel.

As the hull opens, you’re quick to clamor behind John, who’s often barreling first into danger without blinking an eye. The two of you jump first, and it’s a shorter fall to the helicarrier’s landing zone, tucking and rolling as you make it down.

Swallowed by darkness, the only light happens to be the glow from various posts scattered around the area, making it difficult for you to follow his silhouette. For a man of his size, he moves quickly, enhanced by the super-soldier serum.

To your relief, your drop point isn’t compromised, not swarming with mercenaries as you thought it’d be. John takes two of them out with ease, leaving you to rush to catch up, scrambling after him as best as you can.

“Slow down, John.” You urge, watching as his shoulder rolls, head twitching as he draws his pistol. It was a waiting game, now; letting the others secure their portions of the ship and make their way forward.

“Watch my flank,” Flat, John knows that no one is likely to ambush from behind, given your location. It gives you something to do, something to distract so he can keep you pinned behind him. “That’s all you need to do.”

“I can’t do that if you’re rushing into this,” With an urgent protest, you keep watch nonetheless, eyes peeled through the darkness for any unforeseen threats. “If something happens, I don’t know if I can react in-time …”

With your powers, you’re still adjusting — it’s a constant work in-progress, testing the limits, trying to see how much you can handle. Telekinesis is nothing menial, however, you’re struggling to fully grasp the boundaries of your abilities.

“Stay behind me.” John barks, cadence akin to an angry drill sergeant instead of your teammate, your friend.

Emotions run high in the wake of his sharp tone, and you’re inclined to react, hopelessly lost as to why he’s upset with you.

“What’s wrong?” Bad time to ask, but you can’t help it anymore. “John, we’re friends. I know that something is making you frustrated.” Your poignant line of questioning invokes his scorn as he turns around, pushing you into the wall of a shipping container.

He isn’t rough, but it’s done with urgency as you narrowly avoid the prying barrel of a rifle, armed with a flashlight attachment. With bated breath, he waits for it to pass, firmly keeping an arm on your waist, caging you against cool metal.

Looking as if he’s on the verge of succumbing to rage, his nostrils flare, jaw locked as he directs his wave of anguish onto you. It’s everything, all at once — his jealousy, his anger, his feelings for you and unwillingness to act.

“We’re not doing this.” He grits, and it’s a command, not a suggestion. His voice is low, pitched with something indiscernible, and you can taste the anguish that wafts from him in hot waves.

Conceding, you appear as if you’ve been struck, wilting beneath his sharp tongue, succumbing to the blade he sinks into you. “I’m sorry — I won’t ask anymore.” Firm, your words ring in his ears; he’s guilty.

Silent, you gently step away from his grasp as if he’s burned you alive, skin stinging where he kept his hand on your waist. Deciding to focus on the mission at-hand, you leave your affections there, for now.

John’s gaze shifts toward the ground, brows pinching together, countenance warping into a mask of frustration. He’s angry with himself, above all; he hates that he’s doing this to you.

Armed mercenaries patrol the open spaces of the main deck, guarding crates of illegal weapons smuggled from various battles. There’s supposed Chitauri equipment inside, Asgardian, remnants of S.H.I.E.L.D and H.Y.D.R.A, too.

It’s easier to follow his lead, his experience far outweighing yours as he moves to find some level of cover. “We’ll make for that wall,” John murmurs, motioning toward a divot of sleek steel, several feet to your left. “Go on my mark.”

The vessel groans, shockwaves pulsing beneath your feet as an explosion fires off in the distance, a large chunk of the command center blown apart. You’re quick on the comms, pressing a button that’s built into your suit.

“Was that us or them?” You question, watching as an eruption of fire consumes the deck. John winces, moderately impressed as the both of you hang back, waiting for the right opportunity to push ahead.

“I had to improvise — you can all thank me later.” Ava’s voice reverberates over the comms, and you can envision her smirk through it all. As the mercenaries scramble to move shipments away from the blast, John’s ready to move.

As he hops over the short, concrete barrier, a sudden click hisses behind you. Every nerve in your body seems to freeze, recognizing the noise as the safety of a gun being unlatched.

“Don’t move.”

Three mercenaries stand behind you, rifles drawn, blasting columns of light into your eyes. You’re like a deer in the headlights, brain wracking, scrambling to try and figure something out.

John acts quickly, throwing his bent hunk of metal at one of them, gun clattering from his hands as he draws his pistol. He huffs like a bull when he fights, body pumping with adrenaline, jaw locked as if it might shatter.

He’s primal when he’s dismantling his opposition; smooth, experienced, and hotheaded. When it comes to morally bankrupt mercenaries, he doesn’t pull a single punch, moving like some barricade of brawny muscle.

You’re trying to disarm the second with your powers, though it’s faltering, exceedingly difficult to concentrate. Between the poor lighting, John’s agility, and your scrambled psyche, you come up empty-handed.

In the midst of the scuffle, you notice a rifle being aimed at John. It’s as if your powers know when to bleed through, as you shove him away with a pulse of your mind. He stumbles, flails, and loses his balance.

Though, it’s momentary, just enough to be a distraction so John didn’t get hurt. It’s difficult to distinguish what’s happening through the dark, save for the lights strapped to the end of rifle barrels.

The mercenary that you’d tossed to the ground is getting back up, angry.

Instead of attempting to use your abilities again, you resort to throwing a wrench at him. Before you can follow through on your movement, a gunshot rings out — and it’s not John who gets hurt.

Something sharp and piercing penetrates through your suit, slicing through thin kevlar, going right into your abdomen, somewhere on the right side of your ribcage. Agony blossoms over you, like tendrils of a scorching heat blistering over your skin.

The bullet whistles clean through, exiting with more bite and tear than how it entered. You’ve never been shot before — maimed and bruised, perhaps, but nothing grievous like this.

The wind ripped from your lungs, as if someone had stolen every scrap of air from you. It was all shock, burning and burning still, before you collapsed in a heap, hand immediately clutching at your ribs.

John’s still roughing up the remainder of the mercenaries without a shred of mercy, and once they are grounded, no longer a threat, he sees you.

It feels like he’s in Latvia again — feels like yesterday, the suffering too raw and too visceral, as if he’s reliving the memory. Time slows to a crawl, his heart nearly bursting from his chest.

Crimson begins to flourish through the fabric of your bodice, wet and hot, but you’re beginning to feel dizzy. Everything is spinning, and fear begins to settle, you’re scared. You don’t know if you were hit somewhere critical.

“John?” You croak, feeling something firm catch you before your head can knock against the concrete.

He’s not there, he’s trapped in a nightmare; reality settles in with its bitter sting and cruelty when he feels your blood on his fingertips.

“Hey, hey, stay with me,” John’s clinging onto you, shield slung on his back, cradling you in his arms, trying to get you to stay alert. “Shit, come on — She’s hit! Bucky, I’ve — She’s down!” He sounds as if he’s speaking in half-sentences, babbling and broken.

A haze forms at the fringes of your vision, blurry, and that’s when the pain begins to surge, like a hot iron being dug into your flesh. A cry of torment rips through your diaphragm, every breath feeling labored, as if you’re heaving.

He’s carried men from the trenches of war torn countries, he’s saved hostages, he’s dragged barely-conscious bodies through the desert.

Nothing could’ve prepared John for this, for you laying bleeding in his arms, latching onto him, startled and in unimaginable pain. Any sliver of calm has left him, replaced with anguish, with panic, with an amalgamation of emotions.

“You’re gonna be fine,” John chokes, attempting to calm you and himself, but nothing is working. “Gonna be okay, just — Hey, just focus on me.” He’s lifting you into his arms, knowing that it might make things worse, but he’s got to get you somewhere safe.

The trauma he carries with him still seems to split open like a dam, bringing with it an overwhelming sense of anguish, of suffering. John is suffocating beneath the weight of it all, and in that darkness, he’s scared of losing you.

He should’ve told you how he felt, he shouldn’t have pushed you away, should’ve been a better man — should’ve been stronger, faster.

John feels like he’s drowning, swept away within a riptide, an unforgiving current that’s threatening to wash him away. He wonders if that’s what he deserves — erased, to slip away and let the world forget.

When he feels you gripping his arm like a vice, those feelings begin to disappear. “J—John,” You stammer, voice hoarse, thick with turmoil as you cringe at the pain. “Don’t go anywhere, please.” Able to get out a string of words, your consciousness begins to waver.

“I’m right here,” John’s stoic cadence warbles, wrought with the thickness of emotion as he tries to stay calm for you. He’s trying to pull you to safety, get you onto the quinjet, holding you firm to his chest. “Stay awake, stay with me.”

“Walker, what’s your location?” Bucky doesn’t sound nearly as panicked as John, but there’s a terse edge to his voice, something coiled.

Another explosion shakes the deck, and he nearly barrels over, keeping his footing firm to avoid losing his grip on you. You’re threading along the fringes of consciousness, gaze half-lidded, visage drawn up into one of discomfort.

“Drop point,” John shouts over the comms, petrified, something fearful in his voice, which happens to crack at the end. “She’s hit bad, you need to get here now!”

Struggling to keep yourself afloat, your grasp is weakening, anchored to the front of his body armor like a tether to reality. “M’okay,” You slur, your voice little more than a murmur. “Still here.” It’s mostly to placate John, who’s looking completely lost.

Panicked, cerulean hues stare at you through the dark, holding steadfastly to you as the quinjet descends a few feet away. John moves, trying to avoid jostling you around as the hull begins to open.

“I got you, I got you.” John’s chanting it to himself like some mantra, noticing the glazed look in your eyes. Tendrils of burning agony continue to plume through your abdomen, blood warm, oozing from your wound.

In the back of the quinjet, there’s several crates of items stolen from the helicarrier, one of which Valentina had specifically asked for. The rest of the team is there, and Yelena moves to the edge, helping the both of you in.

Everyone becomes blurry, hovering around you, but you can’t see faces. You hear John more than the rest — he’s angry. “Put pressure on the wound,” He barks, feeling his hand shakily smooth over your crown. “Bucky, you need to hurry!”

Bucky’s reply is indiscernible, but you can only assume that he’s attempting to console John from the pilot’s cockpit. John says something back, sharp, like a dog that’s biting at a handler.

Voices begin to drown away, as if it’s all become mere background noise, a dismal hum. Consciousness wanes, bleeding away at the edges, and your grip on John’s chest falls slack.

All at once, everything fades to black.

Dizzying, blanched light pools around your peripheral when you finally rouse from unconsciousness, and the agony that’s festering in your ribs has become a dull, incessant ache.

A sharp inhale pierces your lungs as you attempt to gather your bearings, and you feel something soft, cushioned beneath you. The Watchtower’s medbay is stark and glittering, a newer addition that’s seen some use.

Beneath your brow, your head throbs something awful, and as the grogginess begins to wear off, your surroundings become crystalline. Everything seems too sterile, too sanitized.

Tangled in pale hospital sheets, you glance to your left — nothing, empty; save for the other medical beds and metallic fixtures.

It’s what’s on your right side that startles you.

John is slumped in a chair, half-dressed in his suit, navy-blue compression shirt clinging to his musculature. He’s dozing off, head tilted back along the seat’s rim, chest rising and falling with shallow, steady breaths.

Blonde tresses are disheveled, glistening with a layer of dampness; he must’ve taken a shower. There’s a yellowing bruise behind his left ear, countenance grizzled with his beard, noticeably rugged.

Something wet clings to your ribs, prompting you to pull up the hem of your shirt to find a cluster of gauze and bandages wrapped over your wound. Dried crimson stains the linen, but in much smaller amounts than before.

Inevitably, your gaze shifts back to John, whose visage seems less anguished when he’s resting. His brows are still furrowed, but there’s a prominent lack of frustration present.

He was painfully handsome; you always found him attractive, but it’s enhanced when he’s simply existing. Part of you wonders how long he’s been sitting here for — how long you’ve been bedridden.

In his lap, he’s got one of your sweatshirts, which is a peculiar sight, one that makes you curl with warmth. Gooseflesh courses over your spine, a shiver following after as you shift against the mattress.

Swinging your legs out from underneath your sheets, you attempt to stand, wobbling slightly as you find your footing. The tile is blisteringly cold beneath your heels, and you feel jabs of a throbbing ache spread through your side.

The bed creaks, a faint metallic grinding that reverberates throughout the room. Before you can quietly creep from the mattress, John is stirring in the chair beside you.

“What are you doing?” It’s the first question he asks, tone clipped, as if you’re doing something wrong. Running a hand over his face, he lets out a soft grunt, readjusting to his surroundings.

“Getting something to drink,” Through a hoarse croak, you swallow, attempting to quench the dryness that burns in your throat. “I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“I’ll get it,” John murmurs, aloof as he stands from the chair with a low groan. Muscles are sore, bone-deep from the mission, but he knows that he’ll endure. “You sit back down.” His command is noticeably gentle.

“Thank you,” With a smile, you shuffle back into bed, nonplussed by the ripples of slight pain. Admittedly, you weren’t expecting the wound to feel so light; it’s only aching. “How long have I been out?”

Striding toward the sink, John fills up a glass of water, sleeves of his shirt rolled toward his elbows. Corded muscle wraps taut around his forearms, dusted with blonde hair and a myriad of scrapes and bruises.

“Twelve hours, give or take,” His bedside manners are surprisingly intact, more than you thought possible. He’s avoided you so much lately that having him back feels nice. “Might need to change your dressing.”

Quiet, your hand falls to your ribs, fingertips lightly flicking over the gauze, over tufts of white. “Have you been here the whole time?” Your tone was gentle, tender; everything seemed to crawl to a low hum.

Through terse shoulders and a brief sigh, John answered you. “Bucky came by a little while ago,” He murmured, returning to you with a glass of freezing water. “Yelena, too.”

He didn’t answer your question fully, which didn’t go unnoticed. With a nod, you took several greedy swigs of water, your throat soothed by cool liquid, adjusting your position.

“I didn’t ask about Bucky or Yelena,” Clicking your tongue, your gaze shifts to John, almost pleading with him for some semblance of truth. “Thank you for staying with me.” Maintaining a cordial smile, you placed the glass aside.

John nodded, a subtle gesture that held more meaning than he let on. A silence settled between, more uncomfortable than tranquil, prompting him to rifle around for medical supplies.

Basic first aid was ingrained into him, but there was some wariness he felt with patching you up. It was all closeness, a growing intimacy that made his bones blister.

He liked you so much, wanted you so terribly that it began to gnaw away at him — and he felt entirely undeserving.

Bruises dust his knuckles, hands visibly rattling with a subtle tremor. He’s steady when he fights — assured, confident, lethal.

With you, in the gentle silence and unspoken feelings, he starts to feel the pressure mounting, the nerves.

“Should be healed in a few weeks,” John murmurs, stepping towards the edge of the mattress, subtly gesturing for you to move closer. “You got hit at close-range.” He says it as if it’s a painful memory.

Memories float at the fringes of your mind, and what you remember most is John; he never once left your side, toiling over you, and the panic. The mortifying fear in his eyes was something you remembered the most.

“It doesn’t feel that bad.” With a shrug, you move toward the edge, swinging your legs over the side. Awkwardness sweeps in as you lift your shirt, shy beneath his stare, which is unusually warm.

John swallows, jaw ticking, knuckles white as he clutches the roll of gauze. When you lift your shirt, there’s a blotch of dark crimson, nothing too severe, but he’s left feeling guilty.

He told you to cover his flank, and you were ambushed — he should’ve known better. Cerulean hues settle over your wound, brows furrowing before he reaches down to unravel the soiled bandages.

Calloused fingertips brush over bare flesh, and the both of you shiver as if you’ve been electrified. Gooseflesh follows in a wave, snaking over your flesh, causing you to clear your throat to relieve a sliver of tension.

He’s standing between your legs, broad musculature creating something of a gap, staring down at you with an indiscernible gleam. The closeness is sudden, exhilarating; you can feel the heat wafting from his body.

“You’ve been really distant lately,” It’s quiet, your observation; your cadence lacks any real malice, only perturbation. “I miss our friendship.” Sullen, your confession makes him inhale, a sharp and poignant sound that splits his lungs.

John distracts himself by prying your old linens aside, tossing them onto a metal tray that sits beside your bed. “Yeah,” He knows it’s his fault. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.” A partial truth, but it’s better than fibbing to you outright.

He’s jealous, he’s angry, he’s riddled with guilt.

It’s an amalgamation of everything negative, of everything sour and rotten that sits inside of him, burning a hole right through. John knows that he isn’t a stellar example of a man, but he’s trying to do good. He wants to do right by you.

“How long will it take for you to realize that I’m here for you? That I can handle the truth, no matter how ugly it is?” Even then, you never raise your voice, sitting soundly as John inspects your stitches, countenance pinched together.

“I don’t want to get in the way.” He grits, and he fights the urge to sound disgustingly bitter. Jealousy is an emotion he doesn’t handle well, something volatile; anger, too.

Bewildered, you wince when he dabs antiseptics against your agitated flesh, and he’s swift to apologize. A soft groan of discomfort slips past your mouth, teeth clenching.

“Sorry,” John soothes, blonde brows creased together, his visage one of immediate apology as his hand recoils. “I’m sorry.” He huffs, flesh crawling when he realizes he accidentally hurt you.

Bruised knuckles graze over your abdomen, as if he’s offering another apology through touch alone. The sensation makes you quiver, digits tensing into the pale sheets beneath you.

“It’s alright,” With a smile, your gaze flutters toward his hands again, mapping every bruise, scrape, scar — you notice the slight tremor again. “You’re good at this.” You remark, attempting to placate him.

With a sardonic chuckle, John makes a face, as if he’s in a state of mild disbelief. “Not really.” He counters, gruff, gently cleaning your wound, eyes traveling over your features. You’re so beautiful, and it makes him nervous.

“Take a compliment, John.” There’s a softer lilt to your tone, one that eases the coiled frustration that carries in his shoulders. The smile you give him is saccharine, the sweetest thing he’s ever seen.

Writhing around, your movement makes it increasingly difficult for him to steady the gauze over your wound. “Stop moving.” He quips, as if he’s reverting back to being in some perpetual state of frustration.

Nodding, you mumble an apology, allowing him to thread the linen around your torso. He ensured that he was exceedingly gentle when it came to the flesh around your wound.

There’s a beat of silence, one that stretches on for too long, causing you to break it with a question. “Why do you think you’re getting in the way?” Your inquiry takes him by surprise.

“What?” John plays dumb, knowing that he shouldn’t have said anything. You’re often too curious, but you care — you care so deeply for him, and it’s written on your face.

“You said that you didn’t want to get in the way,” Trying again, your brows crease together, chin jutting forward as you maintain a steady stare. “I’m not sure what you’re getting in the way of.”

Cornering him, John doesn’t know what to say — maybe he needed to say it, to get it out in the open. If you acknowledged your relationship with Bucky, maybe it would be what he needed to try and move on from his feelings for you.

His jaw is tight, unnaturally so; the muscle might snap into two from how hard he’s clenching. With a stinging inhale, he decides to broach the subject with a blunt tone, but the bitterness sits heavy.

“You and Barnes.” John grits, hearing the startled gasp that escapes your mouth. Judging from your expression, this came as a surprise to you.

He’s jealous — the realization hits you all at once, and everything begins to slowly click into place. The indifference, the avoidance, the sudden bite of frustration — he thinks you’re with Bucky. It couldn’t have been further from the truth.

“John,” Bewildered, you attempt to refute his claim, but he’s interjecting, as if his mouth is flying before his brain has time to catch up. “That’s not …”

“Wish you would’ve told me.” He grouses, even though it isn’t remotely close to the truth. The distance between bodies is nearly nonexistent, and you’re face-to-face with his sternum, feeling his fingers ghost beside your thigh.

“I don’t like Bucky,” You mumble, which visibly catches him off-guard. “I’ve never viewed him as anything more than a brother, and he feels the same way.” Once that’s out in the open, John feels incredibly stupid.

Dumbfounded, his countenance contorts from a thinly-veiled frustration to something forlorn, and then he realizes how blind he’s been. He’s been punishing you for something you had no part in, keeping away because he thought it best.

Through a tight throat and dry mouth, you know then and there that you want to tell him — tell him everything. Your feelings are overwhelming in the heat of the moment, coercing you into a confession.

“I don’t like Bucky because I like you,” In one tremulous exhale, you say it, let it slip into the gap of silence and sit with it. “I wish you’d stop pushing me away.” Through a whisper, you try to slow your breathing, but it’s quick.

John freezes, blonde lashes fluttering as he attempts to register what you said. There’s a sense of disbelief that accompanies the shock, but it dissipates when he looks at you.

It’s love he sees, a tender affection that doesn’t scorn his past or see the facade — you see him, and that’s what matters most. “I don’t think I’m good enough for you.” He says it through a throttled neck, cadence thick with anguish.

“That’s not true,” Insistent, you reach for his arm, digits cold over his flesh, like kisses of ice. “John, when I look at you, I don’t see your mistakes. I just see you, and I like the man that I see.”

The blood on his hands feels heavy, like some anchor dragging him down. After being stripped of the role of Captain America, of everything, spiraling, losing his family, he briefly considered it — a way out.

He was glad that he never went through with it; he found you somewhere along the way, and that was more important to him than anything else. There’s still part of him that hates himself — but he’s healing, he’s making room for you.

John shakes his head, nostrils flaring. “This is my fault,” He gruffs, brows pinched together. “Shouldn’t have told you to watch my flank. You wouldn’t be here right now, you’d be —”

“Stop it,” Before he can spiral into an infinite cycle of self-blame, you interject, ensuring that he doesn’t rake himself over the coals for this. “You can’t predict the outcome. You didn’t know we’d get ambushed.”

“But I should’ve known,” John snarls, malice not directed at you; it’s inward, and he’s crawling with fury toward himself. “I’m better than that. If I’m not, if I lose you …” He huffs, shoulders tight with tension.

“You didn’t. I’m right here, I’m fine — John, look at me,” Through a tender utterance, you coax him into meeting your gaze, breath hitching. He’s staring at you with the look of love. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Hushed, his head jostles in a nod of acknowledgment, opting to take your words to heart, even if the guilt still lingers. One hand holds your hip, thumb tracing circles over your exposed flesh, keeping you close to him.

“You’re too good,” John utters, knuckles dragging along the underside of your jaw, the gesture making your breath hitch within your throat. “I don’t understand how you do it.” A brief huff sticks in the back of his throat.

“I’m not perfect, John — nobody is,” All of you wants all of him; imperfections, flaws, heart — everything matters to you. “What I do know is that I’m tired of going on like this, tired of not being with you.”

Crimson snakes over his features, an incessant heat that consumes him like wildfire. He’s tired of it too, pretending like he doesn’t want you. He cups your jaw, palm rough like leather, thumb smoothing over your cheek.

“I think you’re perfect,” He whispers, reverent as he gazes longingly at you, heart aching so bad that it produces a dull throbbing within his chest. “You’ve got me.” John confirms with a sense of finality, foreheads ghosting over one another.

John doesn’t fully trust falling in love after his divorce — but he does it anyway, he keeps falling for you, and falling again.

Beneath your chest, your heart is nearly ripping right from your sternum, threatening to combust as you wait for him to say something. Maybe you’re waiting for the real rejection, or something else — you aren’t sure.

Cerulean hues study the delicate curve of your jaw, sweeping over your mouth; it’s familiar, he’s done it a hundred times whenever you weren’t looking. This time, it carries a certain heaviness, a torrent of feelings finally revealing themselves.

“Can I kiss you?” John rasps, as if he’s a man dying in a desert, desperate for the quench of water. His hands shift to cradle your hips, thumbs circling over your waist.

“Please.” Nearly breathless, you’re nodding, feeling him dip to your level, scratch of his beard prickling against your mouth. It’s a slow kiss, oozing with unbridled affection, the one he’s staved off for so long.

He’s typically rough; a rough mouth, rougher disposition, rough around the edges.

It comes as a surprise when he kisses you as if you’re delicate, something he’s terrified to break. He moves sluggishly, a crawl that only seems to build, the tension rising to steady simmer.

The kiss stretches on without pause, and you’re melting into him. Within the threading limbs and desperate mouths, your heartbeat crescendos, nervous system alert, nerves set ablaze.

It is in your kiss that he finds a semblance of peace, hunger continuing to grow until it becomes some ravenous bite. Mouths ceaselessly collide, wet and fervent, prompting you to reach for his bicep in order to anchor yourself.

Digits thread themselves into his compression shirt, tensing over spandex, involuntarily tugging him closer, distance between bodies now nonexistent. John is caged in around you, withdrawing enough to feel your exhale plume over his lips.

Wordlessly, he’s searching for you to continue, and you do, mouth returning to his own, intimately comfortable. It’s something he’s dreamt about a thousand times — and now, it’s a fantasy made reality.

The kiss deepens, warping into something passionate, embers kindled to a low flame, igniting a wildfire within your belly.

You’re craving his touch, feeling rough palms stroke soothing circles over your hips, grazing bare skin.

He feels safe, a sanctuary that you’re content to dwell within. As if to test the waters, your hand begins to trail from his chest to his shoulder, fingertips dancing upward.

Your palm splays over the nape of his neck, toying with blonde tresses. A low grunt splits through his chest, the kiss beginning to climb with intensity, mouths clamoring, desperate.

Footsteps reverberate somewhere from beyond the medbay, swiftly approaching, which prompts John to untether himself from you. He’s disappointed, stepping away from you with an agitated sound as Bucky lingers in the doorway.

Scarlet clings to John’s neck, a low huff escaping him as Bucky clears his throat. “You’re awake,” He remarks, noticing Walker’s unusual demeanor and your startled expression. “Feeling alright?”

The way you look at Bucky is humorously pointed, as if you’re mildly annoyed by his untimely interruption, and John sees it. You really do look at Bucky as if he’s some pesky older sibling; it’s not the way you look at him.

“I’m just fine,” You assure, hands folded within your lap as you attempt to squash the butterflies floating around in your stomach. The smile you’re wearing is infectious, happy. “John’s been looking after me.”

Bucky doesn’t conceal his smirk, pretending to act innocent, as if he has no clue about anything. You’ve confided in him more than once about your feelings for John — and John’s reluctantly done the same thing.

“Right, I’m sure he has,” Through a flash of pearlescent teeth and a streak of teasing humor, Bucky takes the terse silence as his queue to leave. “There’s pizza, if either of you are hungry.” He offers, leaning off of the doorframe.

John feels as if he’s burning, the back of his neck singed with heat as he peers at Bucky, and there’s a knowing look that passes between. “Thanks, Barnes.” He murmurs, mouth twitching into a brief smile before Bucky wanders off.

When he’s out of your periphery, John sits down next to you, leg-to-leg, hand gently resting over your thigh, thumb tracing circles over soft skin.

There’s a tranquil hush that passes between, the two of you sharing a longing glance. Leaning in, you find your purchase again the bulk of his bicep, firm beneath your cheek.

“I like you, too.” John murmurs, low and rumbling beside your ear, ensnaring your attention without any effort. Admittedly, he knew what he felt for you was stronger, overpowering — he was falling hard, and falling fast.

The bravado and swagger seem nonexistent when he’s alone with you, as if he’s stripped down to the rawest parts of himself, the parts he’s only willing to let you see.

Whatever facade he puts on, whatever barriers he constructed, they drop.

Tucking strands of hair behind your ear, he’s effortlessly charming, oozing with a veiled affection as he leans in to claim your mouth. The kiss is briefer than the one before, and he feels your hand press over his knee.

John can taste the sweetness of your lips, the way that you absentmindedly lean closer, ignoring the wretched ache that pulses through your ribs.

He caresses the small of your back, digits teasing bare flesh, thumbing over your bandages. A shudder passes through you, caught within the labyrinth of his mouth, a maze that you have no desire to escape from.

As if to shatter the moment, your stomach snarls with hunger, and you realize that it’s almost been a full day since you’ve last eaten anything. You reluctantly withdraw, visibly embarrassed as you clear your throat.

“Ruined the moment,” You murmur, but John doesn’t seem bothered, a smirk curling at his mouth, blonde brows lifting in amusement. “Did you mean what you said earlier, about liking me?”

“Yeah,” There’s a sincerity in his tone that you don’t often hear, but he’s genuine; he means what he says. Low, his cadence drops to a lull, timbre wrought with warmth. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me.” He murmurs, brows furrowing.

A hitch forms within your throat, an exhilarated sound that he catches between his teeth, visage swirling with a torrent of emotions.

John is a storm — tempestuous, veiled with scars and insecurities, a maelstrom of a man that you’ve learned to navigate. He calms with you, finds a sense of peace in the quiet, and he lets you read his heart.

“What do I do to you?” Barely above a whisper, you’re vexed to know what he means, what feelings have lingered, long repressed. It’s an innocuous question, festering with underlying implications, and he knows this.

A soft huff escapes him, and he smooths a kiss over your brow, easing you off of the mattress. “Think you need to eat first.” John chides, and you don’t pursue his earlier remark, letting him help you onto solid ground.

Flustered, you’re moving together, and he grabs your sweatshirt from the chair, helping you to pull it on over your head to help with the chill.

There aren’t any surprised faces when you and John come to dinner together — and frankly, it was long overdue.

Everyone notices — he sits closer, he’s hovering around you, serving you food as if you’re incapable, smothering a smile when you aren’t looking.

Though, John tries his best to keep it subdued, even if it’s far from the truth.

“She lives! Was so worried about you!” Alexei bellows, caging your upper half in a bear-like hug, his knuckles scratching over your crown. “Ah, but she’s strong, eh? Not even bullet can stop you.” He grinned, prompting you to laugh.

John has the expression of a worried father, jaw terse, twitching when Alexei manhandles you. “Easy,” He warns, afraid of you getting hurt, or something else. “She’s still recovering.”

Ava rolls her eyes, amused by John’s behavior — he’s so in love that it’s sickening to behold. “I’m sure she’ll be fine, Walker.” She mused, feet kicked up onto the arm of the couch, a slice of pizza lodged into one hand.

“Thank you, Alexei.” You smile, patting the Russian’s thick forearm before he releases you. You’re quick to eat, staving off starvation, sating the incessant growl that lurches within your stomach.

When dinner is over and the team disperses, John is nearly attached to your hip; he’d deny it, but it’s glaringly obvious. He’s by your side when he walks you to your room, your gait sluggish as you make it to the door.

“Feeling alright?” John probes, ushering you inside before the thick pane hisses shut behind you. You’re met with a welcoming hush, rubbing the sleeves of your sweatshirt together.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Placating, you clear your throat, shuffling towards your bed. “Do you … Do you want to stay the night here?” The question itself is shy, shrewd. You don’t want to overstep any boundaries, but you don’t want him to leave, either.

John exhales; it’s subtle, hitched with a twinge of exhilaration. He nods, pretending that it’s under the guise of watching over you, but in all actuality, he wants to be close. “Someone’s gotta watch you.” He murmurs, prompting you to smile.

“I think we can be honest with one another,” Your remark carries as you wander toward the bathroom, planning on brushing your teeth until your gums ooze with mint. “It goes beyond that.”

He’s like a watchdog, a protector, trailing after you even when you’re only a few feet away. Lingering in the doorframe, arms loosely folded over his chest, he’s ogling you. “You caught me.” John’s cadence softens, jaw tight.

Admittedly, he hasn’t felt this since Olivia — and even then, they were high school sweethearts. John hadn’t had another partner other than her, he never loved someone like he loved you.

There’s a sliver of awkwardness that accompanies him, as if he’s wading into uncharted territory; thrilling, but it makes him nervous. He doesn’t want to screw anything up with you like he almost did before.

“I like you a lot,” He utters, low and confessing. Toothbrush in-hand, you swivel just enough to face him, doe-eyed, ardent. “I don’t want to screw this up.” John admits, as if it’s painful for him to do so.

Talking about his feelings, being vulnerable — it’s all relatively new for him. Though, he knows that he trusts you wholeheartedly, and he knows that this is how he heals, how he improves.

He wants to be the best that he can be for you.

Smitten, you gaze at him as if he’s everything; he was your friend first, but now, he’s something more. It all feels right, like a puzzle piece slotting into place, and you can’t imagine it differently.

“You won’t, John. We’re in this together.” Reassuring, you flash a tender smile, leaning against the bathroom counter as a brace, lashes fluttering. You have faith in him, believing in him when he scarcely believes in himself.

John’s mouth twitches into a threadbare smile, still observing you as you begin to brush your teeth, using an obscene amount of arctic-mint toothpaste. His nose wrinkles at the sight. “Jesus, bad breath?” He teases.

Through furrowed brows, you’re scrubbing at your teeth as if they’re covered in grime, hastily dragging the bristles over the flat of your tongue. You repeat this pattern longer than what’s considered appropriate before gargling water.

“No, just … If we kiss again, I wanted to make sure that it wasn’t off-putting.” Your admission is one of embarrassment, but he doesn’t seem perturbed in the slightest. It’s the opposite — he’s magnetized by you, instead.

“If?” His head cocks to the left, as if the mere idea of not kissing you is preposterous. Blonde tresses sweep near his temples, disheveled, amusement scrawled onto his features. He swaggers closer, one hand dropping to your hip.

A shaky breath coagulates within the back of your throat, lips parted. “If.” You confirm, but it’s shattered, and he stoops down enough to capture your mouth in a passionate kiss.

A soft whine escapes your mouth, swallowed by your entanglement, lost within his lips. John kisses you gently, pouring his need into it, all of the pent-up affection he’s wanted to give to you.

A calloused hand steadies over your hip, thumb gingerly circling over your hip bone, the other ghosting across the small of your back.

Wedged against his musculature, your hands shift to the nape of his neck, fingertips toying with the blonde tresses there. He’s so warm, extinguishing the prevalent chill that grips your body.

His beard scratches against your mouth, a pleasant prickling that reminds you he’s real, flesh and blood, a beating heart. John exhales; a steady, exaggerated sound, attempting to cling to the fine line of restraint.

A charged passion echoes through the kiss, becoming increasingly heated, the longer you stand and reciprocate. Lips meld together, seamless, as if you’re made for one another.

Everything feels perfect — John’s been wanting this for months, and now that he has it, it’s almost overwhelming.

Snaking beneath the hem of your sweatshirt, his palm finds your bare flesh, caressing circles over the base of your spine. Another sound scrapes from your throat, digits interlocking over the back of his neck.

Each kiss oozes with a fiery want, and the more you entangle yourself into him, the more he wants you.

John is trying to keep things tame, given that your newfound relationship was in its infancy, but he couldn’t help himself.

Reluctant to withdraw, he stops, checking you to see if you’re still comfortable. “Still with me?” He murmurs, body flush against you, firm expanse of his chest brushing over yours.

With a nod, you’re unable to smother your smile, peering up at him through your lashes. Hands wander toward his broad shoulders, and then to his biceps, digits tensing over the muscle there. “Yeah,” You hum. “I’m a little cold.”

“Think I can help with that.” John’s mouth curls into a brief smirk, one that ignites a low fire within your belly. He plants another kiss to your jaw, catching the shudder that fans throughout your body.

You catch a glimpse of that cocksure, smug demeanor that had enticed you so much in the first place, followed by an underlying softness. Behind closed doors, he’s the first to succumb, handling you with a disarming gentleness.

“You’re a saint.” Your smile widens to a smitten beam as the both of you make for your bed. It’s as if you’re choked by your own anxieties — you can’t remember the last time you shared a bed with someone else.

John huffs, a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Let me go change.” He nods, moving to slip out of your room. He disappears, leaving you alone, even if it isn’t for very long.

With measured steps, you crawl into bed, comforter shrouding around your body, and you’re met with some relief from the cold. There’s a gap of quiet — gives you time to think, process what’s happened.

It almost feels ethereal, as if you’re trapped in a distant dream; John likes you, you like him. A smile tugs at your mouth, giggling to yourself like some excitable schoolgirl with a glaring crush.

Settling against your pillow, your hands loosely fold over your chest, a dull stitch pulsing through your right rib cage. Minutes tick by as you wait for him to come back, drumming your fingers over your comforter.

Another minute passes, and then five; the door suddenly opens, startling and sudden as you lurch within your bed. Your gaze flutters toward him, glued to the compression shirt and sweatpants combination.

Wordlessly, John gets into bed with you, making sure that he sticks to your left side. For him, it’s been a long time since he’s slept with someone — even before his divorce, he was sleeping on the couch.

John stills, laying on his back as he invites you closer with an arm. “Come here.” It’s soft, he’s soft for you. The mattress shifts beneath you as you scoot over, keeping to your left side, curling into him with your head against his collarbone.

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

He adjusts, cerulean hues flickering toward you, taking in the delicate plate of your visage. You rip the air from his lungs without even trying; John’s hand caresses the back of your shoulder.

“Yeah.” John’s tone is barely above a whisper, warm; it sends pleasant waves through your stomach. Attentive, he waits for your question, turning enough to see you fully.

“Why didn’t you tell me about how you felt?” You’re not accusatory, just curious. Even then, you want to know what stayed his hand, or prevented him from telling you the truth.

John’s jaw tenses, a catalyst of something forlorn brewing within his eyes. There’s a brief pause of consideration; he wants to be transparent, you deserve that. “Didn’t think you’d want me, because of everything I’ve done.”

Blinking, you roll onto your left side, albeit sluggishly, and he lets you rest your head against his bicep. A dab of cologne clings to him, and you nearly smile; that’s what took him so long to come back.

“John …” Through a gentle murmur, your hand slides toward his chest, circling over his collar. “We’ve all made mistakes. I don’t expect anything different, and you’re healing.” You caution, and he seems somewhat appreciative.

The vulnerability is something he’s still growing accustomed to — rawness of pain, feeling his emotions, choosing the right way to cope.

Oftentimes, he felt like the greatest mistake of all, a dog who needed to be put down. It was a dark mindset, taking him to a place that he’d worked tirelessly to claw out of.

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” He grits, tongue running over his teeth as he shakes his head. “I didn’t want to tarnish you, or drag you down with me. I …” John tapers off, throat working, shoulders tight with tension.

Sometimes he goes around pretending as if the weight of his past doesn’t crush him; with you, the load feels lighter, a burden he can shoulder. You’re waiting, expectant yet patient, mere breaths apart, and you’re understanding.

“I am scared of losing you,” With that confession, a heaviness seems relinquished from his chest. He isn’t one to admit that he’s afraid, let alone drag it out into the open. “Scares the hell out of me, because I don’t know who I’ll be if you’re gone.”

A hitch forms within your throat, lips parting as a gasp inhabits your lungs. Everything shifts, his admission leaving you burning; your hand searches for his own, ice upon fire.

“You won’t lose me,” Insistent, you curl closer, flush against one another; you can hear his low, sharp inhale, warmth radiating from his body. “I’m yours, John — for as long as you want me.”

John swallows, gaze turning to something incendiary, shadowed by ardor and by desire. A rough hand snakes to hold your hip, curling into the cotton material of your shorts. “Yeah?” He utters, lips dangerously close.

“Yeah.” The way he’s staring at you is nothing short of complete and utter devotion; that’s how you know he’s genuine. The palm that’s pressed over the back of your shoulder slides over your spine, and you shiver.

“I want to show you how much I want you,” He gruffs, cadence thick with something husky, something needy. John knows where this will take him, take you — he’s never wanted anything more. “If that’s alright.”

He’s charming — effortlessly handsome, and it makes your flesh burn with an embarrassed heat. Intimacy with him is something you crave, and you’re ready for it; you need him as you do air.

“More than alright.” You whisper, breathless, and his mouth hotly clamors for yours. It’s an explosion of fireworks, of pent-up affection, of an ardor that’s been smothered beneath uncertainty.

The both of you are certain now, and that’s what matters most. His kiss is disarmingly gentle, something unexpected, but not unwelcome. You feel his body nudge against yours, distance now nonexistent.

Lips collide, collide, collide — you swear that he kisses you hoarse, beard scratching over your mouth, the sensation pleasant.

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 — kissed you with a sense of finality.

A low moan bubbles from your throat, trapped within the snare of his kiss, and you’re pressing into him. John subtly slots a thigh between your legs, causing you to spasm at the sudden contact.

“John,” With a hoarse whisper, his name rolls from your tongue, wanton. A warm exhale feathers over his mouth, lips ghosting over one another, never too far apart. “John.”

John grunts, hot breath fanning over your features, mouth peppering across your cheek, instead. His lips make contact with your jaw, mouth clamoring over your skin, kissing the spot beneath your ear.

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.

He’s careful, steady — he takes his time with you, savoring, wanting to explore your body. His lips plume over your throat, hips brushing against yours, and that’s when you feel it.

Something firm sits heavy, just below your belly, oozing with heat. A noise echoes from John’s throat, somewhere between a grunt and groan when you shift against him.

“That’s what you do to me,” John murmurs, voice low, curling thickly as his hands rub circles into your hips. “You drive me crazy.” He huffs; he doesn’t know how to handle it.

He’s strong, secure — there’s a protective edge to him, caged around you. Again, you shift, allowing your core to rock over his thigh, knee brushing over the growing tent in his sweatpants.

Swallowing a groan, John’s hands curl into the hem of your sweatshirt, nudging at the fabric. “Don’t want to hurt you.” He rumbles, asking for your consent before taking things further.

“You won’t.” Reassuring, you shuffle, sitting up enough for him to pry your sweatshirt aside, gingerly lifting the baggy garment over your head. You’re still wearing a t-shirt, which you initiate in removing.

The both of you are partially beneath the comforter, the room cast in an inky darkness, save for the soft glow of the light over your headboard. Tension blisters like wildfire between you, bodies flush, clothes shuffling.

Timidly, your hands wander to the hem of his compression shirt, gaze searching his, and he’s happy to comply. “Little eager, huh?” John chides, tone low, playful. It makes you flustered, shrewd beneath his stare.

“Maybe.” Through a sweet whisper, you recline backwards, just enough to give him space, navy spandex peeled away to reveal raw muscle. Your jaw slacks, mesmerized; he’s stupidly handsome.

Broad shoulders coil with slivers of tension, blanketed in light freckles, scars, and nearly-healed bruises. Biceps curl beside you, thick and firm, something for you to hold onto.

A dusting of blonde hair covers his chest, trailing over his abdomen and slipping beneath his waistband; it makes your head spin.

John exhales, cerulean hues drifting over your body, over the pallid gauze, mapping out every inch of you like you’re a constellation. “You’re so beautiful.” He purrs, palm grasping at your haunch.

Rough, careworn hands begin to caress beneath your dress, digits snaring into the soft cotton of your shorts. Sluggishly, he teases the waistband, neglecting to push past like you want him to.

“You can touch me,” Coaxing him, you notice the little twitch of his jaw, gaze glazed with a sheen of unbridled desire. “Don’t think I can go the whole way, but I still want you.”

“When you’re healed up, we’ll do this again.” John says it like a promise, a solemn oath that you desperately want him to keep. His lips search for yours, and he’s urging you in for a kiss, hand slipping between your legs.

Between slow kisses, you’re prodding him. “Already thinking about the next time?” With a teasing lilt, you shiver when calloused fingertips slip beneath the waistband of your shorts.

John bites back a smirk, palpable against your mouth as he plants a kiss there, musculature enveloping you, impenetrable. “Can you blame me?” He murmurs, digits finding your core.

Urging him in for another kiss, you’re lost within the heated labyrinth of his lips, savoring that rugged scratch of his beard. A low moan rouses within your chest, caught between your mouths.

Seeking the warmth between your legs, you nearly choked upon a strangled gasp as John’s digits ghosted along your slit. Arousal had gathered there, akin to the sticky sweetness of honey, prompting you to shiver beside him.

Wordlessly, he pushed deeper still, fingers pressing into your cunt. As he pushed past your folds, you moaned, the noise strangled, lost between the constant kisses and clawing sighs.

“You like that?” John gruffs into your mouth, a half-growl, pulling an excitable gasp from your lungs. He feels you nodding, and he begins to adjust, hovering over you, hand working against your cunt.

You squirmed, cunt aching for him in every way imaginable, hips jolting into the sensation of his practiced digits. He began to find a steady rhythm, worn digits sliding along the length of your cunt, letting you hold onto him as much as you pleased.

As if to even the score, you’re reaching for the front of his pants, noticing the glazed look in his eyes. John huffs, letting you touch him, palm grazing over the noticeable bulge.

A muted buzz courses through your body, legs spreading to accommodate for him, flesh burning with heat. An amalgamation of limbs and heat, your body feels sensitive, a live wire.

Any scrap of friction you received drove you mad, desperation climbing to new heights as your hips rocked forward into his hand. Planting a kiss to your jaw, he continues, hand fervently working to pleasure you.

John lowers, mouth pressing against your throat, showering your flesh in a myriad of kisses. A low moan split past your chest, thighs twitching, legs unsteady as you brush your hand over the swell in his sweatpants.

“Jesus,” He groans, low and husky beside your face, rumbled into your neck. His beard scratches ragged over your flesh, and your other hand sinks beside his ribs. “Stop teasing.” He hisses, tone audibly pitched with arousal.

His lips caress over the bend of your shoulder, to the velvety hollow between that and your throat. A string of kisses manifested there, digits continuing to caress over your slit.

The rhythm was agonizing, your body screaming with ecstasy. Bodies twist together, writhe — a mess of heady sighs, moans, grunts.

Thick digits continued to warm you, prodding against your entrance as he introduced his thumb, allowing it to circle around your clit. A sharp moan ripped through your throat, agonizing.

John’s teeth suddenly puncture the juncture between your neck and shoulder, harshly grazing over your soft skin. Another pleading moan erupts from your throat, finding pleasure in the sting of his rough bite.

As your hand worms past the waistline of his sweatpants, you’re clamoring, finding his cock, masterfully well-endowed as your digits brush over the flushed head. He’s not small by any means, causing your stomach to flip.

His cock throbbed incessantly, the pressure coiled within his abdomen, unexpectedly seizing when your hand wrapped around his length.

“Christ,” John groans into your shoulder, propped on one hand, the other buried into your cunt. His fingers stutter, fleeting, digits grazing over the bundle of nerves. “S’good.”

He’s painfully hard in your palm, bleeding heat, slick within your grasp as you give his cock several sluggish, gentler strokes. Another grunt stirs within his chest, flush to yours.

There’s a tension prevalent in his shoulders, one that slowly begins to unfurl, the more you touch him. It’s a mutual exchange of bliss, touching one another, bodies twined and grinding.

“I need you,” You sputter, a half-whine, hand moving to grasp at the nape of his neck, feeling his hips urge into your palm. “Needed you for s—so long, John.” Tapering off into a moan, his body shudders against you.

John’s gaze sears a hole through you, crackling, festering with heat as his mouth draws away from your throat. He clings to your words as if they’re a lifeline, kissing you hard, enough to make your chest burn.

Chests brush against one another, firm muscle exuding warmth, peaks of your breasts ghosting over his pectorals. It’s all teeth, tongue, and want — veiled attraction spilling to the surface.

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 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 on your bottom lip.

“You’ve got me.” John gruffs, blonde lashes fluttering, kissing the rugged skin beneath his eyes. He slows the kiss, savoring the sweet taste of your mouth, knowing that you are what he wants, forever.

Two fingers stroke along your cunt, gathering the warm slick there with one sluggish swipe. He’s passionate, exploratory — his digits trace back to your clit, thumb beginning to circle over it.

Between your hand stroking at his cock and his hand drawing slow circles over your clit, you’re both on the edge of combustion.

As you draw your hand along his length, caressing from the base to the flushed tip, John shudders, hips rocking forward into your palm. The sensation is maddening, coil pulled tight within his stomach, the pleasure mounting.

His thumb languidly circled your clit, other digits sliding against your cunt. You squirmed and careened forward, insides hot as liquid warmth pooled between your thighs.

“John,” You moan, singing his praises as he ruts his fingers into you, his forehead flush to yours. Noses ghost over one another, lips pressing into his with another bruising kiss. “M’close.”

Never wavering in your ministrations, your hand continued to stroke along his cock, pace developing into something evocative. It was all a haze of want, touching one another as if you were bitten by a fever.

John groaned, eyes half-lidded, pliant mouth parted as a string of satisfied grunts escaped him. As your thumb dragged over the swollen head, he nearly buckled, huffing against your mouth.

The simmering flame of desire burned brightly within the pit of your stomach, his digits continuing to piston in and out of your cunt. A cry of delight tore past your lips, nails digging crescents into the nape of his neck.

Pain throbbed, an incessant ache that rippled through your ribcage, something that you actively fought to ignore. You were too enamored with John, hovering above you, stomach tight as he nears his release.

“Christ,” He gruffs, husky and rumbling as he jolts forward another time or two, cock pulsing with heat as he curls his fingers inside of you. The reaction you have is visceral, blissful. “That’s it, that’s a good girl.” John huffs.

Instantaneous, your cunt clenched tightly around his thick fingers, hips urging forward, nearly crashing into his as his thumb nudges your clit.

The sweet nickname he uses nearly sends you into some frenzy, chewing at the inside of your cheek. You want him to say it again, but your body reacts first, blindsiding you with a white-hot haze.

Teeth lightly catch your bottom lip as the both of you reach your release, a mutual entanglement, feeling his hot spend rope over your palm. You cum on his fingers, a knot of coiled tension that unfurls with a vengeance.

Stars sweep through your vision, back arched, begging for friction as you brush against him, warmth coating the juncture between your thighs. John grunts, huffing again, the noise tantalizing as he curls into you.

It’s searing and feverish, as if you’ve been washed in fire, all-consuming. He’s touching you still, grinding over your clit, breathing heavily beside your ear as if he’s running a marathon.

Perspiration smatters along his brow, countenance furled into a look of stern bliss, lips parted to make room for another groan. There’s a mess between bodies — sweat, arousal, heat.

Drawn-out sighs escape you in an attempt to recuperate, catch your breath as you lay beneath him, legs trembling from your orgasm. It’s been a long time since someone touched you and meant it, and it was a satisfying feeling.

John moves off of you, collapsing in a muscled heap at your side, knowing he’ll have to go change again. A gap of silence stretches between the both of you, comfortable, and you’re sluggishly climbing down from your peak.

“You okay?” John murmurs, chest rising and falling, breathing beginning to steady out. His head tilts, cerulean gaze traveling over your body, appreciative — the light blankets you perfectly.

“Yeah,” Unable to stop yourself from smiling, you glance at John, half-lidded with a thinly-veiled affection. “That was really nice.” You confess, thighs still shifting together to relinquish some of the tension.

With a cocksure grin, John’s body shakes with a brief laugh, and he’s sitting up, gaze warm and never wavering from you. “Hope so,” He murmurs, planting a kiss against your jaw. “Want something to drink?”

Made you cum so hard you saw stars, and now he’s asking if you want a drink; you’re beaming, head jostling in a nod. “If you don’t mind. I think I might need a painkiller or two, too. The ache is a little much.” You sigh, and he nods.

“Right.” John is often one who prefers acts of service — it’s how he displays his devotion, his affection. He does it all seamlessly, leaving your room with a confident spring in his step.

When he returns, he’s holding a bottle of prescription ibuprofen and water, along with another change of clothes. He offers you both with a brief nod, letting you relax as he slips into your bathroom to change again.

You catch a well-lit glimpse of his body, muscles raw and sinewy, shoulders broad, a layer of sun-kissed brawn. He’s impressive, handsome, strong — your gaze travels over the labyrinth of bruises and scars.

Slipping back into your raggedy t-shirt, you take several swigs of water and a lower dosage of medication, swallowing it all down before you recline back into the pillow.

He’s crawling back into your bed, scooping you up into his embrace, keeping your good side wedged against him. Exhaustion settles in, and you’re quick to cozy up to him, hands idly tracing over his abdomen.

“I could get really used to this,” You remark, soft as he plants a kiss to your brow, palm splayed out over the small of your back. John takes comfort in that, knowing that he shares the same sentiment. “Spending the night, waking up to you, being together.”

“Yeah?” He husks, scarlet settling over his visage as he nods in agreement. “I think I could, too.” John hesitates, choosing his next words carefully. “Someone has to keep an eye on you.” He grouses, as if it’s an inconvenience.

A hint of something playful lingers within his tone, prompting you to press a kiss over his scruffy jaw. The sensation makes him preen, caging you in against his musculature.

“If it’s anyone, I’d want it to be you.” Curled beside him, you feel tired, letting the haze of exhaustion begin to overtake you. He’s spent too, eyes fluttering shut as he lets out a low hum of acknowledgment. “Falling asleep on me?”

“No,” John grumbles, nose wrinkling slightly. “Your voice is putting me to sleep.” His light teasing sends your heart soaring, and you can’t help but smile, content to have him hold you.

“Really smooth,” Pressing a kiss to his shoulder, you make yourself comfortable, eyes closing as you decide to let yourself rest. “Goodnight, John.”

His mouth quirks into the ghost of a smirk, happening to open one eye as he turns his head, mouth meeting yours in a brief kiss. “I’ll see you in the morning.” John murmurs, warm breath pluming over your cheek.

You fall asleep in his arms; the pain in your ribs subsides.

#john walker x reader

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fandomwriterstuff · 4 days ago

Text

headcanons — john walker x reader / how he loves after being left. (sfw & nsfw)

A/N: omg guys my first time writing nsfw theme

sfw:

He doesn’t want to open up at first. He makes some offhand, self-deprecating joke — “You don’t want to deal with this mess, sweetheart” — but there’s fear behind it. Like he’s daring you to leave too.

Love, to him, looks like acts of service. Fixing your broken cabinet. Keeping your tires filled. Cleaning your headlights. He doesn’t say “I love you” often — but your coffee’s always made, and he memorizes your schedule like it’s a mission briefing.

He leaves the bed sometimes, haunted by things he doesn’t name. You find him on the couch at 3AM, blanket half-fallen off. You start joining him there without a word. Eventually, he starts staying in bed more.

Compliments don’t come easy. “You’re gonna give me a heart atta— I mean, you look good.” He stumbles through the words like they’re live grenades. But the pink in his ears gives him away every time.

Forehead kisses. Always gentle. Always meaningful. When you’re sick. When you’ve had a long day. When he’s just happy you’re still here.

With you, he’s not U.S. Agent. Not a soldier. Not some broken weapon. He’s just John. And slowly, he starts liking who that is.

He used to laugh off therapy. Now, he’ll quietly bring it up. “My therapist said somethin’ like that last week.” And he listens better now — to you, to himself.

There’s a photo of you in his wallet. Tucked behind an old picture of his parents and Lamar. When you find it, he just says, “You’re family now,” and looks away before his voice can crack.

He always pretends he doesn’t care about birthdays — but on yours, he goes all out. Wrapped presents, handwritten card, a store-bought cake that somehow still feels personal.

He’s weirdly formal around your friends. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.” You tease him for it, but deep down, he just doesn’t want to embarrass you. He wants to be enough.

There’s a chipped mug you love, and he always saves it for you. It’s the first thing he washes, every time. “It’s your mug,” he says, like it’s obvious.

If you fall asleep on the couch, he doesn’t wake you. Just lowers the volume and adjusts the blanket like it’s the most important job he’s ever had.

He can’t flirt to save his life. “You got… strong handwriting.” It’s awkward. It’s endearing. It’s real.

“Darlin’” slips out when he’s tired or distracted. Then he’ll pretend he didn’t say it. Like it wasn’t the softest thing you’ve heard all day.

He’s not big on texting. But he sends photos: your mug next to his, your shoes by the door, the sky at sunset when on a mission with the new avengerz. No captions. Just “thought of you.”

You have a drawer at his place. Full of your favorite snacks, that lotion you like, fuzzy socks you only wore once. “Just in case,” he mutters.

He doesn’t know how to handle affection. You touch his face and he closes his eyes like it’s too much. But he never pulls away.

When he’s proud of you, he doesn’t yell or post about it. He wraps you up in his arms and says, “You did good, baby.” Quiet and low. Like it means everything.

NSFW

At first he’s hesitant to be…. Well meaner. He doesn’t want to hurt you, especially with him being a super soldier at that. He’ll be slow and soft, gentle, only fuck in one position: Missionary.

And in the beginning: he won’t let you suck him off, he won’t talk dirty to you, won’t use toys or anything on you. He’s just very vanilla and soft in the beginning.

You would have to repeatedly tell him or beg him to be a tad bit rougher. And when he gets rougher…. he gets rougher.

He’ll fuck like he’s staking a claim — hips snapping hard, hands gripping your thighs, jaw clenched tight as he watches you take every rough inch. He’s got that look like he’s damn well owning you in this moment.

His voice drops low and rough, full of command and hunger: “Take it. That’s it, sweetheart. Let me fuck you open just like that.” You will obey. He won’t take no for an answer.

He lives for your begging. Fingers teasing slow, tongue just grazing your sensitive spots — “Say it. Tell me you want it.” When you finally beg, he grins like a predator ready to pounce.

His fingers curl inside you, thick and relentless, whispering in your ear, “This pussy’s mine, huh? So fuckin’ wet for me.” He’s brutal but worshipful all at once.

Hearing you moan his name drives him wild. Especially when you’re face-down, gasping into the pillow, one hand tangled in your hair, the other locking your hip in place like he won’t let you go.

He’s rough but never careless. Slaps your ass hard enough to sting, grips your neck just right to make your eyes flutter. If you flinch or twitch, he pulls back, kisses your neck, and murmurs, “Color, baby?”

Making you cum over and over is his favorite game. Whether on his tongue, fingers, or cock — he commands, “Again. You’re not done ‘til I say so.” You’re addicted to that rough mercy.

Every time he slides into you, he grunts and groans like it’s the best damn feeling in the world. “Fuck, this pussy’s so tight. So fuckin’ wet for me.” His voice is ragged, hungry, completely undone by you.

When he comes, he growls your name and buries himself deep, holding you tight like you’re the only thing that keeps him grounded. Panting, forehead pressed against your skin, utterly wrecked.

After the storm, he switches to softness — cleaning you up gently, holding you close, whispering “Mine,” like it’s a promise and a prayer.

He loves it when you ride him — watching you bounce with that fierce look, hands on your hips, moaning low. “Fuck, darlin’, you’re so damn pretty when you take me like this.”

Praise turns him to putty. Call him good. Tell him how deep he feels. Say “You’re mine, John.” He grips you tighter and murmurs, “Say it again.”

He’ll hold your wrists lightly but firmly to the bed, eyes locked on yours, growling, “Stay still, baby. Let me fuck you right.”

His dirty talk is a mix of rough commands and desperate worship — “So tight… so wet… just for me. You’re mine, always.”

Oh and this man definitely has a Sir kink or a Captain kink. Call him one of those and he’s readjusting y’all’s position to go rougher.

Aftercare

As soon as it’s over, he goes quiet. Not because he’s checked out — but because he’s trying to come down. His chest is heaving, his arms are shaking, and all he wants is you. He doesn’t even pull out right away, just buries his face in your neck and holds you like he’s anchoring himself to the earth.

“You okay?” His voice is low and raw. He always asks, every single time. Even if you’re blissed out and boneless, even if he was watching your every reaction — he needs to hear it from you. “Too much? Did I go too far?”

He strokes your skin like it’s fragile. Big, rough hands gliding gently over your hips, your back, your thighs. “You did so good, baby,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “So fuckin’ good for me.”

Clean-up is sacred. He always gets up (sometimes still naked, hair wild, cock still half-hard) to grab a towel and some water. Gently cleans you between the legs, peppering soft kisses to your knees and thighs while he does. “I got you,” he says, again and again.

He puts you in one of his shirts. Usually the one he was wearing earlier — worn and warm, still smelling like cologne and sweat and him. Helps you into it slowly, smoothing your hair back, stealing one last kiss.

Then he pulls you into his chest. Covers you both with the blanket, arms snug around your waist, your face tucked under his chin. His heartbeat is heavy and real under your palm. “You’re everything, y’know that?”

He whispers little things. Not always “I love you” — sometimes it’s “You saved me,” or “Never thought I’d have this again,” or “Don’t know what I did to deserve you.” Raw, grateful, John.

If it was rougher, he runs his hands down your body and checks you over gently. Rubs your wrists if he held them. Kisses any red marks. “I shouldn’t’ve gripped that hard,” he mumbles. “You tell me if I ever overdo it, okay?”

He won’t fall asleep until you do. Even if his eyes are closing, he stays awake, watching your breathing slow, fingers tracing lazy circles on your skin. He won’t leave you floating alone in that post-high haze — he grounds you, anchors you, brings you home.

#john walker #john walker x reader

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fandomwriterstuff · 4 days ago

Text

Dead-End Heat

Pairing: John Walker x fem!Reader

Summary: After his divorce, John Walker hides out at the end of a dead-end road — quiet, wrecked, and alone. Until his new neighbor starts dancing naked by the window. And he stops pretending he’s not watching.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, p in v, masturbation (f + m), voyeurism, dry humping, fingering, oral sex (m giving), breast play, age gap (both adults), ovulation kink, creampie mention (pull-out), size kink, emotional damage (m), light dom/sub undertones, aftercare, strong language

Word Count: 4.7k

Author's Note: My first John Walker's fic because I've been spiraling down for him lately. Never really hated his character, and there's just something in him that held a grip on my heart. This might be the only time I wrote for him as my focus would still be mainly on Bucky. Hope you'll enjoy this!

The house was smaller than anything he’d ever lived in.

It sat at the end of a forgotten road—a gravel path that wound past empty fields and thinning trees, eventually dead-ending at a pair of sagging homes no one seemed to care about. His was the worse of the two. Crooked porch steps. Peeling siding. A roof that slanted wrong and windows clouded with time. The place looked like it had been stitched together by someone who ran out of energy halfway through the job—and then abandoned it altogether.

It was perfect.

John dropped his single duffel by the door and kicked it shut behind him. The air inside hit him like a memory—musty, humid, heavy with the scent of rot in the walls and the ghosts of strangers before him. The couch leaned sideways. The bed was just a bare mattress on the floor, no frame. The fan above him wheezed like it had asthma. A fridge buzzed like it was trying to die.

No pictures. No clutter. No reminders of what he lost.

No Lamar.

No Olivia.

No son’s drawings pinned to the fridge.

Just silence.

Which was the whole damn point.

The divorce papers had come through three days ago—a final blow that felt both slow and sharp. Olivia hadn’t cried. She just signed the line, eyes tired, like something inside her had already been buried. And he didn’t blame her. Not after all he’d brought home with him. The nights he came back colder. Angrier. Quieter. After Lamar died, something in John stopped working right. He didn’t know how to talk to her. Didn’t know how to father a kid with grief sitting in his lungs like concrete.

He took the deal. Let her have the house. The car. Most of the furniture. All he asked was to be left alone.

So when he found the listing—cheap rent, secluded property, no neighbors but one—he said yes before seeing a photo.

The landlord had handed him the keys with a crooked smile and a half-assed warning.

“Only neighbor’s a college girl,” she said. “Lives right next door. Early twenties, I think. You probably won’t even notice her.”

He hadn’t cared. He didn’t want noise. Didn’t want company. He wanted a place that wouldn’t expect anything from him.

And for the first few nights, that’s what he got.

Just darkness. Sweat-soaked sleep. Bottled beer. The occasional nightmare that still left his fists clenched in the sheets.

Until the window started glowing.

—

It started with light.

Her bedroom—your bedroom—glowed gold in the dark like it had a soul of its own. Just across the strip of grass separating the houses, the second floor window lit up every night, soft and warm and too alive. His own bedroom faced yours directly—a cruel kind of proximity. Close enough to see the shape of you if he didn’t shut the blinds. And for a while, he did. Shut them. Or turned his back. Or went downstairs before it got bad.

But it kept happening.

And one night, curiosity won.

He looked.

And froze.

You were perched right there on your windowsill—legs tucked up, body backlit like something out of a dream. A tank top clung to your skin, rucked up just enough to bare the curve beneath your breast. Your thighs were spread. One hand braced the window frame behind you. The other slipped between your legs—bold and unhurried, fingers glinting in the light as you touched yourself like no one was watching.

Like you didn’t care if someone was.

You moved slow. Like this was ritual. Like this was how you soothed yourself to sleep.

John’s mouth went dry. His body stiffened.

He should’ve looked away.

He didn’t.

Because the longer he watched, the more the guilt tangled with something hotter. Needier. His hand drifted down before he could stop it—shame curling in his chest like smoke as he unzipped his jeans and wrapped his hand around himself.

He stroked slow. Matched your rhythm. Imagined how you’d sound if the window wasn’t in the way.

Then your head turned.

Your gaze lifted.

Eyes met his through glass.

He froze.

You didn’t.

If anything—you moved slower. Smiled faintly. Tilted your hips so he could really see what your fingers were doing.

His breath hitched. His fist tightened. His heart slammed so loud he was sure you could hear it through the pane.

And when he came—knuckles white, lip bloodied from biting it too hard—it was with a strangled moan, your image burned behind his eyes.

After that, it wasn’t just light in the window anymore.

It was you.

Naked sometimes. Singing. Dancing. Laughing like no one could hear you. And almost every night, you touched yourself right there at the sill—head tilted back, eyes closed, mouth parted like a prayer.

You never pulled the curtain.

And he never shut the blinds.

Because part of you wanted to be seen.

And part of him needed to see it.

—

It started happening more often.

At first, it was once every few days—a shadow lingering behind the blinds, a pause in the dark that matched the rhythm of your movements. Then it became nightly.

You weren’t stupid. You knew what he was doing.

The sliver of his window was always the same. Light off. Curtains drawn halfway. Just enough space for you to catch the subtle shape of him—a figure standing near the glass, barely moving. Until he did.

A slight twitch of the shoulder. The familiar arc of a flexing forearm.

Jerking off.

At first, you’d pretended not to notice. But you felt it—the heat that crawled up your spine, the rush that flushed your skin. Your pulse didn’t lie.

And over time… neither did your body.

You started performing.

Lingerie that didn’t hide anything. Positions that bent you right over, back arched, ass pointed toward the open window like a silent dare. You knew the thin fabric of your panties barely did a damn thing—knew he could see the outline of your pussy when you stood in the light.

Once, you heard him.

A low grunt, barely audible over the hum of the fan. But it made you freeze. Made your thighs press together.

He was watching.

He wanted.

And that alone made you drip.

But tonight? Something inside you snapped.

Your body ached. Breasts tender and swollen, nipples too sensitive against your shirt. Your thighs stayed slick no matter how many times you changed. You couldn’t stop shifting. Couldn’t stop thinking about the way his hand would feel instead of your own.

You were ovulating, and every inch of you wanted to be touched. Ruined. Filled.

So the devil on your shoulder whispered something wild—and for once, you listened.

You changed clothes. On purpose.

Pale yellow cropped tank—almost sheer in the right light. No bra. The peaks of your nipples pressed bold against the fabric. Then: a pair of loose, thin white shorts that barely covered your ass. No panties. Because you weren’t planning on keeping them on.

You were stupidly horny, and stupidly bold.

So you walked across the narrow patch of grass, let your bare feet touch the cool porch, and reached for his doorbell.

It didn’t ring.

Figures. Of course he hadn’t fixed it.

You knocked instead—quick, but firm enough to be heard.

There was a long pause.

Then the door opened.

John Walker stood there—tall, disheveled, shirt wrinkled like it’d been on the floor before he put it on. A dark olive tee, sleeves pushed tight over the swell of his arms. Just boxers on his lower half—black, hugging his hips low enough that you caught the trail of hair beneath his navel.

His hair was messy. Beard uneven. And a half-crushed beer can dangled from his fingers.

“Uh…” You cleared your throat, letting your eyes drift up to his. “Power’s out at my place.”

You forced a half-smile, something soft. Sweet.

“Too dark to study alone.”

He didn’t say anything for a beat. Just stared at you—eyes flicking down, lingering too long on your chest before he caught himself and looked away.

You waited.

He hesitated. You could see the inner war behind his eyes. But he wasn’t just a man anymore—he was a father, even if his own family was gone. And he knew what your dad would’ve done. Knew what his younger self would’ve wanted for his daughter.

So he stepped back.

Wordless.

And let you in.

The place was dim—just one sad lamp casting a pool of yellow light near the couch. The air smelled like old beer and sweat. You took it in with a breath, then made your way to the sagging two-seater sofa. The cushion dipped under your weight.

John dragged a chair from the kitchen—a stiff wooden dining chair—and planted it in the corner of the room, diagonally across from you. He sat, forearms braced on his thighs, one hand still holding the beer. His eyes flicked up, then away.

You crossed your legs on the couch—slowly, deliberately.

You didn’t miss how his gaze dropped for half a second before snapping back to the floor.

He could see everything. You knew it. Your loose shorts had ridden up just enough that the slick heat between your thighs was on full display. Bare pussy, just… there. No effort to hide it.

But he didn’t say anything.

Didn’t even shift in his seat.

So you broke the silence with something light.

“You never told me your name.”

Still, he didn’t look up. But his voice was low. Rough.

“John.”

You smiled, even though he didn’t see it.

“John,” you repeated softly. “Strong name.”

You leaned back, resting one arm against the back of the couch, your legs still crossed—the movement subtly tugging your shorts even higher.

“And you curious about mine?”

He didn’t answer. But his jaw flexed.

“My name?” You let the moment hang, then offered it up smooth, short. “There. Now we’re not strangers.”

He nodded once. Grunted.

You tilted your head.

“What do you do, John?”

“Used to be military.”

“And now?”

“Contract work.”

You hummed. “Private sector?”

“Something like that.”

You smiled again, watching how he kept avoiding your gaze—like he didn’t want to fall into the trap you were laying.

But he already had.

He was here.

Watching.

Gripping his beer too tightly.

And you were already wet again.

You uncrossed your legs slowly, let your knees fall open—wide enough to make his breath hitch even if he didn’t mean it to. He still didn’t look, but you saw the way his knuckles turned white on the can.

And for the first time since you sat down, he shifted in his seat.

Yeah.

You had him.

And you weren’t done yet.

—

You finally dropped the bomb.

“I know you’ve been watching me.”

His shoulders stiffened. But he didn’t move from the chair. Didn’t speak.

You caught the flicker in his jaw—the way his beard shifted just slightly as his teeth ground together.

He didn’t look at you.

Didn’t need to.

You saw the shame before he even opened his mouth.

“I wasn’t—” he started, then stopped himself. His fingers curled around the armrest. “I didn’t mean to.”

You tilted your head. Waited.

“I saw you once. Thought I’d look away. Didn’t.”

He dragged a hand down his face, sighing through clenched teeth.

“It was wrong. I know that. I know better. You’re just a kid. I shouldn’t even be—fuck.” He glanced to the side, away from the soft light between you. “I’m not in the right headspace. I haven’t been in a long time.”

You shifted your position.

Still, he didn’t budge.

“I’m not asking for pity,” he muttered. “Divorce just got finalized. I got no wife. No son. My best friend’s six feet under. I’m sitting here drinking cheap beer in a damn chair from a Craigslist ad. I’m not the man you think I am.”

“I don’t care,” you said gently.

“I just want to be touched.”

His gaze snapped to yours. Sharp. Almost dangerous.

“My chest hurts,” you whispered. “They’re sore. They need hands that aren’t mine. They need you.”

You stood up from the couch, bare feet soft against the hardwood, the hem of your loose shorts fluttering as you moved. Each step was slow. Measured. A test he kept failing to stop.

You stopped right in front of him.

John’s knees were spread, bracing his wide frame, elbows on thighs like he couldn’t decide whether to stand or vanish. You noticed the way his jaw ticked—tension flaring under his beard.

You reached for his right hand with your left, slow and deliberate.

He didn’t resist.

Your fingers slid over his, lifting it, guiding it up.

You paused when his fingertips brushed your thin tank—the contact featherlight, grazing the peak of your erect nipple through the fabric.

You let out a soft sound—half breath, half moan.

“I’ve only wanted you,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Only imagined your hands when I touched myself.”

His jaw clenched again. His whole body still as stone.

You moved between his thighs, closing the distance entirely.

Your right hand dragged the hem of your tank upward, just until the lower swell of your breast was visible—flushed, taut, begging for contact.

Then you brought his hand there again.

Not just hovering.

Pressed it firmly into place, just beneath the curve.

“You’re gonna regret this,” he muttered. His voice was hoarse. Defeated. “You’ll wake up tomorrow and wish it wasn’t me.”

“I won’t.”

He looked up then. Finally. Eyes bloodshot. Unreadable.

He shook his head once—slow—but didn’t pull away.

Didn’t move.

Just… sighed.

And then his hand shifted.

Slipped higher.

And cupped your breast fully.

A moan slipped from your lips as his calloused palm settled over the soft heat of you—a gentle squeeze that made your knees tremble.

Your tank lifted fully now, exposing your chest to the room, to him.

He groaned—low, deep, from somewhere buried.

You ducked slightly, bending to let him in, and he leaned forward instinctively—face pressing between your breasts like a man who’d been starving and finally found water.

He breathed deep, nose brushing your skin, and you felt the quiet hitch in his breath.

“You smell like fucking heaven,” he rasped.

He didn’t kiss.

Didn’t bite.

Just buried himself in your skin like he could live there forever.

And when he finally looked up—eyes burning, breath shaky—his voice was barely more than gravel.

“You want this?”

His hands were still on your chest. Thumbs circling, gentle now. Reverent.

“Because if I keep going, I ain’t stopping. Not this time.”

Your response came without hesitation.

“I want you, John. All of you.”

—

His hand didn’t leave your breast. It only squeezed once more—firmer this time—before sliding up to cup the other, thumbs brushing across your nipples with that roughness that had your breath catching. You leaned forward more.

John’s fingers gripped your jaw gently—tugging you downward until your mouth met his.

The kiss was urgent, not rushed—all breath and heat and hunger. Like he’d been waiting years to taste you. His lips parted yours with soft, wet pressure, tongue licking slow, deliberate passes like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth from the inside out.

You moaned into him, hips shifting. Your knees dragged up against his thighs as you straddled him fully, sinking onto his lap again. The chair creaked beneath the weight of both your bodies.

His cock throbbed beneath you—hard and hot, separated from your soaked folds by just the thin fabric of his boxers and your loose shorts. You could feel everything—every vein, every twitch, every pulse—as you rocked lightly on him.

Both of his hands returned to your chest, greedy now. Palms warm and broad, squeezing your breasts with a kind of reverence that made your head spin.

When you finally broke the kiss, panting, his left hand trailed lower. Skimmed your ribs, your side, then slid behind you—gripping your ass before slipping inside the waistband of your shorts.

His fingers met bare skin.

His groan rumbled right against your collarbone. “Fucking knew it,” he muttered hoarsely. “Knew you weren’t wearing anything.” His mouth brushed your neck. “Could see it, y’know.”

You tilted your head, breath shaky. “See what?”

“Your slick. Back at the door. It was running down your thighs.”

A soft, desperate sound escaped your throat. You pressed your face into the side of his neck, nuzzling into the scruff just beneath his jaw. Then your teeth caught the curve of his nape—not hard enough to leave marks, just enough to make him jolt beneath you.

You started to grind. Slow, aching circles of your hips that dragged your folds along the length of his cock through both of your clothes.

“You ever think about this?” you murmured against his ear. “Me. On you. Moving like this.”

He groaned. “More than I should’ve.”

You kissed just under his ear—then blew out a warm breath, letting it fan over the shell of it. His grip on your ass tightened like he couldn’t help it.

“Ever since I saw you jerking off while watching me,” you whispered, “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Could only come when I imagined I was riding you.”

His breath hitched. His right hand slipped from your chest and came around to the front—sliding into your shorts, fingers dragging through your slick folds. You were soaked. Pulsing. His fingertips grazed your clit and you cried out softly, hips jerking in his lap.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “You’re soaked. So goddamn sensitive.”

You shifted your hips—just slightly—to give him more access. His middle finger pushed in slow, your walls clenching down hard like your body had been waiting for this. You moaned, eyes fluttering.

He pulled halfway out, then pushed in again—watching your face twist in pleasure, watching your mouth fall open. The wet sounds of your cunt wrapped around his finger made him swear again.

“Fuuuck.”

You blew out a soft stream of air across his ear again—lips brushing it this time. “Want more,” you whispered. “Please, John.”

He stilled. Even with your cunt dripping around his hand, he still paused. Still tried to pull back.

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice low and guttural. “You want this? ‘Cause I ain’t got the goddamn conscience to stop once I start.”

Your head dropped, lips grazing his jaw. “I’m sure.”

His mouth parted—a breath shuddering through his teeth—and he slid a second finger in.

The stretch was tighter. Deeper. Your body sucked him in with a squelch that made his hips jerk reflexively beneath you.

“Fuck me,” he groaned again, head tilting back, eyes dark and wild.

Your cunt clenched around his fingers like it never wanted to let him go.

And his lips found your collarbone again, dragging open-mouthed kisses along your skin like he was about to lose his mind.

—

John couldn’t take it anymore.

Your walls clenched greedily around his fingers, your hips bucking helplessly with every pump. It wasn’t enough—not for him. Not with the way your body begged, not with the way your moans cracked open something he hadn’t felt in years.

He stood up suddenly, lifting you with both hands, fingers digging into your thighs. You gasped, arms looping tightly around his shoulders as your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist. His cock was still sheathed inside you, thick and twitching, as he carried you out of the living room.

The hallway was dim—the only light came from the cracked door of the bedroom. When he pushed it open with his shoulder, you finally got a glimpse inside.

It was barely lived-in.

A king-sized mattress sat low on the floor, sheets rumpled and mismatched. A fan spun overhead, clinking slightly with every rotation. A dresser stood against the wall, untouched. No photos. No signs of life. Just another space he refused to make a home.

John dropped you onto the mattress like you were something precious and cursed all at once. His eyes devoured you as he stepped back, hands yanking his shirt off with a single pull. His boxer briefs hit the floor next, his cock flushed, hard, still slick with your arousal.

You followed suit—first peeling your tank top up and over your head, letting it drop carelessly beside the bed. Then you slid your thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and pushed them down, inch by inch, baring your hips, your thighs, your soaked center—nothing underneath. They hit the floor in a soft rustle. Then you climbed onto the mattress and lay back, legs parted, hair splayed across the pillows like you were meant to be there. Like you’d always belonged in this room. In this bed. In him.

He climbed back on top of you, heavy and hot, mouth finding yours again—slower now, deep and possessive. But you were impatient. Aching.

You reached between your bodies, guiding his cock to your entrance, and pushed him in.

John groaned—low, guttural—as your heat swallowed him whole again.

“So tight,” he gritted, hands bracing on either side of your head as he began to move. “Like fucking heaven.”

You whimpered, eyes fluttering shut.

“Do I taste better in real life?” you whispered, voice breathless. “Or did you like the version you imagined better?”

He stilled—just for a second—then surged deeper.

“You now,” he growled. “Nothing compares. Nothing ever fucking will.”

He moved hard now, hips snapping into yours with desperation, with hunger, chasing something he knew he shouldn’t want this badly. You moaned, one leg hitching higher around his waist, urging him deeper.

But then—he pulled out.

You gasped at the sudden emptiness. Your cunt fluttered in protest.

He stood, breath ragged, chest rising and falling with each tremor of restraint.

“I want you,” you said again, sitting up slowly. “I want you to come inside.”

John shook his head, jaw tight.

“Been a husband long enough to know the pill ain’t perfect,” he muttered. “Not taking that risk.”

Before you could argue, he crawled back onto the bed and grabbed your hips—guiding you flat against the sheets again.

“I want you to come first.”

He buried his face between your thighs before you could even speak—tongue flattening against your slick folds, groaning at the taste. He licked like a man dying of thirst. Deep strokes. Slow sucks. His beard scratched your skin raw, but you didn’t care. You were shaking again, already too close.

When his lips wrapped around your clit and sucked—hard—you came with a cry that echoed through the empty house. Your back arched. Your hands flew to his hair. You trembled under him, again.

He didn’t stop until your thighs stopped twitching.

Then—finally—he pulled himself up, kissed the inside of your knee, and reached for the towel slung over a nearby chair. He cleaned you up gently, not saying a word, just watching the way your chest rose and fell.

Then he handed you a shirt. His.

“Wear this,” he said roughly. “S’night’s cold. And those shorts ain’t worth shit.”

You pulled it on without protest. It smelled like him.

But you weren’t done.

“Another round?” you asked, soft, hopeful.

His hand stopped mid-wipe on your belly.

“No,” he said, voice firmer now. “We’re not doing this again tonight.”

You blinked. Hurt flared—but he wasn’t angry.

“I can’t—can’t use you to fill something that’s already gone,” he said, voice thick. “And I need to know you’re not just doing this ‘cause you’re burning up and I was close. I need to know you want me. Not just the idea of me.”

You didn’t argue. Just nodded slowly and slipped out of bed. The shirt hung to your thighs.

John didn’t walk you to the door. He just watched you leave from the bed, unreadable.

That night, you couldn’t sleep. Your skin still tingled, your body still ached. Your cunt throbbed with the ghost of him. But you didn’t hear from him again.

And the next morning, when the sunlight spilled into your bedroom, you glanced toward his window.

The blinds were gone.

Blackout curtains now hung in their place—drawn tight.

Sealed.

Silent.

Like he was never there at all.

—

✦ [JOHN WALKER POV]

He sat at the edge of the bed.

Back curved. Elbows on his knees. Head low.

Hands calloused, rough—still damp from washing off your slick.

The water had gone cold. He didn’t care. He’d scrubbed his hands raw, but the ghost of you clung to him like heat. The scent of you lived in the air now—sweet, heady, sinful. It clung to his sheets. His chest. His fucking soul.

He could still see the way your thighs had trembled. Still feel the weight of you clenching around him. Still hear your voice—John, please, like it meant something. Like he meant something.

He raked both hands down his face, breath shallow.

“You don’t rebuild your life like this, man.”

The words came out hoarse.

Lamar might’ve said it once.

Or maybe it was Olivia’s voice, tucked into some fractured corner of his brain—one of the last pieces that hadn’t rotted out.

There was a photo of her, buried under old insurance papers in the nightstand. He hadn’t looked at it in weeks. Couldn’t. Not since the divorce was finalized. Not since the house grew too quiet for even ghosts to haunt.

His son’s crayon sketch was folded inside his wallet. He still checked for it sometimes. Just to see if it was real. If any of that life had ever been real.

They were gone.

But you?

You were right next door.

A few steps away. A breath. A heartbeat.

Real.

Too real.

And fuck—he didn’t know if that made you a mistake or a second chance.

He’d wanted you for weeks. Wanted you before he even admitted it. When you danced in the window. When your laughter spilled through his walls. When you touched yourself like you didn’t care who saw—and like maybe you wanted him to.

But tonight hadn’t been some fantasy.

You were warm in his arms. Wet on his fingers. Tight around his cock.

And for a second—a fucking second—it felt like a religion.

Like worship.

Like finding something sacred in the way your body opened for him. The way you gasped his name. The way you tasted—sweet and desperate, like you’d been made just for his mouth.

He wanted to believe it meant something. That you meant something. Not just a fix for the hollow ache in his chest.

So he didn’t drink. Didn’t run. Didn’t chase the next high.

He just sat there. In the dark. Breathing. Remembering.

He’d give himself a few days.

Time to think.

Time to feel every fucking consequence.

But he already knew the truth—

You were in his blood now.

And nothing was ever gonna wash you out.

[END OF POV] ✦

—

It’d been five days.

Five torturous, hollow days.

Since that night.

Since John touched you like he needed you to breathe. Since he kissed you like it was the first time he’d tasted salvation. Since he buried himself deep and said your name like it meant something.

You hadn’t seen him since.

The blackout curtains in his bedroom stayed drawn. Always closed. Even on the nights when your windows were lit, your skin bare, your body aching for attention—for his attention. Not once did he pull them aside. Not even a flicker of movement behind the fabric.

And maybe that was your answer.

Maybe it had been a one-time thing.

A mistake, no matter how good it felt.

No matter how much your body still throbbed remembering the way his cock filled you, twitched inside you as he spilled across your belly.

You tried to keep busy. You tried.

But everything felt muted. Boring. Lifeless.

The only thing that ever made your pulse race anymore was the memory of his hands. His voice. That broken, desperate moan when you clenched around him.

By the fifth night, you stopped looking at his window.

Stopped expecting.

Started to convince yourself it was better this way.

But then—

A knock.

Quick.

Sharp.

Three beats.

Your breath caught.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

Not tonight. Not ever.

You moved to the door on shaky legs, barely able to hide the way your fingers trembled on the knob.

And there he was.

John Walker.

Still looking disheveled. Still rough around the edges. Still looking at you like you were the thing he shouldn’t want—but couldn’t walk away from.

He offered the faintest smile. A little crooked.

A little dangerous.

“Ready for the next round?” he asked, voice low.

You blinked—then smiled wide, too quickly, too joyfully to play it cool.

You nodded, heart hammering.

And you stepped aside to let him in.

honorary mention; @iamthatonefangirl 💜

#john walker #john walker x you #john walker x reader

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fandomwriterstuff · 5 days ago

Note

OMG IDEA....

Fwb doctor! Remus- so reader ends up at his work sick and then he ends up being the one to treat them like 'why didn't you tell me' and they're like 'well you're not my boyfriend so I didn't-' and whatever else but basically that prompts them to have the awkward convo that goes from fwb to dating

Thanks!

cw: mention of nausea, allusion to past sex but no sex takes place in this

fwb!doctor!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words

“Oh.” Remus falters halfway through the door. You look up from your phone, clearly as surprised to see him as he is to see you. You blink a couple of times as though clearing a film, your lips parting on a breath. Remus wishes his first thought were something more practical, something other than that it’s absurdly attractive. He may be developing a sort of Pavlovian response to you. “Hello.”

“Hi,” you say, as shy as if this is the first time you’ve met. “What are you…” Your eyes move down to his coat, to the clipboard in his hands. “Do you work here?”

“Yeah.” His voice sounds a tad softer than usual, and it’s the strangeness of that—him acting so out of place in an environment where he’s supposed to be an authority—that helps Remus remember himself. He steps the rest of the way into the exam room, closing the door behind him. “I take it you’re not here to see me.”

A tiny smile graces your lips. “I might’ve been, if I’d known.”

“Maybe next time.” Remus sets down his clipboard, opting to get his answers from you instead as he leans against the desk across from you. “What brings you in?”

“I’ve, um…well, it feels weird talking about my problems now that it’s you.”

Remus ignores how that stings. “It doesn’t need to. This is my job; I promise I can take care of you just the same as anyone else. Of course,” he forces himself to tack on, “if you’d be more comfortable with someone else, I can arrange that. You may just have to wait a while longer.”

“That’s okay,” you say. “I’m fine with you. Sorry, it’s just different, you know?”

Remus softens. He does know, to some extent. If he imagines himself going to get a cup of coffee, or boarding an airplane, or calling maintenance to his apartment and then finding out that you work there (He actually has no clue what you do, either, he realizes now. That’ll have to be remedied.), it would probably be a bit of an adjustment for him as well.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he assures you. “We can go about this however you’re comfortable. Do you want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

“Right, yeah.” You’re playing with your fingers, not quite looking at him. You’re acting shy, in a way Remus had almost forgotten you could be. It’s fucking adorable, honestly. He assumes it’s because of this new environment and the shift in the dynamic between you, but it amuses him to think of you being more self-conscious in clothes than out of them. He wants to tease you, but he has a new role to play, too. “I’ve not been able to eat very much lately?”

Remus feels his brows come down.

“I’ve just been feeling rather nauseous,” you say, picking at your nail. “I thought maybe I was nauseous because I wasn’t eating, but eating didn’t seem to help either, so.”

“How long has this been going on?” he asks.

“A few days. Almost a week.”

You know what he’s going to say. Remus knows you know, because your eyes flicker up to his for just a moment, sheepish.

He was with you two nights ago.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m sorry,” you say, quietly. “I know I should have, but I really didn’t think it was contagious.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” Remus feels his body gravitating towards you. Wanting to touch you, hold you, envelop you. He keeps it where it is. “It’s just that we spent all that time together, and you didn’t mention once that you weren’t feeling well.”

“Well, I didn’t know that you did—” you gesture vaguely about the room “—this at the time.”

“Even so.”

You shrug, looking heartachingly unsure of yourself. “I don’t know. I didn’t think it was relevant. It’s not the sort of thing we usually talk about, is it? I mean, you’re not, like…”

Remus can fill in the blanks. It hurts to do it. He’s not your boyfriend. He’s not someone you open up to about the everyday things in life. For fuck’s sake, you haven’t even asked each other what you do for work.

But you are something to each other, aren’t you? Aren’t you at least friends? It’s not like all the time you spend together is taken up by wordless, impersonal, utilitarian sex. Remus tries to spend time with you before or after. At first it was just to make himself feel better about the transactional aspect of your relationship, but it wasn’t long until he was just doing it because he wanted to. He’s bought you coffee, and dinners, and pastries. He’s fixed the squeaky leg on your bed. You’ve sat on the roof of your building together and made up stories for passersby on the sidewalk below. He’s made you eggy toast in his kitchen. Your clothes have been in his dryer, for Christ’s sake; what could be more intimate than that?

“I’m your friend,” he says, because he won’t be leaving any room for argument, not on this. “You can tell me these things. You can tell me anything you like.”

“Oh,” you say softly. You have that same look as when Remus first came in, like you’re seeing him entirely differently. “Okay. I didn’t know.”

He feels his lips twitch. “Well, now you know.”

“Okay,” you say again. Blinking.

Remus puts you out of your misery. “Have you noticed anything else out of the ordinary?”

You start listing symptoms, tentative, unsure. Remus forces himself to stay right where he is and listen rather than step forward to take your temperature, or get your blood pressure, or any of the other things that would help him get to the bottom of this more quickly. He doesn’t usually have to hold himself back, with other patients. It’s just that you…well, while Remus always cares about making things better for his patients as soon as he can, it’s possible that he cares just a little bit more in this case. It’s also possible that there’s still an instinctive part of him just dying to get closer to you. He wants to feel you beneath his hands and know that you’re okay.

“Alright,” he says once you’re done, taking his stethoscope from around his neck, “I need to check a few things to be sure, but I think I know what we’re dealing with.”

“Really?” Your expression glows with relief. A flicker of humor warms your eyes. “How did I know you’d be good at your job?”

Remus hums, pleased beyond reason at your assessment of him. “You’ll need a prescription. You’re my last appointment of the day, so, if you’ll let me, I can take you to pick it up and get you set up at home afterwards.”

“Oh, Remus…” You look up at him as the bell of his stethoscope settles over your heart. He ignores the drumbeat to hear you. “You don’t have to. I know we’re friends now, but that’s too much. You’re not obligated to do those sorts of things for me.”

“I’d like to do those sorts of things for you,” he responds unflinchingly. “It wouldn’t be out of obligation, it’d be because I want to.”

Your heartbeat ratchets up. “I don’t want to feel like a job for you.”

“Sweetheart” —there it is again, that soft tone. Entirely unprofessional— “you could never be a job. I love spending time with you, alright? I’d love to look after you, if you’d be okay with it.”

“I love spending time with you, too,” you murmur, so sweet Remus could kiss you if that wouldn’t truly put him at risk of getting fired. And yet he’s still thinking about it. “Of course you’re welcome to come over if you want to. I just…I don’t know how to…”

It’s clear by now that Remus is a weaker man than he thought himself to be. He gives in, covering your lips with his.

“We’ll figure it out,” he promises you.

#fwb!remus lupin #doctor!remus lupin #remus lupin au #remus lupin x reader

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fandomwriterstuff · 5 days ago

Text

Insomniacs with a z

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader x John Walker

Summary:

“Damn it, John, let go,” you whisper under your breath, carefully trying to pry one of his arms off your waist. No use. His super soldier strength is in full effect, and all you manage to do is shift the grip higher—great, now he’s got you in a chokehold. And as if the universe hadn’t punished you enough for choosing this sleepover, Bob snuggles closer behind you. You feel the warm tickle of his breath against your neck as his nose nudges into your hair, his arm casually thrown across your side like it belongs there. “Not you too,” you mutter, eyebrows furrowing as you attempt to wiggle free. But with John locked on one side and Bob clinging to you like a sleepy koala, your options are severely limited. Or You form the New Avengers' very first sleep sub-unit. You, John and Bob all struggle to sleep, so you sleep in the same bed together to help each other out. And it's definitely platonic.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, smut, fluff, little angst, threesome, p in v, oral sex (female and male receiving), creampie, sex dream, John and Bob being cute

WC: 9.5k

A/N: Started this ages a while ago but finally finished it. I wrote this because who wouldn't wanna be in a John and Bob sandwich, and I feel like since it's May (Challengers month but every month is Challengers month imo) I need to write threesomes. And I love Sentryagent, Thunderbolts has brought back the multishipper in me. Enjoy!

***

Sleep was something that often escaped you. After the things you’ve done, the things you’ve seen, you’re surprised you sleep at all. It’s like your mind refuses to shut down, always racing, always bracing for something that never comes. Like there's a part of you that's always on watch, never letting you fully rest unless your body gives in from pure exhaustion.

So here you are again, wide awake at god-knows-what hour, standing in the kitchen in your sweats, staring into the fridge like it’s going to offer you something other than the same sad leftovers and a questionable bottle of juice. You close it. Two and a half seconds later, you open it again.

You pace. Open a cabinet. Close it. Lean against the counter. Wander to the sink. Insomnia’s a bitch. The hum of the fridge is loud in the quiet of the night, and the soft creak of the floorboards beneath your feet is the only rhythm to your restless routine.

“What are you doing up?” a voice asks from behind you.

You turn to see John standing in the doorway, looking tired, his old white army shirt wrinkled, hair an adorable mess (not that you’d ever say that out loud). His expression is soft, caught somewhere between concern and exhaustion.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you say, shrugging. “Staring at my ceiling was starting to drive me crazy. What about you?”

John exhales deeply, like he’s carrying the weight of something heavy. “Same. Too much on my mind.”

“Feel free to join me,” you say, hopping onto the counter next to him. He doesn’t say anything at first, just moves around the kitchen trying to get his bearings. You sit on the counter, watching him as he searches the cabinets.

You never quite knew what it was. It wasn’t anything obvious, just something about seeing him like this, all comfy in his pyjamas. You liked it more than you probably should.

"You're staring," He says, snapping you back to your senses.

"Am not."

“Are too,” he replies smugly, finally retrieving a jar from the cabinet like he just found buried treasure.

“You’re such a child,” you say, rolling your eyes, though you’re smiling despite yourself.

“And yet, here you are. Watching me like I’m the last man on Earth who knows how to make a sandwich,” He says, going over to the fridge to grab bread.

“I’m just making sure you don’t burn the kitchen down,” you lie, folding your arms.

“With peanut butter?” John questions, eyebrow quirked up.

“You never know.”

He rolls his eyes at you and tosses his bread in the toaster as he goes to try to find the jam for his PB&J.

Just then, there's a quiet creak, the unmistakable sound of someone stepping into the kitchen. You and John both glance over to see Bob walk in, clearly not realising anyone else is there yet. He grabs a glass, eyes still adjusting to the light, then turns around.

He stops in his tracks when he sees the two of you. His hair’s sticking up like he’d just rolled out of bed, and he's holding his empty glass like he’s just been caught stealing. In an instant, his powers kick in, the glass shattering in his hand.

“Oh shit, I’ll…” Bob blurts, immediately rushing to pick up the broken glass with his hands.

John’s on the move before the words even finish leaving Bob’s mouth, already halfway across the kitchen, when he heard the glass break. “Be careful, you’ll hurt yourself—”

“I can’t get cut, remember?” Bob says with a small grin, crouched and collecting the shards like it’s no big deal.

John hesitates, hand still extended like he might intercept him anyway. He often forgot just how strong Bob actually was, it wasn’t something he ever led with. Something about the way he carried himself made you want to protect him, even if he was as strong as a God. Same for the rest of the team, probably.

“Still…” John mutters, his concern clinging stubbornly to the edge of his voice, even if it had no real argument to stand on.

You hop off the counter, bare feet, making a quick dash to the broom closet. “What are you even doing awake, Bob?”

“My mind was too busy. Plus, I’m kind of hungry,” he replies, tossing the glass shards in the bin. You start sweeping up the remnants of glass left on the floor when you get an idea.

“Wanna have a midnight snack?” you offer.

“It’s 3 a.m.,” John cuts in, after glancing at his watch.

You flash him a quick grin. “Wanna have a 3 a.m. snack?”

Bob nods, his grin matching yours now. You make quick work of sweeping up any remaining glass on the floor, and the two of you start raiding the fridge like a pair of delinquents. John watches from the side, towel slung over his shoulder, arms crossed. He rolls his eyes, but there’s the faintest curve of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“I swear, the two of you are going to be the death of me.”

There’s a beat of silence as you and Bob settle on cereal, clinking spoons against mismatched bowls.

“Do you smell that?” Bob asks, nose wrinkling slightly.

There’s a very distinct burning smell filling the room, thick and bitter.

“The toast,” John grumbles, fingers running through his hair.

“I told you,” you gloat with a smug grin, watching as he rushes to the toaster.

He yanks the lever up and pulls out what is no longer a slice of bread but a small, blackened slab of charcoal.

“It’s cremated,” Bob says through a mouthful of cereal, casually stabbing another spoonful into his mouth.

John just sighs in defeat.

“Just join us in having cereal,” you tell him, nudging the box toward him with a smirk.

“Fine,” he grumbles, grabbing a bowl. Eventually, the three of you relocate to the couch, cereal bowls in hand, because the counters weren’t exactly comfortable, and the kitchen still smelled like a small appliance fire.

“So… what’s keeping you both up tonight?” you ask, nestled between them on the couch.

John answers first, his voice monotone. “The usual.”

The usual being everything he never says out loud, all his regrets, everything he’s lost, everyone he’s lost. All the weight he still carries. It’s been quite some time since the divorce, but he still hasn’t quite gotten used to sleeping alone, constantly tossing and turning, wanting someone to be there.

Bob chimes in, “Same. The usual.”

His mind was always too awake at night, too weak and susceptible to slipping back into the darkness. It was impossible for him not to think about everything that haunted him. He was unbelievably touch-starved. He knew touch was one thing that could help soothe the restless chaos inside. Sleeping alone, just feeling the cold sheets on his skin, only made the emptiness grow louder and kept him up.

You raise an eyebrow. “What an open group we have here.”

John glances over. “What about you, then?”

You hesitate, staring down at your cereal for a beat, then sigh. “The usual…”

The silence that follows is oddly comforting. Each of you lost in your thoughts, shoulders brushing lightly, grounded only by the shared sound of quiet crunching. You all finish your cereal, the moment hanging in the air like a soft exhale.

Bob stands, collecting the empty bowls. “I’ll wash these.”

“Are you guys going back to bed?” you ask, stretching slightly as you glance between them.

John shrugs, sinking further into the couch. “I’ll stay here for a bit…”

Bob returns a few moments later from the kitchen and flops down next to you, his shoulder brushing yours. “Same.”

The three of you start shuffling around on the couch until everyone finds a spot that feels comfortable, John leaning back with his feet on the coffee table, Bob sitting close enough that your knees touch, and you tucked between them like the final puzzle piece. From there, the conversation seemed to flow, distracting you all from what was keeping you up at night.

“I mean, you turned my shield into a taco,” John says, deadpan but with a slight edge. You’ve always known he was a little bitter about it.

“I said I was sorry!” Bob defends himself, holding his hands up in mock surrender, “I was a different man then.”

You chuckle at their banter, head resting back against the cushion as their voices wrap around you like a blanket. The warmth of their presence, the soft glow of the living room, and the gentle rhythm of familiarity start to lull you to sleep.

You don’t even remember when your eyes close. Just the sound of them, bickering, laughing, still talking as if the world outside these walls doesn’t exist.

***

You wake up the next morning, so well rested, you’d think you slept on a bed of clouds and dreams.

John’s arms are draped loosely around your waist, his fingers just barely brushing your skin beneath the hem of your shirt. Bob’s head rests gently on your shoulder, his breath soft and warm against your neck, making you shiver even as you smile sleepily.

The sun is barely peeking through the curtains, casting a soft golden hue over the quiet living room.

You know you can’t stay here forever, so with great care and a ridiculous amount of flexibility, you begin to untangle yourself from their limbs.

You pause once or twice as Bob shifts slightly or John murmurs something unintelligible in his sleep, but they don’t wake.

It isn’t as easy as you’d think it’d be, especially once you realise you’re caught in a trap. John’s arms tighten around you in his sleep like you’re some kind of oversized teddy bear he refuses to part with.

And as if the universe hadn’t punished you enough for choosing this sleepover, Bob snuggles closer behind you. You feel the warm tickle of his breath against your neck as his nose nudges into your hair, his arm casually thrown across your side like it belongs there.

“Not you too,” you mutter, eyebrows furrowing as you attempt to wiggle free. But with John locked on one side and Bob clinging to you like a sleepy koala, your options are severely limited.

It takes at least fifteen minutes before you finally manoeuvre your way out of the human bear trap that is your two oblivious teammates.

Once you’re out, you decide to have a little fun. You gently lift Bob’s head and nestle it against John's shoulder, shifting John's arm so it's draped protectively over Bob. The sight almost makes you stay.

Finally, you tuck a blanket around the two of them and step back, admiring your work with a sleepy smile. They looked peaceful. Safe.

You leave the room quietly, knowing full well someone, maybe Yelena or Bucky, would be the first to stumble in and find the two of them cuddled up like that.

They wake up hours later, the distant hum of activity signalling it’s definitely already afternoon.

“Walker?” Bob murmurs groggily, his voice rough with sleep, as he blinks at the ceiling. Then he turns his head and freezes, feeling John’s arm slung comfortably across his waist.

They both jolted upright like someone had hit a panic button.

“Nothing happened,” John says immediately, running a hand through his hair, eyes wide.

“Obviously,” Bob replies, a bit too fast, already scooting to the far end of the couch.

But any attempt at saving face is promptly ruined when Ava walks by with a mug in hand and a wicked grin.

“You two make a cute pair,” she teases without slowing, not even sparing them a second glance as she disappears down the hall.

They sit there for a beat, stunned, before Bob mutters, “Please tell me no one took pictures.”

John groans, rubbing his face. “We’re never hearing the end of this.”

***

The next few nights are tough. Worse than jetlag, worse than missions, worse than running on three hours of sleep and no espresso. You toss and turn like your sheets are made of sandpaper, pillow doing nothing to muffle the ache of absence beside you. You wanted to ask them, just once, to sleep beside you again. Just to see if it would help. Just to see if it meant anything.

But how were you supposed to do that? Knock on their door and go, "Sleep with me!"?

Mortifying.

Still, the restlessness was eating away at your nerves. So, gathering all the courage you can possibly muster, you decide maybe, just maybe, you’d go to both of their rooms and… ask. Or not ask. Maybe just stand there awkwardly until they read your mind.

You stumble out of bed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and go to open your door—only to stop short at the sight of a tall brunette swaying nervously right in front of it, arm halfway raised to knock.

“Bob?” you whisper, blinking.

He jumps slightly, caught red-handed. “Oh… hey.”

You tilt your head, heart thudding. “What are you doing out here?”

He scratches the back of his neck, sheepishly. “I was just… walking. Or, not really. Thinking. Or maybe… not sleeping.”

You smile, because yeah, you know exactly what that’s like. “Same.”

There’s a pause. The moment stretches, as you both tiptoe around the same thought. Then, finally, you take the leap.

“So do you… wanna stay in here?”

Bob’s eyes flick up to yours, and his smile is small, but relieved.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Both of you lie next to each other on your bed, talking about nothing and everything. It feels more comfortable, and you can feel your body starting to relax a bit.

But ten minutes later, there’s a knock on your door. You and Bob exchange a look, and you walk over to your door to see John standing there. He looks as tired as you are, eyes rimmed red, posture slack, like sleep has been eluding him for days.

John notices Bob already there, sitting cross-legged on your bed, half-wrapped in one of your throw blankets.

“I’m interrupting, aren’t I? I can—”

“Stay. Please, it’s okay. The more the merrier,” you say quickly, stepping aside. You were happy to see him, and judging by the soft smile tugging at Bob’s lips, so was he.

“So, I’m assuming you’re both here to sleep with me,” you start, watching as they both sit down on either side of you. They pause. Blink. The silence stretches, thick with implication.

“Well, you know what I mean,” you clarify, cheeks heating. “Sleep next to me. Next to each other in a totally platonic and cool friend way.”

“Yeah, like that…” John says, nodding way too seriously. “I actually slept really well when we crashed on the couch the other day, so…”

“Same,” Bob adds. “I… haven’t really slept since then. Not like real sleep.”

You look between the two of them, then glance at your bed.

“So… how are we all going to fit?”

There’s a beat of silence before John offers, “I’ll take the edge.”

“I don’t mind an edge either,” Bob shrugs. “Unless you want it.”

“I want pillows, that’s what I want,” you say, flopping backwards across the bed. “We’ll make it work.”

And somehow, you do. There's a bit of shifting, a tangle of limbs and blankets, someone’s foot ending up in the wrong place and being shoved off with a muttered complaint. You’re in a Bob and John sandwich, and it’s actually very comfortable. Just knowing that you didn’t have to fall asleep alone did more for you than you thought it would.

You smile to yourself and relax, the warmth of them on either side soothing you more than any blanket ever could.

“Are you guys asleep?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Bob lets out a soft, “No,” and John follows with a groggy, “I was.”

“I thought of a name for us. We’re ‘insomniacs… with a z,’’ Good right?” you whisper with a grin, and though you can’t see his face in the dark, you know John rolled his eyes at that.

“You need to go to sleep,” Bob murmurs, leaning into you, his voice low and full of fondness.

You hum in response, already halfway to unconsciousness again, feeling his hand settle gently on your waist while John’s leg brushes yours under the covers.

***

For the next few nights, the three of you fall into an unspoken routine. Cramming into your bed, trading dumb jokes and half-whispered stories until sleep takes over. It’s oddly comforting. Easy. You've never slept better.

Sometimes when you’d walk in, John and Bob would already be there, lying next to each other, leaving just enough space for you, but close enough that their legs touched under the blanket. You saw it even if they didn’t. The way Bob’s shoulders relaxed just a little more when John was near. The way John’s usually guarded face softened around him. Bob’s quiet glances when he thought no one was looking. John’s compulsive need to take care of him, even in the smallest ways, like adjusting the blanket around Bob’s shoulders or handing him a snack before he could ask for one.

You even caught John absentmindedly running his fingers through Bob’s hair once, his other hand resting casually on your shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And maybe, for the three of you, it was.

It was your little (not-so-secret) secret. Until one morning when Bucky catches you all red-handed.

He rounds the corner, coffee mug in hand, just in time to catch John and Bob exiting your room. They're both rumpled and sleepy-eyed, Bob rubbing the back of his neck, John trying to quietly shut your door.

They both freeze when they see him.

Bucky raises an eyebrow, lips already twitching.

“It really isn’t what it looks like,” John says quickly, holding up his hands like he’s surrendering.

Bucky takes a slow sip from his mug, never breaking eye contact. “And I’m really not sure I want to know, Walker.”

Bob makes a small noise of protest, like he wants to clarify something, but then thinks better of it.

“But whatever helps you sleep at night,” Bucky deadpans, walking past them.

John takes a breath while Bob chokes on air.

Trying to eat breakfast after that was… an ordeal, to say the least. Ava was in the kitchen, minding her business but clearly listening, her facial expressions and raised brows doing all the talking. And Alexei (of course) was making himself at home, throwing not-so-subtle glances your way that made you want to crawl into a hole and never come out.

“I think it’s a great idea,” Alexei comments casually, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Young people need warmth. Back in my day, we shared beds all the time for survival.”

“Right,” you mutter, pushing cereal around in your bowl.

“Nothing brings people closer than shared body heat,” he continues.

“Ugh…” you groan, dropping your spoon. But all this was worth it. You needed them in your bed… for completely platonic reasons. Obviously.

That night, you open the door to see John already leaning against the frame like he owns the place.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” you say with mock grandeur, stepping aside to let him in.

John heads straight to your bed, dropping onto it like it's his. He leans back, gets comfortable, then pauses—his brow furrowing.

“Have you been eating cookies in here?”

“…No,” you lie, a little too quickly.

John shifts, brushing a hand across the blanket with exaggerated suspicion. “I can feel the crumbs,” he says, deadpan.

You roll your eyes, not wanting to hear the full lecture. “Okay, maybe one cookie. Or maybe it was more like… four.”

John sighs, dragging a hand through his hair, clearly fighting the urge to launch into a full monologue about hygiene and cookie crumbs.

“I’m not sleeping in your cookie-infested bed,” he mutters, shooting you a look. “Couldn’t you have, I don’t know, used a plate instead of just rawdogging it with your comforter?”

“Who takes a plate of cookies to bed?” you argue, arms crossed, as if this is a totally reasonable lifestyle choice.

John just stares at you. “People who respect baked goods and their sheets,” he rebuts dryly, rubbing his temple like you’re this close to giving him a headache. “When Bob gets here, we’ll just go to my room instead.”

But ten minutes pass. Then fifteen.

And still—no Bob.

You glance at the clock, then at John. “Think we should check on him?” you ask, the teasing drained from your voice now.

You were both beyond concerned.

Something wasn’t right.

John nods, and you follow behind him in silence, heart tight in your chest, hoping Bob’s alright.

“Bob? Are you in there?” John calls out, knocking once, then again, louder this time. But there’s no response.

He tries the handle. Unlocked.

Pushing the door open, you’re met with a rush of cold air. The window had been left wide open, the curtains fluttering slightly in the night breeze. The room is dim, quiet, and strangely still.

Then you see it—a Bob-shaped lump curled in the corner, knees drawn in, arms wrapped around himself like he’s trying to hold something in… or keep everything else out.

“Bob?” you say gently, voice soft but urgent, as you and John step carefully inside.

He doesn’t move. Still cradled in the same position. Shoulders tight. Breathing shallow.

The two of you lower yourselves to the floor, sitting near but not too close, not wanting to spook him, not wanting to leave him alone either.

“I’m fine,” Bob says after a long silence. His voice is thin. Flat. The kind of “fine” that clearly means anything but.

“This doesn’t look fine,” John replies quietly, a mix of concern and frustration in his voice.

You take in his dishevelled form—hair messy and clinging to his forehead, eyes wet with tears that he hadn’t bothered to wipe away. His whole body looks like it’s holding something heavy, like whatever’s going on inside him is too much to carry alone.

“You can tell us when you’re ready,” you say gently, your voice steady despite the ache building in your chest. “But we’re not leaving you alone.”

“We’ll stay on the floor with you all night if we have to,” John adds, firm and honest, with no hesitation.

Bob looks between the two of you, eyes wide and shining, like the idea of someone staying is new and almost too much to believe.

“You don’t understand…” he whispers, voice cracking. “If I lose control... I don’t hurt just me. I hurt everyone.”

Bob closes his eyes, and the memories hit him like a freight train—what happened in New York flashing through his mind as vividly as if it were happening again. He can still hear the screams, the panic in the streets, the chaos he caused. What he became. The helplessness of knowing that at any moment, it could all slip again. He could become that thing. And there’d be no undoing it.

“Bob,” you say gently, grounding him, your voice pulling him back from the edge.

His glassy eyes flutter open to the sight of you and John. He could see that you cared, more than he was used to.

“If you lose control,” you continue, steady and unwavering, “every single one of us will be here to bring you back.”

“This will never be something you have to fight on your own. Never again,” John says, his voice thick with conviction.

And that’s when Bob breaks.

The weight he’s been carrying finally cracks, and he collapses into John’s arms, sobbing, raw and unfiltered. He reaches for your hand, grip tightens around it as soon as you find it.

You stay there, the three of you, only the sound of Bob’s soft, trembling breaths audible. No one rushes him. No one lets go.

By the time you’re all finally drifting into sleep, slouched against each other on the floor, the first light of morning is creeping through the window.

***

The next day is a lot brighter.

The whole team is sent out on a mission that almost goes smoothly, if you don’t count the narrowly avoided international incident and the flaming jeep that somehow ended up in a fountain. But no one’s seriously hurt, and considering the usual chaos, that’s practically a win.

By the time you all make it back to the tower, bones are aching, eyes are heavy, and moods are dangerously close to cranky.

Then someone smells it.

Food. Real food.

The delicious scent winds through the hallways. The team practically floats toward the kitchen on instinct, lured like cartoon characters by the promise of actual food.

You spot Bob at the stove, apron slightly crooked, sleeves rolled up, a little flushed from the heat. You rush over to him, ruffling his hair without hesitation.

“You didn’t have to,” you say, smiling.

“I felt better today,” Bob says, glancing at you shyly, then smiling a little more freely. “So… I thought this might help. Everyone seemed like they needed something good.”

His eyes flick briefly to John, who’s leaning against the doorway, watching with soft approval.

“Well, thank you. We really appreciate it,” John says. “Plus, it’s definitely better than whatever the hell Alexei made last week.”

Alexei pipes up from the table, “It was fusion.”

“It was a war crime,” Ava mutters.

Everyone laughs, the tension melting into the kind of easy camaraderie that doesn’t come often, but when it does, it means something.

The whole time you eat, you feel it, that strange warmth in your chest, like a string pulled gently taut between the three of you. You catch yourself looking forward to nightfall in a way you never used to.

Like clockwork, they enter your room that night, John with a tired smile, Bob already carrying a pillow under one arm like he’s making himself at home. You scoot over to make space as they settle in on either side of you.

“Can you both do something for me?” you ask softly, voice barely above a whisper.

“Name it,” Bob replies without hesitation, already leaning closer.

“No judgment,” you say, a bit embarrassed, “but… can you run your fingers through my hair?”

There’s a beat of silence, then two sets of hands move almost simultaneously. No teasing. No questions. Just soft fingers brushing through your hair, careful and gentle.

You lean into their touch. Each stroke sends a calm shiver down your spine, melting tension from your body. You don’t mean to fall asleep, not that fast, but your eyes flutter shut and the weight of the day slips away before you even realise it.

“She’s been falling asleep a lot quicker lately,” John comments quietly, pulling the blanket up over you.

Bob nods, watching your steady breathing. “Yeah… think she just needed to feel safe.” His hand lingers for a moment, brushing a stray strand from your face before settling back. Then something happens that makes them question everything.

You moan.

“Did you…?” John starts with a mix of hesitation and curiosity, but he’s cut off when you mumble in your sleep.

“John…” you whisper softly, dream-heavy and far too sweet.

Both of them freeze. Bob’s hand goes still on the blanket, and John stares at you like you just hit him with a truck. You continue, a few more unintelligible whimpers slipping out. They’re soft, needy little sounds that make both men immediately and awkwardly alert.

Your brows scrunch in your sleep, and then another mumble: “Bob…so good…”

Their hands are completely out of your hair now, as though it burned them. They exchange a wide-eyed look.

“What’s happening?” Bob says, whispering like the room itself might judge him.

“She’s dreaming,” John mutters back, blinking at you. “But… of what exactly?”

“She said both our names.”

“I know.” A pause. “Do you think we should wake her up?”

“No,” Bob cuts in quickly, eyes fixed on you, like you might say something even more incriminating. “We should let her sleep.”

They both sit stiffly now, backs straight, trying very hard to think about anything else as you sigh contentedly in your sleep, clearly having a very different kind of night than they are.

“Whatever it is,” John finally mutters, “it must be really good.”

“Walker…” Bob says, voice low and barely above a whisper.

“I’m just saying,” John mutters, lifting his hands in defence. The blonde’s ears were still pink, eyes wide. “I’ve never heard her make noises like that. That had to be… something.”

Bob runs a hand through his hair, clearly flustered. “Yeah, something. Something that included both of us.”

John sinks a little deeper into the mattress, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. “That’s what I’m saying.”

You gasp softly in your sleep, a breathy “Holy shit…” slipping out before your voice finally fades into silence. Your breathing evens out, those needy little noises replaced by soft, peaceful snores.

They both freeze, eyes locked on you like you’re a live grenade in the middle of the bed.

And then, finally, you shift slightly and curl in, utterly unaware of the absolute panic you’ve left in your wake.

John exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “Let’s just… go to bed.”

“Goodnight, Walker,” Bob says, still sounding dazed.

They lay back down, each careful not to touch you or each other as if contact might electrocute them. They eventually fall asleep, but their minds? Nowhere near quiet. And between the memories of your sleep-talking and the unanswered questions hanging thick in the air, it ends up being the most uncomfortable restful night either of them has had.

***

The blankets rustle and shift, and you move closer to the two of them, shuffling about as you fight to get comfy.

“You need to stop moving,” John grumbles, his voice gravely as he's already half-asleep.

“I’m just trying to get comfortable,” you argue, shuffling over to press against Bob, who whines in protest.

“You really do need to stop moving like that,” Bob chimes in, his voice a little breathy, not entirely annoyed.

John’s hand finds your hip, firm but gentle, holding you still. “John…” you whisper, suddenly aware of how close his body is pressed against your back.

He leans down, lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, “Do you want this as much as we do?”

You look between the two of them and let out a soft, shaky breath. “Yes.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for days, and then John’s lips are at your neck, slow and deliberate. Bob’s hands find your waist, pulling you closer, grounding you.

“Can I?” he asks gently, his eyes searching yours.

“Yes, Bob…”, you reply, and he leans in, your lips meeting in a kiss that’s careful at first, but quickly deepens. It’s a little messy, a little desperate, like he’s been waiting too long to do this. Pulling back, you gasp softly, breath mingling in the space between you.

Looking up at both of them, your words are a whisper, “I need you so bad.”

Your pleas are interrupted as John’s hands climb up your shirt and under your bra. It’s like everything he did was made to make you fall apart.

As if you weren’t overwhelmed enough, you feel Bob’s lips on your neck. His tongue tracing patterns, his lips kissing your sensitive spots so hard that it makes your toes curl.

Then suddenly all the touches stop, and you find yourself trying to catch up to the shift in the air. You’re about to open your mouth and whine about it when you notice them looking at each other.

It’s charged and quiet, electric, even.

Then John’s hand lifts, tentative, almost hesitant, and his fingers curl into Bob’s hair, like he’s done it before, or thought about doing it a thousand times. He leans in, and they kiss. It’s entrancing, the way their bodies shift toward each other like magnets finally giving in to the pull.

You’re sure you saw tongue.

Watching them kiss was a once in a lifetime experience and the fact that it was happening on top of you, “Holy shit…”

Was this heaven?

You wake up, still a little dazed from that crazy dream you had, but feeling refreshed nonetheless. But you can’t lie, you wanted (needed) to see the end of that dream, but life couldn’t be so easy.

As you start to shake off the haze, you’re expecting the usual warmth, an arm slung around your waist, maybe a leg tangled with yours. Instead, there's nothing but cold sheets and the sharp absence of closeness. Your hand stretches out and touches only air. You blink groggily and glance around to see both Bob and John at opposite ends of the bed, practically clinging to the edges like there’s a force field between them, and you.

You let out a big, unfiltered yawn, and both of them twitch. Like actual startled animals.

They exchange a glance above you, a rapid, silent conversation with widened eyes and furrowed brows before both sit up like someone just sounded an alarm.

“What’s up?” you ask, squinting at them suspiciously. “You two look like you just got caught doing something illegal.”

“N–nothing,” Bob stammers, eyes flicking to John, then back to the floor. “I should get going, though. Breakfast… cleaning… stuff.”

“Yeah, I’ve got training,” John says, not meeting your gaze either. “Mission later, gotta prep.”

“Guys?” you press, voice dipping slightly with confusion.

“I need to, uh, do some chores. Important chores. Early morning chores.” Bob’s words tumble out of his mouth clumsily as he untangles himself from your sheets. “I have to go.”

And just like that, they both bolt, practically tripping over each other in their haste to leave the room.

You're left blinking at the door, your head spinning.

“…What the hell just happened?” you mutter to no one.

Did you miss something? Or worse, did you do something?

Because whatever it was, they’re clearly spooked.

All day, they ignore you, and you’d never seen either of them act like this before.

John, who’s normally a chatterbox, could barely talk to you on the mission; it was like when it came to you, it was like he couldn’t even hear your voice. And Bob, sweet and usually glued to your side, sat across the room at dinner like being near you might set him on fire. Every time your eyes met, he looked away.

To make matters worse, they break their ‘Insomniacs with a z’ club commitment. You wait up at night, waiting for them to come, but they don’t. Midnight, 1 am, 2 am, and they’re still not here, so you lie down in your sheets on your cold and empty bed, trying to sleep. You can’t, though, it’s the first sleepless night in a while, and there’s no other reason than the fact that they’re not by your side.

You wake up alone again and with a mood. It was one thing if they didn’t want to do it anymore, but to drop you with no explanation wasn’t fair.

You were practically a walking sigh at this point.

Moping in the kitchen, tragically stirring your cereal like it personally offended you.

Moping in the gym, aimlessly walking on the treadmill like your heartbreak was some dramatic indie film montage.

You even moped in the laundry room, staring into the dryer like it could somehow spin your problems away.

And Yelena had had it.

“You want to talk?” she asked finally, catching you mid-mope as you stood in the hallway holding a half-folded towel like it was a fragile relic of a better time. “Because this sad little ghost routine is killing the vibe around here.”

You groaned, dragging the towel dramatically over your face. “They don’t want to sleep with me anymore.”

Yelena blinked. “Wait, what?”

You lowered the towel. “No—I mean—not like that.”

She arched a brow.

“I mean like… they used to come into my room. And sleep. With me. Next to me. It was a whole thing. We’d talk, they’d run their fingers through my hair, but no funny business, and now? Nothing. They’re avoiding me like I’m radioactive.”

“Well,” Yelena says dryly, “There’s only one way to fix it.”

“…How?”

“Easy. Corner them. Trap them. Use emotional honesty and eye contact. Or—if that fails—lock them in a room until they start talking like adults.”

You blinked.

“You’re a genius.”

“That’s what I keep telling people,” She gloats before she disappears down the hallway.

You just had to lure them in. That night, you send them a message that’s sure to have them running to you.

“Where’s the spider?” They ask, both rushing into your room at the same time.

You appear behind them, locking the door behind them, “Fools.”

They froze. Like deer in headlights.

Bob blinked first. “You… tricked us.”

“You sent a code red spider alert,” John added, accusatory, like that was the crime here.

“And it worked. You two aren’t leaving until I get some answers. So now, sit. Talk.”

They hesitated, glancing at each other like maybe, just maybe, one of them could break down the door and flee. But they decided not to test your wrath.

“Why didn’t you show up last night?” you repeated, slower this time, folding your arms like a disappointed parent. “You can’t just… vanish, and not just that, but you’ve been avoiding me. It’s been miserable.”

“Did I do something?” You ask quietly, and from the subtle little flinch, you know it’s true. “Oh…”

You suddenly feel self-conscious and start rubbing your arm to subconsciously comfort yourself. Bob then steps forward, unable to let you be so distressed. “It’s not really your fault. It’s not like you can control it.”

You tilt your head at him, confused, “Control what?”

They both take a deep breath, doing their whole little silent conversation thing before obviously deciding on something. “Your dreams,” John finishes.

“My dreams–” You cut yourself off as your memories of last night's particularly steamy dream come to mind. Did you talk in your sleep?

“Did I.. Oh, I did, didn’t I?” You cry out before almost launching yourself into your bed headfirst.

“It’s not a big deal, I mean it’s understandable,” John says, gesturing to himself with his usual little grin. “I am kind of dream worthy.”

You want your bed to just swallow you whole. “This is unbelievable. I’ll never be able to get over this. This will quite literally haunt me for the rest of my life.”

You lie still like a plank, bathing in your self-pity before a question snaps you out of it.

“What happened exactly?” Bob asks, and your head snaps towards him.

“You want to know what happened in the dream?” You question, your mouth agape.

Rolling onto your front, you suck in air as you replay the dream in your head, both of them shirtless, Bob’s lips on your neck, John’s fingers rubbing your clit through your panties, watching them kiss. “I don’t think that‘s the best idea.”

“It involved a few things here and there…” You say hesitantly as you try to downplay it, but the way they were looking at you from either side of you.

“We want to know,” John says, sitting down next to you. At this point, they’re both crowding around you, and you thought you were the one supposed to be trapping them.

“Well, as you can probably guess, it was a sex dream.”

You twiddle your fingers as if that’s going to make things any better and delay the inevitable awkward silence.

“And we all kissed,” you finish, voice barely above a whisper.

“Like… we both kissed you or…” Bob asks, eyebrows raised, needing the clarification more than anything else, though his voice is gentler than you expected.

“We all kissed,” you reiterate, firmer this time, like saying it with more certainty would somehow make it less embarrassing.

Bob opens his mouth, then closes it again, clearly processing before glancing over at John, who’s staring off, lost in thought, his brow furrowed as if trying to puzzle something out.

“Huh…” John finally says, scratching the back of his neck.

Bob exhales, rubbing the back of his neck too. “That’s… not what I expected, but, uh, not entirely unwelcome.”

You blink. “Wait, really?”

“So…” you begin, your voice quiet, unsure. You hesitate, wondering if you’re about to cross a line, if you're reading too much into the charged glances, the way they’ve both been orbiting closer each night. “Want to make it a reality?”

You almost regret the words the moment they’re out. But then, to your surprise, they both say yes.

You blink. They’re closer than you remember them being, shoulders brushing, heat pooling in the small space between the three of you.

They look at you, clearly unsure where to start. Taking things into your own hands, you reach for them gently, fingers threading into their hair. Bob’s hair is soft and slightly damp from a shower; John’s is shorter and messier, like he’s run his hands through it a dozen times today. They both look at you, wide-eyed, alert, hungry for your attention but waiting to be guided.

You kiss Bob first, slow, deliberate. He melts into it, moaning into your mouth like you're his salvation.

Then you turn to John. His kiss is different—deeper, more controlled—but just as wanting.

You pull back, eyes flicking between them, your hand still in John’s hair as you whisper, “Kiss him.”

They hesitate, eyes locked on each other. But only for a second.

Because they trust you and they trust each other.

You watch as they lean in, cautious at first, a brush of lips like testing the edge of something new. Again, another enlightening experience. It’s softer than when it happened in your dream, but no less passionate.

They pull apart to breathe, Bob laughing a little as he catches his breath. He catches the look on John’s face and immediately goes to explain himself.

“No, it’s just your beard is tickling my face,” Bob says with a shy smile.

Bob chuckles softly, his eyes twinkling.

John opens his mouth, about to apologise or say something, but Bob stops him gently.

“No, it’s okay… I like it,” Bob admits quietly.

They turn to you, noticing the way your eyes linger, how much you liked seeing them together.

“Oh, you really like that, huh?” John teases, a smug little grin on his face as he runs his fingers through your hair, right behind your ear, like he knows exactly how much that gets to you.

Bob leans in closer, voice softer but no less intense. “Didn’t know watching us would get you this worked up…”

Then, in a rush, like they can’t wait another second to get their hands back on you, they start removing their clothes. Shirts pulled off, pyjama pants too, movements frantic but focused.

You could scream.

It’s one thing to have one good-looking, shirtless man standing in front of you. It’s another to have two, both looking at you like you're the only thing in the room that matters.

You know exactly what they’d put in your autopsy report if you died right now:

“Cause of death: Abs.”

And honestly? Worth it.

It’s a mix of heat and motion, hands everywhere, so much that you don’t even know who’s touching you half the time. Fingers trailing your skin, lips brushing yours, pressure and pleasure blending until it’s all one glorious blur.

Your hands glide up and down Bob’s abs, firm and warm beneath your palms, while your lips trace along John’s bicep—so close you could just…

Before you know it, your teeth sink into him, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark.

“Did you just bite me?” John asks, blinking at you with a half-shocked, half-amused chuckle.

“Sorry,” you mumble, grinning. “Intrusive thoughts took over.”

“Bite me all you want,” he says, voice dropping low, “I can take it.”

Bob leans in from behind, his breath ghosting over your neck. “We both can.”

Just hearing that stole all the air from your lungs. In a flash, you’re lying on your back, as John ruts against you. You suspect he’s been hard ever since he and Bob made out, and you don’t blame him.

Bob’s on the sidelines, completely entranced by John railing you, his desire on full display. Without hesitating, you reach out and palm his cock in your hands. “Can I?” You ask, and Bob swears your lips have never been so inviting.

“Yeah, I…yeah.”

You take him into your mouth, with a kind of reverence that takes him by surprise.

When you feel the tip of his cock hit the back of your throat, you gag, a well of spit dripping out of your mouth onto the bed.

“Doing so well,” Bob praises, watching you in awe, as he starts using your mouth more confidently. You moan desperately in response, and that’s all you're capable of right now.

It’s almost too hard to keep up with. And you swear you’ve never been more full in your life. Your eyes screwed shut in pure ecstacy as you try to breath through your nose... You can’t think.

“That’s a good girl,” John says as he pulls you close with each snap of his hips. You had to admit, you loved the praises they were giving you. Each one brings you that much closer to the edge.

Suddenly, you feel Bob’s cum flooding your mouth, his hand holding onto yours as he comes down from the high you had given him.

Then John pulls out of you, climbing off the bed and pulling the bottom half of your body with him.

“John…” You whine, needing him back inside of you as soon as possible, because how dare he deprive you of his touch for even a second?

“I know, I know... so impatient,” He laughs. You’re about to complain at him, but you’re interrupted by him getting on his knees, licking at your hole. “John!” You scream out. No part of you was expecting him to start eating you out. Every part of your body, is freaking out and your hands scramble until they find Bob.

As if to placate you, he kisses you, tongue invading your mouth just as John’s invades your pussy.

You and Bob pull apart, a line of saliva still connecting your mouths as John continues to wreak havoc on your sanity—hands, mouth, voice, all driving you further under.

“Need you, Bob,” you whisper, breath shaky, and your mouth finds his neck, lips and teeth leaving a trail of heat. You press open-mouthed kisses along his throat, then bite down, again and again, each mark deliberate.

Bruises blooming like constellations across his skin.

You always thought he’d look nice all marked up with love bites, gasping out your name like you’re all he needs.

And now you know he definitely does.

Just as you pull back to look at your masterpiece, John’s mouth pull away from your core only to be replaced with his cock.

You hold onto Bob as John starts fucking you, each thrust hitting your sensitive spot dead on. “Please, John… please,” you gasp, voice wrecked with need as your words dissolve into incoherent babbles. You’re not even sure what you’re begging for anymore—his hands, his mouth, just more.

You feel him smirk against the back of your neck, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. His grip tightens, steadying you.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific, sweetheart,” he murmurs, low and teasing in your ear. “But I like you like this—messy and desperate.”

"Please, fuck me harder," You whine, not caring what you needed to say to keep feeling this good.

Bob groans softly behind you, his breath hot as he presses kisses along your shoulder. “You should see yourself right now…”

And just like that, you're gone again.

“Please never stop,” You gasp out to both of them and with another thrust from John, your orgasm hits you so hard, you think you might be done for. “Fuck!” You cry out, your legs trembling as you slide down Bob’s body, landing in the sheets next to his thigh.

But John doesn’t stop, continuing to pound into you, not once losing pace. Damn that super solider serum. All your restraint and any trace of common sense were long gone. It had left the building as soon as their shirts came off.

You fade in and out, until you feel him fill you up with his cum, your name coming out of his mouth in pants.

John pulls out of you and immediately checks on you, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you puff out, chest rising and falling as you collapse onto your back, completely spent and dazed in the best possible way.

The room is warm with afterglow, breath and heat and tangled limbs. You barely register the sound of movement before John and Bob exchange a glance over you.

“Let me help you out,” John offers, seeing that Bob’s already half hard again.

“You sure?” Bob asks softly, hesitation in his voice. He didn’t want to inconvenience him, but the words falter when John moves closer, solid and warm, his presence filling the space between them.

“I’m sure,” John murmurs, voice low and steady, his hand finding Bob’s hip like it belonged there. His touch is grounding, confident, and it makes Bob melt under it, like everything he was holding tense finally lets go.

“You don’t have to take care of me,” Bob adds, almost whispering.

John leans in, their foreheads brushing. “Maybe I want to.”

And with that, Bob exhales, letting him take control. His strong hands wrap around Bob’s dick, and Bob holds onto his arm, needing him so bad, he doesn't know what he’d do without him.

“Walker…John I—” He stutters as he moves his hips, thrusting into his hand with fervour. They look at one another. Bob’s eyes start glowing, the light pulsing with an intensity that feels almost alive. Unearthly, charged, and very imposing. It hums in the air between them, making John's chest tighten.

Afraid it might push Bob too far, might tip him into something he can’t come back from, John starts to pull away.

But Bob grabs him, firm, unyielding. “Don’t.”

It’s sharp, clipped, nothing like the sweet, careful way Bob usually speaks. The tension in his clenched jaw, the rawness in his voice, it’s not a plea. It’s a command. An order.

So John follows it.

He thrusts into John’s hand again and again, the control now flipped on its head, and John doesn’t mind one bit.

It was something else to see. Bob Reynolds, glowing, tense, his usual restraint stripped away. And still, like he was holding the universe back with his bare hands just to be gentle with him.

Then Bob’s eyes fall on you, intense and burning gold.

“Come here,” he says, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

He doesn’t wait for a response. You move, almost without thinking, drawn in by something magnetic and undeniable. You make your way over to him, and before you can even ask what he wants—

He’s kissing you. Like he’s been holding back for far too long.

John moves his hand away, letting Bob guide you until your back hits the bed.

“Are you ready?” Bob asks, smiling at you.

You consider your current position—John is beside you, lips trailing down one side of your neck, his hand firm on your waist. Bob’s cock is pushing against your hole, so close to giving you what you’ve been aching for. Your body is lit up like a live wire, and you feel like you might die.

And yet, heart racing—you let out a soft, breathy, “Yes.”

Bob pushes in slowly, and you find yourself mewling, John soothing you with his kisses. He starts slow, each thrust deeper than the last.

As you start to get used to it, he picks up the pace, just enough to knock the breath from your lungs. Everything about this—your sounds, your body, the way you looked at him like he was the only thing in the world—was making him lose control.

He didn’t know it could feel so... so good. Overwhelming, all-consuming, better than anything he'd imagined in the haze of lonely nights and quiet want.

His voice is rough when he speaks, barely more than a whisper:

“I’m not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”

And honestly, neither are you.

And when John starts rubbing your clit, it’s over for you. Your moans become higher-pitched until you whimper out, “Holy.. I’m gonna…”

A blinding orgasm hits you so hard, your back is arching off the bed. The sight is almost too much for them both, but especially Bob. When you come back down and relax against the bed, they both go back to touching you. Making sure you would have no peace while you’re with them.

Bob’s eyes glow again, and there’s a sharp cracking sound as a piece of your headboard is now somehow in his hand, splintered clean off without him even realising it.

Your eyes widen but there’s no time to focus on that, not while he’s fucking you into a new dimension.

A few moments later, your bedroom mirror shatters, fractured by the force of the moment as he loses himself in you completely.

He starts to hesitate, breath catching, the weight of everything creeping in, but then he feels John’s hand on his back, steady and grounding, soothing him.

“Keep going,” John says, and all Bob wants to do is listen.

He ruts into you, fingers digging into your hips so hard, you know they’re going to leave bruises.

Then Bob feels something, strong fingers threading into his hair as John pulls their lips together for the second time. This kiss is more desperate, more needy, like something inside him has snapped loose and there's no putting it back.

It’s messy and raw, and he doesn’t even try to slow down; his rhythm with you never falters, never once losing pace. You love a man who can multitask.

The kiss breaks only when breathlessness forces it, and Bob pulls back just slightly, eyes blown wide, lips swollen, his mind a complete daze.

“I’m close,” You tell him, and he moves faster, doubling his efforts to make you feel good.

“So perfect for us,” Bob says, matching his thrusts to how John was rubbing your clit. It feels too good to hear him say that. There’s something in the way he says us, the way his grip tightens on your waist… it makes you want to lose your mind. There was no holding on any longer, so you let go.

“I–” You start but cut yourself off with a guttural cry, as your climax rips through you. It’s like you're on fire with how the pleasure overcomes you. Your hip stutter against John’s hand, as your walls quiver around Bob’s cock.

The feeling of you orgasming around him became too much for him to bear, sending Bob into his own.

Bob finishes inside of you, his breath ragged as he buries his face in your neck, holding you tight as the last waves of his release shudder through him.

Your chest is heaving with effort and aftershocks, your body trembling, but this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

They're nowhere near done with you. You can feel it, see it in their eyes.

And when John leans in again, lips brushing your ear, voice low and wrecked with want, he murmurs, “Hope you weren’t planning on sleeping yet…”

They could and would go all night long.

***

The next morning, you wake up tangled in their embrace again, and you're happy.

Sore, thoroughly exhausted, slightly disoriented... but happy.

Your bedroom, however, looks like it barely survived the night—mirrors broken, half the headboard gone, and a John-shaped hole in the wall. You're honestly surprised anything’s still intact, especially the bed frame, though it gives a warning creak when you shift to slide out from under the pile of limbs.

You stretch, muscles aching in that oddly satisfying way, and glance back at the bed.

John’s arm is slung over Bob’s waist, both of them blissfully asleep. Hair messy, skin littered with red marks—some from you, some from each other. You can’t help the little smile that tugs at your lips.

You didn’t quite know what this made the three of you now, but there was time to figure it out.

Eventually.

For now? This felt like a damn good place to start.

Masterlist

#bob reynolds x reader #john walker x reader #john walker x bob reynolds #at the same damn time #sentryagent #thunderbolts x reader

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fandomwriterstuff · 5 days ago

Text

⟡Crush⟡

(John Walker x Reader)

Part 2 now with smut!

Summary: You have feelings for John, and it is extremely frustrating for you. Somehow, you end up helping him fix the kitchen sink- inspired by the song Crush by Ethel Cain.

Word Count: 2.1k (oops)

Notes: (Set after the events of Thunderbolts*, idiots to lovers, kissing, making out, mentions and allusions to sex but this one is PG-13, John is a bad flirt and a little dumb (but we love him), reader is a New Avenger/Thunderbolt)

a/n: If you had told me 5 years ago I would be writing a John Walker fic I would've slapped you in the face. But here we are in a post Thunderbolts* world and I love him. This is my first fic I'm posting here, so I'm sorry for any mistakes or all around poor writing. It ain't much, but it's honest work.

It should have been a crime for someone as big an asshole as John Walker was to also be as hot as he was.

That way he’d actually be in jail and you wouldn’t be standing here trying to talk sense into herself. He should be in jail, actually- for that Flag Smasher, all the people he’d surely taken out working for Val…

But now, here he was, a hero and one of the New Avengers, trying to fix your kitchen sink because Alexei had done something to break it at 2 AM the night before.

“Wrench.” John called from his spot beneath the counter. You passed him the tool, watching the way his large hand wrapped around it and strained as he twisted something in the mess of pipes.

You don’t know why yuou volunteered to do this. It was, first of all, extra work to help fix something that was not yoir fault, and second, an extended period of time spent alone with John, whom you’d been purposely trying to avoid after realizing your feelings for him.

It was so stupid. You’d been on a mission, trying to get information out of a former Hydra scientist who’d fortified his compound like a goddamn castle. You and Walker were on security duty while Bucky and Yelena interrogated the guy, stationed outside the door waiting to fight any more guards that showed up.

“I’m just saying, objectively, it’s a movie set on Christmas. That is what a Christmas movie is.”

“It’s about a guy fighting terrorists, John, how is that in the Christmas spirit?”

“It doesn’t matter, a Christmas movie is-” the argument was interrupted by a bullet whizzing past, causing you both to drop to the ground.

“The fuck?” You looked both ways for where it could have come from. You didn’t see anyone on either end of the hallway they stood in.

“Fucking snipers.” John muttered as he pulled out his own gun. “Hold this.” he shoved his taco shield in your direction. You didn’t know why he kept the damn thing this way, but he’d grown attached to it.

Luckily, the shield still managed to block the next bullet fired at you, prompting more cursing from the two of you.

“There’s the fucker” Walker raised his gun and fired, the bang followed by a scream as another guard who’d hidden behind the corner dropped to the ground clutching his knee.

“Nice shot.” you admitted as they walked over to the man, Walker gesturing to his head.

“Want to do the honors?’

“I’d love to.”

With that, you whacked him with the taco shield- not enough to break his skull, but enough to knock him out.

“It’s like they keep on multiplying.” John took a breath and his shield back, his other hand running through his hair. He looked oddly nice when he was disheveled like this. His brow was furrowed and his blonde hair all messy. He had really big hands too. You’d noticed that when he was holding the gun. You wondered what they’d feel like on her instead of his shield-

“Hello?!”

“Huh?”

John looked at you expectantly, snapping you out of your fantasies. “I said we gotta put him in the closet.”

Yes. The closet, where you’d stored all the other guys they’d knocked out. Because you were on a mission. It was time to work, not ogle John Walker.

Holy shit, you were ogling John fucking Walker.

You nodded noncommittally as he took the guy's legs and began moving him, but your mind raced. Walker? Really? Were you that desperate? He was a nice looking guy, that was objectively true. But he was also an asshole. Then again, he’d improved significantly since you’d first met him back in that vault. And you weren’t exactly an angel- you bullied him right back when he made a dumb comment. Oh god, now you were rationalizing it.

You took a breath as they shut the closet, now with the additional guard in it. This isn’t the end of the world. It’s a dumb crush. It’s purely physical. You can take it and bury it deep down.

“Are you okay?” John waved a hand in front of your face. Fuck. You’d been doing it again.

“Yeah. yeah, totally.”

“You know you can talk to me, right. I’m no therapist, but you can.”

“Since when do you care about peoples’ feelings?”

“Not people. I care about your feelings.” he shrugged as he walked back to your shared spot by the door. Shit, his ass wasn’t bad either.

God you was doomed.

And now here you were a month later, a total goner, fucking staring at his hands while he worked on the sink. It wasn’t like you’d ever tell him; you’d sooner die than acknowledge her feelings, knowing there was that chance of rejection, knowing that all of your friends would know, how it would hang over the team forever. No, you had to keep her feelings for John to yourself. Still, you dreamed sometimes of him confessing his own feelings, being able to finally voice all the lovelorn thoughts she’d been plagued with for a month.

It was genuinely ridiculous how good he looked doing an everyday task. He had that damn white t-shirt on that showed off his forearms, how strong and muscular they were. You had never really thought a man’s forearms were hot before she saw John in that shirt.

You passed him a screwdriver as your mind continued to wander. You had always known he was a Super Soldier, that he was incredibly strong. He could probably toss you around like she weighed nothing. Just throw you over his shoulder and carry her off to his bedroom…

Jesus Christ, you were horny.

“How’s it going down there?” you peeked under to where you could see John’s face, his brow furrowed in focus.

“I don’t know how Alexei managed to do this.” He continued to twist the pipe above him.

“He’s a special one.”

“That’s for sure.” he gave her a smile before returning to the pipe. “Y’know, if the military didn’t work out I was going to be a plumber?”

“Really?”

“Yep. My dad had a plumbing business back in Georgia.”

“Would’ve saved you a lot of trouble if you’d just done that.”

He shrugged. “Eh, I wouldn’t be here. We wouldn’t be friends.” “How grateful I am to have you in my life.” you quipped.

“You love me. Who else would fix your sink?”

“I could hire one of those sexy plumbers from pornos.” Christ, why did you say that. Walker had broken your mind to the point that sex was literally the first thing on it. You prayed he didn’t notice how you turned red from the embarrassment.

At least the comment got a laugh out of him. “What, am I not a sexy enough plumber for you?” you shrugged, a nervous laugh exiting you.

“Never said you weren’t a sexy plumber.”

He smiled again, a small one as he slid out from under the sink, reaching up to test it. It flowed easily, as if it had never been broken.

“Damn. You would’ve been a sexy plumber who was also good at his job.”

Walker laughed as he turned off the sink, returning to the floor where she sat. “Wouldn’t even have to seduce all the sad housewives for tips.” he paused as he leaned back against the other side of cabinets. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Like, what would you be if you weren’t an Avenger?”

Oh. You’d never thought about that before. “Probably dead.”

He gave her a look. “C’mon, really?”

“What, that’s why I think? John, fighting bad guys is all I know how to do, I don’t exactly have many other marketable skills.”

“You have plenty of skills, you’re great.”

There it was again. Every time he turned off asshole mode and actually said something nice it was like alarm bells were going off in your head, saying kiss him, kiss him. You prayed for him to follow it up with something dumb and bullheaded.

“I would’ve hired you to be my sexy plumber.”

Not exactly what you were thinking, but close enough.

“That is the strangest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

John sighed, hanging his head. “Yeah, I’m bad at this.”

“Talking?”

He mumbled something under his breath and turned to start putting tools away.

“What?”

“Huh?”

“You said something.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“Let’s just clean up, alright.”

You shook your head. “Touchy, touchy.”

You grabbed the wrench from earlier and dropped it back into the toolbox, watching out of the corner of her eye as John gathered up the other tools he’d left beneath the sink. Your hands brushed as he put them away, lingering a moment too long before he jerked it back.

“What, do I have a disease now?”

“No! No, you just, uh…” John shut his eyes and furrowed his brow in the way he always did when he was thinking. “I’m sorry I called you a sexy plumber.”

“I know it was a compliment, dude, you don’t have to apologize.”

“No, it was supposed to be, and it came out dickish.”

“Everything you say comes out dickish, John. No offense.”

“I know.” he put a hand to his forehead in frustration. “I know, but I’m trying really hard for it not to be. Jesus, I haven’t had to do this in so long-”

“Do what?”

“Flirt!”

Wait a minute.

“That was you flirting?”

“Yeah, it’s not good, I’m rusty, alright?”

“You’ve been flirting with me.”

“Yeah.”

“This whole time.”

His other hand went to his face. “Two months.”

“TWO MONTHS?!”

He nodded from beneath his hands. It was new, seeing John Walker embarrassed. Kind of adorable in a way.

“John.”

He gave a noncommittal grunt.

“You know I’ve been flirting with you too, right.”

“WHAT?!” his hands flew away as he looked up, shocked.

“Why else would I call you a sexy plumber?”

“I thought you were joking!” “Why do you think I’m always staring at you and getting distracted?”

“I thought you just had focus problems! Oh my god-” he ran a hand through his hair. “We’re stupid.”

“Yep.” You nodded, breathing out a chuckle as you scooched yourself over to sit directly next to John. You could feel his body heat radiating out. He did say Super Soldiers ran warm once. It was true.

“So now what?” you looked up at him.

He turned. “I could kiss you?”

“Sounds good.”

He didn’t need any more prompting from there. John smashed his lips to yours, desperate and frustrated, but restrained, like he was making a conscious effort to not scare her off. His hands went to cradle your face as you kissed back, threading a hand through his hair and putting another on his shoulder.

You didn’t know who initiated it, but all of a sudden your tongues were in each other's mouths, eliciting a small groan of pleasure from you. He was as good as she imagined him to be. And you’d imagined it a lot.

One hand traveled down to your waist, wrapping around your back and tugging you over to his lap. God, he was strong. Your hands gripped his arms, feeling the muscles in his biceps, the ones you’d stared at so often. Thank God for Alexei and breaking the damn sink, you thought.

You both gasped for air as they pulled apart, having remained attached to each other as long as humanly possible. You opened her eyes to see his blue ones peering up at her, grinning like an idiot. Not in the cocky, annoying way he usually did. This was a pure happy smile, one that carried the weight of all the pining and longing of the past two months.

“You’re a good kisser.” you rubbed his cheek gently with your thumb, his head leaning into the touch. He reached for it with his free hand and pulled it to his mouth, placing a small kiss on it.

“I’m alright.”

“Give yourself some credit, Walker.” you leaned in to peck his cheek, but his head turned to meet his lips to yours again. You smiled into his lips as he pulled you closer, putting you flush against one another.

That was when you noticed the bulge you felt beneath you.

“John.” you whispered as she pulled away.

“Mmhm?”

“Is that- are you-”

“Hard? Oh yeah.”

You couldn’t help it.You burst into laughter at his bluntness, which he joined her in.

“You’re such an idiot.”

“You’re the one on top of me.”

“Fair point.” you grinned at him. “If you’re just alright at kissing, I’m interested to see how good you are at sex.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” And suddenly there was the cocky smile she was used to. “I’m fucking exceptional at sex.”

a/n: again, forgive me for my sins of both liking John and for writing this, if you did enjoy this feel free to like or follow! I hope to post more fic in the future with other Thunderbolt/Marvel characters. TY for reading!

#thunderbolts #john walker #john walker x reader

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fandomwriterstuff · 6 days ago

Text

under my skin

john walker x reader

word count: 7.2k

summary: what first begins as a series of bad luck shows you a different side of the man who normally drives you crazy.

warnings/tags: a lot of banter, jealous walker, no use of y/n, forced close proximity trope, sprinkle of hurt/comfort, minor injury, kissing and suggestiveness, not explicit but mdni

author's note: if someone had told me a few years ago that i would be writing for john walker, i would have laughed in their face. but god, he was fun to write.

“We can take a break. If you need to.”

Walker snorts. He doesn’t even look down at you – just keeps trekking through the dense woods at the same brisk pace that he has been since he picked you up and carried out you of the old military base the two of you had been tasked with surveilling before you were ambushed and everything went to shit.

You've lost track of time at this point, but you know it's getting late by the way the golden hour sun filters through the trees.

“Thanks,” he huffs sarcastically. “But I don't need to take a break.”

He readjusts you in his arms, tightening his hold under your thighs and back. You wince at the movement, a sharp pain radiating from your injured knee. He glances down when you hiss, a brief flicker of concern in his eyes before his gaze is back on the trail ahead of you.

He's been carrying you bridal style for miles and has yet to break a sweat. Saying you’re uncomfortable would be putting it mildly – your busted knee is throbbing and your neck is aching from nonstop effort to resist resting your face against his chest. But you don’t dare complain – not when you know he’s likely still irritated with you for being a fuckin’ klutz and getting yourself injured.

You're on thin ice as it is. One more smart-ass remark and it wouldn’t surprise you if he sits you on a tree stump and leaves you to hobble back to the car on your one good leg.

“Besides,” he continues as he looks up to the sky. “We need to keep going. It’s going to start raining soon.”

“Rain?” You follow his gaze up to the sky. It’s mostly blocked by tree branches, but from what you can see, it’s perfectly sunny. “The weather report didn’t say anything about rain this morning.”

“Can't always trust the weather report,” he sighs, shaking his head. “I trust my senses. And I can smell that it's going to rain.”

You roll your eyes with exaggerated annoyance. “And what exactly, Mr. Military Man, does rain smell like?”

You’re just testing him. He makes it too fucking easy sometimes. Plus, you need some entertainment for the last portion of this walk. Why did he have to park so far away?

“It’s… you know, earthy. Musky,” he shrugs, jostling you in his arms again. “The smell is produced by a chemical reaction with plant oils and bacteria when there’s an increase in humidity and moisture. There’s a name for it. It’s called, uh...”

“Petrichor.” You finish his sentence, and then purse your lips to resist smirking as you look up at him in amusement.

He looks down at you, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Yeah. That’s it. Petrichor.”

You find yourself staring at him for a split-second too long. “Maybe you’re smarter than you look, Walker,” you jab, trying to ignore the fact that you’d been thinking about how blue his eyes are in this lighting.

As soon as he opens his mouth to retort, a low clap of thunder rolls in the distance. You hear the pitter-patter of rain colliding against the canopy of branches above you a second before you feel the drops hit your skin.

“Shit!” you exclaim, futilely wiping the water off of your face with your arm that isn’t wrapped around his neck.

“Told you,” Walker grunts as he begins to increase his pace to a jog.

Despite the trees surrounding you acting as an umbrella, you’re both sopping wet within minutes. The rain starts as a drizzle and quickly turns into a downpour, soaking through your tactical suit. After what feels like an eternity, the red Jeep that you’d driven comes into view from where he had parked on a roadside pull-off at the edge of the woods.

He seamlessly opens the passenger side door and maneuvers you into your seat before running to the driver's side and hopping in.

“Jesus Christ,” you huff, as if you’re the one who just carried another human being through miles of woods during a thunderstorm. Walker turns the key in the ignition, violently shaking his head to rid his hair of some of the water dripping from his blond locks. The drops fly all over the leather interior of the rental car, and hit you in the face.

“What are you? A dog?” you groan, retrieving your cell phone from the glove box to call Yelena with an update.

“It’s not like you aren’t already sopping wet,” he snaps. “Now buckle up.”

You roll your eyes, only halfway paying attention to him as you scroll through your recent calls to find Yelena’s name. Just as you’re about to call her, he curses under his breath and leans over, reaching across you to yank your seat belt over your chest and lap, clicking it into the buckle.

You narrow your eyes at him, momentarily surprised. “That was unnecessary. All you had to do was say please.”

“Please stop making my job more difficult. How about that?”

“Good boy. Now, will you please drive?”

He stares at you, jaw clenched, and shifts into drive.

The two of you exchange only necessary words for the duration of the drive. You fill Yelena in on your current predicament – fucked up knee, drenched clothes, and a thunderstorm that is bordering on dangerous to drive in. She suggests getting motel rooms for the night and waiting until morning to catch a flight back to New York instead of traveling in such inclement conditions. Exhausted and uncomfortable, even you and Walker aren’t stubborn enough to put up much of an argument.

You're in a small town in northern Georgia – the kind of town that no one has heard of except for the thousand or so people that live there. One bank, one drugstore, a couple mom and pop diners, and yep, you guessed it – a singular small inn with a vacancy sign glowing in neon letters.

Walker parks as close as he can to the entrance, and then opens the door for you as you limp inside before going back out into the rain to get both his and your bags.

“Hi,” you greet the small, elderly woman behind the front desk. She looks up from her computer screen, eyes wide and brows raised when she takes in your wet, disheveled state. “I need to get two rooms for the night, please.”

She gives you a polite smile and nod before she starts clicking around the computer screen. Walker walks through the door a second later, a duffel bag on each arm.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman apologizes, looking between the two of you. “We actually only have one room available right now.”

You dig your teeth into your bottom lip to resist the urge to curse out loud. Could one more thing go wrong today? What have you done to deserve such a string of bad luck?

There’s no other hotels within a ten mile radius, and this heavy rain isn’t safe to keep driving in. You’re wet, and tired, and your knee is screaming at you to lay the fuck down and ice it.

“Does the room have – is it – are there two beds?” You stutter out. Sharing a room with Walker isn’t ideal, but you figure you can cope if you have your own beds. He is uncharacteristically quiet beside you.

The woman, whose name tag reads Arlene, glances back down at the screen in front of her for a brief moment before looking back up at you with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, dear. It’s only one bed. But it is a king…” she trails off, eyeing Walker up and down. “So there should be plenty of room.”

You exhale, brainstorming a solution to this predicament. One of you could take the room, and the other could sleep in the Jeep, you suppose. The backseat is pretty roomy…

“We’ll take it,” Walker tells her when you start to open your mouth. You look at him with furrowed brows. “What? I’m not driving anymore tonight. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

You don’t have the energy to protest. You pay for the room before you have the chance to overthink it.

It’s not like you haven’t shared rooms with your teammates before. Hell, you technically have shared a room with Walker before – Walker, and Yelena, and Ava. But never just Walker.

While you're relieved to have someplace dry and comfortable to sleep for the night, there’s a small part of you – a part deep in the pit of your stomach – that feels nervous. When it comes down to it, you trust John Walker with your life. But when faced with the realization that you're going to be sharing a bedroom with him, your thoughts flash back to being cradled against his chest for well over an hour.

You hate to admit it to yourself, but you didn’t exactly mind it. It felt secure. A little awkward at first, sure. But also safe.

And then there was the moment in the car when he took it upon himself to buckle your seatbelt. It should have pissed you off – he’s so damn bossy and impatient. It normally takes little to nothing for him to get under your skin.

Should have and normally being the key words.

You don’t know how to come to terms with the fact that it sent a rush of adrenaline through you. All you could think to do in that moment was deflect with sarcasm so that he wouldn’t pick up on the way you held your breath and your heart rate spiked at the small act of dominance.

You had every intention of catching a flight to New York and pushing those thoughts to the very back of your mind until you’re back home, where he will inevitably piss you off by leaving his dirty dishes in the sink or eating the last of your yogurts without asking you.

Instead, you’ll be spending the next twelve hours with him in a three hundred square foot room with only one bed while you attempt to not dwell on these sudden, unwelcome thoughts.

“I’m gonna go get some ice for your knee,” he announces as soon as you enter the room. He drops the duffel bags and his shield at the bottom of the bed as you begin to take off your combat boots. “There’s a diner right across the road. What do you want to eat?”

You shrug, slightly taken aback by the thoughtfulness. It dawns on you that the two of you haven’t eaten since before your flight this morning. “Oh, uh – just a burger and fries is fine. Or a salad. Or chicken sandwich. Thanks.”

He nods, not phased by your indecisiveness. “I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time,” you tell him as he starts to exit the room. “I’m just going to shower off really quick while you’re out.”

He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, turning to look at you like you’ve grown a second head. “No, you're not.”

“What?” you snap. “What’s the problem?”

“You have a bum leg,” he retorts like it’s obvious. “You can barely walk. The last thing I need is you falling in the shower and cracking your head open while I’m not here. Just wait until I get back.”

So fucking bossy. But for some reason, it doesn’t annoy you as much as it typically would.

“Fine,” you huff. “Don’t get washed away by the storm. I’m starving and can't fend for myself right now, after all.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he sighs, opening the door and rolling his eyes as he walks back into the motel hallway.

After the door clicks shut behind him, you take several deep, calming breaths. How dare you let yourself be flustered over Walker, of all people?

It’s a stretch to even call him your friend. Sure, the two of you technically live together. Go on morning runs together, and train together, and work together. Eat breakfast and dinner together most days, and spend a decent amount of free time together on your days off.

But you do all of those things with all of your teammates, too. None of them make you want to throttle their necks on a regular basis. So why is it that Walker has you so worked up?

All you know is that you need to get these wet clothes off of your body so that you can lay down without drenching the bed.

With your knee now swollen to the size of a softball, this proves to be a task that is easier said than done. You'd never admit it to him, but Walker is right – it’s probably smart that you don’t risk showering while he’s gone. You can’t put any pressure on your left leg and your balance is fucked.

Once you’re out of the wet tactical suit and changed into a pair of shorts and a crewneck sweatshirt, you finally plop down onto the bed and turn on the Roku television to find something to watch to pass the time. You prop an extra pillow beneath your knee to elevate it a bit, and silently wish that you had told Walker to stop by the Walgreens down the road to get you some ibuprofen.

You’re sure that he would if you’d just call or text him and ask, but you’ve already been quite an inconvenience today, and you don’t want to ask anything else of him right now. Maybe he has some in his duffel bag – though you highly doubt it, since super soldiers rarely have the need for over the counter pain relievers.

After losing track of time scrolling through movie titles on the TV, you select some generic looking action-comedy that you think is right up Walker’s alley. Checking the time on your phone, you realize that he’s been gone for quite a while. The diner is directly across the road from the motel, so you expected him to be back fairly quickly.

Maybe the diner is just busy? Sure, it's storming like crazy, but it is a Friday night and it’s one of the only restaurants in town.

Just when you open your and Walker’s message thread to send him a text and make sure he’s okay, you hear the beeping of a key card as it’s inserted and removed from the door lock. A second later, Walker enters the room with a few plastic bags, somehow even wetter than he was after your stroll through the forest just a little while ago.

You put your phone on the nightstand beside you, choosing to keep it to yourself that you were about to send him a message to check in on him.

Of course he’s okay. He’s a fucking super soldier. He can handle going across the road in a thunderstorm to get some food.

“Oh, hey,” he exclaims, looking at the movie playing on the TV. “I’ve been wanting to watch this.”

You can’t help but grin at the fact that you’d been right.

“Some schmuck forgot to log out of their Netflix account before they checked out.”

He passes one of the take-out bags to you. “One burger with fries and a side salad.”

You happily take the bag from him, your stomach growling at the smell of the greasy diner food.

“And,” he continues, reaching into a bag that you hadn’t noticed. “Some extra strength Tylenol.” He retrieves a small bottle from the bag and tosses it to you from where he stands at the foot of the bed.

“Oh,” you quip, catching the bottle. “Uh – thanks, Walker. I appreciate it.”

He gives an awkward shrug. “Can’t say I never did anything for you. Grabbed a few water bottles, too.”

You dig into your food in hopes that it will distract you from the way your stomach fluttered when you realized he had gone out of his way to get you the medicine – without you even asking.

It really isn’t a big deal. It’s a five dollar bottle of over the counter pills. But Walker doesn’t exactly go around anticipating the needs of others – especially not at the expense of his own convenience. Still, you know better than to read into it. You’re just tired and the events of today are clouding your judgment.

Clearly. That’s the only explanation for why you’re experiencing what can only be described as butterflies over John Walker.

Once you finish scarfing down your food, you cram the garbage back inside the take-out bag and force yourself into a standing position despite your body's protests. You desperately want to shower, even just to have a few minutes kind of alone with your thoughts.

Walker, still in the middle of eating his own burger at the small desk in front of the bed, turns his attention away from the movie and to you.

“I’m going to take a shower now,” you explain simply, grabbing your duffel bag before limping towards the bathroom on the other side of the small room. You pause at the door when you hear footsteps behind you, turning to face him.

“Are you wanting to join me? Or…?” You ask sarcastically.

“Jesus,” he huffs, taking a step back and throwing his hands up. His face flushes pink. “No. I'm just going to wait behind the door and make sure you get into the shower okay.”

You roll your eyes. “I promise I’m capable of getting in the shower.” You can tell by the hesitant look on his face that he isn’t convinced. “I’ll yell if I need anything. Okay? Sit down and finish your food.”

You step into the bathroom, shutting the door in his face as he tells you to be careful in an annoyed tone.

Holy hell. Has he always been such a mother hen?

No, there’s no way. You would have noticed it on any of the other dozen or so jobs that you’ve worked with him in the last few months. He’s being uncharacteristically protective and considerate, and despite the fact that there’s a small part of you that almost likes it, you don’t understand the sudden shift in behavior.

Once you’ve managed to get into the shower without any further injury, you stand beneath the scalding hot stream of water until your thoughts stop racing and your skin feels blistered.

••••••

By the time you finish your shower and post-shower routines, it’s just after eight o’clock. Walker retrieves some ice from the motel lobby and assembles a makeshift ice pack for your knee before going to take a shower himself.

You’re halfway paying attention to the fight sequence unfolding on the screen in front of you when he exits the bathroom in only a pair of black sweatpants. No shirt, hair dripping, and skin flushed pink from the heat of the shower.

Taken by surprise, your eyes freeze on him as he walks by you. Luckily, he doesn’t notice your gaze and you snap out of it before he turns to face you as he pulls a t-shirt from his bag and then yanks it over his head.

Six foot two and well over two hundred pounds of pure muscle – you’re not blind. He looks damn good, but you’re not about to let him know that you think so.

Fucker. There’s no way that was an accident. How does someone remember to take a pair of pants with them into the bathroom but somehow forget their shirt?

You bite your tongue, holding back the smart-ass comments that threaten to spill from your mouth. Something in your gut tells you that’s exactly how he’s hoping you’ll react, and you aren’t going to give him that satisfaction so easily.

“Are you ready to go to sleep? Or do you want to keep watching the movie?” You ask instead.

You’re ready to turn the lights off and pass the fuck out, but he'd been a good partner today, and only a fraction as annoying as he normally is, so you figure it won’t kill you to show a little consideration for his wants, too.

Maybe it's the tone of your voice or the look on your face, but he seems to pick up on the fact that you have no real desire to continue watching this movie.

“I’m beat.” He yawns dramatically, stretching for emphasis. “Carrying you for miles really wore me out.”

You grab the closest pillow to you and chuck it towards his head. “You know, I was going to offer to let you take the bed, but after that comment, I think I’ll stay right where I’m at.”

He catches it with ease and laughs as he tosses it to the ground, in between the bed and the motel door – directly beside you. He grabs a spare blanket that's folded at the bottom of the mattress and then sinks to his knees.

“I promise, I've had far worse sleeping conditions than this.”

You know he's just joking around, but something about the comment gets to you more than it should. All of the far worse places that he had to sleep during his time in the Army flash through your mind and make you feel a pang of guilt for hogging an entire king sized bed to yourself.

“What?” He asks, kneeling on the floor next to you. It hits you that you're just staring at him.

Before you can overthink it, the words are pouring from your mouth.

“Just get in the bed.”

“What?” He repeats, this time in bewilderment. He looks at you like he isn’t sure if he heard you correctly – or like you’re pulling a prank on him.

“You heard me,” you sigh, pressing the power button on the TV remote and turning it off. “This bed is huge. There's no sense in you sleeping on the cold, hard floor when you don't have to.”

His eyes flicker between you and the empty space on the bed beside you. “Are you sure? It's not that big of a deal. I can sleep on the flo—”

“John, get in the fucking bed.”

He closes his mouth, an indecipherable expression on his face. He hesitates for a second longer, and then stands up with the pillow that you'd thrown at him.

“Okay. Scoot over.”

“What?” you chuckle. “Why do I need to scoot over? Just take the other side.”

“Because I want to be closest to the door,” he says like it’s obvious. “In case someone tries to break in or something.”

You roll your eyes, reluctantly moving over to the empty space on the other side of the bed. You’re too tired to fight him on this one.

“How noble of you.”

He takes your place, slipping under the scratchy motel comforter and flipping the bedside table lamp off. The two of you are now encased in darkness – the only noise coming from a television playing in the neighboring room due to paper thin walls.

It’s silent for a moment, and you assume that you’re both going to drift to sleep without saying anything else, when he speaks into the darkness.

“You know, you called me John.”

You glance over your shoulder at him, though it’s too dark to see anything other than his silhouette. “Well, that is your name.”

“Yeah,” he replies after a loaded pause. “But you never call me John. You’ve only ever called me Walker.”

You purse your lips. He’s right – you don’t remember ever calling him by his first name in all the time that you’ve known him. Sometimes, it’s easy for you to forget that Walker isn’t actually his first name.

You exhale through your nose – something between a sigh and a laugh. “Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“No.” His voice rises an octave. The response comes quickly, like he didn’t think before speaking. “I didn’t… I didn’t mind it,” he murmurs, his voice returning to its normal cadence.

“Oh,” you whisper.

The silence that follows feels heavy. You’re both completely still. A loud clap of thunder booms, shaking the building and breaking whatever tension was lingering between you. You exhale a shaky breath, ignoring the way your heart is beating in your chest.

“Goodnight, John.”

••••••

When you open your eyes, the room is dark except for white flashes of lightning that creep through the cracks of the motel room’s curtains.

You feel groggy and disorientated, so you know that you couldn’t have been asleep for very long. With the way that the storm is raging outside, you quickly piece together that it was a loud clap of thunder or the violent screeching of wind that must have startled you awake.

Goosebumps decorate the exposed skin of your legs and you shiver, wrapping the cheap, thin comforter tighter around your frame.

There's movement from your left and you’re reminded that you aren’t alone in this bed.

“Storm knocked the power out,” he mutters, his voice raspy with sleep.

“It’s fucking freezing in here,” you groan. Your teeth chatter involuntarily.

He snorts. “It’s not that cold.”

“Easy for you to say,” you huff. “Not everyone has super soldier serum turning them into a human space heater.”

You can practically feel the warmth radiating off of his body despite the good foot or so of space in between you. In your half-awake state, you fight the urge to move closer to the only heat source in the room.

“Well, if I’m a human space heater…” He trails off. The bed creaks as he readjusts his position, turning on his side to face you. “I could, uh.. I could help warm you up. Just until the power comes back on,” he adds quickly.

The offer takes you by surprise. If you weren’t so cold, you’d probably burst into laughter. But you’re shivering too much to find anything funny right now. Why the hell did you only pack shorts to sleep in?

Oh, yeah. Because it's spring time, and you’re in Georgia. It shouldn’t be this cold right now. But thanks to the heavy rain and the motel’s lack of proper insulation, it feels like the middle of a New York winter night.

“Really?” you ask lamely. You feel dumb for even considering the offer.

“I mean…” You feel him shrug. “Yeah, why not? You’re cold, I’m warm. You did me a favor by letting me sleep in the bed, so…”

Cuddling with Walker. If your teammates found out, they’d never let either of you hear the end of it. You can hear Alexei’s teasing now.

“Or you can just be cold. I’m fine either way,” he adds when you’re quiet for a moment too long. He starts to turn in the opposite direction when you grab him by the shoulder.

“No, wait,” you mutter, embarrassment creeping over you at the realization of what you’re about to do. “Okay.”

He settles back down, this time laying with his back against the mattress. He extends his arm closest to you, a silent offer for you to tuck yourself between it and his side. Before you can overthink it any further, you close the distance between your bodies and press yourself against him.

Your head rests against his chest, and you throw your arm over his stomach. He wraps his arms around you without any hesitation, and you have to remind yourself to breathe. When you do, you let out a noise that can best be described as a sigh of contentment.

He’s even warmer than you'd imagined. You instantly stop caring about how weird this is and focus on the relief that his body heat provides.

“Jesus, you’re shaking like a leaf,” he murmurs. He runs a large hand up and down the side of your arm, warming you further with the friction.

You snort. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t lying about being cold just to snuggle you.”

“Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

You pinch him just below his ribcage in response to his teasing. His chest vibrates with silent laughter, but he doesn’t say anything else.

You're both fast asleep within minutes. The power comes back on at some point during the night, but you’re still entangled with each other when the sun pours through the curtains come morning time.

••••••

Neither of you mention your night in the small Georgia inn after checking out the next morning.

Not on the drive to the airport, or the flight back to New York, or at any point since returning home almost a month ago.

For the most part, things go back to normal between the two of you. You continue to work together, and train together, and banter persists as it usually does when your other teammates are present.

But more and more often you’re noticing that as soon as you find yourselves alone for more than a few minutes, John suddenly has every excuse to be elsewhere.

It’s not as if you used to spend all of your free time together – but the fact that he suddenly wants to take the stairs up to the twentieth floor of the Watchtower instead of taking the elevator with you is a little odd.

It doesn’t bother you at first. You think it’s weird, but why should you let it get to you? You weren’t exactly the best of friends to begin with.

Then, there starts to be moments that you find your thoughts drifting to him when they shouldn’t. When you get caught in the rain and you think back to how he looked with raindrops dripping from his hair and beard, and when you wake in the middle of the night and it’s a little too chilly and you remember how it felt to be pressed against him in the freezing motel room.

You’ll lie awake at night, wondering if he’s in his bed, directly across the hallway, thinking about the same thing as you.

It's fucking stupid.

Like right now – you’re all at a lavish gala, thrown in celebration of Sam Wilson’s Avengers and The New Avengers(z) coming together to form one big, happy super team.

There’s a full service bar, unlimited hors d’oeuvres, and good music – you should be having a good time.

Instead, you’re staring across the room at the back of a dumb blond super soldier’s head while a reporter attempts to ask you questions about who designed the dress you’re wearing.

“I’m so sorry,” you interrupt her. “I just remembered I have to… go to the bathroom. Will you please excuse me?”

You don’t wait for her to answer before you begin walking across the dance floor without a concrete idea as to what you’re going to say or do when you reach him.

“Hey,” you greet him casually. He turns to you at the sound of your voice, a look of mild surprise on his face. There’s a sudden, undeniable fluttering of butterflies in your stomach. He looks too handsome with his suit and tousled hair.

“Did you try the goat cheese and salami stuffed dates?”

Why that’s the question you decide to start off with, you don’t know.

“Uh – no,” he shakes his head, confusion taking over his features. “No, I guess I must have missed those.”

“That's too bad. They’re fucking delicious.”

He cocks a brow at you. “That’s good to know.”

Well, there goes your ice breaker.

It’s the longest conversation the two of you have had by yourselves in weeks, but there’s a level of awkward tension that you just don’t know how to shake – and it obviously isn’t going to go away on its own.

You toss the rest of your drink back before biting the bullet. “Can we, uh – do you mind if we go somewhere a little more quiet so that we can talk?”

As soon as you get the last word out, Valentina walks up and grabs you by the arm.

“There you are,” she says through gritted teeth. There’s a smile plastered across her face, but her voice gives away her irritation – at what, you never really know or care. “I have been looking everywhere for you.”

You sigh, unable to hide your irritation at her timing. “What is it, Val?”

She fake laughs, waving to someone off in the distance. “John, would you be a dear and get me another drink while her and I have a short chat? Thanks so much.”

John's annoyance is palpable. He glares at Valentina with daggers, clenching his jaw as he storms off in the direction of the bar.

As soon as he’s out of ear shot, she turns to you. “I need a favor.”

You resist rolling your eyes in case there’s any cameras pointed in your direction at the moment. “I’m here, aren’t I? Is that not enough of a favor?”

She ignores your quip, pointing to where Sam, Joaquín Torres, and Bucky are mingling with a few random attendees.

“I need you to dance with him.”

“Dance? With Bucky? Why?” You sputter the words out, not expecting that to be her request.

“Not Bucky,” she shushes you, plucking your empty martini glass out of your hand. “The young, cute one in the middle.”

“Joaquín?” You exclaim. “I barely know him.”

You can count on one hand the number of conversations you’ve had with Joaquín. You have no problem with him – he's good at his job, a team player, and he’s enjoyable enough to be around. But the last thing on your mind right now is dancing with a man you hardly know.

“That’s the entire point of this whole thing.” She gestures dramatically to all of the people around you. “Bringing the two teams together. It’ll show people how well everyone is getting along. Ava has already agreed to have a dance with Sam.”

“Jesus Christ,” you mumble beneath your breath.

“I’ll give you an extra week of paid vacation days,” she offers before you can argue any further.

You know she isn’t going to let up. Valentina is nothing if not persistent. Truthfully, you just want her to leave you alone so that you can get on with your night – the extra paid time off is just a bonus.

“One dance and one dance only.”

You walk away from her before she can give you any half-assed words of gratitude.

On your way over to where Joaquín is talking to Bucky and the others, you glance around the crowded room for John. You don’t see him anywhere, and you can’t help but feel the slightest inkling of disappointment.

What would you say to him even if you did happen to run into him right now, anyway? Valentina is making me dance with Joaquín and I really hate dancing but for some reason I don’t think I’d mind it nearly as much if I was dancing with you?

Yeah, right. You’d probably just make awkward small talk about the fucking appetizers again.

You do your best to pretend that there's nothing else on your mind for the few minutes that you talk to Sam, Bucky, and Joaquín, but you can’t stop yourself from glancing around the room every other minute.

“Are you ready to give all of the reporters something super exciting to take pictures of?” You ask Joaquín as he guides you to the middle of the dance floor.

There’s a few other couples slow dancing to the live, classical piano music that fills the venue, so you shouldn’t stick out too much, but of course reporters start flocking around with their cameras when they see a member of the New Avengers(z) and the new Falcon slow dancing.

“Don’t be nervous,” he tells you as he takes one of your hands in his, placing the other on the small of your back. You lift your arm to his neck and begin following his slow, rhythmic steps to the music. “Sam and Ava are going to dance any minute now, and then all eyes will be on Captain America and the infamous Ghost.”

“Me? Nervous?” you scoff playfully. “I’m not nervous.”

“Could have fooled me,” he shrugs. “You looked like you might puke when Valentina first asked you.”

He guides you into a gentle spin, clearly far more experienced with all of this than you. When he does, you catch a brief glimpse on John. He’s standing several yards away with his hands in his pockets and a stoic expression on his face – looking right at you and Joaquín.

You nearly trip over your own foot, but Joaquín catches you and quickly gets you back on rhythm.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. “I hope you don't take it personally, because it's nothing against you. At all. Dancing just isn't my forte, and I've kind of… had a lot on my mind.”

He looks behind you for a moment before meeting your eyes with a curious smirk. “Would that happen to have something to do with why Walker is looking at me like he wants to bash my head in with his shield?”

“What?” you exclaim, nearly stumbling again. You have to resist the urge to look over your shoulder where John is standing. “Don’t be crazy. He… wouldn't do something like that again.”

Joaquín throws his head back in laughter. “I don’t know about that. I think he just might over you.”

You roll your eyes. “I think you just might be exaggerating.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. At that exact moment, Sam and Ava begin dancing just a few feet away from you and Joaquín. All of the reporters suddenly lose interest in the two of you.

“Or maybe not. Only way for you to find out is to chase him down and ask him, I guess.”

“Chase him down?” you repeat, looking over your shoulder to see John walking directly towards an exit.

Shit.

“Go on,” Joaquín encourages. “I think it’s safe to say we have given Val the photo op that she was hoping for.”

You give his hand a grateful squeeze before letting go. “Thanks, Joaquín.”

You really fucking wish you weren’t wearing heels right now. As fast as you can without twisting an ankle, you make your way across the dance floor, heading straight towards the hallway that you saw John enter just a few seconds prior.

There's a voice in the back of your mind screaming that you don't even know what you’re going to say when you manage to catch up to him, but that doesn’t stop you from putting one foot in front of the other until his large frame comes into view.

“John!” You call. He stops right away, though he hesitates for a moment before turning to face you. His face is relatively expressionless, but there's tension in his jaw.

“You okay..?” You ask. “Where are you going?”

“I’m fine,” he snaps. “I just need some fresh air. Is that okay?” He starts to walk away again, but you reach out and grab him by the hand.

“Is it okay if I come with you? I could use some fresh air, too.”

He pulls his hand out of your grasp – not violently, not harshly, but yet it still stings.

“You sure about that? I would hate to keep you from Torres for too long.” There’s a hint of venom in both his stare and tone. He starts to walk away again, and it takes you a moment to react.

Maybe Joaquín was right, after all.

His strides are long and quick. By the time you start walking after him, he’s already turning the corner of the hallway and out of your sight.

“Fuckin’ hell,” you mutter. You pause long enough to yank off the obnoxious stiletto heels that had been killing your feet since you’d taken your first steps in them tonight. With your shoes in hand, you all but sprint down the hallway after him.

The second that you turn the corner of the hallway, it feels as if you have collided with a brick wall.

A brick wall that smells like sandalwood and cedar.

“Jesus!” John exclaims, barely even stumbling when the front of your body slams into his back. “What the hell are you—”

“I like you,” you interrupt him. His mouth snaps shut, and his eyes go wide. The martini that you you’d finished earlier threatens to come back up, but you swallow and force yourself to continue.

“I like you, John,” you repeat, softer. “I was only dancing with Joaquín because Valentina told me to. I know things have been… weird, ever since Georgia. You can go back to avoiding me like the plague, if that’s what you want. I just needed you to hear—”

The next thing you know, his large, calloused hands are cradling your face and his lips are on yours.

It takes you a second to realize what is happening, but when you do, you're kissing him back like there’s no chance of an unsuspecting stranger walking down this hallway at any moment. You drop your shoes to the floor so that your hands are free to trail up his chest. You grip fistfuls of the satin material of his suit in your hands and pull him closer to you.

Without ever taking his lips off of yours, he backs you against the wall of the corridor. His tongue dances along your bottom lip and you open up for him, your brain turning to static white noise as he slips inside your mouth.

He tilts your head, deepening the kiss. He’s all you feel, smell, and taste – the two of you may as well be the only two people in this entire building right now. It's too easy to forget that you’re at a very public gala, and that any person with a camera could snap a picture of him pinning you against the wall and kissing you senseless.

You let out an involuntarily whimper into his mouth, and he pulls away as if it physically pains him to do so.

“The only reason I’ve been avoiding you like the plague,” he quotes your words, using the pad of his thumb to trace the swell of your bottom lip. “Is because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about doing that for the last month. Ever since you fell asleep with your head on my chest. Ever since I carried you through those woods…”

He trails off, leaning down to bring his lips to yours once more.

This kiss is slower – delicate and intentional in a way that the first one was not. As if he's trying to commit it all to memory. His hands rest on your hips, and yours in the short tufts of his hair.

“This is all I have wanted to do.”

“So…” you start with a nervous laugh. You smooth the fabric of his suit that you had bunched in your fists back to its original state. “You like me too, then..?”

He laughs, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry, did I not make that obvious?”

“Nah. I think I need to hear you say it,” you hum.

He sighs, and then places another gentle, soft peck to your lips that ends sooner than you’d like. “I like you. You drive me crazy, but I like you so much that it hurts.”

▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎▪︎

thank you for reading!! comments and reblogs are always appreciated 💕🫶🏻

#john walker x reader #john walker x you #john walker oneshot

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fandomwriterstuff · 6 days ago

Text

⟡Just a Little Meddling⟡

(John Walker x f!Reader)

Summary: Walker's feelings for you are obvious to everyone except you. Tired of watching him pine, the team decides to do something about it.

Word Count: 4k

Notes: Set after the events of Thunderbolts*, love confessions, first kiss, reader is described as wearing a dress and being shorter than John (he's 6' 2" so that's pretty much everyone but thought I'd mention it) New Avengers team shenanigans, John Walker yearns

a/n: I've wanted to write a Walker fic feat. the rest of the team so bad so this is it! I do love the family dynamic of the group and this was really fun to write.

“We are out of Wheaties!” Alexei yells out, jolting everyone seated around the dining table. Ever since they’d put the group of you on the box, Alexei had refused to buy any other cereal.

“Oh no.” Yelena deadpaned as she took a sip of orange juice. “This is tragic.”

“Whatever shall we do.” Ava sighed as she leaned back in her chair.

“We will get more!” Alexei declared, storming over to the table. “Bob, you will join me on trip to the supermarket.” he pointed at the man as he spoke. “We need food anyways, Walker uses every ingredient when he cooks.”

“Hey!” John raised his hands in argument. “I make you all breakfast and this is the treatment I get?”

“Oh come on, Walker, we all know why you do this.” Yelena took another bite of her own food.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” he insisted.

Bob shrugged from his seat by the blonde. “I mean, no offense, Walker, but you’re kinda obvious.”

“What’s going on out here?” you walked into the room, rubbing our eyes as if you’d just woken up. John immediately jumped out of his seat, grabbing the extra plate of pancakes that he’d made.

“Hey, made sure to make some extra for you.” he handed you the plate before nervously shoving his hands into his pockets. You smiled as you looked at the dish before you.

John was a surprisingly good cook. None of you could have predicted he was actually competent in the kitchen, but he’d become the designated chef of the group. Today, he’d taken the liberty of making you all blueberry pancakes ‘out of the goodness of his heart.’

“I love blueberries! Thanks John.” you grinned up at him before taking your seat, his eyes trailing after you. Yelena and Ava each gave him a knowing look, to which he scoffed before sitting back down next to you.

“We are in crisis.” Alexei announced to you, slamming the empty Wheaties box in front of you. “We have no Wheaties!” You held back laughter, glancing over at John with a grin at the ridiculous situation. Yelena groaned and covered her face out of embarrassment.

“I think we’ll survive, Alexei. Besides, John’s a great cook, he can tide us over till we go to the store.” you pointed at Walker with your fork, not looking over to see the way his face went red and his smile widened just a bit at the praise. Ava chuckled under her breath at it.

The five of you sat together, conversing as Alexei finally broke his no-Wheaties hunger strike and ate some of John’s pancakes. Walker couldn’t care less, honestly. Yelena may have been mean, but she wasn’t stupid. He liked you; a lot. You were sweet, smart, beautiful. And you would never go for someone like him, so he was left with nothing to do but small things like these. Making your favorite breakfast, looking out for you on missions, saying dumb things just to make you laugh. Anything to see you smile.

“Shit, it’s Val.” you groaned as you looked at your phone. “I gotta take this.” you stepped away, John staring as you left the room. Before you, he’d never been one to gawk at women, but it was getting to the point where when you were in a room, his adult brain turned off and his monkey brain turned on.

“Christ, Walker, you have no shame.” Ava laughed as she noticed John staring, snapping him out of it.

“What?”

“You’re like a lovesick puppy.” she joked, Yelena laughing with her.

“What are you talking about?” Alexei questioned, looking confused between Ava and John.

“Nothing, they’re just being annoying-”

“Walker likes her.” Yelena tilted her head to where you’d just left from.

John just hid his face in his hands, sighing as Alexei processed the information.

“Is this true, Walker?” he asked, seeming genuine in his questioning.

John shrugged. “If I say no, would you even believe me?”

“No.” Yelena and Ava spoke in sync, Bob shaking his head as well.

John threw his hands up, leaning back in his chair. “Fine, okay, I do like her. Are you happy?”

“YES!” Alexei practically jumped up from his seat, moving to smack John on the back.

“Ow!” he recoiled at the super soldier’s touch, Alexei hitting much harder than he intended to. He leaned down to squeeze John into a hug, all but suffocating him in the process.

“Ah, young love. You would make beautiful couple, John. Strong super babies. Would be great for marketing as well.”

“Dad!” Yelena called out from across the table. Alexei just waved her off.

“I joke. But it’s true, you would be wonderful together.”

“Thanks.” Walker choked out. “Please let go.” he caught his breath as Alexei released him.

“Why have you not told her this?”

“He’s scared.” Ava piped in. “Thinks she’s too good for him.”

“Well…” Alexei shrugged.

“Hey, you just said we’d be a good couple!” John cried out.

“Yes, but in terms of leagues, she is up here-” Alexei held his hand up horizontally. “And you are here.” he held his other hand up lower than the first. Yelena again laughed, even Bob chuckling a little.

“You are very handsome man, John, very strong, but you need to be firm. Tell her your feelings. Say, ‘I love you, and I want to be strong man for you. Let us make passionate love.’”

“I am not saying that!” John said as the rest of the table burst into laughter.

“What’s happening?” Bucky yawned as he walked in.

“Alexei is trying to get Walker to admit his crush.” Yelena explained between giggles.

Bucky looked confused. “What, you still haven’t told her?”

“Is it that obvious?” John threw his hands up before covering his face again, prompting more laughter from the others.

“Hey, just saying, you’d be a cute couple. I think she likes you.” Bob leaned over, trying to encourage him.

“Thank you Bob, but I know I have no chance.”

Bucky chuckled. “You give up real easily, don’t you Walker.”

“Look, all of you-” Walker gestured around the table. “She’s out of my league, okay? She can do better. And none of you are going to tell her about this, got it?”

Yelena shrugged, face red from laughter. “Okay, if you’re choosing cowardice, that’s your choice.”

“We won’t stand in your way.” Ava laughed as she stood, taking her plate to the kitchen sink.

“I think you should just tell her. Get it out of your system.” Bob shrugged.

“Yes! Be brave, that is what women want. Strong provider who is not afraid of feelings.” Alexei added.

“I don’t know about all that.” Bucky patted Alxei’s shoulder. “But he’s got a point. She’s gonna find out at some point, Walker.”

“Not if I can help it.” he insisted as he began cleaning up dishes.

“Hey, what’d I miss?” you walked back into the room, John straightening up nervously.

“Nothing!” he yelled immediately. Yelena giggled again as Bucky just sighed.

You looked around at the group, observing Ava holding back laughter, Bob looking nervous, and Alexei looking up expectantly at John. “Okay.” you finally said. “John, do you mind coming with me to this stupid meeting thing later? Val’s insisting I bring someone.”

“Yes!” John immediately replied. “I mean, no of course I don’t mind.”

You smiled, a look of relief that John had memorized. “Thank God, I cannot do this alone. It’s at 11, I gotta go get ready now.”

“Yeah! I mean, I’ll get ready too. For the meeting.” he all but ran to you, following you into the hallway as the others watched.

“God, he’s pathetic.” Ava chuckled as she rinsed off her dish.

“Give him a break, Starr, he’s in love. It’d make anybody crazy.” Bucky warns as he sits down at the table.

“So we are going to do something about this, right? I don’t know how much more of this I can stomach.” Yelena asked the group.

“Walker seems like he needs a little push.” Alexei made a pushing motion as he said the word. “Something to make him act, finally.”

“You want to meddle behind both of their backs?” Ava asked as she rejoined the group at the table.

“Yes, obviously. They both need it.” Yelena gestured to the hall where the two had left.

Bucky ran a hand through his hair. “Listen, this isn’t our business.” he sighed. “But watching Walker like this is kind of sad.”

“So what’s the plan?” Ava asked.

The five sat in silence, thinking on how to get the two together.

Finally Bob chimed in, with “I have an idea!”

You flopped on the couch, John joingin you as the two of you arrived back at the tower after Val’s meeting. After three hours of her droning on and on, it was a relief to be in the quiet of the Watchtower.

That was shortly interrupted by the entrance of the others into the room, ALexei immediately beginning his questioning of how it went.

You turned to John with a pleading look on your face. Please field his questions for me.

John just sighed, unable to say no to you, turning to Alexei to summarize the meeting. Bucky took a seat between the two of you.

“How you feelin’?” he asked. You just chuckled.

“Like my brain is mush.” you put a hand over your eyes.

“Val’ll do that to you.” Bucky jokes as he leaned back. “Hey, I wanted to ask you something.”

You moved your hand, facing the super soldier. “Shoot.”

“Mel’s got this friend, nice guy, good looking, smart, your age.” he listed off. “He works for Val too, thinks you’re pretty cool.”

John tunes into the conversation, focus shifting from Alexei’s questioning to suspicion as to what Bucky was getting at.

“Mel wanted to know if you’d be okay with us setting you up with him.” Bucky explained. “Obviously, it’s your choice, but I thought I’d put it out there.”

“Oh!” you replied, face one of surprise and confusion. “So, like, a date?”

“Yes, a date.” Bucky nodded.

Alarm bells went off in John’s head as he listened. What the hell was Bucky doing? Trying to kill him? It could be genuine, he knew he and Mel were close, and of course there were plenty of guys who’d kill for a date with you. He just never thought Bucky would go there.

“Well, I’m not really sure, it’s been a while since I’ve dated.” you nervously replied.

“Well that’s why it’s good. Get you back out there.” Bucky patted you on the back. “Doesn’t have to be serious. I just want you to be happy.”

Your eyes flitted over to John briefly, catching his look of concern as Alexei droned on in the background. “Okay. Yeah, sure, why not?”

He was so screwed.

“So, how are you feeling?” Yelena sat down next to Waker with a cup of coffee, interrupting his blank staring at the TV.

“Hm?” he hummed out, still barely in reality.

“You know, about your crush going on a date with some other guy.” she elaborated. “One who’s not you. Even though you’re in love with her.”

“I never said that.” he snapped back, although he didn’t move from his spot. “It’s fine. It’s her choice.”

“You’re seriously not doing anything?” The two jumped as Ava phased in behind them, looking disappointed at John. “You’re just going to keep wallowing here?”

“I’m not wallowing.” he muttered.

“You’ve been sitting there for three hours now watching all the Mission Impossibles. It’s sad, Walker, very sad.”

“They’re good movies.” he mumbled under her breath, eliciting a sigh from Yelena.

“Walker, please, just do something. She likes you, you just need to man up and tell her.” she insisted. Walker just stared down at the floor

“Don’t you think if she liked me she wouldn’t go on a date with another guy? I’m not exactly subtle, you all figured it out.”

“Yes, but she’s ridiculously oblivious.” Ava climbed over the sofa to sit next to John. “You both are. It’s why you’re perfect for each other.”

“Exactly! You just need to do something about it.” Yelena grabbed Walker’s shoulders and shook him, startling him out of his misery.

“Jesus, stop, okay! Look, she made her choice, and I’m not gonna get in the way of her being happy, alright? She deserves better.” With that, he stood up and walked away, leaving the two women looking at each other with disappointment.

“Oh God.” Ava flopped back onto the couch. “He’s worse than I thought.”

“Let’s hope Bob knows what he’s doing,” Yelena said, Ava nodding in agreement.

Meanwhile, you stood in your room, fiddling with your dress as you got ready. The longer you stare at yourself, the worse you feel.

You were unsure of this from the minute Bucky brought it up, but it wasn’t like you had any excuse not to. You’d been harboring feelings for John for a while now, something you’d held close to your chest, afraid and unwilling to admit to them. You hoped this would take your mind off of him.

A knock at the door startled you from your thoughts, followed by Bob entering the room.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” he joined you by the mirror, staring into it alongside you.

“Like I’m gonna puke.” you admitted, arms crossed as you evaluated yourself. Yelena and Ava had helped you pick the dress; it was dark blue, shorter than you’d usually wear (“It’s sexy! You need to maximize hotness for this.” yelena had insisted) and hugged your curves tightly. You’d thrown on an old leather jacket you’d found in your closet to combat the awkwardness you felt, though it was still there, and combined with the guilt you felt about John, it was eating you alive.

“That’s fair.” Bob agreed, putting on a hand on your shoulder. “You look great, though. From an objective standpoint. I wouldn’t-”

“I know, Bob. Thank you.” you cut off his nervous ramblings, smiling over at him. “I just feel like crap for some reason.”

“Is it because of John?” you whipped around at the mention of the name, Bob just staring at you like it was a normal question.

“I- what- what do you mean?” you stuttered out.

“Nothing, it’s just, you guys seem really close. He’s been mopey all day, I thought maybe you had a fight or something.”

You sighed, aptly in relief and partly out of sadness. “Yeah. I don’t know what’s up with him. He’s been weird for days.”

“Yeah. Wonder what it could be. Started around when you agreed to the date, right?” Bob pointed out.

“Yeah, I, uh, guess so.” you nodded, confused at what he was pointing out. “You think that has something to do with it?”

Bob just shrugged. “I don’t know. Just stating the facts.” he peered down at his phone. “It’s almost 6:30. You might wanna get going.”

“Yeah, yeah I should.” you grabbed your purse from your dresser, joining Bob as you walked out of the room.

The other four members of the group sat on the sofa, watching some old action movie that's been left on.

Ava whistled as you walked in. “Lookin’ good. That guy’s not gonna know what hit him.” she smiled at you. You gave a small grin back, trying to force yourself to be excited.

“What a beautiful young lady.” Alexei stood, rubbing your shoulders with a fatherly smile on his face. “And a very lucky young man is waiting for you.”

“Thanks, guys.” you grinned at them.

“In fact, everyone should see you. WALKER!” Alexei yelled out. “GET IN HERE!”

“Oh, John been in a mood all day, he doesn’t need to-”

“Jesus, what is it-” John stopped in his tracks as you turned to face him, wearing a nervous smile. He looked you up and down, admiring how the dress almost molded to your body, the larger jacket hanging from your shoulders. God, he wished that was his jacket right now. And you’d done your makeup, somehow becoming more radiant than you usually were. He always found you attractive, whether you were bloody and dirty from fighting, or done up like this.

The two of you just stared at each other in silence, you unsure what to say, John’s brain attempting to process the sight before him. “She looks nice, eh, Walker?” Alexei chuckled as he patted you on the back.

“Um, yeah.” Walker finally managed to choke out. “You look beautiful.”

You smile and nod sharply. “Thanks, John.”

Alexei turned you to face him. “Well, romance awaits! Let’s get you to your date.”

He pushed you towards the elevator gently, the others saying their goodbyes and giving good luck wishes as you walked away. As you stepped in, you gave one last glance at John, who still stood frozen in what seemed like a state of shock, eyes boring into you. You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath till the elevator doors shut, and you couldn’t see the others anymore.

“Well, there she goes.” Yelena announced, turning back to the TV. “Nice work, Walker.”

John didn’t even respond to her tease. He just kept staring out at the elevator doors, as if he was trying to melt them with his mind, somehow bring you back up.

“John, you alright over there?” Bucky asked, sounding a million miles away to John.

He was stupid. He was so, so stupid. How could he just let you leave like that? Let some random guy, who didn’t even know you, know how amazing you were, take you out? It wasn’t right. Jealousy burned in his chest, imagining him getting to hold you the way John thought of constantly. Getting to touch her, to feel the warmth of you close up, do things to you JOhn could only imagine as he tried to fall asleep at night. He wouldn’t know how to treat you. How could he? John knew you; knew the small things, like your favorite foods, your nervous ticks, the way you laughed when you were faking and when you genuinely found something funny, how you picked at your nails when you were bored, how you fidgeted with her clothes when you were nervous.

And the way you looked at him-hesitant, nervous. Not in an excited way. In a way that he knew meant you wanted to get out of this. That you were unsure, unhappy.

You weren't happy.

That thought was all John needed to make him run to the stairs, the others calling out after him. He didn’t even listen as he descended, running as quickly as possible to reach her before it was too late.

Out of breath after scaling the steps, he looked around the lobby frantically, searching for you out in the crowd. He spotted you heading for the door, calling out your name as he sped over to you.

You turned confused as a red-faced and panting John stood in front of you, trying to catch his breath. “John, what’s going on?”

“Don’t go.” he panted, “Don’t go on that date.”

You stared blankly at him, confused at his sudden fervor. “What?”

“You can’t.” he insisted. “Please, don’t go.”

Your mouth hung open, perplexed and surprised. “What, I-why not? You couldn’t have said this earlier?”

John looked down at you, eyes full of desperation and humility. “I was- I was scared.”

“Of what?”

“You.” he said, taking a step towards you. “You fucking terrify me. Because you’re amazing, because you make me feel like nothing else in the world.” he sighed, eyes not moving from yours. “God, you scare me more than anything because I’m in love with you and I don’t know what to do about it.” he ran a hand through his hair, still breathing heavily as he looked down at you.

You just stare back, shocked and unsure. “You mean all that?”

He nodded fervently, taking another tentative step forward. “I do. And I’m so dumb for not telling you sooner, and for even thinking I could have a chance, but I’m here now.” he reached out, gently taking one of your hands in his. “And I love you. I really do. Please, don’t go.”

You stand, mouth hanging open, unsure what to say, if anything. John just looks defeated and terrified, letting himself be more open and raw than he’d been in years.

You close your mouth, settling on a decision. You reach your other hand around the nape of his neck, pulling him down to your level as you kiss him, hard and intense, an act built from months of longing and suppressed feelings, all let loose with his confession.

He’s still for just a second, brain catching up to his body, before he’s kissing you back, snaking a hand around your waist and cupping your face with the other, tongue slipping into your mouth as he tries to pull you infinitely closer to him.

In that moment, John feels perfect bliss; you against him, your soft lips against his, hand running through his hair mussed from his frantic run to catch you. He could stay like this forever, he thinks.

Unfortunately, you do finally have to pull away to breathe, panting as you lean into John, his arms rising to hold you against him.

“God, I’m so in love with you, John.” you mumble against him, breathing in the scent of him. “And I didn’t want to ruin our friendship, and the team, but god, you’re so great.”

John smiles, planting a kiss to the top of your head. “God, you’re perfect.” he hugs you tightly against him as you rest a cheek on his chest. “You’re everything. I swear, I’ll give you everything, if you’ll let me.”

You nod, opening your eyes to look up at him. “Yes.” you nod fervently. “I don’t need anything, I just want you, John.”

He chuckles, leaning down to give you another kiss. This one is softer, a promise of more to come.

You smile, leaning your forehead against his as he breaks the kiss, only to be interrupted by sudden cheering behind you.

The two of you turn to see your teammates clapping and smiling at you, Alexei holding up his phone as he takes a video.

“Finally!” Yelena yells out, coming over to hug you. “Took you too long enough.”

“You planned this?” you ask, looking out at your friends. John just stands still in shock, hands still firmly planted on your hips.

“Well, it was Bob’s idea.” Ava nudges the man next to her, who gives a nervous grin. “We all just helped.”

“God, this is beautiful.” Alexei suppresses a sob as he pockets his phone, walking over to join the two of you. “I feel like a proud parent.”

“You planned this.” John states, still processing as he glares at Bob, who just shrugs.

“You said you wouldn’t do anything about it. We thought you needed a little push.”

“And clearly it worked.” Bucky gestures to the two of you, prompting you to laugh at the insanity of the situation you were now in.

“You didn’t want to tell me you liked me?” you peered up at John, who somehow got even more red than before.

“Well, I uh… I figured you were out of my league.”

“And you are.” Ava adds as she phases over to you. “But if someone deserves the privilege of dating you, I guess he’s alright.”

“Hey.” Walker’s voice has no bite to it, smiling as he looks back down at you. “Really though, are you sure about this? You want me?”

You chuckle, moving a hand to his cheek, him leaning into your touch. “Yes, John, I’m sure.” you pull him down to kiss him once more, not caring about your friends around you. Yelena and Ava make disgusted sounds as Bob claps, Alexei cheering in the background.

“Shut up!” you push your friends away as you pull back, although you smile doing so. Alexei wraps the two of you in a bruising hug, taking your breath away.

“I’m so proud of you two!” he yells. “It’s like my beautiful daughter and my big strong son are in love!”

“How would that work?” Yelena asks as he releases the two of you, giving John a slap on the back.

“Good work, Walker, I told you, express your love, be honest, and then, you make beautiful passionate love-”

“Okay, Alexei, thank you!” John cuts him off, brushing the others away as he pulls you to him. You laugh as the others move to file back into the elevator, looking up at John.

“Beautiful passionate love, huh?” you joke.

“Alexei has some interesting advice.” John just grins as he puts an arm around your waist, walking with you to join your friends in the elevator.

a/n: This is my longest fic to date and it was written in one sugar high induced sitting and I really don't know how I did it. But here it is! Ain't much but it's honest work :)

#thunderbolts*#john walker #john walker x reader

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fandomwriterstuff · 6 days ago

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⟡Not So Secret⟡

(John Walker x Reader)

Summary: After months of keeping your relationship secret, you and John are finally caught.

Word Count: 2k

Notes: (Set after the events of Thunderbolts*, horny fluff, talk of sex, John Walker praise kink (the people have inspired me) established relationship, Bob appearance!

a/n: i cannot help it i love putting this man in silly ass situations so here we are again. Now featuring Bob!

“This movie is really fucked up.”

You turn from your spot on the couch. “So you are watching it?” John stands directly behind the couch, arms crossed and brow furrowed as he stares at the screen. “I’m just passing through.”

“You’ve been passing through for 20 minutes, babe.”

He stays silent, prompting you to hold out a hand, which he (finally) takes as he climbs onto the sofa next to you.

“Took you long enough.” you get comfortable, throwing your legs over your boyfriend’s lap and wrapping your arms around his shoulders, while he snakes an arm around your waist.

“It’s just, I get wanting to get paid, but dude, forcing an amnesiac to be your wife is fucking nuts, even if she does suck as a person.” he gestures at the TV, where an old rom-com you’d put on absentmindedly plays. “Like, I’m a shitty dude, but I’m not that shitty, jesus.”

“You gotta stop talking about yourself like that.” you sigh, “but yeah, this is a very weird premise.”

John throws his free hand up. “Thank you.”

“We don’t have to watch it, y’know.”

“No, I care now. I need to know how this ends so I can complain about it properly.”

You laugh, seeing how he gets riled up over the stupidest things. With most people John has a tendency to be contrary, disagreeing with anything and picking stupid flights over it. He’s been better about it recently, especially since you pointed it out to him. Instead he gets out the general frustration that seems to always hang on him through the most random complaints. It’s cute, seeing what he gets overly enthusiastic or angry about. Last week Bucky accidentally hit a little too hard in training and he brought it up just about any time the other super soldier was in the room.

The two of you sat in a comfortable silence, letting the movie play on in the background. You peer over at John, who lays back against the couch, absentmindedly rubbing circles with the hand on your waist.

He looks relaxed, something you don’t see often with him. His jaw is clenched, head rolled back. You lean over and peck a kiss on his cheek.

He turns as you pull back, surprised a little. “What’s that for?”

You shrug. “What, I can’t just kiss my boyfriend for the hell of it?”

“If you’re gonna kiss me, do it right.” he leans in and presses his lips to yours, smiling as he does it. John is never one to half-ass something. His other hand cups your cheek, pulling you closer before running through your hair.

He grunts a little as you pull away, already leaning back as you giggle. “I thought you were watching the movie.”

“Fuck the movie.” he mutters, grabbing the remote to shut the TV off as he catches your lips again, running his tongue along them before delving into your mouth, as if he's claiming his territory.

You groan as he presses you down against the sofa, now laying on top of you as you wrap your legs around his waist. His large hand grip your hips like you’re going to vanish if he doesn’t hold on.The heat between you grows as you press yourselves as close as possible, as if trying to meld into one.

“So perfect.” he mutters as he comes up briefly for air, moving his mouth to your jaw and trailing kisses down your neck. “Drive me fuckin’ crazy, darlin’.”

His Georgia drawl peeks out when he gets like this; intense, single minded. If the hardness pressing against your stomach is any indication, the blood has left his head and gone straight to his dick, not that you’re complaining.

“John,” you manage to get out as he starts to push a hand under your shirt. “Babe, we shouldn’t-”

“Why not?” he continues to paper kisses to your collarbone, although his hand has stopped, waiting for your consent to go any further.

“We’re in the living room, what if someone walks in?”

“No one’s gonna walk in”

“Babe.” you grab his chin, forcing him to look you in the eyes as you give him a sharp look. It’s not that you don’t want your teammates to know about the two of you. It’s been a few months, long enough for you to know you’re serious about this, and that John is too. You’d just rather not defile another public living space.

John sighs, hanging his heaven the crook of your neck. You pat him on the back, getting a laugh out of him. “Alright, good boy.”

He goes a little still at that, and you worry for a moment before realizing what you’ve done. “Oh, you’re into that aren’t you?”

“Shut up.” he grumbles as he sits up, pulling you up with him.

“What, you like it when I tell you how amazing you are?” you tease, one hand running through his beard. He leans into the touch, always happy to take anything you have to offer. “How handsome you are, how good you are in bed?”

“You keep talking like that, I’m not gonna make it to the bed.” he warns, his hand coming up to meet yours. You just chuckle, kissing him once again. Then his hands are moving back to your waist as he lifts you, never breaking the kiss as he moves them to grip your thighs. You tighten your grip around his waist, feeling how aroused he is as he kisses you.

You’re in for a hell of a night, you think, before you hear a sudden “Oh!” from behind you.

You and John both pull away, whipping around to see Bob standing in the entryway, eyes wide and embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you guys were busy, um, I can, I can go, I didn’t mean to-” Bob stutters out incoherent apologies as you and John stand frozen, unsure of what to do.

“Bob.” you finally manage to say. “It’s okay. Sorry you had to see that.” you pat John’s shoulder indicating to put you down, which he does, his face still in a state of shock as he stares at Bob.

“It’s okay, I know you guys- I mean, um, it’s fine.”

“You know what?” John breaks his silence as he presses you to the front of him, hiding his still present erection.

Bob opens his mouth again, although no sound comes out as he tries to come up with something to say. “Well, I kinda knew about you guys. For a while.”

Once again, you and your boyfriend stand shocked as Bob begins rambling. “I didn’t mean to not tell you, I just didn’t want to like, invade your privacy because I could tell you wanted it to be secret, sp I didn’t say anything-”

“How long have you known?” John barks out, less angry and more confused and irritated than anything.

Bob wrings his hands. “Um, like three months?”

John hands his head, and you stifle a laugh as you look up at him. He just shakes his head, looking down at you embarrassed. You can’t help it, you start laughin at the ridiculousness of it all.

“We’ve only been dating five months.” you tell Bob through giggles. “How did you even find out?”

“Oh, well, there was this one time I woke up really early by accident, so I went to the kitchen ‘cause I was hungry, and you guys were in there.” he explains, still nervous. “And you seemed, um, busy, so I left.”

“Oh my god.” John mutters, recalling the day in question.

John has a tendency to wake up early; it’s built in from years in the military. Having begun to spend most nights in his bed, you’d started getting up with him, the two of you enjoying the peace and domesticity of breakfast together in the kitchen.

You sat on the island, watching as John made the two of breakfast. You never would’ve expected him to be competent in the kitchen, let alone a good cook. Yet most mornings, he was the one making you both food, always insistent it was “the most important meal of the day.”

“Okay.” he handed over a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs, leaning against the island next to you. You furrowed a brow at him.

“None for you?”

He shrugged. “Not hungry.”

“What happened to the most important meal of the day?” you joke as you elbow him, getting a chuckle in return. Again he just shrugged. “Well, now I feel bad eating because you don't have anything.”

“Come on,” he moved to stand between your legs. “I like doing things for you. Takin’ care of you.” he brushed a stray piece of hair behind your ear, the rest still messy from a long night together.

“Besides, I can think of something else I’d enjoy.” his hands moved to massage your thighs, a sly grin on his face.

“Jesus, John, again?” you were still sore from the night before, although he didn’t seem to care much as kneeled down before you. Your food was long forgotten, tossed somewhere else on the island as he pressed a kiss to your inner thigh.

“I like takin’ care of my girl.” he tugged at your shorts, his Southern accent peering out before you heard a sudden noise from the hallway.

You whip[ed around, only to see nothing but an empty entrance.

“Hey.” John squeezed your thigh, drawing your attention back to him. “No one’s up at this hour. We’re good.”

You ran your hand through his hair. “You’re cleaning up the counter after this.” you joke.

He just smiled, pressing another kiss to your legs. “Fine by me.”

“Oh, Jesus christ.” you cover your eyes in shame, “That was you?”

“Yeah. I didn’t see anything though!” he assures you. “Um, besides, like uh. The setup.”

“Oh my god.” you repeat, remembering how Bob would avoid the kitchen island like a plague.

“Well, at least it was a good morning.” John jokes, prompting you to smack his chest. He clears his throat. “Sorry you had to see it though, Bob.”

“It’s okay. You guys are cute. Whenever I see you together you seem really happy.”

“Thanks Bob- what do you mean whenever?”

Bob eyes eiden against, realizing he’s said something he shouldn't. “Um, well that wasn’t the only time-”

“Oh god, Bob you pervert.” John cries out, waving a hand in the air as you laugh again.

“It’s not my fault! You guys are just kinda obvious!” he defends himself, raising hands in a show of peace.

“Bob- stop laughing!” John insists, and you stifle your laughs with her hand. “Bob, please stop watching me and my girlfriend.”

“I don’t watch, yo guys are just always making out in public places!” he argues, shutting up at a sharp look from JOhn. “Okay, I’m sorry, I’ll stay out of it. Congrats, though, I hope you two are very happy together.”

“We are. Now go.” John waves a hand towards the doorway, which Bob quickly walks to before pausing in the wnt raya.

“Could you just, like, not have sex on the couch? I like the couch, I don’t wanna have to avoid it forever-”

“Bob!” the man runs out at the warning from JOhn, who sighs as he lays his head atop yours. “Jesus Christ.”

“I told you this would happen.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You were right.”

You smile a little, again reaching up to move his chin to face you. “You know, I don’t mind him knowing.”

John grumbles a little, though he nods. “Yeah. Just rather he does not find out by seeing me eat you on the kitchen counter.”

“Well whose idea was that?” you point out, receiving more grumbles from John above you. “We gotta tell the others, you know.”

He nods, reluctantly. “Do we really have to?” he squeezes your hips. “I like having you to myself.”

“Would you rather have Alexei walk in on us?” he shudders at the thought, eliciting another chuckle from you.

“Okay.” he concedes, spinning you around to face him. “But tomorrow. I want one more night of just us.”

You smile, reaching up to kiss him again. “Okay.” you agree as you pull away. “So can we get back to what we were doing earlier?”

“God, yes.” you yelp as John lights you again, kissing you firmly as he carries you off towards his room.

a/n: Anotha one. I have so much fun writing these it's silly. Hope you have just as much fun reading them! Signing off again:

#john walker x reader

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fandomwriterstuff · 6 days ago

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𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤.

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: when a mission goes sideways, you and john are forced to hide together in a utility closet.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.4K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), porn with little plot, forced proximity, semi-public sex, rough sex, hair pulling, mild dirty talk, lots of banter/arguing, grinding, john wants that cookie so bad, making out, john walker’s praise kink, unprotected p in v sex.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this has been rotting away in my brain so I needed to get it out !! lowkey enjoyed writing this so much and I really hope that you guys like it, too! 🫶

The plan begins to crumble when reinforcements arrive, mercenaries funded by H.Y.D.R.A remnants, a generous benefactor hellbent on weapons acquisitions in Copenhagen.

It’s another mission that tests the cohesiveness of the team, and with each one, you’re all improving. Everything seemed to go sideways, comms were static with silence, and you weren’t sure where everyone else was.

Shadowed corridors flood with foot soldiers, and you narrowly avoid getting pierced with a high-caliber bullet, thanks to Walker’s shield.

“We need to move — now.” He gruffs, roughly grabbing at the back of your shoulder, hauling you further into the bunker’s underground labyrinth. He’s strong, sure, but not enough to take on ten.

“We’re cornered, Walker. If we don’t find somewhere to hide, we’re pinned down.” Insistent, you’re clamoring to find some momentary reprieve from the chaos, chest burning from exertion.

“And we’re pinned down if we hide,” John grits, clearly facing some moral dilemma. He’s typically talented at navigating these high-stress situations — or so he thinks, jaw twitching as he concedes to your idea. “Shit.”

John Walker wasn’t your first choice as a mission partner — he was hotheaded, bullish, and abrasive. His demeanor was a foil to yours; calm, level-headed, optimistic.

He knew what he was doing in a fight, but there was often a risk involved, an impulsivity that he was attempting to curb. You weren’t sworn enemies, but you weren’t exactly the best of friends, either.

Footsteps clash through the hallways, and you’re tugging on his arm, urging him to follow you as you make a mad dash for what appears to be a utility storage closet. It’s a terrible spot to cower in, but you aren’t left with many options.

John seems visibly agitated, but he follows you anyway, jogging after you before slamming the metal door shut behind the both of you. He realizes very quickly that there’s barely any room to fit the both of you.

Wedged into your side, distance becomes nonexistent, but it’s better than being caught out in the open. As if to reinforce your position, he jams the handle of a broom beneath the door latch, labored breathing beginning to steady.

Boots thud outside of the door, footfalls urgent before tapering off into mere echoes. Catching your breath, your body rattles beside his, hands poised against the metal wall, eyes fluttering shut.

“Genius.” John grouses, frustrated with the entire scenario. Something went wrong — they were sloppy and overestimated themselves.

With little patience for his short-fuse and sardonicism, you bite back. “What do you expect?” You huff, brows furrowing together. “Fighting our way out wouldn’t have worked.”

“Beats being locked in here,” He grunts, bracing himself against the wall. The forced proximity he’s now cornered into with you isn’t the worst thing he’s endured, but it’s far from optimal. “You need to move.”

“Move where?” Keeping your voice low, you’re entirely unhappy with him, unwilling to put up with his attitude. The circumstances only enhance the shared irritation that bristles between the both of you, coupled with his smart mouth.

John’s brows furrow together, attempting to navigate through his frustration. “If you face me and stop sprawling, it’ll create more space.” He proposes, but it sounds ridiculous.

“I’m not sprawling,” With an indignant sigh, you shake your head, conceding to him anyway. Shuffling forward, you stand with him, chest to chest, discomforted by the slim amount of space. “I think this is worse.”

“We’re out of options.” John tries to placate your irritation, but it doesn’t seem to work. His countenance is contorted into a look of perpetual grumpiness, mouth turned downward.

It isn’t uncomfortable, this position — it’s awkward. This is the closest you’ve been to him, save during training lessons, where he’s crouched over you or his hands have somehow ended up on your hips.

Admittedly, there is tension present — you’ve never been fully able to discern the reasoning behind it, but it’s there, festering beneath the surface. A muscle in John’s neck strains, taut as he rolls his shoulder.

Annoyance is certainly one feeling to describe John, but it wanes whenever you look at him. Maybe there’s something more, maybe there isn’t. Either way, your current predicament isn’t ideal.

Using the closet’s rigid metal surface as a brace, the unsightly corners dig into your back, prompting you to squirm. Silence lingers between, curling around heavier sighs and fleeting glances.

You don’t want to admit that listening to John and running might’ve been the easier option, knowing that you won’t hear the end of it if you give him that satisfaction.

Through flared nostrils, John exhales, posture coiled and taut, as if he’s a bowstring, prepared to snap in two. Even though his helmet, he’s clenching his jaw, cerulean hues blazing with an amalgamation of emotions.

“What’s our next move?” Broaching the silence, you’re making an attempt at relieving the tension, face angled away from him. One step forward, and you’d be flush against his body.

“I had a next move, if you didn’t lead us in here,” John murmurs, and you’re quick to glare at him, agitation flaring again. “What? This was your idea.” He quips, holding one hand up in faux surrender; it makes you angry.

“You’re kidding me,” With a mirthless laugh, your brows furrow together, chin jutting out in defiance as you glare past him. “We would’ve been ambushed or worse if I didn’t think of hiding, John.” His name tumbles from your mouth like a scornful parent.

It’s exceedingly rare that you ever call him by his first name; some sliver of him likes it, wants to hear you say it again. He doesn’t fully understand why, but he likes you — likes your fire, your kindness.

John scoffs, mouth curling into a smug smirk, eyes rolling as if to dismiss your streak of ire. “Now look at us,” He remarks, pushing the limits, prodding. “Snug together in some closet.”

Aggrieved, your disdain is visible, scrawled onto your features as you stare elsewhere, finding the chipped paint behind his shoulder to be fascinating. “You can be such an asshole sometimes, you know that? I wanted to keep us both safe.”

There’s a softer inflection laced into your words, as if you’re upset that he’s mocking your choices. Admittedly, it wasn’t the right move, his unwarranted jabs — you did do the smart thing by hiding.

He’s watching you closely, gaze flickering over the creased brows and downward curve of your mouth, across the wisps of hair that dust your temples. You’re pretty when you’re frustrated with him — more so when you aren’t, too.

John doesn’t want to admit defeat, but it’s getting under your skin; he begrudgingly concedes. “Fine,” He gruffs, tongue wetting his bottom lip. “It wasn’t the worst idea in the book.”

A humorless scoff rips from your throat, followed by a nonplussed expression. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” You mumble, still neglecting to look him in the eyes.

“Yeah,” He placates, shoulders jostling in a shrug. “It could’ve been worse.” Leveling with you, his smirk wavers when you scoff, finding some sliver of amusement in the whole situation.

John Walker wasn’t the worst person to be trapped in a utility closet with — the company could’ve been completely sour. Instead, you were forced to endure his scathing banter and smug mouth, two things that you could navigate; mostly.

The discomfort of your current position only seems to grow, metal digging into your spine, enhanced by the uneven junctures of your suit. You wince when you shift, trying to relax whilst simultaneously avoiding bumping into him.

He notices, observant; he might’ve been ogling you for longer than what was deemed appropriate, but he kept that close to the chest. John has an idea, but he knows that you won’t bite.

“You okay?” He inquires, peering down at you with an innocuous expression. It gives you pause, makes you realize how much taller he is than you, his musculature; you try to shut your thoughts off.

“I’m fine, just … This wall is digging into my back. I think you got the comfortable side.” With a grousing huff, you wriggle again, attempting to shift your body enough to make a slight difference.

His jaw clenches, tongue tracing over his teeth, and to his own chagrin, he wants to alleviate whatever discomfort he can. “Why don’t you lean against me?” John suggests, as if it’s something commonplace.

Bewildered, you almost think he’s joking, teasing you to make light of the situation. With a sarcastic laugh, you shake your head, dismissing his idea as preposterous. “That’s a nice joke, John.” You grumble, aggravated.

“I’m serious,” John quips, clipped, mildly offended that you believed him to be insincere. “If we’re going to be stuck here, might as well make sure you’re comfortable.” He shrugs nonchalantly, tone somewhat gritty.

“Since when have you cared about my comfort?” It’s a genuine question, spoken with curiosity instead of something accusatory. You catch him off-guard, gaze finally meeting his own, and he almost seems shy.

John exhales; a long, drawn-out noise that signifies surprise, coupled with understanding. He hasn't exactly given you the impression that he likes you — in the traditional sense, anyway.

He isn’t known for his emotional intelligence or his sense of vulnerability.

“Since now,” He retorts, groveling to himself before shaking his head. “Jesus, do you want to stop being miserable or what?” John gruffs, his cadence seemingly cross with you, but it lacks malice.

Surprised, your jaw loosens, lips agape as you scramble for some halfhearted comeback. Coming up empty-handed, you decide to accept the offer, instead. “Alright.” You sigh, and take one step forward.

Proximity becomes nonexistent, the sliver of distance closed as your body presses firmly against his, and the heat crackles instantaneously. He’s broad-shouldered, firm when the both of you are wedged together.

He’s being nice, you think, which is mildly unexpected. The harsh, metal bite of the wall no longer protrudes into your back, offering you some relief. John is formidable, sturdy; better than the wall, at least.

Warmth spreads like wildfire over the back of your neck, snaking over your throat, causing you to look away again. You’re flush, chest-to-chest, tactical gear intermingling.

Fortunately for you, the discomfort that had gripped your spine dissipates, but it’s cost you your sanity. John unclasps the buckle beneath his chin, offering his jaw some momentary relief.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

It’s as if his own body is actively rebelling against him; from the moment your chest comes into contact with his, he’s fighting against baser instincts. You’re pretty — beautiful beyond compare, even with your curled lip and furrowed brows.

A gap of silence settles between, and he notices the inkling of tension that bleeds from your shoulders, using him as a brace. He’s much more comfortable than the wall, but it doesn’t make things any less awkward.

“Should we try comms?” Your voice is somewhat strained, flustered as you make a feeble attempt at distracting yourself from this. John bites, thankfully, head jostling with a nod.

“Couldn’t hurt.” He utters, clicking his tongue as he reaches for the device strapped to his wrist. The positioning is somewhat clumsy, and he fumbles with you pressed against him.

Static crackles on the other end — nothing, a dead end. Knowing that it’s off the table, he switches it back off, arm dropping back to his side. He shifts his stance, the both of you accidentally grinding over the other.

“Sorry.” You blurt, and he’s nodding to alleviate the potential tension that comes with it. Still, you’re intentionally avoiding eye contact — he’s close enough to kiss, heat of his breath pluming over your crown.

“S’fine.” John mumbles, neck tight with tension when your bodies brush over one another. It’s rousing feelings that feel horribly inappropriate for the time and place, and he can’t help it.

A hush falls over the both of you again, and when he glances away, you’re staring at him, instead. Eyelashes kiss the soft skin beneath your eyes, gaze catching on the shadow of his blonde beard, the scar on his right cheek, cerulean eyes.

He’s stupidly handsome, pleasant to behold despite his temperament, which seems unusually subdued, even now. You swallow the growing lump within your throat, teeth grinding together.

Even with his helmet, you find him attractive — you find John Walker attractive. When you repeat that fact in the back of your mind, it makes you contemplate quite a bit.

“Hanging in there?” Again, you shatter the silence with a droning question, relinquishing the tension and derailing your thoughts. It’s cheeky, but it gets him to laugh, even if the sound is dry.

“I’m not exactly hating this,” John utters, and he happens to look down at you, only to find that you’re staring, too. His heartbeat quickens, muscles tightening as he clears his throat. “You?”

“I’m great,” There’s a drop of sarcasm that lingers within your tone, but it seems to fade away. “You are definitely more comfortable than the wall.” You confirm, mouth twitching into a threadbare smile.

With a huff, John’s mouth curls into a faint smile, teetering along the fringes of sincerity. “Good to know.” He muses, cadence wrought with a twinge of insolence.

Everything goes quiet again, he’s staring — he notices details about your countenance that he never realized before. Your beauty is marrow-deep, and he knows it, knows that he’s screwed.

John becomes attractive to you like this — stripped down of his bravado, the arrogance clipped. You don’t know where to put your hands, but you prop one against his chest; he blushes.

He can’t help himself now, and his feelings are threatening to burst through the surface in more ways than one.

A groan nearly rips through his diaphragm when you writhe again, body pressing into his, your thigh ghosting over his groin. You don’t seem to notice anything, much to his relief.

Uncertain of how long you’ll be glued together for, John moves again, aiming to find better purchase along the wall, hand momentarily hovering over your waist. He steadies you when your balance wavers, causing you to shiver.

This should’ve been off-putting to you — and it wasn’t. Instead, you’re left burning from where he touched you, imagining that hand groping your body or tangled into your hair.

When you adjust again, you feel something firm against your navel, able to hear the subtle hitch in the back of his throat. He inhales — a sharp, poignant sound that seems wrought with stress.

It’s through his tactical pants, and you realize what exactly it is, causing you to bite at the inside of your cheek. Disbelief coupled with shock etched itself onto your features.

There’s a look of brief panic that settles onto his visage; you’re stunned, gaze widening when your eyes lock together. He doesn’t need any further prompting.

“Christ, I’m sorry.” John grovels, embarrassed that he’s gotten hard from having you pressed against him. It’s pathetic that he let himself get riled up from it, and he pinches the bridge of his nose.

In the spirit of transparency, you aren’t upset.

In fact, it’s the opposite — you’re left stunned that he’s gotten hard for you. Some depraved sliver within you festers, wanting to torment him further, act on this tension that��s been brewing long before you went into the storage closet.

“Don’t be.” You whisper, hoarse as you attempt to scramble for a scrap of composure. The sensation of his erection bleeding heat into your navel makes you writhe, coiled with excitement.

John shakes his head, clinging to threadbare restraint, wanting nothing more than a sense of relief from it all. “We can switch places.” He offers, a feeble attempt at squashing the coyness.

“No,” The answer you give is too quick, but you don’t want to pretend like you aren’t interested. Instead, your gaze becomes somewhat half-lidded, tempting. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you actually like me.”

Caught, there is little room to refute your claim, and John is left looking increasingly tortured. He wants you so bad that it hurts, cock throbbing beneath his tactical pants, feeling your body shift again.

“Stop it.” John warns, nearly groaning when you sluggishly move against his body, teasing the growing tent in his pants.

Abashed yet enticed, you lean forward, stretching up onto your toes to plant a kiss against his jaw. It’s slow, methodical — John looks as if he’s about to explode. “I want to if you do.” You utter, tone permeated by desire.

Jesus Christ, he’s fucked; he knows he’s fucked, and you aren’t helping anything. He’s thought about this more times than he can count, and with the reality presented to him, he isn’t sure if he can resist.

“I don’t know if I can stop.” John husks, cadence pitched to a half-growl that sends shivers down your spine. He was contemplating going through with it — here, in a storage closet in the underbelly of a warehouse.

“I don’t think I want you to,” Breathy, your confession hits him like an aphrodisiac, spiking his system, striking him into overdrive. The setting isn’t entirely ideal, but you’re desperate. “Are you sure?”

Too late; John’s mouth is crashing into yours with the force of a battering ram, dropping his still-bent shield, hands flying to seize your hips. He’s manhandling you, turning to pin you against the wall, instead.

It’s all teeth, tongue, want — the banter was only a precursor to festering feelings that were now boiling over into an explosion of heat. You kiss him back, kiss him until your lungs are ragged.

The tenacity of his mouth makes your head spin, body screaming, every fiber of your being set aflame when he kisses you. Teeth catch your bottom lip, and he’s needy.

“Don’t care,” John gruffs in-between fervent kisses, grinding against your body, prepared to rip his belt off and sink into you. “I need you.” His breathy confession makes your knees buckle.

John isn’t too boastful to admit to wanting you, needing you; it feels good to be desired in the way he covets you. Lips clash, collide — you’re kissing him as if it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.

Beneath your sternum, your chest grows tight, burning with a stinging neediness, hands flying to clasp at the nape of his neck. He’s still wearing his helmet, but it doesn’t seem to hinder anything at all.

Despite the amount of tactical gear that sits between flesh, he’s eager to make do with what he’s got, hand dropping to grope at your ass through your suit.

“John,” A breathy moan slips from your mouth, intentionally hushed so as to not give away your position. “Need you.” It’s clipped, rushed, but he’s hanging onto those words as if they’re an anchor.

Slotting a thigh between your legs, he brushes it over your clothed core, pulling another whine from your lips. A twinge of satisfaction ripples through him, but he’s driven by instinct now, with you in his crosshairs.

“Gotta make it quick,” John rumbles, even if every fiber of his being wants to fuck you properly, take his time with you. You’re in the middle of a mission — time isn’t a luxury for either of you. “Jesus, you’re so pretty.” He murmurs.

The compliment surprises you, but it isn’t unwelcome, rousing a fire within the pit of your belly. Needy, you rock yourself against his thigh, gaining scraps of friction that blossom between the both of you.

Mouths claw for one another, connecting in a heated frenzy, both ravenous for contact. John can’t recall the last time he’d done something like this, but he’s craving it, craving you.

Each kiss blisters through the both of you, his lips rugged, beard scratching ragged over your skin. The prickling sensation is a pleasant one, something you cling to, hands flying to the nape of his neck.

In a surprising move, your tongue floods into his mouth, and he stifles a groan, tasting you with enthusiasm. Reciprocating your heated kiss, he follows suit, hearing the whine that catches in your throat.

When your lips untether from one another, his mouth drops to your jaw, teeth grazing across sensitive flesh, causing you to moan. A sigh of ecstasy drags through your chest, wanton.

This is John Walker — the same John that you were grousing with earlier, the same John that had a smug mouth and abrasive temper.

John, whose mouth is disarmingly tender when he kisses your jaw. John, whose hands are kneading into your haunches as if it’s something he’s done a thousand times. John, who tastes like metal and something intimately familiar.

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

Hands relocate to your waist, finding your belt with ease, unclasping it in order to unzip your pants. Your breathing picks up, eager, fingers hooking into his tactical gear to do the very same.

It’s all labored sighs, grunts, moaning — the both of you have become insatiable, frenzied. “John, please.” You mumble, chewing at your bottom lip when his hand brusquely shoves at your pants.

His belt noisily clatters when you’re unbuckling it, and he’s desperate to be inside of you. “You need it that bad?” John grunts beside your ear, hot breath feathering over your jaw.

“Yes,” Unable to withhold your excitement, you’re willing to give him what he wants; but not without consequence. Your palm darts to the swell in his pants, massaging over his erection. “So do you.”

John’s brain hums with static when you touch him, tendrils of ecstasy shooting through his body. A low, husky groan tears through his throat, and he’s huffing like a bull. “Christ, e—easy,” He sighs. “Please.”

Satisfied with his answer, you withdraw your hand, the both of you pushing fabric aside, scrambling together. His hand flies to the spandex of your underwear, pushing it aside as his hips urge forward, flushed head prodding against your cunt.

By no means is John small, either; he’s infuriatingly well-endowed, thick and oozing heat as he ruts himself into you. Using one thigh to keep your legs parted, he’s kissing you again, rough and needy.

Both of your hands find their perch against his shoulders, over kevlar and body armor, attempting to make it work. The positioning is slightly awkward, but neither of you care — it’s all desperation at this point, all desire.

Reciprocating his kiss, you’re clinging to him, using his body as an anchor, back flat against the wall. The space is nonexistent, bodies wedged together, flush and tight; he needs you like he needs air.

John exhales; a drawn-out, sharper 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 growl.

His forehead nudges beside your temple, hotly grunting into your ear, sending waves of ecstasy through your belly. “Ready?” He gruffs, still nudging his cock against your folds, restraint threadbare.

With an exaggerated nod, you’re steeling yourself, biting at your bottom lip, faces flush together. His hips slowly urge forward, flushed head of his cock pushing into you with mild resistance.

It’s slow, at first; he’s a dam trying not to splinter and shatter, exuding tension, attempting to let you adjust first before devolving into debauchery.

You make it difficult, sighing his name as if it’s branded on your tongue, kissing his mouth. The both of you are caught in the middle of some lust-ridden haze.

The tightness of your cunt drives him to the brink of madness, huffing beside your ear, teeth grazing over your jaw. He’s growling, panting, his sounds mirroring a feral dog instead of a man.

Proximity no longer exists — it’s lost to tangled bodies and groping hands, to teeth and tongue, to baser instincts. As his hips sink into you, a cry splits your mouth, and he fills you up.

Muscles coil around you, and he’s caging you in between his body and the wall, grunting when your cunt clenched around him. A string of breathy expletives escape him, hands firm against your hips.

Everything feels hot — the lack of space in the storage closet closes in around you, leaving just him, bleeding heat into your body. His jaw is locked, brows pinched together, attempting to cling to some composure.

As his cock ruts into you, your throat snares with a gasp, hands wrangled into his shoulders. You can only imagine what it’s like to see him, flesh to flesh, leaving marks against his skin.

A shadow passes over his stare, cerulean hues eclipsed by desire as he shifts his thigh, muscle keeping your legs spread apart. Sluggishness leaves him entirely — he’s fucking you, now.

The pace he sets is quick, needy, desperate; he’s all bite and no bark, manhandling you as each drag of his hips pins you into the wall. It’s rougher, sure, but he’s not hurting you in the slightest.

John shudders at the feeling of your cunt, tight and warm around him, clenching around his cock with each roll of your hips. You took him perfectly, as if you were made for him, molded together.

“Christ, you’re tight,” John grits, exhaling heat beside your ear, mouth pressing against the side of your face. You turn, your forehead firm against his helmet, nails digging into his nape. “Goddamn perfect.”

Heat prevailed, licking along your spine as his thrusts grew with haste. A low whine rippled through you, countenance screwed up into a look of pleasure, thighs beginning to shake.

“John,” Through a strangled moan, you’re taking each thrust of his hips, the force akin to a battering ram. “So good at this, you’re s—Fuck, so perfect.” Never in your wildest imagination did you think you’d be calling John perfect, but it slips out.

When it does, it’s as if you’ve reached deep inside of him and flipped a switch; a primal glaze settles into his eyes.

His grip upon your thigh had only strengthened, fingertips threatening to leave bruises in the wake of your crass escapades. His cock throbs within you, hitting new depths, nearly kissing your cervix.

“Say it again.” John growls, the noise sharp enough to send goosebumps cascading over your spine. Your body is wracked with ecstasy, a muted buzz soaring through your nerves, now set ablaze.

Some loathsome part of him craves the praise, your validation — when it slips from your mouth, he’s chasing after it like some feral animal.

“Good at this, you’re — Shit, you’re fucking me so well,” The words that clamor from your lips sound foreign; you cringe at yourself despite it, but he seems to preen beneath the praise. “Don’t stop.”

It’s as if a fervor spikes within him, something buried and gnawing. He doubles his efforts, desperate to please you, ripping off his helmet as if it’s gotten too snug.

Blonde tresses sweep over his forehead, perfectly disheveled, messy; your fingers slip from his nape to his hair, grabbing it in fistfuls. The sharp sensation pulls a groan from his chest, a rumble that makes you shiver.

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.

Each snap of his hips drags you further towards the edge, cock spearing into you without an ounce of hesitation. It’s borderline animalistic, all pent-up and shoved down, now boiling over in waves.

He’s handsome like this — handsome when he’s all over your mouth, when he’s pounding away at your cunt, brows pinched together in concentration.

One arm cages you in against him, the other pressed beside your head, palm grinding against metal. It groans in protest, bending to his inhuman strength, and the noise makes your belly churn with molten heat.

Every thrust is sharp, precise — he’s gritty, perspiration glittering along his neck, muscles pulled taut.

A low moan left you as he snapped forward, letting passion and want pour into his actions, cock sheathing itself inside of your aching cunt.

John ruts into you again, again, again — a pattern of rhythmic thrusts that jostle your body. Grunts tear through his chest, spilled beside your ear in warm huffs, pluming across your jaw.

“Walker?”

Bucky’s voice sizzles through the wave of static on the comms, and you don’t want him to stop. While he’s pounding away at you still, his movements begin to stutter at the noise, but you’re pulling him away.

“Don’t answer,” You moan, friction blossoming between the both of you, feverish and scalding. Every fiber of your being feels like it’s set ablaze, cunt clenching around his cock with each drag of his hips. “Please, John.”

John doesn’t relent, subservient to your breathy plea, hips urging forward as he’s bucking up into you with urgency. He’s close too, hand roughing your hip, grasp bruising as he kisses you.

His cock aches, throbbing inside of you, flesh crawling with heat beneath his body armor. Everything feels snug — he imagines what it’d be like to have you somewhere else, naked.

The fantasy ripples at the fringes of his mind, something lascivious and hazy, spurring him on. He fucks you hard, somewhere between rough and worshipful, as if you’re something to covet.

A breathy ‘fuck’ tears through his mouth, cock repeatedly pistoning in and out of you, listening to your pleasured whines and sighs. “Jesus,” John gruffs, feeling your lips press over his jaw. “That’s it, s’good.” He groans.

With another urge of his hips, you’re unraveling around him, driven to the brink by an amalgamation of friction and want. A buzz swarms through your body, legs rattling, shaking from your orgasm.

Grunts continued to spill beside your ear as he reached his peak, but you were already there. It was a perfect storm of sensations, ones that made you delirious with desire, sobbing with ecstasy.

John fucked you through your release, cock steadily rutting into your cunt, pressing a messy kiss against your mouth. You reciprocate, teeth catching on his bottom lip, sighing into his maw.

Everything is white-hot, dizzying; John offers a strained warning of his encroaching release, cumming inside of you in a half-frenzy. He says your name, and it makes you shiver.

“Walker, what’s your twenty?”

Again, Bucky’s voice is cutting through at the worst possible moment, and John snarls with frustration. His forehead tilts against yours, brow creased, countenance unfurling with half-bliss, half-agitation.

Each breath stings your lungs as you attempt to compose yourself, realizing that you’re still on the job. Cerulean hues burn into yours, and you kiss him slowly, as if to tell him that it’s okay.

Blonde lashes kiss the skin beneath his eyes, sluggish, as if he’s readjusting to his surroundings. As the fog begins to clear, John huffs, tongue sweeping over his teeth.

“You okay?” He asks, cadence hoarse and pitched with a still-lingering desire. He withdraws, untethering himself from you with a strenuous grunt, moving to buckle his pants up.

“Yeah,” Through a soft whisper, your gaze falls across him, smitten when you realize the gravity of what’s happened. “We should answer Bucky and try to regroup.”

With a nod, John concedes, hands gingerly shifting toward your hips, wordless as he helps to clasp your belt back together. “You know, we could try this again, with more space.” He states, matter-of-factly.

Incredulous, you’re making sure your suit is back into place, visibly flustered as you clear your throat. “When we get back to the Watchtower, come and find me.” You reply, attempting to seem disinterested.

John’s mouth twitches into a smug grin, lifting the communicator to his mouth. “Barnes, we copy.”

Suddenly, the door to the utility closet caves in, a metal arm ripping it from the hinges. John is still in the middle of helping you with your belt, digits stilling along your waist.

“Good hiding spot.” Bucky scoffs, doing little to suppress his smirk. The both of you look like deer in the headlights, and you’re quick to step away, brusquely clearing your throat.

You’re never going to hear the end of this.

#thunderbolts*#john walker x reader

2K notes · View notes

fandomwriterstuff · 6 days ago

Text

better kisser

pairing: john walker x reader

summary: your boyfriend was a dick, no way around it. and john loathed him. tonight is no different when the three of you and the rest of the thunderbolts go to a hockey game. so when you and john end up on the kiss cam, john seizes his shot.

word count: 2.5k

warnings: cheating, toxic relationship, cocky/smug/flirty walker, mentions of smut

“You excited, baby?” You asked, looking over at your boyfriend, Ryan.

Bucky had surprised the whole team with tickets to a hockey game. Alexei had been talking for weeks about wanting to learn about non-Russian sports. Bucky had mainly bought the tickets to shut him up.

There’d been enough tickets for some friends of the team to join you: including Ryan.

Ryan was, on his best day, an asshole. The entire team loathed him, especially because they adored you so much.

Ryan shrugged your hand out of his, brushing off your question. “Why do we have to hang out with your friends?” He groaned. You took a deep breath, trying to remember the things you loved about Ryan— even though that list shrunk daily.

“I want you to have a good relationship with my friends. It’s important to me. Why do you hate them so much?” You asked in a hushed tone. You tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, but he made it harder each time. John’s familiar eyes glanced back and found yours.

He tried to read your expression— to judge whether he needed to step in or not. All your friends saw through the happy couple facade, but John took a more direct approach.

“Oh, for fucks sake,” Ryan groaned, annoyed that he was even having this conversation.

“C’mon, baby. Just talk to me,” you begged him. You reached out for his hand, but he tensed and retracted.

John noticed the way your face fell as your boyfriend pulled away from you. He jogged back towards you. Anything he could do to make you feel less alone— he’d do it.

You glanced over at John as he joined you. You saw that knowing look in his eyes— the same one he had anytime Ryan was around.

“Hey, Ryan, buddy. Don’t know if you noticed, but your girlfriend was actually trying to hold your hand. So, maybe stop being a dick and treat her with some respect.” John snapped.

“John, don’t—” you grabbed his forearm. Before you could try to deescalate the situation, Ryan shot back.

“How about you do it for me? Since you always seem so willing to insert yourself into our relationship. Or, crazy idea, mind your fucking business.” Ryan rolled his eyes.

John meant well, he always did. And he made you feel so protected, but he knew just how to push Ryan’s buttons— and he seemed to enjoy it.

His eyes caught your gaze. He recognized the look you gave him instantly— ease up on him, please.

He gave you a short nod and dropped the topic. He stayed glued to your side as you all waited in the line to get through security. Any time Ryan looked at him, he’d just scowl in response.

“I’m going to get a beer.” Ryan rushed off after you all got through security.

You had to fight to keep the disappointment off your face. “You alright?” Bucky asked you, cautiously.

Everyone on the team recognized your expression— the pretending to be okay even though your world is crumbling. They’d all worn that expression before.

“I’m fine. He just had a rough day at work. That’s it.” You lied, unconvincingly.

They all nodded— not even slightly believing you. Yelena gave you a sympathetic smile. It gave you a pit in your stomach. It always did— the pity.

You knew that they were your friends and they cared about your wellbeing, but you hated feeling like they pitied you. “Why don’t you guys go find the seats? We’ll catch up in a bit.” John said, nodding at the others.

John Walker was the last person you’d expected to bond with when you joined the Thunderbolts turned New Avengers. But slowly, you’d both started to care for each other.

And he’d started to become fiercely protective of you. Especially when your boyfriend was being an ass.

As soon as they left, you felt John’s gaze on you. It burned into your skin as you focused on the ground. His finger ghosted over your hips— there was a hesitancy in the way he touched you.

He slowly tugged you towards him.

“Why do you do that, Walker? You know it just winds him up.” You asked, still not having the courage to face him.

He stepped closer towards you. It was force of habit at this point— he always felt like he was being drawn towards you like a magnet.

He nudged your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. His blue eyes bore into yours. It felt like he could see right into your soul.

“You deserve better.” He said, softly.

It was just three words, but there was so much more unspoken. Don’t stay with him. Be with me. Let me take care of you the way he can’t.

“He loves me. He just has bad days.” You covered for Ryan as you’d done countless times before.

Even you didn’t know why you were still with him. Probably just nostalgia at this point. You’d been together since high school. He wasn’t always cold and standoffish. It was only in the last year that things had soured.

Every time you told yourself that you were going to call it quits, you were reminded of all the good times.

“I’m only saying this because I care about you and I don’t want to see you get hurt. Every time you’re around him, you seem tense. And he acts like such a jackass. You can do so much better than him.” He told you, softly.

His rough calloused fingers traveled lightly down your side. He caressed your hand slowly. His eyes were glued on your face. He’d stop the minute you told him to— but you didn’t. He started to slot his fingers in yours when Ryan appeared at your side.

You jumped away from John, startled by Ryan’s presence. You followed Ryan's gaze to where your hands had been connected five seconds ago.

The way Ryan was clenching his jaw was a pretty good indicator that he’d seen it. “Ready to go to the seats?” John asked. He was technically asking both of you, but his eyes never left yours.

You started to step towards him, but Ryan grabbed your wrist. “We’ll catch up. We’re just gonna chat for a minute.” Ryan said through clenched teeth.

Ryan’s tight grip on your wrist made John’s skin crawl. He wanted to pry him off of you and break every bone in his hand. Then, he could finally sweep you up off your feet— away from Ryan.

“Call me if you need me.” John told you before walking away. He didn’t care if Ryan heard him— in fact, he hoped he did. He wanted Ryan to know that he had to answer to him if he hurt you.

“What is your fucking problem tonight?” You hissed at Ryan.

He scoffed. You wanted to smack the smug look off his face. “I’m being a pretty good sport considering I have to spend the whole night with your friends.” He told you.

You took a deep breath— feeling the air fill up your lungs and hoping it would replace the rage in your body. “They’ve been so friendly and accommodating. They keep trying to get to know you, and you brush them off.” You argued.

They were some of your best friends, and you hated hearing Ryan bash them when they’d been more than welcoming.

“They all act like they don’t like me. And don’t get me started on Walker.” He ranted.

You sighed, knowing exactly where this conversation was headed. “Oh my god. You’re always ranting about John. Nothing is going on between us. If you’re that insecure that you can’t handle me being friends with a guy, just say that.” You snapped.

“Oh, bullshit. He wants to get in your pants and you know it.” He yelled, drawing attention from other guests. You could feel the eyes on you— it made your skin crawl.

“No, he doesn’t. And stop yelling.” You said, smacking his hand.

He rolled his eyes. “Stop being so naive. Everyone can see it. He’s into you, and it pisses him off that you’re not his.” He explained.

You brushed him off— hating the voice in the back of your head that told you he was right. Ryan sulked behind you as you both headed towards your seats.

There were two empty seats on the end next to John. “Oh, that’s fucking perfect,” Ryan muttered behind you.

You felt the team’s eyes on you as you approached your seat. Concern written across all of their faces.

You both sat down silently. “You alright?” You heard John quietly whisper beside you. He kept his eyes focused straight ahead, knowing Ryan would lose it if he saw you both talking.

When he only heard silence in response, he frantically looked over at you. That’s when he saw the tears welling up in your eyes.

“Count your fucking days, Ryan.” John snarled at him before slipping some tissues into your hand.

“Yeah yeah go fuck yourself,” Ryan mumbled in response.

This encounter had grabbed the whole group’s attention. The boys were debating punching Ryan in the face. At the other end of your row, Yelena and Ava were watching how heartbroken you looked. “There’s an extra seat down here, love. C’mere for a minute.” Ava waved you over towards them.

You slowly stood up. John noticed how much your hands were shaking. His heart fractured into pieces. You carefully walked past all the guys— each of them gave your hand a quick squeeze as you passed them.

The girls quickly pulled you into a hug and comforted you. They were the closest things you had to sisters. They’d been there for every long night after a fight with Ryan.

John turned in his seat, facing Ryan. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to keep up the protective friend act when she’s not here.” Ryan said, sensing his gaze.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” John snapped.

Ryan chuckled. He’d gladly take any shot to get under John’s skin. “Being glued to my girlfriend’s side. You don’t have to pretend it comes from friendship. We all know you just want to fuck her. And I know you can’t stand that I’m the only one who gets to fuck her.” He said.

John clenched his fists— it was becoming harder and harder to keep his cool. John was riled up, and Ryan knew.

It was John’s turn. He knew you’d probably kill him if you heard him, but he wanted to put Ryan in his place— even if he had to lie to do it.

“If that helps you sleep at night, go ahead and keep thinking that. But, do you really think I haven’t fucked her already? What exactly do you think happens on our long missions? Somebody has to keep her satisfied, and she knows to come to me and not you.” John said, with a cocky smirk.

Every last word of it was lies, but Ryan ate it right up. “What the fuck?” He asked, mouth agape.

Next to John, Bucky was covering his mouth to keep from laughing. Less than a hundred words and John was in Ryan’s head.

“You’re bluffing.” Ryan said, still in disbelief. John shrugged, shooting him a playful wink. “Am I?” He asked. And Ryan was spiraling again.

A couple seats down, you got a text from Ryan.

Ryan: “You lying bitch. Your little boytoy just told me about your mission hookups. Knew you were lying.”

You quickly typed back a response.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, he’s trying to get under your skin. Just ignore him.”

You got up to go back to your seat— hoping you could quell his anger before it blew up into a big fight. “I promise, he’s just messing with you. Can you just try to be civil, please?” You whispered to Ryan. He sighed and nodded, throwing his arm around your shoulder.

The rest of the game went as smoothly as possible, until Ryan started flirting with the girls sitting behind him. It was revenge— you knew it was just a way to punish you. But you hadn’t actually done anything wrong.

You sat there still, not letting your face show any emotion. That was what he wanted.

You focused your eyes on the screen at the center of the arena. They were showing the kiss cam and random couples.

The few elderly couples made your heart swoon. That was what you wanted— someone to grow old with. You knew that someone wasn’t Ryan. You needed someone to choose you.

John nudged you with his shoulder. “I’m sorry that I lied to him earlier. I should’ve been the bigger person, I know that. I don’t want to do anything that complicates your life. It’s just that…you deserve so much more than him.” He said, genuinely.

“Thank you,” you said, giving him a sweet smile. A smile that made him weak in the knees.

“You deserve the fairytale and all that romance shit. Not that asshole,” he said, almost perfectly reading your mind.

Before you could respond, you heard cheering around the arena. You glanced up and realized you and Ryan were on the kiss cam— not that he noticed, he was too busy talking to those girls.

The entire arena roared, and then started booing when they realized your boyfriend was ignoring you. You looked over at Ryan, hoping for him to just turn his head.

Looking back up at the kiss cam, you shrugged your shoulders, earning a laugh from the crowd.

Then, the camera operator started to scoot the camera, so that you and John were in the frame. You could hear the “Ooooo’s” from around the room.

The heat rushed to your cheeks. Suddenly, the attention was making your skin burn. The commotion finally got Ryan’s attention. His eyes went wide as he saw the both of you on the screen.

He jumped to his feet, frantically waving his hands in front of you. “No, she’s my girlfriend.” He yelled, desperately trying to stop anything from happening.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed the smirk on John’s face. He scanned your face, waiting until he saw the start of a smile.

It was a blur. Suddenly, he was cupping your face and kissing you like his life depended on it. You felt your entire body relax and melt into his touch.

He smirked against your lips as Ryan started to protest. He cupped the back of your head, devouring you.

Your stomach was doing flips as his lips attacked yours. The kiss was hungry— and made you feel wanted.

You heard cheers and whistles from your friends. You ran your fingers over his chest— trying to memorize the feeling. You wanted to remember every second, in case you woke up and this was all just a dream.

“Fuck both of you,” you heard Ryan complain before he stormed off.

You both pulled out of the kiss— giddy and smiling. John shot his arms up in the air victoriously, earning a cheer from the crowd. He swooped you out of your seat and pulled you into his arms.

“Hi, honey,” he said, the pet name effortlessly rolling off his tongue.

“I’m gonna treat you so much better than he did. I promise,” he said, pecking your lips again.

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#john walker #john walker x reader

771 notes · View notes

fandomwriterstuff · 6 days ago

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—-- windchill

john walker x ex-avenger!ex-widow!reader

—- summary: walker doesn't seem too excited about the fact that captain america just saved your life. arguing ensues. and then making out follows. —- wc: 5.4k —- warnings: no use of y/n, john walker is an asshole, canon-typical violence, reader is also a bit of an asshole, actually everyone is kind of an asshole, jealous john walker, arguing, making out, spontaneous confessions, everybody lives in the tower because i said so —- notes: thunderbolts made me want walker and i will make it everyone's problem. first time writing this freak so hopefully you guys like it lmao.

[тётушка (tyot-oosh-ka) - auntie]

"lost visual on the fourth, anyone got him?"

walker's voice comes through your earpiece, the only sound beside the thrum of the wind in your ears. you shift to look down at him from your vantage point, perched on the roof of a nearby building.

"nothing from up here," you respond, giving the streets another quick once-over through your scope, but between the overturned cars, the only movement on the street is from your team. "must've ducked into an alley somewhere."

he huffs, and you watch him run a hand through his hair. "copy that."

"copy this, copy that, lost visual– you can just say you let him get away, you know that right?" ava's grumbling earns a quiet chuckle from you which you're careful not to broadcast over the radio, but yelena isn't so considerate.

naturally, the three of them start to bicker. as entertaining as it is to listen to them go back and forth, you tune them out as best you can while you continue to watch for the last target. or, that's what you intended to do, but despite your efforts your gaze seems to naturally gravitate to john no matter where you look.

his helmet had been lost a while ago, and you have to admit, he looks good with his hair a mess like that. the blood smeared on his face, the dirt and grime marring his skin – in the back of your mind, you're glad everyone else is too busy to notice you ogling him through your scope.

it crept up on you, how quickly you came to like walker. you weren't expecting to care for him any more than you did when you were chasing the flag smashers, but he's a lot more tolerable when he's not being an egomaniac. lately, though, just being near him is enough to distract you. and when you're twenty stories up and still can't seem to focus? you realise it might have become a problem.

there's a crunch behind you, the unmistakable sound of gravel under heavy boots, but your reaction is too slow. the moment you twist around to face your assailant, you're met with a hard strike to the temple.

your vision blurs from the impact, a trail of warm blood falling down your face, a yelp passing your lips before you can stop it. the blow knocks you onto your back, dangerously close to the ledge, and sends your rifle clattering to the ground below.

you grunt, your fingers immediately reach for the pistol at your thigh, pointing it at him the best you can through the disorientation, but he grabs the barrel and forces it upwards.

there's a struggle, an agonising moment where you fight for the upper hand with him on top of you. voices in your earpiece are white noise in the background, your team no doubt having noticed your situation by now.

your assailant shifts his weight, and you take the split-second opportunity to swipe his legs from under him. the gun slips from both of your hands, sliding just out of reach as he hits the ground next to you.

you lunge for it, and so does he, your breathing ragged. the trigger, taut under your finger, the barrel flush to his chest, the blood roaring in your ears, a hard pressure against your stomach.

a single shot rings through the air, and then you're falling.

the weightless feeling makes your stomach turn, the ground is coming up fast, too fast to think – it all happens quicker than you can react.

you vaguely hear a shout of your name, multiple voices, though one is louder than the rest, but it falls on deaf ears.

then, the air is forced from your lungs by a solid force colliding with your ribs, and suddenly you're not falling anymore. you blink through your dizzy confusion, finding what caught you isn't just a force, but a person – and not just any person, it's sam wilson.

with the wind whipping around you, you can just about discern his voice as he calls out, "happy to see me?"

he'd swooped in and plucked you out of the air, holding you close as he cuts through the air with a speed that makes your head spin.

"holy shit!" you cry, holding the back of his suit with a vice grip. the skyscrapers fly by, and, yes, you've known sam a long time, but you've never been in the sky with him before.

you feel his laugh rather than hear it, the vibrations under your palms as he gradually banks back around to where the other (new) avengers were. and honestly, now that you're not in immediate danger, the feeling of the wind in your hair is actually quite pleasant.

when your feet are finally back on the ground, you're not prepared for how your knees give out from under you. sam catches you, again, his arms winding around your waist to steady you, an amused grin on his face.

"woah, you okay?" he asks, the wings of his suit retracting into themselves, and you nod.

"yeah, i'm good – nice catch, by the way." you grin up at him, breathless. a hand still rests over the star on his chest as you find your balance, and the other cradles the new ache in your side, "even if you did break all my ribs in the process."

he chuckles, finding the humour in your words and returning it easily. "hey, i don't accept responsibility for injuries sustained while i'm saving your life, and you're more than welcome for that, by the way."

you're still reeling from the shock of almost falling to your demise, but you can't help the breathless laugh that escapes you. it's slightly delirious and adrenaline fueled, a reflex of sorts. near-death experiences weren't uncommon for you, but you have to admit, this was one of the more fun occasions.

steady enough now to stand on your own, you take a step back and meet sam's eyes once more with a sincere expression. "seriously though, thanks."

"any time." he smiles again, softer, and releases your waist, sliding one arm up to rest around your shoulders instead. "just don't make a habit of falling off buildings, okay?"

you chuckle, patting his chest as you take notice of the rest of your team rushing over, "alright, if you insist."

yelena calls your name as she skids to a stop in front of you, taking your face in both her hands and thoroughly checking you over for cuts and bruises.

"тётушка, you okay? you don't have a concussion?" she frowns, tilting your head to meet her concerned gaze. she brushes away the blood at your brow, and the incredulous look she sends sam, as if it was his fault, almost has you laughing again.

you manage to hold back your amusement though, mostly for her sake, and reassure her, "i'm fine, lena, i promise."

her eyes dart to the way you're holding your ribs as you shift uncomfortably in place, and clicks her tongue at you. "no, you're not fine, look at you – you're more injured than before he got to you!"

"ah, captain america, a rookie mistake!" alexei's voice echoes through the empty street, and he's still yelling even as he lands a hand on sam's shoulder. "you are not very good at whole saving people business, eh? that's okay, red guardian forgives you!"

"wh–" sam pulls a face, half offended, half confused, "you didn't see me catch her mid-air two minutes ago?"

"bah! child's play!" alexei dismisses him with a wave of his giant hand, and he's about to continue until he's interrupted by another one of your team arriving.

"yeah, we all saw you wilson, jesus christ…" walker huffs, rolling his eyes as he comes to a stop a little ways from where you stand.

the air instantly thickens. his jaw is clenched hard, the death glare he's sending sam unsettling in a way that's not like him.

"what's the problem now, walker?" there's annoyance in sam's voice, but you can't shake the way john is locked onto sam; like a predator to prey, he hasn't taken his eyes off him once, and it worries you.

something about the way his eyes graze sam's arm, still around you, sticks in the back of your mind. the way his jaw clenches and his fists tighten at his sides, it unearths something more to his anger.

john scoffs, and rolls his eyes again. "my problem is we're the avengers, and yet for some reason you're always right there whenever we're trying to do our jobs!" he throws his arms out to the sides, his breathing fast and heavy. a moment passes where no one moves, just watching him in stunned silence. "look– we get it, you think you're better than us, but you're not, okay?"

"walker, you need to calm down." yelena leaves your side to get between them, but the staredown just continues over her head.

sam drops his arm from your shoulders, holding his hands out as he takes a step towards walker, an attempt to placate him that has little effect. "hold on, i don't think I'm better than you guys–"

"but you do think you're better than me, don't you wilson?" he's shouting, invading sam's space now, his fists twitching with the effort of holding back. the way his voice cracks, subtle but clear as day to you, sends a twinge through your heart.

you hesitate to break the thick silence that follows. part of you wants to shut him up, to defend your friend – but a larger part, the part of you that cares about john, says that this isn't like him.

"walker." you murmur, a low warning just loud enough to catch his attention.

his glare snaps to you, an undertone of something undeniably hurt beneath his burning anger, but then it's gone just as fast as it appeared. "what? you're on his side now?"

there's a deep sting in your chest when he meets your eye with that same piercing scowl. "i'm not on anyone's side–"

"really? 'cause you're supposed to be on ours– your team's!" he spits, "but i guess it's just whatever you feel like in the moment, right widow?"

if he notices the way your face falls, he doesn't show it.

"alright enough!" bucky yells. he gets in-between the two of them, next to yelena, and puts his metal hand sternly on john's chest. "walker, go back to the car."

john scoffs again. "right. i'm the bad guy – as per usual." he spits, the energy fading from his voice with every word until he just sounds defeated. "why is he even here?"

"just shut up and start walking." bucky growls, pushing him away with the hand on his chest. walker huffs, hesitating like he's debating if he should argue, but eventually spins on his heel and marches off. bucky looks over his shoulder at you, sending sam a somewhat apologetic look, before wordlessly following behind him with alexei in tow.

"sorry." you sigh, massaging the furrow from your brow, and offer sam a regretful look of your own. "he's not always that much of an asshole."

"why do i find that hard to believe?" sam grumbles, watching walker's form retreat. he looks back at you, his expression softening, and shakes his head. "you don't have to apologise."

"sorry anyway." because you are. yelena is waiting for you, her hands on her hips. you pat sam's arm, that guilty feeling still lingering. "i'll see you around?"

he gives you a nod, already starting to walk away. "of course. take care of yourself, alright?"

and with that, his wings extend and he's in the sky before you can blink.

you watch him go a moment longer, before turning back to yelena and gesturing for the two of you to get moving. the others have already turned the corner up ahead, leaving just you and her walking side by side.

"you want to talk about that?" she broaches, looking at you from the corner of her eye with a certain delicate tone that really doesn't make you feel any better.

a grimace crosses your face. no, you wanted to say, not particularly, especially since you're shouldering most of the blame for it. "...what is there to say? i think it might've been my fault anyway."

"don't say that." yelena scolds, her brows pulling into a frown, but you shake your head.

"if i'd been paying attention, then that guy wouldn't have snuck up on me, and then sam wouldn't have had to come and save me, and we could've avoided this whole thing." you release a deep breath, ignoring the sting that radiates from your ribs. "now the energy's all… weird."

she clicks her tongue, and lays a comforting hand on your back. "it's not your fault walker is an asshole, тётушка, nothing we can do about that."

you catch her smile and huff, a weak attempt at a laugh, but it falls flat.

it was more than that, you could tell. more than just walker's typical asshole shtick, but, again, you were hesitant to think about it. he always toed the line, pushed his luck with comments and insults, but that was malicious, meant to wound. you really thought walker had moved past his feud with sam – he didn't seem to harbour the same animosity for you, or even bucky, though maybe you were wrong about that too, since you'd just gotten the same treatment. you shake your head to rid yourself of that train of thought; that's not an idea you want to confront.

so you settle for something vague, a plausible deniability you hoped she would let you keep. "did he seem… off to you?"

yelena lets out a sharp laugh, "oh, so you noticed this time, thank god for that."

"what's that supposed to mean?" you shoot her a puzzled look, your eyes narrowing. she holds herself like she knows something you don't, and it's unsettling.

she chuckles to herself again, a knowing glint in her eye. "it's not all about that shield with him, you know that, right?"

"uh…" you swallow hard, vaguely remembering that odd flash of emotion you'd noticed in john earlier, but you're still confused. "no?"

she doesn't elaborate any further, simply holding your gaze with an expression that reveals absolutely nothing. there's no time to interrogate her further, though, bucky's call of your names from just ahead cutting your conversation short. one last attempt to meet yelena's eye before you climb into the back of the truck, which she shoots down, and you're left with only the rumble of the engine as bucky pulls away.

the drive home is eerily quiet. even ava – who usually jumps at the chance to make a sly comment, at john's expense especially – refrains from speaking.

despite what yelena said, and despite knowing she's right, it still feels like you could've avoided this. you all knew john wasn't really a fan of sam, but he was a good friend of yours, you weren't going to drop him just because one member of your team didn't like him; even if it was the same teammate that held your heart in his hands.

and speaking of walker, he has yet to acknowledge any of the rest of you, taking instead to boring holes in the wall opposite him with his red hot glare. you've been trying to meet his eye the whole ride home, but he fails to notice, like he's somewhere else entirely. with every minute that passes in uncomfortable silence, you're less and less sure that it's not you he's angry at.

when bucky finally pulls into the tower's basement garage, after fifteen minutes that could have easily been hours, he's the first to move. the car has barely even rolled to a stop before walker's standing, hunched over awkwardly as he crosses the length of the truck and throws open the back doors.

the heavy sound of his footsteps echos through the garage, and he's gone before the rest of you can clamber out. the urge to follow him is strong, but you hold off. you're not even sure what you'd say if you caught up to him.

"what crawled up his arse and died?" ava grumbles, sending you a sideways glance as she passes you. "thought i was about to suffocate in that tension…"

you frown, watching the door to the stairwell slowly fall shut, the only indication that john was even there at all.

"just give him some space." you follow her towards the elevator, and she cranes her neck to roll her eyes at you over her shoulder.

"right. like i was planning on spending the rest of my evening in his glowing company…"

a few paces behind you yelena snorts, ignoring the warning look you give her as the rest of you load into the elevator. it's a squeeze with alexei and bucky taking up most of the space, leaving you and yelena facing each other from opposite sides of the box.

"don't worry, тётушка will talk to him," she begins, leaning back against the cool steel and crossing her arms over her chest.

"i will?" you quirk a brow at her as the doors slide shut and the elevator begins to rise. you're not sure if the way your stomach sinks is because of the elevator, or the thought of having to face walker after what happened earlier. "i don't know if that's a good idea."

"yes, it is. seeing as this whole thing is kind of your fault, i think that's fair." she continues, shrugging in response to the look of betrayal you send her. "what? you said it yourself!"

you throw your hands out to the sides, as emphatically as you can in the confined elevator. "you weren't supposed to agree with me!"

"she's got a point, though." ava chimes in, then leans back to hide from your glare behind alexei's arm. "you did let your guard down, quite critically if you ask me."

"hey!"

"you were distracted, yes?" alexei now grins down at you, a gesture you pointedly do not return, and continues, "too busy watching red guardian's heroic moves, i understand, it happens."

you bring a hand up to cover your face, massaging the bridge of your nose, and mutter a quiet, "oh my god…"

a nudge against your foot draws your attention, and you look up to find bucky looking at you too. "it's not a bad idea."

you stare at him, an image appearing in your mind of the fury in walker's eyes earlier, but then bucky tilts his head at you and you really can't resist that sad puppy look he puts on. you breathe a deep sigh, rolling your eyes at all of them, "...fine. i'll talk to him. but if it backfires and he just yells at me again, it's your fault."

"thank fuck," ava replies, a subtle smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth, and as the elevator dings she's already phasing through the doors with a call over her shoulder, "spare the rest of us from his terrible mood."

the conversation dies there. one by one, the others filter out on their respective floors, until you're left standing by yourself in the elevator which suddenly seems far too big.

you press the button for walker's floor, and the doors slide shut again.

he was angry at you, even if you didn't fully understand why, he made that abundantly clear. that scathing omment directed at you – you know he's referring to the sokovia accords, the fight in germany, and even though you know he was just lashing out, a defence mechanism you're accustomed to from him, it was a low blow.

and it stung that little bit more coming from him, because you trusted him. it had come up, late one night when you had bumped into each other in the kitchen during a bout of insomnia, the topic of the previous avengers. in the early hours of that morning you'd confided in him your worries about being part of a team again, how you couldn't handle losing another family like that. and he had reassured you, that the new avengers wouldn't be like that – only to use it against you in a petty argument.

the elevator dings. the doors slide open.

the hallway feels unusually cold when you step over the threshold. something within you tells you this is a bad idea, that you're only going to get hurt again, but you can't walk away.

your hand is poised to knock, hovering centimetres from his door and staying frozen there. no light seeps through the cracks from his room, making the cool fluorescent lights in the hall seem that much more suffocating. you're still not sure what exactly you're here to say.

as if the universe could sense your indecisiveness, the door abruptly swings open, revealing john with a look on his face that sends a shiver down your spine.

but when his eyes land on you, he pauses, his expression going blank. your name falls from his mouth in a whisper. he'd shed the top half of his suit, leaving him in that skin-tight undershirt that does absolutely nothing to help your already scrambling mind. you blink at him, trying to find something to say, but you draw a blank.

and then he goes to shut the door on you. you manage to wedge your foot in the gap before he can fully close it, a small frown taking over your features.

"john," you begin, your tone something almost pleading. "i want to talk."

hesitation dances across his face, and you briefly wonder if hes just going to jist the door on you again. but, to your surprise, he lets the door falls back open, screwing his eyes shut as you move to lean in the doorway.

"about what?" he avoids your gaze as he mumbles, a distinctly defeated feel to his voice. he looks so tired, even more so than he did when you last saw him not even an half an hour ago.

you frown, and answer in a murmur, "you know what."

"yeah, i screwed up, okay? i know that!" he snaps, still dutifully avoiding your gaze as he lets go of the door and turns back into his room. "you don't have to rub it in!"

"i'm not– what's going on with you?" you follow him in, leaving the door ajar behind you, and stare at his back a few steps away, "and don't try and give me the 'i'm just tired' excuse, because i know it's more than that."

he sighs sharply, running a hand over the back of his head, but doesn't turn to face you when he answers, "you wouldn't get it."

it's a lame excuse, and he knows it – it's why he refuses to look you in the eye – but you're not discouraged by his attempt to brush you off.

"oh, come on, john." you roll your eyes, your concern quickly morphing into frustration the more indignant he becomes. "it's something to do with sam, right? i know he's my friend, but if you have something to say, or–"

finally he whips around to face you, his eyes wide with the same kind of anger as before. "right– everything's always about sam! you can't even stop for five seconds to back me up when you know I'm right!"

"why the hell would i back you up when you're being a complete asshole to the guy who just saved my life?" you retort, standing your ground against him despite the way it prickles the hairs on the back of your neck. "he's my friend, i'm not gonna let you, or anyone, talk to him like that!"

"it's not about him– it's about none of you guys ever having my back like i have yours!"

"so i'm the problem? seriously, what did i ever do to you? and bringing up the accords thing, really john?" you glare at him with a scoff, exasperation bleeding into your expression. he goes to turn his back to you again, but you grab his arm before he can, forcing him to hold your gaze. "you're lashing out, you're pissed at me, i know you are, so just tell me what i did!"

he groans, a deep rumble of frustration in his chest as he presses the ball of his hand into his eye. "you didn't do anything!"

"so it is sam?" you press him further, but he just grits his teeth. "i thought we were over this, why do you have such a problem with him?"

a beat passes, a fleeting second where he seems to hold himself back, but the words spill from his mouth against his better judgment.

"because it should've been me!"

you don't say anything. something changes in the air as he catches his breath, feeling thicker than before with the weight of everything still unsaid. he takes your wrist in his hand and brings it between you, taking a tiny step forward.

"...because i could've saved you! he's not–" his voice catches, breaking in a way that squeezes your heart, and his gaze is just short of desperate. "...i could've saved you, and then maybe you would've looked at me the way you looked at him!"

his eyes gloss over, you catch a glimpse just as he drops his head to hide it from you. it's hard to find a single word to say.

"...how did i look at him?" you whisper, hesitant to disturb the fragile air between you.

against your skin, john's fingers twitch, a barely noticeable tremble. there's another oppressive pause where he doesn't speak, just holds you there in unbearable silence. you can almost feel the embarrassment, the shame, radiating from him, see it in the way his shoulders are bunched up.

"like he was your hero. like– like he was everything…" he finally answers. he tilts his head back up, his eyes darting between yours and looking beyond you.

"john…" you murmur.

it seems so obvious now, what all of this has been about – the weird feeling about him you got earlier, yelena's cryptic remarks, you're embarrassed it took you this long to realise.

warmth rushes to your face as you come to the conclusion; john was jealous of sam, not because of the shield, but because of you.

"...how is it fair? that he gets the shield, the fame, the life, the legacy…" the hand on your wrist moves up to grasp your own, his thumb pressing into your palm. his voice is low and raspy, a jarring contrast to his usual blunt confidence. "he already has everything, how is it fair that he gets you too?"

your mouth falls open, confusion replacing the surprise from his confession. "i don't…"

"it doesn't matter." he mumbles quickly, releasing your hand and taking a step back from you. his eyes are still glassy as he turns away, a strain to his voice when he continues, "it doesn't fucking matter, you don't see me that way."

you step forward with him, reaching for his hand that drags through his hair. "you don't need–"

"no, don't do that. don't try to make me feel better." he pulls away from your touch, back to avoiding eye contact, his brows pulling tightly together.

he's spiralling, that much is clear, but you can't manage to get a word in without him interrupting you. "i–"

"just get out, okay? i need to be alone!"

"will you listen to me!" you yell, taking the front of his shirt in your fist to force his gaze back on you. he freezes, his jaw clenched tight, but he stays quiet. "you don't need to save my life in some grand gesture for me to look at you like that!"

he opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but the words get stuck in his throat. the way the light from the hall catches in his eye, you can't bring yourself to look away, even when the vulnerability feels too much.

"you don't need to be the hero, john, i don't care about any of that. is it so hard for you to understand that i might just like you how you are?" your voice is quiet again now, the room closing in around you as if you're the only two people in the world – and in this moment, you might be.

the air is warm, bordering on stifling, but your skin prickles under the ghost of his touch on your waist. he lets it hover there for a moment, as if he was afraid you'd change your mind. you don't, though, and a shiver rolls through you as he plants his hand firmly there. the bruising is just a distant ache under his touch, all but forgotten as you gaze deep into his eyes.

"i like you how you are." you utter. the words are little more than a whisper, reverence in the miniscule space left between you.

he walks you backwards – one, two, three large strides, until his hand can reach to shut the door and crowd you against it, plunging his room into total darkness.

"you shouldn't…" he mumbles, his breath fanning over your lips, tantalisingly close but still much too far, "...i'm not a good person, everything i touch… just…"

you huff, bringing a hand up to curl around the back of his neck, grazing your nails over his skin. "don't care."

the press of his lips to yours is hungry, and it steals the air from your lungs. the force knocks your head against the door, earning a muffled groan into his mouth.

"sorry," he breathes against you, a hint of a smirk in his voice that you can picture even without the light. you click your tongue, fighting a smile of your own, sliding your hand up through his hair and use it to pull him back in. he doesn't resist, following your unspoken command with the diligence of soldier.

then he's on you again, gentler this time but no less desperate. he brushes his fingers over your cheek, moving to cup your jaw and tilt your head to close whatever distance was left between you. the feel of him is overwhelming; the maddening scratch of his beard, how his broad shoulders box you in and his arm snakes around you to pull your body flush to his, it's so much but still not enough at the same time. his skin under your hands is hot, and you absently wonder if he always runs this hot, or if it's just for you.

he sighs against your lips, rough and needy, barely moving away to draw in ragged breaths. your other hand flattens across his chest to feel the rapid pace of his heart, pounding out of control beneath his sternum just like your own.

there's nothing else, in this moment, just him and you. the argument from before is long forgotten, replaced with the feeling of his mouth on yours, his hands all over you, seared into your mind even after he finally leans back.

you can't help the bashful smile that spreads across your face as you catch your breath. you're thankful the room is dark enough to hide it, though you're not sure it matters with his super soldier eyesight.

"i'm…" john murmurs lowly, feeling the vibrations from his voice under your hand as he continues, "...i'm sorry, i shouldn't have yelled at you, earlier. you didn't deserve that."

you sigh, resting your head in the crook of his neck. "i wish you'd just talk to me."

"i will." his hand comes to cradle the back of your head, and he presses a soft kiss to your hairline. "i'll try. i promise."

"then i'll hold you to that." you grin against his neck, placing a kiss of your own against the barest stubble there. "...so, are you gonna apologise to sam, too?"

john scoffs. "what? no, i stand by what i said." you tighten your grip in his hair, drawing a sharp breath from him before he begrudgingly continues, "...but i guess i could thank him, y'know, for not letting you die?"

an airy laugh escapes you, not surprised by his stubbornness. "y'know what? just don't talk to him."

"probably for the best."

#john walker x reader

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fandomwriterstuff · 7 days ago

Note

HIIIII!! it’s me again! I loved the prompt you did for me omg it was so good! i love your description of yelena and ava ☹️

could you do the thunderbolts reacting to you taking a bullet for them orrrr you getting dressed up to go on a date with someone that isn’t them maybe! Thank you so much for your writing, it’s SO good! :D

Prompt: The Thunderbolts react to you taking a bullet meant for them.

Warning: heavy on angst, hints at character death, violence in form of gunshot wound, mentions of blood/bleeding out, and emotional distress

Note: I might have to do that other one too. Those are both such good requests!

Yelena: The sound of the gunshot slicing through the air made her wince. All the chaos in the room seemed to silence the sound of the body dropping to the floor. She looked for the source of where it came from only for her gaze to settle on you laying in a pool of your own blood.

Yelena was the first to reach you. She fell to her knees beside you; her hands frantically trying to stop the blood from spewing out of your abdomen. Blood didn't typically phase her, but it being your blood did.

"Why did you do that?" Her voice cracked along with her whole demeanor. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

She tried to push out any negative thoughts, determined to save you if it meant tearing everything else down. She wasn't going to loose you like she lost her sister.

Your entire demeanor was calm, too calm. You weren't panicked or struggling to breathe. It was almost like you were at peace, which was something she wasn't able to accept yet.

She snapped her fingers to try to get your attention, but your eyes were already growing more glossy and distant. "Hey, you stay awake, okay? We're going to get you help and then you'll be all better." Yelena sounded like she was trying to convince herself not you.

With each passing moment, your face grew more pale and the light was leaving your eyes. Your movements were limited and weakened. Very slowly, your hand shifted over her hand as if to comfort her or let her know that everything was going to be alright.

When Yelena lifted her head, her eyes were filled with unshed tears. Her face crumbled and her shoulders racked with heavy sobs. She shook her head and tried to deny it, but it was already too late for you.

“Stay with me. Please. I can’t lose you too.”

Bucky: The string of gunshots sounded like a roll of thunder. He shielded himself with his metal forearm, but somehow missed one fatal one. The bullet that ended up hitting you.

He whipped his head to look back at you, horror etched onto his face in sudden realization. He caught you before you hit the ground. His metal arm braced you against him as you slumped, blood soaking into your clothes at an alarming rate. He was careful to lean you up against a nearby wall.

"What were you thinking?" Bucky's voice was trembling with restrained fury. He pressed his hand hard against the wound; his eyes desperately searching for any sign of hope. “Stay with me. You're not going out like this. Not for me.”

"Bucky—" you tried weakly.

"No," Bucky cut you off firmly and sharply. "No, that's not fair."

His eyes searched your face—your weakening gaze, your pale skin. He was unraveling, panicking.

You reached up, your fingers just brushing his jaw, and he caught your hand in his, holding it tight against his chest. He fought back tears and couldn't bring himself to accept the reality laying before him.

He leans closer, his forehead against yours, jaw clenched. “You don’t get to go. You hear me? I’ve lost too many people—I won’t lose you too.”

The war around him meant nothing. The only battle that mattered was the one for your life, and he wasn’t ready to lose.

John: The firefight had been intense. John was barking orders, shield raised, adrenaline pumping — until a flurry of gunshots came barreling towards him. He raised his shield to deflect them and the dinged off the shield one by one. What he didn't account for was the ricochet.

The sound of a soft whimper tore his gaze away from the fight. You were keened over slightly with your hand hovering above your abdomen. The patch of blood growing deeper in color and spreading through your clothes.

“Shit—” John jumps into action.

He scrambled to catch you and gently lays you down on the ground.

“No. No, no, no.” John grips your shoulders like he can hold you together with brute strength alone.

He initially doesn't know what to do, too overridden with panic and the fear of losing you. His hands hurried to cover the spot of blood and he pressed down to slow the blood flow.

“What the hell were you thinking?!” John yells. His panic boiling over, voice far too loud. You flinched, barely, and he instantly regretted it.

His hands moved instinctively, trying to cover the wound, pressing down hard though his vision blurred with horror. “I’m not mad. I’m not mad at you, okay? Just—stay with me. Stay with me.”

You weren’t speaking now. Just breathing shallowly, your face eerily calm, like the pain was fading. Like you were fading.

“Don’t do that,” John said quickly, panic catching in his throat. “Don’t go all peaceful on me. That’s not a good sign. That’s a bad sign. Stay awake. Talk to me. Yell at me if you have to.”

He cupped your cheek, rough calloused thumb trembling as it brushed across your skin. His expression cracked then—whatever armor he wore, whatever facade he’d built, it fell away completely.

“Don’t go quiet on me,” he begged, his voice ragged and breaking. “Please, you don’t get to die on me. Not after everything. Not after all the shit I’ve done. You’re the one good thing I’ve got. I can’t lose you too.”

The world felt still around him now, like time had slowed, narrowed down to your face, your breath, the warmth of your blood on his hands.

Ava: It was instinctive for her. She just phased and forgot you were right behind her. So you took the bullet meant for her. You dropped before she even realized what had happened. One second you were behind her, the next you were on the ground bleeding out and she felt something inside her snap.

“No,” Ava breathed, almost like she was still catching up to what her eyes were seeing. “No, no, no…”

It hit her in waves. Her breath caught in her throat, like her lungs refused to work. She knelt beside you in a flash, hands hovering over the wound, helpless.

“You were—behind me. You were right behind me.”

Ava’s hands pressed to the bleeding, her phasing flickering violently as her panic spiraled. The flickering wouldn't help you, but she couldn't bring herself to stop.

“I didn’t see you. I didn’t know you were there. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

"It's okay—" You tried to wave it off like it was nothing.

“Don’t talk, okay? Don’t waste energy. You’re going to be fine. You’re gonna be okay.” Ava was trying to convince you, but it sounded like it was more aimed to reassure herself.

And your eyelids fluttered.

Something inside her snapped. It was more panic.

“No, no—stay awake.” Her voice cracked, shaking as her hands desperately tried to hold you here, to keep you. “Don’t go quiet. Please. Don’t leave me like this.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper, trembling and raw. The tears now sliding down her face uncontrollably.

“You can’t go. Please. Not like this. Not for me.”

You managed to catch her eyes. A breath, almost a smile. Her hands phased harder. And then, neither of you were there.

Bob: The bullet sounded fast. He couldn't have predicted it. He didn't have time to react. It hit you and it wasn't supposed to.

Bob’s head whipped around at the sound; his eyes widening in absolute horror. He saw you drop, and the world simply stopped.

“No—!” The word left him in a strangled cry of disbelief.

The sky above twisted— clouds spiraling like they, too, had been torn open by what had just happened. He caught you mid-fall. Not fast enough to stop it, just fast enough to be the one who held you as you crumpled.

The heat of your blood soaked into the front of his suit. His eyes were locked on yours, wide in disbelief, like he couldn't fathom a world where you’d throw yourself in front of him.

“Why…?” His voice broke and cracked. “Why would you…?”

You smiled, barely. That soft, broken look that made it worse. Like you were already halfway gone and okay with it.

“No,” he snapped, his tone harsher than intended. “No, don’t do that. Don’t give me that look like it was worth it. Like I’m worth it.”

"You are..." you replied softly. "You've always been worth it."

His breath hitched and his head dipped, pressing his forehead to yours, fingers curled around your hand like it was a lifeline. Like you were his lifeline. He couldn't hold back the tears or the sobs that escaped his lips.

He hated how limp you'd become in his arms, hated watching the light leave your eyes, hated feeling your skin grow cold, and hated hearing the last breath slip past your lips. He hated it all.

The dark storm clouds above cracked with lightning and the rumble of thunder followed shortly after. The rain began to fall heavily, which matched the tears that fell down his face.

REALLY HOPE I DID EACH CHARACTER JUSTICE. PLEASE ENJOY

#thunderbolts #yelena belova #bucky barnes #john walker #ava starr #bob reynolds

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fandomwriterstuff · 7 days ago

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⟡Guilty As Sin⟡

(John Walker x Reader)

Summary: You hate how attracted you are to Walker, and you pull away from him because of it. He notices.

Word Count: 3.8k

Notes: Post-Thunderbolts, reader is a New Avenger and is mentioned to have some kind of super abilites (not plot relevant but it's there), porn with some plot, just reader being horny and then getting to fuck this man, car sex!!!! p in v, fingering, unprotected sex (wrap it up folks) reader and John both bully each other during sex, John Walker's praise kink (when will it not make an appearance) Bucky and Bob appearance!

a/n: This one goes out to all my homies who hated John in TFATWS and feel conflicted about finding him really hot in Thunderbolts! I guess he's my boy now bc I was literally the second post on the Walker x Reader tag (????tf????) so here I am once again being horny on main with y'all.

Teasing Walker was practically a team bonding activity. Hell, even the man himself had grown used to it, took it as a show of affection from the other New Avengers. You were one of the main perpetrators of it. John had always pissed you off, from the minute you met in the vault. He’d grown on you significantly since then, although you’d never admit that, especially not to him.

You’d also never admit how down bad you were for him.

You weren’t really sure when it had started. He was an attractive guy, from an objective standpoint. They’d picked him to be Captain America for a reason, and one of those was that he looked damn good. Still, beyond the awareness he was handsome you’d never really thought of him in that way.

That is, until that day. You couldn’t find one of your knives, and you were sure Bucky had stolen it, so you’d ventured down to the training room to confront him. You opened the door, ready to start interrogating him when you were met with the sight of him and John, side by side, doing pull ups in the doorway to the equipment room. Bob stood next to them, counting off as they went.

You’ve known Bucky for a long time. He’s like an older brother figure to you, someone you couldn’t see romantically if you tried. Seeing him shirtless has no effect on you, other than an instinctual ew. You’ve never seen John shirtless before.

And here you are, speechless, gawking at the guy who you once referred to as ‘Captain Crashout’. His biceps flexed with each lift, the muscle sinewy but hard-earned, gleaming with sweat. Broad shoulders, dabbled with old scars and freckles from too long in the sun. Your eyes fell to his abs, not as clean cut as Bob’s, but still very much there, pulled taut as he raised himself over and over. He was clad in a pair of old gym shorts, which had fallen a little lower than they started out, revealing the beginnings of a sharp v-line, and what you thought was just a smattering of blond hair trailing down.

And the sounds. John has always had a tic of snorting during battle. You call it his gorilla call that he makes when shit gets serious. The way he grunted as he pulled himself up, exerted but determined, gave you goosebumps the more you heard it.

Jesus fucking Christ, when did John get so hot?

He’s a supersoldier, of course. You know he’s strong. You interact with him almost everyday. You’ve seen him carry a crate the size of Yelena with ease. Yet somehow you’d never considered him hot before this. Never once have you looked at John Walker and felt this hot and sweaty all of a sudden, something in your stomach twisting with equal parts nerves and arousal.

You think you’re going insane.

After what feels like an eternity, John dropped, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Fine, you win Barnes.”

Bucky dropped as well, a smug look on his face. “Told you.”

“Hey, well you’re shorter than me, you have less to pull up.”

“By what, 3 inches?”

“3 inches where it counts.” Walker joked. Shit, now you’re thinking about this dick. Don’t look at his crotch. Do not look at his crotch-

“When’d you get here?” you snapped out of it at the sound of Bob’s voice, turning your attention to the other man.

“Um, around 20?” you guessed, doing your best to keep your eyes off Walker. You blinked hard as you turned to Bucky. “Did you take my Bowie knife?”

He sighed as he toweled himself off. “Shit, yeah. It’s in my bag, I’ll get it.”

“Asshole.”

He just flipped you off as he walked off to the locker room. Bob trails behind him, announcing his need to pee, leaving you alone with Walker.

You did your best to avoid eye contact, or any visual of him as he lowered himself onto the nearby bench ,grabbing his water bottle. You knew he has a habit of manspreading, which you often tease him about, but now it’s more annoying in that you’re trying desperately not to ogle him.

“Pretty good, huh?”

“What?” you blinked, looking over at his confused face.

“60 pull ups. Maybe not as good as Barnes,” he threw a jilted look at the locker room door, “but still, impressive, huh?”

“Yeah, I uh, guess so.” you stared at the space above his head, arms crossed, praying Bucky finds his damn bag and brings you your knife soon.

“You okay?” John questioned, standing up to approach you. You instinctually took a step back, causing him to stop. “Did I do something?’

“No! No, I’m fine, you didn’t do anything. Just feeling a little off today, maybe I’m getting sick.”

John nodded, unconvinced. “Uh huh.” He took another sip of his water, drawing your eyes to his strong forearms, solid and firm, leading to his large hands gripping the bottle. Were his hands always that big? It’s ridiculous. You wonder what they would feel like gripping your hips.

“Got it.” Thankfully, Bucky reentered, holding out your knife. You swiftly snatched it, stuttering out a thank you and goodbye before you practically ran out the door. John and Bucky just stood there, confused.

After that, you ran to your room, locked the door and screamed into a pillow like a middle school girl.

You know there’s nothing wrong with liking Walker. Sure, he’s real fucked up, but hell, you are too. You’re both trying to be better, all of you on the team are. Your present torment is self-inflicted, part of it being the sheer embarrassment. You can’t seem to let go of your ego, the little voice in your brain bullying you for wanting a man who carries around a shield shaped like a taco.

You’re being ridiculous.

You’re held back by a fear of screwing things up with him yourself, and therefore for the entire team. You don’t want to ruin what you all have. You’ve all had hard pasts, never really having a group of people that you could rely on till now. You wouldn’t destroy that because you were so, so very horny for one of your teammates.

So you distance yourself. You try not to look him in the eye, lest you start imagining him with his shirt off again. You feel like an old Victorian man who forced ladies to hide their ankles; looking at any part of John makes you feel like you’re going to lose it then burst into flames. Once you went to ask him something and saw him in just a towel, and immediately turned heel and left. He plagues your mind, beyond just the thought of sex. The thought of him, holding you in his arms, whispering into your ear, smiling down at you.

You do manage to forget how badly you want to fuck him when all of a sudden he’s hurling himself into danger, in front of a hail of bullets that his stupid shield barely covers.

“What the hell were you thinking?” you lecture him as the two of you climb back into the van. You’d been tasked with securing classified S.H.I.E.L.D files from a criminal organization planning to sell them. You’d managed to get them back, but not without a few scrapes and bruises. Honestly, you’re lucky neither of you died because of John’s recklessness, something you’ve told him multiple times now.

“I was thinking of what was best to keep us both safe.” he grumbles as he slams the driver’s door, turning the key in the ignition. “It was a tactical decision-”

“It was a tactical decision,” you mimic his deep voice. “You could’ve died! You’re lucky-”

“Lucky to be alive, I know, I know. What do you even care?” you turn to him, seeing the anger in his eyes, mixed with something else you can’t place.

“Why do I care? Because you’re my fucking friend, John, and I’d rather not see you filled with lead!” “Well, it doesn’t seem that way lately.” he scoffs, eyes moving back to the road.

“What did you say?”

“I’m saying, you’ve been acting crazy lately.” he slams a hand on the wheel. “One day, we’re friends, the next you act like I’m the dirt on your shoe. I-I don’t understand. What did I ever do to you?” he leans back in his seat, defeated. “You’re acting like you don’t care whether I live or die, so fine, if I die, what’s it to you?”

“John,” you sigh, trying to hold it together. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?” he sits back up, angrier, more offended than upset. “I’m the one who’s being ridiculous? You’re the one being ridiculous! All this time-”

He rambles on, leaving your anger at him to simmer in your chest. It mixes with guilt, of being cold to him, not telling him why. He somehow manages to look handsome like this, passionate, full of emotion. Still, you feel your stomach twist knowing you did this, that you hurt him like this. “John, look, I’m-”

“No, I’m not done!” he interrupts. He continues to rant, getting into specifics of your treatment, your apology dying in your throat. What would you even say? I’m sorry I was mean to you, it’s because you’re too fucking attractive and I don’t know how to handle it?

You forget about all the reasons not to do this. You forget how annoying and brash he can be, all the embarrassing things he does you tease him for. You forget how screwed up you both are, about the team, about everything.

You just lean over the console, grab his face and smash your mouth to his.

He’s quiet, finally, still in shock of what is happening. The second his brain catches up to his body he’s gripping your shoulders, kissing you back with a force. It quickly turns open and messy, tongues desperate for each other as you act on months of frustration and feelings repressed.

You pull back when you run out of air, sliding back into your own seat as he does his. You sit, quiet, thinking about what you’ve done.

“Is that why?” His voice is hoarse from kissing.

You nod. “Yeah. That’s why.”

You’re both quiet again, reeling from your actions. He slowly unbuckles his seatbelt, climbs out of the car. You wonder if you’ve done something wrong, if maybe you misread him.

Then he’s opening your door, and before you can say anything he’s kissing you again, large hands cupping your face in them as he presses his lips to yours, hungry and needy.

He pulls away too quickly, looking at you with a ferocity in his eyes you’ve never seen before. “Do you want this?” he asks, voice low and warning.

“Yes.” you nod. “John I’ve wanted you so bad for-”

You’re both throwing yourselves into each other, not even bothering to finish talking. John’s wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you into him. You yelp as you quickly wrap your legs around him, clinging to him for dear life, still not breaking the kiss.

He kicks the car door shut and presses you up against it, tongue slithering along your bottom lip, asking permission. You give it, sliding your won against him, deepening the kiss. You feel a moan emanate from your throat as you do, feeling like you’re absorbing John into your very being.

He shifts one hand to holding you up as he fiddles with the backseat door, yanking at it unsuccessfully. He finally pulls back, much to your dismay, to pull the damn thing open properly.

“There you go.” you joke.

“Shut up.” he mutters, before pulling you back from the side of the car and gently carrying you into it, laying you on along the backseat.

“Take your clothes off.” he huffs, fiddling with his own as he climbs in, stripping himself of his weapons. You do the same, pulling off piece after piece of tactical gear.

There’s kevlar everywhere, bulletproof vests thrown haphazardly in the trunk, knives discarded in the front seat. Somehow in a lust-induced craze, the two of you still manage to have some form of organization.

You’ve barely pulled off your shirt before you peer over at Walker, face turned red from exertion, cheat heaving with heavy breaths.

And god, you love looking at his chest. Your eyes meet his, flitting back down in silent communication. Without a word, he nods and you’re on his, straddling him as your hands run along his broad shoulders, teeth nipping at his neck before you kiss the small bites.

He groans, head falling to the crook of your neck as he takes you in, hands gripping your hips like you’ll vanish he doesn’t.

“God, so fucking pretty.” he mumbles, grabbing your chin to pull you back in for anther kiss. One hand trails down towards your arching core, tugging at your waistband. You quickly move to help pull them down, you and John struggling together until finally, the dreaded things are gone.

He doesn’t bother dealing with your underwear, just pushing your panties aside as he brings a finger to your soaked cunt, you gasping at the sensation of his touch.

“So fuckin’ wet, too, shit.” He trails his digit alon you till he reaches your clit, flicking it, eliciting another sharp gasp from you. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

He brings two fingers to your hole, running them against your folds, coating them in your arousal as you groan. “Fucking hell, John, please.”

“You’re even mean when you’re horny.” he chuckles, you glaring down at him in return as you lower one hand to the bulge in his pants, squeezing it to a sharp inhale from John.

“Sorry, what were you saying?” you palm at his crotch as he tries to form some kind of words. Finally, he gives up, instead pushing his fingers into you, at last granting you the friction you’ve longed for. It’s so much better than those nights you’ve laid along in your bed, picturing him above you as you pleasured yourself on your own fingers. His are thick and calloused, and feel fucking incredible as you pushes in and out of you with ease, eyes never leaving your face.

“God you’re gorgeous,” he mumbles out, “so fuckin’ tight just on my fingers. Wanted this forever…”

“Please, John, need you too-”

“Gotta cum on my fingers before you can cum on my dick, baby.” you clench around him at the pet name, John smirking at the feeling as he quickly adds a third finger. Your nails dig into his bare shoulders as he moves within you, your head thrown back and eyes shut in pleasure,

“Look at me baby.” you obey, opening your eyes to see John’s flushed countenance, blue eyes dark and wide as you drink you in. “Go on, cum for me.”

He scissors his fingers within you, and with a cry, you do. You thank God you’re parked in the middle of some forest in the middle of nowhere as you moan, riding the wave of ecstasy. John doesn’t stop, keeping his pace till you start to come down, taking deep breaths as you loosen your grip.

“You cut me.” you blink, John nodding to his shoulder. You see the places where your nails have left crescent marks, breaking the skin.

“Oops.” you shrug, still out of breath from your orgasm. “Something to remember me by?”

John purses his lip. “Only fair I get to leave a little something for you.” he turns his attention to your collarbone, kissing and sucking a bruise into it as he circles his thumb on your clit, making you yearn for more even after one orgasm.

“John, please, for fuck’s sake…” you mumble incoherently. Your brain is wired to tease him and even his fingers inside of you will not change that.

He lifts his head, looking down at the bruise he’s left with pride. “Something to remember me by.”

“You are such a teenager.” you sigh, hand reaching down to undo his belt.

“You’re the one begging me to fuck you.” he grins. His hands meet you there, tugging the leather off and tossing it away as he yanks his tactical pants down just far enough to free his cock.

You can’t help it, you gape it at. He’s thick, and long, a vein running along the underside where you can clearly see. It curves slightly up against his stomach, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. If you weren’t on top of him, you’d lean down and lick it off.

“Shit, do we need a-”

“You’re good. Can’t get pregnant.” you’re already lifting your hips, trying to position yourself over him.

“See, begging.” he teases as he lines up with cock with your cunt, tip rubbing along your folds. “You ready?” he asks earnestly, looking up at you with genuine concern,

You nod. “Walker, if you don’t hurry up and fuck me I swear-”

With that, he pushes into you, silencing you with a moan as you feel yourself stretch around his cock. He’s not too painfully big, the kind of sharp pinch that makes the feeling just that much more sinful.

He groans, head rolling back as he clutches your waist. You’re sure if you looked down you’d see his knuckles turned white.

“Jesus Christ, this fuckin’ perfect pussy,” he mumvles incoherently as he pushes deeper into you. “SO fuckin tight for me, baby.”

Then finally, he sheathes himself fully, with a downright pornographic moan escaping your throat at the sensation, John gives you a moment to adjust, the two of you sitting in silence, save for your shared panting and occasional groans.

You’ve never felt so full, stuffed to the brim with JOhn’s cock, feeling the head just kiss your cervix within you. You breathe deep as you adjust, feeling every part of him, every ridge, vein, curve of his cock.

“God, John, so big…” you trail off as your brain shuts down, thoughts of anything else besides the man in front of you and his dick inside you fading away into static.

“Taking it so good.” he brushes a fallen piece of hair out of your face, a gentle gesture compared to his usually annoying countenance. “So pretty when you’re full of me.”

You nod sharply, your brain still fuzzy with lust and pleasure. You lift your hips, his cock rubbing against your walls before you slide back down, moaning as you do.

You pick up the pace, riding him like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do, because it’s all you’ve wanted for fucking weeks and he feels so fucking good.

John sucks another bruise into you, this one on your neck, groaning out incoherent expletives as you bounce in his lap, moaning loudly with ecstasy.

Still, you’re exhausted from your mission and your previous orgasm, your pace beginning to falter. Your eyes meet John’s, and without a word he wraps his arms around you, rolling the two of you onto the seat, you on your back with him above you.

You rake your nails over his back, leaving even more scratches as you writhe beneath him. That gentle moment from earlier feels long-gone; John is rough with you, each thrust pounds into you, heavy balls slapping against your ass as you wrap your legs around his waist, trying to pull him in deeper, as deep as he can possibly get. His mussed blond hair frames his face as he fucks into you, his expression concentrated and determined.

“Feels fuckin’ perfect, perfcct fuckin’ girl beensth me, God I’ve wanted you so bad, so perfect and good.”

“Wanted you too.” you manage to pat out, looking up into John's eyes. “So handsome, John, you’re so good.”

Oh, he liked that. He moans outright, loudly, his thrusts managing to become even harder. You give a raspy moan in reply.

“Like when I tell you how good you are?” you pant out as you give him a dastardly smile, to which he just grunts in response, “So fuckin’ good, John, love your cock, let you fuck me forever.”

You’re a little cockdrunk, or a lot, head spinning as you clench around him, John pressing his mouth against yours in a bruising kiss. Maybe to shut you up, maybe because he wanted to, who knows. You just know you can feel the pressure building in your stomach, another orgasm on the verge of breaking loose within you.

“John,” you move a hand to his face, running through his beard, gripping the fine hairs as you seek something, anything to hold onto. “Gonna cum, ‘m close.”

“Go on, baby.” he grunts, thrusts growing faster and more erratic, his cock barely leaving you before slamming back in. “Cum all over my cock.”

You grip his shoulders, crying out his name as you cum again, seeing stars as you feel the white-hot waves of pleasure crashing over you. John follows shortly, sheathing himself deep inside you, where you can feel the heat of him cum painting your walls.

He gives a few weak thrusts, as if he’s trying to fuck his cum further into you. You just groan, eyes squeezed shut, body still feeling like it’s on fire.

When you open your eyes, you see him above you, panting as he comes down to Earth. He looks even more handsome like this, all sweaty and messy and smelling of sex.

“Was that,” he exhales, still trying to catch his breath, “Was that good?”

You just stare up at him, before a laugh manages to escape you. He looks a little sad before you pull him down by the nape of his neck, kissing him again, soft and slow.

“Yes,” you say as you lay your head back against the seat. “That was good, John.”

He smiles, not the usual cocky and self-satisfied look, but a genuine smile, a sense of satisfaction flowing through him. He presses a kiss to your collarbone, atop where he’s left a hickey, then to the other, then a third peck to your lips. You giggle a little, running your hands through his messy hair.

“If I’d known all it took to make you stop being an asshole was fucking you, I woulda done it a lot sooner.”

“Well, technically I was the one fucking you”

You groan, exasperated. “God, the fucking technicalities with you.” you look back up at him, tilting your head as you smile. “Am I gonna have to do this again to make you stop?”

He just shrugs, a mischievous look on his face. “Guess so.” he rolls his hips against yours once more, and you can already feel him getting hard again within you.

“Fuck John…” you’re still barely recovered from the first round.

“Hey, thank the serum.”

a/n: Shoutout to the Tiktok comment where someone called him Captain Crashout bc i immediately jotted that shit down for later use. And thank all of you who've shown my fics so much love!!! I started this as a hobby to practice my writing and I'm genuinely shocked that people really enjoy these.

It ain't much but it's honest work :)

#thunderbolts*#john walker #john walker x reader

1K notes · View notes

fandomwriterstuff · 7 days ago

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there's no death here | robert "bob" reynolds

ཐིཋྀ thunderbolts caught me with a bob-shaped hole in my heart.

warnings: spoilers from thunderbolts, super!reader, fem!reader, not sure if I'll make a bunch of parts or even finish this idea so be warned, gonna go ahead and say canon-divergent to save my ass bc im no marvel expert.

masterlist | ao3

You weren't built for battle—the powers you had were more defense based than anything—but you had been trained by the best of the best. The countless lessons left your survival skills above subpar, and maybe you could make use of your size and strangle a man twice it, but those things didn't make you a hero.

And being around so many of them for so long, it's disturbingly easy to start to feel useless.

“Born or cursed?”

You didn't remember who had asked it. You do remember you had been younger, that you'd been more or less adopted into the world of the Avengers without ever truly being thrown into it. Wanda and Natasha had been your everything, especially when it came to helping with your powers. Between the supernatural and the mental side, they had done wonders.

Sitting around and not making use of yourself would be spitting on their memory, so it wasn't long before you were dragged into government business. Reading minds was handy, but picking apart memories? Entering their psyche?

You were gold to detectives and last resort for men in black suits who would “talk” to criminals if you didn't.

The work had drained enough from you by the time Bucky showed up on your doorstep with a bottle of liquor and a favor.

“This isn't what I do,” you told him, looking over the files. “I'm not a therapist or a teacher. If Void is as powerful as you say it is—”

“It can be beaten,” he explained. “We've done it before. I just need you to help Bob block it out. You know how to do that.”

“With other people's thoughts,” you argued.

He shook his head. “You suppress memories. You put them into neat little boxes for your agent work.”

“You want me to make him forget something that dangerous?”

“I want you to show him he's not alone when it comes to this side of superpowers.” Bucky stood, a warm hand coming down on your shoulder and squeezing. “We've all been scattered. It's a shit team, the New Avengers, but it's something, kid.”

“I’m not a kid anymore, Bucky,” you sighed.

“I know. Wouldn't be asking you for your help if you were.”

The door shut to your apartment in farewell, but one visit from the Winter Soldier had too many opening at once. Flashes of earth's most mightiest heroes, of old friends, dead friends, missing ones.

Getting dragged back into that mess was asking for trouble.

Sipping on free alcohol, you flip through the packet of Robert “Bob” Reynolds. Sweet face, fucked past, and a far more fucked psyche for the powers he'd revealed in the last hit on New York.

Cursed, you decided by the end of your research, frowning as a picture slipped free. The New Avengers were definitely a ragtag group. Bucky was the only one you knew, Yelena you learned more than enough about through Nat digging around her head one time too many. Alexei Shostakov as well, but he was easy to pick apart at one glance. Anything revolving around Ava Starr and John Walker was rumors or passed down the grapevine.

Your phone vibrated. Checking it drew a deep line between your eyebrows. Someone was asking for another questioning, this time through the mind of a rampant serial killer in Chicago. They didn't have enough on him.

You leaned into your hands, sighing.

Across the block at a red-light, Bucky glanced at his phone and smiled as he read over the text.

“I need to meet him before I agree to this.”

The light flicked green.

The Watchtower was a shadow of the place you used to know. Repairs were still being made leaving people crawling on every floor but the top level had been finished for two weeks now, leaving the New Avengers with their shared space.

Bucky had promised the team would be out when you arrived, save for Bob. As it was quiet when the elevator door opened, you were glad to see he'd kept that promise.

“Welcome back,” he called, walking up.

“Which room did you snag?” you scoffed, eyeing the decor. Minimalist, neutral tones. Far greyer than the old room you remembered.

“The biggest.” He said it like it was obvious. Maybe it should've been.

Hearing movement, you both turned as a shadow passed by the windows. The hunched shoulders were a dead giveaway, soft eyes flittering between the floor and you as the young man stepped down.

Bob wore a dark blue sweater that drowned his figure and dark jeans. His hair was still a shaggy length and dark brown from the recent pictures you'd seen. By all accounts, he looked normal, but the anxiety flowed off him in waves that crashed against your head.

His mind extends way beyond others.

“Hi,” he greeted softly, clearing his throat. “You're, uh, Bucky's friend?”

You introduced yourself, stepping forward to offer your hand. He was quick to step back even across the room, body tensing.

“Wait, don't. I'm not sure if I—”

“When's the last time you transported someone into a shame room?”

The shock on his face had you glancing at Bucky for answers.

“Last week,” he said, crossing his arms. “Nothing super dangerous. Uncomfortable, but we get a lot of repeats so we break off easily enough.”

“Wait, so how much do you already know?” Bob asked, arms wrapping around himself.

“Enough,” you and Bucky respond.

Bob sighed, head nodding along as he turned away. “Great, guess that makes it easier.”

“I wouldn't say that; you're guarded now.” You moved closer, keeping your steps slow and your hands behind your back. Bob remained tense but didn't shy away. “Bucky called me here to see if I could help you, but I came here to see if you even want it.”

“Well, uh…” he swallowed, head bowing.

Do you want my help? His eyes flashed wide, breath catching as he looked up. You kept your expression neutral as you raised a brow. Do you? This will only work if you want to put in the effort.

“Can you see everything?”

You fought not to smile at the childish awe in his voice as it echoed back to you. I'm not looking. I'm listening.

A series of curses and panicked background commentary had you laughing.

I've heard and seen a lot. Honestly, don’t worry about it.

“That's easy for you to say,” Robert grumbled. “I cant control my thoughts like you can.”

“Would you like to?”

“It's not that I don't want your help,” he said, hands tangling into his sweater. “I just don't want to hurt anyone again. A lot of people… Some don't snap out of what I make them see. It's bad.”

“I have faith in my mental state,” you assured him. “Mental barriers, especially. I need to see just how powerful you are, though. Because if you get past mine, that means I'll be training you through trial and error. It's risky but it's not impossible.”

Bob looked to Bucky. “Do you think that's a good idea?”

Your old friend shrugged. “I brought her in because she's good at what she does. Whatever she wants to do, I have to trust it's the right decision.”

“I could hurt her!” Bob breathed and looked back to you. “I could hurt you really, really bad. Are you sure you know what you're signing up for?”

“I read through your files. I saw the extent of your powers and the aftermath of the accident,” you explained. “I'm prepared to help you with all things mental and psychic, but trust has to go both ways.”

You raised your hand again. He flinched, shuffling back.

“You want to help me now. What if that changes?” he whispers. “What if you see what it's really like and it scares you?”

“We won't know unless we try.” You took a step. Hand outstretched.

Bob looked at Bucky again, as if waiting to see if anyone would disagree. Whatever he searched for wasn't there.

He sighed and met your gaze. Pale blue eyes, you noted, with colors shifting around the pupil.

“Okay,” he nodded, holding up a shaky hand. The skin was bitten raw around his nails, skin dry but warm. The moment you felt it, there was a pressure against your mental shields. You could see the darkness clouding around you, searching for a way in, but you held firm.

“Are you okay?” he whispered, arm trembling as he stood there. His eyes were closed, head turned away.

You smiled, holding in a laugh as you used your other hand to grab his. “I'm fine, Bob. You're definitely powerful.”

“But you didn't see anything?” he said, eyeing where you were joined.

“I've had years to work on my mental barriers. You can't breach what doesn't have an entrance.” You squeezed his hand. “This is a really good sign. I'm going to have to let you in at some point to see just how potent your power is, but we'll work up to that.”

“You really don't see anything?” he whispered, hope rising in his expression as he searched your gaze.

“Just you,” you promised, unable to keep from smiling. “We'll have to work on your projection. Your thoughts are…loud.”

His face flushed red as he pulled away, sputtering an apology. There was some halfass excuse about the bathroom as he fled. Bucky stepped up to fill the empty space.

“What was he thinking?”

“None of your business,” you chuckled. “You got a guest room for me?”

But you had to admit you were flattered. Mens’ thoughts usually came up with the same descriptions for you at first glance. All your life you'd been met with disgusting thoughts and hateful opinions or plain “hot” and “sexy.”

This might've been the first time a man had ever thought of you as “radiant” before.

#thunderbolts x reader #robert reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x reader

1K notes · View notes

fandomwriterstuff · 7 days ago

Text

Embrace

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader!

Summary: After a year hiatus from dating, you decide to get back on the apps and begin the search again for the one…Only to find out that the pool of guys in New York has extremely slim pickings. Every time you return from a date though, Bob and a glass of wine are always waiting to hear the latest story from your dating chronicles.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, and just a little small hint of Angst (like a dusting of angst…a little peppercorn of angst lol), Reader and Bob have an established friendship and they are super close, Bob just wants the reader to be happy…But I mean…At the same time he’s a bit jealous of course, Swearing, Talks about relationships and awkward interactions with guys lol.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (…please protect yourselves, I beg of thee), Sensual/Super frickin soft looooove makin’ lol, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Fingering, Biting, Scratching, Leaving Marks by accident but kind of on purpose? Heheheheh. It’s been a while since reader has had sex, Worshipping/Praising Kink,

Author’s Note: Thank you Anon for requesting this! I went off the damn rails with this one because I really loved the concept, and thought it would be great to put a really cute little twist to it! I truly enjoy writing this type of stuff, it’s just so scrumptious for my brain. Hope y’all enjoy <3

Word Count: 16,826

The cold bit at your knees the second you stepped out of the restaurant.

You wrapped your arms tightly around yourself, pulling your jacket closed as you shifted your weight from heel to heel. It was a nice jacket–mid-thigh length, fitted, soft beige wool with a classic belt–but it didn’t do much to protect your bare legs from the peak fall weather that plagued New York. You were wearing a navy-blue satin slip dress that skimmed your thighs and clung in all the ways the mirror at the compound had promised would be flattering. You had paired it with a delicate rose gold necklace and matching heels that now dangled from your fingers–replaced with the fold out flats you always brought. The outfit had felt elegant when you left earlier tonight…Now it just felt cold.

You were standing a few feet away from your date, Jeremy–the man who insisted on dining at Le Pavillon because he ‘had a connection there’ and claimed it was ‘just upscale enough to set the mood.’ He was scrolling absently through his phone, occasionally glancing toward the street like he was trying to manifest his ride faster.

You shifted again, arms crossed under your chest. Your Uber was three minutes away…Three minutes too long.

The dinner itself had been passable. The wine was decent, and the risotto was rich enough to almost make up for the conversation. But…He had a habit of interrupting. Correcting. Smiling too long. You insisted on splitting the bill after he made a smug comment about being ‘happy to invest in a beautiful woman’–and he had not taken it well. You could feel the awkward tension humming between you now, like static off an unplugged cord.

His phone buzzed and he quickly glanced down at it, “That’s me!” He exclaimed, stuffing it into his coat pocket. He turned toward you, giving the kind of grin that probably worked better in dim lighting, “I’ll text you, yeah? We’ll set up something for next week.

You forced a tight, polite smile, “Sure…” He leaned in for a hug, and you let him–quick, loose, impersonal. He smelled like cheap cigars, chlorine, and headache inducing aftershave. When he pulled back, you already had your phone out.

The second his back turned and he slipped into his rideshare, your whole posture deflated–your shoulders dropped, your jaw unclenched, and the carefully pleasant expression faded off your face in the chilly fall air.

You opened your text thread with Bob and typed with cold fingers:

“Heading back to the compound now, no need to be worried. Will talk soon.”

Three dots appeared almost immediately, and he responded:

“No problem, see you soon. Send the location tracker thing when you get in.”

You smirked at his message, thumbs already moving before you could stop yourself:

“Such a worrier Robert…Kinda hot though 🥵”

You sent it before you could think twice. The moment it was delivered, you stared at it–head tilting slightly, your expression catching somewhere between amusement and embarrassment. Of course it was meant to be a teasing, lighthearted message. The kind of dry humor you always used when Bob got extra overprotective.

But you knew how he was about safety, especially regarding your safety, and especially since you started going on these dates.

You could still hear Yelena’s voice echoing in your head–“You’re turning into a hermit. A sexy, socially-anxious, wine-drunk hermit. That’s not hot, babe…Download some apps for the love of god.”

So you did, and now you had been on six dates, with six different men, and had been introduced to six different brands of disappointment.

And for the first time tonight, as you froze outside, with your fingers brushing the familiar edge of your phone case, the thought crept in that maybe it was you…

You weren’t exactly inexperienced, you had been in a relationship prior to this that had a bad falling out due to you moving to New York…But you were a Thunderbolt, for God’s sake–trained, capable, unflinching in combat. But when it comes to this kind of intimacy? Emotional vulnerability? The whole practice of letting yourself be seen? It felt harder than dodging bullets sometimes.

The Uber driver–a soft-spoken woman with calm eyes–pulled up to the restaurant and greeted you, confirming your name before you stepped into the back.

“Y/N…” You responded, returning a tired smile to her. You placed your heels beside you on the seat and sank into the warm leather, finally feeling the muscles in your back relax. You had one more task before you could switch off for the night–you opened Bob’s pinned thread and tapped the location share icon, putting a note below.

“Tracker sent…Unless the driver turns out to be a serial killer, you’ll see me in twenty.”

The reply came a second later.

“Don’t joke about that…I’m already watching your route.”

You rolled your eyes fondly and let your head fall back against the seat. Of course he was already watching, because that was just Bob. He was always two steps ahead when it came to you. Every time you mentioned a new guy he always asked to read through the profile, but he never said anything critical–like he just wanted to put a name to the face, and see the little blurb they wrote. Then he would always stay up for you, and wait till you got back to the compound safely.

You exhaled softly, watching the city blur past your window. It was late enough that traffic was light, and the closer you got to the Tower, the more you felt the tension bleeding out of your body in slow waves. The warmth of the car helped, but so did knowing who was waiting at the end of the ride.

Twenty minutes later, the familiar glass front of the Watchtower loomed into view. The car came to a slow, quiet stop along the curb.

The driver turned slightly toward you, smiling, “Wow,” She said, tilting her head a bit to get a better look outside the passenger window, “What a nice building.” You followed her gaze toward the glass-fronted façade of the Watchtower, the compound’s lower half glowing faintly from the lobby lights still burning behind reinforced panes. The upper floors were dark now, a few security strobes blinking red against the skyline. It looked sleek from the outside–imposing, even. But from within, it was just…Familiar. The only place in New York that really felt like home. You gave a soft, tired smile.

”Still under renovations,” You replied, gathering your shoes up in your arms, “But it’s comfy.”

”Looks very secure,” She commented with a grin, you chuckled a bit.

“Yeah…That’s definitely the idea.” You slipped out of the back seat with a gentle murmur of thanks, heels in one hand, Your small clutch tucked beneath your arm.

“Have a great night,” You added, closing the door behind you. “Drive safe.” As the car pulled away, you turned and padded toward the entrance, cold air nipping at your legs again. You reached for the key fob clipped to the inside of your jacket and scanned it against the reader beside the reinforced door. A soft chime, then a green light blinked.

Click.

You slipped inside before the wind could follow you.

The lobby was dim and quiet, lit mostly by the soft glow of recessed ceiling panels. The walls were a combination of blackened steel and warm wood accents–part utilitarian fortress, part sleek design prototype. A sitting area to the right was still cluttered with folded blankets and someone’s abandoned socks (Walker’s, probably). One of the wall panels buzzed faintly as the security system refreshed. Somewhere in the back hallway, a cleaning drone hummed past.

Your cheap fold-out flats squeaked against the polished concrete floor as you walked toward the elevator bay, the straps starting to chafe against the inside of your toes. You pulled out your phone and quickly left the driver five stars and a generous tip before sliding it back into your pocket.

The elevator dinged a few seconds later.

You stepped inside and hit the button for the 80th floor–Thunderbolts’ private quarters. The doors slid shut behind you with a whisper.

Then came the feeling. That familiar weightlessness.

The elevator ascended fast–too fast for your already sensitive post-date stomach. You felt it in your ribs first, that swooping g-force pull that lifted the pit of your stomach an inch higher than it was supposed to sit. You leaned your head back against the cool mirrored wall with a quiet sigh and let your eyes fall shut for a moment, letting yourself go completely still.

You felt the shift in your knees when the elevator slowed.

Then��ding.

The doors opened.

You stepped out of the elevator, the doors whispering shut behind you.

The 80th floor always had a particular stillness to it at this time of night, one that could be felt from miles away. The air was cooler here, tinged with the ever-present scent of industrial concrete, stale coffee, and the softest trace of Bob’s cedarwood laundry detergent. Someone–probably Ava–had left a sweater draped over the back of one of the common room chairs, and the hallway light above flickered once, then steadied. Everyone–but you and Bob–were sent on their own missions for the next few weeks, so the both of you had settled in this rhythmic routine of soft conversations and silence. It was peaceful, and for once you didn’t feel like you were being pulled every which way like a medieval torture device.

You bent near the wall, carefully setting down your heels with a soft clink of buckles. Then, with a quiet sigh, you toed off your fold-out flats one by one, nudging them beside the heels in a tired pile. Your toes stretched gratefully against the cold floor.

Soft sounds filtered in from the common room–a low, rhythmic rustle of fabric.

You padded forward.

Bob was sitting on the far end of the couch, folding a small pile of freshly washed clothes on the coffee table in front of him. He wore his usual nighttime uniform–dark sweatpants, slightly too-long sleeves pushed up on a navy crewneck. His light brown hair was still a little damp at the ends, like he had showered not long ago, and gave up halfway through blow drying his locks.

He didn’t notice you at first. His head was bent in quiet concentration, fingers folding a t-shirt with slow, precise care. But the second your footsteps hit the carpeted edge of the room, his head lifted.

His eyes met yours. And then, briefly–barely–they flicked down.

Your jacket had fallen open slightly, the soft beige parting just enough to reveal the satin navy-blue slip beneath. The dress caught what little light there was, glinting at the edges where it hugged your waist and dipped at the neckline. Your makeup was still intact, though your lipstick had faded, and your eyeshadow had begun to crease. But there was something else too–something vulnerable in your eyes now, without the polite mask you’d worn earlier.

Bob swallowed.

His gaze returned quickly to your face, and he offered a soft, crooked smile.

“G-Guess the d-driver wasn’t a s-serial killer, hmm?”

You shook your head with a tired huff. “Disappointing, right?” That earned a soft laugh. He shifted on the couch slightly, still holding a half-folded towel in his lap.

“H-How was the d-date?” You gave a groan that seemed to come from your soul and reached up to rub your fingers along your temple.

“Let me take my face off first,” You muttered, already turning toward the hallway. “Then I’ll divulge the gory details.”

Bob let out another quiet laugh, head tilting slightly. “A-alright. I’ll be here.”

He always was.

You made your way to your room, the door swinging quietly shut behind you. The ritual was muscle memory now: a warm shower to get the city off your skin, your fingers pulling pins from your hair one by one, the hiss of the micellar water bottle as you soaked a cotton pad and wiped away the eyeliner that always smudged more than you expected.

Fifteen minutes later, you emerged again in your night robe–pale gray and soft as clouds, cinched at the waist–and your fluffy white slippers, the thick soles muted against the floor. A cooling gel mask clung to your face, pale green and slightly shiny, promising to soothe the irritation blooming beneath your cheekbones from where you had rubbed too hard.

You looked like a woman who had been to war and came back with just enough energy to report what had happened.

Bob looked up the second he heard your approach.

You didn’t speak right away–just shuffled back into the common room and dropped into the spot on the couch beside him with a dramatic grunt, your limbs folding into the cushions like you were eighty years older than you were.

“W-Want me to get y-you a glass of wine?” He asked quietly. You nodded immediately at his offer, adjusting your robe with a small tug at the collar to cover the exposed curve of your shoulder. The cooling mask clung a little tighter as your expression settled somewhere between

Bob smiled–crooked, and fond–before rising from the couch, stretching out his long limbs, shaking off the stiffness.

He padded softly across the room, bare feet silent against the concrete floor as he stepped into the kitchen. The fridge opened with a quiet suction-pop, casting a muted glow across the space. He pulled out the bottle of red you’d been nursing your way through all week–a California Pinot Noir with plum notes and just enough bite to make you feel like your post-date venting was sophisticated instead of sad, disappointing, and embarrassing.

He poured it carefully into the large glass you always used–stemless, wide-rimmed, and shimmering from the last time you cleaned it.

Then he grabbed himself a can of lemon-lime sparkling water from the side shelf and cracked it open. The hiss echoed softly in the quiet. He grimaced slightly at the first fizz.

It tasted like the static from an old TV, but it was better than caffeine this late at night.

When he returned, he handed you the glass slowly, like he didn’t want to startle you out of the soft space you’d found yourself in.

You looked up and accepted it with both hands, the glass cool against your fingers. “Thanks, Bob.” He nodded–shy, and timid–before he reclaimed his spot beside you on the couch, legs folding underneath him as he resumed his slow, methodical folding of socks and towels and the occasional Thunderbolts t-shirt.

A beat passed.

Then: “S-So…You’re all c-comfortable now…” He paused for effect, glancing sideways with a small, expectant raise of his brows. “D-Divulge.”You let out a long sigh and stared into your wine like it might come alive and answer for you.

“It started okay,” You began. “Really. The place was nice, I actually liked the risotto. He was polite at first, made some decent small talk–asked about my job, what I do with my team. I kept it vague, obviously.”

“O-Obviously,” Bob echoed, smiling faintly as he folded another shirt.

“But then…” You took a slow sip to try and give yourself time to choose your words carefully–letting the sweet tinge of plum settle on your tongue before swallowing, “Something shifted. I don’t even know how to describe it. Just–this weird vibe started coming off him. Like I owed him something for showing up. Like just agreeing to dinner meant I was suddenly locked into…I don’t know. Some kind of romantic contract.”

Bob’s hands slowed their movement. “H-He said that?”

“No,” You muttered, shaking your head. “But he didn’t have to. He looked at me like that. And then I said I wanted to split the bill because he made this smug little comment about ‘investing’ in me.”

Bob’s face twitched. Slightly. His fingers resumed folding, carefully adding another towel to the growing pile. “And h-he didn’t like that?”

You snorted. “Not even a little. He got all passive aggressive about it. Like he was trying to hide that he was annoyed, but it was obvious. Barely made eye contact the rest of the time. Kept checking his phone. He didn’t even wait for me to get my ride.”

Bob’s jaw ticked for half a second, and you missed it. You were still staring into your wineglass, lips pressed into a faint pout that he’d seen too many times lately. He wished he didn’t love that face. He wished you didn’t have to make it so often.

“I just don’t get it,” You started quietly after a beat. “Am I giving off the wrong energy? Is there some neon sign over my head that says ’emotionally exploit me’?”

Bob’s voice came soft. Gentle.

“No,” He replied, “Y-You’re just going out with the w-wrong people…I-I’m sure if you k-keep looking you’ll find someone.” Bob swallowed hard. You could see it–how his throat moved around the sound he didn’t quite let out. His jaw flexed once, and his hand paused in the middle of folding a t-shirt, fingers tightening slightly on the fabric.

The stutter had come on stronger, and you watched as he tried to shake it off, attempting to get a handle on it, even though it wasn’t completely possible. He hated that it got worse when he was around you. There was no way for him to get rid of it–even though the lab techs in the med bay said they would try to help him–but lump the issue in with the anxiousness he felt when you came around him, it became an issue.

Bob wanted to say ‘Maybe that person is me’, he wanted to say ‘The right one could be sitting right in front of you actually’.

But instead, he stayed quiet–letting it rot in the back of his throat like a fruit that never quite ripened. Because the fear of losing this, whatever it was you shared together, was louder than any hope he might’ve harboured.

There was something tragic all poetic about it, really. How close you were, how often you leaned on him, how easily he could reach out and touch you right now–and how impossible it felt to close that final, aching inch.

You took another sip of wine, rolling it across your tongue slowly before swallowing and sighing into the glass.

”All I want is simplicity,” You muttered, eyes fixed somewhere off in the distance. Bob’s hands stilled for a fraction of a second. Then he began folding again–but his pace quickened. Not rushed. Just…focused. Sharpened. Like he couldn’t afford to let himself freeze.

His voice, when it came, was soft but pointed. “A-And w-what does that entail e-exactly…? ‘Cause if you can explain it well, y-you should put it in your profile.” You let out a surprised laugh–small and warm–and nudged your shoulder gently against his.

”Yeah,” You chuckled, “And I should absolutely put a picture of me in this face mask too…It’ll really give off an Osiris vibe.” Bob gave a breathy little laugh of his own, glancing sideways.

”I-I don’t know…M-Might give off the w-wrong impression.” You raised both brows in a mock challenge.

”Who wouldn’t want to go out on a date with the god of fertility, agriculture, the afterlife, and resurrection?” He grinned.

And for a second–just a second–it was easy. Light. You and Bob, trading quiet jokes in the warmth of low light and soft fabric piles. But then the moment shifted again, softening at the edges as the laughter tapered off.

Your voice dropped, just slightly.

“I just want…Small gestures,” You said. “To show that I’m appreciated…Like a bouquet of daisies or something…I’d take anything…”

Bob’s hands stopped moving completely.

“I don’t need extravagant dinners, or to be treated like I’m royalty,” You continued, still not looking at him directly. “I just want some… calm. This life that I lead is already so chaotic. Every mission, every city, every week is different. I want to come home to someone who–” You hesitated, just a beat, “–who will hold me. Who’ll tell me everything is alright. Who won’t ask me to be anyone except exactly who I am.”

Bob’s jaw clenched again. He didn’t realize you were watching him now. Not fully. Not in that slow, deliberate way you only looked when you were trying to see something.

And there it was–the soft pink rising at his cheeks. Not just from your words, but from the fact that he couldn’t hide how much they meant to him. How much they wrecked him.

He swallowed once more, eyes darting to the pile in front of him like it was his lifeline.

Then he cleared his throat and said–voice low, cracking slightly:

“Y-You should… P-Put that down.”

You tilted your head, amused despite the emotion threading your chest. “In my profile?”

Bob nodded quickly–too quickly. “Y-Yeah. All of it. Just—j-just like that.” There was something raw in his voice now. A quiet gentleness. Like he’d been handed a blueprint for the life he wanted most, and it was yours. You leaned back slightly against the couch cushions, one hand curling gently around your wineglass.

“You sure I’m not asking for too much?”

“O-Of course not…” Bob said, his voice low but sure, even if the edges of it still wavered. “I-It’s what you want… I-I don’t think it’s that big of an ask.”

You took a slow breath, one that stretched deep into your chest and pulled at something behind your ribs. Then you tipped back the rest of your wine, letting the last few sips warm your throat as you swallowed down the lump forming there.

You set the empty glass gently on the table and looked down at your hands, thumb brushing along the curve of your palm.

God, Bob.

You’d always known he was a good man. Not just kind, but tender in a way most men didn’t know how to be–especially in your line of work. Bob had that softness that didn’t come from fragility, but from surviving pain and choosing not to become bitter. He was loyal in a way that felt bone-deep. Present without being overbearing. He saw people. He saw you.

And the worst part was…You’d wanted him for a long time.

Not in a crush-on-your-teammate way. Not in a reckless, post-mission hookup way.

But in the quiet way. The real way.

You wanted the version of love that grew slowly between two people who already knew each other inside and out. Who’d seen one another covered in blood and grief and stubbornness. Who’d still shown up anyway. You and Bob had fallen into this rhythm over time–a pattern of mutual tending. Him reading the signs of your stress before you spoke. You reminding him to drink water, to eat, to rest. Him folding your laundry when you left it in the wash too long. You buying his favorite weird little snacks for the pantry without saying anything.

There was so much care between you. So much love, if you were brave enough to name it. But you weren’t. Not really. Because Bob had been through so much–too much–and he was still trying to heal, still trying to be here. You didn’t want to complicate that. You didn’t want to reach for more if it meant tipping the balance.

So instead, you gave him a small, quiet smile and reached out to pat his shoulder once. Just a light tap. Friendly. Familiar.

“I wish they made carbon copies of you, Bob,” you murmured.

He blinked, startled by the comment, and glanced up at you with slightly flushed cheeks. “W-W-Why’s that?”

You shrugged, playing it off like it wasn’t a dagger of truth tucked inside a half-joke.

“I think the dating pool would be a lot less disappointing,” You said casually, but your eyes lingered on him just a second too long. Your voice softened. “Maybe then I’d actually have a chance at something good.”

Bob’s brows furrowed faintly.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Tilted his head like he was trying to solve a riddle.

“W-Wait, d-do you mean–like–m-more guys who c-care about safety? Or–uh–laundry?” He asked, uncertain, lips pursed slightly.

You smiled–tight, almost fond. Of course it went over his head.

You turned back toward the couch cushion, pulling your legs beneath you and tucking your robe a little tighter at the waist.

“Never mind,” You said, voice easy and light, but your heart thudding just a little harder. “Forget I said anything.”

Bob looked at you for a moment longer, like he could sense something more behind the words but didn’t quite know how to reach it.

Then, slowly, he nodded and went back to folding.

You watched the way his fingers moved–so gentle, so meticulous. As if every wrinkle mattered. As if it was easier to smooth out cotton than the knot slowly forming in his chest.

Neither of you said anything for a long time.

But your hand stayed close to his on the cushion, only an inch away.

————————

Two days later you were walking up the familiar steps of the Watchtower again, this time with your hands deep in your jacket pockets and lips pressed into a thin, tight line.

It had started off fine–actually, better than fine. Leo had chosen something casual, a walk through Central Park with lattes in hand. Low-pressure, decent weather, and a chance to talk. You’d worn jeans this time, a cozy knit sweater tucked into a belt at your waist, a cream scarf wound loose around your neck, and boots that were comfortable enough for walking.

You tried. Yet again.

But about twenty minutes in, you realized you were asking all the questions. You asked what he did, what he liked to do, where he grew up, what kind of music he liked–trying to keep the flow natural, easy. But every time you paused to take a sip of your coffee, hoping he’d ask you something back…He didn’t. Not once.

Worse still, every other sentence seemed to reference how close his apartment was. ‘Just a few blocks up, fifteen-minute walk tops, I could make us some drinks, you like mezcal?’ You smiled through it, tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was just nervous. Maybe he wasn’t great with conversation. But the more time passed, the more it felt like you were auditioning for the role of “hookup of the night.”

Eventually, you stopped walking.

“Hey…” You started, wrapping both hands around your coffee cup for warmth. “I don’t want to waste your time. You seem nice, but…I’m not really feeling a connection here.”

Leo blinked, shrugged, and gave a crooked smirk. “Well…Your loss.”

You smiled back. Not because it was funny–but because it was so damn predictable.

You peeled off from the sidewalk and ordered an Uber back to the Tower before he could say anything else.

The elevator doors whispered shut behind you as you stepped out onto the 80th floor, your boots thudding softly against the polished concrete. The air smelled different up here tonight.

Warm.

Sweet.

Soft citrus curled into your nose before you even reached the hallway–sharp and bright, softened by a buttery undercurrent that clung to the air like steam from a kettle. It smelled like sugar and zest and something just on the verge of golden brown.

Lemon.

You breathed in deeper. There was vanilla too–just a touch–folded gently beneath the tartness. Something baked. Something familiar.

Lemon poppyseed.

Of course.

You kicked your boots off by the wall, nudging them neatly beneath the little bench just outside the elevator bay. You could already hear movement coming from the kitchen–quiet shifting, the muffled rattle of a spoon against ceramic, and the hum of the oven fan cycling low in the background.

“H-How did i-it go?”

His voice came from around the corner, soft and hopeful and already laced with a nervous edge.

You paused mid-step.

For a moment, you just…Stood there. Breathing in the smell. Letting the warmth settle somewhere in your chest. Then, slowly, you reached up and unraveled your scarf from around your neck. The soft wool slipped free with a sigh of fabric, and you tossed it over the hook near the elevator. Your jacket followed, shoulders slumping as you shrugged out of it and hung it up too.

You padded forward.

“Another dud,” You announced plainly, turning into the wide open space of the Thunderbolts common kitchen. The lights were low, golden, casting soft amber glows across the granite counters and brushed steel appliances. Bob was perched at the far end of the kitchen island, elbows resting on either side of an open book, one knee pulled up on the stool.

He looked up from the pages immediately.

The sleeves of his dark thermal sweater had been shoved up to his forearms, revealing his pale blue veins that traveled up the inside of it. His cheeks were pink–not just from the oven’s warmth, but from the way your voice had settled into something tired and close. He closed the book slowly, a thumb marking the page.

“R-Really?” He asked. “I-I thought you said he w-was awesome…” You moved toward the oven without answering, hands absently dragging along the edge of the counter as you passed. Your fingers reached for the switch beside the stovetop, flicking on the tiny oven light. The inside glowed to life.

A loaf tin sat in the center rack–round and golden, the top just beginning to dome. Tiny cracks laced the surface where the batter had risen, flecked through with little black seeds. A small pool of sugar syrup had glazed part of the crust, catching the light like glass. It was almost done.

You stared at it for a beat. The warmth from the oven kissed your knees through your jeans. Then you exhaled through your nose, lips curling faintly.

“What’re you making?” You murmured, though you already knew.

He cleared his throat, sitting up a little straighter. “L-Lemon poppyseed l-loaf…Your f-favourite.”

You turned slowly to look at him over your shoulder, one brow raised, a knowing smile twitching at your mouth. “You know me too well.”

Bob flushed immediately–his chin tucking just slightly as he looked down at the book again, shifting like he didn’t know what to do with his hands now. He fiddled with the edge of the spine. “T-Thought we would be c-celebrating a successful first date…”

You let out a small, quiet laugh–not because it was funny, but because he meant it. Because he’d baked your favorite thing, timed it to be warm for your return, because he had hoped.

That was the thing with Bob. He hoped for you when you didn’t even bother anymore.

You stepped away from the oven and came around the island, hands brushing along the edge again as you moved. You leaned one hip against the stool beside him and glanced down at his book–Dune, from the looks of the cover. An older edition. His finger still held the page bookmarking it as he kept his attention on you.

You reached for the lemon syrup bowl he had left near the stove and dipped one finger into it absently, then touched it to your tongue. Tart. Warm. Sticky. He watched the way you closed your eyes for a brief moment and sighed before glancing up at him.

“Guess I don’t know how to read people too well.” Bob stared at you like he could read you better than anyone else ever had.

But he didn’t say it.

He just nodded once, shy and small, and reached for a folded tea towel beside the cooling rack, laying it out for the loaf even though it wasn’t quite ready yet.

Your eyes lingered on his hands for a second too long, and then your voice broke the silence–gentle, but teasing. You dipped your finger into the syrup again–just to give yourself something to do other than daydream about the gentleness of his touch–then licked it clean with a soft sigh and turned toward Bob.

“Why haven’t you gotten on the dating apps?” You asked, voice quiet but genuine. “I mean, I’m sure there’s a girl out there who’d be dying to have someone like you.” Bob’s head snapped up slightly, like you’d just suggested something obscene. His brows pinched together, and then he let out a nervous laugh, shaking his head almost immediately.

“N-No, no…That’d mean b-both of us would end up swapping b-bad date stories every other day,” He said, waving the idea off like it might physically catch fire in the air between you. “I-If the dating pool’s treating you this badly…I think I’d be incinerated on the first go.”

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t think you’d have as much trouble as me, Bob.”

He gave you a small, confused glance. “W-Why not?”

You shrugged, your tone casual, but your eyes stayed trained on him. “Because you’re…You. You listen. You care. You’ll literally do anything to make sure someone is comfortable, and you don’t make people feel like they’re a burden. That’s…A lot more rare than you think.”

Bob blinked. Then flushed again–his jaw tightening slightly as he looked down at the tea towel like it held the answer to everything he didn’t know how to say.

He didn’t joke this time. He didn’t deflect.

Instead, his voice came soft, honest, and out of nowhere.

“I-I think you deserve someone who c-could give you the world…” Your eyes lifted to his–soft and searching, your expression unreadable for just a breath.

“You really think so?” You asked, your voice quiet. Too quiet.

Bob met your gaze, hesitant at first, like he didn’t quite believe he was allowed to look at you like this. But he nodded, slow and sure.

“O-Of course…” He said, the words trembling just slightly. “Y-You’d want the same for m-me…w-would you not?”

Your brows lifted a touch, surprised by how gently–how truthfully–he turned the question around onto you, so the spotlight would no longer be directed to him.

And for a second, you forgot how to breathe.

Then, almost instinctively, you smiled. It was small, lopsided. But real. Something soft tugged at the corner of your mouth, and you had to glance away for a moment just to keep your chest from cracking wide open.

“…Yeah,” You murmured, clearing your throat faintly. “Yeah. I would.”

It wasn’t just a platitude.

You meant it.

You wanted the world for him too. You always had.

And maybe, for the first time, you realized he knew that.

Bob blinked a few times, like he was trying to ground himself in the moment–trying not to let the weight of your answer topple him over. His hands twitched slightly on the tea towel, and he looked like he was about to say something else–something important–when–

Beep.

The oven timer broke through the silence, sharp and shrill in the golden warmth of the kitchen.

Bob jolted slightly, blinking hard as if the sound yanked him out of a dream. “O-Oh,” He breathed, rising quickly from the stool. “T-That’s the loaf.”

He turned, his sweater sleeves falling slightly down as he grabbed an oven mitt and opened the door.

Heat spilled into the kitchen in a rush–rich and fragrant. The scent of sugar and lemon intensified, thickening the air with sweetness and steam. Bob carefully slid the tin out and onto the counter, setting it on the tea towel he’d laid out earlier.

You watched as he worked–his hands steady despite the pink in his cheeks, despite the subtle tension still sitting at the base of his neck.

The moment between you still hummed there, quiet and full of everything unsaid.

But you didn’t press it. Not yet.

Because something had changed. Because even though the timer had interrupted the words, the feeling still lingered. Settled between you like the scent of lemon zest and vanilla.

You stood beside the counter as Bob leaned over the loaf, gently brushing the syrup glaze over the top with a small silicone brush, careful not to let it pool too fast.

He didn’t speak. Neither did you.

But your arms brushed once, barely.

And he didn’t move away.

You stayed there–close enough to feel the warmth rising off the pound cake, close enough to feel the air shift every time he breathed.

Close enough to wonder if maybe, just maybe…

You hadn’t been looking too deep into it at all.

————————

Three days later, you were sitting in the corner of a quiet coffee shop downtown, holding a half-full latte that had long gone cold.

The man across from you–Jason? Jordan?–was talking. About something. Work, maybe. Or CrossFit. Or how his ex still texted him sometimes, but it wasn’t weird because “she’s just not over me yet.” You’d stopped tracking it somewhere around minute seven. Your eyes were on him, your chin resting on your palm, but your mind was far, far away and sharply focused on Bob.

You hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since that night in the kitchen. The smell of lemon glaze still lingered somewhere in your senses, curling around you like a memory you didn’t want to shake off. You kept replaying the sound of his voice–the way it cracked when he said you deserve someone who could give you the world. The way he looked at you when you asked if he meant it.

It wasn’t fair to sit across from someone new while thinking about him—but here you were, watching this guy check his reflection in the window for the third time while your mind looped the image of Bob brushing syrup across golden crust like it was an act of devotion.

You sipped your latte again. Cold.

“I mean, what kind of girl doesn’t like tequila?” the man asked suddenly, with a scoff and a shake of his head.

You blinked. “Hm?”

He laughed. “I said–I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t like tequila. Like, if a girl says that on a date, I’m already checking out.” He grinned like it was charming. Like it was some kind of universal truth.

You offered a tight smile and checked your phone. No new messages. But Bob’s pinned thread sat right there at the top, quietly glowing like a lighthouse in fog.

“Excuse me,” You said suddenly, pushing your chair back, grabbing your coat before he could say anything else. “I just remembered I have to be somewhere.”

You didn’t wait for him to respond, you just apologized and rushed out.

The cold slapped your cheeks the moment you stepped outside the café, but you didn’t care. You didn’t even flinch.

Your boots hit the pavement hard, one after the other, your hands jammed deep in your coat pockets and your mind racing with every step. You didn’t call for a car this time. You didn’t need to. The Watchtower was just a block away–rising tall and familiar through the gray city haze like it had been waiting for you. Like he had been waiting for you.

You crossed the street on instinct, breath catching at your throat as the compound’s glass façade came into view. You didn’t even register the security team at the front desk. You just nodded once, clipped your badge at the scanner, and pushed your way through the reinforced door like it owed you answers.

The elevator opened with a quiet chime.

You stepped in, hit the button for the 80th floor, and leaned back against the mirror, exhaling through your nose.

Your fingers were trembling. You folded your arms across your chest, trying to keep still. But your hand started tapping against the side of the elevator anyway, bouncing in a quick, nervous rhythm. One. Two. Three. Tap tap tap.

This wasn’t just about the date anymore. This wasn’t about frustration or exhaustion or bad conversation. This was about Bob.

This was about all the quiet gestures. The folding of your laundry. The checking of your location to make sure you were safe. The lemon loaf. The way he had looked at you like he wanted to say more but didn’t know how. You couldn’t sit on it anymore. You couldn’t wonder if you were imagining it. You had to know.

The elevator dinged.

You stepped out.

The air on the 80th floor was warm–quiet. Like the world was holding its breath.

Your boots hit the polished concrete with familiar weight, but you kicked them off quickly near the bench, letting them thud softly as they landed side by side. You padded forward in thick socks, heart thumping loud in your ears, and turned the corner toward the common room.

“Bob?” You called softly, voice catching on the edge of your breath. “Are you here? I… I need to talk–”

You stopped mid-step.

The words caught in your throat like smoke.

Because there, right in the center of the coffee table, beneath the soft glow of the standing lamp–

Was a vase of daisies.

Your breath hitched quietly.

Not roses. Not peonies. Not anything dramatic or overt.

Just simple, white-petaled daisies–dozens of them–tall and bright and a little uneven, like he’d picked through the bunches carefully to find the right ones. The ones that felt like you. Gentle. Honest. Unassuming.

Beside the vase was a small bowl–ceramic, navy blue, the one you always used for popcorn on movie nights. But instead of popcorn, it was filled to the brim with Lindor truffles.

Every kind.

White chocolate. Dark. Sea salt. Milk. Hazelnut. Pistachio.

Your breath left you in a soft, shaky exhale.

He remembered. You’d once told him–months ago in a conversation you barely remembered yourself–that you didn’t have a favorite flavor. That you just liked the surprise of reaching in and never knowing which one you’d get. That it felt like a reward no matter what.

You stepped forward slowly, almost on instinct, like the moment would vanish if you moved too fast. You came to stand before the table, eyes wide and soft, lips parting just slightly as you reached out.

Your fingers brushed the rim of the vase.

The stems were fresh. Still damp with condensation. He must have gone out earlier today–probably snuck them in while you were on your date, hoping to surprise you when you got back. Hoping to make you smile.

And God, it worked.

Your eyes shimmered slightly–not with sadness, but with something else. Something warm and aching and full.

You smiled, small and stunned and tender.

Then you heard it–the quiet shuffle of footsteps from the hallway behind you.

You turned.

And there he was.

Bob stood just past the hallway arch, bathed in the low amber light spilling from the living room. His light brown hair was soft and fluffed at the crown, like he’d run a brush through it half a dozen times and still thought it wasn’t enough. There was a faint wave to it, the kind that always tried to curl when he let it dry naturally. His sweater–charcoal gray with sleeves pushed up to his elbows–clung slightly to the line of his shoulders, and the soft cotton of his navy sweatpants hung low on his hips, loose but familiar.

He looked so domestic it nearly broke your heart.

He froze when he saw you standing there, still in your socks, still inches from the daisies, still wrapped in the kind of silence that only ever came before something life-changing.

“I-I didn’t expect you to be b-back so early…” He stammered, eyes flicking to the door like he was trying to reorient himself in real time.

You shook your head, the corner of your mouth tugging with something soft–something bruised and full of clarity.

“I left.”

Bob blinked.

“I stopped the date,” You added, voice quiet, but steady. “I couldn’t be there anymore.”

His brows drew in with sudden concern. “A-Are you okay?”

You hesitated.

Then shook your head again–then nodded. A small, helpless sound left you, somewhere between a laugh and a breath. “No–I mean…yes, I’m okay, I just…”

Your hand lifted slightly from your side, like the words needed a physical anchor. Your fingers hovered in the air between you.

“I left because of you.”

That stopped him.

Completely.

His mouth parted slightly, confusion flickering across his face, chased by something softer–something more dangerous. Hope.

You stepped toward him.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you, Bob.”

His whole body stilled. His shoulders lifted–just a little–like the breath in his lungs was suddenly too big to keep quiet.

And then you said it.

“I’ve been trying so hard to pretend that it’s just friendship. That it’s just comfort. That I’m just tired or lonely or healing from something else. But it’s not. It’s never been that.”

Your voice was trembling now. But it didn’t falter.

“Every time I sit across from someone new, I realize that all I’m looking for is you. I’m hoping for your laugh, your voice, your hands. I’m comparing everything to how it feels when I’m sitting beside you on that couch folding towels and drinking wine like we’re building a life together in the quiet.”

Bob’s eyes shined. Wide and liquidy. Like the words were pouring into him faster than he could hold them.

“I don’t need someone who’ll try to impress me. I don’t want someone who’ll try to win me. I just want someone who’s already here. Who sees me, who remembers the truffles I love, who bakes lemon poppyseed loaves not because I asked–but because they knew I’d need comfort.”

Your voice cracked, and you let it bloom raw and real between you.

“I want someone whose voice I miss when I’m surrounded by people. I want someone who listens like the world goes quiet when I speak. I want you, Bob. Not a maybe. Not a someday. Not if you ever get around to feeling the same. I want you now. Exactly as you are.”

Silence stretched.

Your chest rose and fell, breathless and stripped bare.

Bob didn’t speak. He just stared–like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right. Like the words were still echoing in the space between you, too fragile to touch.

His mouth opened slightly. Then closed. His eyes flicked across your face like he was trying to memorize it again, all over again–trying to understand how something he’d wanted for so long had just unfolded in front of him like a gift he didn’t think he deserved.

You could see it–the way his fingers twitched at his sides, the way his chest rose too fast and shallow beneath the soft cotton of his sweater. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move.

And then he did.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Each step he took was measured, careful–like if he moved too fast, it might startle you, might wake you both up from the spell that had settled over the room like warm syrup and late summer light. And the closer he got, the more the air shifted.

That scent–his scent–wrapped around you before he even reached you. Clean cedar. Fresh laundry. Something faintly earthy, like he’d gone out earlier and carried the scent of wind back with him. It hit you like a comfort you hadn’t realized you’d been starving for. And then he was right in front of you.

He didn’t speak. Not yet.

He just looked at you.

And then his hands rose and found your cheeks.

Warm. Gentle.

His thumbs swept forward, brushing softly beneath your eyes, tracing the delicate skin there like it mattered to him more than anything. And maybe it did. His fingers curled along your jaw, tilting your face just enough to meet his eyes.

They were glassy blue–pale and bright and shining with something barely held back. The kind of color that looked like sky at the edge of winter, but deeper somehow. More infinite. His lashes fluttered just once as he took you in, as if he couldn’t believe you were real. His gaze searched every inch of your face–your lips, your brows, your tear-glossed lashes–like you were a question he already knew the answer to.

He was smiling.

So soft.

So vulnerable.

Like it hurt, but in the best way.

“I-I’m very sure y-you know how I f-feel…” he whispered, voice fraying around the edges. “I… I t-think it’s obvious…R-Right?” You couldn’t breathe, not with him this close. Not with that look in his eyes. But your hand lifted–nervous, slow–and slid to the back of his, pressing your palm against his knuckles where they cupped your cheek.

“…Can you say it?” You whispered, barely audible. Your voice cracked on the last word.

Bob’s breath hitched.

His forehead tipped down, brushing just slightly against yours as he closed his eyes for a moment, gathering himself. You could feel it in the way his chest trembled when he exhaled. And then he nodded–just once, almost imperceptibly.

“I-I love you.”

The words were quiet and raw. Just pure truth.

“I’ve l-loved you for months,” He added, his breath hot against your cheek. “I–I just didn’t know how to say it without losing you.” You made a soft sound, somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, and his eyes opened again–so blue, so open it made your knees weak.

“You’re not losing me,” You whispered.

Bob gave you the smallest smile—barely a curve, barely a breath—but it lit up every inch of his face. His eyes glimmered, lashes low as they flicked down…

To your mouth.

And God help you, your gaze did the same.

You saw it happen—the moment everything between you shifted. The air went still, thicker somehow, humming with anticipation. Your chests rose in perfect rhythm, and when your eyes met again, it was like every hesitation had burned away under the weight of the moment.

You leaned in at the same time.

Not fast.

Not urgent.

But with a certainty that stole the breath straight from your lungs.

Your lips met with a soft, searing press–a sigh shared in skin.

Warm. Delicate. Then deeper.

Bob kissed like he’d been waiting his entire life for it.

He tilted his head just slightly to the side, coaxing you closer with a trembling inhale against your mouth. His lips parted slow, brushing yours again–this time with more heat, more surety–and you responded in kind, your fingers curling into the soft cotton of his sweater as your body folded into his.

You could feel it in the way his chest moved–tight, uneven, like the kiss had undone something at the center of him. His hands left your face then, slow and reverent, sliding down the line of your neck, over your shoulders, down your sides until his fingers found the soft denim belt loops at your waist.

He tugged gently.

And you stepped into him like you were meant to be there.

The front of your body pressed against his fully now–your sweater brushing his, your belt buckle hitting just right against the soft curve of his hips. He pulled you closer by those loops, anchoring you there as his mouth moved against yours with more purpose.

This wasn’t a tentative kiss.

This was discovery.

He kissed you like he was trying to memorize everything–how your breath caught when his tongue teased the edge of your bottom lip, how your fingers fisted tighter in his shirt when he deepened the kiss just slightly, how you sighed into him like you were pouring your soul through your mouth.

And God, the sound he made when you kissed him back like that–a low, broken hum that spilled from his chest and straight into your skin–made your knees falter. He caught you without thinking, his arms tightening around your waist as he walked you backward gently.

Your knees hit the couch with a gentle bump, and Bob slowed just enough to ease the kiss, to make sure you were still with him–still saying yes in every way your mouth and hands and breath could offer it. His lips lingered against yours for one last soft brush before he pulled back just slightly, just enough to breathe.

His eyes searched yours–wide, awestruck, dazed with heat and disbelief. His breath was shallow, his chest rising fast against yours. He looked drunk on you. Like he couldn’t believe this was real. Like it was better than any dream he’d dared to have.

“That was…” He whispered, voice raw and ragged. “That was b-better than what I-I imagined.”

Your lips curled into a smile. Slow. Deep. Smug in the softest, most tender way.

“You’ve been imagining this?”

Bob flushed instantly–pink rising to his cheeks, to the tips of his ears. But he didn’t deny it.

“…Every night,” He murmured, like it was a confession too intimate to speak aloud, but too honest to bury. “S-Since the mission in Prague. W-When you fell asleep in my room…And you–”

You didn’t let him finish. You leaned up and kissed him again–fast, needy, grateful.

He groaned softly into your mouth, and then he moved.

One arm wrapped behind your thighs, the other around your back, and with a soft grunt of effort and a gentle grip, Bob lifted you–just enough to make you gasp quietly against his lips.

You clung to him instinctively, your arms winding around his shoulders as he eased you down onto the couch, laying you out gently across the cushions. His body followed, covering yours in one slow motion. His weight was careful, braced on his forearms, but the closeness was unbearable in the best way. Every line of him pressed against you–chest to chest, hips cradled between your legs, the fabric of his sweatpants brushing your jeans.

The world outside that couch didn’t exist anymore.

Not the cold, not the city, not the weight of bad dates or missed signals or time spent pretending. There was only this–the heat of his body pressed to yours, the sharp rise and fall of his breath, the way your legs cradled his hips like you were carved to fit him there. His nose brushed yours once–just the lightest touch–before his mouth returned to yours with a kiss slower than the last. A little deeper. A little more certain.

Then he pulled back just enough to press his forehead to yours again. His breath ghosted across your lips, shaky and uneven, and his eyes fluttered closed for half a second like he needed a moment to just exist inside the feeling.

“C-Can I…?” He whispered, the words barely a sound. His hands hadn’t moved—still braced beside your ribs, still careful not to overwhelm you with his weight. “C-Can I kiss you there…? J-Just your neck, I—” He swallowed hard. “I-I’ve imagined it s-so many times…” Your heart thudded in your chest, and you tilted your head without a word, exposing the soft skin that lined your neck and slipped beneath the collar of your sweater.

And that was all it took.

Bob bent slowly, reverently, until his mouth met the curve of your throat. His lips brushed there once–so gentle it felt more like breath than contact–before he kissed again, then again, a little lower each time. His nose nuzzled against your skin, and you could feel the way his breath stuttered as his lips found the hollow just above your collarbone. He lingered there. Soft. Warm. Like he needed the taste of your skin to make sure this was real.

You reached up slowly, fingers weaving into his hair, and the soft sound that left his chest–half a whimper, half a sigh–nearly undid you. His mouth parted against your neck and he kissed deeper this time, tongue flicking out to taste you with a need so gentle it ached.

“You’re so…” He murmured between kisses, lips brushing the base of your jaw, “s-so beautiful…”

Your breath hitched as you felt him mouth along your pulse, each kiss more tender than the last.

“B-Bob…”

The sound of his name in your voice–it wrecked him.

He lifted his head, eyes heavy with awe, and looked down at you like you were the center of the universe. Like he’d been holding back every star just to make sure they didn’t blind you. His fingers moved finally, trembling as they skimmed along your waist, slipping beneath the hem of your sweater with devastating care.

“I… I want to see you,” He whispered, and even though the words were quiet, they carried the weight of everything he’d never let himself say. “I w-want to kiss all of you. I w-want you to feel how long I’ve been waiting…”

You lifted your arms in silent answer.

He tugged your sweater up slowly–inch by inch–like every new patch of skin was something sacred. His eyes never left you. Not even when the fabric caught at your elbows, not even when it bared your ice white bra and the delicate slope of your waist beneath. He was trembling when he helped you sit up just enough to pull it the rest of the way off, his breath hitching as he took in the sight of you–soft and flushed beneath him, chest rising fast.

“Oh my god…” He breathed, voice frayed and full of light. “You’re…y-you’re unreal…” You could see him drinking you in. His hands moved on their own now, cupping the sides of your ribs, thumbs brushing up just beneath the line of your bra. But even then–trembling and overwhelmed–he looked up at you for permission, eyes wide, desperate for yes.

You gave it with a kiss–hot and slow and aching–and his body folded into you like it was breaking.

His hands moved with more certainty now, finding the clasp at your back, undoing it with a shaky exhale. You felt the tension melt out of him when the bra slipped away and your bare chest was revealed. His mouth parted slightly. His pupils blew wide. His gaze swept over you like poetry he didn’t know how to write.

Then he bent.

And kissed the swell of your breast–so gentle, it made your back arch into him desperate for more. His lips lingered there for a moment, breathing warmth onto your skin before giving a soft, open-mouthed kiss that left heat blooming across your skin. He moved with aching restraint, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you with his mouth. You gasped as his tongue slipped out to taste you, the barest flick before he suckled gently at the skin, then moved down again. His breath hitched as his lips dragged along the swell just above your nipple, and his fingers dug tighter into your waist like he needed grounding.

“You smell so good,” He whispered hoarsely, words barely audible against your skin. “Y-You taste like…Like vanilla and heaven and–God, I don’t know, I…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

His mouth moved lower again, and this time he parted his lips around the top of your breast and sucked–softly, then increasing the intensity. You felt the pull of it all the way down your spine. His teeth grazed just slightly before his tongue smoothed over it, like an apology and a promise in one. Your back arched, your fingers threading tighter into his hair, and that made him groan. Deep in his throat. Almost possessive.

And then he did it again.

A slower suck. Firmer. Longer.

And then another.

He moved to the other side, leaving your skin glistening and flushed in his wake. And now you felt it–cool air where his mouth had just been, and the slow, heady sting blooming beneath the surface as blood rushed up to meet the bruises he was pressing into you.

Little love bites.

He was marking you.

Not out of control, not careless–but worshipfully. Intimately. He wanted to see the proof of how much he adored you, how much you wanted this. Wanted him.

His hair had fallen forward now–messy, loose strands tickling across your chest, brushing against your collarbone and the top of your stomach. The softness of it contrasted the way his mouth worked–hot and unrelenting now, like he couldn’t stop. Like he didn’t want to.

You whimpered–soft, broken–and he moaned at the sound, dragging his lips down again to leave another kiss, another suck, another blooming ache just above your rib cage.

When he finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, he lifted his head and stared down at you.

At the marks.

His eyes darkened. And a smile–barely there, but unmistakably real–curved the corner of his mouth.

He looked proud.

His thumb traced one of the little bruises, and he hummed softly, like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever made. “C-Can’t believe… I get to do this,” he murmured, voice rough with disbelief and reverence.

And then he bent lower, slowly, slowly, until his mouth hovered over your nipple.

His breath hit you first. Hot. Shaky.

Then–just once–he sucked.

A soft, teasing pull that made your whole body jolt.

“B-Bob…” You whispered, your voice shaking like it couldn’t contain the sound of his name and the feeling at once.

He looked up at you through his lashes, hair falling into his eyes, lips still parted over your skin.

“I-I’m sorry,” He whispered, but the wicked glint in his eyes betrayed him. “I-I’ve wanted this f-for so long… I c-can’t go slow anymore…”

And then he closed his mouth over you fully.

Heat exploded through your chest as he sucked harder this time, tongue circling, flattening, flicking over your nipple in fast, rhythmic passes. He moaned again–loud and broken–like just having you like this in his mouth was overwhelming him.

His hand came up to cup your other breast, thumb brushing the peak, coaxing it to life while his mouth ravaged the first.

You arched against him, hips lifting, your fingers tugging his hair hard now–and that only made him groan louder. He pressed himself closer to you, grinding just a little, like he couldn’t help it, like the pleasure of this was sinking through every inch of him and setting his nerves on fire.

His mouth worked with feverish devotion–sucking, licking, pulling until the pleasure had you gasping, trembling, whispering his name like it was a prayer.

When he finally released you, your nipple wet and swollen from his mouth, he kissed it once more–soft, lingering.

Then his voice came again, low and reverent.

“You’re…Y–You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

He was visibly shaking.

His eyes were glassy with heat, with awe, with everything he’d been holding back for months.

And still… He wanted more.

Bob’s lips lingered against your chest, breath coming in shallow waves, his mouth still slick from the last kiss he’d left on your skin. His hand was trembling slightly where it cupped the side of your waist, and when he pulled back just enough to look at you, the blue in his eyes was molten–liquid with heat, gentleness, and just a trace of hesitation.

“W-We…W-we can stop now, if you want…” He whispered, voice raw and uneven. “I-I know we’re going, like…R-Really fast right now and I just–”

You shook your head immediately, too fast, your hand reaching for his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek like you needed him to hear you–really hear you.

“No. No, I like this,” You said, breathless but sure. “Fast is fine with me. Please don’t stop.” Bob’s brows lifted just slightly, his expression wrecked with awe and something softer–something close to disbelief

“A-Are you sure?” he asked, the words catching on the edge of a breath. “I-I don’t wanna mess this up. I don’t wanna rush y-you or–”

You cut him off with a whisper

“I haven’t been touched like this in over a year, Bob.”

His breath hitched hard in his throat. His lips parted, but he didn’t speak.

“I forgot what it was like,” You continued, voice cracking with emotion and need, “To want someone to touch me this badly. To feel good with it. Safe with it. Wanted like this. Like I’m…Something you can’t stop worshipping.”

Bob made a quiet, broken noise in the back of his throat. His hand fisted gently in the cushion beside your head, his whole body taut with restraint. You pulled him closer, your leg curling around his hip as your voice dropped even lower–soft and hot against the shell of his ear.

“I want to feel all of you. I want to feel your hands everywhere. Your mouth, your breath, the way you look at me like I’m yours. I don’t want to slow down, Bob. Not with you. I’ve been waiting a long time… And it’s only ever been you in the back of my mind.”

A shudder rolled through him like a wave. His head dropped to your shoulder for a beat, breath heaving once, twice, as he soaked in your words.

When he lifted it again, something had changed in his eyes.

There was no hesitation now. No uncertainty. Just wonder. Just hunger. Just the overwhelming need to give you everything.

His hand slid down to your thigh, trembling but firm, and his voice was barely above a whisper as he pressed his forehead to yours and spoke.

“O-Okay,” He said, with a nod so soft it felt like a vow, and then he kissed you again–deep and devastating and full of everything he had left to give. His tongue swept into your mouth with a low, muffled groan, meeting yours in a rhythm that made your thighs clench around his hips. You kissed him like you needed to breathe him in–open-mouthed, gasping, letting the slick heat of it slide between your teeth as your fingers curled into the back of his neck. His moan vibrated against your mouth, and you swallowed it down, letting the sound melt between the drag of your tongues and the quiet, breathless whimpers it drew from both of you.

It was messy in the best way–saliva slicking the seam of your lips, the soft pull of his bottom lip between your teeth, the desperate glide of his mouth returning to yours like he couldn’t stay away for more than a second. Your fingers drifted down from his neck–shaky and eager–sliding past his collarbone to the hem of his sweater.

You tugged once.

Bob pulled back from the kiss, breath shuddering, and looked down at you with flushed cheeks and glistening lips. A string of wet heat broke between your mouths as he hovered just above you, eyes dark, dazed, and wrecked with reverence.

He reached behind his head and took hold of the back of his sweater–then in one slow, fluid motion, pulled it over his head and tossed it aside.

It hit the floor with a soft thud. Your breath caught.

The sight of him–bare and warm and glowing in the soft amber light–made your stomach tighten with want.

His chest was all soft muscle and broad lines, defined but not super intense, he looked strong without even trying. There were faint shadows where his ribs curved beneath smooth skin, and a constellation of freckles scattered across his chest and shoulders like the stars had kissed him once and left their mark. You traced them with your eyes, then your hands, fingers feathering over the slope of his abdomen, feeling the warmth of him, the subtle tremble in his stomach as you dragged your touch lower.

There were beauty marks near his ribs. A scar just beneath one. A thin, faded line on his left hip. You memorized each one like they were holy things.

His breath hitched.

He looked down at you, blinking slowly, and then he smirked. Just barely. Just enough to steal your breath all over again.

“That s-suit…” He rasped, eyes flicking across your face as your hands continued their soft exploration, “R-Really doesn’t do all of this justice.”

You let out a breathy laugh, thumb brushing a freckle near his sternum. “What, the Sentry suit?” You teased, eyebrows lifting as you let your gaze drag down his torso again. “No kidding. That thing hides the good stuff.” Bob’s laughter was soft and hoarse–more a puff of breath than a full sound–but it shook through him all the same.

His shoulders trembled slightly as he ducked his head, the flush creeping up from his chest to stain his neck and cheeks a deep rose. He shook his head slowly, strands of light brown hair falling over his brown, then looked back down at you with a gaze so open and adoring it made your heart lurch.

“Y-You’re ridiculous,” He whispered, smiling like he didn’t know what to do with how much he wanted you. Your fingers brushed slowly down the center of his chest, and he shivered under the touch. His breath caught, and before you could say anything else, he reached down gently–his hand curling around your wrist like it was made for his palm. He brought it up between your bodies, eyes never leaving yours.

Then, with infinite care, he pressed a kiss to your palm.

It was slow. Hot. The kind of kiss that burned straight into your skin and stayed there. His lips parted slightly as they brushed your hand, and the sigh he breathed out as he kissed it again–so tender, so loving–made your throat tighten.

“C-Can I take your j-jeans off?” He asked, voice barely above a breath, almost shy despite the way his eyes darkened with want.

You nodded.

His expression flickered–relief, desire, awe–and then he shifted. Slowly. Carefully.

Bob sat back on his heels between your legs, hands moving to the waistband of your jeans with trembling fingers. He leaned down as he worked the button open, pressing a kiss just beneath your navel, right where your stomach dipped gently in.

You gasped.

And he paused, glanced up at you, searching for permission.

“Please,” You whispered, your voice breaking slightly from how badly you wanted it. “Keep going.”

He nodded–swallowed hard–and began to shimmy the jeans down.

He kissed his way down with them.

Every inch he uncovered, he honored. The denim slid inch by inch over your hips, down your thighs, and as it went, his mouth followed. He kissed the curve of your hipbone, the soft dip above your inner thigh, the top of your kneecap. His nose nuzzled into the skin as he worked, lips brushing tenderly along the sensitive flesh of your upper legs, and every kiss made you twitch, gasp, sigh.

By the time your jeans were completely off and tossed to the side, you were panting—half from anticipation, half from the weight of his mouth on your skin.

Bob’s hands ran up your calves, slow and wide-palmed, then curled behind your knees, spreading you open just a little more, until you were fully on display for him. His gaze dropped then.

And when it landed, it stuck.

You could see his breath catch. His mouth parted slightly as his eyes took you in—laid out beneath him in a delicate black pair of underwear trimmed in lace, the shape of your body flushed and trembling and framed by the soft glow of the room.

His fingers drifted toward your hips again, calloused pads skimming along the waistband.

He swallowed.

“V-Very pretty…” he whispered, almost reverent. “So, so pretty…”

Your face burned. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your chest, your neck. Not from embarrassment. From the intensity of the way he looked at you. Like you were something priceless. Like he wanted to take hours just exploring every inch of you.

His fingertips traced the lace slowly–just once–before he bent down again.

This time, he kissed just above the waistband. Soft, warm, slow. Then lower.

A gentle nibble at the curve of your lower stomach made you jolt, your breath catching in your throat as your hips twitched under his mouth. He kissed the spot soothingly, tongue brushing the skin like an apology–or a tease–and then did it again, just a little to the left.

You whimpered. And he smiled against your skin.

“You’re so warm here,” he murmured, brushing his nose along your lower belly. “S-So soft…”

His hands caressed your thighs, thumbs rubbing gentle circles near the crease where they met your hips. You felt your legs fall even wider at his touch, inviting him in, your fingers tangled tight in the couch cushion now, fighting the urge to cry out from how badly you wanted him.

Bob looked up then, his breath hot against your stomach.

“I… I d-don’t want to rush this part,” He whispered. “I-I want to remember every single second of it.” And then he kissed your belly again–longer this time, slower. His lips parted against your skin, and his breath fanned out in warm, reverent waves as his hands slid down to anchor you by the hips.

He looked like a man starving.

And you were going to be his first meal.

Your bottom lip slipped between your teeth as your hips lifted–barely, instinctively–chasing the heat of his mouth like it was the only thing that could soothe the ache blooming inside you. Bob let out a soft laugh, low and wrecked, the sound curling in his throat like smoke.

“P-Patience,” He murmured, the word half-teasing, half-sincere, as he kissed the sensitive skin just below your belly button again. “I–I wanna savor this…All of you…” You whimpered, the sound involuntary, and he moaned softly in return, like the sound alone had done something to him.

Then his hands slid down.

They curved around your hips again, warm and steady, and you felt the fabric of your underwear catch under his fingers–tugging gently, down your thighs. His mouth followed, lips brushing every newly revealed inch, teeth grazing the soft skin just above your hipbone as he slowly pulled the lace past your knees, then down over your calves. You lifted your legs for him, obedient, trembling, and he pulled them the rest of the way off, tossing the panties to the side without looking.

Bob shifted on the couch again—his body moving fluidly, slowly, like he didn’t want to jostle a single nerve in you. He settled lower, then gently reached for your legs.

“C’mere…” He instructed, voice thick and shaking as his hands slid beneath your knees.

He lifted one leg, then the other, and placed them over his broad shoulders with exquisite care–his palms gliding down the backs of your thighs before curling around to brace you, spreading you open for him. Your breath caught at the position–so exposed, so vulnerable–but Bob didn’t take his eyes off you as he adjusted, settling his weight between the cushions and anchoring himself close to the edge of the couch.

His breath hitched the moment he looked down.

You saw the awe flood his face–the wide, hungry eyes, the parting of his lips, the quick, sharp intake of breath that sounded almost pained.

“C-Can’t believe y-you’re this wet from j-just kissing me…” He commented, voice ragged and hoarse with disbelief.

Your cheeks burned. Your breath came faster. But you didn’t look away.

“I’ve been aching for you, Bob,” you whispered, voice raw with truth, “You have no idea what you do to me…” Bob let out a small whimper, and then his gaze dropped again. His hands smoothed down your thighs, thumbs gliding reverently over the soft skin before slipping outward to spread you wider–just enough to bare you fully to his eyes. He looked like a man who’d found something holy. His lashes lowered briefly. Then he bowed his head.

And kissed you.

Not where you thought he would. Not yet.

He kissed your right thigh–just inside, just above the crease–soft and slow. Then your left. Then lower, right above your knee. And then he returned to the center, placing a final kiss high up between your thighs, right above your aching core.

It was gentle.

Like he was making an offering.

Or a promise.

A cross traced in heat and mouth and meaning.

Then he exhaled–and the warm gust of his breath ghosted across your slickness, and you whimpered again, hips twitching upward. His gaze flicked up to meet yours one last time.

Then he lowered his head…And tasted you.

His tongue didn’t drag.

It pressed in with a short, purposeful stroke–just enough to part you, just enough to collect the slickness waiting there. His mouth sealed around the heat of you, and he groaned. Loud. Shattered. As if the flavor of you had broken him open from the inside.

“God…” He groaned against you. “Y-You taste so s-sweet.” He dove back in.

No more teasing. No more waiting.

Bob’s mouth opened fully, tongue licking again–slow but deliberate–lapping in tight, precise motions as he held your thighs wide around his shoulders. His nose brushed just against your mound as he angled in deeper, and the moment his tongue swiped over your clit–just once–you gasped aloud, back arching off the cushions.

“B-Bob–!”

He moaned again at the sound of his name–drawn out, broken, overwhelmed. His hands held you steady now, fingers digging slightly into your skin as his mouth worked with growing confidence and hunger. He licked again–short strokes, then longer ones. His tongue flattened and dragged through you like he was savoring every drop, then circled your clit with devastating patience, only to pull back and kiss the tender, flushed skin around it again like he was apologizing for the pressure.

You were trembling.

Every touch, every flick of his tongue sent lightning up your spine. You were so sensitive and yet not enough. Your fingers buried in his hair, fisting it tight, pulling him closer. He groaned at that, the vibration of it sending another wave of pleasure through your core.

“P-Please don’t stop,” you gasped, voice cracking.

His answer was another lick–firmer, more focused, his tongue curling at the end to pull a strangled cry from your throat. He latched on then–mouth sealed over your clit, tongue flicking in a rhythm that felt like worship, felt like penance, felt like a man trying to pray with his mouth and be answered through your moans.

And he was.

Because you were moaning for him now, falling apart under the heat and wet and weight of it all. Your thighs quivered, toes curling against the couch cushions, and your voice turned to broken breaths and whimpers, each one gasping his name between sobs of pleasure.

You could feel it building–already, too fast–coiling low and molten in your belly. But you didn’t want to stop him. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Especially when Bob pulled back for just a moment–just long enough to murmur:

“I c-can’t stop, Y/N…Y-You taste too good…”

And then he was back again, eating you with feverish reverence, moaning like the pleasure was mutual, like he was addicted to the slick heat of you and had no plans to come up for air. The wet, obscene sounds of his lips moving against you filled the room, thick and echoing off the walls like music made just for you.

Then his hand moved.

You felt it the moment the heat of his palm slipped from your thigh, slow and steady, like he didn’t want to lose an ounce of pressure from where he held you open for him. But he let go, trailing his palm upward, over the sensitive crease of your hip, then lower…Lower…Until his fingers hovered just beneath the place his mouth was devouring.

You gasped as two thick fingers dragged through your slick heat–teasing, testing, coated instantly in the arousal spilling from you in waves. And then, with the same aching care he’d used to undress you, Bob pushed them in slowly, curling slightly.

Your body jolted.

“Ah–fuck, Bob–!” Your hips lifted off the couch, back arching violently as the stretch filled you in a way nothing else had, in a way that made your head spin and your toes curl and your lungs seize on a sob.

Bob moaned against your clit like your voice alone could shatter him. His fingers stilled for just a moment, buried inside you, and then he pulled back slightly–just enough to look up, lips wet and swollen, chin slick with your arousal.

“Y-You like that?” He asked, breathless, his voice cracking at the end with the weight of it. “D-Does that feel good?”

You couldn’t even form words. You nodded hard, trembling, your hand fisting tighter in his hair.

His lips parted in a dazed smile. “G-Good. That’s… God, you’re so tight around me…” His fingers curled gently inside you, stroking the front of your walls in a slow, searching rhythm–testing, learning, worshipping.

And then he ducked his head again.

And sucked.

Your clit disappeared into the hot, wet seal of his mouth just as his fingers pumped into you again–this time firmer, faster, curling on every thrust. The pressure of his mouth matched the rhythm of his hand, and the combination sent lightning straight through your core.

Your thighs trembled on either side of his head, muscles spasming as you cried out, hips rocking in time with the rhythm he’d set.

His tongue flicked over your clit again–fast and tight and focused–and you keened. Loud. Desperate.

“B-Bob–please–don’t stop–”

He groaned in answer, the sound vibrating right against your nerves. He sucked harder, then released you with a pop and murmured hotly against your skin:

“S-Say it…”

You gasped, hips stuttering.

His fingers curled again. Slipped deeper. Rubbed just right.

“Say it,” He moaned. “T-Tell me how much you l-like it. Please. I-I need to hear it. Please–”

Your head fell back against the cushions, neck bared, eyes fluttering shut as your body began to unravel. You were so close. So, so close.

“I love it,” You sobbed, voice cracking. “God, Bob–I love it–I love the way you’re touching me, please don’t stop, I’m gonna–”

He moaned at your words like they were a blessing–his mouth sealing over your clit again, tongue lashing in tight circles, fingers thrusting in perfect time. He was desperate with it now–mouth and hand working together in a rhythm that shook you to your bones, each movement driving you closer and closer to the edge.

“J-Just like that,” He whispered raggedly between strokes. “W-Want you to come for me…W-Want to feel you break…”

And then he sucked again. Hard.

Your orgasm ripped through you like a wave crashing into the shore.

You cried out–raw, loud, trembling beneath him as your walls clenched around his fingers, your thighs shaking, back arching high off the couch as your climax tore through every nerve ending. He moaned against you, riding it out, never stopping–his tongue slower now, soothing, coaxing you through it as your body spasmed in his hold.

Even when your cries turned to gasps, then to broken sobs, Bob didn’t let go.

His movements stilled inside you, fingers curled as if holding your heartbeat in his palm.

And then, slowly he pulled his mouth away and looked up at you.

Your thighs were still shaking. Your chest was heaving. Your skin was flushed, dewed with sweat, lips parted, eyes glassy with the kind of bliss that rewrote memories.

Bob’s lips were red and swollen, and his chin was glistening with your arousal.

Bob’s chest was rising fast. His lips were swollen, chin slick with you, breath still uneven as he blinked up from between your thighs like he’d just emerged from a dream he never wanted to wake from. His fingers gently slipped from inside you, slow and careful, glistening with the aftermath of your release.

“I-I don’t know w-what you do to taste that good…” he murmured, voice hoarse and reverent. His eyes never left yours as he gently lowered your legs from his shoulders, his hands lingering on your thighs like he didn’t want to let go. “…B-But I’m going to want to t-taste you on a daily basis.”

Your breath caught.

The warmth of his words settled in your stomach like a second pulse. Your fingers flexed where they still clutched the couch cushions, your thighs trembling as he shifted upward, bracing one palm near your hip for balance.

But then…His eyes flicked down.

You followed them–lower, between your bodies–and saw it too.

The thick line of him, straining against his sweatpants. The dark, damp spot blooming near the waistband. The outline of his erection was impossible to miss, thick and long, twitching visibly beneath the soft fabric like he’d been trying to keep still and failing. Your breath hitched. It had been so long… and he was–

Bob saw where you were looking and stilled completely.

“I-I…w-we can stop here,” he said quickly, breath catching, voice laced with concern even as arousal made his cheeks flush a deeper red. “If you’re not ready, I–it’s okay, I swear.”

You looked up at him. The way he was shaking slightly. The way his hair fell messily across his forehead. The way his mouth was still wet with your pleasure.

And something inside you lit up.

“No,” You whispered.

You reached for him–slowly, reverently–your palm resting gently over the hard ridge in his sweatpants.

“I don’t want to stop,” You murmured, fingers curling slightly over the thick outline beneath the fabric. “Not even a little.”

Bob let out a soft, broken breath, but he didn’t move–not yet. You leaned up slowly, pressing your lips to his jaw, letting your voice brush across his skin like silk.

“I want you,” you whispered, softer now. “All of you. I want to feel you inside me. I want to be full of you. I want to fall apart with you.”

Bob made a low, ragged sound in his throat, like he’d been hit. The muscles in his stomach tightened as you continued, voice barely a breath now.

“I want to feel you lose control inside me, Bob. I want to know what it feels like when someone loves me that deeply.” His hesitation shattered.

He surged up and off the couch for only a moment, just enough to strip.

His sweatpants hit the floor, followed quickly by the soft cotton of his boxers.

And when he straightened again, you saw him.

Your breath caught. Your eyes widened. He was…Beautiful. And daunting.

Thick. Long. Flushed red at the tip and leaking, veined and curved with a weight that made your thighs clench in anticipation and awe. Even with how wet you were—how utterly undone you’d already been by his mouth and his fingers—it was clear this would be a stretch.

Bob followed your gaze and immediately blushed, a deep, flustered pink rising up his chest and staining his cheeks.

“A-Are you o-okay?” He asked gently,

“You’re just…Really big. And it’s been a while.” Bob’s brows furrowed slightly, gaze darting back to your face as he lowered himself between your legs again, careful, attentive, bracing one palm beside your shoulder.

You reached up to cradle the back of his neck, grounding him.

“You’re going to have to be a little gentle with me,” you said, your voice low, reverent. “I think I’m going to need to adjust to your size.”

Something in his expression broke–melted.

He looked down at himself, then back at you, and nodded. Slow. Careful. In awe.

“O-Okay,” He nodded, like it was a promise. “I-I’ll go slow. I s-swear.”

You leaned back, spreading your thighs open for him. Welcoming him in. His hands found your knees, slid slowly down to your hips, and he settled into the cradle of your body–bare skin to bare skin, heat meeting heat.

Then his mouth found yours again.

This kiss was different. Wet with the taste of your own release, it was heady, consuming. You could taste yourself on his lips–sweet and a little salty from the sweat of your skin–and the intimacy of it made you whimper into his mouth. Your hands slid up the warm lines of his back, curling over his shoulders as his tongue stroked yours in slow, languid passes.

He tasted like want. Like you, and like something ethereal.

When he pulled back, he kissed your jaw, your cheek, the soft spot beneath your ear, and then whispered:

“A-Are you ready?”

You nodded. Breathless. Eyes wide and glassy. His mouth pressed to your neck again with wet aching lips brushing just beneath your ear before trailing slowly down to the curve of your shoulder. You could feel the tremble in his breath, the way he lingered there, like he was gathering himself.

Then you felt his hand move between your bodies.

Careful. Gentle. Fingers trembling slightly as he reached down and took himself in hand, nudging gently between your thighs.

The weight of him settled against your entrance–hot and heavy, already slick from your arousal. You both gasped at the contact. Bob’s breath stuttered, his forehead pressing to yours for a moment as he adjusted, dragging the head slowly through your folds, coating himself in the evidence of how badly you wanted him.

“I-I just wanna m-make sure it’s easy…” he whispered, voice thin with restraint. He leaned back slightly on one arm, propping himself up so he could see you. His eyes flicked to your face, searching.

Terrified.

Like he was afraid you wouldn’t say anything even if it hurt.

And then slowly he moved his hips and started to push in.

The pressure bloomed instantly. It wasn’t painful, but there was a stretch, heat, and fullness that pulsed through you. You gasped, lips parting around a soft, unbidden sigh as the head of him slipped past that first resistance. Your hips shifted instinctively, your hands curling tighter into the muscle of his arm.

Bob froze immediately. “A-Are you okay?” He asked, his blue irises searching you, wide and worried.

You nodded, breath catching. “Y-Yeah,” You whispered, “I-It’s just a little overwhelming…” He exhaled shakily, chest shuddering, and leaned down to kiss your cheek. Then your nose. Then the corner of your mouth.

“S-Sorry,” He said softly, pressing another kiss just below your eye. “I–I’ll keep going s-slow, promise. Y-You’re doing so good…”

You moaned softly at the praise, your hand sliding up to his bicep again. It was taut beneath your palm, flexing slightly as he braced himself, inching deeper with agonizing care. You felt every centimeter. The stretch, the drag, the slow, steady push. And with each inch, the pressure grew–delicious and deep. He took your hand then–your free one–and brought it to his mouth. Kissed it. Soft and lingering. Then he laced your fingers together, his grip firm but tender as he pressed in deeper still.

“You feel so warm…” He moaned, “Y-You’re so p-perfect Y/N.” You pulsed around him, involuntarily, and he groaned–a low broken sound escaping his chest. He brought his hips forward just a little more, a sigh of relief coming from him, now that he was fully inside you.

Your hips adjusted slightly beneath him. You felt stretched open, filled completely, every inch of you claimed by the weight and warmth of his body, like he was blanketing you from the rest of the world. A whimper broke from your throat.

Bob’s face crumpled. He looked down at you like he was witnessing something sacred. His eyes were wide, glassy, blown dark with awe. You could feel the subtle twitch of his cock inside you–your sound had undone him.

“Y-You okay?” He asked, so softly it barely made it past your ear. You nodded, dazed by all the sensations that flooded your body.

“You…I’ve never felt this full be…Before…It’s just a lot.” You breathed. Bob swallowed hard. He ducked down, pressing his lips to yours with trembling reverence, and then shifted–slipping his arm carefully beneath your neck. He cradled you against him, drawing you closer so that your chests pressed together, your heartbeats stumbling in time.

“I-I’ll hold you,” He murmured. “I’ll kiss you the whole time. J-Just breathe, sweetheart…”

You nodded, lips brushing his, and then he moved.

Slowly. Gently. A careful pull back–just an inch–before he rocked forward again, his hips rolling in a rhythm so soft, so intimate, it felt like poetry being written in the space between your skin.

He kissed you through it.

With every thrust, he pressed a kiss somewhere new–your cheek, your jaw, the swell of your breast. His mouth never stopped. His praise never stopped.

“You’re s-so beautiful…”

“You’re doing s-so good for me…”

“Y-You feel…Incredible…”

His movements stayed slow. Reverent. Deep. You felt each one ripple through you, stretch you, soothe you. You gasped against his lips, moaning softly as he filled you again and again, each thrust brushing the deepest part of you with aching precision.

And every time you whimpered, every time your fingers squeezed his tighter–he whispered your name like it was the only thing that he knew or had in this world.

Bob leaned down and kissed you again.

Not like before.

Not with urgency or hunger or even the heat of building need.

This kiss was slow. Deep. A brush of mouths that didn’t ask, didn’t beg, didn’t even need to speak. It just…Was. The way lips pressed and parted, the way his breath filled your lungs between kisses, the way he moaned softly into you like kissing you was the only prayer he had left to give.

It was the kind of kiss that made time feel irrelevant. That made the ache of your bodies, the rhythm of your hips, the trembling of your hands–secondary to the fact that you were kissing. And that he was still here. Inside you. All around you. Filling every inch of your body and soul.

His forearm shifted beneath your neck, so he was able to cup the back of your head, cradling it, guiding you deeper into the kiss like you were the most fragile thing he was given to protect.

And all the while, he kept moving inside you.

Slow. Measured. So deep it felt like he was shaping himself into the spaces that had always longed for him.

You gasped into his mouth with each thrust, your hips beginning to rise now–slowly, instinctively–meeting his rhythm, chasing it, deepening it. Your thighs bracketed his hips with more urgency. Your walls fluttered around him, slick and desperate, and Bob’s body jolted at the sensation.

“Y-You’re… God, you’re getting even wetter for m-me…” He rasped. He rocked into you again–deep, slow, the drag of him catching every sensitive spot inside you–and you sobbed a sound against his mouth. Your arms wound tighter around him, clutching his back, feeling the muscles work beneath your palms as he moved.

“B-Bob…” You gasped, your voice cracking on his name.

He kissed you again. Tender, open-mouthed. Then down your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your lips.

You were trembling. Your hips rolled in time with his now, your breath stuttering every time he bottomed out.

And then, you said it.

“My God…Bob…” You moaned, voice thick with love and ache, “I fucking love you so much.”

Bob’s eyes fluttered closed for a beat, like the words physically hit him. When he looked at you again, he was smiling–soft and wrecked and full of light.

He kissed you like it broke him.

Then he rocked his hips faster.

Just a little.

Just enough.

You gasped. Your nails dug into his bicep, and your joined hands clenched tighter between your bodies as he began to thrust in a rhythm that built and burned and bloomed.

“You’re mine,” He whispered, breath hot against your mouth. “You’re mine, and I’m yours, and I’m never letting go.”

You broke.

Your walls clenched tight around him, pulsing as your orgasm overtook you–trembling beneath him, crying out his name, breath lost to the stars. Your nails carved crescents into his shoulder. Your thighs locked around his waist. You were unraveling in his arms, and Bob never stopped kissing you.

“Oh fuck–baby, I can feel you,” He groaned, voice strangled. “You’re so tight–so perfect–God, I c-can’t–”

He thrust deep, once. Twice. Then he gasped.

“I wanna cum inside you,” He whispered against your lips, voice low and desperate. “Wanna fill you up, sweetheart. W-Wanna give you all of me–everything I’ve been holding back–please, can I?”

Your breath hitched. You reached up with your free hand and cupped his cheek, eyes wide and full of nothing but love.

“I wouldn’t want you any other way.”

That was it.

He groaned–loud and broken–and buried himself deep as his release tore through him. His body trembled violently, forehead pressed to yours, and his hips bucked once, twice, then stilled as warmth spread inside you. You felt the heat of it–felt him pulse, empty, surrender.

And then–like the final vow of devotion–he bit your shoulder.

Gently. Carefully. A love mark. A claim. His lips soothed the skin after, kissing where his teeth had grazed, his arm wrapped tight around your body like he never wanted to let go.

You were both still breathing hard.

Bob’s body pressed to yours, skin warm and slick with sweat, his chest rising and falling in fast, shallow waves. His forehead was still resting gently against yours, his breath ghosting across your lips like it didn’t know how to stop being close. But eventually, he shifted–just slightly–and pulled back just enough to look at you.

His fingers slipped free from your tangled grip, moving up slowly to cup your cheek instead. He held your face in his palm like you were still fragile, like the weight of his love was something he didn’t want to accidentally bruise. Then he leaned down and kissed you again.

Just a peck this time.

Soft.

Lingering.

Like punctuation at the end of the most beautiful sentence he’d ever written with his body.

When he pulled back, he was smiling. Flushed and glowing.

“Y-You look so beautifully w-wrecked,” He whispered, voice still rough with what you’d just done. “I wish y-you could see h-how you look.”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound half-dazed and full of affection. Your cheeks burned immediately under the praise, your fingers brushing over the back of his hand where it held your face.

“That’s your doing,” You complimented, still breathless. “But my God… I think we should’ve considered where we did this…”

Bob blinked.

And then glanced down to the cushions beneath you.

His ears flushed even redder.

“I-I have a strange feeling,” You continued with a weak smile, “…That we stained the hell out of this couch.”

He looked horrified for all of half a second…And then shrugged, sheepish.

“W-We can always flip the c-cushions…” He mumbled. “I-I’m sure it’s…Able to be hidden.”

You both burst into soft laughter–warm and tangled and helpless. The kind that carried all the release and joy and post-orgasm euphoria you couldn’t put into words. His arms tightened around you again, pulling you in like the laughter had made something loosen in his chest, and then he kissed you.

Again.

And again.

Short, slow, breathless kisses against your mouth, your cheek, your jaw.

“I-I love you so much…” He admitted again, lips brushing your skin between words. “A-And I’m s-so glad you said something.”

Your hand curled over his shoulder. You could still feel him softening inside you, the warmth of him lingering where you were joined. You smiled as your lips found his again, soft and slow and sure.

“Me too,” You murmured into the kiss, with the taste of the beginning of something new lingering between the two of you.

#bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader

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