lauufeydottir

[lauufeydottir]

sleep on the floor, dream about me.

pairing: bucky barnes x former avenger!reader summary: absolution never came easy to him. not in war, not in peace, not with your hands in his hair. it’s been fourteen months since they called him an avenger. fourteen months since he let you walk away. you asked him to come with you. he stayed. now you’re a memory he rewinds nightly—your laugh in his kitchen, your hand on his, your voice saying bucky like it meant something soft. he never said yes. but god, he never stopped wanting to. word count: 3.1k content warnings: 18+ mdni, character study, bucky's pov, heavy angst, unimaginable levels of grief and yearning, fem!reader, bucky needs a hug, love when a man is in NEED, oral (f!receiving), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, hair pulling, whining, use of pet names (sweetheart)

It’s been fourteen months since they called him an Avenger.

Not again. Not back on the team. Just… an Avenger. Like the name didn’t come loaded with blood and ghosts and public opinion polls. Like they could slap a title on him and it wouldn’t tremble against the weight of everything he used to be.

They called them the New Avengers after the incident in New York City, so scripted it made Walker nearly choke on his own smirk. Fontaine smiled like a pageant mother, polished and venomous, announcing her monsters like debutantes. And Bucky, God help him, stood there and let it happen. He let the crowd clap. Let the name stick.

It was easier than trying to explain how little of himself he recognized in the man on stage.

They’re a mess of a team—Bob still witnessing horrors from the confines of his mind, Ava flickering in and out like her faith in the mission, Walker gritting his teeth and pretending that guilt makes him noble. Alexei drinks too much and talks too loud, and Yelena keeps her knives sharp, her exits mapped.

And Bucky leads them. Somehow. Quietly. Stoically.

He tells himself it’s because someone has to. But the truth is simpler: it’s because he doesn’t know how to stop. How to let the world spin without trying to hold it together with shaking hands.

Most nights, he doesn’t sleep. 

Sometimes he thinks about you.

Well. That’s a lie.

He thinks about you all the time.

.

He hasn’t spoken your name aloud in months, but it lives under his tongue anyway. Like the taste of old pennies. Like the first sip of whiskey after a long winter walk—hot, biting, familiar. He pretends he doesn’t still scan rooftops when he passes through small towns, doesn’t still look for the slant of your shoulders in crowded cafes or behind fences overgrown with honeysuckle. He pretends a lot of things.

There’s a photo saved in the notes app of his burner phone. Grainy, zoomed in too far, your back turned. Holding a chicken. You’d posted it on some burner account Sam found by accident—an alias, dumb and playful, like a name you would’ve given your first cat. The caption read: “One of us is emotionally stable and it’s not me.” You were laughing, he thinks. The picture didn’t show your face, but he knows your laugh. Remembers the way it sounded in his kitchen, too late at night, as you mocked his cooking and then sat in his lap to eat anyway. 

You’d asked him to come with you.

That was the part no one knew. Not Dr. Raynor, not Sam, not even Steve. You hadn’t just left—not just vanished in the quiet way operatives sometimes do when they’ve seen too much and breathed in too many fires that weren’t their own. You’d stood in front of him, shaking with restraint, and you’d said it.

“I don’t want to do this anymore, Buck. I don’t want to keep pretending this is saving people.”

He’d looked at you like a man underwater, too slow to catch anything that wasn’t already halfway gone. You were all raw edges and conviction then—bloody-knuckled from a fight neither of you were supposed to be in, scraped up from dragging a kid out of a collapsed stairwell. He remembers how your hair was damp with rain, your voice calm in that terrifying, resolute way.

“Come with me,” you said.

It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a whisper. You weren’t a woman who begged. But it was the closest you’d ever come to laying yourself bare. And he’d heard it. Felt it. Let it pierce straight through him like a thread catching on old scar tissue.

He said nothing.

He watched your face crumble in the smallest, quietest ways—like a building set to implode from the inside—and still, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t reach out. Couldn’t give you anything except the same blank silence he always wore when he didn’t know how to be a person.

So you left. Took the bag already packed by the door. Didn’t even slam it. Just walked out with your shoulders squared and your heart in pieces, and didn’t look back.

He hadn’t meant to let you go. He just didn’t know how to say yes to something that felt like hope.

Because back then—God, back then he was still trying to figure out what wanting meant. Wanting something didn’t come naturally, not after years of being pointed like a weapon and told to fire. Wanting had been trained out of him. Beaten out. Frozen out.

And you—what you were offering—wasn’t just escape. It wasn’t a plane ticket or coordinates to some cabin in a country that didn’t ask questions. It was a future.

It was yours.

He’d have followed you anywhere if you’d asked in a way he could understand. But you weren’t built for manipulation, and he’d only ever been taught obedience.

So when you asked for something he couldn’t compartmentalize, couldn’t file into mission parameters or coded objectives—he froze. And then he nodded. Like a fucking coward.

Like he didn’t love you with every half-repaired piece of himself.

He thinks about that moment more than he admits. Thinks about what might’ve changed if he’d stood up and said, Yeah. Okay. Take me with you.

Last he heard, you were in Virginia. Somewhere with acreage and too much sun, where the satellites don’t reach so fast. Sam mentioned it once, offhand, like it was a rumor. “She’s got a cat now,” he’d said, like that was the most remarkable part.

Bucky can’t picture it. You, bent over a garden. You, reading in a quiet room. You, peaceful.

What he can picture is the last time he saw you. Rain. A motel. The quiet war of your backs turned to one another. You didn’t yell. You didn’t ask him to fight for you.

And he hadn’t.

You’d left behind a sweatshirt in his duffel. Navy, worn thin at the cuffs. He wears it now, sometimes, under the leather and the Kevlar, tucked close to skin like a secret.

.

There was the time when you brought up the courthouse on the Q train, just south of Atlantic Avenue. It’s late, and the subway car is near empty, all plastic echo and tired fluorescent buzz. A woman with too many plastic bags sleeps across from you both, mouth parted in a way that makes Bucky look away politely, as if modesty is still a reflex he knows how to honor.

Your hand is on top of his. Fingertips warm. Your thumb stroking the glimmering vibranium metal—like it’s not strange, like it’s not terrifying, like it’s nothing at all.

“We could just… do it, y’know?” you say. “Courthouse. One of those dumb Tuesdays. I’ll wear something I already own.”

You don’t look at him. You look at the window, at the way your reflection warps and bends with the flicker of passing tunnels.

Bucky swallows, throat clicking. “You’d marry me in a courthouse?”

You shrug. “Sure. Would you rather wait in line at the DMV together? Because that’s my second most romantic setting.”

He smiles, soft and cornered. “I just thought… you’d want something beautiful.”

“I do,” you say, and finally glance back at him. “But the part that’s beautiful is you. The rest is just staging.”

And God—he thinks he might cry. Just there, on a bench that smells like wet metal and too many years of bad decisions, with a poster peeling off the wall that says “SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING.” He sees you. He’s seeing you now, the way he didn’t let himself before. And still, he says nothing.

He thinks about a garden wedding. Somewhere green and far and full of things he doesn’t have to understand. Maybe upstate. Maybe not even this country. Something with color and quiet. You’d hate it, he knows—complain about the bugs and the lack of cell service and how long it takes to drive there—but you’d wear the hell out of a dress and lace your fingers through his and smile like he’s worth a thousand-mile detour. That’s what he wants. Not the spectacle, but the vision. You, with sunlight in your hair, smiling at him like he’s made of something safe.

But it’s easier to make a joke. Easier to deflect.

“What about Coney Island?” he asks. “We could get married on the Tilt-a-Whirl. Real classy.”

You snort. “You wanna puke on my vows?”

“Could be romantic,” he says. “Trauma bonding.”

“Bucky.”

His name in your mouth still wrecks him. Like the first time you said it, somewhere between Berlin and Lagos, when everything was cold and loud and uncertain. You said it like it was simple. Like it wasn’t attached to decades of war crimes and waking nightmares.

He never asked you to call him James.

And you never asked him to apologize for being broken.

.

It’s late by the time you’re back. The kind of late that doesn’t belong to any day anymore—just exists, unclaimed, in the hours between wound and healing.

You laugh when you kick off your boots. They thunk hollow against the apartment wall. “I feel like I’ve been running on caffeine and spite for fourteen hours.”

He doesn’t answer. Just watches you. The way you stretch, lazy and light, the way your shirt rides up at the hem.

He wants to touch you. Not possessive, not frantic—just close. Wants to lay you down and watch you breathe. Wants to kiss the skin behind your ear and the curve where your hip meets your thigh. All the soft, unguarded places. The ones only he knows by heart.

You step toward him, eyes warm.

“Bucky.”

He never gets used to that. Never will.

His whole chest cracks open at the sound of it. Like you’ve whispered something sacred and forbidden, just for him. A name that doesn’t carry the weight of blood and trigger pulls. Just warmth. Just want.

You press your hand flat over his heart, like you’re checking to see if he’s real. Like he might vanish if you blink.

“You keep looking at me like that,” you murmur, “I’m gonna start thinking you missed me.”

He huffs, quiet. “I always miss you.”

Your fingers slip into his hair. Soft, familiar. He closes his eyes when you kiss him—slow and sweet and deep enough that he feels it all the way through.

You walk him back toward the bed without saying anything else. He lets you. Lets your hands trace his collarbone, slow. His vibranium arm settles beside your head as he leans in, pressing his mouth to your neck, your jaw, the place just under your ear that makes you sigh like he’s found something secret.

“Bucky,” you whisper again, when his hands slip under your shirt. “You can have me. You always can.”

He never stood a chance against you.

So he drags himself, down, down, down past your hips, face to face with your cunt, and begs you, with the earnestness he learned a long time ago, before the war and the soldier, to show him how much of you he can have.

"Come on, sweetheart. Show me how much you want it."

You'd fingered yourself with one finger to start, until he clicked his tongue and added another. Couldn't take his eyes off your wrecked, frenzied pace like some sort of rocket. Watched the way your back arched and your hips jutted against his when you started to cum, and he pressed his mouth against your opening and tasted. 

Didn't stop until you were pulling away and even then, when your breathing started to even out and your eyes became lucid again. "Again," he rasped. Like a starving man.

He loves the way you make a mess, every time. It physically—god, it drives him crazy—how someone can make his heart practically burst out of his chest. His tongue lazily lapping along your thighs, your folds, your clit, sucking and rolling and grazing his teeth against the soft bundle of folds.

"Bucky, Bucky, please—"

If it were up to him, he doesn't think his hunger would ever be sated.

Wrenches orgasm, after orgasm, after orgasm from your willing, pliant body until you're close to tears, fingers wrapped around the sheets like a lifeline and he has to reorient you back to his hair. Where you pull so deliciously, it makes tears spring up in his eyes.

.

The thing about memory is that it lies. That’s something he knows. He lived in fractured ones for years. But you—your memories cling true. Linger like ghosts.

He remembers your hands in his kitchen after. A chipped coffee mug. The time you tried to bake a pie and nearly started a fire because you forgot the filling. You’d licked cinnamon off his finger, grinning, and said, “It’s a personality trait now. Bad decisions, good pastry.”

You’d kissed him with sugar still on your mouth.

He remembers you sprawled on a motel bed, flipping through a paperback with your feet tucked under his thigh. He remembers the scar on your shoulder, the one you got on a mission neither of you were supposed to be on, and the way he touched it once like it was a question.

He sees your shadow in the face of every kindness. He feels your phantom laugh in every silence too long.

He doesn’t call. He doesn’t write.

But he keeps the screenshot. The one of you and the chicken. He stares at it when he’s too fucked up, too tired, too anything. He doesn’t remember the last time he heard your voice outside a dream, but he remembers the weight of you in his arms. Remembers the sound you made when you laughed into his neck, like it cracked you open.

He’s never deserved that sound. Not really.

But God, he misses it.

.

He finds himself in the observation room when the signal hits.

Bucky sees the jet through the satellite feed. Just a flicker of silver and blue, sharp-edged and strange, carving a line through the upper layers of Earth’s atmosphere like it belongs there. A "4" on its wing.

The room is silent but for the soft hum of the holographic display, and the sound of his own jaw locking tight. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even shift. But something in him—a thread, a tendon—pulls.

Yelena cocks an eyebrow. Bob goes quiet. And Bucky—

—Bucky just stares.

He doesn’t know why this moment is the one that does it. Why this, and not the Hydra facility they torched in Belarus, or the body they pulled from the wreckage last fall. But something shifts. Something breaks.

The thought lands heavy: you should know about this.

You always liked patterns, puzzle-boxes. Things that nested inside themselves. He used to find you at mission briefings with a pen tucked behind your ear, absently solving logic puzzles in the margins of your reports—Sudokus, cryptics, mazes with no entry point. “Keeps the brain from rusting,” you’d say, tapping your temple like it was a lock he didn’t have the key for.

But it wasn’t just the puzzles. It was the way you thought about the world: as something decipherable. As a system of signs and symbols that could be parsed, if only you looked at it from the right angle. Bucky never understood that. Still doesn’t. Not really.

When the world felt like it was breaking—when the walls closed in after a mission, or the memories returned out of order and too loud—you never told him to breathe. Never asked him to talk. You’d just sit next to him on the floor, lean your shoulder into his and murmur something like, “Entropy is just the universe trying to find its balance.”

And he’d laugh. Or try to. “That doesn’t help,” he’d say.

“I know,” you’d reply, grinning sideways. “But doesn’t it sound cool as fuck?”

You’d pick apart the world like it was a riddle, not a tragedy. You believed in equations of fate, in karmic symmetry. You’d say things like, “Every time we save someone, that has to go somewhere. That has to matter, even if we can’t see it yet.”

And he—God, he’d wanted to believe you.

There’s one night he can’t stop thinking about. Somewhere out there. The desert too loud with wind, the air gritty in his throat. You were both running low on sleep, bruised and dehydrated, holed up in the skeleton of a house that hadn’t been lived in for years. You were curled up under a jacket, shivering, your eyes half-lidded.

He’d sat beside you, back to the wall, gun across his lap. Watching shadows stretch long through broken windows.

“I think this one’s gonna go sideways,” he’d muttered, more to himself than anything.

You hadn’t opened your eyes. Just mumbled, “Then the next one’ll go right.”

“Where do you get that kind of faith?”

And you’d said it without missing a beat: “From you.”

He wonders if you’d answer his call.

If your number’s the same. If you’d still let unknown calls through, the way you used to—claiming spam calls were like horoscopes: always inconvenient, sometimes weirdly accurate. He used to roll his eyes at that, but secretly, he’d loved it. 

He stares until the screen times out. Lights up again. Fades. It’s pathetic, this dance. Cowardice in increments.

Then, finally, a breath. A sound like surrender.

He dials. It rings once. Twice. Three times.

Every second is an ache. Every pulse of silence feels like the hollow of your absence pressing into his ribs. He can’t breathe.

And then—

Your voice.

“Hey.”

He forgets how to speak. How to move. All he can do is feel.

The sound of you, real and whole and alive, scrapes something raw in him. It’s not just memory now—it’s present tense. The now of it. The breath you took to answer. The rustle on your end of the line. The shape of your voice, unchanged.

You don’t say his name. You don’t need to.

He says yours like it costs him something.

Soft. Unsteady. Like it’s prayer. Like it’s regret folded into reverence.

There’s a pause. Then you sigh. He hears the tight release of breath through your nose, and he’s close enough to the memory of you that he can see your face. Head tipped back, eyes half-lidded. That expression you wore when you didn’t want to smile but couldn’t help it. The one that always cut him the deepest.

Your voice comes again, warm and wry.

“Is the world ending again, Barnes?”

[lauufeydottir]

Half-Doomed // Semi-Sweet

Ripped from your timeline and forced to fight for the state of the multiverse, the war ends and you're all that remains of the Thunderbolts of Earth-1303. Forced to settle on Earth-616, you fill the empty spot on the New Avengers and are surprised to find that this John Walker is nothing like the one you knew before.

[Reader is a mutant with enhanced physiology and an uncanny ability to never miss a target, similar to Bullseye, dubbed Killshot. Former resident of Earth-1303, current resident of Earth-616.]

john walker x fem!reader

words: 7.4k

cw: swearing, technically major character death, canon typical violence, descriptions or blood/injury, smut, oral sex (f!receiving), brief cowgirl, john's praise kink, confessions, the idiots are in love, no y/n but reader is referred to as Killshot (18+ MDNI)

a/n: i really love this concept and i will probably use it or something similar again! a few half-baked predictions for the mcu by pulling from 2015 secret wars. 1303 is meant to be the x-men universe that will be in doomsday, but since it doesn't have a designation yet i just made one up.

disloyal order of water buffaloes - fall out boy

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Never in a million years had you expected to be launched into a multiversal war and forced to fight the phantom faces of allies you’d lost long ago.

Hell, you don't even know how long it's been. Time could work differently in this world, and from what you’ve seen, most things do. The fight for your world started out as a righteous cause, spearheaded by Charles Xavier and his X-Men, and quickly devolved into nothing but a misguided war spearheaded by Victor Von Doom’s agenda. In your word— designated Earth-1303 by Hank McCoy— there were no more Avengers, no Fantastic Four. You had the the X-Men, fractured from loss and the bigotry against mutants, and your Thunderbolts, who were dysfunctional on a good day.

But the rival universe— Earth-616— had resources that far outmatched your world, all with the mind of Reed Richards to back it up.

You never really stood a chance. It was never clear who went first, what exactly happened to each member of your team. The not knowing was worse, the feeling that you somehow failed them all by not being there. By surviving instead of them. None of you were people designed to fight aliens, androids, or wizards— least of all you. And when the battle shifted from fighting each other to joining forces against Doom and his magic, the inhabitants of Earth-616 needed all the help they could get. Surviving felt like a punishment, until 616 offered you something you’d believed to be lost— a place.

The first time you’d come across any of The Thunderbolts of 616— here, they were controversially known as The New Avengers— it felt like the wind had been knocked out of you. One minute, you were taking down Doombots with expert precision, the next, an explosion rocked the ground and trapped you under the falling rubble of Castle Doom. Before you could even start to pull yourself out of it, the main slab pinning you down was thrown aside, and suddenly the ghost of John Walker was holding out a hand for you. Grabbing onto him was instinctual, taking his arm and pulling yourself up, just to then launch yourself into his arms. It was horribly out of character for the both of you, but given that you believed him to be dead, it felt fitting. In your relief— because if Walker was alive, then maybe Yelena was too. Maybe even Ava, or Bucky, or Alexei— you didn't think anything of the way he tensed under your touch.

You didn't think of anything else until he gently pushed you back by the shoulders and unclipped his helmet.

You saw it the moment he revealed his face. The angle of his nose too straight, his hair too shaggy, the unfamiliar beard lining his jaw. The mournful way he looked at you, like he’d already put the pieces together. It wasn’t the man you knew.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I—” you stammered out, taking a few shaky steps backward, needing to put space between you and him. By then, you’d already seen your fair share of variants, but you hadn’t yet come across anyone important to you. Almost tripping over the rubble in your haste, this Walker reached back out for you, clipping his shield onto his back as he steadied you with a hand on your shoulder.

“Killshot, right? I recognize you,” he said slowly, like he wasn't entirely sure that he actually did. He dropped his hand, and you felt the crushing loss all over again.

“You know me?”

“I knew a ‘you’. Indirectly, anyway.”

Your eyes went wide again at his words. Indirectly? Knew?

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Then, another commotion started up a few meters away— more fucking Doombots. Walker turned to face it with no hesitation, pulling the shield off his back. The steel caught your eye then, the scuffs and scratches immortalized in the grooves. All in a slightly different pattern to the one you were familiar with, missing the jagged lines that you’d carved into your Walker’s shield during training after training. 

“It means it’s a story for after we finish this,” he shouts back at you, securing his helmet back in place. “You with me, or what?”

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

On Earth-616, it was you who died at the hands of John Walker in the top-secret O.X.E vault that Valentina Allegra de Fontaine lured the would-be New Avengers to. His assignment was simple— track down the operative known as Killshot, see what she planned to steal, and then eliminate her and secure the lot. It was an echo of just about every mission Valentina had ever given him before, and he never expected this one to be different.

“So, uh, that agent I shot back there, was she— you knew her?” Walker had asked Ava sheepishly as Yelena was still trying to make sense of their exact location.

“She was a dirty secret of S.H.I.E.L.D, same as me,” she shrugged, accepting his offer of cactus fruit. “Had a tough life. She killed a lot of people, and then she got killed. Just like us someday."

John never dwelled on your death. He didn’t know you. You were a complete stranger. Only ever a mission, a means to an end. Shortly after the events of The Void, the thought crossed his mind that maybe if he’d waited a few more moments, you would have ended up a part of this rag-tag team. It wasn’t mourning, just a what-if in the back of his head. What terrified him was the fact it could have just as easily been him, or any of the other Thunderbolts that he’d come to see as family, as strange as it seemed. If Valentina had assigned him someone else, if his bullet hit a different target, nothing would be the same as it is now.

That was, until the Incursion came, and they all had to take up arms in a multiversal war to save everyone and everything he’d ever known. Despite the parallel universes, magic-wielding dictators, and several unfortunate run-ins with the Time Variance Authority, the strangest thing to happen was him pulling you, of all the possible variants,from the rubble on Battleworld. It was an odd twist of fate that a variant of you, among many others, had been left behind with no universe to return to.

So once the multiverse was saved and the dust settled, Bucky and Yelena agreed it was only fair they offer you a spot on the team, considering that, on a technicality, you were already a part of it.

“Killshot, huh? Well, we could use someone who can actually hit what they’re aiming for,” Bucky had said.

Yelena was the one to finally explain what happened to their you in this world— not that she ever really got to be theirs— delicately, with the entire team present and John fiddling his thumbs in the back. Somehow, he’d been half expecting you’d hear the truth and suddenly snap and seek vengeance. But instead, much to everyone’s surprise, you’d burst into laughter.

“She couldn't hold her own,” you told them with a shrug. “I should be grateful. It left a place for me now.”

So now, you live in the shadow of a you who never saw the light of day, never got a chance to be the hero. Sometimes, staying in this Watchtower feels wrong. If you look hard enough, there’s always something that’s just off enough to make your hair stand on end and your stomach churn. Your new teammates are somehow exactly the same and completely different. At first, looking at any of them for too long used to fill you with a distressing sense of deja vu. Your Yelena had dimples. Your Bucky’s vibranium arm was lined with silver instead of gold. Your Sentry was not Robert Reynolds— he never survived the O.X.E human trials according to the files from the vault. Your Ava had brown eyes. Your Alexei had less grey at his temples. You had no Antonia— she was the collateral damage in your universe.

And Walker. The John from your universe was someone who, in the end, did the real work to be worthy of the mantle he’d obsessed over. You two butted heads, but outside of that, he never really paid you much mind, despite your genuine efforts to keep his attention. Too busy trying to make up for lost time, tucking all his flaws back away in the government issued box and donning rose-tinted glasses. Always looking straight through you for just a glimpse of that past he never got over.

But the Walker from this universe stares at you like he’s looking at a ghost.

This John is a far cry from the one you’d known. He puts everything he has into what’s in front of him, instead of chasing a long-past legacy he never truly wanted anyway. And somehow, it didn't take long for that path to include you. The you and him that are here and now get along effortlessly, much to everyone’s surprise. Neither of you are the most welcoming of types, and yet there’s something unspoken that you found in him that day when he pulled you out. Initially, you’re worried you’re only chasing a facsimile of the man you could never have, that you don't actually favor him as much as you do the memory of the one you lost. But realization comes that this John is everything you’d always pretended the other was. And that feels scarier than any mad titan or conqueror you’ve faced in the last decade.

He’s strangely attentive. You aren't used to someone with his face and his voice offering to patch you up on the quinjet, asking your opinion on what to watch on movie nights, cooking your favorite meal for dinner. It almost felt fake, in comparison. Always checking on you after missions, sometimes, without saying a word. Just hovering in the doorway of the common room like he’s trying to make sure you’re still there. Knocking on your door to ask if you want any coffee— just because he happens to be on his way there.

But even stranger than that, he agrees with you.

John, in any universe you’ve come to realize, has an inferiority complex that runs for just as many miles as he can. It’s understandable, after the way his life has played out, but it makes him incapable of being wrong. During mission briefings, or even just casual discussions with the team, he’s always the first to disagree. He needs to counter, has to come up with something not just better, but the best.

Except, when it comes to your input, he’s suddenly silent. And you doubt it’s because of any of your stellar ideas. You two are consistently paired up for missions, because Bucky swears he’s never been able to work with anyone as seamlessly as he can with you. And you can’t say you mind. This world is still recovering from multiversal horrors, the work is never ending, but trusting John is effortless. He always has you running point, a show of trust in his own way, stationed at your back like an extension of your body.

If you thought you felt something for John then, nothing can compare to the torch you carry for John now.

And as the months pass and the two of you grow closer, you find it easier and easier to let go of the ghost of someone who never really even liked you anyway.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

It’s been two weeks of back-to-back-to-back jobs. So intensive and high priority that the team has been paired off and split up across the world, and you and John haven’t even been back to The Watchtower since you shipped off initially. Just half-stocked safe houses miles from civilization. Hydra cells that popped back up after the Incursion. Reports of Stark tech from the other side of the multiverse falling into the wrong hands. A minor witch that Doctor Strange had reached out personally to ask for help with. And a plethora of Loki variants who did not have any intention whatsoever to save the day.

And now, the two of you are in the home stretch of the takedown of yet another Hydra bunker start-up. Taking turns sleeping on grimy floors and dust-logged beds of old Avenger’s safe houses hasn’t kept you in very good spirits, and you can tell from the rigid line of his shoulders that John is wound just as tight. Normally, before a fight, that unexplained gleam he gets in his eyes when he looks at you fades away. Replaced by the steadfast confidence that he, for some reason, has in you.

But this time, there’s no switch. Every time you catch his eye in the chaos he’s looking at you like he’s making sure you’re still standing. Every gunshot that goes off has his head snapping in your direction, that coil of violence inside him winding tighter and tighter with each body that drops to the ground.

For you, it’s not a difficult fight, especially after what you’ve already suffered through this week. Your mutation isn’t special, but it does give you speed, stamina, and strength on par with super soldier physiology— and perfect aim, every single time. The only downside is you’ve always been far too impatient to learn how to shoot anything more complicated than a pistol, so you’re the douche always bringing a plethora of knives to the gun fight. But it’s always worked out for you in the past, and it seems to be working just fine now as you seamlessly flit through Hydra soldiers, blades flying through the air with the utmost precision.

But staying humble has never been your strong suit. Once you get into the groove of dropping bodies, you have a bad habit of getting sloppy when it comes to watching your own back. It’s subconscious, you swear, but you’re always focusing your attention on the biggest threats to John instead. And it’s only gotten worse the better he watches yours in return.

Between your combined lack of rest, his tension, and your ego, something has to give.

And that something just happens to be John’s shoulder— so sudden you thought he was still on the other side of the room— as he jumps in front of you just in time for a bullet to pierce right through his suit. There’s no time for his shield to stop it, the bullet finding a new home in his bicep. But besides a choked grunt of pain, he’s still on his feet.

But the fight is still in full swing, and while your gut is screaming at you to run to him, your head tells you to stay put, and your heart pushes you to channel that protective rage into the knife you launch in the direction of the shooter. It nicks his carotid artery just enough to leave him bleeding out nice and slow on the filthy floor.

You paste yourself to John’s side after that, hyper vigilant to the point you’re metaphorically trigger-happy. Your knives are flying, a non-stop cycle of hitting your targets, kicking and punching your way through to retrieve your blades, just to turn and start it all over the second anyone gets even remotely close to him. Every time you even consider slowing down, you get a glimpse of the blood seeping into the fabric of his suit and the fury comes back tenfold.

The last man standing isn’t a very clever one, because he looks to the both of you from across the room, then to the mangled bodies of his fallen comrades, and makes a break for you anyway. Your knife and John’s bullet strike his chest at the same time, and he crumples to the ground with the rest of them. You move on from him just as quickly as you had with the rest— if you weren't so tired, and had more time, you would have given them far worse than they got. But John is the only priority running through your mind, and you quickly sheath the weapons you have left and turn to him. He doesn't seem to expect it, especially not when your hand wraps firmly around his bicep, tugging yourself closer to get a better look at the gunshot wound.

“Hey— ow. That’s not helping, you know,” he complains, trying to pull his arm back, but your strength is evenly matched and he doesn’t get very far. You ignore him, not saying a word, calculating eyes trained on the damage, from the singed fibers of his suit caught in the gaping hole that’s now carved into his body, to the bullet still lodged inside. With your other hand you feel for anything on his back, turning him at your whims to see if any fragments split and went through-and-through. His back is clear, thankfully, meaning extracting the bullet is within your skillset, and the two of you don't have to book it back to The Watchtower to get him a real doctor.

“Closest safehouse. Now,” you murmur, prodding at the angry edges of puckered skin, rolling your eyes when he flinches. “I need to get this out before you start to heal around it.”

“I’m fine—”

“I don’t care.” It’s a firm dismissal, but with an undercurrent of something softer. It's not that you don't care for his opinion, but you're not going to entertain the way his first instinct is to push down his own needs. And he damn well knows it too, because he quickly shuts up, reaching up with his uninjured arm to take off his helmet. He looks over at you in resignation, but you've known some version of him long enough to see the pain behind his mask. He frowns, then nods once, then twice like he’s trying to convince himself too, and then slips his gun into the holster.

“Five miles west. It’s all abandoned farmland— so we can drive, but we'll have no cover from above, so we have to move quickly.”

You finally release his arm with a gentle pat. “Great. And don't even try it, I’m driving.”

The trip out of the Hydra base and to the safe house is quick, effortless, and incredibly tense. You can’t recall a time when you and John have been this silent in each other’s presence, the only noise the roar of the old truck you hot-wired to make it here and his occasional stifled grunts of pain. Conversation between the two of you normally comes easy— or at least he finds it easy to ramble to you, and you find it easy to listen. But he doesn't try, and neither do you. Not a word is exchanged until you're finally barricaded in the dilapidated farmhouse, and you've got him on the floor propped up against the bathtub with first aid supplies scattered across the tile. The drywall here has certainly seen better days, but at least it’s been well-stocked by Valentina’s people.

John turns red when you gesture for him to take off the top of his suit. He looks so much smaller without the Kevlar and steel holding him up, awkwardly trying to fit his long limbs into the cramped space while leaving room for you to work. You, on the other hand, are still in your tactical suit, kneeling at his side while your mind runs a million miles an hour. You aren't accustomed to being protected. You’re a tank— deadly, efficient, and relentless. Your strength rivals that of a super soldier and your skill has never failed you before. It’s sufficed to say that you do most of the protecting, here and back in your original universe, taking most of the hits because you can give it right back ten times worse. So, John taking a bullet for you makes sirens go off in your head that you don’t know what to make of. It’s not a mortal wound by any means, and the serum he took helps him heal at an enhanced pace. But at the end of the day, he’s still capable of dying, even if he doesn't act like it.

The path the bullet took isn't a simple through-and-through, instead looking like it traveled upward before being stopped by his clavicle— which, according to John, is completely unharmed. Super soldiers and their damn super bones. The bathroom is small, outdated, and there’s only one bulb in the fixture above the mirror. At the very least, it has hot water. It’s not an ideal amount of space for this, but you’re not the ideal doctor either. You’ll suffer fifteen minutes of awkward proximity if it means patching him up to the best of your ability.

But less than a minute later and it's clear that you underestimated just how close you’d be getting.

Between the odd angle and the shitty lighting, you find yourself barely an inch away, leaning in quite a bit to make sure you're still giving him enough space. After the second time you break your examination to lean back to straighten your achy back for just a moment, John decides to take matters into his own hands.

“Look, just—” he stutters, nodding at the clearly uncomfortable way you're poised. Instead of elaborating further, he holds you by the waist with his free arm, using that super strength of his to haul you up. He slips his leg closest to you between yours, leaving you basically straddling his thigh. The hand on your hip stays in place, urging you to rest your weight on him. “There. Don’t need you breaking your back just to patch me up.”

You're not sure what’s left you more speechless— the feeling of his hands through your suit or the fact you're becoming increasingly familiar with the musculature of his thigh. “Better. Thanks,” you mumble. And it is, in fact, better. You don't have to lean across him uncomfortably, and you have a clearer view of the wound this way. The only problem left is hoping he can't hear the way your heart is suddenly racing. In an effort to bring it back down, you take a deep breath— in, hold, out, hold, repeat— and redirect your focus back onto the task at hand.

The silence settles once more, and you’re so caught up in controlling your own reactions, you barely register his. John’s fingers dig into your side before the tweezers are even close, bracing for the sting. There's still a light flush across his chest as he watches you work, and you have to stifle a shudder every time his breath ghosts across your temple. You've rarely been this close to him— either iteration— and certainly never this intimate. It makes your mind wander into dangerous territory, and for a half-moment, you indulge it.

How his hands would feel without your suit in the way. Other ways you could make him blush. The warmth of his breath on the back of your neck instead—

You’re close to cracking, and the quiet is the perfect environment to enable your overactive imagination. It’s obvious John has been biting his tongue to give you space. So, in order to quell your indecent thoughts, you voice the question that has been grating on you since the fight.

“What the hell were you thinking, Walker?” It’s a murmured query, your voice low as you concentrate on removing the bullet in his shoulder.

“I made a tactical decision,” he grunts as you stick sterile tweezers further into his flesh, irritating capillaries already cauterized by the heat from the gunpowder.

“Tactical decision? Are you delusional?” There’s a tiny clink as metal hits metal when your tweezers finally find the bullet. As carefully as you can, you start to extract it, mindful of his pain.

“See? Looks like I’ll live after all,” he grimaces as he watches you work, holding out his hand, urging you to drop the crumpled bullet into it as soon as it’s out. You oblige, not without attitude, swapping out the tweezers for a scalpel.

“Not if I kill you instead.” You gesture threateningly with the tiny blade. Glancing back up to him, you note the obvious bags under his eyes. His skin is just a shade paler than his normal sun-kissed glow, betraying his nonchalance. You set out on debriding the wound. “Why?”

“Look, I don’t know what you want me to say—” he shrugs with one shoulder, gesturing like he's the innocent one here. Your eyes flick down to the crushed bullet he’s rolling around in his palm.

“I want you to tell me why you jumped in front of the gun,” you demand. Fractured memories flash in your mind— the Incursion, the death, destruction, the loss. You hadn’t felt the same fear you did then until he pushed you out of the way. “You didn’t even raise your damn shield, Jo— Walker.”

“I don’t know!” He gestures frustratedly with his hand before letting it fall back to his lap. He avoids looking directly at you, laser-focused on the bullet. “The shield would have— it could have bounced wrong. I— just drop it, okay?”

You’ve never seen this version of him this agitated. Not even when Bucky tells him off for disobeying orders, not when Ava and Yelena gang up on him, and certainly never at you. He’s come to take everything thrown at him in stride, only subtle indications of his annoyance simmering under the surface. You know well what it’s like to make John Walker mad, and now you’ve succeeded in this universe the same as your own.

“Fine.” It’s your turn to pout, dropping the scalpel into the bowl of tools you’ll need to sanitize later. 

“What are you doing?”

“Dropping it.”

You feel his eyes on you for a few more beats, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop while you rummage around for the sterilizer and gauze. But there’s no lie, no trick, just your presence, firm and unyielding. You can’t say you understand, but that won’t change that the two of you are here now. As requested, you don’t bring it up again. Instead, you quietly stew while you wash out his wound and pack it with gauze, finishing it off with a bandage on top.

“Shower. And then you’re getting the bed, and that’s final.” You pat his shoulder gently as a finishing touch, and then quickly pull yourself from the close proximity to him. It’s not until you’re standing at the sink washing up that you realize how jittery the close contact with him made you, and you aren’t sure anymore if it’s just from the concentration.

John grumbles something about you being bossy, but rises from the floor to do exactly as you told him.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Two hours later, the sun long since set, and the both of you are finally clean, fed, and patched up. It’s been quiet between you, but not nearly as tense as it was on the way here, this time fueled by utter exhaustion.

You’re just pulling some blankets from the linen closet when John appears in the doorway of the bedroom, dressed down in a spare pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that looks a size too small. Maybe you should have coordinated— the one you’re wearing is at least two too big. He still looks tired, but it’s softened into something less defeated looking. Leaning against the doorframe with his uninjured arm, he watches you sort through the linen to find the least musty option.

“You don’t have to sleep on the floor,” he finally says. “It’s a king. There’s room, you know.”

“It’s fine— “

“No, it’s not. You’re just as tired, and I’m pretty sure these floors are dry rotted. Plus, there’s no heating system— just, c'mon. We can share.”

You stare at him blankly for a few moments, rolling the proposition around in your head. Then, suddenly you're agreeing far too easily.

“Alright. I wasn't really looking forward to the floor anyway.” What you don't point out is the opportunity to keep a closer eye on him, just in case there ends up being any complications with his injury, or something that you missed, or—

It’s not lost on John either. “Wow, okay. I thought that would be harder,” he comments, trying to keep the delight off his face. “Well, I know I’m beat, so…” He stretches both arms over his head, notably gentler with his left as he yawns, and it's almost instinctual the way your gaze darts down to where his borrowed shirt rides up, revealing a toned stomach and blonde happy trail, as if you didn't just see him shirtless forty minutes ago. Somehow, the glimpse seems far more scandalous, especially now that it's sinking in that you're about to be sharing a bed with him. It’s not something you can honestly say you’ve never considered, but you never truly believed it might happen. And now you have to figure out how to not make it weird when you're already trying to compartmentalize him taking a bullet for you and the complicated feelings that he’s brought up.

You nod once, then again as you brush past him into the bedroom, immediately making it weird.

The two of you settle in, the old mattress not nearly as uncomfortable as you'd assumed it would be. You stay as close to the edge as you can without being too obvious, lying on your back and pulling the blankets up to your chin. It’s a relief when John slips under the blankets on the other side and does almost the exact same. The old farmhouse has a slight draft, and thankfully it’s early summer or else you’d be freezing. It’s dark except for the moonlight, opting to leave all the lights off so as to not attract attention, and quiet besides your steady breaths and the crickets chirping outside the window.

Minutes pass, you're not exactly sure how many, as you finally relax enough to entertain the idea of actually sleeping. More than an arm’s length away from you, John’s breathing is deep and even, and you don't look over, but you assume he’s long asleep until his voice breaks through the quiet.

“I panicked,” John confesses suddenly, like he needs to force the words out or else they’ll never come.

And you aren't quite sure what he’s even talking about. “Panicked?”

“During the mission. When I saw the soldier aiming for you. I panicked.” John rolls onto his side to face you then, the mattress bowing under his super-soldier weight. “I was moving before I could really even stop myself.”

You stay on your back watching the ceiling as his words sink in. “Why? You think I can’t handle it?”

“No! That’s not— I just feel responsible, protective,” he admits through gritted teeth.

“Responsible?” you scoff, finally turning towards him. You can just barely make him out in the darkness, the window behind him backlighting his silhouette. But his expression isn't the haughty one he’d normally wear while knocking someone down a peg— it's genuine, almost sheepish. It makes you drop your defensiveness. “You don’t have to feel responsible and I don't need you to protect me, you know.”

“I had to do something! I already got you killed once; can you blame me?” His voice is still low, but with enough urgency to get his point across.

And suddenly, you realize exactly what this is all about.

You take a deep breath in and out, scooting just a fraction closer to him. “You never did anything to me. You don’t have to make up for something that happened to someone else.”

“I shot you, point blank. And then looted your body and left you to burn with the rest of Valentina’s trash,” he argues against himself.

“It wasn’t me, Walker. You didn’t know her.”

“But I still see it, that I’m capable of—“ He huffs, sitting up and shaking his head. “But now I do know you. And I can't forget the look on your face as I put a bullet between your— her— eyes! I always wondered, what if I hadn’t been so hotheaded in that vault, if I had just believed Yelena? And then the multiverse answered my question. I don’t want to fuck it up a second time. You lost your Thunderbolts, the team that you knew and loved. I just want you to feel like you can have the same thing here, with us. In your world, I was important— “

“So, this is about your ego, too?”

“—I was important to you!” He doesn’t yell, but his volume increases just enough to get his point across. “The way you looked at me on Battleworld, before you realized I wasn’t him. Like I was your hero.”

For a moment, you have no response. You can only sit up, watching him with wide eyes as you try to decipher exactly what he means. And you aren't sure you can stand it if you’re wrong.

“He never actually paid me much mind, you know,” you start delicately, insistent on not conflating the two versions of him who, at the end of the day, you've come to realize couldn't be more different. “He was a part of the team, of course, but always working towards the unattainable. In the end, he got his family back, the title, the adoration— it felt like we weren't good enough for him.”

“Well, your Walker—”

“—He was never mine,” you interrupt with such vitriol that the implication is clear as day, and once you realize what you've said, you shrink back, avoiding his gaze.

“Then he was a moron.” He scoots closer to you, reaching out for your hand as he closes the distance. His gaze is so softer now, no longer trying to argue against himself. And you let him, staying where you are as he entwines his fingers with yours. You feel light as air and sick to your stomach all at once, and for the second time today, you can’t predict his next move.

“And you're not?” you attempt to tease, but it falls flat as he keeps leaning in towards you. Your head tilts back the closer he gets, eyes locked on his, lips parted.

“I guess that’s for you to decide.”

And you do.

At first, John is much more tentative than you’d thought he’d be. For all his peacocking and intensity, you didn't expect him to melt the moment your lips touch his. Maybe this is as unexpected for him as it is for you. Your hands bunch into the sides of his shirt and you pull yourself into him, as close as possible. As soon as you take the initiative to tease your tongue across his bottom lip, it’s like he finally wakes up. He makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a gasp, dropping your hand in favor of tangling his fingers into your hair. John moves his lips against yours with a fervor, parting to let you slip inside and taste him. All your frustration and anxieties from the mission fade away at once, and you ground yourself in the moment with him here and now. You push him back until you can straddle him, only breaking the kiss to position yourself over his lap. A tremor runs through him as you settle your weight over him, and he’s already half-hard.

You don't know who starts the pile of forgotten clothes on the floor next to the bed, only that it feels like relief when you press your bare chest against his. Mouth still attached to yours like it's the last thing he’ll ever taste, John cups your breasts, calloused fingers grazing over your peaked nipples. You groan softly, hips grinding down against his, your clit catching on his cock in just the right way. You’re both still clothed from the waist down, but between your thighs he feels huge— it seems he does have a good reason for all that overconfidence.

Reluctantly, and with a few pecks for good measure, John finally pulls away, and the two of you finally take a moment to look each other in the eye. His pupils are blown, flushed pink from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, lips reddened from your nips and bites. He’s startlingly handsome, especially underneath you like this, but as you go to finally say something, he beats you to it.

“Fuck, you’re so gorgeous,” he pants, still managing to sound borderline reverent while he’s trying to catch his breath. Hands splayed out over your thighs, he guides you into a rhythm as he grinds up into you, his lips trailing down your collarbone, moving lower and lower until you feel his teeth grazing your nipple. He takes turns laving his tongue over each one, eyes shut in pleasure as he moans softly against your skin. “Let me eat you out? Please?”

The way he begs might just be the hottest thing you've ever heard in your life.

You don't know if your own words will work right now with the way he’s watching you, so you nod your head eagerly. Propping your hand on his chest, you slip off your panties and go to move off of him. Instead, his grip shifts to circle your thighs and he pushes you up as he slides himself down. And then, you’re suffocating John Walker with your thighs. Your hands fly to his hair, and the grateful look he’s giving you from between your legs could be enough to send you over the edge all on its own.

Where he started off shy against your mouth, against your cunt that’s overwhelming every last one of his senses, he’s unabashed. He pulls you against his mouth like he wants to be crushed underneath you, his tongue wasting no time circling your clit. You’re practically dripping down his throat, tugging at golden strands for some sort of leverage while he pleasures you with an intensity you’ve never experienced. You wouldn’t have thought him to be so exceptional at this, as you’re being driven closer and closer to the edge. Wanton sounds fall from your mouth with no restraint, cooing your praises for him each time you catch your breath.

“John— so good, that’s it,” you cry as he wraps his lips around your clit. He’s devouring you and it only intensifies every time you manage to form words. The vibrations from his own muffled moans only add to the sensation, and you can’t help but rock your hips.

You gasp when you suddenly feel fingers running through your folds, collecting your slick mixed with his spit and spreading it all around, his tongue still lapping at you. He’s entirely pussy drunk; the sight of his brow furrowed in concentration from between your thighs almost enough to push you completely over the edge.

But it’s his fingers that really do you in, sliding two wet digits into your tight cunt. You cry out, in a way that you’d be embarrassed over if it didn’t feel so good. Nails digging into his scalp, you’re overwhelmed by the feel of his tongue, the pace of his fingers, the scratch of his beard over the tender skin of your inner thighs.

But it’s what he says, only pulling his mouth away for a split second, that has you immediately seeing stars and drenching his beard.

“That’s it, love, come for me.”

His warm words hold just a hint of that hidden Georgia drawl, and then he’s mouthing you through your orgasm. His lips and fingers don’t stop until you’re no longer capable of chasing them, borderline overstimulated, and even then he's reluctant to give this up. You inch down his body as you catch your breath, finally fully resting over the cut of his hip bones.

John sits up to chase you. He’s still in his boxers, the fabric brushing over your still-sensitive cunt as he attaches his lips back to yours. The warmth of his mouth mixed with the taste of you. It’s a dizzying sensation.

“Wow,” you sigh, forehead resting against his.

“Careful, or you’re gonna give me an ego,” he quips. When you open your eyes, he’s staring up at you with such adoration that it knocks the wind out of you.

“You already have an ego.”

You kiss him again, and again, pulling back every so often to get another look at him, to see if that glint ever fades. It doesn’t.

“It’s probably your fault.” He presses a kiss to your neck, pushing your hair back. “I wanna see you this time,” he groans. Your hips are rocking over his again, giving him just enough relief, but its not enough. It’ll never be enough. You pause, rising just enough to slide his boxers down and toss them somewhere behind you.

“Fuck, look at you.” Your eyes trace the lines of his body, openly ogling him. The lean muscle, the faint freckles on his collarbone, the marks you left on his neck. His cock stands proud and leaking between you, and you spit on it, letting it drip down slow. Head falling back against the dated headboard, he moans your name.

“—love, please. Ride me,” John begs, pulling you closer by your hips. Using that endearment again. It’s not one you would have expected him to use, but now that you’ve heard it, you aren’t sure you could live without it. You wrap a hand around his length, using your saliva to lube him up, dragging a thumb over his tip, adding his precum to the mix.

“You keep calling me that.”

He watches you, his eyes dark and unfocused. His grip on your hips grows tighter, threatening to bruise. To leave signs of himself on you. Proof that he was here. That he’s the one who’s making you gasp and moan— that he’s the only one who can.

“Calling you what?” he asks, feigning ignorance. His hips jerk up into your touch.

“You know what,” you reply, moving your hand slowly up and down his length. Your voice is low and breathless. “That’s the second time.” You lean down to nip at his earlobe. “Love.”

 “It’s just a word,” he growls, a hint of a lie in his tone, “Just a harmless, little word.” He likes the way it sounds on your tongue. Like it’s just for him, not any other version. Your tongue flicking over his ear. God, he nearly moans.

You bite under his ear, teeth rough against his skin. “No, it’s not just a word,” you whisper. Your fist is still working him, slow and teasing. “It’s more. Isn’t it?”

“Don’t.” John says it like it’s urgent. Like if you don’t comply, you’ll both have some sort of problem on your hands. “Don’t ask me that.”

You lift your head to look at him for a moment, like you’re trying to see into him, trying to see something. He looks scared. Fragile. You can feel his pulse pounding against your lips. Like there’s something he’s afraid to let out. “I won’t then,” you assure. “We can take this slow.” His eyes flutter, and he leans into your touch, expression needy.

“…Slow is good,” he manages, his voice rough. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer. You angle his cock towards your heat, grinding your cunt over him. But neither of you have enough self-restraint to actually keep things slow, and as you sink down onto him, you almost forget to breathe. It’s almost too much. The way he looks, the way he sounds, the way he feels. Your heart feels like it’s about to jump out of your chest. You lean in, pressing your forehead to his, adjusting to the feeling of him inside of you. Your fingers trace the lines of his face—- his cheeks, his jawline, the faint scar lining his chin. All of his rough edges and concealed softness, they all make sense to you. They fit you. They make you feel like home.

Like this is exactly where you’ve belonged all this time.

[lauufeydottir]

hello all, my bad for being radio silent but I’ve been working on another Walker fic with a concept that I have been patting myself on the back for and I just really love it. Hopefully it will just be a one shot, but my biggest conundrum is assigning the reader a hero name/alias. How do we feel about that?

They have a specific skill set and mutation that’s semi important to the plot and the name ties to it very directly, but I’m not sure if it’s one of those things that turns people away from reader fics because it makes it less vague. It would only be used a handful of times and all other physical characteristics will still be completely blank slate. If anyone would like to offer any opinions I’d be happy to hear them! Thanks :)

[lauufeydottir]

not too loud

john walker x f!reader

summary: john is masturbating next to you, who he thought were sleeping, in a room with other people. you offer him help, telling him to finish in you instead. cw: smut, masturbating, borderline voyeurism, p in v, back scratching, creampie, no use of y/n wc: 1.8k

you and your teammates didn’t want to bother discussing sleeping arrangements after completing a hectic mission. you all booked this room to rest before a long drive back home.

as soon as the door to your two-bedroom motel room swung open, alexei and bob had already claimed the bed near the windows. meanwhile ava, yelena, and bucky are assigned to a different mission.

here you are, sleeping next to john walker on a lumpy and cheap double bed, a barrier of only one layer of pillows between the two of you. your back is turned to him; you’d imagine what it’d be like facing him without the wall of pillows, so you just avoided even facing his direction. a form of self-control.

the motel isn’t fancy enough to give you another blanket when you called for it, so you’re sharing one with walker. you’ve got goosebumps from the cranky air conditioner and the hypotheticals of sharing a bed with a super soldier you’ve been crushing on for months.

the continuous and consistent sounds from the air conditioner are disturbed by a rhythmic noise, like soft skin slapping, emerging from your right. you brush it off, not wanting to move since the mission was physically taxing.

after a few more seconds of the noise, the tiny space of the blanket you had was being tugged, the wall of pillows was shaking, and you occasionally heard soft grunts.

is walker jerking off?

you immediately sat up and looked over the wall of pillows. you see walker intensely shutting his eyes and biting his lip, the shape of a fist outlining the thin white blanket right above where his crotch would be.

“john?”

he widens his eyes. his whole body is freezing, not just from the air conditioner but from the embarrassment.

“hey… how long have you been awake?”

he inquires with a slight shake in his quiet voice, trying his best not to wake the two sleeping men on the other bed and not to let the shame shine through.

“i haven’t slept since we laid down.” “god damn it.” “you couldn’t do it in the bathroom?” 

you whisper-shout. at the same time, you’re fighting the urge to break the walls down, figuratively and literally, and sit on his cock.

“fuck. sorry. i'm really sorry. i didn’t wanna get up, and… it looked like you were in a deep sleep.” “unbelievable.”

you lie back down and cup your hot face with your cold hands. walker sits up and places his arm on top of the wall of pillows to appear casual and friendly.  “look, i was just… hard, and i couldn’t go to sleep so i had to… you know. relieve myself.” “you gonna finish?” “ha-ha. very funny.” he rolls his eyes and faces away from you. after hearing the silence from you, he turns his head back to you with concern on his face.

“do it in me,”

you whisper as you raise yourself by your elbows. you look up at him through your eyelashes. he parts his lips and smirks, and releases a short sigh that sounds like a forced laugh.

“don’t mess with me like that.” “i’m not gonna jerk you off. i’m tired. i’m offering you help, john.” “so… you would rather i put my—“ “if you think this is a joke, you can just try to jerk off by yourself until the sun comes up and find that useless.”

his mouth is left partly open, tightening as he thinks of a response. “otherwise, get on top of me,” you offer, swallowing your shame. his blue orbs scan your face, looking for a confirmation that you wanted it as if you didn’t already ask him to get on top of you. his eyes then slowly travel to your neck and cleavage, revealed by the blanket that slid off when you got up. 

“are you sure?” “i’m sure. i’m your friend, and i want to help you.” “we must be a special case of friends, then.”

he breaks down the wall of pillows, a symbolic emotional and physical barrier the both of you have yet to discuss properly. you get on your back and put your arms to your sides. you inhale and exhale deeply to mentally prepare for the night you and he are about to have. 

the careful but quick movements from the walker against the bedsheets emit rustling sounds, good enough not to wake your roommates. he hurriedly tosses the pillows to the edges of the bed, eager to hover above you under the shared blanket.

he brackets your flushed face in his elbows, face only an inch away from yours. he tugs on the hem of your shorts, like permission to take it off. you accept it by helping him slide it down your legs, the shorts sliding off along with your laced panties. you slowly lift your legs up and apart, allowing his already half-naked bottom half to go in between. 

“you ready?” he asks in a whisper. you nod, and he holds eye contact. you both gasp as he slowly pushes his cock into you, your walls welcoming it by hugging it. the feeling of being full of him meets and somewhat surpasses your dirty expectations of his cock.

“fuck, you’re so warm.” he quietly moans in your ear, his shaky breath tickling you. your hands grip the ball of his shoulders, releasing your pent-up sexual frustration all these weeks from waiting for this very position.

he silently waits for you to adjust to his size and for him to adapt to the amount of pleasure he has been trying to reach by himself. you plant a peck on his ear, which tells him he can begin moving.

he gently rocks his hips into your pussy. you bite your lip to suppress moans. your swollen red lips that look sugar-glazed tempt walker; he knows the moment he gives in to his temptations, nothing will be the same ever again.

a super soldier can lift a ten-ton truck, but even john walker struggles to fight the urge to kiss you like you and him belonged to only each other. you mentioned you’re his friend like setting the label in stone.

he was afraid to cross that line by kissing you at the same time he was inside of you. he places a hand under your knee lifts it more which allows him to enter into you more easily. 

“john…”

you cup his face with your hands as he gently grinded onto you. his big and hard cock contrasts his gentle movements. how can a man who could destroy you fuck you so lovingly?

“you like this?” he asks. “i do."

his lips now only a few centimeters away from yours.

“you want more?” “i want more,” you admit as you fling your arms around his neck. your walls squeeze tighter around his cock at the sound of his low voice.

he began to quicken his pace and amplify the strength of each thrust. before you could release a moan and wake up your roommates, he shuts your mouth with a hand.

“not too loud."

he slides the other hand under your back, encouraging a bigger arch by pulling you closer to his body as if it isn’t close enough. your hips bucked so eagerly against his cock, making him want to ruin you more. your saliva wets his hand, but he doesn’t care. he’d jerk off with that hand.

a knot ties in your stomach. your hands travel to his back. your nails dig deep into his skin right under his broad shoulders, like an act of revenge for shutting you up.

several long red marks are left on his skin, following your nails as you scratch his back until you reach the sides of his ribs. he groans in pain and pleasure while still attempting to make sounds in the lowest volume possible.

it feels impossible. the soft skin slapping emerging from between your legs, the heavy breathing, the frustration in each thrust, the wish to fuck loudly, and the two clueless sleeping men make the sex feel impossible. but it’s happening. you don’t know how, but you’re leaving it all to walker.

he buries his face into the crook of your neck, and your fingers into his dirty blonde hair. his other hand joins the one under your back, putting the two of you in a hugging position. the pillows start to slide off the bed one by one as walker’s pace quickens.

“m’so close, princess. taking it so good for me," he manages to say in between his frustrated thrusts.

“feels so good, john,” you whisper, bringing him closer to climax. you feel your pussy squeeze tighter around his cock, pulsating as deep and fast as your heartbeat.

“yeah?” he moans into your ear, waiting for another praise. you look to your right to see alexei and bob still sleeping amidst the debauchery on your bed. alexei’s snoring was a signal for you to keep riling up walker.

“you fuck so good," you moan. you wrap your legs around his hips. he hugs your back tighter. you shut your eyes as they rolled back, preparing for the climax.

even though you could only see stars now, your visualization of the mess down there from your slick is accurate.

walker slams his hips onto you harder, fucking into you until he can feel your womb. with each thrust becoming increasingly inconsistent, you could tell he was near.

“fuck— right there.”

he presses his lips against yours, breaking the unspoken rule; you can’t kiss because you’re “friends.” he thrusts into you deeply, filling you up with his cum. you arrive at the same time. all you can do now is cover your mouth with a hand as walker buries his groans between your neck and your pillow.

your other hand grabs onto his bicep, releasing your pent-up sexual frustration into the grip.

he thrusts into you one last time, this being the deepest. you both lay there breathing heavily, staring into nothing as you process what happened in 7 minutes.

the hug you were giving each other loosens. he props himself up on his elbow, the other hand on your waist. he looks into your eyes before turning his head slightly to the side and kissing you slowly. he briefly separates his lips from yours, leaving yours slightly parted. “show me your tongue,” he whispers.

as soon as he sees the pink flesh in between your teeth, he joins his tongue with yours and presses his lips against yours. his tongue softly massages yours, both gentle and hungry for more, like he’s not still inside of you.

“you wanna take this to the car?”

[lauufeydottir]

We’re Starting At The End

[part one | part two | part three | part four]

Insomnia isn't special among the residents of The Watchtower. Your relationship— or lack thereof— with John has been at a standstill for months. But late night company turns into talks, and tonight, those talks turn into more, something neither of you are ready to name.

[Reader is a mutant with the power to manipulate blood, and has a serum-induced healing factor similar to Wolverine's. Former Widow and Avenger, current Thunderbolt New Avenger.]

john walker x fem!reader

words: 7.6k

cw: swearing, mentions of death, past abuse/neglect, infertility, smut, oral sex (f!recieving), p in v, creampie, only hints of sub!john, enemies to reluctant allies to enemies to ???, confessions, the idiots are in love, john calls the reader ‘Red’ (because of the blood shtick, he’s very creative) (18+ MDNI)

a/n: wow fucking finally, ive been swamped with a new job and was so worried id never find the time to finish this, but ta-da! i hope you all enjoy my silly little story, and sorry it took so long to make the barbie dolls kiss

alone together - fall out boy

Most nights, you don’t sleep. With your healing factor, you don’t need as much as the average human anyway, but more often than not you keep yourself up until the first rays of sunlight pour through the sprawling windows of The Watchtower.

It makes for a lot of time spent alone, which is fine by you, and a good amount spent alongside whoever else is having trouble that night. There’s always someone; almost a year into being The New Avengers, the team is tight-knit and heavily traumatized. Everyone knows that if they can’t sleep, they can come find you to keep them company. It’s a weekly debate between Bob and Yelena on whether or not you’re actually nocturnal, and it’s not helping the vampire allegations from Alexei.

When it’s Bucky, the two of you catch up on the long list of movies and music that you’ve missed out on over the decades— everything you enjoy he hates, and vice versa. With Bob, you swap books, forcing him to stomach your questionable horror schlock, while you trudge through yet another sci-fi novel about space fascism. You and Ava smoke on your balcony, even if it doesn’t do much for you thanks to your metabolism, but it soothes her pains, physical and mental. It’s rare that Alexei can’t find rest, but when it’s his turn, the two of you split a bottle of vodka and share war stories— he can’t get enough of your Avengers tales, and the anecdotes you have of Nat. Yelena likes video games, technology that escapes you but you partake in anyway to give her the satisfaction of victory that keeps her mind occupied. You have a secret little routine with everyone at this point, something that stays with just you.

And then, there’s John.

It’s been six weeks since your heart stopped and things changed between the two of you. Vitriol and insults traded for longing glances and stilted conversations. You’re learning how to be around him now that it isn’t a battle, your first instinct still to lash out. But you know that’s not what you are anymore, so as the mockery dies on your tongue, the silence settles, because you aren’t ready to acknowledge what you are.

Your midnight routine with him is new, ever evolving, and mostly by accident. It always starts with running into him in the dark, when John is too tired to keep up the pretense of not wanting your comfort. Usually, neither of you speak, sitting in the silence of everything left unsaid, alone together. Sometimes, you muster up enough guts to ask him what’s wrong, and he’s brave enough to answer.

Tonight, you find John in the kitchen, staring aimlessly into the fridge for so long that the alarm for the door starts beeping sharply, and you can’t bear to turn away. He straightens up with a muted curse, shutting the door, and almost jumps when he notices someone. His shoulders relax when a second later he realizes it’s only you, but he still rolls his eyes.

"Jesus, Red. You’re gonna give me a heart attack," he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his forehead. "You hungry, or just here lookin to bug me?"

He’s been feeling the shift too. Sometimes, all he sees when he looks at you is the memory of your cold and broken body. Other times, it’s the glimpse of the real you that you’d given him that night, still only half-alive in his doorway just to make sure he was okay. He doesn’t know what’s harder to grasp; the fact that you rose from the dead or that somewhere deep down you care about him. You made him tongue tied before everything, but it’s even worse now, and he can’t find the line between brushing you off and letting everything out all at once.

“Well, if you go into cardiac arrest, I can stop it.” you quip, fingers fiddling with the tie of your satin robe.

You push past him to lean against the edge of the counter. Despite your teasing nature, there’s not a hint of humor in your irises, only wide-eyed exhaustion. Dark circles line them, and your entire body is tense, muscles taut like a bowstring. It was a night where you’d tried to rest and were made to regret it immediately.

John knows that look.

During the day, you’re all sharp remarks and steadfast confidence, but he’s been watching you long enough to know when you’re not okay. He knows the exhaustion, the way you hold yourself, the fidgeting. It used to be a version of you that he didn’t care for, but with each accidental encounter he longed to do more about what was plaguing you.

"Nightmare, or just insomnia?" he asks, and it feels like knocking down a wall.

“Nightmare,” you answer without hesitation, but don’t elaborate, your voice hoarse. There’s a deep understanding between the two of you, even if neither one knows what to do with it. You meet his gaze, and your grimace softens. “How about you? What was it tonight?”

"Insomnia," John replies with a rough sigh, leaning against the opposite counter, his arms crossed over his chest. He regards you, the silken robe you’re wearing, one shoulder barely exposed to the room. He tears his gaze away reluctantly, focusing on the hectic collection of magnets on the fridge. "Same as usual."

You raise an eyebrow. "You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine?" You hide your request for vulnerability— for connection— behind the teasing. You’ve noted it’s easier for both of you to digest that way.

He lets himself look back over at you, amused by your smart mouth. "You gotta go first."

Your shoulders lift in a languid shrug, the gesture meant to be nonchalant but only serves to make the restlessness more obvious. Your eyes flick up from the alternating tiles on the floor to him, contemplative. You pause for a moment, a brief hesitation before the floodgates open, pushing yourself up to perch on the countertop. It feels like a turning point.

"Dreams of Hydra mostly," you admit, a bitter edge as the words echo in the dim kitchen. "Of waking up strapped down in some cold room, being injected with god knows what. Things I should be over by now."

John is surprised by the rawness. He wasn’t actually expecting a genuine answer, and definitely not one that made his chest ache in ways he can’t rationalize. He remembers your terror in The Void. Seeing you afraid is enough to rattle anyone, but he witnessed it almost firsthand.

"It’s not something you can just be over,” he responds a little too decisively. The idea of you beating yourself up for the crime of being used like that isn’t one that sits well with him. He sighs, shaking his head as if it will clear his racing thoughts. "I still dream about Afghanistan. About… about the orders we followed.” The silence hangs heavily in the room, broken only by the intermittent sound of the freezer rattling in the background. He doesn’t often talk about his time overseas, the story of what he did in the name of defending a country that never once intended to protect him. “Sometimes, Olivia pops up too. Reminds me how much I screwed that up." He glances up. “But the part that makes me feel horrible is the fact I don’t regret it.”

“Why don’t you regret it?” you ask quietly, appreciating the way he’s taken the spotlight off of you.

After several beats, he answers with a weary exhale, his shoulders slumped. “We got married because it was just another thing we were supposed to do. High school sweethearts, family pressure, society. It wasn’t long before we grew apart and both felt trapped. Eventually, it all came crashing down. And I just…” His words trail off into another heavy sigh, the guilt weighing him down, even after all this time. “I guess I got tired of doing what was expected of me. Of being who they all wanted me to be. That’s why I don’t regret letting her walk. Because it felt like the first time I’d done something for myself.”

You’re silent for a moment, letting his words sink in. You understand the weight of expectations; the pressure to be something different. The need to escape the mold other people had created for you. To steal back any bit of control you could, even if it put a wrench in things for others.

John huffs out humorless laugh, shaking his head.  “Just... I wish I hadn’t gotten it all so wrong.”

Your voice is a gentle counterpoint to the weary acceptance in his when you respond. “I won’t deny that you made quite a few mistakes to get here, but when you aren’t given the room when you’re small, you make worse ones when you’re grown. Your country put you under the emotional equivalent of a hydraulic press and then had the nerve to dump you at the first sign of fracture."

The weight of your assertion hits close to home. Your insight into his life—his struggles—is unsettlingly accurate, almost uncanny. You see right through all the bravado and defensiveness, straight to the root of the wounds that might not ever heal.

"I..." he starts, voice hoarse, "I never really thought of it that way." He takes a beat, observing your expression carefully. "Is that what it was like for you? In the Red Room?"

Your focus falls to the floor again at his question. The memories of the Red Room— the pain, the isolation, the never-ending missions— flash through your mind. You take a deep, steadying breath, gathering the strength to give him a piece of yourself in return, something more than a flippant remark.

"In a way," you reply quietly. "I was an orphan in the middle of a war-torn country when they snatched me up, and suddenly I wasn’t alone anymore. I felt a duty to them, even if I didn’t agree with it. They told me who I was, what I was supposed to do, when I was supposed to do it. And I did it perfectly."

John listens intently, the furrow of his brow deepening as you explain. He hesitates for a moment, considering his next words. "But you fought back eventually, didn't you? Broke free." He says it with so much hope, as if he doesn’t already know how your story ends.

"That’s the funny thing," you scoff, "I didn’t. Not from the Red Room at least. I knew I was different, a mutant. And I managed to hide that from them for a long time. I was the best they had then, but the second I couldn’t hide my power anymore, they pawned me off to Hydra. I felt betrayed."

John can’t imagine what hiding must have been like, having to walk through life in fear of being found out, when you’re the strongest person he knows. He’s endlessly impressed by the way you’ve taken the way they trained you and turned it into something that’s all your own. Your brutality is an expression of love. Your criticism is borne out of care. That you give everyone on the team these pieces of yourself over and over, never letting them give in return. You’re so much more than what they made you, but he doesn’t know how to tell you. He realizes he’s been staring too long— captivated by the line of your jaw, the unguarded look in your eye, and the soft curve of your lips— and clears his throat, his gaze dropping from your face.

"Do you ever think..." he falters, the words sticking in his throat. "Do you ever think that maybe if we’d met under different circumstances… we wouldn’t have been such assholes to each other?"

Your eyes narrow curiously. His question hangs in the air, an unexpected deviation. The last time you heard him say anything so sincere was when you were barely cleared from your deathbed. You search him for any hint of falsehood or sarcasm, but find only the same sincerity from that night. You consider his question for a moment.

"I doubt it," you say bluntly, the familiar sharp edge in your tone returning. "We’re both stubborn, and we get on each other’s nerves, and… you make me want to stab you more often than not," you pause, eyeing him up and down, your gaze calculating. "But you know, we don’t have to wait for another life to be different."

He chuckles at your honesty, expecting nothing less, raising an eyebrow at your words. "What, you think some miracle’s gonna happen and suddenly we’ll stop pissing each other off?"

His genuine laugh is the last straw, making your knees feel weak with an emotion you don’t want to stifle by naming. You prop your palms behind you on the counter, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other, your robe shifting.

"Or maybe it’s worth looking into a different method to shut each other up," you taunt, low and tinged with that playful sarcasm you’ve mastered.

John scoffs, rolling his eyes, anything to not look at you right now. He’s used to your teasing, your mockery, and at first, he thinks that’s all this is. But then, he realizes you’re looking at him the same way you did that day in the gym, the memory of you underneath him flashing in his head. Still not entirely sure what’s happening, he takes a cautious step towards where you’re sitting on the counter, crowding into your personal space. He leans in, hands braced on the marble on either side of you.

You tense at the proximity, eyes flickering over his face, the disbelief. You’re caught off guard by the raw intensity of the moment, the sudden shift from the solemn conversation to the magnetic pull between you. Then, he drags one hand up your thigh, robe falling out of his way.

"John…" you rasp out, your breathier than you’d like, his given name a halfhearted warning. You can feel your pulse thrumming faster, cheeks flushing. He’s so close, his body warm and solid over you. The sound of his name on your lips, the way your body responds to his touch, ignites something deep within him, and he can’t keep it locked away any longer.

"You gonna tell me to stop?" His hand on your thigh moves higher, his thumb continuing its lazy circles, inching under the hem of your robe. Your breath hitches, heat pooling low in your stomach, mind at war over the urge to either pull back or give in. You know it should be the former, that you need to maintain the boundary, no matter how fragile. But the feel of his touch, the way he's looking at you... it's like you’re caught in his gravitational pull.

"This…" you manage in a low voice, "is a bad idea." John can see the hesitation in your eyes, the battle between desire and sense. But he can also feel you pressing into his touch, see the flush in your cheeks.

“Maybe it is,” he murmurs, his hand drifting higher, his fingers precariously close to your inner thigh. Your legs part for him like it’s second nature. “But does it matter?”

You can hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears, can feel the heat of his breath across your skin. Every rational thought vanishes from your mind, replaced by a rush of heated anticipation so intense that you can’t think straight.

“John,” you whisper again, but it’s not a warning. It’s permission. The sound of his name is like a spark to gasoline.

And he’s gone.

John’s mouth crashes into yours, hungry, desperate, impatient. You’ve been dancing around each other for months— longer than he’s even willing to admit to himself.

The stress practically bleeds from your shoulders as you kiss him back, like you’re relieved, giving him just as much as he’s giving you. It's all teeth and tongue, his grip on your waist tight enough to make you wish the bruises would stay. His other hand tangles into the hair at the nape of your neck, cradling your head gently.

He groans as you pull him closer, the sound horribly needy, and he’d be embarrassed in any other situation. Your bow into his touch, legs encircling his hips and pinning him between your thighs. He nips at your bottom lip, catching the sound of your gasp and licking into your mouth. He’s been dying to taste you again since that day on the mat.

Your pulse races as John changes course and his lips move down your jaw, and you can sense how his heart speeds up to match yours. He lingers at the sensitive spot under your left ear, sucking and nipping until you’re pulling him to your waiting mouth. He hauls you up, and in one swift movement he’s carrying you down the hall.

He gets you to his room in record speed, every step fueled by desperate need, slamming the door shut behind you. He wastes no time, pinning you to it, your back pressed firmly against the wood. He captures your mouth in another kiss, hard and needy and you can’t get enough.

Wandering hands explore him further, slipping under his t-shirt and grazing over the ridges of his abs, tracing the trail of hair under his navel to the waistband of his sweatpants. In return, John tugs at the tie of your robe hastily until he can push it off your shoulders, and you shuck it away, revealing nothing underneath but your— very obviously soaked— panties. He crowds you, grinding his hips into yours so you can feel exactly what you’re doing to him.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this, Red,” he groans.

“I—" you breathe, little more than a whine as you tug at his sweatpants. “I need you. Now.”

Biting back another embarrassing sound, he turns and crosses the room to his bed, tossing you onto the sheets. He pulls away to just look at you for a moment, staring like he’s committing you to memory. His gaze roams over you slowly, the curve of your waist, the flush of red on your chest, and the hitch of your breathing.

"You're so beautiful," he husks, laced with awe.

Then, he’s straightening out and tugging his shirt over his head, and you’re able to make your stunned reaction to him calling you beautiful look like it’s about him undressing instead. His chest is more sun-kissed than you were expecting, subtle freckles dotted across his shoulders. A set of dog tags rest on a thin chain at the center of his chest, framed by lean muscle on all sides. None of his strength is for show, meticulously honed over his years of service and there long before any serums. His pants are stripped off next, and he wastes no more time before crawling over you. He’s straining in his boxers, aching for you, his mouth finding yours again with fervor.

His hands and lips are everywhere, and it’s so much all at once. You’ve been alone and cold and untouched for so long and now, finally, you’re letting yourself have him. You’ve never been held like this, never felt wanted like this, like he can't breathe without you. You’re not supposed to want this, want him. But God, you do. More than anything else in the world.

Your head falls against his pillows, savoring the weight of him over you. The touch of his lips, his beard scraping your skin, all heighten the buzz running through your body, so much better than any of your fantasies. His cock is hard and insistent against your thigh, practically begging for your attention.

You arch your back, pressing your chest to his, a command for more. There’s something feral in the way he responds, hands cupping your breasts, squeezing firmly. He can’t get enough of you. He kisses you hungrily, his hands gliding across your sides, your shoulder blades, everywhere, desperate to touch as much skin as possible. His lips find your neck again, leaving hot, wet kisses that trail down your torso, detouring only to lap over each peaked nipple with dedication. He continues lower, his nose burying into your navel, inhaling deeply. He glances up at you, his eyes clouded with desire, the question on the tip of his tongue. You beat him to it, spreading your legs wilder, beckoning him closer.

"You wanna taste me, baby?" you purr.

John feels the heat in his gut flare at your words, your voice, your body. His tongue traces a path over your hip bone, down to your inner thigh. He takes a moment to marvel at the wet patch on your panties, pressing a kiss over the soaked cotton before urging them down your legs and flinging them to some forgotten corner of the room.

He’s homed in on your dripping cunt, and you swear he licks his lips. "Oh, I'm gonna devour you, Red."

He gets on his knees at the foot of the bed, pulling you to the edge by your hips, and tosses your thighs over his shoulders. He starts agonizingly slow, his tongue tracing slow circles through your folds, teasing, savoring. It doesn’t take you long to realize he knows exactly what he's doing, and it’s unexpected, but you’re sure as hell not about to complain. Every sound that slips from your lips only encourages him further, determined to prove something to you that he can’t quite put a name to. He alternates between broad, languid strokes and focused, pointed flicks, finding all the right spots that make you grind your cunt into his mouth.

“John,” you gasp again, hands tangling in his hair, your grip unrelenting. “You’re so good at this… so fucking good.” You swear you can feel him fighting a smug smile between your legs. But before you can call him on it, John flattens one hand over your lower stomach, holding your hips down, while the other circles your entrance. He teases only for a moment, sliding one finger, and then another inside. Your thighs clamp around his head as he fucks you with his fingers, curling them at just the right spots, his pace relentless. He watches you through it all, completely mesmerized by the way you look, how he’s the one making you feel so good.

“That’s it, baby—“ you sigh, the endearment slipping out without a thought. “Fuck. Keep going.” You’re a trembling wreck, your senses overwhelmed by his skilled tongue. The coil of pleasure tightens inside you, a breadth away from snapping. It’s so much, minding your reactions slips your mind, the moans and curses coming freely now. You’re incredibly vocal, constantly singing his praises, trailing off into unintelligible cries that only serve to push him further.

“I’m so close,” you choke out, “you’re gonna make me come.”

So fucking close.

And then, he does something with his fingers, a subtle crook as his lips wrap around your clit, and that's it. You shatter, your body arching off the bed, head thrown back, a strangled cry escaping you.

"J-John," you weep, shaking with the force of your orgasm. "Oh my god, fuck, so good.” John doesn’t let up, lapping at your cunt to draw out your high for as long he can. You have to pull him away once the overstimulation kicks in, reluctant to part with the taste of your release. The soft praises, the way you’d cried his name ringing in his ears, his cock uncomfortably hard, just from eating you out.

His eyes roam over your form, taking in the sight of you, debauched and flushed, chest heaving with each ragged breath. He doesn’t deserve this. Deserve you.

You lie there, still gushing through the aftershocks, your mind fuzzy and utterly sated. Every nerve ending crackles with electricity, your breathing shallow, skin damp with sweat. It feels like your body has been wrung out and put back together again in the best possible way.

You glance at John who’s patiently waiting for you to come down, but you catch the hint of doubt etched into his brow. Not regret, but the shadow of inadequacy. It brings a momentary gloom over you, baffled by how he could be insecure after giving you the best orgasm of your life.

“I take back what I said about you going down.” You grab his hand, the one that’s still covered in your cum, pulling him closer before he can wallow any longer. John goes willingly, his body settling over yours, and his eyes go wide as you bring his damp fingers to your mouth, tongue darting out to clean yourself off of them. “I guess your mouth is good for things other than running it.”

Your lips find his next, tasting more of your pleasure on his tongue and in his beard. He’s wound tight, the hunger thrumming beneath his skin, but the feeling of your kiss— and your characteristically vulgar compliments— settles the doubt within him.

“Fuck, you’re amazing,” you continue, pulling him into you with your legs around his waist. He rolls his hips yours, grinding his leaking cock brushing your cunt, both of you chasing that friction.

"You’re so goddamn perfect," he murmurs against your lips, rough with need. His hips speed up, soaking up the wetness at the apex of your thighs, even though the barrier of his boxers.

“You’re wearing too many clothes.”

You flip your positions suddenly and swiftly, just like that day in the gym, straddling his hips. Your weight settles over him, tugging his waistband down until his length is freed from the stifling cotton. That day, you’d felt him through his sweats, made up a picture in your mind of what he’d look like underneath. But nothing compares to seeing him in the flesh.

Your hands wander over him, appreciating every contour of muscle, every scar— even the one near his ribcage that was very likely your doing— every faint freckle that dots his shoulders. The way you caress him is firm and deliberate, and you’re lost in the moment, the reality of what’s between you settling heavily over your head.

John watches through half-lidded eyes, the rise and fall of his chest shaky as your lips and teeth trail over his chest. You leave little marks in your wake, making sure to leave your brand on him, even if he can’t do the same on you. He feels the shift too, and he’s terrified, but he never seems to know when to keep his mouth shut around you.

"I’ve wanted you since I first saw you,” he confesses suddenly. “You wouldn’t even give me the time of day back then." He knows it was wrong, that he was supposed to be happily married at the time, and it was something he never intended to act on.

And then, fate— better known as Valentina Allegra de la Fontaine— shoved you back together and locked you in a bunker and forced you to make nice to stay alive. He never thought it would actually end with you in his bed.

"That was three years ago,” you point out, his admission still sinking in. Your heart hammers in your chest, the reality of this hitting you in full and all at once. The depth of the desires he’s been denying, the need you’ve been ignoring.

"I’ve been holding back for years." John pushes himself up on his elbows, leaning against the headboard to be level with you. You’re both in anticipation as you scramble for the right way to respond, wide-eyed and entirely focused on the other.

“Stop holding back.”

And your wish is his command. He relaxes at the tentative acceptance of his feelings, and it’s more than enough when he’s still not sure how to describe them. He leans into you, and this time his kiss is slower, thorough. Your thighs cage his in, all of you on display just for him, his cock throbbing as you start to move your hips. He almost can’t handle the feeling, and he tries to ground himself as to not come in three seconds, and a different issue occurs to him instead.

“Are you on the pill— or something? Or do I need…” he trails off, wondering if he even has any. There’s been no one since or before Olivia, no reasons to be prepared.

Your stomach drops, John’s question sobering in a way you know he didn’t intend. You hadn’t really considered the fact that he was unaware of the Red Room’s ‘graduation ceremony’. It’s been such a constant in your life for decades— less of a sore spot and more of a mild ache that flares up on occasion— but one that doesn’t often cross your mind anymore. A bitter laugh almost escapes you, but you bite it back. You know you don’t technically owe him an explanation, but you decide he deserves one.

“I’m not— but—“ you start, faltering on how to put it into words without completely ruining the moment. “I can’t— I don’t have the equipment.”

John is struck still by the disclosure, his hands pausing where they were gliding over your sternum. It takes a second for his brain to catch up to what you’ve said, but then his eyes flick down, spotting the faint scar that runs vertically through your lower stomach. He puts together the pieces that he should have realized before now.

“It wasn’t my choice but— it’s fine, it was a long time ago,” you insist. It happened before the serums that made you invulnerable, making it permanent. You want him to trust that it’s safe, but don’t want to talk about it, don’t want to linger on another thing that they took from you— autonomy. 

“Red—“ he starts, and you mistake his concerned tone for pity, interrupting him before he can continue.

“Don’t worry about it,” you plead. “I’m fine. I want to feel you.” You’re desperate for this to not turn into another therapy session, so you try to resume the friction with a shift of your hips, but his grip holds you still.

You say it all so flippantly, like it doesn’t matter, and he has to forcibly stop the groan that’s building in his chest as you rock against him. The need to make you forget everything that’s ever been done to you is overwhelming. His grip loosens, no longer possessive or rough, and he runs his knuckles over the sensitive skin of your stomach, meant as a comforting gesture.

“I’m sorry they did this to you, sweetheart.”

His voice is so warm. Your heart swells at the use of the term— so tender and familiar, so at odds with everything you feel you are— and you want more. But he’s still looking at you with worry, like what happened doesn’t sit right with him.

“Don’t look at me like that. I don’t want to think, I just want this… you.”

He can't deny you anything, not now. He has to give you what you need, and it’s this. Him.

You need him.

“You have me, Red. You have me.”

His grip on your hips loosens, no longer holding you in place but lightly kneading your flesh. You’re moving again, but it all feels heavier now, and you keep the pace languid, looking into his eyes. He’s content to give you the control, his body moving on your lead, driven by a need to make it good for you.

It’s not until you decide you’ve reduced him into a desperate mess underneath you that you finally change course, angling your hips so that the tip of his cock catches your entrance. His hips jerk and he can’t help it, driving up into you, groaning into your mouth. His hand tangles in your hair and you echo his sounds as you sink down on him, the stretch euphoric.

"God, you’re perfect," he growls, “you’re so goddamn perfect." The feeling of being inside you, of losing himself in you… it isn’t something he’d ever thought he’d experience, something he can’t put into words.

You lean up to capture his mouth, your tongue sliding over his, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer, wanting him as close as you can get him. The world around them disappears, nothing but the feel of him inside you, the taste of his moans on your tongue.

“Fuck,” you whisper. “You feel so good, filling me up so well, so deep."

Your little praises and the curses are more than enough to drive him crazy. He can’t think, thrusting up into your heat on pure instinct. He’s never felt like this, with anyone, like he’s enough. And as you gasp his name, your face clouded with pleasure, it hits him like a ton of bricks.

“I can't get enough of you," he pleads without any clear request. "Can't get you out of my head, out of my system…."

You can feel it building in your body, the heat and sensation coiling tight, pleasure building as you ride him vigorously, thighs flexing, your hands on his shoulders for leverage. You set a rougher pace, lost in him, drowning in the sounds he’s making. He kisses you again, mouth hungry and demanding. You can feel him growing closer, the way his rhythm is turning erratic, his blood is pumping, and you know he’s on the edge.

You cup his face, making him look at you, the words coming out in gasps of breath, “You’re so close, aren’t you? Are you gonna come for me?"

His eyes snap open, his expression raw and primal, his body coiled tight. His fingers dig into the meat of your hip firmly, leaving bruises that heal quicker than he can make them over and over, but it only adds to your bliss.

He cries out your name, thick with emotion. “Please.”

The word hangs in the air. He’s asking for something more than just this physical moment. You trace his swollen, kiss-reddened lips with your thumb.

“Please, what?”

He closes his eyes, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his body trembling under yours.

“Please,” he repeats, a ragged whisper, his lips brushing against your neck, “please don’t leave me… don’t leave me, please.”

He’s not sure he can bear the answer, but he needs you to know, to understand, that he needs you in a way that’s so much more than this moment. You suck in a breath, the words catching you off balance, your heart constricting in your chest. You want to tell him you won’t, that he’s stuck with you, just as much as you’re stuck with him. But the words stick in your throat, the truth feeling too big, too real. Instead, you wrap your arms around him, holding him close, pressed up against him, wordlessly offering yourself.

You’re giving him something he didn’t know he even needed, something comforting and safe and he doesn’t remember ever feeling this known before. He buries his face deeper into your neck, a small shudder running down his body. It’s too much, too intense, but he can’t stop it, can’t hold back.

“I’m gonna come,” he gasps, “baby, can I— please…” Your name on his lips, the low pleading, almost desperate edge to his voice.

“Go on. Inside.”

That simple, filthy command— it’s all it takes for him to snap, and his orgasm is crashing over him. It triggers yours a moment later, the way he’s filling you and the gravely way he cries out completely irresistible. Your name is on his lips, foreheads pressed together as you both come.

“Red… Baby, baby… God. You’re — You’re so good, you’re so goddamn perfect.”

John lays his head on your shoulder, snuggled close, the heat between you cooling to a simmer. You’re both still shaking slightly, the last waves washing over, and you stay this way for what could be hours, your fingers gently running through his hair.

You’re so goddamn perfect.

It rings in your head over and over, and you’re not sure if you want him to say it again or if you even want to respond at all. You don’t know what to do about this feeling, this feeling of wanting more.

He’s not moving, not yet, not ready to lose this contact, this moment. He’s always been a straightforward person, but all he can think of is how damn good this feels, your fingers brushing in his hair, the way you hold him, your praises echoing in his mind.

He finally lifts his head, moving just enough so that he can look at you. And he’s not expecting what he sees.

Your eyes are welling with tears.

Red flags are screaming in his head at the sight of your tears, his mind flashing over all of the ways that he could have hurt you, if he’s pushed too hard, if your wounds are still too fresh. He pulls back, panic making him tense. “Baby? Why are you—“

“I’m not sad,” you reassure him quickly, giving him a watery laugh, shaky as you reach up to dab at your eyes. Two months ago, you probably would have killed him for seeing you like this. That time seems so far away right now. “It was just— a lot, that’s all. I’m not sad, I promise.” And you mean it— you’re not sad, you’re completely overwhelmed with a million different emotions you don’t know how to deal with. You look at him, the concern on his face so unusual and sweet that you can’t help smiling.

“I’m not normally like this, I just— I was expecting a quick hate-fuck, not…” you trail off, terrified to be the one to voice the feelings first.

His concern eases slightly at your admission, his brow still furrowed with worry, but he lets out a shaky laugh. He had been thinking the same, a quick roll in the sheets and the usual brush-off he’s used to. He hadn’t been expecting you to let him past your defenses, or for every damn thing you say and do to make him want you more and more.

He reaches a hand up to your cheek, gently stroking away the tears from your skin. His hand is tentative, as if he’s unsure he’s doing the right thing.

“Maybe it’s a surprise for both of us.” His eyes roam over your face, taking in the way you look, all flushed and sated. “Can I— can I hold you?”

Your breath catches in your throat at the question, your heart fluttering like an over-excited kid. You’d never allowed yourself something so soft, not since you can ever remember, and you’re terrified of how much you want it.

Your response is low, like you’re trying to make sure you don’t scare anyone away. “Please. Yes.”

Relief washes over him, the tension in his body disappearing. He gently pulls you into his arms, settling against the pillows, shifting until you’re lying on his chest. Pulling the blankets over your tangled forms, John runs a hand through your hair, his touch so incredibly tender it feels foreign.

You tuck your head under his jaw, wanting to be as close as possible to listen to and feel the beat of his heart. He’s holding you like you’re something precious, something worth caring for, and it makes your throat tight again.

He’s quiet for a long time, his fingers tracing absent lines across your scalp.

After what feels like forever, he finally speaks. “What’s your favorite kind of ice cream?”

You’re caught so off guard by the question that you burst into a fit of laughter. You pull away so that you can look up at him, the question completely unexpected.

“That’s what you want to know right now?” you ask, an eyebrow raised quizzically at the question. “My favorite kind of ice cream?”

The sound of your laugh is like music, sending a jolt through his chest, and you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He grins down at you, his gaze filled with something adoration.

“Yup.” He grins wider at your skepticism. “Ice cream. It’ll be important for when I take you out.”

Your stomach does a flip. When.

You’ve never been one to entertain anything like the idea of a relationship, too caught up in life-or-death situations or your own baggage and grief to even consider the possibility.

“Neapolitan,” you answer simply, biting your lip to keep yourself from looking too enthusiastic. He can see it on your face, the way your expression turns sentimental at the thought of it.

“Neapolitan, huh? I should’ve guessed. You seem like the kind to have trouble making decisions.”

You playfully smack his shoulder, scoffing. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean? Let’s hear your favorite, then.”

His face contorts into a borderline theatrical facade of pain, his hand moving up to rub dramatically at his arm.

“Rocky road,” he says, trying not to crack while feigning hurt. “It’s a classic. And apparently, a sign of a stubborn personality.”

“So, I’m indecisive, but your favorite ice cream is the one with the most crap in it?” You rest fully on his chest, wanting to be closer to him, wanting to soak in the feeling of his touch. “It’s overcompensating,” you tease, tinged with affection.

He lets out a quiet oomph as you lean against him, his arm shifting to wrap more securely around your back as he brings you closer. The boyish smirk on his face grows at your obvious teasing. “It’s not overcompensating,” he argues, full of mock protest, “I think you just experienced firsthand how much I’m not overcompensating, actually. Compensating perfectly adequately.”

You can’t help but snort at that, your head lifting to see the self-satisfied grin on his face. It’s so unexpected, the banter, the lighthearted flirting. But it feels good, so good, in a way you didn’t know you were capable of.

“Oh sure,” you say dryly. “So, when are you taking me out then?”

His hand runs up and down your spine, his touch gentle, touch is so light it’s almost ticklish. “Tomorrow night.” His tone is so soft, so different from how he normally speaks. “There’s this barbeque place not too far from here, pretty good for New York,” he scoffs. “And then, ice cream.”

Your heart stumbles over itself, and for once you have no witty retort. Because he’s making plans. With you. For a real, actual date.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “That sounds… nice.”

He’s not sure how this is happening, but he’s sure as hell not about to question it now. “It’s a date, baby.”

You once thought the strangest thing you’d ever done was go through space and back in time to resurrect your friends. But really, it’s feeling safe and happy wrapped up in the arms of John Walker, and agreeing to go out on a date.

“You know the team is going to never let us live this down, right?”

That gets more laughter to bubble out of him, a wide, genuine smile on his face as the thought of the team seeing you together hits him. You’re right, of course. They’re gonna have a field day with this, and he’s going to have to take the brunt of their trades, because most of them are still   a little bit scared of you.

He presses another gentle kiss to your forehead, smile lingering. “Think we can keep it to ourselves for a little while? Just us?”

You aren’t used to asking for things, but you want this, and you let herself be honest with yourself for once. “They mean well, and probably already have a betting pool running behind our backs— but I don’t want them to mess this up before we can figure it out.”

John nods, his own heart swelling at your words. This. He wants this too, more than he’s ever wanted anything, and he’s not ready to share it with anyone else.

“They’ll notice something is up if we aren’t constantly at each other’s throats, you know,” you add, a reminder that only a few hours ago the two of you had been feigning hate for each other for months.

John chuckles, because if anyone knows how hard you’ve been denying the truth, it’s yourselves. He’s not ashamed to admit that it was a bit like pulling teeth, lashing out at you when all he could think about was kissing you senseless.

“I’m sure we’ll still find enough to bicker over to make it look convincing.”

You’ve never wanted someone, not like this, and you know he’ll be able to see it all over your face if he looks. So, you bury your head into the crook of his neck, trying to hide the way you’re beaming as you respond. “We do a rather good job of hating each other, usually.”

He gently lifts your chin, tilting your face up so that he can see you clearly. He's not letting you hide, amused by how damn obvious you are, a reprieve from your typical cold demeanor.

“Don’t you dare hide from me, Red.”

You aren’t used to feeling so exposed. Your forehead rests against his, John’s hand moving to cup your cheek as you lean in, responding with a kiss gentler than the ones you’ve shared previously.

His breath catches at the soft brush of your lips, at the feeling of you under his hands.

“Say you’ll be here in the morning.”

You can hear his sincerity, the sound of it going straight to your heart. 

You smile, an unfamiliar and tender smile, so delicate it’s like sharing a secret.

“I’ll be here in the morning.”

[lauufeydottir]

We’re Starting At The End

[part one | part two | part three | part four]

Insomnia isn't special among the residents of The Watchtower. Your relationship— or lack thereof— with John has been at a standstill for months. But late night company turns into talks, and tonight, those talks turn into more, something neither of you are ready to name.

[Reader is a mutant with the power to manipulate blood, and has a serum-induced healing factor similar to Wolverine's. Former Widow and Avenger, current Thunderbolt New Avenger.]

john walker x fem!reader

words: 7.6k

cw: swearing, mentions of death, past abuse/neglect, infertility, smut, oral sex (f!recieving), p in v, creampie, only hints of sub!john, enemies to reluctant allies to enemies to ???, confessions, the idiots are in love, john calls the reader ‘Red’ (because of the blood shtick, he’s very creative) (18+ MDNI)

a/n: wow fucking finally, ive been swamped with a new job and was so worried id never find the time to finish this, but ta-da! i hope you all enjoy my silly little story, and sorry it took so long to make the barbie dolls kiss

alone together - fall out boy

Most nights, you don’t sleep. With your healing factor, you don’t need as much as the average human anyway, but more often than not you keep yourself up until the first rays of sunlight pour through the sprawling windows of The Watchtower.

It makes for a lot of time spent alone, which is fine by you, and a good amount spent alongside whoever else is having trouble that night. There’s always someone; almost a year into being The New Avengers, the team is tight-knit and heavily traumatized. Everyone knows that if they can’t sleep, they can come find you to keep them company. It’s a weekly debate between Bob and Yelena on whether or not you’re actually nocturnal, and it’s not helping the vampire allegations from Alexei.

When it’s Bucky, the two of you catch up on the long list of movies and music that you’ve missed out on over the decades— everything you enjoy he hates, and vice versa. With Bob, you swap books, forcing him to stomach your questionable horror schlock, while you trudge through yet another sci-fi novel about space fascism. You and Ava smoke on your balcony, even if it doesn’t do much for you thanks to your metabolism, but it soothes her pains, physical and mental. It’s rare that Alexei can’t find rest, but when it’s his turn, the two of you split a bottle of vodka and share war stories— he can’t get enough of your Avengers tales, and the anecdotes you have of Nat. Yelena likes video games, technology that escapes you but you partake in anyway to give her the satisfaction of victory that keeps her mind occupied. You have a secret little routine with everyone at this point, something that stays with just you.

And then, there’s John.

It’s been six weeks since your heart stopped and things changed between the two of you. Vitriol and insults traded for longing glances and stilted conversations. You’re learning how to be around him now that it isn’t a battle, your first instinct still to lash out. But you know that’s not what you are anymore, so as the mockery dies on your tongue, the silence settles, because you aren’t ready to acknowledge what you are.

Your midnight routine with him is new, ever evolving, and mostly by accident. It always starts with running into him in the dark, when John is too tired to keep up the pretense of not wanting your comfort. Usually, neither of you speak, sitting in the silence of everything left unsaid, alone together. Sometimes, you muster up enough guts to ask him what’s wrong, and he’s brave enough to answer.

Tonight, you find John in the kitchen, staring aimlessly into the fridge for so long that the alarm for the door starts beeping sharply, and you can’t bear to turn away. He straightens up with a muted curse, shutting the door, and almost jumps when he notices someone. His shoulders relax when a second later he realizes it’s only you, but he still rolls his eyes.

"Jesus, Red. You’re gonna give me a heart attack," he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his forehead. "You hungry, or just here lookin to bug me?"

He’s been feeling the shift too. Sometimes, all he sees when he looks at you is the memory of your cold and broken body. Other times, it’s the glimpse of the real you that you’d given him that night, still only half-alive in his doorway just to make sure he was okay. He doesn’t know what’s harder to grasp; the fact that you rose from the dead or that somewhere deep down you care about him. You made him tongue tied before everything, but it’s even worse now, and he can’t find the line between brushing you off and letting everything out all at once.

“Well, if you go into cardiac arrest, I can stop it.” you quip, fingers fiddling with the tie of your satin robe.

You push past him to lean against the edge of the counter. Despite your teasing nature, there’s not a hint of humor in your irises, only wide-eyed exhaustion. Dark circles line them, and your entire body is tense, muscles taut like a bowstring. It was a night where you’d tried to rest and were made to regret it immediately.

John knows that look.

During the day, you’re all sharp remarks and steadfast confidence, but he’s been watching you long enough to know when you’re not okay. He knows the exhaustion, the way you hold yourself, the fidgeting. It used to be a version of you that he didn’t care for, but with each accidental encounter he longed to do more about what was plaguing you.

"Nightmare, or just insomnia?" he asks, and it feels like knocking down a wall.

“Nightmare,” you answer without hesitation, but don’t elaborate, your voice hoarse. There’s a deep understanding between the two of you, even if neither one knows what to do with it. You meet his gaze, and your grimace softens. “How about you? What was it tonight?”

"Insomnia," John replies with a rough sigh, leaning against the opposite counter, his arms crossed over his chest. He regards you, the silken robe you’re wearing, one shoulder barely exposed to the room. He tears his gaze away reluctantly, focusing on the hectic collection of magnets on the fridge. "Same as usual."

You raise an eyebrow. "You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine?" You hide your request for vulnerability— for connection— behind the teasing. You’ve noted it’s easier for both of you to digest that way.

He lets himself look back over at you, amused by your smart mouth. "You gotta go first."

Your shoulders lift in a languid shrug, the gesture meant to be nonchalant but only serves to make the restlessness more obvious. Your eyes flick up from the alternating tiles on the floor to him, contemplative. You pause for a moment, a brief hesitation before the floodgates open, pushing yourself up to perch on the countertop. It feels like a turning point.

"Dreams of Hydra mostly," you admit, a bitter edge as the words echo in the dim kitchen. "Of waking up strapped down in some cold room, being injected with god knows what. Things I should be over by now."

John is surprised by the rawness. He wasn’t actually expecting a genuine answer, and definitely not one that made his chest ache in ways he can’t rationalize. He remembers your terror in The Void. Seeing you afraid is enough to rattle anyone, but he witnessed it almost firsthand.

"It’s not something you can just be over,” he responds a little too decisively. The idea of you beating yourself up for the crime of being used like that isn’t one that sits well with him. He sighs, shaking his head as if it will clear his racing thoughts. "I still dream about Afghanistan. About… about the orders we followed.” The silence hangs heavily in the room, broken only by the intermittent sound of the freezer rattling in the background. He doesn’t often talk about his time overseas, the story of what he did in the name of defending a country that never once intended to protect him. “Sometimes, Olivia pops up too. Reminds me how much I screwed that up." He glances up. “But the part that makes me feel horrible is the fact I don’t regret it.”

“Why don’t you regret it?” you ask quietly, appreciating the way he’s taken the spotlight off of you.

After several beats, he answers with a weary exhale, his shoulders slumped. “We got married because it was just another thing we were supposed to do. High school sweethearts, family pressure, society. It wasn’t long before we grew apart and both felt trapped. Eventually, it all came crashing down. And I just…” His words trail off into another heavy sigh, the guilt weighing him down, even after all this time. “I guess I got tired of doing what was expected of me. Of being who they all wanted me to be. That’s why I don’t regret letting her walk. Because it felt like the first time I’d done something for myself.”

You’re silent for a moment, letting his words sink in. You understand the weight of expectations; the pressure to be something different. The need to escape the mold other people had created for you. To steal back any bit of control you could, even if it put a wrench in things for others.

John huffs out humorless laugh, shaking his head.  “Just... I wish I hadn’t gotten it all so wrong.”

Your voice is a gentle counterpoint to the weary acceptance in his when you respond. “I won’t deny that you made quite a few mistakes to get here, but when you aren’t given the room when you’re small, you make worse ones when you’re grown. Your country put you under the emotional equivalent of a hydraulic press and then had the nerve to dump you at the first sign of fracture."

The weight of your assertion hits close to home. Your insight into his life—his struggles—is unsettlingly accurate, almost uncanny. You see right through all the bravado and defensiveness, straight to the root of the wounds that might not ever heal.

"I..." he starts, voice hoarse, "I never really thought of it that way." He takes a beat, observing your expression carefully. "Is that what it was like for you? In the Red Room?"

Your focus falls to the floor again at his question. The memories of the Red Room— the pain, the isolation, the never-ending missions— flash through your mind. You take a deep, steadying breath, gathering the strength to give him a piece of yourself in return, something more than a flippant remark.

"In a way," you reply quietly. "I was an orphan in the middle of a war-torn country when they snatched me up, and suddenly I wasn’t alone anymore. I felt a duty to them, even if I didn’t agree with it. They told me who I was, what I was supposed to do, when I was supposed to do it. And I did it perfectly."

John listens intently, the furrow of his brow deepening as you explain. He hesitates for a moment, considering his next words. "But you fought back eventually, didn't you? Broke free." He says it with so much hope, as if he doesn’t already know how your story ends.

"That’s the funny thing," you scoff, "I didn’t. Not from the Red Room at least. I knew I was different, a mutant. And I managed to hide that from them for a long time. I was the best they had then, but the second I couldn’t hide my power anymore, they pawned me off to Hydra. I felt betrayed."

John can’t imagine what hiding must have been like, having to walk through life in fear of being found out, when you’re the strongest person he knows. He’s endlessly impressed by the way you’ve taken the way they trained you and turned it into something that’s all your own. Your brutality is an expression of love. Your criticism is borne out of care. That you give everyone on the team these pieces of yourself over and over, never letting them give in return. You’re so much more than what they made you, but he doesn’t know how to tell you. He realizes he’s been staring too long— captivated by the line of your jaw, the unguarded look in your eye, and the soft curve of your lips— and clears his throat, his gaze dropping from your face.

"Do you ever think..." he falters, the words sticking in his throat. "Do you ever think that maybe if we’d met under different circumstances… we wouldn’t have been such assholes to each other?"

Your eyes narrow curiously. His question hangs in the air, an unexpected deviation. The last time you heard him say anything so sincere was when you were barely cleared from your deathbed. You search him for any hint of falsehood or sarcasm, but find only the same sincerity from that night. You consider his question for a moment.

"I doubt it," you say bluntly, the familiar sharp edge in your tone returning. "We’re both stubborn, and we get on each other’s nerves, and… you make me want to stab you more often than not," you pause, eyeing him up and down, your gaze calculating. "But you know, we don’t have to wait for another life to be different."

He chuckles at your honesty, expecting nothing less, raising an eyebrow at your words. "What, you think some miracle’s gonna happen and suddenly we’ll stop pissing each other off?"

His genuine laugh is the last straw, making your knees feel weak with an emotion you don’t want to stifle by naming. You prop your palms behind you on the counter, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other, your robe shifting.

"Or maybe it’s worth looking into a different method to shut each other up," you taunt, low and tinged with that playful sarcasm you’ve mastered.

John scoffs, rolling his eyes, anything to not look at you right now. He’s used to your teasing, your mockery, and at first, he thinks that’s all this is. But then, he realizes you’re looking at him the same way you did that day in the gym, the memory of you underneath him flashing in his head. Still not entirely sure what’s happening, he takes a cautious step towards where you’re sitting on the counter, crowding into your personal space. He leans in, hands braced on the marble on either side of you.

You tense at the proximity, eyes flickering over his face, the disbelief. You’re caught off guard by the raw intensity of the moment, the sudden shift from the solemn conversation to the magnetic pull between you. Then, he drags one hand up your thigh, robe falling out of his way.

"John…" you rasp out, your breathier than you’d like, his given name a halfhearted warning. You can feel your pulse thrumming faster, cheeks flushing. He’s so close, his body warm and solid over you. The sound of his name on your lips, the way your body responds to his touch, ignites something deep within him, and he can’t keep it locked away any longer.

"You gonna tell me to stop?" His hand on your thigh moves higher, his thumb continuing its lazy circles, inching under the hem of your robe. Your breath hitches, heat pooling low in your stomach, mind at war over the urge to either pull back or give in. You know it should be the former, that you need to maintain the boundary, no matter how fragile. But the feel of his touch, the way he's looking at you... it's like you’re caught in his gravitational pull.

"This…" you manage in a low voice, "is a bad idea." John can see the hesitation in your eyes, the battle between desire and sense. But he can also feel you pressing into his touch, see the flush in your cheeks.

“Maybe it is,” he murmurs, his hand drifting higher, his fingers precariously close to your inner thigh. Your legs part for him like it’s second nature. “But does it matter?”

You can hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears, can feel the heat of his breath across your skin. Every rational thought vanishes from your mind, replaced by a rush of heated anticipation so intense that you can’t think straight.

“John,” you whisper again, but it’s not a warning. It’s permission. The sound of his name is like a spark to gasoline.

And he’s gone.

John’s mouth crashes into yours, hungry, desperate, impatient. You’ve been dancing around each other for months— longer than he’s even willing to admit to himself.

The stress practically bleeds from your shoulders as you kiss him back, like you’re relieved, giving him just as much as he’s giving you. It's all teeth and tongue, his grip on your waist tight enough to make you wish the bruises would stay. His other hand tangles into the hair at the nape of your neck, cradling your head gently.

He groans as you pull him closer, the sound horribly needy, and he’d be embarrassed in any other situation. Your bow into his touch, legs encircling his hips and pinning him between your thighs. He nips at your bottom lip, catching the sound of your gasp and licking into your mouth. He’s been dying to taste you again since that day on the mat.

Your pulse races as John changes course and his lips move down your jaw, and you can sense how his heart speeds up to match yours. He lingers at the sensitive spot under your left ear, sucking and nipping until you’re pulling him to your waiting mouth. He hauls you up, and in one swift movement he’s carrying you down the hall.

He gets you to his room in record speed, every step fueled by desperate need, slamming the door shut behind you. He wastes no time, pinning you to it, your back pressed firmly against the wood. He captures your mouth in another kiss, hard and needy and you can’t get enough.

Wandering hands explore him further, slipping under his t-shirt and grazing over the ridges of his abs, tracing the trail of hair under his navel to the waistband of his sweatpants. In return, John tugs at the tie of your robe hastily until he can push it off your shoulders, and you shuck it away, revealing nothing underneath but your— very obviously soaked— panties. He crowds you, grinding his hips into yours so you can feel exactly what you’re doing to him.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this, Red,” he groans.

“I—" you breathe, little more than a whine as you tug at his sweatpants. “I need you. Now.”

Biting back another embarrassing sound, he turns and crosses the room to his bed, tossing you onto the sheets. He pulls away to just look at you for a moment, staring like he’s committing you to memory. His gaze roams over you slowly, the curve of your waist, the flush of red on your chest, and the hitch of your breathing.

"You're so beautiful," he husks, laced with awe.

Then, he’s straightening out and tugging his shirt over his head, and you’re able to make your stunned reaction to him calling you beautiful look like it’s about him undressing instead. His chest is more sun-kissed than you were expecting, subtle freckles dotted across his shoulders. A set of dog tags rest on a thin chain at the center of his chest, framed by lean muscle on all sides. None of his strength is for show, meticulously honed over his years of service and there long before any serums. His pants are stripped off next, and he wastes no more time before crawling over you. He’s straining in his boxers, aching for you, his mouth finding yours again with fervor.

His hands and lips are everywhere, and it’s so much all at once. You’ve been alone and cold and untouched for so long and now, finally, you’re letting yourself have him. You’ve never been held like this, never felt wanted like this, like he can't breathe without you. You’re not supposed to want this, want him. But God, you do. More than anything else in the world.

Your head falls against his pillows, savoring the weight of him over you. The touch of his lips, his beard scraping your skin, all heighten the buzz running through your body, so much better than any of your fantasies. His cock is hard and insistent against your thigh, practically begging for your attention.

You arch your back, pressing your chest to his, a command for more. There’s something feral in the way he responds, hands cupping your breasts, squeezing firmly. He can’t get enough of you. He kisses you hungrily, his hands gliding across your sides, your shoulder blades, everywhere, desperate to touch as much skin as possible. His lips find your neck again, leaving hot, wet kisses that trail down your torso, detouring only to lap over each peaked nipple with dedication. He continues lower, his nose burying into your navel, inhaling deeply. He glances up at you, his eyes clouded with desire, the question on the tip of his tongue. You beat him to it, spreading your legs wilder, beckoning him closer.

"You wanna taste me, baby?" you purr.

John feels the heat in his gut flare at your words, your voice, your body. His tongue traces a path over your hip bone, down to your inner thigh. He takes a moment to marvel at the wet patch on your panties, pressing a kiss over the soaked cotton before urging them down your legs and flinging them to some forgotten corner of the room.

He’s homed in on your dripping cunt, and you swear he licks his lips. "Oh, I'm gonna devour you, Red."

He gets on his knees at the foot of the bed, pulling you to the edge by your hips, and tosses your thighs over his shoulders. He starts agonizingly slow, his tongue tracing slow circles through your folds, teasing, savoring. It doesn’t take you long to realize he knows exactly what he's doing, and it’s unexpected, but you’re sure as hell not about to complain. Every sound that slips from your lips only encourages him further, determined to prove something to you that he can’t quite put a name to. He alternates between broad, languid strokes and focused, pointed flicks, finding all the right spots that make you grind your cunt into his mouth.

“John,” you gasp again, hands tangling in his hair, your grip unrelenting. “You’re so good at this… so fucking good.” You swear you can feel him fighting a smug smile between your legs. But before you can call him on it, John flattens one hand over your lower stomach, holding your hips down, while the other circles your entrance. He teases only for a moment, sliding one finger, and then another inside. Your thighs clamp around his head as he fucks you with his fingers, curling them at just the right spots, his pace relentless. He watches you through it all, completely mesmerized by the way you look, how he’s the one making you feel so good.

“That’s it, baby—“ you sigh, the endearment slipping out without a thought. “Fuck. Keep going.” You’re a trembling wreck, your senses overwhelmed by his skilled tongue. The coil of pleasure tightens inside you, a breadth away from snapping. It’s so much, minding your reactions slips your mind, the moans and curses coming freely now. You’re incredibly vocal, constantly singing his praises, trailing off into unintelligible cries that only serve to push him further.

“I’m so close,” you choke out, “you’re gonna make me come.”

So fucking close.

And then, he does something with his fingers, a subtle crook as his lips wrap around your clit, and that's it. You shatter, your body arching off the bed, head thrown back, a strangled cry escaping you.

"J-John," you weep, shaking with the force of your orgasm. "Oh my god, fuck, so good.” John doesn’t let up, lapping at your cunt to draw out your high for as long he can. You have to pull him away once the overstimulation kicks in, reluctant to part with the taste of your release. The soft praises, the way you’d cried his name ringing in his ears, his cock uncomfortably hard, just from eating you out.

His eyes roam over your form, taking in the sight of you, debauched and flushed, chest heaving with each ragged breath. He doesn’t deserve this. Deserve you.

You lie there, still gushing through the aftershocks, your mind fuzzy and utterly sated. Every nerve ending crackles with electricity, your breathing shallow, skin damp with sweat. It feels like your body has been wrung out and put back together again in the best possible way.

You glance at John who’s patiently waiting for you to come down, but you catch the hint of doubt etched into his brow. Not regret, but the shadow of inadequacy. It brings a momentary gloom over you, baffled by how he could be insecure after giving you the best orgasm of your life.

“I take back what I said about you going down.” You grab his hand, the one that’s still covered in your cum, pulling him closer before he can wallow any longer. John goes willingly, his body settling over yours, and his eyes go wide as you bring his damp fingers to your mouth, tongue darting out to clean yourself off of them. “I guess your mouth is good for things other than running it.”

Your lips find his next, tasting more of your pleasure on his tongue and in his beard. He’s wound tight, the hunger thrumming beneath his skin, but the feeling of your kiss— and your characteristically vulgar compliments— settles the doubt within him.

“Fuck, you’re amazing,” you continue, pulling him into you with your legs around his waist. He rolls his hips yours, grinding his leaking cock brushing your cunt, both of you chasing that friction.

"You’re so goddamn perfect," he murmurs against your lips, rough with need. His hips speed up, soaking up the wetness at the apex of your thighs, even though the barrier of his boxers.

“You’re wearing too many clothes.”

You flip your positions suddenly and swiftly, just like that day in the gym, straddling his hips. Your weight settles over him, tugging his waistband down until his length is freed from the stifling cotton. That day, you’d felt him through his sweats, made up a picture in your mind of what he’d look like underneath. But nothing compares to seeing him in the flesh.

Your hands wander over him, appreciating every contour of muscle, every scar— even the one near his ribcage that was very likely your doing— every faint freckle that dots his shoulders. The way you caress him is firm and deliberate, and you’re lost in the moment, the reality of what’s between you settling heavily over your head.

John watches through half-lidded eyes, the rise and fall of his chest shaky as your lips and teeth trail over his chest. You leave little marks in your wake, making sure to leave your brand on him, even if he can’t do the same on you. He feels the shift too, and he’s terrified, but he never seems to know when to keep his mouth shut around you.

"I’ve wanted you since I first saw you,” he confesses suddenly. “You wouldn’t even give me the time of day back then." He knows it was wrong, that he was supposed to be happily married at the time, and it was something he never intended to act on.

And then, fate— better known as Valentina Allegra de la Fontaine— shoved you back together and locked you in a bunker and forced you to make nice to stay alive. He never thought it would actually end with you in his bed.

"That was three years ago,” you point out, his admission still sinking in. Your heart hammers in your chest, the reality of this hitting you in full and all at once. The depth of the desires he’s been denying, the need you’ve been ignoring.

"I’ve been holding back for years." John pushes himself up on his elbows, leaning against the headboard to be level with you. You’re both in anticipation as you scramble for the right way to respond, wide-eyed and entirely focused on the other.

“Stop holding back.”

And your wish is his command. He relaxes at the tentative acceptance of his feelings, and it’s more than enough when he’s still not sure how to describe them. He leans into you, and this time his kiss is slower, thorough. Your thighs cage his in, all of you on display just for him, his cock throbbing as you start to move your hips. He almost can’t handle the feeling, and he tries to ground himself as to not come in three seconds, and a different issue occurs to him instead.

“Are you on the pill— or something? Or do I need…” he trails off, wondering if he even has any. There’s been no one since or before Olivia, no reasons to be prepared.

Your stomach drops, John’s question sobering in a way you know he didn’t intend. You hadn’t really considered the fact that he was unaware of the Red Room’s ‘graduation ceremony’. It’s been such a constant in your life for decades— less of a sore spot and more of a mild ache that flares up on occasion— but one that doesn’t often cross your mind anymore. A bitter laugh almost escapes you, but you bite it back. You know you don’t technically owe him an explanation, but you decide he deserves one.

“I’m not— but—“ you start, faltering on how to put it into words without completely ruining the moment. “I can’t— I don’t have the equipment.”

John is struck still by the disclosure, his hands pausing where they were gliding over your sternum. It takes a second for his brain to catch up to what you’ve said, but then his eyes flick down, spotting the faint scar that runs vertically through your lower stomach. He puts together the pieces that he should have realized before now.

“It wasn’t my choice but— it’s fine, it was a long time ago,” you insist. It happened before the serums that made you invulnerable, making it permanent. You want him to trust that it’s safe, but don’t want to talk about it, don’t want to linger on another thing that they took from you— autonomy. 

“Red—“ he starts, and you mistake his concerned tone for pity, interrupting him before he can continue.

“Don’t worry about it,” you plead. “I’m fine. I want to feel you.” You’re desperate for this to not turn into another therapy session, so you try to resume the friction with a shift of your hips, but his grip holds you still.

You say it all so flippantly, like it doesn’t matter, and he has to forcibly stop the groan that’s building in his chest as you rock against him. The need to make you forget everything that’s ever been done to you is overwhelming. His grip loosens, no longer possessive or rough, and he runs his knuckles over the sensitive skin of your stomach, meant as a comforting gesture.

“I’m sorry they did this to you, sweetheart.”

His voice is so warm. Your heart swells at the use of the term— so tender and familiar, so at odds with everything you feel you are— and you want more. But he’s still looking at you with worry, like what happened doesn’t sit right with him.

“Don’t look at me like that. I don’t want to think, I just want this… you.”

He can't deny you anything, not now. He has to give you what you need, and it’s this. Him.

You need him.

“You have me, Red. You have me.”

His grip on your hips loosens, no longer holding you in place but lightly kneading your flesh. You’re moving again, but it all feels heavier now, and you keep the pace languid, looking into his eyes. He’s content to give you the control, his body moving on your lead, driven by a need to make it good for you.

It’s not until you decide you’ve reduced him into a desperate mess underneath you that you finally change course, angling your hips so that the tip of his cock catches your entrance. His hips jerk and he can’t help it, driving up into you, groaning into your mouth. His hand tangles in your hair and you echo his sounds as you sink down on him, the stretch euphoric.

"God, you’re perfect," he growls, “you’re so goddamn perfect." The feeling of being inside you, of losing himself in you… it isn’t something he’d ever thought he’d experience, something he can’t put into words.

You lean up to capture his mouth, your tongue sliding over his, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer, wanting him as close as you can get him. The world around them disappears, nothing but the feel of him inside you, the taste of his moans on your tongue.

“Fuck,” you whisper. “You feel so good, filling me up so well, so deep."

Your little praises and the curses are more than enough to drive him crazy. He can’t think, thrusting up into your heat on pure instinct. He’s never felt like this, with anyone, like he’s enough. And as you gasp his name, your face clouded with pleasure, it hits him like a ton of bricks.

“I can't get enough of you," he pleads without any clear request. "Can't get you out of my head, out of my system…."

You can feel it building in your body, the heat and sensation coiling tight, pleasure building as you ride him vigorously, thighs flexing, your hands on his shoulders for leverage. You set a rougher pace, lost in him, drowning in the sounds he’s making. He kisses you again, mouth hungry and demanding. You can feel him growing closer, the way his rhythm is turning erratic, his blood is pumping, and you know he’s on the edge.

You cup his face, making him look at you, the words coming out in gasps of breath, “You’re so close, aren’t you? Are you gonna come for me?"

His eyes snap open, his expression raw and primal, his body coiled tight. His fingers dig into the meat of your hip firmly, leaving bruises that heal quicker than he can make them over and over, but it only adds to your bliss.

He cries out your name, thick with emotion. “Please.”

The word hangs in the air. He’s asking for something more than just this physical moment. You trace his swollen, kiss-reddened lips with your thumb.

“Please, what?”

He closes his eyes, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his body trembling under yours.

“Please,” he repeats, a ragged whisper, his lips brushing against your neck, “please don’t leave me… don’t leave me, please.”

He’s not sure he can bear the answer, but he needs you to know, to understand, that he needs you in a way that’s so much more than this moment. You suck in a breath, the words catching you off balance, your heart constricting in your chest. You want to tell him you won’t, that he’s stuck with you, just as much as you’re stuck with him. But the words stick in your throat, the truth feeling too big, too real. Instead, you wrap your arms around him, holding him close, pressed up against him, wordlessly offering yourself.

You’re giving him something he didn’t know he even needed, something comforting and safe and he doesn’t remember ever feeling this known before. He buries his face deeper into your neck, a small shudder running down his body. It’s too much, too intense, but he can’t stop it, can’t hold back.

“I’m gonna come,” he gasps, “baby, can I— please…” Your name on his lips, the low pleading, almost desperate edge to his voice.

“Go on. Inside.”

That simple, filthy command— it’s all it takes for him to snap, and his orgasm is crashing over him. It triggers yours a moment later, the way he’s filling you and the gravely way he cries out completely irresistible. Your name is on his lips, foreheads pressed together as you both come.

“Red… Baby, baby… God. You’re — You’re so good, you’re so goddamn perfect.”

John lays his head on your shoulder, snuggled close, the heat between you cooling to a simmer. You’re both still shaking slightly, the last waves washing over, and you stay this way for what could be hours, your fingers gently running through his hair.

You’re so goddamn perfect.

It rings in your head over and over, and you’re not sure if you want him to say it again or if you even want to respond at all. You don’t know what to do about this feeling, this feeling of wanting more.

He’s not moving, not yet, not ready to lose this contact, this moment. He’s always been a straightforward person, but all he can think of is how damn good this feels, your fingers brushing in his hair, the way you hold him, your praises echoing in his mind.

He finally lifts his head, moving just enough so that he can look at you. And he’s not expecting what he sees.

Your eyes are welling with tears.

Red flags are screaming in his head at the sight of your tears, his mind flashing over all of the ways that he could have hurt you, if he’s pushed too hard, if your wounds are still too fresh. He pulls back, panic making him tense. “Baby? Why are you—“

“I’m not sad,” you reassure him quickly, giving him a watery laugh, shaky as you reach up to dab at your eyes. Two months ago, you probably would have killed him for seeing you like this. That time seems so far away right now. “It was just— a lot, that’s all. I’m not sad, I promise.” And you mean it— you’re not sad, you’re completely overwhelmed with a million different emotions you don’t know how to deal with. You look at him, the concern on his face so unusual and sweet that you can’t help smiling.

“I’m not normally like this, I just— I was expecting a quick hate-fuck, not…” you trail off, terrified to be the one to voice the feelings first.

His concern eases slightly at your admission, his brow still furrowed with worry, but he lets out a shaky laugh. He had been thinking the same, a quick roll in the sheets and the usual brush-off he’s used to. He hadn’t been expecting you to let him past your defenses, or for every damn thing you say and do to make him want you more and more.

He reaches a hand up to your cheek, gently stroking away the tears from your skin. His hand is tentative, as if he’s unsure he’s doing the right thing.

“Maybe it’s a surprise for both of us.” His eyes roam over your face, taking in the way you look, all flushed and sated. “Can I— can I hold you?”

Your breath catches in your throat at the question, your heart fluttering like an over-excited kid. You’d never allowed yourself something so soft, not since you can ever remember, and you’re terrified of how much you want it.

Your response is low, like you’re trying to make sure you don’t scare anyone away. “Please. Yes.”

Relief washes over him, the tension in his body disappearing. He gently pulls you into his arms, settling against the pillows, shifting until you’re lying on his chest. Pulling the blankets over your tangled forms, John runs a hand through your hair, his touch so incredibly tender it feels foreign.

You tuck your head under his jaw, wanting to be as close as possible to listen to and feel the beat of his heart. He’s holding you like you’re something precious, something worth caring for, and it makes your throat tight again.

He’s quiet for a long time, his fingers tracing absent lines across your scalp.

After what feels like forever, he finally speaks. “What’s your favorite kind of ice cream?”

You’re caught so off guard by the question that you burst into a fit of laughter. You pull away so that you can look up at him, the question completely unexpected.

“That’s what you want to know right now?” you ask, an eyebrow raised quizzically at the question. “My favorite kind of ice cream?”

The sound of your laugh is like music, sending a jolt through his chest, and you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He grins down at you, his gaze filled with something adoration.

“Yup.” He grins wider at your skepticism. “Ice cream. It’ll be important for when I take you out.”

Your stomach does a flip. When.

You’ve never been one to entertain anything like the idea of a relationship, too caught up in life-or-death situations or your own baggage and grief to even consider the possibility.

“Neapolitan,” you answer simply, biting your lip to keep yourself from looking too enthusiastic. He can see it on your face, the way your expression turns sentimental at the thought of it.

“Neapolitan, huh? I should’ve guessed. You seem like the kind to have trouble making decisions.”

You playfully smack his shoulder, scoffing. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean? Let’s hear your favorite, then.”

His face contorts into a borderline theatrical facade of pain, his hand moving up to rub dramatically at his arm.

“Rocky road,” he says, trying not to crack while feigning hurt. “It’s a classic. And apparently, a sign of a stubborn personality.”

“So, I’m indecisive, but your favorite ice cream is the one with the most crap in it?” You rest fully on his chest, wanting to be closer to him, wanting to soak in the feeling of his touch. “It’s overcompensating,” you tease, tinged with affection.

He lets out a quiet oomph as you lean against him, his arm shifting to wrap more securely around your back as he brings you closer. The boyish smirk on his face grows at your obvious teasing. “It’s not overcompensating,” he argues, full of mock protest, “I think you just experienced firsthand how much I’m not overcompensating, actually. Compensating perfectly adequately.”

You can’t help but snort at that, your head lifting to see the self-satisfied grin on his face. It’s so unexpected, the banter, the lighthearted flirting. But it feels good, so good, in a way you didn’t know you were capable of.

“Oh sure,” you say dryly. “So, when are you taking me out then?”

His hand runs up and down your spine, his touch gentle, touch is so light it’s almost ticklish. “Tomorrow night.” His tone is so soft, so different from how he normally speaks. “There’s this barbeque place not too far from here, pretty good for New York,” he scoffs. “And then, ice cream.”

Your heart stumbles over itself, and for once you have no witty retort. Because he’s making plans. With you. For a real, actual date.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “That sounds… nice.”

He’s not sure how this is happening, but he’s sure as hell not about to question it now. “It’s a date, baby.”

You once thought the strangest thing you’d ever done was go through space and back in time to resurrect your friends. But really, it’s feeling safe and happy wrapped up in the arms of John Walker, and agreeing to go out on a date.

“You know the team is going to never let us live this down, right?”

That gets more laughter to bubble out of him, a wide, genuine smile on his face as the thought of the team seeing you together hits him. You’re right, of course. They’re gonna have a field day with this, and he’s going to have to take the brunt of their trades, because most of them are still   a little bit scared of you.

He presses another gentle kiss to your forehead, smile lingering. “Think we can keep it to ourselves for a little while? Just us?”

You aren’t used to asking for things, but you want this, and you let herself be honest with yourself for once. “They mean well, and probably already have a betting pool running behind our backs— but I don’t want them to mess this up before we can figure it out.”

John nods, his own heart swelling at your words. This. He wants this too, more than he’s ever wanted anything, and he’s not ready to share it with anyone else.

“They’ll notice something is up if we aren’t constantly at each other’s throats, you know,” you add, a reminder that only a few hours ago the two of you had been feigning hate for each other for months.

John chuckles, because if anyone knows how hard you’ve been denying the truth, it’s yourselves. He’s not ashamed to admit that it was a bit like pulling teeth, lashing out at you when all he could think about was kissing you senseless.

“I’m sure we’ll still find enough to bicker over to make it look convincing.”

You’ve never wanted someone, not like this, and you know he’ll be able to see it all over your face if he looks. So, you bury your head into the crook of his neck, trying to hide the way you’re beaming as you respond. “We do a rather good job of hating each other, usually.”

He gently lifts your chin, tilting your face up so that he can see you clearly. He's not letting you hide, amused by how damn obvious you are, a reprieve from your typical cold demeanor.

“Don’t you dare hide from me, Red.”

You aren’t used to feeling so exposed. Your forehead rests against his, John’s hand moving to cup your cheek as you lean in, responding with a kiss gentler than the ones you’ve shared previously.

His breath catches at the soft brush of your lips, at the feeling of you under his hands.

“Say you’ll be here in the morning.”

You can hear his sincerity, the sound of it going straight to your heart. 

You smile, an unfamiliar and tender smile, so delicate it’s like sharing a secret.

“I’ll be here in the morning.”

[lauufeydottir]

— John Walker Masterlist —

— series —

I’m Not The Desperate Type

You and John Walker never got along.

[Reader is a mutant with the power to manipulate blood, and has a serum-induced healing factor similar to Wolverine's. Former Widow and Avenger, current Thunderbolt New Avenger.] (18+ MDNI)

Keep Your Heart, Cause I Already Got One

You Look So Good In Blue

This Is Side One, Flip Me Over

We’re Starting At The End

— one-shots —

Half-Doomed // Semi-Sweet

Ripped from your timeline and forced to fight for the state of the multiverse, the war ends and you're all that remains of the Thunderbolts of Earth-1303. Forced to settle on Earth-616, you fill the empty spot on the New Avengers and are surprised to find that this John Walker is nothing like the one you knew before.

[lauufeydottir]

john walker fic recs ✧°‧⭑.ᐟ

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

continuing to update | last updated 28/05 - (need this man so bad omfg, tysm writers <3)

─── ✧ DRABBLES/BLURBS

nsfw hcs | @undyingdecay

he fucks like someone trying to win a medal for it.

enemies | @aquaholicsanonymousworld

team mates enemies to enemies who have hate sex.

domestic hcs | @/aquaholicsanonymousworld

nsfw hcs | @/aquaholicsanonymousworld

“Wasn’t plannin’ on stayin’ long tonight,” he mutters, swirling the amber liquid. “Then you had to go and look at me like that.” You smile, heat pooling low in your belly.

dating walker hcs | @purehypnotic

giving john head | @shadowheartshapedbox

what it’s like giving junior varsity captain america head ;)

─── ✧ ONE SHOTS

the way i love you | @randomnessfangirl

John Walker is the bane of your existence...but everyone else can see that there is potential for you to put your differences aside and reveal your true feelings for each other.

girls' night revelations | @zerosomnia

After venting some frustrations at girls' night, the reader realises that they are not just angry at Walker but that there's some other stuff going on too. A confrontation ensues that ends in some truths.

the soldier and the nurse | @blueberrypancakesworld

He was a soldier who, even as a hero, always tried to protect everyone with his shield. Even the best soldier gets hurt, though, and John finds himself in the infirmary of the tower, once again with a nurse he had visited many times before. This time, however, it seems different, because when concern meets amusement, two hearts finally find each other.

nocturnal guilt and training | @/blueberrypancakesworld

It is one thing when you don't concentrate, it's another when you let yourself get hurt to deal with your own pain. John finds himself in dark places from time to time, which is especially evident after the last mission, but the soldier wants to go through it alone. Yet his girlfriend is there to help him no matter how long it takes, they would make it together.

code yellow | @inlovewithquestionablecharacters

sex pollen with walker.

thunderstorms | @angellily920

johns a secret softie :)

and you came back to me | @/aquaholicsanonymousworld

him where they’re dating and reader gets badly hurt on a mission and the whole team is freaking out, especially John, man is going BRUTAL on the people who hurt reader.

off your game | @/aquaholicsanonymousworld

Working with the Thunderbolts meant swallowing your pride daily — but nothing bruised your ego quite like him.

honey, where is my shield? | @husbandjoel

you’re the fixer upper of weapons for the new avengers and want to do something for john walker’s upcoming birthday.

moral of the story | @starktonyx

You never expected to be blindly sent to kill your ex-husband, but when you cross paths again in looping shame rooms, it’s like going through the pain all over again.

patched up | @bruisedboys

john grudgingly patches you up after a mission — it gets more intimate than you both expect.

helmet | @gallavichsreddie1128

Y/N may be the only person on the planet that gets turned on by John in his helmet.

asshole | @/gallavichsreddie1128

Y/N hates John but he and everyone else are convinced that it’s just sexual frustration.

bad words | @/gallavichsreddie1128

Y/N and John are a secretly dating but put on the act of hating each other until one of them takes it too far.

need that | @blank-potato

You think everything he does is hot, and eventually he takes notice.

my kid's better than your kid | @/blank-potato

You and John's kids are in the same soccer league, and after you get into an argument on the field over your kids, you start seeing him everywhere. It's hate at first sight.

but why's it feel so good? | @sexy-monster-fucker

While out on a mission together, Reader and John stumble into a researchers trap. Leading to them being doused in an unnamed chemical.

the heart of the matter | @divinepoints

You had never thought that life would lead you back to John Walker. Or perhaps, that life had led the both of you back to each other. After all, this had been your world first.

pushing it down and praying | @swordgrace

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.

you're the ache i asked for | @/swordgrace

forced into attending a gala event, you go to john for help with your dress. things turn incredibly heated.

a black eye and two kisses | @/swordgrace

john has a bad habit of running his mouth, especially during a sparring lesson — after taking it too far, he makes it up to you in more ways than one.

only pretend until it's not | @/swordgrace

you and john go undercover to infiltrate an arms dealing ring in paris. you take your roles a little too seriously.

bit the hand that needs you | @/swordgrace

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

proximity check | @/swordgrace

when a mission goes sideways, you and john are forced to hide together in a utility closet.

change | @johns-walker

when you get injured during a job, you and john have a genuine conversation for once.

boundless | @endofthelinegang

the quiet halls of Avengers Tower keeps a kind-hearted witch who begins to distance herself from John Walker after his cold, self-protective indifference makes her believe he hates her. but when her warmth fades and he’s left in the silence he created, John finally confronts his fear of not deserving her—and chooses, for once, not to run from something real.

your hero | @spookieloop

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

─── ✧ SERIES (including mini)

the things we don't say part ii | @/endofthelinegang

trapped between fury and longing, you and John Walker collide in a moment that’s been simmering for months—raw, reckless, and impossible to ignore. When a knock at the door threatens to shatter what little you have left, he finally says the one thing he’s been choking on: he wants you.

thunder rolls | @/endofthelinegang

this is the prologue of a series where you are bucky barnes little sister who has managed to make it this far with him, one little snafu has happened, you happen to have feelings for another super soldier one that your brother does not particularly like.

it only leads to trouble part ii | @mydearmando

you suppose it’s natural to touch people who you live and work with. you touch everyone on the team. walker does, too. so you don’t know why it bothers you so much when he touches you.

keep your heart, cause i already got one (ongoing) | @lauufeydottir

As the Thunderbolts make their way through The Void, Walker ends up a witness to one of your shame rooms, a past you've kept close to your chest for decades.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

[lauufeydottir]

This Is Side One, Flip Me Over

[part one | part two | part three | part four]

You're ignoring Walker. John craves your attention. He gets it the only way he knows how, by picking a loosing battle in front of the entire team. But after a mission gone horribly wrong, he realizes his feelings towards you aren't as nuanced as he's been telling himself to believe.

[Reader is a mutant with the power to manipulate blood, and has a serum-induced healing factor similar to Wolverine's. Former Widow and Avenger, current Thunderbolt New Avenger.]

john walker x fem!reader

words: 6k

cw: canon typical violence, swearing, graphic descriptions of blood and injuries, temporary character death, panic attacks/PTSD, implied suicidal ideation, enemies to reluctant allies to enemies to ???, the idiots are falling in love, john calls the reader ‘Red’ (because of the blood shtick, he’s very creative) (18+ MDNI)

a/n: sorry for using fall out boy lyrics for fic titles it will happen again. i hope I have everything in this properly tagged, but if Ive missed something feel free to let me know! the next part will likely be the last.

dead on arrival - fall out boy

For the next week, you stalk about The Watchtower like nothing ever happened between you and Walker. Like you didn’t goad him into a real fight. Like he hadn’t pressed you into the floor and kissed you senseless with his hand gripping your throat.

As if you haven’t been letting your fingers slip under your waistband every night since to the way his touch set off a hunger in you. You might have been the one who cut it off, but you couldn’t stop thinking about that day in the gym. It’s a complete disappointment that your neck goes through all the stages of bruising to healed in just a matter of hours, the mottled blues and yellows disappearing before your eyes in the mirror.

You’ve never played dirty like that in a fight before. You liked it, a lot, but you like beating Walker a lot more. The betrayed look he gives you every time you’re in the same room only fuels the fantasies running through your mind, the unbidden attraction for him taking up most of your time. But you’d die before admitting to such a thing, and since death is off the table for you, you keep your mouth shut. You stop antagonizing him. No longer watch his every move so you can correct his stance or the way he balances his weight. It’s strange, but still obvious enough that the rest of the team notices immediately. Even Alexei seems far too pleased when he points out the peace between you, like it’s some sort of victory.

And John seethes. The way you’d walked away from him, completely unbothered, when just moments before you were cementing yourself into every last contour of his being. And he could have forgiven that alone, but it was the way you’d been ignoring him ever since that’s been keeping him up at night. He gets his fill however he can, trying to push your buttons, watching you during meetings, sitting next to you at dinner, as if anything he could do might make a difference. Anything to get you to look at him again, even if its with your usual disdain.

At night, in bed alone, he can’t stop his mind from wandering to places he knows he shouldn’t be going. The moans that you’d let slip, how your body melted against his. The way you see through him so effortlessly. He’s never been so infatuated with anyone like this before. He feels out of control and embarrassed, even if he’s the only one who knows.

You can feel his eyes locked on you during meetings, mission briefings, training, and team bonding, his gaze rivaling even Bucky’s stare. He watches your every move like he’s a predator stalking its prey— but you both know that reality is the other way around, that you have all the power. Every so often, you’ll acknowledge Walker with an unimpressed glare, just to see the desperation in his stance. Always so obvious, your mutation picks up on the way his pulse jumps once he finally has your attention, even if just for a moment.

But John always needed more.

All the New Avengers are packed together in the briefing room, going over the details of a mission they were all shipping out on today. It was an all-hands-on-deck type of situation— Valentina had insisted because of good publicity— but also because it was Hydra. John has been antsy throughout the entire meeting so far, all his effort put into hiding the way he can’t keep his attention off of you. He’s missed most of the details Bucky and Yelena have discussed, only providing half-hearted murmurs of agreement here and there. And then, Bucky announces you’ll be the one to run point.

He has no idea why it’s the thing to finally set him off. Maybe because it’s more of you paving the way for him to follow, maybe it was just another hit to his already fragile ego. But it snaps him back into focus, placing his hands on the tabletop with just a little too much enthusiasm. Sometimes, he still forgets his strength. Across the table, there’s a restrained excitement on your face. It’s not uncommon for you to lead the action during missions— after Bucky, you do have the most combat experience— but getting the first crack at the enemy is always a thrill. Especially when that target is a rumored bunker of Hydra holdouts.

But John mistakes your excitement for haughtiness, your confidence making his blood boil. He can’t help it. He wants to put you in your place, to show you that he’s just as strong, important, and heroic. That he’s worth your time. And so, when the chance presents itself, he takes it. The words are out of his mouth before he can even consider shutting up.

“You sure you’ll be able to control yourself, Red?”

His comment was bold enough for everyone in the room to freeze, landing like a slap to the face. There’s a moment of tense silence, Yelena and Ava share worried glances, Alexei’s brow furrowing in confusion. Bucky’s jaw is clenched, already knowing exactly what Walker is insinuating. And you turn to face him, eyes narrowing as you stare daggers at him, any hint of your previous excitement long gone.

“Excuse me?” you ask, tone sharp and dangerous.

John keeps his gaze steady on you in return, even though his stomach feels like it’s tied in knots over the cold way you regard him. "You heard me." He’s doing this on purpose; they both know it. He knows he’s pushing your buttons, pushing your limits, and he’s enjoying every second of it, even though he knows he should stop. "You sure you’re gonna be able to control yourself this time? Or are you gonna go off the rails and make a mess of the place?" he clarifies, leaning back in his chair with a forced air of nonchalance.

You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your anger climbing. You don’t want to derail the meeting by getting into it with him in front of everyone— mostly because you fear you won’t be able to hide your reactions if things get as tense as they did last time.

“I really have no qualms about slaughtering nazis,” you reply, voice steady. “But maybe you should be worried about your own lack of restraint.”

He chuckles lowly, and though his bravado is faltering, he just pushes harder. "Just seems like you have a knack for flipping out in situations involving Hydra.” John shrugs, face turned into a grimace. “Just want to be sure that the rest of us will stay safe.” From you.

It’s left unsaid, and he knows he’s crossed every last line as soon as he feels a thrum he can’t explain rush through his body, his blood going static for a split second, until the sensation fades, leaving him numb in comparison. His initial reaction is that of betrayal, that you’d just used your powers on him— something that you are vehemently against outside of the context of wound clotting— but he can’t, not when he’s well aware of how much he’s fucking up and continuing to do so. It’s a silent threat, a reminder of what you could do if you wanted to like he’s implying.

“Guys—“ Yelena tries to interrupt but is quickly silenced by a gesture from Bucky. He knows trying to defend you will only make things worse, and the last thing they need before a mission is anyone else getting involved in this spat.

Your hands are clenched into tight fists, knuckles white, fighting with all you might to keep yourself from lunging across the table and taking a chunk out of his face. He’s damn lucky you only prodded at his blood instead of pulling it from his body quart by quart.

Instead, you swallow thickly, voice tight with rage, but a saccharine smile on your lips. "Watch your mouth, John." You’re using his first name again, something you’ve only done when you were underneath him on the training mat. His breath catches in his throat at the sound of his name on your lips, making his mind go to places he doesn’t want it to be going. But he’s stubborn and foolishly determined to get a rise out of you. Any kind of reaction, even just a single inkling of weakness, anything that could knock you off that pedestal he’s unintentionally put you on.

“Or what, Red?" John uses the nickname like a weapon.

A dangerous glint shines in your eyes that doesn’t match your grin as you rise from your seat, leaning across the table, your shoulders squared like a viper preparing to strike.

“Alright, fine. You wanna talk about it? Then let’s fucking talk about it,” you spit, your focus honed on him. As a group, you’ve done a lot of work since the day you all experienced The Void, letting go and accepting the things you all saw that day, understanding the guilt. It came easier to some than others, but you’d always known why that memory was chosen for you, you’ve just never had the guts to admit it. "The shame room you saw, Walker, wasn’t conjured because I feel guilt because of the massacre," you start, your voice low and measured as you bite the confession out. "I feel guilty because I enjoyed it."

The rest of the team know enough about your background to piece together just what you’re referring to, but they had no clue he’d ended up in your room by some cruel twist of fate. To you, it felt like an admittance of weakness that you leaned on him in that moment. And to him, the way you’ve held him at arms length ever since was digging a hole deeper and deeper in his soul.

Your words were the truth. Same as you’d called him out in the gym. They were set apart from the others, even if they were all trying to be better, you still craved the bloodshed, and so did he. At the end of the day, you were the most alike out of any of the team. Bucky hates the fight, even if it’s the only thing he knows. Yelena and Ava regret the pain that they’ve caused in their pursuits of cures and perceived justice. All of them have made active efforts to mend the peace that they’d shattered. Bucky crossing off the final name in his book, Yelena joining The Barton’s and Kate Bishop for family gatherings, Ava keeping in touch with the Pym-Van Dyne-Lang clan.

But you and Walker prefer to dig the knife in deeper, all under the guise of trying. You lied about your past to play superhero with the first iteration of The Avengers. You were never trying to own up to your mistakes like Natasha; you wanted to make them disappear. You should have died that day on Vormir, not her and not Clint, but you weren’t even capable of offering them that. and when The Avengers went away, you went right back to your old ways by running to Valentina for work. You actively refused to grow even if you did your best to change.

John took the serum, knowing it was more likely to go wrong than right just to feel deserving of the shoes the government groomed him to fill. Told himself over and over again while thrashing on the floor in some hotel bathroom in Europe that he can’t remember, the substance burning through him, the pain so excruciating he’d almost hoped it would kill him. He never truly regretted playing judge, jury, and executioner in Latvia to avenge Lemar, lying to his family about the person responsible, all to deflect from his own inadequacy.

He knows you’re telling the truth, just by the look in your eyes. And the worst part is, he understands it. You understand each other. What it’s like to enjoy the violence, to thrive on it. It isn’t a side of himself he’s proud of lately. But hearing you say it out loud, hearing you admit that same feeling. It stirred something him. Things he's been trying to ignore since The Void. And the last thing he expected you to do was to admit to it in front of the entire team. After all this time, you’ve finally rendered him speechless. No followup insults, no quips ready to fire. Just his jaw hanging open and the team’s suffocating silence.

And it makes his feelings for you even more difficult to rationalize as only lust.

His eyes flicker across the room, taking in the equally stunned looks from the rest of the team. The tension in the room is thick, and he can feel Bucky’s livid gaze boring into the side of his head. John’s fingers drum against the table, his mind racing as he tries to think of a way to dig himself out of the mess he’s made this time.

You turn to look at him, the look in your eye almost feral in the way you’re homed in on him. He’s about to open his mouth, to say something, anything to salvage the situation, but you beat him to it. "Are you done? Have you gotten your fill of trying to rile me up?”

"Yeah," he mutters. "I think I’ve had enough."

The rest of the briefing goes by without further incident, though the tension that settled over the room doesn’t dissipate and follows them onto the quinjet. But now, it’s John who’s avoiding your eye. The flight isn’t long, the advanced tech in the ship cutting hours off the trip to Bucharest. You’re endlessly grateful for modernism and all the disposable income Valentina has, because it’s less than half of the standard time that you have to be trapped in this hunk of metal with him.

————-

The mission itself is a blur, but John finds himself at your six more than a few times. He’s distracted, not just by the stunt he’d pulled earlier, but by the way you move in your tactical suit, just as ruthless as you were with him in the gym. He had an awful feeling in his gut, and it isn’t just his guilty conscience. He watches your every move, his instinct to protect welling up in the back of his mind, even if you might be the last person in the world who needs any.

And ultimately, it’s his distraction that gets you hurt.

You’re fighting your way through a labyrinth of corridors, taking down Hydra loyalists left and right. You’ve been fighting with your usual grace and precision, taking down opponents with ease. The rest of the team had split off into pairs— Bucky with Ava, and Yelena with Alexei— leaving you with Walker, who’s been… off. There’s not a trace of his usual intensity, his attacks sloppier than you’ve ever seen from him.

You’re picking up as much of his slack as you can without going overboard, his implication from earlier still echoing in your thoughts. You loathe the idea that you’d hurt any of the team— even him— accidentally or not. The control you have over your mutation is precise, but you’ve already taken a few deliberate hits; one gunshot to the shoulder, another through your thigh, and a knife to the ribs. It’s the price you willingly pay for access to your greatest weapon in a pinch, but it’s leaving you drained, your senses struggling to keep up as you push the limits of your healing factor and your pain tolerance.

It happens far too quickly. You spot a soldier coming up on Walker from behind while he’s taking far too long to deal with another, and you jump in without hesitation. He may be acting like a complete moron, but if he gets killed here, then you won’t be able to give him shit for it later. And you really should have seen it coming, but neither of you notice until a man with a stature twice the size of yours who’s obviously enhanced is already slamming you from the side. John turns just in time to see you fly across the room from the force, where your back collides with the wall, head bashing against the reinforced concrete with a sickening crack.

Your body is limp before it even hits the floor.

You don’t move, and suddenly he’s back in Latvia, the sound Lemar’s skull made when it collided with the stone pillar ringing in his ears, and his vision becomes more and more hazy with every second you don’t move, heartbeat climbing dangerously as he realizes he can’t hear yours.

You’re supposed to move, it’s what you do, getting back up after you’ve been knocked down. He’d seen you take a bad hit before, on many occasions. But your breath isn’t supposed to cease; your pulse isn’t meant to flatline. The blood isn’t so jarring with the way you always seem to be covered in someones, but it’s not supposed to flow from your body without your metaphysical command, pooling under your head and soaking into your hair. You were always saying you couldn’t die, with countless corroborations from others who’d seen you rise from the most lethal hits. But you’d never mentioned if you could come back once you had already died.

John had let his fear and boundless rage control him once before, and he’s about to let it consume him again. You were right, you were always right.

It’s like muscle memory takes over as he conflates Lemar’s final moments with the sight of you motionless on the floor. John moves without ever deciding to, acting on pure instinct. His need for vengeance is intrinsic, ramming his shield into the agent you’d been handling and knocking him out on contact. His stare is a million miles away as he goes for the one who did this next, tackling and inning him against the wall so hard it starts to splinter. The soldier struggles against John’s hold, but even his sheer bulk is no match for the prime serum in his veins. The crack of bone and splitting of flesh under his fists feels far away, his eyes locked on your prone body, still unmoving, still slack. His heartbeat pounding in his ears only serves to remind him of the lack of yours, his chest unbearably tight as the rage starts to suffocate him, and the soldier goes limp under his hands.

The second he lets the unconscious body thump to the ground he’s screaming into his comms, your name coming out as a frantic cry as he begs whoever on the team is listening to get over here now.

It’s Bucky who responds, far too calmly for John’s liking.

“Copy that, backup on the way.”

John doesn’t respond. He can’t, not as his shield clatters to the ground and he’s scrambling over to you. Every last synapse in his body feels caustic, your absence of life sending a violent wave of nausea through him. You’re supposed to be back by now. He’s seen you walk away from a shot through the heart, bomb blasts that carried so much shrapnel he couldn’t tell where the debris ended and you began, falls from eight stories high. He grabs onto your chin, forcing your drooping head from side to side as if it might bring you back.

You’re supposed to get up. He needs you to get up because if you don’t and everything is left like this, then he’s damned, and maybe he should just follow your lead and—

“Walker. Hey, Walker.” John registers the words, but it feels like he’s underwater. “Snap out of it.” He thinks he’s shaking as the voice slowly pierces through the fog over him. It takes him a few more seconds to realize it’s Bucky, vibranium hand on his shoulder, jostling him, trying to get his attention. It’s like a bucket of cold water has been thrown over him, trying to clear the panic from his mind as he mumbles about how you’re not moving.

“No pulse,” he rasps. “Why isn’t there a pulse?”

At first, Bucky only seems mildly concerned, but not scared, not like John. Then, he crouches down next to you, ignoring your blood smeared across the floor, flesh fingers pressing under your jaw to verify what John is implying. Out of everyone, Bucky has fought alongside you the longest. He’s seen the way your healing factor worked, seen you take a knife to the chest without so much as flinching, only to be screaming obscenities onto a pillow as your skin stitched itself back together— but always alive.

Then his face drops. He’d never seen you come back from death before.

The flight back to The Watchtower feels like an eternity. It’s bad enough when the team has to get you— or your body, they still aren’t sure— back to the quinjet. There are still Hydra stragglers, so while John lifts you into his arms, the rest of them flank him, weapons at the ready. You’re lighter than he’d expected, getting colder by the minute. He tries not to think about just how much of your blood is left seeping into the cracks on the concrete floor of the bunker, or how much is weaving itself into the seams of his suit, like even now, somehow, you’re still here, forcing yourself into the threads of his existence.

The New Avengers get back onto the jet with no further issues, the bunker left in shambles. Bucky and Ava jump into action as soon as John manages to get you lying on a bench, and he’s starting to believe that it’s less you and more corpse. The two work fast to get a transfusion set up, even if no one knows if it’ll make a difference. To his knowledge, Bucky is certain this is the longest you’ve ever been down, but they have to try.

The jet is eerily silent, the gravity of the situation settling over everyone. They’ve all been injured before, but they’d always gotten up eventually. The Thunderbolts haven’t lost one of their own, and none of them ever really imagined that it could be you. The only sounds in the hull are the low flatline of the monitor you’re hooked up to, the subtle sniffle Ava is trying to hide, and the occasional murmur from Alexei that you’ll be fine— you have to be.

Meanwhile, John’s boots are hollowing out a path into the floor, pacing up and down the aisle, checking your vitals constantly, like somehow, they’re going to change, that the next time he looks the flat line on the screen will have suddenly spiked and everything will be fine. But three hours into the flight and there’s still not a single sign of life. John keeps telling himself he’s only so wound up about it because of what he’s gone through before, that it has nothing to do with it being you lying there lifeless. Your taunt from last week echoes in his head, ‘—You can’t actually kill me. But you can find out how it feels to.’ In the end, you got what you wanted, because now he knows, and he hates the feeling. He stopped believing in a God a long time ago, but right now, he’s begging him for anything.

The quinjet is about thirty minutes out from the tower when it happens. a single beep from the machine monitoring your vitals, so out of left field that everyone thinks they’ve imagined it. Bucky hands the controls to Yelena and jumps out of the pilot’s seat, hot on John’s heels as they rush over. There’s still only a flat line on the monitor, your blood oxygen still zero. They watch with bated breath, John’s chest tight, and it’s been so long that he’s about to take another lap around the jet when it happens again.

Beep.

The line on the monitor jumps, the point spiking to the top of the graph before flattening again.

John waits until it finally happens again, quicker this time, to release the tension he’s been holding since the moment you went down.

Then once more. Two beats back-to-back, slow, but steadily climbing as your chest expands just a fraction. It’s a cruel sort of torture, having to wait and watch as your vital signs sluggishly come back to life. John is still on high alert, taking minor comfort in your heartbeat but watching, waiting for a twitch of fingers, a flutter of lashes. You’re paler than normal, the warmth from your skin is still absent, lips still tinged with the faintest hint of blue. There's still blood soaking your tactical suit, dried and matted into your hair. The rise and fall of your chest is so shallow, your body likely in an excruciating amount of pain, your healing factor working overtime between the physical trauma and the exhaustion. But it feels like the entire team takes a collective exhale, Bucky being the first to break the silence, his gaze flickering over to Walker.

“Thank God,” he sighs, the relief in his voice palpable. “She should pull through. It’ll just take some time.”

———-

Back at The Watchtower, John deliberately makes himself scarce as soon as the jet touches down. He can’t keep waiting, watching, pacing the halls of the medbay while the rest of the team looks at him strangely. This morning seems so far away, the way he’d picked another fight with you just to be sick with anxiety over you now. Bucky is the only one who might understand why, he was there in Latvia, but the rest of them act like he’s the one who got his head bashed in.

He disappears to the training room to pass the time, putting all this violent energy clamoring to get out to good use. He’s at the punching bag for so long he loses track of the time, the day, destroying several in the process. He stays until his knuckles are raw, until his muscles ache, and it helps, kind of. It takes his mind off of you— the sound of your skull cracking, the blood he scrubbed from his hands, how insubstantial your body felt in his arms— at least for a little while. But ultimately, he can’t get the sensations out of his head. It was too close, too close— the unbridled anger and helplessness that’s been hanging over him since Lemar’s death rearing its ugly head. He's still shaking when he drags himself back to his room after a scalding shower, the clock on his nightstand telling him he’d locked himself away for almost eight hours.

Fuck. He’s down bad, isn’t he?

John stumbles to his bed, collapsing onto it face first, sinking into the too soft and overpriced bedding that Valentina chose for the suites. And despite his utter exhaustion, he just keeps tossing and turning, replaying the mission in his head over and over and over and—

And then, there’s a quiet knock on his door.

He groans and rolls over, intending to ignore whoever it was. Probably Bucky, here to tear into him about all the shit he’d pulled today— yesterday at this point— or maybe Bob, who’s the only person who would go out of his way to see if he’s okay, but John doesn’t feel like he deserves his concern right now.

But the knock comes again, louder this time, and then your voice calls from the other side. “I know you’re awake, I can hear your blood pressure rising through the damn roof.”

He’s on his feet in an instant.

You stand—if you can even really call it that— in the hallway, all of your weight resting against the doorframe for support. Your eyes glassy, face still a little pale, but tinged with a subtle flush now that your blood has replenished itself. You felt like you’d been hit by a truck— or like you suffered a severe compound skull fracture, shattered spinal cord, severe exsanguination, and then came back from the dead— But you’re standing. Standing and alive.

John is silent for a long moment, his wide eyes skimming over you, like he’s surprised to see you in the flesh. You’re in your pajamas, an oversized shirt with the logo for Child’s Play on the front, Chucky’s mutilated face a little too ironic given the state of your own head, and flannel shorts just barely peeking out from the hem. You’re all cleaned up from the blood and gore of the mission, but you still look rough, and you feel even worse. Depending on how he looked at it, it was either a miracle you were alive, or you were some sort of freak of nature. Definitely both.

“I’m not a ghost, Walker,” you rasp, voice still rough from disuse.

“Red, what the hell are you doing here?” he probes, the words coming out strangled. His first instinct is to reach for you, to make sure you’re really here and not just in his head, but he remembers himself, remembers what the two of you are and keeps his hands to himself.

You smile, the gesture looking more like a grimace than anything else. “Thought you’d be awake. Figured I’d come check on you.” You try to stand up a bit straighter, but the pain flares up in your ribcage, and even though you try to play it off, John can see it clearly in your eyes. “Buck said you were having a rough time. It didn’t take me long to realize why.” You were there on the day that Lemar died in Latvia. You didn’t really know the man, disliked him on the principle of being involved in desecration of Steve’s memory. But you’d still tried to get his heart beating again, to no avail, as John ran off for his revenge. You’ve always wondered if the real reason he always hated you wasn’t because of the fight that ensued, but your failure that day.

John releases a long sigh, the guilt from Latvia and the mission today mixing and settling heavily on his chest. “Yea, well— I guess you would,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. He tries to change the subject as quickly as he can. “You shouldn’t be up, you know. You look like hell.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Wow, John, you’re a real flatterer, huh?” You sway on your feet, your mirth taking more energy than it should, your equilibrium still off. “But I’m alive. I wanted you to see that.”

John looks you over once more, your tired eyes, the mottled bruising around your collarbone, the visible effort it’s taking you to get just a shallow breath in. Just over twelve hours ago, you were dead, the memory of your corpse haunting him for just as long.

The relief hits him hard, almost taking his breath away.

He knows you’re stubborn, a fighter down to the bone. But seeing you like this, standing there in front of him despite the excruciating pain just to ease his? It made him ache in a way he couldn’t quite describe.

You feel pathetically weak. He’s never seen you so strong.

He huffed a wry laugh as you start to sway again, finally letting himself reach out to stabilize you, calloused fingertips settling against your freshly healed skin. "You look like you’re about to drop. Let me get you to bed, please." For a moment, you consider saying no, brushing him off. You told yourself the last thing you wanted was gentleness from him, but a part of you was starting to doubt that notion. But your body decides for you as the room starts to spin, and he’s quick to react, holding you with one arm firmly around your waist. "Hey— hey, I gotcha," he mutters softly, careful not to put any pressure on her healing body.

Silently, you allow him to shuffle you down the hall to your room, leaning into him instinctively, too exhausted to fight it.

John nudges your door open and helps you hobble to bed, holding an arm out for you to lower yourself onto the mattress. You try to bite back a wince as you settle among the pile of pillows Bucky and Ava arranged for you, still unable to comfortably rest your head back. He catches it anyway, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, pulling the covers over you. His fingers tremble as they brush against your skin, the realization that you’re alive finally fully settling over him.

Despite your exhaustion, you still notice the misty look in his eyes as he watches your every move carefully. You reach up, gently wrapping a hand around his wrist, holding onto him with more strength than you realized you had right now. His breath catches in his throat— he doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve your mercy. But for all the serum running through his veins, he’s not strong enough to pull away.

“I was distracted…” he trails off, voice tight.

“Yeah,” you acknowledge gently. “Yeah, you were.” It isn’t with judgement, just a simple observation. It surprises both of them. You know you could throw his comments from the briefing in his face. You could say ‘I told you so’. You could tell him off and never speak to him again outside of what was strictly necessary. But you can see it for what it is— an apology without words. He might be too prideful to give a simple ‘sorry’, but he felt it, and would for a long time, that this incident is already burrowing deep down into his chest and solidifying itself as one of his most dreaded fears.

"You...died,” he bites out, an anguished whisper. “I saw you go down. You stopped breathing. There was so much blood.”

You frown, your expression turning sorrowful at the mention of your death.

"Yeah," you agree softly. "I did." You know the look in his eyes, know it all too well. The sort of far away feeling you get when you replay your mistakes over and over again in your head. "But I’m here, John," you reassure him. "I’m alive. I’m right here. Can’t get rid of me that easily." As if to prove your point, you take his hand in yours, forcing him to rest his palm over your beating heart, your fingers interlaced.

The steady thrum of your pulse beats against his palm, the rhythmic thump a tangible reminder that you’re still here. John’s wide-eyed stare is locked on your intertwined hands, too afraid to look into your eyes and to see what he would find there.

"I don’t want to get rid of you,” he admits, his voice small and full of guilt. "I just...” he trails off, trying to find the words to express the things he’s feeling, the rage, fear, and shame that’s gnawing at him from the inside out. "You scare me.”

You blink at him, dumbfounded. You expected him to scoff at the notion, to try to deflect. Not for him to offer you a piece of himself that, admittedly, before the events of the last twelve hours, you would have used against him.

"I scare you?"

"You scare the hell out of me," John follows with a sharp sigh, his frown deepening as he looks at you like you have all the answers to the muddled mess of his mind. "I saw you go down and it was...” Like Latvia all over again. “I saw red. That Hydra soldier, I— why aren’t you pissed at me?”

Your expression turns serious, considering his question carefully before answering. “Because I understand.” Your voice a whisper, but your gaze held his, unflinching. It’s simple, but carries the weight of everything between you that neither is ready to confront just yet. You take a labored breath, chest rising and falling beneath his palm.

John doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t want to be so transparent, so easily understood by you out of everyone. So, he stays quiet, keeping a vigil at your bedside, thumb running over your shirt in comforting circles. After a few minutes, your eyes start to droop, the exhaustion catching up quickly. His heartbeat evens out to match the steady rhythm under his palm.

He stays at your side until he’s certain you’re finally asleep, and then a few hours longer. Watching your bruises fade, your breathing strengthen, just to silence his demons.

[lauufeydottir]

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Hi I’m Ophie, 25, and I did learn how to read and now I’m making it everyone else’s problem. fic writer and enjoyer, and since cringe is dead I’m releasing my thoughts into the void. I’m a diehard marvel fan and I have far too many wips to count. I’ve also been known to dabble in BG3, star wars, and any other fucked up guys that strike my fancy.

— Masterlists —

Marvel

John Walker

Bucky Barnes

Bob Reynolds

Logan Howlett

[I will also take requests and prompt asks, just saying! Thanks for being here <3]

[lauufeydottir]

You Look So Good In Blue

[part one | part two | part three | part four]

living in The Watchtower and seeing Walker everyday is no easy task, especially when all he wants is your attention and all you want is for him to disappear. It all culminates in a concerningly violent and sexually charged sparring match

[Reader is a mutant with the power to manipulate blood, and has a serum-induced healing factor similar to Wolverine's. Former Widow and Avenger, current Thunderbolt New Avenger.]

john walker x fem!reader

words: 4.7k

cw: canon typical violence, swearing, descriptions of blood and injuries, choking, implied suicidal ideation, self inflicted wounds, dry humping, enemies to reluctant allies and back to enemies, pining, john calls the reader ‘Red’ (because of the blood shtick, he’s very creative) (18+ MDNI)

a/n: hi again still consumed by thoughts of this fucking guy. It’s looking like this will have 3-4 parts, most of which just needs to be beta’d. thank you to those who enjoyed the first part!

nobody puts baby in the corner - fall out boy

You never talk about it, what Walker had seen of your guilt in The Void, but the experience haunts him all the same.

He thinks about it all the time, still trying to compartmentalize the memory of you in that bunker. How broken you were in that moment is burned into his brain and he hasn’t gotten it to go away. But there's a part of him that wants to keep it with him, because knowing a secret about you that no one else does makes him feel special for reasons he doesn’t want to confront. The rage he saw from you that day felt like looking in a mirror, reflecting the same urge in him that’s always simmering under the surface.

Despite the unexpected support he’d given you in that day, you still treat Walker harshly. If you can keep him at arm’s length, then maybe it won’t feel so humiliating that he knows you more intimately than you wanted him to. You look at him like you're just waiting for the betrayal. Even when he’s done nothing wrong, he can't stay in your good graces. He wants to talk about it. Wants a better explanation of what he’d seen, to understand your pain, to tell you that maybe it’s okay, but you never give him the chance.

He’s known from the start that you’re complex, that you had gone through hell, but he had no idea just how much. He didn’t realize the violence you were capable of, the restraint that you must be clinging to in every fight, or else everyone will see you for what you are. In Latvia, you’d looked at him like he was a monster, and that’s what really gets under his skin about the whole thing. How you still act like you're better than him. Like you aren’t one too.

And then it’s six months later. Six months of settling into The Watchtower, six months of varying levels of public scrutiny over the title Valentina bestowed upon them, six months of finally being an Avenger. And inadvertently, six months of you and John walking on eggshells around each other. He can’t back down from a fight, especially when you’re the one who's picking it. The two of you bicker more often than not, always filling the space between you with harsh words and heated insults.

Today’s argument has been building up for the last week, starting early Tuesday morning with an offhanded comment from John about your coffee habits. It escalated on Wednesday when you made fun of his beret, and now it’s coming to a head in the training room. You’re fully at each other’s throats, interrupting the drills you’d been running. You aren’t even sure how it got this bad. One minute, it’s your turn to lead today’s combat exercises; the next, he’s making some smartass comment because you dared to do your job and correct his too-wide stance.

"You just have to be the smartest person in the room at all times, don't you?" John snaps, clenched fists at his sides as he breaks form.

You scowl at his scrutiny, eyes narrowing as you bite back, "No, it's just that you’d rather be impulsive than prepared." You step closer to him, your footing precise and purposeful, still trying to keep your composure. "You're a disaster, Walker. You make decisions based on your ego and emotions, not logic. Strength won’t always save you."

John’s eyes are dark, his jaw clenched tight as you're on the edge of invading his personal space. With every word from your mouth, he’s getting more and more agitated— pissed even. Your proximity awakens that jittery feeling in his chest again, leaving him insecure. He could face his feelings head-on, take a step back and try to just talk to you, but instead his base instinct is to make sure you feel as bad as he does.

"Don't you dare lecture me on emotions," he sneers, pointing an accusatory finger at you. "You act like you're so much better, like you hold some moral high ground. But you're just as messy as me, if not more."

Your eyes flicker with offense, and you grit your teeth, taking a few more steps towards him until your chest makes contact with his outstretched finger. John pulls his hand back so quickly; you’d think the faint brush against your clavicle burned him.

"Moral high ground? Don’t make me laugh. You have the gall to talk about morals when everything you stand for is built on a crumbling foundation of personal gain and glory." You’re both alone in the gym now, the team already filtered out of the room five minutes ago, witnessing your spats enough times to know to make themselves scarce.

"Glory?" He laughs, the sound lacking any delight, "I do what I do for justice, not glory, Red." His gaze is unwavering, but his body tenses as you approach, nearer than he’d like you to be. "Oh, right, I forgot, you're such a saint, aren’t you? Your hands are clean, right? No Hydra skeletons in your closet at all, huh?" It’s a low blow, but it’s also the closest either of you has come to acknowledging that day in The Void, and he’ll keep prodding at the wound if it keeps your attention on him.

Your brows raise in shock as soon as the words leave his mouth, not bothering to school your features. You're taken aback by his boneheaded audacity. Months of shoving that day deep down and locking it away where it can't bother you, and here he is throwing it in your face.

"Watch it, Walker," you warn steadily, your tone increasingly hostile. "You don’t want to start something you know you can’t finish."

He stiffens at your warning, a subtle reminder of the fight in Latvia. John knows he's crossed a line, but he can't make himself shut up. "You think you've got me all figured out, huh?" John lets out another humorless laugh. He’s nervous, and you can tell because you can feel it in his pulse. "You judge me over my worst mistake, but your dirty little secret isn’t any better. I’ve seen what you're capable of, Red. And let me tell you, it ain't pretty."

"You’ve had it out for me for years, Walker,” you scoff. "I think you’re just mad because what you saw shatters your delusion of me being the enemy. But we’re not as different as you made us out to be in your head, are we?” You’re in his face now, forcing yourself into his orbit. “You think you know what I can do? You haven’t seen anything yet.”

"Is that a threat?" He snaps, his gaze cold as he looks down at you. "You really think you can take me on by yourself, huh?”

You stare him down, unimpressed, but it’s obvious from the grinding of your teeth that he’s getting to you too. You’re both too stubborn and prideful to back down now. Fine. If he wants a demonstration, you'll give him one. You’ve been itching for the chance to finish that fight from the vault, anyway.

"Let’s see how that shit stance of yours holds up in a real fight." You shift in your spot, not stepping down but back, reaching for your boot. There’s an old hunting knife stashed inside; serrated edges dull from decades of use. It’s the only weapon you’ve ever needed to carry. “I beat you bloody once, and I’ll do it again. I don’t need Sam and Bucky’s help.”

"A butter knife? You're gonna have to do better than that to handle me, Red," he mocks, an arrogant sneer tugging at the corner of his mouth. You’re so damn cocky— it's infuriating and alluring all at once. John stomps on the lip of his discarded shield to send it upwards and catches it in midair. He's itching to knock you down a peg, show you that he's not the pushover you like to think he is. You’re good, he'll give you that, but he's better. He has to be.

Your grip tightens on the hilt of the knife, your attention drawn to his shield. "It’s not the butter knife you need to be worried about," you warn. Holding your forearm out in front of you, you slice a vertical line from your wrist to the crook of your elbow. You’re unflinching, staring Walker down, switching hands and doing the same to the opposite arm. Blood pours from the alarming wounds like a faucet thanks to your radial artery, and you toss the hunting knife somewhere behind you. The scent of iron permeates the room, the tell-tale sign of your hemokinesis at work. Right in front of his eyes, the blood dripping from your arms starts to shift and slither through the air, pooling into each palm and solidified, until it resembles two macabre-looking scimitars. It’s one of your signature moves, but Walker knows it looks tougher than it actually is.

The two of you begin to circle each other, each step calculated and precise, each of you trying to predict what the other will do. The air is cloying with tension, both fueled by misunderstandings and resentment, and neither one is willing to give an inch. All bets are off as soon as you lunge forward, closing the distance with blinding speed. It’s an instantaneous clash, a brutal dance of blades and fists, pushing each other to the limit, and no one holds the upper hand for long. John can feel the adrenaline surging through him with every blow, every block, every parry. He knows he should be restraining himself, you’re his teammate at the end of the day and he shouldn’t be putting you at risk. But the anger boiling inside him is making it very hard to be rational.

Every time a hit lands, he wants to crawl out of his skin at the way it makes him crave your touch. Despite the discomfort, he pushes through, refusing to let you get the best of him. He tries to throw you off guard with a sudden feint, but you see it coming and block easily. Your eyes lock for a split-second, the understanding between the two of you that this isn’t just a spar to get it out of your systems, that it’s real.

You counter him with your own onslaught, your blades moving with expert precision, slicing through the air in a muddled red arch. You’re a whirlwind, not holding anything back. Your movements are fluid and effortlessly graceful, but there's nothing pretty about the bloodshed that follows in your wake. There’s sweat dripping down his face, his usual cocky demeanor replaced with a look of intense concentration as he blocks and dodges your relentless assault. You’re putting up more of a fight than he expected, but Walker is no pushover. He's stronger, just as deadly, and he needs this.

He throws himself at you unexpectedly, and when you move to block him, his shield crashes into your sanguine blades, and they shatter in your hands with a delicate crack, like picking at a scab. You roll out of the path of his shield before he can land a hit on you, wiping dried blood on your pants. The cuts you’d made on your forearms have long since healed, the process more painful than the initial slice, and the only indication you were ever bleeding at all is the red staining the fabric of your top.

You both pause, panting as you size each other up. John takes stock of you; sweaty, bloody, and a little bruised up, but your chin is high. You’re breathtaking, and it’s that same awe that he’d felt in The Void. He’s lost in thought and still catching his breath, foolishly expecting you to take a second to do the same. But you charge at him instead, going low. His stance— the very same one you’d criticized him for earlier— is too wide, and it’s far too easy to slip through his parted legs. One well-timed kick later, and his shield is knocked out of his grasp and clear across the room.

That was way easier than it was in Latvia.

Before John can even process what’s happening, you’ve already darted past him, a blur of motion. He turns too late, and his shield goes flying, clattering to the floor with a dull thud. Frustration builds up in his veins as he realizes his disadvantage, his best defense gone.

His jaw clenches tightly as he tries to keep himself composed, making a break for his shield. But you’re faster, lighter, and before he can even make it a few feet, you’re on him again, coming at him with such speed that he barely has time to react. He stumbles backward, narrowly dodging your punches and kicks, but he’s off balance, and it’s affecting his ability to bite back. The shield is out of the question now, and he needs to find a way to get the upper hand, and quickly. You’re ruthless, his thin t-shirt doing nothing to absorb your attacks, the force of your hits reverberating within his chest.

He can barely get a solid shot in, but he keeps trying. He watches your timing carefully, evaluating your move set, and finally, his fist connects with your jaw. You can hear the bone cracking in your ears, and when the pain finally registers, you’re almost shocked at the innate strength behind his punch. Almost. Still, you refuse to falter, taking the hit like a champ, head snapping to the side and then back to him just as quickly. Your ears are ringing as you reach up to wipe away the trickle of blood that flows down your chin, your fractured jaw already stitching itself back together. You only manage to smear it across your skin, the crimson a compliment to your complexion. You’re unfazed— if anything, it seems to have only fueled you further, diving back into the fray with a crooked smile.

It's a sick thrill, but John can’t deny the sense of satisfaction he gets as he sees the blood dripping down your jaw. Outside of your memory, he’s never seen you this way; almost feral, and it’s both horrifying and hot. But he doesn’t have time to dwell on the thought, because you’re throwing punches again, your movements even more aggressive than before. And he matches you blow for blow, neck in neck, both still determined to come out on top. You’re both breathing heavily, the exhaustion second to the need to prove the other wrong. The sounds of the fight are almost animalistic, punctuated by grunts of effort and stifled cries of pain.

Another perfectly timed punch to your ribs sends you flying backwards through the room, and you’re impressed that he’s actually been listening to you during training. You land in a steady crouch and sacrifice no time as you rush John, driving your knee up into his chest. It sends him staggering back just enough for you to somersault behind him and make a swing at the back of his knees. It’s not enough to bring him down, but that was never your goal. You grab onto his shoulders as he regains his footing, and you throw yourself onto his back. He swings at you as he turns, trying to pull you off, but you use his outstretched arm like a high bar, flipping yourself around him until you can wrap your legs around his neck.

John can feel your thighs squeezing him like a vice, your torso blocking his view. Despite the exertion that he’s feeling in his bones, he’s suddenly wired as your weight settles over his shoulders. He’d never admit to having this exact fantasy in a slightly different context, one that he's consistently tried to push as far down as he can. He tries to throw you off him, but your grip is too strong, elbows aiming at his head. He can smell you like this, and he tries to hold his breath to no avail, your scent overwhelming his senses. His vision blurs as your elbow connects with his cheekbone, so focused on getting you off that he forgets to block your strikes, letting you get in a few shots to the face. His next move is impulsive, his hands holding your back, his face almost pressed against your stomach as he slams you both down onto the mat. Your back meets the ground, and his weight comes crashing down onto you.

The air is knocked out of you as his mass crushes you into the mat. He’s fucking heavy, bulkier than he looks, his muscle not just from the serum, but earned, and the impact sends a jolt of pain up your spine. He’s so close, your hands pushing at him, trying not to dwell on the feeling of his firm chest or the warmth radiating from his skin. You don’t give in, knees digging into his sides, trying to ram your head into his as you scramble for an opening. Then, John makes a move neither of you expected, his hand suddenly wrapping around your neck and stopping your struggle. You don’t even have the shame to be disgusted by the heat that overtakes your fury, the thrill that runs through you when you notice the way he’s watching you.

He’s not sure what he’s doing; he’s running on sheer instinct and a dire need to win. And the feeling of your body under him, struggling and fighting, is making it even more difficult to think clearly. He grips your throat, fingers pressing into your skin just enough to stop your flailing. He leans in, his eyes locking onto yours, noses inches apart. There’s a tense, charged silence as you stare at each other, the tension shifting into something unknown. Your lips quirk up into a wry smile, sardonic and unnerving. It’s the same one he's seen you regard and enemy with countless times before the final blow— when they’ve played right into your hands.

“Enjoying yourself, John?” You tease with faux innocence, not bothering to hide your amusement. The use of his given name is unfamiliar on your tongue, but it’s fitting given the situation.

A disgruntled sigh escapes him at the sound of his name on your lips, the fingers on your throat flexing as he responds. "Shut up,” he mutters defensively, losing his nerve. He could snap her neck if he wanted to, they both know it, and yet he senses no fear from her.

You raise an eyebrow, tilting your chin in defiance. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Go on, get it out of your system, I dare you,” you rasp, vocal cords straining, but he isn’t cutting off your air supply. “You know you can’t actually kill me, but you can find out how it feels to.” Your skin flushes at the thought, your pulse pounding alongside the steady force of his hand. There’s a buzz running through you that’s probably just from the pressure, but you feel more alive than you’ve felt in a long time. It takes everything in you to hold back the revealing moan that threatens to fall from your lips.

Your taunts go straight to his head and his dick, his desire for you building at an alarming rate. He's not sure if he's ever been this turned on in his life or felt so shameful that this is what got him riled up. He tightens his grip on your throat ever so slightly, a small part of him wanting to push your limits and his, just to see how much of this you each can take.

"Don’t test me, Red,” he growls, “I’m not playing games.”

Your eyes flutter shut for a split second, your racing pulse betraying you. You know this is a stupid game you’re playing, but you can’t help the way your body reacts to his touch, the anticipation of what he’s going to do next. There’s also the fact you can’t actually die spurring you on— you’ve healed overnight from a broken neck before, even if the process is always more excruciating than the initial injury. It might be a twisted form of self-harm, but at least it’s yours.

Your lashes flit back open, watching him unnervingly. “I think you’re all bark and no bite,” you say, your mockery steady despite the stress on your windpipe. “Wanna prove me wrong?”

Walker’s fingers tremble on your throat, the urge to squeeze growing as you continue to goad him. He’s not going to hurt you, but part of him wants to, and you know it. He’s not supposed to lose control like this anymore; he shouldn’t be giving in to his darker instincts so easily when he’s trying to be a better man. He leans in, crowding over you, his face barely inches from yours, noses brushing. He’s never been as strong as he wants others to think, and the fact that you’ve so effortlessly seen past his walls is infuriating. He can’t resist anymore; the incessant need to prove you wrong, to get you to notice him, is all-consuming.

“You asked for it.”

You barely have a moment to think of some other snarky comeback before his lips are crashing onto yours with a ferocity that takes you by genuine surprise. The kiss is rough and borderline frantic, his teeth biting into your bottom lip as his tongue slips past to seek yours. He doesn’t waste time.

And you respond to it, your body moving beneath his as you match his intensity, nails digging into the jersey of his shirt. You can feel how hard he’s trembling, can sense the repressed need radiating from him. It’s really not the reaction you were going for by taunting him, but you’re not about to say no. It’s still a fight, the battle for dominance bleeding over into the way you indulge in each other. He’s overwhelmed by you already, the taste of iron on your tongue, your nails tearing into his skin, the noises you make. Your teeth drag over his lip and his hold on your neck loosens ever so slightly. He almost looses himself entirely, too close to relinquishing control before he remembers himself, fingers tightening.

You gasp at the added pressure on your throat, his weight digging into you, every muscle taut and ready, caging you in. The last time you saw him this way was in Latvia, bursting at the seams, and it's a personal victory that you can bring it out of him. You wrap your legs around his hips and grind yourself against him, a silent challenge to keep up with you. He might be on top of you with his hand around your neck, but you refuse to let him believe he has the upper hand. He groans involuntarily as your hips rock up into him, the hard outline of his cock under his sweatpants brushing over your cunt.

Your enthusiasm is stoking his ego, and his free hand skims over your body, savoring the contour of your curves and muscles beneath his fingers. It’s driving him insane, the way you move beneath him, arching into his touch as he slips under your shirt. He’s never felt passion like this, and for months he’s been lying to himself about his complicated feelings. He breaks the kiss, breathing fast as he tries to regain at least some of his composure, and glances down at you.

You look utterly debauched.

Your hair is spread out beneath you on the mat, tangled and unruly, your eyes just as wild. The blood from his left hook is still drying on your chin, and you can feel the process of your vessels bursting under the pressure of his fingers, the blood pooling blow the skin threatening to leave a bruise. Marks never last long on you, but somewhere in the back of your mind, this time you wish they would. There’s a defiant challenge in your eyes as you meet his heavy gaze, rolling your hips harder just to see the look on his face.

“So, which one of us is winning now?”

John’s mind is a mess, his body screaming for release, and your snarky tone isn’t helping. He tries to ignore the way you bat your lashes at him, his control slipping with every passing second.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he growls, his hand under your shirt moving higher, his touch uncharacteristically gentle. “You think I’m gonna go down that easy?”

You flash your teeth at him, a mischievous glint in your eyes, blood still in your gums. “Oh, I don’t think you’re really the type to go down at all,” you retort, using his phrasing against him, turning it into an insulting innuendo.

He feels a sharp stab of embarrassment at the double meaning of your mockery, quickly followed by arousal, his body reacting involuntarily. But his ego won’t let him back down, not now, not when you’re finally smiling at him with those pretty lips. The desire to knock you down a peg is fading fast, replaced by a desperation to have you in any way you’ll let him. He grinds himself against your cunt, the pressure growing more insistent as you find a matching rhythm.

“You’d like that, Red,” he mutters, his fingers grazing the curve of your breast, your skin so much softer than he’d imagined. “Admit it.”

“Why would I do that?” You laugh, the sound breathless. “You’re the one who’s desperate for it.”

“You think you still have a chance to come out on top,” he sneers, but it sounds forced, like he’s losing conviction. “You’re wrong.” Your skin burns his fingers, the movement of your hips making it hard to focus. But he’s determined to keep his composure, to not give you the satisfaction of seeing him squirm.

You lock eyes with him, your glare cloudy, still smiling like it’s all one big joke. “That's so?” Quickly, you pull your hands from his hair, grabbing for wrist of the hand at your throat. You use his distracted state to disarm him, legs locking around his waist and boots digging into the backs of his knees. Using all the strength you’re capable of, you flip your positions, a maneuver you could have done at any time. “What was it you said about topping?”

A stunned gasp leaves his lips as he’s practically thrown to the ground. He’s not used to being moved, and it’s just another thing about you that pisses him off and gets him going at the same time. He’s on his back now, with you straddling his hips, the rush he gets from you looking down at him completely unexpected.

John groans in frustration, his fingers finding your thighs, digging into your flesh. “You gonna start playing dirty now?”

"Oh, honey," you laugh, your sore voice thick with delight. A sly smile spreads across your face, like you know something he doesn’t. "I've been playing dirty this entire time."

And just as quickly as you’d gotten wrapped up in each other, you’re detangling yourself from him, however reluctantly. You’re halfway across the gym before he can even manage a protest, fully intending to leave him high and dry and wanting. The sting of your rejection builds in his chest, his body reeling from the sudden loss of your warmth. He rises to his feet, his eyes never leaving you as you stalk towards the door, your back to him. The way you move even now is predatory, like a leopardess prowling through the grass.

“What the hell, Red?” He calls out, his tone tinged with both desperation and embarrassment. “You can’t just walk away like that.”

Your grin only grows wider as he calls out to you, but you continue walking as if you didn’t hear him. You can feel his eyes burning a hole in the back of your head, sharp and intense, and it gives you a kick of satisfaction. You have to force yourself not to turn back, your heart telling you to stay here and explore this with him head-on. But your head, on the other hand, refuses to be defeated, not by him, not by anyone.

“Nice match, John,” you call back behind you. “Maybe you’ll finally beat me next time.”

And with that, you strut out the doors, never looking back, like he’s not worth another second of your time.

[lauufeydottir]

Unholy Trinity

Summary : You're casually sleeping with Bucky and John. Not at the same time—until you are.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) x John Walker

Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers!!!!!! Tower fic! Implied threesome (MMF), Bi! reader, Bi! Bucky, Bi! John, Tech specialist! reader, it’s mentioned that you’re Ava’s ex, internalised homophobia, sexual identity exploration, past trauma (religious and societal repression), cursing, polyamory themes. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 9.3k 

Requested by : Anon (Based on this request)

Note : As always, sex in my writing isn’t too detailed and not the centerpiece, but rather a storytelling tool. This fic is less about the threesome and more about the reader helping Bucky and John come to terms with their sexuality. I’m tagging the general Bucky taglist, but please ignore this if it’s not your thing. Enjoy!

They didn’t need another super soldier.

They had too many of those. What they desperately needed was someone who could reprogram a Stark-level firewall with one hand while defusing a biometric kill-switch with the other, or someone whose thoughts could move faster than a repurposed HYDRA drone and who could keep their head cool enough during a mission gone wrong so they could reroute a way out.

When Ava muttered, “I have someone,” the rest of the New Avengers raised their eyebrows. 

Then, Ava said your name.

Yelena twirled a knife between her fingers. “You sure that’s a good idea? You told me she nearly blew up your apartment that one time.”

Ava rolled her eyes and looked down at her boots. “We’ve grown since then.”

You had grown. A lot.

The breakup hadn’t been graceful. There were tears, there was even a screaming match in a Denny’s parking lot that still lived rent-free in both your heads. You had called her “a quantum-emotional black hole,” and she had told you to go “code a conscience.”

Yes, it had hurt, but that was years ago. Now, you both have healed. Mostly.

When the team asked who the hell you were, Ava crossed her arms and said, “She’s… my ex.”

—

The first day Ava brought you into the team, you walked into the tower with a casual confidence that came from having seen some serious shit and come out the other end smarter.

“Hi,” you said, with a crooked smile. “I’m the tech gremlin Ava warned you about.”

Alexei boomed, “Welcome, gremlin!” and clapped you on the back so hard you nearly stumbled. Yelena snorted and shook your hand. Bob waved from behind a magazine.

That was when you felt two eyes watching you. 

Bucky turned toward you, his eyes scanning you from head to toe. His face was unreadable, but his teeth clenched slightly as he studied in the way you moved, the way you owned the space around you without trying. His voice, when he spoke, was almost thoughtful.

“Good to have you here,” he said, like he meant it. Like he wasn’t just saying hello, but figuring out how to categorise you in his mind. You caught the flicker of curiosity in his eyes— the kind felt like… interest.

John didn’t even pretend not to stare. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest, and gave you a once-over that could only be described as bold. He ran a hand through his hair, almost reflexively, like he’d suddenly become aware of what he looked like. 

“Well,” he said, dragging the word out just enough to make it suggestive. “Ava wasn’t kidding.”

You tilted your head. “What?”

He smirked unapologetically. “Trouble.”

—

It didn’t take long for the team to realise you weren’t just a tech genius, you were now fully committed to being their tech genius. You made the tower feel less like a military base and more like a home with a working AI that cracked corny jokes that you programmed, a custom coffee bar that responded to voice commands, and a training sim you programmed to replicate everything from underground bunkers to Waffle House at 2 a.m.

As expected, Ava adjusted to you faster than anyone. Maybe it was the years of history. After the first week, she stopped introducing you as her ex and just started calling you her friend.

You soon realised you still fight like you did before — a reason why this relationship would never work— but now, the two of you high-fived when you cooled off. 

Growth, right?

Besides, you might not love her like that anymore, but you still liked each other as people.

Yelena warmed up to you in her own way. The first time she watched you dismantle a Chitauri drone with a spork and some chewing gum, she nudged your shoulder and declared, “I like you.” After that, you two started tag-teaming pranks. You were the brains, she was the brawn. Bob started avoiding both of you in the mornings.

Speaking of Bob— he liked you from the second you complimented the topping on his sandwich. It didn’t take long to figure out that the key to staying on Bob’s good side was noticing the small things—especially the ones he’d clearly put effort into. Whether it was a meticulously layered lunch or a new patch sewn onto his jacket, a little encouragement went a long way. Bob cared, and he noticed when you cared back.

Alexei decided you were family the moment you added a cooling system into his old Red Guardian suit. He cried a little, and you pretended not to notice. He started calling you "little hacker bear," which you endured with a sigh and a hidden smile.

But it was Bucky and John who were... complicated.

They were never outright fighting, not over you, but there was some kind of tension there.

Bucky would suddenly appear next to you during team meetings, John would offer to “help” on any mission you signed onto. It was like they were both orbiting you but never said anything since… they didn't even know you liked men.

Until…

It was sometime after midnight— Ava, Yelena, and you all gathered in the kitchen, raiding the snack stash and talking nonsense. Between spoonfuls of Nutella and sips of juice, the conversation had shifted to hookups and exes.

“I don’t really have a type,” you said, tapping the spoon against your lip. “But Ava’s still the most chaotic person I’ve ever dated.”

Ava rolled her eyes, orange juice in hand. “You’re just mad I called you a 'human rootkit' that one time.”

“One time?” you repeated incredulously. “You said it on my birthday.”

Yelena chuckled and bit into her cookie.  “Wait, wait, I need a ranking. Who’s number one on your disaster list?”

“Oh, easy,” you said. “I once hooked up with a guy who tried to implant a chip in my spine during sex.”

Yelena choked on a chocolate chip and burst into laughter. “What?! Who does that?”

“That’s not a hookup,” Ava rolled her eyes, “that’s an assassination attempt.”

“Yeah, well,” you shrugged, “Sue me. He had a great jawline.”

Yelena wiped a tear from her eye. “I still don’t get how you both do the dating thing. Romance seems like... too much paperwork.”

You chuckled. “That’s because you’re not built for emotional bureaucracy, Lena.”

Then came the sound—clunk—something hitting the floor behind you.

You glanced over your shoulder.

Bucky was standing in the kitchen doorway like someone had blue-screened his brain, his eyes just a little too wide. Next to him, John blinked, mouth half-open like he’d just discovered a cheat code.

Ava frowned. “You okay?”

Still, nothing. It was almost as if the two of them turned into statues.

Yelena tilted your head. “Let them be.”

You all turned back to your snack, brushing it off like it was nothing.

But Bucky’s mind was racing. She dates guys? She dates—oh. Okay. Okay, noted. Calm down.

John, meanwhile, was already recalibrating his entire mindset. Bi. She’s bi. That’s... that’s a green light, right? That counts. I'm still in this.

You smiled just a little wider as you took another bite of Nutella. Oh, You thought to yourself, they didn't know.

—

It was a lazy afternoon when Ava found you leaning against the railing of the upper balcony overlooking the tower’s gym. Your elbows rested on the metal bar, your eyes locked on the sparring mat below like a cat watching her prey.

Bucky and John were sparring.

Both of them were in sleeveless shirts, their muscles slick with sweat, fabric clinging to their bodies. Every movement was fast and brutal, calculated but controlled punches delivered by two men who knew how to hit where it hurt. The sound of fists meeting flesh echoed through the rafters rhythmically like the world’s most aggressive metronome.

You bit your lip as Bucky landed a clean hit to John’s ribs. John growled, retaliating with a shove that sent Bucky back, just enough to bait him. Then they were grappling— Bucky flipping John onto his back with a twist, only for John to wrap his legs around Bucky’s waist and counter. Your brain short-circuited for a moment.

A small, involuntary sigh escaped your lips.

Behind you, Ava flickered into solid matter and groaned. “No. No, no, no. Don’t even think about it.”

You feigned innocence, even though you were unable to keep your eyes off them. “Think about what?”

“Them!”

You arched an eyebrow. “Jealous?”

“Oh please,” she rolled her eyes, almost fondly. “I’m over you. You leave your wet towels on the bed and talk through movies.”

“But you loved it,” you teased.

“I was deluded.”

“Then why do you care who I ogle?”

Ava gestured aggressively toward the mat, where Bucky now had John pinned, forearm pressed to his chest. “Because I’m trying to save you from yourself. That—” she waved again, exasperated, “is more testosterone for any one girl to handle.”

You hummed, eyes drifting back down. Bucky smirked—he was enjoying this match. John wasn’t exactly fighting him off. 

“…Still,” you whispered, mouth dry, “I could die happy.”

Ava gave you a look of utter betrayal. “I am begging you— please get a vibrator and some standards.”

You shrugged, smug. 

“Fine,” she sighed, “Just don’t come crying to me when one of them broods in your bed for six hours and the other tries to impress you by bench-pressing a motorcycle.”

You rested your head on your hands and kept admiring the view. “Sounds kind of hot.”

She gave you a deadpan stare, but there was affection tucked under the exasperation. “So was Pompeii.”

You both fell into a companionable silence, leaning side by side on the railing. Below, John reversed the pin and shoved Bucky to the mat, bodies tangled, both panting like they needed to tear each other apart or make out about it.

Maybe Ava was right. Maybe this was a terrible idea.

But terrible ideas never looked this good.

—

The first time Bucky did anything about his little crush on you, it was in the kitchen.

After weeks of glances and flirtation, you and Bucky finally broke.

He was cooking that night.

That alone had caught you off guard. The vision of a man built like a brick house and shaped by decades violence, calmly slicing onions like he was born with a chef’s knife in one hand and a combat knife in the other was… something. He had his sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, brow furrowed in focus. His movements were measured, even now.

His human forearm flexed as he chopped. 

You leaned against the counter, letting your eyes roam freely. “Didn’t peg you for the domestic type, chef.”

Without looking up, he replied, “Didn’t peg you for someone who talks this much, at first.”

Your eyebrow arched. “That supposed to be an insult?”

He finally glanced your way. “It’s just… true.”

With Bucky, everything felt like it could tilt into something else if you pushed too hard — or not hard enough. You’d been dancing around this for weeks.

Tonight, you reached.

You brushed past him, on purpose, to grab a spice jar. His arm shot out, catching your wrist mid-motion. Not hard, not rough, just… firm. 

“You’re in my space,” he warned, almost amused.

You looked up at him through your lashes. “You gonna make me move?”

His eyes dropped to your mouth. “You like playing with fire?”

“Wouldn’t you like to find out?” You taunted, stepping closer.

That was all it took.

He moved forward, capturing your mouth in a kiss that felt like a nuclear detonation. His hands were on your waist, dragging you against him, mouth hungry like he’d wanted this forever and finally stopped trying to resist.

But even then—he pulled back, just enough to breathe.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, voice hoarse, forehead pressed to yours. “I need to hear it.”

You reached up, tugged the tie from his hair, and let his hair fall.

“I want this,” you confirmed. “I want you, Bucky.”

The look in his eyes was electric, like your words lit a fuse.

You barely heard the clatter of the spice jar hitting the floor.

“Upstairs. Now,” he growled against your lips, breath ragged.

You grinned, dizzy from his mouth. “Bossy.”

He grabbed your chin, fingers pressing just enough to make you gasp. “No. Just in control.”

You didn’t walk to your room. You stumbled and tripped. Bucky shoved you inside like he couldn’t wait another second—like he’d combust if he didn’t have you now.

He didn’t undress you. He destroyed your clothes, like fabric was just an obstacle between his hands and your skin. His mouth followed, trailing heat and teeth and filthy sounds.

His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wide. 

“You wanna act smart,” he murmured, dragging his mouth along your collarbone, “but this—” his fingers slid between your legs, satisfied with the sleek heat, “—this doesn’t lie.”

You gasped, loudly.

He chuckled darkly before pulling back. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

And then, he wrecked you.

He fucked like he fought. He pinned your wrists above your head and made you beg without ever asking for it. Every breath he dragged from your lungs belonged to him. The bruises he left weren’t careless, they were crafted. 

Perhaps, after so many years without control, he craved it in other ways.

You weren’t complaining.

And when you came, you saw white.

You didn’t even know your own name for a moment. Just the sound of his voice growling filth in your ear and the press of his body, too hot, too good, too much.

Then, when your body was trembling from aftershocks and your back had slid down the wall—he crouched in front of you, sweaty hair falling into his face, pupils blown wide. He kissed your thigh, then your knee.

“Not done,” he said roughly. “Not even close.”

Much, much later, you lay tangled in his sheets, his hand splayed over your hip, thumb idly stroking a bruise he’d left with his teeth.

You turned your head lazily. “Just so you know… I’m seeing other people.”

He didn’t look at you, but blinked up at the ceiling like he was processing it.

“That okay?” you asked.

“I told myself I didn’t want anything serious,” he said carefully.

“And now?”

His eyes finally met yours. “It’s still okay.”

You smiled, smug. But his grip on your hip tightened, just a little. Just enough to remind you who put those bruises there.

“Just make sure they don’t leave marks I can see,” he warned. “Because I will cover them up.” His mouth brushed your shoulder. “With mine.”

—

You and John started in your workspace.

It wasn’t planned. It sure as hell wasn’t smart.

John Walker didn’t do subtle, and he didn’t really do hard boundaries, either. He just strolled in one afternoon—boots echoing against concrete, hands in his pockets, that shit-eating grin already stretching across his face.

“Whatcha workin’ on, genius?” he asked, giving a peek to his southern charm.

You didn’t look up, though you smiled. You just kept working, fingers moving with precision over the exposed wiring of a decapitated drone.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” you teased.

He moved closer and leaned in. Your teeth clenched when his breath skimmed your neck.

“Not when I’ve got the best view in the building,” he said, like it was obvious.

You finally glanced over. “You flirt like a linebacker with a head injury,” you pointed out playfully.

He laughed. “It’s working, is it?”

John kept showing up after that. You kept pretending he was a nuisance. He asked stupid questions just to make you roll your eyes. Sometimes you caught him watching your hands while you worked— like he was wondering if they could dismantle him as easily as they dismantled a machine.

By the fourth visit, you flirted back. You didn’t expect him to love  it. But he did, as if you’d flipped a switch in him he didn’t know he had.

By the next visit, you had him against the wall,your fingers twisted in his collar, mouths crashing like you were trying to win a war through friction. He gasped into it, hands hovering like he didn’t know where to touch until you grabbed his wrist and put it on your waist.

See, John didn’t take control like Bucky did.

John gave it up.

Maybe, after years of being on top of the chain of field command, he now just wanted to follow orders.

“You want this?” you asked, lips brushing his jaw.

“Yes,” he groaned. “Fuck, yes. Just—tell me what to do.”

So you did.

You pushed him down to his knees on the cold concrete floor. He didn’t hesitate. Looked up at you with flushed cheeks, eyes wide, tongue wetting his lower lip, palms pressed to your thighs.

You used him, and he liked it.

He made sounds like prayer— muffled, desperate, needy. And when you came with your hand in his hair and his name tangled in your throat, he looked prouder than he did when he got a medal of honour.

Later when your bodies were tangled in sweat-stuck sheets, he sat on the edge of your bed, bare-chested, his hands twitching like they didn’t know how to relax around you.

“I’m not lookin’ for anything serious,” he said suddenly, voice quieter. His back was to you. “Got a kid. A real messy life. Divorce. Not yet, at least.”

You reached for the sheet, tugging it over your chest. “Same, I…,” you hesitated, but then realised you needed to be honest. “I’m seeing other people, too,” you added carefully.

He froze as you watched the breath catch in his throat before he forced himself to nod.

“Cool,” he said, but his voice cracked. He reached down and started picking at a loose thread on your blanket like it might hold him together. You tilted your head.

“You sure?” you asked, not unkindly.

He turned back to you then. All that Walker bravado was stripped away. He was just a man now— a little bruised, a little confused, but also… satisfied.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice rougher and forcing a smile. “Long as I still get to see you.”

—

This was fine. It had to be fine.

You’d been honest with them—at least technically. You told them you weren’t exclusive, told them you were seeing other people. 

What you didn’t tell them—what you hadn’t figured out how to say—was that the other person was each other.

You didn’t plan for things to get this tangled. At first, it really was casual — nothing more than mutual attraction carefully packaged in boundaries you thought would keep everyone safe. 

But those lines blurred fast. 

Because it didn’t feel casual when Bucky touched you. Not when he held your face like it was made of gold, or kissed you like he was trying to edit your past and write himself into every footnote. His control made you drown in your own body, in the best possible way.

And it didn’t feel casual when John looked at you like you were a miracle. Like every time you gave him an order was a gift and he didn’t know what he did to deserve it. He pleased you with a grin and a groan— and then he’d hold you afterward, tighter than you’d ever asked him to. 

They were both rough— just in different ways.

Bucky fucked you like he had to, like he was afraid it was the last time, like he needed to memorise you. Like if he touched you hard enough, long enough, the world would stop trying to take things from him.

John fucked you like he wanted to, like every touch was a prize, like he couldn't believe you kept letting him back in. Like he was proud to be wanted, even if only for the night.

You weren’t supposed to catch feelings. Not for either of them.

Definitely not for both.

But then you started smiling when you heard their footsteps. You reached for both of them in your sleep sometimes, not knowing who you were dreaming about.

Every other night, almost like clockwork, one of them would find their way to your door.

You actually had to make a chart. A chart, because you were starting to forget who liked which pillow, who left bruises and who left bite marks. You were scheduling orgasms like mission briefings, trying not to moan the other’s name by mistake— because you could not choose. You held affection for them equally, and it hurt too much to let either of them go. It got to the point where you were on your knees for John in the sauna, still tasting Bucky’s name in your mouth. Or bent over Bucky’s bathtub, still sore from the night before, as he grunted your name against your throat.

And it wasn’t just about the sex anymore.

Bucky started learning your habits like clockwork. He remembered which tea helped when your anxiety hit at 2 a.m. He kept your favourite blanket folded on the couch and would wrap you in it without a word when you looked too far away in your thoughts. On missions, he always messaged when he could, just a single “Still breathing” or a blurry photo of him with his thumbs up. And when he knew he’d be gone too long, he pre-ordered your favourite takeaway to arrive during dinner time. 

John, in his own chaotic way, made a ritual of “jogging” every morning, conveniently ending his route at your favorite coffee shop. The baristas all knew your order by now, and somehow, he always remembered to ask if you needed anything added— extra syrup on bad days, oat milk when your stomach was off. The cup would be in your hands before you were even fully awake, a lopsided smile on his face like he hadn’t just run three miles to bring it to you. 

Afterward, when your bodies were tangled and the room smelled like sweat, they both let you talk about anything and everything. Bucky would lie behind you, chin resting on your shoulder, his fingers tracing shapes into your skin, humming low while you vented about broken code. The next night, John would lie there shirtless, grinning like your voice was the soundtrack to his day, chiming in with half-jokes even when he had no idea what you were talking about.

They didn’t interrupt. They didn’t try to fix you. But Bucky always made sure your favorite hoodie was warm before you put it on. John picked up extra snacks at the store he thought you’d like and left them on your desk without a word. 

With them, you didn’t have to perform. You could just be.

Neither of them never really asked who else you slept with, not in any way that mattered.

Maybe, they just didn’t want to know.

Then… you started watching them.

Not in a weird way.

But you had to. Because somewhere between the fourth orgasm of the week and realising you were genuinely worried about hurting their feelings, you started noticing… things.

You’d catch it in the small stuff first — how Bucky would shift his stance slightly when someone mentioned John’s name. He wasn’t annoyed, it was just… tense. 

Or how John would crack a playful joke at Bucky's expense with just a little too much nervous laughter. Like he was trying to prove it didn’t get under his skin. 

You told yourself it was nothing. Just two men with history, different temperaments, too much testosterone and too many kills between them.

But then came the moments that weren’t so easy to brush off.

Like during training, John tossed Bucky a practice knife with that cocky little grin he got when he was showing off. Bucky catching it mid-air without even glancing up, tossing it back with an underhand spin John blinked, just once—but his ears went a little pink.

Or in the gym, they loved sparring with each other, circling like wolves. You were pretty sure it wasn’t just competitive. Bucky would push a little too hard, like he was daring John to pin him. And John did— just a second too long, straddling Bucky’s hips before standing up too fast, like he suddenly remembered where he was.

In the field, too. One time, a mission went sideways, and Bucky took a hit meant for John— just a graze, but it was messy. And John, who rarely ever panicked, looked like the ground had dropped out from under him. He didn’t even realise he’d said Bucky’s name three times until Yelena touched his shoulder in an attempt to calm him down. 

Then, Bob would complain after walking out of the locker room, telling you John and Bucky had stood side by side as they changed shirts. Apparently, according to Bob, neither looked, but their necks were tense like they were fighting not to.

The week after that, after a tough fight, John was bleeding from a cut along his ribs. You were too tired to play nurse, so Bucky offered. You watched him clean the wound with a gentleness that was only usually reserved for you. John didn’t flinch, he didn’t even look away. When Bucky finally stepped back, he said, “Should’ve been more careful.”

John, who usually scowled when Ava patched him up, answered quietly. “I know.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

One night, they both even showed up at your office for a little visit—separately, but close enough that the timing got awkward. You made up some excuse about being busy dismantling Yelena’s widow bites to send them both away. 

As they stood at the door, Bucky glanced at John. “New haircut?”

John blinked. “Yeah. You noticed?”

Bucky shrugged. “Suits you.”

John’s ears turned red. “Thanks.”

They didn’t make eye contact again before leaving.

That was the first time you really saw it. The… shape of it. It became too persistent to ignore.

Because the more you studied them, the more you started to understand.

Bucky had grown up in a time when you didn’t talk about attraction unless it was for a woman in a red dress. And John… John had that Southern-boy thing. That “yes sir, no sir, God bless America” kind of upbringing that didn’t leave a lot of room for nuance.

Neither of them had been homophobic, but there was shame woven into their bones. Silent, inherited shame, that you once felt yourself, woven so deeply they didn’t even recognise it. They didn’t know what to do with the tension, the quick glances, the way their bodies leaned toward each other before jerking back.

So they wrote it off, buried it.

But you saw it. Because you were sleeping with both of them. Because you knew how they kissed. How they touched. How they looked at each other the same way they looked at you. 

And sometimes… you caught yourself wondering, What if they kissed each other?

Would Bucky be gentle at first, like he didn’t trust it to be real? Would John go still before melting into it like he always did so desperately?

Would it change everything?

—

The week later, you watched above as the gear room buzzed with noise— velcro was ripping, gear shifting, metal clinking, and the buzz of fluorescent lights filled the room. 

Bucky and John were prepping side by side.

They moved like practicing dance— a precise, practiced choreography of compression shirts, tactical pants, holsters, buckles, and chest plates snapping into place. 

Bucky leaned forward to check his knives, his shoulder brushing John’s. 

John didn’t flinch or step away. Instead, he smirked the kind of smile that was either a challenge or a dare.

“You’re slow today, Grandpa,” he said, trying to sound casual, like he wasn’t paying too much attention. Like he hadn’t noticed the contact, but his eyes slid sideways, catching the line of Bucky’s jaw.

Bucky didn’t glance up. “You’re being too skittish. Rookie nerves?”

John chuckled. “Just don’t wanna carry your corpse out of another blown-up warehouse.”

That made Bucky pause. He turned, eyes sharp but not hostile. “You couldn’t lift me if you tried.”

John stepped in, barely an inch closer. “You want me to try?”

For a second, neither moved.

They stood there— inches apart, shoulders squared, as if they were two lions deciding whether to bite or bare their throats.

From the upper level of the gear bay, Ava walked in and settled beside you. 

“Jesus,” Ava whistled low at the sight of the two supersoldiers. “Either they’re about to punch each other, or they’re about to make out on the bench.”

You didn’t look away. “Honestly?” You sighed, “Either would make it so much easier on me.”

Ava turned her head cautiously. “What… did you do?”

You sighed again. “Them.”

She choked on her spit. “What?”

“Not at the same time,” you added quickly, raising both hands in surrender. “It just… happened.”

“Oh my god,” she breathed, laughing somewhere between horrified and impressed. “You actually did it. You overachiever.”

You shrugged helplessly, eyes drifting back to the scene below. 

John was brushing imaginary lint off Bucky’s chest now. Bucky swatted at his hand—but not really. Then adjusted a strap on John’s vest, muttering something that made John roll his eyes. But he didn’t move away, not even when Bucky tugged the strap tighter than necessary.

You tilted your head, frowning. “You ever think…”

Ava cut in. “That they might be bi? Uh, yeah. Look at them. They’re two seconds away from full Top Gun volleyball.”

You heard a voice behind you.

“Oh, those two?”

You turned to find Yelena approaching—completely unfazed, chewing a bubblegum. 

She shrugged. “Bob and I have a bet going on who’s gonna come out first. He thinks Walker. I say Barnes.”

You chuckled. 

Below, John reached over Bucky’s shoulder for a carabiner and absolutely did not need to drag the back of his hand across Bucky’s chest to do it. 

You crossed your arms tighter, heart thudding in your chest as you watched them move around each.

Maybe, just maybe, you weren’t the only one tangled up between the lines.

—

The mission had been a goddamn mess— a high-risk information extraction in tight hallways with zero visibility and bodies coming from every direction. When they were done, getting out felt more like an escape than a strategy. Bucky’s shoulder was wrecked, John’s knuckles were split, raw, and bloodied. 

The flight back was quiet.

No banter or bickering— just the hum of adrenaline simmering beneath the surface. Now, back in the Tower, they sat in the locker room, stripping out of kevlar, breathing hard. 

John was the first to speak up.

“Christ,” he said. “I need to blow off some steam.”

Across from him, Bucky sat hunched forward on the bench, forearms resting on his knees, head bowed. His breathing had steadied, but his heart was ticking like a clock.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, “Me too.”

John leaned back, swiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “What’s your method? Gym? Whiskey?”

Bucky’s head tilted slightly, and like a match had just been struck from behind his eyes. “I’ve got someone.”

John narrowed his eyes. “Someone?”

“Yeah.” Bucky didn’t volunteer any names or details, but his tone changed. It wasn’t cocky— but it was almost a private kind of smug satisfaction.

John’s brow furrowed. “In the Tower?”

Bucky gave a small nod. “Mhm.”

John’s posture shifted. He sat up straighter, body suddenly more alert than it had been during the mission. “Wait. Who?”

John ran through the options quickly, mentally eliminating names like a checklist. Not Ava—definitely a lesbian. Yelena’s ace. Mel was too young for either of them, and no one liked Val. Bucky was straight, right? Which left…

“No,” John said aloud, mostly to himself. “No fucking way.”

Bucky didn’t say a word and started wrapping his shoulder with compression tape.

John’s stomach dropped. His throat tightened. “…You’re not talking about—”

Bucky’s eyes lifted to meet his. “Why?” He arched a brow. “You got a guess?”

A part of John didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to know. But his brain was already lining up all the pieces. 

The look you gave Bucky after missions. The scratches he didn’t remember leaving that definitely weren’t left by human hands. The way Bucky looked at you sometimes—like he was starving and angry about it. In hindsight, it was obvious.

“I…” John cleared his throat, suddenly unsure of how his voice worked. “Yeah. I do.”

And then, he said your name.

Bucky didn’t deny it.

John stared at him—and for the first time, he saw the cuts, the bruises, the fact that he looked like he was safeguarding his own heart. 

“I…” John hesitated, “I am, too,” he finally choked out, barely audible.

There it was.

It all… clicked.

All of it. The missing hours. The bruises in the same spots. The way your voice always changed when you talked about “seeing someone else.” 

“Oh fuck,” Bucky sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You’re the other guy.”

John sighed, “You’re the other guy.”

They stared at each other. Both had trained for war, both had been through too much, but this kind of realisation was... different. 

Not because you lied; you hadn’t. You’d been honest from the beginning. You just never told them it was each other.

And now, they were too deep to pretend it didn’t matter. 

—

Your room was dim, bathed in the amber glow of the bedside salt lamp. Outside the Tower, the city glittered like spilled stars against the velvet in your room. You were in satin— shorts riding high, camisole slipping from one shoulder. 

You hadn’t dressed for anyone but yourself, yet somehow, you found yourself excited when someone knocked on your door.

Barefoot, you walked to the door of your quarters and opened it.

There they stood, both John and Bucky.

John’s eyes burned — wounded and questioning, but desperate not to show either. Bucky, flexed his metal wrist like he couldn’t decide whether to knock again or slam it into the wall.

“Well,” you breathed out, leaning against the doorframe, “either someone died… or you two finally figured it out.”

John brushed past you and entered without a word, while Bucky lingered a second longer, his eyes dragging over the line of your throat, the slope of your bare shoulder. before stepping in and closing the door.

“Make yourselves at home,” you said dryly, but your heartbeat was thundering beneath your skin.

You sank into the couch, letting your legs drape sideways. They didn’t sit.

They circled — not around you — but around each other.

“You should’ve told us,” John said. “Told me.”

“Told you what?” You tilted your head. “That I wasn’t exclusive? I did.”

“No,” Bucky interjected. “That we were both seeing you.”

“And if I had, what?” you arched a brow, “You would’ve compared notes? Flipped a coin?”

John’s lips tightened. “You could’ve said something.”

“You’re just mad you didn’t figure it out on your own,” Bucky grumbled under his breath.

“I should’ve,” John snapped back. “You acted like you owned her.”

“And you weren’t?” Bucky scoffed. “Always marking your territory—”

“Don’t tell me how I—”

You cut in, too tired for this frankly pointless argument. “Is this really about me?” Your voice was more silent now. “Because it feels like you’re trying to fight each other through me.”

John stopped moving. Bucky’s shoulders dropped.

You leaned back, the satin pulling tighter over your thigh, and both their eyes flicked there instinctively, before snapping up with visible guilt. You sighed, resting your arms on the couch behind you.

“If it helps…” you said, treading carefully, “I think you might be into each other, too.”

The look they had behind their eyes was like dropping a match into oil.

“What the hell are you talking about?” John barked.

“No,” Bucky said at the same time. Not angry—terrified.

You tilted your head. “You fight like people who want to fuck or cry, maybe both. You get jealous like people who haven’t admitted how badly they want the other.”

They didn’t speak.

“I’ve had both of you,” you continued, voice intimate now. “I know how you touch. How you look when you want someone. How you breathe when you're holding yourself back. And I see it when you look at each other.”

Bucky looked away first. John opened his mouth before closing it again.

You leaned forward, now pulling the trigger with a statement. “You’re angry because you’re not sure which one of us you’re more jealous of.”

Just like that, they panicked and started talking over each other again, as if they just went into survival mode. “I’m not into guys—” “He’s not my type, at all—” “This is ridiculous—” “She’s deflecting—” “I’m straight—” “So am I!—”

You shifted, letting the silence take its course. The camisole slipped gently off one shoulder, and it pulled their eyes whether they wanted it to or not.

“Boys,” you sighed, barely above a whisper.

They froze. Their breathing slowed—almost in sync.

“I get it,” you continued. “It's confusing. But for fuck’s sake–  stop lying to yourselves.”

Just like that, you felt the air shift, like a fragile click in the clockwork.

Bucky looked at John. And John… blinked like a door opened inside him that he hadn’t even known was locked.

You watched it wash over them: realisation.

Bucky’s lips parted. John took half a step back like it physically knocked the wind from him.

John finally whispered it. “Oh, fuck.”

Bucky shook his head slowly, lips pressed together. “No,” he whispered, eyes wide. “No, no, no—”

But his voice had no conviction. 

You relaxed and patted the couch cushions next to you — two ends, just far enough apart to be safe.

“Sit,” you said gently, like coaxing frightened animals.

Neither moved at first, but they did, eventually. Acquiescence didn’t come easily — not with their pride, their confusion, their egos — but it came.

John dropped down, spine rigid but legs spread wide like he was still braced for a fight. His knuckles were white where they gripped his knees. Bucky sat slower, as if the cushions were barbed wire. His arms stayed crossed, metal fingers tapping restlessly against his bicep. You were still in the middle, legs folded one over the other, satin now higher on your thighs. 

“I know what it’s like,” you said, laying your heart bare, “That click in your head… when you realise. And you don’t know if it’s freedom or a fucking death sentence.”

John’s eyes dropped to the floor, then flicked to Bucky, then away again, teeth grinding like he was trying to swallow glass. Bucky didn’t move, he didn’t even blink— he just stared straight ahead, breathing through his nose like his chest might cave in.

“It’s not a weakness,” you reassured quietly. “It’s not shameful to want something you were always told you shouldn’t.”

The plates of Bucky’s fingers twitched. John’s shoulders hunched.

“And you know what?” you kept going, carefully. “It makes sense that you’re confused. John, you told me about church. About football locker rooms. About your dad.” You turned to Bucky slowly, putting a hand on both their thighs. “And you came from a world where even touching another man too long meant getting locked in a psych ward. Of course you’re scared.”

Bucky’s voice was quiet, but hoarse. “I thought… I didn’t…” He managed to choke out, “I didn’t know.”

“I… I still don’t know,” John admitted, looking down.

“It’s not greedy to want both,” you said. “Or all. Or neither. Or something in between. You don’t have to call it anything. You don’t have to label it today, or tomorrow. But you shouldn't have to lie to yourselves just because the world made it hard to tell the truth.”

Their faces had changed, not dramatically. But the tension was different now. They were less… rigid.

You looked at both of them in turn.

“If you’re bisexual, you’re bisexual. If you’re pan, you’re pan. If all you know right now is that you want him, or you want me, or maybe you want both and it terrifies you—that’s okay.”

You reached for both of their hands—John’s was calloused, Bucky’s was cold vibranium. Your fingers slid between theirs, and neither pulled away.

“You don’t owe anyone certainty, but you shouldn’t deny yourselves that curiosity,” you rubbed soothing circles on their knuckles, “I care about both of you. ’m not trying to push you into something you’re not ready for. But I… see you.”

Their breathing had synced up without meaning to. They were both looking at you, and for once, it was not with jealousy or accusation or distraction—but with… recognition.

“I want this to be okay,” Bucky said, almost a whisper.

“So do I,” John echoed.

“It is okay,” you whispered. “You just have to let it be.”

You leaned in then, not to kiss, not yet — but to rest your forehead lightly against Bucky’s temple, your other hand brushing John’s knuckles as he gripped your knee.

And still, neither of them pulled away from your touch.

That’s when you realised, you weren’t in between them. You were the bridge.

You could feel them both vibrating beside you with something just shy of frenzy, as if touching each other or you would send everything over the edge. You exhaled slowly, before tilting your head toward them.

“Can I test a theory?” you asked, voice too sweet to be true.

They both nodded, eyes locked on you like you’d hung the moon.

You turned to Bucky first, climbing into his lap with grace, knowing exactly how to break a man apart. He choked on his own breath when your knees bracketed his thighs and your weight settled against him. His hands, both metal and flesh, fluttered for a moment, unsure of where to land, before they found your hips. Your lips brushed his—just once, like a tease— before you kissed him properly. He opened to you like a man who’d been holding his breath for decades. Your fingers wound into his hair, tugging, and he groaned softly into your mouth.

John hadn’t moved. You could feel his eyes on you both — on the way Bucky held you, the way your hips rolled. You didn’t see a hint of jealousy, not even a single hint  of possessive rage.

Instead, your theory was proven right. 

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even tense. He was... flushed, breathless, and very, very turned on.

You grinned as you rode one more slow grind into Bucky’s lap—just enough to make his head fall back against the couch with a curse—and then looked over at John.

“C’mere,” you said, voice like a spark to dry kindling.

He came closer. God, did he.

You reached for him as he reached for you, and your lips met in a kiss that was all tongue and heat and frustration burned down into feral need. John’s hands tangled in your hair, tugging, framing your face as you leaned back against Bucky, trapped between them. You moaned into his mouth, felt Bucky’s grip on your waist tighten as he watched.

And Bucky didn’t hate it.

He should have. A week ago, he would’ve punched John for taking what was his.

But now, after listening to you talk through your experiences, he couldn’t bring himself to look away. He loved the flush in John’s cheeks, the way your body writhed between them, the sight of his mouth on yours. He was transfixed. 

You pulled away from John, lips swollen, and looked between them—your two soldiers, your boys.

“I want you to try something,” you said carefully. You nudged gently between them, drawing them closer together. “Only if you want to.”

They hesitated, if only for a second. 

Then—almost in sync—they nodded.

And you watched as John turned to Bucky, watched as the uncertainty warred with curiosity in both of them. 

It started clumsy, just a brush of mouths— more uncertainty than contact.

But then they clicked.

Bucky’s hand came up to cradle John’s neck. John leaned in. The kiss deepened, it became urgent. Mouths opening, tongues sliding together, a shared breath between them. A shocked noise escaped one of them—you couldn’t tell who.

You slid off Bucky’s lap, legs folding under you as you perched on the coffee table in front of them, watching them kiss like they were unraveling everything they thought they knew about themselves. 

When they finally broke apart, it was almost… unwilling.

“What,” John blinked, dazed, “The fuck.”

Bucky was still touching his neck, his thumb rubbing slow circles. “I… liked that.”

You leaned in slowly, a smile curling at your lips as your mouth brushed Bucky’s ear, then John’s.

“Atta boys,” you whispered. “Told you. Nothing wrong with this.”

Your hands slid lightly across their thighs— just enough to make their breaths hitch again.

“Now,” you murmured, eyes dark. “I think it’s time we all blow off some steam.”

Their hands moved at the same time. One flesh, one metal. Both hungry, both learning how to be unafraid. They met midair, just inches from your thighs.

John’s calloused palm grazed Bucky’s vibranium knuckles, and both of them flinched like the contact had short-circuited their programming.

Then, you leaned back onto your hands on the table, satin parting at your thighs, fabric slipping open like a curtain revealing a show. Your legs shifted slightly apart as an invitation. As an anchor.

“Touch me together,” you whispered. “No one’s losing. You’re both here with me. With each other.”

You guided them up — gently threading your fingers through theirs, dragging their hands together up your thigh. You felt the tremble in both of them.

“Still scared?” you asked.

They nodded.

“Still want this?”

They answered in two voices, almost overlapping “Yeah.”

You dragged them both closer, until Bucky’s mouth was at your throat, his tongue tracing the beat of your pulse. John kissed your jaw like he wanted to bury every doubt he’d ever had.

You didn’t try to split the attention, and you didn't need to.

They were learning how to exist together. 

You caught Bucky’s hand and placed it flat against John’s chest, just over his heart.

“Feel that?” you told him. “He’s not the enemy.”

John’s breath hitched, but he didn’t move away. His fingers hovered, then wrapped slowly over Bucky’s wrist, holding him there. 

And then… without any direction from you, they… kissed again.

You watched, heat pooling low in your belly.

“Look at you,” you praised, almost reverent. “Figuring it out.”

John broke the kiss first, breathless. “I kissed a guy,” he whispered, like it hadn’t really hit him until just then.

“And you liked it,” Bucky said, almost amused.

You slid into John’s lap, letting your legs straddle him as you reached for Bucky, curling your fingers into the waistband of his jeans to pull him closer. The three of you tangled—hands on skin, mouths finding mouths, exploring, relearning what wanting felt like when it wasn’t laced with shame.

You tugged your top over your head. You were bare from the waist up, and their eyes followed, even as you helped them out of their clothes.

“I’ve got you,” you reassured, almost affectionately. “Both of you. Let go.”

And they did.

—

Hours later, the room was wrecked.

Sheets were half-hanging from the mattress. Your pajama shorts were slung over a lamp. Bucky’s dog tags tangled in the headboard, and John’s shirt was on the other side of the room. The air still smelled like skin and sweat and sex.

You were curled between them, blissed out, your limbs a lazy sprawl of post-chaos satisfaction. Bucky’s arm was draped over your waist like he’d claimed the space and wasn’t letting go. John lay on the other side, hands behind his head like a man pretending this wasn’t the first time he’d shared a bed with someone he couldn’t label.

“Well,” John finally said, clearing his throat, “that was… something.”

Bucky snorted without opening his eyes. “That’s your takeaway? ‘Something’? Jesus, Walker.”

John turned his head to glare at him, cheeks flushed. “Sorry, didn’t realise we were supposed to be doing slam poetry after an orgy.”

“It’s a threesome, technically,” Bucky corrected, just out of spite.

John rolled his eyes. “You’re technically so annoying for someone so hot.”

You made an amused sound between them, stretching with feline satisfaction. Your fingers traced a lazy line up Bucky’s chest, then reached across your stomach to trace the veins on John’s arm.

“You’re both very chatty for two people who just had their minds blown,” you said, lips quirked up.

John rubbed his face, groaning into his hands. “Yeah, well, I’m trying really hard not to overthink the fact that I—” He gestured vaguely, as if the admission physically hurt. “—liked it.”

Bucky cracked one eye open. “Define ‘it.’”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I really don’t. Be specific.”

John sighed dramatically, like a teenager admitting he cried during Toy Story. “You,” He choked out. “Okay? You.”

Bucky tilted his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, but it didn't look smug. A little touched, maybe. “You’re actually gonna say it out loud.”

John rolled his eyes. “You fucked me too, Barnes. Don’t act like you didn’t make that noise when—”

“Alright, alright,” Bucky cut in, holding up a hand. “Let’s not do a play-by-play.”

You bit your lip, half-laughing, half-listening — but you saw it. The edge under the jokes. The old fear, the years of conditioning.

So you pushed up on one elbow and reached for them both. 

John closed his eyes. “I do. Like you. And…” He opened his eyes just to look at Bucky. “Him too, apparently.”

Bucky sighed, looking up at the ceiling.

“Do you… ever wonder,” he said, tentatively, like he was stepping into an old wound, “what it would’ve been like if we’d been allowed to figure this out sooner?”

John could only nod. “Maybe,” he started, “I wouldn’t have been so hard on myself.”

“You’re here now,” you whispered. “You’ve got time, and…” you paused to press soft kisses to each of their shoulders, before settling back against the pillows with a content hum.  “You’re both mine. And maybe… just a little bit each other’s too.”

Bucky let out a chuckle. “We should be terrified.”

“I am” John said, already half-asleep. “But I don’t wanna run from it.”

Neither did Bucky.

Neither did you.

And as sleep pulled you all under, John mumbled one last thing, almost inaudible, “Still think I’m a better kisser.”

Bucky, slurring now, breathed out, “Debatable.”

—-

You did not wake up all at once.

The sun was too bright over the curtains. Someone’s – probably Bucky’s— thigh was over your legs. And there was definitely an elbow — probably John’s — wedged in the small of your back.

You shifted slowly, careful not to disturb the fragile peace.

Bucky made a quiet, muffled sound into the pillow and curled in closer, hair a mess across his cheek. John just groaned and rolled the other way, nearly falling off the bed, dreamily saying something about "needin’ a chiropractor" and "why do you bite."

Oh, he needed a chiropractor? Funny. Last time you checked, you were the only non-supersoldier here.

Not that you were complaining.

You cracked an eye open and saw your pajama top on the floor a couple feet away. Bucky’s henley was closer. That would do.

You dragged yourself from the tangle of limbs, tugging the henley over your head. It smelled like him — clean, metal and cedar. You walked quietly to the door, only grabbing an old mug on your way out.

The hallway was cold.

The common room, thank fuck, was not.

Bucky wandered in a minute after you, hair tied back with a rubber band he’d found on the doorknob, wearing John’s grey sweatpants. John followed a few seconds later, in Bucky’s boxers and your fluffy pink slippers — clearly stolen in desperation.

You raised an eyebrow.

He blinked at you. “What?”

“Slippers.”

“They were closer than my self-respect.”

Fair.

Bucky glanced down at the sweats and sniffed as he sat down on the couch. “Why do your sweatpants smell like an Axe spray bomb?”

John rolled his eyes and gestured at his current outfit. “Why do your boxers ride up my ass?”

From the armchair in the corner, Bob looked up from his Sudoku book and smiled. “Oh! You all learned how to share,” he exclaimed, “That’s nice.”

John jumped, none of you realising that he was even there in the first place.

Bucky coughed into his cup of water like he’d swallowed a fork.

You dropped onto the couch beside them with the blankest face you could manage. “Morning, Bob.”

Bob tilted his head. “So, you had a sleepover?”

“We had a revelation,” Bucky said dryly. John, who was sitting in between you and Bucky now, nudged his metal arm. “We had a lot of things.”

You kicked him lightly under the coffee table. He didn’t even flinch. He was too tired, too exhausted in all the best ways.

Bob leaned forward with a curious sparkle in his eyes. “Is it because you’re all dating now? Or… dating-adjacent? dating-ish.”

You chuckled. “You’re weirdly chill about this.”

Bob beamed. “I watched a lot of Bojack Horseman in recovery. I learned… a lot from that show.” He shrugged before giving John a proud thumbs-up. “Proud of you, buddy.”

You snorted into your coffee, while John managed a half-hearted salute, pink slippers dangling off his toes.

Then, you heard a SLAM.

The door burst open.

Alexei stormed in wearing the same shirt as last night — his hair rumpled with bloodshot eyes.

“I could not sleep,” he declared flatly. “Your room is next to mine. Next. To. Mine.”

Bucky lowered his mug. John looked like he was calculating if the toaster could double as a coffin.

Alexei’s eyes were cold and full of fury. “You screamed,” he said to Bucky. “Like we were under nuclear threat. I prepared go-bag before I realised it was sex.”

Bucky’s ears turned pink. “I...Sorry?”

“And Walker!” Alexei turned his glare to John. “You sounded like angry raccoon!”

John shuffled your slippers in shame.

“Do not even get me started on you!” he pointed at you, “I thought it was bad with one of them. I was wrong. Both is worse.” Alexei grabbed a mug of coffee like it was vodka, slammed it back like a shot, and let out a deep breath. “You all are lucky I support the gay,” he said. “But next time maybe do not explore your sexuality like… freight train.”

Bucky sank down on the couch. “We should really get Alexei noise-canceling headphones.”

You stood, grabbed a glass of water, and handed it to him. “Sorry, old man,” you winced, “I’ll upgrade the armouring on your suit, if that makes up for it?”

Alexei sighed, hand to his heart, and looked to the ceiling. “This is my penance. For being terrible father in past. I accept it.”

You all laughed — Bucky with a breathy chuckle, John with a wheezing groan, even Bob with a little grin that warmed up the whole room.

You leaned over, kissing Both John and Bucky temples as Bucky tugged the waistband of the boxers John was wearing — his own, technically — and pulled him closer. 

John mumbled into Bucky’s shoulders. “Guess we’re doing this.”

Bucky nodded, pouting playfully as he pulled you back on the couch. “Guess so.”

Bob, watching the three of you squished into one couch cushion, just sipped his tea with a sigh of exaggerated patience.

“Well,” he said, glancing back at his Sudoku, “at least it’s good for team bonding.”

—

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault @average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @boy--wonder--187 @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life @rIphunter

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst @wingstoyourdreams @lori19

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23 @fan4astic

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt @softpia 

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125 @buckybarneswife125

@imaginecrushes @phoenixes-and-wizards @94namkooksworld @maryevm

[lauufeydottir]

Keep Your Heart, Cause I Already Got One

[part one | part two | part three | part four]

As the Thunderbolts make their way through The Void, Walker ends up a witness to one of your shame rooms, a past you've kept close to your chest for decades.

[Reader is a mutant with the power to manipulate blood, and has a serum-induced healing factor similar to Wolverine's. Former Widow and Avenger, current Thunderbolt.]

john walker x fem!reader words: 2.6k

cw: canon typical violence, detailed descriptions of death, lots of blood, enemies to reluctant allies back to enemies, slow burn, multi-chapter (18+ MDNI) a/n: wow it's been like four years since I posted fanfic online. thunderbolts has me in a choke hold, this will likely be a few parts just to test the waters.

i am not a woman, i’m a god - halsey

You and John Walker never got along.

Not in Latvia, when you joined Sam and Bucky during the Flag Smashers situation, which then became a Walker situation when Lemar Hoskins was killed in combat. Not after, when you had no purpose without the Avengers, and signed your soul over to Valentina just to feel something. And not in the vault, where it had been your assignment to take him out, a chance you’d had before the group realized the trap they were in and didn’t take. There isn’t much of a shift between you, even when the group is forced to band together against Valentina. And when The Thunderbolts take the risk to save Yelena and Bob from The Void, you decide the universe must really have it out for you when Walker ends up in one of your shame rooms by mistake.

Your first room is naturally your first kill in the Red Room. A little unoriginal given the circumstances, but your recollection of the event is foggy, hidden behind decades of brainwashing and trauma. You watch the loop a few times, stone-faced as the image of your twelve-year-old self gets blood that isn’t your own on your hands for the first time. It’s the kill that started it all, and you can’t even remember the other girl’s name.

There’s subtle movement in your peripheral vision, and for a minute, you think it’s going to be more of this specific memory. But when you turn towards the shattered mirror, you see a flash of navy blue and the outline of a shield bent in half. Smashing the rest of the broken pieces away with your elbow, you dive through the frame, landing in an ungraceful heap as the room around you shifts too quickly for you to make sense of it.

And once you can finally understand your surroundings, you’re frozen in place, despite your brain pleading with you to move.

It’s a Hydra bunker— one you’re intimately familiar with.

The walls are lined with rusted, dilapidated metal sheets, and when the overhead lights stop flickering enough to actually illuminate the area, they’re dim, only just bright enough to see a few feet at a time. The atmosphere is menacing, but not overwhelmingly threatening with the smell of disinfectant in the air. It’s like knowing a jump scare is coming up in a horror movie you’ve seen a hundred times and still falling for it anyway. It’s the absence of life that plants the sinking feeling in your gut, quickly blooming into full-blown nausea. You know exactly what piece of your past this is, precisely where this path leads. Then, you hear your name called, and that’s not a detail you remember— they’d only ever called you The Mutant— and your head snaps in the opposite direction.

“…Is that you?” Walker calls from the shadows behind you. Of course, John Walker had to find his way here.

“It’s me, Walker,” you sigh. Your trepidation spreads throughout the rest of your body as you realize you’ll both have to get past this room, your guilt, to get out.

“Good...” John murmurs to himself, relieved, his footsteps becoming more confident, comfortable even, as he makes his way to your side. He takes in the sight of you, reading the grimace on your face, your still posture. “I take it you know where this is?” He glances away from your uneasy expression, scanning the hall for active threats, clearing his throat awkwardly. The two of you have never really been alone together, and this is certainly not how he’d pictured team bonding would go.

“Hydra base,” you reply stiffly, hollow eyes finding his as he steps up to your side. You don’t know what Walker actually knows of your past, of Hydra. Some of its public information, a good chunk of rumors and speculation, but most won’t even dare speak your name. Your heart is racing, your body growing heavier with each deep, shaky inhale, bracing yourself for what's about to happen. The past you have no choice but to let Walker witness firsthand. Your hands tremble as you begin to lead him down the dark corridor, your back teeth grinding together in restraint. The memory is vivid, the sense of distress and apprehension thick, perfectly designed by The Void to make it feel like you’re reliving it all over again.

John finds himself staring at the back of your head, brow furrowing into a questioning frown as he watches you tense, your entire frame wound tight. Your reaction is odd to him; typically, you’re so composed, so stone-faced in the path of danger. In Latvia, you’d been perfectly poised as you helped Sam and Bucky take him down to get the shield back. The pair stalk down the hallway, his gaze trailing down to your hands, noticing the visible tremors. Whatever this is, it’s hard for you. He’s never seen anything be difficult for you. You were a hero, a real Avenger— a symbol he’d failed to aspire to— and inadvertently he’s despised you for it. He can hear the erratic rhythm of your racing pulse, his own speeding up to match yours. He follows your lead dutifully, a half-step behind you, bent shield at the ready. If you’re scared, he should be too.

You lead Walker into the dodgy lab, still knowing the route by heart all these decades later. You almost wish it were any of the other Thunderbolts here with you, but you suppose John might be the one who will pity you the least. The lab is crawling with Hydra scientists busy at work and guards armed to the teeth. The mirage of people don’t acknowledge the two of you as you step past the threshold. But instantly, across the room, your eyes land on the cryogenic freezer in the center.

Beyond the frosted glass rests a younger visage of you, your unconscious body frozen in its place, a blinking collar strapped around your neck meant to suppress your mutation. The scientists study your unmoving body clinically as they rush to duplicate your genetics, their intention to isolate which one of the many different super-serums they forced on you finally stuck.

John takes in the sight of the Hydra base as he follows you like a guard dog, the only way he can describe the atmosphere is just wrong. It takes him a second to notice the cryogenic freezer, and immediately his stomach turns. There’s a strangely familiar figure inside it, but his eyes don’t linger on the unresponsive body contained within the glass. He’s more focused on the real version standing beside him.

“...That’s you…?” It isn’t exactly a question, but it’s the best he can offer— words feel foreign on his tongue right now. You’re frozen solid. “What... happened?”

“The one and only,” you lament bitterly, watching the past vision of yourself, too fearful to even blink, in anticipation. “Just watch.” Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Walker open his mouth for more questions, but before he can ask them, the power cuts out. It at once sends the scientists and guards into a frenzy, red emergency lights flashing overhead, giving vague glimpses into the pandemonium every few seconds. You suspect Walker is about to bolt, always prepared to jump headfirst into the action, but it isn’t necessary, and you reach out to hold him back with an arm wrapped around his bicep. His stare shifts between the panic surrounding them and you, his brain trying to process exactly what he’s seeing, but he soon finds himself unable to move as you keep him anchored in place.

‘Just... watch.’

The order doesn’t sit right with him at all. He’s just supposed to stand here and do nothing? His entire being is screaming at him to just... move— but the argument dies on his tongue at the desperation in your grasp, and he stays put. There’s another moment of pitch black before the room is illuminated once more in an eerie crimson, only the panicked voices of the guards echoing throughout the lab as they try to find the source of the outage. They know every second is one closer to death, and you already know that all of their efforts end up being wasted. They never had a chance.

In other shame rooms, you’ve had to fight your way out. But in this one, neither of you will have to lift a finger.

Across the room, the illusion of your frozen body is backlit by the pale blue emitted from the cryogenic chamber, still unmoving, seemingly unaware. Then, the room is bathed in shadow again, and at once a screeching alarm pierces the air, followed by an ominous hiss. When the red light flashes this time, the cryogenic chamber is empty, the door barely hanging on its hinges. Walker’s gaze darts between the past and you in the present, chilled to the bone at how you already know what’s going to happen before it ever does— Like you’ve seen it a million times.

“What the hell...?” John whispers, his eyes scanning the area once more, hoping to see a sign of... something— But finds nothing but panicking agents. Steam fills the room, the remnant chill from the chamber seeping out into the air, the crimson lights reflecting off the fog. There’s a second faint click, and the power dampener collar is chucked into the wall, cracking on impact.

Your past self stands on shaking feet in the center of the room, your silhouette illuminated in a crimson glow, a fitting visage. In the present, you have no time to brace yourself as the lights flash back off, the temperature rising as the sound of the alarm gives way to feeble screams for help and automatic gunfire. A despondent, tortured cry follows, echoing through the room, reminiscent of a banshee. Your grip on Walker’s arm tightens, no longer holding him in place but onto him, unwilling to gage his reaction. John is trying to keep his eyes locked on the past-you in the middle of the lab, but with your speed and the flashing lights, it’s difficult. Everywhere, chaos continues to break loose, his eyes surveying every corner of the room as it’s lit up by the blinding red. Your hold on his arm grounds him, but he’s too entranced by what’s happening to read into your touch. You’re… terrifying, but not in the way that most would think. Terrifying in the sense that you look so powerful. You’re fast, efficient, and downright deadly. Everything he assumes they made you to be. Instinctively, his hand rests over yours in a firm grip as if to say: It’s all right…

And then, just like that, the power is restored, overhead lights flicking back on to reveal a scene that can only be described as complete and utter carnage. Hydra casualties lie strewn about the room, not one soul left spared, pools of blood seeping into the cracked tile. Some of the bodies look peaceful, like they barely put up a fight, as if they’d known all along what they were doing was wrong and were accepting punishment. Others lay in crooked angles, their skin sliced and battered, bones crumpled, the horror in their lifeless eyes nothing compared to what’s coursing through your body.

And in the middle of it all stands the younger illusion of you, half-dressed and drenched head to toe in blood that isn’t yours. Your body is riddled with gunshot wounds, and after a beat, the bullets clang softly to the ground as your accelerated healing pushes them from your skin, the wounds stitching themselves back together in a way that looks painful. The scene is a brutal, sickening mess of viscera. Yet, the most unnerving is your countenance, bone-chilling and completely apathetic.

And then, past-you bursts into tears without warning, falling to your knees on the bloodied ground in utter relief.

John’s heart feels as though it’s about to beat right out of his chest, the memory holding more brutality than anything he’s ever seen in his life. There’s a sick sense of satisfaction that washes over him, knowing those scum had been dealt with in such a merciless fashion, but the fact that you were the one to send them to their maker is difficult to grasp. His hand clasped over yours stays firm, still trying to provide you some sort of comfort, his eyes flicking back to the real you.

A beat passes before John finds the courage to speak. He clears his throat, muttering, “Is…this… real?” He has to ask, he has to know how much of it did, in fact, really happen. It might have been a lifetime ago for you, but for John, it was brand new.

You regard the past version of yourself blankly, your body trembling. Your brain is overwhelmed with the flood of emotions you’re reliving thanks to the illusion, and it’s all-consuming, just as raw as the day it happened. Your eyes are still glued on your past self, unable to spare yourself from the sight.

“I lived this,” you finally say, struggling to find a decent explanation, your voice coming out as a hoarse whisper. Your hold on his arm slackens, but you still don’t release him altogether. “I’d been Hydra’s lab rat for decades at that point.” You don’t notice the way you absentmindedly lean into his side as you steady your breathing, the image of the bloodbath and your visceral reaction to it still playing in your head like it was only yesterday.

Walker’s entire being shudders when you make yourself comfortable at his side, but he manages to keep himself stable, staring down at you. This is so much worse than he could have ever imagined. He knew you’d been Hydra at one point, that bad things had happened to you, but he never knew the severity of the situation, the horrors that you had to undergo. He wraps his arm around your shoulders, both to give you security and to steady you beside him. He’s having a tough time processing what just happened, but this isn’t his shame to carry.

“Let’s get you out of here, before it—“ Before it starts again.

You let Walker pull you in and press you against his side, still trembling, but the foreign comfort from him grounds you in the current moment, away from the horrors of your past. You suck a deep breath in as you finally force yourself away from the display in front of you, giving yourself a reprieve from watching your trauma unfold.

“...Yeah,” you mutter, the utterance shaky. You give one last glance at your past self, tears streaming down your cheeks and cutting through the blood on your face, looking so small surrounded by the carnage. “Let’s go.”

John’s mind is clouded, overwhelmed from witnessing a memory so horrifying and personal, but he tries to push it all aside as he guides you out of the shame room. He keeps his arm securely around your shoulders, just making sure you don’t stumble or go completely limp. He tells himself it’s all for your sake, not his own discomfort, that he needs to keep his brain focused on moving because he isn’t sure he can take another room like that one.

The pair find their way out eventually, crashing through a wall and right into Bob’s attic with the rest of The Thunderbolts. You’re more stable by then and break away from John’s hold before anyone else can notice your uncharacteristic closeness. As a team, they manage to squash Bob’s demons, settling The Void within him, the lot of them embracing each other in a mess of limbs as they fall back into the disrupted streets of New York, like nothing had ever happened.

It’s a whirlwind from there. Valentina luring them in front of the press and announcing them as the New Avengers, all while you and John orbit each other cautiously, never quite addressing what you’d witnessed together in The Void.

[lauufeydottir]

“it only leads to trouble” - john walker x fem!reader

summary: you suppose it’s natural to touch people who you live and work with. you touch everyone on the team. walker does, too. so you don’t know why it bothers you so much when he touches you.

pairing: john walker x fem!reader

word count: 3.3k

warnings: thunderbolt!reader, reader has spider powers (similar to spider-gwen’s), physical fight scene, mentions of violence, idiots in love (but they don’t know it yet), tension, that’s it for now

author’s note: babes I’ve never posted a fic before. i’ve written a few, but they’ve never made it to actual posting. there are so few john walker fics and he gave me a brainworm, so I had to help fill the void. please enjoy. also this picture makes me laugh 🤭

The most annoying habit of John Walker’s was his tendency to touch people.

You saw it amid battle, when he helped Ava launch towards a target. Or when he and Bucky went back to back, spinning and folding around each other, each using the other to cover their back.

When he trained with Yelena, the two of them adjusting each other’s stances for improvement.

When he played video games with Alexei, and they celebrated a win, grabbing each other by the arms and shaking hard while yelling in victory.

When he interacted with Bob, clasping a hand on his shoulder as he looked over at what the quiet man was reading or eating.

It was natural to touch people when you worked together and lived together, you reasoned with yourself. You trained with Bucky, shared food with Yelena, cuddled under the same blanket with Ava during movie night, and listened to Alexie when he grabbed you by the shoulders and attempted a pre-battle pep talk.

You touched everyone on the team. And Walker did, too. So you don’t know why it bothered you so much when he did it.

Maybe it was the way that he touched people that bothered you. He wasn’t hesitant, like Bob; considerate, like Yelena; brief, like Bucky; or fatherly, like Alexei.

No, John Walker didn’t just touch people. He grabbed them.

With his militial history and the super-soldier serum, you figured it made sense that each action he took was underscored by a certainty and strength. When John Walker acted, it was with confidence, however false. Beneath his skin, there was a thrumming of power—a poorly-contained vigor that released in bursts of energy and might. He was like a spring mouse trap, both physically and verbally, constantly braced and prepared to launch fists or words.

The comfort and self-assurance in his actions bled over from battle into daily life, and his daily life happened to include the rest of the team, which also happened to include you.

Before John Walker, you never had a problem with touch. Before he made a habit of adjusting you in training, grabbing you without warning and moving your arm this way, kicking apart your legs that way, or correcting the way your hip was angled, all in the name of a better fighting stance. You’d stand there in shock, the heat from his hands—really, his paws—bleeding through your training gear.

Before he made a routine of stepping into your personal space, leaning down to mutter quips or snarky comments in your ear about something or someone in a low husky tone. You froze in the presence of his sturdy body, his chest milimeters from your back, squeezing the air out of your atmosphere.

You shivered.

There were other things that bothered you about Walker, too.

Like how he made a habit of being a self-confident asshole.

He bickered, took Yelena and Ava’s verbal bait that launched the three into never-ending arguments, and was incapable of controlling his words and volume when he was frustrated. Some days he tried—was able to bite his tongue—but you could see the lingering aggression in the way he clenched his jaw and flexed his large hands, neck twitching minutely to the side, blue eyes looking up to the sky as if to help himself calm down.

He was capable of having a shitty attitude that bothered most of the team on a good day, and on a bad day he was similar to an overly strong, downright petulant man-child.

And honestly, you were pretty good about hiding your… touch problem with Walker. You got along with him pretty well, all things considered, and had found it pretty easy to stay out of his way and have a somewhat congenial relationship with the blonde super soldier.

He was just annoyingly large, and he was fucking tall, and overall he made you very, very uncomfortable. As long as you avoided taking his snarky bait and stayed, as a general rule, about 5 feet away from him at all times, you were in the clear of all confrontation—verbal and physical—with John Walker.

*****

It came to a head in Nuuk.

The team had been sent to Greenland to investigate a distress signal coming from an old, underground, abandoned S.H.I.E.L.D. testing site. The quinjet, piloted by Bucky, was heading towards the uninhabitable north, the location of the testing site, when the radio started picking up local calls.

Something was happening in the capital city, and Bucky had to quickly re-route there.

You awoke to the creaking of metal as the quinjet took a sharp turn, rubbing sleep quickly from your eyes. It had been a rough night last night, plagued with nightmares that kept you in a continuous loop of falling asleep and waking up soon after, heart pumping too fast to be able to fall back asleep. Then, when you eventually would, it was back to a nightmare again. A vicious cycle that resulted in dragging yourself out of bed at mission call time with bags under your eyes and a drained body.

You scanned the jet to find Bucky and Yelena at the helm, discussing some form of approach. Alexei was sitting in a jump seat a few seats down, pumping his fist to what he called his “hype playlist”. Ava was asleep beside him, undisturbed by the movements and low singing of the oldest super soldier.

The final soldier you noticed last, standing towards the back of the jet, one arm raised and his fist wrapped in a fabric ceiling handle, stabilizing himself as he stood.

He looked every part of a weary soldier, you thought, as he stood there. There was a looseness in his form, as he swayed on his feet with the movements of the jet, but a tightness in how he clenched the handle holding him upright. As though his body was tired, but he wouldn’t allow himself to relax, forcing himself to stay up while everyone else on the team sought rest in the few moments before the inevitable battle.

You observed him in the low light, details difficult to make out, but his silhouette clear. The way he stood wide-stanced, his tactical gear emphasizing his lean yet sturdy silhouette. He was bulky, but not overly built—athletic with enough muscle to pack a finishing punch or jump 30 feet into the air. His head nearly brushed the ceiling of the jet.

How annoying, you thought, that someone as frustrating as John Walker was allowed to be so tall.

It was only when your eyes decided to trail from his broad shoulders upwards that you noticed that he was looking at you.

Your eyes met briefly, his blue eyes darkened by the way his brow furrowed as he looked at you. How long had he been looking at you? More importantly, how long had he been looking at you, looking at him?

“What, is something wrong?” He asked, mouth downturned.

You blanched. “No, no. Just… tired.”

Walker scoffed. “Dunno how you can be tired when you slept the whole way here.”

And there it was. A snappy retort. Normally you wouldn’t bite, but sleep had been so hard last night, and you really weren’t in the mood, and—

“How do you know I slept the whole way here? Were you watching me?” You accused, leaning forward in your jump seat and resting your forearms on your knees, tone sharp.

You could see his bicep tighten as he twisted his wrist, re-wrapping his hand around the ceiling handle and tensing. Successfully baited.

“I didn’t have to watch you to know you were sleeping. Your snoring gave it away.” He clenched out from between his teeth, brow furrowing further.

Brain still riddled with sleep, you gave up on cleverness. “You’re such a—“

“Girls, you’re both pretty,” came Yelena’s uninterested voice from the cockpit. “Now please, stop bickering so we can plan what the hell we are going to do when we land.”

You sighed and leant back in your seat, crossing your arms over your chest and looking away from Walker.

He, however, had different plans.

You heard his heavy footfalls on the metal floor as he took a few steps closer to where you sat. You willed yourself not to look up.

“I’m such a what, Bug?” He asked lowly, teasing in a quiet voice, quiet enough for it to be missed by everyone else.

Blood boiling, eyes narrowed, and a scowl on your face, you looked up quickly. And you really, really shouldn’t have.

Walker stood above you, his head tilted to the side and slightly downwards. His lips drew into a mocking smirk when he saw your facial expression. Surely revelling in the fact that the immature nickname had successfully gotten under your skin.

Up close like this, you felt the air grow thinner. His mass nearly blocked out the rest of the jet around you, his shoulders taking up a stupid amount of space. His blue eyes—lighter up close like this, you noticed—flickered across your face, soaking up your rare show of frustration.

“Say what you were going to say,” he murmured teasingly, lips returning to his signature annoying smirk that had your fists tightening and your face flushing.

Your eyes flickered to Walker’s lips, pink and plush, and suddenly the air was too stuffy with the smell of him this close, and his breath was too warm across your face, and—

Cheeks burning, you lifted your forearm and used it as a bar to push firmly against his chest, attempting to put some space between the two of you. It did nothing, as he was built like a brick wall and hardly moved from your pushing alone. However, he backed away once your arm made contact with his chest, understanding your intention.

“Get out of my face, Walker,” you murmured, crossing your arms again and leaning back in your seat.

As you closed your eyes to avoid looking at him for too long, you missed the disappointed look that crossed his face. You had given up, and John found himself unsatisfied.

*****

The fight in Nuuk didn’t take long to handle. Jailbroken and reprogrammed Stark bots swarmed the small city and attacked the team upon arrival. They were fast and their guns were powerful, but they were fragile due to age and the many years they were left to rust.

After some initial fighting, Yelena and Bucky had left to intercept the control center, found by Ava underneath the city. Which left you, Alexie, and Walker fighting the remaining bots on the street level.

You shot a web towards a nearby window ledge 4 floors up, tugged, and launched yourself into the sky with your legs first, toes pointed, colliding with a bot and kicking its metal head clean off. Landing swiftly on the window ledge, you surveyed the field.

There was Alexei, barging into a crowd of Stark bots. He threw his arms outward as he stormed through, clotheslining most of them and ripping the others apart with his hands. A loud bellow, part laugh and part war cry, emerged from him.

A little closer, on the sidewalk in front of the building you perched on, you saw Walker fighting a different crowd of bots.

A group approached him from the front, unleashing their bullets upon him. He launched his shield in an arch, cutting through the group with minimal effort. You had picked up his shield before—that was no easy task, to throw it with that much power.

Another few bots approached him from both sides, causing him to unholster his gun and shoot one side down before swiftly jumping up and side kicking the remaining bots on his other side.

He landed on both feet and sharply shrugged his shoulders forward, huffing like a bull. He did that a lot during fights, you had noticed, almost as though he was re-igniting his adrenaline. His blonde hair fell in front of his eyes, helmet long gone. Wiping a hand across his brow, he smeared more sweat and dirt upon his forehead and face. He was covered in dust, and you figured you probably were too.

He looked like an animal.

You felt your muscles tighten.

Before you could get lost watching him, a trio of bots on a hoverbike approached you, firing bullets. You shot a web onto one, and grabbing the web with both hands, you pulled it away from the hoverbike before ramming it back into the unit, sending the whole group smashing into a building across from you.

You returned your attention to Walker, where he was fighting off a larger horde of bots, launching his shield, shooting his gun, and throwing his fists. You had to give it to him, despite your argument earlier—he was taking on double the bots you were in your tired state.

The bots around Walker began to multiply, swarming him from all sides and causing his movements to become slower. One grabbed onto his side, and swiftly Walker caught his shield, swung it around his chest, and, gritting his teeth, smashed the shield into the bot’s head.

They were gaining on him, and fast. He had resorted to grabbing them with his empty hands and breaking them anyway he could—smashing them into each other, over his knee, and crushing a few heads with his hands alone.

For a moment you were stunned by his movements, his brawny body a blur as he wielded his powerful hands.

Quickly from your position above, you started grabbing assisting your teammate—grabbing bots with your webs, using their bodies to yank some away and then knock others into each other a few at a time. Walker hadn’t seemed to have notice your positioning yet. Your webbing, combined with his calculated fighting, began knocking down the Stark bots’ numbers quick.

One of the last remaining bots latched onto his back, pulling at his face from behind with its mechanical hands. It covered his eyes, surely digging into his skin, and Walker let out a groan as he tried to rip the creature off his face with his hands, shield discarded.

Hurriedly, you shot a web at the creature, yanking it off of him with all of your might, and flung it into the building below you.

The super soldier turned quickly, looking for the source of his salvation. He tilted his head upward, blue eyes squinting in the sun as they found you above him.

For a moment you stayed there, staring at him as he stared back. The fight now finished, he stood—motionless, shieldless—his arms lax by his side as he stared.

Why was he staring?

As you pondered him, you spotted a bot approaching from behind. It carried a large blade, swung backwards over its head with two hands, prepared to strike down upon your ally.

Who was still turned away, looking at you.

Before you could spit out a warning to Walker, on instinct you slung a web at him, landing it right in the middle of his abdomen. He looked down, stunned, and then blinked back up at you as you grasped the web with two hands and pulled.

The bearded soldier stumbled forward a few steps, just enough to miss the blade slicing through the air and sinking into the ground behind him. He whirled around on the creature, accidentally yanking you forward a little by the web still connecting you, and punched it square in its center, sending the bot careening into a concrete wall.

For a moment, you paused—relieved—before glass rained down upon your head as a something slammed into your body from above. You crumpled into a pile with what you soon discovered was a bot, quickly attempting to throw it off. It gained on you, holding you down on your back, and for a few moments you tumbled with the creature, trying to stay on the ledge while keeping its hands from your throat. Eventually, you slammed your foot into its center, kicking the bot up and off of the ledge.

You heard a male voice shout your name—John—and turned to see a large hovercraft careening directly towards you and your perch from above, milliseconds from making impact.

Suddenly, you were jerked by your wrist and yanked from the ledge. Before you could make any sense of direction you collided with a solid surface, hard.

A grunt sounded from above you, and a heavy weight wrapped around your waist.

Head spinning, you looked up to see Walker staring down at you, dirty blonde hair askew from fighting and hanging over his forehead. There was a fine layer of gray dust covering his face, aside from his eyes where he had wiped a strip of skin clean.

His eyes shone even brighter than usual like this, cool glaciers amid the gray cloud around you. They flickered across your face, and up close you could see the results of battle on the soldier’s face. A few small cuts scattered across his face and jaw, interrupting his thick beard. One gash stood out on his forehead, cutting from his temple to above the middle of his right eyebrow. His nostrils were flared and his lips parted as he breathed, chest rising and falling harshly.

He looked tired, but alive. As though despite his weary body, he had more adrenaline to expel. Much more.

Enough to yank you across 30 feet and 4 floors.

As if suddenly realizing your position—your body held up against Walker’s, his left arm wrapped around your middle—you scrambled away hastily, pushing at his chest until he released you onto your feet.

You avoided making eye contact with him as steadied yourself and attempted to ignore the heat crawling across your cheeks. Brushing off your suit, you focused your attention on your waist—as though you could brush off the scalding ghost of his arm wrapped around you, and the way his hand had splayed across your side, his fingers lightly digging into your flesh to find purchase.

You looked up to find Walker glowering a little, eyes locked on to your hands as he watched you clean yourself, his brow furrowed and mouth set in a frown.

Maybe you were a little too hasty in wiping him off.

His foggy eyes flickered back to yours before he scoffed.

“Jesus, you’d think I groped you or something,” he said lowly, gesturing at your body vaguely before rolling his eyes and turning towards where Alexei was finishing off the last of the bots.

Speechless, and still a little shocked—or disturbed—you followed behind him. He rubbed at his neck for a moment and you stared at his hand. The same one that was currently branded into your side.

You wiped invisible dust off your waist again.

When the dirty blonde pulled his hand away from his neck, you noticed that a pink flush had taken its place, running from his neck up to his jaw.

Another moment before, “You’re welcome, by the way,” was thrown over his shoulder.

You stopped.

“What?”

“You’re welcome,” he shrugged, still walking forward. “Y’know, for saving your life?”

A laugh you couldn’t help burst forward sarcastically. “I saved your ass twice before that, so if you saved me, fine, but know that you were only able to because I saved you first.”

He continued walking. But you hated feeling like you had been ignored.

“Twice,” you added.

Walker stopped, causing you to nearly collide with his back. He whirled around and stared down at you with a scowl.

Damn his height and damn him, you thought, infuriated at his immediate attitude.

Two sets of narrowed eyes met, each flaming and daring the other to say something. He held your gaze for a moment longer before he faltered, glancing down at your mouth, which you were sure was set in an unattractive frown.

He inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled sharply through his parted lips, your sight flickering to his pearly teeth.

“Whatever,” you watched his mouth form around the word, quieter than you had expected. Defeated. Then, “Sorry.”

And with that, John Walker stormed off, leaving you feeling both disgusted by him and his touch, and disgusted by yourself and your actions.

if you made it this far, ily 💙🫐

blog makeover to come soon

[lauufeydottir]

❝ 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞 𝐈 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: forced into attending a gala event, you go to john for help with your dress. things turn incredibly heated.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader (requested).

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.4K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), established relationship, talk of insecurities, insane levels of yearning, rougher john, bathroom sex (on the counter), groping, heavy kissing, brief handjob, dirty talk, john walker’s praise kink, brief fingering, mutual orgasm. cute ending.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: he’s my favorite part of the thunderbolts — yep, I said it !! my yearning levels are off the charts for him. thank you guys so much for your continued support! 🫶 I love writing for him sm !!

The last time John Walker wore a suit was at his wedding — five years ago, in a Georgian chapel where he’d grown up, nothing lavish. It was traditional, smaller, friends from high school, his family, Lemar’s family.

Part of him had detached himself from those memories, as if it were a different him that’d lived through it all.

Shame still festered, an ever-looming shadow, haunting his steps. There were some past mistakes that he would never be able to make amends for, but he was trying, making a valiant effort to forge something new.

John was a flawed man, an imperfect soldier trying to pick up the pieces, make something of himself again. Being an Avenger was his step forward in the right direction, wanting to help people again, a hero.

Publicity and being in the spotlight wasn’t a new concept for John, whose brief stint as Captain America was packed with shaking hands, playing the part, smiling for the camera.

When Valentina had pitched a charity gala to draw attention to the new Avengers, it was mandatory for everyone on the team to be in-attendance, with Bob as the singular exception. There were still reservations about him being exposed to any media attention.

Admittedly, the entire team still had reservations about Valentina altogether, a reluctance to work for her. He couldn’t blame anyone — she’d tried to kill them, created a superhuman, participated in an endless string of illicit activities.

Though, they’d found ways to exploit her generosity when it came to the Avengers ordeal. He’d gotten the well-equipped training room he’d asked for, a new suit, and a new shield, currently being constructed behind the scenes.

He told himself to enjoy tonight — allow himself to feel a sense of normalcy, fraternize with wide-eyed senators, repair what threadbare reputation he already had.

In the mirror, John was posturing, adjusting his cufflinks, pushing strands of blonde away from his temples. He was still uncertain about whether or not this was a good idea — losing the role of Captain America still stung.

He wanted to use this new opportunity to be himself, no Captain America, no U.S. Agent — just John Walker, former Army captain, now an Avenger.

Crisp, light linen of a pressed dress shirt clung to his musculature, dark blazer strung over the bathroom door. A line of pearlescent buttons were strung through the center, formal attire perfectly tailored to his physique.

It felt strange, standing in a suit jacket instead of kevlar and body armor; uncomfortable, even. Smoothing a hand over the ivory material, his brows pinched together, jaw twitching in mild annoyance.

Tugging at his collar, John sighed, an indignant huff escaping him as he heard a knock at his door. “Just a minute.” He called, still attempting to fidget with certain elements of his suit.

“It’s me.”

Timid, the softer cadence of your voice carried, ripping him from his thoughts, as if he’d been shoved off-balance. He was softer for you, towards you — the team noticed, everyone noticed.

Cocksure arrogance had bled away to something sweeter, vulnerable; John was sluggish to trust, but you’d shattered that barrier with ease. He had you to thank for growing, for beginning to heal from everything else.

With a soft stirring in his throat, John stopped over-analyzing his outfit, dress shoes polished, slacks ironed and without a single wrinkle. It was required of him to steam his dress uniform before special events back in the Army.

Stepping toward the door, John hits the panel, tinted windowpane sliding open with a soft hiss. Cerulean hues search until they find you, abashed and hunched in on yourself as if you’re attempting to conceal something.

Fashion is a foe, it isn’t your forte; Yelena had attempted to assist to the best of her ability, but even then, you felt fumbling and awkward.

The dress you’re wearing is formal, pressed silk the shade of a graying sky, nothing exorbitantly vibrant. It’s pretty, you think you feel pretty, but the stilettos do nothing except make you feel as if you’re walking on nails.

Though, you’re having too many issues with the zipper, which seems stuck toward the small of your back, no budging in sight. A light layer of cosmetics compliments your features, tresses modestly styled — you clean up nicely.

Too nicely; John’s jaw is unhinged, agape with a thinly-veiled awe as he swallows, words turning to ash within his throat. Unable to tear his gaze away, his appraisal is soft, burning with affection as he steps forward.

“You look …” John begins, cadence disarmingly gentle, as if he’s speaking to a startled doe. You drive him crazy, and that’s not something anyone can do; you’re drop-dead gorgeous.

“Awful?” Interjecting, your voice teems with underlying insecurities, brimming with a veiled frustration that laces into your physicality. You seem somewhat upset, as if something else is bothering you.

With a scoff, John’s lip curls in disdain, preparing to shoot your self-deprecation down in one clean swipe. “Stop it,” He warns, stern and sharp as he moves aside, letting you come in. “We’re not arguing about this.”

Admittedly, you’re thankful that John is quick to destroy your nervousness, shoving it aside as if it was an insignificant thing. “I just … This doesn’t feel right at all. This party, the publicity, this dress won’t zip up, either —”

John stops you, large palm splaying over the small of your back, dragging you against the warmth of his musculature. “You’re nervous,” He deadpans, as if he’s solved the puzzle. “Relax, honey.”

That damned nickname; it sometimes slips out in sweeter, vulnerable moments, often in the comfort of your own rooms. It’s only spilled from his mouth in front of the team on one occasion, in the heat of a mission, but it’d been brushed off as condescension.

“You’re calm about this.” It’s an observation — a blatant one, but he doesn’t seem nearly as perturbed about this as you are. For as mouthy and smug as John could be, he wasn’t outwardly ruffled by new situations.

“It’s a charity event,” John shrugged, thumbs stroking comforting circles over your spine, attempting to quell your tangle of nerves. He can taste your anxiety, see it in your pupils. “We’re there to shake hands and get funding.”

“You’ve done this before,” Mellowing, a flicker of realization crosses your features, a sense of understanding. “I know that I shouldn’t be nervous, but I’m still getting used to the spotlight.”

John knows plenty, having done news interviews as Captain America, public speaking, countless events where he was the center of attention. Back then, he thrived as best as he could — now, the notion seemed incredibly dull.

Shaking hands and throwing on a facade wasn’t who he wanted to be anymore, but if it meant funding and upgrades, he was willing to play nice. If it weren’t for the Avengers, he might’ve been on the run, or sitting in a cold cell somewhere.

“Yeah,” He gruffs, unwilling to cage himself into a reminder of his past. John’s tongue darts to wet his lower lip, palm still flush to your back as he wordlessly guides you towards his bathroom. “We’ll stay together.”

His assurances are gentler than you expected, and you know John’s never been the most tactful with words. Through action alone, through touch, he conveys a sense of understanding, of your anxiousness.

Standing before the mirror, John appraises you again, thinly-veiled affection oozing through his gaze, incendiary. You’re so beautiful that he feels entirely unworthy, and he knows just how lucky he is to have you.

There’s still an hour before you’re set to leave, limousine service ordered by Valentina herself. Alexei had offered to drive the team, but there was strong pushback from her end.

Hands find the zipper seated at the base of your spine, tugged up only an inch or two. “Need some help?” John inquires, even though he already knows the answer. Sometimes, he likes hearing you say it; that you need him.

“If you don’t mind,” Flustered, you feel inept, an Avenger who can’t zip up her own dress. Though, part of you had deliberately ensured that John assisted you in some capacity, just to be close to him. “Thank you.”

With a brief nod, he steps forward, towering behind you, chest briefly ghosting over your back, tantalizing. Doggedly, John’s calloused digits snare around the zipper, giving it a tug to set it straight.

It’s eerily quiet, save for his heavier exhales and your excitable tremor, catching him staring at you through the mirror. Warmth slithers over the nape of your neck, creeping over your spine like ivy upon a column of stone.

A brief chuckle jostles his chest, as if he’s thought of something humorous without letting you in on it. Perplexed, your gaze flutters, meeting his own through the mirror. “What’s wrong? Is it still stuck?” You sigh, defeated.

“No,” Through a low hum, John plants a slow, careful kiss to the nape of your neck. “I’m lucky, that’s all.” It’s all he really needs to say, and you preen beneath his words. Despite the simplicity, there’s a depth conveyed to you, a mutual understanding.

Fire stirs within your belly, mere embers brought to life by soft-spoken murmurs. His hands still over the zipper of your dress, calloused thumb circling over the bare flesh of your spine, left exposed by the gap in your gown.

Warm breath plumes over your shoulders, licking across the back of your neck. A hush falls between, a comfortable one, crackling with splinters of tension that threaten to expand, grow.

John’s stare is exceedingly soft, something reserved for you, blonde lashes kissing the faint freckles beneath his eyes. There’s something starving within him, a hunger revealing.

Pale-blue fabric curls around your form, accentuating your curves, as if you’re part of the sky. A hitch forms within your throat, feeling his hands steady over the swell of your hips, fingers clamping down.

Rough lips pepper themselves to the hollow between your throat and shoulder, placing a careful string of kisses along your flesh. A sharp, poignant exhale comes rushing from your lungs, spine shivering with exhilaration.

“Stop looking at me like that, John.” Through a sheepish murmur, you shrink beneath his ogling, as if it might burn a hole right through you.

Feigning innocence, he laughs; dry, but it’s genuine. Pressing another kiss to your shoulder, your pulse quickens, climbing as he shrugs. “Like what?” He inquires, body exuding ripples of heat.

“Like you’re starting something,” It’s a threadbare warning, but he responds by squeezing your hips, chest shaking with a light scoff. “Something that you won’t finish before …”

“I’ll finish it, if that’s what you want.” Placating, John smooths a kiss over your jaw, thick shadow of a beard prickling your flesh. It sends shivers down your spine, exhilaration mounting into a knot of excitement.

He’d made your heart lurch, bones already molten with warmth, thighs shifting together beneath your dress. There’s time to spare before the gala, and your concern for your garments diminishes entirely.

His mouth tempts you, his eyes — John stares at you as if you’re the center of his universe, blonde brows creased together, lip curled in concentration. Maneuvering within the sliver of space, you turn, chest flush to his own.

“You’re so handsome,” Swooning, there’s stars in your eyes as you tilt forward, palms flattening over his chest, fingertips tracing idle patterns into his shirt. “So perfect like this.”

Bristling beneath your praise, John huffs, attempting to cling to some fraction of restraint. It’s thin, threatening to snap into two as he pulls you in, mouth locking with yours.

From the first scrape of lips, the fire festers, raging into something uncontrollable as he cages you in against the countertop, hungry. Fingers begin to curl into his chest, a moan bubbling from your mouth as he surges forward.

“Jesus,” He whispers into your mouth, reverent, hands molded to your curves as he picks you up with ease, placing you on the solid granite. Bullying between your legs, he’s eager, cock twitching to life within his pants. “You’re so beautiful.”

Behind closed doors, the bravado and swagger dissipate, leaving only the rawness of John at his core; in his essence, he’s good. There’s a disarming gentleness to each ministration, every look one of a veiled affection.

Silk rides up along your thighs, your dress beginning to bunch and pool around your hips. A sigh feathers from your lips, hands climbing toward the nape of his neck, toying with the blonde hair there.

Lips clamor for one another, ceaseless, dragging into another kiss and then again, again; your heart threatens to burst from your chest. He holds you steady, hips rutting into yours until you feel something firm.

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

It doesn’t take much for him, kiss stuttering as a low grunt rips through his diaphragm. Arousal sits heavy in the pit of his abdomen, a taut coil charged with heat, preparing to loose as he rocks into you.

Rough, careworn hands begin to caress beneath your dress, digits snaring into the soft cotton of your panties. There’s a brief exchange of glances, his jaw twitching, lips agape as he looks to you for consent. “Yeah?” He gruffs, waiting.

With an enthusiastic nod, you’re squirming with an unbridled want, feeling his hands drag your underwear down, lower, until they’re dangling from your ankles. Kicking them to the floor, your hands go clawing at his belt.

One hand grips the granite countertop, and with enough flexing, leaves behind a faultline fracture that snakes through stone. Muscles pull taut in his forearms, knuckles bruised, his flesh rougher, akin to leather.

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.

He’s wedged between your legs, other palm holding steadfastly to your haunch, fingertips pressing into pliant flesh. As his belt clatters and loosens, John feels your hand, cold as it wraps around his cock.

A pleading groan splits his diaphragm, hot and disheveled beside your ear as his hips absently jolt forward. Your hand is like silk, tense against his length as you begin to stroke in easy, rhythmic flicks of your wrist.

“Christ,” John pants, brows pinched together, countenance contorted into an expression of sheer bliss. A thrilled gasp leaves you when he urges into you again, oozing heat against your palm. “S’good, good.” He grunts, groping at your thigh.

“I want you,” You exhale, your saccharine sigh wafting over his features, dragging him in with your magnetizing pull. Even then, you’re still touching him, his cock aching within your grasp. “God, John — I need you.”

Through the strained pitch of your voice, he’s more than eager to comply, mouth dropping to your throat, kisses wanton and thirsty. He plants a string of greedy kisses there, like hot brands to your skin.

If it weren’t for the gala, he would’ve marked you a time or two, but it was best to avoid any sharp questioning from the team.

However, it doesn’t stop him from scraping his teeth over the sensitive flesh of your neck, feeling you shiver against him. Arousal coalesces between your thighs, slick and warm, making you squirm atop the slab of granite.

Bodies close any sliver of space, friction taking root, an explosion of heat festering between. John’s mouth climbs over your throat, nipping at your jugular, catching the moan that floats from your lips.

Tension unfurls from his muscles, now released into this, into being intimate. He withdraws, lips ghosting over yours, feeling you collide into the kiss with a searing passion.

One hand snakes from your thigh to the heat between, cerulean hues flickering to gauge your reaction. A soft gasp tumbles from your mouth, and you have the audacity to give him that doe-eyed stare, his heart stuttering.

Finding your slit, John drags two digits over your core, biting back a haughty smirk, forehead dipping to flush against yours. “Figured as much,” He teases, voice a low husk beside your ear. “Is that for me?” He murmurs.

Flustered, you want to rip the cheeky remark right from his mouth, growing unbearably warm beneath his gaze. “Yeah,” You huff, smothering a whine when his fingers graze over your cunt, pushing past your folds. “John, please.”

He’s often one to tease you a little if he can, but time is running short and he’s just as eager, if not more, than you are.

John nods knowingly, rucking your dress up around your hips, slotting you closer, until his hips brush yours. Slipping your hand from his pants, there’s a shuffle of fabric, intermingled with sharp inhales, tremulous sighs.

Loosely hitching one leg around his hips, you’re bracing for the pressure, watching as he guides his cock to your cunt. “Still with me?” He mumbles, planting a kiss to your jaw.

“Mm-hm,” Through a gentle hum, he’s parting your legs, arms flexing as he maneuvers you as he sees fit. The flushed tip of his cock splits your folds, dragging through a time or two. “Please, I need you.”

Unable to suppress a groan, he’s fighting against baser instincts, against the primal urge clawing inside of him. “Say it again.” He grunts, cock prodding against the warmth of your cunt, preparing to push past.

“Need you,” With urgency this time, you reached for his biceps, thick and firm beneath your palms, nails scratching over his dress shirt. Hot, labored sighs drift between one another, wanton; you’re desperate for him. “John, please.” You plead, not above begging.

Christ, he needs you, too — craves you more than anything else, cerulean hues glistening with a thinly-veiled ardor. Locking you in against him, he groans, mouth melding with yours, pulling another grunt from his sternum.

“You’re my girl,” John murmurs, subdued and husky, scratching an itch in your brain. Slowly, you plant a kiss against the scruff of his jaw, listening to his excitable sighs. “Good?”

Attentive, he ensures that you’re prepared before taking him, writhing as his cock pushes incessantly against your cunt. “Good.” Conceding, your hips lurch forward, creating a spark of tension.

His hips slowly urge forward, flushed head of his cock pushing into you with mild resistance. Disarmingly gentle, John doesn’t move quickly or rough, burying his way into you with sluggish rolls of his body.

An entangled cry escapes you, followed by a choked sob that catches in your throat. His own sounds are gruff, rugged; his face is flush to yours, brows furrowed in concentration.

He knows he’s going to be thinking about this for the rest of the night — your body against his, your dress ruffled around your hips, the gleam in your eyes. John continues, hand strangling the granite countertop.

“You feel so perfect,” Feeding into his deep-seated desire for praise, you notice the tick in his jaw, the way he manhandles your leg. “So handsome like this, John.” You know exactly what you’re doing, and it induces some frenzy within him.

John’s resolve is crumbling, foundation swept away in the wake of your affections, and your wanton moan doesn’t make anything easier. “Jesus,” He grits, jaw clenched, body coiled around you. “You’re tight.”

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

A soft whimper escaped you, feeling yourself clench around him out of sheer want. His groan vexed you, your fingertips cupping the nape of his neck. Carding through blonde tresses, you tug, coaxing him in for a messy kiss.

It’s all teeth, tongue, affection — he briefly bites at your bottom lip, savoring the sharp inhale you give him, leg snug around his hips.

His pace was agonizingly sluggish at first, drawing out each thrust in an effort to let you grow accustomed. Hot sighs of passion fluttered between the both of you, lips brushing over one another as he rolled his hips forward.

Your heart pounded within your ribcage, so powerful that you thought it might burst through. “God, you’re mine.” He gruffed, cadence hoarse, permeated with possessiveness.

John’s movements had started slow before turning into calculated thrusts, sharp and precise, cock buried deep into your cunt. There’s a pattern to it, an erratic rhythm, born of a mutual desperation that you feed from.

He began to thrust into you, hunching in and over, stabilizing himself with one palm flat atop the counter. Stone splintered and groaned beneath, malleable in the wake of John’s inhuman strength.

Your head spun, clouded by desire as your paramour ravished you in the way that you deserved. “M’yours, John.” With a keening moan, your hips rolled forward, pulling a grunt from his throat.

His countenance echoed your sentiments, shadowed with the haze of want, a carnality that clawed at your being. You let your forehead press to his, brows screwed together in a state of bliss, grasping at his tresses.

“Drivin’ me crazy.” He drawls, visage contorting into a look of pleasure, head dropping toward the hollow between your throat and shoulder. His beard scratches ragged over your flesh, sending a shudder through your spine.

As he moves forward, his cock beginning to sheathe itself fully within your cunt, your nails dig crescents into the nape of his neck, back arching forward.

It’s a push-and-pull, euphoric as you cling to him like a drowning woman, unbridled noises escaping you in droves.

With each sluggish rut of his hips, you feel everything, his cock rocking into you with a rhythm that only seems to climb higher, higher still. He’s a little rougher, passionate; it makes you want him even more.

Rooted within you, John’s hips withdraw, enough to rut forward with a sense of urgency, filling you to the brim with his cock. Lewd, crass noises reverberated in the haze of heat that enveloped you, his thrusts gathering in intensity.

“Fu— John, please,” Through a strangled whine, you roll your hips again, friction blossoming between bodies, eliciting a groan from him. Arousal mounts, wanton, and you’re eager for a release. “Please.”

A low whimper left you as he snapped forward, letting passion and want pour into each ministration, cock sheathing itself inside of your aching cunt. John does it again, again, again — a pattern of rhythmic thrusts that jostle your body.

He’s getting close, perspiration building along his brow, hands moving to hold you close, cage you in against his musculature. “Jesus, you’re perfect.” John growls, the noise making you shiver, cunt pulsing around his length.

“Touch me,” You plead, noticing the look he gives you, cerulean hues boring into you. John doesn’t grouse nor protest, head jostling in a brief nod as one hand snakes to the heat between your legs. “Th—There, shit.”

Seeking your clit like a missile, his thumb presses over the clutch of nerves, circling over it, watching as you writhe from the contact. He huffs a breathy scoff, lips smoothing over your jaw, hips rutting into you with a fervor.

Each snap of his hips are drawn-out, deliberate; it is a lascivious torture that torments the both of you, cunt tightening pathetically around his length.

“That’s it,” John grunts, the husky cadence of his voice sending you into some frenzy. Molten heat pools between your thighs, legs rattling like leaves as you hold onto him. “That’s my girl.”

Between the careful caresses over your clit and his cock, still pounding away at you, the amalgamation of sensations is nearly overwhelming. You’re pushed into your release, falling over the precipice, body a furnace of bliss.

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

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.

A coil of heat began to unfurl within the both of you, bodies constantly shifting against the other, an amalgamation of friction.

John fucked you through your release, cock steadily rutting into your cunt, pressing a messy kiss against your mouth. He’s breathing fire, lungs burning, stinging in the wake of your shared orgasm.

He cums inside of you, holding steadfastly to you like a vice, fingers groping at the swell of your hips, the other recoiling from between your thighs. Everything is warm, the room blanketed in a haze of heat that settles in the afterglow.

Each sigh feels ragged, blistering through your chest, foreheads flush together as he peppers a string of kisses over your temples. “How am I supposed to get through the gala now?” You mumble, breathless.

John laughs; a genuine chuckle, something rarely heard, lacking the typical sardonicism. “Should’ve thought this through,” He remarks, though it applies to him, too. He’s visibly disheveled, blonde tresses mussed. “Jesus.”

He doesn’t withdraw immediately, getting a good look at you, beautiful beyond compare. You’re quick to press a kiss over his scruffy jaw, stringing along until you reach the corner of his mouth.

“Sorry about your hair,” Licking your fingertips, you attempt to smooth his tresses back into place, but it’s noticeably shoddy. “You still look really handsome.” You smile, and he’s grinning, catching a flash of pearlescent teeth.

There’s a knock at his door — sharp, hurried.

“We have to leave in ten minutes! Please make yourselves presentable, at the very least.” It’s Ava, whose tone is already thick with amusement, and you swear you can hear Yelena’s laughter somewhere beyond the door.

Caught, John groans, visage contorting slightly as he pulls out of you, but he’s just as quick to get a wet towel and help clean you up. “Next time, we’ll do this a couple hours before.” He murmurs, gracing your shoulder with a kiss.

Smitten, the both of you are quick to clean yourselves up, look presentable again. He finally zipped up your dress, suit jacket tugged on over his broad shoulders, crimson dissipating from his features.

As you’re making for the door, his hand smoothing over the small of your back, you stop, peering up at him with an affectionate smile. “Was it worth it?”

John kisses your brow without a lick of hesitation, a glimmer within his eyes before he smirks. He answers you, no stammer or reluctance to his response.

“Yes.”

[lauufeydottir]

❝ 𝐨𝐡, 𝐛𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭, 𝐛𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐲. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: after a particularly rough mission, bob is insistent on taking care of you — though, you’re better at taking care of one another, instead.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: robert reynolds (sentry) x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 8.3K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: soft smut (mdni), mentions of past trauma/insecurities, mental health talk, tooth-rotting fluff/loving antics, sub!bob but he’s also a little assertive, body worship, bob has a praise kink, hair pulling, face-sitting, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, heavy kissing, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, descriptions of cum, cowgirl position, riding. heavy aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: I am so obsessed with him that it actively eats away at my brain. 😭 Anyway, I love Bob & I love writing for him even more! I hope that you guys enjoy! Thank you for your support! 🫶

Scalding columns of water douse you from above, the shower threatening to burn your flesh if you didn’t adjust the temperature.

In the aftermath of another Avengers operation, it’s as if pieces of yourself are chipped away, healing with time, a pang of exhaustion reverberating through your marrow.

Even with an inhuman durability, the pain is raw, indents of fists and flying rubble interlaced into your flesh.

Each bruise is muscle-deep, knots made by hostile hands, peppered against your ribcage, threading along your spine; even searing water offers little relief from the dull ache.

Steam wisps in damp clouds throughout your bathroom, tepid, but it clears your senses, as if it’s washing away the mission you’d recently returned from. Exhaustion hasn’t hit you yet, merely looming in the background, a patient spectator.

Lungs expand with a shallow inhale, droplets cascading over your body, carrying with it a trail of copper, swirling into the drain. A handful of cuts mar your flesh, dried blood scrubbed clean when the water blankets you.

Through furrowed brows, your gaze screws shut, content to marinate beneath the shower’s intense pressure, knees folded, tucked near your chest. Tresses are soaked, damp and sticking to your skull, oozing with warmth.

Soap suds have long since dissipated, swallowed by rivulets of water, trickling through the chrome grate. The drone of water hitting the floor provides a gentle ambiance, accompanied by your breath — steady, shallow.

Reaching for the knob, you turn it clockwise, the spout beginning to sputter as you shut off the shower. There’s a hush that follows, save for the idle hum of the fan, an occasional buzz of the lights that flicker, casting your bathroom in an orange glow.

A fluffy towel awaits you, strewn over black, metallic rungs that match the general aesthetic of your room. Valentina made everything neutral, mute — the distinct lack of color made for an eyesore, and you’d taken to decorating your quarters with a pop of vibrancy.

Drying off, you rid yourself of slick skin, finding some relief afterwards, crawling into one of Bob’s sweaters and your pajama shorts. It smells like him — parchment and sandalwood, hints of vanilla that you’ve rubbed off on him, the scent of home.

As you clean up, you nudge the door open, letting billowing steam drift into your bedroom, releasing the caged heat. Bare feet cross the threshold into your quarters, bed barely made, but everything else seems rather organized.

A golden sunset crests upon the horizon of the New York cityscape, visible from your window, bulletproof glass tinted to banish any onlookers. Waning rays of orange pool through, glittering over your quarters, catching flecks of dust.

With a huff, you collapse along your bed, mattress foamy, downy to cushion your battered body. Tension unfurls from you in one wave, bleeding out as you allow yourself to relax, cradled within the comforts of home.

Gentle raps at the door ensnare your attention, and from pattern alone, you know who it is.

“It’s open.” You call, perched along the edge of your mattress, index finger drawing slow circles around the sheets. The door panel slides open with a soft whirring, a momentary hum that fades away.

Bob is constantly anxious to see you, especially after a mission, gaze glittering with ardor, a sentiment as gentle as springtime, a warmth that extends into his features.

He’s in loungewear, plaid pajama pants with a mismatched sweater, brunette tresses a touch disheveled. There isn’t a need for him to ask to come inside — your relationship dissolved those barriers long ago.

“Hi.” His greeting is soothing, nervousness placated by your smile, a pearlescent, sparkling thing of beauty. The fumbling, awkward tension has evaporated between the both of you, making room for affection, for the feelings you openly share.

Slipping from your bed, your feet carry you with a sudden haste, arms slithering around his middle, hugging him as if he’d slip through your fingers. He’s warm, his own sun, an everlasting plane of heat that thaws your bones.

Beneath the collar of your sweater, Bob notices the cut there, brows creasing together. With every mission you complete, his worry grows, and the thought of you being injured is a discomforting one.

Despite the tenderness of your flesh, it doesn’t take an ounce of coaxing for Bob to reciprocate your hug, arms caging you in against him, cheek nestled atop your crown. You’re damp, but he’s unperturbed, cradling you close.

His embrace feels like home, comfortable and easy, a sanctuary that the two of you have forged together. He holds you as if he might lose you too, body curling around yours, able to hear the excitable tick of your breath.

Bob’s hands idly caress over your waist, over your spine, able to hear the audible exhale of relief that slips through your nose. Hands smooth wherever he can reach, reverent, each embrace always echoing with affection.

There’s a hush that falls between, a solemn silence that shatters when your voice hums against his chest. “I missed you,” You murmur, adjusting your head enough to stare at him, lips curling into a smile. “Missed you a lot.”

Bob preens at the softness of your confession, hand dragging along your spine until it shifts to cup your jaw. “I missed you too, so much,” He missed you terribly, gaze oozing with affection. “Are you hurt?” Through furrowed brows, he gestures to the cut lingering near your collar.

“Scrapes and bruises, but nothing serious,” Reassuring, you tilt forward, absorbing the heat that radiates from him, basking within it. “It was relatively routine for a mission.” You hum, feeling his lips press against your temples.

Affection is something he lavishes you in freely, though you pamper him enough, Bob knows when to take care of you, too. Dark blues shift to admire you, finding you to be so beautiful, the light of his life, sun piercing a veil of cloud.

He’s still somewhat shy whenever you become heated, dancing around the fringes of intimacy, getting close but not fully there. You don’t mind, content to take it as slow as he wanted, but there’s always a flicker of want that stirs within your chest.

“I’ll take care of you,” Bob murmurs, and the sentiment makes you preen with warmth. He’s good, the epitome of a devoted partner, the river you’re wading through. “I—If you want me to.” He clarifies, sheepish.

You’re often the one taking care of him, a role that you’ve seamlessly melded into without complaint. It’s never perturbed you, never crossed your mind that the roles could reverse for once, but you don’t want him to feel obligated.

He wants to, more than anything — you’re good to one another, ardor all-encompassing, and Bob is eager to let you settle, let him dote on you.

“I want you to,” Hands slip from spine to abdomen, palms flush against his ribs. “You’re never obligated, though.” Despite the gentle reminder, Bob nods, brown tresses stirring with each jostle of his head.

“I know, I just … You mean everything to me,” Bob sighs, allowing sentiment to blossom, flourish within the heat of your shared affections. He loves you, loves you gently, kindly — loves you more than anything else. “I want to.”

There is something wonderfully uncomplicated about the way he loves you, unconditional; judgment is nonexistent, and so is the fear of falling. Owlish hues bore into you, as if searching for your heart, but it’s on your sleeve, plain for him to see.

Fingers cradle your cheek, thumb lightly circling over the cut that’s settled along your jawbone, and you turn, lips kissing his palm. A stutter forms within his exhale, scarlet curling around his features, snaking toward his throat.

When he’d first met you in the underbelly of Valentina’s vault, he thought he’d seen an angel — you were aglow, framed by the hum of garish lights. He recalled your gaze, even now; kind and gentle, safeguarding him from harm.

It almost felt so long ago, seven months, but no amount of time with you was wasted, nor insignificant.

He’d grown in his healing journey, at a point to where things had become easier to manage, easier to navigate his trauma. Meditation and counseling were crucial, and sometimes you joined him, ensuring that he had support.

“You are so perfect, Bob,” Not perfect in the sense of ability or strength, but his heart — a tender thing, one that you had found your serenity in. His lips twitched into a smile, besotted, growing accustomed to hearing you say it. “How did I get so lucky?”

Lucky wasn’t a word he’d use, but he was working on his self-esteem, attempting to squash the malicious insecurities, the whispers of doubt. It was difficult to extinguish self-loathing, but he was making progress, day by day.

A keening chuckle slipped from his lips, followed by a glint of pearlescent teeth, perhaps a twinge of disbelief. “I ask myself that, too,” Bob confessed, fingertips grazing along your cheek, his touch loving, and never anything less. “Very lucky.”

Flattered, your nose crinkles slightly, digits smoothing over his sides as you tilt forward to press your chin against his chest. His physique is lean, cut muscle, stature taller than you, hovering above as he meets your gaze, seeping with affection.

Lashes flutter in their ardent appraisal of you, lips pressing against the bridge of your nose. For a man who holds the power of a thousand suns within his palm, he behaves shrewdly, as if his capabilities lie far beyond his reach.

“Little lower.” Through a velvety croon, you watch as Bob’s features burn with crimson, though he’s delighted to oblige you. His lips skim over your nose, finding your mouth with seamless ease, eagerness entangled with clumsiness.

His heartbeat climbs toward a quick rhythm, an excitable thrum that reverberates through his sternum, singing your name. Noses brush over one another, kisses often exploratory, slow — it makes for a sweeter experience.

In the brief seconds where lips part, he exhales, a warm sigh feathering over your visage, as if you’re absorbing the sun’s soft rays. Bob often overthinks whenever you’re physical, not of any fault of your own, he simply wants to be the best he can for you.

Even still, your presence soothed him, a wordless lullaby, ceasing his constant barrage of nerves. His hands are unhurried, mapping your body with familiarity, caressing until they’ve settled above your hips.

Thumbs circle patterns through the fleece of your sweater, his sweater, draped over your frame as the fabric brushes the middle of your thighs. Each kiss evokes a wave of yearning from you, soul to soul, wrapped up within his splendor.

Undaunted, Bob’s mouth melds with yours, two pieces seamlessly fitting together, hearts joined in-tandem. A furrow forms within his brow, that of concentration as he pours affection into his kisses, listening to the hitch in your breath.

Between parted lips, nudging aside to seize the air, your hands dance along his biceps, skirting lower, holding steadfastly to his forearms. “I love you.” You hum, three words that he never grows tired of hearing.

Bob said it first, a month ago — when it tumbled from his mouth, you thought he was teasing, or perhaps speaking out of-turn. His sincerity manifested in the form of tears and a wistful speech about how much he loved you.

You made it a point to tell him every day, heart growing warm with a muted buzz, an ardor that blossomed through your chest. He liked telling you how much he loved you, too; he had someone to protect, someone to cherish.

A warm, half-chuckle escapes him, the sound scratching pleasantly at the back of your mind. Still, his thoughts are shrouded by doubt, by a shadowy snarl that plagues him, taunting; Bob has gotten better at blocking it out.

Lips press sweetly to his jaw, beneath his eye, whatever you’re able to reach whilst stretching up upon your toes. Sunset stretches over his features, blanketing him in burnished orange, catching upon his dark blue hues.

“I love you too.” Bob murmurs, abashed by the doting affection you lavish him in, unable to stop himself from smiling.

Happiness wasn’t a prevalent theme in his life, but after he met you, it became a constant — he wouldn’t trade it for anything else.

Delighted, you crawl into bed, sprawled out upon your back, one arm tucked beneath your head. His sweater rides up along your hips, revealing the thin, cotton shorts that brush along your thighs.

Bob joins you, sitting criss-crossed at your side, tracing circles over your midriff. The soothing warmth of his touches makes your stomach surge with butterflies, chewing at the inside of your cheek.

“What are you thinking about?” A saccharine utterance slips past your lips, cadence tender as you tilt your head enough to peer up at him. Brunette tresses frame his face, chin bristling with a tiny hint of a growing stubble.

His mind is often a whirlwind — there’s plenty going on, from therapy and counseling to his own shadowed trauma, though his even days seem to eclipse the lows more often than not. Bob thinks about you the most, about your future together.

Sentry was supposed to be the pinnacle of good, the savior of citizens, the world’s mightiest hero; and part of him still wants it, to help, to be good. He wants to be a symbol of hope, of aspiration, of how brokenness can turn into something whole.

Though, with ascending the role, comes It, comes the darkness that haunts his silhouette, a penumbra of his innermost demons.

“A lot,” Bob confesses, noticing the twinge of perplexity that settles on your features. “Nothing bad, just … The future. Our future, my future.” He knows he can confide in you for anything — you’re his sanctuary.

“Our future?” Something hot snakes through your veins, an excitable heat that makes you preen. The fact that he’s given your relationship such consideration elates you.

“Yeah,” His timbre is soothing to you, a lower rumble that seeps into your bones, makes you feel entirely at-ease. “It’s the most optimistic I’ve felt about something in years.” Bob admits, digits nonchalantly toying with the hem of your sweater.

Reaching for his hand, you caress his knuckles, fingers curling around his hand, flesh and blood, tethering you together. “Me too,” You smile, your heart nearly bursting from your chest with joy. “You might be stuck with me forever.”

Bob’s gaze is heartwarming, raw — the concept of being with you forever is more of a comfort, no inkling of despair or discontent. “I’d prefer it that way.” He utters, voice barely hovering above a whisper.

Fingers squeeze together, and the beam you give him elicits another blush, scarlet blanketing his countenance, as warm as an open flame. He presses a hand against his chin, somewhat reeling with disbelief; he never thought he’d have this again.

“What about your future?” Feather-light, your tone is inquiring yet tranquil, noninvasive. With a soft groan, you manage to sit up, sweater ruffled around your middle. Bruises sit heavy within your muscle, soreness stretching throughout your body.

Leg-to-leg with him, you feel his fingertips circle over the top of your thigh, innocent instead of amorous. “With my powers and everything,” Bob murmurs, struck by a sudden wave of emotion. “I just — I want to help people, and I feel like I can’t.”

There’s a melancholy that swirls within his gaze, a thinly-veiled desperation to be useful, to safeguard — what good is he if he can’t even protect you? Tears prick at his eyes, glistening with a wet sheen as he attempts to blink them away.

Bob’s still working through the process of healing, but with that, he’s reluctant to use his powers. They’re there, he feels them — like waves before an earthquake, subdued yet powerful. He’s afraid of it all crashing down on him again, and you, the team.

“Bob, it’s only been a couple of months,” You soothe, hand caressing along his forearm. “Sometimes, the healing process can take a long time. I think you’ll still be able to help people — you help the team now, just as you are now.”

It’s reassuring, but he still feels a twinge of desolation, wanting to talk it through before it catalyzes into something worse. “I know, I just want to be useful. I want to be someone that people can look to for help.”

“You’ve no idea how useful and important you are, Bob,” In your eyes, he’s everything — he’s your heart. “If it weren’t for you, this team might not even exist. What we’ve built, the family we’ve become — it all started with you.”

He’s never looked at it that way, feeling a tear tumble down his cheek, one that he hastily wipes away with the sleeve of his sweater. You’re staring at him as if he’s moved mountains, the center of your universe, a sun whose light you stand within, even if it wanes.

Reassurance is something you’re good at; you’re soft for Bob, incredibly supportive, but you’ve never babied him. He doesn’t enjoy being viewed as helpless, and you’ve made sure that it’s never the case with your relationship.

Sweetly, your hands finds his again, lifting it to your lips as you press a kiss over his knuckles. Bob’s heart lurches, threatening to soar from his chest, mouth parting to make room for a tremulous exhale.

“I love you,” Bob murmurs, pearlescent teeth splitting through his forlorn expression like sunlight through a gray cloud. You have an extraordinary gift for knowing what to say, knowing how to keep him grounded. “I love you so much.”

Nothing short of genuine, he draws you closer, muscled arms caging around you in a hug that’s akin to a furnace. His temperature is inhumanly warm, often running hotter, but you’ve grown to adore it, especially on cold nights.

Without an inkling of hesitation, your arms slip around his middle, palms splayed beside his spine, rubbing his back in slow caresses. Bob finds solace in your embrace, as if you lessen the sting, rip his pain away and throw it elsewhere.

A pang of guilt follows when he realizes that he should be taking care of you, embarrassment settling onto his visage. “Sorry, I … I didn’t mean to make everything —” He stops when you shake your head back and forth.

“Don’t apologize, Bob. I want you to get things off of your chest, and your feelings are valid,” As if to cement your words, you plant a kiss against his cheek, still keeping an arm strewn over his midsection. “I’m always here for you.”

Melancholy and despair subside, and shadows dissipate with it, slithering away as they retreat from the corners of his mind. His chest expands with a shallow, concentrated inhale, breathing deep as he regains composure.

A comfortable silence lingers between, filling the void with affectionate smiles and longing glances, his hand tangled with yours. It’s a brief meditative state that he’s fixated on, something that he’d learned in therapy to manage negative thoughts.

You breathe with him; steady, lungs inflated with crisp air, stretched before you exhale. The process repeats itself, tangled together within the hush of your quarters, blood-orange sunlight twinkling through, turning his brown tresses to caramel.

Bob’s stare is fixated on you, as if he’s glimpsed something beautiful for the very first time, doe-eyed and yearning. He’s been teased for it before, but in the privacy of your bedroom, he’s unabashedly in love with you — no veil conceals his affections.

Melting beneath his gaze, you offer him a gentle smile, as if he’s kissed by summertime, lost within a world of warmth. Bob smiles too, canting forward, lower until his forehead brushes over yours.

Noses graze over one another, a subtle invitation for a kiss, which he initiates this time. He’s often riddled with nerves, but they seem quiet now, and the hush is comforting.

Lips meld together, seamless, and you’re floating, hands shifting to gather at the nape of his neck, carding through his hair. He’s exceedingly gentle, heart bleeding into your mouth, devoted — and you begin to lean backwards.

As you lower yourself down, back flush to pressed sheets and a thin comforter, Bob follows, one leg nestled between yours. Shrouding you with his body, the kiss resumes as if it hadn’t been broken to begin with, and he tastes of ardor.

Hands splay on either side of your head, sweater billowing from his musculature, offering you a glimpse of his abdomen. The serum had altered his physicality drastically — Bob sometimes didn’t recognize his own skin when he looked in the mirror.

He’d grown accustomed to it though, the muscle, the durability, inhuman stamina — exhaustion didn’t feel the same as it used to. Each kiss seems to elongate, mouths barely inching away from one another, entanglement crackling with embers.

When your mouth begins to still, gathering wisps of air to fuel your lungs, Bob’s tresses hang down, tickling your cheeks. “Hey.” You giggle, nose wrinkling slightly as you pull a laugh from his chest, body quaking above you.

“Hi,” Bob whispers, fingers reaching to caress over your cheek, extending into your hairline as he clears his throat. “You’re so pretty.” His murmur is low, a touch husky, stomach churning with butterflies as he shifts, leg ghosting over your core.

A subtle shiver grips your spine, lips parting as a sigh inhabits your throat, preening in the wake of his sweet compliment. “Yeah?” Swallowing the slight lump within your throat, your hand reaches to cup his cheek, thumbing across his jaw.

It’s present, the tension; a familiar burning that seems to crawl between bodies, amorous and wanton, lacking the hunger of lust. It’s thirst he feels, as if you’re a body of water, the lifeblood he needs to survive, to exist.

Bob exhales, warmth feathering over your features, the noise wrought with exhilaration. There’s a swell of sentiment dancing within his eyes, an amalgamation of adoration and something more.

Dipping lower once more, his lips brush over yours, missing by a mere inch, teeth dryly clicking together, eliciting a laugh from you. It’s bubbly, bright; he murmurs an apology, sheepish, but you’re drawing him back in.

Kissing him feels effortless, no expectation of performance, anxiety having bled away into nothingness.

It’s comforting, allowing your vulnerability to show, heart on your sleeve for him. Soft digits trace over his nape, other hand splayed flat against his shoulder blade.

Sunlight drains from the skies, the atmosphere infused with shades of mauve, an inky-black chasing after it. The orange glow dissipates from your bedroom, and with the coming of nighttime, the nightlight above your headboard flickers on.

Legs tangle within one another, a knot of limbs as he kisses you with such compassion, perhaps a twinge of something fervent. It’s as if he wants something, afraid to ask for it — there’s a hint of restraint in his kiss, even still.

“Are you okay?” A soft murmur echoes against his mouth when lips fleetingly draw apart, prompting another owlish stare from him. He’s flushed, thinking about you — everything he wants, pent-up in some knot.

“Yeah, I just — I love you.” Bob blurts in an effort to distract from what he’s really contemplating, turning over his desires in his mind, his incessant yearning. His lips twitch into a smile, one that’s still dancing with nerves.

“I love you too,” With a whisper, your fingers drift to sweep brunette tresses away from his eyes. “What’s on your mind, Bob?” You prompt, noticing his growing embarrassment when you pose the question.

Bob swallows again, flustered, but he decides to come clean about how he’s feeling. “You,” Spoken through a low, pleasant husk, it turns your stomach, bones lurching with butterflies. “I want to be with you, but I … I haven’t done anything in a long time.”

You know what he’s referring to without elaboration, feeling a pang of anticipation twirl within your belly. A brief exhale parts your lips, warmth spreading over your flesh. “That’s okay,” You assure, hand tracing his jaw. “I haven’t, either.”

You’ve been intimate before, in smaller steps — touching one another, half-undressed, sighing names into kiss-swollen lips. This is different, this is more; but you want him, want to give him everything that you can.

His past experiences were often muddled by drug-use, a haze of limbs that felt meaningless, something to extinguish the isolation. This was love, adoration — with you, things were different; each touch meant something.

Bob seems somewhat reassured, shoulders lighter, visage no longer wrought with stress. He relaxes, still poised above you, wondering how to start, how to naturally progress into the next step.

It’s you who closes the gap and initiates, lips softly tangling with his own. Passion festers, an active participant the more your mouths meld together, seamlessly molding to one another.

A soft groan echoes within his throat, swallowed by your mouth as lips clamor. You’re everything, everywhere; his heart beats a rhythm that only you seem to understand, fingers treading toward the hem of his sweater.

Each kiss was bruising, tender — wrought with such adoration that it made your belly pulse with a familiar heat. Exhilarated, your hand continued to caress over his muscles, dancing along his abdomen.

Heat radiates from him, as if he’s his own splendid sun, warm to the touch. You treat him so well, especially when intimacy arose, ensuring that he was always taken care of — Bob wants to return the favor tenfold.

With gentle coaxing, you begin to sit up, guiding him toward the pillows, letting him sit as you politely crawl into his lap. Thighs pin against his hips on either side, a pliant cage, feeling Bob’s hands shyly trace over your legs.

Mesmerized is a mere understatement; he’s bewitched, gazing at you as if you’ve moved mountains, doe-eyed and wanton. Love oozes from every fiber of his being, and you can taste it in his kiss when his mouth meets yours again.

Bob’s throat jostles as he swallows, exhilaration tangled with enthusiasm welling up inside of him. It seems to squash his initial anxiousness about it all, but only slightly. He feels your fingers card through his tresses, unable to his smitten expression.

The hem of your sweater, his sweater, ghosts over his fingertips, prompting him to take a gentle fistful of the woolen fabric. “May I?” Bob always asks — it’s the same sweeter cadence accompanied by a longing look.

With a nod, you lift your arms, stifling a laugh when the collar momentarily snags on your chin, gooseflesh clinging to your spine as the garment is removed. He sets it aside, a scarlet pallor invading his features; you aren’t wearing anything underneath.

“You’re so beautiful,” Bob is constantly awestruck by you, as if he’s seeing your body for the first time all over again. He feels fortunate then, fortunate now; he wants you to have all of him. “Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

His low, husky compliment makes your bones lurch, shivering in spite of his praise, your hands searching for the hem of his sweater. “You’re so sweet to me.” You murmur, gaze roving over his countenance, prompting him to sigh with elation.

Bob smiles, scarlet-faced as he moves to cradle your jaw. He’s relaxed, more excitable than nervous, stomach still coiled into an excitable, anxious knot, flesh bristling as he kisses you again.

Bodies twine together, and you’re slotted in his lap, hips occasionally urging against his own. There’s friction present, hot and familiar; he’s infatuated by the sensation. He feels your hand drag from his torso to chest, hovering over his heart.

Between tender kisses, hands fumble together, working in-tandem to peel his sweater away, musculature firm beneath your palms. His physique is godlike; sturdy, muscled, impenetrable.

Mouths became immersed in a mutual heat, a dance of hearts — you succumb so very quickly to it all, one hand clamoring to hold fast against his nape. Bob is easily vexed, flustered as his hands gently settle against your hips.

Fingertips trace circles over your waist, lips slow and passionate, savoring every sweet entanglement as if it might be your last. Bob withdraws, only to kiss your jaw, mouth climbing along your throat as it elicits a soft moan from you.

Arousal warms between your thighs, belly rolling into taut coils of excitement, bodies flush, the space between all but nonexistent. He’s considerate, layering your neck in kisses, no inch of flesh safe from his mouth as he finds your collar.

“Bob.” A moan is pulled from your throat, pitched with anticipation, your hand beginning to trail through his tresses. His arms cage you in, holding firm as he plants needy, wanton kisses over your chest.

There’s a sparkle in his eyes, softer, kind — he seems happy, less anxious than usual. His confidence is still shaky, leaning upon a cracked foundation, but there’s a progression in his self-esteem.

The heavy worry of disappointing you lingers still, a small constant within the back of his mind, but he pushes it aside as best he can. Bob continues to pepper kisses over your flesh, wherever he can reach, ending with your lips.

Tender hands roam his musculature, caressing him, ensuring that he’s doted upon. A warm scarlet invades his features, creeping over his skin like that of fire, stirring up inklings of arousal.

When Bob draws away, it’s to smile at you, predominantly sheepish, a boyish expression that oozes ardor. It’s his typical beam, one that you’ve grown to adore, pressing a chaste kiss to his brow, and then the corner of his mouth.

“I want to try something,” Bob murmurs, flushed at the mere fantasy of it. “If that’s alright.” Despite his lack of clarification, you are too curious for your own good, stomach churning with an excited anticipation.

“Of course,” Gooseflesh rakes over your spine when his fingers tease the waistband of your shorts, more assurance layered into his touch. Bob is still rather subservient, but he’s gotten better with initiating, too. “Want them off?”

Blushing, Bob’s head jostles in an eager nod, watching as you slip off of his lap in order to wriggle out of your shorts, socks coming with it. It leaves you in your panties, and you realize that this is the most exposed you’ve been.

With your back angled to him, his brows crease when he finds the scattered cuts laced into your flesh, the discoloration of skin. Wordlessly, he crawls closer, pressing a soft kiss to your spine.

The sensation makes you shiver, lips parting as a gasp splits through, feeling the warmth of his mouth kiss over a cut beneath your shoulder blade. Your body tingles with a pleasant ebbing, and you melt back into him.

Owlish hues bore into you, tracing along your form with a thinly-veiled appreciation, adoring, more like. Bob lets his back kiss the mattress, mussed tresses disheveled against the pillow, feeling you climb back into his lap.

Bending to kiss him, chests flush together, you feel his hands splay out along the small of your back, stroking your skin. Lips clamor together in another passionate collision, enough to draw a low groan from Bob’s throat.

His hands begin to drift lower, from the plush curve of your waist to your backside, gingerly kneading into the pliant flesh. He is cautious, painstakingly gentle as he lavishes kiss after kiss to your wanting lips.

It’s sweet, the way he touches you — always gentle, always loving. He marvels at you each time you part, as if he’s seeing you for the first time again, visibly enchanted. “You’re so pretty.” Bob murmurs, palm taut against your haunch.

“You are too — you’re perfect.” You whisper, managing a smitten smile as he huffs a light chuckle, fingertips brushing around the hem of your panties. He swallows thickly, as if silently asking for you to remove those, too.

With a nod, the exchange is left unspoken, but you understand what he wants through gaze alone. Your heart thrums violently beneath your breast, breath hitching within your throat as he helps you squirm from your underwear.

He’s getting nervous again, attempting to swallow it down as he appraises you in your entirety, awestruck. Bob’s hands relocate to your thighs, holding steadfastly to either, thumbs stroking circles into your delicate flesh.

Coaxing you closer, he inches you away from his lap, towards his chest; realization hits you, then. Before you can interject, Bob shakes his head back and forth, visibly flustered.

“I want to,” Insistent, his cadence oozed with warmth, a tranquility that eased your sudden bout of nerves. The both of you were anxious, wanting to expel that energy into one another. “I—I want to take care of you.” Bob murmurs, lips twitching into a placating smile.

Swallowing the lump within your throat, you’re abashed to confess that you want this terribly, palms steady against his shoulders. Even then, he’s holding you effortlessly, gazing up at you as if you’re the celestials themselves.

Bob doesn’t shy away, patient as ever, continuing to caress over your thighs. He’s done this before, a long time ago — it feels like some nonexistent memory, or one that he conjured up, but it’s there. His smile lingers, adoring, allowing you to move whenever you choose to.

“If you want to stop, just tap my thigh.” You murmur, belly churning with fire. You’ve never let someone do this to you before, but you trust Bob completely. He nods, waiting expectantly, unable to mask his growing excitement.

Shy, you inch forward, legs trembling beneath his touch as he gingerly nudges you closer, knees planted on either side of his head. Everything spins, the room spins, and you’re trying to steady yourself when his mouth warms your cunt.

Lips flush against your inner thigh, brief, drawing a shudder from your spine, feeling his mouth climb to the warmth oozing between your legs. His tongue raked embers across your cunt, nearly ripping the air from your lungs.

His ministrations are agonizingly gentle, rapturous, as if he might hurt you with enough pressure. Bob keens when you moan, the noise smothered within your throat as you try to keep from being too loud.

The tip of his nose brushes along your petals, tongue splitting deeper still, until he sluggishly laps at your core. Your taste permeates his mouth, a bittersweet ambrosia that draws him into some lovestruck haze.

“B—Bob,” His ministrations are wholly unexpected, thighs shaking, belly twisting into a heated coil as you press a palm against the wall. The other flies to the brunette crown nestled contentedly between your thighs. “Bob!” You squeak.

A myriad of moans shake your chest, fluttering through your diaphragm and into the cool air. The ministrations of his tongue are too good, as if this skill is something he’s practiced for some time.

Below, Bob is flushed, scarlet clinging to his features as he pleasures you, unperturbed by the lewd act. He loves it, and it’s making him squirm with how receptive you are to it, cock aching with a ceaseless throbbing.

The coil of taut heat within your stomach seems to tighten as Bob greedily laps at your cunt, like that of a man starved. A sharp groan blossoms throughout his sternum as you incessantly tug upon his curls, urging him closer.

Your hips accidentally jolt forward, and you sputter a swift apology, body feverishly hot as you attempt to regain your balance. Bob’s hands are holding steadfastly to your hips, caressing and molding to your curves.

Admittedly, he’s finding pleasure in this, wanting to seek some relief for himself, but he’s too absorbed in you, in all of you. The taste of your cunt permeates his tongue, and he wants more, lapping at your core as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

A tremor gripped your thighs, twitching around his head as your hips lurched forward. The friction that simmers between you both is more than enough to keep him wanting, chest reverberating with a myriad of throaty groans.

“G—God, you’re so good at this,” There is a noticeable pitch within your voice, higher, wrought with ecstasy. You’re moaning his name as if it’s some desperate prayer, a confession spilling from your tongue. “Please don’t stop.”

Bob groans again at the sensation of your fingers dragging through his hair, the feeling incredibly pleasant, mouth buried against your cunt. He kisses along your slit, gesture mingling with soft, passionate laps of his tongue.

It is then that he seeks the pearl of your cunt, pressing a string of wanton kisses to the sensitive clutch of nerves. A shiver of delight grips your spine, throat erupting with a moan as your back begins to arch.

Vocal, a string of whimpered praise tumbles from your mouth, legs shaking like leaves beneath his palms. Bob wants to whine, and the sound of you moaning his name is enough to set his body ablaze, bleeding with a radiant heat.

His name rolls from your tongue with such reverence, enough to bring him to heel. Another broad stroke of his tongue laps across your cunt, gathering with it a slew of your arousal.

With a twist of his mouth, he moves to the pearl of your cunt once more, pliant maw wrapping around it, stimulating you with his suckling. Everything feels fuzzy, as if you’re trapped in some white-hot haze, ecstasy burning through your bones.

Bob holds you aloft with an effortless strength, hands still smoothing over your thighs, caressing your warm flesh. Each brief urge of your hips into his mouth sends him reeling, wanting to be good for you, pleasure you in the way you deserve.

A rush of white-hot delight sears your bones, blanketing you in a wave of pleasure, stomach swirling with a violent heat. Dizzy from such overwhelming arousal, your body began to furl, a coil of heat pulled taut within your belly.

Again, he traveled to your clit, gently suckling upon the bundle of nerves. Your poor thighs rattled on either side of his head, twitching with throes of ecstasy as he toyed with your pearl.

In this state, you weren’t going to last much longer, crumbling through his fingertips as your release slammed into you with such intensity. Bob sighed into your core, content to stay there for an eternity if you allowed him to.

Slowly, you unraveled, having to ground yourself to any shred of composure, throat wracked with a choked sob. The coil of taut heat snapped violently, giving way to an overwhelming release, a white-hot tide of bliss.

His name rolled from your tongue several times over, spoken lovingly, body trembling from the blissful aftershocks. Admittedly, your thighs weren’t up to the challenge either, muscles burning as you stilled above him.

Even still, he unknowingly works you through your release, gently lapping over your cunt, the gestures feather-light. A neediness festers within him, still treating you to little jolts of pleasure in the aftermath.

Lungs expand and deflate with swift, shallow sighs, clawing for composure. Bob breaths with you, labored yet exhilarated, cheeks tinged with a permanent shade of pink. Lips seal themselves along your thighs, peppering over your soft skin.

Inching backward, you neatly untangle yourself from him, slotted within his lap again, flustered when you catch the glistening sheen of slick on his mouth. He seems elated, happy; it’s satisfying to know that he didn’t disappoint you with his ministrations.

“Was that good?” Bob inquires, brunette tresses disheveled, an earthy halo that forms around his visage. He sits up, propped back against one arm, musculature catching upon the dim illumination that spreads through your bedroom.

“That was amazing,” Admittedly, you are surprised by how vigorous he was with it, as if his shyness had been momentarily stripped away. He politely wipes his chin off with the heel of his palm, his smile doting. “You’re amazing.”

In the afterglow, your thighs continue to twitch, spiraling down from your orgasm as you trace your fingers across his abdomen. Bob is blushing, gaze half-lidded and adoring, though it’s fleeting when you shift atop his lap.

Something firm pulses against your backside, and you watch him writhe, neck taut with strain as he tries to alleviate some of the friction. “S—Sorry,” He fumbles, withholding a husky groan. “You’re so pretty.” His murmur makes you flustered.

“Don’t be,” You assure, heart nearly beating from your chest as gazes linger on one another, oozing with a thinly-veiled affection. “I love you so much, Bob.” The words are enough to make him shiver, hand shifting toward your hip.

Bob preens beneath your soft declaration, adjusting his position, erection shuffling against you once more. He’s nearly bursting at the seams, wanting to be inside of you, feel your body against his, listen to your heartbeat.

In a soft entanglement, you kiss him, able to taste yourself upon his tongue. He’s delicate, each caress, each touch born of adoration for you. Everything slows to a momentary crawl as your hands shift toward his pants.

“I love you,” Bob murmurs, as if it’s something sacred, a hush between old lovers. He shifts, breath hitching when your fingers skim along the waistband of his pajamas pants. “I want you.” He says it reverently, making you shiver.

There is something mildly assertive within his tone, as if he’s gaining a bit of confidence, hands caressing circles into your hips. His head jostles in an acknowledging nod, allowing you to take it further, prying fabric aside.

That is when you feel it, the proof of his arousal pressing into your lower belly, oozing with precum as he slowly ruts his hips into you. Bob shivers, flushed as he writhes, desperate to be inside of you.

To your surprise, he’s painfully well-endowed, a fact that he is acutely aware of. Your pupils expand, attempting to smother your twinge of nervousness, gaze fluttering elsewhere.

A sharp moan blossoms throughout your diaphragm, palms gathering at the nape of his neck as you coax him in for a searing kiss. Lips move in a tender dance, arousal coalescing between your legs.

A groan rippled through his throat, escaping into twined mouths as you moved against his erection, enough to nearly make him sputter. His lungs burn with want, needing you as one needed air.

Bob’s desperation bleeds into you with a blinding intensity, so poignant and so palpable that it makes your knees buckle. He can’t remember the last time he’d done something like this, and even then, he only wants to remember you.

“Are you sure?” His whisper is gentle, a strained timbre that sends shivers down your spine. Through kisses and the exhales between, he wants to make sure that you’re certain, as if you might change your mind.

Pressing another lingering kiss to his mouth, you answer with assurance. “Yes,” You sigh, lips curling into a gentle, placating smile. “More sure than I’ve ever been.” With that, Bob seems to relax, his breathing heavier, heady as you begin to shift.

Wandering hands smooth themselves over the swell of your hips, clutching at the pliant flesh, his erection pressing against your thigh. A sharp inhale passes through him as you gently adjust yourself, comfortable within his lap.

A taut coil of heat pulls tightly within his abdomen, making him squirm, a familiar heat licking over his flesh as the flushed tip prods against your cunt. He’s trying not to combust, afraid it all might be a short-lived affair.

Sluggishly, you sink yourself onto his cock, drawing a moan from your diaphragm and a breathy groan from his. Bob feels your forehead, flush to his own, hot breath pluming over his features as you continue downward.

The sensation of your hands skimming over his collar is intoxicating, eliciting another half-whimper from his throat. He clings steadfastly to your hips, thumbs tracing shaky circles into your skin as you allow the both of you time to adjust.

Your fingers thread into his hair, and he attempts to stifle a groan, eyes pleasantly half-lidded as your hips shift slightly. Everything hums, a muted buzz thrumming through his body, bliss warping into the fringes of ecstasy.

Scarlet paints his features, skin flushed with crimson, body brimming with pleasure; you’ve barely moved yet. His hands cradle you even still, and as you begin to move, he’s gentle in his assistance, holding you aloft.

“Bob,” You moan his name, dragging your hips up halfway before sinking down again, a push-and-pull that makes your muscles burn with exertion. Lips pepper themselves to his jaw, and you feel his grip tighten through trembling digits. “You feel so perfect.”

A myriad of throaty groans escaped him as you began to move, hips rocking forward, disarmingly gentle and sluggish. It was a perfect storm of sensations, between your hand in his tresses, lips beginning to trail toward his throat.

Your cunt clenched pathetically, snug around his length as you continued to ride him, his cock bottoming out within you. Bob moaned, arms caging you in as you showered his neck in kisses, body vibrating beneath you.

“Please,” He huffed, continuing to caress along your thighs, digits clamping down whenever your hips lifted and lowered. Bob knew he wasn’t going to make it very long like this, cock aching for release. “D—Don’t stop.”

Everything felt so raw and sensitive, nerves set ablaze, arousal gripping him tightly as you continued to ride his cock, ensuring that you were still gentle. Your pace never became rough, nor demanding.

He thoroughly enjoyed watching you move, cautious and mindful of him, lips agape and visage one of sheer bliss. Sighs of passion tangled together, hot and fervent, breathing in the sweet air of one another.

Prying your mouth away from his throat, he’s moving in for a kiss, whimpering when your hips fall flush against his, cock buried inside of you. The pleasure is almost overwhelming for him, enhanced by you, by how much he loves you.

His name feathers from your mouth like a sacrilegious oath, repetitive, ensuring that he knows how good he makes you feel. The remnants of your previous orgasm still cling to you, thighs shaking like leaves.

Bob kisses you as if you might slip through his fingers at any given moment, unable to fully commit through wanton groans. His chest burns with a string of needy sighs, holding you tightly, feeling your skin flush against his.

Neither of you would last long in this state — him, in particular. He was dizzy, rendered stupefied by such wanton desire, his cock throbbing inside of you with an incessant need.

Drowning within ecstasy, Bob knew that he couldn’t cling to restraint any longer, seeing stars, body oozing with heat. His digits gripped you tightly, a choked groan emerging into the hollow between your throat and shoulder.

It only took one more roll of your hips for him to fall apart completely, in shambles beneath you, cum spilling inside of you. The rush of warmth soon flooded your insides, his spend sticky between your thighs.

Bob was shaking, groaning your name, embarrassed that it all seemed to end so abruptly, but he hadn’t done it in years — it would take some adjusting.

Foreheads pressed together, lips soon finding one another, disarmingly gentle as he allowed one palm to cup your cheek. His thumb danced over your jaw, the gesture unusually sweet as your hips began to slow to a mere crawl.

“Are you okay?” Gentle, you pressed a kiss to his brow, feeling him tremble beneath you, an amalgamation of heat and limbs. Bob nodded, swallowing thickly as he felt you move from his lap.

“Yeah.” Bob’s lips twitched into a smile, feeling content in the afterglow, less pent-up. His limbs felt like molten liquid, body recovering from the vast amount of pleasure he experienced.

In the solace that followed, his feet carried him over cold marble, clamoring into your bathroom, retrieving a glass of water. His stamina remained entirely intact, superhuman — the same couldn’t be said for you.

Retrieving his sweater, your tepid skin writhes into the wool despite the perspiration, finding your underwear, thighs shaking as you pull them back on. Bob returns, half-dressed, his throat flushed where your mouth had been moments prior.

Lounging along the corner of your mattress, your features warm when he steps closer, smile sheepish. “Here.” He hums, a low, blissful sound that strips away your tension, coming to sit beside you.

With several greedy swigs of water, you’re beginning to climb down from your peak, nudging the glass onto your nightstand. It’s an unspoken thing as Bob holds you, the both of you a tangle of bodies, laying down together.

“Was that good?” Bob asks again, soft, nervous that it might’ve been too quick for you. Your head presses to his collarbone, fingertips tracing indecipherable patterns into his skin.

“It was perfect,” Pleasant tingles flow through your body, soothed by his palm, caressing circles over the small of your back. “You are perfect.” The sweetness of your cadence makes his breath hitch, lips smoothing over your forehead.

A smile seems glued to your face, no disappearing in-sight, feeling his heart stutter underneath your cheek. It’s hushed, but it’s comfortable, merely basking in the presence of one another, and he’s still reeling from the whole ordeal.

Bob smiles, doe-eyed, gazing at you as if you’re the sun, his center of gravity. Keeping one arm around you, as if to shield you, the other continues to caress along your sweater-clad frame.

“I love you.” He utters, brows furrowing as if he’s swearing an oath to you, bodies leaving no trace of space, legs tangling together. As Bob holds you close, you’re almost drifting, eyes growing heavy as you cling to him.

You fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.

[lauufeydottir]

the heart of the matter.

pairing: john walker x reader

word count: 5.8k

warnings: kind of vague suicidal ideation that's not ever acted on. john is a dick. reader is also kind of a dick. bucky meddles. so much swearing in here your toes might curl. i've never done a reader-insert before so i'm bad at this. this is me showing you my metaphorical fanfic dick please respond

a/n: as hinted above, this is my first foray into the reader-insert game. constructive criticism is welcome but if all you have in your heart is haterism please keep the thoughts inside. exes to lovers kind of except the ending is vague. follow up definitely possible. i don't really take requests but you're more than welcome to drop some thoughts/ideas in my inbox and if inspo strikes i will oblige. uhhh that's all i think? john walker girlies rise. stalking the tag is what brought me to this.

(also, not edited because i can't be bothered since this is all in good fun)

You had never thought that life would lead you back to John Walker. Or perhaps, that life had led the both of you back to each other. After all, this had been your world first.

You’d been an unfortunate accident long before anyone thought there would be a need for a successor to Steve Rogers. It wasn’t really worth recounting, given it happened as so many things did, something in a lab went wrong, and it broke you. Okay. Maybe broke wasn’t the word. It had changed you into something simultaneously greater and far worse. Whatever. It hardly mattered at this point. What mattered was that it was odd someone from your small, bullshit town had become an Avenger, odder still that it had been you. You hadn’t thought there was anymore odd to go around.

(You were deeply, deeply misguided.)

It had never truly been decided amongst you, Bucky, and Sam whether John had been picked partly because of you (John himself would insist it had nothing to do with it). Bucky was one-hundred percent convinced it had been done on purpose. It’s easier to swallow, he’d said, because people know how close you were with Steve, and since you and Walker have… a past.

Calling it a past was generous. You’d dated in high school, when you were a little dumber and he a little less obnoxious, then he’d enlisted and you’d gone off to college. It was an almost entirely expected and underwhelming end to what had been a classic high school relationship. It was hardly a past, it had really just been growing pains. With Steve, however, it was an on-again off-again situationship that felt far too juvenile at your big age, but had gone unexpectedly public.

So now you were the woman who had dated not one, but two Captain Americas, even if you were quick to insist that John had been little more than captain of the football team at the time. The general public had eaten it up when John was given the shield and still now, while Valentina was parading around her so-called New Avengers. A grave misnomer, you thought, considering this wasn’t exactly your rookie year. It was a hard pill to swallow.

Yelena insisted that you all as a team owned Valentina. You thought it felt a little bit like the other way around. At the same time, you knew it would take all of five seconds for you to tear the entire charade apart. As withdrawn as you were from, well, everything since Thanos, you knew you still held enough public interest that you could get on a stage and rip Valentina to shreds and end it all. But you couldn’t. There was just something about the strange little group that tugged on your remaining heartstrings.

It had been a fight, at first. Sam had been furious, but it had weighed far more heavily on Bucky than you. At the very least, you could look Sam in the eye and remind him that you had been around before the Avengers were even really a team. You’d been part of Nick Fury’s cobbled-together collection of misfits that could hardly be called a group, let alone a team. Sam might have been Captain America, but you were essentially the only original left. Tony and Natasha were dead, Steve was old, Clint and Bruce had families, and Thor was somewhere of in space doing… well, whatever the hell he wanted to, you supposed. You remained, heavy with loss and silently happy to see another group of misfits learning to stitch themselves together. Even if this time it was much, much messier.

Still, you resented the government control, and that John was involved.

You took it upon yourself to constantly remind him that he was only still around because you tolerated it, which he hated. It wasn’t that he was your ex, though you loathed to call him even that. It was that he’d take Steve’s legacy, tried to turn it to dust, and was still clinging to it. He insisted he was doing what he could with what he had, you insisted he could do better, and so the carousel turned.

The only argument he ever won, not that you’d ever admit it out loud, was when he reminded not just you, but everyone that he’d had you first. There was no argument against the truth. Even if you could insist that you were more serious with Steve (you weren’t), or that you’d loved Steve more (you weren’t even sure you’d been in love with Steve at all), it all circled back around to an undisputed fact: John Walker bested Steve in approximately one race and it was having you.

He had brought it up again, and you knew it was because he was feeling sensitive about something. You were fed up, and had snapped back a scathing remark you’d only ever thought before. You know, you keep bringing that shit up and someone might start to think you’re in love with me. You hadn’t said it because you thought there was any truth, but because you knew it would piss him off, because you were taking the one thing he could hold over your head and turning it back around on him. Bucky had openly laughed, which certainly hadn’t helped things, but John didn’t give into the fight you were expecting.

It gnawed at you all night and then began to worry you in the morning. You’d only ever known him to snap and give into baser instincts. Even in high school when he could have been called more mellow he’d always been ready to throw a punch or two. No response you’d ever seen from him consisted of steely silence or any kind of restraint. Though you wanted to take it as a sign of personal growth, you were more inclined to think it was something much worse. You imagined a brewing rage eating away at him like acid, and you had to wonder when it was going to boil over.

It wasn’t until Bob, sweet and generally unconcerned with John, mentioned it that you decided it was time to do something about it. Haven’t seen Walker all day, he’d remarked about the second most loud and imposing member of the team. Ava remarked that she was pleased with the development, but even Yelena looked disturbed. Alexei could not have cared any less as he shoveled Wheaties into this mouth, but Bucky… Bucky had leveled you with a look that suggested he thought something needed to be done too. That was the straw, you supposed. You might have been able to fight your own instincts about it, if Bucky had not looked at you like that, like he thought this might really become a problem sometime soon. 

You sighed heavily and lifted yourself off the couch with a dramatized effort. Bucky indicated downstairs in the direction of the gym rather than above to the quarters where you all had your personal spaces. You briefly wondered if you could convince Bucky to have a man-to-man conversation with him rather than leaving you to make nice with your most irksome teammate. Ultimately, you realized that Bucky likely would rather put himself in the ground. Annoying, emotionally-constipated super soldiers were really fucking your life up.

(Pot, kettle, Bucky would probably insist, even if you were more super and less soldier.)

Inside the gym, you found yourself realizing that other than you, John and Steve had something else in common. They both liked to treat punching bags like they’d been done great personal offense by every one of them. Even in his occupation, you knew he noticed you. Or, at the very least, he’d noticed that someone had joined him.

“Your absence is troubling Bob,” you stated simply.

He didn’t pause his assault on the bag, but he did choose to switch sides to look at you. “I doubt it.”

“He said he hadn’t seen you all day. Mentioned, therefore noticed, therefore…”

“Therefore you drew straws and you’re the unluckiest of the bunch?”

You wished you’d drawn straws. “If only that had been part of the equation. No. Believe it or not, I figured this is mostly my problem.” You left out the fact that Bucky had too. John didn’t have anything to say about that, but he did pause and begin to unwrap his hands, preparing for what you also imagined was going to be a very tedious conversation. One that, apparently, you were going to have to take the reins of. “I’m more than willing to fight this out, but just know I’ll wipe the floor with you.” He didn’t take the bait. “Seriously, what the hell is going on? You’ve been on my ass since day one about what feels like fifteen million years ago, but I make one comment and you’re— you’re…” You had no clue how to finish that sentence, but you certainly weren’t going to apologize for anything. 

He finally opens his mouth to actually say something, but it’s far from anything you’d have expected. “Does it really bother you that much? Thinking about back then?”

It was a pivot you hadn’t been expecting and it left you floundering for something to say. Did it bother you to think about? No. No, what bothered you was that it was constantly brought up in the context of being a thing to have been had, or a measure by which to pick who could have the shield. What irked you, was that John kept bringing it up like you were some kind of trophy rather than a person. Otherwise, as just something that had happened, as a relationship you had, there were fond memories if you didn’t apply the present-day John Walker of it all.

“It’s not important,” you decided to say, rather than admitting that he was constantly tainting what had previously been a genuinely pleasant example of what a first love could be. “It was forever ago, but you keep bringing it up like it’s another medal on your chest.”

And of course he zeroed in on what affronted him most. “Not important.” He was muttering to himself, mostly, but you heard it. “Just, you know, half of the sum-total of all my relationships in life. Not important.”

And that irked at you, when he’d gone onto have a wife and a kid and a brief white-picket-fence life that you’d probably never get to see because everyone in the world looked at you like some kind of commodity. A weapon to save the world, a face to plaster on tv and advertisements, a figurehead to say hey, look, this group must be good!

“My god, John,” you snapped, “you have a family. What the hell does some bullshit high school girlfriend matter? We were both nobody back then.”

“Because the family thing worked out so well for me,” he retorted.

“That was your own fault and you know it.”

A low-blow and you knew it, but you’d never be able to understand why he wasn’t constantly fighting tooth and nail to get back to them. You knew he missed his son, often caught him looking at photos that he’d gotten from somewhere. You weren’t sure if Olivia was doing a kindness and sending them, or if he was finding them by less-than-legal means, but you knew he looked at them longingly and still did nothing about it.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, always fucking everything up.”

You exhaled frustratedly through your nose. This was not going how you’d planned. It had gotten far more hostile than you’d intended. “I’m not trying to dog on you.” Though it would have been so much easier, if you were being honest. Which, you weren’t being, you knew. Being honest would have meant just telling him that you were tired of being a referred to as a possession, and how every time he brought it up, it felt like a reminder that even your pathetic high school partnership was the closest to serious you’d probably ever be able to get. “But you’re the one who brings it up like it’s a joke, not me.”

His head snapped to you, gaze torn away from the mindless packing of his gym bag. “I’m the one making a joke out of it? You’re the one who wants to act like it never even happened.”

“Because you’re the one ruining it.” You weren’t yelling, not really. But the whole thing was striking a sensitive chord that you’d never intended on even acknowledging. “You’re the one acting like I was a trophy you had and then threw away. So excuse me if I’m not looking back with fondness at being a thing.”

“I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.”

If he was being serious or purposefully obtuse, you weren’t sure. Realistically it could have been either. He might have trying to turn the tables on you, to move away from his nearly twenty-four hours of petulance that you were supposed to have been addressing. Or, maybe he really didn’t know that he’d been biting away at decently pleasant memories ever since he decided to try to be Steve. Maybe he was just that ignorant. And maybe you were kidding yourself in thinking he hadn’t been your first love, even if he hadn’t been the great love of your life. Yeah, you would perhaps admit in the deepest recesses of your mind, maybe that was a big part of it all. 

Regardless, it was becoming exceedingly clear that perhaps neither of you were in the proper mindset for this conversation to go anywhere. John’s ego was clearly too bruised from your brief ribbing to think of anything beyond how things affected him, and you were just… well, you supposed you’d been hurting too much about everything for far too long. 

At least you could tell Bucky you’d tried.

⊛

Another team was falling apart before your eyes, which meant you weren’t sleeping. Or, at the very least, sleeping as little as you could without being plagued by memories turned nightmares. So maybe that was why you were particularly sensitive, which was perhaps why you felt like bursting into tears all the time.

It had been a shit week, though, so you were giving yourself some grace. You’d allow yourself tears if they really wanted to come, if you even had any left. 

The tension with John had gotten worse, and now there were sides to it all. Bucky was on yours, unequivocally, always. The rest of the team flip-flopped back and forth depending wholly on mood or which one of you had pissed them off more that day. Bob was the only one who sat entirely neutral, though you were certain that the whole thing was stressing them out. And all of it was, albeit on a much smaller scale, reminding you of years ago which made the whole thing more unpleasant.

In the end, it made you wonder if you were still cut out for this.

Losing another team would break you, you were sure of it. Even if it was a patchwork team filled mostly with people who grated on your nerves like it was a full time job, losing it would break you. So, you were kind of thinking it was time to remove yourself from the situation. Retirement wouldn’t have looked so bad, if you weren’t going to be alone in all of it. 

That all being said, it had not been a good decision to think about it all in Tony’s old tower, looking to space from the spot he’d built to land the suit. Valentina had called it good optics, but you thought it was more bittersweet memory. Things had been good here, then bad, then good again, and then nothing. Now it was… well, you weren’t sure what the hell to call it because everything reminded you of something else. Everything reminded you of them and it damn near tore you to shreds.

Yeah, you were really beginning to think that you weren’t cut out for this anymore.

Bucky appeared from a dark corner as he so often did, and you weren’t sure if he was trying to joke when he asked, “Do I need to be worried about you?”

Either way, you knew it was a lie when you said, “No, just can’t sleep.”

When you looked at him, you knew that he knew you were full of shit. So, it was like that then. He sighed heavily and stretched out on the floor next to you. 

“I’m going to stay here until you talk to me.” You knew he was serious, unfortunately. You’d uttered the same words to him years ago when Steve had you and Sam chasing his tail. “Or until we decide to kill Walker.” You looked at him sideways. “I’m mostly joking. But I did catch him drinking milk out of the carton again, so.” He shrugged as best he could while horizontal.

“This is not John,” you said. At least, not entirely. Sure, the tension still grated on you, but it only really served to point out how much everything started to bother you when a single element went wrong. One piece out of place and all you could think about was everything you’d lost. “It’s— it’s this whole fucking place, Bucky. I don’t think I can be here anymore.”

“This doesn’t work without you,” he says firmly. “You leave, this whole thing falls apart like a house of cards. I’m sorry, but it’s true.” You couldn’t help but think that was bullshit, and the way you looked at Bucky conveyed as much. “I don’t do this without you. Already told you, where you go, I go.”

The worst part was you knew he would. If you left, he’d follow just like you’d stuck to him like glue after Steve left to chase happiness. Steve might have said until the end of the line, but you and Bucky were the ones holding the rope. But even though you thought the team could pull themselves together without you, you also knew they had no hope of doing the same without him. 

“I can’t lose another team,” you admitted. Even with the admission you held back. Your natural, instinctual follow-up was that it had almost killed you last time, but you knew from your time in Bob’s void that it all still haunted Bucky. He still blamed himself for splitting the Avengers. “This is too good for you— all of you, for me to ruin it with all my bullshit.”

It almost looked like Bucky was considering it, the way his brow knit together and his eyes squinted ever-so-slightly. So, it took you by surprise when the man who’d been flying by the seat of his pants so recently looked you dead in the face and said, “If you’re willing to hear me out, I have a plan.”

⊛

You did not think Bucky’s plan was a good one, nor did anyone else. When he remarked vaguely about switching some things around and off-handedly mentioned bonding, you had not expected to end up here. This was what you got for hearing him out. Goddamn fucking nonsense.

“This is elaborate joke, yes?” Alexei asked.

“I look like I’m joking to you?” Bucky asked, frowning.

“I think we all wish you were,” Ava retorted.

Yelena nodded and added, “This is going to get someone killed.”

If Bucky’s plan was to unite you all against his asinine games, he’d succeeded. Nobody was sure how he’d convinced Valentina to fork out the funds to reserve an entire camp usually used for corporate retreats, but he’d done it. It was a forked tongue of an idea, really. It got you out of the government-funded press tour that was previously scheduled, but it also meant a week with only each other doing trust falls or whatever other crap white-collar idiots did to encourage teamwork.

Despite all complaints and reservations, you all piled into the car and allowed Bucky to cart you off to the middle of nowhere, albeit entirely silently. A butterfly landing could have frayed your last nerve, which was exactly what happened when you saw a file marked cabin arrangements. It had to have been a sick joke. You had half a mind to casually remark, hey, if you wanted me dead you should have just told me, but you didn’t think he’d have taken kindly to that and you weren’t in the mood for an involuntary psychiatric hold. 

Instead you told him, “I think this violates the Geneva conventions.”

“You and Walker have the most issues,” he responded. “And you said you’d hear me out. I really think this is going to work.”

Yelena was right, this was going to get someone killed. It didn’t matter if there was an assembled team of professionals waiting to teach you how to play nice with each other, either you or John would be dead come morning. Everyone else would just have to spend the rest of the week with the corpse. At least then there’d be an even number.

Only out of respect for Bucky did you swallow your pride and stomp off to your assigned cabin with John following close behind. Otherwise, you might have started a fight then and there, but he was right: you’d promised to hear him out, even if this was the last time you’d do it. 

Your so-called cabin reminded you more of a dorm room than a woodsy vacation. It was closer-quarters than you’d been with anyone since being on the run. It was just one room with two beds on either side that you likely could have reached at the same time if you stood in the middle and stretched a little. The only comfort was indoor plumbing. You might have become immediately homicidal if there had been any mention of an outhouse.

“Gonna kill him,” John was muttering as he unpacked.

Part of you wanted to tell him to get in line, but a much bigger part of you wanted another hours-long stretch of silence. This was your life for the week, whether you liked it or not, and you wanted to keep the baseline peace for as long as possible. It was hard to do, though, when the second you’d unpacked your own belongings and decided to relax on the bed, someone was knocking at the door. A voice you didn’t recognize cheerily announced that you were to meet at the fire pit for introductions. You plotted Bucky’s slow and painful death as you forced yourself to follow orders.

Ten minutes later, you were all gathered around the unlit fire-pit looking at not just each other, but four very normal people who looked nervous just to be there. How they were supposed to help you all get chummy when they could barely look you in the eyes, you had no clue. It was the woman who you suspected had also been the one to summon you that clapped her hands together and declared you would get started. Though she seemed to be putting her best foot forward, you saw the light in her eyes dim when Yelena drily marked there was no reason for introductions because you all knew each other already.

“Well, okay,” she said with her forced smile, “how about, a fun fact about each of you!”

You could think of a glorious list of fun facts entirely centered around the torture you had in store for your so-called best friend, but you didn’t say that. Which, of course, was not to suggest that the “fun facts” to go around were not equally horrifying. Little miss sunshine was more unsettled minute by minute, and her own staff looked ready to bolt. You reiterated to only yourself, this was not going to work.

It was not working when they put you in their “state-of-the-art” escape room which lasted all of two minutes before John kicked the door open. It was not working when they had you doing child-level arts and crafts on an assembly line, which ended promptly when Ava put scissors through Alexei’s hand. And it was definitely, most certainly, absolutely not working when you were eating lunch and Bob accidentally started a food fight, not in the fun way. It was a lost cause, and it harrowed the staff.

The cheery instructor was holding on by a thread when she declared that she thought some self-reflection time was due and so sent you all off to your respective housing. You swore you saw Bucky’s eye twitch as he headed off towards his own, blissfully single accommodations. Only a few hours in and the plan was falling apart like a child’s blanket fort.

You showered mashed potatoes out of your hair, beating John to the bathroom by seconds to his great frustration. You were not reinvigorated when you emerged clean, but you at least felt less heavy. As John brushed past you on his way to his own shower, you breathed a sigh of relief at the prospect of a few moments truly alone. Three hours and you were already tearing your hair out. 

For Bucky, you wanted to put your best foot forward. He was serious about leaving with you, if that was the choice you made, but that pained you. He had found something here, something that could be important and do good, and you weren’t sure if it would kill you more to stick around miserable, or to tear him away. Still, you had told him the truth that night, you weren’t sure you could do it anymore.

Miserably and embarrassingly, a dam broke inside and you burst into tears at the exact moment John exited the briefest shower in human history. He looked at you alarmed and you promptly squeezed your eyes as tight as you could. Perhaps if you couldn’t see him, you could pretend it wasn’t happening at all. If he hadn’t been there hovering, waiting for who knows what, you maybe could have, but he did. John stood there statuesque in exactly the same way he had when you were teenagers, always unsure what to do when you cried. 

“Jesus,” he breathed. “The hell did I do now?”

You wanted to scream that not everything was about him, that you’d been miserable long before he ever reentered your life but there was no space in your lungs left to do so. Which meant you just sat there heaving sobs in front of the last person you ever wanted to show a vulnerable bone in your body. If he wanted to see you beaten down by life to feel good about himself, you were certainly giving him the show.

He took you back to high school again, which was both humiliating and a horrifying comfort. He’d never known what to do while you cried, but he’d certainly had a routine for after. You weren’t sure where he got the water bottle that he thrust into your hands ten minutes later, nor did you notice him disappear into the bathroom again for a toilet-paper sub for tissue, but he had. The whole time you shook while you cleaned yourself up and rehydrated so thoroughly you felt like puking, he sat on the floor with his back against your bed, radiating body heat against your leg without touching.

Then he asked you what he always had, and it still sounded like it pained him just like before, “Do you want to talk about it?”

No. You thought you wanted to die, really. You thought that maybe Bucky had needed to worry. And you were thinking that John was still a better man than you gave him credit for, despite all the space and time. Horrifying discover after horrifying discovery. Why you admitted the truth to him you’d probably never know. Why he shared the same would always make you wonder.

“I think I don’t want to be here anymore,” you said, cracking through chesty mucus that had settled in your lungs. The look on his face suggested he knew you didn’t just mean the cabin or trip. Soft eyes, like the very idea of it haunted him even though he shouldn’t have cared any less. It wouldn’t have removed the feather of you from his cap. He still could claim it: I had her. What a shame things went the way they did… It should not have mattered to him. He’d never given you any indication it would.

“I think,” you continued, “that almost everyone I’ve ever loved is dead or gone, and I’m wondering why I didn’t end up there too. So fuck you for thinking it’s you I’m crying over. I was miserable before you. I’ll be miserable after.”

He invoked again through a sigh and rose. “I’m going to go get Bucky.”

Your hand shot out and gripped his wrist as tight as you could. It wouldn’t bruise a super-soldier but he got the point. “You get Bucky and I’ll kill you, John.”

That would be the last straw. Bucky saw you like this and everything would be a goner. He was your best friend, and he’d do anything in the world for you, which made it so damn hard for you to do everything in your power for him. Bucky would never know.

“You’re goddamn demented, you know.” He relented despite what seemed to be protestation. “Fuckin’ crazy. Threatening to put me in the ground for trying to help you.”

“Fuck you,” you repeated, heatless and bland but all you had. “You aren’t helping shit.”

“Yeah, well, I’m trying here, baby.”

If you had anything left to give besides the barest of oxygen in your lungs, you might have cried all over again. You could imagine clawing at him for having the audacity to call you that, accident or not, but your very bones denied it. Something must have leeched the calcium right out of them, the way you might have buckled if you had been standing. All while your blood was turning to sludge in your veins, John Walker muttered the first apology you’d maybe ever heard from him. Force of habit, he added, like the last time he had any right to say something like that wasn’t years ago.

There was a stretch of silence that could have been hours for all you knew. There were knocks on the door that you both ignored for some reason you’d never be able to explain. There was probably a search party underfoot, but it all seemed deeply inconsequential. At some point, you’d drawn your knees up to your chest, and he’d ended up next to you. Just the barest brushing of skin.

“I want this to work,” you admitted against all better judgment. “For Bucky. For me. I miss having people to rely on. I always liked having people in my corner.”

“I’m getting divorced,” he offered, a piece of his hurt for yours. “Liv might let me see my son. She had some real choice words when I called. So, I guess it would be nice to have some people in my corner, too.”

A real pretty picture to paint, to be sure. Far from being possible just because you decided there was really nothing left to lose. Even so, there was nothing left to do but try. 

⊛

So maybe Bucky Barnes was some kind of closet genius.

It was a bit like puzzle pieces clicking when you decided to give it a real go. You still wanted to kill John sometimes. A lot of the time. Maybe even most of the time. But you’d looked straight into each others’ gooey centers, and that would have changed things for anyone.

When you asked where the hell a plan like his had even come from, Bucky admitted it had been far more Sam than it had him. Couple’s counseling, he’d remarked which had explained a number of disappearances he’d previously left up for debate, we’d been going for a while, and when I was telling him he said it was too bad I couldn’t make everyone go. So I found a way. You’d just smiled and said, Fucking weird plan, Buck. You couldn’t deny the results though.

The next time you caught yourself gazing up at the stars recounting what you’d once had, it was John that joined you instead of Bucky. For the first time in a long time, it didn’t leave you with a bone-deep pain to talk about what had been. You grew to understand how Bucky held no resentment to Steve for chasing his own peace, even if it meant leaving forever. It didn’t freeze you to the bone to tell someone, even if it was him, that Yelena was reminding you more and more of Natasha with each passing day. It no longer felt like pulling teeth when you admitted that sometimes when you had a drink at the bar you thought about Tony. Now, when you looked at the sky you wished Thor only the best, rather than cursing him for leaving you for so long. Sometimes, John would tell you about his son and you’d smile for Bruce and Clint. 

Part of you recoiled when he echoed Bucky’s words to you. “I need to be worried about you?”

“Nah,” you said, the truth this time. “I’m… solid. Putting in the work. Therapy, medication, all that jazz.” It being mandatory now was only about half the reason you still visited a professional weekly. “I’m doing good, I think.” John repeated good several times as he nodded mostly to himself. You turned it on him. “I gotta be worried about you?”

At that, he shook his head. He echoed your sentiment about putting in the work at mandatory therapy. He was solid too, good even, practically verging on great. His fingers brushed yours as he explained he was having his first unsupervised visit with his son. Not at the tower, nowhere near the tower if he could help it. Not that it was a trust thing, he made sure to add hastily. He thought that maybe there would be a day he could show his son what “work” was now, just not so soon. You were genuinely glad for him all while ignoring a pesky blooming warmth in your chest at a tentative grasp of hands.

John Walker still had roots in you, that was certain, and you had a feeling you had a home somewhere in his ribcage too. 

“We were best friends once,” he remarked sometime after your pulse had stopped thrumming in your ears. “Think it could happen again?”

A small smile broke through very thin resistance, and you hummed for what seemed to be dramatic affect. “Spot’s taken… think I might have something else in mind for you, if you’re up for the challenge.”

Clasped hands raised, lips meet the inside of your wrist, your pulse flutters again. “Up for anything, baby.”