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limof · 13 days ago

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nothing's right about this.

john walker x male reader.

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. you make john feel everything he’s spent years burying, so he buries himself in you instead.

𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓. one-shot [4.7k].

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. male reader 〳 us agent!john walker 〳 enemies with benefits 〳 repressed desire 〳 power struggle 〳 brat taming 〳 internalized homophobia 〳 top!john walker 〳 bottom!reader 〳 rough!sex 〳 bruising 〳 spitting 〳 sweat 〳 possessiveness 〳 jealousy 〳 angry!sex 〳 degradation + praise 〳 breeding kink 〳 belly bulging 〳 cumplay 〳 size kink 〳 choking (r!receiving) 〳 overstimulation 〳 breeding 〳 mild dubcon tones

John tells himself he’s above this. Above you. Above the way your eyes flash when you’re mouthing off, the lazy confidence in your step, the way you stretch before a mission like you know people are watching. Like you know he’s watching. He grits his teeth when he sees you laugh too loud, when your body moves too free, too proud, too unashamed.

You don’t carry the same weight he does. Don’t feel the world press against your ribs every time you think about what you are, and what you want.

And John? John’s sick of pretending he doesn’t notice. Sick of pretending that the ache in his gut when he looks at you is just anger.

But before it starts, there’s that moment—thin, sharp as glass—when the tension crackles just beneath the surface. John watches you laugh at something someone else said, too loud, too easy. The sun slants across your cheek, and you look too free, too light.

His jaw tightens.

His chest feels like a loaded gun.

It starts with a fight. It always does.

You say something smart. "Still trying to play hero, huh?" Tossed over your shoulder as you walk past, catching sight of him hunched over the holo-screen, scrubbing through mission footage like he’s about to rewrite history. A little jab, just enough to sting.

The words hang in the air like smoke, curling under John’s skin. He grits his teeth, shoulders tensing beneath the weight of your voice.

It’s not just the tone. It’s the timing. The way you tilt your head, half-daring, half-knowing. Like you want him to crack. Like you know he will.

The lights are low in the common room. Most of the team’s retired for the night, and there’s a cold cup of coffee sweating on the counter, forgotten. The TV plays some late-night rerun, volume down, casting restless flashes across the metal walls. The hallway to the private quarters starts just behind you, but neither of you’s moved.

The air’s too tight.

John scoffs, finally looking up. “You ever stop running your mouth, or do you just like hearing yourself talk?”

You hum, smile sharpening. “Please. If I wanted to hear something hollow, I’d bang on that tin star strapped to your chest.”

John’s eyes flick over you: lips curled into that infuriating smirk, eyes glittering with something that feels too close to understanding. His stomach twists. His hands flex at his sides.

You look too proud. Too sure. Like you're trying to make him angry. And worse, you’re succeeding.

He steps forward.

“I swear to God,” he mutters, voice low and rough, “You just can’t help yourself.” Your mouth is a loaded weapon, and the moment you smirk, he knows he’s already lost.

“Careful, soldier,” you say, leaning in just close enough to test him. “You might bruise something delicate.”

His jaw ticks. Hands on his hips, he stares you down. “You think I give a damn?”

He doesn’t. Not once his hand is fisted in your collar, shoving you back until your spine hits the door, and his mouth is on yours. Bruising, furious.

There’s spit on your lips, your teeth clash, and still, he kisses you like he hates you.

And maybe he does.

Maybe that’s why his hand rises, slow but certain, wrapping around your throat—not enough to cut air, not yet. Just to feel it. To feel your pulse stutter under his palm. To remind you who’s in control.

Like he’s angry at himself for liking it. His forehead presses to yours, hot and damp, and for a second he just breathes—like he’s trying to ground himself, like the feeling of your throat under his hand is the only thing tethering him to the moment.

“You think this is a game?” he mutters against your mouth, lips slick with spit. His thumb presses just under your jaw, tilting your head up, forcing you to hold his gaze. His eyes are wild: hurt, furious, starved. “You think you can look at me like that, run your mouth, and not pay for it?”

His grip tightens deliberately.

A warning.

A promise.

You let out a shaky sound, something caught between a gasp and a whimper, and he groans, like the noise cuts straight through him.

You manage a breath, your voice raw around it. “I didn’t know it’d take so little to—”

But you don’t get to finish.

His fingers clamp tighter around your throat, and whatever was left of your sentence dies in your mouth. His pupils blow wide watching your lips falter, eyes flutter, jaw tense beneath his palm. There’s a flush creeping up his neck, one he doesn’t bother to hide.

His other hand twitches at his side like he doesn’t trust himself to touch you with it.

And then you feel it.

His hips twitch forward. Instinctive, hungry.

The thick press of his cock through his pants, shameless and heavy, grinding into your hip like he couldn’t stop it if he tried. The fabric’s stretched taut over it, obscene in how hard he is—how deprived.

A brutal kind of want, swelling by the second.

“You don’t get to talk,” he growls, breath hitching. “Not like that. Not when you’re looking at me like you want this.”

And God, the way your expression shifts under him. That flicker of defiance melting into something desperate, your lips parting soundlessly—it nearly undoes him.

His grip stays firm, but his hand trembles, just slightly. Not from hesitation.

From restraint.

Then his other hand shoves your leg up, grinding into you hard, like punishment. Like penance.

“Mine,” he says again, quieter this time. Almost desperate. His palm flexes where it grips your neck. “Say it.”

You smirk, even through the mess. “If you want a pretty little yes, you’re gonna have to do a hell of a lot better than this.”

He hates how you look at him like you know him. Really know him. Like you see the parts he tries to bury: the longing, the fear, the twisted thing inside him that wants to ruin you.

His grip is rough. Shoving you back onto the bed, dragging your clothes off in angry, fumbling bursts. His hands tremble. Not with fear, but with the rage of wanting something so badly it terrifies him.

He yanks your pants down with a sharpness that says he's already lost the argument in his head. His breath is ragged, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling like he just sprinted a mile, like this is the only way he knows how to stop himself from screaming.

But there’s a hitch in his grip, just a second of hesitation. His fingers ghost along your waist, rough calluses dragging over bare skin like they’re memorizing it, punishing it, worshiping it all at once.

His jaw tightens. There’s spit at the corner of his mouth, eyes wild when he flips you over, ass-up.

No prep.

It’s not carelessness, it’s desperation. The kind that burns.

The kind that ruins.

He spits into his palm and slicks his fingers with shaking urgency, teeth grit like he’s trying not to say something soft. Or maybe like he’s trying to drown out the voice in his head that says this is wrong.

Then he’s forcing one in, then two, scissoring fast, deliberate into your tight hole. Your thighs twitch. Your back arches, and you begin fisting the sheets beneath you from the onslaught of John's wrath, squeezing cotton until they've patterned your skin.

And still, John doesn’t say a word. No words. Just heat, rage, and spit. You're already whining, writhing against the mattress, your cock leaking between your thighs. His fingers digging inside of you forces you to rut your own cock against the sheets on his own accord.

“Fuckin’ desperate,” he mutters. “Always actin’ like you don’t want it, then melt the second I touch you.”

You laugh, breathless. “Like you’re any better.”

He doesn’t answer.

Just scoffs—sharp and humorless—at the sight of that smug little smile still clinging to your lips. The kind of smile he’ll remember to wipe off later with something rough, something thick, something that’ll make your jaw ache.

His hands move to his belt, undoing it with slow, deliberate movements. There’s nothing rushed about it.

This is control.

This is a man who knows exactly how hard you’re watching him. The zipper comes down, the fabric shifts, and his cock springs free; flushed dark, already heavy with blood, curving up like it’s spoiling for a fight.

Thick. Veined. Angry. The kind of thing that makes you flinch and ache in the same breath. That stretches you just from the sight alone.

He watches the way your ass involuntarily moves for him, your breath catching, your throat working around nothing. That smugness of yours? Slipping.

Then he drops to his knees. Grabs your ass cheeks, spreads them wider. His gaze falls to your entrance: swollen, flushed, twitching with need. Still untouched, still clenching on air.

He exhales, almost reverently.

“Look at that,” he mutters, voice gone gravel-deep.

One hand reaches down, guiding himself closer. The tip of his cock drags along your rim, slow and teasing. He nudges the head against you, circling it, just to see how you shiver. How you twitch. How your hole tries to take him even before he’s inside. He chuckles to himself.

You do somewhat take him, breathless, latching onto the string of thick pre-cum that spills from him as he squeezes the base. It dribbles down in lazy strands, warm and glossy, catching against your skin.

Your hole glistens with it—slicked and shining, haloed in the mess of him. The way it clings there, pooling in the swell of your rim, dripping down your thighs; it’s filthy.

Shameless. Perfect. Like your body’s been marked before he’s even inside.

His heavy balls tighten at the sight.

Something in him buckles.

Whatever restraint he had left—the slow rhythm, the teasing control—shatters in a breath.

He growls, low and feral, flipping you onto your back again, holding your legs up, and his hips jerk forward without warning. The head of his cock breaches you in one unforgiving push, and the sound you make—wrecked, raw—nearly drives him insane.

He pushes in slow. Painfully slow. To watch your face twist. To watch your bravado break. You’re so tight around him it’s obscene, clenching like you’re trying to force him out, but your body’s a traitor. It wants this.

His hands fly to your hips, fingers digging in like he needs to hold you still or he’ll split you apart. He thrusts again. Deeper. Harder. Forcing you to take every swollen inch.

“Yeah,” he pants, voice breaking as he rams in to the hilt. “That’s it. That’s what you needed, huh?”

The stretch is brutal, unrelenting. He watches your face twist, the way your lips part in a silent cry, your brows pulling tight from the sheer pressure.

“Fuck. Look at that,” John growls. “Stretchin’ around me like you were made for it.”

Your hands scrabble against his chest, trying to ground yourself. His cock is thick, wider than anything you’ve taken, and the way he grinds in makes your spine arch.

The slick sound of him moving inside you fills the room—wet, fast, obscene. You’re dripping with him now, the mess of pre-cum and spit and need painting your thighs, the base of his cock, everything. Your body shudders, tightening around him like you don’t know whether to fight or surrender.

But he knows you’re his.

He can feel it in the way your hole sucks him in, desperate and greedy, no matter how you gasp or claw.

He leans over you, breath hot against your ear.

“You run that mouth,” he snarls, “but your body knows who owns it.”

John’s eyes flick down. His palm presses over your belly, fingers splayed, and for a second, just a second, he forgets to move.

The sight stops him cold.

The outline beneath your skin—faint at first, then more defined with every savage roll of his hips. Your stomach, stretched and straining around the shape of him. A thick, blunt bulge rising with each thrust, sliding up under your navel, then sinking as he pulls back.

His cock.

Your stomach is swollen with the shape of it, obscene and beautiful and his.

John stills for just a moment, hovering over you, chest heaving as he stares. His hand moves down—broad, shaking fingers splaying across your belly, pressing just enough to feel the shape of himself inside you. The sensation makes you twitch around him, makes your spine arch off the bed like you’re being electrocuted from the inside out.

"Fuck,” he breathes, voice hoarse with disbelief. “Look at that…”

There’s something raw, unfiltered in his eyes now. Worship twisted into ruin. The animal thrill of knowing he’s inside you this deep, this hard—that your body’s giving way to him, shaping around him.

His other hand curls under your thigh and drags you closer, impossibly close, locking you in place as he starts to move again.

Harder now, rougher, chasing the high of that bulge returning again and again with every thrust.

“Keep your eyes on it,” he snarls. “Wanna see you watch what I do to you.”

You can’t look away.

Not from the brutal rise and fall of your stomach beneath him, not from the way his cock moves inside you like it’s claiming space that no one else ever will.

Your hand finds its way between your bodies, shaking, slick with sweat, wrapping around your cock like instinct.

You stroke in time with his thrusts, desperate, frantic, eyes glazed with something between awe and disbelief. The pressure, the stretch, the sight of your own body swelling with his large cock—it’s too much.

You’re falling apart beneath him, undone by the sheer filth of it.

John sees it. Feels it.

There’s a whisper of shame in his gut. A tight coil of something hot and bitter that he’s too scared to name. He tells himself this is about control. Dominance. Power. But the way his hand lingers, slow, reverent, almost trembling, betrays him. His thumb brushes over the outline of his cock inside you, and his throat makes a strangled sound.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Look what I’ve done to you.”

You groan beneath him, squirming, and he grips harder, like holding on is the only thing tethering him to sanity. Like the line between wanting and needing has long since blurred, and all that’s left is this: your ruined body, your wrecked moans, and the way your hole still flutters around him like it wants more.

John swallows hard, his mind splitting between shame and wonder, guilt and heat. And still, he doesn’t stop. There’s a bulge there, deeper. His cock, thick, hot, rooted so deep inside you it’s obscene. He moans low and dark, almost like a prayer.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “You feel that? That’s me. That’s all me.”

He sets a brutal pace. The bed slams the wall with each thrust. Sweat drips from his brow, down his chest, soaking where your bodies grind together. The smell of sex clings to everything; salt, spit, the heavy musk of his scent. It’s in your mouth, your throat, your skin.

He grabs your hips harder. Bruising. Forces your legs higher. Fucks up into you so deep your stomach bulges every time. You can’t speak anymore. Just drool and whimper and take it.

“Thought you were a tough guy,” he pants. “Look at you now. My good little hole, all stretched out, beggin’ for it.”

Your head rolls back. You’re flushed, soaked, completely undone. Your legs shake as he slams into you again and again, your body wrecked from the inside out.

In his mind, there’s a war. One part of him is screaming to stop, to pull back, to get the hell out before someone sees. Before he sees himself for what he’s become. But another part, deeper, darker, burns to see how much further he can push. That part lingers on the bruises forming beneath his fingertips, on the thick outline of his cock pressing against the inside of your stomach. It thrills in the sounds you make. Wrecked, needy, shameless.

He remembers his father’s voice, sharp and cold, warning him about weakness. About what it means to be a real man. And yet here he is; moaning into your throat, marking you with spit and sweat and cum, watching your body take him like you were made for it. There’s guilt, sharp as broken glass, lodged somewhere behind his ribs. But there’s also awe. Desire. A sick, perfect satisfaction at seeing you beneath him, full of him.

He doesn’t know which part scares him more. One side says this is wrong. That he’s not this, not gay, not weak. That if anyone saw what he was doing now; sweating, trembling, chasing his release deep in a man’s body, they’d strip him of everything. The shield. The legacy. The illusion. He grits his teeth, mouth tasting of salt and shame. The need claws at him from the inside, hungry and black.

But the other voice—the louder one—wants more.

It screams when he hesitates, clawing through the self-loathing. More, it demands. Deeper. Mark him. Own him.

His hand drags down your stomach again, fingers spreading over the curve of your belly, sticky with sweat and cum. The bulge is obscene, tender to the touch, and it draws a guttural moan from him, because that’s him, all of him, inside you.

John swallows hard, eyes locked on your wrecked form. He should be ashamed. Maybe he is. But the sight makes him feral. Possessive.

“You’re mine like this,” he growls, pressing down until you squirm. “No one else gets to see you fall apart.”

And he’s not done. Not nearly. He pulls back only enough to see you clench, stretched wide, glistening, and then pushes back in slow—torturously slow.

The drag of him inside you makes your toes curl.

“You gonna take it again?” he asks, breathing hot against your cheek. “Let me fill you ‘til you can’t think?”

"W-Walker-"

Your voice breaks into a whimper, and he takes it as a yes. One hand grabs your jaw, forcing your face to his, kissing you with filthy, bruising heat. The other cups your belly again, slow, reverent.

He starts moving. A rhythm drawn not from anger, but from hunger. From worship. You feel him everywhere, in your gut, your throat, your bones. Each thrust is deliberate. Deep. Milking himself in you like a man starved.

John breathes your name. Not a curse. Not a threat. A need.

And somewhere in the chaos of it, in the sweat and scent and sin; John lets himself believe, for one fractured second, that maybe this is more than just control.

Maybe it’s the only time he lets himself feel whole.

Your hand’s slick, trembling, barely able to keep pace with the rhythm he’s forcing into you. Every thrust knocks the air from your lungs, his cock driving up deep enough to punch a sound from your throat that’s more sob than moan. The bulge in your belly rises and falls in time with your cries, a visual of just how thoroughly you’re being ruined.

John watches you fall apart with something close to reverence—like this is what he’s been working toward since the first time you ever looked at him like you weren’t afraid. His jaw is clenched, knuckles white where he grips your thigh and belly, holding you down like he knows you’d try to squirm away if you could. Like he wants you to try.

He wants to ruin you. Leave bruises no suit could cover; mottled purples and deep reds blooming over your hips, your throat, the backs of your thighs. Proof. Markers. His signature etched into your skin with every thrust, every grip too tight, every bite too sharp. He wants the reminders to linger when you're back on duty, hidden under your uniform. Wants you to feel them ache when you move. Wants you to know, even in silence, that he was there. That he claimed you, punished you, needed you so badly he lost himself. He wants to bite your throat and mark your ass and pump you so full of cum you’ll be leaking down your thighs for hours.

Because you don’t hide. You laugh, you flirt, you live. You let your body feel pleasure and you don’t apologize for it.

He hates that.

He wants to control it.

“You take me so well,” he grunts, licking a stripe of sweat down your neck. “You were made to be fucked like this.”

He spits in your mouth, and you moan like it’s a kiss.

Your hand speeds up without meaning to. You don’t even realize it at first—that you’re rutting into your own palm like you’re starving, chasing that edge like it’ll save you. Your mouth is open but nothing coherent comes out—just gasps, shuddering little whines, noises you’d be ashamed of if you could think.

But you can’t.

All you can do is take it.

His balls slap your ass, soaked and heavy. You can feel the tension in his body. Every muscle flexed, his thighs trembling, the head of his cock pulsing against your walls.

He’s close.

His breath grows ragged, catching in his throat as he fucks into you faster now, each thrust raw and punishing. His grip tightens; one hand bruising your hip, the other splayed across your belly, holding you steady like he’s anchoring himself to the sight of his cock bulging inside you. He watches your body take him again and again, every inch stretching you wide, wet and flushed and glistening with spit and sweat. You’re slick everywhere, the air thick with the slap of skin and the low, guttural growls punched out of him as he chases it.

The pleasure burns, raw and overwhelming, until your vision starts to white out at the edges. You clamp down around him, body seizing, cock twitching helplessly in your hand.

And then you break.

You come hard, violently, hot release painting your chest, your hand, your stomach. Your hole clamps around John like a vice, sucking him in deeper, your body spasming beneath his as the pleasure slams into you like a freight train.

"G-god," you cried out behind a cum-covered hand.

John groans low, head dropping to your neck, biting down hard enough to bruise.

“Fuck.” he snarls, and it’s broken, frayed. His cock twitches deep inside, the veins throbbing, leaking pre-cum in thick spurts with every thrust. Your walls clamp around him like a vice, greedy and sucking, making him hiss through his teeth. “So tight. Still so fucking tight. Gonna lose it in you, fuck.”

He shifts your legs higher, pushing you open, wide and helpless beneath him. You’re bent in half now, his weight pressing down, his body trembling like a live wire. You feel everything.

The slide of him. The scrape. The unbearable fullness. His cock pulses with every beat of his heart, flushed and angry, and you swear you can feel it throb in your throat. Your whole body arches, overstimulated, overwhelmed.

John slams forward with a grunt, burying himself to the hilt, and you feel the moment he starts to break—his cock swelling, twitching violently inside you. He pants your name like a curse, like a prayer, a mantra unraveling on his tongue.

“Take it,” he growls, spit flying, eyes wild and unfocused. “Take all of it. Gonna fucking fill you up. Breed you like you need it.”

He ruts harder, frantic now, losing rhythm.

His eyes roll back, hips snapping in stuttering thrusts as he cums, hot and hard, spilling deep into your guts.

It punches out of him in thick waves, jerking through his length as he grinds in deep, forcing it further. The first shot knocks the wind out of you, the second makes your hole flutter around him involuntarily. You feel it gush inside you, thick and messy, coating your insides, your walls clenching as if begging him to never leave.

John moans a deep, wrecked sound. His mouth finds your throat, biting, panting, murmuring filth. “So fuckin’ full of me... just like you should be. Like I fuckin’ own you.”

He stays locked inside, his cock still twitching as aftershocks pulse through him.

He doesn’t move. Just breathes. Heavy. Shuddering. Shaking.

He doesn’t ask permission. He never has.

And then he starts again. Slower. More deliberate. Breeding you in long, deep strokes that make your gut clench and your mouth fall open with something between a moan and a sob.

But he doesn’t pull out.

John stays buried, breathing hard, holding your trembling thighs around his waist.

You’re gonna take all night,” he mutters, low and rough against your ear, hips rolling in deep. “Gonna fuck you until I see myself leaking out your ruined little hole.”

He rolls his hips slow. Deep. Milking himself. Filling you further.

Each drag of his hips is drawn out, obscene. You feel every inch of his cock slide through your slick walls, dragging thick and hard and hot. His hands stay on your stomach, pressing down, watching the way it bulges when he pushes deep. His eyes are heavy, drunk with it.

Like it’s not just lust; it’s envy.

Reverence.

Grief.

Your moans hitch in your throat as another wave crests through your body. You’re too full. Too raw. And yet, your hole flutters like it’s begging.

“Good boy,” he breathes, voice husky. “Gonna take another load for me. You want it, don’t you? Want to feel me breed you slow. Like you’re mine.”

You nod, nearly sobbing.

His hand cups your belly again, thumb brushing over the bulge of his cock as he thrusts deeper. His own eyes are glassy now. Dazed.

There’s awe in his voice, but also something darker.

A desperation.

Why does it feel like love? he thinks. Why does it feel like need?

The room rocks gently with the rhythm of his slow thrusts. Each roll of his hips is languid, drawn out with a purpose that feels almost reverent. His breath stutters in your ear, warm and uneven, the way a prayer sounds when spoken through clenched teeth.

He watches your face closely; hungry, almost desperate for each flutter of your lashes, each gasp punched from your chest.

His hand doesn’t leave your belly, tracing the swell again like he’s mesmerized. You feel him twitch inside you, and it’s not just from lust; it’s from the weight of what this is becoming. From the way your body molds around him, stretches to welcome every inch. His thumb ghosts up to your sternum, trailing a line slick with sweat.

“You feel this,” he murmurs, voice hoarse with something too tender to name. “Feel what I’m doing to you?”

You nod, voice broken with need, and he groans like the sound undoes him. Like your surrender, so quiet and wrecked, means more than the way you clenched him tight. More than any bruise or mark he could leave.

The thrusts stay slow. Intentional. Less like fucking, more like being pulled apart and put back together.

Again and again and again.

The bed creaks under you. You’re both sweat-soaked and shaking. Your stomach gurgles from the sheer volume he’s already filled you with. And still, he gives more.

When he cums again, it’s slower. Deeper. A heavy, aching release that leaves him breathless, slumping over you, groaning as he floods your guts a second time.

You’re ruined. Bruised. Dripping.

He grits his teeth, forehead falling to your shoulder as he groans. “How the hell do you live like this? So free. So fuckin’ open. You don’t even know how lucky you are.”

His voice cracks at the end, and you twist your head to look at him, spit-slick and ruined.

"I live like this ‘cause I stopped caring what broke men like you think."

He won't meet your gaze. Instead, he thrusts in again, slow, hard, dragging the edge of pain and pleasure like a punishment. For both of you.

“You’re mine,” he says again, quieter this time, as if trying to believe it. “Even if I gotta break you to keep you.”

"You already did. And I’m still here."

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

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