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local-crying-boy · 3 days ago

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WALKER THE MAN YOU ARE

fine line

john walker 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, John Walker fucks like a champ and you can't change my mind, Dom!John Walker, breeding kink, degradation, crying during sex (pleasure-induced), Smut (oral, protected and unprotected sex, overstimulation, mutual masturbation), dirty talk, Masturbation (f solo, m implied), praise, Slow burn with strong emotional build

word count: 15k

Summary: You moved into your new apartment for peace and quiet. What you got instead was a shared wall—and a nightly soundtrack—courtesy of your ridiculously hot, insufferably smug neighbor, John Walker. He’s loud. He’s rude. He’s apparently allergic to emotional intimacy. And worst of all?

You can’t stop fantasizing about him.

What starts as passive-aggressive note wars and 2AM arguments slowly shifts—through snowstorms, soup deliveries, shared beds, and the occasional wall sexting—into something that feels dangerously close to love.

There’s a fine line between hate and want. You’re about to find out what’s on the other side.

notes – not proofread. Lots of dialogue bc brother they would not shut up. these two were obsessed with each other. i probably could write more with this pair.

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

You moved into 4B for the silence.

Or at least, that was the dream. A fresh start, clean walls, a lease in your own name and a commute that didn’t require the patience of a monk. It wasn’t the most glamorous apartment in D.C., but the ceilings were high, the windows wide, and the radiator only coughed when provoked.

Most importantly, it was yours. Finally, finally yours.

You’d fallen asleep the first night with the rare kind of contentment that only came from solitude and a locked door behind you—your boxes still unpacked, the city humming beyond your curtains like a lullaby. You curled into the unfamiliar sheets, let your body sink into the springy mattress, and thought, I made it.

But by night two, your fantasy started to fracture.

It began as a distant rhythm—faint, repetitive thumps filtering in from the left wall. You thought maybe someone had dropped something. Or moved furniture. Maybe an old pipe. You didn’t investigate. You were brushing your teeth and humming to yourself, unpacking mugs and thinking about your new office. About the version of yourself you were about to become.

The sound came again. Thump-thump-thump. Rhythmic. Intentional.

You froze.

Then a low, male voice filtered through the wall.

“Yeah… just like that, baby. That’s it.”

The toothbrush paused mid-stroke.

You stared at yourself in the mirror, toothpaste foaming at the corners of your lips.

It had to be a TV. Had to be. One of those action shows with terrible sex scenes. Something unreasonably graphic.

But the voice came again. Closer this time.

“Thought you were gonna take it like a good girl. Huh?”

You dropped the toothbrush into the sink. Water kept running. You didn’t move.

Because now you could hear her. Moaning, breathy, high-pitched. Her voice climbed in volume, rising with the steady beat of a mattress pounding the shared wall between your bedrooms.

You pressed your palm to the drywall like it might give you more clarity. It did.

Thump-thump-thump.

Whine.

“Look at you. So fuckin’ needy.”

A flush spread over your neck. Down your chest. You weren’t a prude. You’d had sex. Good sex, even. You’d heard people before. But this?

This wasn’t just sex. It was theatrical.

He kept talking. That same voice—deep and low and smooth like bourbon warmed on a stovetop. That voice didn’t ask for pleasure. It gave it, demanded it, controlled it.

“C’mon. I said take it. You want it so bad, show me.”

A choked, whimpering sound from the woman answered him. Headboard striking drywall. You were going to murder someone. File a noise complaint. Or… or…

Your thighs pressed together.

God help you.

Because it was exactly your flavor of dirty talk. Filthy. Degrading. Mocking praise woven in like poison in sugar. He called her a good girl with a sneer in his voice. Laughed when she begged. Told her she didn’t “deserve to come yet” like he’d used the line before and always meant it.

You should have turned on a fan. Your white noise machine. Your phone. But instead, you stood frozen in the bathroom, listening, arousal winding like a vice in your stomach.

Eventually—mercifully—it stopped. A groan. Then silence. You didn’t know whose it was. Didn’t know if she stayed the night. Didn’t dare guess.

But when you climbed into bed later, you pulled the covers up to your chin and stared at the wall. You hated that you were still warm from his voice on the other side.

You didn’t see him the next day. Or the day after.

But you heard him.

Night three, it starts again—ten forty-two on the dot.

You’re halfway through brushing your hair when the first thump hits. Not furniture. Not plumbing. A beat. Predictable. Sharp.

You pause, hand frozen mid-stroke, staring at the wall.

Then comes the voice.

“Yeah, just like that.”

It’s the same tone. The same man. Lower this time, rougher—scraping the edge of restraint. The bed frame knocks into the drywall again, and your breath catches.

Another voice joins his—a woman’s. High-pitched and sweet, already breathless. He laughs under his breath. The sound makes your stomach tighten.

“Didn’t say you could start beggin’ yet.”

Your hand slides the hairbrush onto the dresser, fingers curling into a fist at your side. You don’t mean to stay still. Don’t mean to listen. But it’s like your feet sink into the carpet. Like the wall has reached out and pinned you there.

“You like that, huh?” His voice is darker now, close. Like he’s standing right beside you instead of fucking someone through a few inches of drywall. “Little slut’s already drippin’, and I haven’t even gotten started.”

A sharp moan follows. Then a rhythmic sound—skin on skin. Headboard hitting faster now.

Your legs press together.

You can’t help it.

You turn off the lamp.

You sit on the edge of the bed in the dark, hands flat on the blanket, heart pounding. You shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t stay. But you do.

Because he keeps talking.

“Make those pretty sounds for me. Don’t hold back—don’t you dare.”

The moan that answers him is helpless. Broken. She’s not shy, this one. Not at all. You can hear her, can picture her—spread out beneath him, arms trembling, legs splayed wide while he ruins her.

The mattress creaks louder.

Then that voice again—commanding, merciless.

“Gonna fuck you dumb, sweetheart. Might forget your own name.”

Your hand slips under the hem of your sweatshirt before you even realize it. You’re not proud of it. But your body’s ahead of your brain. Every word he says wraps around your spine like heat.

You slip your fingers under the waistband of your sleep shorts and hiss when they meet your own heat.

You’re wet.

Soaked, actually.

The kind of turned on you haven’t felt in months. Maybe years. The kind that makes your cheeks burn and your head drop forward because you hate that this is what does it for you. That he is what does it for you.

But then—

“Take it. You want it so bad, you better take it.”

You bite down on your bottom lip, stifling a gasp. Your fingers move faster.

The headboard slams once. Twice. Then stops.

The woman cries out, voice cracking on the end of it. His growl chases hers, low and guttural and unfiltered.

“Fuck—yeah. That’s right. That’s my girl.”

You finish just as the room goes quiet.

It takes you a long time to breathe again.

You lie back in the dark with your wrist limp across your stomach and your other hand fisted in the blanket, hating the heat crawling across your skin.

Hating the silence. The shame.

You don’t even know his name. But he’s already in your dreams. And tomorrow night?

You know you’ll listen again.

By ten thirty, you were already tense.

You’d tried everything. Headphones, ocean sounds, brown noise. Meditation on the floor with your back against the radiator and your eyes squeezed shut. Anything to escape the inevitability you could feel coming—not in your body, not yet, but in the air.

He was a routine man, apparently.

Ten forty-one.

The first creak of the bed. Distant. Subtle. But you knew the pattern now. You knew the rhythm.

A minute later, it came again. Louder. And then—

“Open wider, sweetheart.”

Your entire body locked up.

You were on the couch, reading the same sentence for the seventh time, eyes tracking words you couldn’t absorb. Your phone lay face down beside you. The lamp was dim. The rest of the world had gone still.

Except for him.

“Good girl. That’s it.”

The moan that followed—soft, feminine, and choked—punched straight through your stomach.

You hadn’t even realized you were holding your breath.

The book slid from your hands to the floor, forgotten.

Because the bed was really going now. You could hear it—wood and springs slamming with every push of his hips. You could hear him adjusting his grip on her, the way her legs probably trembled around his waist, the wet slap of skin on skin—

And over all of it, his fucking voice.

“You like gettin’ split open like this? Huh? You like when I fuck you this deep?”

Your thighs clenched.

You didn’t even try to fight it tonight. Not really. You just dragged yourself off the couch, grabbed your phone, and slunk into the bedroom with heat pooling between your legs and shame already pricking at your scalp.

You didn’t turn on the light. Didn’t need to. You just dropped onto your bed, slid under the blanket, and pressed your bare thighs together as you kicked off your sleep shorts.

His voice rolled through the wall again—dark, rich, unhurried.

“You’re gonna take what I give you. That clear?”

A gasp answered him. One of those high, desperate, fuck-me sounds you wanted to hate but couldn’t.

You slipped a hand down the front of your panties and nearly whimpered.

You were soaked. Dripping wet and needy from a man you hated. From a voice you’d never seen the face behind. From a stranger who talked like sex was a goddamn punishment and a reward all at once.

Your middle finger found your clit and you stroked in slow, tight circles, biting down on your knuckles to muffle the breath that caught in your throat.

The woman on the other side of the wall sobbed his name. Not that you could make it out. But he made sure you knew what was happening.

“Greedy little cunt, suckin’ me in. I can feel how bad you wanna come.”

Your back arched. You added pressure. Your free hand gripped the sheet. You imagined his fingers curled around your throat, his mouth dragging filth against your ear.

“She makin’ a mess over there? Say thank you.”

A whisper of a thank-you came back to him, cracked and trembling.

“Didn’t hear you.”

She repeated it louder. You pressed harder.

“Good girl.”

Oh my God.

You didn’t need to be there to see it. You knew what it looked like—her on her knees, his hand in her hair, the way his hips moved when he got mean, when he got possessive. You could picture every flex of thighs, the taut stretch of his stomach, the sweat on his neck, the wild glint in his eyes.

Your legs started to tremble.

You rubbed faster.

His voice lowered to a growl—quiet, but unmistakable. Like he was talking to you through the fucking wall.

“Keep squeezin’ me like that and I’m gonna fill you up.”

A moan. Hers? Yours? You didn’t know anymore.

“You want it?” he asked, still soft. Cruel. “Want my cum?”

You shoved two fingers inside yourself, hips rocking against your palm, and the groan you let out was humiliating. You didn’t care. Couldn’t. You were so close it hurt.

“You’ll take every drop.”

The sound he made when he came was ruined—raw, broken, real. No performative groaning, no show. Just a low grunt and a series of harsh breaths, like the orgasm dragged itself out of him by force.

You came a heartbeat later, your body curling into itself, muscles locking as you clenched around your own fingers and saw white.

It didn’t feel good. It felt devastating.

You saw him for the first time on Day Five.

It was early evening. Late enough that the sun had begun its descent, casting long amber streaks through the high hallway windows. You had one hand hooked around a thin brown grocery bag—overstuffed and crumpling at the corners—and the other working the keys at your door. Your hair was twisted into a loose bun, hoodie sleeves rolled to your elbows, headphones dangling unused around your neck.

You were halfway through mumbling a tired string of curses at the lock when the door to 4C swung open.

And then everything slowed down.

Your body reacted before your brain did. Your spine stiffened, eyes snapped up, and the grocery bag almost slipped from your grip. Time hiccupped in place. The air changed.

Because there, in the doorway to the unit you had been secretly suffering under, stood the man behind the wall.

Tall. Broad. Post-run, judging by the sweat slicking his collarbones and the damp tank top clinging to every muscle in his chest. Veins prominent in his forearms. Tactical pants sitting low on his hips. Dog tags tucked beneath the collar. A black duffel bag slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing.

Hair buzzed close at the sides, longer on top—just enough to be messy if he ever let it. A healing cut traced the bridge of his nose. Small scar on his left forearm. His jaw looked like it could have been carved by military-grade artillery.

But it was his face that made your stomach drop.

Because you knew it.

Not just in the casual, he’s-hot-so-I-memorized-it way. No. You knew it in the press conference, Pentagon briefing, viral Twitter debate way.

John F. Walker.

Former Captain America. Current U.S. Agent. Ex-Government poster boy. Disgraced soldier turned rehabilitated Avenger. The man who’d held the shield, lost it, and somehow ended up on the New Avengers task force with a second chance and an attitude no amount of PR could soften.

You stared.

He didn’t.

He looked you over once—quick and practiced. Not lingering. Not creepy. Just calculated. Like he was cataloging your presence, the bag in your hand, the keys between your fingers, the strain in your shoulders. Like he did it without thinking.

Then, that barely-there smile.

Closed-lipped. Confident. Smug.

“Evenin’,” he said, voice gravel-rough and so goddamn familiar it made your toes curl in your shoes. You’d heard it four nights in a row now—except this time, it wasn’t whispering filth through the wall. This time it was aimed at you.

You froze.

Your mouth parted, but all you managed was a flat, “Evening.”

The corner of his mouth ticked up just a hair. Not a grin. Just a twitch—like he knew. Knew.

Then he turned and walked past you down the hallway without looking back. No apology. No awkwardness. No explanation. Just the quiet click of the stairwell door shutting behind him.

You stood there in the hallway like an idiot.

Still gripping the paper bag. Still clutching your keys.

And suddenly, the wall between you didn’t feel like enough distance.

You finally got inside a full minute later. Dropped the groceries too hard on the counter. Kicked the door shut with more force than necessary.

Your heart was still hammering.

Because it wasn’t just that he was attractive. It wasn’t even that he was famous. It was the way he looked at you—assessing, amused, untouched by the weight of what he’d done to your sleep schedule.

It was the kind of look that said he didn’t need to wonder if you’d heard him.

He knew.

And worse?

You were ninety percent sure he knew what you’d done with the sound of his voice. With the images your brain had conjured in the dark. With the way you’d pressed your thighs together and moaned into your own hand and imagined his hand there instead.

John Walker didn’t look like a man with shame in his vocabulary. And now he had a face to pair with yours.

You hated him.

(You really, really fucking hated him.)

And he hadn’t even said your name.

By the end of your first week in apartment 4B, your nightly routine had warped into something grotesque.

You used to wind down with tea and a book, slippers and silence, an open window and clean sheets. You were good at solitude. You’d craved it after your last place—after the roommate from hell, the midnight door slams, the kitchen clutter, the emotional labor. Peace had been your goal. Privacy. Stillness. The chance to build your own quiet life.

But now?

Now every night around ten forty-five, you were bracing for the show in 4C.

Because John Walker was back at it again. And worse, he was consistent. Clockwork predictable. Meticulously regular, like his libido operated on a government-mandated schedule.

Same routine: the rhythmic bedframe against the wall. The desperate moans of a woman—never the same woman, never less than enthusiastic—and then him.

That voice.

Smooth like bourbon and dangerous like the edge of a knife. He wasn’t loud, not exactly. He didn’t need to be. His voice carried, thrummed low through the drywall like a dirty secret shared just between you.

You’d started anticipating it. Dreading it. Needing it.

It was ruining you.

You tried distractions. Headphones with noise-canceling tech. A podcast about philosophy. Sleep meditations narrated by a British man named Simon. You bought a white noise machine on day six and cranked it to tornado. Didn’t help. You could still hear him. You could always hear him.

“Yeah, keep that up. You’re makin’ such a fuckin’ mess for me.”

Or worse:

“That’s right. Say thank you.”

You threw your pillow at the wall once. Not to silence him—but to silence you. You couldn’t take it anymore. So you did what any passive-aggressive person on the brink of a sexual breakdown would do.

You wrote a note.

“To the gentleman in 4C —

Your nightly ‘workouts’ are impossible to ignore. Kindly remember that the walls are thin, and some of us require sleep not sponsored by PornHub. — 4B”

You printed it on your nice stationery and taped it to his door the next morning.

You felt satisfied. Smug, even. The satisfaction lasted until the next night. At exactly 9:58 PM, you heard his door open. Then the unmistakable sound of paper being peeled from wood. A pause. The slow, purposeful closing of the door.

You waited.

Ten forty-five arrived. So did the headboard. So did his voice. But this time, he was louder. As if performing.

As if for you.

“Oh yeah,” he groaned, exaggerated, amused. “She’s listenin’ now. Better make it worth her while.”

Your jaw dropped. You stood frozen beside your bed, one socked foot half-lifted, brain stalling like it had hit a patch of black ice. Your mouth opened. Closed. You blinked at the wall, like maybe it would apologize.

But it didn’t. He did not stop.

“Oh, you like this, baby? Bet she does too.”

A moan punctuated it—hers, not yours. High-pitched, eager, loud enough to bounce off the drywall and worm into your bones. You flinched.

“Nice and loud,” he drawled. “Gotta make sure our little neighbor hears every filthy sound.”

Is this a joke? Is he… is he doing this for me? No. No, not for you. At you.

It was a performance. A fuck-you. A way to humiliate you without ever seeing your face. He knew you’d left the note. Knew you’d heard him. And now, he was responding the only way John F. Walker knew how: with pure, unfiltered, weaponized arrogance.

“I’ll give her a good show, don’t worry,” he muttered, the edge of a laugh rough in his voice. “Bet she’s touchin’ herself already.”

You slapped a hand over your mouth, breath coming too fast.

It wasn’t just the voice anymore. It was the images. The sound of his palm meeting her ass. The wet slap of skin. The way the headboard knocked with precise, punishing rhythm.

The way he moaned—low and smug, like he knew what he was doing to you. Knew you were pressed against the wall with your knees tight and your willpower shredded.

Your fingers were trembling when you snatched your sticky notes off the dresser and scribbled THIS ISN’T FUNNY in angry, red ink. You stormed out, feet bare on the hardwood, heat crawling up your neck, and slapped the note on his door with more force than was necessary.

It made a satisfying sound.

You stormed back inside. Locked the door. Flung the notebook across the couch. But when you got to your bedroom…

He was still at it.

Still talking.

“You gonna come for me again, baby? Louder this time.”

You dropped into bed like your knees had buckled. Your whole body was trembling.

You hated him.

You hated this.

You hated the fact that your hand was already under your sweatshirt, slipping past the waistband of your sleep shorts again. You couldn’t stop it. Your thighs were clenching on instinct, trying to trap some of the heat building at your core. You were already soaked. Already aching.

God, you’re pathetic.

He groaned again. Rough. Satisfied. He wasn’t faking. That was the worst part. He was actually into it. Both of you were.

The woman on the other side of the wall moaned like she was being worshipped. You buried your face in your pillow, free hand gripping the sheets.

“That’s it,” he growled. “You feel that? That’s how you get fucked.”

You dragged your fingers over your clit, slick and swollen and throbbing. Your hips arched into your hand. You bit the pillow to muffle your breath.

Don’t say his name. Don’t say his name. Don’t—

But it slipped out anyway. Quiet. Desperate. Shame-soaked.

“John…”

The name curled into the pillow like a confession.

You imagined him hearing it. Stopping mid-thrust. Smiling. You imagined him saying your name back, pinning your wrists above your head, leaning in close so only you could hear the things he never said to anyone else.

You were close. Too close.

Your fingers worked faster, slippery with your own need, and you moaned again—this time louder. If he was listening, he’d hear it. If he cared, he’d know.

You came with his name still warm on your lips, body shaking with release. The silence after was deafening. No applause. No aftercare. No warmth. Just your own heartbeat hammering in your ears and the wet between your thighs and the way your body curled in on itself like it regretted everything you’d just done.

You lay there for a long time. You didn’t cry. Not quite. But your chest ached with something sharp and sour. Because he was just a man with a voice and a wall and a body built to destroy. He didn’t care about the mess he left behind. Not on her. Not on you.

And you? You’d just let him inside without ever opening your door.

The next morning, your note was gone. In its place?

A yellow Post-it on your door, scrawled in black Sharpie.

“Didn’t hear you complain last night.” — 4C

You wanted to throw yourself out the window.

The notes didn’t stop.

He left them daily now. Never when you were around. You never caught him in the act, but you always knew. Sometimes they were sarcastic. Sometimes obscene. Once, infuriatingly poetic.

“If the walls are thin, does that make us roommates?” “Your blender’s louder than my sex.” “She came twice last night. Can’t say the same for you, can I?”

You didn’t respond to every one. You told yourself you wouldn’t fuel him. But sometimes the rage was too much to hold.

“I will call the landlord.” “Your stamina is not impressive. It’s annoying.” “Some of us have jobs.”

“You are not charming.” That one got a reply the next morning. “Tell that to your thighs, sweetheart.”

You ripped it up and flushed it.

But by night eight, your anger started to mutate. It wasn’t that you forgave him. You didn’t. You still resented the hell out of him—his voice, his ego, his casual cruelty. But the frustration had shifted.

You were tired.

Horny.

Lonely in a way that wasn’t just physical. The kind of lonely that echoed in your bones, kept your chest tight at night, made you want things you didn’t believe you were allowed to want.

You lay in bed that night staring at the ceiling, hands fisted in the sheets, pretending you weren’t listening even though your pulse quickened the moment his bedroom light clicked off.

Ten forty-eight. It started. Same rhythm. Same moans. New girl.

And then—

“Gonna fuck the brains outta you, baby. Hope you don’t need to speak tomorrow.”

Your breath caught. Your hand was already sliding under the covers. You didn’t stop it. Not this time. You were done pretending. You closed your eyes and pressed your thighs together, fingers sliding past your waistband with practiced ease. Your skin was already fever-hot. Every nerve felt raw.

Through the wall, he kept talking.

“You takin’ it all like a good little slut, huh? So fuckin’ wet for me…”

You whimpered into your pillow, hand working faster, your mind filling in the blanks. His hands on your hips. His breath on your neck. That voice rasping filth straight into your ear as you begged him for more.

You came with his name on your tongue again—voiceless, bitten off, shameful. The guilt hit you seconds later. You rolled to your side and stared at the wall. That stupid, paper-thin, no-soundproofing wall.

And you hated him more than ever. Not because he was arrogant. Not because he was smug. But because he really had you now. In the dark, in your own bed, in your own head—he was there.

And you didn’t know how to get him out.

It starts with a shriek. Not a sex shriek—thankfully—but the soul-piercing wail of a fire alarm screaming through your apartment at 2:03 a.m.

You jolt upright, heart in your throat, blanket tangled around your legs. The shrill beeping ricochets off every surface like it’s trying to kill you by sheer sound alone. Lights flicker in the hallway. Your brain, fogged with sleep and something dangerously close to arousal—you were dreaming of him again—struggles to catch up.

You grab a hoodie, yank it over your tank top, shove your feet into mismatched sneakers, and lurch for the door with keys and phone clutched in one hand. Your eyes are burning. Your pulse is still racing. The wall is quiet, for once.

Until you open your door and there he is.

John Fucking Walker.

Also half-asleep. Shirtless. Low-slung sweatpants. Barefoot.

Of course.

Of course he’s the first person you see while you’re bleary-eyed and braless and vaguely vibrating with leftover sex dreams about his voice. Your timing is so cursed you’re ready to throw yourself into the flaming hallway and call it fate.

His eyes flick over you once. Lazy. Not invasive. Just clocking you. Hoodie. No pants. Fuzzy socks. Flushed cheeks. His jaw tightens—barely—but it’s enough to make your blood fizz with something awful.

“We really gotta stop meeting like this, sunshine,” he mutters.

You blink at him. “Is that supposed to be a pickup line?”

“No,” he says, deadpan. “Just an observation.”

Another piercing beep slams through the corridor.

You groan and lean against the doorframe, rubbing your temple. “Jesus Christ. What even caused it?”

“No clue,” he says, arms crossing over his stupid, bare chest. “But if I find out someone burned microwave popcorn, I’m filing charges.”

You snort. Unfortunately. He notices.

He leans against the opposite wall, eyes narrowing slightly. There’s a dangerous glint there. Something calculating. Something that says he knows exactly how tired you are, how irritated, how unarmed at this hour.

And then he speaks. “Wasn’t too loud last night, was I?”

Your mouth falls open. “Are you serious?”

His smirk returns, faint but smug. “I mean, you keep leavin’ me love notes. I figured you missed the sound.”

You gape at him. Words momentarily fail you. “They weren’t love notes. They were complaints.”

He shrugs. “Same difference.”

“It’s not the same—”

“You were listenin’, though,” he cuts in. “I heard you.”

You go still.

The hallway seems quieter now. Just the echo of the alarm down the stairs. The hum of exit signs. The silence between his words. He takes a step closer. Not threatening. But deliberate.

“Didn’t sound mad to me.”

Your skin prickles. Your fists clench.

“Okay, you know what?” you snap. “You wanna play that game? Fine. Let’s play. If I wanted to listen to amateur porn through drywall, I’d at least expect a plot. Or a break in the soundtrack. Or—I don’t know—a minute of silence so I can sleep in my own damn bed without your commentary crawling down my spine.”

He grins. “Crawlin’ down your spine, huh?”

“I will murder you.”

“You think about me when you touch yourself?”

“Jesus Christ!”

You slap your palm to your forehead, turning toward the stairwell to hide your full-body cringe. He laughs—low and infuriating and way too pleased with himself.

You whirl back on him. “I’m not doing this at two in the goddamn morning while I’m wearing a hoodie I stole from my ex and socks with sloths on them. We are establishing boundaries, you absolute nightmare.”

He raises a brow. “Boundaries, huh?”

“Yes. Rules. Agreements. Diplomatic accords.”

“You sure you don’t wanna negotiate a ceasefire in the bedroom instead?”

“No sex past eleven,” you bite out. That finally shuts him up. For a second.

He tilts his head. Shrugs. “Fine.”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs again. “You want me to keep it down? I’ll keep it down. Eleven o’clock curfew. Deal.”

You narrow your eyes. “Really?”

“I’m not an asshole.”

“Debatable.”

His grin twitches again. You hate the way your stomach flips when he does that. You hate that you’ve started to recognize his smiles, like they come in types. There’s the polite one, the predatory one, and this one—the private, under-the-skin one that says he’s enjoying every second of getting to you.

“No more notes, then?” he says.

You hesitate. “Fine,” you mutter. “No more notes.”

“And no more eavesdroppin’?”

Your glare is sharp enough to draw blood. “Maybe stop narrating your sex life like it’s an audiobook and we’ll talk.”

His teeth flash. “Fair enough.”

You’re both still for a moment. The tension hovers between you—thick, electric, stupid. His eyes drop to your legs. You remember—belatedly—that you’re standing in nothing but a hoodie and underwear.

You cross your arms. “This doesn’t mean I like you.”

“Oh, I know.”

“I still hate you.”

“You’re very convincing.”

The alarm finally stops. Silence drops over the building like a shroud. He steps back toward his door, unlocking it without another word. Before he goes inside, he glances back over his shoulder.

“Night, 4B.”

You don’t answer. You wait until he’s gone, then you exhale, long and slow, and let your forehead thunk softly against the wall between your doors.

You tell yourself again: you hate him.

But you’ve started picturing him. And worse? You think he knows.

You knew you were sick the moment you woke up and the sunlight hurt.

Your skull throbbed behind your eyes like someone was hammering drywall into your brain from the inside out. Your throat was dry and raw, and your body refused to move with anything resembling coordination. Even the act of lifting your phone to check the time felt like a trial by fire.

No fever, but everything ached. You had enough strength to stumble to the bathroom, drink from the tap, and curse the world for spinning like a carousel. After that, you collapsed on the couch wrapped in your fluffiest blanket and resigned yourself to being horizontal for the foreseeable future.

You weren’t going anywhere.

Not to the pharmacy. Not to the grocery store. Not to the mailbox. Not even to murder your neighbor for what he’d done to your sex drive.

You managed to fire off one text to your work group chat that read simply: I’m dying. If this is COVID again I swear to God before dropping your phone on the floor and drifting into a half-conscious, fever-dizzy nap.

You woke up sometime in the early evening to a knock.

Not the fire alarm. Not the creak of a headboard. A real, actual, flesh-and-bone knock.

Three short raps against your door.

You ignored it.

Another three followed. Louder. Then a pause.

Then his voice.

“Hey. It’s Walker.”

You froze.

Another knock. “You in there?”

You opened your mouth, but your vocal cords rebelled. The only sound you managed was a hoarse, “Ughhngh.”

There was a moment of silence.

“I’m not here to harass you, I swear. You’ve been quiet all day.”

You groaned louder this time, dragging yourself upright like a wounded animal. Your legs protested. Your vision blurred. You had no idea what you looked like, but judging by the swamp taste in your mouth and the film in your eyes, it wasn’t cute.

You cracked open the door. And there he was.

John Walker, in a black hoodie and jeans, holding a brown paper bag in one hand and a plastic grocery sack in the other. His face was neutral—but his eyes scanned your face, your posture, your slouchy blanket cocoon, and his brow creased.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You look like hell.”

You blinked at him. “Thanks.”

“Not an insult. Just an observation.”

“Is that your thing?” you rasped. “Observations?”

He snorted and held up the bag. “I brought soup.”

You stared at it. Then at him. “Wait. You made me soup?”

“God, no.” He shook his head. “From the deli. You think I have time to play chef when I’m savin’ the world and tormenting you at night?”

You made a sound that might’ve been a laugh or a cough. “Charming.”

He tilted his head. “Can I come in?”

You hesitated. Your apartment was a mess. You were a mess. He was—well, him. And the idea of letting him see your disaster zone, your fever haze, your oversized hoodie and socks with tiny cartoon coffee cups, felt like exposure in a way sex never had.

But the soup smelled good. And you felt like you might pass out if you stood much longer.

You stepped back. He walked in. He didn’t comment on the clutter. Didn’t even seem fazed.

He set the bag down on your kitchen counter and began unloading like it was the most natural thing in the world. Soup containers. A box of tissues. Orange Gatorade. Cold medicine. A bottle of Tylenol. Cough drops.

You stared. “You… brought a pharmacy.”

“You sounded like you needed it.”

“How did you even know I was sick?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Didn’t hear your blender this morning. Or your passive-aggressive music at 10 a.m. like usual. Just coughing. Non-stop. Got curious.”

You sat heavily on the couch. “And your first instinct was soup?”

He shrugged. “I’m Southern.”

You almost smiled. Almost.

He stayed. Just for a bit. Sat in the armchair opposite your couch while you sipped lukewarm soup and tried not to feel self-conscious about the way your hair stuck to your face. He didn’t ogle. Didn’t smirk. Just sat with his arms folded over his chest, thumb absently brushing the ridge of a scar on his knuckle.

“You get sick often?” he asked, breaking the silence.

“Not really.”

“Huh.”

“Why?”

“You seem the type to ignore it. Power through. Burn out.”

You blinked at him. “…That’s surprisingly insightful.”

“Observations,” he said again, eyes on yours. “It’s my thing.”

You stared at him. At the angles of his face, the tension in his jaw, the lines under his eyes that hadn’t been there the first time you saw him shirtless in the hallway. He looked tired. Not physically. Existentially. The kind of fatigue you didn’t fix with sleep.

You meant to ask something casual. Something neutral. Instead the words tumbled out before you could stop them, “You ever get tired of it?”

He looked up. “Of what?”

“The performative thing. The smirking. The sex. The…” You gestured vaguely toward the wall. “The whole ‘John Walker Show.’”

His expression didn’t change right away. But then he sighed. Rubbed a hand over his face. Sat back in the chair like it was finally safe to sink.

“I’m divorced,” he said flatly. “Got a six-year-old son. Joint custody. Weekends and some holidays.”

Your lips parted. “Oh.”

He kept going.

“I don’t do relationships. Not anymore. Don’t bring anyone around when he’s home. And most of the time, I just… keep it casual. Distractions. Keeps me from thinkin’ too hard about the rest of it.”

You said nothing. Just watched him.

“I know how I come across,” he added after a beat. “Loud. Crude. Cocky. And most of the time I don’t care. It’s easier that way. Less chance anyone expects more from me.” His voice was quieter now. Still gravel, but worn down. Less smoke. More ash.

“Do they know?” you asked. “The women you bring home?”

He looked at you. “Yeah. I’m honest. I tell ’em what it is.”

You nodded.

The soup sat warm in your hands. For the first time in days, your body felt less tense. You weren’t sure what surprised you more—that he’d told you the truth… or that it hurt a little, hearing it.

He stood up not long after. Didn’t linger. Just grabbed his hoodie from the back of the chair, looked at you like he might say something else—and then didn’t.

“You need anything,” he said instead, “just knock.”

You nodded. And then he was gone.

That night, for the first time in nearly a week, you didn’t hear a sound through the wall. Not even him.

You slept like a rock. And when you woke up—warm, fed, and quiet—you told yourself it was nothing.

Just soup. Just kindness. Just a man with scars and baggage and a voice that still made you wet when you let your guard down.

And maybe—just maybe—not the villain you’d painted him to be.

The city fell silent the night it snowed.

Not the usual D.C. hush—the muffled quiet of politics on pause—but a real silence. Thick, white, blanketed. The kind that wrapped the city like a sleeping child, smothered every horn, every bootstep, every late-night argument under inches of frozen sky.

By five p.m. on Christmas Eve, the roads were closed. Flights grounded. Deliveries stalled. You stood barefoot by your window in flannel pajama pants and an old college hoodie, watching the snow pile high on the railing of the fire escape. Everything had been canceled—your friend’s dinner, your attempt at making mulled wine, even your Amazon package with the tiny pre-lit tree.

It was just you.

You didn’t bother turning on the lights. You let the gray-blue of dusk spill through the window and onto the floor. You heated a can of soup. Ate it with a spoon you didn’t wash. Curled up in the blanket that still faintly smelled like lavender dryer sheets.

You told yourself you were fine.

And then came the knock.

You frowned. Padded barefoot to the door and peered through the peephole.

John.

His hair was damp. His coat dusted with snow. He held a half-empty bottle of bourbon in one hand and a sad-looking plastic bag in the other. No smirk. No performance. Just him.

You cracked the door open. “Is this a hostile takeover or are you making the rounds with charity liquor?”

His mouth twitched. “You alone?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Obviously.”

He held up the bottle. “Thought you might wanna split this. Snow’s not stopping. Figured bourbon and bad company’s better than no company.”

You stared at him a moment too long. Then opened the door wider.

“Come in, then.”

You sat on the floor by the heater, backs to the couch, bottle between you. No music. Just the low hum of the radiator and the wind testing the windows like it was searching for a crack to get through.

He passed you the bottle. You took a sip—too much—and winced as it burned its way down your throat.

He let out a soft laugh. “That delicate, huh?”

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. “No. That was a… tactical miscalculation.”

“Mm. Not sure I’ve seen you make a tactical decision yet.”

You glared at him sideways. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Annoying. Smug. Built like you should come with a warning label.”

He raised the bottle to his lips. “Says the woman who leaves hate mail in Sharpie.”

“It wasn’t hate mail,” you muttered.

“You called me ‘Wallfucker.’ In caps.”

“Descriptive accuracy.”

He smiled into the rim of the bottle. Didn’t argue. Outside, the snow kept falling—silent and steady, coating everything in sight with a soft kind of hush the world didn’t usually offer.

You sighed and tucked your knees to your chest, hoodie sleeves pulled over your fingers. “I haven’t had a real Christmas in three years.”

He looked over.

You stared at the bottle. “Family stuff. Long story.”

He nodded like he got it. “Yeah. Mine’s scattered. My ex has our kid this week. Feels… empty without him.”

You risked a glance at him. He wasn’t smiling anymore. Just looking out at the snow, jaw set but not clenched. Still. Sad in a quiet, unannounced way.

You passed him the bottle. He took it without a word. Drank slower than you did. You could’ve left it there—let the silence reclaim the space, let the wind do all the talking—but your voice came anyway, quiet and warmer than you meant it to be.

“I’m glad you knocked.”

His eyes flicked to you. Something softened in them. Something small.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

It took twenty minutes for the conversation to shift. Maybe it was the bourbon. Maybe the late hour. Maybe just the weight of the day. But at some point, the silence started feeling more like a question than a comfort.

He spoke first.

“Last Christmas, I took my son to a hockey game.”

You glanced over at him.

“He was five. Didn’t care about the game. Just wanted the foam finger. I bought him three.” He smiled, soft. “He wore ’em all. Wouldn’t even eat with ’em on.”

You laughed. Quietly. “How old is he now?”

“Six and a half. Talks like he’s twenty. Thinks he’s smarter than me.”

“He probably is.”

“Definitely is,” John said, and took another sip.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone. Unlocked it. Flipped through the screen and then handed it over to you.

You weren’t sure what you expected—maybe the generic kind of dad photos, stiff smiles and forced poses.

But they were real.

A boy with big eyes and gap teeth, wearing a Captain America hoodie three sizes too big. Another of him asleep on John’s chest, small fingers curled into his T-shirt. One where John held him upside down by the ankles while the kid screamed with laughter.

You blinked down at the screen.

“He looks like you.”

“Poor kid.”

You handed the phone back. “He’s beautiful.”

He didn’t say thank you. Just looked at the screen for a long time before letting it go black again.

“I miss him,” he said, voice softer now. “Even when I see him, I miss him.”

You swallowed.

“I didn’t think it’d be like this,” he continued. “The… after. After everything. The job, the press, the title. You start with good intentions, and then—”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. You sat there with him, both of you staring into the quiet. And when he reached for the bourbon again, his hand brushed yours.

Neither of you moved away.

Eventually, the bottle ran dry. The radiator clicked and hissed, the way it always did before it calmed.

He glanced at the clock. “Didn’t mean to stay this long.”

“Storm’s still going,” you said. “No point in walking into it.”

He didn’t argue. You got up first. Pulled the blanket off the couch and dropped it over both of you. Collapsed into the cushions. He followed—less cautious than you, bigger, heavier, letting out a sigh that seemed to drag months off his shoulders.

You didn’t talk. Didn’t kiss. Didn’t touch. Just… existed in the same space, warm and worn-out and suspended in something that felt like an almost.

His breath evened out before yours. But you didn’t sleep. Not for a long time. You lay with your back to his chest, his presence radiating heat, his arm almost brushing yours. And you thought—just for a second—about what it would be like if this weren’t temporary.

If he stayed. If you asked him to.

You exchanged numbers on a Thursday after the New Year.

Not with fanfare. Not even with eye contact. He had come to borrow a socket wrench—an excuse so flimsy you almost asked if he wanted to borrow your attention instead—and as he lingered in your doorway, hair damp from the gym and wearing a T-shirt that should be illegal, he tilted his head and said, “You ever need anything… like, actually need something—text me.”

He held out his phone. You took it. Entered your number. That was it.

No smirk. No wink. Just a faint look that you couldn’t decipher. Something unspoken. He didn’t text right away. Neither did you.

But that night, at 11:47 p.m., your phone buzzed.

JOHN WALKER So which cabinet do you hide your Advil in? My shoulder’s staging a rebellion.

You stared at it. Smiled—actually smiled—then replied.

YOU Top shelf. Just behind the cereal I’m pretending to eat for health reasons.

JOHN WALKER Granola? Or the colorful kind with marshmallows and lies?

YOU I’m offended you think I’d eat granola.

JOHN WALKER Didn’t want to assume. You have big “I meal prep on Sundays” energy.

YOU That is the rudest thing you’ve ever said to me.

From there, it started. Slow. Casual. A comment here, a one-liner there. Short threads during the day when something dumb happened in the lobby. Quick updates when a package arrived at the wrong door.

The conversations drifted into nights. That was the dangerous part. Because there was something about late texts that felt… different.

Warmer. Closer. Like the act of hitting send at 1:12 a.m. implied something more. Like you were being let into a version of him you weren’t supposed to see. And you weren’t innocent either.

You started looking for him in the ordinary things—half-finished thoughts, shared memes, stupid GIFs. You never expected him to respond. But he always did. Quick. Clever. Engaged.

You weren’t sure when the banter started to feel flirtier. But one night, it slipped.

YOU If I ever catch you singing Bon Jovi in the gym again I will file a noise complaint.

JOHN WALKER You say that like it didn’t turn you on.

Your breath caught.

YOU …You sang Bon Jovi while doing push-ups. Shirtless. In boots. What do you want from me?

JOHN WALKER A little appreciation for my range.

You didn’t reply. You couldn’t. Because your body was too busy replaying the image.

Sometimes he sent voice notes.

Not often. Not on purpose, at least.

Once, you got one that sounded like it was meant for someone else—thirty seconds of rustling, the clink of a glass, and then his voice.

“—yeah, well, not everyone can be a fuckin’ saint. You either do the job or you fall apart.”

He never explained it. You never asked. But you listened to it three times before you deleted it. And you didn’t tell anyone about the way your chest ached afterward.

By the second week, your nights felt wrong without him.

You kept checking your phone during movies. Kept catching yourself smiling when your screen lit up. Kept thinking about his hands—big, scarred, capable—and wondering how they looked without gloves. Or how they’d look on your hips. On your throat.

It was bad. Worse, maybe, because nothing was happening. Not really. No kisses. No plans. Just texting. Just banter. But it felt like something. It felt like almost.

And almost was starting to kill you.

It started with a sound. A sharp, wet pop that came from somewhere behind your bathroom wall—followed by a high-pitched hiss, then a rushing noise like a toilet flushing on a loop.

And then? Water.

Cold, furious, and absolutely endless.

You stood there in your socks watching a pipe you couldn’t see unleash itself into your bathroom like it was seeking vengeance. Within minutes, the floor was flooded. By the time the building’s maintenance hotline picked up, the water had started creeping under the door.

“Tomorrow morning,” they told you.

You hung up and sat on the kitchen counter with your socks dripping and your hair clinging to your cheeks, wondering what circle of hell this qualified as. You had no friends in walking distance, no family in the city, and even if you did, the snow hadn’t fully melted from the storm.

That left… one option.

You stared at the wall. You hated the wall. You also knew who was on the other side of it.

He answered after the first knock. T-shirt. Sweatpants. Barefoot again. You’d never seen him in shoes inside his apartment, like the floor itself was an extension of his comfort zone. He blinked at you, taking in your wet socks, your hoodie, your frown.

“Pipe burst,” you said, not bothering to pretend this wasn’t humiliating.

His eyebrows lifted. “Bad?”

“Bathroom’s under a few inches. Maintenance won’t fix it until tomorrow.”

He stared for a beat. Then opened the door wider.

'“C’mon in.”

His place smelled like soap and cedar. Not overwhelming—just lived-in. Warm. A lamp in the corner cast a soft yellow pool over the hardwood floor. There was a throw blanket folded over the couch. A half-empty coffee mug on the table. A copy of The Art of War tucked under a pile of unopened mail.

It was weird, seeing the inside of him. You’d lived next door for over two months now, had been up close to the sound of his moans and the grit of his voice, had imagined the way his sheets would feel. But this was the first time you stepped inside his quiet.

And it was quiet. No music. No moaning. No echoes of anyone else.

“Couch is yours,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sheets are clean though. Pretty sure. If not, lie to me.”

You smiled weakly. “Thanks.”

He hesitated, then turned toward the hallway. “I’ll be in the bedroom. Holler if you need anything.”

You nodded and he walked away. You stood in the middle of his living room for a long minute, your body damp and tired and tense in the wrong ways. And you realized—only after hearing the way the apartment settled in his absence—that you didn’t want to sleep in his living room. You didn’t want distance tonight. You wanted to feel the tension you’d been pretending didn’t exist.

“Is it weird if I ask to crash in your room instead?” You asked him from the door way to the bathroom.

He looked up from brushing his teeth like you’d just said something dangerous. He didn’t say no. He didn’t say anything for a second. “You sure?” He asked quietly.

You nodded. “I won’t snore.”

He rinsed, wiped his mouth on a towel, and flicked the light off behind him. “Alright then,” he said quietly. “Let’s do it.”

The bed was big. You stayed on your side. So did he. There was a canyon of space between your bodies—two pillows, minimum—but somehow that didn’t matter. His presence was overwhelming. The heat coming off him was unreal. Not metaphorical, not subtle. Actual, measurable warmth, like lying next to a living radiator.

Super serum side effect, you guessed. Not that you were in the habit of Googling him anymore. (You were. You weren’t ready to stop pretending you didn’t.)

Every time he shifted beneath the covers, your entire nervous system went haywire. The mattress dipped in response to the subtle motion of his hips turning or his shoulder flexing. You tried to lie still, facing the wall, your hands curled under your pillow like a chastity spell.

His breathing was slow. Measured. Fake.

He was awake. So were you. You could feel it. The tension in the mattress. The awareness between you. You shifted your leg, just slightly, and accidentally brushed his calf.

“You gonna keep twitchin’ all night?” John’s voice asked, low and amused.

You froze. “Sorry.”

“You cold?”

“No.”

“You sure? You’ve moved like six times in three minutes.”

“I’m just… adjusting.”

You could hear the smile in his voice. “Adjusting, huh.”

You rolled your eyes in the dark. “If you’re gonna be smug about it, I’ll go sleep on the floor.”

“Didn’t say I minded,” he said, voice raspier now, quieter. “Just didn’t want to wake up with a knee in my ribs.”

You huffed. “You’re not exactly helping. You’re like… a space heater with nice biceps.”

He chuckled softly. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s distracting.”

A beat.

“You could always scoot closer,” he said, and this time it was almost a whisper. “If you wanted.”

Your heart thudded hard enough to shake your ribs.

You didn’t move. But you wanted to. God, you wanted to. The heat of him pulled at you like a tide. You could practically feel the invitation written in the space between you. The promise that if you reached—just a little—he wouldn’t stop you. He might even pull you the rest of the way in.

You turned your face into your pillow. “I’m fine.”

“Alright.” His voice dropped low again. Back to that steady hum. But something in it had changed. Softer. Like maybe he’d been holding his breath too.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours.

You weren’t sure when your eyes finally closed. But at some point, your breathing matched his. And in the early hours of the morning, before the sun had fully returned to your side of the wall—

You shifted once more. And this time, when your knee brushed his thigh—

He didn’t move away.

For a second, he thought he was dreaming. Your hair was against his jaw, soft and tickling. Your leg—bare, warm, absurdly smooth—was thrown over his hips like it belonged there. And your fingers. Christ. One of them had slipped just under the hem of his t-shirt, brushing the bare skin of his stomach with casual, unconscious trust.

He didn’t dare move.

He lay there—back flat, eyes wide in the dark, heart drumming stupidly against his ribs—trying to decide if this was the worst idea of his life or the best thing that had ever happened to him.

You were asleep. Fully gone. Soft and heavy with it, your lips slightly parted, breath shallow but steady. Innocent. Vulnerable.

He could feel the shape of you against him. All soft limbs and warmth and need. It was ridiculous, how fast the ache in his chest started to bloom. Not lust. Not even want.

Need.

The part of him that had forgotten what this kind of closeness felt like—the part that remembered too well—reacted first. Ached. Fought the urge to curl his arm around you. To press his mouth to your hair. To pretend this was his life for more than a single night.

But he didn’t move. He didn’t take. He just stayed there, staring at the ceiling, barely breathing, feeling your breath on his throat and your thigh brushing his hip. And for the first time in a long time, he fell asleep smiling.

You woke to the smell of bacon.

It was jarring, actually. Domestic. Wrong in a way that felt too right. The comfort of it made you blink, disoriented, the memory of the night before sliding in slow—cold feet, his bed, too-warm body heat…

You sat up fast. The bed was empty. The dip of his weight on the other side was gone. But your pillow still smelled like cedar and something clean—something distinctly him. You pushed the covers back and padded out into the apartment.

He was in the kitchen. Barefoot again, of course. Same gray sweatpants. Shirtless this time, which was… something. Back turned, he was focused on the skillet. There was coffee already poured into two mugs on the counter, steam curling like breath.

You opened your mouth to speak, but he beat you to it.

“Morning,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Didn’t mean to let you sleep that late.”

You blinked. “You made breakfast?”

He shrugged, flipping a piece of bacon. “You looked like you needed it.”

You hesitated near the island, unsure where to stand. “I can leave,” you said quickly. “I mean, now. Before the plumber comes.”

He looked at you again—fully, this time. Not just with his eyes.

“You’re fine,” he said, voice low and steady. “You can stay as long as you need. Seriously.”

You nodded, blinking too fast.

He passed you the coffee, and as you brought it to your lips, your eyes drifted past him—to the fridge. And stopped. Crayon drawings. Bright, chaotic. One showed a stick-figure man in red with a giant shield. Another was of a lopsided Christmas tree and a kid-sized hand traced in green beside it, with DAD scrawled next to a smiley face in the corner.

Your breath caught. He followed your gaze and went still.

“Those’re from my kid,” he said quietly. “I forgot they were still up.”

You didn’t answer. You just looked at them a second longer—then back at him. There was a softness in his expression now, one that made your heart twist and your stomach dip. He looked real. Grounded. Exhausted. Open. And suddenly, you weren’t sure if the warmth in your chest was from the coffee… or him.

It had been quiet for weeks. Ever since the night you fell asleep in his bed—ever since the morning after, when he made you coffee and let you stay without comment—it had been… still. Safe. Nothing had happened. Not really. The tension was always there, but he hadn’t touched you. Hadn’t flirted, hadn’t teased, hadn’t brought anyone home.

You started to believe maybe it meant something. Maybe he was thinking about you too. And then it happened. Friday night. Late. Almost 1 a.m.

You were half-asleep on the couch, wrapped in your throw blanket with some movie playing too quiet to hear, when the noise started. Muffled, but familiar. A moan. Feminine. Breathless. Followed by the sound of a body shifting against the wall. You sat up. Another moan. Higher-pitched this time. Your stomach twisted.

No. No, no, no.

You grabbed the remote. Muted the TV. And there it was: the sound you hadn’t heard in weeks. That precise rhythm. The creak of the mattress. The cadence of his breath. Deep. Slow. Deliberate.

You stood in the middle of your apartment, staring at the wall like it had betrayed you. He was with someone. Again. After all this time.

After the way he held you. After the soup. The couch. The late-night texts and the way he watched you laugh and let you sleep in his bed. After everything.

You hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t drawn a line. But you’d started believing. And now? Now, he was fucking someone who wasn’t you—and you could hear it.

You stood frozen for a minute, throat tight, hands clenched in your sleeves. Your whole body burned with rage and shame and need and something deeper—something awful.

Because underneath all of it, your thighs ached. You wanted it to be you. You always had. You backed up. The wall was cold against your spine. Your breathing quickened. You let your hand drift under the waistband of your sleep shorts. You hated yourself for it. But not enough to stop.

His voice came low through the drywall, ragged and guttural. “Yeah… just like that. Fuck—”

You closed your eyes and pressed your forehead to the wall. Your fingers circled your clit slowly. Furiously. The heat in your core had already started to build, fierce and undeniable. You moved your hips against your own hand, lips parted, breath shallow.

The girl made another sound. He grunted something filthy—too quiet to catch—but it didn’t matter. Your imagination filled in the blanks.

You pictured his hands. His chest. The way he smelled when you buried your face in his shoulder. The low scrape of his voice when he asked if you were cold. You weren’t cold now. You were drenched.

Let him hear you.

Your breath hitched, and you moaned—soft at first. Then louder. Deliberate. You didn’t hold back. You let it out, gasping, breathless, high with shame and fury and lust. The rhythm of your fingers sped up. You tipped your head back against the wall and gave him everything.

And then he stopped. The rhythm. The sound. The girl. You didn’t hear her anymore. Just him. Breathing hard. Close. Too close. And then—clear as a match struck in the dark.

“…fuck—”

Your whole body seized. You froze, legs trembling, fingers stuttering at your core. Then—his groan. Long. Rough. Wrecked. Followed by silence. He finished. He finished while saying your name.

Not hers.

Yours.

You slid down the wall, breath still catching, fingers wet and twitching.

He knew. He had to know.

You heard her leave five minutes later—no words, no kiss, just the quiet click of his door and footsteps fading down the hall. You slept on the floor, curled in a blanket, body humming with something too big to name.

And the next morning?

Nothing. He didn’t knock. Didn’t text. Didn’t look at you when you crossed paths in the stairwell. But everything had changed. The silence wasn’t quiet anymore.

It was waiting.

It started with a bottle of wine.

A stupid one. Something pink and fizzy and six dollars from the corner store. You drank it too fast while watching an old rom-com that didn’t even pretend to be funny. Your feet were up on the coffee table, your sweatshirt was oversized and wine-stained, and your head was full of the sound of his voice. His moans. Your name—your name—falling out of his mouth like a mistake he couldn’t take back.

And you? You were unraveling. Somewhere around glass three, you grabbed your phone and scrolled to his contact. You didn’t mean to hit call. You really didn’t mean to leave a message. But you did.

“You’ve destroyed me,” you slurred into the receiver. “My sex drive is dead. It’s dead, John. I need therapy. Are you happy? Are you proud of what you’ve done? I hope you’re proud. Because I’m unwell. Like, biblically.”

There was a pause. “…Also, your voice should be illegal.” The message ended. The wine hit harder. You passed out facedown on the couch, phone still on your chest.

John found the voicemail at 1:03 a.m.

He’d been sitting on the edge of his bed, scrolling aimlessly, trying not to call you himself. The night still echoed in his skull—your moans, your name on his tongue, the way his hands had trembled after she left.

He didn’t expect the voicemail. But he played it. Once. Then again. And again. By the third time, he’d memorized the curve of your voice slurring unwell like it was a punchline. He didn’t laugh. He just leaned back against the headboard, pressed the phone to his chest, and closed his eyes. And he didn’t delete it. Not even in the morning.

The awkwardness didn’t last. You thought it might—the kind of weird, suffocating silence that settles in after something too big to name slips through—but instead, it unraveled slowly. Naturally.

It started with something stupid. The mailroom printer jammed. Again. You were halfway through cursing it out when you heard his voice behind you.

“Try kicking it.”

You turned. He leaned in the doorway with his arms crossed, boots unlaced, sleeves shoved up to his elbows. That damn smirk barely there. Watching you like he hadn’t groaned your name into the drywall last week.

You raised a brow. “Very technical advice.”

“I’m a hands-on problem solver.”

“Not surprising.”

A beat. A smile. Yours this time. Something in the air eased. After that, it got easier. A return to form. Texts trickled back in, casual at first. A meme here, a one-liner there. He sent you a photo of a broken cabinet knob with the caption:

JOHN WALKER: How strong do you think I gotta be to break this just getting a granola bar?

YOU: Strength of ten. Brain of none.

JOHN WALKER: Ouch.

That night, you couldn’t sleep. The apartment was too warm. Your thoughts were worse. You lay flat on your back, staring at the ceiling fan, phone in hand. Lit only by the blue glow of the screen.

You typed. Erased. Typed again. And sent it.

YOU: Is it weird that I kinda miss hearing you through the wall?

No response. Thirty seconds. A minute.

JOHN WALKER: Miss hearing what exactly?

Your breath caught.

YOU: You know what.

JOHN WALKER: Say it.

You swallowed hard. Thumb hovering.

YOU: I liked hearing your voice.

JOHN WALKER: Liked hearing me fuck?

You clenched your thighs.

YOU: I liked what you said. The way you said it.

JOHN WALKER: Touch yourself.

You blinked. Breath hitched.

YOU: What?

JOHN WALKER: Right now. Don’t make me ask again.

Your hand was shaking. You reached under the blanket, sliding your sleep shorts down just enough. Your fingers found yourself already wet. Through the wall came the sound of his bed creaking. A low exhale. You closed your eyes, heart thudding, fingers brushing your clit in slow circles.

YOU: Are you touching yourself too?

JOHN WALKER: Yeah. Thinking about you. That voice.

A pause. Then, softer:

JOHN WALKER: Wish you’d moan like that for me.

Your free hand covered your mouth as your hips arched. You let a breathy gasp escape, trying to keep it quiet—trying.

You whispered his name. And through the wall? You heard him groan. Loud. Broken.

You kept going. You imagined his hand. His mouth. His weight pinning you down. You pressed your forehead to the wall. Whispered, “John…”

He whispered back, “Say it again.”

You did. Twice. You came like that—legs shaking, back arched, fingers soaked and lips parted against painted drywall. And just as you started to come down, you heard him. A low, throttled moan.

Your name.

Then silence. You didn’t say anything after. No goodnight. No jokes. Just your screen going dark and the sound of your own breathing in a room that didn’t feel empty anymore.

You fell asleep like that. Close. And still so far away.

You stared at the text for five full minutes before hitting send.

YOU: Can we talk?

Simple. Clean. No emotion. No punctuation that might give too much away.

You didn’t expect a response. You also didn’t expect the knock thirty seconds later. Not even time to pace.

You opened the door. He was barefoot again. Sweatpants. A dark, long-sleeved shirt, sleeves pushed up. Hair still damp from the shower. His jaw tense, unreadable. He didn’t say anything. You stepped aside and he walked in. You shut the door behind him. The silence between you crackled—like if one of you moved too fast, the whole apartment might catch fire.

You opened your mouth. “I just—”

He kissed you. No hesitation. No warning. He reached for your jaw with one hand, the back of your neck with the other, and pulled you in like he’d been starving for it. His mouth crashed against yours, hot and rough and so much need behind it that your knees nearly gave out.

You gasped.

He groaned into it, deep and ruined. He lifted you with one arm, carrying you through your apartment. Your back hit the wall a second later. That wall. His body pressed flush to yours—solid, burning, real. You fisted your hands in the hem of his shirt, desperate to get skin. He was already lifting yours, hand sliding underneath. Your belly arched into him.

“John—”

“I know,” he whispered. “Fuck, I know.”

Another kiss. Slower. More fragile. You let yourself sink into it. Into him. His mouth moved to your neck. You whimpered. Your hips rocked forward, pressing against the thick line of him already hard in his sweats.

“You want this?” he rasped.

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He growled softly. His hand moved lower, grazing the band of your underwear. Then he stopped. Froze. Pulled back.

You blinked, panting. “What—”

He stepped back, hands fisting at his sides. His chest rose and fell like he’d just been sucker-punched. “I can’t,” he said, voice rough. “Not like this.”

Your stomach dropped. “Why not?”

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing back once like he needed the space. Like he couldn’t breathe this close to you. “Because I don’t want you to be one of my mistakes.”

You stared.

His eyes found yours. “You’re not just some girl on the other side of the wall. Not anymore.”

Silence. You tried to speak. Couldn’t. He took one last look at you—hair messy, lips kissed, shirt askew—and opened the door.

“Goodnight,” he murmured.

The door shut quietly behind him. You stood there alone in your bedroom, aching everywhere. And somehow? You’d never wanted him more.

He wasn’t bringing anyone home anymore. You noticed it first in the silence. Nights passed and the wall stayed quiet. No footsteps. No laughter. No creaking mattress or rhythmic moans followed by muffled groans and the low, sinful drag of his voice in someone else’s ear.

You tried to tell yourself it didn’t matter. But it did. It mattered so much you couldn’t sleep sometimes.

You stared at the ceiling, listening to nothing. Wanting to press your ear to the wall and beg the quiet to tell you what it meant.

It was a Tuesday when you asked. You were both in the mailroom, his arm braced casually on the counter, your phone balanced in your palm, trying not to look too closely at the vein in his forearm.

You said it before you could chicken out. “You haven’t had anyone over lately.”

He looked at you. Steady. Unreadable. “No.”

You licked your lips. “Why?”

A beat. Then another.

He tilted his head slightly, voice low and honest and without hesitation. “Don’t want anyone else hearin’ me but you.”

Your breath caught. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t follow it up with a wink or a joke. Just said it like it was the only truth that mattered. You left without speaking. Without looking back.

You didn’t knock. You didn’t have to because he opened the door like he’d been waiting. Like he’d heard your footsteps the whole way down the hall.

His shirt was already gone.

Your hands found his chest before your voice could find words. His mouth crashed into yours with the force of every silent night, every unspoken message, every inch of restraint he’d gritted his teeth through. The door slammed shut behind you. The two of you made it to his room in a flurry of kisses and movement. And then you were pressed into the wall.

That wall.

The one that had heard everything. The one that had kept you apart. He turned you toward it slow, one palm flat beside your head, the other wrapping around your waist and dragging your hips into his. His lips were at your neck, teeth dragging along your skin, voice hoarse in your ear.

“Tell me you want it.”

“I want it.”

“Say it louder.”

You moaned, already grinding back against him. “I want it, John—fuck—please—”

That broke him. His hands were under your shirt, your shorts, lifting, tugging, baring you in seconds. You heard the rip of something—your panties? Maybe. You didn’t care. Your palms slapped the wall to keep yourself steady. He dropped to his knees behind you like a soldier kneeling to pray. The warmth of his breath hit the back of your thighs.

You didn’t have time to gasp before his hands gripped the backs of your legs—firm, unshakable—and spread you open.

He was silent for a beat. And then his voice—low, reverent, just shy of wrecked—broke the stillness like a vow.

“Been thinkin’ about this pussy since the day I heard you moan.”

Your whole body clenched.

One thumb slid along the crease of your thigh. His other hand wrapped around your hip, steadying you.

He exhaled. “Could smell you through the wall some nights, you know that? Got me hard before I even touched myself. Before any other woman touched me. Just you, baby.”

You whimpered, legs starting to tremble.

Then his tongue met your cunt—and you forgot how to breathe.

He started slow, deliberate, like he meant to memorize you. Tongue flattening between your folds, dragging up with maddening precision, then dipping low to suck on your clit with the kind of hunger that made you sob against the drywall.

Your hands clawed at the paint. You bucked your hips, thrusting them forward into the wall, trying to pry them away from his mouth. It was too much all at once.

His grip tightened on your hips as he firmly tugged your ass back towards his face.

“Don’t run,” he growled against your cunt. “Take it like a good girl.”

You took it.

You gasped and shook and pressed your chest to the wall, hips rocking back into his mouth as he devoured you from behind. It wasn’t just sex—it was starvation. He ate you like he hadn’t been fed in years. No teasing. No mercy. Just tongue and lips and the scrape of his beard until you were dripping down your thighs and chanting his name like a prayer.

“John—fuck—John—”

He groaned like your voice cracked something in him.

Pulled back only long enough to say, voice hoarse and guttural, “You taste better than anything I’ve ever had.” Then he dove back in, faster, filthier.

His nose bumped your ass, his tongue curled against your clit, and your vision blurred. You came on his mouth, legs shaking, walls closing in. You didn’t realize you were crying until he kissed the back of your thigh.

He stood and you felt it. The heat of him behind you, flushed against your ass. The press of his cock, thick and so fucking hard, nudging the slick seam of your cunt like a promise. One hand splayed flat against the wall beside yours. The other wrapped around your waist, dragging you back into him.

His voice at your ear, cracked open and trembling, “You ready to feel it for real, sweetheart?”

You nodded.

“Need to hear it.”

“Please,” you whispered. “Fuck me.”

“Say it again.”

“Fuck me, John—I need it—”

That was all he needed. He lined himself up and slid in deep—one slow, brutal push that filled you to the hilt and punched the air from your lungs. You weren’t ready. You’d never be ready. Not for this. Not for how thick his cock was as it split you open.

“Jesus,” he hissed. “Tight as fuck. So warm. Fuckin’ made for me.”

You keened, cheek still against the wall, fingers spread wide like you were bracing for an earthquake. He started to move. And when he did, he didn’t hold back. He fucked you like he meant it. Like he owned it.

Every thrust sent you up on your toes, breasts bouncing against the wall. His hand slid under your shirt to grope one, thumb brushing your nipple. He cursed—hard—and slammed into you deeper.

“Look at you,” he growled. “Pressed up like a good girl… takin’ every inch I give you.”

You moaned, wrecked and needy, the filthy praise soaking through your skin like ink. He leaned in close, chest slick against your back. “You like hearin’ me now, huh? All those nights—moanin’ into your pillow, pretendin’ you weren’t fuckin’ yourself to the sound of me.”

You sobbed.

He grabbed your jaw hard, turned your face enough for his lips to brush your cheek as he squeezed.

“Next time, I want you screamin’ for real.”

“John—please—”

“You’re mine now,” he whispered. “Only one who gets to hear me fuck is you. Only one who gets this cock. Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

He thrust harder. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours. I’m yours, John—fuck—I’m—”

You broke.

You came around him with a cry, body clenching so hard it almost pushed him out. Your thighs trembled, forehead dragging along the wall, toes curling into the hardwood. But John didn’t stop. He groaned, breath ragged, but his grip only tightened on your waist.

“Fuck,” he hissed through his teeth. “Still not done with you. With this sweet little pussy.”

He drew back and slammed into you again—harder this time. Sharper. You gasped, barely able to breathe, still reeling from the aftershocks.

“Gonna fuck you through it,” he growled, voice low and possessed. “Want every muscle in your body rememberin’ me tomorrow.”

Before you could catch your breath, his hand slid under your thigh. Lifted. You let out a soft, startled moan as he hooked your leg up and open, bent at the knee, bracing it on the wall with his hand with ease—his strength absolute.

“Keep it there,” he rasped, already adjusting his angle. “Yeah, that’s it—fuckin’ perfect.”

And then—

Deeper.

So deep you saw stars behind your eyelids. You arched, whined, voice going high and desperate as his cock hit something inside you that made your legs threaten to give out all over again.

“That the spot?” he murmured into your ear, rhythm relentless. “Right there, baby?”

You nodded, breathless.

He grinned against your shoulder, filthy and triumphant. “Gonna ruin this pussy.”

He did. With your leg hiked up and your body pinned to the wall, there was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Just the steady, brutal rhythm of him pounding into you like he owned every inch—like he’d earned it with every sleepless night, every note on your door, every second you made him wait.

Your skin slapped against his. Your name fell from his lips like a curse, over and over. One hand held your leg open like a claim, the other slid under your shirt again, palm flat over your stomach—right where he could feel himself bulge inside you.

“Fuck, look at this,” he groaned. “You take me so good. Like you were made to be filled by me.”

You whimpered, shaking.

“I could fuck you all night,” he breathed. “And I just might.”

He was still going. Still thick and hard and perfectly steady. The super soldier serum had him wound tight and strong and relentless—and you could feel the strain in his muscles, the control it took to hold himself back, to keep from breaking you in half with how badly he needed this. Needed you. And God, you needed it too.

You clawed at the wall, moaned shamelessly, sobbed his name again and again until your throat burned and your body writhed. When he finally let out a grunt—low and desperate—you felt his pace falter, hips stuttering once, twice.

“Shit—fuck—gimme one more, baby. Just one more.”

He reached between your legs, rubbed your clit again in tight, brutal circles, and you screamed. Came again. Harder than the first. Vision white-hot. Your head was spinning. One leg still hoisted on his hand, his cock buried so deep you couldn’t even think straight, your body wrung out and shaking, coming down from your second orgasm—and still, he was holding back. Still fucking you, slow now, grinding through the slick aftermath, his hips rolling in slow, brutal circles that made you whimper every time.

“Gotta finish, baby,” he panted against your neck. “You want it?”

You nodded, breath catching. His grip on your thigh tightened. His rhythm stuttered. You felt the tension in him—his abs twitching, cock pulsing, the raw sound in his throat.

“I could pull out,” he muttered, voice like gravel. “Come all over that pretty ass. You want that?”

“N-No—”

“Then say it.” He pulled almost all the way out. The tip of him hovered at your entrance, soaked, thick, aching.

Your hips chased him, desperate. “John—please—please, don’t—”

“Where do you want it?”

“Inside,” you gasped. “Come inside me.”

He groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, barely holding it together. “Say it again.”

“Come inside me, John. I want it—please—I want all of it—” you sobbed, fat tears rolling down your cheeks. “Want to feel you fill me up please. Been so good.”

His control shattered. He slammed back into you, hard enough to shove your hands higher up the wall.

He fucked you deep—relentless, almost ragged—with that filthy, possessive growl in your ear. “Yeah, that’s right—mine. You fuckin’ take it.”

You felt it when he started to break—his cock thickening, his rhythm falling apart, his whole body tight and coiled behind you. And only then—only when you clenched around him with everything you had, body pulling him deeper like you never wanted to let him go— did John finally snap. He thrust once more. Deep. Held it.

And came with a sound so raw, so guttural, it shook through your bones. You felt the heat of it spill inside you. Thick. Endless. Filling you so completely it made you moan again, fucked-out and ruined. His body collapsed forward, chest against your back, both arms wrapped around your middle like he couldn’t bear to let go.

You didn’t move. Your cheek was still resting against the wall, breathing ragged, your body flushed and trembling, his weight draped against your back like a shield. He was still inside you. Still thick, softening slowly. Still holding you like if he let go, the world might stop spinning.

You felt his lips first—pressing reverent kisses to your shoulder, then your neck, then the nape of your spine. Soft. Slow. As if to apologize for how hard he’d taken you. Or maybe just to thank you for letting him.

You whimpered softly when he pulled out—your cunt fluttering around the loss, overstimulated and drenched, his spend already slipping down your thighs. He caught it with his fingers. A soft curse under his breath.

“You okay?” he murmured, brushing your hair aside with the gentlest touch.

You nodded, still braced against the wall. “Mhm.”

He kissed your jaw. “You sure?”

You turned your face toward him. Found his eyes. Blown wide, warm with something that looked suspiciously like awe.

“I’m perfect,” you whispered. “You ruined me.”

That broke him.

His expression twisted—pleasure and affection and something vulnerable in the lines of his mouth. He kissed you again, soft and slow, tongue dragging behind your teeth like he couldn’t get enough. Then he dropped to one knee behind you again, but this time it wasn’t to devour you. It was to take care of you.

He gathered your shorts and underwear from where they were discarded—soft cotton, useless now—and used the cleanest part of them to gently wipe between your thighs. His movements were careful, measured. Like he knew your body couldn’t handle more roughness, not after what he’d done to it.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Don’t know how I didn’t touch you sooner.”

You leaned back into his hand as he cleaned you—hips twitching when he accidentally grazed your clit. He stilled instantly, whispered, “Sorry, baby.”

Then, without another word, he scooped you up. Lifted you right off your feet like it cost him nothing. You buried your face in his chest, arms clinging to his shoulders, and let him carry you over towards the bed. You felt the shift in him as he walked—something protective, quiet, anchored.

He laid you down gently on the bed. Tugged the covers back. Crawled in beside you and pulled you right into his arms without hesitation. You tucked yourself against him, your leg over his, your hand against his chest, his heartbeat loud and steady under your palm. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

“You still with me?” he asked, voice low.

You looked up. “Barely.”

He grinned. Kissed your temple.

“You’re dangerous,” you mumbled into his chest.

“You’re the one that begged.”

“You threatened to pull out.”

“You liked it.”

You groaned. “You’re the worst.”

He chuckled, pulling you tighter. “Nah. Not when it comes to you.”

You blinked. Looked up. His eyes were already on you—soft. Clear. No more smug teasing. “I’ve never wanted someone like this,” he said simply. “Not just the sex. Not just…” He hesitated. “You. I want you.”

Your chest cracked open. You didn’t answer right away. You just leaned up and kissed him—slow, sweet, with everything you didn’t have words for yet.

When you finally fell asleep, it was tangled in him. And for the first time, the wall wasn’t there to separate you. It was just another surface. Witness to something real.

You woke to warm breath on your neck and the weight of his arm slung across your back.

The light was soft through the curtains. Gray, wintery. You shifted slightly under the covers, and his grip immediately tightened. Not hard. Not possessive. Just aware. He was still asleep.

You turned your head on the pillow, just enough to see him. His mouth was parted slightly, lashes resting against his cheeks, a faint crease between his brows like even in sleep he didn’t trust peace to last. You wanted to smooth it away with your thumb.

Instead, you stayed still. You didn’t want to wake him. Which was ironic, because he clearly had other plans. He stirred next to you a moment later—body shifting under the sheets, hard thigh pressing between yours from where you laid on your stomach—and then he was kissing your shoulder. Your spine. Your lower back. Lazy, slow, completely unhurried.

You let out a breathy laugh. “That’s unfair.”

“Mornin’,” he rasped, voice thick with sleep and satisfaction.

“You’re warm.”

He chuckled against your skin, his lips brushing the dip of your spine. “That’s the serum. I run hot.”

Another kiss. Lower. Softer.

You squirmed. “John…”

He hummed. “Yeah?”

“I like you.” You hadn’t meant to say it out loud. It had come out small, breathless—like a secret falling off a ledge.

He stopped kissing you but he didn’t pull away. “Good,” he said after a moment. Voice rough. Honest. “’Cause I’m fuckin’ gone on you.”

You let out a quiet, nervous sound and ducked your head into the pillow. “Don’t look at me. I probably have awful morning breath.”

He shifted above you. You felt his grin before you saw it. “You think that’s gonna scare me off?” he murmured. “After last night?”

You turned just enough to glare. “Don’t you dare bring that up.”

“Oh, I’m gonna bring it up.” He leaned in closer, lips ghosting your jaw. “Every time you start pretending you don’t want me.”

“You’re so cocky.”

“You’re so sore,” he shot back, dragging a palm down your thigh. You gasped. He smirked.

“Asshole,” you muttered, cheeks flushed.

He kissed you gently. All warmth. All certainty. Like there was no one else in the world he wanted to look at first thing in the morning. “I’ve got my kid comin’ by later.”

You blinked. “Oh—should I go?”

His brows lifted. “I was gonna say… you should stay.”

You stared at him. He watched you steadily. “Only if you want to. No pressure. Just… feels stupid not to let him meet someone who’s makin’ his old man a better person.”

Your chest pulled tight. “You think I’m making you better?”

“I know you are.” He said it like fact. Like the easiest truth in the world.

You smiled, a little shyly. “I’ve never met a kid before. Not like this.”

He grinned. “He’ll love you. And if he doesn’t, I’ll bribe him.”

You laughed, relaxing back into the pillow. His hand came up to stroke your hip, thumb sweeping slow arcs across your bare skin.

“I’ll make breakfast,” he murmured. “Then we can talk about what this is. What we are.”

You rolled into him. Pressed your face to his neck. “Okay.” He kissed your forehead. And just like that, the wall between you was gone.

The eggs were burnt. You weren’t going to say anything, but he caught your expression the second you took a bite.

“You hate it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You winced, sweetheart.”

You tried to cover it with another bite. “No I didn’t.”

“You made a noise.”

“That was chewing.”

“That was suffering.” He grabbed the pan and scraped the next batch straight into the trash with an annoyed grunt. “Shit. I used to be better at this.”

“You were married, not a chef.”

“I used to make things, though,” he said, glaring at the skillet like it had betrayed him. “Eggs. Pancakes. Lunchbox stuff. Now I’m like a caveman.”

You came up behind him, slid your arms around his middle, cheek pressed to the warm fabric of his tee. “I like caveman John.”

He chuckled, one hand coming to rest over yours. The kitchen was still. The quiet wasn’t heavy anymore. Just soft. You swayed slightly against him.

“I don’t want to make this casual,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “I—wasn’t planning to.”

“I just…” He exhaled. “I’ve had a lot of things fall apart. Marriage. My reputation. The job. And now you’re here and it doesn’t feel like chaos for once. I don’t want to fuck that up.”

“You won’t.”

His grip on your hand tightened. “You sure about me?” he asked. “About this?”

You turned him in your arms. Looked up into his face. “I’ve never been more sure.”

His mouth twitched. That smug little smile—but softer now. Sweeter. “You’re my girl now,” he said, brushing your hair back. “Official.”

You leaned in, smiling against his lips. “Official,” you whispered.

You went home just long enough to shower, change, and sit on your bed in stunned silence for a few minutes.

Boyfriend. John Walker was your boyfriend. That word felt wild in your mouth. Foreign. Intimate.

Your body still hummed from last night. Your thighs ached. Your neck bore proof of his teeth. And now your phone buzzed with a message that read:

JOHN WALKER: He’s here. Take your time. We’ll be makin’ pancakes (again).

You smiled. Texted back.

YOU: On my way.

He opened the door before you could knock. He looked nervous.

Behind him, standing in mismatched pajamas and socks, was a boy—maybe seven or eight, with brown curls, wide blue eyes, and a superhero-themed apron around his neck.

“This is Elijah,” John said, clearing his throat. “Eli, this is—uh—my friend.” You gave him a look. He corrected quickly. “My girlfriend.”

Eli’s eyebrows jumped. “For real?”

John chuckled. “For real.”

Eli turned to you. “Do you like pancakes?”

“I love pancakes.”

“Even bad ones?”

You grinned. “Especially bad ones.”

The kid nodded seriously. “Okay. My dad makes the worst ones. If you can eat them, you can stay.”

John let out a breath like he’d been holding it since last night. You came inside, stepping into a home that still smelled faintly of burnt batter and aftershave and something real.

They let you stir the mix. Eli told you about school. John kept sneaking glances at you like he couldn’t believe you were really there.

And you realized then: this wasn’t temporary. This wasn’t a maybe.

This was what it looked like to be kept.

To be chosen.

To stay.

558 notes · View notes

local-crying-boy · 6 days ago

Note

Omg I freaking love this smmmmm

Hello! I checked around if you were taking request, if you’re not please ignore. But I loved your ‘my baby’ work. 😭😭 if you could maybe consider something where they transform? But like a baby werewolf? Protective Moony of course. Thank you 💅💅🫶🫶🫶

WHAT EVERYONE'S BEEN ASKING FOR IS HERE!

JUST WANT TO LET Y'ALL KNOW THAT I SPENT DAYS ON THIS STORY SO I JUST HOPE YOU LIKE IT😭🤍

MAMA MOONY AND HIS BABY

Wolfstar x daughter!reader

Marauders uncles + Regulus x Reader (platonic)

DIVIDERS CREDITS TO hyuneskkami AND strangergraphics-archive

IF YOU'RE NEW HERE I SUGGEST YOU READ THIS PART FIRST, JUST TO HAVE A LITTLE CONTEXT ON HOW R GETS BITTEN, BUT THIS FIC CAN BE READ AS A SINGLE STORY TOO^^

SUMMARY: After being bitten by Greyback you go through your first full moon and meet Moony for the first time.

WARNINGS: just fluff, extreme hurt/comfort, FEM!R but no use of Y/N, petnames, crying, maybe inaccurate description of a werewolf transformation but i don't care. There's no Barty but PETER IS HERE because i felt bad excluding him okay but he's kinda sweet in this so don't worry.

English is not my first language so feel free to correct me.

After that fateful night when Fenrir Greyback attacked and bit you, turning you into a werewolf, your life changed. And it had become hard at home, not just for you. But for your parents too.

First came the nightmares.

For days you couldn't go back to sleep alone in your room, because of the constant fear of opening your eyes and seeing two gray irises and yellowish canines staring at you in the dark, ready to attack you again and this time kill you.

Initially Remus or Sirius would stay in the bedroom with you until you fell asleep, but alas, that didn't happen for half an hour at least. It was so hard to comfort you and convince you not to be afraid. But neither of your parents would have blamed you: you were just a child who was facing far too much for her age. And you were their daughter, so they would never leave you alone, no matter what.

It was late at night when Remus felt his arm shake and he barely opened his eyes, letting out a yawn. The sound of someone sobbing next to him made him turn to turn on the light and as soon as the bedroom lit up his eyes met yours, red and full of tears that had already been streaming down your face for a few minutes.

"D-Dad..." you whimpered, clutching the stuffed animal that Regulus had given you when you were younger.

Remus looked at you with pity, cooing.

"Oh honey..."

He slowly sat up, rubbing a hand over his eyes to take away the tiredness, while Sirius, who was lying next to him on his stomach, with an arm stretched across his abdomen, squinted with an annoyed grimace. You raised your arms to your father, who bent down to lift you into his, holding you to his chest as you sat in his lap.

"Did you have another nightmare?" Remus asked softly, stroking your back with his fingertips and you nodded.

"I saw him again and h-he wanted to... He w-wanted to hurt me, but i-i..." you sobbed, rubbing your wet cheek against his shirt. "But i couldn't escape. I was a-alone"

You closed your eyes, tears coming out at the memory of that horrible nightmare. But the person you had dreamed was real and he was still wandering out there, just waiting for you to come out.

Remus' heart broke as he felt you tremble like a leaf against his body and he tried to comfort you in every way he could.

"Oh sweetheart, i'm sorry" he murmured, covering your head with kisses and continuing to caress you. "It's okay now, Dad is here. Just breathe, it's okay"

In the meantime Sirius, still lying on his stomach, finally opened his eyes and seeing the scene, which was no longer a novelty in the Lupin-Black household, he stretched out an arm towards your leg, running his thumb over your knee, still too tired to say anything but offering his support nonetheless.

A few minutes of silence passed, in which your parents managed to calm you down, but only a little. In fact, when Remus was about to stand up to take you back to your room, you wrapped your arms around his neck, shaking your head frantically.

"No no!" you whined, making him stop in his tracks, raising your head to look at him with eyes still full of tears ready to be shed again. "Please Dad, c-can i sleep with you? P-Please?"

Remus exchanged a glance with Sirius, who propped himself up on one elbow on the mattress, and then looked back at you.

"Darling..." he began, but you interrupted him. "Just for tonight, please. I-I promise i'll sleep in my room tomorrow. I'm too scared to be alone right now, i can't do it. Please Dad"

Remus let out a breath through his nose, but then nodded because who was he to deny your request when you needed him the most? And without wasting any more time Sirius patted the covers with one hand and an inviting smile on his face.

"C'mere babydoll" he said. "You can sleep with us tonight"

You sniffed one last time and finally gave a small, relieved smile of your own, sliding out of Remus' arms to crawl towards Sirius'. You went to press yourself against his chest, seeking that comforting warmth that only he and Remus could give you and he tightened his arms around your body, pulling you even closer and nuzzling your head.

Remus slowly crawled back under the covers with a yawn before turning off the light and turning to you, placing his arm over both your body and Sirius'.

"I solemnly promise you that you will never be alone, my darling girl" Sirius whispered, rubbing the ends of your hair between his fingers. "No matter what happens, Dad and i will always be here to protect you. Okay?"

You closed your eyes, glad not to see the eyes of the monster that terrified you glow in the dark. "Okay," you sighed, clutching the stuffie to your chest.

The last thing you felt was Remus' lips landing on the back of your head, whispering a soft "We love you" before you finally returned to dreamland, where you could roam without any fear.

Then came the mood swings, the ones during the day before the full moon.

Now, both Remus and Sirius always kept an eye on the calendar that told them when the full moon was each month, so they could prepare everything they needed and so they also knew when your first full moon would be. But it still felt weird to see their daughter acting in a way that... That wasn't like her.

Sirius had grown accustomed from school to the fact that Remus tended to become a little... Possessive towards him as the full moon approached. But seeing that effect on his daughter? Oh, that was another story entirely.

Your parents watched you walk into the kitchen with a prominent pout on your face, as if you had had a hellish night.

"Um..." Sirius began, giving you an uncertain smile as he sat at the table. "Good morning baby- Oh!"

Before he could even finish his sentence, you were flinging yourself against his body, wrapping your arms tightly around his torso and burying your face in his clothes. The two of them exchanged a look and Sirius smirked, placing a hand on your head to caress you tenderly.

"Are we being affectionate today?" he asked and then chuckled slightly when he saw you simply nod without saying anything.

Remus moved away from the stove to bring breakfast to the table, placing a hand on your shoulder to make you sit at the table. "Honey, have breakfast first-"

"No!"

Your parents' eyes widened when you interrupted him with that word. Remus blinked a few times. Maybe he had misheard...

"Did you say-"

"No!" you exclaimed again, lifting your head to frown at him. "'M not hungry. Just want Daddy"

Sirius glanced at Remus, biting his lower lip to keep from laughing, and Remus crossed his arms.

"This is no time to hug Daddy" he said calmly, even though he was starting to get nervous on the inside too (stupid full moon). "You have to eat your breakfast"

But you shook your head stubbornly, wrapping your arms around Sirius' waist even tighter if possible and sticking close to him. "I said no! I don't want breakfast! And i don't want you stealing Daddy from me!"

Remus looked at you in shock. You had never expressed your opinion on the subject, and surely the old you (before you became a Werewolf, that is) would never have done it in such a... Grumpy way.

"I do NOT steal Daddy from you, young lady" he replied.

"Yes you DO!" you retorted, tightening your grip possessively around Sirius' body. "You always cuddle with Daddy! Every day and every night and i never do! It's not fair!"

"It's not true that you never cuddle with him, don't be so dramatic now. And still, Daddy happens to be MY husband"

"But he's MY Daddy too!"

Sirius looked back and forth between you and Remus, unsure whether to butt in or enjoy the show.

It was unusual for both him and Remus to see you so fond of him: everyone knew you had a soft spot for Remus, as Sirius tended to be more of the kind of father who embarrassed you in front of the others and when he did something stupid you would run to seek your other father's affections. But having two werewolves fighting over him was even more fun. But maybe it was best to calm things down between the two of you before things got too bad.

"Okay, enough bickering you jealous creatures" Sirius said loudly, getting your attention.

He bent down to lift you into his arms and sat you on his lap, turning you towards the table.

"You can sit with me, darling" he said with a smile, placing a hand on your head.

You immediately turned to look at Remus with a tongue sticking out and he opened his eyes and mouth wide in insult and shock.

"But!" Sirius continued making you look at him again. "I want you to eat breakfast. Tomorrow is going to be a long day for you, you need to be strong. Okay baby?"

"M'kay..." you muttered with a sigh, turning and starting to eat.

"And you" Sirius added, pointing a finger at his husband. "Be less harsh on her, it's her first full moon. Now sit down and eat something too"

Remus rolled his eyes and obeyed without saying anything, sitting at the table opposite him and looking at you with a jealous pout, while you ate your breakfast with a satisfied smile.

And then came the night of the full moon. While Lily and Harry had stayed at their house, James, Regulus and Peter (another uncle, a friend of your parents who you had the pleasure of meeting years ago), had wanted to come and keep you company and Remus couldn't have been more grateful for their presence. Knowing that at least there was someone else there for you besides your parents would have helped make your first experience (and the others to come) less scary. When he was little, there were his parents yes, but then when the Marauders came into his life, it had changed for the better for him. It wasn't pleasant to be alone. Not at all.

"Aren't you coming with us, Uncle Reggie?" you asked nervously, looking up at your uncle and squeezing his hand.

He gave you a saddened look, knowing he couldn't be there to comfort you and he bent down on his knees to get to your height. "I wish i could but i can't amour. I'm not an animagus, i'd just risk getting hurt. When you and the others come back i'll be here waiting for you"

"Okay..."

He gave you a small smile of encouragement and then hugged you, leaving a loving kiss on your head.

"Everything is going to be fine" he whispered near your ear, running his hand over your back. "We're all here with you okay?"

You nodded slowly and then reluctantly walked away from him and followed Sirius, who took your hand and led you to the front door, where Remus, James and Peter were already waiting for you.

Regulus watched you walk out the door and into the woods behind your house, where your parents usually went during Remus' full moon, but this time you would be there with them.

The woods weren't scary. Even though it was dark the moonlight, which was still partly covered by clouds, filtered through the branches of the trees and the stars you loved to admire from your window were shining in the sky like fireflies. The only sounds you could hear were those of your footsteps, with your feet occasionally stepping on a twig or leaf, accompanied by the distant hooting of some owl that resounded among the trees or of other small animals that hid in the bushes.

You looked around nervously, not because you were afraid of the woods, but because you were afraid of seeing Greyback's figure suddenly appear and attack you and your family. What that man, no, that monster had done to you would've traumatized you for life.

Sirius, who was still holding your hand and walking with you to prevent you from stumbling somewhere, noticed your fearful look and squeezed your hand.

"It's just us here, darling" he murmured with a small smile, as you raised your head to look at him. "I promise, no one will bother us here"

"A-Are you sure?"

He nodded and then James joined the conversation from behind you.

"If anyone comes in besides us, leave it to good old Prongs" he said puffing out his chest, then reaching out to your head and ruffling your hair. "No one will bother you as long as i'm here"

And you smiled slightly. "Thanks uncle James"

More minutes passed in silence during which the two of you walked deeper and deeper into the woods, until at a certain point you all stopped in your tracks. The men raised their heads to look up at the moon that was visible between the treetops, still covered by clouds, but not for long.

Remus let out a small sigh and then crouched down on the ground in front of you, taking your small hands in his and looking up at you with teary eyes. Sirius remained standing behind you, his hands on your shoulders and his thumbs rubbing on you gently.

"Remember what we told you" the former said softly, smiling at you. "It will hurt a little at first, but you don't have to be afraid. It won't hurt all the time. When you're a wolf, you won't feel any pain anymore. And Padfoot, Prongs, and Wormtail will be with you"

You tightened your grip on his fingers. "B-But... Why don't you stay here?" you asked fearfully, knowing that both of your parents wouldn't be here during the transformation and that terrified you. You needed them. Both of them.

"We don't know how the wolves will react when they meet" he explained calmly. "It's best that we stay apart at least during the first transformation. And if everything goes well then you and i can stay together, mh?"

You looked at him with tears in your eyes, still not convinced by his words.

"I don't want this to hurt" you whimpered.

Remus looked at you with regret, his heart broken. Neither he nor Sirius liked seeing you so scared. You were still a child, their child. You didn't deserve any of this.

"Oh i know baby, i know. Come here"

He reached out to wrap his arms around you, pulling you against his chest and you immediately wrapped yours around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder. Remus rubbed your back and exchanged a regretful look with Sirius.

"As i told you, it will hurt at first, yes, but then you won't feel anything anymore, i promise" he turned his face to give you a little kiss on your hair and you tightened your grip around his neck, not wanting to let go of him. "Don't be afraid. Whatever happens, Daddy, your uncles and i are with you. I would never let you suffer alone, you know that right? Dad will always be with you my love"

You nodded without saying anything and remained hugged to him for a couple of minutes that seemed endless. Then James' voice, after glancing at the moon above him, resounded through the trees.

"Moons, i don't think there's more time" he murmured, almost regretfully, not wanting to be the cause of an interruption between the two of you.

Remus looked at him, nodding, and pulled away from you, holding you at arm's length and bringing a hand to your face to wipe away the few tears that had escaped your eyes.

"I'll see you soon, okay, sweetheart?" he asked, giving you a smile and you slowly nodded.

"Okay..."

"I love you so much"

"Me too Dad"

Remus leaned over to kiss your forehead and then stood up, while you looked up at him. He exchanged glances with your other father and his best friends, before turning and walking away from you, disappearing into the darkness of the night.

You watched him walk away, then turned to Sirius, while James and Peter transformed.

"Daddy?"

He lowered his head to you. "Hm?"

"What if..." you played nervously with your fingers. "What if Moony doesn't like me?"

After finding out that your father was a werewolf and after you were bitten, your parents and uncles had told you how it worked in broad terms, as far as your child's mind could comprehend everything. You had known the names of their alter-egos, if we want to call them that, of those who became once transformed into animagi.

But the main difference was one: Padfoot, Prongs and Wormtail were always Sirius, James and Peter. But Moony and Remus? No, it wasn't the same thing. The wolf inside Remus was not Remus. He didn't recognize his friends, his family. Moony only recognized his pack. And your wolf had never been part of his pack. Moony didn't know he was going to be dealing with his own daughter.

Sirius knelt down to your height like Remus had done earlier and gave a small, comforting smile, his sharp eyes looking at you solemnly.

"Moony's not bad, darling, you know that" he began and you nodded slowly. "So i'm pretty sure we won't have any problems. He might be a little nervous at first, but that's because he doesn't know you. But he'll get used to you, like he did with me and the others"

"Are you sure?" you asked for the umpteenth time.

Sirius nodded without hesitation, for your sake. Truth be told, a small part of him wasn't really sure how the meeting between your wolf and Moony would end, but he hoped with all his heart that it would go well. Theoretically, given your age, your wolf should still be a pup, right? And Moony wouldn't hurt a pup... Would he?

Oh God, if something happened to you because of them, neither he nor Remus would have ever forgiven themselves.

"I mean, Moony has accepted troublemakers like me, Uncle James and Peter into his pack" your father continued, gesturing with one hand to himself and the two animals behind him, who nodded in agreement with his words, wagging their tails. "So i'm sure he'll have no problem welcoming a cute little puppy like you into our group. Who wouldn't want you??"

He gently squeezed your cheek between his fingers playfully and you giggled, while Sirius felt his heart lighten at the sound of your laughter. He was happy to see you happy even if just for a bit, despite the bad situation you were going through. It was the calm before the storm.

"But if Moony gets a little um, touchy, then i'll take care of him and you'll stay with Prongs and Wormtail. They'll take care of you, okay babydoll? We won't let you get hurt, i promise"

You nodded again and Sirius released your cheek from his fingers, but only so he could take your hand and bring it to his lips, kissing the soft palm.

Suddenly the light from above that illuminated the forest became brighter and when you all raised your heads you saw that the clouds had moved, revealing the full round moon, shining in all its beauty.

Sirius quickly turned to look at you. The first thing he noticed was your pupils were larger than normal, while inside you felt your heart start to race. Your legs shook and your forehead began to sweat. And before you could stop it, the pain slowly took over your body.

First it started from your head, which began to throb as if someone was hammering it. You put your hands on your temples, pressing as hard as you could, but to no avail, and you shot a frightened look at your father.

"D-Daddy..."

Sirius tried to reach out to you, wanting only to wrap you in his arms and make the pain go away. But you all knew that wasn't possible.

"It's okay" he murmured, trying to hold back the panic, for you. "It's okay baby, i'm here"

You gritted your teeth, squeezing your eyes. Your heartbeat was pounding in your ears and your knees were shaking with anxiety. The pain was only increasing. But not just in your head.

Suddenly, something inside you started to move. Literally move. You couldn't help but cry out as a powerful wave of pain shot through your back. Your legs gave way to your weight and fatigue and you fell to the ground, curling up in a futile attempt to save yourself from the torture. Tears came out of your eyes and slid down your face, your chest rose and fell in heavy gasps and sobs mixed with moans of pain echoed in the forest. Your clothes tore over your body that was changing without your control.

Sirius ignored the tears that he was also shedding and approached your body, holding your hand and trying to comfort you, but his sweet words of comfort were practically inaudible, drowned out by your screams and cries.

Peter, sitting on Prongs' head, turned away so as not to look, covering his face with his little paws. Just hearing you was enough to make him understand how much you were suffering.

James instead lowered his head slightly in a sorry way but unlike him, he couldn't look away. He could see your face distorting, the bones moving inside your body with cracking sounds that made his blood run cold. It seemed impossible to him that he was witnessing something like this, but not because the transformation had traumatized him, no.

After all the years spent with Remus he already knew how it worked. But seeing his best friends' daughter like that? He didn't think he would get over it so easily.

James prayed with all his heart that wherever Remus was he couldn't hear your screams of pain.

But finally, after what seemed like endless minutes, the pain slowly disappeared, even if you didn't notice. Your hand slipped from Sirius' palm and your fingers shortened, while your nails grew disproportionately long. Your body filled with hair and your agonized moans changed into high-pitched yelps.

Sirius remained kneeling, staring at you with wide eyes. And he would have continued to do so if it hadn't been for James, who approached him from behind and pushed him with his antlers, telling him to transform, and he did.

And so the stag, the rat and the black dog saw curled up on the ground, among your clothes, a small wolf cub who was looking at them from below with large, shiny eyes that shone in the moonlight.

Prongs' ears twitched with joy and if he were human, nothing would have stopped him from shouting "She's so cuteeee!". Wormtail let out a small sigh that made his whiskers twitch, relieved that at least now you weren't suffering anymore.

Padfoot stared into your eyes, admiring you in amazement: he would have recognized that sweet little face, those bright little eyes, that fur color that matched your hair, anywhere. It was you, there was no doubt about it. Oh, if only he had a camera handy he would have filled the fridge with photos of how cute you were in wolf form.

He took a small step towards you with the intention of giving a small innocent sniff to let you know that he and the others were not a threat, but before his nose could touch you, you turned to scamper away at full speed, seeking refuge in the shadows of the trees.

Padfoot didn't hold back from letting out a bark of call that was obviously ignored by you and after turning to take a look at Prongs and Wormtail he also started running in the direction you had run away. The three of them realized that maybe chasing you wasn't the best thing to do, but they couldn't leave you wandering alone in the middle of the forest. Especially knowing that Moony was there too.

It didn't take them long to find you, since you were a puppy and with your short legs you couldn't go very far and Padfoot barked again when he saw you running a few meters away from him. But before he could reach you, you suddenly tripped over a root you hadn't seen and rolled to the ground with a small yelp, soiling your soft fur. Sirius slowed down and James and Peter stopped just behind him, while you slowly stood up and adorably shook your body to get rid of the dirt. When your gaze met your father's again (even though you were unable to recognize him) you froze in fear, looking at him with fearful eyes and he lowered his ears sadly.

Then a low growl echoed through the trees. And out of the shadows came the figure of Moony, panting, approaching with small, slow steps, as if searching for who was bothering him in that paceful night. Padfoot and Prongs became alert, while Wormtail watched the scene with a pounding heart. It wasn't that the three were afraid of Moony: they were afraid of what he would do to you.

You too noticed his presence and when you turned around you saw the bright eyes of the great wolf who had now averted his gaze from his companions and was looking down at you. Your little paws began to tremble with anxiety and you slowly bent your head down, shutting your eyes and whimpering, hoping he wouldn't hurt you.

Sirius took a step forward, careful not to make any sudden movements that might scare you or bother Moony, but both he and James were ready to intervene if the situation degenerated.

Those few seconds of icy silence that seemed to last forever were finally broken when the wolf bent his muzzle towards your little body. And when everyone (reluctantly) expected to see him suddenly open his jaws and take the cub in one bite, Moony let out a heavy breath from his nose that ruffled your fur. And before you knew it, you felt his warm breath envelop you like a blanket, followed by a damp sensation on your head. You found the courage to open one eye again and saw that the wolf was no longer looking at you as if you were his midnight snack. His eyes had softened and he almost seemed to smile at you as if... As if he already knew you. In another reality.

With great relief the three Marauders watched the tender scene of Moony rubbing his head along your little body, occasionally daring to give you a few affectionate licks along your fur, and you let yourself go, basking in his maternal cuddles and wagging your tail happily in search of attention.

As he admired you, Sirius thought that if he had been in human form at that moment he would have cried. And surely Remus would have too. You were so happy and carefree, it seemed like you had always been part of the pack. You were the little family that had always been there. You and Moony seemed destined to be together.

Then the wolf raised his head high and let out a loud howl that echoed through the trees, so much so that some crows took flight, disturbed by the sound. You wagged your tail excitedly and did the same thing, trying to copy him as best as you could but the howl that came out of your mouth sounded higher and absolutely non-threatening compared to your father's. Moony looked at you proudly and you went to rub your body against his paw, proud of the fact that he was proud of you, while the other Marauders if they had been human would have looked at you letting out a chorused "Awww!".

Padfoot let out a contented bark and pawed forward innocently, wanting to join the game. But he had to stop in his tracks when Moony himself suddenly raised his head towards him and growled again, this time louder than before and took a heavy step forward, towering over your body with his and staring straight into his eyes with a menacing look.

Wormtail squeaked in fear and Prongs also approached the dog, worried about him. You remained still, hidden behind Moony's leg and watching the scene with still slightly fearful eyes. Padfoot on the other hand couldn't help but let out a small whine and his ears drooped sadly as they looked at his husband, in wolf form, with shiny eyes. It wasn't Remus' fault of course, he didn't realize that. Moony was just acting like a protective pack leader. But he still didn't like being seen as a threat to his own daughter.

And while Sirius and James were thinking of a way to reason with their friend, no one else noticed how Peter had slunk down the stag's body, and slowly approached you. Only when he was a few inches away did you notice his presence.

Moony bent his muzzle towards the rat and snarled once more, showing his teeth, but did nothing else, he only limited himself to threatening him. Wormtail squeaked again, while a shiver passed along his body to the tip of his tail which was shaking like a leaf. You placed your eyes on the small creature and tilted your head, staring at him curiously.

The tension grew, but Peter was brave enough to come closer until he was practically in front of you. Moony looked down at him with a watchful gaze, because even though he knew that the other three were (the only) members of his pack and that he could trust, something inside him moved him to behave like a mother protecting her cub.

Until...

The rat slowly raised a paw towards you. Moony growled softly but both you and he continued to keep your gaze fixed on him. Then his little paw touched your nose, resting his whole palm gently on it. You made a confused noise, but Wormtail seemed to smile, while he continued to stroke your small and wet nose.

Then you suddenly sneezed loudly, so loud that Wormtail rolled backwards for a few inches while you shook away with your head the tickle that his hand had caused you. Above you, Moony huffed in what sounded like an amused scoff and Padfoot also barked, while Prongs made a happy noise, closing his eyes and flicking his ears.

Padfoot took the opportunity to approach again and this time Moony let him. First the dog playfully snuggled against his side and the wolf closed his eyes, relaxing and enjoying the familiar contact, while you, still hidden under the latter's belly, looked up at them with amazed eyes. Then, after a few seconds of cuddling, Padfoot moved back to bend down on his front legs and come to your eye level, and swayed his bottom left and right, wagging his tail. He barked a couple of times and the sound echoed throughout the forest, while he panted with his mouth wide open and his tongue hanging out, inviting you to play with him.

Something inside you told you to accept because you could trust him, but you were still slightly intimidated to leave the safety of the wolf's body that had done nothing but take care of you and keep you safe. But as if he had read your mind, Moony himself bent his muzzle towards you again and nudged it against your body, pushing you to take a couple of steps towards Padfoot. You turned to look at him and he seemed to smile with his eyes, as if to say "Go. You can trust him", and he gave you a couple more light pushes, urging you to play with him. And so you did.

Usually when Moony was with his pack mates they didn't spend the night playing together as if they were puppies and in fact that night was no exception: he simply sat there watching while you and Padfoot rolled around together on the ground, barking joyfully and not caring if your furs got dirty. And unfortunately he didn't know it, but it was just like when you were humans, when Remus would get lost in admiring you and Sirius playing together in the garden.

And so the night passed pleasantly.

When Padfoot chased you through the trees, if you didn't seek refuge behind Moony's body, you would hide between Prongs' legs and every now and then the latter would let you play with his antlers and you would even nibble them or push against them in a playful test of strength, like two stags fighting.

And if Wormtail thought there was nothing to fear in playing with a small puppy like you, he had to think again after risking a couple of heart attacks in the course of a few hours, after you had almost crushed him under your paws in your euphoria of playing, not realizing your superior physical strength compared to his.

But everything else went well and Sirius and the others could not be more grateful (and they knew that Remus would be too).

Peter was the first to notice that the sky was slowly starting to lighten and the first stars were disappearing from above your heads. He hastily touched Padfoot's paw with his and the latter raised his head to look up and when he realized that his friend was right he lowered his ears, both because the time to play with you was over but above all because it meant that the full moon was also ending.

In fact, after casting a sad glance at Moony, who in turn looked at him in a solemn but still confused way, not understanding his sudden change in behavior, before either of them could act you began to howl in pain, collapsing to the ground with your body shaking.

Moony was the first to jump up when he heard your heart-wrenching whines, but he didn't even manage to take a step towards you that a jolt of pain pervaded his body, forcing him to bend down to the ground too.

Prongs and Wormtail went to him, while Padfoot quickly scampered towards you, looking at you with shining eyes and letting out a pained sound, as if he too felt what you and Remus were going through. But all he could do was nuzzle your body, trying to comfort you and enduring the heartbreaking howls made by father and daughter that echoed through the forest.

Your bodies reshaped, the fur covering you shortened until it disappeared and the animal whimpers slowly turned into human sobs. Until after endless minutes of agony, instead of the adorable wolf cub, your naked little body curled up on the ground returned.

You sniffled, slowly opening your eyes and meeting Padfoot's worried gaze above you. "D-Daddy..."

Sirius quickly transformed back and bent over your body, wrapping his arms around you and bringing you to his chest.

"I'm here baby shh" he murmured, giving you a few kisses on the top of your head. "Daddy's here, it's okay. You did a great job babydoll, it's all over now"

But you were tired as hell, all you wanted to do was close your eyes and sleep, lulled by your father's caresses and his loving words that would never fail to make you feel safe.

"Daddy?" you asked him weakly and he lowered his gaze, looking at you worriedly. "Can i... Can i sleep just a little bit? I'm tired..."

Sirius gave a small pained smile but nodded, holding you closer. "Go to sleep, my love" he whispered in that typical voice he used to make you fall sleep when he was telling you a story or humming a lullaby. "I'll take care of you, don't worry. Just sleep"

It didn't take you a minute to close your eyes and enter the world of dreams, free from fear and pain and thankfully (for the moment) without the scars that would mark your body forever as reminders of that night and all the others to come. And Sirius hoped that would never be the case.

And as your father watched you sleep with a smile, his thumb gently stroking your forehead, Peter suddenly appeared standing in front of him, forcing him to look away. His friend handed him a blanket (the Marauders always brought some with them into the forest for the end of the full moon) and Sirius took it, wrapping your body in it.

"Thanks Pete" he said with a grateful smile and the other returned it.

Then another voice rang out, Remus'.

"W-Where is she?? Is she okay?? Did i-"

"Hey hey calm down Moons" James interrupted next to him, placing a strong hand on his shoulder to calm him. "It's alright, trust me. Don't push yourself"

Remus sat up quickly and when he saw Sirius he kneeled his way towards him but he didn't get very far, still overcome by the fatigue and pain of the transformation. Then his eyes landed on you in his arms and he began to feel panic rising inside him, fearing the worst.

"D-Did i hurt her?? Please Sirius, tell me i didn't hurt her, please"

But Sirius shook his head, giving him a comforting smile and sliding along the ground towards him, careful not to wake you. "She's fine Rem, i promise. You didn't hurt her, she's fine. She's just resting, look"

As James placed the other blanket they had brought over his shoulders, Remus craned his neck forward and felt his heart lighten as he saw you sleeping soundly in his husband's arms. You were okay.

"I'm so glad" Remus sighed heavily, letting himself go to snuggle into Sirius' side and the long haired man bent his face to press a kiss to his hair.

"Everything went well. Moony was quite fond of her, you know?"

Remus lifted his head to look at him with a small, surprised smile. "Yeah?"

"Yeah" the other nodded. "He looked like a mother with her baby. Mama Moony. Nice name, don't you think?"

And everyone chuckled, while Remus closed his eyes, wanting to just rest for a few minutes. Now that he knew you were really okay he could finally relax.

When you opened your eyes again, the sunlight coming through your bedroom window was the first thing that almost blinded you. With a loud yawn you raised your arms up to stretch your muscles, but you were forced to lower them again when you felt a slight pain in moving them, as if you had spent the whole day before doing gymnastics and now your body was sore. And before you could get out of bed or call your parents, the door to your bedroom slowly opened and Regulus' head popped out from behind it.

"Uncle Reggie" you smiled, quickly forgetting the pain.

The man smiled back and entered the bedroom, closing the door behind him and joining you, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Good morning, chérie" he leaned over to give you a hug and you hugged him back tightly, happy to see him. "Did you sleep well? How do you feel?"

"I was really tired, but i slept good. Now i feel fine, more or less... It still hurts a little everywhere"

Regulus nodded understandingly. "I guess it's normal. Do you remember anything from last night? How did it go?"

You shook your head, while unconsciously one of your hands went to play with his fingers on the blankets.

"I don't remember much. I only remember that my dads and uncles and i went to the forest and at a certain point my body felt like it was burning everywhere. It hurt a lot. But i don't remember what happened after. And when i became human again i saw Daddy and i fell asleep"

Your uncle gave you a comforting smile, his thumb moving across your fingers. "That's normal too, you can't remember what your wolf went through. Not even Remus ever remembers what he does during a full moon. But the worst is over and we're all glad you and him are okay"

At one point the sound of your stomach growling loudly resonated throughout the room and you and Regulus exchanged an amused look. "Do you feel like coming down for breakfast chérie?" he asked and you nodded frantically.

Regulus stood up and offered you a hand, helping you off your bed and leading you out of your room and downstairs. Even as you were walking down the stairs you could hear a mix of voices coming from the dining room and you couldn't wait to see your parents again and have breakfast with your whole family (as if you hadn't seen them in weeks, but for you the night before had seemed like an eternity).

As you turned the corner you saw Sirius standing there serving breakfast at the table, his hair tied back and wearing his own personal and embarrassing chef's apron that he rarely wore, since Remus was the one who mostly cooked. Remus was sitting at the table, a tired expression on his face but accompanied by a serene smile as he looked at his partner with that typical look of a lovesick teenager. James next to him was arguing with both of your parents about something, but from the way he spoke it seemed like he was completely in the wrong. And finally Peter sat across the table looking at everyone with a calm smile.

James was the first to notice you and Regulus' presence and called your name with a wide smile, happy to see you healthy. Immediately Remus and Sirius also turned to you and if the former tried to get up to meet you, but failed due to the lack of strength in his legs, the other was the first to put what he had in his hand on the table to reach you and his brother and pick you up.

"My sweet babydoll, good morning!" he exclaimed with a wide smile, and then nuzzling his nose on your cheek, making you giggle. "I thought you were going to sleep until dinner time, you know? Sleepyhead"

You hugged him around the neck, rubbing your cheek against his in turn and giving him a couple of loud kisses on the nose. "I got so hungry, Daddy"

"Yeah i bet, after the night you had" he replied jokingly, then looked at you more seriously. "By the way, are you feeling okay, my love? Does it hurt somewhere? And don't even try to lie to me"

You nodded slightly. "My body hurts a little, but not that bad. I solemnly swear~"

Sirius studied you for a few more seconds, trying to figure out if there was something you wanted to keep from him, but seeing your bright smile (despite everything that had happened) made him realize that there was nothing to worry about anymore.

"Mh okay, i trust you," he said, then smiled again, leaning forward to give you a small kiss on the forehead. "Now sit down and i'll make you the best breakfast of your life. You deserve it"

He bent to set you down, but instead of sitting at the table like he had invited you to do, without wasting time you ran towards Remus, who was still sitting in his chair waiting for you, throwing yourself against his legs.

"Dad!"

Remus smiled sweetly and picked you up in his arms, sitting you on his lap and holding you against his chest. "Oh lovely girl, hi" he murmured against your hair and then placed a series of kisses on it. "I missed you, you know? Daddy told me you were so brave last night, good job we're so proud of you"

"I missed you too" you returned, tightening your grip around his torso as his tapered fingers caressed your back. Then you leaned back slightly to look him in the eyes. "Are you okay?"

Remus felt his eyes water at those words. But it wasn't because it was the first time you had worried about him, no. You had a sensitive soul and you always worried about those around you, whether they were animals, insects, plants, your uncles, your friends. You always worried, especially about him and Sirius. No, Remus almost cried on the spot because despite the hellish night you had been through, you had the courage to ask if HE was okay. You hadn't thought of yourself first and foremost. And that was one thing he admired about you.

"Sweetheart" Remus cooed, lifting a hand to rest on your face and running his thumb over your cheek affectionately. "I'm okay. But how many times have i told you not to worry about me, hm? I'm used to it now, but you need to learn to think about yourself too. It's MY job as your dad to worry about you, not the other way around"

"I know but-"

"No buts" he interrupted you softly and you nuzzled your face into his warm palm, staring into his eyes. "Listen, i know you do this because you love me and i appreciate it, honey, so much. But being a werewolf is serious and sadly you're still too young to do this all on your own. So i want you to tell me, Daddy, or one of your uncles if something ever bothers you. Okay?"

You were silent for a couple of seconds, mulling over his words until you gave in.

"Okaaay..." you muttered, looking down.

Over your head, Remus and Sirius exchanged knowing but amused glances, already knowing that no matter how many times they told you, you'd never stop thinking about your parents before yourself.

Your father leaned over to kiss your forehead like Sirius had. "You want to have breakfast with me?"

"Of course!" you nodded frantically and he chuckled as he spun you around on his lap, facing the table, while you slapped your hands on the table in anticipation of your beloved food.

And while Regulus also sat down at the table with everyone, Sirius placed a nice steaming plate in front of you that made your mouth water, accompanied by a cup of hot tea for Remus.

"For Mama Moony and Baby Moony" he said with a smirk, while Regulus and the other two Marauders chuckled.

You didn't pay attention to his words because as soon as your breakfast appeared before your eyes you began to devour it, but behind you Remus gave him a look that was returned by a wink from the other, who then leaned over to give you a kiss on the head and one to Remus' temple before joining the table and enjoying breakfast.

And no one cared about the fear of facing the next full moons anymore. Because even though it would be difficult and painful, as long as your family stayed together you could face anything. And as long as your parents were with you you were not afraid.

#wolfstar #wolfstar x daughter!reader #wolfstar daughter #wolfstar dads #wolfstar x reader #wolfstar x you #remus lupin x reader #sirius black x reader #remus x reader #sirius x reader

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