peachmilkshake466

[peachmilkshake466]

RAGHHHHHHHH HOT HOT HOT

piercings and pleasure

a valentines weekend event fic!

roy harper x reader: you’re on top—riding your boyfriend..and just figured out an old piercing is still a little sensitive

content level: basically no plot.. 18+. NSFW.

rolling your hips again, roy groans from under you.

“yes, fuck!” his gravelly voice sends your pussy pulsing around him, eyelids fluttering as you pull him back in.

your hands trace along his torso, leaning in to kiss at a scar along his collarbone.

you slow your pace completely, feeling roy whine into your mouth as you kiss him. you can’t help but smile, cupping his face with your hands as he sticks his tongue into your mouth.

you can feel him getting restless, needing you to fuck him within an inch of his life to be happy. your bed is your safe haven, like therapy for the man who does everything but refuses to go.

the bedroom becomes a bubble, one that you two could spend hours in and not notice. you know roy needs it. his job is really grueling, and when he’s a little more tired, like today, you take the lead.

big, tough guy..but not when he’s in bed with you. definitely not when you’re on top.

the room’s dim, but in the lamplight, his piercing glints. a gold ring with a ball in the middle, it sits threaded through his right nipple.

roy notes your expression, giving you a wary look. slowly, so slowly, you kiss your way down his neck, savoring the saltiness you taste from how long you’ve been at it.

you’re not really sure why you haven’t done this before. you love it, roy always catching you staring, but it took so long to heal that you got into the habit of leaving it alone.

that was all about to change.

you kiss his collarbone again, taking your time to suck at it until it leaves a deep red mark. you place open mouth kisses down his chest, trailing your way down to his nipple.

“it’s still sore, babe,” roy says, his voice low. you stop to look up at him, seeing nothing but pure want in his eyes. you sit back farther, but he shakes his head. “jus’ be careful.”

“absolutely.” you reply, nodding. he sees the look on your face and visibly relaxes, and you feel like he’s just set the whole world into the palm of your hand.

you grab one of his hands, lacing your fingers with his as you lower your head down to his chest. rolling your tongue around it, you suck at the piercing and the pink bud it’s pushed through, humming like you’re eating gourmet.

his hand tightens around yours, his cock jerking inside of you. you keep going, running your tongue around the area and then back to the piercing, using your free hand to glide over his other nipple.

you roll it between your thumb and forefinger, your hand resting on the supple skin of his pec.

you tug at it lightly with your teeth, and roy doesn’t even try to stifle the moan he lets out.

seeing you look up at him with his piercing between your teeth has his hips twitching his cock deeper into you.

he swipes his auburn hair away from his forehead, his other hand clenching yours. you know roy likes a little pain along with his pleasure.

but you’ve never heard him whimpering like this, enjoying the way the pretty sounds fall from his lips in time with your tongue.

roy’s bucking his hips off the bed, groaning through his teeth as you tease the piercing. you pause, and he opens his eyes, growling.

“did i tell you to stop?”

your resulting smile is enough for him, and roy’s grabbing your hips, pushing them into a rhythm that has your back arching. the continued friction feels amazing, heat pulsing between your shared connection.

you run your hands over his budded nipples, a satisfied smile on your face at the chafed, pink skin. roy sits up from the headboard, pulling you to his chest as he scoots you both back, leaning against it again.

his mouth is rough on yours, kissing out of necessity, not leisure. he starts thrusting, his arms banding you to him.

skin to skin, chest to chest, hips to hips. you’re right where you want to be.

“god, you’re so fuckin’ hot,” he grunts, looking up at you from where his face is nestled between your tits.

his pace is relentless, the friction’s amazing, the curve in his cock hitting you deep—just where you like it. you can’t help the sounds you’re making, the way he’s fucking you could keep you wet for weeks.

“‘m almost there, baby,” roy says, moaning into the crook of your neck. his hips snap into yours, speeding up as he reaches towards the finish line. they stutter, his thrusts hard, making the skin of your ass ripple as he finishes inside of you.

he’s undone, murmuring into your skin as he fills you with his cum. breathing heavily, he pulls out. he’s hissing a little. so sad to see you go.

his cock’s got a ring of white around it, no doubt matching what’s dripping out of you.

he tugs you to the edge of the bed, crouching against the side of the mattress. he pats your pussy, light and affectionate.

“let me make it up to you, baby.” he says, although you’re not really sure who he’s talking to.

he licks a flat stripe up your folds, sucking harshly on your clit. roy pushes your legs farther apart, nose buried. you pull at his hair, and he chuckles into your pussy, teasing a finger at your entrance.

he pushes it in, using his finger to fuck his cum back into you as you writhe on the bed. your thighs clench around his head, his mouth relentlessly working at your clit, and your hips rock against his face, on his (now three) fingers inside of you.

“that’s right, use me, jus’ like that,” he mumbles as you grind against his face.

your thighs fall to the bed, shaking as the orgasm hits you. you moan, loud, as roy tongues at your clit, the pleasure almost too much to bare.

you feel so full, his fingers as deep as possible as they curl into your g-spot.

roy’s making you feel it, never gonna be the one to pull away first. you pat his head, feeling like you’re melting into the mattress, and he slows, stopping.

he kisses your forehead, his hand spanning your waist as he holds you.

his nose and cheeks are flushed, your heart melting. you could just look at him for hours if he’d let you.

“maybe i should get a matching one?” you push his hair back from his face, smiling sweetly.

“..are you being serious?” roy pants.

post divider courtesy of: @thecutestgrotto

[peachmilkshake466]

Guys I'm watching TFATWS and I gotta say I still stand by my cancelled wife.

[peachmilkshake466]

Actually just inject him into my veins at this point

Okay but imagine Adrian accidentally calls you mommy during sex and gets so flustered by it, like full on blushing of embarrassment <3

I haven't seen any fics with adrian calling the reader mommy.

Oh hes fully lost in the moment

As usual he's fucking rambling on and on and he's straight up degrading you and praising you at the same time, he's not even concentrated on you fully but just what your hands doing, eyes closed

Holy fuck you've got him on the bed on his back, pushed back into the pillows by the headboard, he's got a knee up and one down

He's got a hand in his hair pulling hard as fuck on that shit, your hand is at fast pumping down and up on him and you twist your wrist a certain way on your way up and his eyes fly open and he let's out low whiny "Oh, mommy,"

And his face is beet red, eyes wide and breathing hard,

Huffing out, fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, with his hands over his face

Jdhabsvdjwikm

[peachmilkshake466]

Guys let's all gather around my OC, we like?

Honestly she's very bare bones rn but what I do have is that she's called Dolores and she is a Banshee.

[peachmilkshake466]

I know it's wrong...who am I to pretend I wouldn't let him do whatever he wants to me?

Ughhh Bob with a breeding kink 😓😓😓

Like him just letting go and going all caveman brain about it after begging you to just let him pretend it'll take😖😖😖

bob’s pull-out game is genuinely awful. like, laughably bad.

which is how you ended up insisting on condoms in the first place—not that it ever stopped him. he’d find ways. not in a sleazy, frat-boy kind of way, not with lines like “i’m allergic to latex” or “it doesn’t feel the same”—no, bob’s excuses came soaked in something too sincere, almost sweet, if it weren’t for how calculated it ended up being.

“jus’ wanna be close to you,” he’d murmur, voice all thick and needy from where he lay slotted against you, his whole body tacky with sweat and arousal, a gleaming sheen of it covering every inch of skin like lacquer. his weight always followed—not rough, but whole. he liked collapsing on top of you after he slid in, his arms hooked under yours so he could wrap around your back, chest pressed to yours, breath fanning against your ear as if the closeness wasn’t just desire, but some primal need to merge. be inside and on top and around you all at once.

you never got the chance to argue. half the time the condom was off before you’d even realized he’d unrolled it—pulled off between sleepy kisses and soft “please”s, left sagging and useless somewhere near your hipbone. once, he didn’t even bother pretending. you caught him, right there in the bedroom light, jabbing something—his key? a paperclip?—into a row of condoms like he was testing for weak spots.

“bob,” you’d said flatly, and he blinked up at you, all wide-eyed innocence. like he might lie. like he might not lie.

“…thought i saw air bubbles,” he mumbled. his cheeks flushed. his fingers fidgeted. you knew damn well he was lying. knew it, and still did nothing.

because what were your options? fight? withhold sex? as if that would’ve been possible with the way he looked at you, touched you, moaned so gratefully every time he was inside you, like it healed something. instead, you started taking birth control—not as rebellion, but as quiet damage control.

you didn’t hide it. didn’t even think to mention it. why would you?

then came the morning—early, light still soft and blue through the windows, your legs sore, your thighs sticky with dried cum. bob behind you with one arm around your waist, trailing down the stairs like a sleepy barnacle. he didn’t even try to untangle, just followed, skin warm and clinging as you went through your morning routine.

you grabbed the small bottle of vitamins, handed him two, and he popped them without looking. a routine. natural. his chin rested against your shoulder as you reached for your birth control.

instinctively, he held his hand out again.

you hesitated. glanced at him with a faint smile.

“do you plan on getting pregnant anytime soon?” you teased.

his brows pinched, lips parted just slightly.

“birth control,” you clarified, still smiling.

and just like that, his expression shifted. confusion first. then something deeper—quiet, raw. hurt, maybe. or worse: betrayal.

his arm fell away from your waist.

“…you’re taking that?” he asked, voice low, soft. as if the question pained him to ask.

you turned, brows drawing together. “yeah. i didn’t think—”

“but why?” his voice cracked. “why would you do that?”

you turn toward him fully now, your lower back pressing against the counter edge, cool marble grounding you—but only barely. you can feel the way he watches you, gaze heavy and warm, like it might scorch you if you held it too long. he isn’t mad. not really. there’s no raised voice, no cruelty. just this awful, quiet hurt, like you’d taken something from him he didn’t even know he couldn’t live without.

and maybe you had.

the pill still sits between your fingers, tiny and pale in the soft morning light, like it’s nothing—just 3mg of synthetic hormone—but his eyes are fixed on it like you’re holding a loaded gun.

you open your mouth to explain, to give him something gentle and sane and logical, but the words clog up behind your teeth. the kitchen feels darker now somehow. close and still. like it’s holding its breath for you.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper, the words barely there. you don’t even know what you’re apologizing for. but you mean it. that’s the worst part.

“i—i don’t want you to be upset. i love you. you know i love you. i’d do anything to make this better—”

his voice slices through your chest, quiet but wrecked. “throw it away.”

you blink. “bob—”

“please,” he breathes. “just throw it away. right now. i’ll feel better. i promise. i’ll feel better if you just—just let me—” his voice cracks around the edges, fraying like old thread. “i need to.”

you glance at the counter. at the pill. and you set it down without a word.

he breathes in like he’s just surfaced from under water.

his hands are on you again—gently first, palms warm and reverent at your hips like he’s still afraid you might back away—but you don’t. you let him close the distance, let him slot his body between your legs as he leans in to kiss you, deep and messy and grateful.

“i wanna be inside,” he mumbles against your mouth. “don’t wanna wait. let me… please—let me stay this time.”

you nod, not even realizing you’re nodding until he sighs like it’s relief and drops to his knees.

your sleep shorts are gone in seconds. no teasing, no preamble—just his mouth on you, warm and wet and desperate, tongue working like he’s trying to unravel something inside you, hands wrapped around your thighs like handles, pulling you open as if you owe it to him.

he licks until your legs shake, until your voice breaks, until he’s practically whimpering into your cunt, nose buried so deep you wonder if he can even breathe. when you finally try to push him back—half from overstimulation, half because you need him in you already—he doesn’t budge.

“you taste different when you’re not on the pill,” he murmurs, drunk off it. “sweeter. like your body knows.”

you don’t even know what that means. you don’t care.

“bob—fuck, come on, please?— do it for mommy”

that does it.

he rises like a wave, chest flushed, breath ragged, cock already slick and leaking through his briefs. he tugs them down with a frustrated groan and nearly cries when he presses against your entrance—his forehead drops against your shoulder, his voice high and fragile.

“gonna come so deep,” he moans, sliding in inch by inch. “gonna stay there, i swear—i’ll stay in you. don’t want it to leave.”

your hands thread into his curls, nails dragging at his scalp as he bottoms out. he’s trembling, hips stuttering already before he’s even pulled back. “i’ll be good. i’ll be so good. just wanna give you something—wanna fill you, please, let me—”

the counter digs into your spine. the kitchen lights feel too bright. and still, none of it matters except for him.

he starts fucking you slow at first, rolling his hips up into you like he’s memorizing it—like if he gets the angle just right, your body will take him in and keep him there. his hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider, sweat slick between your bellies, every wet slap echoing too loud in the quiet morning space.

you can feel it when he gets close—when the whining gets louder, the thrusts more erratic. he’s babbling again, forehead pressed against your cheek now, voice ruined.

“make me a dad,” he gasps. “let me—please—fuck, i wanna come in you so bad—wanna give you everything—i’ll stay inside forever if you let me—please—”

you pull him in deeper. his body jerks.

then he’s coming—hard—right against your cervix, crying out into your neck, hips twitching with every desperate pulse of cum spilling into you. you can feel it, hot and thick, pooling where you’re still joined. he doesn’t pull out.

doesn’t even try.

instead, he slumps forward, cock still hard inside you, panting against your throat. “don’t move,” he whispers. “i’ll fuck it in deeper. just—lemme stay here.”

and you do.

you don’t even reach for the pill.

[peachmilkshake466]

OH GOD MY MAN

haiiaiaiiihihihiii! have you ever drawn Roy, and if not, do you plan to? Luv your art style <3

HIII!! Not as much as i’d like, but there’s some of my drawings of him!! thank u so much!!<3

[peachmilkshake466]

I'm not strictly a marvel fan or strictly a DC fan... I'm a secret third category that wants to fuck both Bruce Wayne and Steve Rogers.

[peachmilkshake466]

Anyone else gotten to the point of simping where you start to think your favourite character is underrated because you have consumed all their media in record time...yeah

Like no babe, Jason Todd is not criminally underrated, you're just an addict.

[peachmilkshake466]

AHHHHHHH

it's what you want

i had so much fun writing about adrian that i just HAD to do a lil addition to my other drabble 🥹. Hope you guys enjoy, as always comments and reblogs are super appreciated <3

adrian chase x reader warnings: voyeurism as the main theme, brief violence and mentions of attempted murder, adrian is a sociopath and acts like it lmao, smut. This is strictly an 18+ fic, MINORS DNI.

You feel the beat of your heart thrumming in your ears when you knock on Adrian Chase's door. 

When he opens, he's got that wide eyed, slacked jawed, naive look on his face. The infuriating one he wears most of the time and that normally you would find cute.

Right now, it makes your blood boil.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" You spit, feeling your voice crack a little bit with the bile.  

Adrian blinks in astonishment a couple times in response to the sheer volume of your voice, but his features nevertheless quickly morph into petulant annoyance.

“I’m not doing anything actually” He replies , smiling only to unsuccessfully hide the real bitchy way in which he says it. 

Him lying to your fucking face you had gotten more than used to. But the pettiness oozing from his words this time was definitely something new.

Was that, jealousy? 

It had been a perfectly good night, you had met a hot guy at the bar, you brought him to your apartment where things got way too steamy way too quick. 

But then- 

Loud and booming pop music coming from the other side of your wall was drowning out every single sound in your apartment. 

So here you where, confronting your neighbor. Your stupidly pretty yet no less annoying neighbor. “Turn that shit down, Chase.”

"Why? cant a guy listen to Taylor Swift on a friday night in peace?” He asks, with a hilariously affronted look on this face. 

And a part of you wants to laugh at the sight of his heavily pronounced scowl, but you cant offer him that sort of satisfaction just yet. 

“You know why” You say, fighting the urge to shift your eyes to the dead-beat couch behind him.

The couch in which he had quite literally fucked your brains out, before he had disappeared on you for almost 3 weeks. 

You knew quite probably it was due to Vigilante business, but still. It didn't feel better than any other guy ghosting you outta nowhere.

"Well I really, really dont" He answers once more. Proving nothing but his stubbornness at this point.

Fuck, he makes you want to scream sometimes. 

And you start to feel hot with the shame of it, the thought of having to tell him that you're trying to get laid without him being so adamant on killing the fucking mood. 

Since when did Adrian Chase have the power to make you feel embarrassed? 

Oh no, you cant have that. 

"Thought you liked hearing me fuck" You tell him before even considering if people might be walking past. "S'not doing it for you anymore?" You tease, trying to feel yourself get to higher ground.

He gives you a loud scoff, tongue pressed against his cheek.

You smile, triumphant, teasing. But then suddenly Adrian is looking at you with curious eyes.

So nothing prepares you for what his answer would be. 

“Fine! If you want me to listen in. I will!" He says, in a casual yet childish tone. As if he’s reluctantly giving in to something you wanted in the first place.

The blood drains from your face. 

"I d-didn’t say i wanted you to listen in" You stammer, having a hard time sounding convincing. For some reason? 

"Oh" He adds, and you cant tell if its genuine surprise on his voice or not. 

He twists his mouth as if he's thinking hard about it.

"So that's not why you’re here then?” He asks, with that same stupid naive look in his face as when he had first opened the door. 

You realize, with a hard punch, that he wields more power over you than you ever gave him credit for. 

“Just turn it down, Adrian” You mumble, scurrying away back to your apartment. In a hurry to finish what you had started, now with even more urgency than before. 

For some reason. 

-

It hits you when you least want it to. The idea of him pressing his ear on the other side of the wall, hearing every little sound you make. 

Maybe with a hand stroking at himself, his pants all the way down his ankles. Going faster when he hears how your bed creaks with the movements of the stranger fucking up into you. Pathetic. 

The stranger in question wasn’t at all bad, but its very telling how all of a sudden your voice is raising in pitch every time you moan out in approval. 

And poor guy, it only spurs him on. 

But then as if it were a bad drug, you cant stop. Theres only images of Adrian in your head. 

You think of the way his eyebrows would dip in desperation. 

The way he would say the most debauched things to you in such a casual care-free manner.

"Fuck, you're like- soaking my couch right now" He had said, when he was buried to the hilt inside of you. "Dripping all over it" 

As if it were a simple observation, as if the comment wasn't degrading in any way. The shame of it took you so off guard it had made your eyes clench shut. 

"M'sorr-" You had tried to apologize, but were forced to choke on the response when Adrians hand had reflexively moved to hold tightly at your throat. 

“Shit i think its gonna make me blow my load any second. Fuck, Can i do that? like inside? Oh god- please let me-” His voice was frantic and whiny, asking so many questions as if your windpipe wasn't  restricted. 

As if he wasn't already gushing inside you with how tight you were squeezing at him.  

As if he wasn't laughing that breathy laugh at how your aftershocks were making you push at his shoulders to try and get him to relent. 

Your imagination runs so wild with images of him that it sort of slips out. Just his name.  

"A-Adrian" 

-

You had apologized a dozen times for the frankly embarrassing mishap of moaning the wrong name in bed. But that didn't stop the stranger from calling you a "Fucking bitch" before he tries to exit your apartment in anger.

"The Hell-" He says, shocked by the image of a guy just waiting on him to open the door and blocking his way out. 

Adrian is standing there, with an upward twist on his lips. 

Oh no. You think. 

"Wow, really? calling them a bitch just because your dick game is weak as hell? thats just really uncool dude" Adrian is talking in his unintentionally mocking tone of voice. 

And of course the tall guy you had in your bed only minutes ago thinks that the man with plaid pajama pants and glasses is gonna be easy to throw around. 

"The fuck you think you are?" He goes to grab at Adrian by the collar, but is stopped midway by a strong hand twisting at his wrist with unmerciful strength.

You have to hold back a yelp at the sight, but thankfully Adrian is loosening his grip when the man has no choice but to double over with the pain.

He smiles and shrugs, a triumphant sort of grin. "I'm Adrian" He says, like its obvious. "The neighbor"

You just know the stranger's head must be doing flips. With the way he stares at you and then back at him and then to his wrist and then back at him with an incredulous look. 

"You two are insane“ He gestures to you both, before he storms off down the hallway. 

You stare dumbfounded as he walks away. Did that really just happen? 

"Really fucking nice to meet you too dude" Adrian yells at him, and effectively snaps you out of it.

He's standing there, hands on his hips. Before he turns to look at you with squinting and judging eyes.

"You know you should really stop hanging out with all these psychos" He admonishes. 

Oh, how ironic. 

-

"Im pretty sure i almost killed that guy once. For doing poppers." Adrian is babbling letting out hysterical laughs here and there, as if your hands aren't desperately pulling at the strings of his pants. 

"Glad you didn’t catch him" You say. As in, we wouldn’t be doing this on my bed right now if you had. Not really paying attention to his words and knowing you dont have time to unpack all of that.

“I jabbed a dagger into his leg and i think that thing reached his fucking bone. It was awesome-“ He continues, with a proud smile. 

You're really not in the mood for conversation though. At least not that kind. 

Getting more and more impatient by the second, you take matters into your own hands. (no, literally)

"Were you jerking off?" You ask, interrupting him while also sliding a hand down his underwear.  "Listening?"

The hiss he lets out at the sudden touch makes you giggle.

And hes too busy looking at the way your wrist moves to even give you the dignity of an answer. 

Oh so now he decides to shut the fuck up. 

"Huh?" He asks when you stop your movements and force him look up at you. "Oh yeah. Yeah i totally was" He says with incredible sincerity and quickness, as if to say: yeah its whatever, just keep going. 

His mouth is going slack, and uncontrollable whimpering sounds are escaping his lips.

The confession alone makes you sigh out a needy, pathetic sound. 

“You did?” You ask again, selfishly wanting to hear him say it again as you unceremoniously pull at his pants, take him out of his boxers and sink your body down on him.

It makes you both let out a guttural sound at the blinding relief.  

“Y-Yeah. Was tugging on it so hard that i thought i was gonna tear my dick off.” He says, his voice going tight with the effort to keep talking while you're doing that with your hips.

“Fuck, Adrian-“ 

You sigh out the warning in the form of his name, slapping a hand on his mouth and using it for leverage as you speed up your rhythm mercilessly. 

If he keeps talking, you have a feeling it will be over before you even start. 

And how interesting, that Adrian's lower half bucks up and his eyes roll back as soon as you try to silence him. 

"S'what you wanted right?" He asks, still ignoring your efforts and that his voice comes out muffled.

Like he needs to hear your approval. Like he needs you to tell him how much of a good boy he was. 

You dont answer, because the events of the night have you not thinking straight anymore. You do smile at him though, your eyes shining perversely.

And Adrian doesn't say anything else either, accepting his fate.

You only see how his eyebrows dip beneath his fogged up glasses and feel more than hear his needy groans and explicit words vibrating against your palm.

It was definitely going to end embarrassingly quickly.

[peachmilkshake466]

I am an Adrian Chase mommy kink truther and I will take no arguments.

JUST LOOK AT HIM, LOOK IN THOSE SWEET BABY EYES AND TELL ME HE DOESN'T CRY AND WHIMPER....you can't.

This is becoming an issue

[peachmilkshake466]

I'm just gonna leave this here...

adrian is such a stalker and a pervert!! he would 100% sniff your used panties and keep them for later. he def has a whole collection at this point. he’s gotta go to the restroom to jerk off when you so much as pat his back in front of the team. your innocent gesture is completely sexualized by him because he can’t help the effect you have on him!!

GOD OKAY. OKAY. we’re going there huh??? (hard agree) no but literally he so much as feels you pass by him or brush against his front and suddenly hes urgently blurting out something like"uuunggh fuck- ill be right back i gotta go take a whiz" and everyone is just like????? okay???? go then?? hes just soooo hyperaware of you all the time!! bc he spends every night stuffing his face in all the panties and tops hes managed to steal from you and now any whiff or touch drives him to the brink of insanity 🫣

[peachmilkshake466]

Type of love I need fr 😭

Would you still love me if I was a worm? - John Walker x reader

Word count: 1.1k

Description: You hit John with a stupid question, he takes it too seriously.

Note: I swear this man is so intense he’s so fun to write, enjoy🫶🏼

Masterlist

"Would you still love me if I was a worm?"

The question caught him off guard.

He was piloting the team's jet to mission site, big hands gripping the controls steadily. You were in the copilot seat, feet relaxing on the dashboard, enjoying a little too much the way he looked controlling the aircraft.

His eyes were locked on the sky ahead, with a tense jaw and those furrowed brows of his... lord, concentration looked good on him.

Almost too good.

So, naturally, you had to stop it before you jumped on top of your man and gave a free show to everyone on the jet.

John just blinked twice. What on earth was that question?

He didn’t glance your way, or even bother to give it a second thought before he replied.

"No."

You opened your mouth offended, and straightened up in your seat.

"John! You didn't even think about it" You whined, a soft laugh followed.

"Please tell me I didn’t hear you right, did you say a worm?" He asked, not even trying to hide the most bewildered expression you'd ever seen on him.

"You heard me, John" You squint your eyes at him, and insist, “would you still love me if I turned into a little worm?"

He sighed this time, taking his hand off the dashboard to rub his face like he just lost multiple brain cells.

"Honey, why would you ever be a worm?" He said, softer now, like he needed to understand the root cause before proceeding.

You roll your eyes, here we go again. Of course he needed it to make sense, his brain didn’t function right if there wasn’t a logical reason behind everything.

"I really don't now, babe. Some sort of mutation?… maybe witchcraft? … a gone wrong experiment Val does on me?”

“I would never let Val experiment on you” He denied, shrugging like why would you ever consider that as a possibility.

You pause for a second and tilt your head to the side, feeling a sudden warmth in your chest from his comment.

No, no, focus. You can kiss him breathless later, after he answers the worm question.

“Alright Walker that’s fair, love that, nice move” You nodded, squinting playfully at him.

He just smirked and shrugged, smug bastard.

“Not the point, though. Do you really think it would be so crazy that I could be a worm when we have at least two superheroes named after bugs?”

He looked back to the sky, considering it for a second, but quickly turned to you again with his eyebrows raised.

“Well, actually, spiderman is technically an arachnid so ... not a bug honey" He corrected, not even trying to hide his maddening little mansplaining smirk.

"Oh shut up, John" You rolled your eyes, slapping his arm, he chuckled. "Uh huh, whatever smartass, you still have to answer. What if I was a worm, then?"

He groaned, placing his thumb and index fingers in the dent of his closed eyes, shaking his head in defeat.

He could at least try to make some sense of it.

“Okay, we’re doing this” He muttered, and you nodded enthusiastically. “Is it still you, but worm shaped? As in … do you still have consciousness? Can you communicate with me? Would you have powers, or is it just …”

He just went rambling on.

You leaned back in your seat, chuckling as you watched the gears turning behind those handsome, stressed out eyes. He was running through scenarios, possibilities, variables.

At least he looked cute while losing his mind over it.

But then, he stopped rambling, like an idea just popped in his head.

"Wait … what kind of worm?" He tilts his head to the side.

I’ll be dammed, you thought, this man didn’t know how to go halfway about anything in his life, ever.

He was fully invested by now.

"What? what do you mean?”

Now it was your turn to furrow your brows.

"What kind of worm, honey? an earthworm? marine? are you symbiotic? regenerative?… This is crucial information to know" He said, listing types like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

How did he even care this much about worm lore?

“You are the most intense person I know” You groaned, staring at him in disbelief.

“And you are the most unserious one I know, honey, don’t get me started”

You just huffed. How did your stupid question get this far?

"God I don't know John, just like a basic worm… in the dirt"

He thinks for moment, like he wasn’t exactly pleased with the answer.

"So then, biologically, you’d lose everything. You would have no brain, no higher reasoning or communication. Technically, you wouldn't even know I exist anymore"

You glared at him.

"But you would it’s me" You quickly justified, but it didn’t seem to convince him much. "Oh my god John ... just answer the question babe. Would you still love me?"

He tapped his chin a few times, eyes darting around the jet’s cabin, still trying to find a somewhat logical answer in his head. Making you wait for it.

You knew that little asshole was just having fun mocking you.

"Uhm, I guess I could keep you safe … yeah” He nodded. “Build you a little enclosure with some nice quality dirt. It would have to be temperature controlled, for sure. Maybe even ask Val to build you a reinforced travel case? something I can clip to my gear.”

You blinked a few times, before nodding. A win is a win.

"...Thanks?"

But he was quick to shake his head.

"Although honestly, sounds like a lot of emotional labor. Don’t you think our relationship is complicated enough already?" He protested, like it'd be too much fuss.

"Hey!" You laughed, smacking his shoulder.

You both fall into a chuckle. He shakes his head again, but there's a grin in his face now.

From the back of the jet, you heard the unmistakable sound of suppressed laughter.

"Even if she was a brainless worm, she’d still be more emotionally mature than Walker" Bucky whispered to the group.

Muffled laughter followed, like a group of schoolgirls gossiping.

"They are the weirdest, I swear to god" Ava muttered, watching the way you giggled at something John said like he was the most charming idiot on earth.

"Ah captain romance … don’t you see it? he’s worm nerd and she’s worm he takes care of" Alexei chimed in.

“Shh!” Yelena hushed him, snorting. “Honestly, it tracks guys. He gives off strong ‘I talk to my houseplants’ vibes”

“Yeah, watch him hang a ‘Worm Boyfriend of the Year’ plaque next to his service medals” Bucky sneered.

More giggles. At this point they weren’t even trying to be quiet.

John turned halfway in his seat. “You guys know I can hear you, right?”

“That’s the point” Ava said, flipping him off.

“Oh no” Yelena deadpanned. “What are you gonna do, worm boy?”

“Shh! He’s gonna clip us to his belt too.”

That set them off again.

John just rolled his eyes, turning back to the controls. But you noticed the faint hint of a smile on his face.

And then almost under his breath, only for you to hear.

“I’d still love you” He muttered.

You looked over at him.

“What?”

“Nothing. Eyes on the sky.”

You smirked.

This time you did jump on his lap to kiss him breathlessly, while your teammates threw disgusted grunts and gagged sounds at you.

[peachmilkshake466]

Idk what Marvel is doing recently but they are doing it right. I have never been so in love with characters like I am with John Walker, Bob Reynolds and Joaquin Torres. (I need all three RIGHT NOW)

I feel like a Victorian man seeing an ankle every time I see them...

[peachmilkshake466]

This is actually so beautiful 😩

pairing: robert reynolds x reader cw: smut, bob has sensory issues, afab reader, faint talks and mentions of mental health, very faint non-con aspects, oral (female receiving) vaginal fingering, nipple play, humping, dry humping.

after consuming the serum, bob became extremely hypersensitive and aware of things—so much so that even the faintest kind of touch could send his whole nervous system reeling.

he didn’t snap, didn’t yell, didn’t push you away in frustration. never. he would just murmur softly—almost apologetically—that he “couldn’t be touched right now.”

there was always a pause before he said it. like he was trying not to disappoint you. like he was ashamed of the way his body betrayed him.

the sensitivity extended to the mundane—fabric on his skin, loud ambient noises, even too many lights in a room. sometimes, in the tower, he’d forgo wearing a shirt entirely, just letting his skin breathe. his golden skin, speckled with sweat and goosebumps, would gleam under the artificial lights, flushed in pinks and reds where the air felt too cold. more often than not, he’d pace barefoot in nothing but drawstring pants, arms crossed over his chest like a barrier, avoiding eye contact with anyone who passed by in the halls. it earned him glances. side comments.

especially from walker, who never quite understood that bob’s vulnerability wasn’t weakness—it was survival.

you caught one of those glares once—when you’d been walking down the hallway beside bob, your hand ghosting near the small of his back but not quite touching him. john’s voice, muttered low, just enough to catch your ear:

“isn’t he a little delicate for a guy who can tear satellites out the sky?”

which, naturally, meant john wanted you to use his tower card for a little shopping spree. you told yourself it was reparations. he slept like a boulder, so slipping the card from his wallet was easy enough, and by the end of the afternoon, you were $1,500 deep in a blur of textures and fabrics, cotton shirts so soft they felt like clouds under your fingertips, corduroy pants that didn’t snag against his skin, jeans carefully vetted so they didn’t “feel weird,” sweatshirts knit from the kind of threads that wouldn’t spark his nerves alight. 

you didn’t tell bob how much you spent. not for lack of him trying. he always asked to see the receipt—voice so careful, so earnestly sweet, like he was hoping it didn’t trouble you too much. but you just kissed his forehead and told him to focus on how good it all felt.

clothing was easy. sex was harder.

because bob was always easy to overstimulate. that part wasn’t the serum. that part was just… bob.

now, sometimes—when his body couldn’t regulate anything, when his chest felt like it was cracking open from the inside out—you could barely blow air across the flushed head of his cock before he was gasping, crying out, arching up into the empty space like the very air was too much. milky-white cum painting his abs, tears streaking down his cheeks as he gasped—“holy—fuck!—shit,” or “please—’m sorry i am—i’m so sorry—!”

and god help him, the one time you’d tried to sink down onto him during one of those episodes, he’d cum in you twice before you’d even managed to bottom out. his face had crumpled, eyes screwed shut, bottom lip bitten raw as he choked out little whimpers. you’d barely been able to move without hurting him, the hypersensitivity turning pleasure into something agonizing. 

and when you finally slid off of what little you’d taken, it was messy—cum leaking out of you, dripping down his shaft, and pooling hot between your thighs. his body trembled under yours, head thrown back against the pillow, adam’s apple bobbing with every sharp swallow. he whimpered, voice wrecked, saying he wanted you to keep it inside—like it meant something. like it mattered. he’d made this broken little sound, throat bobbing as he begged you to leave it in, trembling hands trying to push it back inside you with his fingers.

“i need it—i… jus’ wanna keep it there, please—”

you’d figured out workarounds since then. bob was desperate to give you pleasure, to feel useful in that way, to prove to himself he wasn’t a burden. his fingers would tremble as he pushed them inside you, skin prickling with sparks like every nerve ending had a live wire attached. his tongue — too hot, too greedy — left him shaking after, the taste of you almost too much, something primal unspooling inside him until his hands clenched the sheets like he was drowning.

just like now.

he was between your thighs, eyes glassy, lips slick and flushed, the muscles in his jaw tight as his tongue worked in slow, heavy drags. every time he swallowed, you could feel it — the tremor that ran through his body, like the flavor of you was too much, like it short-circuited the careful defenses his body tried to maintain. he was too vocal. he always was. little choked-off whimpers and desperate sounds spilling out between licks.

you’d warned him earlier—told him he didn’t have to. but he wanted to. he always wanted to.

eventually, you had to take him by the roots of his brunette hair and pull him back, gently. not because it hurt—but because it was too much. for him.

he didn’t even gasp for air. didn’t complain. just blinked up at you, pupils blown so wide his eyes looked almost black in the low light, tongue peeking out to taste your arousal off his lips.

“was i… not good?” he asked, voice soft, cracked, like it physically hurt to even suggest he might not have pleased you.

you sighed, brushing damp hair off his forehead. “it’s too much for you. i can’t tell if you’re okay when you look like you’re about to pass out.”

his brows pulled together, lips twitching like he wanted to argue, to tell you it didn’t matter, that he wanted this — needed it. “i wanna make you feel good. it’s fine, i swear—”

he reached for you, to part your thighs again, and you tugged his hair a little harder in warning. he froze.

“lay down, bob. let’s sleep.”

“don’t do this… please,” he whispered, voice breaking in the middle like a little boy told he couldn’t have something shiny in the store window.

you didn’t have to say another word. he sighed, defeated, crawling up the bed, big body moving slow like every muscle ached. you pulled back the comforter and let him slip beneath it, sheets freshly washed, and you could feel his eyes boring into your back like a heat lamp as you turned off the lamp. you knew he was pouting. you could practically hear it in the tight huff of his breath, in the way he curled up closer behind you but didn’t touch.

this could wait until morning.

except it didn’t.

four hours later, sleep a heavy fog in your skull, you felt a hand shaking you. gentle. careful. but persistent. you cracked an eye open to see bob’s face in the moonlight, curls mussed, pupils still wide and dark as he bit his lip.

you shifted, instantly aware of the slick between your thighs, panties pushed halfway down, skin damp and sticky like you’d been worked over while you slept. bob’s fingers glistened faintly in the low light.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered, voice so low it barely stirred the air. “i… i knew you still needed me. you’re wet, look—”

“bob,” you groaned, hand dragging down your face. “it’s too much for you to even finger me, baby. i can take care of myself.”

he made a choked sound, eyes glossy. “i don’t want you to.” it was a whine, petulant and achingly sincere, like the idea of you touching yourself was betrayal.

he moved, laying back flat, curls spilling over the pillow, pink lips slick, and you couldn’t tell if it was from your slick or his own spit. he patted his thighs, coaxing.

you sighed, sliding over to straddle him, body curling down against his chest. it wasn’t new. bob liked the weight of you. said it grounded him. you kicked your panties the rest of the way off as his arms wound around your waist, holding you tight.

it stayed like that a while. long enough you thought he might fall asleep. until his hand ghosted down, fingers dipping to your cunt, finding you still wet, the contact making you jolt.

he looked up at you like he was working out a math problem, then without a word, tugged his own shirt up, exposing the pale pink of his nipples, flushed and damp with sweat. you swallowed, arousal stirring.

he was beautiful like this—golden even in the moonlight, carved like myth, the kind of man gods were modeled after. you told him that once, and he’d given you that shy smile he always did—boyish, bashful, like it embarrassed him to be seen.

and then, all at once, his hands found your hips—gripping them with a strength you forgot he had. big palms wrapping around your flesh, fingers splaying across the softness of your sides like he was trying to memorize the shape of you by feel alone. he lifted you with barely any effort, drawing you up his body until your clit nestled into the firm dip between his abs. a sudden swell of heat flushed through your core as your skin met the slick warmth of his stomach—his skin clammy, trembling, and sticky with a sheen of sweat that caught the light from the half-open window.

the contact made you gasp.

it wasn’t just friction. it was everything.

that perfect, ridged line between his abdominal muscles pressed hot and smooth right where you needed it, and your cunt responded instinctively—throbbing, aching, wetness renewing in a slow, sticky seep that soaked between your folds and onto the tight muscle of his stomach.

bob’s breath hitched beneath you. you felt it.

his whole body went tense again—legs rigid beneath the sheet, shoulders straining against the pillows—but he didn’t stop you. if anything, his grip on your hips tightened, almost needy, thumbs stroking up and down like he was soothing himself even as he guided you forward.

“jus’ want you to feel good,” he whispered again, voice half-gone, eyes wide and blue and wet beneath the mess of dark curls.

you rocked your hips gently—just once, just to test how much he could take—and his head thumped back to the pillow like gravity had stolen his spine.

his breath broke out in a ragged whimper.

that little movement had smeared your slick along the soft trail of hair beneath his navel, and the effect it had on him was immediate—his cock twitched where it lay heavy in his boxers, untouched and already leaking from the tip, precum surely pooling messily against the fabric.

“you’re—fuck,” bob stammered, brows scrunching like the world was ending. “you’re dripping on me.”

he said it like he couldn’t believe it. like the heat of your cunt against his stomach was some kind of religious punishment.

you rolled your hips again, slower this time, dragging your clit along the taut groove of muscle running diagonally across his belly. the sensation sent a low, needy ache spiraling down your spine, and bob felt it—he gasped, one hand flying to grip the pillow beside his head while the other stayed anchored to your waist, grounding himself with the warmth of your skin.

“i can’t—i can’t even move or i’ll—” his voice cracked with shame and lust all tangled up in the same breath. “but you can… you can keep going. want you to. need you to.”

“just like this?” you asked softly, dragging yourself over him again—longer this time, letting your clit grind into the top of his abs with a rhythm that was more deliberate, more dangerous.

bob nodded frantically, curls bouncing against the pillow. his lips parted but no real words came out—just these sounds, these desperate little ahh—hhuh noises, like his whole body was unraveling under you.

his thighs twitched. his hands flexed.

you looked down and saw the trail of slick glistening across his stomach—shining in the moonlight like something holy. it smeared across the center of his chest now too, where you’d balanced your hands earlier. his whole body looked like it had been marked by you. like you’d been anointed onto him.

“you’re doing so good,” you whispered, and bob’s breath stuttered out of his lungs like it shattered something in him. “so good for me, baby…”

“don’t stop—don’t stop, please—i can take it,” he said, but it was a lie. a beautiful, reckless lie. his voice cracked on every syllable. his abs trembled beneath your cunt, muscles seizing and jerking in overstimulated flinches with every grind of your hips.

and still, he held you there. still, he kept pulling you forward with the tips of his fingers, even as tears started to well in the corners of his eyes again.

you leaned down—kissed the corner of his mouth, then the flushed apple of his cheek—and his head turned instinctively to follow you, mouth brushing against your jaw with a needy little sound. his cock lay untouched between you, neglected and twitching

the more you moved, the wetter everything became—your arousal slicking his stomach, pooling along the contours of his abs, hot and glistening in the moonlight. his skin beneath you grew slippery, sticky with your need, and every tiny roll of your hips only made it worse—only made it better. every pass of your clit over that shallow dip in his midsection sent jolts ricocheting up your spine, and the more friction you fed yourself, the more you lost the ability to form full thoughts. you could feel it building fast—too fast. not from penetration, not from anything more than pressure and heat and the sound of him.

and bob—god, bob—he was trembling now. the muscles of his arms, his thighs, even his neck—everything was twitching, caught in a crosswire of overstimulation and restraint. he couldn’t even hide it. broken, messy whines kept slipping from his mouth, each one spilling out in the same staggered rhythm as your hips. he was trying so hard to stay still beneath you, to let you ride it out the way your body so clearly needed, but it was killing him.

then there was his cock—helplessly twitching, swollen and soaked. so much precum had spilled out of him, it’d long since leaked through the thin white cotton. you didn’t even have to touch it—you could see the blushing pink of his tip pressing against the wet fabric, throbbing.

“‘m—cumming,” you managed to gasp out—voice cracking, more of a sob than a warning. you were shaking, bracing one hand against his chest, and immediately bob’s hands flew to your hips, grabbing on tight.

he didn’t ease you through it—he pushed. rocked you harder, faster, more desperate than he had any right to be. like it was his orgasm you were having. like he could feel it inside his own body. bob’s hands fly back to your waist like instinct. like his body was made to respond to yours. his fingers press deep into your flesh as he starts rocking you—violently, desperately—dragging your soaked cunt forward and back across the slick plane of his stomach, chasing your orgasm like it’s his own. like if he works hard enough, fast enough, good enough, he can feel it through you. with you.

“come on,” he begged under his breath, head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut. “come on—please—wanna feel it—give it to me—”

his voice broke on the last syllable.

and through the heat and the overwhelming wave crashing through you, you reached down—your fingers shaking—and dragged them through the mess coating his abs. your slick clung to the ridges of his muscles, warm and thick and yours, and you brought it straight up to his chest.

he didn’t even flinch.

you thumbed the arousal over one nipple, then the other, and bob jerked beneath you—hips spasming, mouth falling open in a wet, stuttering moan. his hands tightened at your waist like he didn’t know if he wanted to pull you closer or throw you off—but he didn’t do either. he just endured it. just let himself fall apart under you.

the sounds he made—god. soft, desperate whimpers spilling over into tears, gasping little hitching breaths every time your fingers circled one pink, flushed bud, your wetness smearing across his chest like it belonged there.

“does that feel good?” you whispered, barely able to speak as your own orgasm ran hot through your bloodstream. your body pulsed over him, your thighs trembling, your clit pressed so tightly to his skin you were practically convulsing. “you like it when i rub it into you, baby?”

he nodded, head lolling against the pillow as his breath stuttered out of him. “fuck, yes—yes—i love it, please don’t stop,” he moaned, eyes fluttering open just to find your face. he was glassy-eyed, like he’d cry if you even breathed the wrong way.

your fingers pinched one of his nipples, just lightly, and his entire body shook.

the mess between you was obscene now—your slick streaking across his abs, his chest, the faint trail of his cum still leaking through the fabric of his boxers and sticking to your thighs. you could feel it—hot and slick—when you rolled your hips forward just a little more, just enough to grind back down against that perfect dip in his body that made you twitch.

“feels like i’m gonna—gonna—” he gasped out, voice strangled, hips bucking uselessly beneath you. he was rutting against nothing, no friction, no stimulation to his cock at all except the wet cling of his ruined underwear and your body grinding above him. he looked frantic. like his brain was short-circuiting just from watching you unravel.

you leaned down, pressing your forehead to his, your noses touching. your breath mingled. you could smell yourself on him, taste it in the air, and that only made your stomach clench tighter.

“you wanna cum too?” you asked, low and coaxing, the softest ache curling around your voice. 

“i—i c-can’t—” he stammered, his voice breaking so completely you felt it vibrate against your lips. “didn’t even touch me—didn’t touch—and i’m—”

you felt it then—the sudden twitch of his thighs beneath you, the way his body jerked. he came. without ever being touched. just from the scent of you, the warmth of you, the taste still lingering on his lips and your slick soaking into his skin.

the sound he made was unlike anything you’d ever heard—half-sob, half-praise, trembling with so much feeling it made your chest hurt.

you rocked against him once more, gently, as he spilled himself into his underwear, the front of the fabric darkening even more, clinging lewdly to the outline of his cock. your cunt was still throbbing, still pulsing against his belly, but now you felt that soft little aftershock ripple up your spine. it made your fingers tremble where they still rested on his chest, your hand smearing another stripe of wetness over his nipple. he twitched again. whimpered again.

your orgasm crashes over you so hard it nearly knocks the wind from your lungs. you grind harder—shaking, crying out—as your clit pulses against his stomach. you feel your own slick gush again, dripping down over his abs, down his sides, pooling beneath you. and still—still—he’s dragging you through it, milking every second of your orgasm like it’s a shared act of devotion. like it hurts him not to give you more.

you collapse forward, arms trembling as you brace yourself against his chest, mouth falling open, forehead brushing against the hollow of his throat. he’s so warm. and he smells like salt and sweat and the faintest trace of his body wash—the kind you bought for him, the one that doesn’t make his skin itch.

bob’s heart is pounding beneath your cheek. you can feel it slamming into your ear like it’s trying to escape his chest. his breathing is short and erratic, the skin of his abs flexing under your hips with every aftershock he suffers just from the stimulation of you—not even being touched.

his arms fold around you, trembling but firm. protective. possessive.

you shift just slightly, and your slickened pussy brushes the very top of his briefs where his cock is still twitching visibly beneath the soaked fabric.

bob lets out a sound—half moan, half sob. “i’m gonna—fuck, i think i—please don’t move—!” his voice ringing from overstimulaton.

you freeze immediately.

you pressed a soft kiss to his nipple, an breathlessly giggle out a faint apology.

“wanna feel you all the time,” he mumbled, still dazed, his voice sleepier now, like he was crashing from the high. “you make me feel full. even when i’m empty.”

that made your chest squeeze. that sentence. the truth in it.

and for once, the tower was quiet.

no lights. no noise. just the faint moonlight casting long, gentle shadows against the wall. the echo of breathing that slowly began to steady. the heartbeat under your ear.

you stayed there for a long while, sticky and raw and satisfied—your bodies cooling down together, your minds settling into something quiet. bob’s fingers twitched at your back, still reflexively trying to keep you close.

eventually, he whispered again.

“i like when you leave your mess on me.”

you smiled, your lips brushing his skin.

“i know.”

[peachmilkshake466]

Oh dear I'm tearing up that was perfect 🥹

mrs. walker, if you’re nasty

john walker 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – nsfw (18+), explicit sexual content, MDNI, fake marriage, friends with history, slow burn, emotional smut, mutual pining, srry he's a lover boyyyyy, fem reader, fem masturbation, PIV, jealousy whoops, think y2k romcom meets espionage 

word count: 12k

Summary: You never meant to fake marry your ex-fuckbuddy-turned-field-partner. But when the mission called for a believable couple, John Walker—with his old wedding ring still in a drawer and tension still in his jaw—was the only option Val had for you. 

What starts as pretend hand-holding and shared hotel beds spirals into jealousy, bathtub confessions, and one unhinged night that breaks every rule you agreed on.

notes – not proofread but I needed one of these stories for john bc its definitely one of my favorite tropes.

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated.

You should’ve known it was going to be bad the second Valentina walked in smiling.

Val doesn’t smile. Not unless she’s about to ruin your day or about to make it really interesting—and usually, it’s both.

She tosses a file down on the table between you and John Walker and says, “Congratulations, newlyweds.”

You blink. John scowls.

Val shrugs. “You’re married. For two weeks. Surveillance picked up intel on Garrison Durell—yes, that Durell. Ex-HYDRA, laundering through luxury events in the Mediterranean, selling classified weapon tech like it’s wine. And lucky us, he’s got a soft spot for American power couples.”

“Power couples,” you repeat slowly, already getting a headache.

John leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “What, you couldn’t just send Yelena and Bob? They’re chaos married already.”

“Yelena is banned from Monaco,” Val says smoothly. “Besides, the optics are better with you two. Blonde, shiny, all-American. People eat that shit up.”

You open the file. Fake passports, a digital guest list, and four engraved wedding bands sit in a case like it’s no big deal. “Go ahead and pick. Gold or platinum?” Val smirks. 

You look at the rings, eyes linger on the platinum bands. John notices and mutters something that sounds like “bullshit,” but takes his anyway.

Your fingers brush when you grab yours. He tenses. You ignore it.

You haven’t touched him since the last time you weren’t supposed to, and it echoes in your mind at the warmth of his skin.

-

Back at HQ, prep is fast and brutal.

You’re given a three-day crash course in your cover life. You and John Walker—now Mr. and Mrs. Ford—met during a UN protection detail in Belgium. You bonded over trauma and good whiskey. Got married in a courthouse in Savannah. Honeymooned in Greece. Currently “trying” for a baby and vacationing across Europe before your next mission.

You gag at that last part.

John just scoffs. “They really want us to go method on this, huh?”

You’re halfway through memorizing your new anniversary date when he leans against the doorway of the briefing room. “Can’t believe this is what gets me hitched again,” he mutters, adjusting the collar of his suit. “Government-sanctioned fake vows. Classy.”

You glance over. “You say that like the first time was glamorous.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rise to the bait. Just shrugs one shoulder and says quietly, “At least that one was real.”

For a moment, the air shifts—heavier. You remember what Val said about him having a kid. The quiet file note about Olivia. About the divorce. You never asked for details and now doesn’t really feel like the time to start.

You clear your throat and deflect. “This one comes with better jewelry.”

He smirks, but it’s a little slower this time. “Still think you should’ve picked the gold band. Platinum makes it too easy to believe.”

“You say that like anyone’s actually marrying you,” you say without looking up.

He smirks. “Pretty sure that’s what the ring says.”

-

You hate this part more than weapons testing.

They call it physical intimacy training, like that makes it sound professional.

Like it doesn’t feel exactly like being tortured—slowly, methodically, by the ghost of one very bad decision.

You’re standing shoulder to shoulder with John Walker in a cool, windowless room while a humorless woman with a clipboard clicks her pen and says, “We need to see touch fluency. Comfort. Chemistry. Right now you look like coworkers at a funeral.”

John exhales sharply through his nose. “We could’ve just sent in a real couple, y’know.”

She doesn’t even blink. “The real couple we tried first got divorced last year.”

You turn to John with a smirk. “Don’t get any ideas.”

He tilts his head, mouth twitching. “You’re not really my type.”

You quirk a brow and lean in close to him, breath ghosting his ear as you whisper, “You literally begged to be inside me the last time we saw each other.”

His jaw flexes, ever so slightly.

The trainer sighs. “Less bitterness. More hand-holding. Let’s start.”

-

It begins with the basics: touch drills.

You’re instructed to hold hands while maintaining eye contact. Which shouldn’t be hard. Except you haven’t even looked at him—really looked at him—since that night in Berlin, when adrenaline and whiskey and your mutual bad judgment ended with you shoved up against a door, moaning his name.

His hand is warm when it takes yours. Too warm.

He laces your fingers together like he’s done it before.

You know the press of his palm too well. The roughness of his callouses. The strength in those fingers when they weren’t just holding your hand.

He looks down at you, unreadable.

“Smile,” he says, just loud enough for the trainer to hear.

You do. Barely.

It feels like a dare.

-

“Now,” the trainer says, “I want to see unconscious contact. Shoulder touches. Hip brushes. Little signs that your bodies know each other.”

Know each other.

Jesus.

You’re suddenly hyperaware of the space between you. The way his arm barely grazes yours. The heat of his chest when he shifts too close. The scent of his cologne—that woodsy, slightly spiced thing that’s never stopped driving you crazy.

He places his hand lightly on your lower back as instructed. Your breath stutters. You hate that he notices. Because he leans in, real slow, voice low like a goddamn sin. “Still that sensitive, huh?” 

You grit your teeth. “Still that smug?”

He chuckles, deep and quiet, the sound a little too close to the one he made the first time he sank into you.

You jerk away—barely an inch—but it’s enough for the trainer to raise an eyebrow.

“Let’s try whisper prompts,” she says. “Something sweet. Something vulnerable.”

You nearly laugh. Vulnerable? With John?

But he steps behind you anyway, mouth dipping toward your ear. “You moaned my name so sweet the last time,” he whispers, too low for the trainer to hear. “Dunno how I’m supposed to pretend I never had you.”

Your stomach flips, and your knees almost buckle. To play if off, you elbow him. Hard.

He grunts and smiles.

The trainer claps. “Good! Finally some believable tension.”

You don’t look at him. You can’t. Because you know if you do, you’ll remember what it felt like to come apart under him. What it felt like to wake up alone.

You thought sleeping with him once was the mistake.

You’re starting to think this mission might be worse. 

-

You end up in the mission apartment your last night before departure. Final fittings. Field checklists. Suitcases lined up in the hall.

And one queen bed in the center of the room, smug in its singularity.

John steps in behind you. Sees it. Stares. “No twin beds?”

You don’t even flinch. “What, scared you’re gonna snore and ruin the fantasy?”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder. It’s half amused, half warning. “Scared you’re gonna get ideas again.”

You scoff, toss your duffel onto the bed like you’re marking territory. “Please. I’d sooner sleep on the floor.”

He doesn’t answer.

Just starts unpacking— methodical and too quiet. The silence presses in almost as much as the memory. Because the last time you stood across a bed from him, it wasn’t this one—but it was still tight quarters. Still humming with everything you tried not to say.

You’d kissed him first. Drunk on adrenaline and defiance. He’d kissed you back like he meant to ruin you. You’d ended up tangled in sheets, gasping his name into the dark, nails clawing down his back.

You swore it wouldn’t happen again.

And it hasn’t. Not technically. But you’re starting to realize that was the easy part. Staying away from his body was never the issue.

It’s staying away from his voice. His heat. The way he looks at you when you forget to be difficult.

-

That night, neither of you sleeps much.

You lie on opposite sides of the bed, backs to each other, perfectly still.

At one point, he shifts and the mattress dips under him—just enough for the movement to echo in your spine.

You don’t breathe.

Neither does he.

The air between you hums like live wire. Like the memory of his hand on your hip is still burned into the mattress. Like he’s still behind you, whispering filth in your ear with that rough voice, dragging his mouth down your throat while you tried not to beg.

You curl your fingers under the pillow and focus on your breathing. In, out. In, out.

His voice breaks the silence. Barely. “You remember that night?” It’s too quiet. Nearly swallowed by the dark.

Your heart kicks. “Which one?” you say, playing dumb.

A pause. You hear him shift onto his back. “The one where you said it didn’t mean anything. Right before you fell asleep with your hand on my chest.”

Your jaw tightens. “Nope. Can’t say I do.”

“I do,” he said quietly.

You snort—quiet and bitter. “Could’ve fooled me,” you say. “Considering I woke up in an empty bed.”

That shuts him up.

You don’t turn to see his reaction. You don’t need to. The silence afterward is thick and punishing. Like you peeled something back between you that neither of you is ready to look at yet. Maybe never will be.

Eventually, he shifts again—settling deeper into his side of the bed.

He doesn’t apologize.

You don’t expect him to.

But hours later, when you finally drift off, you swear you feel the heat of his hand hover just behind your back—close enough to ache, but never touching.

And when you do fall asleep, it’s not from peace. It’s from exhaustion.

From the effort it takes not to reach for him.

-

The next morning, you’re at the jet, coffee in hand, sunglasses on, dressed like you belong on the cover of a weapons-grade honeymoon magazine.

He boards first, wearing a tailored navy suit and a face like stone.

You follow him, settle into the seat beside him, and scroll through your briefing notes one last time. His ring glints in the sunlight. So does yours.

You don’t speak until takeoff.

Then, quietly, he says, “You know this is just a cover, right?”

You glance at him. “You think I need reminding?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “I think you like to forget things when it’s convenient.”

Your jaw tightens. “I think you like to pretend you don’t.”

He exhales slow through his nose. Says nothing.

The engines roar louder. The plane rises. And the two of you fall back into silence—ringed fingers resting inches apart on the armrest.

-

You land in Monaco mid-afternoon. Private car, private driver. A courtesy note from your host’s assistant welcomes Mr. and Mrs. Ford to the estate.

The place is ridiculous. White marble, gold accents, a private infinity pool overlooking the sea and a master suite with a single, massive bed.

You drop your bags and walk straight to the open window. The view is breathtaking—cliffs, waves, yachts gleaming below. Behind you, John kicks off his shoes and grumbles, “Place smells like rich people and lies.”

“Perfect,” you mutter. “We’ll fit right in.”

You turn around—and catch him watching you again. Not subtly. Not even trying to hide it. Your stomach flips.

He clears his throat. “We’ve got three hours ‘til dinner. Enough time to run through the cover again.”

You nod.

“Right,” you say. “Our wedding song was ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love.’ You call me baby in public. I can’t stop touching you.”

“Or the other way around,” he says, voice lower now.

You meet his eyes. Hold it for just a beat too long. And then, because you can’t help yourself, you say, “I’ve gotta pretend I love you for two weeks. How hard can it be?”

He grins slow. “We both know I fake it better than you do, sunshine.”

-

The mission map is spread across the marble coffee table like a war plan—which, in a way, it is.

Red and blue markers dot key points: service hallways, restricted wings, camera blind spots. You tap twice on a corridor just west of the ballroom. “I’ll drift that way after dinner, check the lock system on the east wing.”

John nods, arms folded tight across his chest. “I’ll hang back by the terrace. Maybe overhear something useful.”

He’s focused. Tactical. Almost tolerable when he isn’t mouthing off.

Almost.

You catch him watching your mouth when you speak. Again.

You ignore it.

-

Getting ready is the worst part.

You emerge from the bathroom first—hair done, makeup sharp, zipped into a deep navy gown that hugs in all the right places and gives just enough skin to make an impression.

You feel him behind you before you see him. Feel the weight of his stare like a hand on your shoulder. “Jesus,” he mutters. Voice rough.

You arch a brow at your reflection in the full-length mirror. “That bad?”

His eyes catch yours in the glass. They’re darker than usual. Lower. “You know damn well what I meant.”

You smooth your hands down the front of your dress like it’s nothing. Like his gaze doesn’t make your skin itch. “Don’t get flustered on me, Captain,” you say coolly. “It’s bad for the cover.”

He watches you pick up your earrings. Doesn’t move. “You wore that on purpose.”

“It’s the assigned formalwear,” you deadpan.

He snorts. “Sure it is.”

You brush past him to grab your clutch, and his hand almost grazes the small of your back. Almost.

The air crackles with everything unsaid.

-

The estate ballroom looks like something out of a Bond film: chandeliers, crystal flutes, men in suits with too much money and too many secrets.

You and John are a vision of fictional marital bliss. You smile too much. He touches your waist like it’s habit. You laugh at things that aren’t funny because that’s the job.

And the worst part? He’s good at it. Too good.

When he leans in to whisper something to you—something innocuous and cover-appropriate—his breath ghosts over your collarbone. You have to dig your nails into your champagne flute to stay steady.

You split up briefly during dessert, both working the room. Gathering intel. Pretending to care about caviar and climate-controlled vaults.

That’s when it happens.

You’re mid-conversation with a slick French financier who’s smiling just a little too wide. His eyes flick to your ring. “Married?” he says, a soft kind of surprise.

You smile politely. “That’s right.”

He takes your hand—without asking—and lifts it to his lips. “A shame,” he murmurs, mouth brushing the band. “He must truly be a lucky man.”

Your smile freezes.

From across the room, you feel it.

John’s stare. Heavy. Immediate. Burning. He cuts across the crowd with military precision and zero subtlety.

You don’t move. Don’t breathe.

The Frenchman looks up—just in time for John to slide in behind you, hand possessive on your waist, voice low and slow.

“Everything alright, sweetheart?” It’s the sweetheart that does it. Lazy and sharp like a threat.

You glance up at him, the picture of domestic ease. “Just chatting.”

John’s eyes flick to the man’s hand still barely holding yours. Then he takes your hand back—gently, but deliberately—and lifts it himself. “She’s married,” he says plainly, eyes on the other man. “To me.”

He kisses your ring. 

Not your fingers. Not your knuckles. Just the ring.

But it’s worse that way.

Because it’s quiet. Intentional. Possessive. His lips brush metal like it means something, like it belongs to him. And for one stupid, wrecked second—your knees go weak.

The man stammers some polite exit and retreats.

John doesn’t let go of your hand. He turns to you instead, gaze lower now, slow as sin as it traces the length of you— from your face, to your neck, your chest, and back down to the ring on your finger. 

“You’ve got no idea what that does to me,” he says, voice low, thumb skating across the metal. “This ring. This dress. That look in your eyes.” He leans in, presses a kiss to the ring again, like a prayer. “Lucky bastard doesn’t even know.”

You don’t know if you’re meant to hear him and you don’t ask.

Because suddenly the ballroom is too hot, your dress is too tight, and the only thing you can feel is his mouth ghosting over your skin like a memory.

-

The rest of the night passes in a haze.

He stays closer now. No more separating. No more pretending to keep his distance.

You feel the warmth of his hand against your lower back longer than necessary. You feel his breath every time he leans in with another careful, practiced smile that’s just a little too personal.

He makes up excuses when someone tries to pull you aside. He touches your elbow like it’s instinct. Like you belong next to him. He murmurs things in your ear that sound innocent to everyone else—compliments about the wine, the music, the decor—but make your pulse skip because his mouth is too close and his tone is too soft and he knows what he’s doing.

You’re supposed to be acting.

But it’s starting to feel more like confession.

And the worst part?

You don’t want it to stop.

-

Back in the suite, the silence between you crackles.

You step out of your heels with a shaky breath, then cross the room to the mirror and pull off your earrings with trembling hands.

John doesn’t say anything.

Just loosens his tie, slow and methodical, like he’s giving himself something to do with his hands. But his eyes stay on you the whole time.

Watches you like he’s still thinking about the ring. Like he’s still thinking about what it meant to kiss it. Like he’s still thinking about the way you looked at him right after—shocked, breathless, undone.

You meet his gaze in the mirror. Brief. Electric. Then you both look away. No words. No teasing tonight. Not even the usual sharp edges to file down the heat. Just quiet.

You turn down the bed, crawl into your designated side, and face the wall. The ring is still on your finger. You tell yourself it’s because it’s part of the cover.

But your pulse won’t stop beating there. Like it’s trying to get your attention.

He settles in beside you a few minutes later. Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t say a word. But you feel him there—warm, solid, and present in a way that makes your whole body ache.

And you know—without even turning your head—that his eyes are still on you when the lights go out. Still tracing your bare shoulder. Still remembering the sound you made when he said “Lucky bastard doesn’t even know.” Still thinking the same thing you are.

That if this is fake—

You’re both fucked.

-

The morning is thick with things you didn’t say.

You wake to the smell of hotel coffee and the quiet clink of a mug on the marble counter. John’s already up, standing in nothing but sweats and a black t-shirt, hair damp from the shower. He doesn’t look at you right away.

You sit up slowly, blinking against the pale morning light.

“Coffee’s fresh,” he says. That’s it. No smartass comment. No smug retort about how you drool in your sleep. Just… neutral.

And somehow, that’s worse.

Because neutral means he’s trying to forget the way you looked at him last night. The way you felt when he kissed your ring like it mattered. Like you mattered.

You mutter a thanks, take the mug, and drink in silence.

You don’t talk about how his eyes lingered too long. You don’t mention the way your heart beat like a war drum in your chest. You definitely don’t mention the dream you had—one where his hands were on your hips, and it didn’t feel like a mission anymore.

-

You’re halfway through reviewing recon notes on your laptop when you glance up and spot the printed itinerary on the hotel dresser.

The word Waltz jumps out like a dare.

Apparently, the main gala event tomorrow includes a formal partner dance—something for the “honored guests” to showcase their happy, loving unions in a carefully choreographed swirl of elegance and wealth.

You stare at the note. Then glance toward John, who’s just stepped out of the bathroom, towel in hand, hair damp, t-shirt clinging across his shoulders.

You don’t let yourself linger. Much.

“We should practice,” you say abruptly.

He blinks. “Practice what?”

You hold up the itinerary. “The waltz. For the gala. We have to look convincing. That includes movement.”

He raises an eyebrow, towel still slung over his shoulder. “Didn’t think you were the dancing type.”

You shrug. “I’m not. That’s the point.”

A pause. Then he nods, slowly, and sets the towel aside.

You slide the small table toward the wall, clearing the hotel room floor into something almost resembling a dance space. You cue soft music on your phone—classical, warm, the kind that turns the air a little too quiet between the notes.

He steps toward you. Rolls up his sleeves. Holds out a hand. “You sure you wanna do this here?” he asks, voice unreadable. “In the bedroom?”

“It’s either here or out there with an audience,” you murmur. “And I trust you more than a room full of strangers.” You don’t mean to sound like that. Don’t mean for your voice to soften.

But something flickers in his eyes. “Alright then,” he says, gently.

You place your hand in his.

His other palm slides to your waist, warm through the thin fabric of your shirt. You rest your hand on his shoulder—steady, familiar, too practiced for something that’s supposed to be pretend.

The music fills the quiet.

You begin to move.

Slow steps. Careful turns. One-two-three, one-two-three. His grip is firm but not controlling, the way a man holds something he wants to protect but knows he doesn’t own.

There’s barely an inch between your bodies, but it’s enough to feel everything.

The heat in your face. The tension in his jaw. The memory of his hands not being this careful.

You spin. He catches you.

Your heel falters on the carpet and in a single, reflexive movement, he pulls you back into him, his arm locking around your waist. You land against him harder than intended. Your palms flatten against his chest.

He doesn’t let go.

Neither do you.

Your faces are too close. His breath fans against your cheek. You can smell his skin—soap, warmth, something unmistakably him. “You alright?” he asks, voice low and rough.

You nod, even though your pulse is anything but calm. “Yeah,” you whisper. Then, without meaning to— “You just… look at me like you mean it.”

His grip tightens, almost imperceptibly. “Maybe I do.”

The air crackles.

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

But he leans in—just a fraction. Just enough for your breath to catch. Then, with a quiet exhale, he steps back. Lets you go. 

He clears his throat and says, almost too casually, “We should run it again. You’re still stepping too far left on the second count.”

You stare at him. At the space where his hand just was. “Right,” you murmur. “Count me in.”

You go again.

But the steps blur.

Because now all you can feel is where his hand had settled on your hip. And the truth lingering in the silence you’re both trying so hard not to speak.

-

The rest of the day is a blur of mission updates whispered too close.

A back hallway recon plan, murmured against your ear while you both pretend to study a sculpture. A time-sensitive location drop passed between your fingers like a love note, tucked inside a folded linen napkin.

On the balcony of your suite, you lean side by side on the stone railing. The sea is too blue. The air too soft.

You’re supposed to be scanning the perimeter.

But you’re hyperaware of the way your forearms touch. The brush of his knee against yours. “Camera loops reset every twelve minutes,” you whisper.

“Got it,” he murmurs back. He doesn’t pull away.

You both stay there longer than necessary. Just watching the waves. Just pretending it’s easier than it is.

-

By the time the evening event starts, you’re both too tightly wound.

The terrace is full of guests. Champagne flows. Music filters from string instruments tucked beneath fairy lights. You smile and flirt and take photos, gripping John’s arm like you’re in love.

And then someone stops you.

A security official for the estate. Tall, well-dressed, suspicious. “Forgive me,” he says, “but we’ve had issues with false identities before. Would you mind confirming your relationship status?”

Your stomach drops.

The man doesn’t sound aggressive—yet. But this is exactly the kind of exposure Val warned about. The moment where hesitation reads like guilt. Where doubt gets flagged and your cover starts to unravel.

John’s fingers find yours instantly.

He smiles at the man, all Southern charm and casual confidence. “Oh, we’re married alright,” he says.

“Then a kiss, perhaps?” the official says smoothly, like it’s nothing.

A test.

A trap.

You glance at John. He glances at you. Then he leans in. It’s supposed to be quick. Just a press of lips. A believable display.

But the second your mouths touch, you both freeze.

Because it’s soft.

Too soft.

And his hand cradles your cheek in a way that’s not just convincing. It’s reverent. Careful. Your fingers curl in his jacket. He exhales against your lips, and instead of pulling back—he tilts his head slightly. Kisses you again. Deeper. Not rushed. Not showy.

Just real.

By the time he pulls back, your knees feel weak and your heart is racing.

The security official nods. “Enjoy your evening.”

He walks off.

You and John just stand there. Still too close. Still staring. Neither of you says a word.

But his hands shake when he lets you go.

And yours ache from how tightly they clutched him.

The mission is intact.

But everything else feels like it’s spinning just slightly off-axis.

You don’t speak as you walk away from the terrace. You just let John fall into step beside you, both of you acting like nothing happened—like your pulse wasn’t still thrumming in your mouth, like you couldn’t feel the ghost of his hand still cupping your cheek.

You’re actors, after all. That’s what this is. That’s all it is.

-

By the time you make it to the main ballroom, the music has changed. A formal announcement echoes across the space—honoring key guests of the evening.

The couples waltz is next.

You spot the ring of couples lining up in the center of the room, gowns swishing, heels gliding.

John offers his hand without a word.

You take it.

No hesitation this time.

The music swells—something rich and orchestral—and the two of you step into place.

Your bodies fall into the rhythm like they’ve been here before. Like this isn’t the first time you’ve swayed to a melody while pretending not to feel something real underneath.

Your hand rests over his shoulder. His palm finds your waist again, this time with a firmer, more familiar grip.

The lights spin around you in soft amber as the two of you turn, slow and easy, through the pattern. Every step draws you closer. Every glance stretches the tension tighter.

Your breath hitches when he whispers, “You’re not bad at this.”

You raise a brow. “You sound surprised.”

“Not surprised,” he murmurs, voice low near your ear. “Just a little impressed.”

You almost smile. Almost.

But the dance ends too quickly. The music fades.

You break apart before you can think twice about how badly you wanted it to keep going.

-

You step away for a moment—some vague excuse about champagne, needing air, checking in with a contact.

When you return, he’s talking to her.

A woman—tall, brunette, elegant in a red silk dress that hugs her like it was made for this room. One hand rests on John’s arm. The other twirls a wine glass between manicured fingers. Her laugh is light, confident.

You slow. Watch.

She leans in just slightly. Says something. Smiles.

He doesn’t touch her, but he doesn’t move away either. And that—that is what does it.

The burn starts behind your ribs.

It’s irrational. You know that. It’s a mission. It’s a cover.

It’s not real.

But you still feel it.

Still feel the twist of something ugly and unwanted inside you. Something sharp and jealous and low in your gut that says mine.

You school your features into something neutral. Step back into his line of sight. Smile like you’re not calculating how long she’s been laughing at jokes he doesn’t even tell you.

“Everything alright?” you say sweetly, sidling up to his side.

He turns to you immediately. Subtle shift. His posture straightens. “Just chatting,” he says, voice easy. Then—like he remembers—he slides an arm around your waist and pulls you into his side.

His palm rests warm over your lower back. 

The woman’s smile tightens.

“Of course,” she says, cool and practiced. “I was just telling your husband how charming he is.”

You smile back—polished, predatory. “He is, isn’t he? Gets even more charming once you put a ring on him.” 

Your hand lifts. You curl your fingers through his belt loop like a claim.

John’s hand squeezes your waist once—barely perceptible. But he doesn’t let go. “Would you excuse us?” he says, voice pleasant but firm.

The woman walks away. You wait until she’s out of earshot before muttering, “She was practically crawling into your lap.”

John raises a brow. “You jealous, sweetheart?”

You roll your eyes. “Please.”

But your tone’s a little too sharp. A little too fast.

He leans in, voice pitched low enough to make your stomach clench. “If I didn’t know better…”

“You don’t.”

His grin is slow. And knowing. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

You glare at him but you don’t pull away, because his hand is still on your waist. Because his body is still warm against yours. Because pretending stopped being the hard part hours ago.

-

The door to the suite clicks shut behind you. You kick off your heels with too much force—one landing sideways against the wall, the other bouncing under the chair.

You peel off your earrings. Toss them on the dresser. Too hard. Loud clatter.

“You gonna talk to me, or just keep slamming shit around?” John drawls from behind you.

“Why don’t you go ask your little friend from the gala?” you snap, stripping off your bracelet without looking at him.

“Oh, come on,” he groans. “Are we seriously doing this right now?”

You spin around. “You let her touch you.”

“I didn’t let her do anything. She touched my arm and talked about Bordeaux.”

“She was flirting.”

“Yeah, probably.” He shrugs. “Didn’t matter. I wasn’t interested.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

That shuts him up.

You storm past him into the bedroom, tugging at the zipper of your dress. Your hair’s a mess, your skin’s flushed, and you hate how much of this is about him—how much he can still get under your skin without even trying.

You finally yank the zipper down and shimmy out of the dress, half-expecting him to say something smug.

He doesn’t.

Which almost pisses you off more.

You throw on one of his old T-shirts from the hotel floor. Oversized, soft, annoyingly comforting. Then you stomp over to the bed and yank back the covers like they personally offended you.

John appears in the doorway a beat later, jacket slung over one shoulder, expression unreadable. “You done throwing your tantrum?”

“You done letting women paw at you during a mission?”

His brow lifts. “That really what this is about?”

“It’s about the mission,” you lie.

“Bullshit.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, arms folded again, legs swinging slightly. 

“I didn’t say anything when that guy kissed your hand,” he says, voice low. “Didn’t throw a fit. Didn’t glare at you like I wanted to drag you into a closet and remind you who you belong to.”

Your breath catches.

He takes a step forward. “But you? One woman flirts with me, and you’re practically breathing fire.”

You scowl. “I’m allowed to be irritated.”

“Nah,” he murmurs. “You’re jealous.”

You look away.

He moves closer. “You can try and lie to me all you want,” he says, voice thick, low, dangerous. “But you’re not fooling me.”

“Go to bed, Walker.”

“Say my name like that again and I won’t.”

You toss the covers over yourself and flop onto your side, facing away. “Goodnight, John.”

The silence behind you is too loud. He doesn’t move.

Then— 

“You look real pretty when you’re mad, y’know that?”

You groan into the pillow. “If I smother you in your sleep, it’ll be justified.”

He chuckles. Low. Infuriating.

And way too close.

The bed dips as he sits on his side, tossing his jacket onto the floor, the sound of his belt unfastening echoing in the quiet.

“Don’t worry, sunshine,” he murmurs, voice dripping with smug heat. “You’ll get over it.”

You won’t.

Not tonight.

Because your pulse is still racing, your body is still burning, and you hate how right he is.

You’re jealous.

And it’s not the cover story you’re worried about anymore.

-

You’re good at playing the part.

The smile. The laugh. The touch on someone’s arm. The gentle lean-in at just the right moment to make a man feel important while you work the conversation where you need it to go.

So when Aiden Morel brushes your hand while pouring you a drink, you don’t flinch.

You let him.

He’s charming. Young. Former SHIELD tech affiliate now turned “entrepreneur,” which is code for well-connected and probably dangerous. He’s your newest lead—mentioned in a debrief just this morning, flagged for his relationship with your host and his access to encrypted hardware transfers.

So you do your job.

You laugh at his joke. Compliment the vintage. Tilt your chin and make a note of where his eyes land.

You feel John watching before you see him. Across the courtyard, under the canopy near the reflecting pool, dressed in his suit from earlier, the sleeves rolled to his forearms and his jaw tight enough to crack.

You don’t look at him again.

Because if you do, you’ll start playing the wrong part.

-

The door to your suite shuts quietly behind you hours later.

You drop your clutch on the table, ease your heels off with a sigh, and stretch out the ache in your calves. The moonlight through the window casts silver across the carpet.

Behind you, John paces.

Still in slacks and his shirt, tie discarded somewhere between the ballroom and here. His sleeves are still rolled, but he’s undone the first two buttons now. His collarbone flashes each time he turns.

You don’t speak at first.

He doesn’t either.

You’re halfway to the bathroom when he says it. “You looked awfully comfortable with him touching you.”

You turn. “That’s what people do when you’re luring them into giving you access to their secure uplink.”

He crosses his arms. “Didn’t see you stop him after you got it.”

You snort. “Didn’t see you stop Red Dress the other night, either.”

His brow twitches. “That was different.”

“How?” You spin to face him fully, arms crossing to match his. “Because it didn’t involve your pride?”

“Because I wasn’t flirting back.”

Your lips part in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

“You think I didn’t see it?” His voice lifts just slightly—just enough to make your chest tighten. “The laugh? The hand on his wrist? That look you give when you’re baiting a man on purpose?”

“Jesus, John. That’s not flirting, that’s strategy.”

“It’s bullshit.”

You laugh—sharp, tired. “You don’t get to be jealous over my work.”

“Funny, you were last night.”

That stops you cold.

He sees it. The way your throat works to swallow the words. You turn away, walking back toward the bed like it’ll shield you. “You’re unbelievable,” you mutter. “You keep acting like this is real. Like you actually give a damn who touches me.”

“You think I don’t?” His voice is low now. Rough enough that it makes you freeze halfway through unzipping your dress. “You think I haven’t been losing my damn mind since the second I saw you in that dress on the first night? Since Val gave us these fucking rings?”

You close your eyes. “That wasn’t part of the assignment,” he adds, stepping closer. “The way you looked. The way you smiled at me in front of everyone. I couldn’t tell if you were faking, or if you just didn’t care who saw.”

You turn. “It was our cover. We agreed to this.”

“Was it?” 

You’re suddenly too aware of the space between you. Not much. Barely three feet. But it feels like a chasm and a fuse wire at the same time.

“You keep looking at me like it’s already too late,” he says, voice softer now.

“What’s too late?”

“For this to not mean something.”

Your breath catches. “We’re not doing this,” you whisper. “We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because if we do, then it’s not a cover anymore. And then all of this—” you gesture vaguely, helplessly, “—gets a hell of a lot messier.”

“It’s already messy.”

You hate that he’s right.

And then, suddenly, he’s in front of you. His hands are on your waist. Your face. His mouth is on yours. It’s not a kiss—it’s a crash. A surge. Teeth and breath and months of frustration exploding into motion.

You kiss him back. Hard.

Fingers fisting in his shirt, dragging him closer, pulling him between your thighs as he backs you into the bedpost. His hands slide down, gripping your hips like he needs to anchor himself.

You gasp when his mouth moves to your neck. Your head tips back, breath catching in your throat.

“This doesn’t feel like just a cover,” he says against your skin.

“Shut up.”

He huffs a laugh. Kisses you harder. It gets messy fast. Your dress is halfway off one shoulder. His shirt is untucked, your hands already beneath the hem. He lifts you just slightly, and your legs wrap around his waist without thought. He groans when your hips grind against his—

And then he stops.

Just like that.

Breathing hard. Forehead pressed to yours. “We should stop,” he rasps.

“You don’t want to.”

“I really fucking don’t.”

You both stand there. Breathless. Shaking. The air thick with something unspoken and raw.

Eventually, you nod.

He sets you down. Steps back.

You fix your dress. He smooths his shirt. Neither of you can quite meet the other’s eyes.

You sit on the bed, palms flat on the mattress, staring straight ahead. “We can’t let this screw up the mission. But after…” you say quietly.

“I know.” He walks toward the door, then pauses. 

“We just have to get this damn mission over with, Walker. Then we can go back to our real lives.” You bite out, pressing the heels of your hand into your eyes. You don’t know what you want from him. You know it’s not fair. 

“I’m going to the gym.” Is all he says in response. 

You nod. “Okay.”

He opens the door, but doesn’t walk through yet. “I’m not sorry,” he says.

You glance at him. “For what?”

“Wanting you.”

Then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him.

You let out a breath that feels like it’s been stuck in your chest all night.

You lie back on the bed, hands over your face, heart racing. You can still taste him on your tongue. Still feel the burn of his hands on your hips.

Still remember the way he said wanting you like it was breaking him open.

-

It’s after 2 a.m. when he returns.

You’re not asleep. But you pretend to be.

You hear the door open. The quiet rustle of fabric. The soft creak of the mattress as he climbs into the opposite side of the bed.

He doesn’t touch you.

But you can feel him there. Solid. “Still just a cover, right?” He murmurs, barely audible. His hand strokes your shoulder softly. 

You say nothing.

You don’t move.

Because if you speak—if you say what’s really sitting in your chest—you’re not sure there’ll be any pretending left at all.

-

You’re already dressed when John wakes up.

Hair tied back. Black tank top. Tactical pants. The soft zip of your vest the only sound in the room.

You don’t say good morning. You don’t look at him. You don’t ask if he slept at all. (You know he didn’t. Neither did you.)

Instead, you set a mug of black coffee on the nightstand beside him, the gesture clipped and silent. His eyes flick to it. Then to you. But he doesn’t speak.

Good. Because you wouldn’t know what to say.

Twenty minutes later, you’re seated at the table, a comms file spread open between you. The tablet hums in front of you, casting your face in cold blue light. “Morel’s schedule lines up with the drop time,” you say, scrolling. “He has a gap tomorrow night. Unscheduled. Private transport waiting at the east lot.”

John takes a long sip of coffee. “You think he’s making the transfer himself?”

You shrug. “If not him, he’s at least coordinating it. We need a signal intercept.”

He nods, jaw tight. “I’ll call it in.”

His voice is hoarse. Sleep-rough. Or maybe something else. You don’t ask.

You’re not doing that today.

Today, you’re professionals.

Partners.

Two operatives running recon in a luxury estate on the French Riviera.

Two people who absolutely, definitely, did not spend last night with their hands on each other and their mouths pressed to skin like it meant something.

You barely make eye contact. Everything is filtered through the mission now.

“What about the guard rotation?”

“I’ll cover it. I’ve got a route mapped along the back terrace.”

“You’ll be exposed.”

“Not if you keep eyes on the ballroom. Keep him talking if he gets twitchy.”

“Fine.”

There’s no edge in your voice. No bitterness. No softness, either.

You’ve stripped it all out.

You think he’s doing the same—until he glances up mid-sentence, eyes landing on the edge of your collarbone where your tank dips just low enough to show a flash of skin.

You freeze.

So does he.

Then he clears his throat and looks back at the screen. You don’t breathe until he turns away again.

Eventually, you stand. “I’m gonna go scout the east lot. Make sure we’ve got eyes from the ridge above.”

He nods. Doesn’t stop you.

You grab your earpiece and your jacket. You’re at the door when his voice stops you. “We still good?” he asks quietly.

Your hand lingers on the doorknob.

You glance back—not quite at him. Just over your shoulder. “We’re always good,” you lie.

You walk out before he can say anything else. Before you say something you can’t take back.

-

It happens fast.

You’re tucked into the shadows of the back terrace, earpiece buzzing softly, eyes locked on the east lot where Morel’s private transport is due to arrive.

John’s voice filters in over comms. “He’s five minutes out. Confirm visual?”

You tap once. “Nothing yet. Holding.”

You don’t hear the second set of footsteps until it’s too late.

A guard rounds the corner, muttering into his radio. He freezes when he sees you. You freeze back.

Then his eyes drop—taking in your all-black outfit, the tiny comm in your ear, the way your hand is half-curled around a pressure trigger in your palm.

Shit.

“Target east side. Unidentified female. Possible security breach.” Your heart slams. And then John appears. Fast. Controlled. All-American smile on full blast.

He steps between you and the guard like he’s just catching up to a wayward wife. “Baby, what are you doing? I told you not to wander off.” He throws an arm around your shoulder. Warm. Heavy. Familiar.

You don’t react. You can’t.

The guard speaks French—fast and suspicious.

John answers.

Flawless.

Your head jerks slightly. He never told you he spoke French.

He pulls you into his side, kisses your temple, and keeps talking—something about you getting lost, first time in Europe, too much wine.

His fingers squeeze your shoulder once—hard.

Go with it.

You lean into him. Let your head fall against his chest. He kisses your hair like he’s done it a thousand times. And just like that, the guard softens. Mumbles something about “careful with the perimeter” and walks off.

You stay pressed against John until he’s out of earshot. “You speak French?” you hiss.

“Apparently I do. Thank you Mrs. Lee from Custer’s Grove High School.” He laughs breathlessly. 

“That was almost bad.”

“Wouldn’t have been if you’d waited for me to flank first.”

“You sound like this guy I used to hook up with. Really arrogant, painfully confident, horribly handsome.” You glare. 

“If your ex was this good under pressure, you’d still be hooking up with him.”

You glare.

He smirks.

But the tension doesn’t fully ease because you were almost exposed. And neither of you can afford another mistake.

-

Three days later, Val’s voice came through sharp in your latest secure briefing. “You two need to disappear in plain sight after that little stunt you pulled. Public. Loud. Visible. We want Morel to think you’re just a pair of rich newlyweds, not ghosts in his network.”

So now you’re on a fake honeymoon tour along the coast. Changing hotels every two nights. Scheduled dinners, wine tastings, private art exhibits. A rotating list of civilian eyes, press-adjacent attention, and upper-tier socialites watching your every move.

The first stop is a five-star resort in Èze. There’s a king bed. A soaking tub. A rose petal “welcome” display in your suite that makes you want to scream.

You spend the evening dressed like temptation. He wears linen and smugness. Your table is near the ocean. Candlelit.

Morel hasn’t shown yet—but his proxies are close. So you smile. You let John’s hand settle on your knee beneath the table. You toast to “forever.”

And you pretend you don’t notice the way his thumb brushes your inner thigh like he’s not pretending anymore.

-

The coffee is mediocre. The view is divine.

You sit across from John at a café tucked into a quiet stone courtyard, sun slanting over the table like something from a travel blog. The espresso is bitter, the croissants overpriced, and the people-watching is elite.

Morel’s contact is due to walk through the square any minute now—someone named Léonard, another French alias you’ve been tracking through five different comm logs. All you need is a photo and a timestamp.

So you’re blending in.

Playing honeymooners again.

You’re wearing sunglasses and a linen sundress that shows just enough thigh to keep civilian eyes moving past you, not toward you. He’s in faded jeans and a loose cotton shirt rolled at the sleeves, collar half open. His wedding ring glints in the sun every time he lifts his coffee to his mouth.

You try not to look at his forearms. Or his throat. Or his mouth. “See anything?” he murmurs, low and quiet.

You shake your head. “Not yet. He’s late.”

“Or early and slippery.” You nod. Keep scanning.

And that’s when a voice interrupts. “Excusez-moi—so sorry. I couldn’t help but notice—are you two newlyweds?”

You blink up.

A woman, maybe mid-sixties, sunhat and giant sunglasses, holding a shopping bag and a camera she clearly doesn’t know how to use.

John smiles before you can answer. “That obvious, huh?”

She beams. “Oh, it’s sweet. You look completely smitten.”

You force a smile. “We’re just enjoying the sun.”

“And your ring—darling, it’s beautiful,” she says, gesturing toward your hand. “Planning a family soon?”

The question drops like a stone in your stomach.

You stall.

John doesn’t.

He leans back in his chair, casual as ever, one arm resting across the back of yours. “We’re trying,” he says smoothly, rubbing slow circles into your shoulder with his thumb. “Not too much pressure, though. We’re just enjoying the practice.”

Your jaw tightens—but you manage to laugh. The woman winks. “Well, don’t wait too long. My Jacques and I had our first in Antibes. Magical.” Then she drifts off toward the florist’s stall, still talking to herself.

The silence at your table thickens immediately.

John turns back to his coffee. You don’t look at him. Not until he says—too tauntingly— “Wanna have a baby with me, sweetheart?”

You huff a laugh.

But your breath stutters halfway through. Just for a second. Just long enough for your body to betray you.

You lift your cup, cover the silence with a sip, like that’ll hide the fact that your pulse skipped. That something low in your belly clenched at the idea—at the sound of his voice saying baby with that much ease.

And then you make the mistake of glancing at him.

He’s already looking.

Already smirking.

“We already know I make cute kids.” He says. You roll your eyes and try to ignore the shake in your wrist. “You ever think about a little girl runnin’ around? Bet she’d be stubborn as hell with your attitude.” 

You remain silent. Looking off ahead, and definitely not picturing the “practice” John said you two were enjoying earlier. 

“Didn’t think so,” he says, voice warm, edged in something darker.

You shake your head. “Asshole.”

“Flattered, though.”

You roll your eyes and settle back into your seat but the damage is done. Your chest is tight because you did think about it.

And worse?

He knows.

-

You hadn’t planned to get in the bath.

You just needed a moment. Somewhere to breathe.

But there’s no privacy in this room. Not in the mirrored honeymoon suite Val booked under the guise of newlywed luxury. The soaking tub sits in the middle of the open floor plan, steps from the bed, surrounded by gauzy curtains that don’t actually close.

He’d stepped out fifteen minutes ago—something about grabbing wine, maybe calling Val.

So you ran the water.

You sunk into it slowly, trying not to think about how his voice sounded that morning. About the way he said “Wanna have a baby with me, sweetheart?” And worse—how your body had answered before your brain had a chance to lie.

The water’s hot. Scented. You close your eyes and try to drown in it. You tried to fight it. You did.

But then your hand slipped under the water. Between your thighs. Slow at first. Like you were still pretending you weren’t doing it. 

And then… you weren’t pretending anymore.

Your breath went shallow. Your fingers moved in practiced patterns. The heat of the bath fogged the mirrors, and the shame didn’t settle—because this wasn’t about embarrassment.

This was about him.

About the look on his face when he kissed your ring. The sound of his voice when he growled your name. The way he felt the last time he was between your legs, desperate and a little angry, months ago. 

You gasped—quiet, needy—as your legs tensed. Back arched just slightly. So close. Just a little more—

The door opens and you don’t move fast enough.

John stops short in the entryway. Two takeout bags in hand. A bottle of red tucked under his arm. His wedding ring caught in the light.

You’re in the tub. Steam curling in the air. Skin flushed. Shoulders bare. Hand between your legs. 

You reach for the towel too late. His eyes have already dragged over every inch of you above the waterline.

His throat bobs. He doesn’t speak.

You don’t either, not for a long beat. “Didn’t think you’d be back so soon,” you say quietly.

His voice is hoarse. “Yeah. I gathered that.”

He sets the bags down without taking his eyes off you. You don’t move. Don’t flinch. You could tell him to go.

You don’t.

“I just needed to think,” you murmur.

“And this is how you do it?”

You shrug, water shifting around your chest. “Couldn’t pace like you.”

His jaw tightens.

You know that look.

He’s trying not to let something show.

And failing.

He stepped forward—slow, deliberate—until he stood at the edge of the tub. “Couldn’t wait for me?”

You opened your mouth to lie. Deny. Blame the heat. But your breath hitched instead. “You gonna stop me?” you asked, throat tight.

He knelt beside the tub. “No, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low. “I’m gonna help.”

His hand moved into the water—over your thigh first, then higher.

You gasped.

“Already so close,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

You nodded, lips parted, hips lifting slightly into the stroke of his fingers now replacing yours—slick, slow, unrelenting. You feel the metal of his wedding band against your clit and shiver. 

“This what you were thinking about?” he asked, breath hot against your jaw. “Me between your legs?”

“Yes,” you choked out. “God, yes.”

“Say it.”

“You—John—please—”

“There she is,” he growled. “Just like that baby.” You came with a cry, water sloshing, body trembling under his touch. He held you there, working you through it, never once looking away.

But when you opened your eyes—

He was standing.

Hard. Breathing ragged. Watching you like a man at war with himself. “Go dry off,” he said roughly. “Before I forget why we’re waiting.”

You stayed still a second too long.

“Now, sunshine.”

You climbed out on shaking legs, heart pounding. And you didn’t miss the way his eyes followed every drop of water that slid down your skin.

-

You should’ve known the mission wouldn’t go smooth forever.

The target’s been circling your cover for days now—smiles too sharp, questions too casual. Tonight, he lingers too long on your name. Your fake anniversary. The way your fingers twist your ring when you think no one’s watching.

You stammer when he asks how you and John met.

It’s not a question you weren’t prepared for. But it’s how he asks. The grin. The flicker of doubt in his gaze.

And maybe it’s the pressure of the heat or the fact that you can still feel John’s fingers from last night—

Either way, the hesitation shows.

You expect John to stall.

But he doesn’t miss a beat.

He reaches over—smooth, warm—and presses a kiss to the side of your neck. Pulls you flush to his chest with one strong arm and says, “Same way most good things happen. Didn’t see it comin’… but sure as hell never letting her go.”

The target watches. Silent.

Then laughs. Mutters something in French about honeymooners and lust, waves you off. You smile through it but your hands won’t stop shaking.

-

You don’t speak all the way back to the hotel.

John doesn’t either.

There’s something simmering beneath his skin—his jaw tight, shoulders stiff, breathing clipped like he’s holding back.

The door barely clicks shut before the silence cracks. You drop your purse on the counter. “He’s suspicious.”

John doesn’t answer.

You toe off your heels. “You saved it. That line about not letting me go? That was a good one.”

Still nothing.

You glance over your shoulder.

He’s staring at you.

Hard.

“What?”

“You think this ends when the mission does?”

Your mouth opens.

Closes.

“We agreed—”

“You said we’d go back to our real lives.” His voice is low now, dangerous. “You said it like none of this means anything.”

You turn, bristling. “It doesn’t.”

He moves.

Not fast—but purposeful.

You take one step back, and it’s already too late.

He crowds you into the wall beside the minibar, eyes burning, hands planted on either side of your head. “Then why the fuck can’t I stop thinking about how you sound when you come?”

Your breath hitches.

His voice drops even lower. Rough. Ragged. “Why do I wake up hard every goddamn morning with your name on my tongue?”

You swallow. “Earlier this week. I said after—”

“That was before the tub.”

A beat.

“Before I saw you in that water, shaking apart for me. Before you whispered my name like it hurt to say.”

Your pulse pounds.

You whisper, “John—”

“No responsibilities. No rules. No pretending. You want to go back to our ‘real’ lives after this? Then fine. But right now I only want one thing.” His forehead presses to yours, voice a rasp. “Just you. Been waitin’ all day for this. All damn day.”

Then he kisses you.

It’s not gentle. It’s not polite.

It’s everything.

He carries you to the bed like he owns the right. You’re already bare—he stripped you while dragging your mouth against his—and now he’s all rough denim and sharp breath, kneeling above you like he can’t believe he gets to do this again.

“You remember the last time?” he rasps, dragging his thumb down your sternum. “When you let me in and still woke up alone?”

His mouth lowers, kissing over your chest, biting the swell of your breast. You arch under him, pulse pounding. “I’m not makin’ that mistake twice.”

You gasp when he sucks a bruise into your skin, and he grins like it feeds him. His fingers trail down your body, rough callouses dragging over your ribs, your stomach, the inside of your thigh. Teasing—taunting.

“Been thinkin’ about this pussy for months,” he mutters, settling between your legs. “The way you sound. The way you fucking taste. I should’ve stayed. Should’ve had you again. And again.”

Your breath stutters as he parts you with two thick fingers and slides his tongue in—no preamble, no warning, just heat and filthy hunger. He groans like the taste alone undoes him, like he’s starving.

“Fuck,” he breathes against you. “Still the sweetest thing I’ve ever had.”

You writhe and fist the sheets. He doesn’t stop. His grip tightens on your thighs, holding you open, relentless with his mouth. He flicks, licks, sucks—presses a finger in and curls it just right, like he’s been memorizing the map of your body since that first night.

And maybe he has.

You’re shaking when you come. Crying out into your palm as he growls into your cunt, not letting up until your legs are trembling and your voice is hoarse.

When he finally pulls back, chin wet, eyes dark, he doesn’t speak.

He just flips you over.

“Need to see you like this,” he mutters. “Bent for me. Dripping. Ready.” You brace yourself on the bed, heart racing. He kneels behind you, pushes inside in one hard, devastating thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans. “You were made for me.” His pace is punishing. Deep and brutal, the kind of rhythm that leaves no room for thought—only feeling. His hands grip your hips tight enough to bruise, and every thrust is angled just right, like he wants to break you.

“Told myself I’d wait,” he grits out. “Told myself we’d be smart.” He leans over your back, teeth brushing your shoulder. “But then I saw you in that fucking tub.”

You cry out when he hits that spot again, forehead dropping to the sheets. “You’re gonna have to be quiet, sunshine,” he growls, hand covering your mouth as his hips snap harder. “Think you can do that for me?”

You moan against his palm.

He just groans louder. “God, I missed this. Missed you, baby.”

And then he lifts you again and pushes you flat against the balcony door, face to face now, the city lights flickering behind you like a spotlight on every inch of your bare, wrecked body.

“Look at me,” he says. “Wanna see you fall apart.” His mouth takes yours when you come again, desperate and raw and helpless beneath him. He doesn’t stop. Just fucks you through it like he wants to brand it into your bones.

Later—after the frenzy burns itself out, after the balcony door and the bathroom counter, after the bed sees every version of want you’ve both been denying for months—he doesn’t let you go.

Not even for a second.

You’re stretched out beneath him, both of you slick with sweat and breathless, limbs trembling from the crash. He’s heavy over you, but it doesn’t feel like too much. It feels like gravity. Like something anchoring you back to Earth.

His hand finds yours in the sheets, your fingers still trembling—your ring still on.

So is his.

He notices.

Thumb brushing over the platinum band on your hand, he brings it to his lips and kisses it—slow this time. Not a taunt. Not for show. Just him, reverent and quiet, like he’s thinking something he’s not ready to say out loud.

“Still wearin’ it,” he murmurs, mouth ghosting your skin. “All night. Didn’t even think to take it off.”

You swallow. “Neither did you.”

He doesn’t answer. Not with words.

Just shifts beside you, drawing your back into his chest, hand still tangled in yours. You both lie there like that for a long time—bodies aching, breath steadying, hearts too loud in the quiet.

At some point, his lips find the spot behind your ear. Then your shoulder. Then the knuckle of the hand he’s still holding. “You sleepin’?” he whispers, voice a low rasp.

You shake your head no.

He kisses your ring again. Lingers there. “Good. ’Cause I’m not ready to let this go just yet.”

And you don’t.

You stay tangled in each other through the night—your wedding rings glinting under the soft hotel light, still on, still warm, still worn like they mean something.

Because maybe they do.

Maybe they always did.

-

John is still asleep when you wake.

The light filters in soft and golden through the hotel curtains, casting long shadows across the rumpled sheets, the bare skin of his back, the mess you both made of the night. His arm is slung across your waist, heavy and instinctive, like he forgot the pretending sometime between the balcony and the bed.

You stay still for a long time.

Breathing him in. Watching the rise and fall of his chest. The furrow between his brows that stays, even in sleep. He looks peaceful. Younger. But marked.

You trace it with your eyes—the faint crescent moons from your nails along his shoulders, the flushed bloom of your mouth on his throat, the scratches down his biceps from where you grabbed him, the soft scrape of stubble that left your skin tingling. He’s wearing you. All over.

He looks like he’s yours.

Your heart aches in a way you’re not prepared for.

Slowly, you reach out, fingertips brushing along his cheekbone. He shifts, just barely, but leans into it—like even in sleep, he knows it’s you. Like some part of him doesn’t want you to go.

You swallow hard.

Because for one stupid, dangerous second, you almost stay.

You almost curl back into his warmth and let the illusion stretch just a little longer.

But then you remember: you’re not married. You’re not anything. And he’s still the man who left you once without a word. The man who made a choice to pretend it didn’t happen.

So now, you do the same.

You slip from his hold, slow and careful. Slide from the bed without waking him. Your dress is still on the floor. Your shoes by the door. You don’t bother with either.

You look at him once more before you leave.

And wonder, for just a moment, if this is how he felt the last time— 

when you woke up alone.

Then you walk out, leaving the ring on your finger and your heart somewhere in the sheets.

-

The briefing hits your inbox just before noon.

It’s short. Direct. Final.

One last event. Masquerade-style. Guest list limited to high-profile operatives, buyers, and facilitators—coded names only. High surveillance. No second chances. The target will be present—unguarded, mobile, closing a deal with a known arms broker. Your job: plant the bug, confirm the transaction codes, and get out clean.

You sit at the edge of the desk in the corner of the suite, legs crossed, laptop balanced against one knee. The robe around your waist still smells like his skin. You haven’t changed. Haven’t eaten. Haven’t spoken a word since slipping out of that bed before the sun.

Behind you, the door clicks open.

You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

You feel him before he speaks—feel the weight of his presence in the room, heavy and unsaid, like thunder in the distance before the storm hits. John doesn’t cross the space between you. Just stands there, close enough to crowd the air but far enough not to touch.

“So we’re just going to pretend that didn’t happen?” His voice is low. Rough. Still sleep-heavy, still worn from the night before. Like he’s been carrying something too big to set down.

You stare at the screen.

“You tell me, Captain.” You click through the venue schematics with surgical precision. “We’re good at pretending.”

Silence.

It stretches between you like a cut that won’t clot. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t come closer.

You keep scrolling.

And then, quietly, he leaves.

You don’t look up.

-

The ballroom is a cathedral of glass and secrets.

Gold light spills from the chandeliers, catching the edges of your mask like a halo. Your dress—backless, high-slit, midnight black—glitters with every step you take. Your heels click like a countdown across the floor.

John walks beside you, a mask of his own obscuring most of his expression—but not his eyes. His eyes keep finding you. Over and over, like a loop he can’t break. Every glance burns. Every brush of his hand against yours, however incidental, makes your skin twitch like it remembers being touched for real.

You’ve barely said two words to each other all night.

But your pulse hasn’t slowed once since you stepped out of the car.

You spot the broker across the floor—gray suit, champagne flute, scar over one brow. You know the mark. You don’t need confirmation. You press the signal through the comms and begin your slow, deliberate approach.

John doesn’t stop you.

Not yet.

You slip past dancers, flirt with body language, smile at the right people. You graze the target’s shoulder as you pass, murmuring something forgettable. The bug slips into his pocket like it belongs there. Seamless.

Too seamless.

You’re halfway to the exit when you feel it.

A hand. Too hard. Too tight.

You twist away, but it yanks you back. Someone unexpected. Unlisted. A second contact. You don’t have time to think, only react. Your hand goes to your thigh holster. Blade. Fast.

The comm crackles in your ear.

“What’s happening?” John. His voice is sharp but frantic, bordering on panicked.

You grunt, throwing your weight sideways to break free, driving the blade up—

Gunfire explodes across the floor. A scream. Another.

“Fuck this,” John’s voice again, furious now. “I’m comin’ in.”

“John—” you start, but it’s too late.

He’s already moving.

You see him crash through the fringe of security, shoving past startled guests and staff. No subtlety. No hesitation. His mask is gone. His cover is gone. All that’s left is him.

And the look on his face when he sees the blood.

It’s not much—a graze, high on your arm, already clotting. But to him, it might as well be a bullet to the heart.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” he snaps, grabbing your shoulders like he’s checking you for damage. His hands are shaking. “You could’ve been killed.”

“I was doing my job,” you bite back, breath still ragged. “What were you thinking?” You snap. 

He stares at you like you’re the only thing in the world. Like none of the cameras or alarms or bodies around you matter. “That I’d rather blow the whole damn op than lose you.”

The words gut you.

You stare at him, silent.

Because you don’t know how to say that you would’ve done the same.

-

The suite is dark when you return. Not because the lights are off, but because the weight of what happened still lingers in the air—thick and unspoken.

You sit at the edge of the bed, robe cinched over your shoulders, bandage on your arm. Your earrings are still in. Your mask lies discarded beside the sink.

Your wedding ring is still on.

John stands across the room, his tux half undone, shirt untucked, hands in fists at his sides. He’s been pacing. Thinking. Spiraling.

You haven’t spoken since the ride back.

You don’t speak now.

“You could’ve died,” he says, finally.

You don’t turn around. “But I didn’t.”

“That’s not the point.”

You close your eyes, exhausted. “Then what is?”

“That I never told you—”

You cut him off. “Told me what?”

He crosses the room before you can finish the breath. He doesn’t touch you—not yet—but he’s close. So close you can feel the heat from his chest, the tension radiating off him like it’s fused into the air between you.

“This wasn’t pretend for me,” he says, voice low and raw. “Not once.”

You don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just wait.

“I’ve wanted you for years,” he continues, gaze locked on yours. “Before the mission. Before the cover story. That first time—months ago—when I had you, when you curled up against me like it meant something… it scared the hell out of me.”

Your throat tightens. “Because I knew if I let myself want that again—want you—I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

He swallows, chest rising like it’s hurting him to say it. “So I left,” he admits, voice breaking just slightly. “Because it felt real. Too real. And I didn’t know how to want something that honest without screwing it up.”

You turn slowly.

Finally meet his eyes.

He looks wrecked. Completely, beautifully undone. “Not when I kissed you,” he says, softer now. “Not when I held you. Not when I watched you sleep next to me like I hadn’t already fucked everything up.”

Your breath catches. It feels like standing at the edge of something massive. Something that could swallow you whole—or save you.

“It does mean something,” you whisper before you can stop yourself. “That’s the problem.”

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Then he steps closer, slow and careful, like he’s afraid one wrong move might scare you away.

His hand rises, palm open. His wedding ring glints between you. So does yours.

“It still means something,” he says. “And I still want it. If you do.”

You stare at his hand. At the ring. At the look in his eyes like he’s already lost you once and can’t bear to do it again.

Then reach for it.

And his fingers close around yours like a promise.

-

You sleep facing each other.

It’s quiet, finally. No cover to hold. No mission hanging between your ribs like a countdown. Just two people in a hotel bed, breathing the same air, hands tangled loosely under the sheets like you don’t want to let go—even in sleep.

His mouth is close to your forehead. One arm curls under your head, the other anchors your waist, as if even unconscious, he can’t stop holding on. You listen to the slow rise and fall of his chest and feel it echo in your own.

For the first time, it feels like the ring on your finger means something more than a lie.

The morning is muted. Extraction is scheduled just past sunrise. No time for drawn-out goodbyes to the place or the people you pretended to be.

He doesn’t say much as he helps zip your bag. Just keeps glancing at you like he’s memorizing the way you look in the light.

And when the jet engines roar and the last of the French Riviera disappears behind tinted glass, his fingers find yours on the seat between you. You don’t pull away.

You squeeze once, and he doesn’t let go.

-

There’s no press release. No shared photo dump. No D-list intel agents gossiping to the tabloids about a whirlwind romance post-op.

But you’re together.

Quietly. Fully.

No more pretending.

Yelena figures it out first, of course.

You don’t even last forty-eight hours around her before she corners you in the kitchen and raises an eyebrow at the fact that John emerges shirtless from your room, wearing your scrunchie on his wrist, scratches down his back, hickeys across his chest, a smug little post-sleep grin on his face. 

She doesn’t even look up from her phone.  “Is it still considered a mission if you’re moaning his name loud enough to set off building sensors?”

You flush. “We were… debriefing.”

Yelena smirks, looking at you fully now.  “Ah. Mission success.”

She never lets it go and you never really expect her to.

John’s annoyed about it. You pretend to be, but secretly, though, it’s kind of fun.

Because she’s the only one who knows—for now.

-

The adjustment into real life is strange but easy.

There’s arguing over toothpaste caps and who used the last of the coffee pods. He walks around in sweatpants and nothing else. You start wearing his shirts like they belong to you.

You fall into bed together almost every night—sometimes exhausted, sometimes laughing, sometimes too desperate to make it there fully clothed.

The sex isn’t always frantic anymore. Sometimes it’s slow. Sweet. Sometimes it’s just holding each other until the weight of what almost happened fades into the dark.

You don’t talk about the mission often. But you both carry the ghosts of it in different ways.

Still, there are moments.

Late one morning, after he’s pressed you into the mattress and drawn out soft, breathless sounds you didn’t even know you could make, he flops down beside you, tugs you into his chest. You sigh and mumble, “I still can’t believe I got you to fake marry me just to make it real.”

He hums against your skin, grinning. “I still can’t believe you thought it was fake.” Then his hand slides under your shirt—his shirt—finding the warm skin of your back and tracing gentle lines.

“Not for one second,” you admit. You kiss his jaw and let the silence stretch between you, soft and safe.

Outside, the world still spins. But in here, in this little apartment with too many half-folded blankets and a pile of clean laundry no one’s put away, you’re both finally still.

-

Two years later, the hotel still smells like white roses and expensive secrets.

You step through the marble lobby with a new alias on your badge, but the same man at your side. The same weight on your ring finger. Only now, it’s not borrowed from a mission file or a cover story.

It’s real.

You’re real.

He walks just behind you, like always—close enough to guard your six, close enough that you feel the warmth of him before you even hear his voice.

“Déjà vu,” he says under his breath.

You glance over your shoulder, catching the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. Hopefully this time no one tries to shoot me in couture.”

He chuckles low, then leans in—one hand ghosting over the small of your back, like muscle memory.

The suite is different. Bigger. But the view is the same. You let your bags drop near the balcony and turn around just as John kicks the door shut behind him.

His eyes are already on you.

Still soft.

Still sharp.

He crosses the room in a few long strides and reaches for your hand. His fingers find the ring without hesitation. Thumb brushing the band, slow and sure, just like he did the night that started all this.

Only this time, there’s no mission. No earpiece. No audience.

Just him. And you. And the weight of everything you’ve built since.

He presses a kiss to your knuckle, then your ring finger, then higher—until his mouth rests against your wrist and his voice drops to a familiar rasp. “Still married, Mrs. Walker?”

Your smile curls before the answer even comes. “Still lucky,” you whisper.

His eyes flash with something molten.

He kisses your hand again. Slower this time. Letting it linger. “Damn right.”

[peachmilkshake466]

John walker Ive unwillingly grown fond of you. Let’s be bugs on a leaf together

[peachmilkshake466]

Arugula is some crap they found on the ground for real