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sentrryy · 28 days ago

Text

Biblical

Pairing: John Walker (U.S. Agent) x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: After getting injured during a mission, John decides to tend to your wounds

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Angst, Friends (well…kind of lol) to Lovers, John cares deeply about Reader (he’s protective), John’s got average medical knowledge because y’know…The war, Mentions of Blood/Gore/Wounds, Mentions of cleaning wounds, One Bed Trope Kinda? (Fuck I love tropes JFC)

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (guys…wrap it up y’all), Fingering, Handjob, Dirty Talk, Breast/Nipple Play, Hair Pulling, Biting, Sucking, Accidentally Leaving Bruises, Thigh Riding?, Oral Sex (Female Receiving)

Author’s Note: Em from 2021 would be shaking her god damn head at current me writing for John Walker, but I mean…That separation and trauma really roped me into writing for him…So here’s another Walker fic y’all :) Enjoy <3

Word Count: 12,499

“Fuck! Walker, can you take it easy?! It’s already broken as it is!” You shoved your hand against the front of his chest, palm slapping against the grime-coated fabric of his uniform. The pressure barely moved him–he was a damn wall even when he wasn’t on a mission–but it was all you could do to suppress a scream as his fingers braced the sides of your face, with his thumbs pressing dangerously close to the aching center of your shattered nose.

Blood had long since dried on your hands, crusted thick under your fingernails and streaked like war paint across your cheeks. The worst of it had happened right after the incident, when you had cupped your nose with both hands in a desperate attempt to stop the flood. You had thought it was just a minor nosebleed, until the pain sharpened into something unmistakably worse–until the world tilted and everything smelled like rusted copper and fire.

Now, the safe house was barely lit–just one flickering overhead bulb swinging from the cracked plaster ceiling, casting long shadows over the crumbling concrete walls. The floor was cold and stained with water damage, and everything seemed to have this sort of medicinal look to it, like you were transported into a hurricane bunker from the 50’s. You sat on the edge of an old metal table, legs dangling and hitting against the drawers beneath you. The stale scent of gunpowder, sweat, and rust clung to everything, and a broken cot sat unused in the corner behind you, standing out because of how neat and crisp and clean the sheets looked.

John’s thumbs paused just below the swollen ridge of your nose, the pads of them rough and calloused from years of handling weapons and working with his hands. His knuckles were still raw–scraped during the mission, probably when he had shoved debris off your back after the second explosion hit.

“Unfortunately the cartilage and bone is shifted out of place pretty badly, so I really have no other options here…Do you mind being a little more graceful that I’m even doing this?” You let out a pained groan, tilting your head forward a little, before pressing your fingertips deeper into the material of his uniform, feeling the rise and fall of his chest under it–warm and solid.

“Yeah…I’m so grateful that you’re digging your fat thumbs into my face. Whoopee!” The sarcasm that laced your voice was dry, and brittle, using your only remaining defense like it was your version of a shield. You hated displaying your pain to other people, especially when you tried to be the person who everyone looked to for comfort, so being in this situation with John was not the most pleasant thing, and that was only regarding the emotional aspect of things.

He let out a huff at the comment. A sound too short to be a laugh, but not far from one either, as he adjusted his large thick hands, letting his thumbs slide a fraction higher, directly over the jagged bump where your nose had shifted out of place. You flinched on instinct when his skin touched the inflamed area, and you nearly threw a punch, but controlled yourself. He didn’t move a muscle, staying in front of you even though he could tell you may take your pain out on him at some point–he was grateful in those moments that he had the Super Soldier serum in his veins because he had seen you in action and didn’t want to be on the receiving end of things if he was just a normal person.

There was no visible split in the skin on the bridge of your nose–no true signs that screamed broken to the untrained eye…But John knew better. He had seen the impact. Saw the way you stumbled and went down after the blast, hands flying to your face like it had been caught on fire.

What was worse though was while you were disoriented, and crouched behind cover with your ears ringing and blood pouring from your nose like a faucet, you had taken another hit. This time with sharp, jagged shrapnel. It had sliced across your lower back, tearing clean through your suit and leaving a gash deep enough to knock you out of the fight completely–meaning John had to carry you all the way to the safe house.

You were appreciative that he was as attentive as he was being–even though he was causing you all this pain in the process of it all.

You had seen John like this before. Focused. Grounded. Exacting. Always the protector, always the fixer, always ready to shoulder the burden when shit hit the fan, like the true soldier that he was. But you had never been on the receiving end of that intensity. Not like this. Not when your skin was burning and your body was completely wrecked, and he was holding your face like it might splinter into ash if he didn’t get the angle right.

You didn’t wish for this. You never wanted to be broken just so you could end up in his hands–but now that you were, now that you were wrapped in the unwavering heat of his grip, something reckless bloomed beneath the pain. To be held like this, even for a reason so fucked up and messy–it made something stir low in your belly. Not from lust or comfort. But from the raw awareness of him…And a rawer awareness of yourself in his hands.

A smile almost came up on your lips just thinking about it…But then he spoke again, his voice low and edged in the usual brand of grit that always felt like he was warning you about something.

”I’ll take it, even if it’s sarcasm…I do take offence about the fat thumbs comment though.” He murmured, as his eyes flicked to meet yours–those stormy, steel-blue irises that had seen far too much battlefield carnage to be gentle but somehow softened when they settled on you like this.

“Now…” He continued, voice dropping a shade lower, “I’m gonna try again. So you’re going to have to hold still, alright?” You barely nodded, it was more of a twitch than anything else, but it was enough for him to proceed.

Then the pressure returned as his thumbs pressed in harder than before. Your whole body seized. Every nerve in your skill lit up like an electric grid, and the pain surged like a flashbang behind your eyes, detonating somewhere deep in your sinuses and cascading through your spine in a blaze of heat and nausea. It felt like your breath was ripped out of you as you let out a broken whine–something pitiful and ragged and nearly feral as it clawed its way up your throat.

Your hands acted on instinct, as the one balled up in a fist beside you came up to clamp down around his forearm. Your fingers digging into the armor like a vice, with your nails biting into the plates as if you could somehow transfer the agony you were feeling into him.

”Motherfucker…” You gasped, your voice wet and raw, “Shit, shit–John! Ow!”

But John didn’t move.

Not an inch.

He held you steady with those thick, bruised hands, his jaw tight and his breath slow, guiding you through it like he was your goddamn metronome. The heat of his body grounded you. His fingers–trembling just slightly now–never faltered.

And then the snap.

That sickening, wet click as the bone shifted back into place.

Your vision went white at the edges. Stars danced behind your eyelids even though they were wide open, locked on the ugly water stain overhead and that damn swaying bulb. You could feel his breath on your face–close, steady, just there–and when it was finally over, when the worst of it had passed, your body sagged forward.

Immediately, his hands shifted to catch you. One moved to cradle the front of your neck, while the other slid to the back of your head, anchoring you gently so you didn’t fall forward too hard against him. Your hands slipped from his arm as you shook a bit from the aftershocks of the pain that threaded through your nervous system.

”There you go…” He murmured, his fingers digging into your hair as lightly, “It’s all done now…” His tone had changed. There was less grit to it, and it was a little more…Careful.

Once you were leaning back slightly–with your head balanced in his palm and your weight resting just enough for him to steady you–he shifted. One hand stayed where it was, cradling you, while the other reached down to rifle through the battered first aid kit perched on the edge of the table beside you. The hinges of the metal box squealed faintly as he opened it, and after a moment, he retrieved a gauze pad, unwrapping it with a familiar efficiency.

You hissed softly when he adjusted your head again, tipping it forward just enough to keep the blood from draining down your throat. His hand pressed flat against your upper back for support, firm but still gentle. Then the first touch of gauze came–cool, and dry–dabbed under your nose with a feather-light precision, as you hissed.

”I got you…Just breathe.” He exhaled, barely above a whisper. But breathing felt like trying to inflate lungs made of broken glass. Your chest stuttered as you took in air in shallow sips, your teeth clenched against another pained groan. The blood was still coming, though not nearly as much as before–just a slow trickle now, painting your upper lip and clinging stubbornly to the crusted stains already drying on your skin.

He wiped it all away in soft, methodical strokes as the gauze swept carefully under your nose again, and again. Each movement came with a quiet breath from him, steady and anchoring–something to ground yourself in, something to focus on apart from the pain.

You let your eyes fall shut, letting yourself relax a bit in his hands, at the way he handled you a bit, until the bleeding stopped. Or maybe he was satisfied enough that you wouldn’t start bleeding all over yourself and your torn tactical gear again.

He set the crimson soaked gauze on the edge of the metal table with a quiet flick of his wrist, and you watched as he lingered in front of you, eyes scanning over your face like he was checking for another invisible injury, then when he was finally satisfied with his little perimeter check, he cleared his throat.

”Need a break before I start on your back?” You gave a faint, exhausted nod, because your voice wasn’t working yet, and your body was still trembling too much to form words.

”Ca–Can’t combine pain with more pain…I need a breather.” You muttered after a moment of gathering yourself. John hummed in agreement, a low noise echoing through his throat as he stepped back slightly, his hands leaving your body. Instantly you missed the contact, but you made sure to not show it.

To distract yourself you lifted your fingers to your nose slowly, running the tips along the ridge of it–ginger, and testing. The sharpest pain had dulled into a throb, like your face had been kicked in by a steel-toed boot and someone had hit pause right after. You winced at the sensitivity but didn’t pull away.

”Least it’s still attached,” You whispered dryly, glancing down at the bloodied gauze for a moment. John let out a short exhale through his nose–not quite a laugh, but very close. Then he turned, unbuckling the strap under his chin and pulling his helmet off. The metal table clanked softly as he set it down beside you.

His short blond hair was soaked with sweat, plastered to his forehead and curling faintly around the edges. There was a red pressure line that ran across the bridge of his nose from the helmet’s tight fit–he had put in multiple requests for an adjustment–and his temples glistened with sweat. He had bags under his eyes–a sharp exhaustion that didn’t come from physical fatigue alone, but from multiple sleepless nights.

He looked like hell, just like you, but he knew how to hold himself well enough so that people didn’t question it. Your gaze lingered longer than it should have, but he didn’t seem to mind–he actually enjoyed the fact you didn’t hide that you stared at him sometimes. There was a beat of silence, before he reached for one of the canteens on the battered shelf behind him–military-issue, scratched to hell, but sealed tight. He unscrewed the cap in one clean motion, but he didn’t drink from it himself, instead he offered it to you first, arm extended with silent insistence.

You took it, fingers brushing his for just a second longer than necessary. The moment crackled like static. Then you brought the container to your lips, tilting it slowly as cool water slid into your mouth, over your tongue, down your throat–relief flooding in gentle waves. A few droplets spilled from the corner of your mouth and trickled down your chin, cutting tiny rivulets through the smudges of blood and grime. You let them fall, letting the water do double duty–cleansing, cooling you from the inside and from the outside.

John watched in silence. His gaze wasn’t leering or crude–but it wasn’t innocent either. There was something in the way he stared, in the rigid line of his shoulders and the way his tongue dragged briefly over his bottom lip. Maybe it was the light catching on the droplets, or the sharp contrast between your bloodied skin and the glint of water, all he knew though was he was enamored by you…Which was happening more and more often recently.

You pulled the canteen away and swiped at your mouth with the back of your hand. “Thank you.” He gave a small nod, then wordlessly, he extended his hand out to you again. You glanced down at his open palm, and hesitated just for a second before returning the canteen to him, your fingers brushing his in that same slow, static-laced way.

That’s when you noticed it. A faint smudge of red clinging to the rim. Your blood. Just a smear—nothing dramatic—but it stopped you for a second, made your breath catch in your throat before you could say anything.

But he didn’t blink.

He lifted the canteen, and with that same worn, easy motion, brought it to his mouth.

You thought he might wipe it first. That would’ve made sense.

But he didn’t.

He drank from the same place your lips had been, from the same metal stained with your blood, and he didn’t flinch. Didn’t glance down. Didn’t pause. He tilted his head back, throat flexing with each quiet swallow, and then–almost theatrically slow–his tongue flicked across his bottom lip, catching a bead of water before he smacked his lips once and capped the container.

Your heart skipped again—too hard, too obvious. You could feel it beating against the walls of your chest, uneven and startled, like it had heard something it wasn’t supposed to.

He could hear it, too. You knew he could.

But he didn’t say a word about it. He just returned the canteen to the shelf behind him and finally looked back at you, jaw tight but eyes strangely soft.

“You ready for me to look at your back now?”

You bit the inside of your bottom lip and gave a slow nod. “Might as well stop delaying, right?”

He shrugged, but his voice gentled when he spoke again. “C’mon. I’ll help you down.”

You reached for him without hesitation this time. Maybe it was the pain still rolling in slow, nauseating waves…Maybe it was the water…Maybe it was the fact that he practically drank a little bit of your blood without even flinching. But your hands found his, and the callouses against your fingers were grounding–calming in a way.

You shimmied off the table, boots hitting the concrete with a dull thud that echoed through the hollow room. The metal creaked behind you, and for a moment, the silence seemed to tighten the space between you.

John stood still, broad shoulders squared, eyes trained on you with that unreadable expression he always wore when he was trying not to give too much away.

“I’ll only touch what needs fixing,” He mumbled, voice low and firm–but it was the kind of firmness that came with restraint, not indifference. Like he needed you to know he wouldn’t cross any lines.

“Reassuring,” You replied under your breath, dry again–but softer this time. Less biting. The edge had dulled, like the pain, and something else was starting to settle in its place. A hum beneath your skin. A pull.

You turned your back to him and began to work at the straps of your tactical vest, fingers trembling more from exhaustion than nerves–but they were there too, tightening in your gut like a drawn wire. Your shoulder muscles ached with every movement, and each zip and click of metal buckles felt like a slow reveal, peeling away your armor and the little bit of safety it gave you.

Each hiss and grunt slipped past your lips in ragged pieces as you tried to work the underlayer down over your ruined skin. You could feel the fabric sticking–bonded to dried blood and half-coagulated mess.

Behind you, John moved.

Quietly.

Efficiently.

And then his voice came again, just over your shoulder. “Let me.”

You didn’t answer aloud, just stilled your hands and nodded once.

His fingers brushed your side first. Just a graze, just a warning–but it was enough to send a chill racing up your spine. He moved carefully, undoing the last of the clasps at your waist and shoulders. The tension in his touch was subtle but unmistakable, like he was holding himself back from something. Like his fingers wanted to linger–but they didn’t.

The ruined underlayer peeled back with agonizing slowness. John was methodical, easing it up inch by inch as he tried not to aggravate the wound more than necessary. The air touched your exposed skin and you hissed–more out of instinct than anything–and he froze instantly.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” You lied, voice muffled as you clenched your jaw and braced your hands on the table edge again. “Just do it.”

He exhaled through his nose. It wasn’t from frustration, just from focusing so hard.

When the fabric finally lifted free of the wound with a sickening slosh, you almost collapsed again, feeling the cool air biting against your bare skin. You bit down on a whimper, sucking in a shallow breath as your knees buckled–but his hand was already there, bracing your hip, holding you steady.

It wasn’t sexual. It wasn’t even meant to linger.

But it did anyway.

Just a second longer than necessary.

“Hold still,” He said quietly, shifting to kneel behind you. You could feel his breath brush your lower back as he studied the damage, and when his fingers gently pushed at the unbroken skin near the wound, you flinched again.

“Jesus…” He muttered, not at you–but at what he saw. “It went deep.” You lifted your arm slightly, elbow bending just enough to glance down at him over your shoulder. His blond head was bowed in concentration, and his blue eyes were locked in on the mess carved across your lower back–lips pressed into a tight, unreadable line. That same rigid intensity he always carried in the field hadn’t left him, but it looked different when it was this close.

“That bad?” you asked, voice quiet, dry.

He hummed, not quite a sigh. “Yeah…It’s pretty bad. Nothing that can’t be patched up though.” His fingers shifted slightly, bracing against your hip again to keep you steady. “You still have your spine, at least.”

“Lucky me,” You muttered, a low groan following close behind. Your eyes slid back to the rust-stained concrete in front of you. “Just do what you need to do, Walker…” There was a pause–just long enough for you to sense the shift. The slight tilt of his head. The softening of his voice into something edged with wry amusement.

“Want me to talk you through it?” Your lashes fluttered at the comment. Eyebrows shooting up as the implication settled into your bloodstream like a heat flare. You didn’t even need to look at him to feel the grin he was probably not fully allowing to form. Your mouth parted–but nothing came out at first. You could feel your face warm up fast, blood rushing to the surface even though the rest of you still ached and throbbed with pain. There was a part of you that wanted to throw something at him. There was another part that wanted to hear it.

“…Excuse me?”

“I’m being helpful,” He said, voice irritatingly casual–but with a note of smugness he couldn’t quite hide. “You know, give you some commentary. Talk you through each step. Make it less scary for you.”

“Oh, fuck off.” You couldn’t help it–the words came out in a bark of laughter that felt half strangled, half disbelieving. You shifted your weight to one side to glare down at him, ignoring the flare of pain that bloomed through your lower back. “You’re such a shithead.”

“Technically I’m saving your life. Again.” His gaze lifted, locking with yours–and for a moment, you were caught in the crossfire of that blue steel. Unflinching. Focused. But with just the faintest crinkle at the corners of his eyes, like he was trying very hard not to smirk.

You rolled your eyes and turned away again. “Just shut up and patch me up.”

“As you wish, princess.”

That earned him a low groan and a muttered, “I will stab you with something dull if you keep that up.” John chuckled–really chuckled this time–and it rumbled out of him in a short, rough burst that made something tighten low in your gut. There was something about that sound–something warm and real, like a glimpse of a man beneath the shield. It was rare. Disarming even…And it made you want to draw more of those sounds out of him.

“I’m gonna use some antiseptic,” He warned from behind you, the edge in his voice returning, “It’s going to sting, so…Brace yourself.”

You let out a breath that came out shakier than you wanted it to. “I figured…But thanks for the heads up.”

He shifted behind you again, steady and quiet as always. You could hear the faint creak of his knees against the concrete as he reached up to grab the first aid kit beside you. The table rattled faintly when the box was set down at his level, followed by the hollow clink of supplies being shifted aside and the pop of a bottle cap being cracked open.

“Alright…” He muttered. “It’s happening.”

And then it did.

The antiseptic met your skin in one wet swipe–and your spine lit up like it had been struck by lightning. The sting bloomed instantly, acidic and hot, racing up your nerves like it wanted to burrow into your bones.

“Jesus fucking Christ, John!” You gasped, your head snapping back slightly as the pain surged through you, white-hot and brutal. Your eyes locked on the water-stained ceiling above, and you focused on the rhythmic sway of the bulb just to keep from screaming.

“I know,” He said, his voice frustratingly calm, and infuriatingly close to your lower back. “Just breathe through it…It’s gotta be done, Y/N.” His hand slid back to your hip again, grounding you with a steady grip–firm, warm, present. You couldn’t decide whether you wanted to shove him away or reach back and grab hold of him. Maybe both.

You hissed through clenched teeth, bracing both hands flat on the table as he continued cleaning the wound. Every pass of gauze dragged fire through your nerves. You could feel the sting radiate outward, down your thighs and up your shoulders, pooling somewhere behind your eyes and clenching your jaw until it ached.

But through it all–John stayed steady. Just like always.

“You’re doing really good,” He complimented, voice softer now. Like he could hear the tension starting to break under your skin. “We’re almost done.”

You hated how much that helped.

Your grip on the table edge tightened, fingers curling against cold metal, your whole body trembling with aftershocks. “You better not be lying to me right now.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he muttered, and even though you couldn’t see him, you could hear the corner of his mouth twitch. “I don’t like getting punched.”

“You wouldn’t survive it,” You managed to reply, biting down on a groan as he dabbed the gauze over the deepest part of the gash again. “I’ve got spite strength. Ask Bucky.”

“Oh, believe me,” he muttered, “we’ve all noticed.”

That earned him a half-laugh from you. Breathless. Pained. But real.

And when it passed, when the burn started to dull into a low throb and the shaking in your arms began to subside, you felt the pad of his thumb brush against your side. Just a small pass of pressure, almost like a check-in.

Then came the sound of the gauze being tossed aside, and the faint rip of tape being peeled.

“Alright,” he said quietly, the soldier’s edge in his voice softening just enough to make it feel… closer. “I’m gonna wrap it now. You’re still bleeding a little, so I’ll keep it tight.”

You just nodded, too tired to reply.

He worked quickly, efficiently–but his hands weren’t cold. They didn’t treat you like a patient. They treated you like you. Like someone who mattered. The bandage coiled around your waist with even tension, and his fingertips brushed your ribs more than once as he adjusted it into place. There were moments where his breath caught–where he stilled for half a second longer than necessary–and you didn’t mention it, but you noticed.

And you knew he noticed the way your skin goose-pimpled under his touch.

When he finally secured the tape and tucked the edge down, he exhaled–like he had been holding his breath too.

You didn’t move. Not yet.

You were still hunched slightly, gripping the table, still trembling from everything your body had just endured. But now that the pain had receded just enough for the adrenaline to lose its grip…All that was left was the awareness of him.

Still kneeling behind you. Still close enough that you could feel the heat of him. Still bracing your hip with one large, steady hand. And now, with nothing left to patch, nothing left to fix…

He didn’t move.

“John?” You asked, your voice barely more than a breath.

A beat.

Then: “Yeah?”

You swallowed. “You gonna let go of my hip or…?” His touch left you immediately, like he’d been burned.

”Sorry…Sorry, I just spaced out for a second…” He said, hearing him shuffle behind you–the soft scrape of his boots and the clink of metal as he began gathering up the supplies he’d used. His movements were quick, deliberate–but quieter than before. Like he was trying not to disturb something fragile in the air between you.

You stayed still for a moment longer, chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths. Then you reached up instinctively, arms folding across your front as you pressed your hands over your exposed chest. It wasn’t cold. But you felt bare in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.

Turning, you faced him, voice soft but steady.

“Do you think they have any extra shirts anywhere in here?” John looked up from where he knelt beside the half-emptied first aid kit, and for a second, he didn’t answer. His eyes caught the light–just barely–and there was a flicker of something in them. A shimmer. Not lust. Not quite.

It was awareness. A crack of lightning in the stillness. But he didn’t let his eyes wander. Not once. They stayed on your face, locked there like it was the only safe place to look. His jaw flexed once, and then he cleared his throat, the sound clipped and abrupt.

“Yeah,” He replied quickly. “Probably in the dresser…I’ll go check.” He was already on his feet before the last word left his mouth. It was too fast. Too practiced. Like he needed something to do or he’d start noticing too much.

You watched him move across the room–shoulders tense, gaze locked downward like the floor had secrets only he could decode. His hand reached for the narrow dresser shoved into the corner, its paint chipped and warped from humidity, drawer handles rusted halfway through.

He opened the top drawer in one clean motion, then rifled through with a mix of precision and impatience, like he was grateful for the distraction.

You let your arms tighten across your chest just a little more, glancing down at yourself–at the ragged remains of your tactical gear now hanging loose around your waist, at the gauze pressed tight over the gash across your back. Your skin still stung, but it was different now. The pain had pulled back enough to make room for everything else.

Your heartbeat.

The heaviness in your limbs.

The heat blooming slowly in your belly from the way he hadn’t looked.

From the way he wanted to.

“Found one,” John called, voice gruff again as he pulled something out of the drawer. “Might be a size too big, but it’s clean.” You met his gaze when he turned around. He was holding up a dark grey shirt–standard-issue cotton, a little faded, but mercifully soft-looking and whole. No holes. No blood. Just fabric.

A perfect coverup.

You took a step forward, arms still crossed over your chest. “Toss it here?”

He hesitated. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” Your lips curled faintly. “Unless you wanna help me put it on, too.” That earned you a huff of a breath–more exhale than laugh, but the edge of it caught his mouth, tugging at the corner like he wanted to smile and wasn’t letting himself. He tossed the shirt to you with a practiced flick of his wrist.

You caught it easily, the worn cotton falling heavy into your hands.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” His voice was quieter now. Rougher. “Take your time.” He turned again, giving you his back–retreating a few steps toward the corner of the room, where he suddenly became very interested in the contents of the dresser drawer again.

You unraveled the shirt in your hands and slipped into it, the soft cotton dragging across your still-aching skin, snagging gently where the bandage met the raw edges of your wound. The fabric smelled like dust and moth balls–like it had been folded away decades ago–but it was dry, and warm, and better than the ruined tactical gear, so you settled for it.

As you adjusted the hem, your fingers brushed absently along the curve of your hip. You turned just enough to glance back over your shoulder, watching John from beneath the fringe of your lashes.

“So…” You began, voice casual in a way that wasn’t quite natural, your tone feeling out the space between you, “you going to sleep in the bed with me tonight?”

He stilled. Shoulders tensing beneath the stretch of his uniform, spine going a little too straight. He looked at you slowly, eyes catching yours across the dim room.

“What?”

You motioned toward the cot behind you with a small tilt of your head, keeping your tone light but your gaze steady. “There’s only one bed,” You repeated, lifting a brow. “So…Are you going to sleep in it with me tonight?”

You didn’t wait for his answer.

Your fingers found the buckle at the front of your cargo pants, undoing it with practiced ease. The metal clicked softly in the silence. He stared as you shuffled toward the cot, one boot hitting the floor, then the other, your movement slow but intentional–wounded but not weak.

“I mean… if you’re okay with it,” he said, his voice lower now, the edges softened by something that felt almost shy, “I would like to. Kind of don’t want to sleep on the concrete and wake up with a sore back…”

You looked up at him through the half-shadowed room, head tilted slightly as your fingers moved back to the waistband of your cargo pants. He stood frozen, still turned halfway toward the dresser like he didn’t quite know whether to stay or retreat–like some invisible line had just been crossed and he wasn’t sure if he’d made a mistake.

You hooked your thumbs into the waistband slowly, eyes not leaving his as you began to shimmy out of the fabric. The pants slid down over your hips and thighs, dragging against the dried blood and sticky sweat. You winced slightly at the movement, but didn’t stop–not even when you caught the way his eyes flickered down.

He tried not to look. He really did. But his gaze dipped instinctively, just for a second, to where the cotton shirt barely skimmed the tops of your thighs.

And then he tore it away like it burned.

You caught that little flick of his jaw, the clench in his throat, and the way he swallowed hard without saying anything.

“I don’t mind,” You stated softly, voice calm–anchored. It wasn’t a dare. It wasn’t a tease.

Just honesty.

His gaze returned to yours slowly. The tension in his shoulders eased, just a little, but it didn’t disappear completely.

“…Okay,” He said again, quieter now.

You turned from him then and moved toward the cot. Your bare feet padded softly across the concrete, the sound almost too intimate in the stillness of the room. You pulled the thin blanket back and slid beneath it with care, hissing when your back grazed the mattress too sharply. You tucked the hem of the shirt between your thighs, letting your cheek rest against the pillow, your nose pulsing with a faint pain that radiated through the bone.

Behind you, John was still standing in place, staring like he wasn’t sure if this was real.

“Walker,” You murmured without looking, your voice already fading into exhaustion, “You coming, or do I have to drag you into bed too?”

Another beat.

Then you heard it.

The faintest chuckle.

Rough. Real. And definitely not one he meant to let slip.

“Alright, alright,” He muttered, and you listened to the sound of his gear being stripped off, the clink of metal and the sound of the fabric hitting the floor in uneven thumps. Then his boots. Then his belt. You didn’t look. You didn’t need to, because you were familiar with the noises.

Then the cot dipped behind you.

You felt his weight settle in, broad and solid, the mattress creaking under the strain of two battle-worn bodies. The blanket tugged slightly as he adjusted, and then–

Stillness.

Just the sound of your heavy breathing.

The cot creaked quietly behind you as John adjusted, trying to get comfortable without jostling the mattress too much. His movements were slow, deliberate, the kind of restrained caution you only saw from him when he was navigating landmines–literal or emotional. You could feel the weight of him settle in, his body stretching out just behind yours, the warmth of his skin bleeding through the air and through the thin layer of cotton separating you.

You swore you could feel it down your spine–his heat, his awareness, his hesitation.

The silence stretched for a while, until it cracked with him clearing his throat, just enough to ripple across the tension.

”I have a question…” Your eyes stayed fixed on the rust-stained wall just ahead, lips curling slightly as you exhaled through your nose.

“Can’t guarantee you a detailed answer,” You replied, voice soft, “But go ahead.”

There was a pause. A breath.

Then the mattress shifted again–just slightly. You felt it in your lower back, the way the pressure changed. His body had leaned forward. You could feel his breath now, warm and shallow against the back of your shirt. Too close to be accidental.

And then:

“Am I picking up flirtatious vibes from you…” His voice dropped a little lower, edged with caution and curiosity. “Or am I reading too deeply into things?” Your eyebrows arched up before your mind fully caught up to the words.

It was definitely not the question you were expecting, but you took the chance and rolled over–carefully, slowly, trying not to twist your back too much. The thin blanket shifted with you, brushing over your skin as you turned to face him. His eyes were waiting, blue and dilated, in the lighting. His bare freckled shoulders peeked out from above the blanket, his pale skin practically glowing under the lighting. You tried your best to keep your composure, keeping your eyes on his.

“Is it not obvious to you?” You asked, your voice low but steady.

The shadows flickered across his face in the dim light, catching the slope of his cheekbone, the cut of his jaw beneath his beard, and the tension carved into his brow. But it was his eyes that gave him away–how they locked on yours and didn’t waver. How his pupils dilated, just a little.

“I wouldn’t be asking if I knew for sure…But then again, I’d rather hear you say whether or not I’m overthinking…Never really been into playing the cat and mouse game.” He said, voice rougher now, barely above a whisper. You let out a little huff of a laugh, breath brushing the air between you, and shifted just a bit closer. The cot creaked quietly under the movement, a subtle shudder of fabric and frame that made the tension hum even louder in the silence. You could feel his body react before he even realized it had–his spine going straight, his jaw locking, and then that slow, unmistakable swallow as your hand rose between you.

Your palm found his cheek–warm and rough beneath the scruff of his beard, still damp with sweat. His skin twitched under your touch, a flicker of something that wasn’t fear, wasn’t pain, but felt like anticipation barely held in check. Your thumb swept along his cheekbone, brushing over the blond scruff, and you felt the way his breath hitched–so faint, but there.

“You’re not reading too deeply into things…” You murmured, and his breath caught—just the smallest stutter in the air between you, but it landed like a detonation in the stillness.

You saw it–the way his eyes widened just a fraction, like something in him hadn’t truly believed you’d say it aloud. And maybe that was the most telling part. He could catch your pulse quickening through a wall, hear your footfall in a building full of chaos, yet still he second-guessed when it came to you.

It made you smirk–soft and a little crooked, the kind that curled up only one corner of your mouth. Your thumb stroked again along his beard, savoring the rough texture under your skin, the steady flex of his jaw beneath it.

“I’m assuming you know when I’m staring at you,” You added, voice quiet but teasing, “and you know when my heart rate picks up when I’m around you… hence the reason I thought it was obvious.”

His eyes flicked across your face, lingering on your mouth for half a second longer than necessary. Then he exhaled, slow and unsteady, and it ghosted across your cheek like heat from a match.

“I try my best not to tune into that…” He admitted, his voice a rasp now, rough from restraint. “Hard to ignore sometimes though, I’ll admit.”

You felt your cheeks go warm instantly.

Not just from the confession–but from the way he said it. Like it cost him something. Like he’d spent the last few weeks pretending not to hear the stutter of your heartbeat when you laughed at one of his dry comments. Pretending not to notice the hitch in your breath every time he got a little too close during briefings. Pretending not to feel the way something shifted in the room every time the two of you were left alone for just a little too long.

You leaned in a little further, your forehead nearly brushing his now.

“And what about right now?” You asked, your voice a low murmur, your eyes trained on his mouth. “What’s my heart doing, Walker?”

His gaze dropped to your lips. Then back up.

And this time…He didn’t hold back.

“It’s…It’s going fucking crazy.” He whispered against your lips, and then he closed the distance.

His mouth met yours in a slow, aching press of heat and desperation–one that stole the breath from your lungs and made your fingers twitch against his cheek. You didn’t hesitate. Not even for a second. Your hand slid down from his face, gliding along the curve of his neck, then curling around the back of his shoulder as you pulled him in closer–anchoring him to you like gravity itself had changed course.

His arm came around you almost instantly, strong and steady, curling around your torso just below your ribs. The heat of his palm sank through the thin cotton of your shirt as his other hand–still warm, still shaking just slightly–rose to cradle your face. He was so careful with it, angling away from the tender swell of your nose and instead letting his fingers settle against your jaw, the heel of his hand cupping your cheek like he was afraid he might hurt you again.

But his kiss wasn’t hesitant.

It was full. Wanting. The kind that tasted like withheld breath and grit and something rough that had been softened only by proximity to you.

You made a soft sound–barely more than a hum–into his mouth, and your fingers slid upward, twisting into his hair. It was damp at the roots, curled slightly from sweat, and your nails scraped along his scalp in a way that made him groan low against your lips. The sound rumbled straight through you, and then his hand was moving again–down from your waist, along the length of your side, tracing your curves through the shirt he had just given you.

Then he trailed lower.

He gripped the outside of your thigh–firm, possessive, not rough–and lifted it slowly, dragging your leg up and around his hip with a deliberate slowness that made heat bloom deep in your core. His grip tightened just beneath the curve of your ass, his fingers digging into the tender muscle as he pressed forward, slotting the weight of his body flush to yours beneath the blanket.

You let him.

You wanted him.

The kiss deepened in the next breath, tongues brushing, mouths parting wider with every messy, greedy pass. It was heat and friction and bruised breaths. Your lips were already swollen, already slick from the motion of it, and when his teeth scraped gently along your bottom lip, you gasped–and that gasp fed straight into his mouth.

“Fuck,” He muttered, breath ragged as he broke the kiss for a half-second–only to dip back down and kiss you again, harder this time, “You taste…Delicious.” You grinned against his lips, then bit down–just slightly–before licking into his mouth with a slow, aching sweep of your tongue.

”Guess you just like the taste of dehydration.” He chuckled, but it melted into a groan when your fingers tugged sharply at his hair. His hips shifted forward, pressing between your thighs with more weight now, his knee nudging up until it was cradled against the heat of your core. You instinctively ground down onto the thick muscle of his thigh, the ache between your legs growing sharp with every short drag of friction. His leg tensed beneath you, solid as a slab of steel and just as unforgiving, and you could practically feel the twitch of his quadricep through the too-thin fabric of your underwear.

John’s hand slipped beneath your shirt and tightened on the sensitive skin of your hip, holding you there for just a second before guiding your motion again–slow, deliberate, dragging you across the hard ridge of his thigh until your breath broke in a stuttering gasp against his lips.

“Jesus Christ,” You whispered, the words caught between a moan and a plea.

That’s when he pulled back, just barely, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke–voice thick with heat and teasing restraint.

“You trying to get off on my thigh, sweetheart?” He rasped, the edge of a smirk ghosting across his mouth. “Or did you just miss the part where I said I was trying to be a gentleman?”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up–half breathless, half embarrassed, all turned on. “I definitely missed the part where you said you were trying to be a gentleman…I didn’t realize you were trying that hard.” He huffed, his thumb dragging slow and rough along your lower belly beneath the hem of your shirt, making your core clench with anticipation.

“Oh, I’m trying,” He muttered, guiding your hips again, grinding you in one slow, drawn-out stroke that made your thighs tremble, “But you’re making it really hard, Y/N.” Your hands slid over his shoulders, down his chest, feeling the heat of him bleed through skin and muscle. Every ridge of him was carved tight, twitching beneath your touch, and when your fingers slipped back into his sweat-damp hair, you felt the soft groan he let out bloom between your thighs.

“I think you like it when I ride your thigh,” you murmured against the shell of his ear, your voice a silken, low whisper that had his whole body freezing for just a second. Then his grip flexed, fingers digging into your waist hard enough to make you gasp.

“Fuckin’ love it,” he growled, dragging you forward again, the blunt muscle of his thigh rubbing right against your swollen clit through the soaked cotton. “You’re so wet for it, too…Jesus, Y/N…”

Your hips jerked with the next grind, instinct taking over now–chasing friction, chasing relief, chasing him. The heat between you was stifling, slick and sticky and laced with spit and sweat and breathless groans. Your lips found his again, desperate, messy, biting through the moans that broke out of you both.

He kissed like a man who never got the chance to–wild and greedy and reverent all at once. His beard scraped over your chin and your jaw and your throat, leaving tender burn-marks in its wake, and you wanted it, wanted all of it, every mark and bruise and swollen sting of heat he left behind.

“Keep going,” He muttered, voice breaking between kisses as he guided you forward again, thigh flexing, grinding you hard enough that you felt your body twitch against him instantly, “I want to feel you come right here.” You moaned raggedly, helpless to stop yourself from chasing the motion, thighs trembling as your fingers clawed into his shoulders, your body slick with sweat and need and the slow pulse of mounting pleasure.

And when he ducked his head, tongue flicking out to lick the sweat off your throat, then up to your ear to whisper, “You’ve wanted this for so long, haven’t you?”–you whimpered like you’d been cracked wide open.

“Yes,” You breathed. “God, yes…John, don’t stop–”

“Not planning on it,” He growled, dragging you faster now, harder, until your entire body was rocking in his lap, the rhythm slick and unrelenting and devastating.

His other hand came up to your breast, rough fingers palming it through the shirt, thumb grazing over your nipple until it peaked against the fabric and had you gasping again.

“Shit…Gonna come–” You choked out, but his mouth was already on yours again, swallowing your moan as he grinded you down one last time–

–and you broke.

Clenching, shaking, crying out into his mouth as pleasure surged white-hot through your body and lit up your spine like gunfire. Your thighs clamped around him, and your whole body pulsed with the aftershocks, breath torn from your lungs as your hips jerked once, twice more before finally going still.

You collapsed against him, heart pounding, mouth open against his jaw, and you felt his arms wrap around you–solid and warm and grounding. One hand on your lower back, careful of the wound. The other cupping the back of your head like he could still feel you trembling and wanted to anchor you there.

“…Holy fuck,” you breathed into his neck, still panting.

His laugh was low, rough, a little ragged, “You okay?” You nodded, even though your knees were jelly and your thighs were still twitching.

“I’m…I’m fucking amazing .” You replied. He let out a small laugh, kissing your temple softly.

”You know I have to clean you up now, right?” You raised your eyebrows slowly, still breathless, heart still thudding between your ribs.

“Clean me up?” You asked, your voice rasping from the edge of your orgasm, “What do you mean?” John leaned back just far enough to look at you properly, one corner of his mouth tugging into the faintest, filthiest smirk. The heat in his eyes hadn’t dulled–it had sharpened, simmered, focused entirely on you.

“Did you honestly think,” He started, voice a low rumble edged in gravel and sin, “I was gonna let my reward go to waste?” Your stomach fluttered at the implication, pulse stumbling in your throat as the haze of pleasure gave way to something more dangerous–more intimate. John Walker wanted to taste you. And not just in passing. He wanted to savor what you’d left behind, wanted to put his mouth on you like it was owed to him. Like you were the victory he was meant to claim.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he shifted again, reaching for the pillow his head had been resting on. He shook it out once, then tucked it in behind you gently, one hand steadying your hip while the other slid beneath the curve of your ass.

“Lay on this for me,” He instructed , gaze flicking up to yours. “It’ll ease the pressure off your back.” You blinked at him, lips parting as you shook your head.

“John, we can skip that…I just want you right now. Please.” But he just smiled. Soft. Sure. Like he knew something you didn’t.

“Trust me,” He whispered, running his fingers gently up the side of your thigh. “I’ll make it quick… Then you can have me however you’d like, alright?” Your breath hitched, the edge of a sigh escaping through your teeth. You bit down gently on your bottom lip, your body already betraying you by aching for more.

“…Okay,” You murmured, chest rising and falling faster now. “Okay.”

With careful hands, he helped you adjust, guiding you onto your back so that the pillow cushioned your spine. He was tender, attentive–positioning you just right without aggravating your wound, fingers brushing soothingly along your hip and outer thigh.

Then he moved to kneel between your legs.

The blanket was gone now–tugged down or kicked aside–and the soft cotton shirt you wore barely covered the heat pooling between your thighs. John’s hands found the waistband of your underwear, and he glanced up at you once more, silently checking.

You gave the smallest nod.

He slid them down slowly.

The wet fabric dragged against your inner thighs, clinging slightly before slipping away completely. He didn’t look away as he tossed them aside, his eyes burning into yours even as his hands returned to your legs, parting them gently.

“Fuck,” He whispered when he saw you fully, “You’re literally dripping.” You squirmed slightly, breath catching in your throat as his large calloused hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs brushing across the slick heat of your skin. Then he lowered his head and pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh.

And then another. Higher.

And then–

His mouth met your core.

You gasped instantly, your hips jolting at the overwhelming rush of sensation. His beard scraped against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs while his tongue flattened and licked one long, slow stripe through your folds. The warmth of it, the weight, the pure pressure–it was too much to the point where it overwhelmed you.

“John–fuck–” You whimpered, squirming as your hands clawed for purchase in the sheets.

He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through his mouth and into you like a low thunderclap. His arms slipped beneath your thighs, locking you in place, his hands flattening against your hips to keep you from writhing too far out of reach.

And then he dove in.

His tongue circled your clit with a focused, devastating rhythm. His beard rubbed raw and soft in tandem with each flick, dragging a burn up your thighs that only added to the chaos. Every touch sent fire arcing through your nerves, your body still over-sensitive from the orgasm that had just torn through you minutes before. You bucked against his mouth without meaning to, breath catching, fingers curling into fists at your sides.

He moaned like you were his favorite thing he’d ever tasted.

And maybe you were.

Your back arched, pain forgotten for the moment as your entire world narrowed to his mouth, his tongue, his beard, his breath. You could hear yourself moaning–high and helpless and keening with every flick of his tongue. You could feel your body trembling again, thighs twitching and core clenching around nothing as the pleasure built again, impossibly fast.

Then–his hand shifted.

One of those big, calloused palms slipped from your hip, trailing down your inner thigh until it reached the soaked, needy entrance he’d been ignoring. He teased the slick folds with two thick fingers, rubbing slow, messy circles around your opening, spreading your arousal until everything felt unbearably wet.

Your head fell back, a strangled moan clawing its way out of your throat. “John–” You barely had time to suck in a breath before he slid both fingers into you with one slow, steady push.

“Oh my God,” You gasped, your spine arching off the cot. His fingers stretched you instantly–thick and perfect, curling just enough to make your thighs jerk. The pressure made your eyes roll back, the burn of the stretch quickly melting into an overwhelming fullness that had your walls fluttering around him with desperate want.

“Fuck,” You groaned, hips bucking into his hand as your hands flew into his hair, threading through the messy blond strands already damp and tousled from your earlier tugging. You grabbed fistfuls like you couldn’t get enough–like anchoring yourself to him was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. John’s mouth pulled back from your clit just long enough for him to speak. His voice was wrecked–low, hoarse, filled with pride and pure hunger.

“You like my fingers, hmm?” He murmured, sliding them in and out with slow, teasing precision. “Like how full you feel?”

You nodded–rapid, helpless. “Yes…Yes, fuck, yes–” He grinned, breath ghosting over your clit as his blue eyes locked with yours, pupils blown wide.

“Can’t wait to see how you’re gonna react to my cock then…” Then he was gone again–mouth plunging back between your thighs, licking and sucking like a man starved. His fingers picked up pace, fucking into you deeper, faster, while his tongue circled your clit with ruthless precision.

You couldn’t stop it.

Your hips moved on instinct, chasing the pressure, chasing his hand, chasing him. The cot creaked beneath you with every desperate grind of your body against his face. The obscene wet sounds of his fingers moving into your soaked heat mixed with your gasps and the ragged groans he let out with every taste.

“I’m gonna…John…Fuck–”

He moaned in approval, fingers curling just right, and that was it.

You came hard, clenching down around his fingers as a cry tore from your lips, long and broken and full of heat. Your thighs shook, your chest heaved, your hands tangled deeper in his hair as you rode the waves of pleasure out against his mouth. He didn’t stop–not for a second. He worked you through every last pulse, licking you raw and filthy until your hips twitched from overstimulation.

Finally he pulled back, dragging his mouth from your center with a long, wet lick, eyes flicking up to your hot, wrecked face. You were gasping, sweat-slicked, trembling.

“Fucking hell,” You panted. He didn’t respond–not with words. Instead, he kissed the inside of your thigh once more before shifting up your body, bracing himself on one elbow as his other hand–still sticky with your release–slid beneath the hem of the oversized shirt.

“Let me get this off you,” He whispered, voice rough. You nodded, arms lifting weakly, letting him peel the shirt up over your head. His fingers were slow, careful, tugging it over your arms and then tossing it aside without a second glance.

And then you were naked beneath him.

Completely bare. Bruised and bandaged and still trembling from pain and pleasure alike–but his eyes didn’t flinch, didn’t drift, didn’t scan. They locked on yours.

Like you were the center of every war he’d ever fought.

His hand cradled your cheek again, thumb brushing the edge of your swollen mouth, and then he leaned down–kissing you.

God, the way he kissed you.

Hungry. Possessive. Starved.

You could taste yourself on his tongue. You could feel the mess of your slick smeared across his beard, smell it on his skin, and yet the kiss only deepened–your mouth opening wider to take him in, your arms winding around his back, nails dragging across the sweaty heat of his skin.

There was no hesitation now. No space left between you. Every movement screamed want, every grind of your hips against his made him groan into your mouth like he couldn’t take it anymore.

You moaned against him, whispering against the curve of his jaw between kisses, “Want you so bad, Walker…I need you…”

He pulled back just slightly, chest heaving as he looked down at you–completely naked, completely open, completely his.

And he nodded, gaze burning into yours. “You’ve got me, sweetheart. All of me.”

John sat back on his heels, chest rising and falling in short, ragged breaths as he pushed his black boxers down over his hips. The fabric dragged over thick thighs, caught briefly on sweat-slick skin before sliding down to his knees. He kicked them away with a careless shove.

Your breath hitched.

His cock stood hard between his legs–flushed deep pink and veined, the head gleaming with a bead of pre-come that glistened in the flickering overhead light. The cool air that kissed his skin made him twitch slightly, and your jaw clenched at the sight–every inch of him thick and aching. He was huge–bigger than anyone else you had ever been with–and it made your pulse stutter with anticipation.

You reached for him, fingers brushing up along his chest, over his clavicles, before resting gently at the curve of his neck. Your touch was deliberate. Warm. Commanding.

“Help me up,” You instructed, voice low, sultry, devilish. “I want to sit on it.” His head fell back just slightly with a low, guttural moan, the image you’d conjured clearly slamming into his bloodstream like a drug.

“Fuck, sweetheart…That sounds fantastic.” He rasped, already shifting forward to support you. His arms wrapped around you with practiced care, sliding beneath your thighs to lift you just enough to adjust your weight. You hissed softly at the movement—your back still tender—but his hold was steady, patient, and so damn careful.

He brought you upright until your knees straddled him and the soft skin of your inner thighs kissed his own. The heat of him sat just beneath you, thick and heavy, throbbing between your bodies.

The backs of your thighs rested against his, and his hands settled at your hips—wide, reverent palms splayed against your bare skin, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

Then your hand moved between you.

You reached down with slow, sultry intent and wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock.

His whole body jolted.

“Shit–” He breathed out, eyes fluttering half-shut as his head dropped to your shoulder. “God, your hand–”

You stroked him slowly, just the way you knew would drive him crazy–tight and twisting, dragging your palm up to the slick head before gliding back down with pressure. His cock twitched in your grip, pre-cum spilling freely over your fingers now, and the weight of him filled your palm beautifully. You dragged your thumb through the mess at the tip, then used it to smooth your next stroke with a delicious, obscene sound that made him groan into the curve of your neck.

You didn’t bring him to completion–just to the edge. Just until his hips started to jerk up into your hand, until his breaths turned to curses and his grip on your waist became possessive.

Then you stilled. His eyes shot open.

“Why’d you stop?” You smiled, slow and sly, as you pulled your hand away, licking some of the precum off your palm, tasting the saltiness of it.

“Because I want to feel you inside me now,” You whispered. “So help me a little bit…” He moaned softly at your words, nodding quickly, both of his hands moving with precision and care. One hand braced your lower back as the other shifted to his cock, lining himself up against your entrance. The blunt head nudged through your folds, sliding against your slick with a quiet, filthy sound.

Then he looked up at you, eyes blazing with restraint. “You sure you want this, Y/N?”

You nodded. “I want it. I want you.”

He held your gaze as he slowly lowered you onto him, his hand guiding the head of his cock past your folds, nudging against your entrance until your body started to take him in.

The stretch was devastating.

Your breath hitched, back arching slightly as your walls adjusted to the thick pressure, inch by inch. You sank down slowly, his cock dragging through the tight heat of you with an unrelenting fullness that made both of you groan in unison.

“Shit,” He rasped, his forehead dropping to yours, “You’re so tight…And so warm and wet, taking every inch of me like a good girl…” Your fingers curled into his shoulders, body trembling as he filled you deeper, the weight of him pressing against your front in the most satisfying way. You were only halfway seated and already shaking from how intense it felt. John’s hand slid from your waist to your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly beneath your eye as you pressed your forehead against his.

“You okay?” He whispered, the roughness in his voice edged with concern.

You nodded, kissing the tip of his nose. “Keep going…Just like this.”

He obeyed.

His other hand settled firmly on your hip, squeezing the soft flesh there as he slowly guided you further down onto his length. Every inch was a stretch, every moment a slow conquest of your body by his, and when you finally bottomed out, seated fully in his lap with your walls pulsing around him–

It felt like your whole body lit up.

“Fuck,” You whimpered, lips brushing against his. “You’re so deep.”

John groaned, his jaw clenching as he fought not to move yet. “I know. God, you feel perfect…”

He stayed still, buried to the hilt, holding you against him as your bodies trembled together. He groaned into your mouth, swallowing another breathless moan as your hips slowly began to grind against him, the fullness inside of you making it hard to breathe–let alone think. The stretch was so deep, so utterly consuming, that every shift of your weight made your entire body feel like it was glowing from the inside out.

John’s hands gripped your hips tightly, but it wasn't to stop you, it was to guide you, to worship you in the only way a man like him knew how…By holding and pleasing you.

Then, with a low breath, he pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, trailing down your jaw, across your neck, and lower–peppering soft, almost reverent kisses along the curve of your collarbone. His lips were warm, damp with sweat and breath, and they dragged heat wherever they touched.

He licked a stripe of salt from the hollow of your throat, groaning softly as he tasted you, his mouth open and hungry against your skin. Then he found a patch just beneath your collarbone, sucking at it–slow and firm–until a bruise bloomed beneath his tongue. A mark. A reminder. A claim.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was hot against your skin as he whispered, “Lean back for me.”

His hand pressed gently but firmly to the center of your spine, and you obeyed–your body trembling slightly as you leaned away from him, your thighs still locked around his hips. Your chest arched toward him, exposing the soft swell of your breasts beneath the flickering overhead light.

“Jesus Christ…” He whispered, eyes locking onto the sight of you–raw, open, radiant.

He leaned in, mouth brushing over one breast with featherlight kisses before his lips latched onto your nipple, sucking it slowly between his teeth. The sharp contrast of heat and pressure made your back arch even more, a moan slipping past your lips as he dragged his tongue across the sensitive bud, flicking before sucking again–slow, firm, deliberate.

His beard scraped along your skin as he moved from one breast to the other, groaning low in his throat like he was feasting on something he’d been craving for too long. His grip on your hips tightened–enough that you could already feel the bruises forming, dark fingerprints blooming in your flesh with every desperate squeeze.

“Fuck, look at you…” He murmured between licks, voice low and ragged. “Your breasts in my mouth, your pussy squeezing my cock–you’re unreal, Y/N. You feel so fucking good riding me like this.” You gasped, dragging your hips in a slow, grinding circle as he sucked hard on your nipple, making your whole body jerk from the stimulation. The motion made his cock shift inside you, pressing deeper, and both of you moaned at the same time.

The rhythm built again–needier now. A steady drag of your soaked core over the thick length of him, the stretch made sharper by the angle of your spine and the way he watched you like he was memorizing every twitch of your body.

“Keep going,” He rasped, pulling off your breast with a wet sound, his mouth flushed and slick. “Don’t stop, Y/N…Fuck…You feel perfect.” Your hands reached forward, one cradling the side of his face, your thumb brushing just beneath his cheekbone. He leaned into it instinctively, even as his hips flexed up into yours, matching your rhythm with short, upward thrusts that punched the air from your lungs.

The heat was unbearable now–between your thighs, beneath your skin, tangled in the grip of his calloused hands. The stretch of him was devastating, the press of his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you with ruthless precision.

You moaned through your teeth, your grip on his shoulder tightening. “John–I’m–I’m getting close…” He grunted, shifting one arm to wrap tight around your lower back, holding you steady as his other hand cradled your jaw. His thumb pressed lightly to your cheek, angling your face toward his.

“Don’t you dare look away from me,” He said, voice thick and low, almost trembling. “Wanna see you when you come…Wanna look you in the eyes and take in every fucking second of it.” You nodded, staring at him, your lips parted with a whimper as the pleasure started to crest. Your gaze stayed locked to his–deep blue and blown wide, full of something feral and focused and entirely yours.

Then it hit you.

You gasped—head tilting back despite his grip, but your eyes stayed on his, even as your thighs started to shake and your cunt pulsed around him in desperate waves.

“Fuck–John—” you moaned, nails clawing into his shoulders as your orgasm tore through you, body convulsing around his cock as you held his gaze, wide-eyed and gasping.

He groaned, deep and broken, holding you down against him as his hips snapped up hard into yours, chasing his own release. “That’s it—fuck, baby, look at me, don’t stop—”

Your hand cupped his face, holding him close as you trembled through the aftershocks, thighs twitching around his waist.

Then he let go.

His head dropped to your shoulder as he buried himself deep—his cock pulsing thick and hot inside you as he came with a ragged groan that sounded like it had been torn from the depths of his chest. You felt it—the warmth of him coating your insides, spilling deep and steady until it began to leak out around the base of his cock.

“God, you’re taking my cum so fucking well…” He gasped, voice shaking as his hips jerked shallowly inside you. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer as you rocked against him slowly–your slick and his cum making everything unbearably wet and sensitive. He thrust up into you a few more times–lazy, shallow strokes that made your body jolt from the overstimulation–before his arms wrapped around your back, holding you close.

You collapsed against him, forehead resting against his damp skin, your breaths tangled with his as you both rode the high down, heartbeat by heartbeat.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment.

And then finally…John pressed his lips to your temple and whispered, voice thick with reverence–

“…You wreck me, Y/N…Jesus Christ. I hope you can keep up with my stamina because I think I’m going to keep you up all night.” Your arms tightened around him in the afterglow, every inch of you pulsing and warm, your bodies tangled so tightly it felt like there was no line between where you ended and he began. Your cheek rested against the sweaty curve of his neck, his skin still buzzing with residual heat and adrenaline. You felt his pulse hammering beneath your lips, matching the erratic rhythm of your own heart.

A soft huff of a laugh escaped you, half exhausted and half incredulous as you murmured, “I think I can definitely put up a good feat…But all night may not be doable.” John let out a low, breathy laugh in response, his chest rising and falling against yours. The sound was raw and real, a little disbelieving, a little dazed.

“Okay…” He exhaled, brushing his hand down the slick arch of your spine. “Is three rounds enough?”

You tilted your head and pressed a kiss to the dip of his collarbone, lips brushing over the salt-slicked skin, and whispered against it, “I can definitely manage that.”

He groaned, low and satisfied, like the weight of your words settled somewhere in his bones.

“Good…” He rasped. “Because I’m not done with you just yet.” But even as he said it, his body began to ease, muscles softening beneath yours, tension draining away slowly like melting ice.

The cot shifted beneath you both as you shifted together, limbs rearranging and tangling in a quieter kind of closeness. John rolled slowly onto his back and took you with him, keeping your body draped over his chest, one large hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head as you tucked it under his jaw.

The room around you remained quiet, just the occasional creak of the cot, the low hum of the overhead light, and the distant wind outside stirring through the window, howling in the night.

John’s thumb brushed slow arcs along your spine, tender and reverent, while your fingers traced lazy shapes over the firm plane of his pec. You felt grounded. Sore. Used in the best way. Your lower body still throbbed with oversensitivity, and your back stung with every brush of breath against the bandage, but none of it pulled you from the present.

“Y/N?” He murmured after a while, voice half-lidded with exhaustion.

“Mm?”

His throat moved beneath your cheek. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded slowly, lips brushing his chest. “I’m good. Better than good. Just… really fucking full.”

That made him laugh again, the sound rumbling deep under your palm. “Yeah,” he said, smug now. “You’re gonna be feeling that for a while.”

You lifted your head just enough to arch a brow at him. “Cocky.”

He grinned, lazy and satisfied. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

You hummed, then kissed his jaw before settling back into the crook of his neck. “Didn’t say I minded. Just noting the observation.”

He gave your ass a slow, possessive squeeze, and the motion made you yelp against his skin. “Observation noted,” he murmured. “But if I’ve got three rounds to work with tonight, I might need to take a few more notes.”

You snorted against his chest. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re addictive,” He whispered back, voice suddenly softer, the edge of heat replaced with something weightier. More intimate. “…This wans’t just sex, you know.”

You froze–just slightly. Just long enough for him to notice.

Then he added, quieter still, “Not for me.”

Your breath caught, and your hand slid slowly up to his jaw, tilting his face down until your eyes met in the dim light. The rawness in his expression gutted you a little–like he’d been holding that truth in for longer than he wanted to admit.

Your thumb stroked the edge of his beard, your voice barely audible as you whispered, “Not for me either.”

A beat passed.

Then he kissed you again–not with heat, not with hunger–but with that soft, gentleness you didn’t think a man like him was fully capable of until now.

And when you finally closed your eyes, letting your body relax fully into his, your heartbeat slowed until it fell perfectly into rhythm with his–two teammates tangled together in the quiet after the chaos.

#this is what im talking about right here #CHEFS KISSSS #10/10 would reccomend to a friend

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