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marvelstoriesepic · 4 months ago

Text

Weakness

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You use Bucky’s only weakness to your advantage until it bites you in the ass.

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: feigning injuries; a sprained ankle; bruises; hiding injuries; combat fighting training; sparring sessions; mutual pining; Bucky being a doting sweetheart; Bucky being smug; Bucky being worried

Author’s Notes: This idea has been sitting in my drafts as a rough outline for months lol and I finally got the inspiration to make something out of it. I hope you will enjoy this! ♡

Masterlist

You love sparring with Bucky.

Maybe because you love the man.

But there is so much more to that, honestly.

You have basically sparred with anyone out of the team.

Steve is methodical. Always a teacher, always Captain. He calls out corrections in a way he does orders, his patience long-practiced. His strikes are accurate, economical, as if he calculates the exact amount of force necessary to bring you down and delivers it precisely, nothing wasted. But you always know he is holding back. He does not say it but you feel it in the way he controls every movement, never quite giving you the full weight of his strength. You learn from him, but there is always a ceiling to what he will allow you to take from the fight.

Natasha is sharp. She doesn’t coach you, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t hold back. She fights you like she fights anyone. You feel the sting of a bruise blooming before you even realize she struck you. And yet, when you get a hit in, when you shift fast enough to slip past her guard, her smirk is quicksilver - pleased, challenging, like she has just discovered something worth sinking her teeth into.

Wanda fights like she plays. Some days, she keeps her powers at bay, working only with what her body allows, light on her feet, swaying rather than striking. But she is not used to this. Not using her powers in a fight. So most of the time, she teases, powers tugging at your wrist mid-swing, a flicker of scarlett at the edge of your vision before she is suddenly behind you.

Sam is solid. He fights with his whole body, never wasting energy on anything that doesn’t serve his goal. He takes up space, keeps you on the defenses, his moves seamless. But he is generous too, throwing you a verbal lifeline mid-fight - “too slow, come on,” - challenging you in encouraging you. And when you get him down, he grins, bright and wide, like he wants you to win.

Clint fights like someone who doesn’t need to win, just needs to keep moving. He is slippery, dodging rather than blocking, grinning rather than growling. He makes a game of it, laughing at your frustration, forcing you to loosen up, to adapt, to try something unorthodox. He doesn’t spar to overpower. He spars to frustrate, to outlast, to make you think three steps ahead.

But Bucky.

Bucky watches you. Always. Even when he isn’t facing you directly, even when he’s standing in the shadows at the edge of the gym, you have his attention. It is something you have learned to steady yourself beneath. Because it never really seems to waver.

He is mindful. Of your form. Of your tells. Of how far he can push you. He does not go easy on you. Despite the obvious differences in height and weight and him being a super soldier. But he fights you like an opponent worth fighting. He fights you like himself. Precise. Controlled. Thoughtful. When he corrects you, it is not instruction, just a simple adjustment with the brush of his metal fingers nudging your wrist into a better angle, a small nod when you adapt.

And when you take him down - when you surprise him, when you shift your weight at the last moment and send him to the mat - there is that laugh breaking out. He is not stunned at the way you overpowered him. Not disbelieving. He merely laughs. A short burst of warmth, rare and genuine, something boyish in the way it escapes.

You live for that laugh.

Because Bucky knows your competence. He does not gift you victories because he knows you don’t need them in the first place. He expects you to win. He knows you can. And will. He does not say it outright, but you learned to read the subtle body language in the years of knowing him - the glimmer of something pleased in his eyes, the upturn at the corner of his mouth.

And when he helps you up - fingers gently curling around your wrist to pull you to your feet - he lingers just a little too long.

So yes, you love sparring with Bucky.

Basically, on the first day as an Avenger it was drilled into you that knowing your enemy is everything - know what you are up against, who you are fighting, how they move, what makes them weak.

You are good at this. At observing. You know how to study people, how to pick out patterns, how to find the smallest crack in an otherwise impenetrable wall and press until it splits wide open.

Still, Bucky Barnes is not an easy person to read.

But perhaps it was just a little too much fun figuring out what exactly his weaknesses are.

He doesn’t have many. His body is conditioned for war, his mind sharpened, his instincts too honed to give much away. If he has vulnerabilities, they are subtle. Nearly imperceptible to anyone who isn’t looking closely enough.

But you have been looking closely. For the better part of a year.

And then, about five months ago, something clicked.

Bucky Barnes does have a weakness.

A glaring one, in fact.

One so obvious you nearly laughed out loud when you finally pieced it together.

It’s you.

You are his weakness.

Bucky is a creature of routines.

The kind that keep him grounded in a world that still feels like shifting sand beneath his feet. And somehow, you have become part of them.

You don’t remember when it started, exactly. But you know that when you stumble into the kitchen in the morning, still half-asleep, Bucky is already there. Always. Sometimes with coffee already poured for you, sometimes just sitting at the counter like he’s lost, waiting like he’s been expecting something. You.

You tested it, once. You woke up later than usual, wanting to see if he still lingered. And sure enough, when you finally stepped into the kitchen, he was there, nursing a long-gone cup of coffee that was somehow still halfway filled, gaze fixed on the entryway even before you entered. Like he hadn’t been planning on leaving until he saw you. It’s when he loosened his grip on the poor mug. Flexing his fingers, as if he was close to shattering it.

Bucky is not a fan of crowded spaces.

He likes corners, walls at his back, exits in view. He keeps a respectable distance from most people, moving on silent feet, always aware of what’s around him.

Except when it comes to you.

You began to notice that in the common room. How he lets you sit closer than he does with anyone else, how he doesn’t shift away when his knee bumps his. How, when you walk side by side, he moves to make space for you without thinking. How he stops standing near the door when you are in a room, like some unconscious part of him doesn’t feel the need to watch his six when you are there.

And then there are the small things.

The way his arm comes up instinctively when you reach past him for something, like he is preparing to steady you or get it down for you if it is something you can’t reach. The way he steps in front of you if something startled him, body moving before anything else.

Little things. Automatic things.

And the most endearing part is, that he genuinely does not seem like he knows he is doing all that.

Bucky is strategic on missions.

He follows the plan without a hitch, keeps his cool and executes flawlessly.

Until you are in danger.

Then he gets frantic. He even tends to snap at Steve. He gets tighter, sharper, more lethal. It seems like instinct.

Just last month, you got cut along your thigh that you managed to patch up before the mission was even completely over. But Bucky was stoic and brooding. Frown on his face the whole time. He saw the blood, saw the way you had a limp in your step and something utterly cold settled in his eyes.

Sam later mentioned to you with a weird wiggle of his eyebrow that the man whose knife slashed you never had the chance to land another hit on anyone.

You started testing him in small ways. Seeing if he moves when you move. If he adjusts his strategy to keep you in his line of sight. If he listens to your voice above all others in a debriefing, even when Steve is talking.

And he does. Every time.

Bucky got mad at Clint once because he ate the last donut that was meant for you. Clint was genuinely terrified. He even went out to get you new ones.

Bucky picks up stuff from the common room he knows belong to you and takes it to your room.

Just yesterday, there was a book on your nightstand. One you had mentioned offhand in conversation weeks ago, something you said you wanted to read someday. And you know for a fact that Bucky got dragged into the city by Sam and Steve the day before.

After years as an Avenger, you learn to fool people.

You know how to smile when you need to, how to shake things off, how to deal with missions gone wrong or people unsaved.

But you can’t fool Bucky.

He just knows when something is off. He notices the way your voice shifts, the way your shoulders carry tension differently. You don’t have to say anything. He just knows.

And he never pushes. He lingers. He makes himself available. He sits beside you in silence when you don’t feel like talking. He glares at everyone who wants something unnecessary from you in times like those.

And then he would just go, come on, let’s go do something.

It is basically just watching a movie or cooking a dinner or baking cookies, but everything is more fun with him, and soon enough your smile touches your eyes again.

Bucky does not share.

He does not share his food. He does not share his belongings.

But he does with you.

When you are out and freezing, he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over your shoulders without a word.

He lets you take fries off his plate and lets you drink from his cup, much to Sam’s surprise and disgruntlement.

Bucky does not talk about his nightmares.

Not to anyone.

But on certain nights, when sleep refuses to hold him and his mind is drowning in things long past but never gone, he finds you.

You were in the common room when it first started. Months ago. Nursing a mug of tea, when he wandered in, looking lost and exhausted.

With a single glance at him, you nodded to the couch, shifting over to make space, and he came sitting down without a word.

He let you talk. He even seemed to relish it. Intertwining his hands at his front and laying his head back against the backside of the couch, closing his eyes and listening to your mocked aggravation at the fact that Sam left a half-eaten sandwich on the counter again.

He stayed until the sun crept in through the windows, slight snoring making you smile.

It happened again. And then again.

After a while, you started recognizing the signs when his nightmares are getting worse again. The way he drifts into whatever room you are in and stays locked in his own when you are gone on a mission or out with the girls. How he leans against the doorway for a second longer than necessary before stepping inside, like he is debating whether he has the right to be there.

Sometimes, he’d pretend he’s just passing through. He would linger in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee he doesn’t drink while you are having your conversation with Wanda and Natasha.

One night, he even came to your room. Knocking and standing there with his hands fidgeting at his sides, eyes shamefully lowered, looking so much like a puppy in search of some love.

He didn’t pretend. He didn’t offer excuses. He just stood there and you saw it in his eyes.

You took him in your arms and then you took him in.

First, he sat down on the floor beside your bed, back against the wall, knees drawn up like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. He didn’t say anything for a long time. You just sat beside him on the ground, laying your head on his shoulder.

Eventually, his breathing evened out, head falling onto yours.

He would fall asleep like that. Until you managed to get him to lie down in your bed beside you. He usually sleeps like a baby when he’s with you.

You are not stupid. Neither are you naive. You have always been good at reading people, at knowing them, at watching them, and deciphering the things they do not say.

And you know what this might mean.

You certainly know what it means to you.

The way your pulse picks up when Bucky walks into a room so casually because you are there. The way your stomach flutters when his gaze lingers on you. The way your chest gets so unbearably full when he does all those smallest things for you.

But you think you also might know what it means to him. He seeks you out for everything, on instinct or not. Smiling seems to come so easily to him when he is with you. You are the only person he lets into his personal space - the only person he doesn’t startle away from when it comes to accidentally touching.

But Bucky Barnes is not a man who allows himself to want things easily.

So, you will not force yourself upon him. You will not push. You will not demand. You will not take what he does not freely offer.

Because you understand that he does not fear pain, or war, or perhaps even death.

But he fears something real, something good, something that cannot be fought off with fists or buried beneath old ghosts.

Because he does not think it is something he deserves yet.

But you are willing to wait. Until he is ready. Until he is sure. Until he knows that this is what he wants.

And if he never is, if he never comes to you with certainty in his hands, if he never crosses the space between you - then you will wait anyway.

Because for him, you would wait forever.

****

“Alright, sweetheart. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

There’s a smug grin on his face as he’s circling you.

And you know why it is there.

Because you are currently three losses deep into a losing streak against Bucky. And that just won’t do. You need a win.

You move first, closing the distance fast, testing his defenses. He blocks. A quick jab - he dodges. A feint - he doesn’t bite.

He knows your patterns, how you move, how you think. But you know him, too.

You go low, aiming for his legs, but he anticipates and shifts out of reach. “Getting predictable there, doll,” he drawls, smirking.

Yeah, you’re gonna wipe that off.

Rolling your eyes, you adjust. A punch goes up that isn’t meant to land, just to see how he reacts. He blocks high, but his balance shifts and there is a brief opening. A second and you are too late.

You strike fast, sweeping low again, and this time, you actually catch him. Not enough to take him down, but a start.

Bucky huffs, rolling his neck. “Not good enough, but better,” he teases, smirk still in place.

“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, lunging again.

He meets you halfway, and for a moment, it’s just movement - sharp and fast and fluid, but you keep your balance. You duck, weave, block.

You land a hit, but it barely fazes him. He grabs your wrist, twisting - flipping you, but you are prepared, rolling and springing back up.

“That all you got?”

“Come find out.”

He laughs brightly before going in for attack. You block his strike, twisting out of reach.

It’s definitely not all you got.

He is not expecting you to cheat.

Not that you call it cheating anyway.

You decide that it’s time to take advantage of that weakness of his.

After all, it has worked before. And it will work again.

Bucky feints left. You dodge, pivot, but let your foot catch just so against the mat to send you off balance. The stumble isn’t exaggerated - it doesn’t need to be. You land on your side, letting out a sharp breath as if this is not exactly what you were expecting, and grab your ankle, wincing.

Bucky stops immediately. Just like always. It’s the first time you feign your ankle getting hurt but he reacts all the same.

His shift is instant. His whole body tenses. Taking a step toward you with his brows furrowed tightly, he scans you like he’s already running through every possible way to help you. Carrying you to the medical wing, for example.

“Shit, doll. You okay?” His voice is softer now. Concerned. So genuinely worried, you might actually feel bad.

He crouches without hesitation, without a thought, eyes so intensely fixed on you. And that smug grin is as predicted wiped cleanly off his face.

“Lemme see-”

He reaches out to you but that is when you strike.

You twist up, leg sweeping out and knocking his feet from under him. His surprised noise is so satisfying as he goes down, flat on his back, sprawled across the mat.

Silence.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Bucky groans loudly.

You are kneeling beside him, grinning, chest heaving. “Kinda needed that win, Barnes. No bad feelings, yeah?”

Bucky just stares at the ceiling for a long moment, one hand scrubbing down his face. He exhales sharply, muttering something under his breath, something that sounds suspiciously like every goddam time.

The last time you used your little trick on him, you had sold a jab against your side, staggering back and exhaling sharply as if he hit some sensitive point. He froze instantly, eyes wide. And you spun him into a flawless takedown.

The time before that it was your shoulder. All you needed was a slight grimace in fake pain and his whole demeanor changed in an instant. His hands went up slightly, a step in your direction and that was your opening to duck under his arm, and bring him down with a precise twist.

Yeah, alright, people might believe that that technique is a little mean and it certainly wouldn’t help you at all in the open field, but Clint did tell you to try something unorthodox.

You stretch, still smirking, and tilt your head at him. “You know, you’d think after falling for this multiple times, you’d have learned by now.”

Bucky’s head rolls to the side and he glares at you. Not in anger, not even close. Just that specific kind of exasperation that you have come to learn is something only you get to see from him.

He huffs. “Should’ve known you’d pull this shit again.”

“Should have. And here I thought I am predictable.”

He gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“Can’t believe I was worried.”

“Aww, you were?” you say sarcastically, lightly. Almost in a sly sing-song voice, because is is always worried. That’s the whole point of this.

Another hand drags down his face, but there is a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

****

You exhale deeply, rolling your shoulders, as you make your way down to the gym.

Your muscles are stiff. Everything aches in that dull, stubborn way that promises it will get worse before it gets better.

The bruises that paint your ribs throb with your pulse. You remember the sharp, biting crack when you hit the ground.

It was a mission for Steve, Nat, and you, though you definitely could have used some backup.

You feel terrible.

And you hadn’t told Bucky any of that when you came home yesterday, sometime late.

Instead, you sent him a quick I’m fine. Training tomorrow? and buried yourself in sleep before he could pry. You know how he gets, after all. How his worry manifests, his eyes linger and his mouth tightens when you brush him off. You did not have the energy for it last night. And you don’t have it now. He does not have to know what hits you have taken due to your own recklessness. You already got a lecture from Cap. Don’t need it from his best friend.

So you show up. Because, if you don’t, he will know something is wrong.

Bucky is already waiting for you, standing loose and ready on the mat. His eyes snap up the moment you enter, scanning you the way he always does. Checking.

You ignore his gaze.

“Ready to get your ass kicked?” you say, tossing your water bottle onto the bench, forcing something light into your voice.

He smirks, arms crossed. “That what’s gonna happen?”

You step onto the mat, careful not to wince, careful to keep your breath even despite the sharpness pulling at your ribs. “Don’t sound so doubtful, Barnes. I’ll let you eat the mat.”

He snorts, tilting his head. “I sure like to see you try.”

He raises his hands, shifting into a stance, watching you closely. Too closely. There is something probing in his gaze today.

“How’d the mission go? Steve mentioned you guys ran into some-”

You don’t give him time to finish - time to think.

You move, fast, hoping to catch him off guard.

He sidesteps, but you strike again.

And immediately regret it.

Your ribs scream. Punishing. Your breath stutters, but you grit your teeth and keep going, keep pushing forward and attacking because if you pause, he will most definitely notice.

It goes on for perhaps a minute and you think you might actually be able to bite away the pain your whole body is consumed with, but then you stumble.

It’s a half-second of hesitation, a misstep that normally wouldn’t happen. But it causes you to trip away a few steps. Sharp pain courses through your ribs and a hand instinctively shoots up to your side. A hiss slips past your lips. Loud enough for him to hear.

But instead of reacting the way he always does - immediately stopping, immediately reaching - he just huffs amused, shaking his head.

“Bad time for trying that trick again, sweetheart. Shoulda known better.” There is that smugness in his tone.

His voice is light, teasing. His eyes are sharp, watching.

You grit your teeth, saying nothing.

He thinks you’re faking.

Which - fine. You have done this a few times. But now, with every movement grinding against the ache in your ribs, you wish he would just stop you.

Because it’s getting harder to hide.

It’s getting harder to see.

Bucky seems confused for a second when you don’t react to him at all, but doesn’t have time to act on it as you are going in for the next hit.

And Bucky dodges you too easily like he doesn’t even need to try. You swing again, slower than you should be, weaker than you should be - and he sidesteps, frowning.

“Tryin’ a new strategy?” he asks, but his voice is careful. His eyes are assessing.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just go again, ignoring the way your body protests, ignoring the way you are moving wrong like you are just a second behind yourself. You hope maybe muscle memory will carry you through.

It doesn’t seem like it.

Bucky stopped throwing punches himself, only staying in defense mode and he won’t stop fucking looking at you.

And then you pivot too fast - twist wrong.

White-hot pain flares through your side so fiercely, it rips the breath from your lungs. A harsh, unsteady sound falls out. You can’t catch it. You stagger, grip tightening into fists, trying to push through.

But Bucky’s expression now definitely shifted. Amusement gone. Smugness gone. His face is hard.

You ignore that and try to go in for the next hit, but Bucky steps in fast, too fast for you to counter in your state, hooking an arm around you, pressing your back against his chest. He doesn’t throw you - he could, easily, he would - but he just halts your movement, stopping you clean in your tracks.

The pain spikes again and you gasp sharply. Your knees nearly buckle and Bucky’s grip on you tightens.

His hands are firm around you. Steady. But his breathing is not. It’s fast, strained, the muscles in his arms locking as he keeps you upright.

“What the hell happened?” His voice is so low, so serious. There is an edge to it, teetering on loosing control.

“It’s not a big deal,” you grit out.

“Bullshit.” Now he sounds harsh.

But his fingers still press so gently into your side, checking you out.

You whimper, flinching.

And Bucky freezes.

“Shit.” He shifts his grip, an arm around your waist, moving you to face him and still trying to support you without making it worse. His heartbeat is fast. You can feel it. Even in his hands on you.

He grabs the hem of your shirt and lifts it enough to see your torso. A breath hitches. It’s not yours.

The bruises are bad. Worse than they were yesterday. Dark and sprawling across your ribs, blooming in ugly purples and reds. You feel the shift in him, the way his whole body goes still.

You watch his tense features in discomfort. His eyes are turbulent, filled with a wildness stemming from something dark that writhes beneath his skin and causes his hands to shake against you. A tremor passes his jaw.

He curses under his breath.

“You didn’t tell me.” His voice drags low.

“I didn’t think it was that bad.”

He lets out a deep and rumbling sigh. Trying to compose himself. “It is bad, Y/n! How come you thought it’s a good idea to train like this, huh?”

He meets your eyes. There is a sternness in his expression. His eyes are heavy.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

Bucky lets out a humorless breath. Closes his eyes for a moment until he takes a breath in again.

“I was already worried, doll. I always am. You know that, no?” he speaks solemnly. “You think not telling me makes this better?”

You open your mouth, then close it.

He shakes his head, exhaling profoundly through his nose. His grip tightens, but not enough to hurt you. He holds you carefully.

You take in a deep breath. “I- I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t wanna talk about it. I’m sorry, Bucky.”

His jaw is clenched and he bites his bottom lip, staring at the bruises littering your skin for a moment with eyes so dark they make you shiver.

“How did that happen? Who did this?”

You scoff half-heartedly. “Got a little messy. Pretty sure that guy’s not doing that well either.” You aim to get even the tiniest bits of amusement out of him but he might have gotten even more grim.

His touch is slow, a careful sweep of his finger across your skin, studying you for reactions.

He opens his mouth. Something on his tongue he wants to get out, but he hesitates. He swallows. Waits a few seconds. His voice is a rasp. “Don’t do that again.”

“Getting hurt on missions is kind of a normal occurrence, Buck. Not much I can do about that-”

“No, I mean-” he interrupts, voice quieter. “Don’t hide it again. Not from me. I- Just please.”

There is something in his tone that makes you stare for a while longer.

Then, you nod. Just once. But you mean it.

****

It took weeks for you to properly heal.

But finally, earlier today, you got the clearance of Dr. Cho - and Bucky, because he somehow told himself he has a say in that kind of thing - to step onto the mat again and resume training.

There is still a phantom pain in your ribs but it’s locked somewhere in the back of your mind.

But Bucky still would not stop fucking looking at you.

And it never is in a casual way. Bucky always watches you like he is waiting for something. Like his body is ready to move before his mind even has to tell it to. Like he is memorizing you, making sure nothing slips past him.

He is currently standing in front of you on the mat, rolling his shoulders, the stretch of muscle under his shirt shifting with the movement. The tension in his frame hasn’t faded, no matter how much you’ve reassured him. His fingers flex, then curl into loose fists.

Then his eyes find yours.

“Alright,” he says, voice low and edged with something firm, something not up for debate. “Don’t ever pull that shit on me again. You’re good enough as it is. No need for all that, yeah?” There is something heavy in his tone. “I'll even let you win this time if you need it so badly, doll,” he adds with a hint of humor that his voice lacked earlier, bouncing right back into your easy friendship.

You huff out a laugh and stretch your arms over your head, feeling the pull of muscles that have gone a little too long without use. “Trust me Bucky, I’ve learned my lesson.” Your voice is rather light, but it carries an edge as well.

Bucky’s jaw ticks.

There is something like guilt crossing his eyes for a second. Gone as fast as it came but you catch it. His lips are pressed together tightly and he seems to hold back an uncomfortable cough.

You’ve talked about this already. Plenty, in the weeks of your recovery. You told him you wouldn’t have believed him either after the many times you feigned injury during matches. That if anything, it was your own stubbornness that got you hurt and not him.

He only agreed with the stubborn part but he stopped bringing it up.

Still, you see he hasn’t let it go.

He carries too much guilt as it is. You don’t want him to carry more. So, you definitely won’t question his weakness during fights again. It was kind of funny, though, at least you’ll hold onto that.

You roll out your shoulders, shaking off the stiffness, then take your stance. “C’mon Barnes. You gonna fight me or just stand there looking pretty?”

His mouth twitches, a ghost of a smirk, maybe even a ghost of pink at the tip of his ears, but his eyes stay sharp.

He steps in, closing the space, moving with the same impossible control he always does.

You block his first strike, but it shakes through you. The force of it reminds you just how much power he’s holding back.

His eyes snap to your face. He doesn’t stop watching.

Studying.

Testing how you move, how much strain you can handle.

You feel yourself get into it again. The movement, the impact, the swiftness. The gym is filled with the sounds of breaths and footwork against the mat.

Bucky tests you, pushes you.

And you give as good as you get.

Your body remembers even if it’s been weeks. Your muscles adjust, wake up in a way they haven’t in too long. You move on instinct, dodging, striking, thinking, even pulling a move that you copied from Nat. One that Bucky didn’t see coming.

And it honestly looks pretty good for you, until your foot catches.

It’s nothing at first, a simple shift in weight, an uneven pivot that causes your balance to tip slightly off center. But a dizziness suddenly overcomes you and it’s too late to catch you. Your ankle twists, your knees buckle and the floor comes rushing up to you.

You hit the mat hard, landing awkwardly on your side, the jolt of pain snapping through your ankle up your whole leg, sharp enough for you to wince.

Shit.

You suck in a breath, already dreading what this looks like, what Bucky must be thinking. The timing couldn’t be worse. After everything - after the fights weeks ago, after the conversations, after the promise you just made to never feign getting hurt again - what else would he think?

But before you can lift your head, before you can force out some half-hearted quip, Bucky is already there.

Not hesitating. Not wary.

Rushing. Fast and frantic.

He’s at your side, crouching so fast his knees nearly hit the mat.

And you find yourself blinking at him stunned.

You expected him to pause. To hesitate. Maybe even get angry - to assume, even for a second, that you are feigning again, that you had just promised him not to pull that anymore but here you are.

But there is none of that.

Only the same panic from every other time you’ve dropped yourself to the ground on purpose. But this time it is real. There just was no way for him to know that. He still reacts the same.

“Where does it hurt, doll? Talk to me.”

His voice is calm, but his face is tight. His brows are drawn together, tension lining his mouth. The breaths he lets out are just a little too measured.

You blink at him, still baffled at the way with how fast he was there, how fast his reaction was.

“Just my leg,” you say, exhaling slowly. “It’s nothing. I just got dizzy and fell.”

That makes him frown, deeper than before. His hand moves so gently as he lifts the fabric of your training pants to get a look, taking your calve into his other hand. The touch sends a pulse of pain through you but you manage not to let it show on your face. You’ve had worse. You’re an Avenger, after all.

But Bucky’s jaw clenches so tightly at the sight of the swollen bone and the deepening flush of color on your ankle as if it is serious.

“Might have sprained it,” he mutters gruffly, and the displeasure in his voice is so clear.

“Think I’ll live, Buck,” you quip lightly and shift, trying to stand up but his hand doesn’t let up on your leg and he presses just lightly against your shoulders to make you sit back down.

“You still feelin’ dizzy?” he asks, basically ignoring what you said, voice dipping lower. His gaze locks onto yours. Intense.

You shake your head, trying to show him how casual this whole thing is but his eyes won’t stop searching you and it makes your stomach churn.

“I’m fine, Buck.”

His eyes don’t move. He doesn’t let go.

“Why did you even believe me?” You voice it light, but there is something cautious underlining it, you can’t shake. “Could’ve faked again.”

Bucky rakes a hand through his hair with a long breath. He averts his eyes.

“Saw you go down,” he says with a shrug that seems just a little too exaggeratedly indifferent. “S’ enough for my head to go straight to hell.”

That’s certainly not something you expected him to say and you are stunned once again. But you can’t help the way your belly does some delightful flips.

“And you promised me you wouldn’t,” he adds, shoulders straightening, like he is trying to shift your attention from the words he said before. From the admission he made.

“I’m really not going to do it again,” you promise again. But you won’t forget his words.

“I know, sweetheart,” he says sweetly, certainly, but the tension of your current situation lingers.

His touch on you is so damn careful, checking and rechecking, making you tell him what and how something hurts and you almost laugh out loud at his fussing.

“Buck, it’s not like I broke it,” you point out, a laugh in your voice. “I can still-”

“You’re not gonna walk around on that.”

You lift your brow at him, at his tone, an amused smile on your face but he just stares back. Without the smiling part.

Then he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face before standing to his full height, adjusting his stance before crouching slightly again.

“Alright, come on.”

You blink but his hands already settle, one beneath your legs, the other bracing your back, and you barely have time to react before he is lifting you, arms locking as he pulls you against his chest with an ease you could only dream of.

“Bucky-”

“Not a word,” he warns with a grunt.

You sigh, letting your head fall back against his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Don’t care.”

****

A sprained ankle takes anywhere from two to six weeks to heal properly, depending on the severity. You’ve had a few sprained ankles in your career already, so you would know.

But yours sits on the longer end of that spectrum and it frustrates you to no end because what the fuck. You were just done healing and now you got to do it all again.

The first week, Bucky barely lets you breathe without hovering close. He is always there, catching you if you wobble because you are too damn stubborn and rather hop around the compound than use a clutch. Because that would make it too easy, wouldn’t it?

The second week you get snappish. Tony makes sure to leave the room when you enter, Sam gets defensive, Natasha just smirks what frustrates you even more, Vision is a fucking robot only answering in a robotic voice way that drives you up the wall when he gives you a list of stores around New York that sell kettle fries but you only wanted to know where they are in the compounds kitchen. And Bucky endures every tiny bit of it, only that he is entirely unmoved by your attitude. At one point you just taped your ankle and tried to go down to the gym but Bucky stopped you before you could reach the elevator. He already stood there, brow quirked, arms crossed, unimpressed but amused.

By the third week, he sat next to you during team training, watching, studying. You criticized movements, talked about strategies, and laughed at Sam when Nat made him faceplant onto the mat.

Then the fourth week rolled in and you could finally put weight on your foot without wincing. For you, that meant you were good to go train again. But not for Bucky. So that meant another week of waiting.

But now you are back on the mat. Fucking again.

And you promise yourself, you will not fall this time. Not on purpose, not by accident.

Bucky stands across from you, arms loose at his sides, weight balanced, watching as you roll your shoulders and move through your warm-up.

“Got any last words before I kick your ass, Barnes?”

His mouth twitches. That half-smirk, something smug but fond, something that flies through his blue eyes like a spark.

“I dunno, sweetheart. Wouldn’t wanna land you on the sidelines again.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes.

“Bite me, Barnes.”

The moment you move, he matches it.

His reflexes are quicker than yours - always have been, always will be - but your advantage is that you know that. You know him. His patterns, the way he shifts his weight, the way his left shoulder always tenses a fraction of a second before he throws a punch. You don’t need to match his strength to win. You just need to read him.

The first strike comes low, an attempt to test your footing, but you pivot fast, avoiding the sweep of his leg with a practiced step-back. You counter with a jab - not meant to hit, just to distract - but he reads it immediately, catches your wrist, yanks you forward.

You twist, using the momentum, your free hand shooting up - Bucky dodges, barely, but you are already adjusting, using your own imbalance to push into him.

His hands are always steady, whether he’s attacking or defending. He uses his strength not to hurt you, but to push you, to remind you that you can take it.

And you do.

Blow for blow, counter for counter.

You refrain from looking at his face because he looks distractingly hot with his hair falling into his eyes and all, whipping around with his movements.

The moment his weight shifts forward, you are already countering. Stepping out of reach just as his arm sweeps for your waist. Your breath comes sharp as you turn and aim a well-placed jab that he sidesteps.

Bucky’s eyes gleam. Thrilled.

“Not bad,” he calls, already throwing another feint.

“Not trying to be”, you fire back, ducking, moving with him like it’s a dance. Like your bodies know this better than your minds do.

You push - he counters. You feint - he laughs, quick and breathy. You strike - he blocks.

Fuck, you missed this.

But then, he shifts.

And something changes.

It’s in his stance. The way he adjusts - not a mistake, but a decision. And in the half-second, before you react, before you catch on, you realize you don’t know what he is planning.

Your body is moving, a reaction before thought, but he is quicker - and you only feel him wind his arm around your waist, spin you around, and crash his lips against yours.

You stagger, letting out a surprised grunt against his mouth, caught completely fucking blindsided, because - what?

His mouth is firm, demanding - and it sears straight through your skin, your ribs, right into your bones, into your pulse, because Bucky Barnes is kissing you.

It’s not soft.

Not hesitant.

Not careful.

It’s everything it shouldn’t be in the middle of a fight.

It’s so unexpected that you don’t even notice the moment your back hits the mat. Don’t notice the way he takes you down like it’s nothing, like it’s unpredictable, because you weren’t ready.

You didn’t see it coming.

By the time you blink, by the time your brain catches up, he is already above you. Hovering.

His weight is balanced, both arms braced on either side of your head, and he is looking at you like he just won the fucking lottery.

Smirking. So damn smug.

Because Bucky finally found out your weakness. And he used it to his advantage.

Because what else could it be than him?

“You cheated,” you breathe out. Where has all the air gone?

“You kinda started it, sweetheart.” Bucky grins so wide, so proud, so happy. He pants above you. His eyes are shining.

And then he ducks down again.

He kisses you once more.

Slower, this time. Deeper. With something that lingers, something that presses into you as his hand slides along your jaw, something that feels like it has been waiting far too long for this exact moment.

And you don’t fight it.

Because it seems, you no longer have to wait for Bucky Barnes.

“You’ll know… not just in the way they look at you, but in how they’re not looking anywhere else.”

- butterflies rising

#bucky barnes fanfiction #avenger!reader #avenger!bucky #avengers bucky #bucky barnes x reader #bucky marvel #buckybarnes #bucky fanfic #bucky #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #marvel bucky barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes one shot

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swordgrace · 2 months ago

Text

❝ 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮. ❞

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

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 10.0K (sorry!)

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), teammates to lovers, angst, talk of insecurities, john is an asshole who’s emotionally constipated, mention of violence, wound tending trope, heavy kissing, groping, teasing, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, mild body worship, hair pulling, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, missionary position, john has a huge praise kink, aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: listen ,,, I know he’s a bad person & he’s flawed but he’s so well-written and hot … and it’s wyatt russell !! first time writing for john and I loved this, I hope you guys love it too! thank you so much for your support! 🫶

Ash floats through smoke-laden air in the aftermath of an explosion, chunks of a building blown into the streets, screams of civilians pounding within your ears. Time stills, as if it’s come to a crawl, and everything slows around you.

Missions still paralyze you from time to time, fear and doubt creeping in, keeping you frozen in-place. It’s gotten somewhat easier, adapting to chaotic situations, attempting to fit in with your new teammates.

A clammy perspiration clings to your flesh beneath your suit, the design nondescript. Valentina had pushed for something flashy, more in-line with your abilities, but you refused. The less that you stuck out, the better.

It wasn’t nearly as impressive as the rest of the team, healing powers at the expense of your own energy, but you were designated as the ‘medic’, for obvious reasons. Whenever someone was injured or too roughed-up, you were there to help.

“You still with us over there?”

John Walker’s snide quip emanates from the communication link sitting in your ear, and it’s enough to effectively shatter your stupor. It wasn’t a malicious remark — just a little annoying, likely furthered by his tone of voice.

Steve Rogers was someone you knew, years ago — an acquaintance, really, but he’d helped get you out of a bind with undercover H.Y.D.R.A operatives. When he wore the shield, when Sam wore the shield, it stood for something greater than themselves.

Walker had been thrown into enough turmoil already; losing the role of Captain America, murdering an innocent, losing his family. It was all his fault, he knew this — it didn’t make the pain any less, knowing he was at the root of it all.

The both of you butted heads more often than not, two differing personalities that clashed in verbal sparring matches or thinly-veiled hostility. You’d tried to empathize with him, but he made it difficult with his condescending attitude.

Bucky had played mediator more times than you could count — you didn’t enjoy getting angry, the feeling never benefited you. Nevertheless, you were trying to get along with Walker and learn to work better as teammates.

Things were progressing, albeit slowly. Even after extending the olive branch and being kind to him, maybe too nice, he still held some lingering indifference towards you.

“I copy.” In the aftermath of thwarting enemies of the state, you prefer to help the civilians, ensuring that they were out of harm’s way, healed. Jogging toward a group of people attempting to move rubble aside, you’re quick to assist.

“There’s still one more, if someone wants to take care of it,” Ava’s voice comes over the communicator, muddled by background noise of emergency vehicles. “Unless you need help.”

“I got it.” Quick to volunteer, Walker’s voice cuts in before dissipating. You’re busy helping move wreckage aside, freeing any trapped citizens and making way for ambulances. Wailing sirens fill the air, and things move swiftly.

The air smells of burning, intermingled with a twinge of copper, a streak of crimson splashed upon your cheek. It’s a shallow cut, something trivial and minor, muscles aching with a dull throb after the dust begins to settle.

Helicopters begin to circle overhead, the media soon to follow. It was some rogue section of former H.Y.D.R.A operatives that had caused this mess, and with the formation of the New Avengers, these threats seem to appear more often.

The public is torn — one side openly celebrating that there’s protection again, the other side scornful of a ragtag group of government rejects. You aren’t one to pay attention to the discourse, focusing on finding your own footing, building relationships and making amends.

Despite having the team to lean on, you had a complicated relationship with your own family. After your powers manifested, you became isolated, kept at a distance, prompting you to run away and find S.H.I.E.L.D, when it still existed.

Still, you felt alone sometimes, but the pain had lessened with the passage of time. Alexei, of all people, treated you like a daughter, and Ava proved to be a reliable friend, despite her constant grimace. The more you assimilated with them, the more the bitter sting dissipated.

The team was a conglomerate of fragmented pasts — scars, veiled wounds, regrets; but they had become your family, or something close, and that meant the world to you.

As first responders began to flood the scene, you regrouped with the rest of the team, scraped and battered from the fighting, but all intact. Bucky and Yelena typically helmed any media events following a battle, but this time, everyone wanted to go home.

“Look at us,” Alexei laughs, placing a hand on John’s shoulder, and Yelena’s. “We are good team! The best team that the world has ever seen!” He cheers, and you find his enthusiasm endearing. John winces, stepping away from the Russian’s hold.

“You say that after every mission.” Yelena points out, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. The jet is somewhere down the street, and you all begin the arduous process of walking back.

“It is to remind of the truth, of our strength.” Alexei boasts, gleeful as ever as he jogs to keep up with Bucky. Bucky’s taken to letting him pretend that he’s the “co-captain”, just to keep his spirits high.

Morale is Alexei’s specialty — there is never a dull moment when he’s around, and his enthusiasm evokes a small smile from you, curling at the corners of your mouth. Dull, throbbing pangs of sore muscle ebbs through your body.

Straggling along at the tail end of the group, you step through some of the smaller pieces of rubble, a majority of what remains to be disposed of by a clean-up crew. Your mind is elsewhere, and the idea of sleeping once you’re back to the Watchtower is very appealing.

John is there too, uncharacteristically quiet as he walks a pace or two ahead of you, and you notice the slight stutter in his gait. There’s crimson blooming from a gash on the back of his suit, a deep wound, and your brows furrow together.

He didn’t say anything about it, which is typical, but you can’t help but be concerned. You didn’t dislike John, simply abhorred his attitude and the way he sometimes believed that he wasn’t at-fault.

Closing the distance, you come up on his flank, softly clearing your throat. “You’re hurt,” You murmur, low enough for only him to hear. He has an issue with getting injured, as if his pride is simultaneously bruised, so you keep it cordial. “I can take care of it.”

He’s always been reluctant to accept your help, allowing himself to fester within the pain, as if it’s some sort of penance for all the wrong he’s done. His muscles ache, and the gash, bruises, and cuts don’t make anything easier.

“I’m fine,” Dismissive, John brushes your concern aside, focusing on getting back to the jet without collapsing. The serum does its part, easier to manage the pain, but it doesn’t take away the sting. “It’s not that bad.” He utters, hoping you’ll drop it.

It’s his tone again; bitter, indifferent, swatting your offer aside as if you’re more bothersome than helpful. For reasons you can’t explain, it makes you angry, as if he’s too good for your help. Your jaw clenches, and you try again.

“There’s nothing wrong with accepting help, John. When we get back to the Watchtower, I can —”

“I said I’m fine.” Walker retorts, snapping at you without hesitation. It’s born from an amalgamation of agony and his own innermost demons that he’s wrestling with. He stares ahead, not wanting to look at your expression.

Bewildered, you fight against getting frustrated with him, wondering if there’s something that extends beyond his surface-level condescension.

Though, you wonder what you did to make him hate you so much — you sparred about the past, sure, but you were trying to bury the hatchet.

As if pierced by something sharp, you scoff, attempting to smother the flicker of fury that burned within your chest. It overrides your judgment, mouth moving before you can tell yourself to stop. “What’s your problem with me? Jesus, Walker, I just want to help you.”

The both of you are far away enough for the rest to remain oblivious to your sudden squabbling, and John grits his teeth, a sharp inhale splitting his lungs. “I can handle this on my own.” His tone is edged, but there’s something more beneath the surface.

Cerulean hues issue a warning for you to drop the subject, and you do, albeit reluctantly. Anger diminishes into confusion, uncertainty; you didn’t understand. Despite your efforts, he continued to swat you away as if you were a pest.

The splinter of desperation in your cadence turns his stomach, verbal sparring settling into a tenuous silence. John steals a glance despite himself, noticing the forlorn look that is etched into your brow, as if you’ve done something wrong.

He knows it’s not you — never has been, it’s him. John’s agitation dwindles into guilt, knowing that your intentions were wholly good, selfless. It’s something that he wishes he could have, and he’s working on it, but the process is emotionally heavy.

Scorned, you keep pace with him, even if he’s pushed you aside, ensuring that he makes it to the jet intact. The rest of the team regards you with perplexity, though you’re dismissive of it, settling into the webbing of your flight-seat.

The aftermath is often hushed — bodies catching their breath, a wordless recuperation, senses beginning to climb down from heightened adrenaline. Bucky’s piloting you out, heading back to the Watchtower.

Exhaustion settles in, replacing the exhilaration that comes with missions, the surge of vigor in your bloodstream. Tilting backwards, your head meets the cool interior of the jet, engine’s idle buzz thrumming beneath your boots.

John sits beside you, unexpectedly, his strenuous sigh rattling your body, passing from the bulk of his bicep to you. His visage is contorted into a look of thinly-veiled wistfulness, glancing sideways at you, a faint grimace of apology.

Quiet, you don’t relocate, simmering in the silence without so much as a murmur. Copper stings your nostrils, the scent of his blood, and you pretend that it doesn’t phase you; it does.

Your arms loosely fold over your chest, listening to the drone of the quinjet. The ride home is short, shorter than expected, and you’re eager to crawl beneath scalding water and let it burn the rush away.

As Bucky prepares for landing on the helipad outside, your gaze flutters toward John, whose stare is attempting to sear through the metal walls of the jet’s interior. He seems gone, as if his mind is a thousand miles away.

It was the same look he had when you were in the Void with him; loathing, conflicted, ripping himself apart for you to see.

The jet tremors violently as it descends onto the helipad, the noise scraping against your ears, a sound that’s still jarring to you. John remains unphased — he’s done it hundreds of times, terse as the hull begins to open.

Saying something now seems meaningless, words fading to ash within your throat, raw from thirst. Your fingers idly curl into the sleeves of your suit, tension relinquished as the team begins to file out of the jet, bearing the bruises and scrapes from the mission.

When you enter the Tower, a sense of relief finds you, the comfort of home, shoulders slouched as you make for your room. Bob is lingering beside the window, a book in his hand, headphones dangling from his ears.

“Good work today,” Bucky calls, attempting to boost morale. He’s at the helm, trying to steer this ship in the right direction, but it’s harder than it looks. “Get some rest.” He moves toward the lounge, hoping to get a status update on the cleanup.

Alexei chimes in with an echoed remark about how everyone did a good job, mirroring Bucky’s own statement. A smile curls at the corner of your mouth despite yourself, feet dragging as you sluggishly stumble toward your room.

Through the light clamor, you don’t see John, disappearing through the tinted pane of your door, feeling it hiss and click behind you. Your room is warm, cozy; it’s a sanctuary you’ve created, making something within the ruins of your old life.

A hush falls throughout the Tower, typically a quiet evening after returning from a mission. Outside, the skies turn to a swirling ink, veiled by heavier clouds that signal the onset of rain.

Peeling away your suit, your flesh is exposed to the coolness of your quarters, glittering with a layer of perspiration, body speckled in light cuts and fresh bruises. The shower calls your name, inviting, and you marinate beneath the water for half an hour.

Bruises pulse with a dull ache, remnants of crimson swept away by the water, leaving you renewed as you change into loungewear. Perched along the edge of your bed, you towel-dry your hair, gaze flickering toward your door.

You shouldn’t be the one to apologize.

The thought of checking on John crosses your mind, and then it stays, leaving you frustrated and torn. You didn’t hate him, you never have; if anything, you were left wondering why the strange hostility still lingered, after everything.

Even then, your desire to help overrode the brief spat that you had. He was your teammate, and leaving him to lick his grievous wounds without ensuring his safety felt cruel.

A tremulous inhale invades your lungs, steeling yourself as you cross into the corridor, leaving your room behind. His quarters are down the hallway, towards the very end, marked by blanched lights on either side.

No one sees you, and you creep over the cold tile as if you might be apprehended in the process. The walk there feels as if it’s stretched on for an eternity, taunting you with each step as you make it to the tinted panel.

His lock is off, you realize, and you try to knock, the sound eerily soft. There’s nothing, only an awkward stretch of silence that makes you shift uncomfortably, the chill of the floor sending a shiver down your spine.

“John?” Abandoning the use of ‘Walker’, you idly pace before the door, weaving in idle circles as you wait for him to answer. Still, nothing — you wonder if it’s intentional, if he’s purposefully ignoring you to prove a point.

Intending to ask for forgiveness later, you slide the door open, stepping into his room with a twinge of anxiety. You shouldn’t be skulking around in here, but his lack of answer had you worried — more than you should’ve been, really.

“So much for knocking,” His voice cuts through your scrambled thoughts like a serrated knife, though lacking the sardonic poise. “Could’ve waited a minute.” John utters, and you spot him in his bathroom.

Startled, your gaze draws to him, attempting to patch himself up with bloodsoaked fingertips and a disgruntled countenance. His back is facing the mirror, head craned over his shoulder, blonde brows creased together, throat stirring with a noise of agitation.

“You didn’t answer.” With a weak protest, you hover in the doorway, shuffling forward to let it close with a subtle click. Everything seems devoid of personal decorum in his room, as if he’s still deciphering what goes where, some belongings still in boxes.

“You didn’t give me a chance.” John retorts, lips parted to make room for a strained sigh. He’s been harsh enough today — he recollects, composes himself, and lets his guard waver.

“I was worried about you.” The weight of your confession brings him pause, hand poised against his back, attempting to apply gauze. He’s failing miserably, cerulean hues darting toward you, arms folded over your chest.

John stops, jaw tense as he huffs with frustration, discarding the roll of gauze onto the bathroom countertop. The low glow of the light glitters against his skin, pleasantly sunkissed, muscles taut and broad, speckled in violet bruises.

There’s a rawness to him, sinewy yet firm, the honed strength of a trained soldier. He’s visceral, nothing grossly herculean, but he’s worked for his physicality, sacrificed plenty for it.

You realize you’ve been ogling him, gaze carefully tracing over the blonde hair smattered over his chest, trailing along his abdomen before it disappeared beneath his tactical pants.

Tendrils of heat snake across the back of your neck, a twinge of something desirous stirring within your stomach. You aren’t used to it, and you feel yourself attempt to rip your gaze away to something else; and you can’t.

He’s a man beneath it all, beneath the shield, the armor, the facade of an inflated swagger, all of the peacocking — he’s vulnerable, now. John’s countenance softens, startled by the sincerity that permeates your voice.

It’s unusual for him to be this quiet, as if you ripped the bravado and smugness right from his throat. Pacing forward, you decide to extend the offer again, hoping that he’ll accept your help and throw away the pride.

“I can help,” Your tone is disarmingly tender, something that John knows he’s undeserving of, given his behavior towards you. You vex him, but not because of your demeanor — he’s falling, and he’s trying to stop himself; he can’t. “Please.”

John concedes, head bobbing in a brief nod as he turns to face the mirror, lukewarm water ridding the crimson that stained his fingers. Coiled muscle cuts across his back, flesh littered in old scars and a colorful variety of bruises.

With a soft exhale, you awkwardly move into the doorway of the bathroom, blanketed by the pale orange of the lights, the distant buzz something of a comfort to you. The gash stretches from his left rib to spine, an ugly wound, oozing red that trickles over his back.

Scraped, calloused hands grip the edge of the counter as he props himself up, gaze flickering toward your reflection in the mirror. Your hair, still damp, tousled and disheveled, a cut on your cheek, mannerisms somewhat shrewd.

It’s quiet — too quiet for your liking, but you don’t want to be the one to break the ice. Wordlessly, you reach out, palm beginning to mist with wisps of a faint green, your powers manifesting.

“I’m sorry for today,” John murmurs, stopping you in your tracks. The mist wavers, concentration effectively shattered by his apology, which happened to be entirely unexpected. “About not letting you help me.”

“Is it something I did?” Your inquiry evokes a pang of melancholy, as if his heart is bleeding, still halfway stitched together. “Listen, I know we’ve had our differences, but I’m trying to move past it.”

John sighs, exiting through his nostrils; measured, restrained. “You didn’t do anything,” He’s learning to admit when he’s the problem, digits tightening against the dark granite; it groans beneath his grasp. “I don’t hate you.”

Relief blossoms within your chest, as if some weight is lifted from your shoulders. Still, you wonder what exactly is wrong with him, festering below the surface, something he’s trying to bury. “Be honest with me — what’s wrong?” You question, brows furrowing together.

He’s reluctant to tell you why he’s comfortable with sitting in the pain — why he feels he deserves it. John knows that you mean well, always looking out for everyone else, showing kindness when you didn’t have to.

“This is what I deserve,” John utters, cadence embittered, withholding a wave of emotion. Tears swim, unshed within his eyes, and he actively fights against it. “The pain — for what I did, for what happened.”

For Lemar, for Olivia, for the blood on his hands, for the son who’ll only know his father as a deadbeat. He hates himself, deep down — he’s learning to be a better man, if that were even possible.

His transparency startles you, attempting to process this information in a way that evokes empathy. No one on the team is truly, wholly good — there’s amends that need to be made, most of them in the healing process, including you.

It’s a bleak contrast from the man constantly barraging you with snarky remarks, constantly engaging in banter with you. You don’t remember him opening up like this with anyone else.

Still, your hand drops, fingers twisting together as you scramble to come up with some encouragement. You’re so accustomed to his general smugness and cocksure attitude that this blindsides you.

“Just because you’ve done bad things doesn’t mean that you deserve to suffer, or rake yourself over the coals again,” It’s gentle, sound advice — John’s eyes screw shut. “Everyone deserves to heal, including you.”

The blood on his hands feels heavy, like some anchor dragging him down. After being stripped of the role of Captain America, spiraling, losing his family, he briefly considered it — a way out. He was glad that he never went through with it.

In the Void, when you found your way into his room, it was the moment Lemar had been killed. Replayed, over and over again, unable to be prevented — but his reaction could’ve been.

He could’ve been a better man.

In the beginning, he tried to justify it, rationalizing killing someone in cold blood. After time passed, he knew how wrong he was, how he desecrated the shield, the mantle; all for something else, to sate his rage. No matter how much healing he did, that would haunt him forever.

“Thanks.” He grits, as if he doesn’t fully believe your words. John understands your intentions, that you’re being empathetic and kind despite the abrasive way he’s acted towards you. It makes him feel worse. “I am trying.”

“I know,” Placating, your digits begin to shimmer with wisps of emerald energy, your power manifesting. “I know you are, John.” Oozing with a tender amiability, you can hear the tremor in his exhale.

When you called him John, it startled him; he’d gotten so accustomed to ‘Walker’, but he didn’t mind this in the slightest. Despite the rough beginning the both of you had with one another, he was warming up to you.

Admittedly, he thought it was the right thing to do, not fully letting you in to protect himself. When you had cordial conversations, he felt your kindness shroud him like a warm blanket; you’d moved on from the past.

Quiet, your hand finally lifts to his wound, brows creased in concentration, energy expelled into healing mist as it curls around the flesh. It feels like cold water, albeit soothing, pluming over torn skin and blood until it sinks inward.

A low grunt rips through his throat, somewhat startled at the sensation of your powers; simple, but wildly effective. It’s as if he’d never been slashed to begin with; the bruises and scrapes don’t go away, but the rest of it does.

Strained, your arm quivers, resolve slipping as you step away, using the doorway as a form of support. You’re always a little weak after you’ve healed someone, almost as if it’s an exchange of life.

“Better?” With a tender smile, you watch as he nods, inspecting himself in the mirror; nothing left behind. “Next time this happens, I hope you’ll let me help you.” You prompt, and he chuckles; it isn’t the typical condescending chide he gives you, either.

“I can’t make any promises.” John’s tone loses that bite, the indifference; it’s disarmingly soft. “Thanks again, for that. I’ve been an asshole to you — wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to help.” He murmured, tone lacking mirth.

“You have, but that can change,” Lips remain poised into a smile, one that makes his heart lurch within his chest. “You don’t have to keep being an asshole.” Your remark makes him scoff, though it’s more of a bemused sound, than anything else.

“I’ll lose my charm,” John counters, but he’s being sarcastic — somewhat, at least. You suspect he’ll still remain sharp-tongued and smug, but lose the indifference with you. “I know it’s something I need to work on.”

Grateful for his acknowledgment, you finally feel your energy return, a slow ebb that spreads throughout your body. Leaning off of the doorframe, you awkwardly step aside, figuring that this was your queue to leave.

“For the record, I never disliked you,” He utters, jaw clenched as he carefully navigates on what to say next. “Never had a problem with you, either. Your problem with me was justified.” John shrugs, his stare even-keel.

Bewildered, you let the pang of surprise fester, head cocking to one side. “I never really had a problem with you, or disliked you,” After this, you were beginning to understand why he was an asshole sometimes. “It’s all in the past, now. I want us to move forward.”

John’s halfhearted smile oozed with sincerity, a genuineness rarely seen by others. “I can do that.” Even still, he wouldn’t blame you if you had some sort of gripe against him, but you were kind — you were good, even if you didn’t think so.

His gaze hasn’t left you, cerulean hues fluttering over your countenance; you’re beautiful, eyes beset by kindness, half-dried tresses strung over your crown. The shirt you’re wearing is a size too big, sweatpants baggy, too.

He’s acutely aware of how obvious he’s being, ogling you; he always thought you were pretty, but in the bathroom’s faint glow, you’re stunning. You weren’t subtle either, he knows this, catching your shrewd gaze as it lingers on his arms.

John’s hands reach for his shirt, black spandex all wrinkled, balled up, stained with dried blood. The tension becomes unusually thick, mere embers kindled to life, now a fire that he doesn’t know if he can extinguish.

“Can I ask you something?” Your inquiry pierces through the tenuous silence, and there’s some momentary relief you gain from it.

“Yeah.” John’s tone is barely above a whisper, warm; as if he’s trying to calm himself down, ease the tension. With his shirt still clenched in one hand, he’s offering you his undivided attention.

With arms loosely folded over your chest, your fingers idly pluck at frayed stitching on your sleeves, a fleeting distraction. “Why were you always indifferent towards me, if you didn’t hate me?” You’re not accusatory, just curious.

Shit — John’s mind is scrambling for an answer that doesn’t make him seem strange. He’s got feelings for you, and you’re slowly drawing them out into the open; he doesn’t know how to handle it.

“Sometimes it’s easier for me to not let somebody in,” He shrugs, gaze wavering, flickering toward the ground. The vulnerability is something he’s still growing accustomed to — rawness of pain, feeling his emotions, choosing the right way to cope. “Because of what’s happened.”

Even then, his explanation still feels like he’s covering up for something else. Nevertheless, you let it rest, offering him a threadbare smile. “We don’t judge here, if you haven’t learned that already,” You sigh. “I’ll be here for you, if you choose to let me in.”

He already has — he’s appreciative, nodding as a display of gratitude before he finds your gaze again. “Thanks.” John smiles despite himself, swallowing down the words that want to escape him.

Silence settles between, the same tension simmering like before, causing you to shift your weight. He’s staring again, but you’re oblivious to it this time, angled away, trying to figure out what to do next.

Chewing at the inside of your cheek, your shoulders begin to slouch with relaxation. “I should probably go — you need rest.” You blurt, fumbling over your words, maintaining a sheepish smile as you shuffle toward the door.

John doesn’t really want you to leave; and he knows it’s selfish of him. His lips part, as if to ask you to stay, but he’s frozen, rooted in-place. Still, he nods, quietly resigning to letting you go back to your room.

His feet feel anchored to the floor, each step a drag as he trails after you, following you to the doorway. He’s quiet, still deliberating, turning over every word, every action within his mind. John comes up short, watching as you stop to say something else.

The closeness is sudden, wracked with tension; you’re nearly brushing arms with him, gooseflesh crawling along your spine. You’re both reaching for the door panel simultaneously, fumbling, fingers ghosting over one another; you recoil like you’ve been burned.

In the slim proximity, he catches a whiff of your shampoo — vanilla and peach, something sweeter, causing his jaw to tick. He’s looking again, unable to stop himself, gaze wandering over your body, appreciative; he grips the door frame as a distraction.

When you catch his stare, it burns you, something incendiary, as if he’s searing you into his mind. A subtle hitch forms within your throat, and you’re prepared to tell him goodnight, end it there — but you won’t move.

Silence stretches on, the sort of contemplative quiet before the onset of a storm, the deep breath before the plunge. Bodies linger within arm’s reach, screaming, and you have the audacity to stare at him, doe-eyed.

Then, you say his name, a feather-light whisper, gentle and placating. It barely registers, but he hears it, notices the parting of your lips, the way you haven’t recoiled from the closeness.

John’s mouth is suddenly pressed against yours in a heated frenzy.

A sharp inhale splits your diaphragm, lungs quaking, filled with a sudden surge of ecstasy when he kisses you. There’s a gasp stuck in the back of your throat, swallowed by the snare of his mouth.

His lips are unexpectedly soft, a stark contrast to the sharpness of his smart mouth. There’s a charged passion that echoes beyond the kiss, as if he’s walking the fine line of restraint.

Bewildered, your head is spinning, brain foggy, as if someone knocked you out. Left reeling, you don’t know what to say, what to do. Though, you’re receptive, mouth shyly moving against his, hands frozen at your sides.

When he pulls away, gauging your reaction, you appear as shocked as he does.

Each breath is labored, wrought with the sudden sting of exhilaration, butterflies beginning to pool within your belly. “I’m sorry.” John’s voice is low, a pleasant hum within your ear, but you don’t seem upset by what he did.

“Don’t be.” Without pause, your lips fly to meet him again, reciprocating the kiss, one that seems sluggish and passionate instead of frantic.

He’s kissing you back, hand dropping from the door to your hip, calloused digits caressing you through your shirt. The gesture ignites a fire within your bones, unable to stifle your mounting excitement.

Shyly, your hands move toward his chest, soft like velvet, smoothing over his pectorals as he presses you up against the door. A low groan vibrates through his chest, reveling in the feeling of your skin touching his.

There’s a poised strength coiled within his body, firm, flesh and blood, chest rising and falling underneath your hands.

His kiss is disarmingly gentle, something unexpected, but not unwelcome. You feel his body nudge against yours, distance now nonexistent.

You don’t know what’s gotten into you, gotten into him, but you’re enjoying yourself — you want him, need him, starving for contact.

He tastes metallic, an amalgamation of copper and a natural musk. Digits idly smooth over the coarse, blonde hair that covers his chest, descending toward his groin. The thought alone makes your knees weak.

Each kiss sends you spiraling, clawing for his mouth, leaving you ragged, desperate for his touch. You can’t remember the last time someone kissed you like this — even then, your experience is thin.

His scruffy countenance melds with yours, bleeding heat, kissing you with enough vigor that it prompts you to hold onto him. Your heart gallops, races — it’s quick and erratic, beating in your ears.

Recoiling from the kiss, your fingers tremble, deftly tracing over his collarbone, over scar-kissed skin, over faint clutches of freckles. “John, I — Are you sure?” You whisper, hoarse, afraid that he might regret it all in the morning.

“Wouldn’t have kissed you if I wasn’t sure.” John murmurs, voice low, curling thickly as his hands rub circles into your hips. He’s strong, secure — you didn’t expect to feel so comfortable with him. “I’ve thought about it for a while.”

His lips make contact with your jaw, mouth clamoring over your skin, kissing the spot beneath your ear. Flush to you, his confession makes your bones lurch, and you wonder what else he’s thought about, too.

Flustered, you’re quick to melt into him, visibly smitten, as if you’ve wound yourself into a tight knot. John notices, mouth twitching into a smirk as he places a string of kisses beneath your jawline.

“John …” A soft mumble rolls from your tongue, hands beginning to trail from chest to shoulders, anchoring yourself to him. His beard burns against your flesh, a pleasant scratch, reminding you that he’s real, this is real.

Warm breath feathers over your throat, your jaw, your cheek — he’s still smirking, too. “You’re getting shy on me.” He mumbles, able to taste the heat that bristles from your flesh. A hitch forms within your throat, his remark making you burn.

“No,” Posturing a weak defense, your body succumbs, lips parted to make room for a dizzying sigh. “I’m not.” It’s pathetic, your retort, but he’s still grinning as if he’s caught you in a trap, attempting to reign in the smug attitude.

“Right.” John’s cadence is dangerously low, little more than a pleasant husk that scratches the back of your brain. He’s teasing you still, cerulean hues alight with mirth, fingertips barely skirting underneath your shirt.

He’s charming — too charming, and it makes your flesh burn with an embarrassed heat. His lips plume over your throat, hips brushing against yours, and that’s when you feel it. Something firm through his kevlar pants, briefly grinding against your pelvis.

A noise echoes from John’s throat, somewhere between a grunt and groan, causing you to smile, as if you’ve discovered his secret. “Already?” It’s playful, sure, but you’re simultaneously flattered that it didn’t take much work.

It’s his turn to blush, scarlet crawling over handsome features, red spreading towards his neck. “Can’t help it,” John mumbled, gaze briefly meeting yours. “You’re beautiful.” His low timbre made you shiver.

Unable to smother your smile, you urge him closer for another kiss, digits clamoring for the nape of his neck, toying with the blonde hair there. Each entanglement of lips seems to grow in fervor, charged with mutual excitement, passion.

His hands are fisted in your shirt against, giving it a soft tug, as if silently asking you for your permission. Mouths continue to clash, a mess of lips and teeth, tongue when John initiates it, eliciting a moan from your maw.

With a brief nod, he breaks from you, only to assist in removing your shirt, tossing it elsewhere in his room. You aren’t wearing a brassiere, which catches his attention, stopping in his tracks as he admires your physique.

“Jesus,” John sighs, rapturous, noticing the doe-eyed look you’re giving him again. Lips part, jaw unclenched as he not-so-subtly ogles your collarbone, letting it drift toward your chest. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Swallowing your anxiety, you feel yourself melt beneath his stare, incendiary enough to turn you to cinders where you stand. “The thought hasn’t crossed my mind.” Barely above a whisper, your gentle teasing evokes a half-smile from him.

A huff leaves him, hand steady as he kneads into your hip, dipping lower, grasping at your haunch as he lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his hips. You’re still kissing him, held aloft by John’s arms, bearing your weight without effort.

He carries you to his bed, gray sheets already disheveled, laying you down as he crawls on top of you. A soft exhale whistles through your nose, arousal beginning to coalesce between your thighs, warmth pooling in your belly.

“You sure?” John murmurs, wanting to ensure that you’re certain about this. He is, but he wants to make sure that all cards are on the table. He’s not used to this, to showing vulnerability, but it feels comfortable with you.

“Yeah, I am,” Gazes twine together, the only illumination being the glow from the bathroom, blanketing you in swirls of orange and shadow. “I want you, John.” Your admission is saccharine, steeped in a warmth that he clings to, savors.

Christ, he wants you, too — craves you more than air, cerulean hues glistening with a thinly-veiled ardor. It’s a sudden shift from how things were before, but the tension had finally come to a boiling point, and he was glad that it had.

Mouths connect instantaneously, eliciting a pleading moan from your throat, swallowed by his kiss. Your legs drop, spread apart to accommodate for his frame, lean muscle wedged between your thighs.

His palm kneads into your calf, dragging to the crook of your knee, caressing you over your baggy bottoms. Your hands thread against the nape of his neck, taking handfuls of his blonde tresses, ensuring that you weren’t rough with him.

Chests brush against one another, firm muscle exuding warmth, peaks of your breasts ghosting over his pectorals. Each kiss rips the air from your lungs, leaving you reeling, gasping as you feel his tongue prod against yours.

A whine bubbles from your throat, smitten, tongue shyly mingling with his as the kiss turns into a mess of passion. Your fingers are carding over the back of his skull, slipping over his hair as his teeth catch upon your bottom lip.

John grunts, the tent in his pants grinding recklessly against your core, friction causing both of you to writhe. As if to torment him, you roll your hips forward, evoking a groan from him, his gaze pleading with you to stop.

“Don’t,” He warns, strained, attempting to hold himself together. Your mouth quirks into a smile, one that he feels even as he kisses you again, your palm splaying over his shoulder. “Can I take these off?”

His hands curl into your sweatpants, fingers teasing the waistband as he waits for you to consent. As soon as you nod, accompanied by a breathy ‘yes’, he’s tearing into them, the stitching splitting apart beneath his inhuman strength.

A gasp slipped from your mouth, writhing beneath him to free yourself from the fabric, kicking them to the floor. John marvels at the sight of you, your body something perfect, malleable within his grasp, mouth planting a kiss against your jaw.

Cool air plumes over your heated flesh, offering some alleviation, a reprieve from the fever-pitch of your body. John’s hand smooths over your leg, squeezing into your thigh, digits flicking over the hem of your panties.

The brief gesture makes your head spin, desperate for him to touch you. He’s already got an idea in his head, calloused fingers rough like leather as he drags his hand between your legs.

Knuckles ghost over your clothed cunt, feeling the tangle of damp cotton, the way your throat sputters with a subtle gasp. Your thighs twitch, knees trembling on either side of him as your nails trace over the back of his neck.

“Christ,” He huffs, forehead nearly flush against yours, watching as you squirm from the brief caress. John repeats the motion, feeling your nails dig harder into his skin, mouth screwed open. “You like that?” His murmur makes you feel weak.

With a nod, you want more, hips urging into the friction of his hand. To your delight, he doesn’t torment you, doesn’t make you work for it as his fingers slip beneath your panties.

Two fingers stroke along your cunt, gathering the warm slick there with one sluggish swipe. To your utter bewilderment, he lifts his digits to his mouth, sucking them clean before he lavishes your throat in a myriad of kisses.

“John, please.” Moaning his name, the sight he just treated you to is sure to be burned in your mind forever, causing your thighs to rub together. Kissing a trail down your neck, he finds your sternum, mouth voracious, ceaseless.

A boyish grin settles onto his features, deriving enjoyment from your reaction, continuing to worship your flesh in rapturous kisses. No inch of skin is safe as he descends, lips pluming over your breasts, your ribs, navel; lower, and lower again.

You taste sweet, as if your skin oozed with sugar, and he’s savoring every piece of you, kisses steeped in a disarming reverence. His beard tickles your flesh, goosebumps cascading down your spine as he makes it to your waist.

His muscles flex, pulled taut as he crawls lower, face hovering beside your hip as he eases your panties down, letting them creep over your thighs. Everything feels hot, body set ablaze, arousal coalescing against your cunt.

Lips press to your thigh, shoulders creating space, bullying your legs apart. Digits flex, trembling as they lower to card through his tresses, gaze ensnaring with his own, causing you to shiver.

John kisses a trail over your inner thighs, toward the glistening heat at your apex, listening to your breath hitch. It’s labored, wrought with exhilaration as your back begins to arch.

That ghost of a cocksure grin feels like a hot brand against your thigh, softening when you make a strangled, pleading noise. Nearly prone against the sheets, he lets your legs recline against his shoulders, hands gripping your hips.

The first rake of his tongue over your cunt is agonizing, hot embers, scorching against your flesh as he laps traces the length of your slit. It’s sluggish, exploratory — he’s keen to know what makes you writhe.

With parted lips and eyes wrenched shut, a needy moan splits past your throat, unable to keep quiet. John’s chest stirs with a low grunt, greedy tongue deftly splitting past your folds, tasting you with a sudden fervor.

Still, he’s gentle, disarmingly so, careworn palms massaging into your hips, keeping you slotted against his face. The scruff of his blonde beard scratches ragged over the inside of your thighs, sandpaper to silk, the sensation pleasant.

John eases you into it, committing every detail of your body to memory; hoping there’s a next time, thumbs tracing circles into your skin. Lapping against your core, his ministrations slowly gather haste, nose grazing your clit.

A myriad of moans leave you, attempting to keep the sound hushed, as to not alert any unwanted attention. Your legs tense, flex on either side of his head before his shoulders nudge you apart again, mouth dragging over your cunt.

He maintains something of a rhythm, attempting to walk the line of restraint, as to not overwhelm you. Your body rattles beneath him, spasmodic tremors of delight rolling down your spine, waves of bliss felt all over, ebbing through your veins.

One hand haplessly fists at the sheets, fingers curled so tightly that you want to rip it apart. He’s too good at this, which surprises you — he doesn’t give that impression, initially.

The room feels like a furnace, bodies bleeding heat, each breath hoarse, tight with rapture. His mouth is a thing of perfection, pleasuring you as if it’s his sworn duty, tongue lapping at every inch of your cunt.

John’s gaze flutters from the task at-hand to your countenance, contorted into an expression of ecstasy, effortlessly pretty. His heart skips a beat; you’ve got him wrapped around your finger.

You’re wound up, coiled over and over again, into a tangle of heat, furled desire that’s begging to be released. Carding through his tresses, you gingerly scratch at his crown, briefly tugging on his hair, hips wantonly urging into his mouth.

“G—God, John,” A sheepish moan falls from your mouth, coupled with a sharp inhale that rips through your diaphragm. Your cunt clenches pathetically around nothing at all, back arched from the mattress. “So good at this.”

It’s an inkling of praise, but it’s enough, evoking some hunger from John, who's eager to please. The tent in his tactical pants is borderline painful, erection grinding against the bed in a pitiful attempt to alleviate some of the friction.

Driven to the brink, you feel as if you’re beginning to toe the line of some steep plunge, his lips urging you closer to a release. Everything feels hot, as if you might combust, arousal coalescing between your thighs.

John has you pinned down, nose ghosting over your folds, tongue still ceaselessly lapping at your core until there’s a shift in rhythm. He presses a kiss to your clit, listening to the tremor in your exhale, feeling your legs tense.

Teeth catch across your bottom lip, biting down with an absent pressure, digits beginning to lightly curl against his scalp. His name emerges from your mouth again, desperate and wanton, breathy as you squirm.

“You’re easy to rile up.” John murmurs from between your legs, a breathy chuckle floating from his chest when your fingers pull on his hair. He plants a reverent kiss to your thigh, teasing, but the break doesn’t last for long.

If it weren’t for his lips pursing around your clit, you might’ve clawed for a retort, but he rips any remark from your throat. The sudden ripple of bliss sends you reeling, choking on a simpering whine as you shift beneath him again.

His mouth gingerly laps at that sensitive clutch of nerves, shockwaves shattering through your body, tingles of ecstasy following suit. A strangled moan snares in your throat, slipping through when he drags his tongue along your cunt.

He’s right, though — you are easy to vex, and he’s mapping you out as if you’re intimately familiar to him already. John’s mouth is voracious, tongue endlessly greedy, eating you out as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

You’re getting close, body being pushed to a blissful oblivion, the white-hot heat that threatens to consume you. His hand drifts from your thigh to the slick warmth between, thumb seeking your clit like a missile, slowly circling around it.

“Fuck,” You moan, the expletive uncharacteristic of you, but he finds plenty of enjoyment in you saying it. His name is soon to follow, a bedroom hymnal, repetitive as it spills from your tongue, crying out his name to the ceiling. “J—John!”

It’s pathetic how easily he’s got you squirming, tension beginning to unfurl, the knot within your belly stretched to the brink. He’s careful, tender, intimate in a way that makes your features surge with warmth.

“That’s it.” John murmurs, timbre little more than a drawl as he coaxes an orgasm from you, thumb continuing to toy with your clit until you burst. He’s mesmerized, a super-soldier reduced to a lovesick boy, watching you with a thinly-veiled rapture.

With one simple circle of your pearl, you’re gone, ecstasy bleeding from you in one wave, nearly overwhelming. You’re blinded by euphoria, white-hot stars crossing your vision until you’ve melted into the sheets.

Nerves are frayed from bliss, tossed into the throes of pleasure, one that you may not fully recover from. Stars linger still, head foggy, dizzy from a desirous haze as you try to find a scrap of composure.

He tastes you again, one last time, committing it all to memory as he kisses your leg, kneeling in-between your thighs. You’re shaking, chest tight with drawn-out sighs, gazes ensnared, burning with adoration.

“You’re really good at that.” A soft whisper rolls from your lips, appreciative, but John looks like you’ve just called him perfect. He’s starved for praise, reduced to a mere beast, laying at your feet, preening for more.

John’s up on his knees, staring a hole through you, hands reaching for his belt. Driven by both excitement and instinct, you sit up, fingers clamoring with his own as you’re helping to wrestle his belt off, unzipping the front of his tactical pants.

“You drive me crazy,” John groaned, feeling you grow smitten in the wake of his admission, desperate to be inside of you. “Can’t think straight.” He utters, and you know it’s an intentional compliment.

He repositions himself, hunched in, blanketing you with his bulky physique, lean muscle glued to your frame. He’s much larger than you, you realize, listening to the shuffling of fabric, feeling his cock press incessantly against your navel.

You’re intimidated, bewildered by his size, startlingly large, unabashedly so. Swallowing the growing lump in your throat, your hands come to hook around the back of his neck, no space remaining.

As if to ignite the tension further, your mouth catches his, lips locking together in a heated kiss. You can taste yourself, an added layer of debauchery, but he’s groaning into your lips, fisting the pillow near the side of your head.

John’s other hand finds your thigh, kneading into your haunch as he steadies himself, cock heatedly grinding against you. Mouths tangle, clash — it’s a war of teeth and tongue, thirst instead of hunger, as if he needs you more than anything.

Wanton, exhilarated breaths drag between bodies, the warmth of his sigh pluming over your features, his beard ragged against your cheek. His blonde tresses are tousled, disheveled — he’s painfully handsome, kissing all over your mouth.

He withdraws, heads flush together, mere centimeters apart as he adjusts himself, cock nudging against your folds. You’re clinging to him, a twinge of anticipation churning in your belly.

“You alright?” He utters, low and husky beside your ear, actively restraining himself from being too spirited. There’s something intoxicating about the way you’re staring at him; it’s tender, more than he deserves, he thinks.

Slowly, you plant a kiss against the scruff of his jaw, and then beneath, where a yellowing bruise sits. Hands wander to the firm muscle of his shoulders, kneading over freckled skin.

John exhales; a drawn-out, contented sound that releases coils of tension from his shoulders. With a nod of consent, you let yourself get comfortable. He drags his cock over your cunt again, biting back a stifled groan.

“Go slow,” You squeak, body already sore from the mission — he might add to it, if he isn’t careful. His lips seal themselves to your throat, peppering your flesh in a myriad of sweet kisses, nose brushing over your jugular. “I need you.”

Serum-infused blood pumps through his veins, oozing raw strength, but he knows to rein himself in, head bobbing in a brief nod. “Say that again.” John grunts, cock prodding against the warmth of your cunt, preparing to push past.

His head is partially buried into the hollow between throat and shoulder, beard prickling your flesh, a satisfying sensation. An excitable buzz wracks your body, sending tingles all over, a throbbing pulsing from between your legs.

“I need you,” Wantonly, your palm splays over his shoulder-blade, nails digging into his skin, eliciting a low groan from your paramour. “J—John, please!” It’s a plea, a desperate one, spoken through a beguiling cadence, one that winds him into tight knots.

With a shudder, John is thirsty for your embrace, a man lost within a desert, finding his oasis. His forehead nudges beside your temple, hotly grunting into your ear, sending waves of ecstasy through your belly.

His hips slowly urge forward, flushed head of his cock pushing into you with mild resistance. Disarmingly gentle, John doesn’t move quickly or rough, heeding your words as he fists at the pillow, body kissed by perspiration.

The tightness of your cunt drives him to the brink of madness, huffing beside your ear, fighting against baser, lesser instincts. Clinging to him as if he might fade through your fingers, he moves at an agonizing pace, not wanting to hurt you.

He doesn’t, a husky groan ripping through his diaphragm when your hips accidentally roll, feeling his muscles tense beneath your hands. “Jesus,” John grits out, feeling your nails dig crescents into his shoulder. “You’re perfect.”

A moan tumbles from your parted lips, his cock filling you completely, nearly bottoming out as he sinks forward. Intermingled groans and hot sighs tangle in the thin space between, heat against heat.

Your knees squeeze near his waist, legs kept spread apart by his musculature, bodies clawing for one another, ardor thinly-veiled. John’s countenance is contorted into a look of concentration coupled with bliss.

“S’good,” You moan, having adjusted enough, allowing yourself a moment of composure; it won’t last, and you know it. “Move.” Breathy and wrought with exhilaration, you give him the signal to take things further.

John’s resolve is crumbling, foundation swept away in the wake of your affections, and your wanton moan doesn’t make anything easier. Propping himself up on one arm, the other holds steadfastly to your thigh, an anchor.

Foreheads knock together, noses ghosting over one another as he begins to thrust into you, bicep flexing with exertion. The first drag of his hips sends you reeling, and you know that you won’t last long — and neither will he.

A string of hoarse expletives flutter from his mouth, barely above a whisper, setting your bones ablaze as he pulls back and pushes forward.

The fit of him is tight, cock oozing with heat as he draws back again, following through as he jolts forward.

Beneath you, the bed frame creaks — faint, as if it shows some give with the super-soldier on top of you. Your digits coax him in for a kiss, mouths colliding in a messy clash of tongue and needy lips, fire feeding fire.

John groans into your mouth, pushing and pulling, hips urging into yours, cock filling you with each thrust. Between fervent kisses and pleading moans, your head is foggy, dizzy with desire.

He develops a rhythm, the pace steady, each drag of his hips ripping a moan from your mouth, and he earned it. His hand kneads into your thigh, squeezing on occasion when the pleasure mounts, muscles coiled within his stomach.

“Y—You’re perfect,” The praise leaves your tongue as a hoarse whine, a noise that leaves goosebumps trailing over John’s spine. It’s the validation he desperately craves, the veneration, knowing he’s doing something right. “Don’t stop.”

A husky, throaty groan pierces through his chest, the noise making you shiver, arousal slick and warm between your thighs. It makes each snap of his hips easier, cock sinking into you over and over again.

It’s unintentional, his shifting pace; it begins to climb, from drawn-out and steady to needy, rutting into you as if each stroke would be his very last. John is trying to keep himself controlled, but you make it so difficult.

He slows again, the pleasure mounting, a knot that is becoming frayed at either end, prepared to be pulled apart. His cock throbs incessantly, pulsing inside of you, feeling your cunt clench around him.

Perspiration glitters along his brow, glistening along his hairline as he hunches in over you, and you feel all of him, viscerally.

The bed frame rattles in protest, as if bowing to his strength, and he’s already tearing the stitching in the pillowcase beside your head. A soft gasp slips from your lips, his mouth ghosting over yours.

Grunts of ecstasy leave him in droves, cock easing in and out of your cunt as if you’re made for him. John’s countenance is one of bliss and concentration, frustration now dissipated.

Each snap of his hips drags you further into the throes of ecstasy, and he’s nearly there, cock spearing into you. His breathing is growing ragged, raspy as it curls beside your ear, hot breath pluming over your face.

Noises surge in volume, filling his room with the sounds of vigorous lovemaking; he doesn’t care if the team hears anymore. John’s rapturous groans make you shiver in delight, head flush to yours again, the closeness addicting.

Another grunt ripples through his chest, the sound stretched, the rest tapering off as his hips begin to stutter, pace erratic and desperate. He’s close, weighing the odds of finishing inside of you, nearly whimpering when your legs hitch around his hips.

His name spills from your lips like a confessional, sobbing to the heavens, feeling your body begin to unfurl with tension. Bodies move within one another, his cock buried deep, kissing your cervix with each thrust.

From the tension in his muscles alone, you can tell that he’s about to burst, combust like fireworks in your hands. You’re on the pill, and so you urge him closer, wanting him inside of you even still.

When your name emerges from John’s mouth, you’re awestruck, flustered by the way in which he says it so tenderly. “I’m on the pill.” It’s all you’re able to say before he’s swallowing your words, covering your mouth with his.

The kiss is voracious, needy — John is unable to mask how he feels about you, letting it all bleed into tangled lips as he cums. He releases inside of you with a groan, followed by a rush of warmth that blankets your insides.

Tingles of delight wrack your body, a subdued release that seems to twine with his, a muted buzz surging through your bones. John’s hips crawl to a sluggish rhythm, agonizingly slow, as if to absorb the last few traces of friction.

Each breath heaves for composure, shallow and taut with exhilaration in the aftermath, sweat-slick skin melded together. His forehead nestles against yours, labored breathing evening out quicker than yours as he stills.

His spend and your arousal feel slick between your legs, making a mess of his sheets, joined bodies bleeding heat. You’re reeling, slower to recuperate as he pulls out of you with a soft grunt, rolling over to lay beside you.

John doesn’t leave, cerulean hues glued to your countenance, as if his whole sense of gravity has been shifted, changed. It’s hushed, save for your labored sighs, in-tandem with one another.

Wordlessly, he coaxes you closer, muscled arm hooking around your middle, inviting you to lay against his chest. One palm remains splayed, flat against your ribs, soothing you with easy caresses.

“Are you still with me?” John’s wisecrack makes you blunder, a soft laugh escaping you, hand playfully bumping against his chest.

“Yeah,” Unable to smother your smile, you’re delighted to sink into his embrace, keeping your hand on his chest. The hair beneath is something you trace through, over muscle, over old scars and greenish bruises. “I …”

As you trail off, John’s head cranes down enough to brush his lips against yours, the kiss sweet, bristling with a thinly-veiled affection. He lets you finish your thought, watching as you sit up enough to see him fully, perched on your stomach.

“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.” You utter, agonizingly soft, cadence wrought with an amalgamation of sentiments. John’s trying to be better, and it’s something you want to be a part of, if he’ll let you.

Neither did he, admittedly; it’s something John’s willing to admit to. “The thought never crossed my mind,” He murmured, blonde lashes fluttering as his hand cupped your jaw, calloused and careworn over satin skin. “But I’m not perfect.”

“I know, that’s why I like you.” With a dazzling smile, he’s caught right in the crosshairs, lips parting with a placating huff. It turns into a hum of a chuckle, his hand still firm against your side.

In a gentle clamor, his lips find yours, beard tickling your skin again, the sensation wholly pleasant. The kiss lingers, something that feels closer to home, a newfound warmth that the both of you desperately crave.

John’s mouth twitches into a half-smile, a peculiar mirth beginning to touch his eyes. He feels you plant a kiss against his shoulder, and he knows he’s completely screwed — you’re falling, but he’s falling harder.

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