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swordgrace · 13 days ago

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❝ 𝐚 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐞𝐲𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: john has a bad habit of running his mouth, especially during a sparring lesson — after taking it too far, he makes it up to you in more ways than one.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.2K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), john is a bit of an asshole, sparring lesson turned sexual, lots of banter, shower sex, teasing, cocky john, begging, making out, hair pulling kink, john walker’s praise kink, cunnilingus, oral sex (fem!rec), john is a certified munch, handjob, light face riding, suggestive ending.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: y’all do not understand how OBSESSED I am with him! like I love writing for him! this was based on a request I received! I hope you all enjoy & thank you all for your continued support! 🫶

John’s got a smug mouth — he wields it with a deft expertise, as well-honed with making offhanded quips as he is throwing around his shield. Arrogance bleeds from him like an open wound, cocksure with a constant desire to be right.

It’s a constant clash of retorts and smarmy banter that occasionally grates on the nerves of the team, including yours, even if you’re in a relationship.

Sometimes, he still speaks to you as if you’re still indifferent, when it couldn’t be further from the truth. It agitates you, but you’ve learned to pass it off as something innately harmless.

Despite the mutual agreement to conceal your newfound romance from the team, a sliver of you longed to scream it out into the open.

Instead, you resorted to stolen glances during breakfast, quick kisses in the corridor, and sneaking off at night like two teenagers.

Today, he’s wearing that peacocking attitude on his sleeve, remarks like teeth wrapping around a wound, taunting. It’s biting; beneath it are good intentions, but they’re lost to his condescension.

“You’re still leaning right.”

In the center of the training room, you’re squared up with a boxing bag, knuckles split and raw, beads of sweat glittering against your temple. Beneath your breast, your heart skittered at an accelerated pace, muscles burning with exertion.

Postured behind the heavy bag, John’s visage is one of obvious disgruntlement, jaw pulled tight, his arms folded over his chest. Blonde tresses are a touch disheveled, brows creased together.

The spandex shirt he wears occasionally distracts you, corded muscle glaringly present. He’s painfully handsome, and you want to hate him for it, especially in the moment. It’s difficult to concentrate.

It might’ve been a mistake to ask your boyfriend for hand-to-hand combat instruction; he got mean when he taught. It wasn’t malicious, but it wasn’t how you needed to learn.

Survival was a second skin to him, self-preservation interwoven into years of rigorous military experience. His instruction seemed more akin to a drill sergeant than a man trying to teach his girlfriend something new.

For John, it was ‘be stronger or die, fight or succumb’; he cared about you too much. Despite your abilities, close quarters was where you seemed to falter, and he was determined to whip you into shape.

“I don’t think so.” Composed, your gaze floats to him, standing behind the bag, blonde brows furrowing together. Flexing out an arm, you notice the tick of annoyance in his jaw.

“You don’t think so?” John echoes, countenance a half-grimace of determination. Stepping out from the bag, he mimics your boxing stance, though you’re convinced he’s exaggerating your hypothetical right lean. “This is what you look like.”

Indignant, your mouth falls open with a brief huff, as if the idea is simply preposterous to you. It doesn’t make any sense, but you concede to him, brows knitting together. “Fine. I’ll fix it.” You sigh, knowing he’s too stubborn to disagree with.

He’s taking this training aspect a little too seriously for your liking, even if the intent behind it is meaningful. “Go again.” He grits, reassuming his position behind the bag, gaze appraising your form.

A dull burn paints your sternum, breathing a touch hoarse from running drills, and his were less than forgiving. Regardless of his agitation, you prepare to go again, hands hovering around your face, body posturing against the bag.

With a soft huff, you begin again, hands pounding against the sandbag with noisy thwacks, knuckles raw, bruised from the leather’s rough exterior.

Muscles scream with a dull ache, unaccustomed to being used in such a violent manner. Fighting is something you aren’t exactly fond of; it never brings you any peace or comfort. Though, you understand the importance of learning, John is too zealous.

Stone-faced, John’s stern glower inspects your stance, following every swing of your hands, every clash of the bag. You’re still off-kilter, body teetering to the right side again, swinging with minimal momentum.

“Still leaning right,” John quips, listening to the irritated huff that tears past your lips. “Fix your stance, stop relying on your front leg.” He can taste the annoyance as it rolls from your being, but it’s necessary; he wants you to get it right.

“I’m not leaning right.” You protest, growing discouraged with your lesson. The footwork was something you could practice, but you felt as if the rest of your stance was formidable enough; maybe John was testing you.

A derisive laugh split his throat, sardonic enough to make you bristle, hands lowering to your sides. “You’re leaning to the right. Do it again, and you’ll fall over — do that in a real fight, you’re dead.”

Disdainful, your frustration only seemed to grow from there, marked by an unpleasant curl of your mouth, body running hot. The tepid haze of the training room was beginning to go to your head, air stale and arid.

“This isn’t a real fight,” Arguing over the semantics of a boxing lesson seems pathetic, but his attitude is grating on you; more so than usual. “This is practice, and you’re taking it too seriously.” You mumble, stooping to pick up your water bottle.

John scoffs, bewildered by your attitude. He doesn’t see it as practice; he sees it as a training scenario, and if you can’t properly defend yourself, he’s terrified that he won’t be able to save you in time.

He couldn’t save Lemar, couldn’t save his teammates in the desert; the thought of losing you too became a constant nightmare.

In his dreams, he was in Latvia, his shield stained with crimson, blood on his hands — sometimes it’s your blood.

His jaw twitches, the nightmare hanging fresh within the recesses of his mind, clawing its way to the forefront, as if to make the sting worse. John isn’t used to having someone care deeply about him, and vice versa.

Stepping away, you’re eager for a reprieve. “What, just like that and you’re giving up?” He’s pushing you, prodding; it isn’t right, toying with your vulnerability, but he wants you to be strong, to be capable.

“John, you’re being mean.” Within your softer cadence lies a stern warning for him to stop, as if attempting to quell his attitude before it gets worse. Cold water trickles down your throat, flesh matted by perspiration.

“I’m being realistic.” With a gritty counterpoint, John steps out from behind the bag, muscled arms folded tightly over his chest. “You need to know this stuff — if the mission gets too dangerous …”

“I can’t know it if you’re being like this.” Beneath the rugged, rough exterior, is a man who wants to ensure that you know how to protect yourself. You understand to some extent, but his demeanor is beginning to get to you.

Deciding that you’ve had enough of his lessons for the day, you walk toward the bench, retrieving your towel as you wipe sweat from your neck.

“I’m not going to coddle you,” John’s still going, attempting to make you understand where he’s coming from. “You asked for my help, and I’m helping you.” He’s already regretting the way the words sound; he’s being harsh.

Through an exasperated sigh, your brows furrow together, hands wrenched tightly into the towel as you try and relieve some of your anxiousness. Turning on your heel, you face him, chin jutting out with mild defiance.

“I don’t want you to coddle me. I just want you to drop the attitude and train me.” Despite the cordiality within your tone, you’re trying to avoid an unnecessary argument. It all feels so trivial, bickering over this.

“I don’t have an attitude,” Akin to a petulant child, his cadence is remarkably reminiscent of someone who has an attitude. Realizing how he sounds, he concedes, trailing after you as you make for the door. “Are you finished?”

“For today, yes,” Still, you’re calm, feeling him nipping at your heels all the way to your room. He doesn’t leave, much to your surprise, even as you open the door and clamor inside. “Do you have another retort to add?”

Once the both of you have privacy, the asshole demeanor begins to dissipate, as if he’s dissolving all on his own. Behind closed doors, he gets soft — and you’re the reason why.

Through a clenched jaw, John doesn’t say anything at first, watching as you dab the cloth over your brow. He cares about you so much that his chest begins to burn, despite himself.

A hush falls between, and he knows it’s a fight he lost; glaringly obvious, too. He resorts to standing by the door as you kick off your tennis shoes, a damp splotch of sweat around your collar, tresses matted against your temples.

A flicker of realization begins to dawn on him; he was being too much. You had a point with him taking it too seriously, but it was all done with the best intentions. He wanted you to learn the right way, and be safe.

John’s eyes momentarily screw shut, tension unfurling from his shoulders. “I’m sorry.” Apologizing used to feel like a weakness, but he knows it isn’t — he’s learned to accept that.

Expecting you to be smug or bite back with vitriol, you lift your head, countenance softening as you meet his gaze. ��I know your intentions, and they’re good — but I’m your girlfriend, too. I want your help, but I don’t want the callousness.”

Conceding, John nods, a simple jostle of his head, blonde tresses disheveled. Even when slick with sweat and frustrated, he’s still handsome, painfully so, careworn palms rough from years of hard work. “I’ll be gentler.” He utters, sincere.

The bravado and grit wears off, as if it’s some skin he’s shed, revealing the rawness of the man underneath it all. In truth, he wants to make sure that you know how to protect yourself — eases the worrying, eases the fear.

There’s an inner turmoil he’s wrestling with; he wears it openly with you, less so with others. Vulnerability is still a concept he’s untangling, deciphering as he works through his own labyrinth of sins.

With every mission, he fears losing you — not fast enough, not strong enough, not man enough to protect you. The toxic values instilled to him by years of government propaganda are being unraveled; it’s a slow process.

“John.”

Through the shroud of his insecurities, you shatter it like sunlight through shadow, chasing away the swarm of darker thoughts that plagued him. A brief exhale escapes him as he focuses on you, his smile threadbare.

“I can’t think of a better teacher,” Truthfully, he’s incredibly skilled in all ways imaginable; he’s intelligent, too. There’s plenty to learn from him, despite his rougher methods of tutelage. “Just work on your teaching voice.”

With a bemused huff, his smile morphs into a characteristic smirk, charming — it ensnares you without a shred of effort. “I’ll work on it,” You know he will, too. “Are you okay?” He inquires, hoping that he didn’t kill your mood.

You slip off of your bed, tugging at the collar of your shirt, as it uncomfortably sticks to your skin. “I’m great, really,” Reassuringly, you smile at John, placating his brief tangle of nerves. “How are you not sweaty?”

John withholds the urge to make a flirtatious insinuation, uncrossing his arms as he watches you rifle through for clean clothes. “Watching you in those leggings did make me sweat a little.” He teases, subject to your grousing stare.

“Stop it.” You mumble, smiling despite yourself as he raises one hand in faux defense. A soft chuckle shakes his shoulders, a rarer sound that fills your bones with warmth.

Bridging the gap between you, his hands find your hips without pause, lightly tracing over the small of your back. “You’re pretty when you’re frustrated with me.” John murmurs, savoring your flustered expression as you press a hand against his chest.

“It’s a constant thing, you should be used to it.” He gets under your flesh and buries himself there, too sure of himself, mouth slacked into a gregarious smirk. Though, you like it more than you care to admit.

John attempts to kiss you, but you playfully turn at the last second, bearded mouth falling against your jaw, instead. You’re tormenting him because of the boxing thing, and he knows it.

Wriggling from his grasp, you shuffle backwards, padding toward your bathroom instead. You stop in the doorway, framed by a tranquil glow. “Are you coming?” You muse, catching him off-guard, much to your own amusement.

“What?” John’s mildly bewildered, but it seems to die down when he realizes what you’re propositioning. Hunger reveals itself with a snarl and yearning, arms flexing as his posture straightens up.

“Shower,” Despite the innocuous nature of your tone and the pretty smile, there is a hint of an ulterior motive. You squirm within your sweat-laden shirt. “I feel disgusting.” Peeling your top aside, you toss it onto the floor.

John bites back a grin, scratching at his beard before trailing after you, masking his enthusiasm. “Yes, ma’am,” He muses, kicking off his shoes beside the door, following you into the bathroom. “Want some help?”

You don’t need it, but you want it anyway, warmth spreading over the back of your neck as you turn, back facing him. Switching on the shower, you stay that way, feeling his calloused fingertips brush over your spine.

He’s unfastening your bra with a disarming tenderness, focused, warm breath pluming over the back of your neck. His musculature is firm against you, spandex t-shirt pulled taut over his chest, biceps tempting you.

Rough hands mold themselves to your body, mapping every muscle-deep bruise like a constellation, planting a kiss against your shoulder. It’s apologetic, sweet — John doesn’t have to say anything that you don’t already know.

Slowly, you turn, wedged up against the marble countertop, his body cornering yours. Wordlessly, your fingers drag to the hem of his shirt, curling into the fabric before easing it upward.

John removes it all in one smooth motion, fluid, physique raw and sinewy, corded with thick muscle, chest layered in a light dusting of blond hair. Heat wafts from his skin, peppered in days-old bruises, faded scars.

Whatever you wanted to say turns to ash in your mouth, gaze doe-eyed, adoring. It’s a look he’s still growing accustomed to, sitting with the notion that you genuinely wanted him.

“I really care about you,” Little more than a whisper, your admittance is saccharine, doing little to mask your affections for him. “Smug mouth and all.” You muse, feeling his hand dip to cup your hip, thumb tracing circles over your leggings.

“Smug mouth, huh?” John taunts with a smirk, cerulean hues burning with a desirous intensity, lips shifting to plant a kiss over your jaw. The scratch of his beard has quickly become one of your favorite sensations.

“The worst.” Your mumble is disarmingly sweet, your smile suppressed beneath an expression that attempts to veil your true feelings. Even then, he breaks through your barriers with ease.

Through a bemused huff, John’s mouth explores your throat, hands snaking down to tease the waistband of your leggings. “You don’t have anything to say about it when we’re in bed.”

The fiery quip sends a shockwave through your stomach, a stab of heat, tangling around your nerves like ivy. “John …” There is little warning in your tone, save for desperation. He’s being unfair.

Urging against your leggings, you’re subservient, letting his fingers hook into the spandex, easing you out of the garment altogether. He’s suave, cocky — that familiar arrogance is present again, but you find it attractive this time.

Steam begins to float through the bathroom, water sputtering overhead as you careen into his embrace. Stepping out of the thin fabric, you’re standing in your underwear, eager to slip beneath the hot water.

Nails idly trace over his abdomen, drawing little circles as he plants a string of kisses to your jugular. A soft exhale warbles through your nose, lips parted as you glance toward the shower.

“You’re getting distracted.” You murmur, visibly smitten as he lifts his head, hand greedily groping at the back of your thigh. John’s lips twitch into that visage of sardonicism, head cocking to one side.

“Can you blame me?” Smooth, his reply sets your nerves ablaze, something hot stirring within your belly as you sidestep toward the shower. You’re sliding out of your panties, and he’s right on your tail, kicking out of his clothes.

Stepping into the shower, a column of steaming water drizzled over your skin, washing away the sweat that clung to you. Reaching for your soap, you immediately begin to work on cleaning off.

Soothing the dull throbbing of days-old bruises and aching muscles, you sigh, stealing a glance at John.

He’s maddeningly well-endowed; annoyingly impressive like the rest of him, something you’ve told him before, and it all seemed to go to his head. He smooths a hand through his blonde tresses, slicked by water.

A delicate shade of pink clung to his cheeks; splotched, dappled over his skin, sunkissed and blanketed in a layer of freckles. Muscles flex and contort, cast in the dull glow of the bathroom, beaded droplets rolling over his abdomen.

“Are you done staring?” Ripping you from your thoughts, his snide inquiry makes you jump, caught in the act, but you’re unperturbed by it.

“No,” It’s easy to bait him by batting your eyelashes, gaze round and doe-eyed, catching the terse tick of his jaw. Your tongue scrapes over your bottom lip, soap suds gliding down your back. “You’re so handsome — just really attractive.”

The teasing lilt in your tone has dropped, replaced with a sweeter sincerity that makes his heart nearly come out of his chest. John’s gaze shifts to something heady, eclipsed by desire, festering with the shadow of want.

“Yeah?” Closer, he’s seizing your hips, lips crushing against yours in a bruising kiss. It stings, ripping every wisp of air from your lungs, leaving you burning for more. His beard scratches ragged, fingers pressed into pliant flesh.

A ragged sigh snares within your throat, manifesting as a mere hum, body vibrating with exhilaration. His pearlescent teeth briefly scrape over your bottom lip.

Eager digits clamor to sink into his chest, nails digging light crescents into his skin, a sting he thoroughly enjoys. “John,” A moan floats from your mouth, body humming with a muted buzz. “Want your mouth.”

He’s grinning, a cat who just caught the canary. That sharp tongue is already winding up with something devious to say, something agonizingly audacious.

“Thought you said it was the worst,” John grunts, remark branded against your mouth, hot and vainglorious. Impatient with his incessant teasing, his mask slips when your hand reaches to fist at the nape of his neck. “Shit.”

A flicker of surprise flutters over his features, secretly reveling in the way you’d roughly grasped at his hair. His growing arousal pulses heavily against your thigh, oozing heat, proof there for you to feel.

Mouths clash again, an amalgamation of teeth and tongue, ripples of pent-up repression oozing into each kiss. John wants you terribly, more than he ever thought possible, cock beginning to throb when you whine into his lips.

“Please,” Desperate, you’re craving him, hungry, letting it crawl over your flesh like some white-hot wave of heat. “I want you.” You say it again, pleading this time, digits threading into his hair, pulling with another wanton tug.

John is unable to deny you, gaze half-lidded, throat bobbing as he swallows the groan threatening to split through his chest. There’s some foggy, lust-ridden haze he wades through, succumbing to baser instincts.

Before another pathetic whine can burst from your mouth, he’s pushing you up against the shower wall, strong palms keeping you steady. “Jesus,” He groans into the warmth of your mouth, kissing you until your chest feels tight. “You’re killin’ me.”

His Georgian drawl tapers off with certain syllables, gooseflesh icing your spine as you let one hand caress his abdomen. He shudders, brows pinched, countenance wrought with concentration.

Water cascades over his back, an incandescent light that highlights his musculature, legs wobbling as he gets down onto his knees. His mouth paints kisses over your thighs, lifting one leg up over his shoulder.

The hand that continues to fist at the base of his skull makes him shiver, savoring the sensation as he bullies his way between your legs. Cerulean hues stay fixated on your face as his mouth makes contact with your slick cunt.

He shuts up quickly when he’s eating you out, you’ve noticed; the satisfaction flows through you in one smug wave. A scruffy beard scratches ragged against your thighs, prickling your silky flesh as his tongue drags over your slit.

The flat of his tongue rakes embers across your cunt, pulling a delighted gasp from your mouth. Everything feels hot, unbearably so, bodies tangled beneath the shower’s heated pressure.

Bracing against his body, his own musculature supports you without breaking a sweat, one hand molded to your thigh, the other firm atop your hip. “You’re so good at this.” You whine, knowing how much he savors your praise.

John growls into your cunt as if he’s some beast on all fours, tongue greedily splitting past your folds, caressing over your sensitive flesh.

He grips you like a vice, caging you firmly against the wall, nose grazing your mound. Keeping you anchored to his mouth, he’s consuming you like a man starved, deprived of sustenance.

Fingers flex through blonde tresses, tugging and pulling, coaxing him closer as your hips jolt unexpectedly. The friction isn’t unwelcome, and he treats you to a barrage of enthused laps, tongue possessing a mind of its own.

The cocksure demeanor diminishes when his mouth is preoccupied; he doesn’t complain, thoroughly getting off on letting you ride his face.

With slow, eager laps of his tongue, John made sure to savor you, letting the flat of his tongue fall heavy across your clit. His name plumes from your mouth like a prayer.

The short, dizzying gasp that tore past your mouth spurred him on, as he pressed another string of kisses against your slit.

“J—John,” Raw, the noise splits through your diaphragm, heaving with labored sighs, cunt pulsing with spasms of pleasure. “Fuck, plea—please don’t stop!” A whine coagulates within the back of your throat, ceaselessly needy.

You urged him closer, hips rolling into the fervent heat of his mouth, thighs quivering as he treated you to a lap of his tongue. Circled strokes dance over your cunt; once, twice, three times.

This barrage of bliss assaulted your body with such intensity, molten heat churning within the pit of your stomach, oozing between your thighs.

Bittersweet arousal swarmed his lips, the taste of you, something he craved. His mouth is a thing of perfection, pleasuring you as if it’s his sworn duty, tongue lapping at every inch of your cunt.

His ministrations are gentle, disarmingly so, careworn palms caressing into your hips, keeping you slotted against his face. Lapping openly at your core, you shiver, feeling his nose graze your clit.

The scruff of his blonde beard scratches ragged over the inside of your thighs, sandpaper to silk, the sensation pleasant. You’re writhing, a tangle of nerves and mounting ecstasy, leg rattling beneath his hold.

His name emerges from your mouth again, desperate and wanton, breathy as you squirm. Lips climb from your heated core to your clit, pressing a string of kisses there, tongue brushing over the clutch of nerves.

John’s mouth is voracious, tongue endlessly greedy, eating you out as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Circling around your clit, he begins to lap over your pearl, feeling your legs tremor around him, muscles spasmodic, twitching.

“So handsome like this.” A ragged sigh is pulled from your diaphragm, ecstasy sown by John’s own need and determination. The remark is enough to make him ache, your body vibrating around him.

Daring to look down, your heart nearly bursts from your chest when you realize he’s watching you, smirk palpable, cerulean hues burning.

Through a shadowed stare, eyes blown with lust, he’s got you pinned, sucking the air from your lungs as if he owns you. He wants to say something, but he’s too absorbed with eating you out.

Rendered speechless beneath his incendiary gaze, your stomach churns with molten heat, body on fire, a ceaseless throbbing pulsing between your legs.

Your cunt pathetically clenches around nothing at all, hips absently grinding into his mouth. “John — fuck — please, m’close!” Slurred, you’re trying your best not to smother him.

As if to tempt you further, his lips purse around your clit, taunting, catching the blissed-out look in your eyes. It’s that damned doe-eyed stare he’s hooked on, sucking on that bundle of nerves with a twinge of passion.

Teetering on the precipice of an explosion, you’re rattling, shaking like a leaf, thighs tensing on either side of his head.

He presses you further, a low hum tumbling from his mouth, still fervently revolving around your clit.

White-hot spots blind your vision, jaw unhinged, a myriad of moans leaving you, unrestrained. The noise evokes a throaty groan from him, chest reverberating, sending tingles through your spine like spikes of heat.

John’s still buried between your thighs, interchanging between suckling your clit and broad, flat strokes of his tongue. Each caress, every lap of his mouth sends you into some frenzy, hips urging forward.

A white-hot rush of ecstasy swarmed you, voice tapering off into incoherent praises and wanton moans, filling the shower with your delighted cries. Half-babbles, whimpers, strangled whines emerge from your throat.

Feeling your body pulse around him, a low grunt splits his diaphragm, your legs trembling, muscles twitching in the aftermath. Even still, your mind is foggy, shrouded by a haze of desire.

Conceding, he plants another kiss to your core, followed by a rough lap of his tongue, beard soaked by both water and your arousal.

Unlatching his mouth from your cunt, he exhales, visage splotched with scarlet, pupils expanded with lust as he moves upright. Your lips press a lingering kiss to his collar, a flicker of mischief in your eyes.

His cock throbbed incessantly, the pressure coiled within his abdomen, unexpectedly seizing when your hand wrapped around his length. “Chr — Damn, easy.” John groans, sudden and wanting, hands seizing your hips.

It gets under his skin, how easily he succumbs to you, and with a mere flick of your wrist, he’s prepared to come undone in your hand. Flushed and frustrated, his mouth clamors for yours, biting at your bottom lip.

He’s painfully hard in your palm, bleeding heat, slick within your grasp as you give his cock several sluggish, gentler strokes. There’s a tension prevalent in his shoulders, one that unfurls when you make him cum.

John shudders, mouth dropping to the hollow between your throat and shoulder, maiming it with snags of teeth and bruising hickeys. A low whine escapes you, hand vigorous as you pull him into his release.

Your name spills from his tongue, hoarse and husky, warmth spreading over your body like an encroaching wildfire. It’s quick, but he was riled up already from eating you out.

Blissed-out and satiated, John’s brows pinch together, countenance a thing of unbridled satisfaction as you finish him off. After a few languid strokes of your hand, he’s looking relaxed.

“Jesus,” John forces a laugh, trailing a hand through his soaked tresses, reaching behind you to shut the water off. “Feeling better?” He remarks, unable to bite back the grin that curls the corner of his mouth.

Nodding, you’re smiling, smitten as he drapes a towel around you, planting a slow kiss against your jaw. “Mm-hm.” Humming, your hands are fumbling with the towel, drying yourself off before stepping out of the shower.

With a cheshire smirk, his hands grazed over your waist, lips molding themselves to the back of your neck. “That’s it? Just mm-hm?” He gruffs, his pride mildly wounded, hoping you’d have plenty to say.

Pillars of steam wisp from the bathroom, clouding through your quarters as you search for something comfortable to wear. “If I say what’s on my mind, you’ll brag. I’m keeping you humble.” You tease, lashes fluttering.

“Right,” John huffs, though you know it’s a mutual banter you’ve maintained, playful teasing that’s become incredibly soft. He doesn’t mind; he likes it, really. “When you’re begging me again, I’ll remind you of this conversation.”

Despite the theatrical, pointed glare you give him, you’re smiling; flustered, truthfully. He’s a cocky bastard, obnoxious, but he makes you feel protected, warm. He makes you feel wanted, when you always thought otherwise.

Some of his clothes have made it to your room after one too many nights together; he’s gotten used to it. A pair of black shorts sit on his waist, musculature bared for you, mostly.

John gawks, a brief huff escaping him when he realizes what shirt of his you’re wearing; it’s a callback, for sure. Custer’s Grove High School football, with the emblems of a bear on the front.

“Where did you find that artifact?” He scoffs, blonde brows furrowing with intrigue as you swivel around, clad in your underwear-and-his-shirt combination. You must’ve been digging deep in his wardrobe to find it.

“Underneath your dress shirts,” You remark, lips pulling apart. “I can take it off if it …” Trailing off, John silences you with a chaste kiss, playfully patting your leg, briefly squeezing at the pliant flesh of your thigh.

“No, keep it,” John’s cadence softens, cerulean hues clinging to a distant memory which seems to dissipate as quickly as it appeared. “You look beautiful.”

As he settles along the edge of your mattress, you’re climbing into his lap, eliciting a sarcastic chuckle from him, visibly perplexed. Lips softly tangle together, tender, and he feels himself steadily getting worked up again.

Evening the score, his hands wander toward your haunches, molding themselves to your flesh, palms squeezing and groping. Your digits are in his damp tresses again, tugging, visage riddled with a stern warning.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” John grunts, feeling your lips curl into a smile against his mouth. He withdraws, only to get a good look at you, prettier than anything he’s ever seen before. “I’m serious.”

“I’m serious.” As if invoking a challenge, your countenance pinches into a look of stoicism, though you’re poking fun at him simultaneously.

“Fine.” His voice is low and raspy, a delicious husk that fills your bones with fire. He fires off, strong enough to manhandle you onto your back, bullying his way between your legs, kissing you ragged.

You’re rendered immobile by morning.

#mcu #marvel #thunderbolts #thunderbolts*#john walker x reader #john walker x you #john walker x y/n #john walker smut #john walker fanfic #john walker #marvel x reader #thunderbolts x reader #thunderbolts smut #marvel smut #marvel fanfic #thunderbolts fanfic

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moonlightwritingf1 · 4 months ago

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Sports Car | LN4

🎀 summary ━━━━━━━ Based on Sports Car by Tate Mcrae

🎀 pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

🎀 word count ━━━━━━━ 3.6k

🎀 warnings ━━━━━━━ +18, sexual content, unprotected sex, p in v, creampie, public sex?

Based on this request.

The hum of the engine was the only sound filling the air as Lando skillfully navigated the winding roads back toward London. His McLaren, sleek and commanding in its presence, seemed to purr beneath them, its low growl a constant reminder of the sheer power it held. The soft leather seats cradled Y/N in comfort, and the subtle glow of the dashboard illuminated her features in a way that made it impossible for Lando to focus entirely on the road.

The party they’d just left—a birthday celebration for a mutual friend—was already fading into a blur of laughter, champagne, and stolen glances. Outside the car, the countryside had melted into the fringes of the city, the faint glimmer of London’s skyline growing closer with every mile. Inside, though, the world was reduced to just the two of them, bathed in the low hum of the car’s engine and the tension thickening the air.

Y/N sat quietly in the passenger seat, her hair spilling over her shoulders in soft waves, catching the faint light from passing streetlamps. Her eyes, which Lando had caught himself getting lost in countless times before, flickered with mischief as she glanced over at him. She had been unusually quiet since they left the party, but Lando could see the spark in her gaze. He didn’t need her to say anything to know she was up to something.

Lando tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his fingers flexing instinctively against the smooth leather. He didn’t mind the silence; in fact, he loved these stolen moments with her, where it felt like the world outside ceased to exist. The McLaren roared softly as he pressed down on the accelerator, effortlessly gliding onto a stretch of open road.

Her hand rested casually on her thigh, the silky fabric of her dress catching the faint glow of the streetlights. She shifted slightly in her seat, her dress riding up just enough to reveal a hint of smooth skin. He didn’t miss it. His grip tightened on the steering wheel as he forced his eyes back to the road, but the air between them grew heavier with every passing second.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Lando teased, his voice low and playful. “Planning something, are we?”

Y/n’s lips curved into a sly smile, her eyes narrowing as she leaned closer. “Maybe,” she murmured, her voice soft but laced with intent. Her hand moved slowly, deliberately, sliding across the console until it rested on his thigh. Her fingers brushed against the fabric of his jeans, light but deliberate, sending a shiver up his spine.

Lando’s breath hitched, but he kept his eyes firmly on the road. “You’re going to make me crash, you know that, right?”

She chuckled, a low, throaty sound that sent heat pooling low in his stomach. “You’re a professional driver, Lando. I think you can handle it.” Her fingers traced circles on his thigh, inching higher with every pass.

“Y/n,” he warned, his voice strained, though the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. “You’re playing with fire.”

“Good thing I like it hot,” she shot back, her tone dripping with confidence. Her hand moved higher still, her fingers brushing the growing bulge in his jeans. She leaned in closer, her breath warm against his ear as she lightly kissed his ear lobe.

Lando’s jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening as he tightened his grip on the wheel. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered, though there was no mistaking the excitement in his voice.

Y/n grinned, her confidence only growing as she felt him react to her touch. She shifted in her seat, turning her body toward him as her hand pressed more firmly against him. Her fingers worked at the button of his jeans, popping it open with practiced ease. “What’s the matter, Lando? Can’t concentrate?”

He let out a low groan, his hips jerking instinctively as she slid the zipper down. “You’re going to kill us both,” he said, though there was no real protest in his voice.

“Trust me,” she purred, her hand slipping inside his jeans, her fingers wrapping around his hard length. “You’re in good hands.”

Lando’s breath came in sharp bursts as she began to stroke him, her touch firm but teasing. His body reacted instantly, his cock twitching in her hand as he fought to keep his focus on the road. “Jesus, Y/n,” he gasped, his hips bucking against her touch.

She laughed softly, her thumb swiping over the head of his cock, spreading the bead of moisture there. “You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” she whispered, her lips brushing against his ear. “Thought it was only fair, I returned the favor.”

Lando’s eyes flicked to her for a moment, taking in the flushed cheeks and the way her chest rose and fell with each breath. She was a vision, and she was his. “You’re lucky I’m such a good driver,” he muttered, though his voice was thick with desire.

Y/n’s smile widened as she continued to stroke him, her movements slow and deliberate. “Oh, I know,” she said, her tone dripping with mischief. “But you’re still going to pull over, aren’t you?”

Lando let out a shaky laugh, his resolve crumbling with every pass of her hand. “You’re impossible,” he said, though there was no real annoyance in his voice.

“And yet, you love me,” she replied, her voice soft but filled with certainty.

His eyes softened at that, his heart swelling even as his body throbbed with need. “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I do.”

Y/n’s hand stilled for a moment, her gaze locking with his as the weight of his words settled between them. She had always been guarded, always hesitant to let anyone see the real her. But with Lando, it was different. He saw her, truly saw her, and it scared her as much as it thrilled her.

“Pull over,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly, not from fear, but from the intensity of the moment.

Lando didn’t hesitate. He signaled and guided the car off the road, bringing it to a smooth stop in a quiet spot. The engine continued its low hum, filling the silence as he turned to face her. His blue eyes were dark with desire, a smoldering intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. But beyond that, there was something deeper in his gaze, something unmistakable.

Love.

It was written in the way he looked at her, raw and unguarded, as though she was the center of his universe. The air between them grew heavier, the intimacy of the moment settling over them like a blanket, shutting out everything else.

Y/n’s breath caught as he reached for her, his hands cupping her face as he pulled her into a searing kiss. His lips were soft but demanding, and she melted into him, her hands tangling in his hair as she kissed him back with equal fervor.

“You’re going to kill me,” he murmured against her lips, his hands sliding down to her waist, pulling her closer.

“Only if you let me,” she whispered back, her voice filled with promise.

Lando’s lips curved into a smirk as he reached for the lever, reclining the seat so she could straddle him. “Oh, I’m not letting you go that easily,” he said, his voice low and filled with intent.

Y/N’s heart raced as she climbed onto his lap, her dress gathering around her hips as she leaned down to kiss him again. His hands roamed her body, tracing the curves of her waist, her hips, her breasts, as if he couldn’t get enough of her.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, his lips trailing down her neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there.

She shivered at his touch, her body responding instantly to his words, his hands, his mouth. “Lando,” she breathed, her voice shaking with need.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured, his hands gripping her hips, guiding her to grind against him.

She moaned softly, her body arching into his as she felt the hard length of him pressing against her. “You,” she whispered, her eyes locking with his. “I want you.”

And that was all it took.

Her dress had ridden higher as she straddled him, leaving her thighs bare against the heat of his body. His hands slid beneath the fabric, fingers exploring the soft curves of her hips with a desperate need to feel her. She shifted against him, the friction drawing a low groan from his lips, his body tensing beneath her as she moved against his hardness.

“You’re driving me crazy,” Lando murmured, his voice low and rough, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of her neck. His breath sent shivers down her spine, and she tilted her head to give him better access. “You’re so fucking hot like this.”

She smirked, a little breathless, her hands moving to his chest as she kissed him. Her fingers traced the firm muscles there, savoring the way his skin felt warm and alive beneath her touch. His cock was already free from his jeans and boxers, hard and heavy against her thigh, the heat of it making her ache. She felt his pulse racing, his heart thundering in a rhythm that mirrored her own desperation.

"You’re not so bad yourself," she whispered, her voice teasing as she leaned back slightly, her gaze drifting lower. The sight of him like this, already stripped bare for her, sent a jolt of heat through her core. His dick twitched under her stare, swollen and needy, veins straining against the skin. She bit her lip, her eyes flashing up to meet his as she shifted her weight, grinding against him, letting him feel the wetness of her panties.

Lando’s breath hitched, his jaw clenching as his hands gripped her hips, anchoring her to him. His Adam’s apple bobbed, a low growl escaping his throat. "You’re going to kill me," he ground out, the words strained, his voice thick with want. He struggled to keep his composure, but the way his fingers dug into her hips betrayed how close he was to losing it.

She wrapped her hand around him, squeezing gently, a slow stroke that had him shuddering. His head fell back against the seat, a groan tearing from his lips as his eyes shut, his face a mask of pure, unfiltered pleasure. She loved this—loved how easily she could unravel him, how his usual confidence melted into something raw and vulnerable. The way he reacted to her touch, to her every move, was intoxicating.

Her thumb brushed over the slick tip of his cock, spreading the precum that had gathered there. She leaned in, her breath hot against his ear. "Do you want me to take care of this?" she murmured, her tone sweet but laced with the promise of something far more. Her hand moved again, another slow, deliberate stroke that had his hips bucking into her grip. "Or do you want to do it yourself… while I watch?"

“Y/n,” he whispered, his voice strained, his hands gripping her hips tighter. “Fuck, you’re killing me.”

She smiled, her hand moving a little faster. She could feel him twitching in her hand, and it only made her want more. “Good,” she murmured, her breath hot against his ear. “I want you to feel as crazy as you make me feel.”

Her words were enough to push him over the edge. Before she knew it, his hands, which had been on her hips, lifted her slightly as he moved her underwear to the side. She felt the tip of him pressing against her, and a soft moan escaped her lips, her body already aching for him. He didn’t wait, didn’t give her a chance to catch her breath, as he guided himself inside her, filling her completely.

The stretch was delicious, a perfect mix of pleasure and pain that made her head fall back, a moan escaping her lips as she felt him bottom out. He was so deep, so thick, and she could feel every inch of him as she shifted, trying to adjust to the sensation. But she didn’t need to adjust for long, because soon she was moving, her hands braced against his shoulders as she rode him slowly, savoring every moment.

“Fuck, Y/n,” Lando groaned, his hands moving to her waist, holding her steady as she moved. She could feel his eyes on her, watching her every move, and it only made her want to go faster. She leaned forward slightly, her hands moving to her dress as she pulled the fabric down, exposing her chest to him. His eyes darkened as he took in the sight of her, his hands moving to cup her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her hardened nipples.

She moaned again, the sensation of his hands on her breasts adding to the pleasure building inside her. She could feel herself getting wetter, her walls clenching around him as she moved, her pace quickening. He was so deep, so perfect, and she could feel every thrust as he filled her, his hips meeting hers with every movement.

“Lando,” she whispered, her voice shaking as she moved faster, her body craving more. “Oh my god, you feel so good.”

He groaned, his hands moving to her hips, gripping her tighter as he helped her move. “You’re so tight,” he murmured, his voice rough with need. “So fucking perfect.”

She could feel the pleasure building inside her, the way her body was responding to him, and she knew she was close. But she wanted to make it last, wanted to savor every moment of this. She leaned forward slightly, her hands moving back to his shoulders as she kissed him, her lips moving against his hungrily. He groaned into the kiss, his hands moving to her ass, gripping her tighter as he thrust up into her, meeting her movements with his own.

“I’m close,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she pulled back slightly, her eyes meeting his. “So close.”

“Me too,” he murmured, his hands moving to her breasts again, his thumbs brushing over her nipples as he squeezed them gently. She moaned at the sensation, her body arching into his as she felt the pleasure building inside her, the way her walls were clenching around him.

“Come for me, Y/n,” he whispered, his voice rough with need, his hips meeting hers with every thrust. “Let me feel you.”

His words were enough to push her over the edge, and she cried out, her body trembling as the pleasure washed over her. She could feel herself tightening around him, her walls clenching as she came, the sensation overwhelming. He groaned, his hips stilling as he thrust into her one last time, his body shuddering as he came inside her, filling her completely.

For a moment, they stayed like that, their bodies pressed together, their breathing heavy as they tried to catch their breath. She could feel his heart racing beneath her, the way his hands were still gripping her tightly, as if he never wanted to let her go. And in that moment, she didn’t want him to.

“That was…” he started, his voice shaky, his hands moving to her waist as he pulled her closer. “Fuck, Y/n, that was amazing.”

She smiled, her hands moving to his chest as she leaned into him, her body still trembling slightly from the aftershocks of her orgasm. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she murmured, her voice teasing as she kissed him softly, her lips brushing against his.

He groaned, his hands moving to her ass as he pulled her closer, his lips moving against hers hungrily. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he whispered, his voice rough with need as his hands roamed over her body, already craving more.

The car was still quiet except for the faint hum of the engine and their heavy breathing, their bodies tangled together in the aftermath of passion. Y/n was still straddling Lando's lap, her chest rising and falling as she tried to catch her breath. She could feel the weight of his cum inside her, the warmth of it making her pulse quicken again. Her fingers traced lazy patterns on his chest, her nails lightly scratching the skin as she leaned into him, her lips brushing against his neck.

“Lando,” she murmured, her voice soft but laced with a need she couldn’t suppress. “I… I need to move.”

He glanced down at her, his eyes dark and hazy with desire, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Why?” he teased, his voice low and husky, one hand still gripping her hip possessively. “You’re exactly where I want you.”

She bit her lip, her cheeks flushing as she shifted slightly, feeling the way his cum threatened to spill out of her with even the slightest movement. “I… I don’t know how to get up without, you know… making a mess,” she admitted, her voice dropping to a whisper, her heart racing at the thought.

Lando’s smirk widened, his eyes glinting with mischief as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against her ear. “My mess,” he murmured, his voice dripping with possession, sending a shiver down her spine. “You’re going to sit with it, aren’t you? Until we get back home.”

Her breath hitched, her body reacting instantly to his words, a flush of heat spreading through her as she felt herself growing wet again. “Lando,” she protested weakly, her voice trembling as her fingers tightened against his chest. “That’s… that’s so dirty.”

“Good,” he growled, his hands tightening on her hips as he pressed her down against him, making her gasp at the sensation. “You like it, don’t you? Knowing you’re full of me. Keeping me inside you.”

She couldn’t deny it, her body betraying her as she felt her arousal spike at his words. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible as she pressed her face into his neck, her lips brushing against his skin. “Yes, I do.”

He chuckled softly, his hands moving to guide her as she shifted against him, his touch firm but gentle. “Let me help you,” he said, his voice low and commanding, his fingers gripping her hips as he slowly lifted her off him. She gasped as she felt his cock slide out of her, the sensation of his cum spilling out slightly making her clench around nothing, her body already craving him again.

“Lando,” she moaned, her hands gripping his shoulders as she tried to steady herself, her body trembling with need.

“Quiet, love.” Lando’s voice was low, carnal, as his hands slid down her thighs. Her body shivered against him, her breath hitching when his fingers grazed the edges of her soaked underwear. She could feel his cum already trickling out of her, warm and slick, pooling between her legs. His touch was deliberate, possessive, as he tugged the fabric back into place, covering her pussy with a soft rustle of lace. “There you go. All covered up. But you’re still dripping, aren’t you?”

Her cheeks burned, but she didn’t look away. His smirk was wicked, his eyes dark with satisfaction as he leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. “Every time you move, you’re going to feel me leaking out of you. Right into your cute little panties,” he said, helping her back into the passenger seat.

She swallowed, her thighs pressing together instinctively. “Lando,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Mm?” He ran a finger along the edge of her underwear, his touch feather-light. “You like it, don’t you? Feeling me warm inside you, spilling out where only I’ve been?”

Her breath hitched, her fingers clutching the edge of the seat. She couldn’t lie. Not with the way her body throbbed at his words. “Yes.” The word was barely audible, but it was enough to make his smirk widen.

“Good girl.” He kissed her cheek, his lips lingering for a moment before he pulled away. “But we’re not done. Not tonight.”

Her heart raced as she watched him tuck himself back into his boxers and jeans, his movements slow, deliberate. His hand brushed against his cock as he zipped up, and she couldn’t tear her eyes away. She’d never seen him like this—so in control, so commanding.

The engine purred back to life, and Lando’s eyes slid to hers as he adjusted the rearview mirror. “Keep your legs closed, yeah? Don’t let a drop of me go to waste.”

Her thighs pressed together tighter, her pulse quickening at his words. She could feel his cum sliding out of her, soaking into her underwear, and it made her ache for him all over again.

He glanced at her again, his expression softening for just a moment. “You’re mine,” he said, his voice firm but tender. “Every part of you.”

She bit her lip, her fingers fidgeting in her lap. “Lando,” she whispered, her voice shaky. “I… I want you again.”

His hand moved to her thigh, his grip firm but gentle. “Patience, love. You’ll get what you need. But first, you’re going to sit with me inside you until we’re home. Think you can handle that?”

She nodded, her breath catching as she felt another trickle escape her. “Yes,” she breathed, her voice barely audible.

“Good.” He squeezed her thigh once, his eyes locked on the road, but his voice dropped lower, rougher. “Because I’m not done with you. Not even close.”

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lovlidollie · 6 months ago

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author’s note ; bit of an alternative universe, ward sent rafe away after he killed peterkin in s1, timeline is slightly accelerated. i’m imagining s3!rafe as who he comes back as :3

thinking of military!rafe who comes back after hearing about ward’s death, looking nothing like the coke addicted, wiry little frat boy that had left kildare. he’s matured. he’s grown. long gone are the greasy bangs, a smooth buzz in its place. he’s taller, broader, stronger. his biceps pull at all his shirts, threatening to tear and his thighs are thicker, fuller. he exudes confidence, dominance, a (not so) quiet sense of authority.

he couldn’t give two shits if ward was dead. he was the one that had forcibly enlisted him after the drugs and the alcohol and everything got too much. after the … peterkin incident. he’d been sent away, without even getting to say goodbye to you. little old you.

you were his everything of course. the one constant in his life. when you’d heard rafe was on his way back, you didn’t know how to feel. you’d tried to ignore the anxiety, the stutter in your heart; what if he didn’t want to see you? what if he’d found someone else? it’s not like you guys were together in the first place. back then it had been so fragile, so complicated, caught between the lines of friends and something more. rafe had never said the words and neither had you.

unbeknownst to you, rafe had been thinking about you every single second of every single day he was gone. during grueling drills and physical training. during meals and free time. especially during late nights in his bunk where he’d fist his cock at the memory of your face, biting his lips to stop your name from slipping between his teeth.

he’d told himself that when he got back, he’d make things right. he didn’t care how long it took or how hard it’d be — he’d do whatever it took to prove to you that he was a man now. a man who could appreciate all you did for him, everything you sacrificed. a man who was deserving of your attention. a man who could provide and take care of, and love you.

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updatedideas · 2 years ago

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Amazons GPT55X Unveiled

Hey there, tech enthusiast! 🚀 Grab your coffee because we’re about to dive into one of the most exciting innovations in the world of AI: Amazon’s GPT55X. Picture this: you’re chatting with a friend, and they casually mention this groundbreaking piece of tech. Confused? Don’t fret. We’re here to break it down for you, friend-to-friend. Introducing the Rockstar: Amazons GPT55X Ever watched a movie…

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mournthebird · 8 months ago

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Shower Suds.

summary: You give Soldat his first bath out of captivity.

a/n: This wasn't supposed to be so long, but somehow it always happens when I write about him. Something sorta comforting with some recovery thrown in there. Unedited because I worked on this for so long lol ignore mistakes please! ;; wc: 5.8k

Filthy. You felt bad, really.

There was a lot of problems to tackle with Soldat's condition, but first thing's first...the soldier needed a bath. Badly.

He was dirty, his hair knotted, matted, greasy, his skin was covered in sweat and dirt, probably blood under the black uniform he still wore. The poor man stunk, and he didn't seem to even notice. Or care.

You found yourself in a bit of a hard situation, unsure of the best approach to cleanse him. A bath seemed problematic; he would essentially be marinating in his own grime, which was far from ideal. Would he sit for that long? Would he fight you? You weren't entirely positive.

On the other hand, a shower presented its own set of challenges. Your observations over the past days had revealed his struggle with prolonged standing. He didn't seem to want to stand for very long and often sat or laid down when he could. The majority of his time was spent either huddled in the furthest corner of the room or barricaded within the confines of the small closet, as if seeking refuge from an unseen threat.

As you mulled over the options, weighing the pros and cons of each, you ultimately figured a shower would be better in terms of cleanliness…if anything, you could have him sit in the bottom of the tub. Better than sitting in dirty water with the increased possibility of infection.

But there was one problem. How the hell would you get him into the bathroom in the first place?

You took a breath in, preparing for the worst, and went to the room he stayed in. It was the spare room in your apartment you barely used, but had been furnished as a bedroom in case someone you knew needed a place for a night or something. Not that you ever figured your friends would want to stay with you, you didn't have many to begin with. When you came in, your eyes scanned the room until they landed on him, spotting him huddled up in the corner like expected.

He didn't look up at you when you walked in, his gaze fixed downward and obscured by the curtain of his long, unkempt hair. The stillness that enveloped him was almost unnerving. Only when you took a few steps closer did he react, his head snapping up at you. His eyes bright blue against the dark, messy ink that surrounded them, like he tried to smudge off the black paint but failed.

You took another step forward, your movements slow and deliberate. You could see the change in his demeanor immediately with your approach, even as careful as it was; his breathing became more rapid and shallow, his chest rising and falling at an accelerated pace like he was preparing to be harmed.

"It's okay," you murmured softly, your voice barely above a whisper. Your hand extended slightly, palm open to try to soothe him. Carefully, you lowered yourself to his level, bending your knees until you were crouching before him. This position, you hoped, would make you appear less imposing and more approachable.

In the few days he had been in your care, you had begun to discern patterns in his behavior, learning to recognize the subtle cues that indicated his comfort level. You had started to understand which actions he perceived as threatening and which ones helped him feel more at ease. It was a delicate balance, one that required patience and constant observation, but you were determined to create an environment where he could begin to feel safe and secure.

"I think...a bath sounds nice. Doesn't it?" You asked him softly, smiling slightly to show you weren't intending to do any sort of harm. "It will feel good to clean off all that dirt...nice and warm water too...you've been shivering." You noted how cold he appeared to be, he was still latched in his cold clothes from when you found him. You were surprised the uniform kept in water.

He remained motionless, prompting you to reluctantly take a step backwards to leave him alone, you’d try later. As you turned away, the faint sound of movement caught your attention. Glancing back, you saw the soldier had risen to his feet, his eyes fixed upon you with an air of expectancy. "Would you like to come and shower?" you inquired, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Да." His voice was a harsh, grating sound, reminiscent of shattered glass scraping against parched earth. It was as though he hadn't uttered a word or tasted a drop of water in an eternity. Despite the brevity and roughness of his reply, it carried a weight of affirmation. You found yourself oddly relieved by this simple acknowledgment. It wasn't much, but in that moment, it felt like a significant step forward. The fact that he had agreed seemed like a small victory.

You had him in the bathroom. That was a good thing.

You pivoted slowly to face him, your gaze carefully scanning his imposing figure. For behaving so meekly, he was an intimidating body to be this close to. Your eyes meticulously traced the contours of his suit, lingering on the intricate array of tactical belts and buckles that adorned his outfit. Each piece seemed to serve a specific purpose, hinting at the dangerous nature of his profession. Your hand tentatively reached out, fingers trembling slightly as they approached one of the sturdy buckles.

Your action was met with an immediate and startling response from the soldier. His metal hand shot up with inhuman speed, grasping your wrist tightly, the cold metal a stark contrast to your warm skin. His hold was firm and unyielding, like a vice grip, yet it wasn't painful.

As his hand clasped around your wrist, his entire body tensed, transforming into a living statue. You couldn't help but flinch slightly at the abruptness of his reaction, your body instinctively recoiling even as his grip held you in place.

"I-It's okay, I promise," you managed to say, your voice deliberately calm and steady to avoid startling him further. You took a deep breath, choosing your words carefully. "I'm just going to help you undress for the shower... I promise I won't hurt you or do anything you're not comfortable with. We're just getting you cleaned up, that's all."

Your words didn't seem to have much effect at first. His eyes narrowed suspiciously, and his jaw flexed with tension. You remained patient, maintaining a soothing tone and open body language. "Take all the time you need," you added softly. "I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere. It’s just you and me." His eyes scanned you intently, searching for any hint of deception or ill intent. You met his gaze steadily, allowing him to see the sincerity in your eyes. After what felt like an eternity, his grip on your wrist slowly loosened until he finally released you completely.

Second time's the charm. You reached out with steady hands, your fingers finding the first buckle on his tactical suit. With careful precision, you unfastened it, the metallic click echoing softly in the bathroom. Then, you moved to the next one, and the next, methodically working your way through each fastening. The process was slow but deliberate, each buckle giving way under your patient touch until, finally, the last one came undone. You paused, surveying your handiwork as the suit lay open, no longer confining him.

With the buckles undone, your attention turned to the decked out belt encircling his hips. You grasped the front, feeling the sturdy material beneath your fingers. You pulled the belt free from the thick buckle, the black leather sliding smoothly through the loops. As you removed the belt, you took care to lay it gently on the floor beside you, the heavy belt colliding with the tile was bound to make him jump and you didn’t want that.

The belt now removed, you returned your focus to the suit itself. Your hands found the straps, and you began to loosen them, pulling them out slowly and methodically. His uniform reminded you of a rehashed straight jacket, the uniform nearly acting just as one. When the tight suit gradually relinquished its grip, you noticed an immediate change in the soldier’s demeanor. The restrictive pressure eased, and you could see his chest rise and fall more freely. It was as if a weight had been lifted, allowing him to breathe deeply for the first time in who knows how long.

You watched, a mix of concern and relief washing over you, as he took in several deep breaths. The realization hit you then, a jolt of disbelief and worry. The suit had been so constricting that it had barely allowed him to breathe properly. The thought was infuriating. What kind of protection was that? What twisted logic had led to the creation of gear that endangered its wearer almost as much as it shielded them? You found yourself shaking your head in disbelief. What the hell...

"There we go...good..." You praised calmly, your voice a soothing whisper in the quiet room. He stood before you, now shirtless, his muscular frame tense with anticipation as he awaited your next move. Your eyes couldn't help but linger on his exposed torso, taking in every detail of his battle-worn body.

His skin was a canvas marked by the harsh realities of his past. Bruises in various stages of healing painted his flesh in a morbid palette of purples, yellows, and greens. Fresh cuts, angry and red, intermingled with older, silvery scars, creating a chaotic tapestry across his skin. Each mark had a different cause, accidental, intentional, self inflicted.

Your gaze was inevitably drawn to the most prominent feature: the junction where flesh met metal at his shoulder. The scar tissue surrounding his prosthetic arm was a sight that made your heart ache. It wasn't a clean, surgical line as one might expect, but rather a jagged, angry border that spoke of crude methods and little regard for the body it was attached to. The metal seemed to dig cruelly into his flesh, as if it were trying to consume more of him. You couldn't help but wonder about the pain he must have endured during the procedure, imagining how they had torn him apart with brutal efficiency, prioritizing function over comfort or aesthetics.

Despite the visible evidence of his suffering, he stood tall and stoic, awaiting your next move with a mixture of trust and trepidation in his eyes.

You offered him a gentle, comforting smile, you were acutely aware of his attempts to appear strong, but the reality of his fear was unmistakable. In that spare room, his demeanor reminded you of a cornered animal, flinching and retreating whenever the door creaked open. He cowered from you, even when you tried to give him water to drink. The sight tugged at your heartstrings, you didn’t know much of what happened just yet, but you knew whatever it was must’ve been utterly horrific.

"I'm going to help you out of your trousers now," you explained in a soft, reassuring tone. "Then we'll get you into the shower. The warm water will help you feel better, I promise." You paused, giving him a moment to process your words before adding, "Is that okay with you?"

He remained motionless. His lack of response was telling - not a nod, not a word, not even a flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes. He simply stood there, statuesque, as if bracing himself for whatever was to come next. The stillness was almost eerie, so you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what was going to come. You truly hoped he wouldn't begin to put up a fight randomly, you knew you couldn't take him if he did.

You grasped the zipper of his pants and slowly pulled it down, the metallic sound echoing in the quiet room. As the fabric loosened, you gently tugged at the waistband, shuffling them down his muscular thighs and allowing the pants to fall around his ankles. Without a word, he stepped out of them, his movements controlled as he jerked his foot to get the leg of the pants off completely.

His gaze remained fixed on you, his expression betraying no hint of discomfort or self-consciousness at his state of undress. You found yourself averting your eyes, a mix of respect for his privacy and your own sudden shyness causing you to look away.

Turning your attention to the shower, you reached out and adjusted the taps, your hand testing the water until it reached a comfortably warm temperature, you could always adjust it upon request. The sound of cascading water filled the bathroom, creating a soothing ambiance. Once satisfied with the water's warmth, you looked back towards him, your arm extending in a welcoming gesture towards the bathtub. "Come on," you encouraged, your voice soft and inviting, "it's nice and warm." A gentle smile played on your lips, your expression meant to convey comfort and reassurance.

But even with your efforts, he remained motionless, his feet seemingly rooted to the spot where he stood. His lack of movement prompted you to maintain your encouraging demeanor, your smile unwavering as you waited patiently for him to make a decision.

The steam from the shower began to fill the room, creating a misty atmosphere that hung between you, yet he showed no signs of stepping forward or retreating. He just stood there, planted like a tree. You frowned, seeing that he wasn't going to budge.

"Hey, it's okay," you said softly, "It's just water, and it's nice and warm. I promise it will feel so good. You've been shivering for a while now, and I bet the warmth will be really comforting for your cold skin. There's nothing to be afraid of." You continued to encourage him, your tone patient and understanding.

The soldier's reaction was tense and wary. His metal arm plates made a series of soft clicking sounds as he shifted his arm and adjusted his stance, his body language radiating discomfort and distrust, maybe even a hint of growing agitation. The way he eyed the water, you could have sworn he thought you were about to subject him to some form of aquatic torture. His entire demeanor screamed of deep-seated fear and suspicion.

"It's alright, really... Look, see?" You demonstrated by reaching out and touching the water, letting your fingers trail through the warm liquid. You made sure he could clearly see that the water didn't cause you any harm or discomfort. Could he be afraid of the water? The concept seemed strange, but then again, you didn't really know or understand the full extent of his experiences or traumas. You had made so much progress with him already, and now all that remained was for him to sit under the water and allow you to wash him. It seemed so simple, and yet you could see the monumental struggle playing out behind his eyes.

He finally seemed to respond when he observed that you remained unharmed by the water, and he cautiously approached, his movements slow and deliberate. His eyes wore wariness with a flicker of curiosity, carefully scanning your form and ensuring you made no abrupt or threatening gestures. As he inched closer, his body language betrayed a conflicting desire for comfort and an instinctive need for self-preservation.

Once he had convinced himself of a relative level of safety, he gingerly stepped into the bath. The warmth of the water seemed to catch him off guard, and with an almost childlike lack of grace, he unceremoniously lowered himself into a sitting position with a loud thud and for a moment, he appeared startled by his own actions.

Now fully seated on the bottom of the tub, he allowed the soothing warmth of the water to cascade down his dirt-encrusted body. The grime that had accumulated over time began to loosen and swirl around him, running down his body and creating murky patterns at the bottom of the textured bathtub.

He sat motionless, gradually acclimating to the comforting warmth of the water cascading down his back in a gentle, soothing shower. It was foreign to him, a luxury he had been denied for far too long. His time with HYDRA had been bereft of such simple comforts; the organization was a cruel and unforgiving entity, more akin to a heartless taskmaster than a nurturing presence.

His experiences with something as harmless as water was vastly different to what you were treating him with now - he was subjected to harsh, icy streams forcefully directed at him, the intense pressure through the hose so severe it felt as though it was stripping away layers of his skin.

He remembers being forcibly submerged by his handlers, a cruel and twisted game that shattered his expectations of a simple, cleansing bath. What should have been a moment of respite transformed into a nightmarish struggle for survival, where he was forced to submit to their ruthless whims.

The memory of sharp, abrasive bristles tearing at his skin and the application of painful, saline substances lingers. He didn’t want to think about the unnecessary groping he encountered either, something he wished he forgot along with his life during the chair’s wipes.

These traumatic encounters left an indelible mark on his psyche, turning what should have been a basic human necessity into a source of fear and anxiety. The handlers' sadistic approach to something as fundamental as personal hygiene served as a constant reinforcement of their control over every aspect of his existence, even the most intimate and essential.

For him, the act of bathing became synonymous with vulnerability, pain, and the complete loss of autonomy, a far cry from the soothing, rejuvenating experience it was meant to be.

This gentle treatment you were providing was so different from the abusive handling he had endured in HYDRA, it almost caused him to panic, the feigning comforts he were offered by handlers before tricked him too many times, and he refused to let his guard down.

His glacial eyes gazed up at you, the poor man looked absolutely pitiful under the steamy water, his once greasy hair now thoroughly soaked as rivulets ran down the contours of his entire body. You took a breath and exhaled out a soft sigh, your hand slowly reaching for your own body wash. You didn't have any products specifically designed for men, so your expensive shampoo would have to suffice until you went shopping.

You pumped the bottle twice, watching as the clear, slightly viscous shampoo pooled into your open palm and the refreshing scent of cucumber and mint permeated the humid air, filling your nostrils with its crisp, clean aroma. You turned and addressed him softly, "Alright, I'm going to wash your hair now. Just try to relax and sit still for me, okay? This might feel a bit cold at first, but I promise it'll feel good once I start massaging it in."

The soldier regarded you with an inscrutable expression, his eyes betraying only a hint of that fight-or-flight instinct, his mind was reeling as he battled the urge to respond to your presence. You knew he had the strength to easily break your arm if he chose to, so you tried your best to be as slow and careful as possible. Your fingers delicately threaded through his hair, methodically working the shampoo into a rich lather. You watched as the suds multiplied and foamed, the soapy shampoo pure white on top and slowly stained the closer it was to his scalp.

You noticed that every so often he would flinch ever so slightly or instinctively pull away from your hands. You wondered if he had hidden injuries or tender spots on his scalp, or bruises or cuts concealed beneath his hair, or maybe knots of tension that had formed from prolonged stress or blunt impacts. His hair must’ve been yanked around, his scalp was extremely tender and while you did your best to soothingly massage, he didn’t enjoy it as much as you hoped because of the discomfort there.

"It's okay, I understand it might be a bit uncomfortable. I’m just getting all that pesky dirt and grime out." You spoke in a gentle, reassuring tone, moving a little bit quicker so you could rinse and move on. After thoroughly rinsing his hair, you applied conditioner in the same manner as the shampoo, and then rinsed it out again. He looked much better now, his hair was now clean, wet, and sleek, with a smooth texture and a noticeable shine. It was so much better than before, and it had to feel better too.

Your hand extended under the rain of water, dampening a soft, handheld washcloth and applying a generous amount of body wash to it. You worked the cloth until it produced a rich lather. The soldier moved which caught your eye, you looked up at him and saw he had recoiled, his gaze fixed warily on the washcloth. He became noticeably slower and more hesitant, his eyes widening slightly as he regarded the cloth with apparent apprehension, as if it posed a threat. You furrowed your brow at his reaction to the cloth, he looked at it like you held a weapon of some kind.

"Hey, it’s alright…this won’t hurt. It’s just a cloth, see? A cloth with some soap," you said softly, you felt so torn up about his reaction to the simplest of things. "I won't hurt you, I promise, I'm just going to wash you a bit...get all that dirt and blood off you." You raised your hand holding the washcloth in a placating gesture. “It’s warm, it will feel good scrubbing off all that dirt, you’ll be nice and clean.”

Gradually, he relented and shifted backwards to where he had been sitting, permitting you to gently glide the damp cloth across his skin, meticulously removing every trace of grime from his body. After a few minutes of washing him, you noticed he was beginning to find comfort in the experience. His eyelids drooped, and his head dipped down slightly, a tired expression settling over his features as he succumbed to the soothing sensation of your ministrations. He wasn’t exactly serene, but he was too drowsy to focus on much else other than the feeling of the rag gliding over his back and flesh arm.

You adjusted him and you tended to his metal arm, diligently working the cloth between the intricate plates and joints of titanium, ensuring that no speck of dirt remained. You weren’t exactly sure how the arm was cleaned prior to finding him, but clearly there wasn’t a worry about rust or anything of the sort. The soldier remained motionless, allowing you unhindered access as the warm water cascaded over his back, leaving a rosy tinge in its wake. He enjoyed the hot temperature, he hadn’t felt hot water in decades.

Your focus then shifted to his lower extremities, concentrating on scrubbing his legs and feet. As the rag moved up to a more sensitive area, you paused, pulling the rag off his skin and slowly extending the washcloth to him. You pointed towards his privates, you softly instructed, "You can…get right there, I’d rather not touch you in that spot."

The furrow on the soldier's brow gave away his visible confusion, his eyes darting between you and the offered rag with a mixture of uncertainty and hesitation. It was clear that he was contemplating with the decision of whether to accept your gesture or not, if there was an ulterior motive, or if this was some sort of test. After what seemed like an eternity of internal debate, he finally extended a trembling hand towards you. His movements were slow and deliberate, as if he were approaching a wild animal rather than a simple cloth.

He grasped the rag from your outstretched palm, his fingers curling around it slowly. Once in possession of the cloth, he set about the task of cleaning himself. His actions, though quick, lacked the assurance of someone accustomed to such basic self-care. Each motion seemed so carefully calculated, as if he were relearning a long-forgotten, essential skill. It had been so long since he was allowed to clean himself. His movements were unsteady, his hands quivering slightly as he went about his ablutions.

It had clearly been an extensive period since he had been granted even this small measure of independence. The concept of autonomy was a luxury he had been denied for far too long.

When he was done with his hurried cleansing, the soldier's gaze immediately sought yours out. His eyes, still holding the rag, were filled with expectation, awaiting your next command. His posture tense and ready to respond to whatever instruction you might provide. The rag remained clutched in his hand, as if he were unsure whether to return it or continue holding onto this small token of independence.

"Good, you're all done," you offered a warm smile to him. Despite the wounds still visible on his body, you felt a sense of accomplishment knowing that at least the layers of dirt and grime had been washed away, your work getting him clean would pay off and be better for the both of you. You reached over and turned off the water, the sudden silence broken only by the soft dripping from the showerhead. "Let's get you dried off," you said softly, gesturing for him to step out of the shower.

He complied wordlessly, his movements careful as he stepped onto the bathroom mat. You couldn't help but notice how vulnerable he looked, standing there dripping wet, his eyes never leaving your face, his body completely littered in discoloration. Reaching for a large, fluffy towel, you unfolded it and wrapped it around his shoulders, enveloping him in its warmth to fight off the rapidly cooling water droplets all over him.

As you began to slowly dry his body, you noticed a change come over him. His softened expression now returned to its usual blank mask and the brief relaxation he showed in the shower was long gone by now. His body returned to the stiffness he had before he got in. His eyes remained fixed on you, following your every movement with an intensity that was almost unnerving.

You worked in the quiet calm of the bathroom, carefully patting dry each part of his body, mindful of his injuries. The soldier remained motionless, allowing you to maneuver him as needed, but offering no assistance, like a doll. It was as if he had retreated back into himself, leaving only an empty shell for you to tend to. You wondered what he was thinking behind those watchful, guarded eyes, they were pretty up close. Glacial, stormy blue irises that had been glued to you since you started to tend to him.

After drying him off, you were lucky to find a pair of boxers in your apartment and helped him into them, where they came from wasn’t something you could remember at the moment, but you were glad you had them. He cooperated as you dressed him, then stood there clutching the towel around himself like a security blanket.

His gaze fixed on you with a mixture of expectation and vulnerability, as if silently asking for further guidance or comfort. His wide eyes blinked languidly, and his soft pink lips formed an almost imperceptible pout, giving him an endearing, slightly lost appearance.

Lost. He embodied the word entirely. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

Taking in his disheveled state, you smiled a little, "How about we get your hair detangled, hm?" Your voice was warm and reassuring as you reached up, your fingers lightly brushing against the damp strands, feeling the water practically seep out of the ends.

The soldier's reaction was a mix of acceptance and hesitation. While he didn't outright reject the idea, there was a noticeable lack of enthusiasm in his demeanor. However he didn’t dare reject the idea, worried about any kind of retaliation. So he made his way to the stool nestled beneath the counter and lowered himself onto it. As he settled into position, maintaining a stoic silence, his eyes continued to convey that enigmatic expression, hinting at unspoken thoughts or emotions.

You positioned yourself behind him, your hands instinctively reaching for a comb and a bottle of detangling spray already sat out from your use earlier that day. You recalled how your fingers had encountered numerous knots and tangles when you washed his hair, and thinking about how knotted it looked dirty made you sigh outwardly.

The fine mist of the detangling spray settled on his hair as you applied it methodically, you guided the comb through his locks, working patiently to untangle any knots you encountered. You tried to be as gentle as possible, knowing not only were there a ton of knots, but you remembered his scalp was especially sensitive and sore.

Soldat remained still as a statue, his posture composed and unwavering. His disciplined demeanor allowed you to work unimpeded, your movements careful and unhurried. He maintained a firm grip on the towel draped securely around his body, the fabric acting almost like a barrier and protecting him from the world. You continued to work the comb through his hair, encountering tangles and knots that spoke of recent exertion or neglect.

The process of detangling was slow, your touch continued to be gentle yet purposeful, muttering soft apologies when you ran into an unexpected knot. Teasing apart the snarls with patience and skill, the resistance lessened, and you found yourself able to run the comb smoothly through his hair, the strands falling into neat alignment.

"There we are... much better," you praised softly, your voice barely above a whisper. The sight of his hair, now brushed out and free of tangles, felt like a monumental achievement. You couldn't help but admire how the clean, detangled strands caught the light, a stark contrast to their earlier disheveled state. Your fingers ran through his locks, gently ruffling the hair from being so flat against his scalp.

You couldn't help but notice the angry red lines marring his skin, peeking out from beneath the towel. The blotchy colors on his skin that ranged from purple to blue, it made you frown. Your instincts as a caretaker kicked in, and you found yourself wondering if he would allow you to tend to those wounds. Hesitantly, you reached out, your fingers barely grazing the edge of the towel just wanting to get a better look at them.

In an instant the soldier suddenly sprang to life, standing with such force that the stool he had been perched on skidded across the tile floor, the harsh scraping sound shattering the previous calm. He retreated to the far corner of the bathroom, his body language screaming defensiveness.

His eyes, which had been closed or downcast for most of your interaction, now bore into you with an intensity that made you freeze. They held fear, yes, but also a raw, primal aggression that sent a shiver down your spine. It was the look of a cornered animal, ready to lash out at the slightest provocation.

You immediately backpedaled, not wanting to trigger any aggression from him. "Okay, okay... no wound checks," you reassured as you raised your hands in a gesture of surrender. You took a step back, giving him more space, silently cursing yourself for pushing too far, too fast. The fragile trust you had built over the past few minutes seemed to hang by a thread, you didn’t want to snap the little you had.

Your words had a calming effect on Soldat, who clutched the towel tightly in his fists, ensuring it remained securely wrapped around him. His gaze drifted down to his soiled attire, prompting you to shake your head in disapproval. "No, those definitely need to be washed," you explained, your voice dropping to a thoughtful murmur, "And to be honest, these can hardly be called proper clothes. I'll make sure to get you some suitable ones tomorrow, alright?"

Soldat's eyes met yours once more, his gaze still carrying a hint of coldness and wariness, but he managed a brief, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment. You gathered his discarded garments and deposited them into the washing machine, silently hoping that the combination of leather and other materials wouldn't prove too much for the aging appliance. The damn thing had to be ran twice already, you just couldn’t afford to buy a new one right now.

As you busied yourself with setting the appropriate wash cycle, Soldat seized the opportunity to hastily retreat to the room that had been designated as his temporary living space.

He immediately gravitated towards the floor, as he had been the past few days. You hadn't seen him use the bed at all, rather stay cuddled in the corner or inside the small space of the closet. The towel long forgotten and laid splayed out on the floor, he ripped the blankets off the bed in one fluid motion and proceeded to wrap himself up in them, burrowing beneath the layers of fabric for comfort and security. The blankets having replaced the towel's symbolism for safety.

You wished he’d rest on the bed rather than the floor, but you knew better than to try to alter what he was doing. Leave him to be comfortable on his own, that is the best thing to do in this situation. And if Soldat wants to sleep on the floor in a huddle of blankets, then fine.

You approached the doorway, peering inside to see him nestled in a cocoon of blankets. His exhaustion was written on his face, yet there was a noticeable improvement in his appearance. The layer of grime and perspiration that had clung to his skin was now gone, you knew he had to feel somewhat refreshed.

You cautiously stepped into the room and made your way towards him, acutely aware of how his body tensed at your approach. In response to your closer proximity, he burrowed deeper into the thick comforter that enveloped him, seeking refuge from your presence.

A soft, reassuring sound escaped your lips as you placed a water bottle within his reach. As you anticipated, he remained motionless under the comforter, offering no acknowledgment of your thoughtful action. He stayed hidden beneath the layers of fabric, like a child seeking shelter from imaginary monsters lurking in the shadows.

"Get some rest, Soldat..." you whispered gently, your voice barely above a murmur. "I'll be down in the other room if you need anything. Don't hesitate to call for me, even for the smallest thing." With that reassurance, you slowly stood back up and turned to walk out. A faint noise suddenly caught your attention, causing you to pause mid-step.

The gentle rustling of the comforter drew your gaze back towards the floor, curiosity piquing your interest. The soldier cautiously peeked out from under the blanket's edge. His tired, weary eyes met your inquisitive ones, there was a beat of silence.

"Спасибо," the soldier rasped out, his voice meek and slightly hoarse from disuse, but still loud enough for you to hear clearly.

"You're welcome..."

Dividers by @/strangergraphics

Cover images from Pinterest. I do not claim them as my own.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #the winter soldier #the winter soldier x reader #winter soldier #winter soldier x reader #bucky barnes x you #winter soldier x you #james buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes x reader #james buchanan bucky barnes #captain america the winter soldier #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes oneshot #blythewrites⛓

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missvivisx · 2 years ago

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oh my god, oh my fucking god, it's Saturday night and the horrors are fucking visiting me as we speak

#everyone in power in this shitlousy society wants everyone else dead and they're accelerating the speed at which it happens for profit #it's all just a constant cycle of lonely distraction until 2 am and barely enough sleep :)

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dallasstarsdyke · 8 months ago

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ok still havent finished my physics im gonna listen to pop music again

#i have a playlist now its called 'CONSTANT ACCELERATION'

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ciciyup · 5 months ago

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Pack Wolf X Fem! Reader who doesn't reciprocate his feelings headcanons.

Summary: In their wanderings, they find their imprint as soon as they see her for the first time; However, she doesn't seem to feel the same way.

━━━━━━✧ 🦢 ✧━━━━━━

Sam Uley:

Seeing you for the first time, he would have almost involuntarily gotten down on his knees if it hadn't been that they were in a public place and you were accompanied. It was something unique, something he didn't expect, but there you were, and Sam felt the need to get close to you no matter what. Him approaching you to talk about whatever as an excuse to get to know you wasn't rough enough; he needed to see you again.

As soon as he brought up any kind of topic he noticed how incredibly kind you were when you addressed him, but he also noticed how you didn't even seem to be feel the same. There was no spark in your eyes, no accelerated breathing, no special something that seemed to unite you. You were supposed to be soulmates, weren't you? You were supposed to be perfect for each other, so why as time went on did you seem to treat him like any other normal person? Why wasn't there "that" something in your eyes when you looked at him? Sam had imprinted himself on you, he knew it, everyone knew it, but they also seemed to notice his constant attempts to be closer to you, his constant silent pain.

You treated him well of course, you were friendly to everyone on the reservation, you were sweet to Sam more than he could ask for, but he still didn’t seem to be strong enough with his advances for you to see him the way he was expected. Even after explaining his secret and about the imprint, you seemed to try to feel a connection with him; you spent time by his side, you did everything you could, but the feeling just didn’t seem to be there. No matter how hard you tried you couldn’t feel the connection and as time went on you began to wear yourself out and try to find something that just wasn’t there. Finally explaining to him that you couldn’t go on and giving him a clear rejection.

Even though your rejection seemed to hurt him much more than expected, he decided to suffer in silence, prioritizing your feelings over his. Sam would become understanding and calm, not losing his temper, even though he knew how painful it would be, knowing that imprinting shouldn't be forced. Though promising that if only you wanted him, he would be there for you, a good friend or brother, even a companion. Imprinting would involve prioritizing your well-being above all else, so Sam would do everything he could to make sure you were happy and safe, even if that meant keeping his distance so as not to make you uncomfortable.

Though Sam would try to be understanding, the pain he felt was indescribable. Even though you hadn't cut him out of your life completely, just being so far away from you would be hard to handle, starting to feel internal conflict due to the intensity of the imprint itself, having moments where it's hard for him to deal with the lack of reciprocity, seeking support in his pack or those closest to him to handle his emotions.

If you allowed them to stay close, even without a romantic bond, Sam would try to be a reliable friend, being there for you when you needed it, a shoulder to cry on, someone to tell your problems to; whatever you wanted, he would do it. Acting quite mature and empathetic, focusing on what's best for you, even if it meant giving up his own feelings.

Paul Lahote:

Being someone with an explosive temper, Paul probably wouldn't handle rejection well. Trying to get close to you intensely as soon as he meets you, mistaking your lack of reciprocation for shyness or fear towards him, as if you weren't looking at him confused enough since you barely know him and he already seemed to know you all your life. Even though you treated him friendly, he could immediately tell that there didn't seem to be that emotion in your chest upon meeting him, leading to frustration with the pack, following him on the way home, trying to reassure him and explain to him that it would take some time and you would finally agree. It didn't.

Despite his frustration, the instinct to protect you would be greater, as seeing you every few days wouldn't be enough to calm him down, frequently showing up to make sure you were okay, even without you asking, which could seem invasive.

Over time, Paul would have several changes in attitude; The great irritability would be clear to everyone in the pack, and the growing, unstoppable pain would lead him to have fits of rage at anyone who crossed his path, though he would avoid taking it out on you, deciding to walk away, which only made it worse by being away from you. He would feel hurt and disoriented, not being able to understand how it was possible that you didn’t feel the same; you were made for each other, he had imprinted on you. Why was nothing happening? Why was it different with you when you were supposed to be the perfect match for each other?

You tried, you seemed to try many times, more than you could imagine, wishing you could feel the same so that both of your suffering would end, but it wasn’t like that; you couldn’t manage to feel anything and you couldn’t force yourself any further.

Although Paul was unconditionally devoted to you because of the imprint, he would also begin to realize that forcing your feelings was not only unfair to you, but painful to both of you. Trying to stay away and trying to figure out how to handle the situation. Even though Paul was stubborn, he wasn't completely insensitive. His loyalty to the pack and its values would drive him to show respect for your feelings and be a silent support for you. Understanding that imprinting didn't mean control or obligation for you, he would start to act more understanding and respectful, prioritizing what you wanted. Still, he couldn't help but care about you, protecting you whether silently or not from any danger, be it supernatural or human, trying to do so discreetly so as not to make you uncomfortable.

With time and the help of Sam or the other pack members, Paul could accept that their bond cannot be forced. Choosing to be close to you as a friend or support in your life if you so desired, and if so, he would remain as someone protective and loyal, focusing on your well-being and happiness. Although rejection would not be easy for Paul, as he would feel a void in not being able to live the fullness he expected from imprinting, he would learn to accept it with resignation and maturity and less impulsiveness. Even without reciprocation, Paul would continue to feel a connection and be willing to do or be whatever you wanted without expecting anything in return.

Embry Call:

He had always heard about the stories of imprinting and its importance; most of his companions in the pack already had their imprints, although he understood it, he never really understood it, until he met you. It was a very strong pass on the ball, making his companions ask him to go get it, being the closest, and at the edge of the water there was you, who quickly grabbed the ball that was hitting your feet to give it to its owner.

The first contact was different, very different from what Embry had imagined; everything seemed to stop after seeing you, the waves of the sea and the noise of his companions playing seemed far away and took a backseat; everything was reduced only to you. Approaching somewhat nervously, not knowing how to act, he managed to have a brief chat with you, internally hoping that you would agree to see him again. Yes, of course he had noticed your great lack of emotion or bright eyes; It wasn't how his companions had told him in their own experiences, but Embry wanted to believe that maybe it was different with you, maybe it would take a little longer.

Although he approached it with patience and understanding, he would still be confused after not noticing any change in his advances towards you without achieving anything, trusting more than he should, with a silent hope that, with time, you could come to feel something for him. However, he would never act selfishly to force this possibility.

Embry would begin to experience an internal struggle during the following days. Sure, he felt a deep and unbreakable connection towards you, but, on the other hand, the lack of reciprocity on your part would cause him emotional pain. Although he would not be upset with anyone, much less with you, the feeling would squeeze his chest tightly. At those times he would try to seek help from the pack, trying to understand and deal with his pain, some of them even trying to advise him or encourage him to focus on your needs instead of his feelings so he wouldn't suffer so much.

In the face of your rejection, Embry would react immediately; the pain was inevitable, but the imprinting would lead him to accept this reality, putting his personal feelings on the back burner. Even if you didn't feel anything towards him, Embry would dedicate his life to protecting and supporting you, your well-being being his priority. Behaving gently, making sure not to cross boundaries that would make you feel uncomfortable. Being close to you when you needed him, acting as a calm and reliable guardian. He would try to establish a friendly relationship with you if you wanted it. Trying to understand your interests, your passions and the things that made you happy, adapting to your needs. Probably looking to spend time with you casually, so that the pain of separation in the bond that united you didn't hurt him too much, but at the same time he would try not to suffocate or overwhelm you. Trying to maintain a fun and relaxed attitude to make you feel comfortable and maintain a good atmosphere.

If you were to express at any point that you needed space or didn't want a close relationship, he would accept it, even though it would inevitably hurt him. Embry would completely respect your wishes and feelings, as well as your boundaries. Imprinting would guide him to be patient and understanding, willing to wait or just accept whatever you decided. Even if you didn't feel the same way, it would be hard for Embry to stay completely away because of the bond. Trying to be close in indirect ways, helping you without you realizing it, or making sure you were safe.

Although Embry would accept anything you asked him to be or do, he would act with great devotion, dealing with his own pain with dignity, striving to be positive in your life. The situation would be somewhat complicated and painful, but his character would allow him to find ways to cope with it without ceasing to be faithful to the bond that has been created, putting your happiness and well-being above all, only wishing the best for you, even if that meant seeing you with another person.

Quil Ateara:

At first, he might not fully understand why he was attracted to someone in particular, as it wouldn’t be something that happened consciously, but rather something instinctive. Seeing you for the first time only makes him feel confused and disoriented; he knows that he is something strong, something unique, needing to be closer to you.

His protective and caring nature would come to the fore, making him inclined to do everything he could to get closer to you and interact in some way. His pack mates would explain this to him as the poor boy seemed to still be just as confused, though unable to answer their questions as to why you didn’t seem as interested or why you didn’t seem to view him with the same affection and devotion as he had when they had first met; perhaps Sam would step in explaining that it would all be a matter of time.

While Quil would be understanding because of their bond, he would quickly become aware that you didn’t feel the same way. He could tell just by looking at you; When he arrived, There wasn't that emotion when I saw it, even if it had only been a few hours since you'd seen each other, noticing your gestures and your efforts to try to find something that didn't seem to be there, that tiredness of continuing to try something you couldn't force and that sudden distance.

This initial rejection could make him feel hurt, even if your actions weren't intentional. The pack members would be a constant support for him, but he would experience the pain internally. The impression is a powerful thing; this would make Quil put aside his regrets and feelings in order to understand you, beginning to respect your wishes and not force a relationship; however, his emotions would still be intense. He would become more attentive and protective, trying to help you in any way he could, trying to gain your trust without rushing things. He would show himself as a close friend or even a brother, doing things you liked, showing a more relaxed part of himself so you wouldn't feel pressured or uncomfortable. His desire to take care of you might be something that expresses itself in less obvious ways, such as making sure you're okay in everyday situations or trying to make you feel special.

If you were to continue to reject any attempts at closeness, whether romantic or emotional, Quil could go through severe pain due to imprinting. His nature would push him to fight for you in whatever ways necessary to even have some sort of relationship with you, even if it was minimal, but his respect for your own boundaries would keep him in check. Acceptance would be difficult, but over time, Quil could learn to live with the deep connection he feels towards you, without trying to pressure you. Making it clear to you that he would be there for you if you wanted it, like a brother or a friend, taking your health and happiness as a priority, and if you were to continue not wanting any interaction with him then Quil would accept it, prudently staying away, even trying to take care of you silently, since the bond would not let him go away completely.

Although he would approach the subject with enough maturity and patience, the pain would still be there and would not go away completely, affected by the events and why it had not worked out as expected with him regarding the imprint. He would leave room for you to make your own decisions without interfering and accepting what you wanted, but even deep down wishing that one day you could feel the same as he felt for you.

Jared Cameron:

He's confused. The imprint was supposed to be an unbreakable and deep bond, something that makes you feel like the person you're imprinted with is the only one who can fulfill your deepest needs, just as the other person should feel, in a way, the same, practically incomplete if the other wasn't there. What had gone wrong? You make him feel a great desire to protect and care for you, but in the face of this the reality check comes faster than he could prevent, realizing that you don't actually share the same feeling.

His astonishment was inexplicable, since it was incredible how in one moment he was playing with his companions and in the next seconds he saw you and everything seemed to stop. The experience was transformative and overwhelming, but it also came with the weight of understanding that you didn't feel the same. Jared can realize it, perhaps not quickly enough to notice it the first time he sees you, trying to deal with his own feelings in between, but as the days go by and as he gets closer to you, he could tell. He understood it immediately; He couldn't force you to love him on the same level. It seemed to hit him like a bucket of cold water, trying to process it as maturely as he could, but with it came frustration due to the unbreakable connection he felt and the lack of reciprocation from you; it was a constant, throbbing pain that he never imagined feeling.

The imprint bond would make him understand in part that he couldn't rush or force your feelings, just as his own personal integrity would make him understand and cope with it. He would make him respectful of your space, being kind and calm. Adopting a supportive stance, hoping that, in time, you would come to understand and accept the connection between you with or without a relationship in between.

Jared would feel a strong need to protect you due to the imprint. Driving him to be close, more than you would want. Despite his desires to be close to you, Jared would be aware of his limits, avoiding being evasive, but intervening discreetly if you were in danger. Even though the imprint makes him feel like you are his “everything,” he would understand the need to not be dominant or possessive, given that you don’t share the same feelings. Even though your rejection was already expected by him, when it comes, it seems harder to digest than he had imagined. Knowing that this was what you wanted, Jared would respect it by putting aside his thoughts and feelings to please you, trying to balance his desire to be close to you with the need to give you space and time to process what was happening.

Over time Jared would learn not to idealize this in a destructive way, even though the bond makes him think that you are the person he is meant to be with, he also understands that nothing can be forced. And even if you weren’t ready to feel the same or directly didn’t want anything with him, Jared wouldn’t pressure you, but he wouldn’t stop being there, waiting patiently.

Seth Clearwater:

When he first saw you, the world seemed to stop. The connection was instant and overwhelming; the imprint completely transformed him. Of course, he had heard of his pack mates and often saw them with their mates, but this seemed to be something much more intense than Seth could have imagined. You become the center of his universe, not just as a potential mate, but as someone to protect and care for no matter the consequences. The intensity of the feeling overwhelms him, but also fills him with hope and happiness.

Being sweet and genuine, Seth would not force his presence in your life, but would instead seek to approach you in a natural way. Starting with a few casual one-liners about the day, following it up with a few topics that led him to ask for your name, as well as his presence and humor, would have him confidently asking you to see him again. The following days he would show his kinder and more generous side: helping you with small things, making you laugh and spending time by your side as someone unconditional.

Over time, Seth would notice that, although you appreciated him and enjoyed his company, you showed no signs of feeling something deeper. Perhaps he would have noticed it much earlier, but he wanted to lie to himself believing that it was just a matter of time. Although his advances continued to be noticeable, you seemed to no longer enjoy the more intimate approach, which led you to confess that your feelings were not the same as those he had for you. This would be devastating for Seth, since the imprint was not something he could control or diminish. Despite this, Seth would not allow himself to blame or pressure you, understanding that everything should be free and mutual.

He would begin to go through an internal process of sadness and acceptance; his innate kindness would keep him focused on what was best for you. Although it would be painful for him to observe how you did not feel the same, he would commit to staying in your life in the way you wanted. In private he would lean on the pack, who comforted him and gave him advice, especially Leah, who would understand his pain due to her own experiences, helping him deal with the emotional burden.

Seth would continue to be a part of your life if you wanted him to be, and if not, then he would accept it with great internal pain, but accepting of your wishes, watching over you from the shadows. He would never impose his feelings on you or expect you to reciprocate, seeking the best for you. And if you wanted to cut contact completely, then Seth would accept it without complaint no matter how much pain it caused him, putting your feelings before anything else.

Despite the pain, Seth would maintain his hopeful nature by looking for ways to adapt, learning to handle his unrequited feelings and channeling them into something positive. He would dedicate himself to protecting you from a distance or focusing on strengthening relationships with his family and pack. Over time he could learn to balance his imprint with his own need to move on, although the connection would never completely disappear.

Jacob Black:

He had always found the subject of imprinting strange and even aberrant; seeing how his companions seemed to abandon themselves so that someone else could practically take them as if they were their own to do with as they pleased was simply something Jacob didn't seem to or wanted to understand. Everything changed when he saw you; he now understood what everyone was talking about. He feels the powerful pull of imprinting, an unbreakable bond that reconfigures his world around you. His senses sharpen, his heart beats hard, and the need to be close to you becomes overwhelming. In that instant you become his absolute priority, overriding any other connection or concern.

Jacob would look for ways to approach you naturally, using his charisma and sense of humor as tools to gain your trust. He would try to become a close and constant friend in your life, willing to listen to you, support you, and protect you from any danger, even if you weren't aware of the extent of his commitment.

Over time, Jacob would probably manage to become an important figure in your life. He would accompany you in your everyday problems, offering you solutions or simply his presence. His actions, driven by imprinting, would be selfless and focused on your well-being. However, as the relationship progresses, he begins to notice that although you appreciate him and feel comfortable, you show no signs of developing feelings towards him. Although you try hard to give and surrender to him, you know that you cannot match his commitment; despite your constant attempts, you just don’t succeed.

Once you confess to Jacob and give him the clear rejection, he would experience an emotional storm. His pain would not come from the rejection itself, but from the inability to fulfill what he perceives as his purpose: to make you happy. It would make him rethink and ask himself if he is doing something wrong or if he is meant to live with those one-sided feelings. Even though he wants you to see him the same way, he wouldn’t try to pressure or manipulate you due to imprinting forcing him to prioritize your desires and well-being over his own. Even though you didn’t feel the same way, Jacob wouldn’t be able to emotionally detach himself. He would continue to care for you, making sure you were safe. He would try to find comfort in friendship, focusing on being a support in your life without expecting anything in return.

If you wished instead to have no relationship with him at all, wanting to cut off contact, even though he would feel deeply hurt, Jacob would respect your decision. Having to fight his own instincts to not constantly seek you out, even going so far as to feel great constant pain and guilt, would lead him to isolate himself from the pack and his friends, constantly morphing to release pent-up tension and emotions, feeling unable to explain his suffering or find comfort.

Even though others in the pack couldn’t fully understand the pain of an unrequited imprint, they would offer comfort and support; Even Sam would try to guide him to handle his feelings so that the bond wouldn't be so painful.

Jacob would learn to deal with frustration and pain, taking comfort in secretly caring for you if you didn't want him around, and if that wasn't it, then he would settle for being a good friend in your life. Despite the lack of reciprocity, the bond wouldn't fade. The imprint is eternal, and although the pain might soften with time, he would always feel a special connection to you.

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