runicarbiter02

[runicarbiter02]

Cupid's Football

Pairing: John Walker x Reader

Summary:

You scramble and pull out your compact mirror to see an absurdly large bump on your forehead. From the looks of it, you’ll be wearing bandanas and hats until the day you die. “You will pay for this.” “C’mon, you still look beautiful to me.” You glare at him. “Don’t flirt with me after giving me a concussion.” “Who says I’m flirting?” He smirks, the kind of smirk that belongs to someone who absolutely knows they’re flirting. Who looks at people like that if they’re not? “I know your type,” you say flatly, brushing grass off your clothes as you sit up straighter. You’d had your fair share of experiences with athletes, and the final verdict was don’t go there. “My type?” “You know, handsome, football player, thinks he’s god’s gift to the sport.” Or After a meet-cute, or rather a meet-ugly, involving a rogue football to the face, you’re pretty sure you hate John Walker. Little did you know, fate (and a failing econ grade) would bring you back together… as his tutor.

Tags/Warnings: Hockey AU, College AU, Tutor!Reader, Hockey Player!John Walker, enemies to lovers, meet-ugly, confessions, getting together, jealousy

WC: 13.0k

A/N:  This has been 80% finished for about a month and a half and I finally finished it. Also, can you tell I'm reading the off-campus series rn? Still mourning the fact that Brian Altemus isn't playing Garrett. Anyways, hope you likey :)

***

Sometimes you question why you even bother going to parties, least of all frat parties.

It was loud, cramped, and smelled like a mix of cheap beer and too much cologne, but you didn’t want to miss out on the “college experience,” so you went.

You lingered near the kitchen, plastic cup in hand, pretending to sip something vaguely fruity just to have something to do. Music thumped through the walls, people swayed in too-tight circles, and the conversations were loud enough to make your ears ring.

Stepping out into the backyard to get air, it’s a little quieter, but not by much. Laughter spills from the porch, someone’s yelling across the lawn, and there's a couple making out under a tree like it's a movie scene.

But the breeze is cool against your skin, and for a moment, you can breathe. The peace didn’t last very long. 

Next thing you know, your forehead has been kissed or more accurately, pelted, by an American football.

“What the actual fuck?”

You blink, dazed, squinting against the lights that seemed to be spinning now. There’s a tall… very tall, blonde, athletic, and admittedly good-looking guy jogging toward you. “Oh shit,” is already half-formed on his lips.

“Are you alright?” he asks, out of breath, crouching beside you.

“What do you think?” you groan, propping yourself up as you blink yourself back down to earth. You’re seeing a few stars here and there as your head throbs like a drum. You were pissed, but you had to give it to him; he had quite the throw.

He winces as he gets a proper look at your forehead. 

“What is it?” You reach up, touching it carefully. “Does it look bad?”

He hesitates. “No… I mean, yeah. A little. It’s… kind of swelling. But you still look, uh… cool?”

You scramble and pull out your compact mirror to see an absurdly large bump on your forehead. From the looks of it, you’ll be wearing bandanas and hats until the day you die.

“You will pay for this.”

“C’mon, you still look beautiful to me.”

You glare at him. “Don’t flirt with me after giving me a concussion.”

“Who says I’m flirting?” He smirks, the kind of smirk that belongs to someone who absolutely knows they’re flirting. Who looks at people like that if they’re not?

“I know your type,” you say flatly, brushing grass off your clothes as you sit up straighter. You’d had your fair share of experiences with athletes, and the final verdict was don’t go there.

“My type?”

“You know, handsome, football player, thinks he’s god’s gift to the sport.”

He chuckles and bites the inside of his cheek before replying. You wonder what mental gymnastics go on in his pretty, blonde head. 

“In my defence, I’m not a football player anymore,” he offers, raising his hands like he’s innocent.

“That’s good. If you did, the crowd would be in danger,” you mutter, still rubbing your forehead.

“Ouch,” he laughs, mock-offended. “Not very forgiving, are you?”

You shoot him a look. “I save my forgiveness for people who don’t give me head trauma.”

He grins again, shameless. “So I have to earn it, huh? Challenge accepted.”

He looks at you, observing the forming bump on your forehead, his smirk faltering just slightly.

“Uh, let me get some ice,” he says, already backing away toward the house, eyes still flicking between your face and the spot where the football clearly did its damage. “Don’t move. Or, you know, pass out.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I’ll try not to die before you get back.”

He flashes a quick smile over his shoulder. “Cool. No pressure.”

He comes back with a cold beer and puts it on your forehead, claiming it was all he could find. And that makes sense, considering you were at a frat house. You settle in on the silence between you two, watching as the wind blows his hair into his face, the cute way he keeps brushing it back, running his fingers through it over and over like a reflex. You hate to admit it, but you were almost swooning over him. 

That is, until he opened his big mouth.

“To be fair—” he starts, and you immediately quirk an eyebrow.

Because those were definitely not the words “I’m” and “sorry.”

“You stepped in front of the ball,” he says.

“Excuse me?” you ask, voice dripping with syrupy, sickeningly sweet disbelief.

He shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I mean, if you had a little spatial awareness, you’d have seen it coming. I even yelled ‘go long.’”

You blink at him. Once. Twice.

“And I was supposed to hear that over the music, the shouting, and the guy trying to shotgun a beer through a hot dog?” you say slowly, sounding more menacing with each word. 

He tilts his head, totally unfazed. “Maybe if you weren’t so wrapped up in your own world—”

You scoff, loud and incredulous. “I’m wrapped up in my world? That’s rich coming from Mr. Football Star.”

He raises a brow right back. “I don’t play football anymore, remember?”

You narrow your eyes. “No, actually, I can’t remember anything. You hit me so hard I might have amnesia.” You clutch your forehead dramatically, pouting with mock-tragedy. “I think I forgot my name. My major. My will to live.”

“Oh wow, you’re really something else, aren’t you?” John says, blinking at you like he’s trying to decide whether to laugh or walk away.

You cross your arms. “And you’re exactly who I thought you were. Let me guess… you’re part of this frat too?”

The little grin that works itself onto your face is downright evil, and it has him bristling in annoyance. 

He exhales sharply, already shaking his head. “Just because I’m in a frat doesn’t mean I’m a walking cliché.”

You arch a brow. “No, you being a walking cliché means you’re a walking cliché.”

“Oof,” he mutters, putting a hand to his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Brutal.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

He laughs under his breath, looking at you like you’ve just become the most interesting thing in the whole damn house.

“What?” you snap, though your tone isn’t as sharp as it could be. “You can dish it, but you can’t take it?”

“Oh, trust me,” he says, smirking at you in that infuriatingly cocky, I-know-exactly-what-I’m-doing way, “I can take whatever you give me.”

You don’t blink. Don’t flinch. Don’t back down in the slightest, and neither does he.

As you're both clearly done with this conversation (or at least pretending to be), someone shouts from the beer pong table. 

As he turns to go, he picks up a phone set in the grass. Same model, same black case as yours.

You just grab the other one and walk away, already over it.

“Fucking football players…”

***

Your phone was buzzing like mad on the nightstand. It was never this busy at 7 a.m., so naturally, you assumed someone must have died.

You groaned, fumbling for it in the dark, knocking over your clock, the clattering making your head buzz. Your eyesight was still bleary, your head pounding, you couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or the dickhead who’d launched a football at you yesterday.

You finally focused enough to look at the screen. A message lit it up from an unknown number. A girl named Christina.

Christina: Had fun last night 😉 And then… a photo attached.

“Who is Christina?” you muttered, confused, thumb hovering over the image preview. You tapped it and immediately put the phone down, half-traumatised.

“What the hell—who can be this freaky at 7 a.m.?”

You put the phone down and stare at the ceiling, already regretting waking up.

But before you can even try to get back to sleep, the buzzing starts again, more insistent this time. You groan and roll over, dragging your pillow over your face like it might drown out the chaos.

It doesn’t.

Defeated, you reach for the phone again, ready to throw it across the room if it’s another text from Christina. But as your eyes focus on the screen, something clicks—no, snaps.

This isn’t your phone.

The lock screen is what does it. It’s not your wallpaper. It’s a picture of a dog, a golden lab, tongue out, paws crossed like he owns the world. Cute but definitely not yours.

You swipe up, and then the details come in like little alarm bells. Group chats, all with ice hockey-isms all over them. 

So… a hockey player had your phone. Just great.

You don’t even know when it could've happened. You try to go over the night, but it’s still blurry. 

“Damn it.”

You start typing in your number, then call. Whoever had your phone picked up, better answer.

***

John Walker, hockey player, campus heartthrob, kind of an asshole.

Not that he’d admit it out loud.

He woke up with a mouth like sandpaper, his skull pulsing just behind his temples, and the vague but undeniable shame of knowing he definitely said something stupid to someone last night. He wasn't too hungover to make it to practice; he never was, but he was hungover enough to consider dying for like, five to seven minutes.

Somewhere through the pounding in his head, he heard Lemar’s voice.

“I told you not to drink too much.”

John buries his face in his pillow. “I’ll never drink again.”

“Sure,” Lemar says, unfazed as he steps over a pile of laundry. “You say that every time.”

John groans a response without lifting his head, too fucked up to be alive right now. He stayed face-down a little longer, trying to piece the night together, and immediately regretted it.

The girl.

The one who caught a football with her face.

She was cute. Really cute. But she also kind of hated him, and he kinda hated her too.

She was relentless. Sarcastic. Sharp. Knew exactly where to dig in and twist. And he was still kicking himself for trying to flirt right after giving her a minor head injury.

Smooth.

She’d called him out, but she didn't even know him. It was infuriating. He’d walked away pretending he didn’t care, but… he did.

Because if he spent any more time around her, she’d figure him out. She’d poke around where it hurt. And yeah, maybe he was an acquired taste, but he wasn’t sure she’d ever want to acquire it.

Still…there was something about her. Something in the way she looked at him, the way she didn't back down and told him how it is. It was fiery.

He hadn't felt that in a while.

Not since Olivia.

It has been over a year now. Long-distance crash-and-burn. She went to the east coast and he went west. They both said they’d try, and they really did. But over the course of the first semester, the phone calls dwindled down from every day to once every two weeks and neither of them could find the time to visit despite their promises. 

He sighed, finally turning over, arm slung across his face. “What time is it?”

“Early enough that Coach’ll bench you if you’re late,” Lemar called from the bathroom. “So get your ass up.”

John groaned again, forcing himself to start getting ready.

His phone buzzes on the table, and John lets it ring out. Anyone calling him at 7 must be a psychopath.  But after the third ring, Lemar pokes his head out of the bathroom.

“You’re getting a call, wanna—?” Lemar asks.

But John interrupts with a shake of the head, “I’ll call them back later. Whoever it is can wait.”

***

Today, you’re supposed to be meeting with… some hockey player.

His name was on the list your coordinator sent out, James— no, John Walker. You had heard the name before but never seen him. The way people talked about him, you’d think he was the single greatest thing that happened to their university. Plus, in the last few months, he had racked up a bit of a reputation, the kind that made him irresistible to some. He was supposedly very handsome and was caught making out with girls from everywhere, from the library to empty lecture halls, a real winner. But you could make this work; you had to.  

As part of the university’s academic support program, and because you’re clawing your way toward the slightest edge in your grad school application, you decided to spend your last year tutoring underperforming athletes. It was noble, really.

A selfless act.

Something you patted yourself on the back for.

This was your second semester doing it.

You’d take people from D’s to A’s in stats and econ like it was nothing. You didn’t expect thank yous, just the satisfaction of competence and a glowing recommendation letter from the program director.

But instead of prepping for the myriad of things you had to do today, you're currently running across campus, forehead bump masked by a headband, sneakers half-tied, trying to find your damn phone.

Your phone. Your planner. Your calendar. Your to-do list. Your email, and quite literally your life.

Gone.

You had a creeping suspicion that this was karmic retribution for going to that party last night. A cruel reminder that stepping outside your routine, even for one night, was a mistake.

You called over and over, to no response, so you had no choice but to confront whoever had your phone at the ice rink.

As you trudge over there, the absurdity of your situation sinks in.

It’s too early for this shit. Way too early.

You enter the arena, the sharp chill of the air wrapping around you like a memory. Walking around with purpose before you lay your eyes on the ice rink, its surface gleaming under the fluorescent lights. The hockey team is already mid-practice, skates slicing through the silence between shouts and puck slaps.

Then you see him.

The only one who could have gotten close enough to accidentally take your phone.

As you watch him cut and weave across the ice, body moving with fluid precision...

You suppose he wasn't lying about not playing football anymore. Once he doesn’t have the puck anymore, you raise your arm high, waving sharply like you’re signalling for help on a sinking ship.

He notices. Skates over, fast and lazy, like even his gliding is cocky.

He slows to a stop in front of you, breath visible in the cold air. “What are you doing here?”

You hold up the phone, his phone. “You have mine.”

He blinks. “I’m sorry?”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t make me repeat myself. I’m the one with head trauma, remember?”

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again, glancing down at the phone in your hand. His eyes flick back up, smirking. 

“How do you even know it's my phone you have?”

“Labrador as your lock screen. Oh, and a little someone named Christina? Yeah, she loves to send pretty creative things to you in the wee hours of the morning—”

“Okay, okay, you have my phone, but I’m kind of in the middle of something,” he says, nodding toward the ice.

“And I’m kind of in the middle of my life, which, fun fact, is inside that phone,” you snap, pointing. “So if we could just swap—”

“Hey!” His coach’s voice booms across the rink, with a very disapproving look on his face. 

John winces. “Look, I’ll be done in a bit. Wait for me.”

You blink. “How long is ‘a bit’?”

He shrugs. “If you want your phone, you’ll wait.”

And before you can fire back, he reaches out and… pats you on the head.

Like you’re a toddler. Or a pet.

You blink in stunned disbelief as he skates off, already turning his attention to his drills like you don’t exist.

“Fucking hockey players…,” you mutter under your breath.

You take a seat on the cold metal bleachers, arms crossed, teeth gritted, fuming.

And yet, annoyed as you are, you find yourself watching.

Unfortunately.

He’s fast. Effortless, even. Sharp, controlled turns, brutal precision, a level of confidence that would be a whole lot less irritating if he weren’t so damn good. His movements are like muscle memory, all instinct and rhythm. You’d almost call it graceful if the idea of him and grace didn’t make your skin crawl.

He barks something at a teammate, laughing as they collide mid-drill. That stupid grin flashes across his face, and your eye twitches.

You hate that he’s talented.

You hate that he’s attractive.

You hate that despite all of that, your brain keeps replaying every word of your argument like a scene in a movie you refuse to admit you liked.

No.

You shake your head. He hit you with a football. Flirted with you while you were concussed. Patted you on the damn head.

He was a walking red flag wrapped in hockey tape and ego.

When practice finally ends, you watch him skate off like he’s in no rush, like you haven’t been sitting there for forty-five minutes freezing your ass off, questioning all your life choices.

He jogs over, helmet tucked under one arm, hair damp, cheeks flushed from exertion, and ugh, no, he does not get to be that good-looking after being that much of a jerk.

“So,” he says, leaning casually against the railing like you’re old friends, “what were you saying?”

You deadpan, “You have my phone, dickhead.”

He blinks, feigning offence. “That’s not a very nice way to ask for something.”

“You hit me in the face with a football. I think the grace period for nice has expired.”

He leans in slightly, that annoying smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Are you going to hold that over me forever?”

You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“Perfect,” he says with mock enthusiasm, straightening up. “Well, let me go get your phone so you’re out of my hair.”

He disappears into the locker room, and you’re all but counting the seconds until he gets back, until you’re reunited with your one true love… your phone. 

When he finally returns, he tosses a towel over his shoulder and holds your phone up between two fingers like it’s a hostage.

“Took you long enough,” you mutter, reaching for it.

He places it carefully in your hand, like he’s being generous, like this isn’t the bare minimum.

“There,” he says. “Now we never have to see each other again.”

You slap his phone into his hand and turn on your heel, stomping off like a woman on a mission to never speak to him again.

John watches you go, eyebrows raised, lips parting slightly like he’s about to say something but thinks better of it.

“…She’s scary,” he mutters to himself, turning his phone over in his hands.

Then, quieter, more amused than he wants to admit, “…Kind of hot, too.”

He shakes his head, like he can rattle the thought loose, and starts heading back toward the locker room.

Just his luck, of all the people he could’ve accidentally swapped phones with, it had to be the one person who looked at him like she was seconds from whacking him in the knees with a hockey stick.

Oh well. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with her again.

…Right?

***

After one of the worst mornings you’d had in weeks, you barely had two hours to spare for this tutoring session. But you came prepared, laptop bag slung around your shoulder, a stack of notes and a bouquet of highlighters sticking out of the tote on your other shoulder. You were ready to get this John Walker fellow an A.

You arrived early, standing in the hallway outside the study room you’d booked, scrolling through your schedule and mentally bracing for whatever athlete they’d assigned you this time.

You sigh, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, wondering how bad this one would be, when you hear footsteps.

And then a voice.

One you recognise far too well.

“We keep running into each other.”

You freeze.

No.

Absolutely not.

You turn around slowly, praying it’s a coincidence. A glitch in the matrix. A hallucination.

But you couldn’t be more unlucky, it’s him. Hockey player, phone thief, public menace and unapologetic football-thrower.

You close your eyes, open them again, and he’s still there.

“I thought I escaped you,” you say flatly.

He leans against the wall like it’s all a joke. “C’mon, we both know you can’t get enough of me.”

You blink. “I actually considered getting you banned from campus Wi-Fi.”

From the look on your face, he doesn’t doubt you had a way to do it. 

“Sounds like foreplay to me.”

You roll your eyes and gather your things with a little too much force.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m meeting someone,” you mutter.

John raises a brow. “Well, so am I…”

You both pause. Your eyes lock. Then snap back again.

“…No,” you whisper.

Slowly, dramatically, start bumping your forehead against the wall in front of you. Over and over and over and—

“Are you okay? What are you doing?” he asks, somewhere between amused and alarmed.

You turn slowly, staring at him with deadpan, exhausted eyes.

“You’re John Walker, right? I’m your tutor.”

His face morphs through several emotions. Confusion, realisation and horror before a hint of satisfaction.

“Well,” he grins, “this is gonna be fun.”

You sigh. “This is my villain origin story.”

10 minutes into your studying session, you’re not even sure if he’s listening. When you catch him staring, you don’t like the way he’s looking at you. It’s that same coy little, faux-innocent look he gave you when you got knocked over by the football.

“I know your reputation,” you call out, looking up from your laptop. You needed to set the record straight. You and him are never happening.

“I have a reputation?” he asks, smirking like the idea genuinely amuses him, as if he’s flattered more than anything.

“It’s just… I’m not as bad as they say.”

“You were caught making out on a Zamboni.”

“The opportunity presented itself,” John says with a casual shrug, like that explains everything.

“Three times?!”

He pauses for a beat. “...Yes.”

You stare at him in disbelief, for only he would be found in that situation on three separate occasions. 

“Not to be cocky,” he says, raising his brows with that signature grin, “but when you look like me…” He shrugs again, as if the logic is unassailable.

You roll your eyes, “Unbelievable.”

“Charming,” he corrects. “But I get why you’d confuse the two.”

***

It was only your fifth session, and he had already blown you off more times than you cared to count. When he did show up, he’d listen to you for half the session and spend the rest drifting off, distracted and trying to get to know you. Not quite flirting, per se, but you knew it was building to that. You refused to give him the satisfaction.

So you stormed down to where you knew you’d find him.

“Walker?” you call out, stepping into the gym. The smell of sweat and metal is thick in the air as you glance around, until your eyes land on him.

“Yeah, I’ll be right there. Just one more set,” he huffs, voice strained with effort.

He’s on the bench press, sweat clinging to his skin, his biceps flexing with every rep. The bar rises and falls, steadily, his face razor-focused—jaw clenched, brows drawn together.

You cross your arms and lean against the wall, trying not to stare too obviously. Sure, he was a certified idiot. Emotionally unavailable, annoyingly confident, but damn if he didn’t look good doing something as simple as lifting weights.

“You’re gonna pop a vein trying to impress me,” you mutter.

He sets the bar back with a loud clunk and sits up, dragging a towel across the back of his neck. “Is it working?”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the smirk. “Jury’s out.”

You shove your stack of notes against his chest, nearly knocking the water bottle out of his hand. “Econ ring a bell?”

He catches them with a grunt, flipping through the pages with mock enthusiasm. “Wow. Look at all these… numbers.”

“God, you’re hopeless.”

“And yet,” he says, smirking as he holds your gaze, “you keep showing up.”

You swallow the irritation rising in your throat. Think of the recommendation, think of how it’ll look on your grad school application, think of how close you are to being done with all of this.

“Maybe I enjoy watching you struggle,” you reply, dryly.

“Or maybe,” he says, stepping a little closer, notes still in hand, “you just like me.”

You snatch the notes back before he can say anything else, ignoring the heat rising in your chest. “We’ll see how charming you are after two hours of supply and demand curves.”

He groans dramatically. “Torture.”

“You want to pass, don’t you?”

He sighs, dragging a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “Fine. But I’m only doing this because I like the sound of your voice.”

You blink, thrown off for just a second.

He grins, knowing it. “Jury’s still out, huh?”

***

After waiting an obscenely long time for John to shower and change, you’re finally on your way to study.

The two of you walk across campus, books in hand, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows on the pavement.

“I’ll carry those,” John says, reaching over without waiting for an answer. He plucks the stack from your arms like it’s nothing.

You raise a brow. “Chivalry’s not dead, huh?”

He smirks. “On life support. But I’m doing my best.”

You check your phone and sigh. “I wasn’t able to get a booking for our usual study room. It was full.”

“We can go to my room,” he offers, way too casually.

You bark a laugh, stopping in your tracks. “How stupid do you think I am? I go to your room and what? Suddenly we’re making out against your wall?”

He grins, walking backwards now, cocky as hell. “That implies it would work on you.”

You roll your eyes. “It wouldn’t.”

“So my room it is.”

You narrow your eyes, slowing your steps as he saunters ahead like he’s just won something.

Did he just outsmart you?

***

You arrive at the frat house, following John as he weaves past half-asleep roommates, loud music muffled behind closed doors, and the smell of cheap body spray and pizza lingering in the air.

Just before he reaches his room, he glances back and nods. “Ladies first.”

You quirk an eyebrow but step in and stop. You're expecting it to look like a tornado ran through his room, but it's quite the opposite.

It’s not messy.

Actually…it’s frighteningly clean. Like, suspiciously clean. Minimal clutter, neatly made bed, shelves lined with books, and a couple of trophies gleaming under the desk lamp.

You scan the room, your eyes catching on a bulletin board filled with photos. One in particular makes you slow.

It’s John at his graduation with his friend Lemar, he’s definitely younger, hair shorter, arms wrapped around a girl with dark hair. They’re both grinning, effortlessly happy. It hits you with a strange twist in your stomach.

“Ready to tutor me?” he calls from behind you, voice light, but when you glance over your shoulder, his eyes flick to the photo, just for a second. Then away.

You snap your head forward, pretending you didn’t see.

“Let’s just get this over with,” you say, your voice cooler than before.

You’re sitting with your books and notes spread across the small table, tapping your pen against the side of your cheek as John works through a problem. He’s getting more things right, shockingly, but you’ve come to find John Walker isn’t without his dumb blonde moments… like when he asked if macroeconomics was about, quote, “big money.”

You’re mid-sigh when he says, “I’m not dumb. I have a very tactical mind,” puffing up slightly like that would somehow win him credibility.

You raise an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

“I do! When I’m on the ice, I’m a tactical genius. Hockey’s like… chess. But faster. And with more bruising.”

You stare at him.

He stares right back, undeterred, like he genuinely believes he’s cracked the code of life.

You blink at him. “You really are blonde.”

He grins, undaunted. “All natural.”

“Unfortunately.”

He leans back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head, like he’s proud of himself. “So. Are we doing econ or just flirting aggressively?”

You don’t even dignify that with a response.

Instead, you slide a worksheet across the table and gesture to the first problem.

“Prove your ‘tactical mind’ and solve that.”

He picks up a pencil, squints at the paper.

“…Do I get multiple choice?”

You groan and flop back into your chair, rubbing your eyes. “Let’s take a break,” you say, half to yourself, half to him. You needed it just as much as he did. The buzz of the library fades into the background as the two of you settle into the quiet lull.

He looks over at you, chin propped on his hand. “What’s your deal?”

“Sorry?” you blink, not sure you heard him right.

John shrugs, but there’s something sharp in his curiosity. Everything about you made him wonder. The way you carried yourself, the guarded way you smiled, the speed and precision at which you shut him down every time he tried to flirt. It was like you had armour on.

“I’ve heard nothing about you, and I know pretty much everyone. But when I ask around… nothing. No one knows what you’re into. Or who you’re dating...”

“No, no,” you interrupt quickly, sitting up straighter. “My dating life is off the table.”

The way your tone stiffens, how your jaw clenches, he knows he’s hit something. A goldmine, maybe. “Really?” he asks, tilting his head, all playful. “Embarrassing ex? Secret relationship? Or… you just swore off dating entirely?”

You narrow your eyes. “I don’t date. Especially not athletes, so don’t even try it.”

“Why’s that?”

His tone isn’t defensive, it’s curious. Gentle, even. You’ve brought out something in him, a version of himself that's quieter than his usual bravado. He genuinely wants to know why you’ve put up that wall.

“Did one break your heart?”

You glance away, shoulders stiffening just slightly. “They’re just not worth the time or effort.”

The words come out flat, like you’ve said them to yourself before, maybe too many times.

You sigh, eyes flicking away. “Not on your life.”

You think of your ex… the years you can’t get back, the late-night phone calls, the games you went to out of obligation, the way he left like it was nothing.

"I feel like there's a story there. Do I get to hear it?"

John leans back against the bed, arms behind his head, like he’s settling in for a long conversation. “Okay, okay. Outside of athletes…have you been dating at all?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“So that’s a no.”

You shoot him a look.

He holds his hands up in mock surrender, smirking. “Sounds like you need a dating tutor.”

“Sounds like you need to mind your own business.”

***

You had slipped up, giving him any information about your love life, or lack thereof, was a mistake. Now he was texting you nonstop. “What about this guy?” “Is this guy your type?” Followed by some cursed selfie of him doing a thumbs-up like it was a dating profile.

The thing is, you don’t even know if he’s doing it to be annoying or if he genuinely wants to help. But that’s not what you needed. You didn’t need his help. You just needed him to study. Pass Econ. Graduate. That was it.

You’re supposed to be meeting up with him today, another study session, allegedly, but he told you to meet him at the track, which already felt like a trap. You’re twiddling your fingers, checking your phone for any signs of cancellation, when…

You hear your name and you spin around.

There he is. Standing by the track like he’s posing for a damn catalogue, arms crossed, sleeves rolled just enough to show off those annoyingly sculpted forearms. And they are quite nice. Unfortunately.

“Why have you summoned me here?” you ask, folding your arms.

John smirks, that cocky half-grin that says he’s already won.

“Because I need you to run with me.”

You blink. “I’m not running with you.”

John smirks, that insufferable little grin of his. “We’ve been cooped up in study rooms for days. Thought we could multitask. Little cardio, little Econ.”

You stare at him like he’s just landed from another planet. “What planet do you live on?”

“It’ll be fun, trust me.”

Maybe it’s his smile, or the way the sun shines in his hair, making him look just a little too golden and boyish to argue with, but you agree. “Just don’t kill me.”

The run starts off easy, a light jog around the track. Manageable. You even start reciting some Econ concepts between breaths, thinking maybe this wasn’t the worst idea he’s ever had.

But slowly, he starts to pick up the pace. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that your lungs start burning, and your ability to form complete sentences evaporates. You’re too out of breath to concentrate, let alone ask him any practice questions.

He’s grinning like a devil now, clearly enjoying himself, and worst of all, he starts showing off.

Running backwards.

“Don’t run backwards, you dick,” you huffed, gasping for air as he jogged effortlessly beside you, no sign of struggle whatsoever.

“What? Can’t keep up?” he teased, grinning like the insufferable menace he was.

“Don’t push me, Walker. I will take off my shoe and throw it at your big fat head!”

“I’m so scared,” he said, voice drenched in sarcasm. “It’s not my fault I have so much stamina.” 

He winks at you, continuing to keep pace.

“How are you running like this?” You chase after him, but it’s no use; he’s too fast. 

“It’s called not skipping leg day,” he chuckles, just as he turns around, laughs, and takes off at double speed, leaving you in the dust.

“Motherfucker!” you pant, finally grinding to a halt, hands on your knees, chest heaving.

A minute later, he’s made his way around the track again, jogging up beside you like this is all just a casual stroll in the park.

“You brought me out here to torture me?” you say, eyebrows raised, arms crossed.

“I brought you out here to help you relax,” he says, grinning.

“We only have a week until our tutoring hours are up,” you shoot back. “And a week and a half until the Econ midterm. If you want to keep playing hockey, I’d stop playing with me if I were you.”

He pauses, eyeing your crossed arms and pout. To him, you look more like a grumpy kitten than a serious threat, and maybe that’s why he’s smiling like that.

“Fine, fine,” he relents, holding up his hands. “We can actually study. But on the quad. It’s too nice to be inside.”

You give a reluctant nod. “Fine.”

“Great,” he says, already starting to jog backwards. “I’ll shower first. Don’t go running off on me.”

And just before he turns away, he reaches out and ruffles your hair, and it’s soft, more playful than the first time, but it still gets under your skin.

“Seriously?” you mutter, swatting his hand away.

He only laughs, disappearing toward the locker room.

And, annoyingly, you find yourself smiling anyway.

***

Studying on the quad was a good idea, one of his few good ones, you’ll admit.

The sun was shining, a soft breeze stirred the trees overhead, and the distant sound of laughter and campus life buzzed just enough to remind you that this—this moment—was what college was supposed to feel like. Especially sitting on the quad with a cute (though annoying) guy, your younger self would be proud. 

“I got 80%?” John blinked down at the mock test you’d just handed back.

“Yeah,” you nodded, tapping a couple of spots on the paper. “I’d elaborate and expand a bit more on these during the exam, but you’d definitely get good marks still.”

He looked up at you with that damn smile, the soft one, not the cocky one. The one he didn’t give out too often. “Thanks. I, uh… I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“It’s my job,” you blurted, looking away quickly as a sudden rush of heat bloomed in your chest. Sheepish. Embarrassed. Flustered?

What the fuck was that feeling?

You’re mid-sentence, tapping your pen against his notebook, when a shadow falls over your page.

You glance up and freeze.

“John?” the girl asks sweetly, brushing her hair behind one ear like she’s practised it. She’s wearing his team hoodie, the one you’ve definitely never seen him give out before.

John blinks up at her and smiles. It’s familiar, like the way he smiles at you when you meet for study sessions. “Oh, hey.”

You can’t deny that you feel uncomfortable. In the span of a few seconds, you had become the third wheel. It doesn’t help that the girl doesn’t even acknowledge you, leaning in closer to him as her eyes practically twinkle. “Are we still on for tonight?”

Before he can answer, you snap your notebook closed. “You know what? I think that’s my cue.”

“What?” He sits up straighter, eyes darting between you and the girl. “Wait—are you jealous?”

You let out a single, unimpressed laugh. “No. But you are deluded if you think I am.”

And with that, you sling your bag over your shoulder and walk off, annoyed that maybe, just maybe, you kind of were.

***

The next day, you have another tutoring session, find yourself sitting with him in a cramped little diner. John was right, a change of scenery was good for both of you. That might be the only time you’d admit that to yourself. Yikes, what was happening to you? Maybe yesterday left you feeling more rattled than you thought.

“You’re seriously going to let me eat this pizookie alone?” you complain, eyeing the giant dessert in front of you.

“I have a strict diet,” John replies, all mock-seriousness as he leans back. “A body like this…” he pauses dramatically to flex his bicep, “…doesn’t happen overnight.”

You pause mid-bite just to sigh, unimpressed. “You’re insufferable.”

He grins, eyes sparkling. “And yet, you still invited me over. Must be the charm.”

You shake your head, reaching for your notes. “I invited you here to study, so let’s—”

“Not yet. Not yet,” he interrupts, raising a finger like a kid who knows the rules but refuses to follow them.

You raise an eyebrow. “What’s the holdup?”

“You were jealous the other day, weren’t you?”

The irritation bubbles up inside of you. How dare he bring that up now, when you’d spent the past few nights carefully erasing it from memory? The way she looked so at ease with him, the easy grin he’d given her, all the little hockey in-jokes you didn’t understand. Like they were in a world you didn’t belong to.

“You wish,” you say flatly, taking a tactical bite of your pizookie. If your mouth was full of warm, gooey, sugary goodness, he couldn’t make you talk, and more importantly, he couldn’t make you admit anything.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table like he’s settling in for a long interrogation. “So that’s a yes.”

You chew slowly, refusing to meet his gaze. Focusing on the pizookie seems to be the best plan. What were you supposed to do? Admit to yourself that he was right…again? Twice in one day is far too much. 

“Come on,” he says, teasing but not unkind. “Just a little bit?”

He doesn’t move, just sits there watching you, taking in every micro expression and every shift in your body language like he’s reading a playbook. Like he knew you better than you wanted him to.

It bothers you to no end, not knowing what he’s thinking, not knowing if he knows. If he can see what you don’t want to think about.

That you might…actually like him.

More than you should, more than you ever thought you would.

He cuts off your spiralling thoughts just in time with a playful, “Yes, Coach.”

And damn him, it works. You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling before you can stop yourself.

“I got you smiling again.”

“I got you smiling again.”

“It’s the pizookie. Take a bite,” you say, offering him a gooey forkful, hoping to distract him before he says something else that gets under your skin. “I know your body’s a temple, but one bite won’t kill you.”

“Fine. For you.”

He leans in, closer than necessary, and instead of taking it from your hand, he bites the spoon directly, eyes never leaving yours. You lose the ability to breathe for a good few seconds, your eyes fluttering around until they land on his lips, possibly the worst place to land. And your first thought? They look soft.

Someone might need to lock you up. Especially since the next thing your wonderful brain comes up with is wiping a little crumb off his lower lip. You’re completely out of it, just taking full advantage of the moment to look at him up close. His jaw, the curve of his mouth, the slight smirk playing on it, he’s distracting. Dangerously so.

“You could’ve kissed it off if you wanted to,” he says, voice dipping low with a teasing lilt.

You freeze for a fraction of a second, the spoon hanging limp in your hand.

“I’m this close to shoving you out a window,” you warn, but your voice is just a little too breathless to sound threatening.

“Open windows don’t scare me.”

***

John was a little enamoured with you… Sure, he’d never say it out loud, but it was obvious to anyone paying attention. You have helped him a lot. His grades had come leaps and bounds since you started tutoring him, and somehow, despite your no-nonsense attitude and your constant sarcasm, he didn’t mind spending hours at the library anymore.

Lemar had noticed the shift too. He’d been helping John practice on the ice, passing drills back and forth, watching his best friend space out mid-stride.

“You’re thinking about her again,” Lemar comments when he notices John’s far-off look, skating backwards with ease.

“Who?” John asks way too quickly.

“Don’t play dumb,” Lemar says, smirking. “You know exactly who.”

John huffs, slowing down a bit. “She’s just…”

“Just what?” Lemar prompts.

John trailed off, chewing the inside of his cheek. “She’s just… different. Kinda annoying sometimes. Thinks she’s smarter than me.”

“She is smarter than you.”

“Thanks for that,” John mutters dryly.

Lemar just laughs. “You’ve been talking about her for the past two weeks. I’m just waiting for you to stop pretending this isn’t a thing.”

“I have not. She’s just… been around a lot,” John defends, but even he can hear how weak it sounds.

Lemar skates around him in a lazy circle. “It’s not a bad thing if you like her, man. Since Olivia…it’s good seeing you like this, that’s all.”

John goes quiet, eyes fixed on a patch of ice ahead of him. “Am I really that different?”

Lemar slows down beside him, giving his shoulder a bump with his own. “Yeah. But in a good way. You laugh more. You stop trying to be perfect all the damn time. You… loosen up.”

John snorts. “You make it sound like I was a robot.”

“You were kind of a robot,” Lemar teases. “Now you’re just a dumb jock with a crush.”

John smiles despite himself. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” Lemar shrugs, skating ahead again, “maybe it’s time you did something about it.”

“Like what?”

“Like what?” John asks, almost defensively, if the idea of taking any actual step forward hadn’t really solidified in his head yet.

The way Lemar looks at him next, you’d think John had just asked the world’s dumbest question. He skates backwards, giving John a deadpan stare. “What do you think? Ask her out. You know…like a normal person.”

John rubs the back of his neck, suddenly more interested in the ice beneath his skates. “I don’t know, man. What if she says no?”

Lemar snorts. “Then she says no. You’ll survive. But if she says yes? Come on, when’s the last time you looked at someone the way you look at her when she’s ranting at you?”

Lemar was right, Lemar was always right.

***

You were naked. On campus. And life couldn’t be any worse.

Well, technically not completely naked. You had shoes and a doormat. 

You think back to how the day started…

John had just asked a monumentally stupid question. Not his usual econ ones, those, at least, made sense in their own annoying way. No, this was something far more absurd.

“You want me to go to a Theta party?”

“It’s not that deep,” he shrugged. “Just show up, stay for a bit, maybe socialise.”

“The last time I went to a frat party, I ended up with the world’s biggest forehead bump. You were the perpetrator, remember?”

“You’ll never let me forget that, huh?”

“Never. I’ll lord it over you until the day you die. So… no party for me.”

“Please—I… I’d appreciate it if you showed up,” he said, and you froze.

You noted the shift immediately. His voice was quieter, less cocky than usual, like he actually cared if you went or not. Normally, you would have poked and teased, but you were tired, and he looked at you like you mattered, so… you threw him a bone.

“I’ll think about it.”

Oh, how you regretted those words now.

Just an hour into the party, John was texting you, sending you messages to convince you to go, and he was pretty good at it. It was enough to get you in the shower, and if you ended up getting ready, then so be it. 

You live in a dorm with communal showers and made your way there with your clothes and towel in a drawstring bag like usual, and hung them on the hook outside the shower.

Unbeknownst to you, another student, drunk, distracted, or just careless, mistakenly thought your bag and towel were theirs. The fact that this is the second time it has happened this year? You’re cursed. 

You finished your shower, and all the stress of the day completely dissolved. But then you reached for the bag, which was gone. And not just your bag but your fucking towel too. 

And just when you thought you were already in your own personal hell… BAM. A surprise fire alarm goes off in the dorm. You scurried out of the shower to pull on the door, but it was jammed. What was this Final Destination?

This is what your precious tuition was being wasted on: deathly bathrooms. You tried the door again, really putting your back into it, but it didn't budge. So you looked around and decided to climb out the window, stark naked. You’d never felt so lucky that you live on the ground floor. 

Then you came to the realisation that you had no phone, no clothes, and no ID. Your friends are who knows where, and the only person you know close by is John. You had two options: wait for the fire alarm to end, which meant you’d be stuck here for at least an hour if past drills were any indication. Or…you had to go ask John for help.

You managed to find a doormat to cover yourself, and you snuck across campus under the cover of night. Until you end up here and now at the Theta party, you weren’t planning on going to. Fate has a funny way of fucking you over repeatedly. 

You knock on the door persistently, each rap echoing louder than the last. The Theta Eta Pi frat house was the last place you wanted to be tonight, but with your phone dead, keys missing, and no one around to let you back into your dorm, you didn’t have many options.

The door swings open to reveal a dazed-looking frat bro holding a Solo cup, his eyes going wide the second he registers you, or rather, the doormat wrapped tightly around your otherwise naked body.

“Is John Walker here?” you ask, tone flat, doing your best to ignore the draft and the humiliation creeping up your neck.

The guy just stares, jaw slack, too busy trying to peer underneath the makeshift cover to actually formulate words.

You groan, push past him, and mutter, “I’ll just find him myself.”

Inside, the house is exactly what you feared: chaos. Music thumps through the walls, lights strobe in every direction, and the air smells like a mix of cheap beer and expensive mistakes. You get a few hoots and hollers as you pass, eyes following your barely-covered figure, but you keep walking, past games of beer pong, an impromptu wrestling match in the living room, and someone vomiting into a flower pot.

“Can anyone tell me where John Walker is?” you shout above the noise, irritation edging into your voice now.

A few people pause. One guy points up the stairs, smirking. “Last I saw, he was in the upstairs bathroom. Hope you’re not his girlfriend, though, he went in there with—”

You’re already halfway up the stairs before he finishes the sentence.

You walk in, and there he is, shirtless on the couch, a girl straddling his lap, her lipstick already smudged.

He jerks upright the second he sees you standing there, dripping in embarrassment and wrapped in what used to be a doormat.

“Shit, I’m sorry, I—”

“No, no, I can let you wrap this up,” you say, voice sharp and brittle. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No really, I’m sorry, what did you need?” he says quickly, already pulling the girl off his lap like the fire alarm just went off.

The girl, whom you now recognise as the infamous Christina, is not pleased. “Are you seriously kicking me out for her?”

“I just need to talk to her, Christina, just—”

“Walker, I can talk to you after you finish… this,” you cut in, unable to keep the sarcasm out of your voice. “I just need help finding my clothes.”

John runs a hand down his face. “What?”

Christina looks between you and John, not understanding the situation at all. “What the hell is going on?”

There’s far too much confusion, not enough clothing, and your patience is hanging by a thread. You glance at John. “Can we just… skip the dramatic soap opera and get my damn clothes back?”

“Can’t you go back to your dorm? Get dressed before going on a treasure hunt in nothing but a doormat?” John asks, eyebrows raised as he reaches for his shirt. 

You shoot him a look, rolling your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck.

“My key was in my bag.”

He winces. “Right. Okay, fair.”

“What about a roommate?” he tries again, clearly not ready to let go of the absurdity of the situation.

“No idea where she is, and I don’t have my phone on me to call her.”

“I’m gonna go,” Christina cuts in, clearly uncomfortable, already slipping off his lap and heading for the door. You try not to let it get to you, after all, you didn’t show up earlier, and she was in his lap, but one battle at a time: get clothes, then deal with the jealousy clawing at your ribs.

“Campus security?” John asks, still stunned but trying to be helpful.

You hesitate, chewing your lip before you admit it, ashamed, but honest: “I thought of you first.”

That gets him. He blinks, visibly caught off guard. You kind of like that look on him.

“Well, uh… let’s get you something to wear,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s the embarrassed one.

You glance down at your makeshift toga, a welcome mat you’d stolen in desperation. “The doormat toga isn’t doing it for you?” you quip, raising a brow.

“Quite the contrary,” he quips back, every bit as charming and annoying as ever. Then he tosses some clothes at you, and you’ve never been happier to see fabric. 

John turns around to give you some privacy as you change. You tug his clothes on, his shirt hanging off your shoulder, his athletic shorts past your knees.

They’re huge on you.

The shirt smells like his cologne and laundry detergent. Clean, warm, annoyingly comforting. You’re fighting not to bury your nose in it.

“You can turn around,” you say.

He does, and immediately pauses.

“You look…” he starts, and for a second, it hangs there in the air. The word that wants to come out is cute. Because, honestly, you do. Drowning in his shirt, sleeves practically covering your hands.

“Comfy,” he says instead, clearing his throat.

“Less ogling. More helping,” you snap, hugging the shirt tighter around yourself like it’ll shield you from the way he’s looking at you and the way that makes you feel. 

“Wait, wear this too,” he says, holding out a hoodie just like the one the girl was wearing the other day. You take it and slip it on, and you hate how good it feels to be wearing it. 

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

***

You run around campus together, weaving through clusters of students still loitering from the party. Some shoot you amused glances, others whisper, but no one has your stuff. 

“Fuck…” you mutter, scanning the crowd hopelessly.

“Don’t worry, we’ll find it,” John says, his voice calm but determined.

You glance at him. He almost looks more worried than you do. Like if he could fix this whole mess for you, he would in a heartbeat. It softens something in your chest.

“You care a lot,” you say quietly, almost surprised by the observation.

He shrugs, like it's obvious. “You looked humiliated and cold. I’m not heartless.”

You smirk. “Could’ve fooled me.” But there’s no bite to it. If anything, it’s affectionate.

Then you grab his arm. “Come on. Let’s go somewhere.”

“What—where?”

You don’t answer, just start running, tugging him behind you. He doesn’t hesitate, just follows, even when it means sneaking past an out-of-order stairwell door and climbing two rusty ladders behind the east dorm.

You finally haul yourself up onto the rooftop, breathless but exhilarated. The wind whips through your hair as you turn and gesture dramatically. “You can see pretty much everything from up here.”

John climbs up behind you, panting slightly. “What is this place?”

“Discovered it in my first week. No one really comes up here. It’s…quiet. Safe. Private.”

He steps closer to the ledge, looking out. “Damn.”

The campus stretches out below you, glowing lamplight, blurred laughter in the distance, and the buzz of a hundred conversations you don’t have to be part of. For a moment, it feels like the rest of the world is paused.

You sit down, wrapping the hoodie tighter around yourself. He lowers himself beside you, close but not touching.

“Is this your make-out spot?” John asks, a teasing lilt in his voice as he nudges your arm.

You glance at him, unamused. “What makes you think I have a make-out spot?”

He raises his brows, a smug little smirk playing at his lips. “C’mon. You’ve got that vibe.”

You scoff, adjusting your grip on the doormat. “What vibe?”

“The ‘I have a signature move and a favourite bench to pull it off on’ vibe,” he replies.

You shoot him a look. “I should slap you for that.”

He just grins.

“Anyway,” you continue, rolling your eyes, “if I had a make-out spot, I wouldn’t take you there.”

“Who would you take then?” John asks, tilting his head, genuinely curious.

“I have no idea,” you say with a shrug, but your voice comes out softer than you expect. John quiets then, and the two of you sit in silence together for a little longer, legs dangling over the edge of the rooftop. Then he glances over at you with a question.

“Were you coming to the party tonight? You know, before the whole lost clothes, running around naked thing?”

You let out a small laugh, a smile tugging at your lips despite everything. “I… I was on the fence.”

“Why?”

You hesitate, the answer sitting heavy on your tongue. “House full of frat bros and football players? Not my thing, you know that.”

“Ah,” John says, voice more careful now. “Am I finally about to hear about the ex?”

“I…” You chew the inside of your cheek, debating whether to say more. Then you do.

“My ex played football. Not here, but back in high school. He was good, recruited early, already planning to go to some powerhouse school as far away as possible from home.”

He nods, silently encouraging you.

“I went to all his games. Rearranged my schedule to cheer him on. He said he wanted me to come with him, that we’d do long distance until I could transfer.”

You laugh, but there’s no humour in it, it’s unbearably dry, “He used to say all the right things, you know? ‘Long distance won’t be a problem,’ ‘You’re the only one I care about,’ all that crap. And I wanted to believe him, I did believe him. Then he dumped me by text. The first week he got there. New state, new girls, new life…didn’t even call.”

John’s jaw tenses, but he doesn’t say anything yet, so you keep going.

“And even after him…,” you shake your head. “It’s always the same thing. They care more about their stats than the people cheering for them. One-month relationships, two-month relationships, if you're lucky. Just enough to string you along until something better comes up. So that’s why I’m only focusing on my academics.”

You sigh, feeling like a weight has been lifted. You don’t really talk about this—never let it get airtime in your chest—but somehow, John Walker would be the one to bring it out of you.

“So… what’s the verdict?” you ask, your voice lighter now, trying to shift the mood.

John gives you a crooked smile, the teasing kind. “Verdict is you’re still kind of scary. But I think I can handle it.”

You laugh, leaning into him a little, your shoulders now brushing. 

“I know I joke a lot,” he continues, “and yeah, I can be a pain in the ass, but I wouldn’t do that to you.”

The words hang there, and for once, you don’t have a sarcastic comeback.

Instead, you nod, slow and thoughtful. “Thanks.”

Another beat of silence.

Then John, eyes on the horizon, “So… if you did have a make-out spot…”

You shove him lightly, but you’re laughing.

He grins. “What? I’m just saying, this rooftop’s got potential.”

“Whatever. What about you? I poured my heart out to you about my ex. What about yours?”

The laughter dies out, but it’s not heavy, just… still. So quiet you can hear your own heartbeat.

“With my ex, Olivia…” John starts, gaze drifting toward the sky for a second, like saying her name pulls him into a memory. “She wasn’t just good, she was perfect. Smart, kind, grounded. She made everything feel simple.”

You stay quiet, letting him talk.

“But no matter how hard we tried to make it work, the distance was too much. She was going in one direction and I was going in the other.”

There’s no bitterness in his voice. Just the dull echo of something that used to matter a lot more than it does now.

“Do you still love her?” you ask. It slips out quieter than you intend, but you don’t take it back.

He thinks about it. Doesn’t rush to answer.

“I do,” he admits, and your heart sinks. You hope it’s not too obvious, but you bet it is. 

 “But not like that. As a friend. She’s been there for all of the biggest moments in my life. Wins, losses, tryouts, injuries. I just miss her friendship, how she knew me. Really knew me.”

You smirk faintly, keeping the mood light. “I think everyone knows you, John. You’re literally the hockey captain, everyone loves you.”

John lets out a breathy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, people know me. But they don’t know me.”

He’s quiet for a second longer, then adds, almost under his breath, “I have the team, but when it comes down to it, I only really have Lemar.”

The sentence lands heavier than either of you expects.

You glance over. He’s looking down at the ground now, like maybe he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

“Well… what I do know of you,” you say, voice softer, “anyone would be lucky to know you. To really know you.”

He lifts his head slightly, soft eyes landing on yours, “Yeah?”

You nudge him with your elbow. “You’re not as unbearable as I thought. You might even be tolerable… in very specific lighting.”

He cracks a smile, “High praise.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

He finally glances your way, a smirk curving the corner of his mouth. “Too late.”

After sitting next to one another, you hadn’t noticed the time until the clock tower rang out twice. You glanced at the screen, eyes widening. “We should go,” you said, standing up and brushing off your jeans.

John blinked, snapping out of whatever haze he’d been in. “Oh yeah…” he muttered, slower to move, eyes still on you as he gathered his things.

You started walking towards the ladder, trying to shake off the weird feeling in your chest. He caught up, clearing his throat. “So, I know you just talked about, you know, not dating athletes and since I’m not your boyfriend—”

“Furthest thing from it,” you interjected without looking at him.

He chuckled, like he expected that. “Exactly. So, it wouldn’t be weird if I asked you to come to my game this Saturday.”

“I’m busy on Saturday,” you say, weaving around him, trying to keep your tone casual.

But John’s quick, damn those long legs, and he catches up, stepping right in front of you.

“But you have to come to my game.”

You scoff. “I have to, do I?”

He stops, his usual smirk fading, eyes locking onto yours with an unusual seriousness.

“Please, I…” He hesitates, then presses on, voice low. “I need you to be there.”

You blink, biting back a retort. “I’m sure you can find any girl on campus who’d be happy to cheer for you.”

He stops walking, the playful smile on his face faltering. You don’t notice the quiet, almost hurt look in his eyes. You keep walking, waving a dismissive hand over your shoulder before disappearing down the ladder.

He lingers there for a beat longer than he should, jaw tight.

He mutters under his breath, “Yeah, but I won’t be looking for them.”

***

John was in a bit of a slump.

The whole day, he’d been distracted, missing shots during warm-up, zoning out during drills, staring too long at the same locker like it might offer answers.

He was elsewhere.

Thinking about you.

The night you spent talking on the rooftop had sunk under his skin. You’d really done a number on him. Opened up, laughed with him, leaned into him like maybe, maybe you saw him the way he was starting to see you.

And then… nothing.

No texts. No drop-bys. No snarky remarks in passing. Just radio silence.

Taking that chance and getting rejected? Not the best feeling. Even worse when you’re not even sure what you did wrong.

“Are you going to sulk all day or…?” Lemar asked, skating by and stopping in front of him with a raised brow. “You do realise we have a game today, right?”

“Yeah…” John mumbled, pulling his helmet on but not moving.

Lemar gave him a look. “You need to get your head outta wherever it is. We’re not losing to Easton again.”

“I’m fine.”

“You suck at lying,” Lemar replied dryly. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain cupcake girl, would it?”

John didn’t answer.

Lemar whistled. “Damn. She really got to you, huh?”

John sighed, finally standing. “I don’t know, man. I thought there was something there. Maybe I read it wrong.”

“Or maybe, you just need to give her a minute. She’s not exactly the easy-to-read type.”

John exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Maybe.”

The puck clatters off the boards, and his coach is yelling at him, something about focus, about feet. But then his eyes start to sting, just a little, and for a second he thinks he must be dreaming. But no, it’s you.

He lights up the second he spots you in the stands, halfway through warm-ups. Coach is still very much yelling at him, but the noise fades because you're here, somehow, and for a breathless beat, that's all that matters.

You look so delightfully out of place. Wrapped in your coat, his hoodie he gave you underneath, arms crossed, clearly freezing your ass off and regretting every life decision that brought you to a hockey rink on a Saturday night. But you’re there.

And that’s all that matters to him.

He grins, full, wide, unguarded. Then gives a little wave, subtle enough that the rest of the team doesn’t notice, but definitely meant for you.

You pretend not to see it and look down at your phone, but he knows. He saw the way your lips twitched like you were trying not to smile.

“WALKER! You planning to join us or wait for an engraved invitation?”

John blinks, snapping to attention. “Yeah—yes, Coach! Sorry!”

Looks like he’s gonna play like hell to impress you.

***

After the game, you stuck around long enough for him to find you.

“You said you wouldn’t come,” he says, jogging up beside you, still slightly breathless, hair damp from his helmet.

“I thought of your dumb, sad face and felt pity.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie. You had thought about him more than you meant to. You didn’t notice it in the moment, but afterwards, replaying the rooftop conversation, the things he said, the way he looked at you…well, what harm could it do to show up to just one game? You weren’t falling back into old habits. He wasn’t your boyfriend.

He stops in front of you, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Is that what it was?” he says, stepping a little closer. “Pity?”

You roll your eyes and give him a playful shove. “Don’t push your luck.”

“So… what did you think?” he asks, a spark of hope hidden beneath the teasing.

You shrug, trying to sound nonchalant. “You were alright.”

He frowns, like he actually cares. “Just alright?”

You grin. “You spent half the game in the penalty box. Throwing punches and elbows…”

He shrugs, smirking. “It’s hockey. Plus, I won all my fights.”

You roll your eyes but smile. “But—but when you were playing, you were pretty good, or whatever.”

He blinks, caught off guard. “You really think so?”

You nod, a little more serious now. “Yeah. I do.”

He watches you for a beat, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “So what do I get for playing pretty good?”

“Depends. Are you hungry?”

He grins, slinging an arm around your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I can eat.”

***

You’re sitting in your room when you hear the footsteps before you see him. It’s like a storm rolling down the hallway, and then suddenly, he’s there. He’s practically glowing with a paper in hand, eyes bright with excitement. “I got an A.”

“You what?”

“I got an A!” he repeats, beaming.

Before you can react, he lifts you off the ground and spins you around, and you giggle despite yourself, holding on for dear life.

When he finally sets you down, you're slightly dizzy but grinning. “You’re, uh… you’re a smart cookie, Walker. Seriously, you earned that.”

“We earned that,” he says, softer now. And the way he’s looking at you… fuck, it nearly kills you. You clear your throat, your heart suddenly warm and gooey.

“So… technically my job is done,” you say, trying to keep it casual, but John frowns.

“I still need you.”

“To tutor you?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“John…,” your voice is soft, but edged with warning. You want nothing more than to retreat because you know exactly what’s coming.

“No, just hear me out—”

“This can never be what you want it to be,” you cut in sharply. “I tutored you, I did my job, and now I’m done. That’s it.”

“So we can’t even be friends?”

You hesitate. You know what being close to him could lead to. How easily you'd lose yourself in the way he looks at you, the way he makes you feel. And the truth is… you like him. Too much. And that’s the problem.

“No,” you say, quieter this time. “We can’t even be friends.”

You turn, the words weighing heavily in your chest. You don’t look back, or rather can’t look back, as you walk away, leaving him standing there with that lost expression on his face.

Just one last look might have undone you completely.

Days turn into weeks, and you haven’t been talking. It felt quieter without him and his constant commentary, his teasing jabs, the way he filled every silence with something, anything. You miss the days that he’d swing by unannounced just to “check in” and end up staying for hours. But you two weren’t meant to be. You couldn’t think of a world where you could be.

You’re lost in your thoughts, walking across campus, when you catch snippets of conversation through the grapevine, from passing whispers, half-heard mentions in your lecture hall.

John’s been off. He’s skipped practice, keeping to himself rather than going to parties, hiding away.

And it makes you feel like shit. You told yourself it was for the best, that walking away was self-preservation. But now? Now it just feels like punishment for both of you.

Maybe cutting him off so sharply wasn’t just about protecting your heart.

Maybe it was also fear.

And maybe, just maybe, you miss him more than you're ready to admit.

One day, you head up to your spot on the rooftop, and there he is.

Already sitting there.

He’s staring out over the campus like he’s watching a life he doesn’t quite feel part of. His blonde hair falling into his eyes, and there’s a tiredness in the way his shoulders slump, like the weight he’s been carrying hasn’t let up.

The sound of your shoes against the metal ladder and the rooftop gravel makes him turn. His eyes meet yours.

“Stealing my make-out spot?” you ask, forcing a smile, the words coming out lighter than you feel.

“No one to make out with,” John replies, a little hoarse.

You hesitate, not sure whether to laugh or look away. Instead, you walk toward him, slow and quiet, the silence stretching between you like something fragile.

“Didn’t think you’d be up here,” you say after a moment, folding your arms.

“I could say the same about you,” he shrugs. “Guess old habits die hard.”

You nod, lowering yourself to sit a few feet away from him. “Yeah. I guess they do.”

Neither of you says anything for a while. The wind picks up just a little, ruffling his hair and pulling strands into your eyes, making you feel the unnatural urge to just reach out and brush them away. 

“You’ve been off. What’s been going on?” you ask, even though you already know the answer.

“It’s you,” he says, matter-of-fact, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “What else could it be?”

You shake your head, trying to keep your voice even. “Just because we stopped talking doesn’t mean you should be falling apart.”

“Why not?” he asks, stepping closer. “You think I can just switch it off? Pretend like it didn’t mean anything?”

“Because I like you!” John blurts out, and the words hit you so hard, you almost forget to breathe.

You take a step back, instinctively. “No, you don’t. You only think you do, John. Because I told you how it is, because I paid attention. That isn’t real. It can’t be.”

His expression falters, wounded. “I know I do,” he says, quieter now, but still firm. “These past few weeks without you haven’t just sucked, they’ve been hell. I feel like I’ve been ripped apart.”

You felt the same. God, you felt the same, like you were going mad without him. But how could you admit it? How could you let yourself fall, knowing how hard it would be to climb back out if things went wrong?

“I know you’ve been hurt…” John says gently, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. “I’m not asking for everything. I just—I want you to trust me.”

“I want to,” you whisper, voice shaky. “But I’m scared. I like you more than I know how to deal with.”

“Then we’ll take it one step at a time. No pressure. No expectations. Just… us.”

You nod slowly, then lean in just a little closer, your fingers brushing a stray strand of hair out of his face. He looks at you like you’ve just given him air after weeks underwater. Maybe you just had to stop torturing yourself. Maybe you could let go.

“Okay,” you say softly, eyes darting from his to his lips. “Can I? Can we…?”

He doesn’t make you finish. Picking up what you’re trying to say, John closes the gap between you, his soft lips meeting yours.

You melt into it far easier than you ever thought possible. He cups your face, pulling you in deeper as he kisses you like you were his oxygen. Your fingers grip onto his shirt like you’re trying to confirm that this is all real, like you’re trying to anchor yourself, to make sure it’s real. Like you were afraid that if you let go, he might disappear.

His kiss is steady, a little desperate, like he’s been waiting for this far longer than he ever let on. When he finally pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, you’re both breathless.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he murmurs.

You blink up at him, all dazed from the kiss, your fingers still curled into his shirt. “Yeah?”

He nods. “Since you got hit by that football.”

You huff out a laugh, “That’s deeply unromantic.”

“I beg to differ.”

***

Things are better now. John was still John. Competitive, infuriating, charming, but knowing him was easier now. Letting yourself be seen felt less terrifying, especially when he let you see just as much of him in return.

Now, you go to the occasional game to cheer him on, and he always finds you in the crowd. Always makes time. Never makes you feel like an afterthought.

It felt secure and real. 

And maybe it wasn’t love yet, but you were falling hard.

Any guy who shows up to your dorm with flashcards, your favourite drink, and a pizookie to study into the early hours? Yeah. That’s a guy worth falling in love with.

Which is why you’re now following along with one of his dumb plans and sneaking into the rink late at night.

”We’re going to get caught,” you whisper-shout.

“Firstly, you don’t need to whisper, there’s no one here.” John replies with an eye roll, "Secondly, I’m me. We’ll be fine.”

You roll your eyes but follow him anyway, sliding a little on the ice until you reach the legendary Zamboni.

Climbing up in front of him, you settle into his lap as he wraps his arms around your waist, warm and solid behind you.

“So this is the John Walker special?” you tease, glancing over your shoulder.

“Shut up,” he chuckles, nuzzling into your neck as the Zamboni slowly hums to life beneath you. “You’re ruining the moment.”

You lean back into him as you’re both hunched over the steering wheel, John fumbling with the gearshift like it’s some alien technology.

“Can you drive this thing?” you ask, trying to hide your grin.

“Kinda,” he says, eyes darting between the wall and the ice.

You laugh, the sound bright and a little nervous. He wouldn’t get you both killed, right? Just then, John jerks the wheel—

“John! Watch out for the wall!”

CRASH.

The Zamboni jerks suddenly, jolting you forward with a squeal as it bumps into the padded wall of the rink. You're jostled but not hurt, just stunned… and then you burst into laughter.

John immediately turns toward you, wide-eyed and panicked, fussing over you like he just sent you through a windshield.

“Oh my god, are you okay? Did I hit your head? Did I give you another concussion?” He’s checking your face, your arms, your knees like he’s terrified you’ll die. But you’re just laughing uncontrollably. “You’re the worst Zamboni driver I’ve ever met!”

Relief washes over him, and then he starts laughing too, loud and free. “Hey, you’re the one who wanted the John Walker special.”

He brushes your hair back from your face, tucking a strand behind your ear, then leans in and presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

You barely have time to breathe before he tilts your chin up and kisses you, lingering like he’s afraid to stop. You kiss him back like you mean it. Like you never want to be anywhere else.

Main Masterlist || Marvel Masterlist

[runicarbiter02]

Ticklish

*Photos are not mine, they came from Pintrest, Google and @e-dubbc11 (thank you my dear!)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F! Reader - all the Thunderbolts are here though!

Warnings: some swears, little nudity, mentions of an attempted assault in readers past. This is mostly fluff, humor and sweetness

A/N: This one is my first fanfic, and it's on the longer side. Please enjoy, reblog, like and share! Also, please be kind

The day Valentina offered you the job, you thought for sure it was a joke. You’re a civilian with no battlefield experience, and you’re not that kind of doctor, you said. Her response “I don’t need another regular doctor, I need you. You’re used to dealing with fighters, and your skillset is exactly what the team needs.” Then she handed you the paperwork, already signed, and told you to meet her at the Watchtower the following Monday to do a walk through of the facility. Then she left.

Monday you showed up just to see how things would play out. Her assistant Mel handed you a packet with your new ID badge and clearance level, then herded you into an elevator that whisked you up almost to the top floor. When the doors opened, your jaw dropped. The floor had everything already in place that your little physical therapist heart could want. Brand new tables, exercise bands, pilates balls, towel warmers, foam rollers, everything! The massage area was also set up perfectly with everything you would need to ensure scar tissue didn’t build up and tight muscles didn’t result in worse injuries.

“There are also living quarters set up for you. We think it’s best if you live on-site for easy access. We will of course, not charge you rent. Your stuff will be moved for you later today.” Valentina said, not making it sound like a request.

“Oh, um, sure. That works.”

“Well then, let’s get you upstairs to meet the team. Their sessions with you will be mandatory for as long as you say they need them after every injury. I’m tired of seeing them limp around after missions!”

“I’ll want to evaluate them all to get a baseline…”

“Sure, whatever you need.”

When you walked into the common area, there they were. The Thunderbolts, New Avengers, whatever they were being called. Three super soldiers, one enhanced individual, one former assassin and…Bob. All of them were looking at you with mild interest, not sure what to make of you.

“Everyone, this is Dr. y/n. She’s your new physical therapist and sports masseuse. She’s got a background with combat sports and she’s here to make sure you all heal up the right way. Limping and injured Avengers are bad for PR. Be good and do what she says! I've gotta go.”

With that Valentina spun on her heel and was gone, followed by Mel. You stood in front of the group awkwardly, heart pounding. Then you remembered that at least 3 of them could probably hear it and you took a deep breath. If you could walk out into a packed Madison Square Garden as part of a certain dual title holding cocky Irish fighter’s team, you could do this.

“Hi! Like she said, I’m y/n. I’m a sports physical therapist that also does massage as part of my treatment plans. Ms. De Fontaine brought me on to help you all heal up better and stronger from mission injuries. I know some of you have enhanced healing but if something heals wrong it can still cause issues…” You realize you’re rambling at this point and let yourself trail off. “Anyway if you have questions about me let me know. I’d like to meet with each of you to get a baseline eval so that if you need me I know where you started.”

“You really a doctor?” the tall blonde, Walker, asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Yep! They made me to go med school and everything.”

“Are you fighter? Val said combat sports.” This question from Alexi.

“Not me. My dad and brothers did boxing and MMA, and I spent most of my career on the med crew for an MMA team. I also did a short stint on the med crew for a hockey team.”

“How soon can we get our massages? I’ve never had one. I’m curious if I’ll be ticklish” Yelena said with a smirk.

“After I get a baseline I’m happy to start everyone out with a massage. But I should point out a more sports focused massage is different from a normal one. Mine are focused on recovery and injury prevention, with relaxation being a happy side effect.”

“Well I’m in. Let me know when” Ava told you from her spot on the couch.

Bob looked at you with mild alarm, as though the thought of a massage was just too much for him.

Bucky on the other hand, was staring at you with an inscrutable look in his intense blue eyes. His arms were crossed over his chest, his posture anything but relaxed. If anyone needed a massage, it was him, you thought to yourself.

“Congressman Barnes, why don’t we start with you?”

“It’s just Bucky. When do you want me?” he smirked at you, just for a second, and you felt your face heat.

“How about first thing in the morning, say 8am? I recommend wearing something comfortable; my baseline evals require moving and sweating” You shot him a cheeky grin, then turned and went back to your own floor to settle in and set up for the next day.

You woke up early to get your workout in before starting Bucky’s session. Years of being part of a fight team that insisted on group workouts had ingrained the “4am club” into your routine, and now it was normal for you. You had explored the tower yesterday and found the gym, common area with kitchen and the medical floor. You decided to work the heavy bag this morning after a yoga warmup, so you made sure you had your wraps and gloves, but didn’t bother with a shirt over your sports bra; you’d just end up taking it off anyway as you worked up a sweat. You unrolled your yoga mat and got to work stretching and breathing, centering yourself for the workout to come. You figured out how to stream your music through the gym sound system, and as soon as your yoga session ended, you switched to a more upbeat mix. Hands wrapped, gloves on, you set to work, moving through the familiar combination patterns of punches, elbows, knees and kicks. Your body flowed from one movement to the next, muscle memory making sure your form was solid and your face protected from an imaginary foe. When you stopped to drink some water, you heard a voice behind you. “Nice moves. You ever use them for real?” You turned to see John walking closer to you, a crooked grin on his face. “Cold clocked the former middleweight champ when he grabbed my ass at a bar once” you said with a shrug. John burst out in surprised laughter. “Damn! You knock him out?” “No, but I rang his bell. He never even looked at me after that. In my defense, I had already turned him down twice that night. He grabbed me with the intention of teaching me to “respect the champ” or something like that. Instead he learned that no means no.” You noticed John’s fists were clenched at hearing this. It had happened so long ago that the horror had mostly faded for you, but you could understand a man, a solider, like him reacting violently to a man trying to assault you. Your brothers had been livid.

“Well darlin’ if you ever want to spar, you let me know. I think you’d give even my super soldier ass a run for my money” he winked at you as he went to start his own workout.

You set the evaluation part of your floor up like a combination of fight training camp and football camp. An agility section, treadmills, multiple heavy bags, mats, and a small fake firing course. You wanted to be able to watch them move while they did their jobs, so you could see what needed work, but you couldn’t do that on an actual mission, so this would have to do.

At exactly 8am, the elevator dinged and Bucky walked out. He was dressed in a white tank top and black shorts, the muscles in his chest and arms on display. You could see the chain of his dog tags around his neck, the silver matching the ones you wore around your own neck for your brothers. Your heart rate sped up, and you told yourself it was not because he is so damn sexy. It was definitely nerves for your first time working with a super soldier. Right.

“Well doc, how do you want to do this?”

“Please call me y/n. Let’s start with range of motion and overall strength and go from there. I promise not to poke and prod, but I do have to touch, push and pull. That okay with you?” The last thing you wanted to do was make this man, who had already been through so much at the hands of so called medical science uncomfortable.

“That’s fine. Do what you need to” he said with a shrug. “Alright, come over here and let’s get started. If you sit on the table here, I’ll start with range of motion and basic strength in both arms…” You trailed off, realizing how silly it would be to evaluate his left arm. The vibranium one custom made for him in Wakanda. But it was out of your mouth now, and you had to admit you were curious about how the muscles in his chest and back had compensated. Bucky chuckled quietly, as if he knew exactly what you had just thought. He sat on the table in front of you, and you grabbed your step stool so you could be at the right height. That also made him smirk at you, which made you blush. “Okay, hold your right arm out straight and don’t let me push it down” you rested both hands on his forearm and pushed. Nothing happened. Not even a twitch. His arm was steady as a rock. You pushed a little harder with the same result. He didn’t move at all. “Okay hold it out to the side, same thing, don’t let me push it down.” This time, you practically rested all your weight on his arm, and he still held it solid. “Now bend your arm in front at 90 degrees and don’t let me pull your fist down.” You moved through the familiar tests one by one, keeping mental notes as you went. “Well, that side is definitely strong and solid. All of your connecting muscles are too.” You said it out loud but mostly to yourself. “Let’s do the left, just to be even. Do you mind taking your shirt off? I’d like to see how your chest and back muscles move with this arm.” Without a word he pulled his shirt off, and your breath caught in your throat. You’d seen men shirtless before. Men in great shape. Bucky put them all to shame. His muscles were defined, but not in a vainly obnoxious way. This man was truly lethal in ways you couldn’t imagine, and his body displayed that in every line. “Arm out, don’t let me move it.” You pushed and pulled, watching the muscles in his chest and his back flex. You noted the scars around his arm, and began mentally planning on how to try and break the underlying scar tissue up. You made him do the same with both legs, then checked his range of motion, noting his right arm caught a little at the top. Then you started him on drills. You watched him run on the treadmill, run the ladder, throw punches, knees, elbows and kicks at the grouping of heavy bags, again noting that catch in his right shoulder.

“How long ago did you hurt your right shoulder?”

“A month ago, but it’s fine now. How’d you know?”

“It’s catching when you raise your arm. I can fix it though.”

He raised his eyebrows at you, but didn’t say anything. “Okay lastly, I’d like you to run through the little shoot course. I have a nerf gun for you. I want to see how you’d move on missions.”

A laugh escaped him when you handed him the ridiculous nerf gun, and you smiled back at him. Then he got to work, and he demonstrated a deadly grace you had never seen before, even from the best fighters. He was beautiful. The thought caught you off guard; you were usually so much more composed during these things. Something about Bucky made your heart pound and heat run through your body. You needed to get ahold of yourself. The last thing you needed was for him to know he was making you a little hot and bothered. When he finished the course he was grinning ear to ear. “I haven’t had that much fun in….well, a lot of years. Thanks doll.”

“You’re welcome Bucky. You’re in pretty good shape, but you’ve got one or two spots that need some TLC. Your right shoulder and left calf, the scar tissue on your left side, and it looked like you were favoring your right foot a little bit. If you’re ready, we can get going on your massage and I’ll start putting you right.”

“You could see all that? X-ray vision?” At this you laughed. “No superpowers, but I’ve been at this a while, and my initial degree is in the study of movement. I’ve worked with athletes long enough to see what others may not. And what I see is your body needs my help. Ready?” He nodded and motioned for you to lead the way. You took him to the massage area, which was already set up. You showed him the myofascial release tools that help break up scar tissue, the percussion massage gun, the bamboo roller, and the hot stones. “I like to use different tools, depending on what your body needs. The tools also help save my hands from overuse. Go ahead a strip down to whatever level you’re comfortable at, and lay face down on the table. I’ll be back in a minute.”

You walked far enough away to give him privacy, and reviewed what you needed to do. Some of it wouldn’t exactly be pleasant, especially the scar tissue around that left arm. You’d do your best not to hurt him. Maybe cupping would help loosen that up.

You headed back in, and the sight of Bucky’s bare back and butt greeted you. You stopped dead for a second, just blinking at the sight. “Um, did you not want the blanket?”

“What blanket?” he asked, his voice muffled. “The one on the bed. I think you’re laying on it actually. I probably should have told you…”

“You know, I saw it, but I thought it was to lay on. I’m fine if you are, I run hot anyway.”

You heard the slight challenge in his voice, like he was testing you to see how you’d handle it. You’re a professional damnit, and this isn’t the first bare ass you’d seen. You could do this!

“Alright, if you get cold let me know. I’m going to start at your feet, just to get you used to me touching you, and I’ll go from there. If you need more or less pressure let me know. I don’t want to outright hurt you, but some of it might be uncomfortable at first. I use unscented coconut oil, and it generally absorbs pretty easily, so you wont be oily after.”

“Go for it.”

So, you went for it. You started at his feet and were delighted to discover that Bucky was ticklish. Like, really ticklish. Every time you touched his feet he twitched and you swore you heard muffled laughter. When you used the bamboo roller on his left calf he groaned. “Am I hurting you?”

“Yes but in a good way. I didn’t realize it still hurt.”

“It’ll take another couple sessions to feel 100%, but this should help.”

As you moved up his body, you felt tension give way as he relaxed. You found sore spots and worked them, encouraging knots to release. When you got to his left shoulder, you broke out the cups, using them first to break up fascia, then letting them sit right along where his arm attached to his body. The hope being that you could break up the old scar tissue, giving his muscles a way to heal properly. “What are those?”

“Suction cups essentially. They help bring blood to the area, and I can use them to break up knots and scar tissue. If it gets uncomfortable let me know. They will sit for a few minutes.”

“Feels weird, but you’re in charge.”

“That I am. Now hush. Breathe and relax.”

“Yes ma’am.”

When you released the cups he breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe you wouldn’t use then on the front.

You worked your way around his right side, similarly relaxing the muscles and encouraging recovery to hurt areas. You stretched and manipulated his right shoulder, earning another groan. “Feel okay?”

“Feels great. Can you just do this every day?”

“Then I’d never work on anyone else.”

“Don’t need to, they can find their own doc.”

You laughed “Don’t be greedy. You’ll be tired of me soon.”

“Doubt that.”

You finished up his right side, then grabbed a sheet and draped it over his hips. “Okay turn over.”

He did what you said, moving around a bit to get comfortable. You adjusted the bolster pillow under his knees, then walked to his head. You began massaging his scalp, running your fingers through his hair and gently digging your fingertips into the base of his skull. He started making sounds low in his throat, a cross between a groan and a growl. Almost a purr. It occurred to you that he hadn't had much tenderness in his life. It hurt your heart to think that this might be the first time someone had shown him caring purely for the sake of making him feel good in years, if ever. You told yourself that, even though you were doing your job, you were going to make sure he felt cared for too. You raked your fingernails along his scalp and he purred again. The sounds made you shiver just a little. As you moved your way down the front of his body, stopping to work the scars on his left side with your hands, you felt him drifting off to sleep. It didn’t happen often, but it always made you smile when someone relaxed so much they fell asleep on your table. With Bucky a side effect of being asleep was that both arms were easier to move, but also heavy. The man really was solidly built. He woke up when you got to his hips and IT bands, shifting a bit like he was uncomfortable. As you moved his leg so you could stretch his hip, he made a face. “Does this hurt?”

“Yes and no. Wasn’t expecting you to move my leg like that.”

“Sorry, I should’ve said something. You were asleep and I didn’t want to wake you. Your hips are a little tight, I wanted to give them some love.”

“Mm-hm. Maybe not too much love though.”

You looked up and he was blushing, focused on the ceiling.

“Noted. Almost done. Close your eyes and breathe. Relax again.”

He did what you said, taking deep even breaths. He didn’t fall back asleep, but the blush slowly faded as you moved away from his hips and down his legs. When you were at his feet again, just for fun you ran your thumbnail along the bottom of his foot. He jerked and gave a startled laugh. “Hey! Stop that!”

“Sorry, I couldn’t resist! We’re all done. You can get dressed now. Get up slowly, take your time. I’ll be in the PT area.”

You waited for Bucky to join you, mentally going over the initial treatment schedule you wanted for him, and the stretches and pt he would need to do. You were so focused you didn’t hear him walk up behind you until he touched your arm.

“Hey, you okay?”

You jumped about a mile and a weird squeak came out of your mouth “Sweet baby Jesus Bucky, don’t sneak up on me like that! Are you aware you make zero noise when you walk?!”

He cocked an eyebrow at you. “Baby Jesus?”

“Yes, baby Jesus. Now that I’m done with my mild heart attack, let’s go over what I want to do for pt for you.”

You showed him the stretches and foam roller exercises you wanted him to do daily. “Let’s start with you coming to see me 3 times a week, and I’ll re-evaluate in 10 days. You’ll probably heal faster than that but until I get a handle on how fast, let’s stick with what I would normally do. Let’s also do a massage again at the end of the week. And if you need me before hand, you know where I live.” You give him a grin and a wink after that last statement, just to see if he would smile back. “Be careful with that open invitation, I could show up at 2am demanding a scalp massage. That felt…amazing.”

“Any time you want one, let me know. I’m happy to do it.”

He gave you a soft smile that sent a flutter through you, then he left.

Later that day, after building out Bucky’s plan and making a plan for how to evaluate everyone else based on their skillsets, you went in search of something for dinner. Your quarters had been stocked with snacks and basic things, but real food was in the big kitchen. When you got there, you encountered chaos.

“Alexi, it’s your turn to cook!” Yelena was yelling. “No, I cooked two days ago, it’s Walker’s turn!” “I cooked last night!” Your head was whipping back and forth like you were at a tennis match, watching the argument go around and around. Bob and Ava appeared to be foraging for snacks, and Bucky was nowhere in sight. Finally, they noticed you.

“Can you cook?” Yelena asked

“Sure can. Living on my own it’s cook or starve. Takeout is expensive and discouraged when a fighter is cutting weight.”

“I don’t know what that means, but we need dinner and none of us cook well. I think, since you’re new, it should be your turn.”

With a shrug you said “I’ll see what I can come up with. My only stipulation is you eat what I make and any and all can be called as sous chefs as needed. Deal?”

Everyone agreed and you went in search of enough ingredients to feed a small army. You thanked the grocery gods when you found everything you needed for a huge batch of spaghetti and meatballs, plus refrigerated dough that you could turn into breadsticks. You got started on the meatballs and sauce, then looked around at everyone watching you. “Who’s good with a knife?” you asked. “Lena is! She is the best!” Alexi proudly exclaimed, looking at her with proud papa face. “Great! Lena, you can chop veggies for a salad. A big salad.”

“Sure, tell me what to do. I can use a knife on people, vegetables shouldn’t be so hard.”

You showed her what you wanted, then turned her loose with a smile. As dinner came together, Bucky showed up.

“Something smells good. Who ordered Italian?”

“No one. Mighty mouse over there cooked.” Walker told him

“Mighty mouse? How’d I earn that nickname?” You asked, confused. You had been here 2 days and hadn’t exactly interacted with anyone except Bucky so far.

“After that story you told me in the gym, you’re Mighty Mouse now.”

“Ahhh. I guess so. It really wasn’t a big deal though.”

“I think you downplayed it. If that guy was the middleweight champ he had to be a lot bigger than you. Hitting him took guts.”

Ava chimed in at this point. “Okay, tell us this story and if it wasn’t a big deal, Walker can come up with a new nickname.”

You felt your face heat with embarrassment. “Several years ago, I was at a bar with the team celebrating our guy being the lightweight champ and the featherweight champ at the same time. Another fighter who was the middleweight champ at the time came up and asked to buy me a drink. He has a terrible reputation with women, so I politely declined. A little while later he asked me to dance, and I said no again. After some drinks he decided I had disrespected him by saying no, and he came to find me to teach me a lesson. When he grabbed my arm I cold clocked him in the jaw, then kneed him in the balls. When he bent over, I smashed my knee into his nose and told him “no means no.” He left me alone after that.”

You were met with silence and shocked stares. “Yeah you definitely undersold it this morning darlin’” John finally said.

“Mighty Mouse fits. MM or just Mouse for short.” Bob added with a grin.

“You, little one, are full of fire! You are going to be like a daughter to me in no time!” Alexi declared, grabbing you in a bear hug.

You laughed and said “It was a long time ago, I don’t fight in bars anymore. And on that note, dinner is ready. Everyone help themselves!”

You walked out of the kitchen, needing a minute. Relating the story and underselling it again had caused a chill to run down your spine. The horror of what had actually happened, feeling like you were fighting him for your life because he hadn’t just grabbed your arm, he had grabbed for your throat too. Punching him had been desperation on your part. You needed a minute to breathe before going back and eating. You didn’t realize Bucky had followed you around the corner.

“Hey, you okay?” he asked. “You know, I’m really not. Telling it made it come back. It was so much scarier than I said it was…” You wrapped your arms around yourself for comfort. “Do you want a hug?” You nodded and Bucky wrapped his arms around you, holding you loosely at first, until you squeezed him like he was a buoy in a storm. Then he squeezed you back tighter. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Breathe mouse. Just breathe.”

“Oh my god that nickname!” your words were muffled by your face in his chest, and you felt more than heard the rumble of his quiet laugh. “I actually think it fits. Small and mighty.”

“Says you guys…thank you.”

“For what?”

“For holding me for a minute. I’m okay now.” You gave him a last squeeze, which he returned. “Anytime mouse.”

You walked back into the kitchen and dining area to find everyone chowing down. “Oh my god this is so good!” Yelena said through a mouthful. “Agreed! What else can you cook?” Ava asked with an assessing look. “Lots of things. How about I cook Sundays. We can rotate.” You were answered with groans. “None of us can cook like this. This tastes like home but better.” Bob told you with a sweet smile. “Ugh, fine! I’ll cook four days a week, but you guys have to rotate the other three days. And if I cook, someone else cleans up!” You heard what sounded like Bucky saying “sucker” under his breath and you just hung your head. You had absolutely walked right into that. “Alright I’m done for the night. See you all in the morning. I’ll make breakfast.”

“Oh I already love her!” Ava said as you left.

When you got to your floor you proceeded to shower and get ready for bed. This was going to be a busy week, and require creativity to evaluate everyone. They were all so different than anyone you had ever worked with. You did some bedtime yoga, then crawled into your brand new comfy bed. You fluffed your nest of pillows and opened your eReader, thinking to lose yourself in a world of make believe. You were a few chapters in, and your eyes were feeling heavy, when you heard a knock at your door. Without looking up, since the door was open, you said “come back with a warrant.” Bucky laughed and walked into your room, hair tousled and a tired look on his face. “What’s up? Did dinner give you heartburn and you blame me?”

“No, nothing like that. I was…well…did you mean what you said?”

“I generally do. What specifically?”

“You said if I wanted a scalp rub...” Bucky by this point was blushing and looked ready to turn and flee. “I absolutely did. Come here.” You sat up and arranged the pillows so you were supported against the headboard. You stretched your legs into a v-shape, and put a pillow in your lap. You patted the pillow and waited. He hesitated for a minute, then climbed onto the bed, settling with his shoulders on your thighs, head on the pillow in your lap. “Close your eyes and breathe” you told him. You began running your fingers through his hair, nails lightly scraping his scalp. His whole body began to relax muscle by muscle. You kept rubbing, digging your fingers into the base of his skull to massage the pressure points there, then moving down to rub his neck muscles. You even lightly pulled his hair near his scalp, just enough for the tension to release when you let go. He shifted and spoke low. “Might not want to do that again.”

“Did it hurt?”

“No…felt too good.”

“Is there such a thing?”

“There is right now.” Then he reached for your hand and brushed a soft kiss to the inside of your wrist. You cupped his cheek for a minute, then went back to massaging his scalp. After a minute, you placed a light kiss on his forehead. Then you wiggled a little bit, snuggling in around him and into your pillow nest. As Bucky drifted off to sleep, you heard him mumble one word: “Home.”

@e-dubbc11 @magicalqueennightmare @trickphotography2

[runicarbiter02]

The Wonder of You : ̗̀➛ Johnny Storm x Reader

Pairing: Johnny Storm x Reader

Summary: Over your four years working for Reed Richards, you'd given yourself one job: you can be his friend, but don't fall for Johnny Storm's charms. Too bad you had already failed that mission before it could even begin.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY MDNI, SMUT (making out, unprotected sex, p in v, nipple play, oral f. receiving, temperature play, creampie, aftercare), porn with a LOT of plot, slight hint of some angst, fluff, friends to lovers, Johnny is a massive flirt, mutual pining, SPOILERS! for The Fantastic Four: First Steps, female reader but no characteristics described, mentions of parental loss, maybe some incorrect stuff regarding the 60s and how it worked but it's a fantasy world, lightly edited so apologies for any mistakes

Word Count: 17,433 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

“We need to adjust the parameters for this. There’s a few more levels that I want to adjust, to ensure that we’ve scanned the baby for all possible anomalies,”

Years ago, when you had miraculously been offered the position as Dr. Reed Richards assistant, it was a dream come true. The smartest man alive, holding 18 Doctorate degrees himself, choosing you out of the thousands of applicants to be his assistant was a ‘pinch me’ moment. Of course, he didn’t want an assistant, it was thrust upon him by his wife, but you liked to think after all this time you’d wormed your way into his heart.

Working with Reed…was something else entirely. It was a learning curve, understanding just how the man’s brain worked. Even to this day, you weren’t sure you understood it. Even when things went perfectly, when test runs on prototypes worked out better than you could’ve ever imagined, Reed was never satisfied. Something could always be better, be improved, as if his brain was factoring in the hundreds of thousands of possibilities that could occur and alter your data. You made it work, though–with patience and understanding–you managed to find the best way to work around Reed’s faults and work with him, to support him.

What was supposed to be just a job in the Baxter Building became so much more. Through it, you gained a family you never thought quite possible.

Reed’s wife, Susan Storm, was another one of the brightest minds that you had ever encountered. Kind, compassionate, but fiercely loyal and unafraid to step up to the plate when a challenge arrived, when the people she loved were threatened. You admired her and everything she stood for, the way she carried herself day in and day out. And since the day you had arrived at the Baxter Building, she welcomed you with open arms, as if you had always been part of the family.

Ben Grimm was the most talented pilot you’d ever had the pleasure of meeting. The perfect counter to Reed and his panicky mind at times, having known the man long enough to understand his quirks in a way you could only hope to. Ben was always kind, always open, always ready to lend a hand or be a shoulder for anyone that needed to listen.

Johnny Storm…was the bane of your existence, in the best way.

“Wrong address, sweetheart. The modeling agency is two blocks down. I could escort you over there, if you’d like?”

Those were the first words the hot-headed younger brother of Sue Storm had said to you, passing by you in the lobby of the building on your first day, a wink thrown in for good measure when he’d spoken.

Having followed Dr. Richards' work long enough, which meant knowing bits about his personal life, you were well aware of the reputation that Johnny Storm carried. The papers and magazines, talk shows and gossip blogs, all called him a playboy simply because he’d never been in a long-term relationship but was still a ladies man. You never saw him like that, though. All you saw was a brilliant guy, a lover of space, even if that passion of his was sometimes overlooked because of his ‘love for women’.

And, oh, how you wished his empty, blatant flirting with you didn’t bring a blush to your cheeks every time, or make your heart skip a beat, but it did. Every single time, it did. You weren’t blind: Johnny Storm was objectively handsome and much too charming for his own good, and you decided right then and there that you would use every ounce of your willpower to ignore his empty flirts. You didn’t need to become another girl hopelessly in love with the heartthrob of the Fantastic Four, even if your heart ached when you saw him with anyone else.

Those four had become important to you in ways that you would never be able to describe, but Sue always described it best: a family. 

That’s why when four of the closest people to you in life went up into space for Reed’s exploration mission, and came back cosmically changed forever, you never left their sides. They were your family, and family stuck together, no matter what.

“Reed,” your comment was cautious, hands stilling at your work station in the lab of the Baxter Building. Glancing over your shoulder, Reed was hunched over the machine he’d built in just a day, specifically to monitor the health of the baby growing inside of Sue’s stomach, as Herbie rocked back and forth beside him. “You’ve scanned Sue a thousand times at this point-”

“That’s an exaggeration. I’ve scanned her 123 times-”

“That’s not the point,” he glanced over at you then, looking away the second he saw the pointed look you were throwing at him. With a sigh, you abandoned your work, leaning back against the table behind you to watch him fret over the device. “We have run every test possible, scanned for every data point that links back to the fluctuations in your DNA from the cosmic rays we noted years ago, and we’ve gotten nothing. Your baby is okay.”

“There are still more tests to run,”

Another sigh escaped past your lips, and you allowed yourself to hang your head with a shake.

Since the moment Sue had announced her pregnancy, he’d been like this: even more on edge than usual. Baby-proofing the kitchen, smoke detectors in every single room and hallway, baby gates around every corner, it was getting insufferable. A sweet gesture, overall, and a testament to how much he loved and adored Sue, but exhausting to everyone else that had to be in his presence.

“Fine, but I’m not breaking the news to Sue that you want to scan her…again,”

“I already told her to meet me down here before dinner for another scan. We can adjust the parameters tomorrow. I want another data set from today’s scan at the current parameters to compare the changes with,” Reed never looked in your direction, still fiddling with the machine in front of him. “You’re staying for dinner, yes?”

“I’m making it,” was the response you shot back to him, powering down your workstation in the lab and rising from your chair, crossing the room to stand in front of him. “Apparently Sue has been craving spaghetti, and requested my family recipe.”

“You can’t argue with a pregnant woman,” Reed muttered, just loud enough for you to hear, but he still never looked up. “I’ll see you up there for dinner, then. There’s a few more tests that I want to run.”

“You also have a meeting at 5:45 and one at 6:15,” you shot back to him as you turned to leave the lab, checking the desk calendar lying beside your work station. There was a hum from the man, the smallest acknowledgement you were going to get, so you set your sights on Herbie and waved him forward. “Come on, Herb. An extra hand in the kitchen is always nice.”

As much as you thought of the Fantastic Four as your family, you never stayed for dinner often. You always tried your hardest to uphold the lines between your work life and personal life, not wanting to blur them completely (though, you were sure you had already blurred them enough for it to be too late). There had been plenty of times over the years where you’d stayed for dinner, usually once a month at this rate.

Sue always invited you, and you never wanted to disappoint her, and you gave in often. Ben had a way of wrangling you into saying yes before you were ever given the chance to speak at all. Reed had only asked once, asking you to stay back for the dinner months ago in which they announced to you that Sue was pregnant.

Johnny asked every day. You said no, most of the time, but when you did stay for dinner it was usually because those captivating, bright blue eyes were staring into your soul and pleading with you to stay.

Speak of the devil: there he sat at the dining room table. Clad in a white t-shirt with their logo resting over the pocket and the blue pants of his suit, a weird sight given that you had been in the lab with Reed all day and didn’t think any of them had left to attend to any ‘hero’ work.

You didn’t say a word as you strolled past him into the kitchen with Herbie on your heels, simply plucking the box of Lucky Charms from his hands as you swooped past. It was impossible not to smile to yourself at the scoff of indignation he let out at your actions.

“Hey-!”

“You’re going to spoil your appetite,” you shot back at him, throwing him a smirk over your shoulder before slotting the now closed cereal box into the cupboard where it usually sat.

Herbie beeped out a set of beeps that, over the years, you had come to understand. This time, he was agreeing with you, pointing out some facts about how eating out of the box lacked moderation, and would in turn actually spoil his appetite. You gave the little robot a fist bump for that, something that Johnny shot the little helper a glare for.

“Come on, Herbert, you’re supposed to take my side on these things!” There was no real malice in his words as he got up from the dining room table, rounding into the kitchen as you took the pots and pans that Herbie had gathered for you, setting them out along the counter where you needed them. “Baby, you didn’t tell me you were staying for dinner.”

When you told yourself that you weren’t going to fall into the trap that was the charming and charismatic Johnny Storm, you weren’t prepared for two things.

One: when he got comfortable around someone, he could be an even bigger flirt. Pet names were constant. Baby, sweetheart, honey, doll, love…you name it, Johnny called you it. Constantly. So constantly you were sure the blush on your cheeks was a permanent staple. He’d even once called you his little flame–that had been met with the tip of your heel being dug into his foot.

The second thing you weren’t prepared for: touch. Johnny Storm didn’t understand personal space, not when he was comfortable around you. If you were in the room with him, he was standing less than a foot from you, and you always knew because you could feel the warmth that radiated off his unusually hot skin. His hands would always rest on your arm, your elbow, right at the bottom of your lower back.

Moments like this in the kitchen were normal, and yet they still fried your brain. That simply little pet name, and Johnny’s warm hand ghosting over your lower back, before coming to rest on your hip. Clearing your throat, you gently pried his hand from your body, shooting him a look as you moved around to get the ingredients for dinner, hoping your flushed cheeks didn’t give you away.

“When your pregnant sister has cravings for my personal family recipe spaghetti, I’m required to oblige her,”

“I asked you to make this for me two weeks ago and you refused,”

Johnny followed close behind you, like a little puppy following its owner. You tried, and failed, to contain your smile at his actions. The media might paint him as some sex god (you weren’t going to lie…if he wanted to be, he could be) but you saw him for what he was: the epitome of a little golden retriever at times.

“Well you aren’t a hormonal pregnant woman with super powers,” you shot back at him, taking the opened jar of spaghetti sauce from Herbie’s hand and dumping it into the pot on the stove top, turning up the heat on the boiling pot of water for the noodles Herbie had laid out for you.

“No, but Johnny is a hormonal guy with super powers, who adores your cooking,” bumping his hip with yours, Johnny stole the wooden spoon from your hand with ease, dipping it into the simmering sauce to stir. With that same ease, he leaned down just slightly, leaving a kiss to your bare shoulder that felt as if it had left a brand into your skin. “Johnny also happens to just adore you, and loves when you stay for dinner.”

You had given up on the blush by now. He’d surely seen it enough over the years with his incessant flirting, there was no use in hiding it. Bumping your hip back with him, biting into your bottom lip in a failed attempt to conceal the smile spreading across your lips, you stole the wooden spoon back from him.

“Johnny also talks in the third person too much, and is an insufferable flirt half the time,” he dipped his hand into the sauce, coating his fingers in red as you whacked lightly at his hand, forcing him to withdraw as quickly as he’d dipped in. “What have I told you about doing that!”

He’d laughed, one of your favorite sounds, as you glanced over at him with a bright smile, unable to truly stay mad at him…ever.

That was, until he dipped his sauce-covered ring finger and middle finger into his mouth to lick the sauce clean off, eyes never leaving yours and a smirk curling up on his lips. It forced you to swallow the lump that had formed in your throat and look away as quickly as you could, feeling a different kind of heat swelling in your body: yeah, Johnny knew exactly what he was doing.

“Not sure, baby, that look you’re giving me right now doesn’t scream that I’m insufferable-”

“Oh, that’s exactly what it’s screaming,” you shot back, even with the ghost of a smile pulling at your lips as Herbie readied the garlic bread on the counter behind you. “If you’re not going to help, you can leave this kitchen. I don���t care if you live here.”

Johnny rolled his eyes in response, hopping up onto the counter next to the stove where you worked. You caught the box of noodles he knocked over before they could fall to the ground, shooting him a look as he held his hands up innocently, dumping them into the boiling water pot.

“You basically live here, too,”

“I don’t-”

“Yeah, because you keep refusing the room that Sue prepared for you,”

He…wasn’t wrong. Two years ago, Sue had transformed what was previously the guest room into a room that looked like it had been built just for you. Your favorite color on the walls, a matching quilt set on the bed, and she’d offered it to you. A place to stay, to live, given that Reed sometimes had you in the Baxter Building until the oddest hours of the morning.

You declined, still desperate to keep that line between your work life and your personal life separate, as tempting of an offer as it was. Sue wasn’t slighted by your decision at all, instead offering it to you to use whenever you needed to. There had been times in which you had taken up that offer, a few changes of clothes tucked away in the room on the odd chance that you’d need them.

“This place is your home, not mine,” you didn’t look at Johnny as you spoke, simply shaking your head as you stirred both the sauce and the noodles in their respective pots. “I’m Reed’s assistant, I’m not family-”

“Stop it,”

Even with the heat that rolled off Johnny Storm, every time his bare skin touched your own it sent a shiver straight down the length of your spine. His hand curled around your jawline, thumb and index finger pinching at your chin to force you to look up at him, to gaze into those intense blue eyes and the look on his face that had morphed so quickly from playful to serious.

“Johnny-”

“You are family, whether you like it or not,” the statement didn’t surprise you, it wasn’t the first time in your four years of knowing him that Johnny had said something like this to you, or anyone on the team for that matter. It always made you feel warm inside, though, to hear him say it, to see that loyalty and love for the people he cared about shine through in his words, such a stark contrast to the way the media sometimes portrayed him. “There’s not a thing I wouldn’t do for you.”

That was new. He hadn’t made a declaration like that to you before.

It was something about the look in his eyes as he said it–so genuine, so soft–that had you melting into his touch. His hand curled back up to your cheek, thumb just barely caressing the apple of your cheek, leaving a trail of heat with every swipe of his finger against your skin. Your heart betrayed you, fluttering in that moment like it always did.

These moments used to be few and far between. You didn’t know how else to describe them besides just calling them moments. Over the first few years of knowing Johnny Storm, there were small moments where that empty flirts verged on the edge of something different, something raw and real. But in the last year, they happened more often than they didn’t. Johnny wasn’t pictured out with as many women anymore, wasn’t brazenly caught flirting with anyone with legs and a pulse at events. And in moments like this, even in front of his family, he’d touch you, caress you, speak to you in a way that felt so genuine, that felt like it was real. Like the flirting was no longer just empty, meaningless fun.

That line between your work and personal life might have been a muddled mess, but the line between being Johnny Storm’s friend and something entirely more was practically non-existent now.

“You say that to all your women?” you quipped back, trying to hold your own, even as you were melting inside and your voice came out as a whisper. The playful look on Johnny’s face returned in a second, his fingers instead pinching the cheek he’d just been so softly caressing.

“Never, honey. Those words are reserved for my brother-in-law’s pretty little assistant,”

In typical Johnny fashion, he was able to dissolve and ruin whatever the moment was in an instant with his usual ‘charm’. Swatting his hand away, you returned your attention to the food on the stove in front of you, smiling to yourself as Herbie beeped out a popular song you’d heard on the radio behind you.

“You always have a line, don’t you?”

“Hey, you know what you signed up for, being friends with all this,” he jokingly motioned to his body, and you caught sight of the smile lighting up his face again as you laughed incredulously at his actions. “As part of the package deal, being friends with me, you are legally required to attend movie night in the living room with me after dinner.”

You hummed in response, even if you were smiling the entire time just from listening to him talk.

“This sounds like an impromptu movie night-”

“All of our movie nights are impromptu, babe-”

“I saw earlier that channel 2 is playing The Sound of Music tonight,” you shot back at him, finally looking up at him with an expectant look on your face. “That’s what I want to watch.”

Johnny groaned, throwing his head back and knocking it against the cupboards with a wince on his face. You couldn’t help but chuckle at his overdramatic antics, as usual.

“But channel 3 is showing Psycho!”

“And you dipped your hand–which, god knows where that thing might have been–into my sauce for dinner,”

Johnny opened his mouth to speak, before mulling over your words, and effectively shutting it with a nod.

“You know what, if it gets you to have a movie night with me, then I’ll take it,”

God, you adored this man, more than you should. More than you wanted to. In his presence, especially now, you were pretty sure the smile on your face was a constant, that it would never leave, as you laughed at him once more. 

Finishing off the special blend of additions to your sauce, giving it another swirl with the wooden spoon, you brought it up to your lips for a quick taste. Satisfied, you held one hand under the spoon to keep it from dripping, holding it up toward Johnny.

“Alright, give it a taste,”

His eyes stayed locked on yours, that familiar intensity and warmth in them keeping you locked in place, holding your breath, as he took a quick slurp from the spoon. Smacking his lips together, running his tongue out along his lips, he gave a definitive nod.

“As always…perfection. Though, I expect nothing less from you,”

Before you could retort to his cheesy comment, his hand reached out, eyes still locked on yours, as he cupped your chin once more and ran his finger over your lips. With the slightest of glances down, you saw the small spot of red on his finger, the remnants of the sauce he’d so gently just wiped from your lips.

Glancing back up to those blue eyes you loved more than you cared to admit, you caught the way they finally glanced down at your lips, before looking away as if to not get caught.

“...am I interrupting something?”

As if Johnny had burst into flames and burned you, you jumped away from him immediately the second you heard the voice of Sue Storm across the room. You never even looked back up at Johnny, or turned around to look at the woman by the dining room table, just stared down into the sauce pot as you continued to stir it and the noodles.

“Actually, sis, you very much are interrupting something here,” Johnny called out across the room, and you could see him gesturing with his hands between you both from the corners of your vision.

“Johnny,” you rolled your eyes, glancing over at him with flushed red cheeks from what had just transpired. “Sue isn’t interrupting anything.”

“She kind of is. We were kind of having a moment here-”

“Johnny, we were not having a moment,”

You very much were having a moment, but you weren’t admitting that to him. His ego burned hot enough, no need to stroke the fire.

Sue laughed, rounding into the kitchen as she stopped by Herbie, thanking him and taking the garlic bread tray from him to pop into the oven he had preheated.

“Johnny, why don’t you go get cleaned up for dinner and stop bothering the poor girl. Bad enough I’m making her cook for me, she doesn’t need you hovering,”

The man let out a sigh, muttering something mocking toward his sister, as he threw himself off the counter with dramatic flair. He wasn’t done making your heart race, though, his hand curling around the back of your head as he planted a kiss directly to your hairline, before he disappeared from the kitchen with a pat to Herbie’s head.

The pots on the stove were forgotten as you turned around, simply watching him disappear with an incredulous look on your face. Quickly, your eyes shot to Sue, who was watching you with a smirk as she leaned against the island counter.

“There was nothing happening there,”

“I didn’t say there was,”

“But you’re giving me that look,”

“I’m not giving you any kind of look,” the blonde laughed, stepping up beside you to take the wooden spoon from your hand, tasting the sauce herself with a happy little sigh. “Just…enjoying watching the show from the sidelines, waiting for one of you to make a move.”

“Sue, there’s no move to make. He’s just…he’s Johnny,”

“And Johnny is my brother,” she shot back with a grin. “And Johnny has never been like that with someone, just with you.”

You didn’t get to respond, before Herbie cut in with another series of beeps. Your eyes shot wide as you listened to what he was saying, cheeks flaring an even brighter shade of red as Sue choked on air, laughing to herself at your side.

“HERBIE! THAT’S SO INAPPROPRIATE!”

❤︎

It had been two weeks, and Reed had somehow managed to scan Sue a total of 142 times, now. Sometimes, you wondered how she was able to put up with his hovering, the hovering that had gotten exponentially worse since she announced she was pregnant.

“I’m not getting clear imaging,” Reed called out from the other side of the lab, the only sound in the room being the incessant beeping of the machine he’d built to monitor the baby, and the solder iron in your hand as it worked away on the small device in front of you. You shook your head at his comments once more, adjusting the eye protectors resting on the bridge of your nose as little sparks jumped up as the last piece of the triangular device was finally attached. “I’m going to have Herbie recalibrate this, I don’t like the data output I’m getting, I want a clear image on the next scan. Is the second bridge device ready?”

“Just finished fixing the soldering on the stand, so it should be good to go,” you shot back, tossing your eye protectors down at your workstation, lifting the device carefully and carrying it over to Reed’s station, setting it down with the matching device. “And, once again, you really don’t need to scan the baby again.”

You were met with silence, unsurprisingly. Until, the workstation down the room set off its alarm bell, a familiar tone that had you stand up straighter where you stood.

“New deep space transmission,” there was a hint of elation in Reed’s tone as he said it, quickening his pace across the room with Herbie hot on his trail. “Let’s identify the origin, then record it for further analysis.”

Quickly walking back over to your workstation, your eyes drifted to that desk calendar sitting next to you, and to today’s date: a poorly drawn flame, and the time “2:15” scribbled in a barely legible handwriting that you recognized instantly. Even if you hadn’t, the terribly drawn heart with your initials in it scribbled in the corner would’ve given it away.

“Your analysis is going to have to wait, Reed,” you called out with a sigh, knowing you weren’t the one who put this meeting on the calendar, but you sure knew who had. “You have a 2:15 incoming.”

“2:15? What 2:15?” Reed never even looked in your direction, focused on the new transmission. “You didn’t tell me there was anything on my calendar.”

“Well, I didn’t put this one on the calendar myself, but you must have cleared it at some point…”

Just then, the elevator doors to the lab popped open with a familiar ding sound.

“Ah–Reed!”

Good god, Johnny Storm was trying to kill you. You weren’t even sure if that was an exaggeration at this point, because you wouldn’t put it past him.

Blue looked good on him, it always had, but the navy blue button up he was wearing was doing nothing for your mind that was screaming at you to “keep it professional.” It didn’t help that the first few buttons were already undone, giving a slight peak to his chest. The white chinos–those were the nail in your metaphorical coffin. They had no right to be that tight, and he had no right to look so damn good in them.

“Ah…that 2:15,” you tried your best to conceal your laugh at Reed’s comment across the lab. “Johnny, do we have to today?”

“Johnny, do we have to today? As if I didn’t ask to put it on the schedule,” the blonde man in question mumbled mockingly to himself as he slid up to your side at your workstation as you laughed at his antics. One of his hands grabbed the back of your neck, tugging you closer before you could even think about it, pressing another kiss to your hairline. Suddenly, you felt like you were back in the kitchen weeks ago. “Darling, have I ever told you how breathtaking you look in your lab coat?”

“It’s a white coat, Johnny, it’s nothing special,” you deflected, taking just a short glance up at him before you had to look away, already knowing you were as red as the table beneath your hands.

“But the girl wearing it is-”

“Johnny, do you want to have this meeting or do you want to flirt with my assistant?”

You hung your head with a groan, even as Johnny laughed at the comment from his brother-in-law. His arm slung around your waist, hand settling on your hip as the heat that rolled off his body enveloped you for a moment, letting yourself lean into the side hug he gave you and the squeeze to your hip, before he was gone.

“There’s enough time in the day to do both! No, I had some thoughts about the new suit designs,”

“There are no new space suit designs-”

You glanced over at the pair as they met face-to-face in the middle of the lab, Johnny holding up the sheet he was concealing behind his back.

“You finished them years ago…they have dust on them,” Johnny deadpanned, letting out a sigh as Reed took the design sheet from him. “Look, I get it. You’re going to be a father soon, you’re scared-”

“I’m not-I’m not scared,” Reed cut in immediately, and you could hear the anxious undertone that overtook him immediately at Johnny’s words. Without even having to be summoned, knowing how his brain worked after all this time, you simply shrugged off your lab coat and stalked over to the pair, taking the design sheet from Reed’s hands without a word and placing it on his chalkboard full of equations. “I’m-I’m busy, Johnny. I’m busy. I’m busy, there’s a difference.”

“He means busy on his pace to scan Sue at least 200 times before she gives birth,” you shot back, sending Reed a bright smile that he frowned at, clearly seeing that you were siding with Johnny here. “Not terrified of becoming a father at all, those two things definitely don’t correlate.”

Johnny laughed, smile bright, and it only brightened the one on your face, a tug somewhere deep in your chest pulling on you when he locked eyes with you. Reed snapped your attention back to him in an instant, running a hand down his face as he gestured in Herbie’s direction.

“Just handle the new deep space transmission, please, instead of ganging up on me with Johnny,”

You laughed, heels clicking against the floors of the lab as you joined Herbie’s side as he waited for the transmission to be scratched into the record. There was a woosh of air, the air beside you heating up instantly as a hand found its way to rest on your lower back.

“Have you listened to it yet?”

The smile on your face softened as you glanced over at Johnny, who was staring down at the record in front of you both with pure excitement in his eyes. Beyond the physical moments, his flirtatious moments, these were the moments that had your plan to not fall for Johnny Storm splitting at the seams, if it hadn’t already.

“Seems to be a lot more of the same, just another complex signal,” Johnny left your side, the heat going with him, as he leaned against the blue table behind him. Herbie took the record from its place, rolling over to Johnny to hand it directly to him. “You’re more than welcome to take it with you, give it a listen.”

He twirled the record in his hands with a grin, absentmindedly reaching out to scratch the top of Herbie’s head. That simple little action elicited a giggle, hand coming up to cover your mouth as Johnny glanced up at you with a smirk.

“What’s so funny?”

“Herbie isn’t a dog, and yet you treat him like one,” you explained, stepping up just in front of him and grabbing his hand lightly, stopping the twirling of the record in his hands. “Also, you do know you aren’t supposed to get your fingerprints all over these, right?”

It was Johnny’s turn to laugh as he spun his hand, catching it in his palm and bringing it up to his lips, leaving a scorching hot, but gentle, kiss to your knuckles, sending a shiver straight through your bones. He didn’t even have a retort to your comment, just simply held your hand in his, thumb stroking along your skin, while your entire body flushed with a feeling you wanted to ignore.

“Johnny, what have I told you about flirting in my lab? I need my assistant, we’re trying to run a test,”

The moment was gone in seconds, your hand dropped from Johnny’s as he raced to the other side of the lab, following closely behind Reed and tossing the record onto the closest table.

You could only shake your head with a laugh, walking beside Herbie to join them, knowing Reed would be mumbling to himself the rest of the week about this moment and how much Johnny liked pissing him off.

“Cool! I got time,”

Reed didn’t roll his eyes as you and Herbie joined them back at your workstations, but you could see how much he wanted to. Holding the device you’d just finished off in his hand, you watched in the same awe you had for four years as his arm stretched across the length of the lab, placing it right back beside your own workstation.

“Bridge teleportation test one,” grabbing the notebook lying beside the device that contained your notes on the project, you flipped to a new page, prepared to note down any disparities that occurred during the test, as Reed placed an egg on the newly soldered stand. “Movement of organic matter six meters.”

Johnny grabbed the protective glasses beside the work desk, about to slip them on, before Reed took them with no hesitation and slipped them on himself. The blonde turned to you with an incredulous look that simply drew a laugh from you.

“Those are his pair, you can’t touch his pair,” you teased the man, who simply shot you a wink in return, as you both took the pairs that Herbie was holding out to you both. Johnny gave the little robot a quick fist bump.

Such a simple action that still had you grinning in childlike adoration at the side of his face.

Reed gave you a simple look, confirming you were ready. You gave him a nod, as he took hold of the switch to activate the device.

“Let’s run it,”

The whirring of the machine sounded, three silver beams of energy emitting from the device and encasing the egg within a sphere of energy. There was a shift in the room as that energy grew, as the hum of the machine filled the air, before there was a simple POP–and the egg was gone.

One glance from each of you over your shoulders was enough to confirm that the egg was, in fact, sitting on the opposite platform. Completely untouched and intact.

“It worked!” Johnny exclaimed, gesturing toward the egg.

That’s when the power to the building cut out.

It wasn’t surprising, given the notes you both had taken. The amount of energy that needed to be funneled through the device in order to channel enough energy to actually move organic matter without hurting it was sure to be beyond the energy limits of the Baxter Building. A full power outage…not what you were expecting. Not that you could write that note down in the pitch black of the room.

“Johnny,” Reed’s voice called out in the dark, steady with no hint of any emotion you could decipher in it. The man in question came to life beside you, body engulfed in flames, the flame resistant fabric of his specially tailored clothing working overtime to keep him from being stark naked. He stood with his hands on his hips, and even from the side you could see the smirk curling up on his lips. “Could you reset the breaker?”

You’d known Johnny long enough now, been his friend for enough years, to know him. Know him better than a colleague should. The instant dip in his smirk to a frown was clear, the tension in his broad shoulders, as he tossed his glasses down onto the table. He didn’t spare either of you another look, crossing the room to grab the record.

“Other way-”

“I know,” Johnny snapped, beside his flame engulfed body was on the other side of the lab, flipping the breaker as the electricity of the building roared to life again. The second it did, he was in the elevator, doors shutting without another word.

Neither you nor Reed spoke for a moment, simply looking down at the bridge teleportation device on the table in front of him.

“I’ve upset him,”

Reed didn’t phrase it like a question, he said it like a statement. Both were true, though. Reed always knew when he had upset Johnny, but never how he had really upset him.

You took a deep breath, nodding, as you scribbled a note in your notebook before turning on your heels, stalking back to your own workstation.

“Well, he went out of his way to put time on your calendar just to talk to you about the suits, and you did dismiss him…” you trailed off as you reached your station, eyes flickering back down to that desk calendar beside you. You couldn’t help it, letting your fingers lightly trail over that little heart with your initials, smiling to yourself, wishing it meant more than what it did mean: nothing. “Johnny loves space, he only got to go up once before…this all happened. You can’t blame him for wanting to go back.”

It was quiet for another moment in the lab, before Reed spoke up again.

“You know him well…better than I think I do,”

The flush in your cheeks was inevitable at that, embarrassment flooding you as it was easy for you to read between the lines of what Reed was trying to insinuate.

“I-I just listen to him. I always listen,”

It was quiet again.

“Go check on him,” was all Reed said. “If there’s anyone he’d want to talk to right now, it’s you.”

You wanted to argue, to save the crumbling bits of that wall between work and personal, but even you knew it was too late for that.

Johnny’s bedroom door was just two down from the guest room Sue had offered you years ago, a bathroom being the only thing that separated them. Ben’s room was at the other end of the hallway, along with the nursery where the soon to be baby Richards would sleep.

You may not have stayed in that guest room often, but you’d been in these hallways enough to know it like the back of your hand. To know it like it was your own home. 

There were countless nights, before you’d make the short walk back to your apartment, where Johnny had coerced you into movie nights in his room. He’d never try anything, never push you into something, always leaving the door open to make sure you knew he wasn’t bringing you upstairs for some alternative reason. His room was just quieter, and felt more private. It gave you the chance to see the side of Johnny that the world didn’t get to see.

The space lover, who spent his life dreaming of being an astronaut, of going into space and seeing the stars. He was a thrill-seeker, always wanting to live his life on the edge, to find joy in those rushes of adrenaline. But beyond it all, just a good man. A man who had an entire collection of records lining one wall of his room, organized from his favorite records to his least favorite, even though he claimed there wasn’t really a least favorite. The world got to know the Human Torch, but in  the confines of those four walls, you got to know Johnny Storm. The second you did, you knew your heart was fucked.

You found him in a spot you’d found him in before: leaning against the floor to ceiling windows of his room, staring out at the spaceship he hadn’t stepped foot in for four years. Your heart broke slightly from where you stood in the doorway, able to see the longing that was woven into his frown, that shone through his eyes that never strayed far from the Excelsior.

“You know,” with a few steps into the room, standing beside the record player, you lifted the needle to stop the replay of the foreign language from the deep space transmission that played on a loop. Johnny looked over, a soft smile overtaking his frown at the sight of you, as you kept your own voice soft and light. “I don’t think deep space transmissions are the right background music if you’re going to stare longingly out your window.”

Johnny laughed in a huff, turning on his heel to flick through his record collection.

“And suggestions then for a melancholic moment such as this?”

“Elvis typically has some hits that can set that mood,”

You watched him, the slight shake in his body that hinted he was laughing again, before he plucked a record from the shelves and rose back to his feed. Standing beside the record player with you, he slid it into your hands without another word and plopped into the chair just across from the player.

With care, like you’d done it a hundred times before (you had, right here in this room), you slipped the record onto the player, dropping the needle down as it coasted along the grooves etched into the record.

When no-one else can understand me, when everything I do is wrong…you give me hope and consolation. You give me strength to carry on.

The lyrics settled in you heavily, but it made your body feel lighter. It was impossible not to read into them, to not think too hard about the deliberate music choice that Johnny had made. You couldn’t help that, somewhere deep in your heart where you had buried your feelings for the flaming man years ago, you were hoping these lyrics were a personal message to you.

“Reed send you to check on me?” Johnny asked after a moment, leaning back in his chair, arms folded over his chest as he watched you. Composing yourself for a moment, shoving the flurry of butterflies beating against your chest down, you turned to face him and his blue eyes with a shrug.

“Technically, but I would’ve come on my own,” Johnny hummed, the ghost of a smile on his lips, as his gaze found its way back to the spaceship taunting him just beyond the window. “Come on, matchstick, talk to me.”

He huffed out another laugh, stretching his arms above his head as you tried your best to keep your eyes trained on his face and not drift down his torso. Eventually, his arms settled back across his chest, his gaze still stuck out the window.

“I don’t know…it’s stupid. Last time we went up, we came back with superpowers, trust me, I get that. Now, he’s got a kid on the way. But I know–I know–that he knows how much space means to me. So, when he just dismisses me like that-”

“It makes you feel inadequate? Like you’re a child?” Johnny’s gaze found you again as you shrugged with a light smile. “I’ve worked in an enclosed space with him almost every day for four years, Johnny. He used to make me feel that way all the time, until I realized that Reed’s never trying to make me feel like that.”

“I know he’s not doing it on purpose…doesn’t mean I’m not going to shit talk him in the confines of these walls,” he gestured around the room as you laughed, coming to stand beside his chair, looking down on him as he sighed once more. His hands fell, gripping his knees, as he rubbed them back and forth against the fabric of his pants. “I love space. Simple as that.”

You hummed, bending down beside the chair Johnny sat in so that you were essentially squatting before him, having to look up at him. Hesitation caught you for just a second, your brain actively fighting a war with your heart as you raised your hands, but you ultimately took his hands in yours. 

All it took was a second for your eyes to drift over to the table beside him. One lamp, a stack of books, and the flash of a polaroid photo leaning against those books: a photo of you. Taken at some point in the lab, laughter written across your face, your hand almost blocking a portion of the lens as you tried to stop him from taking the photo. You didn’t even remember it being taken in the first place.

Good god, he was really going to be the death of you.

Eyes quickly back on him, with a little squeeze to his hands, you gave Johnny the most comforting smile you could, even as your heart did somersaults in your chest.

“I know you do. You’ll go back to space, Johnny, I promise,”

His eyes watched your hands, and you could see it on his face: that hint of adoration, that hint of something genuine that suggested it wasn’t all just a game, that you weren’t imaging moments for more than they were.

“What if I don’t?”

“You’re Johnny Storm, I’ve never seen you not get something you wanted before. Especially not something you want this bad,”

His mouth parted just slightly as he hesitated. You watched as his tongue darted out, just barely grazing over the edge of his bottom lip, before you flicked your eyes back to his.

“You’re wrong…I think there’s something I want more. Been trying to get it for awhile, but…she just keeps slipping through my fingers somehow,”

That tug on your heart was back. Your heart was surely beating so fast that it could be heard, hammering against your ribcage, as his thumbs glided back and forth across your skin. You could barely think of a response, too stuck on his words: the closest thing to a confession of any kind you’d heard in four years. Raw, real, genuine.

Johnny stood quickly, barely giving you a chance to potentially think of a response as he tugged you back to your feet. His arm enveloped your waist, your hand falling to his bicep as he still held your other hand in the air beside you both. You weren’t sure now if the flush crawling up your neck into your cheeks was from the moment, or from the heat radiating off of him.

“W-What are you doing?”

“We’re dancing,” he said it as if it was the most casual thing in the world, that usual smirk of his back on his face. Whatever had happened moments before, whatever confession may or may not have been said, was brushed away in an instant, that charming, flirty personality of his back in full force. “Can’t turn on Elvis and not dance, I think that’s a literal crime.”

“I didn’t know you even knew how to dance,”

“Oh, I don’t, Sue’s been telling me for years that I have two left feet,” Johnny shot back, shooting a wink down at you as his hand readjusted its grip along your waist. “Can’t be that hard with the prettiest girl in the building in my arms, right?”

Swaying back and forth, wrapped up in the heat of his body, in the faint smell of the cologne that coated his clothing, you were very certain that Johnny Storm was going to be the death of you.

And when you smile the world is brighter. You touch my hand and I'm a king. Your kiss to me is worth a fortune, your love for me is everything.

Johnny tilted his head back from you by just a hair, and you followed suit. Deep blue eyes, as captivating to you as they were the first time you ever saw them, shone with an emotion you couldn’t quite decipher. If you could, you weren’t sure you would survive knowing. 

Faces just an inch away, the closest and most intimate moment you’d ever shared with the man you knew in your heart was never going to be just your friend, your colleague, you were verging on the edge of making a terrible choice. Of opening the floodgates, of unlocking the feelings you’d buried away so long ago and letting them flow.

“This is an interesting little relationship you and I have, you know,”

Johnny always found a way to ruin these moments, and this was just another example. Lips tugged up into a smirk, mischief swarming his eyes as he teased you, that fleeting moment of raw vulnerability was gone.

Hand slipped from his, body pulled back from his and a roll of your eyes, you turned on your heel within seconds.

“So typical of you, Storm,”

“What-? What did I do!”

You huffed out a laugh, a smile creeping onto your lips even as you tried to keep it at bay, as you threw your comment over your shoulder as you walked toward the door.

“You went and killed the moment, Johnny, as per usual,”

“...so you admit it, we WERE having a moment!”

You barked out a laugh, shaking your head as you crossed through the doorframe. You could never stay mad at him, not when your heart yearned for him in a way you wish it didn’t.

“Come on! At least let me make it up to you. Will you stay for dinner?”

With a final glance cast over your shoulder toward him, you shot him a bright smile.

“If you’re lucky, flame boy!”

❤︎

Yeah, you really couldn’t say no to Johnny Storm.

Not when he’d spoken so sweetly to you, held you so tenderly, and all around just invaded every part of your brain and your heart. To be fair, he barely had to try honestly to do that.

It wasn’t shocking to see Ben in the kitchen, it seemed to be one of his happy places. You weren’t complaining: on the nights you did stay for dinner, and Ben was cooking, you knew you were going home with the best leftovers the city of New York had ever seen.

“Decided to stay for dinner again?” Sue called out toward you with a smile, giving Herbie a pat on the head as he worked away at carving a pumpkin. You shot her a smile in return, pouring yourself a quick glass of water before making your way toward Ben.

“Johnny asked…and I decided to be nice and oblige him,” you didn’t miss the teasing hum that Ben let out, lightly whacking him on his rocky shoulder. Not that it did you any good, hurting your hand more than it would ever hurt him. His laughter was ignored as your eyes lit up, catching sight of the familiar black and white cookies he was dumping onto a plate. “Oh my god, did you go grab these from Maisie’s?”

“Yes,” Ben waved your hand away when you went to reach for the cookies, producing another paper bag and sliding it your way. “These ones are yours.”

The smell that wafted from the bag was enough to have you almost moaning in the middle of the kitchen, eagerly digging one of the cookies out. Maisie’s famous snickerdoodle cookies, the perfect blend of cinnamon and sugar that you had adored since you were a little girl. One bite of the cookie had you in absolute heaven.

“Oh my god, I haven’t had these in ages!” Ben and Sue both laughed at your excitement as you took another bite of the warm cookie in your hand. “How did you know these were my favorites?”

Ben’s smirk wasn’t hard to miss at all.

“Oh, I didn’t. Johnny asked me to pick those up for you,”

It was probably time to accept that blushing around this family was the only thing you were capable of.

Sue’s laughter rang loudest as she rounded the island counter, high fiving Ben as she shot you a pointed look.

“You really have my brother wrapped around your finger without even trying, huh? You know, before I went to get scanned–again–in the lab, I stopped by the nursery to check out the crib progress. Heard a little The Wonder of You from down the hall, thought I’d peek in…”

The groan you emitted could probably be heard from the other side of the country, leaning down to barely bang your head against the countertop. Ben and Sue’s laughter rang through the air again as you looked up, desperately waving your hands.

“I swear, it wasn’t what it looked like-”

“What wasn’t what it looked like?”

Of course, Johnny chose to make his grand entrance at that moment. Thankfully for you, he’d changed out of that ridiculously hot button up. Unfortunately for you, he was still wearing those god forsaken white chinos.

“Your little dance Sue was telling me about earlier,” Ben teased, easily catching your hand as it came up to whack him again in his rough, oversized one. “What’s with the long face?”

“Oh that dance was exactly what it looked like. Thanks for coming to dinner though, sweetheart, glad you like the cookies,” Johnny tacked on a wink in your direction, one you affectionately rolled your eyes over, before his smile was back to a frown. “And what of it, Ben?”

“Sounds like your 2:15 with Reed didn’t go well. I’m sorry, pal,”

From across the room, you could see Johnny’s shoulders move in a huff of laughter as he clapped, bringing down the cabinet shelf that held the same box of cereal you had taken from him two weeks ago. You moved around the island counter, filming your cup with more water before standing opposite of Ben while Johnny made his way back over.

“Hey, I’m fine,” he spoke, though the edge in his words was clear as he did, coming to stand directly at your side. “I don’t mind or anything, it’s just, uh-”

“I hear you, pal. We’ll go to space again,”

“That’s what I was trying to tell him earlier,” you tacked on, bumping your hip with Johnny’s, who quickly did the same back to you.

That smile you adored was back in moments, though, as he dug his hand into the box and produced the action figure waiting inside: a miniature Johnny Storm. His bright grin was turned in your direction as he waved the toy toward you, his signature catchphrase from the cartoon–flame on–ringing through the air as Reed entered the room, greeting his wife by the dining room table.

“They captured my likeness so perfectly, don’t you think?” he quipped, activating the catchphrase once again as you rolled your eyes. “Do you still have the one I gave you a few months ago?”

“Yeah, buried in the junk drawer of my kitchen,”

Johnny feigned shock, pinching your side quickly as you squirmed away with a laugh.

“At least upgrade me to your bedside table so I can be with you while you sleep,” that stupid line was accented with another wink before Johnny thrust the toy in Ben’s face. “Come on, admit it’s cool.”

That catchphrase just kept repeating.

I’m Johnny Storm! Flame On!

Flame On!

Flame On!

Ben grabbed the toy from Johnny’s hand in seconds, crushing it to nothing but dust and blowing it back in Johnny’s face with a smirk. You tried everything to conceal your laughter, but it was inevitable.

“Flame off!”

Sirens rang outside the balcony of the building’s living room. The flying cars of the police force raced past, bathing the room in red and blue lights. The second they disappeared, another squadron flew past in the other direction, the sirens all intermixing in the air.

These were the moments you never got to see often, when the team sprung into action. It was clear in Johnny and Ben alone, how their silly little moment was forgotten as they thrust into action, prepared to go running out of the building into danger. Reed simply held up a hand, shaking his head at the group.

“No, no, it’s alright. This is me,”

Ben and Sue followed Reed out onto the balcony, but Johnny hung back, his gaze stuck on you as you hadn’t moved from the kitchen. He simply tilted his head toward his family, holding his hand out for you. Such a simple move that shouldn’t have kickstarted your heart into what was surely an irregular rhythm, but it did.

The second you were at his side, Johnny’s hand rested at the small of your back, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt just so to tug you slightly closer to his side. Together, you stepped out onto the balcony of the Baxter Building beside Ben, overlooking New York as it was bathed in every corner in red and blue.

“For the past few months, I’ve been tracking a small number of criminal organizations throughout the city,”

You shot a look down at your boss, eyebrow raised.

“That’s what you’ve been doing in that notebook by your desk?” Reed simply waved your comment off, pointing just down the block, fairly close to the area in which your apartment resided.

“47 of them, to be exact. Including the Puppet Master in the Bowery, the Wizard in Gramercy Park, and Diablo in Washington Heights,”

Everyone on the balcony went quiet for a moment.

“You…baby-proofed the world,” Ben finally spoke. Sue’s sigh could be heard from the other end of the balcony as she tried to defend her husband.

“It’s a sweet gesture,”

“It’s a little insane,” you mumbled to yourself, just loud enough for you and Johnny to hear. The blonde at your side simply shrugged, glancing down at you and catching your gaze.

“It’s not totally crazy. He’s trying to protect the things he loves, what’s most precious to him…” Johnny’s lips quirked up just slightly. “I’d do it too…I’d do it for you.”

He said it so…so earnestly. With so much conviction in his tone, as if this was a certainty to him. That protecting not just his family, but you, was something he needed to do. That if it came down to it, he’d do it without a second thought.

“You…you have to stop saying things like that to me, Johnny,” you hated how breathless your voice came out, how wrecked you sounded as you whispered your response back to him, the conversation still droning on in the background between the other three.

The smile on Johnny’s face only widened, his hand slipping around from your lower back to your waist, as he gave you a light squeeze.

“Stop saying what, the truth?”

No, you need to stop saying things that are making me fall in love with you.

Love. That was a word that had only crossed your mind once when it came to Johnny Storm. 

It was two years ago, a week to the day that you had lost your mother, your biggest supporter in life. You stood at that funeral, surrounded by estranged family members you hadn’t spoken to in years, and family friends who wept for your loss. Reed, Sue, Ben and Johnny had come, offered their condolences, paid their respects.

When the others left, Johnny stayed. He stood by your side through the first viewing, never left it during the second viewing, and stood with you in the pouring rain an hour after they’d put her in the ground. You had cried, he held you, and he’d simply never left you alone that day. The colleague that had quickly become a friend, who flirted with you every chance he got, never uttered a single flirtatious comment that day. He’d simply been there, been the shoulder you needed.

That was the day you realized you may have fallen in love with the one man you told yourself not to fall in love with, and you buried those feelings in your heart for what you thought would be forever.

“Stuck in your head over there? Come on, it’s dinner time,”

Ben’s voice broke you from your stupor. The team had all started to make their way inside while you were left at the balcony railing, hands white knuckled on top of the rail. 

Johnny’s hand was held out toward you, and you ignored every part of your brain that told you not to and slipped your hand into his, letting him pull you back in toward the living room.

That’s what their watches all went off, alerts blaring in sync with one another.

It was like a firework went off, a boom shattering the night air of the city. The clouds, the sky, were painted in gold, streaks of meteors and debris crossing the sky as they fell to the earth. The sound that emitted from the golden cloud that stretched across the sky, bathing the city in its light, felt…otherwordly. Like a scream, like a warning.

A warm hand enveloped your face, turning your wide eyes away from the scene.

There were very few times you saw Johnny as serious as he was now. Jaw locked, eyes narrowed but still soft as they looked at you, the cascades of gold shone over his face, highlighting his features as another boom sounded off in the distance.

“Go inside, don’t come out,”

Words were caught in your throat. All you could manage was a nod, his thumb doing a single swipe over your cheek, before he patted Reed on the shoulder and launched himself over the railing and into the air, igniting himself as he went.

If not for the moment, you would have stopped to admire him as he flew, bathed in the reds and oranges of his fire. You were awestruck every time you got to witness those cosmic powers firsthand.

Reed, Sue, and Ben had followed not long after, as you could hear the familiar whirled of their car through the air, chasing after Johnny through the city, following whatever had just appeared from the sky.

You? You sat on the living room couch, wringing your hands together to keep them from shaking. You’d been there as they had dealt with Red Ghost, or even Moleman, but this? 

This was different. This was otherworldly. This was terrifying. And when Herbie flipped the switch of the television, rolling to your side, you were greeted with the sight of the silver alien woman hovering in Times Square for the first time.

“Your planet is now marked for death. Your world will be consumed by the devourer,” 

Her voice sent a single chill down the column of your spine. Herbie’s robotic hand reached out for yours, ceasing the endless wringing of your hands together. You took it without hesitation, though you wished in your heart it was someone else’s hand holding yours in this moment.

“Hold your loved ones close, and speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak. Use this time to rejoice, and celebrate, for your time is short. I herald his beginning…I herald your end…I herald, Galactus.”

And thus began the longest night of your life since the day your colleagues went into space and came back forever changed.

Sending the team into space was the only option, to confront this mystery at its source. Reed had given you the basics in passing: the threat was real, there was documentation of plants across the universe disappearing entirely, the chrome woman’s signature left on each of them. He’d tasked you to the launch team, to prepare Excelsior for launch in T-16 hours.

Hold your loved ones close, and speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak.

Those words rattled around your brain the entire night, into the wee hours of the morning. Even as you helped Lynn set up the press conference, as you conferred with the launch team to ensure that the Excelsior was prepared in every conceivable way, as you checked and double-checked every data point throughout the entire ship, her words never left you.

Hold your loved ones close, and speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak.

The anxiety was clawing at you, even as you threw yourself into work. The notion of what her words meant, of what could happen, of how close the end could be.

The clock read sometime around 2 a.m. when you had finally stepped foot in that guest room made for you. There was no way you were walking home tonight. Besides, come morning, there would still be too much to do, too many data points that needed to be checked, too many scenarios that would need to be run through to make sure your team came back to you.

You knew sleep wasn’t coming to you, though, not when that metallic voice was rattling around your head. Not when an alien threat was upending your life. Not when, two doors away, there was a man that you did, in fact, want to hold close…in case you never got the chance to again.

You loved him. All it took was the end of the world to admit it.

Clad in nothing but an old t-shirt with the 4 logo on the front, one you were sure was Johnny’s, and a pair of shorts, you didn’t care what you looked like as you tore out of the room and into the hallway. Not now, not when your world was being threatened, not when your entire life could be ripped from you in a matter of seconds.

Johnny was awake, just as you knew he would be. White shirt, plaid blue pants you’d seen him sleep in so many times, he stood in his dark room by the windows once more, watching the crews rush around on the ground as they prepared the ship for launch in just a few hours. That same record from earlier in the day was still playing.

I guess I'll never know the reason why you love me as you do. That's the wonder, the wonder of you.

With a step into the room, shutting the door behind you and flicking on the lamp just beside the door, Johnny finally met your eyes.

“I couldn’t sleep,” was the only thing you could manage to say. Johnny tilted his head, studying you silently, before he held out his hand just as he had done hours before.

“Come here,”

Crossing the room in a matter of moments, you all but fell into his arms. His outstretched hand ignored, he was frozen in place for just a moment as you curled your arms around his neck, throwing yourself into his arms. The faint smell of his cologne lingered, as did his bodywash, and the sigh you let out the second the smell hit you was in comfort.

It didn’t take Johnny long to unfreeze, his arms finding their place around your waist. One hand rested on your upper back, one pressing into your lower back. A faint kiss was placed to the side of your head, heat lingering for a second. Heat lingered in your entire body, radiating off of him in waves.

“You have to talk to me, baby,”

Talk? The truth was, you didn’t know where to start. How were you supposed to explain that, since the moment you had met Johnny Storm, your heart was already his. That in all your moments over the years, you’d fallen for the man you told yourself not to fall for. And as the threat from the metallic woman loomed over the world, as he prepared to try and save life as you knew it, the only thing you wanted was to be held by him. To know he was here, that he was okay, that he was with you.

“I-I’m scared,”

Those were the only words you could settle on. Johnny pulled back, his hands sliding gently around the fabric of the shirt hanging loosely from your body until they reached your face. He cradled you, so softly and gently in his hands, it was almost involuntary the way you closed your eyes and leaned into his touch, his warmth, chasing the feeling of security it brought you.

“It’s okay to be,” the gentle tone in his voice washed over you, covering you like a blanket. It’s exactly how he had spoken to you that day, standing in the rain when you refused to leave your mother’s side, reassuring you he was there. “I don’t care what the herald said, I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You know that, right?”

Of course you knew that. If there was anything you knew for certain in this world, it was that when Johnny Storm said he’d protect you, he meant it. He’d spent long enough proving that to you.

There was no hesitation on your part when you laid your own hands overtop of his. Fingers curling around them, tugging his right hand just barely from your cheek, you turned and pressed the lightest of kisses to the palm of his hand.

Johnny froze. You could feel it. The slight tilt of his head, the questioning look that flickered across his face in the moonlight that shone through the windows. It was all fair. You were never the one to cross the boundary like this, to make a move such as this.

“I can’t stop thinking about what she said,” was how you tried to explain yourself, stopping and starting your sentence over and over as you tried to find the right way to explain yourself, the walls crumbling and the floodgates bursting wide open. “Hold your loved ones close, and speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak…it’s why I came to you.”

A single emotion crossed Johnny’s face in seconds: understanding.

That signature smirk of his was back in moments, even if it was twinged with a softness reserved only for you. The heat left your cheeks, but found your hands as Johnny’s fingers intertwined with yours, hanging your joined hands down between you both. There was a bright light that passed over the window for just a moment, bathing the two of you in bright light, before you were plunged back into the darkness of his room yet again.

“You did come to me…why’s that?”

“You know why-”

“I do,” he said it so matter-of-factly, that smirk growing just a tad as he leaned into your personal bubble by just a hair. “This push and pull, four years of ‘will they’ or ‘won’t they.’ I want to hear you say it, baby.”

“It’s not that easy,” you immediately shook your head, teeth gnawing at your bottom lip as Johnny simply watched you. “Saying it…makes it real.”

He scoffed, the sound mixed with laughter, as his head cocked slightly more to the side.

“You came into my bedroom at 2 in the morning–wearing my shirt, might I add–is that not real enough?”

“When you’ve spent years trying to ignore how you feel and refusing to say it, it’s not that easy to say,” you desperately tried to explain. “If I say it…then everything changes.”

Johnny took barely another step forward, and you almost wanted to step back, to bring back the space between you and preserve the small, crumbling wall that still stood between you both.

“A sexy, naked alien woman came to earth and basically prophesied our demise, darling. If there was ever a time to ‘change everything’ and lay it all on the line, I think it’s now,”

Your heart wanted to hang onto the word darling, but your brain was too stuck on the ‘sexy, naked alien woman’ part of his sentence. The sigh that escaped you was instantaneous, as well as the frown, as you shot the blonde man a pointed look.

“Sexy, naked alien woman, Johnny? Seriously?”

“Come on! She was–objectively–attractive. You can’t deny that!”

It was your turn to scoff, tearing your hands from his in a heartbeat, before spinning on your heel. You felt like an idiot–on the precipice of finally confessing your deepest, darkest secret you’d kept locked away for years, and this is what you got.

“I try to be serious with you, Johnny, and you turn it into a joke once again-”

You didn’t get far from him. A hand enveloped your upper arm mid sentence, tugging and spinning your back around. A gasp fell from your lips as you collided with the chest of the man before you.

Whatever you were going to say never saw the light of day. Not when Johnny Storm gripped at your hips, tugged you as impossibly close as he could, and finally–finally–kissed you.

The kiss you’d dreamed about for four years, finally yours.

Johnny’s lips were soft as they slanted against your own, enveloping you in his warmth. They moved against you in a steady rhythm, passionate but still gentle, still testing the waters of the line you had never crossed before. 

His hands curled into the fabric of the t-shirt clinging to your body, pushing it up just enough so that his hands could dip underneath. Your breath caught, even as his lips continued to move against yours, as his heated skin made contact with yours, and any part of your brain begging you to stop this was silenced as you melted into him.

Hands landed on his broad chest, gripping the fabric as you let him mold your body to his, the scent of his bodywash enveloping you as your body almost became one with him. In the pits of your stomach, as those heated hands trailed up your waist and ghosted over your ribcage, another flurry of butterflies erupted as a moan slipped past your lips, swallowed by his mouth.

A moan left Johnny’s lips at the sound of your own, one hand leaving your waist to curl around the back of your neck. Those slender fingers buried themselves into your hair, gripping just enough to have another groan of pleasure tumbling from your lips, as he guided your mouth against his own.

“You can’t keep making little noises like that,” his mouth barely left yours as he spoke, lips moving against yours, as he dove back in for another kiss the second he was done speaking.

“Your fault,” was all you could manage out, trying to back away just enough to speak, but Johnny never let your lips go far. Your hands glided up his chest, his neck, curling into his short hair as your thumb crested the ridge of his ear. “I’m trying to be mad at you.”

“Be mad at me later,” was his immediate response, his lips leaving yours just to find their place along your jawline and slide down into the hollow of your neck. His tongue danced its way across your skin, leaving tingles of electricity everywhere he touched you, his words murmured into your neck as he buried himself there. “I’m trying to kiss you.”

There was some part of you that wanted to protest him–over what, you weren’t even sure at this point–but you couldn’t. Not when his teeth dug just so into the side of your neck, leaving his mark on your skin as if he was claiming you as his.

You were always his.

“You c-called–oh god–you called the alien sexy while I was trying to confess,” you just barely managed to get the words out through your moans. Johnny was slowly walking you backward, straight in the direction of his bed while his lips never left the side of your neck, leaving his mark on every inch of skin he could see.

Your foot caught on the raised edge of the platform his seating area sat on, your feet stumbling backward. Johnny was there–he was always there–and tugged you back into him. And god, if you loved those blue eyes before, you loved them even more now: pupils blown wide, Johnny Storm looked about as wrecked as you felt.

“Your confession was four years late, and I’m impatient,” he stole another kiss from you, his teeth sinking just barely into your bottom lip, tugging gently. He let go, pressing a messy kiss to your lips to soothe the pain of his bite, words fanning out over your lips. “I’ve been trying to tell you I’m in love with you for four years now, so please just shut up and let me show you instead. Now–jump.”

At this point, you’d do just about anything he asked of you.

Johnny caught you with ease, both of his hands splayed out across the bare skin of your thighs, locking your legs around his hips. A choked moan fell from your lips the second your core was dragged against the painfully hard length bulging against his own pants, hands curling into his hair as you, this time, desperately pulled him into a kiss.

I’m in love with you. Those words repeated like a mantra in your head. Johnny Storm, the Human Torch, the world’s fire boy and hero that they painted like a sex symbol. The ‘playboy’ with a new girl all the time, never able to hold down a girl…was in love with you.

Your back hit the bed, body bouncing just slightly before settling. His eyes never left you as you crawled back just slightly, propping yourself up on your elbows to look up at him in the dark of the room, lit only by sky and the lamp by the door. The music played faintly in the background, but at this moment, it meant nothing to you.

Johnny’s hands gently touched your knees from where they dangled off the edge of the bed, parting them just so in order to step between them. You watched, entranced by every move he made, body flushed from the heat that coursed through your bare skin at the slightest of touches from him. With a practiced ease, his hand took hold of the back of his shirt, yanking it over his head without hesitation. It found a place to lay somewhere across the room, discarded until the following morning.

It was impossible not to stare. His broad chest, those biceps that always threatened to bulge out of every shirt he wore. His toned abdomen and the trail of hair that led straight to the waistband of his pants, the outline of him still prevalent and straining against the fabric.

“I need to know that you’re sure…about this,” you weren’t used to it, the vulnerability in Johnny’s tone. He leaned over you now, hands splayed across the bed on either side of you, barely a few inches from your face. Those blue eyes flickered down to your lips time and time again. “Because if I kiss you again, I’m not stopping until you’re mine.”

There was no hesitation on your part. Just a single movement of your arms, tossing the old shirt hanging from your upper body across the room to join his. As simple as that, you sat bare before him, chest heaving with every deep breath you took in.

“I was already yours. I always have been,” there was only certainty in your tone as you held his gaze. “Speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak…that’s why I came to you. Because if this is the end of the world, I needed you to know that I love-”

He didn’t let you finish your words. His next kiss was anything but gentle.

Messy, spit coating your lips as Johnny’s tongue seemed to invade your mouth and every one of your senses, his lips devoured yours as if you were his first meal in decades. He kissed with the hunger of a starved man, his hands grasping at every part of your skin they could–your waist, your hip, before finally your ass. The squeeze he gave to your skin, the uptick in heat you felt as if he was burning himself just slightly hotter on purpose, had another moan tumbling from your lips and into his mouth.

The hand still gripping your ass tugged you upward on the bed until your head fell against the silk pillows at the headboard. Your hands never left Johnny’s hair, carding through the strands as you frantically kissed him back, addicted to the feeling, as his hips ground into yours. That bulge in his pants pressed heavenly into your core, the friction rolling your eyes into the back of your head as you let your head fall to the pillows with a moan.

Johnny’s lips were everywhere. From your jawline, to your neck, until they finally reached your collarbone. He lavished you with his lips, tongue running over your skin as his hands trailed up the sides of your lower abdomen, stopping just as they reached the swell of your breasts.

“Since the day you walked in, I’ve thought about this,” his voice was raspy, the words barely understood as they were spoken against your skin. “Since the moment Reed introduced you to us.”

“I-I was wearing a lab coat,” you choked on your words as Johnny’s lips reached your sternum, trailing kissing down your chest, but never where you wanted him. “Hardly sexy, I’d argue.”

“It is when I’m picturing you in that coat and your heels, and nothing else,” he tacked on, before his lips wrapped around your nipple without warning.

You mewled at the sudden contact, one hand returning to his hair on instinct as your back arched off the bed and into him. Johnny’s hand on your abdomen was quick to push you back down, holding you down against the bedding beneath you.

God, with the fire that felt like it was burning through your body, you could’ve sworn that Johnny had caught you on fire. His teeth just barely grazed the sensitive bud in his mouth, a sharp intake of breath leaving your lips on instinct. He was quick to soothe you, tongue swirling around the erect and sensitive bud with rapt attention. A moan slipped through him, felt through your entire body, as your other hand tore into the bedding. Desperate for something to hold onto. Something to ground you in your pleasure.

“I’ve dreamed about you under me. Kissing you, tasting you, loving you,” his practically purred out every single word, tongue flicking back and forth over your sensitive nipple. He moved to the other one easily, delivering the same rapt attention to it.

“I’ve thought about you, too,” you relented, divulging every secret you held dear to the man who lavished every inch of you in love and adoration. “In the kitchen, the lab, in that stupid button up from earlier-”

“I knew you liked that shirt. Wore it just for you,” his husky tone sent another shot of pleasure through you, heat curling through every inch of your body.

The tips of his fingers trailed lightly down your stomach. When Johnny’s head lifted for just a moment to lock his eyes with yours, that familiar smirk on his face, you weren’t given a second to react before heat poured through his touch.

Gasps mixed with moans of pleasure fell from your lips on instinct, that unnatural heat of his pouring through his touch and into your skin. Every movement of his fingers over your ribcage and down your abdomen felt as if it was leaving your skin on fire, branding his touch into your skin so that you would never forget the feeling. Burning him into your memory so that you would always feel the phantom sensations of his touch on your skin.

“You’re absolute perfection, you always have been,” Johnny moaned into your skin, lips trailing over the mounds of your breasts with another series of a thousand kisses. Those heated fingers dipped past the waistband of your shorts, pressing directly against your clothed clit without a warning. The moan you let escape mixed in the air with the moan that tumbled from Johnny’s lips against your skin. “Jesus Christ, baby, you’re so soaked.”

The heat was still there in his fingers, setting off every little nerve ending in you even through the soaked fabric of your panties that you desperately wanted gone. Your hips ground up into his hand, whimpers falling from your lips as you chased after the feeling of him, desperate for friction.

“All for you,” even this hint of pleasure had you stumbling toward the edge, babbling almost incoherently. With a tug to his hair, you were quick to bring Johnny’s lips back to yours, arms wound around his neck. He gave into your needs immediately, devouring you in a kiss as heated as his touch was, fingers rubbing slow circles over where you needed him so desperately. “Please–Johnny, please! Please, I need you. Need you–need you so bad.”

“I got you, baby. I got you. Keep moaning my name like that, and I’ll give you the world”

Those whispered words stayed on your lips, lingering, as Johnny left you. His touch wasn’t gone long. Fingers curling into your shorts, they were discarded across the room in a flash, panties gone with them as well.

For the first time, you laid completely bare in front of the man you loved–the man you denied loving for so long. And Johnny Storm was a mess. His hair stuck up in multiple directions, skin flushed, but he was still beautiful. The most beautiful man you’d ever met, inside and out.

Johnny didn’t give you a second to truly breathe once he was done admiring you. He sprawled out along the end of the bed, head dipping between your thighs, as he licked a single stripe with his flattened tongue directly up your center.

“Fucking beautiful, and all mine,” his words were growled into your core, two fingers lazily moving between your folds and spreading every ounce of wetness around, holding you open so he could see every inch of you. “Sweeter than I ever dreamed you could be.”

He dove into you like you were the only thing that mattered. Fingers spreading you open, giving him access to every square inch, his mouth devoured you. A cool drink of water for a starving man in the middle of the desert. Johnny moved his tongue with precise expertise, as if he knew exactly what your body craved.

Delving into you, flicking back and forth as he drank in every secretion of arousal that dripped from you. That same tongue dragged its way up to your clit, swirling around in figure eights, flicking back and forth.

Cries fell from your lips wantonly, hands digging into his hair. Eyes fluttered shut, head tilted back to the ceiling, there was only one word you could repeat over and over again: Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. 

His name was all you knew anymore, too lost in your own bliss and pleasure.

In one fell swoop, your thighs were settled over his shoulders, before his head was back where you wanted it more than anything. His lips and tongue focused on your clit, still swirling back and forth, as his fingers dipped slightly lower, dancing right across your opening.

It started with one long, slender finger sliding into you. One of your hands was forced to leave Johnny’s hair, falling over your own mouth to try and conceal the cry that threatened to burst from you, afraid that the others would hear you.

“Let me hear you, baby,” he laughed against your core, his finger curling just perfectly against your walls as they clenched around him every time he dragged his finger back and forth. “Want to hear you.”

“Don’t want to–fucking hell, Johnny–let the others hear,” 

“Let them. Let them hear me love you,”

Fuck Johnny Storm and his stupid lines. His stupid dirty talk that had your walls clenching around him again and again.

Another finger joined the first, followed by another, before you were stretched as wide as you could be around Johnny. The squelch of your juices rung through the air with every move of his fingers–dragging so deliciously into you, curling up, before dragging out just to the edge of your opening. His mouth–god, his mouth–never let up, lapping away at your core like it was his job, what he was meant to do.

That coil of pleasure deep within your lower body came out of nowhere, sneaking up on you just like your love for this man had.

“Johnny–baby–I can’t. I can’t–I’m gonna-”

“Let go, darling,” came that growl in his voice again, the speed of his fingers increasing. “I got you baby, let go.”

That coil snapped in seconds after he spoke. The precipice of your orgasm was earth-shattering, like you’d never felt before. Like trails of fire through your veins, the pleasure coursing through you had your head buried into the pillow behind your head, desperately trying to conceal the wails of pleasure that tumbled from your lips. Your thighs snapped shut around Johnny’s head, but his ministrations never let up as he eagerly drank up every bit of your arousal that leaked from you.

The come down was slow, like waking up. Your breath was uneven, heart beating erratically when you finally pulled your head from the pillow. Eyes bleary, it took a moment to blink them back to life.

Johnny stood at the edge of the bed, discarding his pants and boxers to the pile of clothing littering the other side of the room. And even in your fucked-out, blissful state, one look at him for the first time had that burning desire coursing back through your veins.

He was big. There was no way around it, no denying it, no other way to put it. Flushed, hanging with that beautiful reddened tip, one large and prominent vein throbbing along the edge of it. Beads of precum collected at the tip, his hand smearing it down along his length as he gave himself one single pump before he was crawling back onto the bed.

Johnny knelt between your legs again. Even with limbs that felt like Jell-O, you met him halfway, dragging yourself into a seated position. It was the smile on his face right now, the one erupting those butterflies once more, that you decided was your favorite: soft, adoring, loving.

It was your hands that cupped his cheeks, bringing him into a soft kiss. The taste of you lingered on his lips, sweet just like he said. You poured every ounce of emotion into your kiss, trying to convey to him the years you’d spent loving him so quietly that you couldn’t admit it.

“I might be addicted to you, Johnny Storm,” your words were mumbled into his lips. He laughed so gently, stealing another peck.

“Glad you finally caught up with me, princess, I’ve been addicted since day one,”

Pressed to him, his lips stealing a thousand pecks from yours, the lust in your bones was back in full force. All you could do was hum in response, one of your hands trailing down his chest, nails dragging slowly over his abdomen, before you finally took his throbbing cock in your hand.

He felt even bigger than he looked, which didn’t even make sense in your mind. But he was hot, the skin searing into your hand in the best way. You gave him one squeeze, one tug, and you smiled at the hitch in his breath. The twitch of his cock in your hold.

Johnny’s hand quickly grabbed yours, though, unlatching it from him. All you could do was shake your head, practically whining as you tried to take your hand back.

“Johnny-”

“God, it’s so hot how eager you are to touch me,” he laughed again, tilting his head to leave a single kiss to the column of your throat. “This is about you, doll. Save that for next time. It can be a ‘welcome home from space’ gift for me. A ‘thanks for saving the world’ gift, if you will.”

Space. 

That word was enough to have your next words caught in your throat as the weight of everything came crashing back down on you. The threat, the herald, the space launch commencing in a matter of hours now, the events that brought you here in the first place.

You weren’t sure when you started crying, when a single tear slipped down your cheek, but Johnny caught it. Eyes full of concern, but understanding, he simply wiped the tears from your cheek, laying a kiss to the wet splotch of your skin.

“No crying, none of that. Just lay back, baby,”

You listened, letting his hands guide you gently to rest back against the pillows once more. Parting your legs, Johnny placed himself between them, holding himself up over your body on his forearms. Right where he belonged.

Your hands rested on his chest, sliding up so gently to his neck. His eyes never left yours, his length sitting right against your soaked and sensitive core, gliding back and forth with each gentle twitch of his hips.

“You didn’t let me say it earlier. So let me say it, for the first time outloud,” you gave him a watery smile, lips quivering as you looked up at him. “I love you, Johnny Storm. I’ve loved you for so long. I’m sorry it took the world maybe ending for this, that I didn’t let myself be yours sooner.

He smiled, that same charming smile he always did, as he rolled his hips once more. His cock caught just along the edge of your opening as Johnny dipped down, breath fanning over your lips.

“Like you said: you’ve always been mine,”

The first press of his length into your core stung. As wet as you were, as prepared as you were for him, it had been so long. He stretched your walls little by little, taking his time as your body adjusted to him. Then, inch by inch, he sunk within your walls that clung to him tightly.

His cock bottomed out, sunk fully within you, bare hips pressed to bare hips as you both let out shaky breaths. Your nails dug into the hair at the nape of his neck while his hands trailed up your ribcage, squeezing every moment or so as choked out moans fell from his lips.

“God–so tight for me, baby–you feel like heaven,”

His name was the only thing you could manage to choke out between your moans as he dragged himself back to the tip, before burying himself again to the hilt. Your moans, your cries and the way your hands threaded into his hair only spurred him on more, Johnny’s hips snapping into yours again and again and again.

His lips found yours amidst every snap of his hips, every drag of his cock against your walls. Every moan that slipped through your lips was drowned out by him, by the feverish movements of his lips against yours. They trailed away, back to your neck, leaving a trail of saliva connecting you together as he bit another love bite into the side of your neck. It didn’t matter to you how this would look to others, how scandalous you might look in the light of day to others.

All that mattered was Johnny Storm.

“Oh god, Johnny!” your head fell to his shoulder, teeth sinking into his skin as his hips snapped against yours over and over, driving him deeper with every thrust into you. “Holy fuck, w-why weren’t we doing this for years?”

“Because you’ve been a stubborn–fuck–little tease all these years,” his tongue dragged up the column of your throat, peppering kissing up and down your skin as his cock dragged against your walls. “Bent over your workstation in the lab–oh god–you don’t know how many times I’ve thought about it. Thought about walking in and taking you right there, making a mess right at your desk.”

“R-Reed would walk in and you’d scar him for life,”

“Sounds like a win-win to me,” there was shared laughter, punctuated with a shared moan as his cock dragged right against that spot nestled within you. “And try not to talk about my brother-in-law when I’m fucking you.”

There was no time to reply as Johnny scooped up your wrists in his hand in a single motion, pinning them down above your head. He adjusted your waist, suddenly driving into you at a new angle that had you mewling his name all over again.

Johnny whispered your name into your skin with every kiss, timed just so with every snap of his hips against yours. That coil of heat was burning, wounding itself tighter and tighter for the second time that night. All you could feel was him, was Johnny.

His warmth, the heat that burned off of him. It warmed your skin, it had beads of sweat dripping down your forehead. It was uncomfortable in the best way. His one hand still trailed up and down your ribcage, every so often tweaking your sensitive nipple between his thumb and index finger and coaxing another moan of pleasure from you.

He worshiped you, every inch of you, like you were the greatest thing to ever grace the earth. To him, you might have been

“Fucking perfect, baby. Fucking made for me,” his lips found yours again, slick with spit as his tongue dipped into your mouth to taste every inch of you possible.

His stroke faltered, the rhythm uneven, and you knew he was close. That coil of heat in your stomach was threatening to snap any second every time his cock pulsed and throbbed within your walls. His grip on your wrists was tight, even as you struggled against him, desperate to just hold him.

“Johnny–baby–please I-I’m so close-”

You choked on your words once more, the hand still trailing across your stomach heating up again, leaving a burning trail of heat in your skin. Those heated fingers found your clit like it was second nature, a cry of pure pleasure leaving your lips as they circle that bundle of a thousand nerves over and over again, hips still snapping into you as quickly and desperately as they can.

“Let go,” his voice was husky, eyes blown wide as he looked down at you. Your wrists were finally let go, your hands immediately finding their place in the strands of his hair again as his free hand cups the back of your neck, smashing your lips into his in a flurry of moans. “Let go, baby, let go.”

Your second climax burned hotter than the first.

The pleasure burned so hot, so bright, you were practically sobbing, every cry and moan of pure bliss muffled by his kiss. Your legs locked around Johnny’s waist–tightly–so tight he could barely move away from you. It was overwhelming, the shockwaves of bliss that ran through your veins, the shaking of your thighs as you held onto his hair like it’s a lifeline.

He ground himself into you over and over, rhythm so far gone he was struggling. But all it took was your lips lazily finding his neck, teeth sinking in to leave your matching mark to his, for his hips to still as he spilt into you.

Johnny breathed out every moan into the side of your head, your name tumbling from his lips along with a flurry of swears. The grip he had on your hip was bruising, so tight you think he could snap the damn bone if he held any tighter. And his cock? Seated so deeply inside of you it’s as if you are one, heat pooled within your lower abdomen with every wave of cum that filled you to the brim.

On the other side of the room, the record was still playing softly. Bright lights still flashed by the windows every so often, crews still at work on the spaceship set for launch by mid-morning.

None of it mattered in the silence of the bed.

You aren’t sure how long either of you laid there. Your heartbeat, eventually, returned to normal, even as your chest still heaved to take in every breath that it could. Johnny still laid half on top of you, pressing repeated kisses to the side of your head, but said nothing. Your hand stayed in his hair, carding through it, as your core pulsed. It would ache come morning–hell, it already did–but it was worth it. It was so worth it.

Neither of you were quite sure when he pulled out of you, or how long you simply laid there and basked in the afterglow of a moment that should’ve happened years ago.

Eventually, Johnny shifted down. His lips trailed down your body in worship, like they’d done already that night. From your cheek, to your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, and down your lower abdomen.

“Careful…not sure I’d survive a round three,” your voice was hoarse, mouth dry. Johnny laughed against your skin, still kissing every inch he could see.

“I don’t think I would, either,”

His hands were heated once more, but not for the same purpose as moments before. Now, his touch was gentle, massaging every piece of you that he could get his hands on. His thumbs rubbed into your wrists, your waist, and your hips, digging into the muscles. A sigh escaped you at the comforting feeling, taut muscles loosening at the feeling of the heat and the movement of his hands.

With every kiss pressed to your skin, you could feel it: Johnny was humming. It didn’t take long to know which song he was humming, which lyrics: that same song once again.

I guess I'll never know the reason why, you love me as you do. That's the wonder, the wonder of you.

“Is that our song now?” you laughed, even if your heart was clenching at the mere thought. The mere idea of that song belonging to the two of you–the idea that Johnny Storm belonged to you.

You could feel his smile against your abdomen as he spoke. “It should be. It’s accurate. Because I don’t ever think I’ll get over the miracle that is you…loving me.”

It’s not a miracle. What you really want to tell him is that falling in love with him was so easy, you barely realized you had done it. It might be the easiest thing you’ve ever done.

Johnny crawled back up your body, slotting himself onto the bed beside you, before tugging you in. There’s no hesitation on your part, simply curling into his side with your head over his chest and arm slung around his waist. Words aren’t needed in the silence, not when you’ve both clearly laid everything out on the table now. Instead, you just listened to the beat of his heart, the natural rhythm that lulls you into a state of peacefulness.

He’s yours. Johnny Storm is yours. He’s always been yours, you just didn’t know it.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, hand cradling the back of your head as he said his next words confidently.

“We’re going to go up there tomorrow, and we’re going to stop this guy. We’re going to protect this Earth, like we’ve sworn to do. But me? I’m going to do it so I can come home to you, and love you for the rest of my life. I promise,”

He can’t promise that, you knew he couldn’t. There was no telling what might happen when that ship took off tomorrow, what they might encounter, or who this Galactus really was.

But Johnny Storm loved you. For now, in the quiet of the night, just between the two of you, that’s enough.

[runicarbiter02]

Guardian Angel

Pairing: Bob!reynolds x Fem!reader Summary: On a mission you get injured and Bob protects you as if you were the most precious treasure he has (you are) Warnings: Brunette!Sentry, Bob has already learned to control his powers (yay!), Fluff, reader can create objects with magic (similar to green lantern), mention of blood , fights and injuries, treating wounds (a little explicit), Valentina and Mel appearance, Bob is a little clumsy but he means well, Y/N use, no proofread, possible gramatical mistakes since English isn't my first language, A/n: I think I've written something similar, sorry, I just love the trope of "treating wounds" or "hurt/comfort" and I also love that the reader has powers.

"Okay, you know what to do. Go ahead, defeat him, and come back unharmed. Simple, right?" Valentina said with a smile.

Mel, at her side, raised her eyebrows and rolled her eyes slightly, luckily her boss couldn't notice.

And in front of them were you, The New Avengers, The Avengerz, or the Thunderbolts, whatever you want to call them. All lined up next to each other, sorted by height. Everyone was there, some with their arms crossed, a little fed up with hearing Valentina. Even Bob was there; over time, he'd learned to control Sentry and his powers and had been able to go on missions successfully.

Valentina looked at their superhero suits from top to bottom with pride.

"You better not let me down, yeah?" and he looked at Sentry winking "Not even you, Wonder Boy"

Bob looked at her, a little uncomfortably, rubbing his arm for comfort. Even though he could now fight and defend himself like the others, he still felt insecure about having to be a hero and wear a suit. It's not that he doesn't want to help or protect others, but sometimes he felt a little ridiculous. Bob hadn't gained that much confidence in himself yet; the powers and the outfit were just a facade to him; inside, he still felt like the same old man. At least his hair wasn't blonde anymore.

But you could tell that his newfound family had helped a lot in the process. They had been understanding without judgment and had listened to him and advised him wisely whenever he had a problem. You especially, you were always there for him, making time to spend quality time with him despite knowing you were always busy. As Valentina continued talking, you peeked your head out of the line to look at him and give him a smile. He smiled back and gave you a little wave, like babies do when they learn to say hello.

The woman in front of you snapped her fingers to get your attention. "Hey! I hope you understood. Now go away, y'all give me a headache."

It didn't take them long to reach the scene where the chaos was unfolding. The streets were almost empty except for a few civilians running, taking cover. Cars were overturned, and in front of them, a hooded figure was hovering two meters above the ground. His hands looked robotic, and he fired bullets like a machine gun. To top it all off, robot sentinels were running behind him at his service.

Everyone decided that you and Bob would get close enough to attack while the others would take care of the robots. Sentry took you under the arms and lifted you to the roof of a building where you could use your powers while he would attack him head on.

Bob dodged the blows by teleporting behind him while you used your fists to create an exact copy of your hand, but larger and green, like a giant hologram. You used it to hit the hooded stranger. The brown-haired man was fast and landed punches and kicks with precision. You helped him however you could. But at one point, Bob got distracted when he heard a scream coming from downstairs where the group was. This gave the hooded man an advantage, landing a punch that sent him flying.

Now you were alone fighting him, and you were scared to notice that despite your powers, he was much stronger. Bob, now recovered, looked at you and the group, not knowing who to focus on. You nodded at him, assuring him that you would be okay. He hesitated, but nodded and went to help the others, who seemed to be struggling due to their lack of superpowers. With great effort, you created different weapons to throw at him. Spears, crossbows, etc. But nothing worked; he seemed to dodge them so easily. Suddenly, at one point, he fired at you. You tried to set up a shield, but you didn't get there in time.

When you felt the bullet graze your shoulder, you froze in place. The bullet had passed through your shoulder and had come out clean, but you felt it burn your skin through your clothes. A burning sensation spread down your entire arm. Bob, who kept glancing at you from time to time, captured all of this and, panicking, watched as you closed your eyes and fell rapidly into the void. It was as if time had frozen. He ignored everything around him and flew swiftly toward you, all he could focus on was you now.

He opened his arms and caught you mid-flight, wrapping you around him and holding you tight so you wouldn't fall. He saw your peaceful, unconscious face, and a worried frown crossed his face. He was very scared when he saw the blood on your shoulder, but he tried to hide it.

Without hesitation, ignoring his teammates, he flew higher than the clouds and left the battlefield to take you to the tower. The wind ruffled the brown waves in his hair. He knew what he was doing wasn't right, leaving the team stranded just to make sure you didn't take serious damage. Valentina will be furious too, but right now you were his top priority.

Bob held you closer to his body, taking care not to let the wind chill your face, and carefully placed a hand on the back of your head, holding you in place. Hurriedly, he reached the tower's balcony. His presence stirred a strong breeze behind him that ruffled the place and knocked a few chairs, along with Mel's paperwork, to the floor. He crossed the penthouse with you now in his arms bridal-style. His eyes were constantly on your face, afraid of losing you. He didn't even notice when he stepped on the scattered papers, crumpling them even more, and he didn't even feel the pain when his knee hit the leg of a knocked-over chair. None of it compared to the ache his heart felt at seeing you in that state.

"Sentry, what the hell?!. What happened to the others?!" Valentina shouted, annoyed and surprised.

"Bob" He corrected her "It's Y/N, she's hurt" his tone of voice was pleading and urgent

Valentina approached, clicking her heels, followed by Mel behind her. "Yes, of course," she said, coming closer to get a better look at you.

She made an open gesture with her hands and pointed to a sofa. Bob gently placed you as if you were made of porcelain, attentive to any responsive movement from you. Your breathing was steady, so you were definitely still alive, but as he looked at your shoulder, he noticed you'd lost a lot of blood. Valentina, faster than him, exclaimed.

"Jesus Christ, Mel brings a disinfectant kit, quick! "

Bob finally turned to look at her and whispered a thank you, then looked back at you worriedly. "No need, darling," she said with a rehearsed smile, but then she turned to her assistant and before she could leave, she grabbed her arm tightly. "Hurry up, I don't know if I'll be able to get a replacement in time for her otherwise."

The truth is that Valentina cared very little if you were hurt, if you lived or not, for her people were like nails, you take one out and another replaces it. But for Bob, people couldn't be replaced so easily, much less you, the one who made him laugh, feel relieved after a stressful day, the one who had trusted him and his powers despite the terror he had of the city falling into darkness again. Mel finally trotted in with the first aid kit under her arm, handing it to her boss. Val opened the small box and took out alcohol and cotton balls, then leaned closer to you, sitting on the couch to see you better. But Bob, who was crouching next to you, saw Val approaching dangerously and instinctively wrapped his arms around you, pushing her away. Like a lioness protecting her cub from strangers.

She frowned. "Come on, dear. I just want to assess the wound, scoot."

A little hesitantly and reluctantly, Bob slowly stepped away, keeping an eye on the woman and you very closely. With Mel's help, they carefully removed your damaged jacket, leaving you in a tank top. Your shoulder was bloody and had an open wound; luckily, the bleeding had stopped, but you needed stitches. Valentina ordered her assistant.

"Come on Mel, sit here and take care of her, I hate getting my fingers dirty" she said with his nose wrinkled in disgust

She hesitated in confusion, but seeing Bob's pleading look, she finally agreed. She sat down, took a cotton ball, and soaked it in alcohol. As she rubbed it around the wound, Bob noticed your eyes twitching slightly behind your eyelids and your fingers trembling with discomfort. He gulped nervously and leaned closer to your face, thinking you were about to come around. And so you did, because when Mel finished disinfecting you and gave the first stitch, your face contorted slightly in pain and your brow twitched next to your eyelids. Slowly, you began to open your eyes and the first thing you saw was Bob's worried face a few inches from you. Instantly, Mel froze in place, holding the needle still.

"W-what... happened..?" you said in a thick, hoarse voice

You looked around as if you'd woken up on a different planet. Beside you, Bob gave you a small, comforting smile as he gently placed a hand on the side of your head. "It's nothing... you're hurt, but you're here now. I'm here."

You looked at him for a second. His gaze was warm, telling you that everything was going to be okay now, but at the same time, behind all of that lay a deep concern and a fear of imagining what would have happened to you if he hadn't arrived on time. You tried to smile, but it came out as a painful grimace. Suddenly, Valentina's shrill voice broke the silence and the sweet moment.

"Great! Now that you're awake, maybe you can explain to us what really happened!" Then she looked at Bob and Mel, who were giving her reproachful looks. "What? Oh fine, I guess we should get that shoulder fixed first."

"Shoulder..?"

You turned your head slowly, lightly, and with difficulty to look at your left shoulder out of the corner of your eye. You couldn't see much, but you noticed dried blood and a hole. You felt yourself turning pale and your blood pressure dropping from the shock. Mel, standing next to you, tried to get your attention and get you to focus on her.

"Y/N look at me, I'm sorry but I have to stitch you up, okay? I promise to be as quick as possible" she said with a grimace of pain as if she were the one who had to be stitched up.

Your eyebrows raised in a worried arch, and you turned to look at Bob. He already had his eyes on you. "And I'll be here the whole time. You can hold my hand if you need it.."

You nodded nervously. Valentina rolled her eyes at the cloying scene and pulled a handkerchief from her pocket to hand it to you. "Here, put it in your mouth and bite down hard. Believe me, you'll need it. I've seen this happen many times."

Bob took the handkerchief for you, and you put it in your mouth as Val advised. Mel looked at you with wide eyes, waiting, silently asking for permission. You nodded determinedly.

"Alright, here I go. Take a deep breath"

You closed your eyes and obeyed, but when you felt the sting in your skin, you gritted your teeth tightly and let out a loud moan of pain that resonated in your throat like a drum. Meanwhile, your face contorted in pain and you threw your head back. Mel stopped startled, and Bob, frightened, touched your arm, looking for your hand.

"Here, here. Take my hand. Everything will be fine, it's just a few seconds"

His tone of voice was firm but with a hint of adrenaline. Still with your eyes closed, you groped his hand until your fingers were tightly intertwined. Bob nodded to Mel, and she continued stitching you. The seconds seemed like torturous hours, where from squeezing Bob's hand so hard your knuckles turned white, as if you were in labor. Your eyes stung with tears, and sobs and screams bubbled in your throat as you tried not to shake. But he was always by your side, whispering words of encouragement.

"That's it, don't worry, you're doing it right. You can do it."

"There's not much left. You're very brave."

"I know, I know. I promise you it's over"

Finally, when Mel finished the last stitch, your body relaxed a little, and you stopped clutching the handkerchief tightly between your teeth. But your chest heaved with every sob, your nostrils trembled slightly, and your red face was damp with the tears spilling from your reddened eyes. Bob stroked your hair and wiped the tears away, caressing your cheeks.

"Now it's over"

It broke his heart to see your lips turned down in a sad grimace. You'd been through so much pain, so much so that you thought you were going to faint. But now everything was going to be better. Mel sighed in relief and gave you a compassionate smile, while Valentina watched impatiently.

"Good, now you have to rest, dear. We want you strong for the next missions, right? She clapped enthusiastically, but no one laughed.

Bob looked at them shyly "Uhm, could you leave us alone for a moment?"

Val opened her mouth, about to retort, but stopped and nodded, walking away with her assistant. The sound of heels echoed across the polished floor until they faded away, and all was silent. Bob looked at you, swallowing hard. Despite your pitiful state, you looked really pretty to him. And when he saw you in such a vulnerable state, something inside him ignited, something that told him he would take care of you from now on, just as you had taken care of him so many times. He wanted to be your fighter, your protector, your guardian angel.

You had your eyes closed, simply resting, unable to sleep because of the pain, but at least your breathing had calmed down and you were no longer crying. He didn't know what to do to make you feel better, although his presence and concern for you alone were more than enough.

"Y/N... How are you feeling? Do you need anything?" He asked not very sure

You softly opened your eyes again and turned your head slowly to look at him. "I need you... I want you to stay..." you said without much force, almost in a whisper.

He blushed slightly and looked at you with devotion, not believing what you were asking. But he nodded vigorously, pleased and understanding. "Are you sure? Uh, do you want me to... sit with you? Would that be okay for you?"

You nodded tiredly, and Bob whispered a soft "Okay." He stood up slowly and very carefully, placing one hand on your waist and the other on your back, barely lifting you. Even so, you hissed with a grimace. Bob felt terrible.

"I'm so sorry" he said distressedly

"S' okay" you frowned

The brown-haired man sat down on the couch and placed a pillow on his lap, then gently rested your head on it. Feeling the soft, comfortable pillow, you let out a loud sigh of contentment.

"Better?"

Bob knew he shouldn't bother you with so many questions since you didn't have much strength to speak, but he wanted to constantly make sure you were comfortable. To his surprise, you gave him a small, sideways smile.

"Yeah, thanks"

He smiled back even wider, feeling relieved. His fingers instinctively went to your hair, combing it, almost tangling his hand in it, feeling the silky strands. At his tender touch, you closed your eyes and moaned softly in pleasure with a bigger smile. Bob looked at you with what could be called love. As if you were the brightest star that had just fallen from the sky. An immense feeling of care for you took hold of him again. He really wanted to take care of you. You mattered to him. A lot.

"Bob...?"

He came out of his trance of thoughts and paid attention to you.

"Thank you for saving my life today..."

And with that, you turned your head slightly to the side so you could sleep better despite your sore wound. Bob's chest swelled with pride, his stomach fluttered with butterflies, and he couldn't suppress the huge smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth toward his ears. You were thanking him for saving your life. Him. Oh, if only you knew it was you who had saved him, so many times.

"And I would do it again," he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion.

But you no longer heard him, you snored softly, lost in the world of dreams. And little by little, sleep began to overcome him as he fell asleep caressing your face.

Barely 1 hour later, the noisy footsteps of the team, exhausted and grumpy, groaning and complaining, echoed from the elevator. This caused Bob to wake up with a start, rubbing his eyes to get rid of the sleep.

"Finally, here you are! You have no idea what we had to go through to get out of there alive" shout Yelena

"Yeah, why the hell didn't you come back for us, Bob?!" John demanded angrily.

Bob, his eyes slightly narrowed, put a finger to his lips, demanding silence, and then pointed at you on his lap. You were still sleeping peacefully like a baby. Seeing you and then your wound, everyone gasped softly in understanding.

"Oh right, she was wounded..."

Bucky frowned worriedly "Is she okay?"

Bob nodded "She is now"

Walker congratulated him admiringly, "Good job, Bob."

"Thanks, Walker" he smiled, pleased

"Well, I guess we'll have to give the report to Valentina and explain what happened," the blonde said as she gestured to the others to leave.

The others quickly followed, and Bob was left alone with you again, peacefully watching you. He hugged you a little and smiled contentedly, happy that you were by his side, not just literally, but that he could rest easy knowing that he'd still have you in his life, that he'd still see you in the hallways, in the kitchen, that you'd laugh and smile again, lighting up everything like the sun. And for him, that was simply perfect.

[runicarbiter02]

could you imagine john walker being your safe space without him even knowing it? maybe pre dating, the relationship you two have is similar to everyone elses, you dont hate eachother but you absolutely dont come off as besties. always bullying each other, making snide remarks and riling the other up at any given chance. the change wasnt immediate, it took a bit before being around him didnt raise your blood pressure in a bad way, but when things started to settle down and you got to know each other better, you find yourself craving his presence more often than not.

mission goes sideways? meetings dragging on longer than needed? just woke up on the wrong side of the bed that day? all you can think about is how much youd rather be with john. instead of paying attention to whatever the hell val is yapping about this time, youre imagining what walker would yap about instead, his deep voice much more soothing than hers. maybe you could put on some war movie in the common room just to bait him into sitting down to complain about the inaccuracies. maybe you could catch him in the gym and tease him about how it looks like hes getting weak, something like 'werent you able to do 250 push ups last week? it looks like youre gonna give out at 100' just so he would bite back some stupid response and engage in a conversation (argument)

you dont always piss him off to get a response though, sometimes if everything just seems to be going wrong, you will plop down a little closer to him on the couch than necessary and not say anything. no words are needed, just having him near helps soothe your racing mind. he doesnt realize at first, but it unfortunately doesnt take long for him to notice, though. walker is not a stupid man and has been trained to specifically pick out patterns and details others may miss. its not hard for him to see how you seem to gravitate towards him more than the others, how you have stopped getting annoyed when hes around too long, instead being in a visibly better mood than when he first showed up.

he tries not to look too deep into it, maybe you just like that you can use bullying him as a way to blow off steam, but that theory does not hold up when you will just come sit by him and not say a word. you dont tease him for the old man movie he put on, nor do you complain that his stupid man spreading is taking up the whole couch and try to shove him over. instead, you curl up on the edge closest to him and silently watch whatever he has on, even if all of the other places to sit are wide open. he can see the way your shoulders start to relax, the crease between your eyebrows smooths out and just the over all energy surrounding you lightens from the storm cloud that was hovering over your head when you first sat down.

john walker may have a big ego but he is also a deeply insecure man and will come up with every excuse he can think of as to why you obviously take comfort in being around him rather than just accept you genuinely like him. not even when you come back to the tower after a mission, beat to hell and on the verge of tears, instantly making a beeline to wherever he is before even going to shower. there has to be some other reason as to why you just quietly collapse down by him and leaned against his shoulder, your shaky breathing slowly starting to even out. hes always tempted to say something, to tease you about how youre showing a soft spot, but he cant bring himself to potentially lose you coming to him for comfort.

he doesnt want you to stop joining him in the kitchen when hes making a post workout shake, just playing on your phone and leaving when he does to do your own thing. he doenst want you to stop throwing your legs over his lap when you lay down across the couch. he doenst want you to stop always sitting by him during meetings or rides to missions. he doesnt want you to stop seeing him as your safe space.

[runicarbiter02]

❛Somewhere nice — Jonathan F. Walker x reader.

You weren’t exactly sure when the Thunderbolts started considering you part of the furniture, but at some point between dodging flying boots in the common room, patching them up sometimes and girl's nights with Ava, Yelena and Bob, you found yourself permanently on the fringe of black ops. You were just a civilian. Absolutely no combat training, no clearance, no enhanced anything - except maybe your tolerance for theirchaos and a superpower-level ability to be at the wrong place at the right time -. And yet, here you were. Again. Wedged between Bucky Barnes and Yelena Belova on a couch with way too many knife slits in it, watching as Ava tried to beat Bob at some video game while Red Guardian was loudly and incorrectly narrating the whole thing like it was a Soviet war epic.

"So." Yelena said around a mouthful of Sour Patch Kids that she absolutely wasn’t supposed to eat on this diet program Val had forced on the team. "What's our civilian mascot doing today? You and Walker argued like an old married couple how many times already today?"

"Excuse me? I do not do that."

“Yes, you do.” Bucky muttered without looking up. “It’s exhausting.”

"It's alson disgusting." Ava called, not missing a beat in her game. “Especially him. He’s got that emotionally constipated white man crush written all over him.”

“Okay, first of all- what?"

“He literally hovers near you like an emotionally repressed bat." Yelena added.

“Yeah." Bob nodded. "And he does that thing where he tries to sit near you without sitting near you. It’s very cute. Very tragic.”

You pointed your finger at them like a sword. “You all have deep psychological issues.”

“That's nothing new.” Bucky shrugged.

“And you’re part of us." Yelena completed. "Suffer accordingly.”

You didn’t think about it too much after that. Not really. Not when John grunted something like “You okay?” after you tripped over an overturned training mat. Not when he wordlessly handed you a coffee just the way you liked it and then muttered something about “Extra, uh… sugar. Or whatever.” You didn’t think about it when he glared down Bucky in the hallway after Bucky said something teasing that made you laugh too loud... well, you did think about it. Moore than once. Too often. It was definitely becoming a problem.

And tonight wasn’t helping. After some plumbing disaster in your apartment, you were staying the nighht, so you were now in the kitchen, late at night, wrist-deep in a bag of off-brand cheese puffs and pretending not to be emotionally compromised by the slowest burn of a maybe-crush in black ops history. The compound was mostly quiet, only a few of the team were around, and you’d seized the rare peace to dig into snacks that Ava would absolutely judge you for.

Of course, that’s when John walked in. Gray t-shirt, damp hair, a tension in his shoulders like he’d been arguing with a punching bag and losing. He stopped when he saw you, then nodded once, like the very idea of speaking might cause him physical harm. “Hey.” uou gave a try of a smile since you were still mid-mouthful of cheese puffs and waved in greeting, fingers orange. He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. “Disnt know you were here."

You swallowed with minimal grace. “Yeah. Been officially annexed.”

John gave a low grunt of acknowledgment, then took a long drink from the bottle. You noticed his gaze flick once to your hand still in the bag, then away, then back again.

“What?” you asked wirh a glare.

“Those things are radioactive.” the cook of the group, he seemed to really care about 'real food'.

“Jealous you didn’t get to them first?”

His mouth twitched. “You’re gonna glow in the dark.”

“Perfect, I’ll help lower your electric bill. Maybe Valentina will dislike me less.”

That made him huff a soft laugh, even though there was also a roll of his blue eyes. You savored the tiny victory. John Walker had a particular laugh;short, surprised, like it snuck up on him and he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to enjoy it. But when he did, it softened him. A lot. Like the tension melted off his jaw and his eyes crinkled just enough to remind you that beneath all the supersoldier front and layered trauma, he was still just…a guy. A weird, emotionally stunted, slightly damaged guy with the shoulders of a linebacker. But still.

“You always eat this late?” he asked, nodding toward your snack stash.

“Only when I’m emotionally repressing.” you replied dryly.

He raised an eyebrow. “You seem too stable for this group.”

You smirked. “I’m quieter about it.” there was a beat where you both just stood there, caught in that odd sort of limbo that hovered between should we say more and should we pretend this isn’t something.. You noticed the way he shifted slightly, like his weight had redistributed just to be closer. “I mean,” you added, voice lighter. “compared to you, I’m downright well-adjusted.”

“Excuse me?” you just shrugged. "I think I liked you better when you were too shy to rub things like that in my face."

"Welll, you can always try hovering at me very aggressively, like you do with the others. Maybe someday it will work." his laugh this time was longer, more honest. It shook a little of the defensiveness out of his posture. He leaned back against the counter and watched you, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself but wasn’t trying to run either. “You’re not sooo bad at this, y'know,.” you said, after a second.

He blinked. “What?”

“This.” uou waved vaguely. “Human interaction. Banter. Joking around without glaring. It's like watching a grizzly bear learn to knit. That’s a compliment, by the way.”

"I-" but before he could say anything else, the kitchen door swung open. Yelena marched in, pajamas, a fluffy robe, and the expression of someone who did not care what time it was, snack justice would be served. She looked between the two of you, then immediately groaned.

“Oh, my God.” she muttered, going straight for the fridge. “You’re still not asking her out?”

“Yelena-” you tried.

“No. No more waiting.” sshe opened the freezer and pulled out a pint of ice cream with the grace of a gremlin. “He’s been lurking for months. This is a hostage situation.”

John coughed, hard. “I’m not- I wasn’t-”

“Oh, please.” she glared at him. “You get all twitchy every time she’s in the room. It’s like watching a teenager with a gun license. Either ask her out or I’ll make you. Aggressively.”

He turned red. Actually, physically red. It was amazing.

“I-" he started, then turned to you, eyes wide, jaw tense. “I mean- I- I could. Ask you out. If you wanted.”

You blinked. “Smooth.”

“Shut up.”

You grinned, heart doing a weird little flip. “Where would you take me, Walker?” Yelena rolled her eyes as she eatched.

He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know. Somewhere- somewhere nice."

Yelena, halfway through her ice cream, gave a mock cheer. “Romance is alive.”

“Something simple.” he muttered, looking very intently at the fridge handle. “Maybe dinner. Coffee. Just… something.” it was so clear he hadn't done this in so long, it was adorable.

Your chest felt warm, the kind of warm you got from dumb cheesy movies and sun patches on hardwood floors. You tried to smother the grin and failed. “Okay,” you said. “I’ll go."

"Cool." he tried not to smile to much. "Cool. Cool."

"Finally." Yelena groaned and shoved a spoonful of ice cream in her mouth. "The others own me so much money now."

[runicarbiter02]

Oral History

clark kent x reader

Summary: Clark Kent is sweet. Respectful. Barely swears. Which is why you cannot stop thinking about what his ex drunkenly told Jimmy Olsen at trivia night: that Clark, apparently, is an oral god.

You try to ignore it. You spiral. You investigate. For journalism. Obviously.

Word count: 12k

T/w: 18+, mdni, reader is down horrendous lmao, Slow burn, friends to lovers, investigative journalism, a very thorough confirmation of the rumor, oral f. receiving, fingering, journalism banter, penetrative sex, overstimulation, mild dom!Clark, praise kink

“Wait. Clark?” You ask, staring across the bullpen unsure if you misheard or if Jimmy Olsen really just said what you think he did.

He doesn’t even look up from his slice of sad, congealed pizza. Just shrugs casually like he didn’t just drop a nuclear bomb on your conversation. “That’s what she said. The man’s apparently… gifted.”

There’s a full moment of silence where even Lois stops typing and starts processing what just left Jimmy’s mouth.

You slowly set your pen down. “Gifted,” you echo. “As in…?” But you already know. You’re just stalling. Hoping there’s a punchline. A twist. A clarification that doesn’t make your brain combust.

Jimmy, ever the menace, waggles his eyebrows. “Orally gifted.”

Lois makes a strangled sound behind her monitor. “Jesus Christ. Smallville? Really?”

“Right?” Jimmy says, too pleased with himself. “Trivia night. That bar over on Ninth. His ex got three margaritas in and just—boom. Confession central. She said she’s still not over him. Said no one compares. Said she…well, I won’t quote directly, but it involved sobbing and phrases like ‘life-altering’ and ‘transcendent tongue.’”

You stare at him.

“Clark Kent?” Your voice cracks on the second word.

Jimmy grins. “Clark ‘Aw Shucks’ Kent. Wouldn’t’ve believed it myself, but she was very convincing.”

Across the room, Lois mutters, “My therapist is going to love this.”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy staring down at your notes, except your eyes are unfocused and your brain is a runaway train with no brakes.

Clark Kent.

Your coworker. Your friend. The man who still says “golly” unironically. Who blushes when the vending machine snacks get stuck and he has to ask for help. Who holds doors, compliments dogs, and types like he’s afraid the keyboard might get its feelings hurt.

That Clark Kent?

Gifted?

Like… mouth gifted?

You shift in your chair. Something about the word makes heat crawl up your neck.

You remember the way his lips part when he’s concentrating, when he’s reading a copy upside-down or over your shoulder. The way he bites his pen cap when he’s thinking. The way his mouth wraps around his spoon at lunch, slow and absentminded, like he’s not even aware of what he’s doing.

You shake your head. No. Absolutely not. This is a trap. A weird joke. There’s no way your sweet, clumsy, six-foot-four cinnamon roll of a coworker is secretly a sex god. It’s Clark. He blushes when you compliment his ties.

He says gosh darn it when he drops things or accidentally says something that could be perceived as even slightly mean.

But still…

Now you’re picturing it.

Clark on his knees, glasses slightly askew and fogged over, mouth open and reverent. Hands steady and strong. His voice low and coaxing. You’re doing so good, sweetheart. Just let me do all the work—yeah, just like that. So good for me.

You press your thighs together under the desk.

Lois is watching you. “You okay?” She asks.

You nod too fast. “Fine. Great. Normal. Completely normal.”

Jimmy keeps talking. Something about how the trivia night spiraled, how the bartender had to cut the ex off after she started rating Clark’s technique by category: pressure, consistency, enthusiasm.

You barely hear it. Your ears are ringing loudly. It’s like your brain is buffering.

You suddenly remember every time Clark has murmured something soft near your ear, every time his voice dipped an octave when he said your name. The time he caught you in the rain without an umbrella and insisted on walking you home, water soaking through his shirt, hair curling against his forehead. And you didn’t even look. Like a saint.

But you’re looking now. Retrospectively. And respectfully (sort of). In high definition.

Lois snaps her laptop shut. “Okay, I’m leaving before this spirals into something I can’t un-hear.”

Jimmy is laughing. You don’t move.

Clark texts the group thread a few minutes later:

Press conference ran long. Want me to bring back snacks?

You stare at the message. It might as well say Want me to ruin your life with my mouth?

Lois types back chips and anything chocolate. Jimmy sends a GIF of a raccoon stealing an entire pizza.

You don’t reply. You literally can’t. Your hands are slightly shaky and your brain has conjured up a very detailed image of Clark Kent’s head between your thighs under your desk, barely fitting his large frame beneath the wood, and now everything’s ruined.

-

Later, when Clark shows up holding a grocery bag, rain-damp and smiling like he didn’t just waltz into the middle of your psychological unraveling, you can barely look at him.

The newsroom door swings open with a quiet hiss, wind curling at the threshold. He steps through it like something out of a slow-motion montage. Glasses fogged at the edges, dark curls damp and clinging to his forehead, coat shoulders darkened by rain. He’s flushed from the walk, a faint red climbing his cheeks, and he’s got that same boyish, bashful look he always wears when he thinks he’s done something thoughtful.

He’s holding a grocery bag like it’s an offering.

You sit very still behind your desk, fingers stilling over your keyboard as he approaches.

“I wasn’t sure if you were still here,” he says, voice warm and slightly breathless, like he jogged the last block. “But I figured… just in case.”

He reaches into the bag, rustling plastic, and pulls out a bottle of your favorite drink. The obscure seasonal one you can never find. The one the gas station down the street practically only stocks one of since you can rarely get your hands on it.

“They were almost out,” he says, smiling as he hands it to you. “Got the last one.”

(What you don’t know is that he flew to several different gas stations just to find you that one drink.)

His fingers brush yours when you take it. Just the barest contact. Skin against skin, warm and calloused and impossibly gentle. Like even now, even after however many late nights and coffee runs and shared glances across the bullpen, he’s still afraid he might hold you too hard and scare you off.

And that shouldn’t do anything to you. It’s just Clark. Sweet, considerate, hopelessly dorky Clark.

But your brain, traitorous and hungry, flashes to the way Jimmy said it. Gifted. The way she apparently sobbed at trivia night. The way Clark’s mouth looked just a little pinker than usual, lips parted as he caught his breath.

You don’t meet his eyes. Your grip on the bottle tightens like it might anchor you back to sanity.

“Thanks,” you murmur. Your voice sounds wrong in your own throat. Too soft. Too high. Like someone caught in the middle of a daydream they really weren’t supposed to be having. “That’s… really nice of you.”

He smiles wider. “You always look for it when we do snack runs. Figured I’d do the legwork.”

You nod and think you might pass out at the thought of giving him some leg work.

You don’t hear what Lois says as she stands to pack up, taking her snacks from Clark. You don’t hear Jimmy teasing something under his breath. Your ears are filled with static and Clark’s presence. His warmth, his scent (something clean, like rain and cedar and laundry detergent), the faint scrape of his nails against the paper bag as he adjusts it in his arms.

“I’m gonna…” You gesture vaguely toward the hallway. “Bathroom.”

He nods, stepping aside. Ever the gentleman.

You practically flee.

The moment the door shuts behind you, you press your palms flat to the cool porcelain of the sink and lean in hard. You don’t look up yet. Not when your chest is still heaving like you ran a mile and your thighs are clenched tight in a desperate, involuntary ache.

You turn the faucet on and thrust your hands beneath the water, cold and sharp as it rushes over your wrists. It bites your skin, a jolt to the nerves, but it does something. Not enough to make you sane again, but enough to stop your knees from giving out.

The mirror mocks you when you finally dare to look.

You’re flushed. Lips parted. Eyes glassy with thoughts that have nothing to do with press conferences or deadlines or articles still sitting in your drafts folder.

You breathe in deep.

You are not going to think about it anymore.

You are not going to let a dumb rumor derail your professionalism. You are not going to picture his mouth anywhere near your thighs. You are not going to think about how big his hands are or how good he is with them or how they’d look spreading you open or how his ex apparently still cries when she thinks about the way he—

You squeeze your eyes shut.

You are a grown woman. You are a professional journalist. You have deadlines and standards and no time for spiraling horniness over your best friend’s mouth.

You are not going to fantasize about Clark Kent.

You open your eyes and stare yourself down in the mirror.

You’re a liar.

And your hands are still trembling.

-

“You’ve been weird around Clark lately.”

“Have I?” you ask, too fast.

You sip your coffee to avoid elaborating. It’s cold. Empty. You’ve just been pretending to drink it for three minutes. You can feel Lois’s stare over the rim of your mug like a sniper scope.

You try to play it cool, but cool is a word you no longer understand. Not when Clark shows up each morning with damp curls and soft smiles and low “mornin’, sweetheart” murmurs that hit you like a fucking tranquilizer dart to the spine. Not when he hums while stirring sugar into his coffee or pushes his sleeves up to the elbow to carry a box of papers and you catch yourself staring at the veins in his forearms like a woman unhinged.

He hasn’t done anything wrong. Not really. If anything, he’s being his usual Clark self! So sweet and soft-spoken, relentlessly considerate. And maybe that’s the problem. You’re not used to your best friend occupying space in your head like this. Not used to the way your thoughts stutter every time he bites into something juicy. A peach, a plum, the fucking cherry from Lois’s yogurt cup. You’re not used to the way your thighs ache when he accidentally sucks a bit of pen ink off his finger and you catch the briefest glimpse of tongue, pink and wet and God-fearing.

You try to be normal but you overcompensate. Hard. You bring him drinks. Compliment his shirts. Tease him for being a square like you always do, except this time, when you say, “God, you’re such a Boy Scout,” it comes out breathless and weird and he looks at you sideways like he heard something you didn’t mean to say out loud.

You’re careful. Okay. You try to be careful. But it only takes a few days for your brain to short-circuit permanently.

At one point, you and Clark are drafting headlines side by side, shoulders brushing, low banter, his voice soft in your ear, and when he leans in behind you to whisper a suggestion, your whole body shivers. Visibly. Pathetically. Like a haunted Victorian maiden.

He pauses, his voice warm at your nape as he whispers, “You cold?”

You bolt. “Bathroom. Sorry!”

He doesn’t press. He never does. He’s too polite. Too good. Too Clark.

The mirror is once again your enemy. Cold water on the wrists doesn’t help this time. Nothing does.

You try to last a few more days. You try not to think about it. You fail every hour. Every time he smiles at you. Every time he tugs his glasses down a little to rub at his brow or frowns in concentration or licks the salt off a pretzel. You are haunted. You are in hell. You are wet at work and it is his fault.

That night, you fold. You press your face into your pillow and slip your hand beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts and imagine. His voice. His mouth. His hands gripping your thighs, firm and reverent. Whispering things into your skin. I got you, baby. You just let go for me. Want to be good for you. And when you cum—fast, hard, embarrassingly desperate—you feel the shame roll in like thunderclouds.

Clark is your friend. Your coworker. He looks out for you when you’re sick and once helped your grandma reset her water heater because he just knows how to do stuff like that.

And apparently other stuff.

With his mouth.

Fuck.

You are so. Incredibly. Doomed.

But then your brain does what it always does when it can’t stop obsessing. It reframes. It rationalizes. It weaponizes curiosity.

You are, after all, a journalist.

You chase leads. You vet your sources. You fact-check until your eyes bleed. You are trained to notice patterns and contradictions, to sniff out truth from noise, to dig through dirt and disinformation and find the core of something. And what you have now? What you’ve been given?

Is a lead. A whispered rumor. A salacious, staggering, potentially life-altering claim.

Clark Kent. Clark, your walking golden retriever of a coworker, the man who once blushed because you said he looked “nice” in navy blue, is apparently a legend with his mouth. A God-tier, Olympic-caliber, “no one else compares” type of lover.

You’ve heard it now. Can’t unhear it. Can’t unknow it.

You’ve run the mental diagnostics. Tried to make the data match the subject. Tried to rewatch the internal slideshow of Clark in his natural habitats: pressing his glasses up his nose, saying “golly,” covering your coffee tab with a sheepish shrug like it’s a felony.

None of it aligns. None of it should align. And yet…You’ve seen his hands. Long fingers. Gentle touch. Steady grip. You’ve seen his lips. Full. Soft. Focused. You’ve heard that voice, when it dips low and careful, when it wraps around your name like it’s something holy.

And maybe, maybe, the puzzle pieces do fit. Not in the way you’d expect. Not in any way you’re prepared for. And that’s when it hits you like the crash of a wave you didn’t see coming: the sheer, staggering need to know. Not want. Not wish. Need.

It’s practically professional at this point.

You sit at your desk in the ghost-quiet newsroom, half-eaten takeout beside you and the buzz of fluorescent lights overhead, and your brain starts composing headlines like it’s on deadline.

“Mild-Mannered Reporter, Midnight Mouth Maestro.”

“Clark Kent and the Case of the Devastating Cunnilingus.”

You rub at your temples. You’ve lost it. You’re gone. Broken. The Pulitzer’s never coming now. God, at this rate you might never come either. Not without thinking about Clark Kent’s mouth.

But still, you lean back in your chair, heart thudding against your ribs like a warning bell, and let the thought settle. There’s only one way to know for sure. No secondhand testimony. No assumptions.

You need evidence. A primary source. First-person observation.

For science. For journalism. For the truth.

The phrase echoes in your skull like a siren song: Clark Kent eats pussy like a champ. And somewhere in the deepest, most depraved corner of your mind, a little voice. your inner editor, probably, says, Well… if you don’t report this story, someone else might.

You close your eyes.

You inhale.

You exhale.

You whisper it like a prayer. Like a plea. Like a final descent into madness, God help me.

Because you are going to seduce your best friend.

You are going to investigate his mouth and you are going to write the hell out of this story.

Even if it ruins you.

Especially if it ruins you.

-

You start small.

A skirt hem an inch shorter than usual. Nothing scandalous, just enough to make you feel aware of the breeze against the backs of your knees. A touch of lipstick, warmer than your usual shade. The kind that makes your lips look just a little bit bitten.

You start brushing your fingers against him in passing, accidental, then… less accidental. A casual hand on his forearm when you pass him a printout. The press of your fingers at his wrist when you reach for the same notepad. A palm flat between his shoulder blades as you squeeze by behind him, your body lingering just a second too long before you move on.

You stretch at your desk, arms overhead, spine arching. Completely overexaggerated, very theatrical. You sigh dramatically. He glances up and you pretend not to notice.

You lean over his desk during edits, purposefully slow, aware of how your blouse dips, how the fabric gapes just a little at the neckline when you angle your shoulders forward. You feel his eyes. See them flicker, just for a moment to your breasts, and then dart back to his screen.

It’s subtle at first. Barely a flutter in the newsroom’s carefully balanced ecosystem, but it’s deliberate. Calculated. A controlled experiment in desire.

You lace conversations with carefully planted landmines. A well-timed, “I just think communication is everything, you know? Especially when it comes to giving, not just receiving. It’s important when writing, too, duh, Kent.”

A “good partners are the ones who really listen. Just like good interviewers.”

A “sometimes, it’s not about how fast you go. It’s about how thorough you are. In an investigation, what else would I be talking about?”

All dropped like casual observations. All while sipping from your coffee cup like you haven’t just flung a match into dry brush.

Clark always blinks. Always takes just a moment longer than necessary to respond. He hums, or nods, or tilts his head like he’s considering it. Like he knows you’re playing a game and hasn’t quite decided whether or not he wants to play it too.

Clark plays dumb. At first.

He says things like “Gee, you think so?” when you compliment him in front of Lois. Grins when you call him charming, like he’s never heard the word and is still trying it on for size. He shifts in his chair when you lean close, laughs under his breath when you call him a goody two-shoes, and taps his pen against his knee like he’s working something out.

But then he starts doing things back. He starts calling you sweetheart again, but slower now. Smoother. He says it when no one else is around. Says it like it’s a question, like he’s waiting to see what it does to you.

He starts brushing his hand along your lower back when he passes you in the hallway. Not every time. But when he does, it’s always just enough for you to notice and ache.

And one day, after a long stretch of shared silence, you’re chewing on your pen cap, brow furrowed over copy edits and legs crossed tight in your chair, and he leans over your shoulder, his breath warm on your neck.

“Careful with that,” he murmurs, voice low, soft as felt. “Dangerous habit.”

You freeze. The pen slips from your teeth. His voice curls around the back of your neck like smoke.

You turn your head, look up, and he’s smiling. Soft. Knowing. The kind of smile you’ve seen him use exactly once before when a source lied straight to his face and he already had the receipts.

Your stomach flips.

Because he knows. He knows. And what’s worse? He’s letting you think you still have the upper hand. He has to be. There’s no way he doesn’t.

You spiral. Quietly. Elegantly. Desperately. You start watching him even more closely. The way his mouth curls around vowels. The way his tongue darts out when he’s thinking. The way he drinks from his water bottle, tilting his head back, throat working, Adam’s apple bobbing with every swallow. You stare at his hands when he types. When he peels an orange. When he passes you a napkin with one corner folded like a triangle for no discernible reason.

You start dreaming about him.

Not always dirty. Sometimes it’s just him. Holding your hand. Brushing your hair behind your ear. Whispering your name in the dark.

But other nights it’s his mouth. Hot and firm and everywhere. Between your legs. On your stomach. Lapping into the soft place where your thigh meets your hip and telling you things like you taste so good, sweetheart, and don’t you dare run from me now.

You wake sweating and shaking, your sheets twisted and damp.

You think about calling in sick. But then you think about Clark, warm and smiling in the elevator, holding your favorite coffee, saying “morning” like it’s a secret, and you go in anyway.

You’re in too deep. You’re too far gone. And the thing that’s unsettling you the most is that you’re starting to like it.

-

You keep pushing.

A weekend happy hour turns into one too many drinks, one too many shared plates, one too many half-flirtatious “cheers” that clink too close to comfort. You’re buzzing, warm and slow in the limbs, your body syrupy with good whiskey and bad decisions, slouched into a booth with Lois and Jimmy while the bar spins softly around you.

Clark had been invited but he’d been sent on a last-minute assignment and couldn’t make it. You’d pretended not to be disappointed. You’d definitely pretended not to imagine what it would’ve felt like to slide into the booth beside him, legs pressed together, your thigh warm against his in that tiny, accidental way that would’ve driven you insane.

Instead, you’re nursing your third drink and laughing too loud at something Jimmy said about a printer jam when your phone buzzes in your hand. A text from him. Clark, asking if everything went smoothly with the event write-up.

You glance at the screen and smile.

You mean to text Lois. You really, truly mean to text Lois.

Your fingers are slow. Sloppy. Buzzed and traitorous as they move across your screen. The keyboard slides a little and autocorrect isn’t on your side and… your drunken hands are no longer attached to your fucking brain. They’re attached to your traitorous cunt.

Clark Kent texted me. The Oral God. It’s the glasses. I know it is.

You hit send.

Your brain doesn’t process what’s happened at first. It takes a second, two, maybe three, for the fog of whiskey to clear just enough to read the blue bubble again.

And then you see it.

The name at the top.

Clark Kent.

You freeze. Horrified. Paralyzed. You stare down at your phone like it’s just grown fangs. Your entire body flushes with heat. Scalp prickling, chest clenching, stomach plummeting like a trapdoor just opened beneath you.

“No,” you whisper. Out loud. “No no no no no.”

Jimmy’s talking. Lois is laughing. The world carries on like you haven’t just detonated a bomb in your own lap.

You watch the message sit there. Taunting. Bright and unedited and unmistakable. And then the fucking typing dots appear. Three little dots. Bouncing. Mocking.

You press a hand to your mouth like that might somehow physically keep the scream in. You are going to pass out. You are going to combust. You are going to become legendary newsroom lore.

Your phone buzzes again.

Is this about that trivia night thing?

You make a sound. It’s not human.

You want to melt into the floor. Crawl under the table. Launch yourself into the sun. Anything would be better than sitting here red-faced and holding your phone like a live grenade.

You try to fix it. You fire off a string of panic-texts that only make it worse

LMAO

joking

meme reference

I saw a TikTok??

Ignore me hahaha

whiskey brain!!!

that was actually Jimmy not me you know he his hahahahahahahahah

You punctuate the shame spiral with not one but two cry-laugh emojis. Two. A war crime. Something you’ve never done in a professional setting. You should be disbarred from journalism on principle.

Your phone buzzes once more.

One final reply.

Got it 😉

You stare at it. A single winky face. So casual. So simple. So loaded. You don’t know if you want to scream or faint or cry into your mozzarella sticks.

He doesn’t follow up. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t drag you. But he also doesn’t let you off the hook.

You toss your phone face-down onto the booth bench and press your hands to your eyes. You are never drinking again. You are never texting again.

And most importantly? You are never showing your face at the Daily Planet again.

-

And after that? The game changes.

Clark starts really teasing back.

Not crudely, he’s still Clark, still gentle, still maddeningly polite in that Kansas-boy kind of way, but there’s a new edge to it. A weight behind the way he says your name. A flicker in his eyes when you lean a little too close. He lets your touches linger now and doesn’t shy away. Doesn’t flush and stammer and change the subject. No, now when your hand brushes his arm or rests against the small of his back in passing, he holds still. Leans into it. He lets it happen long enough to feel it.

There’s something else, too.

A change in his voice when you talk about relationships, especially when you let your sentences trail, when you say things like “I just think… being understood is more important than anything. In a relationship, I mean. Someone who listens, someone who pays attention to details. Someone who…”

You don’t have to finish the thought because when you look up at him, his gaze is locked on your mouth. Focused. Intent. Like he’s trying to memorize the curve of your lips, like he’s picturing them parted. Open. Responding.

It rattles you. But worst than that? It excites you.

The tension stretches between you like something alive. Something volatile. You poke at it with your words, and he starts poking back.

And then, one afternoon, it breaks a little more.

You catch him in the hallway, fresh off a phone call, tie loosened, hand raking through his hair in quiet frustration, and something in you tips. Maybe it’s the way he exhales. Maybe it’s the way his sleeves are rolled to his elbows, forearms flexing as he cradles his phone in one hand. Maybe it’s the residual heat of that winky-face text still echoing in your bones.

You press your palm to his chest, flat. It’s curious but it’s more than that… it’s deliberate. Not playful anymore.

The cotton of his dress shirt is warm beneath your hand. You can feel the slow, steady thump of his heart under your fingers, so solid and unbothered. Like he’s entirely in control. Like you’re the one who needs a reality check.

“Why do you always disappear during breaking news, Clark?” you ask. Your voice is light, but there’s something behind it. Something quiet. Something investigative.

He freezes, but not in panic. Not in fear. No, it’s calculation. For a second, something flickers across his face. Not guilt. Not surprise. Awareness. Sharp. Focused. Like a wire pulled taut.

His brow lifts slightly, mouth quirking at the corner. “You asking as a friend…” His voice dips. Just a touch. “Or a reporter?”

You tilt your head. You’re still touching him. Your palm is still flat to his chest, your fingers curled slightly against the fabric. He smells like clean soap and newsroom paper, like rain and static and something inherently Clark. Familiar. Steady.

Dangerous.

“Both?” you offer, smiling sweetly.

He chuckles, but it’s quieter than usual. Rougher. The sound curls low in your stomach. “Thought you were investigating the mouth thing, Bernstein.” He smirks a bit, leaning closer to your personal space, “Or Woodward. Whichever one was better at getting to the bottom of things.”

Your hand drops like it’s been burned.

He grins. Sharp. Easy. Devastating.

“So you do know about that,” you say, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

“Hard not to,” he replies. “After the wrong text thread.”

The silence between you thickens. You swear he’s looking at your lips again. Or maybe that’s your imagination. Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s—“It was for science. Or, investigative journalism?” you blurt, cutting off your mental reverie.

His grin doesn’t falter. “I’m sure it was.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t tease or press. But as you start to walk away, your pulse still thrumming in your ears, you feel his heavy gaze slowly land on your back.

And when you glance back over your shoulder you catch him looking. Boldly, openly. His eyes flick down your body, then lift to meet yours. No apology. No embarrassment.

Just interest.

Intention.

It’s subtle, but it undoes you. Because Clark Kent knows.

And he’s starting to enjoy it.

-

Then comes the charity gala.

It’s a haze of champagne flutes and low lighting, all glittering gowns and polished marble floors. The kind of evening where you’re supposed to make nice with board members and whisper the right things to the right people and maybe snag a quote for Monday’s column. You’d worn something new, sleek and dark and fitted, maybe a little too bold for a work event, but tonight feels… different. The air is charged, and Clark’s in a black suit that fits too well and smiles too softly every time someone compliments your dress.

You lose him for most of the night. You’re working the room, laughing at half-interesting jokes, trying not to check the door every time someone walks in.

You don’t remember how it happens. Who reached first. Who asked.

One moment you’re sipping the last of your champagne near the edge of the dance floor, your heels aching and your body buzzing from a flirtation that’s been running on fumes for weeks and the next, there he is.

Clark Kent. In his tux. Glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose. A crooked smile on his mouth as he holds out a hand.

“You look like you need rescuing,” he says. His voice is warm. Steady.

“Wow, a real superhero,” you tease and take his hand before your brain can catch up to your body.

The music is soft. Something old-fashioned and slow. Strings and piano and a rhythm that tugs you gently into his space. His hand slides to your waist, broad and warm through the fabric of your dress, and your palm finds his shoulder as he pulls you in, easy and unhurried, like you’ve danced together a hundred times before.

He hums along under his breath. Not words, just the melody. Low and rich and dangerously close to your skin.

You’re close enough to smell him. Something like cedar and soap and quiet rain. Something that sinks into your bones and stays.

With every sway, your chest brushes his. Barely there. Barely touching. But it makes your breath hitch all the same. His thumb traces a slow, absent pattern over your hip, lazy, circular, grounding, and it should be innocent. It should be.

But it’s not.

Your skin is on fire. Your lungs are tight. You can feel the heat of him everywhere, seeping through the thin fabric of your dress, blooming low in your stomach, dizzying and slow.

“Careful,” you murmur, not quite looking at him. Your lips barely move. “You keep holding me like this, people are gonna talk.”

Clark’s hand shifts slightly at your waist, holding you closer, firmer. Still gentlemanly. Still polite. But there’s a message in the way his fingers press through the fabric. A message you’re desperately trying not to file under Exhibit A: Intent to Destroy Me Gently.

“Let ’em,” he says, smiling like it’s harmless, dimple popping cutely. Like you’re not melting from the inside out. “You’ve been asking a lot of questions lately. People might already be talking.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to show how your knees are already halfway to gone. “Just doing my job.”

“That so?”

“I’m a journalist, Kent.” You tighten your grip on his shoulder, lean in like it’s casual. It’s not. “It’s my duty to investigate rumors.”

“Oh, is that what this is?”

“Mm-hm.” Your voice drops, low and pointed. “I’m looking into a particularly… compelling story, as you know.”

He hums. “You gonna quote your source?”

“Only if he consents to an interview.”

A flicker of something darker shines in his eyes. He leans in, mouth brushing just behind your ear now, and you can feel him smile.

“Well, then,” his voice is velvet. “On the record… I’m a very good listener.”

Your heart skips. You keep your voice steady, but barely. “And off the record?”

His breath hits your skin. “Off the record…” His grip tightens ever so slightly. “You’d never doubt it again.”

Your knees buckle. It’s involuntary. Embarrassing. Heat rushes to your face, down your spine, straight between your legs, and he knows. He catches you instantly without faltering, without blinking, like he was waiting for it.

You’re clinging to his suit jacket like it’s the only solid thing in the world.

You manage, somehow, to breathe out, “You can’t just say stuff like that.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses, lips still too close to yours. “Off the record,” he murmurs again, “I can say whatever I want, Ms Journalist.”

And then the song ends.

He releases you slowly, deliberately, like he’s rewinding time. Like it never happened. Like he didn’t just crack open your ribcage and whisper into your soul.

He smiles politely. Bids you goodnight and walks away.

And you stand there, dazed, vibrating, ruined, clutching your recorder of a brain and praying it got it all down.

-

Later that night, you find yourself nursing your drink at the edge of the ballroom, your body still humming from the dance and doing your absolute best not to replay every second of it on loop like some starry-eyed teenager with a crush.

It’s not working.

“Okay.” Lois slides up next to you, wine glass in hand, smirk firmly in place. “You’re gonna let him take you to dinner at least, right?”

You blink. “What?”

Jimmy appears on your other side like a devil on your shoulder, expression matching Lois’s far too well. “She means Clark,” he says, popping a grape from the cheese table. “Mild-mannered reporter. Looks like he belongs in a Norman Rockwell painting. Just slow-danced you into a different dimension.”

“I-,” you start, then stop, heat crawling up your neck. “It was just a dance.”

Lois raises her brows. “Sure. And I’m just a Pulitzer finalist.”

“She was glowing,” Jimmy says, eyes wide like he’s narrating a true crime reenactment. “I’ve seen less sexual tension in French film noir.”

“Her knees buckled,” Lois adds helpfully. “I saw it happen.”

You groan, bury your face in your hands. “You guys are the worst.”

“Wrong,” Jimmy says brightly. “We’re your friends.”

“And friends don’t let friends ignore when their soulmate’s ready to risk it all in front of a nonprofit board of directors.”

Before you can respond, snark, deflection, a halfhearted plea to please never say “soulmate” again, Clark reappears.

His cheeks are flushed. His curls are damp at the temples. His bowtie is slightly askew. And there, thank God, is the version of Clark you recognize: the one who looks like he’s never felt fully comfortable in formalwear, who gets bashful under group attention, who still straightens his glasses like a nervous tic.

“Hey,” he says, ducking his head as he approaches. “What’d I miss?”

Lois practically pounces. “Nothing major. Just Jimmy and I dissecting the devastating sexual chemistry between you and our dear friend here.”

Clark stammers. “Oh. I, uh…Lois!”

Jimmy claps him on the back. “Relax, Kent. We’re just saying, if this journalism thing doesn’t pan out, you’ve got a solid backup career as a ballroom heartthrob.”

Clark’s face turns scarlet. He fiddles with his watch. Shrugs. “I-I was just trying not to step on her feet.”

You bite your lip. Something inside you aches.

Because this is the Clark you know. The one who gets flustered when you compliment his writing. The one who nervously adjusts his tie at press events. The one who talks to dogs on the street like they’re people and never lets you carry your own coffee if your hands are full.

This is your best friend.

But tonight, on that dance floor… that wasn’t just your best friend. That was someone else too. Someone confident. Grounded. Intentional. A man who pulled you into his arms and whispered things that still have your thighs clenching hours later. A man who knew exactly what he was doing and what he wanted.

And suddenly it hits you.

Not a flutter. Not a nudge.

A crash.

You like him.

You really like him.

And not just in a he’s hot and sweet and might be secretly incredible at oral way. Though, yes. That is a factor. But it’s more than that.

It’s everything.

It’s the way he dances. The way he listens. The way he catches you before you fall, even if he’s the one who made your knees go soft in the first place.

You want to know all the pieces of him. Not just the sweet ones. Not just the blushing, too-big-suit-jacket-wearing-wearing ones. You want to know what else he’s been hiding. What else he’s capable of. You want to know the man behind the glasses and the one behind the whisper.

You want all of it.

You’re so fucked.

Clark smiles at you then, small, warm, a little nervous, and your heart actually stumbles.

You smile back.

But god help you, you might be in love with your best friend.

-

The night after the gala, you don’t go home right away.

Instead, you and Clark end up where you always seem to find yourselves when everything else quiets down. Up high, away from the newsroom chaos and the noise of the city below. The rooftop of the Planet is half-rusted and windswept, the skyline cut clean against the dark. You’re both coming down from a half-botched stakeout. No source. No leads. Just cold fingers and coffee gone stale in your thermos.

The wind tugs at your coat, slipping under the hem to bite at your legs. You burrow into it a little tighter, eyes on the streetlights far below.

Beside you, Clark stands with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, coat unzipped like the chill doesn’t touch him. You wonder if he feels it at all. Probably not. His cheeks are pink from the air, hair tousled from the wind, but he looks relaxed. Calm. Like he could stand there all night.

Which is annoying.

But also hot.

Infuriatingly hot.

You glance sideways at him. “You’re holding out on me.”

He turns his head, brow furrowed, lips twitching. “About what?”

You lean back against the ledge, arms crossed. The city stretches behind you like a live wire. “Your legend,” you say simply. “Oral God Kent. I’ve yet to confirm any findings.”

For a second, his expression doesn’t change. But then his mouth curls like he’s surprised you’re still playing the game and maybe a little impressed that you haven’t flinched yet.

He looks away again, back toward the skyline. “Maybe you’re looking in the wrong places.”

You pretend to take notes. Flip your little pocket notebook open dramatically and click your pen. “Clark Kent: evasive source. Potential deflection tactic,” you glance up at him, all mock-seriousness, “flirtation.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. It’s low and short and curls in your stomach like smoke.

“I don’t flirt.”

“You do with me.”

That silences him. For a minute, all you can hear is the wind rushing over the rooftop, rustling the collar of your coat, tugging at the edges of the moment like it wants to unravel it completely.

Then he looks at you. His eyes are soft. Glasses catching the reflection of a passing plane. Lips parted like he wants to say something he hasn’t let himself say before.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”

The words hit harder than they should. Maybe it’s the stillness around you. Maybe it’s the honesty in his voice, calm, certain, without bravado.

He flirts with you. You know that. You’ve been baiting him to. You’ve been bending this line so far for so long you almost forgot you were the one holding the tension.

But this? This isn’t teasing. It’s a confirmation.

An invitation.

You feel it in your throat. Tight. Hot. You hold his gaze. “You know I’m not gonna stop until I get a quote.”

He tilts his head. “A quote about what?”

“Your performance,” you smile slowly.

His breath catches, just barely. You catch the shift, the subtle way he stands a little straighter. The faint glint of something dangerous flickering behind his eyes.

“You want me to… verify the rumor?”

“I’m a journalist,” you say, voice light, tone not. “I believe in sourcing my claims.”

“And you think I’m going to just give that to you?” he murmurs, stepping a little closer. “Off the record?”

“Not give.” You look up at him. “Prove.”

The wind swirls between you, sharp and cold, but you barely feel it anymore.

Clark’s close now. Not touching, but enough that the air feels thinner. His coat flutters around his knees. His hands are still in his pockets. He’s not doing anything. And yet, you can feel him.

The warmth radiating off him. The pull of him.

The want.

And then he does something that makes your pulse spike. It’s barely a movement, but enough. He tilts his head slight and smirks.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice low and careful and ridiculously effective, “If I gave you that story…” His eyes drop to your lips. Stay there. “You wouldn’t have the words left to write it.”

You swallow loud and hard. Your voice is hoarse when you speak again. “That sounds like a challenge.”

“Does it?”

You nod. Barely.

His gaze doesn’t leave your mouth. “You sure you’re ready to find out?”

Your heart stutters. And then, as if some cruel part of him knows you’re right at the edge, right at the tipping point, he steps back half a pace. His hands are still in his coat pockets. Smile soft. Eyes gleaming.

“Let me know when the story’s ready to run,” he says simply. Then he turns, walking back toward the stairwell.

You’re left at the ledge, breath shallow, body trembling, notebook still open in your hand. The wind cuts across your cheek.

You don’t move for a long time because Clark Kent just flirted with you like it was breathing. Because Clark Kent just promised something without touching you.

Because you want him.

And now? There’s no pretending otherwise.

-

It was supposed to just be your weekly run. Perfectly innocent, your regular post-work run. Originally it had been Clark’s idea after you complained about not enjoying running alone because of nerves. And it wasn’t his first idea either. He’d had plenty of others, especially recently. Like walking home instead of taking the train. Like splitting a coffee and pretending it isn’t a date. You’d said yes too quickly, barely thinking, like your body trusted him more than your brain did.

You’d forgotten what it feels like to run next to someone like Clark. Like gravity shifts to make room for him.

The first half is completely harmless. You’re sweaty and breathless. The run is filled with the kind of laughter that feels safe in your chest. You keep pace with him on principle, even though it’s killing you.

And then the storm breaks. No warning. No distant rumble. Just the sky cracking open above the skyline, sharp, fast, and angry.

Sheets of rain slam down, soaking through your clothes in seconds. Your tank top sticks to your skin. Your sports bra gives up entirely. Leggings glued to your thighs. Your shoes squelch with every step. Water beads down your face and into your collarbones.

Clark doesn’t flinch. He just reaches for your hand, quick, firm, and steady, and pulls you with him.

You’re laughing as you run. Laughing because this is so stupid and so cold and so unlike you. But he’s laughing too. Mouth wide, glasses fogged, hair darkened and dripping across his forehead as he tugs you around a corner and into his building’s stairwell, both of you panting, soaked, and more alive than you’ve felt in a long time.

By the time you make it to his apartment, you’re shivering. The door clicks shut behind you, and your whole body jolts from the sudden change. The heat inside presses close, wrapping around your limbs like a towel just pulled from the dryer.

His place smells like him. Cedar. Warm laundry. A faint note of books and something darker, something earth-deep and low and safe. You’ve been here before, but tonight it hits different. Tonight, it feels like stepping into his chest. His heartbeat. His gravity.

“You’re gonna freeze,” he says, already moving, always moving. He disappears down the hall and you hear him rummaging through drawers. You picture him pulling out towels and clothes until he returns with something soft that looks like a flannel in one hand and a towel in the other. “Here. Get out of those. I’ll throw them in the dryer.”

You start to protest. Some nonsense about modesty. Boundaries. Sanity.

But he turns to you, his eyes soft behind fogged lenses, hair curling at his temples, holding out the flannel that’s threadbare and worn at the collar. “I won’t peek,” he says earnestly, voice so kind it knocks the breath out of your lungs.

So you do it.

Like an idiot in love.

You peel your clothes off one piece at a time, the fabric sticking to your skin. You keep your back to him, just in case, even though he’s already disappeared into the other room. You towel off quickly and slip into the flannel. It’s soft and worn, sleeves long enough to swallow your hands. The hem hangs low enough to skim the tops of your thighs. It clings in places from the leftover rainwater on your skin. You don’t bother with pants. It doesn’t occur to you to feel shy in this moment as your damn ovaries seem to override your rational thought processes.

You roll the cuffs up and sit on his couch. You try to breathe through it. Down girl, you think to yourself. But the scent of him is everywhere. On your skin, in your hair, wrapped around you like a second body.

His body could be wrapped around you, an evil little voice whispers in your mind. It sounds suspiciously like Jimmy Olsen, who started this whole damn mess.

Taking a loud deep breath, you tuck your legs under you, fingers pressing into the fabric at your stomach like maybe if you hold it tight enough, it’ll quiet your heart.

When he returns, he’s drying his hair with a towel. His sweats cling low on his hips, and the shirt he’s wearing is the same soft gray cotton, rain-soaked top he had on outside. And it’s clinging. It’s so thin it might as well be a second skin. It outlines the lines of his chest, the slope of his shoulders, the cut of muscle along his arms like a sketch.

He stops in the doorway when he sees you.

You look up, flannel riding high on your thighs. Your legs bare. Damp in places that have nothing to do with rain and everything to do with him.

His breath catches.

You stare at each other, and the silence hums between you. It’s electric.

You could speak. You should. You could joke. Could make a crack about the weather. Could talk about how soaked your socks were, or the way your mascara probably looks like war paint. You could thank him. You could ask for your clothes.

But you don’t.

Because you’ve been pretending for weeks. Laughing through it. Flirting through it. Circling this thing like it hasn’t been waiting for you to make the first move.

But now? Now your skin is buzzing. Your lungs are tight. And the way his eyes flick from your face to your bare legs and back again makes you ache.

Because this is the moment. You feel it. Something inside you snaps and this time, you don’t stop it.

So, you say it outright.

“I want to know.” It’s not loud. It doesn’t need to be. The words come softly, barely above the crackle of rain still ticking against the window, barely enough to cross the space between you. But they land like a drop into still water.

Clark stills, and for a moment, you think maybe he won’t move. That maybe you’ve said too much. Pushed too far.

But then slowly he crosses the room. His steps are quiet. Unhurried. Like he doesn’t want to spook you, like he’s approaching something sacred. His eyes never leave yours, and when he reaches you, he doesn’t speak. He just sinks to the edge of the couch beside you, body close but not crowding, and lifts one hand to your jaw. His fingers are warm and steady. They brush against your cheek like he’s checking to see if you’re real. His thumb drags along your bottom lip, feather-light. You feel his breath before you feel his mouth, and by the time he leans in just enough for his forehead to touch yours you’re already shaking.

“I don’t want to wonder anymore,” you say, quieter now. “I don’t want to guess.”

He’s so close now, his knee brushing yours, his other hand settling carefully on your thigh. You feel the weight of him. The warmth of him. The way the air around you seems to shift just from his presence.

He searches your face slowly. Like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s trying to find the edge of your breath. The line between teasing and truth. He licks his lips and swallows. His thumb strokes once more over your cheek before his hand drops to your waist, firm and steady.

“If we do this,” he says gently, “we don’t go back to pretending we’re just friends, sweetheart.”

Your throat tightens. It doesn’t sound like a warning. It sounds like a vow. A choice you’re both making now that the thread between you has been pulled too tight to ignore.

You can’t think about anything except his hand on your leg. The way he’s watching you. The memory of your fantasies about his mouth between your thighs is like a livewire just beneath your skin.

“Okay,” you say.

His brow lifts, just slightly. “Okay?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He studies you for another second. “You’re sure?”

And for the first time in weeks, you don’t flirt. You don’t deflect. You just meet his gaze and say the only thing that feels true.

“Yes.”

And then you kiss him.

It starts slow, tentative, and testing. A soft press of your lips to his, like a question you’re terrified to ask. He’s warm, gentle, steady beneath your mouth. Familiar in the most unfamiliar way.

And then he answers. With his hands. With his mouth. With the quiet groan he lets slip as he deepens the kiss.

His grip tightens on your waist, and you gasp softly as he shifts, pulling you into his lap. One smooth movement, like it’s instinct, like he needs you there. Your knees come up to either side of his hips, and suddenly he’s beneath you, solid and sure, and your chest is pressed to his.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting for this. Like it’s the only thing he’s wanted to do since the moment he met you.

You roll your hips once and he groans against your mouth, full-throated and unrestrained, like the sound’s been buried deep for too long.

His lips drag along your jaw, down the slope of your neck. “You don’t know,” he murmurs, voice rough. “You have no idea what you’ve started.”

Your breath shudders out of you. “Then show me,” you whisper. “Please.”

He pulls back, just enough to look at you. His pupils are blown. His cheeks flushed. His glasses are fogged at the edges and slipping down the bridge of his nose, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“Off the record?” he asks.

You nod. You’re light headed already and barely breathing.

“Then lay back,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours, voice low and certain. “And let me give you the evidence you’ve been looking for.”

Your body obeys before your mind does. You shift back onto the couch cushions, heart pounding, limbs loose with want. The flannel slips down your shoulders and pools beneath you like soft surrender. You’re left in just your panties, chest rising and falling as he kneels between your legs like you’re something he’s about to worship.

He takes his time. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t gloat. Just eases his hands up your thighs like he’s memorizing the shape of you. His glasses are still on, slipping slightly down his nose, fogging faintly, but he doesn’t take them off. Doesn’t even seem to consider it. He just looks at you, really looks, like he’s been dying to see you like this. Like he’s starving.

He bends and kisses the inside of your knee. Then higher. Then again. Again. The kisses climb your thigh, slow and warm and open-mouthed, until his breath ghosts over the thin, damp fabric of your panties. You jolt. His grip firms on your hips.

“You okay?” he asks softly, voice steady.

“Clark,” you whisper. “Please.”

That’s all it takes. He mouths at you through the fabric, and you gasp, body arching, hands flying to his hair. The first long lick sends a bolt of heat down your spine, and the second has your thighs clenching around him instinctively. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t falter. Just licks again, slow and certain, like he already knows exactly what you like.

Then he pulls back, eyes dark behind his glasses.

“Can I…?”

You nod frantically.

He slides your panties down, slow and careful like he’s unwrapping a gift before tucking them into the pocket of his sweats. And then he sees you, completely and totally bare, and groans. It’s a low and wrecked sound. Like he wasn’t prepared.

“Gosh,” he whispers. “You’re…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He just lowers his head and presses his mouth to you like he’s been aching for it, like the world won’t spin right until he gets his tongue on your cunt and learns the shape of your pleasure by heart.

Your gasp isn’t just a sound. It’s ripped from you, involuntary, like the air itself gave out. Your hips jerk. Your legs tense. Your hands scramble for something, anything, to hold on to.

His tongue licks a slow, deliberate stripe through your folds, and your whole body arches like it’s being tuned to him. He groans at the taste like he’s just had the first bite of something forbidden and holy.

And then he does it again.

And again.

And again, until you’re shaking, until your thighs are trembling against his broad shoulders, until your head tips back and your breath leaves you in soft, shattered little moans that don’t even sound like you.

When his mouth closes over your clit, it’s gentle at first, testing, teasing, reverent. But the flicks are so precise. So rhythmic. So confident. Like he’s listening to your body, your breath, your broken little cries and following each one like sheet music.

You tangle your fingers in his hair and tug. He groans into you and the vibration makes you see stars.

His hands tighten. One anchors your hip, grounding you with strength that borders on desperate. The other presses firm and steady against your lower belly, holding you down like he knows you’re about to fly apart. That you need something to keep you tethered when it happens.

And it does.

You shatter.

Not slow. Not soft. You come like he’s pulled the truth out of your body with his mouth. Like your soul recognized his tongue and decided to rise to meet it.

It hits like heat lightning, sharp and sudden and white-hot, flashing behind your eyes and ricocheting through your limbs. Your thighs clamp around his head. Your fingers claw at his shoulders. Your back bows off the couch as his mouth never leaves you, riding the wave with you, through you, for you.

And even as your breath hiccups, as your muscles spasm and your voice breaks around a ragged moan of his name, he doesn’t stop.

His mouth lowers. His fingers slip inside you.

It’s slow and careful. The thick press of one finger first, his thumb stroking your hip, voice low and grounding, “Breathe, sweetheart.”

Then a second, stretching you open so gently you feel like you might fall apart just from the patience in it.

And when he curls them, your hips buck. The pressure is perfect. Devastating. His tongue finds your clit again in the same moment, suckling, circling, teasing you until your thighs shake and your mouth falls open with a choked sound that could be a sob.

He hums when he hears it. He likes it. You feel the low vibration of it in your core, feel it echoing against his fingers buried deep inside you. His pace doesn’t change. It builds. Grows. Deepens. Like he’s tuning you to the edge of something greater.

You’re clinging to his hair now. His shoulders. The couch. Yourself. But it’s too much and not enough and please don’t stop, and he doesn’t, not even as you pant, “Clark, oh my god, Clark! Please! ”

He lifts his head just a fraction, lips slick, voice hoarse.

“One more.”

You don’t think you can. You try to tell him, your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Your body is already shaking. Too much. Too sensitive. Too everything.

But he just whispers again, mouth hot against your thigh, “C’mon, sweetheart. I know you can. You’re doing so good. Just one more. Give it to me.”

You break again. The second orgasm tears through you. bigger, deeper, dizzying. Your spine arches. Your thighs quiver. Your eyes blur with tears you hadn’t even realized were coming. You cry out for him, gasping his name like it’s the only word you remember how to say, like it’s your anchor to the earth.

He doesn’t stop. Not yet. His fingers keep curling inside you, working you through it, coaxing more and more and more until you’re sobbing, full-body, hiccuping sobs that melt into moans.

You think he says your name then. You think he kisses your hip. You think you say something too, about wanting him, but it’s a blur, everything soft and shuddering and electric.

And then he lifts his head. His glasses are fogged, hair mussed, lips red and wet and slightly parted. His hands are still on you. One at your hip. One cupping your thigh like he’s afraid you’ll float away.

He looks at you and brushes his thumb gently beneath your eye. “You just said…” he starts, voice hoarse, quiet, wrecked. “You said you’ve wanted this forever.”

You freeze. Your heart stops in your chest. You blink. Blink again. “I did?” you breathe, barely above a whisper.

He nods, gaze steady. Gentle. “You did.”

You should lie. Say he must have misheard you. You should laugh. You should say it was the orgasm talking, that you didn’t mean it, that this was just about the rumor, the curiosity, the investigation. But the truth is in your skin. In your chest. In the way you’re still trembling beneath his hands.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I have.”

His smile is soft. Not cocky. Not surprised. Relieved. Like he’s been holding his breath for months and finally, finally, gets to exhale.

“You should’ve said something,” he murmurs.

You look at him. This man who knows your take out orders at more restaurants than you can count. Who saves your favorite snacks from the vending machine. Who leaves notes in your desk drawer when you’re having a bad day. Who just brought you to your knees without asking for anything in return.

“I did now,” you say, voice cracked and full of something else now.

You reach for him again and this time when he kisses you, slow and deep and filled with promise, you don’t pretend it’s about anything else. You’re the one who sighs into him this time. Loosens. Melts. Your fingers curl at the nape of his neck, and his arms slide around you. The heat of him seeps into your skin like sunlight.

He pulls back, forehead to yours, and whispers, “Come with me?”

Your nod is barely there, but it’s all he needs. He lifts you like it’s nothing, like you weigh less than a breath. One arm under your knees, the other across your back, and his eyes never leave you as he carries you down the hall. You tuck your face into his neck and inhale him, letting yourself be held.

His bedroom smells more like him than the living room did. The rain still taps against the windows, soft and rhythmic now as opposed to the heavy sheets earlier, as he sets you down on the mattress with the kind of care that makes your chest ache.

He kneels beside you. Fingers brushing your cheek. Still a little breathless. Still looking at you like you’re a miracle he didn’t believe he deserved.

“I’ve wanted this,” he says quietly, like it hurts to get out. “You. Us. For a long time.”

You blink, throat tightening. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He lets out a breath, half-laugh, half-sigh, and ducks his head, sheepishly. “Because you’re… you. And I’m just… well, me.” His hand curls at the back of his neck. “I didn’t think you saw me that way. And then…” He looks at you, brow furrowed with a tenderness that floors you. “You started teasing about the rumor. And I didn’t know if it was real. If you wanted me, or just… the idea.”

“Clark,” you start but he silences you with a chaste kiss.

“I didn’t want to ruin what we have.” His voice is low now. Barely there. “Didn’t want to give you a reason to leave.”

You sit up and take his hand, lacing your fingers through his. “I didn’t want to risk it either,” you whisper. “But I’ve been falling for you the whole time we’ve been friends.”

His blue eyes go soft, shining lightly behind his glasses. He leans in and kisses you like the world outside the bedroom doesn’t exist. And when he pulls back, voice wrecked and reverent, he whispers, “Let me love you now.”

“Please,” you nod.

He kisses you again like he’s learning your mouth from the inside out, deep and slow and filthy. Tongue sweeping against yours, steady and patient, even as your nails catch at the hem of his damp t-shirt. You’re reminded in that moment how you’re already bare and trembling. Still wet with everything he’s already given you. And he’s… completely clothed.

And now, you want him. All of him.

“Too many clothes,” you whisper against his lips, panting as your hands tug his shirt up.

But he doesn’t let you pull it off just yet. Instead, he pins your hands to the bed, gently and firmly, and drags his mouth down your throat.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, lips warm against your pulse. “I like seeing you like this.”

You shiver.

“Completely bare,” he says, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “Completely mine.”

You groan, arching up into him. He still hasn’t taken a single piece of clothing off, and the contrast is killing you. Your naked body against all that soft cotton, his glasses still on, his shirt sticking to the curve of his back.

“You’ve been driving me crazy,” he says, dipping his mouth lower. Kissing between your breasts. Down your ribs. “Every time you smiled at me like you didn’t know what you were doing. The shorter skirts. Touching me in the office.”

“I did,” you breathe. “I knew exactly what I was doing.”

He laughs quietly, the sound coming out completely reverent, and kisses your hipbone. “Mmhm,” he murmurs. “Knew you did.�� Then he moves back up, crawling over you with slow, deliberate grace, until he’s above you again, his body a solid heat over yours.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says softly. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about this. How many nights I had to stop myself.”

You reach for him again, fingers dipping under the waistband of his sweats. “Then stop stopping,” you whisper. “I want you inside me. Now.”

His breath hitches but he listens. He stands, eyes never leaving yours, and finally strips. T-shirt peeled off over his head. Glasses set gently on the nightstand. His sweats and boxers sliding down long, muscular legs until he’s completely bare in the low lamplight.

And God. You’ve imagined, sure. But nothing could’ve prepared you for the sight of him like this. All smooth skin and broad shoulders. His hard cock is standing flushed and heavy against his stomach, thick and aching, curved and already leaking at the tip.

Your thighs fall open instinctively.

He groans at the sight.

“Touch me,” you whisper.

He kneels on the bed again. One hand stroking his cock with slow, lazy pumps, while the other caresses up your thigh.

“I’ve thought about this every night for so long,” he says, breath ragged. “What you’d feel like. Sound like.” He lines himself up and looks at you, one last question in his eyes. One last chance to stop.

“Please, Clark,” you whisper with a nod.

And then he slides in, one slow inch at a time. So painfully slow, stretching you open like he’s trying to carve his name into your body.

You gasp. legs trembling, hands clutching his back. He moans as he bottoms out, forehead dropping to yours.

“Jesus baby, you’re so tight. So, so wet. Fuck,” he pants. You’ve never heard him swear like that. It wrecks you almost as much as his mouth had earlier.

He stills inside you, breath trembling, body shaking. “I’m not gonna last long,” he whispers. “You feel too good. too perfect, I’m sorry. I want to last longer for you.”

“Don’t be,” you breathe, his words making you clench around his thick cock, causing you both to let out loud groans. “Just move. Please, Clark.”

And when he does it's not fast. It’s not rough. It’s everything you’ve ever needed. Each stroke is deep and slow and reverent, like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together. His mouth never leaves your skin, pressing kisses to your jaw, your throat, your shoulder. One hand cradles your head. The other slips between your bodies to rub slow circles over your clit again. And it’s too much. It’s perfect.

“Can’t believe you’re mine,” he murmurs. “Been in love with you since the first time you smiled at me.” Your heart stutters. Your body arches. He thrusts deeper. “Wanted you every damn day,” he says, voice shaking. “And now…now you’re under me, around me, and I just,” you clench harder, nails digging hard into his back as you arch up into him, legs wrapping tightly around his hips, ankles locking against his ass. “Fuck, sweetheart, don’t… don’t do that, not if you want me to last.”

You gasp his name. Tears prick your eyes again not from pain, not from pleasure. From everything. From him. “I love you,” you whisper, the words falling out like a confession you didn’t mean to speak. You cling tighter to him, snapping your hips to meet his in perfect time.

“I know,” he whispers, eyes soft and devastating. “Me too.”

And then he kisses you through your next orgasm. Kisses you like he’s sealing it in your skin. Like he’ll never let it go.

His thrusts start to falter shortly after your orgasm. You feel it in the way his hips stutter, the way his breath catches on a broken moan against your throat. His hands tremble where they hold you, one tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this moment.

“Oh gosh,” he gasps, “baby…sweetheart, so good. Feels so good, all for me.”

You press your heels into the backs of his thighs, pulling him deeper, wrapping around him tighter, wanting to feel every second of him unraveling.

“Cum for me,” you whisper, voice frayed and reverent, your fingers stroking up the nape of his neck, threading through damp curls. “Want to feel you. Want to keep you.”

That does it. He breaks. With a choked cry, your name torn from his throat, he buries himself to the hilt one final time and cums hard, his whole body tensing above you as he spills inside you. Heat floods you, thick and warm, and you hold him through it, clutching, kissing, whispering his name over and over until the tension melts from his limbs.

He collapses on top of you, full-bodied and shaking and undone, forehead resting against yours, sweat-slick skin pressed to yours, breath ragged as he tries to catch it.

You stay like that for a long time. Breathing each other in. Letting the room tilt gently back into quiet.

Eventually, he kisses your cheek. Then your nose. Then your jaw. He shifts off of you carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll break, but only long enough to pull you against him again, your back to his chest as he spoons around you.

You sigh in content. You’ve never felt so warm, or full, or safe. And then he moves you again a few minutes later, like that wasn’t a good enough way to feel you against him. He turns you, gently guiding you onto his chest. You go willingly, melting against him like it’s your favorite place in the world. Which it might be now that you’ve experienced it.

His arm wraps around your back, hand stroking lazy, soothing lines up and down your spine. His other hand rests on your thigh where you’ve thrown it across him like you’re staking a claim.

He huffs a soft laugh when he feels it.

“Yours now, Ms Journalist?” he murmurs, teasing.

“Was there ever a question?” you mumble, lips brushing against the curve of his pec as you press a slow, possessive kiss there. He lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. Almost a prayer. His fingers slide into your hair and stroke gently. Lovingly.

You close your eyes.

The rain outside softens to a whisper and somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, you fall asleep on his chest, warm and full and his.

-

The morning unfolds in amber. Sunlight pours through the slats of the blinds, casting lazy golden stripes across the room and over the tangled mess of limbs on the bed.

His skin is warm under your lips. Muscle and softness and the kind of impossible heat that still hasn’t left your bones. He smells like sleep and cedar and you. Like the sweat and slick and sweetness of the night before still clinging faintly to his skin.

He’s already awake.

You can tell by the way his thumb is tracing the bare line of your hipbone in slow, lazy loops. The way his chest rises and falls with practiced calm, his heartbeat a steady rhythm beneath your ear, strong and grounding, like it always is.

“You drooled on me,” he says, voice gravel-rough and low.

You smile against his chest. “Price of admission.”

A soft chuckle rumbles beneath your cheek, not just amused, but fond. Full of something heavier. Something real. His hand slides higher, smoothing over your back, fingertips drawing invisible shapes along your spine.

Eventually, he coaxes you out of bed with a promise of hot coffee and warm breakfast, his flannel shirt exchanged for one of his oversized tees that swallows you and smells like him. You grumble. He grins. And while he disappears to the shower, you wander barefoot into the kitchen, already planning to steal another kiss the moment he returns.

You don’t have to wait long.

He heads straight to the stove when he’s done, barefoot on the tile, hair wet and curling softly over his forehead, the collar of his tee damp from where he towel-dried in a rush. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, clinging just enough to be unfair. The hem of his shirt rides up every time he stretches for the spice rack, revealing a strip of golden skin and the faintest trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband.

You cross the room without a sound and your arms around his waist from behind. Then you stretch on your toes and press your lips to the side of his neck, right where his pulse kicks up immediately beneath your mouth.

Clark drops the spatula.

You smile against his skin, teeth just barely grazing. “Oops.”

“You’re distracting me,” he says, breath catching mid-word.

“And what are you going to do about it?” You kiss him again. Softer this time. Slower. Just because you can. Tongue darting out to taste salt and warmth, breath pooling over damp skin. You feel him shiver.

“I’m trying to make you breakfast,” he mutters.

“And you’re doing amazing, sweetie,” you whisper, words curling with amusement as your hands slide up under his shirt, palms skimming hot skin. “Five stars for effort.”

He exhales slowly. Then turns. There’s that smile again, sleep-soft, crooked, so damn pretty it makes your stomach flip. You can still see the crease from the pillow on his cheek. His lashes are wet at the tips. His eyes, though, are clear. Bright. Fixed only on you.

“You always this handsy after Pulitzer-worthy investigations?”

You bat your lashes up at him. “Just trying to… fact-check my findings.”

One brow arches. He steps in closer, nudging you gently against the edge of the counter, towering over you, voice dropping an octave. “Anything I can help clarify?”

You drag your fingers down the front of his shirt, stopping just above the waistband of his sweats. “Might need a follow-up interview.”

He hums, like he’s thinking about it. Then lifts you in one smooth, effortless motion, hands warm under your thighs as he settles you onto the counter like you weigh nothing at all. The marble is cold beneath you, but he steps in between your legs, and suddenly all you feel is him, his thighs, his hands, his heat.

Your legs fall open around him without a second thought.

He kisses you then, slow, teasing, the kind of kiss that makes your toes curl and your fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt. His mouth is warm, familiar now, but it still makes your stomach flutter like the first time.

“I have excellent retention,” he murmurs against your lips, “if you want to review last night’s data.”

You laugh, soft and breathless, and bite his bottom lip. “You’re cocky.”

He leans in closer, nuzzling your jaw. “I’ve been reviewed. Oral God confirmed.”

You smack his shoulder. “Stop reading my texts.”

“Mmhm, like you actually mean that,” he grins and kisses you again. Deeper, this time. Filthy and slow. Like you’re the only thing he wants to taste for the rest of the day.

Behind him, the toast burns. Something beeps. Neither of you notice. Or care. Because Clark’s hands are on your hips. You’re tugging at his shirt. And breakfast, apparently, can wait.

-

Weeks later, you’re back in his lap on a Sunday morning, both of you tangled up on the couch with the news playing in the background, a half-drunk mug of coffee cooling on the table.

You’re thumbing through one of his old notebooks, pretending not to read his scribbles, even though they’re suspiciously detailed for a guy who always claims he “just got lucky” with the Superman exclusives. His arm tightens around your waist. You glance up.

“You still investigating me, Bernstein?” he asks, eyes warm behind his glasses.

You smile and kiss the corner of his mouth.

“Always,” you say. “But don’t worry. This one’ll take me a while.”

And maybe it will, because right now, you have no idea he’s Superman.

You just know he’s your best friend and the man you’re in love with. But you will.

Eventually.

[runicarbiter02]

excuse me for stating the obvious but like. james gunn outright calling superman an immigrant and doubling down on it when he got backlash (because he IS an immigrant, that's the point of superman) + the in-movie dialogue of "aren't you going to read me my rights?" "you're an extraterrestrial, son. you haven't got any rights to read." + the violence of his arrest and how they torture and mistreat him unapologetically, all under the guise of "protecting america", in a film releasing during the onslaught of violent ICE kidnappings and abuse... yeah it's really no wonder right-wing knobheads are crying about this being woke. they're being forced to look directly at the reasons one of the most well-known and beloved heroes of all time would not be on their side. and that's only ONE of the reasons this movie covers

[runicarbiter02]

CLARK KENT AND LOIS LANE SUPERMAN ( 2025 ) dir. James Gunn

[runicarbiter02]

CAUSE I'M A PUNKROCKER YES I AM!

[runicarbiter02]

Have u ever considered using Ai to expand ur blurbs? I love all the idea you put out, but they're so short!!

Id rather kill myself.

[runicarbiter02]

🌟HOUSE HOMIE🤟

they know I love a polycule 🙂‍↕️ everybody kiss

[runicarbiter02]

Sweet Dreams Of Otherness

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

Summary: You and Walker are sent on a mission to recover some tech at an abandoned HYDRA facility that’s buried deep in the Sonoran Desert. The two of you absolutely despise each other and can’t stand being in the same room together, but when a dire situation comes up, all things must be pushed aside to help your fellow teammate, whether you like it or not.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Variation of a Sex Pollen Trope (pollen isn’t in a flower, it’s in fruit), Smut, Enemies to Reluctant Lovers (at first at least), Some Fluff, Reader is typically at Walkers’ throat (Walker tries his best to not let that get to him, but he slips a lot), Mentions of throwing up

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (yeah yeah, I know.), Rough Sex, Hair Pulling, Fingering, Fingers Sucking, Biting, Scratching, Putting Hands Over Mouths, Is It A Bit Awkward At First? Yep, but just go with it lol, Rubbing through clothes, I don’t think I missed anything.

Author’s Note: Jeeeeez, first John Walker Fic and I’ve been indoctrinated by the system lol. I loved writing this, and it was really different to write a totally different character. Anyways, hope y’all enjoy my first stab at writing Walker. <3

Word Count: 11,380

You hated John Walker.

That wasn’t an exaggeration. It wasn’t some mild annoyance you brushed off during missions or a tolerable personality clash you could wave away with professionalism. No. You hated him.

Maybe it was the knock-off Captain America suit–stitched to mimic valor but worn by a man who had never earned the weight behind the star that Steve wore. It was too clean. Too polished. And too fake. Like it was a whole PR stunt to make people forget about what Steve had foraged while wearing the suit. Or maybe it was the way he always had to be the one leading the charge, barking orders with that square jaw clenched beneath his helmet like he was still playing soldier on a stage meant for legends.

He never listened, and always thought he had the answer to everything–every intel breach, every tactical glitch, and every goddamn conversation during debrief that didn’t go his way. His confidence wasn’t earned; it was manufactured, inflated by ego and absolute delusion, straining at the seams of his self-importance.

And the worst part was that he returned your disdain in equal measure.

Walker was the type who matched other people’s energy with force–sarcasm for sarcasm, sharp glances for sharp words. You couldn’t stand him, and he couldn’t stand you, and that dynamic never changed. Not through group missions or close calls, not even through the quiet tension of mandatory team-building exercises. Not once.

So when you were told that the two of you were being paired up–alone–for a mission in the goddamn Sonoran Desert, your blood pressure practically spiked through the roof. No one else was available, and you couldn’t refuse the assignment. There was HYDRA tech that was reportedly hidden at a facility so deep in the desert it didn’t even exist on updated satellite maps, and they needed the two of you to go and scavenge the place.

——————

The HYDRA compound revealed itself slowly, half-sunken in the sand like a ruin the earth itself had tried to erase. The midday heat shimmered off rusted steel and scorched cement, and the sunlight was unrelenting as it bled into the sky–everything was a haze of orange, white, and bone-dry heat. Thorny mesquite curled around collapsed fencing, and weather-worn “NO TRESSPASSING” signs flapped weakly against the chain-links like the building was attempting to hide something while being a beacon of suspicion.

The facility itself was carved into the side of a low mesa, it was concrete and reinforced with steel paneling that had long since warped and peeled. Faded HYDRA insignias were barely visible on the corroded doors–faded off from the sun and from the time that had passed between being abandoned and rediscovered. There were old roots that crept over shattered vents, and every inch of the space reeked of disuse staleness, expired chemicals, and ozone.

Walker cracked the heavy steel door open with a loud creak, the hinges shrieking in protest after years of sunbaked neglect. His body shifted as he used his weight to hold it steady, his muscles flexing in his suit, rippling with the effort as he glanced back at you with a silent tilt of his head that said, Well?

You stepped past him without a word, ducking through the partially jammed frame and brushing your shoulder against the wall’s blistered edge. You felt rust bite at the tactical gear that lined your suit, scraping against the skin tight fabric, as you slipped into the shadows beyond. He followed a beat later, wedging the door wider with his taco-shaped shield so he could slide in behind you–because he knew damn well you weren’t about to stand there and hold it open for him.

The second the door slammed shut behind you, the desert heat that had been clinching to your skin like a wet blanket vanished.

Cool, climate-controlled air kissed the back of your neck and seeped into your sleeves. It smelled of filtered metal and aged antiseptic, a sterile coldness preserved in time. The hallway ahead sloped downward, the lights overhead flickering under layers of desert dust and age. You both unholstered your sidearms and moved wordlessly, your boots making muffled thuds against the concrete floor.

You didn’t hear any machinery humming, or any additional footsteps, it was just pure silence. The stairs that led down to the lab were cracked and slick with sand that had blown through the broken ventilation panels, and when you reached the bottom, the space opened up before you like the aftermath of a storm.

It was chaos–frozen in amber.

The lab was wide and low-ceilinged, lined with shattered containment chambers, broken glass, and desks covered in forgotten paperwork. The overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly in uneven intervals, painting the space in pulses of cold white light that caught the jagged edges of shattered beakers and tools.

Tables were overturned. Lockers were pried open and left gaping like rib cages. One wall had been half-blasted through, the steel reinforcement melted into curls like scorched ribbon. Chemical residue stained the floor beneath cracked Bunsen burners and mangled containment vats. And despite the years of abandonment, some of the terminals still flickered faintly–screens frozen on half-written formulas, the final lines of code interrupted mid-command.

Whoever had been here last hadn’t packed up. They hadn’t even tried to clean.

They had fled.

With a sharp glance between you, you and Walker instinctively split directions, guns raised and shoulders tense. You swept left, hugging the shadows along a row of overturned shelves while he cut a path along the right, stepping over debris like he’d done this a thousand times. You checked corners. Cleared doorways. Searched for movement in the stillness.

After a few minutes, the two of you circled back toward the main lab space and gave each other a nod. Weapons were returned to their holsters.

“You stay on your side. I’ll stay on mine,” You instructed, already turning your attention to a nearby filing cabinet.

You crouched beside it, the metal warped with heat but still intact enough to pull open. The drawers resisted with a groan, but gave way to reveal yellowed documents and rough-edged folders thick with dust. You flipped through them with gloved fingers, scanning for anything tagged with keywords–biotech, neurochemistry, mutagenic flora.

Across the room, Walker exhaled with a put-upon sigh and dragged his helmet off his head. His short, sweat-damp blond hair fell forward, a few stubborn strands sticking to his forehead before he ran a hand through them in frustration.

“Whatever you say,” He muttered under his breath.

You didn’t bother responding.

He moved toward the far wall of lab stations, setting his shield down against a broken chair and picking through scattered tools and abandoned datapads. The lab lights flickered again, casting long shadows over his broad shoulders and the deep furrow in his brow. You watched out of the corner of your eye as he moved slowly, his body flexing in the uniform, shaking his head like he was trying to exude some of the adrenaline that coursed through his veins, letting out a little huff.

The silence stretched.

You turned back to the drawer, pulling out a thick folder marked with a Hydra insignia that had bled into the paper with age. Its contents were more scientific than you expected–botanical diagrams, field notes in Russian and English, chemical breakdowns that included bizarre hormone pathways and neural reaction patterns. One particular document made your eyes narrow.

“Reactional pheromonal stimuli observed within 7-10 minutes of exposure. Compounds trigger sensory hypersensitivity, behavioural fixation, glandular spike in oxytocin and dopamine receptors. The subject displays signs of heightened arousal, increased aggression, and intense desire to imprint on the nearest organic source of stimulus. Compound variant D-324. Extracted from hybrid flora found near contaminated grounds. USE WITH CAUTION.”

You were just about to flip to the next page when a sharp crash split through the silence like a bullet.

Glass shattered and metal clanged.

You flinched, body tensing on instinct as your hand went to your holster–but it was just Walker. You snapped your head up and locked eyes with him from across the lab. You could’ve shot him right then and there and wrote in the mission reports that it was an accident, but you withheld your frustration.

He stood frozen in front of a tilted shelving unit, jagged-edged beakers and shattered Petri dishes in glittering ruin at his feet. One of the heavier drawers from the workstation had slipped off entirely, landing with a loud thud that echoed through the steel-and-concrete space.

Your hands curled into fists.

”Jesus Christ, Walker,” You barked, rising to your feet, “Will you be careful for fuck’s sake? Are you a child? Do I need to tell you to keep your hands to yourself?!” He raised one hand in exaggerated surrender, while bracing the other lazily against the edge of his tactical belt.

”For god’s sake,” He muttered, clearly annoyed, “You don’t have to snap at me like I did it on purpose. It was a fucking accident. Ever heard of them?” The lab lights buzzed overhead, casting cold strobing shadows across his face. He was flushed from the heat, his jaw tight with irritation, sweat collecting at his temple just beneath the mess of damp blond hair.

You shot him a glare so sharp it felt like your eyes were burning holes into his skull.

”Go do a perimeter sweep outside. I can handle this myself.” Walker scoffed, pushing off the bench as he reached down to snatch his shield from where it leaned against the broken chair. He slipped the strap over his arm with practiced ease, flexing his forearm as it locked into place.

“Gladly. Hopefully your hot head will be cooled down by the time I get back,” He commented as he turned and stalked toward the hallway. Your jaw clenched so tight your molars ached. You resisted the urge to hurl a paperweight at the back of his skull and instead stood perfectly still, watching him disappear around the corner, his boots crunching softly over debris until the sound faded into silence.

Only once he was gone did you exhale sharply through your nose and turn your attention back to the folder in your hands, then you flipped the page to look at more chemical diagrams. Your gaze caught on a series of rough sketches–floral structures, seed pods, and bulbous, ocular fruits. The rendering was hand-drawn but detailed, each vein and spine delicately inked in colour with obsessive precision. It looked like a prickly pear cactus–but wrong. A little more rounded, with the outer flesh marked with pale orange freckles. From the diagram the person who drew and coloured it made it seem like there was a golden sheen on the skin, like it was supposed to attract people to pluck one and eat it. There was a note paper clipped to the drawings.

“Variant D-324. Unstable. Field tested on rodents. Significant behavioural alteration. Strong bonding behaviour. Reproductive fixation. Terminal trial recommended after Stage III symptoms manifest. Effects vary by subject physiology. Cross-species transmission likely via ingestion. Tested Subject killed mate.”

Your eyes trailed back to the drawn cross section of the fruit. Inside, the pulp was a deep reddish purple–smooth and glossy like syrup–surrounded by a fibrous membrane and glistening orange seeds.

”What kind of mad scientist bullshit is this?” You muttered under your breath. It wasn’t even a question to answer. Just an exhausted observation at the absurdity of what you were holding–botanical aphrodisiacs with cross-species imprinting behaviour? HYDRA had clearly never gotten tired of playing god. You flipped through another few pages, scanning the margins for legible notes. There were little scribbles in different inks–some frantic, some neat, one simply read “FAILED–DO NOT INGEST” next to a blood-stained fingerprint. The file practically radiated do not touch, which of course made it all the more dangerous, and all the more important.

You closed the folder and set it carefully on the nearest metal counter, brushing a layer of dust off the surface before placing it down flat. You would be bringing that back to the compound for sure. Even if it wasn’t related to the mission objectives, this was the kind of file that needed deeper analysis–and the team back home would want to know exactly what had been left behind out there in the half-rotted tomb of a lab, especially Bucky.

Turning away from the counter, you made your way further into the heart of the facility.

The containment area was cooler, and darker. The light there was more finicky, flickering overhead like it was on the brink of dying out. You moved past cracked display cases and sealed cabinets. Most were empty, their contents long removed or destroyed. A few still had test vials filled with discolored liquids that clung to the glass like they were alive, shifting slowly with gravity as you passed.

You rifled through drawers. Pulled at rusted handles. Tugged open sample trays and flipped through brittle paperwork. You found coded USB drives, decayed documentation, even an old lab coat still hanging from a hook that was burned at the bottom. Your curiosity got the better of you–you were in your element, entirely focused on the hunt. The quiet hum of machinery under your fingertips as you attempted to reboot a terminal. The delicate turn of a dial on an old refrigeration unit. The satisfying clack of a drawer sliding open to reveal its secrets.

You were so focused, in fact, that you didn’t hear the footsteps returning. Didn’t hear the approach behind you or the shift in air pressure. Nor did you catch the scent of something faintly sweet–like a juicy type of citrus and pepper–until a voice cut clean through the silence and made your heart jerk.

”Want a cactus berry?” You jolted violently, head snapping over your shoulder as adrenaline surged through your chest. Walker was standing behind you. Relaxed. His stance was easy, almost boyish in the set of his shoulders–except there was something in the way he looked at you that made your gut clench. His lips were stained a faint, dusty pink. Barely noticeable unless you were looking. But your eyes were looking–tracking every detail with sniper-like precision now.

There were a few drops of juice tangled in the hairs of his beard, catching the lab light in a soft shimmer. His tongue darted out to swipe the corner of his mouth as he lifted one of the small, alien-looking fruits toward you–half-sliced, its interior gleaming a vibrant, syrupy purple. The missing section was clearly in his stomach now. He held up a second one like a peace offering, his eyes trying to settle somewhere between your mouth and your expression.

A little smile pulled at his lips–hesitant, but there. Almost sheepish. Almost…Apologetic. Like this was his version of saying sorry. Like this was an olive branch wrapped in thorns.

You didn’t reach for it, you just stared at him, before your eyes dropped to the fruit. The pulp. The orange freckles…

The skin of the fruit gleamed faintly–just like the drawing in the file. A golden sheen, too perfect to be natural. Almost seductive in how ripe and rich it looked.

“Walker…” You said slowly, your voice losing all the heat you were going to meet him with, “Where did you get those?” He glanced down at them like he hadn’t realized they were significant. Then, with zero sense of urgency, he brought the half-eaten slice back to his mouth and shoved another juicy wedge between his teeth, chewing loudly.

”From outside,” He replied around the bite, his voice muffled and wet. Juice trickled over his lip and down his chin, catching in the hairs of his beard, “Few clicks past the perimeter. There was a whole cluster of them. Nice and ripe. Way better than the shit you find in stores.” He continued, with absolutely no sense of awareness of what was going on.

Your mouth opened–but no words came out.

Because what could you even say?

You had just read a declassified Hydra file about that exact fruit. About its neurochemical effects. Its impact on bonding behavior. Its ability to override basic inhibition. Its tendency to push reproductive drives to the forefront of cognition.

And here this idiot was, standing in front of you, cheeks flushed, pupils wide, tongue stained pink with chemical poison, acting like he’d found a damn trail snack.

You took one step back, your mind whirring, trying to calculate how long it had been since his first bite. Seven minutes? Eight?

“Walker…” You started, firmer this time. “You need to stop eating that right now. Spit it out. Wash your mouth. I’m serious. That’s not safe. That’s–” He looked at you like you were overreacting. That familiar smug edge crept back into his tone.

“Relax…It’s just a cactus berry, not a HYDRA bomb. I’ve eaten worse in the field.” He licked the juice from his fingers like it was honey, lips shining faintly under the lab’s sickly flickering lights. The sound of each indulgent pop of his fingertips leaving his mouth echoed through the cavernous stillness like a slap.

And then he swallowed the wedge you had just told him to spit out. You stared at him, stunned, a sound of pure exasperation tearing from your chest like it was dragged from the deepest part of your lungs.

“For the love of god, why can’t you just listen to me for once?” You snapped, stepped forward without hesitation now, “They’re not cactus berries, John, you idiot!” You didn’t wait for his response. You stormed across the space, closed the distance between you in three sharp strides, and smacked the other fruit clean out of his hand. It hit the ground with a wet thud, rolling beneath a scorched lab table and leaving a dark purple smear across the cracked tile.

Walker blinked in shock both still parted slightly, juice clinging to his lips like a bruise. You didn’t give him time to argue. Your hand found the crevasse of his shield–right where the taco formed– and you yanked him with you, dragging him toward the workstation where you’d left the folder, flipping it open.

”Read it, you dumbass.” You said, slamming your palm down beside the open file for emphasis. Walker leaned over, brows furrowed, still panting a little from the sudden movement. His hair, slightly damp with sweat, had started to fall loose again from where he’d slicked it back–tufts falling forward over his forehead as he squinted at the pages.

His blue eyes darted back and forth for a few moments.

You could practically see the exact moment his brain caught up to reality. His jaw ticked, then slowly dropped slack.

“Oh…Fuck.” He muttered under his breath, like it hurt to say aloud. He stepped back from the workstation like the file had burned him.

And then, without another word, he rushed over to one of the lab sinks–nearly slipping on a broken clipboard in his path-and shoved the old, rust-speckled tap on full blast.

The water came out brown at first, then clear, and he didn’t hesitate. He bent low and shoved his mouth directly beneath the flow, spluttering as the cold stream smacked his face. He cupped his hand around the flow so it went into his mouth, swished it hard, spat into the deep metal basin, then repeated the motion twice more–his shoulders heaving.

”Should’ve fucking known it was too good to be true,” He hissed out, voice rough, lips pink and wet now as he looked around the room in frantic desperation. “I need a trash bin–I’m gonna try to throw it up.” You were already moving, grabbing the one closest to the bench with the file, fixing the inner bag and handing the whole bin to him with one sharp motion. His eyes flicked up toward yours for half a second–less gratitude, more raw panic–before he dug his teeth into his gloves and slipped them off, turning his back to you quickly.

You heard the gag reflex almost immediately when he shoved his fingers into his mouth. A sharp, wet retch.

The sound of his knuckles forcing his throat to convulse.

He choked again–and this time, you heard the sickening splash of liquid filling the liner of the bin. Bitter-smelling fruit, stomach acid, and bile hit the air almost instantly.

You winced. Not from disgust–though it was disgusting–but from the growing realization that it might not matter if he made himself throw up, because if the timing was remotely accurate in the file…He had missed his opportunity. You heard him spit again–harsh and wet–the sound accompanied by another low gag that scraped out of his chest like he was trying to exorcise it. More liquid hit the bag with a slap, and a few raged breaths followed. His boots scuffed against the tile as he lowered the trash bin to the ground and shoved his face beneath the running stream once more, gasping as the cold water hit him again.

He spat hard–twice–before panting between swishes.

“Fuck…”

His voice was raspy, bordering on hoarse.

“Fuck’s sake.”

You stayed rooted where you were, back near the workstation, still watching him cautiously from across the room, eyes narrowed. You didn’t move. You weren’t sure if you should.

“Are you feeling anything?” You asked, voice firm but low, trying not to betray the knot tightening in your throat from the nerves that plagued you. Walker’s head snapped up from the stream. He shook it almost immediately, droplets of water flying from his damp hair and beading across the sink’s edge.

“No…No, not yet.” He swallowed thickly, “But I don’t think it’s gonna stay that way.” He pushed himself upright, wiping a slick hand down his face as he turned toward you–and that’s when you saw it.

The first sign.

His skin. It was already flushing.

Not just at the cheeks or the neck from exertion–but spreading low, beneath the collar of his uniform. It was a warm, creeping pink that suggested something deeper than physical strain. You weren’t sure if it was from the vomiting or from the fruit–yet–but you didn’t like the odds either way. You crossed your arms and leaned your hip against the workstation, watching him cautiously.

“Didn’t anyone teach you not to eat random fruit around abandoned Hydra facilities?” You asked, tone dry, bitter with disbelief and slight amusement. He groaned audibly, dragging both hands down his face.

“Please don’t fucking start with me.” The sound of his shield hitting the floor echoed hard and metallic–he’d unstrapped it from his forearm and tossed it aside with a thunk that made the overhead lights tremble. The bounce echoed in the cavernous quiet. “Now is not the fucking time.” He added, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack. You stepped back automatically, hands lifting in passive surrender.

“Sorry,” You mumbled, though it barely felt necessary. He was already unraveling. Walker stood there, shoulders heaving like his lungs couldn’t quite keep up. His forehead glistened beneath the mess of damp blond hair now curling slightly at the edges. He rubbed the sweat away, dragging his palm across his temple and then freezing–staring at the beads of moisture that pooled on his skin.

Then, slowly, with barely concealed discomfort, he began to unbuckle his gear.

You didn’t say anything. You just…Watched. Quietly. Carefully. In small, stolen glances, as if acknowledging it too directly might escalate something you couldn’t walk back. He moved methodically.

Snapped open a buckle. Loosened a strap. Peeled back a thick shoulder pad that clattered against the bench.

Another groan, this one deeper, vibrating through his throat as he reached for his chest rig and began unclipping the front latch.

His breathing was getting heavier.

You could hear it now–ragged, uneven, pulling in short through his nose and puffed out through parted lips. Like he was hot from the inside out, trapped in a body that was slowly catching fire.

He ripped the velcro at his side and slipped out of the gear, the stiff bulk of it landing with a heavy drop on the floor. One hand found the back of his neck, fingers curling against the muscle there, pressing like he could rub the tension out–but you could see it wasn’t helping.

”Shit…” He muttered to himself, rubbing harder now. You saw the muscles in his back shift beneath the fabric of his training shirt. Every motion was more urgent now. Like he was being driven forward by instinct, rather than reason.

“You need to find something to tie me up with,” Walker rasped, voice low and strained, the words pushed between clenched teeth like he was holding back more than speech. “Or a room to lock me in. I can’t be walking around freely–this doesn’t feel right…” He let out a harsh breath, his chest rising and falling beneath the damp stretch of his training shirt. It clung to him now, soaked with sweat–darkened along his collarbones, down the deep line between his pecs, and beneath the sharp angles of his arms where the fabric stuck like a second skin. He dragged one palm across his jaw, then fanned himself with it in a feeble attempt to cool off, jaw ticking as another wave of internal heat rolled through him.

You looked around the lab, scanning for anything that could act as a restraint, heart kicking up speed despite your attempt to stay calm. Your eyes skipped over overturned chairs, scorched equipment, loose wires–and then caught on the lab coat. The one still hanging, burned at the bottom hem but structurally intact.

“Give me a second,” You said quickly. Walker grunted in response, the sound halfway between pained and resigned. He bent forward with a groan, bracing his palms on his knees as if just standing upright had become too much.

“Okay,” He panted. “Okay, just…Hurry.” You darted to the coat, fingers fumbling as you yanked it off the hook. The scent of char and chemical dust puffed into the air, but the sleeves were intact. Strong enough. You moved fast, crossing the distance back to him. Your boots clicked across the tile and skidded slightly on some scattered glass, but you didn’t slow down.

Walker had dropped to his knees now, his back pressed to the cool tile wall, close to one of the thick, metal pipes that ran along the base of the sink. He looked up at you with a flash of something wild behind his eyes–dilated pupils swallowing the color, jaw clenched so hard you thought he might shatter a molar.

“Sit over there,” you said firmly, motioning toward the pipe.

Without argument–without a single smartass comment–he crawled over on his hands and knees, shoulders hitching with each breath, and slumped back against the wall. The movement was almost desperate. Animalistic even.

You moved to him quickly, folding the sleeves of the lab coat into twisted restraints. His arms were thick, warm beneath your fingers. Radiating heat. You could feel his pulse hammering at his wrists as you wrapped the sleeves around them and tied him to the pipe behind him–tight and secure, double-knotting it despite the way your hands trembled.

He let out a groan that curled somewhere between agony and pleasure in your gut.

“Jesus fucking Christ…” He hissed, his head dropping back against the wall with a soft thud. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, throat flexing with a swallow so hard it looked painful. “You have to get away from me.” You stepped back a little, breathing hard despite yourself.

“I’m trying to do what you told me to, Walker. You said to tie you up.”

“I know,” He gritted out, nostrils flaring. “Yes. I know. But…Fuck.” His hips shifted slightly, knees spreading as he tried to stretch out, panting hard through his nose. “Are you…Wearing perfume or something?”

You blinked. “No.” He exhaled sharply, eyes opening–and the look in them made your stomach knot. It was raw. Frantic.

“You…” He started, then stopped himself, sucking in another shallow breath. His voice dropped to a whisper, hoarse with restraint. “Oh Jesus Christ, get away from me, Y/N.” His voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t commanding. It was pleading.

You backed away instinctively, giving him space, stepping behind the perimeter of an overturned lab bench. Your pulse was roaring in your ears now–hot and fast and heavy–and your skin buzzed with adrenaline as you leaned one hand on the cool steel counter, trying to center yourself.

From across the room, you heard the thunk-thunk-thunk of his head as it gently bumped back against the pipe behind him.

“I can feel it kicking in,” He muttered, more to himself than to you. “I can feel it.”

Your gaze snapped to him.

You gulped a bit, your throat working around the dry tightness that had taken hold there, as if your body was instinctively reacting to the heat bleeding off him in waves. You could see the strain in his posture, the way the veins in his forearms bulged beneath the restraint of the lab coat, every muscle pulled taut like a bowstring on the verge of snapping. His chest heaved, each breath dragged in through gritted teeth, sweat slicking his brow and darkening the fabric of his shirt in a way that made it cling to the ridges of his torso.

“Are you in pain?” You asked, voice soft but edged with urgency, stepping just a little closer. His eyes snapped to yours, pupils nearly blown, and you could feel the answer in the way his gaze raked over you before he even opened his mouth.

“Of course I’m in pain,” He bit out, his voice raw and fraying at the edges. “I feel like I’m going to break out of my fucking skin.” His head tipped back with a soft thunk against the pipe again, like he was trying to ground himself, like the cold metal might be enough to anchor him to cool him down–but it didn’t. Not even close. You watched his throat bob with another swallow, the tendons straining as he let out a whimper–quiet, involuntary, and more desperate than anything you’d ever heard from him before. It lodged something tight and uneasy in your chest.

“How long is this going to last?” He asked, his voice breaking on the tail end, like the question physically hurt to speak. His fingers twitched, curling against the binds as though some part of him was still fighting the instincts flooding his system. You hesitated, your eyes darting back to the file, then to him again. His jaw was flexing, his knees shifting restlessly. The look on his face was enough to send a chill down your spine–part agony, part something else entirely. Something hungrier.

“You want me to check?” You said, carefully, trying to confirm. He hummed, eyes slamming shut again like the act of keeping them open was too much.

“Yes…Oh fuck,” He groaned, the sound drawn up from his gut, laced with a rasp that sounded far too much like want. You grabbed the folder with trembling fingers, flipping back through the pages, skimming for anything that might give you a definitive timeframe. The diagrams blurred for a moment–your hands were shaking, your mind running a mile a minute.

“Reactional pheromonal stimuli observed within 7-10 minutes… Symptoms persist for 4-6 hours depending on physiology…”You swallowed audibly.

“Well?” He barked, voice cracking, his body visibly shaking, “How long?”

“Four to six hours,” You said quietly, the words hitting the air like a death sentence. A strained laugh–short, bitter, disbelieving–escaped him.

“It’s probably going to be longer than that…” He rasped. His body flexed suddenly, jerking hard against the restraints. The fabric of the lab coat sleeves dug into his wrists, and his biceps swelled under the strain. He let out a guttural grunt, one that vibrated all the way up your spine. His head tipped forward, damp strands of blond hair falling over his brow as he sucked in a shaky breath through his teeth, “The Super Soldier Serum is going to make it worse…” He added, voice shredded and barely coherent, like every word was dragged through gravel.

”My heart is fucking beating so hard out of my chest I think it’s…It’s going to explode…I think I’m gonna die.” He groaned again, and this time the sound came from somewhere deep, primal. His body jerked once more against the restraints, and you heard it–clear as day.

The creak of the metal pipe bolted to the wall behind him.

It whined beneath the force of his flexed arms, the strain of his super-soldier-enhanced body tightening like a loaded spring. His biceps bulged, sweat running in rivers down his face, and his legs kicked slightly as if resisting the instinct to crawl forward toward you, to reach. You watched his jaw tremble, eyes squeezed shut, chest shuddering under the weight of whatever hell he was trying to hold inside.

It wasn’t going to be long now.

Your breath hitched as you realized it–Walker wasn’t just fighting off heat or confusion anymore. His whole system was boiling over. His skin glowed pink with fever. His hands twitched, aching to grab. His spine arched like his bones themselves were begging to act. And once that pipe gave way–and it would–you were going to be the closest living thing in range.

The primary target.

You bit your bottom lip hard, trying to focus, to breathe through the way your pulse was thundering in your ears. Your eyes fluttered shut for a second, searching for clarity in the blur of adrenaline and dread. And then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you said it.

“I have a solution,” You started, voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s not going to be fun for either of us.” For a moment, all you could hear was the stuttering sound of his breath–then a low, hoarse gasp.

“What’s the solution?” He breathed out, his voice breaking in two like it hurt to even speak. His eyes opened, glassy and blown wide, and locked on you. There was no trace of smugness or arrogance in them now–only sheer agony. He looked absolutely wrecked. You hesitated, swallowing thickly. Then slowly, carefully, you stepped out from behind the lab bench, folder still clutched in your hand.

“The cactus berries are basically…Aphrodisiacs on crack,” You explained, each word leaving your mouth heavier than the last. “It seems like they wanted to use them for reproductive purposes–at least, that’s where it looks like the research was going before they bailed. Rapid hormone flooding, biological imprinting, instinctive bonding. It’s…Extreme.” Walker’s breath was ragged, his body trembling with strain as he yanked against the restraints again–harder this time. The pipe behind him screamed.

“Just get to the fucking point, Y/N,” He growled through clenched teeth. “What do I have to do to stop this?” You let out a huff, sharp and shaky, then met his eyes.

“You need to have sex,” You said flatly, like pulling a trigger. “Your body is in reproductive overdrive. That’s why you’re in pain. That’s why–”

“That’s why I can smell you through your tactical suit?” He snapped, voice strained, cutting you off before you could finish. You froze. Just for a second. Then looked away, heart hammering in your chest.

“…Yeah,” You murmured, voice low, almost ashamed. “Yeah, pretty much.” Walker groaned, letting his head thunk back against the pipe with a dull, defeated sound. He exhaled through his nose like a bull, nostrils flaring, the heat radiating off him in waves so strong you could feel it from across the room. He didn’t say anything for a moment–just let the suggestion settle like smoke between you, thick and suffocating.

Then–quietly, hoarsely–he rasped, “I’m not going to ask you to do that for me.” You looked at him, blinking, brows furrowed. “I’m serious,” He added, struggling to lift his head again, his jaw flexing like it was taking everything he had just to hold himself together. “I’m not gonna ask. I might be a lot of things, but I’m not crossing that line.” You stood still for a moment, spine taut, before taking in a breath.

“If you get out of those restraints…” You began, voice cool and even, “I’m the only thing here that can actually provide relief. So it’ll happen either way.” He flinched like the words hit him square in the chest, and then he thrashed against the pipe. The metal shrieked. The sleeves pulled tight around his wrists. His shoulders rolled forward like he was trying to physically crawl out of his skin.

“Y/N–” He gasped, his voice cracking under the weight of something feral just beneath the surface. “We fucking hate each other, I–”

“I may hate you, Walker,” You interrupted, your voice sharp enough to cut through the haze that clouded him, “But I don’t want to watch you die in some rotting lab in the middle of the goddamn desert.” He fell silent. Breathing like he’d just run a marathon. Sweat poured down his temples, soaking the front of his shirt. His body shook–with effort, with need, with the unbearable weight of what you’d just laid out.

“I also don’t want to have to explain how it happened. Because we both know the team will blame me first.” You added bitterly. Walker closed his eyes. Tensed his jaw. And breathed–slow and harsh and uneven. You could see the war going on inside him. The battle between pride and survival. Hatred and heat. You and him. The sharp lines between enemies, blurring. There was a long, heavy silence. The kind that stretched out between heartbeats, between decisions you couldn’t take back. His breathing was a raw, uneven rasp–his chest rising and falling like he was drowning in the air around him. His hands strained in the bindings, knuckles flexing, arms trembling. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Not until you saw the faintest tremble in his jaw…And then his voice, low and broken, barely audible over the hum of the flickering fluorescents:

“…Are you sure?” You stared at him. Watched the war behind his eyes. Watched the sweat trickle down his temple, the tension in his arms, the split-second flashes of something vulnerable flickering beneath the pain. His body was betraying him–flooded with chemicals he couldn’t fight–and the worst part was that he knew it. You bit the inside of your cheek. Hard.

“If I was in your position,” You started slowly, your voice steady despite the whirlwind in your chest, “I’m sure you’d help me.”

His eyes locked onto yours, sharp and wide. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t blink. Knowing the look said it all.

“So I’m sure,” You added firmly, tugging at the hem of your gear.

“But we will never talk about this.” You punctuated each word like a promise, like a threat, like a sacred rule of survival. “Ever again. You understand me, Walker?”

He swallowed, his throat bobbing visibly. His eyes flicked down for a heartbeat, then dragged back up to your face as he rasped, “I understand.” Your fingers moved quickly, unbuckling the clasps of your tactical vest and shrugging it off your shoulders. It hit the ground with a thud beside his discarded shield and gear. You peeled the long-sleeved top over your head, revealing the sweat-slicked cling of your black training tank beneath.

You could feel him watching you.

His gaze followed every movement–heavy, desperate, hungry in spite of itself. But he didn’t say a word. Didn’t dare breathe too loud.

You reached for the belt at your waist and undid it with a swift twist of your fingers, the metal clinking as it came loose. You shimmied out of your cargo pants slowly, pushing them down your legs and letting them pool at your feet before taking off your boots and kicking the pants aside, leaving you in your black panties. The lab air was cool on your thighs, brushing against your skin like ghost fingers. His eyes trailed up the exposed skin, seeing scars and old battle wounds scattered around on the surface.

You moved toward him, slow and deliberate, the concrete cool beneath your bare feet. Every step closed the distance between you and the raw, trembling thing he’d become. You crouched down in front of him, your knees brushing against the dark tile, and you saw it–the way he flinched now that you were in his space. His entire body recoiled and leaned forward at once, caught between wanting to run and wanting to lunge.

And from this angle, from this proximity, you finally noticed it.

His cock was straining hard against the fabric of his pants, pressing tight against the zipper like it had no more room left to give. The outline was unmistakable, painfully prominent, the fabric darkened slightly with what you assumed was pre-cum. Your breath caught–just for a moment–and his let out a low, wounded groan at your reaction, his eyes flickering shut like just being seen like this was too much.

He didn’t say anything as you climbed over his lap.

You moved slow, careful not to jostle him too hard as you straddled the thick muscles of his thighs. His body was hot beneath yours, pulsing with tension, every part of him vibrating just under the skin. You leaned in, close enough for his forehead to tip forward and press against your bare shoulder with a tremble. His breath hit your skin–wet, hot, and desperate–and he inhaled deeply like he couldn’t help himself, taking in your scent now that you were so close to him.

“I’m gonna untie you…” You whispered, your voice soft but unwavering. Walker nodded once against your shoulder, and the movement was sharp, frantic, like holding still was getting harder by the second. His nose brushed your collarbone as he breathed in again, longer this time, and you heard the soft, broken exhale that followed. You hesitated–just for a beat.

“Control yourself,” You warned, voice firm despite the undeniable heat building between you.

His hands didn’t twitch, but you felt the tension in them as you reached back. Slowly, methodically, you untied the makeshift restraints, your fingers working the lab coat sleeves loose. First one wrist. Then the other. They were red, and raw from straining–hot to the touch and trembling as they dropped to the floor, free. He didn’t move right away, didn’t reach for you like some part of him still remembered what was coursing through his body.

You leaned back just slightly to look at him, and his eyes met yours. Blue. Blown wide and shimmering, drunk on the haze from the cactus fruit. He was breathing heavily, keeping eye contact.

And then he surged forward.

His mouth crashed into yours with a heat that knocked the breath out of your lungs. You let out a muffled groan at the first contact, startled but not resisting–his lips were warm, slick from spit and sweat, his beard scraping roughly against your chin as his hands found your waist. They clutched you like he needed to anchor himself or he’d float right out of his skin. You responded without hesitation, resting your hands on his shoulders, gripping tight, grounding both of you.

The kiss was awkward at first.

It was all teeth and too much pressure–his lips crashing into yours like he was trying to win a fight instead of sharing a breath. It was messy, desperate, driven by the chemical storm brewing in his veins. He was battling you for dominance, kissing like it was the only way he could stave off the fire beneath his skin, and your mouth struggled to match the frantic rhythm. Your lips were softer, more searching–trying to navigate the overwhelming force behind his desperation, trying to find a place where tension didn’t have to mean violence.

His nose bumped yours. Your teeth clicked once. His beard scraped hard across your chin and jaw, leaving a burn in its wake. But neither of you stopped.

He groaned into your mouth, low and broken, like the taste of you was making it worse, not better. His hands gripped your waist tighter, fingers pressing into the flesh–like your body was the only real thing in a world that had dissolved into hunger and heat. His hips jerked once beneath you, like instinct was already pulling the strings.

Then–something shifted.

The frantic edge dulled just enough for your mouths to meet at a better angle. He eased back slightly, panting against your lips for half a second before his mouth found yours again–slower this time, fuller. His lips dragged against yours with heat but less pressure, like he was learning your shape now, giving you room to answer. Your tongue slipped forward to meet his, testing, brushing–searching for rhythm. He groaned again, deeper this time, and responded by sucking your bottom lip between his teeth. It was sloppy still, yes–but it was working. His hands flexed at your waist as he pulled you tighter into his lap, pressing you flush to the hardened line of his cock beneath his pants.

The groan that tore from his throat was almost feral.

You felt it before you heard it–the tremble of his chest as it rattled through him, and the way his whole body tensed as he pulled back from your lips, panting like he’d just run miles.

“Don’t think I’ll be able to control myself, Y/N…” He rasped, his voice hoarse and soaked in restraint, like it was physically painful to hold back. His pupils were blown wide, his cheeks flushed, lips swollen from the kiss and glistening with your spit. He looked wrecked. And he hadn’t even touched you properly yet.

You didn’t get a chance to reply.

His hand left your waist, the fingers trailing a path up your body with the kind of reverence that felt violently out of place in the middle of so much urgency. He brought them to your face, calloused pads brushing your cheek before they moved lower. Two fingers dragged along your bottom lip, gently, almost tenderly.

“Open,” He breathed, his voice guttural, tight with need. His jaw clenched, like he was barely holding back a snarl. “Let me get my fingers wet…So I can at least do something for you before I lose my mind.” Your heart stuttered in your chest at the contradiction laced in his voice–that brutal, aching desperation colliding with the unexpected gentleness in his request. Even now, even wired with synthetic hunger and burning from the inside out, he was thinking about you. Your pleasure. Your comfort.

Not just what he needed.

You lifted your eyes to his, and something in you softened–just enough to take the edge off the fear thrumming through your body like static. He looked so wrecked. Pupils blown wide, sweat slicking his hairline, jaw clenched tight like he was chewing on every shred of restraint he had left. But his hand trembled where it hovered near your face, fingers open in quiet request rather than demand.

So you leaned forward and took his fingers into your mouth.

Warm and solid against your tongue, the pads of them rough with calluses and scar tissue. You sucked them deep, hollowing your cheeks as your lips sealed around them, saliva slicking the digits in slow, deliberate strokes. You could feel the tremor run down his spine at the sensation–heard the sharp hiss of breath he dragged through his teeth, the flex of his thighs beneath you as his cock twitched against the inside of your leg.

“Fuck…” He groaned, voice breaking against your shoulder. “That’s not helping, sweetheart.” You hummed around his fingers, dragging your tongue over the creases of his knuckles, your eyes locked to his until finally he pulled them from your mouth with a slick pop. And then you felt it–his hand slipping down, knuckles dragging along your stomach until they dipped beneath the waistband of your panties.

You adjusted without thinking, shifting your hips forward, parting your thighs over his lap to give him better access. And when his fingers reached your core–hot, swollen, slick with arousal–it was like all the air left his lungs.

“Oh my god…” He whispered, like a confession, “You’re wet…” He said it like he was shocked. You bit your bottom lip, but it didn’t stop the little gasp that escaped when the pads of his fingers glided through your folds–his saliva mixing with your arousal in a perfect, messy cocktail that let him slide easily through the heat of you.

He groaned again. Sharper. Desperate.

And then–without warning–his other hand left your waist and gripped the back of your neck, not hard, not rough, but with a kind of trembling urgency as he pulled you down and kissed you again.

It was filthy this time.

Sloppy and fast, his tongue slipping between your lips before they even met fully. His mouth was hot and insistent, panting into yours, lips parted like he was drinking you in. His fingers pressed more firmly between your thighs, finding your clit with almost surgical precision, and when he started to rub tight, aching circles, your hips jerked forward into his hand.

Your moan caught in his mouth–raw and breathy.

And then your hand dropped between you, fumbling for the heavy bulge straining in his pants. The fabric was damp and sticky with his pre-cum, and you could feel the sheer size of him beneath your palm as you cupped him fully, pressing the heel of your hand into the length of his cock. He bucked up into your touch so hard it knocked your chest into his. The kiss faltered for a second–just enough for him to let out a muffled, feral groan into your mouth.

His fingers immediately mirrored the pace you set on his cock–rubbing your clit faster, harder, like your touch lit a fuse in him.

“Jesus–” He gasped, his lips breaking from yours for half a second to suck in air, “–gonna lose it if you keep doing that.”

You didn’t stop. You palmed him again, dragging your hand along the ridge of his cock through the damp fabric, and he whined against your lips.

His breath was hot against your cheek as he pressed his face into the curve of your jaw, rutting up into your hand with quick, desperate thrusts while his fingers danced between your folds. Each flick against your clit felt more precise, more hungry, like he was attuned to every tremble in your thighs, every stutter in your breath. He slipped two fingers inside you without warning, and your breath hitched–shallow and sharp–right against the corner of his mouth.

“Fuck,” You whispered, the word barely more than a gasp as your thighs instinctively tightened around his lap. His fingers were thick and warm, coated in slick and spit, curling as they sank deeper into you. The sound of it was obscene–wet and rhythmic as he began thrusting them with sharp, practiced movements, dragging against the spot inside you that made your vision blur.

“Jesus Christ,” Walker hissed, like the feel of you around his fingers was short-circuiting his brain. You could barely focus–your hand still palmed the heat of his cock through the fabric of his pants, and the pressure of him rutting up into your palm made the friction even filthier, desperate, hot. You pressed your other hand to his shoulder, then tangled your fingers into his sweat-damp blond hair, tugging hard enough to make him grunt.

He bucked into your hand again, shameless now, grinding up into your palm like he didn’t give a shit about control anymore.

And then he bit your collarbone.

His teeth sank into the soft flesh where your neck met your shoulder–not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark. Your entire body jolted at the sensation, a strangled moan slipping free as your walls fluttered around his fingers.

You could feel the sweat dripping off his face now, beading where your bodies met, sliding between your ribs and over the curve of your chest. He was panting, shaking, his fingers working you fast, relentless, and soaked.

“Oh god, Walker–” You moaned, your breath hitching again as your thighs started to tremble. He growled into your skin, licking where he’d bitten, his stubble scraping over your flushed flesh.

“Come on, sweetheart,” He rasped. “Soak my fucking fingers. I can feel how close you are…Don’t hold it.”

You let out a whimper as your stomach clenched and the pressure burst—your orgasm crashing over you in a wave that ripped through every inch of your body. Your hips jerked, thighs quaking around his, as your cunt pulsed around his fingers and your panties grew damp with the spill of your release. His fingers didn’t stop, working you through every second of it, stroking and curling and milking every twitch from you until you were gasping into his shoulder.

“Shit…John–” You cried out, your voice cracking.

You yanked at his hair as it happened–your grip tight, near vicious, as the climax wracked through you. His head tipped back with a groan, and then he surged forward and kissed you again, mouth hot and slick and panting against yours.

“I really need to fuck you now,” He breathed against your lips, voice ragged and hoarse, “because I feel like I’m being edged over here.” You let out a laugh–breathy, dazed, still twitching from the aftershocks.

“Driving you crazy?” He shook his head, jaw tightening, cheeks flushed.

“In any other situation, I honestly would’ve finished in my pants just from you doing that to me…” His tone was deadly serious, but then he added, with a breathless huff: “Don’t let that get to your head by the way.” You rolled your eyes, still breathless, and reached for the waistband of his pants, snapping the damp fabric against his hip with a sharp flick.

“Don’t worry,” You teased, voice low and wicked. “I know you haven’t gotten any since the incident.” His breath caught–and you felt it, sharp and full in his chest, like you’d punched through the last bit of his restraint.

He exhaled slowly, bitterly. “Not a good time to bring up my ex-wife, Y/N.”

“I’ll admit,” You muttered, breath still shaky as you braced a palm on his chest, “That one was a little below the belt… Sorry.” Walker let out a breathless laugh–half grunt, half exhale, the corner of his mouth twitching despite the strain in his eyes.

“It’s fine…Now can you sit up a bit so I can take these stupid fucking pants off before my cock breaks in half.” You let out a huffed laugh–half in disbelief, half because the image he painted was a little too vivid. You pushed yourself upright, your thighs still trembling faintly from the aftershocks, and watched as he worked quickly to undo his fly, movements urgent, frantic with need.

The second the button popped and zipper came down, his cock sprang free–angry red and leaking heavily, the flushed head smearing a wet line across the front of his shirt as it slapped up against his stomach. Your breath caught in your throat.

He was thick. Veiny. Long enough that you could see the throb in him, the pulse of desperation rippling under his skin like it had a heartbeat of its own. And fuck, he looked pained–like every second he wasn’t inside you was another mile stretched across a desert with no water. His jaw clenched as he looked down between your bodies.

“Jesus Christ,” You muttered under your breath, unable to stop yourself. His eyes flicked up to yours, sharp and glazed with lust.

“You see what you fucking did to me?” He ground out, his hands already moving–one dragging your soaked panties to the side, the other wrapping around the base of his cock to guide himself through the slick heat between your folds. You shifted instinctively, rolling your hips just enough to coat him in your wetness, the head of his cock catching on your clit and making both of you flinch. You bit your lip. He hissed through his teeth.

“Don’t fucking tease me right now, Y/N.” His voice was fraying at the seams.

“Then stop talking and do something about it.”

He didn’t hesitate.

His hand found your hip, fingers bruising as he gripped tight–and then he pushed you down. Hard. The head of his cock breached you with a stretch that bordered on too much, but the slide was fast, brutal, and so fucking deep. You both cried out–separate, messy sounds of relief and overload that echoed through the hollow lab space like some primal duet.

Your head dropped forward with a whimper. “Oh my god–”

“Fuck–” he bit out, his hands digging into your hips now, pulling you fully down onto him, burying every inch until your thighs were flush against his and your cunt was fluttering around his cock like it couldn’t decide if it wanted more or less. “You’re so fucking tight, Jesus–how are you this fucking tight?”

You couldn’t answer.

Couldn’t think past the burn and stretch and the way he throbbed inside you like a live wire. He was so deep it felt like he was in your fucking stomach.

He leaned his forehead against your collarbone, shuddering violently, his body twitching beneath you like he was trying to hold back from just railing you into the tile right then and there. You felt him grit his teeth.

“I’m gonna ruin you,” He whispered, his voice soaked with strain, with heat, with that cracked desperation that came from having no choice but to fuck or die. “I’m gonna ruin this smart mouth of yours. Gonna make you forget how to insult me. Gonna fuck you so hard the only thing you’ll remember is my name in your throat.”

You inhaled sharply at the sound of it–at the pure, unfiltered possession dripping from his words.

And then you slapped your hand over his mouth.

“Shut the fuck up,” You panted, eyes wild as you looked down at him. “You talk too much.”

His eyes went wide, but his cock twitched violently inside you like the shame turned him on harder. He let out a growl behind your palm and then snapped his hips up into you with such force your breath stuttered.

You didn’t remove your hand. You just held it firm over his mouth, pressing his head back against the pipe, riding him now with slow, grinding movements–circling your hips, letting him feel every flutter and pulse inside your core as it clenched around him, dragging tight and wet along the thick length of him. His eyes rolled back for a second.

“See?” You whispered, voice dark and shaking, your other hand pressing into his chest. “You’re better like this. Mouth shut. With nothing to fucking say.” He groaned against your palm, biting at your skin but not hard enough to break it. His hands gripped your hips like vices, guiding your movements now, pushing you down harder, faster–trying to get deeper, even though he was already bottomed out.

The rhythm built fast. Frantic. His hips snapped up to meet every roll of yours, filthy slaps echoing in the sterile room. You bounced on him harder, sweat dripping between your breasts, thighs burning from the pace–but you didn’t stop.

You were both panting. Sweating. Grinding into each other like the world had collapsed and this was the only thing left. There was nothing tender about it–but there was something desperate. Intimate in its violence. Two enemies finding solace in each other’s destruction.

He slipped his palms under the hem of your tank top, dragging them up along your sides with a rough edge that made you shiver. His fingers were hot and trembling as they scratched the bare skin of your hips, nails digging in hard enough to leave angry crescents in your flesh. His mouth was still covered by your hand, but the grunt that rattled in his throat was pure feral. He bit you again–this time harder–sinking his teeth into your palm like he was trying to brand you.

“Shit–” You hissed, yanking your hand away. “Jesus Christ, Walker!”

He looked up at you through dark lashes, chest heaving, and smirked.

“Told you I was gonna ruin you,” He rasped, his voice low and wrecked with heat, “But fuck, sweetheart…You already feel so good around my cock, I might just fucking die right here.”

You let out a breathy, incredulous laugh, half-moan, half-disbelief, “Don’t worry, if you don’t die here, I’ll kill you after this.” he groaned, grabbing your hips and slamming you down onto him again with a strength that made your spine arch and your head fall back.

Your thighs quivered with the force of it.

“Fuck…John–” You gasped, the name torn from your throat like it didn’t belong there.

His hands left your hips only long enough to shove beneath the waistband of your panties, gripping your ass so tight it made you jerk. His fingers were everywhere–digging, spreading, grabbing at you like he didn’t care what he got as long as it was skin. He gave one cheek a sharp slap, and the wet sound of palm against flesh cracked through the lab like thunder.

You choked on a moan. “Oh my god.”

“You like that?” He growled, biting at your jaw now, dragging his stubble down your neck as he thrust up into you again. “God, I knew you were a fucking brat under all that tactical shit. Always mouthing off to me, acting like you don’t want this dick. Bet you think about it when we fight, don’t you? Fucking bet you do.”

You whimpered–sharp and high–and he did it again. Another slap. Rougher. Meaner.

“Say it,” He snapped, one hand gripping the meat of your ass while the other shoved your tank top up over your chest. “Say you wanted it.” You dug your nails into the thick muscle of his chest, dragging downward hard enough to make him hiss, then leaned up just enough to slam your hips down onto him harder, matching his thrusts.

“I wanted it,” you spat. “I fucking hate you, but I wanted it.”

His eyes rolled back like that was the hottest thing you could’ve said.

“Jesus fuck, you’re unreal,” he groaned, then gripped your hips with bruising force and started rutting up into you like a man possessed. “Take it. You take every fucking inch, sweetheart. You’re so fucking wet for me—so goddamn warm—”

Your body was melting around him, your thighs trembling from the brutal pace, sweat glistening on your skin as your moans pitched louder. The slap of your bodies echoed in time with each guttural grunt from him—fast, sharp, relentless. It wasn’t even sex anymore. It was war.

And then you felt him twitch inside you.

“Y/N…Fuck…I’m gonna cum–” He growled, voice broken and desperate. “Shit…Shit, I’m gonna–” He grabbed you hard and slammed you down onto him one last time, burying himself to the hilt. His hips jerked once, then twice, and the heat of his release hit you so hard it nearly stole your breath.

You gasped–whimpered–as you felt him fill you. The sudden warmth of it spread through your core, thick and hot and raw. He groaned low and deep, like it was being torn out of him, his head pressed to your collarbone as his cock pulsed inside you, ropes of cum spilling against your fluttering walls.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he panted, still holding you tight. “You’re squeezing me so goddamn good…Fuck.”

Your nails dug into his arms, anchoring yourself as he thrust up into you a few more times, slower now, each one drawn out and shaky, like he couldn’t bear to stop yet. His breath was ragged against your skin, his hands still cradling your ass as he rocked his hips up, pushing his cum deeper inside you.

You were both trembling. Gasping. Slick with sweat and breathless from the crash.

And he didn’t let go.

He kept you seated fully on his cock, his forehead pressed against the side of your neck, his fingers twitching slightly as you both tried to catch your breath in the silence that followed. His cum was seeping out of you slowly, slick and hot, and the only thing you could do was hold onto his shoulders as your body pulsed around him in the afterglow.

After a long, quiet beat, he murmured against your neck:

“Still hate your guts by the way…But…Thank you for doing this…I don’t feel like I’m going to fucking die of horniness anymore.” It was almost said like an afterthought. But it wasn’t cruel. It was dry. Tired. Honest. There was even the faintest trace of amusement buried under the exhaustion in his tone. Your fingers twitched where they curled against his neck.

”Well…That’s a relief. Cause I still hate you too…” You hesitated just a second longer–then added under your breath, barely above a whisper, “And I hope we never have to do this again.” The words hung heavy for a moment. But the silence that followed wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t hostile. It wasn’t even fully honest. And he heard it. You felt the way his breath caught. The subtle way his fingers twitched against your back like he’d noticed the tonal shift. Like he heard what you hadn’t said. He let out a quiet exhale.

”…I mean…We don’t have to write it off completely, though.” He murmured near your ear. Your brows furrowed slightly, confused. His hand brushed your lower back, featherlight now, not rough or demanding. Just…Resting there. Casual. Like he wasn’t feeling like the end of the world was coming anymore.

“We could arrange a hate fuck here and there, couldn’t we?” He added, a faint smirk curling into the words, like he was testing you. Testing the boundary. Poking at the embers to see if they were still warm.

You lifted your head and leaned back, just enough to look him in the eye.

His hair was damp and sticking up in unruly angles, his cheeks still flushed, lips swollen and pink from your teeth, from your spit, from everything you’d done to each other in the span of minutes that would never exist again in normal daylight. His pupils were still wide, but less feral now. More…Grounded. Curious.

You stared at him for a long moment. Letting the weight of the suggestion settle.

Then your lips curved–just barely.

“Maybe,” You said, voice low, eyes gleaming. You slid a hand down his sweat-slicked chest, over the wrecked tactical shirt still bunched beneath you.

“We’ll see.”

And just like that, the truce was drawn.

Fragile. Tense. Unspoken.

But it was there.

Right there between your thighs, and somewhere deeper than either of you were willing to admit.

[runicarbiter02]

hello hello

how about angry love confession with angst and eventual fluff with Walker?

please do i love your writing and this man ❣️

Home

john walker x reader; enemies to lovers; 18+; mdni 6.5k words Summary: Enemies. Teammates. Something worse. You and John Walker were never meant to work—but war has a way of binding people in blood and silence. When a mission goes wrong, everything erupts: the rage, the hunger, the confession. And somewhere between the battlefield and the aftermath, he becomes the only place that feels like home.

John Walker walks into the room like he owns it. Not in the elegant, charming way people talk about charisma—but in that bone-deep, chest-out, get-the-hell-out-of-my-way kind of way. His boots are loud on the floor. His smirk is louder. And that damn cologne—something clean and masculine and sharp—hits you before he even rounds the corner.

You don’t flinch when he takes the seat across from you in the briefing room, but your spine straightens just enough to show you noticed. Just enough for him to notice that you noticed.

It’s always like this. 

Static in the air the second he enters a room. Your calm against his storm. He sits like the chair should be grateful. You sit like you were carved from steel. The table between you might as well be a war zone.

“Morning,” he says, voice thick with mockery and barbed charm.

“Is it?” 

He grins like you’ve given him a gift. That grin—sharp and smug and smugger—is a problem. A personal problem. One you can’t seem to quit staring at. Your teammates avoid the eye contact ricocheting between you like bullets. Even Bucky stopped trying to defuse it weeks ago. Now he just sighs and lets it burn.

Walker leans back in his seat, arms folded behind his head, t-shirt stretching tight over his biceps. He knows exactly what he’s doing. You roll your eyes. He winks.

Child, you sneer in your mind.

“I’m leading extraction,” you say, turning your gaze to the holo-map.

John snorts. “We’ll see.”

You don’t look at him, but you can feel the heat of his eyes skating down your jaw, your throat, the collar of your suit. You clench your teeth. There’s a reason you’re always assigned together. Command calls it “balancing temperaments.” They mean you’re the leash. It’s not supposed to be personal. It’s supposed to be strategic.

Except it is personal. Has been since the first mission, when he grabbed your shoulder to pull you out of the line of fire, and you snapped, “Don’t touch me.” He’d raised both hands and smiled. And then did it again ten minutes later, just to prove he could.

You don’t trust him. You don’t like him. But he gets the job done. Loudly. Sloppily. Efficiently. And—God help you—he’s never let you fall.

“Got a problem, sweetheart?” he asks now, voice a low murmur meant only for you.

You don’t respond. Just flick your eyes to him—once, hard.

The room is sterile and cool, the soft buzz of the overhead lights barely audible. And yet his presence is heat. That suffocating, overwhelming, too close to the fire kind of heat that raises the hairs on your arms. Your heart doesn’t pound. You’re more disciplined than that. But it stutters once when he leans forward and places both forearms on the table, watching you like a dog scenting blood.

You’re calm. Methodical. Ice under pressure.

He’s pressure.

Valentina  walks in and taps the screen. “Intel confirms we’re looking at a fortified compound near the border. Extraction is high-risk. You two are leading, so don’t fuck it up.”

A chorus of suppressed groans. Not about the danger. About you and John leading together.

Val just smirks. “Try not to kill each other before the enemy does.”

John grins like it’s a challenge. You press your lips into a thin line. And when you both rise at the same time—gear clanking, eyes locked, tension winding tighter than a tripwire—you swear he brushes his arm against yours on purpose.

He smells like adrenaline and cinder.

You hate it. You hate the way your stomach coils. You hate the way his eyes drop to your mouth before flicking back up like nothing happened.

You hate that you almost lean in anyway.

This isn’t attraction. This is chemical warfare.

And you’re already losing.

-

Chaos doesn’t roar. It crackles.

The sky burns orange overhead—smeared with smoke and backlit fire, like the world’s been thrown into a forge and left to melt. The ground quakes beneath your boots with every impact, every distant scream, every thundering detonation that shakes loose another breathless cloud of ash.

The mission’s gone to hell. It was supposed to be simple. Covert entry. Minimal resistance. Retrieve the hostage. Evac by air. But someone underestimated the enemy. Someone didn’t account for how many insurgents were curled into the skeletons of these crumbling high-rises, or how they moved—strategic, brutal, silent. Now the streets are a labyrinth of smoke and flame, the comms are all but dead, and your boots are soaked in something darker than water.

You’ve been separated from the team for seven minutes. Long enough to count the names of everyone missing. Long enough to notice his.

Gunfire bursts in rhythmic percussion somewhere to your left. You duck instinctively, slide behind a half-toppled column, and scan the rooftops. A sniper, maybe. Another blast hits somewhere behind you—too close—sending a shockwave through the ruined street. Glass rains down like glitter from the second floor. You flinch and keep moving.

Your leg aches. You’re bleeding—probably more than you should be. Left side, low. Could be shrapnel. Could be from the hit you took when diving to cover that intel officer earlier. Doesn’t matter. You’ve had worse.

But it’s not your blood you’re worried about.

“Walker!” you bark into the comm, one gloved hand pressed hard against the device in your ear. “Walker, do you copy?”

Silence. Just static. A low, scraping buzz. You curse and break into a jog down the main corridor—what used to be a marketplace, now reduced to twisted steel and fractured storefronts. You duck under a fallen beam, step over a crumpled drone unit still sputtering sparks, and scan for movement.

Then you hear it. Gunfire—again. Too close. You follow the echo through a scorched alley, ducking low, muscles coiled. A shadow moves just ahead—big, broad, fast. You recognize the shape instantly.

John.

He’s across the street, engaged in brutal hand-to-hand, slamming an assailant into the wreckage of a sedan with his shield. He’s already bleeding—cut across his temple, lips parted around a snarl—but moving like he’s indestructible. You lift your rifle, cover his flank, drop the second attacker sneaking up behind him without a word.

He doesn’t thank you. 

Your eyes meet across the smoke. His are wild, sharp, bloodshot with fury and worry. You nod once. He jerks his chin toward the far side of the plaza—signaling something. You don’t catch it.

Then your comm crackles.

“Move back!” John’s voice, rough and ragged, punches through the line. “Get outta there—now!”

You turn. It’s instinct. Just enough time to glimpse the structural beam above you, already groaning under its own weight—metal bending like taffy, concrete crumbling. You feel it before it falls. Hear it. The vibration in your chest. The roar that isn’t a roar, just a suffocating collapse.

Everything around you shatters.

The wall behind you explodes outward. The floor gives way. Flame rushes up your back, and something massive slams into your side.

Your body hits the ground, and then…silence. Then pain. 

Then darkness.

-

You don’t remember blacking out. Just the feeling of your ribs folding in. The crush of debris slamming you into the ground. The roar that became silence. The fire behind your eyelids that faded into dark.

When your eyes open again, the world is tilted sideways and choked in gray. The air is thick with ash—coarse, metallic, clinging to the inside of your throat like soot and regret. Every breath you pull in feels sharp-edged, too shallow, too fast. Your ears ring. Your head throbs. Something heavy pins your leg at an unnatural angle, and you can’t tell if it’s pain or the cold crawling into your bones that makes your hands shake.

You can’t move. You try, but your body doesn’t respond. And then you hear it. 

“Move. Move. Move!” 

It starts as a distant echo. Something primal in the rubble. The scrape of stone on stone. The sound of coughing. Boots pounding over shattered concrete. A voice—raw, frantic—barking your name like he’s throwing it to the wind and daring it not to answer back.

You try to speak. Can’t.

But then he’s there.

He’s there.

John drops to his knees beside you so hard the cracked floor shudders. His suit is torn. His arms are bleeding. His face is painted in ash and blood, and he looks like he ran through hell just to get to you. His eyes—God, his eyes—land on your face like he’s afraid you’re a ghost. Like he’s still waiting to wake up in a world where you’re not breathing.

“Jesus,” he breathes, voice cracked and breaking. “You—you idiot.” He says it like a sob, like a benediction, like if he says it enough, you’ll be fine.

He reaches for the slab pinning your leg and doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t ask if you’re okay. Doesn’t think. His fingers curl around the jagged edge and lift—not like a soldier calculating leverage, but like a man possessed. Like the laws of physics have to bend for him now, because you’re beneath that stone and he can’t lose you.

You hear the strain in his breathing, see the raw red forming in his palms as his skin tears open. He braces his knee against the rubble, teeth clenched, muscles locked. You can see everything in his face—the panic, the fury, the need.

His voice shudders through gritted teeth. “C’mon. C’mon, baby. Don’t do this.”

You don’t think he even knows he said it. And somehow—somehow—the slab shifts. Just enough. Just enough for light to break through the dust, for air to hit your lungs like a first breath.

Then he’s on you. His hands are everywhere—shaking, bloodied, deliberate. One skims your side, feeling for broken ribs. One brushes the gravel from your neck. He cups your jaw in both palms like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he blinks.

“Say something,” he pleads, voice shredded. “Say something, damn it—say anything—”

“Still… hate you.” Your lips part. The words scrape out through cracked lips.

He laughs. It’s wrecked. Unhinged. Doesn’t even sound like laughter—it’s something raw, a choke of emotion he can’t control. His eyes fall shut like he’s praying, or like you saying anything at all just undid him.

Your wrist is limp until he grips it. His thumb finds your pulse like he needs proof you’re alive. Like the frantic rhythm under your skin is the only thing tethering him to the earth. He pulls you upright—too fast, too desperate, like he can’t bear the thought of not touching you now that he’s got you again.

His arm slides around your waist. You sag into it without meaning to. Your head lolls slightly. His shoulder is the closest thing to gravity.

You look at him. At the dust caught in his lashes, the blood running down his temple, the wild look in his eyes that shouldn’t be there, not for you. And yet it is.

You feel seen. Entirely. Horrifyingly. Like he’s memorizing your every wound, cataloguing every inch of you for the next time he finds you broken.

“You’re the idiot,” You shove him. It’s feeble, but it lands.

He shoves you right back, palm braced against your shoulder, his jaw tight with something bordering on rage. “Don’t do that to me.”

Your eyes narrow. “To you? I was doing my job.”

“No,” he snaps, the word slicing between you. “You were trying to play goddamn martyr again—and for what? So I could find your body under a fucking building? So I could—” He stops himself. Breath shaking. His hands fist at his sides.

You can see it in him. That thing he won’t say. The thing he’s held in so long it’s poisoning him from the inside out.

You can feel it in yourself, too. A pressure. A scream. Something loud and silent clawing at the back of your throat, asking if maybe you didn’t want him to find you, but knew he would.

You’re still clutching the front of his suit. He’s still holding your hip like a man who doesn’t know how to let go.

Your faces are too close. Breath to breath. Heartbeat to heartbeat. The rest of the world is gone. Reduced to smoke and flame and far-off shouting. But here? Here, it’s quiet. It’s devastating.

You feel like you might shatter. You hate him for it. You hate the way he looks at you like you’re his compass. Hate the desperation in his voice. Hate that he came for you. That he always comes for you. Hate that you wanted him to.

And most of all?

You hate that this is going to destroy you both.

-

Your knuckles are split open. Not from the fight. Not really.

From the fallout of it. From punching the reinforced steel column in the debriefing corridor. From the way your palm slammed against the side of the evac chopper when someone had the audacity to call the mission a “clean extraction.” From the pressure of your own fists clenched so tight in the med tent that your nails bit through your skin. Tiny, angry half-moons of pain. Of restraint.

They’re bandaged now. Tight. White. Neat. But the sting’s still there. A raw, humming pulse under your skin.

Your jaw aches from clenching. Your shoulder’s bruised. Your leg’s been stitched and wrapped, the burn cleaned and dressed with clinical precision. But they didn’t touch the dust still in your hair. Or the blood caked behind your ear. They didn’t ask about the trembling in your fingers. Or why you keep flinching when someone says his name too close.

The med tent smells like antiseptic and adrenaline and smoke-soaked canvas. It's quiet, mostly—except for the occasional shuffle of boots or rustle of gauze. You’re sitting on the edge of a cot you don’t remember climbing onto. Back rigid. Hands loose in your lap. Throat burning.

And none of it is from the mission.

It’s him.

It’s always him.

He hasn’t shown up yet, and you don’t know if that’s better or worse. You didn’t speak after the rubble. After he lifted what physics said he couldn’t, super soldier serum be damned. After he screamed your name like it might tear his chest open. After you shoved him and he shoved back and neither of you said what you were actually saying.

Not out loud.

You got to your feet. You limped. You boarded the evac chopper. Sat across from him in silence, your pulse thudding in your ears while his blood stained the floor between you. And still, he didn’t say it. Because whatever the hell lives between you—it’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s not something you get to admit under the fluorescent buzz of a med tent bulb. It’s a bruise that never stops blooming.

And right now, it feels like it’s getting harder to breathe.

Your fingers flex. The bandages pull. You don’t know whether to rip them off or ask someone to tie them tighter. Because you’re holding something in. And if he walks through that door—if he so much as looks at you the way he did under that concrete—you might detonate.

Your fingers flex once more—restless under the gauze. The throb in your palm syncs with your pulse, loud in your ears. You count each beat like it’s a warning. One.Two.Thre—you feel him before you see him.

The shift in air pressure. The static tension that precedes a storm. His presence cracks against the threshold like lightning with no thunder, and then he’s inside—stalking into the tent with fury coiled in every muscle. Like a man halfway to breaking.

Boots slam against the floor—too loud. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t slow. Doesn’t even blink at the attending medic who flinches in his wake. His shirt is half-ripped, the shoulder seam torn from some earlier explosion. His skin is smudged with soot and dried blood—flaking in jagged lines down one side of his throat. There’s a handprint on his chest—yours, probably—stained in dust. His jaw is set so tight you can see it pulsing. His eyes…God. His eyes are a wildfire.

And he hasn’t showered. He hasn’t changed. Hasn’t even taken off his tac gloves. He came straight from debrief.

For you.

He stops when he sees you. Just for a second. His gaze rakes over you from head to toe, cataloguing the damage, the dressing on your thigh, the bandages around your fists, the tension in your shoulders like you’re still expecting to be hit.

His face hardens.

“What the hell was that out there?” he snaps, voice raw. It’s not loud—it’s worse. It’s sharp. Unforgiving. Like he hasn’t stopped screaming since the building collapsed—he’s just doing it with fewer words now.

You don’t flinch. You’re too tired to flinch. Too done to rise to it. “I completed the op,” you bite, each word clipped, deliberate.

“You nearly got yourself killed.” His voice rises—vibrates the space between you. “Again.”

You meet his eyes. “Maybe I was tired of waiting for you to cover me.”

That stops him cold. Just for a beat. The insult cracks like glass between you, and you can see the fury bloom in his chest.

“Bullshit,” he growls, stepping closer. His shoulders square like he’s walking into a firefight. “You weren’t tired. You were proving a point.”

You lift your chin like a blade. “And you weren’t? Charging headfirst into the squad in sector five like some kind of martyr? You just wanted to play the hero.”

“After everything I’ve done, you still think I care about being the hero?” He laughs. Short. Bitter. Ugly.

You narrow your eyes, voice a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. “You sure act like it.”

And that’s it. That’s what breaks the seal. He moves—fast and reckless—grabs your arm with too much force and spins you toward him. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to ignite. 

Suddenly his breath is on your cheek. His body, all heat and anger and ache, pressed too close. You see his chest rise and fall like he’s just run through a war zone. (He did. For you.). You know you should pull away. You don’t.

His voice drops—low and lethal, the sound of something snapping under pressure. “I don’t give a damn about being a hero, or the shield,” he says. “Or the mission. Or command. Or fucking optics. None of it matters when you’re out there risking your life like it’s worth less than mine.”

The words hit you in the ribs.

“You think I don’t want to be better?” he continues, voice climbing into a snarl. “That I don’t wake up every goddamn day trying to claw my way back to something decent? That I don’t look in the mirror and wonder if I’ve already failed before the day’s even started?”

He steps closer, breath hitching. His knuckles graze your side, unintentionally tender. Unbearably intimate. “You think it’s easy pretending I’ve got it together when I’m walking around half-sane and fully terrified that the next time I turn around, you won’t be there?”

Your throat tightens. His confession shreds the air between you. “John—”

“No.”  It’s sharp. Immediate. Not unkind. Just urgent. “You don’t get to look at me like I’m just your teammate,” he says, voice cracking. “You don’t get to walk into a room after seeing me break apart, and pretend like this doesn’t matter.”

His fists curl at his sides. His breath shakes. “You think I don’t see it?” he whispers, the words bitter and reverent. “You look at me like I’m something you hate. Like I’m everything you need. And you can’t stand it.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

He exhales—devastated. Gutted. Like he just gave you everything and you handed it back, untouched. “You own me,” he says. Quieter now. More dangerous. Like truth. “You fucking own me. I don’t know when it happened. Just that it did. Just that you walk into a room and I forget how to function. You speak and I forget every damn thing I was supposed to say. You haunt me.”

He laughs once—hoarse, sharp. Not amused. “I close my eyes and it’s your voice. Your face. Every second I spend pretending I don’t love you is another second I’m lying to myself.”

Your hands twitch at your sides.

“I love you,” he says. “I am in love with you. And it’s not neat or gentle or good. It’s rage and worship. It’s wanting to fall to my knees when you say my name. It’s a goddamn curse, and I live in it every day.”

Your chest burns.

“I see you run into danger,” he whispers. “And all I want to do is tear the world apart to stop it. To make it stop. Just so I can keep you here. With me.”

He looks down. Then back up. And he breaks. “If I could run from it, I would. God, I would. But I’d still check every shadow for you. Still count every breath until I heard yours again.”

Then—barely above a breath, he adds, “But I get it.”

He steps back like it hurts to do it. “I’m not your guy. I’m just the wreckage you keep surviving.”

And something inside you detonates.

You lunge, fist in his collar, teeth clenched. Your vision goes blurry.

“Shut up,” you whisper, too hoarse to scream. “Just—shut the hell up.”

And then you kiss him. Hard. Desperate. Unforgiving. Like your mouth is the only language he’ll understand. Like your lungs forgot how to breathe without him. Like you’ve been drowning in him for months and only now remembered you wanted to.

His hands slam into your waist, dragging you closer, swallowing the sound you make against his mouth. And it’s messy and brutal and soaked in everything you couldn’t say.

It’s not sweet. It’s not gentle. But it’s true.

And it tastes like blood and ash and relief.

You kiss him like it hurts. Because it does. Because it has. Months of tension, of bared teeth and restrained hands and words bitten back until they turned to blood. Months of pretending you didn’t see the way he watched you. Of pretending you didn’t want him to.

Your mouth crashes into his like you’re trying to shut him up and consume him all at once. And he lets you—lets you bite, lets you pull, lets you take—until he’s gasping into your mouth like he’s the one drowning.

You claw at his suit, fists tangled in the filthy fabric, tugging until the buckles give, until the top peels off in your hands and hits the floor with a dull thud. He groans when your nails skim up beneath his undershirt—a real sound, half-gritted, half-desperate, broken wide open by the way you’re grabbing at him like he belongs to you.

His hands slide down your sides, skimming sweat-slick skin, catching in your gear before finding your hips and holding—tight, anchoring, like if he lets go, you’ll disappear again. He backs you into the nearest wall of the med tent, canvas and cold air and the scent of antiseptic surrounding you, but all you can taste is him. His mouth is hot and hungry. His kiss is war.

You gasp against his lips. “I hate you.”

He doesn’t even blink. Just breathes, “Then prove it.”

And you do. You kiss him harder. Rougher. You roll your hips against his. He growls into your mouth and grabs your thigh, dragging it up over his hip, slotting you together like a puzzle that’s been waiting for the last jagged piece. You can feel him—hard, hot, straining against you—and it makes you whimper into the kiss, makes you ache from the inside out.

His lips move to your neck, frantic, reverent, starved. “Fuck,” he pants. “You feel like—God, just like I knew you would.”

You fist a hand in his hair and pull. He groans. The sound tears through him.

“You imagined this?” you bite out, breath shaking. “While you were yelling at me in briefings? While you were shoving me around in training?”

His hands slide under your shirt, skin to skin, his thumbs dragging fire along your waist. “Every. Fucking. Time.”

He lifts you. Your back hits the makeshift cot with a soft thud, and then he’s over you—above you—all around you. His mouth is on yours again before you can breathe, and you open for him instinctively. He moans into the kiss, tongue sliding against yours with desperation you can taste.

You break the kiss to breathe. Barely. Both of you panting. Shaking. Your hands are on his chest, the heat of his body burning through the thin cotton. You press your palm flat over his heart, and feel it—wild. Out of rhythm. Wrecked.

He leans in again, foreheads pressed together, both of you trembling.

“Say it again,” you whisper, voice breaking.

His eyes search yours, wide and wet and honest. “I love you,” he says. “I love you. I love you. I love you—”

You kiss him again, cutting off his words. Softer now. Slower.

Like you’re learning him.

Like he’s yours.

You don’t remember undressing. Not fully. Just flashes—your hands tugging at his undershirt, his mouth dragging down your neck, the sound of fabric tearing, his voice cracking as he hissed your name against your skin like it burned. His gloves hit the floor first. Then yours. His belt was next. Yours got caught around your thigh. There wasn’t time, or space, or logic. Just frantic mouths, shaking hands, and the terrifying urgency of now.

You’re still half-dressed. Shirts shoved up. Pants tangled at your knees. One boot still dangling loose off your ankle like you got halfway to safety and never made it the rest of the way. But it doesn’t matter. You’re bare in the ways that count.

Naked enough to feel everything. Naked enough to let him feel it too.

His body hovers over yours—heat and muscle and sweat and unspoken devotion—and he’s bracing himself with both arms planted beside your ribs, arms trembling, chest heaving. His skin is warm and rough and scarred where it presses against yours. You can smell him now—smoke and iron and salt and something John, something home.

You reach for him. Not with urgency this time—but reverence. You cradle his face in both hands, thumbs sweeping the dirt from his cheekbones, fingers sliding into his hair as he leans into the touch like he needs it to breathe.

He looks down at you. Really lets himself take you in beneath him. And something in his face breaks. Not from fear. Not pain. From awe. From the ache of getting what you thought you’d never have.

“You sure?” His voice is barely a whisper. Like he’s asking permission to live.

Your throat is dry. Your chest tight. Your body trembling beneath him. But your answer is clear. It’s everything. “Yeah,” you breathe. “John—please.”

That breaks something in him too. He kisses you again—slower now, deeper. His lips are cracked, and still he gives you every soft, shivering part of himself. You taste him—blood and smoke and desperate hope.

And then he shifts, one hand gripping your thigh, the other cupping your jaw as he lines himself up. He pushes in slow—so slow it makes you gasp, makes your fingers dig into his back, makes your chest arch up toward his like your body can’t stand being apart from him for one more second.

He sinks in inch by inch, stretching you open around him, and the sound he makes—a groan torn straight from his soul—is something you’ll never forget. He buries himself to the hilt and freezes, every muscle taut, like if he moves too fast he’ll shatter. His forehead drops to yours. His hand finds yours between your bodies and holds.

You’re both shaking. Your lungs barely work. Your body pulses with the weight of him inside you. Full. Claimed. Held. 

The world outside the tent ceases to exist. There is no mission. No war. No death. There’s only the sweat slicking your skin. The sting of your bandages brushing his shoulder. The stutter of his breath when you clench around him.

His mouth finds yours again—sloppy and reverent and so, so careful. You taste tears. Maybe yours. Maybe his. You don’t ask. He moves—slowly at first. A slow drag out, a deep roll back in. Like he’s learning you. Worshipping you. Carving your shape into his bones.

“Jesus,” he groans. “You feel—fuck—better than I ever let myself imagine.”

You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him in, anchoring him there. Deeper. Closer. Yours. “Don’t stop,” you whisper, jaw slack, breath hitching. “Please—John—don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He thrusts harder, deeper, and the rhythm builds—needful, reverent, unbearable in its precision. Every movement feels like a confession. Every thrust, a prayer. Your name tumbles out of his mouth again and again, low and desperate, like a lifeline, like a liturgy.

“I love you,” he gasps, head buried in your neck. “I love you—I love you—God—” His voice breaks and you break with it.

You hold him like you’ll never let go. At some point, you cry. It’s not pretty. Not cinematic. Just raw. A tear sliding down your temple into his hair as your hips stutter beneath him, your body clenching hard around him as you come with a ragged sob against his mouth.

He follows—seconds later—with a guttural, wrecked sound that rips through the quiet like thunder. He comes inside you, full and hot and deep, his entire body trembling over yours. His hands fist into the cot. His lips press against your temple. His entire being folds into you like he’s praying to live there forever.

And then you’re both still. No more shouting. No more rage. Just skin on skin. Your chest rising under his. Your fingers brushing the back of his neck.

He doesn’t move. Just breathes. Just exists. Inside you. Against you. He kisses your cheekbone. Then your jaw. Then your lips. Slower this time. Softer. Like worship.

Your hand drags through his hair. His breath hitches again. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, inhale smoke and salt and something that smells like coming home.

And for the first time in a long, long time—you don’t hate him at all.

The cot creaks beneath the weight of your tangled limbs bringing you out of your thoughts. Your half-removed gear, the mess of what you just became together. The cot is too small for two people. Too narrow. Too loud with the ghost of everything you just said with your bodies.

But neither of you moves. John’s chest is pressed to your back now, one arm curved protectively around your waist, his other hand brushing gently up and down your forearm like he’s still trying to soothe something. Maybe in you. Maybe in him. Maybe both.

His breath is warm where it ghosts along the back of your neck. It’s slower now, but still shaky at the edges. Like he hasn’t quite come down yet. Like he’s still waiting for someone to call this off—say it didn’t count.

Your fingers curl over his where they rest against your stomach, holding him there. Tethering him.

Outside the tent, boots crunch against gravel. A voice mutters something near the flap. No one comes in.

You let out a slow breath.

“I thought you were going to leave,” you murmur.

“I did, too,” he says, voice wrecked and quiet. “But then you kissed me.”

You huff a sound that’s not quite a laugh. “You kissed me back.”

He presses a kiss to the curve of your shoulder. Slow. Barely there. Like he’s apologizing for every second he didn’t do it sooner. “I wasn’t sure I’d get to,” he whispers.

Silence settles between you. Not empty. Not cold. Heavy with everything unspoken.

Your heart beats beneath his palm, slow and steady. For once. Your body feels sore in the way that means you’re still alive. Your mouth tastes like salt and breath and John. Your body feels like his is still part of it.

“I meant it,” he says suddenly, voice low against your skin. “All of it.”

You close your eyes.

“I know.”

His arm tightens around you—not like a threat, not like a possession. Like a promise. Like something final. “I don’t want this to be war,” he says, quieter now. “I don’t want to fight you just to be close to you.”

Your throat thickens. You roll onto your back, turning just enough to look at him. His eyes are swollen and glassy and too blue in the dim light. He looks exhausted. Open. More himself than you’ve ever seen.

You raise a hand and press your palm to his cheek. He leans into it like a reflex. “I don’t want to fight either,” you whisper. You hesitate. Then add, “But if we do… I want it to be about laundry or whose coffee tastes worse.”

A tired smile pulls at his mouth. “Yours. Easy.”

You swat at him. He catches your wrist and kisses your pulse point like it’s sacred.

“Still love you,” he murmurs against your skin.

“I know,” you breathe.

He rests his forehead against yours. One hand moves to cover the center of your chest. His thumb strokes over your sternum like he’s feeling your heartbeat to make sure it’s still his. It is. And for the first time since all this began, you don’t brace for him to walk away.

He stays.

And you let him.

-

The sun rises over the compound in soft gold and gunmetal gray. It’s too early for most of the camp to be awake. The air is cool, the kind that settles after fire, after smoke, after war. You’re still in your undershirt and a pair of borrowed sweatpants cuffed sloppily at your ankles, but the rooftop is quiet, and the sky is trying to forgive.

You sit cross-legged near the edge of the roof, steaming mugs in hand. One for you. One for him.

He appears like he always does—quiet, heavy-footed, hard to miss. Hair still damp from the shower. Shirt wrinkled. Dog tags clinking gently with each step. He looks less like a soldier and more like a man who’s finally stopped running.

You don’t look at him right away. Just hold out the coffee. He takes it. Fingers brush. You feel it down to your ribs. He lifts it to his mouth, sniffs it theatrically.

“You didn’t poison it?” he asks, lips twitching.

“Thought about it,” you murmur, sipping your own. “But figured it might dull the taste.”

He snorts softly. The sound curls warm in your chest. He sits beside you—close, not touching. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The quiet stretches between you like a truce, like a shared secret, like a bed still warm from the night before.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come back,” you say eventually.

He shrugs one shoulder. “You said I belonged to you.”

You glance at him. “So?”

His smile is crooked. “I’m just here to collect.”

That earns a real laugh. You let it out before you can stop it—quiet and hoarse but yours. You feel his eyes on you. Not with expectation. Just… presence. The kind that lingers.

He shifts beside you, his thigh brushing yours. Then, slowly, he lifts an arm and curls it around your back, pulling you into his side like you’re gravity and he’s tired of floating. “So,” he says, voice low. “Are we still enemies?”

You lean into him, the side of your head bumping his shoulder. “Enemies don’t look at each other like this.”

He hums in agreement. Takes another sip of coffee. It’s still too hot, but he doesn’t complain.

Birds call somewhere in the distance. The breeze stirs your hair. Below, the base is starting to wake—faint murmurs, distant motion, someone dragging a case of gear across concrete.

But up here? It’s just the two of you. Battered. Bruised. Still bleeding in places no medic can reach. And when he turns his head to look at you, you let yourself look back. No armor. No masks. Just him. And you see it in his eyes—everything he hasn’t said. The fear. The devotion. The wreckage.

The worship.

“I’d burn the whole world down,” he says softly, like a vow, “if it meant you’d keep looking at me like that.”

You reach over and take his hand.

And this time, you don’t let go.

-

The mission is long over. Months have passed. Seasons shifted. The bruises from that night have faded. The battlefield is a headline now. Debriefed, declassified, filed away. Your names don’t come up in meetings anymore. You’ve moved to a new base—smaller, quieter. You don’t share a tent now.

You share a door key.

There are still missions, of course. Still danger. Still blood, some days. But it’s different now. There’s something after to come back to. Something steady. Someone.

It’s late when you return from the latest op—just recon, nothing spectacular. Your boots are heavy with dried mud. Your jacket smells like engine fuel. You drop your gear bag inside the threshold of the shared room—his room, your room—and exhale slowly, like you’ve been holding your breath since you left.

He’s already there. Sitting on the edge of the bed, hair damp from a shower, T-shirt soft and worn. Elbow on his knee, head tipped back, jaw slack in sleep. He looks younger like this. Softer. But his hand is still curled loosely around the knife on the nightstand, even in rest.

You watch him breathe.

You step inside and close the door.

He stirs the second he hears it, eyes cracking open, already reaching for you before he’s fully awake. Like instinct. Like homework. And you go. Straight to him.

You drop to your knees between his legs and bury your face in his chest, and he lets out a breath like he’s been holding it since you left. His arms wrap around you. Tight. Sure. Yours now.

You sit there for a long time. No explosions. No gunfire. Just heartbeats and heat and the kind of silence that only exists in safe places. And then, into his chest, voice muffled and quiet and true, you say, “I’m home.”

You feel him still. Like you’ve struck something vital.

He pulls back just enough to see your face, his hands still firm at your waist, eyes wide like you just said something neither of you was ready for—but both of you needed.

“You sure?” he asks, voice thick, rough from disuse. From hope.

You nod. “I’m home,” you repeat. “With you.”

And his smile is small. Shaky. Reverent. He leans in and kisses your forehead like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Like he can’t believe you’re real. “I’ve been waiting to hear you say that,” he whispers.

You nod again, pressing your mouth to his shoulder. “I know,” you say. “I wasn’t ready.”

“And now?”

You look at him. Let him see it. The truth of it. The quiet, relentless, permanent truth. “I’m never leaving.”

He exhales something that sounds like relief and pulls you onto the bed with him, arms wrapped around your body like a vow. You fall asleep there—wrapped in scarred muscle, tangled sheets, the smell of smoke and skin and safety.

And you don’t say I love you.

You don’t have to.

Not when you’ve finally said what he needed most.

You’re home.

[runicarbiter02]

YEAH BEAT HIM UP

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Having not so good days lately so I draw my comfort characters together in a crossover to cheer me up

[runicarbiter02]

secret deleted eddievolt scene from date everything not clickbait???

early access + nsfw on patreon