I Hate Myself For Loving You - John Walker X Reader
Pairs: John Walker (U.S Agent) x Fem!Reader
Characters/mentions: John Walker, Reader, Yelena Belova, Robert Reynolds/Sentry/The Void, Bucky Barnes, Alexei Shostakov, Ava Starr, Valentina Allegra De Fontaine
Setting: Post Thunderbolts* Film
Quick Summary: You and John hated each other, everyone knew that. So why was it when you were drunk you were able to let the thought pass your brain that he could maybe be more than your lovely team mate you despised and why did you let him get under your skin the way he does?
Warnings! 18+: Smut, Enemies to Lovers Trope, Reader is usually at Walker’s throat rather than Walker going out of his way to harass Reader (he tries not to take the bait but he usually does) Strong alcohol consumption, Mentions of Vomiting, Reader gets extremely drunk here, Surprisingly sweet moment, Aftercare, John Walker the man that you are.... ughhh.
Smut Warning: Spit play, Un-protected P in V, Man-handling, Hate-fucking, Makeshift restraints (Hair tie used as a stand-in for handcuffs), Domination (John domming), Fingering, Cream-pie, He’s rough LOL, Slapping on a few occasions, Hair pulling, Biting/Hickies, Nipple play/sucking, Silent worship, Grabbing on a multiple of occasions, Degrading/Praising, Arguing while you fuck 😋
Playlist for the ride: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0jux3eLNrSWoswcX1cClL0?si=659732a9f3b94a10
Writer’s rant: First fic alert, woohoo! The long awaited fic is here!! Sorry this took so long to come out, my laptop shit itself a few hours after my post announcing I hit 7k words which was so fun. Included a fun few references so have fun trying to catch them. Got a bit lazy towards the end... hahaha! Had my friend proof my work before posting, “I don't know how she does it. I mean give her like 10 mins and a vanilla coke and she’s writing the next 50 shades. There is no end to her sexscapades.” 🤣🤣 Enjoy Walker fans, because I know I did. Tiktok: johnwalkerglazer
Please comment!!! Let me know how I did for my first fic hahah
To say you despised John Walker would have been an understatement. Loathing him came as naturally as breathing. There was something about his very existence—his posture, his voice, his self-fashioned sense of importance—that ignited a visceral fury in you whenever he was near. Even the mere mention of his name in passing conversation within the Thunderbolts was enough to jolt you upright, as though the syllables themselves were a trigger coiled inside your chest. His name alone could summon a twitch in your eye, set your jaw rigid, and drive your teeth together so tightly that you sometimes feared they might crack under the strain of your anger.
You couldn’t decide whether your hatred stemmed from the fact that Walker was engineered to be a Captain America—and had so catastrophically fallen short—or if it was the brazen arrogance that clung to him, inflating his ego until it seeped into every corner of his life. His behaviors made it glaringly obvious: if he had ever seemed shallow before, then witnessing him in the aftermath of The Void was like being struck in the gut. The mask had slipped, and what lay beneath was worse than you could have expected.
John had an infuriating need to dominate every situation. He had to be the loudest voice, the most correct, the center of gravity around which the room spun. That hunger for authority radiated off him like it might rip through his skin if he didn’t get his way. Perhaps it lingered from what he used to be—or almost was. Captain America, if only for a fragment of time. The critical word being was. You made sure he never forgot, no matter how often fire flared behind his stony expression or how his stance thickened with unspoken aggression when you called him out.
His usual retort carried the same edge: “Well, I was for a moment, so that’s something. And what exactly have you accomplished?” He always tried to swallow your words with forced stoicism, pretending he was immune to them—pretending the string of verbal assaults you hurled at him didn’t gnaw at the edges of his composure. But every clipped reply betrayed him, every clenched hand hinted at the storm roiling beneath his restraint.
Whenever the two of you shared a room, it inevitably descended into hostility. The team had grown weary of it. What had once been a source of entertainment quickly soured into routine. In the beginning, the others placed quiet bets on which of you would come out on top. Yelena’s smugly narrowed eyes would dart towards Bob, his chin lifting in silent wagers depending on who seemed to be winning. But over time, even they lost interest as argument blurred into argument, neither side conceding, both voices pushing past exhaustion into inevitability.
Valentina, on the other hand, had no patience for the daily spectacles. Her scolding grew more regular, her voice cutting through your clamor with the same harsh warning that never ceased to reality check the both of you: “If you refuse to end this childishness, I’ll solve it for the both of you—and I assure you, neither of you will like the outcome.”
To put it plainly, he hates you, you despise him.
Which is exactly why no one would have believed the way you looked at him the way you did last night had they have not witnessed it themselves...
The team had decided that after a few too many missions that enough was enough for the moment being. Going out for the night as a group was just a simple way to take off the jagged edge of tensity and rid the stress of a day spent at the whim of Valentina’s orders. Sometimes it was nice to just be able to exist within the team without constantly arguing over positions and roles when in an active mission.
The club was the opposite of the dingy bars where you usually tended to drown the frustrations of missions away—it was luxury wrapped in shadow, blaring the most typical club music you swore you always heard at any place that served alcohol for more than 15 dollars per shot. It were the kind of place dressed up in diamonds to look fancy but it was no doubt built for people who wanted to lose control, which was exactly your taste now that you had stepped foot into it. People were scattered around the place like a bomb had gone off, and younger adults ran around the place as if they had been lit ablaze like human torches. The lights were set to constantly strobe a cycle of neon pinks, yellows and blues, which was fine if you weren’t acknowledging them. The lights highlighted the main dance floor which was littered with people who seemed like they had almost drunk themselves half to death yet were probably more energetic with reckless joy than kids let loose in a candy store unsupervised, that was your take of the situation. It’s not like you planned on dancing anyways.
You could hold your liquor well; it always took more than a few drinks before you felt the slow, numbing haze begin to creep in—a side effect of a body far too accustomed to being completely washed every other week. As per usual, the squad would all pick a booth unanimously and you would all migrate to and from it like it were a checkpoint you could rely on had you decided to wander off later into the night. The booths were intimate, reminiscent of the compact but still cozy sushi stalls with two long seats facing each other, the tabletop that divided them straight through the middle perpetually marked by rings of condensation left behind from the endless stream of drinks that had once filled them. You sat on the outer edge of the booth since you had built a track record of leaving the table when John’s smartass comments from across the table irked you to the point where all you could do was relocate to the bar-top. Next to you sat Yelena, next to her was Bob, then Ava. Opposite of Ava sat Bucky, Bob and Yelena met with Alexei, and you with John.
The first few shot always hit differently, soft rather than sharp, slipping down your throat with an almost deceptive ease, it almost felt too simple, but you chased the challenge because you knew that being drunk after a tough week with this found family, plus Walker, was infinitely better than being stone cold sober. Still, the drink made your eyebrows furrow and your eyes clenched as quick as it went down to which you brushed it off with a shake of the head, taking in a deep breath into your lungs like you had resurfaced from a deep dive underwater. The second shot was smoother, slipping down with less fire and more promise. It settled into your system, loosening the tight grip of caution that clung to your nerves, a feeling you felt foul carrying.
The rest of the crew were drinking, except John and Bob. Bob sat squeezed between the two girls, his shoulders curling inward as if trying to make himself two sizes smaller, as though his very presence was an unwelcome intrusion in the tight space. He sat quietly, observing the chaos around the table, his fingers tapping restlessly against his bottle of Coke in short, uneven bursts. The movement was almost mechanical, fingers uncurling from the glass only to close back around the bottle, from pinky to thumb, in an absent-minded rhythm. You’d notice him occasionally opt into conversations that were essentially just shouting and laughter bouncing across the table— only to be met with responses that grew louder, which seemed like they were trying to compete against the blaring speakers mounted across every other few meters on the walls. Other times you would see him simply staring into the black paint of the tabletop, his lips parted in a sort of distant expression, his glazed eyes flicking with golden specks, presumably deep in silent conversation with the God in his body. He was physically present, certainly, but his mind seemed elsewhere. Sentry couldn’t get through one night out without making his small presence known, even though it went mostly unnoticed.
John however? He looked livid.
His jaw clenched so tight it seemed on the verge of cracking, and a slight tremor ran through his fingers as he balled them into fists on the table’s edge. Every muscle in his body radiated tension, as if he was silently waging a war against himself. His thoughts darted, trying to decipher which was ultimately more important: the laughing and the drunken chaos surrounding him or the controlled composure he fought so hard to maintain most nights.
It’s not like he had much a choice on the matter anyways.
He wasn’t just sitting around because he wanted to stay sober or maintain some façade of control, but because he was on watch duty. The frustration etched on his face was raw and unsuppressed; he was trapped by duty, forced to remain the sober sentinel while the rest of the team, excluding Bob, gave in to their need to loosen themselves. There was no pride in his restraint, only the obligation and a brewing resentment for the role he had no choice but to play for the night.
The night unfolded much like it always did— everyone drinking until they hit their limit, you and John exchanging your usual verbal sparring across the table like a twisted domestic ritual. Then, just as predictably, you’d vanish for ten minutes, only to reappear at your seat, crashing harder than when you’d stumbled away. By then, you’d easily be four or five mini-beer shots deep and nursing nine or ten vodka-apple juices.
John’s eyes flicked up as you slid back into your seat, a mix of fatigue and barely contained irritation flickering across his face. He barely masked a dry smirk, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was fighting the urge to rail at you again. “Back already? Didn’t figure the watchman’s little break would be this short,” he said, voice low and laced with that familiar sarcastic edge.
Ava’s eyes flicked to John’s clenched fist and then his hard expression of feigned disinterest in the amount of empty alcohol glasses that were slowly growing larger, then she leaned back against the wooden frame of the booth, using it for support. A playful smirk tugged at her lips, her head tilting slightly as she feigned surprise, eyes widening just enough to be teasing. “Wow, Walker, I didn’t expect you to actually keep up the sober soldier act for as long as you have,” she said, her voice laced with mockery. She straightened her head, narrowing her eyes, a smug grin curling at the corners of her mouth as she added, “You look more agitated than you want to admit.”
John’s jaw twitched with a reluctant smirk. “Yeah, somebody’s gotta keep an eye on things while the rest of you practice falling over like it’s an art form,” he said dryly, voice low but dripping with sarcasm. “Not all of us get to enjoy the party tonight.”
You cut in where you weren’t included, letting out a sloppy, bitter laugh which made his nostrils flare, your body swaying slightly as you leaned in with a crooked, mocking grin.
“Oh, real riveting, yeah,” you slurred, voice thick with drink and sarcasm. “Must be sooo exhausting playing the babysitter for us. Bet it’s hard holding back the urge to throttle someone.” Your eyes narrowed, a venomous edge cutting through the haze, you always had to cut at him, you could never act civil. “Try not to screw it up and embarrass yourself, Walker. Would hate to see you trip over your own ego.”
“Funny,” he replied blankly, his lips pursing into a straight line of un-amuse, he knew your shitty attitude would come sometime in the night, “coming from the queen of disaster herself. If I had a dollar for every time you made a mess of things, I’d be rich enough to buy my own damn club, and kick you out of it.”
You shot him a sloppy grin, voice thick with drink and sarcasm. “Queen of disaster? Says the guy who’s too sober to have fun. Maybe that’s why you’re so salty.” You jabbed a finger at him, swaying a little before your free hand braced the tables’ corner as a stabilizer. “Keep running your mouth, Walker. Maybe this time it’ll actually mean something fuck-face.”
John barely flinched at your jab, his expression tightening for a moment before he shook his head with a dismissive grunt. “Whatever,” he muttered, brushing off your words like they were nothing more than static background noise. He wasn’t interested in playing the game tonight—not really. His gaze drifted back to the swirling crowd, the thumping bass vibrating through the walls, and the kaleidoscope of lights flickering overhead. Laughter spilled over, glasses shattered around you at random, each time accompanied by the call-out “TAXI!”, and the air thickened with the bitter scent of spilled drinks and sweat from patrons dancing and throwing themselves around like they were ragdolls. Yelena caught your eye and threw you a grin before disappearing into the crowd, probably seeking something more entertaining than the argument that would eventually continue, while Bob sat quietly, nursing his drink in his hand, the glass sweating and dripping with condensation from the heat of his palm, wearing that half-present stare you’d come to know so well. Ava and Bucky talked in low bursts across the table.
To you the bar was becoming a haze of noise and light, a blur of pulsing music and laughing voices that felt like they were coming from somewhere far away. You sat slouched on the worn leather of the booth, the sticky table sticky beneath your fingertips as you fought to steady yourself with another drink. The night had been long, the conversation sharp, and the company even sharper — especially Walker.
You hated Walker. You couldn’t stop thinking that same thought over and over. You’d made it clear a dozen times over. The way he looked at you like you were a problem he hadn’t signed up for. The way he held himself as if he was better than everyone else in this place, better than you, at least. You’d always thought you’d never want to cross that line with him, not because you didn’t see the odds, but because you just couldn’t imagine the two of you tangled in anything, not even for a moment.
But the drink blurred the edges of your thoughts, loosening your tongue and warping your perspective. Your mind kept returning to snippets of him— how his jaw tightened when someone challenged him, the way his eyes held that cold, calculating fire, and the strange pull you’d always fought against. Maybe it was the numbing warmth in your chest or the wild rush that came from skirting so close to losing control. But suddenly, in the noisy chaos of the bar, a reckless thought bloomed, impossible to ignore.
You caught his gaze across the table. He was watching you, still and unmoving, and for the first time, the wall you’d built felt a little less solid. “You gonna eye-fuck me from across the table or are you trying to start another argument?” He snidely commented. You loathed him for acting like he was the only sober adult in the room, and you loved to bait him just to watch the flicker of irritation in his eyes.
“I gotta tell you something,” you continued, leaning forward like you were about to drop some earth-shattering truth. The words tumbled out fast, messy, and completely unfiltered. “I don’t know when the hell it happened, or why… maybe it’s your stupid smug face, or the way you pretend you don’t notice crap, and I swear I’m not drunk enough to be this honest normally, so don’t get ideas, but honestly? I’d fuck you.”
You laughed, a loud, choking sound that drew a few curious looks from nearby tables. Bob’s eyes went wide next to you as he sat silently in Yelena’s absence, his body freezing like he’d just heard a crime be confessed right in front of him. His hand, which had been casually swirling his straw that rested in his third Coke, stopped mid-motion. His jaw slackened just slightly, face flickering between disbelief and confusion, as if his brain was wrestling desperately to decide whether what he’d just heard was a joke or a genuine admission. He blinked at you but your eyes were trained on Walker. You could see John’s mouth twitching, maybe trying not to frown, but his eyes were hard on you like you were cursing him out, staring holes through you like a spotlight.
You decided to double-down on your ‘admission’ as he remained silent, “Yeah, you heard me right,” you went on, voice louder now, driven by the chaos of the night and the buzz in your now confidently, rage-bait inspired blood. “I know we spend half the time trying to murder each other with words, but somehow the other half has got me thinking… you and me? Yeah, I’d fuck you.” You jabbed a finger at him for the second time tonight, unsteady but purposeful. You felt a thrill at your own audacity. You weren’t scared, not even a little. You were having fun, pushing buttons and tearing down walls just to see what would happen, it’s not like you would ever let that man near your naked body ever in a million years.
Walker’s eyes flicked away as if he were trying to compose a new expression of flat disinterest, then they moved back to you, as you suspected, flat and unamused. His face was unreadable, smooth like polished stone, but the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth was all the sarcasm you needed.
“Oh, really?” he drawled, voice dry and slow, each word dripping with the kind of calm mockery that cut sharper than anger. “You—of all people, would ‘fuck’ me. That’s a new one.” He paused, letting the weight of his disbelief hang between you both like a challenge. “Look, keep thinking whatever helps you sleep at night.” He dismissed, “maybe with enough practice, you’ll convince yourself. Until then, this whole ‘I’d fuck you’ act? Not even close to convincing.”
With one final bored blink, he added, “Congrats on the theatre performance, by the way. Standing ovation.” For a moment, you just stared. The words you’d blurted out like a live wire now felt brittle and useless against his blank, bored expression. No reaction, no spark, no sign that you’d landed even a single hit. It was infuriating. “Dick.” You scowled as you scoffed, falling back into the wood behind your back with a thump.
The night had been banging its chaotic drum for what seemed like only 30 minutes to your mind, now completely unable to really consider the passage of time, and Walker’s patience had worn razor thin. Everyone had eventually made their rounds and ended back at the booth, aforethought before; a checkpoint to come fleeing back to. John gave a sharp grunt, pushing himself upright with that slow, deliberate movement that spoke of irritation barely contained. The relentless noise of the bar, the drunk laughs, the stupid bickering, it all grated on him like nails on a blackboard. “-Right, everyone up. Let’s go.” He ordered the table with the gesture of his hands, a rushed signal that demonstrated his frustration in the way he spun his pointed index finger out in a small circle like he was attempting to charade a cyclone.
Without another word, he gathered his jacket from the back of the chair, the motions quick but measured, like he was erasing hours of frustration in every second spent packing up. You caught the shift, the gathering of his things, and something tight curled in your chest, whether it was relief, anger, or the mix of both, you couldn’t tell. As Yelena pulled out her phone and flicked through messages, she glanced up to see Walker standing, and her sly smile flickered to something unreadable, she noticed the annoyance just as well as you did. Bob, ever steady, sighed softly and nodded, as if sharing a quiet agreement that he was done with all the noise himself, clutching his drink as he shuffled awkwardly out of the booth after you and Yelena had pardoned yourselves out.
The weight of the alcohol you had managed to consume had only hit you as you stood, and you were now tasked with the struggle of fighting to stay upright, because you knew if you leaned too far in a specific angle then that was wraps. You swallowed the spit that suddenly started to produce in your mouth like a pool being filled with new, fresh water. It went down your throat uncomfortably and you felt your head slowly moving in uneven circles out of your control.
Ava, Alexei and Bucky’s individual conversation tapered off, their eyes drifting toward the movement as well, the signal clear: time to go, even if they didn’t want to. As everyone started to gather bags and wallets with sloppy grace, Bob moved beside you as you struggled to support yourself with your own legs, forearm hidden under a long-sleeved wooly jumper offered to you as a support, his usually small presence a stark contrast to the drunk storm still burning inside you. He caught your eye and gave a small, knowing nod, as if recognizing the battle you were fighting, not just with Walker, but with yourself.
Yelena was somehow already halfway to the entrance, walking past the bouncers that stood on the sides of the entrance like scarecrows. “Let’s go!” she called over her shoulder, her voice lighter than the heavy atmosphere suggested but unmistakably final.
The bustle of the crowd swirled around you, but it felt distant, as if you were moving inside a quiet bubble the bigger world couldn’t break through. Outside, the cool night air waited, a noticeable contrast when compared with the warmness of the atmosphere clinging to your skin inside the bar. The thought of it made your stomach flutter, but you pushed it down, relying more heavily on Bob’s steadying grip. As you took hesitant steps through the narrow exit, your foot caught briefly on the threshold, but Bob’s grasp tightened just enough to keep you upright without a word. The concrete sidewalk felt harsh and solid beneath your shaky feet—the cold night a brutal contrast to the swirling warmth inside your head.
The Watch-Tower was only a ten-minute walk away—a trek most would scoff at in their sober state, but for you, teetering on the edge of tipsy and tumbling, it felt like a marathon. Walker had closed in on the side of you, the two men solid and steady anchors in your wobbling world. Walker’s grip was firm but not overbearing, his face unreadable in the streetlight shadows, while Bob’s quiet presence was a constant reassurance, soft-spoken and watchful. You were fine with the help of Bob, he was probably more than enough. You could do without Walker by your side but you valued your own face not being pressed against the concrete below your heels over trying to shove him away.
“You good?” Bob’s voice was gentle, cautious, but with an edge of kindness as he steadied you when a sudden dizzy spell threatened to send you ass over tit onto the pavement below. You forced a nod, an awkward smile barely hiding your internal battle not to fall apart. Your legs felt like jelly and you were afraid of the potential risk of your knees just deciding to give out, each step a challenge, your head still swirling in uneven circles like a bobble-head no matter how hard you tried to focus forward.
Walker and Bob remained vigilant by managing both you and the rest of the group in-front of you, who were all walking together, but it was clear you were the one carrying the most visible burden of the night. The way your steps faltered, the slight tilt of your body, the slow blink of your drooping (but definitely not tired) eyelids, all told a story of a night taken harder than most. You had a sudden burst of energy, a laugh escaping you as your thought didn’t seem to stay in your head, rather they went straight into the night, “Someone get me a medal for not falling over yet. This is Olympic-level balance right here.” Walker’s eyes narrowed at your comment like he was wincing at a video of a random online getting seriously injured, Walker shot a sideways glance at you, “Oh, yeah- real Olympic-level balance, if you ignore the two guys holding you up. Gold medal for teamwork, maybe. Keep moving. Don’t stop till we’re inside.”
Bob smiled, quietly adding onto Walker’s instruction, “You’re doing fine. Just keep your pace.” You swallowed past the pool of spit gathering in your mouth again, fighting the sudden rush of nausea that bubbled up with sharp insistence. One of Bob’s hands slid to the small of your back, steadying you like a lifeline. You’d probably be better inside the Tower, especially after you threw up whatever was threatening to come up your throat.
As the agonizingly embarrassing walk to the Tower that made you feel you had witnessed a week of your life disintegrate right in-front of your eyes came to an end, you gave a half-assed chuckle. The sliding glass doors parted with a quiet whoosh as you approached. There was no creak of wood, no warm welcome — just cold, efficient technology greeting you with a soft rush of conditioned air. The polished floors and gleaming surfaces reflected the scattered group’s tired faces in a distorted shimmer. You stumbled slightly as you moved inside behind the group chattering in-front of you as they walked at the same pace as a family dawdling in an airport (which was maybe 5 meters per sometimes), catching Walker’s steadying hand without hesitation.
Walker ushered the group toward the elevators like he were trying to herd cattle, or like he were attempting to move dogs out of his way as they jumped at his legs, tapping Yelena’s and Alexei’s backs with the tips of his fingers as he yipped “Go,” “Move on,” “Hurry up,” like a broken record. Each elevator door sleek and silent, its touchpad blinking with a soft light. You pressed the button with a jab, and the doors slid open without stuttering. The group moved in as one, the cramped space a stark contrast to the vastness outside.
You snagged a spot near the corner, leaning back against the cool wall as the doors slid shut behind you with a final whisper. Walker stood opposite you, his posture taut, eyes glancing your way once before fixing on the soft glow of the floor indicator above.
The elevator began its smooth ascent, rising quietly through the tower’s many levels. Around you, the loud chat of the group irritated your eye, causing it to twitch, the volume a stark difference to the hum of the ascending lift. After what felt like ten long heartbeats, the doors slid open onto the common living space, a somewhat fancy modern lounge, bathed in soft lighting which was dimmed by someone before they had left, and spacious comfort that contrasted everything that had come before them, which was previously Stark property.
You managed to push yourself off and you grabbed the back of Bucky’s shirt as he moved out like you were a kid holding onto their parents’ shirt to not lose them in a crowd. After a few short strides, you let go of his red top and he sauntered off to perch himself on the couch. A sudden wave of nausea hit you like a punch to the gut for the third time and you recognized that swallowing down your spit wasn’t going to save you again. Your stomach churned violently, and a cold sweat broke out across your skin despite the warmth coursing through your limbs. The room seemed to tilt dangerously, colors blurring at the edges as the queasy sensation intensified, making your breath catch painfully in your throat.
You barely registered the concerned glance from Bob (and surprisingly John Walker) as you broke away, your legs trembling beneath you. Each step was a staggering gamble, one foot dragging after the other in a chaotic rhythm. The world spun faster with every stagger until, with a desperate surge of will, you focused on the kitchenette in the corner of the living area— the small sanctuary with a sink that suddenly felt like your only hope. You managed to trip over your footing not once, but twice and you fell to your hands as your palms immediately braced the cool tile, fingers spreading instinctively. You pushed yourself up and you grabbed ahold of the island, pulling yourself to your feet.
The two sober men across the room stared at you, wincing at your horrid movement skills. You stumbled forward, fingers scraping against the edge of the counter for balance. The backsplash tiles blurred as your vision wavered, but you refused to fall. Finally, you leaned over the sink, hands gripping the edges tightly as your body convulsed. You let out a dry retch, and nothing came out. A second retch came up with a wet gag and you spat up the spit you had swallowed since you had left the club, and the third retch came with the sick that teased you mercilessly. Saliva mixed with bile slicked your lips, and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the effort and humiliation wrapped into every guttural sound. You rested your sweat-slicked forehead against the white marble of the bench, your hand blindly feeling for the nozzle of the tap to flush out the vomit now slowly creeping it’s way down the drain with a slow descent. The faucet hissed to life with a smooth, steady flow, sending a cool, clear ribbon of water cascading into the sink’s basin. The liquid pooled quickly, swirling gently as it mingled with the remnants of your stomach spilling down from the drain. The water pushed the last traces of sickness along with it, thankfully eliminating the evidence of your vomit away like you hadn’t just puked up your guts. Your breath came easier now, steady and strong, and the heavy ache that had clouded your senses seemed to dissolve, as if the act of purging had reset something deep inside.
A surge of renewed confidence flooded your senses so suddenly it was dizzying. You rolled your shoulders back, pushing out the tension lingering from before, and forced yourself upright, standing taller than you had all night. Squeezing your eyes shut for a moment, you focused on the warmth buzzing through your skin like an electric current that steadied your balance and sharpened your awareness.
When you opened your eyes, a wide, irrepressible grin broke across your face. The world felt brighter, clearer, as if you’d shrugged off a heavy cloak you hadn’t even realized you were wearing. You felt transformed, every movement charged with unpredictable energy and boldness, like there was nothing you couldn’t handle. However, you barely managed to register the subtle shift in the room behind you. Walker, who’d been once standing like he was a human guard-rail by the elevator doors just moments before, had moved in silence while you were doubled over the sink coughing up the hundreds of dollars you had spent drinking down.
When you straightened with that newfound strength, your focus so fixed on yourself and the steady hum in your veins, you didn’t notice the shadow at your back until it was nearly touching you, and it wasn’t Void making an eerie appearance. Suddenly, you felt the whisper of movement which was Walker’s hand darting instinctively to hover near your lower back, ready to steady you if your knees buckled or you wavered even slightly. Fortunately, (or unfortunately to your drunk mind set) the contact never quite landed. You caught only the sensation of space almost closing, a shift of air where warm skin threatened to meet yours, before his hand snapped back, as if burned by the very thought of reaching for you.
He stepped closer, clearing his throat in a way that betrayed a rare sliver of discomfort. “You alright?” he asked, the words clipped and unwilling, as if caring were something he had to wrestle out of himself. For a second, he just watched you, his gaze tight and searching, weighing your unsteady stance, caught between irritation and reluctant responsibility. You narrowed your eyes in a way that almost resembled disgusted-confusion at the question, which sounded awkward coming from his mouth. Not waiting for an answer, Walker gently skirted around you and made for the corner of the sink, his broad figure somehow moving with surprising care. He reached up into the drying rack and plucked out a tumbler: thick glass with a faded Captain America shield stamped across the side in red and blue. Maybe he would have rolled his eyes at it any other time, but now he just held it, thoughtful, lips pressed into a line.
You were still gathering yourself, one hand braced on the marble countertop, when Walker turned on the tap. The water rushed out in a crisp, clear stream, filling the shielded glass as he watched, brow furrowed. He shot a look your way, checking if you were steady, before setting the glass in the sink for a second and moving closer. Instead of simply pushing you aside, he gently placed a warm palm against your forearm to move you from the sink with more guidance than force. He understood, even in this state, that one wrong nudge might send you crashing to the tiles, it wasn’t like he cared; he just didn’t want to be responsible for you falling down and potentially cracking your head on the tile. With a little patience and a grumble of irritancy, he shifted you so he could reach the tap and then filled the glass to the brim. The water sparkled in the kitchen light, a promise of relief you did not want. He turned off the faucet, shook lingering droplets off his fingers, and faced you squarely, holding the glass with a steady hand. “Drink,” he ordered, pressing the cup toward you more insistently this time. His eyes, usually hard and calculating, softened just a notch at the edges. “You need to sober up before you do something stupider. You’re being too much right now.”
You dodged his concern with a grin much too wide for your blotchy face, wiping a stray bead of sweat from your temple. You pushed the glass back, shaking your head, hair falling into your eyes. “Nope, nope. I’m good,” you insisted like a stubborn mule, slurring the words but doubling down on your bravado. “Honestly, I feel great. Like, perfect. I could run laps around the goddamn tower.” You wobbled for emphasis, a sloppy attempt at confidence.
Walker’s patience evaporated the moment you refused the glass, his usual reserve giving way to a sudden flare of agitation. His hand shot out before you could stop him, fingers tangling suddenly in the back of your hair with a firm, possessive grip. There was no hesitation, just a sharp yank that pulled your head back, exposing your throat in a way that made your breath catch and a strange warmth spread low in your belly.
Yelena was lounging on the couch nearby, half lazing against her father, her eyes flicking over to you and Walker as the tension in the kitchen built. When Walker’s hand shot out and tangled violently in your hair, yanking your head back, she almost choked on a quiet giggle. The way you stiffened, breath hitching, and the sharp closeness between the two of you was too good to miss. Barely able to hold back a grin, Yelena fumbled for her phone, the corners of her mouth twitching with mischievous delight. She sneaked the phone up just enough to get a good angle, trying and failing to stifle a snicker.
The suddenness of his hold, the rough tug that shocked every nerve, sent a jolt through you that was more than just surprise. You couldn’t help the way your body reacted, the way it made you squeeze your thighs together as if you were trying to relieve some ounce of want in the moment. That tight grip in your hair, the force of it, sparked a flicker of something you hadn’t expected. It was like this wild electricity running through you, mixing confusion with a heat that made your skin flush and your heart race. Seriously, what was this? You felt caught somewhere between resisting the control and wanting it to go further. His fingers tangled in your hair like they belonged there. Somehow, it felt... kind of magnetic. Walker pressed you back against the kitchen island, holding you steady with his chest pushing into your back. The solid weight of him kept you upright, and his hand stayed tight in your hair as if it was the only thing grounding both of you. As much as you would hate this contact, it made your eye twitch with an emotion that you knew wasn’t hate. You were partially grateful of the fact he had you against the island because you knew that if he had of done the motion of tugging your head back anywhere else you would’ve fell straight on your tailbone. His grip wasn’t gentle but it wasn’t painful either. It was just enough to make you keenly aware of every inch of your skin, every heartbeat. His palm had almost caressed the curve of the back of your head. His fingers clasped in your hair at the roots, curling tightly in the strands.
You wanted to pull away, to push back against the heat rising, but wow, it was way harder than you expected.
Every tug of his fingers twisted that heat tighter inside you, setting off sharp little sparks you couldn’t stop thinking about. What the hell was happening to you? Your brain wanted to scream “fight this,” but your body was doing this weird, thrilling flip instead. Then he pressed the glass of water to your lips, his hold in your hair still firm but steady. The cool rim of the glass brushed against your mouth, and you fought to pull your head away, stubbornly refusing. But the weight of his hand and the warmth it brought made your fight slip away. Walker’s voice was low, edged with frustration but carrying an undeniable urgency. “You need this,” he said quietly, pressing the glass again for emphasis. You tilted your head back reluctantly and took a shaky sip, some water spilling down your chin and onto your neck. The coolness was a sharp contrast to the warmth still buzzing inside you.
The scene was perfect. Walker pressed you hard against the island, fingers tangled in your hair, glass pressed to your lips, and the slightly spilled water adding the perfect touch of chaos. Click. She captured it all in a single shot, already imagining the trouble she could cause with this little piece of blackmail. Giggling softly, Yelena lowered the phone and tucked it away like a secret weapon, leaning back with a satisfied smirk as she watched the sparks fly in the room, knowing this photo might come in handy, one day, somehow, somewhere, when she wanted to stir the pot just a little more.
You swallowed, cheeks burning, wondering how the hell this had turned into anything even close to sexy. That rough tug in your hair, the way his body pressed you against the island, they shouldn’t feel this electric. Yet here you were, breath uneven, pulse jumping between frustration and something that felt like wanting. What was it about him? Maybe it was the way he took control without asking? It couldn’t have been that because in any other situation you would’ve yelled at him for his own self service. Maybe it was just how natural the whole thing felt even when it was so intense. You felt pinned but curious, exposed but alive. Somehow, Walker holding you like this sparked something inside you, and you weren’t sure you wanted it to go away anytime soon.
But then again, it was Walker.
Walker finally pulled his hand free. His fingers slid deliberately out of your hair, leaving a lingering soreness where they had gripped. You pressed the back of your hand against your chin, wiping away the water that had trickled down onto your flushed skin.
Your breath caught unevenly as the tension between you both thickened and you didn’t know if you wanted to welcome the feeling with open arms, or maybe open legs.
You held his gaze, a crooked smirk playing on your lips despite the dull buzz from the alcohol swirling through your system.
“What the hell was that, Walker?” you spat, your voice cracked as you yelled at him in disbelief, rough with the remnants of your hangover but laced with something intentionally provocative. You leaned in just enough to narrow the distance between the two of you, daring him to respond. “Or maybe you want to skip this whole... nurse-savior bullshit nonsense and just fuck me instead.”
“Why do you keep trailing back to that?” Walker’s jaw flexed, his usual steady composure flickering with something raw beneath the surface of whatever front he was putting on right now. The weight of his body pressed against yours, solid, firm, an unyielding presence that held the room hostage, it was painfully awkward. Every breath you took felt caught under that pressure. “Don’t get it confused,” he corrected, voice stripped of any softness or invitation. His eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your skin itch with the want to punch him square in the face. “I’m not here to live out whatever drunk fantasy you’ve conjured up.”
You could taste his intensity, feel the sharp demand in his tone like a challenge of its own. The smirk on your lips softened but didn’t disappear. Instead, you of course had felt obligated to push back, threading stubbornness through your every word. “Really? Because the way you were holding me, it sure as hell felt like you wanted something more out of me than to drink the fucking water.”
Walker’s eyes flashed with something unreadable as he shook his head ever so slightly, like he was clearing the heat from his own mind. He took another step forward, chest nearly brushing yours now, grounding you even more against the cool surface of the kitchen island. “That grip wasn’t about desire, it was to stop you from falling right on your face.” His tone sharpened without apology. “You’re lucky I’m making sure you drink that water. Not because I want to. Because you need to.”
You raised an eyebrow, undeterred, stepping closer until the barest breath of his heat brushed your skin. “So what, then? You don’t want me? You’re just babysitting a mess who thinks she can talk dirty?” A muscle twitched in Walker’s jaw. His gaze hardened, his stance rigid and tense.
“I’m not babysitting anyone, I’m here because you’re out of control. I won’t be the one who makes it easier for you to screw up.” With that, he stepped out of your space and he made his way over to the couch where the other drunks were, settling himself down with a huff, and you just glared at him as he sunk into the backrest.
About 30 minutes passed in the quiet hum of the living area. Bucky was now slouched on the couch, half-asleep, his breathing slow and steady. He looked comfortable though, he was sinking into his shirt, arms folded over his chest. Yelena sat nearby, her eyes fixed on the glow of her phone as she scrolled endlessly through social media, the flicker of the screen lighting up her face in lazy bursts, snickering at random clips she watched. Alexei was out cold beside her, limbs splayed and utterly unbothered by the world. Bob busied himself somewhere in the room, quietly engaged in a task of his own, the background murmurs barely reaching him. Ava had left the area during the time to go back to her room, you didn’t notice when she had left but her presence was no where to be found. John remained planted on the couch, eyes half-focused on the TV screen, a faint crease of boredom feathered his features, his blinking slowing and becoming ever so slightly heavier. You had been doing anything to try and make the tower fun, you couldn’t just sleep off the energy in you that was so ready to be used.
You recognized the challenge that was sitting on the couch still and you wanted nothing more than to just fuck him over with any snarky comment you could conjure.
So, that’s what you decided to do, as if you hadn’t already been strangled by him a million times before over this repeating behaviour. You lowered yourself onto the couch beside John, the faintest edge of a smirk playing on your lips as you settled in close, making sure he felt your presence even if he chose to ignore you. “You’re such a cunt,” you say, tossing the insult over with careless ease, because it’s true and you want him to hear it.
Your fingers found his arm before he could pull away, dragging lazily over the fabric before jabbing him lightly every second like a dog nudging its nose against their owner. “You know, for someone who acts like he hates everyone in the room, you sure have a habit of noticing when I’m around,” you started, voice thick with weariness but sharpened with that usual biting edge. You didn’t bother waiting for a response, much like how he always would continue through things without regarding anyone else’s comments.
He doesn’t even flinch, face tilted toward the flickering TV. “That’s because you’re exhausting, impossible and you’re a fucking nightmare to deal with.” He scolded you as if you were unaware of your own behaviors towards him. Yes, you acknowledged that you were a shit-stirrer and more than half the time the screaming matches between the two of you were caused by your incessant urges to just yell at him.
You pondered a thought for a brief moment. What would be of you both had you not started quarrelling with him from the first meeting? Would you still be here? Drunk and trying to give him another reason to justify your murder? You brushed that thought away, it was too domestic. It made you frown lightly, you couldn’t feel any lighter for him, he had it coming since he made himself a ‘key figurehead’ in the team.
You scoff, lips curling into a crooked grin. “Yeah, well, maybe I like exhausting you. Maybe I like making you feel like you’re about to snap. It’s funny watching you keep that ‘fuck off’ face on all the time, but I know it’s just a show. You’re so fucking stubborn you’d rather choke on it than admit you want anything.” Your fingers tighten on his arm, “You’re a cunt twenty-four seven and I fucking hate that about you... Like, I reeeeealllly hate you.” You drawled on, making sure he was aware. “But I’m not gonna lie…” you leaned closer, speaking with lazy confidence, “I’d fuck you if you weren’t such a dick all the time. It’s your own fault.”
He shifts just enough to take some of your weight without pulling away, eyes visibly tired enough to show that he really wasn’t in the mood for your shit, he knew this was a mind-game anyways. “Yeah, this is the tenth time you’ve said it tonight. Glad to know my charm’s on point,” he mutters, voice dry, sarcastic, so fucking typical. “Can you get off of me? I’m not dealing with your shit anymore. I’ve clocked out for the night.” At his dismissal which was finalized with the flick of his hand like he were swatting a fly away from him, you reeled back, landing flat on the couch, staring up at the ceiling with a sour frown pinned to your face.
You stayed exactly like that, not moving, holding onto the childish hope that your sulk might be enough to make him reach over and sit you up. But deep down, you knew better. You knew he wouldn’t give you that satisfaction, no matter how much you pouted or glared. After a moment, you stretched your arms a little, then sat up on your knees just enough to test him. Without warning, you dropped your head heavily onto his shoulder, the full weight of your skull dropping hard against his shoulder like a dumb-bell being discarded. “Owww-wwh! That fucking hurt, FYI.” He scowled, moving to lean away, but you simply refused to move from his shoulder like it were a solid headrest. “You just do shit to piss me off to the highest degree. No brain in your goddamn head...” he complained lowly, glancing down at you as he leaned his head back to get a better look at you. You lifted your head and met his glower with a slow blink, your nose scrunching almost judgmentally.
Your brain diverted to another alternative and you made quick but messy movements to hook your fingers in the wide and worn rounded collar of his plain tee and you tugged it over the curved bone of his shoulder. To push at him, you let a line of spit escape your mouth and it dripped onto his shoulder sleeve, a small web of it connecting from your bottom lip to his skin. Your tongue lolled out to taste the concoction of spit and his sweat that beaded under the heat of your breath. The little action was meant to irritate, to get under his skin but you remembered how he’d tugged your head back earlier, pressed you tightly between the kitchenette’s benches edge and his hips, and you let your lips follow your tongue, closing gently to the curve of his neck, your eyes gazing at him through your upper lashes, stuck on his face. Your kisses were slow, soft and unthinking at first and you couldn’t tell if the way he was staring back at you was in disgust or interest. It was almost like you were searching for something familiar in the warmth of his skin, the skin of a man you couldn’t bear to look at respectfully when sober. But with every press of your lips, your desperation grew. You leaned into him heavier and you didn’t know why, brushing your mouth farther up— kissing his neck again and again without stopping, as if you could wear down his walls with the touch alone. You felt him tense under your hand as it came up to touch the other side of his bearded jaw, your palm coming up rest over his cheek before you pulled it back to brush through his growing beard, scrunching your fingers in whatever you could touch.
He made a soft groan, the sound low and reluctant, and for the briefest moment, you thought he might give in. His body shifted closer, muscle taut beneath your touch, as if he contemplated allowing himself to melt into the moment with you. But then, his jaw tightened, and a hardness settled over his expression. He exhaled loudly and he moved his shoulder just enough so your lips slipped away from the softness of his skin, your lips kiss swollen and red. He shifted away just enough to make it clear he had come back to his senses. His jaw clenched as his eyes locked onto yours, cold and steady. “This can’t happen,” he mumbled with a small huff as he looked away, seemingly mad at himself for allowing it to even happen. “You know how much we hate each other and this doesn’t make me hate you any less just so you’re aware. You’d kill yourself if you woke up sober tomorrow and realized you did this.”
Your fingers twitched, teeth nibbling the inside of your cheek as you struggled for control that the alcohol kept slipping away from you. “I don’t care,” you slurred, voice thick and insistent. “I want this. I want you. Right now.” He shook his head slowly, like he was disappointed in you, but his hand didn’t move to pull away again.
“You’ll regret this when you’re sober.”
“Fuck my sober self, she can be as mad as she wants if we can do this...” You slid closer, the movement slow but purposeful, like you were crawling toward him piece by piece. Your body pressed against his, the heat of your skin warming the space between you. You almost slipped into his lap, breath mingling with his as your lips found his neck again, soft and maddeningly slow. Across the room, Yelena lounged on her phone, casting lazy glances your way. Without a flicker of urgency, she tilted the screen subtly, angling it just right to catch this moment like a secret. Her smirk was small, like she enjoyed the private chaos unfolding before her. Your urge pushed you further. Your lips grazed his skin, pressing into him, seeking any sign of surrender. The small, soft groan that escaped him was a flicker of defeat, a crack in the stern wall he wore. His eyes fluttered closed as your lips attached to his skin, sucking it gently for a moment before releasing it with a quiet and wet pop. His head fell back, exposing his throat to you, an unspoken invitation despite everything. Yelena’s filming stopped, she only needed a few seconds of video to give you years of grief.
Then, sharply and with a weight that silenced you, his hand pressed against your chest, firm and unyielding. He didn’t pull away fully, but the tension in his posture spoke volumes. His eyes opened, steely again as they met yours, and his voice was certain. “Enough. This stops now.” The moment his hand pressed firmly against your chest, steady and resolute, you barely had time to register it before his arms were under you, lifting you like you weighed nothing. You didn’t resist, though your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt just a little, unwilling to let go completely. He shifted his grip carefully, moving you just enough to settle your weight on the cushions of the couch beside him. Your skin brushed against his as he eased you down, bringing your bodies close again, but this time without the messy desperation that had marked your earlier touches. His fingers found the blanket that had been sprawled loosely on one of the other couches. Without a word, he wrapped it tightly around you, pulling the fabric close and binding you with a snugness that left no room to move. The tightness was firm, secure, like a cage meant to keep you still and contained.
You could feel the constraint immediately, the blanket heavy across your arms, trapping you where you lay. The heat radiating from his body settled like a silent guard over you, his presence both comforting and constricting. He knelt beside the couch for a heartbeat, steadying you with a hand pressed lightly to your cheek, the rough strength of his palm a stark contrast to the suffocating softness of the blanket. He didn’t say anything, just watched you with a gaze that might have been regret or warning or some strange combination of both.
Slowly, he pushed himself upright, standing tall beside you before turning away. His footsteps were quiet as he walked through the dim light of the room and toward the elevator, entering it as the doors slid open, and that was it. You lay there, wrapped tight in the blanket, muscles starting to relax from the sudden stillness, your breath uneven and slow. “Fuckface!” you called out in frustration as all you could do was sit there and watch the doors slide shut with his exit.
And now you were here, slumped on the couch with the blanket wound tight around you like a cocoon, your body surrendering to the nausea and dryness crawling through your veins. The bright hiss of morning light stabbed through your eyelids. Somewhere to your left, mugs clattered against one another, cabinets opened and shut, someone was in the lounge, far earlier than anyone had a right to be which was a pain in the ass. You glanced over, your eyes met with the sight of Bucky, his vibranium arm detached and resting on the counter, the other hand busy with making a coffee in the machine. You snickered, seeing the arm laying there with a clenched fist. It was a new rule that the group had to enforce after one morning where Bucky had punched the machine because it had burnt him.
“Coffee for hangover isn’t helpful, just so you know...” you chimed in, causing him to glance back at you, his eyebrows raising at twitch as he briefly looked you over. You were a mess. “Hashtag... First hand experience...” you added, which made Bucky smirk.
“Yeah and good morning to you too.” He gave you a salute of the hand, pointing his finger in your direction with the flick of his wrist. You gave him a nod of your head as a form of a returned good morning before you squinted at your lap as your head dropped forward, confusion filtering through the pounding behind your eyes. ‘Why am I in the lounge?’ your mind wondered like it were detached. Your mouth felt foul, acid from your vomit which was watered out, and whatever else you’d swallowed the night before. You sat up, or tried to. The blanket gripped your body and you wrestled with it, finally managing to prop yourself halfway upright on your elbow. The sweat from your skin was trapped under the fleece, making it feel like a second skin: heavy, humid, suffocating. With every shift, you caught a whiff of yourself, all sour booze.
You pressed your left hand into the couch, steadying yourself, and used your right to rub at your eyes. Mascara had smeared from your lashes onto your skin during the chaos of the night, leaving them almost glued shut, messy and clumped. The simple action sent your head spinning with a dull ache, one that wasn’t going to fade soon. Everything about you felt used up and rough-edged, the aftermath of a night you couldn’t fully remember. Each sound from the kitchen made your insides twist a little tighter. Hesitantly, you let your senses take stock of the room, every detail crawling back piece by piece as your mind surfaced from the fog of regret. What the fuck?
You became acutely aware of your surroundings, scanning the room in its entirety while simultaneously patting yourself down in a frantic search for your phone. When you realized it was missing, you grabbed at the blanket and yanked it upward, peeling it away from your body in one motion. Your phone, which must have been tangled somewhere inside the mass of fabric, shot through the air and landed a meter away, bouncing on the floor with a series of noisy clatters that made you cringe. Despite the fog clouding your mind and the heaviness in your stomach, you pushed your body upright on shaky legs. You knew you’d have to stand eventually. Letting the hangover keep you pinned to the couch was a quick trip to disaster, especially as nausea curled sharply in your gut. The threat of vomiting forced you to move, plus you had to check your screen protector, you only bought it recently after shattering it on a mission. Reluctantly, you drew yourself upright, bracing yourself against the couch before dragging yourself to your feet. You scooped your phone up from the floor and shuffled into the kitchen, your mouth dry and your stomach sour. Bucky, still at the coffee machine, shot you a sideways glance but said nothing. You reached for a glass in the drying rack, grabbing the first one you saw—a tall tumbler with a cartoon Captain America shield printed on it, the colors bright under the kitchen lights. You ran the tap and filled the glass to the brim, not noticing anything out of the ordinary about it, much less remembering the blurred scene from last night with Walker and all that forced water. You sighed as you drank down the contents of the cup before reaching to pour a second. You filled the glass half-way, chugging that done as well before you inspected your phone. It seemed intact, no chips or cracks in the screen protector. Your phone brightened with life as it noticed your face come into view of the front camera, the face recognition unlocking and expanding your notifications centre. Your eyes narrowed as you saw a text appear on your lock screen.
‘just 4 wen u wake up... cute, you guys should go out😉🤣🤔😜’ was what the text read on your phone’s lock screen, sent by none other than Yelena dearest. Attached was 1 photo and 2 videos. You set your cup down on the bench with a small ‘clink’ of the glass tapping the countertop. “Hey, what happened last night?” You asked over your shoulder to Bucky, and he bit his inner cheek in thought, turning around to face you.
“Well, we went out, you got wasted... You had to get carried back here by Bob... and John-” he started before you cut in at Walker’s name, “No I didn’t.” He blinked at you before continuing, “Yeah you did, ask anyone else in the tower. Uhm- You got force-fed water by him too. That was fun to watch. Then I clocked out on the couch next to Yelena.” He informed you, and your nostrils flared, your face burning red with anger and embarrassment.
You turned your attention back to the phone and you swiped up on your phone, opening your messages app expecting to find video footage of you being carried back to the tower, nothing more and nothing less. Instead, you saw yourself being held against the kitchen bench that you were now currently stood at, being pressed into the edge of the counter by Walker himself, both as a photo and a video. His hand scrunched your hair in between his fingers and you saw him pull your head back with a force that made you breathe out a huff of disbelief at your phone. Bucky, hearing your hand slap over your mouth like you were going to throw up for the second time in a few hours had turned around, peering over your shoulder to watch your screen. “Told you so.”
Before you can process what you’re seeing, your trembling thumb scrolls to the next video Yelena sent. It showed you leaning heavily against Walker, your head dropping unsteadily onto his shoulder. Your lips pressed a wet kiss to his neck, spit on his skin that you deliberately licked off, a bold move you knew meant to irritate him. Walker’s expression was caught between surprise and reluctant patience as you pressed closer, your fingers brushing against his jaw while your kisses trailed upward. The video displayed the way you tried to find warmth in a man you couldn’t bear to respect and it made you furious. His head tilted back, exposing his throat, but the video stopped just before the moment became too much, Yelena cut the footage right as he moved to put a boundary in place. She didn’t film the part where he pushed back, his hand pressing firmly against your chest, the steady weight of refusal as he picked you up and put you away.
How could you let yourself become so drunk that this happened? Better question: Why did he let it happen?
You looked back at Bucky as your lips fell open slightly, like you were going to say something, but you couldn’t find a single word to say. You set your phone down, a small “Yikes” coming from behind you. You scrunched your eyes at the phone and you put it down on the counter to stop yourself from throwing it out of frustration. “So that’s what you did... You both look like you had fun.” He commented which snapped some sort of thread inside you that made your blood pressure spike. You flung your hand out, shoved the cup off of the bench and it smashed in the sink cavity, shattered glass everywhere inside the basin. “Fuck!” You bound away from the kitchen like you were on fire and you beelined directly to the elevator.
As much as you tried to avoid him, he was the only person you needed to see.
The elevator doors slide open with a soft hiss, and you step inside without hesitation. The confined space feels tight and suffocating, but it suits the storm twisting inside you. You press the button for the floor where John’s room is, the metallic beep slicing through the silence. Leaning your back against the cold wall, you tilt your head up, eyes catching the harsh glare of the ceiling lights. The elevator hums steadily beneath your feet as it rides upward, level by level climbing toward confrontation and whatever comes next. Usually, you had planned your insults and fights before they came just to have the upper-hand because it was always fun watching him get knocked down a peg. Right now however? You had not a plan on how to confront him nor did you have any insults locked and loaded in your itinerary of comebacks.
The doors ping open and you are out. You stride out of the elevator and without hesitation head straight for his door. Your hand slams hard against the handle, expecting resistance, but to your surprise, it twists easily in your grip. The door isn’t locked, which immediately throws you off guard. Slamming it open, you step inside without waiting for permission. There he is, John, lying back on his bed, casually scrolling through his phone as if you storming in wasn’t the most unexpected interruption to his day. His eyes lift lazily, meeting yours with an unbothered stare. “What the hell do you want?”
“What the hell were you thinking, letting me kiss you like that?” you scream, the words coming out like a wound ripped open and left raw. “You were watching me, enjoying it. I heard you groan when made out with your neck. So don’t you dare sit there pretending it wasn’t happening. I fucking hate you and every piece of you that somehow still sticks under my skin!” He snorted dismissively. “You’re not the only one,” he snarled. “Don’t think for a second that I don’t see you the same way.”
You take a step closer, chest heaving with anger that burns deeper than any hangover could. You weren’t letting him speak, Walker’s posture stiffened at your words. “Why did you let me? Why did you let me cross some line that you damn well know we never agreed to?” Your fists clenched tight at your sides. “Answer me. Were you playing with me? Because that’s exactly what it felt like. Like I was some joke you were fucking with, and you had the power to stop me but you chose not to. You didn’t stop me the second I leaned in.” You point a finger toward him, “You’re supposed to hate me. Then why the hell did you let me practically eat your neck like I was anyone but the person you despise? Fuck you Walker!”
“Oh so you remember it now?” He shot back at you sarcastically with a raised brow, like he completely blanked on the yelling he had just endured. It made you fumble for a second, “Yelena fucking recorded it! She sent it to my fucking phone John!” You reply as he sits up, your eyes trained on him. His jaw slackened at your words before he composed himself. His shoulders tensed rigidly, and a forced tightness crossed his face at that new fact like it hadn’t almost just taken what energy he had mustered to deal with you.
“And you’re gonna forget the part that I pushed you off of me and told you that you’re wrong for doing it?” He protested, now shuffling off the side of the bed to stand up. You pause for a moment, a minor set back in your anger. So he did stop you. You insisted anyways, “You don’t get to pretend the video stopped before you pushed me away! I saw you— your eyes didn’t say ‘stop’; they said go, don’t fuck me over like I’m stupid Walker.”
He took a slow step closer, and his presence pressed against your skin like a physical weight. As much as you wanted to step back, to keep some distance from him, your pride overtook yourself. You stood your ground and you stared up at him, “We’re two sides of the same fucked coin.” He stated before his voice raised to match yours, “You think just because you’re yelling, you’re right? You don’t get to come in here throwing accusations like you own me.” Before you can even argue back, your hands act almost as if they were their own entity and they shoot forward to shove his chest, and he grunts at the contact. His hands shoot out, grabbing your wrists with a grip that’s firm but not cruel like you were used to, like he’s trying to steady you from spiraling, not stop you completely.
“Why didn’t you stop me? Hell, why did you let me come that close if you hate me so much?” You ask— yell rather.
“You don’t get to act like this is all on me,” he snaps, “I stopped you and you continued, I am not at fault here Y/N!” Your breath catches as the words hit you harder than you expect. But you shove again, breath ragged, “You still let it happen! You wanted it just as much as I did at that moment, don’t pretend like you didn’t.”
His hold tightens on your wrists. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”
“Harder?” Your frown is bitter and you can’t help but pull your head back in disbelief, jerking your arms back as you glare up at him. “You’re the one who let it happen. I’m the one left here trying to figure out what the hell that means. You’re the one who never makes things simple. You lure me in just enough to make me believe I’m crazy for feeling this way. I am not fucking crazy! Why can’t you just admit you wanted me? For once, just be honest.”
He takes a moment, the cogs in his brain visibly ticking, the way his expression paused as he looked at you was proof enough. “You wanted that kiss— you wanted me. But it’s not just about what we want, it’s about what happens after. What we’re willing to risk.” He continues with a slight reluctance, “So yeah, maybe part of me wanted it. I enjoyed it, but I stopped it.” His hands slowly slide down your wrists to your hands and part of you wanted to pull away again but the fact he had just said that made you stop for a moment.
“No-, I’m sick of your crap, you are a piece of shit, liar, John.” You jerk your hands from his and you look away with awkward hesitation, you don’t know what to make of him right now. “I hate—” you start up again as you go to look up at him and his face was closer than it was before you looked away, then you falter as his hands shoot up to your face, holding your jaw in one and half cupping your cheek in the other, his lips met yours as he pulled your face in, and for a fleeting second, your body leans in, instinctively returning the kiss as though all the anger and frustration you’ve been shouting had become a void. But then, just as suddenly, you pulled away and you were ready to launch back into the argument but before you could speak, he gripped your arm, pulling you close again with a tug that stole your balance and silenced the protest on your lips. "You want me to fix your mood or are you just gonna keep bitching?" He asks you before sticking the tip of his tongue between your lips for a brief peck. “Shut the fuck up for once, you don’t always need to argue.”
Strangely enough, you find yourself falling quiet, the words dying on your tongue. You don’t pull back. The roughness of his hands on your skin grounds you, even as your mind races with all the things you want to say, and yet can’t, not right now. The second kiss was a bit more untrained. Anything but smooth. Too much teeth press against yours, clashing uncomfortably. The scrape of his beard on your chin sends a sharp burn that pulled a quick breath from your chest, yet you kind of liked how it made you feel like a you had graze, like it was actively giving you carpet burn. Your teeth click together once, then twice, a weird, awkward rhythm that throws off the flow. He's trying too hard, desperate and raw, his lips rough and urgent. You want to match him, to be soft but intense, but he was doing a bit too much. You pull back just enough to break the kiss as you place your hands firmly on his chest, pushing him back a fraction, halting his forward momentum so that you can take over, because this kiss?
Yeah, that’s not gonna fly.
Leaning in again, you press forward, your tongue following suite, exploring softly at first before growing bolder. His lips close in on yours and then they gently suck on your tongue as you pull back, swallowing your spit before diving back in for more. His hands come up to cup your face, fingers threading into your hair, sparking a suck as you tug gently at his bottom lip. In that kiss, you’re no longer fighting, nor are you holding back. He pulls you in without hesitation, hands gripping your waist firmly as he lifts you effortlessly from the ground. Your breath hitches as the sudden motion catches you off guard, but almost instinctively, your legs wrap around him, and without breaking your gaze, he throws you down gently but with force, your back landing with a soft thud against the mattress. “Ow John, fuck- Do you want to give me whiplash?” You snap at him, looking up at him as he tilts his head, shooting you a look of clear un-amuse for your comment, his lips pressed into a straight line.
“You gonna lose the top, or am I gonna have to take it off with my teeth?” He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, neither stepping onto the bed nor breaking eye contact with you. You always told yourself that you would rather be caught dead than unclothed around him, but now look at yourself. You stare at him for a moment longer before he huffs at you. “Come on, don’t bitch me.” With deliberate slowness meant to tease, you slide your hands across your front to the bottom of your shirt, stained with drinks from the clubs and you begin peeling it off, inch by inch until it was gone. The loss of fabric reveals the delicate lace of your bra, then the smooth curve of your shoulders and collarbone. As you do this, you meet his gaze again and notice the subtle shift. His eyes drift downward instantly, almost shocked for a moment, the surprise clear on his face— as the words he tossed casually had actually worked. You catch the faintest flicker of admiration and maybe disbelief buried beneath his still steady look. He nods absentmindedly as he breathes out once more before pulling off his own shirt, the shirt falling to the floor with a soft rustle. Your eyes flicker up to meet his as he stands before you bare-chested and your eyes shamelessly go down to take in your fill of his body.
He gets down onto the bed with you, joining you without another word. His hands slide to your waist, fingers threading around your hips as he pulls you closer, slotting his thigh between your legs, cozying you down onto his flesh. He leans in, probably looking to get back into your lips, but you stop him with your index finger pressing to his lips. “You don’t tell anyone of this, ever,” and he nodded.
His lips move to brush your temple instead before tracing down to your jaw, and his hand slides upward, finding the clasp of your bra with the lightest flick of his fingers. You barely have time to register the sensation before the clasp pops open with a single motion of his fingers and it makes your mouth fall open in a form of shock. He grinned at you, lips moving slowly down your neck. You felt the soft heat of his mouth pressing against your skin as he sucked gently, pulling the flesh of your throat with careful pressure to leave a mark. Your eyes fluttered shut with each pull, the sensation was enough to make your thighs attempt to squeeze shut, which only tightened them around his thigh between the slot of your legs. In response to each suck, his tongue moved over the spot in slow, soothing licks, calming the skin where his mouth had been. His lips brush over your collarbone, trailing down slowly until he pauses just above the swell of your breasts. His eyes flick up to glance at your face and you look down, which gives him a signal of silent approval.
His kisses moved down over the curve of your left breast, warm and deliberate. His tongue slid out slowly, gliding over the peak of your nipple with gentle pressure. His lips closed around the shape of your areola, pulling it into his mouth with a soft suction that made you arch without thinking. His hand slid down to your stomach, pressing you gently but firmly back onto the mattress. You felt the tip of his tongue swirl around the bud, pushing and licking it with a slow, teasing motion like it was a lollipop. His other hand reached over, fingers sliding softly around the curve of your right breast. He balanced the tender exploration, his touch warm and confident as he squeezed gently, kneading the skin with slow, deliberate strokes. His hand molded your breast with practiced care, rolling and squeezing the fat of your tit in his palm. His mouth continued its worship on your left side, sucking and licking with increasing intensity, coaxing you higher and higher into a need you never knew you could feel. "I want to taste every inch of you," he whispered, leaning up again to kiss the curve of your shoulder. His fingers tightened their gentle squeeze, pulling another breath from you. “I can smell you through your clothes...”
He pulled his right hand back slowly, the heat of his touch lingering as his middle and ring fingers hovered near your lips. His eyes locked with yours as he spoke, “Spit,” he commanded, which made you furrow your eyebrows slightly, recognizing the tone of authority that he carried with him everywhere. The tone alone made you want to refuse him. Which you did. You laid there with a frown on your face and he blinked at you, waiting a beat. When you showed no signs of listening to his order, he let out a sound of frustration, akin to the sound of an irritated growl, and before you could even wonder what he would do in response to your disobedience, his hand came across your face, his palm connecting with your cheek in a firm slap that caused your eyes to widen. “What the fuck Walker-” you went to argue for the second time since this had started and he shut you up with the welcome of a second slap to the face.
“I gave you an order and you didn’t listen,” he stared at you, un-moving, he paused. Now repeated, in a deeper tone, one with more charge behind his words, “Spit… Now.” Your hand stopped over the sting of your cheek and you just looked at him with a feeling you couldn’t place. With a beat of reluctance, you moved your head forward, your lips closing over his fingers like they were a delicacy you yearned for unknowingly. You ran your tongue over the pads on the undersides of his fingers, lubricating them with more spit than he probably needed. After a few seconds, he drew his fingers back and the spit you wet his fingers with now slowly dripped down the length of his digits.
With that, he brought them to his own mouth, and he licked off the unneeded remainder of drool gathering at the webbing of his two fingers. He brought his fingers into his own mouth, dragging his tongue over the undersides with a quicker motion than you did, pulling them out of his mouth with a ‘pop’ sound with made you blink. He pulled back his thigh for a moment, trying to gain more access to what was hidden underneath but your hips followed his leg causing him to snicker at your motion. “What? Trying to ride my thigh or something? Not today, you can try that next time if you ask nicely.”
“Next time?” you asked with a furrowed brow, “Sorry, forgot this was a one time thing.” He grumbled, rolling his eyes at your voice. Slowly, he slid his fingers down your body, leaving a wet trail down the length of your front before they reached your pants and beneath the waistband of both your shorts and your panties. "Doesn't seem like you hate me too much right now." His fingers slide under your panties, pressing against your pussy. He felt how wet you were with the slide of his fingers, crooking his fingers upwards and you bite your lip in response. His fingers began to trace delicate, teasing circles, exploring the sensitive folds with increasing care and attention.
“God, you are so wet, all because of me too. Bet you never thought that could be possible,” Each glide sent sparks shooting through your body, every stroke carefully building tension that you wanted so desperately to be tended to already. The way he worked with patient rhythm made every sensation stretch out, lengthening the delicious anticipation that pulled you tight. You felt yourself arching toward him without thinking, responding instinctively to the slow, teasing exploration. His eyes never left yours, reading every flicker of unrest or pleasure, adjusting pressure and speed accordingly, always in sync with what you needed like he knew exactly what you could handle as if you both had shared this moment hundreds of times over. The combination of both his and your sweat, mixed with the slick of your arousal made it easy for him to slide his fingers through your heat. Slowly, he slipped one finger into you, pressing and curling inside you, gently and purposefully. Your mouth fell open and your eyes fell shut with a flutter, your legs straightening out slightly at the sensation of his hands. A cocky smile forms on his face, and he's clearly enjoying the reaction he's getting out of you. His other hand which was not preoccupied with your body, moved up to your hair, grabbing the sprawl of strands across the pillow to pull it into a makeshift ponytail. He wrapped his hand around the spread, twirling it to gather it all in a bunch before making his hand your personal hair-tie for the moment. He pulled your hair back, causing your throat to bend out at his disposal, and his lips found yours.
The kisses that followed were sloppy, fast and uncoordinated in a way that made you wetter than before. His tongue managed to even slip into your mouth before you were able to connect your lips to his. He panted into your mouth like a man dying of thirst, a man now met with a cold glass of water to swallow like he hadn’t had a drop in a million miles. With his renewed sense of desperation, you felt his fingers move out of you, moving to round your clit in circles, rubbing at it with a passion that made your hips buck forward into his hand. “God-” He silenced your moan halfway with his mouth closing over yours for a hard kiss before pulling back, both of your lips kiss swollen and red, glossed over with a mix of your spits layering your skins. Just as you felt the movement of his hands come close to your peak, your fun was snatched out from underneath you as he drew back his hand, cutting you off from anymore fun.
“Walker-” You pleaded gently as you went to instinctively clasp your legs around his hand, which missed it by a second too late. “That’s not fair,” you grumbled, feeling somewhat empty now that his fingers were absent from your body.
“Yeah, I’m fucking working on it-” he mumbled back at you with a tone of desperate frustration as he sat up, letting go of your hair as he moved to kneel between your legs, his hands making quick work to get you out of your shorts, tugging them off with a force that made your whole body move with it. “I need to get out of these fucking pants or my cock is gonna snap in half...” He said under his breath, more directed to himself rather than to you. Only then did you think about John and his situation. You glanced down, your eyes momentarily caught the sight of Walker pulling off your shorts down your thighs and off your knees, which you assisted him by kicking them off your ankles. As he went to peel off your panties with the same amount of disinterest and lack of care that he had when yanking of your shorts, your eyes diverted to the bulge in his jeans threatening to burst open at the zipper which was straining against his body. "These are very pretty," he murmurs, his voice gruff and thick with desire. "But they'd look even better in shreds." You pull back a little, wanting to watch him as he undresses you but your eyes fall on his jeans.
“Did you not fucking shower after you got back here? Why are you in the same jeans as last night?” You questioned smugly, his eyes flashed with irritation, and with a rude look, he shut you down instantly, no words needed, just the weight of his gaze that left you speechless. You became painfully aware of the cool air circulating through his air-conditioned room, washing over the bare skin between your thighs. The wetness there, a reminder of your growing need, felt even colder now with the addition to the chilled atmosphere. He shifted slightly, his hands moved with quick efficiency to the button of his jeans.
You reached out instinctively, your fingers slipping the front of his fly to help ease the stubborn fabric down. The zipper was nearly bursting, strained tight across the bulge pressing against the denim, begging for release. With a sharp flick and a breath of laughter escaping his lips, he let you pull the jeans down just far enough. The denim slipped over his thighs and the sudden relief became evident in the way his muscles relaxed. Your hands moved between you, fingers pressing and tracing the contours exposed, feeling the steady thump of his desire beneath your touch. You the went to reach for the hem of his boxers to help him out of that singular dividing piece of fabric which served as the only layer of protection between the two of you, but before you could pull them off of his hips he swept you up, fingers sinking into the curves of your hips as he hoisted your body effortlessly off the bed. The sudden shift of weight sent a jolt of electricity rushing through you, with a fluid motion, he flipped you over, landing you on your hands and knees in front of him. Your body froze and you couldn’t find a muscle in you willing to take a move in position.
You felt slightly awkward in this position, manufactured by him, and you glanced over your shoulder to see what he was doing now. Instead you were met with the sight of his cock standing firm against his stomach, his tip flushed red, twitching and leaking with pre-cum that was teased out of him. He was something else entirely, a vision of raw need that you quickly found yourself eager to become familiar with. “This is what you’ve done to me...” The sight of him, the way his body throbbed as though straining under the weight of desire, was more than enough to reveal just how desperately he craved this moment. You saw it in every sharp intake of breath, every tense muscle, the subtle pulsing that seemed to echo a silent plea. Walker shifted in behind you as your head dropped, hair feathering forward over your shoulders, though you hardly had time to react before he intervened. With a swift, deliberate motion, Walker swept your arms out from under your chest using his forearm, knocking away the support that had held your top half above the mattress. You fell forward, face landing right into the soft cushion of his pillow with a muffled thud, the scent of him unfamiliar and heady in the fabric. “I spent ages rolling in bed last night after I put you down onto the couch, wondering if what you were doing genuinely had some meaning behind it.”
You turned your head to the side, drawing in a shaky breath as you adjusted to the abrupt new position. Without hesitation, you felt Walker reaching back, his fingers closing around your wrists and pulling them behind you. “Even if it didn’t I’d like to think that the saying ‘drunk actions are just sober thoughts’ was somewhat relevant.” He crossed your arms at the small of your back, the movement both possessive and careful, his grip firm yet managing to not be not painful. The sensation of your wrists crossing sent a jolt through your body, leaving you acutely aware of his control and of your own vulnerability.
“Hey, would’ve been helpful to have this earlier,” John remarked dryly as he plucked the hair tie from your wrist with a quick snap, leaving a brief sting that made you wince. He hooked the elastic around your wrists, twisting and looping it until your hands were bound together. He wrapped it an extra time for good measure, securing the makeshift restraint as tightly as the band would allow before letting his fingers linger to check the fit.
“You can always tap out or say something if it gets to be too much for you,” he said, voice tinged with a smart-ass edge that made you grit your teeth. “Or if you’re feeling bold, you can just try to rip the hair tie off yourself.” With that challenge issued, he pressed his hand gently but firmly to the small of your back, encouraging you to arch just enough for the curve of your spine to stand out. His fingertips traced slowly along each vertebra, following the bumps and ridges that rose under your skin, lingering at the dip before drifting back for another pass. You felt the subtle shift of the mattress as he moved behind you, the quiet creak underscoring how close he was. His palm settled along the curve of your hip, fingers spreading slowly before gliding over the roundness of your ass, kneading your flesh with a mix of firmness and care, touch reminiscent of the way he had handled your breast moments earlier.
He muttered low, quiet compliment, “God, you’re gorgeous.” The words were simple but loaded, tumbling out between heavy breaths, stirring your mind into a wild frenzy. It was as if he had tossed out a quiet invitation, a loosening of the reins, and you had seized it with both hands, racing far beyond the boundaries he’d set. He had given you a meter to walk with and you had taken it and ran a mile instead. “Shut the fuck up John.”
His hand wrapped the base of his cock, adjusting himself to meet your folds, just enough to get the head of his cock slick off of your arousal, making the coming fun easier for the both of you. He paused just before pressing forward any further, his other hand settling firmly on your hip to steady you, preventing any instinctive movements that might pull away. “Are you sure about this?” he asked, voice low, serious. “Because once this starts, you can’t just tell me to pretend it never happened. You know I won’t forget.” The question hung heavy in the space between you, forcing you to pause and consider the weight of what you were about to do.
You knew deep down this was a one-time crossing of boundaries, a reckless choice that would linger long after it was over. You pictured the stolen glances, the charged looks exchanged across crowded rooms and silent tables— an unspoken recognition that beneath the surface of your disagreements, there was a deeper connection. “I want this,” you answered assuredly but laced with complexity. “I still fucking hate you in ways I can’t explain— and trust me, I’m usually good at getting points across.” Your cryptic words were enough for him to understand that this wasn’t a slip-up. This was a mistake you were willing to make. His grip tightened on your hip, then slid downward over the curve of your ass, guiding you back as he finally began to push inside, setting the moment into motion.
The stretch was devastatingly slow, and the way he breached you felt like the stretch would be teetering the line of too much, but the way he managed to make you bottom you out so easily made the sharp sting of burning turn into a delicious ache, the sensation able to let itself be the intense without breaking you. Despite the burn, the depth he reached made you shiver, a whimper falling from your throat which he responded to with a groan of his own.
Your hands tightened into fists before stretching outward, a physical response to John pulling your hips back against him. Inch by inch, he drew you closer until he was fully buried inside you, the front of his thighs pressed snugly against the backs of yours. “Fuck you’re tight-” He bit out through his clenched jaw. He held you completely still for a moment, letting you adjust to the overwhelming sensation of being filled to the brim by him. You tensed around him as your body involuntarily shivered to the foreign feeling of sex in your system and for the briefest moment, you weren’t sure if you craved more of him, his heat, his weight, or if you needed less of him. “You good? Still fine?” He asked, obviously trying to hold himself back from railing you stupid.
You couldn’t give him a verbally-coherent answer though. You gave a small nod against the side of his pillow, and you heard him grunt out something vaguely reminiscent to a chuckle, yet not long enough to be regarded one. You felt him draw back slowly and took in a deep breath, preparing for it. He slammed back into you, his hips slapping crudely into yours. “You’re ten times better when your mouth stays shut. I’m gonna fuck you so hard you won’t be able to complain about a damn thing.” The sudden shift from tender to commanding sent a fierce heat blazing to your chest, setting your nerves alight with a mix of sexual frustration and genuine frustration.
“Walker, how many times do I have to tell you to shut the fuck up for it get into your thick head?” You barked back at him with a quick burst of rage.
A sharp, resounding smack echoed through the air as his hand came down firmly across your ass cheek, silencing anymore protest before it could even form. The sting blossomed quickly, warmth flooding your skin in the distinct shape of his flat palm. You eyes went wide and you looked back at him with a dumbfounded countenance staining your face. You felt his cock twitch inside you and he snapped his hips forward into your, knocking your air out of your lungs. You swore he was fucking your stomach with how deep he was pounding into you. After a few rough thrusts, Walker leaned over you, his body bending to mirror the curve of your hips perfectly. His hand came up, pressing the side of your face firmly into the pillow, holding you in place with an unyielding grip. Each thrust was punctuated by a deep, guttural grunt from him, a rhythm that seemed almost mechanical in its precision, timed perfectly with every obscene sounding wet slap of your hips meeting halfway.
“If I knew how much of a brat you’d be while I fucked you I would’ve had you gagged already,” and you were glad he hadn’t of. One: You probably would’ve thrown up with the slight touch of anything near the back of your throat, and Two: You wouldn’t be able to yell at him if he continued to get rude.
“You’ve always been a damn brat beneath all that tough act,” he snarled, voice straining as he tried to talk through grunts. “Constantly pushing back, acting like you don’t crave me. But I bet your mind’s always twisting back to it when we’re at each other’s throats. I can feel it. Fuck, you’re such a pain in my ass, always yapping like you don’t want this cock deep inside you. When we’re screaming at each other in front of the team, I’d bet that mind of yours is busy dreaming about how badly you want my dick.”
He kept talking, probably spewing out his inner thoughts rather than keeping them to himself, while also making harsh, ragged noises deep in his throat like they didn’t quite belong to him. The sounds were rough grunts and breathy growls, thick with frustration and desire, spilling out without control. It was like his body was forcing them out of his throat. A more messy, yet still hard rhythm of fucking followed his words He pressed his body closer to yours, if that was even possible, like he was trying to drive himself deeper, as if being balls deep just wasn’t enough for him to be satisfied.
Before he moved again, he pulled out slowly, the sudden absence of him filling you with a strange, aching emptiness, as if a vital part of you had been ripped away without warning. He gave himself a few quick strokes like he were already missing the feeling of your cunt. His fingers hooked under the tight hair-tie that bound your wrists, twisting it free and snapping it off with a sharp flick. The elastic left a vivid red imprint on your skin, raw and irritated where it had dug in, a reminder for you took at later and think of how tightly you’d been restrained. For the first time since he had started treating you like a ragdoll, your arms dropped down, heavy and free, resting loosely by your sides, a welcome but brief relief. Yet just as you began to enjoy it, the moment was shattered. Without warning, Walker grabbed a fistful of your hair, his grip rough and unyielding. He yanked you up forcefully, pulling you into a kneeling position. “Hands on the headboard, now-” he ordered and you moved at his request, John shuffled in behind you, pulling your head back to bump onto his left shoulder. His hand moved to cradle the side of your head, pressing a kiss to your right cheek, then one to your temple.
He praised you at the fact you listened to his command, “Good girl, keep ‘em there,” as his free hand came down to lightly tap your ass cheek. The touch made you shift, lifting your hips instinctively. Without breaking the connection, he slid his body underneath you, settling onto his knees. His hand moved from your face, tracing slowly down over your shoulder blade before circling to your front. He cupped your breast firmly, giving it a slow, deliberate squeeze. His touch didn’t stop there. He continued down your ribs, his fingers gliding tenderly until they reached your navel. Every inch of skin he brushed over felt worshipped, his touch soft and reverent, as if he was silently showing you just how much he adored every part of you without saying a word even though you knew it was probably something other than adoration. Maybe he was just starting to realize what exactly he had been fighting against all this time.
He clenched his hand around your thigh before sliding it up to rest firmly on your hips. With his other hand guiding himself, he lined up with you, then pulled you down without any hesitation or pause. You sank fully onto him, and almost immediately, he grabbed you, lifting you back up just to slam you down again. The relentless, brutal rhythm repeated, each thrust harder and more demanding than the last like he hadn’t lost a lick of energy at all. “Just a bit more,” he grunted out, his face pressing into the middle your spine, leaving open mouthed kisses, hickies and bite marks across your skin like it were a blank canvas for him to work with. His arms wrapped around your stomach like he were clutching you into a tight squeeze, the muscles in his arms stressing with his tight hold, his bicep bulging into your sides. You felt his damp hair sticking to your back and you felt his breath hit your back with every pant coming from your lips.
One hand strayed to your clit again, his fingers rubbing you fervently, determined to get you off before him as it was the right thing to do, just so he can feel you squeeze around him. You stuttered at his fingers now touching you as an additional sensation that wasn’t him fucking you stupid. Your lips fell open and you let out a strangled moan, gasping in at the feeling of orgasm building in your stomach, threatening to overtake you. Sweat formed and dripped from your forehead down to your chin, falling down onto your body. You wanted it bad, you wanted it desperately, but a stubborn part of you didn’t want to give Walker the satisfaction of knowing he made you cum around him.
“John please-” You pleaded, one of your arms, losing their ability to hold up, fell to your side loosely, your hand grasping at his arms like they were looking for something to hold onto, something to ground yourself on. His fingers worked you tirelessly, quicker with every second despite how they wanted to cramp, his middle and ring fingers soaking with you. “get rid of your ego for one fucking minute and just let yourself cum around me, fucks sakes.” He growled into your back, his voice rough and low, and it shattered your carefully maintained denial in an instant.
In that quick, failing moment when you lost your stubborn front, your stomach tightened and so did your cunt. His mouth fell open against your skin as your orgasm crashed over you, sweeping through your body like a powerful wave in the ocean, leaving you drowning in its overwhelming pull. Your thighs quivered and went to close at the feeling, but they were stopped by Walker’s which were assisting in keeping you spread out for him.
“You wanted this so bad,” he taunted you, his fingers slowly coming to a halt on your pussy as you eventually let your body come down from it, his hips not stopping their motions into you, now allowing him to chase the finality of his own orgasm. Your body almost rag-dolled, but you managed to keep yourself upright for this last moment, your arms now both at your sides. Walker’s arms came around them, trapping them in a new, tighter embrace, using the rest of his strength to fuck himself up into you. “Say it, say you wanted this, say you wanted this dick.” When you didn’t respond, his arms tightened, “Say it.”
“Fuck-,” you squeezed out, “I wanted this, I hate your guts but I wanted this bad.” You answered, and he had to stop his eyes from rolling back at your words. His cock twitched at your words, you felt it. His thrusts broke their rhythm and you could feel him becoming sloppier— desperate.
It only took him a few short thrusts before he was pleading and moaning, “Fuck... I’m gonna cum... Can I...? Please—” He grunted, and you squeaked out a small noise of approval, you didn’t care of the consequences right now, you weren’t even sure if your brain was fully working at the moment. At your approval he pulled you down onto him with his arms and his hips jerked uncontrollably like he were desperate to bury himself as deep as possible inside you for this. One thrust, two twitches, and three jerks followed with his release which you swore had punched your lungs from the inside out, your own body twitched and fluttered like you had been shocked by a live wire.
He filled you without a word, just pants and a singular whine into your back, his cum roped out inside you, coating your walls like he were trying to paint you a new interior, spurting out in awkwardly timed hits. He kept you there for a moment and your body leaned forward slightly as he managed to leak out of you, dripping with the aftermath of what was originally an argument. He gave you a few more weak thrusts like there was more of him that needed tending to, your jaw tightened before slackening at the feeling of his arms now loosening their grip around your midriff. “Still hate you by the way.” He grinned into your back cockily and you could only respond with a roll of your eyes, even though he couldn’t see it, he knew it. He pressed a soft kiss in your shoulder blade and he drew his hips away, lifting you up off of him. He laid you down, and he made a move to grab his shirt that he discarded at the foot of the bed on the floor.
You on the other hand, lay with your gaze blanking at the ceiling, your chest rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath, struggling to regulate your heartbeat. He nabbed his shirt from the floor and he came back to your side, using his shirt as a makeshift towel to clean you up which you watched closely with narrowed eyes. “Are you wiping me down with your shirt? Are you fucking serious?” You chastised him weakly, your eyebrows furrowed. He looked back at you, mirroring your eyebrow movement. “It’s a plain tee I got for like, 5 bucks- I’m sorry, is it not up to your expectations miss?” He argued back, not holding any actual tone of underlying sinisterism. “Fuck you Walker,” you remarked quietly which he smirked at. “You just did.” He replied, equally as smug as he is usually.
He finally sank down beside you after tending to your leaking body, his arms tugging you to lay against him which felt strangely nice. With awkward reluctance, you let an arm cross over his chest and your head found its place resting just below his collarbone, your cheek squished against his pec, you could hear the steady thump-thump of his heartbeat, real and steady beneath your ear. Words weren’t necessary in this moment; the silence was full, enough on its own. His breath was heavy but it slowed gradually as the rawness gave way to a softer quiet. His fingers traced lazy circles along your back, gentle and unhurried, grounding you both after the storm of sensation. The heat between you remained, but now it hummed steady rather than flaring all at once.
You filled the silence after a beat, “Still hate you,” you parroted him, and he buried a kiss in your sweat soaked hair atop your head, “Hate me enough to cuddle me?” He asked playfully, and you screwed your face at him as an answer, yet you made no motion to move. “Surely you take back what you said earlier,” he started, his words almost careful. You raised your brow slightly, trying to infer what he could be asking, but then he continues.
“We can sort out a hate-fuck here and there right? I’m not that bad, don’t lie to yourself.” He asks, half expecting a no, but also still hoping for a more on-board answer. You just stared at him blankly, not able to infer if he was just trying to tempt you into a post-fuck argument. All you were met with was the sight of a man, his eyes staring back at you with a look that read with no sarcasm at all.
You found yourself wanting to deny him. This was not happening again. That’s final.
Your lips parted and the words just rolled out of your mouth.
“Maybe, if you aren’t a fuckwit on the daily.” Your cheeks twitched your lips into the faintest grin, his face blew out into a wide smirk. “I’ll take what I can get.” He hummed, crooking his neck down to peck your lips. After the short kiss, you drew back and you covered his mouth with your palms.
“Not there yet. Nothing casual, don’t let this get in your head.” You stopped him, and he took your wrist and he pulled it away from his lips to speak quietly, “You’ll say that now, we’ll see,” he challenged softly before kissing your palm. He shifted into comfortability and you did the same, not moving a muscle away from him.
No matter what came next, right now there was just this— quiet, tender aftercare where you were cherished, protected, and known, and you liked it no matter how much you wanted to refuse it from him.
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