#bombshell!reader

Today’s shift has been brutal. 

Dennis has barely gotten a second to breathe all day, let alone chart or just sit down. Seven o’clock doesn’t come with the relief of finally getting to go home, no—it comes with the dread that he’ll be spending at least the next two hours catching up on notes, and he isn’t the only one. Trinity, Mel, and Frank are all scattered around at various computers, eyes half-closed and voices quiet as they dictate. Robby’s doing the same, minus the dictating—since he refuses to chart out loud for whatever reason. 

You come downstairs, hoodie on over your scrubs and backpack on your shoulders, swinging your hospital-issued lanyard around your hand. Your eyes pick over the central hub until you find him, approaching quietly, not wanting to interrupt the sentence he’s in the middle of. He gives you a quick smile as he finishes up, then sets the device on the desk. 

“Hey, you got my text, right?” He asks, pushing off his chair, standing up. 

“Mhm,” You hum, thrusting an iced coffee in his direction, one you had run out to get when he told you he’d be staying late. “Thought this might help.”

His eyes light up, more than they already had at the sight of you, taking it and setting it on his workstation. 

“It definitely will, thanks,” He says. “I’ll go grab the keys-”

“I’ll just hangout upstairs until you’re done,” You interrupt. “I already found a call room.”

He frowns. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” You insist. “Any chance you can spare fifteen minutes? I got dinner.”

Robby answers for him, sensing the way he’s about to decline and push through, even though he’s on his last legs. 

“Go have dinner with your girlfriend, we’ll be here when you get back,” He says. You raise your eyebrows at Dennis expectantly, gesturing in Robby’s direction.

“Boss says it’s okay,” You add. 

Dennis smiles, nodding. “Yeah, let’s go.”

He follows you upstairs, coffee in hand, rubbing his eyes a few times, trying to wake himself up. You push the call room door open, dropping your backpack on the desk, unzipping it and pulling out a few containers. It’s nothing too fancy, just some decent things from the cafeteria, but neither of you mind. You lay everything out while Dennis watches, eyes fond and chest warm. 

Your hands grab the bottom of your hoodie, pulling it over your head, revealing the black long-sleeve underneath. You don’t think twice as you toss it onto the bed, still focused on setting things up. Meanwhile, Dennis’ eyes fall, landing on the sliver of your waist that’s exposed between your waistband and shirt. He swallows, blinking quickly, already feeling heat spreading over his neck and cheeks. 

He’s almost gotten himself together by the time you’re done, but then you turn around. 

The long-sleeve is a v-neck, one that would be wildly inappropriate if you hadn’t been wearing a scrub shirt on top for your shift. Your necklace, the one he had saved so hard to get for your first birthday after you started dating, glints against your skin. Your chest is exposed, curves of your cleavage on display. Your pants hang low on your hips, and he knows every inch of you so well by now that he can practically see them through the fabric.

“I didn’t have much to work with,” You admit. “Figured it was better than nothing.”

Dennis nods, stepping towards you. “Yeah, no, this is really sweet, angel.”

You smile when he grabs your waist, pulling you close, kissing you quickly. 

“How mad would you be if I didn’t eat any of it?” He asks, voice just above a whisper, forehead resting against yours. You frown, face shifting with confusion, about to ask what’s wrong, he’s sure. He doesn’t let you. 

“There are…other things I’d rather do with my time,” He adds, tightening his grip on you, both thumbs dipping under your waistband. “But it’s completely fine if you don’t want-”

You take a second to recover, the proposition shocking, but then you’re all in, cutting him off. 

“Fuck the food,” You say lowly, looking over his shoulder towards the bed, the thrum of desire already settling in your stomach. He exhales, mouth tugging up into a small smile. He stares at you for a few seconds, then his lips are on yours again. It starts soft, but it spirals fast, your arms wrapping around his neck, lips locked. He slides his hands under your shirt, cold fingertips digging into your sides, sending a shiver down your spine. 

He pulls back for a moment, lifting your shirt over your head, tossing it off to the side. Your heart pumps against your sternum, blood rushing to your chest as you reconnect. You grab either side of his face, trying to get impossibly close, lips haphazard and frantic. Dennis’ movements aren’t any more precise, guiding you away from the table until you feel the wall against your back, both of you almost tripping over your own feet. He reaches towards your spine, unclasping your bra, letting it fall to the floor. 

He ducks his head down towards your chest, lips closing around your skin, nipping softly. You gasp, fingers threading through his hair as he leaves small bruises, barely leaving any skin unaffected. He eventually takes your nipple in his mouth, sucking hard.  

“Ah, Den,” You sigh, tilting your head back, eyes closing. He unties your scrub pants, shuffling them down your thighs along with your thong. He comes back up, kissing you again, chest heaving. You whimper against him when he drops a hand down, pushing two fingers inside of you. 

He doesn’t break the kiss as he pumps them up and down, feeling how you tighten momentarily, thighs clenching and legs already starting to quiver. You rock your hips in time with his fingers, needing more. 

“What do you want from me, angel?” He asks, the question murmured against your lips. 

You shake your head. “Anything you want.”

He lets out a breathy laugh, licking his lips. “Yeah, okay.”

You can still remember when you first started dating, when he would’ve asked if you were sure. Now he knows that you’re more than sure. 

He pulls his scrub top off, along with the t-shirt he was wearing underneath. You watch his chain fall back against his chest, his muscles rippling as he throws his clothes aside. His collarbones catch your eye, and you kiss the left one, then the right. You nip at the bone, knowing how sensitive he is there, then you give him a bruise to match the myriad he’s given you. It throws his focus for a second, his breath catching with a soft groan. 

He grabs the back of your thighs, setting you on the bed, climbing on top of you. He puts his lips back on you, starting just below your ribcage, leaving bruises and kisses all over your stomach. He continues down to your thighs, occasionally biting into your skin. You admire the gradient of hickeys he’s left, the ones on your chest already dark. You bite back a comment about him ‘marking his territory.’ 

He lifts his head, panting, one hand holding himself up on the mattress while he raises the other, turning his watch towards his face. The action is so unreasonably hot you have to bite the inside of your cheek to avoid moaning. 

“Eight minutes,” He comments, looking at you. His eyes are dark, matching your own. “I can get you off-”

“Don’t worry about me,” You breathe, eyes flicking between his face and his chain, which is hanging off his neck, swinging back and forth lightly. “Just fuck me, please.”

He raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t object, especially when you reach out, fingers curling around the silver necklace. You tug on it, pulling him close. He fumbles with his own scrub pants, untying them and pushing them down, keeping them around his thighs. His muscles press against the elastic waistband, visibly flexing. 

“Jesus fuck,” You say, making him look at you, eyes wide. 

“Something wrong?” He asks, concern flashing on his features. 

“No, no, fuck, you’re just-” You pause, his thigh muscles still commanding your attention. “I love you so much, and you’re so hot.”

He smiles, all worry washing away. “I love you too, baby.”

You gesture to his watch. “Eight minutes, Denny.”

“Right, right,” He says, shifting so he’s in line with you. You arch your back as he slides a hand underneath you, bracing your pelvis as he slowly pushes in. The lack of foreplay makes it hurts a bit more than usual, your face scrunching up, grip on his chain tightening. He watches you closely as he moves, making sure he’s not going too fast. 

You wince at one point, and he freezes. 

“You want me to stop?” He asks. 

“No, please don’t,” You say, visibly relaxing a touch. “Keep going.”

Your eyes rolls back once he’s in, reaching for him. He lowers himself onto his elbow beside your head, his other hand coming up to your cheek. The feeling of cold metal on your chest makes you flinch, looking down to see where the bottom of the cross grazes your bruised skin. 

“Jesus,” He murmurs, hitting your cervix easily. The cross moves with each thrust, occasionally hitting your jaw. “You feel amazing, angel.”

You moan in response. 

“Shh, don’t want anyone hearing you,” He murmurs, adjusting so the pendant hangs above your mouth. You take it between your teeth. 

He rolls his hips again, making your eyes flutter closed as you whine. Dennis looks you up and down, realizing that you’ll definitely be sensitive for the next few days while your bruises heal. He’s about to speak again when there’s a knock on the door. 

You both go still, listening closely, not entirely sure if it was really a knock or just someone out in the hallway. Dennis turns his head towards the door, squinting. 

“Was that-”

There’s another knock followed by his last name, then yours. It’s Lena, undoubtedly. Dennis is off you in a second, already pulling his pants back up. He scoops his t-shirt off the floor, yanking it over his torso while you do the same with your long-sleeve, pulling the thin blanket at the end of the bed over your exposed legs after. You reach your arms up, acting as though you’re tying your hair back when he turns around, making sure you’re decent before opening the door. 

“Hey, Lena,” He greets. “Everything okay?”

“We’ve got a pileup,” She explains. “Four victims, five minutes out. We need all hands on deck.”

“Shit, okay,” Dennis says. “Yeah, we’ll be right down.”

She gives him an apologetic smile, looking past him towards you. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“Oh, uhm, you didn’t,” He says, stuttering, face heating up quickly. “We weren’t-”

“See you downstairs!” She calls, walking away from the door. Dennis let’s it close, leaning against it when he faces you again. 

“You think she knew?” He asks. You laugh, swinging your legs out from under the blanket and standing up, stepping into your pants and shimmeying into them. You press a quick kiss to his lips and pass him his scrub top. 

“I think she definitely assumed,” You say, pulling your own scrub top out of your hoodie and back on. “You played it off nicely, though.”

“Really?” He questions, voice slightly muffled from behind his shirt, his head poking out the top a second later. 

You grin, patting his shoulder as you step into the hallway. 

“No, not at all.”

He huffs, following you out. You take the stairs down, stopping at the bottom, moments away from shouldering the door open. You stop, reaching out for him. He takes your hand in his, bringing it up, lips grazing your knuckles. 

“Ready?” He asks. 

“Lets do it.”

Jack spots you immediately, calling your last name. 

“Need you in here,” He says. “Whitaker, help Ellis in trauma three.”

“On it,” Dennis says, dropping your hand as you go your separate ways, both already focused on the task at hand. 

You follow Jack into the trauma room, the number of people half what you’re used to. You aren’t sure how many dayshift doctors are still around, but Mel’s already there when you walk in. The patient is tugging against restraints, ones EMS must’ve put on, as she tries to finish up her primary exam. 

“Ready for RSI,” Bridget says. Jack nods. 

“On her,” He says, nodding his head towards you. “Findings, Mel?”

“GCS nine, confused, unresponsive to questions or commands,” She explains. “Decreased breath sounds on the left, gurgling. GCS is right on the brink, but I think we should intubate.”

“Do it,” He says, already halfway out the door. “Come to trauma three when you’re finished!”

“Wait, where are you going?” Mel asks, worry edging into her tone. 

Jack pauses, watching as you move to the head of the bed. “You’re good, she’s got you.”

The door closes behind him, and she looks at you. You give her a reassuring nod. 

“We’ve got this, Dr. King,” You say. “Let’s push paralytics?”

She nods. “Yes, please.”

Bridget administers the meds, and you open the patient’s mouth, positioning the blade correctly and turning the light on. 

“Do you, uhm, do you want the monitor?” Mel asks. 

“Nah,” You say. “Seven-five.”

You’re finished in under thirty seconds. 

The patient’s sats come up, but they plateau in the high-eighties. Mel listens to the chest again, frowning. 

“eFAST,” She says, lifting his shirt up and placing the tool against his chest. “No lung sliding on the left.”

“Tension pneumo,” You agree, also looking at the screen. 

“Decompression needle,” She orders, putting the wand back and pushing the screen off to the side. She takes the needle in her hand, positioning it above the correct intercostal space. You’re squeezing the bag attached to the patient’s tube, watching as she inserts it, hearing the telltale rush of air escape. 

“Sats improving,” You say, seeing them climb into the mid-nineties. “Nice work, Dr. King.”

Someone yelling your last name makes you look away from the monitor, passing the bag off to Bridget and running out of the room. You pull your gloves off, throwing them out, seeing Parker standing in the doorway of trauma three. 

“What’s going on?” You ask, skidding past her. She takes her place beside the bed again, where Dennis is already doing compressions, each push showing up as a wave on the screen. “Shit.”

“We need an airway, now,” She says, despite it being obvious. 

You grab new gloves. “Mac blade with video scope.”

“Rhythm check,” Parker says, making Dennis stop, raising his hands. The line flattens, the hallmark ‘beep’ ringing out. He leans back over the patient, one knee resting on the edge of the bed, not noticing when his shirt gets caught underneath. 

“Do you want a pause?” Parker asks, looking at you, rolling her sleeves up in preparation to take over compressions if needed. You shoot her a glare, one that makes her smirk.

“Need me to teach you how to intubate through compressions, Dr. Ellis?” You counter, already visualizing the chords on the screen. “Don’t stop, Whitaker.”

He doesn’t, but his mind drifts for a moment, seeing countless times you’ve said those two words to him in a vastly different context. The door swings open, revealing Trinity and Robby. 

“How long has she been down?” Robby asks. 

“Four minutes,” Parker says. “Rhythm check.”

Dennis leans back again, his knee still up, pulling his shirt down even farther. He’s panting, and he takes the opportunity to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand. 

“Push another epi,” Parker directs, looking up at Dennis, her eyes landing right on his collarbone, where a dark bruise is forming. “Uh, compression swap.”

He steps back, his shirt springing back into place as someone else takes over, but it’s far too late. Robby’s obviously averting his eyes, Trinity is nodding, swallowing whatever comment she wants to make, and Parker’s trying to stay professional. 

You place the tube, letting one of the nurses put the bag on. Parker slips her stethoscope in, placing it against the patient’s chest, nodding. 

“Good breath sounds,” She says. 

“Want some ice for that bruise, Huckleberry?” Trinity asks, tone completely serious. 

Robby closes his eyes, shaking his head. 

“What?” Dennis asks, confusion obvious, but you know exactly what she’s referring to. You take over compressions, desperate to be doing something in this moment, knowing that the two of you will never live this down. 

“On your collarbone,” She says. “Looks painful.”

You can’t see his face, but you can picture how red he is as he starts to stutter. 

“I, uh, no, I’m fine-”

He stops, not wanting to dig himself any deeper. 

“Rhythm,” Parker says. “Keep it together, everyone.”

You lift up, identifying the waves quickly, placing two fingers against the patient’s carotid. “Pulseless.”

“PVT, let’s charge to two-hundred,” Parker says, taking the defibrillator pads in her hands. “Clear.”

You’re back on the chest the second you realize that she hasn’t gone back into sinus, sweat starting to drip down your neck from the exertion. 

“Walk me through reversible causes,” Robby says. 

“Uh, hypovolemia, but her BP’s okay and we’ve already given two units,” Dennis starts. “Hypoxia, but her sats have come up. Acidosis?”

“I can grab an ABG if someone can switch,” You say, breathless. 

“I’ve got it,” Santos says, stepping up beside you, taking your place once you come off. 

“Keep going, Whitaker,” Robby instructs. 

“Pneumothorax, good breath sounds though,” He adds. “Tamponade.”

You’ve moved towards the patient’s thigh, heparinized syringe in hand, palpating before inserting it. The tube fills slowly with blood, the colour deep red, a result of her low perfusion. You cap the tube, passing it off to a nurse, then you return your focus to the airway. You set your own stethoscope to the patient’s chest. Air is moving, but it’s not sufficient. 

“I’m adding a PEEP valve,” You say, grabbing the piece from the drawer, attaching it to the exhalation port, setting it correctly. 

Trinity takes her hands off the patient. 

“Charge again, two hundred,” Parker says. “Clear.”

The phone rings, and you rip a glove off, grabbing it off the wall, saying your last name once it’s against your ear. Robby and Dennis wait for you to say something, ready to take action based on whatever the lab says. 

“Potassium seven-point-three,” You say. “pH is the same.”

“What next?” Robby asks. 

“Calcium glutonate, three gram IV push over two minutes,” Trinity says, letting someone else take over compressions. “Ten of insulin, one amp D50.”

There’s only two nurses in there, and both of them already have their hands full, so you step in. 

“I can do calcium,” You say, grabbing three syringes and three bottles. You draw the medication up, setting each down on the tray beside you. “Going in.”

You push each syringe over fourty seconds while the insulin and dextrose are set up, everyone moving in sync, compressions still ongoing under Parker’s lead. The third shock finally gives sinus rhythm, and you sigh in relief, tossing the used syringes and vials into the correct bins, then adjust the vent settings to avoid hyperventilation. 

“ET looks good, fourty-two,” You say. 

“Whitaker, place an arterial line,” Parker instructs. “Let’s give norepi.”

“Got any beds upstairs?” Robby asks, and you laugh. 

“For you? I’ll make it work,” You say. “Give ‘em a call once she’s back from CT, tell them I’ll bring coffee on Monday.”

You walk out of the room, stretching your arms above your head, tilting to one side to try and ease the ache that’s starting in your muscles. 

“Jesus, what happened to you?” Jack asks, stopping mid-stride, looking down at your slightly exposed stomach. You drop your arms once he gets closer, but he’s already seen enough, one eyebrow raised as he gives you a stern look. “I’m gonna’ kill him.”

“What?” You ask, laughing through the word. “Relax, I was a willing participant.”

“Oh my god, I did not need to hear that,” He mumbles, reaching out towards your shirt, patting it down. 

He sighs, closing his eyes. “Those things can give you a stroke, you know.”

“They’re not on my carotid, Jack.”

“Doesn’t matter,” He counters. “You should ice them.”

You roll your eyes as you walk away, wanting to get your charting over with so you can go home. 

Back in the trauma room things have settled down. Dennis finishes with the arterial line, repeat labs are drawn, and the patient is taken up to CT. Trinity reaches towards his shirt, tugging the collar down, exposing the bruise again. He swats her hand away, yanking it back up, cheeks burning again.

“Had some fun in that call room, hey?” She asks. 

Dennis shrugs, knowing he can’t defend himself. “Maybe. Whatever.”

“I knew I was interrupting,” Lena adds, holding the door as people start to file out. Trinity calls your name, pointing to his collarbone with her thumb. 

“You trying to kill him or something?”

You glance over, shrugging. “He bruises easily.”

“Hang on, he has them too?” Jack asks. “This is a hospital, people.”

“Too?” Trinity echoes. “Oh my god, this is the best day of my life.”

“Leave them alone,” Parker says. “If my girlfriend looked like her I’d be marking her up all the time.”

Dennis’ face scrunches up. Robby pats him on the shoulder. 

“You good?” He asks, genuinely curious, not trying to embarrass him any further. 

“Uh, yeah, all good,” He says. “You wanna’ finish the charts at home?”

You’re already turning the computer off. “Yes, definitely.”

“Need to finish what you started?” Trinity asks, but Dennis is half-way to the locker room. 

“It'll help him get the charting done,” You say, face completely blank. "Positive reinforcement, or whatever."

Trinity’s jaw drops, Robby rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, Parker loses it. Jack raises his arms, walking away from the hub, calling over his shoulder.

“I expect no errors in those charts!”

“You know I’m very thorough!” You call back, not able to stop yourself from smiling when he groans from across the department. Trinity’s typing quickly on her computer, too fast to be updating a chart. Parker snorts from where she’s working, and you determine that they’re almost certainly sending messages back and forth. 

Dennis comes back down a few minutes later with your belongings, having gone upstairs to grab them while everyone was distracted. He passes you your hoodie, and you tug it over your head. You bid them goodnight, getting some waves and ‘night’s in response, along with a very pointed look from Trinity. Dennis’ hand hovers over your lower back as you leave the department. 

You wait until you’re in the car to bring it up. 

“Sorry, baby,” You say, tugging his shirt down, exposing the injury. “I didn’t mean to do it so hard. Does it hurt?”

“No, no, it’s fine,” He promises, laughing a bit. “That was…something.”

“That’s what they get for interrupting,” You say, softly running your thumb over it. “You do bruise easily, hey?”

He jokingly pushes your hand away. “I’m…pale!”

“Right,” You say, smiling. “Seriously, we should ice it when we get home. Might as well ice your arms while we’re at it.”

“Why would you ice my arms?” He asks, face showing that he knows your answer is going to be far from serious. 

You shrug, leaning over to him, rolling his sleeve up a few centimetres. Then, you bite his fucking bicep, just for a second. It’s light, but Dennis still flinches, despite the fact that you do this constantly. 

“Every time,” He murmurs. You kiss his arm after, laughing when he flexes it, kissing it again. 

“Let’s go home,” You say, tilting your chin up. He looks at you for a moment, face soft and eyes loving in the way that makes your stomach fill with butterflies.

"Yeah, lets go."

tags:

New romantics The press is chasing the alleged new couple everywhere, here are some headlines

Doble date truth A double date brings back some confusing memories

your mom is such a mil- You didn't want to attract attention, you just wanted to spend a few minutes with your oldest son.

in all timelines. When the Justice League ends up in another timeline, they wonder what each of their lives will be like, but something surprises and traumatized Barry. (part one)

⤷in all the timelines, or not After passing through the portal to return home, everything apparently worked out fine, apparently... (parte two)

baby on board The entire League is invited to a dinner at Wayne Manor, but no one knows what it's about, so they start plotting until Bruce and you finally announce it.

⤷Why did your dad do that? League members already know the Wayne family is getting bigger soon, but your oldest son's friends are about to find out.

⤷he's such a dilf Bruce's wife is already four months pregnant, and her hormones aren't letting her live in peace. She can't stop seeing her husband for what he is: a hot DILF.

welcome to wayne Manor After a round of Gotham City, Bruce finds a lonely boy, and his paternal instincts are triggered by the impending birth of his little girl.

Mom, how do you met Bruce? Being close to giving birth, the boys Jason and Dick spend time around her, and on a rainy day, both are curious about their mother's past, and how Bruce could have had her.

⤷crawling back to you Even though everything was going great, the appearance of a person from their past disrupts everything they had achieved as a couple, but someone is willing to prevent their new happiness from collapsing.

interview interrupted Just a few weeks before your little girl is part of this world, you two decide to give Clark an interview for the Daily Planet so he'll stop interviewing himself for his news.

my little Vivian After Vivian's birth, Bruce begins to see life differently and just wants to be present with his little girl.

sweet horny wife Only Bruce Wayne knows both sides of his charming wife, and he loves both.

oh, it's... gold bruce buying reader gold jewelry when she’s a silver girlie and everyone tells him off about it even though the reader insists it’s okay

You had to admit, grudgingly, that the woman knew how to stage a spectacle. If you didn’t hate her guts, you might’ve given her props for putting on such a swanky event. 

A waiter passed with a tray of champagne, and you accepted a flute like you belonged. The gown helped. Floor-length, slinky enough to earn second glances, heels sharp enough to qualify as weaponry. This was your job: blend in, dazzle, be the distraction if you had to.

“Status check?” Joaquín’s voice buzzed in your ear, familiar and excited.

“Currently blending seamlessly with the rich and powerful,” you murmured into your comm, lips barely moving. You gave the waiter a gracious nod as he drifted past. “Also, I may need hazard pay. Someone’s great-grandfather just winked at me.”

“You’re welcome,” Joaquín shot back. “I hacked your invite list slot next to the fun donors.”

“Fun is not the word I’d use. Predatory, maybe.” You sipped the expensive champagne and did a casual-looking sweep of the room.

“You sound stiff. Nervous?” Joaquín was a lot like a brother to you, and that included the annoying teasing.

“That’s the dress, I don’t get nervous,” you reminded him.

His chuckle softened into the more serious tone he reserved for work. “Keep your eyes open. Valentina’s pulling in half her contacts tonight, so he should be around here somewhere. If we’re lucky, you’ll find him before dessert.”

“And if we’re unlucky?” you asked lightly.

“Then you’ll do what you always do. Smile, improvise, and somehow walk out without a scratch.”

You smirked into your glass because Joaquín wasn’t wrong. The truth was, you’d always had your footing, even in rooms like this where the air smelled like money and ulterior motives. Confidence wasn’t just your armour, it was a second skin.

You were halfway through debating whether or not to start talking to people to blend in better when you saw him. At first glance, you assumed he was just another rich donor with a security clearance fetish. Then he turned, and you nearly choked on your champagne.

When did John Walker get hot? And no, you were not saying that lightly.

Last time you’d seen him, he’d been clean-shaven, hair regulation-short, jaw set like someone had carved it out of stone. A man so polished he squeaked. The kind of man you didn’t look at twice unless you wanted a lecture about “duty” or “protocol.”

Now? The universe must have gotten horny-drunk and rolled out a cosmic rebrand that was designed just to get to you.

The beard should’ve been illegal. Not full lumberjack, but just enough to rough up that all-American jawline. The hair was slightly longer, like he’d missed a couple of regulation trims, and you didn’t mind one bit. And the suit—dear God, the suit—hugged his broad frame in a way you were jealous of.

You would’ve remembered if John Walker looked like that last time you saw him. You prided yourself on your memory. Names, faces, floor plans, door codes. But this required a triple-take.

You told yourself it was just the spy in you, cataloguing details for later. But the catalogue was starting to feel suspiciously like a sexy fantasy, imagining big hands gripping your hips, a broad chest pressing you into a wall, that jawline scraping along the inside of your thighs. 

Professional? Absolutely not. But your brain wasn’t exactly taking the professional route tonight. And because the universe loved irony, that was the exact moment his eyes found you.

John hadn’t been scanning the room for anyone in particular. He was too busy looking like he wanted to be anywhere else. But then his eyes caught yours, and then came the double-take. His gaze flicked down the line of your gown, back up to your face, and then down once more before dragging away. It was what you called the guilty man’s swivel.

That made you smirk. If John Walker was trying not to look aroused, he needed a lot more practice.

He’d separated himself from the crowd and stood by the bar, a lone figure nursing a glass of caramel-coloured alcohol. Bourbon, if you had to guess. He seemed like the type. His beard had a reddish tint, and the line of his shoulders said he was only half at ease. Not slouched but not rigid, caught somewhere between soldier and man.

You crossed the floor with the kind of casual elegance that only came from years of practice. John didn’t notice until you were leaning against the polished wood beside him, close enough to smell the bite of bourbon mingling with his aftershave. Woodsy, expensive, but not quite hiding the undertone of nerves.

“You know,” you said, letting your voice drip with mischief, “that’s a dangerous look you’re working with. Guess I should’ve expected you’d look good out of uniform.”

John’s head turned at once, sharp but wary. Those eyes, bluer up close than you remembered, narrowed just a fraction. “Excuse me?”

You tilted your champagne glass toward his jawline, letting your gaze linger a touch too long. “I didn’t mind the squeaky clean soldier look, but this is definitely better. Less Captain America, more Captain Unzip-My-Dress.”

In your comms, you heard Joaquín suppress a laugh. “Are you flirting with John Walker?! I literally can’t with you…”

John’s mouth twitched, defensive but betrayed by the smallest curve of a smile. “It’s just a beard.”

“Sure it is.” You sipped, letting the bubbles kiss your lip before speaking again. “And I’m just a girl in a dress. Doesn’t mean people aren’t staring.”

The tips of his ears went pink. John’s throat shifted when he swallowed, and you were annoyingly aware of how broad his chest was under that suit. How easy it would be to undo his tie, drag it down that chest, watch his composure shred thread by thread…

He huffed, looking down at his glass. You’d rattled him, and you liked it. 

“D’you always offer strangers opinions on their facial hair?” he asked.

“Only if it takes up all my attention,” you said sweetly. 

You let a moment of silence stretch between you. John Walker hadn’t had women flirt with him in the last couple of years, and you liked watching him squirm. The sounds of the gala filled the quiet; clinking glasses, someone’s too-loud laughter carrying across the floor. 

Your instincts ticked through the signs automatically. The way his fingers gripped his glass too tight, like he needed something to keep him anchored. The subtle flex in his jaw each time you spoke, muscle working under skin. The nervous shift of his neck as a flush crept up the skin there. 

Then there was the flicker of heat when his eyes couldn’t help but find you again. Like his body had already decided before his brain could catch up. You knew that look. You’d seen it in alleyways, in hotel rooms, in the sharp intake of breath just before someone kissed you like they’d been starving for days.

John wasn’t the only one. The sight of him this close—the warmth rolling off him, the steady thrum of restrained energy under that suit and tie—had your stomach warm in a way you hadn’t expected. 

Your brain was already sketching out scenarios. John pinning you against the bar, his hips pressing into yours, his hand tangled in your hair. Not the mission, you reminded yourself, but oh, what a very welcome detour.

“You’re staring,” John muttered finally.

“Am I?” you mused, tapping a finger against the bar. “Maybe I’m just deciding whether you’re the same John Walker I remember.”

That got his attention. His head lifted, brow furrowed. “Do I know you?”

“We met once upon a time,” you said vaguely, swirling the bubbles in your glass. “You had a different haircut, more of that good old-fashioned military restraint. You were busy chasing anarchists, so I doubt I made an impression.”

John blinked, confusion softening into something a little sheepish. “Sorry. I met a lot of people back when I—” He hesitated, grimacing. Back when I was Captain America. 

“Convenient excuse,” you teased. “Don’t worry. I don’t hold it against you.”

That earned you a huffed laugh, reluctant but real. His defences bent just enough for a grin to slip through. “Are you always like this?”

“Yes,” you said simply, lowering your voice just a notch. “When I meet someone interesting.”

John finally looked at you. His gaze slid languidly down the line of your gown, lingered at the shape of your hips, then snapped back to your face like he’d been caught doing something unbecoming. 

Red tinged his cheeks. It made you think of another scenario where he might be flushed. You saw a preview of him looking down at you in bed, breath rough, hand braced on the headboard. The heat pooled low in your stomach, not at all unwelcome.

John Walker wasn’t supposed to be this gorgeous, but here you were. Leaning in close enough to hear the breath catch in his chest when you brushed your fingers against his wrist, and imagining what his breath would sound like between kisses.

You let him stew in the intensity of his own intrigue for a beat, then raised your glass. “To new beginnings.”

John blinked at you, a little dazed. After a beat, he raised his bourbon to meet you in a tentative toast. “To new beginnings,” he echoed.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

He still looked faintly rattled from your toast, like the bourbon had gone straight to his bloodstream. You knew the serum didn’t let him get drunk, so it had to be your effect on him. His fingers tapped once against the rim, then stilled like he’d ordered himself not to fidget.

“So,” John said, clearing his throat. His voice was deeper than it needed to be, like he was forcing it steady. “You said we’ve met. When was that, exactly?”

You hummed, feigning thought. “Oh, a few years ago in New York City. I think it was during that business with the Flag Smashers.” You let your finger trace the rim of your glass, slow and suggestive. 

His brows drew together, suspicion threading the blue of his gaze. Then, his eyes lingered on your hand’s tantalising movement a second too long. “That was—” John hesitated, jaw flexing tight. “That was a rough time.”

“I wasn’t too close to the action.” You gave him a smile that didn’t explain anything. No need for him to remember you standing shoulder to shoulder with Sam and Bucky. Best to keep that little detail tucked away.

He seemed to accept the half-answer, though his mouth pulled taut. “Sorry if I don’t remember. I was a little tied up at the time.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” you murmured, letting your knee brush his as you adjusted your stance. You didn’t step away. Neither did he. “I guess I just have one of those forgettable faces.”

His gaze skimmed you now. Your throat, the curve of your mouth, the neckline of your dress. John shifted, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. “And what do you do now? What brings you here tonight?”

“Supporting the cause.” You motioned toward the stage, where Valentina was droning on. “It’s always fun to see who’s trying to save the world in a tux.”

“That’s vague,” John said, narrowing his eyes.

“Occupational hazard,” you replied sweetly. You let your fingertips graze the back of his hand on the bar as you set your glass down. 

His hand twitched but didn’t move. It was just as big as you’d hoped. Your brain was already spiralling: his hand gripping your hip, tugging you flush against him, those broad shoulders pressing you down against polished wood, his voice rasping, stay still as he…

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to drag yourself back.

“God, you’re shameless,” Joaquín complained in your ear, and you had to stop yourself from laughing outright.

John, mercifully, thought your grin was for him. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing,” you lied smoothly. “Just thinking how odd it is that nobody else has scooped you up yet.”

He looked down, giving a faux smile. “Not really the most popular guy in the room, am I?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” You leaned in, close enough that your perfume wrapped around him. His eyes shut as he inhaled sharply, like he couldn’t help himself. “You look like you could throw me over your shoulder and run half a mile without breaking a sweat. It’s disarmingly sexy.”

The tips of John’s ears went scarlet again. His eyes snapped to yours, then away again, like he couldn’t decide if you were joking. You weren’t. In fact, you were very busy imagining exactly how it would feel if he did throw you over his shoulder.

“You can’t seriously be fantasising about this guy right now,” Joaquín hissed, his voice tinny through the comm.

“Shh,” you murmured as you took a sip of champagne. 

“You’re trouble,” John muttered, almost like he meant it as a warning.

“Oh?” You brushed your hand against his forearm, delighted to feel him tense under the touch. His skin was hot through the fabric, the muscle rigid, straining. 

John’s lips parted, then shut again, as if he had to physically bite back a response. Military training, public disgrace. The man was hardwired to keep himself contained. No doubt Valentina kept a tight ship.

But his body was already telling you everything you needed to know. His grip on the bourbon glass was tight enough to whiten his knuckles, and his knee was still pressed into yours.

Your brain obligingly supplied a picture of those same knuckles pressing into your hips, holding you down. His breath was hot against your neck as he muttered something filthy he’d deny the next morning. Where all of this was coming from, you weren’t sure. But you were determined to see if you could make any of it come true.

John exhaled sharply through his nose, like he was steadying himself. His gaze flicked to your mouth, then away. Then back again. He was losing the battle. God, what would he look like when that restraint finally snapped? Or when he stopped caring about who was watching?

You leaned in, your lips nearly brushing his ear. “Careful, John Walker. I think you might actually like trouble.”

His breath caught, audible this time.

The gala hum was louder now, the clink of champagne flutes and laughter ricocheting off crystal chandeliers. The string quartet had transitioned into something sultry enough to be mistaken for a slow jazz number. Music and mingling pressed around you, but all you felt was John’s eyes when he finally set down his glass.

“Do you dance?” he asked suddenly, like he’d had to wrench the words out of himself.

Your brows arched. “Depends. Is that an invitation?”

The faintest twitch pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Could be.”

Joaquín groaned in your ear. “Oh no. Don’t you dare—”

“Hiding in plain sight, fly boy,” you murmured under your breath, already slipping your hand into John’s when he offered it. 

His palm was warm, callused, and immediately fired off images you had no business entertaining in the middle of a charity event. John led you through the crowd with unconscious ease, parting people like a tide. His hand shifted to your lower back, and he instinctively angled his shoulder between you when a sudden flash came from the photographers by the entrance. Protective and dangerously attractive.

On the dance floor, John hesitated a half-beat. You pressed closer, guiding his hands into place. One settled against your waist, hot through the fabric of your dress. The other clasped yours, his grip careful but firm.

“Relax,” you teased, catching his eye. “It’s just moving in time to the music. I promise it’s not a combat exercise.”

John’s jaw worked, but then he actually moved. Hesitant at first, then surprisingly smooth, his steps solid and sure. His body knew what to do even if his brain thought otherwise.

“See?” you murmured. “Not so bad.”

“Not sure I’d call this my natural habitat,” he muttered, a hint of rough amusement threading through.

“You’re doing just fine.” You let your thumb graze his palm. “Better than fine, really. I’d almost think you’ve been hiding this side of yourself.”

John’s gaze shifted to yours, blue eyes sharp, like he wasn’t sure whether to be suspicious or flattered. “What side’s that?”

“The one that knows how to take the lead,” you said, letting the word curl into something more suggestive.

You indulged the way John’s hand flexed against your waist, resisting the urge to pull you closer. His body was solid, pressed to yours, broad chest rising and falling against your shoulder. And your mind went straight off the rails: that same chest pushing you down into silk sheets, his weight anchoring you, that careful grip on your waist turning into something rougher, possessive—

You swallowed, forcing a smile to cover it. “Careful, John. Keep moving like that and people might think you’re enjoying yourself.”

His lips twitched again. John didn’t quite smile, but the tension in his shoulders eased. “Maybe I am,” he admitted quietly.

You covered the lurch of your heart with a grin, bumping your hip against his as the tempo shifted. “See? Now you’re catching on. Next thing I know you’ll be dipping me.”

His hand at your waist tightened, just slightly, like he was considering it. John Walker was unravelling, and you were more than happy to help pull the thread. 

“You’re trouble,” he said again, but this time there wasn’t much heat in it. It sounded more like wonder.

You tilted your chin up, meeting his gaze fully. “I’d certainly like to be in trouble with you.”

The music smoothed into a graceful number that begged for something slow and close. John’s hand had steadied at your waist, his palm broad and warm, firm enough to make your stomach flutter. His eyes flicked down to yours, then away, as though every glance was dangerous.

Finally, his voice rumbled low, almost drowned by the swell of the quartet. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

John’s jaw flexed. “Flirting with me.”

Your smile curved slyly. “Is that what I’m doing?”

“You know it is.” His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you imperceptibly closer. John’s voice was rough, steady, but edged with something raw. “I know what people think of me. I’ve read the articles; the jokes about the B-vengers, the mistakes I’ve made. So why would you come anywhere near me?”

For a beat, your heart caught at the vulnerability in his tone. 

“John,” you purred, leaning close enough that your lips nearly brushed the shell of his ear. “If I cared what other people thought, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be in your arms. And I certainly wouldn’t be imagining all the ways this night could end if you stop worrying about everyone else and just…” You let the pause stretch, edging your mouth towards his jaw. “Take what you want.”

“Jesus Christ,” John groaned quietly.

Filled with disgust, Joaquín echoed, “Jesus Christ.” 

One second, you were swaying in rhythm. The next, John’s hand slid firmly down to your hip, his other clasping yours tighter. He spun you with surprising grace, then caught you cleanly in his arms, dipping you back in a long, practised motion that stole your breath. The room flipped, but all you felt was his arms, steady and strong, holding you. 

His face hovered inches above yours, his breath mingling with yours. You licked your lips before you could stop yourself, and his eyes darted down to the motion.

“Careful,” John muttered, voice strained as he helped you upright.

“I wish you’d be less careful,” you shot back shamelessly, your lips just a breath away from his.

The heat in John’s gaze darkened, his jaw tight, his mouth hovering a fraction from yours. Every muscle in him screamed restraint, but the raw hunger was right there, barely caged.

You arched slightly into his hold, reckless, taunting. “If you keep looking at me like that, I might think you’re about to kiss me.”

“Maybe I am,” John rasped.

The world narrowed to his mouth, his breath, the dizzying heat curling low in your belly. His nose brushed yours, so achingly close, and your pulse hammered in your throat as if it might leap out of your skin to meet him.

Joaquín’s voice was a strangled whisper in your ear. “Don’t. Don’t you dare. I swear to god, I’ll turn my comms off.”

But you barely heard Joaquín. Because John had pulled you in, his body flush with yours, and his lips were hovering a heartbeat away from setting you on fire. For one perfect moment, you almost forgot there was a mission at all.

“Come on, John,” you teased, your lips slightly grazing John’s as you spoke. Your eyes were lethal despite your honeyed tone. “Just let go. How bad could it be?”

Something flickered in his gaze, hesitation mixing with the kind of heat that sent tingles down your spine. His jaw flexed, like he was fighting himself. “I don’t exactly do this kind of thing often.”

You weren’t feeling patient tonight. “I need you so badly,” you added softly, almost whining. John’s brows shot up, and you followed it with the knife twist. “Please? When did you get so hot?”

That did it. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.” John rasped, voice low, rough. 

“Oh, I think I do,” you countered, shamelessly. “And I think you want it too.”

John caught your forearm, his palm hot where it wrapped around your skin, and tugged you off the dance floor. His grip was firm but not unkind; insistent and possessive. Your heart kicked up a notch, excitement thrumming through your veins as he cut a path through the crowd. 

Your heels clicked over marble as you let him pull you along, and you couldn’t help the breathless laugh that bubbled out. “John Walker, man on a mission. I like this side of you.”

He didn’t answer, just threw a look over his shoulder that had your knees loose. His eyes burned, wild and wanting, and you wanted to be caught in that fire. The crowd blurred around you. John didn’t stop until he found a secluded corner past a marble column, dimly lit, the thrum of music muffled by distance. 

And then he turned.

Your back hit the wall, cool stone against your bare shoulders, a jolt that made your breath catch. John’s body caged you in, heat rolling off him in waves. One hand pressed to the wall by your head, the other sliding firm against your waist, pinning you there without a word. You barely had time to gasp before his mouth crashed onto yours.

He was sharp and hungry, teeth grazing, lips parting like he’d been starving for this all night. You felt the drag of stubble against your skin, rough and perfect, and the way his chest pressed flush to yours, solid muscle caging you in. His kiss tasted of bourbon, smoky and hot.

You made a soft, involuntary sound into his mouth, half-plea, half-victory.

The sound you made seemed to snap something in him. Suddenly, John was everywhere—his mouth devouring yours, his body pressing you harder into the wall like he wanted to stamp you into the stone. His hand left your waist to grip your thigh, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp as he hiked your leg up against his hip.

You broke from his lips for half a second, breathless. “John—”

“Don’t say my name like that,” he growled, voice wrecked, before dragging his mouth down your throat. His teeth grazed your pulse point, and you swore you felt him smirk when you arched.

“Oh, I’ll say it however the hell I want.” You tangled your fingers in his hair and yanked, sharp enough to make him groan into your skin. The sound vibrated against your collarbone, low and filthy.

John kissed you again, messier this time, tongue pushing past your lips like he had to taste every part of you. He kissed like a man who’d gone without for too long, all need and no finesse, but you didn’t care. You bit his lower lip, tugged until he groaned, and then swallowed the sound like it belonged to you.

“You’ve been teasing me all night,” he rasped against your mouth, voice dark and uneven. “Do you know what you do to me?”

You laughed softly, wickedly, rolling your hips against the hard line straining his tuxedo. “I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

His grip tightened, a shudder ripping through him, and you swore you felt him whine into your kiss. That was delicious. You did it again—grinding, slow and deliberate—while your hand slid down his chest, feeling muscle twitch under your palm.

John broke the kiss with a gasp, forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and ragged. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Maybe,” you teased, ghosting your lips over his, not quite kissing. “Or maybe I’ll make you beg.”

The way his eyes darkened was lethal. He kissed you again, harder, teeth clashing, and this time his hands roamed—spanning your ribs, your waist, the curve of your ass like he needed to memorise every inch. You couldn’t keep quiet; every little gasp and moan muffled into his mouth.

For a moment, you thought about Joaquín still in your ear, listening to every filthy noise you made, and almost laughed. Until John’s thumb stroked the inside of your thigh and the thought scattered into static.

“You taste like heaven,” John muttered into your mouth, his words more breath than sound.

“And you,” you panted back, clawing at his shoulders, “taste like exactly what I want.”

The kiss turned molten again, all lips and tongue and teeth, your head spinning with heat and hunger. He wasn’t careful anymore. Neither were you. His control had finally cracked, and you weren’t about to let him rebuild it. You tugged at his hair until John groaned, pressed closer until he whined again, shameless.

Your fingers curled into John’s tie, tugging the silk free, hungry for more of him. The knot slipped loose, his chest rising unevenly against yours as you worked at the first button of his shirt. His breath hitched, lips dragging across your jaw, stubble scraping your skin.

Then, the world jolted. A metal hand shoved between you and John, wrenching him back. The force knocked your shoulder hard against the marble. You gasped, blinking up to find Bucky Barnes towering over you, eyes storm-dark, grabbing your forearm.

John reacted instantly. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he barked, fury rolling off him. “Let her go.” His grip closed around Bucky’s wrist, trying to yank him back.

Bucky ignored him completely. His gaze cut straight to you, unyielding.

“Really?” you snapped, pulling your arm back yourself. “That’s how you say hello after months? By dragging me away like I’m some asset?”

John’s head whipped between you, confusion etched across his face. “Wait. You two—”

“Yeah, we know each other,” you bit out, eyes still locked on Bucky. “I practically grew up with Sam. We’ve been working together for years—I thought Bucky and I were friends.” For the first time, Bucky’s expression faltered. “Is this seriously what it takes for you to talk to me?”

Bucky said your name gently, and John blanched. He only just realised you’d never introduced yourself to him. Of course, he recognised your name. You were a spy, the kind who’d toppled governments before working with the old Avengers. He’d met you briefly in New York City when you saved his life. 

He couldn’t believe he didn’t recognise you.

“You could’ve just called, Bucky,” you went on angrily. “Or at least picked up the damn phone when I called. But no, you disappear, you ignore me. You have this petty, stupid back-and-forth with Sam—and what, you think that makes everything okay? You think ditching us is easier than facing the people who give a damn about you?”

John glanced between you both, stunned, still breathing hard.

Bucky’s mouth tightened. “This isn’t the place—”

“Oh, screw that.” Your voice cracked sharply across the marble. “You’re gonna listen, because I’m done with your bullshit! Sam went through hell to pick up that shield, and you know how much it meant to him to restart the Avengers. Steve and Sam broke every law in the damn country for you, Bucky! We stood by you when the world branded you a monster, and now you’re running errands for Valentina de-god-damn-Fontaine?”

Bucky’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t argue. 

Your chest heaved, heart pounding, words cutting sharper with every breath. “After everything, you’re just a part of a government-sanctioned team calling themselves the New Avengers? You’re supposed to be Sam’s family! How could you still fight him on this after everything?”

Silence. Music drifted faintly from the ballroom beyond, muffled laughter and champagne chatter, oblivious to the storm in the corner.

John just stood there, frozen. His shirt hung half-unbuttoned, tie dangling loose, hair mussed from your hands. The flush on his face hadn’t cooled, only now it was from embarrassment rather than desire. His eyes darted from you to Bucky, only just realising the scale of the fight he’d wandered into.

Oh. Of course.

It clicked with brutal clarity. The way you’d teased him, the way you’d kept things vague, the way you hadn’t let him pin you down with a straight answer. You hadn’t been flirting with him because you wanted him. He’d just been a prop, a convenient cover. Something to lean on while you made your real play at Bucky.

“Right. Well,” John muttered, voice sharp with bitterness, “guess that explains it. I’ll just—” He gestured vaguely toward the party, a sardonic half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Get out of your way now that I’ve served my purpose.”

You turned on him so fast it almost made him jump. “Oh, no you don’t. You stay right there, handsome. I’m not even close to being done with you.”

John blinked. Once. Twice. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again without sound. The words didn’t compute. Hope sparked in the blue of his eyes.

Bucky grimaced. “Seriously?”

You swung a glare his way. “You don’t get to judge.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, but you softened before he could shoot back. You sighed, your shoulders loosening as you stepped in and wrapped your arms around him. His body went rigid with surprise. 

“I know this isn’t what you planned,” you murmured. “And I know it’s not easy. I just want my family back together again.” You pulled back enough to meet Bucky’s eyes. “We can make room on our team for the New Avengers. I just don’t want you guys fighting anymore. Please, Buck. Just call if you need me, okay? Joaquín had to pull some serious espionage to get me on the list tonight, and you know that’s supposed to be my job.”

Something in Bucky’s gaze eased off. He let out a breath and then hugged you back. His chin dipped against your hair. “I’ll do better,” he said gruffly. “For what it’s worth, I want to fix things too.”

When Bucky pulled back, catching sight of John, his expression twisted like he’d bitten into something sour. “But, yeah. Ew. This is like my little sister hooking up with my weird friend.” He jabbed a thumb toward John without looking. “I have to go before I throw up.”

And with that, he slipped into the crowd, vanishing the way only Bucky Barnes could.

You turned back to John. He was still standing there, shirt undone, tie crooked, hair sticking up from your fingers. “So all of this,” he motioned between the two of you, “That wasn’t about him?”

“No,” you said firmly, stepping closer. “That was about you being ridiculously hot. And unless I misread things, I’m guessing the feeling’s mutual.”

The corner of John’s mouth curved, a real smile finally breaking through. “Yeah, the feeling’s definitely mutual.”

Your hands smoothed down the front of his shirt, slow and deliberate, grazing each button as if you hadn’t been halfway through undoing them minutes ago. The fabric stretched over a muscle that had no business being that solid. You felt him swallow beneath your touch, his Adam’s apple bobbing like he was fighting to keep his balance.

“So,” John rasped, his voice pitched lower than before, like he’d had to drag it up from somewhere deep. “You’re a spy?”

You hummed, not looking up at him as your fingers slid to his undone tie. You tugged it loose the rest of the way, folded it without hurry, and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket. The gesture was domestic and filthy at the same time, and John’s eyes tracked every second of it.

“Guilty,” you murmured, brushing invisible lint from his lapel as if you hadn’t just been pinned against stone, kissing him breathless.

John shifted, clearly trying to redirect the heat crawling up his neck. “What are you then? Red Room? S.H.I.E.L.D.?” His voice cracked just faintly on the last word, like it took a lot of effort to focus.

You gave him a look, raised brows, sharp and offended. “S.H.I.E.L.D. was a government agency,” your tone dripped with disdain. “I like to fly under the radar more than that. My training was a little… off the books.”

The way you said it—low, conspiratorial, a ghost of a smile tugging your lips—made John’s pupils blow wide. He exhaled sharply, and you caught the flicker of want and envy across his face. John Walker was everything official, stamped, and sanctioned. You were everything he wasn’t: unbound, unsupervised, untouchable.

It was driving him crazy.

His jaw flexed. His hand covered yours where it lingered against his chest, and the contact felt like a spark. He was trying so hard to stay upright, to keep his head.

You softened, just a little, sensing the turmoil grinding beneath that square jaw. “For the record,” you said, smoothing the line of his collar. “I never planned this.” You tilted your head, letting your fingers graze lightly down his sternum until John drew in a sharp breath. “Joaquín and I just wanted to snap Bucky out of it. Find a way to compromise before this all gets messy.”

“I respect what the New Avengers are trying to do. But Valentina?” You shook your head. “It’s not her mantle to hand out. And whether any of you like it or not, we’d be a stronger team together.”

No one had ever said something like that to him without a smirk, without a qualifier, without making it about Steve Rogers. You weren’t mocking, you weren’t hedging. You were laying it bare. Your conviction was the sexiest thing he’d ever witnessed.

John let out a low laugh, breathless, disbelieving. “You really know how to mess with a guy, don’t you?”

“Only the ones worth messing with.”

Your brain, of course, already sprinted ahead. His hand over yours meant his hand on your thigh, pressing you open. His mouth on yours again meant his mouth lower, slower, anywhere you’d let him. It was obscene, the things you pictured with his heart beating under your palm.

“John Walker,” you whispered, letting the syllables curl like smoke. “You look like you’re about to crumble.”

He laughed again, almost a groan. “ And whose fault is that?”

“Mine.” You smiled, sultry and satisfied. “And I’m not sorry.”

“So, mission accomplished?” he asked, almost teasing.

“I don’t start things I can’t finish,” you replied. Your hands tugged at his lapels again. It was as if you couldn’t decide whether to fix him up or strip him further down. “And now that it’s over, I’d really like to get out of this dress.”

That snapped his focus. His gaze dragged down your body with zero apology, taking you in with the same hunger he’d been fighting all night. John’s eyes burned, lingering on the sensual neckline of your dress, on the sweep of your bare shoulder, the way it highlighted every curve. You saw his throat bob.

“That’s a shame,” he said, voice husky and reverent. “I really like it.”

You leaned in, brushing your mouth just shy of his. “I think you’ll like helping me out of it even more.”

For a second, he didn’t move. He looked like he was deciding if he was hallucinating the entire exchange. Then John Walker, all six-foot-one of muscle and chaos, caught your wrist and pulled you with him. This time, it wasn’t into a secluded corner, but toward the closest exit.

note: i never do tag lists but i appreciate all the people who commented on and reblogged my post so i wanted to tag you all in case you still wanted to read it!! here goes

It’s like God saw what Heaven would look like for him and delivered it in a dozen glossy photos tossed away in a drawer. And maybe Jack would take that trapdoor to Hell if it meant he could take these with him. 

You in poses he wishes didn’t inspire some of the nastiest thoughts he’s ever had. You in various states of undress. You with different expressions, smiling to sultry, and all of them go straight to his cock. 

Fuck. How is ever going to look at you the same after seeing these?

He takes a picture of every single one before placing them back in the drawer, closing it, and opening the one on the other side. 

Ah, there’s your tablet. You had said the drawer on the left. Now he just feels like a jackass. 

A jackass with a boner. 

He wills it to go away, but the idea of opening his phone and getting a glimpse at those pictures again keeps his nether regions swollen and painful, pressing against his zipper. Eventually, he yells down to you that he’s going to the bathroom before coming back down, and he comes faster than he ever has in his life. 

If you smell the guilt (or the sweat) on him when he comes back, it doesn’t show. You give him the same bright, gorgeous smile you always do, and reach for the tablet in his hands. He almost gets hard again when your skin brushes against his as you take it. 

Jack can barely make eye contact with you the entire ride to work. You seem your bubbly, happy self, singing along to the radio and checking your mascara in the mirror. Every time Jack blinks he sees you in that pale blue bikini and he has to shake his head like he can physically get rid of the thoughts. 

“Are you okay?” Your voice cuts through somehow, and he looks over at you before remembering he should be watching the road.

“Yeah?” It comes out like a question, and a little higher than it should, so he clears his throat. “Yeah, why do you ask?”

“You’ve just been… quiet?” 

“No, I’m fine!” He answers too fast, too assuredly. The way someone does when they are very clearly not fine. “Yeah. All good. Just… great.”

When he glances at you, there’s a look on your face that he doesn’t know how to interpret. There’s a glint in your eye and the normal happy smile on your lips has twisted into something more… knowing. He figures it out when he parks and you get out of the car, smooth out your hair, and throw out a casual,

“I hope you liked the photos!”

Oh. He’s definitely not surviving this shift. 

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