Please?

they/she | turned on all the time, patiently waiting to be somebody's little fucktoy | 19

[silverlullabies]

CW: predatory!Johnny, dubcon, implied noncon, dddne

Post-TBI!Johnny who turns to art to cope and convinces you to model for him because you’ve got an interesting face, hen. Interesting bones. Something in the slope of your shoulders and the set of your mouth that makes his fingers twitch for charcoal, makes him stare at you, want to see what’s buried beneath your skin.

It should make you uncomfortable

(Maybe it does. Maybe you should’ve listened to that thin little alarm trembling at the back of your skull, but hindsight has always been cruel like that, arriving only after the door has closed, after the lock has turned, after you’ve already mistaken hunger for reverence. And nobody has ever looked at you the way he’s looking now-)

Ach, dinnae look at me like that. It’s only art.

He lays it on thick-

Tells you he’s been stuck for months. That nothing’s moved him. That he’d started thinking there was something dead inside him until he saw you standing beneath the washed out lights of a corner shop, fumbling with your change.

Then there ye were.

So you agree.

Just once, you tell him. A few hours. Fully clothed.

Course, bonnie. Agrees too easily, bobbing his head, boyish grin sliding onto his face to ease your nerves. Whatever makes ye comfortable.

The studio is warmer than you expect. Old brick. Tall windows dripping with rain. Canvases stacked against every wall, most of them turned backward, their painted faces hidden from you. It smells of linseed oil and damp wood and (- the sharp stench of a cave where things lie nestled in the dark with sharp teeth and sharper claws, maw dripping with hunger for every unsuspecting little thing that crosses in front of it’s eyes, too close too see the danger until its dragging them across stone floor- )

(And you’ll think about those canvases later. About how each one had been carefully turned toward the wall before you arrived, how easy it had been to assume this was modesty instead of concealment. Artists are strange, you’d thought. Private about unfinished things. You hadn’t yet considered that there might be things Johnny didn’t want looking back at you.)

Johnny puts you in an oversized white shirt (‘s mine, Bonnie, but ye can borrow it- ), says the fabric catches shadow better. Leaves your own clothes folded on a chair near the door (- farther away than they need to be- ) and settles you on a low platform beneath the windows, your knees drawn loosely beneath you, one hand resting against your throat.

The first few minutes pass in silence.

Charcoal scratching.

Rain needling softly against the glass.

Johnny looking at you, baby blue traveling slowly, steadily, returning to the same places over and over- the soft inside of your wrist, the hollow beneath your throat, the place where the shirt slips away from one shoulder whenever you breathe too deeply.

You try to hold still, but your back starts to ache. Your fingers curl against your collarbone. Each time Johnny looks up, you remember you’re being watched and flinch, shoulders rising, knees pressing closer together, chin sinking protectively toward your chest, too stiff.

His charcoal stills.

You apologize.

Ach, dinnae apologize. He smiles when he says it, but something in his expression stays still. His mouth curves. The rest of him doesn’t.

Ye keep foldin’ in on yourself every time I look at ye. Ahm not goin’ tae eat ye.

It’s too perceptive and your laugh comes out smaller than you meant it to. Johnny’s gaze sharpens at the sound, charcoal held motionless between fingers stained black nearly to the knuckle. He sets the charcoal on the easel tray and walks toward you, wiping blackened fingertips against his trousers.

His hands settle on your shoulders and press them down, thumbs sweeping slowly along the tight muscles beside your neck, working circles into the ache until your head tips forward despite yourself.

(That should’ve frightened you too, perhaps, the ease with which he found the softest part of you and pressed his thumb into it. But cruelty rarely introduces itself as cruelty.)

Can feel ye fightin’ me, he murmurs.

You tell him you’re only nervous.

I know, hen.

His mouth brushes close to your ear when he says it- That’s the problem-

You’ve never done anything like this before. Never sat beneath someone’s attention and been expected to let them take whatever they saw.

Johnny hums.

- Got somethin’ that might help-

He leaves you there and crosses to a cabinet near the sink. The bottle he brings back is already open. Red wine, dark enough to look black where it gathers in the bottom of the glass.

He pours while you watch, the glass filling nearly to the widest part before he seems to remember himself and stops.

You tell him that’s more than a little.

Is it?

The dimples appear.

Scottish measure.

You laugh despite yourself, and that seems to please him. He passes you the glass, waits until your fingers close around the stem, then returns to the easel as though the matter is settled.

It’s sweeter than you expect.

Dark fruit and spice, something thick and jammy that clings to your tongue after you swallow. It warms your stomach on the way down and then sits there, a small red coal beneath your ribs, heavy in your stomach, spreading outward in a slow bloom that reaches your fingertips first.

Johnny starts drawing again once you drink, charcoal moving with renewed purpose, and each time you begin to tense beneath his gaze, he tips his chin toward the glass.

You obey because you don’t want to be difficult (- not after he told you that you were the first beautiful thing he’d wanted to draw in months. Pride and vanity always did come before the fall-)

The first glass disappears without you noticing.

Johnny refills it.

You watch the wine climb the crystal, a dark red tide swallowing the clean sides. He pours generously this time, his wrist turning until the glass is almost full.

Johnny-

Ye’re still wound tight.

He presses the glass back into your hand, cups the base and tips it toward your mouth, red wine spilling over your lower lip, a thin ribbon escaping the corner of your mouth to trail down your chin- Swallow, hen, that’s it, good girl- thumb catching the crimson streak on your chin, smearing it gently across your swollen mouth, bringing his thumb to his own lips and dragging his tongue slowly over the wine stained pad, his gaze still fixed on your (- tasting one thing and thinking of another entirely- )

The room softens, hard corners of the platform blurring, rain beyond the glass stretches into silver threads. Johnny’s face becomes something painted in oils- dark lashes, blue eyes, the warm cut of his mouth- each feature bleeding gently into the next whenever you look too quickly.

(You’ll try to remember how many times he filled the glass after that. You’ll count backward later and find nothing solid enough to hold. One glass becomes two only because you remember him pouring. Two becomes three because the bottle was lower when you finally noticed it again. Memory is unreliable even when sober; drunk, it becomes something else entirely)

Your thoughts begin losing their edges.

That’s the strangest part.

Not the warmth or the heaviness gathering behind your eyes, but the way one thought stops connecting cleanly to the next. You think you should check the time, but the idea floats away before you remember where you left your phone. You think you’re thirsty, although there’s still wine in your hand. You think Johnny has been staring too long, but then he smiles and the concern dissolves before it can settle into fear.

Your brain turns liquid. Loose.

Everything inside your skull has melted into something warm and buoyant, thoughts drifting past one another like pale shapes beneath dark water. You can see them. Almost touch them. But each time you reach for one, the motion sends it farther away.

The warmth moves deeper with each glass. Into your thighs. Your cheeks. The soft tissue behind your eyes.

Nothing has edges anymore. Johnny’s charcoal scratches from very far away, scraping down the back of your mind.

You take another sip.

Your tongue feels too large for your mouth.

The wine sits syrup thick in your veins, turning your body slow and porous. You can feel yourself dissolving from the inside, bones losing their hard white calcifications, thoughts melting down into something warm and red and viscous. Your mind becomes a glass overturned on its side, everything inside it pouring lazily toward the lowest point.

Johnny tells you to lift your chin and it takes you a moment to understand him.

Your head feels full of warm red water. Too heavy for your neck, too light to belong to your body. When you turn toward him, the studio follows a moment later, swaying gently around its fixed point. Your stomach seems to remain behind while the rest of you drifts forward.

Johnny smiles. Feelin’ better?

Mmm. Floaty.

The word leaves your mouth thick and childish. You hear yourself say it from somewhere above the platform and start laughing, embarrassed by the way your tongue seems to have grown too large for your teeth.

Floaty, he repeats. Aye, I can see that.

The glass slips sideways in your hand when you try to lift it again, wine cresting the rim, pouring over your fingers in a slow, dark sheet, slipping between your knuckles and tracing along the inside of your wrist. You make a startled little sound at the coldness that breaks apart into a thousand shards against the brick of the walls.

Johnny catches the stem before it can tumble from your loose fingers- careful, hen- and you try to straighten it but some how make it worse. Another red thread spills across your palm, and your laughter returns, thick and breathless, your head bowing beneath the weight of it.

Can’t hold it, you confess.

Johnny looks at your hand.

His smile doesn’t disappear, the warmth staying arranged across his face, but everything behind it grows watchful and still, his gaze following the wine as it crawls toward the soft bend of your elbow.

Aye, he murmurs. I can see that.

He takes the glass from you and places it beyond your reach.

Then he closes his hand around your wrist.

(There are moments when the body understands before the mind does. A pulse quickening beneath someone’s thumb. Fingers curling uselessly toward the palm. Some small animal instinct lifting its head inside you and finding every door already underwater. Yours tries to warn you now, but the wine has made a soft, red grave of your thoughts, and whatever is screaming has sunk too deep to be heard.)

Johnny raises your hand slowly, turns your wrist upward and studies the dark streaks shining there as though you’ve offered him something.

His tongue touches the center of your palm.

Tickles, you mumble, trying weakly to pull your hand back.

Johnny doesn’t let you, fingers tighten around your wrist, dragging his tongue between two of your fingers, gathering the wine with slow, deliberate strokes, his eyes lifted to your face the entire time, stubble scraping your skin, your head tipping drunkenly toward one shoulder while he follows the spill downward. His mouth moves over the heel of your hand, then the tender inside of your wrist, tongue tracing the dark path until it reaches the quick beat of your pulse.

Johnny, you breathe, his name breaking apart around another shy (nervous) giggle.

Shh.

His lips close over the fluttering place beneath your skin, sucking gently at the flesh, and the laughter catches strangely in your throat.

For a second, the floating stops.

Your eyes find his. There’s no boyish embarrassment there now. No artist’s wonder. Only concentration, calm and proprietary, as if he’s discovered the precise place where you’re weakest and is committing it to memory.

Then the room tips again.

The fear slips away before you can name it.

Johnny lifts his mouth from your wrist. A faint red stain shines across his lower lip, though you can’t tell whether it’s wine or the shape of his teeth pressed too hard against your skin.

Couldnae leave ye all messy, he murmurs.

You smile at him, heavy eyed and grateful.

(That smile will return to you later. Not his. Yours. The soft, trusting curve of your own mouth while he held your pulse between his teeth, already learning how much he could take, could take, could take before you’d realize something was missing- )

His hand slides behind your neck when your head lists toward one shoulder, catching you with a palm spanning the base of your skull, fingers sinking into the soft place beneath your hair, and the strength of him feels like a pillar rising from the black water at the exact moment your feet stop finding the bottom.

You lean into him, body pouring toward the nearest solid thing with the blind obedience of water finding a crack.

(That’s the part you’ll hate most afterward. Not the touch itself, but the relief. The soft, grateful sound your throat makes when he holds your head up for you. The way your body, stupid animal that it is, mistakes restraint for shelter because the room has become a dark and gently turning sea, and Johnny- Johnny, who tipped the bottle into your mouth, who stood on the shore and watched the red water climb over your face- feels like the only thing left that won’t move beneath your hands.)

Can barely hold yourself up, can ye?

There’s laughter curled inside his voice. Warmth too. Enough warmth to blunt the edge of it, enough tenderness painted over the words that you don’t see the teeth beneath until much later, when you’re sober enough to pick each moment apart and find where the sweetness spoiled.

You mumble that you’re fine, word coming loose and swollen, a soft little shape that collapses against his chest before it properly leaves your mouth.

Course ye are.

His thumb moves behind your ear, slow enough to feel fond, presses into the tender hollow there and draws a circle, then another, while your thoughts slosh heavily from one side of your skull to the other.

Jus’ need a wee bit of help holdin’ the pose.

He reaches past you.

Something drags from the shelves, whisper of fibres over unfinished wood, dry and soft, the sound stretching strangely inside your head, unspooling through the wine until it becomes the scrape of something moving beneath a bed, the hush of grass parting around a body.

When Johnny settles back into view, there’s a pale coil resting in one charcoal stained hand.

You stare at it.

The meaning is there- somewhere- can feel it beneath the surface, pressing upward through the wine. But your thoughts are no longer thoughts, drifting pieces of them, each one separating when you reach, each one slipping wetly through your fingers before you can force it into words.

What’s that for?

The question sounds very far away.

Johnny looks at the rope, then at you.

You.

He says it so easily that you blink up at him, chin hooked against the hard planes of his abdomen.

Then his grin breaks wide, dimples cutting deep enough to make the answer harmless again.

The pose, hen. It’s for the pose.

He kneels beside you and takes your wrist, winding the rope around your skin once, then twice, explaining tension and composition and the body’s instinct to protect itself when it tires.

Always curls inward, he murmurs, thumb smoothing the inside of your wrist. Always tries tae hide the soft parts.

You watch his fingers move.

Over.

Under.

Through.

Cream colored rope, the shade of old lace or clean bone, pretty where it crosses your skin, fibres blurring at the edges when your eyes lose focus, becoming something delicate, ornamental. A bracelet. A ribbon. (Gift-wrapped and hand delivered-)

Johnny-

Too tight?

You don’t know.

You should know. The answer ought to exist inside your own head, but your body has gone dim and distant, a house seen through fogged glass. There’s pressure around your wrist. Heat beneath it. A pulse knocking weakly against the rope like someone trapped behind a wall.

Johnny slides one finger under the knot, fingertip stroking over your pulse while he looks up at you, eyes bright and attentive.

Wouldnae hurt ye.

You nod because he sounds so certain and rational thought is a stone tied to your ankle asking you to climb through red waters.

He binds the other wrist before you understand that the first one is finished. Lifts both arms above your head, and your body follows with a slow, boneless obedience that makes him smile. The stretch pulls through your shoulders, arches your back, tits pushing at the fabric of his shirt, body bent sharp enough to split the soft haze for half a second, and a whimper escapes before you can swallow it.

Shh. Easy, bonnie.

His hand slides down your arms, your sides, soothing the hurt he created, and the wine rushes back into the space pain briefly cleared. Warm. Heavy. Merciful.

He secures the rope to an iron ring sunk into the studio floor.

You hadn’t noticed the rings before.

There’s one near either side of the platform, black metal half hidden beneath old paint and dust. More beside the mattress in the shadowed corner, arranged at careful distances from one another.

The pattern should mean something.

(It does mean something.)

Your gaze catches on them and then drifts helplessly away.

(Fear needs a body that answers when called, and yours has become warm wax beneath his hands, softening wherever he presses, cooling around whatever shape he leaves behind.)

Your legs are next.

He cups one ankle and draws it outward. Then the other. Your heels drag over the platform with a soft rasp, your knees falling apart beneath the loose white shirt. The fabric slips higher along your thighs, and the first clean spark of alarm pierces the drunken fog when you try to close them again.

Johnny feels the resistance and his hands stop on your thighs, heat from his palms sinking into you until you can feel his fingerprints burning their marks into your bones.

Easy.

The word is quiet. Almost kind.

You shake your head, but the motion tips the ceiling sideways. The windows pour rain upward. Johnny’s face splits into two softened versions of itself, then swims back together as nausea rolls lazily beneath your ribs.

I don’t-

The sentence knots behind your teeth.

Don’t what?

The words are all there, drifting separately through the dark, but you can’t gather them into the same mouthful.

Johnny leans closer- what was that, doe- gives you every appearance of listening, eyebrows drawn with concern, mouth softened at the corners.

You try again.

Your tongue feels soaked through. Heavy as nebula, the sounds smearing against one another until even you can’t tell what you meant to say.

Johnny waits, watches the effort drain out of your face and only then strokes both hands down your thighs.

Thought so.

The ropes tighten around your wrists. Your ankles. A careful loop above your knee when your leg keeps listing inward, another where the position pleases him but your body won’t hold it on its own.

His hands guide the white shirt higher whenever it catches beneath you.

It’ll wrinkle, hen-

A little farther-

Hold still-

The fabric gathers in pale folds until it rests beneath the curve of your breasts, baring the plane of your stomach, the flare of your hips, your soft, silky cunt he has spread open for himself. His thumbs stroke once along the crease where thigh meets hip, pressing into the give of flesh (- as though he is already imagining how it will feel when he is between them- )

He looks at what he has done and the boyish grin is gone. What remains is quieter. Hungrier. His eyes move over you like he is deciding which part to taste first.

There we are, he murmurs. Much better.

You drift.

Fear is still there, but it has risen above you now, trapped on the other side of the wine. You can see its shadow crossing the surface while you float beneath it, black and frantic and distorted by the red water between you. Your shoulders ache. Your wrists burn dully where the rope takes your weight. Your legs are held apart by pale fibres and Johnny’s careful arrangement, but the body enduring it feels impossibly far away.

A figure at the bottom of a lake.

A pale thing laid open in the silt.

You’re near the ceiling. You’re inside the rain crawling down the glass. You’re suspended somewhere behind your own eyes, watching a woman in a white shirt test the ropes with small, weak movements she won’t remember making.

She looks frightened.

You wonder why she doesn’t leave.

(Drunkenness makes a cruelty of distance. It lets you watch yourself suffer without understanding that you’re the one inside the body. Lets the mind climb out through a crack in the skull and hover somewhere clean while the flesh remains below, warm and obedient and available. It feels almost like escape until you realize Johnny can still touch what you’ve left behind.)

Christ.

The reverence in his voice draws your gaze back to him.

He’s looking at you, eyes moving slowly over your arms lifted and secured, your knees drawn apart, the shirt bunched high where his hands kept moving it, pausing at each point of strain as if pain is another line he’s finally managed to place correctly.

Something in his face has gone still, colder than lust. The deep and emptied devotion of a man standing before an altar built for a god that cannot refuse him now.

There ye are, he whispers, as if you’d been hidden from him, as if the rope has finally uncovered something true.

Then he crosses to the studio door and you follow him with your eyes slowly, the room dragging several seconds behind his body.

Johnny turns the lock and the click enters your head like a stone dropped into deep water. He slides the bolt into place and the sound travels down through the wine and settles somewhere beneath your heart, where the part of you that still understands begins, very quietly, to drown.

Then his hip catches the corner of a canvas on the way back.

It happens slowly from where you’re floating. The frame tips away from the wall, knocks against the one beside it, and then the whole uneven stack begins to slide. Wood scraping brick. Canvas whispering against canvas. Johnny swears beneath his breath and reaches for them, but they have already fallen face up across the floor.

And…

There you are.

Your face.

You blink at it, wondering for a syrupy moment whether it’s the sketch he’s just made, though the woman in the painting is wearing your green coat from last autumn. Her hair is damp, cheek tucked into the collar against the rain. She’s standing beneath the yellow shelter at the bus stop near your work, eyes lowered toward the phone cupped between her hands.

Another canvas has you carrying groceries against your chest. The paper bag splitting at the bottom, oranges bright through the tear, your mouth caught open in a laugh you don’t remember giving him.

Another-

you behind the steamed glass of the little cafe on Bell Street, both hands curled around a mug. There are Christmas lights reflected over your face. Red and gold smears threaded through your hair like something festive and burning.

That’s me, you say.

Or think you say.

(There’s a truth arranged across the floor in front of you, patient and chronological. Months of it. Seasons of it. Proof painted in oils and hidden with its face toward the wall, waiting for the moment when you could no longer count backward clearly enough to understand what you were seeing. But your brain has become a red tide inside your skull, and recognition is a small animal trying to swim through it. You watch its paws break the surface once. Then it sinks.)

When did you- ?

The question dissolves halfway out.

Johnny crouches and turns the first canvas over, handles them gently. (More gently than he’s handled you.) Checks the corners for damage, thumb brushing dust from your painted cheek before he hides it against the wall again.

Clumsy bastard, he mutters.

You stare at the remaining portrait. The one at the corner shop. Washed out lights. Coins scattered across your palm. Your face turned slightly to the side as if someone has just called your name.

- The moment he told you about-

- The first time he saw you-

Except the painting of you at the summer festival last year is underneath it.

Your eyebrows pull together and the thought almost forms.

Johnny looks over his shoulder and sees you struggling there and his expression softens.

Dinnae hurt yourself, hen.

He rises, steps over the paintings and comes back to you. One blackened fingertip presses between your brows, smoothing the crease away as though confusion is another flaw in the pose.

Ye’re thinkin’ too hard.

You try to tell him there are paintings of you. You try to ask how long.

You try to but the words leave your mouth sodden and misshapen, each syllable dragging another behind it until the sentence reaches him as little more than a murmur, the beginning falling away before you reach the end.

Johnny understands anyway. (He always seems to understand you when it suits him.)

He watches your mouth with that same fond concentration he wore while sketching (the patient attention of a man waiting for something soft to finish struggling) then glances toward the canvases he hasn’t managed to turn over.

Did tell ye I’d been stuck for months.

The dimples sink deep.

Never said how long I’ve been working since then.

You look back at the paintings.

The woman beneath the bus shelter has your green coat buttoned neatly with a button that broke last September. The woman at the cafe is holding the chipped blue mug they stopped using sometime around Christmas. Another version of you is walking beneath trees still fat with summer leaves, bare legs flashing beneath a dress buried now at the bottom of your wardrobe.

Your mind touches the sequence and recoils, but there’s nowhere for the thought to go. The wine has flooded every corridor inside your skull, filled every room up to the ceiling. Understanding swims toward you through it- slow, pale, terrible- but each time it comes close enough to recognize, the current rolls you gently away.

Something cold opens inside you, but the wine pours into it before it can become fear. It fills every clean edge, rounds everything off, turns horror into a distant pressure beneath the sternum. Johnny strokes your cheek and waits until your eyes lose focus again.

(He hadn’t found you beneath the lights of the corner shop tonight. Not in the way he’d made it sound, not like lightning or providence or some dead part of him suddenly shocked back into motion. He’d already known which bus carried you home. Which cafe you preferred. What store you used. He’d watched summer soften into autumn around you, watched autumn die into winter, and called it inspiration because obsession sounds beautiful when an artist says it.)

Johnny collects the last canvas and turns it toward the wall and your painted face disappears.

There, he murmurs. Nothin’ tae worry about.

He comes back to you slowly, hands settling on your thighs, hot enough to feel like brands through the wine heavy numbness, heat sinking in around the breadth of his palms and the effortless weight keeping you where he put you.

You shake your head.

Or perhaps it only falls weakly to one side.

Johnny’s mouth brushes your trembling knee, almost gentle, while his thumbs draw slow circles against your skin.

Easy, hen.

You try to tell him you want to go home but all that emerges is a broken little breath.

He lifts his head and watches you struggle to assemble the words, patient until the last of them dissolves behind your teeth. Then he smiles tender enough to make it seem as though he’s forgiving you for being afraid.

(And somewhere above the wine, the small surviving part of you finally understands why the paintings were turned toward the wall.)

Johnny reaches back without looking and the amber lamp beside the platform clicks off.

Darkness folds over the studio, warm and absolute, and his hands tighten around your thighs when the ropes instinctively draw taut.

Now, he murmurs against your skin, hold the pose for me, hen.

[zanerose]

I love deeply traumatized men with haunted eyes. Like hell yeah babe look at me as if I'm the only good thing you've ever known.

[sheepispink]

“You can't sleep, can you?”

“How do you—“

John wasn't stupid, it wasn't hard to tell your strange schedule had been caused by your sleep patterns or rather a lack thereof. Plus, if the bags under your eyes were enough to go off of and the constant yawns hidden between conversations.. you desperately needed some sleep.

He didn't know when it started exactly, or when he even started trying to help you. All he remembers is that one day he brewed an extra cup, delivered in to you before bed and by morning he had to come and wake you up personally from your deep slumber. And that worked for a while, enough that he gave you a box of the tea he used since you were convinced you had been bothering him this entire time.

Until it wasnt enough and he found you wandering around base past midnight, welding mask still on, and a heavy weight on your shoulders. He steered you back to your room, made sure you changed into some comfortable clothes, and ordered you to go to bed… just to find you sleepy by the next morning.

You got your work done to be fair, worked extra hard despite your constant yawns to get each and every new prototype out. But.. it didn't help that your sleep problems were caused by that too. He couldnt even count anymore how many times he found you up working on some new idea, muttering to yourself up until you fall asleep head flat on your desk. Not to mention the energy drinks you keep managing to hide between your tools. He had to draw his line when you walked into the rec room looking for your gloves.. hands covered in plasters and bandages.

“I know you’re tired because you’ve never slipped up this much.” He says, voice a little too firm for your liking but when you look at Kyle for help he quickly looks away, suddenly interested in the remote control.

“I accidentally brushed against a tool, it’s just some light burns I promise.” You try to argue, tucking your injured hands into the gloves you thankfully spotted on the back of the couch.

“You think i believe that?” He scoffs, crossing his arms firmly over his chest, as he narrows his eyes at you. “If you don't sleep properly in the next few days, i’m locking the door to your lab.”

You blink, and then smile a little, sure he must be joking. “I mean, i’ll try but you know i need to work.”

He doesnt even twitch, and you turn your head again, making eye contact with Soap whose also been no help until now when he grimaces. He’s not joking then.

“Alright- okay! I promise i’ll get some good sleep.”

You get banned not even after two days when he finds you sluggishly trying to weld at four am. A lock is soon secured on the doors to your lab and even your poor snack stash is left inside with it. Even when you plead with him, he just shrugs his shoulders. “Just fix your schedule and you can go back in.”

It didn't help that you were still a little terrified of him, and the team in general. You were close to Gaz, that much was obvious, but you seemed lost in your head a lot of the time compared to the soldiers. So you hadn't complained more than that, and he heard from Kyle that you had been making a conscious effort to try and get proper sleep, even visiting the infirmary. Still, it’d been a week since and if anything you look even more tired than before.

“What are you doing?” Kyle stops you on your third lap around base, the sun set and soon the clock will strike closer to midnight. John had sent him after you since you seemed far more comfortable around him than the rest of them. You swallow nervously, looking around but no one is here to save you now.

“I- i’m trying! I swear i am, i just..” You fiddle with the edge of your gloves, shoulders jumping at a closed door a corridor down. “I cant do it.. please I dont want to be kicked me from the team.” The look on your face is of pure misery and you step closer to let your head hang low,

“Kick you from the team? Who told you that?”

“Um.. Lieutenant Ghost did.”

Kyle mentally makes a note to tell off Ghost for scaring you of all people, even if he suppose it probably was a good way to make you take your health seriously. Until.. it got to the point you stressed too much over it

“No one’s getting kicked from the team for a lack of sleep.” He sighs before he pats your back, forcing you to start walking alongside him all the way towards the rec room. You’ve been avoiding it recently, mainly because you probably think John will catch you not sleeping. He just wants to see you taking care of yourself, that's all. “Stay here until you feel tired, okay? I’ll help you tomorrow.”

—

Contrary to his reassurance, the anxiety only eats at you more. There was nothing to fill your hands in the lab nor anything to distract you from the possibility of disappointing him. You were still beating yourself up about it when he stops by your room, knocking on the door.

Both Price and Kyle stand on the other side, to your horror and you immediately freeze up.

“You got some time to spare? We need to go pick up some things, could use the extra hands.” Of course you nod immediately, letting them lead you to his car. It’s cold out but he’s got heated seats which make you let out a soft sigh, staring out the window at how the moon shines above the city.

You’re in the backseat on your own whilst Kyle sits upfront, chatting with the Captain about one thing or the other.

“Oh— Captain, they said the drive might be longer because of a diversion.”

“How long?”

“An hour or two. Then actually packing it in will take a while aswell.”

For some reason that stuck out to you more than usual, even though it really shouldn't. It was kind of boring sitting at the back with nothing to do, even the music was slow and quiet, perfect for the late evening. There wasn't much else to do but stare out that window, and knowing you’d be here for at leadt an hour more. Well…

“I think they’re out.” John nudges Kyle, who is getting tired himself, to look back and check. Surely enough, you had fallen asleep easily against the door, cheek pressing into the seatbelt and body snuggled up.

John takes a turn or two more before finally stopping outside base again, having gone in a circle that only lasted half an hour really.

“Like a light.” Kyle chuckles, sliding out his seat and carefully towards your door. “Easy, i’ve got ya.” He hums, scooping you into his arms as you melt into them, too tired to care.

They had noticed it a month or so ago, when they took you out to analyse some weapons found and you fell asleep in the traffic on the wayback. Not to mention the countless other times over the years, silently dozing off without many knowing.

They take you back to your room, the soft scent of essential oils filling the air that Soap and Ghost had done while you were gone. You settle into the clean pillows, aswell as the hot water bottle tucked beneath the duvets too.

“Not even nine pm.” Johnny mutters, taking his phone out to get a picture else you try and argue against it tomorrow.

“Needs it, poor thing been working themself to the bone.” John hums, pulling the duvet up to your neck, the lamp still dim on your side table. There seemed to be a lot of things keeping you up, namely the dark and the nightmares which breed in it. This way, you’d be safe from all of that.

Your eyes twitch, and he holds his breath, but you just roll over, pulling the hot water bottle flush against your chest.

He ushers the two sergeants out, clicking the door shut behind him. Hopefully you’d get a much better sleep tonight, and dreams that would leave you smiling tomorrow at the mess. That is his favourite look on you after all.

————-/

idk i think this is a nothing burger but i was fighting to stay awake in the car the other day

#ilovenapping

buy me a coffee

[heldbybarnes]

wicked remedy

pairing: vampire!bucky barnes x fairy!reader | 6.6k words

warnings: 18+ only, fantasy violence, blood/feeding references, enemies-to-lovers, manipulation/bargaining, explicit sexual content (oral f receiving), power imbalance, “monster x magic” dynamics

summary: the fairy court sends you—their most powerful princess—to confront the vampire draining your forest dry. bucky agrees to stop, but only if you let him feed on you instead. one dangerous bargain later, your pleasure becomes the only thing strong enough to save the heartwood.

authors note: one of my amazing nonnies sent me this idea several weeks ago and it's all i've been able to think about since!! pls enjoy me spreading my "bucky is a munch" agenda in the fantasy world 🖤🧛🏻🧚🏼‍♀️

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Moonlight made the forest look innocent.

Silver on leaf-veins. Soft on moss. Kind on the thin ribbon of creek that braided through the roots like it was sewing the world back together.

It was lying.

You could feel it in the way the earth pulsed beneath your bare feet—uneven, jittery, like a heart that kept skipping beats. You could taste it in the air, too: iron and fear, the sharp sting of spilled life where there shouldn’t have been any.

A fox lay half-hidden beneath a fern, too still, eyes glazed as coins.

Near the creek, a rabbit slumped on its side, fur damp, throat a neat, cruel puncture. No tearing. No waste. Just… drained.

Vampire.

Again.

Your magic rose in your chest like a storm swelling behind your ribs, bright and angry. The vines at your ankles quivered, waking at the pull of your mood. A spray of tiny white blossoms opened along the path you hadn’t stepped on yet, as if the forest was holding its breath—waiting to see what you would do.

“Princess,” a voice said behind you, tight as a bowstring. “Please—”

You turned.

Lysa, one of the elder court’s spokesfairies, hovered a handspan off the ground, wings flickering with agitation. Around her, the others had gathered in a half-moon: fierce little points of light in the gloom, their glamour dimmed by worry.

“They’re going to blame us,” another snapped, a younger fairy with sharp cheekbones and sap-green hair. “They always blame us when humans die, when beasts go missing, when something dark moves through our woods like it owns them.”

“No human has died,” Lysa said, though her eyes darted away like the lie burned. “Not yet.”

“Not yet,” the green-haired fairy echoed, bitter.

You let your gaze sweep over them. Torn sleeves from last night’s skirmish with a thorn-wolf. A smear of ash across someone’s forehead. Everyone too tired, too bright-eyed, too on-edge.

The forest had always been yours in a way it wasn’t for anyone else. Not because of your title, not because of the delicate crown of woven ivy the court insisted you wear during council, but because nature listened to you the way it listened to no one. You didn’t command it like a soldier. You didn’t bargain like a merchant.

You understood.

And right now, it was screaming.

“He’s not just feeding,” you said softly.

They went still.

You crouched beside the rabbit, fingers hovering over its fur. A whisper of pollen and light slid from your palm. The rabbit’s chest rose once—just once—before it stilled again. Too late. You could coax a bud into bloom, could pull rain from a stubborn sky, could stitch bark back together after an axe bite, but you couldn’t pour a soul back into a body that had already gone cold.

Your throat tightened.

“He’s taking too much,” you finished, voice sharper. “And he’s doing it too close to the heartwood.”

“That castle has been there for centuries,” Lysa said. “Before any of us wore these wings. Before the court was even… named.”

“And in those centuries,” the green-haired fairy cut in, “something inside it has been starving.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

“We’ve tried warding the tree-line,” someone said, frantic. “We’ve tried binding circles. We tried sending animals away—”

“And he still found them,” Lysa whispered.

You could feel the forest’s answer like a bruise beneath your tongue: He hunts by scent. He hunts by thirst. He hunts because he can’t stop.

“Then we stop him,” you said.

“You mean you stop him,” the green-haired fairy said immediately, too quick, too bright with something like relief and resentment tangled together. “Because if you go—if you walk up there like you’re invincible—”

“—you might not come back,” Lysa finished, her voice breaking at the edges. “We’re not asking because we don’t care. We’re asking because we care too much.”

Your magic hummed, answering your emotion by curling ivy around your wrist like a bracelet, gentle as a hand.

“Send a battalion?” you asked. “He’ll pick you off. Send envoys?” you scoffed softly. “He’ll laugh. Keep doing nothing?” You gestured at the rabbit, the fox, the darkening stains in the grass. “The forest will die a slow death and we’ll pretend it’s not our fault.”

Silence.

Then, from the very back, a small voice—young, trembling—said, “He killed my doe.”

Your head snapped up.

A tiny fairy—barely more than a glow with wings—held her hands in fists like she was trying not to shake. Tears made her cheeks shine.

“She was my friend,” the child whispered.

Something in you went very calm.

When you stood, the air thickened around you, warm and fragrant, as if the forest itself was leaning in. The trees stirred, leaves whispering, branches angling toward you like an audience.

“I’m going,” you said.

Lysa’s jaw tightened. “If you go alone—”

“I won’t,” you said, though your eyes said I will if I have to.

A beat.

Then Lysa exhaled, resigned. “Take a guard. Take three. Let us—”

“No,” you said, gentler. “You stay. Keep the wards up. Keep the court from ripping itself apart while I’m gone.”

The green-haired fairy bristled. “So you can play hero and come back to a crown of flowers—”

You flicked your fingers.

A rosebush burst from the earth between you and her, blooming in a single heartbeat—white roses, sharp thorns, petals like fresh snow. Not an attack. A boundary.

Every fairy stilled.

You looked at her over the blossoms, your voice quiet enough that only she and the forest heard it. “This isn’t about glory.”

Her glare faltered.

“It’s about survival,” you finished. “For all of us.”

Then you turned toward the path that led up the hill.

Toward the castle.

Toward the darkness that had been drinking your forest dry.

The castle was the kind of thing nightmares built when they had too much time.

Black stone stacked into jagged spires, windows like slit eyes, ivy strangling the lower walls as if it had once tried to reclaim the place and failed. A gate arched open, not broken—inviting. The courtyard beyond held statues that were too smooth to be purely decorative, like they’d once been living things and someone had decided they looked better as stone.

Your wings stayed hidden under your glamour, pressed against your back like a secret. Your dress, spun from petal-silk, didn’t drag in the mud. Your bare feet left no prints. You carried no weapon.

You didn’t need one.

The moment you crossed the threshold, the air changed.

The forest’s scent—green, sweet, alive—thinned like mist burned away by sun. Here, everything smelled of cold iron and old smoke. And underneath it… something else. Hunger. Ancient and sharp.

Your magic crawled up your spine, restless.

You moved through the courtyard toward the massive doors.

They opened before you touched them.

No creak. No groan.

Just a smooth, deliberate swing.

As if the castle had been waiting.

Inside, the hall stretched long and dim, lit by candles that didn’t flicker. Shadows clung to the corners like they were afraid of the light. The floor was polished so perfectly your reflection stared back at you—a pale shape with eyes too bright and a mouth set in a line.

And at the end of the hall, beneath a staircase that split like ribs, a man leaned against a pillar as if this was a tavern and he was bored.

Bucky Barnes.

He looked like a story told to scare children—broad shoulders, dark clothes, hair falling into his eyes. But the real terror was the stillness. The kind that belonged to predators that didn’t need to hurry.

His eyes found you.

Blue—too blue in this dimness. Like ice with something molten trapped underneath.

“Fairy,” he drawled, voice low, amused. “Did the court finally decide to send a princess instead of a threat letter?”

Your jaw tightened. “You’ve been feeding in our woods.”

His mouth curved. Not quite a smile.

“Your woods,” he echoed, like the words tasted strange.

You took a step forward. The air reacted—dust lifting, candle flames bending toward you. A thin vine slipped out of a crack in the stone and curled around your ankle, protective.

“Those animals,” you said, keeping your voice level. “They’re not yours to take.”

Bucky’s gaze dipped—not to your ankle, not to the vine, but to your throat. Your pulse was steady, but you felt it anyway—the way his attention hooked into it like a blade.

“They’re not yours either,” he murmured.

“I don’t drain them,” you snapped. “I nurture them. I heal them. I—”

He pushed off the pillar.

The movement was fluid, almost lazy, and still your body tensed like prey.

He stopped several feet away, close enough that you could see the faint, silver sheen at the edges of his pupils—like moonlight caught under ice.

“Then heal this,” he said softly.

You blinked. “What?”

His hand lifted, palm up. For the first time, you noticed he wore a glove on one hand and nothing on the other—metal fingers catching the candlelight, too perfect, too wrong against the ancient stone.

He tugged the glove off his flesh hand with his teeth.

Then he turned that hand toward you.

There, across the inside of his wrist, was a burn mark—old and angry. Not from sunlight, but from something else. Magic, maybe. A rune. A brand.

It pulsed faintly, the way a dying ember pulses when wind hits it.

Your magic reacted immediately, tugging toward it like a moth toward flame.

“You’re marked,” you breathed.

His gaze didn’t leave your face. “Cursed,” he corrected. “Bound. Starved.”

“You’re a vampire,” you said. “You’re always hungry.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Not like this.”

The hall seemed to lean in around you, listening.

You steadied yourself. “Even if that’s true, it doesn’t give you the right to kill the forest.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened, and for a heartbeat, something feral flickered across his features—hunger, frustration, a flash of pain so raw it made your chest pinch.

“You think I like it?” he asked, voice suddenly hard. “You think I wake up and decide I’m going to bleed your woods dry because it’s fun?”

Your wings twitched beneath your glamour, anxious.

“I don’t care what you like,” you said, though the words didn’t come out as sharp as you wanted. “I care what you’re doing.”

He took another step. The candles didn’t flicker, but you felt the temperature drop.

“You came here to demand I stop,” he said, voice smooth again. “So what are you offering in return, princess?”

“I’m offering mercy,” you said, chin lifting.

His laugh was quiet, almost affectionate. “Mercy.”

You bristled. “You’ll leave the forest. You’ll hunt elsewhere. Or you’ll learn to feed without killing.”

His gaze flicked—briefly—to the vine at your ankle, then back to your face. “And if I can’t?”

“Then we end you,” you said.

The words hung in the air like a blade.

Bucky’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes sharpened.

“You think your court can?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” you lied, because you had to. Because if he smelled fear, you were done.

He tilted his head, studying you like you were a puzzle he already knew the answer to.

“No,” he murmured. “They sent you because they can’t. They sent you because you’re the only one with enough power to make a difference.”

Your throat tightened.

“And they sent you,” he continued, voice almost gentle, “because they’re willing to spend you to save themselves.”

Heat flared in your chest—anger, indignation. “You don’t know my people.”

“I know desperation,” he said simply. “I know what it does.”

Silence.

Your magic stirred, restless. Somewhere deep in the castle, a draft whispered through stone like a sigh.

You forced yourself to stay steady. “Stop feeding in the forest.”

Bucky’s gaze dropped again—not to your throat this time.

Lower.

To the place between your thighs where your body warmed at the sheer, infuriating closeness of him. Like your skin was betraying you, responding to predator proximity with something that wasn’t fear.

His nostrils flared.

You felt it the moment he smelled it: the faint sweetness of your arousal, floral and bright, bleeding into the cold air like spilled nectar.

His eyes went half-lidded.

“Oh,” he breathed, and there it was—the hunger, unmistakable. “That’s what you are.”

Your cheeks heated. “Excuse me?”

He took another step. Now he was close enough that you could see the faint fang tips when he spoke.

“Fairies,” he murmured, voice low, reverent in a way that made your stomach twist. “Nature’s heart. Magic in flesh.”

You swallowed. “Back up.”

His gaze lifted to your face, and something wicked curled in his expression.

“You can demand all you want,” he said. “But if you’re asking me to stop feeding, you’re asking me to starve.”

“You won’t starve,” you snapped, though your voice wavered. “You’ll hunt elsewhere—”

“I don’t want elsewhere,” he cut in, so fast it startled you. Then, quieter, like he’d revealed too much: “I can’t. Not with this.” He flexed his wrist, the mark pulsing. “It pulls me here. The forest. The heartwood. Your magic.”

Your stomach dropped.

It made a horrible kind of sense—the way the killings had gotten worse the closer they came to the heartwood. Like something was dragging him in.

“You’re tethered,” you whispered, horror and anger tangling. “To us.”

Bucky’s eyes didn’t soften. “And you walked into my house like you didn’t know.”

Your magic flared defensively. The vine at your ankle tightened, thorns rising.

“What do you want?” you asked, voice shaking with fury.

Bucky leaned in just slightly, enough that his breath brushed your cheek—cold and faintly metallic, like winter air.

“I’ll stop feeding on your animals,” he said.

Suspicion snapped through you. “Just like that?”

His lips curved. “Not for free.”

Of course.

You lifted your chin. “Name your price.”

His gaze dropped again, slow and deliberate, and your body responded with a traitorous pulse of warmth.

“I want you,” he said, voice like velvet dragged over steel.

The hall seemed to go very quiet.

Your wings trembled beneath your glamour.

“You want—” You choked on the words, anger rising fast to cover the sudden, sharp spark of something else. “You think you can bargain for my body?”

“I’m not bargaining for your body,” he corrected softly. “I’m bargaining for what’s inside it.”

Your breath caught.

Fairy magic wasn’t like other magic. It lived in blood and bone, yes—but more than that, it lived in pleasure. In the way life created life. In the way spring returned after winter. In the way flowers opened, shameless and bright.

And vampires… vampires fed on life.

Not just blood. Not just flesh.

Life.

You felt it then, the way his hunger pressed against your aura like fingers against a window, trying to get in.

Your voice came out thin. “You want to feed on me.”

Bucky’s eyes held yours, unblinking. “Yes.”

Fear flickered, quick and sharp.

And then—worse—curiosity.

Because the forest’s pulse beneath your feet eased, just slightly, like it recognized the shape of a solution.

You hated that.

“I’m not your meal,” you said, voice hard.

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “No.”

He leaned closer, just enough that you could smell him—cold stone, faint smoke, the iron tang of hunger.

“You’re my remedy,” he murmured. “And you know it.”

Your magic surged, vines snapping up from the cracks in the floor like living whips. They lashed out toward him, fast as thought.

Bucky moved.

Too fast.

One moment he was in front of you, the next he was behind you, a cold hand wrapping around your wrist—not crushing, but unyielding. The vines struck empty air, splintering against stone.

Your heart slammed.

“Let go,” you hissed.

His breath ghosted over your ear. “Tell your plants to stand down.”

“Don’t tell me what to do in my own forest,” you snapped, yanking.

He didn’t budge.

Instead, he pressed his mouth to the place just below your ear—barely a brush of lips, not a bite. A test.

Your entire body jolted.

It wasn’t fear that flooded you. It was heat, sudden and humiliating, pooling low in your belly like spilled honey.

Bucky exhaled, a sound like satisfaction.

“You smell like rain on warm earth,” he murmured. “Like flowers opening.”

“Stop,” you gasped, furious at the way your voice betrayed you.

He loosened his grip just slightly, enough that you could pull away if you truly wanted.

It was a choice.

Your magic noticed the difference. The vines stopped writhing. The thorns lowered.

You yanked your wrist free and spun to face him, breathing hard.

His eyes gleamed.

“You’re playing games,” you accused.

Bucky’s gaze flicked over you like he was cataloging every tremor, every flush, every tell. “No,” he said quietly. “I’m offering you a way to save what you came to protect.”

“You could just leave,” you said.

He shook his head. “I can’t.” Then, softer: “But I can stop killing for it.”

The sincerity in his voice hit you like a blow. Not because it was gentle—because it sounded like truth he’d hated for a long time.

You swallowed, trying to steady. “And what? You feed on me and everything’s fine?”

Bucky stepped closer, hands lifting slowly, palms open—like he was approaching a wild animal.

“You tell me,” he murmured. “Do you feel it? Your forest thinning, your heartwood fading? That’s because something is clogged. Something is trapped between life and death and it’s pulling everything into rot.”

Your stomach tightened. You had felt the rot—like a shadow under the roots, spreading.

He continued, voice low. “My curse tethers me to the heartwood. Your magic is tethered to it too. If we—if you let me feed the right way—your magic surges, cleans the rot, strengthens the forest. It’s… a circuit.”

Your breath shook.

It sounded like a spell.

Or a trap.

“You’re asking me to trust you,” you whispered.

Bucky’s gaze held yours, too intense. “I’m asking you to choose.”

He took another step, stopping so close you could feel the cold radiating from him.

“If you say no, I won’t touch you,” he said, and there was something almost brutal about the restraint in his voice. “I’ll leave the forest line. I’ll chain myself. I’ll starve. And your court can decide whether they want to watch their woods die anyway.”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast.

“You’re cruel,” you whispered.

His mouth curved, but it wasn’t amused. “I’m honest.”

Silence stretched.

Somewhere far away, the forest sighed through the stone—wind slipping through cracks, carrying the faintest smell of pine like a plea.

You closed your eyes.

You thought of the rabbit. The fox. The child fairy whispering about her doe. You thought of the heartwood’s pulse stuttering beneath your feet.

You opened your eyes again.

“If I agree,” you said, voice tight, “you don’t bite me.”

Bucky’s gaze flicked to your throat, and for a heartbeat, his hunger flashed so sharp you thought he might shatter.

Then he nodded once, slow. “No biting.”

“And you don’t take anything from me without asking,” you continued, forcing the words out. “Not a kiss. Not a touch. Not—”

His eyes darkened, but his voice stayed steady. “Agreed.”

“And the moment I say stop,” you said, “you stop.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. “Yes.”

You held his gaze, searching for deceit, for manipulation, for anything that said he was lying.

You found hunger. You found restraint. You found something like pain.

And… something like reverence.

You swallowed.

“Then,” you whispered, barely audible, “I’ll do it.”

Bucky went very still.

Like a predator hearing prey walk willingly into its jaws.

But when he moved, it wasn’t a lunge.

It was careful.

He lifted a hand and hovered it near your cheek without touching. His eyes asked the question his mouth didn’t.

You nodded once.

His palm cupped your cheek, cool against your warmth.

The contact sent a shiver down your spine so sharp you hated yourself for it.

“You’re sure?” he murmured.

Your throat bobbed. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

A quiet huff of a laugh left him, but it died quickly as his gaze dropped to your lips.

“May I?” he asked.

It shouldn’t have mattered—should’ve been a formality, a line in a bargain.

But the question landed in your chest like a promise.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Bucky kissed you.

Slow at first. Testing. Like he expected you to bite him back.

Your magic surged at the contact, petals blooming in invisible spirals around you, the air suddenly rich with summer. The candles flared brighter, bending toward you like sunflowers.

Bucky made a low sound in his throat, something almost hungry, and deepened the kiss.

His hand slid from your cheek to your neck, thumb resting against your pulse; not pressing, not threatening, just… feeling.

As if he couldn’t help it.

Your fingers fisted in his shirt.

He was cold and hard and everywhere his mouth moved, your body followed like it wanted to be led.

You pulled back first, breath ragged, eyes bright with anger you could barely summon anymore. “Where?”

His gaze flicked over your face. “There’s a room,” he said, voice rough. “If you want—”

“I’m not doing this on a stone floor,” you snapped, then immediately hated the shaky breath that followed. “Lead the way.”

Bucky’s mouth curved, and this time it was something dangerously close to a smile.

He offered his hand.

You stared at it like it was a trap.

Then you took it anyway.

His fingers closed around yours, cold and steady, and he guided you up the stairs.

The room was warmer than the hall, lit by a fireplace that crackled softly. Velvet curtains hung heavy over tall windows, shutting out the night. The bed was massive, draped in dark linens like spilled ink.

You hovered near the threshold, suddenly aware of how fast your heart was beating. Of how the bargain had turned into something far more intimate than you’d expected.

Bucky let go of your hand.

He didn’t approach. Didn’t corner you. Just stood near the foot of the bed, watching you like he was waiting for you to decide he wasn’t worth the risk.

Your wings fluttered beneath your glamour, nervous.

“You can leave,” he said quietly.

You glared. “Stop saying that like you want me to.”

His eyes flickered. “I want you here,” he admitted, voice low. “But I’m not… I’m not taking.”

The honesty in it made your chest twist.

“You talk too much,” you muttered, stepping forward.

Bucky’s gaze followed you, sharp.

You stopped a few feet away, chin lifted. “Tell me what to do.”

His breath hitched.

Then, slowly, he shook his head. “No,” he murmured. “Tell me what you want.”

Heat crawled up your neck. Your pride flared, stubborn and bright.

“I want you to stop killing my animals,” you said.

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “That’s not what I meant.”

You narrowed your eyes.

He exhaled, then stepped closer—still careful, still giving you space.

“I want,” you said, voice rougher than you expected, “to know you’re not lying.”

Bucky’s gaze held yours. “How do I prove it?”

Your magic stirred, responding to your emotion by sending a tendril of ivy curling up the bedpost. A bloom opened—pale blue, delicate.

“You’re a vampire,” you said. “You’re supposed to be monstrous.”

Bucky’s eyes darkened. “I can be.”

Your breath caught.

“And you still asked,” you whispered, almost accusing. “You still—”

His voice dropped. “I wanted your yes.”

Silence.

Your body hummed with need now, unmistakable. Your arousal wasn’t just desire—it was magic, blooming and thickening in your veins like nectar.

The forest wanted this. It recognized the circuit he’d spoken of, the way life and hunger could meet and turn into something that healed instead of harmed.

You hated that your body agreed.

You stepped closer, until you were within reach.

Bucky didn’t move.

Not until you lifted your hand and pressed your palm to his chest.

He was solid beneath your touch, muscles tight, his heart… quiet. Not beating like yours, but there was something there, a faint pulse of magic under the skin.

His breath shuddered.

“Undress me,” you said, voice daring.

Bucky’s eyes flashed.

“May I?” he asked, still.

“Yes,” you snapped, then softened despite yourself, quieter: “Yes.”

His hands rose slowly, like he was afraid sudden movement would spook you. He touched the edge of your dress, fingers brushing petal-silk, and your magic flared in response—flowers blooming in the air, invisible but scented, filling the room with spring.

Bucky inhaled sharply, eyes closing for half a second like the scent hit him somewhere deep.

Then he slipped the dress from your shoulders.

The fabric slid down, pooling at your feet like shed petals. Cool air kissed your skin. Your glamour held your wings hidden, but you could feel them fluttering, agitated.

Bucky’s gaze traveled over you—slow, reverent, hungry—but he didn’t touch.

Not until you lifted your chin. “You’re staring.”

His mouth curved. “I’m trying not to lose my mind.”

“You’re already losing it,” you muttered.

Something broke in his expression—amusement, heat, a crack in the monster.

Then he stepped in close and kissed you again, deeper, his hands finally finding you—one on your waist, one sliding up your back, fingers splaying like he wanted to memorize you.

You gasped into his mouth.

His lips moved against yours like he was starving for more than blood.

When he pulled away, your breathing was ragged.

Bucky’s forehead rested against yours. “Tell me if I’m too much,” he murmured.

You swallowed, then forced your voice steady. “You’re not enough.”

His eyes snapped open, bright.

Your boldness made your magic surge. The ivy on the bedpost unfurled, leaves widening, blossoms opening.

Bucky’s hands tightened at your waist.

“You’re going to regret saying things like that,” he warned, voice rough.

“Try me,” you whispered.

Bucky made a low sound and lifted you.

He lifted you easily, like you weighed nothing, setting you on the bed as if you were something precious.

The mattress dipped under his weight as he followed, hovering over you without pressing down. His hair fell forward, dark against the firelight.

His eyes searched your face one more time. “Still yes?”

Your throat bobbed. “Yes.”

Bucky exhaled like relief and hunger had finally found the same breath.

Then he lowered his mouth to your skin.

He kissed your shoulder. Your collarbone. The center of your chest.

Each kiss was cool at first, then warmed as your body heated around him, your magic responding by spilling more scent into the air—lush and bright, like crushed flowers.

Bucky’s hands slid down your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, and you arched with a soft sound you didn’t mean to make.

His gaze flicked up, catching it.

“Pretty,” he murmured, like the word was torn out of him.

Your cheeks heated. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what?” he asked, voice low, mouth still against your skin.

Your pride flared. “Don’t act like you’re not enjoying this.”

Bucky’s laugh was a shaky exhale. “Princess,” he murmured, “I’m trying to survive it.”

His mouth moved lower, kissing your stomach, his hands spreading your thighs gently.

He paused, looking up at you like he was asking permission without words.

You swallowed, then nodded.

Bucky’s eyes darkened.

He pushed your thighs wider then slid down between them.

The first brush of his breath against you made you jolt.

“Oh,” you gasped, fingers clutching at the sheets.

Bucky’s hands settled on your hips, holding you steady like he was afraid you’d vanish.

“Tell me,” he murmured, voice muffled against your skin. “Do you want my mouth?”

You hated how quickly you answered.

“Yes,” you breathed. Then, louder, because your pride demanded it: “And don’t be gentle about it.”

Bucky’s breath hitched.

Then his tongue touched you.

Warm, broad, devastating.

You gasped, head falling back, wings fluttering hard beneath your glamour. The room seemed to brighten as your magic surged—flowers blooming in invisible spirals, ivy racing along the bedframe like it couldn’t help itself.

Bucky made a low sound against you, like a growl turned into worship.

He licked you slowly at first, tasting, learning. Every stroke pulled a fresh wave of heat through you, your magic building like spring floodwater behind a dam.

Your thighs trembled around his shoulders.

“Bucky,” you gasped, the name slipping out before you could stop it.

He looked up at you from between your legs, eyes dark and hungry, mouth shining.

“Yeah?” he murmured, and the sound vibrated against you, making you jerk.

You glared down at him, furious and breathless. “Don’t talk.”

His mouth curved.

Then he went back down on you like he took your command as a challenge.

He lapped harder, tongue pressing deep, then flicked against your clit with sharp precision that made you cry out. His hands tightened on your hips, keeping you open, keeping you steady as your body tried to squirm away from the intensity.

“Too much?” he asked, voice rough, but he didn’t stop—just slowed enough that the question mattered.

Your breath stuttered. “No,” you managed. “Don’t stop.”

Bucky’s eyes flashed.

He sucked gently—then harder—on your clit, and your whole body arched, magic surging so violently the ivy on the bedpost exploded into blossoms, petals drifting through the air like snow.

Outside the castle, far beyond the stone walls, the forest answered.

You felt it—a pulse through the roots, sudden and bright, like a heart remembering how to beat.

Bucky groaned against you, the sound nearly obscene.

“Fuck,” he rasped, like the taste of you was dragging him to the edge of something. “You’re—”

He cut himself off and buried his face again, eating you like he was starving and you were the only thing that could keep him alive.

You clutched at his hair, fingers tangling, tugging without thinking.

He didn’t flinch. If anything, he pressed closer.

“Good?” he murmured, voice hoarse.

“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes—oh—”

He slid two fingers inside you—slow, careful, watching your face like a hawk. You tensed, then melted as he curled them, finding the spot that made you choke on a cry.

Bucky’s mouth never stopped.

The room filled with the scent of wet petals and fresh earth. The fireplace flared, flames rising, and the candles on the dresser brightened as if your magic was pouring into everything that could hold light.

Bucky’s mark on his wrist began to glow.

You saw it when he lifted his hand briefly, the rune pulsing brighter with every sound you made.

It was feeding.

Not on your blood.

On your pleasure.

On the life blooming in you like a garden in spring.

Bucky’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, and something raw moved there—relief, hunger, awe.

“Feel that?” he rasped. “Your magic—”

“Shut up,” you whimpered, because you could barely think, let alone talk.

He huffed a laugh against your skin, then thrust his fingers deeper, curling them just right while his tongue worked you with ruthless devotion.

It hit you fast.

A wave building too high, too bright.

You tried to brace—tried to hold back, stubborn even here—but your body betrayed you, trembling under him, your magic surging in time with your heartbeat.

“Bucky,” you choked, voice breaking. “I’m—”

He hummed, approving. “Let it happen,” he murmured, and the words sounded like a spell.

You shattered.

Pleasure tore through you, sharp and white-hot, your back arching off the bed. Your magic exploded with it—flowers blooming so fast the air turned thick with scent, ivy racing along stone, leaves unfurling as if the castle itself couldn’t resist becoming alive.

And outside—

Outside, the forest pulsed.

Roots drank deep. Rot burned away in a bright, cleansing surge. The heartwood steadied, its stuttering rhythm smoothing into a strong, steady beat.

You felt it like an echo, like the land itself exhaling.

Bucky groaned against you, eyes squeezing shut, as if the surge hit him too.

When you finally came down, shaking, he slowed, easing his fingers out, mouth softening into gentler kisses that made your oversensitive body twitch.

He rested his cheek against your inner thigh for a moment, breathing hard.

Then—slowly—he looked up at you.

His eyes were brighter. Less hollow. Like something inside him had been fed properly for the first time in centuries.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough.

You swallowed, heart still racing. “Don’t… don’t you dare act sweet now.”

His mouth curved, but there was no mockery in it. “I’m not acting,” he murmured.

He shifted up the bed, hovering over you again, his hand sliding to your cheek.

“Thank you,” he said, so quietly it startled you.

Your chest tightened, anger cracking into something complicated. “You’re welcome,” you muttered, then snapped, defensive: “This doesn’t mean you own me.”

Bucky’s thumb stroked your cheek. “I don’t want to own you.”

“Liar,” you whispered, because your pride demanded it.

Bucky’s eyes held yours. “I want to keep you,” he admitted, voice low. “But only if you want to stay.”

Your breath caught.

You stared at him, searching for the monster again.

You found him—hunger, darkness, predatory patience.

But you also found the restraint that had kept him from taking when he could have. The way he’d asked, every time. The way his hunger had turned into reverence instead of violence.

You hated how much that mattered.

Outside, the forest’s pulse steadied under your skin like a promise.

You swallowed. “If I stay,” you said carefully, “you stop hunting the animals.”

Bucky nodded immediately. “Yes.”

“And you don’t come near the heartwood unless I say you can.”

“Agreed.”

“And if you ever hurt my people—”

His eyes darkened. “I won’t.”

You narrowed your gaze. “That’s not an agreement.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. Then, quietly: “If I ever hurt your people, you can kill me.”

The bluntness of it made your breath hitch.

You stared at him, heart thudding.

Then you scoffed, because you couldn’t let yourself be softened. “Dramatic.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “You’re the one who stormed into a vampire’s castle and threatened him with death.”

“Because you deserved it,” you shot back.

Bucky leaned down, pressing a kiss to your mouth—slow, sweet, startlingly tender.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured against your lips.

You glared. “You’re a parasite.”

His laugh was low. “And you’re my favorite meal.”

Heat flared in your cheeks. “Bucky—”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, hand sliding down your side, fingers brushing your thigh.

He pulled back, eyes heavy. “Can I?” he asked, voice rough.

Your pulse stuttered.

You could say no. You could leave. You could go back to the court and claim victory and never step foot in this castle again.

But the forest’s pulse—steady now—felt like it had wrapped itself around your spine and whispered this works.

And worse—your body wanted him.

You swallowed, voice quieter. “Yes.”

Bucky’s eyes flashed.

He shifted, lowering himself between your thighs again, but this time he didn’t rush. He kissed the inside of your knee first, then your thigh, then the place where your skin was still sensitive from what he’d done.

You shivered.

“You’re going to make a habit of this,” you muttered.

Bucky’s mouth brushed your skin. “I’m going to worship you,” he murmured, voice dark. “If you let me.”

Your magic flared in response, ivy curling along his arm like a caress.

“Just…” you breathed, already trembling. “Just don’t bite.”

Bucky lifted his head, eyes gleaming. “No biting,” he promised.

Then he went back to your slick heat, licking softly at first, coaxing you back open with patient, hungry devotion.

Your hands found his shoulders, fingers digging in.

Bucky hummed, pleased.

Outside the castle, the forest breathed again—greener, brighter, alive.

And somewhere far below the roots, the rot that had been spreading for so long finally began to retreat, chased away by a circuit of hunger and magic that shouldn’t have worked—

But did.

By dawn, you lay tangled in dark sheets, skin flushed, magic humming low and satisfied beneath your ribs.

Bucky lay beside you, one arm under your head, the other—metal—resting at your waist like a careful anchor. His face was turned toward you, eyes half-lidded, watching you like you were a sunrise he didn’t deserve.

You should’ve been gone. You should’ve been racing back to the court with proof, with victory, with a story sharp enough to cut down any fairy who doubted you.

Instead, you were here.

In a vampire’s bed.

With the forest’s pulse steady under your skin like a secret.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Bucky murmured, voice sleep-rough.

You glared at him. “I don’t think loud.”

His mouth twitched. “Sure.”

You shifted, sitting up slightly. The sheets slid down, and Bucky’s gaze tracked the movement with slow, hungry appreciation.

“Don’t start,” you warned.

Bucky lifted a brow. “Start what?”

“You know what,” you snapped, though you felt heat bloom again, traitorous.

Bucky reached up, fingers brushing your hip—light, questioning.

“May I?” he asked.

You rolled your eyes, but your magic curled around his wrist like a ribbon.

“Yes,” you muttered. “But if I go back to the court and they’re fighting—”

“They will be,” he said calmly.

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”

Bucky’s gaze held yours, and something dark and amused flickered there. “They sent their princess to negotiate with a vampire.”

Your mouth opened, then shut, because he wasn’t wrong.

You huffed. “I’m going to have to lie.”

Bucky’s thumb stroked your hip. “Or tell the truth.”

You glared. “Absolutely not.”

He laughed softly, then sobered, eyes sharpening. “You should bring them proof,” he said. “Not of… this.” His hand tightened briefly, then loosened, respectful. “But of the forest. That it’s healing.”

You hesitated, because that sounded like… partnership.

Like something that might last longer than a bargain.

“You’re going to keep your word,” you said, voice careful.

Bucky’s eyes didn’t waver. “Yes.”

“And you’re going to stop hunting in the woods,” you pressed.

“Yes.”

“And if the curse pulls you—”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. “Then you come here,” he murmured. “Or I come to you. And we do it the right way.”

Heat curled low in your belly again, immediate.

You hated him.

You hated your body.

You hated that the forest felt brighter already.

You swallowed, then looked away, because you refused to let him see the way your pride was cracking.

“I’m not staying,” you lied.

Bucky’s hand slid up your side, fingers splaying against your ribs like he was memorizing you again.

“Okay,” he said, too calm.

You snapped your gaze back. “Okay?”

Bucky’s mouth curved, knowing. “You’ll be back.”

Fury flared. “You’re arrogant.”

Bucky’s eyes gleamed. “I’m hungry,” he corrected, and his hand tightened just slightly like a promise. “And you, princess… you taste like the forest learning how to live again.”

Your breath hitched.

Then you shoved his shoulder—not hard, but enough to make him shift—and climbed out of bed, snatching your dress from the floor.

Bucky watched you, amused and hungry, like he had all the time in the world.

You threw the dress on, glamour snapping back into place like armor.

At the door, you paused.

Without looking back, you said, “If I hear about one more dead animal—”

“I’ll eat you instead,” Bucky called lazily.

You froze, cheeks heating.

Behind you, his laugh rumbled, warm and dangerous.

You stormed out of the room, wings trembling beneath your glamour, heart pounding with fury and something that felt suspiciously like anticipation.

And as you stepped back into the hall, the castle’s cold air met your skin—

But beyond the stone, beyond the black spires—

The forest pulsed, steady and strong.

Waiting for you to come back.

tags: @firingstars @iamthatonefangirl @its-in-the-woods @houseofhyde @superbassbuck @chateaubarnes @earthsmightiestbenders @barnesonly @54nboo @winterdecember18 @unificsation @wildflowersandvibranium @juniebjonesin @blowingbarnes @grumpysunnybarnes @missvelvetsstuff @daisynotquake @colettebarnes @lokirogersgirl @sapphire882 @buckyfmd @justadaydreamingfangirl @venigrantrogers @overwintering-soldier @buckyboudoir @domitaylorsversion @multiversefanfics @avgdestitute @meowrz1a @globetrotter28 @mariamorales1998 @okaytrashpanda @icantfindanamenottakenn @pinksplace @infinitewithenvy @herejustforbuckybarnes @yexbarnes @sassandscribbles @ozwriterchick @spdrveil @r1ssa + add yourself here

[bluenoisexoxo]

still thinking about this

always thinking about this

[duckydrawsart]

au where John owns a small diner because I started watching Gilmore Girls recently lol

[sweetlikenonsense]

A Lot

♡ He wanted all of it. And somehow, impossibly, he wanted it all with you. 

Warnings: 18+ / MDNI! • Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Female Masturbation (Use of a Vibrator), Dry humping, Voyeurism (Accidental), Steve Harrington Being Hopelessly in Love (and Coming in His Pants)

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!Henderson!reader

Word count: 6.4k

Summary: Steve Harrington walks in at the worst possible moment. Fortunately for both of you, it forces a conversation you should have had years ago—preferably not with something buzzing between you.

Author’s note: One day I won't accidentally turn a pure smutty request into a feelings fest complete with mutual pining, emotional constipation and a confession. Today is not that day... apologies to you ♥︎

Also, has the quote in the header inspired another idea yes... no further questions, good day ♥︎

The crumpled post-it note hanging from the fridge was the first sign that something was… different. The second was the absence of Dustin's voice—which, quite frankly, should have been audible from three streets away.

"Mom? Dustin?" Your voice echoed through the empty kitchen. 

Nothing. 

Frowning, you crossed the room and pulled the note from beneath the heart-shaped magnet holding it in place. The bright yellow paper was covered in your mom's unmistakable looping cursive.

Book club at Belinda's. Dustin at Wheelers. Pizza money on the counter. Love you Hunnybuns xxx

You can't remember the last time you had the house all to yourself. No Dustin yelling your name from the other side of the house because he couldn't find something that was right in front of him. No Dustin barging into your room without knocking. No Dustin demanding lifts off of you. 

Just peace and quiet. And well, you couldn't possibly let that go to waste…

"Oooo girls, they wanna have fu-u-un..."

You sang (screamed)–dressed in mismatched socks, an old Hawkins High T-shirt and pyjama shorts, your hair tied up and hanging together by sheer determination, sliding across the kitchen tiles with a whisk doubling as your microphone.

You weren't exactly giving Cyndi Lauper a run for her money, but the half-empty bottle of red wine sitting on the counter was doing a fairly decent job of convincing you otherwise.

You swung open the oven door, immediately being hit by a wave of warm, sugary goodness. Tilting your head, you squinted at the tray of cookies. Misshaped and definitely not done.

You hummed, and with a decisive nod that suggested you had far more baking expertise than you actually possessed, you pulled the rack out slightly and turned the tray around. "There," you informed the cookies. "That'll fix you."

Whether it actually would remained to be seen.

You shut the door and immediately reached for your wine glass, taking a long sip as the next song drifted through the radio. The red wine was pleasantly cool against your tongue, and you leaned back against the counter, swaying slightly to the music.

For a moment, a thought slipped through the haze of music and sugar and warm cookie-scented air. An unwanted thought that maybe, just maybe this wasn’t what a twenty-something-year old should be doing when she got the house to herself. Rather than say, have friends over; you knew the older members of the gang were free tonight bar Robin who had a late shift at the squawk. 

Maybe you should, instead, be throwing some crazy party that people would talk about for years or, maybe—maybe you should have invited a boy over. 

You immediately shook your head, as if you could physically dislodge the thought from your head. If only it was that easy; because yes, there was a boy… but he didn't want you. Not the way you wanted him.

An annoyingly familiar ache settled itself into your chest, yet again. Unwelcome. Persistent. Stupid, really, considering you'd spent months (years, if you’re honest) trying to convince yourself you were over it. Over him. And his stupidly, beautiful face and stupidly soft hair and stupidly sweet smile and–

The shrill ding-ding-ding-ding-ding of the egg timer nearly sent you through the ceiling.

"Jesus Christ!" You slapped a hand against your chest, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the glass as your heart launched into your throat. You might have definitely, completely and utterly forgotten that you’d set that. 

You flicked the timer off and immediately opened the oven door, a wave of warm air washing over you. The cookies had finally reached that perfect golden colour around the edges, chocolate chips melted into glossy puddles across the tops.

Far better company than Steve Harrington.

The thought slipped in uninvited.

You groaned. Apparently your brain wasn't finished torturing you. Or lying to you. 

Because as much as you wanted to deny it—and would, repeatedly. As much as you wanted to roll your eyes and pretend otherwise, given the choice between a tray of fresh cookies and Steve Harrington?

Well.

It wasn't exactly the cookies you were thinking about at night now, was it? 

Curled beneath your blankets, a plate of still vaguely warm cookies balanced beside you and your wine glass perched precariously on your nightstand, you watched Ronald Miller grin at Cindy Mancini like she was the only woman in the world through the glow of your television screen.

You hadn’t stopped glaring at it. "Oh, please." As if any man was actually like this, well– 

The cookie paused halfway to your mouth. 

On screen, Ronald was pulling that awkwardly charming routine that was clearly supposed to make audiences swoon. It made you scoff. Actually scoff. He wasn’t that charming. Okay , maybe a little… but he tried way too hard. Steve never even had to try. Steve could walk into a room wearing a ridiculous sweater, carrying six video tapes and complaining loudly (maybe a little obnoxiously), and somehow every eye would still end up on him anyway.

Not based on true events obviously but who cares. The wine certainly didn't. Because suddenly Ronald Miller wasn't even on the screen anymore.

Instead, your mind wandered to broad shoulders, to hands constantly pushing through impossibly soft hair, to warm brown eyes that crinkled at the corners. It was deeply unfair.

The man couldn't even complain properly.

Somehow, even when he was whining about Dustin dragging him across town for some ridiculous emergency or being roped into babysitting duties for the kids yet again, he still managed to be annoyingly endearing.

Ronald Miller might have looked good in a varsity jacket, but Steve had spent years making one look utterly unfair.

You could still picture him leaning against his BMW outside Hawkins High, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, letterman jacket hanging open, sunlight catching in his hair while half the female population of Hawkins suddenly found excuses to walk past. 

The truly irritating part?

Time hadn't fixed the problem. If anything, it had somehow made it ten times worse.

Because somehow Steve Harrington had traded a varsity jacket for a stupid lime-green Family Video vest and had still come out winning.

You could picture him again outside waiting at the end of the day, one arm hanging out the driver's side window, sunglasses shoved into his hair; though this time he was here for you… and Dustin but that’s beside the current point.  

On those rare, glorious days you made it to the car alone, his face would immediately light up. "Hey, Henderson."

Then he'd be out of the car, arms wrapped around you before you could even blink, squeezing you in a quick hug that always lasted just long enough to leave you smiling afterwards. Who are you kidding? Just seeing him made you smile for days afterwards. 

If Dustin got there first, however, it was a completely different story. 

Steve would immediately become trapped in one of your brother's endless monologues while you trailed behind, rolling your eyes as Dustin launched into a detailed explanation of whatever "disaster" had occurred that day. You'd get a quick smile thrown your way as Steve somehow managed to keep up with the conversation, and then you'd open the back door yourself, sliding into your usual seat while the two of them continued talking/bickering.

But then there were summers. 

Summers were the worst. 

Long afternoons at the lake with the entire gang sprawled across towels and blankets. Robin and Eddie stretched out in the sun. Dustin arguing with Steve about music. Nancy pretending she wasn't people-watching while reading a book. Or days at the local public pool. Dustin loudly insisting he could swim despite never having taken a single lesson because he'd skipped them in favour of science classes. You and Steve watching his every move. 

Steve always so close, yet never really there. Sun-bleached hair falling into his eyes, swim shorts hanging low on his hips, and a permanent tan that appeared every summer without fail. The sunlight always seemed to cling to him somehow, turning his skin golden after mere minutes outside.

It was annoying. It was all very, very annoying.

Especially when he laughed and tipped his head back, exposing the line of his throat, or stretched his arms above his head after a swim like he had absolutely no idea what he was doing to the people around him.

Not that you were paying attention. Obviously.

However, more than once you had caught Max and El whispering to each other, looking in Steve's direction. The second you'd followed their gaze, both girls would immediately start grinning.

Which was rich.

Because at least they had the excuse of being teenagers.

You were a grown woman.

A grown woman who should have been perfectly capable of sitting beside Steve Harrington without becoming acutely aware of every accidental brush of shoulders, every lazy smile, every moment he turned toward you and gave you his full attention.

He was the sun.

And you, despite knowing better, had spent years turning your face towards him anyway.

God, you needed a stronger drink–you were turning poetic. 

Or, as Eddie constantly insisted, you needed to get laid. Preferably by Steve, but at this point, you'd probably settle for anyone willing to knock some sense into you. ‘Cause god did you need some. 

The man was lucky he was your best friend otherwise you would have hit him. It also helped that he was.. maybe not entirely wrong but whatever. 

With a sigh, you reached for your wine glass and took another long sip, determined to focus on the next movie instead of your increasingly embarrassing train of thought.

Let's be honest, if any man was capable of making you stop thinking about Steve Harrington, it should have been Westley.

The man literally crossed countries, fought pirates, survived torture and came back from the dead for the woman he loved.

Objectively speaking, that was insanely romantic.

Steve would do that. Your mind immediately countered. 

You groaned. "No, he wouldn't."`like saying it aloud might make that true but, hadn't he already kind of done that. 

Not the pirate part. Obviously.

But the rest?

The man had been beaten up, battered, dragged through a nightmare dimension and survived being tortured by Russians, all because somebody he knew needed help.

Because that's who Steve was. 

You stared at the television, but your mind had already wandered. To a day you’d recalled more times than you can remember. Back to Steve leaning against a tree, chest rising and falling in sharp breaths as everyone caught their bearings. Dirt streaked across his skin. Dried blood along his cheekbone. His hair shoved back from his forehead with trembling hands.

You remembered the fear first.

Then maybe, a little jealousy. The way Nancy had stood so close to him afterwards. The way Steve had looked at her like she was the only thing keeping him upright. Like seeing her there had made everything worth it.

You weren't necessarily proud of those feelings.

But you did have a pretty good defence, if you say so yourself. You'd been in love with the boy for years and had just survived being attacked by a swarm of murderous bats in an alternate dimension. Emotions were running a little high. Okay?

You definitely hadn't found any of it attractive at the time. You'd been too busy being terrified. Too busy trying not to imagine what would happen if Steve–if any of you—didn't make it home.

But afterwards?

Now, a few years later, safe in your room with a glass of wine and absolutely no sense of self-preservation?

Well. Now your mind could wonder. And god, did it like to. 

Steve had looked wrecked that day—hair matted with sweat, jaw tight, his usual charm stripped away—but strong. Too strong for someone bleeding in another dimension. 

You remembered the split skin across his chest. The way he'd dragged himself upright despite every reason not to. The way his first concern had been everyone else. Nancy. Robin. Any of you. All of you.

Fuck. Your breath hitched.

Yes, he was hot. Broad shoulders, strong arms, sun-kissed skin and a smile capable of causing minor structural damage to your common sense. Yes, he was handsome. Sharp jaw, warm brown eyes, impossibly good hair and the sort of face that made complete strangers trust him immediately.

But beautiful?

Beautiful was different.

Beautiful was the way kindness seemed woven into him. The way he always made room for one more passenger in his car, one more problem to carry that was never his to begin with.

Beautiful was the way he laughed with his whole chest. The way he looked at the people he loved like they hung the damn moon but never expected it in return. The way he threw himself in front of danger without a second thought if it meant somebody else got to go home. 

Beautiful was Steve Harrington, entirely unaware that he was.

God, you needed to get over Steve. Or at the very least get your mind off him. And while you couldn't exactly follow Eddie's advice to a tee, you did have something better than another man.

Something pink, buzzing, and stashed in the bottom drawer of your nightstand—purchased on a whim after one too many late-night fantasies involving a certain ex-jock-turned-bat-wilding-hero. Your fingers twitched toward the drawer before you hesitated, glancing at the still-open bedroom door. A reckless laugh bubbled up—since when did you care about locking doors? 

The house was empty. It was only slightly ajar; enough that you’d surely hear if your mom came home early. Though she never did on book club nights; her and Belinda always cracking open a few too many bottles and turning what was supposed to be a two-hour book discussion into an all-night event she needed picking up from no earlier than midday the next day.

Your fingers fumbled against the drawer handle—once, twice—before finally yanking it open with a little more force than absolutely necessary. The vibrator was cool against your palm, its smooth surface already warming as your thumb flicked on the lowest setting then the next. 

The first press between your thighs was electric, blunt and insistent through the thin fabric of your shorts. 

Your breath stuttered out as you arched into it, your free hand gripping the sheets beneath you. The movie’s dialogue blurred into static, replaced by the low, persistent hum vibrating against your skin. 

Fuck, you’d forgotten how good it felt—or maybe you’d just never let yourself just be in the moment, too wrapped up in the fantasy of someone else’s hands, someone else’s mouth. 

But this? 

This was all you. 

Your fingers curled tighter around the toy as you slipped it beneath your waistband to drag it against your already damp panties; shorts discarded halfway down your thighs.

Adjusting the angle of the toy until your hips jerked up on their own accord—until the pressure was perfect, relentless, too much and not enough all at once. 

The sound that escaped you was embarrassingly loud—half-moan, half-sigh—but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, not when you were home alone, not when the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter and–

You bit your lip, hard, but it did nothing to stifle the next noise, high and breathless as your hips stuttered against the mattress. 

God, you were close—so close you could already feel the tension building, tightening like a spring in the pit of your stomach—but you didn’t want it to end just yet.

Your fingers fumbled for the dial, twisting it down—just enough to take the edge off, to draw it out—and you groaned at the loss.

Your free hand drifted up, fingers skimming over your stomach, sliding beneath the hem of your shirt—your touch hesitant, almost unfamiliar–God, it really had been far too long. 

Your breath hitched when your fingertips brushed over your nipples—already peaked beneath the fabric—and you rolled one between your fingers, testing the pressure. 

Fuck. 

Fuck, you were— 

“Henderson?” 

Steve knocked twice before trying the handle.

Nothing.

He frowned, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The lights were on. Dustin knew they had plans tonight. Dustin had already forgotten they had plans last week, leaving Steve sitting outside the arcade for nearly forty minutes before he realised the little asshole had completely forgotten–he better not have stood him up, again. 

"Dustin?" he called through the door.

Silence. With an exasperated sigh, he pushed the door open. It moved without any fight. "Mrs. Henderson?"

Still nothing.

The house wasn't empty. It couldn't be. Door unlocked. The television was playing somewhere upstairs, faint enough to be distant but loud enough to carry down the hallway.

Knowing exactly how much your mom hated shoes in the house, Steve carefully shut the door behind him before toeing off his sneakers beside the mat.

"Dustin?" he called again as he wandered further inside, reaching the kitchen—which quite frankly looked like a war zone. 

Flour dusted the countertops. Mixing bowls sat abandoned beside the sink. A cooling rack crowded with freshly baked cookies occupied most of the available space, and an almost-empty bottle of wine stood proudly amongst the chaos.

Immediately, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

You.

This had you written all over it.

He could practically picture you here. Music blaring. Dancing around the kitchen. Leaving a trail of destruction in your wake while baking something sweet. Without thinking, he reached over and stole a cookie. For investigative purposes. Of course. 

"Henderson?" he called again, louder this time. 

The smile slowly faded.

Normally he'd have gotten some sarcastic response from upstairs by now. A yell telling him to help himself. A complaint about Dustin. Something.

Instead, the house remained strangely silent.

Then he heard it.

The sound was faint. Barely audible over the television upstairs. Soft. Unfamiliar. His brows immediately pulled together. "Henderson?"

Still no response, but then it happened again. His stomach dropped–you sounded distressed or hurt. And then suddenly every possible worst-case scenario flashed through his mind.

Had you fallen? Burned yourself? Passed out? Those were some of the tamer possibilities.

Steve's mind had spent entirely too much time fighting monsters and interdimensional horrors to jump to reasonable conclusions anymore. "Henderson!"

The next time it happened he was moving–fast–crossing the living room and heading for the stairs.The television continued playing somewhere above him. Another similar sound drifted down.

Softer this time. Weaker. Definitely coming from your room. Concern tightened violently in his chest. 

Steve Harrington had never been particularly good at ignoring people he cared about when they might need help. And he was even worse at ignoring you. 

By the time he reached the top of the stairs, his heart was hammering against his ribs. The hallway stretched out before him, your bedroom door sitting slightly ajar at the end.

You'd never been particularly good at shutting doors. Still, Steve slowed as he approached, his stomach twisting tighter with every step.

"Henderson?" he called again, voice softer now.

Nothing.

Then another sound came from inside the room, and Steve's concern sharpened instantly because that had definitely not sounded right.

Without thinking, he pushed the door open and nearly passed out at the sight in front of him.

“Henderson?”

The word left his mouth before he could stop. He stood frozen in your doorway like he’d just walked into yet another alternate dimension. Because this—this—was not happening. Couldn’t be happening. Not with you. Not with him. Not you with your back arched off the bed, pajama shorts rucked down around your thighs, one hand shoved beneath your shirt and the other disappearing past the waistband of your—Jesus Christ—underwear. 

His brain short-circuited. 

So did yours. Evidently. As your hands stayed in the same place for another half a second. 

Steve's knuckles went white around the doorframe. His pupils dilated—dark and drowning—before snapping up to your face. Trying and failing to look like he hadn't seen anything.  

Your body locked up, legs snapping shut with a mortified squeak, yanking your hand out from under your waistband so fast you nearly elbowed yourself in the ribs. Pulling your shorts up to recover some form of modesty. The vibrator clattering to the floor—still buzzing—but neither of you moved to grab it. 

A sharp inhale. Then—silence. Well silence bar the buzzing. The kind that makes your ears ring. The kind that makes you wish a Demogorgon would burst through the ceiling and swallow you whole. 

The wine haze evaporated in an instant, replaced by the kind of embarrassment that makes your skin feel two sizes too small. 

Steve cleared his throat. Twice. "So." His voice cracked. "Uh." His gaze skittered away—past your shoulder, over your bed-frame, to the wall—anywhere but down. "Cookies were good." 

You wanted to disappear, to fall through the floor all the way to the upside down to–your eyes involuntarily moved down. 

Oh. God. 

Did your mind make this up? Did your fantasies catch up to you? 

But the grey sweatpants. The thick outline pressing against the fabric. The way his fingers twitched slightly—subtle, reflexive. 

You needed him to leave. Now. Not so you could finish—Christ, no—but so you could plan your escape from Hawkins immediately. No way were you ever facing anyone again—let alone him. You were going to live the rest of your days at a convent somewhere far, far away until the sheer level of embarrassment overwhelms you and you die.  

But your traitorous body didn’t get the memo. 

Heat pooled low in your belly, your thighs pressing together instinctively—like you could trap the ache between them and suffocate it. Spoiler: it didn’t help. Not in the slightest.

Not when Steve’s nostrils flared slightly, his grip tightening on the doorframe like he was physically restraining himself from—from what? Entering? Leaving? Dropping to his knees and finishing what you’d started? 

No. Your brain screeched. No no no. This is reality. Earth-shattering. Life-ending reality. 

Then—movement. Steve exhaled sharply through his nose before stepping forward—not out—into the room, the door clicking shut behind him with finality. 

He took another step, then another until his knees bumped against the edge of your mattress, his chest rising and falling unevenly. 

“So,” he said again, voice rougher than you’d ever heard it and his fingers brushed against the hem of your shirt, tentative, questioning—shaking.

Your pulse hammered against your ribs as his thumb traced the dip of your hipbone through the fabric. Testing the waters. Giving you time to push him away—to laugh it off—to pretend this wasn’t happening—but your body betrayed you (or, more accurately, did you a favour) by arching into his touch instead. 

Hey, maybe you could pretend this was just another fantasy. That the wine had gone to your head. But you knew the wine had left your system the second you heard your name in that breathless, low voice of his. 

“Fuck,” Steve breathed before his hand slid down then slipped beneath the hem of your shirt. Warm. Calloused. Familiar in a way that shouldn’t have been possible—not when he’d never touched you like this before. Or really at all.

The TV flickered—Westley’s face melting into static—casting shadows across Steve’s expression. His lips parted slightly as his fingers brushed over your stomach, tracing a line upwards.  “Is this okay?” he murmured, and you nodded (a little too quickly).

Steve chuckled lowly, completely not believing that this was really happening and in the glow of the television, you could truly see how red his cheeks were. His hair—always perfect, always soft—was mussed from nervous fingers running through it. 

You wondered if he could hear your heartbeat—if he knew how loud it was—how fast—how yours matched the frantic rhythm of his own pulse beneath your fingertips when you finally reached for him.

His breath hitched when your hand curled into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer until his knee pressed between your thighs and the heat of him seared through the barrier of your shorts. 

You weren’t sure who moved first—maybe it was him, maybe it was you–it probably was—but suddenly his lips were on yours, hungry and insistent, swallowing every gasp, every moan, every desperate noise you didn’t have the sense to be embarrassed about anymore. He’d seen worse just moments ago. 

His knee pressed harder between your thighs—an accident, perhaps, but one that made your hips jerk forward, chasing the friction, chasing the relief you’d had to put on pause.

Steve groaned against your mouth, his fingers tightening on your waist as your hips rolled against him—slow at first, then faster—each grind drawing another ragged sound from him, another whimper from you.

"Jesus—" His breath hitched when you arched up again—his praise coming out in rough whispers between kisses—"fuck, Henderson, knew you’d be like this” His fingers tangled in your hair, gentle but firm, tugging just enough to make your breath catch. "Knew you’d be a good girl—god, knew you'd be perfect—"

The words sent a shiver down your spine—how long had he thought about this? How long had he imagined you like this?—but the thought shattered when his thumb brushed over your nipple, sending sparks skittering across your skin.

You gasped and Steve grinned against your lips, chasing the sound with his tongue before pulling back just enough to murmur, "Yeah? That good?" His knee pressed harder between your thighs—without a doubt not an accident—and your fingers curled into his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as pleasure coiled tight in your stomach. "C'mon, baby—let go for me."

And you do. So hard and so sudden you didn’t even realise you were that close. 

He gently eases his knee back, but his mouth doesn’t leave yours. His thumb traces idle circles against your hipbone as you come down, as your breathing slows. “Sound better than I ever imagined,” he murmurs, voice rough with something like wonder, like he can’t quite believe you’re really here with him, like this—after so many years being so close yet so far. 

He’s not the only one. 

You blink up at him—dazed, boneless—and Steve’s grin turns crooked, smug in a way that should be infuriating but just makes your stomach flutter instead. His free hand drifts up, brushing a loose strand of hair from your forehead, “You good?” 

You nod and his thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone before he leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then your nose. Then your forehead. 

Then he pulls back, just enough to meet your eyes, and you both smile. Then laugh. Quiet at first, huffed against each other’s lips, before it bubbles up properly—giddy and disbelieving—until you’re both breathless again for entirely different reasons. 

Your fingers tighten in his shirt, wrinkling the fabric further as he shifts slightly but his grin falters when his gaze drifts lower. A slow blink. Then—"Oh." His throat works. "That’s—uh." His fingers twitch against your hip. "Still going."

Your brain catches up a beat too late—the buzzing still faint but unmistakable—and your mortified squeak cuts off abruptly when Steve abruptly slides off the bed. Not to leave, but to scoop the vibrator off the floor with a curious tilt of his head. Like he’s inspecting some alien artefact.

“Huh," he murmurs, thumb brushing over the controls before glancing back at you—your breathing still too fast, your thighs still trembling—and his grin turns certifiably wicked. "Ever used the highest setting?” 

Your breath hitches—sharp and punched-out—before you’re lunging for it, but Steve twists away effortlessly, holding it just out of reach.

"Steve—" His name comes out embarrassingly close to a whine, but he just laughs, warm and breathless, before leaning back in. His lips brushing your ear as his free hand skims up your thigh.

"C’mon, Henderson," he murmurs, voice rough with amusement and something darker. "Thought you liked a challenge?"

The man knew you far too well. 

You pout because yes, you enjoyed that, but you wanted more. Quite honestly you wanted him. You’d waited long enough.

Your fingers curl into his shirt once again, tugging him closer; peering up at him with eyes so readable Steve hesitates before his grip tightens on your hip, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. "Hey," he says softly, suddenly serious in a way that makes your stomach flip. 

"I wanna do this right," he murmurs, and your brows pinch together—confused, impatient—until he continues, voice rough with sincerity. "The first time—our first time—I want it to be right. For you. For us.” 

He paused, before seeming to get lost in his own thoughts as he rambled, “I want us to go out on a real date first. Dinner-or-or a picnic. Whatever you want–I mean not whatever whatever. Golden dragon with the killer egg rolls and the duck you love. Then we’d go to the drive-in and see The Princess Bride” - you blush even deeper, eyes briefly flickering behind him,“or Sixteen Candles or honestly whatever cheesy rom-com is on because I know those are your favourites even though you never admit it.” 

And he's still going.

"And if it rained, we'd just stay in the car. Bring blankets. Hot chocolate. Maybe sneak in extra snacks because the food at the drive-in sucks. Then I’d drive you home and–"

You wanted him to keep going–forever preferably–but "Steve." You needed him to take a breath. 

He blinks, face screaming that he’d said way more than he ever intended. "...What?"

“You thought about this?” You can’t hide the shock and quite frankly awe in your voice as you stare up at him all starry eyed. 

"I have." His eyes stay locked on yours, impossibly open, impossibly honest. He pauses. Takes a deep, deep breath before adding, "...A lot."

You can't help the smile that spreads across your face. He’d thought about this. Not, just a brief oh that would be nice–no, he’d planned it. Curated it for you. Remembered your favourite food, your favourite movies.  

Steve takes your silence as something else entirely–you can practically see his mind going a hundred miles-per-hour—so, slowly, you reach up and tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. Then you let your fingers drift through his hair.

You swear your heart does a complete somersault at the look in his eyes–softer than you've ever seen them–and the way he unconsciously leans into your touch. You’d thought about doing this—brushing your fingers through his hair, being this close, kissing him—for years. And now here you are.

You really needed to pinch yourself subtly because there was absolutely no way this was real. 

You think if this was all you could ever have of Steve–a quick fuck because he’d caught you touching yourself–you honestly don’t know if that would be better or worse than having never had him at all.

Better because at least you knew, in some capacity, he felt something for you too; even if that was just base-level attraction.

Worse because you knew what it was like to have him so close. You knew how he kissed. You knew the exact shade of brown his eyes turned when he looked at you from this close.

Before you could pretend. Now you knew. And you knew you’d never be able to forget a moment of it. 

But here he was. Telling you outright that he didn't want this to be all you had. And not just that—he wanted more. Had planned for more. Planned for all of it.

And somehow, impossibly, he wanted it all with you. 

So, could you wait? 

Yes. Yes you could. 

Especially if you got a free chinese.

"I'd like that," you murmur. The words barely audible–inaudible if his face wasn't inches from yours. 

His eyes widened, looking genuinely shocked, as if the last few minutes had been wiped from memory. Or maybe as though he'd never expected you to want this.

To want more.

“Yeah?” The single word is so hopeful, so achingly sincere, that it makes something in your chest squeeze painfully tight.

“Yeah.” 

The smile that breaks across Steve's face is immediate–the kind that made his nose scrunch slightly at the bridge. For a moment, you just stayed like that. Smiling at each other like the lovesick idiots you were, caught somewhere between disbelief and happiness.

Then the faint buzzing seeps back into it.

Your eyes flicked to it simultaneously, the object still clutched in his hand, then back to each other and then you were laughing, breathless and giddy, foreheads bumping as he exhaled sharply through his nose.

His thumb hovered over the power button of the vibrator, his breath still uneven from laughter. "We can stop—" he started, already moving to switch it off, but your hand shot out, fingers wrapping around his wrist with a boldness that surprised even you.

"Or we could..." Your grip tightened slightly, guiding his hand back toward you. "...not?"

Steve’s throat worked visibly. Frozen in place once again, his eyes locked on yours as your legs parted slightly.

Then he moved. Fast and clumsy and perfect all at once. His free hand cradled the back of your neck as he kissed you again, deeper this time, all heat and barely restrained want. You could feel the shape of his grin against your lips when you arched into him, your thighs bracketing his hips as he leaned over you. 

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts with a reverence that made your breath catch—not tugging, not demanding, just resting there, warm against your skin, waiting. Your hips lifted instinctively and Steve exhaled sharply through his nose before dragging the fabric down inch by torturous inch, his knuckles brushing the inside of your thighs as he went. The air was cool against your newly exposed skin, but the heat of his gaze more than made up for it.

The vibrator buzzed faintly between his fingers as he pressed it against the damp cotton of your underwear, the sensation muffled but still electric.

You gasped into his mouth, your fingers twisting into his hair—soft, always so damn soft—as he kissed you with a focus that bordered on worship. His lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, then lower—to the pulse point beneath your ear, to the hollow of your throat—each touch igniting a fresh wave of heat under your skin.

Your hands roamed over him greedily, mapping the familiar slopes of his shoulders through his t-shirt before slipping beneath the fabric. His skin was warm, taut with muscle that flexed under your touch as he adjusted the angle of the toy, pressing harder just to hear you whimper.

"Christ, Henderson," he muttered against your collarbone, his free hand skimming up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast. "You’re su—" The rest dissolved into a groan when your nails scraped lightly down his back, his hips jerking forward involuntarily, the rough drag of his sweatpants against your inner thighs sending sparks up your spine. “–fuck–good girl.” He scraped out.

The tension coiled tight in your stomach snapped all at once. A sudden, shuddering release that left you gasping against Steve’s shoulder, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. Your second orgasm hits you even harder than your first. 

Distantly, you registered the choked noise he made against your neck, the way his hips stuttered against yours, the tremble in his thighs where they pressed against the mattress. But the haze was too thick, your own satisfaction too consuming, to parse what it meant well until your hand drifted lower.

You hummed dazed, still riding the aftershocks and reached for him, fingers brushing the waistband of his sweatpants with clumsy intent. But before you could slip beneath the fabric, Steve’s hand covered yours, peeling it away gently.

You blinked up at him, confused, until you caught the flush creeping down his neck—the way his chest rose and fell just a little too fast. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but all that came out was a shaky exhale. Then you looked down.

Oh.

The realisation hit you like a bucket of cold water. The strained fabric. The damp spot. The way his thighs tensed when he shifted slightly.

Steve let out a breathless chuckle, his grip on your hip tightening reflexively as you couldn't stop the little breathless giggle you let out. 

His cheeks burned brighter at the sound, one hand coming up to scrub awkwardly at his face as he exhaled sharply through his nose. "Christ," he muttered, voice rough with embarrassment and lingering arousal. "That's—uh—never happened before." 

The admission made your stomach swoop—equal parts giddy pride and aching tenderness—and you reached for him instinctively, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt. Steve's breath hitched when your knuckles brushed his stomach, his muscles tensing beneath your touch. And you really couldn't help yourself when you said: 

“Better last longer next time Harrington, or I might regret saying yes.” 

Steve groaned but caught your wrist gently, pressing your palm flat over his thundering heartbeat. "Shut up," he muttered, but there was no bite to it, just a breathless warmth you wanted to hear everyday for the rest of your life.

His thumb stroked over your pulse point absently before he exhaled and rolled onto his back beside you, staring up at your ceiling. The silence stretched, comfortable yet still charged, until he turned his head slightly, cheek pressed against your pillow. "So. Drive-in next Friday?"

The casualness of it—the normalcy—startled a laugh out of you. As if you hadn’t just—as if he hadn’t—

The laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest—hysterical and breathless—and you nodded, pressing your cheek into your pillow as you turned to face him.  

“Yeah,” you managed between giggles, the word dissolving into another helpless laugh when Steve grinned and kissed you again, his nose bumping yours awkwardly in his haste. It was messy and off-center and somehow still so goddamn perfect—his lips still curved with laughter as they moved against yours, the taste of shared amusement sweeter than any wine.  

Jesus you were down bad. But luckily for you, so was he. 

Dividers by @designlikenonsense (aka me hehe… had to do some shameless self promo)

P.S. Did not expect the reaction to the teaser... hope whoever interacted with that is not disappointed...

P.P.S. Playing around with paragraph lengths! I always write longer paragraphs, but thought that made it harder to read on here so I've been chopping them up but... I've seen discourse to the opposite so im trialling (what I call) 'mid-length paragraphs'

P.P.P.S: @dreamerjj, and @kitty-kei ♡

[moonstoneandmoonlight]

fuck fuck fuck

i loved this sm it was the PERFECT mix of smut and fluff

like i’m horny and i’m giggling and kicking my feet

[sheepis-artsy]

Feeling patriotic with all the flags i had to draw 🇬🇧

[sheepispink]

If anyones wondering why i havent dropped a fic in a while this is what i’ve been up to 🫠🫠

[bluenoisexoxo]

this is BEAUTIFUL

like

oh my goodness

this is breathtakingly stunning

[ceilidho]

stuttering around Soap would be sooooo dangerous, I think he'd like it just a bit too much. his baseline intensity is already so high, and then if you were to accidentally misspeak or stutter around him, his attention would just fully laser in on you like a shark smelling blood in the water. just a little too interested in hearing you do that again, preferably with less clothes on.

[ohbo-ohno]

i think he’d also step on the back of your shoe intentionally to make you trip, and then he like lays himself over your back and grabs your sides to “help you” and you literally cannot shake him off. most annoying mf alive

[pmgrntss]

i’m trying to get back into writing… here’s a remus blurb. i just think he gets really lovesick, truly ):

summary: remus is very sweet on you and everyone seems to know why, but you.

remus lupin x fem!reader  0.6k

When he taps your calf with his shoe to move over in the bar booth, you do, and Sirius finally (albeit thirty minutes late) joins the rest of you.

“Thanks, lovely,” Remus murmurs, sliding your glass over, a trail of drops tracing its path. 

You manage a hum as the conversation starts up again and try to ignore how your thighs stick to the leather. 

“And where were you?” Remus wipes the wet wood with a tissue, yet his attention is turned to Sirius, smiling boyishly.

“Trying to keep tabs on me now, are you?” Sirius grins.

He continues to talk to Sirius and his shoe taps into yours, a steady rhythm that you count in the silence of sipping your cider. And when you finish your drink, you hardly have time to miss it, because his fingers tap on the glass lazily.

“Want another?” he hums.

You nod, “Yes, please. I have change, here.” and Remus’ hand stops yours from reaching into your bag.

“I got it.” he says easily, already moving Sirius to get out of the booth and head to the bar.

Your empty glass follows him, and with that, a laugh from James.

“My glass has been empty and he hasn’t offered me a drink,” he says incredulously. 

Sirius barks a laugh, “”Cause you aren’t this sweet little thing, are you now?” And his smile makes you feel as if he could eat you up if you kept holding his gaze. When you glance away, Remus is leaned against the wooden bar, talking to the bartender.

“Stop it, you two are the worst, truly.” Lily waves a hand dismissively, yet the smile on her face says otherwise.

Your thighs pull from the leather as you shift in your seat, and Remus comes back, lanky legs sliding underneath the table to settle next to you again.

“Here you go, dove.” and you can’t help but smile softly at him, especially when he taps your wrist gently when you thank him after. 

James’ voice pitches up, “Here you go, dovey. And while we're at it, forget about James.” And he rolls his eyes, grabbing for Remus’ new glass.

“You can get your own, you know.” Remus leans back into the booth, his thigh pressing into yours. His lips are quirked up into a small smile, and he knows what he’s doing; he just doesn’t seem to care.

You pop forward, turning to Remus suddenly, “How much was it?”

He shakes his head, “I already told you, I got it.”

“I don’t mind, really.” You frown slightly, leaning into the table.

Remus grabs for his glass, “I do, really.” and he finishes with a sip. 

You lean back with a sigh and he seems pleased, patting your knee gently.

James stands suddenly, grabbing his empty glass. “I’m getting my very, owed-drink now.”

“I bet you are.” Remus hums, haphazardly.

Sirius follows him with a shove to James’ shoulder, and Remus surprisingly follows him.

Once they’re at the bar, Lily leans into the table across from you, grinning.

“He likes you.” she smiles.

“Remus?” Lily nods eagerly, fingers tracing her glass, the condensation catching on her nails.

“I like him too.” you say easily, pressing your fingers into the cold.

“He likes you much more than ‘too’. Don’t be dense.” She narrows her eyes at you, but her smile tells you she’s taking the piss.

“Stop it, Lily.” and you can’t seem to meet her eyes, in fear of there being truth in her words.

The conversation ends there, and all the boys come back, glasses in tow, and a basket of chips following.

“Really, James?” Lily sighs.

“I’m a growing boy, Lils.” he murmurs, pressing a kiss into her cheek.

When Remus sits back down, he turns to you, tilting his head. “Drink’s alright, love?”

And with the way your stomach turns, you find maybe you like him a bit more than ‘too’ as well.

[sarcastic-shit-recs]

if one person tells you that you’re a sheep you can ignore them but when the number becomes greater maybe you should start bleating

[patrochilles-or-bust]

Shout out to all the Black ppl that can no longer participate directly in the fandom they love because of the stresses of racism 👍🏾 you contain multitudes of value and I'm sorry that the color of your skin and the power of your voice makes people not want to acknowledge that.

[patrochilles-or-bust]

Yes, nonblack people can reblog. I'd appreciate it, in fact, if y'all took the time to vocally support your Black friends/fans in fandom.

[imtheiliad]

Shout out to fanfic writers that don’t get put on rec lists.

Shout out to fanfic writers who write short fanfics.

Shout out to fanfic writers who don’t write often.

Your fics are just as much a labor of love.

[moonstruckme]

hi!! 💖 could i please request some popular outgoing sirius x introverted shy/awkward reader. thank you!!

Thanks for requesting lovely <3

a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas

Sirius Black x shy!reader ♡ 445 words

It's a sunny, balmy day in the midst of an English heat wave when Lily decides, "We should make a friend with a boat."

"We should make a friend with a pool," says Marlene. Laying on her stomach on the grass, she turns her head to glare at James and Sirius. "Why don't you have a pool?"

James blinks. "Sorry. How is that our responsibility?"

"You're rich."

"All the space that the Potters could have used for a pool went to the quidditch pitch," Remus reminds them.

Sirius, intentionally missing Remus' disdainful tone, nods. "As it should."

"We could find a pool," says James.

Lily frowns. "It seems like you have to always pay to get into one anymore."

"Well, that's not strictly true, is it?" Sirius bumps your shoulder, grinning with conspiratorial pride.

You shrink as the attention of the group settles collectively on you.

"Tell us about that spot you found." Sirius hesitates. "Uh, unless it was meant to be a secret."

You cringe. "Well, no—"

"Shit. Sorry, gorgeous."

"It's fine." Heat prickles in your face, but you force yourself to speak loud enough that they can hear you. "I've been swimming at the hotel lately. It doesn't seem like they check if you're a guest or not."

"No way." James looks gobsmacked. Behind him, Marlene's brows raise from behind her sunglasses. "That's genius."

"Should we go tomorrow?" asks Lily.

While the rest of the group hatches a plan to infiltrate the pool (which you aren't so confident will work with a large group—the main reason why you were keeping it under wraps), Sirius squeezes your hand encouragingly. You try to supress the smile that takes you, feeling the lingering impressions of eyes on you still, but Sirius catches it.

A kiss lands on your head. You turn to him, eyes blinking wide, but he only grins and does it again.

The heat of the day just keeps getting worse, for you.

"What?" Sirius laughs at you. "You can't expect me to stop if you're going to keep looking so scandalized."

"You just surprised me."

"Well, you shouldn't be surprised." He takes your chin in hand, angling you for a bone-meltingly soft kiss to your lips. "You're stunning, and I'm not made of stone."

You drop your forehead to his shoulder, burning. Sirius' laughter rumbles through him. He palms the back of your head and pulls you closer like he's shielding you.

"I'm just spreading the gospel of your brilliance," he murmurs close to your ear. "Don't know if you heard, but everyone agrees you're a genius now. You ought to be thanking me."

"Shut up."

"Yeah, not likely."

[agentinlove]

they all said "help me" not "weaponize me" btw

[cypher-lovesjohnwalker]

and when it comes to them i don't play

[paging-dr-werewolf]

Until the Wheels Come Off (John Walker / F!Reader / Bob Reynolds)

Summary: After an experimental weapon detonates on a mission, you are put into a very awkward, very steamy situation with your crushes. AKA The Sex Pollen One

(I tried to incorporate enthusiastic consent as much as possible in this but obviously the scenario does involve some dubious circumstances, so please keep that in mind.)

A/N: THANK YOU SO MUCH for 100 followers. Here is my gift to you all for the love you've shown my stories. I adore reading your comments and getting your requests. <3

Rating: 18+ MDNI

WC: 9.2k (complete)

CW: Smut just smut, porn with a soupcon of plot, three-way but the men don't get that touchy with each other, angst, tension, romance (yes, really), sex pollen trope, fuck or you die trope, reader is afab, reader is a thunderbolt/new avenger, reader is younger than john, reader is into both john and bob, reader swears, light dom/sub vibes, john is down bad, bob is down bad, john is bossy, bob is a freak, sentry makes an appearance, dirty talk, use of pet names (baby, girl), light hair pulling, pinv, oral sex (f receiving, m receiving), fingering, teasing, adult language, unprotected sex, creampie, cum play.

Suggested Listening: Goosebumps by Astrality

It was light work, that’s what you told yourself, light work because missions tended to wrap up quick when you were paired with two super soldiers, one of which was technically or not technically a god. You weren’t sure. It didn’t matter. The last scumbag trafficker had beat feet away from you, but that was fine; John’s shield sang as it flew by you on the right, slamming into the guy from behind and sending him sprawling to the ground. You ducked as the shield recoiled, steel whistling over your head as it ricocheted back to John.

“Time’s up, asshole,” you growled, grabbing the guy by the hood of his sweatshirt as he scampered upright and tried to resume the chase. Wasn’t going to happen. You were exhausted, and there was actually a pretty decently appointed safehouse on the other side of this mission, plus takeout from the pasta place you had already eyefucked when you first arrived. So no, this idiot was not going to prolong an already tiresome day.

You slammed your foot into his calf, making him stutter-step, stopping him long enough for the Sentry to arrive, a blurred ribbon of gold before he pulled up short, ripping the target off the ground. He threw him back down onto the concrete like he was an empty sack. The body rag-dolled, then rolled a few feet away, but he was alive. Alive enough.

John pelted up to you, not even winded. The Sentry floated gently down to hover between you and John, dusting off his hands.

“Thanks for joining us,” John muttered. There was something about them being together on a mission and Bob in the suit; the second he put it on, the old, scabbed wounds burst. Neither of them could resist school yard jabs, but John was usually the more aggressive offender.

“You had it handled,” Bob said mildly. His eyes, faintly gold, lingered on you, on where your chest pumped against your suit. Before it could become a tell, he met your gaze again. You never knew what to call him anymore—he was generally such a sweetheart, but something in him shifted when the suit went on. He stood taller. His responses were clear, fast, sometimes glib. “I did a sweep. Looks like we’re clear.”

“Smooth as silk, gentlemen,” you said, kneeling to check the guy for weapons. There was a suspicious keycard in one pocket, which you took, thanks much, before tossing his pistol somewhere he couldn’t reach.

“I just think you could contribute a bit more when we’re in the shit,” John was saying, launching in. “He was getting away. You can fly, for fuck’s sake.”

“Are you saying she’s slow?” Bob asked, and judging by his tone, with total knowledge that it would give John an aneurism. Either you were imagining things, or the vibe was particularly tense when it was just the three of you on missions. Like they were competing. Like every word of their charged exchanges was a fist beating on a chest.

“I’m not…no. Jesus, Bob, I would never say that.” John started pacing. He dodged closer to you, dipping down to make sure you heard the next bit clearly: “I would never say that.”

“It’s the Sentry,” Bob said, calm. You smiled down at your work; he never corrected you when you slipped up like that.

“It’s eat my fucking dick,” John snarled, arms crossed as he finished pacing, placing you directly in the crossfire between them.

“Down, boys,” you said. Your hands moved firmly over one pocket of the man’s cargo pants. Something bulged inside. They went on bickering. You dipped into the pocket, withdrawing a cylinder that looked like a cologne or spray. Before you could examine it further, the man lurched upward, hand closing over yours, forcing your fingers down around the latch mechanism. “Shit,” you managed to whisper. “Get back—”

The cylinder broke, the amber liquid inside exploding into gas as the dispersal apparatus fired.

Bob’s hands closed around your waist, yanking you away from the mushrooming cloud that erupted. John staggered out of that same cloud as Bob set you down gently a few yards away. Without hesitation, Bob went to collect John, too, carrying him back to where you waited. There was no point pretending you hadn’t inhaled the mystery gas; you could taste it in the back of your throat.

“What the hell was that?” John asked, wet coughing into his fist.

Bob frowned, backing away from the cloud as it thinned and spread, the color fading as it diluted. “Smelled like…turpentine,” he said.

“And cotton candy,” you added.

John stopped coughing long enough to turn pale and then slightly green. “Shit.”

“What?” you asked, following as he strode down the walkway between the old, moldering construction machines, double timing toward the arched doors leading out of the warehouse. “Do you know what that was?”

“We need to get back to the safehouse,” he said. “Now.” Then softer: “God, I hope I’m wrong.”

Minute by minute, John knew that the agent you had all inhaled was exactly what he feared it was. The smell, the symptoms, the method of deployment, it all added up. He was just trying to decide how to deliver the news to two colleagues that they were in for a very intense, very awkward night.

You and Bob went ahead into the safehouse, John lingering outside to grab a few more cold breaths of wintry air before barricading himself inside. His poker face was failing him, because you looked panicked as you swished the curtains aside on the front window and peered out at him. Just the sight of your face and how his body reacted was further evidence that his theory was right. He turned around, paranoid that you would see how tight his pants were becoming.

This is not how I wanted to do this.

For God’s sake, he had pictured a leisurely date, maybe a place with a dress code, flirting with you over a few drinks, a meandering stroll back to the tower with plenty of stops to make out like teenagers in the shadowy alcoves between buildings. Not this. Never this. You were going to turn into animals, all three of you; losing all inhibition with you was one thing, but now Bob was part of it. Fuck. His collar was choking him. The unnatural heat clawing its way across his chest was damn near unbearable. He scratched open the toggles on his uniform, pulling until he could expose his neck to the cool air.

There was no point prolonging the inevitable. It was still possible, he thought, to get through this without detonating a bomb in your personal and professional lives. Maybe you could tie each other up, separate yourselves in different rooms of the house, figure out some kind of quarantine system. This wasn’t defcon, not yet. John strode in through the front door, closed it, and spun to engage every bolt and lock. He went window to window, making sure the curtains were tightly closed.

It was a quaint two-story cottage, nondescript, white plaster walls and black roof, a working fireplace, the first story dominated by a cozy sitting room with two sofas and a coffee table, and an adjoining kitchen with a farmhouse dining table. Nestled in the French countryside, it didn’t exactly scream orgiastic sex frenzy.

John told himself it wasn’t going there. It couldn’t go there.

“Guys,” Bob murmured, decidedly more Bob than Sentry as he smoothed his hands down the front of his suit, fingers spreading across his stomach. “I don’t feel right.”

“I know,” John said, massaging his temples. He threw you a helpless look, maybe a preemptive, silent plea for understanding. You hovered in the no man’s land between living room and kitchen. Nobody seemed willing to sit down.

“I feel…I feel like I need to barf or jerk off,” Bob continued, squeezing his eyes shut, swaying. “Maybe both.”

That didn’t draw a snarky response from John, which made you instantly suspicious. John never missed an opportunity to get a lick in. You rounded on him, marching over and poking him in the chest. There was already a glaze over your eyes, like you were halfway to wasted, but you were holding on, pushing through it. “John. What the hell is happening to us?”

“Rapid breathing, heart palpitations, fever, sweats, sweats and then chills, sensitivity to light and touch, did I miss anything?” John asked, listing out the symptoms. As he named them out, he watched you get more and more withdrawn.

“Feels like my dick is growing another dick,” Bob muttered.

“And that. Yeah. Whatever that is,” John said with a loose gesture. “Does anyone read the mission briefs? The addendums in the back? You know, we print those out for a reason.”

Bob said nothing, still holding his stomach like he might puke on himself at any second. You shook your head, blinking too fast, like you were having trouble following a simple question. That tracked. You had taken a full blast in the face of the stuff, and he had no idea if the serum would slow things down or speed things up. Either way, you stumbled forward suddenly, grabbing his arm to stay upright.

John held you by the waist, but loosely, aware that any touch at any time could make things descend into chaos. “Jesus, you two. It’s experimental chemical warfare. It depresses your central nervous system, inhibits memory formation, rapid GABA deployment, prioritizes blood to erogenous zones—”

“Erogenous zones?” Bob covered his mouth, laughing.

“Yeah. What? Is that not the right term?”

“No, it is, I just didn’t realize you were a grandma.”

John’s mouth fell open in exasperation. He considered how much torque would be required to tear off a god’s head. Probably more than he could generate just with his bare hands. “Okay, wise ass, try this instead: it’s fuck dust.”

That shut him up.

Your grip tightened on John’s arm. You stared up at him, dazed. “Meaning what?”

John’s tone softened as he addressed you, his heart pounding in his ears as his attention snagged on your beautiful mouth, the way your pulse fluttered in your neck, how lickable you had become all covered in sweat… He shook his head, fighting the urge to press you against his body. “Meaning we’re about to experience a real HR nightmare, that’s what. If the lab tests I’ve read are accurate, then the…the need for stimulation is going to become painful. It will feel life or death.”

The silence was almost comical. John usually yearned for a minute of peace with the two of you around, but now he was desperate for someone to fill the void with a genius solution.

“For how long?” Bob asked, frowning, brow furrowed. He was clawing at his suit like it was full of fire ants, tugging at the collar.

“Hard to say.” John wiped his hand down his face; it was getting tougher to form a clear thought. You smelled so fucking good, fresh meat to a starving man. “Depends on length of exposure, metabolic rate…” He trailed off, begging his last available brain cells to have mercy, cooperate. It felt like a veil was closing over his vision and all he could see was you. “If we’re lucky, twelve hours. If we’re not lucky—”

“Twelve hours?” Bob shouted, startling you. “I can’t do this for twelve more minutes.” Before either of you could tell him to calm down, Bob detached his cape, tore away his gauntlets, then flipped the latch on the back of his rubbery black neck guard, yanking it off and tossing it across the room. The lights overhead flickered ominously. He wrestled with the zipper on the back of his suit until it gave, and with a grunt, he pulled his suit down, letting it hang loose over his belt.

John felt you twitch in his grasp.

“Holy shit, Bob,” you murmured, glassy-eyed and gawking. You pointed first at his well-developed pecs, then his washboard abs. Even John could admit the definition was insane. “That was hiding under there this entire time?”

He absorbed your appreciation with a little toss of his hair, then flicked his gaze from your face to Johns. “Why?” he asked, voice rough with desire, full of the arrogance that the serum tended to bring out in him. “Like what you see?”

“Oh shit,” John groaned. Knowing it was fruitless to try and stop you as you tugged out of his grip and drifted toward Bob. “It’s starting.” He watched you cuddle up to Bob’s side, the other man’s hands immediately tangling in the zipper on the back of your suit, tugging it down. You didn’t notice or didn’t fight him on it.

“Whoa. Hey wait, okay? Are we not going to even try and figure out a way to fight this?” John asked, tearing his gaze away from the sight of you running your fingers up Bob’s ripped stomach. He paced back toward the door, hands in his hair, but each idea that sprang to mind was dumber than the last. “We could…we could find rope. Rope. Yes. Tie each other up. Do we have rope?”

Bob was listening but not looking. His attention was fixed entirely on you, his fingers catching on the open back of your suit, pulling until you wiggled and your arms came free. “Rope,” he murmured, laughing, eyes gold and hot as he leaned in to brush his lips across yours. “Do you think a rope will hold me?” He touched your chin with his thumb, the sheen of sweat across his bare chest so strong it looked like he had been dipped in oil. “I’d chew through it to get to you.”

You shivered, arching against him as he gave one more firm tug and stripped you to the waist. Like him, your skin-tight suit caught on your belt, but John wasn’t thinking about that, he was thinking about the big hand closing over your breast, squeezing it, testing the weight.

“I’d burn it to get to you,” Bob added, the fabric of your bra shimmering before it was incinerated off your body, there and then nothing, a whisper of ash scattering to the ground.

John knew he had to do something, but it was like every thought was on a five second delay. He had become a bystander. Incidental. A flurry of crucial memories passed in front of his eyes just then—you and Bob playing scrabble in the common room long into the night, bickering over whether or not bongwater was a playable word; Barnes taking Bob aside after one of his first missions back to lecture about not shattering anyone’s spine, which had been Bob’s enraged reaction after a goon got a clean punch on you; Bob hearting absolutely everything you said in the group chat, even things like okay; Bob bringing you back tiny mementos from his missions abroad…

John crossed the room in three immense strides, hooking his arm around your waist and spinning you until you squeaked and teetered against him, hands propped on his chest.

“Stop. Everyone stop. Slow down.” Maybe it was because he was the oldest, maybe it was because he was a father, whatever it was, he felt like it was his responsibility to protect both you and Bob. John wiped the sweat out of his eyes, holding up a hand toward the other man, who straightened up and grimaced like John had coldcocked him in the training room. “Don’t square up to me, Bobby. If we’re not going to sequester ourselves or…or…”

“Go ahead, man, sequester yourself,” Bob suggested lightly.

John was trying to be patient and fair, he really was, and this time out was as much for him as it was for Bob. But you were the one he worried about. It didn’t matter what the dust was whispering, you could get hurt, emotionally and physically, if they weren’t careful. You were trapped in a house with two of the most dangerous men on the planet, super soldiers who were about to lose all common sense.

John was trying to be patient, but Bob’s annoying little suggestion punctured his resolve. He wrapped you up in both of his arms, holding you tight to his chest as he leaned toward Bob over your shoulder. “If you have something to prove, that’s fine. I’m not letting her get hurt tonight.”

“I would never hurt her,” Bob whispered. He seemed to come back to himself all at once, noticing his own suit draped around his waist, then yours.

“I know we don’t always get along, Reynolds, but we set that shit aside here and now. She’s priority one tonight.” John said, using a tone of command he reserved for dire situations. The use of Bob’s last name seemed to reach him in a different way, like they were brothers in arms, maybe not friends but on the same side.

“Everything runs through you,” John continued, shifting you to stand at arm’s length. He winced. “Bad…bad choice of words, sorry. You get final say. On everything. We—” He glared across your shoulder at Bob. “—can’t let this spin out of control. We’re still a team.”

“Okay,” you said, softly, down toward John’s chest. You glanced up, nodding. “Okay. I say no and it all stops?”

Bob’s expression softened. He touched the back of your head, the gold fading from his eyes as he swallowed visibly. How the fuck would John make a god stop doing anything, he wondered, realizing their only hope was that Bob’s affection for you was strong enough to keep him in check. The Sentry with no inhibition, with the brakes off, scared the shit out of him.

You closed your eyes sleepily at Bob’s touch, then nuzzled forward into John’s neck, lips moving across his throat as you reached for the zipper on his chest. “And what if I don’t want to stop?”

Then we go until the wheels come off.

Bob had done a lot of crazy shit in his life, but this was right up there. He had never ingested an evil, experimental biological agent but there were times when he probably would have, if it meant a single night of numbed out bliss. But he was a different man now, in recovery, working on things, and Walker’s words of warning broke through the dark, thick haze that had hemmed him in on every side. Things could get seriously messed up if the three of you weren’t careful—he had seen significantly less complicated dynamics fracture just after a night of heavy drinking, and this was…this was…

“Can we at least do this in a bedroom?” John was asking, his huge hands wrapped around your wrists, stopping you from undressing him just feet from the front door of the safehouse.

Bob snapped back into himself, or as much as he could, the heavy, honeyed feeling sliding through his body making every non-sex related thought a chore. There were two bedrooms upstairs; the night before, you and Bob had each taken one and John used the hide-a-bed in the living room couch.

This was the first test. Bob could see John getting impatient for your answer, but he needed that answer. His chest was rising and falling like an overworked bellows, his throat bobbing around a cumbersome swallow as you looked at him and then Bob.

You nodded, unsteady on your feet.

“Words,” John grunted out.

“Take me upstairs.”

That was the gun firing at the starting line. John swept you into his arms, bridal carrying you out of the living room and to the narrow stairs, his boots thundering through the house. Bob stumbled after the two of you, noticing a weird, pink halo at the edge of his vision, a technicolor fog. His legs only cooperated when he began picturing what was waiting in that bedroom. Naked skin. Willing fingers. He groaned, shivering, pawing at the oversized S of his belt, unhooking it and letting it fall wherever. The hand railing creaked as he pushed his weight down onto it, pulling himself to the second level like it was a triumph of the spirit.

Time wasn’t making sense. He had no idea how long it took him to go from living room to bedroom, but it felt like hours, every minute without touch driving him a little crazier, making that fog creeping in denser, harder to push back. He paused at the top of the stairs, the sweat on his hands making the removal of his suit almost impossible. He had been on some serious drugs but this was something new. Just the feeling of his own hands sliding down his legs, peeling the suit away, pulling off his boots, made him want to fall to his knees and cry out.

He left behind a pile of clothing on the landing, ping-ponging against the hallway walls as he tried to remember the layout of the extremely tiny, manageable house. The dust wasn’t just settling in now it was taking hold, taking him by the throat and shaking. He slammed against the open doorway to the bedroom, hands curled into claws as he panted like an animal and watched the last of your super suit hit the floor.

“Jesus Christ,” Bob whispered, wiping the wet hair off his forehead and the sweat out of his eyes.

“Still with us, Bobby?” John asked. To his credit, he sounded genuinely concerned. His suit was gone, too, the towering V of his torso rising behind you as he held you lightly by the waist. The room was dark. That wasn’t good for Bob. He squeezed his eyes shut until two different lamps flickered on, bathing you both in wholesome, golden light. But what those lights illuminated was anything but wholesome—you, perfect and naked, head falling back against John’s shoulder as you reached for Bob, silently imploring him to join.

The amount of floor between the door and the bedside felt insurmountable. It was only the guarantee of skin to skin contact that got him there. Fuck, you were beautiful, held in the light, held by John, his scarred hands moving up your ribs to cup your breasts and pinch your nipples, pulling them toward Bob like you were an offering, an offering to a god.

That’s you, dingdong.

Bob raked his eyes up and down your body, taking in every delicious inch. He had pictured this many, many times, though admittedly never with John’s hands on your boobs. He hated it less than he expected. That was probably the dust talking, but the contrast between Walker’s huge, chiseled body and your softer curves made Bob’s head spin like a top. He dragged himself across the room, watching John’s calloused fingers tease your nipples into stiff, swollen peaks.

“This for me?” Bob asked, hands smoothing across your waist, head dipping to pull one of those buds between his lips. His tongue rolled out along with a groan; John hissed through his teeth at the contact, but he didn’t move his hand completely out of the way.

“Yes, for you,” you whispered, arching, fingers tangling in Bob’s hair, pressing him harder against your chest. He latched on, telling himself you had twelve whole hours of this to go, stuffing down the urge to disintegrate his own underwear and fuck you on the spot. No, he needed you to last.

John’s hands let go, scraping down your sides to your hips, one moved lower; Bob was only too willing to replace John’s hands with his own, squeezing and massaging you until your fingernails scraped across his scalp in response. He heard a soft, mouthwatering, wet sound as John started playing with your slit, dipping one finger inside, making it even clearer he had given up any pretense of trying to fight the dust.

Caught between them, your skin roared with heat, feverish to the touch.

“How does she taste?” John asked in a rasp.

“So sweet,” Bob murmured, eyes fluttering shut as he switched one from nipple to the other.

“Yeah?” John vented a wry laugh. “Bet I know something sweeter…”

His big hand slid into Bob’s hair alongside yours, jerking Bob’s head back and off of your tit until he released it with a reluctant moan. His disappointment didn’t last long; John slipped his fingers out of your body, offering a taste to Bob. If John was going to be a little bossy, Bob could put up with it if it was going to be like this.

“Words,” John prompted gruffly.

“Oh, hell yes,” Bob whispered, opening his mouth. Your eyes were wide and glistening, your lips parted in pleasurable wonder as John Walker painted your slick across Bob’s waiting tongue.

You watched Bob suck the shine off of John’s finger with a full body shudder. Holy shit. You had worried briefly about John’s ability to play nice and share, but whatever setting had clicked on in his head was exactly the right speed. Everything was moving forward, but not too fast, and even with the crazy-making dust screaming through your system, it quieted the panic in your chest to have John in control. The heat was building, but for now it was a controlled burn. You had no idea how he was managing, just gratitude that he was.

Bob slid down in front of you, knees thumping against the hard wood, hands clamping around your thighs as he pushed his chin between your legs. John met him there, fingers spreading, parting your folds, the combined pressure and presence of Bob’s mouth and John’s hand making you sizzle and buck.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, grabbing harder onto Bob’s hair. “No. No, no, no, too much, I can’t—”

“Actual no or good no?” John asked.

“Good no, so good.”

His breath warmed across your neck; those breaths came faster as you worked your hips against Bob’s face and back against the thick, heavy erection rubbing against your ass.

“Then you can,” John growled, biting the shell of your ear, tugging it. He laughed softly as you whined and twisted. “And you will.”

John held you open, Bob went to work, eating you like he was born to do it. You felt the atmosphere charge around the three of you—before it had been foreplay, but now the room filled with the wet sound of Bob dragging his face against you and you sighing at a higher pitch; his tongue speared up into you; there was no going back. Even if you wanted them to stop, you weren’t convinced you could dredge up the words.

Every part of you was too sensitive. It usually took much longer to get where you wanted to go, but now just the lightest graze of his nose across your clit pinched the world into a single, narrow slice. You could see the open door and Bob’s trail of clothing out in the hall, and if you glanced down, a pair of liquid fire eyes gazing up at you, half-lidded and dust-addled. He was watching you intently, keen on every new sound and every twist of your hips.

“Keep going,” you heard John mumble. His left hand slid from your hip, disappearing to tangle in his shorts, push them down, free the hard column of heat he had been pushing against your ass. You felt the thick, weeping tip dodge lower, nudging against your entrance. “I’m going to fuck you now, baby,” he whispered, gasping, probably to keep from tackling you to the ground in a blind heat. “And Bobby’s going to make you cum, isn’t he? He’s going to suck your little clit until you scream.”

Bob logged no complaints at that, hands gripping your thighs tighter as he licked a broad stripe up your slit to refocus on just your aching clit. He held you there while you shook, grabbing Bob’s head with one hand, the other reaching back to hook around John’s neck. He bent low to get the angle right, rearranging his hold on you until you could lean onto his forearm.

“You have to tell us,” John said, words a jumble as he pulsed against your entrance, his cock twitching in anticipation, jumpy, needy. “Have to say it.”

It was the dust. Had to be. You would never do this otherwise, never let one of your crushes eat you out while the other fucked you from behind. “Please, yes, please,” you whined, so wet you could feel yourself opening for John despite his brutish size. Maybe because of it. Fuck, he was gigantic, it was going to change everything, satisfy the burn, satisfy the dust, satisfy you. Then the pounding in your head would go away and the voice shrieking at you to screw everything in sight would be silenced.

“Please, please, god, fuck me, make me cum,” you moaned, half-swallowing the last word as John pressed forward, his teeth closing over your shoulder as he roared out the sound of a man in agony.

“She’s tight, Bobby, fuck, she’s tight,” John whispered, broken, hips stuttering as he worked you open. You could imagine the immense restraint required on his end to keep from ramming into you like a freight train because you were faced with the same brutal gambit—obey the insane demands of the dust and potentially hurt yourself or focus harder than you had ever focused in your life and wait.

John caught his breath, sweating against your shoulder, easing forward on another controlled thrust, claiming more ground. But even as you wanted to concentrate your entire being on the feeling of that glorious stretch, Bob wouldn’t let you forget he had been given orders. His thumb joined his mouth, circling your clit with firm strokes, tongue handling the more direct stimulation. Whoever had taught him to do that deserved a hundred million dollars.

Bob’s hungry little hum, the vibrations, undid what weak shame remained. You couldn’t hold on, and John was right—you couldn’t control what came out of your mouth. For a terrifying second you thought you were losing your vision entirely. The room bent inward, squeezing until you couldn’t breathe, and without air, without sight, there was warmth and pleasure, the shocks of stimulation and the pressure of John filling you up. You felt him slide deeper, hilting you, just as your orgasm shuddered from your navel to your throat.

The relief was incredible, but painfully short. You slammed back down to silence, both men watchful and still.

“Are…are you okay?” Bob asked, gazing up at you with wide, terrified eyes. “Did we kill her?”

“She’s breathing,” John said, his hand closed over your chest, over your heart.

“I…I…” You had gone completely boneless in John’s grasp, your toes dragging against the floor. You stirred upright with a shudder, clenching around John’s dick with a gasp. “Fuck, I’m good. So good. Don’t stop.”

With Bob sitting back on his haunches, chin slick and shiny, John took advantage, turning you to the right, toward the bed, hauling you onto it until you were on all fours. He did it so fast, so easily, you didn’t have time to overthink it or even react. John shoved his knees against the edge of the mattress behind you and fisted his hand in your hair, pulling just enough to send electricity across your scalp.

“God, you’re beautiful like this,” he rumbled, stealing your breath away with a dragging thrust in and out. “Can’t…can’t last, not when you look like this…”

The dust was hitting him as hard as it was hitting you. Your ass slapped against his thighs as he drove home once, twice, a sound of strangled surprise preempting what felt like a volcanic eruption, his fingers tightening in your hair as he burst against your depths. You didn’t expect it to feel like that, but then you’d never been fucked by someone juiced to the gills with serum. You cried out too, shocked by the sensation, he let go of your hair and your head dropped forward. It was so warm inside, so good; you squeezed around his half-limp dick, milking it, gifting yourself another little whined out orgasm.

John staggered back from the bed on heavy steps, shaking the house, leaving you sensitive and swollen but nowhere near satisfied. Your knees buckled; you rolled onto your side, eyes closing on heavy blinks as Bob gave John a good natured shove and climbed onto the bed beside you. He smiled at you, gentle, hand smoothing down your cheek, stroking away tears you hadn’t realized had slipped out.

“How’s my girl? Happy?” he asked, smile deepening at your frantic nod. You didn’t know how you could still want more, but Bob was so beautiful, shining with sweat, eyes deep and blue and sweet as he stroked his hand down your face to your shoulder, tracing the lines of your arm, transferring to your hip, over the curve of your ass before his fingers danced between your thighs. He rolled you onto your back carefully, shifting closer. At some point he had taken off his shorts. His dick was hard and throbbing, curved against his stomach, pulsing faintly with his heartbeat.

You heard John sink onto a chair somewhere behind Bob with a fwoomp and a groan. Bob didn’t notice, his eyes following your line of sight. He looked down at himself, fisted his cock, gave a few lazy pumps while you watched. He read the hunger in your gaze, fingers pushing between your thighs and dipping into your cunt, fingering you with the same unhurried pace of his jerking off. 

“Is this okay?” he asked, shivering as he stroked himself faster, still watching you closely.

“Mmhm.”

“Words,” John grunted from across the room.

“Don’t stop touching me there,” you told them both, opening your thighs to give him better access. “I want it. I want you.”

Bob nodded, licking his lips, trying to gather his next thought into something coherent. “John got you all messy,” he said, fingers sliding deeper, fucking John’s cum back into you. “Are you our messy girl tonight?”

You closed your eyes, circling your hips and humping against his hand. “Yes.”

“You’re going to get a lot messier,” Bob murmured, but he sounded pleased about it. Excited. Curious. “Want to taste me? I’m kinda messy, too.”

His cheeks darkened, deep pink as he showed you how much precum was bubbling out of his tip. You whimpered, pulling yourself closer to him by his knee, flopping up partially onto his lap, resting your head on his thigh. Bob didn’t pull his fingers out of you, just shifted you around so he had a better vantage. With his free hand, he drove his thumb into your mouth, opening it, then urged his cock toward your widened lips, feeding himself to you.

Just the smell of him made your body flutter, made it feel like you could cum again. His salt musk taste pooled on your tongue while you licked him like a sweet. He groaned, abs clenched, stomach tensing while he let you take him in at your own pace. And your pace was eager but fascinated, tongue mapping the ridges and veins, the delicious length. You craned up suddenly, licking a smeared wet spot off of his stomach.

Bob laughed at that, cupping your cheek, just holding you, not pressuring you to go back to what you were doing. He knew you would; the crazed heat that burned in him still flamed high in your chest, in your abdomen. He inhaled through his teeth as you closed your lips around his tip, gliding over him, hollowing your cheeks and sucking experimentally, tongue rolling back and forth, teasing him.

“Shit,” he whispered, caving in slightly, shoulders slumping forward as he fought something off. “This is…I could fire off right now…shit.”

John huffed out a knowing laugh.

“Not yet, not yet,” Bob cautioned, shaking as he gently pried your jaw open, easing out of your mouth with a sigh. He pulled his fingers out of your puss and almost wiped his hand on the coverlet, then thought better of it and offered his hand to you. His eyes gleamed as you wrapped your lips around his fore and middle fingers and cleaned off your own arousal and what John had left behind.

“God, fuck yes,” he murmured, pulling his lip between his teeth. “Taste good?”

“Mmhm.”

“Want more?” he asked, scraping his fingers along your lower teeth as he shifted to reposition you on the bed, draping you across the mattress the short way, ass toward him and the wall, head dangling toward the rest of the room.

“Yes,” you said, knowing John would bark at you if you didn’t vocalize the answer. “More. I’m not…I can’t…”

“I know,” Bob said, voice full of sympathy. “It’s eating you alive.”

You whimpered, nodded, heat rocketing down toward your core as Bob settled on his knees between your legs, teasing his cock head up and down your sex. His gaze flicked from your heaving tits to the chair across the room, where John was seated beneath the glow of a golden and green stained-glass lamp.

“Look at that,” Bob whispered. “You’ve got Walker all worked up again.”

Upside down, you took in the harrowing vision of John Walker fisting his dick from base to tip, using a bruising grip as if punishing himself for liking what was happening on the bed. His face was red, his hair slick with sweat, eyes blue flames as he nodded and groaned with you as Bob dipped lower and fucked into you.

His path was smoother than John’s, your body so relaxed and ready for him, lubricated with your seemingly endless hunger and John’s cream. That didn’t lessen the pleasure, in fact, you couldn’t keep your eyes open or your mouth shut as Bob took his time on each devastating pump, fists pushed into the mattress on either side of your waist. What he lacked in sheer girth he made up for in length. And you felt it, scratching your fingernails across the blankets, meeting his thrusts with desperate shakes of your hips.

“More. Please more. Fuck me,” you urged him, a stranger to your own voice. Something deep inside you still longed to be dealt with, fed. If anything, your grip on sense and reality was only loosening. You didn’t know if this was the apex of the drug; you trembled to consider there was worse to withstand and what you would do to survive it.

“You heard her.” John’s voice was closer now, much closer. He had crossed the distance from the chair to the bed. Even before you opened your eyes, you knew he was close—you could smell yourself on him, and the heady scent of your mingled sex clinging to his skin. When you did open your eyes, you were greeted with the underside of John’s hard dick. His head tilted to the side in playful inquiry as he took up one of your hands and brushed your knuckles across the heated flesh.

“More,” you said, both to him and to Bob. Your hand closed around him, John’s fist still closed tightly around the base as he fucked against your palm.

“Give it to her, Bobby,” he said through clenched teeth. “She wants it. Give her—fuck—give her whatever she wants.”

“More, yeah, sounds good,” Bob repeated, prompting himself. He leaned down, taking your legs and bending them back until your knees almost touched your tits. You cried out, struggling to catch your breath as he opened you up and found that much more of you to pound. “How’s that? Is that the spot?” he asked, eager, giving you a taste of the angle. Your eyes rolled back, hand numb around John’s dick as Bob lowered his weight onto your thighs; your hamstrings burned as he leaned down to kiss you, folding you into the mating press.

“I’m gonna die,” you whispered, laughing.

“Relax, baby, he’s going to make you feel good,” John said, smoothing the hair back from your face. Something about his encouragement made you shiver and loosen, another wave of honeyed pleasure rolling up from where your body met Bob’s. John gazed down at you so lovingly, eyes watery as if he had never been this proud of anyone in his life. “He’s gonna fill you up again, is that what you want? Is that what you need?” John’s pale eyes flickered as he glanced down your sweaty torso to Bob. “It’s what he needs. It’s what we both need, to fill you up until you can’t take anymore, until you tell us to stop.”

“Don’t stop, John,” you said, so fast it made them both chuckle.

“No, baby, nobody’s stopping,” John assured you. Bob started dragging himself in and out, groaning like he was in pain. “Bob’s not going to last very long in that tight pussy.”

“N-No,” Bob muttered, shaking the wet strands of his hair as he almost collapsed on his next thrust. He kept going somehow, brushing an absent kiss across your lips, eyes screwed shut as he picked up speed. “Shit, John, she’s soaking.”

As if to prove him right, his next thrust came with a filthy squelch. You arched, your own slick and John’s dripping down between your cheeks, pooling on the bed.

“Jesus Christ, did you hear that?” John worked himself against your hand faster, moving his fist up to tighten around your fingers and make a combined sleeve for him to fuck. You could feel him swelling, getting close…

“Wet, tight, fuck,” Bob whimpered, lost, somewhere else entirely as he rocked into you. He dropped his hips lower, angling his dick to scrape a spot you could feel in your teeth.       

“Oh god, Bob, oh god, oh god—” You blurted out words to the rhythm of his thrusts, sawed back and forth by the snap in his hips. John ran his thumb along the seam of your lips.

“Can you open up for me, baby? Wanna cum, wanna cum right now…”

You groaned, doing as he asked, drunk and dazed and fucked as Bob seized up, still for an instant before pounding into you on three quick strokes. Thick, salted heat poured down your throat from John as Bob finished, his face pressed against your throat as it worked to swallow John’s release. You felt Bob’s as the head rush ebbed, as you sputtered and coughed, John holding your head up and steady while Bob’s dick jerked against your depths. It was too much heat. It was just the right amount. It was on you and inside you and incinerating you from the inside out.

The come down nearly plunged you into a blackout. You couldn’t remember how all three of you wound up in the bed together, one bedraggled sheet slung over your bodies, Bob curled around your back, spooning you, the furred wall of John’s chest against your cheek. You could feel Bob’s erection pulsing against your lower back, his fingers toying idly with your nipples, his lips worrying along the ridge of your shoulder.

“Just relax, that’s it,” John was saying. You didn’t know what had come before that. Had you fallen asleep? It could be midnight or dawn, you had no idea. The burn in your chest was a simmer, but not completely gone. John reached down, feeling between your legs; you shivered, rubbing your face back and forth against his chest. “Are you done?” he asked, almost shy.

You tossed your head.

“Are you sure?”

“Come on, man, don't be an asshole, just give it to her,” Bob said, half impatient, half annoyed. “She likes it, she’s our messy girl. Aren’t you?” His tone changed, light and loving when he nuzzled into your neck, rutting slowly against your back. “If he won’t help you I will. I can go again. I can go again right now—”

John’s hand closed over the back of your head possessively, his long fingers still exploring you, as if searching for some physical sign it was time to call it quits.

“She gets to decide,” John said, firm. “Not you.”

You wiggled closer to John, hooking your thigh around his, inviting him in.

It just felt good when he slid into you, his erection as hard as the first time, far more controlled now, easy, like you were two lovers alone, tangled up in bed before going to sleep. He kissed you deeply, holding on like you could slip away. Time warped around you again, you remembered that kiss, not tipped with drugged fire but romantic, full of longing. And Bob’s steady heat against your back, his kisses along your shoulder tickling as his evening stubble scratched your skin. John held your waist while you ground against his pubic bone, shuddering and blissful and full.

When you opened your eyes again, John was holding your back to his chest, the steel bands of his arms anchored around your waist. Bob was crawling down the mattress, kissing his way down your body, detouring to suck and bite your nipples for so long John grumbled something at him.

“It’s all coming out, can’t have that,” Bob was saying, three fingers pushing into you like it was nothing. “Gotta keep us inside, can you do that?”

You wanted it, you supposed, anything to keep the pleasure coasting through your body. Anything to satisfy the demon, even if it was getting quieter, going to sleep. You came back to yourself minutes later, Bob fucking you against John’s chest. It felt like you were going to break, but it was too much in all the right ways. Every thrust sent you closer to yourself. Your arms fell back, looped loosely around John’s neck.

“One more time,” John murmured, nose against your temple as Bob shuddered and bucked. “Let us take you there one more time, baby. Have you ever been fucked like this? Have you ever felt this good?”

You shook your head, whispering nonsense.

You remembered a light clicking on, brighter. Someone carrying you. The cold bite of tiles on your bare feet. Soap that smelled like rosewater. Two hard bodies holding you up in the shower, gentle hands touching you everywhere, washing, caring. The towel was like a cloud. The bed was different, smaller, but you didn’t ask about it or complain.

Morning crackled behind your eyes like a seam of sunlight on the horizon.

You breathed into consciousness with a gasp, warm as bread in a toaster. You groaned; it felt like you had gone ten rounds with a grizzly bear. There was a persistent, intense ache between your legs. Someone had put your panties back on, but you could tell the crotch was wet. Fear lanced through you like a cold spike as you realized this wasn’t your bedroom back in the Watchtower.

What was the last thing you remembered? John and Bob fighting, bickering on the job. A white house with a black roof. France. Right. You tried to move, finding it very difficult indeed with two bodies pressed tight against you on either side.

What. The. Fuck.

Your bleary eyes traveled up a column of skin dusted with freckles, landing on a russet beard and the calm, angelic face of John Walker fast asleep. His arm was slung across your waist. It felt like a barbell pressing you into the mattress. Judging by the way your nipples were pillowed against wiry hair, he wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing.

“No, I’ll do it tomorrow,” someone slurred behind you.

Bob.

You carefully turned your head like a turret on a wheel, catching sight of Bob’s golden brown hair mussed against your shoulder. His nose was buried between your shoulder blades, his arm nestled just under John’s. They were naked. They were naked and they were touching.

The hyperventilating had just begun when John’s eyes blinked open.

“Whoa. Whoa. Look at me. Breathe.” He lifted his hand from your waist, cupping your jaw firmly until you did as he instructed. Worry tugged his brow down as he inspected you. “Do you remember last night?”

“N-No. John. John. What the fuck is going on?” you asked, trying not to scream. This was insane. A disaster. You were in bed with both of your crushes, with absolutely no memory of how things had progressed this far.

“When we were in the warehouse, when you chased down that guy, do you remember the cannister in his pocket?” John asked.

The specificity of the question lowered your panic. “I…Yes. Yeah. Something exploded. There was gas everywhere, it smelled like shit.”

“It was a chemical agent,” he explained, slow and clear. His thumb stroked gently across your cheekbone. “We all inhaled it. There’s really no professional or easy way to say this, but it made us all want to…” He closed his mouth, opened it, closed it, tried again. “We had a lot of sex. A lot.”

Memories started to percolate. Bob mumbled in his sleep, restless and shifting against you. His morning wood poked against your back. You closed your eyes and told yourself to breathe exactly sixteen times before saying anything else.

You remembered Bob’s suit piled in the hallway. The tremor in the usually unflappable John Walker’s hands as he helped you undress. Your own voice begging for more, more, more.

“Oh my fucking God,” you whispered.

“Yeah. Yep.”

“John, this is a catastrophe,” you added. Your eyes filled with tears as you forced yours to meet his. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t…I don’t know…”

“Sh-hh, hey, don’t apologize,” he said, voice just as careful and low. What was with him? Why did he care or not whether Bob Reynolds of all people had his peace disturbed? Bob was drooling down your back in his sleep. You were going to puke.

“No, you don’t get it,” you hurried on, scalding tears blistering down your cheeks. John hurried to wipe them away. “I…like both of you. Fuck. Like is such a stupid word. I mean I respect both of you, too, although I’m sure that’s fucked now…”

John suppressed a rumbled laugh. “Nothing is fucked.”

You stared at him. “How? You must think I’m some crazed slut…” You got up the courage to slip your hand down between your legs. The evidence was actually confounding. How was that possible? “Jesus Christ, John, how much sex did we have exactly?”

“A lot,” he said, cryptic, clearing his throat. His blue eyes searched every inch of your face. “Do…do you want the details? You’re owed them, obviously, I just--”

“How do you remember it all? My memory is gone…”

“The serum, I would guess,” he said. “Which, uh, means Bobby over there will also probably remember.”

“Oh my God.” You couldn’t breathe. You actually couldn’t breathe. “Yes. Details. Now. Tell me.”

John sighed, gathering himself. “You and me, um…” He turned a shade of red you weren’t sure until that moment was biologically plausible. “Four times, although once was—fuck, okay this is harder than I thought—”

“Once was what.”

“Once was in your mouth,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut.

“You and I had sex three times?” Your heart sank for reasons that were perhaps more embarrassing than the effects of the sex gas. Now you would never remember your first time with him. Them. More tears slipped down your face. John, as ever, was ready to catch them. “I don’t remember. I don’t…I can’t…”

“Hey, hey, hey.” John surged against you, pressing his forehead to yours. “Breathe. You have to breathe. You have to breathe and you have to believe me when I say that this doesn’t change anything between us, I’m still—” He caught himself, biting off the end of that confession.

“You’re still what?” you asked, hands curling against his chest.

“I’m still crazy about you,” he said. “Crazier, maybe.”

“Yeah, last night certainly sounds like it was fucking crazy.”

John laughed, and you thumped your fist on his chest. “I’m not going to speak for Bob, but I bet he’s going to say the same thing.” His eyes fluttered over your shoulder to where Bob was still peacefully drooling on your back. “We’re both crazy about you. I thought I was going to tear him in half when he touched you, but…I don’t know. I don’t know anything yet, I just know I’m not going to forget the way you said my name. And if you tell me to fuck off and die, I will, but I’m…here. Here and not going anywhere.”

It didn’t fix everything, but at least you could breathe again.

“Are there pancakes?” Bob asked in his sleep, flopping away from you and into the wall so hard he hit his head with a wheezed: “Ow.”

John looked at the ceiling for help, sighing. “Guess you can ask him yourself. Good morning, Bob,” he said, exasperated.

“Whoa. Hey. Morning?” Bob rolled back toward you both, his face appearing next to yours as he propped it on your right shoulder. “Is this, uh, the debrief? Does she—”

“She doesn’t remember much,” John said, and you were grateful for the assist. “I was just telling her how much we are not judging her for what occurred here.”

Bob snorted, ruffling your hair, his strong hands smoothing down your side to curve over your hip. “You were incredible.”

You raised your eyebrows at John, who raised his right back.

“Say: I told you so,” you muttered. “I dare you.”

“How’s our messy girl this morning? Sore? Tired? Fuck, you’re so beautiful…” Bob kissed your neck, hand sliding down your hip to your stomach, lower, playing in the absolute filth they had left inside you the night before. Judging by how otherwise pleasant you all smelled, they had tried to clean you up and done a very half-assed job of it. “God, you’re wet again, or is that us? Both, maybe? Shit, my dick has been poking you all morning, hasn’t it?”

“Bobby.” John’s voice sliced through the horny stream of conscious monologue Bob had decided to unleash first thing in the morning. “She’s still…figuring this out. Give her a break for God’s sake.”

“S-Sorry.” Bob’s hand stilled, his jaw tense against your neck.

But the fucked up part was, you didn’t want him to stop. Your mind raced, your traitorous fucking nipples hardening against John’s chest, your stomach unwinding, pooling toward the sensation of Bob’s hand cupping your sex.

“No, it’s okay,” you stammered out, licking your lips nervously.

John studied you, brows still at his hairline. “Baby—”

“Baby?” You snort-laughed, sizing him up. “Is that what you like calling me?”

His next blink was drowsy, his lips parting. “Next best thing after mine.”

“Ours,” Bob suggested, hand flexing around your pussy. When you twitched your thighs apart, his fingers slid right in. He groaned. “You’re ours.”

John leaned down to kiss your forehead, hands closing over yours where they rested on his chest. Bob went to work, John held you tight. “Everything runs through you,” he whispered. “Just say the word and it all stops.”

Your voice was your own voice as you arched against him, against Bob’s sweet touch, murmuring, “Don’t stop.”

-> Masterlist

[bluenoisexoxo]

Bro this is BEAUTIFUL

[paging-dr-werewolf]

Me when someone sees the vision 🩷😭🫶🏻

[bluenoisexoxo]

No cause why was I literally crying??? I felt this in my SOUL and I stg I've been thinking about their relationship all day

I'm not even usually that much of a Bob lover but oml I think this turned me into one

[paging-dr-werewolf]

Dead ass I think about this little trio all the time I hope they are thriving 😭😭

Maybe I need to bring them back, especially creeping up on 200 followers 👀👀😵‍💫😵‍💫

[bluenoisexoxo]

low-key I would lose my mind if you did bring them back (but of course, there's no pressure <3)

EEEE yay very exciting!!! Almost 200 follows :)))

[purehypnotic]

𝒔𝒖𝒈𝒂𝒓 (𝒉𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒚, 𝒉𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒚)

john walker x reader

☆a/n: gender neutral reader. 2400 words. this has been a draft since thunderbolts came out, but we're celebrating fourth of july by flaming john as much as possible.

───☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆──────☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆──────☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆───

When Sam and Bucky don't want to talk to each other, you and Joaquín flip a coin to see who gets stuck negotiating with John Walker.

─★ ✮ ★ ─

“Do I look stupid to you, Torres? I’m not doing that.”

“There’s literally no other way to decide,” Joaquín really tried to reason. 

“I think I’d rather shit in my hand and clap than take a chance on this.”

Joaquín clicked his tongue and flipped the coin anyway, causing you to pray for mercy in every language you could think of. As your life flashed before your eyes, the penny landed in Joaquín’s palm, which he flipped onto his desk and uncovered to reveal…

Tails.

To say that your soul dropped out of your ass was an understatement. Joaquín leapt out of his seat and took a victory lap around the compound room, arms raised and murmuring praises. You had to take a breath and hold your head in your hands. 

No way in fresh hell would you do this. But since Sam and Bucky refused to talk, you and Joaquín became children of divorce and had to step up with handling formalities with the so-called New Avengerz. Typically, you two would take turns messaging Yelena and pretending not to be scared of her. This time around, Yelena was likely deep cover as her contact remained unavailable with an automated notification to contact the other Avengerz if urgent. 

You guys preferred to tip-toe around Bucky-related topics, but were now left wondering which of the New Avengerz to talk to for superhero politics. Ghost would likely leave you on delivered, the Red Guardian would absolutely send propaganda whatsapp edits before giving a productive response, and both you and Joaquín felt bad bothering Bob. Yelena was out. Valentina was an absolute no-go. Which left only one option.

You fought a gag at the very thought. The penny had landed on tails, which meant you had to be diplomatic with captain crashout himself. 

John Walker. 

At this point you were basically rocking back and forth in fetal position. Joaquín knelt down to pat your back in sympathy. 

“Just show him the documents over a coffee or something. If you get him a nine dollar matcha, though, he’ll probably shoot you with a gun so maybe don’t pick that.”

───☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆───

You didn’t realize that emailing Walker’s inbox was the easiest part of this mission. Two days ago, you were agonizing over how to get your point across professionally, yet seeming cool and collected while still emphasizing that you thought he was a bum. 

Simple, really.

But now you were 15 minutes early and had picked a corner booth at the diner you’d agreed to meet him at. Flipping a sugar packet you’d plucked from the table top, you fought the nerves of Walker’s arrival. You were just grateful he told you to meet him at this cozy little diner and not some flashy joint with $37 smash burgers, as you expected would be right up his alley. Your team had witnessed what a butthead he could be, but deep down inside you knew that wasn’t what was making you pick at the corner of the laminated menu. No, there was something far more dangerous at play, a flip to your stomach that you really didn’t want to acknowledge. 

John Walker was an irritating, annoying, self-important, sarcastic, smug asshole, but what else was new? Fork found in kitchen. What really grinded your gears was a shortcoming on your end. A moral failure that you needed to bury deep down inside, never to see the light of day. 

What you had to admit to yourself was that you wanted that man. Badly. Although he was known for killing a man on live television, there were glimpses of something warm you could spot from within him. During the brief interactions you’ve had with Valentina’s team, you caught glimpses of his rough-edged tenderness, desperately covered by the snark and the ego. 

When news of the off brand Avengers broke wind, Sam had asked you to scour through all the staged interviews and media days that Valentina had dared to orchestrate. Your notes for Sam included the fact that Walker never seemed to have a kind word to say without sarcasm clipped at the end. You didn’t document your observations on how John Walker always made himself the physical barrier between eager reporters and his teammates. You didn’t take note of how charming you thought his dry jokes could be, nor did you write down the fact that he tends to bite his top lip and tuck his chin when he’s at a loss for words. 

You didn’t file your thoughts on how much you like his new beard, either.  

Joaquín (or god forbid, Sam) could never find out that you would fumble an infinity stone if it meant John Walker would tackle you. You’ve got no idea how you were going to go through with extracting information from Walker. It wasn’t that you were embarrassed about wanting him, but you had an image to maintain and jumping Walker’s bones wasn’t gonna make Sam’s life any easier. If Walker saw through you, he wouldn’t hesitate to be real smug about it and that definitely didn’t help either. 

“Alright, what do you need,” the man of the hour dropped into the seat in front of you like he weighed ten tons.

You didn’t even notice when he walked in, which really threw you off because how did you miss that brick house get through the door? With bated breath, you began rattling off the script you threw together in your notes app that morning.

“Okay, well firstly, thank you for agreeing to hear me out. I know you and your team are likely incredibly busy,” you offered.

“S’no big deal. Yelena’s better at these things, but if you’re needing me, then I’m here.”

Oh, you needed him alright. But that was neither here nor there.

“Thanks, Walker. Well, Torres and I drafted some possible arrangements and contracts for relations between the New Avengerz and a team we’re putting together, all approved by Wilson of course. These documents outline how we’ll handle threats by location and jurisdiction, and this half is an arrangement for partnership over global threats. Nothing’s final so you can bring these back to your team to make edits as you please, but Wilson really wants some settlements on paper, so…” you trailed off.

John swiped the stack of papers from your folder before licking his finger to turn the page. Catching the sight of his tongue flicking out, you had to take a breath and pray for some grace. You sat in silence while he skimmed through your work, desperately fidgeting with the sugar packet you still grasped in your palm.

He whistled, sharp and low. 

“I’ve got to hand it to you and Torres. You really went all in with this. Most of this looks good to me, but that policy about surrendering ex-SHIELD equipment isn’t gonna fly. Y’know I gotta run this by Valentina, but if it were up to me, and it should be because I’m the one who led the Bears back to back to back—” 

John cut himself off, eyebrows furrowing in.

“Why are you nervous?” he questioned, nodding to your hands. Glancing down, you realized that you hadn’t stopped messing with the poor sugar packet.

“You shouldn’t be — I’m not going to — look,” he sighed. “I don’t have the best track record, I know. But I’m not going to freak out on you.” 

“I know, I’m sorry, Walker. I’m kind of exhausted but I don’t wanna add to Sam’s to-do list, y’know how it is,” you told him, offering some truth. 

“Well, what’s on your mind, then?” He asked. It took you a second to regain your composure because he asked you this with genuine curiosity. Not the typical bored, iced-out look he always had. John Asshole Walker wanted to know what was bothering you. He was being polite about it, too. And he looked damn good doing it. 

After blinking at him a couple times, you caved into venting about the headache of cleaning up after the Ross incident, spreading yourself thin after Ruth decided to make herself scarce, and constantly making sure Joaquín and Sam don’t drop dead from neglect. All the while, John gently followed your erratic hand motions and offered a mumbled “really?” and “wow, that’s crazy” at all the right moments. Honestly, before this moment, you didn’t know he could make conversation without sass. 

“Sorry for unloading all of that onto you. I’m sure you’ve got your own things to deal with,” you released the sugar packet from your grasp. As your hand flicked forward to toss the packet away, John reached an open palm towards yours. The squeeze of his warm hand halted your anxious ramblings, especially as he began to massage the inside of your wrist with his thumb. The movement was almost imperceptible, and yet, your brain was moments away from bluescreening. A serious look crossed John’s eyes as he leaned into the table. 

“We all have shit to deal with. Doesn’t mean you can’t air it out. It’s not like I’m gonna go find Ruth just to tell her about your one-sided beef,” his snarky demeanor returned. Despite the sarcasm in his tone, he squeezed your hand once more to ensure that you were really hearing him. John lowered his voice, almost hesitant to be revealing the extent of his care. 

“I know Bucky and Sam aren’t buddy-buddy right now, but if you need a break, you can crash on the couch in the tower. I’m sure Alexei won’t mind the company,” John rolled his eyes, as if deflecting from the blatant offer of a place to stay when you need it. 

You mumbled a small thank you, afraid that speaking too loud would disturb whatever fragile ground the two of you had created.

“It’s nothing, I mean I’m sure you guys have had plenty of sleepovers with all of earth’s mightiest heroes,” John tried to ease the mood with comical disgust in his voice. You gave him a fragile smile. In truth, your small team of three still hadn’t had a single visitor. Not since Bucky. Walker didn’t need to know that. 

Still, you wouldn’t hesitate to offer him a place to crash, either. 

“Thanks, Walker. That actually means a lot. You’re welcome to stop by any time, too, even if I have to smuggle you in,” you chose your words carefully. You wanted to let him know that you cared, but he didn’t need to know how much you cared. 

“It’s John. You can call me John.” 

On the inside, you were going apeshit. On the outside, you gave him a rough smile. 

“If Valentina isn’t blowing up your phone yet, then let’s go for a walk, John. I’m craving a bagel.”

  ───☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆───

Your stroll with John Walker had been surprisingly pleasant. 

You were moving on autopilot throughout the journey back to the compound. Punching your passcode into the entrance lock, you nudged the front door open with your foot while peeling off your jacket. Swapping your bag of takeout pastries with your keys, you realized you don’t even remember parking the team Jeep. Up on cloud nine, your mind was a film reel of your morning spent with John Walker. The feeling of your wrist engulfed in his steady hand replayed in slow motion like a touchdown highlight. 

“You got bagels with captain crashout??” Joaquín cried from his surveillance nook, his tone nothing short of aghast.

“I did, but how the hell did you know?” You called out, kicking your shoes off before heading to the common couch. Rounding the corner, you caught Joaquín perched at his desk. Enlarged on his center monitor was a window tracking a ping to your location.

“Real subtle, Torres” you glared.

“I had to make sure your rendezvous with Walker went smoothly. I couldn’t have him maiming you with the shield on live stream or anything. But it looks like you took your sweet time at that diner, didn’t you?” Joaquín raised a suspicious eyebrow. Before he could connect too many dots, you revealed the bag of extra bagels. Rolling open the paper bag, you used a napkin to fish out a pastry for Joaquín.

“I’m surprised, actually. We had a pretty good time. He took the documents for Valentina to look at, but he said they should get cleared within the week. He’s a solid guy once he’s relaxed,” you chatted as Joaquín lit up at the sight of the snack. 

In truth, he was more than a solid guy, you just had to learn how to see it. When you both stood up to leave the diner, he’d reached an arm over you to pull open the exit door. He’d done the same for each entrance you’d encountered after that. The morning you spent together taught you to never argue with him about who would pay for food, as he literally shoved you away from the counter before handing the cashier a bill. You learned he preferred strawberry creamcheese, but that his go-to breakfast would always be waffles because it’s what his mother used to make. When you told him about your own childhood snacks, he’d tilted his head closer to hear you better. The corner store bakery had gotten crowded by the time you were ready to go, so John (valiantly) shoulder checked every person who got uncomfortably close. The ways he showed gentleness and care were different than you were used to, but they made themselves known once you learned him. 

You reached into the bag for another napkin to hand to Joaquín, except the one you pulled already had a stain on it. You took a closer look. Not a stain. It was hand writing.

In blue ink, the napkin read:

“Thanks for the chat. Let’s get breakfast again. We can take a walk after, too. Or whatever. - John”

Before Joaquin could catch a glimpse of the precious note, you gingerly began to fold it back up. Something tucked within the napkin crinkled as you disturbed it. The item slipped out of the paper with the new angle, but you caught it in your palm before it could fall to the floor. 

It was your sugar packet. John had saved it from the diner, and sent it back with his phone number scrawled on it.

Maybe you were grateful the penny landed on tails.

───☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆───

a/n: nobody loves john more than his biggest haters.

[paging-dr-werewolf]

Until the Wheels Come Off (John Walker / F!Reader / Bob Reynolds)

Summary: After an experimental weapon detonates on a mission, you are put into a very awkward, very steamy situation with your crushes. AKA The Sex Pollen One

(I tried to incorporate enthusiastic consent as much as possible in this but obviously the scenario does involve some dubious circumstances, so please keep that in mind.)

A/N: THANK YOU SO MUCH for 100 followers. Here is my gift to you all for the love you've shown my stories. I adore reading your comments and getting your requests. <3

Rating: 18+ MDNI

WC: 9.2k (complete)

CW: Smut just smut, porn with a soupcon of plot, three-way but the men don't get that touchy with each other, angst, tension, romance (yes, really), sex pollen trope, fuck or you die trope, reader is afab, reader is a thunderbolt/new avenger, reader is younger than john, reader is into both john and bob, reader swears, light dom/sub vibes, john is down bad, bob is down bad, john is bossy, bob is a freak, sentry makes an appearance, dirty talk, use of pet names (baby, girl), light hair pulling, pinv, oral sex (f receiving, m receiving), fingering, teasing, adult language, unprotected sex, creampie, cum play.

Suggested Listening: Goosebumps by Astrality

It was light work, that’s what you told yourself, light work because missions tended to wrap up quick when you were paired with two super soldiers, one of which was technically or not technically a god. You weren’t sure. It didn’t matter. The last scumbag trafficker had beat feet away from you, but that was fine; John’s shield sang as it flew by you on the right, slamming into the guy from behind and sending him sprawling to the ground. You ducked as the shield recoiled, steel whistling over your head as it ricocheted back to John.

“Time’s up, asshole,” you growled, grabbing the guy by the hood of his sweatshirt as he scampered upright and tried to resume the chase. Wasn’t going to happen. You were exhausted, and there was actually a pretty decently appointed safehouse on the other side of this mission, plus takeout from the pasta place you had already eyefucked when you first arrived. So no, this idiot was not going to prolong an already tiresome day.

You slammed your foot into his calf, making him stutter-step, stopping him long enough for the Sentry to arrive, a blurred ribbon of gold before he pulled up short, ripping the target off the ground. He threw him back down onto the concrete like he was an empty sack. The body rag-dolled, then rolled a few feet away, but he was alive. Alive enough.

John pelted up to you, not even winded. The Sentry floated gently down to hover between you and John, dusting off his hands.

“Thanks for joining us,” John muttered. There was something about them being together on a mission and Bob in the suit; the second he put it on, the old, scabbed wounds burst. Neither of them could resist school yard jabs, but John was usually the more aggressive offender.

“You had it handled,” Bob said mildly. His eyes, faintly gold, lingered on you, on where your chest pumped against your suit. Before it could become a tell, he met your gaze again. You never knew what to call him anymore—he was generally such a sweetheart, but something in him shifted when the suit went on. He stood taller. His responses were clear, fast, sometimes glib. “I did a sweep. Looks like we’re clear.”

“Smooth as silk, gentlemen,” you said, kneeling to check the guy for weapons. There was a suspicious keycard in one pocket, which you took, thanks much, before tossing his pistol somewhere he couldn’t reach.

“I just think you could contribute a bit more when we’re in the shit,” John was saying, launching in. “He was getting away. You can fly, for fuck’s sake.”

“Are you saying she’s slow?” Bob asked, and judging by his tone, with total knowledge that it would give John an aneurism. Either you were imagining things, or the vibe was particularly tense when it was just the three of you on missions. Like they were competing. Like every word of their charged exchanges was a fist beating on a chest.

“I’m not…no. Jesus, Bob, I would never say that.” John started pacing. He dodged closer to you, dipping down to make sure you heard the next bit clearly: “I would never say that.”

“It’s the Sentry,” Bob said, calm. You smiled down at your work; he never corrected you when you slipped up like that.

“It’s eat my fucking dick,” John snarled, arms crossed as he finished pacing, placing you directly in the crossfire between them.

“Down, boys,” you said. Your hands moved firmly over one pocket of the man’s cargo pants. Something bulged inside. They went on bickering. You dipped into the pocket, withdrawing a cylinder that looked like a cologne or spray. Before you could examine it further, the man lurched upward, hand closing over yours, forcing your fingers down around the latch mechanism. “Shit,” you managed to whisper. “Get back—”

The cylinder broke, the amber liquid inside exploding into gas as the dispersal apparatus fired.

Bob’s hands closed around your waist, yanking you away from the mushrooming cloud that erupted. John staggered out of that same cloud as Bob set you down gently a few yards away. Without hesitation, Bob went to collect John, too, carrying him back to where you waited. There was no point pretending you hadn’t inhaled the mystery gas; you could taste it in the back of your throat.

“What the hell was that?” John asked, wet coughing into his fist.

Bob frowned, backing away from the cloud as it thinned and spread, the color fading as it diluted. “Smelled like…turpentine,” he said.

“And cotton candy,” you added.

John stopped coughing long enough to turn pale and then slightly green. “Shit.”

“What?” you asked, following as he strode down the walkway between the old, moldering construction machines, double timing toward the arched doors leading out of the warehouse. “Do you know what that was?”

“We need to get back to the safehouse,” he said. “Now.” Then softer: “God, I hope I’m wrong.”

Minute by minute, John knew that the agent you had all inhaled was exactly what he feared it was. The smell, the symptoms, the method of deployment, it all added up. He was just trying to decide how to deliver the news to two colleagues that they were in for a very intense, very awkward night.

You and Bob went ahead into the safehouse, John lingering outside to grab a few more cold breaths of wintry air before barricading himself inside. His poker face was failing him, because you looked panicked as you swished the curtains aside on the front window and peered out at him. Just the sight of your face and how his body reacted was further evidence that his theory was right. He turned around, paranoid that you would see how tight his pants were becoming.

This is not how I wanted to do this.

For God’s sake, he had pictured a leisurely date, maybe a place with a dress code, flirting with you over a few drinks, a meandering stroll back to the tower with plenty of stops to make out like teenagers in the shadowy alcoves between buildings. Not this. Never this. You were going to turn into animals, all three of you; losing all inhibition with you was one thing, but now Bob was part of it. Fuck. His collar was choking him. The unnatural heat clawing its way across his chest was damn near unbearable. He scratched open the toggles on his uniform, pulling until he could expose his neck to the cool air.

There was no point prolonging the inevitable. It was still possible, he thought, to get through this without detonating a bomb in your personal and professional lives. Maybe you could tie each other up, separate yourselves in different rooms of the house, figure out some kind of quarantine system. This wasn’t defcon, not yet. John strode in through the front door, closed it, and spun to engage every bolt and lock. He went window to window, making sure the curtains were tightly closed.

It was a quaint two-story cottage, nondescript, white plaster walls and black roof, a working fireplace, the first story dominated by a cozy sitting room with two sofas and a coffee table, and an adjoining kitchen with a farmhouse dining table. Nestled in the French countryside, it didn’t exactly scream orgiastic sex frenzy.

John told himself it wasn’t going there. It couldn’t go there.

“Guys,” Bob murmured, decidedly more Bob than Sentry as he smoothed his hands down the front of his suit, fingers spreading across his stomach. “I don’t feel right.”

“I know,” John said, massaging his temples. He threw you a helpless look, maybe a preemptive, silent plea for understanding. You hovered in the no man’s land between living room and kitchen. Nobody seemed willing to sit down.

“I feel…I feel like I need to barf or jerk off,” Bob continued, squeezing his eyes shut, swaying. “Maybe both.”

That didn’t draw a snarky response from John, which made you instantly suspicious. John never missed an opportunity to get a lick in. You rounded on him, marching over and poking him in the chest. There was already a glaze over your eyes, like you were halfway to wasted, but you were holding on, pushing through it. “John. What the hell is happening to us?”

“Rapid breathing, heart palpitations, fever, sweats, sweats and then chills, sensitivity to light and touch, did I miss anything?” John asked, listing out the symptoms. As he named them out, he watched you get more and more withdrawn.

“Feels like my dick is growing another dick,” Bob muttered.

“And that. Yeah. Whatever that is,” John said with a loose gesture. “Does anyone read the mission briefs? The addendums in the back? You know, we print those out for a reason.”

Bob said nothing, still holding his stomach like he might puke on himself at any second. You shook your head, blinking too fast, like you were having trouble following a simple question. That tracked. You had taken a full blast in the face of the stuff, and he had no idea if the serum would slow things down or speed things up. Either way, you stumbled forward suddenly, grabbing his arm to stay upright.

John held you by the waist, but loosely, aware that any touch at any time could make things descend into chaos. “Jesus, you two. It’s experimental chemical warfare. It depresses your central nervous system, inhibits memory formation, rapid GABA deployment, prioritizes blood to erogenous zones—”

“Erogenous zones?” Bob covered his mouth, laughing.

“Yeah. What? Is that not the right term?”

“No, it is, I just didn’t realize you were a grandma.”

John’s mouth fell open in exasperation. He considered how much torque would be required to tear off a god’s head. Probably more than he could generate just with his bare hands. “Okay, wise ass, try this instead: it’s fuck dust.”

That shut him up.

Your grip tightened on John’s arm. You stared up at him, dazed. “Meaning what?”

John’s tone softened as he addressed you, his heart pounding in his ears as his attention snagged on your beautiful mouth, the way your pulse fluttered in your neck, how lickable you had become all covered in sweat… He shook his head, fighting the urge to press you against his body. “Meaning we’re about to experience a real HR nightmare, that’s what. If the lab tests I’ve read are accurate, then the…the need for stimulation is going to become painful. It will feel life or death.”

The silence was almost comical. John usually yearned for a minute of peace with the two of you around, but now he was desperate for someone to fill the void with a genius solution.

“For how long?” Bob asked, frowning, brow furrowed. He was clawing at his suit like it was full of fire ants, tugging at the collar.

“Hard to say.” John wiped his hand down his face; it was getting tougher to form a clear thought. You smelled so fucking good, fresh meat to a starving man. “Depends on length of exposure, metabolic rate…” He trailed off, begging his last available brain cells to have mercy, cooperate. It felt like a veil was closing over his vision and all he could see was you. “If we’re lucky, twelve hours. If we’re not lucky—”

“Twelve hours?” Bob shouted, startling you. “I can’t do this for twelve more minutes.” Before either of you could tell him to calm down, Bob detached his cape, tore away his gauntlets, then flipped the latch on the back of his rubbery black neck guard, yanking it off and tossing it across the room. The lights overhead flickered ominously. He wrestled with the zipper on the back of his suit until it gave, and with a grunt, he pulled his suit down, letting it hang loose over his belt.

John felt you twitch in his grasp.

“Holy shit, Bob,” you murmured, glassy-eyed and gawking. You pointed first at his well-developed pecs, then his washboard abs. Even John could admit the definition was insane. “That was hiding under there this entire time?”

He absorbed your appreciation with a little toss of his hair, then flicked his gaze from your face to Johns. “Why?” he asked, voice rough with desire, full of the arrogance that the serum tended to bring out in him. “Like what you see?”

“Oh shit,” John groaned. Knowing it was fruitless to try and stop you as you tugged out of his grip and drifted toward Bob. “It’s starting.” He watched you cuddle up to Bob’s side, the other man’s hands immediately tangling in the zipper on the back of your suit, tugging it down. You didn’t notice or didn’t fight him on it.

“Whoa. Hey wait, okay? Are we not going to even try and figure out a way to fight this?” John asked, tearing his gaze away from the sight of you running your fingers up Bob’s ripped stomach. He paced back toward the door, hands in his hair, but each idea that sprang to mind was dumber than the last. “We could…we could find rope. Rope. Yes. Tie each other up. Do we have rope?”

Bob was listening but not looking. His attention was fixed entirely on you, his fingers catching on the open back of your suit, pulling until you wiggled and your arms came free. “Rope,” he murmured, laughing, eyes gold and hot as he leaned in to brush his lips across yours. “Do you think a rope will hold me?” He touched your chin with his thumb, the sheen of sweat across his bare chest so strong it looked like he had been dipped in oil. “I’d chew through it to get to you.”

You shivered, arching against him as he gave one more firm tug and stripped you to the waist. Like him, your skin-tight suit caught on your belt, but John wasn’t thinking about that, he was thinking about the big hand closing over your breast, squeezing it, testing the weight.

“I’d burn it to get to you,” Bob added, the fabric of your bra shimmering before it was incinerated off your body, there and then nothing, a whisper of ash scattering to the ground.

John knew he had to do something, but it was like every thought was on a five second delay. He had become a bystander. Incidental. A flurry of crucial memories passed in front of his eyes just then—you and Bob playing scrabble in the common room long into the night, bickering over whether or not bongwater was a playable word; Barnes taking Bob aside after one of his first missions back to lecture about not shattering anyone’s spine, which had been Bob’s enraged reaction after a goon got a clean punch on you; Bob hearting absolutely everything you said in the group chat, even things like okay; Bob bringing you back tiny mementos from his missions abroad…

John crossed the room in three immense strides, hooking his arm around your waist and spinning you until you squeaked and teetered against him, hands propped on his chest.

“Stop. Everyone stop. Slow down.” Maybe it was because he was the oldest, maybe it was because he was a father, whatever it was, he felt like it was his responsibility to protect both you and Bob. John wiped the sweat out of his eyes, holding up a hand toward the other man, who straightened up and grimaced like John had coldcocked him in the training room. “Don’t square up to me, Bobby. If we’re not going to sequester ourselves or…or…”

“Go ahead, man, sequester yourself,” Bob suggested lightly.

John was trying to be patient and fair, he really was, and this time out was as much for him as it was for Bob. But you were the one he worried about. It didn’t matter what the dust was whispering, you could get hurt, emotionally and physically, if they weren’t careful. You were trapped in a house with two of the most dangerous men on the planet, super soldiers who were about to lose all common sense.

John was trying to be patient, but Bob’s annoying little suggestion punctured his resolve. He wrapped you up in both of his arms, holding you tight to his chest as he leaned toward Bob over your shoulder. “If you have something to prove, that’s fine. I’m not letting her get hurt tonight.”

“I would never hurt her,” Bob whispered. He seemed to come back to himself all at once, noticing his own suit draped around his waist, then yours.

“I know we don’t always get along, Reynolds, but we set that shit aside here and now. She’s priority one tonight.” John said, using a tone of command he reserved for dire situations. The use of Bob’s last name seemed to reach him in a different way, like they were brothers in arms, maybe not friends but on the same side.

“Everything runs through you,” John continued, shifting you to stand at arm’s length. He winced. “Bad…bad choice of words, sorry. You get final say. On everything. We—” He glared across your shoulder at Bob. “—can’t let this spin out of control. We’re still a team.”

“Okay,” you said, softly, down toward John’s chest. You glanced up, nodding. “Okay. I say no and it all stops?”

Bob’s expression softened. He touched the back of your head, the gold fading from his eyes as he swallowed visibly. How the fuck would John make a god stop doing anything, he wondered, realizing their only hope was that Bob’s affection for you was strong enough to keep him in check. The Sentry with no inhibition, with the brakes off, scared the shit out of him.

You closed your eyes sleepily at Bob’s touch, then nuzzled forward into John’s neck, lips moving across his throat as you reached for the zipper on his chest. “And what if I don’t want to stop?”

Then we go until the wheels come off.

Bob had done a lot of crazy shit in his life, but this was right up there. He had never ingested an evil, experimental biological agent but there were times when he probably would have, if it meant a single night of numbed out bliss. But he was a different man now, in recovery, working on things, and Walker’s words of warning broke through the dark, thick haze that had hemmed him in on every side. Things could get seriously messed up if the three of you weren’t careful—he had seen significantly less complicated dynamics fracture just after a night of heavy drinking, and this was…this was…

“Can we at least do this in a bedroom?” John was asking, his huge hands wrapped around your wrists, stopping you from undressing him just feet from the front door of the safehouse.

Bob snapped back into himself, or as much as he could, the heavy, honeyed feeling sliding through his body making every non-sex related thought a chore. There were two bedrooms upstairs; the night before, you and Bob had each taken one and John used the hide-a-bed in the living room couch.

This was the first test. Bob could see John getting impatient for your answer, but he needed that answer. His chest was rising and falling like an overworked bellows, his throat bobbing around a cumbersome swallow as you looked at him and then Bob.

You nodded, unsteady on your feet.

“Words,” John grunted out.

“Take me upstairs.”

That was the gun firing at the starting line. John swept you into his arms, bridal carrying you out of the living room and to the narrow stairs, his boots thundering through the house. Bob stumbled after the two of you, noticing a weird, pink halo at the edge of his vision, a technicolor fog. His legs only cooperated when he began picturing what was waiting in that bedroom. Naked skin. Willing fingers. He groaned, shivering, pawing at the oversized S of his belt, unhooking it and letting it fall wherever. The hand railing creaked as he pushed his weight down onto it, pulling himself to the second level like it was a triumph of the spirit.

Time wasn’t making sense. He had no idea how long it took him to go from living room to bedroom, but it felt like hours, every minute without touch driving him a little crazier, making that fog creeping in denser, harder to push back. He paused at the top of the stairs, the sweat on his hands making the removal of his suit almost impossible. He had been on some serious drugs but this was something new. Just the feeling of his own hands sliding down his legs, peeling the suit away, pulling off his boots, made him want to fall to his knees and cry out.

He left behind a pile of clothing on the landing, ping-ponging against the hallway walls as he tried to remember the layout of the extremely tiny, manageable house. The dust wasn’t just settling in now it was taking hold, taking him by the throat and shaking. He slammed against the open doorway to the bedroom, hands curled into claws as he panted like an animal and watched the last of your super suit hit the floor.

“Jesus Christ,” Bob whispered, wiping the wet hair off his forehead and the sweat out of his eyes.

“Still with us, Bobby?” John asked. To his credit, he sounded genuinely concerned. His suit was gone, too, the towering V of his torso rising behind you as he held you lightly by the waist. The room was dark. That wasn’t good for Bob. He squeezed his eyes shut until two different lamps flickered on, bathing you both in wholesome, golden light. But what those lights illuminated was anything but wholesome—you, perfect and naked, head falling back against John’s shoulder as you reached for Bob, silently imploring him to join.

The amount of floor between the door and the bedside felt insurmountable. It was only the guarantee of skin to skin contact that got him there. Fuck, you were beautiful, held in the light, held by John, his scarred hands moving up your ribs to cup your breasts and pinch your nipples, pulling them toward Bob like you were an offering, an offering to a god.

That’s you, dingdong.

Bob raked his eyes up and down your body, taking in every delicious inch. He had pictured this many, many times, though admittedly never with John’s hands on your boobs. He hated it less than he expected. That was probably the dust talking, but the contrast between Walker’s huge, chiseled body and your softer curves made Bob’s head spin like a top. He dragged himself across the room, watching John’s calloused fingers tease your nipples into stiff, swollen peaks.

“This for me?” Bob asked, hands smoothing across your waist, head dipping to pull one of those buds between his lips. His tongue rolled out along with a groan; John hissed through his teeth at the contact, but he didn’t move his hand completely out of the way.

“Yes, for you,” you whispered, arching, fingers tangling in Bob’s hair, pressing him harder against your chest. He latched on, telling himself you had twelve whole hours of this to go, stuffing down the urge to disintegrate his own underwear and fuck you on the spot. No, he needed you to last.

John’s hands let go, scraping down your sides to your hips, one moved lower; Bob was only too willing to replace John’s hands with his own, squeezing and massaging you until your fingernails scraped across his scalp in response. He heard a soft, mouthwatering, wet sound as John started playing with your slit, dipping one finger inside, making it even clearer he had given up any pretense of trying to fight the dust.

Caught between them, your skin roared with heat, feverish to the touch.

“How does she taste?” John asked in a rasp.

“So sweet,” Bob murmured, eyes fluttering shut as he switched one from nipple to the other.

“Yeah?” John vented a wry laugh. “Bet I know something sweeter…”

His big hand slid into Bob’s hair alongside yours, jerking Bob’s head back and off of your tit until he released it with a reluctant moan. His disappointment didn’t last long; John slipped his fingers out of your body, offering a taste to Bob. If John was going to be a little bossy, Bob could put up with it if it was going to be like this.

“Words,” John prompted gruffly.

“Oh, hell yes,” Bob whispered, opening his mouth. Your eyes were wide and glistening, your lips parted in pleasurable wonder as John Walker painted your slick across Bob’s waiting tongue.

You watched Bob suck the shine off of John’s finger with a full body shudder. Holy shit. You had worried briefly about John’s ability to play nice and share, but whatever setting had clicked on in his head was exactly the right speed. Everything was moving forward, but not too fast, and even with the crazy-making dust screaming through your system, it quieted the panic in your chest to have John in control. The heat was building, but for now it was a controlled burn. You had no idea how he was managing, just gratitude that he was.

Bob slid down in front of you, knees thumping against the hard wood, hands clamping around your thighs as he pushed his chin between your legs. John met him there, fingers spreading, parting your folds, the combined pressure and presence of Bob’s mouth and John’s hand making you sizzle and buck.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, grabbing harder onto Bob’s hair. “No. No, no, no, too much, I can’t—”

“Actual no or good no?” John asked.

“Good no, so good.”

His breath warmed across your neck; those breaths came faster as you worked your hips against Bob’s face and back against the thick, heavy erection rubbing against your ass.

“Then you can,” John growled, biting the shell of your ear, tugging it. He laughed softly as you whined and twisted. “And you will.”

John held you open, Bob went to work, eating you like he was born to do it. You felt the atmosphere charge around the three of you—before it had been foreplay, but now the room filled with the wet sound of Bob dragging his face against you and you sighing at a higher pitch; his tongue speared up into you; there was no going back. Even if you wanted them to stop, you weren’t convinced you could dredge up the words.

Every part of you was too sensitive. It usually took much longer to get where you wanted to go, but now just the lightest graze of his nose across your clit pinched the world into a single, narrow slice. You could see the open door and Bob’s trail of clothing out in the hall, and if you glanced down, a pair of liquid fire eyes gazing up at you, half-lidded and dust-addled. He was watching you intently, keen on every new sound and every twist of your hips.

“Keep going,” you heard John mumble. His left hand slid from your hip, disappearing to tangle in his shorts, push them down, free the hard column of heat he had been pushing against your ass. You felt the thick, weeping tip dodge lower, nudging against your entrance. “I’m going to fuck you now, baby,” he whispered, gasping, probably to keep from tackling you to the ground in a blind heat. “And Bobby’s going to make you cum, isn’t he? He’s going to suck your little clit until you scream.”

Bob logged no complaints at that, hands gripping your thighs tighter as he licked a broad stripe up your slit to refocus on just your aching clit. He held you there while you shook, grabbing Bob’s head with one hand, the other reaching back to hook around John’s neck. He bent low to get the angle right, rearranging his hold on you until you could lean onto his forearm.

“You have to tell us,” John said, words a jumble as he pulsed against your entrance, his cock twitching in anticipation, jumpy, needy. “Have to say it.”

It was the dust. Had to be. You would never do this otherwise, never let one of your crushes eat you out while the other fucked you from behind. “Please, yes, please,” you whined, so wet you could feel yourself opening for John despite his brutish size. Maybe because of it. Fuck, he was gigantic, it was going to change everything, satisfy the burn, satisfy the dust, satisfy you. Then the pounding in your head would go away and the voice shrieking at you to screw everything in sight would be silenced.

“Please, please, god, fuck me, make me cum,” you moaned, half-swallowing the last word as John pressed forward, his teeth closing over your shoulder as he roared out the sound of a man in agony.

“She’s tight, Bobby, fuck, she’s tight,” John whispered, broken, hips stuttering as he worked you open. You could imagine the immense restraint required on his end to keep from ramming into you like a freight train because you were faced with the same brutal gambit—obey the insane demands of the dust and potentially hurt yourself or focus harder than you had ever focused in your life and wait.

John caught his breath, sweating against your shoulder, easing forward on another controlled thrust, claiming more ground. But even as you wanted to concentrate your entire being on the feeling of that glorious stretch, Bob wouldn’t let you forget he had been given orders. His thumb joined his mouth, circling your clit with firm strokes, tongue handling the more direct stimulation. Whoever had taught him to do that deserved a hundred million dollars.

Bob’s hungry little hum, the vibrations, undid what weak shame remained. You couldn’t hold on, and John was right—you couldn’t control what came out of your mouth. For a terrifying second you thought you were losing your vision entirely. The room bent inward, squeezing until you couldn’t breathe, and without air, without sight, there was warmth and pleasure, the shocks of stimulation and the pressure of John filling you up. You felt him slide deeper, hilting you, just as your orgasm shuddered from your navel to your throat.

The relief was incredible, but painfully short. You slammed back down to silence, both men watchful and still.

“Are…are you okay?” Bob asked, gazing up at you with wide, terrified eyes. “Did we kill her?”

“She’s breathing,” John said, his hand closed over your chest, over your heart.

“I…I…” You had gone completely boneless in John’s grasp, your toes dragging against the floor. You stirred upright with a shudder, clenching around John’s dick with a gasp. “Fuck, I’m good. So good. Don’t stop.”

With Bob sitting back on his haunches, chin slick and shiny, John took advantage, turning you to the right, toward the bed, hauling you onto it until you were on all fours. He did it so fast, so easily, you didn’t have time to overthink it or even react. John shoved his knees against the edge of the mattress behind you and fisted his hand in your hair, pulling just enough to send electricity across your scalp.

“God, you’re beautiful like this,” he rumbled, stealing your breath away with a dragging thrust in and out. “Can’t…can’t last, not when you look like this…”

The dust was hitting him as hard as it was hitting you. Your ass slapped against his thighs as he drove home once, twice, a sound of strangled surprise preempting what felt like a volcanic eruption, his fingers tightening in your hair as he burst against your depths. You didn’t expect it to feel like that, but then you’d never been fucked by someone juiced to the gills with serum. You cried out too, shocked by the sensation, he let go of your hair and your head dropped forward. It was so warm inside, so good; you squeezed around his half-limp dick, milking it, gifting yourself another little whined out orgasm.

John staggered back from the bed on heavy steps, shaking the house, leaving you sensitive and swollen but nowhere near satisfied. Your knees buckled; you rolled onto your side, eyes closing on heavy blinks as Bob gave John a good natured shove and climbed onto the bed beside you. He smiled at you, gentle, hand smoothing down your cheek, stroking away tears you hadn’t realized had slipped out.

“How’s my girl? Happy?” he asked, smile deepening at your frantic nod. You didn’t know how you could still want more, but Bob was so beautiful, shining with sweat, eyes deep and blue and sweet as he stroked his hand down your face to your shoulder, tracing the lines of your arm, transferring to your hip, over the curve of your ass before his fingers danced between your thighs. He rolled you onto your back carefully, shifting closer. At some point he had taken off his shorts. His dick was hard and throbbing, curved against his stomach, pulsing faintly with his heartbeat.

You heard John sink onto a chair somewhere behind Bob with a fwoomp and a groan. Bob didn’t notice, his eyes following your line of sight. He looked down at himself, fisted his cock, gave a few lazy pumps while you watched. He read the hunger in your gaze, fingers pushing between your thighs and dipping into your cunt, fingering you with the same unhurried pace of his jerking off. 

“Is this okay?” he asked, shivering as he stroked himself faster, still watching you closely.

“Mmhm.”

“Words,” John grunted from across the room.

“Don’t stop touching me there,” you told them both, opening your thighs to give him better access. “I want it. I want you.”

Bob nodded, licking his lips, trying to gather his next thought into something coherent. “John got you all messy,” he said, fingers sliding deeper, fucking John’s cum back into you. “Are you our messy girl tonight?”

You closed your eyes, circling your hips and humping against his hand. “Yes.”

“You’re going to get a lot messier,” Bob murmured, but he sounded pleased about it. Excited. Curious. “Want to taste me? I’m kinda messy, too.”

His cheeks darkened, deep pink as he showed you how much precum was bubbling out of his tip. You whimpered, pulling yourself closer to him by his knee, flopping up partially onto his lap, resting your head on his thigh. Bob didn’t pull his fingers out of you, just shifted you around so he had a better vantage. With his free hand, he drove his thumb into your mouth, opening it, then urged his cock toward your widened lips, feeding himself to you.

Just the smell of him made your body flutter, made it feel like you could cum again. His salt musk taste pooled on your tongue while you licked him like a sweet. He groaned, abs clenched, stomach tensing while he let you take him in at your own pace. And your pace was eager but fascinated, tongue mapping the ridges and veins, the delicious length. You craned up suddenly, licking a smeared wet spot off of his stomach.

Bob laughed at that, cupping your cheek, just holding you, not pressuring you to go back to what you were doing. He knew you would; the crazed heat that burned in him still flamed high in your chest, in your abdomen. He inhaled through his teeth as you closed your lips around his tip, gliding over him, hollowing your cheeks and sucking experimentally, tongue rolling back and forth, teasing him.

“Shit,” he whispered, caving in slightly, shoulders slumping forward as he fought something off. “This is…I could fire off right now…shit.”

John huffed out a knowing laugh.

“Not yet, not yet,” Bob cautioned, shaking as he gently pried your jaw open, easing out of your mouth with a sigh. He pulled his fingers out of your puss and almost wiped his hand on the coverlet, then thought better of it and offered his hand to you. His eyes gleamed as you wrapped your lips around his fore and middle fingers and cleaned off your own arousal and what John had left behind.

“God, fuck yes,” he murmured, pulling his lip between his teeth. “Taste good?”

“Mmhm.”

“Want more?” he asked, scraping his fingers along your lower teeth as he shifted to reposition you on the bed, draping you across the mattress the short way, ass toward him and the wall, head dangling toward the rest of the room.

“Yes,” you said, knowing John would bark at you if you didn’t vocalize the answer. “More. I’m not…I can’t…”

“I know,” Bob said, voice full of sympathy. “It’s eating you alive.”

You whimpered, nodded, heat rocketing down toward your core as Bob settled on his knees between your legs, teasing his cock head up and down your sex. His gaze flicked from your heaving tits to the chair across the room, where John was seated beneath the glow of a golden and green stained-glass lamp.

“Look at that,” Bob whispered. “You’ve got Walker all worked up again.”

Upside down, you took in the harrowing vision of John Walker fisting his dick from base to tip, using a bruising grip as if punishing himself for liking what was happening on the bed. His face was red, his hair slick with sweat, eyes blue flames as he nodded and groaned with you as Bob dipped lower and fucked into you.

His path was smoother than John’s, your body so relaxed and ready for him, lubricated with your seemingly endless hunger and John’s cream. That didn’t lessen the pleasure, in fact, you couldn’t keep your eyes open or your mouth shut as Bob took his time on each devastating pump, fists pushed into the mattress on either side of your waist. What he lacked in sheer girth he made up for in length. And you felt it, scratching your fingernails across the blankets, meeting his thrusts with desperate shakes of your hips.

“More. Please more. Fuck me,” you urged him, a stranger to your own voice. Something deep inside you still longed to be dealt with, fed. If anything, your grip on sense and reality was only loosening. You didn’t know if this was the apex of the drug; you trembled to consider there was worse to withstand and what you would do to survive it.

“You heard her.” John’s voice was closer now, much closer. He had crossed the distance from the chair to the bed. Even before you opened your eyes, you knew he was close—you could smell yourself on him, and the heady scent of your mingled sex clinging to his skin. When you did open your eyes, you were greeted with the underside of John’s hard dick. His head tilted to the side in playful inquiry as he took up one of your hands and brushed your knuckles across the heated flesh.

“More,” you said, both to him and to Bob. Your hand closed around him, John’s fist still closed tightly around the base as he fucked against your palm.

“Give it to her, Bobby,” he said through clenched teeth. “She wants it. Give her—fuck—give her whatever she wants.”

“More, yeah, sounds good,” Bob repeated, prompting himself. He leaned down, taking your legs and bending them back until your knees almost touched your tits. You cried out, struggling to catch your breath as he opened you up and found that much more of you to pound. “How’s that? Is that the spot?” he asked, eager, giving you a taste of the angle. Your eyes rolled back, hand numb around John’s dick as Bob lowered his weight onto your thighs; your hamstrings burned as he leaned down to kiss you, folding you into the mating press.

“I’m gonna die,” you whispered, laughing.

“Relax, baby, he’s going to make you feel good,” John said, smoothing the hair back from your face. Something about his encouragement made you shiver and loosen, another wave of honeyed pleasure rolling up from where your body met Bob’s. John gazed down at you so lovingly, eyes watery as if he had never been this proud of anyone in his life. “He’s gonna fill you up again, is that what you want? Is that what you need?” John’s pale eyes flickered as he glanced down your sweaty torso to Bob. “It’s what he needs. It’s what we both need, to fill you up until you can’t take anymore, until you tell us to stop.”

“Don’t stop, John,” you said, so fast it made them both chuckle.

“No, baby, nobody’s stopping,” John assured you. Bob started dragging himself in and out, groaning like he was in pain. “Bob’s not going to last very long in that tight pussy.”

“N-No,” Bob muttered, shaking the wet strands of his hair as he almost collapsed on his next thrust. He kept going somehow, brushing an absent kiss across your lips, eyes screwed shut as he picked up speed. “Shit, John, she’s soaking.”

As if to prove him right, his next thrust came with a filthy squelch. You arched, your own slick and John’s dripping down between your cheeks, pooling on the bed.

“Jesus Christ, did you hear that?” John worked himself against your hand faster, moving his fist up to tighten around your fingers and make a combined sleeve for him to fuck. You could feel him swelling, getting close…

“Wet, tight, fuck,” Bob whimpered, lost, somewhere else entirely as he rocked into you. He dropped his hips lower, angling his dick to scrape a spot you could feel in your teeth.       

“Oh god, Bob, oh god, oh god—” You blurted out words to the rhythm of his thrusts, sawed back and forth by the snap in his hips. John ran his thumb along the seam of your lips.

“Can you open up for me, baby? Wanna cum, wanna cum right now…”

You groaned, doing as he asked, drunk and dazed and fucked as Bob seized up, still for an instant before pounding into you on three quick strokes. Thick, salted heat poured down your throat from John as Bob finished, his face pressed against your throat as it worked to swallow John’s release. You felt Bob’s as the head rush ebbed, as you sputtered and coughed, John holding your head up and steady while Bob’s dick jerked against your depths. It was too much heat. It was just the right amount. It was on you and inside you and incinerating you from the inside out.

The come down nearly plunged you into a blackout. You couldn’t remember how all three of you wound up in the bed together, one bedraggled sheet slung over your bodies, Bob curled around your back, spooning you, the furred wall of John’s chest against your cheek. You could feel Bob’s erection pulsing against your lower back, his fingers toying idly with your nipples, his lips worrying along the ridge of your shoulder.

“Just relax, that’s it,” John was saying. You didn’t know what had come before that. Had you fallen asleep? It could be midnight or dawn, you had no idea. The burn in your chest was a simmer, but not completely gone. John reached down, feeling between your legs; you shivered, rubbing your face back and forth against his chest. “Are you done?” he asked, almost shy.

You tossed your head.

“Are you sure?”

“Come on, man, don't be an asshole, just give it to her,” Bob said, half impatient, half annoyed. “She likes it, she’s our messy girl. Aren’t you?” His tone changed, light and loving when he nuzzled into your neck, rutting slowly against your back. “If he won’t help you I will. I can go again. I can go again right now—”

John’s hand closed over the back of your head possessively, his long fingers still exploring you, as if searching for some physical sign it was time to call it quits.

“She gets to decide,” John said, firm. “Not you.”

You wiggled closer to John, hooking your thigh around his, inviting him in.

It just felt good when he slid into you, his erection as hard as the first time, far more controlled now, easy, like you were two lovers alone, tangled up in bed before going to sleep. He kissed you deeply, holding on like you could slip away. Time warped around you again, you remembered that kiss, not tipped with drugged fire but romantic, full of longing. And Bob’s steady heat against your back, his kisses along your shoulder tickling as his evening stubble scratched your skin. John held your waist while you ground against his pubic bone, shuddering and blissful and full.

When you opened your eyes again, John was holding your back to his chest, the steel bands of his arms anchored around your waist. Bob was crawling down the mattress, kissing his way down your body, detouring to suck and bite your nipples for so long John grumbled something at him.

“It’s all coming out, can’t have that,” Bob was saying, three fingers pushing into you like it was nothing. “Gotta keep us inside, can you do that?”

You wanted it, you supposed, anything to keep the pleasure coasting through your body. Anything to satisfy the demon, even if it was getting quieter, going to sleep. You came back to yourself minutes later, Bob fucking you against John’s chest. It felt like you were going to break, but it was too much in all the right ways. Every thrust sent you closer to yourself. Your arms fell back, looped loosely around John’s neck.

“One more time,” John murmured, nose against your temple as Bob shuddered and bucked. “Let us take you there one more time, baby. Have you ever been fucked like this? Have you ever felt this good?”

You shook your head, whispering nonsense.

You remembered a light clicking on, brighter. Someone carrying you. The cold bite of tiles on your bare feet. Soap that smelled like rosewater. Two hard bodies holding you up in the shower, gentle hands touching you everywhere, washing, caring. The towel was like a cloud. The bed was different, smaller, but you didn’t ask about it or complain.

Morning crackled behind your eyes like a seam of sunlight on the horizon.

You breathed into consciousness with a gasp, warm as bread in a toaster. You groaned; it felt like you had gone ten rounds with a grizzly bear. There was a persistent, intense ache between your legs. Someone had put your panties back on, but you could tell the crotch was wet. Fear lanced through you like a cold spike as you realized this wasn’t your bedroom back in the Watchtower.

What was the last thing you remembered? John and Bob fighting, bickering on the job. A white house with a black roof. France. Right. You tried to move, finding it very difficult indeed with two bodies pressed tight against you on either side.

What. The. Fuck.

Your bleary eyes traveled up a column of skin dusted with freckles, landing on a russet beard and the calm, angelic face of John Walker fast asleep. His arm was slung across your waist. It felt like a barbell pressing you into the mattress. Judging by the way your nipples were pillowed against wiry hair, he wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing.

“No, I’ll do it tomorrow,” someone slurred behind you.

Bob.

You carefully turned your head like a turret on a wheel, catching sight of Bob’s golden brown hair mussed against your shoulder. His nose was buried between your shoulder blades, his arm nestled just under John’s. They were naked. They were naked and they were touching.

The hyperventilating had just begun when John’s eyes blinked open.

“Whoa. Whoa. Look at me. Breathe.” He lifted his hand from your waist, cupping your jaw firmly until you did as he instructed. Worry tugged his brow down as he inspected you. “Do you remember last night?”

“N-No. John. John. What the fuck is going on?” you asked, trying not to scream. This was insane. A disaster. You were in bed with both of your crushes, with absolutely no memory of how things had progressed this far.

“When we were in the warehouse, when you chased down that guy, do you remember the cannister in his pocket?” John asked.

The specificity of the question lowered your panic. “I…Yes. Yeah. Something exploded. There was gas everywhere, it smelled like shit.”

“It was a chemical agent,” he explained, slow and clear. His thumb stroked gently across your cheekbone. “We all inhaled it. There’s really no professional or easy way to say this, but it made us all want to…” He closed his mouth, opened it, closed it, tried again. “We had a lot of sex. A lot.”

Memories started to percolate. Bob mumbled in his sleep, restless and shifting against you. His morning wood poked against your back. You closed your eyes and told yourself to breathe exactly sixteen times before saying anything else.

You remembered Bob’s suit piled in the hallway. The tremor in the usually unflappable John Walker’s hands as he helped you undress. Your own voice begging for more, more, more.

“Oh my fucking God,” you whispered.

“Yeah. Yep.”

“John, this is a catastrophe,” you added. Your eyes filled with tears as you forced yours to meet his. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t…I don’t know…”

“Sh-hh, hey, don’t apologize,” he said, voice just as careful and low. What was with him? Why did he care or not whether Bob Reynolds of all people had his peace disturbed? Bob was drooling down your back in his sleep. You were going to puke.

“No, you don’t get it,” you hurried on, scalding tears blistering down your cheeks. John hurried to wipe them away. “I…like both of you. Fuck. Like is such a stupid word. I mean I respect both of you, too, although I’m sure that’s fucked now…”

John suppressed a rumbled laugh. “Nothing is fucked.”

You stared at him. “How? You must think I’m some crazed slut…” You got up the courage to slip your hand down between your legs. The evidence was actually confounding. How was that possible? “Jesus Christ, John, how much sex did we have exactly?”

“A lot,” he said, cryptic, clearing his throat. His blue eyes searched every inch of your face. “Do…do you want the details? You’re owed them, obviously, I just--”

“How do you remember it all? My memory is gone…”

“The serum, I would guess,” he said. “Which, uh, means Bobby over there will also probably remember.”

“Oh my God.” You couldn’t breathe. You actually couldn’t breathe. “Yes. Details. Now. Tell me.”

John sighed, gathering himself. “You and me, um…” He turned a shade of red you weren’t sure until that moment was biologically plausible. “Four times, although once was—fuck, okay this is harder than I thought—”

“Once was what.”

“Once was in your mouth,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut.

“You and I had sex three times?” Your heart sank for reasons that were perhaps more embarrassing than the effects of the sex gas. Now you would never remember your first time with him. Them. More tears slipped down your face. John, as ever, was ready to catch them. “I don’t remember. I don’t…I can’t…”

“Hey, hey, hey.” John surged against you, pressing his forehead to yours. “Breathe. You have to breathe. You have to breathe and you have to believe me when I say that this doesn’t change anything between us, I’m still—” He caught himself, biting off the end of that confession.

“You’re still what?” you asked, hands curling against his chest.

“I’m still crazy about you,” he said. “Crazier, maybe.”

“Yeah, last night certainly sounds like it was fucking crazy.”

John laughed, and you thumped your fist on his chest. “I’m not going to speak for Bob, but I bet he’s going to say the same thing.” His eyes fluttered over your shoulder to where Bob was still peacefully drooling on your back. “We’re both crazy about you. I thought I was going to tear him in half when he touched you, but…I don’t know. I don’t know anything yet, I just know I’m not going to forget the way you said my name. And if you tell me to fuck off and die, I will, but I’m…here. Here and not going anywhere.”

It didn’t fix everything, but at least you could breathe again.

“Are there pancakes?” Bob asked in his sleep, flopping away from you and into the wall so hard he hit his head with a wheezed: “Ow.”

John looked at the ceiling for help, sighing. “Guess you can ask him yourself. Good morning, Bob,” he said, exasperated.

“Whoa. Hey. Morning?” Bob rolled back toward you both, his face appearing next to yours as he propped it on your right shoulder. “Is this, uh, the debrief? Does she—”

“She doesn’t remember much,” John said, and you were grateful for the assist. “I was just telling her how much we are not judging her for what occurred here.”

Bob snorted, ruffling your hair, his strong hands smoothing down your side to curve over your hip. “You were incredible.”

You raised your eyebrows at John, who raised his right back.

“Say: I told you so,” you muttered. “I dare you.”

“How’s our messy girl this morning? Sore? Tired? Fuck, you’re so beautiful…” Bob kissed your neck, hand sliding down your hip to your stomach, lower, playing in the absolute filth they had left inside you the night before. Judging by how otherwise pleasant you all smelled, they had tried to clean you up and done a very half-assed job of it. “God, you’re wet again, or is that us? Both, maybe? Shit, my dick has been poking you all morning, hasn’t it?”

“Bobby.” John’s voice sliced through the horny stream of conscious monologue Bob had decided to unleash first thing in the morning. “She’s still…figuring this out. Give her a break for God’s sake.”

“S-Sorry.” Bob’s hand stilled, his jaw tense against your neck.

But the fucked up part was, you didn’t want him to stop. Your mind raced, your traitorous fucking nipples hardening against John’s chest, your stomach unwinding, pooling toward the sensation of Bob’s hand cupping your sex.

“No, it’s okay,” you stammered out, licking your lips nervously.

John studied you, brows still at his hairline. “Baby—”

“Baby?” You snort-laughed, sizing him up. “Is that what you like calling me?”

His next blink was drowsy, his lips parting. “Next best thing after mine.”

“Ours,” Bob suggested, hand flexing around your pussy. When you twitched your thighs apart, his fingers slid right in. He groaned. “You’re ours.”

John leaned down to kiss your forehead, hands closing over yours where they rested on his chest. Bob went to work, John held you tight. “Everything runs through you,” he whispered. “Just say the word and it all stops.”

Your voice was your own voice as you arched against him, against Bob’s sweet touch, murmuring, “Don’t stop.”

-> Masterlist

[bluenoisexoxo]

Bro this is BEAUTIFUL

[paging-dr-werewolf]

Me when someone sees the vision 🩷😭🫶🏻

[bluenoisexoxo]

No cause why was I literally crying??? I felt this in my SOUL and I stg I've been thinking about their relationship all day

I'm not even usually that much of a Bob lover but oml I think this turned me into one

[rawme-price]

You grimace the second laswell hands you the assignment, about ready to up and leave.

"No. Absolutely not."

"It's a must, just two months, that's all we need." Laswell states. She doesn't leave room for argument, only allowing you to a moment to look back at the outline. She nods to price sat next to you with an identical folder "You and captain price will be working undercover. You've both led successful undercover missions in the past."

"Yeah, separately!!" You hiss, then remember yourself at the unamused raise of laswells brow. Calmer, to add "I'm young enough to be his kid, no way anyone believes we're married."

Price coughs into his fist, adjusts his seating with a chuckle "quite the contrary, sergeant. Men my age tend to have a certain...preference."

"Sir. That's...whatever." you groan, you didn't need to know that about your captain. Another skim at the file, and tapping your boots against wooden floor and mentally debating the consequences of refusal because "Seriously? A house? One bedroom? This is undercover not play pretend."

"You're expected to invite some figures of interest over," laswell slides over another file, price opening it to pull out fake ids and passports "you need to play the part convincingly."

The thought of sharing a bed with your captain...of pretending to be all domestic with him. You want to hate it, and you want to hate that thrill up your spine even more.

"C'mon love, just for a few weeks," price grins, all teasing in the way the he gets when he's lauding his experience over yours "think you can behave yourself that long?"

"....fine." you relent, knowing damn well refusal is never an option anyways.

For the nonny who wanted some price age gap!! :3 I really like this concept I think itd be a nice longfic heheehehe