✦summary: dean kisses you while he's drunk, and then the world keeps spinning. all you want to do is figure out if he remembers, if he meant it, and if he feels what you do in return. but he's not making it easy, until he does.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective dean, older dean, pining, dean being a stupid, lovable dork, some plot to get to the smut (dry humping, dean's dirty talk, car sex, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, fingering, begging, handjobs, nipple play, pussy slapping, fingering, mating press sex, creampie, big dick dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, light dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 11k✦
✦author's note: every week i overtake myself for 'horniest thing i've ever made'. enjoy!✦
You don’t know what happened. You’re too afraid to ask.
You don’t want to live in a world where it gets taken back.
Dean isn’t acting like anything happened. He’s not draping himself around you or acting like you’re not there at all. There’s no slobbering man at your feet, acting like the ground you walk on turns to gold, but you’re also not curled up on the curb because Dean won’t look at you, and you can’t stand to be in room where he acts like you’re gum under his shoe.
You’ve always understood that as how this would go. How your little infatuation would end.
Either a miracle would hit like lightning, and Dean would return your feelings. Or he’d reject you, and never look you in the eyes again.
The data was leaning in favor of the former. Which is why you’ve been so very careful not to reveal your feelings under any circumstances. Witches have gaped about your sheer willpower. Sam’s made passing comments about never seeing someone who could fight demonic possession so well. Everyone around you seems to think you’re some kind of mind Titan, able to simply focus and drive off any monster or force that tries to take you over.
They don’t know that there’s always on common factor. One thing that they try to force you to reveal, that makes you pry your mind back from their bare hands.
When you got possessed by a demon, Sam and Dean had you tied to a chair. You’d still been able to see through your own eyes. Still been able to think, even if the demon had been using your internal monologue as a broadcast public radio, sharing every thought you had the mistake of thinking.
“Aw.” She’d used your mouth, you voice, and it had sounded twisted in your brain. “She’s worried about you two. Isn’t that adorable.”
Sam had frowned, shooting Dean a weary look. “Is there something we need to be worried about? Or-“ He’d said your name gently. “If you’re worried we can’t take this demon, we can.”
“She batting out of her league.” Dean had muttered, glaring down at the knife in his hands. “We’ve tangoed with the bosses and come out on top, sweetheart. No one needs to be worried but the bitch inside you.”
Whatever parts of your heart were still yours—most of it, as the demon had been able to sink her claws into everything but the organ that only played one, embarrassingly loud song—had fluttered at his words. He hadn’t been looking at you since they realized you were possessed. Sam had been doing all the talking, asking questions and trying to figure out what the demon wanted, how long she’d been in your brain. Dean had just sat on the edge of the mattress, fists curled on his knees, jaw clenched so tight you were worried about his teeth. If you were in control of yourself you would’ve told him to stop doing that. It made his headaches worse, and you bought him gum specifically so he could chew on something when he got pissed.
He would’ve smile to himself, shaking his head, and given you the look that always made your knees wobble. The one that had a silent affection behind it, that came with his hand grazing your lower back and teasing about how bossy you were.
You’d think I was dying, way you talk about my health.
I’m trying to avoid you dying, Dean-
Why? Happens to everyone eventually, and I’m further down the line than I thought I’d be-
You’re not a dinosaur. Stop talking like I’m putting you in a home, I just told you to drink some water.
If I drink some water, are you gonna stop circling me like a freakin’ shark?
I am not circling you like a shark-
Yeah, you are. You wanna take a bite outta me, sweetheart, I can see it.
You’d always blink at him, your heart in your ears and your jaw slack. He’d grin, drink his water slowly and dramatically, then boop the bottle on your nose and walk away. When you’d tell him to do something later, he’d roll his eyes and give you that look again.
That was how they figured out you were possessed. The demon had asked Dean to grab the artifact you’d been investigating, and when he’d whined that he wanted to go get pie, she’d smiled and said that was fine, as long as Dean told her where the artifact was first.
You would’ve told Dean that he could have his pie after he grabbed the artifact. You would’ve stood in front of him with your arms crossed and glared until he got up with a groan and let you drag him exactly where you needed him to be. That’s what you and Dean did. He pretended to be annoyed by it, but you wouldn’t ask anything of him unless you really needed it. You got him the pie after, and he teased you about being wound up and needing to breathe for a second. He’d feed you some of his pie like you were a baby, and you’d pretend to bite his fingers off.
But the demon had just bent for him. Dean had stared at her. And you’d know he’d seen it. Right through you, and to the ugly thing inside your body.
Ugly in a different way that you were. The demon was just cruel, but you were selfish.
Dean had told you not to go out alone, but you loved him and he’d been sitting so close. The love inside you had been threatening to pour out of you like a flood, and you’d needed to be anywhere but near him. The demon had found you while you were at the convenience store, buying Dean jerky. You’d been too slow, and now you were a burden to him and Sam again. Dean had been forced to knock you out to tie up the demon, and Sam had to burn you with holy water. You could feel it, the burn and blistering of you skin. You’d never tell them that, because the guilt would eat them alive.
You’d never tell Dean. He was already angry with you for going out as it was. You’re already more trouble than you’re worth, most of the time. Your worry hadn’t been for you.
It’s for him. That this was going to be too much for him to deal with, having to hurt another person he cared about.
The demon had plucked that thought from your head, and curved your lips into a smirk.
“Oh, she’s not worried about herself, Deanie.” It had drawled. “I know you see her as a woman of steel, but our lovely girl is just so sweet on the insides here. It’s like swimming through marshmallows. She’s just so perfectly worried about how this is going to effect you. It’s all she can think about, the pathetic little slut.”
Dean’s eyes had narrowed. “Don’t fuckin’ talk about her like that-“
“I’ll talk about her however I want.” The demon had purred. “She’s my meat toy. But if you want to share with me, Winchester, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind both of us inside of her. She-“
The demon had cut herself off. Dean had shot to his feet, looking ready to throw a punch. Sam had blocked him with an arm, and your body had started to convulse. The demon sputtering and choking on nothing as Dean shouted your name. Sam had let him get to you when it became clear this wasn’t the demon making a play, but you hadn’t needed the help.
She’d made her mistake already. You’d been able to feel her next words, building on your own tongue. She’d been sneering in your brain about how Dean would hate you after she revealed the truth, and you’d grabbed her by the throat.
You’d pushed her out of your body, no exorcism required. Sam and Dean had stared at you in awe for about a month after. Sam had even pulled you aside and lowly asked how you did it. You’d told him you had no idea.
It would’ve been insane, to say well, Samuel. It was the power of my love for your brother. Don’t tell him, or I’ll fucking kill you.
You would’ve been serious about that threat, too. You never wanted Dean to know. If Sam had ever found out and told him, there would’ve been a double murder suicide.
Which is why you don’t know what to do now.
Because Dean kissed you, and the world didn’t end.
Paradise didn’t come. Hell didn’t split through the Earth, and you didn’t have to go into hiding in Romania—your backup plan if Dean had ever found out and it wasn’t Sam’s fault.
The Earth had just kept spinning. Dean had gotten up the next morning and acted like nothing happened at all. Grumbling about his hangover and running a hand through his mussed hair. The same hand that had held the back of your neck last night, certain and possessive in his grip. Dean licked his lips, and you’d mirrored the motion, only able to think of that same tongue pressing into your mouth. ‘
He’d kissed you like he knew what he wanted. He’d tasted like whiskey and had a glazed expression—as if he was looking at the world through glass—but he’d kissed you. He’d lifted you off the ground with the force of it. He’d looked at you with blown out eyes, and been half-hard in his jeans, and begged you to come back to his room, and-
“You alright?” Dean asks, and you blink at him.
“Me?”
“Yeah, you.” His lips twitch. “You look like you spent the night getting run over by a truck.”
You frown, and Dean pauses.
“In a good way.”
“I look like I got run over by a truck in a good way?”
“Uh- Yeah?” He smiles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I’m not sayin’ you look bad. You’re just all spacey and tired, and-“
He waves a hand at you sheepishly, and normally you’d keep pushing him for how exactly you could be run over by a truck in a good way.
But today, you can only look at his dumb, handsome face and think about how his stubble brushed over your skin. How your noses bumped, how he’d help you to his chest like you were a doll and he was a worried child that needed you.
“I didn’t sleep well last night.” You mutter, and Dean chuckles.
“Me neither.”
“You got drunk.” You say, flat and low. “You passed out.”
“Yeah, but I had some dreams, and-“ He cuts himself off, eyes widening and grip on his mug slipping. He catches it with a curse, and looks at you like he’s seeing a ghost.
You raise your brow, not letting any emotion onto your face. Dean clears his throat, eyes dropping for the briefest second to your lips.
“Hey, uh-“ He runs a hand through his hair, shifting nervously on his feet. “If I did anything stupid while I was wasted, you’d tell me. Right?”
And maybe you should tell him. But he looks so worried, and you know, deep down.
He doesn’t really remember.
“Yeah.” You breathe, offering him a tiny smile. “I would.”
Dean’s silent. He studies you for a second, then shakes his head with a laugh. “Good. ‘Cause I get some, uh- Some crazy dreams.”
You pretend to laugh, but it echoes in the hollow of your chest until you feel sick. You have to excuse yourself to take a shower. To help you wake up, is what you tell Dean.
Really, you just sit on the floor and cry, letting your tears wash down the drain with the water. He doesn’t remember. He kissed you, and he’s chalking it up to a crazy dream.
You have to get over him. It’s a punch in your gut, knocking wind and snot out of you, but it’s what you needed. Dean’s never going to see you like that. He’s older, he’s a hero, he could have anyone he wanted and he’s not going to chose the bossy girl who watches cartoons with him and makes him do bar trivia with her, because he’s better than he thinks he is. He’ll find someone cooler and older. Someone who likes cars as much as he does, who can actually help him with the Impala instead of just sitting on the bench in the garage and bothering him. Someone who can cook as well as he does, and doesn’t make him try all the crazy soda flavors she sees.
Someone just as resolved and perfect as he is.
Not you.
You pick yourself up, and try to set a goal. Get over Dean.
The asshole doesn’t make it easy.
He makes it impossible.
“I’m gonna work on Baby this afternoon.” He says, and you hum. You’re curled up on the couch with your laptop, and he’s been leaning over your shoulder for the past hour, watching whatever you put on the screen. You don’t understand why. He’s got his own TV right in front of him, and he has to put his arm around your shoulders to comfortably be so close.
His fingers keep brushing the bare skin of your collarbone. His warmth is wrapped around you like a blanket, and it’s all impossible to deal with.
“I bought those snacks you like.” He adds, and you hum.
“Okay.”
“They’re gonna be with me. In the garage.”
“I’ll come get them later.”
Dean’s face twitches. You look over to find him staring at you, nostrils flaring and nose slightly wrinkled.
“Put it in the freezer.” You manage to whisper, and he shakes his head.
“Too far. Gotta focus on work.”
“I’m going to distract you from work-“
“That’s different.” He shrugs, and suddenly you’re being pulled to your feet.
“Dean-“
“C’mon.” He moves you in front of him, and all but herds you out of the Dean Cave. “I’ll even let you pick the music, alright?”
You can’t argue with him. He’s too cute, and always has a command over your body you’ve never been able to fight off. He doesn’t even know that if he asked you to walk over hot coals, you’d do it to reach his side. If he wanted to get away you’d drop everything and go with him. If he needed you to bring him the moon, you’d learn to grow taller enough to grab it in your hands, and shred yourself back down to stay at his side.
There’s no way you can get over him while being his friend. Being his friend alone is a trial that’s slowly wearing you down. Enough that soon, you think, you’ll just be crawling on your hands to lay at his feet. It’s all you’re going to be able to muster. All you’re going to want to do.
You need to get away from him.
You can’t get away from him. Because if he asks you to do something with him—which he always does—there’s no way you’re going to be able to say no.
Which leaves one solution.
Avoid Dean.
Avoid him like he’s the plague.
You wake up in the morning, and touch your lips. Touch them like you can push the feeling of his kiss further into them. Like it’s a sugar that you could gather on your fingers and taste, a tattoo you’re trying to make sure is permanent. You do it every morning now, because it’s the last thing of Dean you’re allowing yourself to have.
If you’re careful, you don’t see him through the day. You’re up before he is, you find a corner of the bunker to hide in, you go out, you stay on the move like you’re prey and Dean’s on a hunt. When you see Sam, he gives you an odd look. If you’re sloppy, and end up in the same room as Dean, you flee before he can say something. If he says something you’re going to crash right back into him. He’s gravity. And you don’t have the strength to pull away twice.
But it’s not working.
You haven’t been alone with Dean for a week, and you just miss him. You feel like you’re trying to carve out a vital artery from your chest. It just hurts. It just makes your love spill all over you, now that there’s nowhere for it to go. You watch something on your computer and hug yourself, because your body seems to think it’s missing a limb without Dean wrapped around you. You sneak out in the middle of the night to get food, and end up just staring at the pie and jerky and beer until you’re sick. You’ve started to hole up in your room with ice cream as if you’re going through a breakup.
It’s pathetic. You look in the mirror and see a husk, with tear stained cheeks and sunken features. You’re wearing one of his fucking shirts, but your skin burns every time you think about taking it off. You’d think you were cursed, if you didn’t know this was just the feeling of love dying.
Not dying.
You’re not strong enough to kill it.
This is the feeling of love being tortured.
Because you’re stupid and tired, you look up how to get over a crush. The internet says to list out all his faults, and logically you know Dean has those, but you can’t remember any right now. His teasing always makes you flush and giggle, his stupid jokes make everything feel lighter, you know he gets angry because he cares. You even miss the loud, sloppy way he chews. You’d always been able to reach over the table and wipe sauce from his cheek, and he’d smile at you after, and you miss his smile. You’d do anything to see it right now.
You scroll to the next step. Think about it logically. If they’d even be a good match. You skip that one. Dean’s always been the one thing you don’t bother to think about logically. Something about him makes all the common sense in your head go down the drain. Which is the same issue the next step—ask yourself why you have a crush on them—fails as well. Of course you have a crush on Dean. You could list out every reason, but they’d all just circle back to he’s Dean. And everything that he is demands that you love him.
Force yourself to move on, is the final step. Go out with someone else. Even if they’re not your soulmate, it will help you realize there are plenty of other fish in the sea.
There are many other fish. The world is filled with men.
That’s part of the problem.
None of them are Dean Winchester.
But this is the most actionable step. The only one you can try to take, even if it doesn’t work. So you get cleaned up, put on a nice dress, and do your makeup a little bit like a slut. The goal of this is to get laid, through, and it’s not like anyone you know is going to see-
“Where the hell are you going?”
You freeze, squeezing your eyes shut. He’s up. Why the fuck is he up. “Nowhere?”
“You’re going nowhere.” Dean drawls. “At eleven. Dressed like… That.”
“Mhm.” You turn slowly, trying to offer a winning smile.
He doesn’t look amused.
You haven’t seen him in person in a month. He kind of looks… awful.
He’s still handsome. You don’t think he’s capable of being anything else but amazing and desirable. But his hair is longer than he usually lets it grow, and there are heavy bags under his eyes. His shoulders are hunched, there’s a stain on his flannel, and when he rubs his jaw you can see grease stains on his hands.
“Were you in the garage?” You blurt, and he grunts.
“Maybe.”
“But-“ His gaze is lidded, his features pale in a way that only happens when he’s awake for too long. “Have you slept?”
His brow furrows. “Napped.”
“For how long.”
“Long enough.”
“That’s not an answer-“
“Where are you going.” He raises his voice over yours, and you swallow.
“Out.”
“Out where.”
You look down at your heels, fidgeting with the folds of your dress. “To a bar.”
Dean doesn’t respond. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, but you think you might be leaning forward. This is exactly what you wanted to avoid. You haven’t even been able to build up a flimsy wall against your feelings, and now they’re all crashing through you like an asteroid, slamming through your world.
He’s right there, and if you took a step forward you’d be able to touch him. Wipe the grease off his hands, pull off the flannel and order him to change into something clean. He needs a haircut, but you kind of like it longer. You could run your fingers through it, like this. Soothe the spots where it’s sticking out, help him wash it if he’d let you.
But you don’t think he will.
Because when you look up under your lashes, he’s staring at you with a pained, exhausted expression that makes you want to cry.
“You goin’ to meet someone?” He finally says, and you shake your head.
“N- No.”
“We got drinks here-“
“I know.”
He grunts. “It’s not safe for you to be out by yourself.”
“I’m bringing pepper spray.” You mumble. “And my gun.”
Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you think he’s going to give up and walk away. Everything will be easier, if he just leaves for you. It will splatter your heart all over the floor, but at least you won’t have the weight of holding onto it anymore. At least it won’t churn like something rotten, when a stranger who isn’t Dean lays his hands all over you.
But Dean doesn’t leave.
He takes a step forward, and suddenly the air is so hot it’s hard to breathe.
“I’m goin’ with you.”
Your head shoots up, eyes wide. “Dean-“
“You said you’re not meetin’ anyone.” He challenges, glaring down at you. “I need a drink. You come with me, or you don’t go at all.”
A scoff slips from your lips. “And how the fuck would you stop me-“
“I’d toss you over my shoulder and carry you back to your room.”
Oh.
He says it so casually. His voice a deep rumble as he stares at you. An ache demands attention between your thighs, and your cheeks burn as you laugh nervously, looking to the side.
Dean doesn’t even crack a grin.
So there’s nothing you can do, but let him walk with you to the car. You try to get in the backseat, but Dean snaps his fingers and points at shotgun with a scowl.
“I’m not a fuckin’ taxi. You sit up here, or we walk.”
You flush, and silently slide into the front bench. Dean drops behind the wheel, his gaze fixed firmly ahead as he starts the engine. You forgot how dangerous being close to him is. He’d grabbed his coat on the way out, tossing his dirty flannel to the side. He smells like leather and pine tree, and even across the bench you can feel the heat radiating from his body. He rolls up his sleeves, and you want to nuzzle close to him and have him put you in a headlock. His hand runs over his inner thigh, and you press your own together.
You’re staring at him. You can’t help it.
Dean must feel it, because he shoots you a look from the corner of his eye. You look away, and hear him let out a heavy breath.
And the game begins. Dean pulls out of the garage, and you’re both perfectly silent, daring the other to break first. You stare out the window, stealing glances whenever you think you can get away with it. Sometimes Dean catches your eye, and you curl further into yourself, twisting away. Once, Dean opens his mouth. He closes it just as fast.
You’ve been driving for thirty minutes, when you realize he’s not taking you to a bar. You’ve passed three bars, and he didn’t even slow down to check them out. You grab all the thin courage you posses, rooted deep in your stomach and sticky with nerves, and drag it to the surface.
“Dean, where are we-“
“You’ve been ignoring me.” He says, blatant and flat. “Past month. Don’t think I haven’t fuckin’ noticed.”
You swallow, pulling your knees to your chest. “I- I don’t-“
“Didn’t even say why.” He mutters, tapping his fingers on the wheel. “Thought you were sick at first, but you’ve been talkin’ to Sammy.”
“It’s-“
“And you run outta every room I walk into. Like I got cooties or something.” He’s scowling at the road, and you feel like the smallest thing in the world. “Didn’t even bother to tell me why. Just… Fuckin’ vanished.”
There’s a lump in your throat, and unearned tears stinging at your eyes. He sounds broken, and it’s your fault. You and your stupid, useless love for him. “Dean, it’s not like that-“
“So what’s it like, huh?” His words are harsh. You flinch back. “You start acting like I’m the goddamn devil and I’m supposed to take your word that it’s just not like that? There ain’t anything for it to be like, sweetheart-“
“No, I- I just-“ You lean forward, then curl back. You’d wanted to grab him. You don’t think you’re allowed. “I just needed- I needed-“
“Space?” He spits the word like it’s poison. “Go on. Tell me you just needed space from me.”
“Dean-“
“The hell did I do to you?” He sneers. “I know I ain’t perfect, but I- I thought you- I was so fuckin’ careful, and you promised you’d tell me if I did something stupid.”
You frown, not fully understanding what he means. “Dean, you- You didn’t do anything-“
“Don’t bullshit me!” He shouts, and you don’t think you can breathe anymore. “You promised me, you said you’d tell me, and the goddamn least you coulda done was tell me what the fuck I did-“
“Please- Please stop yelling.” You whisper, not even sure if he’s going to hear you.
But he does.
Dean cuts himself off with that clench of his jaw, and pulls over to the side of the road. You hug yourself tight, trying to shrink back into the seats. This is your fault. He’s angry because of you, and you stupidity. You’re barely a schoolgirl with a crush, and you let it hurt him, and there’s no possible world where he’d ever want you now.
You hide your face in your knees. Tears burn on your cheeks, and when you try to take a deep breath, it’s ragged and aching.
Dean’s silent. The whole car is silent. He’d turned off the radio, and the only sound hanging in the air is your sniffling. You think about climbing out of the car, but he’d just chase after you. It’s started to rain, and you don’t want him to catch a cold.
You wrap your coat tighter around you. Your dress feels too tight on your skin. Feels wrong. You think you’re going to be sick. When you risk a look at Dean, he’s still holding the wheel with white knuckles. Staring at you with a pained expression, eyes even heavier than before.
He leans forward like he’s going to reach for you. Your breath hitches. He pulls back.
For a second, you just watch each other. You wipe your cheeks with your palm, and it feels like a raw, open wound.
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it, and looks back to the road like he’s searching for something.
“I’m- I didn’t mean to yell.” He mutters, voice hoarse. “I just- I’m sorry.”
You nod—you didn’t blame him in the first place—but when he looks to you for a response, you can’t find one. Everything is lodged in your throat, behind a quiet confession you’ve worked far too hard to shove down.
“I’ll fix it.” Dean rasps, and you blink.
“What?”
“Whatever I did.” He’s staring at you, his voice cracking. “Whatever pissed you off or- Or hurt you. I’ll work on it, alright? You don’t have to do anything, I’ll fix me, and then you can stay.”
“I- I can stay?”
He nods, squeezing his eyes shut. As if the words hurt to stay. “If you can’t, I get it. I do. But you gotta give me a chance to set it right, before you give up. Just one chance, and if I screw it up a second time you can run off, but- One shot, it’s all I need. Don’t- Don’t leave.” His voice cracks, eyes shining in the dark. “Please.”
You stare at him, mouth hanging open. He looks broken. Lone tears stain his cheeks, and he’s not even wiping them away. When you shake your head—just trying to make sense of what he said—he cowers away like a kicked dog, and you split down the middle.
“I wasn’t going to leave, Dean.” Horror leaks through your voice. You couldn’t leave him if you tried. “I’d never leave you.”
He laughs dryly. “Yeah, like I didn’t just fuckin’ catch you-“
“I was going to the bar.”
“Without telling anyone?”
“No, because I knew you’d try to do this!” You wave around you, and Dean’s throat bobs. “No, I didn’t mean-“
“You didn’t wanna see me.” He mutters, looking back to the wheel. “’S alright. I get it.”
He doesn’t. He really doesn’t. And you can see him trying to drag himself back together, still refusing to wipe his tears and breathing through his nose. He’s just sitting there, hollow and angry, and he doesn’t understand.
“You kissed me.”
You say it without thinking, soft and weak. Dean goes rigid. He looks at you with bloodless, horrified features. You wrap your hand around your own throat, trying to hold yourself in one piece.
He shakes his head. You’re going to throw up.
“No, I- I’d remember that-“
“You were drunk.” You breathe. “I- I picked you up from the bar. And you kissed me.”
Dean looks like someone punched him in the face. He’s pallid, looking around the car like there’s a way out, fisting and unfisting his hands.
“That’s- That’s why you’ve been avoiding me.” He rasps, and you nod, fixing your gaze on his chest.
If you have to watch his face while he rejects you, there’s a chance you’ll just die.
Dean says your name, slow and broken, and you bite the inside of your cheek. Bracing for the knife about to be driven into your chest.
“I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”
That makes you look up. And it’s not rejection you find in Dean’s eyes.
It’s guilt.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you, and- Being drunk’s no damn excuse.”
“Dean-“
“If you want nothing to do with me, I- I understand.” He’s too lost in himself to hear you. “Hell, I’ll move out so you can stick with Sammy. You won’t have to deal with me anymore, you’re- It’s not your fault-“
“Dean-“
“I shouldn’t have forced you on that, my own- My own shit is mine to deal with, and you never gave me any kinda go and I damn well knew it- I’m so fuckin’ sorry-“
“Dean!” You shout, and he falls silent. Squeezes his jaw shut, gaze mournful and completely shattered.
You’re not entirety sure what’s happening. You say the only thing you can think.
“Stop grinding your teeth.”
Dean blinks, but his jaw loosens. He mutters your name, and you shake your head. You don’t think you can stand another apology.
“I- I’m not mad about you kissing me.” You whisper, and he snorts, empty and humorless.
“It’s not your job to make me feel better about hurting you, sweetheart-“
“You didn’t hurt me.” You snap, and Dean stills completely.
He opens his mouth, but you’re faster. Flushing furiously and too tired to fight the words.
“I- I liked it.” You whisper. “A lot.”
Dean sits a little taller, words low and cautious. “You didn’t tell me in the morning. Why wouldn’t you tell me, if-“
“You were drunk. I- I thought-“ You take a deep breath, face burning with shame. “I thought you didn’t mean it.”
“Ah.” He’s silent for a moment. “But- Why the hell would you avoid me-“
“I kissed you back.”
“Did you mean it?”
His question feels like the barrel of a gun, loaded and pressed to your temple. You nod weakly. Dean lets out a sharp breath, drumming his fingers on the wheel.
“You thought I didn’t mean it.” He finally echoes, and you nod again. “So you just-“
“That hurt.” Tears are falling again. Everything blurring except for Dean. “That’s the part that hurt, Dean, I just- I had to try and move on. And the internet said that’s how you do it.”
“The internet?”
“Yeah.” You mumble, and Dean huffs a low laugh.
“Sweetheart, why the hell would you check the internet for advice-“
“None of my ideas were working.” You hiss. “And I- I didn’t like avoiding you, it felt really bad-“
“You didn’t have to avoid me, you coulda just told me-“
“And you would’ve what, confessed your love and kissed me again-“
“Yeah!” He shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “I would’ve, if you’d just fuckin’ told me!”
Your heart stops, for a full second. You don’t think you heard him right. “What?” You whisper, and Dean sighs.
“I meant it, okay?” He mutters, looking up to the sky. As if he was praying. “Everything I do with you, I mean it.”
“And- And the love-“
“I mean that too.” He gives you a sad, tired smile. “I know I shouldn’t. God knows I tried not to, you’re- You’re young and you got a future and I’m just me-“
“I love you.” You blurt, and Dean’s jaw falls. “I love you just like… you. And-“ You bow your head shyly. He won’t stop staring. “If you- If you feel something too-“
Dean moves before you can think.
One second you’re rambling, trying to figure out how to say it. The next his lips are pressed against yours, kissing you like he’ll die if he doesn’t. Like you’ll die.
You grab his wrist when he cups your face, he turns you to deepen the kiss, and you’re both moving like you’re trying to breathe the other in. Your nails dig into his skin and he grunts, the sound vibrating against you. You roll onto your knees, moving over him without breaking the kiss, and he grabs you by the waist. Tight enough to bruise. To leave a mark.
It’s just a kiss. A hungry, hot kiss that’s making your head spin. It’s better than anyone else touching you. Better than being fucked, just because it’s Dean.
He picks you up, pulling you into his lap forcing you to straddle. You grab his shoulders for balance, letting out a sharp breath, and Dean chuckles. Sucks your lower lip with a tiny smirk, rubbing your hips as your finger brush the back of his neck. You let out a shuddering breath, sinking fully against his chest. One of his massive hands drags up your spine, callouses and teasing fingers dancing over bare skin and you arch, chasing the fuzzy, addictive sensation of Dean’s hands.
Your core presses against his bulge. He’s hard, twitching inside his jeans. You roll your hips once, unable to stop yourself, and Dean hisses against your lips.
“Careful.”
You don’t want to be careful. You want to be ruined. You grind down again, kissing him while you move, and he groans.
“Hey- Woah-“ He wraps his arm fully around your waist and pins you down. Forcing the outline of his cock against the thin panties you’d worn to go out.
There’s not a single regret in your head. You can feel him better like this. The thick curve, almost pushed between your pussy lips. Your underwear is bunched up, offering extra pressure, but Dean is holding you down so hard there’s not even space to wiggle. You almost whine, pouting at him under wet, fluttering lashes.
He just stares up at you like a man who’s lived underground his whole life, finally seeing the stars. You drag your nails down his chest, trying to spur him into action, but he just keeps staring. He even laughs under his breath, like something’s fucking funny.
You scowl, but don’t even get to provoke him before he’s rising back up.
Dean brushes hair from your face, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. A confusing, sharp contrast to how his erection is angled right against your heat. Your body doesn’t seem to know what to do with it, and just settles for going limp with overwhelmed, happily dizzy confusion. Dean chuckles again. If your body could listen to any whims but his right now, you’d punch him in the face.
“Stop laughing.” You manage to grumble, but that just makes him laugh again. “Dean-“
“Sorry.” He grins against your lips, rubbing your hips in soothing circles. “You’re just- You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re unbelievable-“
“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen.” He mutters, dragging his hand up your side. As if he’s marveling in just the shape of you. “Never thought I’d get to have you like this, and- Look at you.” He draws back, whistling with a smug smirk. “They should let people touch the art, baby. You get even prettier.”
There’s nothing coherent you have to respond to that. Your brain is mostly a confusing garble of Dean and touch and more.
He kisses just under your jaw, and you gasp. Your eyes flutter as your head lolls to the side, and Dean chuckles.
“You-“ You bite back a moan as he sucks on a pulse point. “You’re pretty too.”
“Hm.” He nips at the sensitive skin, before flicking his tongue against the hurt. “Pretty, huh.”
You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck until he’s almost in a headlock. Dean doesn’t seem to mind, moving onto another, somehow more sensitive spot. You try to move against his clothed dick, your pussy starting to throb, but he’s holding you too tight. Dean hums against your skin, and you moan, right in his ear. It makes his cock jump, and you almost cry from the fleeting offer of friction.
“Come- Come on-“ You whine, wiggling uselessly in his arms. “You’re being an asshole- Dean-“
He pushes his lips back over yours, right as he grabs a handful of your ass and squeezes. It loosens his grip, letting your hips freely move against him, but you’re so pent up from making out that you can’t even work out what you want to do. You’re grabbing at his shirt and kissing him with spit and teeth, and he’s barely giving you anything in return.
“Dean- Just-“ You claw at his shirt. “Off, get it off-“
“That’s not a very polite way to ask, sweetheart-“
“Fuck you.” You breathe out, moaning when you get the thickest part of him to drag over your clit. “Take your shirt off, Dean, now-“
A strong hand wraps around your throat, pulling you back down into a mind numbing kiss. You’re still fucking down onto his crotch, but their angle offers less pressure. You might’ve burst into tears, if it wasn’t for the magnitude of Dean’s attention. His hands all over your body, one fisted in your hair while the other started to map every inch of you he can reach.
“De- Dean-“
“Not polite.” He mutters, kissing you between every word. “Not patient. What am I gonna do with you?”
Your heart stumbles, still a little bit bare from the fight and confused from the gentle way he’s suddenly touching you. No more grabbing or marking. Just soft, possessive but careful fingers, tracing your curves like he’s trying to memorize every inch.
“Can I tell you what I’ve wanted to do?” He rasps in your ear. “Since I first fuckin’ saw you?”
“Yes.” You breath, trying to just feel him. His strength all around you, his voice rolling through your chest.
Dean’s words are deep and rough in your ear, and you cling to every one like gospel.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since before you even said your name. Wanted to fuck you when you stood in front of me and threatened to shoot if I didn’t back off and leave you be. Decided I’d marry you when you called me a chicken butt ‘cause I told you to stay behind me. Then I thought I was insane, told myself I just needed to get laid. But I got laid. And you wanna know the only thing I could think about, the whole damn time?”
You nod, and Dean pulls back, dropping his brow tight against yours.
“You.” He rasps. “Closed my eyes and saw you under me. Got kicked outta bed for calling your name, felt sick after ‘cause some stupid thing in my head kept telling me I’d betrayed you. Then Sammy came and told me you’d be coming with us, and I knew I was a goner. If it wasn’t such a selfish freakin’ masochist I would’ve told him that I didn’t want you around.”
Your lip wobbles. “You didn’t want me-“
“I wanted you so much.” He grabs the back of your neck, the words a low growl. “Drove me out of my damn mind, how much I wanted you. Thought I’d need to be put down, like one of those dogs that humps every damn thing it sees.”
“You- You never-“
“What? Thought you’d be into something like me?” He laughs, and you frown.
You plant your hands, flat on his chest, and push up a little taller. Demanding he listen to every word you say.
“I’m into you.” You snap, and Dean’s sarcastic smile falters, slipping back into that awe. “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”
“No.” He answers without thought. “You’re perfect.”
Dean kisses you, slow and deliberate. Everything is suddenly controlled and delicate, like he’s weaving together a song.
You think you’re supposed to be the instrument. You don’t realize, though, until he’s already playing you as if you’re a toy.
Dean’s mouth trails down, leaving wet, open kisses over your neck and collarbone. The beard scrapes and tickles against you. You decide you like it. He’s not allowed to shave later.
You shiver, moving your hands to rest on his stomach. His abdomen flexes under your fingers, and you start to grind back down onto his crotch. When you press further forward, you can get that perfect friction from before. The one you needed so bad you almost screamed. Dean nips at your throat and you pick up your pace.
He grunts, and lifts you up like you weigh nothing. You squirm like animal, even as he handles you well. You’re moved backwards, your knees still knocked apart as Dean’s spreads his own legs. He pushes you back until your elbows are resting on the horn, and heat prickles over your skin when you realize the position he’s put you in.
Your barely clothed pussy, wet and on full display to Dean’s lust-blown expression. He traces over your inner thigh, teasing and teasing until you’re almost thrusting up to meet him.
“Remember what I said about patience?” He drawls, eyes sparkling on yours.
You just pant, making to grab his wrist and move it where you want. But he’s too strong, and you don’t even get a budge.
“I- I’ve been patient-“
“Nah. Not enough. But,” he lifts up your skirt, exposing you further. “Look at her. Just begging for some attention.”
Dean presses a single knuckle against your pussy, running it up until it hits your clit, and your elbow slips. Baby’s horn startles you, making you almost scramble back over Dean, and he just laughs. Kisses you sweetly while you pant in his ear, even nipping under the lobe as you try to control your heartbeat.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ Your eyes roll back as you realize what happened.
You’d trapped Dean’s hand between your bodies, and he’s taken full advantage of the situation. For every honeyed and light kiss he presses over your cheeks and lips, he rubs your pussy with light, deft touches. A graze of your clit, then his thumb teasing over your entrance. It’s torture, the touches too light to do anything but make you feel insane, but you’re certain if you move away he’s just going to remove his hand altogether. Leaving you no other choice but to whimper, take it, and plead for mercy.
“More- There-” You bury your face in Dean’s neck, when he rubs your clit back and forth in a frenzy, then simply moves away. “Dean- I- I need to come, please, just, up- No-“
You tremble when he moves away again, humping against his hand. It doesn’t do anything—he’s too good at this—but you don’t think you could stop if you wanted to.
“Please, please, please-”
“You’re real good at begging, sweetheart.” Dean kisses the side of your head, and you nod weakly. “You think I’m not give you what you need?”
“I- I don’t think you’re showing any signs of it.” You breathe, and he laughs.
“Can’t argue with that. But you’re kinda restricting my movements.” He splits his two fingers, placing them around your pussy lips and rubbing slowly up down. “And trust, I’d love to play with your wet little pussy until you were coming all over my hand, but you started something on my pants. Think you should finish it.”
You lean back in slow confusion, and Dean nods between your bodies. You flush when you see it.
The faint dark spot, on his still hard crotch. You can’t look away from it.
Dean pulls your panties forward, then snaps them back against your pussy. Your hips jerk, wild eyes flying up to his, and he grins.
“Keep them on.” He smirks, dragging you back to sit on his crotch. “And take what you want.”
You nod breathlessly, grabbing the bench behind his head and starting to fuck down against Dean’s bulge. You’re more deliberate than before, gaze locked onto Dean’s, knowing exactly where to move to get the best friction. Dean watches you as if you’re sent from Heaven, licking his lips and rubbing your ass. He’s hiked up your skirt, giving him full access to whatever he wants. You expect handprints, maybe more teasing touches to keep you on the edge.
Instead, he grabs the back of your neck, and just watches you move on him. His mouth falls open, and when you lean a little down, he doesn’t hesitate to close the space.
Your speed picks up. The ruined fabric of your panties only adds to the friction, almost completely letting you feel the rough, tantalizing sensation of the denim. When you get your clit, it’s like being rolled between two pinched fingers, and you start to hump that one spot.
Dean groans, and when you catch against something, you realize you’re hitting the head of his cock.
You reach between your bodies, grabbing for something of him to hold onto, and find what has to be his balls. They’re big, heavy even when you’re not really holding them, and when you squeeze softly Dean’s whole body jerks.
“Fuck- Son of a bitch, you can’t just-“ Dean’s words turn into a long moan of your name, when you squeeze again.
You smile to yourself, riding him faster and faster. Dean’s eyes flutter, his fingers weaving into your hair. You throw your head back, and he chases. Starts to bite and suck on your neck again, pushing further and further up until you can no longer get a grip on his balls.
For a second, you try to push back, but Dean’s a solid wall of muscle. You’re using all your energy to keep yourself moving against him, and every thought empties from your head as his lips travel down.
Dean rips the top of your dress open. You hadn’t been wearing a bra. It would’ve ruined the outfit.
He has a clear, direct line to wrap his lips around your peeked nipple, and start to suck.
A loud, uncontrollable sound escapes your lips. You don’t know how he can be so good at that. His tongue flicks and swirls, teeth grazing against the bud, and all you can think of is what he’d do between your legs.
You movements are becoming shorter. More desperate. You press your breasts up, trying to demand more attention. Dean obliges, giving a harshsuckle before a series of kitten licks. He lazily kisses over the valley of your breasts, taking the neglected bud between his lips and sucking even harder than before.
“Oh- Oh my god.” You pull at the short, soft hair on the nape of his neck. He moans, mouth wet and warm wrapped around you. “Yes, Dean- Oh- Oh fuck-“
Your eyes roll back in your head, the pressure in your lower tummy just needing a little more to snap. You’re barely even humping him anymore, just thrashing around and trying to find the right position to get you there.
“I- I can’t-“ You scratch Dean’s back, pressing your cheek to the side of his head as you almost sob. “Dean, I need to cum, need to cum so fucking bad, Deeaan-“
His hand shoves between you, shoving one finger into your dripping pussy. Even with how wet you are there’s a slight stretch, and it’s just the one finger. You slam down onto him, your clit getting plenty of attention against his jeans, and you’re getting lightheaded with the need to find release.
Dean finger crooks inside you. Right against your g-spot. He wiggles it, rubbing fast and firm. His tongue presses flat against your nipple, swirling as he moans, and your shriek with delight.
You cum, shaking and moaning right into Dean’s ear. His finger slowly fucks you through it, but the moment you make a broken sound of his name, his lips are back over yours to swallow it. You don’t think you’ve ever cum that hard before. You can feel it all the way to the tips of your fingers, electric on your tongue as Dean kisses you.
Your pussy is clenching around his finger, and he grunts, angling his head to kiss you deeper. He pulls out slowly, rubbing your cunt until your wetness is smeared all over your thighs.
“The back.” He grunts, words thick and strained. “Get in the back.”
You feel bubbly. You’ve never felt bubbly before. There’s a rough command in Dean’s words that’s probably going to make you melt in a matter of minutes. But right now, you just giggle.
Dean leans back, looking at you like you’re insane.
“Sweetheart.” He wipes the hair stuck to your brow, and you can feel the tension in his voice. He’s trying to be patient. “What’re you laughing at?”
You shake your head, beaming as you press back over him. Dean grunts when you kiss him, but kisses back immediately.
“I just came on your pants.” You breathe.
He hums, leaning back to give you an exasperated look. “And that’s funny?”
“Last week I was crying about how I was never going to hold your hand.”
“Ah.” That makes him smile. He kisses your cheek, squeezing his hold on you. “We can do that later.” He mutters. “After we get in the back.”
You hum, going back in to kiss him again. Dean gives you five seconds, before you’re being picked up like a sack of potatoes and tosses over the bench. You land with a squeal, scrambling up to your palms, and Dean laughs.
“What the fuck-“
“Told you.” He shrugs, pulling his shirt over his head. “But don’t worry. Was counting on you not giving a damn what I told you to do.”
You gape at him. “I- I do what you tell me-“
“No, you don’t.”
“What about when you told me to go grocery shopping, I did that-“
“You got everything wrong.” He gives you an amused look, and you scowl, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Your list was confusing. And when I tried to call, you didn’t pick up.”
“List works for Sammy.”
“I’m not Sam, I need you to make a list for me-“
“I did make a list for you.” Dean crawls over the bench, grinning down at you. “And you still bought that fuckin’ turkey meat.”
You swallow, unable to stop yourself from drinking him in. You’ve seen him shirtless before, but it’s always been quick glimpses you forced yourself to look away from, or in the context of a wound. But this, here, the car is filled with steam from your fun before, there’s only to golden halo of the streetlamp, and Dean is all yours to stare at, as much as you want.
His chest is broad, softer in some places than he’s probably been in his youth, but perfect. You’re going to be completely smothered in him, you could shove your face between his pecs, feel his thick biceps wrap tight around you as he fucks you like you’ve always dreamed. He’s covered in jagged scars and freckles. You want to touch every single one.
“Sam gave me twenty dollars not to get red meat.” You breathe.
Dean chuckles, pulling at his belt. “And you chose him over me?”
You meet his gaze again, sure you must look like a lost doe under all of him. You’re not sure what to do with yourself at all. “You didn’t give me twenty dollars.”
“And if I gave you twenty bucks?” He grins, pulling down his pants.
That’s your queue to say something smart. You can’t think anything smart.
Dean’s cock stands proud above you, and it’s pretty. Prettier than a porn cock, and those things look like they’re plastic. Dean’s thick and veiny. He’s well groomed, his balls heavier than they felt before—they could fit in your mouth, and you might choke, but would that really be so bad—and the tip of him nice and curved. Just the sight of him makes your pussy clench around nothing. Your legs spread wider.
Dean’s throat bobs, as he follows the movement. He’s slowly stroking himself, and you watch his grip get white knuckled as you spread your legs wider.
You need to touch him. He touched you. It’s only fair.
But you reach for him, and Dean catches your wrist. Pins your arm over your head, forcing him to lower down. He settles between your legs, giving you a stern look that makes your breath hitch.
“No.” He chastises, and you pout.
“I wanna put you in my mouth.”
“You- Jesus, woman.” He lets out a sharp breath, closing his eyes. “You can’t freakin’ say that-“
“Why not-“
“I ain’t as young as I used to be, alright?”
You frown. “I know that.”
He shakes his head. “No, I mean-“ He sighs, dropping his brow against yours.
You pull your hand carefully out of his hold, running your fingers through his hair. He lets out a low rumbling sound, almost like a purr, so you keep going. He makes nice sounds. You’d like to collect all of them, and keep them in little jars on your shelf you can listen to whenever you want.
“I like the hair.” You say, soft and casual. Like his cock isn’t pressed right against your cunt. “And the beard?”
Dean huffs a low laugh. “Yeah?”
“Mhm. Makes you look your age.”
“I am my age-“
“In a sexy way.” You blurt, and he sits up, brows raised.
“A sexy way?”
“Yeah.” You nod, suddenly wanting to hide your face. “I mean, you’re- You’re always sexy- I’ve always wanted to have sex with you, but- But I also think, if it’s- If you’re going to be kissing me all the time- I’d like this-“
Dean shuts you up with a deep, open-mouthed kiss. You hum, thankful for the mercy, and shiver when you feel him peeling away the scraps of your underwear and dress. You don’t think you’re going to haver anything to ride home in.
Something to worry about later. When Dean’s not rubbing his dick against your pussy. The large head of his presses against your clit, Dean’s beard tickling your neck as he kisses everywhere his mouth can find, and you feel the pressure starting to build again.
“Dean…” You mumble. “Oh- Oh-“
He sucks on a hickey from before, and the previous orgasm had already made you more sensitive. Your back arches, forcing your swollen button to rub against his shaft, and your mouth falls open in a loud, lewd moan.
“Easy,” he mutters, dropping his weight. Forcing you back down. “Tryin’ to tell you, sweetheart. I’m barely fuckin’ holding it together, and if I blow before I get inside of you, I’m gonna drive myself off a cliff.”
You giggle despite yourself, letting your body relax into his touch. You trust him, and the idea of him just having you is enough to make your pussy ache. “Aw.” You turn, smiling at him. “You care.”
He snorts. “You always a brat? Or just when I’m fuckin’ you.”
“Do you want the real answer to that?”
“Hm.” Dean tilts his head, gaze raking over your body. Over every mark he’s left, to the point that you’re mostly a map of his hands and lips.
A smirk curve on his lips, and you feel one strong hand grab under your knee, moving it up to your chest. Putting you on full, naked display.
“Nah.” He drawls. “I think I’m good.”
The air is knocked from your lungs, as he presses forward. His cock slides slowly into you, filling the car with the hottest, wettest sound you’ve ever heard. You grab his forearm, just trying to ground yourself, and he goes for your other knee.
Dean bends you in half under him, folding you into a pressed little ball. You can see yourself swallowing his cock. See every inch disappear into your pussy, every vein right before it bumps inside your gooey walls. Dean’s chest is heaving, his features open and slack.
“Fuck.” He grunts. Reverent and as wrecked as you feel. “Son of a bitch, you fit me like a goddamn glove. Takin’ me like a champ, sweetheart, c’mon- Just a little more-“
He spits on where you’re meeting, on your clit, and you try to arch up. He grunts, pushing the last few inches fully in.
You throw your head back, trying to adjust to the feeling of being so full. He feels even bigger than he looked, and you’d forget to breathe if he didn’t wrap his hand around your ribcage, and squeeze gently.
“Good?” Dean’s voice cracks, and you can almost see his chest rippling with the restraint to hold still.
You nod, opening your mouth, then closing it when words fail you. He’s just- He’s so big and everywhere. He’s pushed over your g-spot, and it’s making you feel like you’re being dragged through a pool of pleasure. There’s nothing else to think about.
Dean’s brow furrows. “Baby, I need you to talk to me-“
“Good.” You breathe out. “So- So good, Deaaaan-“
You tug on his wrist, trying to bring him down to your level. He immediately understands, bending over for a kiss. You relax as his lips move against yours, pushing your hips a little up to take in more of him. You might be able to cum just like this. Impaled on Dean’s cock. Usually you’d need something more, but you’re hypersensitive, and it’s like he was made to be inside you.
You smile at him, when he pulls back up. He swallows, slowly reaching up to grab your jaw.
“I’m gonna move, alright?”
You hum, still smiling, and Dean takes in a slow breath.
“Can you keep lookin’ at me?”
You nod, and his lips twitch.
“You really can’t talk right now, huh?”
Head shake. Dean’s eyes glint, and your mouth falls open as he thrusts. Once, harsh and short against your g-spot.
“So fuckin’ cockdrunk you can’t speak.” He drawls, grinding slowly into your pussy. Still too shallow to be anything. Just working your g-spot until tears prick at your eyes. “You think you can at least say my name, baby?”
“Deeean-“ You mewl out, gasping as he finally gives a full, deep thrust. “Dean- Dean-“
“That’s it.” He grunts, pulling almost fully out before slamming back in. “That’s my girl. Nice and dumb on this cock. Just letting it happen, aren’t you sweetheart.”
“Mmmm.” Is all you can manage, but it’s Dean’s fault.
He’s fucking you like a man possessed. Cock slipping in and out of your channel, drilling into your g-spot and cervix. You can see it, see the vein in his brow as he moans your name, see the mess forming around your pussy as you soak his dick.
“Dean.” You babble, a strange, tight heat forming deep inside you. “Deaan, ‘s- ‘s big-“
“I know.” He coos. “I know, baby, but- Shit- You’re takin’ it so well. Best thing I’ve ever fuckin’ felt-“
He grunts, balls slapping against your ass. His body is sticky and shining with sweat, and you can’t stop yourself from staring at how he moves as he fucks you. Each motion is so powerful, and there’s an impossibly good, perverted feeling you get from watching where you meet, and-
“Look.” He grunts, tapping your chin with his thumb. “Look at me, sweetheart, come on-“
You blink up at him, and he groans, bending over as he slams inside.
You don’t think. Your mouth opens, and you take his thumb between your lips, sucking softly. It’s nice to have something to do, when you’re too fucked out to even remember your own name.
And it does something to Dean. His thrusts stutter, and a deep, growling sound comes from his chest. You hum, blinking up at him from glossy eyes. He groans, chest heaving, and something snaps in his expression.
Dean fucks you so hard you could swear the car was shaking. His thumb pushes further between your lips, and you take it happily. You can feel the sensation between your legs building, a little different than your usual orgasm, but it’s good. Tingly and hot, almost like you’re being shot up with direct euphoria. Your lashes flutter, and you moan around Dean’s thumb as he starts to give sharp, abusing thrusts to your g-spot.
He bends like he’s trying to get his mouth on your pussy, only just remembering his body can’t move like that and pulling his hand away from your mouth. You’re about to whine in frustration, but then Dean finds your clit.
He gives it tight, back and forth rubs that make your hips buck up. He uses his cock to bully them back down, rubbing even harder, and the sensation explodes like fireworks.
It’s wet and messy, spilling out of your pussy with Dean still seated deep inside you. He moans, dropping over you as you milk his cock, dragging him into orgasm with you. You’re shaking, cumming and cumming harder than you can keep up with. You can feel the release—yours or Dean’s, doesn’t really matter—sticking inside of you and dribbling down your ass.
Dean kisses you, and you barely manage to kiss him back. You’re boneless and floaty again, your body so washed with pleasure you might be shaking from it. Like he’d struck you with lightning.
“You did so good.” Dean murmurs, pulling slowly out. “That was- Fuck, that was awesome.”
You smile in a dazed agreement, beaming up at him, and everything in Dean seems to soften. He presses a gentle kiss to your brow and pulls you upright, helping you settle in the bench before getting himself to work.
He tries to clean up the seats, but gives up fast and mumbles something about doing it back home. You were right in assuming your clothing was ruined, so Dean just gives you his shirt and wraps an arm around your shoulders, holding you against him for the drive home.
When you pull in to the garage, he doesn’t give you a chance to try and walk. You’re hauled into his arms like a princess and marched inside, Dean only pausing to wipe the back bench and stop a smell.
First stop is the bathroom. Then Dean offers to bring you to your bed—the words weighted and reluctant—but you shove your face into his neck and shake you head.
Dean. You need to be near Dean.
He carries you to his bed with a tall pride, and somehow manages to keep a hand on you as he changes into his own sweats. You cuddle into him, smiling when he presses a kiss to your brow.
“If I forget this,” he murmurs. “Remind me in the morning.”
You laugh softly, voice quiet but returned. “If you forget, I’m going to kill you.”
“And I woulda earned that.”
“Mh.” You curl further into his arms, and—unable to help it—whisper. “Don’t forget.”
Dean kisses the top of your head, words a lullaby as you drift off to slip.
“Never. I’m yours now, sweetheart. Like it or not.”
You like it.
You don’t think you could like it more if you tried.
✦End note: deeply unfair that he isn't real. we gotta talk to someone about that.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
18+ Smut!!! older bf Dex is implied but it’s not a focal point, he’s such a tease really it’s bad, y’all r so in love it’s crazy!!! raw sex, talking you through it basically cause he’s a gentleman hello? horny blabbering, reader is described as female presenting and inexperienced! Lots of ogling sorry this is soooo self indulgent, newer relationship w Dex, he is soooo adoring cause he doesn’t want you to be scared and also sooooo nasty (not proofread yet)
Dex knows you’re nervous. He can read nervousness like an open face book - can smell it on people like a hound dog who just got deployed. But your nervousness, eyes shyly but surely devouring him, scared to say a word about your own desire, unable to really meet his big green eyes.
It’s different.
He’s not used to it.
He doesn’t have anyone in his life who he gets that ache in his chest for, the tender kind that makes him think, fleetingly, weakness isn’t so bad after all, cause he might fall off the earths axis completely if something happened to you.
He doesn’t like doing that, the being honest with himself part. And right now, he thinks it’s kind of sick that he thinks it’s fucking endearing.
You’re in your room, in your apartment, laying on your belly in your bed staring at his body like you’ve never seen a half naked man before. He’s freshly showered, blue towel tied around his thick waist and fuck, you don’t know what to do with all that.
It’s strange for Dex. He’s become more confident after prison, this is true. He’s gotten attention, but nothing permanent, nothing that made him feel like it was anything more than transactional.
And he’s not lost on the fact that you ogle and it makes him feel appreciated, so he thought nothing of walking out like this when you told him he needed to get all the blood and grime off of his skin before even touching your pink sheets.
Which, he was going to do anyways and you knew that, but he lets you act bossy sometimes cause you think it’s fun. And he finds it funny.
First time spending the night together, and you’re not letting him off easy.
You’ve already told him to use your body wash so he’d smell sweet and how amusing you found the idea of Bullseye lathering himself in vanilla scented soap.
Your relationship is new enough that this is not a regular occurrence as much as he quietly yearns for it to be, but not so new that he doesn’t know where you keep your shoes when you take them off as soon as you walk into the door, or where you keep the gun he insisted on buying you since you’re a woman living alone and have that one sketchy neighbor, or what clothes are in each drawer of your nightstand.
Or what the inside of your apartment looks like, the square footage of each room and what year you bought the place. The width of the kitchen cabinets and the previous owners current address just in case he came across a hidden camera or something of the sort. You know, normal stuff.
The connection you have with Dex has been rooted so deep, that the more overtly physical stuff hasn’t even really mattered. Has he touched himself, spit in in his palm and stroked his cock thinking about how you’d say his name when he’s so deep in you he’s touching your cervix?
Well, yeah.
Or how your panties might smell even though he felt genuinely guilty at the idea of stealing a pair? Cause sure he stalks but he’s not a creep.
But he knew you didn’t have a lot of experience in that department, couldn’t fucking believe it at first, but felt undeniably relieved that almost no one had you like that.
Selfishly, sickly, possessively.
But it makes sense that you didn’t let people in easily, your spirit is like sunshine spilling into a dark room, coloring your surroundings with a kindness he didn’t know existed as legitimately as it does with you. Course no one deserved you, of course you chose people wisely. Of course no one had been worthy of getting you so fully and completely like that in so long.
And how you chose him, how you’ve chosen him everyday for the past six months? He doesn’t know how to realistically wrap his head around it. Doesn’t know what he did in another life that was so goddamn good he got to spend even a fraction of his miserable fucked up life with you.
So yeah, it makes him feel things when you go a little slack jawed while looking at every ripple of muscle like it’s something to be devoured, got your gaze switching from his big arms to his abdomen and lower lower lower.
You really wish you could help it. But he’s got a body that’s put in work, and though you’d love to not make a man feel like he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen - you can’t help it with Dex. Not when he’s this gorgeous, so adoring, so loving and spends almost every moment he has with you reminding you how he can never live without you.
And especially not when he’s two feet away and the towel is dangerously low, and the thick bulge underneath that towel is ever present, reminding you of what you haven’t seen or touched yet.
He shakes the water out of blonde his hair and onto your body, and it does exactly as intended. You squeal, shouting “Dex!” With exasperation that isn’t really genuine. Just enough of a juvenile thing to do that it breaks you out of your shell a little.
He chuckles to himself, finds it cute that you act as if he’s sprayed you with the shower head instead of flinging a few cold droplets. You wipe your forehead, and he steps closer until he’s at the foot of the bed. You sit up on your haunches so you can look at him face to face and not face to dick. You want to keep your composure at least a little.
“Rude, don’t do it again.” You frown, crossing your arms across your chest and his eyebrows lift and a stupid shit eating grin paints his handsome face.
“Oh yeah? Y’feelin brave then?” His voice is low and playful, he reaches out and wipes your cheek off. His hand is rough and warm and you keen into the touch like a kitten. His stomach fills with a familiar heat at such a small, innocent thing. God.
“Clearly not, you walked out half naked and now my knees are all wobbly.”
You say it out loud and so obviously because you don’t know what else to do about it. Truthfully, he really fucking likes that you said it that way. He admires your need to be honest even when it scares you a little. He’s jealous of it.
You also don’t realize how tantalizing, how maddening it truly is.
Don’t even know the power you have over him already.
He shakes the bashfulness off, though he can’t hide the heat staining his cheeks and neck.
“I got you, baby,” he says. And god that makes it so worse, cause now you feel that twinge of tension traveling from your chest to between your thighs. “nothin’ you gotta be scared of with me, you know that.”
You lock your eyes with his now, because it’s genuine and so full of trust you can’t look away even if you wanted to. It’s passing through you both like a power surge. A suddenly playful moment turning real, and candid within seconds even if that’s not what he inherently intended.
That’s just how it is with you and Dex
The intensity never really ceases.
He sees you stew this over in your mind, feels contentment in his bone marrow when you scooch a little closer on your knees and place your soft hands on his bare shoulders. Your touch makes him feel like a live wire, and sort of like he can finally breathe again.
“You’re just like…” you start, chewing on the inside of your bottom lip. He’s got this little smirk that he’s holding back, cocking head head but gentle in the eyes as if you tell you go on, say what you feel. “really beautiful and it’s distracting me.”
Yeah, he’s done for. He can’t even smile properly because those words are so foreign, and so completely you.
He casually cups your face and rubs two thumbs over your soft cheeks. It really does make him feel things - things he hasn’t felt in a long time. Things that didn’t mean what they mean now to him, what you mean to him. It’s the best fucking compliment in the world when it’s coming from your lips.
And would mean absolutely nothing coming from anyone else.
“Distracting you from what, sweetheart? Just you an me right now, there’s no one else to think about.”
You want to kiss him. You want to drag your hands along his trim body, feel him twitch and pant against you. The thought is burning your head, leaving a searing image in its wake - and it’s so real, so close. Because he’s right here in front of you, staring like he knows every thought that’s passing through your head. Like maybe he knows you better than you know yourself.
“C’mere.”
He grumbles, reaching around to cup the nape of your neck. He does it gently, pulling you into his mouth so slow and so careful. He’s exercising an unreal amount of self control, training himself to be gentle with hands that have done so much damage in their time.
The peck is soft, gentle. He doesn’t hold you there even though he’d like to. He lets you decide what you want to take from him. A soft sound leaves your mouth when you depart, going back in for more series of squelchy pecks. It’s his turn to hum low in his throat, you feel it vibrate through you.
And he can feel it in your movements, that you’ve tasted him and now you want more and he hopes you can feel it coming off of him too. He doesn’t want it to be scary, or nerve wracking. His thundering heart betrays his need to come off casual.
“Dex?” You murmur, starting the get cloudy in the head. He can hear it in your voice, in that sleepy way you peer up at him like you’re not fully controlled by conscious thoughts.
You’ve got this pseudo bravery that’s only here with you right now because he is, because he obliged when you told him it would be better for him to stay the night at your place since he’s in town. Because he’s made you feel so safe, so unbelievably understood.
If you knew the patience Dex exhibited with you, out of fear of scaring you off, or freaking you the fuck out, you’d probably have even more of a reverence. And not about sex, no, that’s not important to him.
But he’s never done this before. Never truly put another other person before his own wants and needs, and it feels foreign. But he’d do anything, anything for you. To keep you, to touch you, to protect you.
“Yeah, baby?” He asks, toying with your bottom lip with his thumb. The tips of his ears are going pink, and you feel his body heat radiating off of him like a furnace. You’re only separated by a few inches, not even.
He tilts your chin up when your head drops while you ask him the question, catching your eye. He can’t bear for you to be insecure, to feel even an ounce of trepidation with him.
“Would you…well, can I, touch you?”
God.
It goes straight to his dick, he feels the towel getting tighter around his waist. And he’s sure his pupils are blown out to hell. He can’t believe you feel the need to ask, but that’s just who you are.
“Course’ you can, sweet thing. Course’ you can.” His voice is so rough and so low now, emphasizing his permission. You get this pit in your gut, suddenly astonishingly aware of the fact that you can feel him completely and will and how you’ve been scared of intimacy with a person who wants nothing more than to have your hands on his body.
Your touch move from those big shoulders, and the first thing they instinctively drag over is his broad chest - his skin is hot, light body hair tickling your palms. His nerves are so reactive to your touch and he can’t help but watch you, every expression you have going on even while he feels raw and wired.
You’re concentrated, swallowing hard. They slide lower, past his sternum and over his rigid abdomen and the planes of muscle and tendon there. How they protrude, as if to say grab me, touch me.
You’ve got an awestruck look about you, and your hands feel so soft and gentle and good against him, he clenches his jaw so hard his teeth might shatter. He’s starting to feel lightheaded.
You stay here for a moment, rubbing up and down the valleys and dips. You grip his sides, till your thumbs are tracing the divots that point towards his manhood. You’re moving back up again with both palms against his sides, over his collarbones and then you’re squeezing his biceps with such a giddy look on your pretty face.
Like you’ve just realized for the first time that Dex truly is yours.
“Y’havin fun? Look at that smile.”
You snort, suddenly shy that you were making it that obvious, leaning into him completely and shoving your face in the crook of his neck - he feels all your softness against his body, your shirt a thin barrier between your pretty chest that’s smooshed against him. He smells fresh, clean, gourmand. You feel scruff against your ear, that same body heat intensifying. And since you’re pressed against him now, he instinctually wraps his arms around your frame. Holding you there firmly.
You think you hear a sigh of relief that perhaps he himself didn’t know he was holding onto.
You don’t know if it’s your heartbeat or his, thundering so loudly in your ear. He rubs slow circles over your back, wide palm a reassuring anchor.
You don’t do it on purpose, pressing your lips to that soft tender area underneath his ear. You can’t see it, but it makes his eyes roll back and flutter shut a little - your mouth is so soft, so warm. You do hear the hum that comes from his throat, though. And since your bodies are pressed together, yeah - you feel his dick twitch against your thigh where you previously somehow forgot it was there all together.
You don’t stop there, not after you’ve tasted him and heard and felt the reaction it gave him. Now you’ve got that deep seated need, and so you open your mouth a little wider, give him a genuine kiss over his carotid artery - and yeah, he tilts his head to the side for you, rolls it back when you start kissing and kissing, all the way to his Adam’s Apple.
Those big hands grip your hips a little bit harder, and the pressure of it makes you wonder what it would feel like to for him to grab you other places. How strong he really is, what his body can really do.
“Baby.” His voice is gruff.
He’s panting like a dog now, cause you’re starting to get a little feverish with your movements, got your tongue on his sharp jaw and then he’s grasping your face in his hands cause he can’t take it. He needs to kiss you.
He doesn’t mean to be rough, for the kiss to be bruising. You let out a soft, shocked whimper and he murmurs a “sorry, baby.” In a voice you’ve never, ever heard come from Benjamin Poindexter, just a register higher than it should be.
He slows down a bit when your tongues connect, warm and wet in each others mouths, his nose rubbing against yours. He takes your bottom lip and sucks on it, and your fingertips dig into his arms like you could be swept away at any second.
Now your hands are all in his damp hair, tugging and pulling and he loves it, bad. He lets out this terribly erotic groan, and a soft “yeah.” and you give him one right back. He departs only so you can breathe.
God, his lips are so kiss bitten. Pink and pretty and wet, and his big green eyes are low and pupils obsidian, like he’s on the prowl, starving. He wipes your mouth, holds your face firmly so he can look at you.
“Talk to me, tell me what you want.” He huffs, and you hate that he needs you to say it out loud. Can’t he feel you pushing yourself against his dick? Can’t he see how heavy you’re breathing and the pure desperation for him lit aflame in your gaze?
But you know he needs it.
“I…I want you, want you really bad Dexie. Why’d you stop kissing meeee?”
Oh, you’re getting whiny. Petulant. He takes his bottom lip between his teeth for just a second, tasting you again. He keeps one hand on the back of your neck and one just above your ass when he reclines you on the mattress.
You still can’t believe his towel has managed to stay on.
He’s got this fear, when he hovers on top of you, arms on either side of your head, your knees knocking his stomach before you spread them so you can rub your heels into the dimples of his back.
He’s worried it’ll be too much, that he’ll be too much.
See, he wants you just as bad. And of course he’ll take his time, of course he’ll be as gentle as you need him to be. Not even a question. But you’re already dialed up to 10, got this expression like you’re this hurt, innocent thing, all while squirming like the pressure between your legs is unbearable.
He kisses your face. Your cheeks, your forehead, letting you writhe like you’re tortured underneath him. It’s driving you mad, he knows that, but his cock is so hard it’s starting to hurt against the rough material of the towel and he can’t let himself feel you till he knows what you really want.
“S’not what I asked.”
You push at his big chest, pull at his shoulders. He doesn’t move from it, of course, but your fingernails are leaving streaks against his flesh and you finally just lock your legs around him and press him right between your legs.
“I want you to fuck me, if that’s okay with you.”
If that’s okay with you. He almost laughs, cause god you’re funny even when you’re not trying to be.
“Dirty mouth, tsk.” He says it to tease, kisses the tip of your nose when he says it. But you’ve still got that hazy lust clouding your eyes. He kisses you again, swallowing your whine.
“Yeah? You achey right here, baby?” He emphasizes by moving his hips side to side, abdominals flexing at his core, pressing his cloth covered cock harder against your flimsy pajama bottoms - and you gasp.
He would find it absurdly cute if he weren’t so fucking hard. So instead it just makes him throb.
You keep your hands on his waist of moving muscle, rutting yourself against his center, feeling the outline of his erection hot and heavy between your legs.
“Right there.” You pant back with an open mouth and bleary eyes. Everything about the moment is doing it for you. And not just the obvious, which is a 95% naked Ben with his big puppy dog eyes and a smirk that accentuates all the years he’s ever smirked, and his unfairly strong body. Just the dynamic that’s going on is making you sticky, leaking from your sex.
It’s doing it for him too. Cause now he’s kissing you with a desperation you didn’t know he had, making mmm, mmmm, noises into your throat while he does it.
“Want me inside? That what you want, pretty girl?”
Now it’s his turn to mouth at your neck, and you’re so so soft, and perfumed and the little bit of perspiration that’s gathered because of being worked up tastes so good on his tongue. He licks the divot of your collarbone, covers any expanse of skin he can see in open mouthed kisses.
“Yessss, please.” You beg. He pecks your chin, hating to pull away from you like this cause of course you sound pitiful when he does. He hooks his thumb underneath the towel and it falls off like it wasn’t somehow glued to him for 10 minutes straight.
You should’ve known, and maybe you did know. But Dex is big, it’s enough to be incredibly intimidated because not only is he a couple inches longer than average, but he’s thick. Heavy. Looks like it holds weight to it that your body can already picture feeling.
It’s pretty too. The tip is the same shade of his lips, a little smaller in width than the robust shaft and you’re honestly not surprised he manscapes, he’s always been particular- it’s neat, lightly colored, and framed where you want him most.
“I’m not the only one with starin’ problems.” He says, not predicting that you’d cover your face with your hands and try to suffocate yourself in the sheets. He grips your right ankle, shakes it before he crawls on top of you.
“Hey hey hey, just joking baby, don’t do that.”
You think you might burst at how sincerely sorry he sounds, grabbing your wrists with calloused fingers and prying them away from your eyes. When he turns you over and sees that you’ve got a big, goofy, ridiculous smile on your face - his heart settles back into his chest instead of the pit of his stomach.
You’re giggling.
“Scared me half to death, fuck, Thought I really hurt your feelings.”
You rub your palms against his scruffy face, touch his open mouth with your thumb.
“You did, asshole,”
He’s smiling goofy too, now. Kissing your wrist.
“just staring cause it’s so big.”
He knows this. He’s got eyes and he’s been told once or twice. Still, Dex doesn’t know what to do with being seen like that by you. Didn’t think about it until now.
Hearing you say it out loud, hearing the lilt of your voice and seeing your eyes rake down his body to stare at his manhood with big eyes - it strokes his ego like nothing else ever has. He sees the way you nibble on the inside of your lip again, though. Sees you calculating.
“I’ll take it slow’as you need, yeah?” He reassures, rubbing the sides of your thighs with heavy, comforting strokes. He wants to bite the flesh there, take it into his mouth, savor it.
“You know I trust you.” You pant back, and he knows you do. He can feel it in your body language, the way you’re opening your legs for him wider, like a lotus flower.
And you’re not so tense anymore, body not so rigid. You’re melting into him when he kisses you again - one big hand gripping your jaw gently. You’ve never been kissed like this before by anyone else. It’s intoxicating.
He pries your lips open, licks the inside of your mouth before beckoning your tongue with his own. He sucks it before pecking you again, languishing you with slow and sloppy pops and suckles.
“Fuck.” You whine, sexually frustrated in a way that you’re not sure has been experienced by anyone else ever because that’s how singular it feels, how maddening.
He departs to take a look at you, a good, long look. Hawk eyes trail over your body like it’s something reverent.
He tongues the inside of his cheek, takes in the way you’re panting and unable to keep still and swallowing hard. You’re so worked up from nothing, it’s making him feel dizzy and drunk with excitement.
“Can I take these off, sweetheart?”
You nod, followed by a verbal response cause he’s not gonna do it unless you say it.
“Yes.”
Two thumbs hook into the waistband of the silky shorts, and he’s taking your underwear with them when he starts shimmying them off of your soft hips. He even takes the time to graze your thighs and calves with his knuckles as he draws them down your legs.
He wants this to be good for you, the best. He’s proficient in all aspects, hits the target every single time.
Cool air breezes against your center, where arousal has made you slick. Dex is at your feet still, holding your ankles and trailing his calloused palm back up those same calves. He doesn’t even realize he’s licked his lips and has groaned deep in his chest. His senses are taking over, his desire, the thick heady mix of testosterone and adrenaline pumping through him.
He stares for a beat longer than the average man would. Because once again, he can’t believe he’s here. That the images in his mind could never do you absolute justice, how unbelievably beautiful you are in the most real and human way.
You’ve got pressure starting to become unbearable. Even just watching him, seeing how lost he is in the sight of your body - you can’t think straight.
He’s pulled out of his reverie when you grip the bottom of your shirt and pull it off your head, tossing the garment to the floor. It lands on the corner of the nightstand, but who’s checking.
“M’sorry baby, got distracted.” He says it honestly, a genuine apologetic lilt to his voice.
“It’s okay, makes two of us now.”
You smile at him in the gentle, playful way you do, and he’s leaning between your legs by the waist, cock so close you can feel the heat coming from it along with the rest of his body.
Now he’s looking at your naked chest, finds himself kissing your mouth in a heavy press of his lips before he’s moving across your jaw and neck and - he almost dips down and takes your nipple into his mouth. He’s almost forgotten his manners.
“Can I?” He asks through thick lashes and a strain in his throat, hovering over your tits with a slack jaw.
“Of course.”
Eager hands grip the softness of your waist, pressing upwards till he’s cupping the fat of your breasts and closing his eyes like he’s about to savor something sweet - and then he sucks on the hard bud, and you’re lit aflame.
You didn’t think it could feel this good. But he’s sucking harshly to get them sensitive, dribbling a little spit onto them before rubbing his bottom lip across the surface. Then he pops it back into his mouth, swirls his tongue.
Your fingers find his damp hair again, and you’re sure he’d suffocate if he stayed here for too long with the way you’re arching into him. He’s moving from one to the other like he can’t choose.
“Pretty fuckin tits, fuck.” He mumbles it like he’s talking to himself. Dirty words sound so good coming from his mouth, and his general disposition is usually so quiet most of the time that it feels like you’re being gifted with something rare.
It’s somewhere during his sucks and nips and bites to the fat, that you feel his hips get closer. And with the size of Dex, anything closer than what you were before has his shaft pressed right against your center - up against the sticky folds and now swollen clit.
He winces like it hurts with furrowed eyebrows, completely taken aback by how much is dripping out of you - he feels hot, wet slickness against his cock, and a gasp pulls from your lips
Your hips talk before you do. You thrust them upwards, catch his manhood between your legs and rub yourself against it from the bottom where his heavy balls are sat, to the aching tip.
“Please, I can’t wait.” It sounds like you could cry.
He almost chokes, eyes getting fluttery and his arms shaky, but not from holding up his own weight. He reels it in, looks you in your eyes, corners of his pretty mouth twitching upwards
“Yeah? You want it, pretty girl?”
You pull him by his neck to your mouth again, too worked up to care about your attitude or your neediness because Dex knows what he’s doing. It’s driving you crazy.
“Dex you’re twitching against me, I know you want it too.”
His thick eyebrows raise on his forehead, mouth cocking into a genuine smirk now.
“When’d you get such a dirty mouth, huh?”
He’s both more turned on than he thought possible, and so goddamn amused. Elated. You’re opening up for him, and it’s too good. He kisses you again and again and again.
“Always want you to tell me what’s goin on in that beautiful head, yeah? Tell me everything. Don’t hold back again.”
He’s lost it. He’s desperate now, and he doesn’t visit desperation very often anymore. Told himself he never would, so It’s reserved for very few things, and here you are - unraveling him with a string of words. With your tongue playing with his.
And you’re developing this pained expression, this crease between the valley of your eyebrows and your breathing has picked up considerably because you’re trying to catch gasps of air between the relentlessness of his mouth.
You’re bucking yourself against his dick now, shy girl gone and tucked away deep behind your navel where you need him most. It’s heavy in the pit of your stomach, that desire, the smoke.
“Want me to put it in? Huh?” He grunts, cause now he can’t compose himself properly. He’s being transformed, reduced to someone who was just made to please you. To give you exactly what you want.
“Yes please please please.” He doesn’t think he’s ever been harder. Your genuine desire is so sweet and honest, and he kisses you hard again. Departs to peer between your bodies at the mess between your legs.
He grips the base of his shaft.
“Don’t have to beg honey, let me just - okay lift your hips a little, fuck, that’s it, thaaaaats - oh fuck.”
He’s afraid he’s not going to last because you’re stretching around his tip perfectly, and your mouth drops open and this incoherent, fucked out sound leaves your parted lips while your insides already start pulsating around him.
Giving him a nice, welcome hug once he’s fully seated.
He can’t believe it, that he’s actually inside of you. And he can’t think about anything else other than the sensations, than the swelling in his chest and the way the tip of his dick is slowly pressing forward through your spongy walls - how the wetness is coating him, how now he’s fully sheathed inside of you.
“Tell me when to move, god you feel good.” He pants it out, staring down at you with a searching gaze, trying to figure out what’s going on in your head.
“You can move Dex - ohhhh, oh fuck.” He drags himself out slowly before pushing back in, giving you a chance to feel the entirety of him. He watches it go in out, ears twitching with the sound of your slickness and the squelchy glide of you taking it all.
He’s shuddering already, hips rocking steadily at first - just trying to let you adjust, to let himself adjust, soaking up the sensations of the warmth and the softness and wondering how in the hell he ever lived without feeling you like this.
His imagination can not, will never again compare. Not even a little.
It quickly becomes frantic, because your fingernails start leaving these little scratches down his biceps and the sting is too good, and his hips start bucking at a pace that begins shaking the bed frame.
You’re stuck with an open mouth, eyes already threatening to close and he’s envious of the ceiling and the way you’re staring at it so he grips your chin - pulls your face back down so he can look at you.
He’s so fucked out. Blotchy pink skin, the crinkles by his eyes doing overtime and the lines in his forehead deepening with each furrow and twitch of his eyebrow.
His breaths are ragged, vocal, and when you make eye contact and you feel the intensity of everything all at once, like a massive wave of emotion, and surrealism crashing down on you.
Because he’s so heavy on top of you, deliciously heavy and he’s in between your legs and inside your body and you have the want to reach out and wrap your arms around him but he’s too big and this position makes it hard.
Plap plap plap.
The sounds are loud now, his hips connecting with the back of your thighs and his heavy balls smacking against the crest of your ass - you cry out to him, pleads that are just sounds but somehow he knows exactly what you need. He always does.
“Shh, I got you, right there’s good hmm? F-f-fuck, ahhh.” He’s groaning in your ear, nuzzled himself in the crook of your neck and shoulder and now you can wrap your arms around his neck. He smells sweet from the shampoo, salty from the quickening perspiration and his skin is hot and rough against the side of your face.
“Righ-right there, r-right there, I- ohhhh, mmm.”
It’s downright humiliating, the sounds leaving you, the reaction your body is having. It’s nothing short of angelic to him, and he’s so giving - only putting himself in a position where he can’t watch what’s happening because you want to hug him while he fucks into you like this.
You can’t see much over the hulking mass of his back, just flashes of his ass from the way his hips are pistoning in and out.
It’s really a small, unconscious thing. Your fingertips glide over the raised, smooth pink scar protruding from his spine. It’s a gentle graze, just the pads pressing into it enough for your nails to kiss it.
Dex loses his mind.
The sound that rips through him is animalistic, primal and hungry and distraught. His whole body lurches, and then he’s coming back up for air and looping two big arms around each thigh while he puts your knees to your chest.
You grip the bedsheets and he’s quick to take your hands and place them on his big chest, to encourage your touches, the scratching the wanting, the all consuming desire plaguing you both like an incurable sickness.
“You just - you’re p-perfect baby, oh god you’re perfect.” He says it like it’s painful, sweat dripping down the side of his face, cocooning in the cusp of his scar and curving around his jaw.
“I can’t - dee-eep, you’re so deep Dex.” Each word is hiccuped by a thrust, and between your legs is surely a mess. Warm, hot even, soaked and sticky. His face contorts, head cocking to the side like he’s listening with real and true empathy.
His voice is even more saccharine, not mocking but understanding, because he’s the one so deep he feels the outline of your cervix against the mushroom tip of his dick.
“I know, I know honey.” He gets as close as he possibly can, lips barely ghosting yours and you’re craning your neck to meet him. To press a plush, hard kiss to his mouth and his tongue is quick to find yours. To tell it hello, to taste it.
“You can do it, ohhhhmygod, already taking me all the way. That’s it, that’s it.” He encourages, presses his forehead to yours and you make the mistake of peering down, of seeing just how good he’s fucking you with your own eyes.
He’s disappearing over and over again with strings of his precum and your arousal connecting the two of you in a sticky haze.
He feels your insides pushing, your belly is tensed and your eyes are having trouble focusing on him again. So he curves his hips, ruts into you deep and his pubic mound grinds against your clit in the process which makes you pulse even harder around him.
He knows you’re close, can feel it and see it and the way your jaw drops a little further spurs him more.
“Like this? Gonna cum for me?”
It’s a series of questions pulled out with great effort despite their simple nature, because he’s barely hanging onto his own sanity.
You nod ardently, pulling his hips closer each time he leaves your body and returns. He’s too fucked out to do anything other than keep going, exactly as he is because he needs you to finish around him.
It’s the same precision he has with targets, the accuracy unwavering and absolute in the end goal.
It flutters from between your thighs and then throughout your body, centered inside of you with a crushing intensity, the blossom of your ending.
You’re crying out his name with breaks in your voice that he’ll remember forever, thighs trembling fiercely around his waist with the urge to close from the pleasure while your walls quiver and contract.
It’s a string of “cumming cumming you’re making me cum.” And he praises you all the while at the same time - “yeah, yeah let go for me. That’s it, fuck, all for me.” And it’s hearing those whimpers, those soft sobs in his ear and your hot puffs of breath that sends him right over the devastating edge.
The thrust is final, sealing. He will never be the same, and he understands that as he releases into you, balls aching and tensing and then ropes of his spend being pumped into you with short staccato thrusts.
“I love you I love you, god, fuck I love you.” It sounds painful, like he’s never said something so honest. He grunts viciously, grips at the sheets cause he doesn’t want to hurt you with his hold.
You cling onto him while your orgasms ripple through your bodies, and he’s all tensed muscle and beads of sweat and a mirage of a normally composed man. You’re reduced him to crimson skin and tears in the corners of his eyes and ragged breaths.
You’re both shaking when he decides to pull out of you, he shutters from the way you squeeze around him as if you don’t want him to go. And truthfully he wants to sit there for as long as you’ll allow, but he’s heard it’s not good for you and he wants to get you cleaned up as soon as possible.
But he has to press his mouth to yours first, inspect your face for any signs of discomfort, a quick gaze over your body for any possible bruising - but you’re the perfect picture of bliss. A smile of content on your pretty lips, your limbs loose.
“Dex,” you’re broken from the post sex haze, eyes suddenly serious, expression more concerned that he’d like considering what you two have just done - you pull his mouth to you again, kissing over and over and over like it might be the last time ever.
His heart starts skipping beats, like maybe he missed something. Yeah, of course he kisses you back because he’d rather lose a limb than deny you of that, but his mind starts reeling until you provide an explanation.
“What is it? Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you did I?” He’s taken aback, content nonetheless because your lips are forgiving and warm and pleading. He sees now that you’re searching his eyes, till they’re locked in on his irises like you’ve found what you were looking for.
You break away and hold his face, nuzzle your nose against his searing cheek. He swallows hard when you take a deep breath to speak.
Warnings and a content synopsis - You find out who ‘Tony’ really is, Reader is an ER nurse who patches Dex up when he needs it (which is often), Rough + tender and desperate fucking, I really feel like this is switch!Dex agenda, raw sex, he talks you through it, not hate sex!!!! Just a lot of weird feelings! This kind of alludes to virgin Dex but it’s not explicitly stated, mentions of violence (the murder kind), mentions of blood and very minor blood play (you kiss him while his mouth is bleeding), you get aggressive with him and he looooves it, also very tender and self indulgent pining
Credit to @uzmacchiato for the beautiful divider <3
Not proofread (yet)
Dex can feel the anger rolling off of you in heavy, roaring waves. He sits quietly with his hands in his lap, he doesn’t want to speak because you’re wired and raw from nerves and he’d like for you to think he’s at least somewhat of a redeemable human being.
It’s a visceral, palpable energy vibrating through the room, he can feel it across his skin- with sweet, tender, you, at its swarming, enraged eye.
He should feel guiltier than he does, but he’s not sure he’s capable of that feeling anymore. Like maybe he eviscerated the emotion all together after all that’s happened to him, after all he’s done.
How can someone like him survive, if he doesn’t believe he’s justified? If he allows himself to feel anything again? He should feel terrible for lying to you, about all of it.
About Fisk and what he’s made him do through rounds of psychological warfare, about Murdock and his inability let him live - or die. About being who he is.
But he’s a monster. A killer. That’s what everyone thinks of him.
He thinks he sees the words threatening to fall from your tongue, too. It could just be all in his head, because what isn’t?
And what would it have really done, you knowing? He’s thinking about it now, watching you wrap you arms around yourself like you want to tear off your own skin.
If you’d known, he wouldn’t be able to slip into your life as easily as he had. And that thought is worse than the fact that he might have fucked everything up with you.
Forever.
All of these wretched emotions have been unearthed because you wanted to be a good person. A kind neighbor, a steady voice of reason that he could rely on because you thought he needed it.
He does, oh god he does. But he knows he doesn’t deserve it.
And yeah, unbeknownst to him your stupid fat fucking crush on him made it all worse. Blinded you to inconsistencies, jaded you to the compromising positions he’d put himself in that you should’ve pressed him about more.
No, really, why are you half dead everytime I see you? Who the fuck is shooting at you? Why do you look like someone tried to turn you into ground beef?
Truthfully, the thought never really crossed his mind. That your kindness was also accompanied by attraction. He just doesn’t see the world that way, or himself that way. A courtesy of his psychiatric diagnoses.
A silly, juvenile wanting has gotten you into this position, and an idiotic trust for a man you truthfully don’t know all that well, apparently.
And that’s the most embarrassing, devastating part of it all.
Two hours ago you’d arrived home. As one does, and as you usually do - and the day had been a good one. A peaceful one, for a trauma nurse. That’s saying a lot for someone who works at Metro General Hospital.
Something must be shifting tectonically because a kid with appendicitis on the close end of rupturing was the most exciting intake of the day and an elderly woman who sliced her palm open while trying to pit an avacado was the close second.
You trudged up the stairs to the old building, welcomed by the familiar scent of a cheap fruity cleaner used this morning on the floors, and someone smoking weed on the third floor.
You could use a hit from their blunt right now.
Your eyes ached from the 12 hours bathed under fluorescents, along with your head and your feet and your back - because all of it fell apart after a shift, like an old car that hadn’t been in the shop for a tune up in years.
You’re far too young to feel like this.
When you entered your hallway something prickled on the back of your neck, made you touch the spot like someones hot breath was heavy right behind you. It was close to fear, but settled into a general unease.
The hairs on your nape began to stand alert, ears twitching. It was an odd feeling, like a premonition, or an omen.
You knew the scent of blood and it was thick in the air like a heavy perfume along with the twinge of sweat and earthy smell of mud.
Only so many people stayed on this floor. And Mrs. Smithers was definitely asleep by now. Tony, well. You don’t know what he does exactly, but him being home seemed unlikely too.
You stood in front of the entrance to your apartment, staring at the hanging wooden numbers for a moment, trying to figure out what felt so wrong. Like maybe they could tell you what they’d seen outside in the hallway, what strange characters might have visited.
A thunk sounded somewhere behind you, so light you wouldn’t have heard it if it wasn’t eerily quiet for three a.m on a Wednesday in the Upper East Side. Four doors down on the opposite side, a boot stuck out like a sore thumb in the doorway of the home.
Tony’s home. Your neighbor, acquaintance, friend.
You two had this strange arrangement, a story too long to get into right now - but you patched him up (a sore understatement) when he needed it, and at first he forced you to take wads of cash for it - because when you saw the size of the slashes he’d come limping home with, you knew something corrupt and unethical was taking place.
What’s new, though, in the current state of the world? In the current state of New York City?
You needed the money, because medical school bills are no fucking joke. And he had it. And he also needed stitches. So that’s what it was.
Until it wasn’t, and you started refusing the cash because it became egregious - and started slipping him plates of home cooked food because you never saw him eat.
Until you looked forward to seeing him, actually anticipated being in his presence despite the fact that he stared at you like he was trying to memorize the twitch of your mouth and what you were really thinking when your skin would get hot under his penetrating gaze.
Or why your hands shook when you touched him despite the fact that your career is designed for people with a steady grip on their needle and thread.
Something about him felt preternatural, a silken curiosity under the surface and waiting to be discovered. You wanted desperately to figure him out.
A nasty, no good trait inherited from your mother.
So yes, it concerned you to see his door ajar like that because he was careful. Secretive, too.
You learned a lot about him from your visits. Him, slumped against your kitchen counter in a stool too small for his big frame, and you slouched beside him with a headlamp two inches away from a bullet wound with a needle in one hand and your tongue sticking out in concentration.
It was weird, how he somehow evaded his personal life all together, like he didn’t want to exist. Or didn’t want others to know he existed. And yet - you knew that he never left the house with dirty shoes. And he can’t sleep most nights because of racing thoughts that won’t stop no matter how hard he tries to quiet them, and that he has virtually no one, at all in the world who cares about him.
“Tony?” You called out. Your voice echoed in the vacant hallway and the silence created a hollow pit in your stomach.
Part of you thought that you should walk into your apartment, lock the door and mind your goddamn business. Who cares if you wanted to make sure he was safe? Who cares if your head was suddenly filled with images of his pretty face beaten and battered again, or his skin ripped open and him bleeding out on his living room floor?
You closed your eyes, clenched your jaw and sighed heavily - because you knew you weren’t going to just mind your business. You aren’t capable of it, not with him. You’d always asked too many questions, and he’d shake his head and he’d grin down at you curiously like you’d been possessed because how could you not know that he’s dangerous?
That learning anything about him would destroy you?
A few short strides and you stood in front of the boot. Big, a sleek black leather that looked tattered at the heel and slashed at the toe. It’s as if he tripped, got caught on the corner of the doorway and stumbled inside.
The apartment was dark, so dark that when you heard pants and a pained groan from the inside - you almost thought it was a ghost.
“Tony? Are you hurt?” Your soft voice made him groan again, because of fucking course you’d try and see if he’s okay. You couldn’t just walk away. Kick his shoe back in and close his door and let that be the end of it.
And that small, sick part of him that he can’t seem to compartmentalize, felt elated at the fact that you cared so much. It was excitement pooling underneath his wounded skin.
You pushed the door open, the creak was obnoxious and literally just as you’d thought and imagined - someone was lying on his living room floor.
The obnoxious orange light from the hallway bled into his space, exposed him like a wild animal caught in a trap. He was masked, only two big guilty eyes visible and for you that was enough. You knew immediately that it was Tony and not some petty thief with a knack for a well put together ensamble.
A tight, ready for combat ensamble.
You’d seen that blue framed gaze before. Not in your kitchen, though. No - you’d seen it on the news, in the paper, you’d heard about it in hushed, frantic whispers on the subway.
It couldn’t be?
And then, suddenly and with no warning, it hit you like someone had pushed you in front of a freight train.
You remember hearing talks about him in the ER from your attending when you treated cops and criminals and helpless bystanders alike who had been at the mortal end of his weapons.
All of the gashes and slices, rips and tears and gaping holes and busted lips and bloody knuckles and crimson bruises.
Bullseye.
But it’s Tony, lifting his head from the floor and peeling that suffocating blue mask from the back of his head and over his face and now he’s all you can see.
Dirty blonde hair stuck out in all directions like a haphazard halo, so boyish and charming and it made you feel sick to think that way despite the blood on his nose and mouth and eyebrows.
Despite the fact that you understood so much and far too little about him. The anti hero, and the man.
You felt nauseous, and suddenly it wasn’t just the feeling that was crawling up your throat - you had to run out to the hallways trash can and empty anything that you’d eaten in the past two hours because your body didn’t know how to handle - well, this.
You can’t say you had a rational thought. Or one that made sense. You walked back to his apartment with a ragged breath and he lifted himself to his elbows with a wince - clearly injured, and annoyed with the gun strapped to his chest and the daggers by his hips because it limited his mobility in this scenario.
You had these silly tears brewing your eyes, against your own willpower, but they weren’t falling. Like something in your spirit stopped them from cascading down your hot cheeks.
Because you got yourself into this. You knew something was strange, and you persisted.
You trembled, and it was anger, fear, worry. It was so much at once you’re not sure how you stood on two feet for so long.
“Are you hurt?” You asked sternly, in a way that let him know you’d already repeated yourself too much and you don’t want to do it again because you may never come back.
He nodded slowly, grunted deep when he used his palms to push himself off the floor and stumble to his feet - off kilter cause of the one boot situation. He limped and held his side and you stomped towards him fiercely.
He prepared himself for something more intense than your soft hand around his thick gloved wrist, with the way your shoes hit his floor loud enough to rouse everyone five stories above.
“Can you keep it down? Someone might hear.” He said it hushed and pained, not meaning to sound as bitchy as he did.
You gawked at him with a tutted jaw, recoiling from the sheer audacity he had to say something like that to you. You crossed your arms, looked down at him with something dangerous and raw in your eyes.
“Yeah? Cause it’s bad enough I know about your dirty fuckin’ secret, right?” You spat back.
Hearing you talk to him like that, maybe if he were more shameless he’d reply with something even snarkier. Maybe even crueler. But it made his stomach feel hot and fluttery.
He cleared his throat, unnaturally afflicted by your presence.
“M’just saying, don’t-“ he tried to attempt coolness, tried to make a comment about how at that moment you looked at him like you loathed his entire existence. Don’t look at me like that.
But your hand stayed firm around his wrist, and the words got caught in his throat like an unspoken prayer.
You drug his heavy frame to the door, poked your head out dramatically to check the hallway before tugging him along to your own abode.
You twisted your neck back at him, and if you were an animal you’d have your lips curled with your teeth bared and your ears flat against your head and the urge to pounce evident in your hind legs.
“It’s all clear, asshole.”
He kept up with an uneasy gate as you practically shoved him into your home. You couldn’t find it within yourself to feel bad for it, you know it didn’t hurt him.
Once you’re in, the click of the lock feels as sanctifying as it does wrong.
You should’ve never found out about this. Maybe a small, selfish part of him wanted you to. Needed to finally break it to you, show you who he really is cause then not having you in his life would be proof that he just can’t be good. That he can’t and won’t ever have good things ever again.
That he cannot outrun himself.
He sees the look on your face, the sheer will you’re executing to still try and help. He aches all over, and inside something starts breaking apart. He doesn’t show it. No, he’s far too smug for your liking, and you don’t know it’s because he’s holding it together like he hasn’t in years.
It makes you want to throw up all over again.
“Sit.” You demand, pointing to the familiar kitchen chair. You remove your shoes, your coat - fling your purse and keys down on the counter. It’s a habitual routine in the startling discoveries of tonight.
You stomp to the fridge and pull out a water bottle , guzzling it like your thirst could kill you. He just watches you drink, watches your throat move with each swallow and even that, enraptured him.
He waits for whatever it is that’s about to happen with an indifferent buzz. He’s keeps himself stoic, emotionless. You pass him the last bit of it, struggling to look at him and when he reaches out his hand grazes yours.
It was not on purpose on his part at all.
You try not to stare at the droplets that fall and dribble down the corners of his mouth. Or think about the fact that he’s drinking after you and that’s something that people who are close to one another do.
So fucking silly, so irrelevant. You have a killer in your home. You’ve had a killer in your home for months.
But you wipe your mouth with the back of your knuckles, and ask him where it hurts. You look away from him when he undresses this time, because now it’s different.
Now you’re guilty, too. For all the times you thought about how warm he felt while you applied antiseptic, or sweltered in your own skin at the sight of his rigid abdomen or unfairly broad shoulders even when flushing a nasty wound.
You patch him up anyways, swallow the pain and do what you do best.
And now you’re pacing your apartment like you’re grief stricken, hands clasping side of your face and ring fingers at your temple as if somehow, the more you pace and the more you press, you’ll understand it all in a marvelous whoosh of clarity.
He follows you with his owlish eyes like a hawk, back and forth back and forth, you almost trip, back and forth.
“I helped you, I fucking -,” you’re already choking on your anger, hiccuping on your hurt. He observes it with a taut jaw.
“I kept my mouth shut and let you come in with gaping wounds and holes in your goddamn arms from gunshot grazes and- oh my god, oh my god.”
Your pacing stops momentarily while you hyperventilate, and your eyes open wide at him like that clarity has hit you. But it’s the first time you’ve looked at him completely since this whole ordeal, and he finds himself stuck.
Your fingers knot in your hair, chest heaving with big intakes of air.
He shouldn’t be thinking about how kissable your lips look when you’ve been gnawing on them for hours, or how the sweat dripping from your temple down your neck, and beneath your shirt might taste on his tongue.
Or how wrecked your voice sounds. That one makes him feel like a creep.
“Your names’ probably not even Tony, I knew it wasn’t Tony because you don’t even fucking look like a Tony! Fuck!”
He feels amusement burn his face, can’t stop that shark like grin from spreading across his broad mouth so he lets his head hang as to not agitate your state further - but you can’t not notice it. Not when you’ve grown to memorize every wrinkle on his forehead or line beside his eyes, or the folds beside his chapped lips that imprint a permanent snarl.
Or his big, brawny body that is capable of so much destruction - yet has complied to your every command - stay still, don’t wiggle so this doesn’t scar so bad, bite down on this cause it’s gonna hurt - and stayed overtly respectful even now when he’s in nothing but a pair of black briefs.
God.
“What’s so fucking funny?” You spit it bluntly, and he’s never heard you say fuck so many times. It makes it all the more amusing, incredibly endearing to him and his head swims with that consuming elation.
“You’re thinkin’ about my name?” He says it back calmly, with a steady low tone that would be soothing any other time, and that pisses you off even more.
You couldn’t possibly know that he’s mastered the art of concealing. The old Dex, he broke too easily. Let it all come spilling out when it became overwhelming, covering everything with his anguish and rage and despair.
He’d punch massive holes in walls and throw plates and destroy anything he was capable of destroying because he had lost his North Star - he had nothing but the tapes and even those, sometimes, weren’t real enough.
And now, he knows how to transmit that energy. Now he knows how to channel it, how to rectify everything - now he has purpose and meaning and you’ve been a part of that in ways he can’t say out loud right now.
Cause that might push him over the edge. The realization that he’s brought someone like you into his world.
A non remorseful, vengeful, mean spirited world. One that he won’t ever leave, that he can’t.
You take a deep breath.
Your whole body is trembling and your fists are balled like you’re desperate to calm the storm, to regain yourself and slip back into your own body.
He wants so badly to close the space between you two., he realizes. To walk up and wrap his arms around your soft body and make it all go away, to silence every abhorrently loud thought that’s pounding through your consciousness. Because he knows what spiraling feels like, what it feels like to be manipulated and to feel like someone you thought you knew it actually a total stranger.
He wants to kiss your mouth and hold it there, to drink you in all the way.
But he can’t yet. Because the truth is, if he does that he’s done for - he’ll get on his knees and beg for forgiveness, for retribution, and he might not ever get back up from that. If he lets himself crack open there is no repairing the pieces this time.
And if you leave, he’ll have to let you.
He can’t kill you.
Even now that you know his alias, that he’s Bullseye. He’d have to let you walk away with a screaming mind and a decaying heart, watch you with his feelings wound tight around his lungs - and accept that you’re gone. That you didn’t want him. That it’s too much for you.
That he’s too much for you, and it’s all his fault.
You scoff at him, and do that fast walk thing you do when you’re aggravated and end up hovering right in front of him. He sees himself in the reflection of your watery eyes, sees the fresh patches and new lines stitched in his flesh and the hits of smeared blood the washcloth didn’t soak up.
His mouth down turns a little, and he cocks his head like a hurt puppy.
“What’s your name?”
Your voice breaks, and that first fat tear swells over your waterline and descends over the plush of your left cheek - your bottom lip trembles and your chin wobbles and fuck, that beautiful, terrible emotion starts fluttering through him at a wildfire speed.
That ache and pang of sympathy. The human urge to wipe it away, to kiss it away. He can’t find words that fit, cause every description is far too feeble in comparison to what you look like through his eyes.
He shutters a little, and you turn your back to him because you feel helpless, small, like a little girl being let down all over again.
He sees your hands rise to cover your face and your shoulders start to shake in that staccato way that is a dead give away you’re fully crying now.
It’s pulled out of him like he has no choice. Like he is completely powerless to your sadness and disappointment. Like if he doesn’t make it right, he’ll die right then and there.
“Benjamin - uh, I mean I go by Dex.”
Your sniffles cease momentarily, and he doesn’t even recognize the sound of his own voice. Neither do you, for that matter. There’s a breathlessness to it, a rushed aspect to the inflection.
The name echoes in your head. Your brain is twiddling the word between its fingers, testing out the syllables and placing the name to the face. To the voice, to the man behind you and the heat radiating off of him.
A metaphorical click happens, like bones cracking back into place. The earths axis resetting. For the first time, when you turn around and look at him, you really see him.
And he’s panting, wide, naked chest heaving like he’s exerted tremendous energy - and suddenly that cold gaze feels like it’s been sitting under the sunlight for a while. Warmed around the edges of his eyes and the slight slack of his jaw. It’s your turn to watch his throat when he swallows.
“Dex,” you chuckle lightly, tears still falling - but drying as they come.
“That suits you a lot more than Tony. Stupid name, you’re not even Italian. Right?”
You seem mildly delirious but the playful lilt when you say his name, his real name- god, it’s starting to crack him completely open. He feels a tug behind his navel, knocking at his ribcage, and that sick sense of relief settling in his marrow.
“Not to my knowledge, no.” His pretty white teeth glimmer behind his pink mouth with the slight lift of the corners.
You stare at him for a moment. Really taking him in, and it’s not good for you, what it’s doing to your insides. You thought, or you think in this moment, that you should feel differently.
That no sane person, no good person would have this vicious cacophony of a feeling in their belly - like butterflies swarming by the thousands, desperate to be freed and getting caught in your throat.
Cause’ he’s gorgeous, painfully so. It makes you angry, the high cheekbones and sleek nose and a thin mouth that’s kissable in an unfair way. The slope of his chin is something you’ve memorized, and the ridge of his scruffy jaw is one you felt in your palm just moments ago when you soaked his blood up with a cotton pad.
And then the chair creaks, and he stands. And your heart skips a literal beat because seeing a man like that look at you like this - well, you almost choke.
His hazel eyes swim with fervency, with a desperate desperate desire for a million things at once. It’s like he’s pleading with his expressions, unable to say anything at all out loud cause he’s afraid it’ll scare you away.
It feels all consuming, to sense that from him.
And then you’re peering up at him through your wet lashes and he thinks he shouldn’t have done that, that he’s mistaking that heady sense of awe emanating around you for fear - cause he doesn’t know what it’s like to be desired in that way, really. It’s foreign to him, alien.
So he backs up from you, puts space between your bodies and tries to look away every few seconds as to not stare. Because he could stare at you for hours, uninterrupted, perfectly pleased, and now he’s so intensely aware that you’re alone together in your apartment and he’s done horrible things and how you know he’s done those horrible things.
“I’m sorry, I um, I don’t know why you care about me - f’I’m honest,” he scratches his jaw, looks at the floor and the back up at you.
He’s trying to form an appropriate apology for all of this, trying to express whatever it is that’s going on in his head. But he doesn’t do that often, cause he doesn’t let anyone close enough to care to apologize.
“That may seem fucked up to you, and it is, but I didn’t want you to get hurt. I can’t, I can’t even think about that, and I knew it would do this to you.”
He closes his eyes, no, squeezes them shut and honest to god you never thought you’d ever see him so physically impacted by something. And he’s been shot, stabbed, sliced open. He’s even currently bandaged. but he’s closing in on himself like this hurts ten times worse.
He opens his eyes again, and they’re lidded low, like he’s slid into this quiet abyss of acceptance.
“I’ve killed people, you know that. But there’s a lot more you don’t know - and,” he stutters, and it feels like you’re seeing something you shouldn’t.
“and honestly I want to see you angry if it beats you cryin’ over something like me.”
He says it through gritted teeth, with a viciousness that’s aimed towards himself and not you, never you. You know that, you feel that more than anything else right now. The anger ebbs low and heavy, but the hurt, the hurt is more powerful.
It’s a dangerous animal, starving and wanton and wild and it beckons you like food after a bleak, desolate winter. It goes for him like you have no choice, like the hunger is imperative.
He thinks he’s fallen into a deep deep sleep, and his mind has come up with the torturous, surreal feeling of your mouth against his and your soft body pressed to his solid one.
But then your fingers are in his disheveled hair, yanking his head down to your eager and imploring tongue, and the sound that escapes him is nothing short of pathetic.
“Mmmmm, oh shit.” He murmurs it between the suckle of his top lip, then his bottom, and back up to the top. You can’t taste this sweet, people aren’t supposed to taste this sweet - but you do, god of course you do.
For once in many many years, he is a helpless man.
Soft whimpers flow out of you, too. And he doesn’t know what to do with his hands at first - but then you nibble on his busted bottom lip, and the flesh re opens just enough for that coppery flavor to bleed into your mouths and intermingle with your flavor, and immediately he’s grabbing your pliable waist with two big hands - trying not to lose his balance.
“M’not gonna forgive you right now.” You cry, pushing him backwards, towards the couch - but he’s too big to be as flustered as he is so he stumbles and ends up on the floor with you caught in his lap and his back against the couch instead - and it’s perfect. He’s perfect.
He’s terribly aware that he’s swelling in his underwear at an alarming rate. It hurts where your heat is pressed against him and he’s already started leaking in his briefs.
Wet for you.
It’s humiliating, enthralling in ways he never quite knew.
You’re so rough, and it’s not enough to do any real damage and for some reason that’s what’s doing it for him. You want to show him that you’re mad, that you want him, that you need him.
You yank his head back by his hair again, and he closes his eyes with relief, relishes in the stinging of his scalp and bucks his hips up into your clothed sex when you mouth at his prominent jaw.
You gasp a little, awed at the heaviness of it when he ruts.
Your spit coats him, follows the trail of your lips when you lick his hot neck and salty throat, when you nip at the skin so harshly there is only the choice to wear the imprint of your teeth against his flushed flesh for the next week.
“Just take what you need. Fuck. Take everything.”
He says it with a hoarseness in his voice, like he doesn’t know who he is anymore and doesn’t need to know.
Cause you’re rutting yourself against his cock in messy drags, and you’re licking the inside of his mouth and gripping his face in a hold that feels possessive.
The thought makes him feel giddy and childlike. Someone possessive, over him.
And hearing him say it so earnestly, you don’t know what to feel anymore. Because now you want to give him whatever he asks for, you want him to drown in you - to drown in him.
He grips your hips while your tongues dance, pushes you hard against him, and drags you back and forth along the thick bulge in his briefs with furious flexes of his meaty biceps.
His strength is palpable, overwhelming and you’re breathless with the realization that realistically he could over power you and this could all be so different, but if anything he’s a mess.
You whine sweetly into him, and he watches you with your eyes closed and nose scrunched and searing skin.
“Yeah, yeah,” he pants, allowing you to smoosh yourself so completely against his hard body. You move to grip the back of his sweat dampened neck in a sturdy hold, a vantage point to spur your grinding.
“I need you - I can’t let you go now. Please don’t make me. - oh fuuuuck that feels good.”
It’s a slur of completely overwhelming lust and earnest thoughts spilling from his mouth before he can stop himself, and you don’t think when you reach down between your bodies and slip your hand beyond his waistband.
He hisses so viciously you think you’ve accidentally palmed a wound, but no, he’s just so sensitive. It blows your mind a little bit.
He’s thick, hot and heavy and fleshy in your palm and you can’t quite see what you’re feeling yet but you know it’s pretty.
Just like the rest of him.
“My pants, I need them off, can’t-“ you’re frustrated to the point of tears, because your scrubs are still on and you don’t wanna part from him - and it almost makes him chuckle in disbelief that someone could want him this bad.
But the laugh is drowned out by the coil of heat thrumming in his stomach and his manhood alike, by the realization he’s finally got you.
Your hand is just holding his cock, and he can feel the pulse in your fingertips. He reluctantly slides you off of him for a moment so he can help you out, and trembles while he does so case it causes your thigh to drag against his tip.
“I got you, I got you.” He says.
You’re on the floor between his legs, and he hooks two thick fingers in the jaw string waistband of your scrub bottoms and your underwear alike, yanks them down with no grace whatsoever, just strength.
“Y’need to lift your hips - yeah, good.” He licks the blood from his bottom lip.
You do, and the air is so cold against you, but it feels so good because you’re burning up. You don’t even think about the fact that in this position you are literally spread before him, completely exposed.
He just stares for a second, unblinking at your wet slit and the puffiness of your lips. His throat bobs with a heavy swallow and if he was hard before, he’s engorged now.
The sound he elicits is somewhere between a groan and a growl, as he slides his big palms under your ass cheeks before lifting slightly and pulling you back onto him - he can’t think, he’s in overdrive and he can’t remember ever being this turned on. This close to something so real.
From here you remove your top, and the undershirt, and your bra is off within seconds because he doesn’t even think about the clasp before he pulls it over your head. You gasp at the eagerness, feel it get to your head.
Your tits fall and bounce from this, and he wishes the circumstances were different. That he could take his time, really just lavish you with his mouth and taste you all over. He wants to knead you between his calloused fingers, wants to press his face against your softness everywhere.
But he told you, he wants you to take what you need. Because this is his form of divine restitution. He sees it now so clearly, saw it when you took him back here to help him even with rage simmering beneath your skin.
You are everything. You are the way out of his own head. You are the only thing that could possibly matter on a cosmic level.
It fills his head, his chest, his stomach - even that rusty, vacant thing he calls a heart.
And now you’re pulling his briefs down only halfway, and he chokes at the feeling of your hot cunt immediately sliding against his veiny shaft. He peers down between your bodies, and it’s a mistake because now he’s really lost his composure.
He’s not the man you knew before.
The intimidating stature is wilting beneath your touch, the toughness of his jaw is slack against your mouth. Even those dangerously observant eyes are lidded so low they’re almost closed because he’s drunk off of you.
“I want you inside, all the way,” you cry, fingernails digging crescent moons into his flesh, rows of red scores against tendrils of muscle.
“I wish I hated you.” You kiss him hard again, teeth clashing together and more of that blood from his lip leaking into the act. He makes a sweet sound, of acceptance and understanding and wild longing.
“S’okay, I’ll let you hate me - you’re so wet right now, I don’t - fuck.”
His hand abandons your hip in favor of his cock - he doesn’t have to guide you because you’re already lifting yourself up and he’s gripping himself at the base when you let yourself slowly slowly slowly sink down on him.
You moan at the same time, the stretch is bordering on painful and makes a schlick! sound, it’s delicious and warm and wet - and he’s losing his mind when his fat mushroom tip passes the threshold completely, when he’s absorbed fully by the soft sponge of your walls snug around him.
You don’t waste any time. Cause now he’s as close as a person can be to another and he’s nudging your cervix and throbbing in tandem with you. He wraps his strong arms around your middle, rocks you back and forth when you start lifting yourself to ride him in earnest.
“How’s it feel? Fuck - I - talk to me, tell me baby please.” He begs you, cause your fucked out expression isn’t enough and he’s losing his goddamn mind.
Your legs are trembling, insides fuzzy and you have to stifle a cry against his neck for a second because it’s unimaginably good. The pent up tension you’d felt before is nothing compared to the luxury of finally getting what you want.
“B-big, you’re big Dex .”
He throws his head back, a disbelieving chuckle leaving him because he needs to last longer and you’re not making it fucking easy. You’re soaking his cock, sweet slick pooling at his mound and your thighs and ass are so plush against his own thighs.
Your mouths hover, like you’re trying to steal the others breath and when your eyes meet it makes everything worse. He looks completely fucked out. His nose is even scrunched a little bit, that somewhat sad expression someone gets when they’re too deep in the pleasure to look normal.
“Again, say my name again.” He begs you, has been reduced to this babbling pathetic mess.
The sounds are lewd, disgusting really. You’re so wet it’s squelching, slick sounds emanating with each bounce. And now he’s planted his feet on the floor and is postponing himself into you because he doesn’t know how to take it slow yet.
And it’s so fucking good.
“Dex, Dex Dex Dex.” You recite it over and over again like it’s the only word you know. And he whimpers, fucking whimpers. You make a shocked sound, gripping his face. His lips are so plump like this.
“You’re fucking me-e-so gooood, don’t stop.” The thrusts are deep and they’re throwing you off because you thought you had the vantage point. Naive of you to think that a man so physically capable wouldn’t fuck you like this.
“You’re so soft, fuck you’re squeezing me, not gonna stop shhh.”
He says it like he can’t believe it’s really happening, and then you’re kissing again and somehow it feels even better. It’s like there’s a whole minute of your mouths just smooshed together and him fucking into you thrust after thrust.
And then he feels one of your hands move from his shoulder, feels your knuckles graze his stomach and he diverts his gaze to see you rubbing your clit - he doesn’t allow you to do it yourself for more than a second.
No, he’s good at learning. Absorbing.
He’s sheathed so deeply, so fully inside of you so it’s impossible not to feel how you’re clenched so hard you’re almost pushing him out, and how you’re getting slower and chasing something with a raging pulse case you’re dragging yourself instead of bouncing up and down.
So he grips your wrist, pulls it away and though the angle is awkward he uses two fingers to rub you in circles. Instinctually, you hold onto his thick forearm while he does so and you can feel every muscle in that area working for one single goal.
To make you finish.
“That’s it that’s it that’s it,” he pants, feels how swollen you are down there. “You’re so fucking pretty, m’gonna cum, please cum for me please.”
He’s babbling and almost drooling, he can’t finish before you he just can’t. It would be blasphemy.
“Don’t stop, I’m almost, oh god Dex I’m -“
You shiver, and he wants to mark your throat when you throw your head back. Wants everyone to know he fucked you this good, that he got to taste you and feel you. The thought makes him delirious.
You don’t think you’ve ever had an orgasm so powerful, so mind numbing. Your thighs tremble violently from trying to squeeze them shut but his thick waist is in the way and he’s still thrusting into your cunt and refusing to let up.
You shove your face in the crook of his neck, wrap your arms around his shoulders as you writhe and throb and pulsate around him.
“You made me cum Dex, oh my god.” You pant it in his ear.
The intimacy is such an unfamiliar thing. Your breath against his throat, your hair tickling his face and the scent of it surrounding him along with every other sense that’s turned up to ten.
Holding him so close, so tightly is what sends him right into the depths of his own release.
He tenses, jerks like he’s never cum before in his life - and the moans that he releases, they’re so low and breathy and intensely vulnerable. And his hands search frantically for your back, he wraps his strong arms completely around you and pumps just. One. More. Time.
You feel the warmth inside, the pulsating and twitching and you kiss his mouth while he’s still vocalizing due to the toe curling pleasure - his eyes closed tight and nose scrunched. You grind yourself against him, squeeze and squeeze like you’re trying to milk him for all he’s got.
“F-fuck, fuck.” He’s so sensitive, can’t believe how warm and wet and soft everything feels right now. His thick thighs fall, he can’t hold them up like he was before. He cradles your head against him, attempting to breathe normally again and the heavy puffs of air are felt right against your cheek.
Your grinding stops slowly, that throbbing between your legs starting to dull and you feel lightheaded. Wrapped up in the blurry afterglow of sweat and pleasure.
You stay like that for what feels like forever. Until neither of you are panting anymore, and you shiver cause the overhead fan is suddenly too cold when you’re not being fucked dumb.
He doesn’t even realize he’s started rubbing slow, open palmed circles over your back. That he’s nearly half asleep and spent clinging to you so pathetically. He hasn’t felt this, well ever.
Being absorbed by someone, with someone. He feels human.
You’re not lost on it. No, his hands are calloused and for once they’re not calculated. Not at the hilt of a dagger, or readying for a fight that he’ll surely win.
Your fingers find his scalp, and you scratch tenderly - softly, and he hums but it’s more of a purr than anything. He keens into your touch and you feel his hips twitch.
“Should…should probably take myself out of you. I’ll uh, I’ll get hard again.” He mumbles, and you smile against his skin. Cause you’re still shaking like an autumn leaf, and somehow he knows from that alone that you can’t take another round quite yet.
You kiss his jaw, that big, deep scar on his cheek and the you kiss his mouth. He doesn’t resist, doesn’t fight. Just surrenders cause he figures you don’t mind the fact that he’s swelling inside of you again.
He doesn’t do anything about it though, doesn’t feel the need to because this is too perfect. Too domestic, and he hasn’t been touched so sweetly in a long time. He just kisses you back and closes his eyes when you peck his nose and his forehead.
“You wanna know something?” You’re smiling so sweetly at him, and his knuckles graze your cheek like you’re breakable.
“Hmm?” His eyebrows raise, curious. He’s got a genuine smile plastered on his face now.
“I think I like Dex a lot more than Tony. I think I wanna keep him.”
He swallows hard.
Yeah, maybe round two doesn’t sound so insane after all.
C's Corner: I had to pause Fault Lines for a little bit to create this fic, which was a request from @j3susforlif3 and honestly, John Walker being loved loudly by someone who refuses to let the world keep kicking him? Yeah, that got me. 🥺
There’s something about writing him as this man who is so used to being hated that kindness completely knocks the wind out of him. Like, sir, please accept the affection. Stop trying to return it at the customer service desk.
I really hope you like this one, and thank you again for the request! And of course, thank you to everyone else who reads, comments, reblogs, or just quietly enjoys my little John Walker spiral. I appreciate you all so much. 🫶🏽✨
✍🏽 WC: 6.8K+
SUMMARY:
The world still sees John Walker as a villain no matter how many times he tries to do the right thing. After he rescues you during a hostage mission, you see firsthand how much hate he quietly endures, and you decide you’ve had enough.
What starts as you defending him from the cruelty of strangers slowly turns into something softer, closer, and impossible to ignore. John may not believe he’s someone worth loving, but you’re determined to show him that he already is someone good.
The first thing you notice about John Walker is that he doesn't hesitate.
Not when the ceiling above you cracks like thunder. Not when everyone around you screams. Not when the lights in the building flicker red and the smoke gets thick enough to turn breathing into a chore.
He moves through chaos like he has already accepted it as part of his body.
You're on the floor behind an overturned reception desk, one hand pressed over the shoulder of a teenage boy you don't know, trying to keep him from looking at the blood on his sleeve. There are at least twelve of you trapped in the lobby, maybe more. It's hard to count when your ears are ringing and every breath tastes like plaster dust and panic.
A woman is crying somewhere behind you. Someone keeps praying.
Then the wall explodes inward.
You flinch so hard your teeth click together.
A metal arm punches through smoke first then a man follows it.
Bucky Barnes looks exactly like the news makes him look, severe, focused, dangerous in a way that is almost quiet. He takes out the first armed man before you even fully process he's there.
A shadow slips in behind him, bending light around herself like the world is simply deciding not to notice her.
Ava Starr, Ghost.
She moves through gunfire as if she's made of static and vengeance, disarming two men in less time than it takes you to blink.
Then someone comes through the broken opening like a thrown shield made flesh.
John Walker.
He hits the ground hard, shield raised, shoulders broad enough to make the space behind him feel safer by sheer stubborn physics.
"Everybody down!" he barks.
You're already down, but you duck lower anyway.
Gunfire cracks through the lobby. John plants himself between the hostages and the attackers without a second thought. Bullets strike his shield, sharp metallic pops that make several people cry out. He doesm't move back, not an inch.
Bucky is a blur of black and vibranium.
Ava flickers in and out like a ghost story with fists.
John takes the center.
That's what you notice.
Bucky and Ava move around the room, precise and terrifying. John stays in front of you. In front of all of you.
He absorbs the danger like he believes there's no other reasonable place for it to go.
"Exit's clear!" Bucky calls.
John glances back, just once, eyes sweeping over the group.
His gaze catches on you.
You don't know what he sees. Dust on your face, blood on your sleeve that isn't yours, fear you are failing miserably to hide.
"You hurt?" he asks.
You shake your head. "Not mine."
His eyes dip to the boy beside you.
"Can he walk?"
"I can," the boy says, voice shaking.
John nods once. "Good. Stay behind me."
It's ridiculous, really, the way your body believes him.
The lobby is still burning in places. There's glass everywhere. The alarm is shrieking overhead. But John says it like an order to the universe itself, and some traitorous little part of you thinks, 'Okay. Behind him. That is where safe is.'
He gets you out. All of you.
One by one through the smoke, past rubble, over broken marble and twisted metal. He carries an older man when his legs give out. He shields a mother and her daughter when part of the ceiling caves. He snaps at a paramedic to check the boy's arm first, then acts annoyed when someone tries to look at the cut running down his own temple.
"I'm fine," John says, with the exhausted tone of someone who has said those two words so often they have become less of an answer and more of a locked door.
Bucky gives him a look.
Ava, standing nearby with arms crossed, says, "You are bleeding on your boot."
John looks down.
There is, in fact, blood dripping onto his boot.
He grimaces. "Not a lot."
Bucky sighs like a man praying for patience.
You're sitting on the back of an ambulance with a thermal blanket around your shoulders when the crowd starts to gather.
At first, it's just phones.
People filming. People whispering.
The New Avengers are here. The Thunderbolts. Whatever the world has decided to call them this week.
You've seen this before on TV. The way people look at them like they are either saviors or weapons, and nothing in between.
John stands a few feet away, one hand on his hip, the other wiping blood from his eyebrow with a strip of gauze someone finally convinced him to hold. Bucky is talking to an officer. Ava is lingering near a pillar, pretending she is not watching everyone at once.
John looks tired.
Not physically, though he should. He looks tired in the soul. Worn down in places no bandage can reach.
Then a man steps out of the crowd. He is middle aged, expensive coat, expensive watch, holding his phone up like it gives him courage.
"Well, look at that," he says loudly. "They'll let anybody play hero now."
John goes still. It's fast, so fast you almost miss it. His shoulders tighten. His jaw shifts. His chin lifts half an inch. The posture of a man putting armor over a bruise.
The man grins, encouraged by the attention. "Tell me, Walker," he continues, "how many people have to die before they stop giving you a shield?"
The air changes.
Bucky turns his head.
Ava's eyes narrow.
John doesn't move.
He smiles, it's awful. Not cruel, not smug, just empty. A practiced, hollow thing dragged onto his face because the alternative would be letting everyone see it land.
"Sir, you need to step back," John says polite and controlled.
The man scoffs. "What, gonna bash my head in too?"
Something hot and furious opens in your chest.
You don't know John Walker. Not really.
You know what the news says. You know what people say. You know the headlines and the arguments and the endless footage clipped and replayed until every human being involved becomes a symbol for strangers to throw stones at.
But you also know what you just saw.
You saw him stand between bullets and terrified people. You saw him carry a stranger out of smoke. You saw his hand shake for half a second after he set that little girl down, then disappear into a fist before anyone else could notice.
You saw him save your life.
And this man, this smug, polished little mosquito in a wool coat, thinks he gets to turn that into entertainment.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you slide off the ambulance. The thermal blanket falls from your shoulders.
"Hey," the paramedic says, startled. "You should sit down."
You don't.
John notices you moving and immediately looks over.
"Ma'am, stay back," he says.
Of course he calls you ma'am while bleeding and being verbally crucified in a parking lot.
You ignore him.
The man barely glances at you. "This doesn't concern you."
You step between him and John. "It does, actually."
John freezes behind you.
The man blinks like the concept of interruption has never personally happened to him before.
You point toward the smoking building. "I was in there."
His mouth opens.
You keep going.
"So were a dozen other people. Some of them were children. And while you were out here doing whatever this is," you flick a hand at his phone, "he was inside getting shot at so we could live long enough for you to perform your little sidewalk sermon."
The crowd goes quiet.
A phone lowers.
The man's face reddens. "You don't know what he's done."
"No," you say. "I don't know everything he's done."
John makes a soft sound behind you. Not quite a breath.
You glance back just enough to see him looking at you like you have sprouted wings, antlers, and possibly an axe.
Then you face the man again.
"But I know what he did today. Today, he saved people. Today, he saved me. And I am so tired of watching people act like a person's worst moment is the only thing they are ever allowed to be."
The words come out sharper than you expect.
You are not a loud person. You don't enjoy confrontation. You believe in kindness so stubbornly that friends have accused you of being built out of open windows and bad survival instincts.
But kindness is not the same as softness. Sometimes kindness has teeth.
The man's grip tightens around his phone. "He's dangerous."
"So are half the people you call heroes when it's convenient," you snap. "The difference is you've decided he deserves to keep bleeding for your comfort."
Bucky's eyebrows lift.
Ava looks, very briefly, delighted.
John says nothing.
You can feel him behind you, broad and silent, like he doesn't know what to do with the strange and fragile thing you have just placed in his hands.
Defense... from you. A stranger with dust in your hair and fury in your lungs.
The man looks around, maybe searching for someone to agree with him.
No one speaks.
You step closer, lowering your voice.
"You want accountability? Fine. You want consequences? Fine. But if a man can put his body between hostages and bullets and still not earn one decent breath before you start throwing stones, then this stopped being justice a long time ago."
His face twists. "You're naïve."
You smile then, small and humorless. "Maybe. But at least I'm not cruel and calling it wisdom."
Ava makes a quiet sound that might be a laugh. Bucky coughs into his fist.
The man's mouth shuts. For one deeply satisfying second, he has nothing.
Then a police officer gently but firmly guides him back, muttering something about clearing the area.
The crowd begins to loosen. People look away. Phones drop. The spell breaks.
You exhale. Your hands are shaking, you hate that. You turn around, and John Walker is staring at you.
Not casually, not politely. Staring.
His eyes are blue, startlingly so through the grime and blood on his face. There is disbelief there. Suspicion too, maybe. A man waiting for the punchline because life has taught him every kindness comes with a hook buried in it somewhere.
"You didn't have to do that," he says. His voice is lower now, rougher.
You shrug, suddenly aware that you're standing barefoot on gravel because somewhere between the building and the ambulance you lost one shoe.
"Yes, I did."
John looks down at your feet.
His brow furrows. "Where's your shoe?"
You blink. "That's what you're focusing on?"
"You're standing on glass."
"I just publicly yelled at a man for you."
"I noticed."
"And your response is foot safety?"
His mouth twitches, it's barely there. Almost nothing.
But it is the first real expression you have seen on him that doesn't look assembled out of discipline and old bruises.
"Seems important," he says.
You glance down.
There is, indeed, broken glass near your foot.
"Oh."
John steps forward, then stops himself, like he is not sure he is allowed to come closer.
That does something strange to your chest. He just walked into gunfire without hesitation, but he hesitates over offering you a hand.
So you make the choice for him. You hold out your hand.
John looks at it then at you.
Behind him, Bucky suddenly becomes very interested in the sky. Ava turns away with the faintest smirk pulling at her mouth.
John takes your hand carefully.
His palm is warm, calloused, larger than yours by enough to make your brain briefly forget its normal duties.
He guides you away from the glass and back toward the ambulance.
"You should sit down," he says.
"You should let someone look at your head."
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding on your boot."
His eyes narrow slightly. "Ava told you that?"
"She announced it to the general public."
Ava calls from several feet away, "And I was correct."
Bucky adds, "Usually is."
John sighs through his nose, but this time the sound is almost human, almost amused.
You sit back on the ambulance, and the paramedic immediately returns with a look that says she is deciding whether you are brave or deeply inconvenient.
John lets go of your hand slowly. Like he forgets for half a second that he's supposed to.
Then he clears his throat and steps back. "Thank you," he says.
You look up at him, at the blood drying near his temple, at the armor, at the shield, at the man underneath all of it who seems genuinely baffled that anyone would stand between him and a blow.
"You're welcome, John."
His name changes something. You see it happen.
His face goes very still again, but not like before. Not armor this time. Something softer. Caught off guard.
"You know my name," he says.
You raise an eyebrow. "You're on the news a lot."
The hollow smile threatens to come back.
You stop it before it can.
"But that's not why," you add.
He waits.
You tilt your head toward the building. "Bucky yelled it when the ceiling started coming down."
John blinks.
Then, to your surprise, he laughs. It's short, quiet. Rusty at the edges.
A laugh unused to daylight.
"Right," he says. "Yeah. That tracks."
The paramedic starts checking your pulse. You let her.
John lingers.
Not close enough to crowd you, but close enough that the space beside the ambulance feels different. Safer... warmer. As though some part of him has been assigned there and refuses to clock out.
Bucky walks past behind him and murmurs, "You're welcome, by the way."
John doesn't look away from you. "For what?"
"For not recording that."
Ava appears on his other side. "I considered it."
John's ears go faintly pink.
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too much.
His teammates like him.
That's obvious now.
In the way Bucky needles without malice. In the way Ava watches the crowd like she's ready to haunt anyone who tries something. In the way John rolls his eyes but doesn't tell them to leave.
The world may hate him but they don't, and for some reason, that matters to you.
Maybe because you know what it is to be misunderstood in smaller, quieter ways. Maybe because you have always hated watching a mob mistake cruelty for righteousness. Maybe because he looked so alone for one split second before he remembered how to pretend he was not.
John shifts his weight. "You really okay?" he asks.
There is no performance in it now. No Captain voice, no soldier edge. Just concern.
You nod. "I think so."
"Good."
A beat passes.
Then you say, "Are you?"
His expression closes by instinct. "I'm fine."
You give him a look.
He gives you one back.
It's absurd, the two of you sitting there in the middle of smoke and sirens, having a silent argument with your eyebrows.
Finally, you say, "That answer needs better writers."
Bucky snorts.
Ava fully smiles.
John looks betrayed by both of them.
Then he looks back at you, and something in his face gives. "I will be," he says.
It's not the truth, not completely. But it's not a lie either.
So you accept it for now.
The first time you met John Walker, he looked at you like kindness was a trap.
You remember that now, almost a year later, standing in the quiet of your apartment while he looks at you with that same stunned, careful expression.
Like you are something precious. Like you are something impossible. Like any second now, the world will laugh and tell him he misunderstood.
It's funny, in a strange, aching way, how clearly you remember that night. The smoke, the sirens, the blood on his boot. His hand in yours as he helped you away from the broken glass, hesitant despite the fact that he had thrown himself through gunfire without blinking.
"You didn't have to do that," he had told you then.
And you had told him, "Yes, I did."
You hadn't known it at the time, but that had been the beginning.
Not the dramatic kind, no music swelling, no lightning striking the pavement. No universe tilting on its axis with enough theatrical flair for Yelena to make fun of later.
It had simply been John Walker staring at you as if you had defended him in a language he didn't speak.
And maybe, somewhere deep in your chest, something had answered.
I can learn.
After that, you started seeing the team more often.
At first, it was accidental. That was what you told yourself, anyway.
You ran into Bucky at a coffee shop near the Avengers Tower, and he invited you to stop by because apparently "the others have been asking about the woman who yelled at a civilian with the energy of a tiny angry courthouse."
You had stared at him.
Bucky had sipped his coffee. "That was Ava's description," he added.
Ava denied it when you brought it up, but not convincingly.
Then one visit became two. Then two became you showing up with pastries and coffee because Alexei once said the compound coffee tasted like "sad water from government shoe."
Then you somehow became part of the rhythm of them.
You learned that Bob liked quiet corners and old cartoons.
You learned that Ava pretended not to care about dessert, then always took the last piece of whatever you brought.
You learned that Bucky had the emotional range of a locked drawer until someone trusted him enough to sit beside him in silence.
You learned that Yelena was, in fact, the human equivalent of a knife wearing lip gloss and a suspiciously soft heart under too many layers of sarcasm.
You learned that Alexei had no indoor voice, no conversational brakes, and once referred to you as "the civilian mascot of our morally complicated circus."
And John.
John became your favorite accident.
He was the one who waited by the elevator when you were leaving late. The one who remembered how you took your coffee after you mentioned it once. The one who stood closer to street side traffic when walking beside you, pretending it was just the natural direction his body had chosen.
The one who texted you after missions with the most painfully neutral messages imaginable.
Made it back.
Don't worry.
Team's fine.
And once, after three hours of radio silence that had made your stomach twist itself into a sailor's knot:
I am also fine. Since you asked Ava. And Bucky. And Bob.
You had typed back:
Maybe answer your phone next time, Walker.
He had replied:
Yes ma'am.
You had stared at those two words far too long.
Everyone noticed, of course they noticed.
You weren't subtle. You tried to be, but whatever dignity you possessed apparently packed a suitcase and fled the country whenever John walked into a room.
You smiled too quickly when he showed up. You watched him too closely when he thought no one was looking. You laughed at his terrible, dry jokes, even the ones that deserved no mercy.
Once, during dinner at the compound, John reached across the table to take the pepper shaker, and your entire brain went briefly silent when his sleeve pulled tight around his forearm.
Yelena, sitting across from you, had slowly lowered her fork.
"You are looking very respectfully," she said.
You choked on your water.
John blinked. "What?"
"Nothing," you said too quickly.
Yelena smiled with every tooth. "Yes. Nothing. The air is full of nothing. So much nothing staring at your arms."
Bucky coughed into his napkin.
Ava looked at the ceiling like she was begging it for strength.
John, somehow, looked down at his own arm in genuine confusion. "What's wrong with my arm?"
Yelena stared at him, then at you, then back at him. "My God," she said softly. "He is not pretending."
You kicked her under the table.
She kicked you back harder.
John only frowned. "Who?"
"No one," you said.
Yelena leaned toward him. "You are very brave in combat and very stupid in romance."
John's face went blank.
You nearly died on the spot.
"What romance?" he asked.
Yelena sat back, delighted and horrified. "This is going to be terrible. I love it."
And still, he didn't see it.
That was the part that hurt the most.
Not because John was careless. He wasn't. He noticed everything about you. If you were tired, he knew. If you were upset, he found a reason to linger. If you were quiet, he sat with you until quiet stopped feeling lonely.
But the idea that you could want him? That you could look at him and not see a warning sign?
That seemed to exist outside the borders of what John Walker allowed himself to imagine.
So you told yourself friendship was enough. You told yourself it was better that way. You told yourself you could survive being close to him without wanting to touch the soft, guarded place beneath all that armor.
It worked... mostly.
Until tonight.
Tonight, you had stayed late at the compound after what was supposed to be a quick visit. Yelena had dragged you into helping her taste test three different brands of frozen pierogi because she claimed "national security depends on knowing which one is least depressing."
Bob had fallen asleep on the couch halfway through a movie. Alexei had started telling a story about fighting a bear that changed details every seven minutes. Ava had vanished and reappeared twice, each time stealing more snacks.
John had sat beside you the whole night.
Not too close, never too close. But close enough that your knees brushed once, and he apologized like he had accidentally set fire to your coat.
By the time you finally stood to leave, the windows had gone black with late night rain.
"I'll walk you home," John said immediately.
You gave him a look. "John."
He was already reaching for his jacket. "It's late."
"I live three blocks away."
"Then it'll be a short walk."
"I have pepper spray."
"I've been pepper sprayed before."
"Why does that not surprise me?"
"It was training."
"Again. Not surprised."
His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed serious.
So you let him, you always let him.
The city was slick and shining under the streetlights, rain turning the pavement into black glass. John walked beside you with his hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. He looked almost normal like this. No helmet, no shield. Just a man in a dark jacket walking you home because he worried.
For a few minutes, everything was peaceful.
Then a voice cut through the rain.
"Hey."
You felt John stiffen before you even looked.
A man stood near the entrance to your building, smoking beneath the awning. You recognized him vaguely. He lived somewhere on the second floor and had once complained to the super because someone's delivery boxes were "ruining the aesthetic of the lobby."
His eyes moved from you to John, then narrowed. "You okay?" he asked you.
The question itself might have been fine, the tone was not.
John's posture changed instantly. His shoulders squared. His expression flattened. His chin lifted in that awful, familiar way. The armor came back on.
"I'm fine," you said.
The man did not move. "You sure? You know who that is, right?"
John's jaw tightened.
You felt your temper rise. "He's my friend."
The man scoffed, eyes still fixed on John. "That's one word for it."
John's voice was measured when he spoke. "We're just heading inside."
"Oh, I bet you are."
Your stomach turned.
John took half a step back.
That hurt more than the man's words.
That tiny retreat. That silent decision that he would rather make himself smaller than give anyone another reason to hate him.
"Don't," you said.
John glanced at you. "It's fine."
It was always fine. He was always fine. Bleeding on his boot. Bruised under his ribs. Smiling like the knife did not go in.
Fine, fine, fine.
You were sick of that word.
The man snorted. "People like him don't change. You should be careful."
Something in you snapped clean in two.
"No," you said.
Both men looked at you.
You stepped closer to your neighbor, rain dripping down your hair, anger hot enough to burn through the chill.
"No, you don't get to do that."
His eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"
"You don't get to stand outside my apartment and talk about him like he's some stray weapon I brought home by mistake."
John said your name softly. A warning... a plea.
You ignored it.
"You don't know him."
"I know enough."
"No, you know headlines. You know clips. You know whatever version of him lets you feel morally superior while you smoke under an awning and harass people at midnight."
The man's face flushed. "I'm making sure you're safe."
"No, you're not," you snapped. "You're making sure he knows there's nowhere he can go without someone reminding him they hate him."
John's hand brushed your arm. "Hey. It's okay."
You turned on him, furious now because he meant it. He really meant it. He had swallowed so much cruelty that he thought choking was normal.
"It is not okay."
John went silent.
The man gave a humorless laugh. "You're defending him pretty hard."
"Yes," you said. "I am."
"Why?"
The answer rose so fast it almost escaped whole.
"Because I lo…"
You stopped.
John froze.
The rain seemed to pause with him.
Your heart slammed against your ribs. Because you had almost said it right there in the street. In front of a cruel man and wet concrete and John Walker's shattered disbelief.
Because I love him, you absolute idiot.
You swallowed hard.
"Because I care about him," you finished, voice shaking.
John stared at you.
The man looked between you both, suddenly less certain.
You stepped toward your building door and pulled out your keys with trembling hands.
"Move."
This time, he did.
John followed you inside without a word.
The lobby was too bright, too quiet. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead while rain tapped against the glass doors behind you.
You did not speak in the elevator. Neither did John.
But you could feel him beside you, tense and rattled, whatever careful distance he always kept between you both now charged with something dangerous and tender.
By the time you reached your apartment, your hands were shaking so badly you dropped your keys.
John bent down before you could, picked them up, and handed them back.
His fingers brushed yours.
You both stilled.
Then you unlocked the door and stepped inside.
John followed only as far as the entryway, of course he did.
Always careful. Always giving you room. Always standing at the edge like he had already decided he did not deserve a place inside.
You turned on a lamp, flooding the room in soft golden light. Your apartment looked painfully normal. A blanket half folded on the couch, a mug in the sink, a stack of books on the side table. The ordinary shape of your life, suddenly holding a confession by the throat.
John stood near the door, rain darkening his hair, his hands flexing once at his sides.
"You didn't have to do that," he said.
You almost laughed. It came out broken.
"There it is again."
His brow furrowed. "What?"
"The same thing you said the night we met."
His face shifted. He remembered, of course he remembered.
"You didn't," he said quietly.
You looked at him for a long moment.
At the exhaustion in his eyes. At the tension in his shoulders. At the man who could face down monsters, governments, gunfire, and gods, but could not survive being cared for without trying to apologize.
"I'm so tired of it," you whispered.
John's expression tightened. "Of what?"
"Everyone hating you."
His gaze dropped.
You stepped closer.
"And you letting them."
His eyes snapped back to yours. "I don't let them."
"Yes, you do."
His jaw worked. "You don't understand."
"I understand enough."
"No," he said, voice roughening. "You don't. You see what you want to see."
You stepped closer again.
"I see you."
He shook his head once, sharp and pained. "You see pieces."
"I see enough pieces to know they're not rot."
That made him go still.
His face went quiet in a way that made your chest ache. Then he laughed once, without humor. "You shouldn't say things like that."
"Why?"
"Because you're kind."
You blinked.
John looked away like the words cost him.
"You're kind," he repeated, quieter. "And you think that means there's something worth saving in everyone."
"There usually is."
"Not everyone."
"Yes, John. Everyone."
He swallowed hard, then looked at you with something raw in his eyes. "You don't know what it's like to be someone people are right to hate."
The room went silent.
Your anger softened. Softened into something fiercer.
You crossed the remaining space between you and grabbed both his hands.
John looked down, startled.
His hands were cold from the rain. Larger than yours. Rough with old calluses and fresh scrapes. You held them tightly before he could pull away.
"Look at me," you said.
He doesn't.
"John."
His eyes lifted.
There he was.
Not the soldier. Not the headline. Not the shield. Not the public wound everyone kept pressing their thumbs into.
Just John.
Terrified of wanting. Terrified of being wanted back.
You took a shaky breath.
"I need you to listen to me."
His voice was barely there. "Okay."
"I didn't fall for an idea of you."
His fingers twitched in your hands.
You kept going before fear could eat the words.
"I didn't fall for the version of you people argue about online. I didn't fall for the shield or the uniform or whatever the world decided you were supposed to represent."
His breathing changed.
"I fell for the man who waits until I'm inside before he leaves. The man who remembers how I take my coffee. The man who lets Bob have the last pastry even though he thinks no one notices. The man who checks Ava's corners without making her feel watched. The man who argues with Bucky like it's breathing but still trusts him with his life. The man who acts annoyed when Yelena teases him, but always listens when she gets quiet."
John looked wrecked. Beautifully, terribly wrecked.
"And I fell for the man who saved me almost a year ago and then looked shocked when I said thank you."
Your throat tightened.
"Somewhere along the way, I fell for you."
He stared at you. Not breathing, not moving.
You wondered, wildly, if you had broken him.
Then he whispered, "No."
It hit like a slap.
But before you could pull back, his hands tightened around yours.
"No," he said again, and this time you heard it.
Not rejection... fear.
His eyes shone with it.
"No, you don't."
Your mouth parted.
John shook his head, almost frantic now. "You don't. You can't. Not you."
"John."
"You're good," he said, voice cracking at the edges. "You're good in a way I don't even know how to stand near half the time."
Your heart twisted.
He tried to pull his hands away, but you held on.
"You look at me like I'm..." He stopped, throat working. "Like I'm not what I am."
"And what are you?"
His expression hardened, but only because it was the last shield he had left.
"Rot."
The word dropped between you. Ugly and heavy.
Something he had carved into himself long before tonight.
You stared at him.
Then your grip tightened.
"Shut up."
John blinked.
You stepped closer, almost chest to chest now.
"I mean it. Shut up."
His eyes widened slightly.
You could feel his breath against your face.
"You don't get to talk about the man I love that way."
The words were out. This time, you didn't stop them.
John's entire face changed. A crack through stone. A door blown open. A man standing in the ruins of his own disbelief.
"The man you..." he breathed.
"Yes," you said, voice trembling but clear. "The man I love. And he is stubborn and infuriating and has the self preservation instincts of a brick thrown at a tank, but he is not rot."
John's hands turned under yours, slowly, until his fingers curled around yours properly.
Like he needed to hold onto something. Like he needed proof you were still there.
"You don't have to fix me," he whispered.
"I'm not trying to fix you."
"Then what are you doing?"
You looked at his mouth.
Then back to his eyes.
"I'm going to kiss you now."
John went perfectly still. The silence that followed was not empty. It was alive, a wire pulled tight between you.
His voice came out low and shaken. "You don't have to."
You nearly smiled. "There you go again."
His mouth parted, maybe to apologize, maybe to argue, maybe to give you one last exit he clearly did not want you to take.
You didn't let him. You rose onto your toes and kissed him.
For one impossible second, he didn't move.
His lips were warm and still under yours, his whole body held in that careful, aching restraint he used around anything he thought he could damage.
Then he made a sound. Small, broken, wondering. And kissed you back.
Not hard at first.
Tender.
So tender it nearly undid you.
His hands loosened from yours only so he could touch you with careful reverence, one palm finding your waist, the other hovering near your face before his knuckles brushed your cheek. Like he was asking permission with every breath. Like he was afraid the wrong move would wake him.
You answered by leaning into him.
That was all it took.
John's restraint fractured.
He stepped closer, backing you gently into the wall beside the entryway, one hand sliding to the side of your neck, thumb brushing the line of your jaw. The kiss deepened, slow and hungry and aching with everything neither of you had been brave enough to say.
Months of almosts bloomed at once.
Almost touching his hand during movies. Almost leaning into his shoulder during late-night rides. Almost telling him to stay when he walked you home. Almost saying I love you in the rain.
Now there was no almost.
There was John's mouth moving against yours like he had been starving quietly for so long he forgot hunger could end.
There was your hand fisting in the front of his jacket, pulling him closer because space suddenly felt insulting.
There was the soft scrape of his stubble against your skin, the warmth of him pressing you into the wall, the trembling inhale he took when your fingers slid into his damp hair.
He kissed you like he was trying to be careful. He kissed you like careful was losing.
Your other hand found his chest, right over the frantic beat of his heart.
John broke the kiss first, but barely.
His forehead rested against yours. His breathing was uneven. His hand still cradled your face as if he had forgotten how to let go.
"I'm scared," he admitted.
The honesty of it was almost more intimate than the kiss.
You opened your eyes.
"So am I."
His thumb moved once against your cheek.
"You shouldn't be with someone like me."
You kissed him again.
Shorter this time, but no less fierce.
When you pulled back, his eyes were closed.
"Stop deciding what I should want," you whispered.
His lashes lifted.
You held his gaze.
"I know who I love."
John looked at you for a long time.
Then something in him gave, not breaking, not collapsing, just surrendering the fight he had been losing anyway.
He leaned down and kissed you again.
This time, he didn't hesitate. This time, he let himself want.
And you felt it in the way his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you close enough that your feet nearly left the floor. You felt it in the way he exhaled against your mouth, like your name was trapped somewhere inside his chest. You felt it in the way he kissed you with tenderness sharpened by need, with disbelief slowly melting into something warmer.
Something dangerous.
Something alive.
When you finally part, the rain is still tapping at the windows.
The city still hates him. The world still has its teeth out.
But John Walker stands in your apartment with his hands on your waist and wonder in his eyes, and for the first time since you have known him, he looks like he might actually believe he's allowed to keep something good.
You brush your thumb along his jaw.
"Hi," you whisper, because apparently your brain has abandoned you completely.
John lets out a quiet, breathless laugh.
"Hi."
Then his smile fades into something softer. Something almost too fragile to look at directly. His hand comes up slowly, knuckles grazing your cheek. He touches you like he is still checking that you are real.
"You really love me?" he asks.
Your chest aches.
You kiss the corner of his mouth.
"Yes."
His eyes close.
The word lands somewhere deep in him. You can see it in the way his throat works. The way his shoulders drop by the smallest fraction, like he has been carrying a weight so long he forgot what it felt like to loosen his grip.
Then he pulls you into his arms. Careful and shaking, holding you like he is afraid to believe too loudly.
You wrap your arms around him without hesitation, pressing your cheek against his chest. His heart is beating fast under your ear, wild and human and painfully alive.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks.
Then John lowers his face to your hair.
"I don't know how to do this," he admits, voice rough.
You close your eyes. "Do what?"
"This." His arms tighten around you. "Be loved by you."
Your breath catches.
John pulls back just enough to look at you, and there's no armor left in his face now. No practiced smile, no hollow bravado. Just him, raw and terrified and trying so hard not to run from the thing he wants most.
"But I'll try," he says. "Every day. I swear to God, I'll work every day to be the man you deserve."
Something inside you breaks open from the ache of him still thinking love is a finish line he has to bleed toward.
You lift both hands to his face, holding him there before he can look away.
"John."
His eyes search yours.
You shake your head, gentle but firm.
"You already are."
He goes still.
You feel the words reach him slowly, like sunlight finding a locked room.
His lips part, but nothing comes out.
So you say it again.
"You already are the man I deserve."
His face twists for half a second, overwhelmed by it, by you, by the impossible mercy of being chosen without having to beg the world for permission first.
Then he kisses you again. Tender and deep, full of the kind of want that has stopped apologizing for existing. His hands slide around your waist, pulling you closer, and you rise into him easily, fingers threading through the damp hair at the nape of his neck.
He kisses you like he is learning a new language.
Like your mouth is teaching him the word stay. Like maybe, just maybe, he can.
John holds you in the soft light of your apartment, breathing like someone who has finally reached shore.
And when he presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed, voice barely above a whisper, he says, "I don't deserve you."
You smile against his mouth.
"Yes, you do."
This time, he doesn't argue, he only pulls you closer. Like a promise. Like the first safe place he had not had to earn.
john f walker x reader (thunderbolts)
⁓0.9k words
teammates to more? fluff, comfort
john hates public appearances even more than the other thunderbolts. after all, the day he got stripped of his mantle, all of his military decorations, was broadcasted live pretty much internationally - so why valentina told him to buy a new perfume didn't really make sense to him. nobody wants to let him sign some stupid pr pictures either way.
the random cologne he's been using since his army days has been just fine. strong, sure, but even with his enhanced senses his nose grew accustomed to it, and nobody on the team really commented on it either because he barely used it, preferring just smelling like himself.
the new one he bought - luckily on valentina's card - is much more subtle and warm. it has notes of petrichor and some earthy tones mixed in there as well, and while he finds it unnecessary to buy an entire new fragrance when his old one was doing its job, at least he enjoyed this one the most out of everthing he tried.
he still came back from the store with a headache after being bombarded with weird, way too strong smells from every side.
still, john is unsure if it really does fit him. valentina didn't care to comment on the purchase, and he hasn't worn it since - but with a fan signing event later today, he used it for the first time. a spritz to the neckline of his suit, one to his wrist, letting the fine mist settle on his skin. his nose scrunches a little at the unfamiliar smell; not uncomfortable, just... foreign.
with a bit of hesitation, his thoughts move over to you. you're the closest thing he's got to a friend on this team, the one he knows he can always go to for honest advice that doesn't involve being bullied by yelena or ava.
you're already in your tactical suit when john sheepishly knocks at your bedroom door, and you let him in with a small "hi". he can see the nervosity behind your smile still, not used to being in the public eye, but he knows that you'll be able to handle it well, as you always do.
before he can even ask his question, the one he milled over in his mind for the entire way from his floor to yours, your eyebrows raise subtly. with a deep breath in through your nose, you tilt your head, stepping closer until you can feel the heat radiate from his body and permeate into yours.
"you got a new perfume?" the sudden proximity has the super soldier freeze, and he has to fight to get his reply out.
"yeah, i wanted to ask if it suits me."
you take another step closer, now fully in his personal space, and bury your nose under his jaw with a soft nuzzle that has his breath hitch. the hand that isn't hanging loosely by your side splays gently over his stomach when you hum.
"it's really nice."
your voice, your body, this close to him, have him lock up, heartbeat growing frantic at the warmth that oozes off you. you've never been much of a cuddly person and he never thought that you being this near would have this much of an effect on him, but it does - you're so gentle in your touch that his next breath comes out in a trembling stutter.
when you move to step away, apologise for invading his space, one of his calloused hands immediately, subconsciously moves to your waist to keep you close, not wanting this moment to end so soon. he didn't realise he was this touch starved until right now, until you touched him without even a shred of hesitation, without a care about his violent reputation.
the unspoken question in your eyes goes unnoticed when he timidly wraps his other arm around your shoulders to tug you closer.
"stay like this for a while, please," he whispers, shy and quiet, and he sighs out in relief when you gladly snake your arms around his waist in response.
john all but melts, buries his face into the bend of your neck, body relaxing from a tension he didn't know he'd been holding in his muscles for the past few years. the hand on your waist travels to nudge you in even closer, until your body is flush against his and he can only feel you and your softness.
it's been too long since he'd had a hug, especially one this gentle, and you can't say you're not enjoying this either - you get to drown in his warmth, feel him close, smell his perfume that's mixed with john's own, unique smell. a hesitant kiss, placed right against his temple, has him breathe out an almost inaudible whimper that he doesn't care to hide from you.
minutes pass, but it feels like hours and just mere seconds at the same time when both of your phones chime with reminders from mel and he finally pulls away slightly. you keep his vulnerable gaze and hum reassuringly when he starts to fidget with the hem of your tactical vest.
"i'm sorry, i just... i needed this," he quietly confesses, and you smile at him with enough adoration in your eyes that he has to avert his - and yet they flicker back almost straight away as if he can't keep them off of you for long.
"never be sorry about that, john," you mutter sweetly, carefully, take his hand and lift it so you can press your lips to his wrist, "thank you for trusting me with this. you can always come to me if you need or just want a hug."
and who is he to decline your offer when you look at him oh so fondly.
author's note: oh to give this man some warmth in his cold ass life
Pairing: William Ironhead Miller x F!Reader (call sign: Magic)
Summary: A mission takes a turn for the worse… and then the better.
Rating: Explicit. All my works and blogs are 18+ regardless of rating. Minors do not interact. Blank/ageless blogs get immediate blocks.
Words: 9 K?!?!?!?!
Warnings: SWEARING, smut, dubious consent, noncon elements- sex pollen scenario, semi-public, hiding, tight spaces, claustrophobic sex, danger, guns, Canon typical violence and death, military scenario, blood, injury, military mission, reader is in the military and a member of the Delta team, angst, mentions of previous asshole encounter at a bar, discovering things about Will, voice kink, praise kink, mentions of pet names: sweetheart, bunny, good girl etc. brief mentions of hand kink, authority kink? (Will is Reader’s Captain), Fuck Tom, insecurity, imposter syndrome, Captain!Will, Capable!Will, OCD, mentions of major character death, mentions of previous IronFish, so Bi!Will, reader is described as smaller in stature to Will, shame, guilt, embarrassment, one sneaky Inception reference, aphrodisiac, smut, grinding, fingering, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, accidental stimulation, fear, established relationship, friends to lovers, major idiots to lovers, protective Will, switching povs, angsty fic but happy ending
A/N: a treat for you and me !!
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Thank you for reading!! Please engage if you enjoyed- likes, comments and reblogs mean ✨ e v e r y t h i n g ! ✨Thank you friend! ^_^ 💖💖💖
You moved in silence. Not quietly. No, you were trained to be better than that. Hugging the shadows- weaving through them like you were born of darkness, you navigated the narrow hallways of the ship with stealth and speed. Gaze trained down the sight, ears straining for any sound aside from the creak of metal as the ship swayed in the sea, you trace Ironhead’s footsteps. Inwardly cringing at the singular blood trail marking the only other sign he’d been this way. The bodies. Dark puddles are still pooling beneath them. Killed by blade as no gunfire had split the air yet. At least not down here. How the rest of the team fared above your heads- feet of solid metal between you that destroyed any hopes of consistent comms- would be seen on the other side of this hallway.
The one that Ironhead was trying to clear- whether he realized you were behind him when you were meant to be in front was also yet to be seen. By his take no prisoners tactics and the fact you were to rendezvous with him on the deck and that you hadn’t heard even a whisper of combat down here in his violent wake- it meant Will was moving with haste. Probably for what he thought was your sake.
Unfortunately your boarding of the ship hadn’t gone to plan. The fierce swell was shit luck in the first place.The beginning of a storm had forced the rest of the team to navigate the patrol boat to another position when you’d already climbed the ladder and cleared the railing. Their shouts to you were lost to the wind and waves. You were meant to have Ironhead directly behind you- he was supposed to be your cover while you gathered your bearings and decided the best path into the depths of the hull.
Left to your lonesome, a hostile found you while you were stripping off your wetsuit in a dark corner. By some small whisper of luck in your favor as the rain blanketed down in nearly opaque sheets, you’d noticed him before he had a chance to react. Incapacitating him before he could alert the others to your presence. Still, he’d managed a brutal fist to your mask in the scuffle before your knife found its mark. Shoving the blade past his tac vest while blood coated your teeth.
The comms had cracked the moment before you’d descended into the guts of the ship.
“Front to rear, disappear boys-Magic,” Benny’s voice drawling in your ear indicating the mission remained the same despite the change in course. The timeline was FUBAR’d but you’d trained enough to push forward alone.
“Got your six, Magic,” Ironhead affirms to you over the comms as though to answer your internal debate of whether to wait for some sign of him near the original meetup or to push on. There was no opportunity to inquire which side of the ship Will had boarded- whether and where the rendezvous point had changed as hostiles blanketed the deck. Clearly he was somewhere less infested with them if he dared to use his comms with his voice but his vantage point deemed the assurance necessary. Odds were high he could see you but you couldn’t him.
Based on the footsteps surrounding you- boots heavy on metal above and approaching from ahead on the deck- you couldn’t linger anywhere up here for long without being discovered. All you could do was spare a few seconds to click your comms button in acknowledgement. Not daring to use your voice should you give your position away.
Three taps then you pushed forwards. The hatch into the ship was darker than the moonless night that kept your presence here a secret. Some anxiety clawed through you while your night vision goggles adjusted to the darkness when the ship’s depths swallowed you. Closing the hatch behind you- you inwardly cursed- realizing the first hostile’s contact with your face had compromised not only your ability to breathe through your nose but also the function of your mask. The goggles were glitching. Shoving them up your head- you were forced to wait a moment longer for your natural vision to adjust.
Fuck, maybe you should have waited for Will instead of slinking around essentially blind. It wasn’t unsurprising this ship operated with red lights only. Trying to escape the neighboring country's awareness of its unwanted presence in their waters. But it made it a bitch of a time for you to navigate towards the goal set for you. Reach the research lab at the heart of the hull and gather whatever intel it contained.
The good news was no alarms sounded as you moved. The team up above would extract you if needed however security measures seemed scarce below deck compared to what Pope, Benny and Fish were dealing with. Recalling the blueprints of the ship’s layout- you locate the next set of stairs that will take you deeper into the belly of the steel beast. Still wishing you had Ironhead with you. A weapon of a man that would be the quick blade finding its way between plated armor with his sharp honed senses and skills. Will would locate the lab like he’d built the ship himself. Would pass silently through these walls like a ghost. Only realizing your partner was not a spirit haunting your steps- but leading them when you find the first prone hostile at the bottom of the stairs.
Blood stains the ground, fills the mask covering the hostile’s face. Will’s work was never pretty and always efficient.
The first promising hatch appears after a disappointing set of storage rooms and utility closets. The entrance to a lab- a room fit for changing into research uniforms. Lab coats, lockers, sign in and out sheets. Entering swiftly, you sweep the space corner to corner before moving towards the door on the other side.
This has to be the lab.
There’s a creak of metal unlike all the rest of the heaving ship. Sharper. Closer before a flurry of movement explodes behind you.
Your mask is ripped off the top of your head and your head is yanked back with it. A wise opponent uses the shifting gravity of the ship to their advantage- pulling you with the sway of the swell so that your ability to correct is now at a massive loss. Gravity takes over your ability to aim your weapon before it's knocked out of your grip. The possibility to react in any shape or form is reduced to a burst of surprise and panic. Your fingers reach for your knife- slick with blood from the first hostile- you get a hold but the slippery sense of a battle about to be lost before it had hardly begun slithers into your awareness. Some untrained part of you fills with agony. Fuck, you were better than this. Shame and guilt competes for your focus- the one you’d drilled into seeking and achieving your survival. Before you can get a sense of bearing- strong arms lock around yours.
“S’me, Magic,” Ironhead growls into your head- keeping his own tight to yours so you can’t bash him with it out of trained reaction. The very one he’s coached into you when you performed drills of this kind of attack on your six. Ironhead knows well enough your next fallback move. Sidesteps your boot before it can land on his own while your brain catches up with his words. Adrenaline breaking through to register him as friendly while he locks down your blade with his iron grip.
“Fuck, Ironhead,” you hiss when Will releases you as soon as your voice leaks out recognition and disregard in equal measure. If the sea you operated in now was made of swear words you could empty it now through your mouth in just a few seconds. And perhaps vacate your gut too as it revolts to realize you could have just compromised not only the mission- but Will’s life.
That cold, blue gaze is serious while he evaluates your destroyed mask in his gloved hands. How he manages to already disengage from the thought of you shooting or stabbing him while your body jolts with the action he’d dismantled you from in less than an instant must be the reason he’s Captain.
Compartmentalize. Separating action from emotion.
You could have shot him.
Beaned your fucking Captain.
Slid a blade beneath his ribs and then had to explain why to his fucking brother.
Benny would have killed you. If you all would have even survived.
And Will seems to have tracked all of this and yet gives away nothing. Not a crumb of feeling found in his eyes for your own to feed on. Not a flicker of consideration as to where you both could have ended up. The blue of his gaze darker than the sea you just ascended from.
Embarrassment that you hadn’t initially seen him in your scope out of the room, that you hadn’t reacted in time to his attack- surges through your frame in replacement of the shock of his ambush. Unsure if you wanted his blood spilled more than you wanted your unease to disappear if only to save you the lecture. Ironhead preoccupies himself with your broken gear while you bend and collect your rifle, trying to focus on something else than the mixture of energy in your frame.
There’d be time to discuss it later. Of course you knew he’d bring it up eventually. At least he wouldn’t be a dick about it like Redfly.
We’re learning for next time so we don’t make the same mistakes.The ones which could have landed you both dead.
Will always operated from a team perspective where Tom always put you on the spot. “You’ll get everyone killed! Use your fucking head next time if we’ll be so fucking lucky.”
Ironhead lets you have a moment longer of introspection, apparently unconcerned with being discovered as he examines your smashed mask. It was odd now that you thought about it. The absence of security. A nagging sense that something wasn’t right about any of this creeps into your awareness.
The mission must go on despite your reservations about your usefulness to it. You were here despite that poor performance and may well be less of a burden to Ironhead and his team.
Examining the room, you note an empty locker.The sound from earlier echoes in your mind. The scrape of metal when Will had made himself known to your awareness. Familiar with the sharp screech of it. How many times had you heard it in the wake of Benny’s fights when you all crowded into the locker room to patch him up?
“Is this where you were fucking hiding?” you ask, unable to disguise the laughter as you marvel at the size of the metal container. It was only a little bit larger than the lockers you were used to in the community center gym and the military base. How Will managed to cram himself inside of it- and exit it with speed as he’d done when he’d attacked you- was a mystery.
Turning to Will- who even amidst the red light and shadows- fills the space like he refuses to let one atom of himself disappear. The broadness of him is accentuated further by the amount of gear he dons. The swivel of his shoulders reminds you of how Benny commands himself in the cage. Like he owns every inch of his being. Can provoke every firm muscle of his impressive frame to action. You’ve trained with the older Miller often enough to know the violence he possesses. Restrains. The strength of him held back- only unleashed for the sake of his profession.
You can’t help but wonder what Will would be like if his mission were of a different sort- a sexier one.The wide expanse of Will’s chest beneath his tac vest, his towering height all held against you just moments ago is suddenly a sense memory you can’t ignore. Heat pulses through you.
What the fuck is going on? No, no, no, *not* the fucking time- you try to tamp down the thoughts that cause heat to bloom in your belly and between your thighs.
“Worked in a pinch,” Will replies- a slight curve to his lips when he looks at you-his smirk blotting out your thoughts. You’d have to pinch yourself for this dreamy consideration of him. You’re almost tempted when your eyes meet for a heartbeat too long. An ache thrumming through you that has nothing to do with the way he just manhandled you into not debilitating him and yet everything to do with his hands on you.
Although Will’s gaze grazes your mouth for a moment- his eyes flick away and evaluates the swelling across your nose. It must be quite bad, you think, because his brow furrows and his jaw ticks over.
“I thought you were here already,” Will says, unable to hide the worry in his tone. He hadn’t heard your comm contact. The taps lost to the torrential rain as he searched the vacant rendezvous point. His heart slamming in his mouth the entire way here because he thought you’d been captured. Teeth gritting over his fear. Swallowing panic and sliding blade into skin with an efficiency he thought he’d lost in recent years with his age. But you’d appeared. Like Magic, he thinks, smiling to himself despite the serious place his mind had just visited.
As though sensing his dark considerations, you attempt to brighten the mood while searching for anything useful in the lockers. Most of them are empty.
“I make it a habit to appear at critical moments,” you say, self deprecation always got you a small smile from the Captain. Perhaps it reminded him of Benny’s humor. Either way it was effective at sliding past Will’s iron defenses.
“Like a bunny,” Will says and you lift a brow as he runs a hand down his face. Sweat beads upon his brow- the bowels of the ship are warm and the fear that had driven his form down these halls with murderous intent had brought its own heat. If you weren’t suffering from the same adrenaline rush in this tin can you’d think he looked feverish.
“Out of a hat,” Will adds, miming a magician pulling a rabbit from a top hat. It’d become an integral team signal as part of your call sign due to your ability to emerge in tight spots of combat as victor. Something they all likened to magic, the superstitious lot that they were.
Benny called you his good luck charm for his fights. He’d only started winning consistently when you joined the team- which you thought was linked to his training becoming condensed. Will as his coach had to be shared with you now- ever since Will decided your combat skills would be brought up to his standards.
When you weren’t on contract work, watching Benny fight or practicing tactical drills- you trained with Will. Recalling being with him in the cage produced a new wave of heat in your body. A burn in you that longed for the fuel he provided. Those golden smiles, gifted to you when you got a skill down. His gritted off, near breathless “Good girl,” offered after he taps out on the mat. Doling praise with what you believed was no thought to the way your brain short circuited at the words- but Will was nothing if not observant. Your body stilling beneath his- breath hitching beneath his hands before you flustered through a half assed response.
Ironhead shuffles where he stands and you inwardly slap yourself for staring at him. For fuck’s sake, he was your Captain- you’d be right to remember that important fact especially up to your throats in a mission. Shifting back to the task at hand instead of gathering around the proverbial water cooler- fuck- you could use a cold shower right now- clear the sweat pricking at your spine where it meets your tac vest. Wash away the thoughts of Will and what he’d look like if he kept it on while he–
Will interrupts the path of your ruined mind.
“You came down the port side stairwell?” Will asks, the words strained through his teeth, fingers clenched around your mask so that the leather of his glove squeaks. You notice his own mask is missing. The claw mark across his cheek means someone else had removed it for him. Forcefully.
You nod and Will sighs heavily, shoulders descending a fraction before he shuffles whatever is weighing down his regard and straightens his spine.
“Alright, well-let’s get moving,” Will says, discarding your mask and gesturing with his rifle to the door of the lab. Positioning yourself parallel to it, you wait for Will to follow suit- noting his breathing is ragged where he hovers behind you.
The blood trail from the hallway- connecting all his kills from the first- dots your thoughts with its dark sheen. Staining your attention- How could you have forgotten to check if he was okay?
Before Will can command you to breach you turn to him.
Why he doesn’t immediately chew you out for ignoring the tactical advance but instead you find his blue gaze roving your face- and you know it isn’t to examine the swelling because his eyes linger on your lips.
“You okay?” you query and Will seems to emerge from a fog, blinking away his break in focus to nod.
“M’fine,” he grits out, chin tipping to the door beyond you and the thick cords of his neck are revealed behind the fabric of his buff. The lift of his sharp jaw reveals that distracting stretch of tensing muscles that jerk and twist with his silent order. Throat bobbing when he swallows thickly like the air had turned to paste between you. Blue gaze implores you, something pained behind it.
Get moving.
The only place you want to move is towards him. To shove your bruised face into the crook of his neck where a firm shoulder meets his tactical vest and then skin. Sheening with sweat and sea water. Will leans towards you- just a fraction- as though drawn in by your unspoken musings. The scent of him- of salt and gun smoke and iron- collides with the goal of the mission.
Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.
What. The. Fuck.
While you weren’t as experienced as Will- as the rest of the team- you were always professional. Constantly aimed to uphold the honor of your oaths and respect the authority of your Captain.
But something was wrong.
Very wrong.
Sure- you had a lot of thoughts about Will before this moment. But you’d trained very hard to be proficient at your work- and to maintain boundaries amidst your team. If you entertained more intimate thoughts about Will on your time off- in your bunk and dreams- that was your own business. You’d managed to work alongside him for six months without trespassing into less professional territory. Sure there were long looks when you thought the other wasn’t looking. Maybe you stared at his hands while he cleaned his gear. Maybe he stared at your ass when you ran the ten training miles every morning. Maybe you enjoyed doing combat drills with him- or when he showed you some of Benny’s signature cage moves at the gym. Maybe you enjoyed Will’s blue eyes upon you more than you would admit. His firm hands on your thighs and arms when he pulled and pushed you into a submissive hold- always gentle- afraid to inflict harm when all he wanted was to make you laugh beneath him. Maybe you enjoyed when he used his Captain voice for trivial things- and not in the asshole way that Tom used his.
Will was kind, aware of his authority- and never made you feel less than.
And that’s how you wanted to keep things.
But something was happening between the two of you.
And it got worse when you breached the lab.
It was darker than the hallways when you entered. Flicking your moonbeam on- it casts more light on your situation but not as much as for Will when he follows. In a heartbeat Ironhead clears the corner and maneuvers towards a laptop on one of the stations.
Yanking his glove off, his fingers clatter over the keys while his gaze cements itself on the screen like it owes him something. Taking up a post and hovering by the next exit- you try to look out for hostiles while Will gathers intel.
Ironhead’s sharp curse comes before an alarm blares. The room flashes between blinding white and ominous red while a siren wails in what feels like your brain with how loud it wanes and lifts. Gunfire erupts somewhere far away. Footsteps clang overhead. Will grips your arm, hauling you back to the locker room.
Figuring his plan was to work your way back the way you’d come in- you make for the hallway but Will’s grip tightens, forcing you to turn to him.
“What’s wrong?” you ask, searching his frame for signs of injury. Finally you notice the stain over his thigh- dark with blood- no weapon or shrapnel remaining but a nasty gash along the outer side of his leg.
Will’s face contorts in pain- head swivels back to the lab and the data stick in his grip. His hands tremble- fisted knuckles white.
“We need to go,” you urged him on, he hadn’t even limped earlier- the wound couldn’t be that bad yet and you’d seen him lose more blood than this on previous missions. Footsteps thunder down the wall- an echo of angry thuds against metal. The echo of them hollows out and meets itself as they make their way closer. The other hallway would sound the same in a few mikes. It was time to get the fuck out.
“Can’t,” Will growls through a tight, near constant shake of his head- his gaze torn away from the oncoming hostiles and while his word didn’t sound like defeat- his voice held a quality you’d heard only one time before when icy blue eyes landed on you.
The night at the bar just off base. When a fellow recruit had tried to feel you up despite you turning him down. Freshly a part of the team- you were used to fighting your own battles and were about to give the stupid asshole an earful and likely fistful of your wrath. Hadn’t expected Will to snap upright from his seat at the bar and cement the handsy idiot in his sights the second the fool’s hand grazed your thigh.
Certainly hadn’t expected the bit off, “Excuse me, sweetheart,” directed towards you before Will’s fist snapped out and connected with the guy’s teeth. Will had moved like lightning. Used all the space provided in the crowded bar- mindful to keep himself between you and the unfortunate target in his hands. The man’s head was guided forcely against the edge of the bar and then the stool Will had sat on- enough for the smacks to draw pained grunts and a group of onlookers. Not enough damage though. Not to Will’s standards as he shoved the man’s throat into the crook of his elbow- the offending hand of the creep now twisted at a brutal angle behind his back. A series of pop’s as bones crushed beneath Will’s grip joined a distressed squealing- conveniently covering up whatever dangerous words Will hissed into the man’s ear before he was released. Ran off to the parking lot never to show his face in front of you again.
There’d been a protectiveness that had shook through Will’s polite words to you before the violence.Vibrated through you now at his growled “Can’t” but confusion bled in just as well.
“It’s time to disappear, bunny,” Will says with a tight shrug of his shoulders before he holsters his rifle and shoves you against the lockers.
“What the fuck-” you wanted to ask what he meant, but Will crowds against you. Twisting you around and pressing you further into the locker before cramming himself in after. Will tugs the door closed with a sharp squeak just as the horde of footsteps reaches the hatch to the changing room.
In the last few seconds available, Will wraps an arm around your waist and props you upon one of his legs, forcing you to sit higher into the locker as he wedges himself at the door he holds closed. Afraid you’ll both topple out if he doesn’t make adjustments. Your back is to his chest- your chest to the wall of the metal box. Will’s arm is like a cage around your middle- anchoring you to him and while usually you’d be panicking over the small space- something about Will’s touch keeps you grounded. It helps that he's chosen the emptiest locker. There’s more room to breathe than you expected in the tight conditions.
But the group at the door makes you both hold your breath as their breach is called out. You try to turn your head to get your sight on the only exit but Will’s voice husks out against your head where his is thrust against it.
“Don’t move,” Will commands. It’s an order. He uses his Captain voice but it lands on your personal radar given the low, gritted off quality of it. Your very personal radar as his knee lifts a little higher while he tries to grab his weapon. Wedging his thick thigh between yours. Placing pressure on your core in a way that you didn’t dare admit when his head was smashed against yours so hard you were sure he could hear your thoughts.
Both you and Will stood paralyzed. Breaths held against your potential discovery. The knowing that neither of you had a weapon in position to aim let alone shoot pressing on your minds. But one of Will’s guns was pressing against you. A hard bulge against your ass.
Once most of the horde of hostiles dispersed and it was almost silent in the locker room and adjoining lab for a few mikes- you dared to wiggle into a more comfortable position. Will’s thigh that was pressed between yours became your leverage and you hoped it wasn’t the injured one when your legs tightened around it.
Will groaned behind you at the action. A low sound that rumbled from his chest and into yours even through the tac vests. It didn’t sound painful but you tried to give him as much space as the crammed box allowed. Which was essentially nothing. Less than nothing even. You were stuck in the locker- “nut to butt'' as it were. Will’s hulking form curled around yours as he attempted to use most of his size as a shield should anyone think to check the lockers. The hostiles outside the thin piece of steel shout curt orders. Will stares them down as they sweep the space again.
A masked guard stalks the line of lockers you hide in. Will’s body tenses against yours every time the man moves closer. All his firm muscle held against you poised to burst forth and inflict harm if necessary. Fearing the worst- what if one of you got stuck in the process of exiting the locker- or collapsed out of it- the hand not grasping Will’s arm around your waist reaches backwards to brace against Will.
You're searching for him- not tac vest or weapon or comms- you need Will. To steady him and yourself. First, your fingers find dense fabric and foam- the edges of his tac vest so you aim lower. The cool metal of his magazine clip meets your hand next. Carefully, quietly you venture further. Needing to feel his skin against yours for no good reason other than if you were about to be shot to bits in a metal box- you wanted Will to know you cared. And if you couldn’t use your words- you could use touch.
Finally you feel the heat of him- the skin across his hip against your fingers brings some small measure of relief. But there were some mysteries about the Miller man that you’d yet to discover.
Will was ticklish.
At your glancing touch his hips stutter against you in surprise. Will’s breath bursts against your ear in a bitten off chuckle- nearly drawing blood from his lip to prevent himself from the involuntary reaction. There’s a hitch of his breath and a hiss to reflect it.
The prowling guard stalks the other side of the room now. Will dares to speak. Barely giving voice to his words with the proximity of you.
“What are you doing?” Will asks and you can’t help the shiver at the way his voice has dropped even though he barely puts sound to it.
Your fingers touch him more firmly- wrapping around the curve of his hip as though to press him more properly to where he was rooted against your own hips.If you were going to die like a sardine in a can- you may as well get to know your neighbor a little bit better. Squeezing what you can hold- you hoped some small feeling might transfer to Will. Some sense of care and appreciation that he was here with you. Maybe imminent death was making you so bold, you didn’t really know what had overcome you. Feeling up your Captain before being punctured by lead wasn’t exactly on your bucket list but the feel of Will being so close was like a drug. And your fingertips on his bare skin felt like a breath of fresh air.
“Are you trying to get us killed?” Will asks when your fingers find his tac belt. Curiously, the gun you thought was against your ass was holstered at his side. What you supposed had shifted in Will’s attempts to squeeze you both inside this box with haste had stayed in place the entire time. Which meant that wasn’t a hard weapon against your ass. It was Will.
Fuck, you couldn’t blame him- your thighs squeezing over his to get some relief from your precarious thoughts. A tightness and swirling in your belly and lower- that familiar tugging of need growing. It made sense being so close. Will was attractive and based on the looks you’d caught him taking when he thought you weren’t paying attention- you were too. At least to his liking and now you were pressed against him in a less than professional position and you both were reacting in accordance. Something about this discovery and your preoccupation with it should have set off alarm bells. Any other day it would have. But instead it spurred you. A compulsion to feel more of Will drives your hand further behind your back, closer to where you’re flush against him.
Your fingers leave his hip and find the coarse hair of his happy trail. Will’s stomach flexes beneath your touch as though to meet them. His breathing rasps out behind you- his body jerking against yours like he’s sensitive. God, you could make him feel so good- take him right along the path of pleasure if he’d only allow it. Let down that guarded persona of his that never lets him get close to anyone. The only person you’d ever truly seen him let down his defenses for was Benny but you supposed he never built any up for his brother anyways.
“Fuck-” Will curses behind you and you can’t help the way your thighs tighten, drawing another curse from the back of his throat. The hand at your waist hauls you further into him while his hips lift to meet your aching core.
Will’s breath bursts against your neck as he presses his head against yours.
“You need to stop before I fucking come in my pants,” Will husks, but he’s left the order out of his words. The way his fingers dig into you indicates he wishes for the opposite.
“What the fuck is wrong with us,” you say and Will’s hand snakes up your tac vest to cover your mouth, his chest forcing you further into the wall while he stills both your movements with his weight. It further proves to you that if he’d truly wanted to he could have put an end to your attentions.
The guard’s footsteps approach but fade until they disappear completely along with the rest.
Will’s fingers gingerly lift from your face, careful to avoid your swollen nose before he speaks- voice catching on grit.
“Neurotoxin,” Will says and your blood chills but not for nearly as long as it should when his hand cements itself against your side once more, pulling you into him while he inhales your scent. Face pressed against your crown- Will allows himself to enjoy one last moment of closeness before he plans to haul you out of the locker and off this fucking hellship.
“Which one?” you ask, your voice wavering with fear so that Will surfaces from his need to hold you close for a moment to grasp your fear instead. He would take it from you- that shiver of anxiety he feels against him- he’d turn it into something good. Make you feel nothing but good. With his hands, his mouth, his cock…have you trembling against him in pleasure.
“Aphrodisiac,” Will replies bluntly, “Don’t know exactly the one but it feels like when we ran into it during the Cobol mission.”
You hadn’t joined the team at that point. It was a job they didn’t discuss- but that was the same for a lot of their missions. The after effects were still being felt in the shifting dynamics of their relationships. There was a closeness about them all that seemed accentuated.
The only good news about this was that Will was alive. They’d survived that job and now he was pressed up against you in a way that felt too good to be true. So maybe this toxin wouldn’t kill you. But the thought of exiting the locker and separating yourself from him felt like it would be worse than death.
Maybe you could convince Will to stay a while longer…
Divert his attention- just enough so you can truly grab hold of it.
“What are they doing out there?” you ask because Will blocks your vision. Ever vigilant gaze never left the slats that allow him to observe the going ons beyond the feel of you against him. The guards have dispersed. There’s one or two posted outside the changing room but he could take care of them in a heartbeat.
The danger had passed.
“We should pop smoke,” Will admits, but you pop the button on his tac pants instead. Will tries to remember how to breathe when your fingers fumble with the zipper.
If he was in his right mind he’d be squeezing his way out of the locker and kicking ass. But mind clouded with the toxin- all he can focus on is the feel of your ass against him. The sweet, agonizing pressure as you mindlessly grind against his thigh. Over and over and over. He doesn’t even care about the stab wound on his other one. Doesn’t feel any pain when you’re attached to him like this.
“Will it kill us?” you ask, fingers scraping over his tac belt like you’re stalling and he resists the urge to push your hand lower.
“No,” Will’s quick to answer, to reassure, and your hand stills at the word before you draw it away- like you’ve interpreted it as his refusal. Will almost chokes at the loss of your touch, “It’s meant to temporarily destabilize. Non-lethal tactic There’s ways to stop its effects.” Will manages to grit out most of that with some composure- but then you shove yourself back on him harder- further. Restraint clambers against the intense urge to take care of you and not in a professional way.
“Like Magic?” you joke, the insinuation clear in your phrasing. Your relieved laughter strikes him in his chest. You were probably scared, he inwardly chides himself for not trying to communicate the situation sooner. He thinks it was the first mark in the post side staircase. The hostile had ripped his mask off before stabbing him. Will had felt the effects begin shortly after that as he traversed the ship. Fever, distraction, an aching need in his groin all centered on you when you appeared. The blood loss wasn’t helping but it certainly hadn’t hindered the stiffness of his cock where it nestled against you.
Guilt storms through Will. Floods his senses but less than if he’d been sober. He was your Captain- he was supposed to take care of you. Make you feel supported and safe- and instead he was acting like a horny teenager- rutting against you when he should be offering words of solace- safety-
“Toxin only activates if there’s a seed- a pre-existing attraction-” Will says, although he isn’t sure if he’s making the situation better or worse by admitting his feelings towards you. He was your Captain for fucks sake. And now the reason you found yourself nearly out of your mind trying to seek pleasure against his thigh.
“Fuck, m’sorry,” Will grunts out, hips arching against you to find some sort of reprieve from the loss of your hands exploring touch.
“S’okay,” you slur, the bulge of him pressing against your core in a way that reduces all your thoughts to wondering how well you could take him. How much he could stretch you over his cock-
“M’sorry,” Will repeats three more times- a stress induced tic of his OCD presenting itself alongside the need to remove all the fabric between the two of you. You were so close- just a few layers away and he could sink himself inside of you.
“S’not your fault, Will,” you return- wondering why he blames himself for becoming susceptive to a weapon of war when it was your attraction that had rooted the issue in the first place. Your hands had returned to grasping his- the one he wrapped around you to haul you into him further. Afraid to continue your exploring for fear this was only a product of brain chemicals gone awry- that Will didn’t truly want to see this to its natural end as much as you did. There was nothing for him to apologize for- if anything it was you that should.
“Fuck-,” Will curses when you brace your hands against the locker wall to push back against him even more, unable to resist rubbing on him when his hands reach further down- gloved fingers wrapping around your thighs. The shake in his arms betrays his need- all of his frame surrounding you surging with desire.
“Please, Will,” you had every intention of apologizing- of accepting your role in this chemical undoing of sorts- of relieving Will of his guilt for leading you here when he had no way of anticipating this threat. Instead this begging is what your mouth forms- the words you’d bitten back for what feels like ages when Will’s hand slides between your thighs. Offering pressure that makes you want to burst with his sure application.
“Please, what, sweetheart,” Will asks, anguished when your fingers find his bulge and presses back, “Please- fu-ck-ing what,” Will’s words stutter as your hand wraps around him.
“Tell me to stop, sweetheart” he grits out as he ruts against you harder, seeking friction as your fingers slide inside his tac pants while his fingers rub between your legs like his next lungful of air needs to be full of you. Stained by the way you gasp and moan and tremble for him. His name mixed into your pleas so sweetly that he almost misses that you’re referring to him informally. Not Captain, not Ironhead. Will.God, the way your lips wrap around his name is better than he could have ever imagined.
“Tell me to stop.” Will begs the order, hard voice turning over the words into seriousness when he continues, “I never imagined it being like this,” Will stutters out, his words regretful even as he surges to meet your closing fist around his achingly hard cock. The fabric around him is damp with precum. The ability to close your hand hindered by the awkward angle that you attempt to hold him by and the thickness of him. Fuck, you didn’t want to stop- you wanted to keep going forever.
“Want you,” so fucking badly, Will agonizes, “Think of you like this all the fucking time,” Will breathes into your crown, the heat of him around you- the delving of his fingers against your tac belt a torture. The sincerity of his words ricochets around your mind, finding the parts of you that you tried to shield and shattering them.
Will had imagined this too? You weren’t alone in your daydreaming and longing?
Will’s hand stills between your legs- his mind clambering over his restraint- still addled by the drugs. He held his breath for a little more clarity- all the hostiles were wearing masks to avoid the effects.
“Tell me what you want,” he breathes out, head lolling back to slam against the locker when you squirm against him- caught between seeking the hardness in his pants and the pleasure his hand had been a moment ago- whining at the loss of his attention..
God, he needed to get you both out of here and off this fucking ship.
But how the hell was he supposed to do that when he was quite sure you’d collapse the moment he ripped himself away from you? If he was honest, he thinks he’d fall from the separation too. Useless as an empty mag. Cobol had left him feeling like an open wound. Tearing himself away from Fish felt less like picking at the scab of their feelings and more like turning himself into one giant, raw nerve. Fighting their way out of that clusterfuck while under the influence of the drug had been a mistake- it's a miracle they all made it out alive.
Will didn’t want to risk your life like that. So he’d risk your friendship instead. He could take care of you- get you through this mission and if things were awkward after- then so be it. At least you’d be alive to hate him. He’d given plenty of orders as Captain that his team didn’t like- what was one more. Dread fills him even as the path becomes clear. What was one more order if it saved lives? What if it was yours?
“Tell me,” Will orders and you keen at the command in his voice.
“Please, Will,” you beg once more and he can’t help the jerk of his hips at the eager sound you make whenever his thrusts force you further into his hand.
“Use your words,” he orders although he isn’t sure how long he’ll be capable of using his.
“Wanna feel full, please” you slur, hips grinding your ass one long pass of his cock that threatens what he thinks may be the limits of his sanity. You’re so far lost in the toxin that you don’t care how loud you’re being. Whines and gasps bursting from you in equal measure and Will wants to hoard them. Carve them into his memory to pull forth on lonely, long jobs when you won’t be there. Because you’ll be safe. Far away from places like this and people with their weird bioweapons.
Will lifts one hand up to your face- covers your mouth- careful to avoid pressure over your swollen sinuses. Muffles the sharp gasp you make when his fingers slide beneath your tac pants and between your folds. Finding your entrance, Will thrusts two fingers inside you.
It’s heaven. Bliss. Will’s hand working you towards an orgasm that slams through you faster than you’d have thought possible. Will works you through it like he loads a weapon. Efficient, thorough, maintains the same sensible pressure and pattern of movement that lets him hit his mark until he brings you upon another one. Forces you over the edge with calculated ease. Like he’s known your body for a lifetime. Your release pulses through you.
It’s so close to the first it feels like the same. Walls closing around him, your slick dripping down his hand and your body tensing and relaxing against his in waves until he’s brought you to so many that you lose count. Will keeps track. Noting how they blend and stutter through each other until he’s flooded you with so much oxytocin that the drugs don’t have the same effect as before.
Slumping in his arms, held up by his strength and your shaking thighs over his- you realize he’d only used his hand. Found a spot you’d never managed on your own with it too.
“Fucking hell, Ironhead,” you say, realizing with fierce guilt that you’d been using his real name instead of his call sign when under the influence. Will huffs a breath laugh, leaning heavily at your back before he carefully removes his hands from you. Even without the effects of the drugs you note it still feels like loss.
Before he can retreat entirely- escape in true Miller fashion- how many times had he left a Morales houseparty or barbeque without even a goodbye- you press your ass backwards into his lap in an attempt to return the favor he’d bestowed upon you. Will chokes through another laugh- one hand stroking your side in some measure of reassurance.
“Don’t worry, bunny,” Will murmurs, “You’re magic made my problem disappear too.” he says and a rush of heat surges through you alongside a sense of disappointment that you’d missed his release whilst caught in the thralls of your own. Retracting your hands- you sort out your clothes before Will leans against the door- pausing to regard you for a moment.
“Magic?” Will says, and you meet his gaze, “Nothing has to change if you don't want it to,” Will says and something in your heart cracks and bursts for how considerate he’s being.
“We can forget this ever happened-” Will continues and you can’t see his features fully in the shadows but something in his face still flashes with pain when he speaks.Enough that you begin to doubt he found his relief- maybe he’d only lied to get you both moving on to extraction. Maybe he only did what needed to be done so he could finish the mission- maybe it was just another example of your lack of skill and experience compared to him.
Imposter syndrome claws its way past your post release haze. What if Will would never want to work alongside you again? With a strained smile you gesture at the exit as best you can in the tight quarters.
“Take the lead, Captain,” you say, trying to maintain your typical sass, but voice catching in your throat. If there was one thing about Will- he respected a hard out so when he doesn’t move to exit- you use the only ammunition you have left.
Good ol’ fashioned self deprecation.
“This is where the Magic happens, what a SNAFU, huh?” you warble out the pathetic joke but Will flinches.
Situation normal, all fucked up.
Usually he’d laugh at your quip- but you can’t even look him in the eye. Leaning on the door he collapses out of the space- taking up position at the hallway exit while you clamber out of the locker. Scouting for hostiles, Will debates how much he’s fucked up.
The only comfort of it all was at least you had a clear head to live and have regrets. If he had to live with this- he would. Another count on his list- a body count he didn’t want in this way.
The comm cracks.
“Ironhead, Magic, status report,” Fish’s words are laden with worry.
“Data’s secured, Magic is with me. It was a clusterfuck, Fish,” Will heaves out, not realizing the irony of the last word until your burst of laughter bounces off his back.
“Roger, Ironhead. Rendezvous on twelve is clear,” Fish replies, his voice lighter than the first contact. Will leads the way through the hull, up to the deck to the railing where Fish waits. The grim look on both your faces forces Fish to restrain his curiosity but once you’ve descended the ladder, he dares to throw Will a pensive look.Shaking his head in reply, Fish sighs.
And that’s how it was between you for a while. Things were weird. Santi and Benny didn’t know what to make of the shift. Fish seemed to garner a sense of exactly what sort of shit you came up against in the guts of the ship. At the end of a training set, breathless and on the edge of sleep deprivation- Will tells you about Cobol. Suddenly, his closeness to Fish made sense. Your worry deepened that what you had done had overstepped even more boundaries than you were originally aware but Will reassured you away from it. Something in the tone of his voice suggested he and Fish had drifted away from each other. Perhaps Will’s reaching Captain, his OCD, Fish’s addiction and then family… whatever it had been had been done and dusted long before your arrival.
What had transpired between you and Will was well from over. Although the doctors reassured you the toxin had long been eliminated from your systems- sparks of it seemed to burst between you. Heat flushing your being at his closeness. Within his gaze- a respect that never faltered. It was overwhelming although you tried to keep up appearances of being unaffected.
If Will wanted to tow the status quo then you would too… even if it hurt. Even if you think he wanted more too.
A few months later- in the bar off base- well beyond any potential lingering effects of the toxin- you sip a coke while trying to keep your attention on the TV that’s playing Benny’s fight. Pretending you didn’t search for his cornerman in the shadows beyond the fencing until the fighters pause for a break and you realize it wasn’t Will like you expected- but Fish.
The stool beside you scrapes across the floor before Will settles beside you.
“Pretty terrible hiding spot if you’re trying to avoid me,” Will says and the bubbles of your soda strike your nose so that you cough. Will takes the opportunity to drag your stool closer to his- until you’re nestled between the wide splay of his thighs.
“I’m not avoiding you,” you retort with a smile- and Will returns it, that lopsided grin causing a different bubbling inside you. Relief and heat bursting as they collided because you had been avoiding him. Afraid that although he treated you exactly as before the mission- that something would be fundamentally altered between you. But here he was- still Will, and you were still you.
“I was waiting for a critical moment,” you explain and Will nods.
“A good place to appear,” you continue, leaning closer to the golden haired man, “You know the kind. Dark, cramped, difficult to get out of.”
“I think I know a place,” Will says, thumbs lifting from the edge of the stool to rub circles on your thighs- lips playing over a smile he attempts to contain.
“You do?” you query, playfully and Will’s face splits on a wide grin.
“It’s good in a pinch,” he says with a casual shrug of his henley covered shoulders. He hadn’t looked away from you once- not even to see if Benny was winning. His hand squeezes your thigh as though to imbue meaning on his next words.
“You know I got your six, right?” Will asks, the smile gone, replaced with that seriousness which strikes in your chest.
You nod in response, unable to put words to the reply when your throat is thick with emotion.
“Good girl.” Will says with a wink, a gleam in his eyes before that lazy smirk appears once more.
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Thank you for reading!! Please engage if you enjoyed- likes, comments and reblogs mean ✨ e v e r y t h i n g ! ✨Thank you friend! ^_^ 💖💖💖
Pairing: Bob Reynolds x John Walker x Fem!Thunderbolts!Reader
Word Count: 22.5k
Summary: Your boyfriends have been acting strange recently, like they're hiding something from you. After you come to find out they have some secret plans involving you, them, and a whole lotta rope, you take it upon yourself to come up with a plan of your own to turn the tables on them.
Tags/Warnings: SMUT, MDNI, 18+ ONLY, planned seduction, dirty talk, teasing, John calling Bob "Bobby" with pre-established consent, alcohol drinking, lingerie, "forced" submission (consent established ahead of time), BDSM, bondage, handcuffs, usage of sexual nicknames (good boy/pretty boy/sweet boy, good girl, mistress, puppy), hair pulling, praise kink, dry humping, facesitting, degradation, oral (f and m receiving), squirting, light nipple play, masturbation (f and m), vibrator usage, handjob
A/N: It's finally here!! Been working on this one for a month and a half. HOPE YOU LIKE SMUT because there is SO MUCH of it. Happy gooning, I suppose.
Once again, based on the eponymous song "I Want My Boyfriends to Kiss" by Ashnikko. This is the sequel to Swap Spit, Lock Lips and in the same universe as Starting Patterns. I've been mentally referring to it as the Smoochieverse.
I've already started a (much shorter) sequel to this one where John and Bob get their revenge...
Part 1: Swap Spit, Lock Lips
John thought he was so damn clever. That he could rope Bob into his schemes and pull a fast one right under your nose. But you? You knew that man. And John, for all his top secret ops and specialized military stealth training, was garbage at being sneaky. He stuck out on the battlefield like a red, white, and black battering ram, running into enemy fire with a battle cry, his shield whizzing from enemy to enemy. And he stuck out when he was trying to plot in private.
All of the sudden, John and Bob were seemingly inseparable. As if that wasn't enough of a red flag in and of itself, they always had guilty expressions whenever you'd enter a room with them, dead quiet like they'd heard you coming and dropped the conversation before you got within earshot.
At first, you thought maybe they'd finally acted on the tension that had been building ever since you all slept together that first morning. The way John had grabbed Bob and told him what to do to you? And the heat in Bob's eyes as he obeyed, looking to John for approval? Absolutely undeniable. And, if you were honest with yourself, it was hot as hell. There was some part of you that had wanted to see them kiss since John slammed Bob against the wall back in the vault.
But before you could overthink the situation (was it even really cheating if you were already dating both of them and actively having threesomes together?), Ava took it upon herself to intervene. Rather, she took the opportunity to spill the beans out of spite. John really shouldn't have eaten her last pack of Jaffa Cakes.
"They're planning something," Ava had said, apropos of nothing. Just walked up to you in the gym and proverbially laid it on the table like a cat would drop a dead bird at your feet. There was no question who she was talking about, so Ava didn't even waste her time saying their names. "Overheard their conversation in the kitchen this morning. And it involves you."
"Do I want to know?" you'd asked, raising an eyebrow.
Oh, you most definitely did.
Turns out, Ava didn't overhear some romantic date plan or a surprise weekend getaway; she overheard plans to forcibly dominate you. It was consensual, of course. You'd discussed rules and boundaries with John and Bob, both separately then together after the three of you had started your exploration of bedroom possibilities as a single unit. And while the idea of both of your boyfriends overpowering you and ravishing you was extremely tempting…so was the idea of flipping the script on them.
According to Ava, the plan was going to be carried out during your weekly threeway movie date…which just so happened to be tonight. It didn't leave you a lot of time to work with, but fortunately for you, John was very good at pissing people off. Which you could use to your advantage.
The next disgruntled party was, of course, Bucky. Even though he and your boyfriend's relationship had calmed significantly since their…rocky introduction, Bucky wasn't exactly the president of the John Walker fan club. So, when you presented him with the opportunity to thwart the other super soldier, Bucky readily agreed.
"Make sure it's worth the strings I pulled to get 'em," he said eying you with playful suspicion. You made grabby hands at him, and he actually cracked a bit of a smile.
"What kind of strings?" you asked as he passed over a medium-sized silver briefcase. Laying it on a nearby table, you flipped up the clasps and attempted to open the case. Unfortunately, your plan was temporarily foiled by the lock. You shot Bucky a look, extending your hand as he fished the keys out of his back pocket and tossed them to you.
A moment later, the case was open, revealing a thick pair of manacles - ones strong enough to hold even a super soldier. Unlike regular handcuffs, these didn't have a chain in the middle. That gave too much room for movement and were far too easy to snap no matter how reinforced they were. Instead, this set had a thick block of metal connecting the cuffs, forcing the wearer's hands to stay closer together and better impeded any potential escape attempt. Unlike most shackles, these were lined with a soft, black fabric and seemed to have some foam added for comfort.
"The kind where my contact is convinced they're for my personal use. Never gonna be able to look that man in the eye again." When you snorted at his words, Bucky fixed you with a glare, but there was no real heat behind it.
Satisfied, you closed the case and turned back to your woefully besmirched teammate. "Don't worry. I'll make sure John knows that you aided in his downfall."
The next injured party was Yelena. You desperately needed to go shopping for a specific item of clothing, and you needed backup. Sure, you could go alone, but plotting was so much better with a friend. As were the food court soft pretzels.
But, when you originally asked Yelena, she said she was busy. Busy looked an awful lot like sitting in the main living room, idly flipping through a tactical gear catalog that had come in the mail and half-watching some particularly trashy reality television.
Her schedule miraculously cleared up when you name-dropped your boyfriend and hinted at you plotting against him. Turns out, Yelena wasn't a big fan of people using her equipment without her permission. And she actively hated when said equipment was damaged from said person spilling pre-workout all over it. Needless to say, Yelena would have preferred to shove one of her short-circuited batons up John's ass, but she'd make do with aiding your scheme.
The soft pretzels also helped.
"What are we looking for again?" Yelena asked, flipping through hangers until she found something low cut in your size. She pulled it out and held it up for inspection.
You shook your head, and she put it back on the rack, continuing the search. "It needs to be low cut enough to draw Bob's attention but casual enough that it doesn't look like I'm trying to dress up."
"What's wrong with dressing up?" Yelena grumbled as you shook your head at another top, this one a bright cerulean. Another one far too low cut. Too obvious.
"Our movie dates are always casual. Like, 'sometimes I wear pajamas' level casual. It would attract notice if I dressed up. John would know something's up."
Yelena cocked an eyebrow at you. "You really think he'd get suspicious? If you wore a slutty little 'fuck me' dress, I'm not sure he'd be doing much thinking at all."
You shrugged. "Fair. But it isn't part of the plan to work John up. Just Bob." You pulled out a sweater that was just the right amount of casual with a neckline just low enough to draw Bob's gaze. Unfortunately, it was a deep maroon color. With a sigh, you returned it to the rack.
"What was wrong with that one?" Yelena asked, her tone a little on the exasperated side.
"Wrong color," you muttered, taking a step to another rack of clothes. "I need something a stain would show up on."
Stopping dead in her tracks, Yelena turned to fix you with a glower. "You're looking for a new top that you're planning on ruining," she deadpanned. She wasn't asking, just stating facts as if she couldn't believe them.
"Well, I won't be ruining it, not if I can pop it in the wash somewhat quickly."
Yelena stared at you, completely unblinking. It was the kind of look that would cause even the most stubborn person (i.e. John or Bucky) to back down from an argument. Or force a confession out of a captured enemy combatant. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, visibly uncomfortable.
"Something tells me that's going to be the last thing on your mind."
Having no argument for that, you picked up the red sweater again and put it over your arm. "I'll try it on."
"That's all I ask." Pacified, Yelena returned to the hunt, flipping through hangers again.
You managed to find the perfect top: a heather grey sweater cozy enough to wear around the Watchtower that also hugged your breasts enough to hold Bob's attention. And after a pit stop at another store Yelena suggested and some food court junk food (including one too many soft pretzels courtesy of Yelena's expert-level peer pressuring), your plan was ready to commence.
Naturally, John showed up first. Even without recognizing his jaunty knock, you knew he would be the one standing there when you opened the door. After all, it was precisely 7 o'clock. Not a minute before or after. And, as always, he had a large bowl of freshly buttered popcorn in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.
John was always a little less casual than you and Bob, wearing a dark blue flannel neatly tucked into a pair of boot cut jeans, complete with a large silver belt buckle. He'd most likely been wearing boots but had the decency to toe them off outside the door, knowing you didn't allow shoes in your quarters. The second those bright, sky blue eyes locked on yours, he fixed you with a wide smile, one that always made your heart flutter.
Leaning down, John kissed your temple, mumbling, "Evenin', pretty lady," because he knew it would make you roll your eyes at him. Which you did.
Taking the bowl of popcorn from his hands, you walked over and placed it on the coffee table next to the glasses you'd already brought out. You didn't see John's eyes travel down your body, eying your ass in the loose, comfortable skirt you wore, but you definitely noticed when you turned back around and caught his gaze on your legs. He didn't even try to hide his lecherous gaze, just quirking up his lips when you caught him staring.
"John," you playfully admonished. Coming back over to where he stood stock still inside the doorway, you gave him a light shove, one that didn't even budge him. It was ridiculous how hot that was. The man didn't move, and it made you wet. You knew that if you really tried, braced your hands on his arms and shoved, John might be forced to move back a little. And those same arms could pick you up like you weighed nothing and throw you over his shoulder. Judging by the look on his face, John was tempted to do just that. Instead, his free hand found your hip like it was magnetized, and his other arm wrapped around you, pulling you neatly against his chest.
"John," you said again but with a warning tone in your voice, managing to keep your words steady. If he wasn't careful, John was apt to ruin his own plan, let alone yours.
"Hmm?" he hummed, leaning down to start planting slow, closed-mouth kisses along your jaw. Each subsequent brush of his lips made it harder and harder to resist turning your head and seeking out another kiss. A deeper one.
"Remember the rule of movie night - no making out," you said, just as much to yourself as to John.
That was a rule you'd had to make early on in your weekly movie dates. Otherwise, you ended up finding yourself topless and straddling one of your boyfriends barely halfway through the movie. Or, like one particularly fun night, sitting between them with your hands on their cocks, slowly stroking them to completion while you happily watched Legally Blonde. While that was a fantastic night, you'd had to re-watch the movie the next week because neither man remembered a damn thing about it. So you'd all (reluctantly) agreed - movie first, sexy times after. And for the most part, it worked.
"It's not making out if I get on my knees and stick my head under your skirt while you watch the movie," John practically growled, starting to move his kisses down your neck. You inhaled sharply at his words, nails biting into his arms. He smiled against your skin, pleased at your reaction.
For a split second, you were tempted to say fuck it to your carefully crafted plan and let John's mouth wander where it wanted.
Fortunately, there was a tentative knock at the door that broke the spell his lips had cast on you, startling you out of John's embrace. He tried to pull you back in, but the moment was gone.
"Bob's here," you reminded, moving out of John's quickly encroaching arms and trying to take a step past him. He let you move by him unimpeded, but strong arms encircled your waist from behind as you reached out to grasp the doorknob. You allowed it - for now.
Opening the door revealed the missing element of your trio - Bob. He was dressed exactly how you expected - in a fresh pair of loose grey sweatpants and his favorite blue hoodie, the wrists worn from Bob absentmindedly picking at and rubbing the fabric. He held a bottle of sparkling juice in one hand and a bag full of snacks in the other, the same as he always did on movie night.
By the look on his face, Bob almost immediately noticed John plastered to your back. Before he could make a snarky comment, however, his gaze flitted down to your neckline. The double take he did was almost comical, eyes bulging like you'd opened the door in the nude.
Bob was the biggest breast man you'd ever met. He was absolutely obsessed with yours, always working to get your top off as quickly as possible. Sometimes he was so impatient he didn't even take off your bra. He'd just pull down the cups, groaning like he'd found home as he latched onto your nipples. On more than one occasion, he'd fallen asleep with his mouth on one and his hand on the other, fully splayed across you. And if you tried to move, his limbs would tighten to keep you in place. And, judging from the look on his face and how his fingers were twitching, you'd picked the right top. Thank you, Yelena.
"You okay there, Bobby?" John asked with a smirk. He saw exactly where Bob's eyes went and followed them himself, peering down at the very tops of your breasts that pressed against the grey fabric. It was subtle, a peak of cleavage that hinted at what lay underneath, hugging your breasts tightly enough to entice without making it look like you were bursting out of your blouse. "Mmm, I see why he's so distracted. You tryin' to kill us, baby? Wearin' that cute little skirt with your legs showin' and that top?"
Even though your outfit was hardly skimpy, you'd once again underestimated just how horny your boyfriends were, especially when they egged each other on. You'd just have to make due.
You scoffed. "You would say that if I was wearing a crusty hoodie and a pair of old granny panties."
From the flash in Bob's eyes, 'panties,' granny or otherwise, was the wrong word to say.
"Okay, down boys," you said with a shaky laugh, reaching forward and taking the bottle of sparkling juice out of Bob's hands. You did your best not to sway your hips as you walked over to the couch, but you could feel their eyes on you anyway.
When you didn't hear any footsteps behind you, you turned around with your arms crossed just below your chest. Bob's eyes raised from where he'd been watching your ass but not high enough to look you in the face like John was.
"Robeeert," you admonished, drawing the 'e' in his name out with a warning tone in your voice. His eyes snapped up to yours, head jerking like a stretched rubber band that had just been released. Covering your mouth with your hand, you fought down a laugh.
"C'mon, it's movie night." Settling in the middle of the couch, you patted the seats next to you welcomingly. "Plus, I could use some wine," you added, gesturing at the bottle in John's hand. That finally propelled him into motion.
The sexual tension lessened to a quiet hum of anticipation as everyone prepped for the night ahead, falling into a familiar rhythmic pattern. John poured the glasses - wine for you and him, the sparkling juice for Bob - while Bob worked on laying out various snacks, sorting them to put them in easy reach.
When everything was ready, John dimmed the lights as you pulled up the movie of the week, Lethal Weapon. It was John's choice, and neither you nor Bob were surprised at his pick. His love of buddy cop movies was well documented between the three of you at this point, just like Bob's love of stoner comedies and your love of what you considered classic romcoms.
All three of you settled in, Bob resting his head on your shoulder and John with his arm around your waist, as the opening credits started to roll. They were good, you'd give them that. If you weren't looking for it, you never would have noticed the way John reached down to check that the rope and handcuffs he'd placed below his seat cushion were still in position. It just looked like he was straightening out the leg of his jeans. And you'd never have noticed the questioning look Bob shot John and the latter's slow nod of confirmation if you hadn't been watching them sharply in your peripheral vision.
You slowly gathered the ingredients for your plan to work - five minutes in, you snagged the bowl of popcorn, placing it in your lap. That was usually how it went anyway, making the popcorn equally accessible for everyone. A few more minutes after that, you leaned forward to grab your wine. Bob lifted his head, letting you get the glass and putting it back on your shoulder as you settled back down. Lightly sipping on your wine, you waited for the right moment.
That moment came more quickly than expected when Bob reached for a box of candy on the table. You had to time this perfectly. For your plan to work, you needed what was going to happen to be equally your fault and Bob's.
"Bob, baby, can you get me my candy, too?" you asked innocently.
Wordlessly, he obeyed. If there was one thing that was always true about Bob Reynolds, it was that he aimed to please. And that went doubly so in your relationship. He was the kind of man that, if you asked for it, would figure out a way to pluck the stars from the sky for you. So naturally, Bob immediately forgot about his own candy and prioritized your request.
You angled your body to face him, your arm positioned just right so that, when Bob sat back up, his elbow knocked the wine glass in your hand, spilling it all over your top, down your chest, and directly into the bowl of popcorn.
The room went completely still, all three of you staring in shock at your ruined top, a literal splash of deep scarlet spreading on your grey sweater. It was as if you all were temporarily frozen in time. The only signs of life were the sounds of the TV playing with no one watching it and the slow seep of wine bleeding further into your clothes. That unnatural stillness lasted for a few beats before you all snapped into motion, first John, then Bob, and finally you.
John grabbed the bowl of wine-soaked popcorn out of your lap, placing it square in the middle of the coffee table to prevent it being knocked over. Bob took the glass from your hand and scooted the coffee table over to give you more room. You stood up, turning around to make sure that no wine had dripped onto your couch, breathing a sigh of relief at the unsullied seat.
John took charge immediately. It was kind of adorable, seeing him treating a simple spill like a battlefield, instantly strategizing a plan of attack and commanding his soldiers. It was exactly what Bob needed. Instead of getting in his head and feeling like he'd ruined the night (and your shirt), John made him feel useful.
As they both dabbed at your clothing with the paper towels Bob fetched from the main kitchen, you decided to cut to the chase. Taking a step back, you ignored the men's confused reactions, grabbing the hem of your sweater and tugging it over your head. You had to bite back a wicked smile at the wide-eyed looks on their faces, staring at you like their brains were buffering.
Bob at least had the decency to look away. He seemed to understand that you needed to change your outfit and was doing his best to not openly stare at your chest. But the flush climbing his neck betrayed his reaction.
John, on the other hand, grinned at you wolfishly. "If I knew all I had to do to get you naked was spill some wine on you, I'd've brought more than one bottle."
You gave him an exaggerated roll of your eyes before looking down at your wine-covered chest. The red liquid had gotten on your bra as well, but, with the tension that had been permeating the room all night, taking that off as well would open the floodgates. Instead, you touched your skin, making a face at the stickiness that lingered on your hand. You could feel your boyfriends' eyes on you, greedily drinking in the sight of you half naked. Now was the perfect time to implement phase two before John managed to remember about his own plan and that pair of handcuffs under the couch cushions.
"I think I'm going to have to take a quick shower," you said, keeping your voice casual like you didn't know exactly what that imagery would do to your already wound up boyfriends. You didn't miss the way Bob licked his lips or how John took a step closer to you.
"Well, you know…" John started, playfully drawing his words out like he was coming up with some brilliant idea. His eyes had a mischievous light in them that you knew all too well - you were mere seconds away from him doing something like grabbing you and throwing you over his shoulder. "We could always -"
"Here." Thrusting your hand out in front of you, you deposited your soiled sweater in the hand John brought up to touch you. He blinked, taken aback. But his fingers obediently clenched around the fabric as you let go of it.
"Why are you -"
"Would you mind throwing that in the wash?" you asked, making sure to look up at him from under your lashes. "And maybe make us some more popcorn? That way we can all be ready to start the movie over after I get cleaned off?"
When John hesitated, clearly torn between being helpful and being lecherous, you pouted at him, jutting out your lower lip just a little. For extra ammo, you wrapped your arms around your torso seemingly for warmth but in reality it was so you could subtly press your breasts together, exaggerating your cleavage.
"Please?" you asked sweetly, batting your lashes at him.
"Okay, okay," John grumbled. Despite his grouching, he couldn't quite hide his smile when you stood up on your toes to press a grateful (but chaste) kiss to his lips.
You wasted no time once you'd stepped into the bathroom. For your plan to work, you needed to be quick. Unfortunately, your room was fairly close to the kitchen. That combined with John being super particular and refusing to use anything but an extra-speedy air popper on his popcorn meant that, normally, you'd only have about five minutes to pull this off. But the laundry room was on another floor, giving you a few extra precious minutes, ones you were determined not to waste.
After shedding your clothes, you ran the shower to maintain your ruse, but you didn't step inside. Instead, you grabbed a washcloth, adding a small drop of soap and quickly cleaning and rinsing your wine-sticky chest. Then you broke out your secret weapon.
Right now, it just looked like a little bundle of delicate black fabric pressed flat underneath the stacked towels you stashed it under. It was soft to the touch as you slipped it over your shoulders, the silky material caressing your skin as you smoothed it down your body, gently coaxing the chemise over your hips. The stockings came next, sliding on easily and coming to rest mid-thigh. The elastic on the lacy hem was probably enough to keep them on, but you used the garter straps dangling from the bottom of the chemise to fully secure them. There was something that appealed to you about the tug when you shifted, the straps pulling lightly at the stockings. It was like you were secured into the entire outfit, stockings included, a kind of self-inflicted bondage that sent a pulse of warmth through you.
Looking in the mirror, you were slightly caught off guard by your own reflection. Sure, you'd tried it on in the store, but those florescent yellow light fixtures did no one any favors. Here, under the warm glow of your bathroom lights, you were a vision in lace and satin. The fabric clung to you, each breath making your breasts lift, straining against the nearly sheer material. There was just enough opacity on the lace cups to blur, merely hinting at the tantalizing skin that laid underneath. Your eyes followed the light boning that stretched down the front, helping the material press flat against your body while still maintaining the structure of the little dress. Most of the fabric was opaque except for two lace panels down the side, making your silhouette look more sleek while accentuating your hips.
Turning around in the mirror, you couldn't help but grin at yourself. The entire back of the dress was made of the see-through fabric, showcasing the elegant curve of your back and the plush softness of your ass. Sure, the outfit came with a little lacy thong, but those wouldn't be on for long anyway. Might as well save your boyfriends the effort of removing them.
Next, you reached under the sink, pulling out a mesh bag you'd hidden earlier. Carefully, you lined the contents up on the bathroom counter, mentally triple checking that you had everything.
Now, it was time to implement phase three of your plan. You cracked open the bathroom door and positioned yourself on the opposite side of it, closer to the shower.
Cupping a hand to your mouth to amplify the sound, you called out for your first victim.
"Bob! I need your help!"
You pressed your ear to the door, heart pounding in your chest, as you strained your ears for any subsequent noises - an answering voice, a creak of the bedroom door, or the sound of heavy footsteps. There was a muffled murmur but no further movement. So you called out again.
"Bob! I need you to grab my shampoo! Please!"
There were some distinct rustling noises but nothing definitive. With a sigh, you braced yourself, using your diaphragm to really shout.
"BOB! C'MERE!"
You didn't have to wait long before the bedroom door opened, and Bob shuffled his way over to the bathroom. Ever polite, he hovered outside the door.
"Did you call for me?" Bob asked from the other side.
You cupped your hand to your mouth again, this time angling it away from the door, toward the shower to make it sound like your voice was coming from there.
"Yes! Could you grab my shampoo for me? It's in the cabinet." You paused, then grinned mischievously to yourself before continuing, "I'd get it, but I'm soaking wet."
Your words had the intended effect. "Jesus," you heard Bob mutter to himself, groaning at the imagery you'd conjured for him. You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing.
"Coming, angel!" he said louder for you to hear, pushing the door open and stepping in. Immediately, his eyes were drawn to the items you'd laid out on the counter.
"What the…" Before Bob could turn, you closed the door behind him, leaning against it to block the way out.
Bob started, whipping around. He already looked surprised, but his eyes widened further and his lips parted as he took in your change of wardrobe. His eyes traveled up your stockinged legs, over the garter straps, and followed the lines of the chemise before stopping at the semi-transparent fabric just barely covering your chest. You could practically feel his gaze on your breasts like a physical caress, your nipples hardening under his intense scrutiny. You were sure he could just see the peaks through the fabric.
Finally, Bob managed to wrench his eyes away from your chemise. He was flushed and dazed, chest visibly rising and falling as he took in air like he couldn't quite catch his breath. There was a wildness in his gaze, a mix of sudden arousal and sheer confusion, that sent a wave of heat through your body.
"Baby," Bob started but stopped, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat, licking his dry lips, before continuing. "Baby, what is this? Why are you wearing…" He stared in awe at you like Aphrodite herself had descended from the heavens to grace him with her presence. Words seemed to fail him, like he was completely unable to describe the temptation in physical form that was in front of him. So he finished his sentence by croaking out the word, "…That?"
"What? You don't like my new outfit?" you asked innocently, tilting your head to the side. Stalking towards him, you let your hips sway tantalizingly. You felt like some beast of the hunt that had finally located its prey and was contemplating what spot to sink your teeth into first. Bob froze to the spot, watching you like a sailor enraptured in a siren's song, watching helplessly as the ship sailed closer and closer to the jagged rocks that spelled his doom. It was a heady kind of power, one you'd only ever felt before in the bedroom. Just the idea that you could entrance a man with the powers of a god with a lacy outfit and a few choice words was intoxicating. He stared at you like you were a goddess. And you fucking felt like one.
You backed him up against the counter, stepping into his space, stopping only mere inches away. So close you could practically feel his warmth through his hoodie.
"Do you want me to…" you started, using your index and middle fingers to walk your hand up Bob's chest. He was fixated, hanging on your every word like they were of the utmost importance. So you lowered your voice to a husky purr as you finished your sentence. "…Take it off?"
Bob's hands shot down, bracing himself against the counter like his legs suddenly needed the extra support. Like he was going to fall down at your feet if he didn't.
"Oh my God," he muttered shakily, eyes darting away like he couldn't stand to look at you directly, like he was unworthy.
You didn't wait for him to answer. You continued speaking.
"I thought of you when I bought it, baby," you purred, tilting his chin down to look at you. Even though you were shorter, it felt like you were towering over him in that moment, your domination a physical presence in the room.
"Y-you did?" Bob asked breathily, letting his eyes wander down, taking in your form again as though he couldn't help himself. Naturally, they rested on your chest, watching as your breasts strained against the fabric.
"Of course I did. Wanted to make sure my sweet boy would like it," you cooed. Bob visibly melted at your words, his tense muscles relaxing so much that even his eyes drifted half shut, looking up at you under his lashes.
"Really?" Bob asked, and his words were so earnest it made your heart skip a beat. "What about Walker?"
Your answering smile was a little less predatory and a little more playful.
"You haven't seen the back yet. The front's for you, baby," you said with a wink.
You took one of his hands in yours, lifting it from the counter and bringing it up to cup your breast. Audibly, Bob sucked in a harsh breath through his nose and let it slowly out of his mouth, ghosting over your bare skin. You shivered at the feeling, your nipples tightening almost painfully. Of course he noticed. As if it was unconscious, Bob's thumb rubbed circles over the peak of your nipple, biting his lower lip as he watched the motion as though as if he was hypnotizing himself.
When he brought his other hand up to your chest, you arched your back, pushing your breasts further into his grasp. You were practically leaning against him by then, the contained heat of his already thickening erection pressing against your thigh.
"I have an idea, Bob. One I think you're going to enjoy just as much as I will." Bob's eyes flicked up, trying to look you in the face, to give you his full attention, but you could feel how he wanted to look down, to stare further at your breasts.
"O-oh?" he murmured, eyes flitting down and back up again. You couldn't help but smirk. He was already wrapped around your finger.
"I need you to do something. Think you can be a good boy and help me?" The words had barely left your lips before he was nodding, mumbling the word 'yes.'
"What would you do for me, Robert?" you whispered, maintaining eye contact with him. His pupils were blown, his irises a thin ring of storm-dark blue.
"Anything," he answered breathlessly.
And in that moment, you knew one thing for certain - that you had Bob right where you wanted him.
You had barely taken your post behind the bedroom door before you heard the telltale sounds of John reentering your quarters. He was much louder than Bob, so you didn't need to strain to hear him call for you, grumpily muttering to himself when no one answered.
As John's footsteps grew nearer, it felt like your heart was going to burst its way through your ribcage. Every step caused it to beat faster, so much so that you could practically hear it in your ears. You gripped the manacles tightly, the cold metal biting into your hands just enough to ground you in the moment.
"You two better not have started the fun without me," John called out, chuckling to himself when he added, "Or I'll have to take you both over my knee."
His words struck like a bolt of lightning. You could see it so easily in your mind's eye: you trussed up, hands bound in cuffs behind your back, feet dangling as your body stretched over John's lap. There would be tears running down your face as you dutifully counted each time his hand came down on the heated skin of your ass, sending shockwaves of pain and pleasure in equal measure radiating through your body.
And you weren't the only one affected by John's words; Bob let out one solitary, plaintive whimper that hung in the air even after he bit the sound off abruptly. Instantly, all noise from the living room ceased.
John heard.
The ensuing steps were fast and heavy, his determined stomps crossing the room in record time. The bedroom door swung open, concealing you behind it. He took one step, then two before coming to a complete halt.
You didn't need to look to see what had snagged his attention, because you'd set the scene yourself. John always barged in, guns blazing, whether it was on the battlefield or into a room to try to catch his girlfriend and her other boyfriend shacking up without him. So you'd needed a distraction. Something so arresting that even his super soldier senses wouldn't help him detect you. And you had set the perfect trap.
Bob.
He was splayed out like an offering on your California king bed, wrists bound and tied to the headboard to keep him in place. The rope that held him matched the sheets that he squirmed on top of, both a deep, sumptuous purple that starkly contrasted his pale skin. And there was so much of it on display. Every inch of him was naked barring a few little accessories you'd adorned him with: a strip of cloth covering his eyes, a pitch black ball gag with breathing holes, and the pièce de résistance - a thick band of leather wrapped around the base of Bob's heavy cock which was flushed a dark pink, the tip weeping streaks of precum on his abs.
John made a sound like the wind was punched out of his lungs, his breathing audibly ragged as he took in the sight before him.
"Bobby," he breathed, his next inhale shaky. When he continued, his voice was strained, "Bob…why are you…?" John cut off his own question, shaking his head like he was trying to clear it. "Where is she?"
The only answer Bob could give was unintelligible, his sounds muffled even through the air holes in his gag, lips and jaw too stretched to form words.
Keeping your hands behind your back to conceal the manacles, you stepped out from your hiding spot. "I think Bob's a little…tied up at the moment. Maybe I can help."
The John who turned to look at you was markedly different than the one who went to go fetch more popcorn. For one, his hair was rumpled, some strands sticking straight up like he'd absently rubbed his hand through it. A bright pink flush flooded his cheeks with color that dipped below the neckline of his flannel, no doubt running down to his shoulders and chest as well. Glassy blue eyes roamed over your body, disbelief and hunger warring for control on his face. As you'd heard, his breathing was labored, panting through his parted lips. If someone saw him in passing, he could almost play off his arousal as physical exertion, like he'd had a particularly invigorating workout. He could deny it all he wanted to, but there was no hiding the growing bulge in John's jeans. And that it was there before he turned around to face you.
A surge of vindication washed through you, transmuting into a powerful throb of desire between your legs. You could still picture it in your mind - John's hand tangled in Bob's hair, tugging hard. Bob's lips wrapped around your nipple, eyes locked in a heated stare with John's. How John's voice got so fucking deep when he called Bob a good boy. And the way Bob's eyes rolled back in his head at his words.
"Baby," John groaned out, stepping forward and gripping your hips nearly hard enough to bruise. He swayed like he wasn't sure if he wanted to press you to his chest or keep you at arm's length to admire you.
"You look…" He paused, eyes darting over you like he was trying to absorb every inch, to etch it into his memory. His thumbs rubbed circles into your sides, like he couldn't keep himself from stroking your skin through the fabric. Finally, John lifted his eyes to yours. "You look like a fucking dream."
"You don't look so bad yourself, handsome," you teased, standing up on tip toe to lightly press your lips to his bearded chin. John chased you, hunching over to slant his mouth over yours in what was immediately a passionate kiss.
There was no time wasted. John slipped an arm around your waist, the other tilting your chin to just the right angle to kiss you even deeper. You indulged him, letting him dominate you, invading your mouth like it belonged to him, his tongue swirling around yours.
He didn't notice anything was off until the cold metal cuff snapped closed around his wrist, its sharp clicking echoing in the quiet room. John's whole body went stiff, the muscles of his arm tensing around you. All you could do was wait, barely breathing as he pulled back, eyes fixed on the manacles dangling from his arm.
His thoughts were so clear you could practically see them scrolling across his eyes like ticker tape. The pieces were coming together: the lingerie and Bob as a distraction, the wine spill, the new sweater, tracing it all the way back to the small noise he'd heard in the kitchen that morning as he and Bob finalized their plans before you came down to breakfast.
This was the one variable in your plan that you just couldn't account for.
You'd wracked your brain all day, trying to come up with some way to both catch John off guard and be able to get both of his hands in the cuffs. You couldn't overpower him. You couldn't count on stealth. And tricking him was far too great a risk.
So you took the only option left - you let John choose.
When he finally looked back up at you, his eyes were narrowed. Thinking. Assessing. Calculating. You couldn't help but smile at how blown his pupils were. No matter what he chose, the three of you were in for a damn good night.
You closed the space between the two of you, and John wrapped his arms around you, pulling you even closer. He didn't hesitate for even a second. It was like a gut instinct that he couldn't help but follow. The cold metal of the cuffs brushed your back, the skin there only covered by a thin layer of lace. You couldn't stop the shiver that went through you at the feeling. From the look in John's eyes, he noticed it too.
Your lips parted, mouth open to speak, but John beat you to it.
"So," he murmured, his lips right next to your ear. Goosebumps rose on your arms as his hot breath ghosted over your skin. His voice was deep as sin, gravelly in that way he only got when exhausted or particularly worked up. "You gonna cuff my other wrist? Or you plannin' on cuffin' me to something…" He paused for effect, letting the weight of his words sink in. "…Or someone else?"
Pulling back enough to look him in the eye, you found yourself searching John's face for any hints of displeasure. There were none. His eyes were fixed on yours like he couldn't bear the thought of looking away. His lips were already reddening from your brief kiss, parted like he couldn't get in enough air, like the mere act of near you made breathing more difficult. This was the face of a thoroughly entranced man, ready and willing to submit to your pleasure.
"Wanted to give you a little bit of a fighting chance," you teased, smirking up at him.
Normally, John would quip back something smart like 'Is that why you ambushed me at the door?' or 'Sure seems like it, what with the industrial-grade handcuffs and all.' But his words caught you off guard.
"Never stand a chance against you when you've got your mind made up, darlin'," John said earnestly, his voice rumbling in his chest as he spoke. His free hand rubbed up and down your back, the warmth of his skin bleeding through the thin material there. "'Specially not with you dressed like that. Lookin' at me like that."
"What am I looking at you like?" you asked, trying to keep your voice smooth and seductive but coming off far more breathy than you intended.
"Like you're gonna eat me alive." The heat in his voice made your whole body pulse with pleasure, and the glint in his eyes told you he knew exactly what he was doing. Which is why he took a step back right as you surged forward to kiss him, sinking down to the floor on his knees in one graceful move, arms raised up before you as if in supplication. The act of submission took the very air out of your lungs.
"John," you breathed, chest rising and falling more rapidly.
"Please," he said, bowing his head reverently. "I'm ready for my punishment."
Taking a step forward, you rested your hand on his head, threading your fingers through his hair like you were either going to pet him or yank him up by force. You took in a deep, shaky breath, letting oxygen fill your lungs to compose yourself. When you breathed out, it was steady. A few more calm breaths, and you were ready.
"Please what?" you prompted, tightening your grip in his hair just a fraction. Not enough to cause pain, but enough to let him know you very well could.
"Please," John pleaded again, shuddering slightly as he finished his sentence, "Mistress."
The word thrummed through you - Mistress. It wasn't a title either of your boyfriends had ever used to describe you, though John had raised the idea before in passing. The closest they'd gotten was 'ma'am' - Bob's go-to honorific and one of John's favorite ways of teasing when you got bossy. It felt good, though. Fitting. Correct. There was a sense of power about it, the kind where you had a super soldier on his knees in front of you and a literal god naked and whimpering for your touch. Like you owned them.
Because you did.
"Stand up," you commanded, and John silently followed your orders, keeping his head down submissively. "Turn around. Hands behind your back."
You didn't snap the other cuff on John immediately; you took your time closing it, the sharp sound of each of the jagged metal teeth click into place slowly around his wrist. By the time the manacles were firmly on, John's breathing was audibly more shaky, the muscles in his upper back tensed and not from the positioning.
You let your hands roam, running up his flannel-clad back and back down his arms, feeling the roped muscles underneath his sleeves. When you reached his hands, you checked the security of the handcuffs, making sure they weren't tight enough to hurt or loose enough for escape.
"Color?"
"Green," John answered immediately. You hummed your approval, pleased at his easy obedience.
"What do you do if you can't speak?"
"One tap for no, two taps for yes," John faithfully recited. He was standing at parade rest like he was being commanded by a superior officer: legs shoulder-width apart, staring straight ahead with his chest puffed out and shoulders back, hands dutifully clasped.
Sliding your hands even further down, you cupped his ass, squeezing roughly. Even though he didn't always wear pants that showed it, John had such a nice ass. There was muscle there, sure. And great definition. But it was also plush, more plump than anywhere else on his body save for the little belly he got occasionally when overindulging, especially during the holidays. You'd said it before and you'd say it again: John Walker had a fat ass.
Letting go of him, you raised your hand, letting it come down in a hard smack that was, unfortunately, muffled by his jeans. It may not have hurt him, but the hitch in John's breath was beyond satisfying.
"Good job, soldier," you purred, pressing your torso against his back. You kept your hips back to avoid his cuffed hands, only letting the delicate lace of your chemise brush over his palms. Your hands, however, roamed of their own accord, one slipping under the hem of his shirt, his muscles twitching under your fingertips. The other danced dangerously close to the firm outline of his now fully-hard cock, just enough to tease by sliding up and down his thighs.
John held himself together admirably. But when you stepped back, fully removing yourself from him, John practically gasped for air, like he hadn't allowed himself to breathe as you touched him. Or perhaps he'd temporarily forgotten how to.
"Sit," you commanded, pointing to the low armchair you'd moved to the base of the bed. Normally, you'd find the chair draped in random clothes it'd gather between cleaning days - shirts you'd only worn for an hour or two, jackets you should have hung up, a bra you'd put aside to wear in the morning but forgot about. Now it was John draped across the chair, leaning fully against the backrest, his cuffed hands squished against the plush, grey fabric, his manspreading less like a expression of careless dominance and more like an invitation. One you willingly took up his offer on, climbing into his lap, stocking-clad knees resting on the seat of the chair on either side of his hips.
You hovered, not quite sitting down, your core mere inches away from the bulge in his jeans. He gazed up at you with wide eyes and parted lips, looking like a lost soul in a desert who'd just spotted a lush oasis that would be his salvation.
"Do you know why I have you tied up like this?"
John shook his head, not taking his eyes off yours. When you didn't continue, he seemingly realized his mistake and answered in a gravelly voice, "No, mistress."
Leaning down, you brushed your mouth along his jaw, his soft beard feeling exquisitely rough against your lips.
"You've been bad, haven't you?" you whispered, your breath ghosting over his skin. If his arms weren't covered by the sleeves of his flannel, you'd have been able to see the goosebumps that erupted there.
When John opened his mouth, face screwed up to protest, you silenced him with your hand, muffling his words.
"Don't lie to me," you hissed, nipping at his skin hard enough to make him jolt a little, his back now ramrod straight. "You thought you could cook up some little scheme and rope poor, sweet Bob into it without me noticing." When he hesitated for a second, not answering, you leaned down, biting the soft skin of John's throat just hard enough to sting but not hurt. You expected a little sound of pain in response, maybe him sucking air between his teeth or a gasp, but John let out a shaky moan under your palm.
"Didn't you?" you prompted, your voice syrupy sweet but venomous, like honey laced with poison.
The only answer he gave was a frustrated little noise. You smiled against his skin, huffing out a small laugh. He was trying to follow your rules but couldn't. Your hand was covering his mouth.
"You don't have to say the words this time, baby. Just nod or shake your head for me." Condescension dripped from your words, but John either didn't mind or he was already too far gone to notice.
When he nodded, you hummed your approval.
"Good boy," you purred, hand slipping from his lips to the nape of his neck, curling in the fine blond hair there. He inhaled sharply when you gripped hard, yanking his head back to look you in the eye. "And you know what good boys get?"
"No, mistress," John panted out. You kept a taut hold on him, staring down, eyes searching his face as if to discern the truth in his words. He was lying, but you couldn't fault him. At least not this time. From the desperate way his eyes bored into yours, he needed to hear you say it.
"Good boys get rewarded," you purred.
In one fluid motion, you lowered yourself, rocking down against the swell of him and capturing his lips in what quickly became a heated, sloppy kiss. The friction of his jeans against your clit felt magical, both you and John finally receiving the stimulation you'd both been craving.
The heat of the moment gripped you, and everything outside of your bodies fell away. You let yourself give in to the sensations - the way John panted against your lips in the brief moments your mouths parted like he'd forgotten to breathe, the smooth slide of his tongue against yours, the little throaty noises John would make when you sucked on his lower lip, and how you could feel John's jeans becoming wetter with each roll of your body against him. You could've done this for hours. Hell, you could have ridden him for days. But a high, keening whine from behind you pulled you back, slamming you into reality.
Unconsciously, John chased your lips when you broke the kiss, leaning back on your haunches to gain your bearings again. You chuckled, giving the man one last peck on the lips but not lingering, much to his chagrin.
"Mmm, you almost got me," you admitted, grinning at John. "That mouth almost made me forget you needed to be taught a lesson." You ran your finger over his lips and down his chin as he stared up at you with large, sad eyes, wordlessly pleading for you to continue.
Slipping out of his lap, you padded over to the head of the bed, tugging your chemise down from where it had ridden up. John let out an involuntary groan as he finally spotted the one part of your outfit he hadn't seen before - the see-through back panel. You grinned to yourself at his suffering.
Kneeling next to Bob on the lush purple bedspread, you wasted no time untying both the ballgag and blindfold, flinging them off the bed and onto the floor. Bob's eyes squinted immediately, even the dim light of the bedroom blinding to his newly freed senses. He opened his mouth, stretching his jaw until it audibly popped. You couldn't help but wince in sympathy, moving to gently massage the muscles right under his ears, your hands helping to ease the ache there.
"You doing okay, baby?" you asked soothingly, an apologetic lilt to your tone.
"Yeah," Bob whispered, voice groggy until he cleared his throat. "Yes, ma'am," he corrected, his voice at its regular volume.
You smoothed some of his hair off his forehead before reaching to inspect his bound wrists, checking for any redness and making sure his arms still had full circulation. You'd been careful when tying him up, but Bob wasn't exactly the type to complain about his own comfort.
"I'm sorry I took so long, sugar," you cooed down at him, stroking his hair. Bob closed his eyes, soaking in the affection. "Didn't mean to tease you that hard."
"S'okay," he murmured, turning his head and pressing a tender kiss to the inside of your wrist.
"My sweet boy," you whispered, peppering kisses all over his face until Bob's muscles fully relaxed, his body sinking deeper into the comforter. "You okay to continue? Need to take a break? Change position?"
Bob shook his head, his deep blue eyes fluttering open. "'M good. I feel good."
"Yeah?" you murmured, pressing your lips to his jaw, lingering longer there, your kisses becoming more heated.
"Yeah," Bob affirmed, voice noticeably huskier than before. "Green. Very…very green."
"Mmm," you hummed, starting to run your hand down his torso. Your fingertips traced the sharp line of his collar bone from his shoulder to the center of his chest before trailing down. His cock, which had flagged a little bit before you sat down on the bed, was at full attention again. It twitched as your hand slid further down his body, between the pectoral muscles, going from just one finger to the whole of your palm easing down his stomach, still sticky with precum.
Bob didn't fight the full throated moan that ripped out of him when you wrapped your hand around his length, slowly stroking him from the base all the way up to his leaking tip. Just the weight and heat of him in your hand was enough to make your mouth water. You had to force yourself to let go of him, biting your lip to keep from grinning at Bob's whimper of protest.
"Sorry, baby," you said almost mockingly, not even a trace of remorse in your voice.
Turning to face him, you brought your hand up to your face, licking off a droplet of precum. Bob's answering whine was so delicious that you couldn't fight down the cruel smile that tugged at your lips.
"Do you know why you're here?" you asked Bob, gesturing at the rope that held him captive.
Bob nodded, biting at his already reddened lips.
"Tell me."
For a split second, his eyes darted to the end of the bed, to the other man quietly observing you. But you put a stop to that, snapping your fingers to draw his attention back.
"Eyes on me, baby. Now…" You let your words trail off just as you started to run your hand over his chest again, fingertips barely grazing his skin. His nipples hardened under your touch, and you drew lazy circles around them. "Tell me why I have you here like this."
"I…" Bob hesitated, but when you whipped your head to look at him, he quickly choked out an answer. "I was bad. I should have told you."
Satisfied that he'd continue to answer, you refocused your attention on Bob's nipples. They were small and dusky pink with a little ring of hair growing right around them. And you knew from experience just how sensitive they were.
"Keep going," you prompted. "Told me what?"
"I-I should have told you about John's plan," he admitted.
"Bobby, don't you dare…" John started to warn, but another snap of your fingers, and he went silent. Despite the grumpy look he shot you, John's eyes were alight.
"Uh uh uh. No more talking from you," you admonished, enjoying the way John squirmed under your glare. "Keep going, sweetheart," you encouraged Bob. You let your thumb swirl around the pebbled skin of Bob's nipple, redirecting his attention. He inhaled sharply through his nose but kept going.
"He…" Bob's eyes twitched like he wanted to look back at John but forced himself not to. You felt a small swell of both pride and pleasure in him following your orders. "He wanted to trick you. To tie you up and…" His words trailed off, looking like he was working himself up to finish his sentence. "Have…his way…with you. 'M sorry."
"That's okay, sweetheart. I can forgive you," you cooed, smiling down at him. God, you loved the way he looked up at you, big blue eyes so full of love, staring at you like you were his very salvation. "And, because you were honest with me and helped me with my plan, I have a reward for you. You want your reward, puppy?"
Bob nodded furiously. "Yes! Yes, please. Please, mistress," he pleaded, surging up as much as he could before you lightly pushed him back down on the bed. Hearing that honorific from Bob's lips - mistress - was almost more than you could bear. Your pussy clenched, clit throbbing in arousal. Fortunately, relief was in sight.
Reaching under his pillow, you pulled out a small piece of plastic. It was about an inch long, white, and perfectly rectangular. Bob's eyebrows furrowed in confusion when you held it in front of him. He didn't voice his question, just looked up at you for answers. You pressed your thumb on the indented area, and the loud, metallic click the object made seemed to echo in the room. Instead of answering his question, Bob looked even more perplexed as you pressed the clicker into his hand.
"Click it for me," you ordered. There was a moment of hesitation before Bob obeyed, pushing down on the metal part of the clicker. The sound was less jarring this time, but no more enlightening than before.
You couldn't help but smirk. "Looks like it's not just for training dogs," you teased. "Then again, you are my good little puppy." You didn't think it was possible for Bob's face to turn even more pink than it already was, but the blush that dusted his cheeks was almost scarlet.
You didn't mean to say the words "You're so pretty" out loud, but, judging by how Bob turned his head to the side, trying to bashfully duck away from your gaze, you must have. Grabbing his chin, you pulled his head back up to endure your undivided attention, letting your eyes roam over him.
God, he was indeed beautiful. You could catalog everything you loved about his face: the shallow wrinkle on his forehead and cute little lines under those expressive eyes, the strong and mostly straight nose that ended in a slightly bulbous tip that was perfect for planting a kiss on, the five o'clock shadow that always haunted his skin no matter how closely he shaved, his thin but oh-so-soft lips that knew how to kiss you breathless and drive you mad in turn, all the way to the strong jut of his jaw and the delicious protrusion of his Adam's apple. And his eyes. Oh, they were as deep and dark as the ocean and sometimes just as stormy. But not now. Now they gazed up at you with a look of sheer reverence, waiting for your next command, ready and willing to follow your every whim like it was the gospel, like he was your most faithful disciple.
And you kissed him. Despite the heat of the evening's proceedings, it started slow, a simple pass of lips coming together and separating in turn over and over again. When you ran your tongue across the seam of his lips, they parted smoothly, like he hadn't even made the conscious decision. It was just that natural. And, when you kissed him, you tasted him, sliding your tongue along his as if sampling its delicacies. It grew in intensity naturally, building and building until Bob was panting against your lips, barely able to bite back the little sounds at the back of his throat that threatened to spill out and into your mouth. You could feel him trying to stay still, to be good for you, body going so stiff Bob was practically shaking from the tension. When you finally broke the kiss, you rested your forehead on Bob's, both of you fighting to catch your breath.
"Fuck," you muttered, not missing the way Bob's lips turned up at the edges in a pleased smile. "You almost distracted me too, baby."
"'M sorry," Bob breathed. He was lying, but you couldn't fault him for it this time. In Bob's perfect world, you'd be on top of him right now, kissing him until his lungs felt near to bursting, his throbbing erection buried deep inside of you as you ground down against him. As wet as that thought made you, he still needed to be punished. Bob wouldn't get your pussy until he earned it.
Sitting back up, you pushed the hair that had fallen down back out of your face. "Still have that clicker, baby?"
"Yes, mistress," Bob answered.
"What's the code for when you can't speak?"
Bob frowned slightly, a little confused. But he answered anyway, his words lilting up at the end as if he wanted to turn them into a question but he didn't quite dare to ask. "One tap for no, two for yes."
"We need to use a slightly different one this time," you murmured, brushing the hair back out of his face. "One click is pause. And two clicks is for stop. Do you understand?"
"One click for pause, two clicks for stop," Bob repeated, making the appropriate number of clicks for each part of the sentence.
You spared a glance over your shoulder at John. Bob may not have pieced together what his reward was, but John sure as hell did. His eyes burned into you hot enough that you were momentarily grateful that Bob was the one with heat vision. You could see his chest rise and fall just a little too quickly under his shirt, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth to calm himself. His lips were a dark, lush pink, like he'd been biting at them, fighting to keep silent. You smirked back at him. That was the face of a man who knew exactly what he was missing out on.
You looked back down at Bob, who was still looking up at you with wide, searching eyes, his forehead furrowed, eyebrows adorably pushed up in the middle.
"You hungry, puppy?" you cooed down at him, grinning sharply when his look of confusion only grew.
Shifting your weight, you swung your leg over Bob to straddle his chest. In a second, it was like a light bulb had flickered on in Bob's head.
"Oh my God," he practically moaned, voice shaky. He'd done a good job not speaking unless asked a question this whole time, but it was like any other thought had left his head. "Please, baby. Fuck, I need this. Need you. Need to taste you. Please." Bob almost dropped the clicker, but you pressed it back into his hand before moving to hover over his face, knees on either side of his head on the pillows. Your thighs were already starting to ache, but you pushed the pain into the back of your mind.
"Remember, one click for pause and two clicks for stop," you purred down at Bob, adjusting quickly when he craned his neck, desperate to taste you. He was definitely hungry.
You didn't make him repeat it back this time. This time, you were merciful. You lowered your dripping pussy onto his awaiting tongue, his resulting moan vibrating against your clit. Your hands shot out, grasping the headboard to help hold yourself up. After all, you didn't want to crush his pretty little face.
Bob was everywhere all at once, licking and sucking every inch of skin he could reach, the most obscene sounds filling the room. He ran his tongue up your slit and back down again, stretching his neck for a better angle.
"Tongue flat, baby," you ordered, letting out a hum of cruel amusement when he immediately obeyed. You rocked your hips, grinding your clit into his tongue, moaning at the delicious, wet friction.
Bob's hands twitched, uselessly trying to grab for you. Normally, Bob helped when you rode his face. Sometime around the middle, your legs always seemed to turn to jelly. So Bob was always there to help, effortlessly holding you up by your hips, letting you control the pace and positioning as you got off on his mouth. But this time, you'd have to do it all alone. Hopefully, the Sentry serum gave him an increased lung capacity.
You rode his face, using his mouth however you wanted it. After grinding your clit on his tongue, you grabbed Bob's head, fingers clutching his scalp, and angled him further down. His tongue lapped at your entrance, happily drinking you straight from the source.
"Fuck me with your tongue, baby," you commanded, and Bob wasted no time obeying. He thrust his tongue inside of you, both of you moaning in tandem. Yours was with your head thrown back, grinding down even harder on his face, clenching your walls around him. His was muffled inside of you but still so loud in the mostly quiet room filled only with your and John's heavy breathing. You canted your hips forward, letting his nose nudge your clit with each subsequent grind.
It quickly became harder and harder to hold yourself up. Where you'd been hovering, barely touching Bob's face, you were now firmly seated on him. Not that he minded. Bob was locked in, his eyes closed in focus, that little line forming between his eyebrows as he furrowed them in concentration.
"Bob, baby," you murmured down at him, stroking his hair idly. "Look at me, sweet boy. Wanna see those eyes."
His lashes fluttered as he opened his eyelids, his glassy gaze and wide pupils telling you everything you needed to know.
"Aww, is the little puppy pussydrunk already?" you cooed, an edge of mockery in your tone. Bob just whined against you in answer, and you could feel the bed shift as his hips bucked into the air, fruitlessly searching for any friction to soothe his aching cock.
"You're doing so good," you moaned, gripping his hair even harder as you angled your hips to let Bob's tongue run along your slit from your entrance all the way to your clit, which he happily took in his mouth. "Fuck," you swore, biting your lower lip as you rocked against Bob's mouth. "Suck that clit, baby. You're making me feel so fucking good. Gonna cum on that pretty little face."
There was a choked sound from the end of the bed, and you looked back over your shoulder at John. This was definitely punishment for him. He couldn't stop fidgeting in his seat, prick so eager for friction that even the uncomfortable rub of the metal teeth on his zipper provided a kind of sharp, painful relief. Gone were the deep breaths in through the nose and out through his mouth; John was panting, lips parted enticingly. He was staring fixated at what he could see of your cunt smearing Bob's face with your arousal.
"Oh, looks like Johnny's liking the show, puppy," you teased, exaggerating the next roll of your hips to pull a groan out of John's mouth. He didn't disappoint. And neither did Bob who answered your question with a quivering moan of his own that vibrated through you pleasantly.
"You want some, baby?" you taunted John. He nodded immediately, leaning forward in the armchair hopefully. "You want to eat this pretty pussy, sugar?"
"Please," John practically moaned. All pretense of dominance was long gone from the man. He'd already tried tugging on the restraints, finding them much sturdier than he'd at first thought. He'd practically melted, finding something strangely erotic about feeling weak and helpless. Like he was completely at your mercy to do with as you pleased. And he desperately wanted to be used.
"You hear that, Bob? John wants a turn," you said innocently, stroking Bob's hair as if to calm him while your words were doing anything but. "I should let him have a taste. It's only fair."
Before you could even pantomime starting to lift a leg to pull yourself off of him, a growl ripped its way out of Bob's throat. You had to bite your lip to keep from whimpering at the look of sheer, unmitigated possessiveness in his eyes as your boyfriend glared up at you. The headboard creaked violently as Bob strained against his restraints. He wasn't using his full strength, but, judging by the flash of gold in his eyes, Bob definitely would break something if you tried to climb off him. When you stayed quiet, he made another low, dangerous sound, letting his teeth lightly scrape against your clit. You tried to hold back your gasp but to no avail. Bob hummed in pleasure when you bucked your hips, lathing that little bundle of nerves with his tongue before sliding his teeth over it again.
"Fuck! Bob, oh my God!" you cried out, clenching your fists tighter in Bob's hair, your teasing instantly forgotten.
Your knees went weak, and you found yourself sinking down completely on his face, unable to hold yourself up. If you weren't so distracted riding his mouth, you would have noticed that the gold didn't disappear from his eyes, that it almost felt like there were hands holding onto your thighs, ones that helped you rut harder against his face. His mouth was everywhere, lapping and slurping at your folds, fucking his tongue into you, and mouthing his lips over your sensitive clit, practically moaning when you thrust down, hips stuttering against him.
Soon enough, you were shaking, stomach muscles twitching, thighs tightening around Bob's head. He didn't seem to mind, making a happy noise in the back of his throat as he panted against your slick skin. Focusing on your nub, Bob swirled his tongue around it before flattening, letting you lewdly hump his face, dragging your clit over the flexing muscle. When you started whimpering, making desperate little noises that were practically begging him for release, he increased the suction on that little bundle of nerves, suckling hard enough to make you see white spots behind your closed eyelids. Each flex of his jaw, each swallow coincided with each roll of your hips, the rhythm of it combined with the pleasure-pain of pressure driving you closer and closer to the edge.
With one last rut of your hips and a wail, your whole body went rigid as your release slammed into you, leaving you gasping and shaking. Bob worked you through it, still licking every inch of skin he could get his mouth on but slowing down. He only let up once you were whining, trying to pull yourself off of him to collapse on the bed. Reluctantly, Bob let you go, and you flopped down next to him, gasping for breath like you'd run an Olympic marathon.
You only gave yourself to the count of five before you forced yourself to sit up, carefully pulling the rope on the quick-release knots holding Bob's wrists in place. As soon as the purple ropes were gone, you went to take his hands to inspect them, but you didn't have a chance to. The next thing you knew, you were on your back, head now at the foot of the bed, legs thrown haphazardly over Bob's shoulders as he buried his face back between them, eagerly lapping at your sensitive cunt.
"Bob!" you cried out, once again grasping honeyed-brown locks in your hands. He was relentless. And he was everywhere, tonguing your folds like he was desperate to wring every last ounce of pleasure out of you. Bob rutted his hips against the bed in time with the movements of his tongue, your ecstasy turning into his own as he whined and panted against you.
You almost gave in. You almost let him manhandle you to another orgasm. But, when you caught John's eye and saw the warring desires written plainly on his face - the desire to please you versus the desire to pleasure you - you came back to your senses.
"Bob," you said again, mustering enough authority in your tone to cause the man between your legs to pause, looking up at you. He was a mess - hair clutched between your fingers, lower face soaked with your juices, eyes a swirl of black, blue, and flecks of gold.
"Bob…no, baby. You gotta let me up," you scolded. It felt a bit ridiculous, what with your legs in the air and a literal god holding you down, but you pushed through the feeling.
Bob let out a whine of complaint, opening his mouth to protest. You fixed him with your best schoolteacher glare, and he visibly withered.
"You got your treat, puppy. C'mere," you urged. Tugging on his hair to pull him closer to you, Bob allowed your legs to drop down, crawling up between them.
Not all of him had deflated when you glowered at him. His hips bucked, sliding his hard length along your slick folds. You gasped when the swollen head nudged your abused clit, pulling him down into a blistering kiss. The taste of you was sharp and sweet on his lips, drawing a moan out of you that Bob willingly drank from your mouth.
When you finally drew back, Bob moved down, mouthing at your neck, tongue out to taste your skin. You allowed him this much, closing your eyes and letting your hand idly scratch his scalp until he reached the base of your neck, sucking a possessive mark into your skin.
"That's enough, sweetheart," you murmured to him. This time, when you tried to sit up, Bob got the hint, leaning back to sit on his knees, watching you for instruction.
"There's my good boy," you purred, stroking his cheek with the back of your hand. Bob closed his eyes, leaning into your fleeting touch. That was until you pulled something out of a clever little pocket in the chemise, pressing it into his hands - a key. His eyes fluttered open, looking from the key in his hands to John in the armchair and back to you. "That's right, baby. Go unlock those handcuffs for me."
After one more brief kiss, Bob quietly obeyed, getting off the bed and padding his way over to the grey armchair. You took this time to pull yourself to the top of the bed, sitting up against the headboard, watching your two favorite boys.
Bob was gentle as he unlocked the manacles from John's wrists. Without your prompting, he knelt down and took John's hands in his, checking them for any signs of redness or abrasion the same way you'd meant to do with Bob before he abruptly tackled you. His touch was soft, running the pads of his thumbs over the delicate skin of John's wrists.
"You okay?" Bob asked quietly in that low, breathy voice of his, looking up into John's eyes. Maybe you were just seeing what you wanted to see, but it certainly seemed like both men's eyes were softer when they looked at each other. It wasn't one of the myriad ways you'd seen them looking at you, but it was…something.
"Yeah," John answered, his voice just as soft as Bob's and even more breathless.
"Can you…feel everything? No numbness?" Bob pressed.
A wry smile curled John's lips. "I'm good, Bobby. I promise. Scout's honor."
You cleared your throat, and both men pulled their hands away from each other like they were caught doing something they weren't supposed to. The smile you gave them was both condescending and self-satisfied. You couldn't help yourself.
"Good boys," you commended. Both of them seemed to sit up straighter at your words, preening under your watchful gaze. You let your eyes slowly slide down and then back up their bodies, smirking. "I think someone's a little overdressed. Bob, sugar?"
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Help him take those clothes off."
He swallowed hard enough that John probably heard it, his Adam's apple bobbing and making your mouth water with the urge to lick his throat. You wet your lips instead, and both pairs of blue eyes shot down automatically, watching the brief flash of tongue. When Bob looked back up and met your eyes, his widened, a flash of panic there when he realized he didn't verbally answer you.
"Y-yes, ma'am. Mistress? Yes, mistress." Bob winced, cringing at his own words. "Sorry, mistress. I just got sidetracked. I'll-"
"It's okay, baby," you reassured him, his shoulders relaxing with a small sigh of relief at your words. You crossed your legs in front of you on the bed, exaggerating the movement to make sure they caught a glimpse of your nakedness under the lingerie. "I'm flattered you find me so…distracting."
"Always," Bob breathed, eyes taking you in like he was trying to burn the sight of you into his retinas. And John wasn't any better. Even though he couldn't see under the chemise, he stared at your crossed legs like he was mentally willing them to part for him.
"I won't hold it against you, I promise," you said with a teasing smile that had Bob blushing. You gestured at John. "Now, get to it, or I might have to change my mind. And go slow." You gestured at the front of John's flannel. "Unbutton it. Take your time."
Bob's fingers fumbled on John's shirt. You couldn't tell if the man was having a kind of stage fright, being put on the spot and watched, or if the proximity to the other man and the intimacy of the act was affecting him.
After he'd managed to undo a few, you directed John to help. Instead of taking over for Bob, John placed his hands on top of the brunet's, coaxing his fingers to slip the buttons through the holes of his flannel, his shirt falling more and more open, exposing a thin undershirt beneath it. When it was fully undone, Bob pushed the fabric off John's shoulders and down his arms, fingers running over the newly bared skin.
The undershirt was next, John raising his arms and letting Bob slowly pull it up his torso and over his head, the dangling silver dogtags on John's neck brushing the skin of Bob's chest. The metal had been pressed against John's chest the entire night, so there was no way it was colder. But, when they touched Bob, he'd shivered like they were freezing anyway.
The jeans were next. John stood up to help unbutton them, but one word from you kept Bob kneeling. Bob looked up at the man hovering over him. John's breathing stuttered for a second, and you knew why. You'd seen those storm-blue eyes gazing up at you from between your thighs more times that you could count, and the sight never failed to send a rush of heat straight between your legs, stealing the air from your lungs. If the stunned look on John's face was any indication, he felt the same.
The belt came off easily enough. Even though you'd never seen Bob wear one, he certainly knew the easiest way to remove one, not even struggling with the belt buckle that you yourself had fumbled with before. He placed it on the armchair before continuing.
Bob's fingers weren't shaking anymore as he unbuttoned the fly on John's jeans, keeping eye contact the whole time. John stood transfixed, pink lips parted in silent awe. The teeth of John's zipper sounded loud in the quiet of the room, each one making a little metallic noise that echoed in your ears.
Finally, when the pants were unfastened, Bob rested his hands on John's hips, thumbs going through the belt loops. When John nodded, barely jerking his head down then up again, Bob began pulling, coaxing the jeans down his legs. His hands could have stopped around mid-thigh and let gravity take over, but Bob was nothing if not diligent. He traced John's legs all the way down, leaving the jeans in a pile around the other man's feet.
Looking back up, Bob was face to face with the obvious tent in John's boxer briefs. He was so close, his breath puffed warm air over the erection, and John was far from unaffected by his proximity.
"Jesus Christ, Bobby," he muttered under his breath just loud enough for you to hear it. Bob tried to play innocent, his big eyes opening wider, becoming even more round like he had no idea what he was doing, but the smirk tugging on the corners of his lips gave it away.
Soon, Bob's hands were on the waist of John's boxer briefs, fingers slipping under the elastic band, rubbing against the skin there. John was biting his lip, his breathing kept slow and steady with visible effort. Bob glanced at you for permission, and you wasted no time granting it with a sharp nod of your head. He took his time, even more so than with the jeans, skimming his palms over the bare skin he revealed inch by inch.
By the time John stood fully naked at the end of the bed, both men were breathing hard and painfully erect. John's cockhead was almost purple, a few sparse droplets of precum glistening on his glans. If Bob quickly looked away and licked his lips, John didn't comment on it.
A soft, wet schlick drew both of their attention to you. While they were distracted with each other, you'd occupied yourself, two fingers slowly circling your clit, teasing yourself. Your hand dipped, sliding through your slick folds, wetting your fingers before bringing them back, the touch tantalizingly light. Seeing their attention back on you, you spread your legs further, giving them both a better view.
"Want a taste?" you purred at John, a smug smile on your lips at his dazed expression.
"Please," he said, the word no more than a breathy whisper. It was as though he didn't know where to look, his eyes flickering between your face and your soaked core.
You let your hand slip down, skimming your fingertips over your slit, before slowly pressing two fingers inside. Watching John, you pumped them in and out of you, the sounds of your arousal quickly filling the bedroom. Only a single sigh of pleasure spilled out of you as you curled your fingers, touching that spongy spot inside of you that sent tendrils of sensation through your body.
Stopping abruptly, you removed your fingers, holding them up in front of you, glistening in the dim light with your slick. John's stare bore into you. There was a tension in him, not unlike a string on a violin, one that had been overly-tightened and was ready to snap given the slightest opportunity.
"Bob," you called. The brunet, who'd been kneeling patiently on the floor, watching the scene play out, snapped his head toward you, blinking in obvious surprise.
"Y-yes, ma'am?" he asked, voice tentative.
"C'mere." You quirked your wet fingers at him, and he rushed to crawl to you on the bed. Extending your hand in front of him, you only spoke one word. "Suck."
And Bob happily obeyed. He opened his mouth, letting you thrust your fingers in, where he sucked on them happily. Bob tried to keep his eyes open, to keep looking at you, but he couldn't help himself. His oral fixation was too strong and having your fingers in his mouth was too soothing.
Once you were satisfied he'd cleaned them thoroughly, you removed your fingers from Bob's mouth with a wet pop. Those deep blue eyes fluttered open, watching you with a half-lidded gaze. It took everything in you to not pull him into another kiss when he gave you that sweet, dopey smile that you only ever saw when he was fucked out or drunk off your pussy.
Turning your attention back to John, it took everything in you again but this time to not laugh at his expression. The man looked devastated. Those sad eyes that drew you to him originally were in full force now as he gazed at you. It was the face of a man who had accepted his punishment but just couldn't fight down his disappointment. He didn't pout. He didn't scowl. He didn't even look put out. He just looked resigned to his punishment.
"Don't worry, baby. You'll still get a taste. Come here, handsome boy," you cooed at him.
You'd teased John more than once that he was the human equivalent of a Golden Retriever, and the way his face lit up in excitement like you were holding his favorite toy didn't help his case. If he had a tail, John would definitely be wagging it. He crawled over to you on the opposite side from Bob, sitting back on his heels, mirroring the other man. It was like your legs had their very own book ends.
On the outside, you looked cool and collected, amusement dancing on your lips. But on the inside, your heart was a war drum pounding against your ribcage, like you were leading an army into battle. Your stomach fluttered with nerves, but you steeled yourself. Doubts flooded your mind, but you pushed them aside.
It was like a mission. A high-stakes mission with potential long-lasting consequences, but you'd done plenty of those before and come out the other side. And if you were wrong? So what? Sure, it'd be awkward, maybe even a little painful. But these two idiots would never take the dive if you left them to their own devices. They'd been skirting around their attraction for months. It was time for you to give them that final little push.
"You know…" you started, drawing out the words in an almost sing-song voice. John frowned immediately. Sometimes you thought he might just have some precognition, the way he could sense trouble on the horizon. Especially if that trouble came from you. "I don't think you deserve to have some straight from the source."
John opened his mouth to plead his case, a rebuttal already fully formed and ready to go in his mind. But you cut him off before he could gather steam.
"But you can have a taste secondhand."
You waved your hand at Bob, the gesture casual, almost flippant even though your words were anything but.
Bob understood first. His mouth fell open, kiss-swollen lips parting with a soft noise of surprise. He went pale beneath the flush on his skin, his eyes widening as he watched you, as if waiting for confirmation that he heard you correctly. You gave him one firm nod, and he muttered the words 'holy shit,' under his breath.
John took a minute. He looked down at your hand, as if expecting you to touch yourself again so he could suck the juices off your fingers the way Bob had, but his expression was pure puzzlement when you pointed instead. His eyes followed, turning to look at whatever you were gesturing to. When his gaze met Bob's, it was still one of confusion. That is until Bob licked his lips.
It was an instinct, a nervous habit he did in stressful situations. His mouth would go dry and so would his lips. Bob normally remedied this by carrying around lip balm everywhere he went - putting one in each of his hoodies and stashing some in the common areas he used the most. But this time, he didn't even think about it. He just did. And John's eyes followed his tongue like they were magnetized to it.
When he looked back up, Bob was watching him closely, trying to judge his reaction. And react, he did.
It was like a light bulb lit up in his mind - a bright, neon one with a lurid image on it, like something you'd find in a trashy strip club in the 80s. His eyes went wide as saucers, mouth falling open in surprise. Even though he was turned to the side, you could see those long, blond lashes fluttering as he blinked rapidly like his brain was recalibrating.
When he turned to you, John's face was a swirl of emotions - shock, shame, and stubbornness chief among them. You laid your hand on his forearm, and, when he didn't rebuff you, you took his hand in yours.
"Hey, we don't have to do anything anyone doesn't want," you told him gently, dropping character entirely. "We can go back to what we were doing. Or we can stop entirely. Or anything in between."
You glanced over at Bob, only to find him watching John closely, an unreadable look on his face. You smiled, catching his attention and tentatively offering your other hand to him, which Bob accepted with a gentle squeeze.
"If I went too far or this is too much, I'm sorry," you said earnestly, eyes flitting back and forth between your boyfriends. "It just seems like you two have been dancing around each other for months. That maybe you needed a little push."
"We could have just talked about it," Bob said wryly, rubbing his thumb on the back of your hand, giving you a smug little smirk when you had the grace to look bashful.
"You and I could have talked about it, sure," you admitted, turning to look at John. "But something tells me you would have just kept running forever."
John's answering smile had an edge of self-deprecation. "You're probably right about that," he admitted with a sigh.
"I'm right about most things," you teased, and John's smile turned more genuine.
"Dunno if I'd go that far," he said with a chuckle. Leaning in, you kissed his cheek, his stubble grazing your skin not-unpleasantly. Turning his head, John captured your lips in a brief but oh-so-sweet embrace. Bob watched you both, his gaze so heavy it felt like it had physical weight. It was like earlier when he caught sight of you in your lingerie, but this time, Bob wasn't watching just you.
"You sure you're okay with this?" John asked as he pulled back, his breath ghosting over your lips.
"You're asking me if I want my boyfriends to kiss?" At John's answering nod, you couldn't help but let out a sharp bark of a laugh. "Of fucking course I do. I didn't even consider it as a possibility until recently. But the better question is - do you?"
John's eyes flickered past you, looking at Bob, and they darted away just as quickly. It was like he wasn't able to hold Bob's intense gaze for long. At the same time, he couldn't quite keep his eyes away. They kept glancing over, catching little glimpses of Bob's stare as though he was drawn in by those storm-dark eyes.
"I meant it when I said you don't have to if you don't want to," you said softly, rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb with little back and forth motions. "And it isn't a 'now or never' situation either. We can always talk about this later."
"I," John started, licking his lower lip nervously. "I do." He finally met Bob's eyes. This time, he was steady, not breaking eye contact. "I'd like to."
"Bob, are you -" you started, but Bob already sat up, getting on his hands and knees and pressing his lips to John's.
Suddenly, it was like the air was sucked out of the room. Your brain seemed to stop functioning properly, completely freeze-framing on the sight right in front of you, one you had imagined so many times but never thought would leave the confines of your mind.
John's eyes closed the second their lips touched, his blond lashes fluttering against his skin. His face went slack, like all the anxiety, all his thoughts slipped out of his head, smoothing the lines on his forehead and in the corners of his eyes. His hand hovered nervously before tentatively placing it on Bob's forearm, grip gradually tightening until there were little white crescents in Bob's skin there.
Even though Bob had his head angled away from you, the smile that curled his lips was unmistakable. Balancing on one hand, he lifted the other to cup John's cheek before slipping it down to John's chin, using that leverage to hold the other man back when he tried to follow Bob's mouth when their lips parted. When John made a sound of protest, Bob smiled even more, moving back in and placing a series of kisses on John's lips that kept the other man wanting more. The sound of their lips meeting and parting filled the room with soft, wet smacking noises.
It didn't take long for John to get bolder, hand slipping up to the nape of Bob's neck, trying to hold Bob closer to deepen the kiss. Bob just nipped at John's lower lip, leaning back slightly and making John chase his mouth until their positions had switched with John practically on his hands and knees instead of Bob. But just when it seemed there was no farther back for Bob to move and John opened his mouth to lick at the seam of Bob's lips, the brunet put his hand on John's shoulder, gently holding him back.
When John's eyes opened, he looked almost dazed. "Bob. Bobby," he muttered, voice barely above a whisper. "Please."
"Please what?" Bob teased, lightly shoving John back off of where he was resting on his knees and making him sit directly on the bed. He wasn't pushing John away, however. Bob followed him down, climbing onto his lap.
John's hands fell to Bob's hips automatically, squeezing his flesh with a throaty groan. Just the proximity was enough to take John's breath away, the blond breathing harder, pink dusting his cheeks and his kiss-stained lips. His eyes were everywhere, taking Bob in - the little smirk, the way his eyes swirled with gold-flecked heat, and, most pressingly, the still-hard cock that stood proudly between Bob's legs, hovering mere inches away from John's own throbbing length.
"Please kiss me," John pleaded quietly, not bothering to keep the desperation out of his voice.
Bob obliged. He surged forward, capturing John's mouth hard enough that you could swear you heard their teeth click. Bob pressed his body firmly against John's, swallowing the other man's shaky moan. Their mouths only parted enough for you to see the flash of their tongues sliding against each other. John's hands moved farther back, grasping the other man's ass and pulling him even closer. When Bob started moving, slowly grinding his hips down against John's, your hand had slipped under your chemise, teasing yourself with featherlight touches against your still-sensitive clit.
By the time they broke apart, both were out of breath. Bob rested his forehead against John's, panting against his lips. John's eyes never left Bob's face, watching him with a look that was dangerously close to awe.
"Fuck," Bob breathed, biting his lip. "I've wanted to do that for months."
"Why didn't you?" John asked, his ragged voice thrumming through you, your clit pulsing under your own touch at the naked desire there.
Bob laughed, the sound joyous and carefree in the way he only ever seemed to be with you. And now with John. He laid a small kiss on the tip of John's nose, the same affectionate way he did with you. The sight could have made you jealous. Maybe it should have. But it only made your heart feel as warm as your body already was.
"Honestly thought you were straight," Bob admitted with a grin. "That kiss says otherwise."
"I'm straight-ish," John professed with a shrug. "Not exactly my first rodeo, so to speak."
You raised your eyebrows. This was news to you.
Bob, however, didn't look particularly surprised.
"Mmm, yeah, you don't kiss like I'm your first guy." Even from your angle, you could see that mischievous light in Bob's eyes that spelled nothing but the most delicious kind of trouble. It was the same look he got the day he spontaneously went down on you in the control room, making you cum mere seconds before the rest of the team walked in. The same one he had on the date where you made the mistake of wearing a low cut top and Bob ended up railing you against the wall of your favorite bookstore's bathroom. But this time? It was focused on John.
"Tell me about it," Bob murmured, leaning down to run his tongue along the shell of John's ear, making the other man shiver beneath him. "You fool around with a friend in high school?"
"Not 'friend.' 'Friends'plural; more than one," John admitted almost sheepishly. Bob rolled his hips, a little reward for the truth. He smirked when John moaned.
"What, were you fucking the football team?" Bob teased, biting and tugging at John's earlobe.
John let out a shaky laugh. "No. Not…not exactly. We'd go get drunk in the woods on the weekends sometimes. Just guys tailgating, drinking beer, and shooting the shit. Eventually, we'd start talking about girls, and one of the guys'd pop a stiffy. And, you know, no one around, so we'd…" John shrugged awkwardly. "Yeah."
"Give each other a hand?" Bob teased.
"Or…a mouth," he said with a coy smile on his face.
"Jesus," you said, voice practically a moan. Both men turned to look at you, one with a questioning look on his face, the other with a knowing smirk.
"Looks like we're not the only ones enjoying ourselves," Bob said, eyes fixed on the hand between your stocking-clad legs. Wordlessly, you spread them farther apart, giving your boyfriends a better view of your dripping pussy. In an almost Pavlovian response, both John and Bob licked their lips. It would be funny if it wasn't so fucking hot.
"You enjoy the taste you got, baby?" you asked John, making a show of swirling your finger around your sensitive nub.
"Yes," John breathed. Before you could say anything, he corrected himself. "Yes, mistress."
"Good boy," you purred, dipping your fingers through your slick folds teasingly before bringing them back up, continuing the circles around your clit. "Bob, I think he deserves a little reward for being so good. Don't you think so?"
"Yes, ma'am," Bob said maybe a touch too enthusiastically. With two flicks of the wrist, he undid the snaps holding his cock ring on and carelessly tossed the black piece of leather across the room. He then shifted in John's lap, moving back just a fraction, ignoring the little noise of complaint the other man let out. Before John could voice his objections, Bob's hand closed around both of their cocks, stroking them roughly.
"Fuck!" John cried out, thrusting his hips up, his cock sliding against Bob's inside the other man's fist.
Bob was grinning wildly. His other hand came up to fist into John's hair, pulling a gasp from his mouth. Yanking, he tugged John's head to hover directly over his fist.
"Spit on it," he commanded. John obeyed, letting his saliva well up before opening his mouth and sticking out his tongue, letting strands of his spit land on their already-leaking glans.
"Yeah, that's it. Fuck my fist," Bob murmured in his ear, voice just loud enough to carry. Both you and John moaned at the same time, your free hand coming up to cup your breast through the lacy fabric of the chemise.
"You're leaking so much, baby. So wet for me. Practically dripping," Bob purred, starting to mouth at John's neck, nipping and sucking at the skin there. You could see him thumb the slick heads of both of their cocks in one swipe, and you followed the motion, rubbing firmly over your clit.
Eventually, Bob appeared to tire of John setting the pace. He pushed at John's shoulders, urging him down onto his back on the bed. Bracing one hand on John's abs, Bob rolled his hips, throwing back his head and letting out a long groan. He started riding John in earnest, rutting into his own hand, cock sliding easily against John's. It was mesmerizing. You could see all the muscles in Bob's ass and the backs of his thighs flex almost hypnotically as he started up a rhythm.
The thought occurred to you that that must be what John got to see all the times Bob fucked you in front of him, burying himself deep into your cunt. You gritted your teeth to hold back a particularly undignified noise, feeling yourself growing impossibly wetter at the thought. You'd believed John was just watching him spear you open, watching as Bob pistoned his cock in and out of you. But you knew in that moment that your blond boyfriend's eyes had flickered back and forth, watching the way Bob's cheeks dimpled with each thrust.
And now, John grabbed at those dimples, fingers digging into the flesh of Bob's ass, unconsciously aiding Bob's momentum. His face was slack, mouth open, watching the man above him with a look of pure awe, like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Smiling down, Bob bit his lip coyly, a look deliberately designed to entice.
"Feel good?" he murmured teasingly.
"Yes," John panted, his hips twitching with the urge to grind up against him. His fingertips grasping at Bob's skin hard enough to leave white half-moons. "Fuck, Bobby. You're so goddamn pretty."
Bob's hips stuttered at the words, and he let out a moan that reverberated through the room. It was loud enough that you felt like you could feel it through the bed, rumbling through your body, making your cunt pulse with desire.
"So goddamn pretty," John repeated, unable this time to resist thrusting up into Bob's hand. Bob reacted like you imagined he would if John was inside of him, forcing down a shuddery gasp, letting out a breathless sound instead. "Look so fucking good on top of me. Fuck, I can't believe -"
But Bob cut him off, swooping down to capture John's lips with his in a deep, filthy kiss. He'd had to move both his hands to lay flat on top of the blond, but that didn't stop him from rutting down, grinding their lengths between their stomachs. John only squeezed his ass harder, soliciting another greedy noise from Bob that John eagerly swallowed.
Bob only pulled away to fasten his lips to John's nipple, jaw working as he suckled deeply, only stopping to switch sides, running his tongue over the neglected nub, and repeat the process. John's back arched against his mouth, exposing even more of his neck as he let out a wanton noise of pleasure.
This was everything you could have hoped for and more. That spark of desire you'd seen between them so many times had ignited into a raging fire hot enough to burn the room down, and you found you didn't give a damn about the flames.
The room filled with the sounds of grunts and moans, of flesh against flesh, and the wet schlick of your hand between your legs. When Bob started letting out little involuntary whimpers, the same sound you'd heard a hundred times before he spilled inside of you, you had to step in.
"That's enough, boys," you said, mustering all your resolve to fill your voice with authority. As much as you wanted to see Bob cum all over John's stomach, you couldn't let them derail your plans.
Complying almost instantly, John grabbed Bob's hips even harder, forcing the brunet to a stop. Bob sunk his teeth into the skin around John's nipple, fighting down the disobedient whine that threatened to escape his lips.
"Shit!" John grunted, snapping his hips upward, helpless to hold still under Bob's mouth. "I'm sorry, mistress," he panted, turning his head to lock his pleading eyes on yours. "Didn't mean to keep going."
The smile that tugged at the corner of your lips was fond but the gleam in your eye was predatory.
"You're okay, baby," you soothed, and John visibly relaxed, breathing out a soft sigh of distinct relief. Getting up on your hands and knees, you leaned forward, curling your fingers into Bob's hair, giving him a warning tug. "But you need to be a good boy and let go."
He did so, releasing John's nipple with a faint 'pop.' His teeth marks were visible, making a circle framing John's reddened nub. It was temptation incarnate. You couldn't resist.
Despite the awkward angle, you found yourself leaning down, blowing on the skin still glistening with Bob's saliva, making John whine and squirm, rubbing up involuntarily against Bob enough to make both men groan. You let out a deep, throaty laugh that seemingly sent a shiver up both men's spines.
After you positioned yourself back against the headboard, you patted the space next to you invitingly. Your boyfriends' eyes met, light blue gazing up into dark, and a look passed between them, one that you couldn't quite read.
Before climbing off of him, Bob pressed his lips to John's in, what was for them, a new kind of kiss. One that was surprisingly tender. John readily responded, eyes fluttering closed as he craned his neck up to lean into the kiss. It lasted for only a few scant seconds, but both men looked a little dazed when Bob pulled back.
Bob eased his way off of John, careful only to put his hands and knees on the bed and not accidentally elbow the other man in the stomach. He made a show of crawling the short distance, playfully laying kisses up your body to the inside of your ankle, the outside of your thigh, the back of your hand, the crook of your elbow, and the curve of your shoulder before resting his chin there as well, batting his lashes up at you.
You laughed, giving him a quick peck on the tip of his nose before capturing his lips in a brief, gentle kiss. When you pulled back, Bob gazed up at you with his heart in his eyes, his whole expression having softened from his previous teasing countenance.
"Love you," Bob murmured almost dreamily, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Love you too," you whispered back, pulling your lip between your teeth to fight the urge to give him yet another kiss. Instead, you patted the spot next to you by the headboard.
Bob didn't hesitate, putting his back against the wall, playfully draping his right leg over your left one. Giggling, you pulled your leg out from under his, doing the same thing right back to him. When you could feel him start to repeat the silly game you had accidentally started, a quick, painless pinch to his thigh stopped him in his tracks with a little yelp.
"Oh, stop it, you big baby," you laughed.
Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed John wasn't laying on his back anymore. Sometime when Bob made his way up the bed, John must have moved, positioning himself back how he was before, sitting on his knees. But this time he was fully facing the both of you, a curious expression on his face.
It didn't surprise you to see a quiet look of affection when he was watching you, but seeing it there when looking at Bob was new. Or maybe it wasn't new at all. You'd seen him observe Bob before. But those times, his expression wasn't readable. It was like he had a wall up, his face borderline expressionless. This time, however? His guard was down, and he didn't hold back the small, crooked smile or the tenderness in his gaze as he watched Bob as the other man pretended to be wounded by your oh-so vicious attack.
You shushed Bob with a wink and a little nudge, clearing your throat and rolling your shoulders back to get back into character. Then you crooked your finger at John.
Wordlessly, he obeyed, slowly crawling up the bed while straddling your and Bob's overlapping legs. When he came to a stop, his hard length was pressed against your thigh, pink lips parted as he breathed deeply in through his nose and out through his mouth. You wished for a fleeting second that you thought to buy a collar for him. The image of tugging him into a kiss with one finger curled under fitted leather was deeply enticing.
So you used your favorite method instead, running your fingers through his hair before fisting a handful, relishing in his quivering gasp before pulling his lips to meet yours. He melted into you, letting your tongue ravage his mouth, each touch reinforcing that you were in control and he was just your plaything to be used. And, judging by his answering moans, John loved every second of it.
Taking his lower lip between your teeth, you bit down just hard enough to hurt, eliciting another delicious sound, soothing the ache with your tongue before you fully let go. You turned John's head to face Bob, who immediately followed suit, kissing the blond until he was breathless.
"You wanna make it up to me, baby?" you cooed at John. His eyes were blank for a moment, just blinking at you like you'd spoken to him in another language, one he was familiar with but couldn't quite place. "Gotta make amends for being such a naughty boy."
John nodded dumbly, little to no light of recognition in his eyes.
Bob beat you to the punch. "Use your words, Walker. You gonna make it up to her?" he coaxed.
"Make it up to us," you corrected, and Bob shot you a slightly lopsided little grin. "After all, he roped you into this."
"That's right. You gonna make it up to us, pretty boy?" Bob cooed, cupping John's cheek in his hand.
"Yes, sir," John mumbled, his words a little muddled but not quite slurred. "And ma'am. Yes, ma'am. Wanna make it up to you."
"Then do it. Make us cum," you said simply, spreading your legs invitingly. John's eyes flickered from your core, arousal wet and glistening in the dim light, to Bob's rigid cock, the angry red crown of which was sliding in and out of Bob's fist as he lazily stroked himself.
Despite being spoiled for choice, you weren't surprised when John maneuvered himself between your legs and wrapped his arms under your thighs, spreading you even further. If you weren't dripping on the bed by this point, you were sure you would be now watching John's eager eyes drinking in the sight of your bare, drooling cunt. You couldn't stop the gasp that escaped from your lips when John blew a stream of cool air across your heated flesh, sending a pulse of warmth through your body.
If Bob had tasted you like he was starved for you, John ate you like a man possessed. The second his tongue touched your slick folds, his mouth was everywhere. He lifted your hips like it was nothing, causing you to let out a little shriek and grip onto whatever you could for stability. That ended up being Bob's shoulder and the bedpost, clinging to them like lifelines as John practically picked you up. Bob coaxed you to lean against the headboard, resting your upper back against it while John supported your lower body with his hands and forearms alone.
It was messy and fast and loud and so fucking perfect. He wasn't gentle about it. His hands dug into your hips hard enough you knew there were going to be finger-shaped bruises by the morning. In his haste to devour you, he wasn't as cautious with his teeth as he normally would be, but the brush of them against you contrasted in a sharp but sweet way that only served to crest your pleasure even higher. John was everywhere, sucking and slurping and drinking you, going from thrusting his tongue deep inside of you to running tight circles around your clit to everywhere in between. He barely seemed to breathe, pulling back only for desperate, wet drags of air like a long-distance swimmer, too concentrated on your pleasure to care about getting any oxygen in his lungs.
By the time he lowered you back onto the bed, your head was swimming in a haze of ecstasy. You didn't even feel the fingers at your entrance until he plunged them inside of you. You arched your back, letting out a strangled cry as you raised your hips, still wanting more and harder. He worked you quickly, thick digits stretching you and curling to hit that spongy spot inside of you that made your vision go white at the edges. John slipped a third finger in, and you weren't even sure what sounds you were making, just that your throat was already sore from them.
He didn't even let up when your second orgasm of the night crested, hitting you hard and fast enough that you were gasping for air. John kept going, pumping his fingers into you, mouth wrapped around your throbbing, oversensitive clit. With each thrust, you felt something different, a strange new pressure inside of you like you needed to pee. You tried to warn him, but the words just wouldn't come out. You tugged at his hair, but that only seemed to spur him on, sucking hard on that little bundle of nerves until your third orgasm of the night hit you like a freight train. Your thighs clenched tight around John's head, shaking as they kept his mouth pulled against you like that wasn't exactly where he already wanted to be. A different kind if pleasure hit, one that was hot and wet and explosive. With a wail, it burst out of you, soaking John's face and drenching the sheets beneath you with waves of your release.
You laid back on the bed, feeling completely boneless, your breath gradually returning to normal. You watched idly as Bob surged forward, pressing his mouth against John's, their tongues dueling like they were fighting over the taste of you. The blond only pulled away to check on you, gently stroking your skin, pressing wet kisses to your thighs.
"Doin' okay there?" John asked, his voice soft and low, just the barest hint of an accent peeking out. "What color are you at?"
"Green," you rasped out without hesitation. "So fucking green. Oh my God, John."
John beamed up at you, his smile proud without being too smug. He looked effervescent, practically glowing like you'd made him orgasm his brains out, not the other way around.
"That good?" he teased. Even in your winded state, you could hear the genuine need for praise behind it.
"Fucking…incredible, baby. Holy shit. Thank you." As you talked, Bob tossed John a washcloth from the stash you'd squirreled away in the bedside table. He hesitated for a second but wiped his face dutifully, carelessly tossing the cloth off the bed to land amongst all the discarded clothes.
"Pretty sure you meant for me to go back and forth between you and Bobby, but I was wound up a little too tight to multitask," John explained with a grin.
"I noticed," you said with a chuckle. You reached down to cup John's face, and he leaned into your touch, briefly closing his eyes. "That just means you'll get to focus fully on Bob."
"If…" Bob hesitated, biting at the inside of his cheek, eyes flitting back and forth on the bed, like he was searching for the right words. "If you want to. You don't…have to," he finished lamely, looking back up.
Blond eyelashes fluttered as John opened his lids, those sky blue eyes suddenly sharp and focused as they met Bob's sea blue ones.
"Do you really think…" John sat up, starting to climb over your and Bob's intertwined legs to fully face the other man. "…You could kiss me and touch me like that? And not let me at least return the favor?"
"You don't have to," Bob repeated weakly.
"I want to," John emphasized. He reached out, lightly putting his hand over the one on Bob's cock. Even from where you were, you could see the way it twitched under his touch. "If you want me to."
"Yes, please," Bob said breathlessly. John inched closer, resting on his elbows as he looked up at Bob through his lashes, a sultry expression on his face.
"Then move that hand, Bobby. Let me taste you."
Bob did as he was told.
John started slow. He placed a gentle, closed-mouthed kiss to the glistening head of Bob's cock before laying a trail of them down his shaft, pausing after each one. By the time John was lathing his balls with his tongue, Bob's whole body was rigid as he tried not to squirm. A few tentative strokes of his hand as John sucked first one then the other into his mouth, and Bob was white-knuckling the sheets and worrying his lower lip between his teeth.
Pulling back with a pop, John smirked how far Bob had come undone in just a few minutes.
"I wanna do this right, take my time with you." At his words, Bob's face scrunched up as if he was pained. But John continued, "But you've been worked up for long enough. No more teasing."
True to his word, John's lips enveloped the very tip of Bob's cock. His throat worked as he suckled at the sensitive head, drawing a whine out of Bob and an aborted thrust of his hips.
John didn't waste any time, slowly starting to inch his way down, taking more and more of Bob into his mouth until he inevitably gagged and pulled back with a gasp, eyes watering and lips wet. Even though he wasn't able to get down nearly as much as you could, it was still impressive. Bob wasn't exactly small, something that, according to him, the Sentry serum didn't affect. Yet John got a considerable amount in his mouth. But judging by the annoyed look on his face, he used to be able to take more.
"Easy there," you cautioned, stroking John's hair. "Take your time. You don't need to deepthroat him."
John glared at you, his jaw clenching stubbornly, and you couldn't help but laugh. "That wasn't a challenge, baby."
"It might as well have been," he muttered, starting to stroke Bob's shaft tentatively, rubbing his thumb over the frenulum right beneath the tip. A small gasp left Bob's lips, and John smirked up at him. "Feel good, baby boy?"
"Fuck," Bob moaned, jerking his hips up involuntarily. You couldn't tell if he was reacting to John's hand or the pet name, but you suspected it was a mix of both.
It didn't take John long to get back into the swing of things, bobbing his head up and down rhythmically on Bob's cock, his hand stroking the length he couldn't fit. Eventually, he grabbed one of Bob's hands, prying it away from the sheets and offering his head as a hand hold. Bob's fingers lightly gripped his hair, and John let out a pleased noise, Bob whimpering at the vibrations.
The scene before you was incredible: Bob with his eyes closed, chest heaving as he laid his head back against the headboard, his angry red cock sliding into and out of John's bright pink, abused lips. His chest heaved with each shaky breath, nipples hardened and begging for attention. He panted open-mouthed like he was winded and trying to catch his breath, his hand gripping John's hair more and more the closer he got to the edge.
And John was no better. Saliva slicked the bottom half of his face as thoroughly as your arousal had minutes before, but he didn't seem to notice or care. He didn't stop for breath. His nostrils flared each time his head rose as he forced himself to breathe through it. It was a beautiful sight - so much beautiful, barely sun-kissed skin. You could trace all the freckles down his body, from the little ones on his face, to the tantalizing one on his ear, down his neck and over his shoulders, sliding across his back and even on the rounded globes of his ass. You fought back the urge to touch, not wanting to disrupt him. But, by the way he rutted against the mattress in time with each dip of his head, John was probably too distracted to even feel it.
By the time Bob was close, it was glaringly obvious to both you and John. He was practically vibrating under John's mouth, eyes clenched shut and teeth gritted as he let out all the little noises he couldn't fight down - whimpers, whines, and breathy grunts. John sped up, hollowing his cheeks to increase the suction, big blue eyes watching Bob's contorting face with wrapt attention.
"Look at him, baby. Watch him make you feel good," you cooed at Bob, kissing wherever you could touch - his shoulders, his neck, his face. He obeyed, wrenching his eyes open, and gazing down at John with an expression that could only be described as ruined.
"Almost there, aren't you?" you purred, unable to resist the siren call of those dusky pink nipples, dipping your head to run your tongue around the peak of one.
Bob gasped, his hips trying to twitch forward, but John held them pressed down into the bed.
"Oh, fuck. So close," Bob moaned as a warning, weakly trying to pull himself out of John's grip. John only held him down harder, the muscles in his forearm flexing deliciously "John…Johnny…gonna cum," he whined.
You pulled back from Bob's chest just in time to see John's eyes roll back in his head, rutting down hard against the bed, moaning wantonly against Bob's cock. It was the first time you could recall Bob ever using John's given name, a fact that didn't seem to be lost on him. He only sucked harder until Bob let out a cry, hips jerking in spurts as he spilled down John's throat.
John didn't stop, milking Bob for each drop, until he started twitching from oversensitivity. When he finally pulled back, letting Bob's softening dick fall from his mouth, John barely had time to smile up at the brunet, opening his mouth to say something before Bob interrupted him.
He crashed his lips to John's in a frenzied kiss, licking into the other man's mouth like he was desperate for a taste of himself on John's tongue. John melted into him immediately, making soft, breathy noises as Bob ravaged his mouth.
Bob didn't even break the kiss when he picked John up and manhandled him onto his lap as if he weighed nothing. John let out an undignified squawk of surprise, eyes flying open. He went to pull back, but Bob cupped the back of the blond's head with his left hand, holding him firmly in place. John moaned at the casual display of power, eyes fluttering closed as he sucked on Bob's tongue.
Bob reached down to wrap his hand around John's cock, which was brushing up against Bob's stomach, leaving little streaks of precum there. But before he could, you grabbed his wrist. Bob pulled away, ignoring John's protesting whine, looking at you, eyes rounded with surprise at being stopped.
John was close. That much you could tell, judging by how much he was leaking and how it throbbed in anticipation of Bob's touch. And you wanted to finish the night off right.
Before Bob could ask, you dug around under your pillow, batting away the white clicker you'd given Bob what felt like hours ago and grasping the item you'd left there. Pulling it out from its hiding spot, you showed Bob the long, white cylindrical object. He blinked at it in confusion, still dazed both from the kiss and the orgasm. It wasn't until you pushed the power button and it began to rumble did the pieces come together for Bob.
The buzzing sound drew John's attention, and he looked at you in confusion until his eyes fell upon the wand vibrator in your hand.
"You did such a good job making it up to us, baby. Do you want your reward for doing so well?" you asked, your voice a husky purr.
"Yes. Please," John croaked out. "Please, mistress. 'M so close."
"Good boy," you cooed, kissing his temple as you situated yourself closer. "Bob, make sure you keep his hips still."
Bob nodded, licking his lips, a look of anticipation in his eyes. "Yes, mistress." His hands captured John's hips, pressing them against the bed.
When you pressed the rumbling head of the vibrator against John's cock, he cried out, overwhelmed by the stimulation. He thrust up against Bob's hold almost immediately, but Bob's grip held him firmly down.
"Color?" you asked.
"G-green," John stammered out. "Green. Greengreengreen! Please don't stop!"
And you didn't, moving the vibrator around, testing to see what spots made him cry out louder than the others. By the time you pressed the wand against John's frenulum, he was a babbling mess, drool and tears streaming down his face.
You hadn't given him permission to orgasm, so he held on tight. His whole body itself practically vibrated, spine straight and rigid, hands clenched, and toes curled as he fought the overwhelming desire to cum.
You inched the vibrator up, the rounded edge just barely touching the crown of his cock. John was shaking even more violently now, begging and pleading with you to let him finish.
You caught Bob's eye, and he nodded his head once. John had had enough. And you agreed.
"Okay, baby. It's time. Need you to cum for me." With your words, you pressed the speed button, turning the wand on an even higher setting.
John broke, throwing his head back as he let out a wordless cry, cumming in hard spurts that painted both his and Bob's torsos in his spend. You kept the vibrator going through it, flipping it back to the lowest setting as Bob stroked the shaft of John's cock, milking every last drop out of him.
Tossing the vibrator aside, you reached over to the other bedside table, grabbing another washcloth while Bob maneuvered John onto his back between you. Bob took the cloth from your outstretched hand, starting the work of cleaning everyone up while you laid down next to John, resting your head on his shoulder holding him close as he came down from his orgasm.
It felt so nice, so cozy. Even without a blanket, the heat you felt both from your space heater boyfriends and your previous exertions wrapped you up in its warmth. You weren't intending to sleep. After all, you needed to check in with both your boys, make sure they were feeling all right, and talk out anything that needed to be said. But your body seemed to have other plans.
You don't remember closing your eyes, and you definitely don't remember drifting off, but the next thing you knew, you were waking up. At first, you weren't sure what woke you. Someone had pulled the comforter up over you and John's hand was now intertwined with yours. You had apparently clung to his arm in your sleep, and he had made no attempt to extricate himself. Judging by the way his thumb idly stroked the back of your hand, John was happy to have you close.
That's when you heard what had woken you up - a hushed conversation. The rumbling of John's whispers would normally have lulled you even further to sleep, but it seems to have disturbed it this time. It took a little effort, but you tuned in, straining your ears to hear the words they spoke.
"…new for all of us. It'll take some time to adjust, but we did just fine after we all started cohabitating."
Bob let out a quiet snort, one that had John shushing him, using his free hand to lightly swat at Bob's arm.
"'Cohabitating,'" Bob said laughingly. "Riiight. That's a nice way to say we were fucking each other's brains out."
"Be quiet, you brat," John angry whispered. For a second, you thought he was genuinely mad and considered speaking up, but the soft chuckle he let out disabused you of that notion.
"If you call me a brat, I'm going to act like one," Bob warned. Your eyes had adjusted enough that you could see Bob lying on the other side of John, mirroring you. His head was on John's shoulder, arms wrapped around John's as well. Their hands were both under the covers, but you suspected John was holding Bob's just like he was holding yours.
"Don't tempt me," John said playfully, leaning down and kissing the tip of Bob's nose. The brunet scrunched it up at John in an expression of put upon indignation, which only made the other man smile more. "You're a cute brat."
Bob groaned quietly, making a show of burying his face in John's arm, much to the other man's obvious amusement. Bob's voice was muffled, but you could still make out his words when he said, "God, now there's going to be two of you saying shit like that."
"If it's any consolation, I've already been thinking it. Just haven't said it out loud," John added helpfully, only smiling even wider in amusement when Bob scoffed.
He tilted his head just enough to be able to eye John through the curtain of unruly brown hair that fell in front of his face. "That makes it worse," Bob muttered.
"Well, there is a silver lining at least. Now you don't have to act like you're not staring at my ass all the time," John said, not even bothering to hide the smugness in his tone.
That was enough to make Bob properly lift his head, glaring at John open-mouthed, unable to decide if he was playfully pissy or playfully surprised.
"You knew?" Bob hissed at him.
"You're not subtle, Bobert. I saw the where your eyes went when I'd wear shorts at the gym. Made sure to wear shorter ones just for you," he added with a wink.
"You asshole," Bob said, narrowing his eyes at John. When the other man just grinned harder, Bob stuck out his tongue and blew a raspberry at him. You felt more than heard John's answering laugh.
"So childish," John murmured, inching his head closer to Bob's. The brunet blew another, smaller raspberry in retaliation.
"Can't help it. I'm a brat, remember?" Bob lifted his head, starting to lean in towards John, not close enough for them to kiss without the blond straining his neck and risking disturbing you, though.
"Yeah, you are," John said, fondness in his voice. They drifted nearer and nearer to each other, neither of them seeming willing to break the stand off. You couldn't help yourself.
"Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss," you chanted, and both men's heads snapped towards you. You didn't stop - you doubled down. "Kiss-kiss-kiss-kiss!"
"How long have you been awake?" Bob asked. "You were out like a light."
"Yeah, so exhausted from your long day of evil plotting," John teased.
"Long enough to clock the sexual tension," you quipped back. Both men had enough shame to look slightly bashful if completely unashamed. "Now, go on. Do it!" you urged. "I'll start chanting again."
Bob rolled his eyes theatrically, making sure both of you saw it but pulled himself up further on the bed to get closer to John. You thought you heard him whisper something, but before you could ask him to repeat himself, John spoke up.
"Well, if the lady insists…"
When they kissed again, you cheered, wolf whistling at them until they were smiling too hard to keep going.
"Better?" John asked.
"Much," you confirmed with a decisive nod of your head. Both men glanced at each other put of the corner of their eyes, a mischievous look on their faces.
Before you could open your mouth again, Bob shouted "Now!" and both men pounced on you, peppering your face, neck, and shoulders with obnoxiously loud kisses. You laughed, shrieking and squirming, halfheartedly trying to break free to no avail. You didn't really mind, though. There's no place else you'd rather be.
Divider Credit -> @/strangergraphics
Images in header are not mine
Cross-posted to AO3
Hope you liked it! Feel free to like, reblog, or comment!
Please do not repost or reproduce in any way. You do not have my permission to use this for AI scraping.
john and reader go on a mission, the plot is bs, SMUT, inappropriate use of a poker table, 4k wc, not beta read we die like franco
-
“Do you really think both of us need to go undercover, sir?”
“Don’t remember askin’ for your opinion, Lieutenant.”
“Sir.”
He’s being a coward, scribbling something on his desk instead of meeting his eyes. You resist the urge to tap your foot, instead straightening your spine and attempting to seem nonchalant. It doesn’t come easy; his intoxicating scent of musk and cigars permeates your skin, sinking deep into your lungs.
“You know where we’re going, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And despite their proclivities, they would not be welcoming of me bringing any other of our available options?”
“…yes, sir.”
He’s silent, a clear dismissal. But John Price is a known liar, and you always know how to prod at his lies until they split open. He could’ve gone alone. You could’ve watched Ghost’s six from the parking garage across from the target, or helped Gaz with comms, or stayed back with Soap for tech updates.
But no. Your Captain demanded you on this mission.
“I don’t have anything to wear.”
A loud thwap echoes through the room. His black card, not the military one for expenses, shines from its place on his desk. You scoop it up quickly, running your fingers against the embossed John Price on the bottom.
“Get yourself somethin’ nice, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir.”
-
The leather of your outfit (more like a costume) strains against your skin under the throwaway clothes you wear. Gaz, the only driver you trust of the group, whips the discreet SUV into a nearby alley, midnight stars blinking off the car metal.
“Right, Captain, Lieutenant. See you on the other side.” You don’t return his wink, too focused on adjusting the camera in your necklace and wishing you could have one of your many weapons with you. Alas, the outfit doesn’t allow for much. It doesn’t allow for anything other than skin. You climb out of the car before John can open the door and shed your threadbare civvies, tossing them into the back seat before waving Gaz goodbye.
Night air cools the sweat against your skin, your nipples pebbling under their confinements. A look down reveals what you feared: a one piece set of leather with cut outs at the side and chest, almost every area of your body exposed to the moonlight. Heels, platforms for easier movement, wind up your calves and lengthen your posture. Out of the corner of your eye, John’s outfit is more lowkey: black slacks and a matching button down. He’s rolled up the sleeves and undone one too many buttons to be decent, brown chest hair with a few silver strands peeking out. You look exactly the pair you’re tying to emulate — an underworld man with a trophy on his arm. A perfect cover for the private club you’re about to infiltrate.
A perfect recipe for disaster if the sheer awareness under your skin is anything to go by.
No purse hangs from your arm, making you fully dependent on John’s card. The only weapons you carry, minus any sharp hair pins, are the tiny blades strapped to the underside of your shoe sole. Designed to pass any metal detector, they’re small but mighty. However, the comforting weight of your usual thigh holster or fav vest would be much preferred.
John guides you out of the alley with a hairy paw at your back, flat against your exposed spine. You give into the shiver that wracks through you as you slide into the role of a shiny trophy. Easy with your smiles, your reactions, your quips. A distraction for when you meet with the men on your list and need to guide them to a secondary location.
“Looks like you finally followed my orders.” John rasps into your ear as you find the club line. “How so?” You drop the ‘sir’, though no one in this club would object.
“This outfit is nice.” His hand slides from your back to sling around your waist, heavy and heady with its weight. He urges you to the front of the line, mentioning your aliases to the bouncer and ushering you in before you can blink. You guide him to the bar, your own hand on top of his, but a woman in a silver outfit stops your mission.
“Take a bracelet, my dears.” She shouts over the music, a flash of a pearly white smile against deep brown skin. The bracelets are a bright range of streetlights: green, yellow, and red. Single, it’s complicated, taken. You reach for the green on instinct but John’s hand covers your own, forcing it back to your side. Two red bracelets appear in his other hand, snapping onto your wrist before you can protest.
“Don’t forget your place, sweetheart.” He says sweetheart like he says Lieutenant, all bite. “Don’t forget your mission, John.” You retort, all teeth as your disguise fades away. He doesn’t say anything, just pulls you towards the bar by your waist as his fingers dig into your skin.
The bar itself is all obsidian, reflecting green and blue from the ceiling lights. The music here isn’t as loud as a typical club, the dance floor situated a floor above for the more typical customers. Instead, this level is all about the meat of the venue. No inhibitions, no rules except consent. People of all shapes and sizes walk past in leather halters, nipple tassels, chains and collars, or practically nothing at all. There’s no stripper poles, but private dancers search the floor for clients with collars that mark their employee status. This level requires a name on a list with no access from the general public, so no one’s pushing and shoving to get a drink from the bartender. It’s controlled without being so, John’s hand tethering you to reality.
That this is all a show. That right now, that smoldering look on his face is about the mission and not you. Nothing is personal, and as he scans the bar for the door you’re supposed to find and mutters to Gaz through his comms, it’s a good reminder that this is just for work. That whatever current that lies underneath your daily banter has nothing to do with this.
You wrench out of his grip when the bartender finally makes eye contact, needing to put some space between you. Two whiskey sours appear in front of you, and John’s card is in front of you and swiped before you have to ask.
When you turn, eager to regain the ground that’s slipped through your fingers, there’s a woman talking to him.
Gorgeous, obviously, with a green wristband that shines against the body glitter on her skin and a collar that marks her as an employee of the club. She throws her head back to laugh at something John says, standing close enough for her smooth thigh to brush against his muscled one. “Sweetheart, this is Honey.” He takes his drink with one hand and wraps his other around your waist, slotting perfectly. You try not to raise your eyebrows at the clearly fake name and instead raise your glass in her direction, murmuring your alias in greeting.
“Cash was telling me this is your first time at the club?” You nearly snort at the fake name Soap picked for the captain, his stupid humor showing its face once again. Instead of blowing your cover, you lean into John and smile demurely. “It is. This place is so big I can’t wrap my head around it.” John squeezes your waist gently, pleased. It sends a satisfied spark of arousal to your core.
“Allow me to give you the tour.” Honey doesn’t allow for an answer, simply making off for the left side of the club. John crowds you in front of him, dipping his head until his beard scratches your neck. “Good job, soldier.” He murmurs low, his nose brushing against your ear lobe before pulling away. His hand stays heavy on your hip as you start your tour.
Honey guides you around the club, the blueprints you’ve had memorized for weeks finally realizing in front of you. You quickly spot the door for the meeting you need to infiltrate, squeezing John’s fingers to let him know as he makes conversation with Honey. He squeezes back, the tips of his fingers brushing the pudge of your stomach with a touch so intimate you nearly jump.
The tour ends at the staircase to the dance floor, Honey’s bright eyes sparkling with the expectation of a tip. Your whiskey sour was drained somewhere between the second DJ booth and private dance rooms, John’s having disappeared long before that. “I still can’t believe there’s a VIP snack room.” You grin at her conspiratorially. “I know! Honestly, it’s one of the best rooms here.” John runs a callused thumb against the skin of your stomach and you nearly forget your next line.
“Speaking of rooms, I’ve been promising Cash we could gamble soon since our Vegas trip had to get rescheduled because of some family stuff.” You stifle a laugh at the name Cash, Soap’s idea of a joke for John’s alias. Instead, you roll your eyes in a practiced manner as Honey gives you her sympathies for your missed trip. “You have any rooms for that?”
The spark in Honey’s eyes dies slowly. Her spine straightens as her casual air falls away. “They’re extra VIP, I’m afraid. Not for newcomers.” You pout, trying to work your story.
“Really? I-“
“I’m sure we could work somethin’ out, Honey.” John grips your hip hard as he leans forward, a flash of green slipping into Honey’s hand. The air is still, the DJ’s music fading away as she considers the two of you, eyes trained on the diamonds that fall from your ears and neck. Another bill is slipped into her hand, so smooth like it was there all along.
“The next game is in fifteen minutes. Meet me outside the door two down from the DJ booth.” She leaves in a flash of gold and glitter. The whiskey courses through your system, leaving you confident as you spin in John’s arms. “I had it.” You complain for the sake of it, irritated that he commandeered your method in such a gauche manner.
“Soap ran her financials. She’s behind on rent and has a grandmother to take care of. I knew she’d take it.” He replies righteously, arm still wrapped around your waist. And here you are, operating on half-baked information until he swoops right in and makes a decision for you. “Next time, I want comms. And my weapon.” You demand, stepping closer to make sure he hears you. Your hand lands on his chest and you pretend it’s to make your point and not to feel his exposed chest.
“Next time you’ll wear somethin’ you can fit those into.”
“You told me to wear something nice! And it’s on theme.”
John scans the outfit up and down, a feral glint in his eyes. There’s something animal under his skin, beneath the exposed veins of his forearm and his broad shoulders. And he just looks, like he has all the time in the world and not a ticking clock. Takes in how your thighs strain against the leather straps, how the fabric around your waist is sure to leave a mark. He ends at your tits heaving with frustration and the sweat on your collarbone from being against him in humid conditions.
“C’mon, need a drink ‘fore the game.”
-
The real reason John is here over his men isn’t due to his captain status or his willingness to put his life on the line. It’s the flick of his wrist when he plays poker, the keenness in his eyes when he wins again and again. The mental wall against distraction, even as you sit in his lap and make conversation with the man next to you, fluttering your lashes lasciviously.
“A shame y’ got that red band on your wrist, pretty lady.” Franco, your conversation partner, winks. You giggle, petting the back of John’s neck and crossing your feet at the ankle. Franco, Italian mobster and co-owner of a chemical weapon your team has its eyes on, drags his gaze down to the shape of your calves before going back to his cards. John’s won two hands already, the no-rules poker game working well as you do your best to extract information from the players without getting kicked out.
However, you might be the most distracted of all.
John’s lap is the most comfortable seat you’ve ever sat on. Warm and muscled and safe, your ass planted over his crotch and your hands around his shoulders. It’s addicting, having free rein to fiddle with his shirt collar and the hair at the nape of his neck, all for the sake of your disguise. A few droplets of sweat trickle down his neck and you resist the urge to lick them, instead dragging a thumb down his shiny skin.
All he does is grunt and shift you in his lap, over the erection that’s been there for the past twenty minutes they’ve been playing. He’s not where you need him but it’s for the best, keeping your head in the game as the third round is dealt.
Two men left after John won their chips, pleading the late hour. It leaves Franco and his buddy Rico, the other chemical weapon owner, along with a man named Stefan, whom you need to leave before getting rid of your targets discreetly. But Rico’s a tough nut to crack and Stefan’s even harder, his visage practically concrete with how he refuses to crack a smile at your jokes.
The air turns tense after John wins the third round. After he collects his chips, his left hand reaches down to stroke the skin of your knee, strangely comforting in his embrace. The losses are starting to grind on the other men, and you can feel their disgruntled stares on the expose of your spine.
“She leaves before the next round.” Stefan grunts, beady eyes on John. You frown, the picture of a discouraged princess. Before you open your mouth, John squeezes your knee in admonishment, and you follow his orders wisely. “Eh, Stefan, I don’t think she’s the one losing you chips.” Franco laughs at his own joke, and you titter with him, at a much lower volume than usual.
Stefan opens his mouth, but John beats him to the punch. “You win the next round, she leaves.” John promises, spine straight as violence shimmers in the air. “I win and you leave.” He adds, and after a moment, Stefan agrees.
The round is tense, your mouth dry as you watch chips move and cards flip. Franco folds and Rico follows, leaving it down to Stefan and John. They call. They raise. Chips clatter as Franco lights a cigar, smoke clogging your lungs as you resist the urge to lean forward onto the table. After five grueling minutes, Stefan grunts and tosses his cards on the table as he folds, taking his leave before John can open his mouth. Cards are revealed and John only had two pair and all you can do is laugh, sinking into his burly chest like it’s really yours to hold.
This is it. Your targets are alone and no one will bother you for a while now. You expect John to push you off him, to stand up and start interrogating or simply shooting, but he stays still. One hand sneaks around your hip to cup the pudge of your stomach while the other slides up from knee to thigh, sparks of lightning erupting under your skin.
You don’t catch John’s eyes, attempting to act as normal as possible as anticipation courses through you. Franco says something in Italian to Rico and they both laugh, and despite yourself, you clutch John’s shoulder a little harder.
“Let’s up the stakes.” Rico’s order rolls off his tongue in a thick accent, a rare comment from the silent man. This is your chance, an excuse to get up and take some action like the mission demands, but all John does is cock his head. “I’m listening.” He grumbles, his voice rolling over you.
“The girl.” Franco leers, that Cheshire smile he’s been throwing turning into a clown’s grin. You stiffen, even as John continues to stroke your softest parts like he didn’t hear anything. There’s no need to do this despite ego. John could finish this right here right now, but all he does is nod.
“Go sit in that chair, baby.” He taps your flank and you unfold robotically out of the safety of his lap into an abandoned chair on the other side of the table. You clasp your hands in your lap demurely, spine stick-straight.
Rico deals. The men play. You watch. Franco’s cigar goes untouched, as does John’s whiskey. Your Captain has leaned forward, his battle stance you’d like to think, deep blue eyes on the game.
Rico folds first, sitting back glumly with his hands on his stomach. You avoid his gaze as it sears into the side of your face, your eyes only on John.
That’s when you see it. The glint in his eyes, the knowledge he’s already won. You sit up in anticipation, ready to congratulate him, until-
John folds.
Franco grins.
“Well, sir, if you don’t mind I’ll be taking my prize to go-“
The snip of John’s silencer rushes through the air, Franco’s body crumbling to the floor with his grin frozen in his face. Rico’s fast but you’re faster, pinning him onto the floor before he can reach for the gun badly concealed in the back of his waistband. So much for security in this club.
The knife in your hand pushes into Rico’s pale throat, a singular drop of blood sliding down the silver metal. John murmurs something into his comms as he kicks away Rico’s gun. Moments later Ghost comes through the waiter entrance, zip ties in hand. Rico’s rushed to where Gaz is waiting outside, but a commanding hand on your shoulder stops you from following.
“We’ll meet up later, Ghost. Got some clean up to do.” The hulking mass of a man nods, shark eyes glinting knowingly as he takes his leave with Franco’s body over his shoulder.
“Why’d you do that?” You whip around to face John, knife still in hand. John jerks his head to the wooden border of the table, grimy with sweaty handprints. “Need to clean up, sweetheart. Fingerprints.” You roll your eyes, especially since you know the protocol for cleaning up the scene.
“Why did you play that last round. You didn’t have to do it, or at least purposely lose.” He folds his arms over his chest, looking impossibly wide as he stares down from his height. “Needed an excuse to kill him like tha’.” You stay silent, copying his stance with your own arms. It pushes up your cleavage, and John’s eyes flick down for a moment before finding your face again, impossibly electric.
“Wanted to kill him smilin’.”
Your heart drops.
“He kept smilin’ at you.”
Your feet go first, one in front of the other until you’re chest to chest. His shirt is still half buttoned, one end untucked from your writhing in his lap. Your fingers grip that end and pull until his head tilts down as he towers over you. “John.” You murmur, all heat and restrained wanting.
When you’ve imagined your Captain kissing you, it was only like this in your wildest fantasies. His hands groping at your bottom until he can pick you up, turning around to drop you on the poker table. Poker chips dig into your ass as he nips at your lips, his beard scratching against your warmed face. He explores under the leather straps of your outfit, scraping against your pebbled nipples as you keen into his mouth.
“So fuckin’ filthy, flirtin’ with other men while you’re on my lap.” He admonishes you, delivering another nip to your jaw as you pant. “It’s the mission.” You plead your innocence but it doesn’t calm him, his fingers furious as he tweaks your nipples. “John, it hurts.” You’re talking about your cunt, aching with wetness after hours of teasing.
“I know, baby, I know.”
Thankfully, he doesn’t rip your outfit, as you’ve come to quite like it. Instead, his hands leave your tits and travel to your cunt, tugging the one piece aside that covers your bottom half.
“You this wet the whole time?” He asks as he pets your cunt, fingers sliding through your folding. You nod furiously, the green felt of the table delivering delicious friction as you attempt to rock against his hands. When he brushes your clit you jump, sensitive from your own desperation as you push your tits against his chest. Your hands find his hair as he mouths at the hollow of your collarbone, licking the sweat collected there like you wanted to do for him.
The first orgasm takes barely any effort as you grind into his palm, hungry for his touch. It doesn’t take the edge off, even as your core flutters and pleasure washes over you. There’s only one fix for the emptiness inside.
“Want your cock.” You push him off you to fumble with his belt. John lets you struggle, slipping his thumb into your mouth to keep your desperation at bay. It slows you down marginally as you suck slowly, scraping your teeth against him to show your displeasure at being thrown off track.
Finally his belt slips off, the button and zipper coming down easily. You slip a hand into his black briefs and find what you’d been sitting on all night, hot and heavy in your hand. A bead of precum escapes from his tip, and you spread it around the girth of him. John tugs back the leather in your inner thighs even more to spread your cunt wide, helping you guide his cock into your seeping hole until it nudges in. The push is syrup sweet, blood rushing in your ear as he hooks his thumb around your bottom teeth at the same time to pull you closer.
It’s not a candlelit lovemaking. It’s hard and sweaty as your hands slide against his chest hair, tangling in to pull him impossibly closer. You pant into his mouth, his thumb keeping you in place as you squirm on his cock. “Y’ve been a brat all night.” He murmurs, sighing when you blink at him sweetly. His hand keeping your hip in place moves to find your clit, tracing lush circles until your core tightens.
“Gonna come, John.” You warn, hips bucking up. “C’mere.” His thumb leaves your mouth to tip you into a messy kiss, holding your jaw still as you come on his cock. He grinds against you once, twice, then comes inside without asking, your brain going fuzzy at the sensation. His cock softens inside you as you slump in his grip, boneless and worn through. John kisses you again, tugging on your lip until you open wider.
When he pulls out, his cum drips onto your thigh. “Do you have a tissue?” You ask, almost a whisper as an attempt to not break this fragile thing between you. Instead of answering, he tugs your leather outfit back in place and collects the remaining cum with his thumb. You open on instinct, sucking like you did before until he tugs his finger back. “Good girl.” John doesn’t seem to care you’ll have to waddle to the car, only helps you down with a smirk tugging up his beard.
“I…” you trail off, unsure how to continue. John doesn’t bother to fix his shirt as he wipes down the poker table to get rid of your collective fingerprints.
You don’t mention how that wipe could’ve been used for something else.
Satisfied, your captain finally gives you his full attention. “You solid, soldier?” He murmurs, reaching up to thumb at the soft skin at your hairline covered in sweat. “Yes, sir.” So maybe this was a one and done, just to get it out of your systems. But the air still crackles around you and as he leans down to kiss your forehead, you know that’s no true.
ok dying for 29 from the injury list with hunter 🤭🤭 i unfortunately am a sucker for a good fic where anyone gets injured and they realize they care about each other lmfao
Secrets Kept & Promises Given
character: Hunter (The Bad Batch)
prompt: "Tell me where it hurts, and be specific." (@promptsbytaurie)
warnings: injuries, blood, needles
main masterlist • hunter masterlist
"Fine. I'll say it." Wrecker took off his helmet and leaned back further in his seat. "These missions are startin' to get a little out of hand."
Echo huffed from the co-pilot's chair. "You don't say." He sighed and adjusted something on his scomp. "I think we all got dinged up this time."
"Everyone good?" Hunter scanned the cockpit from where he stood behind Echo's chair, giving everyone inside a once-over. When he got to you, his gaze lingered, and you offered him a small yet reassuring smile to help him move on.
"I'm good!" Omega's chirp came from alongside you. "That was a close one, though."
"As Wrecker pointed out, it would seem this pattern is becoming more frequent." Tech spun around in his chair and let out a heavy exhale. "And more problematic."
You watched as Hunter ran the back of his thumb underneath his bandana and heaved out a troubled breath. When you narrowed your eyes, you realized his gloved hand was just barely shaking.
Odd.
"I'll try to talk to Cid about it." Hunter huffed and crossed his arms, finally plopping down into the open chair behind him. "But I doubt it'll change anything."
"I am inclined to agree." Tech pushed his goggles up his nose before tapping out something on his datapad.
"It's worth trying, though." You earned Hunter's attention as you spoke up, and you offered him another small smile. "We appreciate your willingness."
For a moment, Hunter softly returned your smile, but the moment passed quickly—mostly because you still had an audience. Even then, there was a trace of something else in his eye, but he looked away before you could work out what it was.
"Tech, take a quick look at everyone to make sure it's nothing more than bruises, and then get some rest." Hunter nodded towards the pilot's seat. "I'll take watch."
Omega crossed her arms at your side. "Again?"
You raised your brow. "I second that motion."
Hunter shrugged at the two of you. "Gotta' plan out what I'm gonna say to Cid. I could use the time."
Tech was already in motion, rising from the chair to head back towards the hold. Echo got up and set a hand on Hunter's shoulder as he passed him, and Wrecker followed after the corporal. That left just you and Omega in the cockpit with Hunter, but you weren't willing to go so easily.
You were, however, just as eager to make sure Omega was looked after by Tech. You turned to her and set a gentle hand on her shoulder, earning her gaze that had previously been staring a skeptical hole into the side of Hunter's head.
"I'll talk to him." You nodded towards Tech and the others. "Go get scanned and get some rest."
Omega hesitated for a beat before she nodded. You gave her shoulder a squeeze and let her go, watching as she strode towards the setup Tech was making with the medkit.
After a few more heartbeats, you set your hand over the closest access panel to close the door to the cockpit. You then turned to Hunter, who hadn't yet moved from his chair even as he gave you a questioning look.
"What—?"
"Why aren't you getting checked by Tech?"
You crossed your arms and took just a few steps closer to him. Hunter never broke his stare with you, but you caught a subtle movement in the corner of your eye and realized it was one of his gloved hands tightening around his knee.
Either he was nervous, in pain, or both.
"Because I'm on watch." Hunter glanced towards the door. "And I'm fine."
You hummed. "Are you?"
Hunter narrowed his eyes slowly. "Yes."
You smacked your lips together. "Okay." You set your hands on your hips and gave him an obvious once-over. "Then you're shaking because...?"
Hunter blanched, but only for a moment. Thankfully, that was all you needed. "Must be the adrenaline."
"Right."
You marched towards him and knelt down until you were eye level with him. He lifted a single eyebrow, but you spoke before he could.
"If you're 'fine,' then you won't mind me grabbing Tech to come give you a quick scan. Right?"
Hunter swallowed thickly, his eyes flitting between yours as his hand tightened around his knee once again. You waited patiently for a response, but he didn't have one to offer. You hummed again.
"That's what I thought." You furrowed your brow at him. "Now tell me where it hurts, and be specific."
Hunter let out a sigh of defeat, his gaze falling from yours as he finally lifted his trembling hand from his knee. The other joined it as he fumbled with the stretch of his tunic that peeked beneath both his armor and his tactical vest, eventually making his way to the scarred skin that lay underneath. He didn't have to lift it much for you to see it.
There was a long, bleeding wound across the right side of his torso, no doubt delivered by a sharp blade. Your eyes widened, and you barely suppressed a gasp at its casual severity.
"Force, Hunter..." You blew out a worried breath and set a steadying hand on his armored thigh as you leaned closer, shaking your head as you inspected it further. "How long have you had this?"
"Since we were on our way out. It hasn't been long." Hunter lowered the material of his tunic and nodded at you. "It's fine for now. I was just gonna wait 'til the others were asleep to fix it up myself."
"Like hells you were." You hissed as you stood back up to your full height. "You can't fix that alone. I'm getting Tech."
You started to step away, but Hunter reached out to grab your wrist before you could get far.
"Wait. Don't tell them." You turned your head around, letting Hunter's pleading gaze meet yours. "Please. I..." He hesitated, his gaze now searching as it fell towards the durasteel floor. "I don't want them to worry."
You softened. "Hunter..."
"There's too much for me to do to have them all worrying about me. They're depending on me." Hunter's jaw tightened resolutely. "You know now, and I'll take the help if you're offering it, but... keep this between us."
Hunter's stare was desperate as it found yours again. Your resolve crumbled, and you circled your jaw in consideration. He shouldn't have been treating himself like this, as if he was some invincible superhuman who was never allowed to slow down or be hurt, but it was impossible to deny him when he was pleading with you in such a way.
You could have a discussion about this greater topic later. For now, his wound needed treatment, and he had at least given you permission to help him. With a gentle sigh, you nodded.
"Alright." You stepped closer to him and nodded at the pack he had set beside the chair. "Do you have your emergency medkit in there?"
Hunter nodded. You knelt down again and rummaged through the pack, finding the medkit and setting it on the floor alongside you. Meanwhile, Hunter was rolling his tunic back up, giving you adequate access to the wound before he removed his chestplate and set it aside.
"First things first..." You reached for a hypo and held it in your grasp.
Hunter, however, shook his head. "No. I can't have that."
You threw him a questioning look. "Why?"
"Because I'm on watch. I can't be unfocused for that."
You narrowed your eyes at him. "You think you're gonna be on watch after this?"
Hunter gave the cockpit's door an uneasy glance. "If I'm not... they'll notice."
You let out a heavier sigh than before and looked between him and the hypo in your hand. "It's not gonna feel good."
"I can handle it."
You closed your eyes and shook your head, but nevertheless relented. "Fine." You let the hypo roll out of your grasp and instead reached for enough gauze to staunch the wound. "But I don't want to hear you complaining when it hurts."
Hunter huffed. "I won't."
You rose to press the gauze against his wound. Hunter's chest inflated as if he was going to let out a pained sound of protest, but he held it back, instead tightening his jaw even more. You gave him a warning glance and grabbed one of his trembling hands, guiding it to the gauze on his side.
"Hold this while I prep."
Hunter nodded and obeyed your order. You refocused on prepping the necessary materials—disinfectant, bacta, bacta-infused patches, and even a needle just in case—and only returned to Hunter when everything was ready.
"How's it looking?"
Your words were even gentler than before as you nodded in the direction of the gauze. Hunter looked down as he removed the blood-soaked material, revealing an angry red wound that had at least stopped openly flowing blood. You let out a quiet breath of relief and took the gauze from him to discard it.
"Good. If that was enough to stop the bleeding for now, then it probably doesn't need stitches." You grabbed the disinfectant and huffed. "This is gonna sting."
That was all the warning you gave him. You reached forward to brush the cloth over Hunter's wound.
To his credit, he still didn't make any sounds of complaint. It did, however, draw more of a reaction from him physically, as his left hand squeezed his knee hard enough to make the material of his glove groan as his head fell back against the chair. Hunter kept his eyes squeezed tight, his throat working as he fought to stay silent.
In another circumstance, it would have been an image to keep, but knowing it derived from the pain of a wound he had been hiding from everyone, you included, made it impossible to enjoy it the same way. In fact, the more you cleaned the wound, the more your mind began to wander to unsavory places.
If this cut had been any deeper, Hunter could have fully collapsed in the cockpit without anyone knowing. Who knows how long it would have taken for someone to wake and realize he wasn't okay. And that was just one grim possibility.
You attempted to steady yourself with a trembling breath, but it did little to ease your sudden nerves. Your hands were less steady than before, and they only got worse with each stroke of the cloth that stained it darker and darker with crimson.
It was in the midst of reaching for the bacta that Hunter finally spoke into the tense silence. "You okay?"
You let out a quiet huff, pausing in your actions before you ultimately gave your head a shake. "No, Hunter. Not really."
You were about to continue with the bacta treatment when Hunter gently wrapped his hand around your wrist to stop you. Your gaze rose to his, allowing his amber eyes to drown you in a sea of earnest concern. The realization dawned over his expression.
"Hey." Hunter lifted his free hand to cup your jaw before he nodded. "I'm okay."
You grimaced. "And what if you weren't? What if you just kept hiding it and something happened to you before we could help?"
Hunter's gaze flashed with guilt before he gave his head a subtle shake. "That wouldn't happen. I'd be able to—."
"How would you feel if I hid something like this from you, Hunter?" You narrowed your eyes at him. "You're telling me you'd be fine with me secretly bleeding out after a mission?"
Hunter blinked at that, his gaze instantly averting yours as a heaviness sat upon his armored shoulders. He let out a guilty breath, but said nothing.
The trembling reached your voice as you glanced down at the hand that wasn't gripping the bacta. "Your blood is literally on my hands right now. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to be fine when..."
Suddenly, you were choked up. It had all caught up with you then; the what-ifs, the deeper meaning of Hunter's earlier words, the difficult mission itself. It made your eyes sting as you closed them and bowed your head.
"Kriff. No, no, no. It's okay."
Hunter's low voice was soft yet strained by worry as he let go of your wrist and held your face with both his hands. You kept your eyes closed, not trusting yourself to keep the tears back if you opened them.
"I won't do this again." Hunter bent down, despite the way it no doubt tugged at his wound, to gently press his lips to your forehead. "I'm sorry."
He murmured more apologies against your skin, letting you absorb the truth of them as you steadied your own breathing. With the warmth of Hunter's affection, it didn't take too long, and you were soon able to breathe easier as the stinging in your eyes disappeared.
When you reopened your eyes, you lifted your head enough to press your forehead against his, making him face you as honestly as possible as you spoke in a voice that was no louder than a whisper. "Tell me you mean it."
Hunter responded without hesitation. "I do."
"All of it?"
Hunter nodded. "Everything."
You let out a breath and returned his nod. "I understand why you don't want to tell the others, even if I disagree, but... don't leave me on the outside, too."
"I won't." He leaned forward just enough to kiss you, but kept it brief. "Promise."
You smiled in sweet satisfaction. "Good." You gave him one more kiss before leaning back into your own space. "Now let me fix this before you start bleeding out again."
Hunter chuckled and relaxed under your touch, which helped to ease your own practiced fingers as you finished his treatment. He was a man of his word, and with that promise, you knew something like this wouldn't happen again.