18+ MDNI
Kalli || 30s || dirty fics about dirty old men || multifandom
requests are OPEN, pls see link in Masterlist for guidelines || Do NOT repost my work elsewhere or feed to AI.
Hi hi hi I wanted to ask in your sentryagent x reader fics, will bob and john ever have romantic feelings towards eachother? I know you've written them caring for one another but I was wondering if youd ever write them being attracted to eachother the same way theyre attracted to the reader as well? Love your writing xoxo
Hi Anon! Thanks for reaching out <3
I don't plan on having the boys be romantically involved with each other. There's certainly going to be a greater sense of comfort and maybe some new boundaries explored physically but I plan to keep the current romantic dynamic intact.
Until There's Nowhere Left to Hide (John Walker / F!Reader / Bob Reynolds)
Summary: Two times you almost said the L-word and the time you finally did it. Three sweet, fluffy scenes with our resident throuple.
A/N: I had a few requests come in for fluff/sweet domestic stuff with the throuple and that was just fine and dandy with me. If you're reading in sequence this one does end up mattering to the loose "plot" that's developing. Hope it hits the sweet spot, anons!
Spoilers for Great British Bake-Off series 12 I guess!!!
Rating: PG (just some adult language but no smut)
WC: 3.5k (complete)
CW: Tooth aching fluff and domesticity, reader pov only, the throuple being cute together, confessions, reader being spoiled, princess treatment, mentions of future potential children, cutie pies, sweetie muffins, cuddling, breakfast pastries.
“I can do it.”
“You can’t do it. Your hands are too big and you’re too impatient.” You stared at John over the tray in your arms. He had intercepted you between the bathroom and the couch after swearing to give you all the sofa time you wanted for Self-Care Sunday.
“What? No. Come on. I’m incredibly detail-oriented,” he said, arms crossed, attitude firmly in place, starting nice and early. “Do you know how fast I can assemble and disassemble a weapon for cleaning? I think you know because you’ve seen me do it about a thousand times.”
Bob lowered his phone and rolled onto his stomach, watching you both from the bed. He swore and fixed his bathrobe, which was now tangled around him as he flopped toward the edge of the mattress.
“My hands and feet are not pistols, John, this is not your area of expertise.” You tried to go around him, sighing when he readjusted, planting himself so firmly you bumped him with the tray. “Stand down.”
“If he’s helping, I’m helping.”
Both of you swiveled to look at Bob at the same time.
“Nobody is helping,” you stated. You nodded down to the load of stuff on your tray, a tray that was getting heavy, by the way, because John Walker wouldn’t get out of the damn way. John noticed the wobble in your arms and scooped the tray out of your grasp, leaning down to kiss your forehead.
“I still owe you, don’t I?” He brushed his nose against yours, the warm timber of his voice dangerously persuasive.
And he didn’t technically owe you, not anymore. You had been cross with him for teaming up with Bob after you—righteously, hilariously—changed the name of the group chat to Cucks R Us. But he had taken you to pick out a nice replacement sweater and made you your favorite dinner, so in your eyes the ledger was more or less balanced.
“Why are you being bossy about this?” you asked, eyes narrowing, sweeping up and down.
“He’s bossy about everything,” Bob pointed out from the bed.
“We haven’t had a Sunday together in three weeks,” John said, letting that little jab deflect harmlessly off his back. “You worked like a fucking dog this month, Barnes had you go to Siberia, for God’s sake, so I think you’ve earned a break.”
John was bossy, it was both a burden and a blessing. In this moment, with his soft blue eyes lit from the side by the autumn sunshine and his big, cozy bod hugged in an old sweatshirt, it made it hard not to crack, give in. Blessing, then, not burden. And yes, your Sundays together were limited, but that was understandable; John usually spent the weekend at Olivia’s for visitation. He nodded toward the sofa, where there was already a pile of fleece blankets waiting.
“Sit. I’ll make more coffee. There are nine hundred seasons of that baking thing you like, I can be on fingers, Bob can be on toes.”
“Hell yes.” Bob rolled further across the mattress, remembering to grab the ties on his robe this time before they could tangle him up. He shuffled across the apartment to the sofa across from the television in his thick, striped socks, waiting until John had set the tray of polishes, files, cotton balls, clippers and remover down before moving in to give you a soft peck on the cheek. “You’re, um, you’re gonna show me how to do it though, right?” he murmured.
You cupped your hands around his jaw, tipping his face toward you. “Yes, Bob, but I’m picking out the colors.”
₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊
Sometimes, John had a point. It was the most grating thing about him. He excelled at executing a plan, but had not mastered the art of the pitch. But he was right—you did need a break, and you did belong on the couch, swaddled in three different blankets, the dulcet tones of Prue Leith and stand mixers humming through the apartment, the windows open to let in a burning leaves breeze, a candle glowing next to the TV, gold hydrogel patches stuck beneath your eyes, a fresh cup of coffee to your exact specifications cupped in your right hand.
To your left, half-curled on his side, naked feet hanging off the cushions, John had your fingers propped in his palm, his face screwed up in furious concentration as he dabbed the polish applicator over your thumbnail. “Jesus,” he mumbled. “You do this to unwind?”
You smiled at the television, sipped your coffee, squishing down into your blanket throne while two hardened super soldiers painted your nails. Life, occasionally, was good. “Just takes practice.”
Bob sat on the floor between you and the coffee table, bathrobe open and pooled around him, your left foot balanced on his leg, warm in his lap, while he applied a complementary color to your toes, tongue caught between his teeth.
“You’re looking very pleased with yourself,” John commented, dipping the applicator back into the bottle of polish before attempting the edges. “I’ve had Saturday morning inspections that were more relaxing…”
“Like of your colon or—”
John stilled, shooting Bob a frosty glare over your fingers.
You and Bob shared a glance, and you muffled your snort down into your coffee while he laughed freely, then went back to swiping the polish brush over your toenails. He wasn’t terribly precise about it, but he was also quick to clean up his work with a little cotton ball dipped in the cap of polish remover. He seemed to be enjoying himself, not taking it as a referendum on his readiness or precision the way John was.
“May I remind you that you volunteered?” You watched John blow lightly on your fingertips. Your heart flopped over. Maybe it was sweet, how much he cared, how much he wanted to get it right.
“You implicated my fine motor skills,” John teased, shaking out his shoulder as he settled in to tackle the next finger in line. “I’m proving a point.”
Prue and Paul were going to judge the bakes, so everyone got quieter. As much as John rolled his eyes at your tv preferences, even he was suddenly incredibly invested in the quality of a bunch of strangers’ cakes. John liked to pretend he didn’t pay attention, that he was above it, sometimes quietly scoffing when you and Bob got upset about one person going home or another. But now he craned his neck around, polish wand floating above your hand as the verdict was given and John almost lurched off the sofa in outrage.
“This is bullshit, he got first in the technical, does that not matter? What even are the rules of this stupid show?”
He usually only got this wound up about football.
“Yeah, man, it’s messed up,” Bob agreed, holding your foot up to get a better view of your pinky toe. He considered it for a second, tilting your foot side to side, then noticed you noticing and blushed to his ears, dropping a kiss on the top of your foot.
You flicked your eyes to John, who was still deeply in his feelings about Jürgen leaving the tent. “How can you flirt at a time like this?” you joked, winking.
“Oh right,” Bob muttered, grinning into your foot. “My bad.”
“We’re rubbing off on him,” you sighed, head falling against the back of the couch as John took a breath and returned to his duties.
“No,” John warned with a humid look. “That comes later.” He lifted your hand, showing off his proficiency. He could make absolutely anything a competition. But you had to admit, for a novice, it was impressive. “Once these are dry. Not bad, right?”
“Looks good to me, soldier.” You gently withdrew your hand from his grasp, but not before he wrestled it back, mindful of the fresh paint, and kissed your knuckles. “Flirt,” you accused, breathy, trying not to curl your toes and sabotage Bob as John tickled the top of your hand with his whiskers.
“Maybe,” he murmured, reaching for your other hand.
You wedged your coffee mug down into the soft pile of fleece mounded in your lap, then indulged him.
There was a lull while the app loaded up the next episode in sequence, and Bob got around to finally doing your pinky toe. He said it softly, under his breath, almost like it was just to himself. “It’s good practice, you know, like if we ever have a girl…” he mumbled, tongue between his teeth again as he fell back into concentration.
He didn’t notice the way you went still, or the way John did, too. He didn’t notice the wide-eyed look that passed between you two, and he certainly didn’t notice the way your pulse was abruptly pounding in your ears. Bob just carefully lifted up your leg, scooted under it, placed your left ankle on the coffee table to let the first foot dry, and gathered the right one onto his lap, humming softly to himself as the next episode of the series started and he flicked his attention toward it.
“Well?”
“Give him a minute,” John grumbled into your ear, pinching the meat of your thigh until you squirmed. His chin was tucked against your left shoulder, beard scratching your neck, all three of you lined up on your sides in the shared bed. You were in the middle, and for the first time, Bob got to be the little spoon.
It was stupid, just a goofy idea you had one night after Bob had been quiet all day. Nothing serious, he just wasn’t himself, and with the way he had trouble sleeping, it only seemed right to try and shift his mood before you all turned in.
You awaited Bob's assessment like Catholics watching for the white smoke, your arms tight around his middle, nose against his bare shoulder blade, his tight butt in the curve of your lap with your knees tucked up under his. John was doing the same to you, curved around you like a big, strong parenthesis.
“Yeah, I’m just…let me see.”
You didn’t have anywhere to be, so you weren’t exactly impatient, but you were getting sleepy. It was hard not to drift off when it was late and both of them were so gloriously warm, and the apartment was quiet, just the occasional screech of tires or car alarm interrupting the city peace. Bob had put up some string lights around the bookcase behind the bed, and he usually left them on until right before he fell asleep. You could just see the edge of his contented smile under the faint gold of the lights as you lifted your head, studying him.
His breathing was even, his chest rising and falling in a full, satisfied cadence. Your fingernails scratched lightly up and down his stomach, firm enough to soothe him, not so light that it tickled. The polish on those scratching nails was chipped now from a week’s worth of Avenging, a state John had noted earlier with a comically serious frown.
Your nose was full of Bob’s soap and shampoo, his hair soft against your forehead.
“S’nice,” he murmured, cuddling back against you. “Really nice. Never been the little one. But I…yeah, I get it now.”
John eased the hair back from your forehead with his fingertips, wrapped around you like a muscly blanket. You could feel his movements getting slower, his head settling heavier against yours as exhaustion came for him, too. The muted thunder of his heart drummed against your back, just as even as Bob’s.
A moment later, you were about to ask Bob again if he thought little spoon was worth doing more, when his buzzy, nasally snores broke the silence, tentative, then louder on each successive drag of air.
You smothered your laugh against his back, squeezing your eyes shut.
“Guess it worked,” John murmured, nibbling the edge of your shoulder. “Has he ever fallen asleep that fast?”
“Nope.”
“Shit. Maybe I need to try it next time,” John said, keeping his voice down.
“Please. You could fall asleep in a wind tunnel.”
John was quiet for a moment. You were convinced he had nodded off, then he shifted closer, sighing, breath pouring down your spine, one hand flexing in your hair, the other curling on your thigh. “I still want to try it.”
“You can be the little spoon, John.”
He kissed you; he kissed you again. He fell asleep.
There were missions and then there were missions. Both men returned from the latter the night before, crashing into bed without so much as a shower or a midnight snack. You didn’t need an explanation, you understood. Some assignments were just harder, required more thought, more energy, and more emotional bandwidth. There was the pressure to get it right, to perform under a microscope, to carve out the image of the New Avengers, precarious as that image remained. Nobody wanted to let down civilians or each other, and even if Bob’s presence all but guaranteed a successful outcome and minimal casualties, the minute-to-minute decisions, the stakes, it all took a toll.
You woke early, before either of them had even twitched an eye open or moved a muscle. Bob had passed out against the wall, on his right side, leg curled around a spare blanket, sheets stuffed fitfully down to his ankles. John was flat on his back, like he had been dropped from the ceiling, one hand over his chest, the other bent over his eyes, blankets bunched around his waist, one leg kicked out for temperature regulation.
There was a crisp, chilly quality to the morning air as it seeped in through the cracked windows. A light rain fell, spattering the windows and the car hoods below. The rush of tires through the water was always a comforting sound, one you would forever associate with that apartment. You climbed out of bed, careful not to disturb anyone, and picked up John’s phone from the nightstand, turning off his alarm before it could shatter the peace.
You went about your morning quietly, on soft feet, dressed just in one of Bob’s old shirts. Shivering, you went to the couch and retrieved two extra fleece blankets, carrying them back to the bed and tucking one over each sleeper. John’s brow furrowed as you fluffed one over his chest, a murmured nothing leaving his lips before he was silent again, breathing hard. There was a healing bruise on his shoulder where his suit had dampened the impact of a bullet and a cut running parallel to his left cheekbone.
And you figured you had about an hour or two before either of them stirred, so you pulled on a pair of jeans and a warm jacket, grabbed an umbrella, and slipped out the door, locking them in. You took a cab to Paris Baguette and loaded up on croissants of every flavor, chocolate cream breads (for Bob), and coffee buns, then hurried back to the apartment, paranoid that by 7:45 someone would be up to ruin your surprise.
But the apartment was peaceful with cold and silence as you tiptoed back inside, kicking off your wet shoes and stripping back down to your nightshirt to get the pastries out on the kitchen table and the coffee machine started. You put the electric kettle on in case Bob wanted tea instead, then fetched down three mugs, humming along in muted puffs to the music playing through your phone.
The thick, roasty smell of the coffee brewing slowly filled the kitchen, then spread into the rest of the apartment. You didn’t notice you had an audience until you went to pour the first mug, your own, catching movement out of the corner of your eye. John was sitting up, feet on the floor, blankets rumpled across his lap, hair stuck up in a million directions, eyes muzzy and half-lidded as he watched you through the doorway.
It was one of those expressions you felt with your whole body. Surprised relief, like he still couldn’t believe what he was waking up to.
Rain lashed the windows. Under the sparse glow of the fairy lights on the bookshelf, Bob kept on sleeping, buried face-down in his pillow, mouth wide open. You carried your coffee back out into the main room, fitting yourself between John’s thighs as he looped you in, gathering you up, rumbling as you wound one arm over his shoulders, his cheek pressed against your chest.
“Sight for sore eyes, baby.”
“You’re cute when you’re still waking up,” you murmured, fixing his hair.
He yawned into you. “What time is it? Feels late.”
Late. Right. It was barely eight. You tried to unwind from his grasp, but he wasn’t letting you go anywhere, rubbing his face on you like he could transfer his scent, mark you permanently. “I turned off your alarm, sleepy head. Thought you could use the extra rest.”
“Mm, good thinking. Knew we kept you around for a reason.”
Once more, you attempted to escape back to the kitchen to finish setting up breakfast, but John’s hold on you tightened. His hands slid down your back to rest just above your butt, his chest pumping harder as he fell into his thoughts. Accepting the fact that he was just not going to let you go, you pushed your hand back into his hair, enjoying the heat of his skin against yours, the way his thumbs stroked your sacrum, faster, faster, like his fingers were catching up to something racing through his mind.
“John. I’m trying to get breakfast going…”
His face flattened into you, into the fabric of Bob’s shirt over your chest. “Erwumfer.”
You snorted. “What was that?”
You didn’t think twice about it, assuming it was just some teasing comment about having breakfast in bed, instead, he twisted to look up at you, chin resting over your heart. “I love you.”
“I—oh.”
“Love this. Love waking up to you. Love…you. I love you.”
Your hand froze on his head, your legs turning to goo as his blue eyes darkened, first with tenderness, then fear. Idiot. Like you were going to do anything but return the—
“I love you guys.”
You had been so consumed with John’s confession that you hadn’t even noticed Bob flopping onto his side and sitting up, legs crossed, hands propped on his knees. His eyes searched yours, then the back of John’s head. He cleared his throat, mouth hanging open slightly as the silence dragged.
John went rigid against you.
“I love you, sweets,” you said, smiling over John’s head at Bob, and the look of relief that broke across his face almost tore you in half. “And you,” you murmured sweetly, hugging John tighter to your chest. “I love you.” Blinking a few times, unsure of how to top that, you flicked your attention shyly to the side, to the window. “And there’s croissants.”
“Holy shit, I love you,” John groaned, falling forward into you, nearly spilling your scalding coffee over his entire body.
You squealed in alarm, stumbling back. Bob materialized at your side, moving in a blink, grabbing the mug out of your hand before you could burn yourself. The hot liquid sloshed onto his fingers, but he didn’t react. Bob carried it into the kitchen for you, setting the wet-sided mug into the sink for you to collect whenever.
“My hero,” you teased, following, swallowing a gasp as he pulled you into a bruising hug.
His lips worried along the edge of your neck, his own muffled, “I love you,” repeated into your skin. You said it back, threading one hand into his hair, shivering as he breathed you in.
John got up, you heard the floor creak from his weight. Some of the blankets on the bed rustled.
“Tea or coffee today, sweet stuff?” you asked, unfolding yourself reluctantly from Bob’s embrace.
“Yeah, coffee, please,” Bob answered, landing a peck on your nose. “Thanks, babe.”
You grinned, cheeks hot, cheeks flaming fucking hot from the little lovefest that had just chased around between you. Bubbles burst in your chest. It felt like your toes might lift off the ground. You had waited forever to hear it, in agony wondering if you should be the one to say it first, in agony even if you knew the feeling was there, hiding in every glance and touch. At first, you thought you were imagining it, the quiet words that tumbled out as Bob drifted by you and wandered toward the bathroom. You had just reached for the sugar, heart wedging itself into your throat as you heard John mutter something as the other man passed.
“I, um. I care about you, Bobby. You know that, right?”
Bob’s footsteps faded as he reached the bathroom. “Yeah. Yeah, man. Thanks, Walker.”
“Sure thing.”
Close enough, you thought, spooning a little sugar into John’s mug. You felt him come up behind you, his heat steady as always along your back, his hands settling on your waist. For now.
Hi! I just recently found your fics and am in LOVE! The John Walker tag has been dead it felt like so it was nice to find someone who posts for him a lot. I also really like your throuple fics, too.
I do have a request but it is a little embarrassing🫣. If it makes you feel uncomfortable, please skip it! Anyways, I've seen recently online that men can lactate if they take steroids or hormones or things of that sort. I was thinking about what if after getting the serum, John occasionally lactates. Maybe reader had a really rough day and John also had a bad day so he offers it to soothe her and it ends up making him feel better too? Idk I'd eat up whatever you write. I hope this wasn't too weird or made you uncomfortable. I've never written in a request before
Hey Anon. I honestly found this ask/request really moving, and while this kink isn't necessarily my thing I always enjoy challenging myself and branching out.
And please, I don't want anyone to feel embarrassed when sending in requests. I'm not here to judge!
So, I took a crack at it. I hope it's what you were looking for. Honored to be your first request, and thanks for sending such a kind note. <3
I was thinking about what if after getting the serum, John occasionally lactates. Maybe reader had a really rough day and John also had a bad day so he offers it to soothe her and it ends up making him feel better too? Idk I'd eat up whatever you write. I hope this wasn't too weird or made you uncomfortable. I've never written in a request before.
John tries to break up with you over a perceived flaw; you convince him he's perfect the way he is.
A/N: This is definitely not something I've tackled before, but anon's request just, idk, moved me? I wanted to give it a try, and I personally think there's something rewarding about taking a crack at something new. If this is not your thing, please scroll on by. Hope I did it justice because I certainly wanted to.
Rating: 18+ MDNI
WC: 3.4k (complete)
CW: PWP, male lactation do not engage if this is not your thing, reader is afab, reader is a thunderbolt/new avenger, reader has a vague but tragic superhero backstory, reader has fire-based powers, discussion of body image, angst with a HEA, romantic smut, unprotected pinv, lactation kink.
You thought you had a pretty decent handle on John’s moods, which was why it felt like someone was sawing the floor out from under your feet cartoon style. This… You just didn’t see this coming.
“You’re…you’re breaking up with me?”
It didn’t make sense. You had gone on a date just the night before and everything went perfectly, so much so it made you want to fall through time, storm through the room of your childhood prison, and tell your little self that you would find the one someday. Pinterest, scrapbooking, scrolling through wedding ideas kind of stuff.
Three stellar dates, stars in your eyes, and—if you were any judge of character and you were reasonably sure you were—stars in his, too. He had walked you back to the dormitory wing in the tower with your arm linked through his, your sides squished together, and at the very end, just before saying goodnight, John had leaned down to give you a lingering, gentle kiss.
And now…this.
He had invited you on a walk to Central Park to break up.
Fuck.
John stuck his hands into his pockets, eyes roaming the sky above your head. Clouds were gathering, rain threatening, his collar turned up against the already harsh wind. “Please don’t make me explain.”
You took a step toward him, a reflex, a panic, fists balled at your sides. Life had never been easy to you or kind. Deprivation. Loneliness. You were someone’s dangerous, ill-advised dream, a Hail Mary conceived in a lab, never knowing a moment’s kindness or acceptance until you were invited to join the New Avengers. They wanted you because you were a dangerous fuckup.
You turned in a dejected, confused circle, throwing looks at passing joggers and ducks gliding on the pond like they were personally responsible for this pain.
“I think you owe me at least that,” you said, softly. “An explanation. Anything. I thought…” You pushed out a sigh, hands in your hair, power erupting along your skin. That was bad. Bad bad. You were in public; you had to keep it together. A terrible thought bubbled up, that John was doing this in the park specifically because you were volatile. Tears slipped out, you couldn’t help it; you had stupidly gotten your hopes up, a thing you had promised yourself you would never, ever do.
John wrung his hands, eyes glossy as he noticed the tears sliding down your cheeks. For a man who wanted nothing to do with you, he certainly looked torn up at the sight of you crying. He jerked toward you, hands flexing, closing, then opening as he shook his head.
“I’m not…normal.” He said it so softly you had to lean closer to hear him.
“John. None of us are normal.”
“No, you don’t—” He cut himself off, fisting his hands in his hair, turning away quickly before spinning back around. His chest was pumping, his eyes searching the ground at your feet, and the skin of his face was so red it looked like it might erupt. “This can’t go any further. You deserve someone…someone else. Someone not like me.”
“What are you not saying?” You wiped at the wet tracks on your face, catching his wrist before he could shift away and down the hill toward the pond. The clouds bunched, gray and heavy, a few fat raindrops spattering on your cheeks.
John shook his head. “Please.”
“Please what?”
He glanced at the sky, swore, then hooked your wrist around and took your hand, leading you down the shallow hill, the grass growing slippery as the rain picked up. There was a tunnel with a bike path running over it, and John led you there, pulling you into the darkness. It smelled sandy, like wet concrete, the rain pelting the metal tracks above in an uneven staccato while John leaned against the graffitied wall and caught his breath, collected his thoughts.
You watched him, patient, hurting, surprised that he hadn’t yet let go of your hand. His fingers knit with yours and he contemplated the connection for a moment.
“You’re not…” He sighed, head falling back. “You’re not curious why I haven’t tried to get you into bed?”
“Thought maybe there were a few gentlemen left in the world.”
He huffed out a dry laugh. “That’s charitable, thanks.”
“Are you going to tell me the real reason?”
John squeezed his eyes shut, clearly terrified at the thought of doing just that. His hand trembled against yours. “I didn’t ask you out for months because I knew we would get here. I lied to myself, pretended it wouldn’t matter, that I’d figure it out, but—” He pressed his lips together, tearing his eyes away from your hands to glare at the ground. “I’m a fucking embarrassment, and you shouldn’t have to put up with that.”
“None of us are perfect.”
“Stop.” He let go, turning into the wall, slamming the knuckles of his left fist into it so hard the concrete shook, powdered. “Stop. Stop being so fucking nice. You wouldn’t be, trust me, if you knew all of it. You’d…you’d look at me like I was a freak like every other girl I’ve been with since the serum.”
Your mind raced, tripping over possibilities. All the times you had run into each other in the common room in the morning, before bed, all the dumb action movie nights you had shared, discovering a shared, corny passion, all the brutal missions and shared looks during briefings and sleepless nights on the observation deck shooting the shit… You couldn’t imagine anything he would say that would scare you off.
You approached carefully, the rain drowning out your footsteps as you put both hands tentatively on his back. He flinched, hunching against the wall.
“John, just tell me one thing, okay?”
His shoulders lowered a fraction. He nodded.
“If this…if this thing you’re worried about wasn’t happening, would you want to be together?”
“Yes. Yeah. Fuck.”
Your heart jammed up into your throat. “Can you let me decide if it’s a dealbreaker? Can you trust me that much?”
It took him a minute, but he finally lowered his arms, shifting around with a grunt to face you, eyes gray and hazy in the dark of the tunnel. A bike went overhead, the tires thunking softly over the uneven ground. John sagged forward like all the fight had gone out of him, like he had lost a battle in his head he would never allow you to see.
“Something happens when I get excited.”
His voice pitched low, gruff, laced with fear.
“Okay.”
“It’s…incredibly god damn embarrassing.” He glanced away, body locked, jaw hardening in its forward position. “The serum jacked up my hormones. The lab can’t correct it, believe me, I’ve begged them to try.” You waited for him to go on, patient, though you wanted to lurch forward and shake him, make him just say it. John pinched his forehead between thumb and forefinger, partially shielding his face as he finally spit it out. “Stuff comes out of me.”
Your eyebrows lifted, lips parting. “What stuff?”
“Fluid,” he said, mouth twisting like it was the worst word in the English language, like saying it made him want to gag. He sighed and grabbed his own chest, giving you a: “Get it now?” sort of silent, challenging look.
You wondered if there was more. It was unusual, sure, not something you had encountered before, but certainly not the horror show you had been anticipating.
“Is that it?”
John stared, blinking rapidly. “What do you mean?”
“You…lactate? That’s why we’re breaking up?”
“Yes. Jesus.” He swung his hands down to his thighs, frowning. “I mean, that’s not…you’re not…”
“John, flames shoot out of my eyeballs when I’m activated, I accidentally set Alexei on fire last week because he startled me in the hallway. It would take a lot more than that to frighten me away.” You offered your hand to him with a soft, crooked smile. “Of all the weird ass shit you could do in bed, that doesn’t crack the top ten.”
John’s gaze flickered from your hand to your face and back again, like this might be a trap or you were about to spring a hidden microphone and a parade of his loved ones on him. But it was just rain, the wet, sweet-smelling grass, geese honking as they left the pond and took flight, another bike thundering overhead. And your expression didn’t change and the world didn’t end, and John carefully put his hand in yours.
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”
“I’m really not.” You moved in, sliding against him, running your nose along his collarbone through his shirt, your voice a comforting whisper, just above the rain. “What if it’s okay?” He shivered. “What if I like it?”
You knew it wouldn’t bother you, things came out of bodies, that’s just what bodies did, and you were never particularly squeamish, couldn’t be, not when you were brought up in a facility where you were forced to bunk eight to a room, but you didn’t expect it to be like this.
John was so nervous he was shivering like he had come down with a dangerous fever, his spine a rigid column as you came back from the bathroom with a folded towel and a sheepish smile. His eyes were darting, big and wounded, as you climbed onto his bed and knelt at his side.
“Just…wasn’t sure what we were in for,” you said lightly, with a shrug and a grin. “Is it, like, a lot or…?”
“No,” he shook his head, biting the inside of his cheek, the exterior of which was bright red. “I mean, I don’t know. I’m usually trying not to let it happen.”
“We don’t have to force it,” you said. It was your turn to blush and glance away. “I’m not really experienced with a lot of this. Not the authority, you know? We would fool around in the facility, but it had to be quick and most times we didn’t get very far.”
John reached for your hand, closing his palm over your fingers on the comforter. He let out a deep, shuddering breath. “Slow, then.”
“Yeah, we just…” You scooted closer, leaving the towel by the rightmost pillow before climbing into his lap. “See how it goes. See how far we get.”
John was lying back against the mounded pillows, legs stretched out down the length of the bed. He leaned forward slightly to pull off his tee, then balled it up and tossed it over your shoulder. You had gotten pretty soaked from the rain storm and stripped down to a camisole and panties once you were alone together in his room. As you folded yourself along his left side, one leg hooked over his, your face in the crook of his neck, you couldn’t help but feel a pang—his body was perfect, sculpted into a hard, rippling machine, and it hurt to think he was insecure about it. But you could see how something like this would confuse the man who had been Captain America, a symbol of red-blooded American masculinity.
His reality and his ideals weren’t in conflict for you, you just hoped he would see it for himself one day.
“Hey,” you whispered, kissing his chin. John turned into you, eyes fluttering shut in relief, gratitude, his lips finding yours, opening just the way they had the night before when he gave you that unforgettable kiss. “No judgment, okay?” you asked, pecking his lips once more, cradling his face in one hand as he gazed down at you nestled into his side.
“Okay. But if it freaks you out, you’ll tell me and we’ll stop.”
You gave a single, confident nod, biting your lip. “And if I light your bed on fire, we’ll stop.”
He snorted, nosing into you. “Jesus, I mean, yes, for obvious reasons we would stop if that happened.”
“I’m just saying…”
“Please,” he murmured, rolling his eyes playfully. “We’d put it out, start right up again.”
“Oh?” You drew his lips back to yours, groaning as he pulled you in closer, flush to his chest. “Still want to break up?”
John’s brow tugged down as he wrangled you onto his body more fully, helping you straddle his waist. He was a big boy, but you managed. “I didn’t want to break up, I didn’t think anyone could be so…so...”
“Uh-huh. Keep going.”
His mouth twitched to the side as he enjoyed the view of you kneeling over him, hands sliding up the tops your thighs, eyes darkening with desire. “Willing.”
“That’s a very tame word for what I am.”
His hands kept traveling, up your legs to your hips, then to the edge of your tank top. When he tugged it up slowly, your stomach tightened with anticipation, thighs clenching. You wanted to keep flirting, honestly, you did, but the air around you both felt suddenly charged, tense. His nerves weren’t going away, you could see it in the way his chin quivered, the way his fingers fumbled with your shirt, almost losing grip as he yanked it over your head and let it fall to the wayside.
You leaned down, stealing away whatever self-deprecating bullshit he was about to say, kissing him until his hips bucked subtly up against you and his hard heat rubbed against you through your underwear. Both of you broke the kiss at the same time, too overcome. You reached for each other at the same time, his hands on your underwear and yours on his, both of you a little clumsy, excited, shaking like horny adolescents until you could be completely skin to skin, your hands cupped around his beard and his maneuvering you by your waist.
“Shit,” he whispered, eyelids heavy as your sex brushed his. “Right there. Slow.”
Slow was nice in theory, but you were hungry for him. You could feel the warmth pooling between your legs, the ache that wanted fast and more and now. But you caught yourself, forehead to his and core pulsing as John fit himself against you, started to push, entered you with a noisy gulp that told you it felt as good for him as it did for you.
“Keep going,” you told him, biting it out between moans. “D-Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
John’s face constricted, a full-body shudder slamming through him as you worked yourself down onto his thick length. “Fuck.” His voice broke. “It’s starting, I’m s-sorry—”
“Don’t apologize, don’t stop, just keep going.” You kissed him again, again and again, until he stopped trembling. You rode him gently for a while, letting your hips do the convincing, gaze skipping down his chin to his chest, where your breasts just grazed him on every careful thrust.
And you saw it, and it wasn’t what you expected, and you definitely didn’t think it would make you hotter all over, wetter. He must have felt it, too, the way your body welcomed him even more readily, his hands flexing on our hips, driving you harder against him on the downstroke.
John whetted his lips anxiously, following your eyeline. A single, hazy pearl of liquid beaded on his right nipple. His chest didn’t look any different than it did after a hard workout, swollen like the muscles there were slightly inflamed. He made a gruff, strangled sound as you dodged down to kiss his throat, then his collarbone, lower…
“You d-don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
He didn’t try to stop you after that. His head dropped back against the pillows as your lips captured that little wet spot on his chest, light and sweet on your tongue.
“Jesus,” he whispered, eyes clenched, body rocking against yours faster, faster. “Fuck—”
You whimpered as more came out of him, just a trickle, none of it escaping your mouth as you coaxed his nipple between your lips and sucked, experimental, eyes locked on his face for a reaction. His jaw went slack, the tendons in his neck springing apart as he arched off the bed, fingers digging into the flesh of your waist with bruising force.
One more slow pull of your lips against his chest and he almost bucked you off of him.
But you didn’t let go, moaning around his taste. It wasn’t that strange, not after you got used to it, and it was driving him crazy. The ridge of his pubic bone ground against your clit on every frantic drive of his hips now, and you chased the friction, the build, letting the fiery cord tightening around your stomach cinch until it pulled your spine and face taut. Fuck, he felt good, big, obliterating, even bigger as he felt you coming on his dick and it pushed him over the edge.
“I can’t—you’re so—holy fuck—I can’t hold on—please, I’m just—I’m just right there--” John held you tight to his chest, nails burning into your skin as he fucked up into you, wild, gone.
When he buckled against the mattress, there were tears sparkling at the corners of his eyes, in the deep wrinkles there from so many years of scowling and laughing. He was smiling now, almost in disbelief, huffing and puffing as he tried to catch his breath.
His hands were still holding onto you, but in the shivery comedown they started to move, gliding up your back to your hair, carding carefully through the strands while you stayed locked to his chest.
John shifted under you, maybe trying to dislodge you, get you to stop clinging to his pec like that. But you had already turned back into the warm expanse of his chest, springy and strong and dusted with hair. His fingers flexed on your head as you licked up a bead of fluid that had escaped during his orgasm. You could feel him watching you, rapt, cheeks red with nervous heat.
“It’s…not weird?”
“No,” you said with a snort, swatting his shoulder. “It’s sexy.”
“It is not sexy.”
“It is to me.”
He blinked at you. “Let’s say I believe you, what… Jesus.” He closed his eyes for a second, then stared helplessly up at the ceiling. “I can’t believe I’m asking this, but what’s it like?”
“Mm, let me think.” You batted your lashes up at him, coy, drawing his nipple back between your lips and prodding with your tongue until a steadier trickle flowed. His skin was warm, taut, fragrant. The salt of his sweat had dried on his chest, reactivating against your tongue.
Underneath you, his entire body spasmed, then locked. But gradually, the more you pulled out of him, the longer you went without showing a hint of disgust, the more you whimpered and wiggled against him with pleasure, the more he relaxed, fingers loosening in your hair until he was just holding you sweetly against him, your hand curled next to your face. It was…comforting. Surprisingly so. Especially when he stopped blushing and relaxed into the arrangement, grimace easing into something neutral, sleepy.
And there was something special about knowing you were the first person to give him that kind of acceptance and relief.
“God, that’s nice,” he rumbled, head tipping to the side, eyes sliding shut.
In the quiet, in his warmth, you suckled until he had nothing left to give you, more intimate maybe than even the sex. He had softened and slid out of you a moment before, and it was a new feeling, to be full of him in so many different ways.
You lifted your head, propping your chin on the swell of his ribcage. “It’s sweet. One of the lab directors at the facility was really into hummingbirds. She had a ton of feeders out for them in the garden. She made us mix up this nectar stuff for them to eat, sugar water. It’s sort of like that.”
John gazed down at you, thoughtful, a notch between his brows. You crawled up and wedged yourself against his right side, sliding down onto the mattress and into the crook of his arm, resting your cheek against the muscular cap of his shoulder. His fingers tented on your hip, making sure you stayed nice and snug to his body. Leaning across, he brushed a kiss across your forehead.
“Yeah. So. Thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me, it was good. All of it.”
He was quiet again for a moment. “Would you…ever want to do that again?”
“Mmhm.” You pinched his side. What you didn’t say was: Yes, maybe later, maybe in five minutes. Please, please, please, can we?
John squirmed, then kissed your head again, this time the top of it, his hand at your middle moving inward until his fingers were splayed across your stomach, protective.
“I can’t believe you tried to break up with me.”
He groaned. “I can tell I’ll be paying for that one for a while.”
You smoothed one palm across his ribs, up to his chest, spiraling your forefinger around his nipple. “I take my payments liquid,” you teased. “And with interest.”
Summary: A little Bob fluff for a queen diva friend!!! She wanted "pulling them closer by grabbing their jacket & talking mid-kiss while your mouths are still touching" off the soft action list. So, here's some sweet Bob fluff to kick off the weekend. <3
Bob unexpectedly helps you deal with the stress of the big, bad Internet finding out about your relationship.
Rating: PG, just some swearing
WC: 1.4k (complete)
CW: reader is she/her, sweet bob, fluff, light angst, smoochin, references to bob's past, references to intimacy but nothing explicit
Suggested listening: Honeybee by Olivia Rodrigo
You really thought it would take longer. You thought—naively, maybe—that you’d get at least a few blissful months with Bob before the world found out.
“Oh my God, oh no,” you groaned, raking one hand down your face as your phone virtually exploded on your lap. It just wouldn’t stop buzzing. Everyone from your best childhood friend to a guy you had accidentally friended on Facebook seven years ago was blowing up your shit.
Blowing up your shit and ruining the extremely chill vibes of an October Sunday at Urban Backyard. The walk there was perfect, crisp and scattered with red leaves, hand in hand with your new boyfriend, both of you dressed baggy and down to avoid looking like the Avengers you were, both of you glowy after a tangled-up night that had lingered into morning.
Life went on around you as you stared down in mute terror at your phone, the strip of sidewalk between the café and the outdoor sitting area bustling as the world ground to a halt for you. On the other side of the table, quiet, Bob stilled with his tea halfway to his mouth.
“Babe?” he asked, swallowing noisily. “You okay?”
Bob had only officially joined the team a month ago; that had been the first real hurdle for your relationship. Within a day, journalists and Internet sleuths were on him like rabid dogs, digging up mistakes and memories that had almost erased the strides he had made in therapy and training. The Sentry wasn’t ready to debut, not quite yet, but Valentina wanted a soft launch. Soft for her, not for Bob. He had shut himself up in his room for a week, only willing to interface with you and Yelena, hiding until some new scandal erupted and the onslaught eased.
You had gotten through it. He was stronger, better, but a hint of that crestfallen fear washed across his face now as you scrolled through the horrors of social media.
God damnit. You just wanted a relaxing afternoon, an ube latte, a cuddle on the couch and a few hours to read a book…
It occurred to you then that Bob’s phone wasn’t ringing like crazy because nobody from his previous life had stuck around. The New Avengers were all he had. That made you furious, too, in a different way.
“They know,” you said softly, throat dry. “Everyone knows. About us.”
Bob sipped his tea with a shaking hand, then carefully put the cup back on the table between you. His brows met over his big, melting eyes. He braced, like you were about to blame him for all of this. “And that’s…bad?”
“It’s not bad, it’s just…” You blew out a sigh, turning your phone upside down and leaving it on the table. Your eighth-grade math teacher had just DM’d you, so that was special. “I don’t know. I thought we’d have more time, more time for it to be just about us.”
“Yeah.” His cheeks appled, then turned pink as he studied his lap, shoulders curling up to his ears. “And I bet…I mean. I’m maybe not the guy you bring home. Sure there are lots of, um, opinions on that.”
Your eighth-grade math teacher agreed.
Fuck you, Mr. Daniels.
Good thing your drinks were already in to-go cups. You grabbed yours, hoisting yourself off the bench, shoving your phone deep into your bag while praying it went to another dimension, to wherever all your chapsticks and earring backs wound up. “I need to walk.”
“Okay. Yeah. Where are we going?”
Bob fell into stride beside you, so close his arm bumped yours as you hurried down the sidewalk together.
“I don’t know,” you sighed. “Anywhere. The park? I can’t breathe.”
Four blocks east you found green. The sport courts were packed. Kids squealed across the playground. But all of that felt far away, for someone else’s life, someone who could just make choices and have a job and date without it being a headline. You chugged the rest of your latte, not even tasting it, and chucked the empty container in the recycling, finding a sprawling tree to pace beneath. Bob caught up to you as you looked at your phone again and saw the new message from your mother: Call me.
“Shit,” you whispered, squeezing your eyes shut. Your brain started spinning up explanations before you could stop it. He’s in recovery. You have no idea what he’s like, how hard he’s working, how scary this is for both of us.
Your eyes scanned the playground, then the basketball court, then the perimeter of the park, a frantic sweep, rising paranoia. Someone scrolling their phone idly on a bench could be waiting to snap a picture, sell it, make bank on what should’ve been your private life.
And you were fucking scared. Scared it would send Bob spiraling back into his bedroom for another week, kick up more ugly memories, more whispered conversations in the dark, more fears that this would be the thing that brought back the other guy…
“Do you care?” Bob asked, watching you. At some point he had tossed his cup, too, and now he was twitching back and forth on his sneaks, hands in his pockets as you carved a rut into the gravel under an oak softly weeping red leaves.
“What?” The question drew you up short.
“What they’re s-saying about me…” He scrunched his nose, considered a leaf drifting by, rolled his shoulder. “About us. The gossip and whatever. Do you care?”
“I care that they’re doing it,” you said. “I care that it could get back to you when it’s all just judgmental bullshit, when it’s—”
He moved too fast for you to perceive it, three feet away and then right on you, his hands closing around your windbreaker and pulling you in, tugging you into his body, a body still vibrating with supercharged heat. The air resettled around him, shimmering faintly as his lips closed over yours, cutting off the rest of your rant. Your eyes widened, open for an extra second before you dissolved into the kiss, hands folding over his where they clutched the edges of your jacket.
Bob didn’t break the kiss even when you were sure people started gawking. His eyes were shut, lashes soft and dark on his cheeks, and the cold day vanished, shrinking to his heat, the tender way the strongest man alive handled you, like both of you might shatter.
His mouth opened into yours, coaxing out your tongue playfully, sweetly, until you responded, until your shoulders eased down and you leaned into him and the rest of your worries turned into a whimper at the back of your throat.
Even when he pulled away, his mouth was still brushing yours, the wind rustling his hair, a piece of it dancing against your cheek. He didn’t let go of your coat, keeping you right there with him in the safe, quiet cocoon of his warmth.
“I’m okay, right? We’re okay,” he murmured against your lips. “We got through the last thing, and the one before that. And the time I got sick from that shrimp festival. And when I blew up the TV accidentally—"
“We still need to replace that.”
Bob smiled, you smiled, you couldn’t help it, just feeling his mouth do that made yours do it, too.
“I think I’m about to tell my eighth-grade math teacher to eat my ass,” you whispered.
“Babe, for me?” He snorted, nosing against your cheek. “That’s pretty hot. Unless, I mean, you don’t actually want him to--”
“Shut up. Kiss me.” You didn’t wait, leaning back in, tugging on his lower lip with your teeth until he got the hint and wrapped you up in his arms, finally letting go of your jacket. His hand slipped down to yours, weaving your fingers together. With a tug, he turned you both toward home, toward the tower.
After a second, he nudged your hip with his, a mischievous twinkle flashing in his eyes when you glanced up at him. “Can I type it?”
“You want to tell off my old math teacher?”
“Yeah,” he chuckled. “Can I? Was he a dick?”
“Oh. Big time. I don’t even know why he still follows my account…” You sighed, handing him your phone, showing him the message. “He yelled at me for reading in class, he always smelled like worms.”
Bob’s thumb stilled over the screen, lips swishing to the side. “Here.”
When you got the phone back, the message was gone. Deleted.
“That’s growth, baby,” you said gently, smirking, kissing his shoulder.
Bob grinned down at you, fixing his hair, dodging as a leaf almost swiped his forehead. “Didn’t you hear? I’m a superhero now.”
Omg I don’t remember if I already sent a message about you being a hidden gem, so I apologize if this repetitive but your writing is so immersive and perfectly detailed and just so good I’m so happy I was able to find one of your stories and in extension, you! I’ve only read a couple of your fics so I am excited and looking forward to read more!! So happy as well since not many write for thunderbolts anymore and you do the few of us who continue looking for new material immense justice and extreme satisfaction!! Thank you!!!! Take care and be safe xx
Thank you so much for this, anon!
I'm so so late to the Thunderbolts* party (forgive meeee) but watching it again a few months ago reignited my obsession. I've been on a fic hiatus for years, but Thundies and The Pitt pulled me back in this summer.
I'm having so much writing for John and Bob, and everyone in the fandom has been amazingly warm and kind, including you! <3
kissing each other between each sentence while pillow talking feels like John Walker to me. Anyway I can request that?
I'm such a sucker for meet the family fics, and an even bigger sucker for soft john. :>
John takes you home to meet his family; you start to panic the night before.
cw: flirting, light angst, soft, sweet smut 18+
You had been traveling all day, your body was exhausted, and you should have been asleep hours ago. Instead, you were vibrating out of your skin, absolutely buzzing, staring up at the ceiling like the key to assuaging your worries was floating up there somewhere.
The bed and breakfast was exactly fifteen minutes outside of Custer’s Grove, Georgia. In the morning, first thing, you would climb into the rental car with John and make the short drive to meet his family. Four straight days of trying to impress people you knew were fiercely protective of John and incredibly skeptical of the relationship. You had big shoes to fill. You didn’t have much in common with his ex-wife, who you knew they still adored, and you weren’t the type of woman they expected John to bring home.
You went to work every day to punch and shoot alongside their son, one more misfit on an entire team of them. When you overheard John on the phone with them, he sidestepped questions about your past, leaving blanks you were pretty sure they would want filled in over the next four days. And you had no idea how you were going to keep your head or measure up.
And you were terrified.
A huge shape shifted beside you; the floral granny comforter was mostly just over your chest and legs. John ran too hot for a pile of blankets. The room smelled like cinnamon potpourri and baked apples. Outside, the frogs and crickets were going crazy. There was a teddy bear motif in the wallpaper border just under the crown molding. You had already memorized the pattern and picked out the places where the wallpaper overlapped and the design warped, leaving some of the teddies with only half of a head. Everything in the bed and breakfast creaked, including your boyfriend, who groaned as he turned onto his other side, facing you, sleepy, heavy eyes blinking open to find you frozen in your fear, hands clasped over your chest like they were physically holding you together.
John’s hand slid across you, anchoring on the far side of your waist. He pulled himself closer, beard rasping against your shoulder as his leg found yours under the sheet and curled over it.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked, voice rasped with exhaustion. He muffled a yawn against your shoulder, hand traveling up your waist to your chin, tipping your face toward him.
“They’re going to hate me, aren’t they?”
His thumb stroked across your cheek. “No, they are not going to hate you. Baby, we already went over this…”
“I know, but I—”
“Just be yourself.” He tugged you onto your side, laughing when you stiffened up like a corpse. “Come here, please. Don’t do that.”
You sighed, letting him win; stupid jerk always got his way. But it did comfort you to slide into his arms, warm and supported, fitting into the cozy sweep of freckled skin between his neck and chest.
“I want them to be happy for you, excited, but I’m…me, you know?”
John chuckled against your forehead, his chin lowering until he could find you hiding there down by his shoulder. He urged your head up with a fist tucked under it, kissing each cheek and then your nose. “I do know.”
He kissed your lips, devoted.
“Which is the problem.”
You kissed him back, tentative.
“Agree to disagree,” he said. “Just…don’t bring up politics.”
You glared, fingers tensing on the springy pillows of his chest.
“Or the military. Like at all.”
“John--”
His forehead scrunched as he kept thinking, peppering your face with kisses that were doing very, very little to settle your nerves. “Probably avoid The Bachelorette, too.”
“What.”
“My old man has some strong opinions about it, I don’t know.” He smirked at your wide-eyed fury. “He’s intense about cars, too. Guns, obviously. Oh, and iced tea…”
You collapsed against him, groaning.
“I’m messing with you, baby, just say whatever you want.” His lips found yours in the gloom, sweet at first but deepening into something hungry. “Because you’re with me. I have your back.”
That groan dissipated into a soft, angsty puff at the back of your throat. His grip tightened on your face, then smoothed down your neck and shoulders, gathering you up, letting you feel the hard heat growing between his legs as he reeled you in.
“Because I love you, mm?”
You nodded into his face. “I know. I love you, too.”
“I always have your back,” he added, whispering it against your mouth. His fingers splayed across your spine, possessive. “It’s a very good back. I like the way it bends, like seeing it from behind…”
“You’re trying to distract me,” you said, nipping his lower lip.
“Is it working?”
“Hm, not sure,” you teased, arching into him, trying to untangle yourself from the sheet so you could wind yourself around him properly. “Keep going, Captain, I’ll let you know.”
“Captain?” His next kiss was claiming, so rough it tipped your head back. The steady heat of his hands dipped down your shoulders, following the curve to your ass, cupping your cheeks and grinding you against his body. “You trying to meet your future in-laws with a limp, honey?”
You couldn’t decide which part of that question was the hottest.
“That depends, how do they feel about relations before marriage?”
“Better skip that one at dinner,” John laughed, but it turned into a sigh as you rubbed up against him, matching his energy.
“What does your dad think they do in the overnight suite?”
“In the what?”
You sighed, shaking your head. “On The Bachelorette—you know what? Never mind.”
John hooked your thigh over his hip, lips worrying down the edge of your chin to your neck, digging in there, sucking until your thoughts were a million miles away from trashy reality television.
“That’s working,” you breathed, falling into him, shivering and clutching at his biceps as he found a new spot to lick and suck. “Don’t…don’t leave any marks, you beast.”
He tore his head away with a grunt, sealing his mouth to yours again as he aligned your bodies, pulling you flush, working you against his erection, his soft, sweet moans mingling with yours as your thigh twitched, your stomach clenched, sex hot and slippery as he teased you.
“This is how we do it in the South,” he murmured, snorting into your cheek as he broke the kiss. “God’s cool with it this way.”
“Shut up,” you swatted his shoulder, losing your rhythm just for a second as you dissolved into giggles. “Thought…mmf…” It was hard to think when he was grinding into you like that, his underwear getting soaked as you found yourself closer and closer to the edge. “Thought you were supposed to be fruitful and m-multiply.”
John let go of your ass with one hand to slip his shorts down around his knees, guiding you where he wanted you, hips angled, his swollen heat breaching you on a frantic thrust. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, slamming his cheek against yours, swallowing a loud groan as he took ground inch by inch. “Yes, fucking ma’am.”
God, you could take the boy out of Georgia...
You gave yourself over to the feeling, fear melting away, nothing but pleasure filling you up as you scratched your fingernails into his hair, holding on tight. “I’m almost there,” you whispered, sizzling, lost, “take me home.”
Ok but… teasing John for a few days. A small petty argument and now you want him to break and when he does he isn’t letting you off the hook easy
John tries to keep a lid on his darker bedroom interests until you push him to the brink.
Rating: 18+ MDNI
WC: 3.2k (complete)
CW: reader is afab, reader is a thunderbolt/new avenger, dom/sub dynamics, john is dom as hell in this one you've been warned, teasing, dirty talk, if you liked flashover this is similar, submission, use of nicknames (sweetheart, good girl), fingering, sp*nking, reverse cowgirl, pinv, neck holding but no breathplay, unprotected pinv, aftercare, shades of john being a switch.
John knew what you were doing. He let you do it. You had a special knack for pushing his buttons, but you were operating under the impression that these were buttons he did not want to have pressed.
Nothing could have been further from the truth.
It started with an offhand comment in the jet. You and Yelena were bickering about movies, and John was eavesdropping because there was nothing else to do and because he was increasingly fascinated by your mouth. That was normal, he insisted. Sometimes a man just got really into a colleague’s mouth, and it didn’t mean anything or imply anything, it was acceptable within the bounds of platonic, respectful employment because he was never going to actually do anything about it.
That was before the button pressing started.
Right, the argument.
Yelena was ranking her five best war movies in order, putting Saving Private Ryan at the top.
“Completely overrated,” you sighed, shaking your head at Yelena. You were two people who could disagree and still remain friends about it. In fact, the two of you loved to discuss everything and everything, picking each other’s taste apart at granular scale, escalating to shouting and gesticulating, but then ten minutes later you were hurrying off to get your nails done together and John was left in total bafflement. “That’s a child’s opinion,” you continued. “Apocalypse Now blows that shit out of the water.”
John usually didn’t allow himself to get dragged into these stupid arguments, but again, it was a long flight and there was nothing to do, and he wasn’t going to just stand there and let you insult one of the greatest war films ever made.
“That’s insane,” he said, snorting at the floor.
You guys were going at it so intensely he wasn’t even sure you heard him.
“Oh, you’re wading in now?” you asked, rounding on him.
He cocked his hip, arms crossed, shooting you an irritated glance. “As the only person on this jet who actually served? Yeah, yeah, I am.” Bucky wasn’t present, so there was that. “Yelena’s right…” God help him. “It’s number one. Easy.”
“Well, yeah, you’re a child so you have a child’s opinion.”
John’s teeth ground together hard enough to flash sparks as he took a step toward you. “Careful.”
“Walker, if you can’t take the heat, don’t stand in our kitchen,” Yelena sighed. “But…thank you for the vote of confidence. It does help.”
“No, no, I want Walker to explain himself,” you said. You didn’t flinch at his posturing, but you did smirk, thus drawing his attention, annoyingly, to your perfect, smart mouth.
Shit.
“No thanks.” John marched toward the cockpit, therapized enough to know he was about to say something he would really regret. “In fact, I’ll be keeping my mouth shut around you from now on.”
“Oh no,” you teased, laughing with Yelena. “Anything but that.”
“Uh-huh.” Just like he was becoming irrationally fixated on parts of you, he was observant enough to catch the way your gaze lingered on his hands. Sometimes his thighs. He was hoping for ass, too, but that was hard to tell because at that point he was walking away.
It was a risky gambit, actually, because if you weren’t into him then he would be playing right into your hands. But John liked the occasional bet, and this was one he had a lot riding on.
And the silent treatment did exactly what he expected it to: it inspired you to throw yourself against his defenses, relentless, driven. Your attempts to draw him out over the next few days—said button pressing—presented a unique challenge. He both wanted to enjoy the ways in which you were humiliating yourself for his attention but also project the air of a man who couldn’t be less interested.
It was damn near impossible to give you a dead-eyed stare when you pranced through the training room in the skimpiest bra and shorts set manufactured on planet Earth. And that day you chose to do several variations of squats, heavy deadlifts, and RDLs, flaunting your ass from every direction, bending over in his fucking face while he tried to concentrate on a strict press. You had to choose the platform right in front of his rack, too, of course you did, the stretch fabric covering your ass fighting dearly for its life as you put it and him through agonizing paces. It was pointless trying to wait for his heartrate to go down between sets, because you were grunting and sweating five feet away, presenting yourself like an animal in heat, moaning softly when the weights actually started to challenge you.
And through it all, John pretended like you weren’t destroying his blood pressure. Unfocusing his eyes when the urge to tackle you to the ground spiked inside of him like demonic possession.
It got worse. You tried harder. John told himself he liked it, even if it was killing him. You ambushed him first thing the next morning, which was crazy, because John knew you weren’t a morning person. But there you were, crack of dawn, plush mouth in an easy, knowing smile as you made coffee in the common room, a man’s shirt brushing the tops of your thighs. There was probably something underneath, but that was left to John’s imagination, which was currently a very perilous place to be.
“What’s the matter?” you asked, saccharine sweet, pouring him a cup of coffee and handing it to him with your lashes fluttering. “Cat got your tongue?”
He wasn’t sure how long he could hold out, because the sight of you in what he knew would be your exact outfit after a night with him was taking him places in his mind he had locked away a long time ago. His sex drive had changed after the serum. He didn’t recognize himself in the dark, intense fantasies that visited him in dreams. He wanted to fuck you rough, but his enhancements made that a risky proposition.
He didn’t know what you could handle. You might get hurt. As it was, he shied away from regular women. As he watched you saunter across the common room, ass pert and hips swinging, he wondered if you were dancing this close to the fire because you sensed it raging inside him. Maybe all this superhero shit had messed you up, too.
John sipped his coffee, then took a blisteringly cold shower.
He wasn’t going to break; he couldn’t risk the blast radius.
But you just wouldn’t quit. The next night, you wiggled back to the Watchtower after a night out, short dress, faded lipstick, wearing the hell out of both. Just as good, you were carrying a pizza box from a place down the block, one of his favorites. His mouth flooded at the sight of you and at the smell of the pizza, still hot and fresh.
“How was your date?” Yelena called, just passing through, only waiting long enough to hear your answer before vanishing down the corridor.
Date? He didn’t know anything about a date…
“Boring,” you called back with a shrug. You brought the pizza box to the counter where John had been choking down a protein shake. Your eyes flitted to his, sparkling, as you added: “Not much of a talker, and I like ‘em loud.”
John rolled his eyes, commanding himself to walk away before you drew him in. But you caught him throwing glances at the pizza. Yelena was gone, leaving you two alone.
“Want some?” you asked.
Oh, do I.
His eyebrows perked up, hand sliding toward the box before receiving a playful slap.
“Nope. Use your words, big boy.”
His eyebrows raised higher. Big boy, was it? God, you were going to regret every fucking smart, needling—
“You’re really this pissed over a movie?” you snorted, eyeing him over the closed pizza box.
John shrugged, deciding he could forego a slice if it meant watching you squirm.
You leaned onto the counter, dress conspiring with you, dropping open enough to give him an eyeful. You propped your chin on your hand, letting him get a good, long look. Stupidly, he fell for it, cock thickening in his sweats. “Don’t you think we should kiss and make up, John? It’s better for team unity, right? We can be grownups about this…”
Because he generally agreed and because he wanted pizza and because you were too delicious to resist any longer, he saw his way out. Or in, depending. “You called me a child.”
Your mouth dropped open (satisfying) as you finally got him to speak. You collected yourself with admirable speed, slinking your shoulders back and forth again. “I knew you would break.”
John’s expression blanked.
You ran your forefinger along your bottom lip. “No? Prove me wrong.”
“Oh, I see.” John smiled, even, leaning onto the counter, too, mirroring you, eyes hot and hungry as he raked them across your face. “Want me to prove I’m a man, is that it?”
You pressed your lips together, breathing harder. He watched the subtle undulation of your breasts under the dress. No bra. Interesting. He pushed away from the granite, loping around the end of the counter to trap you against it, leaning down, letting you feel just a fraction of his size and weight as he pressed into you.
“You have no idea what you’re getting with me,” John whispered, voice roughed up with warning. “What I’ll do to you, for you, with you.” He took you by the chin, forcing up your eyeline. “It won’t prove to you that I’m a man,” he said. “Because I’m a fucking animal.”
That mouth. That beautiful mouth. Your tongue swelled out to wet your lips, your gaze hazy as you blinked, heavily. “Show me.”
“No.”
“Show me.”
"No."
"John."
“I’m not gentle.”
“Maybe I want that,” you whispered, grinding your hips forward against him. “Maybe I need that.”
He wanted to believe you. God, he wanted to believe.
John didn’t remember how he got you into his bed, just that you arrived there willingly. He warned you three more times, hands shaking as he stripped you out of your dress and flung you down onto the mattress. You clawed at his stomach until he whipped the t-shirt over his head and then you were pawing at his belt.
“Finally,” you whispered, gasping as he sat down hard on the edge of the bed, gathering you into his arms and hauling you closer. “Thought you were gonna hold out forever—”
“You thought wrong.” John was done being cute, playing games, he was choosing to believe that after all those warnings, you really did want what came next. Still. The him that wanted to unleash in the dark was still the him that liked you and got a kick out of your teasing and he didn’t want to frighten that woman away. “Last chance,” he said, waiting for you to look at him, half-sitting across his lap. “I mean it.”
The hunger inside him stilled, afraid for once. He was so fucking scared you were going to change your mind, bow out. But you tossed your head, cocky as ever, giving him one more reason to make this next bit count. “I’m the one who pushed you to break, remember?”
“Interesting choice of words.”
He threw you down over his lap, one hand wrapping around your throat, not tight enough to bruise or cut off air, just enough to keep you steady. The other landed on your ass like a thunderclap. The sound tore through both of you, a shudder shared back and forth. You surged forward across his lap, squeaking as he caught you by the neck, steadying you.
“Oh God,” you moaned. John could hear you panting.
He did it again, twice, the other side, two smacks in rapid succession. The skin on your cheeks was heating up, your body squishing against him when he rubbed the place of impact. Your ass was perfect, made to take a spanking, and you quivered like a bowl of Jell-O after every strike.
“Awfully quiet,” John teased, soft, the energy it would take to speak any louder transferring to his unraveling restraint. “Thought you liked ‘em loud. Let me hear you, sweetheart. Let me hear you use that smart mouth. Count them out for me.”
He smacked you again, eyes rolling back as you groaned and then hissed through your teeth.
“F-Four.”
“Try again, sh-hh, we’re going back to one.”
You shivered, tipped your head forward, sagging against him. That was fine, he had you right where he wanted you. You could go completely boneless and loose and you wouldn’t slide off of his lap. “F-Fuck. Okay. One.”
“Good girl.”
John varied the positioning of his hand, the pressure, the speed, having experienced enough hidings growing up to know how to make this last. He aimed lower, landing an open-palmed slap against your pussy. The sound was different. Holy shit, you were soaked.
“Two,” you whined, keening for him.
He surprised you with another quick smack, this time almost on your lower back, but you were still distracted by his fingers grazing your dripping sex, and you missed the count before he tapped you again, right over the hot flesh where he had spanked you the first time.
“Start over,” he growled, rubbing a gentle circle over your larynx with his thumb, like he could coax the words right out of you.
You made it to four. He would’ve kept going, but his head was starting to swim from the blood pooling in his groin. On each collision, you jerked forward, rubbing your stomach against the tent in his underwear. You started trembling and didn’t stop, seizing up when John grazed his palm lightly over your bruised ass, tracing the sweet curve of it until his fingers slid into your throbbing heat.
“Did you break me?” he asked, stirring his fingers.
“N-No.” Such a lovely, earnest whimper.
“Did I break you, sweetheart?”
“Yes.”
“Did you need it?”
“God, yes.”
John smiled down at the back of your head, filled with a vibrating sense of pleasure and calm. You were so willing and so his, it felt incredible. Impossible. He wanted to bathe in every minute of it, groaning as your stomach fluttered against his dick again, his underwear dragging against your skin from the pronounced wet spot.
“You like being under me?”
“Yes.”
“Say more.”
“Yes, John, I l-like being under you.”
The serum was somehow quieter and hotter in his veins.
“Gonna keep pushing my fucking buttons all the damn time?”
You lifted your head, just a little, a last thrilling attempt at defiance. “Yep.”
“Good girl.”
John hauled you back up to your knees, shifting back further onto the mattress but still sitting with his legs over the edge, feet planted on the floor. He handled you easily, partially because you were completely pliant in his hands, partially because to him you weighed almost nothing. Opening you up over his lap, he guided you down until you were kneeling on the bed, facing away from him, your ass backed up against the sweat-damp surface of his stomach.
His hand wrapped around your neck again, holding carefully, like you were made of glass, already half-broken. Your spine bent as he freed himself and brought your hips down to meet his, the size of him grinding another ragged moan out of your throat.
“I’m gonna fuck you now,” he whispered, nose tight to the side of your head. “You’re gonna earn every inch, aren’t you?”
“Y-Yes. Please. I'll do anything.”
John ran his fingertips from the base of his shaft up into your damp folds, exploring until he found your buzzing little clit, teasing it out with a firm stroke of his thumb. You clenched, bucking. Perfect. You were gushing down onto him, so fucking ready. He wondered how it would feel for you to bounce your sore ass on his lap. Like hot needles, probably, a sinful burn, a reminder of how many times he had left his mark.
“Sit down and take me,” he said. “Show me how much you want to break.”
Your ass was on fire. You couldn’t remember the last time you had gotten fucked like that, like the world was ending and the room was in flames and the only way to survive was to cum as much as possible. Jesus, the serum had done a number on him. You got the sense even after three rounds and enough spend to fill a popcorn bowl he was still holding something back.
You couldn’t lie down on your back, no way. Blinking through the film over the world and the fuzz in your brain, you watched John moving around his room. There was a sheepish hunch to his shoulders as he retrieved a cool washcloth from the bathroom and brought it back to you. He wouldn’t meet your eyes as he sat down, the mattress dipping under him, and reached to gently, with utmost care, run the soothing cloth over your stinging butt. Even that much contact made you bunch up and gasp.
“You all right back here?” he asked, flinching.
“Mm.”
“Use your words, big girl.”
You stuck out your tongue at him, annoyed by having your words thrown back at you. “I survived. You’ll make it up to me.”
John’s ears eased back as he smiled down at your smarting cheeks. He ran the cloth lower, between your legs, valiantly but fruitlessly trying to do something about the mess he had left there. Sensing that was a lost cause, he stood and dropped the rag in the dirty laundry.
“I have ideas about that,” he said, finding his black shorts and pulling them on.
“I’m listening.” And you were, but you were also still hovering somewhere around the ceiling, cock stupid, overstimulated, every part of you still ignited from the way he lit into you and then lit you up.
“I think there’s…things I need. Weird things.” His eyes searched the comforter by your face. When you didn’t laugh at him, he risked meeting your gaze. He swallowed visibly, fumbling with the shirt he had also located on the floor. “Ever, um, ever spanked a grown man before?”
“Huh.” You rolled that over in your mind, liking very much the image it conjured. He had the best ass on the team, a fucking shelf, and it wasn’t even close. “You like to break, too, mm?”
John flushed to his toes, to his ears, nodding once, clearing his throat. “I’d blame it on the serum but…but I’m not so sure.”
“I think we can arrange something,” you purred, sitting up, reaching for him. John came to you with his shirt falling soft around his belly. He leaned down and kissed you on the mouth, sweet, contrite, maybe. “But you’ll have to learn to push my buttons.”
“Think I can manage.” He laughed, snorting down at his chest.
“And you have to make it up to me,” you said, pouting, hooking one hand around to point at your poor ass.
John leaned down, brushing a feather light kiss across your overheated skin.
You moaned, dropping your head into the pillow, shivering.
“Anything else?” he asked, low, simmering.
“Yeah.” Without looking, you shooed John toward the door. “You know what would really push my buttons? Cold pizza. Be a good boy and fetch.”
Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Female Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+ MDNI)
Warnings: Sexual content, oral sex, facial, praise kink, language
Word Count: ~1.4k
Summary: Bob wants a little something just for him... and hes been such a damn good boy lately
Authors Note: Sort of a follow up to Oscar Worthy, I wrote this and just... forgot about it.
She got him under the water before he could talk himself out of it.
That was the trick with Bob… He'd asked for this days ago… standing in the kitchen with his ears going red while she told him about the smut book she was reading.
Well… asking is a strong word… he more moaned when she described a facial scene in a way that made it clear that was a fantasy of his.
She'd said yes then. But yes in the kitchen and yes with her hands sliding up his wet chest were two very different animals, and she could already feel the second one getting away from him.
She kissed him. Walked him back a step until his shoulders met the tile. His hands landed on her waist, always gentle…always unsure.
"I can see your wheels turning," she said against his mouth.
"I didn't say anything."
He huffed a laugh that turned into a moan when she dragged her nails down his stomach. Water sheeted between them, warm, and he was already half-hard against her hip and a bit mortified about the speed of it.
"So the… the thing," he started.
"Yeahhhh," she murmured into his neck.
"It's kind of a lot to ask."
"You didn't ask. I offered." She pulled back just far enough to look at him, and there it was, that flinch he did when he wanted something too much. "Say it anyway."
His throat cleared, words stuck in it. His eyes went to the tile over her shoulder, to the water, to… anywhere else.
"I want to finish on your face…" he said, fast, like ripping off a bandage. Then, immediately, horrified at himself: "Which is.. okay… that's a selfish thing to want, I'm aware, it's completely one-sided, you get nothing out of it, it's just me being a…"
She kissed him quiet.
"I like that you want it," she said. Plain. Like a fact. "I like that it's for you."
He stared at her. The apology he'd been building died somewhere in his mouth. She felt him shiver.
"That's the hottest thing you do, Bob."
"That… that can't be true."
"It's extremely true."
"Okay," he said. "Okay, that's… you're really…"
She wrapped a hand around him and watched the rest of the sentence leave his body. His head tipped back against the tile, hand finding the wall.
She took her time. Unhurried strokes, water sheeting warm over both of them, and she kept her eyes on his face because… well that was the good part.
She could watch him fall apart all night.
The way his jaw worked. The way his stomach pulled tight every time she slid her tongue over the head of his cock. He was already flushed from his throat to his chest and she'd barely started.
"You're doing so good," she said.
The whine he made was…delicious…
"Just standing there. Letting me." She leaned in and pressed her mouth to his hip. Kissed the place where it creased. Felt him twitch under her hand.
"I don't… that's not…" His hand came off the wall, hovered over her hair, unsure. "I can't… when you're… with the…"
"You don't have to talk." She looked up. "You just have to stay right here and be good for me."
She took him in her mouth and his whole body went taut, a full-body shudder that ran from his shoulders down, and the noise he choked out bounced off the tile.
God, his face.
"Oh…" He was staring down at her now, glassy, like he couldn't have looked away if there was some sort of explosion. "That's… I'm gonna say a lot of dumb stuff in the next few minutes… and I need you to know none of it counts."
She hummed around him. He felt it.
"That's cheating," he gasped. If he wasn't…well a superhero his knees might have buckled.
She pulled back just enough to speak. Her hand kept working him slow. "You're allowed to want this, Bob."
"I do. God, I really… I do." It came out shaky and honest and …almost startled, like the wanting had caught him off guard. His thumb moved against her temple… aimless… tender. "I want… can I…"
"Say it."
His breath hitched. The water ran over his chest, trickling down his body. And for a second she watched him war with it, the old reflex to apologize for taking up space, but then he pushed through it.
"I want it," he said. Quieter this time. Not the act, not the bandage-rip. Just the wanting, plain. "I've wanted it for a stupid amount of time, honestly."
"Good boy." She said it like a reward, because it was.
She took him back in her mouth and stopped being gentle about it.
Deeper now, faster, her hand working the base in time with it, and Bob came apart above her in real time. His hips rocked forward before he could stop them, small helpless movements he kept trying to apologize for with his hand in her hair. The stammering had dissolved into sounds… babbling… moaning. Just breath and broken vowels and her name showing up in pieces.
There. Keep going.
"That's… okay that's, I'm not gonna last, I'm not gonna…" The words fell out of him fast and slurred.
She hummed, feeling his cock vibrate in her throat… and he lost it completely.
When she looked up his eyes were already on her, glassy and wide and helplessly fixed, like he'd forgotten there was anything else to look at.
"I'm close, I'm… you have to…" His voice cracked. "If you want the… you gotta…"
She pulled off him and smiled.
The sound he made at the loss was obscene. She kept her hand moving. Fast now. Tilted her chin up and looked at him.
"Go on," she said. "You've been so good. Give it to me…"
The panic didn't leave, not exactly, but his eyes went still. His hand slid from her hair to her jaw, cupped it, held her there. His breath was still wrecked, shallow and gasping. But when he looked at her now it wasn't asking.
"Yeah," he said. Not a question. "Yeah, okay… I'm… yeah."
He worked himself the last of the way with her hand clasped in his. She watched it hit him. Mouth open. No sound. His whole body locked. He finished on her face in hot stripes, across her cheek, her lips, the corner of her jaw. His thumb held her chin like he wanted her exactly where she was.
Good.
For a second neither of them moved. The water ran. His chest heaved.
Then she reached up. Swiped her thumb along her cheek, brought it to her lips. Licked it clean. Raised an eyebrow at him. Bob laughed.
Oh wow
"C'mere." He pulled her up off the tile, hands careful at her elbows, and steadied her against him. Then he tipped her face into the spray and cleaned his slick off of her. His thumb moved over her cheek. Her jaw. Watching his own hands. A little pleased with them.
"You good?" she asked.
"Am I good…." He huffed. "You're the one who just… yeah. I'm great. I'm… having a great night."
"You seem it."
"I feel like I unlocked something." He tilted her chin, checked the corner of her mouth, wiped his thumb there too. "Is this what confidence is? People walk around like this?"
"Don't get a big head about it," she laughed.
"Too late. This is who I am now." He kissed her. Tasted himself on her. When he pulled back he was still wearing it, that ease. "I like when you say I'm good."
"You were."
"Say it again."
She laughed against his mouth. "Now who can't stop wanting things."
She felt him go still for a half-second. Then it passed.
"Yeah," he said. Easy. "Guess you're rubbing off on me."
He reached past her and adjusted the water warmer, and pulled her back in under it, and held her there with his chin on the top of her head like a man who had all the time in the world.
C’s corner: This was an anon request, and let me just say… I showed an impressive amount of restraint by not turning this into full-blown smut. 😌 Because jealous, furious John Walker? A villain ex deliberately pushing every single one of his buttons? John going completely off the rails before you have to pull him back? The material was right there, your honor. I behaved this time, but there’s a very real chance I’ll branch off from this request and turn all that leftover jealousy, possessiveness, and barely controlled anger into a Kinktober prompt. Because apparently my brain saw “emotionally accountable John” and immediately whispered, 'okay, but what happens when they get home? 'Thank you, anon, for planting the seed. It’s already growing teeth. 🫣🔥
WARNINGS: canon-typical violence, blood and injuries, gun violence, toxic/abusive ex, sexual harassment and crude sexual remarks, references to a past controlling relationship, jealousy, possessive behavior, John Walker losing his temper, excessive force, emotional confrontation, brief relationship conflict.
✍🏽WC: 3.3K+
SUMMARY: When your villainous ex crashes a Thunderbolts mission and starts aggressively provoking you, John’s jealousy ignites into a dangerous temper. But while John is ready to destroy the ghost from your past, you remind him that loving you means standing beside you, not fighting your battles for you.
John Walker trusted you. That was the thing people always missed.
They saw the arm around your waist in briefings, the way his hand found the small of your back when the room got crowded, the way his jaw tightened any time a threat got too close to you, and they assumed it was ownership.
It wasn't.
John didn't keep you on a leash. He let you run. Hell, most days, he was the one trying to keep up.
You were Thunderbolts through and through. Dangerous, sharp, reckless in a way that made Valentina sigh like she had stock in migraines. You could turn a room into a battlefield before anyone finished blinking, and John loved you for it.
Loved the chaos. Loved the fire.
Loved the fact that you kissed him in elevators like the cameras weren't there and called him "Captain" only when you were trying to get under his skin. Which was often.
Which was why, when the mission went sideways, John didn't panic at first. Sideways was practically your team's natural habitat.
"Contact left!" Bucky barked through comms.
Ava phased through a concrete pillar and reappeared behind two armed men, dropping them before they could fire.
Yelena slid across the hood of a black SUV, kicked someone in the throat, and yelled, "I hate rich criminals. They all smell like leather and bad choices."
"I smell gunpowder," Alexei announced proudly.
"That's because they're shooting at us," Bob said.
John slammed his shield into a man's chest and sent him sprawling across the wet pavement. Rain slicked his hair against his forehead. His eyes cut across the square, scanning for you.
He found you near the fountain. You were fighting beautifully.
He would never admit how much he loved watching you in the field. Not because you needed admiration, but because you moved like you'd made a private deal with danger years ago. Fast. Fluid. Ruthless when necessary. Graceful in a way that didn't soften the violence, only refined it.
You ducked a knife, caught the attacker's wrist, and drove your knee into his ribs.
John grinned despite himself. "That's my girl," he muttered.
Then the fountain exploded.
Water erupted into the air, stone cracking outward in a violent burst. John lifted his shield on instinct, blocking the worst of the debris. His boots skidded back across the street.
Through the spray, someone stepped into the square. Tall. Black coat. Too calm for the amount of bullets flying around him.
The men around him stopped fighting. That was John's first warning.
Your body went still. That was the second.
The man smiled. That was the third, and by then John already hated him.
"Well," the stranger said, voice carrying through the rain. "There you are."
You didn't lower your weapon, John noticed.
He noticed everything about you. The way your fingers tightened. The way your shoulders lifted half an inch. The way your mouth parted, not in surprise exactly, but recognition.
Bad recognition. The kind that crawled up from somewhere old.
Bucky's voice dropped through comms. "Who the hell is that?"
You didn't answer.
The man looked you over slowly, his gaze dragging in a way that made something hot and ugly snap behind John's ribs.
"You look good, sweetheart. Still look like you'd drop to your knees if I asked nice enough."
John's head turned.
Sweetheart? No, absolutely not.
Your face hardened. "Don't call me that, Riven."
Riven's smile widened, eyes lingering on your lips.
John's grip tightened around the shield.
"Riven," Yelena repeated. "Like the weapons trafficker Riven? The one who disappeared after Madripoor?"
"Not disappeared," Riven said, eyes still on you. "Heartbroken."
You scoffed. "You sold stolen alien tech to warlords."
"And you used to say my ambition was sexy. Used to climb into my lap and tell me how wet it made you when I talked about power."
John moved before he realized it. One step. Then another.
Bucky caught his arm. "Walker."
John didn't look at him. "Let go."
"Not yet."
Riven's gaze flicked to John then, amused and openly dismissive. "This him?"
You didn't answer.
Riven laughed softly. "Oh, that's adorable."
John's eyes narrowed.
The square seemed to shrink. Rain hit his face, cold and steady, but under his skin everything burned.
You raised your gun higher. "You need to walk away."
"From you?" Riven put a hand over his heart. "Never."
"From this fight."
"I didn't come for the fight."
"Then you're stupider than I remember."
That made him grin.
John hated the grin.
Hated how familiar it was.
Hated that this man knew your expressions before John had ever earned the right to memorize them.
Riven stepped closer.
John did too.
Bucky's grip tightened. "Walker."
Riven ignored them all and looked at you like the rest of the world had been built for background decoration. "I missed that mouth. The way it used to wrap around my..."
"Stop!" you cut him off before he could finish.
The air changed, every Thunderbolt in the square seemed to feel the exact moment John Walker's last thread of restraint frayed.
You saw it too. "John," you warned.
He didn't stop.
Riven's eyes lit up. "John." He said it like he'd tasted something sour. "Captain America's angry little replacement."
John's jaw flexed.
You shifted in front of him. "Don't."
Riven tilted his head. "He always this obedient, or is that just when you're watching?"
John smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It wasn't even a John smile. It was sharp, empty, and mean enough that Bucky's posture changed beside him.
"You got a problem with me," John said, voice low, "you can stop talking to her and start talking to me."
Riven's gaze dipped to the shield. "Cute toy."
John lunged. You barely had time to curse before he crossed the space between them like a bullet with a pulse.
Riven moved fast. Too fast.
He pulled a blade from his sleeve, black metal humming with some kind of charged energy. John blocked the first strike with the shield, sparks spitting blue against it. He drove forward with a brutal shove.
Riven laughed. "Temper," he said. "She always did like them unstable."
John slammed the edge of the shield toward his head.
Riven ducked, twisted, and kicked John hard in the ribs. John staggered half a step, then came back swinging.
Not tactical. Not clean. Furious.
"John!" you snapped.
He didn't hear you. Or he did and couldn't reach the part of himself that listened.
Riven struck again. John caught his wrist, twisted, and headbutted him hard enough to split skin. Blood flashed bright against Riven's mouth.
The smile vanished.
There he is, you thought. The real one. The monster under the charm.
Riven spat blood onto the pavement, then looked past John at you. "He doesn't know, does he?"
Your stomach dropped.
John froze for half a second.
Riven noticed. "He doesn't know what you were like before all this shiny redemption nonsense." Riven grinned through the blood. "You tell him how pretty you looked with my knife at your hip? How sweet you sounded when you begged me not to leave you behind?"
Your finger tightened on the trigger.
John turned his head slightly. Not enough to take his eyes off Riven, but enough that you saw the question in his profile.
Pain flared under your ribs.
Riven's voice softened into something obscene. "Or did you only tell him the parts where you got to be the hero? Not the nights you let me ruin you. Not how wet you got when..."
You fired. The shot hit Riven in the shoulder. He stumbled back, laughing again, wilder this time.
John's head snapped toward you.
You walked forward through the rain, gun raised, eyes locked on the man who used to know exactly where to cut you.
"He doesn't need your version of me," you said. "And neither do I."
Riven's smile twitched. "You always did get mean when you were scared."
You shot his thigh. He went down on one knee.
John stared at you. So did everyone else. You kept walking until you were close enough to see the fury in Riven's eyes.
"There she is," he hissed.
You crouched slightly, gun still trained on him. "You don't get to flirt with me like we're sharing an inside joke. You don't get to say my name like you own the syllables. You don't get to crawl out of whatever hole you've been hiding in and act like I'm something you misplaced."
Riven's breathing turned ragged. "You loved me."
You smiled. Small. Cold. "No," you said. "I survived you."
John moved behind you. You felt him before you saw him. Heat at your back. Rage still rolling off him in waves.
Riven looked up at him and made one last mistake. "She always liked it rough, Walker."
John hit him. The sound cracked across the square.
Riven's body hit the pavement hard, and John followed him down, one knee planted beside his ribs, fist already drawn back for another strike.
"John!"
He punched him again.
Riven coughed blood.
Bucky started forward, but you were faster.
You grabbed John by the back of his tactical vest and pulled with everything you had. "John, stop!"
He didn't.
His face was terrifying. Not because you were afraid of him. Because you knew exactly what grief, jealousy, and violence could do when they got braided together too tightly.
"John!"
His fist lifted again.
You shoved yourself between them.
That stopped him instantly. His whole body locked, fist suspended in the rain, breath tearing out of him.
You stood over Riven, staring down at John.
His eyes found yours. Blue and furious. Blue and scared. "Move," he said.
"No."
His jaw clenched. "He touched you."
"A long time ago."
"He hurt you."
"And I'm still standing."
John looked like the words hit harder than Riven ever could.
Around you, the square had gone quiet except for sirens in the distance and Alexei loudly whispering, "Should we do something?"
"No," Yelena whispered back. "This is relationship violence therapy."
"That is not a thing," Bob said.
"It is today."
John's chest rose and fell fast.
You lowered your voice. "Look at me."
He did. Rain ran down his face. Blood smeared his knuckles. His shield lay a few feet away, forgotten.
"You don't get to lose yourself over him," you said.
John swallowed hard.
"He doesn't get that much of you."
Something in his expression cracked.
Your anger softened, but only at the edges. "You hear me?"
John nodded once.
You reached for his hand, the bloody one, and wrapped your fingers around his fist until he loosened it. One finger at a time.
"There you are," you whispered.
His breathing shuddered.
Riven groaned behind you.
John's eyes flickered down.
You squeezed his hand hard. "Don't."
"He doesn't deserve to breathe near you."
"No," you said. "But I deserve to decide what happens to the ghosts that come crawling back."
John stared at you. Then, slowly, he nodded. The fight left his shoulders in pieces.
Bucky stepped in and hauled Riven up by the back of his coat like he weighed nothing. "I'll take this one."
Riven groaned, barely conscious. "She'll get bored of you, Captain. She always does when they stop making her scream."
John surged half a step forward. You caught his vest. This time he stopped.
Riven smiled weakly. "There's the temper."
You stepped close to him.
Bucky held him steady, metal hand clamped around his collar.
"You want the truth?" you asked.
Riven blinked blood from his lashes.
You leaned in. "John doesn't scare me."
His smile faltered.
"You did." The words landed quietly. Brutally. "And that's the difference."
Riven's face emptied.
You stepped back. "Get him out of my sight."
Bucky dragged him away without another word.
For a second, nobody moved.
Then Yelena raised her hand. "I would like to say, for the record, that was extremely attractive and deeply unhealthy."
Ava nodded. "Seconded."
Bob lifted a finger. "The unhealthy part or the attractive part?"
"Yes," Yelena said.
Alexei clapped John on the shoulder hard enough to make him wince. "You have passion. Very good. Also maybe therapy. Also very good."
John didn't answer. His eyes were still on you.
You jerked your chin toward the alley. "Walk with me."
He followed.
The alley was narrow, damp, and half-lit by a flickering sign from the closed shop beside it. The noise of the team faded behind you.
You stopped beneath the awning. John stood a few feet away, stiff as a live wire.
You crossed your arms. "Are you hurt?"
He gave you a look.
You lifted a brow. "Don't start."
His mouth twitched, but it died quickly. "I'm fine."
"You're bleeding."
"It's not mine."
"John."
He looked down.
There was a cut across his cheek. Small, but bleeding. His knuckles were split.
You sighed and stepped closer.
He didn't move. That, more than anything, told you how shaken he was. John Walker was never still unless something inside him had gone very, very loud.
You reached into one of your vest pockets and pulled out gauze.
His voice came rough. "Why didn't you tell me?"
You paused.
"About him," John said.
You pressed the gauze to his cheek. "Because I don't like giving him space in rooms he isn't standing in."
John's eyes shut briefly. "I'm not mad," he said.
"You look mad."
"I'm mad at him."
"I noticed."
His eyes opened, there was shame there now, creeping in around the edges of the adrenaline. "I lost it."
"Yeah."
His mouth tightened.
You didn't soften the answer. He didn't need you to lie to him.
"You scared the team," you said. "You scared yourself."
His voice dropped. "Did I scare you?"
You held his gaze. "No."
His breath caught.
"But I need you to hear me when I tell you to stop."
He nodded immediately. "I know."
"I mean it, John."
"I know."
"I love you," you said, and his face crumpled just slightly, "but I'm not asking for a guard dog."
His eyes dropped.
You caught his chin gently and made him look at you. "I'm asking for my partner."
He nodded again, slower this time. "I can be that," he said.
"I know you can."
His hands hovered near your waist, hesitant. That hurt more than the fight. You stepped into him and took his wrists, guiding his hands to your hips.
John exhaled like he'd been punched. "I wanted to kill him," he admitted.
"I know."
"I hated the way he looked at you."
"I know."
"I hated that he knew you before me."
Your chest tightened.
There it was. The ugliest part. The most human part.
You let your hands slide up his arms, feeling the tension locked beneath the suit.
"He knew a version of me that was trying to survive," you said. "You know me now."
John's eyes searched yours.
"You know how I take my coffee. You know I steal your socks because they're warmer. You know I pretend not to cry at dog rescue videos. You know I sleep better when your hand is on my stomach. You know I hate being called fragile, and you know exactly when to stop arguing and just bring me food."
His expression softened.
"You know me, John."
Rain drummed against the awning above you.
"The real me," you said.
His forehead dropped to yours. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
You closed your eyes. "I know."
"I'm not sorry I hit him."
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.
John's mouth brushed yours, not quite a kiss. "I'm working on that part," he murmured.
"You'd better."
His hands tightened on your hips. "I love you," he said.
You smiled faintly. "Even with the villain ex baggage?"
His face darkened at the phrase, but his voice stayed soft. "Especially with the baggage. Means I get to help you carry it."
You poked his chest. "I don't need you to carry it."
"No," he said. "But I can hold the door while you throw it out."
That made you smile for real.
John noticed. He always noticed. His thumb brushed your hip. "There's my girl."
You narrowed your eyes. "Careful, Walker."
His brows lifted. "What?"
"You're hovering dangerously close to caveman territory."
A little bit of John came back then, smug and warm beneath the bruises. "Pretty sure I passed caveman territory fifteen minutes ago."
"You launched yourself at my ex in the middle of an active mission."
"He was flirting with my girlfriend."
"He was baiting you."
"It worked."
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't stop your smile.
John leaned closer. "He called you sweetheart."
You hummed. "That bothered you?"
His jaw ticked.
You rose onto your toes, mouth close to his ear.
"You know I like it better when you call me love."
John went still.
Then his hands flexed.
"Don't do that," he said, voice suddenly rough.
"Do what?"
"Make me want to kiss you while I'm still trying to be emotionally accountable."
You laughed against his cheek.
He turned his head and caught your mouth.
The kiss wasn't gentle. Not at first. It had too much leftover fury in it, too much fear, too much relief. His hand slid up your back, pulling you against him, and you let him have one second of it. One second to taste the fact that you were there, alive, his, not in the way Riven had meant it, but in the way you'd chosen.
Then you pulled back and tapped his chest. "Accountable first."
John groaned. "Cruel woman."
"Alive woman."
His expression sobered instantly.
You softened and cupped his face. "And yours. Because I chose that. Not because you won a fight."
His eyes burned into yours. "Say it again," he whispered.
You smiled. "I chose you."
John kissed you again.
This time, it was softer. Still hungry, still John, but softer.
Behind you, someone cleared their throat.
You and John turned.
Yelena stood at the mouth of the alley with her arms crossed. "Very moving," she said. "Disgusting. We have to leave before Valentina arrives and asks why Walker turned the mission into a jealous soap opera with blood."
John sighed.
You patted his chest. "Come on, Captain."
He gave you a look. "Don't call me that right now."
You grinned. "Why? You sensitive?"
His eyes dipped to your mouth. "Love," he said quietly, warning and promise all tangled together.
Heat curled low in your stomach.
Yelena made a gagging sound. "I can still see both of you."
John didn't look away from you. "Good," he said. "Then you can see she's fine."
You slid your fingers through his. "No," you corrected softly.
John looked at you.
You squeezed his hand. "We're fine."
His thumb brushed over your knuckles.
The alley light flickered overhead. Rain kept falling. Somewhere behind you, Riven was being dragged into custody, bleeding and furious and finally irrelevant.
John lifted your hand to his mouth and kissed your bruised knuckles.
Then he looked at you with all that fire still inside him, banked but not gone.
pairing: tom loftis x f!reader
word count: 14.1k (i'm so sorry)
warnings: smut, oral, teasing, dirty talk, unprotected sex, very light spanking, age gap (~10 years)
note: hey this took me way too long to write and i'm also so sorry that it's this long. i added too much lore, and believe it or not, i cut a bunch out. hopefully this isn't shit! i've got a nile jarvis (the best in me) fic and a montgomery reece (burnt) fic that i've been working on, as well as fics for other non-matthew rhys characters. anyway, i hope you enjoy!
**for the mixtape, see the playlist here.
“I had a dream about you.”
You don’t know what drives you to admit it at that moment, and as the words leave your mouth, you wish you can take them back. Tom doesn’t acknowledge it immediately, his focus cutting between his computer screen and his planner, writing notes. The scribbling of the pen echoes in your ears as your admission hangs out in the open.
“Oh?” Tom finally responds, angling his head towards you, though his gaze is still set on the notepad as he writes. “What kind of dream?” His tone is curious but void of anything that would imply he’s being coy. When he briefly glances at you, there’s nothing in his expression that hints that he’s assumed what you could be referring to, merely genuine interest. “What kind of dream?” he repeats, giving you a reassuring smile, as though he’s not sure you heard him the first time.
You briefly wonder if you have time to come up with something different than the actual events of the dream, but your mind blanks, giving you nothing that would sound normal or believable. You let out a sigh, and try to play it cool as you begin to speak.
“Yeah, we were…” you trail off for a moment but then power through. “We were at The Waterline together so you could make the announcements for Founder’s Day.” You let out an involuntary, nervous chuckle, narrowing your eyes at your laptop, pretending to read something. “And, uh, you kissed me,” you add, with a shrug, trying to play it off. “Then…it’s silly. That's all.” You stop yourself before revealing the rest of the dream, finding yourself flushed with embarrassment; you finally bring your attention to Tom when he doesn’t answer. He finishes what he’s writing, and sets his hands down on the notepad, one on top of the other, a small grin on his face.
“That’s all?” he echos, and now you think you detect a faint playfulness to his tone. You get trapped in the sound of his voice, until you realize that you haven’t responded to his question.
“Yeah,” you shrug, looking back to your laptop. “Like I said, it was silly.”
“Was it a good kiss at least?” Tom asks, and you can’t help but laugh.
“It was a peck,” you reply. “I don’t know.”
“Well–”
Though Tom speaks with a smile, it immediately drops from his face as Patricia enters the room carrying a stack of papers towards his desk. His demeanor quickly shifts to professionalism, straightening his back to focus on Patricia’s explanation of the paperwork she sets before him. The energy that had begun to fill the room has evaporated, and you’re hit with the reality that you were tempted to reveal the full extent of your dream to him. It makes your heart race, as you still haven’t come to terms with these newfound feelings you’ve developed for the mayor, so you quickly finish the final bullet points of your station announcements and snap the laptop closed. The sound catches Tom’s attention, who is almost too eager to break his focus away from Patricia to peer at you.
“Everything okay?” he asks, a flash of disappointment in his eyes.
“Yeah,” you smile, standing up and tucking your laptop into your backpack. “I’ve got the agenda for the announcements ready to go, you’ll just need to prepare your speech.” You gesture towards the clock on the wall that reads half past eight, forcing a smile to your lips. “I gotta get back to the station,” you explain. “The music block I set up ends at nine.”
“The announcements are tomorrow, right?” Patricia asks, looking between you and Tom. “I can help you write the speech.”
“No, that’s–thank you,” Tom replies. “No, thank you. I have an idea of what I’m planning on saying.” Tom’s tone with Patricia is only slightly annoyed, as though he’s been working on improving his patience; you stifle a laugh at the thought. “Okay,” he says, looking at you once again. “What’s the theme for this morning?”
“Americana.”
“Country music?” Patricia asks.
“Not quite,” you reply. “Think more of a blues and folk sound than regular country, but there’s some overlap.” Patricia hums, looking back at Tom, who adjusts the volume on the radio.
“Like Bob Dylan?” Tom asks.
“Exactly,” you agree. “Any requests?”
“Hmm,” Tom hums, thoughtfully. “James Taylor count?”
“Of course. Sweet Baby James?”
“Perfect.”
“Patricia?” you ask. “You got one for me?” She lets out a heavy sigh, her eyes darting around the floor for a moment as though she’s sifting through all of the songs she knows for one that would fit the theme.
“Bob Dylan?” she asks, referencing Tom’s earlier suggestion.
“Easy enough,” you nod, with a smile. “I got you both. Tomorrow at noon okay with you, Mr. Mayor?”
“I’ll see you then,” Tom replies, rolling his eyes at your teasing.
The following day sees Tom with you at The Waterline, the studio you inherited from your mother, to make the announcement regarding the upcoming Founder’s Day event. Though the broadcast radius is only as wide as the island, you take great pride in your job and introducing people to new music that you think will suit them. Over the time you’ve known Tom, you’ve mentioned songs here and there but when he finishes his speech and you throw to a block of music, the man inspects your record collection, commenting on those he’s heard of.
The conversation feels like it goes on for ages, and still ends too soon for your liking. In an effort to make an escape before Patricia comes looking, Tom leaves you with a request: make a mix CD for him of songs you think he’ll enjoy. It takes the rest of the day for you to curate the perfect playlist of songs that remind you of him, and as the songs burn to a disc, you peer out the window, noticing that a storm has begun to form over the water. The clouds, dark and heavy, don’t seem real but judging from the demeanor of other inhabitants of the island as they pass by your studio, you think you should begin to take it seriously - starting by boarding up your window.
The wind whips around you, nearly causing you to lose your balance as you struggle to keep the plywood pressed against the window frame. Rain obscures your vision, dirt and debris kicking up with each gust, complicating your task. You fumble with a nail that you try to bring up to the corner of the board, lifting your knee to keep the board upright to free up one of your hands.
“Fuck,” you groan, when you lose your grip on the nail, and it falls to the ground. When you attempt to dig another nail from your jacket pocket, you keep one hand on the edge of the board and your knee beneath it. You curse yourself for not removing the picture window from The Waterline when you first took over.
A noise echoes from within the storm, something that sounds like a voice, but you attribute it to the other islanders hurrying to secure their belongings before the storm worsens. The voice sounds like it’s nearing you, getting louder but still indistinguishable over the siren and the swelling storm. Just as you hear the voice calling your name, a person pushes up beside you, grabbing you by the bicep before you lose your footing.
“What the hell are you doing?!” Tom yells to be heard over the wind, leaning in close to you for support.
“Boarding up the fucking window!” you respond.
“Leave it!”
“If it breaks, my equipment is fucked!”
“Goddamnit,” Tom responds, taking the board from your hands and holding it in place, nodding his head to direct you to hammer in the nails. “Quickly!” You hurry to hammer in as many nails as you can along the board, fastening it firmly in place just as the rain begins to pick up. “Get inside!” Tom shouts, grabbing your arm to pull you along with him into the entrance of the studio.
“Holy shit,” you gasp, pushing the door closed with your body and locking it, your foot slipping on the wooden floor. When you fall to your hands and knees, Tom hurries over, crouching beside you with a hand on your back.
“Are you okay?!” he asks.
“Yeah, I’m good,” you laugh, “Thank you for your help. I probably should have done that earlier in the day, before the sirens.”
“I waited too long to sound them,” Tom mutters, standing so he can remove his raincoat. You sit up onto your knees, slipping your own coat off to hand to him, watching him hang them on the coathook. “Jesus Christ,” he sighs, wiping his hand over his face to rid it of the rain.
“You just had to run for mayor, huh?” you joke, sitting with your back against the door. Tom laughs quietly, shrugging his shoulders as he sits on the floor against the wall diagonal from you.
“I was the best candidate,” he assures you.
“You were the only candidate,” you correct, laughing along with Tom. “You do a good job, though. You couldn’t have known it was going to kick off like this.”
“I’ve been watching the fucking radar all day,” he replies. “I was hoping it would break up.”
You spend a few moments reassuring Tom that he did what he could, and he can’t control the weather, but he continues to beat himself up. You wonder if something else is bothering him, but each time you try to direct the conversation elsewhere, he turns it back to the storm. Even when you attempt to discuss his successful radio debut earlier that morning, Tom waves his hand dismissively, his thoughts clearly preoccupied. His mood has changed drastically since you saw him earlier in the day, so you decide to pivot back to the storm, seeing it as your best option for a conversation.
“I’ve always hated storms,” you say, picking at the fray in the knee of your jeans. “When I was young, and I would visit the island, my mom would always make me decide what I would want to take with me if we needed to evacuate in a hurry.”
“That’s smart,” Tom says, nodding his head. “It’s good to be prepared.”
“I’m sure that’s what she thought,” you shrug, looking back to Tom with a faint smile. “Her and my dad always wanted me to be brave, but the prospect of having to pack in a rush gave me anxiety…” You laugh quietly, tipping your head back against the wall behind you. “It got to the point that the sound of thunder would make my heart race,” you add. “I don’t know why I moved to this fucking island knowing that the weather could change so quickly.”
“Hmm, this is different,” Tom mutters, angling his head as if to listen for the sound of the growing storm outside. He appears thoughtful, concerned, as though he’s keeping something to himself but a sudden rumble of thunder from outside pulls his attention back to you. “Let’s get you away from this window,” he says, carefully hoisting himself up from the ground.
You watch Tom mill about the room for a few moments, collecting a blanket from the back of your desk chair and pushing a nearby card table to the far corner of the room. As he drapes the blanket over the small table, he waves you over, and you abide, crossing towards him and awaiting your next instruction.
“After you,” Tom says, gesturing towards the table. You laugh quietly at the small fort that he built but you crawl beneath it nonetheless, affording Tom some space so he can squeeze beside you. “This table seemed bigger from up there,” he chuckles, relaxing when he realizes there’s not enough room to give more than an inch of space between your bodies. “Is this okay?”
The confined space of the table and the blanket dampening the sound make Tom’s words seem louder than a whisper, but you nod with a smile, thanking him for being thoughtful. You sit in a comfortable silence for a few moments, finding your anxiety beginning to subside as the sound of the storm feels distant. When Tom shifts his body to get more comfortable, the inch of space is gone, leaving your sides pressed together, neither of you in a hurry to break apart. Unfortunately, the longer you sit beside him, the more anxious you become, searching for something to talk about.
“I broke into your house a few times.” You don’t know what drives you to bring it up at this exact moment, but admissions like this seem to be a new habit when you’re around Tom.
“What?” Tom asks.
“Your family’s summer house,” you clarify. “When I was a teenager.” You angle your head just enough to catch the change in Tom’s expression as you speak, the confusion giving way to incredulity. “I’d heard about you a lot when I would visit,” you say. “My dad could only afford to bring us here in the off-season to see my mom, so there weren’t a lot of people around, especially ones my age so I spent a lot of time hanging out at The Barnabus with all of the grown-ups…they taught me to play cards, so it wasn’t so bad.” You focus your attention on your frayed jeans again, feeling slightly embarrassed to continue. “Wyck and my dad were close, so my whole life I’ve heard him complain about the kids from the mainland,” you go on. “Especially you. Man, he hated you.”
“Of course he did,” Tom sighs.
“The novelty of being a kid in a bar wore off pretty quickly,” you continue. “I must have been fifteen by the time I started venturing out around the island by myself. Sneaking out at night was my favorite. We couldn’t stay with my mom when we visited…so, uh, we’d sometimes crash at Wyck’s if the Breakwater wasn’t in the budget…”
“Your mom was at The Home, wasn’t she?” Tom asks. You nod, pushing your fingers past the fray in your jeans and scraping your nails along your skin to ground yourself. “We don’t have to talk about that,” Tom assures you, his voice gentle. You nod and mutter your appreciation before you continue.
“I guess I started to get jealous that all of these other kids from the mainland could come into town with their families during the summer and ride their bikes, play games together,” you say. “I wasn’t having fun anymore, so I wanted to make my own fun.”
“By breaking into my family’s home?” Tom asks. You laugh, looking back at him for a moment to see his expression mixed between amusement and uncertainty.
“It wasn’t only your house,” you say. “Besides, everyone left their doors unlocked back then. Is it still considered ‘breaking in’ if you didn’t lock up?”
“Oh, definitely,” Tom replies, with a chuckle, nodding his head. “Did you take anything, or was being in a stranger’s house the fun of it?” You try to hide your smile at his question, but Tom catches the minute change in your expression, which causes him to scoff. “What did you take?” he asks.
“Your Johnny Damon rookie card,” you admit, scrunching your face into a wince as you await his response. Tom’s eyes widen, his lips parting as your words sink in; it’s as though he has all of his baseball cards cataloged in his mind and he was flipping through them to find anything missing. “I clocked the Tom Gordon rookie card,” you add. “But that would have gotten me caught…besides, I had a huge crush on Johnny Damon.”
“I can’t believe it,” Tom scoffs, shaking his head.
“Only with the beard, though,” you joke. “Once he shaved it, I didn’t care for him as much.”
“That’s not what–” Tom stops short, with a sigh.
“C’mon, Tom, I was a punk teenager,” you chuckle. “You were like, what, twenty-five? In college, your priorities were elsewhere…I didn’t think you’d miss it.”
“I suppose I didn’t,” Tom replies. “So, did you sell it? I doubt it would have gotten you much back then.”
“No, I still have it,” you say, gesturing idly. “I’ve got a few binders of trading cards on a bookshelf in my room. I wanted to keep it safe.”
“Trading cards you stole from other people?” Tom asks, and you shrug your shoulders, failing to stifle a laugh. Tom sighs, shaking his head, but you notice his expression is far less annoyed than you were expecting; he seems more amused. “Well,” he sighs. “I’ll have to stop by sometime to see my old card.”
“Oh, you just want to see my bedroom,” you quip, waving your hand dismissively. It takes a moment for the words you spoke to click on your head, but when you realize what you had implied, you can feel your cheeks flush in embarrassment. “That was weird,” you force a laugh. “Sorry, I was just…I don’t know why I said that.”
“It’s okay,” Tom replies, his voice lower, and a hint of amusement clear in his tone. “Don’t apologize.”
You both remain quiet for a few moments, and you worry that you made him uncomfortable despite his assurance that everything was fine. You shift your position, pressing your palms against your thighs, letting your fingers dig into your jeans, twisting to calm yourself. Tom clears his throat, shifting ever-so slightly to close the bit of space between your bodies once again. The action surprises you, but not as much as the excited lurch in your chest at the contact.
“Why did you move to Widow’s Bay?” Tom asks. “You didn’t have anything here after your mom passed, and you know what this island does…what it is.” You notice that Tom’s hands are fidgeting, his fingers rubbing together before he clenches them into fists, then releasing. His sudden anxiety is as palpable as feel yours must be, but you think of his question, and the soft, concerning way he poses it.
“I had this place,” you say, gesturing around the room. “Which is more than what I have on the mainland. The island had been quiet for a while; I didn’t think anything of it.” You sigh heavily, resting your back against the wall and rolling your head to the side so you can peer directly at Tom. “This storm,” you begin. “This is part of it, isn’t it?”
“Mhm,” Tom nods, mirroring your position of leaning back against the wall, but he doesn’t look at you immediately. “I’m afraid of what we have to do to stop it. I don’t think I can.” You study Tom’s microexpressions as he thinks of his own words: sadness, worry, a fleeting moment of clarity as if he comes to terms with things before immediately dropping back into his anxiety.
“Hey,” you whisper, catching Tom’s attention. He rolls his head to look at you, his gaze softening when he sees the smile on your face. “You’re braver than you think you are.”
“You might be the only one who believes that,” Tom whispers, smiling sympathetically.
“Who gives a shit what everyone ‘believes’?” you ask. “If it’s true, that’s all that matters.” Tom stares at you for a moment, allowing your words to sink in. His eyes scan your face, as if he’s searching for the truth, so you smile gently. “I just remembered, I also took your VHS copy of Fast Times,” you whisper. “You forgot to rewind it, so it was stopped at the pool scene–”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Mayor Loftis,” you begin, trying your best to sound scandalized. “Were you jerking off to Phoebe Cates?”
“You just can’t help teasing me,” Tom mutters, a small tinge of pink visible on his cheeks.
Tom’s response is endearing, earnest, and you’re not sure if it’s the proximity or something that you’ve been carrying with you, but you’re hit with an urge you hadn’t experienced with Tom before. You cut off any excuse he may have by angling your body closer to him and pressing a kiss to his lips; Tom freezes, stiffening at the contact, which causes you to pull away immediately.
“Fuck, sorry,” you mutter, finding it to be your turn to be flush with embarrassment once again as you look away from him. “I don’t know…what came over me…that was inappropriate.” You wiggle your body away from him, pressing yourself as close to the legs of the card table as you can so you’re no longer touching him.
“There’s no reason to keep apologizing,” Tom says, quietly. “You haven’t done anything wrong.” His voice is still soft, but his tone shifted, deepening just enough that you can feel another jump in your bones as he speaks. “I’m not upset,” Tom continues. “It’s fine…nice, even.”
When you look back to Tom to gauge his expression, he leans in to kiss you this time. It’s soft, hesitant, like he’s trying to recall how to kiss, or that he’s worried you’ll push him away. You sigh gently, leaning into him to urge him onward; Tom’s response is still timid, only giving you a few tame, closed-mouth kisses. In an effort to get him to relax, you turn your body towards him and grasp the damp material of his sweatshirt to pull your body closer to his.
Tom hums quietly, but doesn’t change his actions, only carefully places his hand on your bicep to keep contact with you through his soft kisses. You make a move instead, kissing the corner of his mouth to his cheek, and down his jaw. The grip he has on your arm tightens, his breath coming heavier as you kiss along his neck. He nuzzles his head against yours, trying to get your attention, so you pull back to peer into his eyes; he only stays like that for a split-second before he brings you back towards him again.
The kisses are more forceful now, needier, but you can tell he’s still holding back. You want to give him a better indication that you want him to give in, because you want to give in, as well. You use your grip on his hoodie to pull yourself even closer to him in the small space, shifting your hips so you can hook your leg over his thighs. Tom’s hand moves to your thigh as you try to pull yourself onto his lap, but the small table hinders you, causing you to bump your head.
“Shit,” you mutter against his mouth, trying to keep your body slouched enough to get onto his lap, but you struggle with the space. Tom breaks from the kiss, both of his hands on your hips to help you, but you both find the space far too confined to get into the correct position. “Goddamnit,” you hiss, dropping back into your previous position on the floor but leaving your leg hooked over him. “We can…” You trail off, gesturing outside of the small fort, towards the floor. Tom glances from the floor to you, the hesitance returning to his face, which causes your stomach to drop. “Oh, fuck,” you say, flushing again. “You don’t…you’re not into…I’m sorry.”
“What? No!” Tom replies quickly. “I just…” He trails off rubbing his hand over his forehead as he scrunches his eyes shut. “This might not be a good time,” he says, looking at you. “I need to get back to town hall to make sure everyone made it safely…you need to be there, too.”
“Sure,” you nod. “Okay, I’ll pack up my stuff.”
“Please, it’s not–”
“I get it,” you reply, pulling your body away from him and crawling from beneath the table. Tom calls your name following close behind you so you’re both on your feet once again. “It’s okay!” you say, forcing a smile to your lips as you nod at Tom. “I got caught up for a second there…it won’t happen again.”
You keep your back to Tom as you begin to collect your things, the sounds of the storm just outside the building now coming back into focus. There’s a palpable tension in the room and you’re certain you can feel Tom’s attention still on you, but you’re far too embarrassed to look his way again. When you slip your raincoat on again, pulling the hood up, Tom brushes past you to grab his, taking a few steps back as he dons his coat.
“I forgot,” you begin, pulling the sleeve containing the disc you made him from your pocket. “Here’s that CD for you.”
“Oh, that was fast,” Tom says, appearing surprised as he accepts the gift. “Thank you. I can’t wait to listen to it.”
“Lead the way, Mr. Mayor,” you say before he has a chance to speak any further.
Once Tom slips the disc into his hoodie pocket, he yanks the door open, only to be met with an intense gust of wind that almost sends him tumbling to the floor. You stay close behind him, one hand gripping the back of his coat so you don’t lose him in the quick dash up the street to town hall. Tom ushers you into the building first, pausing to check that you’re unharmed, but the concern in his eyes brings you back to the moment at The Waterline. You can only flush, breaking eye contact with him and following Dale towards the storm shelter, not able to spare another glance at Tom as you depart.
—
Upon returning to the Waterline the next day, there’s minimal damage to the building, however you are unable to get a signal. You check the antennas and transmitters on the roof of the building, finding them to be working as expected. With a groan, you stare across the island to the radio tower, dreading what damage was done to the structure and how difficult it will be to repair. You get in contact with the radio affiliate on the mainland, explaining your situation, and he agrees to send the parts on the next ferry if you provide him with a list.
The walk to the tower brings you past town hall. You spot Tom’s Jeep in the lot, and despite your embarrassment from the night before, you’re hit with a need to see him. As you near the building, you try to plan what you’ll say to him, how to approach the topic without seeming as pathetic as you feel, but your mind fills with static instead the second you set foot over the threshold.
You duck past Patricia and Dale, hoping to avoid any conversations about the chaos that occurred in the storm shelter the night before, but are still trapped by Rosemary who insists on telling you about Ruth’s mishap. You nod along with the gossip, finding it unbelievable that she would ‘accidentally’ get shot, but you don’t ask questions in the hopes that Rosemary will finish her story sooner. When Tom walks past the office, he thankfully spots you, coming to a stop in the doorway and giving a small smile as he clears his throat, saying your name to interrupt Rosemary.
“There you are,” he says, stepping into the room. “We’ve got, uh, a meeting…to discuss some pressing…radio matters. About…” You notice Tom struggling to find a lie to break you away from Rosemary, so you jump in to assist.
“The parts I need to repair the tower,” you say. “The storm did some damage last night.”
“Right,” Tom nods. “Exactly, the tower. So, if you’ll excuse us, Rosemary.” Tom gestures for you to lead the way to his office and he falls in line closely behind you, shutting the door once you’re both inside. “Hey,” he smiles, taking a few steps closer to you. “Sorry about that. She didn’t have you too long, did she?”
“No, only a few minutes,” you answer. “She was saying something about Ruth getting shot?” The smile drops from Tom’s face and he swallows hard, breaking eye contact with you to look towards his desk.
“It was a graze,” Tom explains. “Dr. Morgan was able to patch her up, and she’s got a few days off to rest. She’ll be fine, don’t worry.” Though what he’s saying sounds sincere, he also sounds nervous. “So, the radio tower took some damage, huh?” he asks, rubbing his hands over the side of his slacks.
“Uh, yeah,” you say. “I haven’t gotten over there to check it out yet. I was on my way, actually, but I saw your Jeep outside and wanted to stop in to see you.” The smile returns to Tom’s face, his eyes lighting up at your words.
“I’m glad you did,” he says, quietly. “I planned on coming by the Waterline, I just haven’t had a moment yet this morning.” You both stay silent for a second, waiting for the other to continue the conversation as though neither of you are sure how to discuss the night before. “Uh, I was about to take a drive around the island,” Tom begins, gesturing behind him with his thumb. “I need to check out the damage from the storm…”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to slow you down,” you reply, prepared to turn and leave but Tom speaks again.
“No, not at all!” he hurries, taking a few steps closer to you. “I was going to ask if you’d want to join me. Patricia has a call with the shipyard on the mainland about the ferries, so I’m in need of a note-taker if you’re up for it. We can stop at the tower to see what’s going on.” Tom gives you a hopeful smile, awaiting your response, but before you can, Patricia enters the room carrying her purse and notepad.
“Ready, Tom?” she asks.
“What happened to your call?” he asks.
“They pushed it back until two,” Patricia says, noticing the disappointment spreading across Tom’s face. She glances between you and Tom, scoffing when she sets her eyes on the mayor once again. “Clearly, I’m interrupting something,” she says, gesturing in frustration with both of her hands.
“No, we were just talking about the radiator tower,” you explain. “I can’t get a signal out and the transmitters on the roof are fine. Tom was asking me to ride with him to the tower to check.”
“That’s a good idea,” Patricia says, nodding. “We can drive by there on the way to the docks.”
“Yep,” Tom nods, with a sigh. “We can.” He spares you a quick, apologetic look, before gesturing for you both to walk ahead of him out of the office.
In part, you’re glad that Patricia invites herself along for the ride, because the thought of being alone with Tom brings complicated feelings within you. After the botched attempt at romance the night before, you’re feeling wounded, and you fear that Tom will want to talk about it to explain why he rebuffed your advances. However, you replay the expressions on Tom’s face once you entered his office that morning: he seemed relieved and excited to see you. Not only that, but the disc you made for him is playing quietly over the speakers in his Jeep, several tracks into the mix already. With that, you wished that Patricia had stayed at the office.
During the drive around the island, you frequently catch Tom’s gaze on you in the rearview mirror. He’s clearly frustrated with Patricia, who returns the sentiment, and you feel like you’re trapped in a car with two bickering siblings. They argue over what constitutes ‘damage’, why Tom isn’t taking his time to assess everything properly, and why Patricia is so insistent that Tom stop the car so she can take pictures of everything (he’s sure that she can snap a clear enough picture as he drives thirty-five in a twenty).
By the end of the ride, you’re thankful to be away from the two, but before you can get too far, Patricia stops you to ask if you can DJ the next party she wants to host three days later. You notice the tense expression on her face when you make a quip about the previous party she put on, but you agree to help her out nonetheless. You notice that Tom is lingering around as you speak with Patricia, as if he’s awaiting his turn to talk with you, but the other woman drags him back towards town hall with talks of a meeting.
That was the last time you saw Tom until this moment, at Patricia’s party. From your position behind your DJ table, you spot the man entering the Barnabus as casually as he can muster. His eyes don’t find you immediately, but from the way he moves, stiff and rehearsed, you can tell he’s trying to play it cool. You can’t help but smile at the sight of him peering around the room at everything except you, nodding his head to the beat of the music. When he finally spots you, he feigns surprise, giving you a small wave; you only roll your eyes with an amused smirk on your lips.
Tom still does not approach you right away, instead continuing to act indifferent as he greets a few of the guests of the party. You decide to follow his lead, queuing up the next song from the playlist that Patricia curated along with your suggestions. It surprised you that she was even remotely susceptible to persuasion when it came to her party, but you decided not to ask questions, taking advantage of the moment.
“Hey, do you take requests?” Looking up, you find Tom smiling at you from across the table, two drinks in his hand. You return the smile and shake your head.
“Sorry, regulations say that I cannot play anything that is not on the pre-determined playlist,” you reply, raising your voice to be heard over the music. “But you can pick something out from the list if you want.” You nod your head, gesturing for him to join you behind the table.
“Here,” Tom says, holding out one of the drinks as he slips into place beside you.
“I don’t drink anything at Patricia’s parties,” you wince, and Tom laughs.
“Straight from the tap,” he assures you. “I promise you that I watched them pour it myself.” You chuckle, accepting the glass from him and taking a sip as Tom leans in closer to get a view of your computer screen. “Patricia picked out all of these songs?” he asks.
“I helped her fine tune it,” you reply, as Tom leans even closer into your space.
“I can tell,” he grins, cutting his eyes to you for a moment before looking back to the screen. “Thanks again for the CD by the way. I can’t stop listening to it; it’s fucking great.” His admission catches you by surprise, and you’re thankful he looks back at the computer so he won’t see the expression on your face. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it,” he goes on. “But we haven't had many opportunities since the storm.”
“I know you’ve been busy. You’re the protector of the island, after all.”
“I still could have found time,” he says, turning so that his back is towards the dancing crowd. “I’ve been thinking about you.” His admission sets a flutter across your stomach, and you let out a small laugh.
“About how stupid I was that night?”
“No,” he shakes his head. “How stupid I was.”
“You had responsibilities to attend to.”
“I could have been clearer about why I was hesitant,” Tom explains. “You don’t–”
Tom is cut off by someone bumping into the table, nearly knocking down the laptop in the process. The woman mutters an apology, but you can see the frustrated look on Tom’s face as he glances around at how crowded the room is becoming. You quickly queue up a few songs onto the laptop before gesturing towards the kitchen in a silent question to Tom. He nods, moving ahead of you towards the back of the building where the entrance to the kitchen sets. Once you’re both out of earshot, Tom turns to face you, his hands fumbling nervously.
“It’s okay if you were nervous, Tom,” you assure him. “I don’t know how long it’s been since you’ve been with anyone, but–”
“No, it’s not that,” he interrupts. “I mean, it has been a while, but that’s easy enough to handle.”
“Oh,” you say, your shoulders dropping as your mind begins to come up with more disappointing reasons why he rejected you that night. “That’s cool; I understand not being interested–”
“Will you just let me tell you?” Tom interjects once again, a very vague hint of frustration in his tone as he tries to keep his expression focused. You feel an embarrassed flush overtake your body, so you nod your head and mutter a quick apology, allowing him to speak. “I was interested in you,” he says, before hurrying to continue. “I still am! It didn’t have anything to do with you…not really.” You furrow your brow, waiting for him to explain. “That night was…” Tom trails off, searching for a word to explain, but coming up empty. “That fucking storm…I wasn’t in the right state of mind that night.”
“Sure.”
“The only thing I knew for sure at that moment was that if that was to turn into something more…passionate…” he continues. “I didn’t want our first time to be on the floor of the Waterline.” There’s silence for a moment as you think about his statement, but Tom adds, “You deserve more respect than that.”
“Okay,” you say, nodding. “I wouldn’t have thought you didn’t…respect me or anything. I really wanted it. I wanted you.” He chuckles, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck nervously. “I understand, though,” you add. “Thank you for wanting to be respectful.”
“I was thinking,” he begins. “You could come to my house next Friday after the Founder’s Day kickoff…Evan will be with his friends, I’m sure, and once the festivities begin, I’m free. I can cook dinner for you and we can–”
“We can fuck in a bed?” you quip, watching the playful yet shy grin spread on Tom’s lips.
“If that’s what you want.”
“Okay, deal.”
You extend your hand towards Tom to shake, but he looks between your face and your hand with a chuckle. Instead of accepting the handshake, he steps closer to you, sparing a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure you’re alone, then grasps you by the forearm to pull your body into his. He kisses you softly, one of his hands pressed to the small of your back while your hands rest on his shoulders, your fingers digging into the soft material of his cardigan.
The kiss is soft at first but you feel his hand plant more firmly to your back, leading you to anticipate a more passionate kiss, however, someone quickly enters the kitchen, sending you both scrambling apart to avoid being caught. The bartender doesn’t notice either of you as he mutters under his breath about a drink request, so you and Tom both stay still to avoid catching his attention. After digging through the cabinets for a moment, the bartender finds what he’s searching for and quickly exits the room once again.
This time, you make the move, backing Tom into the fridge, your hands on either side of his face while his hands find your waist to pull you against him. Your head reels in excitement, soft moans rattling in your throat as Tom deepens the kiss, allowing the tips of his fingers to slip just beneath the hem of your shirt so he can make contact with your skin. You grind your hips against Tom on instinct and he breaks the kiss to let out a groan of your name, his fingers digging deeper into your skin.
“You’re going to…I’m going to get hard if you keep doing that,” he explains, his expression half shy, half turned on.
“If you do,” you begin, leaning in to kiss his neck. “I can take care of you…” You grind yourself forward again, sticking out your bottom lip in a pout to tease Tom when a strangled moan falls from his lips. “Oh, but you want to wait,” you whisper, gently pushing away from him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mayor.” Tom stays pressed against the fridge, as if he’s frozen in place. He swallows hard, peeling himself away from the appliance, adjusting the crotch of his slacks to hide the growing bulge.
“I’m looking forward to Friday,” Tom says, running his thumb along the corners of his lips to wipe away the saliva from your kiss. “No interruptions…no teasing.”
“I didn’t agree to that,” you laugh. A small, playful grin starts to spread on Tom’s lips, but he tries to hide it with a stern expression as he points at you, warning you.
“I am the mayor,” he says. “You should listen to what I say.” His cheeky tone makes you smile even though his words give you butterflies. You take a step back towards him to kiss him on the corner of his mouth.
“That was actually kinda hot,” you whisper. “I’ll try to listen better, Mr. Mayor.” You’re close enough to hear Tom’s breath hitch when you speak, but you don’t give him the opportunity to reply. You exit the kitchen to return to the party, leaving him to think of nothing but you.
—
The days leading up to Founder’s Day feel as though they drag on for eternity. Although you would have enjoyed teasing Tom as much as you could during that time, you find yourself on edge, riddled with excitement and nerves. Each time you catch a glimpse of Tom around town, your skin flushes, your hands trembling, thinking of what will happen when you finally have uninterrupted alone time with him.
When you arrive at Tom’s house for your date, Evan answers the door. You struggle for a moment to not appear disappointed, thinking it’s possible that he just hasn’t left for the night yet. That is until he invites you in, and you see Tom’s annoyed expression when he greets you. Evan excuses himself to return to watching television in the living room, and you follow Tom to the kitchen, where you see dinner is almost complete. To your surprise, you hear a song from your mix for Tom playing from the boombox on the counter; you wonder if Tom truly enjoys the music, or if he’s pretending so he can spare your feelings.
“I’m so sorry,” Tom says, quietly. “He doesn’t want to go to Founder’s Day. Usually I can’t keep him in the goddamn house, but when I need him to, he won’t get the fuck out.” The annoyance in Tom’s voice makes you laugh, so you step beside him placing your hand on his bicep to give a gentle squeeze.
“It’s okay,” you assure him, with a smile. “Dinner smells great.” Tom lets out a heavy sigh, tipping his head to the side to be able to peer at you. He scans your face, studying you as though he’s unsure of how you really feel, and he wants to read your true emotions. “I bet it tastes great, too,” you add.
“I’m sure you do,” Tom responds, the soft dreaminess in his tone letting you know that he didn’t realize what he said. You bite your lip, stifling a laugh but still feeling a flush wash over you at the thought of his head between your thighs. “Fuck,” Tom says, closing his eyes. “I didn’t mean to say that.”
“Don’t apologize,” you say. “I kinda like when you talk that way.” Tom chuckles, looking at you once again. This time, you notice a mischievous glint in his eyes, his pupils dilated more than before, so you lean in and give him a quick kiss on his lips. “Did you need any help cooking?” you whisper.
“No, I’m just finishing up,” Tom answers. “I have a feeling you’d distract me anyway. Go out in the other room with Evan.” You squeeze his bicep once again, opting not to respond with any of the teasing retorts that immediately came to mind. “Go,” Tom urges, pinching your side before gently pushing you towards the kitchen door. “And try not to steal anything.”
After dinner, you sit beside Tom on the sofa while Evan lounges on the floor several feet away, focused on his handheld game and ignoring the movie that plays on the television. Tom, who keeps a few inches of space between your bodies, keeps his hands on his lap, alternating from rubbing his hands over his knees to clenching his fingers. Even with the distance between your bodies, you can feel the tension radiating off of him, and you’re certain he can feel the same from you.
In an effort to get some contact with Tom to alleviate the taut feeling in your skin, you feign a shiver, hugging your arms around yourself. Tom notices, picking up the blanket from the arm of the sofa, and spreading it over both of your laps. He beckons you in, setting his arm on the back of the sofa around your shoulders to invite you even closer. You snuggle in beside him, slipping one of your hands beneath the blanket to set on top of his thigh, an action that gives Tom a noticeable smile.
A few minutes pass with you both staying in your new, comfortable position, and you can’t help but feel the need growing within you. You angle your head towards Tom, finding his eyes already on you, a very faint tinge of pink gracing his cheeks as you catch him. Closing the space between you, Tom kisses you softly, another one of the quick pecks you’re growing used to, but something that leaves you wanting more of him. Your hand on his thigh slips a little higher, your fingers pressing against the seam along the inner thigh of his slacks with just enough urgency that Tom breaks from the kiss to give you a look of panic.
You’re forced to steady yourselves when Evan suddenly gets up to leave the room, thankfully not even sparing a glance your way. Once Tom is sure that Evan is out of earshot, he looks back to you, inching himself closer and tightening his arm around your shoulders. You kiss him again, a little more forceful than before, enough to pull a small sigh from Tom. All you want is to feel his hands on you - the thought plagues your mind and you can’t help but grab for his free hand to drag it beneath the blanket covering your laps.
Tom hums almost indiscernibly, struggling to keep as quiet as possible when he breaks from the kiss. He keeps his eyes on your face for a moment, mouthing ‘what are you doing’ before checking that Evan hasn’t returned. This time, when he looks back to you, he lowers his focus to your lap, peeking beneath the blanket to watch as you slip his fingertips just beneath the hemline of your skirt. You release your grip on his hand once you rest his hand on your inner thigh, allowing him to make the next move.
Wasting no time, Tom pushes his hand higher, and you spread your thighs on instinct when you feel his fingers begin to stroke over the damp spot of your panties. It’s difficult to stifle the small gasp the contact pulls from you, but Tom’s attention snaps up to your face, giving you a warning glare. You nod quickly, taking your bottom lip between your teeth and not breaking eye contact with him. His fingers gently trace back and forth over the lace of your panties, not applying enough pressure to give you much pleasure, but enough to leave you edging your hips into his touch.
When he hooks his index finger into your panties, tugging them aside, you pull in a sharp breath, desperate to keep your composure, but Tom is quick to trace the tip of his middle finger through your folds before retracting his hand from beneath the blanket. The second your eyes lock onto his hand, fingers damp with your slick, you’re hit with an urge you hadn’t felt in some time. You grab his wrist to pull his hand towards you, your tongue slipping out to tease the pads of his index and middle fingers.
Keeping your eyes locked with Tom’s wasn’t a choice, but an instinct, unable to break away from his hypnotized gaze, blue eyes darkened with desire. You would be tempted to make a show of things, moaning and whining with an aching need for him, but with his son still home, you keep yourself together, opting to take your time instead. Once Tom slips his fingers into your mouth, however, you feel your willpower beginning to crumble and from the expression on Tom’s face, he’s struggling too.
Given Tom’s proximity, you can hear the hitch in his breath when you suck softly on his digits. You give him the most innocent eyes you can muster, using your gentle grip on his wrist to give shallow thrusts of his fingers into your mouth, dragging them across your tongue. His jaw clenches, his eyes cutting down for the briefest moment when he catches your hips rolling involuntarily against nothing.
There’s a second that you see a change in him, something snapping inside despite his best efforts to control it. He snatches his hand from you and adjusts your skirt, along with the blanket to ensure you’re both covered completely before he settles against the sofa again. You’re stunned at first, specifically when he inches himself away from you enough that you’re not pressed together anymore, his arm dropping from around your shoulders back into his lap. If you didn’t know any better, you’d wonder if he suddenly became repulsed by you. After a few moments in silence, Evan reenters the room, and Tom clears his throat, glancing at his watch.
“The fireworks for Founder’s Day should be starting soon,” he says. “Evan, buddy, did you not want to check those out? With PJ and the guys, maybe?” He attempts to keep his tone casual so as not to give away his intentions to his son, but when the teenager stops in his tracks, you notice the confusion on his face.
“You’re telling me to hang out with PJ?” he asks.
“Well, he’s your friend,” Tom chuckles nervously. “You’re a teenager; go have some fun, ya’know?” Judging from Evan’s expression, he’s unconvinced by Tom’s words, and the older man looks to be on the verge of passing out from trying to maintain his composure, so you step in.
“I’ve been trying to get your old man to unclench a little,” you say to Evan, tossing the blanket from your lap and smoothing out your skirt as you stand from the sofa. “Cut you some slack, ya’know?”
“Okay…” Evan says, slowly. You cross to where you dropped your bag when you arrived and unhook your keys from the zipper, turning to face Evan again.
“You can take my car,” you say, walking towards him and holding your keys out to him. “Pick up the guys and head to the beach for the fireworks.” Evan looks back and forth between you and Tom, as though he thinks you’re trying to trick him. “I can trust you, right?” you ask, narrowing your eyes. “You’re not going to do some illegal shit—”
“Language,” Tom interrupts.
“—Stuff,” you correct yourself, sending a glare to Tom before looking back to Evan. “In my car, are you?”
“No, no!” Evan hurries, reaching for the keys, but you pull them from his reach.
“I’m serious, dude,” you lower your voice. “Your dad has enough on his plate with this island; he shouldn’t have to worry that you and your dumba—your goofy friends are getting into trouble.” Evan nods as you continue. “If you work with me on this,” you begin. “And you don’t do anything stupid, your dad would maybe ease up on you and let you breathe a little. Cool?”
“Sure,” you say, handing him the keys and looking between Evan and Tom. “Do you have a curfew or something? Does he?”
“Fireworks should be done by eight,” Tom says, his voice still tight. “Bonfire is nine to eleven, so let’s say midnight, at the latest. How’s that?”
“Great!” Evan nods. “Thank you! Thanks!”
The young man scrambles out the front door letting it slam shut behind him, leaving you alone with Tom. For a moment, neither of you move, simply stare at one another as you listen to the sounds of Evan shutting the door of your car and the engine rumbling. Your heart begins to pound in your chest at the thought of finally having Tom to yourself, and from the way he’s tossed the blanket from his lap so his fingers can twist at the fabric of his khakis, you know he’s just as anxious as you.
“Is he gone?” Tom asks, his voice low as though he’s still afraid of getting caught. You hear the crunch of tires in the driveway, the hum of your engine growing faint as he departs. Still, you glance towards the window, ensuring that you don’t see the headlights shining through.
“He’s gone,” you nod, peering at Tom.
Time seems to stand still, both of you caught in this long awaited moment together, thoughts racing with the events of the last several days. Even from across the dimly lit room, you can see in Tom’s eyes that he’s trying to determine where he wants to start, but is immediately overwhelmed with options. It’s then that you notice the bulge in his pants, straining against the zipper of his khakis and stretching the thick material. You nearly salivate at the thought of tasting him, of touching him, finally feeling him inside you.
“Upstairs,” Tom says, suddenly, hoisting himself from the sofa and moving with purpose across the room. He catches you by the wrist, his grip firm so he can tug you along behind him while he ascends the stairs. “Careful,” he warns, when he feels you stumble on one of the steps.
“You must be really horny,” you joke.
“How could I not be?” Tom mutters, pushing you ahead of him into the doorway of his bedroom.
“I bet you wish we hooked up that night at the Waterline, huh?” you ask, looking at the decor of his room.
“It’ll be one of my lifelong regrets,” Tom replies with a laugh.
“Don’t worry,” you say, sitting on the edge of his bed and peering towards him. “The station isn’t going anywhere and neither am I. We’ll find a time to make up for it.”
Tom stares at you for another moment, his hands clenching into fists and then releasing again so he can stretch out his fingers. The nervous tic has endeared you even before you started flirting with Tom, but now you can only focus on how his hands will feel when they’re on your skin. He makes his way towards you, each step careful as though he expects you to change your mind before he closes the distance, but instead you straighten your back and spread your knees, silently beckoning him closer.
“You’re beautiful,” he mumbles once he’s stood between your knees, his hands cradling your head so you can look up at him. “I don’t think I’ve told you that yet, but it’s true.”
“So are you,” you smile, setting your hands on his hips. Tom laughs quietly, an unconvinced, bashful laugh that brings a small tint of pink to his cheeks.
“Here…” he mumbles, dropping his hands to grab the hem of your shirt. He stoops slightly, bringing his face near yours, and you can’t help the grin that spreads across your lips. “What?” Tom asks, tightening his fingers on your shirt.
“You haven’t shaved,” you whisper, noting the slightly surprised look on his face at your comment.
“Oh, I haven’t had—yeah, sorry, I guess that wouldn’t be appealing,” he stumbles over his words and attempts to pull away, likely to go to the bathroom, but you stop him.
“I’ve been dying to see how your stubble feels on my skin,” you reply, rubbing your hand over his cheek.
A devious grin cracks across Tom’s face just before he captures your lips in a kiss. It’s light, neat; nothing about the kiss feels like it’s right for the moment, but you attribute it to Tom’s lack of romantic activity in recent years. His fingers find their way beneath your shirt, gently making contact with your skin, gauging your response. Your only reaction is to break from the kiss and look up at him again.
“Tom,” you say, cupping his cheek again. “I’m not delicate or precious about this stuff.” Tom nods, soaking in your words. “I promise it’s okay,” you continue, tracing your thumb along his bottom lip. “If you’re being cautious for yourself, that’s one thing, but don’t take your time for my sake because I need you right now. Please. I can’t wait anymore.”
“Okay,” he nods, taking your hands away from him and once again grasping the hem of your shirt so he can finally tug it over your head.
This time, when Tom kisses you, the passion is there and the hesitance abandoned. His tongue slips into your mouth, meeting with yours and trying to touch everywhere he can. You whine quietly into his mouth, grabbing onto his shoulders so tight that you fist at the material of his shirt. Tom responds with a gentle hum, as if to let you know he hears you and he’s here with you, but the sensation of his hand cupping your breast pulls another whimper from your lips.
After a moment, Tom urges you onto your back, dropping one knee into the bed and bracing himself with his free hand onto the mattress. You stay locked into this kiss for more time that you can quantify; it feels like minutes stretching on into hours, but it still doesn’t feel like enough time. His thumb circles around your nipple, feeling it harden through the thin material of your bra until he can gently pinch it. The surprised yelp you release startles Tom, and he tips back so he can see you.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“What about this?” Tom asks, peppering a few kisses over your throat and collarbone as he travels down your body. You can feel his breath through the lace of your bra for a brief moment before his mouth captures your nipple. His tongue circles it, teeth gently teasing with a soft tug that makes your back arch against him “I was taking it slow,” he breathes, moving to your other breast to repeat his actions. “Because I didn’t want to come across as desperate.”
“I like desperate,” you whisper. “For you to show me how badly you need me?” You close your eyes and pull in a deep breath, savoring the thought, when you feel Tom moving again, lowering to his knees on the floor. You prop onto your elbows so you can watch his hands spread your thighs wider.
“You don’t like slow, though,” he says, keeping his eyes on you as he pushes your skirt up your thighs. “Do you?” You shake your head, too mesmerized with that playful glint that’s returned to his eyes when he glances down at your panties. “I’ve never seen you wear a skirt before,” Tom points out, pressing his hand flat against your pelvis so his thumb can brush against your panties. “Did you do that because you wanted to see me on my knees like this?”
“No,” you respond. “I thought I’d ride you on the sofa, but I like this view a lot better.”
“So do I,” Tom smiles, stroking his thumb over the damp material of your panties. “Your panties are so thin, I’m sure I can taste you through them.” He doesn’t wait for your response before he leans in to give you a few small kisses through your panties, making you gasp in surprise. “Have you been wet like this for me all night?” he asks, dragging his tongue over you this time. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you dripped onto the sofa…this is fucking beautiful.” You whine his name, reaching one hand towards him to cradle his head. “You can show me where you want me,” he whispers. “Go on.”
You guide his head towards you again until his mouth presses against your clit through your panties. Tom hums softly when you tug his hair, signaling to him that’s where you need him the most. Both of his hands press against your inner thighs to spread them wider, opening you up to he can toy with you through your underwear.
“Fuck,” you whine, watching him close his eyes as he focuses on his actions. He switches between gentle sucking and quick flicks of his tongue, having you edge yourself closer to his mouth when he gives the slightest bit of reprieve. “Tom, that feels so good,” you breathe out, watching his eyes flutter open so you can see the way his normally bright eyes have darkened over with desire. “Wait, wait.”
“Mmm,” Tom hums, breaking away but giving another quick kiss through your panties before he looks up again. “What is it, sweetheart? Are you okay?” You expected his tone to be teasing, but he’s concerned, the drastic difference between the two making you flush all over.
“I want to take them off,” you explain, shifting your hips so you can reach beneath your skirt to grab onto your panties. “I have to feel you.”
Tom nods, sitting back just enough to help you slip your panties from your feet. He quickly discards them to the side before he dives back between your thighs. You’re able to feel him completely now, the scrape of his five-o’clock shadow against your sensitive skin as his mouth resumes its torture on your clit. When you grind your hips against his face, Tom moans, his eyes closing again, and that’s when you notice his hand is out of your sight past the end of the bed.
“Fuck, are you touching yourself?” you ask him, your voice weak, sounding entirely unlike your own. Tom’s eyes open again and he hums with a nod, breathing harder against you when he pauses.
“I’m really fucking hard,” he pants, his arm still moving at a slow pace. “Everything about you makes me feel like I’m losing control.”
Tom’s voice is tight, the desperation in his words almost too much to bear, so you gently nudge him away to give you room to sit up. For a moment, Tom looks confused, until you remove your bra so it can join your panties on the floor. His hand still slowly works over his length as he watches you, his eyes lingering on the newly exposed skin, but you urge him to stand up.
“No wonder you’re always so stressed,” you mutter, moving his hand away from his length so you can see him completely. “A dick this big…” You trail off, keeping your eyes angled up to watch his face as you slowly drag your tongue over his head to lick up the taste of him. Tom’s strangled groan makes your own composure harder to maintain, but you persist. “That tastes so good,” you add, swirling your tongue around to gather another taste. “Being neglected?” You take only his tip into your mouth, giving a soft suck while your tongue makes another swirl over him, and your hand holds him near the base. You listen to the way Tom fights back his moans as you tease him, so you pull away, leaving only your hand on him when you peer up at him. “If I’d known,” you begin. “I would have been under your desk every day to give you what you needed…Mayor Loftis.”
“Jesus Christ,” Tom grunts, his hand finding the back of your head, pressing firmly to bring you back towards him.
“It’s just me and you here,” you remind him, as you lean in again, carefully spitting to coat his length with a few strokes of your hand. “Be as loud as you want. I know I will be.”
This time you take him deeper into your mouth, your hand stroking over what remains. Each bob of your head, you take him ever-so-slightly deeper, your tongue dragging on the underside of his shaft. Tom keeps one of his hands on the back of your head, not enough pressure to push you to take him deeper but he does help you increase the speed of your movements.
“Goddamnit,” Tom hisses, his hips rocking in time with you. It’s easy to see from the restrained movements that he is struggling not to push himself deeper still, so you give him a moan to get his eyes on you again. “You’re doing good, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Your mouth feels…” He trails off, his eyes slipping closed to allow him to focus, but the sight gives you a chill, the sensation running through your whole body to end between your thighs.
You slip Tom from your mouth but keep your hand stroking the entirety of him. This catches his attention once again, his eyes boring through you, wondering what you’ll do next. Only for a moment, you stop touching him, just long enough to bring your hand between your thighs to collect some of your slick onto your fingers, using it to coat him once again. Tom mutters under his breath but you’re too focused to decipher his words, instead taking him back into your mouth to taste the combination of the two of you.
“Fuck,” Tom grinds out. “You’re…” He loses his words when you take him deeper, dropping your hand back between your thighs to touch yourself as you bob your head over his length. “That’s it,” Tom breathes, nodding. “You like how we taste together?”
“Mmmhmmm,” you drag out the hum intentionally, sending sensations through the man that makes his knees buckle and his grip on the back of your head to tighten.
“You love being a little tease,” Tom states, losing his breath as he speaks.
Tom’s voice is deeper, raspier than you’ve heard it, his slightly restrained dirty talk making your insides twist in excitement. You set your hands on his hips, leaning closer and getting more comfortable as you take him even deeper into your mouth so he touches the back of your throat. Tom moans, pressing your head harder and nudging his hips forward so he settles as deep as he can go before going still.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Tom moans. “Stay just like that, sweetheart.” You give a small hum, just to toy with him while he’s stretching out your throat, and Tom body jerks involuntarily. “Fucking tease,” he mumbles. “Can’t help yourself.”
You struggle to keep him in place for a moment longer, your eyes watering from the intrusion, until you can’t take it anymore. You give a squeeze of his hips, signaling that you need to breathe; Tom is quick to pull out of your mouth, stroking his hand over your back as you gasp for breath.
“Get up on the bed,” Tom directs, his voice stern but still wavering. “All the way. On your back.”
Once you’re able to regain your composure, you listen to Tom’s instructions, crawling towards the pillows and dropping onto your back to get comfortable. When your eyes fall on Tom again, he’s removed his shirt, and is working on the rest of his clothes while he watches you. Following his lead, you remove your skirt, leaving you completely naked for him, so you spread your thighs, allowing him a better view.
“What a sight,” Tom chuckles when he sees you sprawled out on his bed, your fingers softly tracing through your slick folds. “If you’re not careful, I won’t let you leave this bed so I can keep you all to myself.”
“Is that meant to be a threat?” you ask, dragging your damp fingers along your stomach and between your breasts. Tom gives a few slow pumps of his fist over his length as he watches you, then climbs onto the bed with you.
“The way you’ve been dripping onto my sheets, you may as well,” he mumbles, kissing and licking along the path that your fingers trailed up to your collarbone. As he nuzzles against your cheek, kissing your jaw and your neck, his fingers play between your clit and your entrance, never staying in one place long enough to give you enough pleasure. “I made you this wet?” Tom asks, his voice soft, his tone mischievous with a hint of hopefulness. “This is all for me?”
“All yours,” you whisper, threading your fingers through his short curls to guide his mouth towards a tender spot on your neck. “I’ve been like this since I had that dream about you.”
“I knew you didn’t tell me all of it,” Tom smiles against your neck, pausing long enough to leave a mark on the spot you directed him to. “Is that why you wanted me to fuck you on the floor so badly? Is that what you dreamt I did to you?” Tom presses his forehead to yours, reaching between your bodies to grasp his length and dragging his tip along your folds. “As the mayor,” Tom begins, a look of uncertainty in his eyes. “It’s my job to look after my constituents.”
“I’ve never had anyone talk politics while trying to slide their dick into me,” you laugh breathlessly, noticing that faint blush return to Tom’s cheeks. “You’re gonna take care of me, Mayor Loftis? I’ve been aching for weeks, and I need your help to make it better.” Tom lets out a soft gasp as he works his tip inside of you, struggling to stay there as his eyes search your face. “Do you like it when I call you that?” you ask, cupping his face so you can rub your thumb along his cheekbone.
“Only when you’re teasing,” he mumbles, turning his head to kiss your palm. “Once I’m inside of you, it’s ‘Tom’.” He eases himself inside of you slowly, burying in to the hilt before stopping to pull in a deep breath. “Un-fucking-believable,” he groans, breathing your name against your cheek. “Are you okay?”
“Mhm,” you hum, nodding your head. “You?”
“You’re really…” Tom stops short when your walls clench around him, his words turning into a needy moan. “…tight,” he manages, his voice strained.
“You’re used to your hand,” you tease, your voice not confident enough to sound as playful as you wanted, but Tom chuckles against your neck.
“You’re right,” he agrees before planting a kiss on the mark he left on your throat. “Don’t think I’ll be able to go back after this.”
“Do it right and you won’t have to.”
Tom groans, adjusting his position so he’s on his knees, still buried inside of you. He runs his hand over his hair, pushing away some of the curls that have matted to his forehead from sweat, but his eyes never leave you. He looks over your body to commit it to memory, as though he’s worried this will be his only opportunity to do so. A brief feeling of shyness washes over you, laying vulnerable under his gaze, but Tom smiles at you, pulling your thighs around his body and grasping your hips.
“Relax, sweetheart,” he says. “I’ll take care of you.”
Tom’s thrusts begin slowly, shallow at first until you're accustomed to him. With each movement, his grip tightens on your hips, holding you impossibly harder with every passing second, to the point you worry of the marks he’ll leave. You take hold of his forearms, using him to help you rock against his thrusts. Tom moans your name softly, nudging himself closer to you to make sure he’s taking up every bit of space inside of you.
When his thrusts become more forceful, Tom gets deeper, stretching you in a way you’ve never felt before. His speed doesn’t change, still a slow, steady pace, but each motion of his hips feels like the first. The sensation makes your thighs pull together, tightening around Tom’s waist, which drives him to slide his hands down to grip the thickness. Your hands find their way to his stomach then his chest, stretching as much as you can to let your fingers trace over the hair that’s scattered across his skin.
“Tell me about your dream,” Tom breathes, nodding in encouragement. “I need to know.”
“After you kissed me,” you begin, closing your eyes to focus on your story and not the slapping of Tom’s skin with yours. “You bent me over the control board and fucked me.” Tom grins lazily, dragging his tongue out to wet his lips. “I love the idea of you bending me over…” you admit. “The idea of you in your fucking khakis and your cardigan, losing yourself while you fuck me from behind…” Tom loses his rhythm for a moment, but adjusts his grip on your thighs, pulling you along with each thrust so he can increase his pace. “We were facing the window,” you whine, your nails digging into his chest hard enough to make him suck in a breath through his clenched teeth. “Didn’t close the curtain, everyone could see us.”
“Fuck,” Tom hisses, losing his concentration so how thrusts fall out of time. “You love to tease so much…I bet you were showing off for your audience.” You laugh breathlessly, grabbing for Tom’s biceps to drag him down on top of you.
“You’re the only one that matters,” you mutter, pulling him in for a kiss.
With his hands pressed to the mattress on either side of you, he attempts to resume the pace he had set while he kisses you deeply. You moan into his mouth, a needy sound that would normally embarrass you, but you feel Tom thrust harder, as if he’s chasing more reactions from you. Your nails dig into his shoulders, dragging down his arm, desperate to hear Tom moan your name. Tom mumbles something indiscernible under his breath when he breaks from the kiss, closing his eyes to focus on the timing of his thrusts. You wrap your legs around his waist, trying to pull him deeper with each stroke, and when one of Tom’s hands finds its way to the back of your thigh, sliding down to your ass, your heart races in excitement. He lands a gentle spank on your skin, then grabs a handful of your ass immediately after. You’re overwhelmed with the urge to tease him again.
“You look like you’re barely keeping it together,” you tease, and Tom gives a particularly sharp thrust in reply, punctuating with a warning grumble of your name. “Are you losing control, Tom?” you push. “Are you gonna come already?”
Tom doesn’t answer, but gives you another slap on your ass, as if he’s warning you. He pries your legs from around his waist, pulling out of you and moving onto his knees again. You’re worried you upset him, but the expression on his face says otherwise. He maneuvers so he’s sitting with his back propped against the headboard, peering down at you expectantly. When you don’t move immediately, he beckons you in with a crook of his finger, so you hurry to oblige.
“Fuck, did you get tighter in the last thirty seconds?” Tom mutters once you settle on top of him, your hands resting on his shoulders for support. “I’ve been picturing you riding me this whole time. You look gorgeous.” You slowly begin to rock your hips, working up to match the pace he had set. Tom keeps one hand on your waist to assist while the other grips the sheets beneath him. “Make yourself come like this,” he begins. “You can use me to get off…I want to to see how bad you need me.”
“Tom, I want you to fuck me,” you whine, your face scrunching up prepared to plead with him, but he shakes his head. “Please, I want to feel you filling me up.”
“You whine so much for a tease,” he says, angling his head to follow your gaze though you refuse to make eye contact with him. “I know you’re trying to make me come first. You think I’m so desperate that I can’t keep my composure, don’t you?” You whimper, still avoiding eye contact as you ride him slowly. “Look at me, sweetheart.” Tom’s gentle tone drags you in, and you roll your head back towards him, peering into his eyes. “Once you come,” he begins, his eyelids heavy. “I’ll bend you over the foot of the bed and give you what you want.”
Tom remains mostly still while you follow his instructions, opting to grab the headboard to assist your movements as opposed to Tom’s shoulders. He keeps one hand on your thigh, the other cupping your jaw so he can gently pry your mouth open with his thumb. He touches your tongue and you watch the twinkle in his eye when you wrap your lips around his thumb. Tom remains transfixed on your mouth for a moment while you continue to roll your hips against him, so you decide to tease him one more time.
You moan loudly, the neediest, cheapest moan you can muster. It’s intended to be fake, but you find it feels good to let loose, so you do it again. Tom’s gaze immediately fixes with your, his lips parted with a slightly dumbfounded expression while he watches your face scrunch with desperation. He nods slowly, whispering your name in encouragement while his hand on your waist guides you along.
What initially was meant to tease Tom turned into something you needed, the intensity of your moans helping open you up to really feel your climax. You pull Tom’s hand from your face, dragging it down to your breast to urge him to touch you like he had before, and Tom is eager to please. He gropes your breast without much thought for a moment, before his fingers begin toying with your nipple again, this time tugging harder than before.
“Oh, fuck, Tom,” you gasp. “I’m gonna come, baby. Please.”
“I know, sweetheart,” Tom nods, giving you a look that borders on sympathy. “Let go for me and I’ll fuck you like you need me to.”
You nod your head, bouncing in Tom’s lap, rocking your hips around to feel him as much as you’re able. When Tom’s hand suddenly moves from your breast to your clit, you gasp, watching between your bodies to see how he quickly rubs circles to get you closer to your orgasm. Your whimpers become more pathetic, moans of his name as you tell him how good he is; Tom nods along with you, showing more restraint than you expected him to be capable of.
When your climax hits, your body quakes, and you lean into Tom, burying your face against his neck. You ride it out, Tom’s fingers never leaving your clit, never slowing until you have to shove his hand away to stop the overstimulation. He hooks an arm around your body to pull you closer against him, helping you remain upright in his lap.
“Good, so good,” he breathes, kissing the top of your head. “Do you need a minute?” You shake your head, recalling his promise to you just minutes before.
As quickly as you’re able to, you pull from Tom’s arms, easing yourself from his lap and off of the bed. He watches each of your movements as though he’s unsure what comes next, but when you stand beside the bed and bend over, Tom lets out a shuddered breath. You plant your elbows onto the mattress, arching your back to stick your ass out as far as you can, inviting him in.
“Please, Mayor Loftis,” you beg, pouting. “I want you to come inside of me. I need it.”
“You…” Tom trails off, his words escaping him. He moves swiftly from the bed to stand behind you, one hand on your lower back while the other grips his length to give a few slow strokes. “It’s not going to take much,” Tom warns, pushing himself back inside of you with a groan. “You’re too tight…”
“Too tight?” you laugh breathlessly, your fingers gripping the bedsheets. “You can’t handle it?” You clench around him with intention and Tom lets out a stuttered plea of your name, both hands now finding your hips. “Show me how much you respect me, Tom,” you whisper, grinding yourself back against him. “Fill me up.”
Tom wastes no more time, knowing he won’t be able to keep himself together much longer. His fingers adjust on your hips, yanking your body back with each snap of his hips. Your knees feel weak beneath you thanks to the force Tom shows, your legs trembling as you fight to stay standing. Tom mutters under his breath, mixes of curse words and teasing threats directed at you, but your vision blurs, your thoughts clouding over as you feel your second orgasm rapidly approaching.
Tom slows only for a moment so he can position one of your knees onto the bed, effectively opening you even wider for him. Once returning to his previous pace, Tom softly mutters your name, then speaks through clenched teeth, warning you how close he is. You nod, encouraging him and winding your hips against his quick, forceful thrusts. All you’re able to do is put a deeper arch in your back, keeping your ass up for him while you stretch your torso onto the bed.
Feeling your climax nearing and knowing Tom isn’t far behind, you slip your hand beneath yourself, rubbing your clit in tight circles. You can’t help the way you moan Tom’s name, loud enough that you wonder if the neighbors will hear, needy enough you know there will be teasing from him later, but you squeeze your eyes shut, letting the orgasm wash over you. Tom continues his thrusts, getting more shallow, and quicker before he moans out your name, muddled with praises and more cursing.
Once Tom gives one final thrust, pushing in as deep as he can, his body presses against yours, the hair from his chest tickling your back. Once he braces his weight on the mattress with one hand, he trails kisses from your shoulder to your ear, staying still for a moment as he catches his breath. After a moment, he carefully pulls out of you, helping you lay across the width of the bed with him so you’re facing one another, still taking steady breaths to regulate.
“I want to avoid any cliche,” he mutters, reaching out to stroke his hand soothingly over your shoulder. “But I don’t think I can…” You laugh softly while you shift closer to him to let your fingers toy with his curls. “That was really fucking good,” he grins. “I don’t think I’ve ever had sex like that before.”
“What, like from behind?”
“I’ve always been very simple,” he explains, that faint blush returning to his cheeks. “None of the women I’ve been with before have been like you.”
“Do you mean they never burglarized your house?”
“Not that I know of,” Tom laughs, cupping your face to angle your head towards him, stealing a quick kiss. “Maybe they weren’t as adventurous as you.”
“Tom,” you chuckle, twirling one of his curls between your fingertips. “That wasn’t adventurous. Who knows, though? Maybe next time you’re in your office, I can slip under your desk and we can start making you take some bigger risks.” Tom drops his head against yours, letting out a groan.
“If this island doesn’t kill me, I think you will.”
