john grudgingly patches you up after a mission — it gets more intimate than you both expect. post thunderbolts, no spoilers. 1k words
note: umm hi this is me forcing u to hear me out on him xx
“You’re not doing a very good job of that, Captain.”
John sighs loudly, his shoulders tense with irritation. “Shut up. And stop moving around.”
You grin to yourself. He’s fun to mess with.
“M’sorry, but your hands are really cold, John,” you tell him.
It’s true, they are, and he’s not being very gentle either. John wouldn’t have been your first pick for someone to patch you up after a fight, but you’d been unfortunate enough to be paired with him for this particular mission, and none of the rest of your team are back yet. You’re alone with him in one of the many bathrooms of Avengers tower. If you bleed out and die, you’re blaming it on his poor first aid skills.
“You wanna stitch this up yourself, then?” John asks you shortly. He’s got his big hand locked around your hip, holding you still while he stitches up the nasty gash spanning from just above your hip, up to the dip in your waist. His thumb presses into your hipbone. He’s not being rough but he’s certainly not being gentle — and while you’re not made of porcelain, you’d appreciate a bit of softness.
You shake your head. “No, thanks,” you sing-song.
John grumbles something under his breath that you can’t quite hear, but you catch words like useless and good for nothing. You don’t take it to heart. You’ve deemed him chronically grumpy, which he loathes, but you’ve decided it explains why he’s so mean all the time.
You let yourself fall back on your hands and watch him work. He’s standing in between your legs while you sit perched on the counter, your shirt pushed up over your ribs. He wasted a good amount of time letting you know how stupid it was of you to get hurt like this. After he was done grilling you, he grudgingly began to clean your wound, quite messily you might add. He’s halfway done stitching you up now, head bent over your ribs.
You think, secretly, that he looks quite handsome, concentrated like this. With his head bent over you, his hair all messy where he’s run his hands through it. You try not to think about how this position makes you feel. Sure, John’s a jerk, but you’re not blind. He’s handsome.
You realise suddenly that the silence is making you delusional, and you open your mouth to break it.
“Where do you think the others—“ you cut yourself off with a gasp when he pricks you hard with the needle. “Ow.”
“Sorry, I’m sorry,” John says quickly. He rubs his thumb over your hipbone twice, then lifts his gaze to yours.
“Sorry,” he says gently, wincing. “Accident.”
You blink at him. You don’t think you’ve ever heard the word sorry come out of his mouth since you met him. Not to mention the look on his face. Apologetic, gentle. Not something you’ve ever seen on him before. It suits him, but it’s still weird.
“It’s okay,” you say slowly. You shake your head, a little nonplussed. “It’s fine.”
John just stares at you. You stare back. Then he swallows. He must remember himself, then, because he goes back to frowning.
“Your fault,” he mumbles. He ducks his head again and gets back to work.
You want to ask how on earth that was your fault, but you’re too perplexed. If you’re not mistaken, you’re pretty sure John Walker was just soft on you. The absolute bare minimum, you know, but for John that’s like gifting you a bouquet of flowers and a kiss on the forehead.
You sit there, John’s hands all over you, and try to forget how he’d rubbed your hip, how he’d said sorry so quickly and so gently, how he’d looked at you like you weren’t just a thorn in his side, for once. You can’t forget it. How could you? It’s John. He’s not… soft. Like, ever.
You’re still thinking about it when the perpetrator in question finishes stitching you up. He snips the thread and straightens up. Your chest feels funny, like something’s tugging at your heart.
John lifts his head.
“You’re all done,” he says gruffly. He puts his tools down and tugs your shirt back over your stomach. “Try not to get so sliced up next time, alright?”
He’s back to sounding perpetually irritated again. Still, you find it difficult to ignore his hand on your waist as he smooths down your shirt.
“Why, ‘cause you care about me?” You joke weakly.
John rolls his eyes. He removes his hand from your waist to press it to the counter palm down, using it to hold his weight as he leans forward a bit. He’s not in your personal space, but he’s close enough, and the fact he’s standing between your legs doesn’t help.
“No,” he says in a low voice. “Cause you’re a nuisance to look after.”
You don’t know if he’s challenging you, threatening you, or if this is something else entirely, but you push yourself up with your palms pressed to the counter, leaning into his space. Whatever this is, you’re too stubborn to back down.
You tilt your head and plaster on a lopsided grin.
“Am I really?” You ask in a sweet, lilting voice.
John just looks at you. He’s closer now, so close you could kiss him, if you wanted. You’re not sure what you want, actually. But you can feel his body heat, and his broad shoulders block your vision of anything else, and he looks a bit like he wants to eat you. Or maybe kill you.
His hand creeps back towards your hip. He leans closer. Your heart hammers but you ignore it. John lowers his gaze. You’re pretty certain he’s looking at your mouth.
“You’re a brat, you know that?” He murmurs.
“Is that so?” You ask, feigning confidence. Really, your veins feel rampant with electricity. Your heart thud thud thuds in your chest.
“Mm,” John hums back. His thumb skips over the outside of your thigh. He’s breathing heavier than usual. You think you are too.
You don’t know why, but you reach up and touch his face. You drag two fingers over the rough stubble growing at his jaw. John shows no reaction on his face, though you notice his chest heaving so close to yours.
“Thanks for patching me up,” you whisper, so close now that your lips ghost over his when you speak. “You know, with how careful you were with the stitches, I’d say you actually care about m—“
John kisses you to shut you up. At least, that’s what he tells you afterwards.
-
thank u for reading! please consider reblogging if you enjoyed x
summary: You hated John Walker. You fought him before, nearly killed him for carrying the shield. Years later, you’re forced to work with him again—and when he saved your life, the hatred cracked.
From the first moment you saw him step into frame, all grinning bravado and government-issue righteousness, you wanted to hit something. Preferably him.
He wore that shield like it meant something. Like it belonged to him.
He didn’t know Steve. Didn’t know what that shield meant. What it cost.
And maybe that’s what stung the most—how easily he wore it. How effortlessly he stepped into the space someone irreplaceable had left behind.
With every mission, every close call, your resentment festered. He called himself “Captain America” like it was a job title. Like he earned it. You’d catch him giving press interviews with that painted-on grin, answering questions like a politician, like a man who hadn’t watched the blood dry on his hands yet.
But you’d fought beside Steve Rogers. You’d seen him fall and get back up, not because the world expected it—but because he did. Because he couldn’t bear to do anything less. You knew what it really took to carry that weight—and it sure as hell wasn’t a shiny resume and a PR team.
John Walker… he didn’t have that in him. Not that kind of goodness. Not that kind of determination.
You’ve never had missed your chance to remind Walker of it.
The fight was over. The Flag Smashers were gone, the mission was a mess, and you were still standing on the side of the road somewhere in the middle of goddamn nowhere, heart pounding, blood rushing in your ears—with him behind you.
Captain fucking America.
You turned away from the road, from Sam’s exhausted voice and Bucky’s growl of frustration, trying to catch your breath. Not from the fight—you were used to the fights. It was the way he looked at you. The way he spoke. That unbearable calm in his voice like he’d actually done something good.
Like he thought he was helping.
“You know,” he said behind you, casual, too casual. “We actually made a pretty good team back there.”
You closed your eyes. Counted to five. Then ten. Somehow that heat behind your ribs didn’t fade.
You turned slowly. Met his gaze. Held it, even though it made something twist in your chest.
“Team? That what you think that was?” you asked, voice low and rough.
He shrugged, like he couldn’t see the storm building in your eyes. “I mean, we stopped the trucks. Nobody died. I’d say that’s a win.”
God.
You laughed. Sharp, bitter. It scraped your throat on the way out.
“You really believe this, don’t you?” you said. “You actually think you’re the good guy.”
John frowned, just slightly. “I’m doing what I was asked to do. What this country needs.”
“You think this country needs you?”
You didn’t mean to let that much venom slip out. But you couldn’t stop it now. You were tired. Angry. And something about the way he stood there, looking like the perfect soldier in that uniform that didn’t belong to him—it made you sick.
“You want to be seen as a hero so badly,” you whispered. “But you aren’t one.”
You stepped forward, and something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Uncertainty.
He didn’t move. You didn’t stop.
“You were handed that shield. You didn’t earn it. You didn’t carry it. And every time I look at you, I see a man playing dress-up in a uniform that belonged to someone who was ten times the person you’ll ever be.”
That landed. You saw it—the brief flicker of something raw in his face, like the words had actually hit bone.
He swallowed. His voice was quieter now, almost tired. “You don’t know me.”
“I don’t want to.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Too heavy. The wind whipped past your face, pulling at your jacket, and still—he didn’t look away.
But you did. You turned your back to him, jaw clenched tight, heart thudding against your ribs like it was trying to break out.
———
You thought it couldn’t get worse.
You thought you’d already seen the ugliest parts of him—the arrogance, the cocky one-liners, the way he walked into every room like the hero in someone else’s story. You thought your hatred for John Walker had already carved its place into your chest, a familiar wound, sharp but manageable.
And then came Lemar’s death.
And the shield—Steve’s shield—slick with blood that wasn’t his to spill.
You weren’t there when it happened. You didn’t see it fall. You were busy chasing one of the terrorists.
But then Bucky sent you the video. The footage that circled like vultures online—grainy, shaky, someone’s phone camera catching it all: the broken body, the gleam of the shield raised overhead, the fury in Walker’s face as it came down again, and again, and again.
Your stomach twisted when you saw him later. He was standing in the warehouse like a ghost, the shield still strapped to his back like he deserved it.
You should’ve stayed outside. You’d told yourself that. Let Sam and Bucky handle it.
But your feet carried you in before you could stop them.
He turned when he heard you, the edge of his profile illuminated by the fractured light through the busted windows. Eyes rimmed red. Hands twitching.
“Don’t.” Sam said behind you.
But you were already walking toward him. Sam didn’t even try saying anything again or stopping you.
You didn’t speak at first. You just looked at Walker and tried to find something left in his face that resembled a man.
You couldn’t.
He looked up at you like he expected a fight. Like he welcomed it.
“I didn’t have a choice,” he said, voice rough. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see what they did—”
“No,” you said quietly. “I didn’t see that. I just saw you kill a man with a shield that was never yours to carry.”
His jaw clenched, but you didn’t stop.
“You’re not Captain America. You never were. You’re a man with a suit and a name and a pile of bodies that you think justify themselves.”
“I lost my best friend,” he snapped. “What would you have done?”
“I would’ve done the right thing,” you whispered. “That’s what Steve would’ve done. That’s what any decent man would’ve done.”
He flinched like you’d slapped him.
Good.
But it wasn’t enough.
Your fist moved before you could stop it—sharper than the words, heavier than your restraint. You struck him clean across the jaw, the impact echoing off the steel walls. He stumbled a step, but didn’t go down.
He looked back at you with something wild in his eyes. Hurt. Guilt. Fury.
You saw his hands twitch again—and this time, he didn’t hold back.
He came at you fast. Not with full force, not like you were the enemy, but enough to knock you backward, enough to fight.
You hit the ground hard, rolled, came up swinging.
The two of you clashed in a storm of fists and broken breath. You weren’t thinking. Just moving. Just feeling everything you’d buried since Steve gave that shield away. Since Walker took it. Since he tarnished it.
You landed a knee to his ribs—he grunted, doubled over—and you could’ve stopped. Should’ve.
But you didn’t.
You shoved him back, threw another punch. He caught your wrist this time, eyes blazing.
“This what you want?” he hissed. “You want to hurt me? Go ahead. Get in line.”
You yanked your hand free. “You deserve it.”
And you meant it. Because something in you was cracking now—something deep and buried and filled with a grief you hadn’t wanted to name.
It wasn’t just about the shield. Not anymore.
It was about everything he wasn’t.
Everything Steve was. Everything you lost when the world decided to move on without asking if you were ready.
You were both breathing hard now, blood on your knuckles, bruises blooming under skin.
He stared at you like he didn’t know what he’d done wrong. Like he didn’t know how to be hated by someone who used to believe in what the shield stood for.
And now here you were. Staring at him back like you couldn’t forgive.
Staring at a man who wore your friend’s legacy like a weapon.
A man who made you feel like nothing in this world would ever be right again.
———
Everything changed after that day.
After the blood dried and the shield was stripped from his hands and everything he thought he was collapsed under the weight of what he’d done.
And few days later when Sam finally took the shield, when he earned it—stood tall and steady in a suit that actually meant something—you thought that was it. The end of it. Of him.
You figured you’d never have to think about John Walker again.
But time passed. The world kept breaking in new, creative ways. And now—now you were standing in a cold facility in the middle of nowhere, gripping a gun with your name on the target folder and a job from Valentina echoing in the back of your head like a dare.
Get rid of John Walker.
Get in. Get rid of him. Clean break. Simple.
You took it. It wasn’t like you, not really. But the hatred you had in the back of your head spoke louder than your heart and everything you thought you stood for.
Little did you know it was all a setup. A trap.
You should’ve known the moment you got the assignment. The briefing had been vague—too vague. No layout of the facility, no escape routes, just a location and a file with a familiar name stamped across it in thick black ink.
And then you walked into the belly of a concrete labyrinth and found other people—including Walker—standing there, weapons drawn, faces just as confused and angry as yours.
The doors sealed behind you with a hydraulic hiss. Locking down. Air pressure shifted, and red emergency lights flickered on like a funeral march. Somewhere deep in the walls, system roared to life. Not to protect you. To go up in flames.
Valentina had played you all like chess pieces, and now the board was on fire.
Ghost moved first, flickering out of sight, trying to go through the walls, which failed miserably. Bob stayed silent. Yelena cursed in Russian, muttering something about never trusting Val ever again.
And Walker—
God. Walker was standing with his hands raised slightly, like he thought someone might still shoot him. His face was tight, unreadable.
“What the hell is this?” he said, voice cutting through the silence. “This wasn’t the op.”
“No shit,” you snapped.
You hated how different he looked. Like time had pressed in on him. Like regret had left fingerprints all over his face. He wasn’t the clean-cut puppet from years ago anymore. Just a man left standing at the edge of the wreckage he helped build.
Gladly you all managed to get out. With Ava’s strange ability, Yelena’s plan and Walker’s „On your left,” when he smashed the power source. You almost punched him in the face just for saying that.
You didn’t want to work with him. You didn’t want to stand on the same side of any fight as John Walker. But when the truth about Valentina came out—about Sentry, about her plan to kill you all, and the experiments in Malaysia—you didn’t have a choice.
You told yourself it was temporary.
You told yourself he was just… useful.
And then you landed back in New York.
The Void descended with no warning—rupturing through the skyline, swallowing people like smoke through a keyhole. People screamed. Reality bent. You were thrown into the heart of it with no backup, no plan, and too much debris between you and the people you were trying to protect.
The city was collapsing, falling.
You fought through the chaos. Through the ripping wind and the shifting streets. Until something bigger caught your eye—a building fracturing at the base, tilting in on itself. Fast.
It was about to hit people below so you ran towards it—of course you did—hoping you’ll manage to save them.
You didn’t see the metal bar swing into your ribs.
You didn’t see the rubble above start to fall.
You hit the ground hard. Vision spinning.
And then came a a grunt. A thud. Arms around your waist.
You gasped as you were yanked sideways just before a concrete slab slammed into where you’d been lying.
Dust filled your throat. You coughed and blinked up.
There he was. Walker, blood on his cheek, breath ragged. His body practically covering yours like a shield.
He didn’t say anything.
Neither did you.
The sounds of the city raged around you—sirens, crumbling steel, distant screams—but in that second, everything went still. His arms braced on either side of you, holding his weight just above your body, chest rising and falling against yours in rough, uneven gasps.
You could feel the heat of him through your suit. Smell the dust and blood on his skin. See the tight clench of his jaw as he checked the collapse behind you, as if making sure the danger had really passed.
And still… he didn’t look at you. He didn’t ask if you were okay.
He just pulled back, slow and steady, like if he moved too fast you’d shatter.
You sat up once he was off you, cradling your ribs, avoiding his eyes. You didn’t thank him. Couldn’t. The words felt too sharp in your mouth. Like admitting what he’d done would rewrite everything you’d believed about him.
And maybe it had.
Because he didn’t have to come back for you. He didn’t have to throw himself into the collapse. He didn’t have to look at you like that—like the grudge didn’t matter anymore. Like it never had.
You told yourself it was just instinct. Just battlefield protocol. But that moment stayed with you.
Long after the end of everything. After Void was sealed. After the city’s streets were crowded again.
You were brought back to reality from your thoughts when Val announced you as The New Avengers.
You didn’t even pretend to hide your reaction.
A scoff escaped your throat before you could catch it. You folded your arms, weight shifted to one side, glaring at the floor like it had answers.
This wasn’t what you signed up for.
You were supposed to survive the facility, stop Val, shut down the Sentry project. Then walk away. Back into the dark. Back into the part of the world that didn’t ask questions about how much you hated or trusted the people you bled beside.
But now?
Now there were press conferences being planned. Uniforms being discussed. Public names, joint assignments, coordinated housing.
And all of it included Walker.
You hadn’t spoken with him since that day.
You couldn’t.
Not after the way he pulled you out of that collapse. Not after the way he didn’t say a damn thing and somehow that meant more than words ever could.
You tried to ignore him whenever you passed him in the Avengers Tower but you could always feel his presence, heavy in your periphery.
He avoided you as well. Like he didn’t know what to do with it either.
This was supposed to be easy. He was supposed to be the one you hated. The one you didn’t have to forgive.
And now you’d have to see him every goddamn day. Train with him. Fight beside him. Sit across briefing tables trying to pretend like nothing had shifted inside your ribs the moment he shielded you with his body like it was instinct.
———
You weren’t sleeping. Not really. Your body ached from training and you tossed in bed every two minutes.
So you got up wandered the hallway in silence, the floor cold under your bare feet, hoodie hanging loose around your frame. You told yourself you were just getting water. Just stretching your legs.
But the second you turned the corner near the common room, you froze.
He was there. Walker. Leaning against the wall, head tilted back, arms crossed over his chest. In sweats and a T-shirt, no armor, no shield, no sharp edges. Just him. Just John.
You almost backed away but his gaze landed on you.
Shit.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked, voice rough from disuse.
You shrugged. “Didn’t think anyone else would be up.”
Silence bloomed, thick and pressing. You crossed your arms, suddenly cold despite the hoodie.
“I’m not gonna thank you,” you said. „For saving me back then.”
His mouth twitched like he almost smiled. “Didn’t expect you to.”
“I just—” you faltered, jaw clenching. “You don’t get to pretend like it didn’t happen.”
He nodded slowly, gaze steady. “I’m not pretending.”
You hated the way your stomach turned. The way your chest tightened when he looked at you like that—not smug, not superior. Just honest.
“I don’t get it,” you muttered. “Why’d you even do that?”
He exhaled through his nose. “Because I didn’t want you to die.”
You stared at him. Your throat tightened. “You hated me.”
“Maybe I did,” he said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I wanted you gone.”
He pushed off the wall, slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he should leave or come closer. His voice softened.
“I know what I did. Who I was. And maybe you’ll never forgive me for it. But that doesn’t mean I’d let you go down in a pile of rubble just to prove a point.”
Your lips parted, but no words came.
Because you wanted to be angry.
You wanted to throw the past back in his face. But all you could feel was the echo of that moment again—his weight over you, his arms around you, the silence between you burning louder than any scream.
“You’re still an asshole,” you said finally, voice flat, throat tight.
He huffed a laugh, low and tired. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”
That should’ve been the end of it.
You should’ve walked away. Shut the door to this half-buried thing between you before it cracked wider. But your feet didn’t move. And neither did his.
The hallway felt too quiet. Too still. Like the tower itself was holding its breath.
Walker ran a hand through his hair, eyes dipping down, jaw clenching. He looked like he was debating saying something. Like whatever it was might undo the last few years of distance you’d tried so hard to build.
“You know I’d do it again.” His voice was softer now, quieter.
Your chest went still.
He glanced up, eyes catching yours. “If it happened again. If everything was falling and you were under it.” He paused. “I wouldn’t think twice.”
The words shouldn’t have hit you the way they did.
But they did. Harder than any rubble ever could. Heavier than the shield he used to carry.
You swallowed, hard. “That doesn’t mean we’re—” You broke off. “That doesn’t fix anything.”
“I’m not trying to fix it,” he said. “I’m just… telling you the truth.”
Your hand curled around your arm. Fingertips digging into your sleeve. “You make it really hard to keep hating you.”
His mouth pulled into something between a smile and a grimace. “That’s not intentional.”
“Well, try harder.” You meant it to come out cold. Dismissive. But it sounded… tired.
Exhausted by everything you’ve carried for years—the blood, the betrayal, the fire in your chest that never quite settled. And now it’s shifting. Changing. Because of him and his stupid act of bravery.
Maybe that was it. Maybe he finally learnt how to do the right thing and became the man you expected him to be when he got the Steve’s shield years ago.
Walker stepped closer—not enough to touch, but enough that you felt the gravity of it. The pull.
“I don’t want you to hate me,” he said.
You didn’t answer because you didn’t know how to say “I don’t want to hate you either.”
So instead, you closed the distance between the two of you. Your lips crashed into his—no warning. No pretense.
Just heat and exhaustion and years of something tangled and unsaid breaking loose all at once.
You didn’t know why you did it. Maybe it was your way of saying thank you, even though you said you were’t going to do that. Maybe you hoped it would stop that burning feeling inside your chest whenever you saw him.
His lips caught yours like a second too slow, like he didn’t believe it at first but then he was on you.
Hands at your waist. Then your back. Then tangled in your hoodie like he needed to get under it, like the feel of you wasn’t enough with cotton in the way. His mouth was rough, warm, desperate. He kissed you like he’d been waiting for it since the day you told him you’d rather kill him than work beside him.
You gasped when his hand slid up under your hoodie, skin to skin, dragging heat across your ribs. He caught that sound in his mouth—bit your bottom lip like he couldn’t help it.
“You really wanna do this?” he muttered against your jaw, breath hot, voice thick.
“I wouldn’t be kissing you if I didn’t,” you snapped, and tugged him back in like you were trying to punish him for making you feel this way.
He groaned. Like the way you hated him turned him on more than anything.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was everything else—anger, relief, want.
You pulled him back with you until your spine hit the wall, your hoodie rucked up, your hips dragged against his thigh as he slotted himself between your legs. His hands gripped your waist, pulled you flush, and god—he was hard already.
You weren’t doing this to be sweet. You didn’t want slow.
You just wanted to feel something real after too long pretending you didn’t.
“Off,” you breathed, tugging at his shirt. “Take it off—”
He obeyed, pulled it over his head and tossed it behind him, and fuck—
You hadn’t let yourself think about what he looked like, but now you couldn’t not see it. The way his body moved. The way he breathed. The scars and wounds which still haven’t faded from the last mission he was on.
Your hands were on his chest, then lower—scraping nails along his abs as you dragged his waistband down enough to feel the heat of him straining against fabric.
John hissed. Caught your wrist gently but firmly. He kissed you harder, deeper. One hand sliding down the back of your thigh, hitching your leg up around his waist. His fingers pressed between your legs through the thin fabric of your sleep shorts and you gasped—hips grinding forward, aching.
“You’re soaked,” he muttered against your ear, breath ragged.
“Shut up.”
But you were.
You didn’t care.
All you cared about was the way he touched you—how fast his fingers slipped past the fabric, how his thumb pressed against your clit just right, how your hips jerked and your head hit the wall and you let out a sound that was definitely not subtle.
“Come on, sweetheart. Let me hear you.” he said and took of your shorts off for easier access.
You bit your lip. Nearly drew blood.
But he knew what he was doing. His fingers circled, slid inside, curled. You gasped again, louder this time.
Your hand gripped the back of his neck, the other fumbling for the waistband of his sweats. He helped you—pulled them down with one hand, never letting up with the other.
When he pressed the head of his cock against you, your hips lifted to meet him like instinct.
“No teasing,” you muttered. “Just fuck me.”
And he did. One deep thrust that filled you to the hilt, his head dropping to your shoulder with a low, guttural curse. Your fingers dug into his back, your leg tightening around his waist as he began to move—slow at first, then harder.
The hallway was filled with the sound of skin, breath, need.
It was rough, frenzied at first—your bodies crashing together like the only way to silence everything between you was to fuck through it. You held onto him like a lifeline, nails dragging down his back, and he rutted into you with all the restraint of a man who’d waited so long to touch you.
Then something changed.
He slowed. Just a little. Hands smoothing over your hips, your waist, up under your hoodie like he needed to feel you. Really feel you.
You tried to kiss him again, tried to draw him back into the rush of it, but he broke away and pulled out of you, which made you whimper at the loss. His lips began trailing down your jaw, your throat, your collarbone.
“Take this off,” he whispered.
His fingers slipped under the hem of your hoodie, pushing it up, revealing inches of bare skin as he went. He kissed every part he uncovered—slow, reverent. Like peeling you out of your clothes was something sacred.
He tugged it over your head. You stood there, naked in the dim glow of the hallway, chest rising and falling too fast, heat rushing to your cheeks. The clothing dropped to the floor with a soft thud, forgotten.
His gaze drank you in.
“Fuck,” he murmured. His hand lifted to trace the line of your breast, your ribs, like he didn’t trust himself to grab hold too fast. “You’re…”
You rolled your eyes, flustered. “Don’t get sappy on me, Walker.”
But your voice betrayed you—breathy, shaken, softer than it should’ve been.
His lips brushed your ear. “You’re so pretty like this.”
You felt it in your stomach. Low. Aching.
He kissed down your chest, mouth hot and open, leaving a trail that had your spine arching off the wall. His hands moved with him—down your sides, your hips, thumbs sweeping across your thighs as he sank to his knees like it was nothing. Like it was natural and you’ve had done it a thousand times before.
He pressed his mouth to your skin, just above your most sensitive area.
“I’ve thought about this,” he whispered.
You didn’t ask when. You didn’t need to.
Because you’d thought about it too. Even when you hated him. Maybe because you hated him.
Your hand found his hair, tugged gently.
He looked up at you—pupils blown wide, lips slick, chest heaving—and there was nothing cocky left in him.
Only want. And the sharp edge of something deeper. Something you didn’t dare name.
There was no hesitation. His mouth was on you in seconds—hot tongue parting your folds, lips wrapping around your clit like he knew exactly how to tear you open from the inside out.
Your back hit the wall with a soft thud, one leg draped over his shoulder, your hands scrambling for balance—fisting in his blonde hair, clutching at the smooth tile behind you, anything.
But it was him.
It was him holding you steady. Him on his knees like it was right where he belonged.
“Jesus, Walker—” you gasped, hips rolling forward before you could stop them.
He groaned like it encouraged him. His fingers dug into your thighs, keeping you pinned. His tongue moved in long, slow drags, then faster flicks—pressing and circling like he was studying you, learning every twitch and breath and curse that spilled from your lips.
You looked down at him and nearly choked on your own breath.
His eyes were on you. Dark, heavy-lidded, full of something close to reverence. Like he needed to see your face while he broke you open.
“You taste so fucking good,” he muttered against your skin, the vibrations making your knees buckle.
“Shut up,” you rasped, breath catching. “Just—fuck—keep going.”
And he did.
Tongue fucking you now, nose brushing your clit with every movement, jaw working with a kind of desperation you hadn’t expected. He wasn’t doing this for you to moan pretty. He was doing it because he needed to.
Your leg trembled around his shoulder. Your body started to tighten.
You could feel it—fast, sharp, barreling toward the edge like gravity, and he must’ve felt it too, because his grip tightened and his mouth slammed against your clit, sucking hard and fast while his fingers replaced his tongue, curling inside you—
You came with a broken cry. Your whole body went tense. Then loose like he’d knocked the fight right out of you.
Your hand clutched his hair, riding it out, legs shaking as he worked you through it—slow now, gentle licks, like he was savoring the last of it.
You gasped, tried to speak, failed.
John kissed the inside of your thigh once. Then again. Slow. Almost sweet. He looked up at you, lips slick, face flushed.
Your legs were still shaking. You dragged in a breath, swallowed hard, then whispered, “I need you.”
His brows lifted slightly.
You leaned down, fingers sliding into his hair again—not to pull him back this time, but to bring him up. Back to you. Where he belonged.
Your voice cracked, soft and raw. “I need to feel you inside me again, John… Fuck, please—”
It spilled out before you could stop it. His name. The please The desperate, aching want in your tone.
And you hated how much you meant it.
His mouth twitched—like he could barely process hearing you beg for him, like some part of him didn’t believe it was real. But then his hands were on you again, lifting you up into his arms without a word, carrying you back down the hall toward your room like nothing else mattered.
Like he couldn’t wait another goddamn second.
He kicked the door shut behind him.
Laid you down like you were something fragile—even though you both knew better. Even though you were already reaching for him again.
He groaned when he saw how wet you still were. How ready. How wrecked just for him.
You spread your legs and pulled him between them.
He knew what you wanted and didn’t hesitate. He buried himself in you deep and hot and so good it knocked the air out of your lungs.
“Fuck—” you gasped, head tipping back. “God, yes—”
He moved over you with that same rhythm he had before—hips rolling deep, like he was trying to memorize every flutter of your walls around him.
You clung to his shoulders, nails dragging down his back, needing more—more pressure, more stretch, more him.
“Harder,” you whispered. “Please, just—don’t stop.”
“Not planning to,” he growled into your neck.
Then he really started fucking you.
Harder. Deeper. Every thrust slamming into you like he was trying to chase the memory of hate from your body and replace it with this. With him. With the burn and ache and heat of wanting you back.
His hand slid between you, fingers rubbing quick, tight circles over your clit while his cock pounded into you and you swore you saw stars.
“John—fuck—John—” Your voice was wrecked. Your body was so close again, too soon and he could feel it.
“That’s it,” he rasped. “Come on, sweetheart. I want to feel you come around me. Want you to squeeze my cock just like that—fuck, that’s it—”
You shattered.
Legs shaking, mouth open, nails digging into his skin, leaving crescent shaped marks as your orgasm hit so hard you almost sobbed.
He followed with a broken sound, hips jerking, breath ragged as he came deep inside you—head buried in your neck, arms tight around you like he needed to hold you together.
The silence that followed was heavy and full of everything you didn’t know how to say.
Your body still trembled slightly—aftershocks of what you’d just shared, what you’d just given. You could feel his breath against your skin, still uneven, still catching on the edges like he didn’t know how to slow down either.
He pulled out of you slowly and lay down next to you. Then, gently—tentatively—his fingers brushed a strand of hair away from your face. Like he was afraid you’d flinch. Like he wasn’t sure he had permission to be soft with you.
You didn’t flinch. You looked at him instead. Tired. Raw. Searching.
Neither of you said anything. Neither of you knew what this meant. What came next. What the hell to do with it.
You gave him a weak, shaky smile. Small. Almost embarrassed. But real.
Before you could change your mind, you shifted—just slightly—and curled into him. Buried your face in his chest, inhaling the scent of sweat and heat and him. Your arm draped across his waist like muscle memory.
And he… let you.
More than that—he pulled you in tighter.
One arm around your back. The other coming up to cradle the back of your head like you were something precious. His lips pressed a soft, almost hesitant kiss into your hair, and he exhaled slow, like it let something out he’d been holding for years.
⋆⁺₊✧ MASTERLIST
💌 tag list: @iamthatonefangirl @buckytakethewheel @thatsbucknasty @buckybarneswife125 @peanutbutt3rcup @avengemepercy @gottareadthosefics2
summary: your boyfriend was a dick, no way around it. and john loathed him. tonight is no different when the three of you and the rest of the thunderbolts go to a hockey game. so when you and john end up on the kiss cam, john seizes his shot.
word count: 2.5k
warnings: cheating, toxic relationship, cocky/smug/flirty walker, mentions of smut
“You excited, baby?” You asked, looking over at your boyfriend, Ryan.
Bucky had surprised the whole team with tickets to a hockey game. Alexei had been talking for weeks about wanting to learn about non-Russian sports. Bucky had mainly bought the tickets to shut him up.
There’d been enough tickets for some friends of the team to join you: including Ryan.
Ryan was, on his best day, an asshole. The entire team loathed him, especially because they adored you so much.
Ryan shrugged your hand out of his, brushing off your question. “Why do we have to hang out with your friends?” He groaned. You took a deep breath, trying to remember the things you loved about Ryan— even though that list shrunk daily.
“I want you to have a good relationship with my friends. It’s important to me. Why do you hate them so much?” You asked in a hushed tone. You tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, but he made it harder each time. John’s familiar eyes glanced back and found yours.
He tried to read your expression— to judge whether he needed to step in or not. All your friends saw through the happy couple facade, but John took a more direct approach.
“Oh, for fucks sake,” Ryan groaned, annoyed that he was even having this conversation.
“C’mon, baby. Just talk to me,” you begged him. You reached out for his hand, but he tensed and retracted.
John noticed the way your face fell as your boyfriend pulled away from you. He jogged back towards you. Anything he could do to make you feel less alone— he’d do it.
You glanced over at John as he joined you. You saw that knowing look in his eyes— the same one he had anytime Ryan was around.
“Hey, Ryan, buddy. Don’t know if you noticed, but your girlfriend was actually trying to hold your hand. So, maybe stop being a dick and treat her with some respect.” John snapped.
“John, don’t—” you grabbed his forearm. Before you could try to deescalate the situation, Ryan shot back.
“How about you do it for me? Since you always seem so willing to insert yourself into our relationship. Or, crazy idea, mind your fucking business.” Ryan rolled his eyes.
John meant well, he always did. And he made you feel so protected, but he knew just how to push Ryan’s buttons— and he seemed to enjoy it.
His eyes caught your gaze. He recognized the look you gave him instantly— ease up on him, please.
He gave you a short nod and dropped the topic. He stayed glued to your side as you all waited in the line to get through security. Any time Ryan looked at him, he’d just scowl in response.
“I’m going to get a beer.” Ryan rushed off after you all got through security.
You had to fight to keep the disappointment off your face. “You alright?” Bucky asked you, cautiously.
Everyone on the team recognized your expression— the pretending to be okay even though your world is crumbling. They’d all worn that expression before.
“I’m fine. He just had a rough day at work. That’s it.” You lied, unconvincingly.
They all nodded— not even slightly believing you. Yelena gave you a sympathetic smile. It gave you a pit in your stomach. It always did— the pity.
You knew that they were your friends and they cared about your wellbeing, but you hated feeling like they pitied you. “Why don’t you guys go find the seats? We’ll catch up in a bit.” John said, nodding at the others.
John Walker was the last person you’d expected to bond with when you joined the Thunderbolts turned New Avengers. But slowly, you’d both started to care for each other.
And he’d started to become fiercely protective of you. Especially when your boyfriend was being an ass.
As soon as they left, you felt John’s gaze on you. It burned into your skin as you focused on the ground. His finger ghosted over your hips— there was a hesitancy in the way he touched you.
He slowly tugged you towards him.
“Why do you do that, Walker? You know it just winds him up.” You asked, still not having the courage to face him.
He stepped closer towards you. It was force of habit at this point— he always felt like he was being drawn towards you like a magnet.
He nudged your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. His blue eyes bore into yours. It felt like he could see right into your soul.
“You deserve better.” He said, softly.
It was just three words, but there was so much more unspoken. Don’t stay with him. Be with me. Let me take care of you the way he can’t.
“He loves me. He just has bad days.” You covered for Ryan as you’d done countless times before.
Even you didn’t know why you were still with him. Probably just nostalgia at this point. You’d been together since high school. He wasn’t always cold and standoffish. It was only in the last year that things had soured.
Every time you told yourself that you were going to call it quits, you were reminded of all the good times.
“I’m only saying this because I care about you and I don’t want to see you get hurt. Every time you’re around him, you seem tense. And he acts like such a jackass. You can do so much better than him.” He told you, softly.
His rough calloused fingers traveled lightly down your side. He caressed your hand slowly. His eyes were glued on your face. He’d stop the minute you told him to— but you didn’t. He started to slot his fingers in yours when Ryan appeared at your side.
You jumped away from John, startled by Ryan’s presence. You followed Ryan's gaze to where your hands had been connected five seconds ago.
The way Ryan was clenching his jaw was a pretty good indicator that he’d seen it. “Ready to go to the seats?” John asked. He was technically asking both of you, but his eyes never left yours.
You started to step towards him, but Ryan grabbed your wrist. “We’ll catch up. We’re just gonna chat for a minute.” Ryan said through clenched teeth.
Ryan’s tight grip on your wrist made John’s skin crawl. He wanted to pry him off of you and break every bone in his hand. Then, he could finally sweep you up off your feet— away from Ryan.
“Call me if you need me.” John told you before walking away. He didn’t care if Ryan heard him— in fact, he hoped he did. He wanted Ryan to know that he had to answer to him if he hurt you.
“What is your fucking problem tonight?” You hissed at Ryan.
He scoffed. You wanted to smack the smug look off his face. “I’m being a pretty good sport considering I have to spend the whole night with your friends.” He told you.
You took a deep breath— feeling the air fill up your lungs and hoping it would replace the rage in your body. “They’ve been so friendly and accommodating. They keep trying to get to know you, and you brush them off.” You argued.
They were some of your best friends, and you hated hearing Ryan bash them when they’d been more than welcoming.
“They all act like they don’t like me. And don’t get me started on Walker.” He ranted.
You sighed, knowing exactly where this conversation was headed. “Oh my god. You’re always ranting about John. Nothing is going on between us. If you’re that insecure that you can’t handle me being friends with a guy, just say that.” You snapped.
“Oh, bullshit. He wants to get in your pants and you know it.” He yelled, drawing attention from other guests. You could feel the eyes on you— it made your skin crawl.
“No, he doesn’t. And stop yelling.” You said, smacking his hand.
He rolled his eyes. “Stop being so naive. Everyone can see it. He’s into you, and it pisses him off that you’re not his.” He explained.
You brushed him off— hating the voice in the back of your head that told you he was right. Ryan sulked behind you as you both headed towards your seats.
There were two empty seats on the end next to John. “Oh, that’s fucking perfect,” Ryan muttered behind you.
You felt the team’s eyes on you as you approached your seat. Concern written across all of their faces.
You both sat down silently. “You alright?” You heard John quietly whisper beside you. He kept his eyes focused straight ahead, knowing Ryan would lose it if he saw you both talking.
When he only heard silence in response, he frantically looked over at you. That’s when he saw the tears welling up in your eyes.
“Count your fucking days, Ryan.” John snarled at him before slipping some tissues into your hand.
“Yeah yeah go fuck yourself,” Ryan mumbled in response.
This encounter had grabbed the whole group’s attention. The boys were debating punching Ryan in the face. At the other end of your row, Yelena and Ava were watching how heartbroken you looked. “There’s an extra seat down here, love. C’mere for a minute.” Ava waved you over towards them.
You slowly stood up. John noticed how much your hands were shaking. His heart fractured into pieces. You carefully walked past all the guys— each of them gave your hand a quick squeeze as you passed them.
The girls quickly pulled you into a hug and comforted you. They were the closest things you had to sisters. They’d been there for every long night after a fight with Ryan.
John turned in his seat, facing Ryan. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to keep up the protective friend act when she’s not here.” Ryan said, sensing his gaze.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” John snapped.
Ryan chuckled. He’d gladly take any shot to get under John’s skin. “Being glued to my girlfriend’s side. You don’t have to pretend it comes from friendship. We all know you just want to fuck her. And I know you can’t stand that I’m the only one who gets to fuck her.” He said.
John clenched his fists— it was becoming harder and harder to keep his cool. John was riled up, and Ryan knew.
It was John’s turn. He knew you’d probably kill him if you heard him, but he wanted to put Ryan in his place— even if he had to lie to do it.
“If that helps you sleep at night, go ahead and keep thinking that. But, do you really think I haven’t fucked her already? What exactly do you think happens on our long missions? Somebody has to keep her satisfied, and she knows to come to me and not you.” John said, with a cocky smirk.
Every last word of it was lies, but Ryan ate it right up. “What the fuck?” He asked, mouth agape.
Next to John, Bucky was covering his mouth to keep from laughing. Less than a hundred words and John was in Ryan’s head.
“You’re bluffing.” Ryan said, still in disbelief. John shrugged, shooting him a playful wink. “Am I?” He asked. And Ryan was spiraling again.
A couple seats down, you got a text from Ryan.
Ryan: “You lying bitch. Your little boytoy just told me about your mission hookups. Knew you were lying.”
You quickly typed back a response.
“Oh for fuck’s sake, he’s trying to get under your skin. Just ignore him.”
You got up to go back to your seat— hoping you could quell his anger before it blew up into a big fight. “I promise, he’s just messing with you. Can you just try to be civil, please?” You whispered to Ryan. He sighed and nodded, throwing his arm around your shoulder.
The rest of the game went as smoothly as possible, until Ryan started flirting with the girls sitting behind him. It was revenge— you knew it was just a way to punish you. But you hadn’t actually done anything wrong.
You sat there still, not letting your face show any emotion. That was what he wanted.
You focused your eyes on the screen at the center of the arena. They were showing the kiss cam and random couples.
The few elderly couples made your heart swoon. That was what you wanted— someone to grow old with. You knew that someone wasn’t Ryan. You needed someone to choose you.
John nudged you with his shoulder. “I’m sorry that I lied to him earlier. I should’ve been the bigger person, I know that. I don’t want to do anything that complicates your life. It’s just that…you deserve so much more than him.” He said, genuinely.
“Thank you,” you said, giving him a sweet smile. A smile that made him weak in the knees.
“You deserve the fairytale and all that romance shit. Not that asshole,” he said, almost perfectly reading your mind.
Before you could respond, you heard cheering around the arena. You glanced up and realized you and Ryan were on the kiss cam— not that he noticed, he was too busy talking to those girls.
The entire arena roared, and then started booing when they realized your boyfriend was ignoring you. You looked over at Ryan, hoping for him to just turn his head.
Looking back up at the kiss cam, you shrugged your shoulders, earning a laugh from the crowd.
Then, the camera operator started to scoot the camera, so that you and John were in the frame. You could hear the “Ooooo’s” from around the room.
The heat rushed to your cheeks. Suddenly, the attention was making your skin burn. The commotion finally got Ryan’s attention. His eyes went wide as he saw the both of you on the screen.
He jumped to his feet, frantically waving his hands in front of you. “No, she’s my girlfriend.” He yelled, desperately trying to stop anything from happening.
Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed the smirk on John’s face. He scanned your face, waiting until he saw the start of a smile.
It was a blur. Suddenly, he was cupping your face and kissing you like his life depended on it. You felt your entire body relax and melt into his touch.
He smirked against your lips as Ryan started to protest. He cupped the back of your head, devouring you.
Your stomach was doing flips as his lips attacked yours. The kiss was hungry— and made you feel wanted.
You heard cheers and whistles from your friends. You ran your fingers over his chest— trying to memorize the feeling. You wanted to remember every second, in case you woke up and this was all just a dream.
“Fuck both of you,” you heard Ryan complain before he stormed off.
You both pulled out of the kiss— giddy and smiling. John shot his arms up in the air victoriously, earning a cheer from the crowd. He swooped you out of your seat and pulled you into his arms.
“Hi, honey,” he said, the pet name effortlessly rolling off his tongue.
“I’m gonna treat you so much better than he did. I promise,” he said, pecking your lips again.
john walker x reader {kinktober prompt: wet dreams}
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. It’s just kinda hard to ignore when someone’s moaning my name like that.”
summary: john walker is the last person you expected to have a sex dream about - and it’s just your luck that his bedroom is right next to yours.
word count: 2.3k
warnings/tags: 18+ only mdni, smut and sexual themes, sex dreams, teasing and banter, tension, not enemies but they don’t get along to lovers, reader is afab, no use of y/n
author’s note: sorry not sorry i’ll always be a sucker for the “walker is weak for the reader calling him by his first name” trope
The scratch of his beard tickles the skin of your innermost thighs.
He’s been nestled between your legs for what feels like hours - long enough to have already pulled two orgasms from you with his tongue and long, dexterous fingers alone.
Your own fingers are laced through tufts of short, sandy blond hair, tugging hard enough to earn a low, throaty growl from him that vibrates against your already sensitive cunt.
Your thighs are practically shaking around his head, your body otherwise limp against the old safe house mattress.
“John—” you whine at the loss of contact when he pulls his index finger out of you.
“Could get used to you calling me that,” he grunts with a breathy laugh that fans over your folds.
“Your name?” You snort, half teasing and half serious. You’re borderline delirious in the afterglow of your climax and struggling to form a coherent thought.
He sits up on his knees, wrapping his fist around the length of his cock as he stares down at you with an expression that you can’t quite read. He shrugs. “You normally only call me Walker.”
He’s right. You don’t remember ever calling him John before now, but the name slipped through your lips without so much as a second thought.
And it didn’t feel wrong.
“Come here,” you murmur, pulling him down to you. He’s eager and more than willing to please - he doesn’t hesitate to do what you ask of him.
He hovers above you, one arm braced beside your head, caging you beneath him. His other hand trails lightly up your stomach before pausing at your ribcage as he looks at you almost expectantly.
“I’ll call you whatever you want,” you hum, wrapping your arms around his midsection to pull his chest flush against yours. “Just get inside me.”
You jolt awake, your heart hammering against your ribs. For a moment, you can still feel his hands on you. Still smell the musk of his cologne and taste him on your tongue. Then, your eyes begin to adjust to the darkness of your bedroom and reality sets in.
You just had a fucking sex dream about Walker - your teammate who lives to get on your every nerve, every chance he gets. John Walker, who just so happens to be sleeping in the room right next to yours.
As much as you want to deny it, you can’t. The sticky arousal between your thighs makes it difficult to pretend otherwise.
“Where the fuck did that come from?” You grumble to yourself, sitting up and swinging your legs over the side of the bed.
Walker is an objectively conventionally attractive man. Undeniably and annoyingly so. You aren’t blind. But a graphic, hyper-realistic wet dream?
What the fuck.
You need fresh air.
Skin still feverish, you don’t bother putting on a robe. In only a pair of shorts and a thin tank top, you tiptoe to the kitchen for a glass of ice water, fingers crossed that no one else is awake at this hour.
Luckily, all is quiet. You take your drink onto the balcony, hoping the night air will clear him from your thoughts.
By Manhattan standards, it’s calm tonight.
The city still hums far below - the distant rush of traffic and the occasional police siren - but from the very top of the Watchtower, the city almost feels peaceful.
The cool October air nips at your exposed skin, a welcome contrast to the heat still clinging to you from the dream.
You try to banish it from your mind but it’s futile. You can’t stop replaying the way his voice sounded, the way his hands felt trailing over your body. The warmth of him pressed against you, the feeling of his mouth on your skin.
It all felt so utterly lifelike. Even now that you’re fully awake, you’re having to convince yourself that it was a dream and not a memory.
A stupid, impossible dream, but still. Just a dream. People have sex dreams all the time. It’s not like it’s your first time ever having one, so why are you letting it rile you up so much? Just because it was about Walker?
The rusty creak of door hinges pulls you from your thoughts. You glance over your shoulder just as the balcony door eases open.
Of course. Of all the people in this building that could come check on you right now, of course it’s him.
“Do you always try to freeze yourself to death in the middle of the night, or is this a new thing?”
His voice is gruff with sleep, though a familiar lilt of amusement is still present. Normally, it would make you want to chuck the glass of water in your hand at his head. Now, it just sends a shiver up your spine.
You blame the breeze.
“Couldn’t sleep,” you mutter, turning back to the skyline so that you aren’t staring at him in his current state - hair tousled, loose fitting Army t-shirt, black sweatpants. It’s perfectly normal sleep attire and any other night, you wouldn’t bat an eye, but there’s something domestic about it that makes your heart race a little faster right now. “Just wanted to get some fresh air.”
“I guess that makes two of us.”
You hear him step closer, the soft thud of his bare feet against concrete. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but you don’t have to look to know that he’s staring at you. You can practically feel it - his eyes dragging from your bare shoulders to the hem of your shorts.
“You might wanna throw on a sweater or something if you’re going to stay out here much longer. Unless you plan on catching hypothermia.”
You shoot him a sideways glance. “Thanks, but I’m fine. It’s not that cold.”
Not anymore, anyway. Not now that he’s staring at you just an arms length away.
“I’m just saying,” he says, voice smug. “It’s forty something degrees and you’re basically naked and sipping ice water. Next time you need to… cool down in the middle of the night, maybe just turn your fan on.”
You force yourself to keep looking forward. “Didn’t realize Valentina assigned you to hallway patrol.”
He huffs a laugh. “You just sounded… restless.”
Your head finally snaps in his direction, your stomach somersaulting. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs, a bit too casually. He looks as if he’s trying his hardest to not smirk. “Just figured something is keeping you awake and wanted to check on you. That’s all.”
Restless. The way he’d say it made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Your cheeks heat up, the night air suddenly doing very little to keep you cooled off. He’s obviously trying to get some kind of reaction out of you, and you aren’t about to indulge him.
“Well, as you can see, I’m fine,” you huff. “You can go back to bed now.”
“Yeah, you look fine,” he retorts, voice suddenly low. “Definitely doesn’t look like you’re about to shatter that glass by squeezing it too hard or anything.”
Your eyes shoot down to the glass of ice water clutched in your hand, your knuckles visibly taut. You instantly relax your grip. You turn around to bite out some kind of snappy comeback, but he’s already retreating back inside the Watchtower with his back to you.
He closes the door behind him without saying another word, leaving you even more rattled than you had been when you first woke from your dream.
••••••
A week passes and with each day, you’re more and more convinced of one thing - somehow, Walker knows that you had a sex dream about him.
There’s two possibilities. The first - which you can admit is unlikely - is that he can suddenly read minds. The second - which makes way more sense - is that he overheard you. You aren’t exactly sure what it is that he overheard, but it had to be a moan or a whimper or something that let him know what you were dreaming about that night.
It’s the only explanation for his increasingly odd behavior over the last week. And by odd you mean uncharacteristically... considerate?
The following morning, when you finally got out of bed and made your way to the kitchen, everyone else was already finishing up breakfast. You were about to pour yourself a bowl of cereal when Walker made sure to let you know that he’d saved some waffles for you. Then, when you stopped for gas on the drive to a job in upstate New York, he handed you your favorite energy drink when he got back in the car. You hadn’t asked for it, but he got it for you, anyway.
And then there was the blanket.
A couple nights ago, you must’ve fallen asleep on the couch in the common room, because when you woke up around midnight, there was a heavy, camo blanket draped over you. The same one that normally sits folded at the end of Walker’s bed.
You’ve tried not to read into any of it too much.
But every morning, he’s asked you how you’ve slept. And every night, he’s told you sweet dreams with the same knowing, arrogant smirk.
By the end of the week, you have stopped wondering if he knows and started wondering when he’s going to actually say something about it.
You’re sitting at the kitchen island finishing up a mission report when he finds you late one evening.
“Didn’t think anyone was still awake,” he says as he grabs a bottle of water from the fridge.
“Paperwork,” you mutter, not looking up at him. “Some of us actually do it, you know.”
He chuckles, coming to lean against the counter directly across from you. He says nothing, but you can feel him watching you. The weight of his stare and the tension that’s been building for the last seven days finally makes you snap, slamming your laptop shut so it’s no longer blocking your view of him.
“Alright, what’s your problem, Walker?”
He blinks, feigning innocence. “Problem? I don’t have a problem.”
“Don’t play dumb,” you snort. “You’ve been acting weird all week.”
He raises a brow, still infuriatingly calm. “Weird how?”
You aren’t stupid. You know what he’s doing. He doesn’t want to say it. Doesn’t want to admit what he knows - wants you to be the one to break first.
“Saving food for me at breakfast. Buying me my favorite energy drink unprompted. Covering me up with your blanket—” You tick the incidents off on your fingers for emphasis.
“That was just me being nice.”
“You? Nice? Please.” You huff out a humorless laugh. “You wouldn’t be doing those things for no reason.”
You give him a look that says just fucking say it.
For a moment, he’s silent. He leans against the counter, staring at you with a gleam in his eyes and lips that threaten to upturn at the corners.
“Just thought that if I was nice enough, I might get to hear you say my name in your sleep again. That’s all.”
And there it is. The confession you’ve been waiting for. You don’t flinch. You don’t even blink, refusing to give him any sort of reaction.
He tilts his head as if in thought. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. It’s just… kinda hard to ignore when someone’s moaning my name like that.”
You hum. “You know, if you wanted to hear me say your name, there’s more effective ways of achieving that than whatever this little… charade you’ve been doing for the last week is.”
He huffs a laugh, then begins sauntering around the island that separates the two of you. You silently hope that he isn’t able to detect the way your heart rate spikes as he closes in on you. He purses his lips as he leans against the counter, so close that you can practically feel heat radiating from his body.
“More effective ways, huh?” He says, voice barely above a whisper. “I’d say whatever I was doing in that dream was pretty effective. Why don’t you tell me about it?”
Heat pools in your lower belly at the timbre of his voice and the way his eyes linger on your lips.
“Not sure if you’ve earned that yet,” you breathe.
“Damn,” he sighs. “And here I was thinking waffles would do the trick.”
You lean in, looking up at him from beneath your lashes, close enough for your breath to skim his jaw. “If you want details, it’s gonna take a little bit more effort than that.”
He gulps. Whatever smart remark he was thinking about making seems to die on his tongue. His hand finds the edge of your chair, spinning you towards him until your knees brush his thighs. His eyes dart from your lips to your eyes, seemingly looking for any sign of hesitation from you.
And then he leans down.
You tilt your head to meet him halfway. His hand comes to cup the side of your face, the pad of his thumb skimming your cheek as his lips slate over yours. It’s hesitant at first, like he halfway expects you to shove him away. But your hands settle on his sides, tugging him closer to you, and then his lips begin to move with yours.
It’s more tender than you ever imagined - even sweeter than it had been in your dream. There’s a faint, lingering taste of berry flavored Powerade from his evening workout that compels you to brush your tongue across his bottom lip. He opens up without hesitation, his free hand coming to rest against the side of your neck. His touch his feather light, a sharp contrast to his usual brute force.
He pulls away only when you’re both breathless. His nose still brushes against yours, his breath fanning over your kiss-swollen lips.
When he speaks, his voice is low and raspy in a way that you’ve never heard from him while awake. “Still think this is just a charade?”
thank you sm for reading. as always, comments and reblogs are very appreciated 🖤 dividers by @/enchanthings!
Five Times He Took Care of You (and the One Time You Took Care of Him) - john walker x reader
ᯓ pairing john walker x reader
ᯓ summary john walker has a habit of showing his feelings in actions rather than words. from cooking her dinner when she forgets to eat, to tending to her after a clumsy training fall, to making sure she’s cared for when she’s had too much to drink — he’s always there. she chalks it up to him just being… john. until one mission goes wrong, and a single moment forces her to see all those “small things” for what they really were.
You hadn’t noticed how little you’d been eating until John did. It wasn’t intentional — missions had been stacking, briefings ran long, and meals were more of an afterthought than a necessity. But he noticed. John Walker noticed everything.
One evening, you walked into the Tower kitchen to find him at the stove, sleeves rolled up, the scent of sizzling butter and something savory filling the air. It was the kind of smell that could make someone homesick for a place they’d never even been. He didn’t look up when you approached, just kept stirring something in the pan.
“Georgia heritage,” he said when you asked. “You’re about to be blessed with a proper home-cooked meal.”
You tried to wave him off. “I’m fine, really—”
He slid a plate in front of you without missing a beat. “Eat, pretty. You can fight me later.”
The plate was loaded with golden biscuits and perfectly seasoned chicken covering some creamy pasta, steam curling into the air like it was taunting you.
You sat down, telling yourself you’d take a bite just to humor him. One bite turned into two, then half the plate was gone before you’d even realized it. It was comforting in a way you couldn’t name — not just the food, but the quiet way he leaned against the counter, watching you without making you feel watched.
He didn’t sit until you’d eaten at least half. And when he finally did, it wasn’t to eat — it was to reach over and drop another biscuit onto your plate. You didn’t notice his satisfied smile as he washed the pan, but you did notice that for the rest of the week, there was always something freshly made in the fridge.
⸻
The Second Time
Training with John was… intense. He was patient, sure, but he pushed you hard, sometimes to the point where you wondered if he was secretly trying to kill you. You were learning a new takedown maneuver when your foot caught wrong on the mat and—
BAM.
Face-first into the ground. The sound of impact echoed in your skull.
You heard his boots before you felt his hands. He crouched next to you, tilting your chin gently upward. “Hold still.” His voice had softened, the gruff edges sanded away.
Blood was already trickling from your split lip, warm against your skin. He grabbed a clean rag from the supply table, pressed it to your mouth, and held it there with steady fingers.
“You hit harder than you think,” you mumbled against the fabric, embarrassed and wishing you could sink into the floor.
“Or you fall harder than you realize,” he countered, eyes scanning your face for any other damage.
When he pulled the rag away, his gaze lingered just a moment too long on your mouth. You chalked it up to him checking for swelling, nothing more. You didn’t notice the way his jaw tightened when you laughed it off and jumped back into training, insisting you were fine.
Later that night, when you found a pack of your favorite lip balm on your desk, you assumed it was from Yelena. But…. you didn’t tell her you hurt your lip, in fact you didn’t tell anyone?
⸻
The Third Time
It was Ava’s idea to go out, and Yelena’s idea to do shots. One thing led to another, and suddenly you were three drinks past your limit, laughing so hard you could barely breathe. The lights of the bar blurred into soft halos, and the floor had developed a suspicious tilt by the time you made it back to the Tower.
John was leaning against your doorframe like he’d been there a while, arms crossed, expression somewhere between amusement and disapproval. “Had fun?”
You groaned in response, lying face down on your bedroom floor. He chuckled, before bending down to help you up, wrapping his arm around your waist.
Before you knew it, you were sitting on the edge of your bathroom counter while he knelt to unlace your boots. His hands were warm, movements steady despite your swaying. He stands and tilts his head at your face, “Makeup off,” he said simply, more to himself than you, reaching for a cotton pad and cleanser from your bathroom. He swiped gently at your face, his touch careful like you might break.
When he tugged the pins from your hair, letting it spill around your shoulders, you could’ve sworn he muttered something under his breath about “pretty this way.” The brush in his hand moved slowly through the tangles, and you almost fell asleep sitting up.
He helped you down back in the floor, leading you to your bed and gently sitting you down. You had fallen back on your bed, humming a soft hum to show your comfortable. He tossed you a pair of sweat shorts and one of his worn shirts, one he thought was missing — soft, smelling faintly of soap and cedar. “Can’t exactly sleep in that getup,” he teased. You didn’t even have the energy to argue. When you finally lay down, he switched off the lamp, pausing in the doorway. “Sleep it off, pretty.” The nickname felt different this time, softer.
⸻
The Fourth Time
The Tower was unusually quiet that evening, and somehow you and John had ended up on the couch together, a half-forgotten action movie playing in the background. You’d had injured your ankles on a mission with Bucky, John had let you lay your injured ankle over his lap. His reason is, he’s helping you keep it elevated.
One of his hands rested over your shins, thumb tracing idle circles you barely noticed at first. It was rhythmic, almost absentminded, and the warmth of it seeped into your skin. You told yourself it was just… comfortable. Nothing more.
At some point, your eyes grew heavy, the movie blurring into background noise. When you woke, it was to find a blanket tucked snugly around you, his body still warm beneath your legs. His eyes were on the screen, but his hand was still resting where it had been, like moving it would’ve been too loud.
You didn’t say anything, just pretended to keep watching the movie. But later, when you shifted and the blanket slipped, he leaned over without looking away from the screen and pulled it back up around your shoulders. You told yourself it was just John being… John. You didn’t think about how the weight of his touch stayed with you long after.
⸻
The Fifth Time (You Notice)
The mission went sideways fast. One second you were moving in formation, the next you were pinned down behind a half-collapsed wall, gunfire chewing up the air around you. You didn’t see the shooter in your blind spot until John shoved you hard out of the way.
The shot hit him instead.
“John!” you shouted, dragging him into cover. His jaw was clenched, the dark bloom of blood spreading too quickly against his suit. Your hands shook as you ripped open your med kit, forcing them to steady.
“What the hell were you thinking?” you snapped, voice trembling as you pressed gauze to the wound.
“Thinking I’d rather it be me than you, you know super soldier,” he said chucking but winced.
You froze, eyes locking on his. In that moment, all the small things — the food, the training, the care when you were drunk, the blanket — hit you at once like the recoil of a shot you didn’t see coming.
You dropped the rag, cupped his face with both hands, and kissed him. It was messy, desperate, the metallic tang of blood and adrenaline sharp between you. His hand found the back of your neck, holding you there just long enough to make it clear this wasn’t one-sided.
When you pulled back, his smirk was small but certain. “Took you long enough, pretty.” And for the first time, you knew exactly what he meant.
Pairing: Bob Reynolds x John Walker x Fem!Thunderbolts!Reader
Word Count: 22.5k
Summary: Your boyfriends have been acting strange recently, like they're hiding something from you. After you come to find out they have some secret plans involving you, them, and a whole lotta rope, you take it upon yourself to come up with a plan of your own to turn the tables on them.
Tags/Warnings: SMUT, MDNI, 18+ ONLY, planned seduction, dirty talk, teasing, John calling Bob "Bobby" with pre-established consent, alcohol drinking, lingerie, "forced" submission (consent established ahead of time), BDSM, bondage, handcuffs, usage of sexual nicknames (good boy/pretty boy/sweet boy, good girl, mistress, puppy), hair pulling, praise kink, dry humping, facesitting, degradation, oral (f and m receiving), squirting, light nipple play, masturbation (f and m), vibrator usage, handjob
A/N: It's finally here!! Been working on this one for a month and a half. HOPE YOU LIKE SMUT because there is SO MUCH of it. Happy gooning, I suppose.
Once again, based on the eponymous song "I Want My Boyfriends to Kiss" by Ashnikko. This is the sequel to Swap Spit, Lock Lips and in the same universe as Starting Patterns. I've been mentally referring to it as the Smoochieverse.
I've already started a (much shorter) sequel to this one where John and Bob get their revenge...
Smoochieverse Masterlist
John thought he was so damn clever. That he could rope Bob into his schemes and pull a fast one right under your nose. But you? You knew that man. And John, for all his top secret ops and specialized military stealth training, was garbage at being sneaky. He stuck out on the battlefield like a red, white, and black battering ram, running into enemy fire with a battle cry, his shield whizzing from enemy to enemy. And he stuck out when he was trying to plot in private.
All of the sudden, John and Bob were seemingly inseparable. As if that wasn't enough of a red flag in and of itself, they always had guilty expressions whenever you'd enter a room with them, dead quiet like they'd heard you coming and dropped the conversation before you got within earshot.
At first, you thought maybe they'd finally acted on the tension that had been building ever since you all slept together that first morning. The way John had grabbed Bob and told him what to do to you? And the heat in Bob's eyes as he obeyed, looking to John for approval? Absolutely undeniable. And, if you were honest with yourself, it was hot as hell. There was some part of you that had wanted to see them kiss since John slammed Bob against the wall back in the vault.
But before you could overthink the situation (was it even really cheating if you were already dating both of them and actively having threesomes together?), Ava took it upon herself to intervene. Rather, she took the opportunity to spill the beans out of spite. John really shouldn't have eaten her last pack of Jaffa Cakes.
"They're planning something," Ava had said, apropos of nothing. Just walked up to you in the gym and proverbially laid it on the table like a cat would drop a dead bird at your feet. There was no question who she was talking about, so Ava didn't even waste her time saying their names. "Overheard their conversation in the kitchen this morning. And it involves you."
"Do I want to know?" you'd asked, raising an eyebrow.
Oh, you most definitely did.
Turns out, Ava didn't overhear some romantic date plan or a surprise weekend getaway; she overheard plans to forcibly dominate you. It was consensual, of course. You'd discussed rules and boundaries with John and Bob, both separately then together after the three of you had started your exploration of bedroom possibilities as a single unit. And while the idea of both of your boyfriends overpowering you and ravishing you was extremely tempting…so was the idea of flipping the script on them.
According to Ava, the plan was going to be carried out during your weekly threeway movie date…which just so happened to be tonight. It didn't leave you a lot of time to work with, but fortunately for you, John was very good at pissing people off. Which you could use to your advantage.
The next disgruntled party was, of course, Bucky. Even though he and your boyfriend's relationship had calmed significantly since their…rocky introduction, Bucky wasn't exactly the president of the John Walker fan club. So, when you presented him with the opportunity to thwart the other super soldier, Bucky readily agreed.
"Make sure it's worth the strings I pulled to get 'em," he said eying you with playful suspicion. You made grabby hands at him, and he actually cracked a bit of a smile.
"What kind of strings?" you asked as he passed over a medium-sized silver briefcase. Laying it on a nearby table, you flipped up the clasps and attempted to open the case. Unfortunately, your plan was temporarily foiled by the lock. You shot Bucky a look, extending your hand as he fished the keys out of his back pocket and tossed them to you.
A moment later, the case was open, revealing a thick pair of manacles - ones strong enough to hold even a super soldier. Unlike regular handcuffs, these didn't have a chain in the middle. That gave too much room for movement and were far too easy to snap no matter how reinforced they were. Instead, this set had a thick block of metal connecting the cuffs, forcing the wearer's hands to stay closer together and better impeded any potential escape attempt. Unlike most shackles, these were lined with a soft, black fabric and seemed to have some foam added for comfort.
"The kind where my contact is convinced they're for my personal use. Never gonna be able to look that man in the eye again." When you snorted at his words, Bucky fixed you with a glare, but there was no real heat behind it.
Satisfied, you closed the case and turned back to your woefully besmirched teammate. "Don't worry. I'll make sure John knows that you aided in his downfall."
The next injured party was Yelena. You desperately needed to go shopping for a specific item of clothing, and you needed backup. Sure, you could go alone, but plotting was so much better with a friend. As were the food court soft pretzels.
But, when you originally asked Yelena, she said she was busy. Busy looked an awful lot like sitting in the main living room, idly flipping through a tactical gear catalog that had come in the mail and half-watching some particularly trashy reality television.
Her schedule miraculously cleared up when you name-dropped your boyfriend and hinted at you plotting against him. Turns out, Yelena wasn't a big fan of people using her equipment without her permission. And she actively hated when said equipment was damaged from said person spilling pre-workout all over it. Needless to say, Yelena would have preferred to shove one of her short-circuited batons up John's ass, but she'd make do with aiding your scheme.
The soft pretzels also helped.
"What are we looking for again?" Yelena asked, flipping through hangers until she found something low cut in your size. She pulled it out and held it up for inspection.
You shook your head, and she put it back on the rack, continuing the search. "It needs to be low cut enough to draw Bob's attention but casual enough that it doesn't look like I'm trying to dress up."
"What's wrong with dressing up?" Yelena grumbled as you shook your head at another top, this one a bright cerulean. Another one far too low cut. Too obvious.
"Our movie dates are always casual. Like, 'sometimes I wear pajamas' level casual. It would attract notice if I dressed up. John would know something's up."
Yelena cocked an eyebrow at you. "You really think he'd get suspicious? If you wore a slutty little 'fuck me' dress, I'm not sure he'd be doing much thinking at all."
You shrugged. "Fair. But it isn't part of the plan to work John up. Just Bob." You pulled out a sweater that was just the right amount of casual with a neckline just low enough to draw Bob's gaze. Unfortunately, it was a deep maroon color. With a sigh, you returned it to the rack.
"What was wrong with that one?" Yelena asked, her tone a little on the exasperated side.
"Wrong color," you muttered, taking a step to another rack of clothes. "I need something a stain would show up on."
Stopping dead in her tracks, Yelena turned to fix you with a glower. "You're looking for a new top that you're planning on ruining," she deadpanned. She wasn't asking, just stating facts as if she couldn't believe them.
"Well, I won't be ruining it, not if I can pop it in the wash somewhat quickly."
Yelena stared at you, completely unblinking. It was the kind of look that would cause even the most stubborn person (i.e. John or Bucky) to back down from an argument. Or force a confession out of a captured enemy combatant. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, visibly uncomfortable.
"Something tells me that's going to be the last thing on your mind."
Having no argument for that, you picked up the red sweater again and put it over your arm. "I'll try it on."
"That's all I ask." Pacified, Yelena returned to the hunt, flipping through hangers again.
You managed to find the perfect top: a heather grey sweater cozy enough to wear around the Watchtower that also hugged your breasts enough to hold Bob's attention. And after a pit stop at another store Yelena suggested and some food court junk food (including one too many soft pretzels courtesy of Yelena's expert-level peer pressuring), your plan was ready to commence.
Naturally, John showed up first. Even without recognizing his jaunty knock, you knew he would be the one standing there when you opened the door. After all, it was precisely 7 o'clock. Not a minute before or after. And, as always, he had a large bowl of freshly buttered popcorn in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.
John was always a little less casual than you and Bob, wearing a dark blue flannel neatly tucked into a pair of boot cut jeans, complete with a large silver belt buckle. He'd most likely been wearing boots but had the decency to toe them off outside the door, knowing you didn't allow shoes in your quarters. The second those bright, sky blue eyes locked on yours, he fixed you with a wide smile, one that always made your heart flutter.
Leaning down, John kissed your temple, mumbling, "Evenin', pretty lady," because he knew it would make you roll your eyes at him. Which you did.
Taking the bowl of popcorn from his hands, you walked over and placed it on the coffee table next to the glasses you'd already brought out. You didn't see John's eyes travel down your body, eying your ass in the loose, comfortable skirt you wore, but you definitely noticed when you turned back around and caught his gaze on your legs. He didn't even try to hide his lecherous gaze, just quirking up his lips when you caught him staring.
"John," you playfully admonished. Coming back over to where he stood stock still inside the doorway, you gave him a light shove, one that didn't even budge him. It was ridiculous how hot that was. The man didn't move, and it made you wet. You knew that if you really tried, braced your hands on his arms and shoved, John might be forced to move back a little. And those same arms could pick you up like you weighed nothing and throw you over his shoulder. Judging by the look on his face, John was tempted to do just that. Instead, his free hand found your hip like it was magnetized, and his other arm wrapped around you, pulling you neatly against his chest.
"John," you said again but with a warning tone in your voice, managing to keep your words steady. If he wasn't careful, John was apt to ruin his own plan, let alone yours.
"Hmm?" he hummed, leaning down to start planting slow, closed-mouth kisses along your jaw. Each subsequent brush of his lips made it harder and harder to resist turning your head and seeking out another kiss. A deeper one.
"Remember the rule of movie night - no making out," you said, just as much to yourself as to John.
That was a rule you'd had to make early on in your weekly movie dates. Otherwise, you ended up finding yourself topless and straddling one of your boyfriends barely halfway through the movie. Or, like one particularly fun night, sitting between them with your hands on their cocks, slowly stroking them to completion while you happily watched Legally Blonde. While that was a fantastic night, you'd had to re-watch the movie the next week because neither man remembered a damn thing about it. So you'd all (reluctantly) agreed - movie first, sexy times after. And for the most part, it worked.
"It's not making out if I get on my knees and stick my head under your skirt while you watch the movie," John practically growled, starting to move his kisses down your neck. You inhaled sharply at his words, nails biting into his arms. He smiled against your skin, pleased at your reaction.
For a split second, you were tempted to say fuck it to your carefully crafted plan and let John's mouth wander where it wanted.
Fortunately, there was a tentative knock at the door that broke the spell his lips had cast on you, startling you out of John's embrace. He tried to pull you back in, but the moment was gone.
"Bob's here," you reminded, moving out of John's quickly encroaching arms and trying to take a step past him. He let you move by him unimpeded, but strong arms encircled your waist from behind as you reached out to grasp the doorknob. You allowed it - for now.
Opening the door revealed the missing element of your trio - Bob. He was dressed exactly how you expected - in a fresh pair of loose grey sweatpants and his favorite blue hoodie, the wrists worn from Bob absentmindedly picking at and rubbing the fabric. He held a bottle of sparkling juice in one hand and a bag full of snacks in the other, the same as he always did on movie night.
By the look on his face, Bob almost immediately noticed John plastered to your back. Before he could make a snarky comment, however, his gaze flitted down to your neckline. The double take he did was almost comical, eyes bulging like you'd opened the door in the nude.
Bob was the biggest breast man you'd ever met. He was absolutely obsessed with yours, always working to get your top off as quickly as possible. Sometimes he was so impatient he didn't even take off your bra. He'd just pull down the cups, groaning like he'd found home as he latched onto your nipples. On more than one occasion, he'd fallen asleep with his mouth on one and his hand on the other, fully splayed across you. And if you tried to move, his limbs would tighten to keep you in place. And, judging from the look on his face and how his fingers were twitching, you'd picked the right top. Thank you, Yelena.
"You okay there, Bobby?" John asked with a smirk. He saw exactly where Bob's eyes went and followed them himself, peering down at the very tops of your breasts that pressed against the grey fabric. It was subtle, a peak of cleavage that hinted at what lay underneath, hugging your breasts tightly enough to entice without making it look like you were bursting out of your blouse. "Mmm, I see why he's so distracted. You tryin' to kill us, baby? Wearin' that cute little skirt with your legs showin' and that top?"
Even though your outfit was hardly skimpy, you'd once again underestimated just how horny your boyfriends were, especially when they egged each other on. You'd just have to make due.
You scoffed. "You would say that if I was wearing a crusty hoodie and a pair of old granny panties."
From the flash in Bob's eyes, 'panties,' granny or otherwise, was the wrong word to say.
"Okay, down boys," you said with a shaky laugh, reaching forward and taking the bottle of sparkling juice out of Bob's hands. You did your best not to sway your hips as you walked over to the couch, but you could feel their eyes on you anyway.
When you didn't hear any footsteps behind you, you turned around with your arms crossed just below your chest. Bob's eyes raised from where he'd been watching your ass but not high enough to look you in the face like John was.
"Robeeert," you admonished, drawing the 'e' in his name out with a warning tone in your voice. His eyes snapped up to yours, head jerking like a stretched rubber band that had just been released. Covering your mouth with your hand, you fought down a laugh.
"C'mon, it's movie night." Settling in the middle of the couch, you patted the seats next to you welcomingly. "Plus, I could use some wine," you added, gesturing at the bottle in John's hand. That finally propelled him into motion.
The sexual tension lessened to a quiet hum of anticipation as everyone prepped for the night ahead, falling into a familiar rhythmic pattern. John poured the glasses - wine for you and him, the sparkling juice for Bob - while Bob worked on laying out various snacks, sorting them to put them in easy reach.
When everything was ready, John dimmed the lights as you pulled up the movie of the week, Lethal Weapon. It was John's choice, and neither you nor Bob were surprised at his pick. His love of buddy cop movies was well documented between the three of you at this point, just like Bob's love of stoner comedies and your love of what you considered classic romcoms.
All three of you settled in, Bob resting his head on your shoulder and John with his arm around your waist, as the opening credits started to roll. They were good, you'd give them that. If you weren't looking for it, you never would have noticed the way John reached down to check that the rope and handcuffs he'd placed below his seat cushion were still in position. It just looked like he was straightening out the leg of his jeans. And you'd never have noticed the questioning look Bob shot John and the latter's slow nod of confirmation if you hadn't been watching them sharply in your peripheral vision.
You slowly gathered the ingredients for your plan to work - five minutes in, you snagged the bowl of popcorn, placing it in your lap. That was usually how it went anyway, making the popcorn equally accessible for everyone. A few more minutes after that, you leaned forward to grab your wine. Bob lifted his head, letting you get the glass and putting it back on your shoulder as you settled back down. Lightly sipping on your wine, you waited for the right moment.
That moment came more quickly than expected when Bob reached for a box of candy on the table. You had to time this perfectly. For your plan to work, you needed what was going to happen to be equally your fault and Bob's.
"Bob, baby, can you get me my candy, too?" you asked innocently.
Wordlessly, he obeyed. If there was one thing that was always true about Bob Reynolds, it was that he aimed to please. And that went doubly so in your relationship. He was the kind of man that, if you asked for it, would figure out a way to pluck the stars from the sky for you. So naturally, Bob immediately forgot about his own candy and prioritized your request.
You angled your body to face him, your arm positioned just right so that, when Bob sat back up, his elbow knocked the wine glass in your hand, spilling it all over your top, down your chest, and directly into the bowl of popcorn.
The room went completely still, all three of you staring in shock at your ruined top, a literal splash of deep scarlet spreading on your grey sweater. It was as if you all were temporarily frozen in time. The only signs of life were the sounds of the TV playing with no one watching it and the slow seep of wine bleeding further into your clothes. That unnatural stillness lasted for a few beats before you all snapped into motion, first John, then Bob, and finally you.
John grabbed the bowl of wine-soaked popcorn out of your lap, placing it square in the middle of the coffee table to prevent it being knocked over. Bob took the glass from your hand and scooted the coffee table over to give you more room. You stood up, turning around to make sure that no wine had dripped onto your couch, breathing a sigh of relief at the unsullied seat.
John took charge immediately. It was kind of adorable, seeing him treating a simple spill like a battlefield, instantly strategizing a plan of attack and commanding his soldiers. It was exactly what Bob needed. Instead of getting in his head and feeling like he'd ruined the night (and your shirt), John made him feel useful.
As they both dabbed at your clothing with the paper towels Bob fetched from the main kitchen, you decided to cut to the chase. Taking a step back, you ignored the men's confused reactions, grabbing the hem of your sweater and tugging it over your head. You had to bite back a wicked smile at the wide-eyed looks on their faces, staring at you like their brains were buffering.
Bob at least had the decency to look away. He seemed to understand that you needed to change your outfit and was doing his best to not openly stare at your chest. But the flush climbing his neck betrayed his reaction.
John, on the other hand, grinned at you wolfishly. "If I knew all I had to do to get you naked was spill some wine on you, I'd've brought more than one bottle."
You gave him an exaggerated roll of your eyes before looking down at your wine-covered chest. The red liquid had gotten on your bra as well, but, with the tension that had been permeating the room all night, taking that off as well would open the floodgates. Instead, you touched your skin, making a face at the stickiness that lingered on your hand. You could feel your boyfriends' eyes on you, greedily drinking in the sight of you half naked. Now was the perfect time to implement phase two before John managed to remember about his own plan and that pair of handcuffs under the couch cushions.
"I think I'm going to have to take a quick shower," you said, keeping your voice casual like you didn't know exactly what that imagery would do to your already wound up boyfriends. You didn't miss the way Bob licked his lips or how John took a step closer to you.
"Well, you know…" John started, playfully drawing his words out like he was coming up with some brilliant idea. His eyes had a mischievous light in them that you knew all too well - you were mere seconds away from him doing something like grabbing you and throwing you over his shoulder. "We could always -"
"Here." Thrusting your hand out in front of you, you deposited your soiled sweater in the hand John brought up to touch you. He blinked, taken aback. But his fingers obediently clenched around the fabric as you let go of it.
"Why are you -"
"Would you mind throwing that in the wash?" you asked, making sure to look up at him from under your lashes. "And maybe make us some more popcorn? That way we can all be ready to start the movie over after I get cleaned off?"
When John hesitated, clearly torn between being helpful and being lecherous, you pouted at him, jutting out your lower lip just a little. For extra ammo, you wrapped your arms around your torso seemingly for warmth but in reality it was so you could subtly press your breasts together, exaggerating your cleavage.
"Please?" you asked sweetly, batting your lashes at him.
"Okay, okay," John grumbled. Despite his grouching, he couldn't quite hide his smile when you stood up on your toes to press a grateful (but chaste) kiss to his lips.
You wasted no time once you'd stepped into the bathroom. For your plan to work, you needed to be quick. Unfortunately, your room was fairly close to the kitchen. That combined with John being super particular and refusing to use anything but an extra-speedy air popper on his popcorn meant that, normally, you'd only have about five minutes to pull this off. But the laundry room was on another floor, giving you a few extra precious minutes, ones you were determined not to waste.
After shedding your clothes, you ran the shower to maintain your ruse, but you didn't step inside. Instead, you grabbed a washcloth, adding a small drop of soap and quickly cleaning and rinsing your wine-sticky chest. Then you broke out your secret weapon.
Right now, it just looked like a little bundle of delicate black fabric pressed flat underneath the stacked towels you stashed it under. It was soft to the touch as you slipped it over your shoulders, the silky material caressing your skin as you smoothed it down your body, gently coaxing the chemise over your hips. The stockings came next, sliding on easily and coming to rest mid-thigh. The elastic on the lacy hem was probably enough to keep them on, but you used the garter straps dangling from the bottom of the chemise to fully secure them. There was something that appealed to you about the tug when you shifted, the straps pulling lightly at the stockings. It was like you were secured into the entire outfit, stockings included, a kind of self-inflicted bondage that sent a pulse of warmth through you.
Looking in the mirror, you were slightly caught off guard by your own reflection. Sure, you'd tried it on in the store, but those florescent yellow light fixtures did no one any favors. Here, under the warm glow of your bathroom lights, you were a vision in lace and satin. The fabric clung to you, each breath making your breasts lift, straining against the nearly sheer material. There was just enough opacity on the lace cups to blur, merely hinting at the tantalizing skin that laid underneath. Your eyes followed the light boning that stretched down the front, helping the material press flat against your body while still maintaining the structure of the little dress. Most of the fabric was opaque except for two lace panels down the side, making your silhouette look more sleek while accentuating your hips.
Turning around in the mirror, you couldn't help but grin at yourself. The entire back of the dress was made of the see-through fabric, showcasing the elegant curve of your back and the plush softness of your ass. Sure, the outfit came with a little lacy thong, but those wouldn't be on for long anyway. Might as well save your boyfriends the effort of removing them.
Next, you reached under the sink, pulling out a mesh bag you'd hidden earlier. Carefully, you lined the contents up on the bathroom counter, mentally triple checking that you had everything.
Now, it was time to implement phase three of your plan. You cracked open the bathroom door and positioned yourself on the opposite side of it, closer to the shower.
Cupping a hand to your mouth to amplify the sound, you called out for your first victim.
"Bob! I need your help!"
You pressed your ear to the door, heart pounding in your chest, as you strained your ears for any subsequent noises - an answering voice, a creak of the bedroom door, or the sound of heavy footsteps. There was a muffled murmur but no further movement. So you called out again.
"Bob! I need you to grab my shampoo! Please!"
There were some distinct rustling noises but nothing definitive. With a sigh, you braced yourself, using your diaphragm to really shout.
"BOB! C'MERE!"
You didn't have to wait long before the bedroom door opened, and Bob shuffled his way over to the bathroom. Ever polite, he hovered outside the door.
"Did you call for me?" Bob asked from the other side.
You cupped your hand to your mouth again, this time angling it away from the door, toward the shower to make it sound like your voice was coming from there.
"Yes! Could you grab my shampoo for me? It's in the cabinet." You paused, then grinned mischievously to yourself before continuing, "I'd get it, but I'm soaking wet."
Your words had the intended effect. "Jesus," you heard Bob mutter to himself, groaning at the imagery you'd conjured for him. You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing.
"Coming, angel!" he said louder for you to hear, pushing the door open and stepping in. Immediately, his eyes were drawn to the items you'd laid out on the counter.
"What the…" Before Bob could turn, you closed the door behind him, leaning against it to block the way out.
Bob started, whipping around. He already looked surprised, but his eyes widened further and his lips parted as he took in your change of wardrobe. His eyes traveled up your stockinged legs, over the garter straps, and followed the lines of the chemise before stopping at the semi-transparent fabric just barely covering your chest. You could practically feel his gaze on your breasts like a physical caress, your nipples hardening under his intense scrutiny. You were sure he could just see the peaks through the fabric.
Finally, Bob managed to wrench his eyes away from your chemise. He was flushed and dazed, chest visibly rising and falling as he took in air like he couldn't quite catch his breath. There was a wildness in his gaze, a mix of sudden arousal and sheer confusion, that sent a wave of heat through your body.
"Baby," Bob started but stopped, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat, licking his dry lips, before continuing. "Baby, what is this? Why are you wearing…" He stared in awe at you like Aphrodite herself had descended from the heavens to grace him with her presence. Words seemed to fail him, like he was completely unable to describe the temptation in physical form that was in front of him. So he finished his sentence by croaking out the word, "…That?"
"What? You don't like my new outfit?" you asked innocently, tilting your head to the side. Stalking towards him, you let your hips sway tantalizingly. You felt like some beast of the hunt that had finally located its prey and was contemplating what spot to sink your teeth into first. Bob froze to the spot, watching you like a sailor enraptured in a siren's song, watching helplessly as the ship sailed closer and closer to the jagged rocks that spelled his doom. It was a heady kind of power, one you'd only ever felt before in the bedroom. Just the idea that you could entrance a man with the powers of a god with a lacy outfit and a few choice words was intoxicating. He stared at you like you were a goddess. And you fucking felt like one.
You backed him up against the counter, stepping into his space, stopping only mere inches away. So close you could practically feel his warmth through his hoodie.
"Do you want me to…" you started, using your index and middle fingers to walk your hand up Bob's chest. He was fixated, hanging on your every word like they were of the utmost importance. So you lowered your voice to a husky purr as you finished your sentence. "…Take it off?"
Bob's hands shot down, bracing himself against the counter like his legs suddenly needed the extra support. Like he was going to fall down at your feet if he didn't.
"Oh my God," he muttered shakily, eyes darting away like he couldn't stand to look at you directly, like he was unworthy.
You didn't wait for him to answer. You continued speaking.
"I thought of you when I bought it, baby," you purred, tilting his chin down to look at you. Even though you were shorter, it felt like you were towering over him in that moment, your domination a physical presence in the room.
"Y-you did?" Bob asked breathily, letting his eyes wander down, taking in your form again as though he couldn't help himself. Naturally, they rested on your chest, watching as your breasts strained against the fabric.
"Of course I did. Wanted to make sure my sweet boy would like it," you cooed. Bob visibly melted at your words, his tense muscles relaxing so much that even his eyes drifted half shut, looking up at you under his lashes.
"Really?" Bob asked, and his words were so earnest it made your heart skip a beat. "What about Walker?"
Your answering smile was a little less predatory and a little more playful.
"You haven't seen the back yet. The front's for you, baby," you said with a wink.
You took one of his hands in yours, lifting it from the counter and bringing it up to cup your breast. Audibly, Bob sucked in a harsh breath through his nose and let it slowly out of his mouth, ghosting over your bare skin. You shivered at the feeling, your nipples tightening almost painfully. Of course he noticed. As if it was unconscious, Bob's thumb rubbed circles over the peak of your nipple, biting his lower lip as he watched the motion as though as if he was hypnotizing himself.
When he brought his other hand up to your chest, you arched your back, pushing your breasts further into his grasp. You were practically leaning against him by then, the contained heat of his already thickening erection pressing against your thigh.
"I have an idea, Bob. One I think you're going to enjoy just as much as I will." Bob's eyes flicked up, trying to look you in the face, to give you his full attention, but you could feel how he wanted to look down, to stare further at your breasts.
"O-oh?" he murmured, eyes flitting down and back up again. You couldn't help but smirk. He was already wrapped around your finger.
"I need you to do something. Think you can be a good boy and help me?" The words had barely left your lips before he was nodding, mumbling the word 'yes.'
"What would you do for me, Robert?" you whispered, maintaining eye contact with him. His pupils were blown, his irises a thin ring of storm-dark blue.
"Anything," he answered breathlessly.
And in that moment, you knew one thing for certain - that you had Bob right where you wanted him.
You had barely taken your post behind the bedroom door before you heard the telltale sounds of John reentering your quarters. He was much louder than Bob, so you didn't need to strain to hear him call for you, grumpily muttering to himself when no one answered.
As John's footsteps grew nearer, it felt like your heart was going to burst its way through your ribcage. Every step caused it to beat faster, so much so that you could practically hear it in your ears. You gripped the manacles tightly, the cold metal biting into your hands just enough to ground you in the moment.
"You two better not have started the fun without me," John called out, chuckling to himself when he added, "Or I'll have to take you both over my knee."
His words struck like a bolt of lightning. You could see it so easily in your mind's eye: you trussed up, hands bound in cuffs behind your back, feet dangling as your body stretched over John's lap. There would be tears running down your face as you dutifully counted each time his hand came down on the heated skin of your ass, sending shockwaves of pain and pleasure in equal measure radiating through your body.
And you weren't the only one affected by John's words; Bob let out one solitary, plaintive whimper that hung in the air even after he bit the sound off abruptly. Instantly, all noise from the living room ceased.
John heard.
The ensuing steps were fast and heavy, his determined stomps crossing the room in record time. The bedroom door swung open, concealing you behind it. He took one step, then two before coming to a complete halt.
You didn't need to look to see what had snagged his attention, because you'd set the scene yourself. John always barged in, guns blazing, whether it was on the battlefield or into a room to try to catch his girlfriend and her other boyfriend shacking up without him. So you'd needed a distraction. Something so arresting that even his super soldier senses wouldn't help him detect you. And you had set the perfect trap.
Bob.
He was splayed out like an offering on your California king bed, wrists bound and tied to the headboard to keep him in place. The rope that held him matched the sheets that he squirmed on top of, both a deep, sumptuous purple that starkly contrasted his pale skin. And there was so much of it on display. Every inch of him was naked barring a few little accessories you'd adorned him with: a strip of cloth covering his eyes, a pitch black ball gag with breathing holes, and the pièce de résistance - a thick band of leather wrapped around the base of Bob's heavy cock which was flushed a dark pink, the tip weeping streaks of precum on his abs.
John made a sound like the wind was punched out of his lungs, his breathing audibly ragged as he took in the sight before him.
"Bobby," he breathed, his next inhale shaky. When he continued, his voice was strained, "Bob…why are you…?" John cut off his own question, shaking his head like he was trying to clear it. "Where is she?"
The only answer Bob could give was unintelligible, his sounds muffled even through the air holes in his gag, lips and jaw too stretched to form words.
Keeping your hands behind your back to conceal the manacles, you stepped out from your hiding spot. "I think Bob's a little…tied up at the moment. Maybe I can help."
The John who turned to look at you was markedly different than the one who went to go fetch more popcorn. For one, his hair was rumpled, some strands sticking straight up like he'd absently rubbed his hand through it. A bright pink flush flooded his cheeks with color that dipped below the neckline of his flannel, no doubt running down to his shoulders and chest as well. Glassy blue eyes roamed over your body, disbelief and hunger warring for control on his face. As you'd heard, his breathing was labored, panting through his parted lips. If someone saw him in passing, he could almost play off his arousal as physical exertion, like he'd had a particularly invigorating workout. He could deny it all he wanted to, but there was no hiding the growing bulge in John's jeans. And that it was there before he turned around to face you.
A surge of vindication washed through you, transmuting into a powerful throb of desire between your legs. You could still picture it in your mind - John's hand tangled in Bob's hair, tugging hard. Bob's lips wrapped around your nipple, eyes locked in a heated stare with John's. How John's voice got so fucking deep when he called Bob a good boy. And the way Bob's eyes rolled back in his head at his words.
"Baby," John groaned out, stepping forward and gripping your hips nearly hard enough to bruise. He swayed like he wasn't sure if he wanted to press you to his chest or keep you at arm's length to admire you.
"You look…" He paused, eyes darting over you like he was trying to absorb every inch, to etch it into his memory. His thumbs rubbed circles into your sides, like he couldn't keep himself from stroking your skin through the fabric. Finally, John lifted his eyes to yours. "You look like a fucking dream."
"You don't look so bad yourself, handsome," you teased, standing up on tip toe to lightly press your lips to his bearded chin. John chased you, hunching over to slant his mouth over yours in what was immediately a passionate kiss.
There was no time wasted. John slipped an arm around your waist, the other tilting your chin to just the right angle to kiss you even deeper. You indulged him, letting him dominate you, invading your mouth like it belonged to him, his tongue swirling around yours.
He didn't notice anything was off until the cold metal cuff snapped closed around his wrist, its sharp clicking echoing in the quiet room. John's whole body went stiff, the muscles of his arm tensing around you. All you could do was wait, barely breathing as he pulled back, eyes fixed on the manacles dangling from his arm.
His thoughts were so clear you could practically see them scrolling across his eyes like ticker tape. The pieces were coming together: the lingerie and Bob as a distraction, the wine spill, the new sweater, tracing it all the way back to the small noise he'd heard in the kitchen that morning as he and Bob finalized their plans before you came down to breakfast.
This was the one variable in your plan that you just couldn't account for.
You'd wracked your brain all day, trying to come up with some way to both catch John off guard and be able to get both of his hands in the cuffs. You couldn't overpower him. You couldn't count on stealth. And tricking him was far too great a risk.
So you took the only option left - you let John choose.
When he finally looked back up at you, his eyes were narrowed. Thinking. Assessing. Calculating. You couldn't help but smile at how blown his pupils were. No matter what he chose, the three of you were in for a damn good night.
You closed the space between the two of you, and John wrapped his arms around you, pulling you even closer. He didn't hesitate for even a second. It was like a gut instinct that he couldn't help but follow. The cold metal of the cuffs brushed your back, the skin there only covered by a thin layer of lace. You couldn't stop the shiver that went through you at the feeling. From the look in John's eyes, he noticed it too.
Your lips parted, mouth open to speak, but John beat you to it.
"So," he murmured, his lips right next to your ear. Goosebumps rose on your arms as his hot breath ghosted over your skin. His voice was deep as sin, gravelly in that way he only got when exhausted or particularly worked up. "You gonna cuff my other wrist? Or you plannin' on cuffin' me to something…" He paused for effect, letting the weight of his words sink in. "…Or someone else?"
Pulling back enough to look him in the eye, you found yourself searching John's face for any hints of displeasure. There were none. His eyes were fixed on yours like he couldn't bear the thought of looking away. His lips were already reddening from your brief kiss, parted like he couldn't get in enough air, like the mere act of near you made breathing more difficult. This was the face of a thoroughly entranced man, ready and willing to submit to your pleasure.
"Wanted to give you a little bit of a fighting chance," you teased, smirking up at him.
Normally, John would quip back something smart like 'Is that why you ambushed me at the door?' or 'Sure seems like it, what with the industrial-grade handcuffs and all.' But his words caught you off guard.
"Never stand a chance against you when you've got your mind made up, darlin'," John said earnestly, his voice rumbling in his chest as he spoke. His free hand rubbed up and down your back, the warmth of his skin bleeding through the thin material there. "'Specially not with you dressed like that. Lookin' at me like that."
"What am I looking at you like?" you asked, trying to keep your voice smooth and seductive but coming off far more breathy than you intended.
"Like you're gonna eat me alive." The heat in his voice made your whole body pulse with pleasure, and the glint in his eyes told you he knew exactly what he was doing. Which is why he took a step back right as you surged forward to kiss him, sinking down to the floor on his knees in one graceful move, arms raised up before you as if in supplication. The act of submission took the very air out of your lungs.
"John," you breathed, chest rising and falling more rapidly.
"Please," he said, bowing his head reverently. "I'm ready for my punishment."
Taking a step forward, you rested your hand on his head, threading your fingers through his hair like you were either going to pet him or yank him up by force. You took in a deep, shaky breath, letting oxygen fill your lungs to compose yourself. When you breathed out, it was steady. A few more calm breaths, and you were ready.
"Please what?" you prompted, tightening your grip in his hair just a fraction. Not enough to cause pain, but enough to let him know you very well could.
"Please," John pleaded again, shuddering slightly as he finished his sentence, "Mistress."
The word thrummed through you - Mistress. It wasn't a title either of your boyfriends had ever used to describe you, though John had raised the idea before in passing. The closest they'd gotten was 'ma'am' - Bob's go-to honorific and one of John's favorite ways of teasing when you got bossy. It felt good, though. Fitting. Correct. There was a sense of power about it, the kind where you had a super soldier on his knees in front of you and a literal god naked and whimpering for your touch. Like you owned them.
Because you did.
"Stand up," you commanded, and John silently followed your orders, keeping his head down submissively. "Turn around. Hands behind your back."
You didn't snap the other cuff on John immediately; you took your time closing it, the sharp sound of each of the jagged metal teeth click into place slowly around his wrist. By the time the manacles were firmly on, John's breathing was audibly more shaky, the muscles in his upper back tensed and not from the positioning.
You let your hands roam, running up his flannel-clad back and back down his arms, feeling the roped muscles underneath his sleeves. When you reached his hands, you checked the security of the handcuffs, making sure they weren't tight enough to hurt or loose enough for escape.
"Color?"
"Green," John answered immediately. You hummed your approval, pleased at his easy obedience.
"What do you do if you can't speak?"
"One tap for no, two taps for yes," John faithfully recited. He was standing at parade rest like he was being commanded by a superior officer: legs shoulder-width apart, staring straight ahead with his chest puffed out and shoulders back, hands dutifully clasped.
Sliding your hands even further down, you cupped his ass, squeezing roughly. Even though he didn't always wear pants that showed it, John had such a nice ass. There was muscle there, sure. And great definition. But it was also plush, more plump than anywhere else on his body save for the little belly he got occasionally when overindulging, especially during the holidays. You'd said it before and you'd say it again: John Walker had a fat ass.
Letting go of him, you raised your hand, letting it come down in a hard smack that was, unfortunately, muffled by his jeans. It may not have hurt him, but the hitch in John's breath was beyond satisfying.
"Good job, soldier," you purred, pressing your torso against his back. You kept your hips back to avoid his cuffed hands, only letting the delicate lace of your chemise brush over his palms. Your hands, however, roamed of their own accord, one slipping under the hem of his shirt, his muscles twitching under your fingertips. The other danced dangerously close to the firm outline of his now fully-hard cock, just enough to tease by sliding up and down his thighs.
John held himself together admirably. But when you stepped back, fully removing yourself from him, John practically gasped for air, like he hadn't allowed himself to breathe as you touched him. Or perhaps he'd temporarily forgotten how to.
"Sit," you commanded, pointing to the low armchair you'd moved to the base of the bed. Normally, you'd find the chair draped in random clothes it'd gather between cleaning days - shirts you'd only worn for an hour or two, jackets you should have hung up, a bra you'd put aside to wear in the morning but forgot about. Now it was John draped across the chair, leaning fully against the backrest, his cuffed hands squished against the plush, grey fabric, his manspreading less like a expression of careless dominance and more like an invitation. One you willingly took up his offer on, climbing into his lap, stocking-clad knees resting on the seat of the chair on either side of his hips.
You hovered, not quite sitting down, your core mere inches away from the bulge in his jeans. He gazed up at you with wide eyes and parted lips, looking like a lost soul in a desert who'd just spotted a lush oasis that would be his salvation.
"Do you know why I have you tied up like this?"
John shook his head, not taking his eyes off yours. When you didn't continue, he seemingly realized his mistake and answered in a gravelly voice, "No, mistress."
Leaning down, you brushed your mouth along his jaw, his soft beard feeling exquisitely rough against your lips.
"You've been bad, haven't you?" you whispered, your breath ghosting over his skin. If his arms weren't covered by the sleeves of his flannel, you'd have been able to see the goosebumps that erupted there.
When John opened his mouth, face screwed up to protest, you silenced him with your hand, muffling his words.
"Don't lie to me," you hissed, nipping at his skin hard enough to make him jolt a little, his back now ramrod straight. "You thought you could cook up some little scheme and rope poor, sweet Bob into it without me noticing." When he hesitated for a second, not answering, you leaned down, biting the soft skin of John's throat just hard enough to sting but not hurt. You expected a little sound of pain in response, maybe him sucking air between his teeth or a gasp, but John let out a shaky moan under your palm.
"Didn't you?" you prompted, your voice syrupy sweet but venomous, like honey laced with poison.
The only answer he gave was a frustrated little noise. You smiled against his skin, huffing out a small laugh. He was trying to follow your rules but couldn't. Your hand was covering his mouth.
"You don't have to say the words this time, baby. Just nod or shake your head for me." Condescension dripped from your words, but John either didn't mind or he was already too far gone to notice.
When he nodded, you hummed your approval.
"Good boy," you purred, hand slipping from his lips to the nape of his neck, curling in the fine blond hair there. He inhaled sharply when you gripped hard, yanking his head back to look you in the eye. "And you know what good boys get?"
"No, mistress," John panted out. You kept a taut hold on him, staring down, eyes searching his face as if to discern the truth in his words. He was lying, but you couldn't fault him. At least not this time. From the desperate way his eyes bored into yours, he needed to hear you say it.
"Good boys get rewarded," you purred.
In one fluid motion, you lowered yourself, rocking down against the swell of him and capturing his lips in what quickly became a heated, sloppy kiss. The friction of his jeans against your clit felt magical, both you and John finally receiving the stimulation you'd both been craving.
The heat of the moment gripped you, and everything outside of your bodies fell away. You let yourself give in to the sensations - the way John panted against your lips in the brief moments your mouths parted like he'd forgotten to breathe, the smooth slide of his tongue against yours, the little throaty noises John would make when you sucked on his lower lip, and how you could feel John's jeans becoming wetter with each roll of your body against him. You could've done this for hours. Hell, you could have ridden him for days. But a high, keening whine from behind you pulled you back, slamming you into reality.
Unconsciously, John chased your lips when you broke the kiss, leaning back on your haunches to gain your bearings again. You chuckled, giving the man one last peck on the lips but not lingering, much to his chagrin.
"Mmm, you almost got me," you admitted, grinning at John. "That mouth almost made me forget you needed to be taught a lesson." You ran your finger over his lips and down his chin as he stared up at you with large, sad eyes, wordlessly pleading for you to continue.
Slipping out of his lap, you padded over to the head of the bed, tugging your chemise down from where it had ridden up. John let out an involuntary groan as he finally spotted the one part of your outfit he hadn't seen before - the see-through back panel. You grinned to yourself at his suffering.
Kneeling next to Bob on the lush purple bedspread, you wasted no time untying both the ballgag and blindfold, flinging them off the bed and onto the floor. Bob's eyes squinted immediately, even the dim light of the bedroom blinding to his newly freed senses. He opened his mouth, stretching his jaw until it audibly popped. You couldn't help but wince in sympathy, moving to gently massage the muscles right under his ears, your hands helping to ease the ache there.
"You doing okay, baby?" you asked soothingly, an apologetic lilt to your tone.
"Yeah," Bob whispered, voice groggy until he cleared his throat. "Yes, ma'am," he corrected, his voice at its regular volume.
You smoothed some of his hair off his forehead before reaching to inspect his bound wrists, checking for any redness and making sure his arms still had full circulation. You'd been careful when tying him up, but Bob wasn't exactly the type to complain about his own comfort.
"I'm sorry I took so long, sugar," you cooed down at him, stroking his hair. Bob closed his eyes, soaking in the affection. "Didn't mean to tease you that hard."
"S'okay," he murmured, turning his head and pressing a tender kiss to the inside of your wrist.
"My sweet boy," you whispered, peppering kisses all over his face until Bob's muscles fully relaxed, his body sinking deeper into the comforter. "You okay to continue? Need to take a break? Change position?"
Bob shook his head, his deep blue eyes fluttering open. "'M good. I feel good."
"Yeah?" you murmured, pressing your lips to his jaw, lingering longer there, your kisses becoming more heated.
"Yeah," Bob affirmed, voice noticeably huskier than before. "Green. Very…very green."
"Mmm," you hummed, starting to run your hand down his torso. Your fingertips traced the sharp line of his collar bone from his shoulder to the center of his chest before trailing down. His cock, which had flagged a little bit before you sat down on the bed, was at full attention again. It twitched as your hand slid further down his body, between the pectoral muscles, going from just one finger to the whole of your palm easing down his stomach, still sticky with precum.
Bob didn't fight the full throated moan that ripped out of him when you wrapped your hand around his length, slowly stroking him from the base all the way up to his leaking tip. Just the weight and heat of him in your hand was enough to make your mouth water. You had to force yourself to let go of him, biting your lip to keep from grinning at Bob's whimper of protest.
"Sorry, baby," you said almost mockingly, not even a trace of remorse in your voice.
Turning to face him, you brought your hand up to your face, licking off a droplet of precum. Bob's answering whine was so delicious that you couldn't fight down the cruel smile that tugged at your lips.
"Do you know why you're here?" you asked Bob, gesturing at the rope that held him captive.
Bob nodded, biting at his already reddened lips.
"Tell me."
For a split second, his eyes darted to the end of the bed, to the other man quietly observing you. But you put a stop to that, snapping your fingers to draw his attention back.
"Eyes on me, baby. Now…" You let your words trail off just as you started to run your hand over his chest again, fingertips barely grazing his skin. His nipples hardened under your touch, and you drew lazy circles around them. "Tell me why I have you here like this."
"I…" Bob hesitated, but when you whipped your head to look at him, he quickly choked out an answer. "I was bad. I should have told you."
Satisfied that he'd continue to answer, you refocused your attention on Bob's nipples. They were small and dusky pink with a little ring of hair growing right around them. And you knew from experience just how sensitive they were.
"Keep going," you prompted. "Told me what?"
"I-I should have told you about John's plan," he admitted.
"Bobby, don't you dare…" John started to warn, but another snap of your fingers, and he went silent. Despite the grumpy look he shot you, John's eyes were alight.
"Uh uh uh. No more talking from you," you admonished, enjoying the way John squirmed under your glare. "Keep going, sweetheart," you encouraged Bob. You let your thumb swirl around the pebbled skin of Bob's nipple, redirecting his attention. He inhaled sharply through his nose but kept going.
"He…" Bob's eyes twitched like he wanted to look back at John but forced himself not to. You felt a small swell of both pride and pleasure in him following your orders. "He wanted to trick you. To tie you up and…" His words trailed off, looking like he was working himself up to finish his sentence. "Have…his way…with you. 'M sorry."
"That's okay, sweetheart. I can forgive you," you cooed, smiling down at him. God, you loved the way he looked up at you, big blue eyes so full of love, staring at you like you were his very salvation. "And, because you were honest with me and helped me with my plan, I have a reward for you. You want your reward, puppy?"
Bob nodded furiously. "Yes! Yes, please. Please, mistress," he pleaded, surging up as much as he could before you lightly pushed him back down on the bed. Hearing that honorific from Bob's lips - mistress - was almost more than you could bear. Your pussy clenched, clit throbbing in arousal. Fortunately, relief was in sight.
Reaching under his pillow, you pulled out a small piece of plastic. It was about an inch long, white, and perfectly rectangular. Bob's eyebrows furrowed in confusion when you held it in front of him. He didn't voice his question, just looked up at you for answers. You pressed your thumb on the indented area, and the loud, metallic click the object made seemed to echo in the room. Instead of answering his question, Bob looked even more perplexed as you pressed the clicker into his hand.
"Click it for me," you ordered. There was a moment of hesitation before Bob obeyed, pushing down on the metal part of the clicker. The sound was less jarring this time, but no more enlightening than before.
You couldn't help but smirk. "Looks like it's not just for training dogs," you teased. "Then again, you are my good little puppy." You didn't think it was possible for Bob's face to turn even more pink than it already was, but the blush that dusted his cheeks was almost scarlet.
You didn't mean to say the words "You're so pretty" out loud, but, judging by how Bob turned his head to the side, trying to bashfully duck away from your gaze, you must have. Grabbing his chin, you pulled his head back up to endure your undivided attention, letting your eyes roam over him.
God, he was indeed beautiful. You could catalog everything you loved about his face: the shallow wrinkle on his forehead and cute little lines under those expressive eyes, the strong and mostly straight nose that ended in a slightly bulbous tip that was perfect for planting a kiss on, the five o'clock shadow that always haunted his skin no matter how closely he shaved, his thin but oh-so-soft lips that knew how to kiss you breathless and drive you mad in turn, all the way to the strong jut of his jaw and the delicious protrusion of his Adam's apple. And his eyes. Oh, they were as deep and dark as the ocean and sometimes just as stormy. But not now. Now they gazed up at you with a look of sheer reverence, waiting for your next command, ready and willing to follow your every whim like it was the gospel, like he was your most faithful disciple.
And you kissed him. Despite the heat of the evening's proceedings, it started slow, a simple pass of lips coming together and separating in turn over and over again. When you ran your tongue across the seam of his lips, they parted smoothly, like he hadn't even made the conscious decision. It was just that natural. And, when you kissed him, you tasted him, sliding your tongue along his as if sampling its delicacies. It grew in intensity naturally, building and building until Bob was panting against your lips, barely able to bite back the little sounds at the back of his throat that threatened to spill out and into your mouth. You could feel him trying to stay still, to be good for you, body going so stiff Bob was practically shaking from the tension. When you finally broke the kiss, you rested your forehead on Bob's, both of you fighting to catch your breath.
"Fuck," you muttered, not missing the way Bob's lips turned up at the edges in a pleased smile. "You almost distracted me too, baby."
"'M sorry," Bob breathed. He was lying, but you couldn't fault him for it this time. In Bob's perfect world, you'd be on top of him right now, kissing him until his lungs felt near to bursting, his throbbing erection buried deep inside of you as you ground down against him. As wet as that thought made you, he still needed to be punished. Bob wouldn't get your pussy until he earned it.
Sitting back up, you pushed the hair that had fallen down back out of your face. "Still have that clicker, baby?"
"Yes, mistress," Bob answered.
"What's the code for when you can't speak?"
Bob frowned slightly, a little confused. But he answered anyway, his words lilting up at the end as if he wanted to turn them into a question but he didn't quite dare to ask. "One tap for no, two for yes."
"We need to use a slightly different one this time," you murmured, brushing the hair back out of his face. "One click is pause. And two clicks is for stop. Do you understand?"
"One click for pause, two clicks for stop," Bob repeated, making the appropriate number of clicks for each part of the sentence.
You spared a glance over your shoulder at John. Bob may not have pieced together what his reward was, but John sure as hell did. His eyes burned into you hot enough that you were momentarily grateful that Bob was the one with heat vision. You could see his chest rise and fall just a little too quickly under his shirt, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth to calm himself. His lips were a dark, lush pink, like he'd been biting at them, fighting to keep silent. You smirked back at him. That was the face of a man who knew exactly what he was missing out on.
You looked back down at Bob, who was still looking up at you with wide, searching eyes, his forehead furrowed, eyebrows adorably pushed up in the middle.
"You hungry, puppy?" you cooed down at him, grinning sharply when his look of confusion only grew.
Shifting your weight, you swung your leg over Bob to straddle his chest. In a second, it was like a light bulb had flickered on in Bob's head.
"Oh my God," he practically moaned, voice shaky. He'd done a good job not speaking unless asked a question this whole time, but it was like any other thought had left his head. "Please, baby. Fuck, I need this. Need you. Need to taste you. Please." Bob almost dropped the clicker, but you pressed it back into his hand before moving to hover over his face, knees on either side of his head on the pillows. Your thighs were already starting to ache, but you pushed the pain into the back of your mind.
"Remember, one click for pause and two clicks for stop," you purred down at Bob, adjusting quickly when he craned his neck, desperate to taste you. He was definitely hungry.
You didn't make him repeat it back this time. This time, you were merciful. You lowered your dripping pussy onto his awaiting tongue, his resulting moan vibrating against your clit. Your hands shot out, grasping the headboard to help hold yourself up. After all, you didn't want to crush his pretty little face.
Bob was everywhere all at once, licking and sucking every inch of skin he could reach, the most obscene sounds filling the room. He ran his tongue up your slit and back down again, stretching his neck for a better angle.
"Tongue flat, baby," you ordered, letting out a hum of cruel amusement when he immediately obeyed. You rocked your hips, grinding your clit into his tongue, moaning at the delicious, wet friction.
Bob's hands twitched, uselessly trying to grab for you. Normally, Bob helped when you rode his face. Sometime around the middle, your legs always seemed to turn to jelly. So Bob was always there to help, effortlessly holding you up by your hips, letting you control the pace and positioning as you got off on his mouth. But this time, you'd have to do it all alone. Hopefully, the Sentry serum gave him an increased lung capacity.
You rode his face, using his mouth however you wanted it. After grinding your clit on his tongue, you grabbed Bob's head, fingers clutching his scalp, and angled him further down. His tongue lapped at your entrance, happily drinking you straight from the source.
"Fuck me with your tongue, baby," you commanded, and Bob wasted no time obeying. He thrust his tongue inside of you, both of you moaning in tandem. Yours was with your head thrown back, grinding down even harder on his face, clenching your walls around him. His was muffled inside of you but still so loud in the mostly quiet room filled only with your and John's heavy breathing. You canted your hips forward, letting his nose nudge your clit with each subsequent grind.
It quickly became harder and harder to hold yourself up. Where you'd been hovering, barely touching Bob's face, you were now firmly seated on him. Not that he minded. Bob was locked in, his eyes closed in focus, that little line forming between his eyebrows as he furrowed them in concentration.
"Bob, baby," you murmured down at him, stroking his hair idly. "Look at me, sweet boy. Wanna see those eyes."
His lashes fluttered as he opened his eyelids, his glassy gaze and wide pupils telling you everything you needed to know.
"Aww, is the little puppy pussydrunk already?" you cooed, an edge of mockery in your tone. Bob just whined against you in answer, and you could feel the bed shift as his hips bucked into the air, fruitlessly searching for any friction to soothe his aching cock.
"You're doing so good," you moaned, gripping his hair even harder as you angled your hips to let Bob's tongue run along your slit from your entrance all the way to your clit, which he happily took in his mouth. "Fuck," you swore, biting your lower lip as you rocked against Bob's mouth. "Suck that clit, baby. You're making me feel so fucking good. Gonna cum on that pretty little face."
There was a choked sound from the end of the bed, and you looked back over your shoulder at John. This was definitely punishment for him. He couldn't stop fidgeting in his seat, prick so eager for friction that even the uncomfortable rub of the metal teeth on his zipper provided a kind of sharp, painful relief. Gone were the deep breaths in through the nose and out through his mouth; John was panting, lips parted enticingly. He was staring fixated at what he could see of your cunt smearing Bob's face with your arousal.
"Oh, looks like Johnny's liking the show, puppy," you teased, exaggerating the next roll of your hips to pull a groan out of John's mouth. He didn't disappoint. And neither did Bob who answered your question with a quivering moan of his own that vibrated through you pleasantly.
"You want some, baby?" you taunted John. He nodded immediately, leaning forward in the armchair hopefully. "You want to eat this pretty pussy, sugar?"
"Please," John practically moaned. All pretense of dominance was long gone from the man. He'd already tried tugging on the restraints, finding them much sturdier than he'd at first thought. He'd practically melted, finding something strangely erotic about feeling weak and helpless. Like he was completely at your mercy to do with as you pleased. And he desperately wanted to be used.
"You hear that, Bob? John wants a turn," you said innocently, stroking Bob's hair as if to calm him while your words were doing anything but. "I should let him have a taste. It's only fair."
Before you could even pantomime starting to lift a leg to pull yourself off of him, a growl ripped its way out of Bob's throat. You had to bite your lip to keep from whimpering at the look of sheer, unmitigated possessiveness in his eyes as your boyfriend glared up at you. The headboard creaked violently as Bob strained against his restraints. He wasn't using his full strength, but, judging by the flash of gold in his eyes, Bob definitely would break something if you tried to climb off him. When you stayed quiet, he made another low, dangerous sound, letting his teeth lightly scrape against your clit. You tried to hold back your gasp but to no avail. Bob hummed in pleasure when you bucked your hips, lathing that little bundle of nerves with his tongue before sliding his teeth over it again.
"Fuck! Bob, oh my God!" you cried out, clenching your fists tighter in Bob's hair, your teasing instantly forgotten.
Your knees went weak, and you found yourself sinking down completely on his face, unable to hold yourself up. If you weren't so distracted riding his mouth, you would have noticed that the gold didn't disappear from his eyes, that it almost felt like there were hands holding onto your thighs, ones that helped you rut harder against his face. His mouth was everywhere, lapping and slurping at your folds, fucking his tongue into you, and mouthing his lips over your sensitive clit, practically moaning when you thrust down, hips stuttering against him.
Soon enough, you were shaking, stomach muscles twitching, thighs tightening around Bob's head. He didn't seem to mind, making a happy noise in the back of his throat as he panted against your slick skin. Focusing on your nub, Bob swirled his tongue around it before flattening, letting you lewdly hump his face, dragging your clit over the flexing muscle. When you started whimpering, making desperate little noises that were practically begging him for release, he increased the suction on that little bundle of nerves, suckling hard enough to make you see white spots behind your closed eyelids. Each flex of his jaw, each swallow coincided with each roll of your hips, the rhythm of it combined with the pleasure-pain of pressure driving you closer and closer to the edge.
With one last rut of your hips and a wail, your whole body went rigid as your release slammed into you, leaving you gasping and shaking. Bob worked you through it, still licking every inch of skin he could get his mouth on but slowing down. He only let up once you were whining, trying to pull yourself off of him to collapse on the bed. Reluctantly, Bob let you go, and you flopped down next to him, gasping for breath like you'd run an Olympic marathon.
You only gave yourself to the count of five before you forced yourself to sit up, carefully pulling the rope on the quick-release knots holding Bob's wrists in place. As soon as the purple ropes were gone, you went to take his hands to inspect them, but you didn't have a chance to. The next thing you knew, you were on your back, head now at the foot of the bed, legs thrown haphazardly over Bob's shoulders as he buried his face back between them, eagerly lapping at your sensitive cunt.
"Bob!" you cried out, once again grasping honeyed-brown locks in your hands. He was relentless. And he was everywhere, tonguing your folds like he was desperate to wring every last ounce of pleasure out of you. Bob rutted his hips against the bed in time with the movements of his tongue, your ecstasy turning into his own as he whined and panted against you.
You almost gave in. You almost let him manhandle you to another orgasm. But, when you caught John's eye and saw the warring desires written plainly on his face - the desire to please you versus the desire to pleasure you - you came back to your senses.
"Bob," you said again, mustering enough authority in your tone to cause the man between your legs to pause, looking up at you. He was a mess - hair clutched between your fingers, lower face soaked with your juices, eyes a swirl of black, blue, and flecks of gold.
"Bob…no, baby. You gotta let me up," you scolded. It felt a bit ridiculous, what with your legs in the air and a literal god holding you down, but you pushed through the feeling.
Bob let out a whine of complaint, opening his mouth to protest. You fixed him with your best schoolteacher glare, and he visibly withered.
"You got your treat, puppy. C'mere," you urged. Tugging on his hair to pull him closer to you, Bob allowed your legs to drop down, crawling up between them.
Not all of him had deflated when you glowered at him. His hips bucked, sliding his hard length along your slick folds. You gasped when the swollen head nudged your abused clit, pulling him down into a blistering kiss. The taste of you was sharp and sweet on his lips, drawing a moan out of you that Bob willingly drank from your mouth.
When you finally drew back, Bob moved down, mouthing at your neck, tongue out to taste your skin. You allowed him this much, closing your eyes and letting your hand idly scratch his scalp until he reached the base of your neck, sucking a possessive mark into your skin.
"That's enough, sweetheart," you murmured to him. This time, when you tried to sit up, Bob got the hint, leaning back to sit on his knees, watching you for instruction.
"There's my good boy," you purred, stroking his cheek with the back of your hand. Bob closed his eyes, leaning into your fleeting touch. That was until you pulled something out of a clever little pocket in the chemise, pressing it into his hands - a key. His eyes fluttered open, looking from the key in his hands to John in the armchair and back to you. "That's right, baby. Go unlock those handcuffs for me."
After one more brief kiss, Bob quietly obeyed, getting off the bed and padding his way over to the grey armchair. You took this time to pull yourself to the top of the bed, sitting up against the headboard, watching your two favorite boys.
Bob was gentle as he unlocked the manacles from John's wrists. Without your prompting, he knelt down and took John's hands in his, checking them for any signs of redness or abrasion the same way you'd meant to do with Bob before he abruptly tackled you. His touch was soft, running the pads of his thumbs over the delicate skin of John's wrists.
"You okay?" Bob asked quietly in that low, breathy voice of his, looking up into John's eyes. Maybe you were just seeing what you wanted to see, but it certainly seemed like both men's eyes were softer when they looked at each other. It wasn't one of the myriad ways you'd seen them looking at you, but it was…something.
"Yeah," John answered, his voice just as soft as Bob's and even more breathless.
"Can you…feel everything? No numbness?" Bob pressed.
A wry smile curled John's lips. "I'm good, Bobby. I promise. Scout's honor."
You cleared your throat, and both men pulled their hands away from each other like they were caught doing something they weren't supposed to. The smile you gave them was both condescending and self-satisfied. You couldn't help yourself.
"Good boys," you commended. Both of them seemed to sit up straighter at your words, preening under your watchful gaze. You let your eyes slowly slide down and then back up their bodies, smirking. "I think someone's a little overdressed. Bob, sugar?"
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Help him take those clothes off."
He swallowed hard enough that John probably heard it, his Adam's apple bobbing and making your mouth water with the urge to lick his throat. You wet your lips instead, and both pairs of blue eyes shot down automatically, watching the brief flash of tongue. When Bob looked back up and met your eyes, his widened, a flash of panic there when he realized he didn't verbally answer you.
"Y-yes, ma'am. Mistress? Yes, mistress." Bob winced, cringing at his own words. "Sorry, mistress. I just got sidetracked. I'll-"
"It's okay, baby," you reassured him, his shoulders relaxing with a small sigh of relief at your words. You crossed your legs in front of you on the bed, exaggerating the movement to make sure they caught a glimpse of your nakedness under the lingerie. "I'm flattered you find me so…distracting."
"Always," Bob breathed, eyes taking you in like he was trying to burn the sight of you into his retinas. And John wasn't any better. Even though he couldn't see under the chemise, he stared at your crossed legs like he was mentally willing them to part for him.
"I won't hold it against you, I promise," you said with a teasing smile that had Bob blushing. You gestured at John. "Now, get to it, or I might have to change my mind. And go slow." You gestured at the front of John's flannel. "Unbutton it. Take your time."
Bob's fingers fumbled on John's shirt. You couldn't tell if the man was having a kind of stage fright, being put on the spot and watched, or if the proximity to the other man and the intimacy of the act was affecting him.
After he'd managed to undo a few, you directed John to help. Instead of taking over for Bob, John placed his hands on top of the brunet's, coaxing his fingers to slip the buttons through the holes of his flannel, his shirt falling more and more open, exposing a thin undershirt beneath it. When it was fully undone, Bob pushed the fabric off John's shoulders and down his arms, fingers running over the newly bared skin.
The undershirt was next, John raising his arms and letting Bob slowly pull it up his torso and over his head, the dangling silver dogtags on John's neck brushing the skin of Bob's chest. The metal had been pressed against John's chest the entire night, so there was no way it was colder. But, when they touched Bob, he'd shivered like they were freezing anyway.
The jeans were next. John stood up to help unbutton them, but one word from you kept Bob kneeling. Bob looked up at the man hovering over him. John's breathing stuttered for a second, and you knew why. You'd seen those storm-blue eyes gazing up at you from between your thighs more times that you could count, and the sight never failed to send a rush of heat straight between your legs, stealing the air from your lungs. If the stunned look on John's face was any indication, he felt the same.
The belt came off easily enough. Even though you'd never seen Bob wear one, he certainly knew the easiest way to remove one, not even struggling with the belt buckle that you yourself had fumbled with before. He placed it on the armchair before continuing.
Bob's fingers weren't shaking anymore as he unbuttoned the fly on John's jeans, keeping eye contact the whole time. John stood transfixed, pink lips parted in silent awe. The teeth of John's zipper sounded loud in the quiet of the room, each one making a little metallic noise that echoed in your ears.
Finally, when the pants were unfastened, Bob rested his hands on John's hips, thumbs going through the belt loops. When John nodded, barely jerking his head down then up again, Bob began pulling, coaxing the jeans down his legs. His hands could have stopped around mid-thigh and let gravity take over, but Bob was nothing if not diligent. He traced John's legs all the way down, leaving the jeans in a pile around the other man's feet.
Looking back up, Bob was face to face with the obvious tent in John's boxer briefs. He was so close, his breath puffed warm air over the erection, and John was far from unaffected by his proximity.
"Jesus Christ, Bobby," he muttered under his breath just loud enough for you to hear it. Bob tried to play innocent, his big eyes opening wider, becoming even more round like he had no idea what he was doing, but the smirk tugging on the corners of his lips gave it away.
Soon, Bob's hands were on the waist of John's boxer briefs, fingers slipping under the elastic band, rubbing against the skin there. John was biting his lip, his breathing kept slow and steady with visible effort. Bob glanced at you for permission, and you wasted no time granting it with a sharp nod of your head. He took his time, even more so than with the jeans, skimming his palms over the bare skin he revealed inch by inch.
By the time John stood fully naked at the end of the bed, both men were breathing hard and painfully erect. John's cockhead was almost purple, a few sparse droplets of precum glistening on his glans. If Bob quickly looked away and licked his lips, John didn't comment on it.
A soft, wet schlick drew both of their attention to you. While they were distracted with each other, you'd occupied yourself, two fingers slowly circling your clit, teasing yourself. Your hand dipped, sliding through your slick folds, wetting your fingers before bringing them back, the touch tantalizingly light. Seeing their attention back on you, you spread your legs further, giving them both a better view.
"Want a taste?" you purred at John, a smug smile on your lips at his dazed expression.
"Please," he said, the word no more than a breathy whisper. It was as though he didn't know where to look, his eyes flickering between your face and your soaked core.
You let your hand slip down, skimming your fingertips over your slit, before slowly pressing two fingers inside. Watching John, you pumped them in and out of you, the sounds of your arousal quickly filling the bedroom. Only a single sigh of pleasure spilled out of you as you curled your fingers, touching that spongy spot inside of you that sent tendrils of sensation through your body.
Stopping abruptly, you removed your fingers, holding them up in front of you, glistening in the dim light with your slick. John's stare bore into you. There was a tension in him, not unlike a string on a violin, one that had been overly-tightened and was ready to snap given the slightest opportunity.
"Bob," you called. The brunet, who'd been kneeling patiently on the floor, watching the scene play out, snapped his head toward you, blinking in obvious surprise.
"Y-yes, ma'am?" he asked, voice tentative.
"C'mere." You quirked your wet fingers at him, and he rushed to crawl to you on the bed. Extending your hand in front of him, you only spoke one word. "Suck."
And Bob happily obeyed. He opened his mouth, letting you thrust your fingers in, where he sucked on them happily. Bob tried to keep his eyes open, to keep looking at you, but he couldn't help himself. His oral fixation was too strong and having your fingers in his mouth was too soothing.
Once you were satisfied he'd cleaned them thoroughly, you removed your fingers from Bob's mouth with a wet pop. Those deep blue eyes fluttered open, watching you with a half-lidded gaze. It took everything in you to not pull him into another kiss when he gave you that sweet, dopey smile that you only ever saw when he was fucked out or drunk off your pussy.
Turning your attention back to John, it took everything in you again but this time to not laugh at his expression. The man looked devastated. Those sad eyes that drew you to him originally were in full force now as he gazed at you. It was the face of a man who had accepted his punishment but just couldn't fight down his disappointment. He didn't pout. He didn't scowl. He didn't even look put out. He just looked resigned to his punishment.
"Don't worry, baby. You'll still get a taste. Come here, handsome boy," you cooed at him.
You'd teased John more than once that he was the human equivalent of a Golden Retriever, and the way his face lit up in excitement like you were holding his favorite toy didn't help his case. If he had a tail, John would definitely be wagging it. He crawled over to you on the opposite side from Bob, sitting back on his heels, mirroring the other man. It was like your legs had their very own book ends.
On the outside, you looked cool and collected, amusement dancing on your lips. But on the inside, your heart was a war drum pounding against your ribcage, like you were leading an army into battle. Your stomach fluttered with nerves, but you steeled yourself. Doubts flooded your mind, but you pushed them aside.
It was like a mission. A high-stakes mission with potential long-lasting consequences, but you'd done plenty of those before and come out the other side. And if you were wrong? So what? Sure, it'd be awkward, maybe even a little painful. But these two idiots would never take the dive if you left them to their own devices. They'd been skirting around their attraction for months. It was time for you to give them that final little push.
"You know…" you started, drawing out the words in an almost sing-song voice. John frowned immediately. Sometimes you thought he might just have some precognition, the way he could sense trouble on the horizon. Especially if that trouble came from you. "I don't think you deserve to have some straight from the source."
John opened his mouth to plead his case, a rebuttal already fully formed and ready to go in his mind. But you cut him off before he could gather steam.
"But you can have a taste secondhand."
You waved your hand at Bob, the gesture casual, almost flippant even though your words were anything but.
Bob understood first. His mouth fell open, kiss-swollen lips parting with a soft noise of surprise. He went pale beneath the flush on his skin, his eyes widening as he watched you, as if waiting for confirmation that he heard you correctly. You gave him one firm nod, and he muttered the words 'holy shit,' under his breath.
John took a minute. He looked down at your hand, as if expecting you to touch yourself again so he could suck the juices off your fingers the way Bob had, but his expression was pure puzzlement when you pointed instead. His eyes followed, turning to look at whatever you were gesturing to. When his gaze met Bob's, it was still one of confusion. That is until Bob licked his lips.
It was an instinct, a nervous habit he did in stressful situations. His mouth would go dry and so would his lips. Bob normally remedied this by carrying around lip balm everywhere he went - putting one in each of his hoodies and stashing some in the common areas he used the most. But this time, he didn't even think about it. He just did. And John's eyes followed his tongue like they were magnetized to it.
When he looked back up, Bob was watching him closely, trying to judge his reaction. And react, he did.
It was like a light bulb lit up in his mind - a bright, neon one with a lurid image on it, like something you'd find in a trashy strip club in the 80s. His eyes went wide as saucers, mouth falling open in surprise. Even though he was turned to the side, you could see those long, blond lashes fluttering as he blinked rapidly like his brain was recalibrating.
When he turned to you, John's face was a swirl of emotions - shock, shame, and stubbornness chief among them. You laid your hand on his forearm, and, when he didn't rebuff you, you took his hand in yours.
"Hey, we don't have to do anything anyone doesn't want," you told him gently, dropping character entirely. "We can go back to what we were doing. Or we can stop entirely. Or anything in between."
You glanced over at Bob, only to find him watching John closely, an unreadable look on his face. You smiled, catching his attention and tentatively offering your other hand to him, which Bob accepted with a gentle squeeze.
"If I went too far or this is too much, I'm sorry," you said earnestly, eyes flitting back and forth between your boyfriends. "It just seems like you two have been dancing around each other for months. That maybe you needed a little push."
"We could have just talked about it," Bob said wryly, rubbing his thumb on the back of your hand, giving you a smug little smirk when you had the grace to look bashful.
"You and I could have talked about it, sure," you admitted, turning to look at John. "But something tells me you would have just kept running forever."
John's answering smile had an edge of self-deprecation. "You're probably right about that," he admitted with a sigh.
"I'm right about most things," you teased, and John's smile turned more genuine.
"Dunno if I'd go that far," he said with a chuckle. Leaning in, you kissed his cheek, his stubble grazing your skin not-unpleasantly. Turning his head, John captured your lips in a brief but oh-so-sweet embrace. Bob watched you both, his gaze so heavy it felt like it had physical weight. It was like earlier when he caught sight of you in your lingerie, but this time, Bob wasn't watching just you.
"You sure you're okay with this?" John asked as he pulled back, his breath ghosting over your lips.
"You're asking me if I want my boyfriends to kiss?" At John's answering nod, you couldn't help but let out a sharp bark of a laugh. "Of fucking course I do. I didn't even consider it as a possibility until recently. But the better question is - do you?"
John's eyes flickered past you, looking at Bob, and they darted away just as quickly. It was like he wasn't able to hold Bob's intense gaze for long. At the same time, he couldn't quite keep his eyes away. They kept glancing over, catching little glimpses of Bob's stare as though he was drawn in by those storm-dark eyes.
"I meant it when I said you don't have to if you don't want to," you said softly, rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb with little back and forth motions. "And it isn't a 'now or never' situation either. We can always talk about this later."
"I," John started, licking his lower lip nervously. "I do." He finally met Bob's eyes. This time, he was steady, not breaking eye contact. "I'd like to."
"Bob, are you -" you started, but Bob already sat up, getting on his hands and knees and pressing his lips to John's.
Suddenly, it was like the air was sucked out of the room. Your brain seemed to stop functioning properly, completely freeze-framing on the sight right in front of you, one you had imagined so many times but never thought would leave the confines of your mind.
John's eyes closed the second their lips touched, his blond lashes fluttering against his skin. His face went slack, like all the anxiety, all his thoughts slipped out of his head, smoothing the lines on his forehead and in the corners of his eyes. His hand hovered nervously before tentatively placing it on Bob's forearm, grip gradually tightening until there were little white crescents in Bob's skin there.
Even though Bob had his head angled away from you, the smile that curled his lips was unmistakable. Balancing on one hand, he lifted the other to cup John's cheek before slipping it down to John's chin, using that leverage to hold the other man back when he tried to follow Bob's mouth when their lips parted. When John made a sound of protest, Bob smiled even more, moving back in and placing a series of kisses on John's lips that kept the other man wanting more. The sound of their lips meeting and parting filled the room with soft, wet smacking noises.
It didn't take long for John to get bolder, hand slipping up to the nape of Bob's neck, trying to hold Bob closer to deepen the kiss. Bob just nipped at John's lower lip, leaning back slightly and making John chase his mouth until their positions had switched with John practically on his hands and knees instead of Bob. But just when it seemed there was no farther back for Bob to move and John opened his mouth to lick at the seam of Bob's lips, the brunet put his hand on John's shoulder, gently holding him back.
When John's eyes opened, he looked almost dazed. "Bob. Bobby," he muttered, voice barely above a whisper. "Please."
"Please what?" Bob teased, lightly shoving John back off of where he was resting on his knees and making him sit directly on the bed. He wasn't pushing John away, however. Bob followed him down, climbing onto his lap.
John's hands fell to Bob's hips automatically, squeezing his flesh with a throaty groan. Just the proximity was enough to take John's breath away, the blond breathing harder, pink dusting his cheeks and his kiss-stained lips. His eyes were everywhere, taking Bob in - the little smirk, the way his eyes swirled with gold-flecked heat, and, most pressingly, the still-hard cock that stood proudly between Bob's legs, hovering mere inches away from John's own throbbing length.
"Please kiss me," John pleaded quietly, not bothering to keep the desperation out of his voice.
Bob obliged. He surged forward, capturing John's mouth hard enough that you could swear you heard their teeth click. Bob pressed his body firmly against John's, swallowing the other man's shaky moan. Their mouths only parted enough for you to see the flash of their tongues sliding against each other. John's hands moved farther back, grasping the other man's ass and pulling him even closer. When Bob started moving, slowly grinding his hips down against John's, your hand had slipped under your chemise, teasing yourself with featherlight touches against your still-sensitive clit.
By the time they broke apart, both were out of breath. Bob rested his forehead against John's, panting against his lips. John's eyes never left Bob's face, watching him with a look that was dangerously close to awe.
"Fuck," Bob breathed, biting his lip. "I've wanted to do that for months."
"Why didn't you?" John asked, his ragged voice thrumming through you, your clit pulsing under your own touch at the naked desire there.
Bob laughed, the sound joyous and carefree in the way he only ever seemed to be with you. And now with John. He laid a small kiss on the tip of John's nose, the same affectionate way he did with you. The sight could have made you jealous. Maybe it should have. But it only made your heart feel as warm as your body already was.
"Honestly thought you were straight," Bob admitted with a grin. "That kiss says otherwise."
"I'm straight-ish," John professed with a shrug. "Not exactly my first rodeo, so to speak."
You raised your eyebrows. This was news to you.
Bob, however, didn't look particularly surprised.
"Mmm, yeah, you don't kiss like I'm your first guy." Even from your angle, you could see that mischievous light in Bob's eyes that spelled nothing but the most delicious kind of trouble. It was the same look he got the day he spontaneously went down on you in the control room, making you cum mere seconds before the rest of the team walked in. The same one he had on the date where you made the mistake of wearing a low cut top and Bob ended up railing you against the wall of your favorite bookstore's bathroom. But this time? It was focused on John.
"Tell me about it," Bob murmured, leaning down to run his tongue along the shell of John's ear, making the other man shiver beneath him. "You fool around with a friend in high school?"
"Not 'friend.' 'Friends'plural; more than one," John admitted almost sheepishly. Bob rolled his hips, a little reward for the truth. He smirked when John moaned.
"What, were you fucking the football team?" Bob teased, biting and tugging at John's earlobe.
John let out a shaky laugh. "No. Not…not exactly. We'd go get drunk in the woods on the weekends sometimes. Just guys tailgating, drinking beer, and shooting the shit. Eventually, we'd start talking about girls, and one of the guys'd pop a stiffy. And, you know, no one around, so we'd…" John shrugged awkwardly. "Yeah."
"Give each other a hand?" Bob teased.
"Or…a mouth," he said with a coy smile on his face.
"Jesus," you said, voice practically a moan. Both men turned to look at you, one with a questioning look on his face, the other with a knowing smirk.
"Looks like we're not the only ones enjoying ourselves," Bob said, eyes fixed on the hand between your stocking-clad legs. Wordlessly, you spread them farther apart, giving your boyfriends a better view of your dripping pussy. In an almost Pavlovian response, both John and Bob licked their lips. It would be funny if it wasn't so fucking hot.
"You enjoy the taste you got, baby?" you asked John, making a show of swirling your finger around your sensitive nub.
"Yes," John breathed. Before you could say anything, he corrected himself. "Yes, mistress."
"Good boy," you purred, dipping your fingers through your slick folds teasingly before bringing them back up, continuing the circles around your clit. "Bob, I think he deserves a little reward for being so good. Don't you think so?"
"Yes, ma'am," Bob said maybe a touch too enthusiastically. With two flicks of the wrist, he undid the snaps holding his cock ring on and carelessly tossed the black piece of leather across the room. He then shifted in John's lap, moving back just a fraction, ignoring the little noise of complaint the other man let out. Before John could voice his objections, Bob's hand closed around both of their cocks, stroking them roughly.
"Fuck!" John cried out, thrusting his hips up, his cock sliding against Bob's inside the other man's fist.
Bob was grinning wildly. His other hand came up to fist into John's hair, pulling a gasp from his mouth. Yanking, he tugged John's head to hover directly over his fist.
"Spit on it," he commanded. John obeyed, letting his saliva well up before opening his mouth and sticking out his tongue, letting strands of his spit land on their already-leaking glans.
"Yeah, that's it. Fuck my fist," Bob murmured in his ear, voice just loud enough to carry. Both you and John moaned at the same time, your free hand coming up to cup your breast through the lacy fabric of the chemise.
"You're leaking so much, baby. So wet for me. Practically dripping," Bob purred, starting to mouth at John's neck, nipping and sucking at the skin there. You could see him thumb the slick heads of both of their cocks in one swipe, and you followed the motion, rubbing firmly over your clit.
Eventually, Bob appeared to tire of John setting the pace. He pushed at John's shoulders, urging him down onto his back on the bed. Bracing one hand on John's abs, Bob rolled his hips, throwing back his head and letting out a long groan. He started riding John in earnest, rutting into his own hand, cock sliding easily against John's. It was mesmerizing. You could see all the muscles in Bob's ass and the backs of his thighs flex almost hypnotically as he started up a rhythm.
The thought occurred to you that that must be what John got to see all the times Bob fucked you in front of him, burying himself deep into your cunt. You gritted your teeth to hold back a particularly undignified noise, feeling yourself growing impossibly wetter at the thought. You'd believed John was just watching him spear you open, watching as Bob pistoned his cock in and out of you. But you knew in that moment that your blond boyfriend's eyes had flickered back and forth, watching the way Bob's cheeks dimpled with each thrust.
And now, John grabbed at those dimples, fingers digging into the flesh of Bob's ass, unconsciously aiding Bob's momentum. His face was slack, mouth open, watching the man above him with a look of pure awe, like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Smiling down, Bob bit his lip coyly, a look deliberately designed to entice.
"Feel good?" he murmured teasingly.
"Yes," John panted, his hips twitching with the urge to grind up against him. His fingertips grasping at Bob's skin hard enough to leave white half-moons. "Fuck, Bobby. You're so goddamn pretty."
Bob's hips stuttered at the words, and he let out a moan that reverberated through the room. It was loud enough that you felt like you could feel it through the bed, rumbling through your body, making your cunt pulse with desire.
"So goddamn pretty," John repeated, unable this time to resist thrusting up into Bob's hand. Bob reacted like you imagined he would if John was inside of him, forcing down a shuddery gasp, letting out a breathless sound instead. "Look so fucking good on top of me. Fuck, I can't believe -"
But Bob cut him off, swooping down to capture John's lips with his in a deep, filthy kiss. He'd had to move both his hands to lay flat on top of the blond, but that didn't stop him from rutting down, grinding their lengths between their stomachs. John only squeezed his ass harder, soliciting another greedy noise from Bob that John eagerly swallowed.
Bob only pulled away to fasten his lips to John's nipple, jaw working as he suckled deeply, only stopping to switch sides, running his tongue over the neglected nub, and repeat the process. John's back arched against his mouth, exposing even more of his neck as he let out a wanton noise of pleasure.
This was everything you could have hoped for and more. That spark of desire you'd seen between them so many times had ignited into a raging fire hot enough to burn the room down, and you found you didn't give a damn about the flames.
The room filled with the sounds of grunts and moans, of flesh against flesh, and the wet schlick of your hand between your legs. When Bob started letting out little involuntary whimpers, the same sound you'd heard a hundred times before he spilled inside of you, you had to step in.
"That's enough, boys," you said, mustering all your resolve to fill your voice with authority. As much as you wanted to see Bob cum all over John's stomach, you couldn't let them derail your plans.
Complying almost instantly, John grabbed Bob's hips even harder, forcing the brunet to a stop. Bob sunk his teeth into the skin around John's nipple, fighting down the disobedient whine that threatened to escape his lips.
"Shit!" John grunted, snapping his hips upward, helpless to hold still under Bob's mouth. "I'm sorry, mistress," he panted, turning his head to lock his pleading eyes on yours. "Didn't mean to keep going."
The smile that tugged at the corner of your lips was fond but the gleam in your eye was predatory.
"You're okay, baby," you soothed, and John visibly relaxed, breathing out a soft sigh of distinct relief. Getting up on your hands and knees, you leaned forward, curling your fingers into Bob's hair, giving him a warning tug. "But you need to be a good boy and let go."
He did so, releasing John's nipple with a faint 'pop.' His teeth marks were visible, making a circle framing John's reddened nub. It was temptation incarnate. You couldn't resist.
Despite the awkward angle, you found yourself leaning down, blowing on the skin still glistening with Bob's saliva, making John whine and squirm, rubbing up involuntarily against Bob enough to make both men groan. You let out a deep, throaty laugh that seemingly sent a shiver up both men's spines.
After you positioned yourself back against the headboard, you patted the space next to you invitingly. Your boyfriends' eyes met, light blue gazing up into dark, and a look passed between them, one that you couldn't quite read.
Before climbing off of him, Bob pressed his lips to John's in, what was for them, a new kind of kiss. One that was surprisingly tender. John readily responded, eyes fluttering closed as he craned his neck up to lean into the kiss. It lasted for only a few scant seconds, but both men looked a little dazed when Bob pulled back.
Bob eased his way off of John, careful only to put his hands and knees on the bed and not accidentally elbow the other man in the stomach. He made a show of crawling the short distance, playfully laying kisses up your body to the inside of your ankle, the outside of your thigh, the back of your hand, the crook of your elbow, and the curve of your shoulder before resting his chin there as well, batting his lashes up at you.
You laughed, giving him a quick peck on the tip of his nose before capturing his lips in a brief, gentle kiss. When you pulled back, Bob gazed up at you with his heart in his eyes, his whole expression having softened from his previous teasing countenance.
"Love you," Bob murmured almost dreamily, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Love you too," you whispered back, pulling your lip between your teeth to fight the urge to give him yet another kiss. Instead, you patted the spot next to you by the headboard.
Bob didn't hesitate, putting his back against the wall, playfully draping his right leg over your left one. Giggling, you pulled your leg out from under his, doing the same thing right back to him. When you could feel him start to repeat the silly game you had accidentally started, a quick, painless pinch to his thigh stopped him in his tracks with a little yelp.
"Oh, stop it, you big baby," you laughed.
Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed John wasn't laying on his back anymore. Sometime when Bob made his way up the bed, John must have moved, positioning himself back how he was before, sitting on his knees. But this time he was fully facing the both of you, a curious expression on his face.
It didn't surprise you to see a quiet look of affection when he was watching you, but seeing it there when looking at Bob was new. Or maybe it wasn't new at all. You'd seen him observe Bob before. But those times, his expression wasn't readable. It was like he had a wall up, his face borderline expressionless. This time, however? His guard was down, and he didn't hold back the small, crooked smile or the tenderness in his gaze as he watched Bob as the other man pretended to be wounded by your oh-so vicious attack.
You shushed Bob with a wink and a little nudge, clearing your throat and rolling your shoulders back to get back into character. Then you crooked your finger at John.
Wordlessly, he obeyed, slowly crawling up the bed while straddling your and Bob's overlapping legs. When he came to a stop, his hard length was pressed against your thigh, pink lips parted as he breathed deeply in through his nose and out through his mouth. You wished for a fleeting second that you thought to buy a collar for him. The image of tugging him into a kiss with one finger curled under fitted leather was deeply enticing.
So you used your favorite method instead, running your fingers through his hair before fisting a handful, relishing in his quivering gasp before pulling his lips to meet yours. He melted into you, letting your tongue ravage his mouth, each touch reinforcing that you were in control and he was just your plaything to be used. And, judging by his answering moans, John loved every second of it.
Taking his lower lip between your teeth, you bit down just hard enough to hurt, eliciting another delicious sound, soothing the ache with your tongue before you fully let go. You turned John's head to face Bob, who immediately followed suit, kissing the blond until he was breathless.
"You wanna make it up to me, baby?" you cooed at John. His eyes were blank for a moment, just blinking at you like you'd spoken to him in another language, one he was familiar with but couldn't quite place. "Gotta make amends for being such a naughty boy."
John nodded dumbly, little to no light of recognition in his eyes.
Bob beat you to the punch. "Use your words, Walker. You gonna make it up to her?" he coaxed.
"Make it up to us," you corrected, and Bob shot you a slightly lopsided little grin. "After all, he roped you into this."
"That's right. You gonna make it up to us, pretty boy?" Bob cooed, cupping John's cheek in his hand.
"Yes, sir," John mumbled, his words a little muddled but not quite slurred. "And ma'am. Yes, ma'am. Wanna make it up to you."
"Then do it. Make us cum," you said simply, spreading your legs invitingly. John's eyes flickered from your core, arousal wet and glistening in the dim light, to Bob's rigid cock, the angry red crown of which was sliding in and out of Bob's fist as he lazily stroked himself.
Despite being spoiled for choice, you weren't surprised when John maneuvered himself between your legs and wrapped his arms under your thighs, spreading you even further. If you weren't dripping on the bed by this point, you were sure you would be now watching John's eager eyes drinking in the sight of your bare, drooling cunt. You couldn't stop the gasp that escaped from your lips when John blew a stream of cool air across your heated flesh, sending a pulse of warmth through your body.
If Bob had tasted you like he was starved for you, John ate you like a man possessed. The second his tongue touched your slick folds, his mouth was everywhere. He lifted your hips like it was nothing, causing you to let out a little shriek and grip onto whatever you could for stability. That ended up being Bob's shoulder and the bedpost, clinging to them like lifelines as John practically picked you up. Bob coaxed you to lean against the headboard, resting your upper back against it while John supported your lower body with his hands and forearms alone.
It was messy and fast and loud and so fucking perfect. He wasn't gentle about it. His hands dug into your hips hard enough you knew there were going to be finger-shaped bruises by the morning. In his haste to devour you, he wasn't as cautious with his teeth as he normally would be, but the brush of them against you contrasted in a sharp but sweet way that only served to crest your pleasure even higher. John was everywhere, sucking and slurping and drinking you, going from thrusting his tongue deep inside of you to running tight circles around your clit to everywhere in between. He barely seemed to breathe, pulling back only for desperate, wet drags of air like a long-distance swimmer, too concentrated on your pleasure to care about getting any oxygen in his lungs.
By the time he lowered you back onto the bed, your head was swimming in a haze of ecstasy. You didn't even feel the fingers at your entrance until he plunged them inside of you. You arched your back, letting out a strangled cry as you raised your hips, still wanting more and harder. He worked you quickly, thick digits stretching you and curling to hit that spongy spot inside of you that made your vision go white at the edges. John slipped a third finger in, and you weren't even sure what sounds you were making, just that your throat was already sore from them.
He didn't even let up when your second orgasm of the night crested, hitting you hard and fast enough that you were gasping for air. John kept going, pumping his fingers into you, mouth wrapped around your throbbing, oversensitive clit. With each thrust, you felt something different, a strange new pressure inside of you like you needed to pee. You tried to warn him, but the words just wouldn't come out. You tugged at his hair, but that only seemed to spur him on, sucking hard on that little bundle of nerves until your third orgasm of the night hit you like a freight train. Your thighs clenched tight around John's head, shaking as they kept his mouth pulled against you like that wasn't exactly where he already wanted to be. A different kind if pleasure hit, one that was hot and wet and explosive. With a wail, it burst out of you, soaking John's face and drenching the sheets beneath you with waves of your release.
You laid back on the bed, feeling completely boneless, your breath gradually returning to normal. You watched idly as Bob surged forward, pressing his mouth against John's, their tongues dueling like they were fighting over the taste of you. The blond only pulled away to check on you, gently stroking your skin, pressing wet kisses to your thighs.
"Doin' okay there?" John asked, his voice soft and low, just the barest hint of an accent peeking out. "What color are you at?"
"Green," you rasped out without hesitation. "So fucking green. Oh my God, John."
John beamed up at you, his smile proud without being too smug. He looked effervescent, practically glowing like you'd made him orgasm his brains out, not the other way around.
"That good?" he teased. Even in your winded state, you could hear the genuine need for praise behind it.
"Fucking…incredible, baby. Holy shit. Thank you." As you talked, Bob tossed John a washcloth from the stash you'd squirreled away in the bedside table. He hesitated for a second but wiped his face dutifully, carelessly tossing the cloth off the bed to land amongst all the discarded clothes.
"Pretty sure you meant for me to go back and forth between you and Bobby, but I was wound up a little too tight to multitask," John explained with a grin.
"I noticed," you said with a chuckle. You reached down to cup John's face, and he leaned into your touch, briefly closing his eyes. "That just means you'll get to focus fully on Bob."
"If…" Bob hesitated, biting at the inside of his cheek, eyes flitting back and forth on the bed, like he was searching for the right words. "If you want to. You don't…have to," he finished lamely, looking back up.
Blond eyelashes fluttered as John opened his lids, those sky blue eyes suddenly sharp and focused as they met Bob's sea blue ones.
"Do you really think…" John sat up, starting to climb over your and Bob's intertwined legs to fully face the other man. "…You could kiss me and touch me like that? And not let me at least return the favor?"
"You don't have to," Bob repeated weakly.
"I want to," John emphasized. He reached out, lightly putting his hand over the one on Bob's cock. Even from where you were, you could see the way it twitched under his touch. "If you want me to."
"Yes, please," Bob said breathlessly. John inched closer, resting on his elbows as he looked up at Bob through his lashes, a sultry expression on his face.
"Then move that hand, Bobby. Let me taste you."
Bob did as he was told.
John started slow. He placed a gentle, closed-mouthed kiss to the glistening head of Bob's cock before laying a trail of them down his shaft, pausing after each one. By the time John was lathing his balls with his tongue, Bob's whole body was rigid as he tried not to squirm. A few tentative strokes of his hand as John sucked first one then the other into his mouth, and Bob was white-knuckling the sheets and worrying his lower lip between his teeth.
Pulling back with a pop, John smirked how far Bob had come undone in just a few minutes.
"I wanna do this right, take my time with you." At his words, Bob's face scrunched up as if he was pained. But John continued, "But you've been worked up for long enough. No more teasing."
True to his word, John's lips enveloped the very tip of Bob's cock. His throat worked as he suckled at the sensitive head, drawing a whine out of Bob and an aborted thrust of his hips.
John didn't waste any time, slowly starting to inch his way down, taking more and more of Bob into his mouth until he inevitably gagged and pulled back with a gasp, eyes watering and lips wet. Even though he wasn't able to get down nearly as much as you could, it was still impressive. Bob wasn't exactly small, something that, according to him, the Sentry serum didn't affect. Yet John got a considerable amount in his mouth. But judging by the annoyed look on his face, he used to be able to take more.
"Easy there," you cautioned, stroking John's hair. "Take your time. You don't need to deepthroat him."
John glared at you, his jaw clenching stubbornly, and you couldn't help but laugh. "That wasn't a challenge, baby."
"It might as well have been," he muttered, starting to stroke Bob's shaft tentatively, rubbing his thumb over the frenulum right beneath the tip. A small gasp left Bob's lips, and John smirked up at him. "Feel good, baby boy?"
"Fuck," Bob moaned, jerking his hips up involuntarily. You couldn't tell if he was reacting to John's hand or the pet name, but you suspected it was a mix of both.
It didn't take John long to get back into the swing of things, bobbing his head up and down rhythmically on Bob's cock, his hand stroking the length he couldn't fit. Eventually, he grabbed one of Bob's hands, prying it away from the sheets and offering his head as a hand hold. Bob's fingers lightly gripped his hair, and John let out a pleased noise, Bob whimpering at the vibrations.
The scene before you was incredible: Bob with his eyes closed, chest heaving as he laid his head back against the headboard, his angry red cock sliding into and out of John's bright pink, abused lips. His chest heaved with each shaky breath, nipples hardened and begging for attention. He panted open-mouthed like he was winded and trying to catch his breath, his hand gripping John's hair more and more the closer he got to the edge.
And John was no better. Saliva slicked the bottom half of his face as thoroughly as your arousal had minutes before, but he didn't seem to notice or care. He didn't stop for breath. His nostrils flared each time his head rose as he forced himself to breathe through it. It was a beautiful sight - so much beautiful, barely sun-kissed skin. You could trace all the freckles down his body, from the little ones on his face, to the tantalizing one on his ear, down his neck and over his shoulders, sliding across his back and even on the rounded globes of his ass. You fought back the urge to touch, not wanting to disrupt him. But, by the way he rutted against the mattress in time with each dip of his head, John was probably too distracted to even feel it.
By the time Bob was close, it was glaringly obvious to both you and John. He was practically vibrating under John's mouth, eyes clenched shut and teeth gritted as he let out all the little noises he couldn't fight down - whimpers, whines, and breathy grunts. John sped up, hollowing his cheeks to increase the suction, big blue eyes watching Bob's contorting face with wrapt attention.
"Look at him, baby. Watch him make you feel good," you cooed at Bob, kissing wherever you could touch - his shoulders, his neck, his face. He obeyed, wrenching his eyes open, and gazing down at John with an expression that could only be described as ruined.
"Almost there, aren't you?" you purred, unable to resist the siren call of those dusky pink nipples, dipping your head to run your tongue around the peak of one.
Bob gasped, his hips trying to twitch forward, but John held them pressed down into the bed.
"Oh, fuck. So close," Bob moaned as a warning, weakly trying to pull himself out of John's grip. John only held him down harder, the muscles in his forearm flexing deliciously "John…Johnny…gonna cum," he whined.
You pulled back from Bob's chest just in time to see John's eyes roll back in his head, rutting down hard against the bed, moaning wantonly against Bob's cock. It was the first time you could recall Bob ever using John's given name, a fact that didn't seem to be lost on him. He only sucked harder until Bob let out a cry, hips jerking in spurts as he spilled down John's throat.
John didn't stop, milking Bob for each drop, until he started twitching from oversensitivity. When he finally pulled back, letting Bob's softening dick fall from his mouth, John barely had time to smile up at the brunet, opening his mouth to say something before Bob interrupted him.
He crashed his lips to John's in a frenzied kiss, licking into the other man's mouth like he was desperate for a taste of himself on John's tongue. John melted into him immediately, making soft, breathy noises as Bob ravaged his mouth.
Bob didn't even break the kiss when he picked John up and manhandled him onto his lap as if he weighed nothing. John let out an undignified squawk of surprise, eyes flying open. He went to pull back, but Bob cupped the back of the blond's head with his left hand, holding him firmly in place. John moaned at the casual display of power, eyes fluttering closed as he sucked on Bob's tongue.
Bob reached down to wrap his hand around John's cock, which was brushing up against Bob's stomach, leaving little streaks of precum there. But before he could, you grabbed his wrist. Bob pulled away, ignoring John's protesting whine, looking at you, eyes rounded with surprise at being stopped.
John was close. That much you could tell, judging by how much he was leaking and how it throbbed in anticipation of Bob's touch. And you wanted to finish the night off right.
Before Bob could ask, you dug around under your pillow, batting away the white clicker you'd given Bob what felt like hours ago and grasping the item you'd left there. Pulling it out from its hiding spot, you showed Bob the long, white cylindrical object. He blinked at it in confusion, still dazed both from the kiss and the orgasm. It wasn't until you pushed the power button and it began to rumble did the pieces come together for Bob.
The buzzing sound drew John's attention, and he looked at you in confusion until his eyes fell upon the wand vibrator in your hand.
"You did such a good job making it up to us, baby. Do you want your reward for doing so well?" you asked, your voice a husky purr.
"Yes. Please," John croaked out. "Please, mistress. 'M so close."
"Good boy," you cooed, kissing his temple as you situated yourself closer. "Bob, make sure you keep his hips still."
Bob nodded, licking his lips, a look of anticipation in his eyes. "Yes, mistress." His hands captured John's hips, pressing them against the bed.
When you pressed the rumbling head of the vibrator against John's cock, he cried out, overwhelmed by the stimulation. He thrust up against Bob's hold almost immediately, but Bob's grip held him firmly down.
"Color?" you asked.
"G-green," John stammered out. "Green. Greengreengreen! Please don't stop!"
And you didn't, moving the vibrator around, testing to see what spots made him cry out louder than the others. By the time you pressed the wand against John's frenulum, he was a babbling mess, drool and tears streaming down his face.
You hadn't given him permission to orgasm, so he held on tight. His whole body itself practically vibrated, spine straight and rigid, hands clenched, and toes curled as he fought the overwhelming desire to cum.
You inched the vibrator up, the rounded edge just barely touching the crown of his cock. John was shaking even more violently now, begging and pleading with you to let him finish.
You caught Bob's eye, and he nodded his head once. John had had enough. And you agreed.
"Okay, baby. It's time. Need you to cum for me." With your words, you pressed the speed button, turning the wand on an even higher setting.
John broke, throwing his head back as he let out a wordless cry, cumming in hard spurts that painted both his and Bob's torsos in his spend. You kept the vibrator going through it, flipping it back to the lowest setting as Bob stroked the shaft of John's cock, milking every last drop out of him.
Tossing the vibrator aside, you reached over to the other bedside table, grabbing another washcloth while Bob maneuvered John onto his back between you. Bob took the cloth from your outstretched hand, starting the work of cleaning everyone up while you laid down next to John, resting your head on his shoulder holding him close as he came down from his orgasm.
It felt so nice, so cozy. Even without a blanket, the heat you felt both from your space heater boyfriends and your previous exertions wrapped you up in its warmth. You weren't intending to sleep. After all, you needed to check in with both your boys, make sure they were feeling all right, and talk out anything that needed to be said. But your body seemed to have other plans.
You don't remember closing your eyes, and you definitely don't remember drifting off, but the next thing you knew, you were waking up. At first, you weren't sure what woke you. Someone had pulled the comforter up over you and John's hand was now intertwined with yours. You had apparently clung to his arm in your sleep, and he had made no attempt to extricate himself. Judging by the way his thumb idly stroked the back of your hand, John was happy to have you close.
That's when you heard what had woken you up - a hushed conversation. The rumbling of John's whispers would normally have lulled you even further to sleep, but it seems to have disturbed it this time. It took a little effort, but you tuned in, straining your ears to hear the words they spoke.
"…new for all of us. It'll take some time to adjust, but we did just fine after we all started cohabitating."
Bob let out a quiet snort, one that had John shushing him, using his free hand to lightly swat at Bob's arm.
"'Cohabitating,'" Bob said laughingly. "Riiight. That's a nice way to say we were fucking each other's brains out."
"Be quiet, you brat," John angry whispered. For a second, you thought he was genuinely mad and considered speaking up, but the soft chuckle he let out disabused you of that notion.
"If you call me a brat, I'm going to act like one," Bob warned. Your eyes had adjusted enough that you could see Bob lying on the other side of John, mirroring you. His head was on John's shoulder, arms wrapped around John's as well. Their hands were both under the covers, but you suspected John was holding Bob's just like he was holding yours.
"Don't tempt me," John said playfully, leaning down and kissing the tip of Bob's nose. The brunet scrunched it up at John in an expression of put upon indignation, which only made the other man smile more. "You're a cute brat."
Bob groaned quietly, making a show of burying his face in John's arm, much to the other man's obvious amusement. Bob's voice was muffled, but you could still make out his words when he said, "God, now there's going to be two of you saying shit like that."
"If it's any consolation, I've already been thinking it. Just haven't said it out loud," John added helpfully, only smiling even wider in amusement when Bob scoffed.
He tilted his head just enough to be able to eye John through the curtain of unruly brown hair that fell in front of his face. "That makes it worse," Bob muttered.
"Well, there is a silver lining at least. Now you don't have to act like you're not staring at my ass all the time," John said, not even bothering to hide the smugness in his tone.
That was enough to make Bob properly lift his head, glaring at John open-mouthed, unable to decide if he was playfully pissy or playfully surprised.
"You knew?" Bob hissed at him.
"You're not subtle, Bobert. I saw the where your eyes went when I'd wear shorts at the gym. Made sure to wear shorter ones just for you," he added with a wink.
"You asshole," Bob said, narrowing his eyes at John. When the other man just grinned harder, Bob stuck out his tongue and blew a raspberry at him. You felt more than heard John's answering laugh.
"So childish," John murmured, inching his head closer to Bob's. The brunet blew another, smaller raspberry in retaliation.
"Can't help it. I'm a brat, remember?" Bob lifted his head, starting to lean in towards John, not close enough for them to kiss without the blond straining his neck and risking disturbing you, though.
"Yeah, you are," John said, fondness in his voice. They drifted nearer and nearer to each other, neither of them seeming willing to break the stand off. You couldn't help yourself.
"Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss," you chanted, and both men's heads snapped towards you. You didn't stop - you doubled down. "Kiss-kiss-kiss-kiss!"
"How long have you been awake?" Bob asked. "You were out like a light."
"Yeah, so exhausted from your long day of evil plotting," John teased.
"Long enough to clock the sexual tension," you quipped back. Both men had enough shame to look slightly bashful if completely unashamed. "Now, go on. Do it!" you urged. "I'll start chanting again."
Bob rolled his eyes theatrically, making sure both of you saw it but pulled himself up further on the bed to get closer to John. You thought you heard him whisper something, but before you could ask him to repeat himself, John spoke up.
"Well, if the lady insists…"
When they kissed again, you cheered, wolf whistling at them until they were smiling too hard to keep going.
"Better?" John asked.
"Much," you confirmed with a decisive nod of your head. Both men glanced at each other put of the corner of their eyes, a mischievous look on their faces.
Before you could open your mouth again, Bob shouted "Now!" and both men pounced on you, peppering your face, neck, and shoulders with obnoxiously loud kisses. You laughed, shrieking and squirming, halfheartedly trying to break free to no avail. You didn't really mind, though. There's no place else you'd rather be.
Divider Credit -> @/strangergraphics
Images in header are not mine
Cross-posted to AO3
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i don't know if you take requests or not (and if you don't, please ignore this and consider it a love letter to you and your writing instead), but what would your thoughts be on nicknames / pet names with john?
Omg!! First of all thank you 🫶🏼 and you know what hell yeah 🙂↕️, let's talk about my:
John Walker + pet names headcanons
Description: 700 words. Includes what nicknames you use for him and what he uses for you, some dirty talk, slight smut, nothing too explicit.
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John doesn't get super creative with pet names. He always liked the basics, the classics: baby, sweetheart, honey. They get the job done. He called Olivia honey, it fit to her, and it just made sense for him to call his wife like that.
But with a new partner, he's starting from zero. He's a little rusty and way out of practice, but he's trying. So he sticks to what he knows.
Baby is the go to. He doesn't even use your name anymore, it just rolls out his tongue without even noticing. Baby this, baby that.
"You good, baby?"
"What d'you want for dinner, baby?"
"Baby I'm not answering if I'd still love you if you were a worm."
He does end up answering after a while, annoyed, groaning.
“Yes, baby, I would. Happy? Now let me sleep."
Baby is casual, natural, unconscious. It's the everyday standard for him. The one he chose to replace your name with.
But to me, it's all about the range he has with these nicknames.
He is mostly sweet with that one, but he also praises, even begs with it. Baby slips out his lips like a prayer wether your under or on top of him. He's all pet names in bed. He may slip out a 'good girl' there too.
"Look at you, baby ... you take it so well."
"Fuck–you feel so good baby... don't stop."
"Now open for me sweetheart... yeah just like that. Such a good girl for me, baby.
Now we got sweetheart. The southern side of him. Maybe he used that one more at first, when you weren't even a couple. That one was his go to when he wanted to be sarcastic, when he was still being a little bastard that didn't know how to act on the jealously attraction you caused in him.
"Am I interrupting something, sweetheart? You and Barnes look real cozy tonight." Bucky snorts. You roll your eyes.
But once you're his? He turns to that one when he teases, when he wants to be a little mean to get you undone before he even starts pounding into you.
"Look at you, sweetheart. Can't even keep your hands off me, huh?" It's always that smug tone with a smirk, even if he's the handsy one.
"That all for me, sweetheart?" when he feels how ready you're for him.
And again. That jealousy when someone is staring at you for too long in one of Valentina's parties.
"Is this guy bothering you, sweetheart?"
Now don't get me started on the pet names you use on him.
Soldier boy is my all time favorite for teasing. Maybe that was your choice before you dated. You used it when he was being overly obnoxious in a mission, letting you all know about his military background, mansplaining everything.
"Wow, soldier boy's got opinions today."
And when you accidentally, or very intentionally, rub yourself against him when passing by in a tight space.
"Are you blushing, soldier boy?"
He used to hate it at first. But when he finally admitted to himself was down bad for you, he started to get off on it. So, naturally, it slipped in bed too. When you wanted to be the mean one. When he was under you, all desperate, head thrown back and eyes lost on the ceiling from how good you worked him.
"Be a good soldier boy for me, yeah?"
"Right there, soldier boy?"
And maybe you like using his name too. John. It's not a long name, and you know he loves the way it sounds when you say it. Or when you moan it. Or when you use that tone when he just knows you're about to make another stupid question just to stress him out.
Or even Johnny. Oh boy. That one is personal. You used it one time against him. When he shot that jealous remark with a sweetheart attached to it, this one was your choice.
"What's wrong, Johnny? Jealous?"
His eye twitched. He doesn't get called that often. Or ever. So he hated it.
Until one day you said it differently. Overstimulated and sweaty, panting under his broad body slamming into you, you whispered against his chest with a choked gasp like you couldn't believe you got to be used like that.
"Right there, Johnny."
His mind short circuited. His hips went faster, deeper.
"I know, baby, I know. That's it ... let go for me."
No he doesn't get called Johnny that often. But when you say it like that? He never goes back from it.
And then we have calling him handsome. He thought you were mocking him at first, but his cheeks still get red every time you say it.
"Come here, handsome" with grabby hands.
"Can you get the cereal from the top shelf for me, handsome?"
Especially when he just wakes up, heavy arm keeping you warm and tight against his body, and he talks first in that husky, rough morning voice.
“Mornin’ baby.”
“Morning, handsome.”
At this point he didn't mind what nickname you used for him. Because it's the way you say them that make him feel like a person again. Not the junior varsity Captain America. Just John. Johnny.
Yours.
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Feedback is always appreciated, thank you so much for reading <3
SUMMARY: You've been adjusting well to your new team, but there's one member who pisses you off.
John fucking Walker.
When you get the chance to spar with him, neither of you holds back -- in more ways than one.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I came out of Thunderbolts still a John hater and YET here I am. Big thank you to @dindjarinslegs for always hearing my ideas out.
WARNINGS/TAGS: thunderbolts spoilers, team member!reader, they are both mean to each other, descriptions of fighting, unreliable narrator style, explicit sexual content (18+, minors do not interact): dry humping/grinding, dirty talk, fingering, pet names - baby/sweetheart (derogatory), degradation, john doesn't get to finish because i said so.
There’s always an adjustment period with joining a new team, much less a team like the New Avengers. So far, nearly everyone has given you a surprisingly warm welcome.
Everyone, that is, except John fucking Walker.
You don’t know what it is about the guy, but you can’t stand him. He’s rude and loud and he acts like he knows everything. He has a snide remark for every occasion and every time you see him, the urge to smack the stupid smirk off his face grows harder to ignore.
Today, you were supposed to train with Bucky but when you show up to the gym, you catch a glimpse of blonde hair and groan.
“You’re late,” John says.
“And you’re not supposed to be here,” you snap back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Where’s Bucky?”
“He got called into a mission with Yelena.” He holds his arms out wide and you absolutely refuse to look at the way his biceps stretch the sleeves of his t-shirt. “So, you’ve got me.”
“Great,” you mumble. You drop your bag to the floor. “A chance to finally kick your ass.”
“You think you can kick my ass?” He laughs, head tipping back with the force of it. “I’ve seen you fight. You’re predictable and sloppy.”
John is full of shit. You’re an excellent fighter, graceful and strong and fast as hell, but he won’t tell you that. He likes it when you’re glaring daggers at him like you’re trying to flay him alive with your mind. He likes it when he bares his teeth and you bite back.
You charge toward him and bring your knee up, driving it into his chest. He backs up as you swing your other leg around, blocking your kick with his forearm. You strike out with your fist, grazing his jaw. He jabs his elbow into your chest.
The two of you keep going, a flurry of advances and blocked moves, a symphony of grunts and groans when a hit meets its mark. You’re sweating, breathing heavy, and John doesn’t look much better as you watch him shake off your last punch. His lip is split and blood pools in the wound before his tongue darts out to lick it away.
“Still think I’m sloppy?” You ask, a little breathless, and not just from the fight. He grins, sharp and feral.
“You still haven’t beat me,” he says. “Come on. You can do better than that.”
You duck when John throws his next punch, wrapping your arm beneath his to grab his shoulder and using the momentum of his turn to lift your body up, wrapping your legs around his head and swinging your upper body until you bring him to ground. He lands on his back and you roll away, leaping to your feet with a smug smile.
“You’ve been watching Yelena,” he says, slowly rising. “That’s cute.”
He rushes toward you, driving his shoulder into your stomach, tackling you to the floor. John keeps you caged beneath him, your legs spread on either side of his hips and a hand at your throat, fingers squeezing in warning.
“Do you yield?” He asks. You press your lips together. “Come on, say it.”
“No,” you wheeze. Spots dance at the edge of your vision.
“You’ve got about fifteen seconds before you pass out,” he tells you. “You really should—“
John’s sentence is cut short when you get your feet on his thighs and press up, breaking his chokehold and giving you the space to kick him in the chest. He flies back, landing with a thud on the mat as you jump up.
“Jokes on you,” you tell him. “I don’t mind a little choking.”
His brain short circuits at your comment and that momentary distraction is all you need. You run toward him, taking him down to the mat with another acrobatic move, grappling with him until you’re on top, pinning his arms above his head. Your chest is pressed to his, legs splayed open across his hips and all the blood in his body seems to rush south, his cock hardening rapidly in his shorts. His breath catches when you press your weight down into him.
You go still when you feel him between your thighs. You roll your hips experimentally and watch as his pupils grow impossibly wide before his eyes flutter shut.
“What are you doing?” He asks. God, he already sounds wrecked, even to his own ears.
“I don’t know,” you murmur, but you do it again. The friction makes you gasp.
John breaks your hold on his wrists, big hands grabbing your hips, but not to stop you. You keep moving, forward and back, the heat of you palpable even through the layers between your bodies.
You plant your hands on his chest and the muscles flex beneath your palms, strong and solid. He’s pretty like this, you think. Flushed and flustered, eyes half lidded and a little glassy. You pause and a whine spills from his parted lips.
“Don’t stop,” he says, voice rough. His grip tightens and he urges you to move again, dragging you over his cock. “Does it feel good, baby?”
“Yeah,” you murmur. The endearment makes you shiver, makes your blood feel like fire in your veins. “Feels so fucking good.”
He groans and lifts his hips to thrust himself against you in time with your movements. The knot forming in your belly tightens with each drag of his length against your aching clit.
“Can you come like this?” He asks. “Just rubbing yourself all over my cock? You that desperate for it?”
“Shut up,” you snap, digging your nails into his chest until he gasps at the sharp pinch of pain. “I’m the desperate one? You should see yourself, John. You look like a fucking mess, ready to come in your pants like a teenager.”
John growls and sits up, flipping you onto your back. He balances himself on one arm above you, sliding the other down your belly and beneath the elastic of your leggings. Thick fingers trace over your soaked underwear and he smirks.
“You wanna talk about a fuckin’ mess?” He asks, words dripping in sarcasm. He slips his fingers into your underwear, gathering some of the slick before pulling his hand free and holding it up for you to see the way his fingers glisten. “What’s all this, huh?”
You open your mouth, no doubt ready to hurl another smart remark at him, but he presses his fingers to your tongue. You stare up at him, wide eyed and the way you look right now is going to be burned into his memory in a way that’s guaranteed to ruin him.
You close your lips around his fingers and suck, hard, the earthy taste of you exploding across your taste buds. John watches you with eyes so dark you almost can’t believe it’s the same man who’s keen blue eyes seemed to see right through you, down to your every deeply guarded insecurity.
“You look good like this,” he says. “I oughta keep your mouth busy more often.”
You bite down on his fingers and he hisses, wrenching them from your mouth. You grin at him and he shakes his head, mumbling something you don’t quite catch.
John’s hand moves south once again, returning to your core. He circles your clit until you’re writhing beneath him, chasing the friction, desperate for him to move faster, harder, anything more than this maddeningly slow pace that keeps you teetering on the edge of release.
“What’s the matter?” He asks, tone light. The corner of his mouth twitches with the smile he tries to hold back. “You need something else, sweetheart?”
You bite down on your tongue, refusing to reply, a challenge burning in your eyes. He lets his fingers drift lower, circling your entrance and you moan.
“That’s what you want, huh? Want me to fill up this greedy pussy?”
He presses one thick finger into the tight heat of your body, biting back a groan at the way you squeeze around him, imagining how you’d feel around his cock. Your head falls back against the mat, the smooth skin of your neck on full display and begging for his mouth. He drops his head and kisses the dip at the base of your throat.
A second finger presses inside of you, stretching you more than your own ever could. His thumb circles your clit, pressing harder than before and yes, this is exactly what you needed. That knot is tightening in your belly again, threatening to snap, you just need—
John sinks his teeth into your neck, right over your frantic pulse, and your release rushes over you. You cry out, something between a sob and his name, and trying to close your legs against the onslaught of sensation but his body keeps you spread open, at his mercy.
It’s only when you collapse against the mat, boneless and spent from both your orgasm and the adrenaline of your fight leaving your body, does he finally pull his hand away. He sticks his fingers in his mouth, licking them clean with a satisfied groan.
You lie there, sweat cooling on your skin and your chest heaving as you catch your breath, until you finally muster up the energy to roll to your side and get to feet on shaky legs. John remains on his knees, watching you with a confused look on his face.
“What?” You ask.
“That’s it?” He gestures to his crotch, where you see he’s still very, very hard. “You’re not going to return the favor?”
You smile at him and take a single step closer. He tilts his head back to look up at you and you run your fingers through his sweat damp hair before tugging the strands hard enough that he gasps.
“You’ll have to earn that, John,” you tell him, leaning down to kiss his cheek. You loosen your grip and step back, turning to leave.
The sound of John’s frustrated groan echoes behind you as you open the door, like music to your ears.
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