You were following John through a vent, it was barely wide enough to fit you both. He was leading because he insisted on it, citing he’d have to get out of the vent first and wanted to clear the hall and could help you out a lot easier than you could help him.
You were trying to pay attention but his ass was absolutely distracting in that suit, nice and round and very biteable. Before you realized what you were doing, your teeth were sinking into the swell of muscle. He yelped lightly, trying to look back at you but failing because of how narrow the vent was. You felt your face warm, what the fuck did you just do?
John didn’t want to admit he was intrigued or that his dick had twitched when you bit him on the ass. He needed to get you both out of the fucking vent. He dropped down just outside the building, reaching back for you. Your arms slipped around his neck and you smiled. He shook his head “What the fuck was that?” you shrugged, “It looked delicious and was right there”
For once John was at a complete loss of words, “My ass looked delicious?” you nodded “Very much” you being so nonchalant about it only baffled him even more. “Fuck it, we gotta get to evac. Keep your teeth to yourself”
John sat down, wincing slightly when the bite mark caught wrong on his jeans. He didn’t realize you were right there until you brushed past him, your lips to his ear, “Sorry handsome, next time I’ll be gentler” his whole body seized up a bit at that.
You trailed your hand further over his shoulder, continuing on your way before glancing over your shoulder to wink at him just as you left the room. He hated how much he wanted there to be a next time, how much he’d been thinking about it.
John had you tucked against his chest, both of you using his shield to clear out the hall of agents. The final one dropped and he felt your face nuzzle close to his neck. He had no idea what the hell you were doing this time but when your teeth sank into the bend of his neck his head fell back against the wall to hold in a groan.
You hadn’t been able to stop yourself, John smelled so good like gunpowder and sweat and christ the way he reacted. A low growl vibrated from his chest “One of these days I might just bite you back” you grinned up at him “Please do handsome” and tilted your head tauntingly.
John shook his head, holding himself back from the urges running through him. You were teasing, that’s what he told himself. “Come on” he growled, grabbing your arm and you practically giggled at him manhandling you.
This mission had been royally kicking John’s ass. You and him were undercover as a couple. You were in his lap, curling against him, lips on his neck. His dick was so hard it felt like it was going to burst.
You walked into the hotel room before him, stripping out of your dress. He rotated his neck to the side when you looked over your shoulder at him “Help me with my zipper?” he walked over, slipping an arm around your upper chest to hold you in place, the hand of the other arm slowly sliding your zipper down. “What the fuck was that?” he asked, holding you against his front, the pressure the only thing keeping your dress on.
You leaned down, lips meeting the flesh of his bicep before your teeth grazed the skin, sinking in. He groaned, hips rutting into you and the next moment he had you backed against a wall, your dress a puddle around your feet, broader frame pinning yours and his teeth grazing your pulse. “You actually want this?” he needed to hear you say the words, “Please” you whimpered, and he stepped closer, allowing himself to finally sink his teeth into your neck, right over your pulse.
Your fingers dug into his sides, your head tilting just a bit more to let him have more access. He felt your hand move up to the back of his head after a moment, gently guiding it from your neck up to your mouth. He feathered a kiss over the bitemark before following the motion, tongue lapping over your lips before his own met them. He needed to taste you too much to take the kiss slow.
You let him take the lead, needing to taste him just as badly. A moan fell from your lips into his,uncaring if any other hotel guests heard and he groaned back, moving further into you, one thick thigh slipping between your legs.
Your hands moved to the bottom of his shirt and he pulled back from the kiss just long enough to murmur “How far do you want this to go?” you smiled up at him breathlessly “I want to wake up i your arms come morning”
“Fuck” he muttered under his breath, hurridely helping you rid him of the shirt, pushing it off his broad shoulders before kissing you deeply again, this entire past week on this mission you’d been driving him insane and now knowing you wanted it? He wasn’t holding back.
You shoved the dress the rest of the way off and he had to bite his cheek to retain some sense of thinking straight. He picked you up, nudging your legs with his hand to get you to wrap them around his waist. He’ll ask later what this was, what it meant but for now? He was going to make sure you felt amazing.
He was using this chance if it was the only one he got. He kissed you until you were panting into each other’s mouths, breathless but continuing as he laid you onto the bed, lips descending down your jaw and throat. He sucked a dark mark into the bite and the moan you have had him rolling his hips down into yours.
Your legs spread wider, accommodating his body. He groaned into the kiss, savoring how you let him pin your hands over your head. When he pulled back however you pouted so cutely, “Why’d you stop!”
He shook his head, “Just wanted to look at you” he murmured, diving back into the kiss and letting your hands free. You giggled weakly, pulling him down further with your hands in his hair, your ankles locked behind his back until he had no choice but to line up, bending you almost in half.
He stuttered over a groan when he finally felt your heat at the tip of his dick, realizing how wet you were for him. “John, I’m covered” you murmured so he pushed in, both of you moaning at the feeling.
The stretch was borderline painful, John noticed the little grimace on your face and tried to stop but you locked your ankles, using your legs to drag him down further until he had no choice but to bottom out, you both whining at the feeling.
John held himself still once he was inside you, kissing your neck. He wasn’t going to move until he got a verbal response that you were good. He knew he was big, could feel how much he stretched you. He refused to hurt you.
“Please John, move baby” you sighed out and he grunted, adjusting to trap your head between his forearms on each side, pulling out until just the tip was inside you then thrusted back in quickly. Your head fell back, exposing the hickey he’d left on your neck and the prettiest moan of his name left your lips.
He would’ve swore he was dreaming with how perfect this moment was, he’d never felt anything better, more perfect than you wrapped around him so snug and hit, your fingers digging into his shoulders, lips parted around his name. “Fuck you’re perfect” he rasped out on the next snap of his hips, adding a low “Mine” when you rolled your tongue into his mouth.
You whimper, nodding weakly “Yours, you’re mine” and fuck your words alone, the claim on him made him have to concentrate to not cum on the spot. He shifted to kneel a little higher on the bed, effectively folding you in half, the angle change allowing him to bury himself even deeper and with every thrust, every little gasp and noise he pulled from you he was fighting to stay in control of his pace, especially when you cried out, “M’so close baby.. need t’feel you”
“Gotta feel you first sweetheart” he growled between gritted teeth.
The next thrust was sharper, harder. You whined out, head thrown back and he used the chance to kiss the marks he’d left. It was enough to make your body lock up, heels digging into his lower back and pussy squeezing him hard enough his dick trembled inside you, spilling his release as your walls milked him for every drop.
He continued to give shallow thrusts to ride you both through your highs, fuck his cum deeper into you, mark you inside and out, in every way he could. When he finally slowed, holding himself up on slightly shaky arms, you asked softly, breathlessly, “Did you mean that?”
He was confused for a minute before he realized what you meant, you murmured “If you mean i’m yours”
He nodded, chuckling breathlessly, spent. “As long as you’re mine, I’m yours just as much” you gently pulled him into a kiss, gasping when the angle shift pushed his dick deeper.
“This mean you gonna stop biting me?” he teased and you shook your head “Nope, just means I get to bite you more often and expect bites back”
“Good” he grinned, kissing you once more before gently pulling out. He kneeled between your legs, watching his cum slowly leak out of you “Holy fuck that’s hot” you winked at him, “Val can pay the extra cleaning fee”
He shook his head, leaning down to kiss you one more time. “Wanna get a shower?" You grinned sleepily “gonna carry me?” “Happily beautiful”
Summary: Yelena is tired of you and John circling around each other; she plays matchmaker, setting you up on a blind date at the Russian banya.
A/N: Thanks to @witchygagirl for hyping me up on this idea and providing some inspo. Very light spoilers for Spider-Man: Brand New Day, although I think most of us have seen the context for Yelena's "office" by now. That's the only thing from the movie referenced in the fic. Let's all put John in the banyaaaaaa
Rating: 18+ MDNI
WC: 6k (complete)
CW: PWP, matchmaker!yelena, no use of y/n, explicit smut, mixed pov, reader is afab, reader is a thunderbolt/new avenger, john is down bad, reader is down bad, big dick john, pussy pronouns (briefly), size kink, use of pet names, slightly soft dom john, fingering, flirting, bathing, bath sex, pinv, unprotected pinv, hair pulling, dirty talk.
“God, it is so depressing in here. At least crack a window. Why would you come in here willingly?”
John glanced up from the munitions report he had been—up until thirty seconds ago—reviewing peacefully in the shared work office off the common room. It was usually quiet. Usually. Because yes, it was a little drab and corporate, hard edges and unforgiving vinyl. He flipped the page, sighing, massaging his temple as Yelena made a circle around the desk, inspecting every corner, lifting up paper weights, dragging her finger through dust that was not there.
“I assume this is going somewhere?”
“Yeah, somewhere else. Like, take a walk, man. Get some fresh air, or—” She snapped her fingers, propped herself on the edge of the desk, her ass nearly knocking over his thermos of coffee. “I know. I have the perfect solution.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Your solutions usually lead to more problems.”
Yelena shrugged, grinning. She was dressed in jeans and an off the shoulder black sweatshirt, a standard look for her out of uniform. Without asking, she took a sip from his thermos.
“This office is just fine.”
Squinting, she leaned closer. “Your skin and beard look very dry. I have a solution for this, too.”
“What the hell does my beard have to do with munitions efficiency?” he asked. Concentration well and truly broken, John leaned back in his chair, subtly cupping his chin, testing to see if she was right. A tiny flake floated down to his lap, incriminating. He dusted it away before Yelena could notice.
“You’re not going to get a girlfriend with that thing on your face. It would be like kissing a dirty tumbleweed.”
John glared. “We’re talking about my love life now?”
“No, we’re not, because you don’t have one.”
“Nice. That’s nice. Supportive, too.” In a way, a way that he did not want to dwell on, Yelena was right. John did not have a love life, he had an acrimonious divorce and a debilitating crush, which was why he was reviewing pages and pages of numbers at four in the afternoon on a Friday.
“Believe it or not, I am trying to support you. It is supporting you to take you from this wretched place, get you outside, get you into a more…productive environment, yes?” Her eyes twinkled. And John could admit that she was glowing lately, coming back from her long work sessions across town with a spring in her step and a dewy complexion John had noticed you openly admiring, complimenting.
“I don’t know,” John muttered, rubbing his face again, this time without trying to be sneaky about it. Maybe his beard was the tiniest bit dry. Whatever. It happened. He had real things to worry about, though he certainly didn’t want you to kiss a tumbleweed. Not that you would kiss him period, he had no evidence that you were interested, but the hypothetical did things to him. “I, um, I’m good right here.”
Yelena put his coffee down, sliding off the table, palming something out of her jeans pocket and leaving it next to his thermos. It was a business card. She tapped it, brows meeting over the warm, helpless eyes of a parent who just wanted better for their kid. “Go, John. You will not regret it.”
She tried to hide it, but deep down she was soft.
Slowly, he pulled the card off the table and dropped it in his bag.
Yelena clapped him on the shoulder, then sauntered toward the open door. “But tell me if you decide to go and I can text you instructions. There are security measures, obviously.”
“Obviously,” he said under his breath.
He thought he was free to return to his task, but Yelena paused by the door, her voice drifting over her shoulder in a cheeky lilt. “You know, she likes to use my office sometimes. Mondays and Thursdays.”
John straightened up, eyes roaming to the side. He hoped she couldn’t see the back of his neck burning with interest.
“It’s private. Quiet.”
He kept his mouth clamped shut, molars locked hard enough to crack, afraid something embarrassing would tumble out. John had tried to keep a tight lid on his feelings for you. It was so painfully clear that you preferred hanging out with Bob and Bucky, he couldn’t bear the thought of letting something slip and making a fool of himself.
The team gave him enough shit without knowing he had a fucking crush. Like a lovesick puppy. Like a total, pining loser.
And anyway, you were new to the tower. The last thing he wanted to do was make you self-conscious, uncomfortable. The job was hard enough without a big oaf drooling over you while you tried to save the world. He was trying not to be a guy about it, but he was never more aware of his size, his strength, his appetites than when you were standing next to him.
He wanted to devour you.
It was becoming a problem.
“Mm.” Yelena was almost out the door, whispering absently to herself. “Maybe Bucky will take me up on it…”
John’s head twitched to the other side. He was afraid of everyone finding out about his crush, but degrees more afraid of you being alone somewhere private and quiet with Bucky Barnes.
“Monday,” he blurted out, flinching at the volume of his voice. “I’ll go Monday.”
“I’m seriously going to puke if you say one more word about him.”
You folded your arms across your chest, pouty, maybe, huffy, definitely, glaring out the subway window at the blur of cables and graffiti going by. “You are such a prude.”
“I am not a prude.” Yelena twisted toward you on her seat. She had let her hair grow out some, and it was twisted up and away from her face into a black clip. “I’m the one always telling you to go get laid.”
“I don’t want to get laid, I want—”
“Ah, ah, ah!” Yelena stuck her finger in your face and wagged it. “What did I just say?”
Sliding down the subway bench, you grumbled with your chin tucked down against your chest.
The train tha-thunked rhythmically over the tracks, emergency lights in the tunnel illuminating your faces in flashes. You rocked side to side, curling away from Yelena’s sharp, persistent stare. “I’m going to whip you with a venik, beat this obsession right out of you,” she sighed. “Either say something to him or stop trauma dumping your fantasies on me.”
“My fantasies are not traumatizing.”
“They are for me! I am forced to imagine them.” Yelena shuddered, then gagged theatrically.
“I’m not asking him out, it’s too messy.”
“And you’re too proud.”
“I am not—” You groaned, letting your head fall back against the torn seat. “Maybe I’m a little proud.”
“Yes. You’re two stubborn peas in a pod.”
You shook your head. “We’re most certainly not in a pod, thus the fantasizing.”
“Too proud, too messy, so! You need to look elsewhere.”
“I guess.”
“Anyway, today you meet the man of your dreams.” She prodded the tip of your nose with her forefinger like she was casting a spell. “This is a promise.”
This was how Yelena managed to coax you out of the Watchtower at seven AM on a Monday. You should have been curled up in bed with a hot book and a sweet cold brew, biding your time until your training block, quietly hoping no alerts came through to tear you away from a lazy morning. But no. Yelena was tired of you panting over John Walker’s withholding ass, so now she was setting you up and accepting no refusals.
“You don’t think it’s weird he wants to meet at a bathhouse?” you asked, watching a guy a few benches down with a dog poking out of his jacket. “Feels like a red flag.”
“I told him to meet us there,” Yelena pointed out, swiveling away from you to kick her booted feet out into the aisle. “You’re not going to regret it.”
She had refused to show you a picture but described him in enough tantalizing detail to make the proposition a good one. Six foot four, two-seventy, beefy football type with dreamy eyes and a killer butt.
“How did you meet this dude again?” you asked, suspicion tearing you away from the thought of actually finding someone hot enough to end your crush on John.
“Oh my God, look at that little doggy, he’s in the man’s jacket!” Yelena snorted, ignoring you, giving a tiny wave under her chin. “Hi, doggy!”
The subway train squealed, a voice clanging through the speakers, announcing your stop.
“This is us,” she said, grabbing your arm. “Chop, chop, lovergirl.”
John stared at the entrance to Yelena’s “office,” sure he must have gone to the wrong address.
For starters, it was an hour away from the Watchtower via subway. He had sat on the Q line for so long he was sure he was starting to grow moss. Secondly, it was tucked away in a cramped series of brownstones, some residential, others with tiny storefronts selling borscht and dumplings. When he emerged from the humid womb of the subway tunnel, the entire street smelled like garlic.
Blinking up at the nondescript door, a faded sign down the side reading: SAUNA, the address number lopsided on a chipped tile design, John became aware of several figures down the block in tracksuits watching him with more than idle attention. Brighton Beach. Little Russia.
Go figure.
John grimaced and ducked inside the business, immediately too large for the narrow entryway, which was less than a lobby and barely more than a closet. Unlike the street, the inside of this place smelled like a laundromat, like steam from an iron.
A stairwell leading down opened up to his right. Straight ahead, there was a check in desk and window with someone’s grandma in a caftan folding towels, chewing a cigarette, and peering out of the window to size him up. Russian soaps played on an ancient television behind her. From a hall to John’s left, a man wearing a green felt hat and yet another tracksuit appeared, this one red, collar turned up though not high enough to disguise the tapestry of Vory V Zakone tattoos crawling up from his chest.
Real Eastern Promises shit.
He flashed a gold-toothed smile, examining John with slightly less enthusiasm than the granny.
John had gotten a text from Yelena that morning. Somehow, she had beat him out the door.
“I’m supposed to ask for Oleg,” John muttered, voice measured, eyes shifting between Eastern Promises and Grandma.
"Oh. Oh, you are with her. Yes, of course, of course.” Oleg--presumably, but who could really say?--strutted over to the window where the old woman was watching her soaps and minding the linens. The woman tossed John a towel, then appraised him again, this time with a softer, knowing look that put him on edge. What the hell?
John remembered he was supposed to be in an office as he clutched the fluffy towel to his chest, brow furrowing as he followed Oleg down the stairs into an echoing chamber, humidity rising again like he was descending back into the dense armpit of a summer subway tunnel.
But it smelled clean, like cedar and eucalyptus.
Sweat prickled along his temples.
“You are not here for assisted stretching?” the man asked, shooting John a look over his shoulder. “Is shame…”
“Not today, thanks. Is Yelena here?”
“This way.”
“Right.”
Not a no and not a yes. John followed the man deeper through the arched, subterranean warrens, white tile and wooden benches, steam rooms and cold plunges and unmarked doors that presumably led to changing rooms. He still couldn’t understand what the hell he was doing there, why Yelena apparently conducted all of her meetings in a bathhouse.
Oleg stopped in front of one of those unmarked doors, gesturing with a sigh as he gave John another once over, something everyone here apparently felt extremely comfortable and relaxed doing. “Much better if you come early, rounds of hot and cold. Maybe next time.”
“Yeah,” John said, lying. “Maybe.”
“Through there. Shorts or nothing, then door on the right.” Oleg shifted beyond him, patting John on the shoulder as he went. “See you later, my friend.”
“Shorts or what?” John blurted out, twisting, but Oleg was already trooping back through the underground chamber, whistling a tuneless melody.
Maybe that was his cue to leave. John stared at the door, then at the towel in his arms. He had taken a train that smelled like it had actually been rubbed down with wet garbage to get there while a guy with a guitar four benches behind him played out of tune Hoobastank covers, and the thought of turning right back around and doing it again or spending a fortune on a cab convinced him to at least satisfy his curiosity and step through the door.
Maybe, by some miracle, whatever was on the other side would make all of this confusing bullshit worth the trip.
Office hours my ass.
More importantly, where were you? Yelena had mentioned you usually swung by on Mondays…
John forced himself through the door, finding a tidy changing room on the other side. He stripped down to his shorts and slung the towel over his shoulder, eyeing the “door on the right” his new friend Oleg had mentioned.
Whatever, he thought with a shrug. At least nobody was playing Hoobastank.
The Perfect Man was making an imperfect first impression. Late. He was very late.
Your phone hung out safely on a tiny wooden stool in the corner of the pale, arched chamber. In a swimsuit—which Yelena had groused about, extoling the virtues of the banya, of hot and cold bathing without a stitch of clothing as God intended—you checked your phone again.
There was a message waiting for you from Yelena, who had promised to run out for coffee even though caffeine was also a no-no during this process.
something came up, back in a few hours. your date flaked, try to enjoy yourself for a while. if you need anything ask oleg.
It did not feel good to be stood up for a blind date. You glowered at your phone, an itch in your throat, humiliation tightening your stomach. Your skin was glazed with fine sweat from the heat of the baths, and you felt like an idiot standing there in your swimsuit, damp, lonely, abandoned twice before lunch.
The thought of facing Oleg or anyone else sucked. You put your phone back down on the stool, rubbed your face with both hands, and turned slowly in place to face the calm blue water behind you. It was quiet, so quiet, which was dangerous now that your thoughts were racing. You sighed, deflating; there was nothing to do but wait until Lena came back and you could chew her out for tanking your self-esteem like this.
You stripped out of your swimsuit, throwing it onto the floor, the wet stretchy material slapping against the tiles as you climbed down into the water. It was the perfect temperature, warm but not too hot, even more pleasant now that you weren’t wearing anything. You groaned, trying to forget the stress and annoyance knotting up your stomach, letting your head fall back against the ledge. You had almost drifted off into a pleasant, half-dozing state of limbo when the sound of a door closing echoed through the humid chamber.
Probably just Lena coming back early. Oh well. You could work yourself back up into a froth to argue with her, no problem, except she didn’t come around the corner and out of the shadows by the lockers for personal items.
Someone else did, someone very tall, very muscular, very handsome and very John.
“Holy shit.”
You stared at John, he stared back. You stared at his mouth, lips still parted around that curse as a deep, red flush roared across his chest. His huge, bare chest. You didn’t know where to put your eyes. There was so much of him. So much man crammed into a tiny pair of black shorts. Your gaze lingered on the dunes of his stomach, the line of hair bisecting those abs, then the broad swells of his shoulders, capped with muscle that mimicked the shape of his suit.
During all the time you had spent fantasizing about something exactly like this, you had neglected to consider his thighs. Shame on you, honestly. They were thick, sturdy, corded with bulging muscles, just as mouthwatering as the rest of him.
The sight of him punched the air out of your lungs. You wheezed softly. You didn’t know why you were so…surprised. I mean, superhero, serum, naturally he would have an intense physique, but his everyday clothes didn’t hint at all of this, and he never went shirtless in the training gym.
Damn.
But he was gawking at you, too, throat deforming visibly as his blue eyes skimmed to the edge of the water, to where your breasts were mostly but not entirely covered, then back up to your face, that blush spreading up to his cheeks as your eyes met, stayed, both of you entering into a silent pact of reluctant chastity.
If you looked at his body again, you would moan.
“Hi,” you murmured, sinking lower, making sure your nips were safely hidden. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“You are,” he said, fingers fidgeting with the end of the towel over his shoulder. “But not like that. Not like…” John blinked, hard, trailing off into the very sound you were terrified of making.
Tall, beefy, football type. Killer ass. Yelena Belova, you clever girl.
Knowing her, you should’ve seen this coming.
“She set us up,” you said, trembling and dry-mouthed as it all started to make sense. No wonder she hadn’t coughed up a picture for this date.
John’s jaw worked in a circle. “Why would she do that?”
Because I’m so horned up for you, she was about to hose me down with ice water.
“No idea,” you whispered, pained.
“Weird,” he said, still keeping his gaze respectful. You did the same, hating every second of it.
“So weird.”
“Are you…” His attention slid away from your face to the floor behind you, snagged on the swimsuit, then flicked back. You watched the knowledge hit him, that you were completely naked, steps away, that you were alone together in an underground room with extremely thick walls and a pleasantly hot pool of sapphire water. “You are.”
“I am.”
“N-Naked.”
God, it was gratifying to hear that stammer.
You lowered your lashes once, trying to remember if you had ever been seductive or sultry in your life. “Yep.”
Silence. Drip. Drip. Drip. Your legs swished quietly through the water, unseen, your hands clutching your thighs hard enough to dent skin. His hair was getting wet at the edges from sweat.
Again, your eyes met. No wandering. The pact. The silence was going to kill you if the effort it took to keep from greedily eyefucking his huge, hot bod didn’t end you first.
“Warm day,” he finally said, flinching at how stupid it was.
“We’re talking about the weather?”
“I’m trying to be polite.”
“You could get in.”
There it was, the brain cell you were praying might activate and save you both. Too proud, that was what Yelena thought, that you were too stubborn and too chickenshit to make a move, terrified of the mess, of the fall out, of hearing the words, “I don’t want this” come out of his mouth.
John stared like you had suggested a bank robbery.
“It’s a public bath,” you went on. “Co-ed, apparently.”
“Apparently."
You were going to dissolve into the water if he didn’t decide and quick. “Apparently.”
John’s hands curled into fists at his sides, knocking against his thighs. “You want me to get in?”
You dipped lower, chin disappearing under the water. Oh no. His eyes were different, darker, changing as the question hung between you. The shame was burning off. His cheeks weren’t pink anymore. He looked suddenly focused, shoulders lifting and dropping with his labored breathing.
You nodded.
His spine, his ego, was back, you could just feel it.
“Say it.”
This was a real dog catching the car situation, because five minutes ago you were sure you would never have the courage to ask him to do anything more intimate than play Uno or binge WW2 documenataries, and now your pussy was running things, slamming her greedy little hands down onto the YES YES YES button.
“Okay, I'll say it: get in with me.”
John moved toward the water’s edge, two steps, eyes even darker as he neared. You lifted your head out of the water, allowing your gaze to finally skip lower, to his shorts, then back up to his face. “It’s only fair.”
“Can I get in first?”
Giving him shit was a primary hobby of yours.
“Shy?”
Giving it right back was a hobby of his.
John hooked his thumbs around the waistband of his shorts, immediately goaded into the competitive mode you knew so well. Of course, it worked. John never met a dare he didn’t want to toxically escalate, frequently and hilariously to his detriment. But this time, you were both winners.
He slid down his shorts, letting them pool around his ankles before he stepped out of them.
“Hey,” he said, catching your sharp intake of breath. He snapped his fingers, pointing to his chin. “Eyes up here.”
You swallowed a whimper, nodding, forcing yourself not to stare at his thickening length as he lowered himself carefully into the bath. What peripheral vision had shown you made your entire body clench. His mass displaced the water, the level rising and sloshing against the edges. You flattened yourself on the other side from him like you were willingly bathing with a tiger shark.
His eyes were almost the same color as the water, brighter now as he sank down across from you, water lapping against his shoulders as he settled down onto one of the ledges.
“How’d she convince you to come here anyway?” you asked, absorbing the way he sighed into the pleasant heat, slicking one hand through his hair before rolling his shoulder.
“Thought I could get some work done,” John said, in a dull-eyed, flat way you knew meant he was being evasive.
“Uh-huh.”
“And she said my skin was dry.”
“You don’t actually care about that shit.”
“Ouch.” John snorted, head veering back like you had lightly smacked him.
“That’s not what I meant, I—”
“Why are you here?” John lifted up off the seat and waded closer, squinting, catching a scent. “You knew it wasn’t an office, right? You’ve been here before…”
The heat from the water transferred up your face. More and more of him was exposed as he came closer, the water slipping down below his chest. Your mouth was dry again, tongue thick as you groped for an adequate obfuscation.
The closer he got, the harder it was to think.
“You’re leaving something out,” you said, deflecting, raising your chin like maybe physical defiance might give you the upper hand.
John shook his head, stilling two feet away, gazing down at you with cool, unreadable eyes. “So are you.”
“I was supposed to meet a date.”
Opting for the truth seemed like a good idea until John pointed at himself, a bit smug.
“No, dummy, she didn’t tell me it was you.”
“Don’t sound so disappointed.” John’s expression crumbled and he withdrew behind a half-snarl, twisting to the side, but everything inside you wanted him closer not further away.
“I’m not, I’m…”
John froze, the quiet hemming you both in as you felt the will to keep lying slough off into the water. Maybe you’d lost more than a few top layers of skin. It was the obvious metaphor, but it still felt right. You leaned away from the wall and toward him.
“The man she described…” The heat and his proximity were shortening your breaths, compressing your lungs. “Should’ve known it was you.” As he took another big step in your direction, you sucked your lip into your mouth, gazing at every exposed inch of him. Admiring. “Just my type.”
Closing the distance, the water hissed, resettling around you as John trapped you against the edge of the deep tub, focused again, serious. “Is that right? She threatened to sic Barnes on you.”
“Bucky?” You laughed, throwing your head back until you were gazing up into his face, into his blue fire eyes. “Well, that would be crazy and a waste of everyone’s time because I don’t want him.”
“Yeah?” His voice fell to a rasp; he eased closer, so close you could sense his heat independently from the water’s. One hand slid up to cup your jaw, thumb rubbing across your chin. Fuck. “Mm. Interesting. And what do you want?”
There was no turning back, not when he was looking at you like that, like his personal happiness and maybe the fate of the world depended on your answer. A shy, nervous quiver passed through his hand where he touched you.
“You.” A murmur. A sigh. His lips eased open as you gave it to him, the gift of your desire. “Lena says I’m too proud, but I guess not. I want you and I’m not too proud to beg.”
No begging required. John drew your lips to his, both of his wet hands in your hair, yanking you into his body, water cascading off of his shoulders and yours as you tumbled into him. You didn’t try to steady or catch yourself, just tossed your arms around his neck and offered yourself up for the first hungry swipe of his tongue. He gathered you into him easily, in one motion, taking you to the edge of the tub, your lower back wedged against the stone, legs opening, bracketing his thighs.
“I could make you beg,” John whispered, breaking the kiss to shift you higher, loop one arm under your butt, the other slamming down on the damp floor just over your shoulder. “Or I could make you scream,” he bit along your jaw, lower, kissing your neck hungrily, groaning. “Your choice, beautiful.”
He wanted you to think? He wanted you to decide things?
His mouth dropped lower, beard scratching across the tops of your breasts. Your nipples hardened against his chest, every inch of you aching for those sloppy, starved kisses.
“Please,” you whispered, head falling back, fingers scratching across his spine to his nape to his head, holding his face to your breasts as he teased one nipple between his lips, teeth closing softly, your hips bucking, seeking more of him more of all of it now now now…
“Please what, baby?” he asked, somehow, somehow still using speech and brain.
He was a stronger person than you, clearly, because you were gone.
“Please just need you, all of you.” You were whimpering for him, for a man. You’d think about the embarrassing implications of begging John Walker for anything later, but for now, you were trying to grind his dick into the right place, arc your hips up at the right angle to—
John caught you, held you, merciless and grinning into your breast as he rubbed his face against it, whiskers igniting what he had just made slick and swollen.
“How, beautiful?” he asked, grunting as he sucked your nipple again, loud, messy. The water sloshed up around your chest as you thrashed. “Where?”
No words, just hips. You yanked his hair when he laughed at you again, enjoying your frustration.
“Here?” John took mercy, kissing his way back up to your damp, sweating neck, using his nose to outline every sweep of you between there and your right ear, whispering filth while his grip loosened and his fingers dove through the water to your sex. He pushed one finger inside, breath catching at the heat and slick that met him. “You need me here?”
“Yes.”
“She’s so wet, fuck, she wants me bad, doesn’t she?” John growled into you, adding a second finger, stretching you gently, then with more insistence, faster. His cock twitched against your thigh, agonizingly close; you could feel his heartbeat in it as he teased a moan from your throat, then another. His thumb brushed through your folds, strumming your clit, and you lurched against him, clawing at his scalp. “Does she need more? Doesn’t seem like enough, squeezing me like that, so fucking wet…”
“F-Feels a lot like b-begging,” you murmured, arching when he stirred his fingers in your clenching pussy. You made a crazier, dumber sound when his hand dropped away, hushing through the blue water to wrap around his dick and bring it against your entrance, playing with both of you, rubbing like you weren’t about to fly apart at the seams.
John huffed into your ear, almost letting go of a whimper as pitiful and needy as yours. “Is this what you need?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“Take me, god damnit.”
He did. Fuck, he did. Pulling you down into him while gripping himself tight, resistance minimal, stretch optimal, both of you falling into taut, silent concentration as he brought your hips flush. You squirmed, not fighting but reacting, your body spasming from too much of him and not enough of you. You’d find a way, carve out new space for him if you had to.
Slowly, you adjusted to him, riding gently up and down, walls fluttering, finding the pleasure inside the burn until the weird, full feeling lapsed into friction and pressure. You couldn’t tell what was sweat and what was spit and what was bath water, you just knew you were soaking everywhere, dizzyingly hot, John’s lips sealed to your temple as he pulled you carefully up and down his shaft.
“So big,” you mumbled, over and over again. "Mmf."
“You like this big dick?”
“Yes.”
"Need it?"
"Yes."
“I can tell,” he groaned, shuddering. “So tight, she doesn't want to let go.”
Faster now, faster because you could handle it, because you were shaking your hips back against him, moaning and drooling, fucked into a dimension where you couldn’t feel anything but the way he was opening you up on every thrust, your body relearning the stretch, craving it, a dark, dangerous feeling gathering in your core, a precipice up to a plunge you feared and needed.
“Oh God, it’s too much,” you wailed, holding on tight, water splashing in every direction as John lifted you higher out of the water, slapped your back down onto the tiles, only briefly breaking the connection of your bodies as he crawled up between your legs and made you whole again.
It was real now, a drive, a snap to his hips as he smothered you with his bulk; you hooked your legs around his waist, ankles crossed, heels digging into his ass, spurring him faster.
He planted one hand by your head, the other diving between you, wedged into the damp, sweaty crux where your bodies met. There was no time for precision. You felt his thumb hook under your aching clit, and you pushed yourself against that calloused pad, chasing, chasing, that pace setting his as he dragged himself in and out, perspiration dripping off of him and onto you.
Nervous, rising sounds spilled out of you as you felt that darkness encroaching. You hurled yourself after it, letting go, shameless and open-mouthed as he worked you back and forth on the tiles, finding a depth that made your eyes cross.
“That’s it, baby, cum on this big dick. I know you can do it, cum for me.”
You clenched, desperate, fingers clawing down his chest as the white room swallowed the darkness, swallowed you, his clenched jaw and red face disappearing for a second behind a pressurized veil. It slammed down onto you, into you; you squeezed him deep, in shuddering waves.
“Fuck, I’m right there. I’m right there with you—”
John grabbed your hips, leveraging them higher, pumping out a few final strokes on his knees, shivering as he drew up tight and fucked his release out with a grunt and a gasp. He shook for a second, fingers biting into you, cock twitching as he unloaded; heat pooled in your belly, your eyes rolled back, his mouth dropping open until it looked like he was in pain.
He came back to himself with heaved, gulped breaths, searching down the length of your body, eyes catching on every mark, bite, scratch, and hickey. Gently, he laid you back down on the floor, propping himself up, over you, still inside as he pressed a dozen feverish, apologetic kisses to your chest and neck and face.
“Are you… Lost myself. Are you okay? Did I hurt you? Jesus, that was intense.”
You laughed. Giddy. It was tempting to make him worry, but instead you drew his face to yours, kissed him longingly until you had his taste memorized.
“I’m good. Real good.”
John blew out a relieved breath, shoving his face into your temple. “Had me worried.”
“Tougher than I look, John.”
“We can put that to the test.”
You snorted, swatting his shoulder. “Thought you were worried?”
“I am, but…” He laughed, sheepish, pulling you into him, holding you tight. “But I want to do that again.”
“Maybe in a bed next time.” You purred, fitting your hands into his hair, stroking the wet pieces back off of his forehead, gazing into his eyes when he lifted his head to see you. “This place does work, damn, I feel limber as hell now.”
“Relaxed, too.”
“Mmhm.”
“Worked some things out.”
You nodded, matching his smile. “Things that needed working.”
“Exactly.”
He kissed you again, sweeter this time.
“Glad I came to the office today,” he murmured, easing out of you, lifting you into a sitting position, then up as he stood, hoisting you into his arms. Your toes touched the ground tentatively, knees still wobbly, but John kept you upright, steady against his big, warm chest.
“Very productive,” you agreed, looking around for your swimsuit. “Think those are billable hours?”
“You dirty freaks, I didn’t want you to have sex in my bath,” Yelena muttered, closing her hands over her face and growling out a sigh. You had texted her an hour after you and John managed to clean up, get dressed, and--appetites stoked--wander hand in hand down the street for pierogis. Instead of texting back, she showed up to the restaurant, following your trackers, raging at you both in a barely controlled whisper, eyes flashing. “Now I have to drain the whole thing and clean it. Very, very thorough, it has to be cleaned. I have an important meeting later!”
“This was your idea,” John pointed out sensibly, chewing a mouthful of food and swallowing before sticking his straw in his cheek. “You set us up.”
“On a date! On a cheeky little cute bathtime date, not…fuckapalooza!”
An old couple in the next booth glared.
“If it helps, we weren’t in the water for all of it,” you said, resting comfortably against John’s side in the booth.
“It does not help.” Yelena stole a pierogi off your plate, crammed it into her mouth, and scooted off the vinyl bench. “Banned,” she said, pointing at each of you in turn. “Banned from my office.”
“Noted,” John said, suppressing a laugh, hands up in surrender as Yelena stormed off.
She would get over it. When she did, she would be insufferable about being such a successful matchmaker. You slurped your soda, warm all over, glowing.
“Your beard looks nice,” you said, turning and cupping John’s cheek. “Soft.”
His brows lifted, eyes simmering as he moved them across your face, letting them linger on your lips. “There’s a hot tub on level twenty-nine in the tower,” he said. “In the PT lab. Did you know that?”
You found his hand on the bench, gave it a squeeze, signaled for the check. “I do now.”
I was thinking about what if after getting the serum, John occasionally lactates. Maybe reader had a really rough day and John also had a bad day so he offers it to soothe her and it ends up making him feel better too? Idk I'd eat up whatever you write. I hope this wasn't too weird or made you uncomfortable. I've never written in a request before.
John tries to break up with you over a perceived flaw; you convince him he's perfect the way he is.
A/N: This is definitely not something I've tackled before, but anon's request just, idk, moved me? I wanted to give it a try, and I personally think there's something rewarding about taking a crack at something new. If this is not your thing, please scroll on by. Hope I did it justice because I certainly wanted to.
Rating: 18+ MDNI
WC: 3.4k (complete)
CW: PWP, male lactation do not engage if this is not your thing, reader is afab, reader is a thunderbolt/new avenger, reader has a vague but tragic superhero backstory, reader has fire-based powers, discussion of body image, angst with a HEA, romantic smut, unprotected pinv, lactation kink.
You thought you had a pretty decent handle on John’s moods, which was why it felt like someone was sawing the floor out from under your feet cartoon style. This… You just didn’t see this coming.
“You’re…you’re breaking up with me?”
It didn’t make sense. You had gone on a date just the night before and everything went perfectly, so much so it made you want to fall through time, storm through the room of your childhood prison, and tell your little self that you would find the one someday. Pinterest, scrapbooking, scrolling through wedding ideas kind of stuff.
Three stellar dates, stars in your eyes, and—if you were any judge of character and you were reasonably sure you were—stars in his, too. He had walked you back to the dormitory wing in the tower with your arm linked through his, your sides squished together, and at the very end, just before saying goodnight, John had leaned down to give you a lingering, gentle kiss.
And now…this.
He had invited you on a walk to Central Park to break up.
Fuck.
John stuck his hands into his pockets, eyes roaming the sky above your head. Clouds were gathering, rain threatening, his collar turned up against the already harsh wind. “Please don’t make me explain.”
You took a step toward him, a reflex, a panic, fists balled at your sides. Life had never been easy to you or kind. Deprivation. Loneliness. You were someone’s dangerous, ill-advised dream, a Hail Mary conceived in a lab, never knowing a moment’s kindness or acceptance until you were invited to join the New Avengers. They wanted you because you were a dangerous fuckup.
You turned in a dejected, confused circle, throwing looks at passing joggers and ducks gliding on the pond like they were personally responsible for this pain.
“I think you owe me at least that,” you said, softly. “An explanation. Anything. I thought…” You pushed out a sigh, hands in your hair, power erupting along your skin. That was bad. Bad bad. You were in public; you had to keep it together. A terrible thought bubbled up, that John was doing this in the park specifically because you were volatile. Tears slipped out, you couldn’t help it; you had stupidly gotten your hopes up, a thing you had promised yourself you would never, ever do.
John wrung his hands, eyes glossy as he noticed the tears sliding down your cheeks. For a man who wanted nothing to do with you, he certainly looked torn up at the sight of you crying. He jerked toward you, hands flexing, closing, then opening as he shook his head.
“I’m not…normal.” He said it so softly you had to lean closer to hear him.
“John. None of us are normal.”
“No, you don’t—” He cut himself off, fisting his hands in his hair, turning away quickly before spinning back around. His chest was pumping, his eyes searching the ground at your feet, and the skin of his face was so red it looked like it might erupt. “This can’t go any further. You deserve someone…someone else. Someone not like me.”
“What are you not saying?” You wiped at the wet tracks on your face, catching his wrist before he could shift away and down the hill toward the pond. The clouds bunched, gray and heavy, a few fat raindrops spattering on your cheeks.
John shook his head. “Please.”
“Please what?”
He glanced at the sky, swore, then hooked your wrist around and took your hand, leading you down the shallow hill, the grass growing slippery as the rain picked up. There was a tunnel with a bike path running over it, and John led you there, pulling you into the darkness. It smelled sandy, like wet concrete, the rain pelting the metal tracks above in an uneven staccato while John leaned against the graffitied wall and caught his breath, collected his thoughts.
You watched him, patient, hurting, surprised that he hadn’t yet let go of your hand. His fingers knit with yours and he contemplated the connection for a moment.
“You’re not…” He sighed, head falling back. “You’re not curious why I haven’t tried to get you into bed?”
“Thought maybe there were a few gentlemen left in the world.”
He huffed out a dry laugh. “That’s charitable, thanks.”
“Are you going to tell me the real reason?”
John squeezed his eyes shut, clearly terrified at the thought of doing just that. His hand trembled against yours. “I didn’t ask you out for months because I knew we would get here. I lied to myself, pretended it wouldn’t matter, that I’d figure it out, but—” He pressed his lips together, tearing his eyes away from your hands to glare at the ground. “I’m a fucking embarrassment, and you shouldn’t have to put up with that.”
“None of us are perfect.”
“Stop.” He let go, turning into the wall, slamming the knuckles of his left fist into it so hard the concrete shook, powdered. “Stop. Stop being so fucking nice. You wouldn’t be, trust me, if you knew all of it. You’d…you’d look at me like I was a freak like every other girl I’ve been with since the serum.”
Your mind raced, tripping over possibilities. All the times you had run into each other in the common room in the morning, before bed, all the dumb action movie nights you had shared, discovering a shared, corny passion, all the brutal missions and shared looks during briefings and sleepless nights on the observation deck shooting the shit… You couldn’t imagine anything he would say that would scare you off.
You approached carefully, the rain drowning out your footsteps as you put both hands tentatively on his back. He flinched, hunching against the wall.
“John, just tell me one thing, okay?”
His shoulders lowered a fraction. He nodded.
“If this…if this thing you’re worried about wasn’t happening, would you want to be together?”
“Yes. Yeah. Fuck.”
Your heart jammed up into your throat. “Can you let me decide if it’s a dealbreaker? Can you trust me that much?”
It took him a minute, but he finally lowered his arms, shifting around with a grunt to face you, eyes gray and hazy in the dark of the tunnel. A bike went overhead, the tires thunking softly over the uneven ground. John sagged forward like all the fight had gone out of him, like he had lost a battle in his head he would never allow you to see.
“Something happens when I get excited.”
His voice pitched low, gruff, laced with fear.
“Okay.”
“It’s…incredibly god damn embarrassing.” He glanced away, body locked, jaw hardening in its forward position. “The serum jacked up my hormones. The lab can’t correct it, believe me, I’ve begged them to try.” You waited for him to go on, patient, though you wanted to lurch forward and shake him, make him just say it. John pinched his forehead between thumb and forefinger, partially shielding his face as he finally spit it out. “Stuff comes out of me.”
Your eyebrows lifted, lips parting. “What stuff?”
“Fluid,” he said, mouth twisting like it was the worst word in the English language, like saying it made him want to gag. He sighed and grabbed his own chest, giving you a: “Get it now?” sort of silent, challenging look.
You wondered if there was more. It was unusual, sure, not something you had encountered before, but certainly not the horror show you had been anticipating.
“Is that it?”
John stared, blinking rapidly. “What do you mean?”
“You…lactate? That’s why we’re breaking up?”
“Yes. Jesus.” He swung his hands down to his thighs, frowning. “I mean, that’s not…you’re not…”
“John, flames shoot out of my eyeballs when I’m activated, I accidentally set Alexei on fire last week because he startled me in the hallway. It would take a lot more than that to frighten me away.” You offered your hand to him with a soft, crooked smile. “Of all the weird ass shit you could do in bed, that doesn’t crack the top ten.”
John’s gaze flickered from your hand to your face and back again, like this might be a trap or you were about to spring a hidden microphone and a parade of his loved ones on him. But it was just rain, the wet, sweet-smelling grass, geese honking as they left the pond and took flight, another bike thundering overhead. And your expression didn’t change and the world didn’t end, and John carefully put his hand in yours.
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”
“I’m really not.” You moved in, sliding against him, running your nose along his collarbone through his shirt, your voice a comforting whisper, just above the rain. “What if it’s okay?” He shivered. “What if I like it?”
You knew it wouldn’t bother you, things came out of bodies, that’s just what bodies did, and you were never particularly squeamish, couldn’t be, not when you were brought up in a facility where you were forced to bunk eight to a room, but you didn’t expect it to be like this.
John was so nervous he was shivering like he had come down with a dangerous fever, his spine a rigid column as you came back from the bathroom with a folded towel and a sheepish smile. His eyes were darting, big and wounded, as you climbed onto his bed and knelt at his side.
“Just…wasn’t sure what we were in for,” you said lightly, with a shrug and a grin. “Is it, like, a lot or…?”
“No,” he shook his head, biting the inside of his cheek, the exterior of which was bright red. “I mean, I don’t know. I’m usually trying not to let it happen.”
“We don’t have to force it,” you said. It was your turn to blush and glance away. “I’m not really experienced with a lot of this. Not the authority, you know? We would fool around in the facility, but it had to be quick and most times we didn’t get very far.”
John reached for your hand, closing his palm over your fingers on the comforter. He let out a deep, shuddering breath. “Slow, then.”
“Yeah, we just…” You scooted closer, leaving the towel by the rightmost pillow before climbing into his lap. “See how it goes. See how far we get.”
John was lying back against the mounded pillows, legs stretched out down the length of the bed. He leaned forward slightly to pull off his tee, then balled it up and tossed it over your shoulder. You had gotten pretty soaked from the rain storm and stripped down to a camisole and panties once you were alone together in his room. As you folded yourself along his left side, one leg hooked over his, your face in the crook of his neck, you couldn’t help but feel a pang—his body was perfect, sculpted into a hard, rippling machine, and it hurt to think he was insecure about it. But you could see how something like this would confuse the man who had been Captain America, a symbol of red-blooded American masculinity.
His reality and his ideals weren’t in conflict for you, you just hoped he would see it for himself one day.
“Hey,” you whispered, kissing his chin. John turned into you, eyes fluttering shut in relief, gratitude, his lips finding yours, opening just the way they had the night before when he gave you that unforgettable kiss. “No judgment, okay?” you asked, pecking his lips once more, cradling his face in one hand as he gazed down at you nestled into his side.
“Okay. But if it freaks you out, you’ll tell me and we’ll stop.”
You gave a single, confident nod, biting your lip. “And if I light your bed on fire, we’ll stop.”
He snorted, nosing into you. “Jesus, I mean, yes, for obvious reasons we would stop if that happened.”
“I’m just saying…”
“Please,” he murmured, rolling his eyes playfully. “We’d put it out, start right up again.”
“Oh?” You drew his lips back to yours, groaning as he pulled you in closer, flush to his chest. “Still want to break up?”
John’s brow tugged down as he wrangled you onto his body more fully, helping you straddle his waist. He was a big boy, but you managed. “I didn’t want to break up, I didn’t think anyone could be so…so...”
“Uh-huh. Keep going.”
His mouth twitched to the side as he enjoyed the view of you kneeling over him, hands sliding up the tops your thighs, eyes darkening with desire. “Willing.”
“That’s a very tame word for what I am.”
His hands kept traveling, up your legs to your hips, then to the edge of your tank top. When he tugged it up slowly, your stomach tightened with anticipation, thighs clenching. You wanted to keep flirting, honestly, you did, but the air around you both felt suddenly charged, tense. His nerves weren’t going away, you could see it in the way his chin quivered, the way his fingers fumbled with your shirt, almost losing grip as he yanked it over your head and let it fall to the wayside.
You leaned down, stealing away whatever self-deprecating bullshit he was about to say, kissing him until his hips bucked subtly up against you and his hard heat rubbed against you through your underwear. Both of you broke the kiss at the same time, too overcome. You reached for each other at the same time, his hands on your underwear and yours on his, both of you a little clumsy, excited, shaking like horny adolescents until you could be completely skin to skin, your hands cupped around his beard and his maneuvering you by your waist.
“Shit,” he whispered, eyelids heavy as your sex brushed his. “Right there. Slow.”
Slow was nice in theory, but you were hungry for him. You could feel the warmth pooling between your legs, the ache that wanted fast and more and now. But you caught yourself, forehead to his and core pulsing as John fit himself against you, started to push, entered you with a noisy gulp that told you it felt as good for him as it did for you.
“Keep going,” you told him, biting it out between moans. “D-Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
John’s face constricted, a full-body shudder slamming through him as you worked yourself down onto his thick length. “Fuck.” His voice broke. “It’s starting, I’m s-sorry—”
“Don’t apologize, don’t stop, just keep going.” You kissed him again, again and again, until he stopped trembling. You rode him gently for a while, letting your hips do the convincing, gaze skipping down his chin to his chest, where your breasts just grazed him on every careful thrust.
And you saw it, and it wasn’t what you expected, and you definitely didn’t think it would make you hotter all over, wetter. He must have felt it, too, the way your body welcomed him even more readily, his hands flexing on our hips, driving you harder against him on the downstroke.
John whetted his lips anxiously, following your eyeline. A single, hazy pearl of liquid beaded on his right nipple. His chest didn’t look any different than it did after a hard workout, swollen like the muscles there were slightly inflamed. He made a gruff, strangled sound as you dodged down to kiss his throat, then his collarbone, lower…
“You d-don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
He didn’t try to stop you after that. His head dropped back against the pillows as your lips captured that little wet spot on his chest, light and sweet on your tongue.
“Jesus,” he whispered, eyes clenched, body rocking against yours faster, faster. “Fuck—”
You whimpered as more came out of him, just a trickle, none of it escaping your mouth as you coaxed his nipple between your lips and sucked, experimental, eyes locked on his face for a reaction. His jaw went slack, the tendons in his neck springing apart as he arched off the bed, fingers digging into the flesh of your waist with bruising force.
One more slow pull of your lips against his chest and he almost bucked you off of him.
But you didn’t let go, moaning around his taste. It wasn’t that strange, not after you got used to it, and it was driving him crazy. The ridge of his pubic bone ground against your clit on every frantic drive of his hips now, and you chased the friction, the build, letting the fiery cord tightening around your stomach cinch until it pulled your spine and face taut. Fuck, he felt good, big, obliterating, even bigger as he felt you coming on his dick and it pushed him over the edge.
“I can’t—you’re so—holy fuck—I can’t hold on—please, I’m just—I’m just right there--” John held you tight to his chest, nails burning into your skin as he fucked up into you, wild, gone.
When he buckled against the mattress, there were tears sparkling at the corners of his eyes, in the deep wrinkles there from so many years of scowling and laughing. He was smiling now, almost in disbelief, huffing and puffing as he tried to catch his breath.
His hands were still holding onto you, but in the shivery comedown they started to move, gliding up your back to your hair, carding carefully through the strands while you stayed locked to his chest.
John shifted under you, maybe trying to dislodge you, get you to stop clinging to his pec like that. But you had already turned back into the warm expanse of his chest, springy and strong and dusted with hair. His fingers flexed on your head as you licked up a bead of fluid that had escaped during his orgasm. You could feel him watching you, rapt, cheeks red with nervous heat.
“It’s…not weird?”
“No,” you said with a snort, swatting his shoulder. “It’s sexy.”
“It is not sexy.”
“It is to me.”
He blinked at you. “Let’s say I believe you, what… Jesus.” He closed his eyes for a second, then stared helplessly up at the ceiling. “I can’t believe I’m asking this, but what’s it like?”
“Mm, let me think.” You batted your lashes up at him, coy, drawing his nipple back between your lips and prodding with your tongue until a steadier trickle flowed. His skin was warm, taut, fragrant. The salt of his sweat had dried on his chest, reactivating against your tongue.
Underneath you, his entire body spasmed, then locked. But gradually, the more you pulled out of him, the longer you went without showing a hint of disgust, the more you whimpered and wiggled against him with pleasure, the more he relaxed, fingers loosening in your hair until he was just holding you sweetly against him, your hand curled next to your face. It was…comforting. Surprisingly so. Especially when he stopped blushing and relaxed into the arrangement, grimace easing into something neutral, sleepy.
And there was something special about knowing you were the first person to give him that kind of acceptance and relief.
“God, that’s nice,” he rumbled, head tipping to the side, eyes sliding shut.
In the quiet, in his warmth, you suckled until he had nothing left to give you, more intimate maybe than even the sex. He had softened and slid out of you a moment before, and it was a new feeling, to be full of him in so many different ways.
You lifted your head, propping your chin on the swell of his ribcage. “It’s sweet. One of the lab directors at the facility was really into hummingbirds. She had a ton of feeders out for them in the garden. She made us mix up this nectar stuff for them to eat, sugar water. It’s sort of like that.”
John gazed down at you, thoughtful, a notch between his brows. You crawled up and wedged yourself against his right side, sliding down onto the mattress and into the crook of his arm, resting your cheek against the muscular cap of his shoulder. His fingers tented on your hip, making sure you stayed nice and snug to his body. Leaning across, he brushed a kiss across your forehead.
“Yeah. So. Thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me, it was good. All of it.”
He was quiet again for a moment. “Would you…ever want to do that again?”
“Mmhm.” You pinched his side. What you didn’t say was: Yes, maybe later, maybe in five minutes. Please, please, please, can we?
John squirmed, then kissed your head again, this time the top of it, his hand at your middle moving inward until his fingers were splayed across your stomach, protective.
“I can’t believe you tried to break up with me.”
He groaned. “I can tell I’ll be paying for that one for a while.”
You smoothed one palm across his ribs, up to his chest, spiraling your forefinger around his nipple. “I take my payments liquid,” you teased. “And with interest.”
john f walker x reader (thunderbolts)
⁓1k words
teammates to more, cursing, off-screen smut, teasing
"god, you fucking piss me off," you snarl, buckling yourself into the copilot seat of the jet. john rolls his eyes as he follows your movements, the pilot chair creaking under his weight as he lets himself fall into it.
"as if you're innocent in all of this," he mutters right back, and you have to take a deep breath as to not flip out.
"you were the one to rush into things and almost blow our cover. the only reason we're alive is because i managed to keep it intact after you fucked it up so badly." your voice is icy, just like the venomous chuckle that falls out of john's mouth.
"by pushing me against the wall and making out with me? sure, there was no other ways."
"you think i wanted to do that?"
"it sure fucking felt like you did."
you answer with an annoyed huff and a quiet "fuck you", and awkward silence falls over you as john flies you back to the tower.
john keeps shifting, and you're already in a sour mood after your unresolved argument so the sounds of his clothes rustling and the seat creaking only serves to piss you off even more. when you glance over to him, you want to dig into him - but he chooses that exact moment to adjust his position once more and your eyes catch on the obvious outline of his hard dick, clearly visible in the suit pants he's still wearing.
the words die in your throat, instead coming out in a harsh exhale that makes him glance over at you out of the corner of his eyes. and as much as he hates you in this moment, he'll always make sure you're alright.
"you good?" his voice is still rough, quiet after an hour of not talking. with another two hours on the flight to go he doesn't know how to fill the silence, especially not since your kiss had left him this rattled, this desperate.
"you're hard," you state, gaze locked onto the side of his face. without much space to hide, john just nods.
"i'm painfully aware." despite your annoyance, your head tilts to the side, traitorous eyes struggling to stay on his. he can see your curious, questioning look and sighs.
"that was my first kiss after the divorce," he breathes out, almost timid as he admits it. "and you... you felt good." shock seeps into your flesh at his shy confession. you're used to bravado, the ego that nothing is able to knock down, so to hear john this bashful and quiet makes a pulse travel through your body. you want to ignore it, but when he honest to god blushes at your lack of a reply and looks to the side to evade your gaze, you manage to shake yourself out of your stupor.
"you're hard-"
"-as i have said, yes."
"shut up. you're hard because of a distraction kiss?"
to your absolute and utter delight, his blush deepens.
"stop talking about it if you're not gonna do anything," he pleads with you, fully expecting you to laugh at him, but you stay quiet. so many thoughts are running through your head, and almost all of them tell you to do something both of you could regret.
but then again, your body always had a mind of its own either way.
your nimble fingers unbuckle your seatbelt, and once unfastened you stand up, lean over, and turn on the autopilot. john watches on with wide eyes as you come to a stop in front of him, his fingers twitching around the control wheel as if he doesn't know what to do with them. you're pretty sure he doesn't.
a scoff leaves you, and john's eyes widen to an almost comical level when you move forward to straddle him, cage his meaty thighs between yours. the pilot seat is barely able to fit both of you.
"who says i'm not gonna do anything about it?" your lips split into a small grin when his hands land heavy on your waist as if on instinct, his pretty blue eyes fixed on yours. "you're getting some release from your problem-" you motion towards his lap, "-and from what i can see i'll get a good ride." after not seeing any semblance of hesitation in your face, john's eyes darken, leaning back against the chair.
"do it then," he tries to call your bluff, but when you just chuckle and follow his movement, chest pressed against chest as you leave a trail of kisses from his throat to his lips, a groan escapes him.
you only glance at him to make sure both of you really want this - and the way he looks at you with unbridled want convinces you. one grin from you, and john's breath catches in anticipation. your grin only widens when your fingers play with the zipper of his suit pants and he whines.
"why don't you ever fly the jet anymore, walker? my arms are sooo tired," yelena complains, flying the whole team back to the tower after a tiring mission down in guyana. john doesn't answer, and bucky sighs in annoyance.
"probably because he's being a pouty fucking asshole after rushing in once again which went entirely against our orders."
bucky's voice trails into the background. they don't notice the small glare john sends you across the jet, and the dangerous smile you lean your head back with - which makes his mind immediately replay when you had first sunk down onto his lap, bottom out with a moan of his name and your throat bared as hip met hip. with a small grunt, he adjusts in his seat, crosses his hands over his lap so nobody can see the slowly growing bulge in his suit.
but nah. he just can't look at the fucking pilot seat anymore without getting a hard-on, and he'd rather not be subjected to your endless teasing.
not like you'd ever stop.
author's note: i had this in my drafts and wanted to break my abstinence so here you go, unwritten, off-screen smut </3
kissing each other between each sentence while pillow talking feels like John Walker to me. Anyway I can request that?
I'm such a sucker for meet the family fics, and an even bigger sucker for soft john. :>
John takes you home to meet his family; you start to panic the night before.
cw: flirting, light angst, soft, sweet smut 18+
You had been traveling all day, your body was exhausted, and you should have been asleep hours ago. Instead, you were vibrating out of your skin, absolutely buzzing, staring up at the ceiling like the key to assuaging your worries was floating up there somewhere.
The bed and breakfast was exactly fifteen minutes outside of Custer’s Grove, Georgia. In the morning, first thing, you would climb into the rental car with John and make the short drive to meet his family. Four straight days of trying to impress people you knew were fiercely protective of John and incredibly skeptical of the relationship. You had big shoes to fill. You didn’t have much in common with his ex-wife, who you knew they still adored, and you weren’t the type of woman they expected John to bring home.
You went to work every day to punch and shoot alongside their son, one more misfit on an entire team of them. When you overheard John on the phone with them, he sidestepped questions about your past, leaving blanks you were pretty sure they would want filled in over the next four days. And you had no idea how you were going to keep your head or measure up.
And you were terrified.
A huge shape shifted beside you; the floral granny comforter was mostly just over your chest and legs. John ran too hot for a pile of blankets. The room smelled like cinnamon potpourri and baked apples. Outside, the frogs and crickets were going crazy. There was a teddy bear motif in the wallpaper border just under the crown molding. You had already memorized the pattern and picked out the places where the wallpaper overlapped and the design warped, leaving some of the teddies with only half of a head. Everything in the bed and breakfast creaked, including your boyfriend, who groaned as he turned onto his other side, facing you, sleepy, heavy eyes blinking open to find you frozen in your fear, hands clasped over your chest like they were physically holding you together.
John’s hand slid across you, anchoring on the far side of your waist. He pulled himself closer, beard rasping against your shoulder as his leg found yours under the sheet and curled over it.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked, voice rasped with exhaustion. He muffled a yawn against your shoulder, hand traveling up your waist to your chin, tipping your face toward him.
“They’re going to hate me, aren’t they?”
His thumb stroked across your cheek. “No, they are not going to hate you. Baby, we already went over this…”
“I know, but I—”
“Just be yourself.” He tugged you onto your side, laughing when you stiffened up like a corpse. “Come here, please. Don’t do that.”
You sighed, letting him win; stupid jerk always got his way. But it did comfort you to slide into his arms, warm and supported, fitting into the cozy sweep of freckled skin between his neck and chest.
“I want them to be happy for you, excited, but I’m…me, you know?”
John chuckled against your forehead, his chin lowering until he could find you hiding there down by his shoulder. He urged your head up with a fist tucked under it, kissing each cheek and then your nose. “I do know.”
He kissed your lips, devoted.
“Which is the problem.”
You kissed him back, tentative.
“Agree to disagree,” he said. “Just…don’t bring up politics.”
You glared, fingers tensing on the springy pillows of his chest.
“Or the military. Like at all.”
“John--”
His forehead scrunched as he kept thinking, peppering your face with kisses that were doing very, very little to settle your nerves. “Probably avoid The Bachelorette, too.”
“What.”
“My old man has some strong opinions about it, I don’t know.” He smirked at your wide-eyed fury. “He’s intense about cars, too. Guns, obviously. Oh, and iced tea…”
You collapsed against him, groaning.
“I’m messing with you, baby, just say whatever you want.” His lips found yours in the gloom, sweet at first but deepening into something hungry. “Because you’re with me. I have your back.”
That groan dissipated into a soft, angsty puff at the back of your throat. His grip tightened on your face, then smoothed down your neck and shoulders, gathering you up, letting you feel the hard heat growing between his legs as he reeled you in.
“Because I love you, mm?”
You nodded into his face. “I know. I love you, too.”
“I always have your back,” he added, whispering it against your mouth. His fingers splayed across your spine, possessive. “It’s a very good back. I like the way it bends, like seeing it from behind…”
“You’re trying to distract me,” you said, nipping his lower lip.
“Is it working?”
“Hm, not sure,” you teased, arching into him, trying to untangle yourself from the sheet so you could wind yourself around him properly. “Keep going, Captain, I’ll let you know.”
“Captain?” His next kiss was claiming, so rough it tipped your head back. The steady heat of his hands dipped down your shoulders, following the curve to your ass, cupping your cheeks and grinding you against his body. “You trying to meet your future in-laws with a limp, honey?”
You couldn’t decide which part of that question was the hottest.
“That depends, how do they feel about relations before marriage?”
“Better skip that one at dinner,” John laughed, but it turned into a sigh as you rubbed up against him, matching his energy.
“What does your dad think they do in the overnight suite?”
“In the what?”
You sighed, shaking your head. “On The Bachelorette—you know what? Never mind.”
John hooked your thigh over his hip, lips worrying down the edge of your chin to your neck, digging in there, sucking until your thoughts were a million miles away from trashy reality television.
“That’s working,” you breathed, falling into him, shivering and clutching at his biceps as he found a new spot to lick and suck. “Don’t…don’t leave any marks, you beast.”
He tore his head away with a grunt, sealing his mouth to yours again as he aligned your bodies, pulling you flush, working you against his erection, his soft, sweet moans mingling with yours as your thigh twitched, your stomach clenched, sex hot and slippery as he teased you.
“This is how we do it in the South,” he murmured, snorting into your cheek as he broke the kiss. “God’s cool with it this way.”
“Shut up,” you swatted his shoulder, losing your rhythm just for a second as you dissolved into giggles. “Thought…mmf…” It was hard to think when he was grinding into you like that, his underwear getting soaked as you found yourself closer and closer to the edge. “Thought you were supposed to be fruitful and m-multiply.”
John let go of your ass with one hand to slip his shorts down around his knees, guiding you where he wanted you, hips angled, his swollen heat breaching you on a frantic thrust. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, slamming his cheek against yours, swallowing a loud groan as he took ground inch by inch. “Yes, fucking ma’am.”
God, you could take the boy out of Georgia...
You gave yourself over to the feeling, fear melting away, nothing but pleasure filling you up as you scratched your fingernails into his hair, holding on tight. “I’m almost there,” you whispered, sizzling, lost, “take me home.”
Could you please write John Walker x f thunderbold reader where they secretly hook up and the girls try to Set Reader up with some guy Resoluting in jealous John?
Btw. Your writing is amazing 😍✨
After an interrupted quicky, things get weird between you and John. When the ladies set you up on a date, he finally makes it right between the two of you.
A/N: John's texts are in red, his sister's are in blue, reader's are in orange.
Rating: 18+ MDNI
WC: 3.6k (complete)
CW: PWP, no use of y/n, reader is afab, reader is a thunderbolt/new avenger, john is down bad, john is jealous, john is a munch, sexting, light angst with HEA, pinv, flirting, dirty talk, pussy pronouns, oral (f receiving), light hair pulling, semi-public sex (locked bathroom).
His name was Peter and he worked in biotech. That was as much information as John allowed himself. If he dug any deeper, turned over the wrong rock and learned the wrong thing, he would do something genuinely irrational.
Or something more irrational than waiting up until you got back from your date.
Your date with Peter. Who worked in biotech.
Ava and Yelena had set you up with this guy, and it remained to be seen if you were genuinely into him or just doing your friends a favor.
John had also seen a picture.
That was a mistake, the feeling that flared in his chest at the sight of this dude was what warned him that he was charging up to a precipice with a slippery edge. Because Peter wasn’t bad looking. In fact, Peter was probably quite good looking—symmetrical face, strong jaw, full head of curling dark hair, skewing Barnes but with Bob’s guileless eyes. Maybe you didn’t even like blondes, maybe--
John stared at his phone, the screen too bright for the dark room, but the shadows suited his mood, even if sitting there waiting for you to get back to the Watchtower in the gloom did project a menace that was mostly unintentional.
Mostly. If Peter came out of that elevator with you, the menacing was going to become extremely intentional extremely fast.
And in the unhealthy glow of that too bright screen, John made another critical error. He couldn’t help himself. He texted his sister, attaching the picture of Peter he had scraped off of social media. Ava and Yelena had said the guy’s last name, and that was all John needed to go on a manic, ill-advised Internet hunt.
weird question, but is this guy hot?
John waited on the couch, hunched, bare feet scrunching against the rug, every part of him trying to fidget while Katie’s typing dots popped up. If the dots persisted for that long then it wasn’t going to be a flat “no”, so he was already stewing.
I guess? Yeah. Not my type but I’m sure he isn’t hurting for dates. Kind eyes. Looks like he smells nice. Why are you asking?
Grimacing, John sniffed his own arm pit. Not bad. Yelena had complimented him once (once) by congratulating him for not smelling like a beast in the jet after missions. And you… you had seemed pretty fond of the oil he used in his beard, pressed up against him, face in his neck, breathing in his scent during your regrettably brief intimacy--
John’s hand shook around the phone. Fuck.
Another text from her came through before John got up the courage to reply.
You’re more attractive than he is. Is that what you were looking for?
He gave a dry snort. yes. thank you.
Come back to visit, J. plenty of my friends want to take you out.
John was flattered, but he didn’t want to date any of his sister’s friends. It would be too weird. And anyway, if he did, he’d just fuck that up, too, let another perfect woman slip through his fingers, fumble them the way he’d fumbled you.
Sighing, he wrapped both hands around his phone, slumped forward even more, pushed the edge of the device against his forehead and tried, really tried, not to think about that night. But it always came back. There was no outrunning it when you were the only thing he wanted to run toward.
The spark felt like something you had been building toward for months. He noticed your hot little looks, the way you subtly changed your training schedule to line up more and more with his, how your jokes got softer. Still mean, but not quite so mean.
So, the night it finally happened, he should’ve been honest, should’ve used his words as his fucking therapist reminded him ad nauseum. He should’ve told you he was excited. Nervous. He should’ve been honest that he hadn’t been with a woman in over a year, that his relevant systems were enthusiastic but perhaps out of practice. And the opportunity had landed in your laps so fast, unexpectedly, and John was thinking with one head and not the other, never slowing down to consider it might just be better to wait until conditions were optimal and a conversation could be had.
But you had looked so beautiful that night, and after a few drinks during the gala, you had brushed John’s hand when nobody was looking, and he had skimmed his fingers across your lower back. You had dodged into him, and that felt like the sign he had been waiting for.
He had never seen you dressed up before. It was killing him. And you had shot him one blistering look that enticed him to follow, so he had, trailing you back to your hotel room, letting you stay a few steps ahead, playfully hunting you, then catching up once you reached the door. You had tumbled inside on top of each other, mouths hungry, fingers clumsy.
It was the end of the night, your roommate—Yelena—could come back any second. The benefit was wrapping up, and it was all being held in one hotel. John knew that. He didn’t care. He wanted you in that perfect, flirty dress, so he charged in like a numbskull, like he always did--results now, consequences later.
“John.”
His name sounded beautiful on your lips, rushing out as he shoved you up against the wall three feet from the door. With trembling hands, he reached for you, cupping your jaw, tilting your face up toward him, swallowing his own name as you arched against his body. Just that kiss was enough to make the heat rising between you get in his head, make it spin. Dizzy, he rolled his tongue against yours and groaned, reaching down to find the bottom of your thigh, cup it, lift it high enough to hook around his waist.
You clawed at the front of his trousers, breathing hot and heavy into his open mouth. The second he touched between your legs, you moaned and dropped back against the wall, eyes blinking rapidly before you leaned into him again, wedging your face against his neck.
“Mm. You smell incredible,” you whispered.
“You taste incredible,” he teased back, laughing. His fingers hooked around your thong, knuckles grazing the slick folds he was desperate to get to. You were so wet he could hardly believe it; you wanted him, you wanted him as much as he wanted you— “Feel incredible.”
Whatever words might have come next were obliterated when your bare hand closed around his dick, your grip faltering and then tightening as you felt the size of him. John flattened you against the wall, vision blurring, senses throbbing, concentration narrowing to the soaked furrow between your thighs and the way you seized up as he pushed inside you.
Holy shit.
He didn’t last long, he couldn’t, not when you were that hot and wet and willing, whispering John’s name against his neck, whimpering and shaking and begging him for more. His hand slammed against the wall next to you hard enough to shake the room. He wanted to hold back, fuck he wanted to, but you felt too good. It hit him fast, right in the gut, and before he could think a single sobering thought, his vision silvered and he tasted burning metal in his mouth, and he was coming so hard it felt like he was going to fall to his knees.
You clung to him, fingers digging into his shoulders. And John had every intention of staying there, making you feel good, but his senses sharpened up again at a harsh sound just down the hall outside the door. Yelena. She and Bob weren’t far off, laughing together.
You must have heard it, too, your eyes widening in alarm as you whispered: “Shit.”
John tore himself away, shoving his dick back into his pants and swearing as he tried to make himself presentable. You let your dress fall back down and opened the door just a crack, peering out. John slipped by you without a word, hurrying down the hall and disappearing into an alcove with ice and vending machines.
When the coast was clear, he skulked back to his room, trying to come up with something appropriate to text you. Not an apology, because he wasn’t sorry for what happened, only frustrated with himself that it had been truncated. Nothing seemed right. He froze up. He didn’t text you anything that night, embarrassed by every version of “sorry you didn’t cum, maybe next time” he came up with.
Days of awkward silence turned into weeks of it, and John felt you grow colder, quieter, and then the conversation seemed impossible to broach.
Across the common room, the elevator chimed.
John shot up off the couch. Finally.
Except Yelena stumbled out, tipsy, clinging to Ava’s arm. Everyone stopped, the women pausing, inspecting him before dissolving into giggles, picking up whatever conversational thread had started in the elevator. Before disappearing down the corridor, Yelena shot him a confused look.
Dropping back down, flames high in his cheeks, John considered his phone.
Maybe it was finally time to compose that humiliating text he never sent.
Peter had gone to the bathroom five minutes ago, which seemed like a long time if the guy just needed to pee. The restaurant he had chosen wasn’t too upscale or pretentious, and you liked that. It was just meant to be a casual thing, and from your perspective it was going well. He asked questions and follow up questions, he had an interesting job, and he was familiar enough with high tech labs to not be weirded out by your unorthodox job or the people you went to work with.
But if you were being honest with yourself, there was no spark.
You didn’t feel anything when his eyes met yours across the warmly lit table. Most of your jokes went right over his head, but then, your sense of humor was an acquired taste. Dark. Occasionally macabre. Your friends punched and shot at people for a living, what did he expect? He had nice eyes, but you could tell they didn’t light up when they grazed your face. And if you were being extra honest with yourself, you liked a man with a little more…edge. Perhaps more size, someone who could throw you across the bed and push you into the mattress, thick and hunky and—
You sighed, leaning onto the table with a miserable sound, checking the front and the back of the restaurant, becoming reasonably confident that Peter was not coming back.
Ghosted. Again.
It didn’t hurt nearly as bad this time. The last one had stung like hell, a fact you were concealing from everyone, especially the man who was to blame.
Your phone vibrated across the table, and you flipped it over, expecting to see Peter’s name; maybe he had fallen in or something and desperately needed a superhero.
Nope.
Speak of the devil.
You couldn’t understand why John Walker, the man who had fucked you for three glorious minutes only to vanish, was waiting up for you. He had gotten what he wanted, hadn’t he? So, what could he possibly need at 11:32PM on a Thursday? If it was an emergency, he would’ve used the dedicated app and sent out a team-wide alert.
come back to the tower, i want to eat you out
Surely, he had sent this message to the wrong person. You allowed thirty seconds to go by, giving Peter that much.
I think you sent this to the wrong person, you typed back, the restaurant suddenly so hot you could feel sweat bleeding through your bra.
no, i didn’t.
Thirty more seconds. Breathe in. Breathe out. Straitlaced John was not sexting you. It wasn’t possible.
Are you drunk?
would you like me to be?
Your hands shook around the phone, your eyes sliding up to scan the restaurant one more time. Peter was long gone, you could just feel it, the empty glass where he had been sitting mocking you in the sweaty silence.
John texted again without waiting for your response.
how’s Pete?
God, this was embarrassing.
I think he ghosted. Went to pee, never came back.
jesus. did he at least pay the bill?
He did not.
where are you?
You groaned and licked your lips, fidgeting, pride demanding you tell John to fuck off and fuck off forever for the insecurity you were still wrestling with after he jizzed and dashed. At least this way, you might get him to pay for your dinner and get an explanation, which was more than nothing, more than you had at the start of the night. You linked the address.
After a few minutes, you felt like an idiot. Double ghosted. Yiiiiiikes. John didn’t text again, and you were left to wallow in self-pity while the waiter checked in with increasing urgency, his palpable sympathy making your ears burn.
The restaurant wasn’t terribly far from the Watchtower. John showed up fifteen minutes later, hands in his pockets, eyes shifty and darting as he scanned the place for you. The jagged coil of shame that had been tightening in your chest unwound, but you tried not to let John see how relieved you were that he had actually shown up.
Now that it was just the two of you, neither of you knew where to look or what to do.
John elbowed Peter’s empty glass toward the edge of the table with a grimace, never letting his bare skin touch it.
“I’d say I’m sorry the night didn’t turn out how you wanted it to,” he said, clearing his throat, stretching his neck. “But I’m not. Because…because I was waiting up for you.”
Your next breath didn’t go down so easily.
It was freezing cold out, deep winter, and the thick, navy blue cable knit sweater enhanced his military physique perfectly. The little peak of white t-shirt near his neck made it sweet, boyish, like he had thrown it on in a hurry to get to you. His hair was finicky, stuck up from his hands being in it too much.
He signaled to your floating waiter, ordered a beer, cutting you a searching glance, like any second you were going to tell him to get lost.
“Did you mean this?” you asked, pushing your phone across the table toward him.
John’s cheeks turned a lurid pink at the sight of the text. But to his credit, he didn’t look away, he nodded, once, then pushed the phone back. “Every word.”
“Where?”
His brows shot up. “In the…isn’t that usually the…”
You snorted, covering your mouth. “Are you trying to say pussy?”
You both ducked your heads as the waiter returned, as if on cue, to hear you say just that.
“Sorry,” you muttered, smiling awkwardly as John accepted his beer, got out his card, and mumbled at the guy to put everything from the table on it. “He, um, he lost his cat.”
“Uh-huh.” The waiter had clearly heard worse, and shot you both a knowing glance before running John’s card on their POS. “You two have a good night. Hope you find that kitty.”
John downed half of his beer in one slug, then stared up at the ceiling. “Wherever you want.”
“What inspired this…offer?”
He scratched his beard idly, shrugging, eyes high flame blue as he raked them across the table and up to your face. “It’s what I should’ve done. I was…fucked up after that night. At the hotel. Felt…felt like a god damned teenager. Horned up. Stupid.”
Things were starting to make an annoying kind of sense. He did seem like the type to suffer an existential crisis after something like that. Still. Now that you knew the truth, you weren’t sure if or for how long you wanted to punish him.
“I was just that good, mm?” you asked. Purred. “And you got too…you know, too…”
“Are you trying to say excited?”
You reached across the table and pinched the skin just under his knuckles. John snorted, swore, humored you by pretending it hurt and shook out his hand.
“Yes.” He lowered his head and his voice, eyes eating you up as he took the last swig from his beer, wiped the foam off of his mustache with the back of his hand, the one you had pinched. “Yes, I got too excited. That’s what you do to me.”
His voice was a shivering rasp, almost inaudible above the louder tables on either side of yours.
He made a convincing argument.
“And what is it you want to do to me?” you teased, tapping the top of your phone, resting one hand in your palm, enjoying his discomfort as he glanced around again.
This time the waiter wasn’t hovering, but apparently John wasn’t taking any chances, swinging around the table, taking you by the arm and tugging until you tumbled into his side, right hand landing on his chest. “Always preferred action to words.”
“Mm, I like both,” you said, letting him lead you to the back hallway. It was dark, a little drippy, not romantic or particularly sweet smelling, but good enough for what he had in mind. It was in your mind now, too, and it felt like that night at the hotel, the spark between you was too bright to ignore. You didn’t know how you had managed to avoid each other for weeks, not when it felt so right to be back in his arms, his big, strong fingers wrapped tightly around your wrist, that hunched, hunting quality to his shoulders as he spun you and trapped you against the wall just next to the co-ed bathroom door.
Surprise leaked out of you in a squeak, all the air flattened out of your lungs as he shoved his chest into yours and sucked your left earlobe between his teeth. “I’m going to drag you behind that door and eat your fucking pussy until you scream, is that what you wanted to hear?”
“Yes.”
John hooked his arm around you, pulling you into the bathroom and kicking the door shut in one smooth motion. He locked you inside, jamming your back up against the door and dropping to his knees.
No sooner had his knees hit the tiles than his fingers were in your waistband and you were wiggling until your tight jeans were down around your ankles. John shoved his face into the damp front of your panties, gasping, a shudder ripping through him as your hands slid into his hair and urged him closer. You ground against him shamelessly, lifting your thigh and draping it over his left shoulder.
“Fuck, she’s so wet, needs me, doesn’t she?” he murmured, voice rough with need as he peeled your panties away from your slick, humid sex. John glanced up at you, the laser blue of his eyes the purest thing in the dingy bathroom. The green lights draped you both in shadow, the music pumped in fading to the edges of your consciousness as he held your gaze and licked hungrily at your slit. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he whispered, to you, to your aching pussy, “I’ll stay close, not going anywhere now.”
His fingers pushed inside, big and rough and greedy. You whimpered, offering more of yourself, arching against his face as he thumbed through your folds to tease out your clit, another eager swirl of his tongue sending lightning skipping up your abdomen.
Someone banged on the door, grumbling, the wood creaking and rumbling against your back.
“Busy!” John thundered back, shooting an apologetic look up your body with a smirk. “Isn’t that right?” he asked, softer, kissing your inner thighs before going back to work.
“Mmhm.” You didn’t know what else to say or what other noises to make, mouth hanging open, brain emptying rapidly as John’s chin rasped against you. He was going to be washing you out of his beard for days. “Y-Yes,” you said, managing to whimper out encouragement, eyes squeezing shut as he sucked your clit into his mouth and hummed gently. “Busy. So busy. Busiest…busiest I’ve ever been, actually. Come back never.”
John laughed into your body, nuzzling, fingers stroking back into you, one then two, curling, teasing along the upper walls of your channel until you clamped down and rocked, hard, into his face.
“There she is,” he whispered, shivering again. “That’s what she needs.”
John found his rhythm, sticking to it when you were reduced to sweet, slurring gasps. Stars, stars bursting across your eyes and then liquid fire shrieking up your middle, coalescing there and holding you hostage until the stars bled and the whole sky behind your eyes was silvery white. You didn’t mean to make that sound in a semi-public place, but the risk and the naughtiness just made the explosion linger. Fuck.
You crumpled back against the door, but John caught you, wiping his face off on his sleeve while he tugged your jeans back up, but you cupped his jaw, shaking your head, smiling as his brows went up and he sank back down.
“One for every week you kept me waiting,” you said, petting his hair back. John leaned into you, eyes dark and focused as he looked you up and down. “Unless you’re getting too excited?”
He cut you a warning look, wrapping his fist around the hip of your panties before tearing them clean off. Someone else knocked on the door.
“Busy,” John shouted, slamming his fist against the door between your legs, scraping his chin up your thigh, his gaze shining and hungry. “Come back never.”
You get a substance spilled on you during a mission and things get weird, fast
dubcon due to sex pollen, John feeling like a horrible person, male masturbation, confession of feelings
“It’s you and John on this one” Bucky tossed a file in your direction and you grabbed it before it could hit the floor. John was eyeing you from where he was talking to Yelena. “What’s the mission?” you asked, opening the file to see photos of an abandoned base about sixty miles south of Mount Fuji.
“Clear it, make sure it’s abandoned, that the local water sources aren't getting affected by any runoffs and level it if possible” you nodded, flipping through the pages then handed it to John, “Sounds simple enough. Two day mission?” Bucky nodded, “Unless something goes south”
John looked up from the files “Let’s hope nothing does then”
John wasn’t sure what was worse, two days alone with you or the knowledge that he was in love with you and had no clue how you felt. He was good at this at one time, navigating his feelings, not running from them. Now? He knew there was no chance you’d want him the way he wanted you. He couldn’t blame you, not like he was exactly the catch of the century. Disgraced former captain america, divorced, publicly decapitated a man.
It would be fine. At least it was a simple mission.
____________
You followed John’s broad form through the winding hallways. The labs were up ahead. You had to clear them, make sure no research was left behind. If only you could get your mind off the man in front of you. It was getting harder and harder to ignore the growing crush you had on him. It was borderline maddening, you were falling in love with him. It was pathetic.
The lab doors loomed, John glanced back at you with a small nod. You tilted your head to let him know you were good and he pushed the door open right as gunfire erupted.
____________
John wasn’t sure what the hell happened. One moment it was like the entire base was abandoned the next it was alive with agents. He grabbed you without thinking, tucking you against his chest as he returned fire and gave you enough time to pull your weapon. “Son of a bitch” the curse falling from your lips made him look down in worry. You weren’t hit were you? When he realized you were just annoyed he smirked, “Lets get it done” you nodded, motioning to the room “Draw their fire, I’ll take them from the back” “Copy that”
It seemed like everything was going well, most of the agents were down. John turned to check on you just as an agent approached you from behind, before he could get the warning out of his mouth a bright teal substance had been splashed onto you. John shot the agent without a thought, running to your side. You immediately stepped back, shaking your head “We don’t know what this is. Don’t touch me. We need to find anything on it then we’ll call it in”
“The serum should let me metabolize it” he reasoned but you shook your head. You weren’t letting him risk it. “Find the vial, see if it has a label then we need to level this damn place once and for all”
You waited in the suv while John made sure the explosives were in place. You’d found the vial, the label read “L-OH23” you had no idea what that meant but you hoped Bucky or Yelena would since this was a former Hydra base.
Pain rippled through you, fire roaring to life in your lower stomach. The suv felt too hot. You reached for the ac and turned it over to six. You needed to cool down. That was all. Another pain rippled through you and you doubled up. You were…fuck you were wet. Unbearably wet. What the fuck was going on?
John slid back into the suv, dropping it into drive. It wasn’t until he made sure the two of you were far enough away from the base that he looked down at you and his face dropped. He’d realized the suv was freezing but it was cold here at night. You were coated in sweat, chest heaving and skin flushed. “You ok sweetheart?” you shook your head, “Get me back to the safehouse now John. we gotta call this in”
____________
By the time you got back to the safehouse you tried to stand on your own but your knees buckled. All you could think about was the ache between your thighs, hot taunt your nipples were under your suit and how your skin was begging for a touch that wasn’t your own. “I got you” John was around the suv, picking you up without another word. You tried to hide the moan that slipped from your lips at feeling his hands on you.
He carried you in and laid you on the bed. “I’m gonna call Bucky ok? Just try to cool down” you nodded, fingers tearing at your suit, “It’s gotta come off John, m’sorry” he shook his head “Don’t apologize. Take it off”
John tried to advert his eyes as best he could when you stripped down to just your panties, even your bra getting thrown across the room. He already had his phone to his ear, silently begging Bucky to answer. “Mission report?” came the gruff response in place of hello. “Barnes, what the fuck is L-OH23?”
After a brief pause Bucky asked “You or her?” “Her. Now what is it?”
Bucky sighed, John could practically hear him scrubbing a hand through his beard “Had a run in with that shit back during the howling commando days. Dum-dum got into it. Wasn’t pretty. We weren’t about to ask Peggy.. Wasn’t any other gals around.. Long story short John shit is about to get very grey as far as consent lines go”
“Cut the shit Bucky! Tell me how to help her!” John knew his voice was near panic but damn he could hear you moaning. He glanced back and nearly dropped the phone. Your hand was buried in your panties. “Its a drug that overly stimulates the nervous system. The fever will start and if she doesn’t get the release she needs it will burn right through her and no matter how hard she tries on her own she isn’t gonna be able to get it”
“You’re saying…” John couldn’t form the words, it was wrong, so damn wrong. All the times he’d thought of it, dreamt of it and now Bucky was telling him it was the only way to save you? That he had to take away consent because of a drug. “If you don’t fuck her she’s going to die Walker. We’ll deal with the fallout later but don’t you dare let her die when all you have to do is stick your dick in her”
“And if she doesn’t want it?” John asked, turning his back on you because your moans were hard enough to ignore let alone the actual show of you finger fucking yourself. “She wants to die even less” John groaned, “I’ll report come morning” “You’re not a bad guy for this John. It’s a necessary thing” Bucky muttered and John scoffed, “Tell me that after this, ok?” and hung up.
John slowly walked over to the bed, your hips were rocking up against your hands, low whines falling from your lips. Your skin was covered in more sweat. “Honey?” he called low and your eyes snapped open, pupils blown. “John? Please help me” you whined, pulling your fingers out and reaching for his hand. “Your fingers are bigger, longer. They can help. Please”
God all the times he’d wanted this and it was going to be the biggest betrayal to anything that had been growing between you. “I got you baby” he murmured, sitting on the edge of the bed. He’d stripped down to his pants while he was talking to Bucky.
He slipped a hand between your thighs and your legs fell open. He rolled his lips between his teeth, silently cursing himself as he pushed your panties to the side, teasing his fingers through your folds. A little sigh left your lips at that smallest of contact. He pushed his fingers into you, your pussy was dripping, sucking the digits in easily. You whimpered his name, back arching. He shifted, fingers finding that spot inside you while his thumb teased at your clit. Your skin was so hot, feverish. Maybe this could be enough? Maybe he wouldn’t have to do everything?
He could feel your walls fluttering around him, your breathing quickening right before you screamed his name, your release soaking his hand. He felt so damn guilty for how good it felt hearing you scream his name, how damn hard he was. He slipped his fingers free but the next moment you were dragging him up the bed, your lips crashing into his like you were drowning and he was the last gasp of air you could fit down your lungs.
He groaned into it, shifting to be on top of you, his weight not quite resting on you. Your legs spread, hips rocking up so you could rut your core against his hard cock through his pants. He gave a roll of his hips and was so damn ashamed at how hard he was, how bad he wanted to be inside you. You murmured into his lips “Wanted you for so long” as you unzipped his pants, shoving them off his hips.
You reached to line him up and christ your hand nearly burnt with how hot it was. He looked up at your face, silently begging you to tell him to stop, for the fever to break but you hooked a leg behind him, dragging him down and he was pushing into you the next moment, stretching you so beautifully around him. Your entire body shuddered, back arching into him. He could feel the heat rolling off of you, how frenzied your heart was. It would be so easy to lose himself in your sounds, your taste, the feel of you. The way you whimpered “Wished this wasn’t the case”
You came within moments of him being inside you, your skin starting to cool. He was using every bit of self control to not cum, to not rut into you like a mad man. His fingers found your clit as he gave shallow thrusts, needing you to cum one more time. Your back arched, walls clenching down around him so hard he made a strangled sound. He stayed in just long enough to make sure your aftershocks were done before pulling out, hearing your small, whimpered “Wish you wanted me” when he did.
Your eyelids were fluttering close so he pulled the blanket up around you, checking your vitals. Your heart rate was down to normal, your temperature was headed that way. You would be ok, physically at least. He doubted things between you and him would ever be ok again.
He stepped off the bed and glanced down, his cock was still achingly hard. He needed a cold shower.He grabbed just a pair of boxers and headed into the bathroom. He tried to think about anything but what had just happened. His cock refused to forget, every memory of you causing it to twitch. He stepped under the stream of water, his hand wrapping around the hard shaft. Fuck, he was a horrible person. His hand started to move, slowly jacking himself off then the more he thought of you, your pretty sounds, how you felt, your lips on his, he got faster, his thumb catching on the head in just the right way to make him grunt. He felt that sensation run up his spine right before he started cumming, hot spurts shooting out and hitting the wall of the shower, spreading across his hand. His knees trembled, he let out a low curse. Fuck, he’d never cum so hard from just his hand.
He stepped out of the bathroom and you were fast asleep, curled up on your side. He never hated himself more. He hated how good kissing you felt, being inside you. He was a fucking monster. Christ he loved you and that god damn hydra agent had to ruin everything. He walked over to the small couch and sat down, already dreading when you woke up and the drug was gone from your system.
You woke up cold, alone with the sinking reality of what you’d made John go through the night before. He’d never want you like that and yet.. Oh god he was going to hate you. That was probably one of if not his first time since the divorce. You felt the panic attack before it hit, a silent one, where your breaths were choked off, refusing to go down your throat.
John heard a small sound, just a light whine and was up on his feet. You were curled up on your side, shoulders shaking. He didn’t know what to do. What if his touch made the fever spike again? What if this panic was because of what he’d done the night before? He didn’t want to make things worse but doing nothing was killing him.
You could feel John at your back and him refusing to touch you just confirmed your fears. He hated you. The sobs wracked through your body when you couldn’t handle it anymore and you felt the bed dip before his arms were wrapping around you. “I’m so sorry sweetheart. I just couldn’t let you die”
“You don’t have to touch me if you don’t want to” you sobbed out and John’s hold tightened on you instantly, realizing maybe you meant everything you’d said the night before. The little “I get it” you whisper is so weak and hurt it makes his heart crack. “I didn’t think you’d want me touching you after last night.. Didn’t want to make the fever flare up either but also didn’t want anything I did to make you hate me. I just couldn’t lose you”
You turned around in his arms, burying your face in his chest. “I’m so sorry John. I meant everything and you didn’t”
John’s heart ached and flipped at the same time. “Oh sweetheart, I meant it all. I just thought it was the fever talking, that's why I pulled out after you finished, didn’t want to cum because it was saving you, not you actually wanting to be with me or that's what I thought”
John called your name softly “Look at me, please. Slap me, something. I need to know you’re ok. I need to know if you believe me because last night..god I felt so horrible for wanting it.. For enjoying it.. Thought you didn’t want me like I’ve wanted you”
A long moment passed with the only sound being you sobbing softly into his tear wet collar until the nearly inaudible “I love you” hit his ears. He froze for a second, holding you so tight he was afraid he may hurt you. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, “I love you too baby”
You pulled back and looked up at him, eyes red and face a little swollen, “You mean that?” “With everything I have” he murmured, brushing your hair back from your face, “It killed me yesterday to not say it, didn’t want our first time to be like that” he continued, wiping a few stray tears away from your face.
“Thank you for saving me” you whispered and he nodded “I’ll always save you. No matter what” you leaned up slowly, pressing a soft kiss to his lips and he almost sighed in relief at how differently this was going than he thought it would. You deepened the kiss, your tongue teasing at his lips so he took the hint, letting his tongue push past your lips to tangle with your own.
You pulled back first, panting softly and looked at him with so much unhidden love and hunger a soft groan escaped him “You’re sure?” he asked and you nodded, “Want it to be real, this time could be our real first time” you kissed him again and he groaned deep in his chest, “Gonna take my time, not just trying to get your fever to break, I wanna explore all of you”
“Good, just promise me you won’t pull out this time. Wanna feel you, all of you” you breathed and christ he would give anything to you in that moment. “I promise sweetheart” he pushed you over onto your back, moving so his weight was pushing you down into the mattress, his lips finding yours, “Anything you want, I promise” he murmured, lips trailing down your neck.
could write something for John Walker x f thunderbold reader. Mutual pining until John is getting jealous of Bucky and finaly Acts on his feelings?
After pining for months from afar, John finally makes a move on the girl everyone thinks belongs to Bucky Barnes.
A/N: This story involves adults out drinking together, if that is a trigger for you please be advised.
Rating: 18+ MDNI
WC: 5.4k (complete)
CW: Angst to HEA, no use of y/n, two povs, reader is afab, reader is a new avenger/thunderbolt, reader has weather-related superpowers, john is down bad, reader is down bad, banter, flirting, moderate drinking, reader drinks but cannot get drunk, fingering, pinv, unprotected sex, risky sex.
John had only endured the current team assignments because they were tactically sound.
It burned his fucking ass, but he wasn’t about to put lives at risk because of a stupid, reckless, irritating crush. A crush that was ruining his life, by the way, because it was starting to feel like you were surgically attached to Bucky God Damned Barnes.
Not that he could say anything about it. If he said something about it then everyone would know that he was into you; Yelena would be merciless about it, Ava even worse. Even if it was well-intentioned teasing, he didn’t want to deal with it; those little jokes would make their way back to you, and you—opinionated, cocky, strong-willed--would have no problem telling him it was never ever going to happen.
And if he never heard those words, John could keep on living in this elaborate fantasy he had concocted, the one where you gave him shit all the time because secretly you wanted him too, not because you found him desperately annoying.
Another key element of this fantasy was that you were not in love with Bucky and Bucky was not in love with you. All available evidence suggested you two were one extra margarita at happy hour away from declaring your undying love for each other and riding off into the sunset on Bucky’s kickass motorcycle, but in John’s mind, that evidence had been falsified.
Those margaritas were imminent. John watched them arrive with sparkling ice and salted rims, deposited right next to the basket of complimentary tortilla chips you two had been enjoying. It hadn’t started out this way. When you joined up, everyone was a little excited, and that was a brand-new feeling for the New Avengers. Your presence took some pressure off the Sentry’s shoulders; up until that point, he was the clear carry in terms of raw strength and power.
And now there was you. And it just made sense that for moderate-level threats, the team split into two units, the military minds each leading one, pairing Bucky with you, Ava, and Alexei, leaving John with Yelena and…
“Hey, do you think she’ll make it snow for us on Christmas?”
Bob.
John shifted in his chair, legs cramping in the booth. The Mexican restaurant had been Yelena’s idea, and judging by the size of the burritos being delivered to other tables, it was a stellar call. But not even the promise of fifty-two grams of protein and enough guacamole to fill a kiddy pool could lift John’s spirits as you and Bucky clinked your margaritas together.
“Sure,” John said, tight-lipped. “If you asked.”
The big room was dark, but every booth was lit with its own collection of quirky, mismatched lanterns and a little red pot of candles burned on each table. There was karaoke, because Yelena had bet Bob that she knew every word to the Macarena, and this was obviously the best, most mature way to settle that. “She probably would,” he added.
“Yeah.” Bob swirled the crushed ice in his soda, leaning back. He had taken the bench half of the booth, John the chair across from it. Yelena’s spot in the booth was empty while she got ready to sing on the tiny, makeshift stage wedged in the back corner. The screens flanking her were blank, blue. The tables and booths were so small, they had been forced to split into two groups, and John hadn’t been ready to tip his cards and ask to sit with you, so naturally, Bucky and Ava were with you instead.
“Or you could ask her.”
John’s jaw hardened as he swiveled away from the stage to look at Bob. He had this look, pretend innocent, like there wasn’t a thought between those huge, goopy blue eyes. But John knew better. Bob was quite adept at playing dumb, but he was always cooking up something…
“Why would I do that?” John asked, stiff.
A crooked smile. A shrug. Bob’s head flicked subtly to his right, toward the next booth over. “Come on, man. Don’t make me say it.”
John’s eyebrows crawled upward. “Say what.”
Bob shot him a pleading look, then sighed and shook his head. He scooped a chip through a squat, tiny cauldron of salsa. “Never mind, forget it.”
John tried. He tried very hard. But now he was paranoid that his secret was out. If Bob had noticed…
The song started. Yelena bounced back and forth, wailing the open notes with her nose in the air. She did know the words, but karaoke always gave John secondhand embarrassment, and he bargained with himself that he was still being a supportive teammate if he went to the bar. At least he wasn’t hiding in the bathroom.
He half-perched on one of the stools. The bar was the heart of the restaurant, more kitschy lanterns hanging from a metal bracket outlining the square counter. Llama-shaped pinatas the size of his fist wibbled in the air conditioning, interspersed with the lanterns. He didn’t know if he needed one shot of tequila or twenty. It felt like just a matter of time before you and Bucky got up on stage and crooned into each other’s eyes and rammed the final nail into the coffin for his self-esteem.
It was a particular pain point that it was Bucky. Bucky, who had broken his arm in so many places that it still took weeks to heal even with the serum streaming through his veins. When storms rolled in, John felt them coming, his arm aching like he was a career sailor.
Funny, his arm didn’t ache this time, when this storm rolled in.
You.
“Hey Blue,” you said, easing onto the empty stool to his right. “What are you drinking?”
John stared. “Blue?”
That was a new one. Far gentler than the other nickname you had given him months ago: Team America World Police.
It drove him nuts. Blue was an upgrade, but he couldn’t imagine what had inspired the pivot.
“I’m trying to be nice,” you said, planting your chin in your hand and your elbow on the bar. John couldn’t look at your sweet little pout, or he would kiss it off your face. “There’s nothing sadder than a lone soldier at a tequila bar. You look ready to make all kinds of bad decisions.”
Oh honey, you have no idea.
Without him saying anything, you flagged down the bartender, ordered a round of shots. Top shelf. Paid with cash. Tipped generously. Fuck. On principle, he wanted to hate the move, he should’ve been the one paying, but you were capable and in control; it was what had made falling for you so simple. Your killer smile and the way your ass looked in your uniform certainly didn’t hurt.
You slid one shot down to him, using the condensation already slicking the bar top, though he had a feeling it was guided with a whisper of your powers; whenever you used them, his molars ached, the air pressure changing rapidly.
“Hey Macarena,” you said, on beat, and took the shot.
John followed; it kicked like a mule on the way down. “Next one’s on me,” he said, considering the small, empty glass in his hand, then you. “Guess I have to come up with a new nickname, only fair.”
“I don’t know, I’m pretty partial to Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs,” you said, laughing, leaning onto the bar again, bare arms blue and pink and purple under the lanterns.
He could just imagine taking another shot, this time after licking a bright stripe of salt right off the plush nugget of skin between your thumb and index finger. He wondered if you would shiver, if you would hold the wedge of lime in your teeth and let him take it with a hungry kiss.
“Bob says, ‘I cooked’ with that one,” John sighed.
“He’s right.”
He smirked. “Something like…” He weighed his options, head bobbing back and forth. “Sunshine.”
You made a face. “Please. That’s the one thing I can’t make.”
Your whole demeanor changed, shoulders dropping, eyes following, a morose dent between your eyebrows as you worried your thumbnail along your lower lip. John’s immediate impulse was to get closer, but he held it back, watching you collapse into a dark place, somewhere he couldn’t follow until you added, “The shittier kids at the facility called me Category Five and it wasn’t because they were happy to see me coming.”
“Maybe they didn’t know you.”
“And you do?” You scoffed and then laughed, playfully, sliding down from your stool. You meant it lightly, but John was starting to panic at the thought of you retreating across the restaurant to Bucky’s side. And that’s what you were doing, leaving, right after treating him to a smile that made him think he might just have a chance, that you wanted him to know you better.
John caught your wrist, tugging lightly, spinning you back around. Yelena finished her song, thrusting the mic into the air. The bar exploded with applause, but John kept his eyes locked on you. A weird, hot pressure built in his chest. Your hand felt good in his, and he could feel your pulse slamming against your wrist.
The next person got on stage, the guitar riff filled the restaurant, and some random civilian started butchering Jessie’s Girl. The irony almost made his eyes roll out of their sockets. But you were staring up at him pleadingly, with what seemed like an unvoiced question on your parted lips, namely: what the hell do you want?
“Fajitas!” Ava shrieked, leaping out of her seat as a steaming, sizzling pile of meat tribute was delivered to the table. It snapped you both out of the overheated staring contest John had started. Your hand slipped out of his grasp, and he couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say to stop you; one minute later, you were back at Bucky’s side.
“You good?”
“What?” You could barely hear Bucky over the karaoke. Technically, you did catch the question, but you were buying time. John Walker had just looked into your soul, blue eyes like lasers burning through you. You couldn’t think, let alone cobble together a coherent sentence.
Bucky smirked, leaning closer. “He say something to you?”
Yes, but not enough.
“Just calling a truce,” you told him, pushing the rice and beans around your plate. “He knows how to push my buttons, but it seemed like a good night for amnesty.”
“Yeah,” Bucky agreed. He had already made quick work of his tacos and leaned back in his chair, swiveling it out slightly toward the karaoke stage. Behind both of you, Yelena was trying to hype up Bob to get up and sing something. “Seems like you drive each other crazy.”
The blood went cold in your face, then drained. Bucky’s right arm kept brushing your left, and you couldn’t tell if he was doing it on purpose or not. He was your friend, your close, trusted compatriot, a soft heart wrapped in a frosty exterior, someone you had grown to respect and rely on.
But he didn’t make your heart flip over when he walked in the room. Bucky was a good-looking guy, but John just did something to you. The size. The attitude. The chip on his shoulder that seemed to heal day by day. The baby blue eyes. The unbelievable ass.
The way he looked at you, like he wanted to eat you in one bite.
And you didn’t know if that was because you pissed him off or he wanted to fuck or both.
The night wore on, Yelena got up to do another song, brought the house down, and swung by the bar on her way back to the team to buy a celebratory bottle of tequila. The vibes were strong, but you were jittery by the time everyone rearranged the tables and chairs to make one larger hangout spot. Bucky slung his arm across the back of your chair, and you jolted forward like you had been shocked with a cattle prod.
John noticed, of course he did, eyes cutting to you with an intensity that made you wet. Unless you were imagining things, that was the look of a deeply jealous individual. Maybe that was hope whispering lies.
Shot glasses were passed around. You took yours and stood, mumbling an excuse about wanting to socialize with more of the team. Bucky gave you a furrowed look, mouth drawn into a brooding line as you dodged around his chair and sidled along the edge until you were hovering near Bob at the far, far side of the circle.
“Singing tonight?” Bob asked. He didn’t seem to mind the party atmosphere, six or seven sodas deep, one of Yelena’s pink cocktail umbrellas behind his ear.
“Oh, no, I like you guys way too much,” you laughed. “That kind of torture would land me in the Hague.”
John, two chairs to your left, chuckled into his water.
“Something funny, Blue?”
He sat up straighter at the new nickname, chin higher. “Controlling air and wind is sort of your whole thing—”
“And tomorrow, it will be my whole thing after this many refried beans,” Yelena cut in, draping herself across you, giving a tipsy snort-laugh. “Anyway. That’s a problem for Tomorrow Me. Tonight Me is doing shots, which means so are you, because you cannot get drunk.”
Yelena got her way. She usually did. It seemed like a good idea for a while. The world lost its sharp focus. You felt warm and gooey inside and laughing was easier. It never got too intense, the serum in your veins wouldn’t allow it, but for a bit you could ignore the way Bucky’s eyes were searing into you from across the tables.
Someone on stage was doing a pretty incredible rendition of a Whitney Houston song. Everyone joined in, singing along. You were having such a good time, you hardly noticed Bob and Yelena’s heads smooshed together in the booth as they discussed something. But you did feel Yelena’s hand when she skipped back over and clumsily bumped into you, just forcefully enough to send you toppling into John’s lap.
He caught you, senses as sharp as ever, hands tightening around your waist. Your thighs clenched, twitching closer together. God, he was strong. His hands felt so right touching you that way. You scooted onto one of his knees, more balanced, face hot and eyes swimming as you cast a glance over your shoulder.
He watched you back, jaw working back and forth, hair a little damp from how hot the restaurant had become. His cologne was sharper now that he was sweating; it was all you could smell, all you could focus on.
“Here!” Yelena cackled, pouring a sloppy shot and holding it out to John. “But come on, don’t be boring, do it the right way.”
John detached one hand from your side with the enthusiasm of a man signing his tax bill. He grumbled something under his breath, you didn’t catch it, and then Yelena was grabbing your arm, forcing it toward your own face. Like a magician’s assistant, Bob handed her a salt shaker.
“Lick.” Yelena said it so calmly that it made you wonder if she was drunk at all. The state of her hair and makeup suggested that yes, in fact, she was hammered, but there was a coy sparkle in her eye as she flopped your hand back and forth, once more commanding: “Lick.”
You felt the heat of John’s leg through his jeans. His left hand, still curved around your waist, flexed at the sound of the word lick. Anyway, you were all adults; if John wanted this to stop, he would say so. You really, really hoped he didn’t want it to stop.
With a short, withering glance at Yelena to indicate you knew perfectly well what she was up to, you took control of your arm and licked a broad stripe across your own wrist. She tilted that hand up, then shook out a liberal amount of salt, the tiny grains sticking to the saliva shining on your skin.
You opened your mouth to say something, but Yelena crammed a lime wedge into it before you could make a single sound. Your eyes widened as you twisted back toward John, his gaze unbearably hot and intent, like this stupid stunt was suddenly mission critical. As soon as you held out your wrist toward him, the invisible spark flaring between you hit tinder, flashing over, his eyes hungry, dark, as he let go of your waist and guided your wrist to his mouth.
John sat up straighter, hair mussed, collar ringed with sweat; he leaned in, sucking the pulse point on your arm like he was trying to drag your heart through your entire body and into his throat. You cried out around the lime in your mouth, the sweet suction of his lips thrumming through you; his tongue rolled against you. You were sure he was going to leave a mark. He was making out with your wrist like you were completely alone, like his colleagues and the rest of the bar weren't there to watch.
John’s pupils were huge and blown when he finally let go, took the shot, then cupped your face in both hands. He wasn’t kissing you, not exactly, but the gesture was so similar it made your eyes drift shut in dreamy anticipation. His fingers were warm and calloused. His beard scraped your chin as his nose nestled into the space along your cheek and he bit down hard on the lime, yanking it out from between your teeth. The bright little squirt of juice shared between you almost made you moan.
The lime hung out in his mouth like a green mouthguard as he flashed you another, blistering, wanting look. He plucked the wedge out and tossed it into his empty shot glass in one smooth motion, then slammed both on the table.
John sat back, bouncing you lightly on his knee, licking the traces of salt off his lower lip before wiping his face with the back of his hand.
Every cell in your body screamed at you to grab his stupid head and kiss him. The impulse was moving through you, up to your hands, when Yelena rocked unsteadily against your side.
“Wuh oh,” she mumbled, blinking rapidly. “Maybe…Maybe one too many. Three too many.” She burped ominously into her fist. “Five too many.”
You leapt to your feet and steered her away from the table, half-carrying her toward the mercifully near door. She stumbled a few steps across the sidewalk before she doubled over, your hands holding her hair back. Everyone else hurried outside, but Bucky got to you first, hand closing over yours on Yelena’s back.
After the first round of sickness ebbed, Bob lifted Yelena into his arms and carried her home, faster than any Uber or train. Bucky had taken his motorcycle, and your first thought was to get back to the tower to take care of your friend. You weren’t thinking about how it looked, or who was watching as you climbed onto the back of his bike and held on.
He couldn’t remember rain in the forecast, but John heard it start around three in the morning. Just a gentle drumming against his window at first, then hard, sheeting rain with distant thunder rolling across the city. He stared at the ceiling listening to it until it became obvious that he was never getting back to sleep. When he closed his eyes, you were there, thighs clenched around his knee, lashes fluttering shut when he sucked on your wrist. He sat up, groaning, grinding the heel of his hand into his right eye, sighing.
In the morning, he would say something. He couldn’t take the ambiguity, not after having you on his lap one minute, watching you ride away with your arms around Bucky the next.
He dragged his restless body out of his room, down the hall, no particular destination in mind, just knowing a lonely bed wasn’t the kind of solitude he needed just then. He certainly didn’t expect to find you in the common room, standing at the tall, rain-splattered windows, watching it come down.
You were so close to the glass it was lightly fogged by your breath. Shivering, you hugged yourself, and a clap of thunder shook the tower. You twisted away from the window, stalking to the bar area and the refrigerator, ripping it open. The sterile, white light bled around you. Even like that you were beautiful; maybe he could buy himself a few more hours of fantasy if he retreated right now. John turned, trying to keep his steps light, a near impossibility with his size and—
“John?”
He cleared his throat, lowering his shoulders after realizing they were up by his ears. You were watching him from the counter, a pink jug of Pedialyte in one hand, a cup in the other. John fixed his rumpled hair, crossing the space between you with reluctant steps. Here it comes.
“How’s she doing?” he asked, settling onto a stool.
“Lena? She’s all right. Sleeping it off. Nothing this and a big breakfast can’t fix,” you said, indicating the hydration aid in your hand. “This is our last one. Wanna share?”
John nodded and, ever a product of his upbringing, eased off the stool and went to fetch the glass instead of letting you do it. You met him by the cupboard, flashing a nervous smile as you froze with your hand halfway to the shelf.
“Such a gentleman,” you teased, eyes sleepy and soft as you went back to the counter and unscrewed the cap on the Pedialyte.
John knew he should keep his distance, start the healing process now before the Band-Aid got ripped off, but he couldn’t help himself; he hovered.
“Don’t say it like that,” he said softly. “Like you’re surprised.”
You slopped out a bunch of pink liquid into his cup, snorting. “Is this how you are on missions?” you asked, pouring out your own serving and touching your cup to his. You turned just enough to face him, and he didn’t miss the way your eyes lingered on his bare chest before crawling up to his face. John straightened. “Chivalrous?”
John held your gaze, tired and worn enough to push it. “Ask your boyfriend to swap with me, you’ll find out.”
Another ripple of thunder, this time louder. Closer. Your face fell. “My what?”
“Just put me out of my misery.” John downed the Pedialyte, wiped his mouth, stalked to the sink to rinse out his cup. Maybe it was cowardly, but he couldn’t look at you while you said the next part; it was bad enough knowing what was coming, the hit his pride would take when you—
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“Meaning this thing between you and Barnes.” John gripped the edge of the sink, shoulders hunched, lats flared. Another boom, this time just down the block. Jesus, that was close. Someone’s car alarm went off, a frantic shriek. “It’s not like it’s a secret--you two are always on top of each other. He gave you a ride back on his motorcycle tonight for Christ’s sake.” The thunder came again, so intense it made John flinch.
Then he flinched again, your hand closing around his right forearm, pulling until he humored you and let go of the sink, opening up toward you. You didn’t look angry, no, just shocked, pulverized the way he was. His gaze traveled from your crestfallen face to the downpour outside. Holy shit. This storm wasn’t in the forecast because it was you, your mood, your--
You jabbed him in the chest with one finger. “Oh yeah? Well, I only saw one man Frenching my arm tonight and it wasn’t Bucky.”
John touched the place you had poked. The rain. The storm. He couldn’t let this spiral into an argument. He grabbed your wrist out of the air, gently, then wrestled you closer until you were wrapped in his arms, pressed against his chest. You squirmed just for a heartbeat, breathing fast, eyes brimming with tears.
“Stop. Wait. Wait.” He looked outside again, the city blotted out from the cold, driving rain. “Is this you?”
He nodded toward the window.
You shuddered against him, nodding, swallowing.
“Why?”
You swayed against him, but John held on, firm. “I don’t get to decide the mission assignments. I got on his bike because I was worried about Lena and I wanted to be here to help take care of her. I didn’t want the night to end, I wanted…I wanted…”
John’s hands slid from your shoulders to your waist, walking you back until you bumped the counter. “It’s okay,” he said, voice a gruff rasp. His forehead lowered, brushing yours. Outside, the rain pelted the window, horizontal. “I want it, too.”
The storm was in your veins, in your heart; thunder rattled the windows as John’s lips closed over yours. He gasped, tensing. The noise was jarring him. Scaring him. Sometimes your powers were damn near impossible to control, especially when emotions ran high, but maybe it was time for the storm to clear now that he was kissing you, now that you were in his arms…
Sunshine. That was what he wanted to call you. You breathed into him, sighing, looping your arms around his neck as he trapped you against the counter, hips snug to yours. His teeth nipped your bottom lip. The thunder echoed further away, muted; this time, John didn’t seem to notice it.
You were right out in the open. He kissed you again, harder. You were going to get caught but it didn’t matter. You couldn’t think about anything except the heat of his body against yours, the power rippling down his arms as he braced you against the delicious steel of his chest. Rain tickled against the windows in uneven gusts, playful. John smiled into your kiss, eyes half-lidded as his gaze slid toward the observation deck and what was happening outside.
Damnit, he had caught on.
“Wet out there, huh?” he murmured, capturing your lips again in a quick, sloppy kiss, rubbing against you just enough to let you feel his length thickening in his sweatpants.
“Mmhm.”
“Still you?”
“Mmhm.”
One hand detached from your back, molding across your shoulder blade, then your ribs, sliding down the loose curtain of your oversized sleep shirt to the waistband of your shorts. His knuckles played along your lower stomach, fingernails catching on the fabric of your shorts. You trembled, trying not to let the storm roll back in, but it was fucking impossible when he was teasing you like that…
“What’s the forecast?” he whispered, fingertips dancing lower, exploring, hand flattening and twisting until his palm dipped far enough to cup your sex through your panties.
You closed your eyes, sending the lightning out to sea. You didn’t know it would scare him. Big, bad John Walker. You were learning all sorts of things about him and fast, things you wished you had known sooner, like how he growled when you ground your knee against his hard-on, like how he had a dusting of freckles across his huge, hairy chest, like how he was clearly intent on driving you insane and veering close to succeeding.
His forefinger found the very damp spot spreading across your panties.
“Dripping,” you whispered, hot and wanton against his lips.
John groaned on a half-swallowed snarl, tipping you back over the counter, fingers working around the edge of your underwear, running along your soaked folds, coaxing out your clit with a rhythmic come-hither motion. Apt, because you were going to come, you could already feel it building. Raindrops slapped the windows as another bursting gust hit the tower. John shoved down his sweatpants just enough to free himself, then did the same to your shorts, movements frantic, eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation or resistance.
There was none.
You clawed your fingers down his chest as you felt the thick, blunt head of his dick trace your sex the way his fingertips had, gathering moisture, teasing, testing.
“We can’t do this here,” you hissed, lifting your thigh anyway.
“I know,” he said, or moaned, the slick heat of his precum coating your clit, sensation and need coasting through you so hard you almost bucked yourself off the counter, out of his arms. John shoved you harder against the counter, keeping you from sliding down again. “We can’t do this,” he agreed, grabbing the thigh you offered, slinging it around his waist.
“Definitely not.”
“Too…too risky…”
He pushed inside, your mouth falling open and your head dropping back from the insane stretch. How could there possibly be that much of him?
“Oh my God,” you whispered, trying to find somewhere to put your hands, some way to hold on that made sense. “We are definitely…n-not fucking right now.”
“No way,” he groaned. “We wouldn’t. Fuck.”
The ruse fell away after that because you couldn’t find the words, they broke apart before they ever reached your mouth. His name was a word, technically, and you could manage that much, over and over again in a higher register, in breathier gasps as he drove into you, a man possessed, a man intent, unleashed, the storm colliding between you now. Sweat dripped off the ends of his hair, spattering your shirt. Red welts formed down his chest from the scrape of your nails, then healed before you put them back again. Then it was his shoulders. Then his forearms.
His thrusts shortened until you were just draped around him, holding on for dear life while he rocked into you, your clit wedged against his pubic bone, the position just right, so right, and that part of him felt like it was made for just that purpose, for you to grind against until the rain slammed into the windows at the same rate as his hips.
“I can’t…I’m…” John pressed his forehead to yours, claiming one last urgent kiss as the warning slipped out of him. His hand fell away from your back, gripping the granite at your side, crashing down onto it with enough force to splinter the edge. The sound ripped through you, making you clench, and that feeling, of his power shaking the stone and your body tightening around his punishing girth pushed the storm through you one last time, from your throat to your belly. Trembling against his chest, you gave him his name back one last time…
“That’s it,” he whispered, grunting on each quick, controlled thrust. His stomach was tight as he held himself back just long enough to let you slam down first. “That’s it, baby, that’s my sunshine.”
“Oh God, oh God.”
Clench, release, his name, then a flood inside you, hot as a summer squall, his mangled cry bitten out against your neck as he stilled and then jerked, spasming as he finished in long, aching spurts.
For a second, it felt like you had all of him there, wrapped up in your arms as you folded them over his neck, letting him gasp for air with his mouth hovering by your throat. The rain pelted the tower one last time, in an uneven slant, then eased. The clouds broke apart, moving on. You watched it happen over his shoulder, resting your chin there on the big, muscular perch of it.
“Jesus,” he whispered, hands fluttering on your waist before he gathered himself, leaning back, groaning as he slid free of your body. He hurriedly pulled your panties up, then your shorts, then tucked himself away with his cheeks burning and red. He took an unsteady step back, hand trembling as he smoothed it through his hair. “Now that we, um, didn’t do that…I think…I think maybe you should stay on Bucky’s unit.”
You laughed, rearranging until you sat fully on the counter, legs dangling. Covering your face with your hands, you sighed into them. “We can’t be trusted around each other.”
“Not at all.”
John’s hands smoothed up your thighs as he returned to you, standing comfortably between your legs. He looked you up and down, then squinted off toward the windows. “Looks like it cleared up,” he said, almost absently, a smile tugging at his lips as you reached for his face, cupping his jaw through his beard.
“Maybe.” Your eyes were warm and sparkling as you turned his head back to face you, as you placed a heated kiss on his lips. “With me around, there’s always a risk for flooding.”
