seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from South Africa
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Iraq
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
JOHN WALKER MASTERLIST:
(one-shot)
JOHN WALKER X OTHERS:
• The last thing you expected when you joined The Thunderbolts is that you’d end up being the person that some of the men come to when they need to destress. (ft. Bucky Barnes, Benjamin “Dex” Poindexter) 🔞
It’ll Be Ok
John Walker x Reader
John thought his feelings for you were under control until you kissed Joaquin on a mission
Pining idiots, "Keep the cover" kiss, admitting of feelings, unprotected p in v sex, Yelena scheming
“It will be ok” that was what John told himself when Bucky announced that this particular mission would be a joint op.
“It will be ok” that was what he told himself as assignments were handed out and it was you going undercover with Torres.
“It will be ok” that was what he told himself even when he felt like a red hot knife had gotten plunged into his heart and twisted when you grinned at Torres and fanned yourself before saying “I’ll be damned. Finally got a cute one” which caused an uproar of laughter throughout the room. You’d made similar jokes with him, Yelena, even Ava but this time it made something ugly take root in his chest even as Wilson reminded everyone to stay close enough to intervene and what channels to stick to on comms.
“It will be ok” he reminded himself yet again, seeing you and Joaquin standing next to each other, sharing one folder of the assignment, reading over your personas. Joaquin was younger than him, a golden boy in the air force, able to make you laugh even on your worst days. He hated how right the two of you looked side by side.
He needed to focus on the mission at hand. Not on the fact that somewhere along the way he’d gone from liking you to crushing on you to being completely head over heels, would crawl on his knees, take out an entire field worth of enemies for you. It didn’t matter. You’d never feel the same so he would take what he could get. Movie nights where it was just the two of you, early mornings before the rest of the world woke up when he could pretend for just a moment that you’d chosen him, not just that neither of you could sleep. You were his friend and he’d never take that for granted or make you feel uncomfortable.
____________
You slipped down in the seat next to John on the jet, cutting your eyes at him. He seemed more tense than usual. Was it the whole joint op thing? Was he worried because some of the other team was here? You would shut it down if they said anything out of the way to him, you hoped he knew that. He meant too much to you, more than you’d ever be willing to admit out loud. You reached a hand out and gently laid it on his arm, when he looked your way you mouthed “You good?” despite the fact that you just saw him simultaneously flinch and lean into your touch at the same time. He nodded, a small smile slipping onto his face along with the words that told you he most definitely wasn’t slipping from his lips “I’m fine”
You didn’t push but made a mental note to check on him throughout the op as much as you could and once all of you got back to the watch tower maybe you could rope him into a movie night.
_____
Your steady presence at his side was both soothing and dizzying. How was John supposed to say “I’m good on the mission but you haunt my every thought” without freaking you out? Yeah, better to stay quiet.
You walked down the ancient stone steps of the city, Joaquin’s arm around your waist helping you stay steady. You hated not wearing your boots on a mission. You had to admit it was a beautiful place. Yellow and tan stone buildings rose on either side of the pathway, the market up ahead offered various fares from aromatic foods to fine silk clothing in gorgeous shades of crimson and purples and golds. The floral vendor had plants you’d never seen before. Had you not been chasing down a rogue mutant hell bent on wiping out this very city it would’ve been a nice day. Well and no offense to Joaquin, you’d rather a different arm be around your waist.
Yelena’s voice cutting through the comms broke you out of your daydreams of John “He’s headed back your way. If he sees you again” “Yeah, we’re fucked” you finished, looking around for a way out, some escape route. When none popped out, you met Joaquin’s eyes and you both came to the same conclusion “Pda?”
He shrugged and backed you against the wall, one hand falling to your hip near the tranq gun, the other coming up to gently cup your chin. He hesitated right before his lips met yours “Glad I had breathmints” you nearly laughed but he cut you off by pressing a kiss to your lips. His kiss was softer than you’d expected from a guy like Joaquin, he was attractive, a bit of a playboy. You could hear the target’s voice approaching, knew he was on the phone so you dragged Joaquin a little closer, one hand slipping up into his hair to keep his face to yours, deepening the kiss just a bit. You could taste the spearmint on his tongue. He was a decent kisser, just not who you wanted but this moment was too important to make the mission successful and you needed to make sure both of your faces were hidden.
“Threat passed” John’s voice over the comms was cold, detached. Like he used to sound on missions. You pulled back from Joaquin, seeing the pathway was empty. You slapped his chest and grinned “Ok playboy, lets get on it” he winked at you “Lead the way Princesa”
____________
“Walker, we’ll get close on foot” Yelena appeared out of nowhere at his side but John didn’t question it or argue. They followed the target down the pathway, half expecting a fight but what they found made John wish he had something to punch. He felt like he’d been dipped in ice water and boiling lava simultaneously. Like he was freezing and burning alive.
Torres had you against a wall, one hand on your hip, the other gripping your chin and his lips on yours. Your head was tilted back, allowing the kiss to be deep. One arm was around Torres’ waist, the hand of the other buried in the hair at the nape of his neck. Yeah, a knife to the chest would hurt less than the burning, searing pain going through his heart.
Him and Yelena followed the target through before he spoke through the comms, “Threat passed” he needed to get this over with, needed to get away from Torres and as bad as he hated it, he needed space from you.
The adrenaline after a mission was always high. After a bad one, it was quiet, everyone stewing. After a successful one? It was rambunctious, like highschoolers on a friday night. You were tucked into Yelena’s side, rolling your eyes at Sam’s teasing of “I don’t know man… that kiss looked pretty damn convincing”
“Oh fuck off! Should we have gotten made instead?" Joaquin laughed, waving a hand between himself and you. You nodded, “Exactly” Sam winked at you “I’m just kidding. You know I gotta give you hell..” you leaned your head over on Yelena thinking that was it but then he added “But Joaquin’s hair was pretty messed up” ‘Wilson!” you growled and he burst out laughing.
_______
John was doing everything in his power to not break something. He was sitting by himself at the back of the jet. A part of him had been relieved when Yelena had dragged you to sit with her, he didn’t want to explain the fact that he knew he was going to be cold, a bit detached. The other part? He couldn’t stand the distance because he knew the moment he got back to the tower he had to put distance there for his own sanity. He just kept seeing that kiss, how natural it looked, how Joaquin just got everything he ever wanted. He scrubbed a hand down his face, leaning his head back. He just needed to get back to the tower. It would be ok then.
________
The jet landed at the watch tower, Sam’s team saying their goodbyes and immediately hoping on their own ride back to D.C. you waved them off then noticed out of your team, John was the only one not left in the hangar. You looked at Yelena “Where did John go?” she looked around like she was just missing his presence “Not sure” hmm maybe he just wanted to catch a shower before everyone started scavenging for food?
You headed inside, planning to grab a shower yourself and hopefully find John somewhere in the middle. That movie you’d been wanting to watch had finally hit streaming, your plan was to grab him and rope him into an impromptu movie night.
__________
John laid across his bed, hair still damp from the shower. He knew he should venture out, face the rest of the team but that damned kiss kept haunting him. Your face buried in Joaquin’s, his lips tasting yours. He couldn’t face you. He’d wait until everyone called it a night then go in search of food. He had some protein bars and water stashed in his side table anyways so he didn’t have to get real food tonight. It would be ok. He just needed time to get over it.
__________
You waited up for hours, every noise making your head pop up over the couch hoping it was John. When two am hit and Alexei came out for his snack run you decided to call it a night. Maybe he’d just crashed? You’d find him in the morning, could always ask him to watch the movie with you the following night. Wasn’t like it was going anywhere.
Three days had passed since the joint op and John hadn’t been in a room with you for over thirty seconds without making some excuse. You knew Olivia wasn’t calling that much with visitation stuff, they’d settled that months ago. He wasn’t that tired, he had freaking super soldier serum running through his veins and the kitchen was overflowing with groceries from how many runs he’d done to the store.
You had no clue what you’d done. You were sitting in the kitchen, mindlessly stirring your tea when Yelena walked in. She was wearing your ac/dc shirt that had mysteriously gone missing in the laundry along with a pair of Ava’s leggings and Bob’s socks. You cut your eyes up and let the corner of your mouth tick up in something that resembled a smile “You little clothing thief”
She grinned, “You all love me” you nodded, “That we do” and turned your attention back to your tea. She stopped mid step and stared at you “What is it? How am I hurting?” you looked up, tapping your nails on the side of the ceramic mug that had “World’s Okayest Heroes" on the side.
“John’s been acting weird.. or is it just me?” she tilted her head to the side like she was thinking then shook her head “No, he has. Every since you had to play smoochie face with birdie on the mission”
She turned to walk away without a care in the world, leaving your entire axis tilted. He’d been acting weird since you and Joaquin kissed… avoiding you specifically.. Did John have feelings for you too? That had to be the only explanation. “He’s in the gym! Cameras are disabled” Yelena called over her shoulder before you heard her room door close.
You were already up and moving. He wouldn’t let you get a word out so you weren’t going to try to. You had an entirely different plan.
John was working over a heavy bag in the gym, trying not to think when he heard the door open and you marched in like a woman on a mission. He caught the bag with one hand, stepping away from it and muttering an excuse to leave but before he could you stepped into his path.
He opened his mouth to ask you to move but the words died on his tongue when your lips met his. He grunted in confusion at the sudden kiss then you pulled away and fixed him with a glare “Are you still gonna run away now or let me confess?” he was frozen to the spot, never expecting this. “Confess?” he echoed and you nodded, spreading your hands wide across his chest, “Joaquin was part of the mission. A kiss to save our covers and save that entire city. I only want to be kissing you. I’ve liked you for so long John”
Your words landed softly at the end and he felt his shoulders sag in relief, a small “fuck” tumbling from his lips before he tugged you back into another kiss, reveling in the quiet yelp that escaped you before you melted into him, deepening the kiss, one hand moving up around his neck to tug at his hair. He pushed his tongue into your mouth, slipping his arms around you when he felt your knees weaken.
“Too long.. Too fucking long” he muttered into the kiss and nudged you backwards until your back met the gym wall. You gasped lightly, pulling him closer “Show me.. show me you want me” and he all but growled at the need in your voice. “Not here” your arms locked around his neck and he picked you up with ease, carrying you out of the gym not caring who may see.
The moment he stepped onto the elevator his lips were back on yours, teasing down your neck. Your head fell back against the wall but his hand was already there to soften the blow and you chuckled lightly “Could’ve had this much sooner” “Was worried you didn’t want me” he breathed against your skin and you shook your head “Have wanted you for so long John”
He groaned low, barely letting the doors slip open before he was carrying you out and to his room. “That kiss drove me mad” he roughed out, nipping at your flesh, “Hated how natural it looked”
Your teeth caught his bottom lip “As natural as me kissing you?” and he couldn’t help but grin “No baby, not that natural” he made it into his room and you laughed, “See?” pulling him down into a kiss as he laid you down onto his bed, “Only you” you murmured and that little claim made him dizzy in the best of ways.
You took John’s hands and led them under your shirt “Joaquin damn sure didn’t touch me here” you trailed your hands over his body, under his shirt. You let your lips move down his throat, teeth grazing his pulse “And he damn sure didn’t have this”
“I really don’t want to talk about him anymore” he barely got out so you grinned with your mouth against his skin, “What do you want to do?” “Kiss me” he breathed and your grin softened, meeting his gaze “Yeah?” “Yeah” you brushed your lips against his in a kiss that started soft and gentle but grew more heated and hungry by the second.
“Never wanna let you go now” he admitted softly, pulling you closer with a hand at your lower back. “Then don’t” you mumbled into his lips and he finally let his hands fully roam across your body, down your sides, hooking two fingers into the waistband of your pants as you fumbled to get your shirt off.
You were bare to each other in no time, only stopping to admire each other as new pieces of flesh were exposed. “I’m yours John” you whispered and just those three words unraveled him so beautifully.
A short groan escaped him as he kissed you, deep from the start, tongues tangling together as he gave your clit a first circle of his thumb, swallowing your whine. He’d thought about this for so long, felt horrible for dreaming about it and now you were bare under him.
He took his time, fingering you open, making sure he wouldn’t hurt you. You were finally his to claim and he didn’t want you regretting any moment of it. The way you clung to his forearm, fingers digging in, never trying to stop his movements, just grounding yourself in the pleasure, whimpering his name had him taking so much pleasure from that alone.
He was already painfully hard but he had to make you cum first, make you feel good. You kissed him, you made things clear, he had to make sure you knew just what you meant to him.
When he felt your walls fluttering around his fingers, your moans turning into pants of his name, he moaned along with you as you came, working you through the aftershocks and couldn’t help but slip his fingers free and pull them to his lips, tasting them so he could taste you. A whimper fell from your lips as you reached for him “C’mere, need you”
You dragged him into a scalding kiss that you both moaned into as you trailed a hand down his body to help him line up and just the act of you doing so had him trembling in your arms, muttering a soft “This is really happening, isn’t it?” you nipped at his bottom lip “It’s very much happening handsome”
You smiled softly up at him, hooking your legs around his waist until he hitched one a bit higher while his other arms kept his body up, “This alright?” he asked again and you chuckled softly, pulling him close enough it pushed his tip into you “Very alright”
He smiled into the kiss but it quickly turned into a moan from you both as he pushed in. He let out a long, drawn out “Fuck” when he sank in, deeper and deeper until he bottomed out. Both of you trembled at the tight fit, the pleasure, the heat between you.
You barely breathed out “Believe me now?” “Yeah, yeah i do” he sighed back, giving a first roll of his hips that had you seeing stars and holding onto him tight enough he may very well end up carrying bruises from your fingertips.
“Just like that John” you whined, burying your face in his neck and god he really really loved how you sounded when you said his name like that. Vulnerable and blissed out. He did as you said, grinding into you more than thrusting just to be rewarded with more of those sounds.
You whined out into his neck “M’so close.. fuck you feel so perfect.. so good” and he was glad because he was holding onto his composure by a thread.
He came right after you, feeling your teeth graze his pulse and damn near whimpered for you to mark him. You hummed, licking a stripe up his neck then bit down and the moan that left John was downright sinful. The pretty gasps when you kissed the bitemark then sucked a faint hickey right in the middle had you smiling against his skin.
“Like the claim hmm handsome?” he groaned “Only one thing would make it better” you tilted your head, offering him your neck as well “Go ahead” he dipped his head down, wasting no time in his lips meeting your flesh and the moan that left you had him hardening again.
He sucked a mark into the side of your neck and you kept his head there by threading your fingers through his hair, your hips bucking pathetically against his. He grunted low and to your surprise it triggered another orgasm from you both, your eyes rolling back slightly as pleasure shot up your spine, spurts of cum shooting deep inside of you to join what he’d already left behind.
You could feel his smile against your skin, “enjoy yourself?” you mused after a moment and he finally let himself rest against you, arms wrapping around your middle protectively, not caring that they may fall asleep later “Very much so” he muttered back, just reveling in the warmth and softness that was you.
You turned your head to nuzzle into his neck “Good because you’re mine John Walker” he grinned, “Happy to be yours. You’re mine right?” you grinned “Of course, been yours for a while already” and felt him relax even more as you pressed a kiss to his neck.
Joaquin’s phone buzzed so he picked it up to see a text from Yelena.
Widow: Mission accomplished Bird Boy
He grinned and texted her a thumbs up photo back with the caption
“Just glad your plan didn’t result in Walker kicking my ass for kissing his girl”
___________
You were sitting next to John on the couch and heard Yelena snort at her phone. You cut your eyes up and she shrugged, “Funny cat meme” you raised an eyebrow but shrugged, scooting closer into John’s warmth as Bob started the movie.
John Walker Fanfic
@yeetaliano
Wet and Wild (John Walker / F!Reader)
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.”
-> Masterlist
reader who is besties with yelena and sometimes gets to use her "office" and yelena telling john no you should definitely go get some work done with her it's very very quiet and private and john just like ??? i get work done fine here at the tower? 😵💫😵💫😵💫
You believed your feelings for John Walker were under control. But what happens when a mysterious drink changes everything in this NSFW Choose Your Own Adventure?
🔗READ/PLAY HERE to make your own choices! [Playthrough by Anonymous] CW: Dubcon, sex pollen
"I don't want you to stop," you say, and your voice comes out low and certain, the words pressed into the hair at his temple.
John makes a sound like he's been holding his breath for three months and just now remembered how to let it out. His hands steady on your shoulders, and he eases the suit down your arms, fabric whispering over skin, baring you to the warm, dead air inch by inch. He follows every inch with his mouth — shoulder, collarbone, the slope of your chest where the suit's edge still clings — kissing like he's committing each patch of skin to memory.
"You have no idea," he breathes against the curve of your shoulder, "how many nights I've imagined this. Woke up half-hard just from —" He shakes his head, a low, self-conscious laugh escaping him. "Sorry. That's — that's more than you needed to know."
"John." You catch his chin, tilt his face up. His eyes are dark, glassy, but there's something steady underneath the heat. "It's not more than I need to know. I've imagined it too."
The words land. Something in his face loosens, and he leans in and kisses you — slower this time, softer, like he's letting the meaning of it sink in. His hands find the waistband of your suit, thumbs hooking at the hem.
"Can I?" he asks against your mouth.
The hum from below pulses, patient. The heat coils low and sharp, but his hands on your skin are cool and steady, and you don't want him to move.
"Yes."
"I want to touch you too," you say, and your hands come up before he can answer — palms sliding over the broad span of his chest through the fabric, feeling the heat of him beneath. His breath catches.
"Then touch me," he says, and it comes out like a gift, like permission he's been waiting to give.
Your fingers find the hem of his tactical shirt and slip beneath it, and the sound he makes when your palms meet the bare skin of his stomach is low and unguarded. You map him slowly — the ridges of his abdomen, the dip of his hip, the way his breath stutters when your nails drag lightly over his ribs.
"God," he breathes, head dipping forward, forehead nearly touching yours. "You have no idea what that does to me."
"Show me," you say, and your hands push the fabric up, baring a strip of skin, the waistband of his trousers sitting low on his hips.
He helps you — pulling the shirt over his head in one motion, tossing it aside, and then he's just there, bare-chested in the warm, humming dark. The light catches the planes of his chest, the pale scatter of freckles across his shoulders, the fine dusting of hair that trails down his stomach and disappears beneath his waistband. Scars cross his torso like old maps — a long one curving under his ribs, a starburst at his shoulder.
He stands there, letting you look, and there's something almost shy in the way his hands hang at his sides.
"This is me," he says quietly. "All of it. The good parts and the ones I'd rather not show anyone."
Your fingers find the scar under his ribs, tracing it gently, and he shivers.
You lean in and press your mouth to the scar under his ribs — the long one, curving like a pale river across his side. John's breath catches, a sharp inhale that turns into something softer, almost wounded, and his hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair.
"That's —" His voice breaks, and he clears his throat. "That's not a pretty one."
You kiss it again, slower, letting your lips drag along the raised line of it. "Doesn't have to be pretty."
He makes a sound low in his chest, something caught between a laugh and a shudder, and his thumb strokes the nape of your neck like he doesn't know what else to do with his hands.
You trace the next scar — the starburst at his shoulder, old and pale — with the tips of your fingers, then follow it with your mouth, feeling the heat of his skin against your lips. He tastes like salt and soap and something warmer underneath, and the hum from below seems to pulse with your heartbeat.
"Full disclosure," he says, voice rough, "I don't — I'm not used to this. Being touched like I matter." A pause. "Being touched like I'm wanted, not just useful."
You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, your hand flat over his heart, feeling it hammer against your palm.
"You matter," you say. "And I want you."
His eyes go dark, and he leans in and kisses you — slower than before, deeper, one hand cupping your jaw and the other sliding around your waist to pull you flush against him. The heat coils sharp in your belly, but his hands on your skin are steady, grounding, and the hum below seems to soften, like it's no longer in any hurry.
"Show me the rest of you," you say, and your voice comes out softer than you meant it to, like the words matter more than you expected.
John holds your gaze for a long moment. Then he steps back — just one step, enough to give you room — and his hands go to his waistband, thumbs hooking at the buckle. He works it slowly, deliberately, letting you watch, and the clink of metal is loud in the humming quiet.
His boots come off first, one after the other, and he toses them aside. Then his trousers, pushed down over his hips, and he steps out of them in a single motion that leaves him standing in nothing but his undershorts — dark, fitted, doing nothing to hide the shape of him.
He's all lean muscle and hard angles, the pale scatter of freckles running down his shoulders and arms, a trail of hair arrowing from his chest into his waistband. More scars — a long one across his hip, a cluster at his knee, the neat round mark of an old bullet exit on his thigh. He doesn't try to hide them. He stands there, letting you look, his hands hanging at his sides, and there's something quietly brave in the way he holds himself still.
"Told you," he says, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "The good parts and the ones I'd rather not show anyone."
You step into the space between you and press your palm flat over his heart. It hammers against your hand.
"The good parts," you repeat, and your fingers trail down his sternum, over the ridged scar at his hip, "are pretty damn good."
His breath catches. His hand comes up to cover yours, holding it there, and his eyes are dark and steady on yours.
You sink down without thinking, your knees finding the cold floor, and press your mouth to the neat round scar on his thigh. John's whole body goes still — the kind of stillness that means he's holding his breath.
Your lips trace the edge of it, the puckered ring of old tissue, and you feel the muscle beneath jump. His hand finds your shoulder, gripping just shy of too hard, and when you glance up, his eyes are dark, glassy, watching you with something caught between wonder and disbelief.
"Nobody's ever —" He stops, swallows. His thumb strokes the curve of your shoulder. "I don't think anybody's ever touched me like this. Like I'm worth the time."
You kiss the scar again, softer, and his breath shudders out of him.
"You're worth it," you say against his skin. "Worth more than this. Worth everything."
He makes a sound — small, wrecked, barely there — and his hand slides into your hair, cradling your head with a gentleness that doesn't match the breadth of his palm. The heat coils low and insistent in your belly, but his touch is steady, and the hum from below seems to have softened to a murmur, patient, like it knows it doesn't need to rush.
"Come here," he says, voice rough. He tugs you gently upward, and you rise on your knees, close enough to feel the warmth of his body. His forehead drops to yours. "I need to touch you. Please. Let me touch you."
"Yes," you breathe. "Touch me."
John's hands come up like he's been waiting for permission his whole life. His palms cup your face first, thumbs tracing your cheekbones, and he looks at you like you're something he never thought he'd get to hold. Then his hands slide down — over your shoulders, following the bare skin the suit has left exposed, down the curve of your arms until his fingers lace with yours.
"I've wanted this so long," he says, and it's barely a whisper. "Wanted you. Spent so many nights imagining what you'd feel like."
His hands release yours and find your waist, thumbs hooking at the bunched fabric of your suit where it's still gathered at your hips. He doesn't pull it away — not yet. He just traces the line where fabric meets skin, slow circles over your hipbones, and the heat in his touch is tempered by something almost like awe.
He drops to his knees in front of you, and the sight of him there — broad-shouldered and scarred and bare — makes your breath catch. His hands slide up your thighs, over the suit's fabric, and he presses his mouth to your stomach, just above the waistband. A kiss. Then another, trailing over your navel, and the hum from below seems to pulse through the floor in time with your heartbeat.
"Tell me what you want," he says against your skin, voice rough. "Tell me and it's yours."
The heat coils sharp and bright in your belly, but his hands on you are steady, and the want in his voice is edged with something careful, something that sounds like he's been saving it for you.
"I want you," you repeat, and the words feel like a vow in the humming quiet. "All of you, John. Not because we're trapped. Because it's you."
He looks up at you from his knees, and something in his face breaks open — not into desperation, but into surrender. He rises slowly, palms sliding up your thighs, over your hips, your ribs, until his hands cup your face and he kisses you like he's been drowning and you're the shore.
"You've got all of me," he says against your mouth, rough and honest. "You've had it. I just didn't know how to hand it over."
His hands find the gathered fabric at your waist, and this time he doesn't hesitate. He eases the suit down over your hips, and the fabric slides away from your thighs, your knees, pooling at your feet. He goes down with it, kneeling again, pressing his mouth to the newly bared skin of your stomach, the jut of your hipbone, the inside of your thigh — each kiss slow, reverent, a question answered before it's asked.
The heat coils sharp and bright under your skin, but his mouth on you is cool and steady, and the hum from below has sunk to a murmur at the edge of hearing, patient, unhurried.
"Look at you," he breathes against your thigh, and his voice is wrecked. "God. I could spend the rest of my life down here."
His hands slide up your calves, your knees, settling warm and broad at your hips, and he tilts his head back to look up at you — flushed, glassy-eyed, undone — waiting for you to tell him what comes next.
You don't answer with words. You close the last sliver of space and kiss him — slow, deep, the way you've imagined it a hundred times in the dark of your own quarters. Your hands slide up his chest, over the scarred ridges of his shoulders, and settle at the nape of his neck, fingers threading into the short hair there.
John makes a sound against your mouth — low, wrecked, grateful — and his arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against him, skin to skin, the heat of him seeping into every place you touch. He kisses like he's been saving it up, thorough and unhurried, his tongue sliding along yours in a rhythm that makes your toes curl against the cold floor. His hands roam your back, broad and warm, mapping the dip of your spine, the curve of your waist, the flare of your hip, like he's memorizing you by touch alone.
You pull back just enough to breathe, and his forehead drops to yours, eyes still closed, chest heaving against yours.
"Okay," he says, voice rough. "Okay. That was — I think I forgot how to breathe for a second there."
A laugh escapes you, soft and surprised, and he opens his eyes — dark, glassy, but steady on yours. His thumb traces your cheekbone, featherlight.
"I'm not gonna last long," he admits, quiet, honest. "Not the first time. But I want to be inside you when it happens. If — if that's what you want."
The hum from below pulses, patient, through the floor, and the heat coils sharp and bright in your belly, but his hands on your skin are steady. He's waiting for your answer, giving you the room to give it.
"Yes," you say, and the word settles something in both of you. "I want that. I want you."
John exhales, long and slow, like he's been bracing for a no he never would have argued with. His forehead drops to yours, and for a moment he just breathes you in.
"Okay," he says, rough. "Okay. But I'm not —" He shakes his head, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "I've been imagining this for months, Spectre. I'm not gonna last, and I'm not gonna waste the first time I get you." His hands slide down your back, settling warm and broad at your hips. "Let me taste you first. Please. I want to know what you feel like before — before anything else."
His eyes are dark and honest, and the hum below seems to pulse in the pause between heartbeats.
He drops to his knees in front of you, and there's something almost ceremonial in the way he does it — deliberate, unhurried. He gathers your discarded suit and spreads it over the cold floor, a makeshift cushion, then looks up at you, waiting.
"Sit," he says, soft. "Or lie down. Whatever you need. I'm gonna take care of you."
The heat coils sharp and bright in your belly, but his hands are steady as they find your hips, thumbs tracing circles over the jut of bone, and he waits for you to settle before he leans in and presses his mouth to the inside of your thigh — a kiss, then another, working upward with a patience that makes your breath catch.
Your fingers thread through his hair, short and soft under your palms, and John goes still against your thigh — a long, shuddering exhale escaping him, like the touch alone has undone something in him. He turns his head and presses his mouth to the inside of your knee, a kiss that lingers, and then he works his way up again, slower this time, his lips dragging over your skin.
"God," he breathes against your inner thigh, "your hands in my hair — I could get used to that."
He settles you back onto the spread fabric of your suit, guiding you down with hands that are careful even through the heat. The cold concrete presses up through the thin layer, and then his shoulders settle between your thighs, broad and warm, his palms sliding up your calves to hook over your knees, easing them apart.
He looks up at you once — flushed, pupils blown, the hum of the room pulsing through the floor — and there's something in his face that isn't just hunger. It's reverence. Like he's been given something he never expected to hold.
"Tell me if it's too much," he says, rough. "Tell me what you like. I want to learn you."
And then his mouth is on you — slow, a flat, hot stroke of his tongue that makes your hips jerk and your fingers tighten in his hair. He makes a low sound of approval against you, and settles in like a man with all the time in the world, learning the shape of you with his lips and tongue, patient, thorough, giving.
The hum from below seems to fade to a murmur at the edge of hearing, and the only thing in the world is his mouth on you, his hands firm on your thighs, and the quiet, wrecked sounds he makes like he's the one being devoured.
Your fingers tighten in his hair and you pull — just enough to tilt his head back, and the sound that escapes you is his name, torn out of you on a gasp. "John —"
He makes a noise against you that vibrates through your whole body, and his hands tighten on your thighs, holding you open for him like you're something precious. He doesn't pull away. If anything, he leans in harder, his tongue flat and hot against you, and the low, wrecked sound he makes is muffled by the press of his mouth.
"That's it," he breathes against you, the words rough, barely there. "Say my name. I want to hear it."
His rhythm is unhurried, thorough — a slow drag of his tongue that builds and builds, and when he finds the spot that makes your hips buck, he lingers there, lapping at you with a patience that borders on devotion. Your fingers clench in his hair again, and he groans, a sound that rolls through you like thunder.
"More," you manage, and the word comes out wrecked. "Please —"
He gives you more. His mouth works you steadily, his thumb joining to circle you in time with his tongue, and the heat that's been coiling in your belly all night sharpens, tightens, draws taut as a bowstring. The hum from below pulses through the floor, through his body, through the place where his mouth works you, and you're so close you can taste it —
He pulls back just enough to breathe against you, and the look he gives you from between your thighs is dark and glassy and full of want.
"Not yet," he says, rough. "I want you to feel this. I want to remember the sound you make when you come apart for me."
"Then make me come." The words come out on a breath, half dare, half plea.
John's eyes go dark at the sound of them. He doesn't answer with words — he answers with his mouth, dropping back down and taking you apart with a patience that borders on cruelty. His tongue finds you again, flat and hot, dragging slow and deliberate through your slick folds, and the sound he makes against you is a low, hungry groan that vibrates through your whole body.
Your head falls back against the concrete, your fingers twisting in his hair, and he works you like a man possessed. His rhythm is thorough, unrelenting — a steady, circling drag of his tongue that builds and builds, his thumb joining in, pressing and circling until your hips are rocking against his mouth without your permission.
"That's it," he breathes against you, the words muffled, rough. "Let go. I've got you."
The heat that's been coiled in your belly all night draws taut, sharpens to a fine, singing edge, and when he seals his mouth over you and sucks, slow and hard, it snaps. Pleasure floods through you in wave after wave, and his name tears out of you on a broken cry, your thighs clamping around his head, your hips grinding against his mouth as he rides you through it, lapping at you with a reverence that makes your toes curl.
He doesn't stop until you're trembling, oversensitive, slumping back against the floor. Only then does he pull away, dragging a wet, open-mouthed kiss along your inner thigh before he lifts his head, chin slick, eyes dark and glassy.
Wanna make your own choices and see what happens next? READ/PLAY HERE! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)
🎮interactive fanfic "Indecision & Iridescence" by FluidPanNerd
Wrecking Ball (John Walker / F!Reader)
Summary: Filled request in response to:
i have a request if you feel up to it! i think this would be a funny moment between john walker and reader!! a bit of hurt/comfort and maybe soft john since reader is injured?
💬 1 🔁 17 ❤️ 101 · Person A: "...is there any particular reason as to why you're carrying me? Person B: "You're slow." Person A: "I'm als
You are nearly indestructible, but somehow you still wind up injured and in John Walker's arms.
A/N: I'm a huge sucker for Colossus so I thought it would be fun to give reader his power set :> To make the linked dialog in the request work, reader's weight is referenced but I tied it to her mutant abilities to keep reader less described.
Rating: PG (just some adult language but no smut)
WC: 3.1k (complete)
CW: Mostly fluff, hurt/comfort, banter, reader is a thunderbolt/new avenger, reader is a mutant, reader is she/her, references to intimacy but no smut, romance, nicknames (honey), reader and bob are besties, reader is endangered and injured but not mortally, some light action but nothing overtly violent.
You earned the nickname after your second mission, after an entire building came down on your head and you walked away without a scratch. Wrecking Ball. It was John’s idea (exasperated then eventually affectionate), but the others adopted it fast.
Up until recently, Alexei held the title of Most Likely to Cause Avoidable Property Damage, but then you showed up. And unlike Alexei, John wanted to get you in bed, which really bolstered his ability to handwave the chaos and the unpredictability and all that collateral damage.
It did not, however, make fighting at your side simple, because it didn’t matter how many times John asked you to wait, hang back, let him take point, you refused to listen, charging ahead of him.
And now, hunkered down together behind a waist-high retaining wall, John could just feel you getting ready to do something stupid. Both of your comms crackled as Ava’s voice arrived from the other side of the warehouse. “It’s no good. The mines are everywhere, and it will take me way longer than a minute to reach the back door.”
“Hold position, we’ll compare notes and regroup,” John said, grunting as another sniper’s volley zipped over the wall, right between the two of you. “Yelena, you got anything?”
“Nope.” Her voice was bored, tired, her actual person somewhere north of the target location, one eye likely down the sights of her own rifle as she tried to pick off stragglers.
“This would be a whole hell of a lot easier if one of us could fly,” John grunted, just to you, comms off. Bob wasn’t there to get offended, but he knew it might get back to him; you and Reynolds were attached at the hip, a fact John had told himself didn’t matter. It was none of his business, and anyway, you weren’t meant to be part of the team forever, just until Bob came off the bench.
Next to him, ass in the dirt and eyes on the sky, you bristled. “I’ve got this, okay? This is why I'm here. I can clear a path for you. The others can loop back around, follow us inside.”
“Out of the question. If the mines don’t tear you apart, the snipers will.”
You shrugged, actually shrugged, at the possibility of surviving four hundred yards of pressure-trapped ground and two apparently incredibly accurate snipers. It was the kind of courage John ordinarily admired, even aspired to, but now, when it was coming out of you, when it meant you would probably get yourself killed, it just made his chest ache.
“John, I’ve shrugged off a nine-fifty before. I’ll be fine.”
And you weren’t just bragging or bullshitting. John stared at you, shield braced on his right side, pistol in his left hand, another large caliber bullet zinging over your heads and burying itself in the Croatian soil six feet away. The day was wearing on and none of you were any closer to breaching the facility. There were hostages, which was always a sore spot for him, dredging up memories of missions run by a man wrapped in principles, armed with a righteousness he’d learn to bitterly regret.
You were brought on to do a job. He should just let you do that job, but fuck, it was hard to when you were looking at him like that, equal parts sweet and dangerous, your soft skin already hardening into its osmium shell before his eyes.
It never got easier to watch. The first time you did it in front of him, it made his stomach twitch. Now, it was just…fascinating. One minute you were flesh and blood, the next you were bright as a diamond, armored from head to toe in glittering silver metal.
“This is a terrible idea,” John stated, taking a ragged breath.
“Yeah, I’m full of them.” Your voice echoed, hollow in the alloy shell of your chest.
“Reynolds is going to kill me if you don’t come back.”
“Who knows? Might be enough to bring Sentry out,” you said lightly, but John saw the flicker of doubt in your eyes even after they had gone agate white, as impervious and shiny as the rest of you. You leaned across and grabbed his shoulder, squeezing. “You came up with the nickname, pal, can’t be surprised when I live up to it.”
“Hey—”
The rest of what he said was lost, swallowed with a flinch as you hauled yourself up and leapt over the barrier.
“What the hell am I looking at?” Yelena asked, voice sparking to life in his ear. She must have noticed you sprinting headlong into a football field’s worth of ordinance through her scope. “Is she crazy?”
“Yes,” John answered, lifting his shield to peer over the barrier, watch your insane, probably doomed run.
The ground shook from the density of your footfalls, and then from the first mines going off. Glancing blows at first, but John saw you stagger after the third explosion, listing to the left. Somehow, you kept your feet. A sniper round clanged off your shoulder, only throwing you off-balance for a few steps. More explosions. So much dust and grit and drifting powder that John couldn’t see you anymore through the haze. His heart crammed itself into his throat. “Jesus. Get ready to move,” he told the others. “We’re not wasting this chance.”
Memories felt like dreams as you passed in and out of consciousness. There was metal in your mouth, dripping down your throat. Not the normal kind, not your metal, not the organic version that coated you like a spray finish when you wanted it to. No, this was the wrong kind of metallic taste, thick and sludgy, wet on your tongue, crusted to your nose.
Nothing made sense yet, so you just closed your eyes for a while. Just a little while.
Your mind took you somewhere else.
You could see the golden lights blinking over the long, black table in the New Avengers briefing room. The air conditioning was turned up way too high. The aesthetic couldn’t stand in starker contrast to the Institute, where everything was wrapped in vintage leather, the walls were homey, beaded wood and the carpets were faded from use. It always smelled like tobacco, even though the Professor had outlawed smoking indoors years earlier. There were sneaky offenders keeping that smell drifting through the halls; you had suspects, but you never snitched.
But the Watchtower? Rubberized steel, high tech holographic displays, refrigerators that talked, for some reason, glossy floors, floor to ceiling windows, a plasticky, corporate stink over everything with sparing clues that humans inhabited the place, like tiny, determined weeds poking through urban concrete.
A VISIT GEORGIA magnet on the fridge, a bathrobe left haphazardly over a black leather sofa, homemade liquor hidden among the high class, expensive bottles, cases of imported Pritty Limón shoved to the back of the pantry…
You hadn’t seen those things your first day, you just saw a bunch of tired, skeptical faces. One stood out in particular—handsome, severe, thick brows pulled low over blue eyes that boiled with impatience.
You had done your homework on the bus down. You knew who was mean mugging you and who was watching with a more open mind, though you did not know who the sweet-faced guy in the corner was; that was a mystery until Barnes went around the room, forcing everyone to grunt out a name and a greeting.
“She’s on loan from an institute upstate, just for a few months,” Bucky Barnes explained, while you were presented like the day’s catch. A fucking whopper, honestly, though none of them seemed to understand that yet.
“On loan?” Bob asked, scratching the side of his head. “Like from a library?”
“Yeah,” Bucky said with a smirk. “Like a library book you can throw through a concrete wall.”
“Up you go.”
That wasn’t right. Nobody had picked you up off the ground that day in the Watchtower. But now… Your head felt like a bowling ball on a pipe cleaner. You could taste that disgusting tang in your mouth again. The world returned to you in snatches of washed out gray and white, like you couldn’t see in color yet.
“I’ve got you.”
Arms. Strong, sure arms. Your vision sharpened gradually, presenting you with a ceiling that had caved in, exposed wiring, skeletal rebar and a cloud-covered sky. Someone’s boots crunched over broken glass and scattered plaster. The more you became aware of yourself and your surroundings, the more you wanted to go unconscious again. Your chest throbbed like a car had been dropped on it. You couldn’t feel your left arm, but it did occasionally brush your hip as John Walker carried you out of a smoldering ruin.
“Where are we?” you asked, coughing up blood and something gritty.
“Croatia. Borovik. What’s the last thing you remember?”
John’s face and beard were smeared with dirt. Somewhere along the way, he had lost his beret. That was sad. You liked his little hat.
“You.”
He kept his eyes straight ahead, but you noticed his jaw tighten, a muscle flutter in his cheek.
“We were… sitting? Maybe?”
“Strong start.”
Your head rolled across his shoulder, tucking against his neck. He smelled good somehow, like gunpowder and sweat and a woodsy sweetness that was all his own. “No, I remember now. You were yelling at me, but I was already running.”
“That could be any of our missions,” he sighed.
“What’s jingling?”
You had become aware of a chime-like music coming from somewhere beneath you.
“All the nine-fifties you survived,” he said. “Six, by the way.”
“Why did you pick them up?”
“Lot of questions for someone who should be dead.”
“Here’s one more: why are you carrying me?”
John adjusted you in his arms, but it kind of felt like he just wanted you closer. Maybe you were imagining things. Maybe you were dead and this was just a dream. “You're slow.”
“I'm also heavy.”
“You’re slower than you are heavy,” John said, finally glancing down at you. He was almost smiling. Almost. Then he saw your arm hanging loose at your side and that smile went away quick.
“I am not slow.”
“You are when you’re—” He caught himself, clearing his throat, jaw setting as he brought you out into the fresh air. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear the whir of the jet as it sat idle, engines churning. “You’re slow right now, let’s leave it at that.”
“You’re trying to distract me,” you said, studying him, absorbing the next quiet flinch he tried to hide. “How bad is it?”
“Well. You’re not going to be running through any minefields for a few weeks.”
“And my shoulder is dislocated. Left one.”
John finally did allow himself a flicker of a smile. “And that.” He carried you in silence for a moment, then grunted: “God, you’re tough.”
He said it the way some men said, “God, you’re beautiful” or “God, you’re sexy.”
It made you heat up. It made the metallic taste in your mouth ease.
“Sorry I’m so heavy,” you said, half-joking. “You should try to carry me when I’m transformed sometime.”
“No thanks.”
You headbutted his neck as hard as you could, which wasn’t hard, given the state of you. John laughed, dry, his concern keeping it from reaching his chest.
“Don’t apologize for anything,” he added. “You got us inside that hellhole.”
“Good ole Wrecking Ball, am I right? Boom boom pow pow.”
He sighed.
“Did the hostages make it?”
John shifted you in his grasp again, nodding. “Every single one.”
“Good.”
The way he was carrying you, rocking you on each step, was kinda relaxing. You curled against him, sleepy, breathing in his scent, remembering the first look he had ever given you, like he couldn’t possibly be impressed, like you were just a stopgap, an interloper, Bob’s stand-in until they could have the real deal.
And now his scratchy chin was tucked down to meet your forehead, and his hands were digging into you like if you went down, he’d go down with you. Nobody had ever even tried to pick you up before. It was straining him, but he was determined not to let you or anyone else see it. Along with the sniper rounds in his pocket, the shield on his back jangled quietly as he brought you back across the torn-up minefield to the jet. There was still some distance to go, and he was so warm and cozy, and damn, but you were exhausted…
“No, no, no,” he jostled you against his chest. “Can’t go to sleep, honey—”
“Honey,” you echoed, drowsy. That did wake you up a little. You stirred against his throat, smiling. “Honey.”
“We call everyone that in Georgia.”
“We’re not in Georgia. We’re in Croatia. Borovik.”
“Smart ass.”
“Usually.”
John shook his head, snorting. “Just…don’t fall asleep. You could have a concussion; you have to stay awake until we can get you checked out.”
“It’s a long flight. I’m gonna fall asleep.”
“No, you’re not.”
“You gonna keep me awake?”
John rolled one shoulder, adjusting your weight across his arms again, his biceps flexing against you. “Yes, fine, just stay with me.”
You were almost to the jet, the wind roaring around you, a wall of mechanical sound slamming into you, which was certainly keeping you alert for the moment. Ava and Yelena were there, standing watch over the hostages, guiding you both up the ramp and inside.
“We’ve got stops to make,” Yelena was saying once everyone was aboard. “Can she hold on?”
“I’m fine,” you insisted, trying to salute with your left arm before remembering it was dead weight.
“Yeah, you look great. Never better,” Yelena scoffed, rolling her eyes as she hurried off toward the cockpit. “Secure her somewhere, okay? We’ll get her home soon.”
Home. That was a weird one. It didn’t feel wrong, sound wrong, but it was still… strange.
The word stuck with you as the jet soared over the Atlantic, emptier now that the hostages had been returned. And in the quiet, with the monotone hum of the plane and the cool air and a dense blanket tucked up to your shoulders, it was getting harder and harder to stay awake.
“Don’t drift off on me.”
John’s voice floated down to you. He knelt beside your head, on your left. He had already offered to pop your shoulder back in twice, but the thought almost made you puke. His phone was resting on his right thigh, bright, lighting him from below.
“You lost your hat,” you said, trying to think of things to keep your mind busy.
John smirked. “I have more.”
“I should get a hat.”
“You don’t need a hat, you can turn into metal.”
“Your hat is wool, what’s it going to protect you from? A bad hair day?”
While typing something on his phone, he ignored that. “Team back in New York was worried about you. I told them you’re alive. They’ll let Reynolds know.”
You blinked up at him, swaying slightly as the jet curved on a left turn. John kept his gaze locked on his device, away from your face. “Why do you keep doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Bringing up Bob.”
His next comment came out thick, graveled. “You like each other.”
“Like each other? Are we in third grade?”
He shrugged that off, put his phone away, settled down onto his butt, one leg bent, the other scooped under it.
“He doesn’t call me honey.”
John’s brows twitched up, mouth wobbling before he wrangled his expression back down to something neutral. Sedate. Empty. “He’s thinking about it.”
“You’re doing it.”
“It was an accident. It just…came out.”
“Oh, okay, night night then.”
John clamped his mouth shut, eyes closing on a grunt, snapping open again when you nestled down into the blanket and turned your head to the side like you were going to sleep. He touched your middle, right over your waist, rocking you carefully. “Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because we work well together and I don’t want you to fucking die, okay?”
You eased back around to face him, eyes soft and hazy in the freezing, red glow of the jet’s interior. John watched you back, braver now, or maybe scared. “Is that all?”
John worked his chin forward, then back, like he was trying to relax his collar, allow himself more room to breathe without actually tugging on his suit. “Even if…” He blew out a tortured breath, wiping one hand down his face. “Even if, speaking in hypotheticals, I wanted to call you honey on purpose, it’s a bad idea. You’re on loan. One day, you’ll leave.”
And that hurt. You could tell it hurt. Just the idea of you going away… His voice broke softly on the last word.
“Bob might never get his powers under control,” you pointed out, scooting across the floor toward him, bundled up like a mummy but finding a way to move anyhow, bouncing until you were pressed against John’s foot. You could feel the power of that might hanging between you.
You didn’t completely realize you had fallen for him until you had been in his arms. Grumpy wasn’t usually your type, but John’s icy exterior came from real pain. He couldn’t transform in and out of that armor, it was stuck to him for good. Although, looking at him now, his blue eyes soft, his body leaning toward you, his hand warm and protective on your stomach, you wondered if maybe you were the right kind of hardheaded to chip it away.
“What if you gave me a reason to stay?”
John sagged forward even more, like the weight of that question was compressing him into a cube. “You and Bob—”
“Are friends.” You fished your right hand out from under the tightly packed blanket, snaking it over yourself to cover his fingers with yours. “But you’ve been risking your ass trying to keep me alive out there, you gave me my nickname, you picked me up when I was half-dead and I weigh, like, half a ton, so…”
“Are your bones made of that metal all the time or--?”
“Yeah.”
John snorted, ruffling his hair with his free hand. “That explains it.”
“Makes sex really chill and easy, let me tell you what…”
That got him. He laughed down at his belly, shaking. He collected himself, thumb stroking you through the blanket. His shoulders squared, then tilted, his palm sliding further up your body. “Just need someone tough enough. Durable.”
“Know anyone?”
“I might.” John’s hand slipped off your body, off the edge of the blanket, planting on the metal floor underneath you as he leaned down, over you, lips hovering just an inch above yours. “And I think I know what will keep you awake, honey. Just came to me.”
His lips closed over yours, sweet and searching, beard scratchy against your chin and cheeks. You cupped his jaw with your good hand, whimpering into the taste of him, heat spreading through you from the point of contact. Your fingers tightened against his face, and as he breathed another relieved breath into you, it felt like the perfect reason to stay.
Until There's Nowhere Left to Hide (John Walker / F!Reader / Bob Reynolds)
Summary: Two times you almost said the L-word and the time you finally did it. Three sweet, fluffy scenes with our resident throuple.
A/N: I had a few requests come in for fluff/sweet domestic stuff with the throuple and that was just fine and dandy with me. If you're reading in sequence this one does end up mattering to the loose "plot" that's developing. Hope it hits the sweet spot, anons!
Spoilers for Great British Bake-Off series 12 I guess!!!
Rating: PG (just some adult language but no smut)
WC: 3.5k (complete)
CW: Tooth aching fluff and domesticity, reader pov only, the throuple being cute together, confessions, reader being spoiled, princess treatment, mentions of future potential children, cutie pies, sweetie muffins, cuddling, breakfast pastries.
“I can do it.”
“You can’t do it. Your hands are too big and you’re too impatient.” You stared at John over the tray in your arms. He had intercepted you between the bathroom and the couch after swearing to give you all the sofa time you wanted for Self-Care Sunday.
“What? No. Come on. I’m incredibly detail-oriented,” he said, arms crossed, attitude firmly in place, starting nice and early. “Do you know how fast I can assemble and disassemble a weapon for cleaning? I think you know because you’ve seen me do it about a thousand times.”
Bob lowered his phone and rolled onto his stomach, watching you both from the bed. He swore and fixed his bathrobe, which was now tangled around him as he flopped toward the edge of the mattress.
“My hands and feet are not pistols, John, this is not your area of expertise.” You tried to go around him, sighing when he readjusted, planting himself so firmly you bumped him with the tray. “Stand down.”
“If he’s helping, I’m helping.”
Both of you swiveled to look at Bob at the same time.
“Nobody is helping,” you stated. You nodded down to the load of stuff on your tray, a tray that was getting heavy, by the way, because John Walker wouldn’t get out of the damn way. John noticed the wobble in your arms and scooped the tray out of your grasp, leaning down to kiss your forehead.
“I still owe you, don’t I?” He brushed his nose against yours, the warm timber of his voice dangerously persuasive.
And he didn’t technically owe you, not anymore. You had been cross with him for teaming up with Bob after you—righteously, hilariously—changed the name of the group chat to Cucks R Us. But he had taken you to pick out a nice replacement sweater and made you your favorite dinner, so in your eyes the ledger was more or less balanced.
“Why are you being bossy about this?” you asked, eyes narrowing, sweeping up and down.
“He’s bossy about everything,” Bob pointed out from the bed.
“We haven’t had a Sunday together in three weeks,” John said, letting that little jab deflect harmlessly off his back. “You worked like a fucking dog this month, Barnes had you go to Siberia, for God’s sake, so I think you’ve earned a break.”
John was bossy, it was both a burden and a blessing. In this moment, with his soft blue eyes lit from the side by the autumn sunshine and his big, cozy bod hugged in an old sweatshirt, it made it hard not to crack, give in. Blessing, then, not burden. And yes, your Sundays together were limited, but that was understandable; John usually spent the weekend at Olivia’s for visitation. He nodded toward the sofa, where there was already a pile of fleece blankets waiting.
“Sit. I’ll make more coffee. There are nine hundred seasons of that baking thing you like, I can be on fingers, Bob can be on toes.”
“Hell yes.” Bob rolled further across the mattress, remembering to grab the ties on his robe this time before they could tangle him up. He shuffled across the apartment to the sofa across from the television in his thick, striped socks, waiting until John had set the tray of polishes, files, cotton balls, clippers and remover down before moving in to give you a soft peck on the cheek. “You’re, um, you’re gonna show me how to do it though, right?” he murmured.
You cupped your hands around his jaw, tipping his face toward you. “Yes, Bob, but I’m picking out the colors.”
₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊
Sometimes, John had a point. It was the most grating thing about him. He excelled at executing a plan, but had not mastered the art of the pitch. But he was right—you did need a break, and you did belong on the couch, swaddled in three different blankets, the dulcet tones of Prue Leith and stand mixers humming through the apartment, the windows open to let in a burning leaves breeze, a candle glowing next to the TV, gold hydrogel patches stuck beneath your eyes, a fresh cup of coffee to your exact specifications cupped in your right hand.
To your left, half-curled on his side, naked feet hanging off the cushions, John had your fingers propped in his palm, his face screwed up in furious concentration as he dabbed the polish applicator over your thumbnail. “Jesus,” he mumbled. “You do this to unwind?”
You smiled at the television, sipped your coffee, squishing down into your blanket throne while two hardened super soldiers painted your nails. Life, occasionally, was good. “Just takes practice.”
Bob sat on the floor between you and the coffee table, bathrobe open and pooled around him, your left foot balanced on his leg, warm in his lap, while he applied a complementary color to your toes, tongue caught between his teeth.
“You’re looking very pleased with yourself,” John commented, dipping the applicator back into the bottle of polish before attempting the edges. “I’ve had Saturday morning inspections that were more relaxing…”
“Like of your colon or—”
John stilled, shooting Bob a frosty glare over your fingers.
You and Bob shared a glance, and you muffled your snort down into your coffee while he laughed freely, then went back to swiping the polish brush over your toenails. He wasn’t terribly precise about it, but he was also quick to clean up his work with a little cotton ball dipped in the cap of polish remover. He seemed to be enjoying himself, not taking it as a referendum on his readiness or precision the way John was.
“May I remind you that you volunteered?” You watched John blow lightly on your fingertips. Your heart flopped over. Maybe it was sweet, how much he cared, how much he wanted to get it right.
“You implicated my fine motor skills,” John teased, shaking out his shoulder as he settled in to tackle the next finger in line. “I’m proving a point.”
Prue and Paul were going to judge the bakes, so everyone got quieter. As much as John rolled his eyes at your tv preferences, even he was suddenly incredibly invested in the quality of a bunch of strangers’ cakes. John liked to pretend he didn’t pay attention, that he was above it, sometimes quietly scoffing when you and Bob got upset about one person going home or another. But now he craned his neck around, polish wand floating above your hand as the verdict was given and John almost lurched off the sofa in outrage.
“This is bullshit, he got first in the technical, does that not matter? What even are the rules of this stupid show?”
He usually only got this wound up about football.
“Yeah, man, it’s messed up,” Bob agreed, holding your foot up to get a better view of your pinky toe. He considered it for a second, tilting your foot side to side, then noticed you noticing and blushed to his ears, dropping a kiss on the top of your foot.
You flicked your eyes to John, who was still deeply in his feelings about Jürgen leaving the tent. “How can you flirt at a time like this?” you joked, winking.
“Oh right,” Bob muttered, grinning into your foot. “My bad.”
“We’re rubbing off on him,” you sighed, head falling against the back of the couch as John took a breath and returned to his duties.
“No,” John warned with a humid look. “That comes later.” He lifted your hand, showing off his proficiency. He could make absolutely anything a competition. But you had to admit, for a novice, it was impressive. “Once these are dry. Not bad, right?”
“Looks good to me, soldier.” You gently withdrew your hand from his grasp, but not before he wrestled it back, mindful of the fresh paint, and kissed your knuckles. “Flirt,” you accused, breathy, trying not to curl your toes and sabotage Bob as John tickled the top of your hand with his whiskers.
“Maybe,” he murmured, reaching for your other hand.
You wedged your coffee mug down into the soft pile of fleece mounded in your lap, then indulged him.
There was a lull while the app loaded up the next episode in sequence, and Bob got around to finally doing your pinky toe. He said it softly, under his breath, almost like it was just to himself. “It’s good practice, you know, like if we ever have a girl…” he mumbled, tongue between his teeth again as he fell back into concentration.
He didn’t notice the way you went still, or the way John did, too. He didn’t notice the wide-eyed look that passed between you two, and he certainly didn’t notice the way your pulse was abruptly pounding in your ears. Bob just carefully lifted up your leg, scooted under it, placed your left ankle on the coffee table to let the first foot dry, and gathered the right one onto his lap, humming softly to himself as the next episode of the series started and he flicked his attention toward it.
“Well?”
“Give him a minute,” John grumbled into your ear, pinching the meat of your thigh until you squirmed. His chin was tucked against your left shoulder, beard scratching your neck, all three of you lined up on your sides in the shared bed. You were in the middle, and for the first time, Bob got to be the little spoon.
It was stupid, just a goofy idea you had one night after Bob had been quiet all day. Nothing serious, he just wasn’t himself, and with the way he had trouble sleeping, it only seemed right to try and shift his mood before you all turned in.
You awaited Bob's assessment like Catholics watching for the white smoke, your arms tight around his middle, nose against his bare shoulder blade, his tight butt in the curve of your lap with your knees tucked up under his. John was doing the same to you, curved around you like a big, strong parenthesis.
“Yeah, I’m just…let me see.”
You didn’t have anywhere to be, so you weren’t exactly impatient, but you were getting sleepy. It was hard not to drift off when it was late and both of them were so gloriously warm, and the apartment was quiet, just the occasional screech of tires or car alarm interrupting the city peace. Bob had put up some string lights around the bookcase behind the bed, and he usually left them on until right before he fell asleep. You could just see the edge of his contented smile under the faint gold of the lights as you lifted your head, studying him.
His breathing was even, his chest rising and falling in a full, satisfied cadence. Your fingernails scratched lightly up and down his stomach, firm enough to soothe him, not so light that it tickled. The polish on those scratching nails was chipped now from a week’s worth of Avenging, a state John had noted earlier with a comically serious frown.
Your nose was full of Bob’s soap and shampoo, his hair soft against your forehead.
“S’nice,” he murmured, cuddling back against you. “Really nice. Never been the little one. But I…yeah, I get it now.”
John eased the hair back from your forehead with his fingertips, wrapped around you like a muscly blanket. You could feel his movements getting slower, his head settling heavier against yours as exhaustion came for him, too. The muted thunder of his heart drummed against your back, just as even as Bob’s.
A moment later, you were about to ask Bob again if he thought little spoon was worth doing more, when his buzzy, nasally snores broke the silence, tentative, then louder on each successive drag of air.
You smothered your laugh against his back, squeezing your eyes shut.
“Guess it worked,” John murmured, nibbling the edge of your shoulder. “Has he ever fallen asleep that fast?”
“Nope.”
“Shit. Maybe I need to try it next time,” John said, keeping his voice down.
“Please. You could fall asleep in a wind tunnel.”
John was quiet for a moment. You were convinced he had nodded off, then he shifted closer, sighing, breath pouring down your spine, one hand flexing in your hair, the other curling on your thigh. “I still want to try it.”
“You can be the little spoon, John.”
He kissed you; he kissed you again. He fell asleep.
There were missions and then there were missions. Both men returned from the latter the night before, crashing into bed without so much as a shower or a midnight snack. You didn’t need an explanation, you understood. Some assignments were just harder, required more thought, more energy, and more emotional bandwidth. There was the pressure to get it right, to perform under a microscope, to carve out the image of the New Avengers, precarious as that image remained. Nobody wanted to let down civilians or each other, and even if Bob’s presence all but guaranteed a successful outcome and minimal casualties, the minute-to-minute decisions, the stakes, it all took a toll.
You woke early, before either of them had even twitched an eye open or moved a muscle. Bob had passed out against the wall, on his right side, leg curled around a spare blanket, sheets stuffed fitfully down to his ankles. John was flat on his back, like he had been dropped from the ceiling, one hand over his chest, the other bent over his eyes, blankets bunched around his waist, one leg kicked out for temperature regulation.
There was a crisp, chilly quality to the morning air as it seeped in through the cracked windows. A light rain fell, spattering the windows and the car hoods below. The rush of tires through the water was always a comforting sound, one you would forever associate with that apartment. You climbed out of bed, careful not to disturb anyone, and picked up John’s phone from the nightstand, turning off his alarm before it could shatter the peace.
You went about your morning quietly, on soft feet, dressed just in one of Bob’s old shirts. Shivering, you went to the couch and retrieved two extra fleece blankets, carrying them back to the bed and tucking one over each sleeper. John’s brow furrowed as you fluffed one over his chest, a murmured nothing leaving his lips before he was silent again, breathing hard. There was a healing bruise on his shoulder where his suit had dampened the impact of a bullet and a cut running parallel to his left cheekbone.
And you figured you had about an hour or two before either of them stirred, so you pulled on a pair of jeans and a warm jacket, grabbed an umbrella, and slipped out the door, locking them in. You took a cab to Paris Baguette and loaded up on croissants of every flavor, chocolate cream breads (for Bob), and coffee buns, then hurried back to the apartment, paranoid that by 7:45 someone would be up to ruin your surprise.
But the apartment was peaceful with cold and silence as you tiptoed back inside, kicking off your wet shoes and stripping back down to your nightshirt to get the pastries out on the kitchen table and the coffee machine started. You put the electric kettle on in case Bob wanted tea instead, then fetched down three mugs, humming along in muted puffs to the music playing through your phone.
The thick, roasty smell of the coffee brewing slowly filled the kitchen, then spread into the rest of the apartment. You didn’t notice you had an audience until you went to pour the first mug, your own, catching movement out of the corner of your eye. John was sitting up, feet on the floor, blankets rumpled across his lap, hair stuck up in a million directions, eyes muzzy and half-lidded as he watched you through the doorway.
It was one of those expressions you felt with your whole body. Surprised relief, like he still couldn’t believe what he was waking up to.
Rain lashed the windows. Under the sparse glow of the fairy lights on the bookshelf, Bob kept on sleeping, buried face-down in his pillow, mouth wide open. You carried your coffee back out into the main room, fitting yourself between John’s thighs as he looped you in, gathering you up, rumbling as you wound one arm over his shoulders, his cheek pressed against your chest.
“Sight for sore eyes, baby.”
“You’re cute when you’re still waking up,” you murmured, fixing his hair.
He yawned into you. “What time is it? Feels late.”
Late. Right. It was barely eight. You tried to unwind from his grasp, but he wasn’t letting you go anywhere, rubbing his face on you like he could transfer his scent, mark you permanently. “I turned off your alarm, sleepy head. Thought you could use the extra rest.”
“Mm, good thinking. Knew we kept you around for a reason.”
Once more, you attempted to escape back to the kitchen to finish setting up breakfast, but John’s hold on you tightened. His hands slid down your back to rest just above your butt, his chest pumping harder as he fell into his thoughts. Accepting the fact that he was just not going to let you go, you pushed your hand back into his hair, enjoying the heat of his skin against yours, the way his thumbs stroked your sacrum, faster, faster, like his fingers were catching up to something racing through his mind.
“John. I’m trying to get breakfast going…”
His face flattened into you, into the fabric of Bob’s shirt over your chest. “Erwumfer.”
You snorted. “What was that?”
You didn’t think twice about it, assuming it was just some teasing comment about having breakfast in bed, instead, he twisted to look up at you, chin resting over your heart. “I love you.”
“I—oh.”
“Love this. Love waking up to you. Love…you. I love you.”
Your hand froze on his head, your legs turning to goo as his blue eyes darkened, first with tenderness, then fear. Idiot. Like you were going to do anything but return the—
“I love you guys.”
You had been so consumed with John’s confession that you hadn’t even noticed Bob flopping onto his side and sitting up, legs crossed, hands propped on his knees. His eyes searched yours, then the back of John’s head. He cleared his throat, mouth hanging open slightly as the silence dragged.
John went rigid against you.
“I love you, sweets,” you said, smiling over John’s head at Bob, and the look of relief that broke across his face almost tore you in half. “And you,” you murmured sweetly, hugging John tighter to your chest. “I love you.” Blinking a few times, unsure of how to top that, you flicked your attention shyly to the side, to the window. “And there’s croissants.”
“Holy shit, I love you,” John groaned, falling forward into you, nearly spilling your scalding coffee over his entire body.
You squealed in alarm, stumbling back. Bob materialized at your side, moving in a blink, grabbing the mug out of your hand before you could burn yourself. The hot liquid sloshed onto his fingers, but he didn’t react. Bob carried it into the kitchen for you, setting the wet-sided mug into the sink for you to collect whenever.
“My hero,” you teased, following, swallowing a gasp as he pulled you into a bruising hug.
His lips worried along the edge of your neck, his own muffled, “I love you,” repeated into your skin. You said it back, threading one hand into his hair, shivering as he breathed you in.
John got up, you heard the floor creak from his weight. Some of the blankets on the bed rustled.
“Tea or coffee today, sweet stuff?” you asked, unfolding yourself reluctantly from Bob’s embrace.
“Yeah, coffee, please,” Bob answered, landing a peck on your nose. “Thanks, babe.”
You grinned, cheeks hot, cheeks flaming fucking hot from the little lovefest that had just chased around between you. Bubbles burst in your chest. It felt like your toes might lift off the ground. You had waited forever to hear it, in agony wondering if you should be the one to say it first, in agony even if you knew the feeling was there, hiding in every glance and touch. At first, you thought you were imagining it, the quiet words that tumbled out as Bob drifted by you and wandered toward the bathroom. You had just reached for the sugar, heart wedging itself into your throat as you heard John mutter something as the other man passed.
“I, um. I care about you, Bobby. You know that, right?”
Bob’s footsteps faded as he reached the bathroom. “Yeah. Yeah, man. Thanks, Walker.”
“Sure thing.”
Close enough, you thought, spooning a little sugar into John’s mug. You felt him come up behind you, his heat steady as always along your back, his hands settling on your waist. For now.
Hummingbird (John Walker / F!Reader)
Summary: Filled request for:
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.”
