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, 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 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 behind the wheel, 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 him 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 digging 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.”
