dreams for another day

“I have to go into town.”

Lewis' stomach sank when those words fell from your mouth, “Why?” Lewis tried to keep his tone casual. “Running out of Chicken legs for waffles.” 

You grabbed your bag and black shoes that Lewis bought you a while ago, but they look brand new. The look of discomfort was sketched onto your face when you slipped on the heels.

“Clover…” Lewis trailed off, not knowing how to phrase this without sounding controlling. It’s a repeated cycle: you leave, someone says something, and then you sit in shallow swamp water quietly. It breaks his heart every time, “Why don’t I go get him his legs? Didn’t you say you wanted to go over ways to win over the girl alligators with Waffles?” Lewis smiled, hoping you believed the last part, but threw your bag over your shoulder. “Last time, you got him chicken thighs.” Lewis knitted his eyebrows, waiting for you to explain further. “He hates the thighs. He prefers the legs because the bone in them feels like he’s actually killing the chicken.” You explain in an innocent tone. 

Lewis nodded, pretending not to be in a state of panic. “Besides, shouldn’t you talk to Waffles? Man to Man?” You smiled, pecking Lewis’ cheek with your lips and leaving the cottage. Lewis followed you and opened his mouth, but you turned around. “Ah!” you smiled, pointing at him, “Talk...to...him.” You walked backwards down the path. “I’ll be back in a jiff.” You blew a kiss towards your husband and Waffles before descending into the path.

Lewis huffed, praying to your deities that you’ll be okay.

Lewis looked down to see Waffles resting his head on his foot, trying to comfort his dad. “I’m worried, Waffles,” Waffles growls, “I hate how people act towards her,” Lewis mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

Lewis was patrolling the town, making sure the citizens were safe and if they needed assistance with anything. Though Lewis's eyes often wandered towards the swamp, hoping to see a familiar face.

It’s been a week since he last saw you, but to him it felt like an eternity of misery.

“Remember that girl we saved outside the zoo?” Jack asked as he and Lewis walked out of the deli with sandwiches in their hands. Lewis pretends to think, knowing that if he answered fast, it would lead to more questions.

“Yeah, I think so.”

Jack swallowed his turkey hero. “Apparently-rumor has it- is a witch. An evil one that is” 

Lewis raised an eyebrow. You? Evil? The woman who was singing to a tree? Evil? Lewis knew that was bullshit.

“What?”

“That’s what I thought,” Jack took another bite of his sandwich. “People say she lurks somewhere, probably in the swamp, doing who knows what with her pet Alligator-” Lewis whipped his head towards Jack. “Alligator?” Jack nodded.

Lewis shook his head, “No way! I saw her eyes…She’s not evil.” Jack knit his eyebrows together. “Then explain the zombie.” Lewis squinted his eyes. Jack nodded, “Apparently, she has this zombie who she pulled out of the grave and bends to her will.”

Lewis placed his sandwich into his satchel, too distracted by his thoughts to eat. Why would people say these horrible things about you? He was with you alone in the swamp…you could’ve killed him, but you didn’t, you helped him.

“She probably fucks that zombie too.” 

Next thing Lewis knew was Jack on the ground scolding him. Jack’s sandwich was beyond saving. Lewis realized he had shoved his friend. Why would he do that? “Don’t talk about her like that,” Lewis warns before storming away to the patrol car.

Lewis opened the car door, about to slide into the driver's seat, when he noticed something in the distance. You are staring right at him. “(Y/N)?” He mumbles under his breath, closing the car door. 

You ran away, disappearing into the swamp. Lewis didn’t think, “Wait!” he ran after you. He tried his best to keep up with you, but with all the sharp turns you made, he almost lost you.   

You grabbed a branch from the ground and spun around, acting like you were going to hit him. Lewis slipped in the mud and landed on his back. “What do you want from me?!” You yelled, holding the branch like a baseball bat. Lewis held his hand up. “I just want to make sure you're okay!” Lewis admitted in a defensive tone. Your eyebrows furrowed. “Why?”  Lewis couldn’t describe this feeling he has whenever you are in his presence.

Was it the need to protect her, or was it something deeper? There was only one thing he was sure of.

“I care about you,” He blurted out, looking deeply into your beautiful eyes. You froze, not sure where to go now. Lewis slowly stood up, still holding his hands in defense to show he was harmless. He noticed the gears turning behind your eyes, deciding whether or not he was trustworthy. You dropped the branch. “Come with me.” You walked deeper into the swamp, and Lewis followed you like a dog on a leash.

The walk was silent, Lewis secretly watching you waving to all your animal friends. Lewis felt his heart swoon over how pure you looked. Lewis knew all those rumors about you being evil were bullshit. 

A small part of the swamp, further away from the water, there was a little hut, like home made out of tree branches. “The willow leaves… they showed me something.” You didn’t meet his eyes. “I was in this darkness…No way out…couldn’t find any of my friends…not even Waffles…” You hugged yourself. Lewis moved to comfort you, but stepped back when you faced him. “Then there was this lantern floating towards me…it was only when the lantern got close I noticed it was being held…by you.” 

Lewis continued to follow you towards the hut without question. He could tell there was more to the dream put didn’t push because he could see you’re still figuring out what it meant. Lewis saw a tarot spread.

Hierophant, Ace of Cups, Two of Cups, Four of Wands, they were all right side up. Lewis had no idea what any of the cards meant, but you knew “So I asked the cards…” You sat on your knees in front of the spread, and you grew quiet as you traced the pictures from each card with the pad of your finger. Lewis sat down on the other side. “Tell me what they said.” his voice softened, crossing his legs. You looked at him like he had three heads. “It’s okay, Clover, you can tell me,” Lewis reassured, not even realizing the nickname fell from his lips, but you did, “What?” Lewis wondered, gazing at your rosy cheeks, “You called me clover.” You smiled, staring down at the cards. Lewis felt his own cheeks heat up, “Oh…is that okay?” Lewis didn’t even know where that nickname came from. “I like it,” You mumbled under your breath, but Lewis heard you.

Lewis smiled, “You can tell me, Clover,” Lewis repeated in a gentle voice that he sometimes forgets that he has since he joined the military, “That I should trust you and let you into my life.” You explained, gazing at the soldier, he noticed a little hesitation in your eyes. “So what’s stopping you?” You debated on whether or not to tell him, “People don’t take kindly to anyone different…that’s why I live here,” You briefly admitted. Lewis was about to pick up your cards, but stopped waiting for the okay, you nodded and Lewis carefully collected them and placed them back into the deck before scooting closer to you. “Clover,” Lewis grabbed your hand and pressed your palm over his heart. “I will never hurt you.” You kept your hand there to see if his heart rate would spike. “I can visit you once a week…how about the same time next week?” Lewis gave a warm smile. “You don’t-” “I want to.” Lewis tucked your hair behind your ear. Your breathing hitched. Lewis ignored it to ease you into whatever this is. 

“Okay,” you smiled.

Lewis was tidying the cottage with the help of Waffles, who was supposed to be on rodent duty but was found lying on your side of the bed and napping. 

Then Lewis noticed shoes being thrown across the grass.

Lewis ran outside with Waffles right behind him to see what was going on. You were home, Lewis held Waffles back because he saw how tense your shoulders were. You took off your empty satchel and sat by the water. Uh-oh, Lewis thought. 

Lewis sat on one side while Waffles sat on the other. You weren’t crying, but you looked drained. Lewis kissed your temple. He knew this would happen; he should’ve fought harder to go with you, “he wouldn’t sell me the legs,” you mumbled. Lewis pulled you into his chest, and Waffles rested his head on your thigh. “He said he doesn’t do business with the bride of Satan,” you pet Waffles. 

Anger bubbled in Lewis’s chest. “I’ll be back,” Lewis tried to keep the anger out of his voice. He kissed your forehead and walked towards the path before you could get a word in. He can’t let the butcher get away with this, not while he’s home! He would burn the world for you.

He passed the cottage but stopped when he heard hissing behind him. Lewis turned to see Waffles ready to be his backup. He smiled at the gator, knowing there's no way in hell he would let Waffles witness what he’s about to do. “Stay here with her. I got this,” Lewis mumbles, petting his head before storming down the path. Waffles walked back to you.    

  Ring Ring 

The butcher shop door chimed as Lewis walked in, ready to tear the shop down brick by brick; he locked the door. Each step Lewis took was filled with anger and determination. The butcher heard and came out from the back; he looked to be around Lewis’s age. The butcher threw on a polite smile, “Hello.”  Lewis immediately wanted to bash his skull in, but he had to wait, play nice.

“I’m here for chicken legs,” Lewis muttered, clenching his jaw. The butcher put down two bags of chicken legs. “Yeah, craziest thing…my wife tried to buy these, but you wouldn’t sell them to her,” Lewis explained, letting the butcher know how FUCKED he is. The butcher scratched his head. “No one has been here…except that witch,” the Butcher laughed, expecting Lewis to laugh along as well, but awkwardly died down when he saw the murderous look on the soldier’s face. 

Then Lewis noticed the butcher slowly putting the puzzle pieces into place. “Wait! That hag-” Lewis smashed the butcher's face against the counter. Lewis swore he heard a crack, but he didn’t care. “My wife tried to order these, and you wouldn’t sell these to her,” Lewis grumbled into the man's ears. The man whimpered in pain over his bloody, broken nose. Lewis dragged the butcher over the counter and tossed him onto the ground like the trash that he is. “Please, sir,” the butcher wept, slowly crawling away from Lewis. “Please, what? Stop? Show mercy?” Lewis grabbed the butcher by the shirt and dragged him to his knees. “You didn’t show my wife any kindness, so why should I show you any?” Lewis punched the man square in the jaw. “She just wanted some chicken legs,” Lewis threw another punch. “She wasn’t hurting anybody.” Lewis threw another punch. “Now you made her upset, and I don’t take kindly to people who hurt my wife.” Lewis beat the man's face until it was bloody and almost unrecognizable.

Lewis released his grip, and the butcher fell to the ground, barely conscious. Lewis squats down to look the butcher in the eyes. “If I ever hear that you hurt my clover again, I won’t go so easy on you,” Lewis warns. The butcher weakly nods, “Good.” Lewis smirks.

Lewis stood up, grabbed a potato sack, because he knew how much you hate plastic, and filled it with chicken legs. He walked to the door. “Oh,” Lewis turned around, “You won’t be charging her anymore…agreed?” The butcher weakly nods. Lewis unlocked the door and made his way back to you.

He saw you sitting in the water with Waffles, who kept nudging you with his nose. Lewis dropped the sack and quickly wrapped his bloody knuckles with a bandana. He knows violence isn’t always the answer, but when someone insults you, he just sees red.

Waffles noticed Lewis and ran towards him like a puppy. “Hi, Waffles,” Lewis smiled, watching the gator rub his head against his leg and purr like a cat. You stood in front of him with a pleased smile. “I got them, Clover…and don’t worry, he’s going to be much nicer to you,” Lewis reassured you. Lewis pulled you into a warm embrace, which you gladly accepted. “Thank you, Lewis.” You mumbled, placing a sweet kiss on his cheek. Lewis kissed your forehead before declaring that the three of you had an eventful day and deserved to relax.

No, you had well and truly run out of time.

It was your own fault. You had known about the Super Bowl appearance request for months. Valentina had voluntold you for it in September. Now it was February—February 12th, to be exact--and your flight for the event left in just over twenty-four hours. Your brain swam with names, dates, anecdotes, but none of it coalesced into anything meaningful, anything you could summon to mind with a microphone in front of your mouth and a camera in your face. The sum total of your Super Bowl knowledge could be found at the bottom of a nacho plate swimming in liquid cheese and jalapenos.

 The NFL expected you to host part of a pre-show and halftime summary on national television. Tom Brady was going to ask you something and you were just going to drool and fall down.

“Bucky is going to bench me for a month,” you muttered, massaging your temples, closing your eyes. But the real punishment for embarrassing the team would be the endless jokes and memes that would emerge from this. You already knew Yelena would clip every one of your gaffs, every painful second of dead air, and revive the videos in the group chat for the next year. Maybe for the rest of your lives.

With trembling, over-caffeinated hands, you reached for the dregs of your iced latte.

“Jesus. This place is creepy.”

You couldn’t say how a 6’4”, 270 lbs concrete slab of a man surprised you in the uninterrupted silence of the library, but he did, and you decided to blame it on your sleepless state and the stress turning your guts into pretzels. You poked yourself in the cheek with your straw as he startled you, spinning in your squeaky, ancient wheely chair to glare and sulk.

“Please don't gloat. Let me suffer in peace,” you hissed, spinning back to slump forward and press your forehead to the pile of papers on the desk.

But there was to be no peace. John Walker stepped up beside your chair, leaning down to peruse the mess of notes and articles scattered across the table. “You printed it all out, huh? You made flash cards? That’s...that's almost adorable.” he laughed, genuinely amused, the rare, boyish sound that he never let anyone but his closest friends experience. “I’d ask how it’s going but you look like shit.”

 “Thank you so very much,” you said into the table, muffled. “Why are you here?”

A mug of warm something landed just next to your head. The steam rising out of it was mellow, herbal. “I’m your backup,” he stated. “And technically, the search party. Nobody’s seen you for days. Maybe it’ll warm your heart to know we started worrying.”

You sighed and rubbed the grit out of your eyes, lifting your head just far enough to plop it back down on the open cups of your hands. “You’re too late,” you said. “It’s a lost cause.”

John made the groaning, wheezing sound men always did when they wanted to sound important and cool while taking a seat. A second, ancient metal wheely chair appeared next to yours. Backup. Sidling up to your right, his knee brushing yours under the table, you thought of all the times your heart did a backflip when he genuinely saved your ass in the field, how his rough, urgent on your left or on your right never failed to make you feel invincible.

“No such thing as a lost cause,” he said, just cocky enough to make it believable and grating.

You took the warm mug into your hands, sniffing it to discover it was some of the expensive chamomile tea Ava kept under lock and key. Maybe they really had been worrying about you. Maybe it did defrost your heart just a bit. Glancing side long at John, you sipped the hot tea carefully. “Why the hell aren’t you going? You love this shit.”

“I did it last year,” he said, flat. “And got booed.” His eyes were somehow even bluer in the dim, grim light of the library. The fixtures above your heads stamped broad, orange rectangles across the table. You were sure it made you look like a corpse, but John was freshly showered, beard neatly trimmed, his hair still wet at the ends. The big, cuddly sweatshirt, worn at the sleeves and collar, made you long to curl up in bed.

Maybe with him and that sweatshirt, if you could ever get over yourself long enough to admit your crush.

“I guess it wouldn’t be humane to let you get booed in front of the Falcons,” you said, recalling that he was from their home state.

John’s nose wrinkled as he looked at you.

“What?” You sniffed both arm pits, checking, trying to understand why he was making that face.

“Nothing,” he shrugged, brow furrowing. He had an absolutely shit poker face. Without asking, he pooled your notes and flash cards, dragging them in toward his chest before assessing them one by one. A fussy muscle worked in his jaw as he focused. “No, no,” he muttered, already critical. Wonderful. “No, see, this is all wrong. You’re doing way too much. You don’t need all of this bullshit…” Again, without input, he began frisbee tossing flashcards into the darkness gathered beyond the desk. What the child ghosts would do with them you couldn't imagine.

“I actually worked really hard on those,” you sighed, trying to intercept one before it gave you a papercut on the chin.

“Do you want my help or not?”

“Still deciding.”

John snorted. “Okay, because from where I’m sitting you don’t seem at all prepared, and I can’t for the life of me understand why you thought you could drill all of this into your head two days before the big—”

“Fine. I’m an idiot. I’m an asshole. Satisfied?” You slammed the tea down, huffing as he threw another handful of cards away from the table. Did he have to throw them? Jesus. So dramatic. You reached for the rest, knowing it was fruitless but trying to wrestle them out of his grasp anyway.

“Nah.” John chuckled, transferring them to his right hand and holding them above his head while you scrambled at his arm and shoulder, trying to reach them, and in doing so, bringing your face dangerously close to his. The last time you two had bickered like this, Yelena had barked at you to get a room.

John let you paw at him, even letting you move him a little back and forth just to make it seem like you had a chance. “Say please,” he whispered, wiggling the cards in his hand just to piss you off that much more. If you weren’t running on two hours of sleep and three stale donuts, you might have let it go on longer. But the clock was the clock, and the calendar was the calendar—you were running out of time and, god damnit, John “Go Bears” Walker was your best hope.

“Please, oh learned one, give unto me your vast and completely useless sports knowledge,” you said, leaning back to press your hands together in a prayer pose, rolling your eyes.

He shook his head, tossing your flash cards back onto the table between you. Crossing his arms, he leaned to his left, into your shoulder, lowering his voice to a register that made your spine tingle. “You know, you’re cute when you’re flustered.”

You opened and closed your mouth, perhaps proving his point. “I’m not flustered.”

John’s brows rose swiftly, his attention darting down to your lips, back to your eyes, assessing. “Is that right? Who coaches the Atlanta Falcons?”

“Kevin…Kevin…” You pursed your lips, mind going completely blank. Shit. “You know, Kevin.”

“Perfect, yeah,” John said, slapping his thighs and pushing away from the table. “You’ve clearly got it handled, and since I’m not needed here, I’ll just be heading out. Good luck, you're going to need it.”

“Stop.” Fine, it was admitting defeat, but humbling yourself in front of John was less objectionable than humiliating yourself in front of the entire world. You grabbed his forearm, not surprised but awed, as always, at the cords of muscle that flexed at your touch. “Okay. I need help. Please. I'm not even rolling my eyes this time.”

John took pity on you, face softening as he returned to the chair and snugged it up to yours even closer this time. Hmm. “Drink that,” he said, stern but caring, pointing at the mug. “Give your brain a rest, I’ll come up with a plan for us.”

A plan for us. You smiled behind the mug, doing as he instructed, indulging in a quiet moment of just watching him sort through the information you had collected, making piles, a notch of concentration between his brows, his jaw set, gruff, thoughtful sounds grumbling out of him as he made that plan. This was the John you caught yourself admiring during briefings. Skilled, experienced, dedicated John. You wondered if he had any idea how kissable he looked when he got this way.

“Alright,” he said, jolting you out of your close observation, smacking his hands together and rubbing them. “The Falcons are favored to win, you know that, right?” He swiveled and stared into your suddenly empty eyes. “Right?”

“Sure,” you said, nodding vehemently.

“Oh boy, okay,” he scrubbed his face with both hands. “The big storyline will be that they’ve never won a Super Bowl before—”

“But they’ve been twice,” you said, one brain cell firing valiantly.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s right.” John smiled with relief. “The Broncos in…?

Oh shit. You squeezed your eyes shut, stammering out, “Ninety-nine?”

“And the Patriots in…?”

You had just been going over that before he breezed in. Thank God. Not that you were desperate to impress him or anything. I mean, whatever. His blue eyes burned into you, and you got the distinct impression he was willing you to get it right. That he was on your side. “Twenty seventeen,” you said, more confidently.

John turned back to the notes spread between you, but his smile made your heart flip. And it damn near shot out of your mouth when he leaned forward, resettled his hair with a smooth sweep of his hand, and murmured, “Good girl.”

Both of you froze. You stared at the side of his face while it turned a garish, incriminating shade of red. He breathed down at the flash cards like they had all of life’s answers scribbled on them, or at the very least a way out of this predicament. The ghosts probably stared, aghast. The lights above you buzzed, reminding you both of the sudden, overwhelming silence.

“I, um.” He squinted, pressed his lips together. “I didn’t…”

Generously, you decided to save him. On your left. “Well. I’ll, uh, I’ll never forget that trivia now. Ninety-nine. Twenty-seventeen. Sheesh.”

John shifted, shoulders hunched; the tiny library chair squeaked under his bulk. The crease between his brows eased. He collected himself, God love him, ever the consummate soldier. “It won’t happen again.”

And yet. Maybe that was the way to actually remember all of these stupid names and dates and factoids. You were becoming certain he could make the study session incredibly memorable. Impossible to forget, in fact. Your hand landed on his thigh under the table. Through his jeans, his skin roared like a furnace.

“Why not?”

You saw the question travel through him. His leg jerked toward you. His chest pumped under his sweatshirt. Both hands curled into fists, then relaxed. His eyes slid toward you, lips forming around several silent responses before he went with: “Do you mean that?” Then, his hand reached under the table, sliding over yours where it rested on his leg. “Christ. Do you want that?”

Judging by the flush burning on the back of his neck, there was another question buried inside that one. Do you want me?

“Look at me,” you said, waiting until he gathered the courage to do so. You almost lost the nerve to keep talking, his expression of nervous anticipation squeezing around your heart like a vice. “I need to memorize this by tomorrow. I know you can help me.” Your voice trembled, but you pushed through, encouraged by the way his palm pressed against your fingers, trapping you there like he was afraid to let go. “I…want to be a good student, maybe I could be,” you murmured. “For you.”

John tore his eyes away from you, blinking hard. “Fuck.”

It looked like maybe he was short circuiting. Overheating.

“John?”

He swallowed noisily, nodded at something in his own head, then relocated his left hand from his leg to your hip, wrapping his arm around your waist, his forearm sandwiched between your body and the chair.

“Come closer,” he whispered, but he was already yanking you against his side until your chairs collided. You weren’t sure what exactly he was planning until you felt the hand on your hip chase lower, resting along the waistband of your leggings. His other big hand folded over the notes, covering them. You huffed out a depressed little sound and he laughed, pressing his nose into your temple, lips hovering by your ear, his breath skipping down your neck and under your shirt. “Good girls don’t cheat; they earn their reward fair and square.”

His pointer finger played along the edge of your leggings, slipped just beneath, teasing the delicate skin there. You shivered and gripped the edge of the table for support.

“Who are the Falcons playing on Sunday?” he asked, starting with an easy one.

“The Broncos,” you said, a bit impatient, a bit insulted.

John hummed with approval, ignoring your bratty tone, the rest of his calloused fingertips easing beneath your waistband. “That was an easy one, sweetheart, it gets harder from here on out. I thought you’d want me to ease you into it…”

Your eyelashes fluttered shut, the innuendo making your pulse race. “N-Next question.”

“How many times have the Broncos gone to the Super Bowl?”

He wasn’t even looking at the flashcards; he was pulling this from memory. That, or he just wasn’t willing to take his eyes off of you, not when he was half wrapped around you, fingers daringly close to the lace trim of your panties.

“Seven?”

John tsked into your ear, hand receding back up your abdomen.

“No, no, fuck, eight,” you corrected, the jolt of his disappointment and of his punishment zapping the right answer out of you. And your urgency to get it right for him was rewarded, his warm, strong fingers making up the ground and then some, blunt fingernails scratching lightly against your abdomen, playing with lace edge of your underwear.

“Good girl,” he said, absorbing the horny shudder that ripped through you. “How many did they win?”

Oh, fuck. You wanted to be right so bad. You could feel your temples starting to sweat. His breath was getting hotter on your neck, his leg scalding against yours as the heat built between you. Behind your closed eyes, you tried to imagine that flash card. One edge of it was bent. You had used orange pen on that one, trying to color code the answers to the corresponding team. You could picture the number now, bubbly, round…

“Three?”

John groaned and nodded, his nose still pressed to the side of your face, the hitch in his inhale telling you he really, really wanted you to get it right, too. Your back straightened as his fingertips smoothed under your panties, tracing the sensitive skin there back and forth, sending buzzing signals through your body, making your stomach flutter and your cunt flood with throbbing need. He kissed the shell of your ear, the scruff of his beard rubbing against your jaw.

“That’s my good girl,” he growled. “I know you can get this next one. I know you can get it right for me.”

You heard yourself whine. God, what was he doing to you? You couldn’t remember ever whimpering for a man before.

“Who’s their quarterback?”

While you tried to remember, John kissed his way down your ear to your neck, biting gently against your neck, splintering what remained of your concentration. Was he crazy? You were never going to get it right if he kept doing that…

“John, my head is going to explode,” you whispered, shaking.

“Think, baby, you got this.” He clearly had more faith than you did, because he certainly did not stop, tracing the line of your throat with his nose, then his lips, cuddling his face and beard against you like it was just a lazy morning in bed, like you did this all the time, and then his fingertips brushed the soft curls over your sex and you moaned so loudly you were sure a librarian would materialize out of thin air to scold and shush you.

You hadn’t even realized you had moaned out the right name at first, teetering on the edge of a pleasure and stress-induced blackout. John’s lips curved back up to your ear again, his own shuddering breath of anticipation joining yours as he rewarded you with a husky, “Good fucking girl.”

You arched against the table and your hands as his forefinger curled over your pussy, pressing lightly into the seam, his seeking met with the plush squish of your wet folds. He sucked in his next inhale, a second finger joining the first, staying just shy of your entrance as he smeared the slick up and down, just teasing at first, then purposeful, using the moisture to draw out your clit, lubricate it, bathe it. The pads of his fingers traveled in wide circles, lightning flickering in their wake, a molasses thick feeling pooling in your lower stomach, bleeding your lungs of every last bit of air.

“Such a good girl, getting so wet for me, soaking wet, sweet for me, doing such a good job,” John whispered, half-babbling, grinding his hips against nothing until you remembered your free will and power of movement and shoved your right hand under the desk, closing it over the immense bulge in his jeans. “N-No,” he ground out, shaking his head. “This is about you.”

But he didn’t make you remove your hand and you didn’t want to, letting it rest there, marveling at the size and heat of him. His body tensed, likely from the restraint it took not to buck shamelessly against your palm.

 John collected himself, forehead to your temple, his hair damp with sweat as he licked his lips and fired off another test. “Falcon’s coach.”

“John,” you whined, having already gotten that one wrong. Or only half-right, but certainly not all the way right.

 “It’s important. You have to know this one. You can do it, I know you can,” he said, fingers dipping back into your slit again, pressing roughly against your entrance, implying what might be yours if you could dredge up the correct name. And you wanted it to be yours, you wanted to feel those huge, powerful fingers spearing you open, fucking into you until you could have the real thing…

He tortured you, returning to focus on your clit, not enough to unwind the knot cinching in your stomach, hinting at a pressure and a rhythm that you knew would be a swift undoing. The sound of him playing with you, wet and sloppy and filthy, made the crawl through your mind unbearable. Your hips worked, chasing John’s fingers, but he kept denying you. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You stopped thinking so hard and let instinct and want take over, blurting out a name that you knew was right before John's response ever reached your ears.

John’s fingers dove back down, working you open, his thumb joining in to rub your clit in short, delicious bursts, no longer evading the roll of your hips but working with them.

“That’s my good girl,” he said. “And she gets whatever she wants.”

Your mouth dropped open from the onslaught of pleasure, of being filled and stretched by his brutish fingers, of having unabashed access to constant stimulation for your aching clit. He swiveled your chair slightly, turning you toward him by the grip he had on your cunt, his mouth finding yours, lips slanting, teeth hitting yours, tongue gliding into you, matching the thrust of the calloused meat pistoning in and out of your slick hole.

“John, I can’t, I can’t,” you whispered, tearing away from his kiss, overwhelmed, body shivering and shaking as you shoved your face into the crook of his neck. His other hand soothed your back, stroking up and down, holding you to him while you fucked his fingers, rutting on him until everything was silver and white behind your eyelids.

“Good girl, finish for me, just like that, you earned this, baby,” he said, petting your hair, your shoulders, increasing the speed of his thumb slipping back and forth over your swollen clit. “My good girl, my smart girl, so eager to please—”

You grabbed a fistful of his sweatshirt, sobbing out your release, riding his fingers, his thumb, his palm, the terror and stress and pressure of the last few days shrieking out of you. It felt incredible to let go, to let go into someone, to feel his strong hand on your back, his praise in your ears, his pride seeping into every word and touch. For a second, you couldn’t see or even make a sound, letting your release crash down, letting him handle it, handle you, steady and coaxing, your slick pooling on him, on the chair, and all of that a worry for later.

You hadn’t even remembered to help him get his own release, your hand still just resting over the pulsing bulge in his pants. As you panted into his neck, circling your hips until the sweet, fading shocks dissipated, you felt warm wetness spreading across his fly. John grunted, going still, his words falling off as he came just from making you unravel.

Serviceman, indeed, you thought, smiling, dazed, dumb, sagging against him until your legs cramped from being wrenched open for him. You gently withdrew, peering up into his face with the intensity of what had just transpired flaring in your cheeks.

 “Jesus,” he muttered, carefully smoothing his hand down your thigh, the absence of his fingers making you shudder and clench. Already, you wanted him back. You reached for the napkin under your perspiring latte, offering it to him while you adjusted your leggings and primly closed your legs.

John’s eyes were storm blue as he wiped his hand and shot a mortified, helpless look down at his stained jeans. “H-How long until your flight out?” he asked.

You checked your digital watch, sighing. “Just about twenty-four hours.”

“Still, um, still a lot to go over,” he said, eyes raking across the flash cards on the table. “We haven’t even touched the other positions,” John continued, flinching at his own choice of words. You laughed, covering your mouth, enjoying his struggle.

“Mm. Maybe we should each have a shower and continue this somewhere less haunted?” you suggested, finding the willpower to gather your notes and cards into a neat stack. John managed to fight through his uncertainty and ponderous, post-nut Neanderthal brain, placing his left hand on the back of your chair, leaning in to brush a bearded kiss against your cheek.

“You know, I’m going to be watching that broadcast like a hawk,” he said, low and simmering. “Just to make sure my good girl gets everything right, earns a big reward when she gets home.”

You almost dropped the cards, fumbling to keep them from spilling across your lap. You had given him a dangerous new power, one he was already abusing a little too much. John stood, and with nothing to be done about the obvious wet spot over his fly, stole one of your study sheets to hold by his belt and conceal the evidence until he reached his quarters.

“How big?” you asked, collecting your still full mug of tea, following him at a trot. When you caught up, you cut a glance down to where that sheet of paper hid his crotch.

John rolled his eyes, laughing, patting your butt, hurrying you toward the elevator. He hit the button impatiently with his fist. The doors opened, and John swept you inside, trapping you against the curved wall, staring down at you like you were his last meal on Earth. “You tell me without looking who both teams' defensive coordinators are and I’ll make sure it’s big and long.”

He was warming you up. You, him and John had been working up to this. You wanted to be able to take them both, have both men you loved inside you at the same time. They were letting you lead, everything was about your comfort. A week or two before you’d successfully taken them both in one hole, that was the tightest fit you’d ever had. Now was the next adventure. You were giving them the first time in your other hole.

“I’m sure Lew” you whispered, lips moving against the scar in the center of his chest. He groaned low, you’d learned that both of you loved when your lips were on that scar. The skin around it was extra sensitive, mix that in with the enhanced senses from the serum and the imprint emotions of it being your lips on it? You could feel the slight tremor he gave. “Remember honey, talk to us every step” 

You nodded, a small smile on your face. You remembered. The color scale, the taps. You definitely didn’t want to risk Lewis thinking John hurt you, not that John ever would but that wouldn’t go well. 

He tugged you down closer, one arm slipping around your body to tuck you close. The other slipped between your bodies, long thick fingers teasing at your clit. “Gotta have you nice and relaxed” 

John rested a knee on the bed behind you, you could feel the mattress dip. You didn’t mean to but you must have tensed a bit because Lewis whispered “Calm down, we’ve got you” 

You nodded, leaning up for your lips to brush against Lewis’ neck. John’s hands smoothed over your back, his breath warm when he murmured “You with me baby? Ain’t gotta do this. We’re happy just the way things are”

You shook your head, leaning to look over your shoulder at him, “I want this. Just nervous love” he nodded, leaning forward, one hand slipping under your chin to tilt your head back, lips moving against yours gently. You whined lightly into the kiss, tongue tangling with his when he pushed it past your lips.

When he pulled away he pressed one more kiss to your lips then nodded to Lewis, “Sure she’s ready?” Lewis nodded, tucking you into the bend of his neck, “She’s good. She knows what she can handle John”

You adjusted yourself back against Lewis, feeling John behind you. Lewis’ fingers were moving at your clit in a practiced ease, pushing you close enough to that edge to make that warm fire start to loosen every muscle in your body. A low moan broke out of you and John chuckled, “Attaboy. Keep her right there”

“I will kick your ass Walker” Lewis laughed, pulling you into a kiss as you felt John’s fingers at your backside, warm despite the lube being cooler. He gently eased them into you, the stretch causing you to gasp into Lewis’ kiss.

“Fuck she’s tight” he murmured, eyes going from where you were squeezing him to where you were kissing Lewis and back. Lewis broke away from the kiss to nod, “She can handle it. She wants it, she’ll tell us if anything is too much” 

Once John made sure you were lubed up enough he got some in his hand, working it over his hard cock, making sure he was slick with it. He wanted you to enjoy this, didn’t want you to hurt, didn’t want to lose any trust with you. When you took both him and Lewis, they’d moved slowly, worked together and even if the sensation had been strange at first, being tucked that close together, his cock moving against Lewis’, it was amazing.

“You ready firefly?” he asked softly and you nodded, panting against Lewis’ neck as your orgasm hit, relaxing you as Lewis worked you through the aftershocks, “I’m ready” he notched his cock at the entrance of your hole, moving slowly, gently. He pushed in and you gasped.

You could feel your body stretching, trying to accommodate John’s length. Lewis’ lips moved from yours down your neck, hitting every spot he knew was sensitive, would make your body focus solely on pleasure. 

John pushed in a little more and you whined lightly. Lewis froze, lips on your pulse, “Color beautiful. Now”  you took as deep of a breath as you could with Lewis’ voice a growl in your ear, his fingers still a solid pressure on your clit while it felt like John was splitting you in half with his cock stretching out an entirely new entrance. 

“Green” you finally managed and he nodded, teeth grazing the skin. “Keep letting me know, talking or tapping honey” you nodded. John’s hands smoothed up your side as he leaned down to mouth at the side of your neck Lewis wasn’t currently nipping at.  

He shifted his hips again, a little further and he was sliding into you. A gasp ripped from your lips and John was hip to hip with you. His hands moved to your hips, holding you still, thumbs tracing circles into the soft flesh. He was quivering with the effort.

“How you feeling?” he asked after a moment and you nodded, “Full, very full” he chuckled low, reached under you and you felt his fingers brush against Lewis’ right before they dipped into your dripping folds, “Not completely full”

Lewis tilted his head looking up at you, that signature crooked smirk they both had slipping onto his face. “Got room for a little more?” you giggled breathlessly, “You’re far from a little but of course I want you too”

John moved his fingers and they were replaced by Lewis’ cock. You felt the tip brush against your core before he was pushing in, John lifted your hips just a bit to make it easier on Lewis. The moment he was hip to hip, moans left all three of you. 

“Fuck” Lewis was the first to speak. You buried your face in his neck, one hand reaching back to touching John. Neither of them were moving, waiting on you to give the go ahead as always. “Fuck I love you two” you whined, teeth grazing Lewis’ neck. 

After giving yourself a moment you looked over your shoulder at John and gave a small nod, he leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your lips before giving the softest of rolls to his hips. That pushed you further into Lewis, effectively dragging him deeper into you as well.

“God damn” John breathed, kissing you harder. You whined low, nipping at his bottom lip, he broke away from your lips before letting you relax down against Lewis. You felt John’s forehead drop between your shoulders, lips on the skin. Lewis kept his mouth on your neck as John started a slow pace, barely rocking his hips but that was all he had to do. The tight fit from both of them being inside of you didn’t require much more.

You could feel that heat coiling in your stomach. You could feel Lewis’ thighs tensing, feel John’s fingertips digging in just a bit. Your release hit first, dragging you under hard enough your vision went soft around the edges. That was all it took to drag them under with you. Lewis was cumming next then John, both of them so deep inside of you, their serums making them cum so much and so hard you felt another smaller orgasm rock through your body.

All of you stilled, John’s hands on your hips. You could feel him trembling, knew he was a breath away from collapsing but he managed to gently pull out, kissing your back along the way. “We need to clean her up” he murmured and Lewis nodded, lifting you up and moving to lay you on the pillows next to him. You laughed weakly, damn them you were near unconscious and they were already recouping. 

Lewis grinned, “It’s ok, we love taking care of you” and pressed a kiss to your lips. John groaned, shoving him playfully, “Easy asshole, you got a lot more kisses than I did” then John’s lips were on yours, “Water? Food?” you smiled into the kiss “Water and cleaned up is all”

You looked between them before adding, “Besides the two of you” “Everything you need, coming right up” John promised, Lewis added, “Especially us” 

Lewis Ford Fanfic

John Walker Fanfic

What wasn’t logical was how quickly his brain told him to stay still, not jostle you in the slightest, not interrupt this rare moment of peace. You looked so different when you slept. Your face softened, your expression sweetened, and even the dirt and grit on your face from the field couldn’t detract from that.

The first time, he just let you do it, snorting softly in surprise as you slumped against his left shoulder, cheek squished against his armor, then you rolled inward until your head found the gentler pillow of his chest and part of his shield harness. After he got over the initial incredulity, he considered it was a joke, just another attempt to get under his skin (a skill you had developed in record time, by the way). You’d pop your eyes open in a second and tell him, “in your dreams, Walker” and laugh with the others about how dazed and stupid he looked the time you pretended to fall asleep on him.

But no matter how long he stared down at you, you didn’t move. Your chest rose and fell in a slow cadence, puffs of air escaping your nose on each deep breath. You had stripped off part of your gear, laying it across your lap when you climbed in next to him, and as the transport hit a bump, it nearly flew off your legs. John caught it before it could hit the floor and make a noise, carefully resettling it on the bench to his right.

His back ached by the time you reached the safehouse. Alexei always insisted on driving, God help you both, and when his fist hit the back doors of the truck, you jerked awake, blinking around as if you had no idea where you were or how you had gotten there.

“Rise and shine, my sleepy babies,” Alexei shouted, flinging the doors open. He must have been watching through the rearview mirror, pointing at you and chuckling. “You, little lady, have lived the American dream—falling asleep on the Captain himself.”

John watched your ears turn red as you grabbed your shit and hauled yourself out of the truck, judiciously avoiding his glance as you brushed past Alexei. “He’s not Captain America.”

“You’re welcome,” he called, annoyed, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose before following you out into the cold, waiting until you got very far ahead before making the trudge from the truck to the front door.

“You two are so silly,” Alexei said, rumbling with fond laughter as he locked up the truck. John tried to ignore the commentary as he stalked away. “Maybe tomorrow she will pull your hair, and you will push her down on playground.”

The second time was harder to brush off.

It was protocol to get checked out in the med bay after any mission, no matter how light the combat, a policy instated after Alexei insisted on “walking off” a bullet wound that went septic and nearly killed him. But Yelena was the priority that evening; there was concern she had sustained a mild concussion, so after unloading the quinjet, you and John waited to be seen by the physicians in the darkened strip of lobby outside the exam rooms. There was furniture all over, but you took the spot right next to him on the leather bench between the watercooler and the vending machine.

“This is on me,” you were saying, leaning back with your arms crossed, legs out in front of you, your head thumping against the wall. Muted voices bled through the exam rooms. Your voice was an exhausted scratch. “I could’ve intercepted that creep. I should’ve.”

“It was dark,” John said, tossing his beret on the bench to his left, smoothing both hands through his hair as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re not the only one who let her down.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you said, stifling a yawn in your first. “Don’t have to let me off the hook.”

“When do I ever let you off easy?” he asked, shaking his head. “It just happens to be true that we both shit the bed this time. Our execution was sloppy. We learn, we move on, we do better next time, the end.”

You barked with laughter, shoulders bunching up as you closed your eyes.

“What?” he asked.

“Just imagining us side by side, shitting the bed.”

“Jesus.” But John grunted out a helpless laugh, leaning back to mimic your outstretched position. “Did you hear the rest of what I said?”

“No. Not really.”

God, sometimes you were impossible. Most of the time you were impossible. The minutes ticked by. A weight crumpled against his side, you again, your head falling onto his shoulder, on his right this time. John froze, watching you shift onto your side slightly, your left arm tucked against his ribs, the other settling on his abdomen, your right hand perilously close to curving around his belt buckle. He waited, expecting you to wake up, but you just seemed to get more comfortable, whimpering softly in your sleep.

Shit, it was cute. He didn’t want it to be cute. You were such a pain in the ass, a constant, needling thorn in his side, it didn’t seem fair that you looked like an angel when you curled up against him like that. Somehow you always wound up by his side. And it was practical, sure, because your skills complemented each other on missions, because you pushed each other, toxically competitive, because even if you bickered like an old married couple, the job always got done and there was no arguing with the results.

Like an old married couple.

John tried to erase that thought from his mind, but the more he flailed at it the stronger it became, a diamond hardening under pressure. You just seemed to fit perfectly there, cheek on his shoulder, hands splayed across him, body temptingly warm. He blinked heavily, trying not to breathe hard and move you up and down but he couldn’t help it. It was a tender, intimate position, and it felt good.

With utmost care, he extended his right arm around you, supporting your waist, allowing himself to feel what it would be like to have you in his grasp. It was a mistake. I just need to get laid, he thought. When was the last time I got laid? The answer was so depressing he didn’t allow himself to complete the inventory. Touch starved or not, there was no way around the truth—you connected to him like a perfect puzzle piece, and having you there made his eyes grow heavy and his muscles relax, and bit by bit, he fell asleep, too, calm and content, his head resting on yours, breaths mingling until the door opened and the lights clicked on, and the poor nurse sent out to collect John was forced to lightly shake you both awake.

You unwound from him with a groan, shoving the heel of your palm into your eye and grinding it. “We have to stop meeting like this,” you muttered.

No, we don’t.

“You started it,” John grumbled, letting you go first. It was the chivalrous thing to do. You pinned him with a glare before disappearing into the exam rooms.

“You put your arm around me.”

“Because your head is like a fucking bowling ball. My arm was cramping.”

The nurse glanced between the two of you helplessly, clutching her clipboard.

“What does my big ass head have to do with anything? You’re such a fucking dork, Walker.” You rolled your eyes, which always spiked his blood pressure, made him want to tackle you to the ground and—He stopped that thought, too, much too terrified of it. “Maybe CT Captain Booboo’s arm, make sure I didn’t do any lasting damage to it, can’t afford to lose our big strong boss baby,” you joked to the nurse, following her into the brightly lit exam room.

John got to his feet, taking a few huge steps before catching himself. “Maybe scan her head, see how many brain cells are left in there.”

“Good one, Johnny. Slick.” You tossed your head at him. Infuriating. The door closed, cutting off his smart response. He hated being called Johnny. Hated it the most coming from you.

“Yeah, yeah,” he whispered to no one, pacing, fuming. “That’s not what you’ll call me when I’m—” He wound up but pulled the punch that would have crumpled the vending machine, instead giving it the lightest tap he could manage given his surging rage. The machine rocked side to side, settled, then a package of candy tumbled into the tray, knocked loose. John fished the packet out; it was your favorite. He squeezed the plastic until the candy inside was paste.

His glove smelled maddeningly like sugary sweet dust for weeks.

The third time was John’s doing, and he took full responsibility.

You absorbed the bullet that was meant for him. He didn’t even know where you came from—the last time he had clocked your location, you were nowhere near him. But you must have noticed the agent flanking him before he did, appearing at his unshielded side almost the instant the gun fired. John heard the impact, heard you give a single, startled grunt, then pulled you behind his shield and kept you there, both of you using it as a battering ram to run down the bastard who had shot you.

Bucky screamed at John to get you to safety, and he did, without a second thought, with the kind of clarity he often worried had slipped through his fingers after so many years of shame and self-doubt. But Bucky could handle what was left, and you were sagging against John’s chest, struggling to conceal the waves of pain that tightened your mouth on every other breath.

“Where?” was all he asked, swinging his shield onto his back, freeing his hands to lift you into his arms and carry you out into the open air.

“Left shoulder, it’s fine,” you bit out, shuddering against him, your body undercutting your tough protestations. “My legs work fine, John.”

“I believe you.” He didn’t put you down. He delivered you to the passenger seat of the getaway van and stayed there, shielding you with his body until Bucky appeared. By the time the three of you reached the safehouse, you were clutching your arm, trembling.

“Let’s hope this place was resupplied recently,” Bucky said, leaping out of the back of the van once it stopped, getting to you before John could. John went ahead, fixating on the same concern. This was a remote mountain village in the Balkans, if there was anything besides rat droppings and stained mattresses inside it would be a miracle.

Bucky carried you to the faded, floral sofa, then helped John slam through cupboard after cupboard.

“I’m already starting to heal,” you insisted, rolling back and forth slightly on the couch.

“Is it through and through?” Bucky was asking. He found a roll of cleanish bandages in a cupboard above the rusted-out sink, a bottle of disinfectant in another.

John tried not to notice how much of your blood was on him, a spangle of hope warming his chest as he kicked open the refrigerator and inexplicably found a med kit inside. He ripped it out of the vegetable drawer and hurried back to you, Bucky on his heels.

“No.” He opened the med kit, fishing out the wrapped, sterile tweezers before pulling off his gloves with his teeth.

Bucky had found another little miracle somewhere in his hunting—a bottle of liquor, no real label, just a piece of masking tape with VODKA written across it in Alexei’s garbled handwriting.

You eyed the tweezers in John’s hands with a grimace, shaking your head, shying away. “It’ll come out. I told you, I’m healing.”

“You can’t know that for sure,” Bucky told you, firm.

“And you’d like us to sit here while you suffer and maybe push that bullet out when there’s a solution staring us all in the face?” John added, grabbing you by the chin and forcing you to look at him. “It’s coming out. Listen to me, it’s coming out. I’ve dressed plenty of these in the field—”

You fought against his grip, shrieking suddenly from the pain. Bucky was already pawing your armor off, unzipping your sleeve before holding up the blood-soaked fabric to examine it. The bullet had just missed your armor, a lucky shot, sinking through the tac fabric at the joint by your chest plate. Bucky glanced sidelong at John, showing him the sleeve.

“Fuck,” John whispered. The fabric had torn away with the bullet. None of that could be left inside you, not even if you were convinced you could heal your way through it. Alexei’s nasty brush with sepsis was still fresh on his mind. “It has to come out,” he said to you again, leaning back as Bucky pushed the bottle of vodka into your right hand.

John closed his hand over the left side of your chest, holding you down, holding you still.

“John—”

He blinked hard at the panic in your voice, his eyes crawling from the bullet wound to your face. “Take a swig, baby. I’ve got this.”

For once, you did as he asked. He even saw the faint twitch of your brows at him calling you something sweet. You took a few fortifying gulps, Bucky poured disinfectant down your bare skin, diluting the blood, clearing a path for John and his tweezers.

“This is going to fucking hurt,” he warned you.

Your eyes hardened, burning into him. “Do it,” you whispered. “I trust you.”

You let go of the bottle, jamming it between your thighs, clamping your hand around his shoulder and anchoring it on his back. He nodded to Bucky, who took a wad of gauze and offered it to you, shoving it in your open mouth for something to bite down on.

John pressed his lips together. “Four…three…”

He didn’t wait until the count of one, having first-hand experience on the other side of the tweezers. When it was done and the shitty little pancaked bullet and the fabric it had torn off your sleeve were in his palm, you shaking and panting on the couch like a feral animal, John allowed himself a single pull from the vodka bottle. It didn’t taste like any vodka he’d had before, maybe more like bathtub Everclear. Bucky packed the wound, then taped it, rigging up a clever little harness of bandages across your shoulder and under your arm pit.

You wrestled the bottle out of John’s grip with your right hand, leaning back, head on the back of the couch. “To you, gentlemen.”

You took one last swig, and passed out.

 “I’m checking the satellite phone upstairs,” Bucky sighed, getting to his feet with a groan. “Keep an eye on her.”

John didn’t need to be instructed twice. He packed up the med kit, found a mostly finished roll of paper towels and tried to clean himself up the best he could. The sink actually worked when he tried the taps, though the whole house shook from the pipes going to work and the first spurts of water were dark orange. He ran the bullet under the water, saving it for you, or for him, a lucky charm. He dropped it in his pocket, wiped off his hands, and returned to the couch. When he sat down on your good side, the springs jabbed him in the ass in four different places, but it was still a relief.

You were drifting in and out of consciousness. “Who counts from four?” you mumbled, head lolling back and forth on the back of the sofa.

John smirked, scratching his beard and then his hair, trying to get comfortable on the ancient couch, legs kicked out, and you, all at once, tumbling into his side from the unevenness of the cushions. There was probably a family of mice scurrying under your butts, but it was easy not to think about that when you were alive, healing, nuzzling into his shoulder like it was a feather pillow and this was the Plaza. He had been so jacked up on adrenaline that he hadn’t even noticed the safehouse smelled like spoiled milk and mold.

He didn’t question it or resist when you cuddled up to his side that time. In fact, he helped it along, wrapping his arm around you before your head had even fully settled on his chest. Once you were solid, he lifted his hand to your head, gently pushing the hair back from your forehead, running his middle finger soothingly up and down your sweat-slicked temple.

When your hand curled on his chest, fingernails catching on one of the edges of the embossed red stripes, he smiled crookedly up at the ceiling. You murmured something unintelligible in your sleep.

“You know, we should try doing this somewhere nicer,” he said, closing his hand over yours, keeping it right where it was, just a few inches from his heartbeat. “You ever been to Lake Burton? No, of course you haven’t. It’s perfect this time of year. Used to visit my uncle there every summer. Picnic at Timpson Cove, fish up some bass…” He closed one eye, using the other to peer down at you. “I don’t know if you’re the fishing type. Whatever, it’s fine, I’ll teach you.”

You fussed in your sleep, mumbling, pushing against him, shoving your forehead into his neck.

“Yeah, I know you hate being told what to do,” John said, watching you latch onto his side like an insanely powerful barnacle. “But maybe you’d hate it less if we were…if we…” He didn’t even know where that thought was going or how to finish it without saying something profoundly embarrassing. Something about you telling him you trusted him had cracked his heart open under his armor. All that bluster and all those jabs at his ego, maybe Alexei was right, maybe you dug at each other because it was easier than confronting the scary truth watching from the corner. John closed his eyes, just for a minute, and allowed himself to imagine that these moments kept happening because you wanted them to, because secretly, you liked being draped across him, his heart under your hand, no space between you.

It was a lovely dream, he thought, but just a dream.

“Now who’s Captain Booboo?” he teased, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. You shifted again, your thigh hitching up as you twisted more onto your side, your warm leg falling across his, your toes hooking behind his ankle. Remarkable, that you found a way to retaliate even while fast asleep.

When Bucky came back downstairs, he took in the vision of you wrapped around John like a spider monkey with a thoroughly unimpressed look. Bored, even. John cleared his throat, suddenly wide awake, and tried not to consider what Bucky’s unfazed reaction might mean.

“Transport out will be here at zero seven thirty,” he said, turning around to head back upstairs. “You two, uh, get some rest.”

John waited until his footsteps receded and the house was quiet except for the sound of you breathing against his neck.

“You heard him,” you said softly, pressing your nose against his adam’s apple. “We have our orders.”

John’s hand stilled where it was still rubbing circles on the side of your head. “You…you…”

“Have been awake this entire time? Uh-huh.”

You tipped your head against his fingers, urging him to keep going.

“That lake sounds good,” you added, sleepy.

“Yeah?” John kissed your head again, carefully, watching for your reaction. You didn’t punch him in the dick, so that was encouraging. “Yeah.”

He let his cheek rest against your forehead, all at once too exhausted to keep his eyes open. His hand slid down to your waist, finding the natural curve of your hip and settling there. It was going to be the best nap of his life, he decided, not willing to fight any longer, warm and gooey inside, maybe--dare he suggest it--hopeful.

“You’re still Captain Booboo,” you whispered, drifting to sleep in his arms.

Yet, he walked into a room and you walked out. Training you avoided him like the plague. On missions you’d work side by side with him beautifully then the moment the work was done, you’d go back to acting like he was invisible. 

The fact that you were beautiful didn’t help matters. The way you’d shuffle through the common areas half asleep, mumbling to Ava or Bob, knocking into him by accident into the kitchen and he’d see just how annoyed it made you when you couldn’t reach your coffee mug in the cabinet and the small “Thanks John” he’d get out of you that definitely didn’t rattle around his head for days after because you were still too sleepy to register you called him by his first name.

The way you’d try to muffle your laughter on movie nights, or until Alexei would fall off the couch at a jump scare then it would turn into full body laughter, tears forming in your eyes.

Having you tucked against his chest out in the field when he’d be closest to you and see a threat coming so he’d snatch you closer to cover you both with his shield.  The way your fingers would dig into his uniform a bit,little grumbles falling under your breath of cursing the agents you were fighting. 

The rare moments he’d get to see you, relaxed, in the kitchen in the middle of the night. He’d wander in there looking for coffee and find you sipping a mug of hot cocoa or tea. Your hair would be tousled, a big shirt or tank with boxers. Your eyes would be soft despite everything when you’d ask if he was ok and that would be one of the rare moments he’d have hope that maybe just maybe you didn’t hate him. Then morning would come and things would be back to normal. 

Maybe that was why he was so pissed when Bucky assigned you and him to a three day mission. Undercover, going as husband and wife. You’d be in Paris two days of the mission, a safehouse the third and picked up for evac come the fourth. This could only spell disaster. He’d be lucky if he made it out without one of your blades that were beautifully carved with roses and ivy up the handles, an absolute masterpiece that you’d carefully carved yourself, buried in a bodypart. 

You were sitting close to John, one of his arms around the back of your chair. The heat from his body was seeping into yours through the thin jacket you wore, his thumb brushed your shoulder every now and then and that alone was a struggle to not react to. You were no damn happy he had no idea the effect he had on you. 

You’d wanted to strangle Bucky when he assigned this mission but it did fit you and John perfectly. Even if you hated admitting it. Even if the last two days had been torture. Sharing a luxurious honeymoon suite with John. him walking around with just a towel slung low on his hips after the shower, having to be touching in public to keep up the front. You were looking forward to the safehouse, just to be able to drop this front.

He shifted, hand wrapping around your upper arm and you fought the urge to stiffen. You wanted to lean into his touch, enjoy this but it was fake, he was doing it for the mission. You couldn’t fall into the cover only to have the rug snatched from under your feet. That was literal torture.

John leaned over, his lips nearly brushing your neck when he spoke “Last day in Paris, got all the intel, last meeting, anything you wanna see before we leave?”

You shook your head, regretting telling him you’d never seen Paris. He hummed low, leaned up and pressed a kiss to your temple but before you could react he murmured “Manion’s bodyguards. Showtime” 

The final meeting went over without a hitch, the suite was packed up and it was time to tuck tail to the safehouse until you could get picked up for evac. You were curled up in the passenger seat of the suv while John drove. A groan left you when the safehouse came into view, “God I am so fucking happy the play pretend is over. I was losing my fucking mind”

John could feel his jaw tighten at your words. He wasn’t going to let it get to him. He knew already it was bothering you. Just actually hearing you say it was an entirely different feeling.  

He buried it, kept his mouth closed and just hummed under his breath. He pulled to a stop in the back of the safehouse and watched you grab your bag. You shot him a small smile, “C’mon Walker. Last one in gets the shower with the least amount of hot water”

John watched you readjust the wall of pillows on the bed for the fourth time and groaned. “I’m not going to touch you sweetheart, hell I’ll sleep on the couch for fuck’s sake. Just lay your ass down already!”

You let out an uncharacteristic sound that was closer to a squeak than anything before finally laying down. You curled up under the blanket and laid still for a moment before mumbling “I know you’re never touch me without my permission”

He laid there, staring up at the ceiling. You weren’t asleep, he knew from your breathing. He finally just asked ““Do you really hate me so bad as to be glad to be away from Paris? To have to pile every pillow in the house and all the extra blankets between us?” 

You were silent and at first he thought you weren’t going to answer. Then you took a slow, deep breath “I wish that was possible. I wish I hated you, it would make life so much simpler”  he sat straight up at that. You were laying, looking up at the ceiling but when you noticed his eyes were on you, you turned your attention to him, a small smile creeping across your face, tears brimming in your eyes. 

“I care about you John, I care about you so damn much. I have for so long” you whispered it like you were afraid that by saying it too loud it may break something. “Really?” he asked and you nodded, reaching for his hand and he let you, watching you trail your fingers across his knuckles as you spoke “From the way you listen when Alexei rambles to how you always make sure everyone has the food they like to how you always make sure you’re around to get my coffee mug down to me. The way you’ve changed so much and you’re working to change more, how protective you are, how sweet you can be, how fucking gorgeous you are, the man you are underneath that exterior. You’re really amazing John and I know you may not feel the same but it was time to tell you” 

He sighed, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders “Oh sweetheart” you lifted your eyes to his and he grinned, “I feel the same. I’ve just been worried you hated me” your eyes widened then you laughed, “Throw these damn pillows off the bed then and come here”

He quickly shoved the pile of pillows and blankets off the bed. You grabbed for him, wrapping your arms around his neck. He laid there for a moment, just staring down at you. “You mean it?” you nodded, “I mean it” and dragged him down into a kiss that both of you melted into. 

John Walker Fanfic

Original opening:

John and Bob were up to something. Correction: John was up to something, and he had roped Bob in on it.

They weren't exactly subtle about it. You'd stopped counting the amount of times you'd walked into your bedroom to turn in for the night, only to find the two of them already there, dead silent and unable to look you in the eye.

At first, you thought maybe they'd finally acted on the tension that had been building ever since you all slept together that first morning. The way John had grabbed Bob and told him what to do to you? And the heat in Bob's eyes as he obeyed, looking to John for approval? Absolutely undeniable. And, if you were honest with yourself, it was hot as hell. There was some part of you that had wanted to see them kiss since John slammed Bob against the wall back in the vault.

Before you could overthink the situation (was it even really cheating if you were already dating both of them and actively having threesomes together?), Ava took it upon herself to intervene. Rather, she took the opportunity to spill the beans out of spite.

"They're planning something," Ava had said, apropos of nothing. She just walked up to you in the gym and laid it on the table like a cat would drop a dead bird at your feet. There was no question who she was talking about, so Ava didn't even waste her time to say their names. "Overheard their conversation in the kitchen this morning."

"I'm not sure I want to know…" you said hesitantly. After all, if it was something romantic like a surprise weekend getaway or a special date, you didn't exactly want that to be ruined for you.

"Oh, you do," Ava said confidently, giving you that smug side-eye that she wore so well. "Walker was talking logistics. I thought it was about a mission at first and wondered why he'd be strategizing with Bob of all people. Then he said something about you, some handcuffs, and positioning…"

Heat flooded your cheeks almost immediately, and you pressed your hands to your face as if willing your skin to cool down. Even though you knew both of you were alone in the gym, you couldn't help darting your gaze around the place just in case. This was turning out to be the kind of conversation you definitely did not want to be overheard. "Jesus Christ, Ava."

Ava only scoffed at you. "Don't be a prude. I've heard some of those naughty things you whisper to your little boyfriends when you think no one is paying attention: 'I'm still sore from this morning.' 'You looked so pretty last night underneath me.' 'If you're a good boy, I'm going to ride your fa-'"

"OKAY!" you interrupted, burying your burning face in your hands. You hadn't been this embarrassed since the time Alexei stumbled across you and John going at it in a supply closet after a debrief. Fortunately, you were both (mostly) clothed, but the fatherly advice he kept giving the both of you in public for weeks later more than made up for that small grace. "That is…more than enough, Ava! Thank you."

Ava's smirk was dangerously close to a genuine grin at this point. "So, do you want to know their plan or not?"

"Honestly, Ave, I'm not sure…"

"What if I said they were planning on surprising you with it?" That gave you pause.

Your eyes bulged in surprise before you fully processed the implications of her words. Then your eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "They wouldn't dare…"

"Oh, they would."

Bob froze immediately, a deer in the headlights, the sound combined with your sudden, unexpected movement momentarily stunning him. A pang of guilt wracked your chest at the brief glimpse of fear in his eyes, but you soothed yourself with the knowledge that soon, Bob would be underneath you, and you'd reward him generously for his cooperation.

John was the only one who snapped into motion. He grabbed the popcorn bowl, putting it firmly on the coffee table. His hands urged you to stand as he inspected the couch to make sure no wine had reached the plush material. It would be a pain in the ass to clean, and you felt a wave of gratefulness flood you at how quickly he prevented that.

"It's okay," John said soothingly, partially directed toward you but mostly directed at Bob, who hadn't moved an inch. He reached over, giving Bob's arm a gentle squeeze. "We're all okay. It was an accident, and everything is all right."

Before the guilt could squeeze tighter, like a snake coiling around your lungs, Bob snapped into motion. It was like all the time he was frozen in place, he was revving up, building energy, and had just let it loose. He stood up, immediately taking the wine glass from your hand and placing it on the table, all the while swearing a blue streak under his breath.

"Fuck, I'm so sorry!" Bob said, running a hand through his hair. "What do we need? What do you need? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?" He wasn't manic, but he definitely was rambling like he was, all his thoughts flowing out of his mouth, filter nowhere to be found.

"Hey," you said calmly, cupping his face with your hands, forcing him to look you in the eye.

Everything was a blur of motion after that - John grabbing a stack of napkins to prevent any wine from dripping on the floor, Bob

John grabbed the stack of napkins off the table, handing you some and starting to dab the wine out of your clothing. Your outfit was beyond the help of a simple dry and stain remover, but at least you wouldn't trail wine all over your living room.

When Bob started muttering to himself under his breath, John whipped his head up.

"Bobby, go get us the paper towels." He gestured toward the roll across the room that you kept just in case of emergencies like this. Bob's eyes followed where John pointed, a sudden focus in them. He scurried over and grabbed them, br

Bob was muttering under his breath, a mix of curses and apologies spit out ad nauseam.

"Hey," you interrupted him, your voice a gentle admonishment. "Please don't finish that thought. It's not true." This wasn't Bob's fault at all. Guilt wrapped its way around your lungs, squeezing them like a boa constrictor.

Taking one of his hands in yours, you brought his knuckles up to your lips, pressing a soft kiss there.

When he didn't respond, you added, "I don't want to ruin our date night." It was unfair, but it worked. The idea of you feeling like you'd messed up the evening was enough to break whatever resolve John had that held him in place.

His expression visibly softened. John reached out, cupping your cheek in his free hand. Instinctively, you leaned into his touch.

"Of course," he murmured, leaning in to plant a tender kiss to your forehead. "And you didn't ruin anything," he whispered. "You never do."

For a second, you felt a pang of guilt for manipulating him, even if it was for something he'd enjoy in the end. But you pushed it down, opting instead to stretch up on your toes to press a chaste kiss to his lips.

"Thank you, baby." And you meant it genuinely.

John smiled down at you, his eyes crinkling and showing those smile lines you loved so much. "Anything for you, princess."

You smiled back, putting your hand over his and turning to plant a kiss on the palm of his hand before turning away. Bob was watching you both closely, and you were a little surprised to see a similarly tender look on his face. It was like watching you and John together made him feel...

At first, you almost admonished him, thinking it was purely sexual. But when he buried his face in your neck and inhaled shakily like he was drowning and you were oxygen, it became very apparent that wasn't the case. You wrapped your arms tightly around Bob, giving his torso a squeeze.

"You okay, baby?" you murmured as you kissed the side of his head. You tried to catch John's eye, but the other man had already swooped in, taking the items from Bob's hands placing them on the coffee table.

Bob nodded his head without looking up, gripping your back with his newly-freed hands.

"Words, baby," you said with huff of laughter at his antics. You raised your eyebrows questioningly at John when he came back over, but he shook his head and shrugged with a bemused expression on his face.

Bob pulled back just enough to speak, his warm breath tickling your skin.

"'M good," he mumbled. "Missed you."

You couldn't hold back a fond laugh. "Missed me? I saw you maybe an hour, hour and a half ago at dinner, silly."

Bob's brown curls brushed against your face as he shook his head, the locks tickling your nose. You must have made a face, because John laughed, a low, pleasing sound, one that you always savored.

"Too long. Missed you," Bob mumbled, his words muffled as he spoke directly against your skin, like pulling away to talk was too much distance. You rubbed his back, hand going up and down. Bob practically purred at your touch, humming with satisfaction.

Too much more of this and Bob would be in danger of slipping into subspace. That's if he wasn't already.

"C'mon, baby," you said to him, trying to take half a step backwards only to be thwarted by Bob tightening his arms around you. "We don't wanna miss out on movie night."

A daydream that I ended up cutting down to one sentence:

Bob would kneel at John's feet, whimpering at each strike. He'd squirm, trying to stay still like he was ordered to while also keeping his ass off the ground, the skin there reddened and extra sensitive from John's rough treatment. His cock would be hard and twitching between his legs, but he wouldn't touch it or do anything to relieve the pressure until John said so. Maybe he'd let Bob hump your leg until he came. Maybe he'd let Bob fuck your leaking hole after John used you for his own pleasure. Or maybe John would take mercy on Bob, roughly jerking the other man off while whispering in his ear just loud enough for you to hear about how only good boys get to cum…

John trying to be more dominant and throwing off my groove:

But you only gave him a moment before pulling back, your lips parting with an audible sound. When he tried to follow you again, intent on his mission to assault your mouth, you put your free hand on his chest to stop him. His eyes searched yours, trying to glean meaning there, but all he saw was a mischievous glimmer.

"What's the plan, darlin'?" he asked almost breathlessly, lips still spit-slick from your all-too-brief kiss. All ideas of handcuffs and rope and surprise domination seemed to have flown out the window all because of a little lace and Bob's bared flesh. You couldn't fight the smirk that curled your lips.

"What do you think the plan is, baby?" you asked coyly, running your finger along his collarbone playfully. He shivered when you ran it up his neck and jaw, tracing the surprisingly delicate shell of his ear, lingering on the freckle there you loved so much.

John glanced over his shoulder at Bob before looking at you with a grin on his face. Obviously he thought you and he were equals tonight, that you were both dominating Bob together. Oh, how very wrong he was.

"I think you want me to fuck you on the bed right next to him." John took a half step closer, crowding you again. Instead of trying to kiss you, he gestured with his head, nodding back at the man on the bed without using his words. Further riling up Bob seemed to be next on John's agenda for the evening. Far be it from you to protest.

"Make him listen to you cum on my cock without being able to lay a single finger on you or even see you." Bob, who had long ago gone quiet to listen to you and John talk, let out a choked sound at John's words. Your eyes snapped to look past John at the bed, but he kept his hand firm on your chin, keeping your gaze in place, his grin growing to almost Cheshire proportions.

"All he gets is the sound of our bodies and you screaming my name. And maybe, if he's good…we'll let him cum." Bob's breathing was audibly heavier, air blowing through the holes in his ball gag.

John tilted his head to the side, lifting his eyebrows as if to say 'Did I guess right?'

"As…tempting as that idea is…No."

John didn't look surprised in the slightest. Instead, his eyes lit up.

"You, on your knees..." Bob didn't make another peep. You'd told him to be quiet, so John was going to have to try harder.

"That's a good start," you commented dryly.

John hummed in agreement. "I know Bob prefers you on your back, but I'm pretty fond of the view from behind." There was a rustling sound coming from the bed. You moved to look over John's shoulder, and he didn't stop you this time. Bob was squirming, his legs starting to get tangled up in the sheets. If you'd've had more time, those would be tied down as well. You leaned back, nodding at John to continue.

"That way I can fuck that pretty cunt and watch your ass bounce on my dick." There was a sound from Bob, not quite a whimper. It was more like a squeak. Being unable to bite his lip to keep quiet was definitely becoming a problem for him.

"All the while you choke on Bob's cock. You'll try to stay in control, of course," he said with a smirk. "But I'll grab you by the hair and make you gag."

Bob may not have been able to speak, but the sound he let out was most certainly the words 'Nuh uh.'

"I don't think he liked that part as much," you noted and had to bite your lip to not laugh at the annoyed look on John's face.

"She likes choking on it, Bobby," he chided with more than a little attitude in his voice.

The noise Bob replied with was just as full of attitude.

"I think that's a hard no for Bob," you noted, stating the obvious, amusement clear in your voice.

"Hmpf. So stubborn" John huffed, rolling his eyes. When he spoke next, it was over his shoulder, aimed directly at Bob. "Okay, so she sucks your cock while I fuck her, and she doesn't get all sloppy and drooly while doing it."

You couldn't hold back a small giggle when Bob hummed his approval with a very clear 'Mmm hmm.' Stretching back up, you pressed another kiss to John's lips then another when he didn't immediately stop pouting.

"Only Bob can somehow figure out a way to still be a brat when tied up and gagged," John muttered under his breath. Letting out a breathy laugh, you gave John one last kiss, nipping playfully at his lower lip before letting the heels of your feet descend back to the floor.

"Next idea?" you prompted, threading your fingers through the hair at the base of John's neck, grinning at his unconscious shiver at the feeling.

"Maybe…" John paused, a thoughtful expression on his face. He was insanely adorable, moreso than he had any right to be, his chin wrinkling under his beard as he pursed his lips, jaw jutting forward enough to highlight his slight underbite.

You'd heard that people could be 'struck' by an idea before, but you'd never seen it so literally before as John's eyes widened, his body jolting like a bolt of electricity surged through it.

"Baby…" he breathed, eyes roaming your face with an intense expression. His hands were back on your hips, gripping them and pulling you against his chest. You knew whatever he came up with really got to him just from how be didn't comment on the undignified noise you let out.

"You know," he started coolly, his voice low and dangerous. "I could end this right now. Throw you over my shoulder, toss you on the bed, and have my way with you."

He paused, eyes raising to the ceiling like another idea had come to him, before adding, "Keep Bob tied up. Make him listen to me take you apart."

Bob, who had long ago gone quiet to listen to you and John talk, let out a choked sound at John's words. Your eyes snapped to look past John at the bed, but he took hold of your chin, keeping your gaze on him.

"Or I could go out and get the rope I had put away for tonight," John continued smoothly. His eyes were fixed on yours, pinning you in place. You couldn't move if you wanted to. "And spend the rest of the night making you cum over…and over…and over again until you pass out. Me and Bob taking turns."

There was no denying the effect his words had on you. And from the glint in his eyes, John knew what he was doing.

You could picture it - tied up on the bed, the blindfold now on your eyes instead of Bob's, chemise pushed up your body, breasts spilling out the top of your outfit, sobbing and shaking as John abused your clit, pushing you over the edge for the umpteenth time that night. It took everything in you to not press your thighs together for some much-needed friction on your throbbing clit.

At this point, you were surprised you weren't literally so wet that it was dripping down your thighs.

"So, what's it going to be?" You were aiming for sounding conversational, maybe even a little aloof, but judging by the sharp look on John's face, he didn't see it that way.

"So many options," he said, a teasing lilt in his voice. "How am I supposed to choose just one?"

"I think it's a fairly simple choice," you countered with a shrug.

"So," you murmured, trying to go for a smooth and seductive tone but sounding much more breathy than you intended. Your heart pounded in your chest hard enough that you wondered if John could feel it. "How're we going to do this?"

"Thought you were the one runnin' the show, princess," John teased, his voice low and making his chest rumble as he spoke.

"You have a choice," you practically whispered, looking up to meet his eyes directly. For a second, there was no pretense, no playing. You weren't a wicked seductress twirling him around your finger. You were his girlfriend, his partner, checking in with him, giving him the option to stop or to change the scene.

His answering smile was soft and crooked that way that it only got when he was being himself - Not Walker, not the U.S. Agent, not the fuck up Captain America. Just John. Your John. Your chest felt warm at the sight of it.

"Baby, I haven't had a single damn choice since the second I saw you in this little dress," he drawled, hands squeezing your flesh and pulling you impossibly closer. The bulge in his jeans was hard to miss as it rubbed against your thigh.

"You haven't even seen the best part of it," you teased, grinning up at him playfully.

"I gotta disagree with you there," John murmured, his eyes fixated on yours like he couldn't bear to look away. "The best part is what's under it, and I've seen that many, many times." Before you could say something smart, he quickly added, "Not that I'm complainin'. If Bob and I had it our way, you'd never wear clothes."

"That would be awfully cold, wouldn't it?" You reached up, booping him on the nose. John scowled at you playfully, and you couldn't help the little giggle that escaped your mouth. He started inclining his head. It was like he was drawn to your mouth.

"Mmm, pretty sure we could keep you plenty warm," John whispered against your mouth before capturing your lips in a kiss as warm and comfortable as sinking into a bath at the end of a long day. Your tongues slid against each other in a familiar dance, neither one of you taking the lead. You could have kept kissing him all day. But the sound of a familiar whine coming from the bed forced you two apart, wiping at your wet lips.

"Sorry, Bobby. I distracted her," John called over his shoulder. You took the moment to look past him at the bed. Bob's head was turned towards you both, like he could will a way to see through his blindfold. He was practically on his side, one arm stretched harder than the other, causing his back to arch. The muscles in his side were taut and flexed, but it didn't seem to be affecting him negatively. And judging by the still hard erection dripping with pre-cum, hearing you and John making out only spurred him to an even more heightened state of arousal.

"Just one more minute, baby," you soothed. "One more minute, and you'll get rewarded. I promise. Is that okay?"

When he nodded his consent, you let out a small sigh of relief before turning back to look at John. He'd taken a step back, putting some space between you. Not a lot. Just enough to be able to hold out both of his hands in front of him in surrender, waiting for you to cuff him.

Playfully, you poked his arm. He rubbed at it, pouting like your finger hurt him, but you knew better. "Thought you were straight, Walker."

"I am," he admitted, and you couldn't help but note that Bob instantly frowned. "But I'm…" John searched for the right words before breathing out a sigh that ruffled his hair. "I guess I'm flexible."

There was a glint in Bob's eyes at the word 'flexible,' one that John seemed to notice as well, judging by the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

"Flexible?" you teased, grinning at him. "Hear that, Bob? John's flexible."

"Hmm. Is that right?" Bob hummed. His voice was…different. Not worringly so, but enough that it gave you pause. Turning to look at him, your mouth opened in silent surprise. His eyes were stormy in that way he got when he was fully focused on you. Internally, you called it The Look. It was the same intense gaze that always seemed to end with his hands slipping under your clothes, his mouth wetting your skin, and his cock buried inside of you regardless of where you were. He gave you this same look the time he spontaneously went down on you in the command center, claiming it'd been too long and he needed to taste you or he'd explode. It was the same look he gave you on one of your more casual dates when you wore a new top that ended with you both in a bookstore bathroom, Bob's lips suckling your breasts, his fingers buried deep inside of you.

"How flexible?" Bob asked. His voice was suddenly deeper, a bit more raspy than normal. Both you and John turned your attention to the other man. Even from your angle, you could see it in Bob's eyes - The Look. It was the same look you'd seen before he spontaneously went down on you in the control room one day, or when you wore a low cut top on a casual date and he ended up pulling you into the bookstore bathroom, desperate to get his hands under your blouse and into your pants. But this time? It was focused on John.

"Uh, I'm not quite sure how to answer that question, Bobby," John confessed. He looked nervous, not quite able to hold Bob's intense gaze for long. But he kept flicking his eyes back up, catching little glimpses of his stare like he couldn't stand to look away for long.

God, I HATED cutting this:

This wouldn't be my first rodeo."

It was your turn to stare at him in shock. "You've…?"

John shrugged. "When you're a teenager hanging out with your friends in the woods, horny, bored, and drunk as hell…gotta occupy your time somehow. And there's the tours overseas. You get lonely, and sometimes you gotta scratch each other's backs." At your sharp look, John continued, "Olivia knew. We talked about it before I went on duty. I could mess around with my squad, and she could have sleepovers with her friend, Lisa."

"Ex-cuse me?!" you squeaked out, completely agog at his words. "Olivia likes women?"

John said your name with an admonishing tone, giving you a look that said he'd (correctly) predicted your thought process.

"We're not inviting my ex-wife into our bed," John said firmly.

"Why not?!" you demanded, voice closer to a whine than you'd ever admit to.

"Babe, we have to put a limit somewhere. And this is the kind of greed they talk about in the Bible."

Bob held his hands out in surrender when you turned to him for help. "Don't look at me. I'm a neutral party here.

"No, you're not," you protested. "You are a very invested party seeing as you would be involved."

"I think the bigger issue here is that you've asked John if he's interested in me, but no one's asked for my opinion."

John raised his eyebrow, and you snorted.

"Bob, I have eyes," you scoffed.

Bob gaped at you. "Hey, that's not-"

"Bobby, I've caught you staring at my ass enough times that I was tempted to send you a picture because they last longer," John drawled with a self-satisfied grin. Bob at least had the dignity to look a little embarrassed.

"It's, uh…you've got a nice ass," Bob muttered.

"Yeah?" John asked, his voice dipping noticeably lower. Bob bit his lip, and John's eyes dipped down to stare.

"Yeah," said Bob.

Alternate ending:

When his breathing started to even out, you propped yourself up on your arm to gaze down at him, watching his reactions more closely. John slowly opened his eyes, blinking to focus on your face.

"Hey, handsome," you murmured to him. His lips quirked up, giving you a lazy, slightly lopsided smile.

"Hey," he mumbled back, his voice just a hint of raspy. He paused, those beautiful, light blue eyes searching your face. "God, you're so beautiful."

You let out a rather undignified snort, which only made John's smile look even more dopey and Bob grin up at you as he wiped down the other man's stomach.

"You're such a dork," you said back, leaning down to kiss the tip of his nose. John anticipated your move, stretching up to catch your lips with his own. You couldn't help it; you sighed happily into the kiss. "You feeling okay?"

"Okay?" he asked with a little laugh. Moving his head, John looked up at Bob, who paused his ministrations to return John's hesitant smile. "I think I'm pretty fucking fantastic right now. Feel like I'm floating on a goddamn cloud."

Bob went back to cleaning up, biting back what looked to be a particularly smug grin.

"Same, honestly," you admitted, laying back down, resting your head on John's shoulder. The three of you sat in comfortable silence for a little while, the only sounds that of your breathing and the shuffling of the sheets as Bob shifted in the bed.

John suddenly hissed through his teeth when Bob gently wiped down his still-sensitive cock, and Bob planted a little kiss on his hip as an apology.

"Sorry," Bob murmured. "Need to clean you up."

"S'okay, Bobby," John answered, and you two went back to watching Bob until he finally laid down on John's other side. He folded the washcloth, handing it to you to wipe away any lingering wetness on John's face, which you gladly did.

"Are we gonna talk about this like adults?" Bob asked, glancing back and forth between you and John. He wasn't exactly cuddled up against John either, like he was nervous to be too forward now that there wasn't a scene to hide behind.

You grinned at him. "If you think I'm letting you two act like this never happened, you've got another thing coming. Right, John?"

There was no response from the blond. He was too busy watching Bob, his brow furrowed slightly as his eyes swept over the other man. The silence was long enough that Bob started fidgeting, one of his hands unconsciously taking a little section of the sheets between his forefinger and thumb and rubbing it back and forth. It was one of his most common stims, and the reason that the sleeves on most of his sweaters were frayed at the ends.

When John did speak, his voice was soft, gentle. It reminded you of the time you'd went to a petting zoo together, and a kitten was cowering in the corner, scared of all the strangers making noises. John had knelt down, extended his hand in offering, and spoke quietly to the kitten until it finally acquiesced, letting John give it some treats and a little scratch between its ears.

"We can do whatever we want, Bob. There aren't any rules around this," he said simply. "This can be a one time thing. Just a way to blow off steam. If you want, that is."

Bob didn't respond right away. He laid there, his expression one of deep thought as though he was trying to solve some deep philosophical conundrum. You stayed quiet. This wasn't your conversation to have. And John waited, not taking his eyes off the other man.

When he finally spoke, Bob looked John right in the eye. "But what do you want?"

"This was…pretty great," John admitted. You smiled, kissing John's shoulder, draping your hand across his torso to hug him closer. He slipped his arm underneath you, pulling you closer to him in a tight squeeze. "I wouldn't mind having more of this in the future. Maybe more." He ended his words with an upward lilt - not quite a question, but not quite a statement either.

Bob paused, seemingly to think again. But this time, his eyes stayed on John's face, staring as if he was hoping to find a way to read the other man's mind before he answered. Whether that was to judge if he was being truthful or if there was more to his words, you didn't know. But Bob must have found something there, because his expression relaxed slightly.

"I'd like…more too," Bob said awkwardly. He took a breath, licking his lips before continuing. "Can I…" As if he'd run out of steam mid-sentence, Bob stopped, his expression shifting to one you recognized well: self-deprecation. "Nevermind. Ignore me."

"No," John said immediately, reaching out and putting his hand on Bob's arm. "What were you going to say?"

Bob let out a laugh, but it rang hollow in your ears. Instinctively, you frowned, and you weren't surprised to see John do the same thing.

"Bobby…" he prompted.

"I was going to ask for a kiss," Bob admitted, but quickly added, "But it's probably too soon to ask for something like that, I get it."

"All of this is…new," Bob finished lamely, barely able to meet John's or your eyes.

"Yes."

Bob blinked, confused. "Yes…?"

"Kiss me," John said simply, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

"Really?" Bob blurted out incredulously, and you had to bite your lip to hold back your laughter.

"I sucked your dick, Bob," John said plainly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He shot Bob a withering look. "We're way past having to ask permission for a kiss."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess when you put it that way…" Bob started, but John reached up, grabbing a fistful of Bob's hair, and tugged him down to where their faces were inches apart.

"I said 'kiss me,'" John repeated, his teeth slightly gritted. Bob took the hint.

When their lips met, it felt like the air went out of the room for the second time that night. Time didn't seem to exist. Everything was just your two gorgeous boyfriends, lips and tongues and teeth pressed together, and the breathy noises they made. They looked good together. Right. Like this was supposed to be. Even though both men had eked an orgasm out of you and you should be too tired to be turned on, heat pulsed between your legs anyway.

By the time Bob pulled back, they were both slightly out of breath, staring into each other's eyes.

"I could get used to that," you interjected, grinning when both men turned and looked at you with stupefied expressions.

"What?" you teased. "Forget I was here?"

Bob immediately looked offended, his jaw dropping in a silent gasp, that adorable wrinkle forming between his eyebrows as he furrowed them. But before he could say anything in response, John's other hand had slipped out from under you and fisted in your hair. You let out a gasp at the feeling that was closer to a moan than you'd like to admit and could feel your chest heaving against the cups of her chemise, two things which your boyfriends definitely noticed.

John pulled you down into a kiss just as passionate as the one he shared with Bob, leaving you wet and out of breath when he finally let you pull away. And judging from the way both men were already half-hard, you weren't the only one affected.

"The night isn't over, is it?" Bob asked. looking between the two of you, but it was less of a question this time and more of a statement.

"Not even close," John said with a grin. He used his grip on both of you and Bob to push your heads towards each other. "Now kiss."

Lace Divider Credit -> @/strangergraphics

MDNI Divider Credit -> @/strangergraphics

Images in headers are not mine.

Hope you liked it! Feel free to like, reblog, or comment!

Three Months Ago Tokyo

John Walker was accustomed to entering rooms nobody wanted to see him in, so it was a rare feeling, a special feeling, to be someone else for a night. Or try to be, at least. John’s ill-fated brush with stardom had left him suspicious at best of anyone who chased wealth and fame. Now he was expected to look loose and natural in a room full of graspers.

“What’s my face doing?” he asked you the moment the elevator dumped the two of you onto the rooftop bar.

“Nothing good,” you said, turning to adjust his tie, a little gesture that put him more at ease. His fake wedding band felt too tight. It had a diamond in it that was more expensive than his last house. You, by contrast, didn’t seem nervous at all. “Deep breath in, deep breath out. Try to look bored. That’s better. Some of the people here haven’t had a genuine feeling since 2008. Pretend you’re at the DMV.”

You were Trip and Margaret Bay, indolent billionaires who had made a fortune in silica mines. The backstory had seemed needlessly complex to John, with years of personal details, anniversaries, and preferences crammed into a dossier that you had given to him weeks earlier. You didn’t come from money like this, but previous to your life as a New Avenger, you had moved in circles he hadn’t even heard of let alone brushed up against. This was weird money. Eyes Wide Shut money. You took it in stride; John decided that would be his lifeline, his passport to this strange new world, but the itch under his skin never went away, not even after hours of playing the disaffected rich man.

It was almost midnight; everyone at the showcase was a few cocktails deep except for you. John was permitted to indulge to fit in and avoid suspicion; it would look odd if both of you turned down renowned cocktails devised by Andrea Minarelli exclusively for The Bvlgari Bar. You led him to the warmly lit bar, the shelves lined up neatly in front of a sprawling mosaic of peacocks hiding among vines.

John’s eyes had watered when you subtly directed him to order the Yamazaki 12 Rob Roy off the bespoke menu. You had noticed his pained expression, the way his eyes widened in alarm.

“Close your mouth. It’s yen not dollars,” you whispered, smiling through it.

“I know that.”

It was still almost fifty American dollars for a fucking drink. You urged him down to your level with a flirty tug on his tie, then murmured into his ear how to order it in perfect Japanese. John’s panic over the price evaporated. Nobody had ever grabbed him by the tie like that. You were so confident. Cool. And shit, it was unbearably hot, competency on a level that made his stomach flip like he was sixteen again. He repeated the words to the bartender, and he must not have botched it, because the whisky drink was dramatically and flamboyantly prepared while you watched, side by side.

“How do you know all this shit?” he asked, taking the drink and offering his arm. You looped around it like holding onto him was an old habit, like you had done it a thousand times. Maybe it was just acting, maybe he hadn’t earned it, but it felt nice to be touched in a familiar way.

“We all have our strengths,” you had said, shrugging, surreptitiously feeling his bicep through his suit to underscore your point. “That’s what makes us a good team.”

“Really? Because that bartender looked at you like you had married a dancing pig.”

You considered that with your fingertip dancing back and forth along your lower lip, a tick of yours he was beginning to dread. Stop making me look. “Because he speaks English, too, Trip, I was just showing off.”

He frowned, sipped the drink, and was too bowled over by the quality to complain about the process. Still grimacing, he fluffed his hair. “Do I look like a Trip?”

You patted his forearm. “I’m not answering that.”

And the evening had gone like that, you gently guiding him through the flaming hoops of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous while John swallowed his pride and let you take the reins. Not a thing he was good at. Not a thing he looked forward to. Somehow, you didn’t make him feel small about it. And so far, he was adequately performing his primary function, which was to stand very tall when anyone looked at you too long or got too close, and play a doting labrador of a husband.

You were there for more than just ludicrously overpriced cocktails. Cosmo Bonifacio and his controversially younger wife, Alessia, had rented out the rooftop bar at the Bvlgari Hotel to show their latest jewelry collection to only the most serious buyers. Plinths draped in black velvet had been marched in and arranged around the bar, and each came to hold a dazzling piece of one-of-a-kind ornamentation. It was all a big show in the literal and the figurative; Bonifacio was transferring a particular gem, one that had been pried out of a comet, one that had significance far beyond its shimmer and glow, to a target that could not be allowed to have it.

A small crowd had stayed around the gem for hours, admiring, discussing. Until that group thinned, you were both forced to engage in conversation with the worst people on the planet. He had done an admiral job, in his estimation, of regurgitating the backstory you had prepped. Maybe he had overachieved, because at one point in the evening, Cosmo and Alessia had cornered him alone, dying to hear all about how the two of you met, what the courtship was like, the engagement, and so on. Alessia was a real romantic. She peppered John with questions and sighs until his eye twitched; he got the sense she was maybe a bit jealous of what you two had.

What you pretend had.

And now at night’s end it was just the four of you—Cosmo, Alessia, John and yourself—planted around the pillar with the ominously shiny ring. The lab had fabricated a knock off to your specifications, a process that had taken months and a small fortune. You two were never going to get more alone with the thing than you were now, and it was up to John to keep all eyes on him. He watched you palm the fake ring, slipping it out of your clutch, silky smooth, perceptible only because he was looking for it.

“You have been so kind to entertain us all evening, Mr. Bay,” Alessia was saying, quite drunk, waving her glass around so much it was practically empty. Her high heels were splattered with gin. She pried herself away from her wrinkled windbag of a husband to drape herself across John. “The stories you tell! We really must have you to the house in Forte dei Marmi.”

He stood stock still while Alessia felt up his arm, then his chest, his eyes dragging to you just briefly, monitoring your progress with the ring. Nobody was the wiser. You pretended to bump the plinth with your hip, steadying it in a feigned panic, the black fabric of your shawl hiding the swap as you seamlessly dropped the fake into place.

You were just retracting your arm, transferring the real deal into your purse, when Alessia spun around, bounding back over to you with a giggle. John had noticed at one point that she and her husband weirdly looked like they could be related in a father/daughter kind of way, an observation he had shared with you in a private booth. You had snorted down into your club soda.

“Behave,” you had warned him, in a voice that instead made him want to act up, make you laugh for him like that again.

Annoyance flitted across your face as Alessia flounced up to you. Years of military experience sent alarm bells up in John’s head. He dropped his mostly empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter and shifted toward you, preparing for…what, he couldn’t say. Just preparing.

“Your husband was telling me all about your beautiful engagement. Cosmo took me to Paris, but everyone goes to Paris,” she said, rolling her eyes. Her husband, little more than a bump on a log at this point, grumbled something under his breath in Italian. “Nothing like—ah, mi dispiace—” She scrunched up her face, snapping her fingers, trying to recall what John had told her. Those alarm bells got louder and louder as she poked you in the chest, asking, “Where was it again?”

It wouldn’t have been a problem if he had just remembered the convoluted backstories, but his mind had blanked, and in a moment of panic, John had riffed. You hadn’t been present for that part of their charming conversation. And John knew it would look unbelievably suspicious if you—the person who had allegedly been proposed to—gave her the wrong location. He acted on instinct, taking one step toward you, melding himself against your left side, his hand scooping down to cup your face as he turned it slightly. John leaned down, brushing his lips against your ear, whispering, “say Central Park,” then completed the turn of your head to cover the whisper and planted a kiss directly on your mouth.

You kissed him right back, eagerly, deeply. Fuck. It made his pulse double. The faint, powdery taste of your lipstick gave way to the taste of just you. Your tongue grazed his, but he couldn’t say whether he had initiated that or you had. He just knew it felt natural, like his hands belonged in your hair, your lips sealed to his. Your hands slid up his chest, nails scratching through his shirt, and it was so intimate, so fucking sexy, it blotted out the rest of the roof, the rest of Tokyo, for a brief and beautiful instant.

When you pulled away, your eyes were drowsy, your lips swollen from the pressure of his lips.

“Sorry,” John said, chuckling and settling his arm around your shoulders, sliding it down to your waist. “When I think about that day, I just get…”

“Overwhelmed,” you finished for him, breathless, playing nervously with the strands of your necklace. “Central Park,” you said, directing the answer to Alessia. “It was perfect.”

“Ma dai, I just want to wrap you in a little box and take you home,” she sighed, reaching up to pinch your cheek and John’s at the same time. “Don’t you just love them, tesoro?” she asked, letting go and returning to her husband. John was pretty sure the guy had fallen asleep standing up.

The rest of the night was a blur until you were out of the hotel and in the car that would deliver you to the airport. John loosened his tie, knees spread in the tiny fucking car, feeling like a man sardine as he tried to get comfortable. He rolled down the window, letting the night air hit his flushed skin. The post-mission jitters were still zipping through him like shocks of lightning, heat and sweat venting through his palms.

You called in the mission status, then tucked your phone into your bag.

He felt your eyes on him in the dark car.

“Should we talk about it?” you asked softly.

“I shouldn’t have deviated,” John blurted out. He didn’t know where that came from. Hell, probably. “The story, I mean. I shouldn’t have improvised.”

It sounded wrong. Too mean. Too clipped. Defensive, like he wanted to talk about anything but that kiss. By the time he swiveled to apologize for his dogshit stupid mouth, you were staring out the window, cold. “We got through it,” you said, and he could hear the wall slamming down, the curtain closing, on your side and on his. “Nothing exploded. Nobody died. But yes, next time it would be better if you came prepared.”

You couldn’t pinpoint when John Walker decided he hated you or what you had done to deserve it, but confusion didn’t mitigate harm. It hurt, the way your growing camaraderie was killed, abruptly, by a cold snap. All things considered, you thought that you had responded appropriately to being manhandled into a tongue kiss on a rooftop bar, all because John F. Walker couldn’t memorize a few paragraphs of backstory. You wondered what the F stood for, but in your less charitable moments, you decided it stood for Fucking Forgetful.

Which was wild, you thought, considering the guy was so strong, fast, and smart that the government had studied him way before a drop of serum ever hit his bloodstream. Maybe he had panicked, he certainly hadn’t been in his natural environment, but still, it wasn’t your fault he had almost blown your cover.

Three months of being iced out. Three months of a gigantic man trying to make himself as tiny as possible whenever you were in the room. Three months of Yelena and Ava poking at you to find out what went wrong, what happened in Tokyo, because John was acting like you had spontaneously developed leprosy. Each time, your answer was the same—the mission went well, you made a great team, the two of you smoothed out the single hiccup that could’ve made everything go tits up.

You left out the itsy-bitsy, totally not important detail of The Kiss.

The Kiss that felt like it had been simmering between you all night. The Kiss that was hotter than anything you’d experienced with an actual partner. The Kiss that made you want to curl up in his arms and just stay. The Kiss that burned his cherry whisky flavor onto your tongue for good. The Kiss that you tried like hell to scrape from your memories but never could. You tasted him and felt his hard chest pressing against you in dreams. You woke up with the scratch of his fingernails still stinging against your scalp.

“I think you should wear the blue one,” Yelena said, pointing to a slinky slip dress in your closet; it was sandwiched between the other options, a more sedate black jumpsuit and a red dress you actually kind of hated and needed to donate. “I want to see Walker’s head pop like a grape. It will be funny.”

“No explosions tonight, Lena. He’s not interested.” Still, you agreed that the blue dress was the right choice. It was actually pewter, a distinction you despised yourself for knowing. Such was the lifestyle you had partially lived and further studied to become an espionage expert. Souped-up cat burglar was how a layman might describe you; admittedly, you had never met a state secret you didn’t want to heist. “He’s made that painfully clear.”

“Pft. No. I don’t buy it. He’s obsessed with you,” she countered, sliding past you to take the dress out herself and shove it into your arms. Her hair was combed back and pinned, heavy black makeup rimming her eyes, her own killer physique jammed into a sheer top and high-waisted leather pants. It was an important night; everyone wanted to look cool and interesting and extremely secure in themselves and their positions. Bucky had finally convinced Sam to let some of the other Avengers come by for a mingling event, casual party stuff, a social olive branch. You had kept more than just The Kiss from Yelena; she didn’t know, none of your teammates did, that there was a solid chance your ex would show up.

Deep breath in, deep breath out.

There was no modesty left between you. You shucked your robe and pulled the dress on, deciding it didn’t even really require a bra, the built-in boning would be plenty. And if it wasn’t? Some lucky gentleman would get a show. Maybe your ex, although he really didn’t deserve it.

“I’m not going over this with you again,” you said, marching to your vanity to plonk down and sift through your makeup. The lipsticks clacked as you riffled through a plastic bin and Yelena glowered at you in the mirror, her hands on her hips. “He’s said maybe two words to me this entire month. He looks at me like there’s a dildo hanging out of my nose.”

“That would be impressive,” she said, smirking. “This is just how all the very depressed American men are. He’s afraid his dick will fall off if he admits how much he wants to worship at your feet. It’s a whole thing. There are podcasts about it.”

“Pass,” you muttered.

“And I agree that he doesn’t deserve you, but he did, I think, before this weird phase of his started.” Yelena sighed, beginning to pace, talking with her hands as she always did. “He is being a truly divorced dad right now, but I swear, he used to googoo gaga at the back of your head, like, all the time. All the time during briefings, team building exercises, training...”

“Well. That’s over.” Womp, womp. You shrugged, pretending it didn’t cut you to the bone. “Something changed.”

She finally let it drop, peering over your shoulder as you sorted tubes. “Hang on, Sticky Fingers, this is mine.” Yelena snatched a lipstick that you had borrowed and forgotten to give back. She shoved it in her pocket, then said: “That one” and pointed.

Your heart bunched into your throat. It was the exact shade you had worn the night of The Kiss. Fuck it, you thought, if it didn’t mean anything then it didn’t mean anything, and John wouldn’t care one way or the other what you wore. He probably wouldn’t even make the connection; he probably wouldn’t care to look.

The first thing John noticed was the lipstick.

It hit like a guided missile. Ever since you and Yelena had joined the party, it was all he could see. And maybe that was a good thing, because if he stopped looking at your lips, he’d have to take in the rest of you, and he was really trying to be less of a masochist.

Not that he was having much success.

The penthouse was filling up. Bucky had hired an honest to God party planner to make sure everything went off without a hitch. His nervous energy was putting John on edge; he was acting like a bridezilla on her wedding day, asking the caterers too many questions, hovering, fussing, nitpicking details that only he cared about. John finally cornered him by the bar top, where an elaborate sushi display was set up around smooth green lumps of wasabi shaped like koi fish.

“You’re making everyone crazy, man,” John told him. It was not the sort of thing he would risk saying a few months ago. He wouldn’t call the New Avengers a family, necessarily, but he had spent enough time with Barnes in the field to bury the old hatchets. “It’s nice in here. You did a good job. Let everyone relax.”

Bucky pursed his lips, staring at the wasabi. But with each of John’s simple, clear commands, his shoulders lowered a fraction. “It’s just an awkward situation,” he said. His eyes flicked from the sushi to John’s face, lingering, squinting. “And it would look better if we were all getting along.”

“Here we go.” John needed to hold something, or he was going to embarrass himself with his fists. He dodged to the refrigerator and yanked out a beer, opening it onehanded before circling back to Bucky. “I don’t know what you want, Barnes. I’m being civil.”

The other man considered that for such a long time John tracked back over his own words to make sure he hadn’t said something insane.

“What happened in Tokyo?” Bucky asked.

John’s stomach clenched; from across the room, you laughed at something Ava was saying. Fuck, your laugh. The night was just starting, and he already wanted to Irish goodbye. “We did our jobs, that’s what happened.”

“Bullshit. You’ve been weird with her ever since you got back.” Bucky crossed his arms, the lights over the bar glinting across his vibranium arm. “Listen, we have counselors for this stuff. Maybe you two need to, I don’t know, sit down, have this handled with a professional. If she did something, if you did something--”

“Nobody did anything,” John told him, both definitive and defensive, draining the beer and crushing it in his fist. Nobody did anything, that’s the problem. I stuck my fucking foot in my mouth and watched the light leave her eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll play nice, I won’t ruin your big night.”

“Walker—”

John left Bucky by the sculpted wasabi, grabbing another beer before joining Bob by the doors to the observation deck. Lately, Bob had more good days than not, but this was going to be a minefield for someone with his anxieties. John could already see the deer in headlights look, the crumpling posture, the fidgeting.

“Hey bud.” John sighed, leaning against one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. “You hanging in there?”

“Do you know these people? Like not from the news, do you know know them?” Bob asked. Down by his waist, he pointed subtly to the superheroes emerging from the elevator bay. Falcon, Iron Heart, Ms. Marvel…John knew some of them, though most of them were too high profile and important to give him the time of day.

“Some of them,” John said. “Don’t let them intimidate you. You’re more powerful than most of them, right? I don’t see Thor, and that guy over there is just mostly a bird.”

“I guess. Yeah.” Bob nodded, standing a little straighter. “Thanks, Walker.”

“No problem, Bobby.” John clapped his friend on the shoulder, slapping it twice. He started to lean away from the window, find another corner to haunt, but Bob’s soft gasp of wonder stopped him.

“Whoa, holy shit, that’s the wizard guy, right? Dr. Strange.”

It was, indeed, Stephen Strange, Sorcerer Supreme, who was nursing a club soda near the duo of leather sofas across the penthouse, easing in between you and Ava to wheedle his way into the conversation. He was dressed in a suit, no tie, which seemed a bit much for the occasion, but maybe surgeons were just like that. A cold, gross feeling spread across John’s stomach as he watched Stephen place himself just a hair too close to you. Familiar. Flirty. Then, he leaned down and gave you a one-armed hug, an embrace that went on way, way too long.

Immediately, John zeroed in on his creepy little beard, his pointy brows, the eyebrows of a pervert.

“Must be weird,” Bob said, shudder-laughing. “Running into your ex at something like this. Small world, maybe. Still. Ugh.”

“What?” The word tore out of John like extruded shrapnel. Her what.

Bob blinked across at him, expression a mask of innocence. “Oh. Did she not…Oh. Right. You two aren’t really…heard her mention something when he showed up. They went out. Used to go out.”

It was none of John’s business. Especially not after months of giving you the silent treatment. But when Stephen’s hand brushed your hip like that it started to feel a lot like John’s business. The way your ex looked at you made his blood whistle through his ears. You had the strained smile of someone who was just trying to be polite, not make a scene, but Stephen’s cocky grin was instantly recognizable to John--it was the smile of a man determined to plant a flag, make a statement.

Of course it had to be a fucking Steve.

“Coming into my house,” John heard himself mutter, mid-thought, the can in his grip creaking.

“You good?” Bob’s eyes darted. “Probably…probably shouldn’t have said anything, huh? My bad.”

The walls were closing in on him from all sides. Even the low mood lights felt like they were stabbing into his retinas. Anyone and everyone laughing in the penthouse were surely laughing at him, like they could see in his mind, see him unspooling months of hurt feelings, spinning that angst into a rope that tightened bit by bit around his throat.

John had told himself you regretted the kiss, and if you regretted it then he had to, too. Broaching the subject would just open himself up to more rejection, and he couldn’t handle that. You had gone after the one thing he was still reasonably confident in—his work ethic. Kissing you had left his heart wide open, and then you sat in that horrible tiny car and insulted his preparedness.

It didn’t matter that you were right, it mattered that you hadn’t somehow read his mind, soothed his ego, known he was sensitive about the mistake and even more sensitive about the cover up.

“Are you okay? You’re really red.”

John looked down at his feet until the room stopped collapsing and spinning. Deep breath in, deep breath out. “I’m fine,” he told Bob, giving a half-snarled smile. Then, under his breath: “Shit. I’m not fine.”

 “He’s waving at you.”

John’s head snapped up. “What?”

“The wizard. He’s waving at you.”

And so he was. John went very still, a man hardening to stone as Bob grinned and waved back, almost in front of John’s face. He had to choose his next actions carefully. The serum was coursing through him like a fucking riptide. He could feel the jealousy, the anger, dragging him under as Stephen glanced at you, his eyes full of stars. Yeah, John thought, bitter. That’s how I look at her, too.

Or how he used to, when he allowed himself the pleasure.

“Fuck it.” He shoved the beer into Bob’s hands to get him to stop waving and left the windows behind to join your group by the couch. He didn’t know what he was going to do, only that he had to do something. He was tired of lying to himself; the kiss had mattered and he didn’t regret it.

John soothed himself with the fact that he towered over Strange. At least he had that going for him. Ava moved aside to let John into your tight conversation circle. And John, helpless to resist, looked you full in the face for the first time in months. He could actually feel his heart seizing in his chest. You were so god damned beautiful. The lipstick. That dress. He missed being your number one on missions. He missed everything. And he missed the way he felt around you, not necessarily in charge, but at ease knowing he had reliable backup. You made a good duo until he fucked it all up.

“John Walker, is it? A pleasure.” Strange extended his hand, smiling, though John didn’t miss the sneering superiority in his voice. When they shook hands, John used the bruising grip he reserved for the silliest jackoffs in his ranger unit, just to let Strange know he was wise to the power play.

“Stephen wanted to meet everyone on the team,” you added, trying to smooth over the introduction. For the first time since you joined up, you looked uneasy. Uncertain.

John rolled his shoulders back, flicking his head toward the windows. “Yeah? Then we should get Bob over here; he’s the real super hero.”

Strange burbled with laughter. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” You were about to say something, likely praising Bob, because you two were thick as thieves, always scurrying off to music festivals in the park or record shops, but Strange cut you off. John saw your jaw set a little firmer. “I’m sure you’re all assets in your own ways. Remind me, what is it you do again?”

John wished it surprised him, the pettiness; Strange was a genius, he could probably recall John’s RASP scores and blood type, which meant he also knew John had a temper. Ava touched his forearm, a warning that he didn’t need. He wasn’t going to get baited by a guy who had fumbled you, especially not one dressed like David Blaine’s understudy.

“Fists and guns,” John said flatly.

“He has a great shield.”

He thought he had armored up for the conversation, but then you had to go and say that. John’s hand opened and closed down by his thigh. Fuck. Don’t do that, don’t help me, I don’t deserve it. Strange must not have noticed the gently wistful tone you used, the sadness in your eyes as you glanced at anything but John’s face, but John did.

“Yeah,” he said. John cleared his throat. “Fists, guns, shield.”

“A shield?” Strange seemed like he was having fun. Good for him. He took a sip from his drink, looking around at each of you with a toothy smile. “Can I see it?”

John raised his eyebrows, then sucked his lower lip into his mouth, staring Stephen dead in the eyes. “Only if you ask real sweet.” You made a strangled noise into your glass, which was empty. John reached toward you. “What are you drinking?”

You handed him the glass with a trembling hand, telling him.

“Back in a flash,” he said, tossing you an urgent look. At the bar, Yelena was waiting, prowling like a tiger by the punch bowl.

“How’s the dick swinging going?” she asked, smirking across his chest at you and Strange. “You should get yours out, I bet it’s way bigger.”

John chuckled down at the ground, waiting in the short line that had formed to get your drink filled for you. “No comment.”

“That’s classy of you, too classy. We could use some live entertainment. This is nice and everything but boring as shit.”

Down the bar, Bucky heard her, leaning out to warn her with just a narrowing of eyes.

“It’s nice to see you feeling yourself again,” Yelena added, helping herself to what he could only imagine was her sixth or so glass of punch. Her lips were stained with artificial red. “Weird that it’s happening the night her ex turns up. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.”

“Did you know about this?” he asked.

“Nope. She never said anything. Bob told me just now.” Yelena sucked her teeth, squinting at Strange. “I don’t know. I don’t like it. This is our turf, you know? You can’t come in here and get handsy with my losers.” He wasn’t about to interrupt her when she was on a tear, one that he largely agreed with, although John probably would have chosen a different word besides losers, but... “I know I give you shit about the beret, but have you seen his kit? It’s like Count Dooku got dressed in the dark.”

John looked at her with new admiration, holding out his fist. Silently, she bumped it with her own. The bar freed up and he approached the rows of bottles. They had become progressively haphazard as the night went on. He mixed your drink, shoulders hunched as Yelena’s attention swiveled back to him. “John. What happened in Tokyo?”

Your glass was starting to freeze his palm. He made your drink as slowly as he could justify. Afterward, John set it down, marching up to Yelena, putting his back to the room, his knuckles pressed firmly against the marble counter. “I kissed her.”

Yelena touched his shoulder and it was almost kind. “Did it go bad?”

“No, it was perfect.”

She groaned. “Oh, shit. Okay, okay. Take her that drink before Zoltar over there tries to cop another feel.”

John picked up your glass, turning slowly, managing his anger one unbearable second at a time. “I told Bucky I wouldn’t ruin anything for him tonight.”

“So what? I lie to Bucky all the time.” She at least did Barnes the courtesy of lowering her voice this time. “Go on, Walker. Go and get your girl.”

Something was different about John when he returned with your drink. He was…calm. His eyes found you and didn’t budge, like he had locked on to a target, and nothing would make him deviate from his mission. Stephen was peppering Ava with questions about her suit, how it worked, what the sensation was like when she phased in and out. But you weren’t paying attention; you were watching John, and the full force of his attention made your skin ignite.

It was easy to forget how hard he had made it the last few months when being side by side with him was effortless.

He came up on your left, handing you the drink, his head lowered and tipped toward you, just the way he had been when you were undercover together, when he was your husband and it felt good and powerful to be on his arm. His hand touched the near side of your hip, his eyes still locked on your face, but now in silent inquiry.

You moved toward him, just a little, entering his orbit, remembering the pull. Heat radiated through the thin material of his henley. The feeling of it against your side made you feel soft and sleepy. As if you were back on that rooftop bar, his hand kept moving, sliding across your lower back until it was snug on the other side, fitting into the shape of your waist.

“It’s no fifty-dollar Rob Roy,” he joked, bumping his leg against yours. “And we’re out of cherries.”

You took a sip, smiling as the fizz tickled your throat. “It’s the thought that counts.”

John breathed against your ear, craning down to reach it, his hand flexing on your waist. His size, the way he touched you, was intoxicating. “I find it’s the action.”

“Sorry, did I miss something? Are you two together?”

Stephen had interrupted Ava to ask you both, a skeptical tilt to his severe brow as he absorbed this new energy flying between you and John. The way he asked, disgusted, like you were canoodling with an overflowing trash can, snapped you out of the spell of John’s presence. Because even if Stephen was annoying, he had a point. You and John weren’t together and he had spent the last three months punishing you for a crime you were pretty sure belonged on his record.

Reality slammed home. You hugged the glass to your middle with both hands, then shook your head. “I, um, I need a minute.”

It wasn’t fair. It was an ambush, and John was acting like a spoiled brat. Another man that had once played with his toy was back and maybe wanted to play with it again, and that was what got John’s attention? Bullshit. You couldn’t hear what anyone said back to you, peeling away, hurrying through the guests and toward the stairs and the elevator. You were so lost in your own jumbled thoughts that you didn’t realize John had followed until you were enclosed in the elevator with him. Great.

“Don’t do this,” you said, showing him your back. “Don’t…none of it makes sense. Why now? Why tonight? Is it Stephen? It was like three dates, John, we didn’t even kiss.”

The elevator plunged you down several levels to the dormitories. You pushed past him, still determined to isolate yourself until you could form a single, clear thought. He followed, using the coarse, harried voice you remembered from the battlefield. “Yes. Yes and no. It’s about him and it’s about everything else. It’s about us.”

A pitiful, needy part of you slowed your feet, the part that was probably generating all of those maddening dreams. He caught you by the wrist, grip light enough to be slipped if that was what you wanted. But you felt flames lick across your skin from the point of contact, from the strength he wielded so casually against others but never with you. The hall was quiet, dark, abandoned while everyone partied upstairs. John held on, urging you against the nearest wall, plucking the glass out of your hand and putting it on the side table littered with Alexei’s unpaid parking tickets. His hands closed around your waist, chest pumping as he closed the distance between you.

“I already didn’t feel like myself that night, out of my depth, and I panicked. It was my fault that we almost got burned, and then I made everything worse in the car. I…” John closed his eyes, squeezing them tight. “I shut down. I punished myself by punishing you. There’s no excuse, I’m just sorry.”

Your hands landed on his chest, tenting there lightly. He looked like he was in pain, like he had taken a bullet three months ago and bled out ever since. “I thought you regretted it.”

“No. Shit. No.” His eyes flew open, bright baby blue even in the gloom. One hand rose to cup your face, his thumb stroking just under your lower lip. “I want to kiss you again. But me, John, not…not Trick—”

“Trip.” You laughed despite the tension, head falling forward until it grazed his chest.

“Right. Fuck. Trip.” He laughed too, hoarse and rattled. He lifted your head again to look at him, shoulders relaxing down somewhat as he gazed fondly into your eyes. “John Walker wants to kiss you. No cover. No mission. No mistakes. No regrets.”

As apologies from men went, you had heard worse. You let your head fall back against the wall, pulling him even closer by his shirt, wishing you could pull him through your skin, into your veins, into the place where your dreams of him burned like sinful eyes in the dark. He must have tracked the shift. His thumb ghosted across your lips.

“Need to taste this again,” he rasped, pressing his forehead to yours. His hand shook on your face like he was in withdrawal. “Say you wore it just for me. Just to make me crazy.”

You told him the truth. “I did it for you. To make you crazy.”

John sucked down a breath, steadying himself as he swayed against you. His other hand detached from your waist, both thumbs pressed to your face, running perpendicular to your lips. The blue in his eyes flamed higher, and then he devoured you. You had been kissed plenty of times, but this was sex with all your clothes on, his hunger, his desperation, filling you as palpably as his tongue. You couldn’t help but moan into him, and you were rewarded with the same sound from him, amplified, growled into your face like he was angry you had gotten to do it first. John Walker, so competitive and proud, so eager to prove what he could do and how well he could do it. And you weren’t going to argue or let him stop because it was too delicious to be pressed into the wall by his huge, hot body, the steel muscles in his back bulging against your hands as you cupped your palms over his shoulder blades.

He tugged you away from the wall, never breaking the kiss, urging your arms around his neck before lifting you into his arms, like you weighed nothing, like this was just a formality. You squeezed your thighs around his waist, ankles hooked over his ass, another moan escaping you as he kicked open his bedroom door, the bang like a gunshot, and carried you inside. Stephen would’ve thrown his back out trying this, you thought, smirking into John’s kiss, that train of thought abruptly swerving off the tracks as he tossed you onto his bed.

John was over you in a second, yanking off your shoes, pulling your legs apart to stand between them, stand over you, jaw clenched as he admired his catch, admired you, eyes raking up and down your body. His hands smoothed up your ankles to your knees to your thighs, catching the hem of your dress and pushing, revealing the rest of you as he tucked the fabric up to your waist.

“This fucking dress,” he whispered, shaking his head, sweat dripping off the ends of his hair. “That fucking lipstick.”

Leaning down, he swept the dress off of you, balled it up, tossed it somewhere on the floor. He ripped his own shirt off, every part of him rippling and huge in the single helpful slant of light spearing in through the blinds. It bisected him, leaving him half in shadow, but what you couldn’t see you could feel as he undid his belt and let his jeans hit the ground. The chest hair was a surprise, but maybe the serum enhanced everything. You saw the instant he realized you hadn’t been wearing a bra all night, his hand tightening around his own straining erection and squeezing. You could watch him do that all night, or at least until your lizard brain got the best of you and the begging started.

The bed rocked as he joined you, hooking one arm under your waist and dragging you up the mattress, giving himself more room to kneel between your legs. God, you wanted him. You pulled him down to you, nails drawing welts across the caps of his shoulders. Your lipstick was smeared across his chin, staining his beard. You wiped a little off with your thumb, but John batted your hand away, diving back down to bite and suck your lower lip until you whined and arched, rubbing against him shamelessly. It wasn’t want screaming through your bloodstream now but need, a need to be filled and fucked and marked inside and out.

“Kiss me,” you whispered, fisting your hands in his hair, dragging him where you wanted him, holding him, opening your mouth for him until he gave you what you wanted. His hand slid down your face to your shoulder, encompassing half of your ribcage as it passed lower, detouring briefly to palm your breast and knead it until your thighs shook and your nipple throbbed from his rough touch. Still kissing you, still rolling his tongue against yours and forcing your head back, he closed his fingers around your panties at the hip and gave one hard tug, ripping them off.

The sound startled you both. John drew back, panting, looking at your mouth and then your eyes, drinking you in.

“I should’ve done this months ago,” he murmured, lust and tenderness sanding his voice down to almost nothing. “I should’ve kissed you again in that car.”

“We’re here now,” you reminded him, pushing the damp hair back from his forehead. “Don’t let me get away this time.”

John shook his head, eyes widening like you had leveled a real threat. He kissed you again, softer, slow, easing his weight down onto you until the mattress started to swallow you up.

“Is this thing reinforced?” you asked, laughing a little nervously as the spring screeched.

“It is.” You heard the smile in his voice as he rubbed his beard against your throat, kissing along your jaw and back to your mouth. “Have to get them custom made. It’s a pain.”

“But it…won’t break? Will it?”

John snorted. “Is that a challenge? Because it sounded like a challenge.”

It was a challenge.

You hooked your legs around him, easing him down even more, taking even more of his weight. Your eyes rolled back, air suddenly at a premium as his chest squished against yours. And his dick. Fuck. You scrabbled at his shoulders, whimpering into his cheek. It was all so real now. So close.

“You like that?” he asked, grinding his hips forward, letting you feel his pulsing length, slick with precum, teasing along your slit. “Like feeling all of me?”

There were worse ways to die, you thought, than being crushed by a few hundred pounds of muscle and grit. You nodded, gasping, chest tightening as his cock pried you open, as big and determined as the rest of him. There was nothing to compare it to, no one had filled you like that before on a slow, aching stroke, a stutter in his hips telling you it was hitting his senses just as hard.

“I want them to hear it upstairs,” he whispered, words faltering as he pressed home, testing your limits, redefining them. “Let them hear you, beautiful.”

Like being naked in a rainstorm, every thrust rolled through you like thunder. But it was controlled devastation. Even if it felt like you were being flattened into a coin, John was dispersing his weight to his elbows, managing the load, and with your legs wrapped around him and your feet tight to his ass, you felt the flex of his glutes each time he pulled out and shoved back in, crown to root.

“Not going anywhere, are you? Not like this. Not when you’re mine like this.”

And on each thrust a more broken sound came out of you, months of hurt, months of wondering, months of want bursting out of you in louder cries. Maybe they really would hear you through all that concrete and steel, but you didn’t care, you clung on to him, knowing neither of you would last long after this much waiting. Powder exploded off the drywall as the bed shook under your combined weight and his effort.

John’s face pressed into yours on the left side, beard scratching your cheek raw as he grunted out every drive, carrying you both to the edge. “I knew you’d take me like this,” he whispered, a higher note of restraint cracking through his voice. “Knew you’d take me like you were born to do it. Fuck. Fuck. Tight. Perfect. Fuck.”

You heard a ka-crack as the bed frame started to give. It only spurred him on. Your toes curled against him, mouth open and eyes shut as he angled himself up on his final strokes, pummeling a spot you could feel in your throat. You lost track of what you were saying or how loud you were saying it, just holding on, just giving yourself over to the raw indecency of the slick, wet music your bodies made together.

And you felt it all crash down as the right post on the bed finally gave up, sagging inward with another crisp snap.

“Jesus,” John whispered, half-laughing, half-moaning, face still buried in you as he held himself deep. “I’m there, I’m right there…”

“Too much, too much,” but it wasn’t, and your desperate moaning proved it.

You squeezed around him, already coming undone, boneless and useless and fucked, arms loose as you let him snatch you around the waist and pound through his orgasm. You didn’t know what you were feeling, just that it was hot and expansive, and making you cum again. There was full and then there was full. Flooded, flooded with heat. Gasping, trying to catch your breath, John slumped against you, groaning as his spend leaked back out, dripping into places that made your breath catch from the sensation.

Moments later, you stood in his en suite trying to make yourself presentable, willing your body to hurry up and heal so the beard rash on your jaw and neck wouldn’t be so damn obvious. You had wadded up a piece of toilet paper and wedged it between your thighs, though it was already proving inadequate. Peering around the open bathroom door, you saw John sitting on his half-broken bed, chest still rising and falling swiftly from your activities, bare chested and broad, naked as the day he was born, a green, metal box open on the mattress next to him as he calmly sewed the strap on your panties back in place.