#john walker x reader

Horrible, then hot. You meant it. You really fucking meant it.

He took a bracing swig from his drink. Twinkling piano music filled the velvet and gin-soaked bar, just loud enough to cover your conversation, not loud enough to drown out the manic thunder of his pulse. You were everything John wanted in a woman—successful, bright, elegant, funny. From the minute you walked into his life, he was ready to fall at your feet and beg for whatever you’d give him.

There was one glaring problem, of course. You belonged to Bucky Barnes.

The truth of that statement was stretching thinner by the minute. John’s hand trembled as he set his tumbler of bourbon back down on the table.

“I know it’s unorthodox,” you continued, still avoiding his eyes. Your forefinger worried the wood grain in the table, the anxious jump in your voice making John want to fly across the table and hold you. “It’s been a fantasy for a long time, that’s all. I know it’s asking a lot, and you can absolutely turn us down and nobody will ever bring it up again. Ever.”

John didn’t know which part of that to attack first, the obvious questions it raised or the absurdity of being able to go on living like you hadn’t just asked him to fuck you in front of your boyfriend. Your boyfriend, who was his colleague.

“Whose?” John asked. It came out rough. Direct. “Whose fantasy, yours or his?”

It mattered. The specifics mattered, something he hoped you grasped, because if you didn’t, then you didn’t know him at all.

Your eyes finally traveled up his arm to his face, and John regretted it the minute your gazes intersected. He expected your expression to be unreadable, guarded, but the opposite was true—your fear was palpable. Like a cornered animal, you pled with your huge, glossy eyes.

“His, I suppose,” you said with a single-armed shrug. “He wants to watch me fuck another man,” you added, lowering your voice to a dry whisper. “And I said yes, on the condition that I get to pick the man.”

John’s heart bobbled up into his throat. “Meaning…”

“Meaning I’m picking you,” you murmured. He could feel how badly you wanted to look away, how much effort it required to force out the words. And yet. You caught your lip between your teeth, then let go to puff out a full-bodied breath. “If you’ll have me.”

John had always wondered. Suspected. The more Bucky brought you by the tower, the more John caught your eyes roving his way. You covered those glances with a shy smile, sometimes you pretended to notice something on his shirt, or you suddenly had a joke to whisper to him. And John resigned himself to the reality that he was just imagining your fondness for him, that the looks meant nothing, that you didn’t brush his elbow or land next to him at poker nights or the bar for any other reason than sheer coincidence.

But you had picked him.

“Have you done this before?” he asked.

“No,” you answered, with the kind of earnest speed that made him believe you. Your lashes fluttered, your posture tightening, perhaps an indicator that you had interpreted that question as a blow against your character, like maybe you thought that John was implying you were some kind of slut. Your hand fluttered to your neck. “No, this would be a first. For me, at least. I don’t know if he’s done this with other girlfriends.”

A mean, ugly bitterness slithered through John’s guts. I would never ask you to do this. I would treat you right. I’d fucking die before I let another man touch you.

“And Barnes is okay with this?” John asked in a rasp.

He watched the pretty column of your throat deform around a weighty swallow. “I know it sounds insane but try to think of it like this: Maybe everyone here can get what they want.”

The walls were closing in, John was suffocating, his hands turning rashy and red. A searing itch crept up his neck, unbearable against the starched collar of his shirt.

“You must think I’m incredibly fucking stupid,” he blurted out, wiping his hand down his face, through his beard. Your expression crumpled, then your hand flashed across the table, taking his. He almost groaned at that single touch. Good God, man, you are pitiful. “And you’re right, I guess. I guess I’m that stupid.”

“John…”

He did want you, just not like this. But the want was consuming and he was not a patient man. For months, he thought he would bide his time. You’d get sick of Barnes, tire of his frosty, withholding schtick, his glowering, his baggage, and then John would wait a reasonable, adult amount of time before making his move.

His fingers twined into yours, a nervous laugh escaping as he shook his head. “I’ll do it,” he whispered. “Fuck, I'll do it. When…I mean. When would you—”

“Oh.”

“Not to be—”

“No, of course.” You blushed down at the table again, shifting. The look you gave him next was devastating, so relieved. Hopeful. Sweet. “There’s a hotel we were eying in case you said yes. I’ll text you the details.” You gave his hand one last squeeze. “Thank you, John. This really does mean a lot to us.”

John only cared that it meant a lot to you.

And as you intercepted the waiter to pick up the check—appreciated but unnecessary—then made your exit, John felt a cold, dark hollow settle inside his chest. He was a mission-oriented person, and now he had a new one right in front of him; he was going to give you the fuck of a lifetime, seduce you right out from under Bucky Barnes while the other man sat there and watched.

You were already kneeling on the bed in your lacy nothings when John arrived at the hotel room.

He felt like he was barging in on a crime scene the way your eyes flew to his, wide and watery, jitters in your hands, sweat shining across the tops of your perfect, ripe tits. Fuck, he wasn’t ready for this, even if he had been preparing every day for months, fisting his cock morning and night to a fantasy that was now flesh and blood just ten feet away.

For a second, with you like that, the door clicking shut behind him and the floating trail of your perfume light on the air, he could imagine it was just going to be the two of you. But he sensed Bucky’s presence; if it was only you and John, there would be no fear in your eyes.

John tried not to stoop like a hangdog degenerate as he came down the narrow hall. Once the room opened up, he spied Bucky sitting to his right, in a comfortable chair by the glossy corporate desk and a mirror. They called it a cuck chair for a reason. John gave him a curt, awkward nod, fiddling with the bottom of the zipper on his open jacket as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. He didn’t want to look anywhere but at you, yet to ignore Bucky’s presence entirely seemed impolite somehow. Like any of this is fucking polite.

This was a game of rules and permission, at least for now, at least until you belonged to John and no one else.

“What’s the play here?” John asked, eyes roaming back to you, staying.

God, you were perfect. The low, flat press of the bra was making your breasts pile above the cups, soft and tempting, begging to be squeezed and kissed. He didn’t know he was a lingerie man until this precise moment. He kept the snapshot of you in his mind, storing it away in case this all went sideways. He'd walk away with that much, at least.

“Anything goes,” Bucky said. There was a lipstick stain on his collar. John smelled the remnants of an expensive room service meal, red wine. He was wearing a white button-down shirt, crisp, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, legs splayed out wide, an unlit cigar clamped between two fingers on his metal hand. He also seemed determined to only look at you. “Just no kissing.”

John’s spine tightened.

“Heard.”

“Take your shit off,” Bucky added in a grunt, gesturing with the cigar to the TV stand opposite the bed. It was a swank hotel, and this room was all done in sleek black and red, the exact color palette one would expect for such an undertaking. “Throw it wherever.”

John threw it exactly where Bucky indicated, determined to follow the rules, play the good soldier, all the while executing his own stealth mission. He put his jacket next to the TV, then balanced himself against the stand to unlace his boots. You watched him, coy and doe-eyed, one finger tracing up and down your forearm in short passes.

“I have another question,” John grunted, pressing his lips together. God, this was fucked. But he was asking now because he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop himself in the heat of the moment.

“Ask it,” Bucky growled, fidgeting impatiently.

“Am I allowed to…” John trailed off, gruff. But if this was going to move forward, everything had to be out in the open. “Condoms?”

Bucky finally turned to glare at him. “Are you some fucking disease-ridden animal? I need to worry about you giving her something?”

“No, man,” John muttered. “I’m clean.”

Snorting, Bucky nodded toward you. “Her call.”

All eyes traveled to you. You pinned your gaze resolutely to John’s feet. “I don’t want anything between us,” you said quietly, your tongue flashing out to wet your lips. “And you can finish inside.”

John blinked heavily.

Jesus Christ.

“Hurry up,” Bucky sighed, dropping his free hand into his crotch to adjust himself. “I’ve been chubbed up for forty-five minutes.”

Sneering silently, John turned away. He didn’t want Bucky to register his disdain, his disgust. He felt just as much of it for himself as he did the other man. His fingers were shaky and clumsy as he shucked his clothing, got down to his shorts, and walked to the edge of the bed.

“There we go,” Bucky moaned quietly. “Here we go. You two kids have fun, don’t mind me.”

John’s gaze flicked once toward him, his chest pumping as you crawled closer, bringing the scent of your perfume and shampoo with you. Intoxicating. Unforgettable. John’s hand slid into your hair as you knelt, all sweetness and plump, pouty lips as you hooked your fingers into the elastic of his waistband.

“Oh, and Walker?” Bucky growled. “You better not hold back. I’ll know if you do.”

John lifted his brows, hoping that was the last he heard out of Bucky until you were splayed out, cock stupid, and ruining the comforter.

“What do you think?” John asked, tipping your chin up with one finger while you worked his shorts down. He felt the tension ripple through your body as his cock came free, the soft gasp as you registered his size. “Want me to hold back, baby?” He pushed his other hand into your hair, gripping by the roots, giving one, firm yank until your throat stretched. “Or should I empty the clip?”

Your breasts were going to tumble right out of that bra if you panted any harder.

“Empty the clip, John Walker,” you murmured, filthy, begging with your eyes.

The hardest part was not kissing you when you asked him so sweet. The easiest part was forgetting Bucky was there watching while John drew the prettiest sighs out of you, face buried in your cunt, legs wrapped around his head and squeezing. Barnes had made a crucial miscalculation; he had given John too much time to plan; between that clandestine meeting at the bar and now, John had spent every minute visualizing how he was going to swipe you out from under the reckless, wheezing cuck in the corner.

Your little pussy was soaked and swollen, two shivering orgasms wrung out of you before he even took your bra off. It was going to take hours to wash you out of his beard. Good, that’s just how he liked it. He wanted you to know he could get just as filthy as your boyfriend, only he was playing for keeps.

You were on your back, bare and beard-burned and covered in sweat, his cock inching in slow, maddening spurts up your tight pussy when he clasped you to his chest, using the cover of your noisy moans to lean down and shove his mouth against your ear, the one furthest from Barnes.

“Feel that, sweetheart?” he whispered, stretching you like it was his job. Your nails scored red ribbons down his back, bright as bows on a gift, the gift of you, the gift he was giving to himself. “All that and I won’t make you fuck another man to keep me happy.”

You whimpered under him, fingers spasming, then spreading out across the broad expanse of his back. Your cheek pressed against his and you held on to a little gasp; acknowledgement, he thought. Affirmation.

“No secrets, you two,” Bucky muttered. It was then that John heard Bucky stroking himself, the quiet, slick sounds of a hand traveling up and down skin. “Share with the class.”

John groaned, hips locked in a forward position, your ass propped on his thighs, your slick dripping down his balls, his brain rebooting as he scrambled to say something.

But, of course, you saved him. “He said my pussy’s so tight he wonders if you fuck me at all.”

Bucky barked with laughter, slapped his knee.

“That’s a good one, Walker. You’re a regular fuckin’ comedian. But you’re not here to make me laugh, you’re here to fuck my girlfriend. So get to it.”

“You heard him,” you whispered. It came out broken, and John knew it wasn’t because he was seated in you to the hilt, stretching you to the absolute limit. You bit your lip, eyelids dropping hazily as you bucked onto him, coaxing him back into a steady rhythm, jarring enough to make you gasp on every stroke, tits bouncing, toes curling against his ass.

“Is that what you want, baby?” he asked, pulling out until your entrance felt the girthy stretch of his head. He worked himself back in gradually, then kept his thrusts shallow, opening you up again and again, concentrating on just the snug, sensitive ring of your entrance. His voice cut out to less than a whisper, snug to your ear. “Me or him?”

“That’s it,” Bucky mumbled, words breaking apart as he jerked off. “Make her wild.”

The air went dead around both of you, crackled. The tension was smothering; suddenly, it was difficult to breathe. He needed to know, had to know...

Your forefinger shaped a letter on his back, then another. John breathed into you, sweat dripping off the ends of his hair onto your shoulder. He surged deeper, all the way, breaching you on a single, bone-rattling thrust, driving you into the mattress as he felt your fingertip trace a Y on his back, then an O, then a U.

“God, Jesus,” he muttered, scooping you into his arms, clutching you to his chest. “I hear you, baby, I hear you. Let me take you there."

"Please."

"Can you come on this big dick for me?"

"Yes, shit, yes, I want to, I want you so bad--"

"It's filling you so g-good, isn't it? You're squeezing like it's a keeper. Show him how much you love it. Show him how much you love this big dick.”

You wailed, head back, spine arched. “Fuck me deeper. E-Empty the clip, John. I'm gonna--I'm gonna--”

That was all he needed to hear. You drove him to the edge, beyond it, to a place inside himself so dark and swirling and vulnerable it scared the shit out of him. But he went anyway, crying out into your neck as he let the finishing waves of your orgasm coax out his own. You were milking him so tight he couldn’t see, vision blurred, gone, white then red. Dimly, he heard Bucky shouting into his own fist. John poured it all into you, heat and hope and sin, spurred into a longer come down from your shocked hiccup at the molten gush between your legs.

He didn’t want to let go.

You traced his collarbone with your nose, fingers curled sweetly against his chest while you squirmed around on him, catching your breath.

By the time John climbed off of you with a pained grunt, Bucky had already gone to the bathroom to get a towel and cleaned himself up.

John stood at the end of the bed, a guilty man, hunched and marked. In passing, Bucky threw him a hand towel, then climbed onto the mattress to kiss your forehead.

“How was he, doll?” he asked, so casual it burned.

Your eyes met John’s over Bucky’s shoulder. “Everything I wanted.”

The text came through two days later. John had started to wonder if it had all been in his head—the way you clung to him like he was your salvation, the adoration in your eyes, the Y O U spelled out against his back.

I need to see you.

John was smoking a cigarette on the observation deck with Yelena. Filthy habit, but he was in a filthy era, apparently.

“You good?” Yelena asked, flicking her butt over the edge. “Look like you won the lottery.”

Alone or with him? he texted back, exhaling white dragons through his nose.

Just you. Please, John. Can we meet?

“Not yet,” John told her, grinning. “But I think my luck is changing soon.”

“We do not need this,” Alexei muttered, waving off the young woman and the situation, swaggering over to the swank, onyx bar top to pour himself a stiff vodka at eight in the morning. “Who says we need this?” He laughed from the barrel depths of his body, took the shot, then chased it by drinking more booze directly from the bottle. “We are perfectly sane, approachable people.”

“Yeah, really proving someone’s point there,” John muttered, massaging his temples.

Bob shuffled forward to introduce himself, friendly, exuding his usual overclocked anxious puppy dog thing. And while that happened, Bucky stormed over to the bar to tear the vodka bottle out of Alexei’s grasp and then tear him a new asshole for day drinking in front of the person hired to make the team look better.

The bickering went on and on, escalated, which normally would’ve been mildly amusing or John’s cue to vanish, but something was happening. Something he really didn’t need or care for. Bob was gesturing at you, going hyper verbal the way he always did when a pretty girl was around and too nice to tell him to shut the fuck up, and you were indulging him, standing there with your hands crossed over a tablet, the device held to just below your waist.

And your eyes found John’s over Bob’s shoulder, holding, the mischievous sparkle in them completely arresting. You were achingly, annoyingly, inconveniently John’s type.

And you were half his fucking age.

Jesus Christ.

It was not going to become a problem because John had self-control. He had discipline. He had a track record of lambasting his divorced friends who got on apps and midlife crisised their way through naïve twenty-somethings working out daddy issues. Frankly, he thought it was fucking gross. So, no problem here, because he was going to give you a wide berth, keep his distance, a policy he would instate immediately by waiting until Bob drew breath to give you a single, crisp wave, then turn on his heel and leave.

Problem solved. Midlife crisis averted.

Until you found him in the gym three days later.

John had only jerked off thinking about you twice in the meantime, not a proud fact, maybe, but a true one. He could still look at himself in the mirror without too much shame because you would never find out about it, never know he had pictured cornering you in the common room after dark, stripping you to your underwear to find out if you preferred lace, cotton or nothing at all, never know he had fantasized about teaching you how to take a real man’s dick.

But he had still done those things, so even if he could look himself in the eye, meeting yours presented a significant challenge. And there you were, waiting until he finished a particularly grueling set of squats to sidle up to him while he leaned against the rack and caught his breath.

You even smelled young, fresh, like the world hadn’t ground you into a fine paste yet. Maybe that was just your perfume or your soap. Either way, it went straight to his head. And you were cheerful and warm without being fake, not effortlessly beautiful but effortful in a way he found fascinating. You had your own style, just edgy enough that John would second guess himself approaching you at a bar; next to you, he was a chopped unc or whatever the fuck kids were saying.

And you seemed to genuinely like hanging around the team, which was baffling, and maybe hinted at some underlying mental health issues that ordinarily would have concerned him, but he was not going to sleep with you so that was strictly between you and your therapist.

He wasn’t overthinking it, obviously.

John repositioned himself against the rack, hoping he exuded a casual confidence that might convince you he wasn’t a horny old cornball. You seemed to notice the way his damp t-shirt stretched across his chest, and John noticed you noticing.

“Hey so, can I run something by you quick?” you asked, apologetic, shrugging, quickly tearing your eyes away from his pecs. “You’re, um, always so busy but I’ve run a post about everyone else and it’s going to look weird if you’re never featured on the page.”

John stared down at you, nodding along. This kind of shit usually drove him up the wall, but you were asking, which made it tempting to play along.

“And not to poke at any scabs here but you could probably use a little image rehab.”

You were nervous, fidgeting. God, it was cute. Cute until he realized you might be afraid of him. John lifted his brows, checking his head to one side. “Can’t imagine why.”

You rushed to explain, then stopped yourself, sighing, throwing your head back with a groan. With your throat stretched like that, he could imagine his cock filling it. “You’re fucking with me.”

“I’m fucking with you.”

You swished out your hip, a dangerous move given that it was just the two of you there in the gym and John’s serum-soaked blood was roaring with chemicals from the workout.

“Was that our icebreaker?” you asked, tucking your hands behind your back and swaying. Sweet. Too fucking sweet.

“It can be.”

“Great, then you won’t mind me taking a few videos while you finish your workout,” you said, snapping back into a cool, professional mode so smoothly it made John’s head spin. Huh. Sweet and clever. Lethal.

“Fine,” John sighed. He ruffled his hair, got back into the rack and leaned against the bar, shooting a heated glance in your direction. “Just… stay clear, okay? We don’t play with kiddy weights in this gym. There’s six hundred pounds loaded on here, one of those plates clips your head and it’s a hospital trip.”

You backed up, heeding his warning, raising your phone to record him at a three quarters angle. John had just gotten set up to transfer the weight onto his back when he heard you murmur, “You’re worried about me.”

It wasn’t a question, just a quiet observation. Heat blasted across his face. Fuck, he was going to throw out his back doing this if you were going to keep distracting him. But he couldn’t pretend you weren’t there. On his next set, it felt weirdly easy. He didn’t even break a sweat. It had been years since he had gotten to show off for a pretty girl in the gym. Everything felt light. On each lift, you asked him what the movement was, how much he was doing, why, typing out little notes to yourself in between recordings.

By the time he was finished, muscles swollen and straining under his clothes, another thing he caught you noticing, he came to the disheartening realization that you were cool, not just some annoying social media kid but an insightful professional who had been hired for a reason.

“I’ve always been curious about getting into this stuff,” you said, watching him rerack all of his equipment. In between glances, you edited the clips you had taken, seated on a bench, a bench he had used and therefore needed to wipe down.

“Mind, um, mind getting up for me?” John asked, hovering, squirty bottle and rag in hand.

Your eyes widened as you looked up at him, and he could swear your lips parted softly at the way he asked the question, firmly, with the undertone of a command. “Oh. Jesus. Yeah, sorry! And here I was so determined not to get in the way…”

You hopped up, laughing at yourself, still fussing on your phone.

“You weren’t in the way,” John assured you, because it was true. You had been careful, respectful, another detail he wished he hadn’t caught. If you were vapid and overly chatty and oblivious this wouldn’t be so taxing. John wiped down the bench, then saw you twitch back toward it. “I wouldn’t,” he said, clearing his throat, the words coming out before he could stop them. “You’ll get wet.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, avoiding his gaze.

“On your ass, I mean.”

Why, why, why would you clarify you fucking boner-addled neanderthal--

“That’s typically what I sit on, yeah,” you teased. This time, when you did manage to meet his eye, John knew he was in extreme danger. Oh no. Oh shit.

John let that hang, because he couldn’t say: I’ve got a few things you could sit on, honey.

Because he had self-control. Because he was not going to fuck you. A girl half his age.

John stormed back to the little bucket for the bottles and rags, a deeply incriminating flush bleeding across his neck. He had to get away from you. He couldn’t be trusted. Henceforth, he would need a chaperone if you were ever to be present. Without one, he knew it was just a matter of time before his flimsy restraint snapped like an old rubberband.

You were still there, standing by the benches, still gorgeous and fresh and unbearably fuckable, a nervous little expression on your face as you tilted your head to the side and held out your phone. “It’s ready.”

John swallowed noisily, terrified to cross the distance back to you. But he did it—amazing, wow—and made sure to take the device without letting your fingers brush. Every movement, every decision, needed to be calculated, or else your ass was getting flipped over that bench and he was going to rail you into total, squealing submission.

Towering over you, John watched the clips you had stitched together. It was pretty standard stuff, except for the title that wiggled across the screen in white bubble letters: Come work up a sweat with the New Avengers’ resident Zaddy 😍😍🤤🤤🥵🥵

John bristled. “What the hell is a zaddy?”

You peered at the screen over his arm, so close he could smell your intoxicating shampoo. Honeysuckle. Vanilla. “It’s like daddy but with more swagger. It’s a vibe. Kind of… indefinable, a know it when you see it kind of thing, like porn, you know? Zaddy.”

John needed you to stop talking. Every successive word was more stupefying than the last. He pushed the phone back into your grasp and clapped both hands over his face, groaning as it dawned on him that this was almost certainly a prank.

“Oh, Jesus. Okay. Who put you up to this? Did Bob put you up to this?”

You frowned, lip jutting out in offense. “Nobody put me up to anything. It was my idea, which you clearly think sucks, so I’ll delete it, sorry for wasting your time, Mr. Walker.”

John froze. You were already hightailing it out of the gym; John followed after for a few steps, his voice falling to a wounded register. “Don’t… Please, don’t call me that. It makes me feel a million years old. And don’t delete that thing you made, just, can you call me anything else, I’m not trying to be a tight ass about this, I just--”

You were already fiddling, typing. Your posture was soft, apologetic, as you held out the phone and showed him.

Getting jacked with John “Walk ‘Em Down” Walker

“That’s, um, that’s better,” he muttered. A strange, glowy feeling warmed across his chest. Your arm brushed his, and he watched gooseflesh ripple down to your wrists. “Haven’t heard that nickname in a while; how do you know that?"

“It’s my job to know that,” you said flatly. There was something fucky about the way you said it, too cool, like maybe you were covering something up. Fibbing. John studied you closely, forgetting himself, forgetting that every part of you made him want to get you on all fours. “What should I call you?” you added, scheduling the video, lowering the phone.

Many suggestions, none of them appropriate, sprang to mind.

“John’s fine,” he said, pulling his arm back. John’s fine, he thought. For now.

The date wasn’t even bad, but your mind was across town, in the Watchtower, fixated on what John Walker might be doing. Your date was a student at NYU getting an MA in media production. He was a year older than you, good looking, kinda gawky, with a mustache that may or may not have been ironic, you were still trying to determine that. His Tinder profile wasn’t completely embarrassing, no fish or tiger pictures and no glaring red flags; he was a cat person and was close with his family.

But he also hadn’t asked you a single question since the obligatory: How was your day?

Chaz—his name was Chaz—rambled about Twin Peaks while the waiter came back to refill your waters. Chaz obsessed over David Lynch the way every male film student did, like it was a prerequisite for getting into NYU and having a mustache and a vintage bicycle. Chaz’s was yellow. The bicycle, not the mustache.

“That’s really great,” you said when the conversation hit a lull, not knowing what you were responding to.

Under the table, on your leg, your phone was going crazy. Notifications were rolling in after John’s workout video went super viral. The zaddy caption would’ve been even better, but you were proud of him for participating period. All that bluster, machismo and testosterone and he was still kind of shy and self-hating underneath. It was sweet, honestly, endearing.

Everyone was thirsting over him in the comments. Your childhood best friend had texted an hour ago, which you were just seeing now.

Oh my God girl he is BEEF. Tell me you are going to ride that senior citizen until he breaks a hip.

You knew she meant John because who else could she mean? You had already told her about your long-standing and inconvenient crush.

He’s 40 not 80, you typed, while Chaz ordered a double dry hopped IPA with a name that was a full sentence long.

Who cares? What does he smell like?

You smirked down at your lap, trying to cover it by glancing across the table at Chaz in between texts.

Like a visit from HR.

And like a gift from the gods themselves, another text message arrived, this one from a number you didn’t recognize.

Hey it’s John. I think you left your jacket in the common room.

You were pretty sure Chaz had finally decided it was time to ask you a question, but you couldn’t hear it, the space between your ears was dead air ringing. Your heart stopped while anxious, guilty bubbles popped in your stomach. This was such a tremendously bad, unprofessional idea, but your mouth ran dry every time he entered a room. Watching him work out had been exquisite torture, every part of him slick and gleaming, juicy, fit body stretching his shorts and tee to the limit. There was absolutely no doubt in your mind he was packing a bazooka in those little shorts, and the only thing on your mind while Chaz tapped his fingers on the table was: I need you to wreck me, daddy.

Are you still there? I can come by quick and grab it.

This was the test. Maybe he was already going out for the night. Maybe he was just being courteous. Whether or not you thought he wanted to fuck you stupid, you were reasonably sure he had a soft spot for you. He didn’t flee the room anymore when you arrived and even agreed to film some stupid This or That videos. And you, a perfect angel, had stopped yourself from dragging out that filming session.

Lace or Leather? Gentle or Rough? Morning or night?

All of the above, you hoped.

Your cheeks burned as you waited for John’s reply and signaled to the waiter, who had just come back around with Chaz’s beer.

“I just remembered I don’t want to be here,” you said, smiling. “Sorry. I’ve got my half.”

You threw a twenty down on the table and stood up, then hurried out of the bistro with your phone buzzing against your palm. Just knowing it was John responding, just knowing you had his number now, made your breath drag in faster and your pussy ache.

Yeah, I’m still here. ETA?

You checked the app on your phone.

I’m getting a car, should be fifteen.

Where are you?

You stared at that message, choking softly. You hadn’t known John very long, just a few weeks, but you could hear him saying it, hear the slight edge to it, the impatience, the darkness.

I was on a date, why?

Waiting on the sidewalk, cold without your stupid fucking jacket, you rubbed your arms for warmth, subtly cheating your thighs together because you could feel what was barreling toward you. You were going to fuck him, you were going to do whatever it took, beg if you had to. The common room would be empty, abandoned, and once it was just the two of you…

How’d it go?

He was boring. Not my type.

The car pulled up and you hurled yourself in like it was life or death, like the building behind you was actively exploding. As Manhattan blurred by outside the window, you tried to steady your breathing and not crank your hopes up too high.

John’s text bubbles popped up, stopped, started again, and you could just feel the war raging in his head, maybe hopefully also his pants.

What is your type?

You sucked your lip between your teeth, still rubbing your legs together, enjoying the slippery tease of your sex against itself. Holy shit. It was really happening. You had fifteen minutes to work him into blood burning frenzy, make him want you bad enough to overlook the obvious professional pitfalls.

Here goes nothing.

Big and nasty.

You laughed aloud, shocked at yourself. This was an Avenger, for God’s sake, someone old enough to be your father, and you were texting him like he was some meaningless Tinder hookup. It wasn’t meaningless, not to you, not the way his eyes ate you up, the way you saw the hunger flare in his gaze when you wore a lowcut top or brushed his hand reaching for something.

Tell me something

The car stopped at a red light while your pulse raced out of control.

Have you ever been fucked by a real man?

You clapped your hand over your mouth to keep from moaning and tanking your Lyft rating. Sucking down heavy gulps, you texted as quickly as your thumbs would allow.

No

This was crazy, you were crazy.

What’s wrong with the little boys, not enough for you?

The car jerked forward again across the intersection, and you pressed your lips together, trying not to hyperventilate and pass out against the torn leather bench.

I’m hard to please.

John was typing fast now, replying almost the instant your message came through.

She’s got a tight princess pussy that needs it big and nasty, is that it?

You swayed slightly, lifting your knees, afraid you were going to soak through your panties and stain the seat. One more push. One more push and you were convinced it was over, fate sealed, night sorted.

Yes Daddy that’s what I need.

That one stalled him out for a minute. Fuck. Too far. Maybe he wasn’t into the daddy thing, maybe you had creeped him out, but you were so sure from how he reacted to you explaining zaddy that—

ETA? I need to know how long until you’re squirting on my cock.

You flicked over to the rideshare app, a good little girl, absolutely unwilling to report anything but accurate information to daddy. Your entire body moaned at the thought.

Five minutes.

You sure about this?

Yes Daddy

Nothing else. God, this was what you had been missing all along. The Chazs of the world did not know how to make a girl’s cunt drool like this. You had no idea how much experience John actually had, but it didn’t seem to matter, because he knew exactly what to say to get you horned up and wiggling for it.

You broke into a pathetic run when the car stopped outside the Watchtower. Whatever, dignity meant nothing with cock this premium on the line. An honest God super-soldier. Rugged beard. Huge, powerful hands. Meaty thighs. Every single night and morning you humped your vibrator thinking about him rearranging your insides, giving you a deep, lifechanging fuck, whispering filth in your ear until you shattered on his dick.

John was waiting for you on the sofa, arms stretched along the back cushions, one ankle dangling over his knee. Never before had a pose more screamed: Come to daddy.

Come for daddy.

Your purse slid down your shoulder, and you wondered how flushed and insane you must have looked. Saliva coated your mouth as you took him in—blue eyes glowing in the darkness, chest broad and straining against his henley, phone on the sofa beside him and all of your shameful texts still shining there.

Your eyes locked and you shivered, keeping your pace even, slow, as you crossed the vast rotunda, over the red and silver branded rug, your gaze sliding from his face to his lap, where your jacket was draped over his knee.

“Don’t be shy,” he said, light.

Trembling, trying to maintain a veneer of cool, you dropped your bag on the coffee table and came to stand right in front of him. Your knee brushed his.

John smiled, raking his eyes down your body, back up.

“Those were some pretty interesting text messages,” he said softly. “Did you mean them?”

“Yeah.”

“How long?” he asked.

You knew what he meant, but you wanted to tease out this delicious game for as long as possible. “How long what?”

“How long have you wanted me to fuck you?”

“I had your poster on my wall in high school,” you admitted, digging your toe flirtatiously into the carpet and grinding it, sweet as pie. “You used to watch me sleep every night.”

“Want that feeling back?”

Your spine straightened.

“Yes,” you whispered. It came out in a greedy rush. “Yes, I do.”

“Did you touch yourself?” John asked, lifting both cocky brows, grinning. “To my poster, to my face and my uniform, did you touch yourself?”

“All the time.”

“Want that feeling back, baby?” he asked, eyes narrowing. “Want the real thing this time?”

“No,” you murmured, heart slamming against your ribcage so loud you were sure he could hear it. “I don’t want Captain America, he wouldn’t do the things I need,” you added, watching the light change in his eyes. Crisp up. Darken. Focus. “I want John Walker.”

“You’re gonna be such a good girl for me,” he groaned. “I can just tell.”

You picked up your jacket off his leg, dropped it on the carpet, reached up and shrugged out of your cardigan, letting it fall in the same place. John stood so fast it made your head spin, his hands closing around your wrists, shoving you onto the couch where he had just been. His warmth had seeped into the leather; you could feel it against your palms and knees.

“How wet is this pussy for me?” he asked, rucking up your skirt, trapping you against the back of the sofa. His rough, punishing hand clapped over your sex, two fingers teasing up and down the damp fabric.

“G-God, so wet,” you mumbled, eyes wide and watery.

He rubbed you through your panties, just enough pressure to make your hips stutter and your stomach tighten, magma pooling in your abdomen at that thought of him filling you up any second.

John’s mouth pressed against your ear, his whiskers igniting against your neck. “That’s how you knew my nickname, huh? Had my poster on your wall?”

You nodded feverishly.

“You asked once what to call me,” he growled. You heard his belt unshackle and his fly unzip. “I think you know now, don’t you? Say it for me, sweetheart.”

“Daddy.” You bumped your ass back against him, lips dropping around an O as you felt the size of him there, his thick, long cock pulsing against your thigh, weeping fluid against the sensitive crease where cheek met leg.

“That’s it,” he laughed. “What do I call you?” He worked your clit through your panties, the cotton so wet it clung to him. You could smell your own arousal, which meant he absolutely could, too. “Princess? Sweetheart? Baby? Mine?”

“All...” You were babbling, just desperate for him to actually touch you, your skin, your sex— “All of it, daddy, I want all of it, whatever you want.”

“Good answer. Are you gonna be a sweet little hole for daddy?”

“Yes.”

“Take his cock all the way?”

“Yes.”

“Every inch? It’s big, baby…” He grabbed your hand off the back cushion, taking it and wrapping it around his cock. He squeezed your hand around it.  

“Oh my God,” you whispered. “It’s so big, it’s too big...”

“I think it’s just right, but we need to break you in, don’t we?” John flipped your skirt up over your ass, tearing down your panties. You didn’t have a chance to think or even moan before his hands clamped around the tops of your thighs, wrenching them apart, his face smearing into the wetness pouring from your cunt. He ate you out from behind, growling, filthy, a dangerous best snapping feral against your pussy as you ached for him, pushing your ass back into him, shaking like you were in heat.

It was messy, raw, his beard snagging against your inner thighs, his nose disappearing between your cheeks, fingers biting into your flesh, bruising, the naughty squish of his tongue rolling into you filling the common room until your ears burned.

You grabbed his mop of soft blonde hair from above, gasping each time his tongue flashed up to prod against your clit. When he was satisfied that you were wet enough, he tore himself away, wiping his chin off on your shoulder as he slammed your hands back onto the sofa, anchoring them under his own.

“Ask nicely,” he whispered, nosing against your cheek, almost sweet.

You purred, neck arching as he kissed and sucked your jaw. All rational thought flew out the window as he played with your slit, the fat head of his cock grinding there, gathering slick. You weren’t going to miss this chance; you were going to make it count.

“Stuff my little pussy, daddy, I want it so bad.”

“Oh, honey,” he murmured, pushing in until you started to take him, started to get a feel for the undertaking in front of you. God, he was massive. “Nobody’s ever stretched this pussy right.”

“N-No.”

“You need a real man for that,” he suggested, chuckling softly, enjoying himself. You were enjoying it, too, even if it felt like he was going to tear you in half as his dick tunneled slowly forward, fucking into you on slow, shallow strokes, letting you sense what was coming. It was hard to believe there were still eight dry inches that needed soaking. “Need a real man to ruin this pussy. No more dates, okay?”

You shook your head. “No more dates.”

“Good girl. Only Big John gets this little pussy, understand?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“I’m going to fuck you now, sweetheart. Are you ready to take all of me?”

You thrashed back against him, offering yourself up, squirming as he pushed into you again, testing your limits, making use of how you gushed. A squished hngh forced its way out of you.

Your pussy spasmed around him, pulling and milking and rejecting all at the same time. It was too much. It was—as he promised—just right.

“Oh my God,” you wailed, then remembered where you were and cut your voice down to a broken whisper. “Harder, please, fuck me up, I don’t want anyone else.”

“No, baby, I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, the tenderness in his voice in stark contrast to the feelings ripping up your stomach. He gave you a few more careful strokes, languid, folding himself over you, nestling his bulk along your back. Hot. And so big. So, so big, all of him, inside you, draped over you…

“Daddy’s not going to hurt your little pussy,” John whispered, groaning, stomach flexing as he surged deeper, breaching your depths. You closed your eyes against the fireworks that burst silver and white across your vision. Your lungs ached from breathing so raggedly. “No, we can’t hurt her, not when I need to use her all the time…”

“Oh fuck, oh fuck.” You were panting, circling your hips, urging him just that much further into your body until there was nowhere left for him to go. Utterly filled. Perfectly ruined. He dragged himself out with a grinding noise spilling out of his throat, a softer, sweeter gasp following as he retraced the path, then did it again, harder, a little faster, lengthening his thrusts, putting a snap into it, jostling you forward as he bottomed out.

You both fell silent as he found the pace, enough to make your pussy clench and shiver on each pass, not so much that you burned away. The stretch faded to something addicting, luxurious, your body so eager for him you just got wetter and wetter, obscene, plapping slaps accompanying every strike of his thighs against yours. You could feel yourself dripping, coating him…

“Shouldn’t be d-doing this,” he grunted, angling upward, drilling a spot that blanked your mind. “You’re too young for me, too sweet, Jesus, can’t stop… Can’t stop myself…”

It got louder, hotter, harder, filthier as you both lost yourselves.

“Have to come inside. Gonna…Gonna make me come inside, aren’t you?”

“Please,” you begged. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, fill me up, need a-all of daddy’s cum inside.”

“Jesus,” he almost lost his rhythm, shocked by the command, then spurred on by it.

His dick was going to fuck into your throat if he rocked into you any harder. You could feel your body remaking itself for him, getting used to the raunchy sensation of him hammering your cervix, his girth stimulating your clit from below on every greedy, claiming thrust. And he wanted you to break on his cock, you knew that much, knew it for certain as he pulled one hand back to tangle in the frothy churn where his sex met yours.

“Finish on daddy’s dick,” he said, thumb pushing against the swollen, buzzing base of your clit. “Fucking come all over this big dick, baby, let me feel it, milk my cum.”

You bent back against him, seizing up, every muscle tight and then loose as his command lit you up from toes to brain stem. The sensation rolled on, teased out into a warmer, fuzzier place as he grabbed your hips with both hands, steadying you, keeping you still while he bathed your insides with heat, relentless, unleashing a flood you could feel backing up, seeping back out, dripping down both of you.

John collapsed against your back, holding you more gently while you tried to catch your breath, make sense of what you had just done. What you had just begged him to do. What you knew you would ask for him to do again and again…

There was no going back to Chaz after something like that.

He transferred his weight onto his knees, stilling behind you, whipping off his shirt and holding it under you, to you, while he carefully pulled out with a groaning sigh. You were already sore and sensitive, his imprint in you like you were drying cement.

You staunched the flow of his spend with his shirt before it could ruin the sofa.

Flopping down onto the couch, chest pumping, you watched him glance at you sheepishly, shoulders hunched.

“I don’t… I don’t know where that came from,” he said quietly, guilt shaping every word. “I’ve never said any shit like that before. I’m… Jesus, I’m sorry. You’re just… You’re so beautiful and sweet, and I got caught up in the--”

“I liked it,” you promised him, reaching for his hand, twining your fingers together until his eyes brightened and he sat down next to you, deforming the cushion with his weight. “Tell me that won’t be the last time.”

John blinked heavily, swallowed. “It should be. Are you even on birth control?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“I’m not going to regret this,” you said. “I’m just…” You swished your lips to the side, prodding his hip with your knee. “I’m just going to look forward to next time. Daddy.”

John cut you a warning look, but it soon thawed, a flush creeping up his neck to his cheeks, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “You’re dangerous when you do that.”

“I’m dangerous all the time.”

“Don’t I know it.” He leaned down, brushing a soft kiss across your lips. “Should’ve done that first.”

“Just as good now,” you told him.

He pulled you up into a seated position, holding you against his side. “It’s probably past your bed time, young lady,” he teased. “Can I get you home?”

“Thought I was dangerous,” you countered, bumping your forehead against his cheek.

You didn’t have time to buy anything new for this incredibly nerve-wracking double date, so you had been forced to grab something from the back of your closet. Everything fit weird. Everything.

Every outfit and every dress was simultaneously frumpy and too tight, despite making you perfectly happy on other occasions. Even your shoes were wrong. You didn’t have time to get a manicure, and a recent mission had left your hands with bruises, swelling, and healing cuts, like you were a fucking bareknuckle boxer. The only dress that did fit and didn’t make you want to throw up on yourself had spaghetti straps, and the single word that sprang to mind when you glimpsed yourself in the bathroom mirror at the restaurant was linebacker.

Hold on, it got worse.

Olivia, meanwhile, was practically effervescent. The first, beautiful blush of a new relationship tended to do that for a person, but she was really basking in it. So much so, John had commented on it in the cab on the ride home.

“Liv looked happy, right?” he asked, gazing out the window, undoing his tie. “She was glowing.”

At that, a despicable voice in the back of your head had suggested that maybe John wasn’t so over his ex-wife. Maybe you couldn’t blame him. She was a radiant beauty, and you were The Thing in an LBD. All of that would have been enough to send you spiraling, but then, of course, you had stupidly looked at your phone in the cab only to find your social media blowing up.

It was a part of the job you never anticipated, gossip rags and online trolls picking apart your weight, your makeup, how you did your hair, every part of you. One unflattering photo could kindle speculation for days.

This time, the comments were particularly unkind.

You didn’t know how anyone was supposed to look like a 10/10 stunner while saving civilians from an exploding gas line, but shame on you, apparently. The picture in question was horrible, so bad you weren’t even sure it was you at first glance.

Inside the cab, your sweaty hand trapped under John’s on the bench, you went quiet. You went inside yourself. If only it was safe in there, but tragically, your brain had plenty of dark, cruel criticisms to offer up, too.

Now they all spilled out again as you stared at your body, at every galling imperfection, every detail you wished you could change, every muscle that was too muscly and every lump that was too lumpy. Everyone expected a bodacious babe in a spandex suit, and instead they just got you.

You had managed to get your heels off, at least, parked in front of the mirror with an entire Reddit thread’s worth of comments shrieking between your ears. Your eyes filled with tears, blurring the image in front of you; maybe that was a mercy. And you were so deep in it, you didn’t even hear John coming back from the bathroom. He had been in there washing his face and brushing his teeth, and now he pressed against your back, stripped to his tight black shorts, ready for bed.

John filled the mirror behind you, perfectly sculpted, brawny, just to add insult to injury.

His big, warm hands smoothed across the silk over your thighs. You were numb. His presence just made things worse, because the serum had turned his already mind-blowing physique into one fit for a Greek fucking god. It hadn’t done that for you. Why hadn’t it done that for you?

“Slow poke,” he teased, letting go of your thighs to unclasp the necklace still sitting heavy on your throat. With his huge fingers, it took him a few tries. “I shouldn’t have had all that garlic bread. I swear, all you can eat is a trap. I’m so bloated now, Jesus.”

He tugged the necklace away, setting it on the vanity next to your mirror. The lights were warm and low, another mercy.

“No, you’re not,” you said, direct. It came out meaner than you meant it to.

John snorted, still oblivious to your collapsed mental state. He tugged your hand into his, then flattened your palm over his stomach and stuck it out. “Honey. Come on. It’s triplets.”

You shook your head, tearing your hand away, trying and failing to nonchalantly wipe the tears away that had slipped free of your reddening eyes.

“Crying,” John stated, startled, turning you away from the mirror, tilting your chin up until you were looking up into his face. “We’re crying. Why… Why are we… Whoa, hey, what happened?”

“Why,” you whispered, echoing him, squeezing your eyes shut so you didn’t have to see the pain radiating in his. “Why are you with me?”

“Baby, what is going on?” He cupped your jaw, refusing to let go even when you tried to twist away. His voice rose, crackling with confusion. “I thought we were having a nice night…”

“We are. We were.”

“We were, and then…?” John drew your lips to his, kissed you gently. When he let go, you saw through a watery crack that he was gazing elsewhere, searching back through the night, trying to figure out what had set off this episode. “Honey, I need you to help me out here. Did I say something?”

“Your ex, she’s so… She looked amazing tonight, she’s so gorgeous and I’m just, I’m so—”

John groaned. “Also gorgeous?”

You stilled, more tears roaring down your cheeks. He had to say that. He had to say that, but he didn’t mean it. How could he? How could he mean it when—

“Beautiful, strong, a sexy fucking knock-out?” he went on, thumbs working fast to gather the tears before they collected along your jaw.

You blurted out a laugh, holding his wrists and sagging forward. “You’re just saying things.”

“Baby, stop, listen to me.” John sighed, letting go of your face to draw you closer, pull you tight to his body. He kissed the last tears that sneaked out, beard rasping your cheeks, nose seeking along your temple until he could also kiss your forehead. In the familiar, soothing bulwark of his arms, he rocked you. Once the crying stopped, he unwound you from his grasp, then spun you slowly toward the mirror.

You shied away, closing your eyes again with a hiss like the reflection burned.

“Don’t do that,” he warned gently, palms gliding up your back to your shoulders. His fingertips teased along the thin straps of your dress. “Don’t you dare hiss at my woman.”

“But I--”

“But nothing. Baby, you’re a powerhouse, look at you.” He waited until you reluctantly blinked your eyes open. This time, you didn’t react like you had been doused in gasoline and tickled with a match. “There we go. I’ve seen you kick a man through a concrete wall, do you understand what that does to a guy? How can you not see what I see?”

“The Hulk in cocktail attire?”

John rolled his eyes, pinching your shoulder until you squirmed. “Guess I’d fuck the Hulk then, never knew that about myself.”

You glared at him in the mirror. But… he had a point. Your thoughts stopped racing, gradually becoming particulate, manageable, your pulse evening, then kicking again as he pushed the straps lightly down your arms, dragging them with the calloused pads of his fingers, the catch of that rougher skin intoxicating.

“Have I ever—ever—shied away from showing you off?” he asked, lowering his voice as he leaned down to press his cheek against yours.

“No,” you murmured.

“No, I haven’t. I was proud as hell to have you on my arm tonight. And sure, Liv looked great, but I caught her boyfriend checking you out whenever you got up to use the bathroom,” John said, guiding each arm out of the straps of the dress before taking you by the waist. The pressure of his hands there shifted the silk, and the body of the dress started to fall, slipping lower until it hushed over your breasts, whispered down your thighs, and pooled around your feet. “I caught him three times, actually.”

“Of course you counted.”

“I protect what’s mine,” John assured you in a rasp, closing his teeth around the edge of your ear. You shivered, thighs clenching as his fingers trailed back up your sides, chased inward to undo the front clasp on your strapless bra. Your hands snatched his wrists reflexively, and he paused. Your gazes sparked again in the mirror. He didn’t flinch away from you, he admired, he stared, unabashed. “I want to see you. All of you. Every inch of this body.”

Trembling, you gave a single nod, permission, hands dropping nervously to your sides.

John flicked open the clasp, sighing into your ear as the cups fell away and the bra joined your dress on the carpet. He filled his palms with the soft weight of your breasts, massaging in slow, warming pulses until your head tumbled back against his shoulder. God, that was nice.

“I didn’t even punch his head off,” John added sweetly. “Are you proud of me?”

“Genuinely.”

John laughed low and simmering into your ear. “He can go about his business knowing he never gets to lay a finger on my girl. But I’m watching.”

“I’m sure he’s devastated.”

Sarcasm. That earned you another firm bite on your ear and a pinch to your nipples. You gasped, tightening up, grabbing John’s wrists again, not that you had any intention of making him stop.

“What did I say, baby? I can’t let you be mean to my girlfriend. You’re only allowed to be sweet to her.”

You arched again as his right hand smoothed over the supple swell of your stomach, under your thong, long, powerful fingers closing almost chastely over your sex, not exploring, just holding, protecting.

“Tell that to the Internet,” you muttered.

“Sure. I’ll go door to door,” John teased, but he was just crazy enough that you sort of believed it. With enough time and technology, he’d probably try. “Knock, knock, shut your fucking mouth, you punk loser, I’d like to see you in that suit, you wouldn’t look half as good—”

“You’ve really thought about this.”

“Maybe.”

“That’s… Oddly romantic.”

John smiled into your ear. “No,” he countered, “But this is.” He kissed his way down your cheek, stalling until you met him halfway, turning your face to offer up your lips. Hungry, devouring, he clasped you to his body, letting you feel the stiff heat jutting out from his shorts. His tongue scraped the roof of your mouth and you shivered, moaning, head hot and hazy as his hands groped you shamelessly, the one teasing out your nipple into an even stiffer bud, the other stroking expertly down the damp furrow of your sex to your entrance, swirling there to test if you were wet for him.

Breaking the kiss, John kept his mouth open against you, groaning as he pushed into your slick channel and felt you gush. You were already slippery for him, needy. Your hips urged him deeper with little seeking bucks, and he gladly took the invitation. A second finger surging in alongside the first, the familiar, burning stretch bleaching your mind. No more cruel thoughts, just him, just his practiced touch, just his thumb rubbing tender figure eights around your clit until you flew up on tiptoes from the jolt of sensation.

“Look at yourself, I want you to see how beautiful you are when you come for me.”

Your head dropped back against the hard wall of his chest, his eyes half-lidded as he sucked the side of your neck, grinding his dick against your ass as you danced on his fingers, chasing every plunging thrust, meeting the rhythm of his thumb across your clit. And fuck, he was right, you did look hot, shameless, sexy, a glassy fade to your eyes, tits and mound swollen from John manhandling you.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, groaning again as you grabbed tight to his wrists, riding his hand, grinding down on it. “Perfect like this. Sweet. Wet. All. Mine.” He punctuated each word with a forceful shove of his fingers, curling them into your g-spot, rubbing there while spots bled across your eyes and your own image blurred behind white glitter.

He knew exactly how to play you, because he had done it so many times, never like this maybe, never making you watch, but a sob of mingled pleasure and relief broke out of you as all the ways he had loved you flashed by, rapid fire, a film played at four times speed.

You couldn’t keep your eyes open any longer. It felt too good.

“Please,” you whimpered, hunting down the last little bit of sensation, so close, so close, right there—“Please, John, I wanna… I wanna…”

“I know you do, I know you can. Why don’t you come right fucking now, right on my fingers, you’re dripping all over me, baby, just how I like it. Just how I love it.”

You wailed, seizing up, milking his fingers deeper into your channel as the white spangles flashed silver, needle-fine heat pricking across your chest and cheeks, flooding your belly as the pressure there gave. John fingered you through it until you were gulping out his name, breathless and shivering, held up only by the strength of his hands.

You were both quiet for a moment in the worshipful afterglow.

“Sh-hh, there you go,” he murmured, easing his fingers out of you, kissing your throat, your jaw, your cheek. “What else do you need, beautiful?”

You turned into him, wiping your tear-stained face across his bare chest. “Just you. Just us.”

John scooped you into his arms, carrying you the short distance to the bed, laying you down in the cozy pile of sheets and pillows that smelled like him, like you, like your mingled bodies. He didn’t wait even a half-second before he was kissing his way down your chest toward the soaked crux between your thighs. Your hands tangled in his hair as you rested back against the pillows.

“John…”

“I’m not done proving my point.”

You grinned up at the ceiling, because that was him through and through, but you were less cocky as he wrenched your legs apart and blew a hot breath across your pussy.

“And when will you be done proving that point?”

“I don’t know, are you going to say something sweet about yourself?”

You swished your lips to the side, considering. “Mm. Not yet.”

Honestly? You were feeling pretty good, but that could stay a secret for now.

John grabbed you hard by the hips, yanking you closer. You shrieked and he laughed as you zipped down the mattress. He cocked one of your legs over his shoulder, eyes electric blue. His head dipped down, tongue rolling out to wet his lower lip. “Then settle in, we might be here for a while.”

“Quiet,” Bob continued, in his own world, glancing up at the ceiling, smiling when his voice echoed back at him softly. “Calm. Nobody around really. Now I get why Yelena’s here all the time.”

You met him halfway around his shuffling lap of the square bath, gently tugging open his robe for him. That ended his stream of conscious assessment of “Yelena’s office,” and directed his attention elsewhere. To you. His hands captured your waist, pulling you into him while you dragged the robe down his arms. One brushed kiss across your cheek was all it took for John to intervene, put his bossy little proverbial foot down.

“We’re here for therapeutic purposes.”

Bob snorted softly at that, shooting you a knowing look, mischief sparkling in his eyes, that naughty twist to his lips sealing you into an instant alliance. You were already on his side, but John didn’t need to know that. And anyway, maybe you could behave long enough for that therapeutic stuff to actually happen.

Maybe.

“Get in,” you said in a rasped whisper, running your fingers down Bob’s hard stomach, flicking your gaze toward the bath to your left. “Try not to splash him.”

“Whatever.” Bob patted your butt as you walked away, and you stifled a squeak to keep from disturbing John.

He really did have a genuine reason for being there; an injury had flared up in his back, and Yelena had suggested he start going for hot and cold plunges. A few sessions in and it seemed to be helping.

You and Bob, importantly, had not been present for those early visits, which is perhaps why he had actually seen some benefit from the treatment. John had been evasive about inviting you two to join, for obvious reasons, but you had worked on him for days on end, pouting, begging, promising to be good.

And since you were his weakness, it was a miracle he held out as long as he did.

Bob slid into the water with a curious sound, settling down onto a ledge opposite John. You threw his robe into the alcove for changing, then joined them, parking next to Bob, two rowdy imps seated side by side. His fingers brushed yours under the water, and you pressed your lips together.

“Stop.” John didn’t even need to open his eyes that time.

“We’re not doing anything, man, chill out,” Bob mumbled.

“You are never not doing something.”

“John, we’re just sitting here,” you promised. It was true. Mostly. Bob’s thigh pressed against yours, and you forced yourself not to giggle. It was stupid, childish, but also too much damn fun. John sighed so hard it rippled the water in front of him.

“It's not like your back cares what we’re doing,” Bob added, his left hand slipping around your waist, pulling you closer. The water was so, so gorgeously warm, just the perfect temperature. Your muscles were already loosening, and the humidity mimicked the dizzy heat of being sandwiched between both of them in bed.

Wow. You had lasted approximately two minutes. Impressive stuff.

“It’s distracting,” John told him, his neck reflecting the turquoise blue of the water.

“You don’t have to join in,” Bob shot back, fingers digging into the soft flesh over your hip. He twisted toward you, lips tracing the curve of your outer ear. You shivered into him, biting back a moan. “Do your thing, we’ll do ours.”

John’s eyes snapped open, head falling forward so he could glare at both of you properly. Primarily Bob, though. “I’m not going to listen to you two fuck while I do PT.”

“Why not? You listen to us fuck all the time…”

The heat in his eyes could strip the varnish off the wooden wall behind you. “You really don’t see the difference?”

“Bob,” you said sweetly, resting your head on his shoulder. “We did say we would be respectful.”

“That was before you put on that swimsuit.”

“Jesus Christ.” John let his head fall back and thump against the tiles. “Can you two behave yourselves for fifteen God damn minutes so I can at least justify the cab fare?”

You elbowed Bob in the ribs, nodding, glancing up at him with dark, sinful eyes. “We can do that, can’t we?”

Bob shrugged, not even bothering to retract his arm. In fact, his fingers dug in deeper, and you tried not to squirm. “Yeah, sure. We can do that.”

It lacked conviction, considering he already had his hand on the cookie jar. And since you knew Bob, you were confident he wouldn’t last all of those fifteen minutes. You expected that hand on your hip to stay where it was, you didn’t expect him to circumvent “the rules” within seconds of said rules being established.

John had perfect, acute hearing, but Bob had all kinds of ways—silent ways—to make you wet.

Wetter than you already were, in the bath with both of them, knowing it was just a matter of time before all this silence and good behavior lapsed into desperate kisses, bodies intertwined, gasped names and quaking orgasms. Even just rubbing your thighs together would alert John. You wanted to be good for him, but you also so, so wanted to be bad.

Bob squeezed your hip once, just once, then it started.

His power flickered through you, igniting in your blood. You squirmed, sitting up straighter, twisting to look up into his eyes. Blue yielded to gold. A muscle worked in his jaw, the only indication that this required careful, deep concentration. Pleasuring you this way was an art. He might have been staring at you benignly, or meditating, his expression cold and neutral, the sensations running through you anything but.

Liquid sunshine pooled in your belly, warming through your blood stream so fast it made your mouth drop open. Holding Bob’s eye contact made the feeling that much more intense. He watched calmly, one eyebrow twitching up as he sent flickers of electricity across your chest, teasing out your nipples until they perked against the rubbery lining of your swimsuit. Your next swallow was thick, throat clenching around a moan. He shook his head almost imperceptibly, warning you. His golden eyes slid to the side, indicating John.

How the hell were you supposed to just sit there quietly while he silently teased your nipples into overstimulation? While he—oh. Oh no. I mean, you knew it could get worse. Bob had shown you all the myriad ways he could flex his powers in more unorthodox ways, but never while you were supposed to stay completely still and quiet. Insistent, coaxing pressure built against your sex, rolling into your body like a hot, silken finger, widening as it traveled, filling you up.

Your lips parted, eyelids dipping, the water just around you suddenly warmer, molecules zinging. The water felt closer, like it was somehow holding you in a sweltering grip. If you had to guess, less than three minutes had gone by. You pleaded for mercy with your eyes, then quite literally mouthed: Please.

Please what, babe? he mouthed back. More?

You shook your head no.

Bob shook his head yes.

Simmering water squeezed in around you. Sweat pricked along your hairline. The warm, phantom cock pressing deeper vanished, then started its torturous journey up your channel again. You couldn’t help it, your eyes squeezed shut and your head fell back against the tiles, your thighs squishing together once beneath the water. The flickers of energy cinched around your nipples eased, zipping downward, finding new sensitive ground to torment, coalescing in a teeth-jangling hitch around your clit. Your hips bucked forward, a reflex, a shock.

Water sloshed around your shoulders. Bob’s fingers flexed against your side. Your right hand crept across your leg to his, settling over the tent in his shorts.

John snapped one eye open, clearing his throat.

You managed to ease open your own eyes, trembling briefly until you could command your limbs to stop. Bob looked incredibly pleased with himself. All of his very busy attention on you stilled until John settled down again. He was apparently satisfied that you two were behaving yourselves. Yeah. Right. You gave Bob’s erection a single, hard squeeze in retaliation; the gold in his eyes burned. God, that was sexy. He went back to work on you, nostrils flared, restraint now as brittle as yours as your hand stayed wrapped around the base of his dick.

Maybe it wasn’t your most brilliant call, teasing the man with god-like powers who currently had you in a full-bodied vice of sensation. His revenge was swift, terrible, hot. He was determined to get you to break first, and you had no doubt he would succeed in that. The tingling electricity centered over your sex bunched under your clit, pounding against it until your eyes crossed and your ass bounced off the ledge.

You held on valiantly for about thirty more seconds; the low lights in the bath pulsed with your heartbeat, gold sparks flashing against your eyelids on each demanding throb of his power. He had never gone this all in, usually just teasing you here and there if you were out somewhere in public or using a swift flicker of heat to enhance things when you were already at the mercy of his strong hands. You could forget sometimes that he was the most powerful man on Earth, that he was far more than just your sweet, cheeky, doting Bob—

Heat licked up your throat, back down, roaring across your chest, swirling into your belly with such smooth force it felt like he had somehow fucked through your entire body.

“Hngh.” Your ass lifted off the seat again, and now there was no fighting it. You were going to shatter, come, scream.

In the midst of your thrashing, you felt Bob’s forehead drift against your temple, his voice a husked whisper as you humped helplessly against the sensation and pressure. "Sh-hh, he's going to hear us."

Fuck, it just felt so good, strange, weird and electrifying, like you were suspended in a current of raw, warm pleasure.

The aftershocks were almost as naughty as the full range of Bob’s powers. You slid down lower into the water, boneless, weightless, eyes swimming and head fuzzy as you leaned into Bob’s shoulder, panting softly, trying to catch your breath.

“Never heard that sound before,” Bob teased.

Your throat ached. You hadn’t even realized you were crying out for mercy. But John, obviously, had noticed. Now that you were mostly in control of yourself again, you saw him staring from across the bath. He sighed, looked at his smart watch, then stood, making his way slowly across the water toward you both.

He looked like a mythic fucking creature rising out of the blue like that.

“Eight minutes,” John said, and if his hungry, impatient snarl didn’t make you shake with desire then his daddy’s home tone certainly did. “Were you good?” he asked, entering your territory, left hand gliding up your thigh, finding your arm, following it to where your fingers were still curled around Bob’s erection. He tsk’d softly, leaning down, using both hands to drag you up by your waist toward him. His beard rasped across your jaw as he jammed your head to the side and pressed a humid kiss to your ear. “Or were you bad?”

You blinked up at him, pawing at his chest while he sucked your earlobe between his teeth. Shivering, you arched into him, then grabbed him by the biceps, lightheaded. “It… Bob was… and I tried but he…”

“Oh, it’s Bob’s fault?”

When you glanced at Bob, his eyes were huge and innocent, blue as the water hushing sedately around his chest.

“You didn’t want him to play with you?” John asked, nosing into your hair, smelling you, like he could just detect your total fucking bullshit. “Didn’t want him to make you come like that?”

“No, I did, I—” You trailed off, realizing this was a losing battle. You surrendered quickly, poor thing. “It was me. I was bad.”

“I know,” John said. He gently unwound you from his chest, turning you toward Bob, pressing you forward by your waist until you knelt on the ledge where Bob sat, straddling him. Nuzzling warm kisses into your neck, John took the thick straps of your swimsuit and slid them down your shoulders, giving the fabric at your middle a firm tug until your breasts spilled over the neckline, nipples firm and swollen from Bob’s teasing. “I know you are. You can’t wait fifteen minutes for us, can you?”

“It’s, um, just so warm in here, couldn’t think straight,” you muttered in weak defense, breaths coming faster as Bob admired your bare tits, cupping them, feeling the weight like he was doing it for the first time.

“It’s about to get a lot warmer,” John warned you. He leaned over you, his weight crushing you down against Bob. His fingers hooked into the waistband of Bob’s shorts, pulling until Bob raised up off the seat. “Take him inside, baby, make him feel good.”

“F-Fuck,” you whispered, dizzy. “Okay.”

Bob gathered you to his chest, hands running over your sides to your back, anchoring you onto his lap. You jabbed your swimsuit out of the way, gasping as his sex bumped yours. You were warmed up for him, still slick and aching as his cock nudged between your folds, tracing, catching on your entrance before John’s hands urged you down, slowly, letting you feel every stretching inch as you sank your butt onto his thighs.

Two sets of lips hit your neck, opposite sides, one lightly scratchy with afternoon stubble, the other coarse, wiry. Bob groaned into your throat, shuddering as you took him all the way. Big, muscular hands closed over the tops of your shoulders, grinding you in tight circles.

“That’s so—he’s so—” Your head tumbled, landing against the pillowed wall of John’s pecs.

“Is he deep, baby?”

Bob made a frantic noise, arms tensing around you. He was trying to bump his hips against yours, but John wasn’t letting up, keeping you trapped there, full to the brim with nowhere to go.

You whimpered out an incoherent answer, because he was fucking deep, he was stretching you in that perfect, luxurious way, your tummy fluttering, your clit feeling the pressure from below. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? And my baby gets whatever she wants.”

“Ah, God,” Bob whispered, rubbing his face against your throat. Your senses were full of him, too, his damp hair releasing the scent of his shampoo, the skin of his cheeks woodsy and clean with lingering shaving cream.

“Wanna move. Need to… Can I…”

“No, we’re gonna stay just like this.” John released one of your shoulders, right hand disengaging to feel down your breasts to your stomach, lower; his middle finger had no trouble at all finding your clit, so needy and buzzing it practically sprang into his touch. He circled it, firm, drawing a winding rush of air out of you as every pass made your walls clench around Bob. “Is that good for you?”

“Y-Yes.” You huffed, straining into the contact, brainless and trembling as your universe narrowed to the hot, thick dick opening you up and the calloused finger sending sparks up your spine.

“Oh, fuck, she’s squeezing me,” Bob whimpered. "Squeezing me so h-hard."

John hummed, knuckling against your clit, more exacting, pushing and grinding until you both felt him, until he was massaging you and Bob through you. You wiggled desperately against that touch, lost, the heat everywhere, making you sweat, making your mind fog until the bath and the lights disappeared behind a dazzling haze. You started to spasm so fast, flutter so deep, you weren’t sure if it was John making you do it or your own insatiable body chasing down release without you. You just knew you weren’t in control anymore, that the thing building inside had nowhere to go, that you were powerless against it, that it was starting to claw out of your throat.

“Oh God, oh God,” you whined, slamming your head back against John’s chest.

“I can’t, she’s too—holy shit, she’s too—"

John’s growl in your ear gave that beast inside you permission to claw free. You moaned. Shrieked. “That’s it, milk his dick, baby, make Bobby come.”

Bob started coming undone the second you did, rapid, rhythmic clenching too much to withstand. His hands closed around your hips, holding you down, not that you were going anywhere, not when he was repeating your name like a prayer and his cock was coating you in sticky sweet heat.

“Give her all of it, everything you’ve got, every drop,” John whispered. He was rubbing himself against your ass, lazily though, nowhere near finished. “Fill her up, Bobby, come on, fill her until she pops.”

Bob convulsed, then thrust out his chest; he tore his face away with a deep groan, suddenly limp, head loose and lolling on his shoulders as he dropped back against the tiles. His pulse fluttered in his neck, skin flushed and shining. The tension in his face eased until he was blinking slowly up at the ceiling with a dreamy smile. John let go, and you collapsed into a heap against Bob, hands curled under you.

Your drooping eyes widened as a pair of wet swim trunks slapped onto the floor by Bob’s shoulder, not a declaration of war but just as effective. John urged you back into his grasp, tugging you off of Bob’s lap, lifting you with ease. You whimpered at the feeling of Bob sliding out of you, of the water rushing against your sex.

“You didn’t think we were done, did you?” John asked, rumbling with laughter as he sat down heavily next to Bob and wrangled you onto his lap. He thumbed the hair back from your forehead and temples, dropping sweet, flirty kisses along your cheeks. You didn’t know how it was possible, but he was bringing you right back to life. He just felt so good and huge and powerful under your thighs; his hands closed around the straps of your swimsuit, then tore the fabric clean down the middle. The sound shot straight to your cunt. You arched, whining, entranced by the sight of your soft breasts squishing against his chest, the water lapping at you both, distorting. “Got anything left for Big John?” he murmured, drawing you into a lingering kiss.

“Mmhm.” You purred, bouncing playfully on his lap, rolling the tender mound of your sex against his throbbingly swollen cock.

“Got me so fucking hard listening to Bobby play with you. I know you were trying to be good for me, but you can’t help it, can you?”

You shook your head, nipping his lower lip with your teeth, earning a harsh growl.

“Can’t help but be a bad girl?”

You kissed him harder, then down his chin to his jaw, to his neck, sucking on his throat until he grabbed you by the hips and squeezed.

“Show me.”

Your hind brain had taken over, all rational thought drowned at the bottom of the bath as you lifted onto your knees and positioned yourself over his cock. No thoughts, no hesitation, just sheer desperate want as you sank down onto him. He was so rigid and ready you could tell he wasn’t going to last long. That didn’t mean much yet, not when you were still working him in to the hilt.

“Bobby loosened you up, huh?” John teased, resting his hands on your ass, molding his fingers to the shape, letting you decide the pace. “Think I’ll slide right in?”

You shied into his neck. “N-No.”

“No? Why not?”

“Because you’re s-so big.”

“That’s right, but you love this big dick, don’t you?”

“Oh f-fuck, yes, yes I do.” And you did, the wet gush that met him as he stretched you back open proving every single word. The instant he gave you one full stroke you wanted another, breathless, sounds stopped up in your throat from the way he wedged himself in, made a home for himself. You rolled your face against his neck, gasping at the front of your throat, getting bolder, bouncing on his dick until you heard the addicting, choked up groans that meant he was just as lost, just as blissed out.

“That’s it, baby, ride that big dick. You’re s-so fucking beautiful when you let go like this.”

The water rushed in from every direction, slapping against you, churned by the faster, faster, faster snap of your hips. He was nailing that hidden spot that made you crazy, and that would’ve been enough, more than enough, as you were vocally attesting to, but Bob’s warm body was there suddenly, his arms wrapping around you, his lips against your ear as he returned the favor, one hand slithering between your bodies, two devious fingers stirring up your clit.

Just Bob's presence reminded you of where he had been, that John was fucking his cum back into you...

“No, no, no—” That was too much. You were already sensitive, so close, and now you were squeezing down on John like his dick was the only thing keeping you from falling off the side of the Earth.

“Jesus.” John slammed his head into your shoulder, holding on for dear life, one, unbroken groan grinding out of him as he gave himself over to the relentless, milking squeeze of your cunt.

“You being good for him, babe?” Bob whispered, face tight to yours.

“Y-Yes.” Words. Sounds. Somehow words, in the midst of the haze, in the wet, sinking haze, in the hot panic filling up your throat—

“Taking that big dick like a good girl?”

“Yes, fuck.”

His fingers speared hard against your clit, held. You threw your head back and wailed. “There she is, give our messy girl what she needs.”

John bucked up into you, eyes squeezing shut and mouth falling open around a silent groan. The spurting, hot flood struck you just as dumb and quiet. Your ears started ringing, sound cutting out. Water dripped off your elbows. Three sets of labored breathing. The rhythmic slosh of miniature waves crashing against the edge of the bath. John whimpering against your neck, shivering, swearing softly as he loosened his grip on your back and went still.

Warm. Wet. Soaked. Inside and out. The heat was its own beast sitting heavy and muggy on your chest. Delirious. You were faintly delirious. Bob smoothed his hand up to your tummy, settling it there, rubbing in soothing circles. Snuggling back against his chest, he stood taller in the water, letting you drift, kissing the side of your face and your cheek until your senses sharpened and your brain came back online.

“Probably not the best thing for your back,” you finally murmured.

John hissed through his teeth as you climbed off of him, then caught you before you could get completely away, resettling you across his lap. Bob took the seat next to you both, stretching his arms along the cool tiles outside the bath.

“Worth it,” John said, gazing at you with hazy blue eyes.

“How’d you injure it anyway?” you asked, swiveling until you could prop your butt on the muscled cushion of John’s left thigh, your legs stretched across both of them. Your head found its way to the comfortable, familiar crook of John’s neck, the shelf of his shoulder.

“Remember Paris?” he asked, fingers dancing idly up and down your spine.

“Vividly. I’ll never forget the view.”

“Me neither,” Bob murmured, teasing, lifting his eyebrows at you.

John sighed and shook his head. “Not that night.”

“Is this when Yelena made me go to that cheese museum?” Bob asked, sliding one hand back into the water to rub your feet absently. You groaned, wiggling your toes. It didn’t matter if you were turning into a prune, you never wanted to leave.

“Yeah.” John cleared his throat, shifting guiltily. “We, uh, got a little vigorous.”

Bob snorted. “I thought this was like a war thing or from football, you threw your back out having sex?”

Your cheeks burned with heat. Oh, right. Bob had gone out sightseeing with Yelena for the afternoon. John had come back from a run, and you had meant to get dolled up to go shopping, but he just looked so sexy covered in sweat, shirt damp, eyes bright, chest pumping… Shopping was postponed until after he pinned you to the wall, your feet nowhere near the floor, legs hooked over his elbows.

“In his defense,” you said lightly. “I had a lot of croissants that morning.”

“I wasn’t accounting for croissant density, definitely, that was the problem.” John rolled his eyes, but it was good-natured, especially when he pinched your butt over it. “Or maybe I’m just getting old.”

“Forty is not old,” you assured him.

“Tell that to my back.”

Bob grinned up at the ceiling, eyes closed, head resting on the ledge. “How much longer do we get this for?”

John checked his watch, grumbling. “Fifteen minutes.”

You stared at your hands in your lap under the water, blushingly reminded of the last time you had been asked to do something for that amount of time.

“Think you two can keep it together for that long?” John asked, pinching you again.

“’Course, no sweat,” Bob said. He lifted his head, hair sticking to the tiles. A tiny zip of his power tickled up your arm; he winked. “And anyway, she started it.”

-> Masterlist

Breaking it down into pieces like that usually made things easier. Not today.

You rubbed the sleep out of your eyes while the muezzin’s voice filtered through the city, amplified by a crackling loudspeaker but still lyrical, beautiful. There was an ache to that sound; it settled in your heart. That made your hands shake as you twisted toward the nightstand.

It was hot, the sheets and your own shorts and tee stuck to your skin. You chugged water from the tepid bottle by the lamp and alarm clock, then grabbed your phone.

There was a single unread message waiting for you, glowing on the lockscreen.

good morning, beautiful. i’ll see you soon.

It was ten or so at night the day previous in Manhattan. The message should’ve made you feel better, but it just invited the shadows to deepen and the grief to get bold. It just reminded you that John was in New York, in your shared bed, getting ready to turn in for the night. And even if he was right, that you’d be home within the next thirty-two hours, it didn’t lessen the pain.

No, the pain twisted into a knife, sharp between your ribs, a physical ripple that spread to your stomach. Because you needed him now, not in thirty-two hours, not in two hours, now.

The hardest part about this day was that nobody else seemed to notice this thing that the whole world should know about. Loss like that left an impression, carved out a void that stayed, like a photograph with one person missing, cut out, thrown aside.

You started to hate that text and hate John. Why didn’t he remember? It wasn’t rational. You had only been together six months, why would he remember something you mentioned one time? Even days ago, you yourself weren’t thinking about it, this horrible fucking anniversary, but now you were. You dragged yourself out of bed, slipped the phone into your shorts, and pettily refused to text him back. Fuck him and fuck everyone else, it was just you and the memories now, and the pain, and that was fine because you were old friends.

In the kitchenette, you found an electric kettle and an ancient jar of instant coffee. The streets went quiet except for early morning commuters, the zip of motor bikes, the occasional loud conversation that spilled in through the open window. Yelena snored softly, tossing onto her back, one arm falling where you had just been. She looked so content and careless, and that made you angry, too.

You were everyone’s problem now.

The hurt in your stomach nested, got comfortable, started to make sense as you waited for the water to boil and dumped a spoonful of black powder into a stained, chipped mug. You looked at your phone. Nobody else had texted. Nobody remembered. You were utterly alone in the swallowing, expanding void.

Why didn’t anyone else remember?

It made you feel crazy.

The kettle clicked, churning and sighing. You quickly poured the hot water into the mug, stirred, paced, waiting for it to cool down enough to drink, and with every second that ticked by, pressure built behind your eyes. The pain in your stomach had started to fill you up, gaining ground until you could feel the itch under your skin. Not thinking, too sloppy, you grabbed the mug off the tiled counter, hot coffee flying over the edge, burning across your thumb, palm, wrist.

“Fucking fuck.”

Yelena stirred, mumbling. At least you didn’t drop the mug. Instead, you hurled it into the sink, then blasted the tap over your hand. The cold water was bright, soothing, tricking you into thinking the burn was nothing at all. Outside of the water, your hand throbbed. You could feel your heartbeat in the wound. Fantastic. Soon, you’d have to pull on worn gloves and wrap that injured skin around the grip of a pistol.

You blundered through the apartment to the bathroom, tearing open drawers in there until you found a depleted med kit. The tears spilled out as you poured hydrogen peroxide over the puckered burn. The god damn fucking bandage wouldn’t open. You tore at it relentlessly with your teeth, swallowing a scream of frustration.

Out in the main room, you heard someone messing with the front door. Your head perked up. They punched in the code correctly, the locking mechanism beeped softly, then released. You dropped the bottle of peroxide in the sink, bandage still caught between your teeth, muscle memory sending your hand under the sink for the spare gun taped there.

You stepped around the corner, pistol raised, glimpsing Yelena sitting up in bed through the open doorway, a gun in her hands, pointed in the same direction as yours, a familiar black and red shield filling the space just inside the front door.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered, lowering the pistol, rushing forward.

“Had a feeling that would be the reaction,” John muttered, letting the shield drop, resting it against the wall by his feet. He took one look at the hot tears cooling on your cheeks and the bandage dangling out of your mouth and pulled you into his arms.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Yelena sighed. You could hear the sheets rustling as she got up.

“Nice to see you, too.” John kept your head tucked against his shoulder until you wrestled yourself back. He was in civilian clothes, hoodie, leather jacket, jeans, a duffel bag hanging at his side.

“Why are you here?” you asked, sniffling, tossing the pistol onto a side table to paw at the incriminating tears.

“Thought you could use back up,” John said, aiming for conversational and missing by a mile. There was no hiding the worry in his tone. His gaze snagged on your hand, on the visible burn. He pulled the hood down off of his head, snatching your wrist out of the air. “What happened?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing.” He flicked a glance in Yelena’s direction, then dropped his bag on the floor and pushed you toward the bathroom. Before closing the door, he grabbed the bandage out of your mouth, too.

In the cramped, damp quiet of the bathroom, the relief crashed over you in a rocking wave. The sickness came back so hard and fast it left you breathless. You sat down hard on the cover of the toilet seat, letting your head fall into your hands, gasping and swearing when your chin collided with the burn.

“Here, let me deal with this.”

John sounded tired. Of course, he did. It wasn’t exactly a quick flight. It was that fucking word. Deal. Let me deal with this. It burrowed under your skin. Like you were a burden, another annoying problem for him to solve. Even as he handled you carefully, like you were one wrong brush of his fingers from breaking apart, the anger and the hurt stopped up your throat.

More hydrogen peroxide. John cradled your hand in his far larger ones, precise and tender, holding your fingers over the sink. You could feel him watching, observing you, and it felt like pity. He ignored the bandage you had fought with, using a half-empty roll of gauze to wrap up your hand.

By the time he was tying it off, you couldn’t breathe.

“I’m not a liability, I’m not a kid, I don’t need b-babysitting.” It was hard to talk, nearly impossible to get it all out. You hated how defensive and scared you sounded.

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“Yes, it is. I’m not… I can…” You were about to explain how strong, competent, and totally okay you were, but that was difficult to do over the panic building in your chest and with the hand you couldn’t even fucking bandage properly still nestled in John’s palms.

Your chest burned. Seethed. Suddenly, your heart was too swollen for your ribcage. You couldn’t swallow. You couldn’t think.

First, you wanted him there more than anything, now you couldn’t stand the fact that he was there, watching you twist down the drain.

“Hey.” John folded your arm back in, resting the wounded hand on your thigh. He knelt in front of the toilet, wedged between your knees and the wall, far too much person for such a tiny bathroom. His knees cracked. He reached out and cupped your face, sliding your jaw into his warm, calloused hands. “Hey, hey, hey. Sh-hh. Baby, it's all right.”

That was all it took. You couldn’t breathe before, now you couldn’t see either, not through the scalding wash of tears that poured out of you. You lurched into his grasp, gasping for air, convulsing, convinced you were going to choke to death on nothing as the fear and the hurt burned alongside your ratcheting pulse.

“Breathe,” John whispered. “Breathe, baby, I’m here. Do you know why I’m here?”

You tossed your head, communicating nothing but your rising panic.

“Slow down. In through the nose, out through the mouth—”

Your nose wasn’t working. You tried anyway. Every breath shook out through clenched teeth.

“I remembered last night. Too late, I know, but I’m here. Took the jet, told Barnes he could bench me for a month, I don’t give a shit…” John sighed, stood, scooped you up off the toilet and took your place, holding you on his lap, your legs hooked over his, feet propped on the tiled lip of the shower. His forehead rested against your right temple, one arm across your knees, his other hand smoothing up and down your back. “Listen to me. Slower, in through the nose…”

The gulps were going to turn into hiccups if you didn’t follow instructions. You forced air in through your nostrils. It shivered and sliced on the way down, but at least it reached your lungs. You blew it back out through pursed lips, and all the anger, all the bitterness, started to leak out with it.

“You’ve got backup. You’ve always got backup. You can go out with us today or you can wait on the jet. There’s no wrong answer, just what gets you through the day.”

You nodded, the words finally sinking in, the relief not long after.

“Keep going. Just keep going.”

The weight crushing down on your chest eased. It felt good to be held, even better to be seen. One minute passed, then two, and miraculously, your lungs felt full again and the boiling pain simmered into a throb in your stomach that you could live with. And he had remembered. And he was there. Softer tears slipped out, each one wiped away by a caring hand.

“How’d you do this to yourself?” John asked gently, with a wry laugh. His fingers were wet with your tears as he pressed one against your injured hand.

“Making coffee,” you mumbled, a hitch in your voice.

“Too spoiled,” he teased, kissing your cheek, nosing against it. “Princess gets her coffee handed to her every morning now, huh?”

“Okay, okay,” you sighed, smiling somehow. “You’re just very good at making it. Isn’t that teamwork? Everyone has their expertise…”

“What’s yours again?” You cut him a warning look. John smirked, finding your lips, kissing you softly. “I mean, besides driving me crazy—”

“I think you know what I’m good at.”

“Mm. It’s a long list. I’m just teasing, baby, needed to see you smile.”

“Thin ice, Walker.” It was an empty threat; you curled against him. You breathed in his scent for a while, unabashedly smitten, a little grateful that he had spent a sweaty night in the jet because now he smelled so him. Comforting. Perfect. Kinda stinky. “I’m going out with you guys today. I can’t just sit around thinking, I’ll work myself up again. Need a distraction.”

“You sure?”

You nodded, resting your head on his shoulder.

“We’ll get you home ASAP, okay? Nice bath. Bottle of wine. I’ll even rub your disgusting feet.”

“Asshole,” you whispered, pushing your face into his stubbly neck.

“You just stick with me today, all right? You’ve got a lot on your mind, that can, uh, lead to mistakes.” John pressed his fingertip against yours again, indicating the burn. “This is one of those fucking days you just have to survive, make it to sunset.”

You drew in a trembling breath. “I can do that.”

“I know you can, you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

“Okay, but you know Bob.”

“I said strongest not laziest.” You pinched his thigh. John squirmed, kissed you again, nodded toward the door. “Can I carry you out of here? I like carrying you.”

“Fine. Don’t let Yelena see.”

John made a giddy little noise in his throat, shifting you higher into his arms, biceps bulging as he pulled you into his chest, then grunted and stood, going sideways, sidling by the sink before dipping down so you could deal with the door handle.

“It’s more heroic if you don’t grunt like you’re picking up the Hulk,” you muttered, licking the inside of his ear.

“Fuck, I hate that,” he hissed, head bobbing to that side to fend you off. In the hall, John put you down, letting you slide slowly down his front until your feet touched the floor. He gave you a stupid kiss on your stupid nose before you could stop him. “Good to have you back, soldier.”

“John? I still need my coffee!” you called, watching him troop through the apartment toward the kitchen. With his back to you, he saluted.

You backed up against the wall, leaning, listening to John and Yelena fall into muted conversation in the kitchen. The shadows receded, banished by a warmth you felt all down your body, banished by something you hadn’t confessed to yet, but knew felt a lot like love.