Chaos Incarnate

And if he never heard those words, John could keep on living in this elaborate fantasy he had concocted, the one where you gave him shit all the time because secretly you wanted him too, not because you found him desperately annoying.

Another key element of this fantasy was that you were not in love with Bucky and Bucky was not in love with you. All available evidence suggested you two were one extra margarita at happy hour away from declaring your undying love for each other and riding off into the sunset on Bucky’s kickass motorcycle, but in John’s mind, that evidence had been falsified.

Those margaritas were imminent. John watched them arrive with sparkling ice and salted rims, deposited right next to the basket of complimentary tortilla chips you two had been enjoying. It hadn’t started out this way. When you joined up, everyone was a little excited, and that was a brand-new feeling for the New Avengers. Your presence took some pressure off the Sentry’s shoulders; up until that point, he was the clear carry in terms of raw strength and power.

And now there was you. And it just made sense that for moderate-level threats, the team split into two units, the military minds each leading one, pairing Bucky with you, Ava, and Alexei, leaving John with Yelena and…

“Hey, do you think she’ll make it snow for us on Christmas?”

Bob.

John shifted in his chair, legs cramping in the booth. The Mexican restaurant had been Yelena’s idea, and judging by the size of the burritos being delivered to other tables, it was a stellar call. But not even the promise of fifty-two grams of protein and enough guacamole to fill a kiddy pool could lift John’s spirits as you and Bucky clinked your margaritas together.

“Sure,” John said, tight-lipped. “If you asked.”

The big room was dark, but every booth was lit with its own collection of quirky, mismatched lanterns and a little red pot of candles burned on each table. There was karaoke, because Yelena had bet Bob that she knew every word to the Macarena, and this was obviously the best, most mature way to settle that. “She probably would,” he added.

“Yeah.” Bob swirled the crushed ice in his soda, leaning back. He had taken the bench half of the booth, John the chair across from it. Yelena’s spot in the booth was empty while she got ready to sing on the tiny, makeshift stage wedged in the back corner. The screens flanking her were blank, blue. The tables and booths were so small, they had been forced to split into two groups, and John hadn’t been ready to tip his cards and ask to sit with you, so naturally, Bucky and Ava were with you instead.

“Or you could ask her.”

John’s jaw hardened as he swiveled away from the stage to look at Bob. He had this look, pretend innocent, like there wasn’t a thought between those huge, goopy blue eyes. But John knew better. Bob was quite adept at playing dumb, but he was always cooking up something…

“Why would I do that?” John asked, stiff.

A crooked smile. A shrug. Bob’s head flicked subtly to his right, toward the next booth over. “Come on, man. Don’t make me say it.”

John’s eyebrows crawled upward. “Say what.”

Bob shot him a pleading look, then sighed and shook his head. He scooped a chip through a squat, tiny cauldron of salsa. “Never mind, forget it.”

John tried. He tried very hard. But now he was paranoid that his secret was out. If Bob had noticed…

The song started. Yelena bounced back and forth, wailing the open notes with her nose in the air. She did know the words, but karaoke always gave John secondhand embarrassment, and he bargained with himself that he was still being a supportive teammate if he went to the bar. At least he wasn’t hiding in the bathroom.

He half-perched on one of the stools. The bar was the heart of the restaurant, more kitschy lanterns hanging from a metal bracket outlining the square counter. Llama-shaped pinatas the size of his fist wibbled in the air conditioning, interspersed with the lanterns. He didn’t know if he needed one shot of tequila or twenty. It felt like just a matter of time before you and Bucky got up on stage and crooned into each other’s eyes and rammed the final nail into the coffin for his self-esteem.

It was a particular pain point that it was Bucky. Bucky, who had broken his arm in so many places that it still took weeks to heal even with the serum streaming through his veins. When storms rolled in, John felt them coming, his arm aching like he was a career sailor.

Funny, his arm didn’t ache this time, when this storm rolled in.

You.

“Hey Blue,” you said, easing onto the empty stool to his right. “What are you drinking?”

John stared. “Blue?”

That was a new one. Far gentler than the other nickname you had given him months ago: Team America World Police.

It drove him nuts. Blue was an upgrade, but he couldn’t imagine what had inspired the pivot.

“I’m trying to be nice,” you said, planting your chin in your hand and your elbow on the bar. John couldn’t look at your sweet little pout, or he would kiss it off your face. “There’s nothing sadder than a lone soldier at a tequila bar. You look ready to make all kinds of bad decisions.”

Oh honey, you have no idea.

Without him saying anything, you flagged down the bartender, ordered a round of shots. Top shelf. Paid with cash. Tipped generously. Fuck. On principle, he wanted to hate the move, he should’ve been the one paying, but you were capable and in control; it was what had made falling for you so simple. Your killer smile and the way your ass looked in your uniform certainly didn’t hurt.

You slid one shot down to him, using the condensation already slicking the bar top, though he had a feeling it was guided with a whisper of your powers; whenever you used them, his molars ached, the air pressure changing rapidly.

“Hey Macarena,” you said, on beat, and took the shot.

John followed; it kicked like a mule on the way down. “Next one’s on me,” he said, considering the small, empty glass in his hand, then you. “Guess I have to come up with a new nickname, only fair.”

“I don’t know, I’m pretty partial to Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs,” you said, laughing, leaning onto the bar again, bare arms blue and pink and purple under the lanterns.

He could just imagine taking another shot, this time after licking a bright stripe of salt right off the plush nugget of skin between your thumb and index finger. He wondered if you would shiver, if you would hold the wedge of lime in your teeth and let him take it with a hungry kiss.

“Bob says, ‘I cooked’ with that one,” John sighed.

“He’s right.”

He smirked. “Something like…” He weighed his options, head bobbing back and forth. “Sunshine.”

You made a face. “Please. That’s the one thing I can’t make.”

Your whole demeanor changed, shoulders dropping, eyes following, a morose dent between your eyebrows as you worried your thumbnail along your lower lip. John’s immediate impulse was to get closer, but he held it back, watching you collapse into a dark place, somewhere he couldn’t follow until you added, “The shittier kids at the facility called me Category Five and it wasn’t because they were happy to see me coming.”

“Maybe they didn’t know you.”

“And you do?” You scoffed and then laughed, playfully, sliding down from your stool. You meant it lightly, but John was starting to panic at the thought of you retreating across the restaurant to Bucky’s side. And that’s what you were doing, leaving, right after treating him to a smile that made him think he might just have a chance, that you wanted him to know you better.

John caught your wrist, tugging lightly, spinning you back around. Yelena finished her song, thrusting the mic into the air. The bar exploded with applause, but John kept his eyes locked on you. A weird, hot pressure built in his chest. Your hand felt good in his, and he could feel your pulse slamming against your wrist.

The next person got on stage, the guitar riff filled the restaurant, and some random civilian started butchering Jessie’s Girl. The irony almost made his eyes roll out of their sockets. But you were staring up at him pleadingly, with what seemed like an unvoiced question on your parted lips, namely: what the hell do you want?

“Fajitas!” Ava shrieked, leaping out of her seat as a steaming, sizzling pile of meat tribute was delivered to the table. It snapped you both out of the overheated staring contest John had started. Your hand slipped out of his grasp, and he couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say to stop you; one minute later, you were back at Bucky’s side.

“You good?”

“What?” You could barely hear Bucky over the karaoke. Technically, you did catch the question, but you were buying time. John Walker had just looked into your soul, blue eyes like lasers burning through you. You couldn’t think, let alone cobble together a coherent sentence.

Bucky smirked, leaning closer. “He say something to you?”

Yes, but not enough.

“Just calling a truce,” you told him, pushing the rice and beans around your plate. “He knows how to push my buttons, but it seemed like a good night for amnesty.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed. He had already made quick work of his tacos and leaned back in his chair, swiveling it out slightly toward the karaoke stage. Behind both of you, Yelena was trying to hype up Bob to get up and sing something. “Seems like you drive each other crazy.”

The blood went cold in your face, then drained. Bucky’s right arm kept brushing your left, and you couldn’t tell if he was doing it on purpose or not. He was your friend, your close, trusted compatriot, a soft heart wrapped in a frosty exterior, someone you had grown to respect and rely on.

But he didn’t make your heart flip over when he walked in the room. Bucky was a good-looking guy, but John just did something to you. The size. The attitude. The chip on his shoulder that seemed to heal day by day. The baby blue eyes. The unbelievable ass.

The way he looked at you, like he wanted to eat you in one bite.

And you didn’t know if that was because you pissed him off or he wanted to fuck or both.

The night wore on, Yelena got up to do another song, brought the house down, and swung by the bar on her way back to the team to buy a celebratory bottle of tequila. The vibes were strong, but you were jittery by the time everyone rearranged the tables and chairs to make one larger hangout spot. Bucky slung his arm across the back of your chair, and you jolted forward like you had been shocked with a cattle prod.

John noticed, of course he did, eyes cutting to you with an intensity that made you wet. Unless you were imagining things, that was the look of a deeply jealous individual. Maybe that was hope whispering lies.

Shot glasses were passed around. You took yours and stood, mumbling an excuse about wanting to socialize with more of the team. Bucky gave you a furrowed look, mouth drawn into a brooding line as you dodged around his chair and sidled along the edge until you were hovering near Bob at the far, far side of the circle.

“Singing tonight?” Bob asked. He didn’t seem to mind the party atmosphere, six or seven sodas deep, one of Yelena’s pink cocktail umbrellas behind his ear.

“Oh, no, I like you guys way too much,” you laughed. “That kind of torture would land me in the Hague.”

John, two chairs to your left, chuckled into his water.

“Something funny, Blue?”

He sat up straighter at the new nickname, chin higher. “Controlling air and wind is sort of your whole thing—”

“And tomorrow, it will be my whole thing after this many refried beans,” Yelena cut in, draping herself across you, giving a tipsy snort-laugh. “Anyway. That’s a problem for Tomorrow Me. Tonight Me is doing shots, which means so are you, because you cannot get drunk.”

Yelena got her way. She usually did. It seemed like a good idea for a while. The world lost its sharp focus. You felt warm and gooey inside and laughing was easier. It never got too intense, the serum in your veins wouldn’t allow it, but for a bit you could ignore the way Bucky’s eyes were searing into you from across the tables.

Someone on stage was doing a pretty incredible rendition of a Whitney Houston song. Everyone joined in, singing along. You were having such a good time, you hardly noticed Bob and Yelena’s heads smooshed together in the booth as they discussed something. But you did feel Yelena’s hand when she skipped back over and clumsily bumped into you, just forcefully enough to send you toppling into John’s lap.

He caught you, senses as sharp as ever, hands tightening around your waist. Your thighs clenched, twitching closer together. God, he was strong. His hands felt so right touching you that way. You scooted onto one of his knees, more balanced, face hot and eyes swimming as you cast a glance over your shoulder.

He watched you back, jaw working back and forth, hair a little damp from how hot the restaurant had become. His cologne was sharper now that he was sweating; it was all you could smell, all you could focus on.

“Here!” Yelena cackled, pouring a sloppy shot and holding it out to John. “But come on, don’t be boring, do it the right way.”

John detached one hand from your side with the enthusiasm of a man signing his tax bill. He grumbled something under his breath, you didn’t catch it, and then Yelena was grabbing your arm, forcing it toward your own face. Like a magician’s assistant, Bob handed her a salt shaker.

“Lick.” Yelena said it so calmly that it made you wonder if she was drunk at all. The state of her hair and makeup suggested that yes, in fact, she was hammered, but there was a coy sparkle in her eye as she flopped your hand back and forth, once more commanding: “Lick.”

You felt the heat of John’s leg through his jeans. His left hand, still curved around your waist, flexed at the sound of the word lick. Anyway, you were all adults; if John wanted this to stop, he would say so. You really, really hoped he didn’t want it to stop.

With a short, withering glance at Yelena to indicate you knew perfectly well what she was up to, you took control of your arm and licked a broad stripe across your own wrist. She tilted that hand up, then shook out a liberal amount of salt, the tiny grains sticking to the saliva shining on your skin.

You opened your mouth to say something, but Yelena crammed a lime wedge into it before you could make a single sound. Your eyes widened as you twisted back toward John, his gaze unbearably hot and intent, like this stupid stunt was suddenly mission critical. As soon as you held out your wrist toward him, the invisible spark flaring between you hit tinder, flashing over, his eyes hungry, dark, as he let go of your waist and guided your wrist to his mouth.

John sat up straighter, hair mussed, collar ringed with sweat; he leaned in, sucking the pulse point on your arm like he was trying to drag your heart through your entire body and into his throat. You cried out around the lime in your mouth, the sweet suction of his lips thrumming through you; his tongue rolled against you. You were sure he was going to leave a mark. He was making out with your wrist like you were completely alone, like his colleagues and the rest of the bar weren't there to watch.

John’s pupils were huge and blown when he finally let go, took the shot, then cupped your face in both hands. He wasn’t kissing you, not exactly, but the gesture was so similar it made your eyes drift shut in dreamy anticipation. His fingers were warm and calloused. His beard scraped your chin as his nose nestled into the space along your cheek and he bit down hard on the lime, yanking it out from between your teeth. The bright little squirt of juice shared between you almost made you moan.

The lime hung out in his mouth like a green mouthguard as he flashed you another, blistering, wanting look. He plucked the wedge out and tossed it into his empty shot glass in one smooth motion, then slammed both on the table.

John sat back, bouncing you lightly on his knee, licking the traces of salt off his lower lip before wiping his face with the back of his hand.

Every cell in your body screamed at you to grab his stupid head and kiss him. The impulse was moving through you, up to your hands, when Yelena rocked unsteadily against your side.

“Wuh oh,” she mumbled, blinking rapidly. “Maybe…Maybe one too many. Three too many.” She burped ominously into her fist. “Five too many.”

You leapt to your feet and steered her away from the table, half-carrying her toward the mercifully near door. She stumbled a few steps across the sidewalk before she doubled over, your hands holding her hair back. Everyone else hurried outside, but Bucky got to you first, hand closing over yours on Yelena’s back.

After the first round of sickness ebbed, Bob lifted Yelena into his arms and carried her home, faster than any Uber or train. Bucky had taken his motorcycle, and your first thought was to get back to the tower to take care of your friend. You weren’t thinking about how it looked, or who was watching as you climbed onto the back of his bike and held on.

He couldn’t remember rain in the forecast, but John heard it start around three in the morning. Just a gentle drumming against his window at first, then hard, sheeting rain with distant thunder rolling across the city. He stared at the ceiling listening to it until it became obvious that he was never getting back to sleep. When he closed his eyes, you were there, thighs clenched around his knee, lashes fluttering shut when he sucked on your wrist. He sat up, groaning, grinding the heel of his hand into his right eye, sighing.

In the morning, he would say something. He couldn’t take the ambiguity, not after having you on his lap one minute, watching you ride away with your arms around Bucky the next.

He dragged his restless body out of his room, down the hall, no particular destination in mind, just knowing a lonely bed wasn’t the kind of solitude he needed just then. He certainly didn’t expect to find you in the common room, standing at the tall, rain-splattered windows, watching it come down.

You were so close to the glass it was lightly fogged by your breath. Shivering, you hugged yourself, and a clap of thunder shook the tower. You twisted away from the window, stalking to the bar area and the refrigerator, ripping it open. The sterile, white light bled around you. Even like that you were beautiful; maybe he could buy himself a few more hours of fantasy if he retreated right now. John turned, trying to keep his steps light, a near impossibility with his size and—

“John?”

He cleared his throat, lowering his shoulders after realizing they were up by his ears. You were watching him from the counter, a pink jug of Pedialyte in one hand, a cup in the other. John fixed his rumpled hair, crossing the space between you with reluctant steps. Here it comes.

“How’s she doing?” he asked, settling onto a stool.

“Lena? She’s all right. Sleeping it off. Nothing this and a big breakfast can’t fix,” you said, indicating the hydration aid in your hand. “This is our last one. Wanna share?”

John nodded and, ever a product of his upbringing, eased off the stool and went to fetch the glass instead of letting you do it. You met him by the cupboard, flashing a nervous smile as you froze with your hand halfway to the shelf.

“Such a gentleman,” you teased, eyes sleepy and soft as you went back to the counter and unscrewed the cap on the Pedialyte.

John knew he should keep his distance, start the healing process now before the Band-Aid got ripped off, but he couldn’t help himself; he hovered.

“Don’t say it like that,” he said softly. “Like you’re surprised.”

You slopped out a bunch of pink liquid into his cup, snorting. “Is this how you are on missions?” you asked, pouring out your own serving and touching your cup to his. You turned just enough to face him, and he didn’t miss the way your eyes lingered on his bare chest before crawling up to his face. John straightened. “Chivalrous?”

John held your gaze, tired and worn enough to push it. “Ask your boyfriend to swap with me, you’ll find out.”

Another ripple of thunder, this time louder. Closer. Your face fell. “My what?”

“Just put me out of my misery.” John downed the Pedialyte, wiped his mouth, stalked to the sink to rinse out his cup. Maybe it was cowardly, but he couldn’t look at you while you said the next part; it was bad enough knowing what was coming, the hit his pride would take when you—

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“Meaning this thing between you and Barnes.” John gripped the edge of the sink, shoulders hunched, lats flared. Another boom, this time just down the block. Jesus, that was close. Someone’s car alarm went off, a frantic shriek. “It’s not like it’s a secret--you two are always on top of each other. He gave you a ride back on his motorcycle tonight for Christ’s sake.” The thunder came again, so intense it made John flinch.

Then he flinched again, your hand closing around his right forearm, pulling until he humored you and let go of the sink, opening up toward you. You didn’t look angry, no, just shocked, pulverized the way he was. His gaze traveled from your crestfallen face to the downpour outside. Holy shit. This storm wasn’t in the forecast because it was you, your mood, your--

You jabbed him in the chest with one finger. “Oh yeah? Well, I only saw one man Frenching my arm tonight and it wasn’t Bucky.”

John touched the place you had poked. The rain. The storm. He couldn’t let this spiral into an argument. He grabbed your wrist out of the air, gently, then wrestled you closer until you were wrapped in his arms, pressed against his chest. You squirmed just for a heartbeat, breathing fast, eyes brimming with tears.

“Stop. Wait. Wait.” He looked outside again, the city blotted out from the cold, driving rain. “Is this you?”

He nodded toward the window.

You shuddered against him, nodding, swallowing.

“Why?”

You swayed against him, but John held on, firm. “I don’t get to decide the mission assignments. I got on his bike because I was worried about Lena and I wanted to be here to help take care of her. I didn’t want the night to end, I wanted…I wanted…”

John’s hands slid from your shoulders to your waist, walking you back until you bumped the counter. “It’s okay,” he said, voice a gruff rasp. His forehead lowered, brushing yours. Outside, the rain pelted the window, horizontal. “I want it, too.”

The storm was in your veins, in your heart; thunder rattled the windows as John’s lips closed over yours. He gasped, tensing. The noise was jarring him. Scaring him. Sometimes your powers were damn near impossible to control, especially when emotions ran high, but maybe it was time for the storm to clear now that he was kissing you, now that you were in his arms…

Sunshine. That was what he wanted to call you. You breathed into him, sighing, looping your arms around his neck as he trapped you against the counter, hips snug to yours. His teeth nipped your bottom lip. The thunder echoed further away, muted; this time, John didn’t seem to notice it.

You were right out in the open. He kissed you again, harder. You were going to get caught but it didn’t matter. You couldn’t think about anything except the heat of his body against yours, the power rippling down his arms as he braced you against the delicious steel of his chest. Rain tickled against the windows in uneven gusts, playful. John smiled into your kiss, eyes half-lidded as his gaze slid toward the observation deck and what was happening outside.

Damnit, he had caught on.

“Wet out there, huh?” he murmured, capturing your lips again in a quick, sloppy kiss, rubbing against you just enough to let you feel his length thickening in his sweatpants.

“Mmhm.”

“Still you?”

“Mmhm.”

One hand detached from your back, molding across your shoulder blade, then your ribs, sliding down the loose curtain of your oversized sleep shirt to the waistband of your shorts. His knuckles played along your lower stomach, fingernails catching on the fabric of your shorts. You trembled, trying not to let the storm roll back in, but it was fucking impossible when he was teasing you like that…

“What’s the forecast?” he whispered, fingertips dancing lower, exploring, hand flattening and twisting until his palm dipped far enough to cup your sex through your panties.

You closed your eyes, sending the lightning out to sea. You didn’t know it would scare him. Big, bad John Walker. You were learning all sorts of things about him and fast, things you wished you had known sooner, like how he growled when you ground your knee against his hard-on, like how he had a dusting of freckles across his huge, hairy chest, like how he was clearly intent on driving you insane and veering close to succeeding.

His forefinger found the very damp spot spreading across your panties.

“Dripping,” you whispered, hot and wanton against his lips.

John groaned on a half-swallowed snarl, tipping you back over the counter, fingers working around the edge of your underwear, running along your soaked folds, coaxing out your clit with a rhythmic come-hither motion. Apt, because you were going to come, you could already feel it building. Raindrops slapped the windows as another bursting gust hit the tower. John shoved down his sweatpants just enough to free himself, then did the same to your shorts, movements frantic, eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation or resistance.

There was none.

You clawed your fingers down his chest as you felt the thick, blunt head of his dick trace your sex the way his fingertips had, gathering moisture, teasing, testing.

“We can’t do this here,” you hissed, lifting your thigh anyway.

“I know,” he said, or moaned, the slick heat of his precum coating your clit, sensation and need coasting through you so hard you almost bucked yourself off the counter, out of his arms. John shoved you harder against the counter, keeping you from sliding down again. “We can’t do this,” he agreed, grabbing the thigh you offered, slinging it around his waist.

“Definitely not.”

“Too…too risky…”

He pushed inside, your mouth falling open and your head dropping back from the insane stretch. How could there possibly be that much of him?

“Oh my God,” you whispered, trying to find somewhere to put your hands, some way to hold on that made sense. “We are definitely…n-not fucking right now.”

“No way,” he groaned. “We wouldn’t. Fuck.”

The ruse fell away after that because you couldn’t find the words, they broke apart before they ever reached your mouth. His name was a word, technically, and you could manage that much, over and over again in a higher register, in breathier gasps as he drove into you, a man possessed, a man intent, unleashed, the storm colliding between you now. Sweat dripped off the ends of his hair, spattering your shirt. Red welts formed down his chest from the scrape of your nails, then healed before you put them back again. Then it was his shoulders. Then his forearms.

His thrusts shortened until you were just draped around him, holding on for dear life while he rocked into you, your clit wedged against his pubic bone, the position just right, so right, and that part of him felt like it was made for just that purpose, for you to grind against until the rain slammed into the windows at the same rate as his hips.

“I can’t…I’m…” John pressed his forehead to yours, claiming one last urgent kiss as the warning slipped out of him. His hand fell away from your back, gripping the granite at your side, crashing down onto it with enough force to splinter the edge. The sound ripped through you, making you clench, and that feeling, of his power shaking the stone and your body tightening around his punishing girth pushed the storm through you one last time, from your throat to your belly. Trembling against his chest, you gave him his name back one last time…

“That’s it,” he whispered, grunting on each quick, controlled thrust. His stomach was tight as he held himself back just long enough to let you slam down first. “That’s it, baby, that’s my sunshine.”

“Oh God, oh God.”

Clench, release, his name, then a flood inside you, hot as a summer squall, his mangled cry bitten out against your neck as he stilled and then jerked, spasming as he finished in long, aching spurts.

For a second, it felt like you had all of him there, wrapped up in your arms as you folded them over his neck, letting him gasp for air with his mouth hovering by your throat. The rain pelted the tower one last time, in an uneven slant, then eased. The clouds broke apart, moving on. You watched it happen over his shoulder, resting your chin there on the big, muscular perch of it.

“Jesus,” he whispered, hands fluttering on your waist before he gathered himself, leaning back, groaning as he slid free of your body. He hurriedly pulled your panties up, then your shorts, then tucked himself away with his cheeks burning and red. He took an unsteady step back, hand trembling as he smoothed it through his hair. “Now that we, um, didn’t do that…I think…I think maybe you should stay on Bucky’s unit.”

You laughed, rearranging until you sat fully on the counter, legs dangling. Covering your face with your hands, you sighed into them. “We can’t be trusted around each other.”

“Not at all.”

John’s hands smoothed up your thighs as he returned to you, standing comfortably between your legs. He looked you up and down, then squinted off toward the windows. “Looks like it cleared up,” he said, almost absently, a smile tugging at his lips as you reached for his face, cupping his jaw through his beard.

And the pose. Jesus, the pose. Maybe after the forklift, in a different life, you had been a mime, because he didn’t even need to hear what you were complaining about, your body communicating your disbelief, outrage, and frustration with uncanny precision. Arms crossed. Hip cocked. Brow arched. Lips pursed.

Peacocks on full mating display were doing less.

Which he didn’t want to think about, because your attitude made his blood boil, sure, but it also made him hard as a fucking rock.

John laid out the plan, meticulous, serious, trying his best to avoid your face, painfully aware that the second his eyes went there, you’d be staring back, smart comment lodged behind your teeth. You had done the recon for this mission, so he assumed you would handle this plan and his processing of the information with grace; his work was building off of yours. Surely that meant something.

Wrong.

Outside the target location in the dark and the cold, you waited all of three seconds after he stopped talking to launch in with your own thoughts.

“You’re overthinking it,” you said, flatly.

“I don’t think so.” John gave you a tight-lipped smile, one meant to punctuate the entire discussion. “But thanks for your feedback.”

“It’s Walker’s Three Ps,” Yelena cut in with a snort, the third point on this lopsided triangle. “Prepared, paranoid, pedantic.”

John turned away, giving up, outnumbered. “Just execute, okay? Can you do that?”

He hoped you could take your boot off his neck for one night, actually follow orders instead of insisting on your own way. At least he didn’t have to see your physical reaction to his orders this time. All three of you entered the building at separate locations.

It was even going pretty smoothly for a while. John should’ve known that wouldn’t last, not when you were along for the ride.

“Hold.” John flattened himself to the wall at the end of an interminably long hall. This was just a straightforward smash and grab. Easy. Simple. “Yelena, you in position?”

“Yep.” She sighed over comms, somewhere in the basement of the building. The corridors were cold, damp, every overhead lamp dim, flashing, the bulbs dying at different rates. “This fuse box is a cry for help,” she added. “I hope whoever wired it talked to somebody...”

John heard your muted laughter through his ear piece. On the other side of the building, you were holding your position against an identical wall. “Can we get this over with? I have an early pedicure tomorrow.”

“Hold,” John muttered, listening for the footsteps of any nearby patrols.

“Why?” Your voice vibrated with impatience. “I did the recon on this place. There’s like ten idiots in here. This is overkill. Lena could do this alone in her sleep.”

“I kinda agree,” Yelena said, over the snap and fizzle of her messing with the fuse box.

“Yelena cuts the lights, we converge on the front office, that was the plan. That is the plan. The plan that we are executing,” John stated, just as the lights flickered, but in unison for once. He straightened up, sliding his gun out of its holster against his thigh, leveling his shield. Did he tend to overengineer infiltrations? Maybe, but at the end of the day, his priority was the safety of the team.

Your comms must have still been open, because he heard the distinct sound of a detonator being armed.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “Hold your—”

The explosion came a second later, ripping through the walls, shaking the building from foundation to roof. The lights went out, from your recklessness or Yelena’s precision, hard to say. John threw himself around the corner, shield raised, night vision goggles lowered, watching you charge ahead, through the dust and smoke still billowing down the corridor.

“Hell yeah,” Yelena murmured, and he could hear her pounding steps over comms as she hurried to catch up.

“Unbelievable,” John muttered, pelting down the hallway after you.

Unfortunately, you were right. Unfortunately, by the time he got to the end of the trail of limp, incapacitated bodies and tore off his goggles, you were sitting on the main desk of the front office, tablet in hand, scrolling casually. You didn’t even look up as he approached, though your crooked smile suggested you knew exactly where he was. John hooked his shield onto his back with a grunt.

“You should see the porn on this thing,” you said, snorting. “Wow. Some niche stuff, damn.” You finally tipped your head up, showing him the device. “Government property and he didn’t even try to hide it. Pretty bold if you ask me.”

“Funny,” John grunted, holstering his weapon before snatching the rectangle out of your grasp. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

“About your exotic pornos? On the job?” You clucked your tongue, evidently enjoying his strangled expression of fury. “Be honest, is it poop stuff or—"

John cut you off with a look, taking a single, warning step toward the desk.

You shrugged, lifting your brows, crossing one leg over the other before leaning toward him. The way your eyes ran up and down his body made him feel ten feet tall. He had to wrestle back the urge to kiss the smug little grin off your face. Something in his expression must have registered, because he caught the flicker of doubt in your eyes as he loomed closer.

If you were intimidated, it only lasted a second. You shook it off just as fast.

John’s fingers tightened around the tablet as he lowered it and kept his attention squarely on you. His suit creaked as he leaned in, so close he could smell the dust caught in your hair from the explosion.

“The next time you disregard an order, princess, I’m putting it in the report.”

The nickname had developed over time, a monument to your attitude. It was never said with any kindness or deference, but spit like a curse.

It didn’t help that the rest of the team found it fucking hilarious.

His voice was razor sharp, but you didn’t even flinch. You pushed your lip out into a pout, gasping, clutching your heart, fluttering your eyelashes. “Not the report, John. Anything but the report!”

“Some of us take this work seriously.”

“Are you or are you not holding the mission objective?”

“I am,” John bit out, mouth twisting into a snarl. “My way would’ve worked just fine.”

“My way was faster.” You reached out to gently graze your fingertip across the ribbed plate on his chest. “Maybe I’ll write you up in the report. For inefficiency.”

Blood was going to come steaming out of his ears like he was a pot boiling over--

“Oh, Jesus. Get a room, you two.”

Yelena.

“Hard to find one that will fit John’s head,” you said.

Your delivery was so irritating that it took him a second to realize you were…not necessarily turning down the idea.

Huh.

John forced himself to leave your orbit, struggling, like your chests were magnetized together, but he managed, with four different versions of the same bitchy comeback sizzling on his tongue.

“Can we leave now?” Yelena added, surveying the carnage with mild disinterest. “It smells like sardines in here.”

Through either sheer dumb luck or what passed for Bucky Barnes's sense of humor, John was paired up with you again on your very next mission. Paired up with you and you alone.

Wonderful.

The bickering started the minute you left the Watchtower together in the jet and didn’t stop until you reached the safehouse after arguing your way through the mission. You wouldn’t get off his dick about a single detail of the plan, which was a problem, because he wanted you on his dick in a very different sense, and that was inconvenient, because you clearly thought he was an incompetent thumb.

And the squabbling didn’t let up at the safehouse, either; instead, the ember that had been smoldering between you since the day you joined up finally exploded into a conflagration. John could already tell he wasn’t leaving that safehouse without both of you suffering a few burns.

You got to the door of the farmhouse first, entering the code on the autolock bolted to the door with a knuckle, quite literally punching it in. “You should’ve let me take the shot,” you were grumbling, so distracted you put the code in wrong three times and almost triggered a total lockdown and reset. “I had the better vantage.”

“Right.” John paced a tight line just behind you, beyond ready to ditch his sweaty uniform and catch a shower and some sleep. “Because you’re a marksman now.”

“Marksperson.”

He heard the goading smile in your voice without seeing your face.

“Jesus. Can you hurry up and get us inside or is remembering six digits in a sequence too much for you?”

“Maybe if you stopped breathing down my neck for one god damned second I could concentrate.” You got it right on your next try, and the door clicked open to your simultaneous sighs of relief. “There.”

John stormed ahead to your muttered, “I believe the saying is: ladies first,” pretending not to hear it, then unholstered his weapon and went room to room, clearing the house. He could tell by the thick layer of dust over everything and the abiding silence filling the rooms that it was an unnecessary precaution, but he did it anyway. It was protocol, he insisted that was the reason, and that it had nothing to do with his desire to keep you safe.

By the time he returned to the foyer and attached kitchen, you had checked the basement, then tracked back to the front of the house to remove your armor and gloves, tossing them onto the behemoth of a dinner table. John paused in the open doorway, lowering his forty-five by degrees, eyes glued to you as he slid it back into his thigh holster. You hadn’t noticed him returning, standing there in the dusty glow of the farmhouse at sunset.

There was no denying you were beautiful, but he had never seen you like this before, held in a warm golden halo of splintering sunlight, lost in your own thoughts, some private concern creasing your forehead, dimming the spark in your eyes as you stripped out of your peripherals. Your movements were slow and practiced, absentminded, a weary tilt to your shoulders as you finally glanced up and saw him lingering across the room.

John frowned and glanced away, feeling caught, guilty, like he shouldn’t have allowed himself to intervene on your private contemplation. “Upstairs is clear.”

“Basement, too.” You swiveled toward the ancient white tomb of a refrigerator and tugged open the door. “Looks like vodka soup for dinner,” you joked. “Better pray there’s a can of beans or something in the pantry.”

John groaned, making exactly that sweep, swiveling toward the large built in cabinet doors on his left. They released with a puff of stale dust, like an exhaling mummy, the smell inside about as appetizing. “Six kinds of chili beans, canned peaches. Oh, one chicken soup, so that’s thrilling,” he sighed, giving the report. He pulled out a can, showing it to you. “And whatever this is. It’s unlabeled.”

“Don’t suppose we can DoorDash a pizza fifty miles from civilization,” you murmured, giving the can in his hand a dubious glance. Your eyes were bright and playful as they shifted to John’s face. “Plenty of meat on you, though, so I’ll be eating good.”

He snorted, putting the sketchy can back amongst its mates. Shutting the cabinet doors, he pivoted to face you again. “See? We can have a pleasant conversation. Proud of us, almost brings a tear to the eye.”

You absorbed that with a deadpan stare, lifting your eyebrows exactly once, unimpressed, before crossing the kitchen, moving toward him quick. “Uh-huh. I’m gonna wash up and try to sleep. If you need me for anything, no you don’t.”

John caught you by the bicep as you came up along his side. His voice dropped to a husked whisper. “What is it with you?”

You jerked your arm out of his grasp, taking a small step back, a hand’s breadth between his chest and your chin. “You really wanna know?”

“Yes. Please. Jesus.” John threw up his hands, swiping off his beret and tossing it on the table with all your discarded shit.

You considered him for a moment, like maybe you were deciding how definitively you wanted to burn this bridge, how much salt you wanted to throw down. The knife John expected arrived on a velvet pillow, your tone hot and hungry as your eyes slid over him again, devouring. “You’re skilled, John, but you’re sharper when I ride your ass.”

John blinked, understanding the words and the order they were in, but getting hung up on two separate issues. Unhelpfully, his mind supplied a vision of you on top of him, your thighs clamped around his waist and your skin slick with sweat, fists in his hair, holding on for dear life while he fucked his name out of your mouth—

“Are you trying to tell me you’re doing this for my benefit?” The question came out, though it was somewhat delayed, waylaid by that encroaching fantasy.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you.” You sighed, and just for an instant, the attitude dropped away and you were…focused. Serious. Tragically, that you was just as sexy as the you that gave him endless shit. “I’ve watched carefully. You get complacent and slow when everyone just follows orders.”

“Complacent and slow?” Maybe more than anything else you had ever launched at him, that attack actually struck paydirt. John pulled himself up to his full height, aware that it was cheap to use that kind of thing against you, but you had hit a nerve. “No one has ever accused me of being either of those things.”

“Until now,” you pointed out, wry.

You tried to leave through the kitchen doorway again, but John barred the way, hand flat to the wall, his arm blocking your path. You could limbo right under it, but you didn’t.

“I find it hard to believe that’s all this is,” he said.

“Not my problem.”

“It is your problem,” John replied, whispering. “Because you’re stuck with me tonight, and I want a better explanation than: It’s for the good of the team.”

“That’s the explanation,” you assured him, hooking your arm around his, wrenching it away from the wall and pushing until he lowered it inch by inch. He let you do it, fascinated by your strength. “It’s the one I’ll keep giving,” you added, shoving his elbow down to his side. He felt the instant it all changed, the cold giving way to heat as your eyes stared at his lips for three seconds too long, then dragged back up to meet his gaze like you had been forced at gunpoint to stop lusting after his mouth.

You moved beyond him, into the hallway, never putting your back to him. John followed like you had him hypnotized, matching you step for step.

“While I’m stuck with you in this house,” you said, words slowing, voice plunging to a suggestive octave as you reached for the zipper on the front of your suit. John felt the first click of the toggle going down in his throat. “Unless…”

John let that unless wrap around him like a leash, dragging him toward you, reeling him in. He realized where you were going now, winding through the house, leading him through the living room and into the largest bedroom on the first floor. The playful light in your eyes extinguished, blooming like ink in water into something darker.

“Unless what?” John asked, shrugging out of his shield harness, letting it drop as he passed the coffee table, the sofa… He pulled one glove off with his teeth, then the other, watching your breathing come faster and faster as you both danced closer to the flames.

You raised your chin, giving him the cocky little pout that made him simultaneously enraged and enthralled.

Without looking, smooth as silk, you kicked open the bedroom door with the heel of your boot, crossing the threshold with the zipper of your suit down below your navel. John had already mapped and memorized every inch of deliciously exposed skin, but fuck, he wanted more, so much more.

John pulled at the collar of his suit, nostrils flared, just the open doorway between you.

“Unless you find a reliable way to shut me up.”

Fuck, you were a god damned hellcat, and he wanted every part of you.

“Yeah?” he breathed, scratching open his belt, dropping it, pulling his jacket over his head, then the under shirt, enjoying the hitch in your chest as you inventoried his body.

Your tongue swept your lower lip, and John knew it was over. If you both went down in flames, oh fucking well.

“Yeah.”

John ducked through the doorway, too tall for it, catching you before you could take another step to evade him. His head darted down, teeth catching your right earlobe and pulling until you gasped and arched against him. He let go, dragging his nose across your cheek and down to your lips, capturing them in a bruising kiss. Every bitch ass word you had ever sneered at him returned in a roar, overpowering the whimpering voice that insisted he slow down and think this through.

He grunted out of the kiss, your taste like another hit of serum. He was going to lose his fucking mind if he didn't have you. “That can be arranged, princess.”

That whisper shivered down your spine, he saw it, watched your hands flex as they landed on his chest. You laughed softly, practically purring as you went onto tiptoes and sank your teeth into the meat of his jaw. “Fuck you.”

He nodded. Good. “You have as long as it takes me to get undressed to pick a safe word.”

You stumbled out of his grasp, knees colliding with the edge of the ugly, floral, 80s duvet fluffed over the bed. The window over your shoulder looked out onto a seemingly endless pasture, the blinds broken, a shattered box of sunset orange slanting across the bed, backlighting your silhouette, accentuating every curve.

John had already bent down to yank off his boots.

You unclipped the belt low around your waist and let it coil at your feet, then slipped out of your own tall boots and wrapped your fist around the zipper on your suit again, tugging until it couldn’t go any further.

John wasn’t too proud to admit to himself that your torturous striptease was turning his fingers to mush. Every single muscle cramped as you reached for the two halves of fabric near your shoulders and peeled yourself free, shedding one skin to reveal another.

“You’ll need one, too,” you said, winking. “Think you can manage that, big boy?”

He growled, shucking his pants and kicking them away, advancing on you and gathering you to his body with one arm, taking you with him as he dropped down onto the bed, his free hand catching both of you before any springs or bones were harmed. Still, you landed with a jolt, hands scrambling up to his shoulders as his weight dipped you inches into the mattress.

“What’ll it be, princess?” he asked, closing his hand over the middle of your bra, waiting for your answer before tearing the thick fabric down the middle.

“Mozambique,” you whispered, jerking into his grasp as he tossed your ruined bra onto the floor. “And for the gentleman?”

“Alpharetta.”

You gave a single, breathless nod. “Then, let the games begin.”

He laughed, hard and loud, already flipping you onto your stomach. “Mouth off all you want, honey, you’ve already lost.”

John didn’t hesitate, because he had pictured this a hundred times. You in his bed, you at his mercy, you begging for everything he wanted to give you, then begging for your release. In those fantasies, you didn’t squirm nearly as much, trying to wrestle out of his punishing grip. You were way too strong for the average man to handle, but John was not an average man, not in any sense.

Another rush of air left your lungs as he pushed you down flat against the mattress, your right arm reaching for the edge of the bed frame, probably in a vain attempt to get some leverage. John’s heart flipped up into his throat at the thought that you were really trying to escape him, that you were frightened, overwhelmed—

That tiny hesitation from him prompted a menacing, throaty laugh from you. “Fall asleep back there? Dick go limp? Not up to the task?”

“Jesus.” He sighed, catching your right wrist and squeezing, kneeing your thighs apart before folding you back in on yourself, forcing your chest against the coverlet, lifting your ass into the air like you were an animal presenting. “I’ve been looking forward to this, I want you to know that.”

“Blah, blah—”

John yanked down your underwear and spanked you hard enough to leave a mark. Your gasp melted into a groan. Fuck, that sound. That beautiful fucking sound. He was going to unload all over the handprint he had left on your cheek if he didn’t hurry this along and get inside you. With his other hand, he took a handful of your hair, pulling carefully from the root, wrenching your head back, lengthening your throat, bending your spine.

“You’re going to remember every minute of this the next time you feel like riding my ass,” he grunted. He teased your panties further down your legs, where they snagged around your knees.

“Wouldn’t count on it,” you wheezed, eyes squeezing shut as he trailed his palm over the place he had smacked your ass.

John let go of your hair, knowing you would take that as a sign to fight him again. He was ready, both powerful hands clamping around the tops of your thighs, fingers sinking in, deep enough to send a warning.

“Don’t be shy,” John taunted, holding your legs open as he dropped down lower behind you, blowing a humid breath against your exposed pussy, a full-body shudder ripping through you as he did it again. “I want to hear my name. Do it right and I’ll give you what you need, fuck the bad attitude right out of you, put a new one in.”

“Fuck,” you whimpered, digging your face into the musty old coverlet. “John—” It sounded like a cry for help, but it wasn’t the safe word.

“That’s a promising start.”

He dove in, groaning himself at the first taste of your salted honey, licking like he did in his dreams, like you were hiding something precious in your cunt, and he would dig and dig until he found it. You surged back against him, wailing, fists hammering the mattress as he rolled his tongue into your dripping slit, chin dipping so far between your legs his beard scraped your clit.

“is that…Is that the best you’ve got?”

John rumbled out a laugh against your pussy, eyes closing in ecstasy. Shit, you were right. He did lock in when you needled him like that. He would admit you had him dead to rights later, after you were dumb and dripping, hoarse from screaming his name, marked and full, just his sweet, overfilled creampuff.

His tongue speared into your pussy, chin nudging your clit with every hungry jab. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten someone out like that, but then, you were the only thing fit to consume in the house.

“I’m gonna…oh God, I’m so…”

John pulled back, smiling against the sweat-damp pillow of your ass cheek as you convulsed with frustration, trying to chase friction against his face and getting nowhere.

“Name.”

“You’re a fucking nightmare, you know that?”

“Noted,” John said, smirking through it, rubbing his cheek against your ass until you growled out a stubborn noise. “Full name.”

“I hate you.”

“Uh-huh.” John kissed his way lower again, teasing you with the pleasure you wanted so bad, and that he was eager to bestow. But only if you followed orders. “Now you need to beg. Don’t make it worse for yourself, princess, just give in. She needs it…” His thumbs circled on your trembling thighs, dancing so close to your pussy he could see it clench desperately around nothing, your stomach fluttering. “I can tell she needs it.”

You held on for one more valiant second, then snarled out: “Please John Walker, p-please make me come. You son of a bitch.”

“Mm, I don’t know. You missed the F…”

“John Fucking Walker finish me off or so help me—”

He took mercy, on himself as much as on you, rising up to kneel properly against you, fishing out his hard, leaking dick, thumping the heavy weight of it against your ass while he scooped his right hand under your sex, thumbing your clit in firm, rapid circles until you spasmed off the bed. He could watch that every night for the rest of his life. You bucked like a wild mare, rutting against his finger with complete abandon, his name shattering against your lips as you lost yourself. And you were still gushing against the fingers of one hand while the other wrapped around his length, then patiently fed it into your still rippling pussy.

“Fuck, that’s good,” he muttered, fantasy collapsing into reality. But the real thing was much sweeter. You were tight around him, hips stuttering forward as if in surprise at the size of him. “E-Every inch,” he managed to bite out. “Or it doesn’t count.”

“Holy shit,” you moaned, cunt like a wet fist as it clenched around him.

“Too big for you, princess?”

“In your d-dreams, Walker.”

John sighed, leaning his weight against you, opening you up on one long, tunneling push, enjoying every pulse and flutter, every genuine gasp of pleasure that slipped past your resolve. He knew that safe word wasn’t coming, not when you were soaked, flooding…

“Ready for that attitude adjustment?”

You shivered again, rolling your face back and forth on the mattress, lifted one fist to give him the finger over your shoulder. “Eat my ass, Walker.”

“Next time, princess,” he promised, grabbing you firmly by the hips. “Next time.”

You went to work every day to punch and shoot alongside their son, one more misfit on an entire team of them. When you overheard John on the phone with them, he sidestepped questions about your past, leaving blanks you were pretty sure they would want filled in over the next four days. And you had no idea how you were going to keep your head or measure up.

And you were terrified.

A huge shape shifted beside you; the floral granny comforter was mostly just over your chest and legs. John ran too hot for a pile of blankets. The room smelled like cinnamon potpourri and baked apples. Outside, the frogs and crickets were going crazy. There was a teddy bear motif in the wallpaper border just under the crown molding. You had already memorized the pattern and picked out the places where the wallpaper overlapped and the design warped, leaving some of the teddies with only half of a head. Everything in the bed and breakfast creaked, including your boyfriend, who groaned as he turned onto his other side, facing you, sleepy, heavy eyes blinking open to find you frozen in your fear, hands clasped over your chest like they were physically holding you together.

John’s hand slid across you, anchoring on the far side of your waist. He pulled himself closer, beard rasping against your shoulder as his leg found yours under the sheet and curled over it.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked, voice rasped with exhaustion. He muffled a yawn against your shoulder, hand traveling up your waist to your chin, tipping your face toward him.

“They’re going to hate me, aren’t they?”

His thumb stroked across your cheek. “No, they are not going to hate you. Baby, we already went over this…”

“I know, but I—”

“Just be yourself.” He tugged you onto your side, laughing when you stiffened up like a corpse. “Come here, please. Don’t do that.”

You sighed, letting him win; stupid jerk always got his way. But it did comfort you to slide into his arms, warm and supported, fitting into the cozy sweep of freckled skin between his neck and chest.

“I want them to be happy for you, excited, but I’m…me, you know?”

John chuckled against your forehead, his chin lowering until he could find you hiding there down by his shoulder. He urged your head up with a fist tucked under it, kissing each cheek and then your nose. “I do know.”

He kissed your lips, devoted.

“Which is the problem.”

You kissed him back, tentative.

“Agree to disagree,” he said. “Just…don’t bring up politics.”

You glared, fingers tensing on the springy pillows of his chest.

“Or the military. Like at all.”

“John--”

His forehead scrunched as he kept thinking, peppering your face with kisses that were doing very, very little to settle your nerves. “Probably avoid The Bachelorette, too.”

“What.”

“My old man has some strong opinions about it, I don’t know.” He smirked at your wide-eyed fury. “He’s intense about cars, too. Guns, obviously. Oh, and iced tea…”

You collapsed against him, groaning.

“I’m messing with you, baby, just say whatever you want.” His lips found yours in the gloom, sweet at first but deepening into something hungry. “Because you’re with me. I have your back.”

That groan dissipated into a soft, angsty puff at the back of your throat. His grip tightened on your face, then smoothed down your neck and shoulders, gathering you up, letting you feel the hard heat growing between his legs as he reeled you in.

“Because I love you, mm?”

You nodded into his face. “I know. I love you, too.”

“I always have your back,” he added, whispering it against your mouth. His fingers splayed across your spine, possessive. “It’s a very good back. I like the way it bends, like seeing it from behind…”

“You’re trying to distract me,” you said, nipping his lower lip.

“Is it working?”

“Hm, not sure,” you teased, arching into him, trying to untangle yourself from the sheet so you could wind yourself around him properly. “Keep going, Captain, I’ll let you know.”

“Captain?” His next kiss was claiming, so rough it tipped your head back. The steady heat of his hands dipped down your shoulders, following the curve to your ass, cupping your cheeks and grinding you against his body. “You trying to meet your future in-laws with a limp, honey?”

You couldn’t decide which part of that question was the hottest.

“That depends, how do they feel about relations before marriage?”

“Better skip that one at dinner,” John laughed, but it turned into a sigh as you rubbed up against him, matching his energy.

“What does your dad think they do in the overnight suite?”

“In the what?”

You sighed, shaking your head. “On The Bachelorette—you know what? Never mind.”

John hooked your thigh over his hip, lips worrying down the edge of your chin to your neck, digging in there, sucking until your thoughts were a million miles away from trashy reality television.

“That’s working,” you breathed, falling into him, shivering and clutching at his biceps as he found a new spot to lick and suck. “Don’t…don’t leave any marks, you beast.”

He tore his head away with a grunt, sealing his mouth to yours again as he aligned your bodies, pulling you flush, working you against his erection, his soft, sweet moans mingling with yours as your thigh twitched, your stomach clenched, sex hot and slippery as he teased you.

“This is how we do it in the South,” he murmured, snorting into your cheek as he broke the kiss. “God’s cool with it this way.”

“Shut up,” you swatted his shoulder, losing your rhythm just for a second as you dissolved into giggles. “Thought…mmf…” It was hard to think when he was grinding into you like that, his underwear getting soaked as you found yourself closer and closer to the edge. “Thought you were supposed to be fruitful and m-multiply.”

John let go of your ass with one hand to slip his shorts down around his knees, guiding you where he wanted you, hips angled, his swollen heat breaching you on a frantic thrust. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, slamming his cheek against yours, swallowing a loud groan as he took ground inch by inch. “Yes, fucking ma’am.”

God, you could take the boy out of Georgia...