swordgrace

[swordgrace]

𝐚 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠. — clark kent.

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: you’re not fond of flying — thankfully, your boyfriend is superman.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: clark kent (corenswet) x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.6K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: none, just pure fluff & flirting!

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: I loved superman (2025) so much, it meant a lot to me! I would love to write more for him if there’s a demand / interest! this was a warmup! enjoy! 🫶

It’s nighttime in the city — gleaming, vibrant, and tranquil.

Typically, you’d be asleep at his time of night or watching reruns of movies on the television, but instead, you’re lingering outside.

“What if you drop me?”

Teetering perilously along the precipice of your balcony, you refused to step forward, hands grasping at the frame of your sliding door.

Behind you, the glass panel is left ajar, enough for you to still cling to, one hand clutching on as you begin to sway, brows furrowed together.

Metropolis loomed below, a sea of twinkling lights that sparkled through dusk, persistent; The Daily Planet spun on somewhere in the distance.

Clark hovered mere inches away, still dressed in the azure-and-crimson of his Superman attire, mouth upturned into a smile of sheer disbelief. He found the whole thing humorous, admittedly.

“You think I’d drop you?” He muses, arms crossing over his chest, tone saturated with amusement.

“Maybe,” It’s a weak counter as you swallow, brows furrowing together with a quizzical expression. You’re stalling — he knows it, and so do you. “Superman isn’t immune to sweaty palms.”

His shoulders shake with a huff of laughter, but he’s characteristically patient, blue hues full of a quiet expectancy.

“You’ve heard of a trust fall, right? Think of it like that,” Clark prompts, cape billowing with the light gust of a dusk breeze. “I’ll catch you.” He assures, still smiling.

After promising a rooftop excursion, you figured it’d be something like walking up the stairwell, or using the fire escape — not flying.

Despite your wariness of being flown around, you were eager to see what awaited you at the very top. Though, the longer your gaze lingered on the cityscape below, the more nauseous you became.

“What happens, hypothetically, if you don’t catch me? What if something happens and I slip?” Blubbering on, you refuse to let go of the door, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“Hypothetically, you’d fall — and I’d catch you,” Clark reiterates, nose beginning to wrinkle with amusement. “You don’t trust me?” He prompts, and you sigh.

“I absolutely trust you,” Rebuking his claim with fervor, you know that he’s teasing you. Still, it doesn’t ease your anxiety by much. “I just … It’s me I don’t trust, or the wind.”

With a click of his tongue, he notices the way you’re gripping onto the frame still, head canting to one side. “All you have to do is walk forward, and hold onto me — no falling required.”

“I don’t want to think about falling, Clark.” You groan theatrically, nails ticking over the plastic as you deliberate. He’s content to wait all evening if he has to — you both work in the morning.

“Hm,” He lofts a brow, inching closer until his musculature nearly invades your doorway. The closeness makes your breath hitch, catching the glint in his eyes. “Need a little motivation?”

The teasing lilt within his voice pulls a chuckle from you, mouth twitching into a smile instead of a grimace. “A little wouldn’t hurt.”

There’s something innately boyish about the way he smiles, lashes fluttering, or the way in which his mouth parts in wonder, marveling at you.

It’s quiet, a passing beat before he tilts forward, lips pressing against yours. He’s indestructible, invincible; he kisses you like you’re glass, delicate and tender.

Black curls frame his temples, swept through by your wandering hand, the one that isn’t anchored to the doorframe.

A steady exhale pushes through your nose, slow and deliberate, pitched with excitement. The wariness slowly unfurls, and you hardly notice yourself drifting forward.

Clark lets you move on your own accord, without any prompting or interference from him. When you gain the courage to let go of the door, thick arms cage in around your waist.

As promised, he holds you close, lips still twined together in another warm kiss. He feels your hands twist into fists against his biceps, clutching onto him as if you might be swept away.

Slowly, he drifts away from the balcony, and he listens to the erratic swing of your heartbeat, from mellow to swift.

“Clark,” Barely above a whisper, you feel the solid ground slip away from beneath your feet, hands snagged tight into his suit. “Are we …”

“I’ve got you,” The warmth of his timbre wraps you in reassurance, arms steady and thick around your waist. “I wouldn’t look down.” He muses, and you almost take it as a challenge.

Mere wisps apart, your eyes slowly screw open, and you’re met with him; dazzling, charming, and devastatingly handsome. There’s a twinkle in his eyes, his smile marked by pearly teeth.

“Jesus,” Panic sets in for a moment as he slowly flies up, up again; you’re so high that parts of Metropolis start to look minuscule from a distance. “This isn’t as bad as I thought.”

“You still don’t trust me, do you?” Clark teases, hand idly caressesing circles into the small of your back. “You’re gonna break my heart.” His remark earns him a laugh from you.

“I trust you, I promise. It isn’t so dangerous.” You pout, feeling a brusque breeze trail over your silken pajamas, gooseflesh curling across your spine.

Warm lips press against your brow, reverent and gentle, a touch of sunlight to your temple. “We’re almost there.” He murmurs.

“This would be way more romantic if I wasn’t so nervous.” A brief laugh escapes you, and his smile splits into a glowing grin, partially hidden within your hair.

“It can still be romantic,” He counters, holding you close as he sluggishly flies towards the rooftop of your apartment building. “Just look up.”

You do, and it’s mesmerizing; in the clear skies above the city, the celestials loom overhead, millions of twinkling stars coupled with a particularly bright planet.

Veiled clouds drift overhead, the sky largely unobstructed, and the air seems crisp and filling the higher you go. The soft glow of string lights on the rooftop glitters through the night.

“This is amazing,” Awestruck, your apprehension dissolves into wonder, but you’re still a little nervous about flying. He doesn’t make any sudden movements, for your sake. “You get to see this all the time.”

“It never loses its charm,” Clark murmurs, gaze following after yours, lost within the tangle of stars above. “The stars, the sky, the planet.” The fondness within his voice is unmistakable.

“I love that about you,” Soft, your eyes flutter back to him, loud in their marveling of him. That was something you appreciated — his humanity, his passion for the world. “It’s sweet.”

Flattered, a laugh escapes him, warm and airy as the two of you drift through the sky as if you’re in slow-motion. The moment stretches on, and you’re left feeling elated.

“You never lose your charm, either.” His statement makes your features burn, heat curling over the nape of your neck. It’s accompanied with his smile — kind, amiable, and boyish.

“Thanks, Clark.” Smitten, your gaze drops toward the curve of his mouth. He meets you halfway without protest or prompting, the kiss lingering mid-flight.

It’s exhilarating; the wind gently kisses your back, his arms protective, keeping you pinned. As you drift through the air, you feel weightless, lost within the labyrinth of his kiss.

The first to draw away, you’re reluctant, lips parted and heart leaping into your throat. He’s perfect; he’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of and beyond.

Clark’s quiet appreciation of you doesn’t go unnoticed, dark lashes dusting over the skin beneath his eyes. The more you fly, the less tense you are; your heartbeat slows.

“You’re staring again.” You mumble, becoming smitten when he laughs, teeth scraping over your bottom lip.

His lips press against your cheek, as kind as summertime, firm and indestructible underneath your palms. “You caught me.” Clark utters, a rosy pallor crawling through his face.

“You aren’t exactly subtle about it.” Hushed, your tone lowers to a gentler octave, one that scratches something in the back of his mind.

It’s his turn to feel the excitable prick of being flustered, lips parting, curling into another exuberant grin. His dimples are cute; deep-set and overwhelmingly kind, the light reaching his eyes.

“I can try to be subtle,” Clark offers through another burst of laughter, and you laugh, too. You don’t want him to be subtle; the attention he lavishes you in turns your insides warm. “You’re beautiful.”

“That’s the opposite of subtle,” Giggling, you hardly notice the solid concrete slipping underneath your feet as he sets you down. “I like it, though.”

“More romantic now, isn’t it?” He teases, causing you to grin, nose wrinkling with amusement. Butterflies lurch within your stomach, and your hands fall to his chest.

Regaining your footing, you’re still clinging to Clark like a lifeline, as if he might fly away, never to return. His grasp on your waist begins to loosen, albeit reluctantly.

The rooftop is tranquil, with a cozy lounge, twinkling lights, and no wandering eyes. “Very romantic.” You concede, rocking up on your toes to kiss him.

His reciprocation is exceedingly gentle, chest expanding with a deep exhale, air pushing through his nose. Clark stays still, lashes fluttering a time or two, as if he’s in a daze.

A beat passes, and then another; you stay glued to him, unable to keep from smiling. The thrill of flying remains, adrenaline still simmering within your veins before it stills.

“So, Superman,” You begin, fingertips idly tracing over his collarbone. “I think I want to try the flying thing again sometime.”

Clark laughs, grip tightening on you as if to silently prompt you to hold on. “Really? I went very slowly,” He muses, teeth glittering white. “Where do you want to go next time?”

“I don’t know,” Clicking your tongue, there’s an idea that forms within your mind. “How about another rooftop? Dinner, maybe?” Your suggestion elicits another chuckle from him.

“Yeah,” He agrees, forehead gently nudging against yours, followed by a peck of lips over your brow. “I think I can arrange that.”

[swordgrace]

𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐝 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚, 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭? — john walker.

┊ 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: john walker with the prompt “we shouldn't... ah, we shouldn't be doing this” ? + biting/marking

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader. [2.5K words.]

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), porn without plot, risk of getting caught (quinjet), dom!john, john is a little mean, making out, rough sex, dirty talk, biting/marking kink, john’s praise kink, fingering (fem!rec), unprotected p in v sex, mutual orgasm.

[ 4K CELEBRATION. — PROMPT LIST. ]

It’s despicable how handsome he looks when frustrated, irritation coiled tight within his shoulders, jaw pulled taut, a bowstring prepared to snap. He’s always huffing, grunting like a bull who’s preparing to charge.

An angry flush crawls over his throat, a scarlet that refuses to dissipate. His tongue swipes slowly across his pearly teeth, chest stirring with an agitated grunt.

Pacing footsteps resonate across the metal grate flooring of the quinjet, continuous for the past fifteen minutes.

It echoes through your ears like a drum, and you’re playing quiet spectator to his streak of impatience. Hands perch against his hips, tactical kevlar stretching over his musculature, nostrils flared in anguish.

“You’re making me nervous,” The cadence of your voice is low, attempting to placate him. “We’ve got a while before they get back.”

Surrounded by Siberian wilderness, the rest of the team was infiltrating the remnants of an old H.Y.D.R.A bunker, repurposed into a patchwork laboratory.

You and John were left to ‘watch’ the quinjet — whatever that meant.

“We should be there,” John hisses, eager for a fight. It’s a proper outlet for any fury he feels, letting out repressed aggression on packs of hired mercenaries. “Jesus, I can’t keep sitting around.”

“You’re standing and pacing.” You point out, lounging in the copilot’s seat, which proves to be more spacious than the jump-web benches in the hull.

Blue eyes burn in your direction as he dismisses your lighthearted remark, running a palm across his jaw. “Think Bucky’s trying to get at me for the mishap last week.” He utters.

John’s impulsivity might’ve overruled proper judgment on the recon endeavor last week; Bucky wasn’t happy in the slightest.

He was convinced that this was his punishment, silent retaliation for messing something up — quinjet guard-duty. It was juvenile to believe that, but he couldn’t help himself.

“I think you need to settle down, John,” Soothingly, your body twists in the seat as you peer at him from afar, palm perched atop the arm. “What can I do to help?” You offer, sincere.

Swallowing a retort, John sighs; a long-winded, drawn-out sound that is indicative of a man conceding to someone else.

Unbuckling his helmet, he paces closer, standing behind you with pinched brows and a still-present frown. “Nothing you can do,” He shrugs, nonchalant. “Guess we’ll have to wait it out.”

Outside, your surroundings are rather picturesque, miles of frozen tundra cast in shadow, illuminated only by silvery pools of moonlight. It’s eerily quiet, but you welcome the silence.

As you glance toward the cockpit’s window, John busies himself with looking at you, a distraction that’s worthwhile.

Maybe that’s something he can channel his frustration into.

Debauched thoughts go galloping through his brain, racing through like a raging wildfire. He sucks in a sharp breath, praying that he doesn’t act on whatever fantasy he’s currently concocting.

Moving from the chair, you check their points from the jet’s center console, monitoring four, green dots flickering inside of the bunker.

“It could be worse,” With a smile, you peer at John over your shoulder, eyes flashing with humor. “You could be stuck with Alexei.” A laugh escapes you, and it gets him to snort.

A dry laugh leaves John, sardonic yet beginning to soften when he’s alone with you. Harboring a secret relationship from the rest of the team was no simple feat, but you’d gotten good at sneaking around.

“Right, right,” John grouses, arms folding over his chest, gaze flickering over your physique, clad in the suit Valentina had made for you. “It looks good — the suit.”

“Are you staring, Mr. Walker?” The teasing lilt within your tone makes him straighten up, jaw clenched as he clicks his tongue. When he’s caught red-handed, he mockingly deflects.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” He mumbles, but you look fucking gorgeous. John already finds himself thinking about how you’d look on his cock, suit still on, or bunched around your hips.

The smile you gave him only grows, a sparkle shimmering within your eyes, one that seems to pierce through the stony exterior he’s built for himself.

You’re like sunlight through clouds; he’s not immune to your sweet charm.

Quiet, you shift closer to him, sliding a hand around his hip, kissing the toughened material of his suit, body armor and kevlar. “You can look all you want,” You murmur, hearing his breath hitch. “Kiss me.”

Subservient, John concedes without further argument, stooping down to kiss you. It’s fringed with pent-up frustration, like a storm stirring behind dark clouds, a rumble in the distance.

Raggedly, his beard scratches over your mouth, thick and scruffy, something you’ve grown to adore. Reciprocating the kiss, you listen to his poignant inhale, to the sound of a grunt caught in his chest.

His arms unfurl from their defensive posture, daring to grab at your waist, inherently needy. This is like playing with fire, and he knows it.

Parting your lips, it’s enough to draw out another low groan from his mouth, the kiss escalating into something wild and fervent.

The small of your back hits the wall of the cockpit, his hands squeezing you tightly, rolling over your frame, caressing your hips. Teeth scrape across your bottom lip, tongues mingling together.

“Needed something to calm you down,” You mumble, prodding at him beneath your breath. He huffs, mouth pressing over jaw, jaw clenched and tight. “It’s working.”

“Stop.” John grits, his words seem misaligned with his actions, lips grating over your throat, teeth catching on sensitive skin. His hips brush over yours, friction simmering.

Fire licks through your body, head rolling to the side as he cages you in against him, one hand brazenly grabbing at your ass.

He kisses your neck with sharp, needy mouthfuls, tongue lashing over bite marks he’s made, soothing the sting. A low gasp escapes you, hands clamoring to grasp at his biceps.

“John,” You moan, shivering when his thigh slots between your legs, giving you something to grind against. Shockwaves pulse through your pussy, bones all hot. “We — They might come back …”

“Jesus,” He grouses, nipping at your jugular. “You started this, and now you’re worried about getting caught?” He utters, cadence deliciously low, making you squirm.

“We shouldn’t, ah —” A whine leaves you when he rocks your hips into the muscle of his thigh. “We shouldn’t be doing this.” Despite your weak protests, you’re actively grinding at his leg.

Arousal coalesces between your thighs, and John shifts you both, bodies in a heated tangle as he pins you up against the wall of the quinjet. The space is slim, and the friction is delicious.

His cock throbs hotly within his tactical pants, blonde tresses disheveled, something glassy settling within blue hues.

“We shouldn’t, but I don’t care,” He growls, kissing another trail back toward your mouth. “Gonna fuck you hoarse.” John’s tone ignites a raging fire within you, one that pulses between your legs.

Lips collide again, a mess of tongue, teeth, and desperation. It’s wet and sloppy, clawing for one another without a desire to waste time.

You’re in for it now — so you decide to torment him a little.

“You’re so handsome in that suit,” You sigh, and you know that gets him riled up. There’s a pride element involved, wanting to look tough for you. “Want you to leave a mark.”

John internally buckles, restraint threadbare as he hastily reaches for the front straps of your suit. His mouth is preoccupied, busy biting and sucking at your throat.

He bites like he’s got something to prove, like he owns you, and it makes your stomach pool into molten liquid.

There’s a hunger that festers in his kiss, in the way his teeth scrape over your throat, mouth suckling a flourishing bruise into your neck. It elicits another moan from you, hips bucking.

As he wrestles with the front of your pants, his hand brusquely shoves down beneath the waistband, fingers finding your pussy. It’s hot and quick, not polite, but carnal — he needs you.

The leather of his glove grinds with your spandex panties and tactical gear, fingertips wantonly dipping through your folds. “Wet already, huh? Doesn’t take much for you.”

John’s tone borders on cajoling, a playful mockery that makes your cunt clench pathetically around nothing. He smirks, proud and ravenous, digits stroking along your slit.

“Shut up,” You mumble, no malice behind it save to encourage him, and it does. His mouth finds yours again, teeth tugging at your bottom lip, fingers pushing into your pussy. “John!”

You’re tight around him, clenched and hot as you slowly roll your hips forward, listening to the gruff pitch in his exhale.

“Walker, we’re back en-route to your location — standby, ten minutes.”

Bucky’s voice causes John to curl his fingers inside of you, a stark reminder of the small time frame the both of you have. This was your mess — you had to clean it up.

“Ten minutes,” John grits against your lips, digits sluggishly drawing in and out of you, wet with your slick. “Might have to fuck you after we get back. Don’t know if I can wait.”

His breathy admission makes you squirm, hand curled into his chest, the other fisting at the nape of his neck, over blonde tresses.

“Just don’t stop, whatever you do,” With an excitable moan, you bring your mouth to his jaw, nipping at him as he groans. “Fuck, fuck — Faster!”

His brain buzzes with static, a coil formed within his gut as he finger-fucks you, pushing two digits into your tight pussy. It’s lewd and crass, the noises reverberating through the quinjet.

Nine minutes.

He keeps count in the back of his mind, listening to the wet squelch of your cunt, snug and slick around his digits. John keeps a brutal pace, cock straining against the front of his pants.

Your teeth snag over his earlobe, causing him to shiver, jaw tight and blue eyes blazing with an unrestrained lust. He grunts, the noise guttural and sharp, and he craves you.

“Fuck, Christ,” John hisses, pistoning his fingers in and out of you, tight and hot, making his cock ache incessantly. “Need to be inside of you, can’t wait.” The gritty sound of his voice makes you preen.

“Yeah,” You breathe, in clear agreement as the both of you clamor for his belt. It’s quick, messy, desperate — you’re barely able to think straight. “God, you’re so perfect.”

John swallows his sultry remark, words dissolving to ash on his tongue as you stump him with your comment. He subtly swoons, pupils dilated, mouth hanging open.

As he gets the front of his tactical pants untethered, you’re fisting to get your panties down far enough, bodies glittering with perspiration.

Seven minutes.

The suits are something of a hindrance, but neither of you care. He kisses you again, firm and unyielding, pouring every ounce of his desire into it, and your head spins.

The flushed, swollen head of his cock falls out, drooling with precum, and you resist the urge to say something sharp.

His hands seize your haunches, holding tightly to your thighs as he bullies his way between your legs, cockhead pushing against your slick folds.

“We’re gonna get caught,” You whine, and John smirks, a smarmy grin and all, brows quirking with lascivious humor. It dissipates though, and he presses you further. “John, please.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” John purrs, tone deliciously low, scraping over your nerves like wildfire. He bites your throat again, adding to the canvas of marks.

Admittedly, there’s some sick thrill you get in all of this, in the idea of the team catching you in the act.

He stakes his claim, possessive and needy, grunting hotly beside your ear about how beautiful you are, how the suit looks, how your pussy feels against him.

“M—Maybe,” It’s a partial confession, but it’s enough for him to tease you about it later. His cock slips past your folds, meeting little resistance as he pushes into you. “Fuck me.”

No time is wasted as John pushes into you with a stinging neediness, huffing into your ear like a bull. He keeps you spread open, pushing his hips forward, and you can feel every inch.

Infuriatingly well-endowed, his length hammers into you with a crazed passion, a borderline frenzy. He knows that time is dangerously thin, but neither of you care.

Lost within a haze of desire, your knees shake with each thrust, feeling his cock pulse and twitch, causing you to moan.

Fisting at his hair, you let him have his way with you; fuck you deep, release his pent-up frustration. It shows in every urge of his hips, hammering and punctuated, filling you completely.

Four and a half — maybe; he lost count.

He fucked hard, like he’s trying to screw you senseless, and he succeeds. John snarls and growls like some feral animal, as if he’s trying to bury himself inside of you and stay there.

His cock jackhammers away at your pussy, and you lose any higher functioning, logical thoughts dissolved away to being properly fucked.

“Fuck — Please, John,” You moan into his ear, feeling his lips beside your ear, nibbling on the cartilage, biting the soft skin beneath. “Fuck me so well, please!” You moan, on the brink of your release.

It’s hot and swift; messy, sticky, wanton.

The praise that leaves your mouth is fuel to the fire, a potent gasoline. John growls, teeth snaring over your throat, teeth nearly breaking skin as his cock slaps lewdly into your cunt.

It doesn’t take much for either of you to cum.

Between the pressure he lavished against your cunt intermingled with flush bodies and the thrill of exhilaration, he was hitting his peak. He groaned, noisy and wanton, spilling curses into your ear.

His cum paints your pussy, hot ropes of seed spilling into you as his hips thrust forward again and again. White-hot bliss crawls through your vision like stars, causing you to moan.

It’s all heat — a thick haze that swarms your senses and clouds your judgment. The hull of the quinjet suddenly opens, the alert system humming as John drags you into the cockpit.

“Shit, shit,” He hisses, cock still twitching inside of you as he pulls out, leaving something of a mess over your inner thighs. “You okay, honey?” It’s soft, feather-light.

“Yeah,” You whisper, scrambling to tug your spandex back up and fasten the buckles of your suit, even if his spend is sticky over your cunt. “Sit down.” You urge, desperate.

The both of you look thoroughly and utterly razed, hovering in the cockpit seats as if he hadn’t just fucked your brains out.

As the team files back onto the quinjet, your thighs are shaking even still, visage wrecked and eyes glassy. Your cunt clenches around nothing, and you’re still wracked with aftershocks.

“We’re clear.” Bucky announces, making for the pilot’s seat. Both you and John act casual, as if nothing is wrong in the slightest.

Catching your breath, your composure is dangerously threadbare, holding on with clenched fists and a masked expression. Your body feels like it’s on fire in the best way possible.

John glances back at you with a shadowed gaze, even still; he wants to continue back at the Watchtower.

[swordgrace]

𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐚𝐠𝐞-𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫. — bob reynolds.

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: “requesting 'keep reading, don't let me distract you.' for bob reynolds (or even floyd idc) please 👉🏽👈🏽”

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: bob reynolds x fem!reader. [2.3K]

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), smut with a slice of plot, needy bob, switch!bob, heavy making out, dry humping / grinding, begging, spit kink, thigh riding, breast play. male orgasm.

[ 4K CELEBRATION. — PROMPT LIST. ]

It’s late in the afternoon, peach-ripe sunlight casting the rooftop in a burnt glow, touching the slats of dark tile and tinted, half-ajar windows.

The Watchtower is unusually hushed, with a majority of the team sent away on different assignments. There’s a soft breeze floating through his nook, carrying the weight of summertime.

Bob sits comfortably on a low, cushioned sofa, brunette waves touched by hints of caramel when the light hits it just right.

The Goo Goo Dolls pour from his headphones, brows creased together in concentration, a book slotted firmly in one hand.

In the quiet, he finds a sense of peace, able to let himself relax, music drowning out the dismal hum of the New York cityscape. His breathing is even, steady; he looks tranquil.

Reading was partially self-taught, a pastime that he’d initially used as a form of escapism, back when he was younger. It’d stuck with him through the years, heightened everytime you bought him a new book.

He hears your footsteps vibrate through the floor, an involuntary side-effect of having superhuman senses.

Taking the serum had gifted him with a slew of inhuman attunements — hearing, taste, scent, his entire body altered to supernatural peak performance.

As he turns the page, your silhouette dances through the doorway, fringed by warmth, light that pools off of your body. Bob marks his spot with a creased corner and a smile.

“Whole tower to ourselves, and you’re hiding from me,” The teasing lilt of your voice makes his heart stutter, and he sits up a little straighter, too. “Must be a great book.”

“Sorry,” Bob apologizes without provocation, hands tightening around the hardback spine. “Think I got caught up in the plot. It’s really good.”

Content, you wander toward the couch, wearing linen shorts and one of his t-shirts, material slouched over your frame.

“Oh yeah? What’s the book about?” You hum, sitting on the end, and the distance you maintain is somewhat glaring.

His jaw slacks in surprise, gaze tracing across the shape of your legs, over the material of his shirt that blankets your frame. You smell nice, a concoction of sugar cookies and warm vanilla.

Bob clears his throat, lashes kissing the skin beneath his eyes, owlishly blinking in your direction as if you’ve slighted him.

“Why are you over there?” He murmurs, momentarily placing his book aside. Warm hands find the muscle of your calf, steady and strong, coaxing you closer.

“I can be closer.” A laugh leaves you as Bob urges you inward, tugging you closer until your legs are draped over his lap.

Wedged against his side, you feel the taut heat of his musculature, bleeding through the loose button-up he wears. His lips smooth over your forehead, inhaling a gust of your scent.

It’s grounding; the gentle lull of your heartbeat, the saccharine haze of your smell, the way your skin tastes beneath his lips.

Bob exhales; a drawn-out, tranquil sound that indicates relaxation. He keeps you close, draping an arm over your thighs, the other reaching for his book again.

“What’s your book about?” Inquiring again, your fingers drift toward his crown, slipping through his hair, lightly tracing over his nape.

“It’s a mystery,” Most of what he’d been reading were philosophical books, with fiction sprinkled in. The genre change was something he sorely needed. “Murder-mystery.”

“I didn’t think you liked those types of books,” You point out, careening in to plant your chin against his shoulder, still toying with his tresses. “No Aristotle or Socrates?”

Bob’s mouth twitches into a threadbare smile, features painted with a delicate shade of rose. “I needed something different.” He replies, drawing circles on your thighs.

His focus shifts to you, a peculiar tenderness stirring within his gaze, countenance echoing with a veiled affection.

“You can keep reading,” Encouragingly, you don’t mind if he continues, even with you present. You’re content to simply bask within his presence, soak in the nook’s sunshine. “I don’t mind.”

“Are you sure? Close to finishing a chapter,” Bob muses, awkwardly clearing his throat. It sounds silly, trying to read when your girlfriend is halfway sitting in your lap. “Then I’ll hold you.”

With a wrinkled nose, you quietly gesture for him to continue his book. However, you have other intentions, and none of them are wholesome.

Carrying on, he settles back into the velveteen and corduroy of the sofa, ringlets of brown framing his visage, brows furrowed together. His eyes shift over the pages, clearly concentrating.

Warm fingertips idly draw patterns over your thighs, goosebumps erupting in the wake of his embrace. A brief shiver grips you as you adjust your legs, sitting up a little higher.

A hush falls between, save for the gentle ambiance of the outdoors and the even exhales that escape through his nose.

Coiling closer, your lips press against his jaw, which breaks his concentration entirely, and quickly. The noise he makes is sharp and sudden, eyes fluttering in your direction.

Slowly, your mouth trails to his throat, planting warm, appreciative kisses to the exposed skin there, hand firm atop his thigh.

“What …” Bob sucks in a poignant breath, swallowing the lump in his throat when you begin to kiss every inch of his neck. “What are you doing?” He mumbles.

God, you make him break so easily; desire screams within him, sparking to life with little action, cock stirring within his lounge-pants. His hand is left to curl into a fist at his side.

Wordlessly, you don’t offer an answer right away, stringing kisses over warm skin, creeping along the stubble that clings to his jaw. It’s reverent, wanting; the way your mouth moves is tantalizing.

Absently, his tongue swipes over his bottom lip as he squirms again, concentration reduced to mere ashes. The words on the page become jumbled, his brain scrambled.

Your hand moves toward his inner thigh, resting over thick muscle, ghosting across the growing swell in his pants.

“Keep reading, don’t let me distract you,” Coyly, you press a lingering kiss beneath his jaw, pulling another low groan from his chest. “Pretend I’m not here.” You tease, and he shakes his head.

“I can’t,” Bob groans, attempting to stifle the sound with a dizzying inhale. “Can’t focus when you’re doing that, please.”

He’s sensitive to touch, especially yours, nerves set ablaze by your embrace. It’s as if liquid fire slithered over his bones, wrapping tightly, harsh and full of an unrestrained ardor.

Bob tries to keep reading, he really does, but he falters and suddenly, the book is horribly uninteresting. He shivers, Adam’s apple taut, feeling you knead at his erection.

Sluggishly, you crawl into his lap, slotting yourself against one of his thighs. Tilting your hips just right, you grind yourself into him, friction simmering, causing you to gasp.

The book falls by the wayside, unceremoniously dropping onto the nearest couch cushion. Bob’s hands find your hips, gripping you tightly, as if you might cease to exist.

He kisses you feverishly, open-mouthed as a strained whine splits his diaphragm. The pressure that pulses between your legs causes you to shudder, hips grinding over his.

“God, don’t stop,” Bob groans into your mouth, tongue lapping over your bottom lip. The kiss itself is sticky, wet — drool sticks to the corner of his mouth. “Please.”

Hot digits flex over the hem of your shirt, palm gliding underneath to cup your breast. When he finds that you aren’t wearing a bra, his pupils dilate, eclipsed with desperation.

“You’re so handsome,” Your voice is low, affectionate as it curls around him, cock pulsing beneath your hand. “So perfect, Bob.”

Another groan tumbles from his mouth, lips messily clashing with yours, kissing you desperately. Gentle fingers roll across your nipple, kneading at the pliant flesh of your chest.

Hips continue to grind over one another, rocking your clothed core into his thigh, sparks flying. His cock throbs incessantly, a wet patch forming against the front of his boxers.

Lips collide again, a heated exchange of tongue and saliva, pooling in your mouth as you kiss. A moan leaves you, pussy aching, clenching pathetically around nothing.

He’s not going to last long; he can feel it.

His chest stings with excitable pants, kissing you hard enough to make your belly churn with butterflies.

Bob squirms again, clinging to you, inhaling a gust of your scent. He can smell the arousal coalescing between your thighs. “You’re so beautiful.” He pants, visibly enamored.

A scarlet flush blankets his features, as if he’s been burning beneath the sun for too long. He continues to touch you, other hand tightly holding to your hip, rocking you forward.

Bob can feel the coil settle within his belly, a tangle of heat that’s pulled tight, something visceral and real. What he feels for you is overwhelming, raw and sheer want.

A muted buzz shoots through his cock as his hips jerk forward, hot air pushed out through his nose as he teases your breasts. “Can I have some?” He huffs into your lips.

A slick sheen of saliva glistens over your chin, your spit intermingled with his. You touch it with a wry smirk, head cocking to one side. “Yeah?”

He nods several times over, exhilarated and thrilled, pupils blown-out and black with desire. His cock strains against the front of his pants, and you continue to knead at it lovingly.

“Please.” Bob groans, hips helplessly rutting forward, crashing into your palm. You treat him to another careful swirl of your hand.

The wet tendril falls over your chin, a sheen of intermingled spit that Bob greedily covets. Your hand snakes toward his jaw, thumb sweeping over his bottom lip.

His lashes flutter in rapid succession, visibly dazed as he opens his mouth for you, heart stammering beneath his sternum. The hand that holds your hip squeezes again.

Saliva gathers in your mouth as you spit into his, watching it fall like sticky tendrils onto his tongue. His body shudders from the sight, eyes impossibly wide, shadowed by desire.

Bob groans, a breathy whine snaring within his throat as he swallows, blinking owlishly as he slams his lips against yours.

Irises sparkle with a flicker of gold, subtle and fleeting, letting you rock against him still, bodies flush and tight together. Even through clothes, the friction doesn’t die.

He ruts his hips into yours, lets you palm at his cock through his sweatpants, says your name again through clenched teeth.

The look he wears is one of bliss and desperation, all rolled together. Through pinched brows and parted lips, features washed in scarlet, he chases after his encroaching release.

His vision swims with stars, cock throbbing ceaselessly in his boxers, straining against the cotton fabric. Precum leaves behind a wet patch, and he’s nearly bursting at the seams.

You aren’t even touching his skin, and he’s burning for you anyway, collapsing on himself like the implosion of a star.

“You’re — Mm, so pretty,” Bob pants, chest stinging from labored sighs, burying his face beside your throat. He presses a messy string of kisses there, bucking into the friction. “M’close.”

There’s pleasure you gain in getting him to this point, twisted up into knots, treating him gently; when your fingers trace his crown, he pushes out another exhale.

Still, your hand flexes over his clothed cock, feeling the heat that seeps through, teasing his erection until he’s a mess. He trembles beneath you, feeling your hips tilt, knee beside his groin.

As he kisses your neck, he’s everywhere, one palm still pawing at your breasts, rubbing circles across your ribs. He sucks at a sensitive spot beneath your jaw, causing you to moan.

You let your hand drop, using the friction of your body, the both of you humping one another as if you might cease to exist.

He’s nearly there, feeling your hand lightly tug at his tresses. The pulsing of his cock is almost mind-numbing, and he can hear the uptick of your heartbeat.

“Want you to cum for me, sweetheart.” The sultry, affectionate lilt in your tone makes his brain go fuzzy, body humming with static.

The nickname catches him off-guard, but it isn’t unwelcome in the slightest. His insides flood with warmth, a muted buzz tingling his marrow, jaw slack, chest rumbling with a groan.

His hips stutter, grinding into you again and again, making your cunt ache, arousal slick over your core as he reaches his peak.

Bob nearly explodes, body a live wire, skin crawling with an excitable heat as he cums in his pants. It isn’t the first time it’s happened with you, but he’s still flushed and flustered from it all.

It’s sticky and messy over his groin, ruining his boxers, but he suspects it won’t be the last time.

He huffs, blinking a few times over, wetting his bottom lip as he fights for composure. You’re looking beautiful, smoothing a palm over his chest, cupping his jaw.

“You okay? It wasn’t too much, was it?” You murmur, but he vehemently shakes his head, a coy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“No, that was …” Bob swallows, briefly pressing a kiss to your neck before reclining. “A real page-turner.” He teases, and the corny joke causes the both of you to laugh.

“That’s good,” You muse, teeth idly catching on your lower lip, nose wrinkled. Your lips meet for a tender kiss, one that leaves him wanting more. “What does the next chapter look like?”

A flurry of confidence rouses within him, an assurance that he wants to be in-control this time; and he knows you won’t object.

Wordlessly, he lays you down on the sofa, atop plush velvet and corduroy, crawling to find his purchase between your thighs. You gasp, feeling his hands caress along your legs.

Whatever’s gotten into him, you’re thoroughly enjoying it.

As he sinks down to ease your shorts off, linen fabric kissing your knees, you catch the hint of a playful, adoring smile.

“Looks like I’ll have to show you.”

[swordgrace]

𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞, 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐰 — john walker

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: john walker smut with "im serious, right here, right now (from reader)" prompt!! myb make it semi-public

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), porn with little plot, jealous john, semi-public sex, risk of getting caught, dirty talk, making out, biting, unprotected p in v sex, rough sex.

[ 4K CELEBRATION. — PROMPT LIST. ]

John’s been watching you for the last hour.

Hooded blues have followed your movements throughout the gala event, narrowing whenever someone got too close or you laughed at a senator’s joke.

He isn’t as talented at masking emotions as he thinks he is, jaw clenched hands shoved into the pockets of his suit.

It’s tailored, Armani; Valentina was all about optics, about appearing marketable to those interested.

His blazer fits too snugly through the shoulders, crisp, white dress shirt tight over his musculature. There’s a sour look on his face, wanting to be anywhere else.

The last time he remembered wearing something like this was high school prom.

Being stripped of all military credibility and his rank had put a foul taste in his mouth. He used to be excited about the premise of rubbing elbows with politicians, but now, it only embittered him.

You were in your element; visibly, anyway.

The bright, sunshiny disposition you wielded seemed to magnetize any who stood around you, John included. As you chatted with shareholders, you had some light about you.

A begrudging sigh pushed through his nose, blonde brows pinched together as he took a swig of his champagne.

It was difficult to remain hushed about your relationship, especially being scrutinized beneath the public eye. John wilted when faced with backlash, and he didn’t want to subject you to it, either.

He played watchdog for a majority of the evening, keeping an eye on you from afar, watching as you entertained investors and representatives.

When you finally broke away to get yourself something to drink, John followed, mirroring your movements as the both of you arrived at a polished table.

Hundreds of glasses of champagne and vermouth sat on top of a pale tablecloth, pink-and-cream liquid fizzing at the top.

“I think I’ve had enough socializing for tonight,” You mumble, discarding your empty glass amongst the rest, rubbing a hand against your forearm. “How are you holding up?”

John hovers, perhaps too close to be considered strictly neutral. He’d played the indifferent role well whenever you were in public, but tonight, he wanted something else, something more.

“Suit’s too tight,” He grouses, scratching over his jaw, covered in a scruff of strawberry-blonde. “I don’t like being paraded around like a goddamned show-pony.”

That’s what he was when he was Captain America — a government weapon dressed in spangled colors like a mascot, living by their mandates.

Agitation ticks up in his voice as he shakes his head, and the temptation to grab another glass of champagne is present.

The strain of irritation laced like venom in his tone, and you feel yourself becoming concerned. “Do you want to take a walk? There’s an exhibit upstairs.”

His chest heaves with a tired sigh, and he nods, conceding to you with a threadbare smile. “Yeah,” John turns apologetic. “Sorry, this is just … It’s ridiculous.” He murmurs.

“That’s alright,” With a reassuring smile, you gently skim your fingers over the back of his bicep, the gesture fleeting. “I’ve been wanting to see you.”

John perks up when you mention wanting to see him; maybe preens, too. He used to despise how easily he fell for you, feeling entirely undeserving of it, and he still does — not as much anymore.

“Hm,” There’s a low warmth to his grunt, and he leans inward, catching a whiff of your perfume. It’s the one he’s complimented you on before. “Aren’t you sweet?”

Departing from the table, the both of you make your way toward the grand staircase at the back of the ballroom, weaving through patrons.

One of the senators calls after you, but you pretend not to hear, side-by-side with John as you grace the steps. The heels of your stilettos click over marble, and you catch him staring.

He’s been staring all night like a man who’s walking the thin line of restraint.

Sage satin clings to your frame, and the gown you’re wearing is nothing short of simplistically beautiful. Despite Val’s insistence to wear something flashy, you don’t; it’s better that way.

John’s gaze carefully traces over your frame for the hundredth time that evening, hand briefly hovering over the small of your back.

The pavilion upstairs houses a humble art gallery that has seen better days, no longer the primary attraction of the venue. Though, it’s significantly quieter, voices drowning into mere background static.

An open archway serves as the frame for the gallery, strewn with several pieces of artwork, some contained behind glass panes. The walls are smooth, lit in a low, golden glow.

When you’re both out of-sight, tension unfurls from his shoulders, bleeds away as if it’s been cut from him like a wound. In private glimpses, he seems to soften around you.

“You look handsome,” It’d left your mouth before you left for the gala, but you make sure to remind him. “The suit highlights your shoulders, even if it’s too tight.” You smile.

John scoffs, mouth curling into a sardonic smirk, standing close beside you in the middle of the room. The hush clears his head, but the thoughts are a farcry from wholesome.

He’s thinking about you; you in that dress, with a wide beam and an ethereal glow about you, as if you’ve been touched by sunset.

“Haven’t worn a suit since prom.” He admits, and the sentiment is somewhat cute, especially for you. His vulnerability only slips through the cracks in private moments.

“Really? You should wear them more often,” You pause, deciding on how best to broach your question. “Didn’t wear one at your wedding?”

Expecting a streak of bitterness, John surprises you by being open about the ordeal. His divorce still hurts, but it’s something he’s worked through. “No,” He laughs dryly. “Too broke. I wore jeans.”

Amused, a glitter reaches your gaze, warm and saccharine, a look of fondness that he clings to. It’s that shred of affection he wants desperately; he only wants it from you.

“I can’t remember the last time I wore something this beautiful,” With a shrug, you smooth your hands over the bodice. “If I ever did.”

“You’re the prettiest thing in the room,” John murmurs, jaw tightening. “Only one worth looking at.” His tone drops, palm steady over the small of your back.

“John …” Smitten, you’re mesmerized by his boldness, throat tight as he draws you closer. It’s as if his restraint snaps then and there, already frayed to begin with.

“Jesus, you’ve been torturing me all night.” He gruffs, pressing a kiss to your jaw. Even if he can kiss you a few times, that’ll be enough to satisfy him until you’re back at the Watchtower.

A low, excitable exhale rushes from your mouth, lips parted as your hands grab at the front of his blazer. He kisses over your throat, taller frame caging you in against his musculature.

“That wasn’t the goal,” Little more than a content utterance, your voice hums low, savoring the feeling of his lips scraping across your neck. “Whatever’s gotten into you, I like it.”

“Couldn’t take my eyes off of you, sweetheart.” The strained, needy sound he makes catches you off-guard, heightening the spike of want in your belly.

Part of you is wanting to finish this back at the Tower — until you aren’t, and a lascivious fantasy soon blossoms within your mind. It’s reckless, but the feeling it gives doesn’t go away.

Mouths meet in a heated collision, bruising enough to pull a grunt from his lips, and a soft moan from yours. His hands steady over your hips, gripping you with urgency.

He’s half-carrying you, hoisting you an inch or two higher, kissing you again and again. Your hands hold tightly to his suit jacket, lungs stinging with excitement.

Wordlessly, the both of you are walking sideways toward the nearest wall, and he doesn’t intend for it to become so heated; it just does.

Your hands lock over the nape of his neck, beginning to trail through blonde tresses, bodies wedged together. Each kiss sends you reeling, but you don’t recoil, reciprocating with enthusiasm.

The kiss is an unbridled thing, smoldering with a mutual want. He kisses you as if you might cease to exist, hands roaming your hips, anchoring your body to his.

John begins to slow to a crawl, lips tugging into a smirk, but your insistence starts to bleed through.

“Why did you stop?” You whisper, pupils dilated and tone stretched thin with desire, the cool marble kissing your spine.

“You want everybody to know what we’re up to?” He murmurs, kissing a steady, passionate trail across the side of your face. It’s teasing, but he realizes that you’re genuine with your question.

“Maybe I do,” When it slips past your mouth, John feels a spike of excitement strike at his gut. It’s white-hot and primal, as if you’ve flipped a switch. “I want you, John.”

Something raw and wanting blisters through him, scorching his bones like a wildfire. Resolve slips, already threadbare, and he grabs you tight, his hold ironclad.

“You really want this?” He rasps, as if something inside of him is actively waging war. God, he wants you — wants to fuck you rough and lose himself in you.

“I’m serious — right here, right now,” The insistence and urgency within your cadence conveys everything that he needs to know, lips parting to make room for a gasp. “Please.”

Mouths connect with a gnawing hunger, a knot of teeth and tongue, lips clamoring as if it’s the last thing you’ll ever do. He groans when you bite his bottom lip, teasing him further.

“Pull your dress up.”

John’s growl sends shivers down your spine, rough and commanding, as if time is of the essence. You’ve already been gone long enough for it to warrant some attention.

Scrambling to act, you’re grabbing at the train of satin, wrestling with it as you bunch it into eager fistfuls. Labored breaths and excitable sighs serve as idle ambiance.

He can barely focus, hungry and wanton, hands flying to unclasp the buckle of his belt. Every kiss is a collision — teeth, tongue, lips, and then the cycle repeats itself.

As you hitch your dress up around your hips, his hand follows, calloused as his digits push past the waistband of your panties.

You’re wet, and he stifles a noise at the sensation, parting your legs with his thigh. He’s much bigger than you — more muscle, more man, more to grab onto.

John gazes at you through eclipsed hues and half-lidded lashes, incendiary enough to burn a hole straight through you. Fingers slide over your pussy, momentarily grazing your clit.

“Shit,” You choke, hips jolting into the friction instantaneously. “John, please, please just fuck me.” The sound of your borderline plea clouds every rational thought he might’ve had.

“Want it that bad, huh? Don’t want my fingers, sweetheart? Just my cock?” He doesn’t know what’s come over him, but it’s shadowed and lascivious; he wants you.

“Yes, yes —please!” With a whine, you watch with doe-like eyes as he nearly rips at his pants, body flush against yours, adjusting your legs. He bites at the juncture between your throat and shoulder.

A low grunt tears through his throat, lips hotly sealing themselves to your neck, sucking a bruising hickey into the sensitive flesh.

It earns him a pretty moan from your mouth. The hot swell of his cock soon presses into your navel, incessant and throbbing.

“Jesus, you’re killin’ me.” He gruffs beside your ear, breathing hot, nostrils flaring like a bull. One hand grabs your thigh, the other steadying over your hip to keep you afloat.

Restraint crumbles completely, dissolving as the flushed head of his cock bullies past your folds. He’s quick about it, knowing that your time is limited.

With a brusque snap of his hips, he buries his cock into your pussy, a guttural groan escaping his mouth. It’s smothered into your throat, faces pressed close together.

All it would take is for one person to come strolling up here — neither of you were subtle.

He fucks you so well, pouring all of his built-up tension into every thrust of his hips. John isn’t cruel, but he isn’t sluggish this time, cock nearly kissing your cervix.

A string of muffled growls plume over your flesh, and he kisses at your jaw, beard scratching ragged across your skin. You cling to him, legs parted, hand fisitng into his shoulder.

The pace he sets is quick, needy, desperate; he’s all bite and no bark, shuddering at the feeling of your cunt, tight and clenched around him.

“You asked for this, and now you’re shy,” John grouses, teeth snagging against the spot beneath your jawline. “Talk to me.”

Each brutal thrust of his hips sends his cock deeper, fucking into you like a battering ram, chasing after a release. He’s actively trying not to fall apart, too.

“Need you so bad,” It’s instinctive, the way your voice hums to life when he’s fucking you raw, pitched with want. “S—Shit, you fuck me so well, John.” You moan, and he nearly gasps.

He drives you into the wall with each urge of his hips, cock kissing your walls, filling your pussy with him. The hint of praise only spurs him on, hands holding you tight.

John’s head rolls forward, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded, loosing a primal groan that makes your cunt clench around him.

Each slap of his cock lewdly urges against your slick cunt, arousal thick and honeyed around him, making everything easier.

The hum of patrons and shareholders drones on somewhere beyond the door frame, and fortunately, there aren’t any footsteps nearby. It’s just you and him, fucking against a wall.

“Fuck, you’re mine,” John grits out, grasp hard enough to leave bruises, but you don’t care. He fills the void inside of you, hammering away at your aching pussy. “My girl.”

“M’yours, yours.” You pant, wound-up and coiled, feeling that ball of heat threaten to burst within your abdomen. Bliss curls over your bones, slithering through, ceaseless and burning.

He’s fucking you as if it’s the last thing he’ll do, grunts resonating beside your ear, breath hot as it tickles the nape of your neck.

Lewd, crass noises fill the space between bodies, perspiration lingering over your spine, even when wedged against the wall. You’re scratching at his shoulders even still, mouth agape and eyes closed.

Scarlet clings to John’s features, handsome and pink, jaw strained as if something might shatter. He’s rutting into you as if he might come apart, his sounds borderline animalistic.

His cock throbs, pulses desperately inside of you, and it’s heightened when your cunt clenches around him again. Every little sensation sends him into a near-frenzy.

“Don’t stop, I’m — Mm, almost there,” With a whimper, you let him take what he needs, and he’s pistoning into you like a man starved. “Fuck, keep going.”

John nods, knowing he’s on the verge of crumbling, hips snapping — it’s a vigorous push and pull, quick, desperate, and feral.

As his cock pounds lewdly into your pussy, you use his tie to tug him in for a wet kiss, mouths molding together. It’s all heat and want, pulling a strangled grunt from his chest.

“Jesus, you’re tight,” John rasps, throat thick with desire, coarse as he feels himself slipping over the edge. “Perfect like this.” He grits, cadence husky and low.

Another moan leaves you, and he fucks you hard, right into that spot that makes you writhe. It’s an instantaneous wave of bliss that takes you, and you squeeze around his cock again.

“Fuck, I can’t — Shit, honey …” There isn’t any warning, but you don’t care in the slightest. He shudders, face pressed into yours, fucking you full of his cum.

Warmth floods your insides, veins simmering with liquid fire as it washes over the both of you, white-hot and consuming.

It almost makes you dizzy, head spinning, brain dissolving into a mess of static. The hum persists even after you cum, clenching around his cock, leaving you feeling dazed.

He knows he’s disheveled, but he doesn’t care.

Blue eyes snare on you, on the blissed-out look in your tender gaze, the smitten smile you wear as if you didn’t ask him to fuck your brains out against the wall.

John’s tangled within your beauty, in the way you bask so effortlessly in the afterglow, features illuminated by crystalline colors. He exhales, low and drawn-out, almost in disbelief.

The both of you are panting, ragged as if you’ve just run a marathon, but he’s never felt better. There’s a contentment he feels afterwards; happiness.

When he pulls out of you, it’s sticky and warm, coating the insides of your thighs, over your cunt as you awkwardly tug your panties up.

Hurriedly, you attempt to fix your hair and smooth your dress back into place, but anyone with eyes can tell that you’ve been up to debauchery. John’s smirking, seemingly nonchalant.

“How do I look?” You murmur, visibly flustered as he plants a kiss against your brow, playfully pinching at your hip. You smile despite yourself, thighs still shaking like leaves.

“Like I might have to carry you out of here.”

[swordgrace]

꧁ 𝟒𝐊 𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍! ꧂

I hit 4K followers! 🫶 I’ve gained almost 1.5K followers since the beginning of May (hello, Marvel fandom!) and I wanted to thank everyone who’s been supporting my work. It means everything to me and I’m extremely blessed to have the audience and following that I do. Thank you all so, so much! I love you all! ❤️

So, in honor of 4K followers. I will be doing a week-long celebration of ficlet & drabble requests! Rules, characters, and any prompts will be linked down below.

This will last from June 22nd — June 30th. After the week is up, requests will be closed until further notice.

note: for the purpose of making things easier and to keep up with demand, I will only be accepting drabble or ficlet requests (4K words or less, roughly).

themes: smut, fluff, & angst are all on the table. smut is preferred, but not required! anything is on the table as long as it adheres to the guidelines below!

please review the following before requesting:

blog regulations

request guidelines

AVAILABLE CHARACTERS:

primarily accepting for the marvel characters below, but also open to top gun maverick characters (rooster, hangman, bob, fanboy, & payback), too!

bucky barnes

steve rogers

john walker

joaquin torres

sam wilson

bob reynolds

peter parker (holland, college!verse)

t’challa

peter quill

adam warlock

pietro maximoff

alexei shostakov

johnny storm (quinn or evans)

below are some prompts & ideas if people are having trouble requesting something! (you do not have to use the prompts, they’re just there to help!) also on the lookout for common tropes (nsfw or sfw), too!

PROMPTS & STARTERS:

melt into me — smut prompts.

kisses — fluff & suggestive prompts.

touch-starved prompts.

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐣𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐥. ❞

┊ 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: by anonymous — amidst the avengers feud, you and joaquin are going steady in your relationship. you decide to sneak him into the watchtower while the team is away on a mission.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: joaquin torres x fem!thunderbolts!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 9.4K (long one!)

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), smut/fluff, established relationship, sam wilson cameo, inexperienced reader, making out, body worship, mild dry humping, oral sex (fem!rec), lots of praise, unprotected p in v sex, missionary position. aftercare + cute ending.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: my brain is filled with joaquin torres, I’m in love with him sm !! this was so, so much fun to write, I hope you all enjoy! 🫶

“You’re thinking about something.”

Sam’s inquiring statement sliced through Joaquín’s thoughts like a hot knife, tinged with an underlying jolt of humor.

Sitting sideways on the couch, the both of them were in his apartment — bunker, more like. He affectionately took to calling it the ‘Cap Cave’, which Sam always groaned at.

Swiveling around in his chair, Joaquín blinked owlishly, brows lifting in surprise. “I’m always thinking about something,” He counters, seemingly perplexed. “Are you saying I don’t think?”

On the coffee table, Sam’s got a stack of files, names of enhanced and non-enhanced individuals to recruit for the Avengers.

He’d gotten Jennifer and Shaun onboard with restarting the Avengers Initiative — he didn’t care about Fontaine’s new group running around. Sam pretended not to be bitter, but it still hurt anyway.

It stung knowing that people out there still didn’t think him worthy of the mantle, and worse, knowing that Bucky was there, too.

“Nah, I’m not saying that,” Sam mused, perusing through files. He was still waiting on a response from Shuri, who’d assumed the mantle of the Black Panther. “You look like a guy who’s thinking about a girl.”

Joaquín gawked, idly rolling the chair from side-to-side, palms getting sweaty. He was definitely thinking about a girl. “What if I am? You can’t police that, Sam.” He muses.

There’s a lapse of silence as Sam contemplates, brows pinching together. He knows it’s about you, and Joaquín’s face gives everything away.

He found out about the relationship unwittingly one morning, when Joaquín had come home at four o’clock, all cheery and stealthy like a teenage boy.

It wasn’t an intelligent move on his part — it was dangerously reckless, Joaquín knew this, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Joaquín, you gotta be smart about this,” He starts in with a fatherly tone and a certain sternness that makes Joaquín wither. “She’s in Fontaine’s pocket, and I know you’ve been sneaking over there to see her.”

“I’m being careful,” He vows, staring down at his lap to avoid the scrutiny of Sam’s stare. “I don’t think she’s in with Fontaine like that, man. She doesn’t seem that way.”

With a begrudging sigh, Sam doesn’t attempt to refute his claim or dissuade him. He can’t stop him from seeing you, even if he thinks it’s a bad idea.

Unconvinced, silence fills the momentary gap between the both of them, and Joaquín is swift to defend your honor; and you aren’t even here.

“She’s different, Sam. I want you to meet her sometime — she’s unlike anybody I’ve ever met.” He sighs, and Sam can practically hear the swooning in his tone.

“Whatever you do, don’t get involved in Fontaine’s business,” It was more of a precautionary measure than a threat. He didn’t want Joaquín to be taken hostage or something worse. “Got it?”

“I got it, Sam. I promise.” Swearing up and down, his phone vibrates in his pocket, catching both of their attention. His smile is light as he spins back around in the chair.

“If you’re gonna talk to her, take it to your room, Romeo.” Sam chuckles, and despite the circumstances, he’s being cordial about everything.

He didn’t want to heighten the tension if Joaquín couldn’t see you. Sam didn’t know you, but he knew how his partner talked about you — like you were the sun, the center of everything.

If you made him happy, he wasn’t going to interfere.

Flashing a smile, Joaquín clamors from the chair when he sees your name flash on his phone, and he waves in-passing. Sam scoffs and grins, but he doesn’t make any lasting remarks on the matter.

Admittedly, Joaquín hadn’t intended for all of this to happen in the way that it had; it just did.

He’d gone to the Watchtower about five months ago with the mission of trying to talk to Bucky, wanting to do right by Sam. He managed to get past the extensive security measures before it all came crashing down.

He met you.

Joaquín still remembered how you looked that day, wide-eyed and curious, wearing a shirt two sizes too big and floral-patterned shorts. You were eating from a bag of grapes, and you called him Falcon.

From then-on, you’d formed an unexpected friendship, and two months ago, he got the stones to ask you out.

Despite the newness of the relationship, he was loving every second of it, even if you couldn’t see one another as often as you wanted. It was all meetings in neutral places, at first — the park, going out to dinner, a museum.

Then, he started using his new suit to fly over to the roof of the Watchtower after you dismantled the surveillance system. He taught you how to do that, too.

The both of you started to get bold with how far you could test the limits of him “coming over”. The rooftop escapades merely scratched the surface.

It turned to midnight dates on the helipad, shooing him away when the others got back from a mission. It turned to him getting as far as the common room, giggling on the couch together at two in the morning.

Tonight, it was turning into your room.

Typically, Joaquín was the one pitching all of these ideas, and the both of you were all giddy, sneaking around like two teenagers. Now, it was really getting serious when you posed the idea of smuggling him into your bedroom.

The plan was all set, laid out to perfection, and the timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

Team’s gone on a mission, Bob included — no one else in the Watchtower except you and him. That got him excited; maybe a little too thrilled about the whole thing.

You planned on dismantling the surveillance systems beforehand, knowing that if Bucky went back and checked, he’d probably find evidence of your house-guest.

He scuttled into his room, kicking the door closed when your text popped up.

YOU (my girlfriend <3): hey joaq :) are you still wanting to come over tonight?

JOAQUIN: you’re really asking? I’m still coming over! coast still clear?

YOU (my girlfriend <3): yes, still clear! talked to lena today, said they won’t be back for two days! means we have tower to ourselves 😚

Joaquín huffed a laugh at the emoji you used, nose wrinkling with amusement. He had no idea what he did to get so lucky, other than break a few dozen rules and hijack the New Avengers headquarters.

In his eyes, no one could hold a candle to you; you were so beautiful, so kind, full of a liveliness that brightened everything around you.

The both of you were mutually understanding of the whole feud between two Avengers teams, and as long as that remained intact, everything would be perfectly fine.

JOAQUIN: do you think I could get away with spending the night?

Maybe a little brazen of him to say, or even assume, but if your teammates wouldn’t be back for a few days, he decided to take his chances. Sam wouldn’t be happy about it, but he’d apologize later.

YOU (my girlfriend <3): like a sleepover? lol! I think you can :) don’t want sam to be mad at you, tho!

JOAQUIN: if I text him and tell him what’s going on, he won’t be as mad 😇

On the other end of the phone, you were giggling at your screen, perched along the edge of your mattress. Your relationship with Joaquín was going splendidly, especially with it being a secret — from your teammates, anyway.

He’d blown his cover with Sam awhile back, and you were grateful that he was relatively amiable about the whole thing.

A hush had fallen through the Watchtower with the absence of the team, save for some folk ballad you had playing from the speakers in your room. It was late afternoon, closer to evening.

YOU: don’t think you can bat your eyelashes out of this one, joaq 😭 also gonna order carryout tonight! what do you want?

JOAQUIN: it only works on you ig 😏 the beef and broccoli with noodles :)) thanks babe!

YOU: very funny! come over around five? will disable cams on helipad for a sec

JOAQUIN: sounds good miel :) can’t wait to see you tonight, missed you a ton 🥺

A soft snort escaped you when you caught the emoji he’d tacked onto the end of his text, heat curling around your spine. He made you feel so special, beautiful — you weren’t used to having that constant in your life.

When you closed your eyes, you pictured him on the other end, grinning at his phone, black curls framing his temples, a hand pressed against his jaw. It filled your stomach with butterflies.

Hopping off of your bed, you made sure to send another quick text, springing towards the shower. It was a little reckless, having him over like this, but love had made you a little stupid, too.

YOU: missed you more! ❤️ text me when you’re near the helipad, falcon :)

Joaquín grins at his phone, shoving it into his pocket before rifling through his wardrobe. He wants to find something nice to wear, something to fit under his Falcon suit.

The cologne he haphazardly throws into his overnight bag is a scent you’ve complimented him on before. Anticipation twists into knots in his stomach, excited to see you.

He does get some thrill out of all of this — of sneaking off to see you, getting smuggled into the Watchtower. He figures that all of this good luck is bound to cause whiplash, eventually.

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he gets his stuff together, attempting to be quiet about packing.

CAPTAIN AMERICA: Do not wear the Falcon suit over there or I’ll lock it up for good.

Deadpanning at the screen, he lets out a sigh, figuring you’ll have to disable lobby cameras, instead. Joaquín groans theatrically into a bunched-up shirt, brows furrowing together.

JOAQUIN: You got it, boss.

It’s four-thirty when you get a text from Joaquín.

JOAQUIN: so no helipad, had to ditch the wings :( lobby safe to come through if cams are off?

YOU: let me disable on main system and come get you! give me ten ❤️

The clothes you wear are modestly comfortable, a pair of leggings with a baggy shirt thrown over, showered and smelling like a flower shop.

After you slide on your slippers, you make your way to the Tower’s mainframe system, disabling cameras in the main lobby and in the elevator, too. It’s simple to turn them off temporarily with the access code — you’d stolen it from Bucky.

Giddy, your ride down the elevator shaft is riddled with excitement and a constant bouncing of your leg. Outside, the New York cityscape begins to ignite with an eclectic nightlife, between the glow of skyscrapers and the hum of cars.

Downstairs, the lobby is polished, corporate — there’s banners of the New Avengers strewn over the walls, massive and theatrical.

Pale tile clashes with the dark furniture that had been set up to resemble something modern, business-like and suave. Valentina had a knack for making everything look very sterilized.

Joaquín is lingering just outside, waving at you with a pearly smile and a bouquet of flowers. Bursting at the seams, you jog over to let him inside, putting in your clearance code before the door slides open.

“Joaquín!” Overjoyed, you’re nearly leaping into his arms as soon as he crosses the threshold, feeling him wrap you up in a tight hug.

A laugh bubbles from his chest, warm and inviting, curling over your bones as he cradles you against his chest. He presses a kiss to your crown, catching a whiff of your perfume; you smell incredible.

“Hey, pretty girl,” He hums, peppering your face with a myriad of kisses, pulling a soft laugh from your mouth. “I missed you.” Joaquín’s got a lovestruck look in his eyes, akin to a puppy.

“I missed you too,” Draping your arms around him, the closeness is something you’ve craved, absorbing his warmth as if he’s his own sun. “No wings? Did Sam clip them or something?” You tease, nose wrinkled.

Embarrassed, he lets out a begrudging groan, features tinged with a scarlet hue as he shrugs. “He didn’t want me using them to come over, figured I’d respect his wishes.”

“He’s nice enough to let you come over here, given the circumstances,” You point out, gaze drifting toward the bouquet of brightly-colored flowers he’s carrying. “You brought flowers?”

“I know. I want you to meet him sometime, I think he’d like you.” Joaquín stands a little taller, resolute as he presents you with your gift. “It’s an apology for not seeing you in a while.”

“You’re sweet,” Flustered, you accept the bouquet with a beam on your face, feeling his lips press against your cheek. “Mm, move your mouth an inch or two to your right.”

“Yes ma’am.” A smirk spreads across his mouth before he kisses your lips instead. He’s enthusiastic yet disarmingly tender, kiss infused with an underlying passion.

Joaquín leans down, closer to you as he slings an arm around your hips, heartbeat stuttering beneath his sternum.

You make him nervous sometimes, in a good way — you make him want to be the best man he can be.

As the kiss slows to a crawl, he draws away with a contented hum, lips still quirked into a grin. “I want more of those, please.” He muses, hand lingering over the small of your back.

“There’ll be plenty more, I promise.” You laugh, tugging on his hand as you make for the elevator. The door bears the Avengers emblem — slightly modified, but the spirit is still there.

Once the both of you are inside, Joaquín peers around in awe, never having seen the whole interior of the Watchtower before. He’s been as far as the common room.

“You got your own superhero banner?” He remarks, brows lifting with amusement. He wished he got his own Falcon banner — maybe Sam could get the new team one, once he finished recruiting.

“Yeah. Valentina wanted it to be marketable and palatable for people who were reluctant about the whole thing,” You shrug. “I still use my old suit. The one she had made for me is uncomfortable.”

With a click of his tongue, he stifles a mischievous grin. “You look really good in it though, miel,” Joaquín lets out a low, playful whistle before you smack his bicep. “Seriously!”

Shooting him a sideways glance, he’s all smiling and chipper, attitude never dimming. It was something you really loved about him — he was good at his core, selfless and wickedly intelligent.

“Thanks,” Another laugh tumbles through your diaphragm. “Maybe I can get you one to hang up in your room back at the Cap Cave.”

He swallows the slight lump in his throat, biting back the urge to make a raunchy remark. Filtering himself, he plants a kiss against your cheek. “Yeah? Shit, I’d love that.” He murmurs, sly as ever.

“You’re bad,” You counter, and he holds one hand up in surrender. As you reach the main level, the elevator chimes open, and you’re greeted by the sprawling floor of the common area. “Here we are.”

The evening glow spreads through the windows, sunlight whispering over dark tile, bathing your features in downcast embers.

Joaquín refuses to look away, gaze reverently tracing across visage as you coax him into the Watchtower’s main room. He swallows, and the sudden coil of nerves settles in.

“I thought we could eat dinner here, or in my room,” You propose, but he’s thoroughly distracted, breath hitching when he absorbs your beauty. Time slows to a crawl the longer he lingers, lips parted. “Or we can eat on the helipad.”

Uncharacteristically hushed, he doesn’t answer you right away, dark lashes kissing the skin beneath his eyes as he blinks. It’s slow, and he’s too busy ogling you, mesmerized; he can’t believe that this is real.

When you catch him gawking, he awkwardly clears his throat and straightens up, mumbling a low apology. “Sorry. You’re so gorgeous, and I can’t stop looking at you.” He states, straightforward.

Surprised, you become smitten almost instantaneously, fingers toying with some of the plastic wrap curled around your bouquet. “You’re so sweet,” You mumble. “Thank you, Quín.”

With a suave smile, he nods, a hum snaring within his throat when you rock up on your toes to kiss him. He doesn’t recoil, reciprocating your kiss with one of his own, passion overwhelmingly obvious.

The smile that spreads over your mouth is palpable when you kiss, and he drops his duffel bag, wrapping his arms around you fully.

Lips meld together seamlessly, fitting a perfect mold, bleeding with passion. He’s rather charming about it, endlessly confident; he knows he’s suave, and it has you hooked.

He kisses you again after you reciprocate, peppering his lips all over your face. The sound of your laughter makes it all worthwhile, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Are you hungry?” Giggling against him, he plants another kiss to your brow, smoothing his hands across your hips.

“Yeah,” Joaquín bats his eyelashes, dialing up the swagger as he draws you close, chest-to-chest. “Not for beef and broccoli, though.” He remarks, kissing your jaw with a smirk.

“Joaquín,” A sharp gasp punctures your lungs, and you’re burning with embarrassment. Gentle lips continue to string along your jaw, over your chin, around your neck. “Easy there, Falcon.”

He laughs, and it sounds like sunshine; like everything warm and comforting about the world. “Okay, okay,” There’s still a shimmer in his eyes, one of ardor. “I am legitimately hungry.” He concedes.

“It’s in the fridge,” You muse, lips gracing his jaw before you untangle yourself from him. He’s all grinning and happy, chest puffed out, retrieving his duffel bag from the floor. “I’ll reheat it and then we can go to my room.”

“Deal,” Joaquín follows you to the open kitchen, letting out a low whistle. He’s in awe of everything — the Cap Cave is cool, but the Watchtower is incredibly advanced. “This is impressive.”

He follows you closely, hovering beside the island, bag still slung over his shoulder. “She wanted it to be ‘top of the line’ for investors.” You shrug, removing white containers of Chinese takeout from the fridge.

Admittedly, you still felt like you didn’t really belong on the team, unworthy of the mantle — you were inducted at the wrong place, wrong time.

Like Bob, you had superpowers; not as powerful, but enough for people to take an interest, look at you like a curious object.

Joaquín never looked at you like that, but he looked at you with something else; in awe, as if you’d moved mountains and hung stars.

He tapped a hand against polished granite, a smile toying at the corner of his mouth. “Thanks for smuggling me in, by the way,” He murmured, tone warm. “I know this isn’t ideal.”

Scooping the contents of each container into large bowls, you reheated a bag of egg rolls too, lobbing a pair of colorful forks onto the island.

“It’s okay,” Smiling, you met his gaze, affectionate as you placed everything into the microwave. “You’re worth it, Joaquín — you’re worth everything.” Your cadence softens.

Typically, he’s the smooth one; flirtatious, coy, and always coming in with the suave remarks. It was his turn to blush, and he can tell that you’re genuine, sincerity bleeding from every syllable.

“Baby,” He mumbles, a touch flustered before he rubs at the back of his neck. “You’re perfect, you know that?”

Smitten, you quietly remove a steaming bowl of beef and broccoli, wincing when the ceramic burns your palm. “I don’t know,” Cheekily, your brows lift in amusement. “Remind me again.”

Joaquín laughs, the noise bright enough to light up a room, and you’re falling hard. When the bowl begins to cool, he picks it up, following right behind you with your food, too.

“So your room is on this level?” He asks through a mouthful of seasoned beef, making noise when he realizes it’s still too hot for him to eat.

“Mm-hm. I share a floor with Bob and Ava, the rest are on two. The training room is up there, too.” As the both of you make your way toward the sleek labyrinth of corridors, Joaquín clears his throat.

“You guys got a training room?” He wants to see it, but he also isn’t expecting a fully-fledged tour as part of your date night. “What else did Fontaine put in this thing?”

“I think Alexei is trying to vouch for a pool,” A huff of laughter escapes you. “But there’s a debriefing room, a lounge and a bar, extra rooms, a medical ward, and a laboratory.” You name it all off like an extensive list.

“I should ask Sam about getting a bar.” Joaquín grins, nipping at your heels as you turn a corner into a long, hushed stretch of hallway. Outside, it’s nearly twilight, concealed by tinted window-panes.

Stopping in front of your door, you enter in your code before it hisses open, revealing a rather expansive, lived-in bedroom.

It smells like you; floral scents intermingled with everything saccharine, strung with hanging lights, comforter wrinkled over a queen-size mattress, bathroom door ajar.

Everything is warm, blanketed in a low, orange glow that swallows the room whole, a fluffy chair draped over with a woven canopy. It was relatively tidy and organized, but comfortable — it all felt organic.

“Sorry if it’s messy, I tidied up before you got here.” As you settle down on the edge of your mattress, Joaquín nudges his duffel bag onto the fluffy rug below, bowl in-hand.

“Messy? Babe, this room is pretty spotless,” He snickers, watching you bat your eyelashes before eating a forkful of noodles. “Food’s delicious, by the way. Where’d you order from?”

“Takeout place down the street,” Your mouth is full when you answer, prompting you to clear your throat. “Eggroll?” Wax paper crinkles within your grasp as you offer it to him, still-warm egg rolls inside.

“Thanks,” Joaquín immediately placed it into his mouth, halfway wedged as the other half fell unceremoniously into his bowl. “Hm, s’good.” He mumbles, watching as you stifle laughter.

Silence trickles in between the both of you, eating within a comfortable silence, occasionally stealing glances at one another.

He smiles, countenance one of tenderness as he clears his throat, lodging another hefty bite of beef and broccoli into his mouth.

“Want to watch a movie afterwards?” You hum, legs tucked beneath you, squinting through the waning sunset that trickles in through the windows.

It isn’t anything exciting, but basking in his presence matters most to you. There’s something gentle and clean about your relationship — you know he’d do anything for you, be anything for you.

You don’t want him to change — he’s perfect the way he is, and that’s more than enough.

“Yeah,” Through a light cough, Joaquín swallows, fork scraping over empty ceramic. “What are we thinking? You know what I’m gonna say.” He muses, nose wrinkling.

“Fast and Furious?” Sharp, your mouth quirks into a grin before he lets out a theatrical groan.

“Second choice,” His smile never wavers; he’s so handsome, something warm and ebullient, incandescently bright. “Interstellar.”

“That’s a long movie,” Another laugh leaves you when he shakes his head, scraping the remnants of his food into his mouth. “We can watch it. I know you think it’s amazing.”

“One of the best movies of all time, right next to The Princess Bride,” Joaquín chuckles, his laugh light and effortless, teeth glinting through glimmering sunshine. “You’ll love it.”

“I’m trusting you.” Teasingly, you finish up with your food before motioning to take his bowl. You stack them right outside of your bedroom door, assuming you’ll circle back in the morning.

“You mind if I change?” He asks, grabbing his duffel bag from the ground. “I brought you some stuff, too.” Dragging the zipper down, he tugs out a few old t-shirts to give to you.

“You brought me your clothes?” Delighted, you’re visibly ecstatic when he hands you three shirts, two of them old Air Force tops, the other an oversized Nike hoodie.

“I know you like wearing them to bed,” Joaquín plants a kiss to your brow, fingertips tracing over the small of your back. “You’re so beautiful, you know.” He hums, tone lowering.

“You are too,” You mumble, and you catch him blushing, lips parting. He huffs a laugh, mouth carefully tracing across your face, buried against your soft skin. “Very cute.”

“Gonna change, babe.” Joaquín hums, planting another kiss against your cheek before grabbing a bundle of clothes, including something you can’t make out.

After he disappears into your bathroom, door clicking with a soft thud, you scramble into something else. Tugging off your leggings and shirt, you slide into his hoodie; it smells like his cologne, like sandalwood and whiskey.

You’re applying a spritz or two of perfume as if you hadn’t layered enough on already, switching on your flatscreen before fumbling with the remote.

On the other side of your bathroom door, Joaquín is furiously brushing his teeth; he’d already brushed them before he left, but it’s a precaution. A hand is roaming through his dark curls, trying to push them into place.

It’s boyish; it’s something extra, valiant attempts to impress you and not ward you away.

Scrolling through streaming services, you locate Interstellar, settling down into bed as you wait for Joaquín to come back out. You can hear water running, shuffling fabric; it piques your curiosity.

When he comes out, cool and collected, he’s wearing loungewear, glint of a silvery chain dangling around his neck. A rosy flush settles into his face, and he’s still smiling.

It wavers when he sees you — no more pants, just his sweatshirt, sitting cross-legged in your bed. His heart stutters, mouth dry as he attempts to form words, ogling you.

“Everything okay?”

The sound of your question nearly makes him jump, lashes fluttering as he hastily clears his throat. He looks a little dazed, jaw unhinged before he waves your concern aside.

“Yeah, yeah.” He coughs, too busy wrapped up in the sight of you, especially as you sprawl out. The hem of his sweatshirt kisses your thighs, and he’s hyper-focused, tongue darting over his teeth.

Joaquín joins you, mattress dipping slightly as he crawls over, feeling you curl up against him. He’s more than happy to hold you, propped up on a mound of pillows, arm draping over your side.

His biceps flex beneath the material of his spandex shirt, sun-kissed like warm caramel, and your mind derails entirely.

“I’m really glad that we could do this,” You hum, tracing your fingers over his chest. “I know I’m breaking a thousand rules, but I missed you a lot, Joaquín.” Those words alone break open a barrier inside of him.

Admittedly, he’s been clinging to restraint as soon as you were kissing in the kitchen; he wants you so terribly that it hurts, and your perfume doesn’t make anything easier.

“You’re my light,” He’s quick with a reply, voice honey-thick and a touch husked, fading into you. “You mean a lot to me, miel — you’re perfect, inside and out.” As he lays on the compliments, you find yourself enamored.

Interstellar suddenly seems so inconsequential when his mouth is ghosting over yours, hand drawing circles into your ribs.

“Can I kiss you?” He whispers, hot breath fanning over your lips, unwilling to budge until you’ve given him consent. When you do, nodding fervently and unable to catch your breath, he doesn’t hesitate.

It’s sparks, tension brewing beneath the surface when you kiss him, palm splayed over his chest. The other rests comfortably near his neck, fingers toying with the necklace he wears.

For weeks, he’d been all wound-up over the thought of you — not being able to see you all the time had made him unbearably needy.

You can feel it rippling beneath his skin when he kisses you, coiled-up want knotted into something he wants to untether. You want it too, but part of you fears your own inexperience.

Joaquín kisses you as if you’re the only one he’s ever wanted, drawing a tremulous exhale from your lungs, making you shiver. His hand finally settles over your thigh, idly massaging your skin, fingers teasing the hem of your sweatshirt.

“Still want to watch the movie?”

It’s you who asks him, attempting to gauge his reaction, like a deer in the headlights. His kisses slow to a crawl, and he pulls away enough to catch your smile, obviously smitten.

“Would you be upset if I said no?” He murmurs, mouth quirking into a slight grin. His tells are so easy, but he owns up to it — he’s not ashamed to admit he wants you.

“Mm-mm,” Shaking your head, you curl closer, hand wandering until it steadies atop his bicep. He flexes for you, chuckling when you get all flustered; you’re easy to rile up. “You’re unbelievable.”

Joaquín smiles, planting a kiss against your jaw. “I know,” He murmurs, inhaling a gust of your scent, perfume sizzling through his senses, through his resolve. “But I’m yours.”

His hand continues to knead along your thigh, savoring the feeling; you’re too beautiful for him, and he knows it. You angle yourself enough to turn inward, face-to-face, lashes fluttering in rapid succession.

Mouths entangle with one another, each kiss deepening, blurring the line of desire. The more it progresses, the more you don’t want to stop — and he doesn’t want to, either.

Digits trail through his dark curls, stroking along the nape of his neck as you adjust yourself again, nearly slotted in his lap. An excitable noise bubbles from his throat, hands finding your hips.

A hush blankets your bedroom, save for the sounds of labored breathing and the subtle groan of the mattress beneath you.

Your palms climb higher, both hands gathering to perch atop his shoulders, feeling sinewy muscle tense beneath your fingers. Lips continue, unhindered, charged with a wave of passion.

“Hey,” Joaquín mumbles, his smile one of amazement as his kisses slow to a crawl, nose brushing against yours. “I don’t have any expectations for tonight.”

Stilling, you sit back for a moment, allowing yourself some composure. “Me neither,” You assure, gooseflesh crawling over your spine. “I want you, Joaquín — I do, I just … I’m not exactly experienced.”

With a tumultuous past and enhancements, your life was anything but normal. You didn’t get to live like everyone else until recently.

Intimacy was something you’d experienced in slices — never the whole thing, and never with someone who saw you in the way that Joaquín did.

When you tell him that you want him, he blushes; maybe he wasn’t expecting it, or it took him by surprise, but his need only continues to burn. It’s burning so hot that it’s scorching him, searing his bones.

“We’ll never do anything that you aren’t comfortable with, miel,” He assures, kissing at the inside of your wrist, lips akin to a warm brand. “I don’t want you to feel any pressure. We’re going at your speed.”

That makes you want him even more.

“I want to,” The cadence of your voice softens, pitched with something breathy, exhilarating. “There’s no one else that I’d ever want this with.” You murmur, and his heart stammers.

Joaquín nods, dazed and yearning, dark lashes kissing the skin beneath his eyes. “Me too,” He confesses, hands rubbing circles over your hips. “You’re it for me.”

A smile spreads over your face, dazzling as you ease yourself into his lap, slotted over one of his thighs. The closeness smolders, and his pupils dilate enough to warrant your attention.

Slowly, he cups your jaw, rough digits stroking over silky skin, bringing you in for another kiss. It’s agonizingly sluggish, intended to savor as your chest brushes against his.

Peach-ripe sunset pools into your bedroom, giving way to the first inklings of twilight. It strikes you at the perfect angle, leaving Joaquín stunned, absorbing your features, committing you to memory.

Each kiss is deep, passionate; you move in an idle dance, and you shiver when his hand slips beneath the hem of your sweatshirt. He finds your back, caressing along your spine.

You aren’t wearing a bra underneath, he realizes, and that makes him flustered. He doesn’t know why, but it does — he’s itching to see you.

The pressure of his muscled thigh wedged between your legs fills your body with a muted buzz, and when you shift, it makes it worse. Pinpricks of bliss shoot through your belly, however slight.

Lips tangle together, again and again, and he feels your body roll into him, flush against one another. He steadies you, hand skirting from your spine to your chest, lightly kneading at your breast.

It’s gentle, a feather-light touch that starts as experimental, testing the waters. You shiver from the contact, skin to skin, kissing him one more time until he untangles your lips.

Instead, his mouth finds your jaw, kissing a trail from the delicate bone to your throat, the pad of his thumb brushing over your nipple.

“Joaquín,” A soft, throaty moan slips past your mouth, hips rolling forward, gathering friction against his thigh. He handles you so tenderly, as if you’re some precious gemstone or artifact.

“You’re so pretty, cariño,” He mumbles into your throat, lavishing kiss after kiss there, occasionally suckling at patches of skin. “Can’t believe you’re mine.” It’s partially disbelief; like he’s still realizing how lucky he is.

It’s more than just sex; it’s intimacy, the closeness, the delight of euphoria you find in one another, hearts twining together.

He wants you in ways that transcend physicality — he wants your future, wants to be the person you wake up to in the morning. Joaquín doesn’t know how badly he wants it all until he’s looking at you.

When his sweatshirt rides up to pool around your hips, his gaze catches on your thighs, over the soft plane of your body. His hand still kneads into your breast, drawing out another moan from your lips.

Sheets ruffle beneath your bodies, and he’s shifting enough to peel his shirt off, leaving you visibly flustered.

He’s beautiful; a chiseled adonis whose muscle is raw and well-earned, something he’s worked tirelessly for. His skin turns warm, like melted caramel dusted with freckles, silver chain glinting around his neck.

He’s got a tangle of scars on the right side of his throat, a few peppered across his abdomen. You want to kiss every single one, tell him how perfect he is.

“You’re gorgeous,” You murmur, listening to the subtle hitch in his throat. Delicate digits trace the lines of his musculature, drinking him in, lashes fluttering in rapid succession. “Just perfect.”

Preening beneath your compliments, Joaquín doesn’t shy away from the scarlet flush that slithers around his face. Instead, he kisses your neck fervently in response.

His other hand drops to skirt beneath your sweatshirt, holding onto your hip, palm still kneading at your breast. “You look so good in my clothes,” He murmurs. “Mind if I take this off?”

“Mm-hm.” With a soft hum, you adjust your arms, letting him peel off your sweatshirt with ease, draping it toward the foot of your bed. His tongue flicks over his teeth when he sees you.

God, you’re perfect; everything about you is beautiful and he can’t help but drown in you.

Pastel-hued cotton clings to your hips, the last article of clothing that covers you. A slight draft slithers over your hot flesh, goosebumps following suit as your mouth returns to his.

A husky groan stirs in Joaquín’s chest when you shift against him, friction producing a heat that settles within his stomach. He kisses you back, passionate and needy, hands touching you everywhere.

He caresses you with rapture, reverence; it’s a reminder of how he sees you, how much he loves you. Mouths entangle, and he slyly lets his tongue trace over your bottom lip.

There’s another shift when he begins to ease you back onto your mattress, over soft sheets and pillows. Your legs part for him without a second thought, letting him stay there.

“Damn, you’re so beautiful,” Joaquín murmurs against your mouth, nestled between your thighs. He props himself up on one forearm, the other stroking across your ribs. “Can’t get enough.”

He catches a whiff of the perfume clings to your flesh, an amalgamation of something saccharine and fresh; he loves it; drinks it in.

His mouth wanders over your jaw, layering endless kisses over your skin as he climbs toward your throat. A low moan fizzles past your lips, leaving you wanton, desperate for more.

The cold metal of his necklace grazes your collar, a bite of ice, knees squeezing at his hips. Your line of sight drifts toward the soft tent in his sweatpants, causing you to lick your bottom lip.

Joaquín is relentless, wanting to map every inch of your skin with his mouth, tongue; he kisses fervently toward your collarbone. Fingers tease the waistband of your panties, feather-light and gentle.

Warm lips graze your sternum, dipping toward your right breast, kissing your chest with a thinly-veiled passion. “You okay? Can I keep going?” He asks, tone husked and pitched with affection.

“More than okay,” You huff, squirming slightly underneath him, hands drifting to rake through his dark tresses. “Please keep going.” After vocalizing your enthusiasm, he’s more than happy to continue.

With a nod, he starts to take your nipple into his mouth, kissing at the sensitive bud, hand skirting to grope at the other. A moan escapes you, jaw slack and mouth agape.

He’s so gentle; there isn’t a single rough or harsh movement, everything concentrated with an oozing affection. Ardor is laced into every kiss, every caress of his hand, every stolen glance.

Arousal pools between your thighs, hot and honey-thick, slick cooling along your core. Hips grind together, and the friction is enough to elicit pleasured sounds from the both of you.

Exploratory, Joaquín commits all of you to memory, letting you sink your talons into the deepest parts of his mind. Your perfume gets on his skin, and he doesn’t want it to come off, either.

He briefly teases your nipple with pearly teeth, planting wet, open-mouthed kisses around your breasts before he descends.

“Joaquín,” You moan, hips jolting forward, absently grinding against the swell of his erection. He lets out a low groan in-turn, lips carving a path along your body. “Feels so good.”

When he peppers kisses across your stomach, you suck in a sharp breath, knowing exactly where he’s going.

He mumbles something in Spanish, and it scratches something raw inside of you, belly twisting into a coil of excitable knots. Reaching the waistline of your panties, he looks at you again.

You’re already nodding several times over to tell him it’s okay, and you catch the little stutter in his exhale, pupils dilating.

“Yeah?” He whispers, breathless when you nod again, shivering when his fingers curl into the thin elastic. Easing your panties down, he looks like a man starved, razed by affection and desire.

Joaquín crawls down, head settling between your thighs as he guides your legs onto his broad shoulders, palms kneading their way toward your haunches.

As your panties leave your legs, he kisses hot brands to your calves, stringing them along your knees, cresting over your thighs. The exhilarated wobble in your exhale makes him excited.

“Been thinking about this,” He confesses, and it floods your insides with molten heat. There’s something effortless about the way he says it — you know he means it. “Wanna taste you, miel.”

His gaze is incendiary, staring at you as if you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, tongue absentmindedly swiping over his bottom lip.

“Please,” It’s all you can manage to squeak out, legs flexing beside his face, fingers fisting at the sheets. “Please, Joaquín.”

Steady hands hitch beneath your thighs, holding steadfastly to your hips, haunches braced on top of his shoulders. He caresses near your waist, fingers stroking in repetitive motions.

“Look at me, pretty girl,” Joaquín murmurs, and it’s merely a suggestion, not a demand. When you do, it’s him who blushes, lips kissing a trail to the slick coalescing over your pussy. “Gorgeous.”

The sweetly-spoken praise rips through you, sending waves of pleasure throughout your body as his tongue laps at your slit.

Pleasure sizzles through you suddenly, hot and wanton as his mouth explores your cunt. He’s tender, painstakingly passionate when he strings kisses over your core.

Maintaining eye contact is something that has you squirming, lips parted, heat curling over your bones like wildfire. Joaquín’s stare doesn’t waver, mouth buried deep into your pussy.

His tongue is vigorous, flicking from your entrance to your clit, causing you to quiver. Wordlessly, he reaches for one of your hands, keeping them interlocked atop your hip.

He eats you out like he’s deprived, hungry for you; for all of you, body, heart, everything.

Your thighs twitch, curling around his head, stomach twisting into knots. Arousal coalesces heavily between your thighs, oozing onto his tongue.

Mouthing at your pussy, he slows to a crawl, taking his time to savor every inch of you, feeling your legs quiver. He groans, musculature shaking, gaze eclipsed with desire.

You say his name as if it’s a prayer, the only words worth memorizing. A shiver traces through his spine, joined hands squeezing tighter, and you feel your pussy clench around nothing at all.

With a broad stroke of his tongue, he raked hot embers over your core, hands steadying you, eager to please without an ounce of hesitation.

The bridge of his nose ghosts over your slick folds, causing you to tremble. There’s a fire in your belly that demands to be extinguished, nerves set ablaze, a fervent buzz humming in your skin.

“I’ve got you, baby.” Joaquín sighs, hot breath pluming over your cunt. His tongue is a thing of beauty, working through you in the way that you deserve.

Eager lips kiss their way along your pussy, from your aching entrance to your clit. Your thighs tense, twitching when he stimulates that clutch of nerves, listening to you moan.

He tries again, using his tongue this time, slowly working it over your clit in languid patterns, intended to savor.

You want to melt, back arching, hips jolting forward as you grind into his face. Joaquín welcomes it without recoil, groaning as he eagerly laps over the clutch of nerves.

The sight of you razed, jaw slack and visage one of bliss, body on-fire for him; it’s picturesque, an image that’s emblazoned in his mind for the rest of his life. He can’t imagine anyone else like this.

Through the low glow of your bedroom, he strings kisses around your clit, tongue circling afterwards, one hand caressing your thigh. You let your free hand drift to run over his scalp, and he hums.

When he focuses on teasing your clit, your hips jerk again, prompting you to whine out a breathy apology, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“That feel good? Want more?” Gruffing from between your thighs, your boyfriend ensures that you’re getting everything you want and more.

“Y—Yes, Joaq, please,” You moan, and the use of his little nickname makes him preen. He shuffles closer, tongue deep in your pussy as he begins to lightly suck at your clit. “Right, mm — Right there!”

He provides without question.

His lack of hesitation makes you all hot and bothered as that coil in your stomach begins to unfurl, dragging you toward the edge.

Each pulse of his mouth sends shockwaves of ecstasy hurling through your bones, hot and blissful, like static surging in your brain. You begin to see stars when he keeps the pace, throat ragged with another moan.

To relieve his own arousal, his hips rut helplessly into your mattress, finding some reprieve, but it’s slight. He’s too busy wrapping himself up in your own pleasure, and it outweighs his own.

It’s how he wants things to be, focusing on you, ensuring that you’re taken care of before it ever comes down to him. His cock twitches when you squeeze his hand again.

White-hot spots float through your vision as he brings you to your peak, lips lightly stimulating your clit even when your legs rattle.

His tongue eagerly laps across your throbbing cunt, cleaning you up, the taste of you ambrosial, intoxicating. Joaquín’s brain is filled with static as you grind your hips into his mouth a time or two.

“Joaquín!” A pleasured whine rips through your diaphragm, lungs stinging as you catch your breath, euphoric high still rippling through your body.

He works you through it, stringing kisses over your pelvis, flush against the inside of your thighs, over the crook of your knee. A rosy pallor clings to his features, chest tight with excitement.

“So pretty when you cum, cariño,” Joaquín hums, kissing up along your body as he slots himself between your legs, his erection firm against your aching core. “Did so well.”

The praise makes you preen, a lackadaisical smile floating across your face as you arch forward, shyly wiping your slick from his chin.

“You’re so handsome,” You sigh, and he’s kissing your jaw, letting you feel what you do to him. He’s painfully hard and ready to feel you, hand shifting to tug at his sweatpants. “Need you, Joaquín.”

“You’ve got me,” He murmurs, his suave cadence dripping with adoration, and the look in his eyes rips the air from your lungs. It’s clean, gentle love — loves you so much. “Always.”

When he discards his sweatpants, the spandex of his boxers leaves little to the imagination, and it makes you swallow.

Lips find one another, and you taste yourself on his tongue, drawing a moan from his chest when you’re eager to savor it for yourself. Your hands trace over his biceps, perching around the nape of his neck.

“Still want to keep going? We don’t have to.” Joaquín is incredibly reassuring about everything, and it makes you want it all the more.

“I do,” You swear, fingertips tracing patterns over his hot skin, over freckles and now-faded scars, over the plane of his muscles. “I want you more than anything.” His breath hitches when you say it.

He nods, planting several kisses along your throat, feeling your legs constrict near his hips. There’s another light scuffle of fabric, and he adjusts himself enough to kick his boxers off.

They join his sweatpants, scattered somewhere along the foot of your bed. Joaquín stares down at you with wide eyes and a slightly nervous smile, as if you’re the center of his universe.

A shiver passes through the both of you when the flushed head of his cock nudges against your slick folds. He swallows, beautiful through the sienna glow, lashes fluttering a time or two.

You’re perfect — beautiful beneath him, breathtaking in every way imaginable. The lapse of silence lasts for a moment, with him adjusting himself between your legs.

A shiver grips his spine when his hips fall flush against yours, cockhead splitting past your folds, still oozing with precum.

“Ready?” His voice is low, pitched with want as he attempts to keep composure. Splintering at the seams, Joaquín stifled a groan when you moved against him, wanton.

With a nod, you give him your consent, trembling from exhilaration as his hips push forward. There is mild resistance at first, tip of his cock prodding against your entrance.

He’s sluggish, making sure that you’re comfortable first before progressing. “I’m okay.” You assure him, the sensation stinging yet blissful.

Shifting closer, you suck in a sharp inhale as his hips urge forward, cock sinking into you. It takes a moment of adjustment, cunt clenching around him with ripples of ecstasy.

Halfway inside of you, he stops to let you feel it all, every twitch, every muscle-deep quiver. Joaquín swallows a groan, forehead pressing against yours as he kisses your lips.

“Good, s’good.” Reassuring, you want him to continue, nearly clawing out of your flesh to have him in you completely. His cock is perfect — it’s pretty, as if it were molded for you.

“Yeah?” He huffs, mouth messily tangling with yours. Again, you’re nodding, spurring him on as his hips sink forward completely, cock fully buried inside of your pussy.

You’re tight, and it’s driving him crazy in the best way possible. He’s head over heels, so desperate for you that he might’ve been a beggar.

There’s a moment of hesitation from his end, and before you can comment on it, he begins to pull his hips back, and push forward. He’s disarmingly tender, making love instead of fucking you.

Sighs of passion tangled together, hot and fervent, breathing in the sweet air of one another. His cock kisses your pussy with each drawn-out thrust, dragging over your walls.

His chest burns with a string of needy grunts, holding you tightly, feeling your skin flush against his. Braced on one forearm, the other hand moves to hold yours, pinning them into the pillow.

Muscles flex, taut and sinewy, and you’re momentarily distracted by him; all of him.

Pupils dilate with desire, amber hues turned molten by the low light, jaw loosened, features flushed. He’s gorgeous like this, when he’s all over your mouth and needy.

Each rock of his hips is meaningful, cock buried into your tight heat. He’s good at it — makes you feel wanted in every way imaginable, like you’re something worth worshipping.

“Joaquín,” You pant, and the sound of your voice makes him buckle, trembling above you. Delicate fingers stroke over the nape of his neck, reaching into his tresses.

“You’re perfect,” He groans, inhaling a gust of your scent, hips stuttering slightly before regaining their confidence. He’s exceptionally passionate; not rough, not harsh, just desirous. “So pretty.”

His cock kisses your walls with each thrust, well-timed and intentional, driving himself into you. Your arousal makes it all easier, hips rolling over one another, friction simmering.

The silvery glint of his necklace dangles from his throat, mouth ajar, inhabiting a host of low, throaty groans. He’s vocal about how much he’s enjoying this, savoring every second of it with glee.

He smooths a hand over your thigh, gripping at your haunch to angle himself, joined hands squeezing beside your head.

The slow, drawn-out thrusts make your body melt, succumbing to heat. Sometimes he can’t believe that you’re real, that this is real; you’re a vision, a fantasy made flesh.

Joaquín doesn’t change course — he’s steady, passionate as he continues to rock into you, letting you feel everything properly.

Digits wander from the nape of his neck toward the silvery chain that dangles from his throat, hitching a finger in to drag him down.

A tremulous moan splits your diaphragm, shuddering as your cunt pulses, clenching around his cock. Lips collide, and you’re moaning into his mouth.

Each kiss makes your head dizzy; it’s all passion, bleeding heat that coagulates in the pit of your stomach, coil wanting to unfurl. His cock continues to slip inside, and then back; a push and pull.

Hitching your leg around his hips, it gives him leverage, a new angle to thrust into. He never gets rough or invigorated, letting passion override everything else.

Foreheads press firmly together, noses ghosting the other, mouths still joining in slow, needy kisses. “Mi amor,” He sighs, causing your cunt to clench around him. “Gettin’ close.”

There’s a slurred pitch in his voice, drunk on desire, drunk on the feeling of your body flush against his, on the sensation of you.

Pleasure floods your insides, the coil within your stomach having unfurled, treated to the loving thrusts of his hips. His cock moves deeper, kissing your walls, pulling another moan from your mouth.

Something tightens in his abdomen, pulled as taut as a bowstring, threatening to snap into two. Joaquín’s thrusts tick up in speed, just enough to make his head go static with desire.

Hot, breathy pants escape him, feathering over your mouth, and your noises spur him further. He keeps pushing, motions languid and loving, dragging out each thrust so that the both of you shiver.

“Joaquín!” A low, shaky whine tumbles from your lips, mouth pressing against his jaw as you lavish him in kisses. He shudders, teeth clenched as he gently fucks into you, again and again.

He’s there, and it’s euphoria — he groans, countenance contorted into bliss, chest shaking with low, pleasured sounds.

Hot ropes of cum flood your pussy, the aching sensation crawling through your skin. His movements begin to stutter and slow, hands twined together, his knuckles turning white.

Your name rolls from his tongue a time or two, dark curls tousled, wisping over his temples as he loses his composure.

For a moment, his thoughts are blank; the only thing he wants to think about is you.

With a drawn-out exhale, his hips shift, cock beginning to soften inside of you. He looks thoroughly pleased, razed and delighted, flashing a pearly smile at you.

“You okay?” Joaquín mumbles, leaning in to plant a kiss against your brow. Perspiration glitters over his skin, bitten by scarlet, muscles beginning to unravel the tension.

“Yeah,” A smile spreads over your face, and it makes his heart buzz with something warm. “That was amazing.” You don’t have much to judge it off of, either.

“Amazing, huh?” A twinge of playful cockiness creeps into his tone, characteristically upbeat. “That’s gonna go straight to my head.” He muses, kissing at your shoulder.

“I’ll revoke my compliment,” The faux threat makes him laugh, followed by your fit of giggles. It’s that sound he clings to — it’s everything. “You’re so perfect, Quín.”

There’s a sparkle in his gaze when he meets yours, swimming with affection. He’s always strived to prove himself, be better; to you, he’s flawless, sunshine in living flesh.

“Mm-mm,” He kisses your jaw. “That title belongs to you, miel. You’re everything I want,” There’s a sudden sincerity that saturates his tone. “Got my heart in your hand.”

A hitch forms within your throat when you realize how serious he really is about you. You aren’t used to it, accustomed to only pain and misery, of being isolated.

You lose that fear with him in ways that you never thought possible. Unable to keep from smiling, you kiss him again, hands squeezing at his biceps.

“Maybe we can make breakfast in the morning,” You suggest, and he’s already over the moon about the idea. “Lena said something about tomorrow night, so we’ve got time.”

“I’ll make you breakfast,” Joaquín insists, all doe-eyed and dazzled, showering you in another playful barrage of kisses. He moves off of you not long after, wanting to help you get comfortable. “You a pancake type of girl?”

Laying on his back, he gently grabs your hips, pulling you into his chest, propped up against your heap of pillows. He’s smiling still, painfully handsome as continue to stare.

“French toast, actually,” You muse, and that stumps him. His nose wrinkles slightly, arms still cradling you close. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” He chuckles, warm and tender, fingers drifting to cup the nape of your neck, thumb tracing along your jaw. “I’ll learn how to make french toast tomorrow.” Joaquín won’t back down, either.

“You don’t have t—” Before you can finish your sentence, he’s kissing you, affectionately squeezing at your hip. “Joaquín.” You mumble, visibly flustered.

“Making you breakfast,” He insists, kissing your mouth again, a second time, and then a third. “My beautiful girlfriend deserves it.” You know there’s no protesting him.

“Your girlfriend wants to take a shower,” Giggling, you’re moving off of him, body sticky with perspiration and the aftermath of your escapades. “And you’re coming, too.”

Visibly excited, he huffs a laugh, swift to scramble after you, hastily grabbing a bundle of clothes in the process. As you move off of the bed, you give your phone a quick glance.

There’s a new text that’s popped up, one you didn’t notice while you were with Quín.

YELENA: Nice of you to ask if we wanted any takeout. Tell little Falcon we said hello :)

[swordgrace]

*ೃ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒 𝐈𝐍-𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒.

if you’re interested in seeing what I’m currently working on, this post will reflect that! all wips will be categorized by character and if it is a request or not.

updated weekly to reflect posting schedule, new ideas + inspiration, etc.

╱╱ updated 06.18.25.

WIP: BUCKY BARNES.

fourth of july — smut/fluff, tfatws!era bucky. reader & bucky attend sam’s fourth of july cookout and go somewhere secluded to watch the fireworks. newer relationship.

number one party anthem — smut/fluff, pt. 2. reader and bucky go on a date, but things don’t go according to plan, much to Bucky’s frustration.

sleep on the floor (dream about me) — smut/fluff/angst, post!endgame era bucky. reader is steve’s friend, lets bucky stay with her after the events of endgame. glimpse into them falling in love and coexisting. — request by @/bountydroid

WIP: JOAQUIN TORRES

the romeo and juliet protocol — smut/fluff, thunderbolts!reader, established relationship. reader & joaquin start a relationship despite being on “opposite ends” of the avengers feud. reader sneaks joaquin into the watchtower while the team is away. — anonymous request.

no one’s ever had me (not like you) — smut/fluff, friends to lovers, one bed trope. in the aftermath of a mission, joaquin lets you stay at his apartment. the only problem is, you’re wearing his hoodie and there’s only one bed. — anonymous request.

WIP: PETER PARKER (HOLLAND)

the theory of mutual attraction — smut/fluff, friends to lovers, injury trope, college!peter. reader & peter are good friends, but after you’re saved by spider-man and peter is injured in the process, true feelings and more are revealed. — anonymous request.

because of unlocked windows — smut/fluff, established relationship, college!peter. after peter accidentally stands you up on a date due to spider-man antics, you’re left questioning how much you really mean to him. he decides to prove you wrong.

WIP: BOB REYNOLDS (SENTRY)

lay me down where the trees bend low — mild smut, fluff/angst. established relationship. your relationship with bob means everything to you. after he makes a remark about never having gone on a real, proper date, you decide to surprise him.

touch me while the screen is static — smut/fluff, established relationship, semi-public. while watching a movie with the team, you accidentally get bold. mayb too bold, but bob takes it to another level.

WIP: JOHN WALKER.

WIP: SAM WILSON.

WIP: PETER QUILL.

a space age love song — smut/fluff, friends to lovers, medic!reader, himbo peter quill. after peter comes back injured from a mission, he can’t help but wonder where the two of you stand.

WIP: PIETRO MAXIMOFF.

[swordgrace]

𝐚 𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐞 — bucky barnes.

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: bucky can’t sleep, and neither can you. the both of you wind up christening the kitchen.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: post!thunderbolts bucky x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.5K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), porn with very little plot, semi-public sex, risk of getting caught, making out, hair-pulling, kitchen counter sex, cunnilingus, oral sex (fem!rec), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, fingering (fem!rec), mild praise kink. suggestive ending.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: someone sedate me ngl 🧍 that’s all I gotta say! I hope y’all enjoy! ❤️

Through the hush of your bedroom, you’re wired awake, gaze flickering toward the pale light of the bathroom, pooling over your blanket.

The mattress feels considerably lighter without his weight, without the heat that wafts from his skin. Ruffled sheets carry his scent, faint traces of cologne intermingled with something natural.

A soft groan pulls from your throat, a low hum marked by a stretch of limbs as you sit up in bed, tugging at the hem of your shirt.

Bucky’s shirt, more specifically.

Twisting over, your hand closes around your phone, greeted by the low, bluish glow of the screen and a time that seems mildly concerning.

2:13AM.

Slipping out of bed, his shirt kisses the middle of your thighs, an old Henley that’s seen better days. He isn’t in the bathroom, and so you follow his metaphorical trail, bare feet ghosting over smooth, cold tile.

The Watchtower is eerily silent at this time of night, inky dusk swirling beyond tinted window panes, stars glittering overhead. Your feet carry you to the kitchen, rounding the corner with a gentle hum.

Bucky stands at the end of the island, lights dim, producing a sienna glow that curls around him, softens his features. Brunette tresses are mussed, framing his face, brows creased together.

A coffee mug sits next to him, half-consumed and bearing a cheesy saying. Must’ve been one of Yelena’s, you discern, a smile tugging at either corner of your mouth.

“Hey,” You chime, coming to stand across from him, spotting the newspaper he has sprawled out on his left. “Couldn’t sleep?” The cadence of your voice is soothing, something tender.

The warmth that emanates from you snares within him, curling around his bones, putting him at-ease. Bucky still has nightmares sometimes; not as severe, but they linger like moss growing on old stone.

“Tried to go back, and I couldn’t,” His smile is threadbare, still fringed with slivers of exhaustion. “I didn’t want to wake you up.” He takes a sip of coffee, vibranium hand closed around the ceramic.

“It’s okay. I can’t sleep, either,” Quiet footfalls dance over the tile until you take a seat in the stool next to him, tucking a hand beneath your chin. “You okay?”

With a brief nod, his eyes travel over you, clad in his Henley, sleeves a touch too long for your arms. It takes his breath away; you’re beautiful, prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“Yeah,” Perching a palm over the marble countertop, his smile lingers, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “You don’t have to stay up with me, sweetheart.” Bucky murmurs, lashes fluttering.

“I can’t sleep,” A placating groan tumbles from your mouth as you stretch within the stool, elbows resting on the counter. “I might get a snack or something.”

“There’s those ice-cream bars you like in the freezer.” Bucky chimes, eyes darting between the newspaper and you. He’s more focused on the shape of your face, the curve of your jaw.

“Really?” Perking up, you hop out of the chair, padding toward the massive refrigerator. Flinging open the door, you’re greeted by a brightly-colored cardboard box.

His chuckle resonates from behind you, something gentle, comforting; it feels like home, a sanctuary you’ve forged within him.

“Maybe later,” Turning on your heel, you join him at the island, loosely draping an arm over his back, hand massaging at his spine. “You’re reading the newspaper?”

Bucky laughs when he hears the amusement in your tone, giving a nonchalant shrug. “Yeah,” He chortles, and there’s something wonderfully husky that vibrates in the back of his throat. “Old habit.”

He’s handsome like this, in the element of domesticity; comfortable, healed, and content. A compression shirt clings to his musculature, biceps on partial display, beard growing shaggier.

“Are you judging me?” Bucky interjects, gaze teasing and playful as he takes another sip of his coffee. It pulls a soft laugh from your mouth, and he savors the sound.

“No,” Clicking your tongue, you lean over to glimpse at what he’s reading. There’s an article about stocks, something political, and then one regarding the Avengers. “I think it’s cute.”

With a roll of his eyes, he flashes a pearly smile in your direction. “Cute, huh?” He parrots, stopping down until his lips press against yours.

The kiss takes you by surprise, but you’re leaning into him, reveling in the scratch of his beard against your mouth. A drawn-out exhale leaves through your nose, lips nudging closer.

He tastes smoky, swirling with coffee and comfort that makes your brain fuzzy. A charged passion lingers beneath the surface, threatening to simmer through.

Silken fingertips brush over his jaw, eliciting an unsteady exhale as he tilts forward. The kiss deepens, crackling with electricity as you cup his cheek, thumb tracing across his cheek.

Hands find their way to your hips, abandoning both his mug and the newspaper. Urgency seeps into his grasp, palms massaging your skin through your shirt, daring to dip lower.

“Now you’re getting bold.” You mumble into his mouth, feeling his chest shake with a gentle noise. He kisses you again, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Something hot dances within his eyes, a flash of desire that bristles to the surface. “Can you blame me, doll?” Gravel-soft and affectionate, Bucky presses a slow kiss to your jaw.

Wandering fingers continue to snake lower, ghosting over the hem of your shirt, where fabric kisses your thighs. He moves underneath, cold metal and flesh holding your waist.

Grasping at his collar, you coax him in for another kiss, hotter this time, climbing with a twinge of desperation. You tilt closer, frame nudging into his as he sucks in a subtle sigh.

The low whisper of the kitchen light makes for something atmospheric, bodies wedged together against the counter. He caresses circles into your flesh, teasing the waistband of your panties.

A small noise emerged from your throat, lashes fluttering, heartbeat climbing beneath your breast. “Bucky,” You sigh, knowing that he wants something. “We should …”

“Here,” Bucky’s tone bites with something gruff, and the huskiness of it makes you press your thighs together. Molten heat swirls languidly within the bottom of your belly. “You’re so perfect.”

As he seizes your hips, he lifts you onto the kitchen counter. It isn’t much of a change or shift in distance, but it lets him stand between your legs, mouth traveling over the slope of your jaw.

“Bucky.” A low whine simmers from your lips, hands shifting to trace over muscled shoulders, holding steadfastly to the nape of his neck. He kisses you reverently, the center of everything.

Each kiss sends shivers through your spine, excitement mounting as your fingers gently tug at his hair. It’s soft within your hands, carding through as you tilt your head, deepening your entanglement.

Warm digits massage over the base of your spine, splayed just above your panties, metal palm tracing along your thigh. A sweet moan snares within your throat, lost within the labyrinth of your kiss.

“I wanna taste you,” Bucky husks, listening to the hitch that snags on your voice, lips parting incredulously. “Can I?” He hums politely, but you’re already prepared to beg him for it, if you have to.

“Right here on the counter?” You whisper, surprised by his boldness. It’s ridiculously attractive, heat swirling avidly within your stomach, seeping between your thighs.

His mouth peppers over your jaw, traveling lower to your neck. “If you’ll let me, sweetheart.” He murmurs, gentle and considerate as he pinches the hem of your shirt between his fingers.

“Yeah,” Instantaneous, you’re parting your legs further and he’s on you, mouth voraciously passionate. He’s so perfect — never rough, never demanding. “Buck, please.” You sigh excitedly.

The kiss he plants against your mouth is inherently needy, and he doesn’t try masking how much he wants you. He used to dance around it, still adjusting to intimacy; now, he’s more adept.

Vibranium digits skirt toward the warmth coalescing between your thighs, ice to fire, finding the elastic waistband with ease. “So beautiful,” He utters, beard prickling your lips. “You’re my girl.”

Preening beneath his words, you let him touch you, keening into him with enthusiasm. “I’m yours.” You sigh, breath snagging within your chest as his hands curl into your panties.

It’s disarmingly gentle, rapturous as he eases the garment down, cotton soft over your knees, and he’s crouching down without protest.

Warm lips brand themselves to your calf, vibranium like ice as he cradles your leg, letting it perch against his shoulder.

Blue hues burn from below, never wavering from you. Bucky kisses along your leg, to the crook of your knee, settling over the silky flesh of your thigh. An excitable noise hums within your throat.

The flat of your palm sits against his crown, nails idly raking through his scalp, pulling a subtle grunt from his mouth.

Your surroundings become little more than a blur, and you’re reminded that this is the kitchen; anyone could walk in. It gives you some excitable thrill, belly churning with anticipation as he kisses your thighs.

Careworn palms caressed circles into your thighs, dragging from your haunches toward your knees, and then back again. He holds you firmly, hot breath pluming near your pelvis.

Sweet kisses buried themselves along delicate skin, inching closer toward the slick warmth of your cunt. “Gotta be quiet for me, doll.” Bucky croons, hoping that you won’t alert anyone to your midnight escapades.

“‘Kay, okay,” Fumbling, you give a swift nod of your head, biting at your cheek when he mouths at your pussy. It’s an instant ripple of fire, one that shoots through you like a hot knife. “Bucky.”

With a broad stroke of his tongue, he raked hot embers over your core, hands steadying you, eager to please without an ounce of hesitation. His nose ghosts over your slick folds, causing you to shiver.

Lurching forward, your hips jolted, urging yourself onto his mouth with a twinge of desperation. “Oh god,” You stifle another moan. “Feels so good.” The volume of your tone remains hushed, strained.

His tongue continued to greedily lap at your slit, briefly teasing your entrance. Bucky wants you, craves you, needs you more than air.

There’s something deeply intimate about the way he kisses your cunt; reverent, methodical, and adoring.

Bucky’s eyes don’t leave your face, gauging every little reaction you give him, transfixed. His mouth showers your sensitive core in a barrage of kisses, intermingling with his tongue.

His beard burns ragged over your skin, raw and real, the sensation sending tremors through your spine. Each lap of his tongue blurs your brain with a white static.

Mouthing at your pussy, he slows to a crawl, taking his time to savor every inch of you, feeling your hand tighten against his scalp. He grunts, musculature shaking, gaze shadowed with desire.

The taste of you was intoxicating, ambrosial; it was something he’d never get tired of, wanting you over and over again. His heart stammered within his chest, and you were the cause of it.

Through the kitchen’s dim shimmer, you’re stunning — gorgeous, beautiful beyond compare. As he’s ogling you from between your thighs, he thinks about how lucky he is to have this, have you.

Cool vibranium draws patterns over your hip, snaking down to your thigh, repeating the pattern. His other hand keeps you steady, rooting you over the edge of the counter.

Absentmindedly, your hips urge into his mouth; he welcomes it, treating you to another needy barrage of perfectly-timed laps. You moan, and he’s quick to soothe you, kissing along your cunt.

The taste of your pussy permeates his tongue, and he wants more, lapping at your core as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

He kisses along your slit, gesture mingling with soft, passionate laps of his tongue. Bucky slows when a noise rustles through the corridor, but it’s fleeting, dissipating.

“God, you’re so pretty,” He purrs, timbre vibrating against your core, sending shockwaves through your stomach. “How’s it feel, sweetheart?” Bucky husks, lips returning to your cunt.

“G—Good, so good,” You whine, hips jerking again as he steadies you, gaze incendiary as his lips wrap around your clit. “Shit, shit — Bucky!” The sudden ripple of bliss hits you hard.

The wet sheen of your arousal glistens against his chin, and he licks his lips before sucking on your clit. Metal fingers caress over your hip, dipping into your waist.

It makes you see stars, blissed-out and struck by a thrumming buzz that rips through your body. Electricity sears your veins, pulsing through your cunt as he toys with your clit.

A spasm courses through your thighs, legs curling on either side of his head. His shoulders keep your legs somewhat aloft, broad and corded with muscle. As he laps at your pearl, you have to bite your knuckles to keep from crying out.

“That’s my girl.” Bucky grunts between pleasuring your pussy and planting kisses over your inner thigh. The beard burn you’ll receive from it is something you won’t forget anytime soon.

“M’close,” You huff, grinding forward into his mouth. A groan catches within his throat, pulling from the depths of his chest, jostling through your body. “There, there — keep going.”

Bucky keeps pressure against your clit, mouthing at the clutch of nerves, interchanging with laps of his tongue. He’s thoroughly razed, glassy-eyed and aching for you in every way imaginable.

He’s devastatingly handsome like this, wedged between your thighs, kissing your pussy as if he owns you, and he does.

All it takes is another swirl of his tongue over your clit before you’re collapsing, unraveling on his mouth. It’s one of his favorite things, knowing how well he can please you; it instills confidence in him.

White-hot ecstasy shakes your body, heat curling around your bones, arousal honey-thick and wet between your thighs.

The bunched cotton of your panties are still on the floor, and he neglects to collect them. He takes his time with you as he works you through your orgasm.

Digits slack against his crown as you caress over his temples instead, labored breaths shaking your frame. After kissing your cunt, he plants a string of kisses to your thighs, too.

Your composure is threadbare, and Bucky stands again, licking his lips as if he’s had something delectable. He looks pleased, a man willing to do anything for you.

A feverish heat clings to you, flustered and riddled with a thin layer of perspiration. Bucky smooths a hand through his hair, staring at you as if you’ve hung the moon and stars themselves.

Wordlessly, he kisses you, and you can taste yourself on his tongue, the bittersweet amalgamation of your arousal and faint traces of coffee.

Icy metal traces over your inner thigh, daring to tease you further, mouth passionate and tender against yours. Lost within your lips, he feels the hitch in your throat when he slides a digit over your pussy.

“Think you can give me one more, doll?” Bucky hums, and he can hear the exhilaration flood into your breathing. It becomes excitedly ragged, pupils blown-out with desire.

With a nod, you’re staring at him through your lashes, skin smoldering and sensitive as vibranium fingers caress over your slit. You shiver, gripping onto his forearm, nails digging crescents into taut muscle.

“Please,” Your plea is met with enthusiasm as he kisses you again, bleeding want and deliciously needy. As lips collide, two fingers split past your soaked folds, grinding into your core. “S—Shit, Bucky!”

“Shh, shh.” He soothes, lips covering yours again as you moan into his mouth. It snares within your throat, body rolling into his hand, desperate for any scrap of friction.

Your cunt twitches, throbs with a screaming ache that shoots through your nerves. Already having gotten one orgasm from you, everything feels heightened, sensitive — your thighs spasm in response.

Bucky cradles your thigh with one hand, kissing you hard as his fingers snake toward your entrance, teasing you with light prodding. Another shockwave of bliss ripples violently through your spine.

There isn’t any protest as you writhe closer, lips molded together, bound by spit and adoration. His hand glides over your leg, diving beneath your shirt to cup your breast.

The sudden jolt of pleasure curls around your spine, pulling a needy whine from your throat, legs squeezing at Bucky’s hips. His thumb brushes over your clit, causing you to gasp.

Ecstasy rips through you in heated waves, already burning with a white-hot fever. The edge between bliss and overstimulation begins to blur, and you’re desperate, grinding yourself into his hand.

Warm digits knead at your breast, feeling you keen into his embrace, back arched and mouth slack. “Bucky, please.” Little more than a strained moan, you fight to stay quiet, feeling his fingers caress your pussy.

Thighs shake, tremor with aftershocks as he nudges two fingers into your cunt, tight around him as he kisses your jaw. “So pretty for me, sweetheart.” He gruffs, hot breath pluming across your skin.

The kitchen counter is christened, no longer somewhere pure as he falls into a rhythm, pushing and pulling with his fingers. You grip at his chest, hands fisted into the tight spandex.

You’re like heaven to him, picturesque and gorgeous as he gently rocks two digits into your pussy, glistening with a sheen of your arousal.

His other hand palms at your chest still, affectionate and exceedingly tender, rolling over your nipple. The stimulation makes you jolt, moaning his name beside his face, lashes fluttering.

He makes you feel incredible, loved — like you’re the only girl in the world worth his time.

The cool metal of Bucky’s thumb circles around your already-throbbing clit, and the waves of overwhelming bliss hit you hard. It’s as if you’ve been scorched, mouth agape, body trembling.

“God, mm — m’close, Buck.” You pant, rattling like a leaf as he finger-fucks you, treating you to a barrage of kisses. Each one feels like droplets of fire, the burn pleasant, something you crave.

Coaxing another orgasm from you, he works diligently, never slowing or increasing his pace; he keeps it even. Lips lavish your throat in attention, tonguing over a string of smaller hickeys.

Everything feels hazy, a buzzing static humming within your brain, making you feel as if you might collapse then and there.

He’s unraveling you, slick-coated digits rutting in and out of your cunt at a sluggish, desirous pace, blue eyes eclipsed by something wanton.

Bucky grunts, feeling your pussy clench around his digits, tighter as the metal draws back and forth, thumb toying with your clit. Set ablaze, you continue to squirm, clawing for him, something to anchor onto and hold tightly to.

“Bu—Bucky, shit —” Sputtering, something primal unfurls within you, that white-hot coil snapping again, snapping violently. When you cum, it’s messy and he’s enthralled, digits slowing to a crawl.

A thrumming surge courses through your body, gripped by an incessant trembling when you come apart on his hand, jaw slack, head rolled back.

Moans rip through your throat, and he has to kiss you to make sure you’re quiet. The overstimulation is almost blinding, something heavy and burning as it slithers over your bones.

“I’ve got you doll, let go,” Bucky murmurs beside your ear, kissing across your face as you try to cling to any shred of composure. “Beautiful.” He hums, drawing his fingers from your cunt.

A placated smile spreads over your features, gaze half-lidded and dazzled as you cling to him, watching as he retrieves your panties.

Your legs shake, muscles feeling like molten liquid, and you wonder if you’ll be able to stand. He licks his fingers without any commentary, and the sight makes you flustered.

Quiet, he slides the cotton on over your calves, hitching them up around your thighs until you do the rest, legs pressed together. You’re obscenely soaked, and he guides you from the counter.

Wobbling on unsteady legs, he holds you close, a playful gleam dancing within his eyes. “Might have to carry you,” He teases, and you aren’t about to protest. “You’re so pretty.”

“I won’t say no to that,” Batting your eyelashes, you clean up the mess on the kitchen counter, ensuring that it’s spotless. “You’re perfect, Bucky — stunningly perfect.”

Bucky preens subtly, a warm huff of laughter escaping him before he scoops you up, bicep thick and taut over your back, other arm hitched beneath your knees.

“Stunningly, huh?” He husks, feeling you drape your arms around the back of his neck, toying with soft waves of brunette.

“Mm-hm,” Planting a kiss against his mouth, you can feel the passion bleed from his lips, kissing you as if you’re the sun itself. Sly, you pull away enough for a lascivious remark. “Want to christen the briefing room, next?”

A hitch forms within his throat, Adam's apple bobbing, eyes shadowed by both devotion and desire. Bucky clicks his tongue, detouring elsewhere with you in his arms.

“Thought you’d never ask, doll.”

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲. ❞

┊ 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: by anonymous — “cuffing john to the bed and doing whatever you want with him after nagging him for weeks about it.....”

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.2K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), pure filth, porn with plot, sub!john and switch!john, use of handcuffs/restraints, headboard breaking, oral sex (m!rec), blowjob, body worship, teasing, begging, john walker’s praise kink, unprotected p in v sex, cowgirl, creampie, descriptions of cum. cute ending.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this fic had me freaked up !!! horny !! I am not ashamed at all! lowkey this is the first blowjob scene I’ve written in a long time so sorry if it’s bad! anyway I hope you all enjoy 🫶

“Have you given it some thought?”

The penultimate question is posed during a mission debriefing while you’re wedged beside John, thigh-to-thigh, attempting to mask the topic at-hand. It’s the worst possible time to be discussing what goes on in the bedroom.

For you, it’s an opportunity, one that you’ve been patiently awaiting, steadfast.

Following a team scenario exercise and training that had gone rather smoothly, it was an early evening stuffed with tactical discussions and talking strategy. It was crucial, the both of you knew that; however, your inquiry had distracted him.

A mere wisp of a hum, your cadence floats beside his ear, low and perplexed, gaze glittering with expectancy. One fist remains snug beneath your chin, a smile pulling at the corner of your mouth.

John huffs, as if you’re asking something offensive, jaw twitching as he reclines into the padded leather. He’s wearing his beret, something you’ve both teased and complimented him on, attempting to pay attention.

“You’re asking me this now?” John murmurs, a low husk uttered in response, piercing through you with an incredulous expression.

The conversation at-hand is as hushed as possible, with little desire to draw unwanted attention to yourselves.

With a shrug, you seem to brush his concern aside. “It’s as good a time as any.” Admittedly, it wasn’t the truth, but you enjoyed toying with him, anyway. A flush of crimson blanketed his features, crawling beneath his beard.

“You’ve got awful timing.” He counters, cadence wonderfully low, for only you to hear. You’re both sitting together in the back as if it isn’t blatantly obvious that you’re together.

For weeks, you’ve proposed trying something different; cuffing him up, or something to that nature. Nagging, more like, but he’s put up with it so far, remaining cautiously open-minded about it.

The idea sounded silly at first — however, the more thought he’d given it, the more hot and bothered it made him. A myriad of fantasies swirled within his mind, and none of them were appropriate.

Shoulders brush together, kevlar over body armor, and even that is enough to send a shock of warmth through your bodies. “So you have thought about it.” Little more than a droning buzz, you’re cornering him, a smile crossing your features.

John scoffs, as if it’s preposterous, but he’s gotten significantly worse with masking his feelings around you after you solidified your relationship. “Don’t do this here.” He mumbles, brows pinching together.

He knows it’s payback, payback for all the times he’s tormented you with flirtatious remarks and wandering hands during a meeting. There was an instance of text messages being exchanged at one point in time.

Before you can summon a playful retort, Bucky’s voice interjects, sharp.

“Do you two have anything substantial to add to this debriefing?” Inquisitive, he lifts an eyebrow, hands on his hips like a scornful parent.

“No.” With a simultaneous answer, you and John sound worlds apart with one singular word. The blissful innocence in your tone is a stark contrast to his own frustration, furthered by your poking and prodding.

Poised to pay attention, John doubles his efforts, countenance furrowed as he keeps his gaze glued to the screen. Even then, it’s made exceedingly difficult by the torrent of thoughts crossing his mind, and it’s all you.

It wasn’t often that your demeanor allowed for more of a dominant edge, typically subservient when it came to getting intimate. However, John wanted to hear you out and indulge; you were incessant about it, too.

There’s a hazy image forming at the recesses of his mind, bound against the headboard with you in his lap, doe-eyed, stringing bruising kisses over his abdomen. His throat feels thick, bobbing as he swallows, stifling the twinge of arousal.

He shifts uncomfortably, as if any sliver of movement might relinquish his growing desire. Nothing ceases the lewd thoughts that careen through the forefront of his mind, and he’s left with the rawness of his overactive imagination.

Bucky is droning on about the specifics — the drop-point, compound layout, landing times, down to the most minute detail. It’s information he’ll recant on the quinjet, prompting you to pay little mind to his speech.

Yelena and Ava seem to be the only ones thoroughly invested, arms crossed, bodies canting forward. Alexei gives a theatrical yawn, stretching an arm over the back of his chair, seemingly drowsy, as if he’s being lulled to sleep.

John wants to immerse himself in the strategic aspect of the debriefing, but his mind is rampant with your harmless question — he’s cursing you for even bringing it up.

The picture of innocence, your gaze is fixated on the screen overhead, blissfully oblivious to John’s heated glower. Blue hues narrow, drifting over your jaw, over the exposed flesh of your throat; there’s still a mark he left.

Through a taut exhale, his hand clenched into a fist in an attempt to relieve some tension, muscles all coiled into a knot. Still, his gaze traces your features, absorbing your beauty, softening when you careen into the cushions.

In conclusion, he’d given it too much thought.

John’s too preoccupied, elsewhere, wanting to drag you with him into the corridor and kiss you hoarse. He feels your fingertips brush over his knuckles, the gesture fleeting, subtle enough to go completely unnoticed by the others.

A threadbare smile pulls at his mouth, reserved for you, calloused digits ensnaring the tips of yours. The handholding on the couch is sweet, sure, but he’s thinking of more; he wants more.

In his peripheral, he catches your smitten side-eye, a warm noise stirring within his chest, masking his sentiments for the sake of the debriefing.

It doesn’t seem to carry on for much longer, with Bucky giving a rundown of tomorrow’s expectations. He dismisses you with a ‘get some rest’ and some half-hearted, inspirational jab that Alexei parrots to the rest of the team.

Once the team begins to file out, you’re prepared for an easy evening; it typically fills you with jitters, the night before an operation.

Maintaining cordiality, the both of you have gotten talented at pretending to have some element of indifference when around the rest of the team. Despite John’s reminder that he failed drama class in school, he’s not half-bad at acting.

In the corridor when he’s convinced no one is watching, he pulls you against the wall, mouth pressed to yours, swallowing an enthused groan. Your hands are splayed over his chest, a sweet moan tearing past your throat.

“You’re gonna kill me.” A rumbling timbre snakes around your ears, the noise sending shivers through your spine. He’s strong, inhumanly so, body flush to yours, keeping you pinned.

A teasing laugh slips past your lips, and you do feel a twinge of regret for getting him all flustered. “I wouldn’t do that to you.” Soft and placating, the saccharine ooze of your voice brings him to heel.

John grouses, cerulean hues dropping to the delicate slope of your jaw, over the still-healing marks of teeth slotted into your throat.

It fills him with a wave of need, of possessiveness. Quiet, his lips consume yours again.

The kiss is an unbridled thing, weeping with a mutual repression, more from his end than yours. He kisses you as if you might cease to exist, hands roaming your hips, anchoring your body to his.

“Yours or mine?” John murmurs, gaze hooded, eclipsed by a festering desire that flickers into a fully-blown flame. His restraint is dangerously threadbare, now nonexistent.

“Mine,” Through a flustered beam, you fail to smother your excitable whine when he kisses you again, hot, as if he might melt through you. Hands dig into the swell of your hips, concealed by kevlar and ripstop fabric. “John.”

There’s a blind spot he’s carefully selected to avoid being apprehended in the act, lips molding themselves to yours, slotting a thigh between your legs.

Cool tile bites into your back, sending shivers through your spine. Each kiss evokes a gnawing hunger from within you, unfurling like the petals of a flower, skin crawling with warmth.

It’s become glaringly apparent that your innocuous question had gotten him wound up; there’s a shadow forming within his eyes, one you’re well-acquainted with.

Mouths tether, collide with passion, and repeat the process until you’re left gasping for air, lungs stinging as he withdraws. “Give me twenty?” He murmurs, beard pleasantly scratching against your lips, now pressed together.

With a brief nod, you’re reluctant to untangle yourself from him, heartbeat galloping at an accelerated pace, breath hitching. He presses another chaste kiss to your mouth before breaking away.

A warm flush clings to his features, your own scalding to the touch, heart fluttering beneath your breast. “Twenty.” You concur, patting his chest before skittering in the direction of your room.

John steals a lingering glance as you’re walking away, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. There’s something lighter with you, unburdening; he isn’t trying to prove himself or be the man that he’s expected to be.

He’s himself, closer to the man who wanted to be Captain America to help people, without becoming a government pawn.

Still, the pain he’s caused doesn’t lessen, but you’ve helped him learn to grow, navigate through it without self-deprecation.

Once you’ve slipped past the door to your quarters, you’re clamoring from your suit, draping it over the back of the chair; you’ll need it come morning.

Finding one of John’s shirts that he’d left, you tug it on, fabric kissing your thighs as you wait for the knock. It’s typically after the rest of the team has settled for the night, the both of you sneaking around like two teenagers.

Admittedly, you’re really enjoying yourself with this relationship. It didn’t start off that way, riddled with indifference, but you’d gotten to know him, his heart — you liked John, loved John.

John is still growing accustomed to the fact that someone genuinely likes him; it’s strange, falling in love again after the divorce.

Part of it feels wrong, like he shouldn’t, but it’s effortless with you, something easy.

He doesn’t fully trust falling in love after his divorce — but he does it anyway, he keeps falling for you, and falling again.

In your nightstand, you locate the pair of handcuffs you’ve been itching to use, hoping he’ll be open-minded enough to indulge you. Something tells you that he’s secretly eager about the whole thing.

When he taps the door, you’re scrambling to let him inside, the panel sliding open with a soft hiss.

You’re on him instantaneously.

He’s grabbing your hips with an ironclad hold, hoisting you up until your legs are tangled around his waist. John grunts in surprise, hauling you forward until you’re on your mattress.

Mouths connect with a gnawing hunger, a knot of teeth and tongue, lips clamoring as if it’s the last thing you’ll ever do. He groans when you bite his bottom lip, teasing him.

“Jesus, what possessed you?” He remarks, feeling you plant a string of hot, needy kisses over his jaw, hands flat over the nape of his neck. A soft exhale left him, one of satisfaction.

“I can stop,” The playful jab of your retort causes him to shake his head, a groan catching in his throat when you kiss his neck. “You’re so handsome.”

Preening beneath your sweetly-spoken compliment, his features turn scarlet, brows pinched together. One hand moves to squeeze your thigh, rough fingertips trailing upward, closer to your hip.

“That’s my shirt,” John huffs against your mouth, tone tinged with mild surprise. It looks good on you — better than it ever did him. “Looks better on you.” He murmurs, pinching at the hem.

“Yeah?” With a bright smile, you welcome his presence between your legs, nails lightly tracing over the back of his neck.

A low grunt tears through his throat, lips hotly sealing themselves to your neck, sucking a bruising hickey into the sensitive flesh. It earns him a pretty moan from your mouth.

“I’ll let you do it,” John mumbles into your skin, beard scraping against you, blue eyes glittering with something indiscernible. “But nobody on the team can know about it.”

A tingle of glee shoots down your spine, lips parting as you make sure he means it. “Are you sure? If you aren’t comfortable, I don’t want you to do it.” You press, tongue raking over your teeth.

“I trust you,” It means something coming from him, something resolute. His mouth twitches into the ghost of a smile. “I can break out of them if I hate it.” John shrugs, which you know is true.

There’s a gap of quiet before you answer him, head gesturing toward the rest of your empty mattress. “Take your shirt off and lay down, Mr. Walker.” You know that nickname drives him up the walls.

John’s jaw unclenches, a fire burning within his eyes as he complies with you, for now. He huffed a laugh, as if this is mildly ridiculous, but the ache in his cock says otherwise.

He’s blushing, feeling stupid like this, vulnerable, but he can only stomach it when it’s with you. Standing upright, calloused hands snag the hem of his shirt as he tugs it off in one fluid motion.

Mesmerized, you shamelessly ogle his body, sinewy and taut, thick muscle packed beneath sun-kissed skin. You follow the light dusting of blonde hair as it slips beneath his waistline, and drool pools in your mouth.

“Are you gonna keep staring, or are you gonna handcuff me?” John questions, pulling you from your momentary daze.

“You sound excited.” You counter, and that shuts him up, pride gone with it. He playfully grumbles something before laying down on the bed, watching as you retrieve the handcuffs.

They’re nondescript, a dark, metallic silver fringed with cushioned leather on the inside. John’s breath hitches subtly when you climb on top of him, straddling his ribs as you lean over.

“Last chance to back out.” Your offer is soft-spoken and free of judgment, but he doesn’t protest, doesn’t say anything to counteract you.

“I’m not backing out.” He huffs; it’s a pride thing, now. It’s just a pair of handcuffs, John thinks, but the real tragedy will be not being able to touch you at all.

You look devastatingly pretty like this — his shirt, no bra underneath, clad in risqué panties that make his cock twitch, thighs squeezing at his sides. He marvels at you while you’re handcuffing him to the headboard.

Biceps bulge and flex as he adjusts himself, hands comfortably restrained over his head, blue eyes looking wantonly. He’s already trying not to fall apart beneath you.

Wordlessly, you bend at the hips, mouth pressing against his, kissing him softly, at first — your lips part, as if to coax something out of him.

He grunts, reciprocating with an edge of desperation, feeling your hands perch atop his chest. A low groan shakes his chest, fluttering into joined mouths.

He hates this, he hates not being able to touch you; it’s akin to torture. He’s left raw and wanting when you pull away, kissing a trail toward his neck, lower still, lips peppering across his collarbone.

“You’re so handsome,” You croon, and he lets out a guttural groan at the praise you lavish on him. His cock twitches again, straining against the front of his sweatpants, brushing over your core. “Already?”

“Shut up,” John hisses, feeling you smile into his flesh, kissing at his chest as you continue your sluggish descent. You don’t leave any part of him untouched, worshiping his body. “Jesus, you — Shit, keep goin’.”

It’s easy to get him riled up, larger body burly and yours, hands clenched into fists when you feather needy kisses over his abs. Every scar is graced with a kiss, every yellowing bruise falls to your mouth.

Soft fingertips caress circles into his muscle, like kisses of silk, leaving him aching for more. The trail of kisses continues, dangerously lower, and he knows exactly where you’re going.

One hand slithers to tug at his waistband, slipping underneath to palm at his growing bulge. The silence is deafening, marked by labored sighs and excitable exhales.

Gently, you begin to peel his sweatpants aside, gazing at him through half-lidded lashes, incendiary enough to make him squirm.

A dark, thick patch has already formed over the front of his boxers, slathered with damp precum as you wrestle those off, too. He doesn’t go anywhere, just watches like a man starved.

“F—Fu …”

John trails off when your fist finally closes around his cock, beginning to stroke along his length, thick and hot within your palm.

Arousal seeps between your thighs, warm and wanton as you let him writhe against the sheets. His hips jolt into your touch, wanting, and he’s painfully hard in your grasp, oozing heat.

“You’re gonna kill me,” He rasps, a groan tearing through him when your mouth graces the underside of his cock. The headboard groans in protest, buckling beneath his strength. “Fuck — Hey, stop teasing.”

All of that peacocking and bravado is stripped away to reveal the man underneath, and you love it — you love him. He’s so desperate, wound up into a hundred tight knots.

Mouthing at his cock, your tongue traces over the reddened tip, slow and methodical, the rest attended-to by your hand.

A shimmering glob of saliva pools over his cock when you let it trickle from your mouth, slicking over his shaft. He shivers at the sensation, the sight of it obscene when you keep stroking him off.

Your spit made everything easier, coupled by the sheen of precum coating his length. He’s squirming, muscled thighs taut, and he freezes when your nails prick over the skin there.

He wants to combust, wants to explode — John is absolutely desperate for a release.

All of that tension, all of that frustration he carries; it’s unburdening from him when you drag him toward a swift precipice. He jolts into your embrace, jaw slack, brows pinched.

As you begin to fully fist at his cock, your mouth follows, lips pursing around the flushed head before you move downward. The warmth of your lips nearly unravels him then and there, sheer ecstasy.

Blood rushed behind your ears, tendrils of heat curling over your bones, slithering between your thighs. The handcuffs rattle as he strains against them, helpless.

John is noisy, and you know his tells; sharp, guttural grunts and low-pitched groans, the clenching of his jaw. He sucks in a sigh when you begin to develop a softer rhythm.

“Shit, honey — Please don’t stop.” He feels somewhat pathetic, begging you like this, but he can’t help himself. His hips happen to buck up, cock filling your mouth as you sputter.

It nearly touches the back of your throat as you take him fully, momentarily gagging. The sensation of lewd, feeling his cock pulse within your mouth, but you’re eager to continue.

Murmuring a string of apologies, you compose yourself and continue, tongue flicking along the underside of his cock, over the tip.

Ripples of pleasure go coursing through his length, abdomen coiled into knots of bliss, thighs spasming as you pleasure him. Your mouth comes up, a string of saliva pooling from your lips.

“Being so good for me, John,” You croon, caressing along the thick muscle of his thigh. He shivers, daring to look down at the sinful sight between his legs, and the headboard strains again. “So handsome.”

He buckles beneath the praise, lips parted, visage tinged with scarlet — he’s barely hanging on, chest burning with labored pants. The sheen of spit hanging from your chin makes his head spin.

Again, you treat him to another barrage of your tongue until he’s writhing, wanting to break free and ruin you. Part of him doesn’t want to — he wants to stay underneath you.

“Christ,” His hips jerk again, feeling your delicate fingers stroke him off like you own him, and you do — you absolutely do. “Let me — Shit, let me fuck you.” John gruffs.

The husky cadence of his tone is alluring even when he’s begging, and you click your tongue. “Yeah? Are you gonna be good?” It flows so easily off of your tongue.

John shudders, chest constricting with a groan as he nods, blonde tresses disheveled, pupils wide and black with desire. “Yes,” He grits. “Just — C’mon, need you to sit down.” A grunt escapes him afterwards.

Letting your hands gather at the hem of your shirt, you remove it, and he’s razed.

The sight of your breasts bouncing softly, flesh velvety as it catches through the dim light, digits hooking into your panties — he wants to touch you, needs to touch you.

Wiping the tendril of drool from your mouth, you move to straddle his hips, letting his hard cock rest near his stomach. John strains, shifting against the handcuffs with a sliver of self-control.

“Can’t keep this up,” John confesses, looking thoroughly wrecked, red-faced and heated, jaw clenched tight. “Gotta touch you.” He breathes, and you consider letting him go.

You don’t say anything, adjusting your position in order to slide your panties off, and he spots the sheen of arousal on your inner thighs. It’s a small victory for him — you’re getting off on this, too.

Instead, you bend to kiss him, and he’s put into some frenzied state when he kisses the spit from your lips. John growls, a feral noise that sends shockwaves through your belly.

His cock is flush against your navel, painfully hard and aching to be inside of you. The sensation of it prodding into your stomach makes him grunt, mouths clawing for one another.

Every kiss is dizzying, as if you might collapse, but he’s steady, strong — he kisses you back as if you’re the air he breathes.

The sight of him all tied-up and desperate is an image that won’t leave your mind anytime soon. The illusion of control is there, he lets you have it, surrenders for a time — but he’s notoriously impatient.

In a heated clamor, he jerks his bound wrists forward, shattering the handcuffs with inhuman strength.

The headboard goes with it.

A loud CRACK reverberates through your bedroom as he dismantles the headboard from the wall, destroying some of the paint, but he doesn’t care.

He’s free, and his hands are on you like a vice, gripping you lovingly.

“John,” You gasp, but it catches in your throat as he kisses you hard, sitting up enough to manhandle you where he wants you. His hand is firm on your thigh, the other finding your cunt. “Holy shit!”

“Jesus, I couldn’t — Spread your legs,” John gruffs, digits sliding to the wet heat between your thighs. As soon as he parts your folds, you’re moaning, hands firm on his shoulders. “That’s it.”

The sight of him like this, wanton and desperate, is enough to make your pussy clench around nothing at all. A glassy sheen resides within his blue eyes, two fingers working over your slit repeatedly.

Any scrap of friction you received drove you mad, desperation climbing to new heights as your hips rocked forward into his hand.

“That’s all for me?” He presses, savoring the sensation of your wet pussy, slicking his fingers with your arousal. It’s obscene, it’s lewd, but he’s never wanted anything more.

“Yeah,” With a strained sigh, you let your body roll naturally into his palm, letting him finger-fuck you, first. “It’s yours, I’m yours.” Those words flip some trigger inside of him, something possessive.

Planting a kiss to your jaw, he continues, hand fervently working to pleasure you. His fingers tease your aching cunt for a little while longer, thumb drawing circles around your clit.

“J—John, please,” You moan into his ear, feeling tendrils of precum slather over your belly, cock rutting into you. “Just fuck me.” It’s filthy, it’s wanton, but you don’t care.

He doesn’t need to be told twice, obedient as he adjusts you enough to lift your hips, cock aligning with your soaked core. The flushed tip slides a time or two, but you’re eager.

The scratch of his beard is everywhere — over your lips, your jaw, your throat. He nips into the sensitive flesh there, biting back a guttural grunt when you sink onto his length.

Your cunt clenched around him even when he’s only an inch or two deep, causing the both of you to shiver together. His hand molds into your hip, the other still toying with your clit.

John’s teeth suddenly puncture the juncture between your neck and shoulder, harshly grazing over your soft skin.

Another pleading moan erupts from your throat, finding pleasure in the sting of his rough bite. It’s a brand, his mark, and you’re content if he does it a hundred times over.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” John exhales, voice deliciously low and husky, strung-out with lust. It’s all heat — bodies flush, sticky, messy. “That’s my girl.” He groans, letting you ride his cock.

The both of you are thoroughly debauched; needy, worked-up, and desperate for one another.

Your position forces you to feel every inch of him, and he’s infuriatingly well-endowed. His cock kisses your walls, cunt clenching pathetically around him the further he goes, bodies now entangled.

Static buzzes through your body, mind blank as he guides your movements, relieving some of the ache in your thighs. You bounce in a rhythm — back and forth, up and down.

John’s head rolls back, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded, loosing a primal groan that makes your cunt clench around him.

Each slap of his cock lewdly urges against your slick cunt, arousal thick and honeyed around him, making everything easier.

“F—Fuck, John,” Delirious, you’re drunk on your own desire, brain fuzzy with white-hot bliss, mouth slack to make room for throaty moans. “God, you feel so good, please!”

With each deliberate bounce of your body, his length sheathed itself within you, the warm familiarity of it enough to make your body tremble in ecstasy.

Without warning, his hips buck into you, cock lewdly clashing into your cunt, the force of it enough to make your head spin. A soft sigh plumes through your lips, nails digging crescents into his skin.

The remnants of the headboard make things somewhat awkward, but the both of you are too lost within the ecstasy to care.

The silver glint of one handcuff is still around his left wrist, the hand that’s holding steadfastly to your hip. His thumb traces circles over the silky flesh there, the other still playing with your clit.

“Fuck, I’m close,” John groans, low and heady into the sweetness of your mouth, feeling one of your hands fist at his blonde tresses. “S’perfect, you’re perfect.” A half-growl snares within his throat.

Each downward thrust is deliberate, his cock kissing your walls, nearly bottoming out inside of you. It’s blissful, one of the best sensations you’ve felt, noises becoming increasingly crass.

As his thumb continues to grind into your clit, your breath hitches, and your orgasm is suddenly ripping through your body like fireworks.

It was hot, unexpected — your peak is white-hot as a thrumming buzz snares through your bones, accompanied by a rush of blood to the head. John feels your pussy ripple around him, and he’s nearly gone, too.

His name echoes from your mouth when you find your release, hands digging into the nape of his neck, one fisting at his hair. Your breasts press into his chest, bodies craving one another.

His hand slithers from between your thighs as he cups your chin, thumb dragging over your bottom lip, the same one that had touched you seconds ago.

“You feel so good, so — Mm,” You moan, hot breath pluming over his face, foreheads pressed against one another. You ride him still, taking his cock in full, downward motions. “So perfect, John.”

That praise and validation is delicious — he eats it up gleefully, mouth parted, blue eyes glazed-over with a thick sheen of ecstasy.

“S’good,” He sighs with you, cupping your chin to coax you in for a hot, messy kiss. Your mouth is sweet, tongues briefly brushing together, his hand still kneading at your thigh. “Just like that.”

The words stick low in his throat, emerging as a husky lull that travels over your spine in pleasant waves. Even after you cum, his cock is still hammering away at your pussy.

“Christ, fuck — Gonna …” John’s all bark, voice tapering off in senseless half-sentences when he fucks you deep. The pressure mounts, and when it collides, he’s done for.

Melting beneath you, John lets out another feral growl when he cums, his orgasm a rush of sticky heat, painting your cunt white.

Ropes of his spend come pooling forth, cock throbbing incessantly as he stays rooted inside of you, no sign of going anywhere. You kiss the pad of his thumb, hips beginning to slow to a crawl.

He looks whipped, muscles stinging with exertion, remnants of handcuffs and headboard still scattered around the both of you.

Blonde tresses stick to his temples, body glittering with a thin layer of perspiration. He begins to relax when your hands smooth over his chest, across the coarse hair there, over firm muscle.

Ripples of bliss shoot through your veins even still, seeing stars through closed eyes, thighs quivering like leaves.

John’s chest breaths ragged with each sigh, as if he’s exhaling fire, brows still furrowed together. His cum paints your pussy, leaking out of you still, a crass amalgamation of your arousal and his.

It takes awhile for the both of you to come down from the high, labored breaths tangling with one another.

“Are you okay?” You ask him first, noticing the ruinous mess of rubble that’s collected around the both of you. There’s dust from the wall on your pillows, debris from his accident.

He laughs, a real, genuine chuckle. It floods your insides with butterflies, and he almost looks a little embarrassed.

“Yeah,” He clicks his tongue. “Sorry for ruining your bed.” John muses, giving your thigh a gentle pat before gesturing elsewhere

“No, it’s fine,” You interject, pressing several kisses over the scruff of his jaw, over the crooked bridge of his nose. He’s smiling, savoring your affection. “It was ridiculously hot, if I’m being honest.”

John snorts, mouth lopsided as he pinches his brows together. “You think so?” He gruffs, and the cadence of his voice nearly makes you melt.

“Mm-hm,” Smitten, you decide to get off of him, met with a rush of sticky warmth that oozes lewdly between your legs. You’re rattled as you head to the bathroom to clean up. “How are you going to explain that to Val?”

Biting back a smirk, John grabs what blankets he can, the ones that he hasn’t ruined, and relocates to your floor. The tile is cool, icy — he makes a poor, makeshift bed on top.

“Haven’t figured that part out yet,” He muses, sheets loosely collecting over his hips, one arm arched behind his head. When you come back, you join him on the floor. “Not so bad down here.”

You laugh, curling up against his chest with a wrinkled nose. “Guess I’ll have to handcuff you more often.” He can taste the delight in your tone, and he doesn’t protest.

“Hm,” John grunts, snaking an arm around you, hand drifting over the small of your back. “Think it should be your turn next time.” He suggests, and he can tell that got you flustered.

“I think you’ve got yourself a deal, Walker.”

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬. ❞

┊ 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: by anonymous — “I would love to see a little friends to lovers, dramatic love confession type thing after Joaquin has his near death experience. I just love that man and he looks way too handsome lying on that hospital bed”

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: joaquin torres x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.1K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: none, this fic is really fluffy and sweet. friends to lovers, confession of feelings, joaquin means everything to me. cameo from isaiah bradley.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: first time writing for joaquin (mcu) and I adored this request so much! 🫶 you will be seeing a lot more of him on this blog! I hope you all enjoy!

Hospitals were the bane of your existence.

Too stark, too pale — it encased suffering all in one centralized location, with gaunt, exhausted faces and hollow eyes. It was the embodiment of everything sick, of helplessness.

Discomfort nipped at your heels whenever you were in one, but it was different this time.

You surrendered any shred of discomfort for desperation, perched in a chair that had seen better days, cushions painfully rigid. Plastic leather squeaked whenever you shifted your weight elsewhere.

Time passed abnormally slow, heartbeat timed to the idle beeps of the monitor, red lights flashing in steady succession.

Haggard bags hung beneath your eyes, frayed and worn from the past few days of waiting by his bedside, hands fisting into your jeans.

Joaquín had crashed from the sky over the Indian Ocean in shock and smoke, landing in the water at inhuman speeds. You’d toiled over him — cried during his surgery, sobbed into Sam’s shoulder.

He was your best friend, your everything; part of you feared what you’d become if he didn’t pull through. Even then, you were trying to stay optimistic, and Sam had enough to share between the both of you.

Sam told you that he was in and out — mostly sleeping, and when he was conscious, making jokes about the whole situation as if it were normalized.

It was infuriatingly Joaquín; playful even in the face of death.

“Still sleeping?” Isaiah murmured, having nudged past the door without you knowing. Startled, you shifted in your seat, swallowing the growing lump within your throat.

All of your concentration had been laser-focused on Joaq’s slumbering visage, sporting a myriad of scrapes and bruises.

“Yeah, ah — Yeah, still asleep,” With a nod, you rubbed at your cheek, flashing a threadbare smile before you glanced at the old soldier. “Sam said he’s been in and out.”

“He’s a strong kid, he’ll pull through,” Stepping inside, Isaiah held a styrofoam box, beads of perspiration rolling from the lid. “Brought you somethin’ to eat.” He offered, moving around the end of the hospital bed.

“Oh,” You croaked, clicking your tongue. “Thanks, Isaiah. You didn’t have to.” In an awkward clamor, you were ready to move from your chair until he waved you down dismissively.

“You ain’t been eating,” He chided, tone fatherly as he shook his head. “Somebody’s gotta look out for you, too.” Through a stern gaze, he offered you the box, complete with plastic silverware.

“I would’ve gone to the cafeteria, I just —” With a sigh, you exhaled, pushing the air out through your nose. “I wanted to be here when he wakes up again.” You mumbled, taking the box with a weak ‘thank you’.

“I don’t think he’s goin’ anywhere anytime soon,” Isaiah’s voice is somewhat dry, but he’s got sympathy for you; you’re resolute, he’ll give you that. “My wife used to do that — fret over me, sit like I was on my deathbed.”

“I don’t think I would be able to live with myself if I left.” Through your soft-spoken confession, you feel yourself lurch with embarrassment.

Heat creeps over the back of your neck as you open up the container, met with a lackluster buffet of hospital food. It’s something, and you’re hungry, sticking the fork into a dismal glob of mashed potatoes.

“She said somethin’ similar.” Isaiah muses, countenance one of a distant lament, chasing the tails of a memory. There’s a spark in his eyes when he talks about her — same way you light up when you talk about Joaquín.

Taking a slow bite, your stomach thanks you, and you eat in silence for a while before answering. “He’s resilient, and strong,” You murmur, telling yourself that, too. “He’ll be okay.”

Isaiah huffs, characteristic of a stoic old man, but there’s a peculiar softness in his eyes. “You love him.” He states plainly, as if you’ve said it a thousand times before.

There’s a beat, a pause; you react as if you’ve been caught in the act of something heinous.

He leaves little room for refutation or retort, and you quietly acknowledge his words, and that’s a confession enough.

A wet sheen of tears shimmers within your eyes, and you take a bite of the rubbery hamburger patty to distract yourself. Isaiah isn’t wrong — he’s wholeheartedly correct in his observation, but you’re afraid.

Afraid that Joaquín would reject you if you told him, or not feel the same way — or never wake up, and that love would die with him.

“Yeah,” Through a hoarse croak, you confirm the obvious; Sam knows, too. “I love him.”

To say it outloud, say it where he can hear — it’s both a blessing and a curse, a weight that’s freeing yet dragging you down. A tight coil forms within your stomach, a torrent of nerves.

“I think he loves you, too.” Isaiah states, hands folded together within his lap. There’s something forlorn within his gaze, as if he’s reminiscing; you think it’s about Faith.

A tearful laugh escaped you, one of half-disbelief and despair as you swiped at your eyes again. A hush falls between as you shovel a mouthful of wilted green beans, heel tapping against the tile.

Sometimes you wonder if that’s true, if Joaquín loves you too — loves you in the way you love him, more than just friends.

Going quiet, you make sure to eat, satiating the constant gnaw of your stomach, gaze shifting towards Isaiah. He’s looking at you with a sense of understanding, wisened as he juts his chin at the styrofoam container.

“Make sure you eat,” He insists, lips twitching into a ghost of a smile. “Gonna go meet Sam for lunch.” Standing from his chair, he briefly presses a hand over your shoulder.

“Thank you, Isaiah.” With a nod, you get nearly three-fourths through the plate before setting it aside. “I’ll see you soon.”

With a low hum, he wordlessly departs from the hospital room, shutting the door behind him with a click and a rattle. Silence seeps into the cracks, save for the monitor’s incessant beeping.

Sitting back, your gaze flutters over his features; handsome even when he’s beat-up, black curls disheveled, jaw slack. His eyelids twitch, and you wonder if he’s dreaming.

Looping an arm behind your head, you’re starting to feel exhaustion catch up to you, curling around your bones as you fight to keep your eyes open.

The nurse comes by to check in, and leaves when there’s no update. You’d only gone home once since his accident, glued to the hospital room as if it was your sworn charge.

Outside, daylight slips in through the windows, catching over pockets of dust that float throughout the stagnant air. The chatter of hospital staff chat hums beyond the door, and for a moment, you nearly fall asleep.

“Hey.”

Joaquín’s voice is taut with grogginess, frayed and worn-thin, warped by a hint of discomfort. Slivers of light catch over his eyes, prompting him to squint as a low groan splits through his diaphragm.

His body is still battered, sore from the fall — his pride is sorer still, but he’ll survive. Bruises feel bone-deep, and he’s got a few cracked ribs, a mild concussion, a broken arm — the list goes on.

When he sees you, it’s as if you’re encompassed by the sun’s gentle glow, your personal halo. Maybe he’s died, and this is what he sees; you.

He’d die happy, if that were the case.

The whites of your eyes are splintered with scarlet, partially due to a lack of sleep, the other half due to crying. He wants to reach out and hug you, but everything hurts — his heart included.

“Joaquín,” You gasp, dragging your chair as close as it’ll allow, wood scraping over hard tile. Words fail you in the moment, but you’re overjoyed, and that’s more than enough. “Hi.”

His mouth quirks into a smile despite himself, brows creasing as he adjusts to his surroundings. Aside from the crushing physical pain he’s in, he’s doing well — Sam promised him a new pair of vibranium wings.

“How long have you been here?” He questions, wincing when he adjusts himself, body spasming with a constant ache.

His good hand moves toward the bed’s remote, shifting it up enough to get a better look at you; the pain in his spine is completely worth it.

“Since you went into surgery,” You confess, fingers plucking at your sleeve. “Sam made me go home once, but I’ve been here the whole time.”

Joaquín blinks owlishly, seemingly surprised that you hadn’t left his side, but he’s happy about it. “Really?” He clears his throat. “Sleeping in that chair, too? Your back is probably as bad as mine.” He chuckles.

It gets a laugh out of you, and he’s head over heels; you have the prettiest smile, the prettiest laugh, everything about you is stunning.

“It’s pretty uncomfortable,” Smiling, you lean in close, letting part of your knee perch against the edge of his hospital bed. “Are you feeling okay? Do you want something to drink? They’ve got a slushie machine.”

“Do they have pineapple?” Joaquín asks, dimples forming at either corner of his mouth. His throat is disarmingly dry, mouth akin to a desert as he wets his bottom lip.

“I can go find out,” You offer, preparing to stand, but he grabs your wrist before you can go anywhere. He grunts, coaxing you back before shaking his head back and forth. “No?”

“Not now, just — In a few minutes,” His heartbeat hitches, and it’s reflected in the monitor’s idle beeping. “I want to look at your face for a little while.” Joaquín’s cadence softens, brown hues glued to you.

Surprised, you settle down into your chair, nose wrinkling at the distasteful groan of the cushions. “Your concussion is catching up,” You mumble, stomach twisting with butterflies. “Brain’s rattling around in there.”

Joaquín rolls his eyes, throat bubbling with a burst of laughter. “Didn’t hit it that hard,” He refutes, hand still loosely lingering around your wrist, and when he realizes, he lets go; reluctantly. “How’s Sam and the OG?”

You giggle at Joaquín’s nickname for Isaiah — you couldn’t tell if he liked it or tolerated it. “They’re good. Isaiah was just here, he and Sam are going for lunch.”

“You didn’t go with them?” A twinge of shock permeates his tone, but he knows the answer already; he wants to hear you say it.

“No,” With a nonplussed shrug, your fingers idly pick at a frayed patch on the knee of your jeans. “I wanted to stay here, in case you woke up.” A smile tugged at either corner of your mouth.

“Oh,” He swallows, dark lashes kissing the bruised skin beneath his eyes. “You don’t have to stay. I don’t think I’ll be going anywhere for a while.” Joaquín grumbles, brows knitting together.

“I want to stay,” You assured, and he didn’t object to that in the slightest. “How are you feeling?” In hindsight, it might’ve been perceived as a silly question, but you asked anyway.

“Ah, you know,” He flashes a pearly smile, accompanied by a weak thumbs up. “Like someone hit me with a tank. Pride’s more wounded, I think.”

A soft huff escapes you, and you tuck a hand beneath your chin, gazes interlocking. Tendrils of heat curl over your features, and he’s mesmerized — Joaquín never looks away, not once.

“You stopped a war from breaking out, Joaq,” Your voice softened, laced with admiration. “You saved so many lives. I know that Sam is really proud of you, and I am, too.”

Joaquín’s smile was somewhat weak, but he basked beneath your praise, eyes carrying a sheen of mirth. “Thanks,” He paused. “You’re looking at an Avenger now, you know.”

“Sam asked you?” Incredulous, you watched as Joaquín nodded, pumping one hand into the air before groaning in pain. “Easy. You’ve still got your wings clipped, Falcon.” You tease.

Settling down, he nodded, deciding to heed to your advice and not strain anything. As he placed his arm back down, he shifted over enough to make room for you.

A soft laugh tumbled from his mouth, and he gestured for you to sit. “This bed’s gotta be more comfortable than the chair.” He offered.

He wanted to tell you how he really felt about you, let that weight come soaring off of his chest.

When he was crashing over the Indian Ocean, all he could think about was you — heard your voice on his comms before they went dark. He considered the possibility that he might die without you knowing he loved you.

A gap of silence passed between the both of you, with Joaquín appraising your features, awestruck by your beauty. He’d always thought you were gorgeous, but in this light, in the moment — you were stunning.

Wordlessly, you abandon the old, discomforting plastic for the soft foam of his mattress, sitting just beside his hip, one leg still touching the tile. He welcomes your closeness; you smell like peaches and cream.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” Through a hoarse whisper, you felt tears sting your eyes, brusque and prickling. “I was so scared, Joaquín.”

Through a burning stare, he reached for your hand, thumb caressing over your knuckles. You gladly held onto him, giving him a melancholy smile.

“Me too,” He admits, tone frayed as he swallows down the swell of nervousness. “Kept thinking about you, when I was falling.”

Joaquín wished he could’ve told you somewhere else — somewhere more romantic than a hospital bed. Though, he had to make do with what he had, and he didn’t want to go any further without you knowing.

With several owlish blinks, you swallowed the growing lump within your throat. “What?” Bewildered, you almost couldn’t believe what he was saying.

“I was scared because I thought I was gonna lose you, too,” He whispers, as if the heaviness of it might crush him. “I didn’t think I could be scared of something like that.” Joaquín utters, eyes never straying from you.

“Joaquín …” Part of you feels like this is a dream, a fantasy; you don’t want to wake up if it is. A shaky breath hitches within the bottom of your throat, hands intertwined.

“I love you.”

The tenderness of which he says it makes your heart burst through your chest, tingles of exhilaration coursing through your spine. Your lips part, making room for a light gasp as he squeezes your hand.

“I should’ve told you bef —” He begins, but you’re stopping him with a swift and impulsive kiss, lips briefly sealing against his.

There isn’t an ounce of him that protests, sinking into the feeling of your mouth as if he’s made for you, pushing out a sharp exhale through his nose. Joaquín doesn’t recoil, reciprocating the kiss, much to your surprise.

When you pull away, you don’t stray far, lashes fluttering as you smile. “I love you, too.” You murmur, and he laughs, eyes warm and glittering as your foreheads ghost over one another.

“I know, cariño,” He mumbles, a hint of mischief prevalent on his features, and you come to the realization then and there. “Before you say anything, I didn’t …”

“You were listening to Isaiah and I the whole time,” You aren’t upset in the slightest, but you do let out a shocked burst of laughter, riddled with faux theatrics. “I can’t believe you!”

“Guilty,” Joaquín teases, but his grin fills your stomach with butterflies. He’s so handsome, so warm — he reminds you of summertime. “Heard your voice, and it sounded like heaven.”

A playful scoff leaves you before you reach for his jaw, fingertips idly caressing over bruised flesh and small scrapes. “You’re lucky I love you, Joaquín.” You mumble, and he’s the happiest man on earth.

“That’ll never get old,” He remarks, and you scoot closer, well within reach as he admires you, adoration thinly-veiled. “I love you.” The ardor in his voice is unmistakable, genuine.

Your hand falls to his chest, and if it weren’t for being bedridden, he would’ve pounced on you — his patience was about to be tested.

A gentle sigh tumbles through his lips, pulled from his diaphragm, a contented sound that warms the both of you. His gaze is awestruck — he looks at you as if you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“I love you, too.” When you say it, you mean it; stare at him as if he’s hung the moon and the stars for you. You want to kiss him again, kiss him a hundred times over.

“When I’m all healed up and discharged, can I take you out somewhere? I know a great steakhouse near Arlington.” Joaquín is smooth, endlessly charming, and he knows it, too. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

A giggle bubbles from your chest as you nod, enthusiastic about the idea of going out on a date. “Took you long enough to ask me, Falcon,” You smile, cheeky as ever. “Thank you.”

Joaquín nods, sure of himself and emboldened, unable to keep from grinning. “Still got it,” He chimes, thumb still tracing patterns over your knuckles. “Do you think you could kiss me again? Heard it’s really crucial for recovery.”

“You’re unbelievable.” You mumble, but you’re leaning in before he has time to make another humorous remark.

Mouths meet again, passionate this time, and he wants nothing more to grab onto your hips and pull you with him. Maybe it’s a good thing, he thinks, unable to fully act on his own wants.

He’ll never let go of you once he gets his hands on you, that’s for certain.

The kiss lasts longer, lingers; he’s pouring all of his effort into it even when he’s bed-bound, eyes fluttering shut. You’re leaning in, mapping him out, something you’ve dreamed of doing for so long.

“Should get shot out of the sky more often if it means I get a kiss.” Joaquín murmurs against your lips, his own mouth twisting into a faint grin before you shake your head.

“If that happens again, I’m never kissing you, Joaq.” Teasingly, you plant a sly kiss to the corner of his mouth, and he turns his head right at the last second, capturing your lips again.

“I’m gonna hold you to that.”

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: forced to attend a charity gala for val, you and bucky navigate a new life in the spotlight. the only caveat is, he’s pining for you — and he’s pining hard.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: (post-tb*) bucky barnes x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7.0K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: light nsfw, very mild smut, friends to lovers, yearning bucky, confession of feelings, bucky is silly & charming, lots of fluff, heavy making out, neck kissing, sexual tension, body worship, light dry humping, groping & lots of touching, really sweet ending.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this might be one of my favorite fics I’ve written lately ngl :’) I just adore a softer side to Bucky where he’s happy. If enough people like this fic, I have a part 2 planned! ❤️ I hope you all enjoy! 🫶

Frivolous events have never been your forte.

Thousands of crystals dangle from a gaudy chandelier, hanging high from a scaling ceiling in the middle of the ballroom. Light dances in luminescent refraction, spilling onto the pale marble below.

It’s mesmerizing, a worthwhile distraction that effectively silences the hum of conversation buzzing around you. Excitement blankets the air, teeming with business disguised as laughter.

In the space for reflection, you find yourself more discomforted by your dress than the atmosphere. Philanthropists, chairmen, politicians — it all felt exceedingly ‘larger-than-life’ for you.

The New Avengers Foundation Gala was the solution to a cut in funding Valentina had experienced in the wake of O.X.E Group’s dismantlement.

In the upper wings of the hall, were showrooms dedicated to the new mightiest heroes of a futuristic generation. It was all too polished, too modernized, too corporate — it was somewhat soulless, each of you washed down to a mere moniker.

Attendees, patrons, and donors alike were thoroughly engrossed with Valentina’s peacocking display — and the press loved it, too.

Banners hung from the rafters, bearing a glamour shot of each member of the team, all wearing new gear that held an exaggerated flair. It was strange, seeing your face plastered there — haunting, really.

Unfortunately for the team, you were all along for the ride; a tumultuous, unpredictable ride that left you feeling mildly uncomfortable.

It was as if you were living in a skin that didn’t belong to you, catering to people who saw you as an accessory, a curiosity.

Indigo silk barely touched the floor beneath you, off-the-shoulder sleeves accentuating your neckline as if you had something to show. The wardrobe wasn’t something you’d selected; Val chose it.

Constricted within your fabric coffin, you continued to marvel at the general splendor of the pavilion, cradling a half-drank glass of champagne.

Unbeknownst to you, Bucky Barnes’s eyes had followed you across the room for the past hour, his gaze disarmingly soft. It was to check in on you, he’d told himself, but it extended beyond that.

To any outsider, he resembled a man yearning for someone who didn’t have a clue, wistful and contemplative. Friends don’t look at one another in the way Bucky looks at you.

Discomfort rippled from you in waves, slithering like some fever over your skin, tugging at the corners of your thoughts.

Whenever you took a step, you felt as if you might collapse from the pressure, or simply from the balancing act on stilettos.

From afar, Bucky was deliberating going to you, noticing the way Valentina had swarmed in with calculated, measured steps. She was dangerous, even still; and he didn’t trust her with you.

“God, you do clean up nicely,” Valentina’s biting tone sank into you like teeth, spiking your nervous system. “You know, I started to think you might’ve been a little hopeless.” She chimes, champagne in-hand.

Swiveling, you’re faced with your boss, the corner of her mouth pulled into a half-smirk. After everything, you’re still wary of her, never fully bringing your guard down in the process.

“Thanks,” With a low mumble, you can’t quite decipher if she’s paying you a compliment or mocking you — maybe it’s somewhere in between. “I’m not used to this.” You confessed, fingers tense around your glass.

“You’ll have to work on your posture,” She chided, clicking her tongue with faux disapproval. “Looks bad in the pictures.”

It was all optics with her — a team of government rejects rebranded as the new face of heroism, rebuilding the legacy left behind by shoes too big to fill. Admittedly, she made you nervous; too sharp, too clever, a well-dressed viper.

Withholding the urge to retort with a quip of your own, you forced a smile, noticing photographers swimming in your peripheral like sharks.

“Turn around and give them a smile, yeah?” Valentina uttered, low enough for only you to hear. A hand fell flat against the back of your arm, turning you just in time to be bombarded by flashes of light and camera clicks.

With pearlescent teeth and a wolfish smile, she stood firmly beside you, guiding you through it. Your own smile was threadbare and pensive, as if it pained you to play along.

It all seemed scripted, rehearsed, fake. Everything lacked authenticity, and it grated on you through the photographs.

Bucky was already in-motion, weaving through the gathering crowd, departing a conversation with an investor mid-sentence. He wouldn’t call it a rescue mission, but he knew you, knew how anxious it made you.

His brief stint in Washington as a congressman afforded him time in the spotlight, pressed beneath mountains of questions and constant prying.

Quietly, he slipped in from the fringes, coming to stand beside you. Valentina noticed, but made no motion to dismiss him, allowing the press to make a frenzy of it all.

Vibranium graced the small of your back, a kiss of ice through the silk that clung to you, the gesture comforting. Realizing that Bucky had joined you, you began to relax, anchoring yourself to his presence.

When the cameras receded, the weight within your chest had lifted, replaced by relief as you turned to Bucky. “Thank you,” You murmured, appreciative. “Don’t go anywhere.” It was a soft plea, one that he heeded.

“Mr. Barnes,” Valentina spoke as if he’d irked her in some regard, polished nails tapping against her champagne glass. “Suit’s a little outdated, but we can work with that.” She remarked condescendingly.

Bucky huffed, hovering near your right side, one hand shoved into his pocket. “Yeah, well,” He shrugged, nonchalant. “I’m a little old-fashioned.” His own wry joke prompted him to smile.

With a snarky hum, Valentina dismissed his jest, peering over her shoulder as an older man approached, a New Avengers pin on his lapel. “Ah, Senator Locke. It’s a pleasure to have you at our little event.”

Involuntarily, you stayed close to Bucky, glued to his hip whenever the crowds grew thick. Even with his newfound status as an Avenger, many people still saw the Winter Soldier, a Soviet machine, capable of such destruction.

“Wouldn’t miss it, Ms. Fontaine. You’ve done excellent work, keeping Americans safe with the team you’ve assembled.” He chimed, gaze flickering toward you and Bucky; you, in particular.

“The safety and security of our citizens is our highest priority. The Avengers work with that at the forefront of their mission,” Smooth, calculated and completely fake. “Your contribution is appreciated.”

Bucky bristled, holding back a scoff as he attempted to maintain some level of cordiality. A majority of the people in-attendance held Valentina in some high regard.

Every syllable that dripped from Valentina was steeped by a facade of altruism — she was purely in this for personal gain.

Senator Locke glanced at you, perhaps for too long, prompting you to shift your weight. The stilettos dug into your heels, feet aching as you cleared your throat.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, miss. You’re certainly much prettier in-person than on a television screen.” Locke nodded, hand outstretched for a shake. Knowing that you’re left without options, you keep the gesture brief.

Through a clenched jaw and furrowed brows, Bucky bites his tongue, keeping himself in-check when the Senator brazenly remarks about your appearance. He was the essence of ire, stewing quietly beside you, digits clenched into his pocket.

“Oh,” It was all you could muster before Valentina shot you a pointed glare through gritted teeth. “Thank you, Senator. I suppose I wanted the world to see a new side of me.” God, it sounded so ridiculous.

“I would like to speak to you further about your involvement with the Avengers. Have you been to Washington?” He continued, and Valentina seemed poised to interject, capitalizing on the opportunity — in her own way.

“Senator, my team is incredibly busy with global threats and outreach efforts,” With another pensive, venomous smile, she tapped her now-empty glass. “Though, I’m certain she’d entertain a dance.”

The more he spoke, the more livid Bucky became, silently seething as he prepared for a scare tactic. He turned around, and one swipe of his phone had told him where Senator Locke’s address was.

As the proposition of a dance was placed into the open, you gawked, jaw unhinged as you closed your mouth. Unfortunately, you couldn’t object — you were playing the part, catering to strangers for funding.

Waved over by another gaggle of shareholders, Valentina hummed, heels clicking over polished marble. “Senator, if you’ll excuse me.”

As she departed, you were left with Locke and Bucky. However, Bucky had a scheme of his own, throwing on a charming smile, maliciously deceptive as he cleared his throat.

“So, about Washington …” Locke began, but not before Bucky could interject.

He leaned down, low and calculating, murmuring something indecipherable into the Senator’s ear. You couldn’t quite discern what was being exchanged between the two, but Locke’s face had turned as white as a sheet.

“I deeply apologize for the offense, M—Mr. Barnes, I …” As pale as a ghost, the man hastily nodded several times over, swallowing the lump within his throat before stepping away. “Pardon me.”

Bewildered, you watched in stunned silence as the Senator quickly retreated, weaving back through the sea of patrons to find Valentina.

It left you shocked, brows creased in confusion, craning to glance at Bucky with a hint of amusement. “What was that all about? You looked like you scared him into an early grave.” You mused, head cocked to one side.

A hint of smugness crept onto his features, turning to look at you, visibly playful. “Told him that I knew his address and how to track him.” Bucky chimed, gesturing for you to follow him elsewhere.

“Bucky, you didn’t!” With a conspiratorial gasp, you were swift to follow, abandoning your lukewarm glass of champagne on the table behind you. “How did you know where he lived, anyway?”

“Google.” Holding up his phone from the confines of his pocket, his tone held a charming lilt, more upbeat now that Locke and Valentina were gone.

Smooth jazz reverberated from the ballroom, a live band dresses in finely-tailored suits situated in one corner. There were plenty of people dancing already, a good place to assimilate and disappear from prying senators.

With a bubbly laugh, you slipped inside with him, heartbeat beginning to settle, anxiousness receding altogether. Having him by your side seemed to ease whatever discomfort you’d experienced before.

“Thank you for that,” A sigh of relief escaped you, hands twisting together, fingers locked before your navel. “I don’t like being here, and I don’t …” Trailing off, you felt Bucky’s gaze shift to you.

A tender stare settled over your countenance, openly admiring your beauty; it was involuntary, revolving around you as if you were the sun itself. “It’s alright.” He murmured, able to understand your frustration.

Pushing a tremulous exhale through your nose, you mustered up a smile, palm running over the underside of your forearm. “Sometimes I miss the way things were before we became Avengers.”

Valentina would’ve labeled you ungrateful, shaming you for being apprehensive at the opportunity presented to you. Maybe you should’ve been happy about it all, but the public light wasn’t for you.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighed, lips pulling into a half-smile, placating. “Me too.” Despite his short-lived career as a congressman, the current limelight made him miss it; just a little bit.

The friendship you formed with Bucky was meaningful to you, but some sliver wanted more, craved something else. It whispered between stolen glances, hands brushing but never firm, eyes following one another around a room.

Between rooms of shareholders, media, and senators, he was the prettiest thing here — the only thing interesting enough to keep you grounded.

Broad shoulders were accentuated by the fit of his blazer, white dress shirt complete with a bowtie; so handsome that it made you pause. Bucky was always attractive, but more so now, inches apart and smiling.

“Before he comes back, interested in a dance?” Bucky propositions, his question seemingly innocuous. He narrowly avoided dancing at a previous Congress gala, but this seemed as good a time as any.

Smitten, you attempt to swallow the twinge of nervousness that pools within your belly, still rubbing at your arm. “I might step on you, if that’s okay with you. These heels are killing me.”

Bucky chuckles, unperturbed by the idea of being stepped on mid-sway. “I think I can handle it.” He offers a hand, metallic palm shimmering beneath the crystalline glow, visibly reassuring.

Steeling yourself, flesh slips into icy metal, soothing the heat that’s made residence in your skin. Slowly, the both of you step out onto the ballroom floor, over sparkling tile, intermingling amongst the crowds.

Some time ago, he was somewhat adverse to touch — felt undeserving, felt as if he’d ruin something good. When your hand slipped into his, he found himself craving it, but only if it came from you.

There were plenty of fleeting moments; moments that still whispered from the recesses of his mind, bright spots slipping through the dark. You grounded him; you were a sanctuary.

A slow jazz ballad blankets the room, chandelier glistening overhead, idle chatter humming in the spaces between. Gently, Bucky’s hand finds your waist, digits slipping over satiny, azure fabric, the texture soft.

It was muscle memory for him, lamenting over memories from nearly a century ago; for you, it was somewhat awkward. Joined hands drift to your sides in a classic waltz, something slow and idle.

Baccarat Rouge 540 — it’s Bucky’s cologne, an amalgamation of woodsy scents, imbued with strains of amber and a spice of something floral. It’s rich, a smell that you commit to memory, being this close together.

As you slowly turn about the floor, you decide to shatter the silence, gaze fluttering toward the stubbled slope of his jaw. “You’re really good at this,” You muse, hushed. “Very smooth.”

A bemused huff escaped him, accompanied by a glint of pearlescent teeth. “It’s been a long time,” He confessed, keeping you close. “You haven’t stepped on me yet.” Bucky remarks teasingly.

“We just started, there’s still plenty of time,” Playful, you return his quip with one of your own, minding his feet as you shift to the right. “Hopefully Valentina isn’t upset about the Senator thing.”

“She’ll live,” Bucky murmured, still sore about the entire ordeal. She was vicious, calculating; there was always an ulterior motive with her, wreathed in shadows. “I don’t trust her with you.”

While you were flattered by his concern, you felt that you could handle yourself, despite the uncertainty. “I’ll be alright, Buck. I think she took advantage of my discomfort, that’s all.”

“That’s my point. She’s dangerous.” Through pinched brows, his gaze fell to you, wrought with something incendiary. He was protective over you for a multitude of reasons. “I want to keep you safe.”

His cadence softened to a gentle lull, one that filled your stomach with butterflies. The way he stared at you — it didn’t seem strictly platonic, but maybe you were reading into it too much.

“Thanks.” Little more than a mere whisper, you danced with him still, swaying to the melodramatic hum of the music. The both of you seemed to settle, enjoying the presence of one another; he couldn’t take his eyes off of you.

The heel of your stiletto happened to wobble, but he was swift in steadying you, hand tight around your waist. “Easy,” Bucky murmured, a brief chuckle bubbling from his throat. “I’ve got you, doll.”

It was an innocuous nickname, sweet; Bucky had called you it only on a handful of occasions, and all of them were typically playful.

The way he said it this time almost held a weight to it, as if there were underlying implications.

“Still haven’t stepped on you,” Teasingly, you muster up a smile, one that makes Bucky’s heart stop. It’s accompanied by a flutter of lashes, a soft laugh, a gaze tender enough to melt through him. “Yet.”

Bucky huffed, giving you a look as he drew you closer, involuntarily. The distance between bodies had grown thin, breath hitching within your throat when you realized it.

Shy, your hand came to perch against his chest, digits brushing over his bowtie, throat stirring with a low hum. Silence settled in between, a tenuous pause full of unspoken feelings, thoughts left unsaid.

Through parted lips, Bucky decided to break the ice, dark lashes kissing the skin beneath his eyes. Jazz continued to fill the ballroom with the croon of trumpets and gentle piano, the both of you waltzing in tentative steps.

“You look really beautiful.” Bucky murmured, swallowing the growing lump within his throat. It wasn’t often that he paid compliments like these, but his charm was still perfectly intact, albeit rusty.

He’d been on a handful of dates after the coding in his brain had been broken; none of them were fulfilling. There was a lack of true understanding, a baseless connection.

Until he met you, and he found himself fearful — you were something to lose. You left him feeling seen in ways he didn’t think possible, comfortable to be himself, just Bucky Barnes, the rawest iteration of his heart.

Flustered, you smiled at him, attempting to keep your heartbeat from teetering off of the edge. “Thank you, Buck,” Smiling still, you mustered the courage to look at him fully. “You … You look really handsome, too.”

Bucky chuckled as if you’d said something humorous, vibranium palm cold over yours, thumb lightly tracing your knuckles. “It’s the bowtie, isn’t it?” He mused, wisps of dark hair framing his countenance.

“Mm-hm,” Dimples formed at either corner of your mouth, gaze softening as he gently spun you around. “It ties everything together.” Your tongue-and-cheek joke almost made you cringe, nose wrinkling.

“Funny. Did you mean to make that joke?” He teases, and you feel heat warm your features, smitten as you look elsewhere. God, you were perfect — beautiful beyond comprehension.

“Accidental,” With a soft huff, you clear your throat, deciding to press the matter further and be serious. “Really, Bucky. You look wonderful.” The tender cadence of your tone had magnetized him.

“I don’t hold a candle to you,” Bucky utters, voice thick with a pleasant husk, one that itches at the back of your mind. “Nobody in here does.” It’s that soft admittance that makes you shiver from delight.

His eyes never leave you, and suddenly, everything feels too real, too close; the flush of his lips entice you, and you’re left wanting.

Stunned speechless, you quiet, stewing within the tension that brews between the both of you. It’s been simmering for months — part of you wondered when to let it snap, but you’re afraid of the consequences.

Bucky deliberates on what to do next, what to say; your mouth is dangerously close, lips parted, gaze innocuously doe-eyed. He’s imagined it often, what it might’ve been like to kiss you — and it’s always the sweetest fantasy.

“Bucky,” Words hang heavy within your throat, confession sizzling away like floating ash. There’s so much left unsaid — he knows it, and so do you. “Do you really mean that?” Serious, you let your voice hush.

The both of you have danced around the burning flame smoldering between you for a long while, now. It was beginning to reach out, take you both, and Bucky found himself preparing to take that plunge with enthusiasm.

“Yeah,” He says it softly, as if it’s reserved only for you, and he feels nervous. You make him want more, more than he ever thought possible. “I mean it, doll.” Bucky utters, and he’s a second away from bridging the gap.

In a room full of people, you’re comfortable enough to simply exist, fading into the background, and he fades with you.

It’s as if time slows, suspended in the moment — you want to live in it, blinking in sluggish flickers of your eyelashes. The erratic hum of your heartbeat sings a melody beneath your chest, hand absently clenching around his metal one.

He’s thinking of kissing you — any unsteadiness shifts into certainty, and the longer he stares at you, the more his resolve crumbles. Bucky tilts closer, enough for you to feel his breath feather over your mouth.

“Kiss me, Bucky.”

That’s all it takes — it’s his name on your tongue, spoken with such tenderness that he fears he’ll fall apart in front of you, unraveling.

A hitch forms within the bottom of his throat, and he’s moving inward, lips a mere breadth apart. His mouth is almost on yours, disarmingly gentle, and then it’s all ripped away.

“Bucky!”

Congressman Gary’s voice pierces through the tension, deflating it entirely, and the tension slithers away into a state of dormancy. The music begins to come to a close, a sense of finality present as you recoil, features burning with heat.

When he realizes how close you were, he’s left frustrated, noticing that you’ve already receded. Soured, his gaze floats past your shoulder and toward Gary, who seems eager to speak with him.

The smile you give him is cordial, a kindly facade that does little to mask your true feelings. He can see it, lingering beneath your eyes — you’re disappointed, but you smother it anyway.

“Sorry about that.” Bucky mumbles a grousing apology, but you’re quick to dismiss it. He tries to turn on the practiced politician’s charm — but it falters when he thinks about kissing you.

“It’s okay,” Reassuring, you squeeze his metal hand and step away, allowing him space to speak with Gary. “I’m going to find Yelena.” You nod, and he’s reluctant to let you go, but he does anyway.

With a soft nod, Bucky watches you go, slipping away through the crowd in your indigo gown. He’s cursing himself, left sorely shattered in the wake of it all, his head swimming, thoughts scrambled entirely.

He doesn’t register whatever jargon Gary throws his way — something about shareholders, but Bucky is too preoccupied with watching you leave to care.

Your feet are killing you — a raw blister has rubbed into your heel, splitting skin, pangs of a dull ache shooting into your legs. As soon as you cross the threshold into the Watchtower, you’re discarding the stilettos, bare feet crossing over cold tile.

For the duration of the gala, you avoided Valentina, speaking cordially with those who approached, but it was exceedingly difficult.

Bucky hadn’t left your mind — he’d invaded it, a feverish haze that you didn’t want to escape from. The dance left you wrought with exhilaration, wondering if whatever you felt wasn’t misinterpreted like you thought.

The team disperses not long after arrival, a mutual exhaustion from an evening of prying eyes, camera flashes, and being brandished like a polished accessory.

In the inky gloom that pools through tinted window panes, moonlight catches over dark flooring, the night unobstructed by clouds. A pair of stilettos dangles from your hand, footsteps light as you stop to lean against the island.

Relief washes through you as you rock the balls of your feet against the tile, happy to be rid of your high-heels. It’s quiet — too quiet, save for the sound of footsteps behind you.

“Kicked the heels off quick.” Bucky’s timbre cuts through the hush, warm and amiable as he makes a round to the refrigerator.

His bowtie is loosened, first few buttons of his dress shirt undone, blazer draped in a pleated heap over one shoulder. The sight is devastatingly handsome, causing your breath to hitch within your throat.

“My feet are already thanking me,” You remark, leaning against the dark, polished granite. Bucky takes a swig of water, vibranium hand closed around a cool glass. “How was your talk with Gary?”

He was still feeling the stinging disappointment of not being able to kiss you at the gala. Bucky was attempting to discern how to broach the topic with you, or at the very least, come clean about how he felt.

It was easier said than done, wanting someone that he thought he was entirely undeserving of. The way you stared at him, leaned in, said his name — it was all he could think about, consuming every waking thought.

“Nothing important,” Bucky shrugs, ogling you from over the rim of his glass. “Could’ve sent a text.” He muses, body jostling with a soft scoff.

“Oh.” You hum, your tone sounding somewhat awkward. Whatever happened at the gala was something you were desperate to talk about, addressing unspoken feelings.

That’s all you can muster, a meager ‘oh’ as you fumble about. Swallowing the lump within your throat, a gap of silence settles between, thick with a cloud of tension.

Bucky deliberates, still clutching onto his glass as if it’s anchoring him to reality. It begins to splinter beneath the pressure of vibranium.

“Well, I … I think I’m going to go change and lay down. I’m eager to get out of this dress,” Sheepishly, you shuffle around the island and slowly begin to make your way towards the corridor. “Goodnight, Buck.”

As you awkwardly make for the mouth of the hallway, Bucky calmly places his glass into the sink, bristling with a newfound determination. He makes the choice to go after you, finish what began at the gala.

With measured strides, he’s following after you. He watched you leave once already tonight without kissing you — he wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.

“Wait.” He stops you, a gentle palm on your waist, cadence laced with a thinly-veiled want. “You’re gonna run off on me like that, doll?”

Listening to the pace behind you climb in intensity, you whirl around, nearly colliding into Bucky as he plants a chaste kiss against your mouth.

It’s disarming, but fleeting, brief — he’s wading into your waters. “Bucky, what …” You whisper, doe-eyed and awestruck.

Exhilarated and breathless, you’re stunned when his stubbled mouth fans over yours, and the contact is too hurried, too hasty. Yet, he burns your lips with the kiss, and you’re left wanting more.

“I should’ve done that sooner.” He confesses, tone dropping to a warm timbre that makes your stomach erupt with butterflies. Your breath hitches, gaze wide-eyed and wanton.

“You should’ve.” Breathless, you concur, lashes fluttering as they kiss the skin beneath your eyes. Fingers tense around the backs of your stilettos, and you’re waiting.

Bucky’s jaw clenches, blue eyes burning as he peers down at you — azure dress, dazzling eyes, taking his breath away.

He exhales; the sound is sharp, poignant, excited — his gaze traces over your countenance, across delicate features and the curve of your mouth.

His body is close, chests nearly brushing, hand still hovering around your waist. “May I?” Bucky’s tone softens, a humming purr that makes your knees wobble.

“Please, Buck.” Lips parted, and you’re careening up on your toes to meet him halfway. He dips down, mouth clamoring for yours, lips brushing in a heated swarm.

Stifling a gasp, your hand drops your stilettos as if they’re a meaningless thing, listening to them clatter against the tile. They both gather against his chest, muscle firm beneath your palms.

Passion bleeds through his lips, certain and steady, vibranium hand shifting to cup your jaw. You shiver from the contact, icy metal sweeping over burning skin, other hand holding your hips.

It’s fireworks — months of pining, of dancing around smothered feelings, only to explode to the surface. Satisfaction ripples through you, a warm elation that curls around your bones.

Wisps of brunette tickle your cheeks, his hair soft as it brushes over your face. The pleasant scratch of his beard grounds you, a reminder that all of this is real, visceral — not a fantasy.

There’s a lull in the kiss as you draw away, chest constricting with soft, excitable sighs. “I’ve been waiting on you, Bucky Barnes.” You whisper, unable to keep yourself from beaming, teeth and all.

“Wish I got the hint,” Bucky grumbles, his metal thumb circling over the soft flesh beneath your jaw, pressing a kiss to your crown. “You’re beautiful.” He murmurs, appreciative as he cups your face.

“I wasn’t very good at dropping hints,” The softness of your confession pulls a chuckle from him, arm still caging you against his body. “I just — You’re incredible, Bucky.” Your words come as a surprise, but aren’t unwanted.

A rosy pallor clings to his features, slipping beneath his beard as he plants another kiss to your forehead, gaze warm as it follows the curve of your mouth. “I don’t know about that, sweetheart.” He admires your sentiment, nonetheless.

“I know,” Insistent, you gently tap his chest, fingertips hovering above his collarbone. “I know that I adore you just the way you are.” Affection curled within your tone, sweet and tender.

Bucky paused, a slow smile spreading over his features, lashes fluttering a time or two. There was something raw about the way he stared at you, as if you were the thing he lived for, breathed for.

A comfortable bout of silence slipped between, his hand still stroking over your jaw, fingertips circling your cheekbone. “I think you’re perfect.” He stated, as if it were fact.

A hitch formed within your throat, taken aback by the sincerity of his words. His stare never wavered, exceedingly soft as you coaxed him in for another kiss; and he didn’t protest.

It was soft, wrought with ardor, something that stole every wisp of air from your lungs. Bucky only craved your touch — you were what he wanted, everything he wanted.

Physical intimacy wasn’t something he’d experienced for years; between HYDRA, the ice, scrambled memories, on the run … It never allowed him time to let it sink in, that he could be desirable.

The way your hands caressed over his chest pulled a low grunt from his mouth, lost within entangled lips as he reciprocated.

“Do you …” Murmuring against his mouth, Bucky stilled, lashes fluttering in rapid succession. “Do you want to come to my room?” You asked, insides stirring with butterflies.

A brief pause settled between the two of you, the idea being turned over within his mind. The implications were there — what you wanted, what he wanted.

“I’ll follow you, doll.” Bucky murmured, cadence low and warm as it curled around you, eliciting a brief shiver. His vibranium hand smoothed over the small of your back, and he stooped to retrieve your shoes, too.

Hushed, the both of you strolled for your room, at the very end of the main level. It was a corridor you shared with Bob and Ava, typically quiet with minimal disturbances.

The rhythm of your heart had kicked into a gallop, slamming beneath your breast as you traipsed barefoot over cold tile, Bucky sticking close to your side.

He was smiling, and so were you; anticipation hung heavy, a subtle expectancy that you were eager to entertain. As you came up to your door, you pressed the button, letting it open with a soft hiss.

The room you’d concocted for yourself was home — warm and comely, surrounded by all facets of your personality, vibrant with color. It was very lived-in, bed partially made, items scattered over your vanity.

Bucky had been inside a handful of times, drinking in the details when he slipped inside behind you. He placed your stilettos down, pacing forward with a tender gaze.

“Always thought you had a knack for decorating,” He teased, cadence disarmingly gentle, little more than a soft husk. “Smells good in here, too.” It’s all you — floral scents, sweeter aromas that he’s associated with you.

“It’s a mess of colors,” You muse, nose wrinkling as he moves to sit down on the edge of your bed, forearms resting against his knees. “It’s the honeycomb lavender scent, if you’re interested.”

Bucky chuckles, flashing a glimpse of pearlescent teeth, canting his head to one side. “Yeah?” He muses, gaze boring into you like fire, melting right through you with ease.

“Mm-hm, I can get you a bottle.” Playful, you step closer, lingering within arm’s reach. Being around him like this still feels surreal, as if reality hasn’t fully settled in.

Gently, he reaches for your hand, coaxing you closer until you’re standing in-between his legs. “Might take you up on that.” He utters, palms settling over your hips, thumbs tracing circles over your dress.

Soft fingertips shift to caress over his hairline, carding into brunette tresses. It pulls a low, content sigh from his lips, mouth still upturned into a light smile, gaze tracing across your figure.

He holds you tightly when you dip down to kiss him, lips flush, colliding in a passionate kiss. Hands trace reverently along your sides, and you shiver beneath the gentle contact.

Metal fingertips find the zipper at the middle of your spine, hesitant; he looks to you for consent, and you’re quick to nod.

“Let me.” In a hushed tone, you gently tug at your dress, unraveling azure fabric from your body. Bucky unzips you with care, dragging it down until it kisses the small of your back.

The dress piles in a heap at your feet, leaving you in your undergarments, eliciting a sigh from his mouth. He appraises you with rapture, metal palm akin to a touch of ice to your hip.

“You’re gorgeous.” Bucky huffs, mesmerized and awestruck as he coaxes you into his lap. Your knees come to squeeze at either side of his hips, sweet breath feathering over his face.

“Thanks,” Flustered, you accept his compliment without protest, hands loosely gathering over the bowtie that he’s partially undone. “So are you.”

He cracks a smile, a brief chuckle splitting through his chest as he plants a kiss to your jaw. “Hm,” He hums, low and content, hands caressing over your hips. “You mind if I …”

“You don’t have to ask, Buck.” Through fluttering lashes and another dizzying, pretty smile, he leans forward to kiss you, mouths connecting in a flurry of passion. He’s tender, but not excessively so.

Mouths mold together, his stubble scraping over your maw, a reminder that this is all real. Your breath hitches, excitement pooling within your belly.

His kiss makes your legs quiver, fingers gingerly shifting towards the buttons still holding his dress shirt together.

Digits tense over his sternum, each action marked by a gentle affection that Bucky craves. His hands leave your hips, moving to tug his bowtie off, encouraging you to remove his shirt.

It’s sluggish, meant to savor — he’s still kissing you even as you’re untethering each button, pushing the white fabric off of him.

Bucky exhales, a contented noise that drags through his chest, steady and sure, throat bobbing as he swallows. He finds a purpose with you; something clean, something gentle.

A flicker of nervousness stirs within him; he hasn’t had something like this in decades. You’re something sacred, something to lose, and he looks at you like you’re the sun, as if he hasn’t felt warmth in years.

He’s still in a white, sleeveless undershirt, material stretched snugly over his burly musculature. The silvery glint of dog-tags sparkles beneath the dim lighting of your bedroom.

A tangle of now-faded scars sits at the divide where vibranium kisses flesh, drawing your gaze there, oozing with empathy.

Lips collide, and collide again — a tangle of heat and brewing desire. He kisses you as if you might slip right through his fingers, stopping only to let his mouth press over your throat.

“Bucky.” You sigh, feeling his hand settle over your hip, the other slipping to stroke over your ribs. Metal smooths across your body, caressing until he cups your breast.

Soft fingertips trace over his chest, moving to gently grasp at the nape of his neck, threading over his hair. He continues to lavish your neck in sweet, lingering kisses, kneading at your clothed chest.

Desire pulls at the fringes of your mind, creeping in like some haze. His mouth peppers a trail, from beneath your jaw to your collar, and back up again. He repeats it a time or two, stroking your hip.

His mouth works at you still, drifting from your jaw to the silky expanse of your throat, scruffy beard scratching pleasantly against your skin.

One of your palms settles over his vibranium bicep, firm and icy underneath your flesh. Bucky shudders as if it’s a phantom sensation, lips parting with surprise.

Your embrace is fearless, and you touch his arm as if it’s just that, just him; not an instrument of destruction like he used to believe. His mouth finds yours again, bleeding passion.

Quiet, he grips you tightly before standing, ensuring that one of your legs settles over his hip. Bucky moves you back into your pillows, pressed further into the mattress, lips still joined.

He settles between your legs, pulling a soft moan from your mouth, noses brushing over one another. Your hand idly drags along his metal forearm, the other gliding beneath his undershirt, feeling along his abdomen.

Your fingertips are like kisses of silk — affectionate, tender, and delicate. He can’t remember the last time someone touched him like this, as if he were something to covet, someone worth loving.

Coming to rest on either side of him, your knees idly squeeze at his ribs, hand continuing to ascend. Bucky indulges you, using one arm to tug off his undershirt, dog-tags dangling toward your collar.

Something incendiary resides within his gaze, warm and smoldering intermingled with adoration. Through a momentary gap, you exhale, warm breath pluming over his lips before you resume the kiss.

With a soft sigh, you’re turning into him, chest brushing against his, other hand drifting to grasp at his bicep. His mouth is ceaseless, constant — you’re lost within his lips.

The warm flesh of his hand returns to knead at your breast, rolling over flesh, tingles of bliss shooting through your body.

Bodies bump together, flush; Bucky shivers when your hips seem to grind against his own, producing a friction that nearly shatters his resolve. He wants to; he thinks about it often.

He’s deliberate, attentive; Bucky kisses you as if you’re the center of everything, tender as it stretches on for several moments.

Kisses edge with something desirous, and you withdraw to catch your breath, visibly smitten. He moves toward your throat again, dipping further until he finds your collarbone.

“Bucky,” Another low, pleading moan ripples through your chest, a sound that he’s desperate to hear more of. “Bucky, please.” You sigh, satisfied and yearning for more.

There’s a moment of him continuing — metal fingers fisting into the sheets, walking the fine line of restraint. Desire rages between the both of you like a burning wildfire.

Again, he lavishes kisses over your chest, trailing towards the soft juncture between your shoulder and throat. After leaving his mark there, he finds your mouth once more, and kisses hard.

Reciprocating, the heat of entangled mouths lasts for what feels like a lifetime; it’s like fireworks dancing in your belly, nerves electrified, and you’re soaring, floating.

It slows to a crawl when he draws away, settled comfortably between your thighs. “I want to do this the right way.” He drawls, hot breath feathering over your visage.

“What’s wrong?” Thinking it was something to do with you, the sudden pause in your heated proclivities struck you as concerning.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Bucky doesn’t stray far, still hovering above you, propped up on one arm. The other moves to cup your jaw, warm and soothing. “You deserve a first date before all of this.” He muses, a twinkle in his eye.

Relieved, you can’t help but smile, flustered and completely enamored with him. “For a second, I thought I’d scared you off.” You murmur, sweet and playful as you trace your fingers over his chest.

“Not in the slightest,” He utters, and for a second, he looks razed. “You’ve got any idea what you do to me, sweetheart?” Bucky’s tone drops to a husky purr, and it makes your head spin.

“I have an inkling,” Through an excitable sigh, you relax when his lips press against your jaw, lingering and affectionate. “You might have to show me.”

Bucky huffs, gaze somewhat half-lidded, eclipsed by both ardor and desire. You can tell he wants you, but he wants to show a little chivalry; it’s ridiculously attractive.

“I want to show you, believe me,” He assures, lips still climbing over your cheek, sealing beside the corner of your mouth. “I want to take you out first, that’s all.”

“When are you taking me out?” You muse, lips still tugged into a smile. The fact that he cares enough for this means the world to you, and to him.

Bucky couldn’t recall the last time he’d really taken a girl out, and meant it. The look on your face was enchanting, full of mirth and delight as you caressed his collarbone.

“After recon in Kaunas,” He chuckles, moving to lay down beside you. Still, he doesn’t go anywhere, drawing you right into the warmth of his chest, hand holding tightly to your hip. “Gives me time to figure out how to impress you.”

The laughter that tumbled from your lips made him feel alive; it got a faint smile out of him, mouth crinkling at either corner. “You don’t need to impress me,” You assure. “I just want to be with you.”

With a nonplussed hum, his brows furrowed together, chest falling as he exhaled. “You’re perfect,” Bucky murmured, planting a kiss against your crown. “Me too, doll.”

Exhaustion began to creep up, and you were too tired to throw your pajamas on, comfortably curled into his side. He continued to caress from your hip to your spine, his breathing evening out.

“Don’t go anywhere, Buck.” Through a soft whisper, your tone is fringed with grogginess, as if you’re actively staving off sleep. He huffs, with no intention of leaving you anytime soon; or forever, if you wanted that.

“I’m not,” He presses a kiss against your forehead when you begin to succumb to sleep, lightly tugging your sheets around your body. “I’m not going anywhere.”

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: it’s a soft morning with bob, until he needs you.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: bob reynolds x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.4K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni) , porn with little plot, cute shower antics/fluff at the beginning, yearning & needy bob, switch!bob, breast sucking, making out, hair pulling, bob’s praise kink, spit kink, unprotected p in v sex, missionary position, breeding kink, overstimulation, cockwarming, creampie. this fic is filthy.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: wrote this on a whim because I’ve been missing bob a lot (and I was freaked up ngl). not gonna apologize for how freaky this is. anyway. i hope you all enjoy! 🫶

Loving Bob is easy — it’s gentle, clean.

It’s the sort of love that murmurs from your heart, calling his name, a song that you continue to loop somewhere in the recesses of your mind.

There’s a safety you find within him, even through the darkness he keeps caged, a warmth that reminds you of a thousand splendid suns. A shared sanctuary; he finds it in you, too.

At the root of your relationship, it’s two hearts, craving to touch, craving one another, intertwined. It’s built upon an initial friendship that had spiraled into something more, something warm.

He’s attentive, compassionate, selfless — for his numerous qualities, you find yourself infinitely grateful for him, for how lucky you are to have a partner as good as he is. Bob has a wonderful heart, and despite his past, it’s still just as good.

You think about him often, especially when you first wake up, left smiling to yourself at the thought of how much you adored him. It left a lightness in your heart, one that you hadn’t experienced in years.

Within the gentle hours of morning, you feel the sparse indenture beside you, the bed left empty where he’d slept. It wasn’t common to find him absent, a twinge of concern sinking into your chest.

Swallowing the thickness present within your throat, you turned, listening to the gentle trickle of water from the shower. Relief followed soon after, inclined to follow the sound.

Dawn’s first sigh whispered through tinted window panes, slivers of an ember-orange pooling over the foot of your bed, passing over marble floors. It struck beside your head, causing you to tilt away from the glow.

It spread over the skies with tendrils of vibrancy, veiled through darkened glass. Twilight began to dissipate, with not an ounce of haste, dismal darkness giving way to violet, the celestials clinging to the horizon.

In a gentle clamor, you slither from your bed, still ensnared in a haze of half-sleep as you make for the bathroom. Nudging the door aside, you make your presence known with a stirring of your throat and a yawn.

“Morning, Bob,” Stretching, you can see him somewhat through the fogged pane of glass, and he perks up, even then. “Do you mind if I join you?” You ask, a lazy smile molding to your features as the shower door creaks open.

He’s there, soap still lathered into his crown, flushed and pink, musculature glistening as if he’s spent entirely too long marinating beneath the water. “Hi,” He greets, smiling when he sees you. “Oh, ah — Yeah, come inside.”

Bob’s brows furrow when he realizes how strange that sounded, countenance one of mild embarrassment. Nevertheless, he shuffles over to make room for you, throat thick as he swallows the sudden swell of excitement.

The nakedness is something you’re more accustomed to by now, having been together for several months. Though, whenever he sees you, it’s like the first time all over again — you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

Undressing, you’re shedding your clothes outside of the shower door, kicking the remnants of your underwear aside. Steam floats in tepid wisps, clinging to the mirror, coating the bathroom in a humid haze.

Once inside, streams of hot water splash over your skin, body brushing against his. It sends a muted buzz through your spine, running a hand over your face as you reach for your shampoo.

“How did you sleep?” He asks, tone saturated with an amiable warmth. Bob is often one to inquire about your wellbeing, and he’s attentive when he does, gaze trailing over your visage.

“Good,” With a soft hum, you feel his hands ghost over your spine, the gesture fleeting, enough to make you shiver. “What about you?”

It’s idle conversation, affectionate murmurs spoken through the haze of the shower. Bob stepped back beneath the spout, water cascading through soap-laden tresses.

“Fine,” Lashes kissed the skin beneath his eyes, washing the existing suds from his scalp. Spitting water aside, Bob cleared his throat. “Sorry for not waiting on you. You looked so pretty, I didn’t want to wake you.” He murmured, smitten.

Through a tender smile, you dismiss his apology, gazing up at him, mesmerized. He’s so handsome — pretty when he’s doing anything and everything. “It’s okay,” You mused, nose wrinkling. “I think I needed the rest.”

Relaxation was crucial for you in the downtime between missions, and you were appreciative that Bob had let you sleep for a little while longer.

His countenance softened, lingering on the curve of your mouth, over the bridge of your nose. He soaked you in as you splashed water over your body, droplets rolling over your chin.

Sluggishly, Bob dips down to plant a chaste kiss to your lips, reluctant to pull away; thankfully, you’re eager to tilt inward, reciprocating. It’s sweet, gentle — you often feel a sense of comfort, never uneasy whenever he kisses you.

Warm water sticks to your crown, tresses glued to your skull as you run a palm over his bicep, feeling goosebumps beneath your fingertips.

Bob only draws away when you’re reaching for the soap, hoping to clean up. He’s gentle, digits tracing along your spine, gooseflesh spreading like wildfire over your flesh.

Steam ripples over his musculature, wisping through the taut grooves of his abdomen, over broad, freckled shoulders. Content, he seems more relaxed than usual, drawing patterns into the small of your back.

“I can do it,” Bob offers, gentle yet pitched with a twinge of nervousness. “I’m happy to do it for you.” He perks up when you offer him the shampoo bottle with a smile, seemingly receptive to the idea.

“I’d like that,” Through an idle hum, you stand in front of him, partially shielded from the barrage of water, patient as ever. “Thank you.”

Fingers massage over your scalp with a disarming gentleness, handling you with a care that you’d grown intimately acquainted with. Eyes flutter shut as you relax beneath his touch, letting him lather soap into your crown.

Any initial distance becomes thin, swallowed by the closeness of bodies, his chest brushing against your back. A subtle hitch forms within your throat, a pang of excitement, but you keep yourself docile.

His embrace is kind; it makes you feel coveted, seen in a way that transcends everything else. Bob is focused on the task at-hand, dark-blue hues fluttering across your physique, drinking in every detail, committing it all to memory.

Digits rake over the base of your skull, working in the shampoo with ease, satisfied with his handiwork. “Here,” He awkwardly shuffles aside, and you jolt when you feel his cock brush your backside. “I’ll let you finish.”

Admittedly, the brief embrace sends electricity through your veins, scorched by want, but you’re unwilling to ruin the moment.

Rinsing the shampoo from your hair, soapy remnants and all, Bob quietly appraises you from where he stands, jaw slack, his visage blotched with a bright shade of rose. Water rolls over your chest, down your navel, lower.

Some sliver of him gnaws with desire, but he’s never been good with asking. Instead, he resorts to ogling you as if you’re the sun itself, warm and glittering.

His lungs fill with sweetness whenever he’s near you, tender gaze following every dip, every curve of your body, as if you’re a river worth wading through. He’s clean, content to watch, only looking away when your eyes flutter open.

Scrubbing the last of the product from your tresses, you give yourself one final rinse, body washed clean, prepared to start your day. “Finished?” You asked, hand hovering over the switch.

“Yeah.” Bob speaks as if he’s clawing for air, chest burning from the sight of you, tongue absentmindedly wetting his bottom lip.

As the shower fizzles to a crawl, he steps out, steam clinging to him. You follow suit, towel dragging over your warm flesh, collecting any bit of water left behind.

In a similar fashion, you’re watching him, tendrils of warmth snaking over the back of your neck, damp tresses disheveled around you. He’s beautiful, handsome in a way that makes your knees wobble, heartbeat pounding away.

“You okay?” The innocuous nature of your question leaves Bob flustered, even still. With a towel slung low around his hips, there’s little left to the imagination — and your thoughts are rampant.

He nods, lashes flitting, lips pulled agape as he marvels at you, the difference in height more apparent now, in the rawness of things. “You’re so beautiful,” Bob utters, awestruck. “It’s mesmerizing.”

The sincerity of his compliment makes you preen, a smile creeping onto your features. He’s called you beautiful a thousand times — this one carries weight, as if he’s reminding himself that you’re real, that what you have together is real.

“Mesmerizing?” Echoing his statement, you do little to suppress the sheepish smile that curls at the corners of your mouth. “I don’t think I’ve heard that one before.” You muse, reluctant to accept the compliment.

Bob stares, visage tinged with scarlet, throat thick; he swallows and steels himself, hand reaching to cup your jaw. “You should hear it more often.” He concedes, tone disarmingly low, enough to make you shiver.

Whenever he wants something, he gets this way; a little flirtatious, still attempting to formulate his own wants into words. Sometimes he feels undeserving, but you know that isn’t true, and so does he.

Something charged splinters the air, desire thinly-veiled, want echoing in his eyes, screaming. Emboldened, he initiates this time, dipping dangerously close, eyes flickering over your mouth.

As his large palm cradles the delicate slope of your face, you’re drifting closer, body bundled in a towel, standing flush against him. A slight hitch forms within the bottom of his throat, and it’s his turn to become bashful.

“You think so?” You hum, tone warping into something sweet, desirous. Bob gawks, shuddering when your hands splay flat over his ribs, tracing circles into his abdomen.

With a lackadaisical nod, he’s getting flustered, soothed by the caresses lavished to his skin. You’re still smiling, nails ghosting over his flesh, goosebumps erupting in the wake of it.

The distance is closed by the both of you, dipping halfway, meeting in the middle. Mouths connect in a sudden flurry of passion, and you can taste the desperation on his tongue, even then.

He is a chiseled adonis, and you can’t help but marvel at him as if he’s molded from marble, made flesh and blood beneath your hands.

Bob kisses you as if he’s racing against time, digits flexing over the nape of your neck. A sharp exhale stings his lungs, pushing through his nose as you press closer; the towel tempts him, able to be ripped apart with ease.

The crass knot of fantasies that jump around within his brain makes him blush, neediness unfurling from deep within his stomach, his bones.

All it took was one glimpse of you, kissed by dawn, visibly enamored with him — and he collapsed.

Lips carry on, eager; you’re kissing him with an overwhelming sweetness, fingertips tracing upwards until they’re hooked beneath his arms. He shivers, holding steadfastly to your jaw, thumbs circling your cheeks.

Stirring against your navel, his cock strains beneath the fabric of his towel, prompting you to gasp whilst kissing him. It snares between lips, and he immediately slows to a crawl, doing little to mask his embarrassment.

“Sorry, m’sorry.” Bob mumbles, flesh hot with embarrassment as it ripples through him in waves. Neediness follows suit, a gnawing desire to hold you, root himself inside of you.

Burying his face within the crook of your shoulder, his breath emerges in warm, winded sighs, hips ghosting over yours. The friction simmers within your blood, a jolt of electricity that sets your nerves ablaze.

“It’s okay,” Soothingly, your nails lightly grace the muscle of his abdomen, stroking in circular motions as you keen into his embrace. He cages you in, nose tickling your throat, lips sealing to your jugular. “Bob.”

His name is sharp as it spills from your mouth, pitched with a twinge of exhilaration. Hushed, he lavishes kisses over your neck, open-mouthed and wet, groin grinding haplessly into your own.

Even the towel does little to veil his obvious erection, and you can taste the urgency as his hands mold themselves to your hips.

Pathetically, he ruts into you, grinding bodies tangled into an amalgamation of limbs, and he’s still huffing, noises tapering off into a whimper. “Need you,” He pants wantonly. “Please — I want to be inside of you.”

Hunger reveals itself viscerally, and Bob falls victim to his own baser instincts, stomach pulled taut into a coil of excitable heat.

He’s always been one to yearn silently, wanting you in hushed gaps and longing glances, but this time, his desire is screaming. Bob isn’t particularly good at being blunt about what he wants, but this time, he takes action.

Arousal pools between your thighs at his confession, sending tingles of bliss throughout your body. Fingers hook into your towel as you peel it away, a shiver gripping your spine when you press closer.

Pupils dilate, expanding with black as he traces the shape of your physique, breath hitching within his throat. “So pretty.” He sighs, reverent as he feels your hand close around his wrist.

Guiding his hand to the warmth coalescing along your cunt fills his brain with static, a violent hum that only rouses his desire further. Two fingers find the heat present over your cunt, swiping over weeping folds.

“That’s what you do to me,” The whisper that leaves your tongue is enough to offset his balance, heady — your stomach gnaws with heat. “That’s all for you.” Tempting him further, he pushes a sharp exhale through his nose.

“For me,” Bob repeats, tone tapering off into a pitiful half-whine. There’s a sense of guilt he feels, undeserving of you, but when your hips push into his fingers, it proves a worthwhile distraction. “God, you’re so — so beautiful, you’re mine.”

The sudden claim of possessiveness stuns you, but it isn’t unwelcome; you like it, and you want him to take what’s his. “I’m yours?” It’s posed as a curious inquiry, one that Bob perks up at.

“Mm-hm,” His mouth skirts over your jugular, planting kisses there as his digits idly rut over your cunt. Crass noises reverberate through your steam-laden bathroom as he fingers you. “You’re mine.”

There’s an inherent sweetness to his cadence even when he’s attempting to be assertive, and it makes your stomach erupt with butterflies.

Clinging to him, your thighs twitch when he picks you up, gait one of exhilaration as your legs kiss the foot of your mattress. He lays you down, towel still bound around his hips, riding dangerously low.

Veins course from his navel toward his groin, accompanied by a still-damp abdomen, water glistening over raw muscle. Golden tendrils of morning curl around his body, and he’s beautiful.

He’s more god than man, but he’s yours — and that means everything.

Cerulean hues sparkle with excitement, jaw slackening, hands coiling together when you begin to move toward the pillows.

He’s enraptured, the image of a man enthralled, preparing to crawl to you if that’s what it takes. A pink tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, gaze never wavering from you.

“I need you, Bob.” Through the hush of labored sighs and crackling tension, you tell him softly, accompanied by a look of affection. Bob’s throat jostles as he swallows, tilting forward to join you on the bed.

Damp, brunette ringlets frame his face, mouth agape, irises eclipsed by black as he surges forward, slotting himself between your legs.

As his musculature parts your thighs, he abandons the towel, hovering above you. Mouths clamor for one another, messy and desperate, a clash of wet tongues and lips.

Bob openly moans into your kiss, rutting into your leg as if he’s in heat, flushed cock gliding over the silky flesh of your inner thigh. A gasp snares within your chest, hands gripping his biceps, tugging him close.

Pearls of precum ooze over your skin, slick across your thigh as you kiss him hard. It’s open-mouthed, wanton as bodies tangle together, nails digging light crescents into corded muscle.

A scarlet flush blankets his features, as if he’s been burning beneath the sun for too long. Bob can feel the coil settle within his belly, a tangle of heat that’s pulled tight, something visceral and real.

Beneath him, you’re stunning, heartbeat one of erratic excitement, a lullaby that he can hear. Kisses continue to devolve into a mess of want, sloppy and wet as your back arches from the mattress.

The brush of your nipples ghost over his chest, a shiver simultaneously gripping the both of you. It gives him pause, gaze trailing to your breasts as his lips untether from yours, kissing a scorching trail toward your chest.

Hips urge forward, cock incessantly grinding against your thigh, followed by a string of breathy whines that catch in the open.

“So handsome like this, baby,” Your tender praise makes him groan, keening beneath sweetly-spoken compliments. One hand rakes toward the nape of his neck, fingers scraping over brunette waves. “So perfect, feels s’good.”

Lips passionately brand themselves to your throat, collarbone, sternum — Bob leaves no inch of your chest untouched. He worships your body, loving you so viscerally, so deeply.

He kisses his way to your right breast, breathing in your saccharine scent, senses swimming in you. He’s drowning, but it’s something he welcomes, mouth slipping over your nipple.

Taking the pebbled peak between his lips, Bob lavishes your breasts in attention, gingerly kneading at the other, keeping his mouth busy. He’s whining, flushed cockhead drizzling with precum.

It’s akin to torture, waiting to be inside of you — but he does it anyway, tending to you before anything else. He softly sucks at the sensitive bud, drawing preening moans from your mouth, and he shivers.

Trembling fingers quiver with excitement as you push them through his hair, still slick with water, fisting into damp waves. “Bob,” You moan, back beginning to arch, following his mouth. “S’perfect.”

A muted buzz shoots through his cock as his hips jerk forward, hot air pushed out through his nose as he teases your breasts. He’s passionate, never resorting to anything harsh, and he’s needy.

Through a half-lidded stare, his eyes find your face, contorted into one of bliss, lips parted, jaw slackening. Bob moans around your breast, cock throbbing incessantly.

“Mm, you’re so pretty,” He groans, the sound throaty, husked as it curls deliciously around your ears. His lips are eager, never ceasing as he kisses a wet trail between your breasts. “Please, I want to be inside of you.”

He’s talkative, attempting to vocalize what he wants without reproach. Each keening whine and desperate plea sends shockwaves of bliss through your belly, arousal hot and slick over your cunt.

With a jostle of your head, you’re nodding, welcoming him closer as he continues to kiss his way back to your mouth. As lips collide, you’re absently rocking into him, feeling his body tense.

“Please,” It’s all that needs to be said, and he’s crawling, thoroughly and utterly razed as he presses close. “Need you so bad.” Your cadence is disarmingly tender, something that scratches at his brain.

The flushed head of his cock slips over your cunt a time or two, gathering the slick that’s permeating there, pulling a groan from his chest. He steadies himself on one hand, the other caressing your ribs.

Even when he’s snugly on top of you, he’s entirely subservient, a wanton mess, needing you more than anything else.

A shiver grips his spine when his hips fall flush against yours, cockhead splitting past your folds, still oozing with precum. He grinds himself into you a time or two, letting that friction tug at the coil in his stomach.

Bob’s visage contorts into a look of sheer want, the face of someone who’s desperate to be needed, wanted — and you do, more than anything else.

Shifting closer, you suck in a sharp inhale as his hips urge forward, cock sinking into you. It’s a brief adjustment, cunt clenching around him with ripples of bliss.

Hands fall toward the nape of his neck, threading through still-damp, brunette tresses, giving them gentle tugs. Coaxing him closer, Bob groans at the sudden influx of pleasure, pace somewhat erratic, to start.

He likes it messy, sloppy — it’s all an amalgamation of limbs, bodies clawing for one another as if you may never touch again. Mouths meet in a snare of tongue and ardor, spit slick over swollen lips.

Bridging the gap, you let your tongue slip through his parted lips, tangling with his own in another bruising kiss. A low moan catches in Bob’s throat, swallowed by another barrage of kisses.

As he draws his hips back and pushes forward, the rhythm he sets is needy, quick; a glistening string of saliva connects his mouth to yours.

The wet tendril falls over your chin, a sheen of intermingled spit that Bob greedily kisses over, pulling a moan from your throat. Crass noises emanate from between bodies, your cunt taking him perfectly.

One hand shifts to grab your leg, smoothly hitching against the back of your knee, caressing the skin there as he pushes it toward your abdomen. It isn’t uncomfortable, the new angle allowing him to fuck you deeper.

A tremulous moan splits your diaphragm, shuddering as your cunt pulses, clenching around his cock. He fills you up, leaving no room for space, heat exuding from him like an open flame.

He’s strong, capable — there’s something steady beneath the erratic slam of his hips as he pushes his cock further, bottoming out. Ringlets of brown brush over your brow, foreheads coming to press together.

“I love you,” Bob groans through another snap of his hips, and you’re dizzy from the pleasure, body tangled into a knot of bliss. It sits heavy in your belly, wanton and waiting. “Love you so much.”

The bulk of his musculature blankets you, larger, each urge of his body bristling with an enthusiastic passion. You take it all gleefully — every kiss of his cock to your cervix, every breath that feathers over your mouth.

As he lavishes you in half-whimpered confessions, you hold tightly to him, his cock lewdly slapping away at your pussy. His eyes are closed, mouth slack, making room for throaty, husked groans that cause you to shiver.

“Doing so well for me, Bob,” You croon between thrusts, the wind ripping from your lungs, exhilaration stinging your nerves. “Love you.” It’s all you’re able to force out before he’s kissing you again.

Bob shivers at the feeling of your cunt, tight and warm around him, clenching around his cock with each roll of his hips. You took him perfectly, as if you were made for him, molded together.

Kissing you hoarse, it’s all passion — bleeding heat that coagulates in the pit of your stomach, coil wanting to unfurl. Arousal slicks your cunt, noises crude as he fucks into you, eager.

He isn’t rough, but he’s fast, cock pounding away at your aching core as if time is nonexistent. You never sway him from it, hitching your other leg up around his hips, knee pressing to his ribs.

Despite his position, caged in around you, contorting you in ways that allow him better access to you, he’s subservient, still. His lips untether, face coming to nuzzle beneath your chin.

“So tight, all mine.” Something shadowed eclipses his voice, something possessive; it makes you shiver with delight. He finds his footing, and that husked purr makes your head spin.

A myriad of throaty groans, whines, and hot sighs plume over your neck, allowing you to fist at his brunette crown. “Bob, Bob,” You moan, leg constricting his hips as he fucks you deep. “Please don’t stop.”

Bob shudders at the praise, cock lewdly clashing against your slick cunt, wound up into tight knots that seem on the precipice of bursting.

“I — God, m’close,” He huffs into your collar, knowing that he can’t hold himself back for much longer. His voice is stretched thin, frayed — it’s ragged with desire, splintering at the seams as he pushes into you again. “Please!”

His cock pulses inside of you, stretching you out, every ripple of your cunt sending him into a borderline frenzy. Every sensation is electrifying, addictive — he’s lost within you.

He’s had flings before, something to fill the gaping hole within him, something distracting just to feel; with you, it’s everything. Bob can feel how much you love him through touch alone, how much he needs you.

He kisses the drool shining against your chin, tongue warm as he laps it up, prompting you to kiss him again, bruising. Moans snare in the mouths of another, and he’s hammering away at your pussy.

Through excitable half-babbles, Bob groans about how good you feel, how pretty you are, how you make him feel alive.

Wisps of brown stick his temples from mere exertion and anticipation, lips ghosting over one another as he presses his head to yours.

Each urge of his hips sends him deeper, cock nearly kissing your cervix. His mouth is wet with his own spit, pooling within his maw as he continues to piston into you with a raw excitement.

“Y—You’re drooling, Bob.” You whisper, sweet breath pluming over his lips. He gets somewhat bashful when you point it out, but he can’t help himself, features scarlet.

“You feel so — so good,” Bob huffs, overwhelmed with ecstasy; everything feels hot, as if he might explode into a thousand pieces. “Yeah.” He chokes, still bitten by the sting of embarrassment.

The incessant pulse of his cock warms your cunt, filling you up, his ministrations beginning to slow in intensity. “I want you to share.” You whisper, broken and hoarse, strung-out with desire.

There’s something intimately razed about your cadence, the wanton ardor that seeps through the cracks, and Bob moans your name. He knows what you’re asking, and he’s wrecked.

With a fervent nod, he’s visibly charmed as you open your mouth, tongue warm and pink. Bob’s hips stutter, jagged and strained.

Saliva gathers in his mouth as he spits into yours, watching it fall like sticky tendrils onto your tongue. His body shudders from the sight, eyes impossibly wide, eclipsed by desire.

A twinge of possessiveness swells within him, tying you to him, binding both of you together. He watches as if his gaze might burn through you, thoroughly mesmerized.

Open-mouthed and half-lidded, you swallow his spit, feeling his hips draw back and push forward again.

“S’good,” Through a soft purr, you lavish your boyfriend in sweet praise, carding your fingers through his hair. “Keep going.” You croon, planting a wet kiss against his jaw.

Bob nods, shaky and exhilarated, pushing his cock back into you with a sudden haste. He starts again, hammering into you like a man starved, face flush against the side of your neck.

He’s blanketed in a delicate shade of crimson, lips parted, pressing open-mouthed kisses over your throat. Each urge of his hips sends you soaring, cock lewdly slapping into your pussy.

“Tight, you’re — Mm, you’re perfect,” Bob pants, his release hot and fervent as it trails after him, preparing to crash into some exploding star. The coil in his belly unfurls; messy and wanton. “Close.”

“Bob!” A throaty moan rips through your throat, cunt tight and pulsing around him, causing the both of you to shiver. He’s needy, clawing — something ravenous consumes him.

He doesn’t deserve to breathe your air, and yet he’s inhaling your scent, the sweetness of your flesh, the perspiration that licks over your jugular.

“Need to — I need to …” Bob pants, knowing that he’s being torn apart, splintered into slivers. His cock throbs incessantly, and he’s crescendoing with a plethora of grunts and whines.

“Stay,” You weren’t asking — you were telling. A husked, simpering groan echoes through his diaphragm, hips erratic, hand clenched into the sheets beside you. “Stay, Bob. Cum in me.”

Something snaps — that coil he fights against comes undone in one devastating wave. He gasps, nerves ablaze, body teeming with a buzz of ecstasy that pulses through him.

There’s something else, something dark; for a moment, he envisions you, full of his seed, something he’s never dreamed of.

That fantasy spreads like a festering plague, saturating the corners of his mind, feeding into something lustful. Bob’s release is messy, excessive — his hips surge again, fucking you full of his cum.

He paints your cunt with hot ropes of his spent, spasming, tense; his lips lavish your jaw in a myriad of sloppy kisses.

It oozes out of you, smattered over the insides of your thighs, his cock, your cunt. Your name burns his tongue as he says it again and again, desperate.

“Jesus,” Bob huffs, brows pinched together, countenance warped into a look of sheer bliss. He looks content, as if his release brought him some semblance of comfort. “Sorry, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” A sigh of elation escapes you, digits sweeping through his tresses, planting a kiss against the corner of his mouth. “That was amazing, Bob.” You hum, mouth twitching into a smile.

“I’m not finished,” With a peculiar grit sinking into his voice, you bend to him, breathing hitching within your throat. He’s half-hard again inside of you, jaw slack, eyes wide. “Please — please, just let me.”

His hand drags over your leg, caressing and squeezing, hooking around the back of your knee. The other digs into the pillow beside your head, fisting until the fabric begins to tear.

With a lackadaisical nod, you’re delighted to let him continue, heat pooling within your belly, oozing between your thighs. “B—Bob,” You whine, grasping at his shoulders. “Bob!”

A wet, glistening sheen of white sticks to his groin, your arousal intermingling with his cum as he pushes into you again. A moan escapes you, body tingling with waves of pleasure.

Bob looks as if he’s soaring, at the pinnacle of ecstasy, thrusts beginning to mount in pace. As bodies collide again and again, the lewd clash of flesh reverberates, wet and filthy.

He’s beautiful like this — beautiful when he’s unraveling, coming apart above him.

Readjusting your position, Bob places your legs up against his broad shoulders, bending you, but not breaking you. He doesn’t manhandle; he moves, touch tender and rapturous.

The newfound angle sends you into some white-hot snare of pleasure, back arching, head rolling back against the pillows. He fucks you deep, cock pistoning away at your pussy, groaning with each thrust.

It was almost overwhelming, fraying your nerves, making you delirious as he hammered into you, mumbling a string of apologies and half-sentences.

“B—Bob, it’s too much,” Your cunt clenched around his cock again, rippling with the aftershocks of your orgasm. Everything feels too sensitive, as if you might wither away. “Slow, slow.”

Bob moans, fucking another rope of cum into you before stopping, meeting your gaze with a heated one of his own. He slows, knowing your stamina is only a fraction of his.

He nods, swallowing the lump within his throat before he comes to a crawl, gently setting your legs back down onto the bed.

He stays inside of you even still, coming to lay his head against your collarbone. “I love you.” He murmurs, content and no longer wound-up, a lazy smile glued to his features.

For a moment, you’re too blissed-out to say anything, chest heaving with labored sighs. “I love you too,” You hum, shivering as his mouth idly travels over your chest. “You’re so perfect.”

The bulk of his musculature covers your body, bleeding with heat, eyelashes fluttering as you caress the base of his skull. “Wanna stay here, like this,” He exhales. “Is that okay?”

“Mm-hm,” His cock twitches inside of you when you give your consent, and he’s elated. “Stay here with me.” You exhale, the noise finally beginning to climb down from your peak.

Bob feels your chin tuck over the top of his head, and while the gesture is sweet, he’s grasping at your waist with an obvious possession.

“I think we should get back in the shower.” You suggest, a soft chuckle escaping you. Bob seems a touch flustered, peering at you with a placating smile.

“Yeah,” He agrees, leaning in to press a kiss against your lips. “After you.”

[swordgrace]

╱╱ 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐬.

┊ PART 1 — KNOW HOW TO RODEO.

┊ SERIES MASTERLIST LOCATED HERE.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader , joaquin torres x bob reynolds (background).

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 6.0K.

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: none. mentions of being hungover. typical john walker asshole behavior, arguing, rodeo antics. bob and joaquin are cute cowboys.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: here is the first part! a lot of this is just setting up the universe for the au and mentioning a few important plot points for later. I’m aiming for weekly uploads of new parts. I hope you all enjoy! 🫶

Dust kicks up a storm over miles of grassland, stretching wide in all directions. When the sun strikes it just right, it’s an ocean of gold, wheatgrass glowing beneath daybreak’s waning embers.

It hangs heavy in the air — livestock, tilled earth, countryside sunshine.

Petrichor oozes through the open window in your bedroom, dew and mud that are intimately familiar to you. You’re comfortable, sprawled out over your rickety bed, quilt tossed to one side.

Belton lives and breathes “small town”, a lively settlement with an eclectic culture, where being a cowboy resides in the bloodstream.

In the twenty-something years you’ve been here, you’ve never left. The desire was there sometimes, but Belton had always been home. Home; an amalgamation of red dirt, wildflowers, horses, and the rodeo.

Sunlight seeps through old, fringed curtains, striking you hard, as if it’s screaming at you to pull yourself out of bed. Oftentimes, you’re up early — watering the horses and cattle, feeding, doing a perimeter check.

You’re nursing a mild hangover this morning, too.

It’s early, but not enough for twilight, the horizon glimmering with shades of orange. One can hear the scuffle of cattle somewhere in the nearby fields, the distant whinnying of horses circling their pens.

The screen door rattles as it’s shut with a thud, accompanied by the clatter of spurs; he’s practicing by himself again.

In a flurry of limbs and an old flannel, you’re stomping down the stairs, spotting Bob traipsing through the kitchen, shirt dirtied with mud. He’s wearing a lousy-looking set of chaps over careworn jeans, rifling for a glass of water.

“You’re up early.”

Still groggy, sleep fringes your remark as you slow to a crawl, barefoot and attempting to find your composure. He turns, leaning against the rim of the kitchen sink, chugging water as if he hasn’t drank in days.

“And you’re up late.” Bob chortles, ogling you with an inquisitive stare. He knows you were at the bar — he can always tell. It’s like a weight that sinks into your body when you’re hungover.

With a light groan, you shift to lean against the rickety wooden bannister, creak of old wood howling beneath each step. The house that you share with Bob is old — been in his family for decades.

“I didn’t mean it this time,” Tired, you rub at the bags beneath your eyes, as if that’ll make them disappear. Forcing a threadbare smile, you clear your throat. “Were you out riding?”

“Tryin’ to squeeze in practice before the go-round tonight,” Bob murmurs, throat dry as he fills his glass a second time, smothering his thirst with greedy gulps. “If I don’t qualify for the Belt, we’re fucked before we’ve started.”

The Belton Belt; the rodeo competition that cemented all of small-town, rural Texas.

He’d only qualified once before, only to get bucked into the dirt on his first go-round. It was a humiliation ritual, one that he had distasteful memories of — this year was going to be different.

Bob had been riding broncos since the age of eight, with split lips and cracked knuckles, thrown into the dirt over and over again.

His dad was a deadbeat who threw his son in the ring until he was nearly unconscious, and his mother was nowhere to be found. Your backstory served as a mirror to his; shitty parents, anchored to the rodeo, and best friends.

“You shouldn’t be out there without me. What if you get knocked unconscious? Kicked?” Your concern was warranted, given that he tended to practice underneath your watchful eye; but not today.

“I’ll dust myself off and get back on,” Bob smiles cheekily before gargling water, tossing the rest into the sink. “You were out late last night again.” He counters, head cocking to one side.

“We’re not changing the subject, Bob.” Grumbling, you tug your flannel tighter around you, feet feeling like weights as you drag yourself into the kitchen.

He shuffles aside as you tug open the refrigerator door, hand closing around the half-gallon of milk. Unscrewing the lid, you drink it straight from the source, much to Bob’s amusement.

Being out late seems to be a sore spot for you, and he clocks you instantaneously, brows furrowing together. “Was Walker there?” He asks, and it activates the frustration you’ve been harboring since last night.

“Yes,” With a groan, you press your forehead against the fridge’s cool surface. “Guy is such an asshole — he walks in and everything withers. It killed the mood.”

John Walker — Belton’s beloved bronc-rider.

The guy was an all-star bastard with arrogance piled miles high, striding around as if he owned the place, needing others to kiss the ground he walked on. He was what stood in the way of winning the Belt — and you didn’t like him.

Bob nods, and decides to press you further; you’re hiding something. “He said somethin’ smart to you, didn’t he?” His inquiry only invokes your ire as you take another angry swig of milk.

“Just said something vague about hoping you get bucked off in two,” Soured, you twist the cap back onto the half-gallon, shoving it back into the top shelf of the fridge. “He’s exceptionally bitter this time around.”

One could never fully pinpoint where the rivalry between you and him began, maybe after working together, but it was always over Bob — Walker had to have the last word, had to be condescending.

He had to put Bob down to elevate himself, and you didn’t stand for it.

He felt threatened that Bob was getting really good at the whole rodeo thing, threatened that someone would finally steal his flimsy championship.

That was your running theory, at least.

“Always been bitter, I think,” Bob shrugs, seemingly nonplussed about it all. His confidence in himself is on a shaky foundation, but he’s ready — ready to win. “Don’t know what I did to make him hate me.”

“You’re better than him — that’s why he hates you. Pretend he doesn’t exist tonight.” Admittedly, you were also telling yourself that too, to avoid an unnecessary confrontation.

Bob huffed, peering out of the window above the sink, itching for the sun’s warmth. “Don’t know why he doesn’t like you, either.”

You could guess why — you’ve clashed on numerous occasions at the rodeo, at the bar; whether it was over snide remarks or Bob’s performances. He didn’t make himself out to be likable, either.

“He hates everyone.” You mumble, jaw ticking as you pick at the frayed stitching of your flannel. Daybreak shimmers through dusty window panes, pooling over old kitchen tile.

With a nod, he decides to drop the subject of Walker. He can tell it’s making your blood pressure skyrocket — too early for that. “Fontaine’s been houndin’ Joaq about th’farm.”

The sudden shift in-subject was enough to throw you off-balance, and at the mention of Valentina Fontaine, your blood began to seethe. “She’s gonna keep at it until he caves.” You sigh.

Falcon’s Point was a family-owned ranch — lots of good land, raising promising livestock, and spawned a lineage of cattle ropers. The land it possessed was the envy of many, and Fontaine wanted it for herself.

She wanted to commercialize it — the last thing that anyone in Belton wanted was to see the small-town atmosphere collapse beneath modernization.

Valentina would do anything to get what she wanted, whether it was through shadowed methods or strong-arming someone into doing it for her. Either way, you hated her, hated what she stood for.

“Joaq’s stubborn,” Bob affirms with a soft laugh, gaze softening at the mention of his friend. Something more lingered there, but you left it alone for now. “He’s not cavin’ ‘less they try bulldozin’ the place.”

A laugh escapes you, shoulders jostling. “Has he said anything about Sam?” The question was innocuous, inquiring. Sometimes it was hard for you to keep up with what went on at Falcon’s Point.

“Nah, just that he’s out in Phoenix and doesn’t know when he’ll be back. He’s running things on his own.” The both of you assumed that it had something to do with getting the money to save the ranch.

“Looks like it’s up to us this time.” That scared you. Falcon’s Point was on the line, and if Bob didn’t qualify for the Belt tonight, you might as well kiss that ranch goodbye.

Bob sighs, brows furrowing together. “Winnin’ the Belt — that’s our priority,” He nods, a sliver of assurance in his voice, a determined fire in his eyes. “Just gotta get through Walker.”

“Let’s focus on qualifying for the Belt first, Bob. We’ll circle back to Walker once that’s settled.” The last thing you wanted was for him to jump the gun, and Bob seemed to be in agreement.

Bearing a weak smile, he steps back toward the screen door, running a hand through his hair. He was an underdog with everything to lose — to say that he was nervous was an understatement.

The both of you shared a knowing glance, in the thick of it all; you’d always do it together.

“Here goes nothin’.”

In the weeks that preceded the Belton Belt, the town was more lively than ever — excitement felt tangible, like lightning splintering the air, preparing to strike, and strike hard.

Evening came with swirls of embers and violet, shooting over the horizon and over the Thunderbolt Rodeo Pavilion.

There isn’t a single soul in Belton who doesn’t live and breathe rodeo — everyone comes flocking in packs to watch, even if it’s just the qualifier events.

As you pull up in a patch of dirt, Bob in the passenger seat, you can taste his anxiety. It wafts from him in ripples, his brow furrowed, teeth gnawing at the inside of his cheek.

Arena lights glower down on a dust-bowl of a stadium. It isn’t immense, but there’s plenty of room to hold a few thousand, accounting for the town’s entire population.

The engine of your beat-up Silverado groans in protest as you throw it into park, sputtering with exertion.

The drive was spent in a hush, most of it imposed by Bob. Silence proved to be a friend, something to help him focus when nothing else would. Part of you worried about him — he was taking it all to-heart.

“You okay?”

The softness of your question cuts through Bob’s tempestuous thoughts; they’re raging like a twister, an amalgamation of inadequacy and bundled nerves. His bottom lip twitches, and he nods despite himself.

“Think so,” The exhale he gives is tremulous, and his hands fist into his jeans, still quivering. “Jus’ a lot of pressure weighin’ down on me, that’s all.” He murmurs, forcing a smile.

“Hey,” Gentle, your hand reaches for his shoulder, digits giving him a reassuring squeeze. “No matter what happens tonight, at least we can say we tried. Joaquín won’t hold it against you, and neither will I.”

Bob nods, staring down at his lap as if it’s wronged him somehow. The buckle of his belt bears the emblem of Falcon’s Point, and his stomach is twisted into knots.

Still, he doesn’t seem to fully believe in himself, confidence fractured; though, he puts on a brave face and staves off the nervousness. “I got this,” He mumbles to himself, getting out of your truck. “I got this.”

Hopping out of the driver’s side, you go around to the back, grabbing your bag. Unabashedly, you’re representing with Falcon’s Point garb — shirt, hat, right down to your sterling-silver belt buckle.

Bob is several paces ahead, bag swinging from his back, his gait swift, anxious to get this all over with. Scrambling to keep up, you make your way to the pens with him, where other riders are gearing up for the first go-round.

The crowds are growing larger by the minute, assimilating into the stands ahead. Orange slivers still blanket the skies, swiftly turning from day to dusk, carrying with it a canvas of twinkling stars.

Joaquín beat the both of you to the arena, lingering beside the paddock, hat dangling around the back of his neck. He waved, flashing a pearly smile before jogging over.

“Hey guys,” He greeted, clapping a hand against Bob’s arm. “Got the riders matched up to their horses. You just missed the announcement.” Joaquin nodded.

“Who do they’ve got me ridin’?” Bob questions, attempting to come across as confident and nonplussed. Deep down, he’s tearing himself apart, an internal war of nervousness.

“They’ve got you riding ‘Cruise Missile’ tonight.” Joaq answers, trying to soften the blow. The news nearly made you grimace — it wasn’t an easy horse whatsoever.

Bob paled, swallowing the growing lump within his throat before his eyes squeezed shut. Steeling himself, he put on an air of confidence, hand tensing around his bag. “Great.”

Cruise Missile was notorious for being abhorrently rambunctious and difficult to ride — part of you wondered if it was intentional.

Reluctantly, you follow Joaquín and Bob over towards the pens. There’s a makeshift space for the three of you to gather, and Bob immediately takes a seat atop a crate, unveiling his chaps.

“The qualifying time for the Belt is five seconds,” You murmur, brows furrowing together. “Five seconds of hanging on.” Despite your optimism, Bob looks like he’s dangling by a thread.

“And if I don’t last five seconds?” He hisses, hastily wrapping his arms with rider’s tape. Each action is accentuated with frustration, sharp and erratic as he grinds his heel into the dirt.

A soft huff escapes you, thwarting Bob’s feeble attempts at self-deprecation. “You’ll last five seconds, Bob.” You assure, patting a hand against his knee.

“Where’s your fire, chico de oro?” Joaquin muses, giving Bob a playful smack on the shoulder. You were thankful for Joaq’s faith and assurances — Bob didn’t fully trust yours.

It’s enough to get a threadbare smile out of him, but it seems to waver at the sight of the newcomer striding behind you.

The jangle of sterling spurs isn’t muffled over the announcer’s starting remarks, nor the brief rancor of the crowd. Unfortunately, you have a hunch of who it is before you turn around.

John Walker stands a few feet away in all of his cocksure glory, white hat tipped up, golden tresses disheveled beneath. He’s got his gear draped over one shoulder, leather chaps red-and-gray, and he’s looking to pick a fight.

“I’m thinking three seconds, at best,” John croons, lips turned into a smirk. The sound of his condescending tone immediately activates a fire within you, one that often remains dormant. “What do you say, Bobby?”

“Pretend he doesn’t exist, remember?” Bob whispers to you, hand darting out to grab your wrist. From body language alone, you’re already riled up, nostrils flaring as you shake your head.

Every nerve in your body blazes at the sound of his voice, grating, ringing in your ears as if he addressed you personally.

There is a tenuous gap of silence between the four of you, with John prodding the bull to gauge your reaction. “Don’t wanna talk? Guess we’ll save it for the arena,” He huffs. “Have fun eatin’ dirt, Reynolds.”

Unfortunately for you, John gets right under your skin as if it’s a perfectly-timed sucker punch, and you’re turning around. Bob tries to coax you back, jaw clenched, but your mouth is already moving.

“You’re such an asshole, Walker,” You bark, and it infuriates you when he grins. He knows what he’s doing, antagonizing you, and you play right into his hand like a fool. “What’s your problem?”

“There she is,” With a flick of his wrist, he tilts his hat up, chin jutted forward, baby-blues incendiary with the promise of a challenge. “Thought you’d lost your voice there for a second.”

“I wish you lost yours,” Flimsy insults only seem to pour gasoline into the fire that burns between the both of you. Defiant, your hands twist into clenched fists. “Stay on your side of the paddock.”

John laughs, pearlescent teeth glittering through the arena lights, kicking a heel into the reddish dirt. It’s the sort of mocking chuckle that makes you bristle, but you don’t feed into his idiocy this time around.

“This is all my side of the paddock,” He counters, his stance wide and imposing, hands on either side of his hips. There’s a lack of a wedding ring, you realize, no longer prominent on his left hand. “Belton’s champion — back-to-back-to-back, remember?”

“What’s your point, other than coming over to hurl playground insults?” You mutter, attempting to toe the line of cordiality and agitation. It isn’t working — he’s thoroughly pissed you off.

“Means stay outta my way,” John barks, brows pinching together as he waves off the three of you. “Guess I’ll plan on seein’ you next year, Bobby.” He peers at you, flashing a sardonic smile. “Ma’am.”

As he tips his hat at you, you’re left with blistering ire, letting it fester into your bones. With a scoff, you don’t give him another scrap of attention, turning to Bob with an apologetic grimace.

“Remind me again who’s more annoyed by him — me or you,” Bob huffs, seemingly unphased by John’s juvenile attempts at antagonizing him. It’s gotten you hot, more so than him. “You gotta let ‘im go.”

Joaquin finds some amusement in the whole situation, nose wrinkling as he jerks his head in the direction of the pens. “He’s just another white boy cowpoke with a big head,” He laughs. “Brush it off.”

Settling, you begin to climb down from your bout of frustration, trying to recuperate and focus on the upcoming competition. “I just don’t like the superiority thing he’s got going on.” You grouse, tugging your hat on.

“He loves gettin’ under your skin,” Bob points out, tugging on his chaps over blue jeans, binding them up with leather buckles. “And you’re lettin’ him win every time you fire off.”

Begrudgingly, you agree with Bob, nostrils flaring as you plant a hand against your hip. “You’re right,” You sigh, brows furrowing together. “No more engaging him. We’ll focus on qualifying.”

After putting on his riding gear and securing his vest, Bob nodded, tugging himself off of the crate. He seemed jittery, attempting to shake off the nerves as the three of you made for Cruise Missile’s pen.

It’s a slow trek to the paddocks, one that stretches on into an eternity. Other riders have gathered to the two other pens, and you spot John beside the first one, standing beside Lemar Hoskins.

Sometimes you wonder what John’s problem is with Bob and you, more specifically. He doesn’t seem to behave abrasively when he’s with Lemar, the two seemingly laughing, engaged in conversation.

From afar, John’s gaze seems to follow you, connecting from a distance — his jaw clenches, and you look away as if you’ve been burned.

“Welcome all of Belton to the Belton Belt Qualifier! We’ve got an impressive assembly of bronc-riders for y’all this evenin’, including returning champion, Mister John Walker!”

The rancor and cheers that rang out were borderline deafening, prompting you to swallow the frustration you sought to bury.

As the announcer began with opening remarks and crowd-working, you climbed up onto the grate rafters beside the pens. Bob was pacing outside, readying his glove, packing it on with tape.

“We’ve got a few new faces here tonight, folks! We got a few repeats — Mister Bobby Reynolds is back with us tonight to take a whirl on Cruise Missile!”

There were some cheers from the crowd, but Walker’s audience dwarfed that of Bob’s. He tried not to think too much about it, ceasing in his tracks when Joaquín hopped down to say something to him.

It was quiet, intimate — he tapped Bob on the chest, flashed a smile, ruffled the back of his neck reassuringly. You didn’t intrude, gaze wandering back toward Walker’s side of the pen.

He was on the phone, hanging back from the rest, one hand poised atop his hip. Whatever conversation he was having, he looked both anguished and despondent, head hung low, a man defeated.

A far cry from the confident arrogance he often oozed, you wondered who he could be talking to and what sparked the outrage. Admittedly, you were too nosy for your own good.

“Good luck to our boys and broncs! First competitor up on-deck, riding the newly-broken colt, Point Break!”

Out of the thirty riders lined up for tonight, only half would qualify for the Belt — and you hoped that Bob would be one of them. John was fourth on-deck, and Bob was eleventh; it left plenty of time for deliberation.

Still, you watched John, hawkishly picking him apart from where you sat, gaze trailing after him as he lowered his phone. One hand ran over his face, attempting to compose himself, the other straightening his hat.

Perplexed, you tore your stare away, focusing on the task at-hand. As the first rider went soaring out of the pen atop a bucking bronco, you counted the seconds — one, two, three, four.

Grounded.

The rider went tumbling off into the dirt below, bronc still bucking up a storm, kicking up clouds of dust into the arena.

“That’s a wrap for Mister Grimm tonight — everybody give ‘im a wave goodbye!” The announcer hollers, and you hear the audience play along from the stands.

Hopping down from the rafters, you keep an eye on Bob, who’s sitting soundly beside Joaquín. There isn’t a conversation occurring, and you know that’s what Bob often prefers before going into something nerve-wracking like this.

Footsteps approach you, spurs clinking, and you automatically assume that it’s Walker coming to play for round two; you’re pleasantly surprised.

Lemar Hoskins is someone you’re familiar with — John’s best friend and cohort, a cattle roper from Nevada. You’ve spoken on a handful of occasions, and he was typically pleasant, mild-mannered.

“Hey.” He greets, demeanor friendly as you decide to engage. There’s a level of apprehension involved considering his friendship to John, but he hasn’t given you a reason not to trust him.

“Hi, Lemar,” You smile, even-keeled as you patiently wait for the riders to cycle through. You’re here for Bob, and nobody else. “What brings you over this way? Are you sure John won’t get upset?”

“He’ll live,” Lemar chuckles, seemingly nonplussed. “I wanted to talk to you about Falcon’s Point.” The choice of subject surprises you, but you’re too intrigued to dissuade him.

“Might want to talk to Joaquín, that’s his expertise.” Shrugging, you notice Bob glancing in your direction, brows furrowing together as you converse with Lemar. “What about it?”

“Listen, I know that you and John aren’t exactly friends, but we wanted to warn you about Valentina. She’s planning on using some scheme to get that land,” He murmured, leaning in, voice hushed. “Legal or illegal.”

Blinking, you do little to mask your bewilderment, lips parting as you clear your throat. “How did you find out about this?” You inquire, applying some pressure to discern where the information came from.

“John told me. He wanted me to quietly pass it on,” Lemar uttered, lips twitching into a threadbare smile. Your shock was noted — John was warning you about Valentina? It didn’t make sense given his character. “He’s not all bad.”

“That doesn’t seem like him,” You counter, planting a boot down into the dirt. “Why the sudden change of heart, given how much he hates Bob and I? He isn’t known for charity, Lemar — no offense.”

The announcer calls for John’s name over the speakers, and the crowds begin to cheer louder than ever. Lemar clicks his tongue, knowing he has to get back to his side of the paddock.

“Just think about what I said. I gotta get back.”

As Lemar retreats, jogging back over to the pens beside John’s horse, you seem entirely conflicted about everything. For years, John’s hounded the both of you, spawning a rivalry that didn’t have any ending in-sight.

Stepping back toward the paddock, you swing up onto the rafters, getting somewhat of a vantage point. John’s riding Flagsmasher, a horse that’s almost too large for broncing, dappled grey and vicious.

When the timer begins, John moves with the horse as if it’s all fluid, muscle memory — he’s impressive to watch, you’ll give him that.

His hat goes soaring off, dirt kicked up in red clouds, the roar of the crowd almost deafening. He’s got one ironclad grip on the pommel, and the horse keeps kicking — the buzzer goes off.

Eight seconds felt fleeting.

“Flawless score by Mister Walker, once again! Welcome back to the Belton Belt!” The announcer cries.

He goes tumbling off with the last buck, eating dirt as he slams onto the ground. Like he’s had a thousand times before, he gets right back up, gait momentarily unsteady before he waves it off.

“What was that all about with Hoskins?” Reconvening with Bob and Joaquín, it’s the first question that comes flying out of Joaq’s mouth.

“I’ll tell you later — after Bob qualifies.” With a resolute nod, you glance at Bob, coming over to sit beside him. “Are you ready? You’ll be up soon.” You murmur, squeezing his hand.

“Think so,” He sighs, lips twitching into a threadbare smile. “Can’t be any worse than last time. Just gotta hang on ‘til I qualify — no thinking, just ridin’.” Bob assures, returning the brief squeeze before taking a deep breath.

“Good. You’ve got this, Bob,” Confident in his ability to hold on, you stand, patting his shoulder as you prepare for him to enter the arena. “Five seconds is all you need.”

The rest of the riders passed through quickly — four of the seven had qualified, with John thrown into the mix. Cruise Missile is already shifty inside of his pen, hooves kicking against the wood, stomping through the dirt.

“Up on-deck, we’ve got Mister Bob Reynolds! Took a tumble at last year’s Belt, but he’s brushed that dust off and he’s right back in the saddle!”

Joaquín follows you, hopping up onto the other side of the pen’s fences, boots sturdy over the thick, metal rungs. “Remember to put those spurs past the shoulders, hook the hand.”

Bob nods, moving to sit down on top of the horse, which huffs in-protest. The animal stirs violently beneath him, ready to go crashing out of the paddock.

He’s got one hand up, the other clutching desperately onto the saddle’s horn, eyes squeezing shut for a moment. He drowns out everything else — the crowds, the bickering, and he goes somewhere else.

You share a fleeting glance with Joaquín, hands wrenching tight onto the fence below you, relieving nervous energy. This is it — if he qualifies, you all are in for a long two weeks.

Once the gates lift, Cruise Missile goes shooting out in a flurry of heaving bucks and kicks. Bob almost loses his balance then and there, but wrenches that hand in and survives.

“Yes, Bob! You got this!” You’re screaming until your lungs are raw and hoarse, cheering his name as he moves with the bronco. He’s getting jostled around, but it’s surprisingly fluid.

His hat goes flying off, and you’re counting it down — one, two, three, four …

The buzzer for qualifying chimes at five seconds, and Bob hangs on a moment longer before another sudden kick sends him flying.

“Welcome to the Belton Belt, Mister Reynolds! Looks like he’s back and ready for a competition! Good riding out there!” The announcer calls over the speakers.

Joaquín is just as loud, jumping and pumping his fists into the air. “He got it! He hit six!” The both of you immediately fly down from the fences to hug, laughing and excited.

Bob is rolling in the dirt, the impact from the ground rattling his brain around for a second or two, but he stumbles back up. A stable hand helps him off of the arena floor, circling back to you.

Once he’s back in the paddock, you and Joaquín embrace him in a tight hug, laughing together — Bob is sporting a split lip, but he’s happy.

“Good riding out there, golden boy,” Joaquín muses, a twinkle in his eyes as Bob let out a low groan. His body is sore from hitting the ground as hard as he did, but he’s alive — he made it. “Gotta get you an orange slice.”

“That was perfect, Bob! Told you you’d hang on in five, and you did it in six. We’re in,” Beaming, the three of you stay huddled in a hug for a little while longer. “We’re in the Belt.”

“Thanks guys.” Bob murmured, giving a lackadaisical smile as the three of you sat back and waited for the rest of the results. As he gathered his things, you grabbed your bag.

“I’m gonna go get the truck so Bob doesn’t have to walk. Joaq, will you keep an eye on him ‘til I get back?” You asked, slinging your canvas knapsack over one shoulder.

“Yes ma’am!” Joaquín nodded, always the pleaser. He busied himself with tidying up your square of the paddock, helping Bob grab his gear.

Flashing an appreciative smile, you nodded, beginning your trek back to your vehicle, somewhere back in the grassy fields behind the arena.

It gave you time to think about what Lemar had told you — about Valentina, about the plot to take Falcon’s Point, about John.

There was something of a history there between the both of you, working together at the same ranch for a few years before things took off with his broncing career. He seemed a whole different person now — rougher, more ego, arrogant.

A tenuous friendship at best, but nothing more. Sometimes you wondered what exactly happened to him that caused his vitriol — but he cared enough to warn you about Valentina.

As you made it back to your battered Silverado, you unlocked the front door, tossing your bag into the backseat. Twilight had turned to dusk, skies unburdened by clouds, allowing for a clear view of the stars.

“You got a lighter?”

John’s voice crackled through your tangled thoughts, tired at the edges, riddled with nonaggression. He was sitting against the back of his truck, blonde tresses disheveled, no hat to be found.

Hesitant, you nodded, reaching into the center console to unveil a small BIC lighter — nothing impressive. It was old, hadn’t been used for awhile.

Quiet, you took one step forward, maintaining a noticeable distance as you tossed it to him, watching as he caught it with a nod.

“Congrats on qualifying again.” You murmured, tone somewhat flat. You didn’t have the energy to try and berate him just yet, and given what Lemar had told you, you tried to be cordial.

With a sardonic chuckle, John dismissed your praise with a shake of his head. He lit his cigarette, something to try and take the stress away, smoke curling through his nostrils.

“Right,” He mused, peering at you with an indiscernible expression. “Now you’re just playin’ nice.” The bite to his tone immediately turned you off to interacting further.

“Jesus — I was about to give you a chance, too.” Scoffing, you walk back to the cab of your truck, preparing to hop inside and leave him there, lighter and all. “Unbelievable.”

“Wait, hold on …” Exasperated, John stood up from the back of his truck, removing the cigarette from between his lips. He raised one hand in a half-convincing surrender. “Let’s start over.”

It’s enough to give you pause, boots scraping over thick grass, hand still poised over the driver’s side door handle. “What do you want, John?” You sighed, tone disarmingly gentle.

“Did Lemar tell you?” His cadence was considerably kinder than before, which happened to raise your hackles.

“Yeah, he did,” Skeptical, your brows furrowed together, hand dropping away as you leaned up against your truck instead. “Why the change of heart? Thought you were praying for our downfall.”

John huffed, agitation seeping into his countenance, clearly offended by your choice of words. “That’s what you think this is?” He questioned, embittered.

“I do,” You quip, crossing your arms over your chest. “You haven’t given me a reason to believe you, John. You aren’t known for charity work.”

“Jesus Christ — I try to be nice, throw you a bone and all you’ve got to give back is attitude. You should be thanking me.” John barks, lips twitching into that irritating smirk.

“Why would I give you my gratitude when all you’ve done is hound Bob and I? Especially Bob — he didn’t do anything to you.” Your tone remains neutral, toeing the line of frustration and placating.

“It’s called a competition, honey.” That condescending gnaw at the end almost makes you step forward and smack him, but you refrain. “Did you stop and think that maybe I’m not as bad as you think?”

With a mirthless laugh, you wave him off, swinging open the door to your truck. “No, you’re worse.” You retort, even though you don’t mean it. John is an asshole, but he’s never hurt you, or Bob — he just runs his mouth without consequence.

“I don’t think you mean that,” John counters, catching you in your brief sliver of hesitation. “If you did, you would’ve left as soon as you saw me.” He points out, and you’re cursing him.

“Listen, I don’t care about your competition. I care about Bob’s wellbeing, and I care about my friends, I care about the ranch,” You huff, lips turned into a half-frown. “We’re not in it for fame and fortune like you.”

“You think that’s why I do it?” He questions, sharp — he’s angry, and you’re pressed to dig a little deeper. John steps closer, smashing his cigarette into the dirt.

“Yeah, I do. You waste all this time and energy poking and prodding at Bob and I — would it kill you to be nice, for once?” Through a low hiss, you notice that the distance is closing.

“I was bein’ nice, and you spit in my face!” John grouses, throwing his hands up in faux defeat. The both of you keep aiming for the throat without a leg to stand on.

“No, you were being condescending! There’s a difference,” With another retort, the tension is still building, the both of you fuming. “I don’t understand what changed with you, John.” Suddenly, your tone softens.

He stops, realizing what you meant by that statement; between the old farm and now.

That felt like a lifetime ago, working with you in that old dust-bowl of a ranch, breaking colts and roping cattle.

John hesitates, jaw clenched tight as if the muscle might snap into two. The both of you are tense with conflict, a thunderstorm of sentiments that you’re trying to navigate.

Silence bridges the gap instead, and his anguish begins to simmer down, the fire curling over his bones as he hangs his head.

“Best you don’t know.” He grits, his tone gruff and frayed with exhaustion. There’s something that he’s hiding, keeping buried away — you wonder what that is, but you don’t have time.

“Right,” With a begrudging sigh, the argument finally climbs down to a mere hum. For a moment, you stare at the ground, fumbling for an appropriate response. “I gotta go. Good luck, John.”

You meant it, too.

It wasn’t a halfhearted, lame attempt at being peaceful — you were being sincere, as you always were, and it often left him feeling like the villain at the end of it all.

John swallows, blue-eyed gaze unreadable as he nods, chalking this up to a stalemate. He doesn’t know what else to say, but he decides to take the high road for once.

“Good luck to you, too.” He mumbles, watching as you climb into your truck. There’s something else he wants to say, but he bites his tongue, neglecting to instigate anything with you.

The silence only thickens as he watches you drive off, leaving behind a cloud of dust and a wildfire of uncertain feelings.

[swordgrace]

╱╱ 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐬.

a john walker x fem!reader rodeo!au.

┊ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒:

JOHN WALKER is Belton’s best bronc-rider with a larger-than-life attitude, a chip on his shoulder, and a cocksure mouth. In the wake of his divorce, he’s pouring himself into winning the Belton Belt — a two week-long rodeo competition. He’s got something to prove.

YOU are the manager of BOB REYNOLDS, your childhood companion and best friend. When Falcon’s Point Farms and its land are threatened by businesswoman VALENTINA FONTAINE, you and Bob plan to win the Belton Belt — and the cash prize that comes with it.

The only caveat is the obstacle that is JOHN WALKER — and worst of all, you find yourself falling for him.

┊ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 & 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒.

rivals to lovers , cowboy!au , rodeo!au , 18+ content (mdni) , eventual smut/romance , angst , platonic!bob x reader , joaquin x bob (background) , eventual violence , cameos from other thunderbolts + marvel characters.

┊ 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓.

PART I — KNOW HOW TO RODEO.

PART 2 — COMING SOON.

[swordgrace]

*ೃ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓.

collection of my works organized by fandom! each fic will be tagged appropriately with what it contains. this post will be updated on a weekly basis.

all fics are x female reader unless stated otherwise. organized by oldest first, newest last.

tags for fics: FLUFF — ✿ / ANGST — ☾ / SMUT — ❤︎︎

⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐋 𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄. ┊

ROBERT ‘BOB’ REYNOLDS / THE SENTRY.

✿ ☾ oh, scaling all your shadows. — 4.0K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ oh, scaling all your shadows (pt. 2) — 8.3K. one-shot.

✿ three words and eight letters. — 1.5K. ficlet.

❤︎︎ oh, be my rest, be my fantasy. — 8.5K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ all of me wants all of you. — 5.4K. one-shot.

JAMES BUCHANAN ‘BUCKY’ BARNES.

❤︎︎ every time the sun comes up. — 4.2K. one-shot.

✿ number one party anthem. — 7.0K. one-shot.

JOHN F. WALKER / US AGENT.

❤︎︎ bite the hand that needs you. — 10.0K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ only pretend until it’s not. �� 6.3K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ a black eye and two kisses. — 6.5K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ you’re the ache I asked for. — 4.4K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ pushing it down and praying. — 13.0K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ proximity check. — 5.4K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ baby, kiss it better. — 3.8K. ficlet. requested.

❤︎︎ find my way to your tongue. — 2.7K. ficlet.

❤︎︎ take me one more time. — 3.8K. ficlet.

JOAQUIN TORRES / THE FALCON.

✿ for the love of near death experiences — 3.5K. ficlet.

❤︎︎ the romeo and juliet protocol. — 9.6K. one-shot.

⠀ཾ༵࿇ ˼ 𝐀 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄. ┊

jacaerys velaryon

❤︎︎ what honor demands (i). — 11.5K. series.

jon snow

❤︎︎ shake this frost off of my bones. — 10.5K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ in the palm of your freezing hand. — 3.4K. ficlet.

robb stark

❤︎︎ laid bare before the wolf. — 5.7K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ howl, caught in the open. — 5.0K. one-shot.

aegon ii targaryen

☾ ❤︎︎ foolish, fragile spine. — 7.4K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn. — 11.5K. one-shot.

aemond targaryen

❤︎︎ devotion. — 7.1K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ ascendancy. — 5.2K. one-shot.

daemon targaryen

❤︎︎ faithfully. — 13.0K. one-shot.

rhaenyra targaryen

❤︎︎ longed for as the sun-warmed earth. — 10.0K. one-shot.

cregan stark

❤︎︎ northern attitude. — 8.3K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ wolfsblood, dragonsblood. — 6.7K. one-shot.

❤︎︎ blood in the snow. — 8.5K. one-shot.

gwayne hightower

❤︎︎ touch of your heavenly hand. — 5.1K. one-shot.

harwin strong

❤︎︎ the strong and the maiden fair. — 12.1K. one-shot.

╱╱ updated 06.04.25.

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞. ❞

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.8K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut, (mdni), porn without plot, established relationship, lots of dirty talk, breast play, making out, biting, john walker’s praise kink, prone bone, unprotected p in v sex, creampie. sweet ending.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: yeah I’m not even sorry for being debauched anymore !! this is filth with a soft ending. this lowk got me biting my knuckles during the writing process so ,,, I hope you all enjoy! 🫶

Inky black paints the skies above the Watchtower, New York cityscape a canvas for thousands of stars. It’s a quiet night, a rarity that doesn’t seem to come very often, but you accept them whenever time allows.

Water trickles from the faucet in John’s bathroom, accompanied by the rhythmic noises of a toothbrush being scraped over teeth.

If it weren’t for trying to keep your relationship private for the sake of the team, you would’ve already relocated to his room. However, there’s still some thrill you get in sneaking over once it’s dark like a teenager.

Pinned beneath his sheets, you’re perfectly content to observe from your perch, gaze tracing over raw, sinewy muscle, over yellowing bruises.

He isn’t chiseled or godlike in the way that Bob is, but he’s real, physique attained from years of hard work, of pushing himself to the brink. Broad shoulders are smattered with light freckles, biceps flexing; you don’t stop staring.

John stopped wearing a shirt to bed, clad in a pair of plaid boxers that kissed the center of his thighs. He’s leaning over the sink, spitting a wad of arctic mint into the basin, washing it out with a swig of water.

The sight of this, of him bare and vulnerable, is inherently domestic, a life that you never envisioned for yourself. Something stirs within your belly, mere embers preparing to rage into flames.

His shirt hangs loose over your frame, still alive with his scent, a heady mixture of now-stale cologne and something husky.

When he turns, he catches your gaze with a lopsided smirk, cocking an eyebrow as you sheepishly turn away. You’ve been together for months, and you’re still acting a little bashful — he thinks it’s cute.

He used to convince himself that roughness was the only path forward — that being sharp, uneven like tilled earth, was how he needed to be. You’d convinced him otherwise, and he was grateful.

“You’re not subtle,” John echoes, switching off the bathroom lights before coming to join you in bed. He doesn’t crawl beneath the sheets, hands seizing your hips. “C’mere.”

“John!” You gasp through a mouthful of giggles, flesh crawling with heat as he drags you to him, pinning you against his chest. Face-to-face, he plants a kiss against your jaw, gaze softening.

Tangled in an amalgamation of limbs, you perch against him, letting your weight sink down as you trace circles over his collarbone. “God,” He murmurs, reverent. “You’re gorgeous.”

Behind closed doors, the swagger and temperamental smugness dissipate, leaving just John; he’s significantly softer in private. Whatever facade he wore before seems to drop, and it’s just the two of you — no bravado.

With a lackadaisical smile, you preen beneath his words, lashes kissing the skin beneath your eyes. His hand cups your hips, digits skimming over slivers of exposed flesh.

John stares at you; you’re grounding, an anchor that he never imagined needing. Irises glisten with affection, with a tenderness he still feels undeserving of, but he’s let that go.

He exhales when your hand cups his jaw, thumb tracing over the scruff of his beard, digits mapping his visage as if he’s a constellation. “You’re so perfect.” As the words rush from your mouth, he shifts beneath you.

He doesn’t feel perfect; he’s never felt remotely close to anything other than a fraud, a shell of a man, but you’ve helped him pick up those pieces.

John doesn’t define himself by past actions and merit anymore — he can’t. Inadequacy is the biggest chip on his shoulder, and he’s still learning to let that go. If it weren’t for you, he wouldn’t have changed.

A light huff escapes him, brows drawing together as he squeezes your hip. “Should be telling you that.” He sighs, lips twitching into a threadbare smile.

“Nothing’s stopping you, Walker.” Cheeky, you happen to wriggle closer, bridging the gap between mouths. Lips connect in a soft kiss, something tender; it makes his head spin, brain filled with static.

Through his mouth, his smile remains, a faint upturn that you feel between kisses. You’re still partially on top of him, slotted against his thigh, feeling his hands become emboldened through touch alone.

John’s chest blossoms with a stinging sigh, sharp, attempting to rein in the myriad of crass thoughts that float through his head. It’s difficult with your body against his, touching him as if he’s the only thing worth your while.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, sweetheart.” He challenges, though it’s exceedingly weak. To your delight, you’re prepared to follow through, lips stilling against his.

Sitting upright, your expression is one of incredulity, a smile finding its way to your mouth. “You started it,” A flimsy excuse, at best. “You started it as soon as you pulled me in.”

He lifts a hand in faux defense, blonde brows pinching together, chest erupting with a huff of laughter. “Not guilty.” John retorts, albeit playfully before watching you crawl away, laying beside him with a cheshire grin.

“You’re ridiculous.” You’re breathtaking when you smile; and John knows that it’s all for him. He covets that, a sacred look shared between lovers, knowing you’ve got him pinned.

In the still silence that falls between, John’s countenance glows with a beam, chest shaking with a huff of laughter. “Right — ridiculous.” He lulls, drawing out each syllable, grunting as he shifts to move on top of you.

His weight ghosts above, a warm pressure that sends butterflies surging through your belly. Bullying your legs apart, he’s perched on his forearms, staring down at you through a half-lidded glower.

The intensity of his gaze pierces through you, sharp and poignant, heat beginning to slither over your limbs. Wordlessly, he bends to kiss you, scruffy mouth claiming yours.

Something charged lingers within his lips, something hungry, as if he’s telling you what he wants without verbalizing it.

When your palms snake to settle over his biceps, caressing him as if he’s something precious, it all feels so raw. He doesn’t bristle at the softness like he used to — he embraces it.

Kissing him stitches your heart together in ways you never thought possible, mending years of a self-inflicted isolation.

He kisses you hoarse, hot and messy, like dry kindling catching fire. Arousal creeps between your thighs, damp and incessant, causing you to shift beneath him.

“John,” You sigh, shivering as teeth languidly scrape over your bottom lip, tempting you. The growing swell of his cock presses through the linen of his boxers, firmly slotted over your clothed core. “Please don’t tease me.”

Much to his embarrassment, it never takes much for him to get riled up, erection rutting against your groin, friction spreading like wildfire.

Through an open-mouthed kiss, his tongue wets your bottom lip, foreheads nestled together, his heart singing in his ears.

One hand shifts to snare within the hem of your shirt, dragging it toward your ribs, fingers tracing up until he gropes your breast. He’s kissing you as if he’s trying to win, ripping air from your lungs.

Your hips urge forward, and as if to torment him further, you’re grinding into his cock, pulling a husky groan from his chest. Hands rake to the nape of his neck, fisting into blonde tresses.

The rough pad of his thumb circles your nipple, gooseflesh erupting beneath his touch. It only furthers the ache that screams between your thighs, slick with a familiar heat.

Mouths continue to clash, a mess of lips and teeth, tongue when John initiates it, eliciting a moan from your throat. Passion overrides everything else, ardor replacing logic.

“Christ, you’re drivin’ me crazy.” He pants into your mouth like a dog in-heat, and it all seems to escalate with a fervent intensity. His Georgian drawl slithers in when he’s wound up tight.

“John, shit — do something about it.” It shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did, your wanton remark — but it did, and he’s reaching to tug at your panties.

Serum-infused blood pumps through his veins with a renewed fervor, and instead of sliding them down your legs as he’s done many times before, he grips, grips tightly. “Hope you aren’t attached to these.” He growls into your ear.

His guttural snarl makes you want to press your thighs together, stopped by his musculature, and your eyes go doe-eyed, wide. Digits flex into the cotton material and pull, stitches ripping as he tears the fabric right from you.

A gasp rips through your diaphragm, coupled with shock and awe as he kneads into your breast, rolling your nipple between thumb and forefinger. “J—John!” You moan, feeling his lips wrap around your chest.

“Gonna fuck you until you’re hoarse.” John gruffs against your flesh, and you’re squirming, body buzzing with a teeming him. You’ve never heard him talk like that, but he’s thoroughly and utterly razed.

Needy lips harshly suck at your unattended breast, edged with the graze of teeth. You shiver, back arched, flesh crawling with heat, eyes half-lidded as you scrape your fingers over his scalp.

The floral scent that permeates your skin sends him into a near-frenzy, a smell he’s grown accustomed to. He gropes at your tits, kisses, bites — tension coils in his shoulders, and he wants a release.

“Turn over.”

He isn’t asking you, either.

Dizzy, your muscles feel molten, as if you’re going to melt right through the mattress. Eyelids twitch, your jaw unhinged, pushing a sharp gasp through your diaphragm.

As if to accentuate his command, his lips nip at your sternum, pinching at your nipple with enough stimulation to make you whimper.

He’s grabbing a pillow somewhere from the left side of the bed, relinquishing his weight from you, allowing you to roll over onto your stomach. John kindly manhandles you into place, shoving the pillow beneath your hips.

His name cascades from your mouth like a prayer, anticipation crawling through your spine. He walks a fine line between domineering and passionate, as if he’s solely in control, but you know how easy he falls apart, too.

Fabric shuffles behind you as he discards his boxers, reddened tip of his cock prodding against your slick cunt. It makes you shiver, his breath hot beside your ear.

Weight bears down on you again, more similar to a warm blanket, chest flush as he presses into your back. He’s so much larger, face just behind your own, hands locking in over yours.

The sensation of fingers intertwining sends another spike of liquid heat through your belly, cunt aching for him with desperation. “So wet for me,” He pants, teeth nicking the shell of your ear. “Jesus, you’re so pretty like this.” The grit in his cadence makes you throb.

John’s got a mouth, sure, but he’s never used it like this, torturing you with dirty praise that makes you writhe. As if to tempt him, you push yourself against him, cunt grinding into his cock.

“J—John, please …” He’s got you broken, thoughts scrambled, liquefied in the wake of crass murmurs. You’re undeniably soaked, flesh tingling, body craving him as if he’s air.

The tip of his cock rubs along your pussy, and you’re debauched, nails curling into the sheets, flexing against his fingers. Prone beneath him, he huffs, forehead nudging into the back of your neck.

With a forward motion, he pushes his hips into yours, cock meeting mild resistance. His actions are disarmingly sluggish — you expected something feral and rough, but he does the opposite.

He’s groaning into your skin, planting kisses there when he isn’t making noise. A moan shakes your chest, drawn-out and wanton, a sound that’s sure to be embedded into his mind for days to come.

The position forces you to feel every inch of him, and he’s infuriatingly well-endowed. His cock kisses your walls, cunt clenching pathetically around him the further he goes, bodies now entangled.

“F—Fuck, John,” Slurred, you’re drunk on your own desire, brain fuzzy with static, mouth slack to make room for throaty moans. “God, you fe—feel so good, please!”

John’s voice tapers off into a husky moan, the praise driving him crazy, and it’s almost enough to get him under control. “Jesus, takin’ me so well.” He roughs, kissing just beneath your ear.

The tightness of your cunt drives him to the brink of madness, huffing beside your ear, teeth grazing over your jaw. He’s growling, panting, his sounds mirroring that of a feral dog instead of a man.

As he fully hilts inside of you, cock bottoming out, he squeezes at your hands, mouth flush to the nape of your neck. There’s a second to adjust, the both of you lost within the haze of ecstasy.

Drawing his hips back, cock halfway gone, he pushes back in — deep, sensual. There’s a significant lack of roughness, but he doesn’t do anything in half-measures.

“Feel s’good, perfect,” Through a string of needy whines, you try to push your hips back against him, but the prone position makes it difficult. The pressure of his body is grounding, dizzying. “You feel so good.”

It’s an incoherent mess of babbles that leave you, singing his praises, and he buckles. That validation and praise he craves from you brings him to heel, brows pinched together.

“Keep talking, honey.” John groans, kissing a messy, wet string of kisses over your shoulder, finding a rhythm that makes your head spin.

Each thrust of his hips sends him deep, cock nearly kissing your cervix. Each ripple of your cunt makes him shudder, the sensations nearly overwhelming — all-encompassing, consuming.

“You — Shit, you fuck me so well,” The words feel foreign in your mouth, but it barely registers, emerging as heated whines. It makes him growl into your shoulder, teeth gently biting at sensitive flesh. “John, please, please.”

John’s reply was another snap of his hips, cock pounding away at your aching cunt. Each thrust is passionate — he wants you to feel everything, feel what you do to him.

He’s fucking you as if it’s the last thing he’ll do, grunts resonating beside your ear, breath hot as it tickles the nape of your neck.

As good as it feels, you wish you were looking at him — the image is drenched in sin, the one you conjure up. Each moan that keens from your lips is answered with a roll of his hips, cock working you open, kissing your cunt.

Scarlet clings to John’s features, handsome and pink, jaw strained as if something might shatter. He’s grunting, warm baritone slipping off into a half-moan when your thighs clench together.

Each slap of his cock lewdly urges against your slick cunt, arousal thick and honeyed around him, making everything easier.

The pillow pushed beneath your hips lets you take the brunt of his thrusts, his groin grinding near your ass, bodies sticky with perspiration. He exudes heat like a furnace, making you sweat.

Ecstasy builds, twined around his muscles, constricting him in some blinding haze. “You’re mine,” The snarl he lets out sends shockwaves through your cunt. “My girl.”

John is naturally possessive, and when he lets his claim fly between messy kisses to your shoulder, it sends you into overdrive.

“M’yours,” Receptive, you feel him fuck into you again, pace still bordering between sensual and vigorous, cock hitting new depths. “Fuck, John — so good at this.”

Your wanton praise goes straight to his head, fueling that subservient side to him that hungers for your attention. It’s more than enough to inflate his pride, and he releases one of your hands.

Beside your head, one hand remains interlocked with his, the gesture disarmingly tender between lewd clashes of bodies. His palm slides over your shoulder, slow, caressing until he finds your waist.

His thumb traces circles into the silky skin there, ministrations never slowing — his pace remains unwavering.

John shudders at the feeling of your cunt, tight and warm around him, clenching around his cock with each roll of his hips. Pleasure mounts within him like a white-hot coil, burning through his belly.

You sob from the pleasure, ecstasy shooting through your body as if you’ve been struck by lightning, arousal seeping from your cunt.

It’s all flesh against flesh, accompanied by a cacophony of groans and whimpering, and you’re rutting into the pillow pushed beneath your hips.

The friction is stinging, lungs burning with each breath you take. “Keep going, please.” You sigh, delirious with desire, any shred of coherency surrendered to him.

John’s a good soldier — obedient, and he’s certainly not one to defy your command when he’s deep in your cunt. He’s rutting into you, passionate and needy, pleasure surging through his veins.

Muscles coil around you, and he’s caging you in between his body and the mattress, grunting when your cunt clenched around him.

His palm drags over your ribs, calloused flesh meeting your silky skin, and he’s head over heels. He can’t think straight anymore, logic thrown out the window, abandoned — you’re all he wants, all he sees as he thrusts again.

It’s a blissful rhythm, the best you’ve had, a constant rut of urging hips and a mouth that wanders over the juncture between throat and shoulder.

He bites softly, pulling a moan from your lips. “Christ, you’re perfect like this.” John gruffs, beard scratching ragged over your flesh, leaving you tingling all over.

He’s getting close, feeling the occasional spasm of your hips as you grind into the pillow, pushing against him as best as you can. You moan his name, again and again.

The pace of his thrusts seems to increase, jackhammering at your cunt when he’s pushed closer to the edge. You clench around him as if you’re sucking him in, and he’s enraptured.

It’s everything — it’s his mouth, teeth, body blanketing yours, hands intertwined, cock fucking you deep — you’re not going to last much longer like this.

“Close, m’close.” Panting, your diaphragm burns with labored breaths, muscles like jelly, body succumbing to his vigorous, sensual thrusts. Bliss festers within your belly, screaming.

Daring to lift your head, you decide to look — the sight is nothing short of mesmerizing, sinful.

Wisps of blonde hair stick to his temples, brow glittering with sweat, countenance contorted into an expression of sheer bliss. His jaw is locked, eyelids nearly shut, looking as if he’s just glimpsed the holy ghost.

Part of you wished you’d been treated to the picture of him all along, flushed and pink, handsome without a drop of effort. He’s even prettier when he’s fucking you hoarse, exertion poured into pounding away at your cunt.

“Jesus, you’re tight,” John rasps, throat thick with desire, coarse as he feels himself slipping over the edge. “Fuck, I can’t — Goddamn …” There isn’t any warning, but you don’t care in the slightest.

Every thrust is sharp, precise — he’s gritty, perspiration glittering along his neck, muscles pulled taut. John sucks a hickey into whatever flesh he can reach beside your jaw.

His cock pulses, throbbing incessantly inside of you as he snaps forward again, groaning beside your ear when he hits his peak.

It sets off a chain reaction — white-hot bliss, a buzz shaking your nerves, brain humming with static. Any coherent thought is promptly scrambled, tossed aside.

John’s forehead rests just behind your ear, hot breath curling over your throat, still hilted inside of you when he cums.

There’s something messy about it — reckless, incendiary, rapturous. He doesn’t pull out, fucking you full with his cum. Warmth floods your insides, crescendoing into your own release.

With another light grind against the pillow, friction grating right to your core, you moan, clutching onto his hand like a vice. Bitten by ecstasy, you feel like you’re floating, the coil within your stomach unfurling.

It’s as if you’ve been washed in fire, flesh feverish, the heat so intense you nearly collapse. He ruts through your shared release with sensual, sluggish rolls of his hips.

Ripples of bliss shoot through your veins even still, seeing stars through closed eyes, thighs quivering like leaves. John’s chest breaths ragged with each sigh, as if he’s exhaling fire, brows still furrowed together.

Entangled moans finally simmer down, tapering off into stinging huffs, exhales pushed through his nose. He presses a string of kisses over the back of your neck, to the top of your spine.

In the afterglow, it’s hushed — you’re catching your breath and so is he, feeling him stay inside of you for a few moments longer.

“You okay?” John murmurs, wondering if he’d pushed it too far. Roughened fingertips trace over your side, coming to affectionately squeeze your hip. “I didn’t take it too far, did I?” He asks, concerned.

Smiling to yourself, you’re flustered, feeling his cum and yours cool over your cunt, the ache diminishing into a dull pulsation. “No, no,” You soothe, feeling his mouth on your throat. “I’m really good.”

John nods, planting another kiss to your jaw before he reluctantly pulls out, leaving behind a mess of fluids that paint your inner thighs. The sensation is sticky, exceedingly wet.

He grunts, moving off of the bed to get you a towel — and new panties. The remnants of your undergarments are in scraps somewhere on the floor, you realize.

You lay there, razed, limbs feeling molten, as if the bone has turned to liquid. A pleasant buzz hums through your veins, breathing beginning to steady as you roll onto your side.

Framed by the golden glow emanating from the light above his headboard, he’s stunning — shadows accentuating raw muscle, body a canvas for yellowing bruises and fading scars.

Even afterwards, he’s exceptionally sweet, a natural caretaker as he brings you a towel and a pair of underwear you’d left in his room prior.

“Thanks.” You smile, awkwardly shuffling to clean yourself up a little bit, sliding on a dark, spandex pair of panties. Readjusting your shirt, you toss the towel into a dirty basket.

“You’re so beautiful.” John murmurs, retrieving his boxers, tugging them back on as he joins you in bed again, looping you into his side. His arm wraps around your hips, pressing a kiss to your jaw.

Smitten, you crawl closer, head nestling against his shoulder as your fingers trace over his chest. Hands intertwine somewhere over his heart, dog-tags hanging beside his collar.

“You’re cute like this,” You hum, and he scoffs instantaneously. “You are, John. You’re really sweet when you want to be.” He takes the compliment to-heart nonetheless.

Lips mold together, the kiss wonderfully tender, enough to make him melt beneath you. John savors it all, letting it linger, hand tracing the soft curve of your hip. “Cute, huh?” He utters, husky.

“Very.” Soft, your cadence quiets, leg hitched over his hips, anchored to his side, oozing with warmth. You keep the sheets off for now, letting him cradle you, hold you tight.

He laughs; a flash of pearlescent teeth, bleeding with a charm that makes your stomach erupt with butterflies. “Don’t tell the rest of the team about this.” John grouses, feeling your lips smooth over his cheek.

“They already know, John.” You hum, feeling his body jostle with a huff as he caresses beneath your shirt, palm dragging along the small of your back.

John doesn’t seem perturbed; if anything, he’s happy — content, even. “Your fault.”

[swordgrace]

𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐞.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.7K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), porn no plot, pure filth, john walker is a munch, cunnilingus, oral sex (fem!rec), face-sitting, john walker’s praise kink, making out, beard burn from john, hair-pulling.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this is the face-sitting ficlet that was promised. don’t go into this expecting plot bc this got me freaked up ngl ,,, hope y’all enjoy. 🫶

Careworn palms mold themselves to the swell of your hips, threatening to snake over your ass, digits scratching across satiny cotton.

Through the gloam of a hushed dusk, you’re firmly slotted in John’s lap, one of his military shirts hanging from your frame, panties clinging underneath.

He quiets when his mouth is busy, bravado and swagger sucked dry, exchanged for a tangled snare of passionate kisses. Hips languidly roll against his, as if to test the limits, and he squirms.

A pleasant sting settles within his chest, dismissed through your mouth, clamoring over his, slick with spit and desperation.

Excited hands trace over his thick biceps, smattered in faint freckles and nearly-healed bruises, yellowing knots over sun-kissed skin. Digits hook against the nape of his neck, crawling into blonde tresses.

John wouldn’t confess to this, but you make him nervous — something to lose, as if you might dissipate between his fingers like dust in the wind.

Every drawn-out embrace of your mouth makes him ache in a way he never thought possible, ravenous for you, as if you’re the last thing he’ll ever have. Calloused palms drop to your thighs, kneading over pliant flesh, savoring soft skin.

His stamina outweighs yours, enhanced by the serum, giving him the ability to endure; he’s struggling when your hips grind against his.

Muscle envelops you, the brawn of his physique a canvas for your kisses, mouth untangling as you plant your lips over his jaw. A hitch forms at the bottom of his throat, subtle; you catch it, satisfaction rippling through you.

The shadow of his beard scratches your mouth, itching some lascivious part of your brain, the one that craves him like air.

“God, you’re beautiful,” John sighs with rapture, husky timbre vibrating beside your ear; he grips your thigh a little tighter, as if to accentuate his statement. “Drivin’ me crazy.” He whispers, nose ghosting over your temple.

Georgian drawls sink into his cadence whenever his voice lowers, and it’s effective, cutting into your belly like a hot knife. Heat warms the back of your neck, slithering throughout your body, leaving you aching for more.

Lashes kiss the soft skin beneath your eyes, gooseflesh spreading from where his thumb circles over your thigh, his caress grounding you.

He eases back, flattening against the mattress, arching one arm beneath his head. The position is comfortable, smug; something incendiary crackles beneath his cerulean hues.

Still perched within his lap, your head cants to one side, palms splaying flat over his abdomen. “Where are you going?” You hum, nonplussed as you prepare to give chase.

His bicep flexes behind his head, gaze eclipsed by desire as he rubs one palm over your thigh, hitching within the crook of your knee. “Nowhere,” John utters, chin jutting up. “Take those off.”

There’s a lack of staunch dominance within his tone, but you obey anyway, swallowing the swell of excitement that threatens to burst from your chest.

Eager fingers hook into your panties, worming from the snug material with ease. Cotton pools somewhere at the foot of your bed, bare cunt ghosting over the swell in his sweatpants.

“Come here.” The attractive rasp that clings to his purr makes your stomach tight with butterflies, arousal slick as you attempt to shove your legs together.

Wordlessly, you’re inclined to obey, body floating as you awkwardly climb up his chest, silky thighs straddling his chest. The full brunt of your weight neglects to sink onto him, gaze radiantly doe-eyed.

Between charged glances and an absent wetting of his bottom lip, you discern what he’s after, throat becoming unbearably snug. “John, I don’t think this is a good idea. What if I —”

“I can handle it, honey.” John placates, tone climbing with enthusiasm, pitched with an excitable sigh. Roughened fingers tense behind your knee, preparing to drag you closer.

The heady use of his affection pet-name for you makes you squirm, body caged within a coil of heat, spine quivering with a shiver. Still, you’re hesitant, rocked up upon your knees to redistribute the weight elsewhere.

Rough palms coax you closer, and he’s silently pleading, begging for you to bridge the gap and sit on his face. He’s itching, gaze burning right through you, still caressing your thigh out of pure reassurance, hoping to put you at-ease.

Coaxed, you kneel above his head, knees wedged on either side of him, beard prickling your flesh. Tingles crawl over your spine, electricity blazing through your nerves as he holds you.

“Still don’t trust me?” John murmurs, planting a reverent kiss against your thigh, cock throbbing with a sudden ache when your hand reaches down, tugging at his scalp.

Words work faster than your brain, “You’ll have to earn it.” As the wanton utterance slips past your mouth, his pupils dilate, black eclipsing blue, jaw beginning to slack.

Taking this as some sort of unspoken challenge, a fire burns within his gaze, as if he’s trying to win. He kisses a slow trail over your leg, beard scratching ragged, accompanied by an occasional scrape of teeth.

Lips flush against your inner thigh, brief, drawing a shudder from your spine, feeling his mouth climb to the warmth oozing between your legs.

His chest erupts with a shallow grunt, hands firm on the back of your legs. John pulls you lower, glowering at you from between your thighs, blonde brows creased with concentration.

Still, you’re hovering, perched; unwilling to relinquish your weight, your hand darts out to brace against the wall, sucking in a sharp breath.

The first lap of his tongue is broad, flat over your aching slit, beard stinging your silky flesh. He’s watching you, the smoldering eye contact enough to make your cunt clench around nothing at all.

Tonguing across your cunt, the bittersweet bite of your arousal floods his mouth, and he welcomes it, molding his lips to your core. It stirs a flame within your belly, pooling heat, making you writhe.

“Fuck,” In a sluggish, drawn-out exhale, your fingers card through his crown, nails lightly perusing over his scalp. John shivers, cock throbbing, straining against the front of his pants. “John, s’good.”

His tongue rakes embers across your cunt, nearly ripping the air from your lungs. The sensation is dizzying, and he treats it as if it’s a competition, striving to be the best at fucking you with his mouth.

The tip of his nose brushes against your folds, but even that isn’t good enough; he wants to be smothered, buried. He can feel you teetering above him as if you’re adverse to sinking down fully.

With slow, eager laps of his tongue, John made sure to savor you, letting the flat of his tongue fall heavy across your clit. His name plumes from your mouth like a prayer.

“Jesus, would you sit down?” With an impatient growl, the sharp command makes your thighs twitch, knees buckling as they collapse beneath the weight of his words.

Smitten, you drop all at once, as if you’re mere putty, malleable within his hands. Relinquishing your weight onto his face, he groans, the noise vibrating through your core.

He grips you like a vice, caging you firmly against his head, nose grazing your mound. Keeping you anchored to his mouth, he’s consuming you like a man starved, deprived of sustenance.

Pleasure jolts through your body in shockwaves, piercing your belly, slicking between your thighs as your hips urge forward. The friction isn’t unwanted with him; he’s messy, ravenous.

Sometimes, you despise how good he is at this — how incredible he makes you feel. You’re collapsing, gritting your teeth as your forehead becomes flush with the wall.

John seems too comfortable; if he had it his way, he’d stay between your legs and eat your cunt until you were trembling and screaming.

Rough-hewn palms manhandle your thighs, shaking, holding so tightly that it might bruise. It’s accidental, something to keep himself grounded while he’s burying his mouth into your cunt.

It’s the scratch of his beard against soft flesh that makes your stomach flip, stubble ragged when he’s lapping at your slit, a pleasant burn.

Lips part around your clit, tasting you, savoring you; his senses are all hazy, clouded by your scent, the taste, everything. A low grunt rips through his diaphragm, followed by a groan when your hips grind into his mouth.

Eyes flutter shut as if he’s content, drinking you in like some oasis, tongue working diligently across your cunt in broad, heady strokes. The bridge of his nose presses flush, imbibing you as if you’re the best thing he’s tasted.

A breathy, unfiltered string of babbled praise tears from your diaphragm, enamored with the pace he sets — nothing too rushed. Thighs quiver like leaves on either side of his head, hips canting forward.

“F—Fuck, fuck,” Spoken through a lascivious cadence, your voice splinters at the end, tapering off into a noisy moan. “Mouth feels amazing, John, so good.” Your slur, dizzy from desire.

It’s as if he’s struck with an aphrodisiac, flesh crawling with heat, and he preens when you lavish him with praise. John wants to bite back, answering your remark with another barrage of his tongue.

The heel of your palm digs into the wall, digits curling, body jolting with ripples of ecstasy. It only trembles further when his tongue ghosts around your clit, never fully making contact.

You urged him closer, hips rolling into the fervent heat of his mouth, thighs quivering as he treated you to a lap of his tongue.

Circled strokes dance over your cunt; once, twice, three times — you begin to lose count, succumbing to a mind-numbing euphoria.

Each keen of his tongue is reverent, lavishing you in rough kisses to your cunt as if it’s a thing of beauty, beard scraping raw over silky flesh, digits dipping into your haunches.

Whenever your hips happen to grind into his mouth, his cock twitches incessantly, leaving behind a splotch of precum from his own excitement.

He can’t fully explain why he gets off to you riding his face, but he does — so bad. It’s borderline agonizing, body rutting pathetically against nothing at all, lips applying pressure to your throbbing clit.

A crass burn singes his chest, labored groans echoed between your thighs like a prayer, sins lost within your cunt.

He’s smothered by your body, and he’s hoping that you stay, muscles spasming from the surge of ecstasy that scorches your veins.

A sharp groan blossoms throughout his sternum as you incessantly tug upon his blonde tresses, urging him closer, if that were even possible.

Tact leaves his body, replaced only by a feral hunger, and he’s messy, wanton; John’s pace adjusts to something all-devouring. His tongue flattens in broad strokes, a growl emerging from his mouth.

A white-hot bliss twists at your belly, everything set ablaze, hips rocking forward, again and again. Using the wall as an anchor, you let out a hapless sob into the cold surface, cunt throbbing with pleasurable pulsations.

“J—John, I — I can’t,” Crying from delight, you’re desperate to cum, his beard providing ample stimulation, rough and ragged. “Feels so good, dunno if I can …” Huffing in half-sentences, you try to pull into the wall.

As the stinging pressure begins to lighten, John immediately drags you back down, hands clawing, silently begging for you to stay.

Lips climb from your heated core to your clit, pressing a string of kisses there, tongue brushing over the clutch of nerves.

“Sit,” Through a husky groan, he’s urging you onto his mouth, lips pursing around your clit. The sudden stimulation almost knocks the wind from your legs, moaning without any consideration for the noise. “That’s it, that’s my girl.” John purrs.

Words turn to ash on your tongue, dying then and there when he encourages you to continue. You’re quivering atop him, but he steadies you, forearms taut, flexing as he holds you aloft without much effort.

John’s mouth is voracious, tongue endlessly greedy, eating you out as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Part of you wants to crumple, collapse in on yourself like a dying star, burning away.

Circling around your clit, he begins to lap over your pearl, feeling your legs tremor around him, muscles spasmodic, twitching. The needy tonguing makes your back arch, biting down on your bottom lip.

Between the pressure of your weight and being smothered amidst your cunt, John swears that he’s going to come — there isn’t any shame associated with it.

Cerulean hues sparkle with a glazed sheen, half-lidded, peering up at you, only to catch the blissed-out look on your face. He groans again, tempting you further as he suckles on your clit, unabashedly crass.

“John, John, m’close,” With a choked whimper, your hips continue to grind, and he’s content to lay there and take it, let you have whatever you want from him. “Fuck, need you so bad.” You sob, feeling as if you might combust.

He presses you further, a low hum tumbling from his mouth, still fervently revolving around your clit. The praise is blinding, and he’s crashing too, the both of you tangled in a supernova of ecstasy.

With another string of laps to your aching cunt, you’re fraying at the edges, splitting apart, completely and utterly destroyed.

A white-hot fever burns through you, bliss overwhelming, a buzz humming through your bones as if you’re floating somewhere else. Your jaw slacks, unhinged as you scream his name, gripping at his scalp, hunched over.

Feeling your body pulse around him, a low grunt splits his diaphragm, your legs trembling, muscles twitching in the aftermath. Even still, your mind is foggy, shrouded by a haze of desire.

He reacts in-tandem, coming untouched, snarling as he reaches his release. Everything feels unbearably hot, sticky — his gaze is glassy, visage splotched with scarlet.

Blissed-out and satiated, John’s brows pinch together, countenance a thing of unbridled satisfaction as he cums in his pants. He’s catching his breath, labored, attempting to ground himself again.

Conceding, he plants another kiss to your core, followed by a rough lap of his tongue, beard soaked by your slick, the sight obscene.

When you collapse in a heap next to him, your legs feel like jelly, muscles weak, still spasmodic as you plant a hand against his chest. He’s calming with you, gaze trained up at the ceiling, relaxed.

“Jesus.” John sounds happy, unable to bite back a grin as he wets his bottom lip. The taste of you is ingrained into his tongue, a bittersweet ambrosia that sates his craving.

Thoroughly and utterly razed, John is still mentally catching up, chest heaving as if he’s run himself ragged, burning in the best way.

With a soft grunt, he sits up just enough to peer at you through blonde lashes, wondering what exactly he’d done to deserve you. You’re beautiful, stunning in the afterglow as you caress over his bicep.

“I don’t know what to say.” Smitten, you notice the satisfied smirk that paints his features, tresses disheveled, beard saturated with your arousal.

“That good?” John teases, and you lightly smack his ribs, hand running over his arm again, urging him down. He seems surprised, but concedes to you anyway, hunching over as you kiss him hard.

It makes his head spin, throat tight, cock pulsing again as if he didn’t cum already. John groans low into your lips, and you can taste yourself on his tongue, taste what he did to you.

He crumples, hand seizing your hips, tracing circles over the bone. With another dizzying kiss, he withdraws enough to stare at you.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Through a sweet mumble, you’re kissing his jaw, his cheek. He’s flushed, unable to keep up the tough facade — and he doesn’t want to.