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sunsburns · 15 days ago

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sixty-nine with john walker... just walk with me, i promise to hold your hand. post-thunderbolts*, fem!reader, explicit smut; mdni

Date nights were rare in your relationship with John Walker. Not because he didn’t try—he did, often, with that gravel-soft voice and a hand on your hip, muttering about some new place he wanted to take you. But between the endless missions, debriefs, roommates, and training, time together came in borrowed slices. Never enough.

Tonight was supposed to be different. You’d carved out the time, picked out a dress you knew he would love, spent nearly an hour getting ready; hair done, jewellery clasped, perfume dabbed on the pulse points he liked to kiss. The table was reserved. The car was waiting.

But you never made it past the bedroom mirror.

Not when John stepped up behind you, his presence so massive you felt it before you saw him. His hands found your waist like they always did, and his mouth pressed hot to the side of your neck. “You look beautiful.”

His kisses turned open-mouthed, sloppy, dragging down the curve of your neck, teeth grazing just enough to make your stomach twist with heat. In the mirror, his eyes locked with yours, and despite the way your breath hitched, an excited smile tugged at your lips. You could never hide how much you liked it when he got like this. You didn’t even try.

Your mascara was smudged before your heels even came off. Lipstick smeared across his mouth, your throat, his jaw. His shirt, freshly ironed, hung open on his chest, buttons ripped loose by your eager hands that were splayed across his chest—hot, solid muscle, the kind that always made you feel safe.

The air was heavy. Perfume. Colongue. Sweat. Sex.

It clung to your skin, made your head spin. Your body burned like the inside of a shower after the water’s been left running too long, flushed with heat, pulsing at the centre. And then he was lowering you onto the bed, only to turn you around and tug you backwards again—closer, closer, until you were straddling his face, thighs trembling around his head like you’d done this a hundred times (you had) and still couldn’t quite handle how easily he manhandles you.

You’re drooling a little bit, nails digging into the skin of John’s thick thighs as he pulls you down harder. He’s been insatiable lately, more vocal about what he wants, and one thing he’s never been shy about is how much he loves you on his face. Loves the way your pussy drips for him, the way the weight of you settles over his mouth like you were meant to be there. You feel it every time in the way he groans, the way he holds you still and eats you.

And you have to admit—it makes you dizzy. The way he handles you like nothing in the world matters more than keeping you close, eating you slow and deep, tongue dragging deliberate, sinful strokes through your folds until you’re whimpering with every breath. He groans low in his throat like he’s starved, like he wants to crawl inside you and stay.

His arms bulge as he tightens his grip, pulling you closer until your thighs tremble around his head. Your head drops, eyes wet with pleasure, barely able to blink through the blur of tears. But you catch it—his hips twitching under your palms.

His black slacks are still on, belt undone, button popped open, zipper down. His cock strains against the front of his boxers, a thick, dark patch blooming with precum. He’s leaking for you, turned on beyond reason just from tasting you. He usually always gets like this whenever his head is between your legs, though.

Neither of you had the patience to get undressed properly. Your dress is bunched high around your hips, one strap sliding off your shoulder. Your panties had been pushed aside hastily, now clinging to one thigh, while John’s shirt hangs open and damp, clinging to his sweat-slick skin.

Another stroke of his tongue has you shuddering above him, a moan spilling from your lips as your body rocks forward. The scratch of his beard catches against your swollen clit, and your eyes roll back as he circles it again, tongue confident, controlled. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

He makes you feel so good, so wanted, so thoroughly undone. But you want more. You want him shaking and soaked in it. It would be a damn shame to let him do all the work.

Not that he’d ever stop you.

Without thinking, you’re shifting forward slightly, propping yourself up just enough to lean down. One hand snakes, slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers, and you find him easily.

Hard. Hot. Dripping.

He practically springs free, flushed a deep, needy red, and already leaking at the tip. Precum smears across your palm as you wrap your fingers around him, and that’s when he stutters beneath you, his tongue faltering, hips jerking involuntarily into your hand.

You don’t give him a chance to recover.

You lean down and take the head of his cock into your mouth, slow and deliberate, your tongue circling the crown before you start stroking him with your fist. He groans loudly, caught off guard, and his arms tighten around your thighs like he’s trying to anchor himself, fingers digging into your skin.

You start slobbering on him, spit sliding down your wrist and pooling into the thick thatch of dirty blond hair at the base. That same trail of hair disappears beneath the open lines of his shirt, dusting over the hard muscle of his abs, his chest, his arms—every part of him strong and taut, strained with effort as he tries to keep his mouth on you through it all.

You wonder, for a split second, why you haven’t done this before—both, at once; take as much as you can give.

Your hips rock slightly against his face on instinct, but his grip doesn’t loosen. If anything, it tightens. He holds you down, locked in place, tongue working between your folds with a new desperation, grinding his mouth against you like he’s trying to win back control.

But he’s not stopping you. Shit, he wouldn’t dare.

He bucks his hips again, gasping, raspy and low, when you kitten-lick the underside of his tip, your tongue soft but teasing, cruel in its patience. The muscles in his arms flex, corded and trembling as he tries to keep his rhythm, but it’s falling apart fast. You hollow your cheeks and take more of him, swallowing him down inch by inch while his groans dissolve into helpless, broken sounds against your cunt.

“Fuck,” he rasps, the word barely audible over the wet sounds between your thighs. He inhales deeply, greedy for the scent of you, and then he dives back in like a man starved. His tongue swirls and dips, teasing, fucking into your dripping hole just to feel the way you flutter around him.

A sound escapes you, a broken, whiney, cut-off sound, as he thrusts his tongue deeper, like he’s trying to brand the shape of you into memory. Then his hand sneaks down, rough fingers steadying your hips as his thumb finds your clit and presses down in a tight, perfect circle.

Your moan travels straight down his cock, vibrating against the head, and he shudders beneath you. You pull off with a gasp, breath catching as you blink through the haze, lips shiny with spit.

“John… shit,” you breathe, pouty and wrecked, grinding back against his face like you don’t even care how messy it gets. And John loves it. Still sucking, still licking, still fucking you open with his tongue. His thumb doesn't slow. If anything, it circles tighter, faster, cruel in its precision.

“Y-you—s’good, baby,” you whimper, voice breaking.

He groans into you, nodding like he’s trying to say I know, but he won’t stop long enough to say it out loud. Just keeps working his mouth, his hand, chasing that stuttering gasp in your throat like it’s the only reward he wants.

Your hands keep stroking him, but your rhythm falters, your whole body shaking from the steady pulse of pleasure growing sharper with every pass of his thumb. Your thighs are trembling. Your head tips forward. You moan, soft and broken.

John pauses, just for a second. He pulls back with a low breath, ignoring the whimper that slips from your throat at the loss of his mouth.

“Don’t stop,” he rasps against your skin. “Keep goin’, yeah?”

One of his hands slides off your thigh, calloused fingers dragging firm and slow over the curve of your ass. His palm lingers there, squeezing just once before it glides up your back in a hot, steady line.

Your dress is backless, thin straps slipping from your shoulders, the fabric pooling loosely around your waist, and it gives him everything. Skin, warmth, the slight arch of your spine under his touch. His fingers splay wide as they trace the dip of your lower back, then sweep higher, knuckles brushing along your ribs before he plants his hand flat between your shoulder blades.

The heat of his skin on yours makes you shiver, your whole body tensing at the contact. His hand is big, possessive, grounding you, and when he presses down, gently but firmly, your breath catches.

Your chest dips, lips brushing against the base of his cock again as he urges your mouth closer to him again.

“C’mon, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and rough with want. “Don’t be a brat.” The words are half-scolding, half pleading. “Keep suckin’ me off. It’s good… You’re so good.”

And then he’s right back where he left off, licking into you with a desperate hunger, like your hesitation only made him more determined to ruin you. His thumb finds your clit again and starts up its cruel rhythm, and the pressure he keeps on your back pins you in place, right where he wants you.

Right where you want to be.

His cock twitches against your lips, flushed and wet, begging for your mouth and you don’t make him wait. You take him again, eager and messy, and the second your lips seal around the head, he groans against your cunt, hips bucking up with a stuttered grind.

“Yeah, honey,” he pants against you, satisfied. “Just like that. Love... I love that mouth.”

John moans into you, low and guttural, letting the sound vibrate through you. You twitch above him, thighs trembling, a breathless sound breaking in your throat as his tongue laves you open again.

The weight of him on your tongue feels deliriously good, heavy, hot, insistent, and he starts to rut up into your mouth, hips jerking, and then he speeds up with his mouth, tries to chase your orgasm before his.

You take the bait, smirking against his cock. One of your hands slips down between his legs to fondle his balls, cupping and rolling them in your palm. John keens—a broken, high moan—and his hips buck hard. He pulls back from your soaked cunt with a choked, “Fuck,” breathing ragged as his cock drives deeper into your mouth. You hollow your cheeks and suck him greedily, letting spit slip past your lips, your throat tight around him.

John whines, the sound all tangled with want and disbelief. “Uh, fuck—fuck, yeah, baby… yeah, keep doin’ that,” he gasps, voice fraying.

You moan around him, unable to do much else as he grips your hair and presses you down. His other hand slides down from your thigh, groping your ass, fingers digging in and spreading you wider for him, even now, like he needs you open for him, even as he teeters on the edge.

You squeeze his balls again, add a little scratch up his thigh over his pants, and that’s what breaks him.

Hot ropes of cum shoot across your tongue, salty and thick, and you swallow instinctively what you can as his cock twitches. It’s messy, slick dripping down your chin, drool mixing with cum, running in thick strands down his cock. John’s hips stutter, a wrecked sound pulling from his chest as he shakes beneath you, his whole body shivering under your hands.

You let him go with a soft pop, lips spit-slick and eyes half-lidded as he pants beneath you, flushed and ruined.

And yet—yet—his hands are already on your hips, gripping tight like he’s just caught a second wind.

Beating him to the punch has only fueled him to go on.

“Sit up, hun’,” he rasps, voice still hoarse. You push off him with wobbly arms, and he helps guide you, stroking his palms along your thighs like he’s grounding you, but really, he’s just being gentle as he lines you up.

He yanks you down, dragging you back over his face with a strength that makes your stomach flip.

“C’mon, sit on my face again. Lemme make you cum, we can still make it for the reservation.”

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