PRIDEEE MONTHHH

Unholy Trinity

Summary : You're casually sleeping with Bucky and John. Not at the same time—until you are.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) x John Walker

Warnings/tags : Thunderbolts* spoilers!!!!!! Tower fic! Implied threesome (MMF), Bi! reader, Bi! Bucky, Bi! John, Tech specialist! reader, it’s mentioned that you’re Ava’s ex, internalised homophobia, sexual identity exploration, past trauma (religious and societal repression), cursing, polyamory themes. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 9.3k

Requested by : Anon (Based on this request)

Note : As always, sex in my writing isn’t too detailed and not the centerpiece, but rather a storytelling tool. This fic is less about the threesome and more about the reader helping Bucky and John come to terms with their sexuality. I’m tagging the general Bucky taglist, but please ignore this if it’s not your thing. Enjoy!

They didn’t need another super soldier.

They had too many of those. What they desperately needed was someone who could reprogram a Stark-level firewall with one hand while defusing a biometric kill-switch with the other, or someone whose thoughts could move faster than a repurposed HYDRA drone and who could keep their head cool enough during a mission gone wrong so they could reroute a way out.

When Ava muttered, “I have someone,” the rest of the New Avengers raised their eyebrows.

Then, Ava said your name.

Yelena twirled a knife between her fingers. “You sure that’s a good idea? You told me she nearly blew up your apartment that one time.”

Ava rolled her eyes and looked down at her boots. “We’ve grown since then.”

You had grown. A lot.

The breakup hadn’t been graceful. There were tears, there was even a screaming match in a Denny’s parking lot that still lived rent-free in both your heads. You had called her “a quantum-emotional black hole,” and she had told you to go “code a conscience.”

Yes, it had hurt, but that was years ago. Now, you both have healed. Mostly.

When the team asked who the hell you were, Ava crossed her arms and said, “She’s… my ex.”

—

The first day Ava brought you into the team, you walked into the tower with a casual confidence that came from having seen some serious shit and come out the other end smarter.

“Hi,” you said, with a crooked smile. “I’m the tech gremlin Ava warned you about.”

Alexei boomed, “Welcome, gremlin!” and clapped you on the back so hard you nearly stumbled. Yelena snorted and shook your hand. Bob waved from behind a magazine.

That was when you felt two eyes watching you.

Bucky turned toward you, his eyes scanning you from head to toe. His face was unreadable, but his teeth clenched slightly as he studied in the way you moved, the way you owned the space around you without trying. His voice, when he spoke, was almost thoughtful.

“Good to have you here,” he said, like he meant it. Like he wasn’t just saying hello, but figuring out how to categorise you in his mind. You caught the flicker of curiosity in his eyes— the kind felt like… interest.

John didn’t even pretend not to stare. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest, and gave you a once-over that could only be described as bold. He ran a hand through his hair, almost reflexively, like he’d suddenly become aware of what he looked like.

“Well,” he said, dragging the word out just enough to make it suggestive. “Ava wasn’t kidding.”

You tilted your head. “What?”

He smirked unapologetically. “Trouble.”

—

It didn’t take long for the team to realise you weren’t just a tech genius, you were now fully committed to being their tech genius. You made the tower feel less like a military base and more like a home with a working AI that cracked corny jokes that you programmed, a custom coffee bar that responded to voice commands, and a training sim you programmed to replicate everything from underground bunkers to Waffle House at 2 a.m.

As expected, Ava adjusted to you faster than anyone. Maybe it was the years of history. After the first week, she stopped introducing you as her ex and just started calling you her friend.

You soon realised you still fight like you did before — a reason why this relationship would never work— but now, the two of you high-fived when you cooled off.

Growth, right?

Besides, you might not love her like that anymore, but you still liked each other as people.

Yelena warmed up to you in her own way. The first time she watched you dismantle a Chitauri drone with a spork and some chewing gum, she nudged your shoulder and declared, “I like you.” After that, you two started tag-teaming pranks. You were the brains, she was the brawn. Bob started avoiding both of you in the mornings.

Speaking of Bob— he liked you from the second you complimented the topping on his sandwich. It didn’t take long to figure out that the key to staying on Bob’s good side was noticing the small things—especially the ones he’d clearly put effort into. Whether it was a meticulously layered lunch or a new patch sewn onto his jacket, a little encouragement went a long way. Bob cared, and he noticed when you cared back.

Alexei decided you were family the moment you added a cooling system into his old Red Guardian suit. He cried a little, and you pretended not to notice. He started calling you "little hacker bear," which you endured with a sigh and a hidden smile.

But it was Bucky and John who were... complicated.

They were never outright fighting, not over you, but there was some kind of tension there.

Bucky would suddenly appear next to you during team meetings, John would offer to “help” on any mission you signed onto. It was like they were both orbiting you but never said anything since… they didn't even know you liked men.

Until…

It was sometime after midnight— Ava, Yelena, and you all gathered in the kitchen, raiding the snack stash and talking nonsense. Between spoonfuls of Nutella and sips of juice, the conversation had shifted to hookups and exes.

“I don’t really have a type,” you said, tapping the spoon against your lip. “But Ava’s still the most chaotic person I’ve ever dated.”

Ava rolled her eyes, orange juice in hand. “You’re just mad I called you a 'human rootkit' that one time.”

“One time?” you repeated incredulously. “You said it on my birthday.”

Yelena chuckled and bit into her cookie. “Wait, wait, I need a ranking. Who’s number one on your disaster list?”

“Oh, easy,” you said. “I once hooked up with a guy who tried to implant a chip in my spine during sex.”

Yelena choked on a chocolate chip and burst into laughter. “What?! Who does that?”

“That’s not a hookup,” Ava rolled her eyes, “that’s an assassination attempt.”

“Yeah, well,” you shrugged, “Sue me. He had a great jawline.”

Yelena wiped a tear from her eye. “I still don’t get how you both do the dating thing. Romance seems like... too much paperwork.”

You chuckled. “That’s because you’re not built for emotional bureaucracy, Lena.”

Then came the sound—clunk—something hitting the floor behind you.

You glanced over your shoulder.

Bucky was standing in the kitchen doorway like someone had blue-screened his brain, his eyes just a little too wide. Next to him, John blinked, mouth half-open like he’d just discovered a cheat code.

Ava frowned. “You okay?”

Still, nothing. It was almost as if the two of them turned into statues.

Yelena tilted your head. “Let them be.”

You all turned back to your snack, brushing it off like it was nothing.

But Bucky’s mind was racing. She dates guys? She dates—oh. Okay. Okay, noted. Calm down.

John, meanwhile, was already recalibrating his entire mindset. Bi. She’s bi. That’s... that’s a green light, right? That counts. I'm still in this.

You smiled just a little wider as you took another bite of Nutella. Oh, You thought to yourself, they didn't know.

—

It was a lazy afternoon when Ava found you leaning against the railing of the upper balcony overlooking the tower’s gym. Your elbows rested on the metal bar, your eyes locked on the sparring mat below like a cat watching her prey.

Bucky and John were sparring.

Both of them were in sleeveless shirts, their muscles slick with sweat, fabric clinging to their bodies. Every movement was fast and brutal, calculated but controlled punches delivered by two men who knew how to hit where it hurt. The sound of fists meeting flesh echoed through the rafters rhythmically like the world’s most aggressive metronome.

You bit your lip as Bucky landed a clean hit to John’s ribs. John growled, retaliating with a shove that sent Bucky back, just enough to bait him. Then they were grappling— Bucky flipping John onto his back with a twist, only for John to wrap his legs around Bucky’s waist and counter. Your brain short-circuited for a moment.

A small, involuntary sigh escaped your lips.

Behind you, Ava flickered into solid matter and groaned. “No. No, no, no. Don’t even think about it.”

You feigned innocence, even though you were unable to keep your eyes off them. “Think about what?”

“Them!”

You arched an eyebrow. “Jealous?”

“Oh please,” she rolled her eyes, almost fondly. “I’m over you. You leave your wet towels on the bed and talk through movies.”

“But you loved it,” you teased.

“I was deluded.”

“Then why do you care who I ogle?”

Ava gestured aggressively toward the mat, where Bucky now had John pinned, forearm pressed to his chest. “Because I’m trying to save you from yourself. That—” she waved again, exasperated, “is more testosterone for any one girl to handle.”

You hummed, eyes drifting back down. Bucky smirked—he was enjoying this match. John wasn’t exactly fighting him off.

“…Still,” you whispered, mouth dry, “I could die happy.”

Ava gave you a look of utter betrayal. “I am begging you— please get a vibrator and some standards.”

You shrugged, smug.

“Fine,” she sighed, “Just don’t come crying to me when one of them broods in your bed for six hours and the other tries to impress you by bench-pressing a motorcycle.”

You rested your head on your hands and kept admiring the view. “Sounds kind of hot.”

She gave you a deadpan stare, but there was affection tucked under the exasperation. “So was Pompeii.”

You both fell into a companionable silence, leaning side by side on the railing. Below, John reversed the pin and shoved Bucky to the mat, bodies tangled, both panting like they needed to tear each other apart or make out about it.

Maybe Ava was right. Maybe this was a terrible idea.

But terrible ideas never looked this good.

—

The first time Bucky did anything about his little crush on you, it was in the kitchen.

After weeks of glances and flirtation, you and Bucky finally broke.

He was cooking that night.

That alone had caught you off guard. The vision of a man built like a brick house and shaped by decades violence, calmly slicing onions like he was born with a chef’s knife in one hand and a combat knife in the other was… something. He had his sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, brow furrowed in focus. His movements were measured, even now.

His human forearm flexed as he chopped.

You leaned against the counter, letting your eyes roam freely. “Didn’t peg you for the domestic type, chef.”

Without looking up, he replied, “Didn’t peg you for someone who talks this much, at first.”

Your eyebrow arched. “That supposed to be an insult?”

He finally glanced your way. “It’s just… true.”

With Bucky, everything felt like it could tilt into something else if you pushed too hard — or not hard enough. You’d been dancing around this for weeks.

Tonight, you reached.

You brushed past him, on purpose, to grab a spice jar. His arm shot out, catching your wrist mid-motion. Not hard, not rough, just… firm.

“You’re in my space,” he warned, almost amused.

You looked up at him through your lashes. “You gonna make me move?”

His eyes dropped to your mouth. “You like playing with fire?”

“Wouldn’t you like to find out?” You taunted, stepping closer.

That was all it took.

He moved forward, capturing your mouth in a kiss that felt like a nuclear detonation. His hands were on your waist, dragging you against him, mouth hungry like he’d wanted this forever and finally stopped trying to resist.

But even then—he pulled back, just enough to breathe.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, voice hoarse, forehead pressed to yours. “I need to hear it.”

You reached up, tugged the tie from his hair, and let his hair fall.

“I want this,” you confirmed. “I want you, Bucky.”

The look in his eyes was electric, like your words lit a fuse.

You barely heard the clatter of the spice jar hitting the floor.

“Upstairs. Now,” he growled against your lips, breath ragged.

You grinned, dizzy from his mouth. “Bossy.”

He grabbed your chin, fingers pressing just enough to make you gasp. “No. Just in control.”

You didn’t walk to your room. You stumbled and tripped. Bucky shoved you inside like he couldn’t wait another second—like he’d combust if he didn’t have you now.

He didn’t undress you. He destroyed your clothes, like fabric was just an obstacle between his hands and your skin. His mouth followed, trailing heat and teeth and filthy sounds.

His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wide.

“You wanna act smart,” he murmured, dragging his mouth along your collarbone, “but this—” his fingers slid between your legs, satisfied with the sleek heat, “—this doesn’t lie.”

You gasped, loudly.

He chuckled darkly before pulling back. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

And then, he wrecked you.

He fucked like he fought. He pinned your wrists above your head and made you beg without ever asking for it. Every breath he dragged from your lungs belonged to him. The bruises he left weren’t careless, they were crafted.

Perhaps, after so many years without control, he craved it in other ways.

You weren’t complaining.

And when you came, you saw white.

You didn’t even know your own name for a moment. Just the sound of his voice growling filth in your ear and the press of his body, too hot, too good, too much.

Then, when your body was trembling from aftershocks and your back had slid down the wall—he crouched in front of you, sweaty hair falling into his face, pupils blown wide. He kissed your thigh, then your knee.

“Not done,” he said roughly. “Not even close.”

Much, much later, you lay tangled in his sheets, his hand splayed over your hip, thumb idly stroking a bruise he’d left with his teeth.

You turned your head lazily. “Just so you know… I’m seeing other people.”

He didn’t look at you, but blinked up at the ceiling like he was processing it.

“That okay?” you asked.

“I told myself I didn’t want anything serious,” he said carefully.

“And now?”

His eyes finally met yours. “It’s still okay.”

You smiled, smug. But his grip on your hip tightened, just a little. Just enough to remind you who put those bruises there.

“Just make sure they don’t leave marks I can see,” he warned. “Because I will cover them up.” His mouth brushed your shoulder. “With mine.”

—

You and John started in your workspace.

It wasn’t planned. It sure as hell wasn’t smart.

John Walker didn’t do subtle, and he didn’t really do hard boundaries, either. He just strolled in one afternoon—boots echoing against concrete, hands in his pockets, that shit-eating grin already stretching across his face.

“Whatcha workin’ on, genius?” he asked, giving a peek to his southern charm.

You didn’t look up, though you smiled. You just kept working, fingers moving with precision over the exposed wiring of a decapitated drone.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” you teased.

He moved closer and leaned in. Your teeth clenched when his breath skimmed your neck.

“Not when I’ve got the best view in the building,” he said, like it was obvious.

You finally glanced over. “You flirt like a linebacker with a head injury,” you pointed out playfully.

He laughed. “It’s working, is it?”

John kept showing up after that. You kept pretending he was a nuisance. He asked stupid questions just to make you roll your eyes. Sometimes you caught him watching your hands while you worked— like he was wondering if they could dismantle him as easily as they dismantled a machine.

By the fourth visit, you flirted back. You didn’t expect him to love it. But he did, as if you’d flipped a switch in him he didn’t know he had.

By the next visit, you had him against the wall,your fingers twisted in his collar, mouths crashing like you were trying to win a war through friction. He gasped into it, hands hovering like he didn’t know where to touch until you grabbed his wrist and put it on your waist.

See, John didn’t take control like Bucky did.

John gave it up.

Maybe, after years of being on top of the chain of field command, he now just wanted to follow orders.

“You want this?” you asked, lips brushing his jaw.

“Yes,” he groaned. “Fuck, yes. Just—tell me what to do.”

So you did.

You pushed him down to his knees on the cold concrete floor. He didn’t hesitate. Looked up at you with flushed cheeks, eyes wide, tongue wetting his lower lip, palms pressed to your thighs.

You used him, and he liked it.

He made sounds like prayer— muffled, desperate, needy. And when you came with your hand in his hair and his name tangled in your throat, he looked prouder than he did when he got a medal of honour.

Later when your bodies were tangled in sweat-stuck sheets, he sat on the edge of your bed, bare-chested, his hands twitching like they didn’t know how to relax around you.

“I’m not lookin’ for anything serious,” he said suddenly, voice quieter. His back was to you. “Got a kid. A real messy life. Divorce. Not yet, at least.”

You reached for the sheet, tugging it over your chest. “Same, I…,” you hesitated, but then realised you needed to be honest. “I’m seeing other people, too,” you added carefully.

He froze as you watched the breath catch in his throat before he forced himself to nod.

“Cool,” he said, but his voice cracked. He reached down and started picking at a loose thread on your blanket like it might hold him together. You tilted your head.

“You sure?” you asked, not unkindly.

He turned back to you then. All that Walker bravado was stripped away. He was just a man now— a little bruised, a little confused, but also… satisfied.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice rougher and forcing a smile. “Long as I still get to see you.”

—

This was fine. It had to be fine.

You’d been honest with them—at least technically. You told them you weren’t exclusive, told them you were seeing other people.

What you didn’t tell them—what you hadn’t figured out how to say—was that the other person was each other.

You didn’t plan for things to get this tangled. At first, it really was casual — nothing more than mutual attraction carefully packaged in boundaries you thought would keep everyone safe.

But those lines blurred fast.

Because it didn’t feel casual when Bucky touched you. Not when he held your face like it was made of gold, or kissed you like he was trying to edit your past and write himself into every footnote. His control made you drown in your own body, in the best possible way.

And it didn’t feel casual when John looked at you like you were a miracle. Like every time you gave him an order was a gift and he didn’t know what he did to deserve it. He pleased you with a grin and a groan— and then he’d hold you afterward, tighter than you’d ever asked him to.

They were both rough— just in different ways.

Bucky fucked you like he had to, like he was afraid it was the last time, like he needed to memorise you. Like if he touched you hard enough, long enough, the world would stop trying to take things from him.

John fucked you like he wanted to, like every touch was a prize, like he couldn't believe you kept letting him back in. Like he was proud to be wanted, even if only for the night.

You weren’t supposed to catch feelings. Not for either of them.

Definitely not for both.

But then you started smiling when you heard their footsteps. You reached for both of them in your sleep sometimes, not knowing who you were dreaming about.

Every other night, almost like clockwork, one of them would find their way to your door.

You actually had to make a chart. A chart, because you were starting to forget who liked which pillow, who left bruises and who left bite marks. You were scheduling orgasms like mission briefings, trying not to moan the other’s name by mistake— because you could not choose. You held affection for them equally, and it hurt too much to let either of them go. It got to the point where you were on your knees for John in the sauna, still tasting Bucky’s name in your mouth. Or bent over Bucky’s bathtub, still sore from the night before, as he grunted your name against your throat.

And it wasn’t just about the sex anymore.

Bucky started learning your habits like clockwork. He remembered which tea helped when your anxiety hit at 2 a.m. He kept your favourite blanket folded on the couch and would wrap you in it without a word when you looked too far away in your thoughts. On missions, he always messaged when he could, just a single “Still breathing” or a blurry photo of him with his thumbs up. And when he knew he’d be gone too long, he pre-ordered your favourite takeaway to arrive during dinner time.

John, in his own chaotic way, made a ritual of “jogging” every morning, conveniently ending his route at your favorite coffee shop. The baristas all knew your order by now, and somehow, he always remembered to ask if you needed anything added— extra syrup on bad days, oat milk when your stomach was off. The cup would be in your hands before you were even fully awake, a lopsided smile on his face like he hadn’t just run three miles to bring it to you.

Afterward, when your bodies were tangled and the room smelled like sweat, they both let you talk about anything and everything. Bucky would lie behind you, chin resting on your shoulder, his fingers tracing shapes into your skin, humming low while you vented about broken code. The next night, John would lie there shirtless, grinning like your voice was the soundtrack to his day, chiming in with half-jokes even when he had no idea what you were talking about.

They didn’t interrupt. They didn’t try to fix you. But Bucky always made sure your favorite hoodie was warm before you put it on. John picked up extra snacks at the store he thought you’d like and left them on your desk without a word.

With them, you didn’t have to perform. You could just be.

Neither of them never really asked who else you slept with, not in any way that mattered.

Maybe, they just didn’t want to know.

Then… you started watching them.

Not in a weird way.

But you had to. Because somewhere between the fourth orgasm of the week and realising you were genuinely worried about hurting their feelings, you started noticing… things.

You’d catch it in the small stuff first — how Bucky would shift his stance slightly when someone mentioned John’s name. He wasn’t annoyed, it was just… tense.

Or how John would crack a playful joke at Bucky's expense with just a little too much nervous laughter. Like he was trying to prove it didn’t get under his skin.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just two men with history, different temperaments, too much testosterone and too many kills between them.

But then came the moments that weren’t so easy to brush off.

Like during training, John tossed Bucky a practice knife with that cocky little grin he got when he was showing off. Bucky catching it mid-air without even glancing up, tossing it back with an underhand spin John blinked, just once—but his ears went a little pink.

Or in the gym, they loved sparring with each other, circling like wolves. You were pretty sure it wasn’t just competitive. Bucky would push a little too hard, like he was daring John to pin him. And John did— just a second too long, straddling Bucky’s hips before standing up too fast, like he suddenly remembered where he was.

In the field, too. One time, a mission went sideways, and Bucky took a hit meant for John— just a graze, but it was messy. And John, who rarely ever panicked, looked like the ground had dropped out from under him. He didn’t even realise he’d said Bucky’s name three times until Yelena touched his shoulder in an attempt to calm him down.

Then, Bob would complain after walking out of the locker room, telling you John and Bucky had stood side by side as they changed shirts. Apparently, according to Bob, neither looked, but their necks were tense like they were fighting not to.

The week after that, after a tough fight, John was bleeding from a cut along his ribs. You were too tired to play nurse, so Bucky offered. You watched him clean the wound with a gentleness that was only usually reserved for you. John didn’t flinch, he didn’t even look away. When Bucky finally stepped back, he said, “Should’ve been more careful.”

John, who usually scowled when Ava patched him up, answered quietly. “I know.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

One night, they both even showed up at your office for a little visit—separately, but close enough that the timing got awkward. You made up some excuse about being busy dismantling Yelena’s widow bites to send them both away.

As they stood at the door, Bucky glanced at John. “New haircut?”

John blinked. “Yeah. You noticed?”

Bucky shrugged. “Suits you.”

John’s ears turned red. “Thanks.”

They didn’t make eye contact again before leaving.

That was the first time you really saw it. The… shape of it. It became too persistent to ignore.

Because the more you studied them, the more you started to understand.

Bucky had grown up in a time when you didn’t talk about attraction unless it was for a woman in a red dress. And John… John had that Southern-boy thing. That “yes sir, no sir, God bless America” kind of upbringing that didn’t leave a lot of room for nuance.

Neither of them had been homophobic, but there was shame woven into their bones. Silent, inherited shame, that you once felt yourself, woven so deeply they didn’t even recognise it. They didn’t know what to do with the tension, the quick glances, the way their bodies leaned toward each other before jerking back.

So they wrote it off, buried it.

But you saw it. Because you were sleeping with both of them. Because you knew how they kissed. How they touched. How they looked at each other the same way they looked at you.

And sometimes… you caught yourself wondering, What if they kissed each other?

Would Bucky be gentle at first, like he didn’t trust it to be real? Would John go still before melting into it like he always did so desperately?

Would it change everything?

—

The week later, you watched above as the gear room buzzed with noise— velcro was ripping, gear shifting, metal clinking, and the buzz of fluorescent lights filled the room.

Bucky and John were prepping side by side.

They moved like practicing dance— a precise, practiced choreography of compression shirts, tactical pants, holsters, buckles, and chest plates snapping into place.

Bucky leaned forward to check his knives, his shoulder brushing John’s.

John didn’t flinch or step away. Instead, he smirked the kind of smile that was either a challenge or a dare.

“You’re slow today, Grandpa,” he said, trying to sound casual, like he wasn’t paying too much attention. Like he hadn’t noticed the contact, but his eyes slid sideways, catching the line of Bucky’s jaw.

Bucky didn’t glance up. “You’re being too skittish. Rookie nerves?”

John chuckled. “Just don’t wanna carry your corpse out of another blown-up warehouse.”

That made Bucky pause. He turned, eyes sharp but not hostile. “You couldn’t lift me if you tried.”

John stepped in, barely an inch closer. “You want me to try?”

For a second, neither moved.

They stood there— inches apart, shoulders squared, as if they were two lions deciding whether to bite or bare their throats.

From the upper level of the gear bay, Ava walked in and settled beside you.

“Jesus,” Ava whistled low at the sight of the two supersoldiers. “Either they’re about to punch each other, or they’re about to make out on the bench.”

You didn’t look away. “Honestly?” You sighed, “Either would make it so much easier on me.”

Ava turned her head cautiously. “What… did you do?”

You sighed again. “Them.”

She choked on her spit. “What?”

“Not at the same time,” you added quickly, raising both hands in surrender. “It just… happened.”

“Oh my god,” she breathed, laughing somewhere between horrified and impressed. “You actually did it. You overachiever.”

You shrugged helplessly, eyes drifting back to the scene below.

John was brushing imaginary lint off Bucky’s chest now. Bucky swatted at his hand—but not really. Then adjusted a strap on John’s vest, muttering something that made John roll his eyes. But he didn’t move away, not even when Bucky tugged the strap tighter than necessary.

You tilted your head, frowning. “You ever think…”

Ava cut in. “That they might be bi? Uh, yeah. Look at them. They’re two seconds away from full Top Gun volleyball.”

You heard a voice behind you.

“Oh, those two?”

You turned to find Yelena approaching—completely unfazed, chewing a bubblegum.

She shrugged. “Bob and I have a bet going on who’s gonna come out first. He thinks Walker. I say Barnes.”

You chuckled.

Below, John reached over Bucky’s shoulder for a carabiner and absolutely did not need to drag the back of his hand across Bucky’s chest to do it.

You crossed your arms tighter, heart thudding in your chest as you watched them move around each.

Maybe, just maybe, you weren’t the only one tangled up between the lines.

—

The mission had been a goddamn mess— a high-risk information extraction in tight hallways with zero visibility and bodies coming from every direction. When they were done, getting out felt more like an escape than a strategy. Bucky’s shoulder was wrecked, John’s knuckles were split, raw, and bloodied.

The flight back was quiet.

No banter or bickering— just the hum of adrenaline simmering beneath the surface. Now, back in the Tower, they sat in the locker room, stripping out of kevlar, breathing hard.

John was the first to speak up.

“Christ,” he said. “I need to blow off some steam.”

Across from him, Bucky sat hunched forward on the bench, forearms resting on his knees, head bowed. His breathing had steadied, but his heart was ticking like a clock.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, “Me too.”

John leaned back, swiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “What’s your method? Gym? Whiskey?”

Bucky’s head tilted slightly, and like a match had just been struck from behind his eyes. “I’ve got someone.”

John narrowed his eyes. “Someone?”

“Yeah.” Bucky didn’t volunteer any names or details, but his tone changed. It wasn’t cocky— but it was almost a private kind of smug satisfaction.

John’s brow furrowed. “In the Tower?”

Bucky gave a small nod. “Mhm.”

John’s posture shifted. He sat up straighter, body suddenly more alert than it had been during the mission. “Wait. Who?”

John ran through the options quickly, mentally eliminating names like a checklist. Not Ava—definitely a lesbian. Yelena’s ace. Mel was too young for either of them, and no one liked Val. Bucky was straight, right? Which left…

“No,” John said aloud, mostly to himself. “No fucking way.”

Bucky didn’t say a word and started wrapping his shoulder with compression tape.

John’s stomach dropped. His throat tightened. “…You’re not talking about—”

Bucky’s eyes lifted to meet his. “Why?” He arched a brow. “You got a guess?”

A part of John didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to know. But his brain was already lining up all the pieces.

The look you gave Bucky after missions. The scratches he didn’t remember leaving that definitely weren’t left by human hands. The way Bucky looked at you sometimes—like he was starving and angry about it. In hindsight, it was obvious.

“I…” John cleared his throat, suddenly unsure of how his voice worked. “Yeah. I do.”

And then, he said your name.

Bucky didn’t deny it.

John stared at him—and for the first time, he saw the cuts, the bruises, the fact that he looked like he was safeguarding his own heart.

“I…” John hesitated, “I am, too,” he finally choked out, barely audible.

There it was.

It all… clicked.

All of it. The missing hours. The bruises in the same spots. The way your voice always changed when you talked about “seeing someone else.”

“Oh fuck,” Bucky sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You’re the other guy.”

John sighed, “You’re the other guy.”

They stared at each other. Both had trained for war, both had been through too much, but this kind of realisation was... different.

Not because you lied; you hadn’t. You’d been honest from the beginning. You just never told them it was each other.

And now, they were too deep to pretend it didn’t matter.

—

Your room was dim, bathed in the amber glow of the bedside salt lamp. Outside the Tower, the city glittered like spilled stars against the velvet in your room. You were in satin— shorts riding high, camisole slipping from one shoulder.

You hadn’t dressed for anyone but yourself, yet somehow, you found yourself excited when someone knocked on your door.

Barefoot, you walked to the door of your quarters and opened it.

There they stood, both John and Bucky.

John’s eyes burned — wounded and questioning, but desperate not to show either. Bucky, flexed his metal wrist like he couldn’t decide whether to knock again or slam it into the wall.

“Well,” you breathed out, leaning against the doorframe, “either someone died… or you two finally figured it out.”

John brushed past you and entered without a word, while Bucky lingered a second longer, his eyes dragging over the line of your throat, the slope of your bare shoulder. before stepping in and closing the door.

“Make yourselves at home,” you said dryly, but your heartbeat was thundering beneath your skin.

You sank into the couch, letting your legs drape sideways. They didn’t sit.

They circled — not around you — but around each other.

“You should’ve told us,” John said. “Told me.”

“Told you what?” You tilted your head. “That I wasn’t exclusive? I did.”

“No,” Bucky interjected. “That we were both seeing you.”

“And if I had, what?” you arched a brow, “You would’ve compared notes? Flipped a coin?”

John’s lips tightened. “You could’ve said something.”

“You’re just mad you didn’t figure it out on your own,” Bucky grumbled under his breath.

“I should’ve,” John snapped back. “You acted like you owned her.”

“And you weren’t?” Bucky scoffed. “Always marking your territory—”

“Don’t tell me how I—”

You cut in, too tired for this frankly pointless argument. “Is this really about me?” Your voice was more silent now. “Because it feels like you’re trying to fight each other through me.”

John stopped moving. Bucky’s shoulders dropped.

You leaned back, the satin pulling tighter over your thigh, and both their eyes flicked there instinctively, before snapping up with visible guilt. You sighed, resting your arms on the couch behind you.

“If it helps…” you said, treading carefully, “I think you might be into each other, too.”

The look they had behind their eyes was like dropping a match into oil.

“What the hell are you talking about?” John barked.

“No,” Bucky said at the same time. Not angry—terrified.

You tilted your head. “You fight like people who want to fuck or cry, maybe both. You get jealous like people who haven’t admitted how badly they want the other.”

They didn’t speak.

“I’ve had both of you,” you continued, voice intimate now. “I know how you touch. How you look when you want someone. How you breathe when you're holding yourself back. And I see it when you look at each other.”

Bucky looked away first. John opened his mouth before closing it again.

You leaned forward, now pulling the trigger with a statement. “You’re angry because you’re not sure which one of us you’re more jealous of.”

Just like that, they panicked and started talking over each other again, as if they just went into survival mode. “I’m not into guys—” “He’s not my type, at all—” “This is ridiculous—” “She’s deflecting—” “I’m straight—” “So am I!—”

You shifted, letting the silence take its course. The camisole slipped gently off one shoulder, and it pulled their eyes whether they wanted it to or not.

“Boys,” you sighed, barely above a whisper.

They froze. Their breathing slowed—almost in sync.

“I get it,” you continued. “It's confusing. But for fuck’s sake– stop lying to yourselves.”

Just like that, you felt the air shift, like a fragile click in the clockwork.

Bucky looked at John. And John… blinked like a door opened inside him that he hadn’t even known was locked.

You watched it wash over them: realisation.

Bucky’s lips parted. John took half a step back like it physically knocked the wind from him.

John finally whispered it. “Oh, fuck.”

Bucky shook his head slowly, lips pressed together. “No,” he whispered, eyes wide. “No, no, no—”

But his voice had no conviction.

You relaxed and patted the couch cushions next to you — two ends, just far enough apart to be safe.

“Sit,” you said gently, like coaxing frightened animals.

Neither moved at first, but they did, eventually. Acquiescence didn’t come easily — not with their pride, their confusion, their egos — but it came.

John dropped down, spine rigid but legs spread wide like he was still braced for a fight. His knuckles were white where they gripped his knees. Bucky sat slower, as if the cushions were barbed wire. His arms stayed crossed, metal fingers tapping restlessly against his bicep. You were still in the middle, legs folded one over the other, satin now higher on your thighs.

“I know what it’s like,” you said, laying your heart bare, “That click in your head… when you realise. And you don’t know if it’s freedom or a fucking death sentence.”

John’s eyes dropped to the floor, then flicked to Bucky, then away again, teeth grinding like he was trying to swallow glass. Bucky didn’t move, he didn’t even blink— he just stared straight ahead, breathing through his nose like his chest might cave in.

“It’s not a weakness,” you reassured quietly. “It’s not shameful to want something you were always told you shouldn’t.”

The plates of Bucky’s fingers twitched. John’s shoulders hunched.

“And you know what?” you kept going, carefully. “It makes sense that you’re confused. John, you told me about church. About football locker rooms. About your dad.” You turned to Bucky slowly, putting a hand on both their thighs. “And you came from a world where even touching another man too long meant getting locked in a psych ward. Of course you’re scared.”

Bucky’s voice was quiet, but hoarse. “I thought… I didn’t…” He managed to choke out, “I didn’t know.”

“I… I still don’t know,” John admitted, looking down.

“It’s not greedy to want both,” you said. “Or all. Or neither. Or something in between. You don’t have to call it anything. You don’t have to label it today, or tomorrow. But you shouldn't have to lie to yourselves just because the world made it hard to tell the truth.”

Their faces had changed, not dramatically. But the tension was different now. They were less… rigid.

You looked at both of them in turn.

“If you’re bisexual, you’re bisexual. If you’re pan, you’re pan. If all you know right now is that you want him, or you want me, or maybe you want both and it terrifies you—that’s okay.”

You reached for both of their hands—John’s was calloused, Bucky’s was cold vibranium. Your fingers slid between theirs, and neither pulled away.

“You don’t owe anyone certainty, but you shouldn’t deny yourselves that curiosity,” you rubbed soothing circles on their knuckles, “I care about both of you. ’m not trying to push you into something you’re not ready for. But I… see you.”

Their breathing had synced up without meaning to. They were both looking at you, and for once, it was not with jealousy or accusation or distraction—but with… recognition.

“I want this to be okay,” Bucky said, almost a whisper.

“So do I,” John echoed.

“It is okay,” you whispered. “You just have to let it be.”

You leaned in then, not to kiss, not yet — but to rest your forehead lightly against Bucky’s temple, your other hand brushing John’s knuckles as he gripped your knee.

And still, neither of them pulled away from your touch.

That’s when you realised, you weren’t in between them. You were the bridge.

You could feel them both vibrating beside you with something just shy of frenzy, as if touching each other or you would send everything over the edge. You exhaled slowly, before tilting your head toward them.

“Can I test a theory?” you asked, voice too sweet to be true.

They both nodded, eyes locked on you like you’d hung the moon.

You turned to Bucky first, climbing into his lap with grace, knowing exactly how to break a man apart. He choked on his own breath when your knees bracketed his thighs and your weight settled against him. His hands, both metal and flesh, fluttered for a moment, unsure of where to land, before they found your hips. Your lips brushed his—just once, like a tease— before you kissed him properly. He opened to you like a man who’d been holding his breath for decades. Your fingers wound into his hair, tugging, and he groaned softly into your mouth.

John hadn’t moved. You could feel his eyes on you both — on the way Bucky held you, the way your hips rolled. You didn’t see a hint of jealousy, not even a single hint of possessive rage.

Instead, your theory was proven right.

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even tense. He was... flushed, breathless, and very, very turned on.

You grinned as you rode one more slow grind into Bucky’s lap—just enough to make his head fall back against the couch with a curse—and then looked over at John.

“C’mere,” you said, voice like a spark to dry kindling.

He came closer. God, did he.

You reached for him as he reached for you, and your lips met in a kiss that was all tongue and heat and frustration burned down into feral need. John’s hands tangled in your hair, tugging, framing your face as you leaned back against Bucky, trapped between them. You moaned into his mouth, felt Bucky’s grip on your waist tighten as he watched.

And Bucky didn’t hate it.

He should have. A week ago, he would’ve punched John for taking what was his.

But now, after listening to you talk through your experiences, he couldn’t bring himself to look away. He loved the flush in John’s cheeks, the way your body writhed between them, the sight of his mouth on yours. He was transfixed.

You pulled away from John, lips swollen, and looked between them—your two soldiers, your boys.

“I want you to try something,” you said carefully. You nudged gently between them, drawing them closer together. “Only if you want to.”

They hesitated, if only for a second.

Then—almost in sync—they nodded.

And you watched as John turned to Bucky, watched as the uncertainty warred with curiosity in both of them.

It started clumsy, just a brush of mouths— more uncertainty than contact.

But then they clicked.

Bucky’s hand came up to cradle John’s neck. John leaned in. The kiss deepened, it became urgent. Mouths opening, tongues sliding together, a shared breath between them. A shocked noise escaped one of them—you couldn’t tell who.

You slid off Bucky’s lap, legs folding under you as you perched on the coffee table in front of them, watching them kiss like they were unraveling everything they thought they knew about themselves.

When they finally broke apart, it was almost… unwilling.

“What,” John blinked, dazed, “The fuck.”

Bucky was still touching his neck, his thumb rubbing slow circles. “I… liked that.”

You leaned in slowly, a smile curling at your lips as your mouth brushed Bucky’s ear, then John’s.

“Atta boys,” you whispered. “Told you. Nothing wrong with this.”

Your hands slid lightly across their thighs— just enough to make their breaths hitch again.

“Now,” you murmured, eyes dark. “I think it’s time we all blow off some steam.”

Their hands moved at the same time. One flesh, one metal. Both hungry, both learning how to be unafraid. They met midair, just inches from your thighs.

John’s calloused palm grazed Bucky’s vibranium knuckles, and both of them flinched like the contact had short-circuited their programming.

Then, you leaned back onto your hands on the table, satin parting at your thighs, fabric slipping open like a curtain revealing a show. Your legs shifted slightly apart as an invitation. As an anchor.

“Touch me together,” you whispered. “No one’s losing. You’re both here with me. With each other.”

You guided them up — gently threading your fingers through theirs, dragging their hands together up your thigh. You felt the tremble in both of them.

“Still scared?” you asked.

They nodded.

“Still want this?”

They answered in two voices, almost overlapping “Yeah.”

You dragged them both closer, until Bucky’s mouth was at your throat, his tongue tracing the beat of your pulse. John kissed your jaw like he wanted to bury every doubt he’d ever had.

You didn’t try to split the attention, and you didn't need to.

They were learning how to exist together.

You caught Bucky’s hand and placed it flat against John’s chest, just over his heart.

“Feel that?” you told him. “He’s not the enemy.”

John’s breath hitched, but he didn’t move away. His fingers hovered, then wrapped slowly over Bucky’s wrist, holding him there.

And then… without any direction from you, they… kissed again.

You watched, heat pooling low in your belly.

“Look at you,” you praised, almost reverent. “Figuring it out.”

John broke the kiss first, breathless. “I kissed a guy,” he whispered, like it hadn’t really hit him until just then.

“And you liked it,” Bucky said, almost amused.

You slid into John’s lap, letting your legs straddle him as you reached for Bucky, curling your fingers into the waistband of his jeans to pull him closer. The three of you tangled—hands on skin, mouths finding mouths, exploring, relearning what wanting felt like when it wasn’t laced with shame.

You tugged your top over your head. You were bare from the waist up, and their eyes followed, even as you helped them out of their clothes.

“I’ve got you,” you reassured, almost affectionately. “Both of you. Let go.”

And they did.

—

Hours later, the room was wrecked.

Sheets were half-hanging from the mattress. Your pajama shorts were slung over a lamp. Bucky’s dog tags tangled in the headboard, and John’s shirt was on the other side of the room. The air still smelled like skin and sweat and sex.

You were curled between them, blissed out, your limbs a lazy sprawl of post-chaos satisfaction. Bucky’s arm was draped over your waist like he’d claimed the space and wasn’t letting go. John lay on the other side, hands behind his head like a man pretending this wasn’t the first time he’d shared a bed with someone he couldn’t label.

“Well,” John finally said, clearing his throat, “that was… something.”

Bucky snorted without opening his eyes. “That’s your takeaway? ‘Something’? Jesus, Walker.”

John turned his head to glare at him, cheeks flushed. “Sorry, didn’t realise we were supposed to be doing slam poetry after an orgy.”

“It’s a threesome, technically,” Bucky corrected, just out of spite.

John rolled his eyes. “You’re technically so annoying for someone so hot.”

You made an amused sound between them, stretching with feline satisfaction. Your fingers traced a lazy line up Bucky’s chest, then reached across your stomach to trace the veins on John’s arm.

“You’re both very chatty for two people who just had their minds blown,” you said, lips quirked up.

John rubbed his face, groaning into his hands. “Yeah, well, I’m trying really hard not to overthink the fact that I—” He gestured vaguely, as if the admission physically hurt. “—liked it.”

Bucky cracked one eye open. “Define ‘it.’”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I really don’t. Be specific.”

John sighed dramatically, like a teenager admitting he cried during Toy Story. “You,” He choked out. “Okay? You.”

Bucky tilted his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, but it didn't look smug. A little touched, maybe. “You’re actually gonna say it out loud.”

John rolled his eyes. “You fucked me too, Barnes. Don’t act like you didn’t make that noise when—”

“Alright, alright,” Bucky cut in, holding up a hand. “Let’s not do a play-by-play.”

You bit your lip, half-laughing, half-listening — but you saw it. The edge under the jokes. The old fear, the years of conditioning.

So you pushed up on one elbow and reached for them both.

John closed his eyes. “I do. Like you. And…” He opened his eyes just to look at Bucky. “Him too, apparently.”

Bucky sighed, looking up at the ceiling.

“Do you… ever wonder,” he said, tentatively, like he was stepping into an old wound, “what it would’ve been like if we’d been allowed to figure this out sooner?”

John could only nod. “Maybe,” he started, “I wouldn’t have been so hard on myself.”

“You’re here now,” you whispered. “You’ve got time, and…” you paused to press soft kisses to each of their shoulders, before settling back against the pillows with a content hum. “You’re both mine. And maybe… just a little bit each other’s too.”

Bucky let out a chuckle. “We should be terrified.”

“I am” John said, already half-asleep. “But I don’t wanna run from it.”

Neither did Bucky.

Neither did you.

And as sleep pulled you all under, John mumbled one last thing, almost inaudible, “Still think I’m a better kisser.”

Bucky, slurring now, breathed out, “Debatable.”

—-

You did not wake up all at once.

The sun was too bright over the curtains. Someone’s – probably Bucky’s— thigh was over your legs. And there was definitely an elbow — probably John’s — wedged in the small of your back.

You shifted slowly, careful not to disturb the fragile peace.

Bucky made a quiet, muffled sound into the pillow and curled in closer, hair a mess across his cheek. John just groaned and rolled the other way, nearly falling off the bed, dreamily saying something about "needin’ a chiropractor" and "why do you bite."

Oh, he needed a chiropractor? Funny. Last time you checked, you were the only non-supersoldier here.

Not that you were complaining.

You cracked an eye open and saw your pajama top on the floor a couple feet away. Bucky’s henley was closer. That would do.

You dragged yourself from the tangle of limbs, tugging the henley over your head. It smelled like him — clean, metal and cedar. You walked quietly to the door, only grabbing an old mug on your way out.

The hallway was cold.

The common room, thank fuck, was not.

Bucky wandered in a minute after you, hair tied back with a rubber band he’d found on the doorknob, wearing John’s grey sweatpants. John followed a few seconds later, in Bucky’s boxers and your fluffy pink slippers — clearly stolen in desperation.

You raised an eyebrow.

He blinked at you. “What?”

“Slippers.”

“They were closer than my self-respect.”

Fair.

Bucky glanced down at the sweats and sniffed as he sat down on the couch. “Why do your sweatpants smell like an Axe spray bomb?”

John rolled his eyes and gestured at his current outfit. “Why do your boxers ride up my ass?”

From the armchair in the corner, Bob looked up from his Sudoku book and smiled. “Oh! You all learned how to share,” he exclaimed, “That’s nice.”

John jumped, none of you realising that he was even there in the first place.

Bucky coughed into his cup of water like he’d swallowed a fork.

You dropped onto the couch beside them with the blankest face you could manage. “Morning, Bob.”

Bob tilted his head. “So, you had a sleepover?”

“We had a revelation,” Bucky said dryly. John, who was sitting in between you and Bucky now, nudged his metal arm. “We had a lot of things.”

You kicked him lightly under the coffee table. He didn’t even flinch. He was too tired, too exhausted in all the best ways.

Bob leaned forward with a curious sparkle in his eyes. “Is it because you’re all dating now? Or… dating-adjacent? dating-ish.”

You chuckled. “You’re weirdly chill about this.”

Bob beamed. “I watched a lot of Bojack Horseman in recovery. I learned… a lot from that show.” He shrugged before giving John a proud thumbs-up. “Proud of you, buddy.”

You snorted into your coffee, while John managed a half-hearted salute, pink slippers dangling off his toes.

Then, you heard a SLAM.

The door burst open.

Alexei stormed in wearing the same shirt as last night — his hair rumpled with bloodshot eyes.

“I could not sleep,” he declared flatly. “Your room is next to mine. Next. To. Mine.”

Bucky lowered his mug. John looked like he was calculating if the toaster could double as a coffin.

Alexei’s eyes were cold and full of fury. “You screamed,” he said to Bucky. “Like we were under nuclear threat. I prepared go-bag before I realised it was sex.”

Bucky’s ears turned pink. “I...Sorry?”

“And Walker!” Alexei turned his glare to John. “You sounded like angry raccoon!”

John shuffled your slippers in shame.

“Do not even get me started on you!” he pointed at you, “I thought it was bad with one of them. I was wrong. Both is worse.” Alexei grabbed a mug of coffee like it was vodka, slammed it back like a shot, and let out a deep breath. “You all are lucky I support the gay,” he said. “But next time maybe do not explore your sexuality like… freight train.”

Bucky sank down on the couch. “We should really get Alexei noise-canceling headphones.”

You stood, grabbed a glass of water, and handed it to him. “Sorry, old man,” you winced, “I’ll upgrade the armouring on your suit, if that makes up for it?”

Alexei sighed, hand to his heart, and looked to the ceiling. “This is my penance. For being terrible father in past. I accept it.”

You all laughed — Bucky with a breathy chuckle, John with a wheezing groan, even Bob with a little grin that warmed up the whole room.

You leaned over, kissing Both John and Bucky temples as Bucky tugged the waistband of the boxers John was wearing — his own, technically — and pulled him closer.

John mumbled into Bucky’s shoulders. “Guess we’re doing this.”

Bucky nodded, pouting playfully as he pulled you back on the couch. “Guess so.”

Bob, watching the three of you squished into one couch cushion, just sipped his tea with a sigh of exaggerated patience.

“Well,” he said, glancing back at his Sudoku, “at least it’s good for team bonding.”

—

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

@shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault @average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @boy--wonder--187 @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @yn-stories-are-my-life @rIphunter

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst @wingstoyourdreams @lori19

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23 @fan4astic

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt @softpia

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125 @buckybarneswife125

@imaginecrushes @phoenixes-and-wizards @94namkooksworld @maryevm

Thermodynamic Equilibrium - I

Title: Thermodynamic Equilibrium

Pairing: U.S. Agent! John Walker x Extremis! Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+

Word Count: 15.3k+

Warnings: smut, talks of medical abuse and human experimentation, discussion of ethical concerns regarding working for government agencies no matter how legit they seem, violence, violence against animals, animal death/murder (it’s a snake), suicidal ideation, survivor's guilt, discussion of child abuse, insecurities, and addiction, not-quite infidelity but John hasn’t signed the papers yet (out of pride) so it would be legally complicated for sure

Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

Smut Prep: (not a hugely obvious dynamic in this part but overall) sub! John Walker/domme! Reader, AFAB reader (no Y/N), first time/getting together, praise kink, handjob, fingering, p-in-v penetration, mention/discussion of pegging

Important Note: this fic will NOT contain any Olivia bashing. That woman made the best, most logical choice for the wellbeing of her home and her son. I’ve seen a lotta John fics demonize her and that’s actually crazy to me fr like they’re divorcing anyway???? I like her idk sue me

Ao3 Link: here

Summary: set between TFATWS and Thunderbolts* this will be part 1 of a John Walker/Reader series where you are a survivor of the Extremis Project (from IM3) who worked for Tony and now, post-blip, for Val. The next few parts will be set during Thunderbolts* and then continue into the 14 months between Thunderbolts* and the Fantastic 4 arrival.

The tunnels were poorly ventilated. You had, for the most part, stopped being surprised by things like that, but occasionally the poor conditions of the places you raided on Valentina’s behalf left even you appalled. It was a classified underground facility in Nevada this time - though not Area 51, much to your chagrin - located several hundred miles West into the Mojave desert. It was a facility that OXE had taken a special interest in, after a particularly nasty spat between Val and her recently-unskrulled ex-husband, and it was your job to infiltrate the vault-like fortress in the pursuit of information it may have housed on “any potential future-threats.”

Basically, you were there to spite the CIA.

The thought made you itchy, irritation prickling your forever-feverish skin as you pondered just how little your actual life meant to Valentina. This whole mission was pointless, anyway, in your not-so-humble opinion. Valentina was already director of the CIA, the problem was that her ex-husband wouldn’t allow her access to any of the medical trial results without proper logging. Valentina couldn’t stand it. If you were being honest, you didn’t blame Agent Ross for being such a stickler - last time the government had been allowed to run around unchecked, they had been infiltrated by Nazis. But Valentina needed to prove a point, so she was sending you off to die. So long as you died in a way that left the older woman able to collect your body, you doubted she would even notice you were gone. You tried - and failed - not to let that bother you. Tony Stark hadn’t been the most openly-jovial employer the world had ever known, sure, but the missions you had been tasked with running for Iron Man had, at least, made sense. They had been helpful. Good. You had been doing good under Iron Man, but you doubted more and more every mission whether or not you were doing good under the Contessa de Fontaine.

You missed Tony.

Well, maybe you didn’t miss Tony, nor even really the Iron Man, but you missed the freedom you’d had working for him. The remorse he felt every time he’d seen you had driven his generosity, you knew, but you hadn’t been about to protest a competitive salary and fully-funded living accommodations. All you’d had to do was work for him. Keep the Extremis serum active inside of you for a few more years to help Tony clean up the last of his loose ends, and he would keep you well-compensated and, when the time came, he would help reverse the effects of AIM’s experiments on you, like he’d done for Pepper Potts. At the time, it had seemed like an exceptional deal. You should have realized it was too good to be true.

Tony Stark, as it turned out, had had a lifetime’s worth of loose ends for you to tie up. Enemies with enemies with enemies, all of them somehow smarter and more harrowing than the last, and all of them with some sort of vendetta against Tony and fetish for human experimentation. You’d freed so many lab rats. People like you, who had gone, struggling, around the world looking for cures to their ailments, or for something to ease their pain. So many labs, so many warehouses. So many bodies. You had done a great deal of particularly heinous things in your pursuit to destroy the people like AIM and Aldrich Killian. Things you regretted, at times, when thoughts of your past plagued you unrelentingly. But they had been for a greater good, done in an attempt to earn back your own freedom.

Then Tony had gone and died.

Surely there had been more to it than that, but it’s not like anybody had bothered to sit you down and tell you anything about your employer’s demise. He’d died a hero, everyone knew, saving half the universe from the tyrant of tyrants. Nobody save for the former Avengers actually knew what the fuck that meant, though. It infuriated you, at times, the secrecy that now seemed into every crevice of your life.

You had no time to dwell on that in Nevada.

The facility, though poorly ventilated, was well-lit despite being so many miles underground, and you found yourself struggling more than usual to stay hidden in the too-wide halls. You had never been outstanding at stealth missions, you could admit. You were too anxious for them, far preferring a traditional smash-and-grab to the asinine recon plan Valentina had armed you with. But, Valentina now paid your bills, and if she was paying, she was saying.

The plan, though terrible, was simple enough. You had already completed the first phase of it, making your way down into the facility alongside supply crates in the back of an armoured truck. You’d managed to hide amongst the crates until someone had come in to unload, where you’d knocked them unconscious and taken their uniform and ID badge. Sneaking around the place had gone smoothly thus far, but the constant nerves were beginning to get to you as you crept around looking for the R&D level, your internal temperature beginning to rise even further at the stress. That had always been a problem. Well, not always, but since being subjected to the Extremis Project, your internal temperature had run rampant, a spectrum running from ‘a touch too hot’ to ‘too hot to touch’, depending on what was going on. You were lucky, though. Tony had managed to stabilize the Extremis formula - eradicated it entirely in Pepper, even - so there was very little risk of you turning into an accidental I.E.D. anymore.

You tried taking comfort in this as you finally managed to locate level 7, the basement of the underground building and the research-and-development floor for the base. This had been your target. Valentina had assured you that the floor was cleared out for the next two hours - something about a maintenance issue taking out the cameras on the floor and the higher-ups not wanting to risk giving opportunity to any whistle-blowers - so it caught you entirely off guard when you slipped into the room to find someone waiting there for you.

John Walker.

Irritation spiked your temperature again, an orange haze certainly visible glowing beneath your cheekbones as you stared on in annoyance. Typical. It was so fucking typical of Valentina to double up her odds without informing her gambling tokens, sending them out blindly and damn-near directionless in order to see who came back successful every time. So far, it had always been you, but, it seemed, it had also been Walker.

“What are you doing here?” the former Captain America sneered when he saw you, annoyance plain on his face. You scoffed.

“I’m at work, dumbass,” you spat back at him. You had been paired up blindly a time or two before, and worked in a group of three with him exactly once in the past. You hadn’t particularly enjoyed any of those ops. You doubted John had either.

John rolled his eyes at your petty response, filling in the gaps for himself when you didn’t bother to elaborate further. He wasn’t a dumbass. Despite what you had called him, you knew he wasn’t actually a dumbass. He was actually quite smart, or, at the very least, insanely strategically-minded. An exceptional soldier. A piss-poor spy.

“How the hell did you even get in here?” you demanded, and it was John’s turn to scoff and withhold a proper answer. Instead, he just turned his back back to you, attention returning to the stainless steel tables covered in equipment.

It was a large room the two of you occupied, with rows of experimental setups lining the place and a great deal of troubling-looking beakers and vials filling the shelves. It made you uneasy. This room reminded you too much of the labs AIM had housed you in, once upon a time. An impending sense of doom began to creep up on you, your anxiety spiking as the room began to feel smaller, as though it were shrinking around you. You knew it wasn’t. It was all in your head, but it was distracting you nonetheless. Making you sloppy.

“Why are you just standing there?” John’s annoyed voice cut through your panic, though you rolled your eyes at him rather than acknowledge the unintended aid.

“I’m locking in,” you mumbled the lie as you shook your head. Focusing back on the task at hand, you started scanning the room for a computer set up. You located one at the back of the room and b-lined for it as Walker started pulling out physical files from the cabinets and drawers.

Walker, at least, had the courtesy to ignore you. He looked exhausted. He had bags under his eyes, deep and purple like a bruise, and his posture, while technically perfect, held less tension than the last time you’d seen him. Like he was deflating. Too tired for your nonsense. There was less fire behind his eyes now. It worried you, in that vague sort of way it would worry you to see anybody falling apart at half speed. You went back to ignoring him in order to focus on the computer.

Before AIM and Extremis, you’d been a hacker. Not a label you loved, granted, but certainly one that applied. You’d always been skilled with systems and code, always had a knack for finding back doors and shortcuts where you weren’t supposed to. Your mission training - your combat training - had come later, after the serum took. After your spine healed. Valentina had made a point of using you for both skillsets, much to your chagrin, but you supposed you couldn’t blame her.

Stupid to only use half an asset.

The CIA’s systems were almost concerningly easy to get into, but you weren’t about to complain. You made swift progress, downloading files onto a usb drive within minutes as Walker continued to root around the room for manila file folders and loose paperwork, both of you determined to collect more information than the other in a silent standoff.

God you wanted to win.

Despite your dislike of the woman, you wanted to be the one to return to Valentina with the better haul. Be the better agent. Walker was undeniably the perfect soldier, but you were by far the better spy. You wanted to prove it. Your hatred of stealth missions aside, you, at least, hadn’t worn literal Stars and Stripes to invade an American base, and you were certain you could download more than he could carry.

You’re not sure what triggered the alarm.

It could have been you. Certainly, it could have been you, though you found it unlikely. A loud, piercing siren had started blaring over unseen speakers, the lights in the room flashing a deep red in warning. You didn’t know why. You were a lot of things, but sloppy in a system wasn’t one of them. John hadn’t been doing much that could have alerted anybody to your presence, though, or so you’d thought. Turning around to face the former Captain America, your blood ran cold when you saw him holding the door of a now-open safe. It could have been either of you, in the end, but you didn’t have time to analyze.

Realistically, if you were captured, you probably wouldn’t be killed on sight. No - if the CIA got you alive, they would keep you alive as a bargaining chip against Val. While it was unlikely that she would negotiate for either you or Walker alone, the pair of you together would undoubtedly increase your odds of being rescued. Your odds of getting out unscathed, however, were exceptionally grim.

“Walker,” you called out worriedly, “Walker, man, we gotta go!”

John was two steps ahead of you, halfway marched across the room by the time you’d finished speaking. He dragged one of the lab tables over in front of the door, barricading it temporarily as you scanned for another way out. You had to think fast. You knew that you’d only have minutes, if that, before the CIA managed to break through that door and take you both hostage. The walls were solid stone, same with the floor, but there was a huge ventilation shaft coming down from the ceiling. You bolted towards it.

“What are you doing?!” John demanded frantically, voice full of an uncharacteristic panic.

“I’m getting us out of here! Come here and give me a boost,” you explained over the noise, and John, reluctantly, rushed to join you. “I’ll pull you up after.”

“Will you actually?” John asked incredulously. “Or are you gonna bail on me like a coward? You don’t even have anything to open it with!”

“Oh my god, dude, I don’t have time to explain it! You’re just gonna have to trust me, holy fuck,” you spat, “now give me a boost so we don’t fucking die, Walker!”

John hesitated for half a second before complying, kneeling down and presenting his shield for you to step on. He lunged upwards when you did, sending you careening towards the vent. You dug your fingers into the steel, heat like molten fire pouring out in concentrated waves. In seconds, your fingers had sunk through the metal, allowing you to grip and pull and send the offending vent flying. The alarm was still screaming at you and Walker, footsteps audible as they approached from the left hallway. Moving quickly, you willed the heat in your hands to dissipate as you hoisted yourself up into the vent, grateful that they were big enough to hide a person.

“That bitch!” you heard John yell as you disappeared into the metal hideaway, and your stomach churned at the way he sounded. Scared. Angry, too, for sure, but mostly John Walker sounded scared as he raged a floor below you.

It only took you half a second longer to turn around and lower the upper half of your body back out the opening, but that was long enough for John to have backed up to take a running start at it. Without thinking, you held your arms out wide, catching the super soldier with a yelp, your feet digging desperately into metal to keep you from falling back out onto the floor below. Your feet began to heat, the bottoms of your shoes melting slightly to help stick to the steel, but you had him.

You had him.

He seemed just as shocked to be caught as you had been to catch him, if the look on John’s face was anything to go by. You didn’t have time to explain yourself, instead grunting with exertion as you hoisted yourself and Walker back up into the vents. You had to get moving.

“Come on,” you urged and started forward without a backwards glance. The alarms sounded louder in there, somehow, and the sound was getting to you more and more each passing second. It was jarring. You’d always hated loud noises.

The vents were only wide enough for one, forcing you and John to move single-file down the metal shafts. You had a vague idea where you were going, but something told you that phrasing it like that to John may actually make the man’s head explode. You could have laughed at the irony. The two of you moved silently for several minutes, both of you doing your best to ignore the blaring alarm and claustrophobic tightness of your current setting.

You both froze when you heard footsteps beneath you. At least a dozen men passed below, judging by the sound, moving quickly and only slightly out of sync with one another in their urgency to find their target. To find you. Terror gripped your heart, panic seizing your bones as you did your best to will the heat away. You were failing. A faint glow began to emit not from the grid places in the vent below, but from you. Orange in colour instead of the harsh red, the Extremis serum was betraying your anxiety as openly as a tattoo on your forehead reading COWARD.

John’s fingers curled around your ankle.

A harsh gasp ripped its way out of your throat at your surprise, the instinct to kick John in the face a hard one to overcome. The glow grew then, heat radiating off of you as you did your best to prepare for whatever it is the super soldier was about to do to you. Something to increase his own odds of survival, you were sure.

“Relax,” John’s voice was as quiet as it could be, but firm. An order. “Come on, Lava Lamp, you gotta take a breath.”

You tried not to feel annoyed at the nickname or the commands as surprise added to the suspense rattling around inside your bones. Instead, you focused on John’s words themselves. Relax. Take a breath. You could do that. You could do both of those things. Squeezing your eyes shut, you did your best to ignore the chaos around you, focusing instead on the feeling of John’s hand against your skin.

You were surprised it had remained there. You weren’t stupid, nor were you in any way blissfully unaware of how unpleasant you were to touch, even through John’s gloves. Your skin burned more often than not, uncomfortable at least and lethal at worst for those around you. It had been so, so long since you’d felt anybody’s hand but your own.

When you opened your eyes, the glow had faded, your natural skin colour returning in the low visibility. You still felt warm - burning where John touched you - but John didn’t flinch. You glanced back at him, croaking out a weak; “don’t call me Lava Lamp.”

You knew immediately that the nickname would stick. John’s face had split into a Cheshire Cat-like grin at your words, causing you to roll your eyes. You wanted to keep moving but selfishly - humiliatingly - you didn’t want to move away from the hand on your ankle just yet. It was nice. Nicer than most things you’d endured since Killian found you. There was still a mission, though, so you shook yourself of the foolishness and kept moving.

Eventually, you and John came to a point in the ductwork that veered upwards as it connected to the floor above. Level 6. Turning your head to face John, you relayed your plan as effectively as you could with the sirens blaring still.

“This vent has to lead outside,” you explained, “eventually, at least, but I have to go first. I’ll melt hand and foot holes as I go. Wait a few minutes, then follow me up. It’ll be like the world’s worst rock climbing.”

If John was amused by your attempt to lighten the mood, he didn’t show it. Instead, the blond man nodded once sharply and watched, silent, as you began your ascent. It hurt. Using the Extremis serum always hurt, and the overstimulation was making everything worse. But, you, slowly but surely, managed to drag yourself up the vent shaft, leaving behind adequate hand-holds for John to use after. It took you several minutes to climb all the way to the next horizontal section of ducts, but you were grateful for the reprieve. You only had to wait another 5 minutes or so for your unwilling companion to join you.

“You didn’t leave?”

You tried not to feel offended at the accusation behind his words, but it was likely written on your face, with the way John shot you an unimpressed look. Of course he would have expected you to bail. People didn’t work for Valentina if they had a reliable team to work with instead.

“Come on, Walker.” you replied instead, and you and John continued silently through the vents for the next hour. You repeated your solo ascents up the vents when needed, five more times before coming to the final vertical shaft.

There was sand everywhere. It was seeping into places you hadn’t imagined possible, pervading so many feet down the metal hall that it seemed to be a fantasy at the end of the tunnel rather than your final escape to freedom. The sand had piled in an incline, making it an awkward crouch as you attempted to get into position.

“Can you give me a boost again?” you asked, and John huffed. The alarm was still going, the screaming of the sirens fainter now but still suffocating in their relentless shrieks. You were getting tired of practically having to shout above them.

“Can’t you just do your little trick again?” he shot back. Irritation was plain on his face, but nevertheless, John was maneuvering the shield back off his back and shimmying it forward as he spoke. Taking his advice, though, you hoisted yourself up a foot, arms shaking with exertion until John slipped the shield under you.

John launched you upwards again like he had in the lab, on his knees in the loose sand this time as he did. You were more stable, this time, able to lean against the vent walls as you gripped your escape hatch, where you again pushed your hyper-heated hands through the metal until the grid face gave way and fell to the ground. There was a three foot drop to the ground below, and it was one you happily did in exchange for finally being free of the blaring of the alarms.

Relief coursed through you as you pulled yourself up out of the sand. You were free. You were quick to stick half your body back inside after scanning the area, and you saw John looking up at you with an unreadable expression when you did. It was somewhere between awestruck and full of loathing, and it made your heart drop into your stomach at the sight. “Come on!” you called down instead of acknowledging the look.

The man below you struggled momentarily to strap his shield back onto himself before stretching up to reach your outstretched hand. You struggled a tad to hoist the super soldier out of the vent, but you managed it with a grunt. You backed up as you pulled, leaving room for John to fall into the sand the same way you had. He did. It wasn’t until he refused to stand back up that you realized something truly was wrong. John was curled up on the ground, head between his knees as his hands pressed against his ears.

His ears.

Understanding slammed into you, guilt and pity swelling in your chest as you remembered reading about the enhancements Walker’d gotten from his bootleg serum, enhanced senses being among them. Enhanced hearing. However bad the alarms and lights had been for you, they’d undeniably been worse for John.

“Come on, Walker,” you urged gently, empathy bleeding into your voice in spite of yourself. “I know it sucks but we gotta go.”

For half a second, John looked like he wanted to protest, but instead he picked himself up from the sand and nodded towards what, to you, seemed to be a random direction. “That way,” he muttered, and you followed easily enough. Now was hardly the time to argue.

You found yourself quietly grateful for John’s presence as you wandered the desert together, the sun setting rapidly and falling behind the mountainous skyline in the hours you’d spent walking. You were good, sure, and hard to kill, but you weren’t a survivalist. You weren’t prepared for anything other than an immediate extraction, but that wasn’t something you could risk with the base on such high alert. Instead, you and Walker were forced to keep moving, to put as much distance between you and the facility as you possibly could before radioing Val for pickup. You didn’t know how long that would take.

You two had stopped only once since escaping the base. John had crouched down unexpectedly to cut some sort of overly-textured fruit off of a pretty desert plant. More than you would have known to do. Next to you, John seemed even less thrilled about your circumstances than you were, if the look on his face was anything to go by. His eyebrows were knit together in an aggravated sort of concentration, nose red and lips pursed into a tight line. With his arms wrapped around himself the way they were, John Walker looked thoroughly discontent.

He looked cold.

That was something you didn’t really get to feel anymore. Cold. It was a foreign concept by that point, the Extremis Project having eradicated your ability to fall below a certain internal body temperature, even if you’d tried. But the serum John had gotten clearly hadn’t done the same to him, and while in any other circumstances you’d’ve been likely to call him a lucky bastard for it, you couldn’t help but feel bad then.

He looked cold.

You had only worked with John properly a handful of times, but you already knew that if you brought it up to him without a solution, he would get snippy and close off. John Walker was a planner, one that was easily frustrated by a statement of the obvious when it wasn’t immediately followed by a pitch on how to correct it. It made sense, you supposed, given his extensive military training, but it didn’t make him easy to talk to.

In the end, it wasn’t you that broached the subject. It was John, his teeth gritted in an attempt not to chatter as he spoke; “we have to find somewhere to hunker down.”

You knew he was right. The desert during the day was scorching, the kind of heat that even you noticed when exposed to it for too long. The light and warmth both faded fast here, though, the quickly-cooling sand doing nothing to hold its heat as the sun fell below the mountains. Dry and unyielding, the sun had been blistering; the moon, however, seemed to radiate nothing but cold as it rose to take its place.

You scanned the world around you, eyes peeled for any sort of opening in the rocks you two were now surrounded by. It was dark but you were able to make out the opening soon enough, your eyes drawn to a particularly dark shadow along the stone. A cave. The Mojave desert was full of cave systems and you were beyond grateful for the sight of one then.

“Come on, Walker,” you said, grabbing a hold of his elbow. It was unnecessary, you knew, but Walker didn’t comment on it as you tugged him towards the cave you found. The wind in the Mojave was biting and you needed desperately to get the super soldier out of it.

Walker followed you wordlessly, feet damn near silent as you moved together in the sand. You two had worked together well thus far, something that surprised you greatly. You weren’t exactly the team-up-type and you figured Walker wasn’t either, after Germany. Maybe he had been at one point - surely he had been, as a captain for the United States - but not anymore. It hadn’t been the worst mission in history, though, so you had to count the wins where you could get them.

The entrance to the cave was slightly smaller than you had anticipated at first glance, but you were hardly complaining. The cavern in the rock was spacious, as far as wounds in rock face could be concerned. It was big enough to cocoon you and Walker semi-comfortably, about 9 feet tall and 12 feet deep into the stone, but the problem became evident at the width. It was tight, barely wide enough for you and Walker to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, but the relief from the wind was instantaneous for him.

“Brace yourself,” John muttered shakily, “close your eyes.”

Your eyes slammed shut instantly, but the sudden light that flooded the dark space you shared burned despite your lowered lids. You shaded your eyes with your hand as you opened them, squinting against the harsh white that illuminated the small space.

That’s when you heard it.

The rattle of a rattlesnake was a nigh unmistakable sound, one you hadn’t heard in years - one that filled the cave you and Walker were hiding in. Your eyes shot down immediately where, coiled angrily around the tactical light Walker had thrown on the ground, you saw a Mojave Rattler. It was a beautiful snake, in any other circumstance, but its tail rattled violently, a clear warning of its intent.

“Don’t move,” you hissed at Walker and the man beside you froze.

You braced yourself for the snake to lunge, and you met it when it did. Your hand burned where you grabbed the creature, its scales scalding beneath your skin immediately, but you didn’t dwell on the feeling as you hurled it out of the cave. You felt terrible as you watched the snake fly for as far as you could in the darkness, but you knew it didn’t really matter where it landed, anyway. It was dead either way.

Guilt churned in your stomach painfully, nausea overwhelming you once the adrenaline had passed. You almost didn’t notice Walker reach out for you, but you’d clocked it in time to not be visibly startled when his hand landed on your arm.

“You good?” John asked, his voice taking on an uncharacteristically soft edge as his thumb began to rub your upper arm. You doubted he’d even realized he was doing it.

“Yeah,” you lied, “I’m fine. Good call with the light.”

You glanced around the small cave in the light provided, scanning for any more creatures or critters you may have to handle before you settled in for the night. There wasn’t any. Relief coursed through you properly for the first time all day, the cave acting as a temporary sanctuary for the pair of you in the aftermath of a - frankly - terrible mission.

With nothing left to do, you slowly sank to the floor of the cave, your body sinking slightly into the sand covering the stone beneath you. You were so fucking tired. Using your abilities was something you’d gotten better at over the years, sure, but that didn’t exactly make them easy for you to use. They were exhausting. Draining. Energy siphoning in a way that made you feel hollow in the aftermath, no matter how many years it’d been.

John hesitated only a moment before joining you on the ground as best he could. He reached between you to turn the light off then, flooding the crevice with shadows and darkness as he adjusted his limbs so they could slot between yours in the sand. Arguably, you didn’t have to sit so close together, but with your legs touching his the way they suddenly were, you could feel that he’d started shaking. He was so fucking cold. You sighed heavily, chest tightening when John flinched at the sound.

“We’ll radio out to Valentina tomorrow,” John said before you had a chance to comment, “put a couple hundred clicks between us and the base before we do.”

You nodded, though you doubted John could see you anymore. Although maybe he could, with his freaky enhanced super senses. You weren’t sure. Regardless, you didn’t much feel like talking anymore, instead dwelling on the mess of a mission you’d just survived, no small amount of guilt weighing down your heart over the fate of the cave snake. You weren’t even really sure why it was bothering you so much, but it was.

“It was a Mojave Rattlesnake,” John said suddenly, his voice quiet but still startling in the too-small space. “Venomous as hell. I don’t really know why they’re called that, though. They’re found all over southwestern America, and even down into Mexico. They’re, like, barely Mojave. This part of the desert only makes up, like, 12 or 20 perc-”

John had cut himself off. You did your best to ignore the tremor running through his body as confusion overcame you. Why had he shut up? You glanced around again for a threat, your eyes darting to the mouth of your little hideaway, but there was nothing there. Nobody. You debated asking John what was wrong before deciding against it, instead closing your eyes as you attempted to will yourself into some form of sleep. Then, another rattle-like sound filled the cave.

John’s teeth were chattering.

The revelation sent an unpleasant feeling dripping down your spine, like molten pity or white-hot shame. You knew John wouldn’t want to talk about it - wouldn’t want you to actually acknowledge what was going on - so you didn’t. Instead, you closed your eyes and began to focus, all of your remaining energy put into your efforts to raise your own temperature on purpose. You didn’t have to open your eyes to know you had begun to glow faintly again, an orange hue filling the space in the rock between you and Walker. You heard him gasp.

“You’ll warm up soon,” you assured him. You were grateful when he didn’t comment on the strain in your voice.

You stayed like that for several silent minutes, sweat dripping down your temples at your effort to project heat without malice. Heat with the intent to kill had always been simpler. There was less precision required when it didn’t matter the collateral - less consequences to live with after you were dead. This, though? This was to help. To keep someone else alive. Heat with the purpose to sustain was almost foreign to you, and you were clearly out of practice.

“How do you do that?”

The question caught you off guard, the faint light and excess heat receding back into you at John’s inquisitive tone. With a bitter laugh, you choked out the explanation of; “barely.”

It was grim, but it was true. Judging by his silence, John knew it too. He was still cold. Your heat trick had helped, had stopped the chattering of the super soldier’s jaw, but it wasn’t enough to ward off the late Nevada night. While you remained relatively unaffected by the cold, John hadn’t prepared for it. Not enough. Not the way the Extremis Project had forced you to, years prior. He was still in his typical U.S. Agent get-up - a black-and-red inversion of the red-white-and-blue thing Captain America had going on - which you now knew to be uninsulated. You doubted his helmet provided any sort of warmth either, save for possibly around his eyebrows and cheekbones. His gloves and boots were tactile, not cold guards, and his shield was a concave sheet of freezing metal,

God, you hoped he didn’t freeze to death.

The thought, while morbid, was entirely possible if the temperature kept dropping. The elements could kill just as harshly as any man-made weapon ever could, and in some cases, it was worse. You didn’t want that for John - nor for yourself, as unlikely as that scenario may have been - so you sat quietly while you wracked your brain for a solution. Only one seemed obvious.

“Come on,” you said. You were getting sick of saying it. “I know it’s fucking weird, but we gotta get you warm, so-”

“Why?”

The question caught you off guard. The word - a single syllable - felt like a gunshot in the way it ricocheted around your head, its path of carnage immeasurable in the half seconds it took you to react. His voice had been so… resigned. Tired. He’d been asking simply to hear your answer.

“What the hell do you mean ‘why?’” you spat harshly, and in the darkness you could faintly make out the way John flinched at your tone. “I’m not gonna let you fucking freeze to death, Walker. You’re my teammate for tonight.”

You debated saying more - debated telling him that you wanted to keep him alive because, despite your discontent at your situation, you didn’t think he was the worst man alive. You didn’t think he was the monster of monsters that a lot of news outlets had painted him out to be, nor did you think you could find it in you to blame him for the way he’d snapped that day overseas. You thought about telling him about how kindly he had treated you in comparison to so many others, even in spite of his harsh tones and coarse exterior. But you didn’t. Shame and unwanted memories bubbled to the surface as you wracked your brain for more to say that, somehow, wouldn’t betray how rapidly you’d grown attached to the broken man before you.

“I didn’t even get the files.”

The admission was soft. Quiet. Almost inaudible with the wind rushing past the cave entrance, but you’d heard it nonetheless. Your eyes finally seemed to be adjusting to the overwhelming darkness surrounding you both, leaving some of John’s features visible despite the lack of light. There was a frown on his face, his eyebrows furrowed, and you could see his arms wrapped around himself in an attempt to ward off the cold.

“I got the usb,” you assured quickly, but John’s loud scoff was followed quickly by him slamming his helmeted-head back against the stone wall of the cave he leaned against.

“But I didn't get the files!” his voice was strained and angry. Fear had begun to creep back up on you; a more immediate kind of terror compared to the bone-deep existential dread you had been navigating since the mission’d started. You didn’t like it when Walker got angry. “I didn’t get the files, I didn’t complete my mission. I let Valentina down and I’m the one that’s going to have to pay for it! Me! So I don’t really give a fuck if you got your part of the job, okay? I still fucking failed at mine.”

You weren’t entirely sure where the emotional outburst was coming from. Or, you were, he had just explained it - profanity laced as the explanation may have been - but you weren’t sure why this had been the breaking point. Surely the military legend was trained to hold on just a little while longer, no? AIM had trained you to withstand genuine torture tactics their enemies may have thrown at you, surely America had done the same for him.

“I wasn’t bragging,” you said quietly, “I wouldn't have made it out of the room without you, you wouldn’t have made it out of the vents without me. We’re even, here, Walker. We got whatever they had.”

The words tasted bitter in your mouth, even as you spoke them freely. Sharing credit had never been your strong suit, much preferring to shoulder your breaks and burdens solo, or choke down any unforeseen consequences the same way. Leaving John alone in this didn’t seem to be an option, then. You could tell that whatever part of this had broken something in John that night, it had shattered it in a way that wasn’t fixable by awkwardly-offered compromise alone.

Then his teeth started chattering again.

You couldn’t keep the annoyance out of your heavy sigh if you had tried, prompting an equally-irritated sound from John in response. This was ridiculous. You hadn’t been about to extend an olive branch to an icicle, no matter how agitated you felt in the cramped cave. Moving suddenly, you pulled your base uniform overcoat off to expose the standard issue white tank top underneath, the black sports bra you wore under that standing out as a shadow beneath the top. You pulled yourself away from John then and shifted yourself around until your back was against the sloping back of the cave, head pillowed only by your pulled-back hair.

“Come here,” you said to him, “you’re gonna freeze to death if you don’t.”

Still, John hesitated. In the faint light provided by the mood and your body’s natural acclimatization to the dark, you could see a look of deep concern on his face as he stared at your outstretched arms. You couldn’t say you blamed him for his reluctance, but you couldn’t help the repeated heavy sigh nonetheless.

“John,” you said softly, ignoring the way the blond man’s breathing hitched at the sound of his first name, “I don’t want you to die. I can control it better when I don’t have to project it. Come here.”

The last part was said less like an offer and more like a demand, but it seemed to be what the super soldier needed. John moved stiffly in the cramped space, sliding his helmet off his head and setting it to the side before turning back to face you. Your nerves, begrudgingly, had started to get the better of you again, and a faint orange glow had begun to light up your skin. This, at least, would begin a more natural temperature spike for you.

“Are you sure…?”

John’s hesitation was, in a way, sweet. Boyish. The man before you was radiating nerves in a way he never had around you before, not even the times the two of you had come under fire. He was skittish in the faint light of you, his eyes darting across the nebulaic patterns that swirled beneath your skin instead of meeting your gaze. You adjusted your legs and beckoned him forward.

“I’m sure, John. Come lay with me.”

That, at last, seemed to finally shatter his resolve. John crawled to you slowly, as if approaching a caged animal, and he was practically a statue as he laid against you. His head came to rest against your shoulder, his cheek pressed to your collar bone and the rest of him pressed against the rest of you wherever it could. You ignored the way this made the glow brighter. Once he’d settled, you threw your base coat over top of the both of you like a makeshift blanket. It was far too small for John, but it was more than he’d had before.

John seemed to sag against you after a few minutes. He felt deflated. As if any warmth or will to live had long-since seeped out of him. Idly, you brought your arms down to circle his waist, began to rub what you’d hoped were soothing circles across his back at the same time. John’s nose was cold where it pressed against your skin, but that wasn’t what caught your attention.

He was crying.

It took you a few more minutes of stillness to be sure, but the feeling of tears sliding against your neck was undeniable. They were hot, and wet, and beginning to roll down your chest as they kept up their unrelenting flow from John’s eyes. You didn’t dare comment. What would you even say?

The last time you had tried to comfort someone, you’d been a labrat for AIM. You had been one of the phase two testers - the stage after the death-bed dealers and before the retired combat veterans - and you’d been laying in a cot across from a woman whose name you never got to learn. You were both being housed in a medical warehouse outside of Boston at the time, both semi-recovering addicts looking for something to distract yourself from the withdrawal symptoms. While you would later learn that your testing group had been the one used to engineer the addictive properties of the serum’s next phase, all those years ago you had simply been concerned with staying alive and helping your friend.

“Do you think it’s gonna hurt?” she had asked, red hair fanning out behind her on the uncomfortable bed. She had looked so young. She had barely been 21, a pretty ginger girl with bright blue eyes and hyper-pigmented freckles smattered across her face. You’d smiled at her before you lied.

“No,” you’d told her happily, “but I’m going first. I’ll warn you if it does.”

You never did get the chance to tell her. Not about the unbearable heat, or the agony of listening to your own spine fuse itself back together. The cause of all those pain pills and drug runs, knitted back together in an instant, and all it’d cost you was your soul. The other girl had burned the same as you, and all it’d cost her was her life.

Shoving the horrible memories of your friend out of your head, you did your best to focus back in on the task at hand. Walker was crying. He hadn’t said anything yet, and the tension slowly returning to his body let you know that he had no intentions of letting you hear him sob, either. You could feel it, though. You wonder how long it’d been since Walker’d been held, for him to forget that.

You willed your body warmer, the glow in the cave brightening and your grip on the man in your arms tightening. His shaking hard returned, though you doubted it was from the cold anymore. This was sadness. This was grief. This was the trembling form of a man on the very brink of implosion, self-collapse imminent in spite of his attempts to hold himself together.

Your heart broke for him.

A foolish reaction, you figured, but one you couldn’t help. John Walker, for all his flaws, had been one of the highlights in your field ops, especially since Tony passed. You didn’t like the knowledge that he was miserable. You didn’t like it at all.

“I’m sorry!” John suddenly gasped, practically choking himself on the words in his effort to get them out. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m-”

“Shhhhh,” you soothed awkwardly, doing your best not to come across as angry or upset. “I’ve got you, John. It’s okay. Don’t apologize.”

You didn’t know what else to say. Was there anything else to say? You didn’t even know why he was crying, just that the sight and sound of it was chipping away at something inside you steadily. The feel of it. Cradling a collapsing star in your hands, you felt like Atlas, doing his best to hold up the sky without letting out a scream.

John had started sobbing in earnest then, forcing his face deeper into your neck in an attempt to muffle the sounds. It didn’t matter. You felt the way he shook against you, like a war-torn frame heaving against the weight of his own sadness. There was a storm inside of John Walker, and it seemed like tonight was the night it would finally spill out of him. You kept rubbing his back and shoulders, moving one of your hands up to run your fingers through his hair.

The sound he made, you knew, was practically a wail, but you also knew that John would rather die than admit it.

“I’ve got you,” you murmured again, “I’ve got you, it’s okay. You’re okay. You’re not a failure, Walker; you saved my ass a few times tonight. It’s okay.”

You didn’t know if it was actually helping, or if the excitement of the day was finally catching up to John, but you knew that his sobs had started to quiet at your words. They weren’t gone, granted, but they were subsiding. Waning. The sound still tugged at something inside of you, but the relief you were beginning to feel was palpable. You stayed like that with him for awhile, pity and exhaustion at war in your bones about it, but you were hardly about to tell him to ‘suck it up.’

John Walker needed you.

It was a foreign feeling by then, being needed. Unusual. You couldn’t remember the last time someone needed you. Her, you thought, she needed you. You’d failed her, but maybe you didn’t have to fail him. Maybe you could actually help John.

“You’re safe,” you whispered, “we’re safe, because of you. You got us through the desert, man. You’re good.”

“But I’m not!” John’s outburst startled you. He pushed himself up, wet eyes boring into yours with a ferocity you hadn’t been prepared for. “I’m not good. I wreck everything I touch!”

Your breathing hitched. His face was barely inches from yours, his chest heaving with the force of his sobs. Tears were still streaming down his cheeks, but you didn’t dare comment on that.

“You didn’t wreck me.”

Everything froze. Blood rushed to your ears, your heart pounding out of your chest as you stared up at the former Captain America. John didn’t react to your words at first, just watched the way your skin lit up with your nerves. Frustrated and feeling bold, you repeated yourself.

“You didn’t wreck me,” your voice was firmer this time, “you didn’t wreck me, John. You’re touching me right now, and I’m okay. I’ve been not okay on a lot of missions, I’m okay on this one now. I’m okay here with you.”

You were rambling. John hadn’t blinked the whole time you were speaking, leaving you unnerved and glowing brighter. It made you talk more than you normally would, made you anxious in a way you’d hadn’t been in years. You felt yourself heat up at the thought. At least John’s warm, you mused, and your lips quirked up into a small smile.

John’s mouth was on you in an instant.

You didn’t even have time to gasp when the kiss landed, John had closed the gap so fast that you almost hadn’t realized it was coming. You kissed back, though. The moment you got your bearings about you, you kissed John back fiercely, bringing your hand up to cup his face.

He tore away from you with a gasp.

“I’m sorry!” he choked out, “I’m sorry fucking sorry, holy shit, I-”

“Okay-” you cut him off, “well, that’s, like, discouraging as fuck to hear, but. Okay. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

John rolled his eyes. “You keep saying that!”

“I keep meaning it, too!” you snapped back. John was back to staring down at you then, and you found yourself quickly getting tired of the feeling of looking up. “It’s fine, Walker. I’m not mad. I, uh… I’m not mad.”

You’d lost your bravado half way through speaking, your voice trailing off awkwardly. John’s eyebrows knit together in confusion, frustration twisting the rest of his features unpleasantly.

“What were you gonna say?” John demanded and you would have screamed a thousand screams if it hadn’t been such a risk. You swore your face was going to explode - and that was only half a joke.

“Oh my god!” you got out, voice clipped and eyes finally moving away from John’s to the cave ceiling. “I kissed you back! Okay? It’s fine! You surprised me, sure, but I wasn’t, like, fighting you off by any means. I kissed you back.”

You wished closing your eyes would be enough to drown out the light you were throwing as you sat in your own anxiety. This was stupid. You were both being so fucking stupid, really, acting like a kiss in a cave was the end of the world. Like it was something worth discussing. It was the action of lips on lips, a mouth moving against another mouth. There was nothing special, or world-changing, or life-altering, or-

John kissed you again.

You kissed back instantly this time. You were out of practice but you tried not to let that get to you, instead focusing on the way John’s lips moved against your own. He was a good kisser. As far as you could tell, at least, John was a good kisser; he was steady, the pressure perfect without being forceful, and he hadn’t rushed in with tongue the way your last boyfriend did. Granted, that had been in university, but that was your only point of reference anymore.

This time when you broke apart, it was for air, and John didn’t seem ready to back out as he panted above you. Without thinking, you pressed a kiss to John’s cheek, an impulsive move that had the super soldier’s face heating up beneath your lips. Pulling away gently, John buried his face in your neck, and you smiled. Content with what you’d already gotten, you’d been unprepared for the way John’s mouth had found your throat.

“Oh!” you’d gasped, face and chest heating up in shock. You felt John tense, but he relaxed once your hand shot up to his hair, your grip on his hip tightening with the other. You liked that. You liked this. All of it. John kept up his path across your throat, dipping down slightly to press a row of kisses across your collarbone. Without overthinking it, you raised the leg of yours that was between John’s, your thigh pressing into the core of him firmly.

He was hard.

A sick, addicting kind of heat swelled inside you at the revelation and you both froze. You tried to focus on your erratic heartbeat, but molten want kept you pressed where you were despite the danger. You knew this was a fool’s risk - that your heart rate spiking too radically could result in you going off like a bomb. Tony had assured you, years ago, that that wasn’t likely to happen anymore, but the fear had been plaguing you for almost a decade.

Then John whimpered.

It was a small sound. High pitched and needy, he did it again when he shifted against you, his hips grinding down minutely into the cushion of your thigh. You inhaled sharply through your nose and inched your leg up more, tensing to give him something firmer to grind down against. You wanted to hear it again. You wanted to hear him again.

John didn’t give you the satisfaction right away. Instead, the blond busied his mouth on the other side of your neck, exploring the next expanse of skin like the trained tracker he was. It felt good, laying under the former captain, letting him kiss you however he wanted. You assumed he was enjoying it, too, based on the way he kept trying to get closer to you still. His tears hadn’t stopped entirely, but they were slower now. Calmer. They wet your neck more than anything else John was doing.

You shifted the hand that was on his hip, running it up his side to cup his ribs. John shivered. You’d never really considered what John would be like in bed - in cave - but if you had, you still wouldn’t have anticipated how reactive he was. It was adorable. It was addicting. You liked how well he responded to you, pushing into your hands wherever they laid across his body, his hips grinding down against you in a steady rhythm. It made you feel powerful. You were drawing these sorts of sounds and shivers out of a super soldier - he was becoming putty in your hands.

“This still okay?” John’s voice broke the monologue in your head, his words quick but clear. They made you smile. Briefly, you debated teasing him about the question, but you knew that you were dancing across thin ice. One wrong move, and Walker would send you plunging into the cold.

“Still okay,” you confirmed, “now come kiss me again.”

John complied easily. That's another thing you would have never thought to anticipate; how non-domineering John seemed to be when he felt good. It was cute. Sweet. It made your heart beat almost dangerously fast, the light in the cave growing brighter as you continued to make out. The hand on your hip shifted then, John shifted his weight to rest mostly on his other arm, his left hand moving to slip under your shirt.

Your stomach clenched at the feel of his bare hand on your bare skin. Feeling bold, you swiped your tongue against John’s bottom lip and had to bite back a smile at how easily he opened up for you. At your enthusiasm, John grew bolder too, his thigh pressing against your core firmly, the hand on your stomach sliding up to your chest. You couldn’t help the small noise that left you, a content little hum at the feeling of the super soldier cupping you through your bra. John inhaled sharply at it, and he nipped at your bottom lip before pulling away.

“I wanna touch you,” you said before he had a chance to talk, and John’s pupils blew wide at your words as he stared down at you. He nodded silently, pink tongue dragging across his bottom lip as he gave you his consent.

You slid the hand on his ribs down to the front of his suit, and you hoped he was also ignoring the way your hands shook and skin lit up. You were so nervous, even as you felt the evidence of how much John liked this pressing against you. You kissed him again to distract yourself from it and worked your hand between you, finally wrapping your too-warm fingers around the bulge in John’s uniform,

“Fuck,” he groaned out, mouth hanging open for a second at the relief of finally getting proper pressure where he needed it most. “Fuck, pretty girl, keep going.”

The words sparked something inside of you, sent a wave of desire crashing through your body like a tsunami of want. John’s voice was even deeper than it had been all day, something thick and primal working its way into his tone as he pushed himself against your hand. Idly, you wondered what he was thinking about, but the feeling of John’s hand sliding down to the waistband of your pants distracted you. You didn’t bother waiting for him to ask, you just nodded enthusiastically, pressing your lips against John’s yet again.

You really liked kissing John.

You liked even more the way his hand felt as it slipped into your pants, warm and calloused and strong. Your skin was glowing fiercely, your body running hot as you struggled to contain just how excited you were. You were wet, you could feel how slick you had gotten just from making out and you hoped Walker wouldn’t comment on it. You felt him smirk against your neck and, before he could shatter that hope, you squeezed gently around the bulge in your hand again. John moaned. You began to rub him in earnest then, thrilled when he started to grind against your hand while making quiet, content sounds in your ear.

“Fuck you sound good,” you mumbled mindlessly. John whimpered. The words had slipped out entirely without your permission as you’d gotten lost in the feeling of John surrounding you, something you’d expected him to hate. Clearly, he didn’t. You kept talking.

“You look good too, you know?” you’d been asking rhetorically, but John nodded like he was afraid to disagree. “You’re so hot. So pretty.”

John whimpered again. You thought your heart was going to explode in your chest as you fumbled with John’s belt, doing your best to yank it open blind. “I wanna get my hands on you for real.”

You said it half to turn him on more and half as a warning, giving him ample opportunity to stop you, if he’d wanted to. He didn’t, if the way he bucked his hips into yours was anything to go by. It was awkward in the cramped space, and your back hurt from the rock. You were glowing, and sweating, and shimmieing around in a sandy cave to give a handjob to a super soldier, but you were excited. You wanted this. You were having more fun on the floor of that cave with John than you’d had in years by yourself in a soft bed.

You didn’t get a good look at John’s cock despite the light you were emitting, the angle of it all making it damn near impossible to see anything other than blue eyes and soft hair. But you could feel it. Hot and heavy in your hands, John was big. Long, and thick, and you could feel the hair at the base of it when you slid your hand down. John’s breathing hitched.

“Come on,” he urged softly, hips jutting up into your hand. “Come on, Lava Lamp, I need this.”

You finally did laugh then, a silly, obnoxious giggle pouring out of you as you wrapped your fingers around John properly, stroking as best you could despite your giggling frame. “Don’t fucking call me that,” you said without any fire, “or I’ll rip your dick off.”

It was John’s turn to laugh then, an easy sound that made you instantly want to hear more. Between your bodies, your forearms were pressed together awkwardly as you rubbed at each other at, possibly, the world’s worst angle. You couldn’t bring yourself to be bothered by it. “I don’t think you mean that,” John teased back. “I think you like it.”

He emphasized his point by slipping his finger between your folds, the slow drag of it up your center pulling a ragged gasp out of you. He wasn’t wrong. That was kind of the worst part of all of this, in a way. John really was making you feel good, and you had a sinking feeling in your gut like you may never live it down. You clenched around nothing at the thought.

“I think,” you flicked your thumb across the tip of John’s cock as you spoke, “that you should be a good boy and fuck me.”

You wondered for half a second if you’d gone too far, or if you’d jumped the shark in regards to being sexy, but the way John shuddered assuaged any worry you felt in an instant. He moaned as he buried his face back in your neck and nodded, his middle finger working its way back between your folds. You held your breath. It had been so long since you’d done anything with anybody, you found yourself craving something more.

“Come on,” you choked out, “open me up.”

John obeyed at once, his finger sliding inside you fully now, right up to the third knuckle. It was just one, but the sudden pressure made you hiss between your teeth. “Sorry,” John mumbled softly, and his thumb came up to press circles against your clit. You couldn’t help the moan you let out, loud and obnoxious. It fueled John on, urging him to continue toying with you in the hopes of hearing more. You kissed him again instead.

Kissing John with his fingers in you was a different kind of intensity, something far more intimate than just lips-on-lips had been. It had been so fucking long since the last time you’d had this. Since you’d had someone. You knew that whatever was happening between you and John was an impulsive, spontaneous thing. It wouldn’t matter when the sun rose, but it mattered to you tonight.

That was the thought that urged you forward, bringing one of your legs up to hook around his hip as you did your best to relax. After another minute or two, you nodded at John to add another finger, which he did easily. You were so wet. You couldn’t really remember the last time you had been this turned on, the last time you were so desperate to have something fill you. It was a fun, albeit vulnerable, feeling, one you’d hoped John was drowning in himself.

“Another,” you said breathlessly, hand sliding against John’s cock in an easy glide. You had meant to be nicer about it, but John’s cock twitched in your hand at the command still audible in your voice despite the pleasure.

John obeyed.

You loved the feeling of him listening to you. It was an easy sort of control, one that felt earned instead of fought for, and it wrapped around you like a cloud of smoke. Permeating, something that hung heavy in the air and clung to your lungs as you gasped in mouthfuls of John.

It was obvious before too long that you were both ready. Your pussy was dripping, an audible squelching sound making your face burn as John continued to finger fuck you on the floor of a cave. It was so vulgar. So dirty. But it felt good, and weirdly intimate, less like a hookup and more like a beginning.

You shook yourself.

That was dangerous thinking, the kind of sap that got you stuck on the tree of life, forever unable to keep climbing towards the top. You had no place for it in your life. It was a waste. A hindrance. A burden you were simply unwilling to bear.

“Please let me fuck you,” John’s voice was getting higher in pitch. “Please, fuck, gotta feel you.”

And, really, hadn’t you always been built a bit different? Hadn’t you been designed to bear more than most? The thoughts felt dangerously close to self harm as you allowed them to dance behind your eyes.

“Fuck me, John. Come on.”

Walker was quick to lift himself off of you then, something that had almost startled a protest out of you before his hands flew to the button on your pants. He fumbled momentarily before he got himself together, lowering your pants until you could get one leg out entirely, allowing for easy maneuvering. Anticipation swirled in your gut.

John looked at you for assurance one last time. You nodded your head, bringing your hands up to cup his face. “Come on, John.”

The tip of John’s cock was red and leaking, his cock throbbing visibly where it bobbed between his legs. He lined himself up, giving you one last peck on the mouth before he pushed in slowly. You held your breath, the glow in the cave almost blinding for a moment as John’s pelvis hit yours.

You needed this.

You needed this so bad that you didn’t even care about the stream of content sounds pouring out of your mouth, nor the mindless babbling that followed. “So good,” you panted, “oh my god, John, you’re so good. Feels so good. Fuck!”

Above you, John did his best to suppress a whine. His whole body shuddered at your words, his hips starting their slow grind against yours. His head pressed against your forehead as his eyes closed and you clenched around him, walls squeezing around his cock as his hips began to drive into yours in earnest. Still, he tried not to let you hear the sound trapped in his chest.

“Say it again,” John begged, “please, Lava Lamp, I gotta hear it.”

You couldn’t have helped the smile that spread across your face if you’d tried. “Such a good boy,” you said as you grabbed a handful of his hair. “Making me feel so fucking good.”

And there it was, that pretty little whine he had tried so hard to hide before. John leaned his head back into your hand, letting you pull the fistful of blond hair with just enough force to drag a moan out of the man. John’s own hands found your hips, gripping them with an almost-bruising force to maintain leverage in the cramped space. You didn’t mind. John shifted slightly then, the angle only minutely changed but groundbreaking nonetheless.

“Oh!” you gasped, “Oh! There! Fuck!”

You began to press your hips back as best you could, meeting John thrust-for-thrust as need carried you through on instinct. “There?” John asked, and you nodded dumbly.

“There, John, fuck. Such a good boy. You feel so good inside me.” you knew you were rambling, but you couldn’t stop running your mouth at the feeling, and you wanted to soak up each and every one of John’s reactions to your words.

He was so responsive. You hadn’t expected it, had instead been expecting some grand display of stoicism from your temporary teammate, even as the heavy petting had started. The tears from earlier seemed to be pooling at the corners of his eyes again, but you didn’t call it out. You just stared into the deep blue of John’s gaze for as long as you could hold it before the pleasure became too much, the inferno inside of you raging against your need from within.

“This good?” John panted, and your heart clenched at the desperate way he needed validation, even as you soaked his cock with how badly you wanted him.

“So fucking good,” you panted, “you’re so fucking good, pretty boy. Such a good boy for me.”

John’s hips stuttered at the petname, losing their rhythm as the words washed over him. Good. He was being good. John preened under your praise, his heartbeat erratic beneath your lips as you mouthed as his pulse point. He was so cute. You kept up with the praise, dropping a gentle “good boy” or “keep going, baby” whenever it felt right, and John kept fucking you like it’d been his mission from the start.

“Come on, baby,” you guided gently as his hips began to pause too long at your words, “fuck me like a good boy.”

The words activated him like a sleeper agent.

Walker fucked into you obediently, hips keeping a consistent, addicting pace with an almost militant efficiency. He was good at following orders. You really should have known that - should have realized that the man trained to take lead hadn’t simply gotten there by never being able to follow - but it was still a surprise each time he listened so easily. He was so compliant, allowing you to lead despite his place above you. Not for the first time that night, you wished fiercely that you were anywhere other than a desert cave.

The stone beneath your back made your whole body ache. Your spine felt warped under the weight of you both, the heat you were throwing was making everything feel sharper than it actually was. Harsher. The heat inside of you felt so good, though. It felt like the Extremis serum, but kinder. It felt like being wanted. It felt like a need so intense you could barely keep yourself from gasping with it as you rocked your body against John’s as best you could.

John couldn’t keep his hands still anymore. They explored you in earnest, callused fingertips dragging against your sensitive, glowing skin. He slid his hands up your sides, his palms flat and wide as they covered places on you leading up to your ribs. His hands on your tits made you moan despite yourself, pushing your chest up further into grip. Your nipples here hard against his palms, pebbled as if you were trapped in the cold, and practically begging John to do something with them.

You hadn’t expected his mouth.

Walker dipped down to get his mouth on your left nipple faster than you could react, an embarrassing whimper tearing its way out of your throat at the sensation. Wet heat encircled the sensitive bud, John’s lips capturing you with a gentle suck. His tongue flicked against the tip of it after a second, making you clench around him tighter.

“Oh my god,” you gasped out happily, “John, baby, fuck. Making me feel so fucking good.”

Your head was practically spinning with want as you tugged at John’s hair, your fingers curled into a loose fist that was tightening by the second. Walker took that as his cue to switch sides, but not before blowing cool air against the spit-slick skin of your left nipple, the feeling making you writhe against him. He sucked on your right tit with just as much enthusiasm, his hips fucking into you with enough force to shift your body against the stone beneath you.

God you hated the stone.

Idly, in the back of your mind, you wondered what it would be like to do this properly. Maybe in a motel somewhere while you laid low, isolated enough and with a big enough bed for you to spread the super soldier out and toy with him for real. You wanted to hear him whine some more, wanted to see just how far he was willing to go for praise. You wondered if he was into being made to wait, kept on the edge of orgasm for hours while being forced to beg, or maybe the opposite. Maybe the serum in his veins meant he didn’t have a refractory period anymore, and he would lay back all pretty while you spent a night making him cum until he cried - or ran out. Maybe there was nothing more to your encounter in the cave than a moment of weakness and some desperately needed comfort, but maybe there was also just more to John Walker than met the eye.

You were desperately hoping for the latter.

You were approaching your high far faster than you wanted to. You wanted to savour this, to hold onto the feeling of John Walker compliant in your arms, but you knew it was a losing battle. You felt too good. Your skin was hot, your insides like fire, and you were glowing like nightlight. You were so bright. You didn’t feel like you were going to explode, though; the heat was a pleasant burn, not a charring scorch. Nothing hurt like this, nothing ached or strained or melted away inside of you. Nothing was wrong. For the first time in years, you could almost pretend that nothing was wrong.

“John,” you tried to warn him, your voice and cunt both tightening. You didn’t need to continue. John’s hips kept their pace, his hand returning to its place between your thighs without your direction. The feeling of his trembling fingers circling your clit made you gasp. Once.

Twice.

Three times and you were cumming around John’s cock. Hard. you were sure you would have shouted some sort of obscenity if not for John’s mouth on yours, kissing you like his life depended on it as you clenched around him tight. You felt incredible. Waves of liquid fire lapped at your spine, molten desire drowning you where you laid in the sand. Your limbs tensed, your arms crushing John against you as tight as you could without hurting him and your legs wrapped around his hips as they plowed into you in a way that left your body trembling in the aftershocks.

“I’m close,” John choked out, going to pull himself out of you. You didn’t want that. You wanted to feel John let go inside you, feel the way his body relaxed when he finally let go. Without thinking, you locked your ankles behind his back.

“Cum for me, pretty boy.”

John bit into your shoulder as he came, hard enough to break skin and draw blood. It made you whine in overstimulation, but it didn’t make you pull away. It was hot. Being marked. You knew it would heal as soon as John removed his teeth, the Extremis serum doing its best to repair you completely the moment you began to decline in any way. It almost drove you crazy, your inability to see any lasting effects of the battles you’d been through, but you were certainly grateful that you wouldn’t have any marks to hide from Valentina in the morning.

The feeling of John’s cum painting your walls was almost enough to send you over the edge again, the aftershocks of your last orgasm squeezing everything out of John as you clenched as tight as you could. You felt amazing. John shook against you, his body rigid before relaxing into a pile of flesh and nerves under your careful hands. You were rubbing his back and playing with his hair as you slid your legs down from his hips, your own stretched pelvis screaming at you for the shift. Your back thanked you, though, profusely as you finally eased the tension in the lower half of your body.

“You were so-”

“That was rea-”

You cut each other off in your attempts to provide awkward reassurance. With the desire cooling in your bodies alongside your blood, you couldn’t help the swell of nerves you felt in the aftermath. This had been such an insanely stupid idea. What were you thinking? You weren’t, clearly, and-

“You were perfect,” you said instead of voicing a single one of the concerns in your head. “That was really fun, Walker.”

You were sure you sounded weird. Like a failed telephone salesman or a nervous third grade teacher, but you couldn’t help it. You had successfully stolen from the CIA hours prior, and somehow this felt like the most dangerous thing you’d done all day.

“Yeah?” He asked rhetorically, not shifting his head from your shoulder as he maneuvered himself back into his uniform, “I, uh, I think next time, I should eat you out.”

A sudden wave of hunger threatened to overtake you, your pussy screaming at you to take him up on that right then, but the exhaustion radiating from your bones forced you to ignore it. You barely had it in you to pull your pants back on, and you spent that half minute worried that John wouldn’t return to you when you’d laid back down. He did. You pressed your grinning lips against his forehead.

“Bet,” you replied sleepily, “but only if I get to fuck you, next.”

The last of the water was gone by the time you’d reached a quarter-mile out from the pick-up spot John had set up with Valentina. You had shared it between you wordlessly, tiny sips passed back-and-forth in utter silence. Visibility, and heat, were both an elevating risk in the daytime.

You pretended that was the reason for the quiet.

John had been unable to meet your eyes since you’d woken up that morning. He’d moved away from you some time during your shift asleep, your body so exhausted that you hadn’t even stirred in the process. That wasn’t like you. Usually, you slept lightly, barely allowing your body to ever fall fully into REM sleep, lest something happen while you were unaware. There was also the nightmares. Those were undeniably a factor in your beyond-fucked sleep schedule, and you wondered if it had anything to do with you waking up alone that morning.

She had visited you, as she often did in your sleep. All fiery red hair and fierce eyes, flames licking across her skin as she screamed about it hurting. About you lying. About death. You hadn’t thought about her this much in years, the topic something you typically couldn’t bear to dwell on much, but she’d been inescapable since your moment of weakness with Walker. You wondered if you had spoken in your sleep. You debated asking John, but you doubted he would answer honestly. You tried not to let that bother you. You also tried not to let the short, clipped way John now spoke to you bother you.

You were failing at both.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” you threw out there at last. John froze momentarily in his spot beside you. “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m sticky and there’s sand everywhere and it’s just, like, not the fucking vibe, okay? But Jesus, dude, say something.”

You felt like a fucking high schooler again. Like two 14 year olds refusing to act normal after their first ever game of ‘seven minutes in heaven.’ It was beneath you. Both of you. Ninth grade behaviour, right down to the way you still avoided his eyes while awaiting a response.

“Crotalus scutulatus,” he finally responded. You did turn to look at him fully, then, your own wide-eyes meeting his panicked blue ones. “It’s the name. Of the snake. From last night. It, uh, it shouldn’t even really be called the Mojave Rattlesnake? This part of the desert makes up, like, less than one-fifth of their habitable area, maybe even less than an eighth.”

It was the fact he’d tried telling you last night. You almost laughed. This was a field operative? You weren’t stupid, though, and you knew that laughing at John right then would have shattered the surprisingly blissful moment the two of you were sharing in the blistering hot sun.

“What would you call it, then?” you asked, and John launched into a 10 minute long rant about the classification of desert fauna in the southwestern United States. Again, you almost had to laugh.

John Walker was such a dork.

You hadn’t expected him to be such a dork, rambling on about species identification and the differences between a clade and a class. You pretended to be unfamiliar, mostly just enjoying that you had something to focus on that wasn’t the ever-present threat of being shot from afar. John wasn’t even a terrible teacher, really, though he was undoubtedly condescending at times. You were almost enjoying yourself, in spite of it all.

Almost.

The whir of Valentina’s jet engines were hardly the loudest in the world, but they were by no means the quietest, either. You just hoped you could get out of the Mojave before the CIA caught up to you, even as you boarded the grey metal flight trap. You’d never been overly fond of flying, but your anxiety on the matter had only skyrocketed in recent years. You were dreading this plane trip.

If John noticed your hesitation as you loaded in, he didn’t say anything about it. Then again, in all likelihood, he was too busy dealing with his own. Of the two of you, only one of you was returning to Valentina empty-handed, and you were grateful it wasn’t you. You had meant what you’d said the night before in the cave - about sharing credit - but even you knew it would be a flimsy excuse.

The Contessa de Fontaine was kind of a bitch.

The plane didn’t hesitate before taking off and your stomach dropped. You hated this. Even with Walker sitting next to you on the plane, you hated it. It reminded you too much of the mission you’d been on when the Blip happened. You hadn’t found out for some time that that’s what it was called, but that’s exactly what had happened to you almost 30 000 feet in the air.

You had been tasked with keeping tabs on an Italian Contessa, one Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, one of the founders of OXE group and, if the whispers were to be believed, the most recent name on a long list of mad men trying to recreate the super soldier serum responsible for Captain America. You had been getting really fucking tired of people trying to recreate that serum. But, Mr. Stark had promised that this would be your last job, if it could be. Take out OXE at the root, and you would get to live under the shade of a different tree at last. Then you had turned to ash in the second seat of a two-person plane, and had reformed 5 years later, free-falling from the sky.

It had all felt like an instant.

To you, it was sudden. It was jarring. It was worse than being lit on fire and more of a shock than being put out. Every sensation you had ever felt had coursed through you all at once as - to you - your plane and co-pilot vanished in a grey haze, leaving you plummeting to your death over top some fuck ass spot of nothing in the Utah desert.

To you, it was how you’d realized you could fly.

The panic had overcome you in an instant, a scream unable to even rip its way out of your throat as you fell from the sky. You had been so sure it was the end, your life one huge, meaningless joke, meant only to crumple lifeless in the sand at the end of your days. But heat had overcome you then, a fire unlike anything you’d ever felt before charring you down to your bones before it collapsed, the inferno rushing downwards, the momentum forcing you up. Up, up, up. Until you had far surpassed your original 30 000 feet, the air around you gone frigid despite the waves of fire lapping at your soles. You’d finally managed a scream then.

From so high above the ground, everything looked soft. Forgiving. If you squeezed your eyes shut, you could have almost convinced yourself that everything would end okay. The fire at your feet cooled, your descent began again, and you felt the air rush around you like an atmospheric tomb. The pressure was immense, the ground growing ever-closer, and you swore your heart was going to explode before either problem became an actual threat. Then your feet caught fire again, and up again you rose.

It was a cycle from hell, the worst 15 minutes of your entire life as you launched yourself across the elevation points, your body little more than a ragdoll being shaken by a dog-like wind. Each time you would rise a little lower, fall a little farther, and the ground would come a little closer into view. It felt like being choked, like being edged, like being toyed with. It was a hell unlike anything AIM could have put you through when they’d tried.

But you were flying.

Around the sixth or seventh time you caught fire, you could recognize your torment for the primitive form of flight it seemed to be. A culmination of heat and momentum, thermodynamics manifest as you hurled towards both sand and stars. It would have been the most exciting, most elating feeling in the entire world if not for the death you were so certain would follow. You were flying, sure, and it was a damn shame that that didn’t mean you’d realized how to land.

You’d crashed through the roof of a base you were certain hadn’t been there when you started the flight, thick concrete cushioning your fall as best it could as your flames failed you at last. There was too much pain for screaming then, the air forced out of your lungs as heat overcame you from within. Extremis. The serum was repairing your broken body as fast as it had fallen apart, the very fibre of your being stitching itself back together against the molten heat of rebirth. It was agony. It was bliss.

It was waking up some hours later, strapped to a hospital bed while your blood was being stolen by one Contessa de Fontaine.

You had been incensed. You had screamed yourself hoarse and raged for hours after that, body thrashing almost as violently as it had in the air. Valentina had had to sedate you, in the end, and twice more after that each time you’d woken up. Eventually, you had been tired enough to listen, and in the end it sealed your fate. Valentina couldn’t let you leave, not with the potential literally burning beneath your skin, so you had a choice; guinea pig or guard dog?

You’d chosen the leash over a cage.

You were so lost in your own thoughts that you barely noticed Walker shifting next to you in his seat. You didn’t care to turn and face him, not then at least. Not with thoughts of ash and arial maladies plaguing you. You didn’t want to have this discussion with him, didn’t want to talk about falling into Hell the way you had or your slow attempt to crawl your way out ever since. John didn’t seem at all deterred by your decision to ignore him, however, as the blond began to speak.

“It’s a Bell Boeing V-22 Osprey,” he said, informative and confusing at the same time, “I’ve ridden in a few before. Good craft. Some of Boeing’s better work, really.”

So he had clocked it, then.

A bitter sigh ripped its way out of you. “I don’t want to hear about the plane, Walker.”

You had tried to keep your voice even. Calm and collected as you addressed the Captain. You knew it hadn’t come out like that. It had come out strained and weak, breaking twice without your permission. You sounded like a little kid, but you had another 3 hours left by plane before you hit Langley and, worse, Valentina. You just didn’t feel like spending them learning about plane facts.

“What’s your problem with it, anyway?” the question was asked sincerely, but in a tone that made you want to punch Walker right in the head for asking. “It’s a solid plane.”

You laughed bitterly. “All planes are solid until they’re not,” you shot back haughtily, “all planes are solid until they fucking turn to ash.”

You didn’t elaborate, and John didn’t ask you to. Briefly, you wondered if he thought you were threatening him, implying you would take down the plane if he didn’t shut up. You couldn’t find it in you ro correct him. Not when it got him to move on from the topic of air travel, instead spending the rest of the flight leaned back and sleeping while you were still awake to watch.

You landed right at the OXE base about 3 hours later, legs stiff and aching as you were led inside by armed guards. The halls of Valentina’s floor of the building were wide like the Nevada-base’s had been. Hers were stark white linoleum where the base had been concrete, but that imposing effect remained the same. You felt unable to hide. You were overexposed walking into that office, even with Walker at your side.

“Sit.”

She hadn’t even bothered pretending with the pleasantries. Contessa Valentina Allegra de Fontaine had never been a particularly kind or nurturing woman, but the way she’d been radiating cold and malice then had been unnerving. Suffocating. Valentina had the eyes of a brazen bull; hollow inside save for the screams of the dying working their way out of her mouth in the form of commands.

You and John both sat without question.

“Which one of you wants to tell me what the fuck happened out there?” Valentina demanded, and you swore your blood ran cold. Did she know? Did she mean the… whatever it had been last night? Or had she meant the base? The alarms and the escape through the vents? You didn’t know.

“I failed to get the files,” John said instantly, and your head whipped around to look at him, eyes wide. “I prioritized ensuring the safety of myself and my fellow field operative over retrieving them. No casualties in the base, though. No blood spilled.”

“N-No blood spilled?” Valentina asked rhetorically, a bitter laugh working its way out of her chest. “‘No blood spilled,’ he says, like that’s some sort of goddamn reassurance. You idiots!”

You and John both flinched at the outburst.

“Those alarms weren’t for you, stupid! I told you both the cameras and sensors were out on that floor, what the hell is the matter with you? The alarm was triggered by one of the squints on the human trials floor, not by whatever you two losers were doing in the basement.” Valentina was fuming. Steam practically poured out of the woman’s ears as she ranted for another 27 minutes, raving about following orders and not deviating from plans.

Several times, you’d been tempted to interrupt, but John’s hand on your knee the first time you went to kept you in your place. There was no point. Valentina had decided that you’d both failed, and arguing with her on the semantics of sending out multiple agents at once without informing each other was pointless. She wouldn’t listen anyway.

When she finally stopped, her chest heaving and her eyes ablaze, you stood up. Wordlessly, you fished the usb out of your pocket and dropped it on her desk. “What’s that?” she demanded.

“A usb stick full of files from the CIA,” you explained bluntly, your voice a deadpan mockery of itself as you spoke. “It’s here because of me, and I’m here because of him. As far as I’m concerned, that’s all you need to know. Are we dismissed now, Miss Contessa?”

You refused to flinch or even blink at the intense look Val leveled you with. Her eyes burned. All of you did as well. You knew it was stupid to bite at the hand that fed you, but God, what an exceptional final meal her fingers could make.

You wondered how this would be taken out on you next.