Archive of Our Own

You’re sitting on the ground, grimy and exhausted. The Quinjet crashed a couple of hours ago. Yelena isn’t trying to fix the comms anymore. She’s formulating a plan with Walker, thinking up an efficient way to regroup with Barnes and Antonia before sundown.

“No, we need to scope the perimeter first. Our jets went down at the same time. They may be closer than we think,” You hear Walker tell her.

His arms are crossed tightly across his chest, his brows are furrowed, and his stare is unwavering and serious. He’s much taller than Yelena—she has to crane her neck to meet his gaze. Still, she looks back at Walker, regarding him carefully before nodding in agreement.

A couple of months ago, Yelena would’ve blown a fuse and drawn a weapon, possibly. Now, remarks such as these aren’t about challenging each other’s authority, or about picking a fight at all. It’s soft, honest, and it’s undeniably respectful. The camaraderie within the team has solidified.

Supplies are evenly distributed: canned food, water canteens, and emergency flares. Yelena shares the plan, “Scan the perimeter. Light a green flare when the others are found. Only use red if something goes wrong. I see red, I drop everything and come to you.” She looks at everybody as she says this with clear devotion. It goes both ways, and it’s unspoken, but it’s there, with a firm nod in Yelena’s direction before the team disperses into pairs.

Yelena with Ava. You with Walker.

The sound of nature. Cawing birds and rustling leaves. . .

There isn’t any aimless wandering. So you aren’t worried, even as the minutes drag into hours, because not so surprisingly, Walker is an experienced tracker. Those blue eyes of his are sharply attuned, as are his ears. You watch his six whenever he crouches to examine something—fallen tree branches, crushed bushes, and impressions in the dirt. There are hidden traps, trick wires, and more. Luckily, the super-soldier identifies them with ease. He carefully leads you through no-man’s-land, and you can’t stop your heart from thrumming with excitement. His keenness for detail is attractive, so is the way he rests a hand on your lower back, helping you over slippery rocks and camouflaged traps.

“Someone’s been through here,” Walker says at some point. His hand twitches at his belt, the impulse to light the green flare, but he catches himself. “Someone’s been through here,” Walker repeats louder, motioning you over with bright eyes. He points at the ground when you reach his side. You squint, unable to spot the supposedly cleared path. You’re sure it’s there; Walker wouldn’t purposefully jeopardize the assignment. So, even though it’s not visible to you, there’s mutual trust, one that’s formed after half a dozen missions together as a team.

“Lead the way,” You respond. When you don’t question his findings, Walker’s chest expands with an inhale—the sight rings like a bell, the delight and inflated ego. “Good eye,” You touch his elbow. He smiles in response, but his neatly trimmed beard mostly obscures it; it is light and barely there, unlike the deep blush coating his pale skin, which is glaringly obvious. 

A couple of weeks ago, you made an observation. John Walker responds to praise—preens beneath it, like a kitten basking in the warm sun. That’s right, the slightest of compliments makes the super-soldier look like the cat that got the cream. It’s fun toying with this bit of information, adding a fleeting touch here and there. Seeing a man like John Walker squirm is extremely amusing.

“If I had to be stuck in the woods with anybody, it’d be you, for sure.” You say after a while of walking in silence. He dips his chin and smiles. “How’d you get so good at this?”

Walker responds with a story about an overseas operation. A missed drop-zone, an untamed wilderness, and needing to hunt and forage for survival. “There was another time, in the desert, back when I was still wet behind the ears. Our squad got ambushed in the middle of the night, and I was separated. For a couple of days, as I made my way back to base, I had to drink my urine.” Walker chuckles when you groan. “Anyway, after shit like that, you teach yourself things. How to track, which berries are safe, how to find fresh water - - so that you don’t ever have to drink your own piss… You know, sometimes I’d be lucky enough to come home, just to end up spending the weekend camping in the mountains. That’s 'cus you never forget what it’s like, being in the dark, shivering, struggling to light a fire.”

Imagining a younger version of this man, lost in a faraway jungle, or alone in the bowels of a war-torn country, isn’t difficult. John Walker carries himself like a soldier, with the prowling stride and the squared shoulders. It’d make sense that on his “reintegration,” he’d choose to stowaway from civilian life, haul himself back into the woods, choosing the night sky over the roof of his marital home. Prioritizing the honing of primitive living skills… For the next time. Because there’s always a next time.

“It’s just,” Walker trails off, second-guessing himself, which is extremely unusual.

“What?” You ask with sparked curiosity.

“These flowers are so bizarre. I’ve never seen them before.” Walker gestures to the ones hanging from the trees. They’re trumpet-shaped and teal-blue. The further both of you walk in this direction, the bigger the flowers get, ‘till they’re drooping from the sky like bells. “God, the sap is everywhere.” Walker groans, securing his helmet tightly across his chin.

“Wait,” You blurt—Walker freezes in his spot. “Barnes mentioned these before we left the compound, remember? They’re toxic to men. We need to get you out of here.”

Walker looks over his shoulder at you. There’s a look of clear incredulousness on his face. “We have a path right here,” He balks— “Clearly, Barnes didn’t heed his own warning.” But you don’t waver in your stance. Walker sighs. He starts rattling calculations around in his head, frowning, and staring at the teal-blue flowers. “I could use my shield as an umbrella?” He thinks aloud, lifting the bulky heap of metal above his head as a demonstration.

“No, it’s not the sap, it’s the pollen, and it’s dangerous when inhaled.” Your eyes dart around, suddenly aware of the blue mist in the air. “We need to head back. Now.” Your heart is slamming in your chest. The flowers seem to be swelling in size, rapidly blooming, and dripping sap. The scent is heady—nearly too much, even for you. Walker must be suffocating.

“No, no.” Walker shuts his eyes with frustration. “There are two tracks, two people. One is heavier than the other. It’s Barnes and Antonia,” Walker insists. You start to leave. He takes two quick strides and grabs you by the arm, forcibly stopping you. “The trail goes straight down that way—” Walker swears, “You go. I’ll wait here.” This proposition sways you.

“The pollen is toxic and it’s everywhere,” You slowly tell him. Walker’s eyes are wide and steely blue. His face is flushed with exertion. You wonder if any of this is getting through to him. “Head back that way. Get as far away as you can-- quickly. If anything happens… I’ll leave you with the red flare, okay?” You rummage through your pack. Walker fidgets with his stance, shifting his weight around, growing more anxious by the second.

You hand him the red flare. He shoves it into his pack.

“Wait for me.” You give Walker a hard look. A smile forms on his face, but it’s strained. It seems like he’s already regretting his proposition. Or feeling the effects…

You hesitantly proceed down the path, casting him a final look of warning.

Walker watches you with hazy eyes. He sees it now, the way the plants seem to dance and sway. They part for you, forming a tunnel of glimmering teal. The sight is beautiful and surreal. Just then, an electrical current shoots up his spine. Walker shudders and turns the other way. He quickly retreats, breathing rapidly, rolling his head and shoulders, once and then twice.

Time seems to slow. . .

The air is thick. Walker’s skin is tacky. He shakily exhales, finding a flat surface to rest on, somewhere far away from the flowers. He sits and waits, keeping his eyes on the sky, on the lookout for your green flare, or Yelena’s. Something about this reminds Walker of all those long weekends in the mountains. Trying to distinguish cumulonimbus from nimbostratus clouds.

Walker rubs his face, startled by the sweat coating his face. He wipes it off with his sleeve.

With growing desperation, Walker tries the comms again, adjusting the dial, surfing through the frequencies. “This is Walker. Can anybody hear me?” He’s startled by his own voice, breathy and weak. “Jesus.” He groans, wiping the fresh layer of sweat off his face.

There’s a fleeting moment of restraint before Walker shakily undoes the strap around his chin, then removes the helmet altogether. His entire body has gone hot and clammy. He clutches at the collar of his suit, starts yanking at it, desperation coursing through his super-soldier veins. And then Walker grabs the flare, thinks twice, and tosses it to the side. He can’t light it and deter you from the mission. Instead, Walker tries the comms again, starts manically pressing buttons, banging at it. Until, finally, static!

“Walker?”

A wave of relief crashes over him. It’s you, it’s you.

“Yeah,” He gasps. The heat beneath his skin has slightly cooled.

“You fixed the comms?”

Walker momentarily pauses, listening to the steady thrum of white-noise. “I think it’s a closed line with - with you,” He looks around. “Are you sticking to the - uh, the trail?” Walker shuts his blue eyes, struggling to keep his tone steady.

“Yes. You were right. I found the wreckage. They can’t be far. You did good, Walker.”

A sudden hiss escapes his lips. There’s a scorching need in his bones. Fuck, it’s all coming back to him now—the teal-blue flowers, the side effects, the seriousness on Barnes’ weather-worn face during the presentational brief.

“Walker, are you okay?”

He brokenly hums, nodding even though you can’t see him. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry about me.” Walker murmurs—he presses the heel of his palm to his right eye.

“You’re infected.”

He curses your astuteness. “A little bit,” Walker admits.

“Listen to me. Don’t panic.”

Walker shakily exhales. “I won’t.” His voice trembles as he says this, not with fear.

“It’s not deadly. But I can circle back…”

Walker grunts. “Prioritize the mission. Gotta find the others before sunset,” He says. Falling back into this role is easy, one of command and leadership. “Talk to me,” Walker blurts when you fall silent. His thoughts have gone rampant. You’d circle back to him to do what? His mouth has begun to salivate; it’s animal-like, this hunger within him. God, he’s straining in his pants.

“There are carvings on the trees-- an arrow? I think they’re waiting by the river, I can see it in the distance…”

Your voice has always done something to John Walker. He finds it soothing, steadying. The “New Avengers” PR team must surely agree, because you’re constantly being put on radio talk shows. And nine times out of ten, Walker will secretly tune in. He enjoys listening to your stiff tone of professionalism, even if you’re reading from a script—it’s controlled and serious, like a superior officer. So hearing it like this, slightly out of breath. It’s only riling him up further. He’s audibly panting by now.

“Walker?”

He hums in response—it’s weak and needy. He’s too turned on to care. His hands are buried in the grass, gripping onto the long green strands, refusing to touch himself.

“I found them.”

He lets out a ragged sigh of relief. And then he spots the green flare in the sky. What happens next is a blur. There are glimpses of your face—a scorching pain suddenly overtaking him. Then there’s cool water on his skin, river water. When Walker finally comes to, he discovers that all of his tactical gear has been removed, and that he’s lying on a stiff mattress, on his back.

Calling out for you is instinctive. His voice booms through the cottage.

There’s movement—the sound of clamoring. Retreating footsteps and a door slamming shut.

Walker’s vision is bleary, but he recognizes your silhouette when you appear by his bedside.

“Where am I?” He rasps, squirming with unfamiliar discomfort. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before—nausea, heat, arousal—like he’s missing a vital piece of himself. He’s empty and desperate. “Where’s-- where’s the rest of the team?” Walker asks, attempting and failing to sit up. He groans with frustration. His big hands clutch the wool sheets.

“We found a little town. Yelena borrowed somebody’s phone. She’s trying to reach Alexei,” You explain. “The others went out - - just now, for um… Sightseeing?”

Walker laughs, and it’s full of self-loathing. It’s been so long since he’s been touched. The last time he had sex was probably the night he became the country’s official Captain America. He remembers getting home, still in the suit, and finding his wife wearing red, white, and blue lingerie. God, John needs it so bad—something, anything! It’d been easy, pretending like he didn’t need Olivia’s touch, and after the divorce, like he didn’t need anybody’s. But now, everything is bubbling to the surface; the need, the pathetic need. He’s starving for it.

“Please come closer,” Walker pleads with big blue eyes. “God, you smell so good,” He murmurs. There are strands of hair sticking to his forehead. A slick layer of sweat across his broad chest. Walker is in absolute disarray. He’s disheveled, blushing all over, and squirming on the mattress. Such a big man, a super-soldier, weakened with desire.

“Walker, listen to me, okay? The pollen is obscuring your judgment. You gotta hold on till Alexei gets here with the jet. We’ll get you back to the compound where you can safely sweat this out of your system.” None of this resonates with John Walker. But his pulse picks up at the mere sound of your voice, the sternness there. His breathing gets shallow. Rapid. “John, you need to catch your breath.”

You want to touch him, push down on his ribcage, slow his heartbeat yourself.

He gasps when you step forward. There’s a sliver of pink—his tongue swiping across his bottom lip. It’s just you and John. The pollen’s effect is noticeably intensifying, making his blue eyes cloud over. He’s still got his briefs on—but his cock is visibly twitching against the material, soaking it through. And there’s a thick smell in the air, earthly and damask-like; it’s John Walker’s creamy arousal. It’s otherworldly. Makes you think of pollinator attraction.

“I need you to,” John can’t finish his sentence. He can’t even keep his eyes open. “Please, please, please,” John shudders. He tries to tug his briefs down, but they get stuck around his erection. The friction around his cockhead hits like a bullet-train. A tsunami of sharp pleasure. There’s a pained moan—then there’s feeble begging, callings of your name. Whatever that plant was, it’s strong enough to overpower the serum and render this super-soldier completely mindless. “Help me, please, please,” John cries out, distressed and extremely overwhelmed by all these newly heightened sensations. 

Everything. Reinforcement, the mission, the jet, seems worlds away now.

You rush forward. John says your name, starstruck, as you slide his briefs the rest of the way down. His cock bobs upwards, slaps against his clenched stomach. What proceeds is unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. Before you can wrap your hand around his engorged cock, John throws his head back, drops his jaw, and cums completely untouched.

He moans, bucks his hips—fucking against nothing. Thick spurts of cum, splattering all over his chest—some streaks catch in his short beard.

“Good boy, John.” You gasp, mesmerized by the sight. As John’s body relaxes, you begin combing the hair away from his flushed face, scratching at the back of his red ears. He nuzzles against your touch like a touch-starved pet. And then John’s tongue finds your wrist. He licks and mouths at it. Your taste is divine. “You okay, did that help?” You concerningly ask.

“A little-- little bit,” John weakly replies—lips parted and coated with spit. “Thank you. I’m sorry.” His voice is muffled—his face is buried in the crook of your neck now. “I’m still,” John trails off with a pitiful whine. His arms tighten around your waist when you try to pull away. “Don’t go,” John blurts.

“I’ll be right back, John. I need to check on the extraction status, okay?” You grip his wrist, and the super-soldier cries out as his strength withers, like a crumbling castle. His arms fall onto the mattress, and he becomes even more helpless than before. Your display of power has shot arousal through him once more. Suddenly, he’s begging again. For you to fuck him, to get on him, and to ride him to completion. You almost gave in. But your head is still somewhat clear. You promptly pull away and exit the bedroom.

The moment the door shuts, the agony comes barreling back.

John can’t catch his breath.

He misses your scent, your presence, your touch. Every second like this is an eternity. Minutes are hours, and hours are minutes. Not knowing what else to do, John starts stroking his erection, desperate to eradicate this scorching pressure. Grip tight, fast pumps. It’s not enough. His cock keeps twitching, relief so close and yet so far. Something is missing—a mate. You, you, you!

John rolls onto his belly, seeking friction, and he immediately finds it. The mattress. He props himself on his forearms, hangs his head, and then starts swiveling his hips, and rubbing his cock against the cottony sheets. But it’s not enough—it’s not enough. John Walker is trapped in a perpetual whirlpool of too-little stimulation!

And then you reappear by the door.

John looks over his shoulder at you, startled, half-convinced that he’s begun hallucinating.

“We can’t get a hold of Alexei. We think he misread the coordinates.” You tell Walker. If there was anything left of the astute super-soldier, there’s nothing now. He looks back at you, breathing heavily, drooling like an animal, still humping the mattress. “A villager told Yelana that the flower is an aid. Medicinal. Helps with… conception. Shortens refractory periods to basically nothing.” You know John can’t hear you—not really. Yet you continue to speak, because his eyes are fluttering shut, and he’s getting himself off better now, stimulated by your voice. He clutches one of the goose-feather pillows, shoves it between his legs, and moans gutturally. “It stays in the system for forty-eight hours unless…”

There’s a flicker of lucidity in John’s eyes. “Fuck me,” He rasps. “Please, please. You hafta… it hurts, I can’t - - do it,” John begins babbling—words slurred and jumbled together.

“Barnes found an apothecary. She suggested this.” You reveal a teal-blue colored tool. John doesn’t know what it is—he just nods and pleads for assistance.

“Touch me, touch me,” He chants. You reach his side, sit on the bed, the tool in your hand. John snuggles close to you, squirming—over six feet of horny super-soldier. His mouth finds your neck. Before you know it, he’s on top of you, caging you in, and mouthing at every bit of exposed skin. He’s begun to desperately rut against you. Cock against your thigh, rubbing, pulsating, and leaking. “Yes, yes,” John huffs when he feels warmth sliding around his cock. It’s the tool—the fleshlight. The sound of his cock fucking into it is obscene, loud and squelching.

He moans, unable to do anything but take it, and babble drunken nonsense. You notice that his skin is insanely hot beneath your free hand. You rub it down his muscled back. Touching and caressing, watching his face twist with both pain and pleasure. “Good boy, John,” You tell him, entranced by the sight, the sounds he’s making. “It’s okay, I want it. C’mon, give it to me,” You moan this out, guiding his hips forward, into the cock-sleeve.  John cums inside of it, filling it to the brim with seed. But he doesn’t stop moving. He grips the bedframe, fucks harder—shuddering with overstimulation, streaks of tears slipping down his flushed cheeks.

He rolls off you when he can’t find his next climax like this. You reposition, ‘till your chest is pressed against his broad back, arm wrapped around his waist. The size difference between you and the super-soldier is insane. So is the power imbalance. He’s sniffling, begging you to make him feel good, chanting your name. You kiss the nape of his neck. His hips buck into the flesh-light. Next orgasm close, closer— “Such a pretty boy when you fuck.”

John cums so hard his vision momentarily blackens. That’s three back-to-back orgasms. But he’s still not sated. You remove the fleshlight. Large amounts of semen spill out. You look over his shoulder, astonished.  Each of his breaths is punctuated by a needy moan.

“I need more,” John whispers. He turns his head, wet lips against your ear, licking, hands, pawing at you. You swallow. You’re so wet. “I need your pussy,” John murmurs—wedging himself between your legs. “Wanted it for so long. So, so, so long.” John swears.

This admission shoots shivers down your spine. However, you don’t know if it’s John Walker or the flower speaking. But you don’t dwell on it. Because he’s on top of you again, forearms propped on both sides of your head. His mouth is against yours now, messily claiming your lips, gnawing at them. “Hmmgh,” John whimpers and flinches back.

When he looks down, he sees your thumbs rubbing against his nipples. They’re so sensitive. His hips instinctively buck forward. God, is he gonna cum like this? And he does, all over your suit.

Four orgasms.

John is trembling all over. Your suit is too harsh against his skin. He wants your pussy. “Please-- ‘m so close. Again, again,” John tears your suit off with his bare hands. Kevlar vest—ripped into two pieces. Pants promptly follow—they’re thrown across the room. His mouth latches around one of your nipples, and he sucks, like he wants nothing more than to feed from you. “Pretty, ‘s pretty,” John babbles. He’s gone wild. Grinding against you, his cockhead slipping through your soaked folds. He doesn’t think to angle his erection, to find your opening, and sink inside. All John Walker knows is that this feels good, so good. He can’t form any solid thoughts.

Five orgasms. Pussy-drunk. And he hasn’t even entered you.

There’s no break at all. After coating your chest in milky white spend, Walker dips down and licks it off your body. The sight makes your eyes roll to the back of your skull. Then his mouth travels lower. Your breathing hitches as his coarse beard scratches your inner thighs.

John drinks from you. Mumbling phrases about God, pussy, and nectar, and all he’s ever needed. His hands hold your legs open, clutching the backs of your knees. God, your arousal is slipping down his throat. It’s scorching hot—so fulfilling. John laps at your soaked core, consumes as much as he can, and then cums all over the mattress when you start tugging at his blonde hair.

Six orgasms.

You watch as he keeps moving his jaw—the way John kisses your pussy. The only indication that he’s cum at all is the way he keeps shaking—jolting with after-shocks, eyelashes fluttering.

His big hands clutch your thighs—keeping them parted, baring your pussy. Tongue, suction, a desperate man. Eating pussy as if it were his last meal. Finally, you cum—hard, right on his working tongue. You’ve been on edge since the team regrouped by the river. When John, still somewhat of a sound mind, started squeezing himself through his pants to relieve the pressure.

There’s a pause. His hot breath against your thigh. And then wet kisses on your hip.

“That’s it.” You comb the hair away from his freckled face. “Such a good boy for me,” You breathlessly appraise. He looks up at you. The veil has somewhat lifted from his gaze. But John is still all whines and huffs. He’s pliant, needy, and too hard to think, and actually verbalize his wants. He simply nods along to your words, still plummeted in sub-space.

But then there’s a shift. John rises from between your legs with newfound urgency, head swirling, trapped in a dizzying spiral. You see that his cock is still so hard, nearly as red as John’s muddled face. You open your arms, and John pitifully moans. He dives back down, holds you tight, nuzzling his scruffy cheek against your shoulder. And then John starts swiveling his hips—balls rubbing against your clit. They’re still so full of cum, you think, slightly dumbfounded. You align his cock with your entrance, trying to meet his eye—but they’re unfocused again—half-lidded and sleepy-looking, like he can’t even keep them open.

And then John instinctively thrusts forward, slipping into your heat in one fluid motion. He’s so big—so, so big. Your pussy stretches to accomodate his sheer size, clenching, and twitching. John’s jaw drops when you let out a strangled sound of pleasure—and he gasps, and cums for the seventh time, right inside you. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, how hot this batch of cum is, the plentitude, like he’s stuffing you to the brim. And though he’s frozen in place, sheathed to the hilt, not even moving—this is the most erotic experience of your life. You cum immediately after him, creaming around his needy cock, gripping like a vice.

Both of your bodies begin to writhe. John wants more of you—even if the overstimulation is becoming too much to bear. You see this—the struggle, like he’s being torn apart.

And then you remember the apothecary. The other tool she slipped Barnes, the one he later handed you with an averted gaze, along with the fleshlight. “John,” You whimper.

John responds with a high-pitched moan. The fact that he replied at all is a miracle. Even if he’s half distracted, mouthing at your neck, squeezing your breasts, and pinching your nipples.

“Do you need more?” You ask, cupping his face, making him look at you. It’s amazing, the ruddiness on his face. He looks like a beautiful disaster.

“Mmm-- hmm,” John mumbles. He turns his head and takes your thumb into his mouth. When you press down on his tongue, his hips instinctively jolt forward. His cock is still so hard—he fucks into you, slow and deep. It takes your breath away. “My God,” Walker mumbles around your finger. His thrusting picks up, really fucking you now. The bedsprings are going crazy. It’s lunacy. Here you are, in a little village, with a super-soldier on top of you—fucking you like it’s his life’s mission to breed you. “I need. I need,” John babbles.

“You need something inside you?” You ask.

John hangs his head. He moans—the thought had never occurred to him. But now it sounds like the Holy Grail. He’s so empty—John needs it. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” He frantically replies.

“On your back,” You pant.

John immediately obeys, rolling off you, and slipping out of your pussy in the process. You’re amazed by the display. How, even while in this pollen-induced madness, John Walker—the perfect soldier—can never ignore a direct command. 

He waits on the mattress as you rifle through your discarded items of clothing. But everything flies out the window the moment he catches sight of your backside. You’re bent over. He can see how puffy your pussy has gotten, the way it’s dripping with his seed.

I did that, John hazily thinks, I did that to you.

There’s a primal rush of affection. He bolts out of bed, grabs your waist, and spins you around, claiming your lips for another near-cannibalistic kiss. “Don’t leave me,” John rasps into your ear. He’s so hard against you, pulsating still, and running feverishly hot. All of this makes you lose your breath. The way John walks you back into bed, biting at your neck, moaning.

And you’re stupefied by those eyes, once entirely blue, now mostly black with dilated pupils, like he’s high on every type of drug. He’s a fucked-out mess, all scratched up, trembling with insatiable want, and covered in his milky spend. Goddamn, John Walker, former Captain America looks like a cheap whore—sounds like an angel, though, as he whines out: “Come fuck me.”

By the time you’re straddling his lap again, John has started weeping.

You show him the item in your hand. It’s sculpted glass, tinted a humorous teal-blue color.

“This is going to nudge against your prostate,” You tell him.

“Fuck me, fuck me. Please, jus’ finish me off-- so close, I can feel it,” John murmurs, pawing at you, uncaring of what it is that you’re holding. He’s practically drooling with want.

“Have you had anything inside you before?” You ask, trying to meet his eyes.

“No, but I-- I fuckin’ need it,” John responds while reaching downwards—as if to open himself up. You grip his wrist, halting his movement. “Pleeease,” He draws out the word with desperation. Now that John knows what’s missing, what will bring him ultimate release, he needs it more than air itself. “Wanna cum. I wanna cum so bad.” John sounds like he’s been edged for ten goddamn hours!

“Wait.” You sternly retort. John stiffens—almost cums completely untouched. The mere fact that he doesn't is a good sign. He’s not so full of cum anymore—maybe half full, or half-empty, depending on how you choose to look at it. “You’ll hurt yourself,” You explain when he flashes you a look of wide-eyed confusion. “Let me do it for you, okay, baby?” The pollen has overpowered the super-soldier serum in many ways. It may have impacted his healing as well. 

John moans at the pet name, frantically nodding, gnawing at his bottom lip. His cock jumps when you begin parting his thick thighs, spreading him open like a whore, yet somehow holistically at the same damn time. Christ, a year ago, you and John couldn’t even be in the same room as each other without a spat or two, or three. Now here he is, legs open, hard as a rod, begging you to give it to him. Also, all this anticipation seems to have undone all his progress. He’s reverted into a whiny, pleading mess. “Please, please. I wanna - God!”

You push down on his shoulders, making his squirming stop. John’s breathing slows.

“This is what you need?” You ask redundantly—just to be fucking sure.

John frantically nods. “I trust you,” He swears. “Help me,” He pleads. Other than today, when was the last time John Walker asked anybody for help?

Your thumb presses against the center of his sac. His cock twitches and leaks at this. John shudders and looks up at you.

“Still so full of cum,” You marvel aloud.

“For you, for you,” John chants. What an admission. It thrills you.

Your thumb skirts lower, rubbing over his perineum. The resounding wail of pleasure shocks your system. This is what he needed after all! John cums for the eighth time—loudly, sounding like a bitch in heat. From this angle, you can see the way his cock pulses with each spurt, and the way his hole clenches around nothing. Not hesitating for a second, your thumb pushes against John’s rim. “My god, yesss,” He groans gutturally. The pollen has loosened him up, lubricated his walls, temporarily mutating his biology, just for this. What a strange flower. “So - - so close.” John whimpers. “Feels so - - so good,” He trails off with a whine and cums for a ninth time when your thumb simply enters him.

“I think you’re already stretched out, John.” You hoarsley tell him. John doesn’t speak. He just moans and spreads his legs further apart. The moment the buttplug presses against his hole, John goes absolutely boneless. His eyes flutter shut, and he starts quietly whining. The toy enters him with ease, rubbing against his walls in the most perfect way. “You okay, baby?” You ask.

John has found nirvana. The scorching pain in his loins has finally dimmed. There’s nothing but pleasant thrumming in his bones now. Like he’s taken the most flawless dose of ecstasy.

He groans once the toy is fully inserted. You watch his eyes roll to the back of his skull. His hips jolt, and you can’t help being entranced by John’s swaying erection. Especially by the teal-blue plug. This is what he needed, you think once more, nearly smiling with relief when his moans stay pleasured and quiet, much like keening. He’s squirming on the bed, but not with distress. No, John is sighing at the feel of it, pleased.

“You good, baby, do you like the plug?” You ask, combing through John’s messy blonde hair.

His eyes flutter shut. John moans with approval, dazed with pleasure. Then he reaches out again—but there’s no demand here anymore. There’s just hope with a hint of embarrassment. Oh, this is John Walker. Through and through. You take his hands and straddle him.

“Jesus.” John whimpers as his sensitive cock aligns with your sopping wet entrance.

You hold onto his hands, gripping tightly as he slides back inside, and using him as a stabilizer, you begin to ride him. Your pussy clenching around him, the plug that’s nudging against his overwhelmed, well-milked prostate, John Walker can’t take any more. He shouts and cums for the tenth and final time—exuding the last of the pollen from his system.

“Haah! God, my fucking god.” John wails. He holds you tight, flushed face buried in your bosom, as his cock begins softening once and for all.

You only have to grind your clit against his abdomen a couple times to follow suit.

John shudders when he feels your orgasm, hears your sounds of satisfaction. Without a word, John slides his hands reverently up your back. His eyes are fixed on your face, his head is tilted to the side, and his lips are slightly parted. He’s now fully softened inside you.

“How do you feel, John?” You whisper, hands rubbing circles on his biceps.

John sucks in a breath, awed and nervous. There’s so much clarity on his face now. It’s startling. But he just keeps staring into your eyes, like he’s finally unlocked the secret to the universe.

“John?” You cup his scruffy cheek, relieved to find a regulated temperature.

Finally, John speaks, and his voice sounds ruined. “All I saw was you,” He rasps.

You smile down at him. At once, John Walker realizes that the ache he feels within his chest is entirely his own. It’s not the effect of a medicinal plant or a serum. In fact, it’s been there this whole time. He’s just managed to stuff it down and hide it out of sight.

“Are you okay?” You ask again. When he nods you slowly shift your weight, ‘till his cock slips out. Both of you whimper at this—at the sight of all his cum leaking out of your pussy.

John brings one of your hands up to his mouth. He kisses the insides of your wrists, and then replies with a meek, “Yes. Thank you.”

You begin to move off him— “Wait,” He says. “I said some things…”

You laugh abashedly. “I understand, John. It was the flower.”

John sheepishly shakes his head. Your eyes brighten, and suddenly there’s this newfound understanding. “Would it be crazy if I said I want you again?” He asks.