Chapter Text
John was moping. It was two in the morning, and he was moping. Insomnia clung to him like rot. He couldn't shake it, and he'd been trying for over a week. Of course, that week included a nasty breakup, PDT, and shipping out to Bagram. All told, it was nothing he particularly wanted to re-live.
Do you actually want this, or do you just want a bigger paycheck?
He squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to chase Olivia's words out of his head. It was tough. Lack of sleep made it even tougher. Springing the engagement on her was a bad idea. Was it any wonder she said no? He knew that she'd react poorly, and he did it anyway. Stupid. But time had been running out. A marriage meant FSP. It meant benefits. It meant she'd been taken care of, even if something happened to him.
She hadn't seen it that way.
A step before the hallway, he hesitated. He looked back at his bunk. Lemar was sound asleep one bed over. Somehow, they'd ended up in Afghanistan together. Every time John thought they weren't going to pull it off, Lemar flashed his orders with the same signature smile.
Let's go to work.
Lemar thought he could work it out with Olivia. Part of John agreed. But the rest of him… The rest of him was awake at two a.m. again. The rest of him was battling an itch he couldn't quite scratch. So he wandered around the base in the dead of night, hoping his feet would take him somewhere he actually wanted to go.
Technically, he wasn't supposed to leave his bunk. But a smile and a sincere "sorry, Sir" had got him out of a lot of jams back at Basic, so he wasn't overly concerned about it. His CO was a hardass, clearly, but she wasn't a sadist. Plus, if he got caught and had to run laps, he might be more tired tomorrow night.
His boots trailed over the floor. There were no lights in the hallway this time of night, leaving him with nothing but dim emergency guidelines. John didn't want to admit it, but he was developing an insomnia routine. First, he'd walk over toward the showers. That was an acceptable place to get caught out of bed. Next, he'd circle to the mess hall. Less acceptable, yes, but still technically acceptable. He had a PowerBar in his pocket just to sell the illusion. After the mess hall, he tended to get bolder. Wilder. He'd spent one memorable morning watching the sunrise from the roof.
Showers first. Like usual. He slipped through the door, angling straight for the sink. He'd splash some cold water on his face–
John thudded to a halt. Not once in his nocturnal travels had he ever encountered another person. Not even the janitor. Tonight, though, tonight his luck had run out. There was an unmistakable hiss behind him–running water. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to the mirror above the sink. Maybe whoever was in the shower hadn't heard him come in. Maybe he could turn around and sneak back out.
His eyes went wide. His breath froze in his chest.
The showers were communal. Completely exposed. He had a totally unobstructed view of the scene. And the scene was bloody. The water ran rust red. It splattered toward the drain, sluicing off the most muscular back John had ever seen. His mouth went dry. He tried to collect himself, but the guy facing the wall had a pair of shoulders to match. They were broad and thick and– It was obscene. Searching for a distraction, John examined the guy's head instead. He had long, dark hair. The strands were flat under the spray.
There were no obvious wounds on his body, so the blood was from someone else, or more likely, multiple someones. It was a lot of blood. John's eyes wandered, roving despite his every attempt to pull them up. The man had thick, corded thighs. Even from behind, they looked like they could easily crush a watermelon–
"What's your name?" came a deep, rumbling voice.
Well, there went his chance of sneaking out. At least this guy was alone, though, so there was no one around to witness John fumble around his answer:
"Uh, Walker."
He considered the man again. He considered the man's shining, gleaming metal arm.
"Sir," he added.
Bagram was currently playing host to a single Special Forces unit. Not Army, though. Not Air Force. No. It was SHIELD. Peculiar under normal circumstances, but even more so because Commander Rumlow kept making a show of introducing himself to the junior officers. John wasn't sure what to think of that, but there was something about him that didn't sit quite right. Lemar didn't have a good word to say either, which was a sure sign his group was bad news. On the other hand, John hadn't seen this particular guy yet. Maybe he was cut from a different cloth.
The metal arm was pretty unusual, but an experimental prosthetic seemed like something SHIELD would do. They weren't associated with the Starks for nothing.
"Sergeant," the man suddenly said.
"Sergeant," John echoed respectfully.
John might outrank every NCO in the building, but he wasn't an idiot. He wasn't about to antagonize the mysterious spec-ops guy covered in blood.
Slowly, purposefully, the sergeant turned his head. His eyes came into view over his shoulder, slate blue and–
And he was giving John a look.
The look.
John had gotten the look a few times, but he'd never wanted to do anything about it. He reserved that kind of thing for Olivia, or else he was making sure he aced whatever challenge they put in front of him. He didn't have time for unsatisfying one-and-done propositions. But now, the look was attached to sex on legs. The look came paired with tree-trunk thighs and– The sergeant turned his hips. John got an accidental eyeful of his cock emerging from his pubic hair. It looked mouthwatering.
Accidental. Right. Whatever you wanna tell yourself.
Before he knew it, John had shucked off his jacket. He tossed it carelessly on the sink, leaving it behind without a second thought. Certainty seeped into his bones. Somehow, he knew. He knew this was what he'd been looking for. This was what he needed. Maybe it was just a distraction from his failed relationship. Maybe it was pure adrenaline.
Like a fish on a line, he pulled into the shower bay. The mysterious sergeant turned to meet him. His front looked just as good as his back, all smooth lines and hard muscle. Blood splattered from his collar bones down to his knees. The water had washed some of it away, exposing his pecs like a neon sign. Above them, his face was like a sculpture. His thick stubble only accentuated his sharp jawline. His lips were plush and pink–
Abruptly, his hand darted out. He grabbed a fistful of John's shirt before John could finish closing the distance. He was fast, whoever he was. Fast and strong. John stumbled up against his chest. Blood smeared over his shoulder.
The sergeant's lips found the curve of John's neck. His teeth slipped out, sharp enough to grate lines over John's skin. Despite himself, John let out a shuddering, needy sound. He didn't mean to do it. It just happened. But then again, it had been a while, even before the whole engagement ring disaster. That was nobody's fault. He and Olivia were just two busy people trying to make things work until… things hadn't worked.
He tilted his head, exposing the line of his throat. The sergeant nipped at the corner of his jaw. He tugged on John's pants and growled:
"Off."
Frantically, John tangled with his shirt. He pulled back, just a little. Just enough. He was standing far enough away from the shower-head that the spray was nothing more than a fine mist. It teased over his arms anyway. It dampened his fatigues. John managed to strip out of his top and tug down his pants, only to realize his boots were in the way. He bounced awkwardly, trying to fight his laces and lift his foot and–
The sergeant reached down and grabbed his ankle. In one smooth motion, he ripped the boot off. John's mouth flapped open. There was strong, and then there was superhuman. There was enhanced. There was say-goodbye-to-your-laces, thanks. Who was this guy, Captain America's distant cousin? He hadn't even used the goddamn metal arm.
John lost his other boot the exact same way. His dick throbbed. It shouldn't be so appealing to watch his uniform go to pieces, but he was lonely, he was horny, and he was really, really interested in seeing where things were going. In fact, what was their plan here? The showers didn't come pre-stocked with lube. He opened his mouth to make a comment to that effect, only to catch a glimpse of the sergeant's expression. It was dark. It was surprisingly hungry. Ravenous. A guy looked at you like that, and surely you were on a more familiar basis than name and rank.
Sarge–as John mentally started calling him–flicked his tongue over his bottom lip. He gave John a slow, deliberate once-over. His gaze was heavy. There was a weight to it that John couldn't place.
"I–" John started.
Sarge surged forward. He wrapped his hands around John's thighs, lifting and spinning at the same time. John careened backward, clenching his abs in a desperate bid to stay upright. He managed it somehow, wrapping his hands around the crown of Sarge's head. With a thump, his back hit high on the shower wall. It was cold despite the hot water. The chill seeped a shiver down his spine.
"Up," Sarge ordered, tapping at John's leg.
Obediently, John swung his leg over Sarge's muscular shoulder. He did the same on the metal side, surprised to find it was warmer than their skin.
Right, hot water, he reminded himself.
He sat on Sarge's shoulders, balanced precariously against the wall. Sarge's beard painted sensation over his inner thigh. It was an oddly intimate position for someone he didn't know. John gazed down, cheeks ruddy, fingers twitching. The moment hung in front of him as if suspended. John ventured a small smile. He waited. He didn't realize what was going to happen until Sarge licked a leisurely stripe over the crease of his groin.
"Oh fuck," John groaned.
Sarge winked at him. His fingers curled over John's ass, holding him up with obvious ease. There was nothing left to do but spread his legs and watch an absolute mountain of a man descend feverishly on his erection.
Maybe it was the aforementioned loneliness, but the moment Sarge's lips touched his cock, John's brain dropped out of his head. It was overwhelming. It was perfect. It was wet, slick heat. The shower played a pitter-patter of sensation over his thighs. Sarge's beard smeared the feeling sharp. John's fingers curled unrepentantly in his hair. He tugged, and Sarge made a rumbling noise deep in his throat. Encouraged, John rocked forward.
His face flushed hot. Sarge's tongue curved a salacious pattern over his cockhead. His face was practically buried in John's pubes, even though his cock wasn't actually that deep inside. They were just that close together. John flexed his thighs, squeezing either side of Sarge's head. Distantly, he realized Sarge wasn't breathing, which was both insane and crazy fucking hot.
John's fingers tingled. He wasn't going to last. He tried to think various random thoughts just to prolong things, but nothing worked. Sarge shifted, suddenly holding him up with one hand instead of two. The other rubbed along his perineum, teasing from the outside and John–
"Fuck!"
He rolled his hips. His cock bumped against the back of Sarge's throat. He thought that would be that, but instead of gagging, Sarge swallowed. He took John's full length with ease. His nose brushed against John's pelvis. He hollowed his cheeks, pulling John's soul straight through his dick.
"Fuck," John yanked on Sarge's hair. He shuddered. "Sergeant."
Sarge hummed. He pushed on John's perineum, and John was gone. His abs tensed. His vision went white.
John orgasmed with a strangled, broken cry. He bucked his hips into Sarge's mouth. It was rude, but he couldn't help it. His load sprayed over Sarge's tongue. Pleasure seared through his nerves. He squeezed his legs, locking the two of them tight together.
His come-down was both figurative and literal. Sarge peeled him away, setting him down on shaky legs. Then he turned and spat out the last of John's load. The shower captured it, sending everything swirling around the drain. There was less blood now, so maybe John had been up against the wall longer than he thought. He knocked his knees, trying and failing to catch his breath.
Sarge looked smug. It was a good look on him, all barely contained subtlety. He emoted with his eyebrows more than his mouth, but there was a decided upward twist at the corners.
John's eyes slipped down Sarge's abs. He inhaled heavily. Sarge's cock stood out like rebar against his thigh. It was dark red. A bead of precum oozed from the tip, somehow clinging despite the rushing water. Compared to John, he was clearly bigger. In fact, John wasn't sure he could fit that thick girth in his mouth. But hell, he was going to try–
Sarge slammed him against the wall. It didn't hurt, but his barely restrained strength had John's spent cock twitching valiantly. He reached out in an attempt to steady himself, but before he could, Sarge captured his wrists in one broad palm. He pinned them over John's head, rock solid. His metal fingers flexed over John's skin.
John sucked in a breath. He was taller than Sarge was, if only by a little. Still, he felt stretched. He felt exposed. His torso was on display. Sarge ran his nails down John's pec, stopping just shy of leaving marks. He gave John another impossibly heavy look, then he reached for his thick, turgid erection. His palm wrapped tight around it, treating John to a perfect view of him getting himself off.
Their mouths hovered, close but not too close. Sarge ignored the water and the presumably uncomfortable friction of his calloused palm. He chased his orgasm with speedy strokes, pumping his cock until his eyelids fluttered and his ribs expanded. There was nothing but the sound of his breathing and the roar of the shower.
John canted his hips, straining forward against Sarge's iron grip. Sarge grinned, exposing his canines. His cockhead smeared precum over John's stomach.
"Please," John didn't know what he was begging for.
Sarge smelled like blood. He smelled like Ballistol. The water hadn't washed him clean so much as it had concealed the mess. Erased it. Erased them.
John couldn't help himself. He surged forward, sealing against Sarge's lips in a desperate, overeager kiss. When Sarge didn't pull away, John let out an honest to god whine. For a split second, nothing happened. Then Sarge kissed him back. His tongue slipped into John's mouth like it belonged there. He was a force of nature, crashing against John's consciousness over and over. When he finally orgasmed on John's stomach, any stray noises were swallowed by how frantically John kissed him back.
Sarge squeezed John's wrists hard enough to bruise. He came and he came. John moaned. He felt Sarge's semen on his skin, hot and thick until the shower washed it away. He felt Sarge sucking on his tongue, claiming him with unexpected thoroughness. Oddly, it was like they'd known each other for years, and this was to be their last and final kiss.
When Sarge finally pulled back, John let him go with a little whimper. He was soaked from the shower now, flushed pink all over. Sarge was pale in comparison, seemingly untouched by the blistering spray. He dropped John's wrists almost tenderly. His fingers lingered before slowly retreating.
"Sergeant," John said weakly.
He was pretty sure he was going to be jerking off to this for months.
Sarge's metal knuckles brushed John's cheek, then he stepped away and nodded toward the door. John bit his lip. He did really have to–
"Dismissed, Walker."
The words were toneless, but Sarge's eyes were kind. John bobbed his head automatically. He didn't question the order until his fatigues were back on and he was halfway out the door.
"Hey," he turned to look over his shoulder.
Sarge was gone.
Bewildered and yet more than a little turned on, John retreated to his bunk. He had no idea how he was supposed to explain his ruined boots, but that was officially a problem for the morning. For once, he was looking forward to getting a few hours of uninterrupted rest.
As John slipped through the door, someone grabbed his shoulder.
"What happened?"
He jumped, only to realize it was Lemar.
"Nothing," he whispered back.
Lemar scanned him, taking into account his soaking hair and disheveled uniform. He didn't say anything, but he looked perplexed. John felt a little stab of guilt–hopefully Lemar hadn't been waiting long, or worse, thinking of looking for him.
"I'm fine, yeah?" John bumped him affectionately. "Let's get back to sleep."
Lemar could at least agree to that. Staying out of their bunks even for a quick conversation was risky. He led the way back, settling beside John with one, final knowing glance.
John ran his fingers over his lips. The dark folded tight around him. Somewhere in the base, he wondered if Sarge was doing the same. If he was sitting there, thinking about John. Or maybe he was grabbing a gun, getting ready to do whatever those SHIELD guys did.
Yeah, probably that.
John sighed. His chest ached in some vague, unquantifiable way.
It was nothing.
Definitely nothing.