wheresmyplums

[wheresmyplums]

Well Read

Pairing: Teacher Ben (SNL) x f!reader Word Count: 3.0k+ Warnings: Unprotected PiV. Naughty teacher fantasy talk. Breeding kink. Author's Note: The brainrot settled in fast on this one. The gif is just a gif, there are no descriptions of reader.

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Masterlist

Thunder rattles the old windows in the half rotten frames of the classroom. The glass panes barely hanging on as rain leaks through the small openings around the window air conditioning unit you had to buy with your own money.

It’s been three years and barely hanging on, having been run for eight hours or more every day all school year long.

Ben laughed the first cold day when he walked in and heard the heavy hum, even laughed until you turned it off and let him feel for himself that it’s the only airflow in the otherwise gas range oven that is your classroom.

Everybody has already gone home, it’s well passed three and all the kids who aren’t in electives or detention have left to go live their lives.

Not you, though. Your planning hour was spent breaking up a brawl between hormonal teenage boys fighting over… fucking PokeMon cards because it is apparently still the fucking nineties. No planning hour means now you’re here well after work.

Because that’s the rule this year—work stays at work.

The other half of that is that home stays at home but that doesn’t stop Ben from pushing through the door before knocking.

His own backpack is slung over his shoulder, lunchbox in hand, and he asks if you’re almost finished. “Come on, I want to get dinner started.”

“Then go get dinner started.”

Not cold but not warm either. Flat. Voice pressured down from a day of shit just building higher on shit. 

“We drove in together, sweetheart,” he reminds you. “Your car’s in the shop.”

“I'll take a Lyft,” you shrug, only glancing back up at him long enough catch the way his face falls. “I'll see you at home, I have a lot of work to catch up on.” 

“Hey.” His voice is gentle and you hear the sound of his bags falling on a desktop; hear his footfalls coming closer until his large hand is covering yours. He takes the pen out of your hand and lifts your chin to look up at him with the other. “Let’s call it quits today, it’s been a tough one and I think that you could really use a nice dinner and an even bigger glass of wine.” 

“But—“ You gesture to the pile of essays that need to be graded; the blank test template you need to make copies of. There are no more words left in you today, they’re defeated out by the storm and the air conditioner and the bells and the fighting and all the talking back.

Ben smirks. “Mark all of them with an A, give the kids a break because you need a break, sweetheart, let’s go home.” 

“That's not fair, Benjamin,” you tell him. “That’s not fair to the kids who put the work in on these essays to give everybody the same score.”

He closes my planning book next and takes my hand. “You know what’s not fair? That you don’t give yourself a break—ever. It’s not fair that I had to put a hard rule down on work stuff being brought into our home the moment we moved in together.”

"Please just let me bring this home today, Benny,” you practically plead. “I’ll finish while you’re making dinner and then I’m all yours, I’ll take a break.”

Eyes hardening, he shakes his head. “No, sweetheart, because your idea of a break isn’t what you actually need. What you need”—he bends down, voice lowered—“is a hot bath, a glass of wine and to get every thought absolutely fucked out of your brain.” 

While he lets those words settle into your ears, he takes your hand and examines your nails. “I like this color,” he says, the pad of his rough thumb swiping over the polish. “Brianna’s getting better at this every time and if you don’t think you’re a good teacher because you put yourself first for one night, I want you to think of the very huge impact you have on students like her just by letting her do your nails during study hall.” 

Laughing, you tell him you doubt that. “You're her favorite teacher, she said you’re the first one to not make her read dumbass shit she’s not interested in.” 

“No, you’re her favorite,” he insists, coming around the desk to start packing up my bag for me. “She told me that you let her paint your nails and listen to music even if it has curse words.” He stops, looks down at you. “I also think she’s trying to set us up… should we let her know we’re getting married?”

“Oh, are we getting married, Benjamin?” You ask him, arms crossed. “People who are getting married usually set a date, we’re just engaged.” 

“For now.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

Deep breath. “It will be if you don’t get your ass in the car and let me take you home.” 

Wine in hand, you watch him work from the doorway, wondering how long it will take him to notice you there. On nights that he cooks, the routine is always similar; he puts you in the bath with a very large glass of wine and a book and he takes to the kitchen with headphones in his ears and two deep lines of concentration between his eyebrows. 

No headphones are in tonight, though. Instead, his audiobook plays loudly from the speaker beside the stove. On the way home, he asked if everything was okay other than the school day getting to you. Even with confirmation that you were fine, he squinted his eyes and tried to study you—to read you. 

“Are you going to stand there all night?” He asks, not looking up from the task at hand. “Or are you going to come over here and kiss me?”

Taking the glass from your hand, he takes the final drink and sets it to the side. “We'll refill that later. How do you feel?” 

“Better.” And you can finally appreciate the way his pants are hugging him today; the soft slope of his belly slight but visibly accentuated by the way the belt cuts into him. “You haven’t untucked your shirt.” 

“Was I supposed to?” He laughs.

“I mean… you’re home but”—palming the thick bulge over the black polyester, you push closer—“I’m glad you didn’t, I haven’t gotten to appreciate how handsome you look today.” 

“That’s okay, I’m sure there will be another fan cam tomorrow,” he whispers, fingers brushing along the swell of your cheek. “Do you want to eat and then”—lips drawn tight, he rocks his head back and forth in suggestions—“or do you want to do that and then eat?”

“You,” you tell him, fingers hooked into his waistband to pull him further as you stand up on your tiptoes. “My head hurts and I want you and everything else comes second.” 

You don’t have to tell him twice. He switches the burners off with enthusiasm and follows you through to the living room, large hands crawling up the t-shirt that you stole just to land on your bare hips with wide eyes. “Are you not wearing panties?” 

“Wanted to make your job easier for you.” 

All his soothing words make the days and the nights and everything that is hard better; they make everything that is good great. Three years ago when this idiot wandered into your classroom to introduce himself as your new neighbor, he caught you on a similarly bad day and it annoyed the shit out of you. Especially after he made fun of all your maps. 

Now, he’s pulling his sweater over his head and tossing it to the side after throwing you into the never made ocean of sheets and blankets that is your bed. Your shared bed in your shared home. 

He starts to pull at the button up, untucking it slowly and struggling with the buttons out of nerves. That bulge of his is already so much larger than when you groped him in the kitchen and the belt buckle is moving with every shallow, belly breath he takes.

“Come here,” you say, pushing yourself up to your knees and moving forward towards him. “Let me help.” 

Even when he’s the one in charge, this confident man with his soft brown eyes, he fumbles under nerves like he’s half expecting you to lash out in impatience. It’s what his ex did and you’re not a fan of her for it—or anything else for that matter—but there’s something about the relief of safety that washes over him in these moments that warm you up to the tips of your ears. 

You can trust him with your bad days just as much as your good; he can trust you with his insecurities just as much as his confidences. 

“You know,” you start, buttons easily coming undone with the work of your fingers. “Sometimes I think about coming into your classroom on your planning period and having you take me right there on your desk.” 

“On my desk?” He asks through a smile. “Baby, you know how much trouble we’d get in.” 

“Only if we get caught, Mr. Ben,” you whisper against his lips as you push the fabric off his broad shoulders. “Come on, I’ve always had a hot for teacher fantasy.”

“You are feeling better,” he smiles. “Maybe you don’t need me to fuck your brain empty after all.” 

He does it to make you beg and, despite knowing this, you fall for it every time—whine for him every time.

A soft push meets your shoulders and he nods back to the pillows in encouragement.

“Don't take your belt off yet,” you beg him as he follows you up on the mattress but he only laughs, says he has to because he’s been aching after you for hours and needs a little relief now.

Hours but you’ve only been home for one, maybe two. “Are you saying this isn't just about making me feel better?”

He shakes his head, lips pursed, and he throws the belt over to the side as well. “You’re ovulating,” he says, “and the only thing I have thought about since I woke up and checked our fertility calendar is how badly I’ve wanted to get you home and put a baby in you.”

Oh god, that explains so much.

Laying back under his guidance, you spread your legs open for him and watch him take you in. Years now and it doesn’t get old; soft brown eyes studying you in silent awe, mouth open with the occasional smirk pulling up a corner of his lips. It’s like he’s reading how you want it from him and you hope he never stops.

Leaning forward between your legs, he takes a deep breath and then spits on your aching center, eyes up towards you as it falls. He doesn’t wait long after that—doesn’t play with his food as he likes to joke. 

Everything is on fire already as he lays an open mouthed kiss to your core, soft moans vibrating into you and up through your own throat as you grab for his hair. 

He’s a ravenous kind of lover when he wants to be but tonight he seems more focused on taking you apart slowly with the warm press of his tongue between your legs.

Not long and you’re crying for him, actually crying. Softly sobbing his name out as his nose rubs against your clit with his tongue buried deep into your entrance for more than just a taste. 

You can feel him smiling with every shuddering breath as you grasp for purchase on the sheets and pleasure floods your brain. 

Then he takes his mouth away, face shining with your slick as your eyes meet with some kind of electric charge between you as your chests rise and fall in time with one another.

“I feel like I should probably take your temperature,” he says finally, large hands held out as if he’s weighing his options. “Make sure your cute body is the right environment for implantation right now but—“ 

He goes on but you’ve tuned that out, focused in on the deep wells his fingers make as they curve over in a half closed fist. Everything about him is so gentle, including those hands and the way they hold you—the way you know they’d hold your baby.

“You're not a science teacher,” you finally say. “So save the lesson and let me make you a dad.” 

It was one of the first things he ever told you—maybe the second or the third date—when you talked about your dreams and does life now look like what you wanted when you were younger. He’d said his biggest dream was to be a dad. Maybe you shouldn’t have fallen in love with him on those words alone but there was something about him that just made sense and fit perfectly into all your big dreams and big plans too. 

You could see a future with this man—a family and years of happiness in those soft brown eyes.

Pants off now, he fists himself as he crawls back onto the bed. You just had sex two nights ago and, yet, somehow you feel like you haven’t been full for him in weeks. The thunder hasn’t stopped either and it’s amplifying how intense it all feels with him right now but, then, it always does when he talks about the big, life altering things he wants with you.

Slowly, he pushes in, grip on your hips tightening with every aching inch he gives to you until he’s fully seated. Those hands run up the expanse or your body beneath your shirt as he gathers the fabric and gently pulls it over your head as you lift up towards him. Only then, after a quick look down your body to the place you’re both connected, does he lay himself down on you. 

Face still shiny with what you’ve given him already, he smiles into the small, closed lipped kiss he presses into you.

“Your mustache is soaked,” you tell him when he pulls back, trying to ignore the pulsing inside of you. 

Those lines of concentration back between his eyebrows, he nods and starts to pull out of you before pushing back in with a groan. “And this needy little pussy is why.” 

“Is pussy an appropriate word for a highly educated English teacher to be using?” You ask, goading him into coming back down and pressing that tongue of his into your mouth this time. “Such profanities are unbecoming of such a man—“

“Your cunt,” he interrupts you, one hand coming up to rest around your throat, “is so wet that I can feel it pulling me deeper and all I’m doing is just sitting here, looking at you and trying not to bust early.” 

“It's okay if you do," you shrug. “You've already given me an orgasm.” 

But he shakes his head and leans back down, tells you to open your mouth and spits there too before pushing his tongue flat down on yours. It catches you off guard just enough that his first real thrust is even more of a surprise and that grip he holds on your throat moves to cradles the back of your head.

The sounds in the bedroom are lewd and only covered by the sound of the rain and thunder that continue to shake the walls of your home. 

He’s not rushing, though. Not trying to run through you like just another task. The care he takes with and the concentration he places into you are the reasons you find yourself over the edge in such achingly efficient time. But that doesn’t mean he follows you over and calls it a night. 

No, he takes his time until you’re nothing but jelly in his hold. Eyes glazed over, curls wrapped around your fingers and begging for breath and God and him with every thrust that feels like it goes deeper and deeper. 

“Are you going to make fun of me if I tell you I love you?” You ask against his lips as his concentration and pace both start to falter. “Because ovulating or not, you would’ve still fucked me like this just for having a bad day and I-I—oh fuck—” Your muscles are seizing up beneath the surface of your skin and it pushes a moan straight into his greedy mouth. 

“I would never make fun of you,” he breathes out heavily. “I would fuck you like this even if we couldn’t have kids; I will fuck you like this on every good day or bad day you have for the rest of your life if that’s what you want.”

Languid and slow, the way his tongue moves against yours is confusing your interpretation of his rhythm between your legs even as it picks up again. Every nerve in your body is screaming for him, alive and on fire beneath him and around him with his soft kisses and hard thrusts. 

A deep sigh of relief finally leaves his lips as he swells inside of you and warmth rushes through you and out around him to start pooling and cooling beneath your bare body. 

Being finished doesn’t mean he leaves though. He stays inside of you, twitching and thrusting occasionally as he continues kissing you with his hands hooked around your shoulders and every ounce of his body weight pressing down into you. 

This man treats you with an intimacy you never knew could exist. Not for you, at least. He is hungry and in love and both insatiable for and always satisfied with you. He reads you like he wrote you; knowledge of your body and your brain and your heart encoded so deeply into him and you know—you feel it deep down in the pit of your being—that this will only grow as you do and your family does.

"Did that help get all the thoughts out of your head, sweetheart?” He asks, laying his forehead against yours.

A few deep breaths is all the confirmation he needs until, finally, you say, “I think I forgot to turn off the air conditioner.” 

[wheresmyplums]

the sexiest thing a man can do is be oscar isaac as poe dameron holding a coffee.

[wheresmyplums]

fight didn’t quite go as planned | x x x

[wheresmyplums]

bucky (internally): if sam not angel, then why sam angel shaped?

[wheresmyplums]

Celestial Navigation

Part 3 - First Quarter

(gif by the magnificent @pedropascalsx)

Summary; ....well, at least your boss knows your name Warnings; drug use (marijuana), casual touching - F!Masturbation, the raunchiest nastiest, dirty talk, Dieter being a chaos gremlin, some descriptions of a really terrible workplace environment. A/N; Once again, the love, support and kindness you all have shown this fic has truly blown me away and I cannot express how much I appreciate all of it. This has been a rough week for me, so thank you for being my safe space <3

[Series Masterlist] | [Main Masterlist] [prev] - [next]

Well… at least she knows your name now.

Leaving the office at 5pm on a Friday is a cardinal sin. The other interns watch you with a curious expression as you gather your wallet and phone, shoving them hastily into your handbag. You hope they aren’t looking close enough at your face to see the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. If you get out of here in under a minute, you can cry safely on the street.

There’s no crying in this office. You made it through the first round of layoffs, the relief an itch in your chest as you watched co-workers pack their desks, move their little succulent plants into cardboard boxes and vanish. All their work was farmed out to all of you, 100 people whittled down to seventy with the same amount of papers. It was inevitable that something would get missed.

And you missed it. A line in one of the thousand spreadsheets, not updated, the formula not copied over. Ones and zeroes that caused the math to implode, for everything to grind to a halt until they found your error, fixed it and resumed the churning pace, each of you glued to screens with headphones and mouths set into a grim line.

She didn’t yell at you. It was in the raise of her eyebrow, the twitch of her finger over her keyboard, the way you watched her manicured nails hover over the “delete” key, as if it would have real world consequences. It was an hour of dressing down, of explaining the mistake in its simplest terms, as though you were an infant, your first class of your first year. No sympathy for the late nights or caffeine fuelled mornings, where you dragged yourself into the office mere hours after leaving it.

“I want you to take the weekend and consider your future with this company.” She sniffed, her eyes narrowing as she looked over your attire. “We certainly will”

There’s nothing waiting for you at your apartment except a Lean Cuisine and a dead plant. The streets are full of people in the same business attire as you, listening to podcasts and talking on headsets, they part around you like a rock in a river, barely noticing the tears that are now flowing freely down your cheeks. Nobody would stop if you were screaming, it doesn’t matter that it’s silent.

You start to walk.

*

Fall meant blankets for Dieter. He pulled them from the linen cupboard in his kitchen with something akin to glee, emptying the shelves of the rainbow of fleece and thick comforters, spreading them around his apartment as he walked in and out of the balcony, breathing in the air that chilled his lungs.

Summer had left without a goodbye, no final send-off of scorching heat or sticky sidewalks. Instead, the sun rose one morning on air that felt crisp, that chilled lungs and demanded steam in a hot shower, for the tea to be steeped a moment longer, the mug to warm your hands. Taking on an orange hue as the stores changed from bright colours to warm earth tones, the occasional pop of Halloween peeking through as hemlines got longer. Dieter reached for sweatpants most mornings.

He called you once a week. He saw you once a week. That was the baseline established. You would come in on a weekend in the mid-morning rush, and he would get a call, Owen, or sometimes Molly letting him know of your arrival. It was his wakeup call some days, just a few steps away from opening his eyes to see you first thing. He fell down the last stair most mornings. You would sit and talk with him, people watch in his carved out corner as you drank your coffee, ate a muffin. You asked him about himself, and he answered you honestly.

You seemed wholly unsurprised about the drugs, the women, the men. He had only made oblique references, a highlight reel of parties and tabs of LSD, you even laughed when he told you about Bertha, the strawberry-banana weed plant growing in the abandoned bathtub on his balcony. You guessed correctly that he preferred to grow his own, no pesticides or interference. He’d used the seeds from his last harvest, grown her again and marvelled at the cycle of life. Owen brought up the used coffee grounds once a week for fertilizer. He got the jars from goodwill.

You admitted your own indulgence was a glass of good Chardonnay. He’d stocked his fridge with Chablis right next to the blueberries, his whiskey remaining on top of the fridge, bottles emptied and repurposed, growing flowers out of makers mark on his nightstand.

The phone calls were his favourite. The shyness about you disappeared, you were more willing to admit things, less willing to suffer the silence as he waited for you to expand on an answer. If you didn’t want to answer something, you told him and he asked a different question. Your favourite colour was of ruby grapefruits.

He smoked and painted while you talked, bowls of fruit and tidily rolled joints accompanying your laughter. He loved to make you laugh. It tugged at his insides when you said you rarely did otherwise. On the weekends you chatted with Owen and Molly, lingering at the counter while Owen ground and pressed, and Molly doodled on your receipt. They knew better than to charge you, so you compromised by buying someone else’s.

You had no tattoos, the only piercings simple studs in your ear. You’d looked interested as he slowly filled in the triangles on his forearms, but didn’t ask him. He was still resisting the urge to push, to unfurl his fingers and reach to touch you in those quiet lulls of conversation. Feel your skin again under his thumbs, as if he could ever forget the sensation.

The scent of melted dark chocolate and cannabutter was thick in his kitchen. He could feel a mild contact high as a fuzz in his limbs as he watched them blend together. A floured pan was waiting for the brownies off to the side, and so far he’d only burned the tip of one finger on the cooktop. His lungs were too old for the crispness of the air, and after a few days of sobriety in the guise of a tolerance break, he found the scribbled brownie recipe in a Julia Child cookbook he had been given more than a decade ago.

He would call you tonight. Your last call had ended with his honesty. You still seemed to hedge whenever he opened, this delicate dance of advance and retreat. Every time you asked a question, you knew the answer, but seemed surprised when he gave it to you anyway. It was well past two am, the streets quiet as he watched the fan spin above him, listened to you talk again about ambitions and goals and plans that had more steps than the recipes he followed.

You hesitated, faltering at the finish. He wanted to ask you “What then?” what happens when you check every item off your list, when you’ve undoubtably achieved everything you want to and there’s no moon left to reach for – which lofty star would gain the focus of your new pursuits. But he let the silence linger, waiting for the question he could taste in the air, smoke curling from the ashtray at his bedside.

“Dieter… do you ever wonder what the rest of your life looks like?”

“No Loulou… this is the rest of my life. Talking on the phone with you.”

*

“Sorry we’re closed”

The bell creaks your arrival, groaning under the pressure of the day as you shove the door open. You don’t know why you’re here, why your feet brought you, protesting the impractical heels that carried you blocks and blocks in the dwindling sunlight. Everything hurts from crying, your face angry hot from the tears. The reasons left you in the smog from screaming cabs, catching in the choking pollution until you were blind with it, left with nothing but a hollow despair.

“Did you hear, I said… oh fuck!” Owen turned and blanched as he looked at you, dropping the rag he was using to polish the gleaming machine.

“I’m ok, everything’s ok, I’m sorry, I just…” you start, shame creeping up your spine as you watch the colour drain from his thin face. He scrambles, beads clinking merrily as he ducks behind the curtain.

“DIETER!” His voice booms, loud and echoing around the empty shop as you jump, holding your elbows as you glance at the door, wanting to run, to go home to your dead plant and sad dinner and pretend you didn’t have a breakdown. To glance nervously at your phone with a glass of chardonnay and hope he calls.

Instead he appears, dishevelled in sweats and a bathrobe that’s at least three sizes too big. He’s wearing sunglasses, there’s a stain that looks like chocolate on his cheek. He carries with him the same frantic energy, spiced this time with fear as he sees you, takes stock of your appearance and points at the chair, the faded mustard yellow that’s unofficially yours.

“Owen, grab one of those veggie pastries, make a hot chocolate and fuck off” he says, his voice stricter than you’ve heard it before, a glint of danger as he watches you, the painful shuffle as you make your way through the mismatched desks and tables.

He crouches rather than sits, close enough that you can smell the air on him, the crispness of fall and spices that cling to his clothing. Close enough you could count the greys in his beard. He watches as you fold in on yourself, shoes dropping to the floor with an echoing thunk as you curl into the familiar softness of his company. He doesn’t say anything, his eyes darting frantically around your features as you hear Owen in the background.

There’s a clink, a steaming cup and a plate placed beside you, as Owen offers you a smile, palms Dieter’s shoulder as he leaves in silence. The lock sounds heavy as it clicks behind him.

“Eat, Loulou” he says, his hands splayed wide on the armrests of the chair. You watch as his thumbs tick like metronomes as he strokes the fabric. This is the closest he’s been, since that first day. He doesn’t touch you, besides the accidental brushing of clothed knees as you sit in the mid mornings. He gestures when he talks, tugging at his clothes or his hair, watching your own limbs as you sit still, pen poised in your grip, hovering over the journal you always intend to write in.

The pastry is good, full of rich vegetables and buttery soft flakes, the hot chocolate steals the heat from your face, distributing it throughout your body as he waits patiently for you to finish. He brings you an extra napkin, you dry your eyes.

“Owen can’t deal with crying women. We had this woman once, who would come in and read these tragic romances, and sob over her latte. He went to this bookstore in Hell’s Kitchen and bought her all these bodice ripping pirate novels and told her she was banned from reading anything without at least two nipples on the front cover.”

You hiccup a laugh.

“Her names Mallory, they trade Kindle recommendations for books with aliens with blue dicks now”

“I’m sorry Dieter, I didn’t mean to… I should just go, this was stupid, I’m sorry, I’ve worried you for nothing and it’s stupid really. Honestly, I’m fine, it was just a bad day, I made this mistake, and it was completely my fault and I should have known better and I shouldn’t be crying, I should have just done it properly the first time”

“Can I give you a hug?” He asks. “Would that be okay?”

He waits. Perched on the balls of his feet as though his knees aren’t screaming in protest, as if his whole body hadn’t been jolted by electricity from the sight of you in pain. The roar of primal rage that flooded every sense the minute he saw the tears glistening on your cheeks brought him back to his youth, to the cocaine fuelled bar brawls and waking up with sticky fists. He gave it up in his twenties, but found he felt the need to scorch the earth to find those that caused you pain. You nod. Just a tiny jerk of your chin, your eyes filling again as he watches your fiddle with the hem of your shirt, looking down to try and blink them away.

He's stronger than he looks. The baggy clothes hiding a thick frame as he lifts you, depositing you back onto the armchair, curled exactly the same with him beneath you. He wraps the bathrobe around you both, bringing his arms around your middle as your head rests on his shoulder. He’s warm. Soft and broad beneath you as you feel his body still when your hair brushes his cheek.

Its easier, to bury the words in his skin. To talk into his shoulder, your eyes on the pulse of his throat as you explain your day. The dressing down from your boss, the judgemental eyes on you as you left the fluorescent lighting of the office, the pain in your feet from walking here. That you weren’t even sure why you were here, just that you didn’t want to go home. His thumb smooths a steady rhythm on your hip, rubbing tiny gentle circles over the robe and your clothing. You can feel him breathing beneath you, his warmth floods your senses.

“You don’t have to go home” he says quietly.

He still thinks you’re soulmates. He still thinks that this friendship you’ve fostered is the kindling to a blazing inferno. You don’t tell him about the coffee dates you sometimes go on throughout the week, about the men you swipe right on Tinder, the hopes you pin to white smiles and JDs.

“I can’t”

“I have a batch of weed brownies cooling on the counter. A stack of movies and very comfy couch. Nothing else.” He says, shrugging so you look at him. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes” its an answer without hesitation.

“I’m not going to use your shitty workday as an excuse to tempt you into bed. We can get high and watch movies and fall asleep. That’s it – we’re friends right now Loulou, this is what friends do. Promise”

He hooks his pinkie into yours, nudging his nose against your cheek as he nods, waiting for you to agree. When you do, he lifts you to your feet, grabbing your shoes as you wander slowly behind the beaded curtain.

*

Everything is green. There are plants in every corner of the apartment. Apartment is generous for the room you’re standing in. Shaped in an awkward rectangle with a sliding door, a small kitchen is crammed into a corner, shelves sit uneven, their contents sliding drunk with gravity. A huge deep green couch in front of a large television, looking every bit as soft and comfortable as promised. Hiding behind a wicker screen is his bed, which is when you start laughing.

“Like it?” he asks, grinning as he flicks off light switches, darkening the hallway leading to the stairs. Its round. Huge and sprawling, pillows piled against the wall with crisp sheets tucked awkwardly on the rounded edges. You can see where he sleeps with the comforter, puddled in the middle and your brain provides you with an absurd image of him, a frog on this lily pad, talking on the phone with you as the ceiling fan spins above.

“It’s very you” you shrug, gravitating towards the corner, paint and canvases stacked like pizza boxes, a tower almost as tall as you. The easel is propped on a brick, the work only half finished as you look at it. Its streaks of midnight, deep rich blues as you look closer, the tiny speckles of the universe behind a moon made of spun lace, glued to the canvas. In the foreground, two tiny figures sit hand in hand, as if observing the webbing above them.

“This is beautiful” you say, reaching your hand towards the texture, stopping yourself at the smell of fresh paint. He hasn’t finished it yet, some white canvas peeking through the edges.

“Thank you” he says, grabbing your hand and pressing forward. Your fingerprints are left on the sticky surface, they come away streaked purple. “I’m going to suggest something that’s going to freak you out a little bit. Take a shower. I’m going to give you some of my clothes to change into – you can’t be comfortable all buttoned up like this. Half a brownie and a shower, and then we’ll watch some movies”

He wipes your hand on his shirt, taking most of the pigment with it as he strolls to his cluttered counter, a tray of half cut brownies waiting on the edge, balanced precariously. You can see the jars behind him, half full of buds of weed in mason jars. There’s an orchid growing out of a bottle of Makers Mark.

He grabs dark sweats from a haphazardly folded pile, pulls one shirt, then another, before settling on a third and giving them to you. From his pantry he gives pulls a towel in jewel tones before opening the door to his bathroom, depositing them on a cluttered vanity. You catch a glimpse of more plants before he skitters back to the kitchen, a knife held loosely in his grip as he ponders the slab of brownie.

“Have you…”

“I went to college Dieter” you reply, rolling your eyes.

He cuts two pieces, cutting one in half before offering it to you. The chocolate smells rich and heavenly, decadent in the weight of it as you take a bite, the flavours exploding across your tongue as you taste cinnamon and brown sugar, just a hint of the vegetal weed exploding across your senses.

He eats the other half, and then another piece as you finish yours. You notice the way he lingers on your lips as you suck the chocolate from your thumb. He points to the bathroom; you enter to another jungle. There’s a plant in a terracotta pot in the corner of his shower. All the soap is cluttered on the floor.

But the shower itself is a marvel. You lock the door behind you and stare, the giant square head protruding right from the ceiling, and you know it will rain down on you like that first day you met him, heavy and warm and soothing. You fold your clothes neatly, rolling them to fit in your handbag as you turn the water on, immediately jealous of the hot water streaming from his taps.

It washes down the drain at your feet as you turn under the heavy spray. The tension that had been slowly leaking from your pores turns to a gush as you relax, allowing your eyes to drift shut as the hot water hammers your shoulders, your palms braced on the tile. Idly, you wonder if Dieter had ever placed his hands here, if he stood in this same position.

It was cold enough to stand outside and will himself to calm down. The sound of the shower had his cock perking up with interest. It had been silenced by your tears as you moulded yourself onto his lap, but the idea that you were naked mere feet from him had brought it back to life with a roar. He forced himself into the cold, tucking himself into the waistband of his sweats as he looked over his apartment. He shoved the toys into the bottom drawer, wincing at the stickiness of dried lube as he made note to run them through the dishwasher in the morning. He turned off the overhead lights, grabbing a weighted blanket from the bed and throwing it with a grunt onto the couch.

The lava lamp on the coffee table gave off a blueish softness, making him feel as though he was underwater, his limbs heavy as he loaded up a bowl with salted cashews, grabbing a few sodas from his fridge as he scrolled through the DVD menu, waiting to hear the water stop.

Oh. Oh.

Oh, you look so good in his clothes. Your hair is still damp as you exit, clouds of steam billowing with you as if you’re a goddess come to earth, shoving your handbag into a corner with his laundry. His brain is static, all white noise and lust as he watches the way his shirt stretches across your tits. You’re wearing fabric that has touched his skin, that smells like him. You’re going to smell like him. His cock twitches dangerously at his hip.

“Dracula first” he says, amazed he found words other than begging you to let him taste what you taste like mixed together.

*

Everything is so deliciously warm. You’re under a blanket that presses on your thighs, the weight making you feel heavy. Everything is clouds and deep breaths, blurry and hazy, a film left too long exposed. Your fingers are salty from cashews, the texture on your skin making a pleasant hum as you shift closer to Dieter again. He’s blurry too, as though you’re looking at him underwater, and your palm, swimming in and out of focus makes you giggle, as you trace the lines he did, trying to recreate his steps.

“Mount of Venus” you say, your tongue thick and warbling as you press into the padded flesh.

“Mhm” he replies, deep and rumbling, an ancient carving next to you. You rest your head on his shoulder, your palm in his lap and wait.

“Pleasure” he says, his fingers twitching across the blanket. “Love of beauty, and expression. Warm and open, giving to others. Intimacy, sexual expression”

“You said mine was pronounced.” You grab his hand, flipping it in the mirror of your first meeting, trailing your fingers across his palm. You feel him shiver next to you. “Yours is too”

“Mhm” he repeats, his head lolling to look at you. He’s beautiful really. The blue shadows dancing across his features. His skin is soft, the lines deep in his face. There are mismatched patches on his beard, he’s greying around the jaw. You want to scrape a finger across it, but your arms feel too heavy to lift.

“I’m not going to kiss you Bette” he says, flipping his hand onto yours, matching those movements with a delicate touch. It races up your spine, flames licking at your senses as you sigh, shift even closer to him.

“Why not?”

“We’re high. And I made a promise. And I haven’t gotten tested, and you haven’t gotten tested, so even if I was going to kiss you, I’d have to deny myself everything else. And if I did kiss you, you’d vanish so fast in the morning, and it would take months to get back here. And if I want you like this by the New Year, it’s better to be patient”

He sounds sober in the moment. A determination in his voice as he presses his thumb into your pulse. You know he’s right. The tiny voice that’s drowned by weed shouts agreement. You would run from him in the morning – you’d know immediately it was a mistake.

“And if we weren’t?” you ask, edging yourself over the flame.

“Are you sure you want to know?” he asks, nodding to the TV, where Boris Karloff follows the Ave Maria to find a friend.

“Tell me what I’m missing”

“Have you ever been properly fucked beautiful girl?”

He watches the way your pupils’ contract. The tremble in your lip at the hitch in your breath. He feels your pulse jump beneath his fingers, feels the twin twitch beneath his own sweats. He’s thought about nothing but properly fucking you, of taking apart every put together piece of you and rearranging them between his sheets. Of finding every spot that makes you giggle, squirm, moan. Of what you look like covered in a thin film of sweat, of the way you swallow when you cum.

“Yes” you whisper.

“Liar” he accuses. “You’d be thinking of them right now, not wondering what I mean. Do you know what I mean Loulou? When I say I want to properly fuck you?”

“No” its breathy and soft, and he knows that’s exactly what you’ll sound like when he finally buries himself to the hilt inside you.

“I’ve thought about it a lot.”

He’s throbbing, thankful and mournful for the weighted blanket not betraying the weight of his cock pressed into his hip. He can feel it, the first sticky bead as it seeps into the waistband. You’re watching his mouth, your eyes focused on his tongue over teeth as he sucks in a breath, tries to calm himself.

“I’d start at your neck. I know someone in college probably got it right on accident. Found the spot where if you scrape their teeth just right, you’d whimper. That spot, and then the others, under your jaw, right down the middle of your throat. I’m going to mark you; my beard alone will leave you red. But I want my teeth as well, I want to brand it right over your pulse, watch it bloom like an opening flower. I want you weak kneed, grinding up against me because you’re already soaking wet.”

“Do you think you’re that good?”

“I know I’m that good. It’s the getting you naked part that will be a problem the first time. Because I don’t know if I’ll be able to control myself. I think I’m going to destroy a bit of your clothing, my clothing, to begin with. I’m a fan of a good striptease, but I think that will have to wait until later. Once the ravenous hunger has died down a bit.”

You squirm. Just enough that he knows you’re pressing your thighs together, that some of the lazy warmth has concentrated right between your legs.

“I have to taste you. I’m desperate to taste you. Some days I lay on that bed and think about all the different ways I want to. I want to have you spread open on that armchair downstairs so I can see just how wet you are – I want you on my face, I want to pull all your weight on me, so I can feel how your whole body twitches when you cum. I want to watch you open for me, watch the way your clit swells every time I wrap my lips around it, the throbbing of your cunt before I even work my fingers inside.”

You whimper. Its enough to make him hiss. A strain against his muscles as he grinds his hips into nothing. You’re both unsettled now, shifting to find comfort against your own skin. His cock hurts, and you’re right here and you smell like him, and all he’s touching is your palm.

“You’d take one finger for me, easy. Two and three might take more coaxing, but I know you’ll take them for me. You’ll be so out of it by the first time I make you cum that the second and third will feel like a wave, crashing and breaking and not stopping. I think three might make you squirt; I hope it does. I want to be drenched in you, drink it down. I think you’re going to taste like blueberries, sugared and sweet and dripping. I want my palm soaked in you; this mount of Venus pressed right up against your clit. If you’re good for me, if you do what I want, I’ll share. I’ll gather all of you onto my tongue and spit it right in your mouth. Ill make you cum again with my tongue halfway down your throat.”

“Jesus…”

“You need stretching Loulou. I need to take my time, even though I’ll be fucking the sheets like a wild animal, getting them sticky and wet with how much I want you. If you’re sitting on my face, you might see me fuck my fist to take the edge off – a poor substitute as I’ve discovered”

“Why?”

“You know why” he replies, flipping your wrist to press against him over the blankets. He watches as your eyes widen, the thickness of him matching the delicate bones in your wrist. He pulls your hand away before you can curl your fingers in the fabric. He watches your free hand disappear beneath the blankets, the way your eyes glaze over as you press your fingers between your thighs.

“Once you’re ready, you’ll have to get used to it. It’s going to take time, for me to cram my cock inside you. You’re going to feel like heaven, and I don’t know how long I’m going to be able to hold off from pounding your slick little cunt. I’ll need you to help me, rake your nails through my hair, down my back, mark me up like I’ve marked you. If you need toys, I have them. If you want to watch the way you fit me I’ll film it.”

“Then what” he can see your hips rocking beneath the blankets. The lazy slow fucking of your own hand over his clothing makes him groan. He’s dangerously close himself, the weight of the elastic on the head of his cock enough to have him dribbling, he can feel it sliding over his skin, seeping into his shirt as he closes his eyes, willing himself not to cum.

“You’ll get fucked properly beautiful. I’ll fuck you until you can’t form words, until you’re drooling from my fingers in your mouth, until you can’t hold yourself upright. Until all your body knows how to do is submit to it. To give in and sink under and cum again, so hard you squeeze my fat cock out, so I can run it across that swollen berry of a clit and make you scream. Wherever I cum, you’re sharing. If its in your pretty little mouth you can’t swallow, I want to kiss you till its dripping all over your tits. If its inside you I’m going to fuck a dildo into you and lick it off. I want it on your skin, I want it on my skin. I want every time to be so fucking filthy we need to change the sheets. I want you as ruined as I am, for anybody else but me.”

“Dieter…” you whimper, your nails digging into his palm as he watches you stiffen, the little shudders across your skin as it breaks out in goosebumps, your mouth falling open in a moan. The bite of pain across his hand strikes the match and he cums, panting and untouched into his own skin, threading his fingers through yours to hold your hand, both of you squeezing in time.

He shifts, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he drags you to lay in the deep couch, curled up against his chest. You can smell the mingled scent of your release in the air as you press your face into his shirt, suddenly embarrassed as his hand rests between your shoulder blades.

“Then… we do this. You lay in my arms, or I lay in yours and we catch our breath together. There will be some differences, if you’re wearing a shirt, my hand will be up it, I can already tell I’m going to be obsessed with your tits”

You smile, some of the embarrassment shrinking at the matter-of-factness in his tone.

“And then we fall asleep, and when we wake up, we do it all again. That is the rest of my life Loulou.”

You can’t think of what to say. Shifting to place your hands on his hips you allow yourself the luxury of relaxing into his arms, his thumb stroking the same metronome on your spine as you close your eyes and let the exhaustion pull you under, a deep and dreamless sleep.

You wake before him in the morning. The sobering light coming from his balcony makes you stiffen. Fear boils like filtered water through your blood as you taste salt on your lips. His hold on you has slackened in sleep, allowing you to slip free without waking him, searching for your shoes, grabbing your handbag from the corner. Processing the night before isn’t an option. You need some distance to put it in a box, and label it as something other than the emotion coiling in your belly like an angry viper. You find your shoes on his counter.

As you walk past the couch he grabs your hand. You look down at him, his eyes bleary with sleep as he smiles at you. He says nothing, hooking his pinkie into yours and nodding. He lets you go, closing his eyes as you stand like a statue in front of him.

You don’t give yourself time to second guess the decision before you crawl back under the blanket. He reaches over you and presses play.

[wheresmyplums]

Steve Rogers did, in fact, realize that something was off when he saw the outline of the woman’s odd bra (a push-up bra, he would later learn), but being an officer and a gentleman, he said that it was the game that gave the future away.

[wheresmyplums]

Roadtrip

Summary: You and Frankie go on a roadtrip and Santiago tags along.

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Frankie x female reader (you) x Santi

Word Count: 4.3k

Authors note: It's been 84 years. I know. I know Rose! Keep your diamond necklace on. Ages ago, when I first posted part 1, someone asked me if reader and Frankie had ever talked about Santiago watching them before, here's the answer to that... This takes place before the main timeline of the Homecoming series. I hope you guys enjoy mwah!

Warnings: really explicit sex, anal play, heavy m/m dynamics, twinge of angst if you squint? imagined voyeurism... it's that even a kink? Idk... At this point you guys know what I'm all about.

[Series Masterlist] [Main Masterlist]

It’s a weekend getaway to Frankie’s late uncle’s cabin by the lakeside that you had been meaning to do for months, just a small weekend trip with the two.

Then Pope comes to town, without any warning or any preamble save for a text the night before his flight, asking if the two of you were in town—the way he does. And there was no way that the two of you would leave town for the weekend without him when he was visiting. 

God knows how many months or even years it would take before he’d be back home next. So you take him with you. 

It’s a seven hour drive to South Carolina, but only if you manage to escape the worst of the morning traffic. It means the three of you wake up at the crack of dawn and while you are all in agreement that this was sensible, come morning as the alarm clocks go off you both treat Frankie like he’s a war criminal for dragging you out of bed. 

As soon as Pope steps out of the front door, he is already bitching about how there’s no need to wake up this fucking early because, “fucking Christ, Fish, they didn’t even wake us up this early in the fucking Army. I thought this was a vacation, why am I waking up in the middle of the fucking night?”

Then he’s cursing Frankie out in three languages, bitching about how he’s not even had time to have his first sip of coffee yet. 

Frankie ignores him in favor of throwing your weekender bags into the back of his truck. The man is being a drama queen and it’s too early for Frankie to find the patience and calm to deal with his smart mouth and multilingual insults. 

There’s a slow, clumsy sound of metal scraping against the front door, and it sounds like you’re struggling to lock it. You’re so bleary eyed, brain still in zombie-mode that your mind clearly has not properly paired up with your hands and feet—and yeah, Frankie feels a little bit bad about that. 

Especially when you approach the car and he can spot the way your feet are wobbling and swaying. 

“Vamos Cariño, let’s get in the car so we can get coffee on the way,” Pope hollers at you, without any regards for how his voice carries at this quiet hour. It’s enough to wake up the neihghbour’s Rottweiler that starts to bark from behind the neighbouring gate. 

As you approach the car, the tip of your shoe snags on the curb to the driveway. It is a split of a second, before you would have faceplanted on the curb. But even with his half-awake reflexes, Pope’s arm slings out in the last second to catch you by the waist. 

“Careful princesa,” Pope warns in that mock reverent tone, as he steadies you on your feet. “Let’s try not to get ourselves hurt first thing in the morning yeah? If you knock out your front teeth, we’ll have to take you to the hospital and then Frankie will have tortured us for nothing.” 

Smart ass. Think he’s so fucking funny. 

Pope’s hand comes to rest on your waist as he leads you to the backseat and Frankie almost wants to protest. Usually you always sit with him in the passenger seat, but half awake as you were, he doesn’t have the heart to make you get up when Pope’s already got you buckled you in. 

It also doesn’t help that Pope is clearly in a mood this morning, and Frankie knows the man well enough that it means he will pounce at any small opportunity to be petty. Frankie has no idea how he could possibly negotiate that you should sit next to him, without sounding like a petulant child and not have Pope make fun of him the whole of the weekend. 

So he lets it go. Sighing to himself as he prepares himself for the six hour car trip upstate. 

The silver lining is that he barely has to pull the car out of your block, before the quiet hum and low vibration from the motor has both you and Pope dead asleep in the car within minutes. It means that Frankie can pick his music without any quippy remarks from Pope about his taste, or worse, have Pope request that Frankie should put on Metallica at 03:26 in the morning. Despite Pope’s insistence otherwise, James Hatfield screeching through heavy drums and guitar is not ‘sleep music’. 

Frankie even takes the more scenic route, the Florida landscape whizzing by the window that quickly calms whatever irritable nerves he had from waking up so early. Occasionally, he steals glances in the rearview mirror to check the traffic behind him. Everytime he does, he catches the glimpse of the two of you within that small silver square. 

Your face is tucked into the crook of Santi’s neck, his cheek nestled against the top of your head, arm slung over your waist. It’s a serene, polaroid moment, that is perfectly framed within the mirror. Part of Frankie almost wants to stop and take a picture. Memorialise it somehow, because lately it feels like these moments are rarer and fewer in between. The stretches of time when Pope would come back home grows wider between each visit. 

From the highway, Frankie can see a road sign announcing there’s a pitstop rest and diner approaching at the next turn. 

Neither of you had eaten, and a diner is bound to have some coffee that Frankie could buy for the road when Pope eventually wakes up. 

Diner coffee is hardly known for its quality, and it is a surefire way to start Pope on another long-running rant the moment he wakes up. Frankie bets good money on that it will be something along the lines of “fuck this tastes like piss. It’s cold Frank.”

But Frankie knows that if he tried to take it away from him, Pope would inevitably pull the styrofoam cup back to his chest like it’s a family heirloom. You’d laugh at them both from the sidelines, then end up eating everyone’s portions of fries while they were distracted by bickering. It’s how these car trips always used to go. 

As Frankie takes the exit turn, and pulls into the parking lot of the diner, the car slowly comes to a stop. He takes one last look at the rear mirror before exiting. 

The two of you are still bundled up against each other. Something about it makes him stop. Instead of getting out of the car, he unbuckles and turns away from the mirror to observe you in full.

Frankie’s known Pope for over a decade by now, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen his expression this calm, awake or sleeping, as he is now, asleep with you nestled into his chest. For once Pope’s brows are not knitted in concentration or arched with challenge. His pink mouth slack, falling slightly open instead of stretched into a thin line— looking impossible soft. The whole of him seems unravelled instead of the tightly wounded ball of constant action that Frankie has grown so used to. 

There’s an errant lock of curls that falls into Santi’s brow, and Frankie’s fingers itch with intent, wanting to reach over and carefully brush it back into place so as not to wake either of you. 

Before he has the chance to, Santi’s eyelids flutter open. 

“What time is it?” he murmurs, sleep-slurred. 

“Just past seven,” Frankie answers. “I was thinking of getting us some breakfast and coffee for the road.” 

Pope doesn’t complain, just rubs the sleep out of his eyes with the back of his hand. Then he carefully untangles himself from you, taking care to not wake you, despite the fact that you’re a heavy sleeper. But as soon as his arms leave your shoulder, you whine at the loss of warmth. 

“Such a baby,” Pope teases, even though you’re sound asleep and can’t possibly hear him. Then he takes off his jacket and wraps it over your shoulder, tucking in the sides against you. There’s a gentleness to it that makes Frankie rub a hand across his chest over his shirt, as though he could rub away the strange ache that’s settled there at the sight. 

Not quite jealousy. Though he can’t exactly pinpoint what this is.

Frankie and Pope get out of the car, and there’s a silence that settles between them, as they walk up to the diner and wait for their orders. This is nothing new between them. The amount of time they have spent in each other’s wordless company over the years, over missions, over stake-outs, over long flights and treks. Frankie has always been grateful over the ease that settles without question when it’s silent between them. 

When they get back to the car with coffee and greased up diner breakfast wrapped up in paper bags, instead of settling in the back seat, Pope comes to the passenger’s side. 

Frankie shoots him a look, and Pope shrugs his shoulders with a casual smile. “She always gets to sit in the front, I have to take my opportunity when she’s knocked out.”

Frankie gets into the car, and Pope quickly follows, drawing the styrofoam cup to his mouth and taking a small sip. His face pulls into a disgusted grimace. 

“The coffee tastes like piss, Frank”

“Yeah? Should I take it then?” 

Frankie stretches out his hand and just as he predicted, Pope pulls away, hugging the small cup tightly to his chest like he’s guarding a treasure. It’s so predictable that Frankie can’t help but laugh. 

The truck barely makes it out of the parking lot, before Santi’s grubby hands are digging into the paper bag, grabbing a handful of fries that he shoves into his mouth. 

“You have to save some for her,” Frankie warns, “otherwise she’ll have your head.” 

“That monster always eats my fries, this is me collecting interest for the last couple of decades.” 

He reaches back into the paper bag grabbing another handful, and this time it spills onto the floor of the car. “Shit! The fries!” 

“Garcia, I swear to god. Do not make a mess of my truck.” 

“Don’t get your panties twisted Fish, calm the fuck down, I’ll clean it up now” Pope says, as he leans over to reach under his seat, planting a hand on Frankie’s thigh in the process. 

The weight of it scalds and burns, in a way Frankie doesn’t expect. The surprise of it makes him jolt, his knee jerking up, right foot kicking down on the pedal that lunges the car forward. There’s a loud honk, and it’s a split of a second as Frankie spots the oncoming car and swerves the steering wheel. 

His heart is pounding loudly in the sternum of his chest as he swears under his breath, then with his remaining wits, he pulls over to the side of the road. 

Before the car has even halted, Pope is already popping off. 

“Jesus fucking christ! What the hell! What the hell happened? Was there something on the road?” 

And Frankie isn’t entirely sure himself, mind grappling to fix together the pieces of what had caused him to lose control, why on earth he had reacted the way he did. 

From the rear mirror, he can see his his own reflection, face bright red and he doesn’t even know what the fuck is going on with him, but there’s a stirring heat in in his groin that has him growing a semi in his jeans. 

All the commotion has woken you up. He can see your eyes and how they are fixed downwards, glued to his seat. He follows your gaze to his knees, to where Santi’s left hand is still gripping his knee. 

Without saying a single word, he can see from the intent look in your eyes. 

You know why. 

You and Santiago are both awake for the rest of the trip. The two of you fight for dominance over the stereo:  play mindless road trip games that end up in verbal brawls and accusations of the other cheating; and you insist on stopping at every road-side attraction to Pope’s unenthusiastic moaning.  

Florida’s best fried chicken.

Boa, we just ate. 

A giant ball of twine.

Please, no! It’s so tacky. 

A roadside stand selling peaches from the back of a truck? 

They’re overpriced! 

Frankie’s grateful for the distraction as he drives down the changing road of changing landscapes. It helps him take his mind off the minor incident that almost had him pummeling the truck head first towards another car on the highway.

He's supposed to be over this damn it. He's married now. He's made his choice. He has you and he’s happy, happier than he ever thought he deserved to be.

By the time you finally arrive at the cabin, Frankie is knackered. With all the distractions and roadstrips (that he happily indulged just to see you beaming with that smile) the trip ended up far longer than he had anticipated. 

You’re unpacking the bags, dumping the contents haphazardly against the bed, and he can’t help the way fatigue rises in his throat and he lets out a cartoonishly loud yawn. 

It’s so noisy that both you and Santi’s head turn towards him. 

“Wanna take a nap Frankie?” You ask. 

Pope grins, “A nap? It’s 2pm. Are you geriatric now? Fish, if you two wanna sneak away for a quickie, there are better excuses than that.” 

Except Frankie really had just meant to take a nap. He had been driving the whole of the morning while Pope at least got to catch some sleep in the backseat with you. 

A pillow flies across the room and lands smack on Santiago’s head. 

“Go and get some sleep Santiago,” you order. “We have dinner reservations in town at 7pm and if you fall asleep on me then, I swear to God.” 

That finally seems to shut Pope up. You’re the only one on this green earth that has the ability to do that. It doesn’t mean he goes entirely without protest though, Pope makes a big show of sighing as he picks up the pillow and walks towards his bedroom. But for all of his smart-ass comments about Frankie’s age, Pope’s snoring starts not two  minutes after his door closed. 

Frankie doesn’t know how he ends up here. Sitting at the edge of the small bed, his pants pulled down to his ankles. 

The window is open and from outside the cabin, there’s only the rustle of trees and chatter of tiny wildlife — Pope is in the other room, these wooden walls so thin that he can almost hear the man’s soft quiet snores. 

It had started innocently. 

You’d climbed into his lap. Smooth warm thighs straddling him, and it doesn’t take long, when you’re in that position, all of you pressed up against him. plump and soft and so fucking perfect. Of course his body is going to react. It’s a Pavlovian reaction at this stage. It doesn’t matter that you barely move at all. Just the heat of your legs pressed against him makes his cock hard and heavy with an urgent ache. Before he knows it he can feel the hard outline of his insistent erection pressed into the softness of your thighs. 

You let out a small quiet laughter against his forehead as you press your lips there. 

“That didn’t take much. You got yourself really worked up in the car didn’t you?”

For a moment he wonders if this is a test. Doesn’t dare to look you in the eyes to confirm. Then your fingers lift him by his chin, dragging his eyes to yours. There’s no judgment in your eyes. No anger. 

It’s just an acceptance as you press your soft lips to his. There’s soft hums and tender caresses of your hands along his thighs as you scoot down his body to nuzzle the slope of his belly. It’s almost sweet, the way you leave open mouthed kisses along the length of his cock as it twitches and jerks against your soft cheeks. Then you slide off the bed, your knees digging into the chipped wooden floor. 

He reaches for the pillow to make it a bit more comfortable for you, but you stop him, tugging at his wrists. 

“It’s fine baby, leave it.” 

Your soft hands and fingers are circled around the base of his cock, lips wrapping around the tip of him as your tongue gently laps up the runner of fluid. Sharp heat and electricity courses through his spine and chest pushing up against his throat. He bites his lip to suppress it but it’s already too late, he hears the choked strangled moan rumble in the room. 

“Frankie, if you don’t quiet down we might get caught,” you say, voice a sweet, hazy coo. “You’ll wake Santiago. You don’t want that do you?” 

There is heat and sharpness that resides in your eyes as he looks down at you. Eyes observant, with a cutting sharpness that sinks into him, rips him open and lets you see him for who he is. 

His breath hitches at the sight of it and there’s a knowing smile that slowly unfurls on your lips. It tells him that you both know exactly what he wants. 

And Jesus Christ, that’s what makes all of this so very fucking wrong. 

Pope is right next door. Not even five feet away, and maybe it’s the guilt that is crowding Frankie’s chest that makes all his senses more sensitive. But he swears that the sloppy, debauched wet sounds of your mouth as you’re working his cock is so loud that it must echo through the mountain. 

There’s something wrong with him, the way his heart races at the idea of Pope being so close. Soft black curls and challenging eyes with that insufferable competitive grin, flash in fragments before him. 

He thinks of your soft form tucked into Pope’s. How at peace you both looked curled up in each other’s arms. 

Frankie’s cock throbs and pulses with an ache so strong that is almost painful. 

Your fingers are a circle around the tip of his cock, stroking downwards in a slick long movement that has the entirety of his back tingling as he slowly cants his hip upwards to meet you. The warmth of your mouth as you slides down on him, it’s ache and pleasure all blended into one with each devastating thrust. 

Your other hand is on his knee to steady yourself, and wires are being crossed in his brain. Frankie starts to compare the weight of your soft hand against the pressure of Pope’s on his knee. All he can think about is how he wants both—and as much as he tries not to, his cock twitches and pulses at the thought of it. 

The back of your knuckles brush up against that sensitive skin tucked behind his cock close to the cleft of his ass and he jolts into your hand. 

You clock in his eagerness, and already you’re pulling your hand away as you meet his gaze with a knowing smile. 

“Do you need a bit more Frankie?” 

He bites his lips, heart hammering in his chest so hard it feels like it has got to bruise. 

Fuck, this is so wrong. 

“Words, Francisco. Got to hear you say it.”

“Ye—Yes baby, yes…” he stammers, “please.” 

You bring your index finger to your parted lips slicking it with your saliva, and Frankie is unable to look away. His face is burning, blood thrashing in his ears so loudly he thinks he’s going to go deaf with it. Everything seems to be going in slow motion as you bring your fingers back down.

At the first barely there touch of your fingertip to his entrance, live electricity spears his stomach. His hands resting at his side flexes and grips against the sheets to will himself to still. 

“Does that feel good?” 

“Ye—Yes,” Frankie manages to choke out between stifled moans and even that single syllable is a struggle for him right now. 

You hum, a satisfied tone hidden underneath that pleasant sound, as you slowly ease yourself further inside of him. 

“Still need more?” you ask, and there’s a playfulness to it. Your other hand is still stroking his cock with utter control and it has him surrender to you. “Not quite enough though is it baby? You need something else don’t you?” 

He nods, and that’s all the answer you need. Your finger slides out as you wet your middle and ring finger as well, the very same finger you’re wearing a thin gold band wrapped around your finger. That ring that says more than he’d ever allow himself to say out loud: mine.

The bright gold glints against the sunlight of the room. Makes his chest ache with a longing, right before it disappears from his sight, down between his legs. 

Then he feels it, the insistent pressure as you slide into him, and fuck, it’s so much. Your fingers are slim, but with three of them the combined girth provides a heavy pressure in him. He doesn’t know what it says about him, if he’s just that eager, but despite the fullness of it, all he wants is more. More. Deeper somehow. 

“You like feeling full, don’t you? Always want more, always want me deeper. But it’s never quite enough is it?... Should I maybe ask Santiago to come in here and help?” 

His breath draws sharp at your words. The look in your eyes, the shade of victory that flashes in them, makes his cheeks flush hot with the realisation that you have his numbers. 

He’s trying to inhale, the air feels eerily thin and he gets lightheaded with it. Before he has a moment to gather himself and calm down, you continue. 

“I bet Santiago’s cock would be so much thicker than my fingers,” your voice is melted with sweet heat. There’s no cruelty there, not mocking or goading. His desires born from years of stored away guilt is being dragged out by you into the broad daylight where it’s plain for you both to see.  

His eyes squeezes tight, trying to shut out your words. Trying not to think about the feeling of fullness of the three fingers you have inside of him and exactly how much thicker Santiago would be. 

“His cock would reach deeper too, make you feel so full baby.”

And fuck, it’s like whole head is splitting into two, lungs collapsing like you’ve torn the oxygen from his very insides. Everything is painfully tight, and he can’t help but squeeze down around your fingers, savouring the fullness of you inside of him. It’s so good, it’s so perfect, and deep down there’s a small quiet voice in him that tells him he still wants more. 

“That’s what you want isn’t it Francisco? You want Santiago to fill you up just right?”  

It’s a dangerous game that the two of you are playing. Someone is bound to get hurt one of these days. 

He wants to tell you to stop, but he can’t. Because if he uttered so much as a word, he’d risk waking Pope. 

He’s sure that’s the reason he doesn’t stop you.

He barely even notices that your hand is barely touching his cock anymore, just your knuckles brushing against the slick head that’s dripping and oozing with his precome. Your fingers curl perfectly inside him as you press against the devastating spot. It feels like a fuse has blown. He can’t feel his arms or his face, everything is drawing tight within. For a second he is sure that he is experiencing a heart attack. 

The floor and mattress underneath him sinks and pulls him under. It’s the loss of gravity one experiences before a helicopter crash. In his panic, he grabs your shoulder to brace himself, tighter than he had meant to. There’s a dormant part of him that wants to let go, but he can’t, because he’s convinced he’s gonna fall off the edge of the world if he does. 

Everything inside him burns, sweet and urgent. The pressure inside is building to an unbearable point and all he’s aware of is the throbbing need inside him. He comes with a raw sobbing cry that burns his throat. It’s all white pleasure and blinding heat, so overwhelming that it nearly blinds him. 

When he comes to, he’s a complete twitching, dripping wreck. Come streaking his chest and stomach and when he looks up, there’s a clear pearly streak of it marking your collarbone. 

“Fuck. baby I—I’m so sorry, I—” he starts, but you cut him off by sealing your mouth over his. Tongue sliding in, all warm and heat as he moans into your mouth. 

It’s a lucky thing he’s sitting down otherwise his knees would have given under. 

When you pull away from him there is still that loving warmth reflected in your eyes. 

“Don’t be sorry Frankie. It’s okay.”

Your right hand comes to stroke his cheeks, a sweet smile on your face. 

He doesn’t quite understand it himself. How even something this wrong, you can make it feel right. Maybe it’s the understanding you have, maybe it’s the sheer lack of judgment in a way that he’s never had with anyone else. 

“Let’s get cleaned up before Santiago wakes up okay?”

Frankie nods, and lets himself believe your words, even if he knows this is everything but okay. 

Author's note

Special little thank you go to my little whorenugget @radiowallet for being in my DMs and talking me through any stumbling blocks I have with plotting, wording and that thing when you need to type words on the keyboard to make them come out. I love you and thank you for being there for me.

To the one and only and the person who is the most constant in my life, @thirstworldproblemss (I don't care what my husband says he's second fiddle). I love you ever so. Thank you for letting me share your everyday with you. I am so happy that I get to spend time with you the way we do talking about everything and nothing. You are shrimpy the best if you can beleaf it.

[wheresmyplums]

I’m so in love with this world you’ve created!!!!!!

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐅𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐀𝐧𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧 𝐒𝐤𝐲𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 (𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐝𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐚𝐧-𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐀𝐔)

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞, 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐥, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐘𝐃𝐑𝐀. 𝐀 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐝𝐞��𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐢𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟕𝟏𝟓𝟓

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐓𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐯𝐢𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞, 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐣𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡/𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫-𝐲 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔.

𝐀/𝐍: 𝐈 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 @fluffyprettykitty 𝟏𝐤 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞, 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐒𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐞! 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬! 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜 :𝐃 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝'𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞, 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤!

𝐃𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐲 @firefly-graphics

It’s sad when someone you know becomes someone you knew. – Henry Rollins

HYDRA destroyed everything it touched, The Empire then painted the ruins in gold, telling the world they had created something perfect, and The Council silenced those who would speak out. Three deadly sides to a pyramid that overlooked the planet. Three political and military behemoths that crushed those underneath them and told them to shut up and enjoy it. 

You don’t remember the war starting, only that you grew up in it. For almost thirty years it had raged, and for ten of those you had been fighting it, seeing the planet that you loved be turned slowly into a smoking ruin. Governments and monarchies fell underneath HYDRA and knelt to the Empire, and those that didn’t were obliterated by The Council and absorbed back into their power. They were locusts, parasites, and leeches. They destroyed and consumed and stole. Masters at manipulation, and coercion, and infiltration… and, if all else failed, they excelled at murder too.

You were eighteen when you joined the army, idealistic and desperate to destroy the people who had taken over your home. You excelled at every bit of training you had, though you were especially good at hand to hand, and endurance. You adapted to most hand held weapons easily, gained strength you never had dreamed of, and your confidence in your ability to save your planet only grew. It didn’t matter that the training was harsh, that there was no rest or respite, and that your trainers were merciless. You wanted to do well, you wanted to be the best, and you wanted to be the one that would save the world.

It didn’t matter that there were days so lonely, so cold, and you were in so much pain from training that you could cry, this was all for the greater good, right? You held that kernel of truth close to your heart, especially on the days where the exit ramp to the training facility looked oh so tempting. Every time you came close to abandoning your training, a new atrocity would be broadcast on the news, and your resolve would turn diamond bright again. Eventually you found friends, others who also excelled and wanted the Empire, the Council and HYDRA to pay.

Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers. Both future Captains for sure, they were two sides to an idealistic coin.

Obi Wan Kenobi. His cool and calm demeanour was his secret weapon. He was incredibly good at strategy, and his ability to wield a weapon was second to none.

Buffy Summers. You had the most in common with her. She had the biggest heart of anyone you ever met, and the strongest punch for someone of her size. And she was hilarious. 

All of your new friends helped you, and you helped them. The first year of training was the hardest, but you and your friends got through it.

The air is freezing, any inch of exposed skin is numb, and the rest aches from the cold. It doesn’t matter how fast you run, or how fast your terrified heart beats, you fear you will never be warm again. You push yourself harder, you think you can hear them behind you-

The cold earth rushes up to meet your face when you trip over a branch, and you gag on the taste of blood in your mouth, but you don’t stop, you push yourself to your feet and start running again.

You can hear them behind you.

***

You hadn’t meant to fall in love that first time, but then, when did anyone?

Anakin Skywalker was a legend within the training crops. He was born to be a General, that’s what Commander Palpatine said throughout his training anyway, and certainly he had a way about him, he was the best pilot there, every battle simulation he planned always led to success, every rescue mission led to a successful outcome, and his strategy never failed. Anakin was strong, calm, and almost emotionless in his way to assess danger. He never showed his true feelings, not even when he fought in the hand to hand or weapons sessions, his face would be a mask of concentration and nothing else. Whenever you saw him, you thought he was the most calculating man alive, and vowed never to get on his bad side. At least, you had thought that, until you actually met him one night.

Insomnia was not uncommon, you would often see other cadets roaming around the training camp early in the morning, sometimes you even spent time at the shooting range with Sam and Steve, or in the library with Obi Wan, or in the gym with Buffy, but that night - the night you met the infamous Anakin Skywalker for the first time, you were on your own, and the camp was eerily quiet, you let your mind drift as you walked through the grounds, thinking of home, your family, what your first taste of battle might be like-

“Ow!”

“Shit!”

You bumped into a firm body, tried to steady yourself, whilst the person you bumped into tried to steady you, and in the confusion somehow managed to clash your forehead against theirs-

“OW!”

“I’m sorry!”

You closed your eyes - hand to your throbbing forehead - and took a deep breath, before opening them to look into pretty blue eyes, framed by dark blonde hair…

“Skywalker?” You blurted his name without thinking, and then stepped back, “I uhhh- sorry, we’ve never met, just-”

“Yeah, I know you, you’re Y/N, right?” His smile is endearing, and the pretty blush that stains his cheeks makes your stomach flip - though you tell yourself it’s because you’re hungry, and not because he’s pretty beyond belief - “I mean, I know we’ve never met but I asked about you- I mean because you’re so good at fighting!” His blue eyes go wide, “N-not that I have been checking you out or anything!”

“Oh!” You shake your head, “Of course not, I mean, you’re the best pilot here, you don’t spend any time with the infantry lot, right?” A nervous laugh bubbles out of you, “Not that I think you shouldn’t spend time with the infantry.”

“Right. You guys aren’t intimidating or anything.” Anakin grimaces, “I mean… you’re kinda scary… for a ummm… because you’re pretty, I mean… you know?”

You blink at the man. The best pilot, best strategist, Commander Palpatine's favourite…

“Wow. You’re really bad at flirting, did you know that? I can’t wait to tell everyone.”

A surprised laugh bubbles out of Anakin, and his eyes go to the floor, “Yeah well… you suck too, you know. I’ve never endured such awkward flirting before.”

“Uh huh.” You can’t stop the soft smile from crossing your face, “Do you ummm… I can’t sleep. Do you want to raid the kitchen with me?”

His pretty blue eyes meet yours, and you feel it then. The connection. 

“Yes. I would love to.”

***

You’re fast, you’ve always been fast. Your time in the training camp showed you ways to hone and develop your skills so that you became almost too fast when you ran. You could keep it up for longer distances than most, and it had served you well during your tours in the war.

They were faster.

Everything hurt. Your joints ached, your head pounded, and your stomach roiled. The cold sapped at your strength, and the pain felt like it was in your very blood, like there were glass shards swimming around in your bloodstream. Agony everywhere, right down to your cells.

The feel of them disappears, and you allow yourself to rest against a tree, watching as your breath puffs out in front of you… first it's fast, a constant cloud… then slower… your heart rate slows, your breathing evens out… it's too cold, it's like the cold of death…

You look to the sky, the stars almost seem to be winking out, one by one…

Winter and Dark…

You start running again, and you hear them come after you once more.

***

Anakin Skywalker was easy to fall in love with, but it was not easy to allow yourself to fall in love with him. You were both cadets, and you both were going to end up in different areas of the war. He, no doubt, would become a general, someone who fought in the big battles, and gained the glory, taking to the sky and seeing all that destruction with a birds eye view. You however were always going to be infantry and infiltration. Your paths were not meant to cross for long, so you kept Anakin at arms length as much as possible, even if it killed something inside of you to do it.

“I think you’re an idiot if you ask me.” Buffy murmured from her bed one night after climbing in through the window. She had just been sparring with her own boyfriend; Angel. “This is war time, Y/N, don’t deny yourself love just because of duty, it will kill you.”

“It’s okay for you, Buff, the guy you love is on the same team as you, you can fight at his side if you want.”

Your friend scoffs, “You think that doesn't scare me? I could watch him die and be able to do nothing to stop it. Hell, I could have to let him die in front of my eyes to save the world! That’s war right? That’s doing the right thing, no matter the cost, because that’s the world we live in. And still, here I am, letting myself love him and be loved by him, and you know why that is, Y/N?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not a coward.”

Buffy’s words stung, but they came from a good place. Even if you didn’t want to take her advice, you didn’t want to admit that the thought of losing Anakin could break you, and that’s why you hid your real feelings away, you could admit to yourself that you envied her just a little. You sighed, staring the the bottom of Buffy’s bunk, 

“No, you’re not a coward. Do you know what you actually are?”

“What?”

“You are a dramatic bitch.”

Buffy’s indignant squeak cracked you up, and you both had to smother your laughter, especially when Obi Wan yelled at you both to shut up as he “needed his beauty sleep.” Sam and Steve slept like the dead, which you were grateful for.

If they didn’t sleep, they fucked like bunnies, and you just didn’t want the reminder that some people were happy being in love, whilst you refused to allow yourself the privilege.

***

It was bound to happen, of course it was, and yet you still felt sucker punched when Anakin came up to you and told you that he had been drafted by Commander Palpatine and Generals Yoda and Mace Windu to fight in a particular war waging on Geonosis - a remote area that was fighting desperately against the building influence of the Empire. Obi Wan had also been drafted, and that’s where Anakin found you - hugging your friend and warning him to be careful. Obi Wan might not be reckless, but he had a certain arrogance that you didn’t like.

Anakin came into the room, and one look at his face, you knew what he was going to say.

“I have to go, Y/N! They need me, and it is a great honour to be picked out amongst such great warriors as Obi Wan!”

“You’re too young! Your training hasn’t finished yet!”

“But you accept that Obi Wan is going?!”

“Yeah because he has finished his training! They kept him here for an extra year to help train you, remember?!” You fling the pillow on your bed at Anakin in a temper, and he grabs it and flings it back, uncaring when you catch it and throw it to the floor. 

This was the side you never knew existed in Anakin before you met him, and he brought out that same side in you. He was sweet, loving, kind, and funny in an awkwardly endearing way… but he had a temper. He never used it in a bad way against you, but this wasn’t the first time you had yelled at each other from across the room… but it could very well be the last.

Anakin closed the gap between you, and took a grip on your upper arms. It was far from bruising or painful, and the turmoil in his eyes betrayed his true feelings. He wasn’t angry at you. He was scared.

“Please… Y/N… I cannot go if I think you hate me for this. Please tell me you understand?”

Tears swam in his eyes… and they fell from your own as you brushed his hair away from his face…

“I don’t hate you, Anakin. I… I understand why they have asked you, and I understand why you have to go.” Buffy's words ring in your ears, about love and duty and cowardice…

“I love you. Be careful, for me?”

You hold the power to destroy me. Please don’t wield it.

It’s monstrous, how beautiful he looks when he smiles in shock at your confession. It’s terrible, how wonderful it feels when he presses his lips to yours. It makes you want to cry when he admits his love for you as he kisses you. You hate that you mourn him, even as he makes love to you for the first time on your uncomfortable cot.

The sun rises the following morning, and all you’re left with is a note;

I will love you every moment we are apart. When the war is over, I will love you still. Wait for me?

It didn’t matter what your heart promised, of course. Six months after he left, and two months before your own deployment, you heard the report.

Obi Wan, Yoda and Mace Windu were missing. Commander Palpatine had betrayed them, revealing himself to be a member of the Empire all along.

And Anakin had died fighting.

***

It’s hard to keep running. The forest floor has shredded the bottom of your feet, they ache and burn with alternating ferocity, the numbness from the cold all too swiftly overtaken by the piercing stings from the open wounds.

You know you can’t stop though. If you stop, they will catch you, and if they catch you, all will be lost.

You keep running, hating that this forest is so dark, that no light comes from the stars or the moon, and that the cold refuses to go away. You keep running even though you desperately want to stop, to give into that temptation, to just rest…

And it takes you all too long to realise you can hear them on the wind.

“Comply, Slayer.”

“You’re too weak to resist. Give in.”

The taunts give you the fire to ignore the cold, and the adrenaline to ignore the pain. You keep running. If you can just make it to the edge of the forest you’ll be safe.

The death of Anakin, the loss of Obi Wan, and the betrayal by Palpatine turn your last months in training into something dark. The war was no longer a game, or a sport, or a competition. It was real, people lost their lives, and hearts would irrevocably be broken. You hid your own heart securely behind a wall, refusing to laugh with Buffy anymore, and only ever talking to Sam and Steve about battle strategy. You fought hard and without mercy in every sparring session, and eventually your superiors decided you were ready to go and fight in the war for real.

You felt the barest frisson of fear, it was finally happening, you were finally going to join the mobile infantry and infiltration unit with Buffy, Sam, and Steve. You would be joining with an elite unit of soldiers who specialised in destabilising the Empire by taking out strongholds and bases across the planet. The unit worked under the overall command of Alexander Pierce and Quentin Travers, but you would be under the direct command of some guy named Sergeant James Barnes.

You didn’t care much past his apparent skills with a sniper rifle, or how ruthless he could be. You just wanted to fight.

The fact that the last people you loved and cared about would be with you was something you refused to acknowledge. The only desire you had now was to destroy the Empire, find Obi Wan, and avenge the loss of the man you loved. You had no more room in your heart for anything else.

***

They’re toying with you now, you understand this much of them, even if they aren’t the same anymore. 

You run, they follow. The flair for unnecessary dramatics has always been a part of one of them, it was something you used to enjoy, the way he used to cause chaos in training by doing the absolute most just to win.

They whisper your name, you grit your teeth. He had always been a master of stealth, no one could compare and fewer could fight against it. How many people had you watched fall before him, purely because they literally never saw him coming?

Your loves. Your enemies.

Sergeant James Barnes was the bane of your existence. 

For someone tasked with the kinds of dirty and violent tasks he was, he always found a way to make the day bright. He refused to allow any of you to refer to him as Sergeant, instead his Brooklyn drawl demanded you all call him “Bucky”. When Buffy told him that was the stupidest name she had ever heard, he calmly retorted that she ought to be telling her mom that first. The look on your best friend's face brought out an emotion you hadn’t felt since…

You laughed.

Sergeant Barnes - Bucky - spared you an amused glance at your reaction, and then set all of you to work, getting you used to the dingy base you would all be living in in between missions, and talking quietly with all of you. Bucky and Buffy became friends pretty quickly, commiserating over silly sounding names, and bonding over their shared knowledge and expertise of using hand held weapons. 

Sam and Steve also immediately got along with Bucky, acting like they were long lost friends or brothers, the three of them immediately fit like they had been born to always work together.

And then there was you.

You didn’t want his friendship. You didn’t want his advice. You didn’t want his easy drawl as he idly called you ‘Doll’, and then after he saw you fight; ‘Slayer’. You didn’t want anything from him, but his direction on where to kill.

“It will eat you up, you know. That anger inside of you.”

You’re washing your hands clean of the blood after another successful raid. You’re ignoring the trembling in your fingers, trying to forget the way the person you had beaten screamed in agony, and you don’t look at the man when he stands next to you and steals the soap. You can’t face him, can’t see that look of pity on his face.

You hadn’t meant to almost beat the soldier to death… but the man had mentioned Anakin's name…

“Learn to control that passion for me, Slayer? Otherwise I’ll have to get you kicked out.”

“You wouldn’t dare-” You turn, ready to throw a punch at your sergeant, forgetting who it was that you were dealing with, Bucky calmly slams your left hand down against the sink, and grasps your throat with his left. Your air is immediately cut off, and your free hand goes to his wrist, scrabbling against the cloth that covers it, trying to get to the skin, to scratch and claw…

You still when you come across metal, and Bucky raises an eyebrow at you before releasing you.

“You think I don’t know what it’s like to lose someone in this shitty war, Slayer? I lost my girl, the same day I lost this arm. Natasha was strong, she was a great fighter, and was smarter than anyone I knew, and she still got killed as easily as anyone else.”

To breathe hurts a little, but you can’t look away from Bucky, from those blue eyes that remind you of Anakin, even as they are nothing alike…

“I heard of Skyguy-”

“Skywalker.” You interrupt, still holding your throat, “His name was Anakin Skywalker.” 

Bucky sighs, nodding towards you, “Sorry. It's not like us groundhogs ever get to mix with the flying elite. But still, I heard about how great he was. I’m sorry you lost him.”

It takes you a second, you tell yourself it’s because the bastard choked you, and not because you want to cry for the first time since you heard Anakin had been killed, but you finally respond, 

“I’m sorry too.”

“Well, alright then.” Bucky briefly pats your shoulder, his awkward smile reminding you too closely of Anakin, and you turn back to the sink, ignoring Bucky’s cough, “Control all that anger. It’s easier to save the world and make him proud if you’re not dead because you weren’t paying attention is all I’m saying.”

He leaves you then, alone once more… but that night you sit with them all, and you smile more in that one night than you have since… Every time you look up from your drink, you catch Bucky looking at you, and more than once you don't turn quick enough to avoid his own eyes when they turn to you. 

He was the bane of your existence.

You and your friends fight for the Rebellion for almost two years. Weeks would go by where nothing happened, where you could be forgiven for thinking that maybe - this time - you were beating the Empire back, that they were losing, finally, that maybe you could all rest and go home.

It was a futile hope though. 

More news would come in, more children stolen, more families murdered, more democracies and monarchies crushed and bent and broken to their will. Nothing was sacred to the Empire, no one was too powerful to break to HYDRA, and no one could fight back against the Council. Your team, and others around the world were now the only things managing to hold anything back, to keep people safe, but it was getting harder and harder.

The rumours about a serum that HYDRA had developed started six months before, the enemy would capture people and force them to take this drug, and they would immediately have super soldiers to bend to their will. It changed them, made those good soldiers into hard monsters. It gave them superior strength, reflexes, senses, and any skills they already had were heightened to almost superhuman levels. There were further rumours that you refused to believe, that this serum also - depending on the victim - gave them bloodlust, or almost supernatural abilities. None of you believed it, it was ridiculous, even for HYDRA.

None of you believed it, until Angel, Buffy’s love, had been captured, and you saw it first hand. How the good man your friend loved showed himself for a monster on the streets of what used to be California. He tore out the throat of a soldier, and turned yellow eyes on Buffy when she called out his name. 

They had loved each other so much, and it didn’t stop Angel from almost killing Buffy before the rest of you could fight him back and drag her away. Angel lived, and you held Buffy as she cried herself to sleep. You wished you could say something comforting, but what was there to say? Her love was gone, even as he haunted her, and it terrified you.

Anakin’s name had come up again and again, and the newest rumour was that he hadn’t died as everyone had thought. He had been HYDRA and the Empire’s lab rat for their serum… and it had worked. Anakin was alive, and he was a monster too.

You refused to believe it of course, not your Anakin, he was a good person, a honourable fighter, and the sweetest man… he wouldn’t murder children. He couldn’t.

“You need to get your head out of your ass, Slayer. Your man is gone!” Bucky yelled at you two months after Buffy had seen Angel kill a man in front of her. She had a scar on her upper lip, and a new hardened personality that you hated. Bucky couldn’t get through to her anymore, and he talked more and more with you. Two months ago you had started to allow yourself to admit that maybe you could move on from Anakin, and maybe you could find some peace with your Sergeant after the war.

That was before you had been confronted with a picture of a man… yellow eyes full of hate, a scar over his right eye… it looked nothing like Anakin, and yet…

“Fuck you, Bucky! That isn’t him, you don’t know shit!” You took the picture Bucky had been sent from his sources - sources he wouldn’t tell you about - and tore it in two, “You ever heard of photoshop, you asshole?! You know that those fuckers would do anything to get us out of this game, including making shit up about those we used to love!”

It was a tactic that they would use, but deep down you knew there was no real point. Palpatine, Pierce and Travers, the three heads of the beast that had taken over the world had no reason to use sneaky tactics anymore. The war was so close to being won for them. The small cells that still fought back were fighting on borrowed time and they all knew it.

“You’re smarter than this, Y/N!” Bucky shook his head, angrier than you had ever seen him, “How can you look at that, and ignore what’s in front of your face?!”

“Shut up.”

“Buffy is heartbroken because of what they did to Angel, but she doesn’t hide from it. She’ll do what she has to. What about you? If Anakin comes for you? For any of us?!”

“Shut up!”

“You going to stand there like a fucking coward and let the man kill you, just because you can’t let him go?!”

“SHUT UP!”

You snap, throwing a punch at Bucky which he blocks easily, and another which he avoids, you throw everything you can at him, pouring out every last bit of anger and horror at the man who has been at your side for over two years, and he lets you. Bucky doesn’t stop you, doesn’t fight back, and soon you’re not trying to fight him anymore, you’re crying in his arms, sinking to the floor, and pulling him down to kiss him-

“Y/N, I don’t… I don’t want to be your consolation prize.”

“You’re not. You’re everything.” You cup the side of his face, kissing him gently, wishing you were even slightly talented at poetry, but instead you’re just a soldier who only knows the language of war, “I don’t want to be alone anymore, and I’ve known I wanted that with you for a long time. I’m sorry it took me a while to admit it.”

Bucky kisses you, and holds you… much later after the sun rises you’re both caught by Sam and Steve, and you’re dryly informed that a new mission has come through. A base in Coruscant holds the formula for the serum. The information came through from Bucky’s sources, and the message is as clear as it is dire;

This is our last hope. Find the formula, destroy the base.

Bucky takes you to one side as everyone suits up to leave, “Are you ready for this, Slayer? If there is even the slightest chance that this is a trap…”

“You think Angel could be there… Anakin could be…” It hurt to say his name out loud, to admit that you had been lying to yourself. That Anakin was alive, and he was no longer the same. You shake your head, and take Bucky’s hand briefly, “I won’t let you down, I promise.”

“Hey, look at me?” Bucky waits until you meet his eyes, too many emotions swimming in them for you to decipher, “It’s going to be okay. This is just another mission, right? You’re the best at missions.”

Bucky, unfortunately, was wrong.

You’re so close to the edge of the forest, you can almost see the road, you can certainly hear the occasional car as it drives by. Friend or enemy, you no longer care, you just want to get out of this forest, away from the men who are certainly worse than anyone down there-

You stop… but it’s not by your own volition.

They have found you, and they aren’t letting you leave. Not this time.

Your joints are locked, it’s like there is an invisible force field around you, preventing you from moving forwards. You close your eyes, knowing what is coming next…

Footsteps. Heavy. Slow. They have you now, and they don’t need to rush. Their game is over.

“So close, Y/N. Not far enough, though.”

Anakin’s voice. It’s deeper now, angrier. 

“I thought the chasing was fun. You’re not as fast as I remember.”

The taunt comes easily to you. You never did like to start a fight without talking trash first. Anakin knows that, but the man he is now doesn’t like it, and you suddenly find your air being cut off when he raises his left hand…

“Let her go.”

Air rushes back into your lungs, and you cough and splutter. Fear burns dark and cold inside you at what Anakin just did, everything you had heard about the serum's influence was true… and then tears come when the other man comes into view. You tell yourself that you’re crying because you just got choked by one man you used to love, but you know better. 

Bucky comes into view. The Fist of HYDRA. The Winter Soldier.

Anakin being captured and turned had nothing to do with you, you had still been a cadet, and had believed him dead. You mourned the man even as he stood in front of you. Bucky though… that was all your fault.

Sam had flown in and confirmed that the base was only minimally defended, Steve had taken out the guards at the front, Buffy the ones at the back, and you and Bucky had gone in through the disused sewers, and taken out the small security team to let your teammates in. The entry took five minutes, it was easy. Bucky worked on hacking the computer whilst you and Buffy grabbed as much of the hard copies of information as you could, and Sam and Steve set to work setting explosives. Bucky got the information needed from the computer, and then dragged the high powered magnet he carried with him over it - destroying the hard drive. It was all just too easy, you all should have known better.

You felt it the second Buffy stilled next to you. It was cold. It was dread. It was like nothing you ever felt before.

“Hey… what the hell is that?” Sam’s voice rang through the room, he was spinning slowly in a circle, “Can you guys feel that?”

“Yeah…” Buffy slowly moved away from you, and towards the darkened corridor, “I… think it’s Angel.”

“Buffy, don’t,” You step forwards and grab her arm, “remember how walking towards dark spaces gets the girls killed in the movies? You want to be that idiot?”

“It’s Angel, Y/N! What if…”

“No, you dumb blonde! Don’t!” You try holding her back, but she’s a lot stronger than she looks, and pushes you away, “Buffy-!”

Heavy breathing…

“Y/N…”

It’s not just Angel.

You and Buffy both stare down the corridor. Bucky’s concerned voice grows dim, Sam and Steve and Buffy all fade into the background… it’s just you, and the glowing yellow eyes, and the heavy breathing…

“Hey there, Buff! You look scrumptious.”

Angel steps out of the corridor first. He’s almost exactly the same as you remember him, but… different. The way he looks at your friend now… he used to look at Buffy like she hung the stars, like there was nothing he wouldn’t do for her. Now, his eyes glowed with a hunger that had nothing to do with love. You think you can’t know pain deeper than seeing your friend's heart break in front of you at the sight of what her ex-lover has become.

And then he stepped out. Anakin.

Hooded, dark, pretty blue irises turned sickly yellow. There was no endearingly cute smile on his face now, his face is a mask of no emotion. He doesn’t look happy nor sad nor angry to see you, or Buffy, or Sam and Steve who he fought and trained with… he just is…

“Anakin?”

“Anakin Skywalker is gone.”

There’s total silence for two seconds, you don’t look away from Anakin, he doesn’t look away from you… and then you hear Bucky, gently say your name, and you turn to look at him…

Anakin raises his left hand, you hear a crack… and Steve slumps to the ground, dead.

You all stare at Steve’s dead body for three full seconds, wondering if what just happened happened, waiting for him to move, for those sightless eyes to blink, to look for Sam as they always did… and then Sam lets out the angriest yell, filled with so much pain you can barely stand it, and runs towards Anakin, his gun pointed at his head-

Only to be flung against the wall with a careless wave of Anakin’s gloved hand.

Angel rushes at Buffy, an animalistic growl escaping his throat, like wolves at a kill, and it takes you one second too long to react. You tear your eyes away from Anakin when you see Bucky rush to Sam, and you go to help Buffy, tearing Angel away as he tries to go for her throat. It gives you purpose, energy, fighting always makes things clearer, that’s how it always has been.

You and Buffy fight Angel - now stronger and faster, and cockier than ever. Sam and Bucky fight Anakin, but from what little you can see in between blows, they’re not winning, not by a long shot. Whatever the serum had done to Anakin meant he was able to use some kind of telekinetic ability against them. You don’t think they managed to land a single hit against Anakin.

“Y/N, we need to get out of here,” Buffy lands a punch to Angel as she talks, and then manages to throw him face first into a glass cabinet, “The explosives, remember?!”

“Shit!” You push a recovered Angel off you, and spin to the others, “Bucky! Sam! Let’s go!” The sound of your voice brings Anakin’s attention to you, distracting him for just a second… and Bucky lands his first hit of the night, punching Anakin squarely in the face with his left hand, sending him to his knees and letting Sam run away… and back to Steve’s side, 

“I can’t go, Y/N, leave, I’ll keep these guys distracted…”

“Shut up, bird boy!” Buffy all but picks up Sam and throws him out of the door, “Come on, Y/N!”

A lot of things happen at once then. Angel rushes once more at Buffy, you run towards Anakin and Bucky, and one of the explosions goes off, the force sending you back and against the wall. Buffy and Angel land next to you, both groaning, ears ringing… and you can’t see Bucky anymore…

“Bucky?!”

You can hear him, but you can’t see him, you can hear them fighting still, but you can’t help him…

“We have to go!” Sam comes through, tears in his eyes - Steve is buried under the rubble - and he grabs your arm, dragging you to your feet, “Come on! There’s less than a minute until the others go off!”

“Why did that one-”

“I don’t know, okay? But we got lucky-”

Sam is cut off - Angel appears at his back and sinks his teeth into Sam’s neck-

Until Buffy stands behind him and plunges a piece of wood into his back, right over his heart. Sam falls into your arms, and you manage to hold him upright before he falls to the floor, and all three of you watch as Angel’s eyes turn to look at Buffy… and the yellow leaks away, deep brown replacing them…

“Buffy?”

He dies, right in front of her… for one second you think Buffy is going to fall, she’s going to give up…

“Come on, we need to go…”

“Bucky!”

“We need to go!”

“Wait, no, Bucky!”

You’re fighting against Buffy, pulling away from Sam, you can hear Bucky, he’s still fighting-

You lose, Y/N. This is where the fun begins.

The force used to kill Steve, that stopped Bucky and Sam from landing a hit, it throws all three of you out of the building - just as the explosion hits. Your landing is painful, you think your leg is broken, Sam is unconscious, Buffy is cradling her wrist, but you’re all alive, but Bucky-

“Bucky!”

There’s just an inferno where the building used to be. Steve’s body is still in there, Angel’s body is still in there, the hard copies about the serum are burning in there, and now the bodies of Bucky and Anakin are there too.

All hope is gone.

A year passes.

Winter. Spring. Summer. Autumn… winter again.

The seasons change, and the war is lost.

The Empire has risen, all remaining countries that held out have fallen to them. The remaining rebellion is scattered, hiding, afraid. To be found would lead to your torture, and if you were lucky… your death.

Bucky wasn’t so lucky.

The Empire struck gold on the night you levelled their base. They lost one terrifying fighter in Angel, but they gained another. Anakin survived, and he took Bucky with him. You might never had found out, if it wasn’t for the fact that your ex sought to taunt you with him at every opportunity. The serum was powerful, and no one had been blessed more by what it could do than Anakin. He was in your head, day and night, showing you what he was doing to Bucky, what they had changed him into.

You should have waited for me, Y/N.

Sleep became sparse. Whilst you never needed much sleep before, the realisation that you no longer could sleep without being shown the torture Bucky was suffering, and what Anakin had suffered before he broke killed something inside of you.

I’m sorry, Anakin. Please-

Anakin Skywalker is gone. I am what remains.

There was… something… there. In that voice that sounded like Anakin’s and yet didn’t. It took you too long, months of feeling sorry for yourself, of ignoring the grief of Buffy and Sam, and focusing on yourself, but eventually you saw something.

A location.

Anakin - or whoever he believed himself to be now - might not have intended it, but you saw it in the images he taunted you with. You stayed awake to see them, you kept a log in a long discarded diary you found, and eventually you knew for certain where The Empire’s most prized weapons were kept.

Hope bloomed, small and struggling, but it was there. For the first time in a year, you felt hope.

Naturally, they wanted to come with you to New York. Buffy and Sam should hate you, but instead they rallied to your side. They were fighters, through and through, always had been and always would be. They were sword and shield, brawn and brains, and more forgiving than you deserved. The journey to New York was long, the roads were no longer safe to travel on during the day, and they weren’t exactly a haven at night, but between deserted back roads, sewers, and disused subway tunnels, you eventually made your way into what used to be Manhattan.

The danger was that the Empire spies might find you before the Rebellion ones did, but thankfully luck was on your side, and that’s when you really allowed your fragile hope to crystallise into something more unbreakable. When the bags were removed from your head, and the faces of the rebellion were revealed to you, you felt like crying in joy for the first time since… well, it was a long time.

Obi Wan, Mace Windu, and Yoda. They weren’t dead after all.

“So, Y/N, you’re the reason Sergeant Barnes was captured?” Obi Wan smiled to take the sting off his accusation, “I always thought that man was smarter than that.”

“You’re his contact?!”

“Of course we were, you didn’t think we would fall that easily, did you?” Mace Windu rolled his eyes at you, leaving you to sputter and stare at the floor. Yoda hummed next to his friend, and poked you with a walking stick he hadn’t had the last time you saw him, 

“Why are you here?”

“I… I have a plan. I think we might be able to get them back, and perhaps even end this war.”

“Lost, the war already is.” Yoda responded grimly, “How can you fix it?”

“Well… in a way none of you are probably going to like.”

The forest had been your idea. Anakin - whatever was left of him - would love the drama of it all. Bucky - whatever part of him remained - would be at home within the shadows and darkness, it was where he had always fought best.

You ran from them, deliberately using their own strengths against them. It made your heart sing a little, even as your skin went numb and your feet were shredded. They still responded as the men you loved would have done. They were still there, you could bring them back to you.

First though, you would have to survive the serum.

Anakin and Bucky took you back to their base, just as you saw it in the visions Anakin tormented you with. Cold and dark. Concrete and glass. You played your part, brought tears to your eyes, struck out and hit them, begged and pleaded and cursed. Obviously, it didn’t matter. They weren’t the men you loved yet, they were still theirs. Bucky’s eyes no longer held any warmth. Anakin’s irises still shone putrid yellow. But soon… soon you would have them back, no matter what happened to you, you loved both of them too much to give up on them.

They strapped you down, and the needle pierced your skin. It burned when the serum entered your bloodstream, but you held onto the hope that burned brighter and stronger still;

The Rebellion was still fighting, and this time, you wouldn’t lose.

[wheresmyplums]

yeah sex is fine and all, but you know what really gets me going? fictional characters having fictional sex

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Leia: *runs away*

Obi-wan: I can’t explain it but this is Anakin’s fault

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I love the way to see that Star Wars is also about family, especially this part.

From this :

And 30 years later.

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bones how do you think steve would react if he enjoyed the devil’s lettuce with you for the first time? 👀

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Stoner!Reader

rating: Mature

warnings: referenced past smut, recreational drug use, fluff, MINORS DNI!

LMAO Y’ALL ARE TRULY NOT GONNA LET ME LIVE 🤣 i feel like the reader would be super nervous, like… that’s captain america, he’s going to hate weed—but Steve is such an accepting sweet bean, i bet he’s like “yeah, Bucky and I used to go to the jazz clubs and smoke reefer, but Bucky wouldn’t let me smoke too much because he said i would literally kill myself coughing”

and the reader’s like “😲” because she was just certain he was going to break up with her over it, but actually he’s… really disgustingly sweet? like he asks her “what kind is that?“ whenever she rolls up, and he’ll pick up cute smoking accessories, even though he gets shy whenever people recognize him—“was that Captain America in a headshop?” but he doesn’t really mind. after all, it’s the 21st century, and he’s seen alcohol do much, much worse.

🌲

You should have known it was only a matter of time before you got found out. It had been a good run—two months of dating Captain-Fucking-America? That’s a better run than anyone expected, you included.

“Sweetheart is this… yours?” He’s holding your bong up, a questioning and concerned look on his face. You want nothing more than to melt into the carpet, to cease being a physical, perceivable being. You want to simply vanish out of existence rather than have this conversation. I wonder if it’s possible to have someone retroactively dust me, you think to yourself, your lip trembling as Steve looks from you to the bong one more time.

You’d hidden your habit fairly well—you didn’t indulge before you went to work or in your car, and you only ever smoked in your garage, meaning your house was free from the telling odor that usually settled over everything. And when America’s golden boy had asked you out, you’d neglected to mention it—after all, how could he possibly be interested in you?

But he was, and you’d kept seeing each other.

He was funny, and sweet, and though you hadn’t quite decided you were exclusive, when he was three knuckles deep in your pussy in the supply closet at work, telling you you were his and his alone, you couldn’t help but agree.

Really, your double life couldn’t have continued much longer—especially not when things were beginning to get serious. But why did he have to find your stash now?

He raises an eyebrow at your non-answer. “Doll?”

In your panic, you squeak the first words that come to mind. “New York is a legal state!”

“I, um. I know that.” Steve’s voice is placating. “I just, um, didn’t know you smoked.”

“I…”

“I mean, I smelled a little bit, but I kind of always assumed it was, you know, your neighbors.”

You hang your head and groan, covering your heated face with your hands. “Why does it feel like I’m 16 and my parents caught me smoking?” You moan, and he chuckles. “I was going to tell you, I was, but… You’re you, and I thought you might… break up with me.” You finished lamely, still looking at the floor. On some level, you’d known that Captain America couldn’t have a pothead girlfriend—it would be terrible for his image.

But it helped with your anxiety, and your period cramps—and let’s face it, you’d never have made it through college if not for weed. You felt strangely guilty, like you’d been hiding something important from him. Steve set your bong down on the coffee table and sat beside you on the couch.

“I mean, I’ve never used one of these before,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I mean… it wasn’t illegal when I was your age.” You giggled at his admission and he rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean,” he scoffs. “I may have had a little reefer in my day.”

“I’m sorry did you just say reefer?” You laughed, and tried unsuccessfully to quiet yourself when he pouted.

“I’m not breaking up with you,” he assured you, smiling bashfully. “I mean, like you said. We’re a legal state now. Never understood why they outlawed it anyway.” You can tell he’s trying to make you comfortable again, slinging his arm around your shoulders and squeezing affectionately.

“I can see the headlines now. Captain America caught with weed: ‘It was for my girlfriend’,” you reply, and he chuckles again.

“They wouldn’t catch me, doll.”

After that, you carefully stow your bong and assorted equipment back under the garage stairs for safekeeping, and order pizza for dinner. Steve picks the movie—you don’t argue, not after the Pearl Harbor incident—and as he sets the popcorn in the microwave, you clear your throat.

“I”m gonna, um. I’m gonna go smoke, um, before the pizza gets here.” You announce, twiddling your fingers behind your back. Steve hmms dismissively, and you take that as your cue to excuse yourself. You’re sitting on the garage steps lighting the bowl when you hear the door creak open behind you. You cough loudly, exhaling smoke as you turn.

“Can… Can I try?”

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so I’ve got this headcanon that Guardians of the Galaxy is really the Avengers playing a table top roleplaying game, where Bucky’s the DM who suffers through heaps and loads of trolling 

Mostly from Steve

Especially from Steve

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#Payback

Bonus:

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Thor wearing the strongest avenger hat to give himself that extra bit of confidence when working out is just perfect.

The hat is available at LoveAndThunder.com 🧢

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I'm no Bucky Barnes apologist because Bucky has never done anything wrong in his life

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besties