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ronearoundblindly · 4 hours

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I mean, I'm bummed this is taking me soooooo long, but I think y'all are gonna go a little bonkers over these two.

Thank goodness I already thought up a sequel!

😅

Sneak Peek 💜💚💜

frat boy! Ari Levinson x college student!Reader

At a party with your boyfriend when things aren't going well between you, your old classmate--the notorious jock and man-whore, Ari--catches you in a weak moment...

Warnings for drinking/partying but not much else in this bit. (That might be a terrible summary for this excerpt but I made there too much going on to explain succinctly. My bad.) WC 720

The compulsion to be kind and quiet continues as you follow him out, tucking your hands under your arms so Billy won’t try to hold your hand, but it doesn’t matter. He walks ahead of you a few feet to keep up with his friends on the walk down the road to the Kappa house.

The two-story, plantation-style home is packed to the gills, making it hard to maneuver farther in than the front door, and of course, the first person you recognize is a brother of the fraternity living there.

Ari Levinson stands halfway up the staircase overlooking the crowd like a king surveying his domain, hair grown long and a beard worthy of his fifth-year undergrad status. He’s wearing a button-up linen shirt as if he just walked in from the beach, perpetually sun-kissed skin glowing, the carefree blue fabric matching his eyes.

Asshole.

He probably showed up to his own damn house, cocked his head, and smirked.

“Y’all having a party?” he probably asked, chill as fuck.

Idiot…probably. You don’t know what happened to him after Women’s Studies two years ago, but you can’t imagine he got better. Nothing changes.

His queen-for-the-day leans into his ear, her top half covered only by a red bandana and not much below that hidden by a miniskirt.

What sluts. Both of them. They deserve each other.

He’s so sexy though.

His smile is bright while he doesn’t spill the contents of his red Solo cup on anyone below him on the stairs. Seems his drunk coordination has improved since your freshman year at the very least.

“Babe,” you hear yelled close to your ear, “take it!”

Billy shoves one of two cups he’s carrying into your hands and shouts for you to follow him. He wants to play beer pong in one of back rooms downstairs with no room to stand and watch. There are no chairs, but Billy asks if want to play with him. In no reality would he think you’d answer ‘yes’ in this chaos, but then again, he hasn’t noticed you won’t take a sip of the drink you didn’t see poured either.

You yell back that you’re going to find a seat somewhere. Billy gets pulled off for the next partnered game.

The only open spot that isn’t a squeeze beside couples going at it in public is a bench underneath the cutout of the staircase. You took a detour to dump your cup in crowded kitchen’s sink and sit alone for a while, people-watching, wondering vaguely about the king and queen above you on the steps.

Parties…are not all that fun when you don’t feel safe.

You’re not sure how much time passes before a light blue linen shirt invades your view.

“Thirsty?” Ari asks casually, offering the only cup he carries.

You wave it off with a ‘no, thank you’ even though that should be sketchier than your boyfriend getting you a drink.

Ari takes a huge gulp and shuffles his broad body onto the too-short edge of the bench beside you. He seems careful not to touch you or invade your space, the barest graze of a short-sleeve cuff brushing the skin of your upper arm.

Again, Ari tilts the cup toward you. “Jack and coke,” he shrugs, lifting his eyebrows, “mostly coke though. I’ve been here a while. You’re basically late.”

He wouldn’t drug himself with anything, you imagine, and worst case, Ari’s already much drunker than you.

You pluck the half-full Solo from his hand and take a small sip. He’s right about one thing; you can’t smell or taste any alcohol.

Ari smiles softly.

“Where’s what’s-his-face?” He scans the hall. “Probably getting you something better, huh?”

You can’t help but frown and sigh as Ari takes another swig of soda, his pink lips nearly hidden beneath the hair of his beard, but you remember they are quite plump.

“Where’s your girlfriend?” you throw back, and keep your guess silent. Perhaps knuckle deep in the toilet?

Ari contemplates for a moment. “Flying with the pigs,” he settles on.

“What?”

He repeats himself, and then, seeing your confusion, he leans closer to clarify, “she doesn’t exist. I don’t have a girlfriend.”

Poor bandana girl. That’s a little harsh to be fobbed off so soon.

“So—”Ari elbows you gently “—how you been, smartie-pants?”

A/N: I cannot express to you the sheer amount of internal screaming I have done while writing this. He's...he's too...uhhhh my gawdddddd. He's too beautiful.

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

#ro reblogs the love #thank you for reading and sharing

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ronearoundblindly · 6 hours

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Ro!

Because we all love him so!

NOMAD STEVE, for your crimes of being too f**king hot...

***

The jail, incidentally, is my bedroom.

#ro answers #sorry #i wish a had a snippet ready for you #been trying to finish up this Ari thing all day but i hadn't developed something very well yet and it's dragging...#nomad steve will return in Hideout SOON #i woke up this morning to *thots* of him

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ronearoundblindly · 10 hours

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If I get the chance to write drunk, adorable doofus Steve, rest assured, I'm gonna write him ultra-drunk, ultra-adorable, and ultra-doofus-y

🥰

Eighty-Third Time's the Charm (2)

CEO!Steve x assistant!Reader

Summary: What should be a standard business trip with your boss, Steve Rogers, becomes a little harder to manage.

Life (see previous or series)

Warnings for drinking and zero editing.

You’re asleep with your sensitive feet sticking out past the bottom of the bed, blanket kicked away, when Steve calls you. You have no clue what time it is.

“Yeah, boss,” you start, on autopilot in your grogginess.

“Uh, yeah, are you the assistant?” It’s not Steve clearly.

“What? Who is this?”

“Steve is uh…” a hilariously high giggle blasts through your phone speaker “…yeah, he’s gonna need some assistance when his taxi gets to the hotel.”

“Barnes? Is this—put St—put him on the phone.” Now you’re awake but in a very unpleasantly anxious fog.

“Bucky, please, doll, and I could put him on the phone, but he’s not exactly coherent right now. Stevie can’t hold his liquor like he used to.”

“Mr. Barnes,” you sigh, flinging your legs off the bed and rubbing your tired eyes, “where is Mr. Rogers right now?” You’re firm but calm. You can hear that Bucky is not sober enough to notice any subtly in how you handle him.

“He is leaning—very happily—“ Bucky’s voice sounds farther away for a moment “—look at you all smiles, bud! Oh, Steve, Steve, that’s it, that’s your taxi!” His voice gets louder. “What hotel, doll?”

You’re still confused but tell him, and Bucky responds with the taxi number. Just before the line goes quiet, you hear Bucky mumble, “your girl’s in your pocket. She’ll carry you across the threshold, punk.” Then there’s two popping sounds (pats against Steve’s coat, you assume).

“Shhhut up, jerrrk,” Steve’s deep voice slurs.

No one has hung up the call. You listen to Steve babbling to the driver while sliding on the hotel’s complimentary slippers. All your packed shoes would rip open your blisters.

Then you realize you’re in pajamas—tasteful ones, yes, but they’re pants and a long-sleeve button-down top (because good lord they blast ice into these rooms, but it makes sleep so cozy). You’re not going to haul your drunk boss across the lobby in pajamas and slippers.

Your casual dress and slippers will do just fine. Unfortunately.

It’s only five or so minutes after you get downstairs that the taxi pulls up to the curb in front of you. You press ‘end call’ on your phone finally.

Steve isn’t visible. He’s laying across the seat.

First things first, pay the poor man charged with getting the other poor man here.

Steve is clutching his coat around himself and smacking his lips when you open the door. You tap his hip. His face lights up like Christmas day.

“HEEEEY!”

Oh, fucking yikes, he’s trashed.

You’re not sure how you manage moving the bulky bro (because he is 1000% behaving like a frat boy on the way upstairs: finger guns pointed to the desk clerk, lewd reference to ‘going up’ at the elevator) all the way to his door. He’s lucky you don’t just drop him right there in the hall.

He can’t find his room key, and you give up. You just start walking him to your room.

You’re exhausted, and your feet throb under your weight and his. You aim him for the bed. He misses. Steve slides right down to the floor and tries to tell you a funny joke some guy named Wilson told him.

You narrowly lose a fight within yourself to scream in his ear.

Instead, you rummage in your ditty bag and find a travel bottle of pain meds. You fill a water glass, shove it in his face (some sloshes on your hand and drips to his lap which gets you a chuckle of ‘tryna get me all wet, huh’), and roll your eyes as he drinks and hands it back. You refill the glass and plunk it onto the night stand with the meds. You’re not gonna bother helping him in the morning. He’s on his own.

“Ok, mister,” you warn him, returning to his side about to help lift him, but Steve wraps his arms behind your knees and hugs.

His face presses into your thighs, and you’re tilted off-balance, hands flying out to hold you up against the bed. This might be the least professional moment of your three years working with Steve Rogers. How could it not be?

Your dress isn’t long enough to cover the back of your knees when bent over like this, so the fabric slips out of his grasp and it’s just bare hands against your bare skin.

Have mercy. His large palms are so hot against the very sensitive flesh essentially just below your ass. It takes all your concentration to not clench your thighs against his face.

Steve takes a huge, deep breath, and by god, if he didn’t pay you so well, you’d slap the ever-loving shit out of that man.

Cheeky bastard even mumbles, inches below your crotch, “should get in bed.”

“I’m attempting to do just that, sir.” Don’t murder your boss, you remind yourself, that would be unilaterally bad. Your irritation is unmatched, but it’s a disarming fluster that wiggles you against him.

He releases your legs with a flourish and a giggle. “Right. You’ve got to keep me on track.” He tucks his elbows onto the mattress and awkwardly hoists his body up, slithering over the covers until he gets to the pillows.

Thank god you get a king bed when traveling. After grabbing an extra pillow from the closet, you slam it down between his side and yours. You lock yourself in the bathroom while redressing in your full-coverage pajamas (leaving your bra ON which alone should earn him a harsh pinch) and tuck yourself under every layer possible at the other edge of the bed.

The clock reads 1:49 AM.

It’s still raining the next morning. People-watching out the window isn’t as good when umbrellas just bump against each other and everyone looks down with their hoods up. You keep watching, at the same table from yesterday, until the server comes back to ask what else you may need.

Past her is a straight line-of-sight to the elevators, and there’s Steve, black sunglasses on and in different, fresh clothing. Seems he found his damn key finally.

“Refill for me. Another coffee. Black, please, and the breakfast sampler thing. Oh, and another water. Thank you.”

Steve nearly runs into the woman as she spins on her heel. He doesn’t get out the full word ‘sorry,’ just a kind of hissing noise that goes unnoticed in the server’s shock and haste. He delicately scoots into the seat across from you, head low, adjusting the glasses to sit as close to his eyes as possible. After a beat, he clears his throat.

“I don’t normally…”

You smirk. “I know.”

Steve presses a hand over his mouth. “I don’t remember the last time I…”

“I imagine.”

“I hope I didn’t…” He waves the hand around waiting for you to interpret the options.

You don’t take the bait.

“Hope you didn’t what?” Your eyes are innocent as you tilt your own cup to your lips. The shades make it impossible to tell, but you’re fairly sure he watches your every move.

Coffee is placed in front of him, and you’d think Steve’s been in a desert for forty nights and just stumbled upon an oasis.

He drinks it too fast.

“Fuck me, that’s hot.” His head raises. “Sorry, I…this isn’t my finest hour.”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

Steve licks across his lips, letting his shoulders sag.

You’re not great at hiding how amused you are. “No worries. Recoup. Rally. We’ve only got the one long lunch meeting today, and then your deal dinner with Sauter. You’re on your own for that one though, remember.”

He keeps sipping the coffee and hissing at the heat. For such a smart man, he sees to be having a lot of trouble with basic thermodynamics. “Where are you going?”

“To shower,” you snort. “Couldn’t well do it with—never mind. Your food is on its way. Eat it. Did you take the pills by the bed?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How many?”

“Two.” Steve holds up the fingers to match.

“Good boy.” Shit. The words just fall out before you can stop them. You duck your face down trying to compose yourself. You don’t see his reaction. He says nothing in reply, however, meaning now is as good as ever to get the hell out of here.

The instant your butt leaves that cushion—tablet, laptop, purse, and phone in hand— Steve adds “only when sober.”

That shower is looking colder and colder by the second. Your thighs press tightly together on the walk back to your room.

You’re not sure how, but Steve does rally, and he rallies exquisitely. He’s in fine negotiating form during the lunch, each side gives a compelling presentation, dick-waves an appropriate amount, and it looks like you’re in business for another solid partnership.

This contract is likely to be twice as long though, so you basically live-tweet the details to the legal department as the conversation happens. That’s why you’re so valuable to Mr. Rogers. Three steps ahead of him while he’s two steps ahead of everyone else.

Your parents confirm your dinner reservations for that night and say they are about to start the drive into town. Luckily, the lunch meeting is all for today because with the added back and forth travel time, dinner needs to be earlier. They’ll joke about you becoming one of them: an old person who eats at 5:30. In all honesty, that sounds wonderful. You want to (and need to) get a good night’s sleep, alone, before traveling back tomorrow.

Pepper texts you that she can do lunch after your flight lands. Tony has already scheduled to bogart Steve the rest of the day. You’ll just have Pep drop you at the offices. It’s all very neat and tidy.

You’re all dressed down and ready to see family, half-packed and all sorted, when there’s a knock at your hotel room door. Through the peephole, you see Steve.

“Yes, boss?”

“Sauter cancelled.” Steve pushes in just enough to hold the door open and frown. “I swear, that guy is…if he hadn’t inherited his father’s business, he’d be face down at a bar.”

Or asleep in his assistant’s bed, snuggling a pillow for dear life. You don’t say that.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Should I check on another reservation somewhere for you? Tony knows people in every damn city, so I doubt you’d have to eat alone.” You grab your purse and the folded stack of Steve’s removed layers from the day before and squeeze past him in the doorway. “Here’s these.”

“Thank you.”

It’s a fairly comfortable silence, and you think he’s just heading in the direction of his room until he turns to the elevators with you.

Mom texts you that they are about to pull up to the hotel, but they hit a weird one-way street and need to do a bit of a U-y. She’s probably laughing at Dad’s grumbling.

“Feet feeling better?” Steve stares down at your gym shoes.

You warned your parents you’d be ultra casual, but it works for the sports bar they chose. Your family loves a good chain restaurant. Nothing fancy for those folks.

“Yes, but not a hundred percent yet. Don’t be alarmed if I’m wearing flats in the office all week.”

“I’ll be prepared to look five inches lower.” Steve rubs at his neck. “Maybe I’ll book a massage after such a trying time.”

You let out a resigned sigh. “I can set that up for you, sir. No problem.”

“I’m just messing with you—“ you both exit the elevator “—I can speak to woman shorter than me without hurting myself, ya know.”

Steve has no idea how poorly worded everything he just said is, and you stifle a laugh.

Then he oversteps.

“So where are we eating?”

You whip around so fast your purse smacks his arm. “We? No, I’m having dinner with my parents.”

“I’m sure they’re lovely.” Steve grins.

You sweep your hand in front of you with finality. “No. Absolutely not, Steve. I haven’t gotten to see my parents in person for the better part of a year because I work for you. You had plans. So do I. I’m sorry Sauter bailed, but you’ll just have to manage on your own.”

He’s…shrinking into that bulky body of his like a wounded animal, blue eyes shining with apology.

“I,” Steve stammers, “you should see your parents more often.” When your head tilts in a ‘no shit’ reaction, he adds, “I didn’t realize the work was…that much for you.”

Aaaand there’s your mom, flagging you down from the passenger seat of the car outside the lobby.

“It’s not—I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean any offense. I just—“

“I get it,” Steve interrupts with a tight smile, holding up his own hand to acknowledge your mother’s efforts. “You should have time for loved ones. I’ll manage.”

He grips the jacket, vest, and tie to his chest, buries his free hand in his pocket, and nods a goodbye before walking away.

Dinner is great, but you feel guilty the entire time. However, you make a point to mention work and Steve as little as possible, and you do not push for the meal to be over any sooner than your parents want. Still, they have a drive ahead, but they love you very much.

There are tons of kisses and hugs on the pavement outside the hotel before vigorous waving and blown kisses towards their car as it fades into traffic. It was so nice to see them. You miss them already, but your heart is full.

You’re in that sweet spot of happy but ready to rest when you walk into the lobby, and right there, all the way down the long stretch of marble, sits Steve Rogers at the bar. He doesn’t look sad, but it makes you sad. He sent about a dozen texts in the last few hours, noting things to discuss or handle at another time, stating that you don’t have to respond. He just wants to remember all the work stuff.

That’s fair.

Still sad.

Steve smiles and politely responds to a question from the bartender, absently glancing toward the entrance before stopping mid-word upon seeing you.

You try to nod a hello and goodnight, but he gestures for you to join him. That’s not his work face though. He wears the more casual, comfortable cadence that you’ve seen when he’s with Tony, the one that drapes over his chillier demeanor when business is concluded.

“How was dinner? How are your parents?” Steve beams, laser focused on listening to your every word.

The bartender glides over and asks for your drink order, and you turn to check with Steve that you aren’t interrupting anything.

“Never,” he assures.

The way he smiles at you, shoulders slightly hunched over the bar so you’re eye-to-eye in the hightop chairs, little crinkles framing his bright blue eyes, it all has you very warm all over.

That’s new.

You aren’t fucking blind. You’ve always known your boss is a handsome man, but he’s never directed any of that charm at you. He’s polite, professional, and poised…except last night/this morning when he squished his face into your thighs.

“I had a thought,” he interjects, breaking your bizarre brain tangent.

You swallow thickly, watching his lips wrap the rim of his beer bottle.

“It’s probably time you had an assistant.”

Wait. “WHAT?”

Honestly, I'm having a criminal amount of fun writing this so to the Anon who brought this up: ILOVEYOUIHATEYOU. Everything else has been set aside for this >_<

dividers by @firefly-graphics

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[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

#ro reblogs the love #thank you for reading and sharing

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ronearoundblindly · 10 hours

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They get to me every time I return to this AU. CEO!Steve is something unbelievably special 💚💜💚

Big Girls Don't Cry

CEO!Steve Rogers x co-CEO!Reader from It Had To Be You series

prompt from this dirty ask game, and I'll give you a hint--they absolutely do cry, and in this instance, Steve, uh, really likes it.

Summary: It goes against everything his Ma taught him, and his every instinct to protect, but Steve is willing to comfort you in any way you please after a horrible meeting ruins your mood.

Warnings for smuuuuuuuuuut, and we do not waste a single sentence of lead-in. This is a little rougher than usual for these two, and it took an angsty turn, which I guess means I will have to write a makeup for them... MINORS DNI. Kiddos and my delicate flowers, you can find something else to delight you on my Light Masterlist, but not here. WC ~1.1k (unedited)

"I know, precious, I know," Steve soothes with a rough grip to your shoulder, keeping you from sliding farther across the satin bed sheets as his hips wetly slap your ass. "Let it out, sweetheart."

The arch of your back deepens when you bury your face and sob. He continues to keep his pace steady, just like he promised.

Steve sits up, adjusting his knees until his thrusts visibly shove your jiggling ass higher, and slowly pets that broad hand down your sweaty spine.

"That's it," he whispers.

Peppered in with your tears are grunts of anger. He understands only a little, but after the morning's disaster of a meeting, he'll do anything to make up for his blunder.

You take over and bounce on his length, pumping him with your tight pussy while Steve eagerly watches himself disappear and reemerge shinier with your dripping arousal.

This...shouldn't be the hottest sex you two have ever had. He should feel awful about walking you into a conference room of chauvinist, encouraging you to ignore their snide comments, and whiffing the opportunity to stick it to them.

You did everything he should have, and now he has to grovel in whatever position you demand. He can't question or argue. He can't comment on the how loudly you cry for him to fuck you harder. He can't mention that he found you hiding in your old apartment, curled on the couch, soaking a baggy sweatshirt with your tears. He can't take time to parse how you went from that to jumping in his arms to ripping off his clothes to pushing him into the bedroom and presenting your bare sex.

Who is he to argue? Steve is but a man in love...

God, it feels like your sucking his soul out of his body though. His face is scalding with desperate embarrassment that he really likes how this afternoon took a turn.

He's not going to last if you keep this up, so his goal changes from glorified fuck-boy to proper boyfriend. Steve can only take so much crying from anything other than pleasure. Your frustration has to be mostly worked out by now, right?

"Come 'ere, precious," he gasps, holding your hips still as he leans to kiss your shoulder. His arm threads beneath you and lifts, pinning your back to his front and stretching both of you to face the headboard.

He painted you that picture which hangs above it. He's noticing it's askew, probably from the repeated smack of your bed upon the wall. Steve resolves to fix that later.

Instead, he keeps his arm locked beneath your breasts, free hand snaking down between your legs and slapping gently. He can feel the strike in his balls.

You cry out, and damn, he is liking this.

He smacks again, softer this time, like a kitten swat for your undivided attention. "Give me a big one," he rumbles, beard scratching at the column of your neck where he licks a stripe. "Please."

The begging never fails to make you whine. Steve knows this, so he keeps pleading for you to come while his slick fingers circle your clit. He can touch the base of his cock in those same strokes, nudging at your sweet spot with pointed ruts from behind.

Shit, he's close.

Your mewls are tinged with sadness, your head falling back against his pec, eyes closed with tears still escaping the corners.

"Hey, hey, look at me, baby."

A slow, heavy gaze locks onto his.

"Fuck those guys. You are everything, precious. Everything."

Steve hopes you can't hear the unhinged crack to his voice as he feels his orgasm wrenching through his gut.

He lowers his lips to yours to mutter "I love you" against them and spanks your mound one last time before he loses control, cum leaking into the condom, threatening to fill to the brim.

The band in your belly snaps, too, tensing your body in his arms, forcing him to hold you up as your legs curl forward and off the mattress.

Steve keeps a slow, steady pace of rubbing again, swallowing your powerful moans in a greedy kiss, letting himself fall back to his knees and come hard with you.

"Beautiful," he praises. "So perfect..."

You're limbs jolt while you ride out the aftershocks, and he moves his hand to press your flush with him, no need for the sharp angle of your spine when he slips out easily now.

But you're still crying when he lowers you to rest on your side. Your body still immediately shrinks like it was on the couch.

"Shhh, my good girl," Steve tries. "It's okay. You're alright."

He sees you shiver and scrambles to find the blanket, tucking it around you but not giving you space to hide your face.

He cups your cheek so you can't cover your eyes either, thumb sweeping across the wet streaks left behind, asking if you're ready to talk to him about it, but you shake your head.

"I love you," you do say. "I just hate you a little right now."

Steve frowns.

He shouldn't have given in. He shouldn't have taken the bait. He knew this wouldn't fix anything.

He thought you needed it, though, thought you needed him. He wanted to be needed. He thrives on being needed by someone so independent.

Professionally, Steve's always been needed for his products, his poise, his persistence. Personally, he feels like nothing but a burden.

That feeling crossed over today, and he hated himself just a little, too.

He cleans himself up, returns to wipe you gently with a warm cloth, and drapes a fluffy towel over you to layer under the blanket, worried that the overhead fan you insist stays on will give you chills from sweating.

He's not leaving, and he tells you as much before settling to face you on the pillows.

When you don't answer, your eyes open but staring down and away from him, he offers, "I can't go back in time, precious, but I can promise I will never kowtow to men like that ever again."

You huff judgingly.

"I'll believe that when I see it, Rogers."

He'll take it, begrudgingly, but Steve lives to fight another day for your renewed respect. For the moment, all he can do is vow to succeed or die trying.

[Main Masterlist; Dirty Asks Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

#ro reblogs the love #thank you for reading and sharing

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ronearoundblindly · 10 hours

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CHRIS EVANS as ARI LEVINSON RED SEA DIVING RESORT (2019)

#worthy of another reblog #men in pink do something to me #DANGER ZONE

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ronearoundblindly · 10 hours

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Isn't he just????

😍

you're right, we havent given mr jake jensen a lot of attention lately 😔🫶🏻 can we get an E for him?

We are all on the Jake train now, y'all...

From this dirty ask game, which is appropriately named and thus MINORS DNI.

I feel like I need to say this before we get started--

In regards to the previous discussion of his sexual routine: to be clear, you didn't make Jake cry because of attempting to set time aside for him. He just really didn't like the idea maybe not having already spent time--good time--together or romancing you, etc, that would make you feel the need to schedule things. Things that aren't a specific date out and so forth. He knows he over-reacted. He sees that now. He just had gotten a bit lost in work for a week. Instead of interrupting him then, you set aside some time, and then he kinda lost his shit thinking he'd neglected you or that you thought that...

It's fine. He's fine now. He still hates the idea of scheduling anything but trips though.

E - Extra Info

Jake really, really likes strip poker, but it's pretty obvious he just wants any excuse to be in his boxers. Dude doesn't really like wearing clothes (except he's perfectly fine still having his socks and boots on?? so definitely no foot fetish there). That might be a bit of a thing, actually. If you rock some awesome shoes--be it high heels or platforms or the chunkiest combat boot known to man-- you're not taking them off for sex; you're stuck in those till he's done with you. Period.

The question of if he seduces you back came up in the previous ask, too, and absolutely, yes. He's just...so fucking awkward about using pickup lines and stuff that Jake's seduction is more like...showing his enthusiasm instead of a well thought out plan. He'll take over, he'll take what he wants, but ultimately, he's very sweet about communicating what it is he's excited for.

Like you wearing his bulletproof vest. There's lots of straps he can hold onto. Or his leather gun holster, nothing underneath. That works both ways because he'll wear that for you and nothing else, too.

As we all know, Jake really likes to laugh. He enjoys those moments of levity even--and maybe especially--during sex, so if you do use something on him or make a game of it, it's a big turn on to him that he can be comfortable and goofy and you're still ready to fuck him because goodness knows that's all he wants in the world.

Does Jake have any dark fantasies or desires?

Hmm. Really good question.

I think what I'm getting at is that he is a real tit-for-tat man; if he has any desire to bring it to the bedroom, he's open to whatever it is being done to him. He would never ask you to go through something he wouldn't (degradation, humiliation, roleplay, anal, whatever). If I've said it once, I'll say it again: pure. switch. energy.

He's not the most articulate about these things. He still blushes and chuckles when certain things are brought up, no doubt, but he's just, idk, interested. If you wanna try it, so does he. He'll even research the fuck out of it and buy all the supplies and be ready.

Just. Don't. Schedule. It.

The only organic thing in all of life that Jake gives a fuck about is intimacy. That's gotta be organic or it takes the fun away. He needs the fun. He needs the laughter.

Thank you for asking!

I love him so much.

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

#ro reblogs the love #thank you for reading and sharing

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ronearoundblindly · 10 hours

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I PROMISE!!!

Hideout (3.2)

touch-starved!Nomad Steve Rogers x motel employee!Reader

Sensitive Boy, part II (see previous or series)

Summary: Are you dreaming or are things really getting hotter with Steve?

Warnings for smut (m and f masturbation, more dry-humping/thigh-riding, implied or referenced sexual acts). Hell of a lot of feels, too, but general warning for Nomad being desperate because 🫨 he's given me the meat sweats, y'all. MINORS DNI. There is plenty for you to read on my Light Masterlist, but this series is not for you! WC 3.8k (what the absolute frickety frack)

He’s awake before the dawn again, but you didn’t sleep well.

You were haunted by dreams. Not nightmares, though, dreams of a very…intense nature, and this is not the first time you’ve had them.

Steve greets you without stopping, acute senses dialed up to hear your approach.

Your dad already came by, Steve recalls. He’s getting donuts on a grocery run for the newly cleaned fridge.

“Bet he showed you pictures, too,” you mumble, rubbing at your eyes, not awake enough to worry just how interactive Steve had to be without you present.

Steve chuckles and looks at you finally. His face drops but he adds, “says we’ve done a great job—”

More like ‘Grant’ did and I’ve tagged along for the credit, you muse with a yawn.

“—but, no, he stayed at the door. You alright? Need to go back to bed?”

That would offer no benefit because you’ll just lose sleep again.

The heat of Steve behind you for hours might have triggered graphic dreams, or perhaps just knowing what he sounds like, what he feels like in between your thighs. They’ve never been that vivid or tiring. It’s distracting.

“Your mom and dad’ll get the lights this afternoon,” Steve starts, dipping his brush, wiping the excess, focusing elsewhere, “I should leave before they come back from that.”

You walk over to bonk your head in the dent of his shoulder blades, resting as you feel Steve’s muscles paints up and down, up and down. You think about being the brush that he works so precisely.

“Okay,” you whisper. You hug him from behind, stretching your chin up to ask, “how are you doing this morning?”

“Oh, I’m tops! I’m having the best time.”

Steve turns to meet your eye, a gleam of rich, varied blues. He’s genuine. He looks so happy.

“Last night, you—I, um—“

Steve’s cut off by the garbage truck’s brakes squealing in the parking lot.

They’ve come to empty the dumpster full of old lights and wet fireworks from last week, and while you’re directing their progress, your mom walks down the hill, wanting to finalizes the day’s schedule for picking up the new fixtures in town.

She and Dad should be back around dinnertime, and now you know. You’ve had your stolen moments. He’ll be gone.

You should be grateful, but you sigh instead.

“Honey, you look tired. Want us to come help? I’m almost done with the laund—“

“‘m fine, Mom. Don’t worry.”

She soothes you with big circles over your back. “We need to do anything special for that boy?” She ticks her head toward the motel. “He’s been a lifesaver already.”

“You have no idea,” you snort before you can stop yourself, “but I’ll…I’ll think of something.”

Those super senses are still razor sharp half an hour later.

You’re riding a roller-coaster of distraction.

While backing up to inspect the coverage near the ceiling, you trip over the ladder left behind you, narrowly avoiding the complete upturn of a full paint tray.

You didn’t even fall to the floor, only stumbled and got turned around, wet specks dripping down to the plastic below your long-handled roller, but Steve’s in from two rooms away in the blink of an eye—albeit a set of slow, tired eyes.

He cups your elbow for support until you’re stabilized.

That takes a lot longer than it should considering you’re the employee here. He’s the guest. He’s the volunteer.

A giant. Very manly. Super attractive. Helper. Volunteer. Person who just showed up.

You should be comforting him, supporting him and his efforts. Instead your brain is steeping in a horny cocktail of thick thighs, rough hands, and soft beards.

A single soft beard, that is, and there’s no avoiding drowning when said hands pinch at the tension in your neck, a phantom gesture of reciprocal massage. The move ignites something inside you. Lurid flashes take over, and you have to breathe through it.

Steve hasn’t the faintest idea, bless him.

“Thirsty?” he offers in a deep, husky voice.

Drenched, you think immediately, nodding your head instead.

You opt to gulp down the glass of water he gets you outside on the curb, in fresh air, away from Steve’s pheromones.

Your dad pulls up with donuts. Saved by the pastry.

Just because the dream replays itself all day long, doesn’t mean you want to avoid Steve. Some areas take you longer, some take him longer, so there’s a dance of being in the same and opposite rooms throughout the afternoon.

You repay the favor and bring him water. You’d be lying if it wasn’t in the hopes of more contact.

He look miles happier, in his element without constant, low-level panic. You wish you could offer him free rein to design murals for each room, anything to make him stay, anything to give him the option to be happy for longer. Not that you believe he is unhappy with his friends—and they have to be true friends to suffer exile together for so long—and you wonder if they’ll notice this improvement when he returns to them.

He takes the cup and follows you hand back to your side, watching as if he hopes for more, one more pass of your fingers over his, one more graze across his forearm.

He’s started shivering each time it happens. Steve doesn’t hide that he’s doing it either which is a bold new development. Has he opened up to take advantage of these last hours you have?

Even though his fingers are caked in paint, he scoops you into a hug when he comes to refill his tray.

“Six is done,” he announces, and you sink right into his hold.

You breathe each other in for a moment. Some of your fatigue drains away, his high energy displacing your encroaching worry, but you can’t stay like this forever.

He lets go, your grasp at his sides dragging at just the right angle to tickle him.

Abs twitching away while he nervously laughs, Steve’s already swatting at your hands.

“No. Don’t,” he chuckles. “Don’t you dare!”

Steve Rogers is ticklish.

This knowledge revitalizes you beyond measure because now he jumps out of the way like you’re a snake in his path.

You make the requisite threat of wiggling fingers in his direction.

“I’m not kidding! That’s not—“ you’re still faking a hunt for more “—wait, that’s not fair.”

His deep voice strains a little sharper though he’s technically laughing more. At this rate of twitching, however, he’ll back right into a wet wall before you can stop him.

“Okay, fine,” you concede and clasp your wrists behind your back in good faith. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

His eyes narrow suspiciously. He shuffles farther away.

“I promise, Stevie.” How could he not trust the devious smile on your lips. “Promise.”

You don’t notice it’s past when your parents should be leaving for the store.

You crack on, cross-eyed and nose-blind when your dad finally honks the horn and their car peels out of the parking lot.

You have to stop wasting your time with Steve and focus, but there’s a last burst of work to do, only one more layer in one more room. Out of courtesy and curiosity, you check with Steve for how he’s feeling and about when he needs to leave.

He keeps his answer vague. Some of the polish of excitement has worn off from hours ago.

His ‘finishing touches’ read like he’s leaving his own mark in neutral ink. No one noticed but I was here. My job was not to be noticed. I did my job well.

You can’t bring yourself to disturb that artistry yet and finish your pieces in silence instead.

You’re rinsing out your roller in the office’s utility sink when your mom calls. Huge delays with traffic getting to the store. Incorrect inventory listed online. If you didn’t need all the lights ready and here for the electricians tomorrow, this wouldn’t be such a problem, but the only solution is to drive to the next county over (where they’ve confirmed the correct amount of stock) first thing in the morning…

…because it’s an hour and a half from the motel.

“So you’re driving all the way back here and then a three hour round trip again before noon?” you ask, concerned.

“Hun, I think we’re just gonna have to stay out here. We might pick a spot out by the other store, but that’s the best option.”

“Okay.” Guilt and hope war within you. “Okay, yeah, whatever works.”

“You’re good to order dinner, right? Has Grant left yet?”

Gah, what if he has?? What if he slipped out thinking they’re almost back?

You shake water off your hands and hoof it down the walkway to check. “Sure, but we’re just about done here. Have you guys eaten?”

“Your father keeps saying he’s taking us out for a treat, but I have a hunch he wants a big meal to repair his pride. He skipped getting gas after the market this morning—” you hear Dad defend himself loudly two feet away, finally glimpsing Steve through thin curtains “—ANYWAY…we should be home well before the guys get there, but I’ll call if anything changes.”

You wish them luck with their impromptu date night and hang up, finding an intrigued expression plastered on Steve’s face as you lean in the doorway.

“Guess I’m holding down the fort,” you huff. It takes everything in you to keep yourself indifferent. “So…you can…” you swallow so loudly, there’s no chance he can’t hear “…if you want.”

Steve smirks and dips his brush back in the paint.

There’s a tingling rush of possibility cascading through your body at the thought: you’ll be alone with Steve tonight. Again. Even more so than last time. And he is not beat up or dying from fatigue.

Yay!

Of course, now you’re nervous.

After dangling the carrot of doing whatever he wants, Steve thought long and hard about his answer.

Then he simply said, “a date sounds good.”

You have found a new least effective way to quell anxiety.

What he meant was that he (and his team/friends/fugitive buddies) eats out a lot, and most places they stay don’t include a kitchen. Shopping is an added vector of exposure, so they avoid that, too. Why he has so few clothes clicks once you take in that info.

He means he wants to cook up at the house since the fridge has just been replenished.

If you thought the last few days were domestic, you were not prepared for Steve Rogers to insist he participate in fixing one of your favorite meals with you in your kitchen. The silences are comfortable as you two cook, and the discussion as you eat is easy—shockingly easy.

You tell him your fleeting idea about letting him design murals for the walls.

Steve perks up at that, musing what he could create. The way he talks about art makes you wish there was enough daylight left to break out the sidewalk chalk you keep for kids to use at the motel, but time is precious.

Once again, you’re struck by the impulse to hold his hand, to intertwine your fingers and…

There’s a flash of you pressing those joined hands onto your clothed mound, and you shrink in your seat.

Damn, that dream just won’t die.

Despite being in the house already, neither of you so much as mentions staying. You cook, you clean, and you both head right back down the hill to the room you’ve been sharing for days. Perhaps you’ve been sniffing paint fumes longer than is advised. Perhaps the motel itself feels like a true, joint space that you have equal claim to. He made it what it is today, after all.

This is his creation, this is his safe space, and he controls the night. If he wants to live big, if he wants to scream, if he wants to solve the world’s problems, he could do it here.

The thing you’ve come to understand about Steve is he doesn’t need to destroy anything before he builds himself up. He doesn’t live off of his, or anyone else’s, power. The gift of his existence has been health—the need for it, the appreciation of it, and the desire to provide it for others.

Steve needs this safe space to heal.

He needs to heal the fissures between his ideals and his reality. He needs to heal his idea of self with how he’s viewed the world. He needs to heal his disappointment in the people he loves, the people he thought loved him.

Steve’s been used and abused since…forever. First, he was a punching bag, then a punchline, and finally, just a punch, but the very last thing that he actually is is a violent man. He thrives on peace and will be healed only by peace.

All he needs tonight is, well, nothing.

The work is done. The project complete. He has no use at all, and he should not be used for pleasure either.

It’s a good thing you’re tired; nothing sounds like the most you can offer, so when he tosses out the idea a giving you a massage, you decline. You’d pass out in a minute flat. It’s the truth.

He showers while you stare at the TV. The Tv is not on, however, so this is a suspicious state to find you in when Steve comes back out wearing his towel.

“Whatever I want, huh?” he chuckles.

He clicks off the lamps and turns on the news, hanging the towel in the bathroom before returning to the bed

Steve tosses a pillow between your legs, wedges himself up against it as you lean back on the headboard.

“This okay?” he checks.

You nod, already fussing with his damp hair falling in his eyes.

He wraps his arms around your waist, his head resting at your stomach but with less of his weight because of the pillow.

You tense for a moment. You can’t help it.

Steve pauses, tilting to give you ample opportunity to protest, then he wiggles in deeper, and you give up, scratching across his back in infinity signs and random patterns until you relax, too.

He listens to the news like a radio broadcast, muttering a person commentary into your tank top, naked, his ass right there for no one but you to see, and his feet hanging far beyond the edge of the mattress.

Your eyes closed and your eyes open, unsure how long spans in between blinks. Eventually, you have to pee and brush your teeth, but getting back to a comfortable spooning position is comical and challenging with such a bulky boy refusing to shift.

The heat breaks sometime in the early hours, so you open your eyes to a soft light and morning breeze, and immediately, you know he’s still there, snuggled behind you with a sheet over his your hips.

With nothing to do, Steve sleeps in. He can unwind and slow down when he wants to. He can do that with you. The thought warms your heart, keeping you in place an extra ten minutes or so, but alas, you should get up.

You ignore his morning wood because the closeness overnight was enough. You still don’t want to push him. It’s nice to know he can still be that comfortable with you, even if he was embarrassed months ago.

As you bend to retrieve your bra from the chair, however, you hear a groan, barely, so low you almost…

You turn around just in time to see Steve pinch his eyes shut, sleepy stoicism replaced with ill-tailored innocence. Another second goes by, and he keeps the charade going. You turn back to pull your tank over your head, intending to continue as normal, but the temptation is too great.

Teasingly, you face the opposite wall, giving him the perfect side view of your bare breasts.

The reaction is instant and more gratifying than expected.

Steve lurches in the bed, his arm diving under the sheet presumably to take himself in hand, a harsh and desperate grip by the bulging of veins in his forearm.

“Did I wake you?” you chirp, not bothering to put on a poker face, rewarded with his broken breath.

It is difficult to bite back your grin.

“What’s wrong?” you add coyly.

Steve’s eyelids raise, his deep blue gaze so intense it strips you to the bone.

His pretty pink lips hardly move.

“Never seen you before,” he moans softly.

The pride you felt blooms into confidence as you step to the foot of the bed, watching the thorough drag of his knuckles under the sheet, up and down his length. There isn’t a chance in hell your features aren’t shining with pure lust for him. Why hide it? Why try?

“There’s lotion on the table,” you mutter, using the finger hooked around your bra strap to point him in the right direction before dropping the garment at his feet.

Steve fumbles around adorably, intent on drinking you in every possible moment, uncaring if the tiny cap gets lost in the sheets with him or if his strong squeeze of the bottle audibly cracks the plastic. He sighs when he strokes himself again.

Your hand slides under the band of your shorts. “I dream about you, ya know.” Your blood rushes past your ears and pulses low in your sex. “Do you? You wanna know what it’s like to touch me?”

“Don’t have to,” he pants, steadily increasing his pace just out of sight. “You…made me touch you—uhn—in your sleep.” He whimpers as he stalls, fist rolling around his tip.

You’ve never seen Steve like this. He’s constantly in control. That man is gone now, consumed by this overwrought Adonis.

“Grabbed my hand,” he grunts out. “Shoved it between your legs as you—“

His head falls back, exposing the dark scruff the creeps down his throat.

Those flashes of riding his very naked thigh, of gripping his knee while your sweaty palms muss the downy hair over his thigh, those were real images. Those were memories in the dead of night.

You need to be closer.

Beyond shadowy, flaccid glimpses, you’ve never seen his actual cock. He’s a grower, and his taut, pale skin shows dilated blue paths straining beneath his jerking hand.

Steve’s a goner, but so are you.

He tries to wrangle his voice, to look at you again with some strength of will, yet his words still fall out as whines.

“You whispered my name—“

“Stevie.”

“—just like that.”

Your fingers are slick in your folds, slow and stuttering while you stare, entranced.

He has to shut his eyes, gripping his base to delay the inevitable.

It makes you want to talk more, to say dirtier and dirtier things, but you’re too in awe.

“Tried to wake you up. Tried, I swear. You sounded so wet.” He lets out a short cry, the squelch of the lotion aptly timed.

You want to watch him unravel. You want a memory of every exquisite detail, so you finally push.

You tell him he can touch you anywhere, do whatever he wants to you. Does he want to touch you now? Does he want you to touch him? You’re wet for him. He can feel that for real. Can you? Can he feel how hot he makes you?

You take your hand from your shorts and reach toward his balls as he chases his high.

You want to help. Please, let you help.

“Anyone there?”

You hear banging on the glass door of the office two rooms away.

You jump, falling into the bed. Your glistening hand slaps over Steve’s mouth just as he moans, cum striping his abs while he chokes out his orgasm as fast as he can.

“Powerful Ideas Electricians. We’re early. Anyone there?”

He holds your hand against his face to cover another small cry of euphoria, and as you pull away from him to hurriedly dress, your slick fingers smear through his beard and across his lips. Steve hisses quietly, mouth open, silently gasping.

“Coming,” you scream through the window, stifling a laugh at the inopportune pun considering the sight on the bed as you shimmy your bra into place, yank on your shirt, and race out the door.

You find Steve with his small bag packed, hat and sunglasses on, standing behind the office near the trail entrance.

He waited.

He waited for you to show the electricians around and call just as your parents drove up with the lights. You saw he stripped the bed and took the laundry to the office pile. It’s a weirdly thoughtful detail considering the debauchery of an hour ago.

He walks you both along the hiking path, and you go along thinking this is for privacy, so you can talk, until it’s clear he’s actually needed to leave for a while.

Steve tells you he shouldn’t stay in places for very long or more than once, and he’s done both already here, with you. He doesn’t look like he is telling you bad news, but that’s how it feels.

For some reason, you wonder if there are others. Other places he lingers. Other women he compartmentalizes. How many other cities? How many other countries?

You’re out in the open together for the first time and although this is by no means a public place, you still feel exposed.

It doesn’t really matter though. None of that does.

You meant every word. Whatever he wants, however he can get it, whenever he finds it, Steve deserves peace, and he can’t stay here forever. It wouldn’t be safe anymore.

You’d be embarrassed if you didn’t know he thinks of you, that he wants you like you want him. You know who Steve is. You like him for who he is. You’ve been shown something about him no one else (or at least very few people) sees, something new and outside of ‘America’ or ‘avenging,’ something happy.

But it’ll be the first rule of Happy Club, too: you do not talk about Happy Club.

He’s been quiet again for a long while, waiting for you to set him free.

You step up to kiss the soft beard of his cheek and wonder aloud if that’s okay.

“It’s okay,” Steve says shyly. “More than okay.”

He leans in to kiss your temple in return.

“See y’around, Tops.”

Steve walks off into the woods. You don’t follow and you don’t question a thing.

a/n: 😭🥴🥺😭🥴🥺😭🥴🥺😭🥴🥺😭🥴🥺😭🥴🥺😭🥴🥺 This whole story is a rollercoaster I was not at all prepared for and now am stuck on indefinitely.

[Next Part: Horny Teen, part one]

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @rogersbarber @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @mrsevans90

#ro reblogs the love #thank you for reading and sharing

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ronearoundblindly · 11 hours

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AWH! Your writing is truly fantastic!! When I read "Fools Rush In" I though yeah this is my favorite. Then I read "Autumns Healing" and thought hmm actually this might be my favorite. Don't even get me started on ROAR. BUT HIDEOUT UGH THIS IS MY FAVORITE. I want to live in your stories 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼

Ok, but...this truly sounds as if I wrote this to my damn self...

😂🙈

I promise I did not, so thank you from the bottom of my heart, dearie 🫶💕

That is the exact evolution of my own fondness for these tales, right down to the "don't get me started on Ransom!!!" Everyday, it's like being thwapped on the head with an obsession and then licked clean by plot-bunnies. It's a tough life, I tell ya...

Eternally grateful for the love though! I'm happy to not be alone in the blorbo-verse.

#ro answers #hoarded niceties #from 2 19 24 #thank you for reading

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ronearoundblindly · 12 hours

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Because I'm feeling hoe-ish

Jake Jensen would let you ride his face.

Hits send.

-👜

#ro answers #you know that's going into Thirst Trapped right?#truer words were never spoken #jake jensen x reader

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ronearoundblindly · 13 hours

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Quick drabble/riff prompt! What’s the first thing that comes to mind for: soft!dark Andy + “I gotta admit, I’m pleasantly surprised by that fire of yours, honey.”

The first gulp of air you took as Andy stepped into the office rattled your ribs with fear.

A part of you wanted him to find you. To see what you were doing. But your self-preservation instinct was working overtime, screaming at you how bad this could end.

The image of Andy pressing the muzzle of the gun into your former boyfriend's forehead is still vivid in your memory.

Andy is a dangerous man. One who wouldn't hesitate to shoot someone in a public place in the middle of the day. And he would get away with it. No witnesses, no prosecutor, no judge.

As he got away with forcing you to marry him.

Perhaps you hadn't yet found a way to escape this arrangement - just as you weren't able to squirm away when he fucked your brains out - but you were going to keep trying.

If not running away, then at least making your opinion on this marriage known.

When Andy reminded you (in that calm, stoic voice that seemed soft, but was an iron demand) to prepare for the evening out, commenting that he wanted to show off his beautiful wife, you almost threw a heel at him.

Then, already dressed in the most exquisite dress, you went into his office and ripped that marriage certificate into pieces.

Which you then threw into a bin. With a lit match.

That's how Andy found you.

Your eyes met. Small flames eating the damn pact that signed your life over to Andy were casting flickers of glow on your face. Andy remained in the doorway, cloaked in semi-shadow.

"I gotta admit," he said, completely unperturbed by your outburst, "I’m pleasantly surprised by that fire of yours, honey."

"Now-" he adjusted the sleeves of his wool coat- "grab your coat and leave your panties. We have to get going, or we'll be late, but you are going to be bent over a table anyway."

#holy shit babes #y'all really out here converting me to a soft!dark bitch ain't ya?#*runs to follow the shadows screaming 'LET'S GOOOOO'*#andy barber fanfiction #andy barber x reader #soft dark!andy #also my inner pyro is squeeing HARD

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ronearoundblindly · 14 hours

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Sneak Peek 💜💚💜

frat boy! Ari Levinson x college student!Reader

At a party with your boyfriend when things aren't going well between you, your old classmate--the notorious jock and man-whore, Ari--catches you in a weak moment...

Warnings for drinking/partying but not much else in this bit. (That might be a terrible summary for this excerpt but I made there too much going on to explain succinctly. My bad.) WC 720

Asshole.

He probably showed up to his own damn house, cocked his head, and smirked.

“Y’all having a party?” he probably asked, chill as fuck.

Idiot…probably. You don’t know what happened to him after Women’s Studies two years ago, but you can’t imagine he got better. Nothing changes.

His queen-for-the-day leans into his ear, her top half covered only by a red bandana and not much below that hidden by a miniskirt.

What sluts. Both of them. They deserve each other.

He’s so sexy though.

His smile is bright while he doesn’t spill the contents of his red Solo cup on anyone below him on the stairs. Seems his drunk coordination has improved since your freshman year at the very least.

“Babe,” you hear yelled close to your ear, “take it!”

You yell back that you’re going to find a seat somewhere. Billy gets pulled off for the next partnered game.

Parties…are not all that fun when you don’t feel safe.

You’re not sure how much time passes before a light blue linen shirt invades your view.

“Thirsty?” Ari asks casually, offering the only cup he carries.

You wave it off with a ‘no, thank you’ even though that should be sketchier than your boyfriend getting you a drink.

Again, Ari tilts the cup toward you. “Jack and coke,” he shrugs, lifting his eyebrows, “mostly coke though. I’ve been here a while. You’re basically late.”

He wouldn’t drug himself with anything, you imagine, and worst case, Ari’s already much drunker than you.

You pluck the half-full Solo from his hand and take a small sip. He’s right about one thing; you can’t smell or taste any alcohol.

Ari smiles softly.

“Where’s what’s-his-face?” He scans the hall. “Probably getting you something better, huh?”

You can’t help but frown and sigh as Ari takes another swig of soda, his pink lips nearly hidden beneath the hair of his beard, but you remember they are quite plump.

“Where’s your girlfriend?” you throw back, and keep your guess silent. Perhaps knuckle deep in the toilet?

Ari contemplates for a moment. “Flying with the pigs,” he settles on.

“What?”

He repeats himself, and then, seeing your confusion, he leans closer to clarify, “she doesn’t exist. I don’t have a girlfriend.”

Poor bandana girl. That’s a little harsh to be fobbed off so soon.

“So—”Ari elbows you gently “—how you been, smartie-pants?”

A/N: I cannot express to you the sheer amount of internal screaming I have done while writing this. He's...he's too...uhhhh my gawdddddd. He's too beautiful.

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

#today's project #why so hot and pretty?#not fair #Ari April #gonna finish the month with a bang #giggity #ok well at *least* a kiss...

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ronearoundblindly · 14 hours

Photo

CHRIS EVANS as ARI LEVINSON in The Red Sea Diving Resort (2019), dir. Gideon Raff

#ari levinson #ari levinson gifs #queue me and a bottle o' water #gifs

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ronearoundblindly · 14 hours

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Valentine's Ask Game: ...without a motive It's allowed to be abrupt, languid, bizarre, out of context, IN context but only you know what context it is-- it can too soon, start too late, anything!

I choose this work-weary space man from @larissa-ann's gif! Divider by @cafekitsune

James Mace x reader, one of my 2024 Valentine's Fics!

Warnings for not being a happy/roses-and-unicorns type of kiss fic, but I think it's still really cute and addresses that kind of numbness we can all feel from time to time. WC 418

Saying space is lonely is akin to calling water wet; it's accurate, sure, but it's also wildly understating the conditions as a whole.

There's fear and pressure, sleeplessness and fatigue, a never-ending schedule and infinite time to zone-out into the void.

You knew that going in. You've pulled your weight, stayed focused, remained practical, and been cordial.

No one on the crew hates you, but no one loves you either.

Space is truly lonely.

You've reached the point of acceptance. You can still bark orders during drills and smile over dinner. It's all...empty, though, meaning you never see it coming.

Mace just bumps right into you coming out of his quarters.

There are moves back and hands up, mumbled apologies, stated destinations, offered excuses. Then neither of you get out of the way because suddenly he is your way and you are his way.

Space doesn't contain slowed inertia. Space doesn't produce heat. No sound. No air. No gravity.

His head tilts and his lips meet yours, gentle but firm, the perfect middle ground, the most inoffensive action.

He exists with you. You exist with him. How can you mistake that for romance? How can you interpret that as passion?

If this were desperation, he'd grope and tug at clothing between you. If this were lust, he'd shove his tongue down your throat and moan. If this were love, he'd hold you in his arms.

There's no motive here. Space has nothing for either of you.

Soft and consistent, he doesn't break away. Your eyes never fully shut. Neither do his. It's a sort of experiment. You're evaluating reasons why you shouldn't, why you're wrong, why you can't, but he doesn't break away.

Like the ghost of a embrace, a whisper of a past life, James lowers his fingers to barely brush your arms. It's the first non-essential contact you've had in months, and a shiver races up your spine, pulling your neck taut.

The kiss is over, your head bowed and tucked to his rough chin, a rush of confusion and guilt lights through your nerves to make your breath catch.

His own breath shakes when it blows across your forehead and ear.

Mace takes a stable grip of your shoulders and shifts you to one side.

"See you later," he says as he walks by, turning to step into the mess compartment.

You finally close your eyes.

Space is lonely like water is wet, but even the depths of Earth's oceans hold other, unexpected discoveries.

➡️ Bucky Barnes and a kiss, casually

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @spectre-posts @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby

#thank you for reading and sharing

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ronearoundblindly · 15 hours

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Old Dog, New Tricks

From a lovely 'Sweet Sunday' ask!

Prompt from @whiskeytangofoxtrot555: Our soft boi Steve is in a relationship with a fellow Avenger (but not Keeps—this is in another timeline) who is just as sexually inexperienced as he is, but when Steve comes back from a particularly long and dangerous mission he realizes life is too short to not “take it to the next level’ with his girl—and she feels the same way.

WC- 4306 (🤯 yeah, what the hell happened, you ask? i don't know. you get what you get 🤷🏻‍♀️) Also completely written in a couple of hours, so if there was editing, it was all a joke and everyone can laugh with me...

If you couldn't tell from the prompt, THERE'S SMUT. Minors DNI.

Steve didn’t notice anything until months and months of fighting with you—no, that sounds wrong—beside you. He fights beside you, and sometimes behind you where he gets to see the sides of you, all of you really, and the curves…he just…

He’s having trouble putting it all together basically. You’re highly efficient and dedicated to the Team; you have been since day one. It started with Steve admiring that dedication, and seeing a lot of his own workaholic tendencies in you—oh dear, no, that’s also. Uh boy.

Steve can’t seem to pull it together.

The real problem started with a very typical situation. The Team came home from a mission, and to blow off some steam, they played a game. Since they love to tease each other about how little they all get to have personal lives, “Never Have I Ever” is a favorite. Steve takes it on the chin, but he notices that you never play. Sure, being too tired or wanting to check in with your family and other friends is a good excuse for a while, but every single time over months is…suspicious. When Steve saw that familiar shy smile, the one he puts on right before the game starts, he knew, and suddenly, so many things made so much sense to him.

So he didn’t feel so alone. That was really nice for a while. Then he accidentally noticed you—that way—because he thought “why wouldn’t she?” He knows why he has no experience, but look at you! It doesn’t make sense to him. Well, it does. He gets it, but…

Steve can’t find the words to describe how angry he is at other men for not noticing and wanting to touch you…except, he really gets angry thinking about if other men did that now. He knows it’s not fair to be jealous or possessive of someone who he is not with and has no right to, but…Steve has hopes.

In classic Steve Roger’s fashion, though, he sits on those hopes. He thinks he’ll die with those hopes, and that’s fine until a bullet catches your shoulder during a fight. You were pushing Natasha out of the way while she took out targets from another direction, and Steve was too far away to chance running all the way over. He had to let someone else get you back to the jet. He had to pay attention and finish the mission, so they could all get out of here and get you to real medical help.

He may have punched a few guys much harder than was necessary to knock them out. It’s not like he killed anybody… He just let Natasha kill a few extra people. No big deal. One of them shot you, so…justice?

Steve tries to play it all off from the moment Sam says over comms that you’re stable and will be fine. Steve doesn’t feel any better about it, but he starts rationalizing immediately.

It’s a through and through.

They’ve got the best med team on the planet.

You’re a fighter and a trouper and a strong woman, and you’ll be fine. Fine. Fine.

The word echos in his head, rattling around while the meaning warps back and forth until he’s sitting in the cargo hold, swallowing thickly while you’re leaned against him, his hands on either side of your shoulder keeping pressure on the wound.

“Just one more hole, eh, Cap?”

How much morphine did Sam give you? You’re pupils are dilated, and you’re taking this pretty well. You have a bullet wound, and you’re giggling. Nat’s even smiling. Steve glares at her for taking this too lightly, and Natasha puts her hands up in defeat and walks away to check on Bruce.

Your tongue rolls slowly over your bottom lip. “I’m thirsty.”

Steve swallows what feels like a whole bottle of saliva at once, but he can’t move his hands from your shoulder—which is also incidentally very close to one of your breasts—but he’s not thinking about that, is he?

“I gotcha,” Bucky obliges, coming back with a canteen, holding your chin still while he slowly pours water into your mouth—and get it together, Steve. This isn’t the time.

Buck pours too fast for a second, and water drips down to your chest. It’s ignored for the most part.

“Better?” Bucky releases your chin as you nod, and he heads up front to Sam.

Your head tilts down, your free hand slowly, clumsily raising to swipe the droplets from your tact suit. “If I could learn to swallow,” you mumble.

Mother of mercy, Steve would give anything not to have super-hearing at this moment. That’s going to haunt him while he’s alone—alone at night, he reminds himself. He wants to disappear into the shadows just so he won’t have to control his face (or body) for five minutes while all these thoughts bounce around in that giant head of his. No. Stop, punk, do not.

Steve’s so fucking screwed and not in a good way.

He’s sweating worse when the jet lands than he was in the throws of battle. He lets the med team take over and get you on a gurney, but he stays seated because…he just needs a minute.

Of course, Bucky notices.

“She’ll be fine, pal. Don’t worry.”

“I know,” Steve says far too quickly. “It’s not that.” He can’t lie worth beans.

“Uh huh.” Buck clicks his tongue. “Right, well, I think we’ll all feel better after we get cleaned up.”

Steve comes down to the conference room after his shower, but he had to actively think of what he’d normally do instead of rush to the infirmary to check on you. Debriefs. Those were a thing after missions. You are usually at them, too, which makes his heart sink a little lower in his gut to realize.

They can’t start the meeting yet because Tony isn’t down. He takes the longest showers on the planet, so all the military personnel sit and twiddle their thumbs per usual while they wait.

Steve takes his usual seat by Bucky, not expecting an incredibly unusual conversation.

“Go ahead. Ask me anything.”

Steve looks rightfully confused while sipping on a cup of coffee.

“Look, if you don’t get off your ass, one of us is gonna lock you two in a room until you fuck.”

Scalding hot coffee spews across the table, and while Buck may have truly whispered all that, everyone is now staring at Steve.

He sets down the cup and says the first—and stupidest—thing that comes to mind. “It’s hazelnut.”

Bucky smirks. “Stevie hates hazelnut,” he deadpans, slapping Steve unreasonably hard on the back a few times.

The burning in Steve’s mouth is nothing compared to the glares he feels. He’d be lobotomized by now if looks could kill, but the group takes it in stride, ignoring the profuse and almost scary shade of red that creeps up his neck.

The flush hasn’t fully dissipated by the time you’re wheeled in. The chair is not from injury but because you’re shaky on pain meds and will need rest. He wants to fawn over you and ask to do a million little things for you, but all Steve manages is a crooked smile and intense fear of whatever Bucky’s about to do.

But it’s not Bucky.

Sam Wilson charms his way around the back of your wheelchair slowly, pushing you up to the table right beside Steve, and coos, “can I get you anything? A coffee perhaps?”

He doesn’t have to do it though because Natasha is already setting a mug down in front of you.

“Careful, dear. It’s hazelnut.” Natasha puts on her best if-you-could-hit-a-woman smirk and aims it right at Steve’s cardinal red face.

“Ooo,” you squeak quietly, “I love hazelnut.”

Steve determines he’ll make a move anyway, but in a very typically, shy, Steve Rogers way.

When the meeting’s over, he volunteers to roll you back to your room for some sleep. He’s overly polite and cautious helping you out of the chair and changing out of partial hospital clothes. They cut away the top of your uniform, but your gown keeps you covered while he yanks off the pant legs of your skintight suit. He’s proud of himself for keeping it professional and friendly until he chickens out and tries to leave.

You’ve started to cry and ask for, of all things, a hug.

Steve’s melting faster than a Coney Island ice cream cone in the dead of summer. Of course, he’ll hug you. He’s literally dying to hold you.

It is, however, awkward with your injured arm. After trying a few angles, he swings around to wrap his arms at your waist and set his chin on your good shoulder. Steve’s never hugged anyone for so long and yet it was not long enough.

He never officially asks you out. He just keeps coming around every day and helps you do everything. When you’re in rehab for your shoulder, he helps with your muscle stretches, but he also simply hangs out near you.

When you two are alone he holds your hand or puts his arm over you. Eventually, he just snuggles up to you, standing, seated, or prone. Steve adores touching you, but not like that, not yet.

In hushed conversations, fingers wrapped together, cheek pressed to his chest, you’ve explained that it’s just never happened for you. You weren’t comfortable or a guy was too pushy or the timing was all off. Steve’s terrified now because he wants nothing more than for you to be comfortable, to not push you to anything ever, and—GAH—he hopes he has good timing. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t, but he relishes what you two have.

He especially relishes the one night when you two fell asleep in each other’s arms only to wake up—and it’s only because of what happened that Steve will admit this—horny as all hell. Nobody even removed clothing, but he was rock hard and moaning as you tossed a leg above his hip and rubbed against him. If he’s not mistaken, his poorly muffled shout when he came pushed you over the edge. That or Steve’s tight grip on your ass to help you move at a feverish pace.

Steve Rogers is a terrifically patient man, however, so he follows your lead and enjoys lots of intimacy even without, ya know, penetration. He cares and he wants to, but he doesn’t really care and doesn’t need it. If that makes sense. He’s not sure whether that’s wholly true or whether he’s just justifying stalling. He’s afraid of hurting you or being awful at it—or both. Could be both.

Luckily, the Team has now assumed you two are, well, having sex, and misinterpret the pair of you excusing yourselves from “Never Have I Ever” as a way to hide what you’ve done, not what you haven’t done. Steve isn’t correcting anyone, but that means he can’t really ask for advice without admitting very personal things.

He eavesdrops on conversations, even jokingly, that other Avengers and agents have about their sexcapades. He’s fascinated and a little shocked to learn a lot has changed since the good ol’ days when his Ma explained the birds and the bees to him.

Steve will need to do what? Right where? Is that legal? Wait, multiple times? He’s a logistics guy, so the hand-waving of specifics is irritating. How come the clitoris and G-spot have to be so damn hidden? He’s got a cock and balls. Boom. They’re out there for the world to see, well, no, sorta, but it’s certainly easier to get the gist where to touch. Instead, he’s gonna have to dig around and try angles? He has to control his tongue how?

The more Steve tries to plan and prepare himself, the more nervous he gets because this isn’t some sort of practice round: it’s you.

It’s such a strange thing that breaks him. On a mission that ends up being more of a retrieval of some evil douchebag from his palace in another country, Steve sees a woman. She may be the guy’s wife or mistress, but she has that look, the exact same look you had when you told him about men who did not treat you right. He understands why it bothers him so much in that moment.

She thinks that’s what she deserves. She thinks that’s all there is.

Steve feels sick with that thought the entire way home, and he knows you don’t understand when he shows up pounding at your door in the compound. He knows you don’t understand what’s happened when he takes you in his arms, cradles the back of your head, and kisses you like you’ll both be gone tomorrow. He knows you sense something has shaken him when he hoists your legs around his waist and carries you to your bedroom, but then he knows it’s time to talk.

“I love you, and I need you to know it.” He’s stern even when pinning you to your sheets and holding your face to only see him.

“Ok,” you gasp breathlessly. “I love you, too, Steve.”

“No, but—“ he’s had hours in a quinjet to figure out how to say this and he’s still fumbling “—I need you to know you deserve love.”

He watches that hit you harder than his body in the doorway, watches the soft refocusing of your eyes, watches the tensing brow in disbelief, watches the barely-there quiver of your lip. All of this, he watches, and that’s how he knows you heard, even if you don’t understand yet.

He slowly inches down to kiss you again. It’s completely different from every other kiss before, slow and tender, but not at all soft. His hand slides to your hip and pulls you as close to him as possible, flush with him, fused with him.

“Do you think we could try…” he mutters into your mouth in between ragged breaths. He hears your heartbeat hammering like a frantic drumline beneath him, and you nod. He’s both so outrageously excited and petrified that he’ll lose his nerve. He just has to remember what he told himself in the jet: if he can try six different times to get enlisted into the army, he can find a gosh darn g-spot.

No one—no one—would categorize what he does as a graceful disrobing. If you weren’t clearly surprised and nervous, you probably would have laughed at him, and Steve has a mind to tear the crew responsible for his suit a new one over how many pieces there are to loosen and remove until he can finally crook his fingers through the band of your shorts and settle between your legs.

Your shirt is still on, and he hasn’t pressed himself against you because honestly, he’s admiring the view for a moment. He can’t get over how you’re chewing the ever-loving hell out of your bottom lip while looking so greedily at his naked body. Steve knows he doesn’t look the way he grew up seeing himself in the mirror. Never hurts to remind him, and it still makes him blush.

Your eyes dart between his. “It’ll hurt.”

“You tell me the instant it hurts, and we stop. I promise.” Steve lowers himself again and plants a feather-light kiss to your bitten lips. “We don’t have to, you kn—“

“No, I—“ your hands grip at his broad shoulders “—I mean, I’m…just scared, but I…”

“Sweets, I don’t think either of us is ever going to not be scared.” Steve smiles when he sees you grin up at him.

“Somewhere, there’s a grammar Nazi who’ll come find you for that one, Rogers.”

Steve has to laugh, but he doesn’t have to laugh without kissing you feverishly again. Of your own accord, your hands move down, and down, and down to his ass (which only makes him chuckle a little more), and your hips roll up to meet his in a lazy rhythm.

A familiar heat building in his gut, Steve breaks away. “Can I touch you?”

He sees your mouth open for a witty retort, but nerves take over. You simply nod again.

Steve takes it back. It’s like jumping out of a plane into enemy terrain. With just his fingertips gliding along the soft skin of your folds, he has no idea what he’s doing. What if he tries to press into your ass by accident? Jesus, what if this is just the beginning of his confusion? He tries to press just a little, hoping it seems less exploratory that way.

You clench, and he feels it.

“I’m ready, Steve. I trust you.”

Well, that’s nice and all, but he’s pretty sure he’s made a huge mistake. If he’d been braver, if he’d thought this through, he’d’ve asked for advice. Who he would have asked, Steve doesn’t know.

He can feel it now, your entrance. One finger snags along its edge before he slowly pushes in. Your whine is quickly released into a sigh. It’s ok. You’re ok. No pain, or at least very little of it, so he presses on, smearing around some of the slick coating his finger before adding a second. That makes your fist ball up the sheets at your hips and hiss around a sob. Steve immediately pulls his fingers out.

“Alright? I can stop.”

“No. No,” you pant, “it’s just, uh, the stretch of it stings, but it’s not…I’m ok.”

Steve’s an idiot. He watches your chest rise and fall, realizing something he’s overheard a bunch of times in various ways: if you’re more aroused, you can take him easier. He forgot real foreplay.

Steve doesn’t have to know anatomy and logistics to know that he’d like to kiss you everywhere, so he nuzzles up the hem of your shirt and snakes his fingers (some wet and some dry) up your sides. He’s rewarded with breathy gasps and whimpers he could hear on repeat for a lifetime. He really loves the delicate kind of heft your breasts have in his hands and commits the balance of firm plushness to memory. The texture of your nipple across his lips and tongue is interesting, but he likes your sounds a lot more. He really likes when you arch up into him and grab his hair.

Tentatively, while you’re wholly distracted by his hot mouth dancing all over your chest, Steve returns his hand to your mound. He doesn’t need to press closer to feel the damp pooling heavily between your legs. He’s pleased with himself, to say the least, but it’s still about you even if he is oddly close to finishing untouched based on sound and smell alone. His fingers glide in almost easily now, so easily (and knowing his own size) that he adds a third which is still a stretch.

Oh lord, the guttural thing that rattles out of your throat, though, will haunt his dreams forever. He wants to make you do that again. That’s not a pained sound; it’s close but not quite, and while Steve can’t explain why, he feels pride brewing along with the heat within him.

He curls his fingers, remembering that’s one of those oft-mentioned moves, and he doesn’t expect how immediately your legs fall wider for him. He also suddenly understands the difference in feel between the ridging on your walls and this one spongy spot right there.

Steve looks up from your breast, smiling, only to see that your head is thrown back. That’s ok. He’ll just have a smug moment all to himself because he found it, and he didn’t even have to ask or look it up. Take that, unhelpful euphemisms. Steve Rogers is good at sex.

A very high-pitch whine escapes you before he realizes what he’s doing. Steve buried his fingers in your heat while in his own thoughts, resting the heel of his palm against you, and then started pumping shallowly. Oh. Oh. Alright, he’s starting to get the hang of this, he thinks.

He debates simply watching you continue to fall apart or moving on, but a flash of something deeply feral, carnal all the way down to his core, teases him with the prospect of him being buried inside you, mouths within reach, eyes aligned. It’s not a difficult sell at this point. Steve’s fully supportive of his body existing to be used in this—

“Shit,” Steve hisses. He forgot the freaking condom. He plays it off as you struggle to participate in a coherent conversation, but he’s glad you’re not too far gone when you toss out your arm.

“Implant,” you huff, another groan rolling past your trapped upper lip. “’s fine. Please.”

What kind of gentleman would he be if he quit now, huh?

His whole body is just hot, blood pumping but somehow not efficiently for any other function than to crawl atop you and bask in the look of stunned bliss behind your blown out pupils. Smug is maybe too light of a word. Steve’s ecstatic.

He’s so excited, in fact, and slightly tricked by how wet you are when he first nudges his length against you, that he plunges right in. Your yelp tells him that was wrong, and Steve kisses the few tears that escape your tightly closed eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, sweets. Let me—“

“Don’t. Just don’t move for a sec,” you whisper, though he’s not sure you mean to.

Your legs scramble up the back of his, adjusting you and your angle, shifting him deeper even though he isn’t meaning to move. It’s torturous, but he stays completely still.

The few deep breaths you take brush your breasts up against him, and Steve can’t stop himself from taking one in hand again, kneading gently.

“Yes,” you finally sigh, hips rocking a little against his. He has permission to move, and oddly, he realizes he has permission to feel your body so tight around him. It’s a consistent and sensual pressure that Steve admits might be so glorious it should be illegal, but hell, if he’s gonna deny himself this ever again.

You’re perfect. You’re so perfect. You feel so good. He’ll never feel anything as wonderful as you and—

Steve snaps his mouth shut just as the short thrusts he’s been revving up with bring him nearly all the way out of you. Every thought in his head was coming out of his mouth. Maybe he’s a little too excited. He feels a tight pool of pressure that’s not directly gripped by your body, and he’s got to focus on you again. Focus. He can do it.

But then he sinks back into your heat, and no, he cannot do it.

“You want to try…” he’s breathing pretty hard now, too, apparently “…on top?”

“Yeah,” you huff, sloppily propping up on your elbows, “how do I—“

He’s wasting no time. Steve pulls you up into him for a kiss and rolls. He flops so heavily on your mattress, you bounce on him without either of you trying and this is awesome.

It’s that instant that Steve sees the same playful, delirious enjoyment in your eyes as he feels right now. You’ve dipped a toe in, and the water is nice. Jump on in. Steve’s like to let himself drown at this point, so whatever you want…

You experiment with a few types of movement while he watches in total fascination. The style you settle on is pressing your hands flat to his pecs, leaning slightly forward (which pinches your breasts together and dangles them right before his eyes), and dragging your pelvis down over him.

He’s done for. Your tightness pulls on his cock just rough enough to drive him crazy, and that feral urge snaps to the forefront of his brain again. He tweaks your nipples between his fingers and lifts his hips each time you get closer, allowing him deeper. When your body gets tired, torn between fatigue and the heavy coil trying not to break inside, Steve’s hands latch onto your hips and help you keep pace just like they did when you dry humped each other on this very bed. Nothing dry about this though, except maybe his mouth that’s been hanging open for however long now.

He licks his lips just as your head falls and your eyes lock onto his. You whine his name in the downright dirtiest, sexiest, mind-numbing way that the feral piece of him takes completely over. He’s just frantically rutting, pumping your hips into his in whatever way feels so fucking amazing he’s—

Your choked scream startles him for a split second until a deep moan rumbles behind it. Fuck, you’re gorgeous. Fuck, he loves you. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he’s coming, and then everything dissolves in a toe-curling rush of tangible feelings and heart-stopping emotions.

And then he’s surprised again.

You both come back down to your bodies, he pulls out of you cautiously, and you lay down at his side. Steve pets a thumb over your cheek and softly kisses your lips each time your eyes open back up to him. He shifts around to cover you both in blankets and listens to you hum while you start to fall asleep. Finally, just when he thinks you’re dead to the world, you jump forward (but about as fast as a sloth ‘jumps’ forward) to snuggle against him.

Steve’s already so whipped for this. He’ll give you anything and everything just to be here with him now, all night, all day, months and months, forever. He’ll fight with you, beside you, behind you, on you, inside you. Anything.

He’s done waiting to try.

[Find more on my Masterlist]

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The Sequel: Your Dog, His Tricks

#thank you for reading and sharing

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ronearoundblindly · 15 hours

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Hideout (1)

touch-starved!Nomad Steve Rogers x motel employee!Reader

Puppy, (see premise post or series)

Summary: An ultra-shy man named Grant arrives with various friends to your family-owned motel. He opens up slowly over the months...and grows a fantastic beard. 🤭

While this part has no mature situations, this series will be 18+ only. MINORS DNI. This is mostly pure setup for the smut in every future chapter. Your media consumption is your responsibility; please choose for yourself if these matters trigger you. If so, there is plenty for you to read on my Light Masterlist, but this work is not it! WC ~2k

He first arrives with only his friend—two fit fellas, one white, one black. They pay in cash, share a double room. The most information you get is Tom Smith, the more open of the two, joking that you’ll have to excuse Grant’s shyness.

Grant doesn’t seem to respond to his own name.

He’s a beefy blond, and your impression is the man doesn’t need to have a lot going on up top to get by in life. You do try not to judge, though. Your job is more about keen observation and recognizing the needs of your guests.

These two guests need privacy. They aren’t unfriendly, but they are not chatty. They go as quickly as they came. One night. The room is slept in, but they were clean enough.

The next time they show up they need three rooms, but you only have two available. Tom and Grant bunk up again, and a couple are with them who do not come into the office. The woman has beautiful auburn hair that she covers with a ball cap, and her very tall beau—whose hand she holds—shields himself in far more clothing than necessary this time of year.

They all sleep (you assume) during the day and only socialize at night when the other guests aren’t around.

Not that the party is loud; they simply seem more at ease when it’s harder to see. They stay three or four days, leaving rather suddenly early one night after paying for the time already.

Sporadically, this continues.

Once it’s only the couple. She is very reserved and he is very awkward, but again nice enough. They stay for nearly two weeks, enjoying hikes in the area, always holding hands. The woman relaxes significantly. It’s quite lovely to see.

Mister and Misses Durham, you know them as. They don’t always respond by name either.

Another visit makes five guests with the addition of a beautiful young woman. Her hair is cropped and bleach blond, and she is by far the most at ease.

It’s this visit that you realize they are just staying in their rooms during the day not sleeping, and you find the karaoke machine to take to Tom’s room.

He’s thrilled, thank goodness, because you don’t normally offer up activities to those who don’t ask about them, but Tom bangs on the doors of the other two (you think) couples so they can join him.

You’re about to leave when he asks you to do a duet with him.

Grant throws out that Tom enjoys Marvin Gaye. It’s the most you’ve heard him say, ever.

“I do,” Tom agrees, “but I don’t mess with the master.”

So you have the idea to sing Marvin Gaye—the song—with Tom as Charlie Puth and you as Meghan Trainor.

It’s quite a lot of fun, belting as best you can, finding Grant’s intense gaze on you for the lyrics: I’m like a stray without a home… I’m like a dog without a bone…

Just as quickly, however, you have to go back to the front desk. Duty calls and all.

You make sure they know the machine is all theirs for as long as they want. Their rooms are too far down the line of the building to hear if they do enjoy it for long, but you get no complaints about noise. You hope for the best.

Later that night, Grant comes by the office, carrying the machine with a smirk on his face and the most genuine appreciation on his lips. He has a lovely deep voice you never knew about.

He just talks to you.

It’s all superficial conversation about the area, the weather, what activities you like on your days off, but even that seems a struggle for him.

Tom was not kidding. His friend is extremely shy. He has trouble thinking up casual questions. He can’t look you in the eye until responding, and he doesn’t give more than a few words in answer to anything.

You laugh--you have to—when Grant asks if he can walk you to your door, which…is ludicrous because you live in the house a whopping fifty meters past the main motel. Your family has owned and run this place for three generations. You’ve walked that path your whole life.

“I like walking,” he shrugs, though from the sheer muscles on him, he does way more than just walk. “I was gonna do a lap or two anyway.”

“Well, I have to wait for Clark to show up, but—“ you look him up and down “—okay.”

Grant is so sweet but so stiff. He holds himself with purpose when actively thinking, but you catch him having these distant moments. He withers like a violet, a shell that’s too small for his big body. He seems lost and lonely.

You’re glad to do whatever keeps him company. Your goal for the night is to make Grant smile as much as humanly possible, but that’s difficult when he won’t let you know anything about him.

Twenty minutes later, Clark, a local stoner kid who hardly looks up from his phone, waltzes in, stepping around Grant like a wall that’s always been there and throwing a “hey, man” out with zero regard for a response. Classic Clark. That’s why he’s on night shifts.

So you grab your bag and let Grant hold the door open for you.

Maybe you’ve been watching the Durhams too much when they come around, but you feel a compulsion to hold his hand. You don’t, obviously, because you only just heard this guy speak for the first time today. It would also be incredibly awkward to hold Grant’s hand in the dead silence that follows on your way up the gravel path.

You’re so consumed by figuring out what to say next that you don’t notice till the beast is right there.

An elk walks right in front of you, taller than Grant. From this angle the animal blocks the entire view of your house it’s so big, and you jump back, slamming into your startled escort’s chest.

You both freeze as it moves slowly at a diagonal to the other side of woods, bringing it and its gigantic horns closer still.

It squawks like some sort of awful banshee and stamps huge hoofs. You throw your weight backward and spin to flee, clambering over Grant’s body.

Why you’re so scared, who knows; you should be used to the wildlife, but no creature has ever done this before.

The most shocking thing, however, is how strongly Grant tries to hold you immobile.

The harsh grip on your waist and the way he hisses through his teeth for you to stop should be your hint, but instead you cling to him harder, asking quietly if the animal is gone.

“Uh…” Grant tenses against you. “It’s…it’s just—“ he shudders when you wriggle “—yes, gone,” he bites out, pushing you away by the hips.

He takes a second to breathe, buries his hands in his pockets, and leans forward, gathering himself.

It was scary. That could have turned nasty very quickly. You were lucky Grant was there and calm…except he was sorta the reason you were distracted in the first place.

Finally composed, he sighs and motions forward. “Let’s get you home.”

Two months later, Grant’s initial five o’clock shadow has come in nicely.

You’ve learned the routine of their check-in. There’s only one room available, unfortunately, but if they stay more than two days, there should be another open.

Tom shrugs and offers a playful, “we’ll see. We go where the wind takes us.” He smooths his palm over a fresh fade at his nape and the sharp angles of his goatee.

“And you, I see, have stopped in for a cut with Terrence in town. He loves the three slices like that.” That's how the barber marks his work. Terrence's shop is very popular.

“It’s a good signature. Wish I could'a convinced this big lug to get a trim.” Tom elbows his friend who stares at his feet.

Grant runs his fingers through his golden locks and swallows. “Yeah, well, maybe next time.”

Without realizing what you’re doing, you stand on the rungs of your stool behind the counter and reach for his lusciously full beard.

“Don’t you dare get rid of this,” you chide, fingertips grazing the skin of his cheek beneath the course yet soft hairs.

You should apologize. You should let go and sit back down. You should professionally hand them their key and be done with it, but instead, you linger, watching his blue eyes darken with a primal devastation.

He’s prey caught in a cage.

You release Grant’s face with an awkward laugh and a shake of your head.

Tom makes his own, very knowing face, and winks.

“You should do that more. Touch him. He could use it.”

Grant clears his throat harshly and blushes, mumbling something about which room number you said they had and that he’ll bring the other bags from the car. He leaves. Tom takes the keys with another wink and a sassy tap on the hardwood.

“Thank ya, ma’am. We appreciate it.”

It’s about twenty minutes later when your pen rolls off the edge of the counter, you find a small duffle left where Grant stood.

“He was joking. It was a joke,” Grant blurts when he finds you standing there to give it back.

You just smile and say Tom isn’t wrong.

“So, if you ever just want a hug…” you mutter, taking a chance to scratch at his bearded chin again. “Not like you’re gonna hurt me.”

He looks back inside, as if seeking permission or checking to make sure his friend is still in the bathroom, singing in the shower.

Grant can’t seem to meet you halfway, but he does inch forward, struggling to word a simple ‘yes.’

The tentative embrace starts with only the top of his chest touching you, bent so his butt is out, no pressure on his hands at your shoulders, so you push a little more and a little more. You get close enough he needs to wrap his arms around you instead. He has to stand straight so his chin doesn’t poke your forehead. He whimpers slightly when your own arms encircle his tiny waist.

A few breaths later, he relaxes into a lovely full-body hug, his rough fingertips on your bare skin where your shirt bunched up. You’re both being human, no more, no less, tangled in simple comfort.

Grant tucks his face into your collarbone suddenly and squeezes, not so hard that it hurts but not gently either. The move tickles you with his beard, your hands pawing up his back as you giggle, and he whines like wounded prey.

“Hey, it’s okay,” you soothe. “I can be here, if you want, to hold. It’s okay.”

That has the opposite effect you intended, knocking him out of some soft reverie and launching him back a foot, a necessary but unwelcome distance.

Grant looks guilty, needy, and resigned as he thanks you for returning the bag and sees you out the door.

dividers by cafekitsune and firefly-graphics

A/N: This will be the shortest (probably) of all the parts, and yeah, we get into some smuttier moments pretty quickly... Stay tuned!

[Next Part: Sweet Baby]

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

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