samwxlsxon

[samwxlsxon]

bad idea, right? (obi wan kenobi x f!reader)

tags: slightly sith coded obi wan, no use of y/n, my unhinged take on regency era, (blaming bridgerton and pride and prejudice), probably historical inaccuracies, SMUT, mentions of oral sex (fem and male receiving), mentions of fingering, piv sex, dom!obi?, i really don't know what to write here it is just filth and it is gonna get filthier

a/n: HII! so i became haunted by historical!obi au's and spent six months writing a short series... this is the first chapter out of three, so i hope you stay tuned for the upcoming one (it is FILTHIER than this and about 19k words)

likes and reblogs are very much appreciated, and i can't wait to hear your opinions! i am also crossposting on ao3, feel free to interact there as well.

enjoy!!!

part one | part two | part three | ao3

word count: 5.4K

chapter one: see you tonight?

“…Fuck, just like that-“

That voice. Yes, that’s how you ended up here, you think, as you roll your hips, feeling the exquisite contours of Obi Wan’s cock stretching your walls and pulling pleasure out of every cell in your body, and possibly from your soul too.

Ehem. Lord Kenobi.

And truth be told, that’s not exactly how things led here. Of course, his rich voice and the manner in which he used it were notable factors. The way he camouflaged his remarks under sweet quips never failed to make you giggle into the next day, and regardless of the topic (ashamedly, it was mostly about the other people in the room, and their rather obscene behaviors), the comments he made always reflected the intelligence behind it. He played the serious bit perfectly too, even though his reverent sentences carried some poetry, never pompous, yet deep enough to convey its origin and the realness of his sincerity… That’s why you started spending hours with him at balls in the first place. Ten minutes alone with him, undoing all the prejudice you had against the man. All the rumors about him were proven wrong, or at least, half true. And you liked that remaining part of the truth.

Only after that, came the subject of his charms. Not quite surprising, considering that there was no lack of handsome faces around, but a lack of brains in them. Or a true heart. You hated the hypocrisy of it all, and it was a blessing to find someone who shared that sentiment. Not to mention the benefit of him deflecting any unwanted company.

Likewise, he must've thought the same about you, thus your current position. It was obvious that both of you two had similar standards, even in these lewd matters. People didn’t call him a heartbreaker because he pursued a lot of women, but when he did and it came to an inevitable end, they were the shell of whom they used to be, like a person could be mummified by the absence of the joy he charmed people with it. And you, you weren’t the type to have somebody just because you could. No, you looked for a special connection, a click, and when you got lucky and found one among the countless candidates, you treasured it. Now, even the word click sounded wanting, there were sparks present between the two of you, a considerable, good dynamic you two had built, and that made everything just better.

You were almost sad thinking this was a one-time event, already knowing this is a moment you'll remember your entire life. (You weren't gonna push your luck on getting caught.) If there were such deals, two of you keeping it to each other forever in this aspect of life, you’d have signed that contract in a blink.

“Thought you said you were tired.” He breathes out, clearly an effort, yet the smug grin on his face leaves no room for doubt or pity.

“I’ve been sitting all day.” That’s how travel works in carriages, after all. “I think stretching my legs, is what I need.” You emphasize by raising yourself higher and slowly sink back down a few times, a motion that pulls moans from both of your mouths.

Travel. It took you half a day to reach your aunt’s estate, and you were fairly certain you wouldn’t attend the ball that is currently taking place. Then, you realized there was no way your gracious hostesses would see you tonight, you were forced to enter the saloon. It would be a quick in and out, maybe greeting a few more people, no dance, with the very valid excuse of I’ve been on the road all day and I am quite exhausted ready on your lips at any interaction. This was why you didn’t even bother to put much effort into your looks, opting for a change of dress, and nothing more. No jewelry, no retouches to your hair. After all, it would just add to your part if you seemed slightly off.

Somehow, it turned out to be a regrettable decision, when numerous eyes turned to you as you took a step into the room, and even longer after that. Maybe not every head turned or the music came to an abrupt stop, the sprouting silence broken by collective whispers, but it happened, subtle yet enough to make itself known. You were given the same treatment for years at this point, but there was no getting used to it. Color that had been settling in your cheeks seemed to be permanent, at least for the night, not leaving your side as you took your place among your relatives. The expensive fan you were gifted by- God knows who, you were in no mood to remember it now, did nothing to relieve your suffering. 

And, countless other greetings don't help either. You fastened the movement of your hand, curling your lips into a forced smile. You could truly get tired from all these repeated words and gestures.

"I'm afraid I forgot to bring my dance card." You said again, to the third man who came with the same offer, Duke Caldo, all true except the part "forgot". You left it, willingly, just in front of your vanity mirror. The mirror which you desperately wanted to see yourself in right now, away from the ball. 

"A great pity." The exclamation didn't come from him, though. 

Your fan dropped from your hand and closed itself when it hit your wrist, dangling from the loop around your forearm as you heard that voice, no introduction ever needed. Perhaps, not even his voice was required, for there was always that unexplainable change in the quality of air in the rooms he occupied, like he was casting a spell on those around him, trickling magic dust with every step, a rare perfume. You wouldn’t use such metaphors if it wasn’t for the simple fact that your body always figured out his presence before your mind, catching a sense of that hypnotic essence. You often realized all the hairs on your arm standing up, or a tingling sensation in the back of your neck, breathing getting a bit harder, only to quickly locate him in your eyesight. 

"Lord Kenobi." It is said in a contemptful respect, a greeting and a goodbye. “Goodnight, my Lady.”

You didn’t even bother to mutter a proper response, and frankly, the Duke didn’t wait for one either. So, all your focus can be reserved on the man in front of you. 

You raised your arm as if intending to extend it so he could complete his small tradition of placing a kiss on the back of your hand, like he has done every time your paths crossed, even multiple times a day (that’s exactly how you noticed it was more than a simple salutation), (honestly, you liked it, his daring movement revealing a lot about his nature), only to flick it to reopen your fan. The gentlest gust of it licking your skin was more than enough now, making it all too pleasing to watch him save himself with a deep bow of his head, the annoyance quickly turning into a satisfied grin, like he didn’t expect anything less from you. 

“That looks even more beautiful in your hand.” He pointed at it, but his eyes wandered all over your body. You did the same, though there was little notice, his usual beige suit far too familiar. Your focus was always on the fact that he looked so good in it, taking in the broadness of his shoulders, or his defined arms exquisitely pronounced over the fabric.

Right. So it was his gift. Why did you ever entertain other possibilities?

You weren’t going to disappoint him by mentioning it is only here because your panicked maid accidentally packed the first item she saw, for you never took anonymous gifts. You didn’t need the attention they brought.

"And I couldn't thank you enough for it. I can practically name it my savior tonight." You answered, making a show of lavishing yourself in the stream it creates.

"My only source of pride is the fact that it perfectly blends with the rest of your attire. Now, I can proudly say I know your taste."

Classic Obi Wan. Even his compliments, far from usual, borderline scandalous. He's been peppering you with them ever since the start of your friendship and you were never immune to them. You outright enjoyed them. Especially now, they didn’t help the simmering tingles forming at the depths of your belly, amplified by weeks of solitude. “Only a part of it I’m afraid, but you’ll learn the rest in no time, don’t worry.”

“Can’t wait.” He grinned and scanned the room for prying eyes. Finding none, he made himself more comfortable by your side, hoping to spend the rest of his night with you. 

“I didn’t expect to see you tonight.” You admitted, somehow managing not to sound like you’re overly joyous of that not happening.

“I could say the same about you.” Was that excitement, or disappointment in his voice? Was he planning of politely ravishing other women, when you were not present to entertain him? Something told you those were not among his intentions, the smile on his face too honest, his twinkling gaze focused solely on you. 

You tilted your head and curled your lips. Touché. “It is nice to attend the ball your acquaintances are throwing, even if you arrive late. But for you, sir, I'm afraid people will actually think you're looking for a wife."

He rolled his eyes. There was a hint of offense in them just at the mentioning of the subject, but the playful type, not the exasperated type he uses for others. 

"Curious. The diamond of the season is also here. Isn't it strange that she still hasn't found someone, it's nearly the end of the season?" You inhaled sharply, dramatizing further. "Do you have something to do with it, Lord Kenobi?"

He scoffed, the impossibility of it reflected in his voice. "The diamond of the season?-"

"I thought you deserve nothing less." You explained, but he interjected.

"I'm only interested in one diamond." He said, initiating intense eye contact.

It was your turn to scoff, and run away from his gaze. "I was never the diamond."

"Only because you saw how better you were than the rest, and fled just before the start of the season." His eyebrows were raised, begging for a denial.

"I had planned that trip months ago." You simply stated. "And I came back halfway through summer, didn't I?"

"Just like now."

"Do I need to remind you who you have been spending time with since June?" 

"And where were you coming from tonight, ending your visit of- how long was it?"

"I am fond of traveling. Balls and banquets can entertain someone so far. " You shrugged, "Lord Kenobi, are you trying to say that you missed me?" 

"I could never claim otherwise." 

That was true from your perspective as well. All these years of constant traveling, and this year was the first time you missed what you left behind at home, even during the buzzing, pretense-filled months. None of it seemed that intolerable, and somewhat fun, if you dare to admit. You knew this impression was his doing, and now after your while spent apart, the feeling came back tenfold, almost making you squirm over such loose confessions.

That was it. That was the turning point of the night.

“Truth be told, the night is going much better than I dreamed of, and I almost regret forgetting my dance card.” You raised your chin, and sent him a look. “Would you be so kind to help me find it?” 

You could basically see the gears turning, a fire behind his eyes, fueling the desire growing in the depths of your belly. His gaze was piercing, even after he’d long decided, the truth known to both of you. Your heartbeats must’ve been visible, you imagined, and felt it skip a beat as he licked his lip. “Lead the way.”

Now that’s, how you ended up here.

However, as you look down at his face, the story gets blurry, perhaps outright loses its importance, abandoning your mind. His hair is tousled, a rebel strand in front of his eyes, and moves with every bounce. Your hands are too busy to hold onto his sweaty chest, slightly tugging on the auburn fuzz. You wanted to do that ever since he took his shirt off.

(Then again, you’re not sorry for the amount of time you couldn’t, drowning in him. The moment you felt his expert lips on yours, all your will to protest anything had died. Later, as his fingers joined the show, you quickly realized you were fine with what he gave, but he, ever the gentleman, let you prevail.)

It is a sight. And the moans that fall from his lips surpass the delicate melody the musicians are playing downstairs in every way, which can still faintly be heard. (You never thought an orchestra would accompany you during this, but here you were. It is a detail you’ll remember with a smile while looking back at it, but now, you couldn’t care any less.)

“You’re taking me so well.”  He starts to thrust his hips up slightly, meeting your rhythm, but never overtaking it.

“I know.” You giggle, but the reaction he’s taken notice of is your fingertips digging in further, and your walls fluttering around his cock.

When you start to falter a bit, perhaps due to the fatigue settling on your muscles embarrassingly not long after his words, or his mere presence clouding your brain, his fingers that have been resting on your thighs slowly ascend to your hips. The fingers drenched in your juices, another element that has the coil in your belly tighter. The next few strokes, with his guiding hand, touch something deep inside you, and your jaw hangs open.

“Fuck…” is the only word you can mutter, and he chuckles at it.

“Is that so?” He mocks, but brushes your loose ringlets with a single hand, and caresses your nipple on its way down. The latter shows his true disposition, and that drives you to be more vocal, if you weren’t already.

“You feel… so… good.” You can hardly say, as your puffy clit drag against his skin all so deliciously like this.

He twitches inside you at the compliment, and you throw your head back with a whine. Despite the fact that he would kill to see your face, he doesn’t push, enjoying the state he’s putting you in with his voice. Every praise that falls from his lips earns him a melodic moan, along with the feeling of you tensing and relaxing, always responding to his call in one way or another.

You’re one step away from being a doll at his bend, though you couldn’t care any less, not when you are this close.

He likes it, very very much. Yet, not enough to silence his wishes of how to ruin you, in the best way.

In a blink, you find yourself on your back, and him on top of you. That’s not the first thing you see, though. It is his hand, lifted from wherever it fell, catching your chin to turn your head to him. Sounds of panting are all there is, no movement, no words, not even your rapid heartbeats drumming in your ears seconds ago as if the world stopped for a second.  

His thumb caresses your lower lip, and you let it slip in. God, you can still taste yourself. The revelation has your objections at the change dead, your face twisting, yet he tsks thrice, capturing your attention.

“Let me see those eyes.” Obi Wan commands, and you have no choice but to oblige. “You look so good beneath me.” 

Somehow, his words have you flushing and squirming as if that was the most inappropriate thing happening in this room. Funny, how he breaks your will, and you let it. Against all the talk of your friendship, until an hour ago, you’d have lashed out at an equivalent demeanor, even said in affectionate terms. (Any other way is simply impossible, anyway.)  But, that hour proved itself to be much precious, and now with that glossy gaze, snatched right from the brink of climax, you focus on the doting aspect, how he cannot get enough of the image of you.

You start to writhe, the new emptiness inside you unbearable. “Touch me, Obi Wan…”

He's not proud of the way your begging has his cock leaking, though that hardly stops him. He lives for mutual pleasure, even just yours at the moment, yet you look so pretty like this, grasping the sheets. 

"Like this?" He slides his thumb further into your mouth, relishing the feeling of your tongue swirling around it immediately. Or course he wasn't expecting you to suck him off if you didn't want to, nor would he ever ask for it, he can't help but imagine the feeling, his hips rolling in seek of stimulation.

You shake your head, and his finger is freed with a pop. You frown as the sole contact you have with him is lost. It is a warning sign for him, the fragility of your dream-like state, a reminder of how he has to do better, if he wants to take control. As a gentleman, he wanted to give you everything you desired, but since it was your first time together, a terra incognita, he had to be sure of your limits, so he followed your wishes gladly. The wishes which were masterfully balanced versions of both of your needs. The same problem troubled you too of course, but you were a quick learner, a connoisseur of his taste in no time. The fact that it was very similar to yours was an exciting discovery, certainly a pleasant one, and was a great help, so great that it almost felt like cheating. While he took no issue with your tricks; the urge to take you on his terms, the compulsion to show you how he wants to cherish you couldn’t be suppressed any longer. He had to let you know.

He leans in closer, his arms bend as yours find his shoulders like a habit, “Like this?” He murmurs, right before brushing his lips against yours, effectively swallowing your whine. Though it was a sound of protest, all complementary sentiments die when he nips at your lower lip, and you open your mouth, lost in the sensation of his tongue licking yours, and his sweet essence. In contrast to his other needs taken good care of, he hadn’t taken enough of the feeling of our mouths joining. God, he spent hours imagining your mouth, curling into every shape as smart words spilled from it, enhancing his fascination with you. It fires the flames of haze further, even if he’s not actually properly touching you. Your hand roams his neck, then etches itself into his silky hair. You’ve done that a few times now (and found his response most addicting), but it is hardly satisfactory compared to the amounts you dreamed of doing during these last couple of months. You saw him prim and proper mostly, not a strand out of place, making you marvel at its excellence, and the itch to mess it up growing stronger each instance, a stark contrast to your surroundings. Also, there were times the infamous piece fell in front of his eyes, and sometimes even more disheveled than that, riding a horse, enjoying sports with his friends, and once after a bath, when your family visit started a little earlier than planned. You were always admiring the way it reflected light, creating almost a halo around his head, especially in sunlight. It is the first thing your eye is drawn to whenever you’re in the same place, a beacon of sorts. You never thought you’d be this amazed by hair, yet the moans he produces when you tug on it, add to your astonishment, and you’re not sure if you can look at it again, without being reminded of this moment.

He breaks the kiss as for you to catch your breath, for he has long kept you away from it. Still, he continues to pepper you with tons of them, scattered all across your jaw and neck, in search of that sweet spot that has you cursing. It is not a serious journey, in fact, he does more than press his lips against your skin properly, tease you with his open mouth, drag his tongue along the taut muscle, nip and outright bite, once.

“No marks-“ You protest. Futile. You should’ve warned before he started to nibble, way before he sank his teeth, but it has happened after all, and you can already feel blood settling on the sites of his attack. “What I am going to tell my maid now?”

“The truth.” He retorts. “Of how you led Lord Kenobi into our bed, and did dirty, unspeakable things with him.”

That earns him a harsh pull at his scalp, and a pat on his shoulder. He meets with your glaring gaze, and cheeks redder than a minute ago. So, he’s still on your good side. Barely.

“Apologies, my dear.” He takes the hand that smacked him, and places a peck onto your palm before placing it back. You can’t break the eye contact as he does so, something about his appearance, perhaps his position, or the charming contours of his face, or the way he deals with your anger keeps you from kicking him out. Caressing your open legs, he massages them ‘til they relax afresh, squeezing at the soft flesh. You hiss when his movement nears your inner thighs, thanks to his beard, and the climax it brought you. The gesture hints, still, there’s the matter of fire burning in your belly. “Couldn’t resist, you know me. Let me make it up to you.”

He wastes one more second to carve this image inside his head, then fulfills his promise. He likes the way you tremble while you wait, a whimper leaving your mouth at him taking his cock into his hand and stroking it a few times. God, how you wish that was your hand. Damn your stubbornness, and demand for compensation. You put extreme effort into staying still, releasing a shaky breath when he places the tip at your entrance.

Remember when he said “ruin”?

He doesn’t push it in, instead letting it slide up your slick folds, and tap against your clit. You nearly jolt at the touch, yet again tasting bliss, even if it is in mere drops. He repeats the action, and you sob, digging your nails into his shoulders. Maybe you’re the one leaving marks now, but you don’t care. Eye for an eye you can say, in retrospect.

“You’re so wet.” He can’t stop looking into your glistening core. He also can hear it, the squelching sounds echoing at his every movement. He knows you can too, that it calms your nerves, though they act up for different reasons. “All this for me?”

Unfortunately, you are late to realize he doesn’t take your moans for an answer. You can’t help it, you are unable to form words. Even if you gather the strength, they die out at your throat, especially under his piercing look. Fuck, he loves how cockdumb you’ve become for him.

He takes pity on you then, dropping his cock to briefly rest on your opening, and forces his fat tip in.

Your back arches, a throaty sound filling the room. He shushes right next to your ear, in an effort to calm you down as he slips the rest in. It is as if you’re taking him the first time, like you weren’t riding him moments ago.

“Fuck-“ That’s the only reaction, the only answer he needs. You fall back into the sheets, the first time he rolls his hips, and sets a new rhythm, a slow one to kindle the flame once more. Your hair probably getting tangled from the way it’s rubbing against the sheets, and your legs are split wide open. You feel every vein and ridge moving against your walls, the slight resistance disappearing in no time. His chest brushes against yours, and combined with the warmth of his breath, so close to yours, it’s easy to let go of your worries.

This is why you ended up here.

“Faster!” While he already feels great, it’s not the exact pattern to provide that sweet release, not in the timeframe you hoped.

“I want this to last, dear.”

Your eyes roll to the back of your head. A part of it due to irritation. Being subjected to that response before, he snickers to see you’re still you, even when you’re literally fucked out of your mind. As he does so, his lips skim yours. You take it, greedily, one hand first on his neck to ensure he stays, then to his unruly tress, aspiring to compel him into the middle ground. That earns you a few groans, yes, but his will doesn’t seem to falter even a little bit.

Perseverance, is a mutual quality, as you already know.

You slowly release the grip you have on his head, emphasis on slowly. It goes unnoticed, thanks to your timely bite, the same assault he once carried out. You don’t waste the access to his tongue, sucking on it. You’re not sure if his moans are increased in number, or if it feels more because you swallow every single one of them, but the fact that his beard starts to prick your cheeks harder gives you an idea.

Your free hand falls into sheets and slithers across the length of your body. Just a little more- you’re almost about to touch your –

His fingers wrap around your wrist instantly, dragging it up, a little further away from your face. You twist your neck, a wail coming out as you reject his kiss.

Only to be met by the sight of that said fingers running up your palm, and interlock themselves among yours.

Your breath hitches, for reasons unknown to you.

“Ah- ah -ah.” He tuts, though there’s not a hint of disappointment in his voice. “What kind of a gentleman would I be if I let you do all the work?”

You can’t believe one physical contact, and his words, are enough to carry you to that previous peak. Your pussy contracts around him, beyond your control, an indication of your closeness, nothing compared to before.

“Ngh- that’s it.” He encourages, “Just relax and take it.” That’s more sincerity than you’ve ever heard from him.

It goes on and on for a while, him doing exactly what he promised to do, and fulfilling his wishes in the process. He already knows this could go on ‘til morning, and he still wouldn’t be completely satisfied, longing for your presence the second he leaves the bed. Still, he continues, pushing himself to his limit, and that’s getting quite harder when you clamp on him that hard. He feels his cock leaking, begging for that sweet end.

When his arm that’s not supporting his weight travels down, caressing your hip before pressing his thumb to your clit, finally, you reward it with a whisper of his name, a sound he won’t dare to forget. Your back arches impossibly higher, and he has to lean back, abandoning his other hold.

Your limb stays in the spot he left it.

He curses at the realization, perhaps its effect mirroring yours when he first initiated the contact. Fuck, how are you so perfect? He snaps his hips harder, and circles his thumb, feeling it throb.

“Obi Wan-I’m c-“

He loves how your words are cut with the need to scream that you gulp down, only resigned to breathing as your face contorts with pleasure. “Cum for me, love.”

Your moans blend into each other, as he cannot stay still at the feeling of your walls squeezing him so tight. He holds your trembling thigh, fondling the soft flesh, adoring the way it spills from his grip. He doesn’t stop ‘til they settle again once more, and even a little longer than that, pulling out in the last minute to cover your belly with his spend. 

That act keeps you from turning to your side, and feeds the desire to hug the sheets, a soft but firm ground for your senses to return. You're not complainant of it anyways, you have a far better view in front of you, defined muscles undulating with each heavy breath, glistening due to the light coat of sweat covering them, lips puffy and slightly flushed with blood, as well as his cheeks. You always thought he was devilishly handsome, but this, this is something else. The world should consider itself lucky, or it would bend to his will just from his looks. Or unlucky, for the honor is bestowed upon a handful of people. 

He believes he's blessed with the sight upon him, too. Still holding onto your thigh, he delights in spontaneous tremors that possess it. If he looks closely, he's sure he can see the faint mark he left. Your hair is sprawled around, much in contrast to the delicate up-dos you and every noblewoman fashioned, its most natural form, and the intimacy of it definitely causes a small breakdown. You belong in a painting, depicting goddesses and nymphs, a grace outside the limits of time and culture. Your droopy lids and tired pull at the corners of your mouth fill his chest with pride and more adoration, like after his every successful attempt to elicit a reaction from you. It happens often, thanks to the understanding that grows between the two of you, but every example is still treasured in in his mind.

“Well, I don’t know any better way to spend the night.”

You giggle. “I agree.”

“We should’ve done this before.”

Your lifted brows are the perfect answer. Like it’s that easy.

But he has a point, too.

In the comfortable silence, he gets up from bed, a sigh at the roar coming from downstairs, drowning the music. That’s still going, huh? You watch as he wets the nearest towel, and returns, cleaning the mess with unexpected gentleness that it almost tickles. There’s no aim to steal one more touch at his movements, no personal gain except an easy conscience, and even that is a stretch because it’s most natural to him, his understanding of tenderness.

“Well, thank you, sir.” You sit up, with a yawn, and scooch backward to your pillows as he retreats to give himself the same treatment. “And my nightgown, please.” You point to it, and amusingly follow his subtle headshake, and efforts to hand it over. He hesitates for a second at the last minute, considering rebellion, a last joke. You see it, and snatch the fabric from his grip before he can tighten it. He can feel it sliding over his skin, the light material flying. You slip it on, aware of his voyeur. with a victorious smile cut too short as exhaustion creeps into your bones. You’re no different, in any case, settling into the fluffy pillows, curiously examining each piece of clothing he puts on from afar, the unwritten rule of his habits, his hidden glances at your mirror in a feeble pursuit to tame his messy hair. You’re willing to be charged guilty for that.

He stalls, though, you can feel it after a while, around the time sleep clouds your vision. How could anyone blame him for not wanting to leave, carve your picture to his mind, and calm his yet again straining cock at it?

“You should be going. Servants are going to be wandering these corridors for orders, soon.” Your heart winces at the warning, because he's not the type to need it, or disregard you to put you at any risk. But your cognation runs thin, and he needs to know the dangers he might face. 

"True. Right. You're correct." Is that a stutter? "Good night, my lady."

"Good night, Lord Kenobi.

"Glad to be of help in stretching your legs." 

The cushion falls short to exactly hit him, but the sentiment is clear. 

In the morning, you uncover the reasons behind his diversion. 

Bastard signed every slot in your dance card.

[samwxlsxon]

Water and Rock

Obi-Wan/FemReader

DESCRIPTION: There are only so many excuses a master and padawan can make to kiss under "extenuating circumstances" before circumstances stop arising and start being created.

TAGS/WARNINGS: slow burn, explicit sexual content, angst, major character death, mild violence, drug use, dubcon, noncon, some elements of sith!obiwan, master/padawan dynamic, age gap, pro-jedi/jedi positive (see final chapters for additional tags)

WORD COUNT: 106K (Complete)

CHAPTERS: 1 // 2 // 3 // 4 // 5 // 6 // 7 // 8 // 9 // 10 // 11 // 12 // 13 // 14 // 15 // 16 // 17

☆☆☆

Concessions

Obi-Wan/FemReader

DESCRIPTION: Obi Wan chooses to undertake a trial that prevents him from sex for one year, and asks you to serve as his witness. As his close friend, you don't mind helping him. The rules of the trial are very clear. You make it your personal mission to find every exception.

TAGS/WARNINGS: explicit sexual content, orgasm denial/edging, sexting, light bondage (handcuffs), dubcon, nipple play, oral sex, fingering, cum play

WORD COUNT: 25K (Complete)

CHAPTERS: 1 // 2 // 3 // 4 // 5

☆☆☆

Heat Sick

Obi-Wan/FemReader

DESCRIPTION: While on a mission with your master to uncover an assassination plot, you forget to turn off your security cam. Obi Wan sees more than he's ready to confront, and feels more than he's ready to withstand.

TAGS/WARNINGS: explicit sexual content, noncon elements including nonconsensual voyeurism, master/padawan dynamic, age gap, power imbalance, masturbation, angst, guilt kink

WORD COUNT: 3.6K

ONE-OFF

☆☆☆

Pretty Young Thing

Obi-Wan/FemReader

DESCRIPTION: Obi Wan only has one rule for your meetings - no names involved.

TAGS/WARNINGS: explicit sexual content, alcohol, porn without plot

WORD COUNT: 2.1K

ONE-OFF

☆☆☆

Main Masterlist

[samwxlsxon]

Pound of Flesh Series Masterlist

Read on A03!

Main Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist

Rating/Warnings: 18+ for canon-typical violence, swearing, severe mental health issues, mentions of rape/non-con and past abuse, and sexual content.

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff, eventual happy ending.

Series Summary

You are not a saint. You are not a hero. You’re barely even a living person, because living people have lives that extended beyond work and their apartment. But you’re not quite nobody, either. You’re too much, and not enough, and just in the shadows with a prayer to be saved that isn't genuine and secrets that mean nothing.

They should’ve meant nothing.

Yet here you are. In more danger than usual, being threatened by Hydra without knowing why, and being assigned a security detail you don’t want by Captain America.

Bucky Barnes is good at his job. You’re not going to die.

But you might end up strangling him before Hydra gets to either of you.

Author's Note

This story is a non-canon compliant, taking place after the Falcon and the Winter Solider and diverging entirely from the canon universe. This means two things:

1) Any movies or TV shows released after No Way Home didn't happen in this universe, and that will become more and more relevant as we go on.

2) We're playing a little fast and loose with Marvel lore because there's so much of it, and I'm trying my best but I've also added a few thing for the sake of this story, so if you have questions, please ask!

I hope you enjoy the story!

Chapter List

Chapter 1 - I Can't Get Clean Chapter 2 - Hell to Raise Chapter 3 - Burning in the Lava Chapter 4 - Too Much Green Chapter 5 - Know Who You Are Chapter 6 - It Rises Fast Chapter 7 - Have You Noticed Chapter 8 - What I Can't Have Chapter 9 - All I've Learned Chapter 10 - Always On My Mind Chapter 11 - Twice the Heart Chapter 12 - You Can Take All the Pain (5/17)

[samwxlsxon]

❝ 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: after getting injured on a mission and dismissing your help, you can’t seem to shake why john doesn’t like you. the answer is more complicated than you thought.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 10.0K (sorry!)

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), teammates to lovers, angst, talk of insecurities, john is an asshole who’s emotionally constipated, mention of violence, wound tending trope, heavy kissing, groping, teasing, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, mild body worship, hair pulling, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, missionary position, john has a huge praise kink, aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: listen ,,, I know he’s a bad person & he’s flawed but he’s so well-written and hot … and it’s wyatt russell !! first time writing for john and I loved this, I hope you guys love it too! thank you so much for your support! 🫶

Ash floats through smoke-laden air in the aftermath of an explosion, chunks of a building blown into the streets, screams of civilians pounding within your ears. Time stills, as if it’s come to a crawl, and everything slows around you.

Missions still paralyze you from time to time, fear and doubt creeping in, keeping you frozen in-place. It’s gotten somewhat easier, adapting to chaotic situations, attempting to fit in with your new teammates.

A clammy perspiration clings to your flesh beneath your suit, the design nondescript. Valentina had pushed for something flashy, more in-line with your abilities, but you refused. The less that you stuck out, the better.

It wasn’t nearly as impressive as the rest of the team, healing powers at the expense of your own energy, but you were designated as the ‘medic’, for obvious reasons. Whenever someone was injured or too roughed-up, you were there to help.

“You still with us over there?”

John Walker’s snide quip emanates from the communication link sitting in your ear, and it’s enough to effectively shatter your stupor. It wasn’t a malicious remark — just a little annoying, likely furthered by his tone of voice.

Steve Rogers was someone you knew, years ago — an acquaintance, really, but he’d helped get you out of a bind with undercover H.Y.D.R.A operatives. When he wore the shield, when Sam wore the shield, it stood for something greater than themselves.

Walker had been thrown into enough turmoil already; losing the role of Captain America, murdering an innocent, losing his family. It was all his fault, he knew this — it didn’t make the pain any less, knowing he was at the root of it all.

The both of you butted heads more often than not, two differing personalities that clashed in verbal sparring matches or thinly-veiled hostility. You’d tried to empathize with him, but he made it difficult with his condescending attitude.

Bucky had played mediator more times than you could count — you didn’t enjoy getting angry, the feeling never benefited you. Nevertheless, you were trying to get along with Walker and learn to work better as teammates.

Things were progressing, albeit slowly. Even after extending the olive branch and being kind to him, maybe too nice, he still held some lingering indifference towards you.

“I copy.” In the aftermath of thwarting enemies of the state, you prefer to help the civilians, ensuring that they were out of harm’s way, healed. Jogging toward a group of people attempting to move rubble aside, you’re quick to assist.

“There’s still one more, if someone wants to take care of it,” Ava’s voice comes over the communicator, muddled by background noise of emergency vehicles. “Unless you need help.”

“I got it.” Quick to volunteer, Walker’s voice cuts in before dissipating. You’re busy helping move wreckage aside, freeing any trapped citizens and making way for ambulances. Wailing sirens fill the air, and things move swiftly.

The air smells of burning, intermingled with a twinge of copper, a streak of crimson splashed upon your cheek. It’s a shallow cut, something trivial and minor, muscles aching with a dull throb after the dust begins to settle.

Helicopters begin to circle overhead, the media soon to follow. It was some rogue section of former H.Y.D.R.A operatives that had caused this mess, and with the formation of the New Avengers, these threats seem to appear more often.

The public is torn — one side openly celebrating that there’s protection again, the other side scornful of a ragtag group of government rejects. You aren’t one to pay attention to the discourse, focusing on finding your own footing, building relationships and making amends.

Despite having the team to lean on, you had a complicated relationship with your own family. After your powers manifested, you became isolated, kept at a distance, prompting you to run away and find S.H.I.E.L.D, when it still existed.

Still, you felt alone sometimes, but the pain had lessened with the passage of time. Alexei, of all people, treated you like a daughter, and Ava proved to be a reliable friend, despite her constant grimace. The more you assimilated with them, the more the bitter sting dissipated.

The team was a conglomerate of fragmented pasts — scars, veiled wounds, regrets; but they had become your family, or something close, and that meant the world to you.

As first responders began to flood the scene, you regrouped with the rest of the team, scraped and battered from the fighting, but all intact. Bucky and Yelena typically helmed any media events following a battle, but this time, everyone wanted to go home.

“Look at us,” Alexei laughs, placing a hand on John’s shoulder, and Yelena’s. “We are good team! The best team that the world has ever seen!” He cheers, and you find his enthusiasm endearing. John winces, stepping away from the Russian’s hold.

“You say that after every mission.” Yelena points out, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. The jet is somewhere down the street, and you all begin the arduous process of walking back.

“It is to remind of the truth, of our strength.” Alexei boasts, gleeful as ever as he jogs to keep up with Bucky. Bucky’s taken to letting him pretend that he’s the “co-captain”, just to keep his spirits high.

Morale is Alexei’s specialty — there is never a dull moment when he’s around, and his enthusiasm evokes a small smile from you, curling at the corners of your mouth. Dull, throbbing pangs of sore muscle ebbs through your body.

Straggling along at the tail end of the group, you step through some of the smaller pieces of rubble, a majority of what remains to be disposed of by a clean-up crew. Your mind is elsewhere, and the idea of sleeping once you’re back to the Watchtower is very appealing.

John is there too, uncharacteristically quiet as he walks a pace or two ahead of you, and you notice the slight stutter in his gait. There’s crimson blooming from a gash on the back of his suit, a deep wound, and your brows furrow together.

He didn’t say anything about it, which is typical, but you can’t help but be concerned. You didn’t dislike John, simply abhorred his attitude and the way he sometimes believed that he wasn’t at-fault.

Closing the distance, you come up on his flank, softly clearing your throat. “You’re hurt,” You murmur, low enough for only him to hear. He has an issue with getting injured, as if his pride is simultaneously bruised, so you keep it cordial. “I can take care of it.”

He’s always been reluctant to accept your help, allowing himself to fester within the pain, as if it’s some sort of penance for all the wrong he’s done. His muscles ache, and the gash, bruises, and cuts don’t make anything easier.

“I’m fine,” Dismissive, John brushes your concern aside, focusing on getting back to the jet without collapsing. The serum does its part, easier to manage the pain, but it doesn’t take away the sting. “It’s not that bad.” He utters, hoping you’ll drop it.

It’s his tone again; bitter, indifferent, swatting your offer aside as if you’re more bothersome than helpful. For reasons you can’t explain, it makes you angry, as if he’s too good for your help. Your jaw clenches, and you try again.

“There’s nothing wrong with accepting help, John. When we get back to the Watchtower, I can —”

“I said I’m fine.” Walker retorts, snapping at you without hesitation. It’s born from an amalgamation of agony and his own innermost demons that he’s wrestling with. He stares ahead, not wanting to look at your expression.

Bewildered, you fight against getting frustrated with him, wondering if there’s something that extends beyond his surface-level condescension.

Though, you wonder what you did to make him hate you so much — you sparred about the past, sure, but you were trying to bury the hatchet.

As if pierced by something sharp, you scoff, attempting to smother the flicker of fury that burned within your chest. It overrides your judgment, mouth moving before you can tell yourself to stop. “What’s your problem with me? Jesus, Walker, I just want to help you.”

The both of you are far away enough for the rest to remain oblivious to your sudden squabbling, and John grits his teeth, a sharp inhale splitting his lungs. “I can handle this on my own.” His tone is edged, but there’s something more beneath the surface.

Cerulean hues issue a warning for you to drop the subject, and you do, albeit reluctantly. Anger diminishes into confusion, uncertainty; you didn’t understand. Despite your efforts, he continued to swat you away as if you were a pest.

The splinter of desperation in your cadence turns his stomach, verbal sparring settling into a tenuous silence. John steals a glance despite himself, noticing the forlorn look that is etched into your brow, as if you’ve done something wrong.

He knows it’s not you — never has been, it’s him. John’s agitation dwindles into guilt, knowing that your intentions were wholly good, selfless. It’s something that he wishes he could have, and he’s working on it, but the process is emotionally heavy.

Scorned, you keep pace with him, even if he’s pushed you aside, ensuring that he makes it to the jet intact. The rest of the team regards you with perplexity, though you’re dismissive of it, settling into the webbing of your flight-seat.

The aftermath is often hushed — bodies catching their breath, a wordless recuperation, senses beginning to climb down from heightened adrenaline. Bucky’s piloting you out, heading back to the Watchtower.

Exhaustion settles in, replacing the exhilaration that comes with missions, the surge of vigor in your bloodstream. Tilting backwards, your head meets the cool interior of the jet, engine’s idle buzz thrumming beneath your boots.

John sits beside you, unexpectedly, his strenuous sigh rattling your body, passing from the bulk of his bicep to you. His visage is contorted into a look of thinly-veiled wistfulness, glancing sideways at you, a faint grimace of apology.

Quiet, you don’t relocate, simmering in the silence without so much as a murmur. Copper stings your nostrils, the scent of his blood, and you pretend that it doesn’t phase you; it does.

Your arms loosely fold over your chest, listening to the drone of the quinjet. The ride home is short, shorter than expected, and you’re eager to crawl beneath scalding water and let it burn the rush away.

As Bucky prepares for landing on the helipad outside, your gaze flutters toward John, whose stare is attempting to sear through the metal walls of the jet’s interior. He seems gone, as if his mind is a thousand miles away.

It was the same look he had when you were in the Void with him; loathing, conflicted, ripping himself apart for you to see.

The jet tremors violently as it descends onto the helipad, the noise scraping against your ears, a sound that’s still jarring to you. John remains unphased — he’s done it hundreds of times, terse as the hull begins to open.

Saying something now seems meaningless, words fading to ash within your throat, raw from thirst. Your fingers idly curl into the sleeves of your suit, tension relinquished as the team begins to file out of the jet, bearing the bruises and scrapes from the mission.

When you enter the Tower, a sense of relief finds you, the comfort of home, shoulders slouched as you make for your room. Bob is lingering beside the window, a book in his hand, headphones dangling from his ears.

“Good work today,” Bucky calls, attempting to boost morale. He’s at the helm, trying to steer this ship in the right direction, but it’s harder than it looks. “Get some rest.” He moves toward the lounge, hoping to get a status update on the cleanup.

Alexei chimes in with an echoed remark about how everyone did a good job, mirroring Bucky’s own statement. A smile curls at the corner of your mouth despite yourself, feet dragging as you sluggishly stumble toward your room.

Through the light clamor, you don’t see John, disappearing through the tinted pane of your door, feeling it hiss and click behind you. Your room is warm, cozy; it’s a sanctuary you’ve created, making something within the ruins of your old life.

A hush falls throughout the Tower, typically a quiet evening after returning from a mission. Outside, the skies turn to a swirling ink, veiled by heavier clouds that signal the onset of rain.

Peeling away your suit, your flesh is exposed to the coolness of your quarters, glittering with a layer of perspiration, body speckled in light cuts and fresh bruises. The shower calls your name, inviting, and you marinate beneath the water for half an hour.

Bruises pulse with a dull ache, remnants of crimson swept away by the water, leaving you renewed as you change into loungewear. Perched along the edge of your bed, you towel-dry your hair, gaze flickering toward your door.

You shouldn’t be the one to apologize.

The thought of checking on John crosses your mind, and then it stays, leaving you frustrated and torn. You didn’t hate him, you never have; if anything, you were left wondering why the strange hostility still lingered, after everything.

Even then, your desire to help overrode the brief spat that you had. He was your teammate, and leaving him to lick his grievous wounds without ensuring his safety felt cruel.

A tremulous inhale invades your lungs, steeling yourself as you cross into the corridor, leaving your room behind. His quarters are down the hallway, towards the very end, marked by blanched lights on either side.

No one sees you, and you creep over the cold tile as if you might be apprehended in the process. The walk there feels as if it’s stretched on for an eternity, taunting you with each step as you make it to the tinted panel.

His lock is off, you realize, and you try to knock, the sound eerily soft. There’s nothing, only an awkward stretch of silence that makes you shift uncomfortably, the chill of the floor sending a shiver down your spine.

“John?” Abandoning the use of ‘Walker’, you idly pace before the door, weaving in idle circles as you wait for him to answer. Still, nothing — you wonder if it’s intentional, if he’s purposefully ignoring you to prove a point.

Intending to ask for forgiveness later, you slide the door open, stepping into his room with a twinge of anxiety. You shouldn’t be skulking around in here, but his lack of answer had you worried — more than you should’ve been, really.

“So much for knocking,” His voice cuts through your scrambled thoughts like a serrated knife, though lacking the sardonic poise. “Could’ve waited a minute.” John utters, and you spot him in his bathroom.

Startled, your gaze draws to him, attempting to patch himself up with bloodsoaked fingertips and a disgruntled countenance. His back is facing the mirror, head craned over his shoulder, blonde brows creased together, throat stirring with a noise of agitation.

“You didn’t answer.” With a weak protest, you hover in the doorway, shuffling forward to let it close with a subtle click. Everything seems devoid of personal decorum in his room, as if he’s still deciphering what goes where, some belongings still in boxes.

“You didn’t give me a chance.” John retorts, lips parted to make room for a strained sigh. He’s been harsh enough today — he recollects, composes himself, and lets his guard waver.

“I was worried about you.” The weight of your confession brings him pause, hand poised against his back, attempting to apply gauze. He’s failing miserably, cerulean hues darting toward you, arms folded over your chest.

John stops, jaw tense as he huffs with frustration, discarding the roll of gauze onto the bathroom countertop. The low glow of the light glitters against his skin, pleasantly sunkissed, muscles taut and broad, speckled in violet bruises.

There’s a rawness to him, sinewy yet firm, the honed strength of a trained soldier. He’s visceral, nothing grossly herculean, but he’s worked for his physicality, sacrificed plenty for it.

You realize you’ve been ogling him, gaze carefully tracing over the blonde hair smattered over his chest, trailing along his abdomen before it disappeared beneath his tactical pants.

Tendrils of heat snake across the back of your neck, a twinge of something desirous stirring within your stomach. You aren’t used to it, and you feel yourself attempt to rip your gaze away to something else; and you can’t.

He’s a man beneath it all, beneath the shield, the armor, the facade of an inflated swagger, all of the peacocking — he’s vulnerable, now. John’s countenance softens, startled by the sincerity that permeates your voice.

It’s unusual for him to be this quiet, as if you ripped the bravado and smugness right from his throat. Pacing forward, you decide to extend the offer again, hoping that he’ll accept your help and throw away the pride.

“I can help,” Your tone is disarmingly tender, something that John knows he’s undeserving of, given his behavior towards you. You vex him, but not because of your demeanor — he’s falling, and he’s trying to stop himself; he can’t. “Please.”

John concedes, head bobbing in a brief nod as he turns to face the mirror, lukewarm water ridding the crimson that stained his fingers. Coiled muscle cuts across his back, flesh littered in old scars and a colorful variety of bruises.

With a soft exhale, you awkwardly move into the doorway of the bathroom, blanketed by the pale orange of the lights, the distant buzz something of a comfort to you. The gash stretches from his left rib to spine, an ugly wound, oozing red that trickles over his back.

Scraped, calloused hands grip the edge of the counter as he props himself up, gaze flickering toward your reflection in the mirror. Your hair, still damp, tousled and disheveled, a cut on your cheek, mannerisms somewhat shrewd.

It’s quiet — too quiet for your liking, but you don’t want to be the one to break the ice. Wordlessly, you reach out, palm beginning to mist with wisps of a faint green, your powers manifesting.

“I’m sorry for today,” John murmurs, stopping you in your tracks. The mist wavers, concentration effectively shattered by his apology, which happened to be entirely unexpected. “About not letting you help me.”

“Is it something I did?” Your inquiry evokes a pang of melancholy, as if his heart is bleeding, still halfway stitched together. “Listen, I know we’ve had our differences, but I’m trying to move past it.”

John sighs, exiting through his nostrils; measured, restrained. “You didn’t do anything,” He’s learning to admit when he’s the problem, digits tightening against the dark granite; it groans beneath his grasp. “I don’t hate you.”

Relief blossoms within your chest, as if some weight is lifted from your shoulders. Still, you wonder what exactly is wrong with him, festering below the surface, something he’s trying to bury. “Be honest with me — what’s wrong?” You question, brows furrowing together.

He’s reluctant to tell you why he’s comfortable with sitting in the pain — why he feels he deserves it. John knows that you mean well, always looking out for everyone else, showing kindness when you didn’t have to.

“This is what I deserve,” John utters, cadence embittered, withholding a wave of emotion. Tears swim, unshed within his eyes, and he actively fights against it. “The pain — for what I did, for what happened.”

For Lemar, for Olivia, for the blood on his hands, for the son who’ll only know his father as a deadbeat. He hates himself, deep down — he’s learning to be a better man, if that were even possible.

His transparency startles you, attempting to process this information in a way that evokes empathy. No one on the team is truly, wholly good — there’s amends that need to be made, most of them in the healing process, including you.

It’s a bleak contrast from the man constantly barraging you with snarky remarks, constantly engaging in banter with you. You don’t remember him opening up like this with anyone else.

Still, your hand drops, fingers twisting together as you scramble to come up with some encouragement. You’re so accustomed to his general smugness and cocksure attitude that this blindsides you.

“Just because you’ve done bad things doesn’t mean that you deserve to suffer, or rake yourself over the coals again,” It’s gentle, sound advice — John’s eyes screw shut. “Everyone deserves to heal, including you.”

The blood on his hands feels heavy, like some anchor dragging him down. After being stripped of the role of Captain America, spiraling, losing his family, he briefly considered it — a way out. He was glad that he never went through with it.

In the Void, when you found your way into his room, it was the moment Lemar had been killed. Replayed, over and over again, unable to be prevented — but his reaction could’ve been.

He could’ve been a better man.

In the beginning, he tried to justify it, rationalizing killing someone in cold blood. After time passed, he knew how wrong he was, how he desecrated the shield, the mantle; all for something else, to sate his rage. No matter how much healing he did, that would haunt him forever.

“Thanks.” He grits, as if he doesn’t fully believe your words. John understands your intentions, that you’re being empathetic and kind despite the abrasive way he’s acted towards you. It makes him feel worse. “I am trying.”

“I know,” Placating, your digits begin to shimmer with wisps of emerald energy, your power manifesting. “I know you are, John.” Oozing with a tender amiability, you can hear the tremor in his exhale.

When you called him John, it startled him; he’d gotten so accustomed to ‘Walker’, but he didn’t mind this in the slightest. Despite the rough beginning the both of you had with one another, he was warming up to you.

Admittedly, he thought it was the right thing to do, not fully letting you in to protect himself. When you had cordial conversations, he felt your kindness shroud him like a warm blanket; you’d moved on from the past.

Quiet, your hand finally lifts to his wound, brows creased in concentration, energy expelled into healing mist as it curls around the flesh. It feels like cold water, albeit soothing, pluming over torn skin and blood until it sinks inward.

A low grunt rips through his throat, somewhat startled at the sensation of your powers; simple, but wildly effective. It’s as if he’d never been slashed to begin with; the bruises and scrapes don’t go away, but the rest of it does.

Strained, your arm quivers, resolve slipping as you step away, using the doorway as a form of support. You’re always a little weak after you’ve healed someone, almost as if it’s an exchange of life.

“Better?” With a tender smile, you watch as he nods, inspecting himself in the mirror; nothing left behind. “Next time this happens, I hope you’ll let me help you.” You prompt, and he chuckles; it isn’t the typical condescending chide he gives you, either.

“I can’t make any promises.” John’s tone loses that bite, the indifference; it’s disarmingly soft. “Thanks again, for that. I’ve been an asshole to you — wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to help.” He murmured, tone lacking mirth.

“You have, but that can change,” Lips remain poised into a smile, one that makes his heart lurch within his chest. “You don’t have to keep being an asshole.” Your remark makes him scoff, though it’s more of a bemused sound, than anything else.

“I’ll lose my charm,” John counters, but he’s being sarcastic — somewhat, at least. You suspect he’ll still remain sharp-tongued and smug, but lose the indifference with you. “I know it’s something I need to work on.”

Grateful for his acknowledgment, you finally feel your energy return, a slow ebb that spreads throughout your body. Leaning off of the doorframe, you awkwardly step aside, figuring that this was your queue to leave.

“For the record, I never disliked you,” He utters, jaw clenched as he carefully navigates on what to say next. “Never had a problem with you, either. Your problem with me was justified.” John shrugs, his stare even-keel.

Bewildered, you let the pang of surprise fester, head cocking to one side. “I never really had a problem with you, or disliked you,” After this, you were beginning to understand why he was an asshole sometimes. “It’s all in the past, now. I want us to move forward.”

John’s halfhearted smile oozed with sincerity, a genuineness rarely seen by others. “I can do that.” Even still, he wouldn’t blame you if you had some sort of gripe against him, but you were kind — you were good, even if you didn’t think so.

His gaze hasn’t left you, cerulean hues fluttering over your countenance; you’re beautiful, eyes beset by kindness, half-dried tresses strung over your crown. The shirt you’re wearing is a size too big, sweatpants baggy, too.

He’s acutely aware of how obvious he’s being, ogling you; he always thought you were pretty, but in the bathroom’s faint glow, you’re stunning. You weren’t subtle either, he knows this, catching your shrewd gaze as it lingers on his arms.

John’s hands reach for his shirt, black spandex all wrinkled, balled up, stained with dried blood. The tension becomes unusually thick, mere embers kindled to life, now a fire that he doesn’t know if he can extinguish.

“Can I ask you something?” Your inquiry pierces through the tenuous silence, and there’s some momentary relief you gain from it.

“Yeah.” John’s tone is barely above a whisper, warm; as if he’s trying to calm himself down, ease the tension. With his shirt still clenched in one hand, he’s offering you his undivided attention.

With arms loosely folded over your chest, your fingers idly pluck at frayed stitching on your sleeves, a fleeting distraction. “Why were you always indifferent towards me, if you didn’t hate me?” You’re not accusatory, just curious.

Shit — John’s mind is scrambling for an answer that doesn’t make him seem strange. He’s got feelings for you, and you’re slowly drawing them out into the open; he doesn’t know how to handle it.

“Sometimes it’s easier for me to not let somebody in,” He shrugs, gaze wavering, flickering toward the ground. The vulnerability is something he’s still growing accustomed to — rawness of pain, feeling his emotions, choosing the right way to cope. “Because of what’s happened.”

Even then, his explanation still feels like he’s covering up for something else. Nevertheless, you let it rest, offering him a threadbare smile. “We don’t judge here, if you haven’t learned that already,” You sigh. “I’ll be here for you, if you choose to let me in.”

He already has — he’s appreciative, nodding as a display of gratitude before he finds your gaze again. “Thanks.” John smiles despite himself, swallowing down the words that want to escape him.

Silence settles between, the same tension simmering like before, causing you to shift your weight. He’s staring again, but you’re oblivious to it this time, angled away, trying to figure out what to do next.

Chewing at the inside of your cheek, your shoulders begin to slouch with relaxation. “I should probably go — you need rest.” You blurt, fumbling over your words, maintaining a sheepish smile as you shuffle toward the door.

John doesn’t really want you to leave; and he knows it’s selfish of him. His lips part, as if to ask you to stay, but he’s frozen, rooted in-place. Still, he nods, quietly resigning to letting you go back to your room.

His feet feel anchored to the floor, each step a drag as he trails after you, following you to the doorway. He’s quiet, still deliberating, turning over every word, every action within his mind. John comes up short, watching as you stop to say something else.

The closeness is sudden, wracked with tension; you’re nearly brushing arms with him, gooseflesh crawling along your spine. You’re both reaching for the door panel simultaneously, fumbling, fingers ghosting over one another; you recoil like you’ve been burned.

In the slim proximity, he catches a whiff of your shampoo — vanilla and peach, something sweeter, causing his jaw to tick. He’s looking again, unable to stop himself, gaze wandering over your body, appreciative; he grips the door frame as a distraction.

When you catch his stare, it burns you, something incendiary, as if he’s searing you into his mind. A subtle hitch forms within your throat, and you’re prepared to tell him goodnight, end it there — but you won’t move.

Silence stretches on, the sort of contemplative quiet before the onset of a storm, the deep breath before the plunge. Bodies linger within arm’s reach, screaming, and you have the audacity to stare at him, doe-eyed.

Then, you say his name, a feather-light whisper, gentle and placating. It barely registers, but he hears it, notices the parting of your lips, the way you haven’t recoiled from the closeness.

John’s mouth is suddenly pressed against yours in a heated frenzy.

A sharp inhale splits your diaphragm, lungs quaking, filled with a sudden surge of ecstasy when he kisses you. There’s a gasp stuck in the back of your throat, swallowed by the snare of his mouth.

His lips are unexpectedly soft, a stark contrast to the sharpness of his smart mouth. There’s a charged passion that echoes beyond the kiss, as if he’s walking the fine line of restraint.

Bewildered, your head is spinning, brain foggy, as if someone knocked you out. Left reeling, you don’t know what to say, what to do. Though, you’re receptive, mouth shyly moving against his, hands frozen at your sides.

When he pulls away, gauging your reaction, you appear as shocked as he does.

Each breath is labored, wrought with the sudden sting of exhilaration, butterflies beginning to pool within your belly. “I’m sorry.” John’s voice is low, a pleasant hum within your ear, but you don’t seem upset by what he did.

“Don’t be.” Without pause, your lips fly to meet him again, reciprocating the kiss, one that seems sluggish and passionate instead of frantic.

He’s kissing you back, hand dropping from the door to your hip, calloused digits caressing you through your shirt. The gesture ignites a fire within your bones, unable to stifle your mounting excitement.

Shyly, your hands move toward his chest, soft like velvet, smoothing over his pectorals as he presses you up against the door. A low groan vibrates through his chest, reveling in the feeling of your skin touching his.

There’s a poised strength coiled within his body, firm, flesh and blood, chest rising and falling underneath your hands.

His kiss is disarmingly gentle, something unexpected, but not unwelcome. You feel his body nudge against yours, distance now nonexistent.

You don’t know what’s gotten into you, gotten into him, but you’re enjoying yourself — you want him, need him, starving for contact.

He tastes metallic, an amalgamation of copper and a natural musk. Digits idly smooth over the coarse, blonde hair that covers his chest, descending toward his groin. The thought alone makes your knees weak.

Each kiss sends you spiraling, clawing for his mouth, leaving you ragged, desperate for his touch. You can’t remember the last time someone kissed you like this — even then, your experience is thin.

His scruffy countenance melds with yours, bleeding heat, kissing you with enough vigor that it prompts you to hold onto him. Your heart gallops, races — it’s quick and erratic, beating in your ears.

Recoiling from the kiss, your fingers tremble, deftly tracing over his collarbone, over scar-kissed skin, over faint clutches of freckles. “John, I — Are you sure?” You whisper, hoarse, afraid that he might regret it all in the morning.

“Wouldn’t have kissed you if I wasn’t sure.” John murmurs, voice low, curling thickly as his hands rub circles into your hips. He’s strong, secure — you didn’t expect to feel so comfortable with him. “I’ve thought about it for a while.”

His lips make contact with your jaw, mouth clamoring over your skin, kissing the spot beneath your ear. Flush to you, his confession makes your bones lurch, and you wonder what else he’s thought about, too.

Flustered, you’re quick to melt into him, visibly smitten, as if you’ve wound yourself into a tight knot. John notices, mouth twitching into a smirk as he places a string of kisses beneath your jawline.

“John …” A soft mumble rolls from your tongue, hands beginning to trail from chest to shoulders, anchoring yourself to him. His beard burns against your flesh, a pleasant scratch, reminding you that he’s real, this is real.

Warm breath feathers over your throat, your jaw, your cheek — he’s still smirking, too. “You’re getting shy on me.” He mumbles, able to taste the heat that bristles from your flesh. A hitch forms within your throat, his remark making you burn.

“No,” Posturing a weak defense, your body succumbs, lips parted to make room for a dizzying sigh. “I’m not.” It’s pathetic, your retort, but he’s still grinning as if he’s caught you in a trap, attempting to reign in the smug attitude.

“Right.” John’s cadence is dangerously low, little more than a pleasant husk that scratches the back of your brain. He’s teasing you still, cerulean hues alight with mirth, fingertips barely skirting underneath your shirt.

He’s charming — too charming, and it makes your flesh burn with an embarrassed heat. His lips plume over your throat, hips brushing against yours, and that’s when you feel it. Something firm through his kevlar pants, briefly grinding against your pelvis.

A noise echoes from John’s throat, somewhere between a grunt and groan, causing you to smile, as if you’ve discovered his secret. “Already?” It’s playful, sure, but you’re simultaneously flattered that it didn’t take much work.

It’s his turn to blush, scarlet crawling over handsome features, red spreading towards his neck. “Can’t help it,” John mumbled, gaze briefly meeting yours. “You’re beautiful.” His low timbre made you shiver.

Unable to smother your smile, you urge him closer for another kiss, digits clamoring for the nape of his neck, toying with the blonde hair there. Each entanglement of lips seems to grow in fervor, charged with mutual excitement, passion.

His hands are fisted in your shirt against, giving it a soft tug, as if silently asking you for your permission. Mouths continue to clash, a mess of lips and teeth, tongue when John initiates it, eliciting a moan from your maw.

With a brief nod, he breaks from you, only to assist in removing your shirt, tossing it elsewhere in his room. You aren’t wearing a brassiere, which catches his attention, stopping in his tracks as he admires your physique.

“Jesus,” John sighs, rapturous, noticing the doe-eyed look you’re giving him again. Lips part, jaw unclenched as he not-so-subtly ogles your collarbone, letting it drift toward your chest. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Swallowing your anxiety, you feel yourself melt beneath his stare, incendiary enough to turn you to cinders where you stand. “The thought hasn’t crossed my mind.” Barely above a whisper, your gentle teasing evokes a half-smile from him.

A huff leaves him, hand steady as he kneads into your hip, dipping lower, grasping at your haunch as he lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his hips. You’re still kissing him, held aloft by John’s arms, bearing your weight without effort.

He carries you to his bed, gray sheets already disheveled, laying you down as he crawls on top of you. A soft exhale whistles through your nose, arousal beginning to coalesce between your thighs, warmth pooling in your belly.

“You sure?” John murmurs, wanting to ensure that you’re certain about this. He is, but he wants to make sure that all cards are on the table. He’s not used to this, to showing vulnerability, but it feels comfortable with you.

“Yeah, I am,” Gazes twine together, the only illumination being the glow from the bathroom, blanketing you in swirls of orange and shadow. “I want you, John.” Your admission is saccharine, steeped in a warmth that he clings to, savors.

Christ, he wants you, too — craves you more than air, cerulean hues glistening with a thinly-veiled ardor. It’s a sudden shift from how things were before, but the tension had finally come to a boiling point, and he was glad that it had.

Mouths connect instantaneously, eliciting a pleading moan from your throat, swallowed by his kiss. Your legs drop, spread apart to accommodate for his frame, lean muscle wedged between your thighs.

His palm kneads into your calf, dragging to the crook of your knee, caressing you over your baggy bottoms. Your hands thread against the nape of his neck, taking handfuls of his blonde tresses, ensuring that you weren’t rough with him.

Chests brush against one another, firm muscle exuding warmth, peaks of your breasts ghosting over his pectorals. Each kiss rips the air from your lungs, leaving you reeling, gasping as you feel his tongue prod against yours.

A whine bubbles from your throat, smitten, tongue shyly mingling with his as the kiss turns into a mess of passion. Your fingers are carding over the back of his skull, slipping over his hair as his teeth catch upon your bottom lip.

John grunts, the tent in his pants grinding recklessly against your core, friction causing both of you to writhe. As if to torment him, you roll your hips forward, evoking a groan from him, his gaze pleading with you to stop.

“Don’t,” He warns, strained, attempting to hold himself together. Your mouth quirks into a smile, one that he feels even as he kisses you again, your palm splaying over his shoulder. “Can I take these off?”

His hands curl into your sweatpants, fingers teasing the waistband as he waits for you to consent. As soon as you nod, accompanied by a breathy ‘yes’, he’s tearing into them, the stitching splitting apart beneath his inhuman strength.

A gasp slipped from your mouth, writhing beneath him to free yourself from the fabric, kicking them to the floor. John marvels at the sight of you, your body something perfect, malleable within his grasp, mouth planting a kiss against your jaw.

Cool air plumes over your heated flesh, offering some alleviation, a reprieve from the fever-pitch of your body. John’s hand smooths over your leg, squeezing into your thigh, digits flicking over the hem of your panties.

The brief gesture makes your head spin, desperate for him to touch you. He’s already got an idea in his head, calloused fingers rough like leather as he drags his hand between your legs.

Knuckles ghost over your clothed cunt, feeling the tangle of damp cotton, the way your throat sputters with a subtle gasp. Your thighs twitch, knees trembling on either side of him as your nails trace over the back of his neck.

“Christ,” He huffs, forehead nearly flush against yours, watching as you squirm from the brief caress. John repeats the motion, feeling your nails dig harder into his skin, mouth screwed open. “You like that?” His murmur makes you feel weak.

With a nod, you want more, hips urging into the friction of his hand. To your delight, he doesn’t torment you, doesn’t make you work for it as his fingers slip beneath your panties.

Two fingers stroke along your cunt, gathering the warm slick there with one sluggish swipe. To your utter bewilderment, he lifts his digits to his mouth, sucking them clean before he lavishes your throat in a myriad of kisses.

“John, please.” Moaning his name, the sight he just treated you to is sure to be burned in your mind forever, causing your thighs to rub together. Kissing a trail down your neck, he finds your sternum, mouth voracious, ceaseless.

A boyish grin settles onto his features, deriving enjoyment from your reaction, continuing to worship your flesh in rapturous kisses. No inch of skin is safe as he descends, lips pluming over your breasts, your ribs, navel; lower, and lower again.

You taste sweet, as if your skin oozed with sugar, and he’s savoring every piece of you, kisses steeped in a disarming reverence. His beard tickles your flesh, goosebumps cascading down your spine as he makes it to your waist.

His muscles flex, pulled taut as he crawls lower, face hovering beside your hip as he eases your panties down, letting them creep over your thighs. Everything feels hot, body set ablaze, arousal coalescing against your cunt.

Lips press to your thigh, shoulders creating space, bullying your legs apart. Digits flex, trembling as they lower to card through his tresses, gaze ensnaring with his own, causing you to shiver.

John kisses a trail over your inner thighs, toward the glistening heat at your apex, listening to your breath hitch. It’s labored, wrought with exhilaration as your back begins to arch.

That ghost of a cocksure grin feels like a hot brand against your thigh, softening when you make a strangled, pleading noise. Nearly prone against the sheets, he lets your legs recline against his shoulders, hands gripping your hips.

The first rake of his tongue over your cunt is agonizing, hot embers, scorching against your flesh as he laps traces the length of your slit. It’s sluggish, exploratory — he’s keen to know what makes you writhe.

With parted lips and eyes wrenched shut, a needy moan splits past your throat, unable to keep quiet. John’s chest stirs with a low grunt, greedy tongue deftly splitting past your folds, tasting you with a sudden fervor.

Still, he’s gentle, disarmingly so, careworn palms massaging into your hips, keeping you slotted against his face. The scruff of his blonde beard scratches ragged over the inside of your thighs, sandpaper to silk, the sensation pleasant.

John eases you into it, committing every detail of your body to memory; hoping there’s a next time, thumbs tracing circles into your skin. Lapping against your core, his ministrations slowly gather haste, nose grazing your clit.

A myriad of moans leave you, attempting to keep the sound hushed, as to not alert any unwanted attention. Your legs tense, flex on either side of his head before his shoulders nudge you apart again, mouth dragging over your cunt.

He maintains something of a rhythm, attempting to walk the line of restraint, as to not overwhelm you. Your body rattles beneath him, spasmodic tremors of delight rolling down your spine, waves of bliss felt all over, ebbing through your veins.

One hand haplessly fists at the sheets, fingers curled so tightly that you want to rip it apart. He’s too good at this, which surprises you — he doesn’t give that impression, initially.

The room feels like a furnace, bodies bleeding heat, each breath hoarse, tight with rapture. His mouth is a thing of perfection, pleasuring you as if it’s his sworn duty, tongue lapping at every inch of your cunt.

John’s gaze flutters from the task at-hand to your countenance, contorted into an expression of ecstasy, effortlessly pretty. His heart skips a beat; you’ve got him wrapped around your finger.

You’re wound up, coiled over and over again, into a tangle of heat, furled desire that’s begging to be released. Carding through his tresses, you gingerly scratch at his crown, briefly tugging on his hair, hips wantonly urging into his mouth.

“G—God, John,” A sheepish moan falls from your mouth, coupled with a sharp inhale that rips through your diaphragm. Your cunt clenches pathetically around nothing at all, back arched from the mattress. “So good at this.”

It’s an inkling of praise, but it’s enough, evoking some hunger from John, who's eager to please. The tent in his tactical pants is borderline painful, erection grinding against the bed in a pitiful attempt to alleviate some of the friction.

Driven to the brink, you feel as if you’re beginning to toe the line of some steep plunge, his lips urging you closer to a release. Everything feels hot, as if you might combust, arousal coalescing between your thighs.

John has you pinned down, nose ghosting over your folds, tongue still ceaselessly lapping at your core until there’s a shift in rhythm. He presses a kiss to your clit, listening to the tremor in your exhale, feeling your legs tense.

Teeth catch across your bottom lip, biting down with an absent pressure, digits beginning to lightly curl against his scalp. His name emerges from your mouth again, desperate and wanton, breathy as you squirm.

“You’re easy to rile up.” John murmurs from between your legs, a breathy chuckle floating from his chest when your fingers pull on his hair. He plants a reverent kiss to your thigh, teasing, but the break doesn’t last for long.

If it weren’t for his lips pursing around your clit, you might’ve clawed for a retort, but he rips any remark from your throat. The sudden ripple of bliss sends you reeling, choking on a simpering whine as you shift beneath him again.

His mouth gingerly laps at that sensitive clutch of nerves, shockwaves shattering through your body, tingles of ecstasy following suit. A strangled moan snares in your throat, slipping through when he drags his tongue along your cunt.

He’s right, though — you are easy to vex, and he’s mapping you out as if you’re intimately familiar to him already. John’s mouth is voracious, tongue endlessly greedy, eating you out as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

You’re getting close, body being pushed to a blissful oblivion, the white-hot heat that threatens to consume you. His hand drifts from your thigh to the slick warmth between, thumb seeking your clit like a missile, slowly circling around it.

“Fuck,” You moan, the expletive uncharacteristic of you, but he finds plenty of enjoyment in you saying it. His name is soon to follow, a bedroom hymnal, repetitive as it spills from your tongue, crying out his name to the ceiling. “J—John!”

It’s pathetic how easily he’s got you squirming, tension beginning to unfurl, the knot within your belly stretched to the brink. He’s careful, tender, intimate in a way that makes your features surge with warmth.

“That’s it.” John murmurs, timbre little more than a drawl as he coaxes an orgasm from you, thumb continuing to toy with your clit until you burst. He’s mesmerized, a super-soldier reduced to a lovesick boy, watching you with a thinly-veiled rapture.

With one simple circle of your pearl, you’re gone, ecstasy bleeding from you in one wave, nearly overwhelming. You’re blinded by euphoria, white-hot stars crossing your vision until you’ve melted into the sheets.

Nerves are frayed from bliss, tossed into the throes of pleasure, one that you may not fully recover from. Stars linger still, head foggy, dizzy from a desirous haze as you try to find a scrap of composure.

He tastes you again, one last time, committing it all to memory as he kisses your leg, kneeling in-between your thighs. You’re shaking, chest tight with drawn-out sighs, gazes ensnared, burning with adoration.

“You’re really good at that.” A soft whisper rolls from your lips, appreciative, but John looks like you’ve just called him perfect. He’s starved for praise, reduced to a mere beast, laying at your feet, preening for more.

John’s up on his knees, staring a hole through you, hands reaching for his belt. Driven by both excitement and instinct, you sit up, fingers clamoring with his own as you’re helping to wrestle his belt off, unzipping the front of his tactical pants.

“You drive me crazy,” John groaned, feeling you grow smitten in the wake of his admission, desperate to be inside of you. “Can’t think straight.” He utters, and you know it’s an intentional compliment.

He repositions himself, hunched in, blanketing you with his bulky physique, lean muscle glued to your frame. He’s much larger than you, you realize, listening to the shuffling of fabric, feeling his cock press incessantly against your navel.

You’re intimidated, bewildered by his size, startlingly large, unabashedly so. Swallowing the growing lump in your throat, your hands come to hook around the back of his neck, no space remaining.

As if to ignite the tension further, your mouth catches his, lips locking together in a heated kiss. You can taste yourself, an added layer of debauchery, but he’s groaning into your lips, fisting the pillow near the side of your head.

John’s other hand finds your thigh, kneading into your haunch as he steadies himself, cock heatedly grinding against you. Mouths tangle, clash — it’s a war of teeth and tongue, thirst instead of hunger, as if he needs you more than anything.

Wanton, exhilarated breaths drag between bodies, the warmth of his sigh pluming over your features, his beard ragged against your cheek. His blonde tresses are tousled, disheveled — he’s painfully handsome, kissing all over your mouth.

He withdraws, heads flush together, mere centimeters apart as he adjusts himself, cock nudging against your folds. You’re clinging to him, a twinge of anticipation churning in your belly.

“You alright?” He utters, low and husky beside your ear, actively restraining himself from being too spirited. There’s something intoxicating about the way you’re staring at him; it’s tender, more than he deserves, he thinks.

Slowly, you plant a kiss against the scruff of his jaw, and then beneath, where a yellowing bruise sits. Hands wander to the firm muscle of his shoulders, kneading over freckled skin.

John exhales; a drawn-out, contented sound that releases coils of tension from his shoulders. With a nod of consent, you let yourself get comfortable. He drags his cock over your cunt again, biting back a stifled groan.

“Go slow,” You squeak, body already sore from the mission — he might add to it, if he isn’t careful. His lips seal themselves to your throat, peppering your flesh in a myriad of sweet kisses, nose brushing over your jugular. “I need you.”

Serum-infused blood pumps through his veins, oozing raw strength, but he knows to rein himself in, head bobbing in a brief nod. “Say that again.” John grunts, cock prodding against the warmth of your cunt, preparing to push past.

His head is partially buried into the hollow between throat and shoulder, beard prickling your flesh, a satisfying sensation. An excitable buzz wracks your body, sending tingles all over, a throbbing pulsing from between your legs.

“I need you,” Wantonly, your palm splays over his shoulder-blade, nails digging into his skin, eliciting a low groan from your paramour. “J—John, please!” It’s a plea, a desperate one, spoken through a beguiling cadence, one that winds him into tight knots.

With a shudder, John is thirsty for your embrace, a man lost within a desert, finding his oasis. His forehead nudges beside your temple, hotly grunting into your ear, sending waves of ecstasy through your belly.

His hips slowly urge forward, flushed head of his cock pushing into you with mild resistance. Disarmingly gentle, John doesn’t move quickly or rough, heeding your words as he fists at the pillow, body kissed by perspiration.

The tightness of your cunt drives him to the brink of madness, huffing beside your ear, fighting against baser, lesser instincts. Clinging to him as if he might fade through your fingers, he moves at an agonizing pace, not wanting to hurt you.

He doesn’t, a husky groan ripping through his diaphragm when your hips accidentally roll, feeling his muscles tense beneath your hands. “Jesus,” John grits out, feeling your nails dig crescents into his shoulder. “You’re perfect.”

A moan tumbles from your parted lips, his cock filling you completely, nearly bottoming out as he sinks forward. Intermingled groans and hot sighs tangle in the thin space between, heat against heat.

Your knees squeeze near his waist, legs kept spread apart by his musculature, bodies clawing for one another, ardor thinly-veiled. John’s countenance is contorted into a look of concentration coupled with bliss.

“S’good,” You moan, having adjusted enough, allowing yourself a moment of composure; it won’t last, and you know it. “Move.” Breathy and wrought with exhilaration, you give him the signal to take things further.

John’s resolve is crumbling, foundation swept away in the wake of your affections, and your wanton moan doesn’t make anything easier. Propping himself up on one arm, the other holds steadfastly to your thigh, an anchor.

Foreheads knock together, noses ghosting over one another as he begins to thrust into you, bicep flexing with exertion. The first drag of his hips sends you reeling, and you know that you won’t last long — and neither will he.

A string of hoarse expletives flutter from his mouth, barely above a whisper, setting your bones ablaze as he pulls back and pushes forward.

The fit of him is tight, cock oozing with heat as he draws back again, following through as he jolts forward.

Beneath you, the bed frame creaks — faint, as if it shows some give with the super-soldier on top of you. Your digits coax him in for a kiss, mouths colliding in a messy clash of tongue and needy lips, fire feeding fire.

John groans into your mouth, pushing and pulling, hips urging into yours, cock filling you with each thrust. Between fervent kisses and pleading moans, your head is foggy, dizzy with desire.

He develops a rhythm, the pace steady, each drag of his hips ripping a moan from your mouth, and he earned it. His hand kneads into your thigh, squeezing on occasion when the pleasure mounts, muscles coiled within his stomach.

“Y—You’re perfect,” The praise leaves your tongue as a hoarse whine, a noise that leaves goosebumps trailing over John’s spine. It’s the validation he desperately craves, the veneration, knowing he’s doing something right. “Don’t stop.”

A husky, throaty groan pierces through his chest, the noise making you shiver, arousal slick and warm between your thighs. It makes each snap of his hips easier, cock sinking into you over and over again.

It’s unintentional, his shifting pace; it begins to climb, from drawn-out and steady to needy, rutting into you as if each stroke would be his very last. John is trying to keep himself controlled, but you make it so difficult.

He slows again, the pleasure mounting, a knot that is becoming frayed at either end, prepared to be pulled apart. His cock throbs incessantly, pulsing inside of you, feeling your cunt clench around him.

Perspiration glitters along his brow, glistening along his hairline as he hunches in over you, and you feel all of him, viscerally.

The bed frame rattles in protest, as if bowing to his strength, and he’s already tearing the stitching in the pillowcase beside your head. A soft gasp slips from your lips, his mouth ghosting over yours.

Grunts of ecstasy leave him in droves, cock easing in and out of your cunt as if you’re made for him. John’s countenance is one of bliss and concentration, frustration now dissipated.

Each snap of his hips drags you further into the throes of ecstasy, and he’s nearly there, cock spearing into you. His breathing is growing ragged, raspy as it curls beside your ear, hot breath pluming over your face.

Noises surge in volume, filling his room with the sounds of vigorous lovemaking; he doesn’t care if the team hears anymore. John’s rapturous groans make you shiver in delight, head flush to yours again, the closeness addicting.

Another grunt ripples through his chest, the sound stretched, the rest tapering off as his hips begin to stutter, pace erratic and desperate. He’s close, weighing the odds of finishing inside of you, nearly whimpering when your legs hitch around his hips.

His name spills from your lips like a confessional, sobbing to the heavens, feeling your body begin to unfurl with tension. Bodies move within one another, his cock buried deep, kissing your cervix with each thrust.

From the tension in his muscles alone, you can tell that he’s about to burst, combust like fireworks in your hands. You’re on the pill, and so you urge him closer, wanting him inside of you even still.

When your name emerges from John’s mouth, you’re awestruck, flustered by the way in which he says it so tenderly. “I’m on the pill.” It’s all you’re able to say before he’s swallowing your words, covering your mouth with his.

The kiss is voracious, needy — John is unable to mask how he feels about you, letting it all bleed into tangled lips as he cums. He releases inside of you with a groan, followed by a rush of warmth that blankets your insides.

Tingles of delight wrack your body, a subdued release that seems to twine with his, a muted buzz surging through your bones. John’s hips crawl to a sluggish rhythm, agonizingly slow, as if to absorb the last few traces of friction.

Each breath heaves for composure, shallow and taut with exhilaration in the aftermath, sweat-slick skin melded together. His forehead nestles against yours, labored breathing evening out quicker than yours as he stills.

His spend and your arousal feel slick between your legs, making a mess of his sheets, joined bodies bleeding heat. You’re reeling, slower to recuperate as he pulls out of you with a soft grunt, rolling over to lay beside you.

John doesn’t leave, cerulean hues glued to your countenance, as if his whole sense of gravity has been shifted, changed. It’s hushed, save for your labored sighs, in-tandem with one another.

Wordlessly, he coaxes you closer, muscled arm hooking around your middle, inviting you to lay against his chest. One palm remains splayed, flat against your ribs, soothing you with easy caresses.

“Are you still with me?” John’s wisecrack makes you blunder, a soft laugh escaping you, hand playfully bumping against his chest.

“Yeah,” Unable to smother your smile, you’re delighted to sink into his embrace, keeping your hand on his chest. The hair beneath is something you trace through, over muscle, over old scars and greenish bruises. “I …”

As you trail off, John’s head cranes down enough to brush his lips against yours, the kiss sweet, bristling with a thinly-veiled affection. He lets you finish your thought, watching as you sit up enough to see him fully, perched on your stomach.

“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.” You utter, agonizingly soft, cadence wrought with an amalgamation of sentiments. John’s trying to be better, and it’s something you want to be a part of, if he’ll let you.

Neither did he, admittedly; it’s something John’s willing to admit to. “The thought never crossed my mind,” He murmured, blonde lashes fluttering as his hand cupped your jaw, calloused and careworn over satin skin. “But I’m not perfect.”

“I know, that’s why I like you.” With a dazzling smile, he’s caught right in the crosshairs, lips parting with a placating huff. It turns into a hum of a chuckle, his hand still firm against your side.

In a gentle clamor, his lips find yours, beard tickling your skin again, the sensation wholly pleasant. The kiss lingers, something that feels closer to home, a newfound warmth that the both of you desperately crave.

John’s mouth twitches into a half-smile, a peculiar mirth beginning to touch his eyes. He feels you plant a kiss against his shoulder, and he knows he’s completely screwed — you’re falling, but he’s falling harder.

[samwxlsxon]

❝THAI FOOD.❞

(not my gif)

summary: you and john argue about something petty. he proceeds to fuck you into the floor.

warnings: smut, HATE SEX, oral sex m receiving, fingering, unprotected sex, arguments, pettiness, dirty talk, use of “good girl”, john cheating on his wife

word count: 2.8k

a/n: *john mulaney voice* okay okay okay okay okay okay

please do not read this fic and assume that i am a john walker apologist. if you’ve been following my blog, you’ll know that i DESPISE john walker and everything he stands for, but at the same time…this is dedicated to all the people who found his descent into madness hot, i wrote this fic instead of going to therapy

(and i should really go to therapy)

so uh if this flops i was never here

//////

Keep reading

[samwxlsxon]

Out of Town

“And touch your nipples for me. Give them my love,” he instructs, and his phone makes static noises as you reach for your breasts. “‘Cause I really fuckin’ miss your tits, you know that?”

“I really miss you too,” you sigh softly, teasing your own nipples. Roman’s heart pounds at the comment. He’s certain you didn’t mean to say that, but you’re so addled you didn’t realize your little slip. He tucks your words away, saves them for later. 

Tags - Stepdaddy!Roman, uggghhhh this is a big one. okay. phone/facetime sex, masturbation (m & f), allusions to alcoholism, angst, blow jobs, cunnilingus, shower sex, unprotected freak nasty floor sex, creampie, multiple orgasms, daddy kink. 7k words. A/N - hey guys. thank you so, so much for your patience. i know it's been two fucking months since i last updated stepdaddy but uh....life moves pretty quick when it's got you by the balls and you've felt like you're being hunted for sport every day since january 1st pretty much. so yeah, thanks ♡ i hope this delivers. i know you missed daddy romey. he missed you too.

This hotel room feels lonely. Cold, too. Roman’s in his boxer briefs, his skin and hair damp from his shower, as he paces on the stiff, neatly patterned carpet. Everything about this luxury suite reminds him of how much he misses you. The king sized bed that’s meant to be slept in by two, the bathtub with two seats, two sets of jets. The shower with two shower heads. You should be here. He could’ve taken you with him on this business trip, taken you out on proper dates like real people do.

He’s thinking about that hug you gave him when he left early in the morning about a week ago. You were all sleepy but insisted upon waking up early to see him go. Roman hugged you tightly, savoring the way you just…melted in his arms. “What, are you gonna miss me or something?” he’d murmured softly in your ear. 

“Something,” you replied. 

He’s been texting you this whole time. You’ve been texting him. Playing iMessage games during those boring-ass meetings, competing to see who would beat New York Times’ daily Wordle and Connections puzzles first. Roman texts you a picture of a little green lizard on the back of his hand, and you text him a picture of a goose and a bird-shit covered sidewalk you see while out and about. He laughs.

Fuck, Roman misses you. He really fucking does. He picks up his phone and unlocks it, then opens the phone app. His thumb hovers over your name as he contemplates calling you. Do people like…do people do this still? Just call to catch up? Probably, right? But it’s also probably weird if he does it. Then again, he’s your stepdad and he cares about you and whatever, and he’s calling you.  

You pick up on the first ring. 

“Roman?” 

You sound a little out of breath, maybe? Roman wonders what that’s about “Uh, h-hey, you,” Roman says, pinching the bridge of his nose when his voice cracks. “Hi.”

“Hi.” And annoyed, too.

A silence hangs for a second longer than what’s comfortable. Roman’s not really sure what to say, and neither are you. He clears his throat. “I uh - I had groceries delivered to the house,” he says. “Did you get those? The fuckin’...snacks and whatever.”

And whatever. He added a couple bottles of nail polish to the order. You’re already wearing the colors he picked out, wiggling your toes to watch the pretty color shift. He knows you like your sparkles. 

“Yeah, I got those,” you answer flatly while examining your self-done manicure, shifting in bed. “The nail polish you chose is fucking ugly.” 

“Uh huh,” Roman laughs quietly, picturing you right now.

…But do you actually hate the colors, or are you just - you know. Being you? He wonders, but tries not to think too hard about it. Roman changes the subject then.  “You warm enough over there? Know how to change the thermostat?”

“Yep.” 

“Sleeping alright?”

“Yep.” He doesn’t believe this. 

“And your mom, is she…” Roman trails off, wincing at the sound of you sighing deeply through his receiver. 

“She’s been at Erica’s the past few days.” 

Roman nods. That figures. “Okay. What about food, huh? What have you been eating for breakfast? Did you see I got you some of those-”

“Cereal,” you snap, cutting him off. You hold up your hand closer to your face and frown at the chips in your manicure, and the weird indents in the paint. You should’ve waited until they were dry. “This nail polish is already chipping.”

“Yeah, that tracks. You fuckin’ sound like you’ve been eating just cereal.” Roman stops pacing. “I need you to be eating real shit, okay? Real fucking food. Don’t be a dick and eat just fucking butter noodles.” 

Roman can hear you scoff on the other end of the phone. He can picture it perfectly: the way you’re probably glaring, your lips pressed together in a thin line, the twitch of your jaw as it clenches. He’s patient with you, but to a point. It’s been a long fucking week, and he’s reached that point. He doesn’t know what he expected when he called you but he knows he didn’t expect whatever this is.

“Just fuck off, Roman.” 

Roman goes quiet, taken aback. You’ve told him to fuck off a million times, but usually with sarcasm lacing your tone. Or at the least, when Roman deserves to be told to fuck off. But tonight, what’s he doing to you that’s so deserving of your contempt? “Yeah? Fuck off, huh?” Roman switches the hand he holds his phone with. “What’s your fucking deal? I’m just trying to talk to you. Can I not talk to you anymore? Is that what this is?” 

The hurt in Roman’s voice has you feeling guilty immediately. You didn’t actually mean any of that, and you’re not truly mad at him. It’s just been complicated since he’s been gone. You miss him, you miss your routine with him, and you, well…

“Wait - I’m sorry,” you sigh. “Don’t go.” 

“No, it’s fine. I’ll fuck right off, alright? Wish granted. Goodb–”

“Don’t go,” you repeat. “It - it’s not you, Roman, I’m sorry for being like that. I just…” Roman sits down on the edge of his neatly made bed and bounces on the mattress as he waits for you to continue. “It’s nothing, just forget it. It’s…yeah. Nothing. You can…yeah - fuck off, I guess,” you tell him quietly, “I’m really sorry.”

Roman’s brows furrow. “Hold on. What’s nothing?”

“Nothing,” you say tightly. You twirl your little purple vibrator between your fingers, thinking back to the first time Roman fucked you. You haven’t used your vibrator since that night, but you just might tonight. “I’ll text you tomorrow.”

“I smell bullshit. C’mon,” Roman says. “Fess the fuck up.” 

“No. You’re gonna make fun of me.” 

Roman’s ears perk up at that, a crooked smile curling up at the corner of his mouth. “Well, yeah, but I always make fun of you, dummy. So tell me anyway. I’m not - you know - fucking off until you do.” 

Roman waits patiently for you to summon the words, still bouncing a little on the hotel bed. Finally, you speak.  

“I haven’t been able to come since you left.”

Ohhh. There it is. Amused, Roman sits still, quirks an eyebrow and fully smiles. “Oh yeah?” he purrs, “Is that why you’re all pissed off?” You answer him with an affirmative hum. He scoots back on his mattress, reaching under his boxer briefs to palm himself. “Are you sure you’re doing it right?”

“Roman, come on.”

“Just asking. It’s just a simple, friendly, no-ulterior-motives-at-all question.”

His answer makes your heart pound a little harder. “I am positive I’m doing it right,” you answer, now smiling at the direction the conversation turned. 

“I dunno…I think,” Roman says, “That it sounds like you need Daddy’s help.” You adjust in bed, then spread your legs. You hold your phone between your shoulder and your ear as you reach for your clit beneath your panties, breath hitching in your throat. “Oh my god, are you doing it right now? You’re totally fucking yourself.”

“Mhm. Well, trying to,” you mumble. 

“You’re shameless. Stop it,” Roman demands, squeezing his cock as he works himself. “And touch your nipples for me, hm? Give them my love,” he instructs, and his phone makes static noises as you reach for your breasts. “‘Cause I really fuckin’ miss your tits, you know that?”

“I really miss you too,” you sigh softly, teasing your own nipples. Roman’s heart skips at the comment. He’s certain you didn’t mean to say that, but you’re so addled you didn’t realize your little slip. He tucks your words away, saves them for later. He’s already rolling them over in his mind, listening to them over again.

“Keep touching them,” he says. He pulls his cock from the confines of his underwear, now fully erect. He rubs the tip with his thumb and collects the small amount of precum there, then sucks his finger. “Mm. Had a long day,” he mumbles. “Another fuckin’ meeting. We had sandwiches catered for lunch. What’d you eat for lunch, sweetheart?”

“Forgot to eat lunch,” you sigh, licking your fingers before tracing them around your areolas. Your nipples pebble up under your own touch, and you hum at the gentle, tingling pleasure. 

“That’s a shame,” Roman says. “Only girls who remember to eat right get to cum. So you’re shit outta luck, then, huh?”

“No!” you giggle, squeezing the flesh of your breasts. “I’ll eat something real for dinner, I promise. Just…just…”

“Just what?”

You moan quietly, sliding your hand down your body. “Can I touch my clit, Daddy?” you whisper. 

“Ohhh, I suppose. Only ‘cause you asked so nicely,” Roman replies. He brings his palm to his mouth and spits into it, then pumps his cock slowly. Part of him wants to make you torture yourself at his instruction, but Roman decides against it. He needs this as much as you do. 

You reach under your panties and slide your fingers down your slit, sighing at how much wetter you are now. And all it took was a little sweet talking from Roman. 

Roman leans over the side of the bed, grabbing something from his suitcase. He clutches it in one hand as he strokes himself with the other, holding his phone tightly between his ear and shoulder, the same as you. “Oh, fuck,” he moans. “Wait - what the fuck are we doing?”

“What?” you pant, “Rome–”

“We have FaceTime, for fuck’s sake,” Roman says, switching to that feature. Your screen changes then and it’s Roman’s gorgeous face splitting into a smile when he sees you. “There you are.” 

“Oh, hi,” you giggle. You set one of your pillows down at the edge of the bed, then place your phone against it so Roman can get a full view of you. You’re wiggling your fingers under your panties, you fucking tease. 

“Ooh, smart fucking cookie, that’s a good idea.” Roman does the same, then goes back to stroking his cock. He’s quieter than usual, not really focused on telling you exactly how to touch yourself. You thought that’s what you needed from him, but his presence is enough, even digitally. Roman watches you in his little screen, dipping your fingers at your slick hole before dragging them up again to circle your clit. “Better?” he pants.

“No,” you breathe. “Doesn’t feel as good when I have to do it myself.” 

Roman lets out a loud laugh, and god does he look fucking gorgeous like that. Legs spread, fucking his fist. Head thrown back against his pillow, wearing a smile as he moans freely. If you were with him - really with him - you’d see the pretty flush on his cheeks and chest. “You’re fucking spoiled.” 

You and Roman touch yourselves together until you’re cumming at the same time, thousands of miles apart. You slip your panties off and show Roman the way you’ve soaked them, and gasp when Roman shows you that he’s done the same - his favorite pair of your panties are stained in his own cum. “You stole my panties?” you laugh. “That’s what you were holding?”

“Mhm.”

The post orgasm haze feels good. You catch up with Roman and the conversation flows naturally, until it doesn’t. Poor connection on his end, then on yours. You should be snuggling right now. You can’t fucking wait until he’s home. 

“Hey,” Roman says, his face frozen on your screen. “I’m gonna switch to my iPad, okay? My phone’s too fuckin’ hot. God, I hate iPhones. Gonna call you right back.” 

Roman grabs his iPad from his suitcase and opens the black leather case, and it doesn’t ask him for a passcode. Odd. He barely uses the fucking thing anyway. It’s not until he accidentally taps the photos app instead of FaceTime that he realizes he brought your mom’s iPad, and not his. They have the same case, anyway.

The photo library is all full of pictures from your mom’s phone. Selfies, pictures of her manicures she paid for with Roman’s credit card, weird and blurry photos she’s accidentally taken. He chuckles. There’s all sorts of pictures of her and Erica out and about together, at bars and concerts that he doesn't even realize she attended - not that he gives a shit. There’s a video in her and Roman’s shared bedroom - Roman opens this, and his eyebrows raise when he presses play. Your mom and Erica are naked and drinking from a champagne bottle, kissing and dancing and fucking. His jaw drops, and he lets out a scoff. He’s not…not mad, really. He cares fuck all about your mom and whether or not she’s faithful - it’s not like he is, anyway. Roman simply files this away, then calls you back. 

Your heart pounds when you get a call from your mom’s iCloud email address, and answer it cautiously. Relief is not strong enough of a word to describe how it feels to see Roman’s face instead of hers. “Oh, thank god. You grabbed Mom’s iPad, I’m guessing?” You’re no longer in your bedroom, instead in the kitchen. You stick a popsicle in your mouth, then head back to your room. 

“Mhm. Hot, by the way,” Roman says, smiling when you make a show of sucking on the treat, moving your tongue in all sorts of lewd manners while cherry-flavored juice drips down your chin. When you’re back in your room, Roman clears his throat and scratches the back of his head. He’s quiet again.  

“Rome? Everything okay?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah,” Roman lies, going back to the video. You watch him on your screen, his eyes narrowed and not looking at your image, pressing his lips together as he thinks. “Uhh…kinda weird - weird question,” he begins. 

“Uh huh…?”

“Your mom and Erica…?”

“They’re totally fucking.” 

Roman raises an eyebrow. “You knew?”

You pull the popsicle from your mouth with a quiet pop. “It’s obvious, Roman.” 

“Okay. Well,” he says, “Take a wild guess at what I just found.” 

Roman tells you about the sex tape and giggles at all the disgusted noises and faces you make, begging him not to describe it any further. “What do we even like - do we do anything?” 

“I mean, do you give a shit? I don’t give a shit,” Roman says, running his hand through his hair. It’s all floppy now that it’s dry and there’s no styling cream in it. You love it like that.

“I guess I don’t either, as long as she keeps whatever fucking comments to herself. God. Whatever. More power to her,” you say. 

“I’m watching it again,” Roman says. “You totally have the same ass.” 

You giggle and groan, “Oh my god, shut the fuck up. Shut up,” you tell him, and Roman does. It’ll be another one of your shared inside jokes or something. 

After a few more minutes, you yawn. Roman yawns too. “Hey, wait a sec,” he says. “Did you ever eat dinner?” 

“Oh, you know. I had that popsicle,” you mumble all sleepy. 

“You said to me that you’d eat a real dinner,” he says. “Not a fucking popsicle.” 

You smirk, laying on your side, eyes gently closing. “I’m gonna have a good breakfast,” you tell him. 

“Uh huh. You better. I wanna see fuckin’ protein and fruit and all of that shit on your plate. You promise me.” 

“Okay, okay. I promise.” 

There’s a soft, electronic hum from the silence as you begin to drift off to sleep, your bedroom lights still on. With Roman’s phone is now cooled, and he uses an app to turn those fancy, overpriced lights off, then turns the lights off in his own hotel room. He puts the iPad on the pillow next to the one he rests his head on, chuckling as you snore a little. 

One more week. 

-

Like a dog, you wait by your window for Roman to come home. When his driver pulls up to the curb, you sprint down the stairs and past the kitchen where your mom and Erica hang out together, nearly tripping as you rush to greet him in the doorway. You almost tackle him when you wrap him in the tightest hug you can muster, kissing his neck as many times as you can sneak in, running your hands down his back and arms. “Okay,” he laughs, toeing off his shoes, unbalanced as you restrict his movement. “Yeah, it’s me. Daddy’s home or whatever. You gonna fuckin’ cream your pants?”

“Yes,” you answer, burying your face in his neck. He smells different, like laundry detergent he doesn’t usually use to wash his clothes with. You can’t decide if you like it or not.

“Give me a fucking second, Jesus Christ. I’m here. I’m not leaving ag–” You shut him up with a kiss that startles you both, so brazen in such an open space. “Watch it,” he warns, and your eyes widen. Roman kisses you again, pinches your ass, and swallows your squeal of delight as he smiles against your lips. 

You follow Roman into the kitchen where he helps himself to a snack, quickly picking off of some fucking expensive-ass charcuterie board your mom had ordered. He idly wonders how much that set him back. Whatever.

“Roman’s home!” your mom slurs, swaying in the barstool in front of the kitchen island. Erica’s next to her, smiling politely. Already, there’s something tense in the air.

“Uh…hi,” he says quietly, confused. Roman can’t remember the last fucking time your mom said hi to him. 

They’re listening to some old, obnoxious music on a Bose bluetooth speaker Roman had given your mother for her birthday some years ago. Erica’s nursing a glass of wine, your mom’s on her second glass of vodka and Gatorade, which isn’t smart. For an alcoholic, she’s a lightweight. 

“You miss us, Roman?”

Roman reaches for a clementine and begins peeling it. “Uh huh, yep. Sure did. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, you know. However it goes.” He splits the clementine down the middle and mindlessly hands you a half, something he’s always done. You watch your mom look Roman up and down, her eyes glossy and narrowed at him. He raises his eyebrows at her while biting into a cracker. “Everything okay?”

“He’s fucking handsome, isn’t he?” she drawls, sliding out of her seat. Roman makes a face at the comment. So does Erica. “Think he fucked someone while he was gone?” 

Zero to fucking one hundred. But that’s how it goes with her though, right? Erica seems weirded out, oddly enough. She laughs awkwardly and says your mother’s name, her half-hearted attempt at reeling her in. You’d think she’d be used to this, and maybe tolerates it. “Oh, c’mon. Be honest. You think he’s gonna trade me in for the younger model?”

You don’t say anything. Roman doesn’t say anything. Not even Erica speaks. Everyone seems to just know protocol, to let her get her belligerence out of her system. It’s like dealing with a toddler. If you don't entertain them, they lose interest and move onto the Next Big Thing. 

It still stings to be around, and it makes your heart pound so hard you can feel it in your stomach. She’s not a happy woman when she’s sober, but she’s worse when she’s drunk. Picking fights that nobody wins, but does it matter? She craves the fight, and she’s looking for it right now. It’s odd that Roman of all people is her target tonight, and not you. Not that Roman fucking cares. What’s she gonna do to him, anyway? You look at him nervously, and he looks back at you quickly, sympathetically. He says nothing, and yet you know what he’s telling you. No, she doesn’t know shit. And she wouldn’t give a fuck even if she did. She’s not even gonna remember this in the morning. 

It’s that touchy sort of moment during her inebriation in which you know things could go so, so fucking wrong, but if the three of you all play your cards right, it’ll pass.

Your mom rounds the island and kisses Roman on the cheek, all fucking sloppy and just…gross. He scrunches his face a little at the scent of vodka on her breath, and that cloying, awful perfume she wears. A $600 price tag doesn’t make it a good fragrance. He likes your expired Bath & Body Works sprays better. 

He gently avoids her attempt at a hug. “Oh, you know - you’re fucking sweet, uh….But I’m fuckin’ - I’m gross. You don’t wanna hug me.” Roman squirms away from her touch. “You know what, I’m gonna shower and then I’ll be back, alright?”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” Roman lies, then turns to you. “And you,” he says, “Are gonna help me with my fuckin’ bags. It’s about time you did some hard work for once in your life, huh? Fuckin’ spoiled-ass brat. C’mon.” Roman pats your back awkwardly, then wraps his arm around your back and ushers you toward the doorway. We’re fucking out of here.

“Oh, please. You can do it yourself, Rome,” your mom says. “Be a fucking man. We’re having a girls’ night.” 

Roman doesn’t argue, knowing it’s a lost cause. he takes his hand off your body, looking defeated. You smile sympathetically at him, lips pressed together tightly. You tried, Roman. It’s okay. I’ll be fine. He sighs before he spins on his heel and walks toward the staircase, anxiously scratching at the back of his head. Fuck. 

Your mom waves Roman off with a dismissive flick of her wrist and a middle finger to match, already focusing her attention back to you and Erica. “Girl’s night,” she repeats, taking her place back at the kitchen island. You laugh, as if that was even a thing - this is a move of hers. Sort of…forcing a situation, social interaction from others. Trying to make herself seem friendlier or more liked than she actually is. You think it’s her loneliness or her control issues, or maybe a combination of the two. She pours more vodka in her glass. “Quit being so fucking weird and sit down, huh? Sit with your mom, for once. You owe me that.”

Your throat tightens as you pull out a stool, and then Erica speaks. “Oh, fuck,” she says. You furrow your brows in confusion when you see she’s looking at you. “I need–”

“What do you need?” your mom slurs.

“My medication. Forgot to take it with dinner,” Erica mumbles, looking around the kitchen. “Where’d I put my purse?”

Your mom looks confused but helps Erica look anyway, stumbling through the kitchen and dining room. Erica says your name, gives you another look. It’s an intentional, lingering stare. Her eyes are wide as she motions toward the room’s doorway. “Help me find it, please?”

“Yeah,” your mom adds, her tone demanding. “Go fucking help her.” 

The perfect out. You never much cared for Erica, and found her to be an enabler of your mom’s drinking and other bad habits, but you’re thankful for her at this moment. You’re curious about what she sees in your mom, why she sticks around…whatever. Not your fucking monkeys, not your fucking circus. 

You head up the stairs to “look” for Erica’s conveniently missing purse, and make a beeline for Roman in his and your mother’s shared bathroom. You’re thrown off by your mom tonight, but this is her, right? It could’ve been worse. And anyway, you don’t even want to think about it right now. You just want to be with Roman. 

So after successfully sneaking away, you tiptoe into your mother’s bedroom, taking quiet, careful steps toward that ensuite bathroom where you can hear Roman showering, like he said he would. The light glows yellow from in between the cracks of the door and the doorframe, a bit of steam pouring out. You open the door quietly, then close it again, conscious to click that little lock into place. 

Roman showers in silence. While you undress, you let yourself watch him. You admire his blurred figure through the glass, those exquisite lines of his body, the perfect cut of his waist and his beautiful ass. He scrubs his hair, then shakes his head a little as he rinses the suds out.

He jumps and yelps when you open the shower door, letting yourself in. “Jesus Christ! Did you forget how to knock, or what?”

“The former.”

The look on his face immediately turns into a smile, his sharp little canines on display. He looks just like a dream, water and delicate soap cascading down his soft and toned body, hair slicked back, eyelashes wet. He’s so relieved to see you, to know you’re away from her, and safe with him. Hopefully you ate enough. He’s not letting you downstairs again tonight.

“Oh, sure. Just let yourself in, yeah. I’m not like, showering or anything. Can’t get five minutes to myself, can I? Is nothing sacred anymore?”

“Please shut the fuck up,” you whisper through a smile. “I don’t understand why you never stop talking.” 

You quiet Roman with a soft kiss, holding the sides of his face as water falls over you both. He matches your kiss, his arms wrapping around your torso. One hand on your back, the other squeezing your ass. You kiss his jaw next, down the lovely column of his neck, his collarbones…

“H-hey.” Roman pulls away from you, searching your face with worried eyes, and holds your cheeks in his hands. “Was everything okay? Are you okay? Was she - did she, like…I tried to - you know. But I didn’t think–”

“I’m okay, it was okay,” you promise. Roman seems to want to know details. “But I don’t wanna talk about it,” you tell him. “Maybe later.”

“Okay. Maybe later.” 

You go back to kissing Roman, sinking into the heat of it, into him. His lips are warm, slick, parting just enough for you to breathe him in. His hands bracket your jaw, thumbs stroking over your cheekbones. 

He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, so slow and deliberate. The taste of him spreads over your tongue—clean, warm. Him. His mouth moves against yours, teasing and coaxing, until you sigh against him, melting under his touch.

Roman hums, low and satisfied, before licking into your mouth—lazily at first, like he’s savoring it. Then firmer, more insistent. The wet slide of his tongue sends a shiver down your spine, heat curling low in your stomach. His grip tightens, fingertips pressing into your skin, his body pressing into yours. You wriggle from his grasp a little, just enough to allow yourself the space to drop to your knees. 

Roman’s cock is already hard. You take him gently in your hand, kissing and licking at the underside of his tip. “Oh, fu - okay. Oh, wow,” he gasps, pushing the wet strands of your hair away from your face. “That’s how it is, huh? How we’re doing things?” 

“Mhm.”

“Someone really fuckin’ missed me, didn’t she? Did you miss Daddy when he was gone, sweetheart?”

You shake your head, and Roman lets out a laugh. He leans back a little, arms outstretched to adjust the shower head, making sure that water’s not spraying you in the eyes or something. He can be sweet like that, a gentleman. Roman groans loudly when you take his head in your mouth and suck him, then reaches for your face and gently holds you, stroking your skin. “Well fuck, whatever then. I missed you,” he admits, staring down at your beautiful, wide eyes. “Kinda.”

Beads of water roll down Roman’s gorgeous body as you take him further into your mouth. You hold the back of one of his thighs, sliding your hand up, up until you’re palming the tight flesh of his ass cheek, using your grip on his body for stability as you work him. You move the hand that’s on your face away, and hold it tightly. Roman gives you a tight squeeze in return. 

“Okay - okay, fuck. I’m not - it’s been a while, you know? I’m not gonna - fuck.”

You push your head forward, drooling on the entire length of his cock. You trace the underside of his shaft with your tongue, drawing sloppy lines as you bob back and forth, lazily fucking your mouth on his cock. 

Roman watches you in admiration, allowing himself to feel enveloped in the pleasure you create. Your eyes are shut as you swirl your tongue around his tip, but you look up at him as you slide down the rest of the way. What a fucking sight. Your mouth and your tongue are both so velvety and warm and wet, and Roman’s cock is beginning to twitch. “Hey–” he squeezes your hand rapidly. “I’m gonna cum, honey. S-stop,” he moans. 

His blunt, short fingernails dig into the skin of your hand as he tries to stave off his release, not wanting this moment to be over just yet. There’s still so much he wants to do with you, to you…fuck. But it’s happening - Roman’s breathing heavily as that feeling blooms deep in his stomach, and he lets out a loud, guttural groan as he cums into your mouth. 

It’s been so long since you’ve tasted that lovely, salty warmth of his. You let it coat your tongue and down your throat as he cums in thick spurts, and you don’t stop sucking until he pushes you away. You swallow every drop of spend Roman gives you before kissing and licking at his balls, running your hand down the elegant lines of his legs. 

Roman pulls you to your feet, panting heavily. You wipe a little soap off of his forehead with his hand still holding yours, then let him go. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” you mumble. 

You open the shower door and take one step onto the fancy bath mat, and are then pulled back into the shower with Roman, his hand gripping your forearm. “You fucking come back here,” he murmurs, tugging you close as he shuts off the water. “Where do you think you’re going, huh? You fucking heathen, dry off first. Jesus Christ.”

You giggle as Roman kisses you, then brushes past you to pull his towel off of the hook. He’s gentle as he dries you off from head to toe, then uses the damp, used towel to pat himself off. “C’mon.” Roman swats you on the ass as he ushers you out of the bathroom, rolling his eyes at your laughter and the giddy little steps you take. You pull him towards the bed, smiling so big. “Yeah, no fuckin’ way. Not that one,” Roman laughs. “It’s been sufficiently christened by your mom and her lover downstairs. I know because I’ve seen it.” 

You scrunch your face, hiding behind Roman as he carefully opens the bedroom door, looking both ways before sneaking into the hall. “You’re so fucking gross,” you tell him. He doesn’t reply beyond smirking and wiggling his brows.

He takes your hand as he rushes to your bedroom, the two of you naked and dripping water on the hardwood floor. Roman stubs his toe and hisses “Fuck!” stumbling into your bedroom and taking you down with him. The fall makes the room shake, and you laugh even harder when he slams the door shut harder and louder than he meant to. “Shut the fuck up,” he says, covering your mouth as he turns the lock. 

Roman keeps you right there on the floor, laying on your plush carpeting as he kneels above you. His smile falls then, replaced with something more serious. His eyes are sparkling and full of life, love as he stares down at you, taking in your body. It makes you feel shy, almost. Insecure. 

Roman lowers himself and kisses you softly, a hand on your neck with his thumb on your jaw. You moan against his lips, arching into his touch as you seek his warmth. His hand slides down your neck, down your sides and up again until he’s palming your breast, gently groping the flesh there. 

He bends and pushes your thighs up and back, his warm breath fanning over your hot, slick cunt. He spreads your lips wide, his eyes flickering from your throbbing, aching pussy up to your eyes, his mouth parted just a little. You swallow hard when Roman runs his thumb up your seam, and let out a shaky breath as he presses his lips against you. 

“I-” Roman says, “Missed you,” mumbling between kisses, nipping at the soft, delicate skin of your inner thighs, “So fucking much.” You’re dripping down yourself, gasping when Roman licks your mess. “Do you know that?” 

“I know. Told me a bunch,” you murmur, propping yourself up on your elbows to look at him. He’s got his arms wrapped around your thighs, keeping your body close to his mouth. Nose buried in that most special place. His damp hair is in his face a little, and you push it out of his way as best you can. Roman licks you from bottom to top, the muscles in his back twitching as he moves his head. “Oh, Roman.” 

He rounds your clit a couple of times before repeating that slow, long lick. There’s a quiet hum of the air conditioner and sweet, wet, breathy noises coming from Roman, but aside from that, the room is quiet. 

Roman pushes you onto your back ever so gently, allowing himself more space to eat you as he pleases. Fuck, he misses the way you taste. It’s something that he couldn’t describe with a gun to his head. So sweet, so musky, so…you. You’re his favorite fucking thing. 

He dips his tongue inside you, tasting your arousal, swirling it around. You reach for his face, tracing your finger along the bridge of his nose, up his forehead until you’re combing his hair and twirling the strands around.

Roman’s face is fucking soaked. He pulls back to wipe your slick onto your inner thighs, then kisses you a little. When he brings his mouth back to your cunt, his fingers join in. Two long, slender digits slide into you, and curl up against that lovely little spot deep inside you. Roman licks your clit and fucks you on his fingers, making you squirm and whine and writhe. “Shh,” he reminds you.

He eats you like you’re the first proper meal he’s had in days, and really, you are. It all builds quickly, blooming deep in your abdomen and rolls down your legs and up your spine. You cum so hard and Roman works you through it, licking and licking until you’re shivering and twitching and gushing into his hand, a light sheen of sweat covering your naked body. 

Roman pulls away from you, licks his palm clean of your arousal and then strokes his cock, fully erect again. He’s not fucking done with you. Not even close. Roman kneels over you and lowers his body, lining up with your entrance. He pushes just the tip in, then pulls out, drags his cock up and down your seam. He repeats the action with his forehead pressed against yours, his smile so wide as you beg for him to just fuck you. “Please,” you whimper. 

“Uh-huh,” Roman grunts, fucking into you in one quick, suave thrust that has you both moaning, catching your breath. You missed him like this. He missed you like this. Just lying here, your cunt wrapped around his cock and kissing his lips would be enough, you think. 

Until he pulls out of you - just a little, and pushes back inside. His cockhead kisses your cervix and brushes past your g-spot on the way there. You moan as he thrusts into you, so slow and deep and intentional. Roman keeps your mouth covered until he decides fuck it, he wants to hear you. Deserves to hear you. 

He loves the way you wrap yourself around his body, clinging so tightly to him. Legs crossed over his hips, one arm hugging his shoulders, scratching at the skin of his back. Your other hand cradles his head. The side of his face is pressed against yours and you make the sweetest, softest sounds together as he fucks you. No words spoken, just taking what you need from one another, savoring the moment. 

The pleasure is blinding for you both, and Roman makes you lean into it. He rubs your clit as he fucks you, bringing you to orgasm once, then twice. He has to hold his breath and bite his lip as you clench around him, trying so hard not to cum yet. He’s all sweaty and his chest and cheeks are flushed bright red. Roman looks almost pained as he tries to keep it together. 

“Roman,” you breathe, holding his face in your hands. “Cum for me.” 

“I know, I know. I don’t - not yet,” Roman pants, taking your hands off of his face. He pins them above your head, squeezing his fingers tightly. 

“Why?” you ask. 

“‘Cause I don’t - fuck. I don’t want this to be over yet, baby,” he admits quietly. You aww at him, smiling at his softness. “Yeah, shut up,” he mumbles, and kisses your forehead as he fucks you apart, breathing hot against your skin. “Just humor me, for fuck’s sake.” 

You roll your hips into his thrusts, coaxing along his release on your own. “Oh, you’re such a fucking–” Roman doesn’t finish the sentence. He grunts as he licks his fingertips, then reaches between your bodies so you can cum with him. When you feel that pleasure deep in your gut, so does Roman. The rapid pulsing of your cunt and the way you soak his cock has Roman making noises louder than he intends to, his orgasm washing over him in such a deliriously heady way. And you, you’re lost in it, riding the waves of your own pleasure as Roman pumps you full of warm, sticky cum, more than he usually does. It spills out of you a little when he pulls you close and flops onto his back, happily pinned beneath you. 

He kisses your neck and hugs you tighter against him when you pull away a little. “Don’t go,” he tells you. “What’s the fuckin’ rush, huh? Just stay with me. Pretend you like me,” Roman jokes softly, looking up at you and pushing some hair out of your face. He swallows thickly as he searches your eyes and rubs your cheekbone with his thumb, hoping you don’t really have to pretend. 

“But your back,” you argue, smiling kindly. “Probably shouldn’t lay on the floor.” 

Roman rolls his eyes. “Alright, fuck you. My back is fine, thanks. Not that fucking old.” He lets you go then, his body already missing the warmth and weight of yours. You offer him a hand as you stand up, but he swats it away and gets up on his own. He flops in your bed, watching as you leave to use the bathroom. He catches his reflection on the TV before he turns it on - hair wild, skin still flushed. 

When you return to him, Roman kisses you. “You’re so pretty,” he says. “You know that?” 

“I know,” you mumble. 

You lay with him as he picks out a show to stream - Always Sunny. He keeps the lights low, running his fingers up and down your back as you drip his cum onto his thigh. It’s a mess that he welcomes.

Uncomfortable, Roman shifts and reaches behind himself to pull something from under his head, one of your bras. “Oops,” you whisper, a little embarrassed. 

Roman folds the bra in half and aims for the laundry basket across your room. “If I make this, you owe me a kiss,” he says. 

“Deal.” 

He misses, tells you to fuck off when you laugh at him, and kisses you anyway. 

The volume on the TV is low, and it’s so quiet and comfortable being here with him. You stare at Roman, watching the screen reflected in his irises. “You have green eyes,” you whisper. 

Roman raises his eyebrows, then looks down at you. “Do I?”

“Mhm...mm-mm.” You change your mind, studying him closer. “No. Maybe? They’re like, hazel-y,” you say. “Well, and also green,” you add. 

Roman smiles, says nothing. You trace the features on his face, committing each one to memory. The freckles and the mole on his cheek that used to be more prominent when he was younger; you’ve seen the pictures. You picture those softer boyish features of his, considering how they’ve matured with his age. The stupid haircut he used to have. You yawn, dropping your hand. 

“You’ve been getting enough sleep lately?” Roman asks, his voice all soft and gentle.

The question throws you off a little. “Are you trying to say I look tired?”

He shakes his head. “Not at all. M’just thinking about you.” 

It’s so profoundly tender and caring, it sort of makes you balk. A beat passes before you shake your head. “No. I don’t always sleep so well,” you answer.

“Yeah. I know.” 

Roman reaches for you, and pushes some hair out of the way. He scratches your scalp, then traces your ears with his fingertips. He’s never done that before. It feels good, and warm, somehow.  

“I felt kind of anxious when you were gone,” you admit, closing your eyes as you nuzzle into his neck. “Just didn’t feel good.”  

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

You shrug, then go quiet. There’s a scene on the TV Roman knows you always laugh at, and he imagines hearing you do so. “Ohh, god. I fuckin’ love you,” he laughs, face heating up when you don’t respond. And then, the quietest of snores. You’re even drooling onto his shoulder. “Oh.” 

You didn’t hear it, but at least Roman said it. He’s known for a while that he loves you, and he wonders if you love him too. Fuck, he hopes. He writes those three words on your arms, your back, your sides. He’ll tell you tomorrow. Make you your special blueberry pancakes, the whole thing. Figure out the next steps later. 

a reblog or an ask is always nice :) i missed you guys. it's been a tough time lately. nice and dirty thots would be kindly welcomed.

romey tags :)

@gaeela-6 @bean-is-reading @slutsoutgutsout

@galarian-weezing-on-prep @cum-a-calla @pastelpinkflowerlife @kolsmikaelson @moth-maam56

@kothku @cult-of-escapism @swiftiegirliepop @bluecookies-and-ink

@kappasbbgirl @magpiepills @highinmiamiii @verstappensrealwife @thesummerpetrichor

@lilipads @luiscarrutherss @baronessvonglitter @myromeow

@doll-0f-flesh @always-andromeda @causesimmer @pedropascalbabygirl

@baloobalee @slimybeth69 @pearlstiare @romanisbrat @callsignwidow @ziggymars

@perpetuallymanic @111melo @veryverycoolgirl @marisemonteiroo

@prettybpdgirl @butuhaventseenmyman @drunkdriverkillerwhale @fawnjaw @fadedviolets @flowercrowns-goodvibes @foursgurlx @hotdadlvr95

[samwxlsxon]

Strawberry Blond

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Pairing: Peeta Mellark/AFAB Reader

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Late one night, you get a call. (4.7k | originally posted on ao3 | Masterlist )

－－－

You know that your relationship can never be normal. 

Even now, when you technically should have peace of mind— and you're out of the arena, out of the Games— there's still the ugly truth that lies beneath it all. The Victor's Village is beautiful in comparison to the rest of District Twelve, but because of the reason why you earned a residence here, you're not sure if you'll ever truly enjoy it. Brick houses with plenty of room, and yet yours is still far too empty, even if you have your family to keep you company. 

Peeta lives alone in his. 

There's always smoke coming from the chimney, and he keeps most, if not all of the lights on. The only room that occasionally has its lights off is his, which is on the second floor. You've woken up in the middle of the night many times and glimpsed the shining evidence that he's still awake. It's not like you get perfect sleep yourself— but you worry, sometimes. 

You do visit him, sometimes. But you've never knocked on his door when it's nighttime. You're not entirely sure why that is; maybe it's because you're afraid of what the cool silence will bring. Maybe it's too intimate. Neither of you are strangers to intimacy, and you've definitely maintained a little of that, but … There's still a certain distance. Away from the cameras, you still struggle to discern what's real and what's not. 

The way he looks at you is certainly real. 

You don't know if you'll ever feel exactly the same way towards him. 

Sure, you do like him. A lot. He makes it easy. He's the type of guy that you could bring home to your parents. He's the type of guy that one would want to come home to every day. Of course, he's a little more reserved, and his eyes are duller, but— he's still Peeta. He's still the baker's boy. Deep down, he'll never lose what made you— and all of the Capitol— fall in love with him. 

Is it really love, though? Or is it just admiration? 

It's something that you think about a lot. You've never said those three words to him when not in front of an audience. And he knows that on those specific occasions, it wasn't real. It was just an act. Maybe when he kissed you, he wasn't acting. Maybe when he looked at you and said those lovely things to you, he wasn't acting. 

You can dream. You can hope. 

However, most of your actual dreams nowadays are just nightmares.  

No golden boy is holding you, shielding you from the awful weather. There's no bright, happy future in which everything turned out right. And there's none of those strange, albeit interesting dreams where your house is upside down and your teacher at school is telling you that somehow, you've suddenly graduated and you're being sent off to the Capitol to become one of them. 

Instead, there's just fire. 

Tonight, you dream of fire. 

Burning bodies that fall from the highest trees. You can vaguely make out who they are— there's a sickening feeling in the pit of your stomach, a primal guilt. Everything around you is blazing, and you know you should try and get out, but your feet are frozen, rooted to the spot. You can't move, even as the flames begin to lick around your ankles. Even if you did run, you wouldn't be able to escape. This has been a long time coming, hasn't it? 

Despite the almost blinding brightness emanating from the fire, everything else is foggy and dark. The only thing you can focus on is the corpses, the trees, and everything coming down around you. Someone shouts your name, but it's muffled like you're underwater. You fail to register it fast enough. 

A scream, crystal-clear. 

You whip around, and there it is. The evidence of your failure. You're helpless to do anything— you can only watch— more screaming, more yelling, more pleads for help— 

There is so, so much blood— 

You're awake, and the blistering heat is gone. 

Gasping, you sit up, struggling for breath. It keeps catching in your throat. Your heart's pounding at a pace that makes your head spin. Dizzy, disorienting. But it used to be worse than this. 

At least you don't wake up sobbing anymore. 

This is still awful, though. Trembling, you wrap your arms around yourself, attempting to regain control. In, out. In, out. Your lungs shudder with the effort, but you keep going. Despite the comfortable warmth of the house, there's still goosebumps prickling up and down your bare skin. Your arms. Your neck. The sheets are tangled around your waist and legs; you almost feel trapped. 

There's no point in closing the curtains, since virtually nobody is in the streets, and the other inhabitants of the Village couldn't possibly look through your windows. When you glance out of the one nearest to your bed, it's almost pitch-black outside. There are no street lamps, after all. You try to focus on the cold, empty houses to distract yourself. 

Finally, your breath slows. Your pulse calms. 

You're still shaking, faintly, but your knees don't give out when you detangle yourself from your blankets and slip out of bed. You consider that a minor victory. 

Taking care not to make too much noise, you head downstairs. The polished stone is cold underneath your feet, but it's grounding, in a way. It settles you back down to earth. For a short while, you frequently lost your way due to the sheer size of the house, but now you know the quickest route to the kitchen by heart. Even when half-asleep, you know exactly where to go. 

The light flicks on with a quiet buzz when you gently press the switch. 

Quietly, you wonder if the ultimate prize for winning the Games was running water. It's cold, as it splashes over your fingers and into the basin. There are plenty of pristine, artisan glasses and whatnot in the overhead cabinets— probably made in District One— but you always reach for the mugs you had before. The ones with a couple of cracks and dents littering their bodies— evidence of their long lifespans. 

You lean against the counter as you take a long gulp of water. It's pleasant, the feeling pooling low in your chest. 

The silence used to be unnerving, but now, you welcome it with open arms. 

You take another, smaller sip from your mug. Maybe you'll be able to sleep for another few hours. Until the sun rises, at least. Then, you can take a walk. You can wander around all you like here, provided that you don't stray too far. Regardless, you're sure nobody will be too concerned about that. Haymitch is the sole man responsible for the lax rules concerning the victors. 

You're still not sure if you like him or not. 

Slowly, you finish your drink. But, just as you're ready to set it into the sink and head back upstairs—

—the phone's ringing. 

You can hear it pretty clearly, even if it's muffled. 

Who could be calling at this hour? Furrowing your brow, you put down the mug and start heading down the hallway, towards the study. You're well aware that Haymitch tore his phone out of the wall ages ago, so it couldn't be him. Nobody from your District calls you, either. And if you get any calls from outside the District, they're usually during the daytime. Not at two-ish in the morning. The Capitol may be invasive, but they're not that invasive. They need their beauty rest, you figure.  

So, taking all of that into consideration, that only leaves— 

"Peeta?" You mutter, upon picking up the phone. 

There's a beat of silence. 

"Hello," he replies. 

It's a bit hard to tell over the line, but he sounds nearly as groggy as you. Delicately, you shut the door of the study behind you with a quiet click. Just in case. 

"Is something wrong?" You allow yourself to be a little louder, now that there's a barrier between you and the rest of the house. "Couldn't sleep?" 

"Something like that." There's a slight rustling. "I mean— nothing new, right?" Even though you know he meant it as a joke, the grim truth makes it fall flat. 

Still, you breathe out a quiet laugh. "Nothing's changed." Affixing your gaze on one of the chairs sitting around the mahogany table, you fiddle with the telephone cord. "Did you, uh— did you need something, though?" 

Peeta hesitates again. 

"I just—" He cuts himself off. "I'm sorry for calling you so late." He's entirely earnest in a way that makes you ache. "Did I wake you up?" 

He's also dodging the question, even if he is genuinely worried about your sleep schedule. 

"No, you didn't," you assert, "don't worry about that. It's fine." 

"Okay," he responds, relief palpable despite the crackly quality. 

The telephone cord is somewhat cold where it rests on your knuckles. You continue to twist it around your idle hand. 

"You still haven't answered my question, by the way."  

Peeta audibly exhales. 

"Oh." More rustling. "Yeah. I, um—" he clears his throat, "—yeah, I do need something, actually." 

That could mean a lot of things. Does he just need to talk? You know he does, sometimes. Or maybe he just needs some more flour, and is too embarrassed to admit it. He does seem like the type of guy to stress-bake in the wee hours of the morning. However, you seriously doubt that he wants anything related to that. 

"What is it?" You ask, finally. 

His next words are rushed, as if he's afraid that if he says them slowly, he'll never get them out. 

"Could you come over? I just—" it's only a momentary gap, "—don't wanna be alone right now." 

Ah. 

The thing is, you understand. You know what it's like. And there's only one possible response that you can give right now. Vividly, you can see him— the cave—  his face, shining with a cold sweat, his eyes scrunched tightly in pain— 

"Okay." You're already mentally mapping out where to go. "I'll be there in a few." 

-- 

When he opens the door, Peeta looks exhausted. 

But when he smiles at you, there's still that light in his eyes. That look he gets whenever you're around. It used to make you feel sick to your stomach, but now— now, you're not quite sure how to feel. You've been told that in comparison to him, you're rather good at keeping your feelings hidden underneath the surface. It's been necessary, after all. 

"You're here," he says after a beat, as if he expected anything else. 

"I'm here," you echo. 

Wordlessly, he steps aside to let you pass by. Somehow, although the layout of his house is exactly the same as yours, his still feels different. Warmer. A little cozier. The remnants of something sweet are still floating through the air, and you glance back at him. Maybe you were right about the possibility of him making cookies— or apple turnovers. Or those little cakes. 

"Been baking?" You ask. 

"Earlier," he clarifies, shutting the door behind you. 

"Smells nice." 

Peeta lingers by your side. "Want some?" 

"If that's okay." 

"It's always been okay." He raises his eyebrows. "How many times have I told you that you don't even need to ask?" 

You shoot him a look. "Doesn't hurt to ask." 

Flawlessly, he copies your expression. "How do you know that?" 

"It's called being polite, Peeta." 

"Polite," he repeats. "Polite…" 

You let out a short sigh. 

"Just show me where they are." 

He gives you a shit-eating grin. "And there it is." 

You don't even bother trying to respond; he's already padding past you, anyway. It's a short trip to the kitchen. His is more cluttered than yours— recently-used, more lived-in. There are more dishes in the sink, more stuff on the counter. But your eyes are drawn to the two wire baking racks on the stovetop. On top of them sit around two dozen pastries. They're prettily decorated with pink, blue, and white icing, and you take some time to admire them as you join him in front of the stove. 

"You've outdone yourself," you can't help but murmur. "Wow." 

At your compliment, Peeta instantly turns bashful. 

"Oh, thanks." Of course, he can't let those words sit. "It's— it's not my best work, but I—" 

His volume drops, and he pauses. 

"Well— my hands were shaking, so…"

Abruptly, you turn your attention away from the pastries. 

He notices, interrupting you before you can even open your mouth to speak. 

"I know what you're gonna ask," he says, softly. "And, yeah, I do want to talk about it. Just—" Peeta sucks in a breath. "Just not now, okay? Give it a little while." The corner of his mouth quirks up, and he gestures towards the racks. 

"Eat." 

You consider pressing the question. You consider urging him— did it happen again? Was it worse this time? It had to have been worse, considering that he wanted you over in the first place. Just thinking about it makes your stomach perform an uneasy flip. You can read Peeta. And right now, you can read the bags under his eyes. The tiredness he's trying to fight away. 

However, you don't want to push him. You don't want to break him down. Not again. 

So, you take a pastry. 

It's really, very good. 

Peeta takes one for himself, too, and you eat in silence. You know that despite your frequent approval of his various baked goods, he's still carefully watching your reaction; you make sure to look pleased, and it isn't hard at all. He seems satisfied. You're also satisfied. Once you've finished your pastry, you lick the remnants of the icing off your fingers. 

You pretend not to notice the way he stares— briefly, before forcing his gaze away. 

You pretend to ignore the way your heart skips. 

Mercifully, he breaks the awkward tension. 

 "Do you— would you want to take some home?" He asks, after swallowing. "We both know that I'm not gonna eat 'em all." 

"Oh, yeah, I'll take some," you answer. Thinking for a second, you add, "Were you going to risk bringing some to Haymitch, or—" 

He snorts. "Not this time." 

"More for me, then." 

"And your family, you mean?" 

You smile. There's no way that you're going to give up those pastries without a fight. 

"Sure. And my family."

Peeta doesn't seem entirely convinced, but he returns your smile all the same. 

-- 

He always keeps his bedroom windows open at night. 

You're not exactly sure why, but you suppose it's because he runs warm. Always. 

The duvet's soft on your bare skin, and his hands are gentle. With the way your head is positioned, if you move your ear just so, you can hear his heartbeat thumping through his chest. A steady rhythm. He's calm, and so are you. You're certain that you could fall asleep like this— if it weren't for the fact that you have other, more important priorities right now. 

When you look up at him, shifting an increment closer, he talks. 

"I thought things were getting better." His Adam's apple bobs as you watch. "I thought that— that things were gonna start improving. That I'd— " He trails off, for a second. 

"That I'd start going back to normal, I guess. But I should've known that it's… It's impossible." His gaze is focused on the ceiling. "It was hopeless to try and believe that I could just keep on going like nothing happened at all." 

You find your voice. 

"But you still tried?" 

The chuckle he lets out is completely humorless. 

"Yeah, I tried." 

He's always been optimistic— he's always trying to see the best in people. And seeing him like this makes you feel hopeless. You know what he's going through. It's essentially the same thing that you're going through. However, it's not like you can read minds. He knows the right words to say, but you don't. Even though you wish you could. Words— even though actions can speak louder than them— still mean a lot. You turn that word over in your head a couple of times. Actions. 

"What happened?" You ask, quietly. 

 A beat. 

"I let down my guard," he starts, volume barely a whisper. "I was confident in my stability. I thought that I wouldn't— break down, or anything. Because it had been a few weeks, and—" 

His eyes shut. Tightly. "God, I'm stupid." 

"You're not," you rush to interject, "don't say that." 

Peeta lets out another huff. "But it was stupid. To assume that I'd be okay, I mean. I should've— I should've expected it, at least." He quickly carries on. "Even after everything, I still let myself fall into a routine." 

I still let myself fall back into a routine, you know what he means. The bad dreams pale in comparison to the real monsters that loom over the both of you. Haymitch is a living example of what can happen; what will happen, if you don't hold on to tight control of the hypothetical reins. You ache. 

"Don't blame yourself for any of this," you murmur, "please. It's not your fault. Not in the slightest." You have to speak slowly, pace yourself. Keep yourself from everything you want to say. "Even if you tried to— I don't know, stay hyper-aware of everything— it would still come crashing down eventually." A breath. "It's inevitable, Peeta. It's always going to be here." 

"But I don't want it to be here," he chokes out, "I really, really don't!" 

You push yourself up from your previous position. His eyes are open now, wide and looking up at you. 

When you move backward and open your arms, he's on you in an instant. 

You rock back and forth, gently. You're not sure which one of you is holding onto the other tighter. Clinging would be a better word. His face is pressed firmly into your shoulder. You can feel him shaking. 

Despite everything, he won't let himself make any noise when he cries. 

You don't know how long you stay like this. It could be minutes. Hours, even. All you can feel and register is him. Peeta. He's trembling. The barely-there sensation, combined with the undeniable tightness of his arms. His hands. It's almost like he thinks that if he loosens his hold, even by just the slightest fraction, you'll suddenly disappear. 

That you'll cease to exist. 

That you'll become not real.  

When you finally draw back— slowly, tentatively, and only because he does it first— 

He sniffs, eyes red. They're not brimming with unshed tears, but they're still wet. You can't help but thumb away what little remains on his lower lids, even though you know that you probably look about the same. 

Peeta returns the gesture. 

Unlike you, though, he lingers, hand dropping to cup your cheek. 

There's a moment. 

You've done this before, of course. You've held each other. Comforted each other, brought each other back down. But since the end of the Games— since you've gotten away from the clamoring audiences desperate for a romance despite the sick circumstances— you haven't done anything more than that. 

You haven't kissed him since the end of the Games. 

But right now, you realize that you want to. More than anything. Anyone could see that Peeta wants it, too. Maybe even more than you do. 

So, when he leans in— just barely— closing the distance— 

It's practiced, at first. Familiar. Almost nostalgic. 

But then he melts, and it's suddenly something completely different.  

Peeta lets you softly maneuver him down onto the mattress, up against the pillows that are still too soft for your liking. He kisses you in the way those terrible poets describe— it's all excessively large bouquets, a clear starry night, longing looks across a crowded room, and—  

It's real. 

He gives. You take, and exchange it for everything you have in return. His hand stays on your cheek, the other behind your head, pulling you down. He kisses you like he needs it to breathe. You lose yourself in the feeling. Whenever you part, it's only out of necessity, and you're soon leaning back in. You're making up for lost time— you're making up for every action you didn't mean, every word that was too sugary-sweet. 

Soon, your kisses grow deeper. And neither of you wants to stop. 

It's only when his hands are trailing down your body, down to the hem of your shirt, that you bother addressing it. Even if you want this— so, so desperately— you don't want to force anything in a situation that doesn't require it. Just kissing is nice. It's very nice. Nice enough that it takes a little while for you to regain control of your mouth. 

"Is this—" 

—and he's already speaking. Hushed, like you. 

"Please." 

It's almost embarrassing, what that single word does to you. But you barrel on. 

"It's okay?" You ask, "Just say if it's not, and I'll stop—" 

"—I just," Peeta visibly struggles with what to say for a moment, before settling on: 

"Need you," he says. "Please." 

It's more than enough, and you're in no place to deny him for much longer. You recapture his lips, welcoming his touch. His hands on your back, then your waist, then your hips again. His grip is firm, but not overly so. He would never hurt you, after all. Especially not here. Especially after what he's witnessed. 

His hands are warm and calloused on your bare skin. Strong, with all the work he's done since he was old enough to knead dough. You have to sit up in order to take off your nightshirt, and he takes the opportunity to do the same with his. You've already seen him shirtless, and at close proximity, too— but it wasn't like this. You couldn't trail over every little detail with your lips, back then. 

Peeta shivers, letting out a short giggle when you press a kiss to his stomach. He's sturdy, that's for sure. Impressive biceps, a toned chest. He's beautiful, and you tell him so. You think he blushes, but it's difficult to say for certain from your position. You're too focused on finding all the little freckles you can. 

He likes it when you kiss his neck, breath audibly hitching when you do so. 

But even though he lets you entertain yourself for a decent while, he makes sure to return the favor. He's never liked being in the spotlight for long, after all. And he wants. 

He finds all of your scars, from the arena. From before the arena, too. He maps them out, painstakingly, mimicking the way you'd kissed him all over earlier. Sensitive, he notes, when you make a small noise when his thumbs find your nipples. Soft, he observes, as his fingers slip underneath your waistband, moving lower. 

Soon, you're completely exposed, and he is too. 

Peeta pays more attention to certain parts of you— your thighs, your chest— but he doesn't skip over anything in particular. He wants to know everything; he wants to learn everything. And he's eager to learn. By the time he reaches the spot between your legs, you're already wanting for him. You've grown needy from his kisses, his caresses. You can feel him against your thigh— he's just as needy as you. 

His fingers are clumsy, at first. But they're strong, and you guide him. One, then two. Then another. His breath is loud, and he hums, biting his lower lip at your quiet moan after you tell him how to crook his fingers. You jolt when he finds your clit, paying careful attention to it while he works you open. 

At your whispered insistence, he grips himself by the base— already having put on protection— you don't care enough to ask exactly how he obtained it— and he pushes in. The groan he lets out sounds like it's been punched from his gut. 

He sets a slow, measured pace. Almost awkward at first, but he's a fast learner. He learns what angle makes you spread your legs wider for him. You wouldn't even use fucking to describe what you're doing— somehow, that word's too rough. He kisses you, nose bumping against yours. Most of your noises are muffled against his lips, but he takes them all the same. He absorbs them, and drinks them in. Drinks you in. 

"Peeta," you sigh, and he breathes your name in return, before ducking to kiss your shoulder. Your collarbone. Your neck. 

He comes first, twitching, pulsing deep within you. He stifles his whimper by tucking his face into the divot between your shoulder and your neck— but you can still feel it. You help him ride it out, until his thrusts falter, and his hips still. 

It's a few moments of limbo, in which he catches his breath. He meets your eyes. His are hazy, half-lidded. He kisses you. 

Then, he pulls out— disposes of the garbage, of course— and wastes no time in making his way down your body, to where you need him most. 

You're certain that he's never eaten anybody out before, but he's a natural. He's enthusiastic— much more so than when he was inside you. This is just for your pleasure, now. When you thread a hand through his tousled hair, he moans into you, increasing his efforts tenfold. He doesn't care for the mess— or the noise, as he laps at you. He doesn't even care for his own need to breathe. Peeta just wants to give. 

His brow is furrowed in concentration as he rapidly pulls you closer to orgasm. You can do little but take. And when you finally topple over your peak— 

"—that's so good, ah— Peeta, I'm gonna— ohh—" 

You cry out, heat rolling low in your abdomen— gathering, passing through your entire body. 

You float on blissful waves, and he licks at you through it all. For a single, brief moment, your mind is perfectly calm. 

When you relax, the warmth steadying to a hum, he notices and stops working at you. He wriggles a little, and leans forward to rest his chin on your stomach while you catch your breath. You can feel his, too, and it's hot on your skin. Peeta seems reluctant to take his eyes off you just yet. 

It's quiet, you register. You're reluctant to ruin it, but he looks pretty messy. 

"I should get you a towel or something," you say. 

He cracks a smile, his eyes softening. "Should you?" 

"Yeah." You're powerless not to return it. "But, you know, for me to get the towel, you have to get off me." 

"So demanding." 

You let out a short, offended sound. "Hey, that's just—" 

"I'm getting up." And he does. 

It doesn't take long to clean up, and the obnoxious white fluorescent lights of the bathroom don't blind you for long. Again, Peeta looks on while you wipe off his face— this close, you notice how brilliantly blue his eyes are. You notice the precise angles of his jaw. His cheek. He's probably doing the same to you— tracing the contours of your face. 

To your relief, you're back in his bed a few minutes later. He completely shuts off the lights, flicking off his bedside lamp, and then crawls under the duvet with you. You're not sure if it's creepy or weird to enjoy it, but everything here smells like him. A sort of earthy, warm scent. Even though you're both well aware of the multiple floral shampoos that the Capitol has to offer— he still retains that one thing. 

You're comfortable. You're safe. 

Peeta wraps his arms around you from behind. 

You're not sure if you should say something or not, but he does it first. 

"You'll stay?" Whispered, into the stillness. 

"Of course." Without hesitation. 

His grip tightens, almost imperceptibly. 

"Thank you," he breathes.  

The words are stuck in your throat. 

You can't bring yourself to say them, even though you know you'd mean them. Every single syllable. 

But you have time. You can tell him tomorrow, even. Or the day after that. Tonight, you didn't say it aloud, but you still told him all the same. 

You understand exactly how you feel, just before you drift off. 

You love him. 

[samwxlsxon]

not targeted or anything but it’s crazy work to literally be on the verge of death coughing blood and still interfering in teenager’s love lives because one of them is related to a girl you had a two month fling with 40 years ago. like maybe move on? it was NOT that deep

[samwxlsxon]

just going to say that you’re not a real steve rogers stan if you think endgame made sense for his character. you prefer fanon, and that’s ok, but the real steve rogers would never go back in time rather than March forward. he would never abandon his friends. he would always choose a pickett line over a pickett fence. bc that man could retire from being captain america, but never from being steve rogers

[samwxlsxon]

announcing their engagement to one up tom holland

[samwxlsxon]

Guilty As Sin?

Pairing: Bucky/Winter Soldier x Assassin!Reader (former assassin) Summary: I asked for requests based on Taylor Swift songs and @bibbidibobbidibucky asked for "What if he's written 'mine' on my upper thigh only in my mind?" (Feel free to send me more song requests, loves!) Word Count: 4.5K Warnings: NSFW - 18+, light smut in a flashback, a fight scene that i have no business describing bc I haven't engaged in a physical altercation in my life, shameless Taylor Swift references.

Author's Note: This is my first fic after a 4 year hiatus. Please enjoy and leave your thoughts and comments! (if you feel inclined to reblog, that's super duper cool, too. :) )

I dream of cracking locks Throwing my life to the wolves Or the ocean rocks Crashing into him tonight He's a paradox I'm seeing visions, am I bad? Or mad? Or wise? 

 9:37 pm. The glowing green digits on the kitchen appliances in your dimly lit temporary living quarters informed you. Standing lamps set up in the corners of the room provided a welcomed warm hue on the walls to contrast from the frigid darkness of the snowstorm raging outside. You’d lost track of what day it was. Thursday? Maybe Monday? Temperatures hadn’t risen above 27 degrees in the last week in a half. You have a vague memory of children milling around in Halloween costumes just a few days ago.

You exhale through your nose deeply and finally look at the lock screen on your phone for the date. Friday December 13th.

Damn. Way off.

November went by in a gray blur. Time flies when you’re running for your life.

Winnipeg, Manitoba is where you took refuge for now. You’d put over 4,600 miles between your current location and the asylum in which you were raised. A sharp pain shoots through your skull. A warning from the back of your mind not to delve too deep in thought into the horrors you’d escaped from.

You wrap your thick knit cardigan tighter around your body and cross your arms over your chest, bracing yourself for the drop in temperature as you near the French doors that lead to the balcony. At least eight inches of snow had piled up on the city streets with reports of another five accumulating overnight. Your breath is visible with each exhale, the billowing clouds make you crave the sweet nectar of nicotine. A terrible habit, you're aware. If The Red Room henchmen catch wind of your location, a cigarette or 20 won't be your cause of death.

A glint of silver catches your attention from the ground below, but as soon as your eyes focus on the sidewalk through the streaky glass window, it's gone. It could have been a candy wrapper that a thoughtless kid littered the ground with. Could have been a tag on a dog's collar as it chased a squirrel down the alley behind the Thai restaurant around the corner, or maybe a bike reflector of someone hauling ass to get home and out the cold.

You could probably think of a hundred rational explanations for what you saw, but your thoughts circle back to him. A man that may only exist in your mind. You're not sure if you created a figment from your overheated imagination, or if he's a ghost from your dauntless past. If you did create him from a dream, you have a very specific type, you think to yourself. A tall, toned, long haired brunette - often covered in black leather, with a metal arm, of all things.

How could you credit yourself with making someone like him up?

You're really not sure which thought is more comforting. That he is a phantom of your own fantasies, or that he does truly walk this earth in all of his glory. His face flashes in your mind’s eye like a drive-by memory. The soft lines around his eyes and mouth that show his age. Ocean blue eyes that can pierce through your very being if unprepared. If you look hard enough, you can see the gray beginning to form in his otherwise dark beard. The same beard that you can recall lightly scratching your thighs as he lay between your legs like a man starved. 

A quiet gasp escapes from your parted lips. You swear — you’re willing to swear on your life that his reflection in the window shown behind you.

You turn to reveal that you are indeed still alone in your apartment. It’s an absurd thought that you wouldn’t have locked the door behind you when you came back upstairs from grabbing your dinner from the teenaged delivery driver. Of course when you check the deadbolt, it’s secure. Along with the two chain locks and the one on the doorknob.

Not exactly Fort Knox, but you would have heard someone trying to intrude upon your space. 

“I’m going fucking insane.” You sigh, hanging your head and rubbing the back of your neck. 

--

You toss and turn, the queen sized bed feeling as big as an ocean. The sheets engulf you, threatening to pull you beneath the surface, leaving you gasping for air.

You awake, drenched in sweat with your chest heaving.

Inhale through your nose, exhale through your mouth, you remind yourself as tears brim in your eyes. You contemplate giving up. Returning to the place you fled from and dealing with the consequences of running away after completing your last mission. That was eight months ago. Death would be a sweeter release than whatever fresh hell the handlers have planned if they ever get ahold of you.

"Don't." The voice isn't your own, but it's clear. A warning telling you not to surrender the freedom you worked so hard for.

A single tear sheds when your eyes finally open, trying to adjust to the darkness of your bedroom. The only light filtering in is provided by the full moon outside. There's a presence with you. You're not in danger, but you're certain that you're not alone.

Slowly, you sit up. Careful of your movements. You don't dare to turn on the light. Whoever, or whatever is accompanying you prefers to remain in the shadows. Tentatively, you crawl to the foot of the bed. "Please," You ask in a whisper. "I need to know that I'm not crazy. Who are you?"

"An ally." A short reply, but better than the alternative. Although you've only heard three words, you're certain the voice is male. Masculine and gruff. Familiar.

"Prove it." The retort is both a challenge and a plea.

"We don't have time. They're getting closer to figuring out where you are." Your blood runs cold. He tosses a piece of paper towards you. "Someone is looking out for you. I suggest leaving before daybreak."

You smooth out the crumpled paper and make out an address etched in red ink. When you look up, you realize he took the took the opportunity to flee unnoticed. The bedside light illuminates and you're able to clearly read what's written. Beneath the address is a name that you haven't thought about in years.

-N. Romanoff

--

These fatal fantasies Giving way to labored breath Taking all of me We've already done it in my head If it's make believe Why does it feel like a vow We'll both uphold somehow?

Your head is reeling as you bite your lip, watching dexterous fingers play with your clit. Goosebumps litter your exposed skin, the cool air makes you shiver and your nipples harden into peaks. His head lays on your stomach, a mess of hair splayed on your abdomen. You feel him smile against you when he hears you moan as he dips his fingers into your warmth. Slick coated digits resume circling and lightly pinching the bundle.

He'd been edging you for the last half hour. Bringing you to teeter the final threshold, just to slow his actions ease you back down from the ethereal plane.

Your legs spread further apart and your back arches as he reaches further down. Your eyes shoot open before rolling back when he touches that magic trigger that sends you spiraling into a heavenly haze. You hear him chuckle softly before flicking your nipple with his tongue.

"That's it." He croons. "Fall apart for me."

If you were honest with him, he would know that you've been falling for what feels like forever. Since the moment you locked eyes, at least.

The pressure he applies against your taught hole finally sends you to where you're seeing stars shoot across the ceiling, glimmering as they fade. He never halts his motions. He continues to drink you in as you writhe with your white knuckle grip on the pillow overhead. He couldn't move away even if he wanted to with your legs squeezing his forearm to keep him there until you finish riding it out.

You’re pulled back to reality by the call of your name and a snapping sound ringing in your ear.

“Helloooo…” Yelena waves her hand in front of your face. “The lights look like they’re on but one’s home.”

You clear your throat and shake your head. “Sorry.” You notice the cereal that you had fixed for yourself had turned to mush. “How long was I out for?”

Yelena shrugs. “I just got up. Saw you staring into space, drooling like a dog.” You mutter a soft ‘shut up’ and wipe the corner of your mouth before pushing away the bowl in front of you. She mills around the kitchen swiftly, gathering what she needs from the cupboards to make tea. “Where do you go?”

You know she’s referring to the daydream state you were consumed in. Your heavy sigh makes her look at you with a raised eyebrow. “I don’t know,” You chuckle dryly, sitting forward and hiding your face in your hands. “I’m not sure if it’s a fantasy world that I paint myself into, or if it’s flashbacks from a past life.”

The calming scent of chamomile surrounds you and you lower your hands to your lap. Yelena sits beside you after gently placing two steaming mugs down on the table.

“Trauma makes it hard to know what is real and what’s not.” She nods, propping her feet up on the stool across from her.

“Well, that and the brainwashing.”

The comment takes her by surprise. “Brainwa— Wait, like literal brainwashing?” She emphasizes, gesticulating with her hands to to signify the scrubbing of one’s brain. Yelena shakes her head in disbelief. “I didn’t think they still used that tactic.”

"Lobotomies just weren't good enough for them anymore, I guess." You shrug, sipping from your cup.

"What a lovely conversation to kickstart this beautiful morning." Natasha chortles as she enters the kitchen.

You take a moment to peer out of the window, leaning back in your chair and hugging the warm tea to your chest. It was a beautiful morning. The last bit of snow was finally starting to melt as Spring was awakening in Albany in early April.

It was peaceful.

It was…safe.

Five months had passed since you found your lost family. You showed up on the doorstep like an abandoned puppy after two days of travel, treading lightly and laying low in the shadows. Trembling and terrified.

 Although they were expecting you, the reunion with your sisters was still emotional to say the least. When you were separated all those years ago, none of you thought you’d see each other again. 

Yelena and Natasha united two years prior. They worked together to track you down. Used their resources to confirm that you were still alive. Learned that you were being traded back and forth between The Red Room and Hydra. You were a puppet and a pawn in their games. That is until they got tired of fighting over you. When they were too consumed by greed and undermining one another to claim ownership over you, you sought the opportunity to escape.

You wanted to ask who the man was that they sent for you. Wanted so badly to learn answers to the questions that plagued your mind. But living in fear for so long kept you in an anxious state. The last thing you wanted was to spout off about visions you’d been seeing in the distance. For all you know, they were hallucinations. Fever dreams. 

“You need time.” Natasha said softly. “You went through a lot that needs to be processed,” She paused to find the right word. “Carefully.”

With the work that you’ve been doing in therapy, you were feeling…better. As well as you could given your particular circumstance. There was still a long road ahead for your recovery, but you were coping to the best of your ability.

“I’ve been thinking,” You fiddle with your fingers in your lap. Your sisters watch, waiting for you to continue your thought. “I think I’m ready to socialize.” Natasha and Yelena exchange a silent look. “I’m getting cabin fever in this house. I need to be around other people.”

“Other people suck.” Yelena shrugs.

You roll your eyes. “Be that as it may, I’m bored. I want to be stimulated. I wanna—“

“Get laid?” Natasha smirks, leaning against the kitchen island.

Your head tilts slightly and your lips purse. “Not exactly where I was going with that, but yeah, that’d be cool, too.”

Yelena chuckles, gathering your empty cups and brings them to the sink. “She’s right. We cannot shield the world from her forever.”

Natasha was hesitant, but she knew better than to try and control you. Your case was different than hers and Yelena’s. In a way, you were so much more delicate. Not delicate in the same way as a flower, but like a bomb. Anything could make you detonate. Your triggers are still being discovered.

“I’m asking for an inch, not a mile. I know big sister is gonna keep watching. But I didn’t run away to be put into another cage.” You plea.

Yelena nods and snaps her fingers. “That’s fucking deep. You should write poetry.”

Natasha shoves the youngest gently and rolls her eyes. “Okay, you’re right. I hear you.” She raises her hands in surrender. “What do you have in mind?”

“I wanna get back into fighting shape. Exercise and proper training would be really beneficial for me.”

The gears turned in Natasha’s head. “You wanna use the Avengers facility, don’t you?”

You shrug nonchalantly while a grin spreads across your face. “Gotta admit, it would be perfect. You both can keep an eye on me and I can get out of this house while keeping an active lifestyle.”

“It would be good for her.” Yelena agrees, rounding the island and slinging an arm around the back of your neck. “She’s scared she can’t keep up with us.”

Yelena’s grin quickly fades as you swiftly twirl your body away from her, twisting her arm in the process and applying enough pressure to make her yelp out in pain. “I might be fucked in the head, but don’t underestimate me.” You warn, a satisfied smile spread across your lips.

Natasha rolls her eyes but chuckles at the sight of the two of you spatting against one another. “Save that energy for the gym. I have a feeling everyone is gonna wanna see you put Yelena in her place.”

The youngest mocks Natasha and protests, but you’re out of earshot to hear any of it, already halfway up the stairs to get changed. 

--

"Do you ever get tired of knocking me on my ass?" Sam winces, slowly sitting up from where he laid on the ground after you'd hurled him over your shoulder during what was

supposed to be a harmless sparring session.

You scrunch your nose and shake your head in response. "It's not my fault that you're such an easy target."

He takes your extended hand and rises to his feet. "I swear, you remind me of-"

Natasha clears her throat from the opposite side of the mat. She won't meet your gaze. But you notice the way she seems to be sending a telepathic message to Sam, signaling for him to not finish his thought.

"I remind you of who, Sam?" You prod, curiosity and and petty spite getting the better of you.

In the three months that you've been training at the facility, you discovered that Natasha and Yelena are keeping something from you. Not only that, but at some point, they huddled everyone together and held a meeting to tell everyone that you may cross paths with to also keep this secret.

It got under your skin.

A logical voice speaks to you from within. Insists that your sisters have your best interest at heart. That there must be a reason for them to shield you from what they don't want you to know. But there's another nagging voice that you try to suppress that calls bullshit.

Sam scratches the back of his head and looks down at his feet. "No one. Never mind." He chuckles awkwardly.

Before you can call him on it, Steve steps in to intervene. Because of course he would.

"My turn." He says, strolling towards you, giving Sam a chance to escape. You look him up and down, sizing him up. He'd never admit it, but he almost felt intimidated by your stare.

"I finally get to fight the big, bad Captain?" You purr teasingly.

“I think you’re ready for me.” He nods, keeping an authoritative tone of voice.

“Oh, Steve,” You chuckle as you circle around him like a shark around its prey. It doesn’t go unnoticed by either of you that a crowd has formed. The audience’s presence fuels the internal fire within your core. “I’ve been ready since the moment I laid eyes on you.”

If they want a show, you’ll give them something to watch.

Steve ignores your antics and wills away the blush deepening the color of his cheeks.

“Is it bad taste if we place bets?” Sam mutters.

“Maybe. But I am a gambling man.” Tony chimes in. “My money is on her.”

“Alright,” Steve begins. “rules are as follows—” His words are cut short by a jab to the gut, then a blow to his ribs.

“Rules are, there are no rules.” You challenge, sweeping your leg to make the force of a man before you fumble to the floor. He’s left breathless, taken aback by your swiftness. “Don’t hold back.” You direct, pinning him to the mat. “I can take it.” There’s a look in your eyes that he can’t decipher, somewhere in a haze of gravity mixed with playfulness. “I can take all of what you give me.”

You knew you were playing a dangerous game.  There’s always been light hearted banter between you and Steve. This isn’t the first time he’s heard your flirty, borderline mischievous repartee. This is the first time, however, that he’s experienced it up close and personal.

“Come on, Rogers!” Sam calls from the sideline.

Steve keeps his eyes on you as you keep watch on him. You lean down just slightly to repeat in a taunting whisper, “Come on, Rogers.”

In a blink of an eye, your position is compromised. Steve has you on your side, his chest to your back with an arm around your neck, pressing just so that he can feel the breath hitch in your throat.

The room is silent and the air is thick. No one expects to hear the sound that you emit; a soft laugh while a wide smile stretches along your mouth.

“That’s it.” You coax, slipping out of his grasp with ease. You’re back on your feet before he’s even realized you’re out of his grasp. “I’ve got a lot of pent up rage. You’re a worthy opponent.” Steve surveys you for a moment, studying your movements. He towers over you, but you’re much more nimble and agile than his stature allows him to be. For a moment, you stand still but keep light on your feet, shuffling from one foot to the other as you lock eyes. “Give me what I want.”

The onlookers were hooked, watching intently as Steve lunged forward to grab you. It was like watching a choreographed dance. You’d effortlessly dodge each of his punches, tuck and roll away when he got too close to getting his hands on you. The roaring cheers from your new comrades were drowned out by your heart pumping and blood rushing through your ears.

You were moments away from being declared the winner of the playful scrimmage. You’d hoisted yourself onto Steve’s shoulders and squeezed your legs tight, slowly cutting off his air supply. You could tell that he was about to tap out. That was, until you saw him standing in the doorway.

The apparition that haunts you day in and day out.

Everything seemed to stop in that moment. Everything fell silent when piercing blue eyes stared right back at you. 

Steve took the upper hand when he felt your grip loosen around him. Before you could react, he had you pinned beneath him this time. His neck and face were flushed and his skin was covered in sweat. He didn’t boast over his victory. That wasn’t his style, anyway. But he didn’t miss the pained expression on your face.

“You okay?” He asks, brows furrowed slightly.

He helps you up and looks over your body for any injuries. When your vision clears, you look back towards the entrance, only to see the space unoccupied and the doors closed.

“Who the hell was that?”

You missed Steve’s eyes widen from where he stands behind you, but Natasha didn’t. She was already making her way over to the two of you while Tony and Sam bickered about who won the match. “Fuck that, Wilson. She got distracted.” You hear Stark huff.

“Who was he?” You ask Natasha, eyes pleading with her to give you a scrap of information.

“Maybe we should go home. That was a harsh fall you took—”

You were fed up. You push past her and make a run for it, flinging the doors open and hauling ass down the corridor. After rounding the third corner, you catch up with him.

He’s dressed in all black with a hood covering his head.

“Hey!”

He stops in his tracts when you call after him. Your heart is still pounding in your ears, drowning out any other noise. You hadn’t heard footsteps approaching from behind until you felt Yelena’s hand on your shoulder.

“Hey, Pal. Come over here. I want you to meet someone.” Steve calls down the hall, making Yelena look between him and Natasha in surprise. Natasha sighs and nods her head, signaling that she approved.

The hooded figure slowly makes his way over, pushing the hat off and revealing his features. He was almost just as you pictured him, but somehow different. His hair was much shorter than you’d recalled it. The skin around his eyes showed how much time had passed since you’d last seen him. He has a well kept beard, much like Steve’s.

Steve says your name, pulling you out of your thoughts as they flew around your brain at what feels like a hundred miles a minute.

“This is Bucky.” The name is foreign to you. Then again, you never referred to him by a name. Only “Soldier”.

Bucky repeats your name with a soft smile and extends his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

You study him for a moment. Honestly, you’re waiting to wake up from what seems like a dream. You hadn’t seen his face in so long, other than in vivid flashbacks when you sleep. Maybe you did hit your head on the ground.

“Sorry, still relearning social cues.” You shake your head and smile, feigning bashfulness. “Pleasure’s mine, Bucky.” You don’t miss the way his hand tightens around yours just slightly before letting go. He’s putting on an act, too. “Sorry I chased you. You looked like someone I used to know.”

He offers a kind small and waves off the apology. “Don’t worry about it. Not my first time being chased down. Probably won't be the last.”

“I guess I should let someone check me out, make sure I don’t have a concussion.” You somewhat joke, turning to your sisters and Steve. “I think I’ve only got three more head injuries left before the damage is irreversible.”

Yelena rolls her eyes and links her arm with yours, leading you to the infirmary. “Not funny.” She chides. 

Once you’re out of earshot, Natasha slaps Bucky upside the head. “Ow.” He winces. “I’ve got brain damage too, you know.

“What the fuck are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Brazil.” She scolds.

“I finished the job earlier than expected. When I got in, I heard all the hoopla and wanted to see what was going on. Last thing I thought I’d see was her.” He turns to Steve with his eyes narrowed. “On your shoulders, no less.”

“Don’t rope me into this.” Steve sighs.

“Do you realize how far south it could have gone if she reacted badly to seeing you? She’s not ready—”

“Don’t talk about the situation like it doesn’t involve me, too.” Bucky’s jaw clenches as he straightens his stance, towering over Natasha. “Don’t you forget that you’re the one who begged me to get her.” 

“Because you were the only one skilled enough to track her down.” Natasha defends.

“Bullshit.” Bucky scoffs. “Steve is plenty capable. Hell, it should have been you. I wasn’t ready to see her then, but you knew that I could manipulate her thoughts. I didn’t wanna open old wounds and you still insisted.”

Natasha conceded, lowering her gaze. She recalls getting confirmation of your location in Canada while on an assignment in Denmark. 

“I don’t feel right about this, Nat.” Bucky exhales, rubbing the sore spot on his skull where a headache was forming. “This is a big thing you’re asking me to do. Why don’t you send Steve out on this one?”

“Because he doesn’t know her like you do. You’re closer than we are, we’re a day and a half out and it’ll only take you six hours to get there. If we don’t act now, she’ll have time to flee. And who knows how long it’ll take to track her down again.” Natasha points out. “Please, Buck. I know it’s selfish of me to ask you to do this. It shouldn’t be you. It’s not fair. But you’re her best shot for salvation.”

Bucky’s thankful in that moment that he’s alone. He bit his lip to keep it from shaking as he cried silently in the darkness of his loft. “Fine.” He says softly. “Natasha,” He adds before the line disconnects. “Don’t ask me for anything else. Ever.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Natasha apologizes sincerely. “It’s difficult keeping things from her. My overprotectiveness isn’t an excuse from treating you like your feelings aren’t valid.”

“Just,” Bucky shakes his head, growing tired of the conversation. “Give me a warning next time. I’ll make sure to make myself scarce.”

Natasha and Steve watch him walk down the hallway until he disappears from their view.

“He’s more torn up about it than he leads on.” Steve shares. “There’s more history between them than we know about. I know you’re doing what you think is good for her. But remember that he’s healing, too.” Natasha nods in agreement, quietly following Steve to the infirmary to check on you.

Part Two coming soon...

[samwxlsxon]

ant man quantumania poilers with no context

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[samwxlsxon]

@milkiane requested: Eddie Munson + smiling.

[samwxlsxon]

[samwxlsxon]

#they are everything to me

[samwxlsxon]

mood after watching vol. 2: