#mon boss! sam wilson x Rumlow! reader

[ramp-it-up]

Addicted to You

Pairing: Mob Boss! Sam Wilson x Reader

Word Count: 932

Warnings: 18+ As always, MINORS DNI, Not Beta’d. All mistakes my own. Angst, Allusions to danger, talk of addiction, but not really. Substance use, partying, fake friendships, toxic parents, a sad, famous life, pining, peeing while on the phone, request for rough sex, Sam has a big soft spot for reader despite who she is, Rumlow! reader.

A/N: No one asked for this, but this is in the same AU as Try a Little Tenderness and The Representative. The AU is called This Thing of Ours.

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——-

You were bored beyond measure.

There was also an indeterminate itch under your skin that you needed to scratch.

It happened every time you were in New York.

Like an addict, proximity to your drug of choice had you quietly feening, even though you’d found some safer, more life affirming substitutes.

The paparazzi swarmed you and your girls, and you gave them face although you were behind your designer sunglasses.

You knew that your body, clad in a skintight exclusive dress, the faux fur dripping off your arms, and the 24 inch weave flowing down your shoulders was what they were paid for.

The photogs called your name, ignoring the beauty of the crew around you as you entered the club.

Despite that, your girls bubbled up at the sight of the exclusive club and the other famous faces that turned to stare at you. The owner came over to greet you and lead you up to the VIP. Once settled, the popping of bottles commenced.

You knew why the girls around you stayed close, but you played the bestie game so as not to be alone.

Because that would mean you’d have to think.

“Damnnn… Y/N! That one guy from TMZ sure was sweating where D was tonight. You’d think he was dating him.”

The way Starr cut her eyes at you confirmed that she was the one sweating your latest beau.

You pulled out the phone that had your face plastered all over Times Square with ads and threw it on the table.

“Well maybe I should have let him answer my phone, because D has been blowing me up all night.”

Starr picked up the phone and scrolled through your notifications as Eve looked over her shoulder.

“Dammmm Son!” Eve shouted. “You got this man quadruple texting and shit, and calling too? Yo! Teach me the ways of that golden pussy.”

You laughed, flipped her off and took another drink of champagne.

You didn’t tell them any of what your other taught you. Ways to get a man and keep him, things to say and what not to say, how to eat, keep fit, but still make it all look natural. And yes, pointers on what to do in bed. Your mother was a piece of work, but she was sitting in a life of ease now. Even if her husband was a grade A asshole.

Your mother worked her way from being a drug runner’s girl to being the famous wife of a celebrated television personality, whom everyone (who didn’t know him personally) loved. He was everyone's uncle, and a multimillionaire.

Once the bag was secured, your mother made him adopt you, even though you were already 19, stating that because your father was dead, it was only right. But you knew it was only to have his powerful last name.

You carried the name around with you like the Hope diamond, and it allowed you access to handsome and talented musicians and rappers and actors for the last 8 years.

You were your mother’s dream, and your stepfather's prize. But you would always be a Rumlow at heart.

You were a gangsta.

Kiki’ing with the girls only fostered your boredom so you got wasted, literally dancing on the tables as the wee hours approached.

Around 2 am, you stumbled to the bathroom by yourself, your girls all wasted or having been picked up by the club’s clientele.

Once safe in a stall, and while you were peeing, you pulled your real phone out of your purse.

You closed your eyes and prayed as it rang. His sleepy voice answered.

“‘Lo.”

He sounded unsurprised at your call.

“Come get me baby. I’m at Knack. In SoHo.”

There were a few seconds of silence.

“What would your man have to say about that?”

You sucked your teeth.

“Now I know you’re not worried about him. Did you mean my brother? Brock?”

“You mean your half brother? Rumlow? Fuck him.”

You wiped and flushed the toilet.

“Why do you always call me when you’re in the bathroom?”

You heard rustling as he asked the question and your heart leapt that he might be getting dressed.

“Because what you and I have is so intimate, baby.”

You used your sexiest, sluttiest voice in him as you checked your makeup in the mirror. Of course it didn’t work. He laughed.

“Or maybe it’s because you’re full of shit. Meet me out behind the kitchen in 20 minutes.”

——

20 minutes later, a black R8 pulled up outside the kitchen entrance. All of the kitchen crew bid you goodnight as you climbed into the passenger seat. You’d spent the time waiting learning how to make risotto.

The car pulled out and headed toward Brooklyn. You greeted your man. Well, your man in your head.

“Damn, Baby. You smell so good.”

Sam’s gap-toothed grin did you in, as well as the side eye he gave you. He looked over at you and shook his head.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You watched the muscles in his arm as he shifted gears.

“Literally.”

“Don’t be like that Sammy. Just take me to your place and fuck me real good. Hard. All night long. Make me forget my name.”

Your hand was on his muscular thigh and moving north. You told yourself that you craved his control, his hand on the column of your throat while he filled you to the brim.

Sam cleared his throat, clearly tempted. Then he moved your hand back to your lap, and again shook his head. He knew what you said you wanted, but he also knew what you needed.

“No. You’re wasted. What you can do is sleep in my bed tonight.”

He glanced over as you pouted and pretended to be mad.

But a night in Sam Wilson’s arms was the fix you’d been needing.