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Old Dog, New Tricks

From a lovely 'Sweet Sunday' ask!

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

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

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

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

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

Steve can’t seem to pull it together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a through and through.

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

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

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

“Just one more hole, eh, Cap?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course, Bucky notices.

“She’ll be fine, pal. Don’t worry.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Go ahead. Ask me anything.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s not Bucky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You clench, and he feels it.

“I’m ready, Steve. I trust you.”

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

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

“Alright? I can stop.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he’s surprised again.

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

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

He’s done waiting to try.

[Find more on my Masterlist]

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The Sequel: Your Dog, His Tricks

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ronearoundblindly · 2 hours

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Hideout (1)

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

Puppy, (see premise post or series)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sporadically, this continues.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just talks to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s prey caught in a cage.

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

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

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

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

“Thank ya, ma’am. We appreciate it.”

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

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

You just smile and say Tom isn’t wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

dividers by cafekitsune and firefly-graphics

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

[Next Part: Sweet Baby]

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

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

#thank you for reading and sharing

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ronearoundblindly · 10 hours

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kinda related to Z from the dirty alphabet asks but i think if you scratched the back of ransom's neck out of the blue, he'd simply have an ✨️experience✨️

You gonna come at me like that???? On the first day of our shameless hoelord's Cum Together week?? Daaaaaammnn...

(Alright, so the thoughts did not actually evolve into dirty headcanon, but I love dissecting his character nonetheless.)

The poor grump is obviously starved for genuine affection, and everything in that family is like 'if no one is around to witness my generosity, then there's no point.' Ran's mind would go completely blank with soft affection, especially if it doesn't make him look weak. (By that, I mean, Ransom is not the sort of man who enjoys visibly softening his demeanor at all and would not be proud of that. He gets better about loosening up in private, but that takes *a while.*)

I don't think he enjoys hand-holding; I think he would allow himself to feel the significance of your touch but without a physical/external reaction, at least in public. You doing small, doting things to him--even shit as simple as taking his arm while standing or walking--have huge meaning to him. It's the idea of you reaching out for him that gets under his skin. That's the good stuff.

His experience would be that airy tightness in his chest, the kind that makes him roll his shoulders back and stand a little straighter, but focus would drift out of his vision and into his body. You can reset his senses with just a graze, like if you walk past him at the kitchen island and sweep your finger along his jaw, or if you adjust and smooth the lapel of his coat to make sure he looks pristine. Those are grounding and isolating moments for him. Suddenly, he remembers the importance of you two and you to each other.

Ran is, however, extremely confused by times where what you are discussing sounds like an argument but you are acting sweetly. For example, if you two can't agree on a movie to watch and you bitch about his choice while snuggling into his side on the couch, he does not understand. What's happening? Are you mad or are you comfy?

This is because all the drama of his family, his social circle, and his life has been about politics. He's been trained to read people to know what they want from him. He's supposed to know how to barter that for what he wants.

You...don't really want anything from him and are willing to give him pretty much whatever he wants...which is nonsensical to Ransom. In a strange way, that is exactly what makes him so vulnerable around you--he cannot play his normal games.

Sure, he knows you play along sometimes, particularly with power dynamics in bed, but the only leverage he could use against you would be withholding himself. Except he wants to be around you. He can't even play that simple of a card.

Poor thing is just a fucked up mess.

Thank you for asking!

**And I think I'll definitely incorporate this into the beginning of the RoAR sequel 😘😉 for the record.

#ro answers #ransom drysdale imagine #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale x reader

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ronearoundblindly · 11 hours

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He's Steve Rogers in any universe. DUH!!!

💚💜

The First Eighty-Three Hours (3)

CEO!Steve Rogers x CEO!Reader

View (see previous or series)

Summary: Tactile-obsessed, sweet Steve shows you what it's like to be his partner in every way.

Warnings: THE PHOTO (oh, sry, but this is the moment to use this, Danke, ayanemoonlight), smut, MINORS DNI. Also a warning for the fact that I went all in on crazy-adorable, super-loving Steve, and I don't even care if no guy has ever acted like this in the history of the world. Screw it. He's fluffy. I give up. WC 3.6k

Pulling out the BIG GUNS sorry not sorry.

Yet again, you were wrong about Steve Rogers.

He may be a businessman. He may be crazy rich. He may be a workaholic. He may not have really noticed anything except that you are a workaholic, too, but he’s still thorough, strategic, and patient in his attention to you now.

Other men try to rush in the heat of the moment. Kissing means groping means you’ll have sex, so like, just shove it in, yeah? Who gives a shit about foreplay when you two will end up in the same place?

Steve.

Steve gives lots of shits about foreplay as it turns out. He likes the feel of you, even with clothes on (and it helps that some of it is his clothing, sure). He likes the difference between skin and fabric, just as he was enthralled by the linked metal of your earrings compared to that one pulse-thrumming spot on your throat and the delicate flesh pulled across your solid collarbone.

You shouldn’t be surprised; the guy listens to old-timey jazz. Of course, he enjoys slow, exploratory, romantic touch. Steve’s spent three years getting to know one thing about you very well: you work. You work quickly and all the time, meaning you never slow down, meaning you take no time for yourself, meaning you’ve given all of your time to him and his company.

So, while he has you, he’s making his time all about you.

Steve pulls away from you just as you were getting a good grip on his bottom lip with your teeth. Damn.

“I want you to need me like I need you,” he hushes. His hand slides down over the front of your sweats, palm cupping your sex as he presses gently, rubbing against you. It's not a tease. He's making an offer. “What do you want, precious?”

You have to inhale sharply through your nose while worrying your swollen lips. “For the first time in my life,” you exhale, eyes shut momentarily to gather a thought, any thought will do, “I really, really, really want vanilla ice cream.”

Your fingers climb from his firm chest to his neck and rake through his beard. His dilated, dark eyes race across your features until you see it dawn on him.

He’s dessert now.

Steve’s not speaking much after that. His touch says more.

A grip on your hip: I’m desperate for you.

A pet of your waist: you’re gorgeous.

A rough but enticing squeeze of your breast: you drive me crazy.

Holding your shoulders: are you with me?

Fingers laced in your hair: I can’t stop.

His kisses remain leisurely but intense. He takes more time to suck on your tongue, run his over your teeth, and nibble at those swollen lips he created.

He’s a businessman. He’s taking inventory, and as a businesswoman so are you.

He likes your hands deep in his hair, likes it when you pull a little bit, likes when you hold his face close, and he really likes that friction when you stretch your legs over his lap to stroke at his hardening length.

He breaks with you after what seems like a momentary eternity, short of breath despite his immense endurance.

“Condoms’re…bedroom,” he blurts, and he doesn't wait for your response, swinging your legs to the floor, playfully pushing you off of the couch, a man on a mission.

You chuckle as he vaults the coffee table and races ahead, rustling in a drawer somewhere.

The lights are off in the bedroom, unlike when you changed from your shower, and now that the interior is so dark, the panoramic corner windows sparkle like geodes. The city is magnificent from up here. You can’t help but step closer, scanning the skyline. Illuminated offices in towering buildings pierce glowing cloud cover speckled with flashing airplane signals.

With the kitchen lights on, only half of this had been visible in the living room.

Clearly, it’s good to be the boss.

This time, you see no reflection as Steve returns to your side, running a finger across your neck, playing with a ghost earring. Then his lips replace the delicate graze. His beard prickles, a sensation that radiates far beyond the skin it actually touches. His fingers tangle with the wisps of hair at your nape.

He won’t let you turn around, his other hand firmly gripping your side.

“No rush,” he says. “We both got something beautiful to enjoy right here.”

That one statement melts a spike of tension lingering in your neck from the day. Your head falls back, temple resting on his.

“That’s it. Let me take care of you.”

His breath is hot and the whispered words tickle. Your neck quickly tenses again as you make little gasping sounds, shivers running up and down you uncontrollably.

That fucking beard.

His grip releases and shifts over your stomach, tucking up under his shirt but sweeping his touch back and forth just above the waistband of your bottoms. The hand high at your neck drops, drops, drops, low down your back to briefly palm your ass before rising, up, up, up the t-shirt to smooth across the bare skin of your side and farther to cup your breast. He tests, feeling across smooth bare skin, the stretchy lace of your bra, and the pebbling flesh of your nipple once he tucks the fabric away.

He doesn’t say it, but you’re both thinking the same thing: why are either of you wearing clothing?

The good news is you are plenty warm to go without both the tee and sweats, but frustratingly, Steve makes no attempts to remove any—of yours or his. He’s just extensively, endlessly tender and thorough.

He’s a rich man. He’s indulging in excess until you find out this is a bit of payback.

“Woke up with my hand right here,” he groans into your ear, tracing above the waistband of your pants, “you’re so soft, it made me…”

You can turn only your head. “Hard?”

Steve’s tongue darts across his bottom lip as he takes a long moment to blink, nodding.

“Yeah,” he smiles, leaning the mere inch to answer against your mouth, “had to release all that—“

“—pent up energy,” you complete.

He nods again. “Finishing my sentences now?”

You shrug slightly, prompting Steve to readjust his hands and roam some more.

“It’s a good line. I’ll make note, sir.”

His laughter can’t stop his deep groan when he realizes your thumbs have notched beneath your pants and underwear to shimmy out of them. You only have to push them past your thighs before they fall to the floor. His lips find the sweet spot behind your ear, rewarding, encouraging, until he breaks to allow your shirt—his shirt—over your head.

The bra, well…

Its removal is a preview of how adept Steve’s fingers are.

“Let me…” he huffs, nudging for your thighs to open and spread your legs, but he still sounds as if he’s asking.

Your feet part to bracket his. Your head falls back to his shoulder again when his hand dips lower.

This. This is a tease. The slow drag through your folds even though you’re wet as the Hudson down there, the slow mapping of the most reactive spots, one single digit breaching you to barely the second knuckle.

“Steve.”

And that. That is definitely begging.

A gentleman to his core, Steve obliges, pulling you flush against him to gain the best access to your mouth, breasts, and pussy. Relentless and torturously skillful, his fingers take you apart.

The city lights provide so little cast-off into the room that there’s no chance to be self-conscious. Most of Steve’s face is in shadow when you turn to him. The sharp angles shaded in black shift as he asks “does that feel good,” as he leans to plant a sloppy kiss against your cry for more, as he demands you come for him.

So polite. So fucking devastating.

Your body sags into his embrace when that solar flare of ecstasy hits, and Steve walks to few steps forward to rest your knees on the huge armchair by the window—the perfect reading nook, you’d thought earlier, now more like the perfect sex swing. His fingers keep pumping you through the unsteadiness of climax.

He removes his hands only when he knows you have your balance, dropping a peck to your shoulder blade just as you hear the zip of his pants and the soft thunk of denim and hardware hitting the floor.

“Knew this city was noisy,” he chuckles, ripping the condom wrapper open, “but this is the best it’s ever sounded.”

Your mind’s gone a bit hazy in the afterglow, bracing yourself on the arm and back of the huge upholstered chair to look down on New York City like you own it.

“Precious,” Steve checks quietly.

“Yeah, boss?” Your head juts back automatically.

That’s the oddest that word has ever sounded, trapped between its retirement as of a whopping day and a half ago and the completely fucked-out rasp of your voice. You both smile at the blunder.

“No, doll. Equals,” he reiterates with a slow, gentle kiss.

His fingers roam back to make sure you’re still ready. Three fingers can still slide in easily with a naughty wet squelch that halts Steve in his tracks a moment.

His head falls to your shoulder while you listen to that same wetness stroke over his dick. “Why did I waste so much time,” he mutters. “Why couldn’t I see?”

You have to look back and stare at him.

Face now squarely forward, the night lights paint his features apologetic. Steve’s blue eyes, navy in the dark, beg you…for what?

The man has already professed he’s in love with you. He’s already declared he valued you from day one. He’s already given you half of his company—his life’s work.

This whole night is making up for years of potential, all those weeks you put your personal lives aside for the good of the business, but none of it do you consider ‘wasted.'

Without turning the whole of your body, you grab Steve’s hand and bring it to your chest, not to grope but to hold. He sweeps stray hair behind your ear, searching your face.

“Let it go,” you whisper.

You lift your clasped hands to your lips, and his face goes soft and adoring, his warm body moving to press against you but not solely in the heat of passion…until you suck one of his fingers into your mouth.

Your gazes are locked. The blood rushing out of Steve’s brain is obvious as his chiseled and beautiful form stiffens and preens to be near you, touch you, take you. Every breath he heaves lowers to a grunt, somehow signaling ownership and surrender simultaneously.

You’re ready, but you’re not. How could you be ready for the stretch of him that evicts logic from your mind even as your body enlightens? How could you prepare for such tenderness even as he manhandles you with every thrust? How could you desire anything other than just how this is?

Steve fawns over the expanse of beautiful skin across your back. He plays with curving your torso up and down based on how you grip the chair or how he grips your body. He excites at every moaned plea and high whine that tumbles from your kiss-swollen lips.

You’re both sweating by the time another orgasm has you face-planting into the cushions topping the chair, screams muffled but so very well-earned. Steve stands still behind you for a long moment, hands at your hips, thumbs digging into the small of your back.

He’s close, but why is he holding back?

You can tell he wants to move, but instead, he watches you, relishing every tiny aftershock that grips him before shooting a shiver up your spine and a gasp out of your lax mouth.

Oh. Of course.

Steve’s planning, strategizing how to take you next, and perhaps it’s the double orgasm so far, but your confidence soars. Remember, he’s not the only boss now.

You bounce your ass back to force him out of you, sitting in the chair even as sweaty as you are, and look up at Steve. You expect him to be smug, or at least focused on getting himself off now that you’re taken care of, but no.

His eyes are screwed shut, and since you aren’t up against him anymore, he bends to prop himself up by the chair’s arm, face close to yours, erection red and angry, visible even beneath the condom and in the low light.

“You feel so fucking good, precious,” he pants.

Because Steve Rogers doesn’t curse, you either have a third, mini-orgasm right then or a mighty big aftershock from your last. His admission makes you clench so hard that your whole body shakes.

Yours. He’s all yours. He wants you. He needs you. He’ll get you all over him.

Your lips find his first, pressing him back as you rise then walk him blindly to the edge of his bed. He whispers your name softly, over and over, as his hands wander and his thighs brush against yours, slippery cock pinned between you.

He starts to spin you, but you don’t want that.

“No.” You firmly plant your feet in front of his, pushing gently on his chest. “Down.”

Steve’s eyelids remain heavy and fall closed again as he hits the mattress beneath him, grabbing for you. You lift each unsteady leg one at a time to straddle him, rocking yourself over the length of him as his hands find anything on you they can reach.

You lean to give him a delicate kiss. Steve has done exactly as he promised; he took care of you, and now it is your turn.

He’s a workaholic. He needs a break.

You grab his wrists and push them back to the bed. When he tries to fight the hold, you move them together above his head, spreading that wide chest of his taut but not quite vulnerable. Every short, desperate breath is pronounced, but he fights again. You press him down more fervently, his eyes locking onto yours. One long and lustful look and Steve relaxes, his arms remaining on the sheets without your weight.

“Good boy,” you coo and roll your hips again.

He may be obedient and patient as you grasp and realign him, he may be controlled and steady as you sink back down and take him deep, but his mouth runs wild as you begin to ride him. He’s whining and cursing, curling his fingers into fists and releasing them each time he praises you.

“That’s it, precious.”

“Don’t stop.”

“You’re so tight.”

“Fuck me. Fuck me harder.”

By that time, you’re slamming your ass down to meet his thighs as fast as you can, but that teasing bit of friction on your sensitive clit makes you want to drag over the v-cut of his pelvis.

“Uhhh,” he moans, clapping his hands to his face because they’ve nowhere else to go, “I’m close. So close. Please, let me touch you.”

You nod furiously as you bounce, thinking he’s going to still your hips and pump until he comes, but no. Again, no.

One huge palm finds your breast and pinches your nipple, and you yelp, suddenly feeling the sharp flush of another release building. Then his other thumb finds your wanton bundle of nerves and circles.

Your turn to whine. Your turn to “fuuuuck.”

Rough and deep, commanding as you’ve ever heard that low timbre, Steve groans, “good girl.”

And that’s it. You’re done for.

You have to tip your hat to Steve Rogers’ flawless strategy because just as your walls seize and flutter against him, stilling all your other movement while the waves crash through you, he’s thrusting shallowly, growling for a long beat. He ruts up sporadically, milking every drop of his cum into that well-abused sheath of latex.

Your head is thrown back, eyes closed, and your mind floats behind the twinkle of stars. Steve goes limp beneath you until catching his breath, then raises himself, sitting at the edge of the bed with you wrapped in his arms.

When you come back to your body and look at the man beneath you, the man between your legs, the man still balls-deep inside you, your very first thought is how pristinely his hair lies. That’s not fair. You must look like a train wreck, so you rub your hands in and muss his hair, your lips pursed in concentration.

“There,” you huff. “Better.”

Steve laughs, resting his forehead on your chest.

“You’re perfect,” he mutters into your skin. “The best.”

He holds on as long as he can before you insist on cleaning up.

You chuckle, warm water running into your open mouth as the shower streams across you and Steve.

“It’s a soap. You smell like soap.”

You raise the little wedge up to show him as if he doesn’t know about its power. That magical, intoxicating scent that’s driven you wild for days is just soap, and you have to laugh because really most of the effect is Steve himself, though the result is wonderful. The way he smells isn’t all that comforts you; it’s the man behind it.

The slippery bar shoots out of your hand and hits the marble floor.

“Trying to give me a show, precious?”

“No, I—“ just as you get ahold of it, the damn thing flings itself across the shower floor again “—swear I’m not trying to—“ You pop back up with it proudly caught.

“Nicely done,” Steve beams, shrugging, “still a bit of a show.”

You continue to lather over one leg, but—disaster—the bar slips off of your foot.

“Oh, I see your ploy.” He bends to retrieve it this time, ass high in the air, flexing muscles as he rises again. “Well-played.”

If only you were that smart…

“May I wash your hair?”

Always so polite—except for all that sexy swearing in the bedroom—Steve presents his bottle of two-in-one shampoo and conditioner at the ready, and you smile.

“That’s not quite…Don’t worry about it.”

“But I want to,” Steve whines, pouting as you finish lathering your other leg and hand him the soap again.

“It’s okay, Steve. I just wouldn’t use that on my hair. I’ll wait until I’m home.”

“Then you’ll show me?” He squeezes out some gel for himself and starts tussling it into his locks.

“If you really want, I guess.”

The suds drip down his face until he submerges into the massaging surge of water. “Good," he concludes, eyes closed until he's rinsed. "I want to know how to take care of you.”

Where the hell did this guy come from? What the hell was Sarah feeding him this whole time? Did he drain some sort of perfection quota from heaven? Was he dosed with some serum to turn him into this?

It barely matters. He's just Steve, so you relent. Even as you shake your head, you relent. “Sure, Captain.”

The nickname makes sopping-wet Steve grab you and tuck you against him, rubbing his beard along your neck, but he’s careful as always.

He keeps your hair out of the spray. Because it’s what you wanted. And Steve—you’re learning, slowly and cautiously—will do anything you want, anything to make you happy.

It is pretty late when you two finally make it into bed. Steve’s doted on you every second since you stopped emergency work on this failed day off, but he takes a moment as he sets up his and your phones on the chargers to check his messages.

He lets out a huff, and it doesn’t sound good.

“What is it?”

“It’s not important,” Steve dismisses, dropping the device to his nightstand and tossing his covers aside.

“Seriously?” After all the chaos of the last two days—of the last three years, if you’re keeping score—he should know not to delay handling a situation.

“Tony,” he sighs, “Tony invited us on a double date on Monday. He’s still in Galmira, but he thinks he’ll be back by then.”

“No.”

The last thing you need is another formally informal event with Stark and Pep, and any more discussion of it will only remind you of how stressful this crisis was.

Steve tries to explain. “He wants to celebrate how well you and Pepper managed today.”

“No.”

“I just thought—“

You fling yourself onto your back dramatically. “Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

“That’s why I tried not to tell you.”

"Ugh," you grunt out. “Try harder next time, Steve.”

Flat but leaning on one elbow, he swivels his head and sasses back, “I will.”

You attempt to hold onto your annoyance, but he nears with a silly stern expression. It’s too cute. You burst out laughing.

“Ma’am,” Steve deeply warns, closing in still. “Ma’am, I’m gonna need you to take this seriously.”

You fling your arms around his neck, kissing his nose. “Oh, shut up, Captain.”

“You like that, huh?” His eyebrows quirk.

“So do you,” you grumble, wiggling to get deeper into his arms, into that cloud of soap scent and Steve.

His lips brush yours, your bubbles of giddiness all bursting at once in the heat of his attention.

“I do.”

He forgets to switch his lamp off for your next serving of dessert.

Sunday morning, Steve wakes before you again, but this time brings your coffee right up to the bed. Shirtless and wearing—oh for fuck’s sake—your grey sweatpants, he towers over you, bathed in the bright, early light. It looks foggy and gray outside, but Steve Rogers creates his own sunshine.

No one has a right to look that good…

…and yet…that’s the guy who broke your PR on your first night (second, technically) sleeping together. Shit, third if you count him drunk in your hotel room a while back. Ok, well, you've just never come that many times in one night.

You sip your coffee and sigh contentedly.

“So dinner tomorrow night with Stark and Potts?”

Steve cocks a signature eyebrow above the rim of his steaming mug.

Your eyes narrow in thought. How bad can it be? You’ve worked with all of them for so long that this one change in dynamic shouldn’t be too difficult to manage.

“Fine,” you mutter into your cup.

His phone is whipped out of that pant’s pocket at record speed, too, and just for a moment, you glow with the thought that he wants to show you off as his girlfriend.

[Next Part]

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

@bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp @rach2602

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

205 notes · View notes

ronearoundblindly · 11 hours

Text

Dirty Water

Steve Rogers x deep sea mermaid!Reader

Prompt from this dirty ask game with our pairing from the Sun, Salt, and Shield series.

Summary: After a very long (but unofficial) courtship, where Steve is too shy to bring up your anatomy and his compatibility, a cultural misinterpretation quite literally sinks his resolve.

Warnings for smut (I'm gonna have to call this what it is and just say it's monster-f**king, or the one where Steeb gets maybe-CNC-boinked by a 'monster.' Sorry, babes. Ro's dipped a toe into the darkside for a smidge.) MINORS DNI. Poorly--or rather, not--edited and I have no idea the word count...

Steve swallows harshly and tries not to nervously splash his feet in the pool.

"What?" he chokes out.

He can't think of anything more articulate to say, not that it would matter when so much is lost in translation.

All you did was ask about the singing outside the doors of your 'room'--the retrofitted gym pool at the Avengers compound, the one is the basement without windows for your highly sensitive eyes--but he...could never have predicted why you were so curious.

"They're just enjoying themselves," he'd chuckled, shrugging like it was no big deal. "Do you sing?"

The look on your face, jaw slack and head tilting in contemplation, it should have warned him. You unfurled from your relaxed posture, the stance where your arms cross behind your back and fit atop the swell of your--he'd say tail, but it's more like your ass--rump, the rest of your body bent in a curve until your fin nearly touches the surface, and inched closer to his feet in the deep end.

"Yessssss," you hissed slowly through three rows of sharp teeth, crawling up his legs, out of the water, dripping over his lap as you braced large, webbed hands on either side of his hips.

Even in the very low light of damp room, he could see the lavender of your stare drop to his crotch.

"You sing too?"

Steve's an idiot. He didn't understand yet, so that dumbass actually began humming 'You Are My Sunshine' because nothing else occurred to him.

Then he noticed your tail glowing beneath the scales.

Then he realized you were pressing yourself to his legs.

Aaaand then Steve Rogers looked down your body to witness his knee disappearing in a spongy spot where the armoring swelled apart.

Oh god.

"What?" he now asks like an frightened teen seeing boobs for the first time.

"I make you sing?" Your broad green lips turn up in a smile. "Show me."

Suddenly, Steve's forgotten more english than you've learned. "Huh?"

Your flowing, textured hair, shapely even out of the water, sways when you cock your head to the side, looking through your lashes at him.

"How Stevie sing?"

He shivers for the first time in the cool water and lets an involuntary grunt leave his lips.

He's tried to stop himself from imagining your body and how it works to...ya know, and how he might...oh god, he's going to hell, but apparently, you've already been imagining that humans are either masturbating or fucking outside your door at all hours all the time--

--and oh shit, that means you sing as a part of sex.

He turns his head to the almost black ceiling and fails to think of anything else as the light from your body reflects in waves on every wall. He whimpers when he feels a ripple of muscle through the wet cotton of his jeans.

"Doll make Stevie sing?" Your voice is hoarse, and just as quickly as you say that by his throat, you flip back into the water. You can only breathe air for so long without hurting your throat and lungs.

He thinks he's off the hook, praying the tightness in his pants dissipates faster than they'll take to dry, but he lowers his head to find you peeking from the water, intent as ever on learning his ways.

He should be ashamed, so very fucking ashamed, of how badly he wants to take himself out of his pants and watch the wonder of those pretty eyes as he comes at the thought of you, but Steve's drowning in the hope that he can have you. It's been so long that he's wanted this, even in the most innocent ways.

Your final plea bubbles to the surface.

"Show?"

Steve inhales sharply, running a hand through his hair and licking his lips.

This is wrong, he thinks. You should not be doing this.

Yet he does it anyway because he wants to; he wants to so badly.

He sits up straight at the edge of the concrete, popping the button of his jeans and aches as he lowers the zipper. He can't meet your eye while he pulls out his semi-hard cock and fists it harshly.

You're so long that even looking away leaves your shimmering tail in sight, and he thinks he sees you rattle in excitement. It makes him shiver again, and the vibration shakes the moan escaping his tight chest.

Yikes, it does sound a bit like he's singing...

What the hell are you even doing?

Of course, he knows he's touching himself and he knows well enough how to do that, but he shouldn't be doing this in front of you, much less enjoying it. His blood is running so hot beneath his skin, though, the chilly pool feels soothing over his shins where he rolled up his pants (to no avail).

The heat floods his veins and mind to the point rational thought quiets, and Steve's eyes slither up your demure form.

Your eyes get wider and wider the more noise he makes, and his rampant imagination feeds off the sight of that gap in your scales visible as it undulates in the refraction beneath his feet.

He leans his head back and closes his own eyes at just the wrong moment.

Mid-whine, he misses the splashing sound that would have warned him you were coming, and instead Steve is pummeled by the end of your tail and topples into the pool, shocked and sputtering salty water until his body is pinned to the flat of the concrete wall he used to be perch on.

As he scrambles to toss his arms over the ledge, he feels claws dragging his jeans farther down his legs, and the fabric hangs like an anchor while the silky-slick webbing of your fingers glides up and down his thighs.

Then your tongue runs the length of his cock, making Steve moan embarrassingly loud and thrust his hips forward. If he weren't in the water, he'd be a puddle.

Pleasure races up and down his spine, fighting for dominance over the feeling of cold when he slips from the ledge and submerges briefly.

He barely registers the loss of your tongue and your quick lap of swimming before you're backing into him again.

It's on your ass, too, the soft entrance like you rubbed against his knee, but he could not have imagined what it could do--what you could do--how you could manipulate your muscles inside your tail.

He has no brainpower left to describe it. Steve just lets go, trusting your body to hold his weight as one hand grips the mossy softness of your waist and the other hand spreads over your lower back. Out of instinct, he tries to get leverage to push himself in and out of you, but that's useless.

There's a strong ripple of muscle that pulls him in, and in, and in, delicately tight on his sensitive cock and wide enough to slowly suck his balls into the massaging cavern.

Steve's eyes roll far into his head. He's going to pass out if this keeps up.

"Doll," he gasps, but it's too quiet in the slosh of the water. "Please, I'm--"

A clear, high note crescendos from the deep below, something disturbingly pure and paralyzing, and Steve can't move. He can only feel and experience a siren's song in action.

His body twitches violently before his cum is milked sensually, desperately, methodically from his cradled and ravaged pelvis, and never in Steve's long life has he ever been so fucking spent.

He whimpers when your cunt releases him, only faintly aware that he's propped on your back by his elbows as you swim to the shallow end and let him 'stand' on his shaky legs.

The screeching hinge of the door startles him.

"Cap," the junior agent yells over your hiss from the bright light spraying in, "everything okay? I heard..."

Yeah, I couldn't describe it either, Steve thinks.

He spits water from his mouth. "Fine," he huffs back, "we were...singing, and I fell in."

"Oh. Alright. Sorry to disturb you, Miss G." The man nods his apology at your hand-covered eyes and leaves.

Steve can't help but laugh like an insane person, laying to properly float in the water, uncaring what you're up to until he gently hits the stairs leading out of the pool.

Your head rises out of the water hopefully, and he cups your cheeks, still chuckling. He has zero words to describe...anything at the moment, but he can show you a human tradition of affection in return.

Shifting as easily as a feather in the water, he pulls you two together and sweetly presses his salmon lips to your seaweed pout, letting your long locs fall over his own shoulders.

Soon, he's gasping for air again, yet just before you dunk below the surface, you grin and coo at him.

"Stevie sings lovely."

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

what...the hell have i done. *hits post before final two braincells protest*

@fandom-has-taken-me-hostage @leah2901 @blogbog710 @supraveng @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @late-to-the-party-81 @rogersbarber @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @jamneuromain

#😵‍💫#thank you for reading and sharing

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ronearoundblindly · 12 hours

Note

You really got to start limiting my asks lol

V or Z for Johnny or Lloyd

-👜

WHAT?! I have to CHOOSE?? How unfair...

FINE.

I will choose one of each because that's totally how that was supposed to go.

From this dirty ask game and not for all ages, folks. MINORS DNI.

V - Voyeurism

If you're shocked this man likes an audience, then I can't help you.

YA BLIND, GURL. YA NOT LISTENING.

Johnny lives for the showmanship. In fact, I think it's a big part of the experience of sex with him overall. That's his way of awakening the senses, basically. He points out how hard you make him. He makes a little extra noise in your ear. He kinda narrates what you doing something does to him: touching yourself, looking at him, your scent, what you sound like, etc.

Man loves to hear himself talk, yes, but it's mighty delightful--and actually lightens the mood when/if you're feeling self-conscious.

Johnny enjoys all forms of voyeurism, too. He wants the sneaky nudes and vids you send him. He hoards the ones he takes. There's been at least one time where he faked being asleep when you were clearly needy beside him and listened intently to you using a toy on yourself. Mostly, he's proud of himself for not breaking the act, turning over, and fucking you into the mattress. He couldn't figure out a way to reach his phone and record the audio though. Shame.

I'd go so far as to say watching is a big part of foreplay to Mr. Storm because when he gets his hands on you, it's more wild and rushed than you might imagine...

Z - Zones

Lloyd Motherfuckin Hansen, you totally gorgeous asshole. We know you play constant games. We know you like to trick people.

I don't know that Lloyd gets enjoyment from the physical sensation of any part of his body... This man enjoys the symbolism of where you kiss more than anything else.

Treat him like a king. Kiss his feet or the ring on his finger. Drop to your knees and take his cock deep in your throat. Show him he owns you. Show him you're his slave. That's the way to this guy's black, charred, and pissed-on heart.

You'd be surprised at how many typical-affections turn him off or make him angry, actually, so he'll let you grope at him and dig your nails into his back but kissing along his body in the heat of the moment--i.e. if he has not ordered you to do so--will get you shoved away or smacked across the face.

I don't make them rules. That's Lloyd. That's just straight up Lloyd. He bites you. You do not bite him.

Thank you for asking!

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

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

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ronearoundblindly · 12 hours

Note

omg, babe!!!! this fucking guy is just consuming my world right now...

hnnggggggg

why sexy if not mine???

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

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

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

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

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

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

E - Extra Info

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

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

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

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

Does Jake have any dark fantasies or desires?

Hmm. Really good question.

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

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

Just. Don't. Schedule. It.

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

Thank you for asking!

I love him so much.

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

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

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ronearoundblindly · 13 hours

Note

If its ok what if

Lloyd hansen x reader x steve rogers

🥵 smutt

ya know, it took me a loooong time--this ask is from september--to come up with something, but today's the day apparently! And, AND! The lovely @darsynia made me an awesome graphic whilst I wrote all this filth! Thank you, bestie!!! WC 3.3k

Warnings for oh fuck these two are terrors, smut, goddamn fighting (obviously, bc they can't get along in any universe), possibly the worst fucking puns ever and I no longer care, terrible/inaccurate/but very mild dom/sub vibes, not much but knife play. Please note that this work does not involve the two men together. Alternate title: Ro is 1,000% [nope, better make it 1,000,000%] going to hell. MINORS DNI. 18+ ONLY. There is plenty for you to read on my Light Masterlist, but this is not for you!

You can tell Steve is about to crawl out of his skin as the knife touches yours.

"You buy these pretty things for me?" Lloyd coos, tucking the point of his switchblade beneath a lacy seam. He knows damn well the navy set with bright red hearts is not for his enjoyment at all, so he turns his head to stare at your husband.

"Useless," Lloyd growls, flicking his wrist deftly.

The sliced fabric springs back to reveal your thatch of hair. You have no idea whether Lloyd was talking about your panties or Steve, and frankly, you're too turned on to care. There’s a certain amount of goading you expected aimed at the awkward hunk leaning on the far wall.

Steve clenches his arms tighter across his chest and sucks in a breath, eyes darting to your skin in case Lloyd drew blood, but his gaze lingers at your almost exposed core.

He hates this whole idea, but you have tried talking to him so many times about how to make sex more interesting. Steve can't stand to even listen to the words much less do what you want. This is the compromise.

Lloyd Hansen will do anyone for the right price, and sure, usually, that's killing, but who doesn't love a good fuck? Who wouldn't get half-hard just thinking about taking Captain America's wife to pound town right in front of the guy?

Lloyd simply smirks, returning his eyes to you and nudging the lace a little farther. The flat of the blade on your mound feels cold and so fucking dangerous that you shiver, neck tensing to throw your head back.

"How's that feel, pumpkin?"

"Golden," you whine, mewling when he nicks the other end and pulls your panties off. Lloyd doesn't like safe words and shit, but he agreed to a few check-ins, and you do have a way to stop him because, let's face it, the money is the real goal for him. The rest is gravy.

Lloyd stalks over to Steve's corner of the room, lifting the ruined garment for the other to take. "A souvenir--" he chuckles "--what's that smell like to you, huh, big man?"

Steve grimaces, unmoving, so Lloyd shoves your panties in his face.

"Smells like team spirit to me."

You should laugh. You really should. You should not fucking moan when you see Steve's chest expand and his eyes flutter shut briefly. You should not have such a surge of tingling heat race to your center that your thighs slam together.

But you do. And Lloyd notices.

"This is gonna be fun," he whispers, likely to himself, as he drops the fabric and walks over again.

His fingertips slide from your knee up your thigh, and Lloyd bends to nip at your neck.

"Lie back from me, sweetheart. Go on."

You have to cover a squeak while you flop onto the mattress. This sort of dominance is nothing like Steve Rogers even on his most confident day. Steve is always measured and a little tentative, his force reined in to the point of being boring after so many years. This is all flush and feral with the promise of oblivion, and in the strangest way, you still associate every second as with Steve, not Lloyd Hansen. The exercise in trust--the sheer fact that he was willing to entertain this idea, much less the practice--is a show of devotion from Steve you never thought possible.

And then Lloyd kneels down and pushes your legs apart. "Open up for me. That's it. Good girl."

"Ah fuck," you moan into your hand, and thank god if Steve does hear you, he doesn't say a thing.

Lloyd skips finesse and plunges into the dirty end of the pool by licking all the way up and down your cunt, hands spreading your ass to expose every bit of you to him, and he pauses to speak with his mouth against your clit.

"Do I need to give him a lesson or can I just fucking taste you?"

"I know how to--" but Steve's protest dies behind the noise Lloyd makes sloppily eating you out like a man starved.

Your legs instinctively wrap around his head, and your hips buck into the wild ride. His mustache burns in the best way. You gasp so much that your throat burns dry, too.

He says other things, things that rumble up your spine and settle deep in your brain, but you can't process what those words are until the white-hot lightning finally cracks your body apart.

Lloyd is shockingly soothing as you come back down from your high but unshockingly smug when he sweeps his face clean of your cum.

"You're doing star-spangled spectacularly for me, slut, now why don't--"

There's a thunderclap of noise that wrenches you out of your bliss. You’re knocked onto your side as Lloyd falls to the floor.

Steve raises his arm again but hesitates when you call his name.

"He doesn't...he doesn't do well with language like that," you manage to say, still fuzzy and out of breath.

Lloyd wipes blood from his nose. "Yeah, I picked up on that. Thanks,” he spits sarcastically, followed by a real spit to clear his mouth. “Down, boy. I'll play nice--" he winks at you as he rises "--but not too nice."

Lloyd climbs back to sit on the edge of the bed beside you, his hand spreading over your throat gently. "Feels good, don't it? Feeling golden?"

You nod vigorously.

He licks more blood from his lip. “Yeah? Can we move on, pumpkin, or is your pussy still needy—“

Lloyd catches Steve's fist this time, jumping up to punch your husband square in the neck.

Steve, to his credit, doesn't even go down, but he drops his arm and steps back, rubbing the point of contact as he wheezes for a minute.

"Can I please continue?" Lloyd screams in annoyance. The man is not in any way used to sharing, or going slow, or giving a flying fuck about anyone in the room for that matter. However, Lloyd is a dedicated professional, so he’ll continue because he knows what’s in it for him. "God damn it,” he barks, spitting at Steve’s feet.

Lloyd takes a beat to compose himself and returns to your side, facing away now, his hand plunging between your legs.

"Time to earn participation points, Golden Boy." Two fingers breach your entrance without warning. "On your knees."

Lloyd snaps his other fingers and points to the ground like he's training a dog to heel.

Slowly, with wide eyes and hesitant steps, Steve places himself exactly as Lloyd did before. He strategically keeps his focus glued to yours until the squelching sound of Lloyd's fingers thrusting in and out of you becomes too loud to ignore.

That look--that fucking moment where your husband sees your core and hunger darkens his whole face--could send you back over the edge right here, but suddenly, Lloyd stops.

"Now we've got his attention," the cruel man laughs.

Like your panties before, there's no ceremony to Lloyd shoving his fingers into Steve's awe-parted lips, but the biggest shock is how your husband doesn't fight the intrusion. No. Steve grabs Lloyd's wrist to keep him there until Steve is done sucking your taste off another man's fingers.

You're pretty sure that's when your soul left your body, but it's a toss-up between that and every other moment tonight.

With more patience than you thought possible, Lloyd waits, comically making an “O” with his mouth and looking at you. “Someone’s eager for the beaver, I see.” He takes the same wet fingers and tucks them between your breasts, snapping the front of your bra sharply against your sternum.

“Finish unwrapping your present. I wanna see what you got—” and when Steve immediately reaches behind your back for the clasp, Lloyd’s eyebrows bob up and down “—and he’s good at following orders, too.”

Your husband plants a gentle kiss on the swell of one breast before Lloyd stops him, tutting while he holds a fucking knife against Captain America’s chest to sit him back on his heels.

He ticks the blade down. “That’s your half now. This is mine.”

You’re practically panting while Steve’s eyes go hard in possessiveness, locked onto Lloyd in a challenge you don’t quite understand until the fancy man flips the blade back into it’s handle.

“Fine,” Lloyd grouches, tossing the knife farther up the bed. He shuffles closer to face you, a warm hand cupping your breast before he tweaks the nipple harshly. “Why don’t you relax for us, huh, good girl?”

Lloyd coaxes you to lean back again, orders Steve to hold your legs open and tease you, buries painful fingers in your hair, and forces you to watch.

“That’s it. Don’t you want to hear her beg? Doesn’t she sound so sweet? Oh, I like her desperate…”

Not in years has Steve Rogers whispered anything so filthy as the shit that falls from Lloyd’s mouth, but goddamn, every word is like kindling stoking the vigor with which Steve consumes you. You lap up the praise while your husband gulps down every ounce created by every word.

Lloyd lowers to suck and bite all over your chest, marks blossoming across the tender skin as he takes a sort of sweet revenge for his bloody nose. A kink for a kink.

“You want to tell him what’s next,” Lloyd rasps, straining your neck back to look at him in the last few moments before you come again, “or should I?” His devilish smile is the last thing you see before he pushes you to meet Steve’s eyes, the perfect, final flick of tongue rolling over your clit.

Dutifully—sweetly almost—Steve lifts away from you as your legs shake, replacing his face with his fingers to gently bring you down, and Lloyd does not like that. He swats Steve’s hand off to slap your raw bundle of nerves and shove his fingers in again, brutally hitting that spongy spot until the dam of orgasm doesn’t just rupture, it explodes inside you.

You cry out and flail. Lloyd pins you down with a knee to your ribcage, and it hurts but not enough to give a shit over the rush of cum soaking his hand and the sheets below. Steve holds your ankles so you don’t kick him in the face while squirming, transfixed on every move Lloyd makes to milk you stupid.

With one last wet slap, Lloyd rests his hand on your belly and tosses a gelled lock of hair out of his face.

“Wifey here wants to suck you dry,” he boasts, and your hands fly to your face in hot embarrassment.

You confessed that after drinking quite a lot during the ‘negotiation’ of terms for this little arrangement, but only when Steve excused himself to the restroom. Lloyd wasn’t supposed to repeat your fantasy.

“That’s right, big guy. She’s gonna blow your—“ his eyes drop and raise “—mind,” he continues, unpinning you and pushing your arms to the side. He leans down to smear your own slick across your mouth messily, quietly adding, “he won’t even notice I’m right behind you.”

The air rushes out of your lungs before you can stop it, making a downright pathetic sound of anticipation.

“Strip,” Lloyd commands, waving a hand casually at Steve and sauntering over to a bottle of water on the dresser. “The…uh…lady should get on her knees.”

Steve turns to the other wall, unable to meet your eye, bright red blotches spotting his neck and cheeks. He’s embarrassed, too, but from the speed at which he unzips his jeans to relieve his still-straining erection and then pulls his shirt over his head, Steve is also painfully aroused. You even catch him rubbing his cock with each conceivable pass while disrobing. It reignites that weak fire between your tired legs.

“Face up, Captain. Give ‘er some room,” Lloyd snorts, capping his water.

Of course, Steve spreads his legs in front of you, and instead of acknowledging how fucking hard he is, he helps you balance into position.

You capture a quick kiss and smile as your husband blushes even more.

“Jesus, I’m gonna vomit,” Lloyd mutters behind you.

He’s just so, so fucking evil, but you admit the contrast has you drooling to get your mouth on Steve. You’re already planning on adding orders to your regular routine. You buzz with excitement at all this play implies, now and in the future.

Steve isn’t just letting this happen; he likes what’s happening.

Lloyd’s warm hand pets down your spine until it rests heavily on your lower back, the heel of it pressed against your spread ass, an encouragement and a threat.

“Take him how you want. Just like you told me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, listening to Steve’s ragged breaths amidst Lloyd's criticism.

“You don’t just lick him, do you, kitten? You can do better than that. I thought you wanted to swallow him whole. Don’t disappoint me now. More. You can take it. More.”

Your nose nuzzles into Steve’s pelvis as you feel his cock jump in your throat. You swallow around him but force yourself up for air after.

“Is that the best you got?” Lloyd teases, his hand sliding tauntingly down your crack and through your folds before he’s gone.

You open your eyes when he grabs your wrist and presses the closed switchblade into your palm.

“Go on. Hold it, pumpkin. Right there.” Lloyd makes your hand rest on Steve’s thigh. For balance, you have to open your fist and press the metal to your husband’s skin as you take him back into your mouth.

Steve fucking groans, pinching his eyes shut and grabbing the sheets beneath him.

“Oh yeah,” Lloyd chirps, “he likes a bit of danger, huh?” A flat hand cracks against your ass, making you whine with your lips around Steve’s dick.

The sound of Steve whimpering is coupled with the snap of Lloyd's belt. His fingers return, and you just know he’s unabashedly staring at your pussy.

“Whoo-ee, if you weren’t already gaping for me, I’d think you weren’t into this. Put your back into it.” You hear the rip of a zipper only moments before the thick tip of him lines up.

You can’t help but moan low and long over Steve’s length.

“Baby?” Steve breathes above you.

“She’s fine,” Lloyd answers instead, pushing in. The head of him pops past the first ridge of your walls, and his hand clamps down on your hip, the other flat over the small of your back, guiding, controlling.

The spit of both men coats your core and inner thighs, you remember, and the slow swirl of ambient air proves it. That thought makes your eyes roll back as much as the glorious pressure of Lloyd’s cock filling you.

But Steve’s fingers find your chin and raise you to look at him, repeating his question until you let him fall heavy from your mouth and lick your swollen lips.

“Golden,” you say just as Lloyd bottoms out. “Fff-ahh.” You barely stop yourself from cursing when he thrusts forward and another SMACK hits your ass. “Golden,” you promise, because you know Steve is watching with extremely mixed feelings.

You return what attention you can to stuffing your mouth full. A rhythm progresses while you rock between them, but it’s too gentle for—of all people—Steve.

His hand knots through your hair to guide you faster. You have to plant yourself steady on the mattress, the knife digging into both your flesh, and hold your hips still.

Lloyd isn’t even fazed as he takes over his own selfish pace, his balls slapping so hard they sting your thighs. He keeps talking, too.

“See how much she likes that, buddy?”

Oh, that is not going to go over well with Steve.

“Bet she’d drop to her knees for you daily.”

He’s not wrong there…

“Damn, babygirl—“ Oh shit “—sometimes a bitch just needs fucked doggy-style.”

You can feel Steve’s chest fill to correct him, the deep v-line of his Adonis’ belt pressing against your nose to cut off your air, but Lloyd purposefully slams into you. You lurch forward to deep-throat Steve with a scream of alarm, and the constriction nearly topples Steve over the edge.

Just for a moment, his hand holds you down, choking you. It’s Steve choking you on his dick, and your nails happily dig into his meaty thighs. You’ve dreamed of this day.

With a strangled sound, Steve pulls you off him, strings of spit drip from your abused mouth. You’re gasping for air but also not done enjoying yourself, so you lick and kiss up Steve’s length until ready to take him again.

All the while, Lloyd darkly chuckles and kneads at your ass.

When one spanking lands so hard that you cry out, Steve bucks down your throat and punches the bed, clearly torn between sensation and situation.

“Such an asshole,” he grits through clenched teeth.

“Oh,” Lloyd tuts, “she wants it in the ass? Well, when in Rome…” He swipes his thumb over the cream pooling at the base of his cock and shoves his thumb hard against your puckered hole.

Honestly, you have no idea if it even breached because you scream and fall forward on Steve's dick. This time, Steve comes with a roar, a raging, animalistic thing you have never heard before, but you’re pulled away just as fast.

Lloyd hauls you up to his chest, telling you to look at what a fucking mess your husband is for you. Steve desperately grips himself until it’s over, half his spend glistening on his abs, half rolling down your chin while Lloyd continues to thrust into your sweet spot.

He’s given up controlling his language entirely.

“Fuck, she’s close. Come on, big guy—“ he pinches your nipple and bites at your neck “—finish her off.”

Lloyd drops you like a stone into Steve’s waiting arms, and Steve wastes no time slamming his mouth to yours and furiously rubbing your clit. You’re so stretched out that three of his thick fingers feel like nothing until they curl.

This time you can’t help but shout your own curse. Steve just keeps kissing you, holding you two together as you writhe. You hardly notice Lloyd painting his cum across your back and ass but neither does Steve, it seems, because the next thing you know you’re laying beside your husband in bed while your guest grins in triumph.

“I’ll just take this,” Lloyd drawls, reaching beneath Steve’s bare leg to retrieve his knife. He slaps Steve’s ass, too. It’s as if Lloyd knows Steve will let him get away with just about anything in the post-coital fog. “Don’t want you to feel left out, buddy.”

Your husband makes no move at all except to kiss your forehead.

“How are you?” He smooths your wrecked hair out of your face.

“Oh wow,” you say with a rough voice and runaway breaths, “I’m golden, just golden.”

Lloyd grabs his water bottle, joking. “My work here is done, and you two—“ he swigs and swallows dramatically “—I don't mind repeat business from. Anytime. Fuck.”

He struts to the bathroom, pants still undone and hanging open, uncaring. With a shout, he slaps the top of the door frame.

“That’s America’s Cunt!”

Steve’s whole body tenses. “I hate that guy,” he grumbles into your sweaty skin.

You snuggle closer, surrounded by familiar body heat and musk. “I know. Isn't it great?”

Because it’s so, so true. There is nothing about Lloyd Hansen you actually want for one second longer than necessary. That's the beauty of teamwork: everyone serves their purpose.

Honorable mention to the line I promised but ultimately couldn't fit in (that's what she said):

@supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @deandreamernp

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

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

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ronearoundblindly · 16 hours

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Y/N: I don't know how to tell you this, but... I love you.

Bucky: That's great, Y/N. Especially considering the fact we've been married for 6 fucking years.

#it me #😅#incorrect quotes #bucky barnes

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ronearoundblindly · 18 hours

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Ro's Top 10 List

STANDALONE POSTS OR ONE-SHOTS:

Fear (Bucky x reader smut) Warning Signs (Steve x reader hurt/comfort) Your Dog, His Tricks (Steve x reader angst/smut) A Casual Kiss (Bucky x reader fluff) Old Dog, New Tricks (Steve x reader fluff/smut)

SERIES:

The Root of All Ransom (Ransom x reader) Bedrock & Blueprints (Ari x reader) Fools Rush In (Steve x reader) It Had To Be You (Steve x reader) Hideout (Steve x reader)

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

*top image credit (to the best of my knowledge): yoshisimamora

#top 10 list #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #ransom drysdale fanfiction #ransom drysdale x reader #ari levinson fanfiction #ari levinson x reader

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ronearoundblindly · 1 day

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'Bedrock and Blueprints' Masterlist

best friends-to-lovers, Ari Levinson x Reader (25k+)

Romance 🔥 || Smut 🦆 || Author Fave 🍀 || Angst ⛈ || Fluff 🌼 || Dark Fic 🌘 || *** denotes work for all ages

Ari Levinson, now-retired from the Army Special Forces, is your aloof-but-loyal best friend who knows everything about you from the past ten years. What happens when a nomad and chronically planning family woman get together? And what happens when the house is actually falling apart around them?

*Most works under 2k words (longer are labeled).

In The Beginning (origins) ***🌼🔥

Alone Together (Valentine's Day) ***⛈🌼

No, We Aren't (drunk cuddles) 🌼🔥

Saucy (Ari's attraction) 🌼🦆

I Know You (house hunt)*** 🌼

Tension (massage) 🌼🔥🦆

Release (first time) 🔥🦆 (4k)

Drip, Drip, BOOM! (gah, just smut) 🔥🦆

Far & Away (work trip separation)

Oh Dear... (period comfort) *** 🌼⛈

Temper (headcanon humor) *** 🌼

Seventy-Five Days (fake-a-versary) *** 🌼🔥

Post-Nightmare Cuddles *** 🌼⛈

Everything Has Its Place (house decisions) 🌼⛈🦆

Run-In (your ex comes back) 🌼⛈

A Little Rain Indoors (storm cuddles) *** 🌼🔥

Quick and Dirty (Ari sees your hot co-worker) ⛈🔥🦆

Cooking with Ari (headcanon) *** 🌼

An Ass of You and Me (argument) 🌼

Treasure (gifts headcanon) *** ⛈🌼

Joanna (Ari handles your bad friend) ⛈🌼🔥 (3k+)

The Chair Beside Your Bed (hospital visit) *** ⛈🌼

White Musk (massage 2) 🌼🔥🦆

Too Eager (work troubles) ⛈🦆

Loud and Threatening (sick comfort 1) 🌼

Calling From The Office Of... (sick comfort 2) 🌼⛈

Light of My Life (proposal) *** 🌼

The Break and the Birth (when Ari gets sick) *** 🌼

3 + 1 (the name Mrs. Levinson) 🌼🔥🦆

New Parent Panic (Rachel gets sick) ⛈️🌼

New Parent Panic 2 (Ari's POV) ⛈️🌼

To Want and Need A Wife (the name Mrs. again) 🌼🔥🦆

Random headcanons:

"Anniversary" *** 🌼

Thoughts on the future *** 🌼⛈

Bondage, Outdoors, and Water 🔥🦆

[Main Masterlist]

#thank you for reading and sharing

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ronearoundblindly · 2 days

Text

Pirate & Pin Cushion (3)

Jake Jensen x gn! ops!Reader

Painful...But In A Good Way (see previous or JJ Masterlist)

The last thing you remember is the awkward kiss Jake planted on you during a screaming match. Now, awake and healed, your friend and teammate is acting more awkward than usual around you.

Warnings for foul language, *super skimmed over action,* canon-level betrayal (Roque), completely vague mentions of injuries, suspicions, doubts, misunderstandings,--GO FIGURE--an argument, and I just wanted this done honestly. Not that I don't love them, but I need a win in the COMPLETED department. WC ~1.5k

You’re a Loser through and through now.

Months have gone by since you were stabbed and unceremoniously, sorta-kinda-maybe-not kissed by Jake Jensen. You woke up six days later with Pooch by your side, disappointed it wasn’t your Banter Bro.

The last thing you remember is turning away from Jake to hide your face. After that, nothing. You suppose he feels awkward about it. Maybe he regrets it, even if the ‘kiss’ was just part of a gag to him.

The most frustrating part is everything is exactly the same. Jake keeps you at arm’s length, a holding pattern to get no closer as teammates but no farther as friends.

Is this…are you in the friend zone???

It blows.

You’d still prefer this over being a pariah, so on you quip from interaction to interaction.

For all Jake’s hype about loving Halloween, he shuts down when you ask him what costume you should choose. Then he goes home to his sister and niece for the holiday.

...Okay…

You console yourself knowing this is for the best. You’d promised yourself no attachments, and nature clearly pushes for you to keep that promise.

You’ve almost—almost—resigned yourself to actual pin-cushion-status, jabbed repeatedly by his indifference. You are PC: perpetually crushing on Jake Jensen. It sucks.

You can be professional though. You can keep up with the jokes and take the hits to your heart and body that come with the job.

Until you can’t.

Los Angeles. The port. The shitshow.

While scrambling to get out of the line of fire in a showdown gone wrong, Jake cuts his leg vaulting over a concrete barrier, and you get him to a nook between shipping crates.

You squat down to change the mag on your MP7 and suddenly hear Roque’s voice behind you. He’s not on the comms.

“Should’ve told ‘em, Jensen."

The look on Jake’s face is shocked and bitter.

Roque clicks his tongue. "At least then they’d know…”

Before you can so much as turn to look, Jake’s raised his own weapon, firing right over your shoulder and within inches of your ear.

The pain is sharp and hot, sending you stumbling into the warped metal wall of the nearest container.

Jake wraps a thick arm around your waist and yanks you away.

You catch sight of Roque dead on the asphalt.

It’s complete chaos, pure survival mode for the next twenty minutes, deaf and deftly tying a bandage around Jake’s leg in an open, empty crate while he’s on comms and frantically hand-signaling you the plan.

But you make it. Everyone but Roque makes it.

Eventually, when the ringing subsides in your non-ruptured ear, Clay lays outRoque betrayed the team. Aisha teaches you a way to cup your occipital and tap to reduce the tinnitis. Pooch leaves to see the birth of his first child.

You’re left to ponder if Jake is a traitor, too.

Did he kill Roque to keep his own cover? Was he supposed to recruit you into his and Roque’s plan? Is that what he ‘should have told you’ so Roque wouldn’t need to kill you?

The possibilities haunt you. Is this why he’s kept you distant for months? Was Jake worried you’d catch on?

You blame your stupid crush for stopping you from telling Cougar your concerns. You trust Jake—or you want to trust him, so badly—so you confront him alone.

Dinner. At your place. Away from the team so he can feel safe to admit it. Away from the team so you can pretend your forgiveness isn’t already secured. You’ll deal with the consequences once you know the truth.

Jake seems an odd mix of totally psyched and forcefully reserved when you invite him and a nervous wreck when he arrives at your door.

It’s just pizza. You were too distracted to do more.

He doesn’t pick up his slice because you don’t either, running your hands up and down your thighs compulsively, then quietly asking, “about what Roque said…”

Jake leans back in his chair, leg bouncing frantically, rubbing at his neck. “Yeah,” he replies, eyes on the floor.

“Was he…were you his partner in that? Were you suppose to take me out, too?

Jake’s head snaps up, his mouth askew and brow pinched. “WHAT?”

“Just tell me the truth. I swear, we can work it out with the rest—“

“Is this what—what the fuck—“ he shoves the chair back and steps away “—that’s the reason I’m here right now? I thought you were finally gonna say it!”

Jake rips his glasses off his face and harshly runs his fingers through his frosted tips.

“Say…what? What am I supposed to say? I’m not the one Roque had a damn secret with.”

He’s visibly upset but with bugged-out eyes like he has no idea what to do.

“Well, I’m not a fucking traitor,” he mumbles.

Jake replaces his glasses and takes his phone from the pocket of his low-slung jeans, hitting a few buttons and tossing it onto the table. It slides until it knocks your plate.

His own recorded laugh cuts off quickly. “Okay, PC, what were you saying about Halloween? One more time,” and then comes another slow voice, “I should have told you before I died.

“I love you.”

Your whole body freezes, brain turning the words over and over until it occurs to you…that is your voice.

“I didn’t say that.” Your knee-jerk reaction comes swiftly. “I don’t remember that.”

Jake snorts without humor. “Got that part.”

You’re too stunned to speak. You can’t even imagine when you would have…oh god.

Jake rushes to fill the silence as you die inside, again, maybe more realistically because what.

“Did you at least think I was a badass, like, ya know, a sexy traitor or whatever? Or…were you gonna wrestle me to the ground after I ate a whole pie?”

You keep sitting with your mouth agape.

“You didn’t poison the pizza, did you? Right? Say 'no.' That’s overkill, or just, kill—were gonna kill me?!”

“I’D KNOWN YOU FOR TWO WEEKS,” you explode, bolting out of your own chair.

“Yeah,” Jake squeaks, “I know.”

“Two weeks, and then you taped me saying ‘I love you?’”

“But, like—“ his usually deep timbre pitches super high “…did you?”

“Why would you just sit on that, Jake?!”

He shrugs. “You weren’t exactly sober.”

Too much, too many feelings, all at once. You try to get away, to make a break for the bathroom, but Jake grabs your wrist and swings your momentum to the wall.

Your back hits with a soft thud, pinned in place by Jake’s chest. He’s not breathing heavily, but you are, pushing you against him repeatedly.

That just makes it harder.

Yes, you said it (you guess), and yes, you meant it. Jake, however, hasn’t said word one about if he feels some sort of way for you. Your brain can’t intuit his romantic inclinations two minutes after accusing him of treachery.

He’s…there, not moving, not speaking, lips slightly parted while he stares at you.

You clear your throat.

“You’re…you’re touching me,” you say softly.

Jake doesn’t skip a beat, gently tightening his hold on your arms. “That’s what I do, PC. Finger keyboards.”

You gag as he quickly shakes his head.

“What the fuck?”

“Sounds sooooo bad," Jake moans. "I’m so sorry.” He let’s go of you, steps back, and slaps his hands in the air frantically. “Wait, okay? That was not the joke. I can do it.”

“You’re sick, man.”

Jake rubs at his temples, muttering something about keys, computers, and Halloween. “Hold on...so dumb. This is why I was trying to record it! It’s your joke. You were laying on the bed and--”

“I would never say you fin—“

“He was standing right there,” Jake bursts, scaring you to silence. “Roque. When you said that into the phone, I mean, he was standing at the door and he heard.”

Jensen sighs. Defeated and deflated, he rests his hands on his hips, inhaling sharply.

“So at the port when… He aimed a gun at you and I just—“ he makes a finger gun to point over your shoulder, adding a soft pow sound-effect “—Roque was saying I should have told you before he tried to kill you.”

“About the recording?”

“No.” Jake rocks on his heels.

“About the joke?” Your voice is so small.

His stupid, beautiful blue eyes lift to meet yours.

“No, pin cushion, not about the joke.”

There's a horridly long pause of nothingness.

"Fuck it."

Jake lunges forward with startling intensity, fingers lace behind your head to draw you to him.

You don’t turn away this time.

His lips are soft yet determined, slowly pulsing to transform one kiss into dozens, and he adjusts everything—his height, his stance, his proximity to get even more of you in a single embrace.

“I love you,” Jake whispers, shifting to tilt you left while he goes right. “I should have told you ‘I love you,’ too.”

You promised yourself no attachments, but who are you kidding? You're such a loser, and you found your match.

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

😵‍💫

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

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