#lemony lemons

It is not a new realisation that creeps up on you the fateful Saturday afternoon; but it hits you with a fresh blissful intensity nevertheless.

It’s one of those lovely moments you and Steve got up to sharing lately, precious time in precious company, yet spent each wrapped in your own pastime. It’s a sweet kind of intimacy, comfortable and comforting, even in your relatively new love: being together, breathing the same air, mostly in silence, this time in one of the Avengers’ garages providing a surprising sanctuary on a warm weekend.

You, every now and then sharing a sentence you just read, one you particularly liked or simply made you laugh or think of him or you two together; him, working on his bike, hands smudged with a streak of grease here and there:

And therein lies the problem.

You’re reading, comfy on one of the armchairs which is there just for occasions like this.

Steve is working on his bike, crouched of laid or bend, arms bare to avoid smudging a sleeve.

You’re failing your task spectacularly.

Steve, on the other hand, is excellent; he truly is wonderful at working with his hands.

It’s been a while since you shared a line you enjoyed.

Steve’s not complaining. He is distracting though.

Your gaze, instead of focusing on the page to feed your mind with vivid images and new thoughts born out of the story, keeps wandering to him, the solid lines of his muscle, the tendons and veins on his forearms, his dextrous fingers.

Steve hasn’t noticed. Maybe. Or maybe he’s just being too polite. Or he’s too pleased to point it out.

You catch yourself blatantly staring. Your eyes and mind zero on one single thought, on one single object.

Steve’s hands.

The skin on his palms is roughened by battle and hard work, his knuckles a constellation of little scars scattered across, for not even his enhanced healing can keep up with how often he splits, or bruises, or breaks them when fighting for a better, safer world. His skin is scraped from where he reaches for the world that would fit with the idea of how things should be through the thorny paths of reality, over and over again, for he wants to believe and wants to do his part.

They are hands of a man who fights every day.

They are hands of a man who has taken lives.

They are hands of a man who has protected millions more and inspired others to do the same.

The touch of those hands is the most tender you have ever felt, soft even where the skin is hard, flesh warm and pliant where it meets your skin, fingers careful and meticulous where they hold a pencil or a brush to capture the beauty he sees all around him instead of choosing to only see the pain and wrongdoings; delicate, dextrous and decadent where they play your body to create symphonies of gasps and moans and keens of his name.

His grip is strong, palms broad, made for as much violence as for cradling; long fingers of an artist praying to his muse. A few visible veins rise, trailing up his forearms and enormous arms, the vulnerable paths you sometimes trace with your fingers and can now only think of tasting on your tongue, inhaling the aroma of his skin and salt of the sheen layer of sweat you know he can work when making love to you.

You’ve forgotten to breathe, throat and core tight and burning, memories and not-so-shy manifestation of your desires filling your head, fingers digging into the cover of the book you’ve long forgotten to pay attention to.

The vein running over the thumb edge of Steve’s hand shifts under your gaze, hypnotizing and alluring, making you lick your lips.

The warm, amused and slightly concerned voice sounds from a terrible distance – criminal distance, you deem, once you realize where it’s coming from, who it’s coming from – as it calls your name, clearly not for the first time.

You blink, the ghost of a taste of Steve’s skin lingering on your tongue, the corners of your lips rising on instinct.

“Hm?”

His eyes, however tinged with concern, are just as beautiful, but they inspire softer thoughts rather than sinful ones. You try to focus on those, trying to clear your head, drowning in the lovely sea of blue with a drop of green instead, breath not quite restoring as he rises to his full height; another criminal distraction.

He can hoist you up, you already know as much— the wonderful heights, literal and figurative, he’s made you reach with your back pressed against the wall, one hand squeezing your thigh, the other cradling your face to lick his name off of your mouth-

“You okay, honey?” he asks, sweet.

You blink again, not quite innocent, shifting in your seat.

“Yes, of course. You done?”

He instinctively wipes his hands on a nearby rag, not catching the smudge on his forearm and you ache do to it for him.

“Almost… you zoned out on me, more than usual. Are you really feeling alright? Have you drank enough water today?”

I have, and yet I’m feeling thirsty. Parched, in fact, but not for water. Hand me some?

You gulp, tearing your gaze away from the way one of his thumbs rubs over the other over the cloth with a herculean effort, met with the brilliant blue full of light and genuine, innocent care again.

Tell me, his soft smile coaxes, the wish to know your thoughts to contemplate them or stock them away for later as sincere as maddeningly attractive.

Your lips part with an inhale and a shaky exhale, your heart pounding as you consider whether to answer his wordless plea and answer truthfully.

You lose the battle before it can even start.

“I… I like your hands,” you confess, your own hands fiddling with the cover of your book, something you’d scratch anyone’s eyes out for if you saw them do so. It’s soothing though, especially as it gives your eyes something to look at, heat flushing your face at your admission.

Somehow, admitting it out loud feels more compromising than some of the positions Steve’s lovely hands has arranged you into and there have been quite a few.

“Oh?” he hums curiously, and you can feel his gaze tracing your face like a caress, looking for any further explanation. “Uhm… thank you,” he adds when none comes.

It’s just after one breath, one of his and one of yours, when you cave easily; because you know Steve won’t think less of you, or so you say so to yourself.

“I-“ you sigh, releasing the air slowly, eyes slipping shut. “I really… like your hands.”

Steve understands at the speed of one realisation per ten beats of your frantic heart.

“…oh.”

When you dare to look at him, there’s a faint blush in his cheek, the tips of his ears turning an adorable pink, his smile a little shy, gaze downcast.

“Good to know,” he says and you know he means it even as he turns back to his work.

You finally breathe even as you can hear the wheels of his mind turning madly while he’s tightening whichever things needs tightening on his bike.

Steve acts at the speed of a one heart-stopping action per your mind getting nearly settled from overthinking your confession.

He wipes his hands decisively and properly this time, already stalking to you as he tosses the rag somewhere you couldn’t care to look.

His skin still smells roughly of grease, but it’s his touch all your senses plunge into, broad palms cradling your face most deliberately, thumb brushing over your cheekbone, fingertips caressing behind your ear, tipping your head up just slightly for the perfect angle to kiss you wholeheartedly and--- your brain is melting and words stop making sense.

Steve turns your body into a something pliant, eager and entirely his, one kiss at a time, breaks for air a lot more necessary than needed. It’s impossible to not be hyperaware of the brush and press of his fingers which seem more generous than usual, tingly heat spreading through your skin and veins all the way into your heart and lower stomach.

When you head spins enough for you to worry you might lose balance where you’re sitting, he retreats, brushes his nose over yours with a smile you taste and feel rather than see, one of his hands moving to your hip to steady you instead and the circle he draws there is a bit short of soothing and all the more sinfully warm.

“Careful, honey. Can’t have you falling.”

You can hear the unspoken cheeky ‘for me’ but you forgive him, because he too sounds a little breathy and at least half as affected as you are and as he goes back to fixing his bike, he offers the perfect view of his hands at work again.

For a moment, you watch unabashedly, knowing that trying to read is an entirely lost cause.

Then, when you can’t bear the smug broadness of Steve’s shoulders and puffed out chest, you hide the heat radiating off your face, burning especially where his hands have cradled your cheeks and jaw and hip, behind the book completely.

You don’t have the faintest idea what you’ve been reading about and what you’re reading now, or whether the book is even in English.

You think Steve knows as much.

You bet he also knows he’s ruining your underwear one pair at a time by being himself and pulling stunts like this.

You’re hundred percent sure that the loveable bastard is proud of it too.

You love him anyway.

“Love you,” he says as if he can read your nearly empty mind and all you can do, when you remember how words work, is to have the same fall from your kiss-swollen lips.

He doesn’t mention it.

He doesn’t call you out, doesn’t make fun of you – because of course he doesn’t— but you can tell he’s thinking about it sometimes when his gaze gets absent as you lie on his chest on the couch, snuggled into him like he’s your favourite blanket, your hands toying with his, his fingers toying with yours.

The wheels are still loud in his head, but they are but background noise drowned out in his soft love and quiet smiles and little inside jokes whose number is increasing as the light and yet suffocating overwhelming sensation of love keeps expanding in your chest.

You almost think he has forgotten at times. Which is a ridiculous notion not only because of his eidetic memory.

You might not have one of those yourself, but having been embarrassed and swept off your feet by a dizzying kiss all the same after your confession, you do remember that exactly two weeks have passed when it culminates at last.

You’re spending a quiet date night in, cooking and baking, delighting in making something together and seeing the tangible outcome of your efforts.

Enjoying making things with your hands.

And you have noticed, thank you very much, how dexterous Steve’s hands are, cutting the vegetables, his knife skills tremendous.

You have noticed too, how expertly his hands are kneading the dough, fingers digging in with gentle vigour, the tendons on his forearms working, veins rising before the dough does, the muscles on his arms straining just enough to highlight their alluring outlines.

If you could draw, you’d draw an entire set of studies on Steve’s hands and arms, alas you cannot and so you simply appreciate the sight all the more for it, attention diverted from the task at hand.

Steve’s had a content smile playing on his lips all evening, but when he leaves the dough to rise, washing his hands and turning to you only to catch you staring where his hands has been drying a moment ago, stray droplets of water lingering along the most prominent veins, long fingers slipping between the folds of the washcloth and the towel… you would swear one corner of his lips rises higher.

Two of those fingers slip under your chin like they were made to do exactly that for the entirety of your lives, tilting your head back just a fraction, kissing you on the mouth like the secret and most essential ingredient for the dough to rise is love.

There’s quite a lot of time before the dough is ready, flashes through your mind as your hands rise to Steve’s shoulders, the contrast of his warm skin and solid muscle and the soft pliant fabric of his t-shirt is divine and maddening; the way his large hand sprawls over your hip in a gentle but swift response is mostly the former, but you’re losing your mind anyway.

Several frantic beats of your heart and Steve’s lips gently slanting over yours and you barely bother to remember there is a dough, not caring for the logically terrifying power he holds over you when he cradles your face and kisses you more.

Deeper.

Softer.

Sharing a meaningful secret you’ve revealed and rewarding it tenfold, as you’re soon about to find out.

“Do you trust me?” he whispers to your lips, tone so serious it almost feels out of place in your blissfully domestic bubble, and yet so right at the same time.

With what? is the logical question that should have followed suit.

With all I am, is the only words making sense in lieu of asking.

“Yes.”

You seal your fate; Steve seals your promise with another kiss, dripping of gratitude and excitement.

Steve is careful with you, always has been.

You both fell as hard and fast, so you’ve been careful not to rush or otherwise mess it up; you work hard on communication, because you both had enough misunderstandings and miscommunications in the past and are dealing with those every day in your respective jobs.

Your yes is thus a little foolish and a little outlandish in that sense – but it the most truthful answer you can give.

Especially because Steve has been paying so much attention.

To the faintest hints of you being uncomfortable.

To you being hurt.

Or, Lord help him, to you being hurt by him, even if on accident.

He’s careful with his strength, incredibly mindful always, but he’s all the more careful with how he can hurt you as a person, not just a supersoldier.

You never not notice so; and so when you said yes, you meant it.

You always mean it.

You mean it now and your heart is racing when he gently pushes you to walk backwards to his bedroom, the coil of arousal having been stirring in your belly all night tightening, sending a fragment of rational thought through.

Steve knows all too well what he has been doing all night; because he has not forgotten in the slightest.

When his hands explore slower than usual, lingering like burning marks over your skin – and you wish he had dipped them in paint so he could leave true imprints of his touch, not only for your heart to remember and your body to be blessed, but for both of you to see the wonderful prove of his touches – when his fingers trace the lines and curves of your body and the hems of your clothes indulgently before you discard it, you feel in every minute contact how much he does so both for himself and you.

And it flickers in your mind, as long as logic can when his fingertips and palms and lips drive you mad with their slowly intent and most definitely sweet torture, that the whole evening has been nothing a carefully thought-through foreplay.

And damn has he been playing; but never with your heart.

Never with your trust.

When his lips part from yours with a wet pop, skin blazing with gentle fire, his pupils are blown as much as you imagine yours are; when the soft rope comes out with a quiet May I?, his gaze once again making sure you are on board, you might be surprised, but entirely willing.

It wouldn’t not the first time you’re at the mercy of Steve’s generous and teasing loving, hands tied to the headboard, but he has never used rope before. The material is not as silky smooth as the scarves he has used before and the rope’s length is stirring as much curiosity as arousal deep in your core; but as Steve cradles the back of your hand and guides you to feel the surprisingly unrough strings, you already know that whatever his plan is, he will try his damnest not to cause as much as the littlest pain.

You do gulp when he lays the rope on the bed, and with all but your panties left on, asks you to kneel on the bed sideways to the mirror.

Again, it is not entirely unheard of; Steve loves art and looks for beauty all around him and you have, much to your surprise, quite enjoyed seeing his body with yours, as unreal and all to perfect his is on its own; it warmed your chest and had your head spin to see and feel what being with you does to him, what you make him feel. How much he wants and needs.

Today feels different nevertheless.

His hands roam, tender and lingering, as does his gaze, long enough to have your skin flush and your breathing, already quick, hasten and turn thready, only for your nerves to be soothed by his lips and love.

By God, the way he looks at you erases all the worries the second they threaten to spurt.

Air catches in your lungs when the red rope – like a string of fate, you think with a shaky smile – is laid over your shoulders, Steve’s gaze flickering to yours.

“Is this alright, love?”

Do you still trust me?

You do.

It takes you a moment to find your voice as you have a faint notion of what is coming form in your mind and you find yourself stunned, almost feeling silly when you realize just how natural it seems for Steve to think of trying this.

Steve with his eye for all beautiful things and hands meant to create masterpieces.

Artistic bondage.

And when his fingers slip under your chin when you finally breathe a soft yes, clear enough to his liking, he turns your head towards the mirror.

Heat spreads all over your skin and seeps deep into your muscles and very bones, along with the loveliest of warmth, because it finally all fits together.

Because not only will you see the outcome of Steve’s talented hands’ labour, but you will have the privilege of watching him and feeling him create something wonderful; on your body, no less.

You meet his gaze in the mirror and find him observing your reaction carefully, seemingly more vulnerable and with skin more flushed than yours.

It’s not enough.

You turn to face him with an encouraging and the softest of smiles, your eyes a little glassy; whether from bliss already taking over or from being touched by how thoughtful he was, neither of you could tell and yet you both could. It was both.

“I love you. I trust you. Thank you,” you whisper, earning a small smile, a fraction unsure.

“Don’t thank me yet. I did not practice much.”

“I trust you,” you repeat and watch his chest, still clad in the grey t-shirt, expand with a generous breath.

“I love you too. The second anything hurts, if I pull too tight-“

“I will tell you,” you reassure him, reaching for his face to pull him for a kiss, gratitude and excitement, and perhaps, now knowing what’s coming, a side of cheeky and teasing since you face the very master of the art of that. “How do you want me?”

His irises flash dangerously, speaking volumes of rather general ‘a lot’ as he gives you a deliberately slow onceover, but he kisses you again to taste the small smirk in the corner of your mouth---and mirrors it

“Put your wrists slightly above your lower back, love, however feels the most comfortable… they will stay for a while.”

You do so.

He is not wrong.

He also has been very right thinking you’d love this; that you’d love seeing him do this.

You’re quick to avert your gaze from his when he gets into work, eyes trailing to the mirror when he ties knots on your back or too high on your chest for you to see directly. Your lips part as you marvel at the not all that quick but all the more precise, neat, and careful set of knots scattered over your torso, appearing one after the other, forgetting to breathe in as Steve’s fingers move with more and more ease.

Where the thin rope hangs lose, the pads of his fingers trace their lines; where a new knot appears, he presses with his thumb gently, tendons in his forearm moving in a hypnotic dance, a subtle question of whether the tightness is alright.

You’re not sure you’d be able to tell; your body and your mind alike are floating, your chest feels full enough to burst with every flutter of your heart, your underwear a lost cause as you are near damn sure you are soaking down your thighs.

Steve’s hands are a gift to turn pliant for, your body like clay for him to mould; the muse and artistic medium at once, his gaze and words caressing you as much as his hands and mouth.

Beautiful.

So good for me.

Comfortable, love?

Not too tight?

Precious.

Thank you for letting me do this, honey.

Thank you for being mine.

I’m yours, too.

I swear.

I swear you take my breath away.

All the praise and soft words in midst of sharp focus on his artwork and you, the two blending together in his eyes and consequently, yours.

When he’s done and finally sheds his clothes too, you barely have the time and headspace to admire the work when he kneels behind you and all your gaze is drawn to are his hands, one carefully tangled in the ropes on your front, while the other slipping over your belly to your ruined panties, one clever tug ruining them beyond saving if there any has been a chance in the first place.

The sight is divine.

His touch to your slick skin trailing where you need him the most is electrifying and blissful, heaven and hell aligned so perfectly you feel a sob threatening to spill.

You ride the wave of ecstasy before you know it, Steve’s sweetly sinful lips on your ear.

So fuckin’ gorgeous falling apart on my fingers.

So goddamn perfect at my mercy.

And at his mercy you are and he takes the opportunity and makes the most of it.

Yes, your hands get in a way a bit, grasping at every brush of his heaving abs pressed to your back when he enters you and fills you over and over again, easily despite his impressive length for he’s been preparing you for hours to no end, starting the moment you walked through the door, seducing your mind and body alike like never before.

Like no man before; the idea they could ever compare would have been laughable had you been able to laugh, had your breath not been stolen and punched out of you with every measured and powerful thrust growing sloppy after your third peak, on your knees, on your front, pressed to the mattress with no escape and feeling golden all over.

When Steve buries himself deep inside you, barely keeping on his elbows as his whole body sheaths yours, you catch a glimpse of his hands on you and the ropes and it occurs to you that one of the most beautiful things his hands can be is possessive, needy and all over you. The rope digs into your skin a bit at times, but it’s where Steve’s gripped you that you feel the most, a flicker of delight there might be an imprint or two after all even without paint.

You both pant and struggle to catch your breath as even his last minute thrusts cease, a few moments of Steve fighting not to crush you before you succeed in rolling you over in collective effort; boneless in post-orgasmic bliss, as clearly as you are, he still presses as close as possible, his lips, wet and sloppy and loving, peppering your skin with kisses and gentle, loving words.

Love you.

Thank you for trusting me.

You’re so perfect.

He moves with a curse on his lips to release you from your binds as soon as you hiss at a cramp in your arm; you miss his warmth so much you whimper and mutter for him not to leave. The supersoldier part of him comes in quite handy that moment, as he easily manipulates you on top of him just enough for you to find momentary relief even without untying you.

It is a relief to your muscles though when he finally cuts the binds in a few places, favouring freeing you quickly and efficiently rather than preserving the masterpiece of rope over your body.

You’d felt sorrier for it, hadn’t he muttered that the true work of art was unharmed, he hoped, and if you wanted to, he’d create another one some time. You nearly give yourself a whiplash with how fast you try to nod, earning an unfairly adorable laugh, with his eyes crinkling almost boyishly.

He looks at you, a mess himself, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, skin beautiful flushed and irises blown, and what you read in his face is nothing but love, undiluted safe for the little cheekiness you adore.

“You still like my hands then, I take it?”

You think about trying to scold him for downright fishing when the answer is obvious, but given how much he had humoured you, playing so thoughtfully into your kinks (and knots), you simply smile.

“Yes, Steve. I love them… and I love you.”

The smug jerk, the tender bastard, the wicked gentleman of yours grins briefly before his expression softens and he cradles your face carefully as you lay there, lifts your head like precious porcelain, and kisses you like he’s inviting the muses through your lips for the next time he’s already vowed to bring upon you.

“And I love you. More than anything.”

S.R. masterlist  // Complete masterlist 

Hello dear reader, thank you for reading!

It's been a while, again. I am aware I was supposed to work on other fics, but this one just jumped out out of nowhere (*cough cough* the nowhere being seeing a tumblr post about Steve's hands at the funny cosmic alignment *cough*). I hope you will enjoy reading nevertheless. I'm always happy to hear from you as interaction is love - but please, this was my first time writing referencing shibari, so forgive me any misconceptions and missteps.

I hope that as May blooms into June, life is being kind to you.

There were trysts in the woods, pressed against trees or quiet and shuffling beneath blankets on the cold ground. There was an extremely detailed scene in an inn involving mouths and fingers and a whole sentence dedicated to the taste of Eric’s come. When the plot moved to the mountains and Eric’s wintery home, there were shared baths and beds and a quite phenomenal amount of fucking. Geralt found himself especially drawn to a scene told from Eric’s point of view where Celandine took charge after some sort of wild escape, Eric’s narrative lingering indulgently on the feeling of Celandine inside him, filling him up.

Geralt could feel his own cock stiffening in his breeches. 

From the other room, he could hear the soft splashing noise of Jaskier moving about in the tub, cleaning himself, and Geralt was suddenly struck with the image of Jaskier, wet and naked, rubbing the sponge across his skin, the hair on his chest slicked down, his body clothed in nothing but bubbles.

Despite all common sense, all sense of decency or proprietary, Geralt read on. He read how Celandine brought Eric to orgasm over and over - how Eric pleasured Celandine in new, thrilling ways. It was intoxicating.

There was a scene near the end where the lovers shared a bed - not fucking, for once - just enjoying each other’s space, gazing at each other. The scene described Eric’s eyes - they were green, unnaturally so, and Celandine’s chapters often spoke about them in detail, pouring over them despite their apparent inhuman colour. They kissed, and Celandine described his lover in the overblown, flowery language he often did - naming Eric as his great green-eyed wolf.

And then Geralt was struck with a sudden thought. He frowned, and flicked back to the beginning of the book, to the paragraphs he’d skipped over that gave a more thorough description of Eric’s appearance. Tall, broad - well built, but covered in scars. He had ashy blond hair, and another scar creeping across one eye. His eyes were green, his teeth sharp - not quite fangs. Geralt had gotten it wrong: he wasn’t a solider, but a trained fighter - both a nobleman and a hunter. He wore a lot of black. He carried his sword on his back.

Geralt read the page and a half again. He read it three times. But my eyes are yellow, was all he could think.

He skimmed back even further, looking for the description of Celandine which he’d also skipped over rather hastily. There: artistic, dramatic, loud. Tall, with dark hair that was always getting in his eyes. Hirsute - more so than Eric. Blue eyes.

Geralt thought about Jaskier in the bath once more. He shut the book and read the author's name again. And then, like a creature emerging from hibernation, the memory surfaced. 

Oh. So that was how he knew that name.

The book in one hand and the spare shirt in the other, he made his way back to the other room where Jaskier was still bathing.

“Jaskier…” it was all he could manage. 

Jaskier turned, the water rippling around him. He looked pleased to see him - he was always bloody pleased to see him - but his expression quickly changed as his eyes darted down and he spotted Geralt’s rather obvious erection straining against the fabric of his trousers.

He blushed. “Um…”

Geralt knelt down beside the tub. He offered the book to Jaskier, who took it in a damp hand and peered at it with a little frown - then slowly dawning horror.

“I can explain--” He began, the smell of fear lemony on his skin, “I, ah…” 

“You wrote this? Eric and Celandine?”

“No one was supposed to see it!” He said, quickly, “I just… I just wrote it all down to try and get it out, you know, but when I started writing it I couldn’t stop and it turned into this whole thing, and then, fuck, Priscilla found the manuscript in my bag last winter and she read it and told me how good it was, and that I should have it bound, and…” he sighed. “There’s only one copy,” he said, “Pris said I should try and sell it but I refused. I didn’t want anyone to recognise…”

“Us?”

Jaskier nodded, silently.

“So it is us, then?”

Jaskier sank lower in the bath. “Is it that obvious?”

“Actually,” said Geralt, charitably, “I didn’t realise at first.”

“When did you realise?”

Geralt thought. “Near the end. When they’re sharing a bed and Celandine calls Eric his great green-eyed wolf.”

“Really?” Jaskier looked at him with surprise. “But that’s so late in the story! There’s a whole bit at the start where I described you - ah, I mean, Eric - in terrible detail. I thought it would have been obvious from that, let alone all the fighting and grumbling and cursing he does.”

Geralt shrugged. “I skipped a lot of the descriptions. The rest was a lot more interesting.”

Jaskier’s face turned so pink Geralt was amazed the bath water didn’t start to boil around him. “Oh,” he squeaked. “You read… the rest?”

“Some of it. I flipped through. There were a few moments that stood out.”

“...Such as?”

Geralt could hear Jaskier’s heart fluttering faster. The lemony fear smell was gone, replaced with something rich and salty. He tried very hard not to let himself look at his naked form beneath the water.

“The part in the woods,” he said, “the first time. Against the tree.”

“Right….” the word sounded a little strangled as Jaskier said it.

“And…” Geralt paused as Jaskier looked at him expectantly. “The cocksucking in the inn. That part was very… engaging.”

Jaskier was definitely squirming, now, and there weren’t enough bubbles in the world to hide that he, too, was growing aroused.

“It was interesting reading it from Celandine’s point of view,” he continued. “What he was thinking, how he felt… But…”

“Yes?”

“The part after they escape the keep, I think that part was, hmm… best.”

Jaskier thought for a moment, then his eyes went wide. “O-oh?”

“It was very vivid. I could really imagine how Eric felt. How it felt to have Celandine inside him. I could picture it. I can still picture it.”

“Oh fuck, Geralt…”

The book went flying across the room and Jaskier threw an arm around him, pulling him closer. Geralt was more than willing to oblige as Jaskier’s wet skin pressed against him, hot and slick and smelling of salt and lavender. He was so lost in that smell that he lost his balance, and found himself tumbling into the bath, sending water splashing over the sides as he landed rather awkwardly on top of Jaskier.

Jaskier didn’t even hesitate, wrapping his arms around Geralt and kissing him fiercely. Geralt returned the kiss with equal force, Jaskier’s mouth willingly opening beneath him as their tongues explored the new feeling of each other’s lips. Geralt gave a little tug on Jaskier’s lower lip - something that had cropped up in his book more than once - and Jaskier groaned beneath him, his hips jutting against Geralt’s crotch.

Geralt grinned, and Jaskier pulled away, panting.

“Oh,” he said, “this isn’t fair, you’re cheating.”

“Hmm…” Geralt moved away from his lips, down his jaw and towards his neck, sucking lightly at the soft skin.  Jaskier gasped again, wriggling.

“Do you want to…” Jaskier began, but his words were cut off by a little moan as Geralt’s hand found its way to his cock, giving it a tight squeeze.

“I do,” Geralt whispered into his ear, lowly.

“There’s oil in my pack…” Jaskier breathed, “But - ah - we should get out of the bath first.”

Geralt pulled back, uncaring for how thoroughly soaked his clothes were, only able to think about how flushed and gorgeous Jaskier looked, his skin glistening in the low light. With only a little distraction they managed to extract themselves from the tub, Geralt pulling off his sodden tunic and trousers while Jaskier rifled through his bag.

When Jaskier returned, Geralt was lying on the narrow bed, waiting for him. He felt a little self conscious - like he was throwing himself at his friend, like Jaskier might have suddenly changed his mind - but Jaskier’s expression when he saw him pushed all those thoughts aside. He stalked towards the bed, his eyes glinting, the little bottle gripped tightly in one hand.

In a fluid movement, Jaskier swung a leg over Geralt’s hips, straddling him. Geralt gazed up at him, his slow heart thudding, his prick aching. Jaskier grinned down at him, apparently enjoying drawing this out.

“So…” he leant down, pressing a hand either side of Geralt’s head, his lips dancing just above Geralt’s skin, “You liked the book?”

Geralt swallowed. “I did.”

Jaskier leant back, lowering himself slowly and dragging his hands along Geralt’s bare torso, fingers fluttering over his scars.

“But you really liked the part with Celandine and Eric, after Eric rescues him from the keep? In their room…” Jaskier’s hand crept lower, his fingers tangling briefly in Geralt’s pubic hair before lightly dancing across his cock, “What was it Eric said?” Jaskier mused, as if he didn’t already know, “Ah yes. I remember. I should remember, after all: I wrote it.”

He lowered himself back down, their chests pressed together, his lips dangerously close to Geralt’s ear. “He said, fill me up. Is that what you want, Geralt?” Jaskier gave his earlobe a little nip. “Do you want me to fill you up?”

Geralt bucked his hips against Jaskier with a hard groan. He did. Fuck - he did, and he hadn’t even realised how much he wanted it until he’d seen it written out in front of him in meticulous, delicious detail.

“Yes,” he murmured, “Yes, Jaskier.”

Jaskier hummed, pleased. “My great white wolf…” he muttered, pressing a kiss to Geralt’s neck, “My darling witcher…”

Geralt couldn’t say that he’d ever been one for pet names, but hearing Jaskier say it sent little shudders down him, igniting his skin. He arched his back as Jaskier’s lips drifted across his collar bone then back to his jaw and mouth

“How about you roll over for me, hmm?” Jaskier murmured against him.

Geralt didn’t need telling twice.

~

Later, after Jaskier had cleaned them both up, they nestled down between the sheets of the bed, Jaskier’s head resting on Geralt’s chest. His fingers were drumming out a nervous beat against Geralt’s skin.

“So…” he said, cautiously, “the book…”

“Hmm?”

“Did you happen to read the ending? Or just, ah, the sexy bits?”

Geralt chuckled. “If I say I only read the sex scenes, I fear you’ll judge me for it. Why?”

Jaskier moved a little against him. He seemed, suddenly, nervous. “It’s just… well, the ending was rather important, you see.”

“Oh?”

“Well, it’s not just about passionate, shirt-ripping sex, is it?”

“Isn’t it?”

There was a hot little puff of breath against Geralt’s chest as Jaskier sighed. “No, it isn’t.”

He lapsed into silence once more. Geralt tried to think back to the book, the few parts he had read. It had been intense and electric, all want and need and fumbling, grabbing hands. Which would make sense, of course: Jaskier was known for his voracious appetites.

Although - no. That was wrong. Yes, Jaskier had a lot of sex, but it wasn’t about that, Geralt slowly realised. Each of his lovers came with a tale about their lives, the colour of their hair, the softness of their skin. Each one was a love story, even if it only lasted a single night. It was never just sex, for Jaskier. Even the book had focused on emotions and feelings and yearning - like looking for a home.

But that was different. That was Celandine and Eric, not Jaskier and Geralt. But could it be?

“Tell me how it ends,” he said, rubbing his hand up and down Jaskier’s naked back.

“Ah…” Lemons and a quickened heartbeat. “They, um, vigorously fuck?”

Geralt laughed. “Tell me how it really ends.”

Jaskier was silent, for a moment, then spoke - talking into Geralt’s chest, his fingers still twitching.

“Celandine and Eric return North,” he said, slowly, “and they realise that they’ve both been bloody fools, ignoring their own feelings under the false impression that the other doesn’t feel the same. They both think it’s just fucking, as far as the other is concerned, but of course it isn’t. So as they return North they realise that actually, they’re quite desperately in love. Um...” He pulled the blanket up around him, as if it could hide him. “They vigorously fuck as well, of course,” he added with forced light-heartedness. “After all the confessions.”

Geralt’s hand kept moving up and down Jaskier’s back slowly and deliberately, but his mind was racing. Just a few hours ago, he hadn’t even realised that Jaskier wanted to shag him, let alone that Jaskier was secretly, desperately in love with him.

And - gods - it felt good. It felt so good. Suddenly everything felt clear - because of course Jaskier was attractive, and if Geralt had known about his more lewd desires years ago he would have fulfilled them happily and - as Jaskier had said - vigorously. But realising that it was more than just admiring him from afar made Geralt realise his own desires - the surprising little feelings he’d tried to push away.

It was the reason why he missed Jaskier on long winters apart, why he’d started to enjoy the sound of string-plucking and mumbled lyrics. Why he’d stand in between Jaskier and a sword or a monster or anything again and again, despite how often he managed to put himself in danger. Why, when he realised that Jaskier had written a whole book about them fucking, he felt only a kind of hot, swelling tug instead of embarrassment or even anger - either of which would have been a fair response. 

“Jaskier,” he said, trying to turn the swirling thoughts in his head into something comprehensible, “Look at me, Jaskier.”

Jaskier peered up. His brow was furrowed, nervous - he was waiting for a blow. Geralt couldn’t stand it. He shifted them both, edging himself down as he pulled Jaskier up until their faces were level. He kissed him - drawing it out, feeling Jaskier melt against him. When he finally pulled away, Jaskier’s expression had softened, his lips pink, his hair tousled around his head. Geralt pressed their foreheads together, breathing him in.

“I don’t know about ‘desperately’,” he said quietly.

“No?”

“Hmm… too poetic.”

“Of course.”

Geralt kissed him again, soft and quick. “But I do,” he muttered, barely louder than a whisper, “love you.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmm… yes.” 

Their lips brushed - just the faintest touch, a promise of more.

“I love you too,” Jaskier sighed, “although I assume you’ve probably figured that out already.”

“If it helps,” Geralt replied, “I hadn’t realised until you told me the end of the book.”

“I’m not sure that does help.” 

“Speaking of the book…” 

Geralt slipped his arm around Jaskier, and in a deft movement he spun them both around, so Jaskier was now beneath him, between his arms. Jaskier made a little sound of surprise, but didn’t move, his hands pressed to Geralt’s chest as he peered up at him.

“Yes?” He said, a little breathlessly.

“Do you intend to write a sequel?”

“Perhaps,” said Jaskier, as his hands made their way to Geralt’s waist, his thumbs pressing into his hips, “if inspiration strikes. Why?” He asked, cheekily. “Do you have any ideas?”

Tony stretched himself out over Bucky’s back, digging his toes into the carpet for leverage. It pushed him deeper, it must have, Bucky let out a high shivery moan as he did it.

“Fuck.” Bucky said into the carpet.

Tony slid his hand up Bucky’s flank, slow and careful, making sure Bucky knew what was coming, where all of Tony’s limbs were, no surprises. It was especially important with the way Bucky’s face was buried in his forearms, hair a pool around him. Shifting his hand slightly so that it was his nails that dragged the last of the distance. Tony left Bucky’s side behind, travelling over his shoulder blade to scrape up the back of his scalp where his fingers tangled in Bucky’s hair.

Tony held on for a moment, waiting, tensing his muscles in a slow roll to keep himself still. When he moved again, it was slow, back and back until he was almost free of Bucky. The way he clung, ass cheeks tensing like he could hold Tony in place.

He resettled his legs, it wasn’t necessary, but he liked the way Bucky tensed as Tony’s cock jostled with the shifting. He slid back in, pulling the arm still buried in Bucky’s hair back as he did.

“Uh uh, we’re not getting carpet burn for no reason. Watch.”

When his gaze settled on the mirror it was fixed not on his own face, mouth open, colour high in his cheeks, but on Tony’s. Tony shifted slightly again, having to balance a bit differently to get his other hand free. He traced it, barely there, over Bucky’s skin to watch goosebumps break out in spiralling fractals across his flesh. Up and over Bucky’s other shoulder until he could feed his fingers into Bucky mouth.

“Just like that,” he said, voice going thready as Bucky wrapped his tongue around Tony’s fingers and sucked.

He’s not playing fair; but he’s also being the fairest.

And a brilliant strategist at that.

General Ross is a petulant child and a self-important asshole in one. The latter can be proven by his zero regard for everyone else’s boundaries; the former by his absurd and maddening repeated attempts to contact Captain Steve Rogers despite the man stating more than clearly that he is taking a time off. A personal one.

The official statement is not specified. Those close to him know he’s on a bloody honeymoon.

You really wished to show the general a middle finger and be done with it, because this was your extremely personal time with your husband whom you shared with the world for the rest of your lifetime. You knew that and it was the mostly the deal you agreed to when marrying him – but there are boundaries.

Tony apparently did give General Ross a middle finger for which you’ll kiss him once you’re back – but it was not enough.

The thing is that Ross is a petulant asshole of a manchild who literally already managed to track Steve down and threatened to fly all the way to your private paradise of an island (the courtesy of Tony himself) unless he could get that – in its essence, according to Steve – absolutely pointless meeting. Not to that, Steve said a very resolute fuck no and agreed with letting himself be contacted.

One phone call.

Half an hour, not a minute more.

No camera on, allegedly due to limited service, which was a brilliant move on Steve’s part.

One earbud into his ear, so you didn’t have to listen to what Steve is apparently so used to tuning out during meetings, even as his brain sort of still retains the information; bless his eidetic memory.

Bless it, because this way, your master strategist of a husband who refuses to compromise your time together basically keeps his promise made to himself and you alike not to be bothered on your honeymoon unless the world is literally ending.

With the camera and mic off for most of the time, he can keep you all nice and comfortable straddling his lap, while you keep him snug and warm and slick all over; he can continue drawing nonsensical patterns on your body with his fingertips and lips alike, tongue tasting your burning skin, husky voice warning you every time you need to stay quiet and motionless completely so he doesn’t lose it and the distant inconvenience on the other side of the world doesn’t know what you’re up to.

You kinda want the jerk to hear; all the sweet and filthy loving and euphoria of the past days in the absolute paradise with the love of our life right there must be getting to you, since you feel like you wouldn’t mind in the slightest.

But you don’t want to get Steve into trouble – even as the man himself is trouble.

Damn, you’re a lucky woman.

You bite your lower lip to stop the moan from spilling when Steve’s dark hooded eyes find you as he turns the mic on, thumb circling your nipple before his hand heads south, drawing a teasing line down your front, over your clit, his touch exploring where you’re connected, wet and burning. You buck your hips on instinct at the ouch, a surge of heat stirring in your belly almost unbearably.

Steve’s smile is made of sin and you want to taste it over and over. The thumb of his other hand runs over your mouth to free your lip and even though you want to kiss his mouth, this has to be enough, because he’s speaking.

“I can assure you, General, once I’m back, this will be my topmost priority. I will bring it up to everyone’s attention at the next Initiative’s leadership meeting.”

“I love you,” he mouths right after and you know you’d forgive him all this torture even if you actually blamed him for it and wasn’t enjoying it immensely.

The bastard moves his fingers to play with your clit next, this time relentlessly so and thank god for his reflexes, because his enhanced hearing is the only one that catches the sinful sound when he swiftly muffles it with his palm. You’re not sure if the mic catches the squelching sound as you jerk in his hold, but you pray to the devil himself it doesn’t.

“Of course, General. I am glad we could-”

Steve chokes on his breath as you decide to take revenge on him by clenching as hard as you can in your lust-drunk state, the look he shoots you over his hand a wonderful blend of outrage and wild approval that nearly tips you over the edge.

“-discuss this matter over the phone. See you in two weeks.”

The last note of his voice barely registers in your brain and he’s already ending the call and tossing the earbud somewhere on the desk behind you and you’re hauled into the air, laughing.

For cursed two seconds you feel painfully empty and then he slams into right back you the same moment your back meets the wall, the drag of his length in your core nothing short of sinful, his mouth devouring you in ways that are almost vulgar.

And yet it’s love.

It can’t be nothing but love.

“I fucking love you, you beautiful menace,” he growls in a moment of reprieve, lips attaching to your throat, sucking hard enough to make you whimper, and so he sooths the smallest bite of ache with his tongue. You reward his loving treatment with a slow drag of your nails over his shoulder and nape, pulling him back to your mouth, because you already miss him.

“Love you too, Mr. Rogers.”

Oh that does something. Very pleasant something.

You found out on this trip: it’s a charm almost as, if not more, effective than calling him his rank. Despite the mad swirl of desire and filth you find yourself in, affection blossoms in your chest, because that’s what you love. That’s who you love.

Him. Just Steve.

As incredibly irresistible as he is as a competent Captain, you love him in his entirety. When he’s loving, when he turns feral, when he’s breaking under the pressure, when he’s quiet or nurtures his inner child and artist at last; when he’s yours.

And he knows it. That’s why explicitly calling him your husband or reminding him it is so works so damn well.

His hand squeezes the flesh of your thigh, pressure under your jaw to angle your face so he can drink from your mouth and from the depth of your soul, his hips rocking slowly, letting you feel every inch, your mouth turning slack with pleasure, head tipping back.

“Say it again. Wanna hear my wife say it again. Please, honey.”

You’d smile if you could; instead, you just try to meet him halfway, even as you are pinned against the wall and the wall of warm muscle thrumming with life that is your husband.

“I love you, Mr. Rogers,” you repeat obediently when you catch your breath, the sound purring in Steve’s chest in response a testimony of pleasure of his own. “I love you and I’m yours.”

For a moment, Steve stills, the words seeping into his skin, into his mind and his heart. His smile is both precious and entirely sinful; and two beats later, you know why, as you feel him brace for a change of pace from lovemaking to ramming you into the wall. The heat exploding in your belly and the way you clench around him is not deliberate this time, your body simply bracing along with him for the ride of your life.

“Damn right you are, Mrs. Rogers… and I’m yours and I’m gonna prove it to you… and again… and again.”

Complete masterlist

(Sexy) September Scribbles Masterlist

Ehm. Yeah, okay, as soon as I knew how to full and fill this prompt, I knew there was no chance of staying within the lane of 300 900 words. Ah well. I had fun since I love husband Steve, and I hope that so do you 💕

A little unsteady on your feet, but deeply embarrassed expression coating your face when you stumbled and swiftly righted yourself; unsure on your high heels, not drunk out of your mind. Little red dress hugging your ass and not much else lower, the hem riding up higher than midthigh as it had probably been intended, your hands quick to remedy it. Cheap make-up which he could spot a mile away, a courtesy of being the child of small-business-loving mother.

You looked so out of place in the luxurious club and so out of your debt that Ransom knew he wanted to play cat and mouse with you.

Except you were definitely a kitten; there was no arguing it later when you nervously tasted the head of his cock, shy kitten licks turning into a small purr around his head when you tried to wrap your lips around him, clearly doing so for the first time.

He knew that was what you were looking for when you came in. He was good at reading people – that was what made him so good at his game. Your sinfully red lipstick spoke for itself and he predicted that the night was going to end up with that colour smeared all over him, with mascara running down your cheeks. He had you blinking up at him with tender wonder and want with just a few sweet words and lured you in into the private saloon with a promise of a good time and being a gentleman.

When his mouth found yours after two minutes of idle meaningless chitchat, you had smiled contentedly into the kiss. Your breath quickened as soon as his tongue pushed between your lips, a silent squeak into his mouth – but leaning into his touch eagerly, heart like a cute little hummingbird – when his hands started wandering to your breasts, so prettily wrapped in the crimson dress. Yes. You might be of limited experience and playing coy, but you came here for one thing and Ransom was happy to give it as long as he got to take from you much more.

You responded to even the faintest touch. When he ran his fingers through your folds over the absurdly thin excuse for an underwear, you were already soaking and fuck, the needy whine that escaped your swollen lips when he circled your puffy nub… it almost made him cum in his damn pants. He was going to eat you up.

If he wasn’t so determined to see your red mouth around him, he’d take your cunt. She was sucking his fingers right in, greedy for more, and yet it was almost as tight as if you were a virgin and was just as sensitive. He’d know; he had taken plenty. He loved stealing their innocence, ruining them for other men. He breathed in the power he gained when he was the first to claim that territory, all warm, wet and so damn snug; having them cry his name as their pain, that delicious pain he both caused and took away, blended into pleasure and pleas for more. Breathy. Needy. Begging so sweet and filthy, obscenities spilling from those good girl lips that had trembled a bit at the size of his cock and yet took it so well.  

You asked for more too, weak voice coming out in gasps as he stuffed the third finger in, the squelch of your juices filling the space and sending blood straight under his belt. By the time you were trapping his fingers in with how hard he made you cum, he was ready to burst the second you’d take him to your throat. It was a thrilling game of control and self-control; and he’d always win.

You were a fast learner. After paying attention to the head, you took him in and sucked experimentally, eyes fluttering shut when he placed his big hand on your nape, encouraging you to take more. And so you did. Fast learner; eager learner. Ransom loved them eager to please him, especially when they were first timers, face all flushed at the mere suggestion of sucking him off at first. Now? Your nose was on his pubic bone, hair ruffled from how he gripped you close for his tip to brush your throat, your pretty cheap make-up running, lipstick all where he needed it.

As a bonus, you clawed your hands on him all over; over his thighs, over his ass, pushing away and pulling closer, your hips bucking forward in search of friction. And fuck if that didn’t get him going; his Little Miss Red enjoyed the hell out of sucking a cock and choking at it, gagging and grabbing at him as if she didn’t feel him deep enough. Who would have thought.

“That’s it, kitten, that’s it, take my load…” he coaxed you and caressed your hair with his free hand, lost to the vibration around him when you hummed in agreement, purring like a little obedient affection-hungry kitten indeed.

“Oh baby, look at you, a good little girl acting like such a whore for a big cock, hm? Fucking love that virgin mouth. Look at the mess you’re making of yourself for me.”

You had. You struggled to swallow and breathe, saliva pooling and escaping your mouth but damn, you were so excited to do better, holding onto his ass, his inner thighs, trying to brush your weepy core against his shin to earn some of that friction you so obviously craved.

Your fingers stroked over his balls and he spilled down your throat with a satisfied groan, fingers in your hair flexing to keep you there and swallow it all as you coughed and sputters, more black streaks painted your pretty face, throat spasming with a choked sound.

You curiously left him in your mouth as he softened, that little experimental lick almost enough for him to get hard again. He pulled you up and walked back to the couch to tug you into his lap, claiming your mouth with his own, tasting his victory in the salty tang on your tongue. What a sweet picture you made; a fucked out mess, eager for more, innocence ruined. He almost took a photo to make the euphoria last longer.

But you got shy again, all wide-eyed, when he pulled out a wipe from his breast pocket, spitting a bit to clean your face up from the worst smudges.

“Told you I’d be a gentleman, didn’t I, kitten? Can’t have you walk around the club like this, everyone would know what you’ve been up to,” he smirked, cock twitching at your meek thank you and the little spark in your eye that told him that you might like that. You might enjoy other people knowing what was in your mouth and now in your belly, wear your ruined cute face like a badge of honour.

Fuck, he could keep you. If he only cared enough for the shit that came with keeping just one girl at his arm. Keeping anyone, really.

Your legs were a little wobbly after he tested you were wet for him again and you buckled into his touch, but he sent you walking out with your purse all alone, satisfied for the night – or at least half of it. Still sprawled on the couch, he tucked himself in and gathered his breath and composure before he returned to the few bearable members of his fraternity fraction. They hit up a club every once in a while, a little hunting trip for pussy. The one who’d score first during the night out paid for the drinks.

Ransom’s smirk widened as he stepped back into the main room. He had no doubt he was the winner tonight; that feeling was damn worth the few hundred bucks he’d pull out of his Valentino-

The smirk slipped from his face when all his palm was the fabric of his empty pocket, his lips parting with mute shock, anger flaring up in an instant.

“Son of bitch-“

His head snapped up, instinctively searching for you; and finding you by the entrance again. You smiled at him sweetly, one corner of your sinfully red lips higher in a smirk as you waved his wallet at him. He froze mid-step.

Blowing him a cheeky kiss, you dropped your timid demeanour like a paper-thin mask, letting it drift towards the floor as slowly as you sunk to your knees for him.

An act. He had fallen for a cheap fucking act. You were no first timer; you were far from shy, apparently.

With bitter clarity, he recalled your hands clawing at his ass when he had thought he had it all under his control, including you, as you struggled to breathe. Your throat spasmed so sweetly, showing him heaven, while he dragged you to hell.

Or he had believed so. Now, watching you disappear behind the door as if you had been nothing but a fever dream, it was easy to see it was the other way around; or maybe you were both going to hell already.

A fist bumped into his shoulder, laughter of his wannabe friends reaching his ears.

“Well, well, well, looks like someone already scored tonight,” Harold howled, cackling as other guys booed and whistled. “Drinks are on Drysdale tonight, y’all!”

Oh Ransom would be drinking tonight, alright. Son of a bitch. That little, little bitch.

“She stole my wallet,” Ransom muttered, barely audible, still hypnotizing the door as if you were to come back. Yeah right.

“Wait what? Dude! You gotta block your credit card and call the cops before she buys a fucking Ferrari at your expense or something! Come on!”

The outrage in his Bryan’s voice snapped Ransom from his stupor, his head slowly turning to the man who spoke the sound advice.

The image of the check Little Miss Red buying a luxury sports car just as red for his money. It should strike him with terror. It should make his blood boil. It should make him want to grab your cute little neck and choke the life out of you.

But his surprise and exasperation gradually blended into the strangest feeling of pride.

You participated in his game of cat and mouse; you were the kitten. You were the cat.

You won fair and square even as both of you played more than dirty.

He could respect that.

“Nah. I’ll let her have it for a bit. It’s kinda like having a sugar baby…” Ransom mused, shrugging it off. “When she least expects it, I’m gonna find her and make her show how sorry she is. …or maybe make her my sugar thing for real. I mean… those lips looked really pretty around my dick after all.”

Mics masterlist

Yeah, the stealing the wallet bit and Ransom kinda respecting the reader for it was the “innocent remark” @chase and @murdock came with and my brain went hggggnnnn, because yeah, he would.

Thank you for reading. I'm gonna go bath in holy water, excuse me.

(the convo that inspired this filth... we know he would)

One-night stands are no-no. Very much no no and they were even before he met you… but where scheduled sex is concerned the answer is also no. With your crazy schedules, it might make sense to try to plan so you can squeeze in some intimate together time, but with emergency missions… not so much. Things keep getting in the way (cough cough, there might be a ‘drabble’ about them getting actually frustrated at the lack of closeness and sexual encounters of theirs in general due to schedule conflicts). So spontaneity usually wins – certainly in a way of appreciating every moment you catch together. It doesn’t always have to be sexual per se, but it often ends up that way 😏 You had two years of pent-up sexual tension, can anyone blame you??? Not to mention that adrenalin and emotions can sometimes fly high, so if there is something routine-like, it’s winding down together after a mission, be it sweet and tender, all desperate hungry kisses with clashes of teeth, grasping and grabbing and fuck me we are alive, or celebratory god damn you were hot and capable and badass today. Does that count as a routine? One routine thing though; Steve is a man with a plan. Just because he doesn’t necessarily schedule sex, he is using his strategic mind to find windows in your calendar so you find time to be together. To take you out for a date for dinner, for a bike ride, or just lie under the stars and cuddle. Sure, these things often do result in intimacy of all kinds, but that man has a heart larger than his already impressive body and you fill a huge portion of it; it’s only fair you take up his time too.

P.S. The man is not only a planner but an overthinker often. Remember when it took you forever to sleep together for the first time? He ran his mind over thousands of scenarios, planned everything he’d say, everything he’d do, guessed how you’d react (and had some alone time over that a lot),how many times he’d get you off before he starts counting the times he will. Because he wants to treat you right and the one moment when you admitted a guy had been after getting you to bed and then instantly fled the so-called relationship since he got what he wanted is ingrained in his brain and he’ll do everything in his power to show you that he’s not him. Even if it means blue balls or might result in a supersoldier carpal tunnel issues.

Which gets us to:

A - Alone time (how do they get off when they’re all by themselves? do they watch porn, is it all in their imagination, do they jerk off, do they use toys?)

I’ll start with the last one: nah. There is no way he got his hands on toys in his original time and he was doing just fine and he doesn’t need them now. How would he even get them without half the globe learning about it? No thank you. He’s got hands. Two big hands. If you ever express interest in him using toys on you, he is all game and will get off on watching you squirm and nearly lose your mind to pleasure – which he will try to replicate on his own because dammit he will not have some toy satisfy you better, at least make it a cooperation dammit – but not on himself. Not when alone.  

Steve’s a sensual, visual guy. He imagines a lot, but feels rather bad jerking off to a specific person, because it feels rather… invasive and unfair. So his mind conjures images, perhaps a combination of actual memories of voices and visuals (and yes, some inspiration might have come from porn, but he doesn’t downright puts on an adult movie and gets on it, nope), perfumes and scents, images of hands smaller than his on him he can mimic by his own touch and that is what gets him going… and off. If he has the time. He doesn’t have a problem with a quick work in a shower (which often is a solution and I know I share this headcanon with someone, cough cough).

The problem starts when you join. Because A, his need of alone time increases exponentially and B, his mind just. Wouldn’t let go. He’s damn ashamed of it, because you are friends and your friendship is sweet and teasing and maybe there’s a little bit of flirting, and the act itself feels like defiling you, but well, there’s the fact that he would like to defile you. He has so many memories of you filling his senses that get him off, even if they come from workout or from movie night or from perfectly innocent hugs. He feels like a creep and it’s utterly disrespectful to you, but he can’t help it. He tries to relief his conscience by not actively starting with imagining you.

In that sense, it is a real liberation to him when you get together, because he might need a lot of alone time then too before you take your relationship to that level, but at least his conscience is clean even as his mind is filthy.

Speaking of filthy mind… drabble-ish thots ahead.

I - Impact play (here’s where talking about things like spanking, paddles, canes, floggers and the like.) - not me having to google stuff on this

My instant reply was no. NOT STEVE. No violence in any form in the bedroom, not in intimacy. Violence is for battlefield, for missions. For training to a point, and even there he’s careful not to hurt you. When in bed, he might hold you a little too tight, grab a little too harsh, knead and squeeze and maybe suck enough to bruise when you feel just so good and he’s losing himself in you, losing control, but no hitting or slapping or-- nope. He earned the nickname of a Gentle Giant for a reason he might be sensual to a point of filthy, but if he hurt you (even if you asked), he couldn’t look himself in the eye in the mirror.

BUT ALSO.

He’s a handsy man. He does adore drowning all his senses in you, he loves exploring his lover’s body with all he has and he simply loves to touch at all times, feel the softness and warmth and slick, every curve, the thundering of your heartbeat under your skin with his fingertips or lips. To taste you where you let him. Inhale the scent your perfume, your arousal, the heady smell of sex in the air. To listen to the little or not so little noises, swallow them and let them melt on his tongue. To watch.

And that’s when it happens.

He didn’t mean to do it. He did not, and he’s horrified for a split second, because fuck he did not just- You were riding him. A glorious sight, pretty flushed face with slightly love-bitten lips and pupils blown with pleasure, breasts bouncing, muscles straining and little overworked from having mostly earned that previous orgasm on your own besides his lazy strokes over your clit and feeling where you were joined; you stilled for just a moment to get precious air into your lungs, breathy sounds of his name falling from your parted lips, so gorgeously fucked out and still needy for him and he could feel you so close again, his hand spread over your breast, over your hip, gripping and kneading your ass, your thigh and you were almost there, fluttering around him and he wanted one more, sweetheart, gimme one more, wanna feel you and he---

He meant to tap your thigh in encouragement when you started moving again, chasing your peak and it turned out to be more of a full-palm slap over the tempting curve of your ass and it was an accident, Steve would swear it.He froze, his thoughts faster than the reaction of your body, mind already flaring with horror and anxiety by the time your body caught up with what he had done nd had not meant to do and you-

You squeezed his cock so hard he felt it in his throat and he nearly choked, but mainly felt his groin spasm as you lost yourself to pleasure and all it took was a few rapid thrusts into your spasming burning heat and he was done for. Your juices coating his balls. His mouth slanting over yours on instinct even as the keen you released was the single lewdest soundhe had ever coaxed from you and his balls might be empty, but his chest is full of pride and his brain empty of thought but full of question marks, new fantasies and an image of you etched into his memory forever.

Your hips are still jerking minutely on instinct, your face now hidden in his shoulder, chest heaving beautifully against his, his lips kissing anywhere they can reach and holy damn. His hands grow softer, more comforting than exploring, mouth whispering sweet nothings even as they want to ask questions. You’ll tell him; he hopes you will. If there was one thing you were learning fast, it was communication; the last time you failed to communicate on a massive scale about how you felt, you ended up longing and lusting after one another for about two years. He’d rather not wait that long.

But he doesn’t press; in return, you press to him, peek at him shyly and kiss his lips sweetly, climbing off him only to settle in his lap anyway and hug him close, finger drawing non-sensical pattern on his shoulder and back until you both rise and rinse the sweat and other juices off your bodies in a shower together.

Only when in fresh sheets – the previous ones were beyond saving, at least for the night – when held close in his arms, gentle hands mapping out the familiar, and with sleep evading you despite the sleepiness and comfort of each other’s embrace, you confessed.

“I… I think I really liked it because I—I know you’d never hurt me,” you admit softly, earning a thoughtful hum at the half explanation.

“I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t expect that reaction either, but I’d never do it without asking first. You know that, right?”

“I know. That’s what I mean, GG. I trust you…” you remind him softly, even as you teeth worry over your still kiss-swollen lower lip. “But if you… liked it too, you can do it again. Sometime. I… you didn’t mean to do it, I get that, but you let yourself get lost in the moment. With me. You lost- you let go of control a bit… for me. You let go because you feel comfortable enough with me to do that. That means a lot to me. And… you feeling so good with me that you… lose it and take what you need – without hurting me besides a little fading red mark or a tiny bruise – makes me feel pretty damn powerful and proud too. Really wanted and desired… pretty golden.”

The admissions hang heavy in the air, your whole body buzzing with nerves, a little voice in your head sleazily whispering of judgement. Your Gentle Giant, looking at you with disdain, even as what you confessed weren’t all that scandalous. The things you had encountered in your BAU days made this look about as freaky as wearing a little lace. And yet… your body buzzes with nerves and a little thrill and the chances of falling asleep now are precisely zero.

The voice falls silent the second Steve turns you in his arms so you face him and you find him watching you with his smile warm, eyes blown wide and curious – and everything but tired just like you.

“I do trust you too,” he whispers, fingertips brushing your cheekbone, strand of hair from your face, eyes roaming your face until they fall a little lower, as if in shame. Even in the limited light, you can tell his face is burning too. “Where-- I’d always ask, but--- and never with force, I don’t want to hurt you, and never your face, I--- but if I ever… where?”

Your heart thunders in your ribcage. You gulp as with his every word, it leaps into your throat too, your body brimming with nervous energy. But he watches with such genuine curiosity and excitement, the plans no doubt already whirling in his head, the strategist, the planner, the lover, the pleaser… the little shit. Your GG.

Your face is aflame, your hand shakes a little as you take his and it’s both anxiety and arousal, something scalding hot pulsing in your core again, when you lead that hand to set on your bare hip.

His gaze is dead set on yours, watching your reaction; you know he picked up on your quickened breathing, as you guide his hand over the globe of your ass, over your outer thigh, skim over the front to slip on the inside, heading higher, under his hand is cupping your sex.

His gaze is smouldering. You nervously lick your lips, escaping the cage of his gaze because you cannot bear it anymore, a little whisper of shame returning to back of your head, but the moment you look away, his free hand – the other is still touching you – slides under your chin, thumb brushing over your lips. The thumb of his other hand does the same as he slips under your panties and moves to your slick sex and slightly swollen and oversensitive bundle of nerves. Erection poking your thigh. Mouth against yours, whispering.

“Good to know, sweetheart…” Rough. His voice is so rough and husky and his lips are slick and warm and filthy. “Anything for ya’. Love ya so much… got me so hard for you again… the things you do to me, I swear-”

He clearly picked up more than on you just liking just the touch alone; the filthy praise spills from his lips, empowering, and the late night finds you tangled in the sheets once more, languid deep kisses that consume you, the connection forged by a secret revealed, secret shared, whispering between you about next time, even as now is all that matters, all you feel.

Steve is an observant man; he still needs confirmation ahead, but he learns the signs. It’s not something you engage in often, but he recognizes that soft mewly quality to your sighs now, the special glint in your eyes barely even hinting you need it; and he gives. And since he has consent, he lets himself lose control with you a little bit more too.

-.-.-.

Ro, I think I read too many of your wonderful replies to this game that I adopted the manner in which you write them. Ehm. I hope that's okay with you.