#samson x reader

His heart raced, allowing a multitude of scenarios to flood his thoughts like an athlete on performance enhancers as he approached the scene, his heartbeat syncing with each step he took. What occurred? Were there any injuries? What happened? How bad are the injuries if there any?

The scene in front of him was a flour covered flat mate aka his partner, sitting on the floor while making a ptth sound, trying to get the raw flour off his tongue. It was similar to a cat or a child covered in flour, trying to do something and failing. He let out the loudest sigh of relief, putting his hands on his hips as he looked down at them. "Darling.... You wanna talk about it?" He asks, motioning to the flour trail on the floor and covering the counters with a few colorful cookie cutters off to the side with a single wave of a finger.

"Umm.... No, no, I'd plead the fifth on this one. How was work?" They gave him a sheepish smile. "Work was work but I thought I was off the clock until you fell and busted your ass on the floor, giving me a heart attack. Come on, let's get you cleaned up." He reaches a hand out for his partner to grab before he leads them to the bathroom to clean them up, leaving the cookie mess behind for later.

-

As the couple settled in for the night, they nestled together like two koalas in bed, with the late-night news playing softly in the background. Their bare skin touched in a gentle embrace, creating a sense of closeness that hinted at intimacy without crossing the line. They exchanged soft breaths and soothing hums while Samson gently massaged his partner's back, his eyes fluttering shut. Heart to heart, they felt as though the world outside might come to an end soon. With no worries about what lay outside their bedroom, they reveled in their sense of security. Samson soon drifted off to sleep, his ears perking up with curiosity as a specific news story captured his attention, but it was too late for him to shake off the drowsiness he was feeling.

"Reporting live, a News story just broke from a local animal activists group or bio terrorist as some may call them, called the Animal Freedom Front, going to free a set of chimpanzees in a testing facility. Which testing facility, Connor? Oh the Cambridge Primate Research Centre. It's a developing story at the moment with details coming in when we have them. Now back to Cillian for the weather in Great Britain."

The sun hung low behind the trees, casting a warm haze over the back of the shop. The windows were cracked just enough to let in the Southern air, thick with humidity and the scent of oil, dust, and Samson’s cigarette.

Peach was supposed to be sorting inventory keeping track of the pills they were moving that week, counting the ziplocks twice to make sure everything matched what Barry promised the sheriff but her mind was somewhere else.

Specifically, pressed up against the grimy brick wall behind the counter, one of Samson’s rough hands under her shirt.

“You said we had ten minutes,” Peach whispered, voice breathy, eyes half lidded. She was in a pair of tiny shorts as always, soft cotton hugging her curves and glowing against the dirt and grease of the shop.

Her lip gloss was sticky sweet and smeared, her thighs twitching as Samson’s fingers pressed firmer against her hips.

Samson barely spoke, always more hands than words, but the look she gave Peach right now said don’t act innocent you started this.

“I said five,” Samson grunted low, voice rough as gravel, Southern lilt thick. “You just ain’t listen.”

Peach’s head lolled back, mouth parted, eyes fluttering. “You’re not even working. We’re supposed to be—”

Her sentence died when Samson grabbed her chin and kissed her again slower this time.

It was messy and deep, their mouths moving like they were starving, Peach letting out a soft whimper when Samson sucked on her bottom lip.

That’s when the back door creaked open.

Barry.

He leaned against the frame, gold tooth catching the golden hour light, arms crossed, a cigarette already halfway gone between his fingers.

The look on his face wasn’t shocked it was amused. Hungry, even.

“Well,” he drawled, voice like honey and smoke, “Ain’t this cute.”

Peach flinched, trying to ease her way out of this, cheeks hot. “Barry—”

Samson didn’t move. She stayed pressed to Peach, one hand still cupping her jaw like she didn’t give a single fuck they’d been caught.

She barely turned her head. “Door wasn’t locked.”

Barry took a drag from his cigarette and tilted his head. “It’s not the door I’m worried about. It’s the fact y’all are out here makin’ out like horny teenagers when there’s work to do.”

Peach crossed her arms, trying to summon up some sass, but the way Barry was looking at her made her thighs squeeze together. “We were just takin’ a break,” she mumbled.

“Sure.” Barry flicked ash to the side, walking toward them, slow and deliberate. “I can smell the break from here.

He stopped just a breath away, one hand sliding under Peach’s jaw, lifting her face up to his. “She get you all flustered, Peach?”

Peach nodded, lips parted.

Barry chuckled low in his throat. “She always does. But you know better than to get distracted when you’re supposed to be countin’ shit. You tryin’ to get us in trouble, baby?”

“No,” Peach whispered, caught between them now, her back to the wall and Barry in front, Samson still behind her like a shadow.

Barry leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. “Then finish the job. And if you’re good,” he said, voice dipping, “maybe we’ll let you keep actin’ up later. Together.”

He stepped back, eyes dark and full of heat.

“Don’t make me come back in here and catch y’all again,” he warned, flicking his cigarette away.

Samson finally moved, pulling Peach back into her arms with a smug little smirk. “You heard the man,” she murmured against Peach’s cheek, voice low and warm. “Better finish up.”

But her hand didn’t leave Peach’s waist.

The house was quiet for once. Just the whir of a fan and the low drone of an old box TV playing some black and white movie Peach wasn’t even watching.

She was laid up in bed between them, cheeks warm, body buzzed from the heat of two pairs of hands she knew better than prayer.

Her silk robe hung loose, peach colored of course, slipping down her shoulder like even it was too tired to behave. Barry’s palm rested heavy and possessive on her thigh, fingers tracing soft circles just under the hem of her nightie. Samson was curled behind her, all muscle and heat, her breath ghosting over Peach’s neck as she tugged at the bow tied at her waist.

“You always wear shit like this just to make me feral, huh?” Samson’s voice was low, rasp like gravel and smoke, accent thick as the honey Peach had stirred into Barry’s coffee that morning.

Peach just hummed, smile lazy, lips glossy with the kind of shine that smeared too easily. “Didn’t even know I’d be gettin’ spoiled tonight,” she whispered, playing coy, even as her legs shifted wider on instinct.

Barry smirked, slow and wolfish. “You always get spoiled, peaches. Especially when you’ve been good.”

His hand moved up, skimming the curve of her hip, stopping just beneath the dip of her stomach. “Been stressin’ all day. We owe you some softness, huh?”

Samson pressed a kiss just below her ear, her hand sliding under Peach’s top with practiced ease. “I’ll give her soft after I give her stupid,” she muttered, and Peach shivered. She loved how Samson talked when no one else could hear

like she didn’t care who she broke so long as Peach came out on top.

Peach’s thighs squeezed together under Barry’s hand, which only made him chuckle as he pushed them back apart.

“Look at her squirm,” he said, voice dripping with praise he’d never admit out loud in the daylight. “Like a little doll wound too tight.”

“I like it when she gets needy,” Samson drawled. “Makes her easier to handle.”

Peach whimpered, head turning slightly, nose brushing Samson’s jaw. “M’not needy,” she said, soft and breathless.

“Yes you are,” they both said at the same time—Barry from the front, Samson from behind.

And she was. God, she was.

She needed this. Their hands, their voices, the way they looked at her like she wasn’t just the front for their operation but the heart of it. Peach had spent all day playing sweet, lying through her teeth, flashing smiles at cops and preachers and dangerous men. She was tired. She wanted to be ruined a little. Needed to be undone by people who knew her too well to fall for her sugarcoated act.

Barry pulled the sheets down, dragging her robe open like a gift, one she’d left half-wrapped on purpose. “You smell like strawberries and sin,” he murmured.

Samson snorted behind her. “That’s ‘cause she sprayed herself like she was goin’ to confession after that drop.”

Peach giggled soft and syrupy, but it caught in her throat when Barry leaned down to mouth at the top of her thigh, and Samson’s hand cupped one of her tits, thumb grazing over a nipple that stiffened under her silk.

“Jesus,” she whispered, already gasping. “You’re both gonna break me.”

“That’s the point, baby,” Samson purred, her other hand reaching between Peach’s legs, slow and sure. “Let us.”

Barry glanced up, eyes dark and fond all at once. “She’s always prettiest like this,” he said to Samson, like Peach wasn’t even there. “All flushed and full of want.

“Mm-hmm,” Samson agreed, biting Peach’s earlobe just to feel her jump. “She was made to be spoiled.”

Peach whimpered again, hips rocking now, unable to keep still. “Please,” she said, eyes glassy, thighs trembling. “Please, I’ve been good. Been your good girl.”

They answered her the way they always did.

With hands.

And mouths.

The porch light flickered like it knew something bad had happened.

It was past midnight, but the kitchen window glowed soft yellow, casting faint shadows of wildflowers pressed in mason jars and lace curtains fluttering in the breeze.

The trailer smelled like vanilla wax melts and the sharp tang of gun oil. That sticky sweet blend of perfume and peril. Peach was home.

Barefoot, standing over the sink in a pink silk robe that barely covered her ass, she scrubbed at her hands even though there wasn’t a lick of blood on them. Just sugar dust from a busted donut box and sweat from nerves gone haywire.

The drop had gone wrong.

Not in the loud, gunfire and sirens kind of way. No, this was the worse kind. The kind where a man grabbed her wrist too tight. Called her “dumb bitch” like he knew she wasn’t just eye candy. Like he knew she was the one running it. Like he wanted to make her pay for that power.

Samson had dragged him by the throat before he could go further, slammed him against the back of a pickup until he pissed himself.

Barry kept his cool the whole time, but Peach saw it. The muscle ticking in his jaw. The way he didn’t look at her, just stared at the horizon like he couldn’t trust himself to speak.

Now she was alone in the kitchen, hands raw from scrubbing, knees trembling under the silk hem of her robe. She could still feel that man’s breath on her face. The way he said “I see what you are, little fake slut.”

She was trying not to cry.

“Peaches?”

His voice was low. Gruff. Almost tender under the smoke in it.

Barry stood in the hallway, boots heavy on the floor. His shoulders were broad in that tight black tee, jeans worn soft from work, and a bruise just beginning to bloom on his cheekbone. He looked like hell.

Peach sniffled and tried to smile. “Hey, darlin’. Want some coffee?”

He ignored the question. Walked straight up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. His big, warm hand slid up under her robe to rest on her soft belly. The touch made her inhale too sharp, too sudden, and she gasped.

“You okay?” he murmured into her neck.

“I’m fine. I mean…” Her voice cracked. “I wanted to be fine.”

Barry didn’t say anything. He just turned her around, slow, like handling something breakable. He looked down at her at her watery eyes and trembling lip, at the smudge of mascara she hadn’t noticed. His fingers brushed her cheek.

“I’m not mad at you,” she whispered.

“I know,” Barry said. “But I’m mad enough for both of us.”

That’s when the tears started. Quiet, salt-slick sobs that made her whole body shake.

Barry caught her, held her, didn’t say hush like other men did when girls cried. He let her do it. Let her soak his shirt with it. And when she finally pulled back, he pressed his forehead to hers.

“Peaches,” he rasped. “You never gotta do that alone again.”

She blinked at him, tears still clinging to her lashes like little stars. “But I’m supposed to be good at this. Sweet and soft and stupid so nobody looks twice.”

“You’re not stupid,” he said, rougher than before.

“You’re the smartest one outta all of us. You run circles ‘round those motherfuckers and you do it in a thong and lip gloss.”

That made her laugh, just a hiccup of it. “You like my thongs?”

Barry smirked. “I like everything about you. Always have.”

The confession hung between them like the scent of rose soap on her skin. Peach’s breath caught.

“I’m not just your alibi, am I?” she whispered.

“No,” Barry said, voice low and Southern and sure. “You’re mine.”

She surged forward and kissed him sticky cherry lip balm and desperation and he caught her around the waist again, lifting her onto the counter like she weighed nothing at all. Her thighs wrapped around his hips, silk robe parting just enough to make him groan.

She was warm, pliant, needy. But not rushed.

This wasn’t fucking.

This was a claim.

His mouth moved down her throat, hands pushing the robe from her shoulders to reveal soft, flushed skin. Her nails pink, perfect, trembling scratched gently at his scalp as he kissed her collarbone.

“I was scared,” she admitted, voice thick and tiny. “Thought maybe you’d think I messed up.”

Barry lifted his head, kissed the corner of her mouth. “You did perfect. If anyone messed up, it was me leavin’ you in reach of a man like that.”

“But I was strong,” she whispered.

“You were,” he agreed, thumbs brushing the tops of her thighs. “My good girl.”

That broke her again. But this time the tears were different. Softer. Relieved.

He didn’t try to take it further. Just pulled her off the counter, carried her bridal-style to the couch where a fuzzy pink blanket lay. Wrapped her in it. Held her against his chest like something sacred.

Later, she’d fall asleep in his lap while a rerun of Steel Magnolias played in the background. He’d smoke a Marlboro with one arm draped around her, watching the flicker of candlelight in her hair

Samson would come home, see the both of them, and not say a word.

Just kiss Peach’s forehead, tug her blanket up, and sit at her feet like a watchdog.

That night, Peach didn’t dream about hands on her throat or angry words or fear.

She dreamed of pink sand, of motel balconies, of Barry in board shorts and Samson in nothing but a tank top and cargo pants, all three of them sunburnt and happy.

She dreamed of forever.

Peach is soft. She’s “yes ma’am,” “bless your heart,” and “can I fix you a plate?”but it’s always layered in suggestion. A southern belle reimagined as a honey trap.

She was one shift away from dancing at Velvet Rodeo until Samson her hardass, cousin, pulled her off that stage. Peach had one foot in stilettos and the other in danger, about to dance for rent money under a name like Honey Bonet when Samson showed up at the club and said, “Put your tits away you’re coming with me, sugar. I got a job for you.”

Barry didn’t want her at first. He thought she was too fragile until she sold three ounces of product to a whole salon full of PTA moms by pretending it was an essential oil starter kit.

She’s their cover, their alibi, their golden goose. Nobody would suspect a thing from Peach. Not with those big eyes and bare legs swinging on the porch swing.

It’s all going perfect for them.

Barry needed someone who looked too dumb, too sweet, too soft to ever be a threat.

Samson needed a reason to stop doing dirty work alone.

And Peach? Peach just wanted to be loved. And maybe get her nails done while she held a burner phone in her other hand.

Peach is all glossy lips, fuzzy slippers, and razor burns on her thighs. She wears lingerie like it’s daywear and has a pink lighter clipped to her panties.

Her room’s got rosaries hanging next to crop tops, stacks of money shoved inside teddy bears, and a pink sparkly pistol she calls Baby.

She answers the door in satin robes and no panties, and people always assume she’s just somebody’s dumb little house toy. That’s the point.

Because nobody ever suspects Peach is the one running the drop.

Peach lives in the afterglow of a fever dream her world smells like vanilla body spray, strawberry lip gloss, and the distant hint of Marlboros from someone else’s kiss.

Her bedroom looks like a 60s beauty queen ran away and never grew up pink satin sheets, tulle canopy, old TVs playing VHS tapes of romance movies on loop, Saint candles flickering under posters of Elvis and faded pinup girls.

She bathes in rose scented bubbles, reads smutty paperbacks with bent covers, and clips coupons while barefoot in thigh highs and a vintage silk robe.

Her handwriting is loopy and childish, but her body language? Pure seduction without trying. She doesn’t know how not to drip sweetness even when she’s saying something rotten.

Everything Peach touches feels like sticky gloss, motel heat, and the slow glide of silk over skin. She’s got a ‘50s housewife fantasy layered over a nympho-in-training core.

Her closet is full of vintage slips, bow-trimmed camouflage panties, and fluffy robes she wears even while cooking in nothing but heels. She never wears real pajamas just the kind that make men lose their train of thought.

She’s the distraction, the face, the puppet. But behind her sugary voice and slutty outfits, she’s got the whole operation on lock.

Barry and Samson taught her how to hide pills in lip balm tubes, how to spot a cop by the shoes they wear, and how to flirt her way through a traffic stop.

She delivers packages in Victoria’s Secret bags and cupcake boxes. DEA couldn’t catch her if they tried too busy staring at her tits.

She’s sensual in that soft whimpering, lip-sucking, always touching something way. Even her voice sounds like a moan wrapped in a whisper.

But she’s sweet, too. She’ll make Barry coffee in the morning, fold Samson’s boxers, and call herself their “little wife.”

Peach doesn’t like yelling. She cries if her feelings get hurt. But the second you call her a good girl, she perks up like a flower in the sun.

She loves being touched hair brushed, thighs squeezed, her back scratched while she lays across someone’s lap in lace.

Samson is the only one who can shut Peach up. One look, one growled command, and Peach is down on her knees asking, “Did I do bad? Want me to fix it?”

She plays hands under Peach’s chin, whispering in her ear, lil’ slut, huh?” But there’s a tenderness under it. Samson takes care of Peach.

If someone even looks at Peach the wrong way during a drop, Samson’s got them pinned against a wall before Peach can blink.

Samson keeps her polished, trained, and well fed. Gets off on the idea of making this girl too soft for the world but just filthy enough for them.

Samson is her protector, the only one who knows her full backstory about the preacher stepdad, the broken promises, and the time she almost married a man ten years older for rent money.

Barry calls her “Peaches” in a way that sounds almost mocking until he catches her crying one night in nothing but a pink teddy and his shirt, and it softens into a whisper.

He pretends she annoys him, but he always lights her cigarettes and knows exactly how she likes her milkshake.

He pretends to be cold with her, but he watches every move she makes how her nipples peek through thin tank tops, how she moans when she stretches. He’s got a short fuse when it comes to Peach, and she loves pushing buttons.

She rides him in crop tops and bubblegum pink nails, always with her hair up in a scrunchie and pouty lips begging for praise.

She gets under his skin with her sweetness like she could kill him with kindness. And maybe one day she will.

He’s rough. She’s sugar. But together? They’re a lethal cocktail.

Peach sleeps between them most nights wearing next to nothing, legs tangled, mouth still sticky from late night snacks and kisses.

Peach likes being watched. Likes having her head pushed down while someone films her getting wrecked from behind.

She calls them both “Daddy”, depending on who’s making her cry harder. She knows exactly what to say to make them both jealous.

Her safe word is “peaches.” It’s almost never used.

Peach keeps a vibrator shaped like a lipstick in her purse. Just in case.

Her favorite place to be kissed is behind her knee, second favorite is anywhere in public where she could get caught.

She doesn’t even lock the door when she’s in the shower anymore. She wants them to walk in.

She keeps a pink journal that’s full of love spells, grocery lists, and half baked fantasies about disappearing to a beach with Barry and Samson where they sell fake perfume instead of drugs.

She hums old soul songs in the car, always wears mismatched lingerie under her clothes, and chews bubblegum like it’s a nervous tick.

Her nails are always perfect. Her morals are not.

She still prays sometimes but it’s mostly for protection while she hides things in her makeup bag.

The storm had been gathering on the horizon for three days when the stranger walks into town with a coat of tattered selkie skin and an engraved silver sword. His face is obscured by his helmet from your hiding spot, but you recognize the purple paint and his presence. The rest of the people watch from a distance. They have been screwed over and forgotten by multiple governments including the empire and don’t trust outsiders. It’s why you chose this place to hide.

“Commander!” Samson calls out as he takes off his helmet. “I know you’re here!” You freeze in your spot. He sounds normal again, but after how he shot at you a little over a year ago, you’re not taking any chances. However, you don’t feel any violent intent.

“I stole your kyber sword back.” He holds out the sword as he says it. Your eyes scan over it and they water. He’s right; it is your sword. The handle, metal work, and enchantments that had taken days to complete were all there. You never thought you would see it again after running from your mer clones.

“Samson…” Slowly you come out into the open even as the town people try to tell you not to. Your old lover gives you a half smile. It is a rare sight and you are happy to get to see it again. “You’re back?”

Your question lingers in the air before he nods. His reserved expression doesn’t bother you. If anything, it solidifies it’s truly him. He has always been stoic; you observed that the first moment he was assigned to your master’s battalion. You were just starting adulthood while he was tossed head first into the warring world outside Kamino. You had made quite the pair, fighting side by side.

You run up and throw your arms around his neck. Samson immediately holds you close. Where he was quiet and could often be emotionally reserved, his actions always spoke louder than words. He had been there whenever you needed him; he was your partner in combat and your emotional rock as the war took its toll on you. It was why his betrayal had shattered you.

“I missed you.” While you could feel the powerful emotion, hearing Samson saying it aloud meant the world to you.

You find yourself helping manage Rex’s base of operation on Teth. The Sea Alor has them recusing as many Mer clones as they can get their hands on. You are more than happy to help knock the empire down a peg especially after learning about a particular latent enchantment that had been hidden inside the Mer clones’ brains.

While the day to day work is rewarding, there is nothing like going out to meet Rex’s Squad at the water's edge. His seal form is heavily scarred and quiet, but you always get a single bark when he sees you. Before you can scarcely blink, Samson is there in armor with his arms around you. You basque in his affection knowing this is how he shows he loves you.