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ronearoundblindly · 1 year ago

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Steal that boy back to the nice team. LOVE IT!

Allright my sweet Jam, listen about this. How about a reader who is new at her work and Meet our dear nerdy boy Jensen, Who happens to be in a very bad relationship with a mean girl. He doesn’t leave her because he thinks nobody would date him again , however there comes our reader girl being a badass, sort of friendsxlovers cuties🤭.

Im loving thiiiis!!!! 🙈

Hi nonnie😌❤️

😩soft boi Jakey is always going to have a special place in my heart - the golden retriever look on his face is so damn adorable-

Bad B*tch

Jake Jensen x Reader (you)

Summary: Jake is in a tough spot with a terrible person around. You choose to be the bitch and snap him out of it.

Warning: Swear words.

"I'm so fed up!" Hush-yells Clara, who shoved Jake away from her close proximity, "Leave me alone!"

Storming off from the coffee room, she didn't look back.

If anyone other than people from your department is seeing this, they would think that Jake, who had been pushed and shoved, must have done something wrong to piss off the pretty lady who ran away.

From your point of view?

Clara was obviously manipulating her boy toy again.

It was unfair to call Jake "boy toy", however, with his weirdly cute goatee and the round spectacles on the bridge of his nose, you understood why Clara would want him around. He was undoubtedly good-looking, and practical regarding computers, phones, and anything linked to the power strip.

In fact, your laptop was what connected you and him in the first place. On the first day in your office, you were completely bewildered by the complicated authorization process to make amendments to some files. After some help from the only guy at IT - Jake - you were lucky to gain the authorization from the IT department twice as fast. You had been friends since.

Now, after two years working for your company, you knew too well of your co-workes, Jake included, but especially Clara from the same department where you came from.

Clara was the notorious slayer of hearts, keeping a few men around the tips of her fingers, and manipulate them to do her work for her, occasionally rewarding them by blowing a kiss (or screw them in an empty office, you had the unfortunate experience of walking in Clara and another men fucking each other's brain out) and making their sanity scrambled into mush.

Jake, as it seemed, has fell into the hands of Clara since six months ago.

Jake met your eyes from where he was standing. He managed a small smile, which looked sad rather than happy.

"What is it with this time?" You asked quietly.

It has happened so many times after Jake was determined that Clara was willing to be his girlfriend. Clara would scream and yell whenever something didn't work out the way she expected to, and Jake would hastily apologize for something that wasn't his fault.

"I ... got upset when she got too close with Felix." Jake scratched the back of his head, stepping out of the coffee room and gesturing towards the terrace, where he'd be more open to conversation without eyes and ears close by, "It's ... it's my fault, though, I'm insecure, I'm ..." Jake repeated what Clara had hissed at him, shutting his eyes, he could still hear her words ringing in his ears.

"Sorry about dumping this on you." He hastily apologized. He noticed that you were awfully quiet, probably because that you didn't want to hear about his yet-to-be relationship drama.

"It's okay." You shrugged.

It was not. But last time when you told Jake that Clara was manipulating him into doing her biddings, Jake broke into a large fight with you.

Even though he apologized the next day, but stating the fact that Clara was nothing like you imagined her, you realized some topics were better staying in the dark.

Topics like Clara and her ways with men.

However, it didn't mean that you couldn't wiggle your opinion into his mind.

You turned to him, your voice flooded with sympathy, "You must feel that you are out of her league, I get that a lot."

Yeah sure, Clara didn't deserve him.

Jake took a deep breath, before continuing, "It's just that ... none of the girls finds me attractive." He casted a small glimpse in your direction, "I'm the nerdy IT guy, and they are always ... hot. " Licking his lower lip nervously, Jake huffed, "Clara is different. She has a bad temper, but I think she likes me. She really does."

You were not going to dwell on the case of Clara, because you knew no matter what you say, he was going to defend her. So you changed your approach, "Rewind to the last thing you said - you're not a nerd."

Jake pouted, blinking his puppy eyes.

His whole demeanor was expressing one simple idea. He knew you were trying to sneak by with a white lie.

You laughed. "Okay! Okay, you are. But you're cute. Don't girls dig the cute nerd type?"

"You'd be surprised." He sagged his shoulder, looking depressed, mumbling, "Thank you, anyways. You must have something better to do, and yet you chose to stay and listened to my miserable love life-"

"Don't." You instinctively stopped him from saying more, "Look, Jake, you've been my friend ever since I got to this place, and I know you. I chose to stay because my friend is in need because of a-" You swallowed the B-word, with difficulty, "a really bad person broke his heart, over, over and over again. Not because of anything else, and certainly not because my dear friend 'doesn't deserve' some comforting when he needs it."

Jake stretched his arms over the terrace railing, looking into the city's concrete walls and iron jungles.

"Jake, look at me." You whispered.

He gave no reply, simply letting out a long sigh.

"Jake." You raised your voice, only by a little, and he still did not answer you.

"Jake-" You squished his cheek between your palms, finally made him turn your way, with his adorable lips protruding, "You're better than this - sulking over that bitch - okay?"

A pit of fire rolled in your stomach.

Why couldn't he see the truth? That Clara was playing him, that she never meant to be his girlfriend, not to mention the new boytoy she had, Felix, who was in the accountant and that she needed Felix to check the books for five dozen purchases in your department - on top of, the purchase checks were supposed to be Clara's work, because she messed up with her data entries.

"She wants me." Jake repeats stubbornly. If he had puppy ears, they'd be dangling to the floor, "She likes me."

God, enough with Jake and his bullshit-

You stood on your tiptoes quickly, and smothered Jake with a kiss. The hands on either side of his cheek helps. The fire in your stomach fueled to the kiss, urging you to nibble on his lips, regardless that you were on the terrace of the company building, that you could be seen by almost anyone who stepped foot into the second floor, while the only thing that separated you from the building was see-through glass doors.

"Jake, I need you to help me with-" Clara rushed over, pulling the glass door open, was stunned at her spot, and then, "YOU BITCH!" She screamed at you.

"Guess I am." You smiled coyly, letting go of Jake's reddened lips, "need anything?"

Clara turned to Jake, stomping like a teenager, "Jake, please, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled. I really need your help."

"I-" Jake hesitated.

"Jake pleaaaaase, you can't help her like that." You mocked her voice, fingers exploring his chin and his stupidly cute goatee, "Oh wait - sorry, forgot I was a bitch. Now why don't I live up to that name - " You made the most impressive bitch face in your entire life, not that you did it before, but with you narrowing your eyes, and twitching your lips, and the "Fuck off from my boyfriend", you made Clara scatter.

You were crossing your arms in contempt, satisfied with your tactics, when a small gasp from Jake made you aware of his presence.

"For the record, I'm not saying sorry." You pursed your lips into a thin line, "Even if you don't want me to be your friend anymore."

Jake gulped, and gulped again, and calling your name hesitantly. Thin sheet of sweat emerged from his forehead, before the goofy grin curled up onto his lips.

"No. No." He murmured. Cheeks pink, biting the inside of his lip, staring into the ground so hard as if studying tile patterns, he added, "You're not asking me for help at work, are you?"

You huffed out a laugh. You could not believe his first concern of your announcement.

"Yes." You cleared your throat.

His eyes looked up in disbelief.

"And asking you to come to our house for New Year's dinner. And asking you to teach me how to play Overwatch. And asking you to be my date at my cousin's wedding. And such and such." Your hand sneaked to his side, secretly interlacing his fingers with yours, "What'd you say?"

"Yeah." He breathed, "Yeah that sounds ... great. As long as I get to be Sombra."

"Who?" You quirked your eyebrows.

Jake giggled, holding your hand tightly in his, "You have so much to catch up on Overwatch! Sombra is the most badass one of them all - well, not as badass as you, it seems..."

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#ro reads #jake jensen x reader #jake jensen fanfiction #jake jensen fluff #jake jensen angst #jake jensen x you

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ronearoundblindly · 2 years ago

Text

Ugh, guys, the details in this are exquisite and I frankly cried myself to sleep when I first read this. Except for this one bit...

“Never thought I’d see the day Steve Rogers forgets to say please.”

...where I snorted full stop because obviously!

Beautifully crafted angst that will soothe the little tear it leaves in your soul all at once.

Ephemera | Steve/F!Reader Smut Oneshot

This really resonated with me, thanks for the request! Sent to DarsyWrites, so I hope you don't mind that I took a screenshot to respond.

Summary: You and Steve both survived the Blip, and each of you are trying to offer comfort to your fellow survivors in your own ways. When Steve shows up at your studio to create one of your signature grief pieces, you are faced with the fact that you're not over the way he'd disappeared after your memorable first date, weeks before the disaster in Sokovia.

Warnings: Smut, including mentions of oral (male receiving), fingering, and vaginal sex. Vague reference to suicide (post-Endgame) MINORS DNI

Pairing: Steve Rogers/F!Reader

Square filled: 'Betrayal' for @avengersbingo

Length: 3,132

Note: ‘ephemera,’ something temporary, fleeting, delicate, easily lost; also collectible memorabilia

Tags: @ronearoundblindly @starryeyes2000 @themaradaniels @tiny-anne @munstysmind

Excerpt:

“Do you want the folder part back?”

“No ma’am.”

You set the whole thing inside and shut the door securely. “Still ‘Miss.’ Feels appropriate, I guess.”

“Rough way to build a life,” Steve observes.

“Oh, good, a six-word lecture from the perfect man!” You turn your back on him and walk over to the only piece of furniture in the room, a kitchen-style counter that takes up an entire wall. The resin and frames are already all set up, so you rest your palms flat on the empty stretch of marble and try to channel its cool implacability.

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew what brought me here.”

You push out an abrasive laugh. “Everyone feels guilty about what they bring to burn, Steve.”

Suddenly he’s against your back, hands coming down beside yours on either side. “I brought myself to burn. Hours of coming here and pushing myself to find something worth drawing, just so I could watch the strip of skin at your back when you lifted your arms up to get more paper.”

Ephemera

Your art is different now. Everyone’s is.

The project angers some people, but that’s not your problem. Everyone deals with the decimation their own way, and yours is particularly bare. Bleak, even. It’s probably good that you lost so much business (some gone, and some gone), because you’d drive people away, no question.

Every week, you see a new, familiar face. They look different now, sporting more lines, more gray, more sorrow, few smiles. After four months, their seedlings have finally taken root in this dust-driven world, begrudgingly seeking out the harsh sunlight. Many have heard about what you’re doing and find it cathartic. They come into the studio with folders, notepads, photo albums, all with looks of raw determination. Some are looking forward to the process, others just want the result. They walk in looking for examples on the walls, but you’ve kept them bare.

Something feels off about that, something’s missing, which is the point. A world of uncreated masterpieces.

Not everyone makes appointments with their name, but that’s one of the beauties of this shitty new world. It doesn’t matter. Either they’ll show up or they won’t. You don’t need someone’s mother’s maiden name to hold a timeslot, you’re not doing this for the money-- if you were, no one would come.

The front door opens as you finish prepping the woodstove, and you straighten, wondering how long to give them. People walk in and need a minute, sometimes. They’re looking for catharsis, to quite literally refine their grief into something new, and those seconds before you greet them are important, you’ve found.

“Hello?”

You suck in a breath. It’s Steve Rogers, you’d recognize that voice anywhere. Not because of his day job, but because of the hours he’d spent here, steeping humanity into the lines of his sketches. Weeks before the tragedy in Sokovia, the two of you had done dinner on Coney Island, talking for hours on a darkened patch of beach, far into the night. You’d stood and stretched, fingertips reaching for the stars, and when you’d turned around, you had offered to show him what touching the stars felt like.

You’ll never forget the mix of tactile sensation of that night. The power of his cock on your tongue, the way Steve had drawn claw marks in the sand beside his thighs to prevent himself from gripping your hair. Barely seconds after he came, a couple walking at the edge of the water spooked the two of you, and then you’d just… never seen him again.

“Coming,” you call out, your voice thready with longing. During the brief walk to the storefront, you wonder what the hell he’s brought, whether you’re going to have to do an Indiana Jones to keep it out of the fire.

Steve stretches out his hand to shake yours when you get out there, like he doesn’t remember what it felt like when you’d stroked him.

“No ink,” you chastise, turning his hand in yours to check.

“No inspiration,” he counters.

You can’t help the self-deprecating laugh as you let go. “That’s never been my problem!” As soon as you say it, you wish you could snatch the words back. It’s gauche to imply that you enjoy any part of this process.

“All evidence to the contrary,” he says, regarding you with warm, professional favor. “I’ve heard good things about what you’re doing. It’s kind of you. Important, even.”

“You haven’t heard from everyone, then.”

Steve purses his lips thoughtfully. “I have. People say it’s disrespectful. That you should be preserving this stuff, not destroying it.”

“The time for preservation was before the blip. I’m just giving people back their agency.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here.” He holds up a folder. It’s a centimeter thick, which is more than you’re used to, but not a problem. You can’t even imagine what could be in there. Multiple recruitment rejection papers? Howard Stark’s schematics for his shield? The mission debrief after the Attack on New York?

“Am I going to have the Smithsonian on my ass if we do this?”

“Don’t worry about it. If anyone asks, I’ll tell them you fought like hell to prevent the inevitable.”

Your throat clenches painfully, because it would be clear to anyone in earshot what Steve-- what Captain America is saying.

Sometimes you can’t protect the things you want most to keep safe. Even if you give it your all.

It’s the heart and soul of your new life’s work, so you nod.

“I won’t look,” you promise.

“Looking won’t change anything.”

“I still won’t.”

You lead him down into the burn room, and he looks around appreciatively. “I wondered how you’d protect against fumes and all that.”

“Yeah, we got in on the first round of improvement funding.” You hold out your hand for the folder. “I’m still supposed to ask you if there is photo paper in here from before 1985.”

A wry, amused look transits his face as he nods.

The rest of the run-down doesn’t take long, and you don your heavy protective mitts as you rattle it off. “Most of the wait time is taken up by letting things cool down. I will warn you that I deliberately leave a small amount of material behind each time. It’s difficult to get everything, and the overlap--”

“It’s part of what connects us,” he finishes for you.

“Yeah.” You open the woodstove and pick up the folder. “Do you want the folder part back?”

“No ma’am.”

You set the whole thing inside and shut the door securely. “Still ‘Miss.’ Feels appropriate, I guess.”

“Rough way to build a life,” Steve observes.

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew what brought me here.”

You push out an abrasive laugh. “Everyone feels guilty about what they bring to burn, Steve.”

“I figured as soon as you knew what my head looked like in your lap you were on to the next one!” you shoot back. It’s instinct borne of rejection; the full comprehension of his gentler words drift down like ash, too little, too late.

“Was given a mission the next day,” he says, mouthing the words along the cotton seam on your shoulder. “It felt cheap to call. What would I say? ‘Hold that thought for when I get back’?” Steve grazes your ear with his nose, and you shiver, pressing back against his solid bulk.

“I held it anyway, you asshole.”

Steve strokes his hand up your arm to your neck, angling your head to the side so he can drag his lips along your throat. His hand keeps going, sliding down past your collarbone and into the loose neckline of your shirt, stroking just shy of your nipples with each wide caress.

You’re conflagrating, partly in anger, mostly in lust, but you dredge up enough breath to say, “Never thought I’d see the day Steve Rogers forgets to say please.”

The monumental troll pulls back, lifting his hands up and stepping away. You’re left without anything to moor you, your sweaty palms sliding on the marble as you turn around to glare at him.

Steve’s standing there, chest moving with the force of the large breaths he’s taking, both hands fisted at his sides. “I wanted to be a soldier. Point me toward the danger, send me to batter it down with the strength they forged me with, fine.” He spreads his hands, looks down at them, his face twisting. “Our collective strength was never going to be enough. Across the universe, fields aren’t harvested, books go unwritten, homes aren’t built, children left unfed, art not created-- as if that somehow enriches those of us left behind."

You get it, you’re sympathetic, but you were so hurt when he ghosted you that you say the first thing that pops into your wounded brain.

“So, what? You decide to fix it by going to find the women you left unfucked?”

Steve Rogers’ every molecule is made of sheer, unmitigated righteousness, so he says, “I hurt you. I’m sorry.”

You want to forgive him. You want to throw yourself at the man, kiss his chest, his neck, his lips, all the while explaining away the crunched-down diamond of abandoned misery you’ve been harboring in your heart. You’d set it on fire when you finally realized he wasn’t going to call, he wasn’t coming back, and now the coal of that hope is a fossil fuel polluting your ability to trust him again.

He whispers your name, and you break, turning your back on him again.

“Fuck you, Steve. If that’s what you came for, get on with it. Take what you want and get out of here.”

“I wanted to touch you that night. I had sand embedded in my fingerprints for days after.”

You hear him approach, and shit, all you can think about is cutting yourself on the glass shards of his regret. “So why now?”

“I run a support group,” Steve murmurs, and you let out a knowing breath. Of course he does. He touches your back gently, easing up behind you, his thumb tracing the bare skin he’d mentioned. This presents an aching possibility: Steve is telling the truth. He’s wanted this, wanted you , and he’d held back until the world was torn apart.

“Go on?”

“Lost two this week alone. Another one three weeks back. I find myself advising people to take joy where they can, to stop trying to look to the future.” You reach up, dragging your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and Steve relaxes, dropping his lips to your shoulder, sliding an arm around to fit your hips back against his. “I don’t recognize myself anymore, in the language I’m using to support people. Can’t live in the past, can’t promise any kind of future-- and the here and now?” He lets out a frustrated breath, and you get it. What kind of world is it when asking how to live in the 'here and now' feels like a rhetorical question?

“Goddamnit, Steve… I’m here,” you sigh, starting to turn toward him. Are you angry? Yes. Do you want him? Always. You can pick up the pieces later… or not.

At least you have practice with the ‘not.’

His lips are on yours almost as soon as they’re within reach. The kiss is frantic with longing, a bonfire of grasping caresses, nips and soothes. Steve tugs at your neckline, and you nod, kissing his jaw as you back away just long enough to take off your shirt. You lose it somewhere on the floor as he herds you back against the counter, thumbing open the snap of your pants.

“Yes,” you groan, and Steve cups your face in both of his hands to kiss you, gliding one hand down your arm to anchor himself on the flat surface behind you. With the other, Steve trails his fingertips down your chest, catching the imperfections of his skin against the delicate lace of your bra. The feather-light touches remind you, incongruously, of the ash collecting in the woodstove in the middle of the room. You and Steve are banked fires, but you come together as ephemera, moments cherished but quickly lost, destined to exist only in memory.

He starts on your pants, and you rest an alarmed hand on his. “The windows--”

Steve looks over his shoulder; this room has high, square windows that catch the sunlight from the open lot next door, but since it’s partially underground, they’re technically at street level. Someone could lean over, look in, and see the two of you. “Just keep your eyes on me,” he says, stepping closer. You can’t see past him, meaning you’re visible to no one but Steve. “On me,” he repeats, cupping the back of your head in his free hand and taking your mouth even as he pushes past the lace of your panties with the other.

There’s confidence in the movement of his hand, in the just-right motions of his fingers, and you’re combusting, held up by the desperate grip you have on the fabric of his shirt. The kiss deepens as Steve’s tongue translates the flamewrought runes he’s painting between your legs, thickening your blood to lava. You feel your orgasm approach, and it’s too intense, you can’t breathe and kiss and come all at the same time, so you pull back, burying your face in his chest.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he breathes hoarsely into your hair. The gravel in his tone is so fraught with desire that it sends you over, the honey-soaked pleasure blazing through your veins. Steve gentles you through it, whispering nonsense syllables that sound like ancient words of praise.

When you finally stop shaking, he lifts you up to sit on the counter, which is good, because your muscles are wrecked, and so are your emotions. He starts to pull back, and you rest your hand on his face, forcing him to look at you.

“You give away too much. It’s why you didn’t come back. It’s why you’re struggling with how to support those people. The ones who died, they took some of you with them, didn’t they?” you ask. His brows furrow and his eyes close, and you know you’re right. “It’s why we’re going to do this, and when we’re done with both works of art, you’ll move on, and so will I.”

Steve opens his eyes, blue eyes shocked, determined. “That’s not what I came here to--”

“You did. It’s untenable, Steve. Intangible.” You breathe in, and the adrenaline of telling the absolute truth to this avatar of honesty tastes acrid. “It’s symbolic. You didn’t want that night to end, and you knew if we did this, it would.” He’s still denying it, so you reach out and start to unbuckle his belt. “It’s okay for things to be fleeting, you know. Admitting that isn’t betraying how hard you fought.”

He sucks in a breath, letting out a little noise when you turn your hand just the right way to reach into his pants. Just as you make contact, Steve leans down and kisses you. It’s almost chaste, this kiss. Respectful. The operative opposite of the motion of your wrist. You understand that it’s his answer, his acquiescence, that he can’t bring himself to vocalize the awful finality.

The moment flames on, Steve trembling against you as you work him, brushing kisses on your lips, your cheek, your hairline, his hands alternately clutching at your hip or feathering caresses on your arms. Suddenly he sucks in a breath and stops you, a low groan answering your quiet query about his well-being.

“Can-- I want--” you whisper, and he nods, hand dipping into his pocket to come out with a condom. Minutes later you’re both naked and he’s walking you over to the far corner, out of sight of the windows, out of sight of the doorway. “Chivalrous to the end?” you tease, and he leans you up against the smooth wall, blocking you in with his palms flat on either side.

“I don’t feel chivalrous,” he says, taking your hands and resting them on his chest. “I feel like Zeus. I want,” --and here, he pulls you close, nipping at your ear. “But, I know I can’t stay, not with my life as it is. It’s not the moral choice, but--”

“As long as your Hera isn’t grief, Steve, there’s no shame in this,” you whisper. That unlocks something in him, and he’s lifting you, lining up and then, right before he thrusts home, he presses his forehead against yours. It’s everything-- lust and sorrow, lamentable solidarity.

The pleasure is almost secondary to this understanding, this connection, this-- it must be said, goodbye. Even so, it’s ruinous, the way Steve locks eyes with you, one hand on the wall, the other splayed on your face to hold you steady when he turns his head to kiss you. Searing sweetness races across your whole body from the places where you’re joined, bittersweet and glorious. You’re both vocal, he with deep, satisfied groans and you with moaning cries that he tastes from the outside of your throat.

All too soon, Steve’s grip grows tighter, the snap of his hips more vehement. “I can’t-- I don’t--”

“Let go, that’s what this is about. Grief, catharsis, ashes, pleasure, all of it,” you murmur, your kisses sloppy and imprecise. Steve pulls you from the wall and turns, holding you impossibly close as he ruts up into you, face buried in your neck.

Though you’d expected to go without a second climax, the power of what he’s struggling with drags an unexpected shockwave through you. It shocks Steve, too; you can feel the wave of goosebumps crossing under your hand on his arm.

“That was…” Steve looks shaken.

“Yeah,” you breathe.

You cradle each other in your corner for a long few minutes, two naked humans with naked emotions, until inevitably, the reality of your humanity comes to the forefront, and you need to clean up and dress. The timer will go off in a few minutes, so you prep the resin for the ashes, throwing glances over at where Steve is standing staring at the woodstove.

“How many people have you done this for?” he asks.

“Oh, I call that my Fuck Wall over there, why do you ask?” you say, hating the edge of vulnerability in your voice. Instead of lashing out, instead of challenging you, Steve just walks over and pulls you into a warm, comforting hug.

With the words muffled by the fact that his face is buried in your hair, Steve says, “Were any of those people you?”

The alarm for the stove goes off, and you pull away. “Stop trying to fix everyone, asshole,” you say affectionately.

“You first.”

Neither of you will, of course, but as you and Steve work together to take the ashes of his former life and fashion them into an avatar of what he’s lost, you’re maybe, finally glad you have the chance.

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fanfic #fic rec #bestie wars #how i lost the bestie war #gah gonna go cry some more now #it's so beautiful #ro reads

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