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gaiuswrites · 4 years ago
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King of Cups || Chapter 1
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Chapter 1: The Tower
Archive: ao3 | masterlist | two
Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader
Summary: You’re apart of the Refugee Relief Movement, an intergalactic organization providing aid throughout the systems, and you find yourself assisting at a resettlement camp in Lothal when disaster strikes, changing your life forever, intertwining your path with that of a certain Mandalorian bounty hunter.
Word count: 3.7k~
Rated: Mature
Warnings: descriptive violence, blood/injury mentioning, danger, mature language
Notes: Hi y'all, welcome. This fic is going to be set during Season 2 of The Mandalorian, and will be what I like to call ‘canon adjacent’. ALSo, this chapter is very much so Reader focused, setting up the scene and the general pacing of the story, but naturally, Din will be more and more featured as things progress. I’m a sucker for backstory and a slow burn, so ye be warned. Please feel free to reach out to me. :) I’d love to hear from you lovely little beans. Be safe out there, friends.
Lothal was a planet all too familiar with occupation.
You remember seeing a quote somewhere that read ‘Look no further than Lothal if you want to see what happens when the Empire takes control of an entire world’; and although the Imperial chokehold had loosened when the Empire fell, the planet, even all these years later, still found itself gasping for breath. 
Off world migration from the Core Worlds had been popularized since the expansion of the Imperial government bureaucracy, which brought booming business opportunities for the fortunate few, but as the rich became richer, the poor grew poorer. The Lothalites were forced out of their homes, off their own lands—refugees on their own planet; forced to resettle and relocate with nothing but the clothes on their back and the possessions they could cram into their pockets. The only heirlooms passed on from generation to generation were that of poverty, tall tales of former splendor, and the greatest of ancestral traumas: disillusionment.
The truly desperate turned to crime, and what couldn’t be solved by back-dealings and blaster fire was managed with fear mongering and the bitter flair of xenophobia. There was always a species to blame, and it was always the one who seemed to be doing better off, no matter how slight the margin. 
Greed. Fear. Despair. These are the currencies in which the galaxy trades. 
And so it was then, and continued to be, cycle after cycle. History, always finding clever ways to repeat itself.
On bad days, pollution still loomed heavy over the atmosphere—remnants of the fires from the Imperial occupation still clinging on to Lothal’s weary bones. She had been stripped during that time; gutted and strung up by her feet to dangle from the Empire’s meat hook, exsanguinated slowly, drop by drop, until she had nothing left to give. Her resources and minerals and ore and water and seed, robbed. Pillaged.
She’s free from it now, but the scars remain— the planet remembers. Her people do not forget. Like muscle memory, they all ungulate to this synthesized rhythm they can’t seem to shake, day in and day out, wandering. Forever unsettled.
The planet had always had a diverse population and had become something of a safe haven for other abandoned people fleeing their home worlds, determined to find somewhere - anywhere - for them to survive. Lothal provided that for them. It wasn’t rich or bountiful by any stretch, but it was simple and safe—safe in the way hidden things in plain sight are. One could blend into the crowd of many, unique faces, of all races and backgrounds; you could be anonymous, if you wanted. You could be free.
That’s how you’ve found yourself here in Jortho. You had been with the Refugee Relief Movement for the better part of what felt like forever, and they had transferred you to this planet not six weeks ago. You were out on rotation; the RRM sends someone new twice a cycle for the span of a month or two to varying locations to supply rations, aid with the influx of refugees, organize resettlement lodgings, and generally be of assistance when and where you could. However, your tenure on this temperate planet was coming to a close, and soon you’d be flying back to the headquarters on Coruscant before being bounced to another post somewhere out among the stars. 
You love your job. You know it’s unpopular to say, but you do. It’s fulfilling and impactful and indescribably special. The individuals you meet, the stories you hear, they’re invaluable— priceless and precious, like handmade trinkets crafted by the fingers of a child; you press them all to your heart, holding them there. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t get to you— the weight of it; the plights of all of these people, all of these lives, burdening your conscience. It isn’t always painless— you aren’t immune to it. Even so, on most nights you manage to sleep easy, tucked away aboard the transport freighter you flew in on with the batch of settlers newly assimilated into town knowing Maker, at least you were doing something— anything— everything you could.
And really, to call Jortho a town would be an insult to all towns everywhere—but ‘town’ has a certain charm to it that ‘refugee camp’ simply did not, and it gave the people hope. Pride, even. That they belonged somewhere.
You suppose that’s all anyone wants. To belong. 
A feather soft gust of wind tickles the golden blades of prairie grass as the sun, bleary and tired, starts dipping from the sky. The crickbeets begin their song early, trilling, sensing Lothal’s moons still coyly tucked away, hiding somewhere along the horizon. A smile adorns your face, private and serene, as you bring a bowl of broth up to your lips, humming when the warm liquid meets your tongue. You sigh, contented, taking in the sights before you; how the dusk blurs the aromatic air, making it opaque, the shuttles docked across the way from you casting long purple shadows onto the flat plains, the snowcapped mountains in the distance bordering the cant of the planet’s surface, nestling Jortho in a shallow valley.
You feel calm, at peace, and take another sip.
An easy moment passes, and it’s the last one you get before silence stalks up from behind you.
You don’t notice it at first, like any patient predator, it goes undetected: the white noise, the nothingness— until finally, you do and then suddenly it’s everywhere. On top of you. Smothering you. Goosebumps stipple your skin and you bristle. The insects have stopped chirping. The breeze has stilled. The air hangs dead. 
And then—
Chaos.
You’re hit with a blast of crushing heat, the sheer power of it picking you up off your feet and onto your side, sending your body careening into a nearby structure. Your shoulder takes most of the blow, but your neck still snaps backwards unnaturally, the back of your head colliding with the stone wall behind you with a dull thwack. You let out a groaned cry at the impact, the wind knocked out of your lungs as you crumple to the ground.
For an instant, your vision goes white, stars popping and fusing out in front of your pupils, and it’s like you can feel everything and nothing all at once, hollow but overwhelmed, and all you want to do is close your eyes and drift asleep— Maker that would feel like a luxury, just right here on the damn dirt. And you almost do, you almost let yourself slip under and sink— until you hear a piercing scream from somewhere close. 
Immediately your eyes shoot open, desperately blinking away the blurriness that threatens to over take them, and you try pushing yourself up by the heels of your scraped hands, failing once - twice - before finding your footing. You’re shaky at first, uncoordinated and dizzy and redownloading bipedalism, before that sweet drug of adrenaline starts to course through your veins and finally, finally, you take in your surroundings. 
The ships that once stood across the field are gone, obliterated, and in their place only metal ribcages remain—empty carcasses like dead birds splayed on their backsides, imploded from the inside out, their bits strewn all around you. 
Your breathing comes hard and heavy, fighting down panic, and cloudy eyes search through the thick black smoke billowing up in stacks, trying to pin point the source of the scream you’d heard just moments ago. You cough a strained wheeze, sputtering against the charred air, and wade your way through the debris— it’s only then that you realize the magnitude of the explosion. It’s not just the landing bay, it’s half the kriffing village. The buildings that neighbored the airfield had been decimated, burning roofs and crumbling fixtures, homes collapsing onto themselves, scorch marks and shrapnel branding the outsides of the shanties left standing.
It looks like a battlefield. You’ve seen holovids of this—what war can look like, how it can ruin a people… But you’ve never had to stand in the middle of it, head on. 
Your heart drums against your chest as you break into a hobbled run, desperately scanning the area for any signs of life, up and down, left and right, straining against the waning daylight. It’s then that you hear your name, urgent and frantic, and you whip your head in it’s direction, knees nearly buckling in relief. You immediately recognize your friend Hareem, brandishing her arms at you, waving you over to her. 
“Thank the Maker, you’re alright!” the Balosar cries out, trembling hands finding purchase on your shoulders, bracing you. You don’t know if its for your benefit or her own, but either way you’re grateful for the grounding pressure; for the first time since the initial blast, you feel solid, like you won’t just float away, atomized and weightless. Worried, you look her over. A sliver of fresh scarlet blooms from her scalp, a small line trickling down past her temple, but she otherwise looks relatively unharmed. You grasp onto her wrist, squeezing firmly.
“What the hell happened?” You ask, voice low and pitched, wide fearful eyes drilling into her.
“T-There was a man-” And she shakes her head, mouth clamping shut, deep wrinkles framing her face.
“Hareem,” you reassure, giving her another squeeze. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.
She tries again with a steadying inhale, “I-I saw him. A-a man. He had a device with him, and he set charges, and Maker I don’t know— I don’t know— it went off a-and he ran towards the center of town!” The Balosar is in hysterics, tears spilling down her dirty cheeks, and it takes your brain a moment to catch up, to wrap your mind around the words she’s stuttering out. 
A man. 
Device. 
Charges.
A bomb. This wasn’t an accident; this was an attack—and he’s still kriffing here. You cup her cheeks, thumbs rubbing against the pale skin, smearing away the blood that’s nearly dripped to her chin. Your friend’s gaze is flighty, everywhere and nowhere, and you try giving her a smile, but you’re not quite sure you manage it.
“Hareem? Hareem. Hey, shh, you’re okay. You’re alright…” You peel your eyes off her to glance around hurriedly. “We need to find cover.”
///
You’re holed up in one of the few remaining homes on this side of the encampment, crowded into the small space with three other survivors. All four of you, packed in and silent and petrified. Unsure of any further threat, you stay completely still. Helpless. Laying here, idle, for whatever awaits you behind that feeble, wooden door. You feel like prey for the wicked, just passing the time.
Minutes inch along like this—or maybe its hours; time moves eerily different when you’re attempting to become invisible—and eventually, you almost begin to relax.
Almost.
But a new sound breaks the din, hard to recognize at first, indistinct from all the commotion outside their hut, but you hear it. You all do. The youngest of you, a teenaged Devaronian, grips onto the hem of your shirt, knuckles creasing with anticipation. You tense, spine going rigid. Footsteps. They’re slow, guarded, but they’re getting closer. You bring an arm up, for all the good it’ll do, creating a human shield in front of the boy at your side. Closer. Someone behind you muffles a whimper. Closer. A Bardottan you hadn’t even met until today let’s out the faint whisper of a prayer, lips barely ghosting over the phrases. Closer- 
and then, nothing.
They’re here. You can sense him, see his shadow sweep across the gaps in the entryway. You all hold your breath, as if the air is being syphoned out of the space… And the door is flung open, nearly breaking off it’s hinges as it slams into the inside of the house, shuttering the rickety walls with a jarring bang. 
You don’t know who looks more astonished: you four, or the Mandalorian before you, dripping head to toe in silver plated armor, pointing a blaster directly at your head.
“Where is he?” He asks, hard edged and modulated, and it’s more of a demand than a question—but he lowers his weapon all the same, holstering it at his side. You gape at him, guppying wordlessly. “Volcur X��elo. The bomber. Where?” He hasn’t moved an inch out of the doorframe but he’s still managing to loom over you, completely filling up the archway, shoulders set and impossibly intimidating.
You gulp, finally finding your voice. “In town, i-in the center of town…” Kriff, you had not idea if that intel was good or not, but it’s all you think to say. Seeming satisfied with your answer he turns on his booted heel, cape whipping behind him, leaving just as soon as he arrived. The dust barely has time to settle as the door teeter’s on its hinge, its rusty squeaks filling the void in the Mandalorian’s wake.
“Fuck,” you hiss, exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, doubling forward, propping your palms up on your knees.
///
After deliberating it with your group, you all come to the agreement of braving it outside. Better to be out under the open sky than die under a concaving apartment, clambering over each other to get to the exit. After all this, at least your dignity was still partially in tact— normally, you reckon you’d chuckle dryly at that. But you don’t. 
Can’t. 
You lead the pack through the mazelike streets. The sights that once seemed so familiar after weeks of living here become like strangers to you, and you sleepwalk through Jortho, snaking down paths marred by rubble and fallen wreckage— you haven’t seen any bodies, but maybe that isn’t true. Maybe you’re just too scared to notice them. Maybe they’re there, hovering just outside of your peripherals, haunting the corners of your vision… 
You keep your head fixed forward, jaw clenched.
Your feet move on their own like this, only vaguely aware that the red-skinned boy still hadn’t let go of your tunic. You forge on. Have to. You have to. Your only purpose on this kriffing planet was to help these people, to bring them aid, and if that means simply planting one foot in front of the other, then so be it. You take side alleys, double backing here and there, ducking under canopies, looping around yourself, only stopping when you catch a glimpse of beskar, the orange setting sun glinting off the surface of his helmet.
And he’s not alone.
You freeze suddenly, as do the rest, and the Devaronian bumps into you, stumbling under his lanky legs. Some paces in front of you, the bounty hunter has the other man, this Volcur X’elo, by a punishing grip on his shoulders, shoving him forcefully out in front of him; his wrists are bound and he’s fitful without the stabilization of his arms, his feet staccatoed and flailing wildly beneath him as the Mandalorian marches him forward. 
The wind shifts, and on it you can hear the bomber rant madly, only catching snippets of the vile nonsense that spews from him.“- like swine, they are a plague to the system! And they must be purged from this planet, and the next, and the next— every last filthy one!” You spare a glance to Hareem, to find her watching the scene in hypnotized horror, but your eyes snap back at the sound of something maniacal, drawing your attention. It’s laughter. The zealot begins to laugh a twisted, mocking cry that makes you want to vomit. “You might have me in binders Mandalorian, but you’re too late. You’re too late. This isn’t over!” He’s practically giggling, gleeful and demented. Disturbed. “You’ve only found one.”
Your blood runs cold. 
Only one? Oneoneoneone, one what-
The realization hits you with a punch to your gut. He’s only detonated one of his bombs. Somewhere, nearby, there must be another.
Without another word, the Mandalorian whips the smaller man around, pulling him sharply by his collar to collide with his breastplate, completely dwarfing him with his beskar frame. “Where is it, X’elo?” Nothing. Only laughter. High pitched, terrible roars. He tries again, patience ebbing. “The bomb. Now.” X’elo’s head tilts back and he howls another crowing shriek, keeping private his own sick joke, as if clutching a secret to his chest with slimy hands. 
The bounty hunter had heard enough. He clearly wasn’t getting anything more out of him, and with a quick strike, he rears his blaster and pistol whips the terrorist with it. The body drops. Volcur X’elo crumples, unconscious, blood streaming from where he was struck. You hear the Bardottan behind you stifle a cry with her fist. 
And with that, Lothal’s sun disappears completely, stealing away the last of it’s light as it furls into itself, shrinking out of sight. The dark ushers a new wave of dread, creeping over Jortho like a miasma, poisoning the very air.
The Mandalorian wheels around, searching for his heading in the labyrinth of the town. Others have gathered now, poking their heads around corners, stealing glimpses through windows. He turns, his head on a swivel. “Where is your power generator?” he demands, addressing the small crowd, but you’re all too stunned to speak. “Anybody. Generator. Now.” There’s something new in his voice, something muddled, and it takes you a moment to interpret it. It’s desperation, you realize, tinny and deep through his vocoder, and with a surge of adrenaline you move forward, furthering yourself from your group. You swallow. “I-Its this way.” Upon hearing your voice, he spins around, his visor latching on to you, and with a nod you both set out. 
“Watch him,” the Mandalorian growls past his shoulder, stepping over the bounty’s limp body.
///
You’re still not really sure how he knew where it’d be, you wonder to yourself, gravel crunching under foot as you both trudge on, an eery quiet settling over them. You’d say it was a lucky hunch, but judging by the way the Mandalorian carries himself, you doubt luck had much to do with it. 
You had led him to the power generator hub on the other side of the sad excuse for a city, traveling in tense silence, and when you came upon that tall, bulky machine he sprang into action, circling it until he found what he was looking for. The bomb. You stood back, rooted there, and after some grunting and rewiring— or maybe he just hacked at it with a vibroblade, you had no idea; his wide frame engulfed his work and you couldn’t tell what he was up to, all you knew was that his methods proved successful— the man managed to disarm the second device. You had thought you noticed his shoulders release, slumping with relief, after the red flashing lights on the rudimentary interface flickered and then went dark.
And so here you are. The two of you, bathed in the bright light of Lothal’s twin moons, their bellies hanging full in the blue-black night, illuminating the trail of blood staining the dirt beneath your boots as the Mandalorian roughly drags the body by his ankle behind him— through the exploded rubble, through the fragmented lives of the people around you, already displaced and estranged. They’ll all have to move, you think, pack up their lives, or what little is left of them, and relocate. Again. The thought sinks in you like a stone, sobering you. 
Even with the weight of a fully grown man to lug, the bounty hunter is still a few long strides in front of you and your eyes are trained on the unconscious form, taking in the way his mouth lolls open like an animal, his hair matted with thick blood, eyes rolled back into his head. You’re talking out loud before you even realize it.
“How sick do you have to be,” you mumble, transfixed. Your voice, it’s not angry; no, shock has effectively robbed you of that— it’s not anger, but bewilderment. Quivering, broken bewilderment.
“H-How hoodwinked and warped you’d have to be, how disturbed... For you to think like that. To do all... all this...” 
“Hey,” his gruff voice shakes you from your trance, and you blink up at him, tearing your eyes off the body. “Focus,” he urges, and you can only nod dumbly back at him, suddenly feeling a ripple of nausea slither through you.
The ramp to his ship is lowering as they come upon it and you plant yourself at the base, feet seeming to stop on their own accord, and frankly you’re not really sure why you’ve even followed him this far in the first place— always a step behind him as he hauled his bounty all the way through the vestiges of Jortho, across the arid prairie to where he first touched down. Maybe it’s because you feel untethered, unmoored, and all of his steeled surety is like a lighthouse, a beacon, guiding you away from the rocks. 
He heaves X’elo up the ramp and you’re left standing there, staring unseeingly into the durasteel, becoming more and more aware of the ringing in your ears. The longer time passes, the more it’s as if you’re underwater, the background blurring into the foreground, sound gargled and far away. A high pitched buzz pinches your ear drums, and it takes you a moment to realize the Mandalorian is calling out to you, trying to get your attention.
“— Dala.”
Does he sound annoyed? Kriff, you think he might... If you had your wits about you, you might be able to recognize it. But as it stands, you don’t. You’re not here, not all of you. You’re splintered. Suspended.
“Hmm? Sorry, what..?” Your mouth is as dry as Jakku— parched desert tongue darting across your cracked lip, tasting soot and ash and something metallic. Brow furrowed, you touch a shaky finger to the flesh and when you pull it back, crimson red dots your skin. 
Oh, you think, numb. Huh. 
Your eyes skitter back up to the Mandalorian, towering over you, nearly at the apex of the incline, and his stance is broad and his fists are clenched. You’re almost positive he’s glaring down at you through his visor, and you don’t even know the man, can’t even see his damn face, but you can tell he’s peeved— Maker, just how long had you been ignoring him?
A scratched noise comes through his helmet’s vocoder and his next words are clipped, punctuated. “I said, do you have a way off this skug hole?”
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ficsnroses · 4 years ago
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Touch - John Wick x Reader
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summary : you wake John up with a morning handjob.
warnings : handjob, implied oral sex. x f! reader. fluffy fluff fluff! 2k.
notes : hi loves! this is another fic I never posted because I thought it was a little too similar to another fic I’d wrote. Im posting it now, months later since I don’t have any new content for you atm! feedback is so appreciated. hope you enjoy! xx 
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In the dewy AM light, your heavy eyes soak open morning glow, a throbbing ache to your temple pitches just as the rays protrude your darkened eyelids. In the wake of the moment, you’d hardly noticed the dip of the mattress beside you, a heavier weight positioned, a tangle of legs and heft of your love’s bulky arm loosely held across your waist.
John holds you so close, so proximate, the gentle brush of his calm, relaxed breathes paints to the soft curve of your neck. The quietude is special, his snooze pacifies, calms something inside you that raced the night prior.
Retiring, falling asleep to a bed empty of his body beside you would never prove easy. The grim thoughts never surrender, the cold, stoic hollowness that comes with him being away far too long had never quite become less crushing.
He’d often come in this way; late in the midnight AM, quieter than a whisper as he’d return in your arms. Perhaps you remember feeling him draw your skin closer, unbeknownst to the surrender of snooze that clouded around you, encapsulated you upon his late night return. In the sea of surrounding blankets and feathery pillows, your lips curl to a gentle smile, a ring of a content hum falling dripped, honey doused off your warm smile his way.
Mornings like this; waking up, with him safe beside you, were quite literally,
incomparable.
His body moulds to yours, body heat collective, nesting together in utter, quiet, harmony. John, this way, was a beauty to be seen. In moments like this, where sleep comes, kisses him, engulfs; wraps him in a serene reduction; you feel most at ease.
Knowing he’s at ease, he’s content, he’s whisked away in nothing but surrender to the part of him that will always stay human. The part of him that rests, reminds him that he is still human, despite the sins that refuse to let him go.
With his warm skin stippled to yours, you feel yourself drift further into his embrace, a content, drowsy smile of your own curling to the gentle twist of your blush stained lips. Although his heavy chest heaves in small, gentle exhales, he seems in ease. He seems calm, a flutter behind his sleep soaked eyelids sure of a visit in dreamland.
You inch in closer, slow, and he stirs slight to the feel of your gentle lips tracing over his skin. Softly, you pepper a love laced peck to his jaw, face nuzzling into his neck; John’s eyes blissfully unaware to the sunlit dew that surrounds him. Habitually, his arms tighten around you, a content, oblivious sigh echoed off his lip. Relishing, your lips nip at the skin of his neck, half slumber absorbed movements laced with nothing, but pure affection as you bundle close to your love. His skin exudes the familiar scent of long forgotten cologne, and something so uniquely, exclusively John.
A scent that reminds you he’s here, along side you, where he’d always belong.
Without mere thought, your hands position to his chest, soothing small, rubbing comforting circles to the broad of his bare chest; John preferred to sleep with his shirt off.
Not that you’d lament; the heavy tattoos that litter his back are gorgeous, yet John often shies away from showing you their portrayal. On particularly good nights, sometimes, John will let you trace the delicate ink, allow you to fully absorb each dip, each sharp curve of the once penned art that paints to his back.
John’s back, in all its glory, all its beauty, is a story untold. The intrigue, the beauty, the basic seams that compose of this man you’d received the delight of calling all yours, is nothing less of a miracle.
John Wick is a miracle; his back carries a story,
       that the spine of a book could never hold. His story lives within him, claws, cuts away at him.
He’s a miracle, to be what he is,
       coming from where he does.
Apart from the rare look into the symphony that tells tale to his skin, often, John enjoys his skin so close to yours, shielded by no barrier. On particularly rough nights, or evenings where John needs nothing but you to melt the dread of the day behind, he finds asylum in your skin.
Skin to skin with John is one of your favourite ways to unwind; to forget. You’ll shelter in his arms, both your bodies bare, exposed, relishing within each other.
You don’t need sex in moments like that.
You solely need him,
And he only needs you.
All the curves of your frail body relax into the strength of his.
As your lips continue, drenching into his bruised skin; you sigh, airy and light. You sigh, marking his body with the nectar that flows off your lips, only for him.
A gentle mark to his neck, a softer one just below.
A softer kiss to his jaw, a softer, lighter one to his chest. Slow and steady, you delight in his body, pulling the callous of his form closer, nearer, sighing when he stirs so slight, the content smack of his lips assuring a relaxation he so desperately deserved. Slow; as flowers fall from your lips onto his skin, your gentle hands move composed, leisurely, smoothly down his chest, brushed delicately across the firm of his torso, the structure; the art of his abs,
Your fingers draw gentle circles and mindless shapes, playing his skin in a beautiful melody; John’s touch dances on your fingertips, his skin a song you’d memorized a lifetime ago;
           Slowly, the soft pads of your hold brush over his clothed manhood, full, thrived, glorious in his cotton boxers. His shaft is firm against your wrist, the heaviness of his entirety thick against your fingers. With a cheeky smile, and warm grin his way, your face buries under the dip of his neck, just under the abrasive stubble of his chin, your lips peppering sincere, love baked kisses to his drowsy figure, two fingers of your inquisitive hand dipping into the waistband of the fabric that holds his cock, full.
John’s cock is one of your absolute favourite treats.
His girth,
His heaviness,
His weight, his taste, that throbbed vein that runs like a lightening bolt up his overwhelming length, the rich shade of pink his tip becomes when erect for you; John’s cock is a luxury in its own right.
Gently, your fingers intrude into his boxers, skin brushed past the full bush of dark hair that surrounds his member. John keeps himself tame, groomed to a tolerable trim down under just for you. Before you, John didn’t care much. Now, however, he prefers to keep himself presentable, just for you.
As the soft pads of your lotion silken fingers greet his bulge in a tender brush, shockwaves pierce inside you, the sheer feel of his cock wrapped in your hand causes a tender ache between your legs.
Butterflies float inside,
Nerves twist inside your core, the familiar bite of anticipation, of need.
Your body sears for him, pleads for him to wake up and make love to you. Yearns for his cock to make home within you, thoughts hazed in a crisp desire for him to fuck you the way he so expertly does.
Yet; you hold. You tenderly, warmly, delicately begin to stroke his shaft, making sure to swirl his tip with your thumb, feeling the thin skin of his member melt through your grip.
John deserves to feel good, deserves to feel love kiss him, graze him in the most tender of ways. John deserves for relief to wash over him; to kiss any worries that clog his weary mind away.
Stroking firmer, harder, faster, his arousal jerks in your satin grip, in a ballet fumed through your affectionate pry, lovebites and wet kisses still mottling to his collarbone. John’s cock throbs, aches, pulses in your hand, his sleeping frame slowly, barely waking in the midst of your morning favour.
Gently, you massage his heavy balls, tenderly stroking them, paying well attention to each inch, each curve, each dip of his magnificent manhood. John stirs, eyes fluttering awake through a quiet moan dripping off his tongue; eyes still shut as soft, gentle groans coil in his throat, and his palms find the small of your back, holding on dearly. The warmness of your kisses on his jaw welcome him awake; each inch of him envelopes in love, in a sea of all feelings good; all feelings free.
Velvet and rich, his moans melt in your ears, the sound of his tender baritone quietly, softly whimpering for you a song you’d memorize till’ the end of time. You continue, stroking his cock, faster, and faster, and faster, twisting, pumping, slicking the smear of dewy pre cum slipping out his head.
“Fu…fuck…” John moans, heavy palms finding your waist as they hold your hips tight, fingers sinking into the soft flesh. “Fuck, sweetheart, it feels…” The words die in his throat, cut through a louder, gravellier groan, a groan that moistens the insides of your glossy arousal building for him.
“Feel good, baby?” You wonder, painting yet another delicate, mauve bruise into the skin of his chest.
“So good, don’t stop.” He requests, through broken breathes and weary gasps. “I’m gonna cum,” John warns, his own hand trickling into his boxers to massage his balls simultaneously, while you work wonders to his swollen shaft. With a few more particularly tight, sloppy pumps, John’s hold on you tightens, sweet, dripping praises of your name fleeing his lips as his cock burst, spurts of creamy, warm release coating the grip of your palm.
He feels silky, wet and sticky in your touch, and you grin a warm kiss his way, watching the beauty of his dark features relish in aftershocks, riding the waves of delicious release as you softly, slowly pump him limp. Pulling your body closer, John’s snuggles further into your hold, sighing against your skin; his cock still bundled in your tender grip. “Good morning, handsome.” You giggle, feel of his laboured breaths hot against your skin, as he peppers a soft kiss to your breast. Smoothing over your hips, his deep baritone sighs a fond exhale, heavy hands smoothing over your peachy ass.
“Good morning it is,” He smiles into the valley of your breasts, his hands trailing suggestively into the hem of your shirt. Kissing, peppering affection to the swell of your chest, John chuckles, his own palm moving to brush over your drenched, needy pussy.
“Darling,” He whispers, larger frame shifting to hover over you, grinning with his mouth travelling to the silky dip of your neck, where his tongue dances over soft flesh. “You have to let me return the favour.” Quietly, his tone sends vibrant want spark inside, breath hitching to the way his study fingers rub against your bare slit, lapping, smearing the sap that drips just for him.
“When,” He whispers into your skin, praising, returning stolen kisses. “Did I,” a gentler kiss to your collarbone, as he trails lower, peeling off whatever fabric shields the haven of your body from his wanting gaze. “Get so, lucky?”
           And to the sound of your soft giggle, his eyes lock with yours as his face positions just above your hips, bulky fingers stripping your pajama bottoms down. His lips work tender kisses to the insides of your thighs, loving hands grazing over the soft skin as he whispers, taking hold of your hand, ready to return the morning affection.
           “You’ll be the death of me, Mrs. Wick.”
➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴
My taglist will be posted in reblogs, let me know if you want to be added or removed! :)
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frangipanidownunder · 5 years ago
Text
Christmas Unwrapping: fic
Set after season 11, no baby. Fluff turns to smut. Started at the Tropefest workshop.
The boxes are in the attic, stacked in dusty piles. She pulls them down, one by one and by the time Mulder comes home with the tree, she’s unravelled the lights and tested them, found the star, and thrown out the broken candy canes. She’s certain she threw them out years before, but a memory filters through her mind.
Mulder digging through the garbage, retrieving the canes with a look of triumph on his face akin to his I’ve-seen-a-UFO-so-there expression, and challenging her on the ethics of throwing away plastic-wrapped sugar decorations.
              “They’re out of date, Mulder,” she had said.
              “But we’re not going to eat them, Scully. We just hang them. Why do we care about use-by dates on decorations? Will you be throwing out this bauble that looks like Skinner’s head after a few rounds in the ring, just because it says Christmas 1998?” He held it up to the light, twisting it this way and that. “Wasn’t that the year we went ghost-hunting? And by the way, that book you gave me, on the Taniwha, is one of my favourite reads, to this day.”
              ��The umbrella you gave me, with the four-leafed-clovers around the edge, broke in the first windstorm of the new year. So much for good luck omens.”
              He’d chuckled then pulled an appropriately sad face. She didn’t tell him she’d kept the umbrella anyway, along with that blue hiking coat.
Now, he’s already filled the bucket with soil and she watches him plant the tree, pushing the earth with his fingers so that it compacts around the trunk. The tree is good, she thinks, assessing it. Symmetrical and solid, good colour, a silvery green with sturdy limbs. It reminds her of him in a way. Physically they’re both tall, strong (and his hair spikes at all angles when he’s fresh from the shower) but in an abstract way the tree represents him in her memories - all those trips around winding forest roads, his ever hopeful reaching out to the heavens, whether he’s being burnt in the sun or thrashed with rain, the way he clings to the search for the truth just as the trees cling to the earth they’re buried in, never moving an inch. Mighty resilience or sheer bloody-mindedness, she’s never quite worked out which one applies.
              Taking the lights ready to start, she turns to see Mulder already hanging canes and candles and cones. “What are you doing?”
              “Helping?” Surprise makes his voice a little shrill and the decoration he’s trying to hang – the little angel with the crooked halo - slips over the needles and swings freely back and forth.
              “We start with the lights, Mulder.”
              “There’s an order?”
              “There is and this is.” She unhooks his decorations and hands them back to him. “Lights first.”
              He salutes. Then proceeds to watch her as she winds the strings higher and higher. She’s tiptoeing and her sweater has come loose and the cold is playing across her lower back and he’s all arms crossed and smug satisfaction waiting, just waiting, for her to ask him for help. But she’s nothing if not proud. Her tongue is digging at the corner of her mouth as she lassos the lights around the top of the tree. She steps back, relieved for a brief second, then watches them unravel like a loose stitch.
              “Need any help, Scully?”
              “Nope,” she says, through clenched teeth, and tries again, stretching up as high as she can. Why did she kick off her boots at the door?
              The end of the wire hooks around the top point of the tree but as she begins to wind them around, it slides down and before long she’s covered in fairy lights.
              He shimmies over to her, smugly, takes the end of the wire in his hand, dangles it in front of her. “If I plug this in, Scully, maybe you could just stand there and I’ll hang the baubles from your limbs and...” His eyebrows dance suggestively as he looks down at her chest. His toes are pressed against hers and she can see his chest rising and falling, as he flirts with her and her patience. “Now, I’ll ask you again, do you need any help?”
              Winding the wire around his hands, he loops it over her shoulders and pulls her even closer. He kisses the end of her nose, then her cheek, the spot in front of her ear that makes her nipples tighten, before sweeping his mouth along the line of her jaw. “Mizz Scull-tree, am I turning you on yet?”
She lets out the giggle and shakes her face free from his. “My lights are not twinkling, O Wise Man. You might have to try again.”
The bulbs chink on the floor as he lets them fall. He sweeps her up, hands cradled under her ass, and she hooks her feet around his waist. They stumble to the nearest wall where he counterbalances her weight against his, planting his feet apart and using his hips to prop her thighs. The sharp edge of his belt digs into her belly and she slides her hands down to remove it. Next, she tugs his Henley free and lets her fingers wander over the soft hair below his navel, before unzipping his fly and listening to the rumple of denim against the floor.
“Unwrapping presents before the big day itself is a tradition in some European countries.” His voice rasps against her neck as she rubs herself against him. He hardens and the friction they’re creating is enough to power the whole house.
She sighs as he unbuttons her pants and shifts himself against her centre with renewed vigour. The uneven brickwork scrapes across the knots of her spine and if she weren’t so aroused, she’d ask to move. But at their age, with their history, fucking against the wall is a Christmas memory begging to be made, so bruises be damned, she’s going to roll with it. One hand pushes up the front of her sweater affording him access to her lace-covered breasts. The cool air leaves her skin stippled. Or maybe it’s the way he’s nuzzling the point of her collarbone.
“Are you saying…mmm…we’re…each other’s…uh… presents?” She can barely form a sentence.
“Well,” he huffs, hooking his fingers under the sides of her briefs and slipping them down her hips, “you are the only gift I’ll ever want.” The cotton of his boxers sticks to her wetness and he groans into the side of her face. “Please, Scully, rip the damned wrapping off.”
She yanks the elastic waistband down hard. They snap against his ass and he chokes out a laugh-yelp, but his cock springs free and he slides in without further introduction.
“This. Is. What. Heaven. Must. Be. Like.”
With each word he thrusts and her naked backside scrapes against the wall, abrading her skin with delicious, stinging heat. Sparks fill her eyes, diamond flecks of passion lighting the room. His legs tremble but he remains firmly planted inside her and she tilts her pelvis forward, with a rough sigh.
The slight change of angle sends heat flaming in her belly and she feels her toes quiver in anticipation of her climax. Pleasure edges up and down her body, until it builds to an unbearable level, exploding in cascades that ripple through her. A long, sensual moan escapes her lips and the point of Mulder’s Adam’s apple bumps against her jaw. He shifts his hands, fingernails digging into her flesh, pumps harder, faster until his breathing catches, small groans punctuate his movements and he shudders into her. Shoulders softening, his chin falls against the crook of her neck, his hot breath comes in short spurts and his fingers unlock one by one underneath her.
Gently, he lowers her to the floor and she supports his weight as he recovers.
“That was unexpected,” she says. The small of her back is throbbing and there are bruises forming on her ass cheeks.
“Christmas is supposed to be about surprises, Scully.”
“Even after all this time, we can still take each other…”
He cuts her off, leaning in and kissing her softly. “Yes, we can.”
Tutting playfully, she bops his nose with her bunched-up panties. “I was going to say ‘unawares’. And I need to clean up.” She dashes to the bathroom.
“There’s nothing unawares about you, Mizz Scull-tree,” he calls after her.
 When she returns, he’s strung the lights and they twinkle as he starts to hang baubles. His reflection in her favourite one – a bright silver ball with a frosted top – shows a contented, relaxed man. No more darkness.
              “Am I doing this right?” There’s a smirk on his lips but something about his eyes is seeking her approval.
              She takes a sprig of gold holly and places it next to the silver bauble. “You’re always doing it right, Mulder.”
              Together, they take the star and Mulder guides their hands upwards. She tiptoes, but can’t keep up with the trajectory. He chuckles lightly, slips his free arm around her waist and lifts her up so that she’s leaning on his hip. The star sits on the top point and he lets her slip down, still holding on to her.
They stand together like that for the longest time, watching the fairy lights glow and fade, before they turn to face each other, in perfect synchronicity, and kiss.
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takingcourage · 5 years ago
Text
Spilling Guts
Pairing: Thomas x MC
Word Count: 3,500
Summary: Allison invites Thomas and Luz to take part in an autumn tradition with Kira. 
Note: Apologies for the awful title. I blame Luz. 
Also, this may read as a little bit AU since it was written prior to today’s chapter. I hope you enjoy! 😊
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The worst part about fifth-floor apartment life was the climb. On most days, the stairs left Allison mildly winded. During grocery hauls, even the luxury of the elevator didn’t make up for the extended time required to carry bags of canned goods or gallons of milk. 
It was much, much worse when her cargo happened to be four giant pumpkins. 
Lumbering out of the tiny elevator, Allison balanced a pumpkin on each hip. Their weight seemed even heavier with the sight of the hallway still looming ahead. Holding back her grimace, she readjusted her hold and walked purposefully toward their apartment. 
She couldn’t say for sure what had compelled her to purchase so many pumpkins. In years past, she and Kira had been content with just a pair. Maybe it was because the grocery store had marked them down to two for the price of one. Maybe it was because there had been three that were too perfect to choose between. 
Or maybe, she contemplated, kicking their front door open the rest of the way. Maybe you had ulterior motives. 
“Did you ask them yet?”
Kira’s question came before she’d even passed over the threshold. Casting an inquiring look at her daughter, Allison continued toward the kitchen table. She deposited the pumpkins with their fellows, then shook out her arms out to release the tension. With a showy sigh, she turned to face her daughter. 
“While I was carrying pumpkins? I may be an incredible multitasker, but even I am not that talented.” 
Kira considered her over the canned vegetables she was arranging on the bottom shelf of their little pantry. “You should do it now.” 
“Excuse me, kiddo! Since when do you tell me what I should do?”
The side of Kira’s lip quirked up with a smile. “Please?”
Even if Allison hadn’t planned to send the invitation, the look on her daughter’s face would have been enough to change her mind. “Well, I suppose,” she paused to brush the part of her child’s hair back into a straight line. “But only because you asked nicely.” 
That is such a lie, Allison admitted to herself as she fished the phone out of her back pocket. Angling to hide her smile, she started tapping out the requested message: 
Hey, Thomas. Are you and Luz free this afternoon? 
His response came seconds later: 
Our schedule is clear. 🙂 What did you have in mind? 
Some good old-fashioned pumpkin carving. We hit the jackpot buying groceries today.  
Luz will be thrilled. What time? 
As soon as you’re free. Kira’s pretty eager to get started. 
We’ll be there within the hour. 
I’ll put some cider on. 
I’ll bring some rum?
Perfect. 👍
“They’re coming?” 
“They are,” Allison responded, slipping the phone back into her jeans. 
Having finished with the groceries, Kira was seated at the table with a dark orange marker in hand. Her eyes narrowed to a squint as she placed a meticulous trio of dots on the thick, ribbed skin of her chosen pumpkin. 
“I thought those markers were for homework, not pumpkin art.” 
Kira’s gaze remained on the fruit before her, though she eventually offered a response. “I’ve got to get the pattern right before I start making the holes. If I don’t, I might mess it up!”
“Speaking of,” Allison began, leaning down to retrieve a saucepan from the oven drawer. “You should probably go over to Levi’s before Thomas and Kira get here.” 
“Oh yeah!” Despite her initial fervor, the rest of Kira’s response was more subdued.“I’ll go in just a minute. I want to finish this asterism first.” 
Shaking her head, Allison turned back to the stove. 
By the time Kira darted into the hallway, she’d brought the cider to a low simmer. It was just the store-bought stuff, but Allison had a perfect track record of turning even that into something spectacular. Eyeing the mixture, she popped up the lid and tossed in another length of orange peel. Her nose wrinkled pleasantly at the steamy array of spice that drifted into her nostrils. 
At least some part of their home felt festive. Almost imperceptibly, her thoughts shifted to the memories of the tiny apartment they had left months before. 
In the years they’d lived there, the two of them had compensated for the lack of trees outside their window by taking frequent trips to the park at the end of the street. Every October, Kira would scour the ground for perfect leaves and the two of them would spend an entire afternoon stringing them up with a skein of yarn. Their results were haphazard, but Alison felt a pang of longing for the simplicity of those hours. 
Briefly, she’d entertained the idea of continuing that tradition in their new home. More than ever before, she needed quality time with Kira. But she also knew how tacky it would look to the outside world. Nostalgia or no, she didn’t think her ex would find the practice very charming, and she sure wasn’t going to give him anything to use against her. 
In Goldcliffe, pumpkins would have to do. 
A knock on the door startled her before her musings could become too somber. 
Kira stood in the opening, balancing a heavy toolbag between both hands. 
“He gave you the whole thing?” Allison confirmed with surprise. 
“Yep.” Kira sauntered in, dropping the full bag next to the seat she’d been occupying at the table.  
“Even after you told him what you were planning to use the screwdrivers for?”
“Yeah. He wants to see the pumpkin when I’m done with it though.” She sat down nonchalantly and resumed her stippling. “And he said they’ve been through worse.” 
“Did you ask him what kind of seeds he wants?”
“He wants it to be a surprise.”
“Can do.” 
A rap at the door attracted their attention. Pumpkin momentarily forgotten, Kira leapt through the kitchen and toward the peep hole to get a glimpse of their visitors. Shaking her head, Allison lingered back and checked to see that the cider was still gently bubbling. 
Luz entered first, her energy radiating throughout the room like an electric charge. “Hi, Kira! Hey, Kira’s mom. Do you have knives to carve the pumpkins with? I asked dad if we could bring some, but he didn’t know where ours were cuz it’s been a long time since we --”
Thomas stepped into view, smiling through the lines of weariness etched into his brow. “I couldn’t find them anywhere in our kitchen.”
“I said he should bring our knife block from home,” Luz announced. “But he said you’d probably have some.” 
"We’ve got it covered,” Allison assured, tiptoeing forward to close the door.  When she turned back toward the kitchen, Thomas had taken her place in front of the stove. The promised bottle of rum was sitting behind him on the counter. Feeling that the kitchen was suddenly very crowded, she slipped her fingers into her back pocket. 
“I told her you would.” Thomas sidestepped, casting a look in the girl’s direction before his attention fell to Allison. “Hello, by the way.” Still standing before her, his arms opened to invite the embrace that she’d been hoping for. “Sorry for barging in like that.” 
Held against the warmth and security of his chest, she found it very difficult to complain about anything, least of all the nature of their arrival. She removed the hand from her pocket and pulled it tight around his waist. “No need to apologize. I’m glad you’re here.” 
For the first time all week, the gnawing in her stomach receded. As she listened to the sturdy tempo of his heart, she could almost feel her own pulse return to normal.  
“You’ll make it through this, Allison,” he promised, squeezing her shoulders just a bit tighter. 
She melted against him, sighing into the wool of his sweater. The fibers tickled her skin as she pressed her face to his chest. You’ll make it. His words lodged in her mind, echoing back the phrase she’d been telling herself ever since Guy had reentered their lives. 
“I know.” 
The answer was as much for his benefit as her own. With a final exhale, she lowered her arms and released the hug. His warmth faded as he stepped back, but all she noticed was a sudden burst of pain. 
“Ah!” she gasped, reaching for the offended hair to soothe the tension. Thomas’s fingers were already there, working gently to remove the strand from the zipper of his pullover. 
“I’m so sorry! I didn’t think...I should have -- is your head okay?”
Self-consciously, she tugged down the hand that she’d been using to rub the sting from her scalp. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”
“Soledad’s hair was always...I’m not used to...” He trailed off, cheeks turning pink with embarrassment.
Allison checked to see that the girls were out of earshot. “If you’d like to get used to it, I’d be happy to help you practice.”  
The shy smile that accompanied his blush was quickly becoming one of her favorite sights. Shifting back onto his heels, Thomas narrowed his silver-grey eyes in consideration. “I think I’d like that.” 
“Then I’ll have a clause added to that agreement we’ve been talking about,” she joked, combing her fingers through her hair to ensure that everything had been set right. “Shall we see what mischief our daughters are getting up to?”
Thomas cast a wary glance into the living room, but his brow eased on seeing the two girls at the window. 
“We’ve been watching a nest in the tree beneath our building,”  Allison explained as they walked. “Kira noticed it as soon as the leaves started falling. I think it’s a little late in the year to see anything, but she’s been keeping an eye on it.” 
Noticing their movements, the girls sprang back from the windowsill. “Pumpkin time?”
“As soon as you’re ready.”
“I’m almost finished marking mine,” Kira informed as she gestured Luz toward their selection.
“Wow...” the other girl began, eyes widening at the array. “I want the warty one!”
“Luz,” Thomas reprimanded softly.
Allison’s grin widened as she exchanged a glance with her daughter. “We thought you might.”
“I picked it especially for you!” Kira remarked helpfully. 
“And the other two?” 
She felt her cheeks color at Thomas’s question. “I didn’t know if we’d want to do our own or not. The girls can always carve seconds if we don’t.”
“Dad, carve a cyclops! And a cat to go with my super-creepy witch monster. And some bats. Spiders too.” Luz plopped into the chair closest to the warty pumpkin and grabbed it by the stem for a rotating inspection. 
“A cyclops-spider-cat-bat? That’s a pretty tall order, Lulu.”
“Fine. Just a bat and spiders then.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he promised, taking the seat beside her. “We should probably make a plan before we start cutting.” With a glance to the other end of the table, Thomas reached over to pocket the pair of small, dull knives. 
Kira looked up from her dotting. “It’s easier if you draw it first. Here! Take a marker.” 
Reluctantly, Luz accepted the pack of writing implements. “I’m gonna draw the ugliest face I can think of.” 
Eyes rolling skyward, Allison predicted the girls’ thoughts the moment before the pair of them collapsed into giggles. 
“Draw August!” The words were hardly recognizable through Kira’s laughter. With a quick look toward her mother, she realized that their conversation had been overheard. 
Allison only raised a brow in reprimand. “Does anyone want cider?” she asked as their laughter subsided. “I need to go preheat the oven anyway.”
“I’d love some. But I can come with you,” Thomas capped his marker and pushed back in his chair. 
“Where’d the knives go? I’m ready to start cutting.” 
Allison glanced at her daughter, then back at Thomas. An understanding passed between them, and he moved to Kira’s side. 
With a smile, she went to the cupboard. Allison filled two mugs with cider and a splash of rum, then punched the series of buttons required to turn on the oven. 
Mugs in hand, she was caught for a moment as she turned from the stove. Watching the three figures in front of her, she couldn’t help noticing how full -- how complete -- their table seemed in that moment. It had never felt empty before, yet the difference she sensed was alarming. Fingers tightening around the circumference of one mug, she allowed herself to mull over the scene before her. 
Luz was still in the process of drawing her hideous witch -- a witch that Allison could only hope bore no resemblance to August or any of his relations.
Having passed Kira a knife, Thomas remained beside the girl’s chair to hold the pumpkin steady. Giving her plenty of space, he stood ready to assist if she hit any snags in the cutting process. Allison watched as Kira completed the cut and pulled the top of the pumpkin away. Her chest inflated with pride at the accomplishment written over her daughter’s features. 
The girl passed the stem and knife to Thomas and eagerly studied the orange mass she’d uncovered. Luz looked with her, rising to her knees so that she could get a better view. 
“Pumpkin guts,” she drew out, poking a finger into the slimy contents of the fruit. 
“They feel gross,” Kira offered, pulling a face in disgust. 
“They feel awesome! Like alien brains.”
“I don’t like them. Mom always lets me scoop ‘em out with a big spoon.”
Eyes sparkling, Luz rose from her seat and crossed over to Kira’s pumpkin. “Want me to do it for you?”
“Sure.” Kira backed away, allowing Luz to take over. 
The girl approached the task with enthusiasm, pulling out the stringy mess with both hands. An orange glob missed the mixing bowl and fell onto the seat of the chair beneath her. 
Thomas reached for it without hesitation, flicking the substance back where it belonged. 
Venturing to the table, Allison held out his mug.
“Thanks. I’ll try to keep this mess off your floors.”
“Don’t worry about it. I can clean it up later.”
Luz tossed another handful into the bowl. “It looks like puke.”
Thomas furrowed his brow. “Luz...”
Allison's eyes widened as she sipped from the rim of her mug. The cider was perfect. Taking a seat, she began separating the pumpkin seeds from the slime. 
An hour later, all of the seeds had been carefully seasoned and arranged in single layers across her trio of baking sheets. The pumpkins themselves had been carved with various degrees of success. 
“Guess what this one is...” Kira prompted, tracing a finger along the series of holes she’d bored with Levi’s screwdrivers. 
“It’s not Orion.” Thomas played along good-naturedly, squinting as if focusing his vision would help him to decipher the constellation before him. 
“Nope!”
“And it’s not either of the dippers. Do you know what it is, Lulu?”
Luz gave a disinterested nod, tapping the single, pointed tooth her witch monster possessed. “It’s technically Cassiopeia. It’s just a big W though.”
From her place in the kitchen, Allison tried not to smirk at her daughter’s very loud sigh. 
“Do you know what each of the stars are called?” Thomas inquired, ignoring his daughter’s remark. 
Kira rattled the list with impressive speed. “But you can also just call them Epsilon Cassiopeiae, Delta Cassiopeiae, Gamma Cassiopeiae, Beta Cassi--”
Luz sprang up from her chair, pumpkins wobbling at the jerky movement against the table. “We should go check out that new coding thing you got. It would be more fun than naming stars.” At her father’s withering look, she added a quick, “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Kira beamed. “I’m just really happy with how my pumpkin turned out.” She took a final look at her masterpiece before the two girls scurried off down the hall. 
“Guy again?” Thomas asked knowingly. 
“He won’t stop buying her things.” With a sigh, Allison closed the oven door and motioned toward the couch. “We may as well sit where it’s comfortable.” 
Thomas followed her lead, settling down on the end to allow her plenty of space to sit beside him. With a rueful smile, she shifted closer. “On the one hand, she deserves a lot more than I can give her, but...”
“Not when it comes from him.” 
“No, and especially not now. She deserves better than a dad who’s only around when it’s to make himself look good. She...” At a loss for words, Allison’s couldn’t shake everything she’d seen that afternoon. It was getting pretty difficult to deny that the kind of father she wanted her daughter to have had an awful lot in common with the man sitting next to her. 
Absently, she fiddled with the case of her phone. Thomas laid a hand on her knee, and she met his gaze. 
“We’ll win this, Allison. He’s not going to take her away.” In the fading daylight, she could just make out the determined set of his jaw.
“He can’t. I’d disembowel him first.” 
“Like Luz did to those pumpkins?”
She gave a halfhearted laugh. “Exactly like that. Kira is my life.” 
“I’m sorry for bringing up the trial. I didn’t mean to spoil the mood.”
“You’re fine. It’s not like I ever stop thinking about it, really. But tonight has been the closest I’ve come in quite a while.”
Allison edged closer and Thomas extended an arm to wrap around her shoulder. She leaned into the crook of his body, face softening with contentment when she felt the faint prick of his stubble grazing her ear. 
For long minutes, they sat in silence. She wasn’t sure if he felt it too, but his presence was enough to lift her weary spirits. 
Finally, he stirred beside her. Allison squeezed his hand in response. “Yes?”
“Can I take you on a real date when all of this is behind us?” 
“Just one?” she challenged, tracing circles on his knee with a fingertip.
“I’d love for it to lead to more. But we should start with one.”
Smiling, she pulled back to see his face. “I’ll look forward to it. Or them. I--”
Beep, beep, beep, beep 
“You were saying?”
“I’d better check those seeds. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
She turned off the oven and withdrew the trays from each rack, setting them on the stovetop to cool. Tossing off the oven mitt, she hurried back to the couch. 
He emitted a low chuckle as she burrowed next to him again. 
Only once she’d returned to her earlier place did she speak. “I think I was going to say how grateful I am to have you with me. You’re one of the only things keeping me sane right now.” 
“First of all,” he prefaced, sliding his arm to a more comfortable position. “You’re not giving yourself enough credit. You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.” He paused for a moment, and she heard the intake of breath before he continued. “Second, I care about you a lot, Allison. More than I’ve cared about anyone in a long time. I can’t say anything more than--”
“Shh,” she chided, interlocking their fingers and pressing an insistent thumb to his palm. “I know. Thanks for being with me.”
“I’m here for as long as you want me.” Her heart skipped at the feeling of his lips on her temple. The kiss was gentle and unhurried, but it was enough to blur her vision with unshed tears. 
“That may be a dangerous offer to make.” 
“Moooooommmmm!”
Though their touch had been innocent, they sprang apart at the bellowing from down the hallway. Both girls tumbled into view. 
“Mom, we’re hungry. Can we eat soon?”
“You mean you want something more than pumpkin seeds for dinner?”
“Uh, probably,” Luz said with audible skepticism. 
“We’ll get out of your hair,” Thomas offered, rising to his feet. 
“Please don’t feel like you have to. You’re welcome to stay for dinner. I can’t promise anything gourmet, but we’d love to have you.” You did promise as long as I wanted you, she recalled, eyes drifting to Thomas. The nape of her neck prickled with the possible implications. 
Did he know how very long she was likely to want him? 
His thoughts seemed to travel a similar vein. “We’ll stay. Do you mind if I have some food delivered? It’s the least I can do.” At Allison’s nod, Thomas retrieved his phone. 
“Call that place with the bowls made out of bread! We can have cheesy soup.”
“I don’t think they deliver. We’ll have to go there another time. But we could do pizza?”
Allison fell back to the couch as the three began discussing toppings. Listening to their chatter, it was easy to convince herself that all could be right in her world again. 
Soon, the worries of life would all come rushing back. But for tonight, she would enjoy the peace for just a little bit longer. 
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Text
The Hunter Who Loved Me (Part 1)
Series Page
Characters/Pairing: Dean Winchester, Castiel, Jack Kline, Dean x OFC
Series Summary: Part Three of Some Sunny Day. Dean's trying to balance his new relationship with Julie and his need to hunt. How long can he keep it from her? And can Julie keep her curiosity at bay?
Section Word Count: 6300
Section Content: language, fluff, dirty talk, smut, Domestic!Dean, Slight Dom!Dean
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How did I get so lucky? That this was turning into just another day in her life with Dean Winchester made her shake her head. This has to be what it feels like to win the lottery.
Julie sprayed the top of the sliding glass door with a window cleaner. She took time to enjoy all the sexiness on the other side of the glass, the view of Dean in her backyard, while attending to her household chore. A few final touches and Dean would be done with the assembly. Crouched down and bent at the knees, Dean added some utensil hooks to the side of the grill. Unknowing, he was giving her all of that gorgeous, serious profile of his to study. Sunshine streaked through his hair and flamed the fiery orange-red tips incognito most of the time. She wiped away the cleaner slipping over her view. 
The grill had been an impromptu purchase on her end the weekend before. She and Dean had gone to, of all places, a home improvement store together. He had noticed a couple things around her house that needed fixing. But he wanted to run the ideas past her and some options before he went ahead and did anything. It was very domestic and thoughtful of him. It brought a huge grin to her face. 
He’d snuck a peck on her cheek when they were alone in the garden and patio center, talking about the drop in price of some seasonal stuff. His eyes lit up at a behemoth gas grill. He whistled and spouted off the stats: three burners, one on the side, plus a sear station burner to boot. The sucker could deliver 60,000 BTUs, which according to Dean, was awesome. Those meaty, handy fingers of his glided over the stainless steel top. Julie heated up.
It was decided that since Julie was throwing Brigida a surprise birthday party that following weekend and the October weather was pleasant enough, why not buy a grill and make it an outdoor affair. Most of the guests would end up outside anyway. Would Dean be keen on manning the meat for her? Julie tossed the unintentional innuendo out and had the six foot plus Adonis blushing in the middle of the display floor.
Satisfied with the streak free glass, Julie went out to check on Dean’s status. He leaned up from his work position and smiled. “All good. She’s ready for action. Just lit her up.”
Julie nodded, sighing in relief. “Cutting it close.” A couple hours from now the guests would arrive. And Brigida would definitely be on time, if not earlier, an hour after that.
“Yeah. But, it only took me threatening three store clerks at nine am this morning. Pulled a working igniter out of the floor model to get this baby up and running.” He waved both hands in the air with a flourish. “Now, we’re golden. No more nose crinkles. The meat’s marinating in your fridge.” He cocked a thumb over to Wes and Samuel’s house. “They’ve got the booze covered and some side dishes.”
“You need me to dash out for anything else before I finish up my food and the cookies to go along with the ice cream cake?”
He shook his head and drew her in by the waist, their bodies snug. “You trust me with all that fire power?”
Her hand rubbed over his vintage AC/DC t-shirt right under the collar. Sweat stippled his brow from the running around and grill tweaking. The mix of it with his sharp, clean soap scent got her warm and tingly. God, how does he make sexy so effortless? “You can handle it. I’m no Prometheus. You should worry more about my mom trying to take over the grill once she gets here.”
“Hey, it’s her birthday. If she wants the tongs and spatula, I’ll hand them over and be her sous chef.”
Julie smiled. “She’d probably love that.”
He grinned and bent down to dust her bottom lip with his mouth. “How many we gotta feed again?”
She rattled off the memorized total. “Twenty-two, not including us. Fifteen adults, three kids, two teenagers, and two dogs.”
Dean tipped his head. “Piece of cake.”
Julie smirked. “Not pie?”
His fingers flirted over the denim covering her ass. “Saving your pie for later.” He leaned down again for a deeper kiss.
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Julie’s backyard had never seen such activity. Lawn chairs scattered over the freshly mowed lawn. Stacey and Carl’s two older children, Evan, 10, and Rory, 7, played cornhole in the driveway. Brigida had latched onto their youngest boy, two year old Dylan, right after everyone had given her a Happy Birthday surprise welcome. Karen’s boyfriend, Carter, the New York Mergers and Acquisitions lawyer, Wes, and Carl kept Dean company by the grill. He seared chicken, flipped hot dogs, checked and rechecked the pork ribs, sipped his beer, and took doneness requests for the beef burgers. 
Samuel chatted under the covered patio with Karen, Stacey, Cat and her partner Sheila, along with the handful of Brigida’s Little Italy neighbors that had made the short trek out of the city to celebrate. Karen’s teenage boys hid most of the time, busy on their phones under the shade of the carport. Julie attempted to involve Karen’s oldest, Khaleel - a sullen 16 who more than likely wanted to be anywhere else - asking if he would man the playlist blaring out of the portable bluetooth speaker. The younger by two years, Kevin, emerged from his cocoon to explain TikTok to Dean. The explanation only furrowed the cook’s brow even more.
Julie caught Dean’s this-is-for-the-guests smile settle into the I’m-actually-kinda-glad-to-see-you version when Cas and Jack finally showed up. Cas had picked up some weekend shifts to make ends meet. Jack was still working his side job as much as he could, balancing school, to save up for his trip to Texas over Winter Break. He was going to MIRL with this fantasy girl if it was the last thing he ever did. At least, that was the confession he had told Julie as the four hung out for a movie and pizza over Dean’s a month back.
Cas took his usual post at Dean’s right side by the grill. Julie glanced over every so often at the comical duo. Somewhere between Abbott and Costello and Martin and Lewis. Dean monitored his friend’s interactions with the new group of men. If Cas needed to pull back on the conversation a bit or shift to another topic, Dean cued him with a slight shake of a head or cough. Cas held his beer in a fierce grip and mimicked Dean when he took a sip. God, there is so much codependency there. What they hell did they go through together? Dean gave Jack a pair of tongs and had him man the second round of dogs. Jack smiled from ear to ear like a teenager getting the keys to the car after passing his driver’s license. And, he’s like a second dad to that kid.    
As was always the case in hosting, and determined to not have her mom lift a finger, Julie barely had time to relax or eat for the first hour of the party. She made sure the other food got served when Dean plattered and presented grilled meats. The two of them used a lot of hand gestures and miming to coordinate everything. Dean would every so often switch things up and make Julie blush with a few obscene ones.   
Once Dean had been schooled by Cat on Salt and Pepa’s breeds - a Samoyed and Belgian Sheepdog, respectively - he had them eating out of and drooling into his hands for scraps. Cas and Jack procured a frisbee from the outdoor toys and tossed it back and forth with the kids. The dogs played monkey in the middle.
Dean called out to Julie once everyone else was situated and eating. “Jules! Got a medium-well burger with your name on it, ready in a minute.” He winked over. She set the last of the latest round of drinks in front of guests and gave him a thumbs up.
Stacey cooed. “Knows just how you like your meat, does he?”
The old college friends did their share of giggling and cackling. Julie pointed a finger from Samuel to Stacey. “No more of your red wine for this one.” 
Carl tapped his wife’s knee. “Take it easy, sweetie.” Stacey gave her husband a slobbery raspberry on the cheek.
“That is a sweet ride.” Carter pointed to Baby in Dean’s driveway as her owner snuck behind Julie. He presented a cheeseburger on a perfectly toasted bun. Julie smiled at the lettuce, tomato, onions and pickles - all her favorites - already on top. The charred meat and fixings smelled divine. Her stomach grumbled. A side glance noted her mom’s own smiling face. Brigida stared over at the both of them while talking to the two older couples.
“Well, you can take a look under the hood later if you want, Carter. Rebuilt her more times than I can count.” He whispered in Julie’s ear. “Eat something before you pass out.”
She grinned, wanting to tease that he sounded like Brigida, but thought better of it. Stacey and the crew were watching their interactions like hungry vultures, ready to pounce on anything too tasty to tease about.
“So, Dean, if the ladies have another girls’ night, maybe we can get us a poker game over at my house.” Carl interjected.
Sheila chimed in, “Only if I can join.”
Julie overheard Cas whisper to Dean in confusion. “Wouldn’t Sheila be a part of girls’ night?”
Dean muttered back, “Not if she has better taste in music than the rest of them.”
Carter shook his head. “Oh, God, you wiped me out last time we played poker Sheila.”
Dean cocked a brow and gave Sheila a lopsided grin. “Some actual competition. Sounds like we gotta make that happen soon.”
Sheila tipped her beer to Dean and gave his frame a thorough inspection.
“My poker skills would benefit from someone new to play with, as well.” Cas nodded to Sheila. “I know all of Dean’s tells at this point. It’s getting rather boring.”
Sheila patted the empty seat next to her. “You might be my new best friend, then, Cas.”
Cas smiled and puffed out his chest.
Dean whispered to Julie, “Should I break the news that he hasn’t a shot in hell?”
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Karen helped Julie with some of the kitchen cleanup before dessert. It was really a ruse for alone time and girl talk.
“How was it?” Karen asked in a hushed tone, in case anyone snuck in. She’d known about Julie going on birth control again. Had actually been the one to give her the idea in the first place.
“Which time?” Julie smiled. “We’ve been at it every night since the middle of this week when I surprised him.” She added. “Sometimes two or three times.”
“Jesus. Two or three? Carter’s five years younger than me and two times in one night has never… never happened. Three?” Karen fanned herself over the sink and running water. “How are you handling all that man, Jules?” Her brown eyes widened while she rinsed plates to drop in the dishwasher. 
Julie answered by holding her hands apart to approximate Dean’s length.
“Get the fuck out of here!” Karen’s voice raised. She slapped a palm over her mouth at the outburst. Water and suds flew everywhere.
Julie crossed a finger over her chest, blinking at the water that splashed her face. “When have I lied under oath?” 
“Be careful or you’re going to get a UTI.” She added in a whisper, “From all that fucking.”
Julie laughed. “I booked a follow up with my gyno as soon as I got the prescription. I see her next week.” She whispered back. “Kar, it was amazing, mind blowing before this. But now, it’s like…” Julie trailed off, daydreaming about her lover in the backyard. Her insides sore, throbbing with the memory of him; a deep and beautiful stoking she couldn’t wait to experience again. 
“I think Carter and Carl have crushes on him.” Karen shook her head. “Carter might come in his pants if he gets that car tour.”
“Don’t tell Cat, but I think Sheila might be crushing, too.” Julie giggled.
“We heard that!” Stacey and Cat screamed in unison. Karen and Julie screamed back in shock. Cat, a bit tipsy herself this afternoon, sported a toothy grin. From Julie’s vantage, she was lighter than usual, airy even. One of her arms draped over Stacey’s shoulders as the duo sashayed into the kitchen.
“Only speaking the truth.” Karen raised a hand as the other still clutched her chest at the friendly fright.
Stacey waved a hand. “I get dibs on Dean when Jules is done with him.” She wiggled her eyebrows.
Julie rolled her eyes. “Not planning on it anytime soon, Stace.”
Cat opened her mouth. Her eyes caught the threat Julie’s eyes beamed with an intentional telepathy. Cat snapped her jaw shut before the other ladies noticed.
“Not fair to keep all the juicy details to yourself.” Stacey whined, sliding out from Cat’s grip and into one of the kitchen chairs. She slumped over the table, elbow propped, cradling her chin in a manicured hand. “Some of us have needs.” She sighed.
Cat leaned against a counter, eyes glazed behind her glasses. “I think Brigida’s had one too many.”
Julie was happy for the segway but not pleased with the content. She settled her own glasses against the bridge of her nose in a nervous tick. “Really? A saw her with a glass of wine. But, she usually only has a little.”
“I think Wes and Samuel made her a special birthday cocktail.”
“Ugh.” She wiped both hands down across her face. “Love ‘em but those men and their alcohol.”
Stacey did her best pigeon impression again. “Do you love ‘em as much as Dean?”
A very deep throat clearing had all four ladies turn their head to the hallway. Dean stood there carrying a huge empty platter covered in meat bits and juices. “Am I interrupting something?” Julie blushed at the proud grin on his face. He skimmed past Stacey’s seated frame. Stacey was eye level with the denim hugging his ass and licked her lips. He excused himself again and slid around Cat, lifting the platter over Julie’s head winding past, to end up near Karen by the sink. “This is a nasty one. Let me take care of this, Karen.” He offered.
She shook her head. “Hand it over. Least we can do after you did such a stellar job at the grill. You got Kevin to eat a burger that doesn’t come in a fast food bag.”
“That is high praise. Thanks.” He smiled and gave Julie a once over before asking, “Anything else have to go out?”
“You think I should grab the ice cream cake out of the basement fridge?”
“It might be a good idea soon.” Dean shrugged. “Everyone’s either winding down or is pretty hammered.” He glanced over at Stacey.
Julie nodded and pointed at the counter behind him. “Would you take that tray out with the dessert plates and all the other necessities? Pretty please?”
He winked. “Yes, Ma’am.”
Stacey groaned. “Ugh. Could you two reel in the cuteness?”
Julie ignored the request. “Thank you. Cat.” She turned to ask her friend. “Wanna help me with the cake?” 
“Um, sure.” Cat hesitated.
When they got down to the basement, Julie listened to ensure Dean’s heavy steps had made their way out the sliding door and Stacey and Karen were busy talking in the kitchen.
“I’m not the best person to ask to carry a cake upstairs.” Cat mumbled.
“You can spot me.” Her hand rested on the fridge handle. “Speaking of looking out for me…”
“I know. I haven’t reached out much since that last conversation we had.” Cat shrugged. “You sounded happy that night, with him. I figured I should mind my own business for once and stop investigating.”
“Thank you, Cat.” Julie smiled.
“He seems decent, Julie. A good guy, even. Simple. Easy.” Cat waved a hand. “I don’t mean either of those things as a negative.”
Julie laughed. “I know. But, trust me, he’s anything but simple or easy to figure out.” She tilted her head. “I’ve been thinking... would you send me over a couple of those books you found?”
Cat pursed her lips. “I’ll think about it.”
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It was ten o’clock by the time Dean and Julie finished with a majority of the clean up from the party. The last dishwasher load had been started, all the guests had gone home, and Brigida was fussing in the kitchen. Dean looked like a very uncomfortable giant next to the birthday lady.
“I don’t need-ah to stay.” Brigida insisted. “Dean-ah can take me home.” Her Italian accent was a lot heavier laced with alcohol.
“No, Dean can’t. None of us should be driving, Ma. We’ve all had a bit too much to drink. You have your extra meds here in your room. You’re going to take them, drink lots of water, and go to bed.”
She waved her hands. “I don’t want to be in the way.”
Julie rolled her eyes and sighed.
“Brigida, we just threw a party for you. How could you think you’re in the way?” Dean asked with true sincerity in his voice.
“Dean-ah.” She clutched his forearm. “I don’t want-ah you to run home. And, I know-ah this one won’t leave me in the house alone-ah. Thinkin’ I won’t be able to walk twenty steps without falling over and knocking myself out-ah.”
Dean shrugged. “It’s not a big deal, I’m pretty tired. Long day.”  
“Ma, Dean can stay over if he wants to.” Julie widened her eyes to encourage Dean to play along.
“Ye-yeah. Sure. We’re both exhausted.” He faked a long yawn and stretched out an arm. “Sooo tired. Gonna conk out as soon as my head hits the pillow.”
Brigida grinned. “You are a bad liar.” She tapped his tummy. “Fine. I’ll get myself ready for bed.” She raised both arms at Julie. “Appy?”
“Very happy.” Julie smiled. “Need me to help you with anything?”
“No.” Brigida motioned for Dean to bend down. She gave him a very long mama bear hug and then squeezed a cheek. “Thank you.”
Julie’s heart warmed at the interaction.
His facial features squirmed under Brigida’s vice grip. “Welcome.”
When she retracted her fingers, she announced, “I’ll be up early cleanin’ and makin’ breakfast.” She shuffled out of the kitchen. Her loud voice rang out in the hallway. “Don’t come down here naked in the morning, Dean-ah. Not-ah unless you got plans for me.”
Dean snorted as Julie yelled. “Ma!” 
Dean shook his head. “She’s even more of a pistol drunk.” He wrapped arms around Julie when they were alone. “I’ll hang out until she’s in her room and sleeping. I don’t think it’ll take long. Help you clean up some more. Then, I’ll duck out.” His kiss was soft and warm.
Julie hummed. “You heard her. She’s making you breakfast.” She shrugged. “You can stay.”
Dean smiled. “Sweetheart, if I stay, we won’t be sleeping.”
“Good.”
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They took turns in the upstairs bathroom. Dean first, as usual, since Julie took longer with her nighttime skin routine. Cleanser, applied to her face in gentle circular motions, wiped away the makeup and sweat from the day. Cool water splashed against her skin. Splashes of moments from the party entered her mind. Her mom’s absolute shock and then subsequent soft crying at the surprise. Stacey wrangled the girl power squad together for a group selfie. It would post onto the social medias before Stacey got well and fully sloshed. Cas pulled her to the side to give her a genuine, heartfelt thank you for the invitation. Jack assisted with the dish clearing without even having to be asked. Mom’s ancient, pudgy neighbor, Lydia, who didn’t move once from her seat under the patio, tugged at Julie’s wrist to tell her she needed to do a better job holding onto this man than the last one. 
She patted away most of the wetness with a face towel. This man. She opened the medicine cabinet to put away some items and grab the moisturizer. Everything she disliked about her face on bright display under the bathroom lighting. The pads of her fingers danced over the circles under her eyes and some of the wrinkles forming around her mouth. All those old Italian women and their snarky little comments. Wondering what Dean’s doing with me. Even with all of his secrets and all that she still didn’t know, she still felt that tug of insecurity. Not being good enough. His imperfections, the cracks appearing over the months of infatuation and obsession with this man, were making themselves known. But they were all things she could handle and cast aside at the end of the day. Because all it took was that one second of his eyes locking with hers in that way. That very Dean way. Craving it in that moment, she hurried and worked the cream into her skin.
She entered the dark bedroom. The only illumination was from the television, the volume low and muffled. White light from the screen flashed like lightning over Dean, laid out on the still made bed. 
He had slipped on the grey and blue plaid pajama bottoms Julie bought him. She picked them up as an afterthought one Sunday shopping when he’d started staying over a couple times a week. He came across them, folded and waiting, on the unspoken but understood side of Julie’s bed that was now his. A lopsided grin had been given as thanks.
There was a reason I didn’t buy him a shirt. A remote in hand rested on his tummy and that luscious bare chest. He cradled his head atop two pillows with his other palm; his biceps curled, primed, and ready for action. Legs crossed at the ankles and his foot swayed with an ancy rhythm. The image of him stretched out imprinted in her brain under the bright pops of light as if someone were taking lots of polaroids of this magnificent specimen.  
He turned to her, smiled, then whispered, “Wanna watch something?” The remote was used as a pointing device toward the floor. “I can’t tell if that’s a chainsaw or your mom snoring.”
Julie nodded. “I told you, you can hear everything in this house.”
“Maybe soundproofing needs to be another project.” He frowned. “This is going to be torture.”
She giggled low and soft, hands on her hips, cinching in her oversized nightshirt. “Why?”
His fingers skirted over the comforter creeping in her direction. “Cause I want to make you moan like the other night.” 
That very Dean way. The sexy stare made her smile drop. “Thought you were tired.”
“Come here, sweetheart.” He gave her a chin nod.
Julie sighed and eased onto the bed, aware of every creak and squeak. “Karen was right.”
“‘Bout what?” He opened an arm. His embrace clutched her to his warm chest.
She snuggled in. “You’re going to give me blushing bride syndrome.”
“A blushing what now?”
His lips pressed to hers cut off an immediate response. She nibbled on his chin when he released. “Too much sex. You know, can cause issues down there.”
He pulled back to study her face. “I’m not going to apologize for wanting you.”
“Not asking you to.” She pressed into him.
Mischief lined his lips. “Maybe I should take it easy on you. Give you a break. Since we have to be quiet and all.” He flashed the all-knowing, hot shit grin that stopped her heart. “I mean, we know you can’t keep that dirty little mouth of yours shut when mine’s all over you... or inside you.” His voice was husky and gritty, breathing near her ear. 
“Oh, really?” She whispered her retort. “Who was the one panting and groaning last night about how hard he was going to come?”
Dean latched onto one of her knees. The pull dragged a thigh to rest over his hip. His warm hand traveled and danced along her skin. It snuck under the night shirt; pushed it high up past her waist. Fingers clutched at the top of her bare ass and kneaded. He shifted into her more and wedged their bodies tight. “Nah. You couldn’t have heard that. You were too busy screaming my name over and over.”
A jarring motor-like sound drifted up from Brigida’s bedroom for only a second. They froze in place. Dean chuckled. Tangled together, Julie rested a finger on his mouth. “Shhh.” She pressed into the softness of his perfect pout with more force and threw in a nose crinkle for good measure.
“I wasn’t going to say anything…” His lips struggled to release the words under her finger. Julie had learned early on upon their meeting that Dean enjoyed teasing out a variety of reactions from her.
She sighed and relented the tiny attempt at restraint. “What?”
“When you were in the bathroom earlier and I got a good listen of it all. Actually had something to compare it to.” He paused. “You snore like your mom.” His grin spread slow and wide, lips pursed tight.
Julie’s eyes widened on defense. “No, I don’t.”
“Yeah, you do.” He nodded, still grinning, lifting his brow for emphasis. “Get so loud.” A slight, controlled circling of those strong hips began. The motion matched the sensual rhythm of his verbal descriptions. “You start off so nice and quiet. Then it’s up. And up. And up. Like a freight train in here some nights, sweetheart.”
A few more seconds of silence followed. “Shit.” That was the only admission Julie would allow, listening to his description of her inherited sleeping habits while succumbing to the wondrous feel of his body lighting her up. “Don’t compare me to my mother while doing that, Dean.”
Dean laughed and gave her another chin nod in victory. “Still. Proves my point. Can’t help yourself. Way louder and noisier than I could ever be.” 
Julie nuzzled close, finding the tunnel under his arm. Firm strokes down the slope of his back relished in the heat vibrating through his body. She ran a thumb back and forth over that plump pillow of a bottom lip. “You were the one that almost broke my headboard. Remember? Talk about noise.” And talk about fucking hot. “White knuckling it to get some leverage, slamming it into the wall.” His mouth parted and a hunger filled his gaze. She grinned at the erection hardening more in the pajamas against her patch of curls. “While you were slamming into me.”
He caught her thumb with a clench of teeth. His tongue flirted along the pad before he sucked at it with a low moan. His lips released it when he whispered back. “That was a memorable fuck, sweetheart. You under me. Letting me ride you so hard. Wish I could pound you like that for days. Wreck us both.”
“Jesus, Dean.” Julie moaned, rocking soft against his clothed cock.  “There wouldn’t be anything left of me.”
The hand left her ass, skirted under the shirt. Those meaty fingers landed on the curve of her breast and massaged into bliss. “But what a way to go.” He groaned, then peeled away enough to dip down and mouth a nipple through the shirt. “Shit, got me so hard.” He spoke between licks and sucks. “I wanna fuck you. All. The. Time.” The warmth and wet of his mouth soaked through to the taut nub. “All I could think about today was getting you alone. Here. Like this.” He nudged at the material with his nose to expose the dark, pebbly flesh to the air and his mouth. “Sliding inside you again. Nothin’ but me and you.” He suckled at her tit. When he came up for air and met her gaze, he whispered in that smoke and honey tone. “It feels like home inside you, Jules.”
Dean’s eyes lit up with another flash from the television. Glassy, eager and laser focused with intent. He always downplayed his ability to convey and verbalize feelings. But that confession, those six words - It feels like home inside you - made her whole body shiver. Like the night they’d first had sex. You feel so safe. It had been four little words back then. Not THOSE three little words. But it was pretty damn close.
“I think we should give ourselves a challenge.” The seriousness faded from his face, replaced with that impish grin. “A quiet, well contained, controlled fucking.”
Julie giggled, her body still buzzing from his actions and words. Her hands answered, pulling the pajamas down past his ass. He lifted up from the mattress an inch to assist with the disrobing. The fabric bunched around his knees.
He groaned when she tugged at his cock, free and rigid. She curled toes and peeled the material down far enough so he could shake his feet out the rest of the way. “Turn around, baby.” His voice held an authoritative tone. “Everything. Off.”
In the process of her slow and quiet one-eighty flip she rid herself of the nightshirt. The cool air in the room prickled at hot skin. He moaned at the sight. “That’s not being quiet.” She tisked.
He lassoed her in with a bear hug, onto her side, this time her back sealed along his chest. A haphazard pull at the band released the ponytail. His fingers brushed away strands. Searing lips attacked the exposed flesh of her neck. “Are you gonna be good for me?”
She stifled a moan and nodded.
“Hm.” Fingers slid into the folds, finding the wetness. “Very good so far.” He pushed farther in and searched. Circled her entrance. “All this for me already?” He groaned in her ear. “Goddamn, I wanna get my mouth on that. But we know you really can’t contain yourself when my face is between your legs.” Those fingers ended up at his mouth. She could smell her excitement, inches away. The sound of his lips sucking and his moans stoked her need. “Maybe a challenge for the morning.” He thought aloud.
His body, large and eclipsing, leaned up, shifting. His cock slid between the cheeks of Julie’s ass like a heat seeking missile. She let out a pitiful whine and bit her lip. They hadn’t even talked about that as an option. But every time his cock got tantalizingly close the thought had crossed her mind. She’d never wanted to try, not even with Steve. But Dean. Dean made her want to experience everything.
The sex with Dean had been many things over the past months: fun, playful, sweet, luxuriating, romantic, fast, rough, hard, naughty, and tons of dirty talk. Yet, none of that fifty shades stuff or roleplaying she had anticipated. Almost vanilla sex in comparison from what her mind could conjure up. 
Almost, but never vanilla. Not with Dean. It was that French Vanilla ice cream that you’d get at a family owned creamery worth a two hour drive. One made by an artisan, churned by hand. One bursting with flecks of vanilla bean hitting all the taste buds. It was rich, creamy, indulgent, velvety, cool, lolling about on your tongue, savoring the flavor in the moment, crystalizing a memory for wonderful recollections.  
Still, there was a palpable restraint by Dean, holding back, in terms of physical limits even if never in vocal declarations. Sometimes she thought she could feel the inner shift in Dean. It could be an imperceptible tell if their bodies weren’t so connected; a retraction of his muscles under that worn skin and the myriad of scars she would cling to in mounting desperation of the most amazing kind. He never out and out stated it. Dean never would. But she felt like the pilot in this jet when it came down to it. He was her trusty co-pilot, offering suggestions but always adhering to the final decision, charting her course, making sure she stayed on track, allowing her control. Allowing her safety. 
“No one’s gonna be quiet if we give that a try tonight.” Dean read her mind, again keeping her on track with the original plan. He scooted down, cupping her figure with his. “Any other night, sweetheart, you let me know.” He dotted her back with kisses and wedged a knee between her legs. The motion splayed her bottom half, spreading her. His palm crooked under her knee, bent it just so. “But, this way.” The cock tip pressed at the entrance. “I think we can both get what we need and not wake sleeping beauty.” He licked little patches along her shoulder blade. “What’s that thing you always say?”
Jesus, why is he teasing me now? “When?” She huffed out.
“When you come over and decide to clean up my kitchen.”
“No muss, no fuss?”
He rumbled into her back and began the slide. Inside. “Yeah. That’s it. No Muss. No Fuss.” His large palm grabbed at her breast, latched onto it, thumbed the nipple. She could feel the strength of his hips guiding the wondrous length and girth of his cock. He bottomed into her and stopped. She wanted to feel how tight his ass was clenched in that moment. Sought it out with a hand and squeezed. “Hm.” He approved of the action. “How does that feel, sweetheart?” His voice, low, deep.
“You feel so good inside me Dean. You feel good everywhere.” She moaned when the controlled pistoning switched on. 
“Hm. So, the quiet part is gonna be impossible for you, huh?”
She moaned again, softer, she thought. “This is me being quiet.”
“Baby?” He moaned out the question.
“Yeah?”
“Would you be alright if I helped keep you quiet?”
A fire lit up in her belly. “Yeah.”
He groaned. An arm threaded between her rocking body and the mattress. His hand slid up her chest, over her neck, her jaw. Settled over her mouth. “If it’s too much.” He panted. “If I get too carried away, you tap. Okay?”
She tapped his ass cheek to confirm she understood. Listened to his inhales and exhales. His thumb wedged between her upper lip and the underside of her nose. Two massive fingers clamped over her mouth. The other two had a firm grip under her chin, ensuring her lips stayed closed. All while he pumped in and out of her from behind, slow and purposeful.
“Feel so fucking good.” He whispered. His mouth pecked at her back, shoulder, her side, her arm, anywhere it could reach. “Four nights into your ‘I’m on the pill’ surprise.” He panted out his confession. “I’m sure I’m going to come down eventually, Jules. If that gives you some hope. About this blushing bride thing.” A soft growl left his mouth. “I mean, I’m no Superman.” She moaned into his hand when his pace and thrusts picked up. He was still very much in control and not rocking the bed like she knew he could. “But, I am Batman.” His chuckle vibrated into her back.
He shifted, circled, found that spot in her and focused all his energy. More muffled moans erupted from Julie.
“Shhh, sweetheart.” He used more of his palm against her mouth now, pressed harder against the flesh. “Be good for me.”
The subtle restraint was electric, increasing her pleasure tenfold. The sounds of her slick and his rutting inside her only made her more wet.
“I gotta feel you cum.” He begged. His other hand glided over the top of her thigh, rested against the mattress and palmed her pussy. “I’m gonna work you quick, baby. Okay?”
She nodded as much as she could with the hold of his hand.
He parted the folds, found her swollen clit and took no mercy. It was hard, fast. Explosions of light began popping into her brain. Her body jerked with slight tremors. It wouldn’t be long. “Yeah, that’s it. I love it when you come undone. Cum all over my cock.” Dean whispered.
His voice tipped her into the orgasm. She moaned, tightened, while he continued to pump.
“Yeah, right behind you, Julie. Yeah. Fuck.” And, he was, chasing her with his own orgasm. The pulsing of his cock, the spilling of him inside, warm, mingling with her wet he’d produced. His pants and groans against her back. His weight on her body, hand still cupping her mouth. “Man. I give us an A for effort. But, I wasn’t much better than you in the sound department. I might need a damn muzzle.”
Julie smiled into his palm.
“Sorry, baby.” He removed his hand from her mouth. “Should have tapped me. You okay?”
She nodded into the comforter. “Oh, yeah.” Eased onto her back. “Definitely. Can we do more of that?”
He laughed, staring with those beautiful eyes, crinkles extending the gleeful expression on his face. That very Dean way. “Sure.” He shrugged. “Just maybe not tonight?” He kissed her lips, then flashed her an exhausted smile. “I really am pretty beat. Been one helluva long day.”
Julie nodded. “Me too.” She tapped his forearm. “Bathroom again for me and then sleep.”
“Don’t be long.” He collapsed onto his back and closed his eyes.
She smiled, closing the bathroom door. He’d be asleep by the time she slipped back into bed. The sounds of his snores would cover a variety of animals from a grunting pig to a snarling lion. But she wouldn’t tease him in the morning about it. She promised to give him a pass.
Part 2
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carriedon-awolfsback · 6 years ago
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Hello lovely people it’s time for tomfoolery!! Submersion Rating: 18+ only Wordcount: 4,850 Content Warnings: A little bit of light-hearted discipline play and like two ass slaps but beyond that, actually none! Just 2nd person female reader and Cardinal Horrible Little Man passing like ships in the night at the height of summer. Only, obnoxious ships, that like… fuck each other. This was a bad choice of metaphor. I don’t have an excuse for this. It’s just been 30+ degrees C (upper 80s F) for more than a month where I am, and we’re not at all used to or equipped for that nonsense. Who would win out between my literal and metaphorical thirsts? Neither, why would they fight, they’re in love. In about fourth months’ time when I’m bitching my tits off about it being below freezing again, there’ll probably be a nice warm companion piece to this. Just sayin’. Read Submersion here on AO3, or here beneath the cut!
“Mm... mmh, it’s too hot-“
“So worked up already, darling?” The Cardinal looked up from the junction of your neck and shoulder, his voice purring and licking his lips from lapping at your skin, which was now patched here and there with his black makeup. His long legs were interlaced with yours, his arms propping him up while he suckled at your throat and slid his hips against your thigh, your bare bodies pressed together. “But we’ve barely gotten started.”
“I mean the room is too fucking hot, idiot.” You shoved at his chest. “God, that air con is less use than you. Hold off, I feel rough.” Everything was going a bit swirly, and breathing the thick hot air felt difficult, and it definitely wasn’t solely because of Copia’s mouth working away on your sensitive neck.
He made an indignant sound but disentangled himself and sat back on his haunches, his brows knitting slightly in concern for you. “Have you been drinking enough? Did you drink water during the ritual, hmm?”
This was, to use a technical and legal term, bullshit. The first time in a long while that your dear Church’s band project had actually found a venue in your own city that would let them hold their thinly-veiled Black Mass, instead of cajoling you into travelling miles and miles to find them, and it had to be at the height of summer in the middle of the worst heatwave you could remember. It was the small hours, blanketed in darkness, and still the air was hot and humid enough to cut a chunk out of with a knife, leaving everything feeling clammy and constricted, sweat stippling all over you and pooling uncomfortably anywhere on your body that stayed folded over against itself for too long. The air conditioning unit was doing its best and the balcony door and windows were open with the silky curtains billowing in the faint, unsatisfying breeze; this was definitely no cheap motel room, but it was just too hot.
And it was fucking ruining the sordid one-night post-show rendezvous you’d been excited for for weeks (in honesty, that you’d been excited for for months, ever since your last holiday visit to the actual Church itself and your last week-long romp with the Cardinal, in celebration of his…promotion). You hadn’t taken any time to enjoy undressing each other, because it was so bastard hot you’d both just wanted to claw off your own clothes and get the air conditioning on your bare skin as quickly as possible. It was proving impossible to even touch each other without the added warmth of aroused flesh on flesh feeling like it was going to blister your skin. And now, instead of enjoying a gleeful filthy reunion in the thickly-blanketed king-sized bed (and on the floor, against the wall, and over the dressing table), you had a banging, spinning headache, and he was scolding your hydration habits like a kindergarten teacher.
He’d had a bottle of champagne put on ice in the room ready for when you arrived, and that was what he was examining now. His ass looked adorable, round and plump perched on the side of the bed, and it was absolutely fucking inhumane that you couldn’t scrape together the energy to sidle up close to him and give it a good squeeze.
“This is no good,” he sighed, squinting at the label. “Alcohol, it’ll only make you feel worse in the heat. Little bit of a waste, really.” Then inspiration seemed to strike. “Aha!”
He replaced the bottle, and instead, scooped up a handful of ice cubes from the bucket triumphantly.
“I’m not sucking on free ice.” You wrinkled your nose at him. “You don’t even know where that water’s come from. Might be rough old tap water that’s been sitting in the freezer for ages.”
“No, no. Not to eat. Here.” He reached out to you, selecting the biggest cube from his handful and returning the others to the the bucket. “Hold out your hand.”
Rather than placing the ice in your hand to hold, as you expected, he held the little cube himself between thumb and forefinger instead, and pressed it softly to your inside wrist when you reached back to him, moving it in light circles over your flushed skin. You took in a small breath from the sting.
“Ice applied to pulse points cools the circulating blood,” he explained, breaking the rhythmic circular pattern every now and then to run the now slippery ice up the length of your forearm and back again. Maybe it was just a placebo, maybe it was more about the rhythm than the temperature, but now after the initial nip of the frozen surface, it did feel soothing. You sighed lightly, watching the ice swirl on your arm, not paying attention to his gaze which was searching your face intently, eyes narrowing ever so slightly at your response.
“Let me try here.” He reached out, closing the gap between you a little more, and brought the fresh cube to the sensitive spot on your neck that he had been nipping at just a few minutes before.
If the ice on your wrist had been hypnotic and soothing like a lick, the sensation on your throat was a determined bite that sent your eyelids fluttering and your breath hitching in surprise and enjoyment.
“Is that nice?” He smirked, nibbling on the edge of his lower lip. “Because that’s a very nice face.” His fingers shifted against your neck, taking the ice between his index and middle finger so he could glide it up and down over your pulse point while also thumbing your jawline gently; all the sensitive spots that usually his hot mouth would minister to. “Mm. If that’s how you usually look when my face is busy buried in your neck, I must try this from a distance more often. Now… lie down.”
You let his empty hand push you back gently onto the sheets by the shoulder. “Turn over,” he added, nudging your legs apart so he could kneel between them, a motion which made your stomach lurch with nervous excitement. They never quite went away, the brief little flutter of nerves and surge of wetness you always felt when he got above you, no matter how many times you reunited.
“Where’s this going?” You obliged him, keeping him between your legs as much as possible while flipping around. Behind you, you felt him lean over and rummage in the ice bucket again. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his hand come back dripping, with a whole handful of ice.
“Shh. This will be even better, you’ll see.” As he gently placed one hand on the back of your head and tilted it back down, you felt a cold block adorn your shoulders and hummed appreciatively.
He started arranging the cubes like a hot stone massage pattern on your back, his fingertips gliding on your warm skin between them now and then. In fact, he was a little distracted for a moment lining them up along your spine just so, and you stifled a giggle at his fussing, as much because the shaking would have dislodged his artful ice work as because he would have sulked terribly if he thought his efforts weren’t genuinely helping. And actually, they were- the cold was diffusing nicely between the cubes, carried in the water that spread from them across your skin as they began to melt slightly in the hot night air. They were many enough and evenly distributed enough that their touch was an all-over buzz, not a pinpoint cold sting, that was comfortable and soothing on your flushed skin.
“There we go,” he said at last, sitting back to admire his handiwork and resting his hands on your upper thighs. “How’s that feel?”
“Nice,” you confirmed, peering back at him over your shoulder. He leaned over you, his folded legs nestled between yours and one hand propping him up beside your shoulders as he pressed the back of the other to your forehead.
“Mm. Feels a little better.”
“Feels a lot better.” You raised your arm to tug him down beside you, eyes dark. “Now, c’mere.”
“Ah-ah,” he said lightly, batting your hand away playfully. “No wriggling, now.”
You stayed still, but frowned back at his smirk at his decline and instruction. “I don’t remember agreeing we were going to play like that.”
“Uh.“ The teasing tone immediately left his voice and instead became hesitant and worried again. “You don’t want to? You want to stop?”
Damn it, he could be so sweet, the way he turned on a dime for your safety. The way his uncanny eyes widened nervously if you made him pause, and darkened with confidence if you let him take control again. Yes, you had wanted to just drag him astride you and get on with it, but…
Gods, the boyish, pouty anticipation that made its way onto his lined face when he was waiting for your permission…
“...No,” you admitted eventually. “No, I don’t want to stop.” You turned your head back to rest on the sheets, still looking at him out of the corner of your eye, exposing your throat. “Play, then, Your Eminence.”
“Oh, good,” he breathed, and you felt his hand come to rest in the small of your back where melting ice was puddling. In daily life, he seemed to come on go on whether he cared for titles and honorifics or not, but when he had you caught between himself and the nearest flat-ish surface, it was a rather different story. “Alright. Now, remember… no wriggling.”
His fingers went back to drawing idle patterns over your skin between the ice, this time dipping lower over your buttocks and thighs. You sighed, but kept still.
“Good girl,” he murmured lowly, and ironically enough that was what made your hips cant a little bit under his hand, sending water trickling a little here and there. “Ah-ah,” he smirked, “you were doing so well.”
His fingernails dug into your thigh.
“Ow, mmf, “ you huffed, hoping that vocalising it might take away the impetus to arch and sprawl under him. He seemed to be showing mercy when he loosened his grip, but then he dragged those nails up your inner thigh, not quite far enough for you. Your hands kneaded the sheets, trying to re-route your frustration and keep your hips still, but your shoulders rolled and shuddered instead when he let his index and middle finger slide just once down between your legs, barely touching. You tipped your head back, lips bitten. There was ice running down your side, tingling, and his nails now scraping your backside, creating similar sensations.
The vicious smack that landed right across your ass and dangerously near to your increasing wetness was completely unexpected, and brought out of you an embarrassingly squealy sound that started in pain and ended in a moan, driving your hips to buck forwards into the mattress and your shoulders to bunch up wildly. Your sudden motion finally sent all the ice tumbling off your back and down your ribs and thighs.
“Oh, look at that,” he tutted, his voice loaded with condescension as you settled back down, the sting still reverberating on your backside. “You’ve shaken off all my hard work, there.” He patted your stinging behind, ignoring the furious whine you buried in the pillow. “Look, ice water everywhere. I knew I would make you soak the sheets tonight, darling, but I didn’t realise it would be this easy.”
“You cheated.” That sounded childish, but to be fair, he had fucking cheated.
“I do not cheat. The senior clergy is not for cheats. I only exploit existing loopholes and weaknesses,” he said loftily. “Turn back over, now.”
“Cheat,” you mumbled as you rolled again. It wasn’t a worthy comeback at all, but the melted ice you’d shed onto the sheets felt distractingly good under your back.
“Ah, enough of that. Hands above your head,” he instructed sharply, gesturing. You obliged, raising both arms to rest the backs of your hands on the pillow above you, wrists crisscrossed. There was nothing here to bind them with, but you had discovered his taste for that the last time, so you did your best to recreate that effect while he plucked another chip of ice from the bucket.
“I guess if you can’t keep still and behave,” he turned the ice deftly in his fingers, catching the light in it, “I will have to make sure these get where they need to go myself, huh?”
He lowered his hand, and the cold fresh ice came to rest on your nipple.
It stung like a bitch, and you would have made your displeasure vocally known if his other hand hadn’t come up to your other breast, squeezing and stroking, converting your snarl of protest into a slightly confused yelp of enjoyment.
He couldn’t help it, he had to remove the ice with a flourish and dip his head down to lap the water from you. You dug your hands hard enough into the bedsheets to rip cloth, groaning at his warm tongue on the stiff and sensitive skin, and his hair was falling over his eyes when he raised his face again. Then he returned his hand with ice to your body, watching your reactions through messy hair and under thickly-made-up eyelids heavy with lust.
The ice under his palm glided, travelling in slick, hypnotic cooling swirls over your belly and breasts that had you sighing and arching into them, the hard edges scraping over your collarbones. When the cube melted down too small to play with any longer, he left it where it laid to melt away on your skin and plucked another from the bucket.
“I hope you’re ready,” he said brightly.
You didn’t have too much time to work out what you were meant to to be ready for, because the fresh cube went into his palm and straight down to slide over your clit.
“Ooohh, fuck!”
The cold was electric and sent your hips tossing wildly under his hand, although your brain was apparently a little confused about whether it wanted to get away from the ice or rut on it furiously. He didn’t give you much of an option, though, dragging the ice down to your entrance, grinding back against your thrusts, and then gliding back up with only the faintest pressure to circle that sensitive little bundle of nerves. You cursed and begged him- not for anything in particular, just more in general- in the same breath. His hand twisted and cupped firmly, trapping the hot-cold little handful of ice between the heel of his palm and your clit, and allowing the tip of his middle finger to tease your opening.
“Oh, it’s dripping between my fingers.” His exaggeratedly shocked, breathy voice gave you even more reason to squirm against his hand. “I wonder how much of that is melted ice, and how much is your greedy little cunt, needing me.”
That was too much. You stopped being obedient with your hands up, and grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him down for a needy, slightly drooly deep kiss. You’d hoped it would surprise him, but the little flash of grin you saw before your mouths collided told you, infuriatingly, otherwise.
He only let you attack his lips for a moment, before he tossed his head and pulled back, your hands sliding from his shoulders to rest on his chest. “Oh? I thought you were too hot?” He held his body arched above yours teasingly, his free hand keeping your leg pushed back from hooking around him. His cock was hard and flushed against his soft belly from winding you up like this, but somehow he was resisting his impulses- the only stronger motivator than his constant carnal appetites, apparently, being his love of acting like an utter bastard. “I thought you were far too hot to have my body pressed against you?” He ran his tongue along his lips, struggling to conceal a grin. “All sweaty and sticky… Mhm, terrible.”
“I’m entitled to change my mind.” There was very little dignity to be salvaged here, but you hunted for it anyway, giving him a haughty look.
“Ah, I don’t know,” he murmured doubtfully, giving your thigh a squeeze. “You still look a little warm to me. A little pink in the cheeks, yeah? That’s both sets, by the way. Very cute-”
“Stop being obnoxious and fuck me.” If you ever wrote a memoir about these escapades one day, that was probably going to be the title.
“Hmm.” He idled his hand against you again and you whined. There was heat still in you, alright, but it was a different kind, very deeply seated, and his touch was encouraging it to rise rapidly to the surface. “I don’t know,” he deliberated, “I wouldn’t want you to get all red and dizzy again halfway through.” He smiled, glancing up at the door to the en suite bathroom. “I think I have an idea, though.” He gave you one heavy-lidded, very serious look directly into your eyes as he slowly pulled his hand away from you, drawing out the last little bit of contact until you huffed and twitched at the hips for him. “Wait here until I say, now,” he cautioned, and he slipped away and off the bed, walking into the bathroom slightly bow-legged to manage his arousal.
The sound of surging water echoed in the bathroom. You raised your head, curious, but flopped back down again, just enjoying not having to move or concentrate on anything. Whatever; he would lure you over in due time.
“Come in and join me,” sure enough, his call came from behind the ajar door presently. You mustered all your effort and sat up in the sheets, damp with ice water and sweat, and approached the door, still feeling a little weak at the knees.
It was a pretty plush bathroom; all grey tiles and marble. The bath was an elegant, broad thing, set into a raised block with steps in the middle of the room, and it was in this that he was now partly reclined, smirking, the water just reaching over his belly.
“It’s cold.” He leaned over in the half-filled tub, scooping up the cool water in both hands and raising his arms above his head, letting it trickle down him. “Come in,” he repeated, making sure you could see his hand spreading the cold water around on his torso, ruffling his chest hair. “You’ll feel so much better.”
He tilted his head as you took the high steps into the bath, staring with rapt attention between your legs as if your sex was something new and secret that he hadn’t already been tormenting just five minutes previously.
“Can’t believe you’ve left me the tap end.” You stood and wrinkled your nose down at him, trying not to let it show how nice the cold water was feeling on your feet.
“Don’t be silly,” he purred, one cool, wet hand catching your shin. “Sit in my lap. You can lean back on me and relax.”
You turned and craned over your shoulder awkwardly, lowering into the water between his knees. His made an impatient noise and his hands pawed at your hips as you sat, drawing you back.
“Just making sure I don’t sit on anything essential.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he slid an arm fully around your waist, pulling you back to recline against his chest. The cold water lapped further up your body, a delicious relief. “When you do, it’ll be wholly intentional.” You could hear the obnoxious grin in his voice, and feel his cock still firm against the small of your back, only a little bit diminished by the cold.
He scooped a cupped palm into the cold water beside you and raised it, gently, to your chin, pouring it across your flushed collarbones. It was divinely cooling. He must have appreciated the way you tensed a little at the cold and then sighed with enjoyment, as he kissed the top of your head and made the slightest muffled “mmph” sound into your hair while he scooped up another palm of cold water.
It was working on both of you; there was no discomfort now in feeling his chest pressed to your back. And from his point of view, the puddles of soothing water he was tipping onto your chest split deliciously into separate rivulets as they ran back down your breasts, decorating your curves and crowning your nipples like dew or rain on a lush flower. The next few handfuls of water he carefully let run down your flushed cheeks from your temples, wiping some across your hairline.
“Oh, I thought you didn’t like getting it on your face,” he mused, and you growled and rolled your eyes in response, just wanting more water right now, not his bullshit. Suitably chastised, he went back to silently bathing your front, interspersing handfuls of water with trails of his cool fingers over your neck and chest. You head fit nicely into the crook of his neck, and you let yourself relax into him. He liked that little hint of slight submission; his head tilted so that his cheek could nuzzle into your hair like a cat.
After a while his hand returned to your waist, then quickly slid down a little from there under the waterline, his fingers kneading gentle circles on your lower belly. You stretched against him, raising your hips, encouraging his ministrations lower.
His wandering fingers found their mark, gliding easily against your swollen lips under the cold water.
You arched lazily against him, enjoying the pleasure, but soon wanting for more. You reached back, feeling your way up his neck to stroke his jaw and cup the back of his head, and turned your face upwards to him, pushing his down to you. It wasn’t a very easy angle, but it was utterly, utterly worth the neck and shoulder strain to hear and feel him moan into your kiss, your hand tangled in the roots of his hair, his hand working even harder under the shallow water. The pleasure of the cool bath was mingling with the pleasure of his rubbing fingers and your respective delicious noises, and the ascent he’d brought you partway up before with his cupping, ice-filled palm was building back up again. You tugged his hair back, reluctantly breaking the kiss to speak, although feeling his cock twitch against your back as you did so momentarily drove what you were trying to say from your mind. “Alright, that’s enough,” you breathed once you recovered your senses, still rolling your fingers in his hair. “I’m ready, I’m so ready. Please, Cardinal, you gorgeous old bastard, just fuck me.”
He made a guttural noise that wasn’t immediately identifiable, but was definitely an affirmative in one language or another, and rocked his hips a little. He was really enjoying that tugging and stroking in his thick hair. Gripping either side of the tub you raised yourself in his lap and his free hand moved under you, the other still tucked between your legs. You felt him guide himself into position, his tip teasing your lips, and at his urging purr behind you you lowered yourself onto him.
You weren’t sure if it was the addition of the water or how well-prepared you’d been, but he was quick to hilt in you and while he couldn’t move much, he encouraged you to set up a steady pace with his free hand under your thigh, adding his lift to your rise and fall in his lap. All the while, two of his fingers continued to play between your thighs, shifting from flickering firmly on your clit to parting and massaging your filled lips and back again, working over every inch of sensitive skin.
This wasn’t going to last that long for either of you. Awkward as the position was in terms of the limited space and hard enamel of the tub, he was hitting all sorts of nice spots inside you from this angle, and he was deliciously vocal as always, matching your own soft but erratic sounds each time you sank down and took him deeper. The impending peak sat like a bowling ball in your belly, it just needed a little more push.
“Ahh, yes, Copia sweetheart, like that…” It was a lot of effort to shape your groaning into actual words, but it was worth it to encourage him. He liked hearing you drop your combative front and give him cute little monikers, and labour the foreign structure of his name, one you’d never quite get exactly right, but he enjoyed it all the more for that. “Oh, fuck, I’ve been waiting on this for weeks. I need to come for you… mmh, c’mon, harder-”
“Such a greedy, needy girl.” His voice was thick, more and more heavily accented, losing concentration- but exuding sex and roughness. He picked up on what you were after right away. “So bossy even when you need my help satisfying yourself. Were you wet tonight, watching me captivate everyone earlier, huh? Knowing it was you I’d be taking into my bed later?”
“Mmh, yes,” you breathed, increasing your pace slightly bouncing in his lap, trying not to let your tongue loll out like a thirsty dog- not yet, anyway. “So… wet. Oh, I- uhh-”
It wasn’t quite the contribution you’d planned to make, but it was the best you could manage.
“Soaking through your clothes for me while I teased? While I showed myself in my tight clothes in front of all those people?” His short nails dug painfully hard into your thigh, but the feeling was pale in comparison to the heavy cloud of pressure so close to bursting between your legs. “So shameless,” he purred into the shell of your ear over your choked impatient sounds, “I bet when you see me it’s all you can do not to slide your hand into your pants to play with your wet, aching little cunt right then and there, right in front of me and everyone else.” And he punctuated that with a firm smack, not as hard as earlier but directly across your swollen clit and outer lips, from the hand that had been massaging and flickering on you all this time.
That was all you needed. “Oh fuck, yes, that’s- ahh!”
He must have been holding himself back, because as soon as your voice cracked into a string of frantic cries he made a rasping, dark sound of his own and his arm around your hip became a vice, clamping your writhing hips to him as he buried his pulsing release as deep inside as possible. Still cresting your own wave and feeling his climax in vivid detail too, you had just enough wherewithal to reach back and shove your fingers into his hair again and pull cruelly- just a little fair payment for the use of the flat of his palm now and earlier- and the agonised roll of his whole spine and much higher, noiser gasp that that elicited from him sent a second smaller but no less toe-curling wave through you, moaning each other’s names hungrily.
You sank back from where your orgasm had sent you sitting bolt upright in his lap, resting again on his water-droplet-speckled and now heaving chest. A little wiggling and manhandling eased the pair of you apart, which was an even stranger sensation than usual under water, and the way a little patch of thicker whiteness blossomed like smoke in the plain water between your thighs in his wake managed to look dirty, fascinating and sweet all at once. He nuzzled firmly into the top of your head again, crooning quietly in a jumble of languages to himself, and his arms both wrapped around your waist, his thumbs circling the wet skin of your sides where they rested.
Presently both your breathing slowed back down, falling into the same rhythm. “Don’t fall asleep,” you said gently, reaching up and back to pat his cheek.
“Mmh,” he started against you a little bit at the touch. “Just, uh, resting my eyes.”
“We should probably get out of this thing.” You dabbled a hand lazily on the top of the water, spreading ripples. It was no longer ice-cold and fresh.
“And into that hot bed? With covers?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Hmm.” He tightened his arms around your torso, keeping you close. “Or just stay here, no?”
“Well, we could always order a fresh bottle of champagne. You know.” Your hand sank deeper in the water beside you, and you ran your palm from his knee up to his hip. “With an ice bucket.”
He made a thoughtful sound.
“And charge it to management.”
You could hear the grin sneaking back into his voice. “That is... very true. We could do that.”
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graphicspsd · 7 years ago
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Learn how to make Grunge and Noise Texture in Illustrator as brushes, stipple brushes can be used in many illustrations and most of them work great for all type of sceneries and paintings. If you are looking for quick stipple effect for illustration then, Create your own. I am sure you will going to love it! Download More contents, Graphics, Free Vector artwork, Mockups, Designs, backgrounds, icons, patterns and more from our official website: http://ift.tt/2dAqzLE Official Website: http://ift.tt/2dAqzLE Twitter: http://twitter.com/thegraphicspsd Facebook: http://ift.tt/2dY6VuO by GraphicsPSD
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ficsnroses · 5 years ago
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Sleepy Sex - Keanu Reeves x Reader
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❧ Summary : Keanu and you wake up and have some soft and lazy 3:00am sex :))
Prompt : requested by anon! this is prompt fic #20.
Word Count : 1.5K 
Warning : nsfw, smut. fluffs.
Keanu and you had retired to bed earlier that night, buzz of the caroling crickets out the window a serene nighttime song. The grim black sky holds the stars close, warmth in its opaque safety; similar to the way your husband held you just now into the late AM. Against your back, his chest lays still, unrushed, calm in the evening quietude with his love held close. Hot on your neck, his breath is steady and placid, gentle snores calming until his cocoa eyes drift open suddenly-
sleep thick with slumber pursuing flutter. Emitting a gentle yawn, the gruff of his throat drags quietly into the mute bedroom walls, lips smacking contently before drawing your body closer. With a gentle hum, he nuzzles deeper in to the satin skin of your neck, callous palm slightly trailing up into the hem of your shirt to rest on your bare stomach; smiling dozily to the scent of your Californian citrus body wash.
In a drowsy delight, his body falls in harmony with your breaths, steady and calm as the night falls further, until he feels a gentle graze of your soft hand shifting to trace inside your shirt, resting on top of his much larger one. “Mmmmm,” You almost inaudibly moan, sleepy haze clouding your mind to the feel of his body so near. With a gentle turn in his embrace, you nuzzle into the dark of his chest, quick glance toward the clock telling you it was looming 3:00AM.
“Why are you awake?” You probe quietly, sleep thick on your saccharine tone. His chest is warm, inviting, a beautiful save haven for your mind to delight.
Chest rumbling quietly, the deep baritone of his voice rings adjacent your ear. “Why are you awake,” He returns, more of a statement than question. With his palms snaking into your shirt yet again, he soothes gentle strokes up and down your bare back, hauling you closer, both your eyes rested shut in the morning awakening.
Keanu has always been this way with you; the way he touches you, browses your skin so lightly; so loving; your body left tingling as his warmth enthralls through your nerves.
“You woke me up.” You rational, giggling quietly with your head leaning up slightly, a delicate kiss dotted to his jaw. Full and bulged, your mid brushes against his manhood, tent swollen inside his boxers, warmth swelling when your palm brushes over the clothed wood. A sly grin tints your lips, sleepy eyes fluttering with a gentle blush when you speak. “And what’s this?”
“Your ass was brushing against me.” He defends, fingers now dipping into the waistband of your flannel pajama bottoms. “Just happens when you’re around.” He sighs, chuckling through a breathy yawn, fingers trailing suggestively low into your underwear.
“Yeah?” You sheepishly sigh, wet kisses falling your lips embeded to his jawline lazily as crisp AM air filters the window panes; a chilled tinge to your skin. “Wanna feel you closer…” You breathe through warm, gentle kisses now to his neck, palm delicately rubbing his bulged cock that only grows greater.
Keanu’s mouth soothes soft, gentle hums of pleasure as he places his palms to your hips, soaked into your riveting touch as your fingers explore his boxers, peeling down just enough to free his thriving balls and girthy cock. His member radiates tender heat, fully erect already for your body’s taking. “You gonna take care of me?” He smiles into your neck, own fingers slipping off your bottoms as he palms your heat, sturdy digits circling small motions to your mound in order to spread your slickness, preparing for the way his cock would sleepily pump your moistly wet, warm folds soon.
Middle of the night sex wasn’t uncommon for you and Keanu; in fact, it happened a couple of times a week to be exact. When you’d wake in the early morning rise, craving to feel the other close, snooze would ultimately wait until you’d finish, a late night bliss in the comfort of your silky sheets protruding your bodies.
Your arms loom around his shoulders, open mouthed kisses peppered over your neck and collarbone from Keanu’s lips. With your eyes still closed, you sluggishly stroke his cock in your palm, his tongue slipping past the barrier of your teeth when he comes down for a tender kiss.
“Ready baby?” He whispers, shifting to hover over you in missionary position, voice raspy and quiet as he takes hold of his generous member, guiding it to your entrance, sinking in fully; hitting to your end when you nod him encouragement. You both sigh in relief, sleepy eyes drifting shut to the feel of the other’s warmth cocooning around. The bed rocks gently to your moving bodies, headboard thudding as it always does in the dark morning light when you wake for a quickie together, fingers tangling his chocolate mane when he rests his face between the dip of your full breasts.
“Perfect,” Keanu murmurs, soft moans tousled with breathy sighs as he thrust in slowly, savouring in the heat of your cunt sinfully tight in the early hours. Sex like this was one of Keanu’s favourites; the way his body would mindlessly relax further, finding pure bliss in the calm of the night within you. His fingers rub against your wet folds, spreading your nectar all with ease over your clit in circular motions as he adds to your pleasure, cock deliberately pumping in and out with your fingernails sinking to the blades of his shoulders. Without much foreplay, his member stretches you whole, the burn so sweet; mixed with delicate pleasure as he places gentle kisses along the column of your neck.
Barely whimpering, you softly moan when his hand stays planted to your hip, his spare trailing up your shirt to knead your breast, each vein of his cock brushing blissfully against your tightened, slick walls. As if almost habitually, your smooth legs wrap around his waist, urging to feel him deeper, quivering underneath him, craving further friction of sweet, sweet relief from his breathtakingly leisured pace.
Keanu’s cock is so big, so full, so heavy that despite taking it slow, with both your bodies tired and sleepy, he’s already delved you to the brink of release, so close when his cock burries repeatedly inside your pussy, hitting the end of your hallow. Incoherent babbles and soft, broken breaths pepper his ears from your lips, mind a jumbled mess almost when he quickens his pace selectively, waves of pleasure surging both your bodies. You relish the way your bodies fit together so perfectly good, breasts pressed flush against his chest, failed attempts to ease your whiney moans when the nirvana you’d been plunged into becomes far too much.
Jerking faster, his cock throbs within you, twitching, pulsating, muffled moans scattering his breath, his substantial length gliding with ease from your glossy arousal, so perfectly slicked on his cock. His forehead presses against yours, eyes closed when you clench around him, gentle moans low into your neck when his orgasm nears.
“You feel so..” He stutters, breath hitched in his raspy throat. “So good, sweetheart.” All of you is too much; too beautiful, too tight, too warm, and he’s far too madly in love to not feel full to each nerve ending. Arms pulling you closer, he warns of his release, faltering. “Gonna cum,” He tools when your walls pulse around him, cock throbbing, sheathed all the way in through your shallow breaths of praise, the sting he’s leaving delectably pure.
“Cum, baby. Cum inside me.” You shiver, butterflies to the way his heavy base of balls thud against your searing core each time, the pad of his thumb softly soothing under the soft skin of your eye. “I’m close too.” You gasp, speechless at how well he’s making love to you, how good he’s fucking you; even through sleepy thrusts and fatigued gestures.
“Together?” He kisses you tenderly, one hand tenderly flicking your clit as he brings you to your end when you nod, both your orgasms syncing together in beautiful harmony; a symphony of praises and gentle, discreet moans into the skin of each other. His hips snap into your cunt through your releases, bringing you down from your high as your pussy aches for him still; never quite having enough.
He’s addicting, and he’s all yours.
Only yours.
Collected now, he slips out of you and collapses on the side of the bed before raising to get a towel. Affectionately, he cleans whatever he’s left behind off your thighs, subsequently wiping himself clean, tucking into bed beside you following discard of the the towel into your wash hamper. Delicate, soft kisses stipple to your shoulder, your neck, your head, anywhere his lips reach when he pulls you into his chest again, satisfied and relaxed when his hands pull the duvet over your bodies, sheltering you against his physique.
“Feel good?” He whispers quietly, smiling through a sex satisfied yawn when you kiss his chest, cuddling further in.
“So good.” You assure, a yawn of your own emitted. And to the sound of his steady heartbeat and a quiet “I love you” whispered off his lips to your ear, you drift to a beautiful slumber, honeyed dreams in anticipation to wake up to this dream of a man the next morning,
hazing over.
➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴
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