#Sam drake x reader

[agender-wolfie]

When you’re reading a fic that says it’s gender neutral but then “You wore a short skirt and tied up your hair”

[sideeve]

men who for some reason love to see the sight of you withering in pleasure. crying for that sweet release you are oh so desperately chasing. but the attempt is futile without him. you need him. you’ll crack without the attention required.

his favorite sight is to see your bottom in the air as your face is pressed against the pillow, drool slipping from the side of your lips, tears soaked into the fabric. your arms are tied behind you as you take every last drop of what he’s giving you. mumbling something about “this is gonna take”. all five senses are gone. the feeling of his cock drilling into you is pure bliss. every thing turns white in your mind as you feel white ropes of his seed full your cunt to the brim; some even spilling out.

“nuh uh, sweetheart.” he pulls himself out, using his two fingers to catch the stray droplets before pushing them back into your sensitive, abused hole, making your body jolt.

men who like to have you on your back after a long day at your job, perfectly placed between your legs as he ravishes your cunt like the dog he is. he’s been waiting to see the sight of your dewy cunt, waiting to hear your incoherent whine of you begging for him to slow down. but the pleas fall deaf on his ears. all he can hears are the lewd noise that your sl*tty c*nt makes on impact.

ignis , DANTE , vergil , sam drake , joe goldberg , JOEL MILLER , aki hayakawa , KISHIBE , SUKUNA , GETO , nanami , toji , leon kennedy , JASON TODD , JOHN WICK , JOHN CONSTANTINE , wolverine , plus your favs !!

guidelines to request .

[durrtydawg]

Look, Don't Touch.

(Sam Drake x F!Reader smut) 3rd person

CW: It's smut, it's sex polleny, and it's got a big, fat, dubcon warning. Also a bit of angst, hurt/comfort, internal conflict, etc etc. For detailed tags, please check out ao3, as funnily enough, I literally cannot add any more text into this post 😛

Masterlist

This is long. Horrendously long. Like... *18,000 words* or so, so I don't want to hear any yapping if you click 'read more' and don't actually want to read. Dare I say, quantity over quality? Sorry to those that wanted this split into parts, but honestly... I couldn't make it work, so here we are. Regardless, I hope someone out there enjoys this!! It's been my baby for a while, and whilst not the best thing I've written, I need to let it go before I, too, become a reprobate by force x

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭

“In the wake of the Second World War, the elusive Polish alchemist Dariusz Cassimir left behind a legacy shrouded… ooo… in mystery. Hmm. Shrouded is a fun word.”

“Big door. Ominous etchings. Doesn’t get more ‘shrouded in mystery’ than that. This has gotta be it.”

“O-kay… But how do we get in?”

She shrugs, turning back to him with a raised brow. “Oh, I don’t know, Sam, maybe the huge lever right next to said mysterious door?” She purposely targets her flashlight at his face, making her way over to the lever. He swats her with the notes in his hand.

“Okay,” Sam sniffs, striding ahead with a crack of the knuckles after he fixes his own torch to his belt, “‘Cause of the attitude, I get to open it.” He grins sarcastically, making sure to gently nudge her shoulder as he passes, thrusting the papers he was reading from into her hands.

Her eyes roll, but she finds the cockiness endearing- and he knows it.

“Known for his work in chemical weapon and explosives development throughout the Great War, and the start of the Second, Cassimir's true genius lay in the shadows, where he conducted secretive experiments with potions, remedies, and poisons, yada yada… yeah, right.”

She continues reading out from where he left off as Sam checks around the lever for any dodgy set-ups that might send the two of them plummeting into an inescapable pit, falling victim to some sort of horrific creature ready to maul the two of them to death, or perhaps crushed by a flurry of falling boulders, etcetera, etcetera. No death trap is too garish in this line of work.

“Oh. Listen to this. Ahem. Despising intrusion into his work, Cassimir was rumoured to eliminate those who stumbled upon these experiments without permission.” She hums. “So, not only was this guy insane, but he was a murderer too- hey, be careful with that lever, please... I don’t want a repeat of the Tuscan trap door incident.” She sighs, fingernails trepidatiously digging into the straps on her backpack as he braces his hands against the lever.

“Still not over that, huh?” Sam snorts, turning back to her with an arrogance-tinged smirk as she grimaces, folding the paper and stuffing it into her jacket pocket.

“My ankle isn't.”

He scoffs. “Every possible trap we’ve come across today has either rotted itself out of action or has been destroyed by some other poor bastard that got here before us. Besides,” He stamps a boot against the ground to prove his point, “It’s a dense stone floor. I don’t think trap doors are a cause for concern here.”

“Famous last words.” She murmurs as he pulls on the lever, a soft grunt signalling that it takes more effort than initially predicted. “You sure you don't want to find another way in before you start fiddling with- nope? Okay.”

“What’s…the worst…” he pauses, re-positioning himself to give a little more force to the lever, “that could- Ow, Jesus!” He cuts himself off with a hiss of pain as the lever finally gives and he stumbles upright, wincing.

“Aw. Too much strain on your big, strong, man muscles?” She questions teasingly as Sam glares at his hand, flexing his fingers with a frown.

“The damn thing pricked me.”

A sudden deep rumble through the ground prevents her from quipping back as both of their attention is now taken by the stone wall in front of them slowly sliding to the side with a wince-worthy scrape.

“It’s always fascinating how something so archaic can still be so…mobile.” Sam says inquisitively, causing her to snort.

“Talking about you, or the door?”

He offers her no more than an unimpressed glare, lips pursed and eyes heavy-lidded, still scrunching and un-scrunching his hand.

“You’re lucky you’re cute, ya know.” He grumbles, watching a cheeky pout form on her lips.

“Thank you. Anyway, it's probably not that old. Cassimir used this place as his base between the first and second world wars, which, in the grand scheme of things, isn't that long ago. I’m guessing, with all the influence he had-”

“-He spruced up the place. New doors. Lick of paint. Few booby traps for good measure. The usual stuff.” He concludes for her with a slow nod, eyes narrowed at the lever, attention diverting back from the door to his palm.

She snickers.

Her smile deepens into a grin as he bares his teeth in irritation at his tiny little injury.

He grumbles, thumb rubbing small circles on his palm.

She steps forwards, “C’mon, grump. Serves you right for touching things you shouldn't.”

“Well, thank you for exhibiting the utmost care and patience.” He responds, brows knitted together as he continues to scrutinise his hand.

“Don't guilt-trip me.” She turns back and holds onto his wrist gently to inspect the palm of his hand. A little more than a pin-prick sits in the centre; a fresh bead of blood oozing to the surface each time he wipes one away. 

She pouts as she examines it, then offers a quick glance to the lever to see…nothing interesting at surface level. She turned to him with a moue. “What is it? A splinter?”

“Don’t think so.” He mutters, wiping the speckles of blood onto his jeans, nose scrunched into an expression of disapproval.

“Well…You’ve gone through far worse. C’mon.”

He hums in amusement at her dismissal of interest before the two of them begin to walk down the newly revealed corridor.

As she disappears off into the distance, Sam takes a glance at his assailant, cringing as he notes a tiny divot in the centre of the smooth, varnished wood of the lever- furthermore, two engraved letters beneath it. ‘I D’.

“The hell does i-d mean?” He mutters, glancing at his hand again and wiping it on his jeans for the second time with an irked grunt. Strange.

“Noooo!” Her voice echoes from around the corner, attracting his attention back to the task at hand. Or… away from hand, rather.

He turns in her direction, approaching from behind as she grumbles at yet another obstacle. She frowns down at a dormant stone pressure plate on the floor.

“Guess old Cassimir really doesn’t want us getting in there, huh?” Sam mutters, making his way beside her as they both look at yet another enormous door blocking them from proceeding any further.

“Yeah. What an asshole.” She turns to Sam, tongue swirling contemplatively around a molar as he looks down at her with narrowed eyes. “Any lever this time? Stupid thing won’t do anything.” A tut from her makes him chuckle, watching her impatiently scuff the toe of her boot against the plate as if it’ll make it do something other than sink into the ground a little.

He shakes his head, hands on his hips as he ponders their next move. After a moment, he pouts.

“You… think you can squeeze through there?” Sam questions, eye-line fixing onto the discoloured stained glass of a small window framed by stone above the door.

Her cheeks puff up as she assesses the window held ajar by some sort of rusted hinge. A slow exhale deflates said cheeks before she shrugs.

“You severely underestimate the size of my ass, but yes. If you can get me up there, I can certainly try to ‘squeeze through’.”

“Hmm.”

He leans back, making a show of inspecting her rear with exaggerated intrigue.

“Oh, y- yeah, you might be right.”

She flashes a middle finger. “He's here all week!”

“You'd love that, huh.”

“Stop flirting for a sec and help me up.” She teases, feeding his ego slightly.

Ready to crack on, Sam crouches a little, a small grin pinned to his face at her quip. He puts his arms out as she takes a few steps back.

"M'lady."

"Alright, Patrick Swayze." She chuckles, diluted sarcasm in her tone. “Watch those hands.”

He scoffs in response, patting his thigh as if to non-verbally tell her to shut up and get on with it.

After a little run up, the pair manage to execute a relatively successful boost manoeuvre, resulting in boots scuffing against the stone wall as she scrambles the remainder of the way up to the window.

“Nobody puts Baby in a fuckin’ corner.” he commends her dexterity from the ground, his continuation of her reference sending a grin creeping onto her face as she pushes the window further open, wriggling her way through the gap.

“Damn right.” She replies, eventually disappearing out of his sight. She slides down the wall, dust and flecks of rubble curling off of the surface as she approaches the ground.

Dusting her gravelly hands off on her leggings and adjusting the torch clipped to her backpack strap, she begins to look around.

“Shit.” is all she can muster.

Sam glances up at the stained glass, thumb rubbing at the sting in his palm, eyes focusing on coloured Latin lettering separated by intricately crafted lead framing.

Firmitudo Intus Aequilibrio

“You okay?” He pushes, his voice muffled from behind the wall, head tilted to the side in thought as he reads the stained glass. The cogs turn, congruous smirk etching its way onto his lips- his knowledge of Latin permits a little smugness, or so he tells himself.

She nods slowly, before realising that Sam can’t actually see her, almost too distracted by her new surroundings to offer a verbal response.

“Y-yeah, I’m all good.” She clears her throat, turning off her torch. “This place just… you ever seen Shrek 2?”

The stone walls, worn and weathered, stand sentinel, bearing witness to the passage of time. They’re tall. Imposing. But there’s a beauty to their eeriness, aided by the soft, colourful glow from the bottles that haven't succumbed to time.

"Sure. Great hangover movie."

Dust particles dance in the air, caught in the soft rays of crisp winter moonlight filtering through thick tree roots that make up the ceiling, casting ethereal streaks around the room.

"Well, picture the shelves in the dinky potion room."

The shelves, carved untidily into the walls, cradle a trove of relics from bygone eras. Flasks, vials, and jars, now cloaked in the patina of age, their contents long untouched- some clearly from medieval times; when the crypt was first used as an underground apothecary, to more contemporary receptacles used by Casimir himself to store whatever insane concoctions he experimented with; early 20th century brand logos indented into glass, less worn and more transparent than others.

"The one that cat gets the potion stuck in?"

"That's the one." She titters. Sam hums in understanding. "Ha. 'That cat'."

The lair’s height is imposing, a testament to the grandeur of Casimir’s forgotten pursuits. Yet, amidst the stone walls, pockets of soft, colourful radiance emanate from a select few frosty flasks perched high on the shelves. These remaining potions, survivors of the relentless march of time, cast speckled, saturated glows of purples, pinks, and blues around the plethora of other vials and tubes that have greyed and muddied over the years.

It’s all quite something.

She steps back, lips parted as she takes in her surroundings, fingers wrapped around the straps of her backpack. Her breath catches as she feels sudden give in the ground beneath her, calming when she realises she’s trodden on another pressure plate, though this time it doesn’t remain unresponsive.

As the door behind her rumbles and begins to grate upwards, she turns as her heart rate spikes in shock. Sam, still standing on the corresponding slab, watches in intrigue as the room she’s in reveals itself to him. He smiles when he sees her, the mechanism suddenly making sense.

Wagging a finger up to the latin-scribed stained glass window, he chuckles knowingly.

“Balance.” He says, winking at her as she tilts her head cluelessly.

“What?” She asks as he saunters into the room, shining his torch around.

“Latin. See, I’m the brains of this whole operation.”

“Hm.” She huffs. “Thought you were the beauty.”

He scoffs in response to her attempt at sarcasm, walking past her to the heart of the room as the door scrapes shut again. “Hey, you said it.” He smirks over his shoulder at her as she shakes her head.

A stone slab serves as what Sam presumes was once Casimir's makeshift desk, worn and weathered and mossy like the walls that surround it. On its surface, an array of flasks and mixing bowls, each bearing the damage of countless failed experiments, sitting in a dusty mosaic of scientific chaos.

“Spooky.” She mutters, crouching to inspect some brittle bird bones sprawled out on the stone surface. Aged twigs and fibres, remnants of ingredients that probably pulsed with life once upon a time, now lie in withered repose, their potency surrendered to decay. Sam huffs.

“Oof. It is stuffy as balls in here.” He mumbles, hands skimming through parchment laid on the surface.

The room's cold dampness has left its mark on scrawled notes and papers, ink faded, edges curled, bearing witness to the crypt’s neglect.

“Cold as balls.” she contradicts with a punctuating shiver.

Sam gawks at her as if she’s just said something completely insane, but she’s too busy plinking flasks around to notice. It's goddamn roasting.

That, and her idiom makes no sense whatsoever. He’d laugh if he wasn’t so preoccupied with how antsy he feels.

He rolls his neck, an uncomfortable crack making him huff again, yet as his head hangs sideways, he catches a glimpse of something a little more substantial than a few sheets of faded parchment.

Nestled within the clutter, a chunky, leather-bound notebook sits, worn from use, but still relatively intact. “Hell-o.” He purrs, pushing aside some of the papers to grab it.

“What’cha got?” she chirps, still facing one of the many shelves, crystalline clinks reverbing off of the walls as she continues imbibing in her own curiosity.

“I think,” Sam's fingers delicately trace the timeworn pages of the notebook, each page imbued with the secrets of Casimir’s elixir recipes and incantations, “we have got our hands on Mr. Magic Man’s recipe book.”

“Ooo. Anything juicy?”

He leans a hip against the stone, cupping the book in one hand whilst the other tugs at the sherpa collar rubbing against the back of his neck. It is stuffy.

"Uh, yeah, there's... there's definitely some interesting stuff in here," He replies vaguely, his mind preoccupied with the subtle shifts in his body's temperature.

“Spill.” She says, finally diverting her attention from the shelves, a frosty puff of air billowing from her lips as she speaks.

As his eyes scan the complex instructions and cryptic symbols, a particular recipe catches his attention, intrigue somewhat subding his discomfort. "Here's somethin’," he murmurs, his voice just managing to keep his uncertainty under wraps. “'Whisperwind Tonic,’” Sam scrunches his face up, his brow furrowing in concentration as he reads the intricate script.

“Grants the drinker the ability to move unseen and unheard for a short period of time.” He scoffs at the page, subconsciously rubbing his injured hand against the corner of the notebook in an attempt to relieve the subtle ache that’s beginning to radiate from the centre of his palm. 

“Bullshit.” She snorts, putting a bottle back to its rightful place on the shelf in front of her.

“Right.” He clears his throat as he continues to peruse the notebook's contents. Did he eat something funny?

“Keep going. I’m intrigued.” She turns around, making her way towards him to take a peek at the book herself.

His eyes narrow as he faces her, her proximity suddenly more pronounced, the surrounding heat sending him into a slightly dizzying haze. He shakes off the feeling, rolling his shoulders before reading again.

"There’s... potions to manipulate memories... truth elixirs. Nonsense. All this stuff for people who can’t get laid. Probably just a bottle of rohypnol, right? I mean, how else can someone make a ‘passion elix--”

He coughs suddenly, choking on his words before looking at her with some sort of incredulous bewilderment that makes her stop in her tracks.

“What?”

“Jesus, girl. You got enough perfume on?”

“I don’t- what do you mean?”

He scoffs, grimacing. “Whatever you’ve got on? Ease up on it, next time, huh?”

She grumbles, hopping up onto the table beside him, pulling the collar of her jacket up to her nose. She sniffs. It smells like nothing. Just… her. Not good, not bad. She kicks his shin playfully.

“If you think I smell like shit, just say. It’s been a long day.”

“Nah, you don't…” He scratches his palm again, a faint frown creasing his brow as he notices a faint discolouration at the centre. He rolls his wrist to determine whether or not it was just a trick of the light. “You smell really good, actually.” He speaks, though it’s like he’s unaware he’s said anything.

She does. Good enough to eat, in fact, and as she leans in, resting her chin on his shoulder with an amused smirk on her face, Sam's line of sight is dragged from his hand to her eyes, narrowed slightly by her bemused smile. His vision blurs slightly and his brows furrow as he struggles to refocus.

She inquisitively tilts her head, and slowly, he finds his eyesight refocusing on the part of her neck left exposed between her hair and the collar of her jacket. It looks soft. Smooth.

Inviting.

The gentle glow of colour coming from the shelves behind them, reflecting off of her skin mesmerises him, and he finds himself wondering what it would be like to bury his face in the curve of her neck, to dig his fingers into its nape, and let his teeth leave small, speckled bruises behind, to hold her in place and breathe the sweetness in as her breath cools his skin. It's an urge, almost. Raw and overwhelming.

One that he quickly snaps out of.

His cheeks flush as he realises the deviance of his own thoughts, the suddenness of it all leaving him... reeling, to say the least.

“Okay, Romeo.” She teases. “Sometimes I think we’re lucky that this line of work doesn’t have an HR department.” Her voice feels like a hug and a punch to the jaw at the same time, nonetheless, her giggle pulls him back to reality, his attention snapped back to his aching palm.

He frowns deeper, a faint purplish hue beginning to emerge at its centre, subtle discolouration spreading slowly like tendrils of ink on cotton, becoming more pronounced by the second.

He swallows hard, the thickness of the scent oozing down his throat still, leaving him momentarily breathless.

"I, uh..." he stammers, his mind racing to find an explanation for the sudden onslaught of whatever-the-fuck-just-happened, whilst all the layers on him begin to feel like cling film. It’s irritating. It hurts, even.

Her smile falters a little. “I’m… just kidding- hey, you good?” She reaches for his wrist to see what keeps grabbing his attention.

“It’s nothin’, forget it," he stammers, voice a little strained as he closes his sore hand into a fist. He shakes her off of him with an unconvincing snort in a poor attempt to save face.

His attempt at self-preservation only causes her to mirror his embarrassment, and as Sam feels the scent dissipate slightly, an uncomfortable tension takes its place.

He watches her eyes narrow in the corner of his vision, suspicion flickering in their depths as she studies her companion's sudden unsettled demeanour. 

“Right.” she mumbles, slapping her thighs awkwardly. “Well… I’m not one to waste perfume on a job. Especially with you for company, so…” her voice trails off, waiting for what she thinks is an inevitable clapback. It doesn’t come. Her face reddens as her eyes move around awkwardly, though fortunately, he’s too focused on turning the pages of the book to notice.

”Hey.” She says, prodding his temple with her forefinger. “You… sure you’re okay?”

Sam flinches at her touch, a jolt shooting through him as he sniffs to maintain his composure, standing up to distance himself.

“Mhm,” he replies hastily, his gaze darting away from hers as his mind races to find a plausible reason behind the overwhelming sensation. “Yeah, yeah, fine…just- think I ate…” God it’s hot. “-Damn jacket.” He grunts, putting the book down to tug the denim off of an arm, shaking it off of the rest of him impatiently.

She hops off of the stone and backs away, a perplexed laugh escaping her.

“Don’t be evasive!”

“What? It’s…I’m hot. Shit.” Sam mutters, his irritation mounting as he tries to regain control of the situation. He scratches the palm of his hand, and, with a sigh, moves further away from the stone counter, throwing off another layer.

Left in his t-shirt, she gawks at him as he preoccupies himself by looking at his hand once more.

“Samuel, It’s like… sub-zero in-”

“Look. It is warm. I am warm.” He scrunches up his hand with a sigh, frustration progressing strangely fast as he cuts her off. “So, I’ve taken my jacket off. That a problem?”

Her grin falters. She awkwardly teeters from side to side as she decides to keep quiet.

“I could smell… somethin’, thought it might’ve been you, now it’s gone. Just…” He trails off, taking a deep breath as he tries to steady himself. Tilting his head up to the ceiling, he basks in the brief recess from the sweltering heat clinging onto his body, “Just…park it. Please.”

She frowns, her gaze lingering on Sam for a moment longer before she holds her hands up defensively, dismissing the strange encounter with a slow nod as she turns her head back to the shelves.

“Parked. Dick.” she retorts, a façade of amusement decorating her tone in an attempt to lighten the mood, covering the awkward swallow and slight flush in her cheeks one might get after being scolded by a teacher in front of their class. Meanwhile, Sam fixates his attention back onto the notebook in his hands.

As he continues to flip through the brittle parchment, a developing sense of unease begins to tighten his chest. From the corner of his eye, he watches her hop off of the table, tightening her ponytail as she ambles awkwardly back over to the shelves. He parts his lips to apologise, but a painful pulse coming from his hand re-diverts his attention.

He squints between his hand and the intricate symbols and arcane diagrams, words written in faded text, but just as he begins to take it in, he feels himself struggling to focus.

That same sickening sweetness from moments ago slowly assaults his senses again; it’s like a thick, unshakable mist, seeping into his nose, clinging to his throat and settling heavily in his lungs.

Attempting to clear his throat without drawing her attention, Sam shakes his head, a slight furrow forming between his brows as he does so. The back of his hand instinctively rests against his nose, as if warding off the unexplained, worsening discomfort. 

"You…” he swallows, the room seemingly closing in on the tension his outburst had created, “Y’sure you're not wearing perfume or something? Jeez, it’s givin’ me a headache," he mutters with a meekness that she finds irksome.

She scoffs in irritation. "Oh my God, no! What are you talking about?" she retorts, pointing emphatically toward the shelf of vials, her impatience palpable as his attention remains surgically attached to the notebook. “Will you focus?” She looks back at the shelf.

Five of the vials remain untouched, surrounded by that same soft glow he was fixated on moments ago. 

“We need those ones, right?”

Sam, however, remains frozen, his eyes now locked onto a specific page.

“Id. The word- it wasn’t a… damn abbreviation.” Freud's structural model of the goddamn psyche.

“Huh?” She prods, arms folded, brows arched.

“Freud…Id and ego.” Unable to detach his attention from the inked pages, he ignores her as his lips move silently, mimicking the phonetics of the symptoms written on the frail parchment.

The pinprick- sore, burning now, in fact- has become the centre point of a spider's web of dark hairline veins, matching the worrying description in front of him. His gaze shifts between the book and his own hand, a growing realisation drilling into his brain as he watches the deep colour reach his wrist. This is when he remembers the engraving on the lever. Id. the insatiable id, the book says. He scoffs at the audacity of it all. Wonderful!

His own blood flow pulses through his ears, clouding him with more anxiety and indignation, and dread pitches in his gut-

"Sam!"

"What?" He snaps, abruptly smacked back to reality as her irked voice pierces through his fearful focus.

As her gaze settles on him, flustered, brows knitted together in vexed concern, she momentarily holds back her annoyance, her brows furrowing as he blinks, attempting not to entertain the gravity of the situation unfurling in front of him.

 “Jesus, are you PMSing or something?” Her sarcasm goes hand in hand with her raised brow, smirk combo, amused disbelief taking her over. Yet, her own annoyance gives way slightly to genuine worry as she observes the uncharacteristic vulnerability in his expression. "What’s in that stupid book that’s got you so worked up?"

She looks… good. When she's flustered. Annoyed. The flyaway hairs and the frown. He supposes she thinks she looks intimidating. It's having the opposite effect- nope. No. That's enough. 

"I’m not-'' he fumbles an attempt at trying to reassure both himself and her. "Just…” he clears his throat again, the musky sweetness still violating his respiratory system as his eyes twinge with guilt at his sudden attitude change. “Nope. Doesn’t matter." Quickly closing the notebook, Sam clutches it under his arm, straightening his posture, and offering a nod and an awkward smile. “I, uh, didn’t mean’ta…” He trails off, a soft haze forming over his vision. 

She's not stupid. She sees the growing urgency in his eyes that hints at a deeper worry, and it makes her huff. Why can’t he ever just say what he’s thinking? Or, perhaps better, apologise properly?

She sighs and shakes her head. She spends far too much of her energy stressing about him and his wellbeing, when he probably couldn't give a shit about her outside of a job. Enough self sabotage.

“Whatever…can you… get me up to those shelves? Place is starting to give me the creeps.”

Should he show her the book? He looks back to the dark colour continuing to weave through the veins in his palm.

He considers the danger he’s in- that she’s in, if this isn’t, in fact, total bullshit. His blood flow picks up the pace, and he gets hotter. His mouth feels tight. Wet and dry at the same time. God, he feels sick-

“Oh my God, Sam, snap out of it!” She steps closer to him, making him stiffen in apprehension. “I need to get on your shoulders. Focus, please.”

Please. Please please please- the rasped desperation lodged at the back of her throat makes him shudder. He wants to hear her say it again and again and again-

“Do I need to smack you?” The thought of her palm thwacking against his cheek slices through his thoughts, her voice low, bordering irate. He swallows again.

A strained shake of the head is all he can manage in response, and the urgency of their situation propels him into action- if they could just get out of here, he can distance himself. Fresh air cures all ailments, no?

"Alright, just-" he mutters, voice tight as he takes a hesitant step closer, throwing the book to the ground and kicking it aside. His stare flickers briefly to the discoloured veins now reaching his fingertips, and he swallows in silent acknowledgment of the dangerous path he seems to be treading. Still, with a deep breath, Sam carefully lowers himself to a knee, jaw clenched, skin clammy as he beckons her over.

Oblivious to the tumult going on inside him, she moves, adjusting her stance over him. His hands find support on her hips as she sits on his shoulders, but as their skin brushes directly for no more than half a second, his breath catches and he almost chokes.

“You okay?” She asks out of obligation, looking down at him warily.

Sam inhales deeply, nodding in response, jaw clenched, desperately trying to ease up his heart rate as he pushes himself up, raising her to the height she needs.

He tries to steady himself, but as every sense intensifies to an unfathomable degree, he has no choice but to close his eyes to try shutting them out.

Sam can feel the rhythmic rush of her pulse resonating through him, every beat amplifying that strange suffocating sweetness that continues to overwhelm his senses whenever he’s close to her.

“Hurry it up.” He winces.

“Pot, kettle, black.” She retorts, leaning forwards, backpack unzipped as she reaches for the first vial, and as the softness of her voice reverberates through him, his spine is graced with a shiver.

As she reaches up, her body shifts slightly, and he tightens his grip to keep her steady. He can’t help but notice the way her breath hitches, just for a second. It’s a small sound, almost imperceptible, but it makes his chest tighten with a fierce, protective… is it desire?

"Almost there," she says, her voice a little breathless from the fear of falling off of him. "Just...keep still."

"Doin’ my best," he murmurs, his voice rough with suppressed emotion. He wonders if she can feel it too—the electric current. A persistent, dull thrum tugging and squeezing and pulling at every cell and synapse in his body.

Her thighs tighten around him ever so slightly as she reaches for a further vial; the fabric covering them brushes against his ears, the sensation overwhelming enough to make him grunt and dig his fingers even deeper into the flesh of her hips.

As he does so, the details of her body become vividly apparent beneath his fingertips– every fibrous contour of muscle, the softness of fat, the rush of blood beneath her lycra-clad skin– his senses are heightened to an almost unbearable degree, and his head turns sideways as he tries to steady his shaky breathing- the dichotomy of duty and… maybe temptation… playing out in a near-excruciating loop in his mind.

He feels a pull. His nose- his mouth, are lured towards her inner thigh. He swears his stomach growls at the scent of her. If only he could taste her. Drink her down- devour her until he drowns- Shit. No. No-- they need to wrap this the fuck up. Get the hell out of here.

“C’mon.” he grits- whether it was more to her, or his way of trying to pull himself together, he doesn’t know. He lays his head against her thigh, willing for it all to be over.

He wants to yell at her- tell her to stop being so inquisitive-- to stop finding the need to read the labels on the fucking vials she’s still gathering, but if she speaks back to him again his knees might just give.

You're going to be fine, he unconvincingly tells himself. That's what you do. Deal with things. More importantly, she’s going to be fine. Fresh air, he thinks again, they’ll be out of here soon.

Sam’s eyes begin to glaze over again, fingers pressing ever-so-slightly deeper into her as he tries to keep his vision focused.

He’d be able to control himself, he’s sure of it. He’d stare down at the floor as they both retrace their steps out of the crypt, in his head repeating the notion that whatever’s affecting him will just… go away- it’ll be fine if he just pushes through it, it’ll be fine if he just pushes through it-- diminishing any thoughts of how easy it would be to grab her whilst she walks just ahead of him, blissfully unaware of what he wants to do to her.

Oh. What he wants… to do to her.

Pinning her against the wall. Tearing through that perfectly stitched seam on her leggings right between her thighs before even giving her a chance to react, or, God forbid, to protest before he breaks her in.

He absentmindedly licks his lips.

Thoughts of the financial reward, the glory of finding this place- fulfilling their client’s desires, blah, blah, fucking blah, fade into the background as a primal spark flickers deep. The awareness of the perilous temptation turns into some sort of hypnotic drumbeat in his head, rational thoughts singed at the edges, slowly burning into ash and flaking away into thin air.

As his nose and mouth press against her inner thigh, the tension peaks and he becomes overwhelmed by her; Sam's breath quickens, and a possessive hunger simmers behind his eyelids.

His lips part, brushing against her, teeth grazing against fabric- an exploration that hovers on the edge of giving in to something far removed from sanity.

Feeling a warm tickle, she diverts her attention from the shelves in front of her to Sam’s head between her legs.

She swallows, a fleeting pull in her core as she takes in the sight of his fingers dug deep into her hips, but quickly shrugs it off in favour of understanding why the hell he’s breathing so heavily against her, and why on earth his mouth is pressed against her leg.

Sam inhales, opening his mouth wider, taking shallow breaths.

Then, he bites. 

It’s a feral snap into temptation he was trying so hard to fight against.

As his teeth clamp down into the meat of her thigh, she squeals, wobbling, then falling back and off of his shoulders, her skin grazing harshly, simultaneously snapping him out of whatever sick trance he'd fallen into.

“Fuck!” She shouts as her body thuds against the ground. She painfully drags herself into a sitting position, face contorted into an expression of complete disarray as he gawks at her, horrified.

“Shit- are you-” Sam rushes over to see if she’s hurt, but as his hand brushes against her shoulder, he has to fight against himself in order to suppress a groan. It’s too much. He painfully wrenches his hand away, subduing his own body's desire to keep it there. He cowers back. “Oh, God.”

One hand cradling the back of her head whilst the other pulls at the fabric of her leggings, she frowns, cracking her neck and rolling her shoulders uncomfortably as she leans herself away from him.

Wide-eyed frown fixed to her face, she checks her hands for blood. Nothing, thank God, other than a dull ache that sears through her upper thigh.

“Did… did you just fucking bite me?!” She asks, voice quiet, dipped in anger.

Sam doesn’t reply. He’s shaking, hand clasped to his forehead as he glares at the floor, unable to bring himself to look at her. His hand obscures his vision and he breathes heavily at the sight; the purple steadily darkening into the veins in his wrist, fading into his forearm. The book is right. And he’s absolutely fucked.

Meanwhile, she double takes. Sam, leggings, Sam, leggings. There’s a slight fray in the fabric.

She pulls herself to her feet, wincing at the all-round ache in her body, astounded.

“What the hell is up with you?!” She hisses at him, taking a step closer before he holds a hand out defensively.

“I- I’m- no, stay over there, I… I don’t know. I don’t-” He splutters, doubling over as if he’s been punched in the gut as she gets closer. He stumbles backwards, back smacking against the stone table with a force that makes him grunt. “Somethin’- something’s happening t’me.” He rasps, wide eyes glued to the palm of his hand.

“Yeah, no shit.” She spits, looking at her leg again. “You broke the fucking skin- how-” Her voice is tinged with exasperated irritation… that quickly morphs into extreme concern when she finally takes in his appearance. “Jesus. W-what is going on with you?”

Sam’s sweating, despite it being cold enough to see their own breath, his sleeves clinging to his arms, fabric glued to his torso as his chest heaves unsteadily. His eyes are wide, and as they traverse away from his palm, down his body, it’s clear that they’re wide in realisation. 

“You-” He’s fucked. Which means she’s fucked. How on earth is he supposed to explain what’s going on here? “You’ve gotta go.”

She huffs, ignoring his plea. “Do you need… water, or something? Painkillers?” She asks, panic creeping into her voice, dropping to her knees as she throws her backpack to the ground. She holds it open, hands ferreting around for her water bottle, clattering around the vials that miraculously remain intact, whilst Sam’s eyelids grow heavy.

“N-no.” He shakes his head, turning back to her to make sure she’s unharmed, but as soon as he looks at her, he’s unable to avert his gaze from the fullness of her thighs as she kneels. “God.” He mumbles, salivating.

Jesus fucking Christ, he’s losing himself.

He musters the strength to force his eyes shut, and it hurts. Every part of his body wants her. To look at her, to touch her, to… taste her, even- but the slither that remains of his weakened mind can't allow it.

Shaking her head, she retrieves her flask. “Here. You’re sweating.” She says, walking over to him. “It’ll cool you down.”

Sam swallows a whine, and lowers himself fully down to the ground with a self-loathing groan, hunched over, eyes squeezed shut as he attempts to drive out all sorts of depraved, wanton thoughts that keep flitting in and out of his head unprompted.

“N-no. Don’t come near me.” his hushed murmur comes out gravelly as she wearily dips her head down to meet his eye line, concerned at how he’s lowered himself to the ground. She takes a nervous breath, kneeling to his level as he lets out a defeated sigh.

He keeps his view of her hidden by his arm as she extends her own, ignoring his plea to instead tilt his chin up and hold the flask up to his lips. He shudders, his whole body trembling as his eyes unwillingly fix on hers, cursing under his breath at the touch of her cool hand on his skin. His gaze draws lower to her waist, her hips, her soft stomach- his hands clenched tight into his jeans as he fights against the impulse to lunge at her.

She tilts the flask and upwards and watches his throat bob as he swallows. She swallows too, almost choking on her dry throat. The longer she looks at him, the more the chill in her bones dissipates- the more she feels warmth seep into her bloodstream.

Her skin against his feels like molten metal, and he shakes with the ever-growing impulse to grab hold of her. To touch, and to be touched. He pushes the flask away in a brash attempt to get her away from him, then holds his breath as he tries to focus on the small bit of reprieve the cool water has granted him, even if it is no better than a bucket thrown over a forest fire.

“Any better?” No answer. She huffs, screwing the lid back on before backing up a little. “Can I trust you to get me back to the window so we can get out of here, or are you gonna bite my other leg, too?”

“Can’t-” Sam blurts panicked, eyes wide as his head darts in her direction.

“Oh my-” She laughs mirthlessly, strenuously rubbing her face before eyeing the room to see what else she can come up with. “Where’s that book?”

No. He’s going to throw up. He can’t let her find out. If he just waits it out, everything will be fine. His gaze moves to where he’d kicked the notebook- just under a shelf. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

“Jesus chr- where’s the notebook, Sam! The one you were reading!”

Unfortunately, her eyes follow suit, and as she catches a glimpse of the frayed leather binding, she crawls towards it.

He watches in a sort of trance-like state as she flattens herself against the ground, moving her torch around underneath the dusty shelves in search of the book he’d kicked under them minutes ago. “If you’re not going to tell me, I’ll look for answers myself.”

This is perfect. He could go for her right this second. Pinning her down would be easy- she's so small compared to him. So weak. A pretty little lamb, all ready for him to slaughter. He suppresses a moan at the thought.

“Got it.” She jumps up, fragile book in hand, and he smacks himself in the face with a grunt.

Revolting. Selfish.

She starts flicking through the pages, face riddled with ire as Sam's breath hitches. “No. Don’t- don’t look in th-” He lets out a panicked whimper as his body reacts to the feeling of his shirt peeling on and off his skin; he starts to hyperventilate. Clasping his hand over his mouth as he strains painfully against his jeans, he winces. “Shit.” He swallows, covering his face with his hands as he leans back against the stone. 

She watches his Adam's apple bob as he quietly gulps down air in an attempt to calm himself down.

“You’re hardly in any position to tell me what to do.” She reads; pages upon pages of notes and diagrams elude her as she takes cautious steps towards him, but as his hands shoot out to stop her coming closer, she stills, and takes him in.

She notes the uneasy tremble, the sheen of sweat, flushed cheeks, and the uncharacteristic panic. Perhaps even more alarming than the complete absence of his calm and collected nature is the wispy nebula of blackcurrant-purple bleeding outwards from the more concentrated black in the centre of his palm, up into the veins leading towards his elbow.

She steps closer.

"Don't." He snarls, flecks of frightened spittle coming through his teeth. And this time, she does as she’s told.

She exhales shakily, eyes fixed on the sight of his hand- she swears she sees the dark wisps expanding.

"I- I need to find out what that… purple shit is."

She keeps flicking through, rubbing at her thigh as it twinges with discomfort.

"Yeah, well," He mumbles through gritted teeth, shoulders heaving as if he's fighting the most ferocious of fevers. “Sometimes ignorance is bliss.”

"Ignorance is only making things worse." She snaps, fingers desperately frittering between pages of Casimir's stupid fucking disintegrating notebook. "Why don’t you just tell me what’s happening?" She laughs- no mirth in sight, eyes watering as her head throbs and her insides churn with dread. “Tell me what’s going on. I bet I can fix it.”

“You can’t fix- Shit, there’s that goddamn smell again.” He laughs ironically, before hissing in discomfort and writhing slightly.

She rests the book on the stone desk with a frustrated grunt, holding it open with one hand whilst the other arm wrestles off her jacket absentmindedly, sighing in relief as the cool air ventilates under her t-shirt. She shakes her head in disbelief before flicking to the next page.

She looks at Sam dead in the eyes, trying to steady her own heart rate as she does so in hopes he’ll pass her red cheeks off as some sort of side effect of the cold. Cold. It was cold a second ago, wasn’t it? 

As soon as she looks back at him, a stifling humidity continues to build. It must be the intensity and the… abruptness of the situation. She goes to remove her jacket, until she realises it’s already off. She feels like she’s wrapped in a layer of plastic- hot, flustered, and her leg fucking kills- This is the last time she lets herself get so… pent up over him.

“You’ve- gotta go.”

“Go?” She huffs, annoyance permeating her tone. She shudders, her face running even hotter, his voice alone enough to render her knees weak, and her throat tight. “You'd love that, wouldn't you? Ever the hero. Asshole.”

“No, I- Fuuuck!” He groans loudly into his fist, trembling. Admittedly, it unnerves her, so she turns her attention back to the book, fingers scrambling from dog-eared page to dog-eared page.

“So, you’d rather I let your stubborn ass stay here, suffering from- who knows what- ow, my God.” She hisses, the urgency and irritation in her voice making a return as a dull ache throbs through her thigh. 

“You can’t be near me.” He mutters into his hands as he doubles over, just loud enough for her to hear.

Inhaling sharply, a brief but intense pang of emotion stirs within her, an ache born not only from the profound lack of understanding of what’s transpiring, but also, admittedly, the slight sting of… is it some sort of infantilization? She thought they were over that! They’ve been partners for months now, and he still doesn’t trust her? Why is he trying so hard not to let her know what the problem is?

And then there's the rejection, of course. That hurts almost as much as her developing headache.

“Well, unfortunately, I have to be near you. I can’t get out.” She points to the stained glass window. “I need you to get me up there-” He cuts her off abruptly with an irritated grunt, jaw clenched in warning.

“I can’t!” He shouts.

“Why?” She shouts louder, stepping closer again.

“Stop-”

“Don’t tell me to stop-'' She follows his eyeline, landing on the writing on the window that he’s transfixed on again. “Firmitudo Intus- what?” The script grates clumsily out of her throat as she rubs feverishly at her sore leg. “Tell me what it means! What’s wrong with you?!”

“S-stability in- in balance. How- ughh, shit- how the pressure plates worked.” Sam huffs, words punctuated with a flurry of uncomfortable grunts. “Why can’t you-- ah, God dammit- just take a hint!” He groans loudly into his fist, trembling.

“Take a hint?!” She spits, voice wavering. “Screw you! Just tell me what's going on- or, or better off- tell me the fact that you can't stand the sight of me."

“No, no, no- stay there— It's not like that, I- you don't get it, it's —”

“Spell it out for me then! Stop being so fucking secreti-”

“I’m going to fucking jump you.” He bellows, his face twitching as a wave of blistering, blistering heat courses through him. His fingertips dig painfully into the stone behind him, finding leverage.

She ogles him, bewildered.

Then, after a moment, she guffaws, her fear momentarily usurped by such a ridiculous statement.

In that moment, as she mocks him, Sam feels a surge of strength shoot through him, perhaps a side effect of his desperation not to face further humiliation. It's as if some dormant force within him has been nudged awake, overpowering his rational mind, and with a grunt, he drags himself upright against the table; movements fluid. Predatory.

“You’re going… to jump me?” She sneers, her voice low, teeth bared in a sour smile as she turns to the window, momentarily considering how to get up there herself. “Hah! Of course you are. Any threat to avoid telling me what’s happening, huh? You're such a-”

Her insults die in her throat as she’s shoved harshly into the wall. The fragile book slips from her fingers, thudding onto the floor.

She stares up at Sam, wide-eyed and startled. His painful grip on her wrist, the back of her head pulsating after colliding with so many hard surfaces- it’s all making her ears ring. His grip is firm and bruising as he pushes himself onto her, his stare intense. Unrelenting.

“What are you doing?" she stammers, her voice trembling, brows furrowed in frightened confusion.

But Sam doesn't answer. Instead, he leans in closer, his breath hot against her skin, eyes locked onto hers with an unsettling intensity that makes her stomach flutter. She can feel his heart pounding against her chest as he presses into her, matching the now frantic rhythm of her own as heat radiates off of him.

Sam's certain he can hear her blood flow as he holds her gaze, his senses heightened to the point of overload. The warmth emanating from her skin, the rapid rhythm of her pulse beneath his fingertips, and the heady, sickly sweet scent of her- it’s all driving him to the brink of madness.

“What… the hell are you doing, Sam? Let go.” she whispers, her other hand tentatively going for him in an attempt to wrench herself free, though, with an instinctive speed, he captures her other wrist, pinning it on the other side of her head as a startled gasp leaves her lips. She struggles against his grasp with an anxious whimper, but he only tightens his hold, his wild expression a frightening mix of confusion and horror. Yet his grip on her remains tight. 

"Make it stop-," he stammers through his tightened jaw, his voice trembling with remorse. "I don't know what… I didn't mean to- I need-” A wave of dizziness washes over him as he speaks, a growing tightness in his chest, threatening to send him spiralling into oblivion- he feels like he’s going into cardiac arrest.

Her eyes are wet with anxiety as he cages her in, brows wavering as if she’s attempting to prevent herself from tearing up.

But he’s frozen. Mind rapidly toing and froing between wanting to let her go, and wanting to see her cry. What he’d give to see her eyes brimming with tears, his fingers tight against her scalp while her lips grow swollen, drenched by her own drool as he rams himself down her throat. “I can’t- I can’t stop thinkin’ about… Jesus, the things I wanna do to you.”

His fingers tighten their grip further, pushing himself harder against her, keeping her painfully upright against the stone. Their eyes meet once more as her own chest starts to heave. God. The way he’s looking at her. It’s… carnal.

Amongst this sudden yo-yoing of fear and confusion, she feels herself heat up more, a cramping feeling tugging at her abdomen as he stares at her, breathing deeply- slowly.

“What?” She just about manages to rasp, lips parted, wrists aching, head pounding. “What are you talking about?”

She knows exactly what he's talking about. She can feel him pressing against her.

“You s- sound like a mouse.” He mumbles as if inebriated, one side of his mouth twisted into an almost malevolent grin that makes her stomach drop as he presses his forehead against hers, rendering her virtually immobile. “So small. So scared.” He mocks with a pout as she shudders. “But you’re not just scared, are you?” He speaks through his teeth, eyes trailing down to watch himself push his hips against her with a deep groan.

The sudden friction sends an embarrassingly high-pitched gasp spilling out from her mouth before her teeth have a chance to trap it. Fuck.

His eyes go back to hers, darkened, pupils blown. “Thought so.” He smirks. “I can pretty much taste you from-” a grunt permeates the end of his sentence as his darkened resolve wavers.

He shakes his head, a sudden maelstrom of panic and culpability in his chest making his eyes water. 

“Not- me. I didn’t mean-” She remains glued to the wall, wide-eyed and disoriented, as he stumbles over his words, her heart racing as she watches him lose balance and fall into her, palms braced at either side of her waist as the vice-like grip on her wrists finally relents. “I’m s-” he hisses, his body burning as if demanding him to succumb to what it wants.

Much to her own dismay, she doesn’t move her freed hands- there’s no attempt to push him away again. She’s so caught up in the shock of how good that felt and all of the confusion and guilt that are beginning to plague her head. She must've hit it hard.

Sam’s hand digs into the small of her back, his shoulders slumping as his fingers slip just beneath the hem of her shirt. His grip is tight and desperate as he drops his head against her chest, leaning into her for support as he whimpers, gasping for air. “I can't help it- I want- to stop, but-” 

She takes in a shaky breath, momentarily paralysed, as if her body and vocal chords are in combat against her brain. There's something hypnotic about the way he's looking at her, something frightening about the desperation and the spontaneous Jekyll-and-Hyde-ness of it all, yes, but equally… satiating… as if this is something her body's been vying for for ages.

She swallows hard at the feeling of his skin on hers, and the soft, needy sounds coming out of him- at his weight keeping her firmly pressed against the wall, and the smell of his sweat, cheap detergent, the gift set aftershave he feels obligated to use that’s making her heart thump even harder.

All such normal things- usually so unnoticeable. But it’s a sudden assault on her senses that she can’t shake off- it clings to her, burning her eyes, creeping up her nose, down her throat, settling in her stomach. It’s grounding. Exhilarating, to the point where she wants to tug him closer and inhale him to the point of suffocation.

And she’s baffled by this revelation. Nauseated, almost. She should be angry with him. Furious. How dare he manhandle, bite, bruise and then withhold an explanation from her. Instead, she can’t help but feel an intrinsic need to keep him as close to her as possible. To see, smell, hear, taste him.

Why is her body reacting in such a way? Why is she soaking wet? 

Sam’s terrified. The thoughts he’s had in the past few minutes have been depraved. Actions violent, and he would rather die than cause her harm, so he’s trying with all his might not to let himself give in. Even if he wants nothing more.

From day dot, she’s been off limits. And he's always stuck to that.

He's aware of how she reacts every time he's pushed their banter a bit too far, leaving her flustered. Every hint of jealousy she's let slip when he's talked about his ‘dating’ life. He knows about her ‘crush’– cute, he thought, but inevitably fleeting, surely. Unlike his own feelings- oh no! They’ve fused to every fibre of his being like hot glue.

This whole situation is nothing but a cruel joke. Like fate has conspired to mock him- to force him into getting his way via a horrible, depraved, manipulative circumstance since he's been too much of a pussy to act upon it otherwise. She’s right. He is stubborn. He should’ve let her pull the damn lever. At least that way, she wouldn't be a victim. Or... perhaps less of one.

His stomach lurches and he slumps to his knees, hands maintaining an unstable hold on her hips. He feels pathetic. “Makeitstop.” He heaves again.

He tries to speak again, but as he bucks his hips again, completely against his own will, the blazing friction against his own jeans causes him to hiss, his forehead collapsing against her thigh, eyes wide as he pants for air. “Holy shit.”

She looks down helplessly, shaken and clueless. She watches his hand dig into her thigh, holding it in place as he burrows his face into it.

“You smell so fucking good, I-” He cuts himself off with a groan, shaking his head and pursing his lips. His voice comes out rough again. Dark. Crumbled asphalt, absinthe poured straight down her throat, settling into her bloodstream. “No, no, no…” He just about pulls away to give himself air, eyes flitting up to her, warring between despair and yearning.

The sight of it makes her… warmer still. Hot, even. The bite on her thigh burns as his proximity agitates it. “What should I do?” She rasps, fingers anxiously pulling at the curls by the nape of her neck as if she’s trying to withhold from touching him. “I don’t know what’s… happening.” She whispers, vision losing focus for just a moment.

"I need..." he grunts, struggling to find the words. He weakly tugs at the collar of his t-shirt, but his strength is failing him. "I need you to... take it off... please," he begs, his voice barely more than a desperate whisper.

He looks so pretty like this. On his knees… whining softly, cheeks flushed, his hands grasping at her. It’s so unlike him. Samuel Casanova Drake- reduced to this. The flirtation. The teasing. Getting her all worked up on purpose, only to be reminded that she’s nothing special- that that’s just the way he is. All bark, no bite. Is he being taught a lesson?

She swallows thickly.

She thinks about how it felt when he grinded himself onto her and forcibly suppresses a moan as a pleasurable jolt shoots up her spine, setting her hairs on end. Her head is swimming. This is all so… artificial. So odd. She’s always been attracted to him, but fuck, this is wrong.

She hesitates, her heart pounding in her chest as a wave of guilt-ridden nausea rushes through her. Is- is she taking advantage of him?

“Please.” He repeats, his plea punctuated with a desperate whimper. She blinks, nodding, and with trembling hands, she crouches and reaches for the hem of his shirt, her fingers brushing against his heated skin. Gently, she lifts the shirt over his head, her touch lingering on his arms as she pulls it free.

Sam gasps as the cool air hits his bare skin, a momentary relief from the feverish heat consuming him. He leans heavily against her, his breathing ragged, his body trembling. "Thanks," he murmurs, his eyes closing briefly as he savours the sensation.

She swallows hard, feeling a strange mix of fear and sickening lust fester in her bloodstream. Her hands remain on his arms, steadying the both of them.

"What now?" she asks, her voice barely audible.

Her eyes are drawn to the sheen of sweat covering his body; the way dark hairs lay matted on his chest, softly trailing down his stomach, past fading ink and mottled scars, beyond where his belt keeps his jeans smouldering against his skin.

She watches her own hand rest under his chin, tilting him up to her. It’s like she’s watching it unfold through a TV screen.

Delicate wisps of condensation coming from his parted lips makes her mind wander; What would they taste like? How would the roughness of his stubble feel against her? Her mouth, her neck, her bare stomach, down down down- she's had these thoughts before; fingers delved between her thighs as she stares breathlessly up at the ceiling.

Saliva pools under her tongue as she imagines rutting against his pretty nose and open mouth like a bitch in fucking heat- oh god- her teeth graze her lower lip as her thoughts begin to spiral further than usual- why are they spiralling like this?

She’s sweating.

There’s so much desire- so much insatiable hunger in his eyes alone as he looks at her that it makes her thighs tense together. As she does so, she’s reminded of the bite again. It fucking hurts, snapping her out of her depraved trance; her eyelids flutter unsteadily as she regains focus, her cheeks burning.

His pulse thuds frantically against her thumb, and her nails stroke gently at his skin as his shoulders rise and fall harder, amplifying his restraint which is growing more and more painful by the second. 

“You…” he pauses and grunts, fighting himself as his eyes remain shut. “Don’t… know what to... ugh- hurts. It’s too- too much." Every tiny little touch feels like he’s being swallowed whole. It’s like a cold spring and a flow of lava all at once, and he wants to scream. 

She pulls her hands away, looking at them as though she’s the cause of the problem. Hoping to herself that her sick mind will sort itself out if she distances herself from him.

He shakes, sweat beading off of his chest, blood pumping through him at a dizzying pace as his eyes pine for her.

“N-no.” He’s craving- starving. A trembling hand raises to her wrist, and he winces as his fingers wrap around her. As his fingertips dig into her forearm, the thought of sudden absence of her touch feels like a death sentence. “Don’t.”

He swallows audibly as his body jolts again at the touch. The contact hurts him. Arouses him to such a painful degree, but he’s not letting her get away. He can’t- he doesn’t want to. He’s too far gone.

Sam’s eyes squeeze shut and he screws up his face in some sort of pained internal conflict. He grabs her wrist tighter and she winces, but as he drags her hand back to his face, her eyes follow.

“Help.” he blurts, finally deciding it’s time to bite the proverbial bullet as he sits fully and leans back against the stone table, accidentally pulling her with him. “I need- need you- your help. The last pages- another way to-” He eyeballs the notebook. “Make it stop. Before I hurt you again.”

She picks up the book and kneels. Her thumb swipes across his cheekbone as his hand rests over hers. Her hands on his bare skin are fucking excruciating; he can feel every single ridge of her fingerprints despite her stillness, like thousands of knife edges grazing his skin all at once.

“Okay- I- I’m looking.” She says, and oh, she sounds like velvet. Liquid gold that he just wants to swallow forever and ever and ever. He’s transfixed by her lips as she speaks, absentmindedly snaking his other hand up the nape of her neck and into her hair.

His fingers tighten their grip, gently pulling her head backwards, and with watery eyes he nuzzles into her neck, breathing deeply- slowly. “Hmmm, God.”

His hips buck towards her, and the feeling of his lips grazing over her neck make her swallow hard. She doesn’t need to read the book to know what’s going on. He whispers breathless apologies, guilt making his heart ache whilst he loses control of the rest of his body.

Her eyes continue to flit around the pages nervously, no longer to read, but to hide. This is ridiculous. Her skin hasn’t felt this sensitive before.

Her eyes fall over a likely explanation; a sketch of a lever mechanism, an embedded sharp needle, designed to assault the user of the lever- the intruder, all annotated in scrawled purple ink.

This artifice serves twofold: first, as a deterrent to the audacious; and second, as a penance, a punishment to those who dare disrupt the harmony of my sacred space. May they find the scales tipped; themselves lost within the labyrinth of their own psyche, ensnared by the very primal urges that govern the basest instincts.

She looks at his hand again, and takes in the details written on the page. Primal urge. Base instinct. Her cheeks flush as she converts the words into layman's terms, confirming her theory.

“It’s an… aphrodisiac.” She affirms.

As the wayward thief succumbs, such symptoms shall manifest: The skin shall burn, the point of breach becoming the source of a webbed discolouration as dark as ones fevered desire, and the pulse shall quicken with an infernal craving, subjugating the relentless pursuit of knowledge with the all-consuming tug of the insatiable id. The mind, entangled in the labyrinth of unbridled lust, shall forsake rationality. The thief shall be led astray from their pursuits, ensnared by their own voracious yearnings, knowledge plundered.

Sam hears the uncertainty in her voice as she grapples with the implications of the infection. Their eyes meet for a split second, and he feels a surge of humiliation that’s so unfamiliar to him he’d probably wretch if his mouth wasn’t preoccupied.

She takes in a shaky breath returning to the page again as the pieces begin to fit together.

“S’there another way?” he murmurs into her, the low vibrations of his voice making her close her eyes for a moment. She grunts to herself, forcing her eyes back to the page.

In the safety of companionship, the afflicted may find respite. Should the infection remain unchecked, the heart will strain beyond its limits, ultimately succumbing to the weight of its own longing.

The ‘cure’  is plain and simple. Two people. Balance. Or, by the sound of it, death.

She shakes her head.

The thought of said cure makes her shiver, tongue rolling over her bottom lip.

A coil begins to tighten in her abdomen as he groans into her skin. His hips buck towards her, and the feeling of his lips on her neck make her exhale harshly.

She looks at her leggings as another sore, shooting pain emanates from the bite mark, Sam’s wandering hands peeling apart the small tear in the fabric as his teeth graze against her throat.

Realisation fills her lungs, a bubble forming by her tonsils; the disorienting mix of undeniable, rising pleasure and panic creeping into the forefront of her mind.

Her skin looks mottled, veins deep purple.

Just like his.

The telltale discolouration, mirroring the ominous staining making its way up Sam's arm sends a shiver through her as she comprehends it all. As she watches his brows waver in internal dispute, her own contort in… concern, yes. But also a sense of desperation, wanting to feel more as Sam drags himself more upright with a cracked groan that makes her lips part and her throat seize when she’s pushed harder against him. More importantly, perhaps, the relief from knowing that neither of them can help it. That, for what it’s worth, is a mutual need.

She takes a gamble, grappling with the part-insidious, part-alleviating truth as she looks back to him, legs parting to straddle him properly.

Her chest heaves; the air feels thick, and there’s a strong pulsing ache between her thighs every time her nipples rise and fall, sore and tender underneath her tight sports bra. All of her clothes feel tight, creating tangible friction all over; her whole body, her face, her skin- is clammy and sticky and so fucking overwhelmingly hot.

A small part of Sam is still trying to stop, to control himself, but as he drags himself away from her neck to look at her, it’s clear that this prolonged contact has its consequences; his psyche swells with a sudden growth in appetite as she settles over him, and suddenly, he barely registers that he’s doing anything at all.

Moving his hand to the back of her head, he pulls her closer in a sudden move that draws a gasp from her as her hands brace themselves on his chest- the sudden harshness of his desperate fingers tugging at the roots of her hair is unexpected. The strength coming from this movement alone renders her unable to pull away- even if she wanted to.

He pants harder, unable to let her go, but so afraid of causing her harm all the same. His fingers impulsively flex at her scalp, and she gulps down a whine at the sensation as her eyes squeeze shut.

“I’m- I’m s- I can’t stop. I’m sorry-”

A hand moves from his chest to the back of his neck. With a gentle pull, she guides his gaze downward, her fingers pulling apart the material to trace the mottled purple that’s started snaking across her skin.

Sam's heart lurches in his chest, an undercurrent of panic rising up his throat like bile.

"No, no- what did i do? I-“

“Sam.” She hushes, pressing her forehead onto his, forcing him to stay still- to focus. She silently implores him to find solace in her. “It’s... we’ve just gotta...” Her eyes non-verbally tell whatever flecks of her Sam that’s still in there that she’s here for as long as he needs her to be. That she wants this. She's wanted this. That she’s willing- God, she’s willing.

This is where he feels himself begin to dissolve away completely. Prolonged closeness. Her voice. The heat rising throughout her pretty little face, the growing heaviness of her eyelids, her freckles subdued by an involuntary heat spreading through her cheeks.

And, he can feel the warmth pooling between her legs.

It doesn’t take a genius to realise that this kind of reaction from her is fuelling him. He needs more of it. Craves more of it.

He’s slipping just beneath the surface, but he’s too tired to drag himself up for air. He supposes he doesn’t really need to, now. He could drown in her and die happy.

She’s starting to feel it worsen, too. The ache. The coercion of mind from body.

Her lips brushing against his feels like molten sugar; a searing heat that’s so sickly sweet he can’t pull away despite the blistering heat that’s destined to leave a nasty burn.

“We’ve just… gotta…” she repeats slowly, voice low and speech slurred. She can’t finish her sentence- every part of her is swarmed by the need to close the gap. She has no idea how he’s managed to hold out for so long.

With a shaky exhale, he nods, releasing the tension he's been painfully holding onto, allowing himself to surrender to the overwhelming heat pulsing through him. He finally allows himself to sink under as she plants a tentative kiss on his lips. A kiss which he only returns, though much more urgent- more voracious; it’s like stumbling across an oasis in the middle of the desert- it’s his first sip of fresh water in days, and it makes her eyes widen.

She brings a hand round to the back of his neck, clinging to him eagerly, her thighs spreading further- non-verbal consent, a silent plea for more as she begins to feel the simmering deep in her belly hurriedly rise to a boil.

He grinds himself upwards without a thought, and she whimpers into his mouth. The friction, the sweet, fucking friction has him press back into her desperately, wanting more, sending a groan up from deep in his chest.

He’s gone. Rationality dwindled entirely as the slightest bit of pressure is applied, steadily being replaced with a frightening strength and burning need to have his way no matter the consequences.

She feels her heart rate quicken as she takes in the sight of his pupils. They’re fucking blown out. The pretty specks of amber that normally contrast the darker brown in his irises have been eclipsed by a deep amethyst.

“… want...fu-” Sam’s voice becomes lower still, grating through gnarled teeth, and as his fingertips dig into her back, keeping her in place, he shifts again- he’s so hard, so perfectly angled underneath her- she salivates as she chokes out. “Want to f- fill you up.”

Hey eyes gloss over and her brain numbs. She nods frantically. Heat floods between her thighs with a vengeance, rationality waning as a shockwave shoots through her arched spine. She wants everything to be touched by him.

The third time comes quicker; more brutal, more needy, taking advantage of her lack of composure as she succumbs to his grip, his mouth hungrily taking a dive for her neck again, except this time there’s less restraint. None, even.

“Oh-- sh-mmf-” Her body shudders as she slurs her words, and as his teeth pull harshly at her skin, she cries out into her hand.

Her legs tremble, knees aching as the stone beneath them digs in, breath pitching in her throat as she’s hit with a shamefully sudden climax.

Her wide eyes water as her hand remains clasped around her mouth, chest heaving as she struggles to register how little action it took for her to come, waiting for the pressure to abate and the fog to clear.

Instead, as she feels his hands roam, and watches his frantic eyes fail to decide what to settle on, the fog only thickens, overruling any semblance of critical thinking.

It hits her like a fucking tidal wave, in fact; she can’t fathom anything other than the fact that she needs more.

And in that split second, she surrenders to the pull, inhibitions fizzling away as she leans in, closing the distance between them again with a fierce determination. A surge of adrenaline tips her over the edge and she takes control, seizing him hungrily, fingertips digging harshly into his scalp to bring him back up to her. He protests, growling, biting harder until he feels himself pried away by force, her nails pressing into his jaw, leaving crescents as she gets him where she wants him, lips crashing together again in a tumultuous collision of lust and fervour.

She doesn’t know what to do with herself. She wants everything off- to feel her skin pressed up against his, but the time it would take to unbutton and unzip is a repulsive notion that ignites an almost animalistic frustration within her. The thought of it drives her insane- feverish fingers move from his hair and chin, and instead scramble for his belt buckle, clumsily tugging it apart as his teeth mirror the action at her bottom lip.

The messy exchange of teeth, tongue, and spit takes precedence over Sam’s brain, and he feels himself fall into her, torsos glued desperately together as the heat in his belly burns stronger. Hot blood pumps rapidly to his cock as her choked mewls drag him perilously close to the edge after no more than some mere friction.

His mouth traverses down her chin to her throat, ravenous groans muffled against her skin as he grips onto her for dear life, beginning to feel some give in the confinement of his jeans as she unzips them. She doesn’t even try to pull him away this time- her objective has changed.

He’d swear if he could, but his brain can’t even conjure up letters any more.

His teeth pierce the delicate skin of her neck, and a startled cry escapes her lips as she loses balance and tumbles backwards onto the unforgiving stone beneath them.

Sam looms over her, his weight pressing down until she feels almost crushed beneath him. Only his hand, gripping the back of her head with a fierce intensity that verges on violence, prevents her skull from meeting the ground with bone-shattering force.

His weight bears down on her, the back of one hand planted firmly against the ground underneath her head, while the other moves to maintain its bruising hold on her jaw, thumb hooking around her bottom teeth.

Every nerve in her body seems to betray any remnant of morality as she keens, her thighs tightening around him, trapping him in place as grinds himself against her. He selfishly draws tiny pinpricks of blood from her neck, and she claws at his arm, holding it against him as she bites and sucks what he gives her- almost every inch of her has become an unforgiving erogenous zone; it's all too much but not enough. It’s not enough. Teeth piercing her skin, tongue lapping up the mess- It’s an exquisite sort of agony, and she wants- needs- 

“More.” She murmurs around his thumb- or is it his finger now?

His teeth leave a trail of fire along her collarbone, her jawline, finally settling on her pulse point as it throbs beneath his lips. He grunts in response. There, he bites down harder, eliciting a guttural sound from deep within her throat as she struggles to catch her breath beneath him. Every break of the skin permits small bleeds of that relentless purple colour, rendering her virtually feral as she grows increasingly more overruled by the substance.

Rough hands roam beneath her t-shirt, sending goosebumps rising over heated skin as speckled blood bruises settle around her neck wherever his teeth have failed to puncture. To find some semblance of control amongst the chaotic frenzy, her trembling fingers pull at the waistband of her leggings, her urgency matching his own.

Fumbling clumsily, he joins her, his fingers tugging at the fabric with an urgency nigh on feral as his other hand harshly kneads at her waist. God, he wants to dig his fingers into her flesh, to break the skin, tear her apart, and fucking consume her from the inside out.

Before the waistband can even reach her thighs, she’s reaching down, pulling him out, drawing him towards her as a dribble of precum trickles over her fingertips, and he pushes up his torso to watch.

He’s sensitive. So, so, sensitive. In her desperation to pull him closer, she squeezes her palm around his shaft, and he chokes on his sudden gasp, hands smacking hard against the floor to hold himself up. 

Fuck. She wants to hear him do that again.

She grips him harder, stroking up and down with a cruelly tight fist. He’s all breathless whimpers and fluttering eyelids, allowing her to revel in the sounds as he drinks in the sight of her hand wrapped around him.

He shudders, undone, from virtually nothing, shaking violently and audibly moaning behind pursed lips. He can’t even think to muster up a verbal warning before he comes, pearly hot liquid spurting over her hand, dripping down onto her stomach. Yet, similarly to her, there’s no comedown. No time for shame about such a short build up. He’s still hard, red hot and weeping, body vying for more as his eyes glue themselves to the mess he’s made on her t-shirt, seeping through to her skin- Christ, her skin-

He’s hooked; her plushness, every recess and every convex curve, how her t-shirt clings to her stomach, made tacky by him. If it were possible, he’d cover her in him just so he could spend minutes watching it drip and bead and roll across and in-between her soft, smooth, warm skin. Sam’s so mesmerised that he barely even takes in the fact that he’s pushed her t-shirt up, his tongue and teeth licking and pulling at her stomach until his hips buck harshly at the saltiness of her sweat mixing with the flavour of his own stickiness. He shudders.

Her hands slide and scramble, clumsily unhooking her bra, scraping her knuckles on the floor beneath her before pulling it all off, over her head; all just in time for his mouth to open and cram as much of her left tit inside as he can. Sam sucks with a ferocity that’d be frightening if this wasn’t a shared affliction, rutting his hips sporadically against the bunched up fabric of her leggings rolled down to her thigh.

Her nipples are hard, sore, aching, and the pressure of his teeth rabidly biting and pulling, contradicting the soothing warmth of his tongue rolling in tandem, make her jaw go slack and her brows knit tightly together as she tries to navigate the fluctuating sensations.

Her hands slide over the back of Sam’s neck and down his shoulder blades, to his waist, his hips, sticky fingers stretching, running over hairs and scars and flexing abdominal muscle as they reach for his cock, slick, swollen, and heated as it meets her palm. Squeezing him closer to her, Sam groans, mouth pausing its assault on her chest, face falling flat into it, bucking harshly as she impatiently pulls him close, close, closer, writhing restlessly ’til her leggings are low enough for her thighs to part enough to let him in.

Incoherent, mumbled moans are hummed and panted into her tender chest, hands digging into the flesh of her waist as his shaft is squeezed and dragged against her sopping cunt. She moans, a languid, filthy thing as he meets her swollen, sensitive clit, the sodden cotton of her underwear brushing tortuously against it as she brashly pulls them aside.

His impatience builds, fingers digging into her deeper and deeper until they become restless and tug fiercely at her leggings. She hisses sharply as her naked back scrapes suddenly against the floor, her body shunted downwards til one of her legs are fully exposed to air, allowing Sam to hook his knee under hers, pushing up harshly and pinning her thighs apart- access that they’re both burning for. She urges him on with a whine as he pushes down on top of her, words lost to the both of them, communication reduced to vying grunts and desperate writhing.

His pupils dilate enough to make him look feral, purple-flecked irises madly dancing left, right, up, down, as if committing the sight of her, greedy and parched, to memory, before he finally complies, long groan grating out of him as his tip breaches her slightly. He can’t hesitate any longer. His lips part as his thick cock sinks into her inexorably, leaving her completely pliant beneath him. Despite how impossibly wet she is, the stretch is still so intense- she feels like she’s being split in two; it’s both the best and worst thing she’s ever felt, but something she never wants to end.

“S-ss…” She hisses, screwing her face up in frustration as she tries and fails to say his name, nails digging into him more. “Pl-P…” She grunts again, frustrated with her inability to conjure words. Her thighs tremble, the sharp, tight warmth in her stomach tugging and pulling and obliterating every sense as she tightens around him, eyes flickering, rolling back almost painfully as he fills her deep, retracts, and fills again, each time not stopping until he’s buried to the hilt.

For a moment, head spinning, he stares down at the way her head falls back, eyes squeezing shut, arms flopping, knuckles smacking against the ground as she traps a warbled cry behind her teeth, greedily sucking him into her. He grunts, brows drawn together, and thinks he’ll never be sated again like this. It's perfect. If only it weren't manufactured.

Heat sears him apart from the inside out, savage gluttony evident in the way he gasps and he groans when his hips slam forward, over and over, pressed so tightly against her that each movement reverberates astoundingly against her clit. She’s so tight, so perfect, so wet, around him as she whines and bucks up into him.

Sam holds her down; hand pinning forearm, fingers digging deeply into stomach and waist, knee prying thigh from purple-stained thigh, pumping into her at a relentless pace; She groans as he harshly works her open, arching into him as her stomach tightens— tighter, tighter, tighter, until she’s screaming, unpinned arm smacking into his back, nails clawing crescents into his sweat-slicked skin as another wave of arousal floods every sense of her being.

She can’t breathe- she doesn’t want to- the energy needed to do so would take away from the white hot pleasure coursing through every inch of her. Liquid gushes, her cunt clamping down hot around him and squeezing, milking him so tight it makes him choke on his own sharp inhale, so good it burns- it’s almost excruciating. He shudders as he breaks, palm slamming against the floor to hold himself up when he comes, too.

She groans at the fullness and the warmth of him spilling inside her, breath coming out in messy, uneven bursts as she feels herself suck in every drop.

For a moment, she watches him come down from his peak, heavy-lidded eyes grazing over the vulnerable crease in his brow, the way his cheeks flush as he catches his breath above her, and his parted lips- she wants to kiss him. Sweetly. She wants him to let her show him she's not a ‘kid’. She wants to feel what it's like to be wanted by him. She's strong, capable, undeniably and irrevocably attracted to him, and… God… She still feels hot. Despite coming twice- or is it three times, now- the need for more is already becoming unbearable, and she fails to decipher if these thoughts are coming from the chemical festering in her veins, or if they're being made apparent due to its diminishing strength. She stings. Oh, she's a mess.

He’s still hard inside her, twitching, demanding still. The question gnaws at her, but her body burns for more, more, more. He slows above her, the lack of physical stimulation, and the completely deriding overstimulation of her mental state making her eyes water. She wriggles slightly, an impatient grunt echoing around the small room as she tries to roll her hips under him. The stillness of his cock inside her has her mewling, still spasming softly around him.

“S- Sam-” She sputters, eyes widening in realisation of her somewhat rehabilitated ability to speak.

For just a few seconds his mind’s feverish occupation dilutes, replaced with a glimpse of a soft, sated afterglow… he falters, his mouth hanging open like there’s something he wants to say. 

“Mm…more. Need more.” She beats him to it, murmuring between shallow breaths, feeling the rising ache cloud her mind already.

His heart thuds so fast it’s a surprise it’s not sat in his throat- is it gratitude he’s trying to muster? Or, an admission perhaps? “I-” Just like her, the words are fighting to get out of him, but just as he strings a sentence together in his head, he starts to tense again. “Gotta… I- I’m-”

For a second, she feels sympathetic as she watches him war with himself. But her body doesn’t let the sympathy hang about for long, and she finds herself making his mind up for him, tugging him down by the back of the neck, tongue meeting tongue as she ferociously bucks up, calf hooking around thigh to pull him tight against her, giving her leverage to twist her hips and roll them both around.

It burns, the white hot anticipation, and he can barely move. His brain has been dumbed down; near-irrevocably stuck between wanting to split her open again, to keep biting and bruising and claiming, or to actually feel- to savour her in her entirety. His indecisive stupor makes him ache even more, brows knitting together tightly as his mind tries and fails to establish where to go next.

Sam can barely process anything outside of the softness of her sticky palm on his chest, the ridges of her fingerprints and the gentle sharpness each time her nails brush against his skin as she pushes him against the ground. She rolls her hips, soft curses spilling out of her lips as she feels his hands clumsily dig into her ass. He shuts his eyes, head lulling sideways as he swallows hard, choosing to feel.

Grip loosening momentarily, his eyes open at the feeling of her fingers branching up, wrapping themselves around his throat; loose, but just enough pressure that he can feel his own pulse reverberate against her thumb. She squeezes harder, turning him to face her, his head numbing with a pleasurable fizz as his vision transfixes on her.

He's too tired to fight against her- truth be told, he probably wouldn't try if he did have the strength. Jesus, she's so pretty, he thinks. Well that makes a change. Significantly less violent than the thoughts circulating his head earlier. She could squeeze tighter and tighter if she wanted, and he still wouldn't protest if it meant he could watch her, like this, from underneath her. Especially when she comes again, back arching as she moans like a fucking animal- and still she doesn't stop.

“So- you’re-” Between the pressure on his throat, her relentless pace, and his own spasmodic panting, he can barely string a sentence together, “s-damn tight- so good- fuck.”

He finds himself completely and utterly caught up in how tight she still feels around him- how fucking gorgeous she looks with her eyebrows drawn tightly together, eyelids heavy as she ferociously rocks her hips, stomach flexing, tits bouncing- the speckled bruises and drying blood stippled across her neck and collarbones- and then there's a hard pang of guilt; he did that to her- made her bleed- infected her- it's his fault that she's being made to give him this-- exactly… what he's wanted…for months.

He expects the thrumming ache to cloud him over again, but it never comes. Instead, a strange clarity claws its way through the haze of his mind. This is what he has longed for for months, but now that it's here, the moment is tainted by anguish. It took this entire horrible ordeal to force him to act upon his feelings, and he mourns the likelihood that this will be the one and only time he gets to be this close to her.

And then, beneath the sorrow and the dread, there lies a deeper, more corrosive guilt. It gnaws at him, a conscience-grating burden that leaves him nauseous. Despite the mental torment, despite everything, his body betrays him, running rife with boiling hot pleasure. The contradiction tears at him, a cruel reminder of his own skewed morality and the complex, painful nature of his...is it his love for her?

The obscene squelching sounds and the wetness leaking out of her and down her inner thighs, forming small puddles on his skin, and the floor, and, fuck, as she murmurs an exhausted plea, the taste he's getting of being wanted- needed- used by her- it all sends him over the edge.

She whimpers and falls into him, moaning incoherently into the crook of his neck as her fingers tighten, nails scraping against stubble, and-- jesus, he's coming again.

His hands meet her upper back, holding her down as he fills her once more, rasped groans and a string of murmured curses vibrate against her skin as he swallows against her hand. He holds onto her selfishly, savouring the feeling of her weight on top of his- bare skin on bare skin, the way she seeks comfort in him- he's thought about this countless times… and he hates how much he's enjoying the consent-less reality of it.

Her movements slow, becoming sloppier, lazier, her energy dwindling as she tries to chase the release she desperately needs. She whimpers, tears squeezing out of the corners of her eyes, dampening Sam's shoulder as they fall, and she finds her swollen, sensitive clit with one hand while the other moves from his throat to his hair.

He continues to hold her as his sensitive cock twitches inside her, nose nuzzling into her hair as he whispers; "Did you...?"

She shakes her head, a soft whimper coming out of her as she tries to push herself into another orgasm. The sound of his voice. Raw, raspy, quiet in her ears makes her tear up even more, and all of a sudden, her body's pursuit of pleasure has become torturous. She looks at Sam, his eyes clearer, amber flecks of colour visible again, his expression one of concern and exhaustion. Guilt churns in her stomach, sharp and nauseating, as the fog in her mind grows lighter by the second- the physical pain persists.

Her body, still wracked by the effects of the drug, betrays her with every shiver, flush of heat, and every desperate circle of her fingertips. She feels humiliated, the intense need now a source of shame, tucking her head back into his shoulder as she arches her back despite herself. Tears well up in her eyes, and she can’t meet Sam's eyes. "I... I'm so sorry," she whispers, her voice breaking. "I still need to-" she sniffs, "I can't- hurts."

Sam’s heart aches at the sight of her distress, and he nods, one hand smoothing down to her soft hip as the other stays on her back. He breathes in the scent of her hair, wanting to savour the moment- hell, he probably won't see her again if this is how she's reacting before she's fully recovered.

He wants more of her, he knows he does. But he's sensitive… and the clarity is still there. The clarity. The stabbing, blunt, serrated knife sawing in and out of his gut that makes him realise that he's never going to have this again. And that none of it was real anyway. But she sobs, and the sting in his chest wanes from his pain to hers. For now, curing hers takes precedence. 

Gently, he pushes against her, and exhausted, she complies, rolling back round to her back, eyes closed, borderline hyperventilating. He pulls her hand from between her legs and she huffs out a shaky breath.

“Sorry…hgnn- I'm sorry.” She whispers, her chest tightening.

He watches her try to cover her face with her forearm, and as he slides out of her, she sobs quietly, tensing her thighs together and rocking her hips softly to try and give her clit the friction it needs as she's left empty.

He rubs the palm of her hand with his thumb, gently lacing his fingers between hers, eyes glued to the way their skin glistens with their mixed arousal. “None’a that.” He says, squeezing her hand as he gently pries her thighs apart. “Not your fault.”

She whimpers up to the ceiling.

“God, it really hurts, Sam.”

“I know, sweetheart.” He holds himself up on an elbow and exhales. His free hand traverses down her torso, giving her waist a reassuring squeeze before reaching between her thighs.

She keens at the nickname, making a shuddered whimper as his fore and middle fingers gather some of the copious amount of shared arousal, rubbing against her carefully.

“This okay?”

Her chin trembles as she nods. “I need more.” She whispers, and almost immediately he pushes two fingers knuckle-deep into her aching cunt, pearlescent slick oozing out onto the palm of his hand down to his wrist. She squeezes his hand instinctively, a groan bubbling out of her throat.

His eyes follow the trail as his fingers stroke her from the inside and his thumb flicks softly at her clit, her soft moans permeating his mind. He's hard again; the thick liquid warms his wrist as it trickles down further, up to where the veins in his forearm meet the inside of his elbow- the veins that were deep purple not too long ago. He looks at his hand, then her thigh; still a small webbing of colour coming from the bite mark, whilst nowhere to be seen on him.

He swallows. There's a soft haze over his brain again, but it's gentle this time. Normal, even, bar the bittersweetness of it all. There's no burn. No malicious desire eating away at him… He just wants to savour her; to soothe, to make her feel better. She looks so ashamed. He wants to take that away from her.

Sam glances back up at her, eyes shut and arm crossed to cover her chest and it feels like a kick in the stomach. He purposely slows his hand, and her eyes open.

Before she can choke out another plea, he leans over her again, pressing his lips to hers gently, slowly building up his hand’s pace as he feels her sigh heavily. His chest thuds as he takes the time to memorise the softness of her lips, acknowledging that this might be the only time he gets to be so soft with her. It breaks his heart- another unforseen circumstance.

Her stomach flutters as he kisses her, the unexpected softness of it making more tears prick at her eyes as he works her closer to her peak. She moves her arm from her chest back to his hair, gently massaging his scalp.

After a moment, he moves from her lips, gently licking and pecking at each bruise and break in her delicate skin, relieved that there's no more purple, but unable to shake the guilt as he mutters apologies interspersed with each break for breath.

She squeezes his hand back, her whole body tensing.

His mouth traverses lower; down her sternum, all the way to her lower abdomen, until he reaches the tops of her thighs, where tacky quickly turns to wet as he moves lower still. Her breath catches as his eyes lock onto hers, and her lips part slightly, a subtle invitation, or perhaps merely surprise, but it's enough to keep him rooted, suspended between action and restraint as he feels himself salivate. In that silence, he waits, desperately vying for the smallest sign of consent.

She winces, her body aching as it waits for release, but she doesn't break eye contact. Instead, she takes a deep breath, and her fingers, trembling, unhook from his and reach out to rest on his jaw, her thumb brushing lightly against his lower lip. It's so brief and gentle it almost feels imagined. Yet, it's there— an undeniable gesture that heats his blood- organically, this time; He tastes them both on her skin and fuck, it's nothing short of heavenly. 

He swallows, eyes flitting around, learning the sight of her by heart before looking back up at her. He licks again and his cock twitches.

With a mixture of reverence and hunger, he closes the distance between them, movements measured and purposeful, each stroke of his tongue filled with a tenderness that belies all of the turmoil eating away inside him.

Her grip on his hair tightens as she sighs up to the ceiling. He loses a little restraint as she breathes out his name, begging him for more, and small, neat licks turn more rabid when his hand wraps around his shaft. He pumps himself with the same intensity as his tongue as it works in and out of her, his soft groans making her hips buck into his mouth as her breaths become more shallow.

She moans- cracked and raspy with exhaustion- at the feel of his lips, his nose, his tongue licking and sucking and savouring the satiating nectar dripping from between her trembling legs. His tongue broadens to gather and swallow before alternating to target her clit with the tip, wet and hot as he laps and swirls and buries in and around her. He tightens his fist around his cock, causing her stomach to roll as he moans into her- it's sloppy and messy and downright vulgar, but there's something so enamouring about his enthusiasm. His forearm wraps under her thigh, pulling her tight against his mouth as he grows closer to another climax of his own, and she gasps and arches even closer.

"Fuck, Sam-I, I'm-" she can feel him looking up at her as she struggles to string a sentence together, using the sight of her to coax his own pain-numbing, breathtaking orgasm. He moans, stimulating her tenfold as he releases warm ropes onto himself, his eyes rolling back as he near-suffocates against her.

He keeps going, and going, even when he lets go of himself to grip her stomach and pin her down- and she almost chokes, unable to breathe as she's utterly overwhelmed by the pleasure and the raw, visceral feelings for him that stabs relentlessly into her heart. She feels the pain raking its way through her body dissipate with each second that goes by.

He's so good. So fucking handsome.

She finally comes, a warbled cry trapped behind her teeth as her eyes squeeze shut and a rapturous wave of coolness floods her body. It's overwhelming- asphyxiating, even; tears streaming, fingers knotting rougher into his curls as he holds her tightly in place, devouring her through and past her climax. He takes and takes and takes-- shit, he loves this.

"S-sam,"

He loves this.

"Agh- Sam, pl- stop-"

He loves this. He fucking loves this- her. He- he loves-

She yanks hard enough on his hair that he's forced away from her with a pained hiss, gasping heavily like he hasn't taken a proper breath in minutes, his entire face from the bridge of his nose down glazed and glistening. He looks so pretty. She aches.

His eyes traverse, conflicted and somewhat melancholic from her thighs, up to her face, and she sees that he's... crying too. It's alien to her. What has she done to him?

She holds his gaze, her own eyes red-rimmed and tear-filled. The regret feels like a physical ache in her chest, mingling with the remnants of aftershock and the soreness between her legs and all over her broken skin across her thigh and décolletage. Despite the excruciating shame, she wants to reach out, to tell him that it's okay, that they had both been caught in the same storm. But the words don't come.

Instead, she sits up ever so slightly, wincing as she scoots closer, their bodies brushing as she nervously pulls his head to her shoulder; a tentative, fragile gesture, but she hopes it speaks volumes nonetheless. He stiffens at first, but eventually relaxes, his arm scooping beneath her to hold onto her gently.

She cradles his head against her, staring at the ceiling with tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. The physical pain was dulled now, but the emotional ache was fierce. She had never fantasised it being like this, tainted by necessity and confusion, and she doesn't know what to do. It's suffocating.

For a moment, they both just breathe, soaking in the sickly, unfiltered aftermath of the whole ordeal.

Minutes pass, or maybe hours—they've lost all sense of time in this weird fucking space where the boundaries have been irreparably corroded. They're cold. Exhausted. Emotionally bare. And now he feels like a damn coward, letting her stroke his hair and cradle him against her chest, after all he's put her through. He grits his teeth in an attempt to keep his watery eyes from spilling over.

But the attempt fails, and he hates how uncharacteristic this is. Screw this place. Screw Cassimir. Screw their client, screw his own greed that brought them here in the first place, and screw- fucking screw her for taking away his ability to remain a husk- and for letting him hurt her.

Finally, she pulls back as she feels her skin dampen and his shoulders jolt ever so slightly, her hand forcing his chin up. Her eyes search for him, and in that moment, she fully takes it in, and sees what she hopes to be the same fear, the same shame, and yet, the same insane level of care that has gnawed at her heart for so long.

Sam opens his mouth to speak as her brows furrow, but no words form, let alone come out, aside from a pathetic, choked sigh that hints at the tumult of emotions stirring inside him. His tongue rolls over his lip, and the lingering taste of them has him shudder and shut his eyes.

He can’t bring himself to look at her, the shame too sickening, too palpable. But then, as he pulls away, getting up to his knees as he fumbles with his jeans, he feels her hand on his arm, steadying him. He looks down, and in her eyes, he doesn't see pity, or accusation, but- and for a second he considers pinching himself- understanding, a non-verbal acknowledgment of his vulnerability.

Delicate and trembling, her fingers reach up to touch his face, tracing the line of his jaw as if to reassure herself that he is real, that this moment, however fleeting and fraught with confusion, was real. At least she'd have it stapled to her memory. Sam closes his eyes at her touch, a self deprecating huff leaving his lips. He turns his head slightly, pressing a kiss to her palm; a silent apology and a desperate plea for reassurance that she's actually thinking what he hopes she is. He even hazards a look to her thigh for any sign of coercion from the drug still coursing through her, but there's no purple in sight.

She reaches one of her arms above her head, just about reaching her shirt. She grunts in disgust, the material sodden, and she drops it back down with a shaky huff, the room's frigid temperature finally having an effect once more.

Sam pushes himself up again, rubbing his damp cheeks with the back of his hand as a sense of normalcy seeps back into his senses. And with that normalcy, grief.

He finds his t-shirt, quickly sliding it over his head despite the excess of sweat and bodily fluid covering both his skin and the material. He grimaces as it clings to him, and she watches on with a poignant shiver, pulling her knees to her chest after adjusting her soaked-through underwear, her boots scraping against the ground as she does so.

He clears his throat, picking up his plaid overshirt from where he'd discarded it earlier before looking over his shoulder at her as he pulls the sleeves through the right way. 

Someone has to speak sooner or later, she thinks, but can't bring herself to. Her nails scratch nervously at her skin as she weighs up what to do, trying not to cry at the prospect of Sam's walls being rebuilt so fast after pouring everything- mind, body, soul- into her moments ago. She feels so naive- so fucking silly-

“What was it you said earlier?”

Her head shoots up as he speaks, caught off guard by how much he sounds like his usual self. Charming, cocky, collected.

She tilts her head slightly, her eyebrows drawing together and her eyes narrowing in a mix of confusion and curiosity. Her lips part just enough to show she's on the verge of speaking, but she holds back, waiting for his next words to clarify the moment.

He extends his shirt out to her, lips quirking into a soft, somewhat reassuring smile. She looks at him for a moment, taking the shirt and putting it on.

“Somethin’ about an HR department?”

She looks at him, a soft laugh fluttering to the surface. It's a quiet sound, tinged with shyness and still wrapped in the lingering sadness of their shared ordeal. Her eyes lower for a moment, the weight of everything that happened settling in.

Seeing her reaction, Sam gets up and moves to where her water flask lies discarded. He unscrews the cap and pours some onto a clean part of his t-shirt. She begins to button her shirt, but he stops her, silently asking for a moment longer.

“Can I?”

She lets go of the shirt, and with gentle, still slightly shaky hands, he dabs the wet cotton softly over her wound-ridden skin.

She watches him, the sadness in her eyes gradually giving way to something softer, his tenderness speaking volumes. As he continues to tend to her wounds, his mouth twists in thought, like there's something he wants to say. So he does.

“I'm sorry.”

He's not the type to apologise, so eye contact is impossible.

“What?”

He continues dabbing at her skin in silence.

“Sam.”

She covers his hand, stopping him from finding any other distraction.

“You didn't ask for this."

He frowns. “I- I just put you through… somethin’ not far off of assault, and your response is-”

“No. Not one part of that was assault-”

“She says, as I wipe up blood from bites I gave her.”

“Yeah, with the mouth that's covered in my cum.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but he can't find anything to say. His cheeks redden.

She sighs again. They're going in circles and she wants to put an end to it all- she's tired. Filthy. Possibly concussed. Which she uses to excuse what she does next.

“Can I try something?” she asks. Fuck it.

“Try what?"

Without another word, she steps closer, her eyes searching for any sign of protest. When she finds none, she leans in and kisses him, her lips soft and warm against his, holding none of the desperation or haze of their previous encounter, completely free from the influence of any perverted pill or potion.

What's she got to lose?

Sam is shocked at first, his body tensing. He instinctively pulls her off, his eyes flitting around her face as his jaw loosens and tightens in search of something to say.

Her heart sinks and she steps back, “Thought so,” she smiles sadly, backing away, knowing it was a mistake to try. "Can we... can we get out of here?"

He should hate himself, right? He's gone against everything he's ever stood for- let every non-committal brick he's built since teenagehood crumble to dust. He's gone soft. Sentimental. By force, to begin with, yet he still hasn't stopped himself. It's… Pleasant. Is this the balance Cassimir fetishised over?

Screw it, he decides, Because if he has to stand by and watch her grow apart from him when she's just shown the same as- if not more vulnerability than him, what use are a few walls?

He pulls her back, his lips finding hers again. This time, it's different- there’s no urgency, no magical compulsion, but rather something deep- genuine. The kiss is tender, filled with all the emotions they’ve been too afraid to voice, and he feels years worth of tension escape him. His sore muscles loosen, hands cupping her face softly, and she melts into him.

When they finally pull apart, their foreheads rest together, and this alone feels infinitely more intimate than anything that had transpired beforehand.

"So... is it safe to assume that we're both on the same page, or...?" She swallows hard, her voice barely above a whisper, but her usual playfulness breaks through, and it makes him smile.

"What, that we're both in dire need of some good laundry detergent and a shower? Or was there somethin' else on your mind?"

She snorts, gently kicking his shin, the enormity of months worth of repressed feelings finally worn on the proverbial sleeve. She takes a deep breath, the worry in her eyes softening as she looks at him.

"We have a lot to figure out."

He chews the inside of his lip contemplatively, still not entirely sure there’s any reason why she’s being so gracious. So calm, despite it all, like he deserves any of it.

There’s a beat.

And then he nods. Because that’s why she makes his entire psyche shift off-kilter- makes him notice his bad habits.

"We'd… uh, better cash those vials in."

She sees a million-and-one thoughts behind his eyes, but he needs to rest. So she waits, head tilted, suspecting he's got something else to add. 

"How else am I supposed to afford a five-star first date?"

The other million thoughts can wait.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭

I promise to write something short and funny next time x

[alorlie]

SAMUEL DRAKE

— uncharted 4

[nathandrakeisabottom]

Headcannons about them with an anxious SO? Love your stuff x

Thank you, friend! Now, in full canonical honesty, I don’t believe that either Nathan or Sam would be particularly good at dealing with their deeper anxiety, let alone someone else’s, let alone someone else’s who they loved dearly and would only be afraid to make it worse (that many crumbling bridges and a guy’s gotta if consider his only superpower is the ability to destroy everything he touches) for most of their young lives. 

However, I do believe that post-UC4 (perhaps a little earlier for Nathan), and a good dose of necessary therapy (paid for in pirate coins, of course)--- they’d be more than willing to finally take on the challenge. 

For themselves, and for the person they love more than anything.

Drakes with an Anxious S/O Headcanons

Nathan:

In his younger days, the prince of the awkward smile and half-hearted clap on the back. A pulley doll whose only catchphrases were “Man, that’s hard”, “Yeah. Yeesh.”, and “Soooo, I guess this would be a bad time for a joke, huh?”. Scurries to the bathroom as soon as they’re not in tears anymore, and stays there for as long as it takes to stop hearing the residual sobs.

However, his late 30s and 40s bring him a much healthier perspective (and therapy— Jesus, finally) and being the smarty pants he is, he passes on no opportunity to put his new skills and knowledge to use.

That playfulness and desire to find the lightness in even the hardest situations never leaves him at any age, though.

A panic attack? “‘Is something… wrong with you’? You realize you’re talking to the guy who accidentally destroys ancient temples for a living, as an archaeologist? And I still consider myself a not so bad guy. So in my eyes, you’re basically a lesser known Mesopotamian god.”

Got a bad grade? “A D in Psychometrics? I don’t know, sounds like they don’t know anything about math if they’re using a letter to grade you. Maybe they should go get their teaching certificates checked. Hey, how ‘bout I just draw you a PhD myself? You know I have an eye for art.” 

Dealing with shitty parents? Landlord? Roommates? Exes who won’t leave you the fuck alone? “What? That buffoon? Guy who can’t even spell their own name right? That asshole isn’t worth a thought of a thought of a thought in your head. Pretty sure they haven’t had a thought in their own head since 1996.”

As soon as the first wide-toothed smile is won, he’s leaning into his partner with a secretive smirk: “Ya wanna get the hell out of here?” 

Because distractions always helped him before. 

Will act especially gentlemanly, and theatrically play it up, while taking their partner for a frozen yogurt, antique shop, Target trip, public park, laser tag (yes, really) decompress. Bows when he opens the car door for them. Pays for everything. Calls them ‘your majesty’ for the entirety of the excursion.

All he wants is to get them to smile. And he’s not stopping until he sees it. 

When the night creeps in and his S/O starts to lose steam, Nathan’s own worry grows more obvious, though he tries his best to keep it to himself. 

Watches them with wide eyes. Gives them space, but still asks every few minutes if they need a cup of water. No? Tea? Arnold Palmer? Popsicle? Massage? Hot Pocket? Sexy pillow fight? However many it takes to make his partner laugh again. But he fully means every offer he gives.

Says nothing as he helps them undress and into their PJs. Touches are tender and intimate, gently rubs their shoulders and neck. Never too hard, never too direct. Plays the friendly ghost and lets their partner take the lead, but never, ever just sits around to watch.

Makes them a beverage of some sort, even if they say no. Hot lemonade with honey is his personal homecure. Says yellow is a happy color, so it must be good for you.

And right before they turn the lights out, Nate timidly offers— with a shy, trying chuckle— if they want him to read them a bedtime story. 

Somehow shocked every time they say yes. Mumbles something self-derogatory about himself (“Ya know, not the best actor, but—” “Personally I think I have the voice of a dying goose, but—”) before sitting on the nearest surface and cracking open a book.

If he’s still feeling a little awkward, will uneasily ask if they wanna hear what he’s been reading lately, and will do so if asked— but really wants to read the pirate storybooks his mother read to him and Sam when they were kids.

It always made him feel better when the world felt too big, too scary, too cruel. 

So he wants to share it with the person he loves. 

He wants to share everything with the person he loves.

And without even asking, goes to the medicine cabinet and brings them a tablet of whatever they need when the anxiety gets especially bad, and says “I know, it’s scary. But we’ve been through scary before, right?” with a kiss on the cheek as they swallow it down with a sip of lemonade.

Lingers, eyes down, and vaguely nods to nobody as he stands and walks to the door.

“Want me… uh, want me to keep reading to you?” But he offers before he can even get past the door frame. 

“Do you want me to want you to keep reading to me?” 

And the last thing he wants to see is his love, alone. The idea of them crying beneath the covers because they were too afraid to burden him with it, too afraid to be seen. Everything he felt he had to do when he was 6 and his mother “passed”, age 9, 10, 11, 12 after a black eye, the words that his brain told him wrong: spoken aloud by the playground bullies he feared he’d never be stronger than. 

But he knew they were wrong. The bullies were wrong. The ones in his brain. The ones in theirs.

“Yes.” He replies without missing a beat. 

And he makes sure to hold their hand in his free one until the second they fall asleep… and a few hours after, just to be safe.

The next morning they fucking better expect breakfast in bed— and he maybe, just maybe, might even be willing to spring for McDonald’s, if that’s what they want. As long as they promise to eat actual fruit after. And hell, maybe even a vegetable or two when he makes dinner that night. Did you know that eating right and exercise are actually primary solutions to poor mental health—? That’s what Dr. Dorian said— No, potatoes don’t count as a vegetable— no, especially not if it’s fried— NO, FRENCH FRIES DON’T COUNT, BABY—

Sam:

Sam takes a bit longer to warm up to discussing anxiety than Nathan does, mostly due to struggling so deeply with it on his own. It’s not like prisoners (or Shoreline guards) made the most comforting companions. 

The better he could keep secrets, the less he could reveal, the safer he’d be.

So it makes sense that it’s both his greatest strength and weakness when it comes to emotionally turbulent times. 

In his younger, more avoidant years, he’d be the first to leave the room, leave the building, hell, sometimes even leave the city after a particularly heavy cry or confrontation with his then-partner. Only to come back the next morning and act like nothing ever happened. 

But now, he doesn’t run. After prison, after Rafe, after Madagascar, all he wants is to be allowed to stay. To be wanted to stay by someone who loves him. 

Is happiest to just sit with you in the silence. His biggest skill is his ability to weather the storm. And whether you need to scream bloody murder, or need to sit and decompress and just fucking feel, but can’t do it alone, Sam’s there. Listening. 

Once you’re done talking, he takes one last, long drag of his cigarette, stubs it out onto the pavement, and asks simply: “So do you want solutions… or something else, sweet’art?” 

You can see in his eyes— darting less than solid, certain against your own— that he really means it, in every way that he was too afraid to when he was younger.

The wonderful and terrifying thing about having anxiety while Sam is there is that it’s a vulnerable experience for the both of you. He’s learning, discovering, trying right along with you. And he may not be able to lift you up so easily, but he’ll be able to sink into the dark places with you, and not be afraid to see what’s down there. 

And maybe seeing someone he loves so deeply, sees as so beautiful, so smart, so kind, so wonderful, so absolutely perfect to him feel the same ways he does about himself… maybe it makes him think that he’s not as terrible as his brain tells him, either. 

Helps you take action by letting himself (finally) not be the smart one: “When ya… get like this, what do you usually do first, sweet’art? Paint me a pit’chure.” Gives you complete control, and smiles softly when you wipe your tears and the logical, the archaeological mind awakens. Mimics unraveling an ancient map when you begin to explain, and you inadvertently hiccup out a laugh. 

At times, it’ll feel like he’s trying to run again, but when he stands up and walks across the room— he always returns. This time with your favorite of his jackets, the denim one that smells like him even though he just cleaned it, and drapes it protectively over your shoulders. Clasps his palm at the back of your neck and rubs out the knot he always finds there. Smiles toothy and wide when your words are broken up by sighs of relief. Only to be filled once again with silence, gazes meeting sweet and safe. 

“Remember Indonesia?” He offers with a smirk, despite your furrowed brow.

“I guess? What about—?” 

“I read the runes’ instructions and ran us in circles all around Bali, only to reread the transcript and realized I got three letters completely wrong. J—V—A. Java. It was goddamn Java the entire time.” 

“Your point being?” 

He smiles and shrugs. Trying. Maybe he’s wrong, a foreigner in some ancient, uncertain land, but he tries.

“Sometimes our brains are just wrong.” He tries for you. “That’s all.”

You sniffle, and he leans in to press a prickly kiss to your cheek. His jacket is still warm from the dryer, wafting with the residual sting of cigarette, Old Spice Captain, cheap mouthwash, even cheaper aftershave, and something else completely unnameable. 

And maybe some others would think the scent appalling, but it’s the strangeness, the specificity, and yes, the stank— everything that makes Sam him— that makes you love it. Love him. The depth. The difference. 

The pain, and what he chose to do with it. 

Another kiss, this time down your neck. This time, the sigh of relief is his own.

What he chose to change it into. 

“So… any chance sex therapy might be a thing?” He asks grinningly.

“Why don’t we find out, ‘sweet’art’?”

[eccentricallygothic]

🎀 girls just want to be impaled by sam drake's cock. it's me, i am girls 🎀

[ashprince-of-bel-air]

Sam Drake: Aftercare

I am a sucker for the aftercare of battle trope. I am also in love with Sam Drake from Uncharted 4 again. 18+ because smut. i also have written this after a few alcoholic drinks so plz don't judge me too much.

You sat Sam at the edge of the bathtub of your motel, it would be easier to clean him this way, making sure the blood from his wounds would not stain the floor. You knelt between his legs in the bath, taking great care to clean his injuries properly, his arm would twitch occasionally and try and bat you away, but you resisted. “No Sam, I need to make sure your wounds are clean” Your voice was soft and reassuring, you did not want him to tend to himself, you saw how he tended to his own wounds, dousing them in alcohol and wrapping them up, it was not sanitary.

It had been a hard day for you both, Sam had bore the brunt of the injuries, ones you were now attending. You heard his hisses and gasps as you cleaned his wounds, you knew it was not pleasant, but you wanted to make sure he would not have an infection. After cleaning the final cut on his chest, you lifted yourself from the bath, making your way over to the counter nearby to dispose of your used items.

“These will leave scars won’t they?” Sams voice was quiet, he wasn’t sure if he even wanted an answer to that question. You lifted your head and smiled softly at him “Women love men with scars, it makes them look mysterious” You winked at him to try and make Sam feel better, it worked somewhat as he smiled at you watching you dispose of the used medical equipment.

Sam’s eyes were upon you, his eyebrows manoeuvred into a cocky position. “Mysterious? I like the sound of that” Sam spoke as he lifted himself out of the bath, perching himself on the edge of it so he can watch you. “I don’t think I need mysterious though, I have women fawning over me anyway” Sam winked at you, you could see it caused him pain to do so, he was so stubborn and would never admit a fault or being in pain.

You rolled your eyes at the arrogant man, chuckling to yourself as you walked out of the bathroom, you knew Sam would recover just fine, you wouldn’t have left him otherwise, he was a big boy and could make his own way out of the bathroom. You found yourself in the main area of the rented room, only a king size bed lay before you, you were sure that you told the reception that you wanted 2 singles, it was now too late to rectify, the hotel was sold out for the night, and you did not have infinite money.

“Does someone need a cuddle?” You heard a sarcastic voice emanate from behind you. Sam walked past you and took a seat at the edge of the bed with a wicked grin on his face, realising the situation for himself. “Sharing the bed with you is a dream come true darling” His smirk was captivating, it caused you to smile and shake your head, you had gone this far resisting his charms, surely you could go one more night.

“As generous as that is Sam, I think I’ll stay on the sofa. Besides, you look like a quilt thief to me” Your voice was low and sultry, you did not mean it to be so, but Sam brought out the flirtatious side of you, you could not control it.

“Me? A quilt thief? I am offended! I will have you know that I am a saint in bed. No cover stealing, no snoring, just me, laid in my glorious perfection like an angel.” Sam’s voice was cocky and playful as he laid back on the bed, trying to entice you in, your eyes glossed over his shirtless body, eyes raking over his abs, wondering how they felt, watching his lips and wanting to know how they taste. You shook those thoughts from your head before Sam could notice you daydreaming.

“There are many words I could use to describe you Sam, an Angel is not one of them” A chuckle left your lips as you retrieved your beers from the hotel room fridge, it had been a long day, and you were deserving of one. You cracked one open for yourself and one for Sam, walking over to the edge of the bed you sat down and held the drink out to him.

Sam watched you intently as you sat down and took the drink from you. “You say I’m no Angel Y/N, the devil was an Angel at first” Sam’s eyebrows wiggled as he moved towards you on the bed, aiming to sit beside you.

“That’s true, until his ceremonious fall from grace” You retorted and took a long drink of your beer, leaning back on your hands on the bed, your eyebrows wiggling, enjoying the banter between you both, there was a sexual tension between the both of you that had not been noticed by Sam, you wanted to see how far you could push him.

Sam chuckled to himself, he shuffled slightly on the bed, making a little more room for you “And what a glorious fall it was” His voice was a mix of amusement and allure, he ran a hand through his hair, smoothing the tangles as much as he could as he awaited your presence next to him. “Do you know what else they say about the devil Y/N?” His voice was low and sultry, you had heard this tone before when he had charmed other women, it was just as effective on you.

“And what else do they say about the devil, Sam?” You rolled your eyes playfully at him, he was ever the flirt, and you expected a stupid response.

“They say the devil is charming, seductive, able to lure you into his trap with just a sinful look.” Sam moved closer to you as he spoke, his breath hot upon your neck, feeling the roughness of his stubble against your skin. Your breath caught in your throat as you felt him against you, Sam had never been this bold before and you were enjoying it. His lips were now exploring your neck, Sam was making sure to cover every possible bit of skin that he could. 

“And you do look ever so sinful” Your voice was breathy and desperate; you did not even mean to voice your feelings but his lips against your neck made you weak. Your comment was barely a whisper, but it made Sam smile against your neck, he had you now and he knew you wanted this as much as he did. Sam pulled you back onto the bed with him, kissing your skin with passion, you fell into it, roaming his body just as passionately as he roamed yours. The feeling of his scars under your delicate touch, you wanted to kiss each one, to make him feel looked after and loved.

Sam helped you remove your shirt with ease, throwing it to one side, his eyes leered over your bare form, it was more than he could have imagined, you were a vision, one he could not believe was here before him. You had now moved to straddle his waist, falling into the passion that was taking over you both. Sam let out a breathy moan as he felt your body on his, his hands now gripping onto your thighs for dear life, the way his fingers were gripping into your flesh was sure to leave a mark, the thought of it made you even more desperate for him, wanting him to mark you as his.

Sam’s hands roamed your body and yours roamed his, you were both hungry for each other, this tension between you both had been threatening to spill for a while. A soft push was all it took for Sam to lay back on the bed before you, you were atop him and in control, teasing him as you saw fit, kissing his neck and biting his ear, eliciting those sweet moans from his lips. His calloused hands were rough upon the soft skin of your hips as he rolled your over, you looked at him in shock as you saw him atop you, taking every inch of your body into his memory.

You laid underneath Sam, his lean body pressed against you, it was a struggle to not moan at the feeling of him against you, you had daydreamed about him atop you ever since you had met him, you had never thought it would be a reality. Sam’s lips were attacking your neck and collar bone roughly, not caring if he left any marks, you were his now anyway. As the assault on your skin carried on you felt his hands roam down your body, one hand moving to the one area you were desperate to feel him. One hand finally found its way to your core, his fingers rubbing against your throbbing clit, causing you to tremble and moan underneath him.

Sam’s face was buried in the crook of your neck, revelling in the sounds of your moans, trying hard not to rub against your leg beneath him, craving relief. As you were nearing your climax, Sam removed his hand from your core, the whimper that escaped your lips was like music to his ears, knowing he could elicit such a reaction from you was mind blowing to him. Your breath was ragged, you were desperate and craved relief from him now, kissing him with passion and pulling him towards you.

Sam enjoyed the attention you were giving him, the affection and desperation for his touch was like a melody to him. He had wanted you as much as you now wanted him, he was more than happy to acquiesce to your desires. You were beneath him, desperate for him, Sam swiped his girthy length between your wet slick folds, revelling in the sounds of your moans before he pressed himself into you. It was a shock at first, you felt your body stretch around him, you loved the pain of it, getting used to it with every thrust.

Your bodies were now entwined with each other, a sweaty mess of euphoria, Sam had given a few more thrusts before you both climaxed, you were both breathless as you felt the ecstasy rush through your body. Laid in bed together you were silent, feeling the afterglow of your intimate encounter.

You laid with your head on Sam’s chest affectionately. “Work isn’t going to be weird is it?” You asked jokingly, releasing the tension in the air. Sam stroked your hair softly, taking time to kiss the top of your head. “It will only be weird if you want it to be sweetheart.”

[justsomerandomfanfic]

Tender Loving Care - Sam Drake X GN Reader

Title: Tender Loving Care

Sam Drake X GN Reader

Additional Characters: Nathan (Mentioned), Sully (Mentioned), and Reader's friends (Mentioned)

Requested by: @a-very-bored-blogger

WC: 3,763

Warnings: Sickfic, bar mentioned, alcohol mentioned, italics, smoking, nicknames, brief mention of snakes, movie reference, banter, flirting, teasing, confession, mini angst, and fluff

Waking up with a sore throat and a snotty nose was not how you wanted to start your day. At all. Your eyes felt crusty from sleep, or your sickness and your whole body felt achy and cold. Well, no work today for you, that's for sure. You were not going to get up, get dressed, and everything, just to suffer through eight or nine hours of dealing with people. That sounded like torture, and you didn't want to risk getting anyone else sick. One part of you was pretty elated, you didn't really care much for your job. But, the other part of you was going to miss your best friend, Sam. The both of you had planned to go out to dinner together.

You and Sam met when he rode into your sleepy little town on his motorcycle. You were on your way to college, walking down the sidewalk when he pulled up to you. He asked for directions to the closest motel and you answered politely; whilst also trying not to get too caught up in how handsome he was.

Throughout his stay in your little town, you had bumped into him many times. On the fourth time, you were with friends at a bar. You had been chatting with them, laughing and having a good time as you usually did, before one of your friends nudged you in the side. You looked at them, seeing their bright, mischievous grin and the glint in their eyes; watching as they gestured with their eyes to the other side of the room. 

You turned your head, looking over, only to freeze. There, at the other side of the bar, was the mysterious stranger that rode into town only a few days prior. The stranger that you had learned was called Sam Drake; his eyes flickered over to you. You had bumped into them three times before - as previously said - and all three times, you felt this immense connection between the two of you. 

Before you knew it, you found yourself walking to the other side of the bar; with a smidge of help from your friends, your confidence grew; albeit with the help of some liquid courage. You stood with him, leaning against the bar as you sipped one of your drinks.

You finally got to know the mysterious Sam, finding out that he was a treasure hunter; which definitely intrigued you. He told you the many stories of his adventures, from Captain Avery's treasure to just traveling around different countries with his brother. 

When it was your turn to speak, you almost felt that your life was practically nothing in comparison to his. You didn't go off on amazing adventures or found long lost treasure. You worked a simple - yet boring - nine to five job. You had friends, went out to the arcade and the movies sometimes, but never anything as amazing as what Sam said he did. You hadn't even traveled outside of the country. But you spoke your part, and Sam didn't turn away. He didn't yawn, he didn't stray his eyes, and he didn't try to interrupt you. You had his full and complete attention. 

And, well... To make a long story short. The two of you quickly became best friends.

Sam stayed in the town for the next month, playing the excuse that he needed a small vacation from his treasure hunting. You greatly doubted that. But, for that month, you spent most of the time together. You showed him around, introduced him to your friends, and even went on mini adventures on that motorcycle of his together. You were both joined at the hip, and you - and Sam - wouldn't have it any other way. 

But he did have to go. You had learned that Sam never liked to stay in one place for too long. And before you knew it, he was heading off to Granada, Spain. You were incredibly crestfallen. You didn't want him to go so soon, but then he asked you something that you couldn't refuse. 

He asked you to come with him.

You couldn't say ‘no.’ How could you say ‘no?’ This was your chance to get out of the country, to get away from your sleepy little town, to get away and go on a real adventure. You asked your boss for the time off, packed your bags, and off you and Sam went - with the help of his friend Sully - whom you grew to adore as a father figure. 

Granada was beautiful. The architecture, the culture, the food, everything. You wished that you could stay there forever. Sam - quite literally - taught you the ropes, teaching you how to toss a grapple hook and swing across high cliffs. You traveled through forests, through old ruins, and even helped Sam find the lost jewels of Enrique Gómez. It was adrenaline-filled, and exciting. 

You didn't know when, or where in Granada, but you found yourself falling for the thief. You quite thought that he stole your heart. And you did not want it back. You loved how passionate he got when he spoke about an artifact or some treasure he had planned to find in the future. You loved the way his face lit up when he found something amazing to show you. You loved how the corners of his eyes would crinkle when he laughed. You loved his voice when he spoke about anything and everything; you could listen to him talk for hours. And you loved his eyes... They held so many emotions, and if you held his gaze long enough, you believed that you'd fall into those dark abysses of his. 

This realization however, made your life a bit more difficult.

~~~

Groaning slightly, you pouted, not even wanting to move an inch; it felt like your skin was on fire, yet you were freezing. However, you needed to use the bathroom, and your nose was beginning to run, so you had to get up. After you were finished, you headed downstairs to find some tissues so you didn't have to use toilet paper, grabbed your carton of ice cream from the freezer for your sore throat, and headed back to your room. Dealing with your nose, you sniffled before heading to your closet to find your fuzzy bathrobe. Slipping that on, you almost felt a little better before heading to your TV, sliding your ‘Superman ll’ VHS tape into the player. Sitting on your bed, your back against the headboard, you slowly ate your ice cream as you watched your movie; feeling groggy and aching. 

~~~

Sam waited by his motorcycle, leaning on the diner building’s wall, as he waited for you; taking a drag from his cigarette. He was becoming a bit restless, with his foot tapping against the pavement. Near the beginning of his friendship with you, he insisted that he would pick you up in the evenings when you both had planned to have dinner together, but you insisted back, wanting to use your own car; not wanting Sam to waste his motorcycle’s gas more than he had to. Sam had been a bit disappointed in the beginning. He thought picking you up would be a great opportunity to spend more time with you, but it didn’t take Sam long to agree with you.

But as he waited, and waited, Sam began to wonder and worry about you. What if something happened? What if you got caught in traffic? Sam scoffed to himself on that. Traffic? There was hardly any, if not zero, traffic in your little town; Sam came to realize that after staying there for the past month or so. So, where were you? 

Were you okay?

Though Sam was used to feeling worried and uneasy - especially for his brother, Nathan - he still wasn't used to the feeling. In addition to these feelings that grew whenever he saw you. This intense sense of desire to protect, hold, and cherish you. It scared the hell out of him. It scared him because he didn't know how to handle it. He was a flirt. He was someone who enjoyed the thrill of danger. He probably couldn't count how many one-night stands he had. But this… This… It felt so different. He wasn’t a ‘settle down’ kind of guy. But, Sam believed that he could be for you.

He sighed heavily, smoke expelled from his mouth as he pulled the cigarette from his mouth and stared at it. You told him to quit, but it was difficult. He had cut back on how many cigarettes he smoked in a day - smoking only one or two a day. He wanted to quit; he really did - especially for you. But every once in a while, he’d lose himself and he’d start smoking again. Just a tiny bit of nicotine and he’d be good as new. Sam sighed again; staring at the cigarette for a moment before tossing it onto the ground, squishing it with the heel of his boot, and pushing himself off the wall. Sam stuffed his hands into his Jeans pockets as a couple left the diner; their laughter echoing throughout the air. Sam felt that he had waited long enough, hopping onto his bike. The trip to your house was a short one, and when Sam saw your car in the driveway, he let out a sigh of relief. 

Slipping off his bike, he walked up to the front door, ringing the doorbell. Shuffling his feet on the porch, he stuffed his hands back into his jean jacket pockets, hearing shuffling behind the door. As you opened the door, Sam's awaiting grin dropped when he saw your appearance. You stood at the open door, hand holding onto the door frame to support your weight. You were wrapped up in your fuzzy bathrobe, your hair a bit messy, and still in your pajamas. Your eyes were glassy, your eyelids were hooded, and your nose red. 

"Oh, sweetheart..." Sam muttered, as you sniffled, "Why didn't you tell me that you were sick? Why didn't you call me?"

"Hello, handsome," You gave him a small, tired smile, moving out of the way as he quickly entered, "I'm sorry, I should've called..." You muttered, closing the door behind yourself. "I just didn't want you to worry about me. I'm fine now, it's just a cold." You tried to reassure him, letting out a yawn.

Sam shook his head, raising his hand to press the inside of his wrist against your forehead, "Y/N, you're hot."

You let out a small laugh, having to turn and cover your mouth as you let out a nasty cough, "Thanks, you are too."

"No, sweetheart, you're really burning up." He spoke, "Come on, let's get you back into bed." You nodded slowly, following Sam up the stairs and back into your room. Sam pulled your blankets back as you climbed in; unable to stop smiling as Sam began to tuck you in perfectly. You hummed happily, snuggling deeper under your blankets before turning around to lay on your back, closing your eyes. "Do you need anything? Water, food?" Sam asked, watching as you shook your head. He let out a sigh as he ran his hand through your hair, pushing it from your sweaty forehead. 

"I'm good, thank you, Sammy." You spoke, clearing your throat slightly as you opened your eyes again, "You're too good for me." You mumbled, your eyes closing once more as you fell asleep.

Sam sighed once more as your breathing began to slow, your chest rising and falling peacefully. Standing from your bed, he headed out of your house, but not before grabbing your house keys from the hook by the door. 

~~~

You didn't know how long you had slept, or what time it was, but when you opened your eyes, you found the sun rising outside your bedroom window. Blinking rapidly you took in a deep breath, and sat up. As you push yourself to lean back against your headrest, you let out another cough, rubbing your sore throat with your hand. Looking around, you found Sam's jean jacket on the back of your desk chair, his shoes next to yours by your closet. You couldn't help but smile as you brushed your hair back, wondering where he was. But, your question was quickly answered as you heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and it wasn't long until your bedroom door opened. 

Sam entered, dressed in his jeans and maroon v-neck, holding a bowl. Noticing that you were awake, Sam's frown flipped right around. "Afternoon, gorgeous."

"Gorgeous?" You let out a small laugh, watching as he sat down the steaming bowl on your bedside table. It looked like soup. "I bet I look like a mess, but, thank you." You smiled brightly at him, sitting up. "So, where have you been?"

He continued to grin, running a hand through his hair, "Out n' about."

"Out? Where?" You pressed, furrowing your eyebrows together.

"Well, I went to the store, and got you a few things that you might need..." He replied, grinning as he continued, going around your bed to grab a brown paper bag from the end of your bed; placing it down near your feet, "And then I made you soup. Your tea is doing whatever tea does in the kitchen. I was going to go grab it after I gave you your soup. But now that you're awake..." He trailed off, digging through the bag to pull out the items he grabbed for you.

"Sam, did you really?" You asked with a smile, excitement, and surprise in your voice, and your stomach filled with warmth as he nodded. "Is that chocolate?" You asked as Sam pulled out a few packs of crackers, some chocolate bars, a box of tissues, and a few small bottles of water.

"Yeah. I didn't know how much you needed. Or what you wanted..." He muttered, placing them all on your nightstand; the last item being an ibuprofen bottle. "But, I also saw this when I was out, and thought you might like it." He spoke, going back into the paper bag, and pulling out a book. You blinked a few times before your eyes widened, looking up at Sam in shock. 

Reaching out, you took the book into your hands, a gasp leaving you, "Sam... This is ‘The Trials of Marine Beaumont’! The legendary French pirate that revolutionized European history in the seventeenth century! How did you get this? It’s been sold out everywhere." Sam shrugged lightly, giving a halfhearted smile as he took a seat at the edge of your bed. "Who knew that a small cold would bring out the nurse in you. You spoil me.”

"Don’t think that’s an excuse for you to get sick again." He smirked at you softly, “And I always spoil you.” His chocolate brown eyes gazed down at you. "How do you feel?" He then asked, shifting closer to your side.

"A little better... My throat is a bit sore, but otherwise, I feel great." You smiled softly, glancing over at your alarm clock, "It's almost two... Did you stay here all night last night?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded, "I didn't know if you'd need me for anything... So, I slept on the couch."

You sat the book down beside you on the bed, "Sammy... You should've just taken the guest bedroom. That couch is so small."

Sam just shrugged, his fingers fiddling with the edge of the handmade quilt, "Slept on worse," He joked, looking up at you, finding you already looking at him. Clearing his throat, he pressed his fist to his mouth briefly, "So, you hungry? Don't want your soup to get cold."

You hummed, nodding as your smile softened, "Yeah, it smells amazing."

~~~

"Snakes... Why is it always snakes..?" 

Your bedroom was dark, only the light from your TV illuminating the room. You were sitting on your bed, leaning against the headboard, Sam beside you; his arm wrapped around your shoulders. An empty bowl sat on your bedside table, along with your new book, your empty tea cup, and your alarm clock - which read; seven-thirty-three. 

Your cheek was pressed snuggly against Sam's shoulder, eyes glued to your TV as Indiana Jones found himself surrounded by snakes. Your nose felt dry, as did your throat; and you coughed. Sam rubbed soothing circles into your shoulder. Sam blindly reached for the half-empty water bottle beside him, before handing it to you. 

"Thank you..." You muttered, taking small sips from the bottle. "You know," You began, clearing your throat a bit, "He reminds me of you."

Sam looked down at you, his brows knitting in confusion. "Who?"

You shook your head, "Indiana Jones." You chuckled softly, setting the bottle of water on the nightstand, "He loves adventure, going from place to place, finding treasures..." You trailed off, grabbing a tissue from the tissue box and blowing your nose. "Though I will admit, you're funnier than him." You said, throwing away the tissue in your small, plastic trash can.

"You don't say," Sam smiled, his lips grazing the tip of your head, before looking back at the TV.

"I do say," You mumbled, nuzzling your cheek on the soft fabric of his sleeve. "I love that about you. No matter how I am feeling, or what situation, you always make me laugh."

Sam suddenly felt warm, his heart fluttering as he smiled. "Hey, I am a man of many talents." Sam breathed out, his thumb running across your shoulder gently.

"Yes, you are," You grinned, just as the infamous Indiana Jones pulled his way out of the snake pit. But at the sound of your little hum, Sam looked back down at you. Feeling his eyes on you, you looked up at him. "What?" You asked, biting off a piece of your chocolate bar.

Sam tilted his head to the side slightly, his dark eyes searching yours before he spoke, "What was that little hum all about?" He asked, his grin turning mischievous.

"What hum?" You giggled quietly, moving the chocolate bar from your mouth.

"You hummed, sweetheart." He raised an eyebrow, "What popped up in that beautiful mind of yours?"

You bit your bottom lip, re-wrapping the chocolate bar and setting it over on your bedside table. You watched Sam closely, as he looked back at you. He seemed curious, waiting for your answer patiently. "Nothing important..." You spoke softly, suddenly becoming nervous. Sam could tell that something was bothering you. "Um, Sam," You paused, licking your lips nervously. "Can I ask you something?" You started, not meeting his eyes.

"You can ask me anything," He told you, his hand on your shoulder gently playing with your hair. You nodded, staring down at your hands in your lap. The short silence between the two of you hung thick and heavy. Sam could hear your breathing slowly getting heavier and heavier. After a moment, he sighed, deciding to speak first; seeing as you never had a problem talking to him, even when it came to the serious stuff. "Y/N?" His voice sounded gentle, his tone kind as he spoke to you.

"When are you going to leave?" You asked, continuing to stare down at your lap, as Sam felt a wave of panic - and slight hurt - settle in his stomach.

"I can leave-"

"No!" You cried out,, your hand grabbing his, quickly lifting your gaze to meet his eyes. "I mean... Um... I- uh, Do you have any plans on leaving any time soon? Y’know, going off on another adventure?" What you really wanted to ask was if he had plans of leaving you soon. You knew that Sam wasn't the kind of guy to stay in one place for too long. He had told you, and it was very apparent in the many stories that he told you, that it was only a matter of time. 

He stared down at you, watching the nervous expression on your face shift to worry. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes, shaking his head slightly as he opened them again, "Not right now. It might be a while. Maybe in a week or two. Not sure." Sam admitted before his expression suddenly turned serious. The intensity in his eyes caused your breath to catch in your throat, but with a somewhat defeated sigh, he dropped his eyes from you to the still-playing TV. As Indiana swooped down with his lady-love in his arms, Sam pursed his lips; his eyes narrowing in deep thought. "I'm not good at this," He muttered, and you could tell that he was speaking more to himself than anyone else.

Your brows furrowed, "At what?"

Sam hesitated for a few moments, before speaking. "Love," He explained, his brown eyes boring into yours, causing you to blink once, twice. "I've been in love before, Y/N, but... I've never felt anything like what I do towards you. It's hard for me to put words to my feelings, but... I guess what I'm trying to say is..." He trailed off, not knowing how to continue. "You make me want to be that 'settle down' type of guy, sweetheart." You swallowed thickly at his confession.

You suddenly forgot how terrible you felt - forgetting about the stuffy nose, the sore throat, and your aching muscles - you simply focused on him. His gentle touch as his hand covered yours, his words echoing through your head as you gazed into those same deep brown orbs. His words made your insides melt, and your cheeks flushed. You felt yourself falling deeper and deeper, and deeper. "Really?" You asked, you couldn't help yourself, letting out a small giggle; you felt your eyes tear up slightly.

"Yeah," Sam breathed, "Really." He repeated, reaching out to cup your warm cheek.

You sighed, "If I wasn't sick right now, I would kiss you," You stated honestly, feeling a rush of excitement course through your veins as you stared into his eyes.

Sam grinned, narrowing his eyes playfully, "I don't mind getting sick, if it means kissing you,"

You couldn't help but laugh, before turning away swiftly to let out a rough cough into the sleeve of your elbow. "First thing when I'm better, how about that?" You suggested, looking back up at him, unable to keep your wide smile off of your face.

Sam chuckled lightly, looping his arm back around your shoulders, the both of you settling back to watch the rest of the Indiana Jones movie, "I'll hold you to that."

---

Main Masterlist | Uncharted Masterlist

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Day 13- Oral { Female Receiving }

Fandom: Uncharted 4 / Uncharted: The Lost Legacy.

Character: Samuel ‘Sam’ Drake

Warnings: Oral { receiving }, light fingering.

Digging your nails into the sheets, you did your best to bite back a moan. You can feel the man’s smirk against your inner thigh, his thumb slowly rubbing your clit.

“Come on Princess. I know you, you don’t gotta hold back. I wanna hear you scream.”

Shivering, you let your eyes glance over at the man bucking your hips against his fingers. “You’re such an ass.”

Grinning, Sam pinned you hips against the bed as he worked his fingers in your warmth. “Don’t worry darlin, I’ll make you be screamin my name soon enough.”

You want to scoff though the only thing that spills from your lips is a moan as you feel his tongue slide across your slit. Another gasp left your lips as you bucked you hips, a playful chuckle coming from Sam as he placed your legs over his shoulders.

“You know beautiful, it’s gonna be hard tearing my gaze off you when you’re lookin so good.” Grinning, Sam then gave your slit a slow lick keeping your hips firmly in place.

“Sam.” You turned your head away, your hands now digging into his shoulders.

“It’s hot, seein you like this. Moanin for me, gettin reading to come.” Sam shifted his body against the bed as he buried himself between your legs, his tongue pushing inside of you.

Your hands tangling into his hair as your back arches off the bed. “Fuck,” you moan.

You can feel Sam grin as he does it again. With his tongue inside of you, his thumb returns to your clit, making your body convulse uncontrollably. Your heart pounding in your chest as you gripped his host tightly. Your hips grinding against the movement of his tongue.

Your moans echoing through out the room, your eyes squeezed tightly shut.Your orgasm is building again, and this time you don’t say anything. Last thing you want is for him to stop. With each lick and swipe of his tongue you inch closer to the finish line. The moans and swears cannot be helped as you begged Sam for more.

Darting his tongue in and out, Sam started to suck your clit helping you reach your orgasm. As the man sucked your clit he started to work his in and out of your pussy brushing your walls and soon your were coming.

Your walls clenching around his fingers, your juices soaking the man’s face as he with drew himself away from your soaked pussy.

Running his thumb across his lips, Sam could still taste you on the tip of his tongue. Crawling on top you you, small shudder ran through your body feeling the man’s erection against your thigh.

“The nights not over yet beautiful. I’m just gettin started.”

[gogogodzilla]

✧ 𝔻𝕒𝕪 𝟚𝟞: 𝐵𝑖𝑘𝑒𝑟 ✧ 

【 𝑌𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑛 𝐴𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐼'𝑚 𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑀𝑎𝑛 】

╰› 〖 𝑆𝑦𝑛𝑜𝑝𝑠𝑖𝑠 〗: Your parents told you to never accept rides from strangers, but what if that stranger is hot and twice your age?

╰› 〖 𝑊𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 〗: nsfw 18+, older!Sam, fingering, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, pull-out method, there's only one bed, slight dirty talk, sam calls reader 'princess'

✧ 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑘𝑡𝑜𝑏𝑒𝑟 𝑚.𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ✧ 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑜𝑛 𝑎𝑜3 ✧ 𝑤𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑝𝑎𝑑 ✧

You hear him before you see him. The loud rumble of his engine vibrates the air around you, ripping you out of your thoughts. Your hand falls to your side as you watch the motorcycle roll to a stop beside you. You instinctively take a step back, eyeing the man on the bike. His rough-around-the-edges look matches the worn leather jacket and confident smirk he wore. 

“Need a ride, princess?” he calls over the hum of the engine. 

Your gaze shifts between the man in front of you and the motorcycle between his thighs. The dark clouds looming overhead appear more ominous by the second and you weigh your options.

He’s older than you with stubble littering his cheeks and neck. The tell-tale ink of a tattoo peeks out of the collar of his jacket, and you find yourself craning your neck to figure out what it is. 

“C’mon, I won’t bite,” he urges, a grin tugging at his lips, “unless that’s your thing.” 

Your eyes narrow, “That’s not very reassuring.” 

“Sam,” he introduces himself, chuckling a little as he holds out a hand for you to take. 

His palm is warm but calloused in your hand as you shake it briefly. His fingers completely envelop your hand, and you use the opportunity to take a closer look at him. His nose is crooked like it’s been broken more times than he could count, and tufts of brown hair stuck out from under his helmet. 

Something about him is magnetic, and you find yourself climbing onto the back of his bike, your fingertips slightly digging into the firm muscles of his shoulders.

Rain begins to fall as he pulls away from the spot where you stood just moments ago, and you let out a yelp as he revs his engine, rapidly picking up speed. You wrap your arms around his waist, and the taunt muscles of his abdomen jump under your fingers. 

The rain quickly shifts from a light drizzle to a downpour, and you lean against Sam, soaking up his warmth. He finally spotted a roadside motel, the neon vacancy sign barely visible through the rain. He pulls into the parking lot, killing the engine before the both of you dismount. You make a beeline for the front office, desperate to get out of the rain. 

Sam is quick to follow you, clutching a bag in one hand and his helmet in the other. He shakes out his hair as he joins you at the front desk. 

“What do you mean you only have one room?” you question the clerk incredulously, shivering in your rain-soaked clothes. 

The clerk shrugs, “It’s the busy season.” 

“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” you argue.

“We’ll take it,” Sam cuts in, giving the clerk a placating grin. 

You narrow your eyes as the clerk drops the key into your open palm. You clench your fist around the metal as you lead Sam up the creaky steps to a small room facing the rain-streaked road. 

“Well,” Sam says as he enters the room, tossing his bag onto one of the chairs and tugging off his jacket, “it’s not the Ritz but it’ll do.” 

You snort, attempting to ignore the way his shirt clings to his shoulders. You take in your sparsely decorated surroundings, eyeing the singular bed in the middle of the room. 

“Not exactly the night you had planned, huh?” he questioned, rifling through his bag. 

You raised a brow, “You’re not gonna murder me, right? I’ve seen Psycho, I know what happens to girls in hotels.” 

Sam chuckles, “That wasn’t on the itinerary for tonight, but I think I can squeeze you in.” 

You roll your eyes before heading toward the bathroom, eager to get out of your soaked clothes. You step into the shower, sighing as the hot water tumbles over your shoulders. Slowly, the chill inside you subsides, and you massage your muscles. 

“Keep making noises like that, and I’m gonna have to join you,” Sam calls, and your cheeks flush. 

“In your dreams!” you reply, although you can’t help but wonder what Sam’s hiding under that tight shirt of his. 

Steam billows out from the bathroom door as you exit, and spare water droplets roll down your legs as you throw your bag on the chair next to Sam’s. He leans against the headboard, relaxed as he flips through the channels on the TV. 

You perch on the edge of the bed opposite of him, drying your hair. You turned your head to risk a glance at him over your shoulder. He catches you and he smirks. 

“What’s someone like you doing hitchhiking?” he inquires, tossing the remote onto the bedside table. 

You turn to face him, furrowing your brows, “Someone like me?” 

“Young, for one” he supplies, shrugging. “You’re not too bad on the eyes either.” 

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you quip before you can catch yourself. 

He raises a brow as the corners of his mouth quirk up. 

A laugh escapes him, “Didn’t know you liked ‘em older, princess.” 

“You’re not that much older than I am,” you counter. “You’re only like, what, 50?” 

Sam clutches his chest and lets out a pained groan, wincing. He leans against the headboard, and you crawl next to him to lean against the headboard, fighting the laughter that threatened to spill. 

“Am I wrong?” you ask, throwing your hands out to the side.

“I’m 47 if you must know. Still got plenty of youth in me,” he answers, crossing his arms. 

“Mhmm,” you hum, your mouth curving into a smile as your eyes linger on his form. “Prove it.” 

His eyes widen for a moment as he meets your gaze, processing your words. You slowly lean forward, hesitating for only a moment before your lips meet his. The kiss quickly deepens as Sam gets his hands on you, and it’s not long before you’re under him and his hands are wandering over your form. 

The weight of his body presses you against the mattress, and his fingertips trail up your thighs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. Your breaths mingle as he pulls away to scatter kisses across the side of your neck. His tongue grazes against your pulse point, and you gasp, tangling your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. Sam groans into your shoulder, the tent in his jeans brushing against your inner thigh. You slide your hands under Sam’s shirt, slowly nudging the fabric up his abdomen. His muscles twitch under your touch, and he pauses just long enough to remove the offending piece of clothing before his lips are back on yours. 

Your fingers dance across his ribs, relishing every tantalizing inch of exposed skin. He slides a hand under your sleep shorts, and his fingers brush against your clothed core. Your breath catches against his lips. A shudder runs through you as he teases you through your underwear, lightly stroking your clit. 

A soft whine escapes you as you buck your hips against his hand, desperate for his touch. His free hand reaches under your shirt and he kneads your breasts, Your nipples harden under his touch. He tugs your shirt up and over your tits, just enough for him to latch onto one of your sensitive buds. 

Sam reaches between you, tugging your sleep shorts and underwear down your legs while his tongue swirls your nipple. He runs his hands across your inner thighs before swiping a finger through your dripping folds. 

“So wet for me,” he murmurs against your chest as he collects your arousal on his fingertips. 

He circles your clit before dipping down to tease your entrance. You’re a breath away from begging him to fuck you, and he’s savoring every moment of it. 

He takes mercy upon you and sinks a finger into your core, pumping it a few times as you arch against him. A breathy whine escapes you as he adds another. You savor the way he stretches you, and your mouth practically waters as your eyes drift down to the visible tent in his jeans. 

Sam follows your gaze and grins. Heat creeps up your neck as he uses his free hand to undo the button on his jeans and tug his zipper down. He frees his cock from its confines and his breath stutters as he takes his cock in his hand. 

He languidly strokes himself as he watches your pussy swallow his fingers. He extends a thumb to rub against your clit, and the familiar heat pooled in your belly. Your walls flutter against him as he juts his fingers deeper inside you, curling a little to hit the spot that had your eyes rolling in the back of your head. Sam pants as he brings you closer and closer to the edge, filling the tiny hotel room with lewd noises. 

Your release hits you as Sam drags his thumb over your clit. Your pussy holds him in a vice grip as you arch against the bed, crying out his name. He keeps moving within you, allowing you to ride out your high on his fingers.

He situates himself between your thighs, and you let him move you wherever he wants, limbs pliant as you come down from your high. 

He rubs a soothing hand over your thigh, “Think you can give me another one?” 

You jolt against him as he slides his cock through your dripping folds. He slips the tip of his cock into your entrance, and you gasp as he stretches you. Sam reaches down to draw steady circles against your clit as he inches inside you. 

Your legs wrap around him once he’s fully seated inside you, and he grabs your wrists in his hand, pinning your arms above your head. Sam gives a tentative roll of his hips, and his breath quickens as you clench around him. Your jaw drops open to release a breathy moan as his pace increases. 

Your gaze travels down his abdomen, tracing over his pecs before trailing down and over his ribs before landing down where the two of you met. You watch as his muscles ripple with each rut of his hips, his cock hitting the deepest parts within you. 

You whine as he mercilessly pounds into you, and tears prick the corners of your eyes as you cry out his name. Your tits bounce with every drag of his cock, and you feel your thoughts growing hazy, getting lost in the feeling of him. 

Sam leans down and kisses you messily and hard, a mix of tongues and teeth clashing together. He slides his tongue across your bottom lip, and a swift thrust of his hips has you gasping against his lips. He uses the opportunity to explore your mouth with his tongue.

“Feels so good, baby. Wanna feel you cum,” he slurs against your lips. 

“I’m close,” you manage to whimper out between each rut of his cock bullying itself deeper inside you. The obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin mixed with the squelching of your sopping cunt. It’s enough to make your cheeks flush. 

Sam’s grip tightened on your hands as his pace increased. The coil within you tightens and his hips stutter against your own. Both of you nearing the edge. 

With a few more punctuated rolls of his hips, you’re coming around Sam’s cock. Your entire body spasms as your orgasm crashes into you, and you screw your eyes shut. Sam lets go of your wrists and grips your hips as he pounds into you, chasing after his high. 

He falters and quickly pulls out of you before stroking his cock once and then twice. His release coats your inner thighs as he lets out a strangled groan. You whimper and clench around nothingness at the loss of him. 

You pant, attempting to catch your breath. Sam leans back on his heels from his position between your thighs. He lets out a laugh. 

“Not so bad for an old guy, huh?”

[erismerald]

𝐓𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 (Samuel Drake x Insecure Fem! Reader) 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈

𝐀/𝐍: Hello my loves! I know I have been some time away and without any kind of inspiration, however this has been a very complicated year for me and I have not been well enough mentally to even be able to read or post anything!!! But luckily I am slowly getting better (because i´ve meet someone who´s inspire me, and tbh he is a lot like Sam) and now I feel a little more inspired and motivated to write!!! I wish you a good read and I would like to remind you that my orders will open in a few days or so feel free to send me something!!!

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: It's amazing how exciting and terrifying living alone can be, during a sleepless night as you think back and rethink the nights others warmed the bed of the person you loved the most, a storm of pleasure hit your door.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Insecure reader, Age gap, Semi-Nsfw (sexual tension is in the air for now eheheh) a huge load of fluff, Drunk Sam

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2,517

Lust is a pleasure bought with pains, a delight hatched with disquiet, a content passed with fear, and a sin finished with sorrow. It's not reprehensible to want something that isn't ours, to desire in the depths of our thoughts something that our heart yearns for, that our body malevolently covets, to be enveloped by the sin that torments our thoughts… during the day it's as if it's just a specter that struts around your heart, but when dusk sets in, this carnal sin dominates every sensation in your body, until the revelry of your hands sliding across your soft skin begins, caressing every centimetre of the core of your body, allowing your thoughts to imagine him in your place… in his most libinous state, such a pure sensation, you begin to imagine his body attached to yours, both in a voluptuous battle to feel more of each other, his lips brushing against your neck and his husky voice a melody to your ears, you imagine his hands pressing you against the mattress, his tongue obscenely tracing its way down between your legs… in the pitch black, you utter his name lovingly like a lover whispering the most lascivious promises, you purr his name, yet your hands caress your core, feeling the wave of pleasure run through every cell of your body… when that pleasure finally sinks in, you open your eyes and feel yourself gasping for breath, and you realise that it was nothing more than your imagination.

You get up calmly from your bed, your body still recovering from the forbidden sensation of pleasure, you see your naked figure in a small worn mirror given to you by the person who kept your mind occupied day and night, quite possibly looted during one of his countless adventures with his companion Sully, and you realise that your face is flushed, ashamed as you remember the previous events, you look away in a struggle to maintain focus, redirect your gaze back to the object and in its reflection observe your nude physique, from your perspective it was no big deal, for many years you hid yourself because you were ashamed of certain features, until you met Samuel Drake, a charming man you were fortunate enough to meet at a conference given by one of your favourite journalists, Elena Fisher. Since then, your friendship and your love for him have intensified, even though you knew that your feelings for him were completely doomed and incorrect… for various reasons: your age difference, your lack of experience in relationships, his lack of interest in you… Sometimes you let your mind wander to the immensity of the women he'd already had and that brought you a feeling of craving… jealousy, but deep down you knew that it was completely impossible for anything to happen between the two of you, he saw you as a godchild, a kid in his eyes… You shook your head in an endeavour to dispel these negative thoughts and focus on what was important at that moment: finishing your college paper, you still had a few days to hand it in but you'd rather get it done before you suffocate yourself with work.

The temperature had dropped over the last few days, you could feel it as you walked barefoot across the cold living room floor of your small flat, your gaze carefully examining the clutter, the abandoned sheets and books in battle, on the living room coffee table, on the desk, even on the kitchen table, you could tell that these last few days had been extremely busy, and a large part of you wanted to finish this work as soon as possible so that you could rest and take a few days for yourself. Contemplating the huge window in front of you, it was raining heavily and the only lights were those of the huge city on the horizon, this kind of weather had been your favourite since you were a child, you slowly made your way through the small room towards the kitchen, a coffee would be your salvation for the night, or so you thought.

The sound of lightning echoed through the sky, hours had passed since you started working, you quickly glanced at the window and the rain had become heavier and steadier, completely distracted by the storm brewing on the horizon, you were surprised by the ringing of the doorbell… you weren't expecting anyone that night… or any other night, but for a moment you felt a wave of anxiety run through your body, who could it be? You walked cautiously to the door and peered through the peephole, holding your breath as you saw who was on the other side… Sam… his wet clothes clinging to his muscular body, his hair in disarray and on closer inspection you noticed that he had a wound on one of his arms and his nose was once again broken… You quickly opened the door, his expression changing from serious to relieved within seconds of seeing you.

"S-Sam? what happened-" your question was interrupted when your bodies came together in an embrace, you could feel his breathing quicken, his body relax as it came into contact with yours, his perfume was intoxicating mixed with the blood that dripped down his arm, his face was hidden in the hollow of your neck and that activated something in your body, a strange warmth travelled through your whole being "S-Sam…?" you asked once more.

"I'm sorry for turning up unannounced, darling, but I didn't have anywhere else to go so I thought I'd pay my dear Y/N a visit." For a few seconds his raspy voice against your neck provoked another feeling, a river of pleasure emerged from between your legs, but you put that thought aside when you smelled the alcohol, he was drunk… and had most likely got into some kind of bar fight. As much as it pained you, you pulled your bodies apart and looked straight into his eyes, you had to take care of him, he needed you right now.

"Come on… Let's take care of you, big guy" he chuckled softly, and with a little effort you managed to get him to the sofa, but when you got there you unbalanced yourself on one of your books and almost fell on top of him "S-sorry, the mess is huge, I've been busy-" your eyes met and you could see amusement in the depths of his eyes, his gaze analysed you calmly from top to bottom, your heart started racing, you could feel his breath close to your lips. … but you quickly pulled away, you knew that look wasn't really directed at you, you knew that because he was drunk he could do and say things that he didn't really feel. "Whilst I get the first aid box, please Sam stay still" you stood up from your position, you heard a snort of laughter coming from him, you could feel that cunning old man smirk

"Your house… your orders love, I promise I'll be quiet" he said as you walked away towards the bathroom, picking up the small white box, you stopped in front of the mirror, you were flushed red, your breathing fast, you couldn't get out of your head the image of him lying on your sofa, his sweatshirt clinging to his body… for a man in his 40s, he's too well preserved… you got lost in your thoughts and only came back when you heard his voice pulling you back to reality "What's up Y/N?" his voice was mesmerising, once again you tried to push those thoughts out of your head, you had to focus on the task at hand.

You quickly return to the living room, Sam was sitting on the sofa going through some of your papers when you arrived. "You've been really busy, huh? Have you had any time to yourself? with so many books around I don't think so" he said as you made room to sit next to him, every touch of your skin, even covered by clothes, made your blood rush through your veins "please can you pull up your sleeve? It's funny that every time we meet I have to look after you and yes I've been busy unfortunately" you sighed opening the box and taking out some of the materials you'll need, he smiled as he took off his shirt, as you turned to him you saw his naked torso in front of you, you automatically got embarrassed and looked away, he saw you blush and smirk, he knew the effect he had on you, the air around you was hot. … you wanted to focus on the task at hand but you couldn't, the sensation of his body close to yours, the heat he emanated… it was like a drug was affecting you, but with a lot of effort you managed to finish bandaging his arm. You felt his gaze intensify on you, those earth-coloured eyes analysing every bit of your skin exposed by the pyjamas you were wearing. Sam had looked at you like that before, but on all those occasions he had been drunk, and in an attempt to divert the subject you asked him how he had got himself into that state.

"Well, I'm in town for a few days, Victor and I think this might be our next clue to an artefact we're looking for, and since I had nothing to do I went for a drink, but I think I pissed someone off by trying to flirt with the barmaid…" he said, leaning back on the sofa. Jealousy… That feeling from earlier again… Anger and insecurity ran through your head, and you weren't even listening to what he was saying anymore, it was as if your mind had focussed on that one detail, it was obtuse to think of him as a lover, let alone be jealous of something that wasn't even yours, but that feeling was consuming you and you only managed to return to reality when you felt his touch on your arm "Hey? are you listening darling?" You immediately looked at him, you could feel tears forming in your eyes and so as to avoid having to deal with questions or the feeling of pity, you got up and walked to the kitchen "I'm going to make some coffee", was the last thing you had said before leaving the room.

You shouldn't feel angry, you shouldn't even desire what isn't yours, but somehow that feeling consumed your whole being, just imagining the women who warmed his bed, the cries of pleasure that came out of their mouths, the touches, the words spoken… everything you couldn't have but wanted, everything you longed to have but once again didn't have… you let your mind wander, until you felt a gentle touch on your shoulder, you looked back and Sam's face seemed somewhat saddened to see you like that, neither of you uttered a single word, but the silence was quite comfortable, but unfortunately you couldn't hold back the tears that you had fought so hard to keep in your eyes, and finally they dripped down from your eyes, wetting your face. Sam stroked your arm first, pulling you closer to him, cutting the space between the two of you, and gently lifted your chin so that your eyes meet, wiping away the tears that were still running down your cheeks with his thumb, without cutting your gaze… inside you were nervous, sad, but the feeling of his caress made you feel at peace with yourself.

"Tell me, dear, what's wrong? You know you can trust me with everything" he whispered in your ear as he pulled you into his arms, the only thing you knew how to do was hide your face in his chest, hugging him tightly… asking the gods that this moment would last forever.

"Sam… I… I know I shouldn't, I know it's not the right thing to do, but I've had feelings for you since the day we met… every time you call me, every time we meet, I wonder when I'll be able to see you next… you've stolen my heart in a way that I can't even express myself…" You said softly, still hiding your face in his body, "I long for something that isn't mine, and I get jealous every time I know that someone else is taking the place that could be mine in your bed… next to you." Saying this out loud was a really difficult task, you didn't want to give in to temptation, but you couldn't bear to let yourself feel this anguish any longer, no matter how much you'd be rejected, you'd rather tell him than hide it. Sam once again grabbed your chin and forced you to look up. The light around you was tenuous, and you could hardly see what was around you, but for mere moments it was just the two of you in that kind of darkness. You felt Sam slowly approaching you, his lips brushed your neck "Do you want me?" he said as he gently kissed your exposed neck "Sam…" you felt his tongue drawing little 's' on your skin "Answer me darling, do you want me?" his lips moved up to your lobe, nibbling, letting out a slight moan, "Y-Yes… " you answered breathlessly, he pulled away, leaving you in the interlude of a forbidden pleasure, your eyes locked once more, one of his hands rested on the side of your face, forcing your lips to be mere millimetres apart, the other slid down your body until it reached your waist, pulling you towards him, claiming you as his.

"My dear Y/N, ever since I laid eyes on you I knew I wanted you… no other woman can fulfil the desire I feel for you… i thought you'd reject me so i didn't go through with it, but god damned, each night i wished it was you whispering my name, that it was you moaning with each thrust, that it was your heart that beat close to mine after we fell on the mattress tired and sweaty from the carnal battle that neither of us had won" and with that he sealed your lips, you felt his tongue asking permission to enter and you gave in, you were both gasping, but the fight didn't stop there. With a simple gesture, the hand that was holding your waist lifted you up onto the stall, forcing both your legs open, where he positioned himself in the middle, his kisses went down to your neck once more and all you could do was moan his name.

"Tell me you want me, darling, beg for me, let me be a priest who worships you, let me make you mine, and only mine…" he said between kisses and caresses, your head was light, the only thing you could hear was the sound of your heart and the pounding rain, but with effort you answered

"Yes… please."

𝐓𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝…

[durrtydawg]

A Brief Encounter

(Sam Drake x F!Reader Smut)

You’d agreed not to give each other gifts this year, but after a rather crass Secret Santa gift from Sam at his brother’s Christmas party, it’d be rude not to return the favour. So, when he subtly beckons you to meet him into his brother’s airing cupboard, you’re all too happy to accept the invitation.

a/n: this isn't the best, and christmas is pretty much done and dusted, but i'm a bit low and it helped to write this, so I hope you enjoyyy!!

Word Count: 5.3k

WARNINGS: 18+, unprotected p in v, oral (f&m), friends with benefits type beat, erring on the 'too much' side of pining, but that's how i roll so sorry if that's not your jam. I have NOT proof read this fully, so there are bound to be mistakes but I am OVER it. Enjoy, lovelies x

Curiosity and anticipation mingle as you slip into the cramped space, closing the door as slowly and as discreetly as possible. You down the remainder of your amaretto and coke, placing the glass beside Sam as you wince at the unmixed alcohol that coats your tongue.

The moment the latch clicks, the same smirk he’d given you from across the room mere minutes ago returns as he swallows a mouthful of beer. "Fancy meeting you here," he quips, his voice low and provocative, the red tinsel draped over his shoulders offsetting a warm glow over his face. You don’t want to take him seriously.

“I’ve got a bone to pick with you.” You scoff, leaning against the dryer as you’re enveloped by the smell of detergent and clean linen. “Crappy wrapping, tacky gift. I should’ve known you were my Secret Santa the moment it was handed over.”

“Alright, I can’t excuse the wrapping, but, I’ll have you know that these,” He removes a hand from the counter, pulling the offending garment from where it’s poking out of your skirt's pocket, catching you off guard and eliciting a quiet yelp from you as he slingshots the material against your forearm.

“Ow!” You attempt to smack his hand, but his reflexes are quick, and he swipes it out of reach just in time, placing a finger over your lips.

“Keep your squawking down.” He warns with a slightly sardonic half-smile, shaking his head towards the door. “These were not cheap. I don’t scrimp on my favourite girl.” He holds them up to the small lamp on the shelf behind him and you blush a little. “Plus, I just know it’s gonna look fantastic on you.” He shrugs, smug, and satisfied.

You roll your eyes, smirking as you adjust your volume. "Really, though, Samuel? ‘Ho ho ho’? A thong? Real smooth.”

His response accompanies a smug grin. "Well, I had to get you something that matches your…” He holds his beer just shy of his lips as he mulls over his thoughts for a second, “You.”

You snort in response, folding your arms as your brows raise, the two of you locking metaphorical, and very flirtatiously charged horns. “Oh! Well, in that case, we’ll have to get you a matching pair!”

He chuckles into his beer bottle, taking a swig before placing it beside him. He goads you with his look- a soft furrow of his brows that says ‘elaborate’.

“Dragging me into your brother’s airing cupboard in the middle of his impeccably planned Christmas party? Hardly the behaviour of someone who isn’t a… ‘ho ho ho’ themselves.” You feel yourself stifle a giggle- what a stupid conversation.

Ah, who gives a shit. You’re both tipsy, and you both know what’s about to happen.

Sam licks the remnants of his beer off of his lips, pushing himself away from the counter with an amused grin. His smug smile, a silent agreement, sets the stage for what both of you have been dancing around all night. The atmosphere becomes charged, filled with unspoken needs that have lingered in stolen glances and exchanged banter amongst a crowd of drunken acquaintances and giddy friends.

“You must be sorely mistaken, gorgeous.” He starts as his hands brace themselves onto the dryer, gently caging you in. “I wanted to help out my little brother by… folding towels. You know- keep him in the wife’s good books.”

In the intimate, shrunken space of the airing cupboard, the atmosphere thickens as his joke hangs between Sam and you, a veil of playfulness concealing the underlying, and oh so mouth-watering tension that’s coarsening your skin with goosebumps.

“Folding towels. That’s what we’re calling it now?” You grin, though your voice takes on a slightly lower tone as he leans over you. God, he smells fantastic.

The slight wrinkle in his navy t-shirt is a telltale sign that he’s obviously pulled it straight from the dryer and thrown it on as he left his apartment; but that damn jacket. Recently washed, yes, but never rid of that tinge of cigarette smoke that’s practically woven its way into the denim by now; a little aftershave spritzed over it as to not cause offence to those that despise his poor habit, accompanied by… him; A gentle amber muskiness diluted by the subtle red fruit scent that’s interwoven itself into him during his winter period of reluctant domesticity.

“Shame you’ve not got these on now, ya know.” He takes another look at the thong before abandoning it on the top of the washer, re-assuming his position over you. “Red’s definitely your colour. Always has been.”

His eyes make a show of their journey up and down your frame, and much to your own chagrin, you feel your face heat up even more. You should be used to this by now. Your little arrangement has been going on for almost a year. Yet every time, he’s got you blushing like a high school kid with a crush on their teacher.

Sam grins, shoulders jolting with a chuckle as he watches the redness spread across your cheeks.

“Aw. See? Adorable.”

“Stop it.” You chide, head turning to the side as you try to hide the consistent blush bleeding across your face. As if his ego needs to be given any more fuel.

“Stop what?” He smirks, knowing full-well what you mean. You frown. “Ohhh.” He over exaggerates, grinning wide as his head flops sideways in search of your face. “Making you blush? Doesn’t take much, does it?”

“No. I’m not gonna stop.” Sam's smug smile lingers, a subtle spark in his eyes made visible by the warm glow of the lamp. The air crackles with anticipation as he leans in, his lips brushing yours with a teasing tenderness that makes your hairs stand on end. His eyes are sly, and of course seductive, provoking you to lean in and close the gap. He’s offering the illusion of a situation where you get to take charge.

But he’s done this before, and things never go that way.

Not that you mind, of course.

Each passing second adds fuel to the simmering fire as you feel his thumbs grace your wrists at either side of you. You hold steady, your eyes narrowing towards his in a sort of stand off. You’re not going to cave first.

Though… it’s becoming more and more of a challenge as he leans further into you, your back pressed hard against the edge of the dryer as he imposes fully on your personal space. You can feel how hard he is through his jeans.

His head dips down, and you feel light stubble scratch against your jaw as he laughs softly, yet there’s still an undeniable smugness to it that makes your hands go clammy. “I intend to keep that blush of yours nice an’ vibrant for the foreseeable, sweetheart.”

And just like that, you’re butter in his hands. Melted butter, mind you- it’s fucking boiling in here.

You mutter a quiet “fuck sake” in a poor attempt at saving face, but as his lips press against the spot just beneath your ear, you know things are about to progress quickly- just like they always do when the two of you are alone. A few more pecks down your neck, and you breathe in; your nipples rub against your bra, and you exhale shakily as his teeth come into play. Sam removes his hands from your wrists, respectively taking a hold of your waist and your hair, keeping you pressed against him as he reddens your neck, bit by bit, and- God- the sight of him still wearing that jacket is making you feel like you’re in the depths of a furnace. He’s not even breaking a sweat. Bastard.

You find your hands weaving underneath the sherpa, clawing at his dark tee ’til you reach his shoulders. You tuck your hands underneath, and as if telepathy exists, he shunts the jacket off, along with the tinsel, lips still trailing a series of small bruises along your neck.

They fall to the floor, buttons clack-clattering against the washer behind him- dangerously loud whilst whatever song is playing outside seems to be in the midst of a quiet bridge- and you both break apart to stare at the door, wide-eyed and breathing heavily.

After a few butterfly-inducing seconds, a new song starts and someone whoops loudly- you’re safe.

Sam looks back at you with a relieved smile. It’s too innocent and uncharacteristic, so you push him off of the diving board, straight into the deep end; fingers tugging him down to your level by the scalp, using his slight moment of surprise to shove him back into the washer as your lips find his.

Sam's hands trace a path of yearning along your back; they dive under your tacky ‘tinsel tits’ sweater in search of skin, and as his calloused, scarred hands meet the smooth softness of your back, he hums quietly into you, as if he’s checked something off of a to-do list. You take it upon yourself to tick off another, and your free hand reaches down to give him a teasing squeeze through his jeans.

You both smirk in tandem, but as you one-handedly pull out his t-shirt’s French-Tuck- his lazy attempt at sprucing himself up- and your dexterous fingers unhook his belt buckle in one fell swoop, his smirk falters slightly.

Smugness now replaced by an urgent need, he pulls you tighter against him, and the air becomes charged with the electricity of your concealed connection as you unbutton his jeans. Your hand snakes past the zipper, thumb testing the waters with a teasing stroke over the fabric of his boxers as you push your tongue into his mouth. He tastes of nicotine that’s been drowned in alcohol, Nathan’s experimental lebkuchen, and a stick of cheap gum, and as your hand wraps around him completely, you cannot get enough.

Sam fights against your tongue with his own, brows scrunching every so often as you slowly pump his cock in your palm. Shutting him up is always pleasant, and always rare, so you savour every second, watching as a flush of his own begins to make an appearance across his cheeks. Two can play at that game, you think to yourself, your core seizing in anticipation.

A wandering hand squeezes at your ass under your skirt, and as you roll your thumb over his tip, you pull your lips from his, making sure to take in the sight of his growing arousal. You smile knowingly, your other hand freeing his hair so your thumb can swipe away saliva from his lips. You give him a gentle peck, made teasing by the smirk that accompanies it before you pull away from him and crouch slightly.

Pushing up his t-shirt a little, your smirk deepens as you take in the quick rise and fall of his stomach as he breathes fast in expectancy. You kiss him; a soft, open-mouthed peck over each scar, tongue rolling across the hair trailing along his belly, down lower, and lower, fingers pulling aside the waistband of his jeans.

Sam’s hands find purchase on the edge of the washing machine, eyes transfixed on you as you expose him, jeans pulled down just enough to give you access, but still modest enough for any hasty getaway that may be required.

You lower yourself fully to your knees, and the temperature is too much now. You pull off your sweater, placing it gently aside as you twist your hair into a makeshift pony, throwing it over a shoulder. He’s well-groomed. It’s almost as if he knew this was going to happen.

“Don’t be too quiet.” You look up at him. “I love hearing my pretty boy lose his composure.” You smile innocently, taking him in your hand again.

“Shut ya mouth. Calling’ me shit like that.” He laughs in response. The way his cheeks take on a soft pink hue sets you aflame; it’s evidence that his annoyance his feigned. He likes being called ‘shit like that’.

You giggle quietly, tongue licking a stripe up from his balls to his tip, before you let spit roll over your lower lip and onto him as Sam looks down at you with a neediness he’s only ever let you see. You move painfully slowly, lips parting enough to pull his head into your mouth, hands finding the outside of his thighs. He’s tense with anticipation, and your hands squeeze, before your throat envelopes his cock as far as you can take him.

Cheeks hollowed, you slowly retract, making him hiss as you gently graze your bottom teeth against his frenulum, before you retract completely.

“Do that again.” He breathes, knuckles pale.

“Ask nicely.” You grin, opening your mouth a little, hovering just in front of him.

“Christ.” He mutters, unable to wipe away his smile as he shakes his head, eyes closed. “Do that again, please.”

“Good boy.”

“Will you stop callin’ me th-ah-at, fuck!” He cuts himself off as you repeat the action, this time drawing a bead of salty-sweetness from him. You hum in satisfaction, feeling your own slick between your thighs as his hand instinctively grabs a hold of your hair.

As the next minute progresses, you hear Sam’s breathing gradually grow slightly more erratic, his hand unsteadily pushing your hair out of your face as the pace builds. Every now and then you flick your eyes upwards, relishing in the way he swallows in want, hips twitching occasionally as you involve your teeth- his breathy little pants make you want to keep this up forever, but you crave more.

You move particularly deep, and he bucks up; you feel him hit the back of your throat and you gag, eyes beginning to water instantly. You slide him out of your mouth as you take in air, and whilst it takes a whole lot of willpower for him not to push himself back into your throat, he instead tucks himself away and comes down to your level with an apology and a chuckle, cupping your jaw as you pull yourself together.

“Hate it when you do that.”

“It’s a good thing I did,” He breathes, “Don’t think this would’ve lasted as long as I’d want it to if you kept going.”

You laugh whilst Sam’s eyes follow the trickle of drool slowly rolling down your chin. He’s suddenly in a world of his own, barely registering what you’re saying before his tongue gathers the spit off of your skin, pushing it back into your mouth, your back hitting against the cool metal of the dryer as he kisses you; stubble grazes almost painfully against your face, but you don’t give a shit. Sam takes a rushed pause to rest his forehead against yours as he looks down at your chest; heaving, ripe for the picking.

You can only squeak as he grabs hold of you, hoisting you to your feet before propping you back up onto the top of the dryer. You almost fall back from the haste of it all, but with his hands on your lower back, you’re relatively stable again.

You groan as his hands grab your breasts, kneading them with a ferocity that sends your pulse skyrocketing. His eyes flit to yours, and he gives you an warning grin before his hands snake behind you and unhook your bra. You gasp, mildly irritated that he’d expose you so thoughtlessly whilst you’d taken every care to preserve him from any embarrassment that could occur from an innocent party-goer accidentally infiltrating the unlocked airing cupboard.

“These are magnificent.” He preens, and you roll your eyes with a scoff.

“You’re acting like you’ve never seen them before.”

“Been a while. God.”

“Did you just lick your lips? What are you, fourteen?”

“Look, doll, you know me. I’m a simple guy. I see a good pair’a tits, and I start to salivate. Now shut up.”

You huff in amused shock, but as Sam’s tongue goes for your nipple, you force yourself to swallow down a small gasp. A lick turns into a suck, which turns into a bite, and you have to cover your mouth to stop yourself from yelping out in pained pleasure as his teeth apply pressure to the sensitive spot, tugging as he looks up at you deviously. He lets go, and you let out a sharp breath, glaring at him.

“Are you trying to get us caught?” You chastise, panting a little as he pinches your neglected nipple, the roughness of his thumb and forefinger making you squeeze your thighs together in response to the action.

He gives you a toothy grin, pupils blown out; eyes darkened by impertinence as he chooses not to respond. God, he drives you mad.

As Sam takes a moment to look at you again, his smugness gives way to an unseated hunger, his lips briefly seeking yours again with a precision born of familiarity. He smooths his hands up your legs, pulling his lips away, eyes flitting between each one as he squeezes your thighs.

And all of a sudden, your heart is palpitating hard. You’re soaked- that much is certain, but you’re also slightly afraid of the concept of him stripping you completely bare without so much as a lock from keeping you from being walked in on. Perhaps you should’ve thought this through. Perhaps you shouldn’t be-

“Sam!” You whisper-yell as the ripping of fabric snatches you from your thoughts.

“I’ll buy you a new pair.” He replies, completely unbothered by your reaction, the new hole torn into your tights right between your thighs giving him an almost completely unrestricted view he’s been waiting for. “Jesus Christ. Haven’t even touched you yet, and you’re wet through.”

“I will kick you.”

“Nah, you won’t.” He shoots a complacent grin up at you, before hooking his arms around your thighs and pulling you to the edge of the dryer with a quick yank that has your eyes widen momentarily.

You sigh shakily, bracing yourself on your forearms as he comes back to antagonise your chest.

Your gaze fixes on Sam, who looks up at you with a teasing smile as he pushes your thigh aside, deft tongue swirling and flicking around your nipple in a way that makes your lips part with quickened breaths; the signalling of your growing want couldn’t possibly get any clearer. The playful glint in his eyes mirrors the deriding movement of his lips, and for a moment, the laughter, music, and clinking glasses outside the intimate space you’re sharing muffles into the background.

His fingers, warm and skilful, navigate the contours of your skin through your thin tights with a gentle caress. The intention is clear—a slow, tantalising exploration that builds mutual desire with every inch of you that’s covered, and as he finally strokes a thumb over your covered core, sending a soft mewl spilling from your lips, a switch flips in his brain. Playfulness starts to deepen into a smouldering gaze, reminding you of his undeniable hunger beneath the friendship on the surface. As he pulls aside the material and starts to coat his fingers in your slick, it’s all too clear that his movements are deliberate, each touch purposeful, as if he's savouring the anticipation as much as the final destination.

He wants you. But he wants you to need him more. Sam wasn’t lying when he said you’re his ‘favourite girl’.— he adores you, and he wants to give you everything he can through his body that he can’t bring himself to give you through caged in commitment. As a result, he’s not afraid to take his time- time to pretend that this is more than the ‘friends with benefits’ arrangement you’d forged way back when. He doesn’t give anyone else this kind of time. He doesn’t want to.

You're caught between the thrill of the unexpected and the familiarity of Sam's touch. Every stroke and every red blotch left on your skin feels like a shared rebellion against the constraints of everything else life has to offer. He bites you again, and you buck your hips in response, brows furrowing as a quiet hiss pushes through your teeth. Your nails claw against the edge of the dryer, and as he effortlessly slides two fingers knuckle deep inside you, your grip falters slightly.

The hand on your waist tightens, and one of yours goes for the back of his head. You tangle your fingers into his hair, head rolling back as you try to stop yourself from moaning. He hooks his fingers, rubbing back and forth against your sweet spot in quick, repetitive motions, whilst his thumb flicks against your clit. Your breathing grows heavier, and you struggle to keep quiet as he releases your nipple from his mouth with a gentle ‘pop’.

The fire in your lower belly is burning stronger with each passing second, and you clasp your lip between your teeth as he adds a third digit— the stretch forcing a groan bubbling out of your throat as he laughs softly at the sight of you leaking onto the back of his hand. This time you’re unable to keep it down.

You’re sopping, and so damn tight at this angle— Sam feels his cock twitch with need as he feels you contract around him, the sensation of your nails scratching gently against his scalp, tugging at the roots of his hair giving him goosebumps of his own. He loves the way you sound; the wetness, your unsteady breathing, and your quiet, raspy little moans— even more so knowing that you’re trying and failing to restrain yourself.

“Ohh— shit.” you gasp as his thumb speeds up, stimulating your clit to the point where your breath gets caught in your throat. You’re not far from the edge, but he’s not ready for that yet. Neither are you.

Slowly, he pulls his fingers out of you, and you exhale, a desperate look in your eyes as the emptiness hurts.

He presses his forehead to yours, gently nudging his nose against yours in a display of affection that forces a shy smile from you. His eyes flit to your lips, and back up to your eyes, and just before you take it as a silent invitation to kiss him, his hand is brought up from between your thighs. Your cheeks heat up at the sight of his glistening fingers as he hovers them just in front of your chin.

“Open up.” He whispers, lips tugged into a cocky half-smile. You’re more than happy to oblige, and as your lips part, he slides two slick-covered fingers into your mouth, your tongue lapping up the sticky sweetness as he fixates on your mouth for a moment.

Without so much as looking back up at you, he mutters “My turn.”

As you continue to taste yourself on his skin, Sam gets to his knees, free hand holding a thigh to one side before it moves aside the soaked material of your underwear again.

“So so pretty.” He mutters, voice gruff, eyes ravenous as he takes in the sight of you; glistening, ready. All for him. All because of him. He leans in, hand keeping you exposed as he pulls his fingers from between your lips, instead choosing to keep you wide open for him. His tongue scoops you up, from the bottom of your folds up to your swollen clit, and you shudder, fingers instinctively tightening in his hair as you look down at him.

Sam goes again, this time sucking the sensitive bud in order to draw out a noise from you. You hum; high pitched and needy, leaning your coccyx against the dryer as you spread your legs open a little further.

He groans into you, fingers digging into the fullness of your thighs as his tongue moves; slow and deliberate, as if every stroke, every lick, every bite is a carefully composed note in a well-practiced symphony. The taste of you spurs him on, and through the feeling of your thighs involuntarily tightening around his head as he begins to devour you like you’re the first meal he’s eaten in days, and the slight tug you give his hair every few seconds, a blend of mischief and longing and lust takes him over.

You’re a mess, flustered, muffled moans and curses spilling into your hand, your bare chest heaving as he becomes more unrestrained; he can’t get close enough to you, his nose rubs against your clit while his tongue snakes inside you, pretty, dark eyes flicking up to see the effect that he’s having on you every so often.

You could do this all day. So could he. But you’re approaching your peak far too quickly, and whilst his tongue feels wonderful, you want more. You want him inside you when you finish— you want him to feel what he’s done to you in the most intimate way possible.

“Sam?” You rasp, tugging at his hair slightly harder. “F-fuck, Sam, s—stop.” You tug a little harder, and you whimper as you feel his breath fan over you as he reluctantly allows you to pull him away from your sensitive cunt.

He swallows, chest heaving as he takes in air. “You okay?” He asks, brows furrowed, nose, lips, and chin coated in a glistening layer of your arousal. You have to give yourself a moment to take it in. This is far from the first time you’ve seen him like this, but each time you do, you feel yourself fall in deeper. You nod, hand moving to the back of his neck, drawing him into you. Your lips press against his again, and as his tongue dives into your mouth, sharing with you the tangy sweetness he’s obsessed with, you pull his cock into his other hand. Your thumb smooths over the dribble of pre-cum that’s seeping out of him, and you pump him in your hand a few times just to feel how hard he is. He huffs out through his nose as you squeeze him gently, and as you rub him against your dripping pussy, his arms tighten around you.

You line him up, edging yourself forwards just enough for his tip to breach you, and as he swallows down a quiet moan, you peel your mouth from his and get him to look at you. “You know I love you, right?” You breathe, thumb stroking the bridge of his nose as he looks at you with parted lips.

“I know you love me.” He says, just a little louder than a whisper. He pushes into you, a cuss sighed into your neck as he tucks his head beside you. You swallow a moan as he stills, nestled into you as deep as he can, your arms wrapped around the back of his neck as he gives you a moment to adjust, and him to embrace.

You laugh, quiet and breathy into the shell of his ear. “I know you do.” You say, pressing a kiss just behind his ear as he drags himself part-way out of you. He rocks himself back into you, hips rolling gently as he begins to build a gentle rhythm. He doesn’t want to come just yet. He wants to savour this. To enjoy this perfect glimpse into the normal life he’s never wanted. He loves you. He loves you so much, but he can’t give you everything you want, so you both settle for stolen moments like these.

He quickens the pace ever so slightly, and as he continues to litter the delicate skin of your neck with deep pink nips and wet speckles your eyes close. You cradle his head in your arms as his thrusts grow a little harsher, and he hums out soft, vulnerable moans that make his closeness to his peak all the more evident.

“So good t’me.” He murmurs into your neck as he slots a hand between you, blindly searching for your clit with shaky fingers.

You cry out into his shoulder as he finds it, and you cling onto him with all of your might as he fucks you with more intensity with each passing second.

He grips onto your lower back as he continues to groan into your neck— he pulls you into him with such intensity that every small bruise developing on your chest is stimulated as your tits are crushed harshly against his t-shirt.

Sam goes deeper, sweeter, and your eyes water as he squeezes your clit almost desperately. You grunt, the coil in your abdomen tightening and tightening with each passing second, eyes squeezing shut as he gives up concentrating on your neck, collapsing into the crook of it altogether.

He breathes heavily, grunting as you bite into his shoulder to suppress a scream as you completely lose yourself. You convulse in his arms, your pussy spasming around his cock as you feel your orgasm crash over you, muffled expletives and Sam’s name spilling mindlessly from you as you feel nothing but white hot pleasure. The coil releases, and you fall limp in his grasp as you begin to milk his own orgasm out of him.

“G—God,” He groans, hand snatched from between you as he braces himself against you. He keeps moving as you feel hot ropes of cum fill you, leaning back just enough to see it dribble out of you and onto him.

He stills, foreheads touching again as you catch your breath. You feel his eyebrows scrunch and unscrunch as his breathing slowly becomes steadier, and the intensity of your respective climaxes dim into a soft afterglow.

You feel a hand stroke against your jaw, and he huffs out a laugh as you smile.

“Hi.” He whispers.

“Hey.” Your responding laugh quickly dissipates into a wince as he slides out of you.

He sniffs, with a smile to mirror your own. “Perhaps I should’ve gotten you a towel instead of that thing.” He shakes his head towards the Secret Santa gift lying abandoned on the washer behind him, and you snort.

“Hmm. I mean you could always use them as a cum rag.”

“Love it when you talk all ladylike.” He jokes. “Christmas isn’t over til New Years, the way I see it, so you’ve got plenty of time to model them for me before they’re allowed to be used for something so…menial.”

You shove him playfully, hopping off of the dryer, legs wobbling slightly as you get used to being on the ground again. He throws you your bra and sweater, which you throw on as he relocates his jacket.

You rake your fingers through your hair in hopes that it still looks relatively presentable and suitably covers your thoughtfully gifted hickey-patchwork, before you swipe up the thong and walk over to the door.

“Gonna... take a stealth walk to the bathroom.” You clear your throat, smiling as you rest a hand over the handle.

He nods in response, a half, and slightly coy smile on his lips. As you twist the handle, he gets your attention with a quick “Hey”.

You turn, raising an expectant brow. He clears his throat, nodding as if he’s reassuring himself about something.

“You… you know I love ya too, yeah?”

You smile, taking in the slight nervousness in his eyes. “I know you do. Despite these.” You swing the red monstrosity around your finger before bunching it up and shoving it into your skirt pocket. You give him an endearingly sweet wink, opening the door slowly, exposing the room to the bass boost of Nate’s festive playlist and someone’s dreadful karaoke attempt.

“See you out there?”

He chuckles as he watches you check that the coast is clear. God, he adores you.

“See you out there.”

*

I love him a normal amount.

[nathandrakeisabottom]

Yesss please sam drake food/eating hcs?? Fave meals, hated meals, etc

It is with great joy and great belatedness that I post my first Uncharted piece in ages. Thank you for the lovely ask, anon. :)

⋆ Sam Drake - Eating Headcanons ⋆

Two words: scarcity mindset.

After running away from Saint Frances’s, to claim money was tight is to be telling some humorous bit, Money was borderline non-existent. And as such, came what the Drake boys do best: theft. 

Liquor stores were their easiest, and most consistent source. Sam still takes great pride in telling his many stories revolving around ‘cashier meet-cutes’ disguising their proudest heist to date: a 12-year-old Nathan smuggling canned goods under a moth-holed hoodie. 

Because of this, gas station snacks: twinkies, Lays chips, slurpees, etc. all tend to give him this simultaneous sense of nostalgia and nausea. Like when you’re eating eggs and all of a sudden, your body gags on the next bite.

But on an especially shitty day, expect him to be gobbling a Big Gulp and a half-frozen hot dog on the nearest street corner, with a half-smoked cigarette still sunken between his lips. It’s the way he wallows. 

Secretly wants you to tell him how bad that shit is for him so he has an excuse to snottily spat back “who the ‘ell cares?”. He finds pride in not caring about anything. (He cares about everything.)

Getting fast food at the drive-thru? Man waves you off a total of three times claiming he doesn’t want nothing before proceeding to eat half of your McNuggets without asking. He loves BBQ sauce and needs Tabasco on everything like it’s his will to live.

Big fan of spicy, sour, and tart, anything that makes your mouth pucker. Pretzels, salt and vinegar chips, cottage cheese, pickles, pineapple (😉). “What can I say? I admire a fruit that fights back!” — he snorts before taking a raw bite of a lemon, just to squirm you out.

Maybe a bit of the masochist in him. 

When he and Nate were able to get proper gigs (12-year-old Nathan: illegally, of course), they were able to progress to the simplest of grocery outlet options. Eggs, instant ramen packets, canned vegetables that were 9 out of 10 times eaten raw out of the can with a fork, and more nothing-but-toast-for-dinner than they’d want to admit).

Sam and Nate spent most of their childhood eating their dad’s scrambled eggs and microwaved peas. When their mom passed, and dad released them to the state, Sam decided he’d only ever eat over-easy again.

Nate still chooses scrambled. He asks for cheese and green onions to split the difference, but always ends up only eating half of it before the memories come too strong and he has to push his plate away. 

QUICK eater. MESSY eater. And I mean quick and messy. 

Will use as minimal cutlery as possible, and if disposable, even better.

A scooper. Tends to be a chronic careless spiller with how frequently he tries to funnel all the last crumbs into his mouth, how quickly he chugs even a glass of water. (Most shirts of his are stained as a result.)

Tends to wait till the last possible moment to eat or drink anything. Breakfast basically doesn’t exist to him. 

Spills more beverage down his chin and shirt than his mouth (but a wet t-shirt certainly isn’t the worst thing to happen. Especially not to Samuel Drake. ;)

Pizza order: Meat Lover’s with extra sausage. Maybe some green bell peppers when he finally compromises with Nate during movie night.

Never, ever orders (well, non-alcoholic) drinks when eating out. And only water when he finally lets himself cave. Otherwise, he’s stealing sips from the nearest patron’s Jarrito bottle (his favorite is Tamarind).

Doesn’t bother cleaning up his fruit peels or peanut shells, even around others. That shit’s going on the floor without a second look.

Surprisingly, a king and natural on the BBQ. Despite having so little in their childhood, Sam still tried to go hard on the holidays for Nathan’s sake. Fourth of July is still Nate’s favorite holiday exclusively because of Sam’s public park-smoked ribs and the long, bumpy motorcycle ride up the highest hill in whatever city they were currently loitering in, just to see the fireworks. 

A dive bar master. Nate always orders whatever grease-covered appetizer they got in the back. Sam purposely keeps his stomach empty so there’s more room for whiskey. (Since nobody asked, incredible at pool, and will offer any woman in a twenty foot circumference a lesson. Cue the leaning chest over back, cue stick fantasy.)

A love language that was a total surprise to him is his partner cooking/baking something just for him, especially if it’s from scratch. Gets that rare, soft look in his eyes as he watches them carefully place each steaming plate onto the table. And trust, he’s not looking at the food when it happens.

Loves his partner in an apron. Like… loves his partner in an apron.

Make him food, and as soon as it’s eaten, he’s eating you after. ;)

When he finally settles down post-Madagascar, it’s a fucking struggle to get him to go grocery shopping at all for the first few months. 

Self-punishment, maybe. 

Nathan buys them himself instead and leaves them on the porch of Sam’s trailer park home when he’s too depressed to answer the door. 

Basically has to be forced to eat actual meat and vegetables. For the first few months, he reverts and eats only familiar prison food. The same single pot of chili/beans for a whole week, half portions only for each meal. Uncooked canned carrots. Microwave popcorn when Nathan calls him asking if he’s eaten, and when Sam lies, it sounds more believable with the microwave droning in the background.

However, when he finally starts to pick himself back up, when he gets his first day job since prison, finally lets Nate buy him a used truck to get around, his first solo call from Sully, that’s when he finally starts to eat.

And when he finally feels like himself again, when he finally lets himself want to live again, the first hobby that Sam Drake takes up is cooking.

[periprose]

Not to be dramatic but seeing that all the Nathan and Sam drake fanfics (that are super popular anyways) are the movie versions kind of killed me...

Anyways that's why I'm working on something. I mean I'm always working on everything but this time I really feel like I must right this wrong 🥹

[drabblesandimagines]

2023 Fic Recs

I've seen a couple of posts where people are sharing some of their favourite Tumblr fics of the year, so here's mine. I must stress I have too many to list, but here's four that I've re-read multiple times this year cos I adored them. Whilst I'm primarily a fluff blog, I do interact with spicier content so bear that in mind before you click!

1. I Am Afraid Not Of Leaving But Being Forgotten by @pinkkittysaw (18+ blog - SFW but please respect pinkkittysaw boundaries of not having minors interact with their work) Oh, Clive Rosfield, I love you so. All of pinkkittysaw's work is wonderful, but I have such a soft spot for a soft, caring Clive and as someone who has low self-esteem (working on it, my friends!) this just speaks to my soul.

2. Ask Request by @neondogs (18+ blog, SFW piece) I haven't played a single game that contains Chris Redfield and only seen parts of Vendetta, but Aspen's Chris Redfield x reader fics have made me fall in love. I'm all about the comfort and Chris comforting reader after a nightmare, respecting boundaries, cuddling them close... Oh, it's wonderful!

3. Beyond Our Vessels by @cryptictongues (18+ blog, NSFW piece) Barnabas x Sleipnir x reader threesome. I will forever say there is not enough Barnabas Tharmr x reader content out there, and this is pure indulgent porn without plot with the added bonus of beautiful, loyal Sleipnir and ooft. OOFT.

4. Drakes with an Anxious S/O Headcanons by @nathandrakeisabottom (SFW piece, blog has 18+ content) I threw myself into their ask box with an anonymous ask about how the Drake Brothers would be with an anxious significant other after my anxiety was really rearing its head in December and I'd played all of the Uncharted games in 2023. I absolutely adore this - I've re-read it so many times already and it always puts a smile on my face!

Wishing you all a wonderful 2024 x

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

[justsomerandomfanfic]

Out Of The Darkness, And Into Your Arms - Sam Drake X Female Reader

Title: Out Of The Darkness, And Into Your Arms

Sam Drake X Female Reader

Additional Characters: Reader's friend one, Reader's friend two, Nathan, Elena (Mentioned), Sully (Mentioned), Rafe (Mentioned), Alcazar (Mentioned), and Bar jerk

Loosely inspired by: 'I'm So Tired' by Lauv and Troye Sivan

WC: 6,390

Warnings: Uncharted 4 canon violence mentioned, Uncharted 4 canon events/storyline, Sam's death, italics used, cursing, crying, nightmares mentioned, bars, alcohol, drugs mentioned, guy at bar harrasses/annoys Reader briefly, blood briefly mentioned, brief mention of mental health/depression, nicknames, slightly suggestive, angst, and fluff

"Come on, Y/N, just try." Your friend placed a hand on your shoulder, stopping your pacing. 

You threw your hands up in the air, "I have been trying." You huffed, glancing at your friend as you tugged at your hair in frustration. "I have been trying - for fifteen years. But you don't understand how damn hard it is." You gently pushed past your friend and moved over to the couch, sitting down. 

As you covered your face with your hands, your friend let out their sign. "I know that it's hard. I truly do. I may not know the full extent of everything, but I'm so sorry for what happened."

"It's not your fault," You whispered, taking a deep breath, dragging your hands down your face, making your cheeks burn slightly; "It's mine."

"No, it’s not, Y/N." They quickly sat next to you, putting an arm around your shoulders, "You didn't know what was going to happen."

You shook your head, looking up at your friend, "I watched him fall." You felt tears sting at the corners of your eyes, "I tried to help Nate but we couldn't hold on..." You stared down at your shaking hands. You could still see the look on Sam’s face when he got shot - the blood - and you could still remember the feeling of his hand slipping from yours before he fell down the side of the building. You remember the shock, the horror; the complete and total shuttering dread that filled and chilled your bones. You couldn’t hear the bullets piercing through the air near you, Rafe, and Nate’s bodies on the rooftop. You couldn’t even feel the bullet as it grazed your arm… You couldn’t even hear Nate as he yelled out to you, nor did you feel his hand as it grabbed you. The dread… The feeling of the adrenaline, and your heart breaking into millions of pieces, were overwhelming as you followed Nate. You wished you stayed… Maybe Sam was alright. Maybe you could’ve saved him… But the blood - his blood - you couldn’t think about it anymore. You couldn’t think about Sam anymore, but it was hard not to think about him constantly. He was always on your mind. You stared at your hands, your mind imagining Sam’s blood on them before you clenched them, your nails digging uncomfortably into your palms; creating crescent-shaped divots. "I should've done something." You took a shaky, deep breath, "I should have stopped him from falling."

Your friend gave you a sympathetic smile, pulling you closer to their side. "But you couldn't, Y/N. You are only human. The only thing we could do was move forward."

"Yeah, I know… That’s what everyone tells me." You sighed deeply, leaning your head onto your friend's shoulder, "...It just hurts." You admitted after a moment, "Every day I think about him... How scared he must have been..." You trailed off, letting your words drift away into nothingness; your hand mindlessly drifted up to the scar on your upper arm, your fingers brushing over the sleeve of your shirt, the scar was slightly raised beneath it. 

They didn't say anything for a few moments until your friend spoke again, "I know, but that's why moving on is going to be good for you. Going out and about in the world, meeting new people... Get your mental health back on track."

"I've been trying, you know I've been trying. But it's been fifteen years and I still love him." You looked up to meet their gaze, tears slowly spilling from your eyes. “And I never got the chance to tell him.”

"I know." They nodded, their voice soft. "I know. That hasn't changed. But you can't live like this. Please, Friday, just go out with us... Just try and have some fun."

"I'll try..." You sniffled, wiping away the stray tears, "But if things start going south, then I'm coming straight home." 

They laughed softly, squeezing your shoulder, "Fair enough." They reached forward and pulled you into a hug, "So... Friday?"

You smiled sadly, hugging back, "Yeah, Friday."

Giving your friend one last smile, you said your 'goodnights' before shutting your door. The moment the door clicked shut, you sighed. Leaning forward, you shut your eyes as you pressed your forehead against the cool wooden surface of the door. Your chest began to tighten as the dam eventually broke, and your tears quickly fell down your cheeks.

Sobs racked through your body as your arms wrapped around yourself, holding tightly to your ribs. A small whimper escaped your lips as you sank down against your door, clutching your knees to your chest as you dug your chin into yourself, muffling your sobs. 

After what felt like hours, your cries eventually quieted. Exhaustion seeped into your limbs as you slipped against the door, finding purchase on the ground; burying your face in your arms as you just curled up on the cold floor. You tried to shut up your brain, trying to force yourself not to think about Sam, or the night you lost him... But you couldn't stop yourself from remembering every detail. 

Every time that you thought about Sam, it hurt more and more each time. The pain never dulled, never numbed... You remembered how his eyes sparkled whenever he talked about his adventures in Italy and Brazil. You loved how they sparkled that same sparkle - that same passion - when he showed off the treasures he had found during those adventures; the same went for when he told you about Sir Francis Drake. It made you miss him even more. You'd never hear his stories again. You'd never hear his voice again; that deep, thick Boston accent. You'd never get lost in his chocolate-brown eyes again, or try and count the small freckles on his cheeks before losing track. You'd never get to hold him again… Listen to his steady heartbeat... Or tell him that you loved him... 

Sam… You'd never get to tell him. You never got to say it back to him.

~~~

The blankets shifted as you shuffled closer to Sam, your arm falling over his chest as you cuddled into his side. Sam laid there with you, his hand caressing the soft, warm skin of your back. You, Sam, and Nate had traveled to Spain to find some old pirate treasure of a notorious female pirate of the eighteen hundreds. You and Sam were in your motel room, relaxing after a long day roaming through forests and hiking up mountains. It was nice to finally be able to relax, and have some downtime. You loved adventures - treasure hunting - but it was nice to take a break. No hot weather, no dirt under your fingernails, or running away from treasure-hunting competitors. Just you and Sam, enjoying a peaceful night together. 

Sam chuckled suddenly, causing your eyelids to flutter open. "What's so funny, Sammy?" You asked, glancing up at him.

He smiled, "I'm just thinking about that movie," He glanced at the TV, a soft glow emanating from it; showing the credits rolling. "I liked it."

You matched his smile, "Well, I am happy you liked it. It is one of my favorites." Your fingers played with the edge of the blanket that laid upon Sam's stomach, "I told you bringing a movie with us would be helpful."

Sam hesitated, his mouth opening and closing before opening again, "About this morning... I- uh, it probably wasn't the best time to tell you... Ya'know, when we were getting shot at." Sam tried to joke, but his words sounded awkward even to his own ears.

You hummed, biting your lip briefly, "Sam, I-"

"You don't have to say it back," Sam spoke, interrupting you, "I don't want you to say it when you're not ready."

You felt your face flush, Sam had told you he loved you that morning. Multiple bullets were being shot at you, and both you and Sam were barricaded behind a crumbling wall of an old castle. Sam was right, the situation you two were in wasn’t exactly ideal. But after Sam watched you single-handedly take down three of your competitor's goons; he had to tell you. The sight of you taking those goons down, it was amazing - he couldn’t take his eyes off you, couldn’t keep his focus off the way the sunlight hit you, making the light dance across your features. Your hair was messy, sweaty strands sticking to your forehead, you were breathing heavily, yet you still managed to pull your gun out from its holster and shoot another two goons dead. You did it so flawlessly, it was breathtaking. And by the time you were beside him again, racing to find Nate, Sam just blurted it out. You were shocked, yes, but before either of you could say anything, you had found Nate and the three of you were off to Spain; a piece of an artifact in hand.

"Thank you," You whispered quietly, pressing a kiss to Sam's cheek, smiling at him.

He smiled at you gently, wrapping his arms around you. "Of course," He mumbled, before placing a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

~~~

Your eyes widened as you jolted upright, and your heart raced, before swiftly looking around your living room, breathing heavily as you realized you must have fallen asleep. The depression seeped in again, and you let out a small sniffle. You wondered if you'd ever feel better, but it had been fifteen years. Fifteen years of just... Drifting? Living? No, you weren't living, and you knew that Sam would've wanted you to live. You didn't know what you were doing. And you were scared that these feelings weren't ever going away. Looking up at your window, the sun was already low in the sky; it seemed you had slept for a good couple of hours - yet, you were still tired. 

~~~

The bar was loud, and the moment you entered it, you regretted ever leaving your house. Yes, you had gone out, but to stores or to the mall when you felt like it. You felt incredibly out of place, even though, years ago, you used to frequent bars with... Sam. You used to be the life of the party, but things changed; you changed.

You couldn't even remember the last time you went into a bar after what happened. After what happened, you and Nate - along with Elena and Sully - stuck together; for the most part. Soon, Elena and Nate got married, it was a beautiful wedding, and the both of them quit their adventuring. You lost contact with Victor not long after. You spoke to Nate on the phone often, and both he and Elena visited when they could; and vice versa. 

Your two friends practically dragged you by the arms further into the bar, snapping you out of your thoughts as you felt the tingling feeling of anxiety coursing through you. You were not ready for this at all. Your friends then found a booth near the small dancefloor, and before you knew it, you were stuck sitting in between your two friends.

"I might get a martini," Your friend, the one that comforted you in your home, spoke.

"You always get a martini. I'm going to try something new, maybe a bloody mary." Your second friend spoke, before turning to you, "What are you getting?"

You shrugged, shifting uncomfortably in your seat on the dark red, leather booth. "I don't know."

Your second friend gently nudged your shoulder, gaining your attention away from the wooden, circular table. They gave you an encouraging smile, "You got this. Just for tonight."

You tried to smile back at them before you watched the both of them head off to the bar on the other side of the large, dim-lighted room. You let out a sigh, before letting your gaze shift around the room, you were already growing tired of the music the bar was playing. You fiddled with your fingers in your lap, somewhat people-watching. It was a pretty crowded bar, with a good amount of people either at the bar, on the dancefloor, or at the booths eating. The bar was located more by your work, close to downtown. You had passed by it many times in your time living in the area, but you never went in. 

Your eyes snapped away from the people of the bar, your ears perked up to where you presumed a speaker was, hanging on the corner of the ceiling. The music, that had been playing throughout the short time that you were there, was ranging between pop, rock, and indie - had changed, changed into one song that you hadn't heard for a long time, and for a reason.

The song was a rock song, though it had some romantic elements mixed into it. It was made by a band from the eighties. A band you used to love - that Sam even liked. The song was your song. It was yours and Sam's song. 

You had first heard the song in your car. It was way before... Before what happened, but you and Sam had been driving away from somewhere, and the song just popped onto the radio. The song was something new, something neither you nor Sam had ever heard before. But as you sat there, listening to the lyrics, you couldn't help but think about Sam. The song spoke about two lovers, who had the power to speak without words. They could go through everything and anything. Their love could transcend all. There was more but the song resonated within your bones. 

Sam thought it was a bit cliche, but the more you insisted that it was your song for each other, the more Sam grew to love it. He never told you, but you knew. 

You bit your lip, your eyes dropping back down at the table, memories flooding your mind. Sam had given you a mixtape for your birthday, composed of your favorite songs. You remembered, a long time ago, listening to the song in the car; from your mixtape. You were singing along, somewhat obnoxiously, but you didn't care, you were having fun. You remembered when you pulled up to the red light, somewhere in the middle of nowhere - miles from home - when you turned to Sam. Your bright smile slowly faded upon seeing Sam's face. His expression was intense, but soft, as he looked directly into your eyes. The side of his face was illuminated by the streetlamp on the side of the road, highlighting his features beautifully. You could hardly take your eyes off him. 

It was like time stood still, and the world stopped spinning. The world only existed for that one moment, and for one single moment, nothing else mattered. No treasure hunting, no running from men with guns, no responsibilities. Nothing. It felt only natural when you both began to lean in, your heart beginning to race in your chest as Sam reached out with a hand, cupping your warm cheek. He closed the distance between you two as your eyes fluttered shut and you felt his lips press against yours. He tasted like cinnamon and smoke, and you loved it. You loved how his rough hands cupped your face, how the calluses of his thumbs felt as they brushed against the apples of your cheeks. You loved him... You loved him.

You blinked away the memories, a heavy feeling resting in your chest. That moment would forever stay with you. But, you were tired. You were tired of love songs, and you just wanted to go home. You wanted to go home and watch some comfort movie while eating takeout. You wanted to be alone. But, you knew that being out and about was probably good for you, as your friends had said many times before.

So, you slid yourself out of the booth, making your way to the bar; passing the dancefloor where you found your two friends dancing and having fun. Upon reaching the bar, you waved the bartender down, but before you could even reply with your drink, a deep voice answered for you.

"She'll have a vodka lime and soda." 

You briskly turned your head, coming face to face with a man in what seemed to be his late thirties. He was tall, had short, curly blonde hair, and piercing blue eyes that you could surprisingly make out within the dim light of the bar. He was attractive, yes, but with the way he was staring at you - ogling you - looking you up and down; there was just something about him that gave you an uneasy feeling in your gut. And you often trusted your gut; something that you learned to use when you used to treasure hunt. On top of that, he ordered a drink for you, choosing a drink for you, instead of politely asking to pay for your drink. 

You weren't at all in the mood for whatever bullshit he was going to pull, "I don't drink those." You replied simply, thankfully the bartender was still there, and you corrected the drink to one you preferred, before turning back to see that the man was still there, so you raised an eyebrow. "Can I help you?" You weren't trying to be polite, and you were hoping the man would just see that you were not interested and just leave you alone. 

"Just admiring you," He finally spoke, his comment making you scoff, and roll your eyes. What? Were you some sort of museum piece? What did he want? He continued speaking, "The outfit you're wearing is gorgeous."

You stared at him with annoyance, not sure how to respond. Did he expect you to thank him? Because you wouldn't do that. Maybe you'd have to simplify your question. "What do you want?"

The man - that you still didn't have a name for, mind you - as if you wanted one - just gave you, what he probably believed was a charming smile. With a swish of a hand, he pushed the curly blonde hair from the side of his temple, "Can I not just admire someone as beautiful as you?" Honestly, this guy was reminding you of Prince Charming from 'Shrek'. And obviously not in a good way, you hated that guy.

"Go find someone else to admire - actually, no, how about you go home and not bother anyone else? Forever." The man, still with no name other than the idiot from 'Shrek,' just continued to smile, unbothered by your attitude. You briefly looked around the dancefloor, unable to spot your friends. 

"I quite like where I am right here." He continued, soon the bartender arrived with your drink, and you were quick to grab your drink; not wanting this guy to possibly drug you. "Unless you want to join me. My apartment is just down the street."

But at this point, this man was becoming insufferable. "Hell no," You took a quick sip of your drink. "Not interested. I have a boyfriend." You pursed your lips, the words had just slipped out, easily, subconsciously. You clenched your jaw, taking another sip; you wished the drink was stronger, but you didn't think they made anything strong enough to numb the pain you were feeling. And besides, that was unhealthy anyway. One drink for the night - maybe even two - was enough. You had a long day of work tomorrow and you didn't want to wake up with a massive headache. Though, you were beginning to get one the longer the man stood beside you. And the jerk was still staring at you. Weirdo. 

You could vaguely hear the man beside you talking, but you weren't paying attention. Your eyes wandered the bar, trying to spot your friends, checking the booth that you had been sitting at before your eyes landed on the dark corner of the bar; near the back door; a green neon sign locating the exit above it. Your eyes widening as you felt your hands shaking; you had to tighten your grip on your drink to stop yourself from possibly dropping it. There stood a figure. One that you could barely make out, but you knew that figure. You knew that stance. 

Feeling a hand on your arm, you snapped your gaze away from the corner, your eyes meeting the blue ones of the man, who was still beside you. Your expression completely soured, your eyes narrowing and your frown deepening. You stared daggers at him before grabbing his hand and taking it off of your arm. "Do not touch me." You practically growled, only for the man to smirk down at you.

"Awe, you're so cute when you're ang-" Before he could even finish his sentence, you left the bar. You were this close to punching him, and you would’ve loved to if you didn’t have the threat of the police being called on you if you did.

Spotting your friends next to a small group of people, you walked over, your friend turned to greet you; but upon seeing your expression, their smiles fell. "Gone south?" One asked, and you nodded, handing your other friend your drink.

"Gone south." You confirmed, before saying your 'goodbyes and thanks' before leaving the bar entirely. 

~~~

"Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while." That sentence seemed to echo through the TV screen, making you pause your chewing as you shuffled further back into the cushion of your couch. You watched as Westley and Buttercup lay in the green grass, in each other's arms; you placed your popcorn to the side.

"I'll never doubt again," Buttercup spoke, as Weastly just gazed down at her, with such admiration and true love.

You sighed as he spoke his line, "There will never be a need." Before he brought her in a long-awaited kiss.

You sighed once more, grabbing your large bowl of popcorn - mixed with M&Ms - resuming your eating. You loved 'The Princess Bride' but you hadn't watched it in a very long time. And, like most things in your life, it reminded you of Sam. You somewhat scolded yourself. It had been fifteen years, and you still felt the same as you did since the moment you watched Sam fall to his death. You wished that you could just un-miss him... But, you needed him. You needed him more than ever. 

Somedays were harder than others, and today was one of those days. The night before, you had gone to the bar with friends, and had to deal with that Prince Charming wannabe jerk - and then with that overwhelming thought that maybe Sam was there at the bar... No, you didn't see him. Your mind was just playing tricks on you. It was like that scene in another movie you liked, where the mother spoke that she saw her missing husband ten times a week, in a hundred different faces. You shook your head to clear it, letting a sigh escape your lips.

But that feeling, you couldn't shake it. You needed to tell someone about it. And there was only one person you could possibly talk about it with, that would totally understand.

Leaning over the side of the couch, you grabbed the TV remote; careful not to spill your popcorn and M&Ms. Pausing the movie, you grabbed your phone off the coffee table, replacing it with the bowl. Flipping open your flip phone - you never really got around to getting a new phone - you opened your contacts and called Nathan.

The phone rang a few times, before he answered, "Hello? Y/N?" He asked, and faintly you could hear the theme of 'Crash Bandicoot' before you assumed he paused it.

"Hey, Nathan," You felt yourself smile, "I'm sorry to call so late."

You heard him let out a sputtering chuckle, "Nah," He was probably shaking his head, "Not too late. I was just playing 'Crash Bandicoot.' What's up?" 

"Just checking up on you and E," You spoke, shifting on the couch, "Anything new going on?"

"Mmm, nope, not at the moment." Nate spoke with a short hum, "Still a salvager." He paused shortly, "What about you? What did you really call me about?"

You let out a somewhat awkward laugh, "Nothing! I just wanted to check up on you and Elena. It's been a while since I saw you both." You sighed, glancing over to the shelf beside your TV, spotting the picture frame featuring you, Nate, and Elena; you were all standing by the Colosseum in Rome - your birthday vacation. "I guess I just miss you guys."

"I miss you too, kid," Nate spoke, his voice soft, "I know Elena does too. She talks about you a lot. We've been planning to see if you are available to hang out sometime soon. Have dinner with us. Haven't seen you in like, what? A month?"

"Two, actually." You corrected with a small laugh, "And you know I am free whenever. I am my own boss, so..." You trailed off, and Nate laughed in return.

There was a short pause before he spoke again, "How are you?" He asked, and with that tone of his voice, you knew what he meant, but you played oblivious. 

"I'm doing great-"

"Y/N," He interrupted, and you huffed, "You know what I mean. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. But, you know, talking about... Well, everything… It might help."

You glanced at the paused movie, "I know," You bit your lip, your eyes dropping on to your lap before you huffed again, but it turned out into more of a sigh, "Honestly, I am the same as I was since the beginning." You rolled your eyes at yourself, fiddling with the soft fabric of your throw blanket with your free hand, "I went out to the bar with some friends, and I thought-" You swallowed before continuing, "Can I just- Are you free tomorrow? Uh, before work? Can I just come see you? What I have to say might be easier face to face."

"Yeah," Nate answered, "Yeah, yeah, for sure."

"Thank you, Nate. I really hope I’m not bothering you or anything with this." You replied, your eyes closing momentarily, a slight frown on your face, before opening them as Nate spoke once more.

"No, it's totally fine, Y/N." His voice reassured you a bit, "I'll talk to you more tomorrow, okay?"

You felt yourself smile - an appreciative one - "Yeah, yeah… Thank you again, Nate. See you tomorrow."

Hanging up the phone, you tossed it to the side cushion, and grabbed the TV remote, unpausing your movie. 

~~~

Your fingers tapped against your car's steering wheel, not to any particular rhythm, nor to the song that was playing on the radio; just your nervous energy that wouldn't leave you alone. Stopping at a light, you blindly grab ahold of your water bottle, taking a quick sip before the light turns green. The drive to Nate's place of work was a good forty-five minutes from your house, so the drive wasn't terrible, and you considered yourself lucky that you didn't get stuck in traffic or something along those lines.

Pulling up into the driveway of the parking lot, you parked beside a red pickup truck, before letting out a sigh. Taking a few seconds, you flipped open the vanity mirror in your sun visor. Pausing, you glanced at the polaroid of Sam that you pinned to the inside of the sun visor. You and Sam had been in Egypt - looking for treasure as always - and you just decided to take a picture of him. The sun was setting, and you could just barely see one of the pyramids behind Sam's head. He looked so… Ethereal.

Fixing your hair somewhat, to at least look presentable, you hopped out of your car. The sun was already raising, and you had to take a minute just to admire the sunrise as you climbed up the stairs towards Nate's office. However, when you reached the top of the stairs, you froze. 

If your heart was beating, you couldn't feel it. All you could feel was the soft breeze that passed by you as you stared wide-eyed at the sight before you. You originally thought that you were seeing things again. But, as he turned to face you, a sort of apprehensive look on his face... You let out a breath - a sigh - that you didn't know you were even holding. 

His name was on the tip of your tongue, just at your lips, and yet, you couldn't force the words to pass through your mouth. Instead, you felt tears burn the backs of your eyes before they spilled over onto your cheeks as you quickly ran towards him. Sam staggered back as you crashed into him - wrapping your arms tightly around him; your hands gripping the denim martial of his jacket.

His arms wrapped tightly around you, squeezing you tighter as he buried his nose into the hair on the top of your head. You shut your eyes, your breathing coming out heavy as he kissed the top of your head softly, whispering your name; almost like a prayer.

You clung to him tighter, an overwhelming wave of relief and happiness flooding over you as you pulled away slightly; your fingers still clinging to the front of his jacket, the other resting on his chest. His heartbeat was the proof that he was real, that he wasn't just some grief-created hallucination; he was alive.

Meeting his chocolate-brown eyes, seeing that smile on his face... You finally found yourself able to speak, "You're alive," You reluctantly let go of him to wipe the tears from your eyes and cheeks, "But you fell…” You buried your face back into his chest, “It’s my fault, I should’ve- I should’ve held on tighter." Sam’s arms tightened around you, shaking his head.

“No, sweetheart, darling, none of this was ever your fault.” Sam let go of you to gesture to himself, “I’m fine, see?” He gave you a reassuring grin.

You nodded, brushing the tears from your cheeks, “I thought you were dead.” You gave him a smile, “But, I am so glad you’re home.”

Sam couldn't look away from you - after fifteen years, you continued to look as beautiful as ever; like a goddess. Sam missed you, so many nights in that prison, Sam had dreamed about you - some nights he even thought he heard your voice... And now that he was standing there, with you standing right in front of him, and all he wanted to do was pull you close to him again.

"So did I." A small grin stretched across his face as he took your hands in his, his thumbs gently rubbing against the tops of your palms as his gaze moved over your face. Honestly, he was still taking you in; it had been so long. 

"What happened?" You asked, your worried and confused eyes searching his as Sam let out a small chuckle, glancing at the sunrise before looking back over at you, he was about to speak, but you continued, "I mean, how did you get out? How did you get here? Nate called basically everyone, and everything led to you being dead, and now you're here, and you're alive. I grieved for you, and I even thought I saw you at the bar, but I think I was just going crazy, or maybe the stress of going out- nevermind that. Are you alright? I mean, you got shot and then you fell-"

"Hey, hey," Sam cut off your rambling, laughing lightly as he raised one of his hands to cup your cheek, "I'm okay, sweetheart, I promise." He smiled reassuringly at you, but seeing the worry that was so clearly written upon your face - the desperation for answers - Sam let out a sigh, nodding his head. "Let's sit down, alright?" Sam led you to the wooden bench, sitting down beside you, and Sam was quiet for a moment before he opened his mouth to explain. And explain he did. He told you about being caught, stitched up, and tossed right back into a cell. He told you about Alcazar and the treasure of Henry Avery. He was in some crazy trouble, and you knew Nate, you knew that Nate was going to help his big brother. You wondered how he was going to tell Elena. "That's the story," Sam let out a sigh, looking over at you with a grin.

You let out a breath, "Wow," You muttered, looking up at him in shock, well, many emotions. "Well, I am just going to say this, I am helping you with his whole Alcazar business. And don't think you can try and convince me not to go. I am going." You hadn't gone on an adventure in a very long time, but you would be crazy to not go with him and Nathan to find that treasure of Henry Avery's. Deep down, you were hoping it would be like the good old days.

Sam raised his hands up in defense, letting out a chuckle, "I'm not going to stop you, the more the merrier."

You felt your shoulders fall as you let out another sigh. Looking up at Sam, relief washed over you in waves once more. You couldn't even express to anyone, nor yourself, how incredibly happy you were that Sam was alive. You missed him, that was obvious, but you missed being next to him, talking to him, hearing his voice; his laugh and touch. And the way he looked at you... You couldn't believe that this was really happening. "I missed you," Came out before you could even have time to think about it. 

Sam's expression softened, his grin morphing into more of a smile - a real one - his hand reached out to grab one of yours; the callouses rough against the soft skin on the back of your hand. "I missed you too, Y/N," Sam admitted quietly, watching you, "You have no idea how damn much."

"I think I've missed you more," You muttered, shifting impossibly closer to him on the bench, your eyes roaming his face before they caught sight of the tattoo on the side of his neck. "I haven't stopped thinking about you, you know? I've had dreams, nightmares. Pictures hanging up on my walls... Even a couple of your shirts." That statement made him chuckle but you continued, your fingers still going along on their journey across Sam's skin; trailing from the apples of his cheeks to his jaw, and so on. "It hurts, sometimes. I miss our talks and our late-night drives. It hurt when I woke up from nightmares and realized that you weren't there..." Your words drew out, your tone wistful and yearning, almost pained.

"Hey," Sam spoke up, pulling your attention away from your exploration, "All that matters is that I am here now," His hand came up cupping your cheek once more, his thumb brushing along the skin of your cheek like he used to do all those years ago; a smile slowly slipped upon your lips, your hand coming up to press against his. You watched as his dark eyes flickered from around your face to your lips, before looking back up to your eyes. He didn't move, no matter how much he just wanted to swoop in to steal a kiss, he spoke, "Can I... Can I kiss you?" He asked, his voice deep, soft, but husky as if there were a slight nervousness hidden underneath it, in addition to longing. "It's been... A long time and I don't know if you-"

"Only you," You answered quickly, "There's only been you." Sam let out a shaky breath before he leaned forward. Your noses brushed together slightly as he brought his free arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him; his lips pressing against yours. The kiss was sweet - gentle yet passionate - as you melted into each other. You hummed, your fingers coming up to brush against the hair on the nape of his neck. Sam eventually pulled away first - reluctantly - resting his forehead against yours, catching his breath, before bringing his hand up and threading it through your hair.

Your hand cupped his warm cheek before you nuzzled your cheek against the other, digging your face into the crook of his neck. Sam chuckled, tightening his grip on your waist, "I love you," He whispered against the shell of your ear. Just for you, and only you to hear.

"I love you, too," You finally got to answer, your own heart beating faster than it ever had before. You didn't want to pull away - not just yet. You couldn't. Not when you finally had him back. You squeezed your eyes shut as you relaxed, leaning into the warmth of Sam's body beside you, relishing every second of being near him. After what seemed like forever, you sighed contently, tilting your head up to press a light kiss to the underside of his jaw before cuddling into his side; admiring the beautiful morning with him. "I hope you know that you're forever stuck with me." You added teasingly as you laid your head back on his shoulder.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Sam responded without hesitation, smiling as you let out a giggle. Shaking your head as you wrapped your arms around his torso, listening to the sound of his heart beating as you laid your head against his chest.

Finally, after so many years, after so much heartbreak and grieving... After so many sleepless nights, watching soap dramas and binging pints of ice cream and cold pizza... Finally, Sam was home. With you. You closed your eyes, feeling his hand brush up and down your arm soothingly as he buried his face in the top of your head; you still used the same shampoo.

Sam shut his own eyes, ignoring Rafe's voice in the back of his mind, allowing himself, for a moment, to pretend that everything was alright. He let out a sigh from his nose, relaxing at the sound of your breathing as he pressed his lips to your temple. Everything was going to be fine.

---

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