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rickfucker · 2 years ago

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10 Ways to Say I Love You (young!Rick Sanchez/Reader) - Pt. 1

I have hit my follower goal!!! thank you all so much for reading my nonsense and giving me a follow. it’s literally always been a goal of mine to be one of those popular fanfic writers and idc if that’s silly.

Link to the inspiration for this ficlet.

AO3 Link

young!Rick Sanchez/f!Reader 3441 Words - SFW CW for Explicit Language, Canon Compliant Violence, & Minor Character Death

One

Though the windows are only tinted by the dark blue of the outside, the fluorescent lights of the meeting room are plenty to wake you up. Your head is only being held up by your hands, which are only being held up by the heaviness of your head. Simple physics that plagues your existence.

Other members of your fleet chat away with one another, the gross smell of eggs filling your nostrils. It makes you internally gag; not enough energy to even fully commit to that. Once you have to get up, you’ll make your tiny Styrofoam cup of tea with the scorching hot water sitting readily in front of you. For now, you just welcome its warmth on your hands through the plastic.

Leave it to Rick Sanchez to convince you that going out to that stupid Interplanetary Club the night before a mandatory morning meeting was a good idea. The man was too charming for his own good. Definitely for yours.

Your stomach churns as you take meditative inhales through your nose and exhales through your mouth. If it really turns out to be worth it, you aren't going to decide until after this feeling subsides.

You lift your head as you sense someone's presence at your table. Speak of the devil.

His signature smirk adorns his face as he takes a seat diagonal to you. He looks fine. Great, even. You glare at him.

It only makes him laugh, a sound that tickles your ears but bangs against your skull. You hide your head in your crossed arms.

“Oh, come on. I didn’t get you that drunk, did I?” You can hear the smile in his voice.

You sigh deeply, your voice groggy as you start to speak. “You should know by now that my tolerance is shit compared to yours.” You shoot him another glare. “And clearly my refractory time, as well.”

“Ooh, talk dirty to me, baby,” he flirts, but you’re too tired to be bothered by it.

The night was mostly a blur of drugs and dancing and colorful drinks handed to you - which you drank without question. You trusted Rick in a sense. More like you trusted Birdperson, and they trusted Rick.

He was fighting the same cause you were. He was a bit brash, but it was a welcome change from the rest of the people on your team. You had gotten sick of the polite, forced niceties that came with sharing a living space with a hundred other aliens. Rick is a wild card, named a rogue. His motivations are unclear. But if there is one thing you really know about Rick, it’s that he knows how to party.

A lot of the things he came into the club with were incredibly rare and hard to find. Even if Rick didn’t have the greatest attendance record when it came to anything that didn’t include firing guns, you can’t imagine he has that much time on his hands to go hunting down illicit substances.

But he’s always there to take someone down when he’s needed.

“I’m surprised to even see you here. You usually skip these, don’t you?” You prop up on your elbow, letting your eyes adjust to the bright light. You take note of the two to-go cups in front of him. Earthly looking.

“Noticing when I’m gone, hm?” He lays it on thick, one lengthy hand wrapped around one of the cups.

You point at the free cup with a questioning look, curiosity officially piqued. He gives mock surprise.

“Oh, this? Ye-yeah, I may have made a pit-stop while I was deigning to show up.” He smiles, pushing it your way. “Two sugars, right?”

Your mouth falls open as the smell finally wafts your way; coffee. Your hands immediately wrap around its warmth, mouth falling open in awe as you look at him with wide eyes.

“Shut up!” you whisper. “Where the hell did you get this?” Another rare commodity around here. You had switched over to caffeinated green tea, but it just wasn’t the same. Especially during a hangover.

“I can’t divulge my sources.”

You smile at him while you take a sip. You relish in its heat and bitter aftertaste. “I’ll take it.”

You don’t think to ask how he knew your order.

Two

When you wake, your room is still covered in darkness. Your hand flies to the digital clock on your nightstand. 2:35AM

You flop back onto your bed with a sigh. Most nights were like this; you either struggled falling asleep or staying asleep - at your worst, both, spending your night counting the ceiling tiles.

You can hear the sound of hushed voices outside of your room and into the shared hallway of your fleet members. You didn’t function on a typical schedule most times. Most other solar systems didn’t even subscribe to time in the way of weeks, months, and years. The present is only the present. There’s a yesterday and a tomorrow, but time doesn’t really exist beyond our perception of it.

You think you prefer the daily trials of life with that mindset in clutch.

You eye your door longingly, silently wishing you had just made plans for tonight instead of turning in your bed for hours on end. You need to catch up on sleep, yeah. But trying your best to sleep whenever you can clearly isn't working for you.

There’s laughter and footsteps. Shushes followed by more demure giggling. The sound slowly fades out of your peripheral hearing, your eyes closing in defeat.

They snap open to the quiet, quick succession of knocks on your door. You furrow your brow as you flip the blankets off, making your way to the entrance while pulling your robe tight around your waist.

Your hand print scans beside the door with a blue light and a beep, the aluminum sliding open to reveal a somewhat disheveled Rick, dressed casually and leaning on the door frame.

Your eyes squint to adjust to the hallway lights. “Rick?” A glance to your right reveals the rest of the group has gone, leaving the two of you alone. “It’s two in the morning.” You cross your arms in indignance, trying your hardest to look annoyed.

He speaks in a whispered frenzy. “Yeaaah, yeah. Listen, listen. So, BP and I went to the cantina after hours to steal some of the good cereal ‘cause if I have to eat bran one more fucking time I’m gonna- gonna blow up this whole f-fucking station - and there were these other crew members trying to break into the main office to forge some shit. Get this: This chicks best friend slept with her boyfriend - like who gives a fuck, right? But they were gonna fake a mandatory transfer for this guy to get ‘em out of our station, so I helped, and now we’re gonna go stink bomb this chicks room while she’s out in exchange for whole milk for the fucking. Cereal! Do you want to come?”

You blink at him.

You could describe Rick as many things. Intimidating. Charismatic. Mysterious.

Upon getting to know him better: childish.

It was never unwelcome and was almost always charming. You could watch him 180 in a team meeting - from planning an assassination attempt to whispering flustering mnemonic devices in your ear for each of your crew members in the room.

You glance back at your messy bed, a sad reminder of what you know you’re missing. But yeah. You do want to go.

A sound passes your lips, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, shedding your robe and going for one of your sweatshirts instead. He whispers a ‘yesssss’ with a punch of his fist in the air. Your smile grows.

“Only if I can have the kind with the marshmallows.” you add.

He grins. “A girl after my own heart.”

Three

You barely had time to register it in the moment - an enemy’s gun pointed toward one of your own. Your finger twitching on the trigger, shooting the alien dead like second nature. When you angrily met the eyes of your teammate, leaving their station and ducking out from everyone's eyesight, you barely shot the offender down in time.

Rick wasn’t paying attention.

No, his back was turned. He was alert when you spoke to him, but not toward the fight at hand.

“Rick, what are you doing?” you yelled from across the room, your voice quiet among the lasers, pistols, and the burning of your ambush explosives.

“Don’t worry about me,” he replied, his eyes hard. He took off. You didn’t see him until long after the mission was over.

You catch him hanging low in the hallway by the cantina. Rage flares in your nostrils, and you shove him before he even knows you’re there.

He stumbles a bit to the side, shooting a crazed look at you with an accompanying ‘what the fuck?’

“What the fuck was that earlier? Abandoning a mission?”

He protectively covers where you pushed him with a hand, rolling his eyes but softening. “How about you worry about yourself, sweetheart.”

You scoff. “That fucking mosquito almost shot you, idiot.”

His lips turn down. An annoyed scowl you’re so used to seeing. “Right, my bad. Forgot to pick up a thank-you card.”

He presses the right buttons, your fingers fisting and stretching out anxiously by your side. The flicker of the fluorescent lights makes you nauseous. “Don’t be a dick,” you say dumbly.

He crosses his arms. “Be- because ambushing me and starting a fight was so fuckin’ polite of you.”

You sigh, ignoring him. Your eyes glance up and down the hallway to make sure no one can hear you, though you’re not sure why. “What were you doing?” you whisper, your true curiosity spilling.

His arms fall away, turning. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he deadpans.

Your anger turns way into disappointment, and suddenly he’s walking away from you. “Rick-”

“Hey.” His voice has a bite, annoyance or warning, you don’t know. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”

It shuts you up, stops you dead in your tracks. You stand there and watch him walk away, wanting to blow your head off for a reason you can’t explain. Why did he piss you off so much? Why did you act so stupid? If you were trying to express concern for him, which you told yourself you were, you did a shit job at showing it.

You awkwardly nod at the others hanging around down the hall as you pass them on your way back to the cantina.

Four

Your tray of boring cafeteria food sits untouched and cold to your left. You don’t have much of an appetite these days.

Your fingers are occupied with spinning the tiny screws that hold the fluid component sturdy to its top. You’ve never thought you had overly manly hands until this moment. Your fingers are stubby and huge and tinted red from being stabbed by the screws flipping out of their sockets from the pressure.

You aren’t particularly gifted with in-field tech, but you’re trying to improve. Which is why you repeatedly refused the help of your friends when you complained to them about the gun malfunctioning. You should learn these things in case of an emergency. You should be self-sustaining.

The screw slips back out of the socket and you curse as it scratches your cuticle, slamming your fist on the table - maybe a little too hard. You reel in your frustration in hopes nobody heard it and is looking at you like you’re crazy from past your peripherals.

You eye your abandoned tray with exhaustion, reaching for your water. Your hands burn as they scrape against the plastic cap.

He appears then, just to the left of you, body leaning cooly against the table. The look in his eyes spells trouble to you, his brow raised in questioning. You take a long sip of your water while Rick’s eyes meet yours, glance down to the pile of hardware in front of you, and look up at you again.

You set the cup down, willing yourself to keep his eye contact though your body tells you to break it. “What?” You finally ask.

He nods toward the pile. “Looked like you were having some trouble.”

His tone isn’t exactly mocking, but given the last conversation you’d had with each other, there was no telling if he only came over here to get back at you for poking the bear, or if he was actually trying to be helpful. He’s too nonchalant; you can never quite get a proper read on him.

“No trouble,” you say in as neutral a tone as you can, “I’m figuring it out.” That sounded more sure in your head.

“I could take a look at it,” he offers, but your stubbornness wins out.

“I’ve got it handled, Sanchez.” Well, that was a little too aggressive.

The longer he stares at you, the more you shrink under his gaze. He looks away for a moment, working his jaw in what you can tell is annoyance, before he’s moving into your personal space. He leans onto both his elbows propped on the tabletop, just close enough that you instinctually scoot back. He looks up at you, now.

Suddenly, your mind goes blank.

“Come on. Let me fix it.”

The close proximity leaves you speechless. Your heart picks up speed. Your stomach churns.

It’s just sour enough that you immediately recognize the feeling.

You simply nod, eyes dancing off his face, scared that your voice will fail you if you speak.

He only flashes you a small grin, one that makes you go even stupider, before stealing your equipment in an armful and sitting next to you. He gets to work right away. When he undoes the handiwork you had put in, you don’t even question it. You knew Rick was a scientist; an engineer. He was responsible for a lot of the equipment the fleet used - explosives, armor enhancements, ammo. And you definitely weren’t going to be touching that gun again until it was fixed lest God smite you.

You sit with silence between you, your eyes not leaving his hands at work for even a moment until he’s finished. Your gun, somehow, works better than it had when you first received it years ago.

Five

You squeeze your eyes shut tight, counting each beat of your heart as you try to slow your breathing. You calculate it’s racing somewhere past 150, and if you’re going to get out of this alive, you need to not have a panic attack.

Isn’t your body supposed to function on auto-pilot in times of distress? You’ve been in plenty of fights. Your hands, your arms, your chest; your body branded the kind of scars you only get from years in the force. On the front lines, at that. You’ve been shot, burned, stabbed, everything short of torture.

So why is now the time that your body decides it can’t move?

The mission was supposed to be routine. You were picking up a supply drop with one other team member, Doss. You were often paired together because of your particularly complimenting skill sets and fighting styles. You didn’t mind marching into battle with melee weapons, swinging batons and punching your way through any situation you encountered.

Doss, though? He was a trained recon sniper. He stayed back to watch your six. You would scout out locations together, catch enemies when they weren’t looking, steal supplies, and get the fuck out without so much as a scratch on your knuckles.

Not today.

Food rations were getting low, so that was your number one priority. Medical supplies came next; as much as you can carry on your back. You had walkie’d back to your teammate from the inside after filling your packs to no response. You knew what protocol told you to do from here; hold your position and wait for backup. But you were an idiot who didn’t follow protocol.

You worried on your lips when you tried to make contact again. Static. Nothing.

Doss was on the outskirts of the building, half dilapidated and abandoned. You hadn’t been to this location before, but you were assured of its neutrality and safety.

It was uncertain if it was a planned ambush. If you were in some group's territory and didn’t know it. It certainly wasn’t the Federation. They had particular styles that gave them away.

You made your way through the halls back to the front entrance, moving slowly. You abandoned one pack, too much to carry on you while trying to be inconspicuous. You heard the voices, saw shadows as you ducked behind a wall. How many were there? Six, seven, maybe… There could be more outside, out of range for you to hear.

Still no sign of Doss.

You can feel the tears pricking at your eyes, burning in a humiliation you can’t explain. You should have stuck together. You didn’t want to admit it.

They’re filing in slowly, now, and you can hear the voices getting closer to you as you skirt down the hall and quietly shut a door behind you, a shaking hand dialing on your walkie.

“Supply team seven to base, please respond.” You keep your voice low, though it shakes with the sheer effort it’s taking you to not fucking cry.

No response.

There was no way you could fight the lot of them. You didn’t come prepared with a firing weapon. Your power fist wouldn’t help you if you got shot.

You try again with no response. Your walkie was still working properly, no signs of malfunction. Who the fuck is manning the radio servers?

You squeeze your eyes as they burn, wiping your cheeks as you try to come to your current reality. You do the first thing you can think of. What were the chances he even kept his walkie on him?

You dial Rick’s number and extension.

You take a shaking breath, pressing down to talk. “Rick, I swear to fucking God, please have your walkie on you right now.”

The static crackles for a moment, and you silently count your blessings before the rough melody of his voice breaks through the tiny speaker.

“What is it?”

You laugh quietly, hysterically, reminding yourself to add Rick’s existence to your list of blessings. “There was some kind of ambush. Or we aren’t where we’re supposed to be. I don’t fucking know.” Your voice wobbles. “Doss is-” a hiccup, “he isn’t responding, Rick, I think he… There’s so many of them. I don’t- I don’t have anything, I-” Word vomit that you can’t stop, tears now freely flowing down your face.

His voice stops you. “Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”

You’re hyperventilating just a little, and the first wave of relief washes over you. You don’t bother responding.

You stay vigilant, furiously wiping your tears away as you wait for him, for some signal that you’re going to make it out of this alive. Raiders and marauders were all over the place these days; you weren’t the only side getting antsy against the Federation. As it turns out, the void of space doesn’t consider the enemy of it's enemy to be it's friend. Unknowns are always enemies.

When Rick shows up, it’s without grandeur. He grabs you to leave out the front door, and your eyes gloss over the wasted aliens that he took out before he found you cornered away. He took them all out himself, it looks like. You don’t know how. A single human of all things taking out a whole swarm of raiders? You would be criticizing his work ethic in any other circumstance, but only now does your body fall into autopilot. Blood and guts all over the floor, now on your shoes as you scrape them against the hard concrete outside.

You see him, Doss, or at least, what’s left of him. Face down, by the looks of it, brains and blood splattered against the ground in a sight that would normally make you queasy, but you don’t feel anything.

They sniped the sniper. It probably happened so fast that it was relatively painless. He didn’t suffer. You say it to yourself over and over again. He didn’t suffer. He didn’t suffer.

You leave the planet relatively unscathed, though Rick bears the blood splatter of your enemies, already fading into the worn leather of his duster.

He says nothing to you, but you feel his eyes on you the whole way home.

#rick sanchez #rick sanchez x reader #rick sanchez fanfic #young!rick sanchez #young!rick sanchez x reader #rick and morty fanfic #mesa writes

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slutforsilverfoxes · 3 years ago

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Part I

Double Duty (Part II)

You woke up the next morning and rolled over onto Jethro’s side of the bed, hoping for just a few more minutes of morning cuddles (or something more) but were disappointed to find his space empty. You buried your face into his pillow and inhaled that smell that you loved so much, then groaned audibly as you forced yourself up and out of bed.

You washed your face and brushed your teeth, then padded over to your closet to pull out a skirt and blouse for the day. Placing your choices on the bed, you moved to the dresser to get out your underwear and stopped short at the sight of a little gift-wrapped box. Grinning to yourself, you hurriedly untied the bow and slid the lid off, an involuntary shiver running down your spine at the lacy lingerie staring back at you. Wear this to work today, Jethro had written on a little card. You rolled your eyes and placed the card aside. As if you’d wear this to work of all places.

Taking the bra out to admire it closer, you spotted another little card underneath. Don’t roll your eyes- I’m serious.

Laughing in admiration at just how well your boyfriend knew your mind and your body, you slipped into the lacy set and hummed in satisfaction at the feeling of it on your skin. You ran your hands down your chest, squeezing your breasts the way Jethro would and finding yourself growing just a bit too excited for six in the morning. You finished getting dressed and threw your hair into a bun, slipping on some sensible heels that would still be comfortable at work while driving Gibbs wild. Something about you wearing high heels made him absolutely feral, although it wasn’t hard to impress a man who got turned on when you showed interest in his wood- his boat, of course.

You picked up two dozen donuts and enough coffee to fuel an army on your way to work, figuring that both your boys and the BAU team would need sugar and caffeine to make it through another day of this case. “I come bearing gifts!” you announced, your entrance to the conference room accompanied by cries of joy at the sight of your thoughtfulness. “And one black coffee in return for your gift,” you whispered to Jethro, simpering as his hand skimmed over the curve of your hip.

“You wearing it?” he asked quietly, an eyebrow raised as if he didn’t trust you to listen to him. You nodded obediently, heat pooling in the pit of your stomach at the sight of his tongue running over his bottom lip. God, you wanted that tongue in your-

“Okay!” Gibbs suddenly clapped, startling you out of your reverie. “Let’s get to work people. I want this son of a bitch in a cell tonight, are we clear?”

A chorus of “yes”es echoed around the room and a blush crept up your cheeks as you realized you had once again gotten lost in your raunchy thoughts. You needed to catch this guy and then you needed to get laid. Seriously.

You found yourself across the table from Hotch, bouncing ideas about the profile back and forth. This was your favorite part of the case, trying to get into the killer’s head- the unsub, as the BAU kept referring to him.

“So what is it that makes him attracted to these women specifically?” you asked Hotch, biting your lip with a furrowed brow as you looked over the wives’ pictures for the umpteenth time.

“It’s typically one of two options,” Hotch explained, his voice taking on an authoritative tone as he elucidated his profiling craft. “He’s either filled with rage because they represent someone whom he hates, or he’s infatuated with them because they represent someone he covets but can’t have.”

“So maybe this woman rejected his advances?” you offered, mind whirling.

“That’s certainly possible,” he nodded, encouraging you to follow this line of thinking.

“So given the time of day of the kills, plus the women’s daily schedules, he probably has a day job-“

“-if any,” Hotch jumped in.

“If any,” you conceded, getting up and beginning to pace. “What else do these women have in common besides their husbands being marines?” You stopped your movements and placed a hand on his shoulder to reach over and tap on the features as you pointed them out. “Dark hair, almost black. Brown eyes. High cheekbones. Button noses. They’re all conventionally beautiful.”

“They all look like you,” he added, the fact that his gaze was flicking between your eyes and lips not lost on you. A blush crept up your cheeks as you deciphered the indirect compliment.

“Oh, Hotch I- oh!” You cried out and clawed his shoulder at a sudden vibration between your legs. Clearing your throat and loosening your grip, you explained that you had a brilliant idea and needed to run it by Gibbs.

You moved stiffly over to where he sat at the other end of the conference room, delicately taking a seat next to your boyfriend and boss. “Gibbs?” you growled out.

“Y/L/N?” he answered in kind, not even deigning to look at you.

“May I speak with you a second? Sir?” you added as an afterthought, hoping to curry some favor. “It’s very important.” Your little gift is distracting me from my work, you thought, annoyed that he had cleverly tricked you into wearing what you considered to be a literal torture device.

“Mm… busy.” He slipped his hand into his pocket and the incessant vibration between your thighs mercifully stopped. Fine. Two can play at this game, mister.

Clearing your throat, you smoothed your hands over your skirt and returned to Hotch. “What was your thought?” he asked innocently upon your return.

“Oh nothing,” you laughed it off. “Gibbs was in the middle of something anyway. I wish he’d take more time to listen to his agents like you do,” you said softly, just barely running your hand over Hotch’s arm as you reached for the case file you were sharing. You looked up just as Gibbs returned to his file, hand sliding back into his pocket seconds before the vibration came back, more intense this time. You discreetly crossed your legs under the table, trying and failing to alleviate some of the pressure building. Gibbs knew your body, knew you wouldn’t be able to cum without his explicit permission to do so.

Your annoyance grew in kind when he looked up at you with a smirk, daring you to say something, anything, that would give him an excuse to torture you more. You smiled back and pursed your lips. Game on.

“Agent Hotchner, sir?” you called over to him at the table full of refreshments. Gibbs bristled at your use of the authoritative term and you mentally high-fived yourself. “Would you mind grabbing some extra napkins? My hand slipped and now I’m all wet,” you sighed, indicating the water bottle in your hand. In response, Gibbs turned the vibrator up another level. How fucking high did this thing go?

“Never mind, Hotch, thanks,” you rushed out, trying to hold back a whine. You ran down to the kitchen as fast as your legs would carry you, slumping over at a reprieve in the vibrations. You heard familiar footfalls approaching and whipped around with fire in your eyes, ready for a fight.

“I’ll take them off,” you threatened quietly, trying to keep your voice even to not betray your true thoughts. “I’ll walk around here with no panties on, daring you both to fuck me. Try me, Gibbs.”

He grabbed your chin forcefully, pulling you in close. Your breathing picked up immediately, his intoxicating smell and masculine presence forcing every coherent thought out of your mind. “No,” he whispered, “you won’t.” Your body involuntarily shivered at the gentleness of his voice juxtaposing his firm grip and dominance over you. God, you loved this man. “For someone with such a dirty mouth and mind, you’re a goddamn prude and we both know it.”

Your nostrils flared as you stared defiantly at him, and he licked his lips deliciously. He swiped his thumb over your bottom lip and you had to resist the urge to draw it into your mouth and toy with him as he was toying with you. “Now get your sweet little ass back to work and find me my killer, or I’ll deprive you of my cock and your job.”

His laugh echoed throughout the tiny kitchen as he strutted away from you, your mouth gaping open like a fish. “You can’t- you wouldn’t- Gibbs!”

You started to chase after him but stopped abruptly as you felt the now familiar buzzing between your legs. Gripping the nearest desk and crossing your legs together, you whipped your head over to where he was sitting and found that fucking smirk adorning his handsome face.

I hate you, you mouthed, pounding your fist on the desk as he turned it up a notch in retaliation, daring you to speak out of turn again.

He kept up his torturous game throughout the morning and into the afternoon, offering the tiniest bit of relief in the elevator as you went to retrieve the takeout your teams had ordered for lunch. Pressing you up against the wall, he forced his tongue past your lips and absolutely ravaged your mouth. You were completely helpless and your jellied legs would’ve betrayed you had his strong arms not been holding you up. Your little tryst was over as soon as the elevator doors opened downstairs, Gibbs stepping out to meet the delivery driver as you attempted to make yourself presentable for work once more. He ignored your advances on the way back up, simply chuckling at your desperation.

Having had enough of his wicked game, turning up the level of the vibrator every time he so much as caught you thinking about looking at Agent Hotchner, you opted to work at your desk rather than the conference room where no one would be able to bother you. Tony had already gone through the marines’ credit card transactions to look for any obvious overlaps, but you were all frustrated with your lack of leads and double-, even triple-checking possible avenues. So you sat down at your desk with stacks of boxes from evidence, beginning the painstaking grunt work of looking through files by hand.

Hours later, your work paid off.

“Gibbs!” You shot up from your desk, propelled by your excitement at the prospect of an actual lead. Without looking up, he held his hand out and you thrust the little yellow slip into his waiting palm.

“What am I looking at?” He raised an eyebrow at you, gently placing his reading glasses on the bridge of his nose.

“A laundromat receipt,” you rushed out, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “I thought I’d look through the evidence boxes collected from their desks at work since we didn’t-”

“Y/N,” he cut you off, impatient. You and Abby both had a habit of rambling when you got excited. Gibbs wouldn’t admit it, but he found it incredibly endearing- except when the clock was ticking on catching a serial murderer.

“Tony didn’t find a connection in their finances because they all paid in cash.”

“That’s my girl,” Gibbs said triumphantly, standing up and grabbing his coat off the back of his desk chair. After your constant back and forth today, you couldn’t help but beam at his praise, and he smiled softly at you. If you had a tail, it would be wagging right about now.

You trailed behind him as you explained your theory. The marines’ wives would drop off their uniforms for cleaning which is when the initial attraction occurred. He would stalk the women then, learning their daily routines and fueling his obsession. Eventually the marines or their wives would come in to collect their freshly dry cleaned uniforms, returning home with a tiny GPS tracker that they would never think to check their buttons for. Your joint task force wouldn’t have even known if Abby hadn’t requested to review all of the forensic evidence from the previous scenes, including what the victims were wearing.

The next day, the BAU would get the call about the body.

You and Tony sat in the bullpen anxiously, opting to stay behind for this takedown since the entirety of the BAU was available while you were down a man. It felt like hours had passed when the elevator doors slid open, Hotch and Gibbs guiding your suspect through to interrogation. Tony fist bumped you proudly as they passed, the two of you falling into step behind the teams’ leaders so you could watch them go to work.

And God did they go to work. The way that they interrogated the unsub was downright masterful, alternating between praising his intelligence and demeaning him about his inability to attract a woman. The back and forth seemed to be working well, but every time they showed him images of the marines’ wives, he would close off again, refusing to admit guilt. You saw the flash of a challenge in Gibbs’ eyes, and he stood abruptly, coming out to talk to you.

“I want you to come in with us.”

“Me? In interrogation? With you two?” You realized you must’ve sounded like an idiot, but the thought of being in the same room as those two men degrading someone in tandem might just destroy you. You wanted to be that someone.

“You don’t have to say anything. In fact, it’s better if you don’t,” Gibbs coached. “I want you to walk in calmly, hand me this file, kiss me, and then leave. Don’t make eye contact with the suspect, don’t speak to him, don’t acknowledge that he exists. Got it?”

“I’ll make you proud,” you nodded eagerly, excited to help close the case after breaking it wide open.

“Good girl,” he praised, running the backs of his knuckles along your cheek. Your breathing picked up at his praise and touch, but you came hurtling back to reality as Tony cleared his throat behind you. Case first, reward later.

Gibbs returned to his seat across from the suspect as Hotch leaned against the corner opposite the door. They started their line of questioning again, and Gibbs soon feigned forgetting the case file. He turned toward the one-way glass and beckoned you in with two fingers.

Doing as you were told, you entered the interrogation room with your head down to avoid making eye contact with the suspect. You heard him gasp as you approached, seemingly thinking that you looked like all those marines’ wives, the object of his desire. Gently placing the file into Gibbs’ hand, you bent down and kissed him passionately, releasing all of your pent up frustration over the day. Finally, you pulled away and asked him coyly, “Is that all, sir?”

“That’ll be all,” he grinned, inclining his head toward the exit. You had barely closed the door behind you before the suspect erupted in a fit of rage, calling you a slut and a whore for your overt behaviors and threatening to kill Gibbs like he had killed those other undeserving bastards.

“Game, set, match, baby,” you laughed as you high-fived Tony.

“Good job, kid. Wish he hadn’t used such choice words though,” Tony grimaced.

“Eh,” you shrugged. “I’m used to it.”

“You- what?” Tony squawked in surprise.

“I said,” you turned around with your hand on the door and threw a wink at him, “I’m used to it.”

Later that evening, with a majority of the paperwork filled out and evidence packed away, you gathered your belongings and began formulating a plan to get back at Gibbs after such a hellish day. You were sure he’d be in a good mood after catching this guy, and you hoped he’d be especially eager to please you after your work had solved the case. Plus, your little performance in interrogation had secured a confession.

Yeah, he owed you at least one orgasm tonight.

“What’s going on in that beautiful brain of yours?” Two strong arms slid around your waist, the enticing mix of coffee and sawdust flooding your senses.

You hummed in appreciation at his sudden display of affection, although it wasn’t rare once everyone else had gone home for the night. “Thinking about how to get you back,” you answered honestly, leaning your head against his shoulder and pressing a kiss to his neck.

Gibbs laughed out loud at your bold statement, making you grin in anticipation. He playfully swatted your ass as you stepped into the elevator, his hand coming to rest possessively on your neck as you stood in front of him. You sighed as his large hand began kneading your skin- you could never get enough of the feeling of your man’s hands on you. Just as the doors were beginning to close, that large hand with the silver watch you had been coveting for two days now slipped in between them, forcing the doors back open as he stepped in.

“Gibbs, Y/L/N.” He smiled at the two of you, moving to stand in the opposite corner of the elevator.

“Hotch,” you responded in kind, stepping forward to press “G”. As you snuggled back into your boyfriend for the ride downstairs, he slipped the right side of your blouse out of your skirt, running his thumb over your soft skin that had been revealed. You turned to him with a questioning look, wondering why he couldn’t just wait until you reached the car but ultimately deciding that you didn’t care because it felt so fucking good after his torture all day.

He kissed your temple with a soft smile, then moved his hand from your hip down into his pocket, your eyes widening as you realized what he was about to do. You snuck a glance over at Hotch who was now on his phone, shaking your head frantically as a smirk spread over Gibbs’ face.

You tried to hold in the moan threatening to fill the space of the four metal walls, but the combination of Gibbs’ dominant hand back on your skin, the vibrator at its maximum, and the fact that Hotch was standing right fucking there was too much for your overstimulated brain. You let out a keening whine that morphed into a moan that would surely give a pornstar a run for her money.

And Hotch didn’t so much as blink.

“You always let your girlfriend moan like a whore at work, Jethro?”

Your jaw dropped open at his nonchalance and- did he just call him Jethro?

“How- how long have you two known each other?” you asked between pants, trying to calm your breathing as Jethro turned the vibrator off.

“Oh sweetie,” Gibbs chided. “This is why you work for me and not him.”

“Fuck you!” you shot back as the two of them laughed at you. You wanted to be mad, but the sound of them laughing together at you was incredibly hot.

Hotch stared you down, eerily calm as the elevator came to a stop at the parking garage. “No, Y/N. We’re going to fuck you.”

Part III

#jethro gibbs #jethro gibbs x reader #ncis imagine #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #criminal minds imagine #aaron hotchner imagine #jethro gibbs imagine #leroy jethro gibbs imagine #aaron hotchner smut #jethro gibbs smut #leroy jethro gibbs smut #hotchner x reader x gibbs

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sundaysundaes · 4 years ago

Text

Started With A Kiss

Lee Donghyuck/Haechan X Reader | Actor AU, Smut, Fluff, Humor | NC-17 | 10K

Summary: Rookie actor, Lee Haechan, desperately wants to get the lead role in the highly anticipated upcoming TV drama. He’s sure he has what it takes to fill the part. Acting as a hero? No problem. Pretending to overcome his traumatic experience? Consider it done. A bed scene? Easy—wait, no. That might be a problem. But he should be fine as long as he gets to rehearse, right?

Warnings: protected sex, oral sex, crude humor, swearing, literally 10k of sex with very little plot, a lot of playful banters between sassy!hyuck and equally sassy!Y/N

Wrote this for my love Kira @flopim who’s been having a tough time lately. I hope this will cheer you up bb! ❤️

“I want you to make love to me.”

Standing there, still dressed in your bright pink pajamas with your hair resembling a bird’s nest, you can only blink once, twice, and several times more because surely, your ears are playing tricks on you. There’s no way that your best friend, the cutely annoying and annoyingly cute, Lee Haechan—the one who’s been practically glued to your skin like a conjoined twin of yours for the last two years—is asking you to make love to him.

Surely, this is not what you’d expected to see when you opened the door to your apartment, ready to bark at whoever it was who dared to disturb your beauty sleep (since it is seven in the morning on a Sunday), only to see him standing in his blue ripped jeans and black Michael Jackson shirt with his cheeks flushed, his bag hanging loosely on his shoulder, brown eyes desperately begging for your attention.

And you’re most definitely sure that he’s not asking you to sleep with him when you still have drool on the corner of your mouth and a terrible morning breath (in your defense, you have brushed your teeth but that was, like, six hours ago).

But when seconds have passed and Haechan still looks like he badly needs to hear an answer, you have very little options but to ask, “You want me to do what to who now?”

Catching a sniff of your mighty dragon’s breath, he promptly takes a step back, scrunching his nose while frantically covering half of his face with the script he’s been holding. “Eew, God, what is that smell?” Ignoring your glare, he repeats his words, voice muffled by the papers. “I said, I want you to make love to me.”

“What—”

“Damn it, woman, just brush your teeth and let me in!”

When he’s stomping his feet while whining that loudly—loud enough for your fucking landlord to hear, along with everybody else in the building (including your cute neighbor, Jaehyun, oh dear God, no), he doesn’t give you any other choice but to invite him in, does he?

You step away from the door, flatly muttering, “Please, come in, why don’t you.” Haechan doesn’t waste any second waiting, making sure to run and stay as far away as possible from you so he won’t inhale the poisonous air that’s tainted with your breath again.

You roll your eyes. Dramatic little shit. But just to be on the safe side, you make your way to the bathroom.

***

The scalding hot shower you just took was comforting but not enough to wash your entire drowsiness away. You’re in dire need of your caffeine intake. “Would you like some coffee, my king?” You ask between a yawn, hands finding their way to the coffee jar on your kitchen counter.

Haechan throws his bag to the floor, body sinking into the comfort of your couch. “With milk, please.”

"I’m kidding.”

“Well, I’m not.” He throws one of those cheeky grins that you adore—no, wait, you hate—as he settles his legs on your coffee table. “Less sugar but more milk. I’m still growing.”

“Growing what, your balls?” You pour him a cup of coffee as requested, yes, because to balance his demonic behavior, you have to act like the perfect angel that you are. “Since you don’t have any?”

“You mean, like your boyfriend?” Haechan retorts before he gasps dramatically, his palm going to his mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry, you don’t have a boyfriend.”

You hover above him from behind the couch, bringing two mugs filled with sizzling hot coffee. “Want to repeat that?” You tip your mug just a little bit until it nearly spills on his forehead.

Haechan winces, attempting to grin. “I’m sorry, I love you, please don’t ruin my face. It’s the only thing that’s good about me.”

“It surely is.”

“Yah, what does that mean?”

“Take it as a compliment.”

Sitting next to him, you sip your coffee and curse silently when the liquid burns your tongue. “Okay, so what about this ‘make love to me’ thing you said earlier? Please tell me it’s just a figure of speech or something.”

“I wish.” He drags his legs away from the table so he can lay his cup down because apparently, he means business. “Okay, I know you’re gonna kill me after you hear—”

“After? I’m about to kill you now, actually.” You scoff. “Don’t you remember what we’ve agreed on? You cannot bother me when I’m still too sleepy to smack you in the head, Haechannie.”

“When did we ever—” He stops. “Why are you going to smack me in the head?”

“‘Cause you’ll say something stupid.”

“Who says I’m gonna say something stupid?”

“You always say something stupid. You’re saying something stupid now!”

“It’s not stupid.” He sighs exasperatedly but when your flat, degrading stare comes into view, it morphs into a groan. “Well, not that stupid. I’ve thought about this—really thought about it—and I can’t find anyone else to do this but you since you’re the only girl I’m friends with. I mean, I can pick random girls, I suppose—you know how popular I am. They just can’t stop talking about me. My hair, my eyes—”

“—your tiny dick.”

“But I don’t want to break any girl’s heart by doing something that’s gonna make them feel like I’m just using them to get a job, you know? I know I’m hot but these good looks aren’t meant to trample people’s hearts.”

“And you don’t care how I’m gonna feel?”

He has the decency to act like he’s thinking about it, but then, “No, not really.”

“Thanks.”

“Look, I really need your help.” He takes it as further as holding your hand between his, puckering his pouty lips, and blinking his eyes in a way that’s cute enough to leave you in daze so you pretend like you’re about to vomit your insides to cover it up.

Okay, so there’s one thing—one little thing that nobody knows—that you’re too ashamed to admit and that is the fact that you have a massive crush on this boy who sits in front of you with his socks unmatched. Well, no, not massive. It used to be massive during the first few weeks you knew him. How could you not? Haechan was so cute, you wanted to turn him into a doll so you could carry him around in your backpack and squish his cheeks whenever you feel like it. Sure, he’s not all jawlines and dimples like that neighbor of yours (Jung Jaehyun was probably sculpted by God himself ), but Haechan has his own charms. His devilish smirk, his loud, contagious laughter, his naughty eyebrow raise, and his lips—God, his beautiful plump lips, the way they look so pouty and soft. Honestly, you can write a whole essay about his attractive features (not that you haven’t already).

You knew you were crazy for him when the antics he did annoyed the hell out of his friends but to you, he was just plain adorable. And you realized you were pretty much fucked-up when Jeno said, “Fucking Lee Donghyuck said he forgot his wallet and robbed me this morning. Who the fuck orders a freakin’ wagyu steak for breakfast?!” and the only thing you could think of was how nice it was to go on a date with him and how your first kiss with him was going to be like (poor Jeno, though).

It’s not that you love him or anything. It’s mostly physical, nothing more—at least for now anyway. It’s not your fault that he’s so fucking pretty that he ends up showing every now and then in your fantasy, doing indescribable naughty things that will definitely make Mark splash some holy water on your face if he knew what was going on in your head.

Fortunately, now that you’ve been friends with him for two years, that massive crush you had has turned into something normal, something you can easily hide. And can be forgotten even, whenever another cute guy—like Na Jaemin, for example—takes you out on a date or two. It’s easier to breathe these days.

“Hello? Are you there?” Haechan snaps his fingers, waking you up from your reverie. “What’s your answer? Do you want to make love to me or not?”

‘It’s easier to breathe these days?’ More like fucking kill me.

“Can you stop saying that?” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “You’re giving me headaches.” Or a heart attack, more accurately. “Assume I said yes. Don’t you think it’s gonna get a little weird between us?”

“What is so weird about it?” He throws his hands in the air, exhausted and impatient. “It’s just gonna be two friends, pretending to be in love with each other, hugging, kissing, touching, and having sweet, tender sex.” Realization falls upon him and you resist the urge to exhale loudly. “Yeah, okay, so it is a little weird, but it should be fine, right? It’s just acting. It’s not like you have any feelings for me, do you?”

If by feelings you mean picturing you naked in my head with your mouth sucking on my neck, then yeah, I do have feelings for you. Plenty of that. But on the outside, you say, “Eew, God, no.”

Haechan squints his eyes at your response. “Can’t say I’m not hurt with the way you said it, but eew, God, no to you too. Well, if that’s the case then I’m sure we’ll be fine,” he says, sipping his coffee, and retracts his mouth as soon as the flavor hits his tongue. “What the hell is this?! Did you spit on my coffee or something?”

You didn’t but for your amusement, you throw him a sly grin. “A little.” It’s satisfying to see him looking like he’s about to pass out. “I’m still worried how it’s gonna affect our friendship later on though.”

He simply shrugs. “Meh. We’re not really that close to begin with anyway.” He takes another sip of his coffee by accident and nearly vomits for real. “Fucking hell—take this shit out of my face.”

“I'm still not sure about this, Haechannie.”

“Look, I don’t know why it’s such a big deal to you, we’re just going to pretend! Acting!” He exclaims as if that was the most normal thing a friend could ask another friend. “And you’re gonna be acting out a love scene with someone as hot as me. Consider yourself lucky.”

“Consider yourself dead.”

“Damn it, my audition is in two days and I really want to get this role!” He’s whining, tugging at your hand like a baby as he practically throws himself at your feet, graveling for your mercy. “You’re the only one who can help me with this. How can I act properly if I don’t have enough experience to perform a freaking bed scene?!”

“I don’t think actors who have to play dead have enough experience of, you know, being dead.”

“Excellent point.” Haechan stares at you blankly, unimpressed. “Do you hear yourself when you talk?”

“Do you?”

A few seconds passed by in silence with the two of you exchanging sinister glares until he finally surrenders with a prominent pout on his face. “Fine, if you don’t want to.” Haechan exhales dramatically, his shoulders sagging and when you don’t respond, he sighs again only louder this time. “I guess, I have to force Mark to make out with me. Again.” He sneaks a glance to see your reaction. “And have my face slapped with a Bible. Again.”

You wince at the thought. “How did you force him, exactly?”

“Just…” He timidly scratches his nose. “Kinda attacked him in his sleep.”

You nod in understanding even when it’s the most idiotic thing you’ve ever heard. “Well, maybe he would’ve been fine with it if you had taken him out for a nice dinner before that.”

Haechan smiles a little at your words, and even a little glimpse of it is contagious enough to make your own spread wider on your face. Small chuckles resonate through the air and he playfully bumps his shoulder against yours, his palm resting on your knuckles.

“On a more serious note,” Haechan says, “I know that asking you to rehearse a bed scene with me is too much and way out of line. But I swear, I’m not gonna touch you if you’re so uncomfortable with it. Won’t even hold your hand, I promise.” Then he notices he’s still holding your hand from earlier. He drops it immediately, clearing his throat. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” It’s more than fine. His hand seems to fit yours in a way that nobody ever does but there’s no way you’re gonna tell him that. “So, we’re just gonna be practicing lines?”

“Exactly.” He rubs his nape, suddenly a bit bashful. “Well, I was hoping to at least kiss you—just to, you know, know how it’d feel like.”

“You’ve never kissed before?”

“I have, obviously.” He rolls his eyes, disgusted at your question. “I’m not a fucking virgin if that’s what you’re assuming.”

“Chill, don’t get your panties in a twist. Nah, I know you’re not a virgin from how many times you’ve had sex with yourself.”

“Hey!”

“But then, why do you need to practice? Can’t you just go straight to your castmates, and kiss the bejeezus out of them?”

Donghyuck runs a hand through his face. “It’s… I’ve never done it for a role,” he professes, faint blush blooming on his cheeks, “And the scene is supposed to be intimate and I’ve never… You know…”

You gesture at him to clarify more with your hands. “You’ve never…?”

“You know…” The color on his face turns brighter. “T-the thing.”

“What thing? Never made-out in public? Never had sex outdoor?” You act clueless just because you’re liking his reaction. “Never had a finger stuck in your ass? What? Please do enlighten me.”

“I’ve never been in love, you witch!” Haechan is adorable when he’s fuming. Nostrils blaring, eyebrows knitting together in an angry frown, scarlet cheeks all puffed out. He looks like a terribly pissed Pomeranian.

Man, if I could just take a picture. “Oh, okay. So have you had your finger stuck in your ass?”

“I swear to God—”

“Kidding. I know you have.” But even when Haechan is nearly ripping your cheeks apart from your face, your giggles are never-ending. “So, you’re nervous?” You snort, raising an eyebrow. “You, the obnoxious, desperate-for-attention Lee Haechan, are nervous?”

“Will you help me out or not?!”

You pretend like you’re contemplating about it when truth is, every part of your body and mind is just screaming what the heck are you waiting for? He’s asking you to rehearse a bed scene—a. bed. scene! And he said he wanted to kiss you, for God’s sake! So, really, what else is there to say but “Okay.”

Haechan widens his eyes. “Okay?”

“Okay.” You try your best to appear nonchalant. “But you’ll owe me a favor. A huge one.”

“Anything,” he instantly agrees, “As long as I’m not dead, you have my words.”

You’re not yet sure what you’re planning to ask him but seeing his enthusiasm, you know it’s going to be good. “Great. So, umm, do you want to do it now or…?”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

“Here?”

“Wherever you want.”

“Man, you’re giving me too much power. I should’ve agreed to this way sooner.” You can practically feel your face splitting in half from how wide you’re grinning. “My room, then? I mean, a bed scene requires… a bed, right?”

Haechan laughs and even after two years, it still sounds like your most favorite thing in the world. “No, it doesn’t necessarily require a bed but sure.” He jumps out from the couch, taking you by the hand, and only by that, you can already feel your heart thumping a tad faster. But the second he walks into your room, he makes a face. “Why does it smell like something died in here?”

“Because something did die. Your dignity.”

The tickling fight doesn’t occur very often between you and Lee Haechan but once it starts, it means war.

***

“Okay, so…” Haechan hands you the script, already opened to show you a page filled with dialogues and short narratives. He scoots closer on the bed, his knee a few inches away from grazing yours as they dangle from the edge. “Just from the top of the page, here.” He points with his finger and you do a quick scan, trying to get a picture of the intimate scene you’re going to do. “So, a quick summary. Your character, Aeri, has been in love with my character, Donghyun. In the earlier scene, you’ve confessed your love to me but I rejected you because we’ve been friends for so long and I didn’t want to ruin what we have. But then, later on, some things happened and I ended up catching feelings for you and this is the part where I’m gonna be telling you how I really feel and then we start kissing and—”

“Then we have sex,” you utter in dismay, but butterflies are erupting from your stomach due to the anticipation.

“No,” Haechan corrects you, “We make love.”

“Is there any difference?”

“There are more feelings involved, not just out of sheer passion. It’s slower. Tender. Intimate.” And when he notices you raising a questioning brow at him, he sighs. “That thing you did with Jaemin? Fucking like bunnies? The opposite of that.”

You mock him by imitating his sigh exaggeratedly and receiving a flick on the nose in return. “Is it just me or is the script pretty lousy?”

He nods. “But they’ll pay you good money for this.”

“I thought the reason you became an actor was to create art not money.”

“When I’m rich, maybe. Right now, I gotta pay for my rent. And apparently, Jeno keeps chasing my ass, forcing me to pay him back. It was just a wagyu steak for fuck’s sake.” He grumbles to himself, momentarily distracted. “Anyway,” he cracks his neck, “I’ve memorized my lines. Wanna give it a go?”

“Okay, let’s try. I guess I’ll be fine if it’s just kissing. Even if it’s with you.” When in reality you’re only agreeing to this because it’s with him.

Haechan’s eyes gleam brighter, ears practically perking up like an excited puppy. “Really?”

“You’re that excited at the thought of kissing me?” You play smug but you could practically hear your heartbeat blasting through your ears. “What else have you been thinking about me?”

“I’m not excited at the thought of kissing you, dumbass,” he spits back, the spark in his eyes vanishes in an instant. “I’m excited that finally I can practice kissing scenes with someone who’s actually willing to do it, and not, you know, like with the back of my hand or something.”

“You…” Failing to hold back a grin, you burst out laughing. “You made out with your hand?”

It’s funny that even when his skin is golden as if it was kissed by the sun, it still shows vividly on his face whenever he blushes. “I didn’t mean it literally—”

“I can’t believe you made out with your hand.”

“Would you just—” He nearly suffocates you with your pillow but you quickly retaliate by kicking him in the stomach.

Tears are prickling at the corner of your eyes. “Man, that mental image of yours making out with your hand will live in my mind rent-free for as long as I live.” When you still can’t stop laughing, Haechan is practically baring his teeth. “Okay, I’m sorry. Let’s get this going. If it gets too uncomfortable for me, I’ll stop.”

“Of course.”

“At any time I want.”

“Your call.” He nods in agreement with the most serious expression you’ve ever seen him do; it almost doesn’t seem like him.

“Good,” you say. “Now, I’ve never acted once in my life so if you laugh at me, I will sneak into your room at night and pour hot coffee on your computer.”

There’s fear fleeting through his eyes but he gives another nod. “Deal.”

“All right…” You take a deep breath, willing your heart to stop hammering against your ribcages, and for once, focus more on the script instead of the shape of his pretty, pretty mouth. “What are you doing here?” You follow the script, voice a little bit shaky as you’re still embarrassed with everything you’re doing. Haechan closes his eyes and you’re about to throw a joke to tease him about actor Haechan coming alive but when he opens them and gazes at you, you sit still, frozen.

“I wanted to see you,” he says, voice so delicate, it startles you. He’s so serious about this that you don’t find the strength within you to tease him like how you usually do. Somehow, the little gestures he makes, the changes in his expression alter the air along with the tension in the room. Suddenly, it feels like you’re standing next to him under the spotlight, hundreds of pairs of eyes following your every movement.

“It’s—” You swallow your breath, tongue lays heavy in your mouth. “It's pouring outside, why are you—”

“I love you,” he vocalizes, his eyes gentle and heartbroken. His voice suddenly sounds a pitch lower, reverberating through the air until it sends goosebumps to the tiny hairs on your nape. He waits for your reply and you have to blink twice to slap yourself back to reality.

“W-what?”

“I’m sorry it took me this long to realize, but I do. I’m in love with you, hopelessly so.” He reaches out to cup your cheek, his thumb caressing your cheekbone. Though he has pretty hands, his fingertips are not as soft as you had imagined them to be, but they feel better, feel real. His warmth is unfamiliar to your skin but it feels more pleasant than anything that ever touches you. “Maybe you’re unaware of this, but it kills me to know that I’ve hurt you because I simply couldn’t be brave enough to accept my feelings. The reason why I didn’t want us to be together was because I didn’t want to ruin what we have, not knowing that we could be something more.”

Haechan’s lines fit your situation so much that you wish he wasn’t acting. It’s amazing how he’s changing into an entirely different persona and yet, it feels so natural as if he has been that person all along. Your breathing gets heavier as you take a brief look at the script, searching for your lines. “This feels unreal…”

“Do you still love me?” Haechan lifts your face by the chin, his touch is paper-thin.

You wet your lips, head swirling. “But Donghyun—”

“Do you still love me?” He repeats, emphasizing with his tone. His eyes are peering into yours and you wonder maybe the quote eyes deeper than the sea refers to his gaze. “Or is it too late for me?” His thumb drifts to your lip, caressing your bottom one, your lip balm sticking to his skin.

“I do,” you reply. He’s so pretty. You’ve never taken a glance longer than a few seconds at his close-up face, but now that you’re in this close proximity, you can finally witness the two tiny moles on his cheek, the beautiful shape of his dark eyes, the delicate curve of his lips… “I do love you, Donghyuck.”

A few seconds of silence hangs in the air when Haechan stops, his eyebrows furrowing. “Umm—it’s Donghyun, actually.”

Fuck! “Right!” You nearly leap out of your bed, face aflame. “Donghyun! Of course! I don’t know why I said that. Donghyuck is your name, I know that—” Fuck, fuck, fuck, just fucking kill me. “Sorry, umm—nervous.”

Fortunately for you, Haechan buys your bluff. “Rookie mistake,” he chuckles and you exaggeratedly roll your eyes to play along. “Okay, let’s start over. Do you still love me?”

“I do,” you respond too rigidly, making him glance away so he won’t break into laughter. “I do love you, Donghyun. Dong-Hyun.”

“Good,” he improvises, as it’s not written in the script. He has a tiny smile on his face and you like to think that it’s just him doing a terrible job at hiding his amusement. But when he swats your bangs out of your eyes, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, he seems like he’s seeing the most beautiful thing he has ever seen in his whole life. The adoration in his eyes, his loving gaze—they are so vivid, they nearly consume you. “Because I don’t think I can resist this any longer…”

You’re lost in his eyes, lost in his touch, lost in his warmth. It’s until Haechan nudges his head slightly, indicating you to wake up, you’ve got a line to say, that you jolt, eyes hurriedly going down to the script, seeking your lines. “Umm—�� You flinch. You sound so jittery, it’s terrible. “R-resist what…?”

But Haechan doesn’t pay a mind that you just stuttered from saying two words. He doesn’t ask you to start over. Instead, he presses his forehead against yours, his breath mingling in the air and you can taste the scent of sandalwood and summer. Combined with his soft breathing, you’re almost stuck in a haze, just reeling in the feeling of how this man is now closer to you than he has ever been in the past two years and it’s better than anything you’ve ever imagined.

“Resist this,” he whispers and before you can look down to check whether you have more lines to say, Haechan dips his head, his lips brushing against yours, ever so faintly at first but when you gasp, he presses harder, framing your cheeks with both hands before he moves one down to your waist. Unlike his fingertips, his lips are soft—softer than silk or the cotton candy he once bought you. But it’s not the way they feel or the way he tastes that distract you the most. It’s the way he moves them, parting his lips slightly so he can blend with yours, your lower lip fits perfectly between his plump ones. It’s the way he sighs, so contentedly, as if kissing you was everything he ever wanted.

You close your eyes, hands reaching up to his collar, wanting to feel him more, wanting to touch him—

Haechan breaks away, placing both hands on your shoulders. “How was it?”

You’ve never had someone splash cold water on your face but you figure it might feel something like this. Your voice grows hoarse when you speak. “How was what?”

“The kiss!” Haechan’s eyes are filled with concern, analyzing your expression. “Was it romantic enough? Tender enough? Did it properly convey the desperation and longing my character feels for yours?”

You knew this was a bad idea. You fucking knew it. So, why are you still hurt when he acts like he feels exactly nothing by that kiss? This is just an acting lesson for him. You should have been prepared.

“It’s good,” you answer, averting your gaze and hiding your eyes behind your bangs. Your heart is still running a thousand miles an hour but somehow, it doesn’t feel as pleasant as before. “So, next scene—”

“Wait, are you okay?” Haechan asks, bending slightly to catch a glimpse of your face. “Was it too much? Do you want to stop?”

Truth is, you’re conflicted. You’re going to catch feelings—you most likely already are. But Haechan only treats you as a friend and nothing more, and this is the only chance you have to be this close to him. The temptation of continuing the kiss, to just hold him close for one more time, stands stronger than anything else so you say, “No. I promised you I’d help.”

He’s still unsure, eyes glinting in concern. “It’s okay if you want to stop, I—”

“Let’s just do the damn scene, Donghyuck.”

Haechan freezes on his seat, eyes searching yours as you now have the bravery to look at his face. Knowing you came on too strong, you try to ease it off with a smile. “I’m fine, don’t worry. It’s just my first time doing this—acting, I mean. Can we try again?”

He spends another few seconds trying to decipher the true meaning behind your smile but eventually nods his head at your command. He drags his finger back to the script. “Then, umm… Let’s start from here?”

You don’t even look at the page when you give affirmation. “Go.”

Haechan takes a moment to prepare himself and when your eyes meet each other again, he’s a different person once more. “The reason why I didn’t want us to be together was because I didn’t want to ruin what we have, not knowing that we could be something more.” His voice is so soothing, you almost forget that deep down you’re immensely upset knowing that the kiss didn’t have the same effects on him.

This time, when he frames your face with his palm, you lean into his touch, eyes never leaving his. “This feels unreal,” you say and for a second—just for a split second—you notice Haechan breaking out of character, surprised by the gentle expression on your face. Because you’re not acting out his script, you’re acting out on your feelings. It’s your only chance to be honest with him without forcing him to respond. So you pour all these feelings you have for him out in the open—ones that started from a mere physical attraction to something more as his presence grew bigger in your life, you’re acting out each and every one of them.

“Do…” He inhales sharply, trying to focus. “Do you still love me?” He’s doing the same thing as before, placing his thumb and index finger on your chin but before he can say his lines, you see how his eyes fall on your lips.

And you kiss him. You kiss him with everything you have, hands going to his face, fingers slipping between his strands, and Haechan gasps against your mouth, his fingers curling around your wrist. You know he’s about to push you away so you quickly murmur, “I do,” against his lips, breath stuttering, “I do love you.”

When you take his bottom lip between yours, teeth grazing against his supple skin, Haechan lets out an involuntary moan at the back of his throat. The butterflies in your stomach come alive, pumping a rush of adrenaline through your veins and suddenly, you’re brave enough to glide your tongue across his lip. His hold tightens around your wrist but instead of pushing you away, he tugs you closer and you fall into his chest, hands breaking free from his grip to wind around his neck. Your fingertips are scraping against his nape before they move upward to yank at the roots of his hair. “Fuck,” he breathes out, almost inaudibly, as if he didn’t mean to let the word slip from his mouth and it makes your heart jumps straight out of your chest. The second he responds properly, Haechan kisses like fire, all passion and urgency, and you really don’t mind being consumed by his flames.

His hands are on your waist, pulling you closer and closer until you’re almost sitting on his lap before he jolts awake, pushing you away so abruptly, you almost fall from the bed.

“I’m—We—” he stammers, looking everywhere but your eyes. His cheeks are flushed, his lips bruised and red from your kisses. “I think we should—I gotta go—“

He stands up from the bed like the sheets are catching on fire, picking his script from the floor and gathering all his belongings at once before he runs toward the door. He turns on his heels, wanting to say something to fix the goddamn situation, but when his eyes land on yours, his words vanish without a trace.

“I—I’ll call you later,” he finally says and doesn’t wait for your response. The front door closes with a thud.

And then silence comes to answer.

What just happened?

Your heart is thundering inside your chest, you’re starting to feel nauseous. What have I done? You keep asking over and over. You thought everything was going to be fine. He responded to your kiss earlier, didn’t he? You were sure you didn’t imagine the whole thing. But now he’s gone and you’re not sure whether he’s gonna come back as the same Haechan—the old, bratty but caring Lee Haechan. The one who snickers loudly when you fall face-first on the ground but always steals secret glances at you to make sure you're not hurt. The one who makes jokes about your love life but never forgets to show up at your apartment with a thoughtful gift right at the minute you turn a year older.

Things are not just gonna get awkward, they’re ruined.

When nearly half an hour has passed by and you’re still left alone in your apartment with no signs of him coming back, you’re about to go insane. You can’t stay still, walking back and forth your living room with the tip of your thumb between your teeth.

Should I chase after him and explain that it was just me trying to improvise? You hesitate with your hand lingering on the doorknob. But with your knees nearly giving up under your weight, you decide to stay put. It will probably just gonna make it worse. He’ll see through my lies, he always does.

You’re straying away to the kitchen, hands placed on the counter. You can feel your head spinning, stomach somersaulting. Damn it, why did I have to do that?! Why couldn’t I just—

The front door slams opened and Haechan barges in with his hair messy, ruffled by the wind, and his bangs sticking to his temple. Stunned, you stand still on your ground. Your heart is the only one that’s moving beyond control. His eyes scan your apartment until they land on yours and for an instant, everything seems to fade away.

“Fuck it,” he says, dropping his bag to the ground and making his way towards you in such a hurry, he nearly trips over his feet. “You’re not that good of an actor to be faking it.” Before you have the chance to even take a breath, Haechan’s lips are smashing against yours.

“Hae—” Haechan’s kiss is insane. So forceful that you can barely keep up, taking every bit of air directly from your lungs. He has you backed against the kitchen counter, the marbled edge digging into your skin. His hands frame your face, sliding against your cheek until they cup the backsides of your neck, his thumbs resting against your ears. You curl your fingers around his wrist, gasping, “Wait—”

He pulls away, lifting your face so you can’t bring your gaze anywhere else. “You like me?” His eyes are just as intense, begging for answers. “Please tell me I’m not imagining this.”

But behind that passion, his confidence is wavering. You can tell by his quivering breath, the little tremble running through his fingertips, and at that, you’re drowning in relief. You don’t think he’s that good of an actor to be faking this too.

“I do,” you admit, heart pounding so loudly that you can barely hear your own voice. “I like—”

His mouth is on yours again and it feels like he’s kissing you in a hundred different places at once. “Jesus Christ, why have you kept quiet about this for so long?” he says, tasting your breath and skin at the same time. “Two fucking years. We wasted two fucking years.”

The words this isn’t happening endlessly run through your head but all your senses scream that Haechan is really here, in your arms, his nails clawing against your shirt and there’s nothing left you want from this world.

When you reciprocate to him properly, your palms sliding up his chest, over his shoulder, until your arms circle his neck, Haechan sighs in content. His kisses grow slower—more relaxed—but deeper, his tongue peeking out shyly at first but not for long. He still tastes faintly like the coffee you made and something else entirely different. Something pleasant that’s just exactly how you’ve fantasized him to be, if not more.

He pulls away to catch his breath with his eyes still focusing on your lips, thumb rubbing your lower one. “Does this feel weird to you?” He whispers, his temple pressing against yours.

You’re intoxicated by his sweet scent though you’re not sure whether it’s the smell of his shampoo, his cologne, or just him altogether. “No,” and as soon as the word comes out, his lips are chasing after yours once more.

“Good, ‘cause I don’t think I can stop.” He’s breathing heavily against your mouth as you are against his. With his fingers twisted in your hair, making a messy ponytail out of it, Haechan peppers open-mouthed kisses on your neck, tongue pressing against your pulsating vein and a whimper escapes your mouth.

Your dreams, your fantasies—they all fall pale in comparison to reality. When you vocalize his name, it almost sounds like a plead and Haechan slants his mouth back on yours again, giving you another taste as he is not satisfied with yours just yet. “Your lips taste amazing,” he breathes out and it’s so quiet, it seems like he’s intending to say the words in his head and not with his mouth. But as his words fall on your ears, they send tingles down your spine.

“So do yours,” you reply, attempting to make him blush in return but if he does, he doesn’t show much. “Never pegged you as a man who wears lip balm.”

You can feel his smirk directly with your skin. “I’m not wearing any.”

“You’re not?” You lightly giggle, swiping your tongue across his lower lip. “Then your lips do taste amazing.”

Haechan’s hand is slipping underneath your shirt, fingers hovering above your bra. “Guess there are still a lot of things you don’t know about me, huh?”

“I’ve got a hunch you’re about to teach me?”

“Only if you’re eager to learn.”

The kiss becomes heavier that you’re lost for words, entirely consumed by his passion, until he breaks away, muttering, “Off, off, off, off, off,” as he struggles to tear the fabric away from your body. You titter at his desperation, raising both hands to help him out of his misery. The second it’s off, he lifts you by the waist and places you down on the counter.

“I’m amazed you could lift me,” you coo, admiring the sight of his lean stomach as he pulls his shirt over his head. His silver necklace hangs loosely around his neck and you hook a finger around it to yank him back to you.

He doesn’t seem to be able to detach his lips from yours for too long, especially when you keep sneaking glances at his. So when he speaks again, his every word is painted directly to your skin. “It wasn’t easy.” He settles between your thighs, mouth latching against your collarbone. “You weigh a ton.”

“Yeah?” You bite your lip, holding back a moan as he sucks bruises on your neck, the edge of his fingers trailing over the seam of your bra. “Then you must be so strong.”

“I am, haven’t you noticed?” Haechan pulls away just to showcase a mischievous grin. “I work out, you know.”

You blurt out laughing. It’s not solely because of the mental image of Lee Haechan—a full-time gamer, Lee Haechan—doing push-ups seems so funny to you. It’s more about the way he wiggles his eyebrow, trying to be sexy about it when you know he’s the weakest one in your group. Flustered at your reaction, he flicks your nose. “What is so funny?”

“I’m sorry,” you apologize though it doesn’t seem that much sincere with the way you’re still giggling at him. “It’s just that an hour ago we were two friends making fun of each other and now we’re here, in this position. I don’t know, it just feels surreal to me.”

An adorable pout blooms on his face. “I thought you said this didn’t feel weird.”

“No, it’s perfect. I want this.” You wrap the end of his necklace twice around your index finger. “I want you. It’s just… I’ve been imagining this to happen for such a long time and now that it’s happening, I’m feeling a lot of things at once.” You place a reassuring kiss on his temple. “I’m nervous.” This time landing one on his cheek. “I’m relieved.” When your lips hover above his, you notice him parting his own slightly in anticipation. “And it feels so good, I don’t ever want to stop. Even if that means we can’t go back to being friends.”

Haechan can’t form a response as you don’t let him, your mouth swallowing the tiny moans he emits. “We’ll talk about that later,” he hastily replies, “I still haven’t had enough of you yet.”

Without warning, he lifts you off the counter, making you yelp and wrap your legs around his waist for support. “Haechannie!” With you holding onto him, he takes a step forward, ignoring your call. “Where are you taking me—"

“Wait, no, back pain, back pain.” Both of you nearly tumble down to the ground from how he’s harshly placing you back to your feet, wincing at the ache erupting from the strained muscles in his spine. He’s groaning in pain, massaging his back with both hands. “Fuck, you’re really heavy!”

“That’s no way to talk to a lady.” You throw your slipper at him, missing his head just a few inches, laughing all the way. “What exactly were you trying to do?”

“I was trying to move us to the couch.”

“All you had to do was ask.”

“I was trying to be sexy.” He juts out his lower lip, and it takes all control of your body to not squeeze his cheeks from how adorable he looks.

“Honey, you are sexy, believe me, but you’re also weak as fuck. Consider hitting the gym for real next time and then carry me.”

“Shut up,” he sighs, holding out a hand for you to take. “To the couch, please? And maybe a massage after this ‘cause my back is killing me.”

Shaking your head in amusement, you take his hand, intertwining your fingers with his and drag him over to the couch. He’s in the middle of asking, “Do you want me to be on top or—” when you push him down and straddle his lap without warning, legs tangling around his hips. “Oh, okay.”

You run a hand through his hair, pushing them back so you can witness the glow in his eyes. “You look sexier with your hair pushed back.” You love the way he stares at you, eyes half-lidded painted with lust and desire. And combined with your commentary, he now has his cheek tinted with red. “Do you have a problem with me being on top?”

His eyes quickly run down to the place where your denim shorts are riding up your thighs, your zipper pressing against his groin. With a noticeable gulp, he stutters out, “N-no.”

You smile, patting his cheek. “Good.”

The kiss starts slow as you focus more on moving your hands down his body. Haechan shivers a little when your palm is pressing against his bare chest, sliding down to his navel. When you pull back, raising a questioning brow at his reaction, he bashfully says, “Your hand’s cold,” looking like a nervous little boy who’s a stark contrast to how he usually behaves.

He’s so cute.

“Well, I know a way to warm you up.” You smirk, almost cringing when you hear your own words but Haechan seems to like it.

“Oooh,” he coos, grinning against your lips. “Are you offering what I think you’re offering?”

“I don’t know.” You kiss your way down from his jawline to his chest, pushing yourself off his lap so you can kneel on the floor, your fingers unbuckling his belt. “What do you think I’m offering?”

Haechan’s eyes are glowing with anticipation. He curves his fingers around the edge of his seat, wetting his lip nervously when you pull his zipper down. You release him from his boxer, stroking him to life and he sinks his nails further into the couch. A train of expletives breaks free from his mouth but he’s so quiet, you can only hear his ragged breathing.

But by the time you run your thumb over his slit, your hot breath hitting his sensitive skin, Haechan melts into a whimpering mess. “Please don’t tease,” he begs.

“I haven’t even started, Haechannie.” And he looks like he’s about to say something but it only turns into a mewl when you press a kiss to his tip. “You’re so cute,” you comment, and he shivers when the vibration of your voice meets his skin.

Haechan tries to act composed. “Of course I’m cute, it’s—”

You cut his line short by darting out your tongue, giving kitten licks at the side, smiling satisfyingly when his eyes meet yours. As you give him a little suck around his tip, he throws his head back, his lower lip between his teeth. “I—I said don’t tease.”

“I’m not teasing you.” But you are. How can you not? He looks so fucking cute. You’ve never really enjoyed giving head before, especially when your opponent gets rough and ends up pushing too deep until you gag. But with Haechan, you feel like you can do this for hours. He’s so nervous and shy, doesn’t even dare to place his hand on your hair, and his reaction to every bit of your action is honest even when his words aren’t.

“Here.” You take one of his hands, moving it to your head. “You can use me as much as you want.”

“Use—” he crumbles at your choice of words. When you suddenly envelop him with your mouth, moving from the tip to the base in one quick motion, Haechan instinctively grabs a handful of your hair, flinching. “Goddamn, why are you so fucking hot?”

You giggle, sliding his cock out of your mouth with an obscene pop. “Thanks.”

“No, I mean your mouth. It’s so fucking warm.”

“So, you’re saying,” you dip your tongue into his slit, eyes seductively peering into his. “I’m not hot?”

“You’re—Fuck, fuck—” Haechan seethes, hips buckling when you bob your head down again, tongue pressing against his veins. Shivers run through his fingertips when he slips them between your locks, pushing your fringe back to have a good look at your face. You catch a glimpse of him, his lips unconsciously moving to form words that you can’t hear. So pretty, he seems to say, and the thought of it makes your stomach lurch in delight. Taking him completely in your mouth, you hollow your cheeks, swallowing around him. He tightens his hold around your hair, cheeks flushed and you expect him to hold you in place so he can thrust against your mouth but what he does is pull you away. “Stop, stop, stop, stop.”

Wiping a string of saliva away with the back of your hand, you ask with a frown. “Something’s wrong?”

Haechan hides his reddening face behind his fingers, quietly answering, “I was about to come.”

You hold back a grin. With a nonchalant hum, you dip your head down again, this time engulfing him until he hits the back of your throat.

“Jesus Christ.” His sanity is deteriorating, he can feel it.

“Don’t bring Lord’s name when I have your dick in my mouth, Haechannie. Mark would kill you if he knew.”

“Fuck Mark. Come here.” He rushes forward, forcibly pulling you up with both hands clamping your arms. When you follow his order, settling back down on top of his lap, he confesses with his lips grazing against the shell of your ear. “I really won’t last long if you keep doing that.”

Despite your previous teasing and confidence, you squirm inside his arms, feeling warmth spreading from your chest to your cheek. “So I have these effects on you?”

He’s almost growling when he retorts, “You don’t even know.” Haechan pushes your bra strap until it falls off your shoulder, teeth marking your supple skin until you hiss in both pain and pleasure. He presses a softer kiss to soothe away the bruise. “Sorry, I… You’re gonna need to cover it up tomorrow.”

“It’s fine.” You stroke his cheek, tracing the tiny mole on his jawline. “Seems like you have a biting kink.”

He sheepishly chuckles, “I don’t know. But if you let me, I’d love to do that again.”

Something about him saying it in the most sincere way possible, almost too formal even, makes you crave more for him and everything he does. “You’re allowed to do whatever you want with me, Lee Donghyuck.”

Haechan swallows hard, barely has the bravery to look at you in the face after hearing your words and his real name tumbling out of your mouth. His fingers are now on the hem of your shorts, trembling a little bit. “Umm—may I?”

Helping him further, you stand on your knees, unclasping your bra first to his surprise and pulling your denim shorts and panties down to your thighs. Haechan watches with his eyes wide open, mouth parted in awe as he commits every bit of your curve and movement into memory. It feels so thrilling to be this wanted, to be ravished by his eyes, until you begin to struggle to push your clothing away from your legs.

“Need some help?” He asks, lips pursing as he tries to hide a grin.

You exhale loudly, detaching yourself from him. “Let me just—” You jump off his lap, standing back with your feet on the ground, and kicking the clothing away with annoyance—why in the world did you have to wear shorts this tight—and slap him in the chest when he’s chuckling at the sight.

“Maybe you should stop trying to be sexy too,” Haechan snickers.

“Shut up.” You crawl back into his lap. “Go back to staring dumbly at me like before. I’m naked.”

“I wasn’t staring like tha—oh,” he inhales sharply as you grind your heat against his cock, amazed at how warm you are despite your cold palms. The sensation of skin meeting skin feels much more different. There’s really no going back this time. Somehow, it feels dangerous, as if you’re doing something forbidden and it makes your skin crawl with excitement.

And by the look on his face, seems like he feels the same way.

“Lost for words?” You taunt him with a smirk, hands on his chest. “That’s new.” His glare is menacing but it falters away the second you rub your arousal against his.

His head falls to his shoulder, eyes tightly shut. “God, baby…”

There it is again. The funny feeling in your stomach. “Baby?” You simper though your heart is palpitating like crazy. “We’re moving on to giving each other pet names now?”

If he can blush any harder than this, he probably might but with the way you’re grinding shamelessly on his cock, letting him get a glimpse of how wet and warm you are, he’s all maxed-out.

His earlobe lays between your teeth when you whisper, “Shall we put it in?”

Haechan’s nails are sinking into the skin of your hips, both to hold you in place so you’ll stop torturing him and to press you down harder on his crotch. “I…” He’s so distracted, he can’t even think. The way the side of his length is pressing against your folds is pushing every little bit of self-control he has to the back of his head.

“Haechannie?” You giggle, moving your hips. “I kinda asked you a question here.”

“Yes, fuck, yes, please.” Haechan tries his very best to not sound that desperate for your touch but he is that desperate. “Wait—aren’t we—shouldn’t I wear a condom first?”

You blink, halting your movement. “You brought a condom with you?”

He nods as he leans forward, fingers searching frantically at the pocket of his jeans that hang low on his knees. “Here.”

“Why do you have a condom with you?”

“‘Cause I bought it downstairs just now.”

Your jaw grows slack at the realization. “Is that the reason why your hair was so messy and you were sweating when you barged in here? ‘Cause you ran downstairs, trying to find a condom?”

“I’m sorry, are you really complaining about this now?”

At the feeling of his member twitching underneath you, you sigh. “You’re right. Let’s discuss that later.”

It feels a bit awkward when you stand on your knees, giving him some space and wait until he finishes wrapping the rubber around himself. The silence that hangs between you is almost deafening that by the time he’s done and you fall back to his lap, sitting on his thighs, it feels like you have to start over again.

You diffidently smile. “Hey.”

Haechan is equally as embarrassed, mirroring your gesture. “Hi.”

“I guess we’re gonna have sex.”

“Guess so.”

Another few seconds pass by where you can only meet each other’s eyes, feeling your heartbeat racing louder and louder. It feels like you’re about to burst, honestly, but fortunately for you, Haechan leans in, his fingers tentatively caressing your cheek. “Can I kiss you?” He questions.

You melt under his gaze, his gentle touch, his honey-like voice. “Yes, please.”

Your lips start the connection and the rest of your body follows, fitting every curve of his perfectly like you were made for him. The way Haechan sighs against your mouth sends sparks of electricity all the way down to your toes and you don’t waste any more time. With his mouth latching on your breast, tongue flicking against your nipple, you lower yourself on him.

Haechan’s hold your waist tighter, eyebrows adjoined in the middle at the sensation, his moans muffled. He presses his spine back against the couch, admiring the sight of his member disappearing inch by inch into you. His eyes begin to droop when he’s completely sheathed inside, his bruised lips parted. He cups your cheek, kissing you softly on the corner of your mouth, making you shiver at the sudden tenderness. “I guess we are having sex,” he murmurs with a bashful smile.

You can’t help but laugh a little. “I guess so.”

It starts slow, with you placing both hands on his chest and him swallowing his breath at the sight of you moving up and down his length. You hiss slightly at the friction, adjusting to his size.

“Does it hurt?” He asks, tucking a few loose strands behind your ear.

“A little.” You reassure him with a grin. “Relax, you’re not gonna break me.”

You expect him to send back a snarky remark but what he does is press his forehead against yours. “You’re so warm,” he whispers, tasting the skin that connects your shoulder to your neck. Something about his words, his sensual kiss and his tender touch makes you squeeze your walls around him and he clutches harder around you. He glides his hands lower to your hips, silently urging you to pick up the pace and you follow.

Breathing heavily, Haechan has his thumb grazing your lower lip. “You have such a pretty mouth,” he professes as if he was in a trance.

You seductively bite his thumb, still working your hips. “You’re saying that ‘cause I just sucked your dick.”

“Yes, that too, but really.” It’s as if he’s staring at a work of art, eyes twinkling with admiration. Sometimes, when you’re hitting the right spot and quiver around him, a small moan escapes his lips and you feel him twitching inside you. “It’s—ah—It probably doesn’t sound sincere when I’m saying this now, but I’ve always thought you had a pretty mouth. And lips. I’ve thought about your lips a lot.”

“Yeah?” You mouth against the sensitive skin below his ear, sinking harder on his length. “What else do you like about me?”

“Y-your voice—” You can actually feel him shivering. “You have such a—fuck—I just—I really love your moans.”

You’re not sure whether he’s saying that because he’s so distracted with the way you’re breathing in his ear or he genuinely loves it. Either way, it’s a pleasure to know how much you’re affecting him with your actions. With a chuckle, you say, “You’re rambling, baby.”

“And your hair,” he adds, probably losing every bit of his self-control by this point. “I love your hair. Looks so soft.” Haechan cards his fingers through your strands. “Feels so soft.”

You hum in response, hoping that your flushed face doesn’t look as apparent as you think. “Anything else?”

“Your—” He shudders when you paint a mark under his collarbone. “Your ass.”

You stop, pulling away to give him a look and he whines at the loss. “My ass?”

“What—” The tips of his ears are turning red, steam practically coming out of them. “Why are you staring at me like that—you have a great ass!”

Teasing him is such a joy to you. “Then, let’s do it this way.” You part away from him, landing back on the carpeted floor so you can turn around, giving him the chance to ogle at your behind, before you ease yourself down onto his lap once more.

“Fuck—” Haechan’s hisses, his hands going down to your hips again. The new position doesn’t allow you to meet his eyes but with the way he’s whimpering behind you, fingers trailing over the curve of your ass, the sensation increases.

“You okay back there?” You taunt smugly, chuckling a bit because Haechan sounds like he’s losing it. His nails are sinking into your skin and you just know that’s gonna leave a nasty bruise tomorrow. “You seem like you’re enjoying this way too—“ You’re interrupted by your own moans when he suddenly has one hand massaging your breast and another one sliding down your stomach to find your clit. “W-wait, Haechannie—”

“You’re such a tease,” he breathily whispers into your ear, his chest pressing against your spine as he leans forward, pulling you into his embrace. “Isn’t that supposed to be my job?”

His fingers are rubbing you in circles, making your thighs tremble. “You’re right.” You move your hips harder, going out of rhythm with how fast you’re going and Haechan sinks his teeth to your shoulder again.

At the sound of his name departing your lips in the most sinful moan he’s ever heard, Haechan curses. “Shit, you’re not gonna let me enjoy this longer, are you?”

“There’s always a second round, Haechannie.” You smirk, raising your hips all the way up in intention to slam it back down again but Haechan catches you and pushes you forward until you land on the coffee table, stomach pressing flat against the wooden surface. “What—"

“There’s always a second round, right?” His lips are brushing against your ear as he positions himself behind you. “Then I’m going all out.”

When he slams his hips in one swift motion, hard and deep, he knocks all the air out of your lungs. “Wait—” You choke out, can barely keep up with his pace. “Oh God—”

“Now, now,” he coos, his hand finding its way to your throat, fingers pressing against your veins. He raises your face, his chest completing the dip of your spine. “Don’t bring God’s name when I’m fucking you like this, baby.”

You can’t even find the strength to retort, eyes shutting tightly until you see stars behind your eyelids. It almost feels unreal how fast he can go from being awkward and tentative about all of this to raw and wild within a few minutes but Haechan has always been fast adapting to new situations and you have been teasing him way too much. It’s about time that he snaps.

Haechan moves you down to the floor, forcing you to stand on all fours and you’re so glad you follow his lead. “Spread your knees. Bring your head down,” he instructs and you do as you’re told, extending your arms in front of you. Haechan has his hand on the dip of your shoulder blades, holding you still until you have no choice but to press your cheek against the carpeted floor, ass in the air. “Good girl,” he praises, kneeling behind you and rubbing his tip along your folds. “Ready, baby?”

He doesn’t wait for your answer.

With only a few minutes in, you know you’re getting close, you can feel it. He has switched from giving deep, hard thrusts to quick, shallow ones and it’s driving you insane. “H-Haechannie, I—” you whimper, “I’m close—”

And he knows it too, of course he does. He can tell by the way you’re clenching around him. But instead of going harder and driving you completely over the edge, Haechan suddenly laces his fingers with yours, his lips painting soft kisses from your nape down to your spine, his hips hitting another angle that feels just as amazing even when he slows down the pace. The intimacy surprises you as you don’t expect him to be this tender. Suddenly, it doesn’t feel like you’re doing this out of sheer passion. With his palm covering the back of your hand, fingers slipping between yours, somehow, everything feels more sentimental, stronger, crossing the lines.

With a moan of your name, Haechan flips you to your back, fingers framing your face, lips meeting lips as he thrusts back in, gasping against your mouth. “I want to see your face,” he says when he pulls away, his half-lidded eyes boring into yours, thumb slipping between your lips. “Not sure if I’ve told you this before but…” He snaps his hips, and you tangle your legs around them in response, fingernails digging into his upper arms. “You’re so beautiful.”

The knot in your stomach untangles without warning and your orgasm hits you so hard, you nearly sob at the sensation. With the way you’re quivering and squeezing around him, Haechan follows right after, his face sinking into the crook of your neck, hips stuttering as he rides out his own orgasm.

***

With his jeans back on and his used condom thrown away to the nearest trash bin, Haechan joins you back on the carpeted floor as you still haven’t found the strength to get up and get dressed after that. He shamelessly lays his body down on top of yours, his cheek pressing against the valley of your breasts. “I’m spent,” he mumbles, feeling drowsy.

“Haechannie?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re heavy.”

“I know.” But he doesn’t get up, only moving his head slightly to press a tiny kiss to your bare chest before he lies his head down over your heart again. You give up with a smile, wrapping your arms around him, fingertips stroking his hair. Haechan sighs contentedly under your touch. “Man, that was…”

“That was?”

“Amazing.” He props himself up on his elbows so he can meet your eyes. “You’re amazing.”

Your heart jolts at the sincerity in his words but you cooly smile back. “I know.”

“And I’m amazing too, I’m sure?”

“Meh,” you shrug. “Could be a little better but I’ll let you practice on me for free.”

“Jesus Christ.” He shakes his head, his strands tickling your nose. “I don’t even have the strength to join your banter. You know, I’ve always wondered since you’re pretty much shit at everything, there must be something you’re good at. But I never thought that something would turn out to be sex. I can’t even believe I’m saying this but you’re really, really amazing at it. I feel like I should give you a medal or something.”

“Thanks,” you flatly mutter. “Not sure if you’re praising me, though.”

“Oh, I am praising you, believe me. And you know me, I rarely praise.”

“Stop it,” you use your robotic voice. “You’re making me feel so special, I’m about to cry.”

Haechan playfully nips at your nose, forcing you to break off your act and laugh directly into his mouth. “Seriously,” he says, breaking off the kiss. “If I were to pay you for sex, I would give you everything I own. Even the clothes I’m wearing. Hell, I’d even sell my grandma but don’t tell her that.”

Your laughter has reduced into small giggles. “That’s comforting.”

“So…” The way Haechan is caressing your hair is so soft, almost like a mother to her sleeping child. “What should we do about this?” When you raise an eyebrow, he tensely adds, “Do you, umm… I mean, do you want to, like—”

“You’re rambling.”

“I know, God, I’m so nervous! I may look like a naughty, sexy bad boy—”

“No one is saying that—“

“But I actually suck at this—as in, I don’t really know how to date a girl.”

“You don’t even know how to talk to a girl, based on the conversations we’ve had,” you comment and you know it’s not helping but it’s worth seeing his adorable pout. “Then don’t date me. If it’s hard for you to date, then let’s just keep being friends—"

“But I want to continue this!” He says it so fast and firmly that you don’t even have time to feel hurt about your offer.

It’s not like you crave a relationship with him—you haven’t thought about it that far—even just holding him like this is enough for now, so the fact that he’s so excited to have this going makes your heart swells with joy. “Well then, we’ll be friends who have casual sex anytime we want,” you suggest.

He blinks twice, a bit amazed at your offer, but to your surprise, he seems rather… disappointed? “What happens if we start catching feelings?” He quietly asks.

“Then I guess we’ll start dating for real.”

“Then…” He runs a hand through his hair, nervous. “What happens if I already have feelings for you?”

He states it so quietly, it’s a miracle you can even hear him. “Do you want to date me, Haechannie?”

He looks away, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. “Do you want to date me?” He murmurs against your skin, unsure and flustered.

You heave the heaviest sigh you’ve ever done in your life. “You’re unbelievable. I’ll decide for us then. Starting now, we’re dating.”

He lifts his head, and if he were a puppy, he would’ve had his tail wagging behind him, even when his face doesn’t show much. “That easy?”

“That easy. What, you have something to complain about?”

“No.” He grins, pressing a chaste kiss on your lips. “Hey, girlfriend.”

“Ugh, get off me, you’re gross.”

But no matter how hard you push your palm against his face, Haechan only giggles and turns you around so this time, you’re lying on his chest. “So,” he pushes a few strands of your hair behind your ear. “You like me, huh?”

“No, what makes you think that way?”

“Says the girl who just slept with me.”

“I slept with you ‘cause I was just curious about your dick. Jeno said you had a dick that was the size of his thumb.”

“Excuse me?!”

“Didn’t you see his InstaStory last night?” You reach up to gather your phone from the coffee table. “I took a screenshot of it actually. Man, you should’ve seen the comments. They’re hilarious.”

Snatching your phone away, Haechan runs his eyes along the words written on the screen. “That son of a bitch!”

Simpering, you sneak a peek under his boxer. “Well, he’s not wrong.”

“Oh, it’s on,” he deadpans, throwing your phone away and pushes you back down on the floor. His eyes glinting mischievously.

“What are you doing?” You’re still half-laughing when he brings your hands over your head, holding your wrists together with one hand as he settles between your thighs, his fingers hovering dangerously close.

“I’m gonna make you take your words back.” He wets his lip, one corner of his mouth turning upward. “Time for the second round, baby.”

***

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thestalwartheart · 3 years ago

Note

Hello!

Hi! I hope I am not too late to the writing prompt request, and absolutely no rush in getting to it! If you would like, I'll love a 00q fic with the word prompt 'alone'. Take good care and continue to rest well. :)

Hello! Thank you to both yourself and @aprettyspy for sending through 'alone' from the writing prompt list. Took me a while, but I finally settled on an idea I liked for this, and to no one's surprise, it's more Soft!Bond and Soft!Q. Softness all the way this week, I'm afraid. I'm desperately in need of it 😅

I hope you enjoy it! I'm always so anxious that you'll have ideas for stories that are nothing like what I've written. But hey ho, such is the nature of prompts, right?

Under the cut for length, as always, though this one is a bit longer. Sits at about ~1000 words. You can read it on AO3 if you prefer.

alone.

A stab wound. A bloody stab wound, one Bond had sewn up with dental floss and left to get infected. Had Q not been spending a rare night on paperwork in the office, he would have missed the spike in Bond’s vital signs. The man would have sweated through a fever until morning in his cold, impersonal, terribly decorated flat.

Q looks around Bond’s bedroom, seeking something to distract him from that train of thought, but there isn’t much of anything, so catastrophising it is.

Fortunately, he’s soon diverted by a sharp inhale and a grunt. “Q.”

Bond’s voice is deep and gravelly, and Q feels a sharp stab of desire. He sighs. It’s utterly asinine. Nonsense of the highest order. He hates having a crush.

“No, don’t get up.” Q waves his hands, unsure where to put them. Eventually, one settles on Bond’s shoulder to keep him lying down. “The stab wound in your leg was infected. You’ve been out of it for a day, but your fever’s broken. The doctor said you should be fine.”

“Then why are you still here?” Asks Bond, bemused. It might have been a cruel question from anyone else, but Bond only looks curious.

Q imagines what it would be like to wake up, confused, finding it’s the day after you thought it was. He imagines Bond, dazed and in pain, trying to piece together a story from a few clues in a cavernously empty flat. Bond, of course, is probably used to it, but the thought of leaving him another memory of abject loneliness leaves Q cold.

Still, he’s not about to admit that to the man in front of him.

“And leave you to reopen your stitches? Absolutely not.” Bond rolls his eyes, and Q can’t help a smile. “Now, I have no earthly idea how to use that modern art piece you call a coffee machine—”

“Aren’t you an engineer?”

He shoots Bond a look. “—and caffeine’s probably not ideal anyway. But can I get you anything?”

“There’s a bottle of Macallan in one of the kitchen cupboards.”

“No alcohol allowed, I’m afraid. Tea or water, perhaps. Or, um, cordial? If you have that sort of thing, which I very much doubt you do.”

“No, because I’m not ten.” Bond tries to move and groans. “Water is fine.”

Pleased to have something to do, Q takes longer than he should in Bond’s kitchen. He’d ordered groceries earlier, and he cuts up some of the fruit to take through with the water. Sugar should help, he thinks. God, it’s been so long since he’s done this for anyone. He can’t remember the rules.

It doesn’t help that his hands are trembling a little, an after-effect of all the stress and adrenaline. He can’t go back to Bond like this. He’ll do something stupid, like hold his hand or try to hug him.

Trying to calm himself by looking around the flat doesn’t entirely help matters. It’s the dust he notices most of all: the fine layers of it on the top of Bond’s coffee table and TV. A sad, nearly-dead plant sits in the window, probably courtesy of a previous houseguest who was far too optimistic about Bond’s capacity to care for such a thing.

The whole endeavour leaves him feeling a bit depressed, but at least it’s rid him of his nervous edge.

“Right,” he says, placing everything on Bond’s empty bedside table. “There’s water, fruit and painkillers. I don’t know if you’re hungry, but you should probably eat something. If you—”

His little speech is cut off by Bond grabbing his hand. Q freezes.

A thumb trails over the knot of veins at the base of his wrist, and he bites back a noise. He will not lose his dignity over a hand holding his own, for heaven’s sake.

“Bond…”

There are bright blue eyes looking at him now, piercing in their intensity. It’s as if he’s a gun being dismantled piece by piece. The silence turns thick in his ears until all he can hear is his own uneven breath.

“You seem worried,” says Bond.

“Well, I’m a worrier.”

“Don’t. Not about me.” And Q can’t read people like Bond can, but he does well enough with his friends. He hears what Bond’s really saying, anyway, which is, I’m not worth worrying about.

“Too late. I worry especially about you.”

“It’s because I’m old, isn’t it?” Bond quips.

He’s giving Q an out, another chance to bury this monstrous crush he has under the pretence of work and camaraderie. It might have been possible for Q to do exactly that if Bond’s fingers weren’t burning pleasantly around his wrist. His thumb is stroking at Q’s pulse, and it’s maddening. It’s sensitive and ticklish, and it’s sending sparks through him, straight to places Q is trying very hard not to think about at the moment. The feeling of it all banishes the teasing from Q’s tongue and replaces it with honesty.

“No. It’s because you’re you.”

Bond looks down at their hands. “Then tell me why you’re really still here.”

Q clears his throat. “It seemed...rather cruel to leave you to wake up alone. Given the stab wound, I thought you’d been dealt enough cruelty for the time being.”

Before he registers it, there are lips at his wrist, hot, cracked and dry. It feels like utter insanity. Bond hums against Q’s heartbeat. Surely he feels the way it jumps and quickens. Q curses his body for betraying him, and it only betrays him more with the embarrassing strangled sound that leaves his throat. He feels Bond’s teeth press against him in a grin.

“Thank you,” whispers Bond.

“Any—” Q’s voice cracks. “Anytime.”

Bond pulls back, returning to his pile of pillows with a fond smile. He turns his hand to hold Q’s, and in minutes, he’s falling asleep again.

When Q tries to extricate his hand, Bond’s fingers tighten. Half unconscious, Bond whispers, “Stay.”

And, well, Q would do anything for Bond on a good day. Staying is no trouble at all.

#00q #00q fic #my fic

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contemplativepancakes · 3 years ago

Text

sunsets for somebody else

Daphne runs into her long lost husband arguing with another man in the grocery store. Things start to take a turn when she realizes they're married.

The bottle of bleach drops from Daphne’s hand into her cart, landing with a sloshing thud as she takes in the scene in front of her, frozen in her tracks. Emmanuel is standing right in front of her, arguing with another man about cleaning supplies.

Wearing a beige trench coat for some inexplicable reason—it’s almost 90 degrees outside—Emmanuel listens to a man who’s explaining in minute detail how to clean an oven. They’re both wearing wedding rings, and Daphne’s heart swells for a moment before she realizes it’s a different ring from the one she gave Emmanuel all those years ago.

“Dean, I don’t think this is safe for Jack. This is going to create noxious fumes,” Emmanuel says, squinting at the ingredients of the cleaner apparently-Dean had thrust at him.

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, and Daphne squeezes the handle of her shopping cart harder, feeling faint. It’s not every day you come across your long lost husband at the Stop N’ Shop.

“I think the kid can take some fumes,” Dean says, plucking the bottle out of Emmanuel’s hands and putting it in the cart. “We wouldn’t even have to worry about this if someone didn’t let the pizza fall onto the bottom of the oven.”

“The directions said to put it directly on the middle rack!” Emmanuel protests, and Dean rubs a hand down Emmanuel’s back in a familiar way that makes Daphne’s stomach roil.

She’s not jealous, she’s not. She was just helping Emmanuel when she found him, after all. Their marriage was simply one of…convenience for Emmanuel. It’s not like he had a birth certificate with him, or a social security number. What did Daphne get out of all this? Well. Daphne looks at his cheek bones wistfully, her gaze dipping down to his strong forearms his trench coat is rolled up to reveal.

Dean rolls his eyes fondly, and then he tugs Emmanuel into his side, kissing him on the temple. Daphne jerks her stare away for a moment before returning it, noticing now that their wedding rings match.

“Emmanuel?” she chokes out, against her better judgment.

For a long second, she doesn’t think Emmanuel heard her, but he turns around. “Daphne?”

Daphne nods, her words forsaking her. She doesn’t miss the way Dean clutches possessively at Emmanuel’s hip.

“I…thought you were dead,” she finally says. “I filed a missing person report.”

Dean squints at her, before something like recognition passes over her face, and now that she thinks about it, Daphne recognizes him, too. He’s the one who showed up right before everything went to shit. Horror stories of Stockholm syndrome flash through her mind.

“Emmanuel, are you…happy?” she settles on.

Emmanuel gives her a smile, leaning harder into Dean. “I am.”

“Good. That’s. Good,” she says, a strangled look on her face, she’s sure. “Would you want to catch up some time?” she asks before she fully registers what’s coming out of her mouth.

Emmanuel gives her a warm smile. “I’d love that.”

As they set up a time to get coffee, Daphne tries to ignore the glare Dean levels at her throughout the whole conversation. He insists that their meeting be tomorrow, since apparently they won’t be in the area for long. Daphne tries to ignore the warning bells in her mind that tell her she’s about to get murdered and takes solace in the fact that at least they’re meeting in a public place.

Besides, even if Emmanuel’s husband is a serial killer, surely Emmanuel won’t let him murder her, right?

The next day, Daphne hems and haws as she debates what to wear. Whatever this is, it’s the exact opposite of a date, anyway. She knocks on the door of her foster child, Alex, to wake them up before she goes into the bathroom to do her hair and makeup. Really, she’s just doing it for herself. She’s allowed to want to look nice!

When she finally deems herself as ready as she’s going to get, she goes back to Alex’s room to make sure they’re actually up. To her pleasant surprise, they’re sitting on the edge of their bed putting on their socks and almost ready. “Excited for school today?” she asks.

Alex makes a face at her. “Never,” they say, but their voice at least has the edge of a smile to it.

They’ve come a long way since they were first placed with her, and even though Daphne knows she shouldn’t be getting overly attached, she can’t help it. She walks down the steps and into the kitchen, deliberating for a moment on breakfast before putting frozen waffles into the toaster. If she’s about to get murdered while Alex is at school, she can at least make sure the last thing she made for them wasn’t cereal.

Alex tromps down the steps, dragging their bookbag behind them, and Daphne hides her smile behind her glass of orange juice. Alex lights up at the sight of the waffles, disturbingly easy to please, as always. They inhale them, as teenagers do, before putting their dishes in the sink. Daphne cracks open her laptop as they wait for the bus, attempting to get some of her work done for the day since she’ll be taking a break later for the coffee. She really hopes her boss doesn’t try and call her while she’s out.

Or, maybe she does. She’s not sure she’s prepared for the level of awkwardness that she’s about to go through, but maybe it won’t be as bad as she thinks. She really wants to know what Emmanuel has been up to for all of this time. She’s still…embarrassingly hung up on him, and it would be nice to get some closure.

The bus pulling up in front of the house jerks her out of her thoughts, and she gives Alex a wave before they race off to get on. She watches them settle into a seat with one of their friends, and smiles at the fact that they even have friends now.

In the end, Daphne doesn’t manage to get much work done before she clambers into her car and drives to the coffee shop they agreed on. She doesn’t really think she needs caffeine with the way her leg is bouncing already.

Emmanuel and Dean are already there when she walks in, Emmanuel with a cup of black coffee he’s dumping sugar packets into and Dean with something with whipped cream and chocolate syrup drizzled on top. She gives them a tentative wave before ordering hot chocolate for herself, settling herself delicately in the seat across from them.

“So,” Dean says. “You were Cas’s wife?”

She squints. “Cas?”

Emmanuel speaks up. “After I regained my memories, I remembered that was my name.”

“Oh.” Smiling weakly, she tries to reconcile that. “You have them all back now?”

Emman—Cas nods.

“Just forgot about me, though?” she tries to ask lightly, but it comes out a little garbled.

“You took advantage of him!” Dean explodes from the other side of the table, making Daphne flinch. “Who the fuck finds someone naked with no memories and marries them?”

“Dean,” Cas chastises, his arm shifting like he’s putting his hand on Dean’s thigh under the table.

“I was helping him,” Daphne says hotly. “Would you have just wanted me to leave him there?”

Cutting Dean off before he can say anything else, Cas looks at Daphne and smiles in a way that makes her heart flutter. “I’m very grateful. I don’t know what I would have done without you. I’m sorry I didn’t reach out to let you know I was alright.”

Dean crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair, taking a sip of his sugar monstrosity. He comes away with a whipped cream mustache, and it’s hard not to laugh as he wipes it away in total seriousness.

“So,” Daphne says. “You two have a kid? Jack?”

Scowling, which seems to be Dean’s automatic reflex, he exchanges a glance with Cas before softening. “Yeah, we have a kid. He’s four.”

Daphne thinks maybe Dean should have been a little bit more concerned about the fumes of cleaning chemicals if they have a four year old, but she keeps her judgments to herself. Cas beams. “He’s very bright.”

Returning the smile tentatively, Daphne asks, “How long have you two been married?”

“It’s almost our one year anniversary,” Dean says gruffly.

Daphne tries not to let it affect her, even if that’s more time than she ever got with Cas. “Practically newly weds, then!”

“It’s been an adventure; that’s certain,” Cas says, smiling serenely even as Dean elbows his ribs. “Tell us about you, Daphne. What have you been doing?”

Daphne shrugs a shoulder. “Oh, not too much.” Mourning the man I pulled out of the woods and saved and married, she doesn’t say. She knows Emmanuel never felt the same way about her that she did him. “I got approved to be a foster parent, so I’ve had a few kids come through.”

“Helping people has always been your calling,” Cas says softly.

Daphne takes a few minutes to gush about Alex, and her previous kids before them, before she notices Dean’s not actively glaring at her anymore.

“That’s…nice,” he begrudges when she finishes.

“What do you do, Dean?”

Looking like he just dropped something on his foot, he stammers before he hastily says, “I work construction.”

Daphne squints at him. She has the feeling he’s lying to her, but she has no idea why he would be.

“And what about you, Cas?”

“Oh, I mostly just take care of Jack.”

“You’re a stay at home dad?” she asks, the thought making her stomach twist into knots and heat rise to her face.

“Of a sorts,” Cas agrees.

God, they’re making it impossible to carry on a conversation with them. Daphne keeps a smile pasted to her face. “What do you two do for fun?”

“I’m convinced Dean thinks fun is superfluous,” Cas confides, even as Dean splutters at him. “But I like to drag him to thrift stores with me. Dean likes to bake, also.”

“I work on cars, too,” Dean says, and Daphne can feel his desperation to maintain his facade.

She tries not to quirk a smile at his discomfort. They chat for a while longer, Dean getting increasingly dodgy about the questions she asks before she finally excuses herself to go to the bathroom. She shuts the door behind her and looks down at the dank floor. Is she getting what she wanted out of this? She has no idea what she even imagined happening when she asked to catch up. Emmanuel running away with her? Maybe in her wildest fantasies. Taking a deep breath to ground herself, she looks in the mirror and checks her makeup, rubbing at her under eye circles before walking back out of the bathroom.

Cas is at the counter ordering another drink, for Dean, by the sound of the sugar content, and she walks over to him. Hesitating before she bites the bullet, she asks, “You’re not…like, being held against your will, right? That Dean seems,” she pauses, “interesting.”

Cas laughs warmly, putting a hand over Daphne’s. “No, nothing like that. This is a choice of my own free will, believe it or not. Dean is much more caring than he lets on.”

Well, Daphne’s not sure she believes it, but. At least he’s happy, and in the end, that’s all she’s ever wanted for him.

#supernatural #destiel #castiel #outsider pov #daphne allen #the born again identity #contemplative writing

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cloveroctobers · 3 years ago

Text

September prompts — 1. Coffee smell ; Coco Cruz

Prompt from this list.

September song choice: yuna, “coffee”

•*•*•*•*•*•^•^•^•^•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•

Coco usually picked up on everything. There wasn’t much he missed when it came to you. Surprisingly he was home before everybody that evening and he knew something smelled different before you even walked in the door. It wasn’t until you passed by him entering the kitchen that he latched onto your back jean belt loop, dragging you to him.

“You could have made me buss my ass.” You argued as you were now in Coco’s lap, his hands wrapped tightly around your waist.

He pressed his defined nose in the crook of your neck and inhaled. There it was. That profound scent he found all around the house when he got in, it was on your skin. It was different and not what he was used to smelling on you.

“What is that, mamita?”

You angled your body looking at coco in humor, “that would be my skin that you’re sniffing away at? You’re right you know? why would I need a dog when I have you?”

“Oh haha, so fucking hilarious.” Coco flicked the slide of your face which you laughed in response at.

You got to your feet but it took some time since Coco liked to be annoying like that and wouldn’t budge at first. Once he did he watched as you bent down to pick up your bag and place it on the counter. You spun around, your backside resting against the counter to see the man you loved still watching you.

It wasn’t like this wasn’t normal, Coco always had a way with how he stared at not just you but anyone. Everyone else became his target in a way and right now it was you.

“What?”

“You changed your signature scent, what for?”

You scoffed, “it’s just a new body scrub. Letty actually bought me a sample when she was out with some friends at the mall last week and I tried it out since she kept bugging me about it.”

Coco couldn’t be mad at that. He liked that his kid was bonding with someone else he cared about. He actually found it kinda cute that the both of you would pick up some things that the other thought they would like. It felt like this was becoming more and more like a family he deeply desired.

He got to his feet and with each step he smelled you. He knew leticia loved her iced coffees and shit but you weren’t really a coffee person. Anything that had too much caffeine in it, you weren’t really vibing with and resulted into other vitamins and nutrients to give you energy—especially for your morning shifts. So he did find it a little strange when he picked up on it, at first he didn’t think it would be leticia— he automatically thought of you. Guilty.

You took the extra time on your self care and self love sessions and that included smelling good. It was one of many things Coco picked up about you when you first crossed paths and for as long as he’s known you, this was different.

He rested his hands beside you, keeping you against the counter, “I mean it’s not a bad smell unless it’s on your boss’ breath.”

Laughing you agreed wrapping your arms around Coco’s neck lightly playing with the hair on the back of his neck, “can’t argue with you there.”

“It’s does remind me too much of Letty and I don’t wanna be thinking of her when—

“Don’t finish the rest of that sentence, I get it. But she did something nice for me so I’m going to keep using it until it’s done. It’s only pint size so we’ll deal with it, okay?” You pecked his lips, “even if I have to pop a excedrin.”

Coco shook his head, “fuck that. If it’s making you feel bad just throw that shit out, she won’t notice, matter of fact I’ll do it for you.”

He untangled himself from you to head throughout the house to find the said item. It didn’t take him long searching through the bathroom drawers to find the black pint item and he opened it and sniffed at it some more. Coco didn’t mind coffee, he usually took his black with no sugar and rarely with some cream. Letty was putting him on to trying flavored creamers or some shit but he only drunk that shit straight when he really needed it. He could live without it.

He played catch with the coffee pint as he made his way back to the kitchen to see you closing a pill bottle. He glared at you as you smiled sheepishly at him and he snatched the bottle from you to read it himself.

“You know this has caffeine in it too, right?”

“No?”

He shook the bottle right in front of your eyes with you gripping his hand to hold it steady. Your eyes zeroed in on the text as Coco read them out loud, “excedrin, migraine, Acetaminophen, Aspirin and caffeine.”

“Oh fuck.” You doubled over just as the front door opened.

You stood up straight, “quick, Johnny, punch me in the chest and I’ll puke it all up.”

Coco gave you a look before his mouth could say what he was clearly feeling in response to that.

“Is this some kind of kink discussion I walked in on ‘cause I can leave?” Letty announced her arrival as the two of you looked at the teen.

Coco bluntly let it all out, “no it’s your coffee scrub that you’ve bought for y/n? It’s making them sick.”

“Ohhhh,” Letty nodded her head, “yeah after the third shower I stopped using it too. Made my head feel like my heart was where my brain is.”

“Could have fooled me, weren’t aware you had a brain.” Coco teased while Letty rolled her eyes and sent the long haired man a middle finger.

“Anyways, I switched back to my all time fav the OGX coconut coffee scrub instead. If it was making you feel like shit, you could have just told me, y/n. I assumed you weren’t having any bad luck with it so I figured you liked it, which was great that one of us did.” Letty went over to the fridge and began digging through it.

You were at lost for words while Coco was smirking at you.

“So, what’s for dinner?”

Coco kept that smirk on his face as he replied, “I was thinking of trying this new coffee rub steak out on the grill, what do you think, y/n?”

You shoved by him making him laugh as he reached out for you but you swiped out of his touch continuing on your way to your shared bedroom. You needed to lay down.

“My bad! I was kidding.” He called out to your retreating form until he turned to Letty, the two sharing a laugh before he opened the pint again taking a whiff, “you think I could use this on the steak?”

“Ew, you better not.” Letty hissed, “but call me when dinner is done.”

Coco hummed to himself setting the coffee pint on the counter next to your purse.

•*•*•*•*•*•*••*•*•*•^•^•^•^••*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•

Continue along with the September series here.

#Spotify #mayans mc x reader #mayans mc #coco cruz #johnny coco cruz #richard cabral #coco cruz x reader #letty cruz

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live-the-fangirl-life · 4 years ago

Note

Congrats on almost 700!

I have a prompt for Rowaelin:

"I waited for you at the train station but you never came."

"I know, I am two years too late, but I am here to stay if you let me."

Train Trouble

Aelin Galathynius x Rowan Whitethorn - Answered Prompt

"I waited for you at the train station but you never came." / "I know, I am two years too late, but I am here to stay if you let me." But make it fun

I'm sure this was meant to be angst, but I pulled it in another direction.

Masterlist | Read on Ao3

1785 words

*******

“May I have your attention please,” the automated voice called out again, “the ten-fifteen train with service to Terrasen has been delayed until further notice. We are sorry for the inconvenience.”

Three simultaneous groans for annoyance rose from Aelin, Elide, and Lysandra as they listened to the delay announcement for the third time. It was already four in the afternoon and their train was apparently delayed for reasons undisclosed.

“I am so sick of this,” Lysandra moaned, “I don’t want to spend my whole day in a train station.

Elide glanced sidelong at Lysandra and pointed out, “You would’ve spent the day on the train anyway.”

“Yes, but on the train, I have pretty views and food service. Here, I have stinky garbage cans.”

Aelin rolled her eyes. They’d had this same back-and-forth for hours now. She took a sip from her water bottle and looked around the station. A decent amount of people were milling about, enough to feel busy but still with plenty of open seating.

“Let’s play a game.” She suggested.

Lysandra raised a brow but Elide nodded.

“Yes. let’s play a game,” Elide agreed, “anything to keep me from dying of boredom.”

They tried playing I-Spy but after all three of them picked ‘train’ they quit. Then they tried 20 Questions, and that was fine until Elide was thinking of ‘a memory’ and Aelin had to stop Lysandra from mauling the shorter woman.

“I give up.” Lysandra moaned. They’d heard the delay announcement two more times during their games. “I’m going to find us food.”

“And coffee!” Aelin added, suddenly desperate from some caffeine.

Lysandra hummed in agreement. “Good thinking. Do you want to stay here with the bags, and Elide, I’ll need help carrying drinks.”

“Perfect,” Elide stretched as she stood from her seat, “I can’t sit here any longer.”

Aelin waved them off as she resituated herself to better see all their luggage. She didn’t mind having to wait for the train—that’s a lie, she definitely hated it—but she didn’t hate sitting in the station. Aelin loved to people-watch. Sometimes she liked making up backstories for all the people that crossed her path.

One lady, who wore head-to-toe monochrome blue, was a Ms. Peacock impersonator. Another woman, probably in her late seventies, and a young man who was a third her age and definitely her lover, were a jet-setting, sugar mama/sugar baby couple who spent their weekends at extravagant chateaus.

A man with silver hair and a large tattoo covering his arm was—very attractive.

Aelin didn’t even try to make up a story about him because she was too focused on the way his tattoo rippled with his muscles as he hoisted his bag over his shoulder, and the way he caught her eye as he passed by and winked.

By the time Lysandra and Elide got back, their arms full with snacks, coffees, and a book held under Lysandra’s arm, Aelin had gone back to people watching.

She helped Elide with the coffees as Lysandra tossed the book into Alein’s lap.

“I love you so much.” Aelin gushed as she settled in with her drink and book.

“You’re welcome, babes.” Lysandra cooed from her seat.

Elide snorted and watched Aelin inhale her coffee, “I think she was talking to her Latte.”

Lysandra rolled her eyes as Aelin grinned.

“Anything good happen while we were gone?” Elide asked.

Aelin thought briefly about the man who walked by her and stifled a grin. “Nothing exciting.”

After letting out a long-suffering sigh, Lysandra leaned forward as a grin spread across her face. “I know what’ll make this delay less boring.”

“A nap?” Elide muttered.

Aelin laughed but Lysandra shushed her, “No, El, a scene.”

“A scene?” Aelin raised a single brow at her friend.

“Yeah, why not?” She gestured at Aelin, “cause a scene; we’re no longer bored and you get a funny story out of it. Why not?”

“Oh, and you’re assuming I’m the one who’s going to do it?” Aelin asked incredulously.

Elide leaned forward in her chair, “Ae, out of the three of us, you’re the one who would absolutely cause a scene.”

“Should I be offended?”

Both brunettes laughed and Alein couldn’t help but grin. She was so bored and she kind of liked the thrill of it.

“Okay, fine. As long it doesn’t end with me getting dragged out of here in handcuffs.” Aelin downed the rest of the coffee and felt herself getting hyped up. “What do you suggest I do?”

***

Rowan was minding his own business when a blonde woman stormed up to him.

He’d gotten to the station just in time to hear his train had been delayed, so he got some food before going to find a seat to wait. When he walking towards his area, he passed by one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. Her blonde hair was pulled up in a bun and he noticed it that when it caught the light it shimmered like gold. And when they locked eyes, and he saw her’s were a stunning mix of blue and gold, he couldn’t help himself as he winked at her.

He figured it was one of those things where you see a person in passing and then you’re gone. They were at a train station after all. But when she stormed up to him just as he was about to open his book, he was confused at the anger and hurt expression on her face.

He really didn’t think a wink would’ve caused her to feel that upset.

She stalked up to him, barely leaving a foot of distance when she announced sorrowfully, “I waited for you at the train station but you never came."

She said it loud enough that people around them glanced over. As they took in the scene they saw a woman who was clearly distressed, exclaiming her feelings to a man who was blank-face and speechless while she was on the verge of tears.

Rowan had no idea who this woman was or what she was talking about. But the people around them—who were now giving him disapproving glares at his apparent impassiveness—didn’t know that.

He blinked and opened his mouth to say something when he looked closer at the woman’s face. Her tears were real but her mouth was pressed into a firm line that the people around them might see as fraying composure but Rowan watched the side of her mouth quirk and he knew she was forcing back a smile.

Confused as to why she’d be smiling if she thought he was an old lover who’d abandoned her, he quickly glanced around.

Rowan saw two women seated further away, each with a hand over their mouths to obviously keep from laughing, as one of them held up her phone to seemingly record whatever was happening.

Whatever this was—a prank, and joke, a misunderstanding—was not real.

In a split-second decision, Rowan thought about how bored he was and how this was a splash of excitement in an otherwise monotonous day.

He contained a smirk as he replayed what she’d said, I waited for you at the train station but you never came.

With one last glance at the girl holding the camera, Rowan stood up and said in his most remorseful voice, “I know, I am two years too late, but I am here to stay if you let me."

It took everything in him not to laugh as the woman’s eyes widened in surprise—and delight—as she realized he was playing along.

He could hear the people around them mutter and the two women sputter at the unexpected turn of events.

But despite the thrill of duping the people around him, for some reason, Rowan couldn't take his eyes off the woman in front of him.

Rowan saw the moment she reigned in her surprise and fully embraced the scorned-lover persona.

“Stay?” she asked incredulously, “You think I’ll have you stay after you deserted me?”

Her voice was louder now and Rowan used every ounce of focus to stay in character. Whatever she was doing with this whole thing was the most exciting part of his day.

“I think there’s a reason you came here today,” he stepped closer to her and lightly held her shoulders. He watched her dip her head almost imperceptibly in a nod before he pulled her closed and said passionately, “I think you still love me.”

Rowan wasn’t sure what motivated her to rest her hands on his chest but he wasn’t complaining.

He felt her grip his shirt as he kept talking, “Because I still love you.”

She gasped and her teary mask dropped to reveal a bright grin a mere second before she used her grip on his shirt to pull him down into a searing kiss.

Rowan responded instantly by wrapping his arms around her and lifting her into the air so her feet kicked up. When he set her down he heard the light sounds of people cheering for them.

It took longer than Rowan would admit to pull himself away from the mystery woman. When he did, her eyes were still closed. He unwound his arms from her and gently squeezed her waist. At the touch, her eyes flew open and she looked at him with excitement.

Quietly, so the people around couldn’t hear, she murmured, “That was fun,” Rowan barked a laugh and she grinned at him before saying “let’s go, they all think we're reunited loves, we can’t disappoint them now.”

Rowan laughed again before picking up his bag and nodding for her to lead the way. She grabbed his free hand in hers and winked over her shoulder as she pulled him through the terminal.

As they walked by the two women he’d noticed earlier, Rowan saw one—the taller one who’d been filming—was slack-jawed with her eyebrows nearly to her hairline while the shorter one was bent over cackling.

Rowan, still hand-in-hand with the mystery woman, watched with a large smile as she winked at the first girl and high-fived the second.

She pulled Rwan around a corner and leaned back against a wall before smirking up at him.

He leaned an arm on the wall above her head and asked, “After that, do I get the reward of knowing your name?”

She snickered, “Aelin.”

“Aelin,” he rolled her name across his tongue and liked the way she smiled at it.

“And do I get yours?” Aelin asked, batting her still-wet eyelashes at him.

Smirking, he leaned down to press hip lips next to her ear and enjoyed the way she shivered.

“Rowan.”

*****

Taglist:

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#rowaelin #aelin #rowan #aelin and rowan #rowan and aelin #rowaelin fluff #rowaelin fic #rowaelin fanfiction #aelin galathynius x rowan whitethorn #aelin x rowan #rowan x aelin #answered prompt #throne of glass #tog #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #elide lochan #lysandra

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goldenraeofsun · 3 years ago

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A/b/o + celebrities and/or coffee shop 👀

Thanks so much for the prompt, Julesy, and I'm so sorry for the long wait! Part II should be up in the next few days, but hopefully this beginning 7k will satisfy for the time being 😘

Castiel is elbow-deep in suds when Jo plunks a medium to-go cup on the edge of the sink. “Thank you?” he says, bemused.

“It’s not for you, doofus,” Jo says, rolling her eyes. “There’s a customer out back,” she jerks her head towards the service exit that leads to the alley where they dump their trash and Ruby takes her furtive smoke breaks. “I need you to take this to him.”

“Out back?” Castiel repeats dubiously, craning his neck to catch sight of their on-site baker, Benny, who is busy kneading focaccia dough for tomorrow’s sandwiches. Benny, full of southern politeness, doesn’t give any indication he’s eavesdropping.

Jo gives Castiel a short nod, her alpha scent flaring with irritation. “I’d take it out there myself, but he always talks my ear off, and Kevin still can’t draw a latte art that doesn’t look like a dick, so…”

Castiel frowns but nods, and Jo’s expression eases once she doesn't hear a challenge to her request. Still, he has to ask, “But why doesn’t he order at the counter like a normal customer?”

Jo takes a step back towards the door. “You’ll see. Just… don’t make a big deal of it.”

“A big deal of what?” Castiel calls to her, but she’s already disappeared out to the front of the cafe.

Castiel sighs and wipes his hands on a dish towel. He picks up the drink, sniffing curiously.

He nearly gags at the strong aroma of brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and apples all on top of espresso and milk. They definitely don’t serve that on the menu. Admittedly, Castiel hasn’t memorized the list of hot drinks they serve at Hunter’s Cafe, but this is an assault on anyone with a nose. He’s been their busboy and dishwasher for six months since his second year as a graduate student began, and Jo has only let him mind the counter three times, all as far from peak time as she could get.

But a job is a job. Holding the drink, he shoulders open the back door.

“Hey - oh, you’re not Jo,” a familiar voice says.

Castiel stops dead in his tracks because, despite the sunglasses, the baseball hat, and hunched shoulders, Dean Winchester is unmistakable.

Away from the limelight, Dean apparently favors soft-looking flannels over worn tee shirts and jeans. In one hand, he holds a half depleted sheaf of french fries. Stunned, Castiel doesn't immediately hand over the reason for his appearance.

“Whatever, is that mine?” Dean demands, zeroing in on Castiel’s cup.

Still beyond speech, Castiel dumbly hands the affront to coffee over.

After a muttered thanks, Dean takes a long drink. “Christ, this tastes even better than normal.”

Castiel inhales a surreptitious breath. It’s not every day one gets to catch the scent of Hollywood’s omega darling.

Not that anyone would know Dean's secondary gender just by looking at him. Dean stands a few inches taller than the average male omega - he has nearly an inch of height on Castiel, and Castiel is the dictionary definition of standard alpha physique.

While Castiel might not be Dean’s most knowledgeable fan, he hasn’t been living under a rock for the past five years. It was all over the papers when Dean was cast in his first alpha role. Dean wasn’t the first omega actor to do so, but he was certainly the most prominent. Castiel’s sister, Anna, an actual fan, spent a memorable dinner ranting about how all the prejudiced reporters on the press tour. Apparently they only asked Dean about the diet and exercise routine that transform into a “real” alpha, while, in the next round, his alpha castmates fielded questions about their characters’ moral code and complex development.

But, in the alley behind Hunter’s Café, Castiel’s nose is completely overwhelmed by the fryers of the fast food restaurant next door, the set of dumpsters directly to his right, and the almost offensively apple coffee Dean is currently drinking like his life depends on it. Dean could smell like old gym socks for all Castiel can tell.

“Where’s Jo?” Dean asks once he resurfaces. He jams a few fries in his mouth. Before he's finished chewing, he sucks down some more latte in an unholy taste combination.

“Busy,” Castiel replies. “We have a new hire, and so far Kevin can only draw genitalia on lattes instead of flowers.”

Dean guffaws, nearly inhaling his drink. Swearing unrepentantly, he takes his sunglasses off and rubs at his temple with his free hand. “Christ, I’m too hungover to laugh like that.” He squints over at Castiek before sliding the sunglasses back on his face.

Castiel stares. “If you’re hungover, why are you here at -” he checks his watch “-seven in the morning?”

Dean slurps at his fruity latte before he answers. “Got a meeting at nine. This,” he says, brandishing his mostly empty cup, “and a large fries are the cure.” His hands occupied, Dean ducks his head to fish a single fry out and holds it like a cigarette between his lips.

“That sounds disgusting,” Castiel says, aghast.

Dean inches the rest of the fry into his mouth. “Don't knock it ‘til you try it,” he says with a wink.

Cas blushes.

“Hey,” Dean says, a new thought coming to him, “What’s your name?”

Taken aback by the question, he answers, “Castiel.”

Dean mouths his name once, his brow furrowing at the new syllables. With a small shrug of capitulation he says, “Well, Cas, thanks for the drink.” He toasts him one before tipping the cup all the way back, draining it.

“You’re welcome, Dean.”

Dean grins. “I couldn't tell if you recognized me or not.”

“I did,” Castiel says, clearly unnecessarily.

Amused, Dean throws him a long, considering look. “You’ve got one hell of a poker face.” He unceremoniously shovels the rest of the fries in his mouth and balls up the wrapper. He tosses it with practiced ease into the waiting dumpster.

“Thank you?” Cas says, nonplussed.

“Thank you,” Dean says, pushing his sunglasses up his nose. “You’re the one who saved my hide.” He sidles forward and shoves a bill into Castiel’s slack hand. Without another word, he takes off out of the alley and onto the street.

Once he’s out of sight, Castiel unclenches his hand. Dean tipped him ten dollars.

* * *

“How is this even more pungent than last time?” Castiel demands, nose wrinkling as he sets a now clean muffin tin back on the shelf. It’s been a week since he met Dean Winchester, and hadn’t gotten so much as a whiff of apple pie since then.

He is alone with Jo in the kitchen, since Benny’s early morning shift ends at eleven.

“I added a caramel drizzle,” Jo says, her scent rising with her self-satisfaction.

Castiel stares at her in horror. “Why on earth would you do that?”

“’Cause I’m trying to see what his limit is, and so far - nothing,” Jo says, shrugging. “Get to it. He’s real grouchy if you make him wait too long.”

“And why aren’t you taking it to him?” Castiel says, eyebrows rising. “Kevin’s moved onto multiple hearts now. Admittedly, his first one looked like a labia, but he’s gotten much better.”

“But Ruby didn’t show up, so we’re short staffed,” Jo says shortly. Outside, Kevin yells something indistinguishable though the kitchen door, and Jo winces.

Castiel takes the latte.

Just like last time, Dean is waiting, wearing a different flannel but the same jeans with the hole above the left knee. He abandoned the sunglasses, since the clouds overhead cast the whole alley in shade. They’re hanging from the vee of his shirt collar, pulling the fabric down a tempting extra inch.

Unfortunately, the fast food restaurant next door must have just taken out the trash last night, since the alley reeks of stale bread and rotting fish patties.

Castiel lets the door slam behind him, unable to hold back his corresponding smile as Dean lights up as he sees him.

“Thank god,” Dean says as he reaches for the latte. “I was starting to think Jo was gonna stiff me.”

“We’re short staffed at the moment,” Castiel says apologetically, “so you got me again.”

Dean eyes him over the lid of his cup. “Not a downside from where I’m standin’,” he drawls.

Castiel has no idea how to respond to that, so he doesn’t. Dean can’t mean it like Castiel thinks he does. He’s an actor, feeding people lines is the dictionary definition of his job. Instead Castiel asks, “No french fries this time?” because he’s not nearly ready to leave yet.

“Already ate ’em, while I was waiting,” Dean says dismissively.

Castiel shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry.”

“No harm, no foul,” Dean says with a little grin. “I got my caffeine fix eventually, and that’s what I really care about.”

“You look remarkably more put together than last time,” Castiel says as he leans against the doorway, watching Dean sip at his drink.

“Didn’t drink as much,” Dean says with a grin. He tips back his cup and takes a long pull. “Fries can only get you halfway there. Christ, that’s the stuff.”

Castiel can’t help but make a face. The latte smells horrendous; it can’t taste that much better.

“What?” Dean asks, eyes narrowing.

Castiel probably shouldn’t tell Dean what is exactly on his mind. Castiel has found very few people appreciate his default brand of honesty - Hunter’s Café customers, especially. But Dean isn’t technically his customer - he’s Jo’s - and Castiel has reached the point in his life where he doesn’t need to hang onto people who don’t like him and vice versa. Dean isn’t even providing extra publicity for the establishment, since he’s getting serviced in the alley behind the kitchen.

Technically, Castiel needs a celebrity acquaintance as much as he needs a free bag of cat food (he doesn’t have a cat).

But he does like having one.

A celebrity acquaintance, that is. Cats are inherently suspicious.

Reluctantly, Castiel says, “I can’t imagine that latte tastes very good.”

To his surprise, instead of demanding Jo bring him his coffee from now on, Dean laughs. “Not a fan of apple pie?”

“Not in my coffee.”

Dean takes an obnoxiously loud slurp. “I think it’s delicious.”

“I think your taste buds must be severely incapacitated.”

Dean waggles the near empty cup in front of Castiel’s face in what must be an enticing manner to someone with no sense of smell or taste. “Wanna try?”

Castiel valiantly holds back his recoil. “No, thank you.”

But Dean’s genial expression doesn’t waver. “‘M feeling pretty much human again, so it’s up for grabs.”

“I’d sooner lick the dumpster,” Castiel blurts before he can filter himself.

Dean whistles, rocking back on his heels. “Harsh.”

Castiel sighs. Honesty was a mistake. He mutters, embarrassed, “I’m just not a very big fan of sweets.”

“No?”

“I’ve been living with my cousin while in graduate school at Columbia,” he explains, his tone apologetic for his earlier comment, “and he has a horrendous sweet tooth. I don’t think he’s ever seen a carrot that wasn’t in a cake first.”

A wide grin splits Dean’s face. He laughs.

What Castiel wouldn’t give to scent Dean’s joy for himself. “He would probably love that latte,” Castiel continues wryly.

“Probably,” Dean agrees. He taps his fingers against the sides of the cup as he asks, “So you’re in school? For what?”

“Do you really want to know?” Castiel asks seriously. He’s had too many conversations with strangers and casual friends who have asked the exact same question and regretted asking it almost immediately.

Dean ducks his head. “I don’t know any graduate students, and I,” he breaks off, his cheeks going pink, “I never went to college, so I have no idea what it means.” He sucks on the dregs of his latte, gaze dropping to the vicinity of Castiel’s knees.

“Oh,” Castiel says, feeling lighter. “In that case, I’m studying ethnomusicology.”

Dean’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Are you fucking with me? That doesn’t sound real.”

“It’s a legitimate area of study,” Castiel assures him. “I research music as it pertains to culture and diverse elements of social life. Ethnomusicology focuses not only on the music itself, but music as a social process, as a medium for humans to relate to each other. In short, it examines how music functions in a particular society.”

To Castiel’s surprise, Dean doesn’t get the glazed-over look most people do when he explains his field of study. “So what kind of music are you talking about?”

Now it’s Castiel’s turn to flush. His colleagues, while they respect his academic reputation, have nearly all looked down on his chosen object of study. “One of the main tenets of ethnomusicology is a global perspective on music-”

“What, like Tibetan throat-singing?” Dean interrupts. At Castiels’ stare, he explains quickly, “Sammy had a phase.”

Castiel chuckles. “Yes, I do know a professor at Cornell who is studying just that. But my focus is much closer to home. I study,” he inhales a small breath, “tribute bands.”

Dean’s mouth twitches. “What.”

“Tribute bands offer a fascinating definition of the nature of performance, the difference between authenticity and identity,” Castiel says, already on the defensive. He can already hear his voice trying to fall into his usual academic patterns, and tries to rein himself in, “and historical consciousness in popular music. Here -” He pulls out his phone.

Dean listens in complete silence to Yellow Dubmarine’s cover of I Want You.

“Anyway,” Castiel coughs, embarrassed he made Dean sit through all that, “I also teach Rock and Roll from the 1950s to 1980s. There is a great deal of crossover with my specialty since most tribute bands recreate acts from the 60s to the 80s.”

“Dude,” Dean says in a rush, “if you think that makes you less interesting, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Castiel blinks.

“What bands are we talkin’ about?” he asks eagerly. “More Beatles? The Stones? The Who?”

Castiel nods. “I’m hoping to go to a Lez Zeppelin concert next month.”

“Led Zeppelin?”

“Lez,” Castiel says, emphasizing the ‘z’, “an all-female Led Zeppelin tribute band.”

Dean frowns. “They have a gimmick?”

Castiel shakes his head. “They’re completely sincere, I assure you.” He smiles wryly. “I interviewed Misstallica for a paper I’m writing on diverse, for lack of a better word, musicians in the tribute world, and they felt right at home with the long hair and tight pants. I’ve never met people who more adore the songs they perform.”

“Huh,” Dean says, rubbing his chin.

“Except maybe Air-O-Smith,” Castiel adds, “an American all-omega tribute band of Aerosmith.”

Dean’s eyes widen to the size of dinner plates.

“My favorite all-omega tribute band, though, is Omega You Eight One Two,” Castiel muses, “a Van Halen cover band.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Dean says faintly.

“Their lead guitarist, as you can imagine, is phenomenal.”

Dean shakes his head, his expression going slack. “Wait, seriously? That’s a thing? All omega acts?”

“Of course,” Castiel says. “That’s one of the most compelling aspects of tribute bands, when they flip the traditional male-alpha dynamic of the original, and how they translate that into their own act while keeping the whole performance authentic to the creators. It’s a fascinating process to watch and study.”

“I bet,” Dean says fervently. “Hey, d’you think-”

The back door opens before Dean can finish his sentence.

Jo pokes her head out, looking askance at the pair of them. “Are you still out here?” She glares at Dean. “Stop complaining about your diet, and let Castiel come back to work.”

Castiel’s mouth purses. “You’re on a diet?”

“Not on cheat day,” Dean tells him, lifting his empty cup. He turns to Jo. “And I wasn’t complaining at all. Cas was actually telling me about tribute bands.”

“Really?” Jo asks, her nose wrinkling.

Dean tosses his trash in the dumpsters. “They sound awesome.”

“I like them,” Castiel says lamely, off-footed now the conversation is clearly wrapping up.

Jo rolls her eyes, alpha irritation practically radiating off her. “Good for you.”

“Alright, well, I’ll let you deal with Joanna Beth on your own,” Dean says as he pulls out his wallet and hands Castiel a folded bill. He gives a mocking salute as he takes a step back, “Good luck, dude.”

“Thank you?”

“Come on, fanboy,” Jo growls once Dean’s disappeared from view, “back to work.”

* * *

“Can’t you take it?” Castiel asks, his tone verging on pleading, as Jo follows him back into the kitchen. It’s too early in the morning for another meeting, closer to first time Castiel met Dean at seven am compared to their last meeting at a little before eleven.

This past weekend, Castiel went down a spiral of Dean Winchester content. He read up on all of Dean’s recent projects, scanned headlines about rumors of his next film - some action thriller that Castiel presumes is the reason for Dean’s diet, and watched interview after interview. Dean on Stephen Colbert. Dean on Good Morning America. Dean on some very confusing show where they forced him to eat spicy chicken wings, which just seemed like an exercise in pepper-based sadism.

Castiel didn’t really understand the Saturday Night Live skit where Dean played one half of a demon-hunting brother duo, but the live studio audience laughed uproariously at multiple points.

Jo all but slams Dean’s latte on the ledge above the sink. “You know the health inspector is here. I can’t let Ruby near the guy, and you know how Kevin gets around figures of authority.”

Castiel sets down his tub of dirty dishes. “He nearly peed himself when he had to tell you he dropped a tray of scones over the floor last week,” he says flatly.

“Exactly,” Jo says. “Benny is busy,” she says, tipping her head to where Benny is adding more flour to a huge bowl.

“Cheers, darlin’.”

She turns back to Castiel. “So, you’re it today, champ.”

“Great,” Castiel grumbles.

“What?” Jo asks, her hands on her hips. “You seemed to get along with Dean. I actually didn’t know you could talk that much before I sent you back there.”

Castiel carefully transfers the dirty plates to the sink. “Getting along with him isn’t the problem,” he says darkly.

“Getting along with him too well is the issue?” Jo asks, her eyebrows rising.

Castiel scowls at her observation. Her emotional intuition is what makes her an excellent café manager, so he can hardly fault her for that. He doesn’t respond to her question.

“Take it to him,” Jo says, her tone softening. “He likes you.”

Castiel raises his head to stare at her. “How do you know that?”

Jo pulls her phone from her back pocket and waves it in his face. “We talk,” she says. “How do you think he orders every time? He’s not getting those lattes for free, not after I spent so much time getting them exactly right.”

Castiel can’t hold back his grimace. The latte still smells awful, like a vat of boiled candied apples.

“Look,” Jo says, lowering her voice, “Dean’s famous, sure, but he’s actually a very private person. He runs his mouth to anyone who’ll listen, but he never really says anything important. So he doesn’t really connect with a lot of people. If he says he likes you, I’m gonna say that’s a good thing - if you tell him I said this, I’ll kick your ass - and make you his designated errand boy.”

Castiel bites his lip. “But I don’t -”

“Dude, don’t make me pull the boss card,” Jo says, just the barest hint of threat in her words.

“Fine.” Castiel snatches the latte off the counter. “But I want a raise.”

“You can get a free sandwich.”

Castiel glares daggers as he shoulders open the back door.

But the alley is empty.

Castiel breathes through his mouth as he steps out. The overflowing dumpsters carry the odor of moldering cheese and more rancid fish, and the fryers next door are still going strong. He doesn’t find Dean lurking behind the trash for some strange reason, and he’s about to head back in and dump Dean’s latte down the sink when a shout makes him turn around.

“Hey, Cas!” Dean calls, jogging in from the brightly lit street.

“Hello, Dean.” He hands over the latte.

“Thanks - sorry.” Dean rubs the back of his neck with his other hand. “Some fans caught me sneaking in here, and wanted a selfie.”

“Oh,” Castiel says for lack of anything better to say.

Dean tips back his cup, his expression falling into pure bliss. “Christ, that’s so much better when I’m not hungover.”

Castiel stares. “You’re drinking that with all your capacities intact?”

“Ain’t no better way to enjoy pie,” Dean says, grinning widely.

Castiel rolls his eyes. “That’s not pie.”

“It’s as close as I’m gonna get at eight in the morning on a Thursday,” Dean says with a shrug.

Silence falls between them, and Castiel can’t help glancing over Dean’s shoulder, tentatively scanning for the people who caught his attention earlier. Plenty more would have approached Dean if he didn’t have Jo’s latte waiting for him; Castiel would bet his job on it.

Dean is a celebrity.

Castiel is a grad student who can’t even afford to support a guinea pig on his stipend and café salary.

After a long beat, Dean asks, a touch hesitantly, “So, what’ve you been up to?”

Stalking you on the internet.

“Nothing,” Castiel lies. At the slight fall in Dean’s expression, he adds, “I cleaned my kitchen over the weekend.”

Dean chuckles. “You’re a weird dude, you know that?”

Hurt, Castiel takes a step back. Jo probably needs him for… something.

“Not in a bad way!” Dean says quickly. “Shit,” he swears under his breath, “please don’t stop giving me coffee.”

Castiel hesitates. “Why is it weird that I cleaned my kitchen?” He frowns. “I suppose you employ someone to do that for you.”

Dean seesaws his free hand back and forth as he sips at his latte. “Not always,” he lowers his voice, “I actually like cleaning - it helps me relax and shit. There’s nothing like blasting some tunes and scrubbing out that stain on the counter that’s been annoying you forever.”

Castiel lowers his voice too. “Is this a secret?”

Dean grimaces. “Not really. But, you know, it’s one of those omega things.”

Castiel doesn’t know. Well, he knows it is a stereotypical omega trait to like housework, but he has no idea why Dean would whisper it in a back alley like he’s confessing to defrauding an elderly relative. “And that is bad because…?”

Dean takes a long pull from his cup. “I don’t want to hammer the omega thing home too hard, alright?”

“But you are an omega,” Castiel says, feeling a little stupid for saying it out loud.

“Yeah,” Dean sighs, “but if I lean into it, I’ll stop getting alpha roles.”

“You only want to play alphas?” Castiel asks curiously.

Dean’s mouth twists. “They’re the better parts. Omegas are always the damsels in distress or get killed off first for the plot.”

“I’m sure not all films are like that,” Castiel says. God knows, Anna made him sit through enough films with an omega protagonist that did not fit the typical romantic comedy restrictions.

“Most.”

“The last movie I saw,” Castiel says, hesitant because Dean must know more about this than him, “my sister recommended it, it had an omega lead who led a team of paranormal investigators. A sort of horror-comedy.”

Dean’s face loses some of its hostility. Almost intrigued, he asks gruffly, “D’you know who wrote it?”

“Not off the top of my head.” Castiel pulls out his phone to look it up. He reads aloud, “Ghostfacers, directed by Ed Zeddmore, written by Harry Spangler. Starred Maggie Zeddmore and Alan Corbett.” He pauses, trying to remember the details. “I think they both were omegas. I’m sure there are more films like Ghostfacers out there for you to make.”

Dean sips at his latte. “A few. None with big enough names attached to really get on my radar.”

“Well, if you signed on, wouldn’t there be a big name attached?”

“Yeah,” Dean says in a tone that clearly conveys he’s thought of this possibility before. He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s just - what if I take one of these roles, and it gets all this attention just ’cause I’m in it, and it flops?”

Castiel tilts his head. “That would hardly be your fault. Most failed films are hardly the work of one person. Usually, it’s a combination of a bad story, bad production, and bad acting.” He levels Dean an appraising look. “Right off the bat, you control two of those elements - pick a good script and act as well as you always have.”

Dean blinks. “You’ve seen my stuff?”

Castiel’s brow furrows. “I thought I already said I knew who you were?”

“Yeah, but,” Dean says, his voice petering off with embarrassment, “that didn’t mean you liked my movies.”

“The majority of America liked your last movie, Dean,” Castiel says dryly. “Either that, or you have a very hardworking and wealthy mother who poured a hundred million dollars into ticket sales.”

“I mean, Mom’s a fan, but not that big of a fan,” Dean says, chuckling. “I’m pretty sure she’d rather get a twenty-minute call from yours truly than sit through a two-hour flick with my name on the poster.”

Castiel hands over his phone. “Here,” he says, tilting it so Dean can see the summary of Ghostfacers.

Dean brightens as he reads through it. “The Alpha dies first?”

“He thought he could deal with the ghost on his own.”

“Typical alpha macho,” Dean snorts. His head snaps up as he gives the phone back. “No offense.”

“No offense taken,” Castiel says easily. “With my lifestyle, posturing is a waste of time. I’ve long ago resigned myself to not being the primary breadwinner in any future household.”

“Really?”

Castiel throws him a look. “I’m in academia, Dean. Tenure is hardly a guarantee. Even so, there isn’t a wealth of money out there for ethnomusicology grants.”

Dean tips his head in acknowledgement. “It’s awful big of you.”

“Just logical,” Castiel says evenly. “It shrinks my dating pool considerably, but I’d rather do what I love than compromise that much for any potential partner.”

Dean inhales a deep breath, his eyes unfathomable. “I get that.”

“If it means I can’t afford to mate a house-omega, I’ll just have to keep cleaning my kitchen myself,” Castiel finishes with a shrug.

Dean grins. “I mean, if you spot me a six pack and don’t tell my trainer about it, I’ll clean your kitchen.”

Castiel turns bright red. He can’t bring himself to respond to that offer, so he changes the subject.

* * *

Castiel doesn’t even bother pretending to protest as Jo barges into the kitchen, the telltale scent of sugary apples wafting around her like a palpable shield. Castiel already set himself for heartbreak where Dean Winchester is concerned. He might as well take advantage of every interaction he has left.

He went to sleep late last night, watching one of Dean’s earlier movies. He was slimmer and younger, but he still shone with his signature charisma and talent. For the first time since Castiel started the morning shift at Hunter’s Café, he snoozed his alarm.

Hurrying through his morning routine, Castiel couldn’t help resenting Dean just a little. If only Dean hadn’t chosen a profession where his literal job is to be whatever his audience wants him to be.

As Castiel pushes open the door, Dean is waiting outside. Dark sunglasses shield his green eyes, and a violet bruise blooms over his left eyebrow. As the door slams shut behind Castiel, Dean winces. His left hand holds a half-empty paper container of french fries.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says. “You don’t look good.”

“Tell me about it,” Dean says darkly. “Gimme.”

Castiel pauses. “Did your hangover eliminate your manners?”

Dean flushes bright red. “No,” he mutters. “Sorry, Cas. I just feel like shit.”

“You look like shit,” Castiel says frankly as he hands it over.

“Thanks,” Deans says, his voice sour as old lemons. “I told Charlie tequila shots before Monopoly was a bad idea, but did anyone listen to me?” He gestures to his face. “Next thing I know, Jo’s throwing Charlie’s bag of DnD dice at my head.”

“You got that playing Monopoly? Wait, Jo did this to you?” he demands, gesturing to the cafe behind him. “Jo Harvelle?”

Dean just glares over the rim of his coffee cup. “Yeah, Katniss got me good.”

“God, why?”

One corner of Dean’s mouth lifts in a distinctly smug smirk. “’Cause she was going bankrupt, and she had to sell her last property to me.”

“So this was because of Monopoly,” Castiel says dubiously. In his experience, a board game has never led to actual violence.

Dean shrugs. “Game nights get intense. Why do you think I’m always bangin’ down your door the morning after?”

Castiel can’t believe it. “You’ve been getting this drunk at a game night? Every time?”

“So what?” Dean shoves four french fries in his mouth. “Whaddya think I was doin’?”

“Partying?” he suggests.

Dean snorts. “Maybe six years ago when I was doing B-level flicks and trying to meet as many people as I could. Now I have a back-to-back shooting schedule and hangovers if I don’t pace myself.”

Castiel watches Dean polish off his fries at a truly impressive and horrifying speed. He can’t help asking, “Why was Jo at your game night?”

“’Cause she’s a menace who knows how to pick locks?” Dean heaves a weighty sigh. “I’ve known Jo since we were kids. She and her mom - who started Hunter’s Café - were my neighbors.”

“I had no idea.”

Dean gestures to the alley with a wry hand. “Jo likes to keep it under wraps.”

“I see why Jo keeps making those drinks for you,” Castiel says, nodding at the half-finished latte in Dean’s hand.

“You didn’t make it?” Dean says, and does he sound almost disappointed?

Castiel shakes his head. “Jo is keeping the recipe close to the chest.”

“Probably worried everyone’ll want one if they get the taste.” Dean tips the cup back.

Castiel can’t help his noise of disgust. At Dean’s sharp look, he says aloud, “She’s probably worried everyone will never come back if they try it.”

Dean’s laugh cuts off with a wince. He raises a hand to his head. “Christ, last night was a mistake.”

Castiel surreptitiously scents the air for a better gauge of how discomfited Dean really is, but, as always, all he gets is trash and fryer oil. “How are you doing? Apart from the injury, headache, and general hangover-related malaise.”

“Oh, apart from that?” Dean echoes mockingly, but his words lack any heat. He crams a few fries into his mouth. “I asked my agent to send me a few more scripts with omega roles,” he mutters.

Castiel smiles. “That’s great.”

Dean hums his agreement. “Hopefully, she’ll pick out a decent one, and I can get something set up for after Two for the Show wraps.”

“Is Two for the Show the reason for your diet?”

Dean huffs. “Yeah. I have a bunch of shirtless scenes, so that means three months with the diet coach from hell.”

Castiel makes a noise of sympathy. After a moment, he asks, “Is it worth it?”

Dean chews a fry, scowling between bites. “Not really,” he says in a low voice. “Sammy’s the farmers market maniac in the family.” Wistfully, he continues, “Give me a good cheeseburger deluxe every day for the rest of my life with a side of pie, and I’ll die a happy man.”

“I didn’t think apple pie came as a side.”

“Not for you, maybe,” Dean says with an obnoxiously loud slurp of his latte.

Castiel doesn’t bother holding back his smile.

Dean sighs, rubbing his temple with the heel of his hand. “It’s just like, I don’t look like a traditional omega, so I figured I might as well try for the alpha roles.” He swallows. “’S a win-win situation. I look the part and the characters are better - what’s the downside?”

Castiel cocks his head. “Other than your restricted diet and inadvisable levels of drinking?”

A humorless smile pulls at Dean's mouth. “Not pullin’ the punches this morning, huh?”

Castiel colors, his face heating with shame. “I’m sorry. I didn’t sleep well.” An inadequate excuse, but it’s not like he can tell Dean the real reason for his more uncharitable thoughts.

Castiel has never been one to lean into his alpha instincts. Possessiveness, aggression, arrogance - Castiel has had his (mostly regrettable) moments, but they hardly define his character. But over these past few weeks, he’s had to repeatedly tell himself that he can’t solve Dean’s problems. Dean is a wildly successful adult with millions of fans, while Castiel can’t even handle Hunter Cafe's front counter during the morning rush.

Dean would hardly welcome a nobody little alpha telling him to just… do what he wants and damn the consequences because he deserves to be happy with his life and his work.

Dean plucks out the rest of his fries and balls the wrapper against his hip. He lobs it in the dumpster. “No, I get it. I’m complaining about things that most people would kill to have.” He glances towards the mouth of the alley, his mouth set in a thin line.

But before Dean can leave, Castiel says quickly, “That’s not the way I see it. Your specific frustrations aren’t universal, but hardly anyone’s are. Society is inherently unfair, and it’s understandable to be angry about it.”

God knows Castiel railed enough about the unfairness of Dean Winchester to Gabriel enough over the past few weeks.

Even now, hungover and bruised, Dean is beautiful.

Castiel steels himself. “And, for what it’s worth, I don’t think not looking like a typical omega is a bad thing.”

Dean turns to him in surprise, and Castiel would give up that free sandwich Jo offered him to be able to scent what exactly Dean is feeling. But, after a second that stretches into an eternity, all Dean gives him is a quiet, “Thanks, Cas.”

Castiel nods, chastised by Dean’s reaction. “I should get back to work,” he says awkwardly.

Dean mutters something that might be a swear underneath his breath. Raising his voice, he says, his tone apologetic, “’Course. Sorry for keeping you.”

Castiel shakes his head. “It’s alright. I,” he pauses, “always enjoy talking to you.”

Dean’s mouth lifts into a small smile, and it’s like the sun rising through the early morning fog. “You too, man.”

* * *

After his next shift, Castiel asks Jo to show him how to make Dean’s apple pie latte.

Castiel’s first attempt is a disaster. He burns the espresso and adds too much nutmeg. Jo makes him try it anyway, as a non-monetary payment for her time. As Castiel gags, a smirking Jo dumps the bitter, weirdly savory mess down the sink.

“Passable,” Jo declares at Castiel’s second try. “You need more of the apple concentrate, though.”

“It’ll be too strong,” Castiel protests even as he shakes more powder in and gives it a stir. He hands it back to Jo for evaluation.

“You could barely taste it!” Jo says. She raises it to her lips. “Mm, that’s the stuff.”

“It is?” Castiel asks hopefully.

Jo nods and pushes the cup towards him. “That’s what it’s supposed to taste like.”

Castiel frowns as the overly sweet apples hit his tongue. He can barely taste the coffee underneath all the other layers.

“Trust me,” Jo says, flipping her hair behind her shoulder as she sets Castiel up for a third cup. “Your scent’s getting in the way, but it tastes exactly like an apple pie.”

“My scent?” Castiel echoes, baffled.

Jo throws him a look as she pushes a clean coffee cup into his hands. “Yeah, you already smell, I dunno, crisp but sweet? A little like apples. Makes you think the latte dials it up to eleven when it’s more like a nine for everyone else.”

Castiel hadn’t thought to put those pieces together, but it makes an astonishing amount of sense.

He brings his last apple pie latte home to Gabriel, and his cousin makes him write down, step by step, how to make it. In between actual licks into the cup to get the dregs, Gabriel swears to visit him at Hunter’s Café more often.

When Jo next ducks her head into the kitchen to tell Castiel that Dean will swing by in fifteen minutes, Castiel gets to work. He awkwardly sidles behind the front counter and maneuvers around Ruby and Kevin, nearly knocking Kevin’s elbow as Kevin attempts some elaborate leaf pattern.

Castiel draws a rudimentary apple on top of Dean’s latte, and if it looks more like a misshapen mango, nobody will see it but Dean.

For the first time, Castiel heads out to wait for Dean at the mouth of the alley.

Dean doesn’t keep him in suspense for long. He makes his way down the street, shoulders hunched, and head bowed. Gaze fixed on the dirty sidewalk, Dean doesn’t make eye contact with anyone as he turns the corner.

Dean isn’t even wearing sunglasses or a hat to hide his face, but everyone walks straight past him.

It’s the most riveting performance Castiel has ever seen.

A few steps away, Dean catches sight of him, and it’s like some magic switch is flipped on, and he is Dean Winchester again.

Smiling brightly, he jogs the rest of the distance and follows Castiel as he slinks further back into the alley. Dean wrinkles his nose as they get closer to the dumpsters and the smell of an entire rancid fast food menu hits him. “Hey, Cas,” he says as he takes his latte. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Castiel says, tipping his head.

Dean stares down oddly at the demented pear and takes a sip. Face going slack with a bliss Castiel doesn’t even need to smell, Dean groans.

Castiel freezes and sends up a silent prayer of thanks for the apron covering his lower half over his pants. “It’s good?” he tries futilely because Dean is clearly beyond speech.

Dean just gives him a thumbs up as he lowers the cup. He licks his lips, chasing the taste, and Castiel has seen pornography less graphic.

“I might have to tip Jo this time too,” Dean says, staring at the latte in his hand in wonder.

Castiel coughs. “I - I made this one, actually.”

Dean chokes on his next mouthful. “Are you serious?”

Castiel nods because if he opens his mouth he’s not sure what exactly will come out. Probably something highly embarrassing.

“This is the best one I’ve ever had,” Dean swears.

Castiel’s whole body heats with the force of his blush. “Thank you. I asked Jo how to make it, since it seems like I’ve taken over your delivery duties.”

Dean grins. “You’re a lot more fun than Jo,” he says lightly, “so I’m not complainin’.”

Castiel didn’t think he could get any redder, but here he is.

After an awkward beat, Dean says, “I think I found my next movie.”

“Really?”

Dean shrugs, but his eyes glimmer with anticipation. “It’s a World War II biopic about an omega who sneaks into the army, disguises himself as an alpha, and rescues a unit trapped behind enemy lines.” He taps his fingers against the side of his half-empty cup. “A little on the nose, but the script is good.”

“It sounds very promising,” Castiel agrees.

“Their biggest problem was the budget - historical pics aren’t cheap. But they think if I sign on early, they can leverage my name with the studio.” He smiles shyly. “Get the movie done right.”

“That’s fantastic,” Castiel says, a delightful warmth filling his chest - still a pale reflection of Dean’s excitement.

“Thanks to you.”

Castiel’s eyes widen in surprise. “Me?”

Dean throws him a funny look. “Yeah, you. You told me to get my head outta my ass and movies I actually like doing-”

“Not in so many words-” Castiel interjects, alarmed.

“’Cause the whole point of doing these stupid macho alpha flicks was so I could get the clout and money to do the stuff I actually liked,” Dean continues. “And I kept thinking, can’t do it yet, not there yet, until some rando tells me, fuck yeah you can.”

“I definitely didn’t say that-”

“It was implied,” Dean says blithely, waving off his protests. “So I figured, if this dude who doesn’t know me from Adam-”

“I’ve seen several of your films.”

“- tells me to go for it - it being something I’d thought of doing for years - is there any real reason why I shouldn’t?”

Castiel just stares at him, stunned.

Dean beams. “I’ve got a meeting with the director next week.”

“That’s wonderful,” Castiel says sincerely.

“Anyway, yeah, it’s partially thanks to you,” Dean says, tipping his latte in Castiel’s direction. “I also want to talk about romantic B-plot since I think it’s stupid.” He shakes his head, scoffing. “True mates, bullshit.”

“You think true mates are bullshit?”

As far as Castiel saw online, Dean’s never spoken on the record about true mates or any mates at all. Entertainment news sources reported rumors about him and a one-named alpha singer, Amara, early in his career, which he denounced thoroughly. A few months later, someone published revealing photos of him and an older alpha actor, Fergus Crowley. When asked about it, Dean refused to give details.

Dean makes a face. After a pause, he says, “My parents said they were true mates, but it wasn’t… pretty. No Hollywood romance between them.”

“I’m sorry.”

“’S fine,” Dean says in a tone that clearly says it isn’t. “Whenever Dad took off for a few days, I’d get to watch as many movies as I wanted, and - well, the rest is history.”

“I don’t know anyone who’s found their true mate,” Castiel says. His parents had a cold, distant marriage. A few times over the years, he wasn’t sure his mother even liked his father’s scent. Anna happily mated another omega last year, and Gabriel avoids all romantic entanglements like the black plague.

Castiel’s dating history can best be described as dismal. During his last visit to his pediatrician, his doctor called him a “late bloomer” which Castiel eventually realized just meant socially awkward. In the decade since, Castiel’s slept with a grand total of three people. And, to his supreme regret, none of them managed to bring his rusty people skills up to par.

But, in college, Castiel found music and his calling. And all his faults didn’t matter nearly as much.

In the crowd of a concert, people are so far outside the ordinary conditions of life, and so conscious of the fact, that they free themselves from individual concerns and devote themselves wholly to the collective. All their fury, their joy, their hunger for what they can’t have, is sublimated into the music.

Castiel has never felt more connected to humanity than in the middle of a crowd.

Truthfully, none of his past relationships ever measured up. None of his past partners ever managed to get Castiel out of his own head - not like the music.

Castiel shakes his head ruefully. “I wouldn’t know what to do with a true mate even if I had one.”

“Have a lot of super sappy sex with the lights on?” Dean offers, laughing.

Castiel frowns. “I wasn’t aware that kind of intercourse was restricted to true mates. I’ve done that in the past since I've always shared an emotional connection with the people I've slept with.”

“Oh,” Dean says, reddening. “Were you mated? Jo didn’t say.”

Inordinately pleased that Dean had asked Jo about him, Castiel shakes his head. “No, I’ve never been mated.”

Dean drains his latte. Swallowing, he says, “Me neither.” He throws the cup in the open dumpster and turns back to Castiel. “I haven’t dated in a while, actually,” he says in a low voice. “Couldn’t risk being seen with an alpha and remind everyone of what I’m not.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “Surely people can’t be that close-minded.”

“’Course they can. Most are,” Dean says, his voice full of assurance.

Castiel’s mouth twists. “That sounds like a negativity bias to me.”

“Huh?”

“Negative information sticks with us longer and more strongly than any positive counterpart,” Castiel says with a shrug. “It’s something I always keep in mind when reading my course reviews after the semester is over.”

“So," Dean says, eyes dancing, "you can take the nerd out of the classroom, but you can’t take the classroom out of the nerd, huh?”

Castiel smiles wryly. “Trust me, I’ve tried.”

Dean laughs. “Look,” he starts, his expression turning a fraction more serious. “I might be fucking up a good thing here, but do you want to go to a Lez Zeppelin show next week?”

Castiel’s mouth falls open as Dean reaches out and pulls out his phone to show him a ticket confirmation email.

“It’s no big if you don’t want to,” Dean says awkwardly into the silence.

“I - I do,” Castiel says, stumbling over the words. “You do?”

“Uh,” Dean throws him a bemused look, “Yeah? I bought the tickets, dude.”

“I’m just surprised,” Castiel says honestly.

Dean stares at him. “This is seriously comin’ out of nowhere for you?”

“A little,” Castiel says defensively.

“Seriously?”

Castiel shrugs helplessly. “You’re … you. You’re famous. Why would you ask me?”

“Because I like you?” Dean says, nonplussed. “You’re nice in a way a lot of the alphas I know aren’t, and,” he breaks off, reddening, “you said you didn’t mind that I didn’t fit in with other omegas, looks-wise-”

“I don’t,” Castiel interrupts. “I think you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

Dean gapes. “Did you seriously -” he breaks off, apparently unable to voice the rest of his thought. His face turns an impressive shade of crimson.

Castiel shoves his hands in his pockets. “Should I not have said that?” he asks, brow furrowing. This can’t be the first time Dean has been complimented on his looks. As Castiel understands, good looks are one of the main precursors to acceptance in Hollywood.

“No - I mean, maybe - never mind,” Dean fumbles, more out of sorts than Castiel has ever seen him. “It’s that nobody just out and says that, even to me.”

“I just did.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Dean says, but he’s smiling. “You should look in the mirror sometime, though.” He winks, and Castiel’s brain nearly fritzes out. “So that’s a yes?”

Castiel nods, an all-encompassing warmth filling his chest and exploding out to the tips of his fingers and toes. “I’d love to.”

“It’s a date.”

Read Part II here!

#destiel fanfic #fanfic #destiel #profoundnet #rae writes fic #alpha castiel #omega dean winchester #alpha beta omega dynamics #celebrity dean winchester #barista castiel #professor castiel #the original apple pie latte

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