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seabreeze1969 · 10 months ago

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Strawberry Pancakes

Summary: Gator Tillman meets OC stripper. She is reluctant to give him a dance, but ends up enjoying it a little too much. He is more than happy to break some rules with her.

Tags/Warnings: strippers, thigh riding, lap dance, power dynamics, paid intimacy, dirty talk, teasing

Chapter One

~Gator

It was the second Friday of May. Every other Friday he found himself sitting in the back of The Tender Trap, a local strip club, with an envelope in his pocket as he waited for a militia man to collect the hefty support of Sheriff Roy Tillman, his father. It was an easy job. That’s why his father gave it to him. At least it was supposed to be easy. But things never came easy to Gator.

As his lazy gaze glossed around the small club, his heart caught in his throat. He wasn’t met with Roxy or Crystal, the usual dancers who would throw him winks every now and again. He saw a young woman he’d never seen before. He was sure if she had been there any of the other Fridays he would’ve known.

Her legs were toned, but covered in stockings forcing him to imagine the bare skin underneath. As his gaze slithered further up skipping over her bare stomach to her breasts he started to feel his pants tighten. The white laced cups pushed up her small tits and had them spilling out over the low top. And finally he reached her face. Her bouncy brown curls framed her soft face, and he couldn’t help but let his mouth fall open as he caught her big doe eyes.

He knew he must’ve looked like a moron sitting there with his jaw on the floor, but he couldn’t help himself. She was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen in person. Something straight off of one of those raunchy old bikini posters he tacked behind his bed.

Before he could stop himself his feet carried him over to the seats closest to the stage where she was entertaining two other men. The closer he got the more her eyes narrowed at him and she suddenly seemed familiar, “Wait a minute. Aren’t you the doc’s kiddo? Miss Grey?” He’d seen her only a couple times when he had to visit the local clinic after a job went sideways, and she looked vastly different in layers of clothes and thick rimmed glasses. But she had given him that same narrow look.

“No, sir,” she shook her head, her full lips turning into a pout, “My name is Candy.”

“Hah, yeah sure it is,” he huffed a laugh, “Anyways, aren’t you a little too smart to be dancing around half naked?”

And then it was her turn to laugh, “If smarts had anything to do with it you’d be the one in heels up here, sheriff.”

“Ouch, sour Candy. You trying to hurt my feelings, girl?” Gator mocked hurt feelings, putting his hand over his heart.

“Were you trying to hurt mine?” She shot back.

“No. How about you make it up to me with a dance?”

“Aren’t you on duty?”

“Nah, I just dress like this for fun,” he hooked his thumbs into the bulky sheriff’s vest, showing it off.

“Won’t it be a bad look for your father?” It was true his father’s election was going to be up soon.

“He’ll be alright. You running out of excuses?” Gator checked.

“I could just say ‘no.’ If you don’t want to take a hint,” she condescended, and that just made him want her all the more. No way in hell was she gonna say ‘no’ to him. He had all the power he needed in the envelope, who would even notice if a couple of the hundreds were missing? Taking less than a second to decide he pulled out the envelope and started counting out the hundred dollar bills that he definitely should not be spending at a strip club.

“Are you deaf? Or just dumb?” Candy frowned, but as he continued to count them she changed her tune, “Holy smokes, where’d you get all that?”

He waved three hundreds at her, “How bout that dance?”

Her mouth opened and closed a few times, struggling with the decision, but then she nodded in defeat, “Let’s go.” She hopped off the stage, and took his hand in her own. Her hand was trembling, until she squeezed him a little harder, and he pretended not to notice it. Pretended he was far too preoccupied with the way her ass swayed back and forth in her little white lace underwear.

In the private room there was one lone chair in the center with dark velvet couches surrounding it. As she stepped into the room her white undergarments turned dark red with the lights. She led him to the chair in the center of the room, shoving him down roughly. He made a show of it for her, collapsing into the chair even though he was barely moved from her hands pushing his chest, “Take it easy, baby.”

She ignored him, sliding her hands across his chest into his leather jacket, to slip it off, taking his vest with it. She hooked it on the back of the chair, which still left him in his bulky hoodie.

“That’s more like it, sweetheart,” he grinned as she walked in front of him again. He drank her in once again now that he had her all to himself. Her slim ankles wrapped in the white plastic straps of the clear high heels that were giving her an extra half foot at least. She looked a little unsteady as his gaze raked up the stockings, lingering on the smooth bare skin of her upper thigh. He imagined for a moment how her legs would wrap around him, how he’d grip her hips. The swell of her hips was accentuated as she took a small step toward him, shifting her weight. As his eyes moved up he found her chest rising and falling in quick breathes, her breasts spilling out of the wired corset cups on every intake. Her blush went all the way down her neck, and when his gaze flickered up to her eyes she cast hers to the floor.

“Don’t get all shy on me now,” he admonished half-heartedly, pleased with her little show of innocence. It was charming.

She took another deep breath, drawing his attention back down to her breasts once again, and unballed her fists, starting to undo the bottom of her corset top. He watched her struggle with the little wire clasps that ran up the front for a long minute before he finally huffed a little laugh, “You need a hand?”

She looked up at him with those big brown eyes, and he wondered if it was more than just a show. Then she frowned and gritted, “Shut up.” And he knew it wasn’t. And that made his cock twitch in his pants. She finally got all the clasps undone and then tossed the offending garment on the couch beside her, unable to hide her pride at getting the damned thing off. She locked her arms in front of her, covering up her exposed nipples. He barely caught a glimpse of the pink skin. And then she seemed to realize what she had done and forced her arms behind her back, sticking out her chest.

“I’ve never done this before,” she finally confessed, but he had gathered that.

“I can tell,” he chuckled, “This might be the worst strip dance I’ve ever seen.”

That seemed to set something off in her. He was good at setting people off. Her cheeks were puffed out in anger as she slowly sank down to her knees, not bothering to hide her disgust at the old tile floors. And then she crawled on her hands and knees to him, swaying her hips and holding his stare like it was a challenge. He kicked his boots out on either side of him, making room for her between his thighs. Then he locked his fingers behind his head and reclined a little, the picture of unbothered, indifferent to her. And he saw exactly what he wanted. That angry determination swirling in those narrowed eyes as she let her cheek rest on his inner thigh.

She ran her hands up his shins, to the expanse of his muscular thighs. He felt the heat of her palm reach the bulge of his hardening cock, straining under his cargo pants. Her brow went up in accusation, “For the worst dance you’ve ever had, you seem to be enjoying it.”

“I’m easy,” he shrugged. Then her tongue was licking a stripe over the outline of his dick and his mouth fell open as he was unable to maintain his cool attitude toward the half naked woman between his legs. That had to be against the rules.

Before he could recover she was swinging her hips to the low vibrations of the bass that penetrated the room. She came up to her full height, giving him an eyeful of her breasts, making his mouth start salivating. Maybe he had just fallen for an act of innocence. Massaged them in his face, letting her head roll back as she let a small moan slip past her lips. His hands were moving on their own, in an attempt to assist her, when she slapped them away, “Hands by your side, deputy, or I’ll use your stupid cuffs on you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled out slow, gripping the sides of the chair to keep them there, but her threat just turned him on even more. Having her handcuff him sounded like a damn good time to him.

She swung one leg over his so her back was to him, and crawled down the slope of his leg, leaving her ass high in the air, and his hands squeezing the sides of the chair as she bounced a little on his leg. And then in time with music she was snapping back to sitting upright and grinding her hips just an inch above his thigh, letting him see that she was actually getting wet. Then she stepped out again, twisting to face him and kicked one of his boots so his legs came together before she sat in his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and playing with his hair just enough to make his head lull back and seek her fingers. He hadn’t felt a touch like that in years, something intimate and gentle. Hell, if he knew a strip dance felt this good he would’ve started skimming money a long time ago, but he had a feeling it was just her making him feel this way.

She bit her lip, trying to contain a grin, and he felt like he was losing the game he had set up. But she made losing feel good.

Then the song switched from fast paced to a slow jam and she lit up, standing to dance in front of him once again. She was familiar with the song, mouthing the words as she ran her hands up her body and tangled them in her hair the way his hands wanted to. While she mouthed the explicit lyrics, he imagined her in his ear whispering filth only he would ever hear.

Her body rolled in time with the slow beat and she ran her hand down between her breasts, over her flat stomach and dipped between her legs for just a second before she pulled her hand back and ran her tongue over them, her tongue that was nearly on his dick when he had ticked her off. “You want a taste?” she asked, tilting her head curiously, and only then had he noticed his mouth had fallen open in want. He only nodded, sticking his tongue out as she stepped closer to him again with her outstretched hand. Her fingers were glossy from her spit as she brushed them gently over his upper lip, avoiding his tongue, and then pulled back, leaving him running his tongue along his lip trying to taste her. He thought maybe she was wearing some kind of strawberry chapstick as he savored a distant artificial sweetness.

He hummed his approval, and when he caught her eye again her pupils were blown wide. He could nearly see himself reflected in them. He was in a similar state. And then she stepped one leg between his and slowly lowered her hips onto his thigh, grinding on him in time with the music. Her skin was hot, like her entire body was blushing. It gave him goosebumps under his jacket where her warmth couldn’t reach.

And then she made a noise in the back of her throat that had him choking on the air in the room, which was suffocating him with a palpable heat. It wasn’t an over the top moan like from the porn he usually watched, it was a whine she had tried to hide but it slipped past her lips anyways. It was the sexiest thing he had ever heard in his life.

She bit her lip and looked at him apologetically, “Hah, sorry.” And the weight of her lifted up, before his hands flew out to stop her.

“No, don’t stop,” he lifted his knee in a jerk response, applying more pressure to her clit. He pulled and pushed her waist back and forth over his thigh, making her breath quicken. She was so sensitive, shaking like a leaf as he pushed his thigh up hard against her, with intention. He wanted to give her that friction which clearly affected her. His eyes traveled down her body to find a wet spot on his camouflage, “Gonna make a mess on my trousers, girl.”

She looked away in embarrassment as he looked up at her in awe. Her lower lip trembled as he leaned forward, bringing his hand to cradle her cheek. He was completely entranced in her glowing red face. He wanted to stop the anxious tremble of her lip, soothe her embarrassment away however he could. But he found no words, instead leaning in, and letting his eyes slip closed as he brushed his thumb down her bottom lip. He could feel her sharp intake of breath nearly against his mouth. He can’t remember wanting something as simple as a kiss with such an intensity before.

She shoved at his chest and stumbled backwards, catching herself on the edge of the couch. His head was spinning from the whiplash as he watched her catch her breath moving as far away from him as the couch would allow.

“No kissing the clients,” she finally spoke after a few beats of heavy breathing.

“No? Just everything else?” He joked a little, trying to recover his own breathing and will his raging erection to go away. He couldn’t take his eyes off her as she started clipping the corset back on.

He stood and slid back into his leather jacket and vest, slicking his hair back which had gotten a little disheveled when she played with it earlier. Then she awkwardly put her hand out and he remembered what he had promised her for such a nice private dance and handed her three hundred, “That’s some technique for your first time.”

“I’m a quick learner,” she nodded, gripping the cash like he was going to snatch it back from her and run. She led him back out into the main room without so much as looking at him and then ran back to the locker rooms, still a little unsteady as his eyes followed her out.

“I’ve been waiting out here for nearly a half hour,” complained Henry, getting up from the bar when he saw Gator. He barely understood the words, too busy thinking about how there was no way in hell he could wait another two weeks to see her again. She gave him a high he knew he’d be hooked on until the day he died. He figured he’d be a married man and still jerk off to her.

“Boy! You hear me? When your daddy hears about you fucking around--” Henry started to threaten, finally pulling Gator’s attention away from the girl. The shove of the white envelope into Henry’s chest cut him off.

“My daddy ain’t gonna hear about it, unless you want me burning this money up and telling him you fucking backward ass hillbillies lost it,” he said it softly with a half smile, contrasting the shouting of the older man who got even angrier as he lost his power.

“We’ll see about that. Don’t make me wait while you’re getting your dick sucked. If you’re daddy don’t make you answer to him. I’ll make you answer to me. Understand, son?”

“Maybe if your wife was better at it you wouldn’t have had to wait so long,” Gator leaned into the man, his hand hovering over the gun in his thigh holster.

“Alright, your time's coming, boy. Your time’s coming.”

“Whatever you say, Henry,” Gator grinned at him, “I’ll see you later.” He waved himself out and hopped into his truck.

He reached for his vape in his pocket, taking a long drag reigniting the buzz in his head that was worked up in the back room of The Tender Trap. He was trying to remember the way her face looked when she moaned, but his memories weren’t coming out right. He needed to see her again. And soon enough he was hard again as he drove back to the Tillman Ranch. The road was lonely and dark that night as he started to touch himself.

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cyrus-badman · 3 months ago

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I've got a little scene from my loft AU for you guys!!! Hope you like it!!

Game night

Over the last two months, Kurt, Rachel, Santana, Blaine, and Sam have fallen into an unintentional yet rigid routine of sorts.

Mondays are the quiet, stay-in nights. On these days, everyone is tired from the day, still decompressing after the hard shift from weekend to work or school.

On Tuesdays, the five of them all go out together, either to Callbacks―the karaoke bar Rachel was so eager to introduce them all to, frequented by all of her NYADA friends, Brody included (Sam likes Brody; he’s nice, he’s hot, and they both understand what it’s like to compromise yourself for money)―or just out to dinner for a nice evening. Typically, they opt for the former, though that inevitably morphs into Rachel Berry Diva Hour, wherein the diva competes with herself for Best Bar Performance of All Time™ and “allows” everyone else to participate by being her “adoring audience of loving fans”. One time, Rachel and Kurt dragged them all to yet another Broadway show, though Sam can’t remember its title. He was reluctant at first―he has this thing where he pretends to hate all musical theater, and he’s pretty sure Blaine has to resist the urge to throttle him every time he does it; Sam wouldn’t worry too much about that, though, as Blaine looks adorable when he’s pretending to be upset with him―but after the show, he was vibrating in place, and even engaged in an enthusiastic conversation with Rachel―Sam is still surprised that that ever happened anytime he thinks about it―wherein the two of them practically talked over each other in all their excitement.

Wednesdays are movie nights. It’s a little unconventional, but in their case, they have other plans for the last day of the work week. Every Wednesday, the five of them (sometimes six, if Sebastian is over) alternate between who gets to pick the film. Most often, this results in a rom-com from Kurt, a Broadway classic as Rachel’s choice (Funny Girl more times than not), a superhero movie for both Blaine and Sam and some obscure indie film about feminism and “hot bitches” as Santana’s pick.

On Thursdays, Blaine and Sam typically have the loft to themselves because Santana takes late shifts at the Spotlight Diner, Rachel’s Funny Girl rehearsals run until seven on those days, and Kurt goes out somewhere with Sebastian (now that Sam thinks about it, there’s probably a reason for that―one that starts with B and ends with lam). Sam loves Thursdays for that reason. His and Blaine’s constant presence at the Hummelpezberry loft is a nuisance to their three friends, a fact that encourages them to stop by more often than they normally would, which is already a lot.

That means that Fridays are reserved for game nights. It wasn't intentional at first, and it's not like they've always done it. In fact, Kurt once mentioned that he, Rachel, and Santana had never had game nights before Blaine and Sam’s arrival in New York.

But one Friday a couple of months ago, the five of them were in the parlor, watching yet another of Rachel’s guilty pleasure films, when the power suddenly flickered out. It was late August, the rain was raging outside, and the electricity in Bushwick really wasn't that reliable―it still isn't, one of the many reasons Blaine and Sam picked an apartment just outside of the neighborhood―so naturally, they were bathed in darkness for the unforeseeable future. Of course, that was, until Blaine pulled out flashlights and lanterns and Rachel lit candles. Sam always used to roll his eyes when people gave each other candles as gifts, but at that moment, his opinion shifted―man, those candles sure smelled good, almost as good as his boyfriend and his raspberry hair gel.

So, of course, someone―probably Blaine, because of course it was Blaine―busted out a stack of games that had no business being in an adult household (“Who even put these in here?!” Rachel had demanded, followed by the evil cackle of Santana). They started with Uno, but that soon morphed into Sorry! and then Monopoly. It had devolved quickly into Rachel accusing Santana of stacking the deck in Uno (“HOW?!” Santana had cackled, flinging cards like throwing stars). It was fun and allowed them to spend quality time together where they could talk and interact. The week after, they’d been debating their next movie choice when Sam suggested they play another game because it had been a fun, pleasant experience the week before. Santana griped and grumbled, but ultimately, she was out-voted as Rachel jumped in glee (heehee) at Sam’s request.

When Sebastian started becoming a regular face at the Hummelpezberrys (a term coined by Sam for Kurt, Rachel, and Santana’s apartment), he would join in on their group activities, and soon enough, it became a thing. And Sam loves game nights; he savors the moments when they can all just disconnect from the electronics and enjoy each other’s company.

In high school, his family couldn't afford luxuries like game consoles and cell phones, so they’d spent a lot of time making memories, telling jokes, and just generally having fun as a family. Game nights were a regular occurrence, too, and Sam thinks it’s nice to “go back to his roots,” in a way.

This week is different.

Normally, Blaine and Sam pair up for team games automatically, and Sebastian forces Kurt to be his partner, leaving Rachel and Santana as the third, reluctant duo. Game nights like these usually consist of Rachel and Santana bickering endlessly about the most mundane aspects of the game (because Rachel insists on following the rules and apparently, Santana doesn’t see the logic in that), Sebastian self-sabotaging his and Kurt’s team with the royal goal of annoying Kurt (an objective he reaches every time), and Blaine slipping into Sam’s lap, which leads them to make out indiscreetly and quite loudly. By the end of the evening, Blaine is always a giggling mess in Sam’s lap, Kurt’s glaring daggers in Sebastian’s direction, and Santana is making fun of everyone while tossing popcorn at her friends. This is all while Rachel paces in the corner because she’s an OCD subject, and not only is there popcorn scattered on the floor, but the pieces of what used to resemble a game of charades are strewn about on the couch, under the coffee table, and―somehow―in the doorway to the kitchen. The chaos is fun, Sam argues, and Rachel turns her murderous stare on him.

...

Tonight, the volume of the apartment hit a maximum before the games even began. The plan is to play charades, a setup that Blaine happily complies with, adjusting the game pieces on the coffee table with that cute, irresistible grin of his. Just like last week, and the week before that, Blaine is wearing another of Sam’s sweatshirts, the sleeves drowning him. The neckline of the sweatshirt hangs off Blaine’s smaller frame loosely, exposing his pale, olive-colored collarbone. Sam tries not to drool, pushing the fresh swarm of memories from the sight to the back of his mind. It’s game night. He’s gotta stay locked in.

Before Blaine and Sam can even exchange more than one glance―yes, they're always partners, it's an unspoken agreement―Kurt clinks his wine glass, drawing everyone’s attention. “Teams, everyone,” he announces, wine glass and hourglass in hand. He scans the group solemnly like he’s about to make a crucial battle strategy assessment. “This time, we’re being strategic.”

Already hyped up on her third glass of wine, Rachel whirls on the only couple in the room, exclaiming, “Yes! We have to be strategic. Samuel and Blaine can’t be on the same team again! We don’t need a repeat of last week.”

“Why not?” Blaine asks, bottom lip protruding in a dramatic pout. Sam leans back into the cushiony couch, urging Blaine to relax further into him. The brunette is leaning against Sam’s chest, his dark, curly hair tousled from where Sam’s fingers have been carding through it, Sam’s sweatshirt now hanging off one shoulder. Sam can’t help but soak up the warmth of his boyfriend against his body. Blaine’s head is tucked beneath the blonde’s chin, his dark curls tickling Sam’s jaw with their soft whispers. For a moment, it’s entirely too easy to forget the madness around them and slip into the bliss that wraps around him and Blaine.

Rachel narrows her eyes, glaring, a passionate fire burning in her gaze. The look is scathing on its own. “Because you never actually play, Blaine. You get distracted!” Her eyes pointedly flick to Sam at that.

“By what?” Blaine prods again, batting his lashes with faux innocence. His hand snakes up to rest a tad too high on Sam’s thigh.

“That.” She jabs a finger at the brunette, then at his blond boyfriend. “That’s what.”

Trying to suppress a laugh but failing miserably, Sam tucks Blaine further into his side. Blaine grins and tilts his head up to kiss Sam’s cheek. As he pulls back to rest his head on his boyfriend’s shoulders, his smile turns soft. “Can’t help it,” he explains, shrugging.

Properly ruining the moment, Rachel’s voice cuts through the romantic haze. “Well, you’re not on the same team tonight,” she declares, voice firm. “You’re with Kurt.”

The boy in question jerks his head around to gape at her, practically choking on his wine. “What?!” he shrieks. “Rachel, no! You know I can’t―”

“Too late,” the short girl interrupts, cutting off whatever inevitably rude and offensive comment Kurt was about to make. She herds Blaine over to Kurt’s side of the room. Blaine’s ex sighs exaggeratedly but protests no further, shooting Blaine a glare that clearly screams don’t ruin this for me. Blaine just shrugs and smiles innocently in response.

Turning back to Sam, Rachel grabs the blonde’s arm with surprising strength. “You’re with me. We’re going to win this.” And then all of a sudden, she’s pinching him―which really hurts, by the way―while Kurt whisks Blaine away. Sam’s not too sure how he feels about that; yes, he knows Blaine is completely, one hundred percent over Kurt and head-over-heels for him, but still, the insecurity lingers. Blaine and Kurt were together for a long time. Blaine used to insist that they were soulmates. The fear is justified in Sam’s mind.

Sam blinks at Rachel, who is still pinching Sam’s arm (This is abuse, Sam thinks distantly). She announces yet again that Sam is her partner, which he never agreed to, but oh, well. He can feel Blaine’s puppy-dog eyes burning a hole in his skin. But Sam can’t exactly do anything about it, so he merely shrugs helplessly. “Sorry, B. Rules are rules.”

A loud snort reminds them all that Santana is still here and banking on a win tonight. “Oh, this is gonna be good.” She turns to Sebastian, leaning against the kitchen counter and tossing back popcorn like he’s watching a soap opera: prime entertainment. “What do you say, Smythe? You and me?”

She doesn't even have to ask. The boy in question is already smirking as he replies, “Obviously. Let’s ruin their lives.”

Apparently, Kurt and Rachel didn't think this through all the way. Sam can see both of them pale instantly when they turn to the Latina and her counterpart. Santana and Sebastian are wearing matching evil grins, and Sam knows he should probably feel dread pooling in his gut right about now, but he really doesn’t. Tonight is guaranteed to be even more chaotic than last week, and that’s a plus in Sam’s book.

He can understand her concerns, though. With Tana and Seb working together, it’s surely possible that no one will win this game. Either that or one of them will end up rage-quitting and/or flipping the board game over. The mental image of Santana Lopez and Sebastian Smythe overturning a table is apparently so hilarious that it deserves an outward reaction; Sam barks out a laugh when he pictures it, and everyone turns to stare at him like he’s crazy―well, Rachel does. Santana appears unsurprised, Kurt just looks exasperated, Sebastian’s amused, and Blaine rolls his eyes fondly and curls into Sam’s chest. The blonde wraps an arm around his boyfriend’s waist and drops a kiss into his dark curls. He loves Blaine’s natural hair and spends every waking moment making sure Blaine knows it.

Sam supposes it wouldn't be the end of the world if they were on opposing teams for one game of charades. In fact, that might even make it easier to win; Blaine is terrible at this game, whereas Sam has been working on his impressions for years and finds it quite easy to translate voices into body language, hand gestures, and expressions.

Seemingly, Rachel has been trying to argue against the Sebtana duo for the last few minutes. It doesn’t seem like she’s had any success.

“I’m just saying,” Santana’s voice cuts through the comfortable atmosphere encasing Blane and Sam like a scalpel, “if I’m stuck with him―” she jerks a thumb towards the tall boy, whose smirk only widens, “―we’re guaranteed to win. Because, as much as I despise admitting this, Smythe’s clever stupidity might actually come in handy.” She pauses then, flashing a wicked grin at Rachel. “Unlike your usual partners, Berry. Dead weight is, unfortunately, not conducive to victory.”

Wide-eyed and gaping, Rachel splutters at the implications, hands flying to her hips in the universal gesture of I’m about to unleash the wrath of a thousand stage moms. In other words, Super-Saiyan, Sam thinks. “Excuse me? I am an excellent teammate.”

“Riiight,” the Latina drawls, drawing out the syllable as she tosses a kernel of popcorn down the hatch. “Just like you’re an excellent person to sit next to during a movie when your constant running commentary makes me want to toss myself off the fire escape.”

Rachel’s eyes widen further at that, mouth opening as if she’s about to fire something just as long and offensive back at her. Sam wouldn't doubt that she would if not for Kurt’s intervention.

The countertenor pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes rolling hard. “I thought this was supposed to be fun.”

Blaine, ever the optimist, takes the opening to chime in brightly, “It is!” Sam doesn't know if it’s because he's trying to diffuse the situation or because he’s just genuinely fucking oblivious. He’s willing to bet it’s the latter. His boyfriend claps his hands together as he beams at their friends. “And if we could all just channel our inner holiday spirits―”

Santana cuts him off, already shaking her head dismissively. “Unless the spirit is tequila, I don’t give a shit.”

Up until now, Sebastian has been twirling a pen in his fingers lazily, obviously having repeated the gesture enough times to be a pro at it. Now, he grins and pitches into the conversation. “What’s the matter, Lopez? Afraid I’ll upstage you in front of your little Broadway BFF?”

“Please,” the Latina scoffs. “You couldn’t upstage a rusty tambourine.” A laugh escapes Sam at the odd choice of words; sometimes Santana can be so random.

Blaine’s quiet chuckle vibrates in Sam’s chest. “Think we should referee?” he questions privately, craning his neck to look up at his boyfriend. Sam pats the brunet’s thigh and shakes his head.

“Nah, let them go at it. Adds flavor.”

Sam can tell that Santana’s preparing to interject once again, hands poised to gesticulate animatedly and eyes gleaming with fiery intent, but Kurt beats her to it, stepping between her and Sebastian. “Enough!” he demands, fixing them both with his best I’ve had it with your nonsense glare. “We’re here to have a civilized game night. Not to recreate an episode of Real Housewives of Bushwick.”

His comment may not land exactly the way it was intended, but it does ease some of the tension. Santana cackles, head thrown back as the evil gleam in her eye resurfaces. “I’m definitely Teresa,” she claims with a smirk. “Blaine can be Melissa.”

The boy in question nods as if accepting his fate, while Rachel, clearly grasping for some sense of order, inserts herself into the discussion. “Fine. If we’re all done now, can we just―”

“You never answered my question," Blaine points out. His tone is innocent, but there's an impish lilt to his voice that betrays his intentions. His hand, moments ago resting on Sam’s thigh, now inches upward marginally. “What distracts me during the game?”

Biting back a laugh, Sam watches as Rachel narrows her eyes at Blaine, her expression scandalized and accusatory in equal measure. She points at the two of them wildly, screeching, “That! That right there is exactly what I’m talking about!”

Blaine gasps dramatically in response. “Rachel Barbara Berry, I am appalled! Are you suggesting that I―”

“Stop it.” Sam thinks it was a pretty good Rachel impression and offers his boyfriend a thumbs up. Grin widening, Blaine latches onto Sam’s thumb and tugs it toward himself, hugging it to his chest in an adorable gesture. Sam knows he's smiling like a dope and he couldn't care less. Rachel goes on, unfazed by Blam’s display of affection. “You’re not charming your way out of this. We all know exactly what happens the second you and Sam end up on the same team.”

Sebastian, who has been reclining against the arm of the couch, perks up. “Oh, this is so much more entertaining than charades.”

“You,” Kurt says sharply, pointing at Sebastian, “zip it.” At that, Sebastian smirks but makes a show of miming zipping his lips, locking them, and throwing away the key.

Then Rachel stands and takes a deep breath, clearly summoning every ounce of patience in her body. She grabs Blaine by the wrist and tugs him toward the coffee table, where Kurt is already arranging the charade cards. “You’re on task tonight, Blaine Anderson,” she orders, leaving no room for discussion. “No distractions.”

As Blaine takes his place, dropping to the floor next to Kurt and crossing his legs, he turns to Sam. The brunette’s cheeky grin is already firmly in place like Sam knew it would be. The blonde wiggles his fingers in an exaggerated wave, mouthing, Behave. It’s wishful thinking, really, but the least Sam can do is try.

“Only if you promise to stop being so distracting,” the shorter boy retorts. They both laugh a little, just subtle enough to avoid prompting an icy glare from their respective teammates. Sam sighs as Blaine shifts across from him, trying to get comfy. It’s going to be a long night.

He rubs his hands together and leans forward on the couch, hanging off the edge of the cushion. “Alright, let’s get this game on then!”

...

Predictably, the game devolves almost immediately.

The room is an explosion of noise and motion. Rachel is too competitive for Sam to keep up with. She keeps barking guesses at Sam’s dramatized impressions like she’s auditioning for a role in a war film, and it’s confusing as hell. Meanwhile, Blaine and Kurt are bickering intently over whether Blaine’s charade for tap-dancing penguin is accurate (of course, Sam knows it’s not, but he values his sexytime and so he’s not going to say anything). In the background (or amidst the chaos, depending on your perspective), Santana and Sebastian are making the game into a gigantic gag, using every turn to act out increasingly suggestive gestures worthy enough to make Kurt turn red.

It all goes completely to hell when Santana grabs a stack of cards and decides to fling them about, tossing them at her partner like ninja stars. With dramatic grace and inelegant yelps, Seb manages to dodge most of the artillery, though Santana’s able to land the occasional hit square in his face. And where Blaine is terrible at guessing, Kurt is apparently shit at miming. Kurt’s pulled the Phantom of the Opera card from the deck and is nearly in tears desperately trying and failing to imitate it.

“You’re useless,” Blaine mutters under his breath, standing next to Kurt to offer his own interpretation. He proceeds then to deliver a melodramatic rendition of The Phantom Sam has ever seen (which isn’t really saying much, considering Sam hasn’t even seen it on Broadway, but still). Kurt scowls at him.

Sam turns back to his own task; he and Rachel are trying to decide whether Titanic counts as only one word or two. “I’m pretty sure it’s two,” Sam claims, scratching his head. “Like, there’s Titanic the movie, and then there’s the boat.”

Rachel narrows her eyes at him, and it sends a little chill down Sam’s spine. That girl can be really spooky when she wants to be. “Do I look like a dictionary to you, Samuel?” It’s supposed to be a rhetorical question, Sam knows, but he can’t resist.

“I dunno, you kinda look like you could fit in a dictionary,” the blonde quips with a grin. The girl’s icy glare is the last thing he sees before a book is flying at his face, whacking him in the arm when he uses his forearm as a shield. “Ow!” he whines, rubbing the injury with a wince. Rachel shoots him a prim, smug smile, clearly the victor. But only because she didn’t get thwacked in the arm with a book!

“B!” Sam calls, because throwing books at each other is fun and all, but they are playing a game, after all. His boyfriend turns to him, expectant smile on his lips, and Sam feels a grin forming when he sees the brunette. “What’s the ruling? Titanic, one word or two?”

He seems to consider the question for a moment, finger on his chin as he contemplates. After a few beats, the curly-haired boy smirks. “Whatever Rachel doesn’t want; we’ll do the opposite.” At this, Santana bursts into a fit of laughter while Rachel releases an indignant squawk.

After Rachel claims to disown the group, Sam lets himself grin, leaning back into the couch. He watches his boyfriend light up the room with his easy charm and disarming smiles that always steal Sam’s breath. Regardless of how unpredictable and utterly chaotic these game nights are, Blaine somehow always manages to make them perfect.

By the time Blaine’s next turn rolls around, he’s already a giggling mess, falling apart at the seams. Sam watches him try to mime “Superman” and it’s not even half-bad. Sam’s surprised, if not slightly impressed even. Of course, it was too good to be true because halfway through, the curly-haired boy slips on the carpet, landing sprawled out on the floor. The game cards flutter around him, one landing on his nose somehow. Blaine stares at it, going cross-eyed, and Sam wonders once again how the boy doesn’t get headaches from that. Crossing his eyes has always made Sam’s head hurt! It isn’t very fair, is all. His boyfriend blows at the piece of paper, trying to get it off him, but he only manages to launch it straight up in the air and back down on his face. The brunette huffs in mock-annoyance for a beat before bursting into laughter. His attempts to rise back to his feet are futile, as his shoulders are shaking so hard that he can’t keep his balance.

“You’re useless!” Kurt hisses, hands thrown up in indignance. His glare slides over to Rachel for a second before snapping back to Blaine. “I don’t know why I even―”

Yeah, like that is going to end well. Sam steps in, cutting Kurt off before he can go on a whole-ass tangent like he inevitably would if no one stopped him. “Alright,” the blonde says, stepping over to help Blaine to his feet. “Time out. Someone’s had too much wine.” Despite his words and the playful tinge of annoyance in his tone, Sam chuckles fondly as he scoops Blaine into his arms with minimal effort. The shorter boy reflexively wraps his arms around his boyfriend’s neck, still laughing as he buries his face in Sam’s shoulder.

Hands on her hips, Rachel stares at them expectantly. “Samuel. Put him down,” she says cooly. “We’re playing to win.”

From somewhere to his right, Sam hears a snort followed by, “Yeah, like that's gonna happen, Berry.” He tries to hide his smile by nuzzling into Blaine’s hair, pretending that he’s kissing Blaine’s head rather than secretly sniggering at Santana’s comment.

“I think Blaine needs a break,” Sam says once he’s regained his bearings. He does not put Blaine down. Take that, Rachel! He grins down at his boyfriend, who’s already gazing up at him, his wide, glossy amber eyes filled with affection and awe. It makes Sam’s heart skip a beat, being looked at like that. So tenderly, so lovingly. The blond clears his throat. “He’s, uh, clearly too drunk to keep up the game.”

Santana smirks, jabbing a finger at the pair. Her fiery eyes are dancing with knowing amusement. “Oh, that’s your excuse? What are you two sneaking off to do, huh?”

Kurt wrinkles his nose while Rachel scoffs indignantly. Sam can almost hear her squeaky upset voice, The audacity! Blaine just giggles, nuzzling Sam’s neck. “I don’t think you want me to answer that,” he responds, the mischief in his voice clear as day.

“Gross!” Kurt exclaims, throwing a pillow at them as Sam carries Blaine toward the hallway. He misses by a landslide as predicted, and when Sam passes by the weapon of choice, he kicks it back toward the living room, flashing Kurt a wink, his tongue poking out.

With a mock-salute, Sebastian shakes his head and says, heavy with amusement, “Godspeed, Evans. Don’t break anything.”

Sam grins at that. This is one of the main reasons he and Blaine love crashing here so much; the commentary is hilarious! Sebastian’s approval is always welcome and feeds Sam’s pride a bit, Santana’s sexual remarks are funny and somewhat accurate, and Kurt and Rachel’s indignant exasperation has the ability to bring Sam up from any bad moodswings he may have. Not that Blaine’s company alone wouldn’t fix that immediately.

As they disappear around the corner, Sam can hear the glare in her voice as Rachel addresses the remaining players. “That’s it. We’re locking them out next time.” Although her voice is resolute, Sam knows it’s not going to happen. Rachel and Kurt have been bullshitting about revoking his and Blaine’s loft privileges since the first time they'd been caught in action, but they’ve never actually followed through with the threats.

Santana’s cackle echoes through the corners of the apartment. “Oh sure, Berry. Like that’ll stop them.”