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wheelsup · 4 years ago

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okay but can you imagine spencer washing your hair for you?

like, i never (ever) let anyone (at all) touch my hair, but i feel like he'd be really gentle about it, and there is just something so soft and tender to me about the idea of washing someone's hair for them 🥺

that’s my dream <3 ik you didnt specifically ask for a blurb but i think about this very often. i wrote two versions of this, but this one (with two bickering best friends who are v much in love) won my heart.

wc: 1.6k contains: friends (to crushes, maybe ;) ), injured reader. gn!reader

“Spence, I promise you that I can do it by myself,” you huffed, attempting to yank off your tank top as you walked toward the hotel bathroom, using only one arm while trying to keep the other as still as possible.

“I’d be more inclined to believe you if you didn’t sound like you were going to cry,” he snickered, following hot on your trail as you tried to escape his hovering.

“You’re being dramatic.”

“Oh really? Lift your arm up, then.” He leaned his hip against the marble counter, crossing his arms over his chest as he waited for you to do it. One obnoxiously smug eyebrow arched on his forehead.

Sometime during the case, you’d gotten into a brief tousle with a suspect, who just had to run away when approached. If Morgan had been there, you wouldn’t have even batted a lash, but he wasn’t. So not only had you detained him by yourself, you also wound up with a minor pulled muscle in your shoulder.

You shot him a sarcastic smile, toothless and irritated, and raised your right arm into the air. He let out an airy scoff.

“Other one, smart ass.”

Your arm dropped down to your side, your smile falling with it as you turned sharply towards the shower.

“Look, I’m disgusting right now. So either I suck it up and shower, or you’re going to smell me until the day we solve this case.”

Spencer’s nose crinkled at the gross truth. He wasn’t ungentlemanly enough to tell you, but sharing a bed with a coworker was quite a quick way to discover if they were in need of a shower or not. Your shoulder might be out of service, but both of you could agree that hygiene was a bigger priority.

“You can’t even move. Just… just let me help you.”

You snorted. “Nice try, Reid. I’m not letting you shower with me.”

He rolled his eyes at your use of his last name. You only called him that when you were annoyed with him. He pushed off the counter and turned to the wall, hitting the light switch and earning a shriek from you as the room suddenly went dark.

“I won’t look,” he shrugged, amusing no one but himself.

“You’re a clown, you know that?” you muttered under your breath, drawing back the shower curtain and fumbling around, searching for the knobs in pitch black. “Absolutely fucking theatrical.”

You found them moments later and ran the water, testing the temperature on the back of your hand. By the time it went from cold to warm, you noticed that he still hadn’t moved. From the sliver of light peeking under the door, you could make out just his silhouette in the corner, perched on the vanity.

He was being stubborn about this. That, and the comforting fact that you couldn’t see a single thing –– thankfully, not even his face –– wore you down.

“Close your eyes,” you murmured.

“It’s already pitch black in here ––”

“Close your eyes, Reid.”

Sighing through his nose, he did just that. To make sure you knew it, and also maybe just to be annoying, he made a show of getting off the counter and turning himself around to face the wall. You peeled out of your clothes as quickly as you could. In the process, you caught the long shower curtain under the heel of your foot and, as you stumbled over it, accidentally dragged it along, sending the metal curtain hooks screeching as they slid along the bar.

The second you found your ground, you immediately shot daggers into the back of Spencer’s head, waiting for him to make a joke. As if he could feel them, he bit back his quip. Not without letting a barely contained cackle slip under his breath.

“Okay,” you warned, stepping into the shower. Grabbing the end of the shower curtain, you pulled it tightly over your body to cover yourself as you poked your chin out to talk to him. “I’m in.”

Spencer turned and approached the shower, eyes still shut with his hands out in front of him, feeling the walls for guidance. He was still mocking you for making him close his eyes. You raised your brows; he must’ve thought he was quite funny.

“You look like Velma when she loses her glasses.”

That knocked the funny bone right out of him. His hands dropped to his sides.

“Just get your hair wet and hand me the shampoo.”

You drew the curtain shut again as you dipped your head under the shower stream, coming back moments later with sopping wet hair and a little bottle of complimentary hotel shampoo.

He let you sit on the floor of the bathtub, just slightly removed from the spray of the water. Your back was to him, as he kneeled down on the tile floor, just outside of the bathtub so he didn’t have to get wet. You bent your knees to your chest, resting your chin on them.

Spencer first pushed up the sleeves of his sweater as far as he could before deciding to remove it altogether for the sake of protecting the wool against stray water. The cuffs of his work shirt were unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows as he got to work.

Taking a healthy quarter-sized amount of shampoo into his palm, he lathered it between his hands before running soapy fingers through your scalp. The pads of his fingertips softly dug in as he carefully massaged the shampoo in.

When he started working his fingers in patterns, putting pressure near your temples and increasing it as he dragged them up the curve of your scalp, you let your eyes close. He was getting rid of a headache you didn’t even realize you had.

The tension you’d been carrying in your shoulders eased a little, and it made him think about how much you probably needed this. One of his hands came down to massage the muscle between your neck and your good shoulder, knowing it was best to just let the hot water do its magic on the bad one.

When the shampoo had been sufficiently lathered, he stood up and detached the shower head, bringing it down to you so you didn’t have to move. You leaned your head back for him as he carefully rinsed the soap out.

You weren’t going to ask, but thank God Spencer told you to hand him the conditioner next. This, he slathered all over the ends of your hair, making sure all of it was sufficiently covered in conditioner before loosely twisting it into a low, makeshift pony for you.

“Mm. I was about to ask how you’re so good at haircare,” you chuckled lowly to yourself, in a half-sleepy voice with your forehead resting on your knees. Dangerously close to falling asleep. “Then I remembered what you used to look like.”

You had a lazy smile on your face just thinking about the days where Spencer’s hair used to be down to his shoulders. He looked so pretty like that (not that he didn’t look pretty now, too), you always wondered why he got rid of it.

“Remember when I got shot in the knee?” he hummed, returning to work your shoulder. He adorned a tiny smile of his own as he started to reminisce. “You came by my house at least once a week. Brought me meals, watched movies with me. Helped distract me from the pain. Even drove me to my physical therapy appointments.”

You mm-hmm’d that you remembered.

“You pretty much did everything shy of helping me bathe. Though, I feel like you would’ve helped with that, too, if I asked.”

You both laughed at that. You hadn’t really noticed the parallels of your situation, being injured and needing his help for once. He was happy to repay the favor.

“I’ll, uh. Let you wash your body yourself,” he said, coming out of his daydream for a moment. He rinsed his hands off and got up, patting down his wet hands on his trousers. With one nod from you to confirm that you’d be able to do it, he quickly exited the bathroom to give you privacy.

You emerged seventeen minutes later, clad in pajamas with towel-dried hair. Spencer was still awake as you crawled onto the bed beside him, more than ready for bed after that. He looked to the side to ask you how the rest of your shower was, and before he could get it out, you shuffled up next to him, winding one arm around his and resting your head on his chest.

“I take it you had a good shower?” he laughed. This was one of his “I told you so” moments, and for once, you didn’t mind it.

“Mhm,” you smiled, chuckling behind it as you shut your eyes. You were falling asleep fast. “Spence, the scalp massage…”

“Was good, right?” he boasted, inflating his own ego a bit.

You nodded against his shoulder, not caring if you helped blow up his ego another two sizes. Burrowing deeper into the covers, nestling tighter against Spencer, you got one more quip in before falling asleep. “S’good that I think I have a crush on you now.”

Joke or not, he pulled the blanket higher until it reached your chin, holding you with both arms and kissing the top of your head before falling asleep himself.

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#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x gn!reader #spencer reid self insert #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fic #spencer reid blurb #criminal minds fic #b a queue

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hunnybadgerv · 5 years ago

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Pear-Shaped | Far Cry 5 | Tayen Quick

Summary: Deputy Tayen Quick finds herself thrust into the middle of a cult uprising and at a crossroads of conscience and self-preservation. It turns out to be a defining moment for her and the citizens of this picturesque part of Montana.

a/n: The first in a series of one-shots that piece together Deputy Tayen Quick’s responses and adventures in Hope County and the Holland Valley—before, during, and after the Reaping by the Project of Eden’s Gate and the Seed Family. It is fairly canon-typical, but knowing how I tend to do things, it is not unlikely for there to be canon divergence and rewriting.

AO3 LINK

Pear-Shaped

-1-

Warrant service. Helicopter crash. Shoot outs and a car chase. Driving off a bridge into the river. Deputy Tayen Quick’s head was still spinning even though the adrenaline had stopped pumping and the world seemed not to be gunning specifically for her for a few seconds. A radio broadcast told her she was still on the minds of the group from Eden’s Gate—after all their preacher, Joseph Seed, had started the Reaping, whatever that was, and now he had them looking for her, presumably to add her to his collection of law enforcement prisoners. It made her head pound worse.

Dutch had proved convincing enough to trust, but it was more than that. She couldn’t get it out of her head. That voice, Joseph’s singing. Even as she stripped out of her uniform, the glint of the star she’d worn on her chest gleaming in the low light of the bunker caught her eye. Her thumb ran over the flag on the shoulder. She’d been wearing that for nearly 15 years before she took this job—12 years in the service and 3 on the force back home.

Sinking to the floor, she leaned against the cold lockers. The sensation grounded her. She laid her head back against the metal and closed her eyes. “You came out here because it was supposed to be quiet.”

Dutch’s voice carried down the hall. “This place was never quiet.”

Her head snapped toward the sound, but he wasn’t anywhere near her. She sat and listened.

“That’s just an illusion city folk have about the country. They think all this space, big sky, mountains, and wilderness makes for a quiet, pastoral existence. It’s not really true. On the surface, it might look like that. But most of the time, the only difference is that people are just too far away to see the real shit.”

He sighed. “That’s what happened with those Eden Gate people. No one batted an eye when they built their church. Or their commune. They kept to themselves mostly. Sure, they held their revivals, but there’s not a church in 300 miles that doesn’t do that. No one realized anything was askew until it was too late.”

“Then the marshal came in with his warrant and we kicked the shit out of the hornet’s nest,” she added.

“Yeah,” he said. There was accusation in the tone of his voice, but that wasn’t all. She couldn’t put her finger on what else she thought she heard.

“Yeah, well. I told you I’d help as best I can.”

“And if that’s not enough?” he asked.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She didn’t get an answer. His boot falls moved down the hall, leaving her to imagine all on her own.

His bunker reminded her too much of her own place—bare, sparse furnishings, pictures of old friends all in uniform, a few plaques and commendations. It was almost like looking into her own future, and it gave Tayen the chills. Turning her back on the decor, she stared into the locker. She stripped down and traded her uniform pants for a pair of standard issue camo trousers. Of course, they were not her size, but she used her own belt to cinch them up. She pulled on a black tank top and slid into a red and black flannel shirt which she left unbuttoned and untucked.

Stepping back into her boots, Deputy Quick shuffled down the hall, leaving behind the trappings of her position—for now. Dutch was right, wandering around the county in her uniform was going to paint a bigger bolder target on her back, and she didn’t need that. Not if she was going to get help.

“Hey,” Tayen said, as she stopped in the doorway. Her eyes darted around the room, taking it all in. The bank of ham and CB radios, the map with photos and pins galore, sparsely populated shelves, a gun safe—this guy was prepared for some next level shit to go down. She’d heard of prepper types, but this felt extreme. “Um,” she said when he didn’t answer, “you got anything down here to eat.”

Dutch, staring at the radios that only belched out static, turned his head and sighed. “Next door down. Start with the cans first.”

She gave him a nod, pushing a hand through her chin length inky black hair before she moved. The events of the night before drained her, physically and emotionally. In the kitchen/living area, she found a can of stew easy enough and a can opener. Once the smell hit her, her stomach rumbled and twisted into knots at the same time as a dilemma formed in her addled mind—eat it cold or warm it up.

“You can wait two fricken minutes, Tayen,” she told herself, opting for a bowl and sticking it in the microwave. Dutch checked on her a little later, as she was inhaling the calories needed to refuel her.

He said nothing and just walked over and tapped the button under a blinking light on his answering machine. A woman’s voice, frantic and afraid filled the room. It stopped the deputy’s scarfing and she stared at the device, clearly affected by what she was hearing. She might not know Rae-Rae, but it was clear by that message that something was off.

“People here could use your help here, deputy.”

She let go of her spoon and leaned back against the counter. “Don’t you think the best way I can help them is to let people know what’s going on?”

“Before the radio signals went to shit, I heard dozens of calls saying that the tunnel out of the valley was blocked. And three maydays from local pilots saying they’d been shot at and were going down.”

The bowl rested against the side of her thigh, as she pressed her fingers over her forehead.

“You know what I’m saying, girl.” His eyes flicked from her face to the black ink peeking out from beneath her rolled up sleeve. “You’ve been there before.”

“Yeah, I have, old man.” She straightened, tension rolling her shoulders back. “That part of my life is over.” Her feet carried her to the sink where she deposited the half-eaten bowl of stew. Both her palms pressed against the counter as she leaned there. “And I got no intention of going back into hell,” she muttered.

“Might be too late for that.”

Deep down, she knew he was right. She’d seen that compound, seen Joseph riling his forces and setting them loose. She’d been shot at and nearly killed a dozen times the night before. Somehow, she managed to not wind up captured or dead. Yeah, this was as deep as any other hell she had ever known.

She let out a long exhale and leaned on her elbows. Dutch just patted her on the shoulder and left her with her thoughts. Time seemed to stand still as she stared at the rust gathering at the edge of the sink where it met the countertop. It took her longer than she would ever own up to, but eventually, she came around, but she was determined to do it right.

Whatever that meant. She was an officer of the peace, not a soldier under orders. Her job was to protect these people. Of course, she didn’t know precisely what that meant or how it would have to look. With her decision made, Tayen grabbed her bowl and wandered down the hall back to Dutch’s control room, as she deemed it.

“All right. Fill me in.”

Dutch turned and gave her a grim nod. “This is what I’ve been able to piece together so far,” he began.

The deputy listened intently, occasionally jotting notes on the pad she always carried when she was on shift. Something told her this was going to be the never-ending shift from hell.

-2-

Less than 300 yards from the door of Dutch’s bunker, Tayen got to see traces of the Peggie’s Reaping.

“No, don’t!”

She froze at the scream. It was followed by the telltale sound of flesh on flesh, a punch more likely. The groaning resounded through the trees. She crept forward as quietly as she could manage.

“You will repent,” a wild haired, bearded man told a captive who was kneeling in the mud with his hands behind his back.

“I didn’t do anything to deserve this,” the man replied.

Her hand went to her sidearm, well, Dutch’s pistol really. Her teeth ground together as she considered it. The cult members were both armed. Even if she shot first, one of them could still get lucky and get a shot off. With a slow exhale, she looked around her on the ground. Finding a weighty limb with a good bit of heft to it, she moved through the brush as the man and his prisoner continued to argue.

She knew she would have to move fast. At the edge of the high grass, she darted at the woman, whose back was to her and bashed her with a two-handed swing of the branch she’d found. Then she took two steps and sprang at the man. He dropped his pistol when she got her arm around his neck.

The captive threw himself backward to avoid the pair.

Using her body against his in a way to facilitate leverage on her hold, his clawing soon turned toward patting. Then his hands slid away from her arm as his knees buckled. Tayen Quick didn’t release him until they were both on the ground. Once the man was down, she finally loosened her grip and checked his pulse. The slow thud under her fingertips was a relief.

“Is he—?” the captive asked.

“Breathing,” she replied.

“Christ.”

Her hands frisked over the man’s back, pulling extra clips from a pocket of his cargo pants. She also stripped him of a pocketknife and a pair of flex cuffs, which she tightened around the unconscious man’s wrists before flipping him over. She inspected the knife; it was rusty and dull and probably couldn’t cut through room temperature butter. “Who the hell goes into the woods without a knife?” she muttered at his complete ridiculousness.

She moved to the man in khaki and sawed at the duct tape around his wrists with the shitty pocketknife she’d found on the captor.

“Thank God you were out here,” the captive said. He rubbed at his wrists once she finally got him free. He just stared at her as she moved away from him.

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

“Where’d you come from?” she asked.

“Working at the park observatory up on the hill. They just came out of nowhere.”

“How many?” Her questions and her tone were curt as she moved to the other cult member. Her fingers searched for a pulse first. Her shoulders shrank when she didn’t find one. This wasn’t what her job was supposed to look like, she recalled as she crouched over the body. Her gaze flicked back to the unconscious one. She couldn’t leave him anything he could use to hurt anyone.

“Dozen. They were just suddenly there. I never saw them coming.” The man shook his head and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Not that I ever thought to look,” he muttered.

“And why would you?” she asked, glancing up at him with her hands in the dead woman’s pockets.

He huffed, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Look, I have … well, had some supplies up there. You’re welcome to anything you might need. Anything the Peggies didn’t already take.”

“Appreciate it,” Tayen said with a genuine smile.

“Least I could do,” he replied.

She laughed wryly. “Don’t worry about it. It’s my job.”

Grabbing the pistols, the two had been carrying, she offered one to the ranger as they hiked up the hill. “You know how to use one of these?” she asked.

“C’mon, miss. I’m from these parts. Grew up shooting.”

“Well, then here you go, but try to keep your head down.”

He nodded. “For sure.” They continued on in silence. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Why’d you leave that guy tied up back there?”

Tayen’s smooth gait stuttered. And the first answer that came to mind, because I’m not a murderer, was immediately countered by the realization that she had, not seconds before choking that guy out, killed his backup. “I just …” She searched her mind for a reasonable response. “I’m with the Sheriff’s office,” she finally said like it was a perfectly valid explanation.

While he nodded, the knit of his brow told her it didn’t really make sense to him either.

“I’m supposed to protect and serve, not kill with impunity,” she added.

“Don’t think I’m not grateful, because I am. Really. I’d be dead or who knows where if you hadn’t come along. I was just … curious.”

Quick nodded. “Yeah, I get it.” And while she understood the impetus for the question; her answer to it still left her a little stumped, even if it felt right. She wasn’t an executioner, wasn’t a soldier anymore, she was a cop—meant to protect the people not be their executioner. She rubbed at the back of her neck and mounted the stairs once they reached the station.

#Far Cry 5 #Dutch Roosevelt #Tayen Quick #Pear-Shaped #Badger Scribbles

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long-bodyswap · 6 years ago

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I Wanna Be A Coyboy

by aussiebootboi

Billy was a weedy kind of guy. His parents had died when he was 5 year old and his grandmother had reared him. Although, small of build, he made up for it in being a bright and studious sort of guy. And, although you wouldn't know from just looking at him, he had a proud ancestory of Incan heritage. His great -great Grandfather had been of mixed Spanish and Incan blood. Their family had originally been of noble birth, and many tales of strange rites and incantations had been recounted at by his grandmother.Sadly, his grandmother had died when he was 15, and he had been forced into foster care, seeing he was still under legal age. He hated them.

Their treatment was not overly honourable - basically they just wanted the government allowance and had treated Billy poorly. Eventually, after 18 months of poor treatment, he had run away. His closest friend in high school had moved to Florida a few years before and Billy was sure the friend's family would take him in & help support him as a new foster family.He had been lucky with a number of hitched rides with long haul truck drivers, but his luck had finally run out. Here he was in a small town in mid Texas, and no accommodating truck driver for over a day. He was now sick of the sight of the dusty gas pumps of this run-down gas station and was wishing his luck would change soon.Late in the afternoon, hot golden sun beating down on the iron roof of the station's pump cover, Billy was half woken up but the double ring in the station office as car tyres ran over the black bell cord.

He looked up and saw this beaten up white wide convertible pull up at one of the bowzers. The guy who got out of the car was tall, about 6'4" , around 30 years old, and was so overly muscley, you would have thought he lived in a gym. He had a strong jaw line, wild, uncombed dirty blonde hair that hung down to his shoulders and cold, blue eyes. He wore a dusty, stained white tank top that pulled tightly over his enormous pecs, a polyester Hawaiian shirt over the top, unbuttoned, and his biceps looked like they were going to burst the short sleeves. His jeans were tight around his huge, beefy thighs and he wore a pair of snake skin cowboy boots.

The man oozed sexuality. He was one hot-looking porn stud. As he got out of the car, he snatched from the back seat a dusty, cream Stenson and put it on his head.Billy was mesmerised. He was still a closeted gay guy and his man answered all his fantasies. Billy felt a slight tinging in his cock as the guy came towards him."Do you work here?" The voice was strong, arrogant, a deep bass coming up from that deep chest and was definitely Texan."No." Billy's voice was weedy and high in comparison.

"I think the guy is in the garage to the side."As he said that, a fat, balding man, about 45- 50 years, wearing a blue boiler suit came from the side of the gas station; he used a bit of cotton wading to wipe his hands."Hi Jim-Bob, what you up to today?""Just in town for some supplies. Fill 'er up, Bud."The garage owner pumped gas into the convertible, all the while making small talk to Jim-Bob about the weather and wheat and corn prices. Jim-Bob followed the mechanic into the office, his heels making a clunking sound on the tarmac.

He came out of the office, slotting a packet of Marlbro Red's into the top pocket of his Hawaiian shirt. As Jim-Bob made his way to the car, Billy summoned the courage to talk to him."Excuse me, sir." His voice weedy and slightly whiney."Yeah, kid." Jim-Bob said, turning on his heel and making a scraping sound on the tarmac."Where you headed?""What's it to you?""Um.. I'm trying to get to Florida and I wondered if I could hitch a lift to somewhere where I could link up with some interstaters.""Well. I could take you as far as my farm entrance and then you would have to walk about 5 miles to the Interstate Junction.""Oh, that would be great, Sir.""Yeah, get rid of him for me, will ya Jim-Bob. The kid's been hanging around here too long.

He's starting to become a nuisance." The garage owner said, from the doorway of his office."Hop in, Kid. And stop calling me Sir." Jim-Bob threw his hat into the back seat, threw himself into the driver's seat and started the engine. Billy quickly collected his rucksack and bag and got into the car.With a jolt they had left the garage and were speeding through the main part of the town and shortly out onto the long flat plains. Jim- Bob opened the packet of cigarettes and lit one up."You want one?""No. I'm allergic to cigarette smoke.""Fuck! Well, seeing its my car, I won't ask you if you mind, cause I don't." Jim-Bob was obviously non-sympathetic to the non-smoker's cause.There was a stoney silence. The low, undulating countryside: fencing racing along the sides of the road, seemed to stretch to eternity."You got a girlfriend."Billy, replied in the negative."Shit!! You some kind of queer or something.

Fuck! Have I got me some queer with me.""No!" But Billy's voice quavered slightly. He was frightened. He was almost 17 now, and for a while he was fairly sure he was gay, although he was still closeted about his sexuality. The look of a strong, muscley guy turned him on. The smell from this guy in the driver's seat, that musky male smell from a hard working guy in the heat, so close to him now, was arousing him and he didn't want to show his feelings or the hint of an erection that was threatening to reveal itself."I have been too busy to date girls, that's all. I took a girl to the last End of Year Ball." Billy justified himself."Did you screw her?""No." Billy said in a reflex manner."Then you could be a fag after all."There was no reply to that and Billy kept silent. The miles continued to roll by. But Billy was still drawn to those cowboy boots. The way Jim-Bob had walked in them at the garage: so arrogantly and with manly authority. He wished he could be like that; but he would always be a weedy guy. He vaguely remembered his father being a stick-like man: no bulk and his business shirts hanging off his cavenous chest.

During this period of retrospection, he was now staring at Jim-Bob's snakeskin boots."Jesus, what you staring at, Boy! I swear you're some kind of fag.""I'm sorry." Billy said. Then off the cuff: " I bet you score big time with the babes in those boots. I want a pair when I get a bit older and have worked out more in the gym to bulk up." He felt he had got himself out of that hole."You're damn, right there mister. Do I pull them in. The sound these mean mother-fuckers make in a bar, has those hot cock-thirsty pussies just wanting it: they are panting for it and man! They can't get enough of this piece of meat. Kid, you have a long way to go to get anywhere in the league of this stud."Billy could just see this guy leering at the women. He was personally disgusted and although he was in awe of the sexual power Jim-Bob was giving off, he loathed the type of guy he represented.

Jim-Bob pulled over sharply to the side of the road and turned to Billy."Well, kid. This is the end of your trip. That's the entrance to my farm over there and I don't plan to take you any further. About 5 miles straight ahead you will find the Interstate junction. You should be lucky enough to get yourself a ride to where you want to go. OK, shift that faggy arse of yours."As Jim-Bob was taking to Billy, a motorbike was making its way towards them. Jim-Bob had glanced at it, but hadn't taken much notice. As the bike went past the entrance to Jim-Bob's farm, the rear tyre picked up some of the scattered gravel. One stone fairly hit Jim-Bob on the side of the head, just above his ear and he slumped forward. The bike, unknowingly, continued along the road, deaf to Billy's calls. Billy felt Jim-Bob's neck and could still feel a strong pulse.

A trickle of brilliantly coloured blood rolled down the side of his head.Oh God! What to do, thought Billy. He looked across the road and saw the mailbox and a dirt track making its way over a small rise. That's his farm. Maybe there some help there or at least a phone. With considerable effort and some time, Billy moved the limp body over to the shot-gun seat. In all that time, not another vehicle had passed. Fortunately the car was automatic and Billy was able to drive the car up the dirt track. About a mile down to it, he came to a low, run down farmhouse. The front verandah was full of old, rusty machinery and one corner was at a sharp angle where the floor stumps had rotted and no longer supported the verandah poles. Billy drove to the rear of the house, where the car was obviously parked and it was shaded. Manoeuvring Jim-Bob's body was going to be a difficult task. Billy called out, but no one answered.

He walked up to the house and knocked on the screen door. No one answered and he decided to go inside. The kitchen was gloomy after the bright back yard. Dishes were piled in the sink; empty beer bottles were stacked by the side of the fridge. It soon became apparent that Jim-Bob lived alone. Only one side of the bed had been slept in and there were only his clothes to be seen from the open closet door.With boots leaving furrows in the dust and lots of breath breaks, Billy finally dragged Jim-Bob and dumped him onto the bed like a sack of potatoes. An unconscious body is a dead weight and Billy wished he had spent time in the gym.

Back in the kitchen, Billy found the wall phone and the red-boarded letter from the phone company disconnecting the phone for not paying the bill. There was no way of getting a doctor out there and Billy was frightened to leave Jim-Bob in case he died. A runway didn't have a very strong case in court and no judge or jury would believe that it was accidental and not a robbery. Billy put a cool, damp cloth on Jim-Bob's head, checked his pulse again and washed the blood which had now congealed. The pulse was strong, so it was obviously a case of concussion.He then proceeded to undress Jim-Bob.

The manly sweat that came off from the boots was deeply arousing. Billy took deep breaths and fantasised a little about having this strong man, now being an overly gay man, taking Billy up into his arms and hugging and kissing him, and saying endearments. Billy returned from his dream and looked down on the homophobic bully lying on the bed. He loosed the belt buckle - a large circular, shiny tooled piece of silvery metal - and undid the buttons.

The monster of a flaccid cock fell out of the now-loosen boxers. At least 6" and thick, Jim-Bob had at least not lied about his piece of meat: it would easily grow into 7 or 8 inches when erect. Billy wanted to desperate touch it but was afraid in case Jim-Bob woke. He did manage to lightly brush his hand against it.His ordeal had made him tired and so, after putting the groceries in the fridge and bringing in his gear, he searched for a knee rug.

He made himself comfortable on the sofa and started to reflect on the day. This lead to other recent unhappy events and this invariably caused him to reminisce on happier times with his loving grandmother.With his mind wandering even more, thoughts of his attraction towards Jim-Bob began to form: that strong, muscley body, those hot snakeskin boots, the tight jeans showing a decent package. A tingling in his dick started up and he developed interesting fantasies with what he could do with that hot body. Words popped into his head: something vaguely he could remember from his grandmother. "Irikalimabro. Tradi om, broroo dinda, broroo dixi, broroo dinda, fore rimni dint crawlix, fore rimini dint crawlix." With these words chanting, softly in his head, he fell asleep.

* * * * *

Billy woke with a splitting headache. Light was streaming from the window and it was obviously morning. His head felt unbearable and he had problems focusing. With some effort he concentrated on the brown shape across the room. Eventually he could make out some checked shirts hanging in the closet. He then realised that he was lying on a bed.

Where was he? This wasn't home or anywhere he recognised. His vision was steadily cleared and he could make out through the dirty net curtains a dusty yard and an open white convertible between him and a rundown barn with one door hanging off its hinge.He vaguely remembered having seen that car before recently.

Where??? Through the fog of the headache, it dawned on him where he had seen the car before and then the previous day's events converged onto his fuddled brain. He sat up abruptly. Where was Jim-Bob, and why was he now sleeping in the bed? He turned to get out of bed and as he did, the room spun. When his vertigo had subsided, Billy made another attempt to stand up. As he did his jeans fell to the floor and there was a metalic clunk where the blet buckle hit the wooden floor. He bent down to pull up his pants and then had to sit down abruptly. These weren't his jeans!!

The belt buckle was the same as the buckle he had loosened from Jim-Bob yesterday!Suddenly he felt his stomach erupt in nausea. He was definitely going to be sick real quick. He stood up and lurched out of the room and quickly made his way to the bathroom, where he was violently sick. Waves of nausea washed over him and for some minutes he just held onto the toilet bowl and wished it would all end soon. Eventually, the sickness passed and when he felt strong enough he made his way to the sink. He splashed water on his face and then gasped as he looked into the mirror.His stomach lurched again, but it was empty and he gave a loud, hollow burp instead. There, staring at him, his face bleached white was Jim-Bob's face.

Gradually he surveyed the rest of his body. Yep! Everything he saw was what he associated with Jim-Bob: the nicotine-stained fingers, the strong masculine hands with curly blond hairs on the wrist, the Hawaiian overshirt, the tight blue jeans, the strong jaw that was lightly shadowed with beard stubble, the wavy dirty-blond hair down to the broad, muscley shoulders."Oh, my God!!" Jim-Bob's deep voice sounded back at him. "Jesus! What happened.""Fuck!!" and a high pitched squeal came from the sitting room further in the house. Billy recognised that voice: it was what he thought of as his.Billy rushed into the sitting room.

The boy was standing by the sofa, looking in at the grimy, bevelled mirror over the fireplace. He turned when he saw Jim-Bob standing in the doorway."What the fuck have you done, you freak!!" Billy squealed at Jim-Bob. "You fuckin' faggot! You fruit!" He then lunged at Jim-Bob, his hands ready to punch the life out of him.Jim-Bob put his hands up to protect his face. Billy aimed at punch at Jim-Bob's stomach. Billy reeled back, holding his hand and crumpling up with pain. "Fuck!!" he explained. Jim-Bob put a hand out to Billy's arm to see if he was alright. Billy pulled away and then lunged to make another hit. Jim-Bob reacted by seizing Billy's wrist, griping it tightly. Billy tried to pull away and cringed, "Shit! That hurts.""Then stop." Jim-Bob's voice boomed. He was having problems adjusting to his new body. He didn't realise he that much strength in his body now. He hadn't meant to hurt Billy, but you could definitely see red markings on the boy's wrist where he had gripped him. He would also have to get used to not talking as loud.

He was shouting now and he had only intended to speak to the kid in a normal voice.The reaction of hearing his voice from his old body caused Billy to break down and cry. He was obviously distressed and confused. "Hey," Jim-Bob said. "I don't know what's happened. Hopefully it's a temporary thing. But no matter, I'm not leaving you till all this is sorted out.""What happened? I last remember giving you a lift and dropping you off outside my farm.""You were hit in the head by stones thrown up by a motorbike. I brought you up here, put you to bed and then I fell asleep and somehow a switch happened in the night.""Yeah, well if I was hit in the head so hard, how come there is no bruise or headache?" Billy sneered."That's because I have the headache and cut," Jim-Bob moved his hair to reveal the cut above his ear. "And that's why I'm off to get a shower and take some headache tablets." Jim-Bob turned and retreated to the bathroom.

Finding some pills in the medicine cabinet, he stripped. He stared at the stud like body in the mirror. He was one Hot dude now: rippling muscles, huge pecs and biceps, a ripped 6-pack. His dream had come true. He was getting a hard-on just looking at himself.He entered the shower and started soaping himself, luxuriating at the feeling of running his hands over his tight muscles. When he came to his cock, he saw a thick, yellow rim of dick cheese."Jesus, dirty pig." He explained. He started washing around the head when he felt a wave of erotic sensations washing over his body. Man! did that feel good. He did it again, rubbing his thumb under the skin: the sensation was incredible. He started stroking himself: it was soo good. His cock was stiffening now, a monster 8 inches and thick, ropey veins along the shaft. He was pumping this muscle monster now and when he couldn't hold back any more, his legs bent, he released a hot, ropey stream of cum all up the shower wall.

He kept pumping and the fire hose of cum kept pouring out. Exhausted, he sat down in the shower, feeling the warm water washing over his head. He had never shot that much or so intensely before. A small river of cum was trickling down the wall nearby. With a finger he scouped some of it up and licked it. It tasted salty and slightly sweet. Man! one of the best things he had ever tasted. He sure wanted to do that again soon.He rubbed himself down, enjoying the sensations of the rough towel against his tight muscles. Into the bedroom, naked, his cock still red and swinging, he made his way to the closet. A white wife-beater, a cleaner Hawaiian shirt, tight black jeans and the same white snakeskin cowboy boots. He looked at himself in the mirror, now that he was dressed and liked what he saw. He had power, presence, strength.

He could feel the boots on his feet and the leather shaft rubbing slightly against his calves. He was growing a hard-on again because he was finding himself so sexy and Hot.Back in the bathroom, to return the towel, he bent down and as he stood up he hit his head on the edge of the cupboard. "Shit!" he said and rubbed his head. Boy! I must be tired, he thought, because I never swear. This is all been a little too stressful this morning.On the sofa, Billy was lounging, an unhappy or perplexed expression on his face. "Breakfast, or shower," Jim-Bob asked him."Breakfast. I don't need a shower.""No way, boy. While you are in my body, you are going to continue to treat it the way I did. And that means regular washing. OK. Breakfast it is, and then the shower." Jim-Bob decided he needed to be forceful with Billy from the start. Why waste this strength and power he was feeling. With these muscles, he knew he could force Billy to do almost anything he wanted.Breakfast was basically a silent affair.

Billy decided he didn't want to be communicative and munched morosely throughout the entire meal. Jim-Bob then ordered a day of cleaning the house. Dishes were washed; laundry washed and hung on the line (Jim-Bob found a mountain of dirty clothes piled up by the side of the bed); vacuuming and mopping of floors. Throughout all this, Billy had needed regular cigarette breaks. Jim-Bob didn't like the idea of him sullying his body but also recognised that it was hard to make a person quit cold turkey, and Billy still had cravings. Jim-Bob reckoned they had worked hard enough for the first day and recommended a bath for Billy. Billy, tired after the work and recent ordeal, agreed.All through the day, Billy had asked Jim-Bob how this strange phenomenon could have happened. Jim-Bob was as ignorant as Billy, but had decided to make the most of it and was sure it was a temporary condition.

He wanted to return to his old self and get to Florida and continue his studies and start his new life.From the bathroom came a muffled "Fuck!" "What is it now," Jim-Bob asked through the door."Kid, you have one average sized dick. How am I going to snatch pussy with this thing. Its almost useless.""Yeah, well you'll get used to it.""Does this mean I'm a queer now?""That's up to you. You sure don't sound like one, although it probably wouldn't hurt you to learn some tolerance.""Well, fuck you!" came the reply and then silence.Later they both had an afternoon nap and then proceeded to prepare the evening meal.

The bath seemed to have soothed Billy, because he was finally even-tempered and personable. As they were preparing the vegetables, Jim-Bob slipped with the knife and nicked his finger."Shit!" he said before sucking his finger and hopping around the room. "Oh Man! Shit, that hurts."It was a small cut and after lightly bandaging it, they continued the preparation, although Jim-Bob couldn't help musing that that was about the fourth or fifth time he had sworn that day. This was surprising because he never blasphemed with anything stronger than a Jesus or Damn.Dinner was a successful meal. Billy was in a friendly, conversant mood and started asking questions about being on the road and the reasons why he was, considering he wasn't the normal type of hitcher.

After the dinner, they moved out onto the side porch to view the sunset and just rest. Billy suggested they both have a beer. Jim-Bob hated the taste and smell of beer and declined. But Billy insisted and to be concillitory, he accepted. A bottle was tossed to him and he cracked it open. The hops fragrance waffed out and he steeled himself for gagging that normally ensued. It didn't happen. The smell was rather enticing instead. He was liking this scent after all. He took a swig. What was this stuff?? It tasted fantastic. He swigged again."Hey! I thought you didn't like beer.""Yeah, I know. Normally I don't. What brand is this??""Bud." Billy said.Well Jim-Bob had tried Bud before and it definitely had never tasted like this before. Maybe it was bottled differently in each state."No. All comes out of one brewery, as far as I know," was Billy's answer.Jim-Bob quickly finished off his beer and reached for another.

Billy declined his offer of having another. He wasn't enjoying the taste as much as usual and thought maybe this case had gone off or something. They watched the encroaching gloom of evening, and it was the insects that finally forced them inside.A game of poker was suggested. Jim-Bob agreed which surprised him, seeing he loathed most card games; in fact he boycotted most games. As Billy didn't have much money in his pocket, they decided on using the coloured pins from the chinese checkers box, with each colour being a ranked value. The game quickly became intense. Throughout it, Billy regularly smoked and Jim-Bob drank beer. In his previous life, Jim-Bob suffered from asthma around cigarette smoke, but now he was hardly being effected. He definitely wasn't finding the smoke a nuisance.

Both were in a good mood. When the game was not too intense, Billy had relaxed enough to tell bawdy male jokes. Most of what he knew were the kind involving women's breasts and sex. Traditionally, Jim-Bob found them degrading and disgusting and wouldn't remain in the hearing of them. But he felt so masculine, so manly, sharing male time with Billy, that he laughed as heartily as Billy. He was finding them funny and he was feeling a tingling in his dick. They were actually turning him on! As the evening progressed, although Jim-Bob was obviously becoming drunk, he was still the superior player. By the end of the evening, he was playing like a pro and scooping the kitty.

This stunned Billy, who prided himself on being a crack poker player. Around 11, they decided to call it a night. Both men were tired when they slipped into their crisp, clean sheets on their respective beds. In the case of Billy, a temporary bed had been made up in the spare room - normally a lumber room.

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lastbuckshot · 6 years ago

Text

NSFW: “Abraham” Pritchard/Reader, Wave 2: Part 1 of 3

Words: 9.6K Fandom: listen…… I don’t know…… Devil’s Gate but only 5% Rating: Explicit Title: Make You Wait

this is an extremely belated birthday gift for @vtmiglia this was supposed to be done a month ago but my life went extremely downhill, but still here’s part one of the worst fic ever

“Police reports tonight indicate a robbery—”

Click.

“I can’t help that I love y—”

Click.

“To the flour, add two tablespoons of—"

Click. Click.

“Christ will forgive, so long as you give in to him—”

The click of the television remote was constant in your hand. Head resting in the crook of your arm. Arm sinking into the couch. Couch hugging the contours of your body. Your body turned toward the TV, but with minimal attention. Nothing looked good. Nothing sounded good. Restless boredom was setting in quickly, the TV not being interesting, but nothing else as interesting or attainable as the TV. Sunday afternoons; the last day of comfort and relaxation before real work and errand-running begin. Today had been a churchless Sunday by choice; no heels or aching feet, no itchy stockings, and certainly no dresses. Only house clothes, a television, a blanket, and your couch. Nuzzling your head into your arm, you started into the television and listened, topically engaged, to the dronings of the televangelist on screen.

“So many people think that Christ won’t forgive. That once you’ve sinned, there’s no turning back. Maybe you didn’t go to church this Sunday.”

A pang of guilt rang throughout your chest.

“One mistake, and God will turn His back on you. But I’ve got somethin’ to say about that.”

Your thumb rubbed absently over the button for the next channel, but you listened more attentively than before.

“Our God is a forgiving God. Jesus Christ died for our sins. He died to cleanse us of our sins. So, confess those sins. Pray to Him. And so long as you give yourself to Him, and open your heart to accept His love and guidance… you will still make your way to Heaven. You will still see those pearly gates on judgement day.”

A tingle ran down your spine as you stretched and rubbed your tired eyes. The sun was on the cusp of setting outside, with darkening pinks and yellows breaking through patchy evening cloud cover. A blanket was draped over your body, soft and white, pulled up just beneath your chin. The cushions, the blanket, the couch pillows, all enveloped you in a lazy Sunday comfort. Minutes passed, gazing absently at the television, eyelids growing heavier and heavier as comfort turned to drowsiness, and drowsiness turned into yawns.

Turning your face away from the television, you stretched your back out against the couch cushions. You stared up at the ceiling, your fingers interwoven over your stomach, and closed your eyes. Your loose black skirt rode up toward your waist, leaving your thighs exposed beneath the warmth of your fleece blanket. Inhaling deeply, breathing out a seconds-long sigh, the sounds of the television began to fade away. In its place rose a sense of calm and quiet, your body on the precipice of succumbing to sleep. A resting of the eyes, a short nap, an hour or two to recuperate from a restless night before. Your body sank into the couch, growing more limp and relaxed. Slumping into the couch. Fading consciousness. Your head falling to the side. The sound of the television growing fainter and fainter… dissipating into unintelligible ambient noise—

A knock at the door sent your body into a sudden jerk, lurching forward with an intense pounding in your chest. Your hand slid over your heart automatically to quell the beating beneath your fingers, and your head fell back against the arm of the chair. Rubbing your eyes, you stood, pulled down your skirt, and adjusted your white tank top, which had become wrinkled and bunched up around your chest.

“Who is it?”

“An old friend, in more ways than one,” a familiar, deepened voice called back. “You know, your boss?”

Opening the door, you were met with the sight of Abraham, his wide frame bathed in blue, dusky light. A pinstriped, white, long-sleeved shirt wrapped around his upper body, brown trousers covered the length of his legs, and a black leather belt secured them at his waist. His face lit up with a gentle smile at the sight of you. His eyes lingered around the hem of your skirt for a fleeting second or two before you broke the silence.

“Mr. Pritchard,” you said, taken aback. “I wasn’t expecting you today.”

“Why,” Abe questioned, peering behind you to scan the interior of your home, “Am I interrupting anything?”

“Not at all, sir. What brings you here?”

“Well,” he started, “It ain’t a work thing or anything like that. I just noticed you weren’t at church today. I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

The mention of church made the words of the televangelist, still preaching and commanding on your television, more salient.

One mistake, and God will turn his back on you.

“I’m alright, Mr. Pritchard,” you said. “I appreciate your concern. I do. I’m not sick or anything. I guess my heart just wasn’t in it today.”

Abe smiled, putting his hands in his pockets and nodding.

“I see. There ain’t nothin’ wrong with that, sweetheart. You seem t’ be awful comfortable today anyways. I’m not used t’ seein’ you in those type’a clothes. Or any clothes at all.”

A warmth rose in your cheeks, and a chuckle escaped from your coy, pursed lips.

“I guess that’s true Mr. Pritchard. Is there anything else I can help you with, then?”

Abe licked his lips, leaving them wet and glistening as he stopped to collect his next words.

“Forgive me for bein’ bold, darlin’,” he said, “But I was wonderin’ if you might allow me to stay here. With you. For a day or two maybe.”

You paused, narrowing your eyes, and processing his request.

“May I ask why, sir?”

“Conjugal visit?”

The two of you shared a laugh, Abe’s teeth baring from his mouth, bright and white. He slicked his graying black hair behind his ear before he continued to explain.

“D’you remember that one time, a while back, when you babysat for me? The first time you did it since Diana had been gone. You said somethin’ t’ me. Somethin’ like, you thought maybe I might be lonely.”

“I remember.”

“I think maybe you might’a been right. I think maybe havin’ somebody t’ talk to would be nice.”

You thought his request over for a few moments more. He was good company, and you knew his company would feel better than watching television alone; that being said, there was an elephant in the room that it would be irresponsible not to address.

“What about the kids? And Diana?”

“They’re outta town for the week. You ain’t gotta worry about them. She and I, and the kids, were all at service this mornin’. I traded ‘em off t’ her then.”

You nodded, slowly. Before you could respond, however, Abraham continued.

“I’m sorry. I know this is a lot to ask all of a sudden like this, beautiful. I just thought I’d ask. I don’t want you t’ feel pressured or nothin’ like that. But if it means anything t’ you, it’d make a great little birthday present for me.”

Your head perked up as you stood in the doorway, your hand resting against your door frame. A sinking feeling settled in your chest and your mouth hung slightly ajar as the realization dawned on you; years working for Abraham, years working alongside him, his wife, and children, and you’d forgotten, as the sun was setting, that his birthday was tomorrow.

“I am so sorry Mr. Pritchard,” you started, your voice laden with guilt. “It completely slipped my mind.”

Abe smiled and straightened his back, his deep brown eyes glowing faintly in the fading sunlight.

“That’s alright, sweetheart. No hard feelin’s. I hardly mention it anyways. It’s not my birthday yet, y’know. But it’s never too early t’ celebrate, right?”

You step aside, out of the doorway, and motion your hand toward the inside of your home.

“Then feel free to come inside, Mr. Pritchard.”

“Thank you, ladybird. I packed a couple bags, though. I’ll see about bringin’ those inside first.”

“Would you like any help?” you offered. “You’re my guest, after all.”

“You’re a sweet young lady,” he said. “Very sweet. But who would I be if I let a pretty young lady like yourself carry bags for me?”

Abe turned away toward his truck, taking his hands from his pockets and opening the passenger side door. You watched as he removed two modestly sized duffel bags from the seat, slamming the door shut again with a familiar thud of aging metal. His keys jingled in his pocket as he walked back up toward your front porch, but before he stepped fully inside of your home, he paused.

“Are those th’ flowers I gave t’ you not too long ago?”

You followed his gaze toward the side of your house, where there was a row of flowers in all different colors. Reds, whites, yellows, pinks, and blues, from a collection of roses, tulips, carnations, and lilies. Over time, Abraham had expressed his appreciation through offerings of flowers, in bouquets and pots alike. A few weeks prior to now, he’d given you his newest assortment of potted flowers as a gift. You’d since planted them and tended to them, trying your best to keep them alive and healthy from how Abe had taught you.

“They are,” you responded. “Am I doing okay growing them so far?”

Abe set his bags down inside of your home, just by the front door, then descended the porch steps again to examine your plants. He knelt down, with know qualms about clean church trousers becoming stained with grass and dirt. Unbuttoning his cuffs, rolling up his sleeves, and pushing his gold watch further up his wrist, he grazed his fingertips over the soil in which the flowers were planted with a couple passes of his hand, then rubbed the dirt between his fingers more intensively, watching the dirt fall back to the ground.

“This soil’s a little dry. When’d you water ‘em last?”

“Yesterday,” you responded. “I was waiting on watering them today. I thought it might rain.”

Abe looked up at the sky, his fingers still rubbing in the dirt. The sky had darkened ever so slightly, and the cloud cover above was still patchy; dense and dark in some areas, sparse and blue in others. Abe’s eyes remained fixated on the clouds for several moments before he looked back down toward the dirt, feeling it again in his hands.

“Good girl. You don’t wanna overwater ‘em. But y’ also don’t wanna let ‘em go too long without some water. It won’t hurt t’ water ‘em a little bit, just in case it don’t rain soon. You got a waterin’ can around here somewhere, darlin?”

From your porch, you grab and carry a small, silver watering can into the house. It takes only several seconds to fill it at the kitchen sink before you’re back outside again, passing it off to Abe. His brush against your own, taking the can from your hand to hold it in his own.

“Thank you very much, sweetheart. Come kneel down next t’ me. I wanna teach you a little somethin’.”

As you kneel down next to him, his fingers wrap gently around your wrist. He guides your hand toward your potted flowers, toward the soil in which they were planted. His hand was soft and warm, covered in soil, resting on top of your own hand to guide your fingers.

You rake your fingers through the dirt, each grain rough against your fingertips. The soil fell through your fingers with ease, your hands remaining dry to the touch each time you rubbed the dirt against the skin of your palm. Abe pushes your fingers deeper into the soil, deeper towards the roots, inches below the soil. He held your hand in place and spoke.

“There. Now feel. How’s that soil feel t’ you?”

You moved your fingers back and forth beneath the surface; the soil still felt as loose as it had on top, and was still grainy against your fingertips.

“It’s pretty dry,” you said.

“And how d’you know that?”

“The way it feels. It’s grainy. My fingers don’t feel wet. It’s a little bit like sand.”

Abe smiled, pulling your hand away from the soil and tipping your watering can over the flowers. The water fell in streams over each petal and stem, dripping from the green and falling into the dirt below. The soil darkened as streams of water fell on its surface and disappeared, soaking down toward the roots below.

You watched Abe’s hands work. He moved back and forth; tipping the watering can, soaking the soil, stopping to feel it between his fingers. Trailing his fingers through the dirt, he took care to uncover and pick stray weeds and blades of grass along the way. With his own crops, his technique was rough; driving his hoes and shovels into the dirt, prying up old crops with force, yanking out unwanted weeds. But now, watching him tend to your own modest garden, he plucked each weed gently, tugging them just hard enough to remove them at the root, but not hard enough to disturb or break the roots of the flowers nearby. His hands were skilled and delicate, deliberate and gentle; a far cry from how you were used to watching him work on his own farm. He continued until he was content, his fingers glistening wet with water, then reached out to grip your wrist again.

“There. Feel it now.”

This time, with Abe’s fingers gliding over your own, the soil felt moist; not too wet, and not too dry. It wasn’t as gritty as before, but still not as wet as it could’ve been. The granules of dirt clumped between your fingers, even inches below the surface, and your hand was left with a film of water.

“Y’feel that?” Abe asked. “How it’s not too wet, not too dry? Just wet enough, right?”

Abe smirked at his own choice of words, but patiently awaited your reply.

“I do.”

“Good. That’s how you want it if you think it might rain. Just wet enough to hold ‘em over, but not so wet that they drown.”

After allowing you to feel the soil for a few moments longer, Abe removed his hand. He directed his attention toward a tall, white lily. He broke it at the stem, prying off a couple leaves, then placed the flower behind your ear. You looked into his eyes, a deep brown that rivaled the soil just next to the two of you, as he adjusted the flower to his liking.

“There,” he said, satisfied. “A beautiful flower for a beautiful young lady.”

Abe stood to dust the dirt off of his trousers, and you likewise stood, brushing dirt off of your exposed knees. Back inside of the house, the two of you washed your hands clean of dirt. As you dried them, there was a healthy silence between the two of you; standing by the kitchen counter, the rustling of kitchen towels, the TV still audible from the living room, this time, with a new preacher in front of his congregation.

“….wanted to talk about how to communicate with God. How to have a relationship, a connection, with God. Many people believe that you can pray any old way and God will listen. But you don’t just pray with your mouth. You pray with your heart. Your heart has to be true—”

Your head was turned toward the television screen, but was quickly turned back toward Abraham’s face. Before you could manage a reaction, his lips pressed into yours, his hands pulling your waist inwards towards his own. With one hand still squeezing your waist, the other snaked up your back and to your neck, cradling your head in his palm, his tongue lapping deeper into your mouth. With your hands gripped onto his sides, dense and muscular beneath his shirt, your lips tingled with the vibration of a growling moan from his mouth, wettened as he pulled your neck in closer for one last kiss.

As he pulled away for the last time, licking his lips, he stroked your lips with his thumb. He admired their shape, their plumpness, and the feel of them against his skin. He stared and ogled, his eyes fixated on your cupid’s bow, his thumb dragging the taste of him off of your lips.

“I’m truly sorry about that, ladybird,” he said. “I just couldn’t help myself. Not with how goddamn beautiful you look in that skirt.”

Your nose rubbed against his, just barely touching. He moved your hand up from his waist, pulling it up toward his chest, and held it in place. Feeling his heart beating beneath his shirt, taking in the gentle wisp of air from his nose that caressed your cheek, you smiled.

“No apology needed, Mr. Pritchard.”

He planted a kiss in the middle of your forehead, one hand cradling your neck, the other still cupping your hand to his chest. He adjusted the flower behind your ear, which had fallen forward in the heat of the kiss, and once he’d decided it was placed just right, lily petals perfectly centered on the side of your head, he turned his attention to the rest of your home.

Leaving the kitchen and stepping into the foyer, his eyes passed freely, scanning one room and then the next. He looked over the dining room, the staircase, the hall, and your living room, where your fleece blanket still laid in disarray. All the while, he pulled his white sleeves back down toward his wrist and began to unbutton his shirt.

“I didn’t realize you were livin’ so nice out here,” he joked. “Plenty’a pretty lights, nice things everywhere, the TV that’s got more channels than mine, I’m sure. I hope you’re not as spoiled as you are pretty.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Pritchard, most of the houses around here are like mine. Probably better. Aren’t there a couple three stories around here?”

Abe smiled, the last button on his shirt unfastened to reveal a tight white t-shirt underneath, and began to patrol your dining room.

“I suppose you got me there. Maybe it’s just me, then. I ain’t really used to all this new stuff. Decorations, indoor plants, lights that ain’t just lightbulbs. Like this fancy one here, over the table. What’s this called again?”

He pointed with his finger, and you followed his gaze upward. From your ceiling hung a crystalline chandelier with six branching lights. They’d been turned off for the day without being used, but as Abe flipped a light switch on the wall, each branching light illuminated, as did a central light from which the other six were centered. A toothy grin spread across his face, flipping the light switch on and off, watching the light glint off of each crystal to light up the room.

“The chandelier?”

“Chandelier,” he said, still gazing up at the lights. “I like that. Sounds fancy, if y’ask me. See? That don’t even sound like anything I’d have in my house. All I got is my tools and family pictures.”

“That’s not a bad thing, you know.”

“I guess not. But still. This is very pretty, ladybird.”

With a final look, Abe turned off the light and left the dining room to explore more of the house. Before stepping into your living room, his eyes were caught by a small table pushed against the wall. On it sat a lamp, and next to it, a polaroid camera which Abe took into his hands.

“Would you mind terribly if I took a couple pictures of you?”

“Why,” you teased. “Are you gonna keep the pictures?”

“Maybe. I think it’d be a nice thing to hold on to. For quite a few reasons.”

With a smile and a coy laugh, you posed for Abe, who was more than happy to snap photo after photo. Some close ups of your face, some only from the waist up, and some others full body, head to toe, in your flimsy black skirt. Some pictures were wholesome smiles, some others more suggestive; photos from the side to showcase your figure, lifting the hem of your skirt to expose your thighs, giving the camera a peek at your stomach beneath your shirt. With each photograph Abe took, he shook them in the open air, then placed them in the table drawer, leaving them be to develop. Once he was satisfied, with ten pictures lined up in two rows in your drawer, he set your camera gently back onto the table, taking care not to let it fall or thud.

“I certainly hope you let me have at least a few of those for the road,” he said. “I’m excited t’ see how those come out already.”

Despite his obvious excitement, Abraham was quick to direct his attention toward the next thing. On your coffee table, in your living room, lay another camera, bigger than the Polaroid. Abe lifted it with care into his hands, flipping and examining it for several seconds.

“What’s this one here?” he asked. “Another camera?”

“It’s a camcorder. The ones you put a little tape in it so you can record videos.”

He fumbled with the camera in his hands, flipping it over, examining the lens, pressing buttons, and looking into the viewfinder. His brows were furrowed and focused, despite not knowing quite what he was doing

“Right. I think I’ve seen this around. You think you could show me how t’ work it?”

With a gentle nod, you rustled through a nearby cabinet, pulling out a blank cassette tape for the camera. You showed Abe how to open it, what direction to put the tape in, and how to turn on the camera to start recording. After showing him some basic controls for zooming and stopping, he pointed the now-recording camera at you, looking through the viewfinder, a sly grin on his face.

“You look absolutely beautiful on here, ladybird,” he said. “I know I say that a lot. But it’s true. Why don’t you turn around for me a second?”

You spun on your heels to turn with your back facing him, and no sooner than your feet had settled back on the ground, you felt Abe’s hand caressing your hips. His fingers slid around your waist, then crept downwards toward your ass, and further down still toward your thigh. He lifted your skirt, pulling it up and out of the way to reveal your lacy pink underwear, and Abe laughed in surprise.

“Jesus, darlin,” he teased. “You sure you didn’t know I was stoppin’ by today? ‘Cause this is enough t’ make an old man cry.”

He slid his fingers inside of the hem of your underwear and tugged them back toward him. As your body bumped up against your own, you could feel him getting hard through his trousers. Bringing his hand back toward the front of your body, he pulled you in closer, grinding his hips into your backside, his length pressing deeper into your skin. He leaned down to hover his lips over your ear, his breath warm, his voice held in a low, steady whisper.

“You feel that, don’t you? I’m bettin’ you want that pretty bad.”

His lips kissed your back, dragging upwards toward your shoulders, and settling into the crook of your neck. Your hand massaged his trousers, stroking back and forth, squeezing at the base, and stroking with your thumb just beneath his head. He kissed up to your jaw and lingered in place, but released his one-handed grip on your waist in restraint.

“We c’n get t’ all that later. Make me wait for it.”

The camcorder clicked as Abe stopped recording, gently setting it back on the table where he’d found it.

“I should put that down before I break it anyways.”

Leading you by the hand, Abe walked over to and sat comfortably on your couch. You sat beside him, nuzzled close against his chest, his arm wrapped behind you, his hand stroking up and down your back. He picked up and adjusted your blanket to drape it over the length of your lower body, then turned his attention to your remote control. Before flipping through your channels, he stopped to the current entertainment.

“You like these TV evangelical types?”

A different man was shown now than the one you’d originally been watching, but the message rang the same as any other. “Love God…. Get into heaven… Repent…”

“Not really,” you replied. “It just caught my eye. You can change it, if you want.”

Abe did so without a second thought, changing channel after channel to find something worth watching. It took him only several seconds for him to offer a small bit of commentary.

“I can tell already you got channels than we got on the farm. Way more. You must be bored to tears every time you babysit.”

“I think I manage okay.”

“Maybe,” he said. “It’s no wonder you didn’t go t’ service today. At your age, I probably woulda picked this over church, too.”

After a minute or two of flipping through sitcoms, game shows, evangelists, and cooking shows, Abe stopped. The TV showed war scenes; men dawned in uniform, shown in black and white, guns in tow. Marching, shooting, killing, running, writhing on the ground. A narrator spoke over the videos and images, discussing the plight of the allies against the Third Reich. Abe watched in deep thought, his eyes glued to the television even when you looked up into his eyes, almost as if you were trying to see what he was thinking.

“Are war documentaries your thing?”

“No…” he said absently. A couple seconds later, he corrected himself.

“Well, I ain’t got nothin’ against ‘em. This just caught my eye, is all. I used t’ wanna be in the army, actually.”

“What happened?” you jeered. “Soldier to preacher to farmer are three very big jumps, Mr, Pritchard.”

“You’re tellin’ me. It wasn’t really a dream. I mean, I guess it was, but not a natural born one. My dad was in the army, and I really looked up t’ him. Wanted to be just like him, do what he was doin’. But he left the army eventually and turned to the church, then he raised me up that way. As you can see, that’s the dream that stuck.”

“What about your mom?” you asked. “What’d she want for you?”

“Oh, she loved the church thing. A very God-fearing woman. Always readin’ her bibles and quotin’ her scriptures, teachin’ ‘em to me. I guess I take after her a lot too, now that I talk about it out loud. She’d take me t’ church while my dad was out on duty, and we’d pray for him together. Pray for him t’ come back safe. I entertained it was a kid, I guess you could say. I didn’t mind it, but I wasn’t devoted to God yet. Not until later on.”

“Did she want you in the army?”

“Oh, God, no. No, no, no. She hated it. Hated just the thought of it. She was worried enough, I think. She was dead set on getting me into the church.”

Abe reached into his shirt, pulling out a gold chain. From it hung a simple gold cross.

“Y’know this cross I’m always wearin’? My mom gave it t’ me. It has a little story to it, if you don’t mind hearin’ it.”

You sat up from laying on his chest and straightened your back, giving him full audience.

“I’d love t’ hear it, Mr, Pritchard.”

“Alright. But when you get bored, remember you asked for it.”

You chuckled, and Abraham began his little story.

“Alright. Where do I start? Alright. When I was a little boy, with my dad goin’ on leave all the time, I worried about him a lot. ‘Course I did. He was my father, and I never knew whether or not he’d be comin’ home. I prayed with my mom a lot, and she gave me this cross when I was little so I always had somethin’ with me t’ pray on. But it just didn’t feel like enough sometimes. So I told my mom how I was feelin’. And she took me outside one night. It was clear and beautiful, and I looked up, and I could see all the stars. And my momma told me that all those stars up in the sky were little angels, and those angels could hear me every time I prayed. She said if I prayed outside with them, they’d listen, and I could know they were listenin’. So every night that my dad was gone, I’d go outside, look up at the stars, and just start prayin’ for him t’ come home safe. Saw shootin’ stars a couple of those nights. And y’know what? My daddy always came home just fine. So those stars meant a lot t’ me.

When I was in my teens, I was gettin’ a little more rebellious. I wanted t’ get a tattoo of a star, in honor of all those nights with all those little angels. My dad had a couple tattoos, anyway. But my momma couldn’t stand tattoos, and I knew she’d just kill me if I went and got it behind her back. So I left it alone for a long time. A very long time. I even strayed from the church around my teen years, an’ my early 20s. Crisis of character, I s’pose. But then I met Diana, and we had Jackson. Diana was a very churchy girl, and I wanted t’ keep her. I got heavily back into the church, goin’ every Sunday, tryin’ t’ be a preacher. Then the tattoo thought came up again. I wanted the star, but I wanted a cross, too. But neither one felt quite right. So, I told Diana what I was thinkin’, and she said, “well, a tattoo might be fine, but why not get the cross engraved?” So…”

Abe flipped the cross over and motioned for you to look closer. On the back of the cross, right in the center of its intersection, was a five-point star, etched deeply into the gold.

“There it is,” he said. “My little angel. I hope I didn’t bore you too much.”

“Not at all, Mr. Pritchard. It was a very beautiful story.

Abe let you hold the cross for yourself, holding it and turning it over in your hands, rubbing your thumb over the star. You could see all the scuffs that gave away its age, but it was otherwise in better shape than you expected a decades old necklace to be. The sound of war, shooting and scuffling and cries of pain, still continued in the background, which prompted you to ask a question.

“Have either of the boys ever asked about being in the army?”

“No, never. They know about it, of course. Know about what soldiers do an’ all that. But they haven’t shown any interest. Noah barely wants to step foot in a church, let alone in a trench.”

“Of course not,” you said. “Noah’s always been a little free spirit.”

“I guess you’re right about that. I think he takes after his mom that way.”

Abe continued to peruse channels, stopping several seconds on each channel to take in what he saw. Your hand rose and fell with his chest, and your fingers tingled with each beat of his heart. His hand still steadily stroked your side and upper thigh, caressing and squeezing in the touchy way you’d come to expect from Abraham. Soon, however, you realized it was his left hand stroking your body; and quickly after that, noticed the absence of something familiar. Glancing back at his hand at his hand on your thigh confirmed your suspicion, and you’d decided to inquire about it.

“Mr. Pritchard?”

“Mm-hmm?”, was his placid response, eyes still fixated on the television.

“You took off your wedding ring?”

Abe tore his eyes from he TV to glance at you, then at his own hand. Breathing heavily out of his nose, he spoke.

“Yeah. I did.”

“When?”

“Right before I decided t’ come here. I wore it to church, an’ out in town while I was visitin’ people. But I took it off t’ see you.”

“Why—"

“What does it matter, ladybird?”

His snappy response was somewhat startling, and encouraged you to drop the issue.

“You’re right. I didn’t mean to pry. I’m sorry.”

Abe rubbed his forehead with his fingers, his eyes squeezed shut. His conflict was palpable and written all over his face, but you decided to say nothing more until he was ready to talk.

“No, ladybird, it’s alright,” he sighed. “I shouldn’t’ve snapped at you like that. You deserve t’ know. It’s just I didn’t think about it much myself. I’m not sure what t’ say.”

There was a silent pause that you decided again not to break, allowing Abraham time and space to collect his words.

“I still care about Diana. I do. She’s my wife. But there’s no point in pretendin’ like we’re not in trouble. We’re goin’ through a hard time. Not even sleepin’ in the same house anymore. And I hope you don’t think you’re the reason D and I split. We were havin’ problems way before we started this thing. She’d already moved out the first time we had sex.”

As he spoke, you knew what he said was true; but that didn’t erase the guilt that had haunted you on and off for weeks.

“I think D and I woulda needed a break regardless. I don’t want you t’ feel like you ruined a marriage, or anything like that. I’m makin’ my own choices. You’re just makin’ a tough time better for me. Much better.”

His hand grazed over your panties and squeezed, and with a sly bite of his lip, he continued.

“Anyway, that’s not the point. I guess I’m tryin’ t’ say I think wearin’ the ring when we’re doin’… this thing we’re doin’, makes me feel like I’m holdin’ on t’ somethin’ that just ain’t there right now. I think me an’ Diana can work it out one day. I hope we can. But if we can’t…”

He stopped to clear his throat, and hesitated on his next few words.

“I just think it’s better t’ be honest about what’s happenin’ right now. Honest t’ you, and honest t’ myself. I hope that makes sense.”

Something came over you then. It felt beyond your control. But looking into Abe’s eyes, their deep woody brown, and down toward his reddened nose and rosy lips, you found yourself wrapping your hand behind his neck and pulling him in. His lips felt warm, and his tongue was warmer, pushing into your mouth. He brought his hand up to caress the back of your neck, his thumb stroking your cheek, just above your jaw line. Each kiss was slow and lingering, your lips pressing still against his to pause and catch your breath. On the last kiss, your lips stayed just a hair’s breath from his. When you open your eyes, Abe eyes are already fixated on your eyes and lips. When he notices that your eyes are open, he meets your gaze and he smiles, brown eyes shining.

“See?” he whispered, his voice low and rumbling in his throat, “You just made my whole day.”

You smile and purse your lips. Abe leaned in closer, his nose rubbing softly against yours as he teased your lips for another kiss. Within seconds, the two of you were back to kissing, back to pulling each other in. You tugged on Abe’s unbuttoned white dress shirt, and his hand slid up your skirt to caress your thigh. Before long, you swung one leg over his lap to straddle him. Both of his hands began to explore eagerly up and down your body. Squeezing your breasts over your shirt, working his hand beneath your shirt to stroke your belly button. His hands wrapped around your back, tracing up the dip of your spine, then gliding back down toward your skirt. He tugged it up and out of the way without breaking the kiss, his tongue still steadily lapping inside of your mouth, and gripped either side of your ass. Your body jolted at his touch, firm and sudden, and you felt him buck his hips up to feel the warmth between your legs. Meanwhile, your hands stroked through and tugged on his graying hair, his goatee scratching against your lips and chin with each deep, passionate kiss. Your thumb stroked against two small moles on his cheek as you kissed. His fingers hesitated for a small while, but soon rubbed the outside of your wettened lace panties, with long strokes up and down, forward and back, from your asshole, down your taint, and further still between the lips of your pussy. You could feel Abe getting harder as you straddled his lap, and heard the attraction in his voice each time he moaned through a kiss. His middle finger grew slicker and wetter, and his appetite for you fiercer with his unrestrained moans. As he paused the kiss to trail kisses down the length of your neck, you took the opportunity to pull away. Noticing your resistance, Abe’s lips pulled away from your neck, and he looked up at you, his hands gripping tightly onto the backs of your thighs.

“Sorry. Did I come on too strong or somethin’?”

“No. Not at all. I just remember you said you wanted me to make you wait for it.”

Abe took pause for a couple seconds, without breaking eye contact. A wide, toothy grin soon replaced his blank expression.

“You’re right about that, darlin,” he joked. “So. Are you gonna make me wait for it?”

Without averting his eyes, he slid his hand between your legs. He stroked between your lips and rubbed his thumb over your clit, all with his hand still over your panties. He bit his lip, feeling your body heat, feeling his fingers coated in wetness, and watching your face as you squirmed at his touch. Sliding your hand between your own legs and pulling his hand away, you replied.

“I’m gonna make you wait for it.”

Abe smiled and raised his eyebrows, surprised bout charmed at your conviction.

“Is that so, ladybird?”

“Yes, sir.”

Bringing his hand to his mouth, Abe licked the taste of you off of his fingers. A smirk remained on his face as he sucked the length of his finger, then licked between each space until nothing was left. His free hand moved down towards his trousers, gripping his own length, stroking back and forth as he savored your wetness on his tongue.

“Alright, ladybird. I like a girl in charge. Just let me know when you’re ready t’ let me have it.”

The rest of the afternoon transitioned into evening on the couch, cuddled into Abe, your head laying on his chest. He took control of the remote, still in relative awe at the variety, commenting every now and again to inquire about what’s, who’s, and why’s. With nightfall approaching just outside your windows, you sat up and stretched. Abe had taken off his dress shirt but left on his gold watch, and looked up at you as you rubbed your eyes.

“You tired, ladybird?”

“Not tired,” you said through a stretch, “Just getting hungry. Would you like something to eat?”

You followed Abe’s eyes as they glanced down toward your thighs, between your legs.

“Oh, I could eat,” he said, without looking up, “And the house special looks real fresh t’night.”

With a subtle roll of your eyes, you stood and walked toward the kitchen, but before you could make much headway, Abe’s hand wrapped around your wrist and pulled you back.

“Okay, don’t get slick, now.”

His voice was more stern than it had been all day.

“Tell you what. I c’n cook dinner for us t’night. You got all day tomorrow t’ treat me to whatever I want. The least I can do is treat you t’night.”

Without more talk, Abe stood and walked freely into the kitchen, familiarizing himself with your fridge, freezer, and panty. He settled on cooking smothered pork chops, mashed potatoes, and corn, which he went to work on with ease. Seasoning the pork, peeling potatoes, mashing them by hand, and shucking corn. More delighted was he to know that the potatoes had come from his own farm, which imbued him with a sense of pride as he finished cooking the meal.

As he stood at the stove, putting finishing touches on a pot of mashed potatoes, you walked up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist. After an initial reflexive tensing of his muscles, he relaxed and smiles, stirring with one hand and cupping your wrist with the other.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he said, “Is this your way of tellin’ me I’m takin’ too long?”

You kissed his back through his shirt and rubbed the palms of your hands over his stomach. His muscles felt solid beneath his shirt, and you happily allowed your fingertips to travel as you responded.

“Not at all. Just checking in.”

Abe laughed, the vibrations of which you could feel in your hands with the jerky rising and falling of his stomach. He turned off each eye of the stove and turned around again adjusting the flower in your hair that had again become crooked.

“Why, aren’t you cute?” he said. “Well now that you’re all checked in, why don’t you head t’ the table, under that big pretty chandelier? I’ll bring out plates for both of us.”

He left a kiss on your forehead and turned you around, rubbing your shoulders with his hands and kissing the side of your neck. No sooner than you could take a step did you feel his hand smacking into your backside, beneath your skirt, sending a loud smack through the kitchen. When you turned back to look at him, he winked, and turned back to the stove.

“Go’on t’ the table an’ have a seat.”, he said. “Unless you plan on lettin’ me unwrap my present early.”

Dinner went on and was over with relatively quickly, and was followed by a round of dish cleaning. With a glass of bourbon in his system, Abe washed, you dried and put away. As the night went on, Abe grew more and more playful; from snarky innuendos at the table, to flinging water in your direction and putting suds on your nose. He smiled, laughed, and joked to his heart’s content, scrubbing and rinsing each pot, pan, and plate until the deed was done. Drying the last dish and stacking it in the cabinet, you glanced up at Abe, who was leaning against the kitchen counter, a smirk spread across his face.

“So,” he started, “What’s next on the menu tonight? Am I gettin’ any dessert?”

You wiped the counter dry of water and soap with the kitchen towel that was still in your hand.

“I need to shower first, you know.”

“Alright. Good. Me, too. I c’n join you.”

You turned to ascend the stairs, and after grabbing his bags from the floor, Abe followed behind. As you opened your bedroom door, Abe took in your room’s size and colors; the walls were clean and white, with flower vases posing as the majority of the decoration. It was a far cry from Abraham’s home, which was notoriously dark and cluttered, and where religious paraphernalia covered nearly every inch of wall space. Setting his bags down, Abe took no time taking off his shirt and beginning to unbuckle his belt. You followed suit, pulling your tank top up and over your head, and pulling your skirt down to the floor. The two of you exchanged words without speaking, keeping an eye on each other as each article of clothing continued to come off. A shy smile as you unclasped your bra, a chuckle as he pulled his trousers down to the floor. Pursed lips as you pulled your panties down toward your ankles, and licking his own lips as his boxers hit the ground. With both of you fully undressed, and Abe’s bare body just in front of you, it was clear that he was already close to hard. You tried not to stare, but looked down at his cock, then back up to his face, which eagerly awaited your commentary.

“I’m still making you wait.”

“That’s alright,” he said. “But I won’t apologize for all the things I wish I could do t’ you.”

You turned way and walked into your bathroom, which was attached to your bedroom by a door on the far wall. You stepped into the tub first, turning each handle and testing the water with your hand, as Abe got his look of the place.

“Bathroom attached t’ your bedroom, huh?” he said. “You really are the fancy type.”

Satisfied with the heat of the water, you stood, pulling Abe in by the wrist.

“Not fancy. I just like convenience.”

Turning on the shower head, there was a slight pause before your chest was beaten with hot streams of water, with water quickly dripping down the length of your stomach and legs. You turned to let the water reach every inch of your body, down the length of your arms and every curve of your ass and hips, and splashed some warm water on your face. Sufficiently soaked, you traded places with Abraham to stand behind him, letting him have his own turn.

As his body began to get drenched, wet and glistening, you took note of every drop of water that rolled down his back. Each muscle in his shoulder blade, and the dip of his spine, all collecting and dropping water down the length of his back, and into the drain. Between hundreds of little water droplets, you could see a collection of dark brown moles, each one a different size, all spotted around different places on his back. You rubbed your hands up and down his back, allowing your palms to feel his smooth, slick skin, as well as barely noticeable imperfections wherever a larger mole was. As Abe ran his fingers through his hair, soaking it in the shower head, your hands stroked down his sides. On his right side were two more small moles, one stacked on top of the other. You teased your fingers over both of them, and Abe paused for only a moment at the sensation of your touch, before he turned back to washing himself. Rubbing turned to kissing, your lips pressing into as many tiny moles and imperfections as you could find. You couldn’t see Abe’s face, but you heard him chuckle after every few kisses, thoroughly amused by the gesture.

With a washcloth in hand, you stood still behind Abe, and squirted a generous helping of body wash onto the cloth. Once it had a full, soft lather, you rubbed the cloth over Abe’s back. Starting at the shoulder blades, you worked down toward the middle of his back, and further down still toward his tail bone. Then, wrapping your arms around the front of him, you scrubbed his stomach, feeling the fine hairs that covered his just above his waist and around his belly button. The same process followed for his arms, then his thighs, wide and muscular, further still to his calves, and then back up to his ass, until you got to the last spot left.

With the rest of his body sufficiently lathered, you set the washcloth aside on your soap dish, and lather the remaining soap on your hands. Reaching around front, you stroke the length of his cock, and can immediately hear a low rumble of relief and satisfaction from Abe. Your pace was slow and gentle, and you stroked only a few times before moving to his balls, giving them the same slow, gentle massage. His hard-on was full and apparent, but you only teased. You only worked your hands for several moments more before you stopped.

“It’s my turn.”

Abe sighed, allowing he shower head to rinse the soap from his body, back and front, before he replied.

“Alright, ladybird. I can play that game, too.”

With a second wettened washcloth, Abe repeated after you. Generous helping of body wash, a rich lather, and his hands exploring the back and front of your body. His hands first rubbed over your breast, leaving a white, sudsy residue over both of them. He rubbed his fingertips over your nipples, and leaned down to kiss your neck, sending a chill up your spine and a tingling in your chest, which left your nipples hard and perky. He worked the cloth over your arms, then over your stomach, down the length of your legs. With the majority of your body lathered up, Abe set the washcloth aside, and allowed his hands to work.

His soapy hands caressed your upper thighs from the back and squeezed. He slid his fingers in the crack of your ass, his middle finger rubbing against your ass and taint. His strokes were slow, and he teased his fingertips at your entrance, pushing gently as if to slide a finger inside. But he resisted, continuing to rub between your cheeks and press his cheeks against you until his attention turned to the next spot.

His hands traveled toward the front of your body, stopping for only a moment at your breasts before dropping down between your legs. He rubbed the front of your pussy with your hand to build up a lather, then slipped his fingers deeper between your legs, working the suds around your lips. The water beating down on both of you, and the slipperiness of the suds hid the fact that you were wet, but somehow, you felt, Abe could still tell that you wanted him. His fingertip began to focus more and more on your clit, as he gauged your reaction. You moaned at his touch, and he moaned to the sound of you moaning, enjoying him, taking him in. Writhing and grinding against his wet body, feeling his stomach hairs graze against your back, he picked up his pace only slightly, massaging your clit, back and forth, in circles, and getting off on the feeling of you squirming beneath his arms.

Just before you could cum, Abe stopped. You gasped at the sudden stop of movement, and pulled his hand back down toward your pussy to get him to continue.

“Don’t stop, please, Mr. Pritchard,” you pleaded. “Please keep going.”

Regardless, Abe pulled his hand away still, and pushed down on your back for you to bend over.

“I know,” he said. “But remember what you said? Gotta make me wait for it.”

With the feeling of his head near the backs of your thighs, you were ready to feel him push into you. Instead, however, you felt his cock push between your thighs as you held your legs together, and with Abe’s hand holding and pulling your hips into place. He bucked his hips back and forth, His lock squeezed between your thighs. His head poked out from between your legs with each forward thrust, and his shaft stroking back and forth against your clit. He continued to thrust, warm water beating down on both of you continuously, where the sound of wet bodies slapping into one another mixed in with interspersed moans and pressurized streams of water. As his cock continued to stroke between your thighs, the sensation of his shaft and head rubbing against your clit grew more and more intense. Your lower body felt warm, your legs began to tingle, and your toes began to curl as you remained bent over, allowing Abe to control the speed and pace.

Your moans grew louder, and Abe’s thrusts grew faster, until you couldn’t contain yourself any longer; a strong pulse rippled throughout your body and around your clit, and the space between your legs grew warmer and wetter with your own cum beginning to drip between your legs. Abe’s own moans began to grow, his shaft stroking between the lips of your pussy, and now coated and glistening, sticky and wet. His fingertips squeezed close to the bone against your hips as his moans became strained, closer and closer to climax. You listened to him curse, swearing to god and saying your name like it was gospel, until, with one last, room-filling moan, he reached release. Pulses of cum shot out of his cock and onto the floor of the tub, and as they weakened, they shot just far enough to settle on and drip down your thighs. Once Abe’s orgasm was through, you looked down between your legs to see streams of cum being washed away as they traveled the length of your leg, down into the drain. Before the last drops could disappear, you wiped them from your thigh, and then from the tip of Abraham’s cock, which still poked out from between your legs. You wiped his cum onto your tongue, smooth and creamy, and once you were thoroughly rinsed, turned off the shower.

Back inside of your bedroom, and now with both of you having towels in hand, you dried off. As Abe dried off his hair, he restarted conversation.

“Thank you for lettin’ me do that, beautiful. I really needed it. We didn’t have sex, technically. You still get t’ make me wait.”

As you finished drying off, you responded.

“Of course. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“May I ask another favor, then?”

“Depends on the favor.”

After patting his towel against his head a couple more times, he wrapped and tied it around his waist. Parts of his body and face were both rosy and pink, particularly around the nose and lips. With only a towel on, his entire upper half was exposed, showing every small bump and mole along his arms and stomach, including the two on his side which you’d noticed in the shower. The towel knot settled just below his belly button, covering only some of his stomach hair, and a slight bulge was still visible between his legs. He glanced over at your dresser drawer, opened it the top drawer, and was met with the site of every clean pair of bra and panty you had.

“It’s not nice to go through someone’s stuff without permission.”

“You’re probably right,” he said, rummaging through the drawer. He lifted up a black, silk thong, held it up to his nose, and inhaled. “But I want my first little birthday present t’ be pickin’ out what you wear t’ bed. Smellin’ these don’t feel the same when it’s straight out of the drawer, by the way.”

“Because they don’t smell like me yet.”

“Then I know what I want tomorrow morning.”

Abe continued to rummage through your drawer, picking up and examining several pairs before settling on one for you to wear to bed. It was a lacy white thong, with a small bow in the front. He tossed it to you, and then, still in his white towel, turned his attention to your closet.

Flipping through hangers of clothes in your closet took considerably less time, with his eyes immediately drawn toward a silky white nightgown. The top and bottom were both lined with white lace, similar to those on the panties he’d given you to wear. He slid it off the hanger and tossed it to you, as well.

“There. Those’ll be just perfect.”

As you slipped on your panties, Abe dropped his towel and rummaged through one of the bags he’d brought along. From it, he pulled out a pair of dark blue boxers, which he pulled up and around his waist in little time. As you put on your nightgown, Abe cleaned up the room, putting the towels and old clothes of the day into the laundry basket in your bathroom. He dropped his own clothes into the hamper, but stopped with yours. You watched silently as he brought your tank top, skirt, bra, and panties, all in a bundle up to his nose, and inhaled. He licked his lips and took another deep inhale, then dropped the clothes into the basket and turned off the bathroom light.

“Don’t lookit me like that, ladybird,” he scoffed. “I like what I like. Now go’on an’ lay in bed. I’ll turn off the light.”

You heeded his command and crawled into your bed as he walked back towards your bedroom door. He switched off the light switch and followed behind you, his body pressed up against your back. He rests his head on your pillow and exhales, the tickle of which you can feel against your neck. There was a slight scent of bourbon on his breath from behind you, which mixed with the smell of fresh body wash, toothpaste, and cologne. The warm rise and fall of his stomach against his back was soothing and slow, and his legs fit perfectly behind yours. With one hand curled beneath you and the other cupping your breast, he plants a gentle kiss on the back of your shoulder. His lips lingered in place, his goatee prickly against your skin, his hair just barely damp and falling in strands around his face, and your back. His thumb stroked against your breast as he pulled you in closer towards him one last time, before both of you drifted off to sleep.

#bri's writing

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fairylights101writes · 7 years ago

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Underneath the Pumpkin Glow

This is for the Fanfic Writer Exchange! I was paired with @nerdqueenofthepumpkins who listed a couple ships with Suga (and I was too indecisive to pick one, so I rote him with all of them, oops)

Read on AO3 or Below the cut!

“Suga-chan! You’re here!”

He turned at the familiar voice, already smiling as Oikawa sidestepped around the clusters of people between them, waving and grinning. In the bright kitchen lights, he could see all the details Oikawa had put into his costume - though he’d seen a good deal with Oikawa sending him pictures and asking how things looked. That had been a good and bad thing, but now, with Oikawa fully dressed before him, it was definitely worse. He looked beautiful, with his hair slicked back and dressed in a sharp, mint-green suit, a black shirt underneath. Rather than go for the body paint route, he’d put on some stunning makeup, with bold, winged eyeliner with sweeps of glittering green and gold on his eyelids, clouds of a dozen different shades of green on his cheeks, white stars painted within them.

I wish he’d worn the alien bodysuit. At least then he would’ve looked stupid. But no, he had to wear this.

Suga scrubbed his hands against his cargo shorts, smiling shyly as Oikawa stopped before him, white teeth flashing. He smelled good, a soft, almost sugary scent, and Suga had to catch himself before he leaned in, buried his face into Oikawa’s neck to breathe it in. He just focused on that sweet smile, on those deep brown eyes surrounded by glimmering greens and golds. So close, Suga could see the faint dab of sky blue at the inner corner of his eyes.

“You’re late,” Oikawa teased as he tapped Suga’s snapback with a slender finger, “But nice costume, skater boy. Where’d you even get all this stuff?”

Suga brushed Oikawa’s hand away with a huff. “Who says I didn’t own this all before?”

Oikawa raised an eyebrow- how had he sculpted them so perfectly? Bastard. “You? Sugawara Koushi, man of pastel sweaters so soft they shouldn’t be legal? Who, last I saw, couldn’t ride a skateboard without eating asphalt? Who-”

“Oh, shut up!” He smacked Oikawa’s arm, but his friend only grinned as he leaned even closer. He smelled good, dizzyingly so, and Suga’s hand twitched up. He nearly dropped the skateboard, nearly twisted his fingers into Oikawa’s lapels and dragged him in, but he dropped them back, shook his head. “Fine, I got them from Ryuu. The skateboard is Yuu’s old one.”

Having them both dress him, throwing a dozen different combinations at him before they’d finally planted him in front of the mirror in a black tank top with a golden skull, loose black pants with a ridiculously low crotch, and matching black snapback had been a fiasco, but it paid off. Especially with Oikawa’s eyes roaming along him, all too blatantly following the path of his collarbones, down his arms, to where the arm holes gaped open enough that his ribs flashed with every shift of his arms.

It made him feel good - not necessarily comfortable about the clothes, but it was enough to keep those eyes on him, to make him the object of Oikawa’s attention and show more than he usually did. Anything goes for Halloween. Clothes, drinks, and even, with a bold warmth in his chest, inhibitions.

Suga grinned, reached up and slipped a hand through Oikawa’s hair. He could feel the gel under his fingers, could watch the way Oikawa’s eyes fluttered further open, lips parting. Suga swallowed against the nervous twist of his stomach, and he leaned in, pressed a chaste kiss to Oikawa’s cheek. “Thanks for inviting me,” he nearly sang when he leaned back, watching how pink filled Oikawa’s cheeks startlingly quickly.

He recovered almost instantly though, swift and smooth as ever, with an easy but genuine smile to go with it. “Of course I would. I adore you, Kou-chan. And you’d all kill me if I didn’t, let’s be real.”

Suga whipped his snapback off and smacked Oikawa with it, smirking as Oikawa shrieked and ducked - and, hopefully, completely missed the way Suga’s cheeks flushed bright red. You’re going to kill me, talking like that. You all are. But he couldn’t resist it, loved it when those smiles were on him, so varied, even just from Oikawa, all for him. All because of him. It was intoxicating, breathtaking.

He relished in it, and he certainly loved how Oikawa straightened up, those bright brown eyes only on him as Oikawa shook his head in wonder. Even more when Oikawa’s fingers came up and skimmed Suga’s cheek as Oikawa leaned in. With those fingers under his chin, drawing him in, it was impossible to resist that soft smile, warmth in his touch. Suga pecked Oikawa on the lips, closed his eyes as Oikawa thumbed his cheeks.

Warm breath ghosted across his face. Oikawa’s lips pressed on his nose, his cheeks, leaving sparks and warmth in every press. He was giggling and smiling like a fool, squirming as Oikawa peppered his face with kisses that made his chest fluttery. He turned his face, let Oikawa kiss what seemed like every inch of his face before Oikawa pulled back, cheeks still pink, smiling softly.

Suga raised his hand, brushed his fingers across the back of Oikawa’s hand. He smirked. “You’re so gay.”

Oikawa snorted, pinched Suga’s cheek and pulled it out, almost painful. “Well, considering you’re the one with all the boyfriends-”

“Shh.” Suga flapped his hands at Oikawa, “I can’t resist. You’re all so handsome.”

“Damn right we are.” Suga laughed, pulled at the fingers pinching his cheek, tugged down on Oikawa’s hand as he rose up, pressed a quick kiss to Oikawa’s mouth. “I’m gonna walk around, see everyone.”

Oikawa nodded rapidly, throat working, but no words coming out.

Suga had to bite back a giggle as he backed away, wiggling his fingers until the crowd swallowed him up, a darkness broken by flashing lights sweeping him up. It was crowded, but he was grinning in the heated, sweaty air as he wormed his way through. Familiar faces from the campus swam in and out of the lights, some easier to recognize beneath the layers of face paint or makeup or the occasional prosthetic.

Yachi and Shimizu were swaying together near the edge, Yachi’s fairy wings glittering beneath the strobing lights, Shimizu haunting in her long, sheer black dress, witch hat adorned with purple fairy lights. A little further in, he had to skirt around a couple it took a little too long to place, Akaashi in a very revealing police uniform, their hat clutched in Bokuto’s hand as he kissed them hard, probably smearing his zombie face paint on their face.

Others milled around - Hinata in a ghost outfit, Daichi as a low-budget mummy with toilet paper wrapped around him from head to toe, and Kenma as a calico cat, complete with fluffy ears and a tail. At the music booth, Tsukishima stood with one hand on his headphones, or maybe touching the Frankenstein bolts in his forehead, eyes focused on the computer and sound board before him, fingers hovering overtop the flickering colors. Beside him, Yamaguchi stood over the light panel, grinning as he worked the equipment with a finesse Suga could only stop and marvel at for a beat too long, even more impressive with the chunky hero’s gloves he wore, something from that new hero anime.

Suga turned - ran straight into a chest and he stuttered back a step as a warm hand curled around his elbow. Gold eyes swam close, lips pulled back in a brilliant grin as Kuroo pulled back, shaking his head. “You oughtta watch where you’re going, little crow.”

Suga snorted and poked Kuroo in the cheek, pushed him a little further back, urging the heat in his cheeks to die away, for his heart to slow. First Oikawa, now Kuroo - his heart wasn’t built to take so many handsome men in one go. Especially with Kuroo in what looked like a lab coat that had been burned on the cuffs and bottom, hanging open to reveal a mostly unbuttoned shirt and a tattered tank top beneath.

Through the layers rips and tears, Suga could see Kuroo’s stomach and chest, lights playing across the tattoos there. He’d followed them once or twice, tracing the black silhouette of the cat on his hip, the trails of flowers over the scars on his chest, fascinated. He wanted to do it again, wanted to slip his hands beneath Kuroo’s shirt and feel the shifting of his muscles, follow those inked lines once more.

Not now. Definitely not now.

He bit his tongue, dragged his eyes back up to Kuroo. Those golden eyes were still on him, the playful glint in them almost dangerous as Kuroo raised a beaker filled with a violent blue liquid, topped off with a cork. “Want some? It’s sprite and vodka with some blue food coloring.”

Suga’s nose crinkled and he flicked it. “Did you steal that from the lab?”

“Professor Takeda won’t know until tomorrow, and by then it’ll be back in it’s place.”

“Unless you break it or get so hungover you forget.”

Kuroo grimaced, morphed into a sheepish smile. “At least he likes me.”

It’s hard not to. With that twisted smile, those bright eyes, and that wild hair - Kuroo was totally different from Oikawa, but that didn’t mean that he was any less intoxicating to be around. Enough that, when Kuroo draped an arm over Suga’s shoulders and drew him close, he let himself be reeled in, tucked into Kuroo’s side. He smelled good, musky, alcohol already on his breath, but he was upright and grinning as he bumped Suga with his hip.

“Give me a dance?”

“Can you dance with that beaker?”

“Can you dance with that skateboard?”

“... Fair point.”

Kuroo rolled his eyes, but, with his arm around Suga, he guided them both through the crowd, over to Kenma, who leaned against a window, Hinata bouncing by his side. “Kenma!”

The blond glanced over, one eyebrow already raised. He held out his hand, and Kuroo plopped the beaker into his open palm and, when Suga offered it, passed the skateboard off as well. “Thanks, Kenma!”

“I hate you, Kuro.”

Kuroo blew Kenma a kiss before he spun around, barely giving Suga time to wave at his friends before the crowd swallowed them once more. Bodies undulated to the beat, to the flashing lights above, the scent of sweat and alcohol in the air. Black lights flickering from above made things glow, lips and eyes and designs standing out in stark contrast to their skin. And Kuroo, beneath the black lights, beneath the flashes of green and purple and blue and a dozen other colors, looked positively wild, teeth and eyes Cheshire-like. His hands found Suga between the heavy beats that rocked his body, pulled him close and closer still until they were almost chest to chest in the crowd.

The song shifted, dropping the heavy bass for something brighter, quicker, and Kuroo grinned as he started to move. Kuroo was anything but a graceful dancer, but he’d never tried to pelvic thrust his way through Suga, and this time was no different. Instead, he spun around, pretending to hold a microphone and horrifically lip-syncing to the lyrics as he swayed his hips. He waggled his eyebrows, encouraging, and Suga snorted, shook his head as he started to move too.

Kuroo grinned, goofy and beautiful, and Suga had to close his eyes, let the lights flash and break the darkness, his heart thumping to the quick beat. He swayed, rolling his hips and body, hands working along his sides, his chest, putting on a show for those eyes he could feel on him, delightfully heavy.

Sure enough, when he let his eyes open, Kuroo was watching him, smiling dopily, his movements down to mere swaying as he watched. Keeping his distance until Suga beckoned him over.

The control tasted sweet on his tongue and he relished in it, savored the sweet taste and the way it made his chest bubble a little too much as he dropped his head back, exposing his neck. One hand rose, pulled his snapback away to rake through his hair, and the other slid along his thigh, clutching the excess fabric as he dropped to the beat, ass brushing the ground for a moment. Kuroo’s grin turned feral and he watched, eyes sharp, as Suga rocked his way up, hips moving, head bobbing from side to side.

Their eyes met.

He curled his fingers.

That was all the encouragement Kuroo needed to step in, standing over Suga so far that he had to crane his head back, smiling. His hands were hot on Suga, one pushing his tank top up to thumb at the skin on his hip, the other on his shoulder, squeezing gently. It was hard to focus, the subtle smell of cologne in his nose, the twitching and tightening of those fingers, the way Kuroo’s lips moved, smile widening. “Can the pretty little skater boy give the mad scientist a kiss?”

Suga bumped their foreheads together, and Kuroo whined, a tiny, pathetic sound nearly lost in the heavy bass all around them. Definitely lost when Suga grabbed hold of Kuroo’s lapel with one hand as the other slipped up, curled into that wild, coarse hair, and pulled him in. A surprised inhale washed across his face, warm, smelling of lime, and Suga grinned into it as he tipped his head to the side, keeping the kiss soft, though he lingered on and on, until his lungs were burning and he was grinning so hard his cheeks ached. He pulled back, fingers loosening in Kuroo’s hair.

His boyfriend looked dazed, smiling brightly as he leaned in for another, and another still. After the fourth, Suga pressed his fingertips to Kuroo’s chest, giggling as he pulled back and shook his head. “So clingy, Kuroo.”

“It’s ‘cause you’re beautiful, Koushi,” Kuroo huffed, hugged Suga closer. His nose rubbed along Suga’s neck, weight heavy on him, a pleasant reminder that lasted for a moment before Kuroo pulled back, patted Suga’s arm with the sweetest of smiles. “Go find the others. Semi’s looking beautiful tonight.”

Suga flushed, ducked to hide his head as Kuroo’s wild laughter rose over the steadily thumping music. “Asshole,” Suga grumbled, but warmth was rampant in his chest, and he still rose up onto his tiptoes and pecked Kuroo on the chin before he stepped back, those arms slipping away from him to let the crowd of dancers fill the space between them.

He made it all of two steps before he nearly steamrolled someone in a bodysuit that glowed beneath the black lights, glowing white lines on their cheeks. “Shirabu?”

The person turned fully, snorting when they realized who it was. “You’re too clumsy off the court,” Shirabu said flatly, a smirk chasing the words a second later.

“And you’re an asshole no matter what,” Suga shot back.

Shirabu’s eyes glittered, flicking between black and amber as the lights flashed overhead, colors playing across his face. And the hand that appeared on his shoulder a moment later. Ushijima stood over him, face painted like Frankenstein’s monster, but otherwise in normal clothing. “Did Shirabu talk you into the face paint?”

“Satori told me I had to wear some sort of costume to the party. This was his idea.” Suga followed the finger Ushijima pointed past him to Tendou, who thrashed on the dancefloor, bony arms flying everywhere, his Frankenstein’s Bride wig still on through what seemed to be sheer force of will. Suga chuckled and shook his head.

“He’s a mess, but he’s our mess,” Shirabu sighed.

“Oh, so you’re admitting it now?”

Shirabu leveled a glare at Suga before he huffed, turned into Ushijima with a roll of his eyes. Those long arms and heavy hands settled around him, almost big enough to swallow the sharp shoulder blades that poked out in his bodysuit. Shirabu glanced back. “Eita’s on the porch. They said they ‘got too hot’.” Suga straightened up, uncaring of the satisfied grin that curled Shirabu’s lips. “Very Pavlov of you. Go on.”

Suga flipped Shirabu off, got a middle finger tipped in a glowing nail in return, and melted back into the crowd. Figuring out which part of outside was difficult. The front porch only had some of the girls from the volleyball team who all chirped hellos at him and a handful of people from the soccer team clustered by the jack-o-lanterns that lined the steps. The back yard, occupied by two blow-up kiddie pools, fairy lights in fake cobwebs filled with spiders strung between tiki torches, and far too many people, was a bust too.

But, on the third door that led to a small corner porch tucked into the side of the house, was success. In the orange lights from the paper lanterns shaped like pumpkins, he could see Semi was seated on a swing beside Kageyama, their hands linked between them, Semi holding a bottle of water to their neck. Suga shut the door carefully, and two pairs of eyes snapped over. Two smiles, one thinner and weaker than the other.

“Hey there,” Semi said softly.

Kageyama raised his hand, wiggled his fingers - thankfully not splattered with fake blood, unlike the rest of his outfit, a doctor’s scrubs where something had clearly gone wrong.

Suga crouched down in front of them, set his hand on their interlocked ones. Semi’s fingers twitched against his. Clammy and cool. Almost ironic with deep blue coat they wore, a black sash around their waist, black pants, and white-tipped gray fur around their neck. A white crown was nestled in their hair, and, all over, they’d sewn silver and blue snowflakes of different sizes into their costume.

“Too hot, huh?”

Semi grimaced. “Too many people.”

Suga nodded, squeezed their hands. They looked a little pale, even beneath the foundation and blue tinged makeup on their face. Kageyama looked well at least, though there was a deep crease in his brow, and it looked like he’d picked at the hole in his sleeve until it gaped open, bitten at his fingers until the skin was red and frayed.

Suga bit his lip, glanced at the door, then Semi. “You have your medication?”

“Already took it.” Semi dragged their hand through their hair with a grimace. “Sorry. I know this is a pain.”

Suga flicked them on the knee. “You’re never a pain, dork.”

Semi stuck their tongue out. Kageyama caught it between his fingers, pinched it. Semi grunted, pulled their hand away so they could slap at him until he released their tongue. “You’re right,” they said, eyes narrowed at Kageyama, “Tobio is the pain, always grabbing my tongue like an asshole.”

“Would you rather have a kiss?” Suga teased.

Semi’s white-coated eyebrows rose. A smile appeared, slow and shy. They dug their heels into the concrete beneath them, pulled themself closer to Suga. He met Semi halfway, beaming as he pecked them on the nose, curled his fingers into their silky hair. They laughed, a soft puff of breath against his face, and then he closed the rest of the distance, fully kissed them beneath the ghosts fluttering from the bar above them. Semi’s mouth twitched, a hand curling into Suga’s shirt as Semi leaned closer, pulled him in.

And Suga just grinned, pressed a second kiss to their lips, then a third before they pulled apart. Semi’s smile was sweet, shy, and Suga curled his fingers in their hair. “You’re doing great, Eita.”

Their lips crinkled, but they didn’t protest. Just stayed silent and let their eyes flutter as they pushed their head into Suga’s hand, relishing the way he worked his fingers through their hair. With them quiet, slowly relaxing, Suga turned to Kageyama. Those gray-blue eyes were focused on Semi, but they shifted over, settled on him.

��Were you with them the whole time?”

“They texted me. I couldn’t find them at first.”

“In his defense,” Semi said softly, “I wasn’t entirely clear about where I was. I wasn’t seeing clearly.”

“It was… interesting. I couldn’t quite tell what some of the words were supposed to be saying.”

Suga snorted, rocked forward onto his knee. He curled his fingers beneath Kageyama’s cheek, lulled him forward to press a quick kiss to his lips. “Thank you, Tobio,” he said softly.

Kageyama merely stared at him, mouth not quite working as it formed around words. In the near-dark, it was difficult to see, but Suga was certain that his cheeks had flushed darker. As the newest to his little arrangement, and the youngest, Kageyama hadn’t quite grown accustomed to the shows of affection, let alone in public areas. And that makes him so much cuter.

Suga hummed to himself, just for a second, before he turned back to Semi, tugged on their hair to make their eyes flicker open. “Can I text the others? They can bring you something to drink and eat if you want, or just talk.”

Semi nodded, and Suga fired off a text, one that Kuroo and Oikawa responded to almost instantly. They both appeared together, Kuroo cradling several water bottles, Oikawa with his arms filled with Halloween snacks that he dumped on the ground beside Suga, bat-shaped brownies and cookies iced like pumpkins and candy spilling on the concrete, cellophane wrappers crinkling.

Suga snorted, but he pulled a brownie from the pile, passed it up to Semi, who unwrapped it and bit off a wing as they inspected the other two. “If I didn’t know better,” they teased, “I’d say you were trying to impress someone.”

Oikawa wiggled his eyebrows, glitter catching what little light surrounded them. “What can I say, Eita-chan? I have to make Kou-chan fall in love with me!”

“I’m pretty sure he’s already there,” Kuroo shot back, “Just with three others too.”

He was smug, no doubt about it, but Oikawa and the others didn’t take offense. They just gave their own little smiles, Kuroo’s wide enough for his dimples to make an appearance, Oikawa’s showing off a canine with a small gem embedded, Semi’s eyes crinkling, Kageyama’s lips just barely twitching. All so different, and so very beautiful, especially beneath the soft orange glow of the pumpkins overhead, the faint sound and thump of music drifting through the cool night air.

Suga sank back, reached out. Kageyama took one hand, almost reverent as he pulled it close, settled it onto his lap, his fingers automatically finding the flesh of Suga’s palm and gently kneading in.

Oikawa took the other, and he laced their fingers together, his hand so warm against Suga’s, so familiar in how his fingers settled between the fine bones beneath his skin.

“You’re not wrong,” Suga said softly underneath the pumpkin glow, “Not wrong at all.”

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seenashwrite · 8 years ago

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SNIPED (Part Three)

Status: Complete (Part 3 of 5) Word Count: 7.8K Rating: 18+/Mature/Explicit for Adult Themes including - Graphic sexual situations; Mild-to-moderate violence; Coarse language Categories: Drama; Action; Romance; Porn-with-Plot; Smut; On-the-hunt Character(s): Dean; Sam; Reader/O.C. Female; Jody; Crowley [briefly]; Alex & Claire [mentioned]; Castiel [mentioned] Pairings: Dean x Reader/OC Female [Pts. 2 & 5]; Sam x Reader/OC Female [Pt. 3] Warning(s): See “Rating” section above Author’s Note(s): See Part One Overall Summary: The Winchesters receive assistance on their case from a sniper. Part Three Summary: The sniper rushes to aid Jody, getting caught in Winchester crossfire for her trouble.

|| SNIPED Master Post ||

I had just gotten out of the shower and was naked in front of the mirror, squeezing my wet, finger-combed hair, when I heard a soft rapping at the door.

I sighed, glanced down at the handgun I'd left next to the sink. Anyone coming after me that was worth their salt could've just kicked in the cheap motel's plywood door. Besides, I knew who it was; no need to arrive armed.

I wrapped the thin towel around myself, holding it closed as it was too small to tuck, padded over and opened the door, an expressionless look already plastered on my face when I raised my head.

Sam briefly glanced over me, gulped.

I rolled my eyes, then raised my eyebrows.

"I, uh... thought I'd take you up on..."

I stood aside and he walked in. "Over there," I said, turning away to walk back to the bathroom, pointing at the small bottle of tequila set next to the single-wrapped plastic cups and ice bucket on the dresser.

I closed the bathroom door, my privacy now gone, finished drying off my hair best I could, then glanced around. Shit. I'd stripped off in the room, and knew the dress I'd been wearing had been thrown to god knew where as soon as I'd unzipped it and pulled it off. So I re-wrapped, opened the door, walked back out.

Sam was sitting on the bed, leaned against the headboard, one leg partly propped up, the other still on the floor as if he didn't want to give the impression he'd totally made himself at home. His hair had gotten longer since I'd last seen him, and it was mostly held back in an elastic. He still had on the long-sleeved plaid shirt from earlier but it was unbuttoned atop his white tank undershirt now. The denim had been traded for loose track pants, untied boots thrown over bare feet for his walk to my door.

He was sipping on my tequila, and he'd brought the bottle over to the nightstand next to him. He'd also gathered and straightened up my things. The shoulder holster was hung on a chair, and the now un-crumpled dress was draped across the back of the other chair, pumps aligned neatly underneath it. He met my eye, I shot him an odd look, then walked to the dress.

"You're putting that back on?" Sam asked.

"My go-bag was in my car."

"What?"

I turned to him. "Got the call, grabbed some gear, got in the jeep, came to you. My options are naked or this, soooo..."

I could practically feel the heat radiating off of his bright red blushing. Good. I wanted him to feel embarrassed, ashamed. He deserved it.

Earlier that night, when I'd turned my phone back on upon getting home, it was filled with messages. I'd just gotten in from doing some recon; well, recon of a sort. It required a low-cut black dress with a mostly open back that was a little too tight and a little too short, though not so short as to reveal the upper thigh holster and switchblade strapped to it. The rest of my uniform only consisted of diamond studs, and black patent pumps with ankle cuffs that fastened via a shiny zipper up the back.

Jody had been at my old house helping me pack up my husband's things when they'd arrived; I'd ordered them to wear out on our one-year anniversary. The anniversary we'd never gotten to. She had opened them for me, absently commenting on what great "fuck-me pumps" they were without thinking, but the moment of levity had made me laugh for the first time since that night. Jody said she'd buy them off me, but I kept them. Turned out to be a valuable piece of tactical gear in the long run.

Valuable for the current leg of my mission, at least - an expensive dinner, the third that week, full of light groping and fingering under the table, with my latest lead on Red Smoke, which is what I'd taken to calling my target. My lead was a good fifteen years older than me, but quite handsome, reminded me of that actor on that show, the one that Jody's kids called "a silver fox". Shitty kisser, but easy to keep at bay with teasing promises of the next time. He liked me, and he would keep liking me, for as long as it took. I needed to know what all exactly his reportedly shady dealings involved, how exactly he’d gone from rags-to-riches in just under a decade.

I was now on my own. My latest P.I. had gotten taken out. I hadn't heard from him for several weeks following the text I’d gotten after my night with Dean. He'd never answered my return call, was never at his office. Despite a slew of fake names, I finally tracked down where he lived. Good timing, too.

Found crime scene tape, cops, coroner, the smell of rotting flesh spilling out into the apartment building's hallways. Courtesy of a fake badge Jody’d helped me with, a neighbor told me they'd called the police once the stench had gotten so bad. Pity they didn't know the smell of human decay well enough to separate it from the smell of garbage in their minds.

I wasn't going to involve anyone else. Not really out of care for my fellow man; more because trails of bodies could lead back to me. Which is why I hauled ass to the P.I.'s office and torched it. The cops would just assume it was his killer, and in a round-about way, I suppose that was true. I had probably gotten him killed.

Sam thought I had gotten Dean killed.

At least, that was the impression Jody had, it was amongst the things she'd relayed in the first few voice mails. Seems Dean had been a busy boy. To Sam, he referred to his secretive solo outings as "snipe hunts", and the younger man had finally put two-and-two together, namely because of the condition in which his brother would return. Sometimes physical signs, mostly behavioral signs, both telling Sam that Dean wasn't going on fool's errands; he was hunting for me.

And Sam had not been shy when sharing his theory with Jody. I already knew Dean had been pestering Jody for my current address, the house that wouldn't show up on any background check because I was paying my rent in cash to the little old lady who owned it, keeping it under the table so she wouldn't have to claim the income. Dean kept saying he didn't want to bother me, just wanted to check on me. Jody knew he'd been texting me sporadically since my disappearing act, but also knew I wouldn't get in deeper with him.

Not now. Not when I was getting close. And Dean had respected Jody when she firmly told him she was not breaking my confidence. It seemed, however, that he had not taken my desire to distance myself from him to heart.

There were at least a dozen messages screaming at me, texts and voice mails, all over the span of a few hours. The texts were garbage, short spurts of CALL ME-s and 911!-s and WHERE ARE YOU-s. The longest text was the first:

Dean's in bad trouble. Sam doesn't want you involved. Need you to be.

Three words into her initial voice mail, I turned and immediately went to the large safe in the basement, not because of what she was saying - I could get filled in on Dean’s journey into stupidity later - but because of the panic in her voice. Putting it on speaker, I laid it on the long metal table that lived against the wall. Grabbed the large duffel, laid it out on the floor, spun the dial on the safe, clicked to the next message. More panicked, but still focused, now describing the location I'd be going to, outlining what she knew of the opposition.

Good girl. Jody was scared, but she was with it enough to relay precisely the things I'd have asked. And by the sound of it, the logistics of the location were more of an issue than its occupants.

I smiled, removing my favorite rifle, the one that was like another limb for me, the one for which I didn't need a thousand fancy accoutrements to nail anyone - or, now-a-days, anything��- on the other end. So to the bag I only added a suppressor, a night-vision scope, and a small box of the appropriate ammo. Then on second thought, the laser sight - not for need, just because I wanted these assholes to know they were about to meet their maker.

Next message. I threw on a shoulder holster, pulled a .9 mil, made sure the mag was full. Satisfied, I fastened it in. Squatting in front of the low shelves, I looked over the rest of my options. Now Jody's voice had gone to an angry tone, demanding to know where the hell I was, what happened to the promise I'd made to Dean, that I'd be there for them if they needed me. I chose two flat packages, stuffing them in the bag along with their corresponding remote triggers, tuning out the rest of her rant.

Next message. Obvious tears, a new pitch, a catch in her usually strong voice. I felt my neck and face flush with anger. Fucking Winchesters. But, more information through the tears - my latest targets were using a webcam to communicate with Sam. So he could see and hear a live feed of what they were doing... what they had been doing... to Dean. For the past 36 hours and counting. I shook off my annoyance at Sam's abject idiocy for waiting so long to reach out for help.

And not to me - I'd not heard from them regarding help on a job since the hunt we'd gone on almost five months prior. Even though now they were close; very close. Just as close in proximity as they were to Jody, they knew I lived near her, and in a situation like this I couldn't imagine how they thought a sheriff could lend the same level of assistance.

I swung the bag over my shoulder, picked up the phone in one hand, grabbed one of several burners plugged in and charging along the backside of the table with the other. I dialed a number I'd had memorized for years. I made mental note to wipe it down and toss it at some point on the road.

A former bureau colleague of mine in surveillance had believed me when I'd said I thought we were targeted that day, though I’d phrased it as suspecting the team had been targeted. It was, after all, at least moderately probable - the intelligence on the op was shown to be false. The subsequent investigation had revealed no evidence of a threat anywhere in that building, but of course the intel failure didn't make it to the official report, what with all the room detailing my supposed break-down had taken up.

I always thought he felt somewhat guilty about that, even though he was a low-level analyst, because he had a bit of a thing for me. And he'd proven it by agreeing to be my contact on the inside. I had a favor still on the books, courtesy of the quick oral thank-you I'd bestowed upon him. So fuck the Winchesters again, for forcing me to use the favor on them.

Next message. Told me she was about to go back to where she and Sam were positioned, told me where, then went into borderline hysterics, which I hadn't heard coming out of Jody since I held her in my arms and she released all the pain, describing the night her dead son tore apart her husband. I stopped the message before it even finished; “furious” didn’t even begin to describe what had flooded over me.

In the garage now, I set down the bag, grabbed a set of keys off the hook. I pulled the cover off of my husband's trusty old jeep. Battered to hell, still ran like a dream. I'd kept up its maintenance, every once and awhile still taking it out to dusty open roads, pushing it to the limit, taking curves too fast. I took the briefest of moments to run my fingers across the hood. He wasn't perfect. Our relationship was far from perfect. If I was honest, we'd gotten married partly to try and save it. But goddamn, we'd had some good times in that car.

I threw the bag in back. Cranked the engine, backed it out, left it running while I closed the garage door. Then before I peeled out into the night, I texted Jody:

Breathe - coming to you now

I'd gotten to the location in under fifteen minutes without raising any suspicion. It was one of several foreclosed houses that were in a gaudy, over-priced, mostly vacant subdivision filled with eyesore after eyesore about ten miles outside of the main metro area of town. I took the jeep off-road, as it were, up the cleared-off, steep hill at the back of the division. It plateaued and butted up against an undeveloped wooded area.

According to my surveillance contact, based on the brief glimpses he could afford, the satellite showed heat signatures were sticking to the front end of the house where Dean was being kept. Not wise in terms of detection, but perhaps the trade-off was being closer to one of the still-occupied homes. A piggy back off of their wi-fi to send their feed would make sense, as their hideout wouldn't have its own.

Sam and Jody were crouched behind a fallen tree at the top of a slope to the side of the cul-de-sac where the home was located. It backed up to a particularly dense area of the trees, which was the smartest damn thing Sam had done that day, limiting his exposure. I hated him for bringing Jody into this. Hated. I silently crept up on them, but not before I'd taken care of a little business.

"Thank god," Jody exhaled, squeezing my knee once I'd dropped the bag and knelt beside them.

Sam's eyes shot daggers through me, then he looked back down to his phone. The volume was low, the feed slightly glitched, but I could glimpse Dean's battered and bloody face and torso. Clearly heard the occasional grunts of pain.

"Mute that shit," I hissed.

Another glare, but Sam complied.

Jody glanced down, saw my pumps were slightly muddied, and that my calves were splattered with the same. "How long have you been here?" she whispered.

"Long enough to leave a few presents," I replied, then I looked coldly at Sam. "And take out the four perimeter goons that were gonna make you soon." You fucking suck at your job, I thought. Direct your hate to a mirror, not at me. "Is he cuffed or tied?" I asked.

Sam gulped, glanced away a second, then back. "Tied. They've... they stood him up and had his arms above his head a few ti---"

I turned my head back to Jody. "I don't have any way for us to communicate once Sam and I get closer---"

Sam started to interrupt, but I cut him off with a back-handed slap and it stunned him.

"Shut. The. Fuck. Up. This was your best. Congrats. My turn." Back to Jody again, now winding my hair up in a top knot and pulling an elastic from my wrist to secure it. "So if we aren't back with Dean in ten minutes, you get the hell out. The jeep's just on the other side of this clump of trees, in another cul-de-sac. Keys are under the mat."

Jody nodded slowly and silently, absorbing what I had said. She knew why. The sheriff needed plausible deniability if things went awry.

Sam had kept silent, too, so I sat back to look at both of them. Good. Both had expressions of concern mixed with focus. I'd have preferred all focus, but I'd take it. I had already prepped my rifle with the suppressor - and used it, by that point - and was now attaching the scope as I continued.

"A surveillance contact of mine confirmed nine people, including one that was stationary - Dean. Minus the four on the perimeter, we've got four to go. There's a picnic table below us in the side yard." I looked at Sam. "That's where we start."

I unzipped and took off my shoes, Jody looking on, staring at their scraped and muddied state wistfully. Sam and I crept down, crawling the last yard or so to the picnic table. There was a generator humming nearby, but the floodlights weren't being used, so we had better coverage than I'd hoped for, despite the bright moonlight. But these kidnappers were far from pros.

The ones on the perimeter didn't have walkies or earpieces, so the ones on the inside likely had no clue they'd been downed. I had a decent line of sight through one window on the side of the house that we faced - left completely uncovered - which let me see the doorway into the room. Had an even better line across the front porch. I continued to be in slight awe at these dumbfucks - they'd actually turned on the front porch lights.

I set my rifle down beside me as Sam and I got into crouched positions. I pulled out the remote trigger I'd stuck in the top of my dress that was being held by my strap and handed it to him. Then I pulled a second from the other side, setting it gently on the table.

"When you pop that," I whispered, "we wait one minute. If anyone runs out, let me take them. Then we pop the second." I pointed. "Dean is against the opposite wall of this room. You're going to go through this wall and get him."

I heard the intake of air as Sam was about to speak, and I quickly reached out and squeezed the hell out of his arm.

"I brought the good stuff. Thermite breach. They'll be distracted by the first one. Do you have a knife?"

"No."

I hiked up my skirt to the holster, handed him my switchblade. "Do not stop. Do not stop cutting rope. Do not stop moving with him. I have eyes on the only way in and out of that room. If you see my laser sight, do not stop. If you hear gunfire, do not stop. Do you understand me?"

"Yes."

I balanced my rifle atop the picnic table. Got into mindset. Just another mission. Just another breach and capture.

I was in a goddamn cocktail dress.

Silence. Nothing but Sam and I quietly breathing. I watched one of them come into the room. Waited til he walked back out. It was the only activity for several minutes.

"Pop it."

Moments later, a horrific bang from the other side of the house. We could hear footsteps pounding around crazily. I grinned. Morons.

One suddenly ran out onto the porch, holding a semi in an ineffective manner, cigarette hanging from his lips, head swiveling around. I could see the whites of his wide eyes as they searched for an answer. I had one for him.

ZIP

That's five.

I directed my aim back through the window and onto the doorway of the room. "Anything?" I whispered.

"No."

I handed him the other trigger; voices carried from the far side of the house.

"Pop it."

After its detonation, I could see that the hole it made - taking out part of the window as well - was plenty substantial for Sam and Dean to get through. Cheaply made overpriced shithouse. Gotta love it. The voices faded - they were either coming around or heading back inside. Either way:

"Go."

Sam went, and fast, too. While he was freeing Dean, I spotted movement. Someone was coming around to the side yard from the rear of the house.

Six

As soon as I'd gotten my first glimpse of Sam making his way back to the hole, the last two appeared at the doorway to the room. I saw the open-mouthed gasp of the one in the rear when he spotted the laser, heard his impossibly high-pitched scream when the blood spurt from the one in front splattered across his face.

Seven

But he scurried away, just as Sam had made it to the hole with Dean. They stumbled off the drop, both falling briefly to the grass under what was left of the window, but regrouped quickly. Dean seemed to be moving under his own strength fairly well. I didn't have time to be glad about that - one more cockroach to exterminate. Sam guided Dean to my position.

I handed him my rifle. "Get to Jody. One of you cover me. Go."

Thank god, Sam just took it and went without a thousand questions, and I removed my pistol from the holster, shot out those stupid lights, then crept onto the porch.

And now, I was walking back out of the motel bathroom, clad in Sam's shirt, which hit me right below the knees. I had to admit, it was incredibly comfortable. Hopefully it would distract me from the cheap, scratchy sheets. I had gotten a room where Sam had holed up when he'd come for Jody's help earlier. Didn't feel like going to her place, wasn't up to explaining why I'd been so distant.

Dean had refused to go to the ER or to Jody's - that, and the occasional grumbled curse was all he would say, and not a word of it was to me. After Jody helped get him into Sam's room, she hugged me so hard, it almost hurt. And as she pulled away, she looked at me so sincerely, it almost made me cringe. Even more so when she spoke.

"I truly do love..."

Oof.

"...those shoes."

Why do I doubt her?

"Get out of here," I advised with a grin.

So that left me and the Winchester boys. Dean waved off everything Sam offered - food, a bath, painkillers - all he wanted was to go to sleep. I had stood quietly, leaning next to the door, holding my shoes in one hand, rifle in the other. After Dean had closed his eyes - still frowning as he turned from me - Sam tried to adjust his covers, but Dean slapped his hands away. Sam gave up, straightened his bent-over posture, and passed the frown along.

I sighed, pushed myself off the wall, opened the door. Then I stopped, turned back around. I had my mouth open to eviscerate his ego to the very core, but then thought better of it. Dean had drug him into this, I'd drug him out. It was over as far as I was concerned. Sam should still feel like an asshole for not calling on me. But they could hash out their shit on their own. Not my problem.

"If you get tired of staring into the abyss---" I glanced to Dean, then back to him "---there'll be a drink waiting for you in room 25."

Because god knew I needed one. My husband had faithfully kept a small bottle of tequila in the storage of the jeep and I'd kept up the tradition, replacing it any time I'd used it for a margarita night with Jody. He and I would do a celebratory shot together after every successful mission, back when we’d only been partners a short while. It was after one of those shots, right beside that jeep, after we were showered and back in normal clothes, and after the rest of the team members were all headed to their respective lives, that we'd shared our first kiss.

But here, now, I was going to celebrate with Sam Winchester, who - despite the gentlemanly surrender of a piece of his plaid-and-flannel collection - was still alternating between moderate disdain and mild anger when it came to his expressions and tone.

"Where did you find the last guy?" he asked. He'd poured a drink for me, and I took it from his hand as I came to sit on the opposite side of the queen bed, tucking my legs under me.

"In a downstairs bathroom," I replied, taking a sip.

"Did you ask him anything?"

"Should I have?" I asked in return, and honestly.

Sam's brow creased. "They got Dean while he'd been out looking for you."

I just looked at him. Then I took another sip.

"He's concerned you've gotten involved in something dangerous."

I didn't respond.

Sam shook his head, glanced away, made a little huffing sound as he looked back to me. "You know, Dean really cares about you. That not matter at all?"

Another sip.

"I don't know what all happened between you two when you were at the bunker---"

"No," I cut in. "You don't."

Sip.

We stared at each other. I was re-thinking the whole sweet and goody-two-shoes label I'd placed on him months prior. There was something... dark... something intense... brewing under his typically affable demeanor. Interesting.

Sam broke the stare, drank what was left in his cup, then moved to get up and, I assume, leave. But before he stood, he asked, "Do you not want to know what they did to him?"

"Will that change what they did to him? Make it better? Make him feel better? Make you feel better, if you have some company in your guilt?"

Sam's jaw tensed up, but he did seem to hear me.

"This is really good, huh?" I asked, lightening my tone, holding up my cup.

Sam's posture relaxed somewhat, and he nodded. "Yeah."

"Sam, you came down here because you didn't want to sit and stare at him, looking at things you can't figure out or fix," I continued, gently as I could muster. "So let's you and me kill that bottle and we can trade war stories til you're drunk enough to walk back in there and pass right the hell out."

He watched me carefully for a moment or two, I suppose in an effort to determine my level of sincerity. Then he poured himself another drink, sat back against the headboard, this time pulling both legs up, plopping them on the bed and crossing them at the ankles. He took a deep breath, then a healthy sip before he met my eye again. "You slapped me."

I nodded slowly, trying not to smile.

Sam looked back to his drink. "I think I needed it," he admitted.

Now I did smile.

"So, what do you want to hear? Wendigo or vampire?"

I chuckled. "One of each, please."

It wasn't until we were nearing the end of our best stories, as well as the end of the bottle and dancing at the line of sobriety, that Sam's mood seemed to shift to that darker place again. Dark, but honest.

"I have a hard time getting what he sees in you," Sam stated.

I raised my eyebrows. "Golly gee, Sam. Thanks?"

Sam laughed. "I didn't mean---"

I laughed, too. "Yeah, you did!"

"No!" he insisted, and while he was sitting himself up straighter against the headboard, managed to slosh the last of the tequila in his cup out, onto, and rolling down his undershirt. "Oh shit," he muttered.

I took his cup from him as he stood. "It's just an undershirt."

"No, I'm bummed about the tequila!" Sam replied with a wide smile, which was obscured briefly as he pulled the wet shirt over his head and tossed it to the side. He flopped back down on the bed again.

Dean was well-built, but christ-on-a-cracker. I clearly had no idea what had been lurking under baby brother's exterior. I chugged the rest of my drink, begging it to burn its way down and kick in quickly so my epiphany wouldn't show on my face.

Sam picked up the bottle but I shook my head vehemently. "No no no no, sir," I said, setting our cups on the bedspread. I made a gimme motion with my hands and he grinned, passing it over. "You have wasted, but I am benevolent," I informed him.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Mmm-hmmm. The last of this will be distributed equally." I unscrewed the cap and Sam observed as I carefully poured. I lifted them up to eyeball them once, adjusted the amount again. I nodded my head. "That'll do," I stated, handing him a cup, then holding mine toward him. "Last call. Got a toast?"

Sam thought for a second, then slowly shook his head and met my eye. "Nope."

"Nope, it is."

We did our shots, then Sam stacked our cups and leaned a little to set them on the nightstand.

"Oh, whoops," I commented, feeling the empty bottle bump against my calf with the movement of the mattress.

Sam was just leaning back when I shuffled in his direction, still on my knees, then leaned across him, planting a hand on the mattress to balance myself, putting the empty bottle on the night stand as well.

I'd shuffled onto the front hem of the shirt, feeling cool air as the back got hiked up, but my lack of any other garment didn't register until I felt Sam's fingertips ever-so-barely touch the bottom curve of the ass cheek closest to him, then slowly trail down the back of my thigh before it faded away. Though I'd set the bottle down, I didn't move, hand still planted on the mattress to the side of his hip.

"I saw you," Sam said, barely above a whisper, his fingertips repeating the touch, leaving no doubt that I'd misinterpreted or imagined anything. "That night. I saw you and Dean by the staircase."

I tensed slightly, brought my other hand down to grip the mattress. I needed the support. Not because I was drunk. Because I didn't feel as uncomfortable at his touch as perhaps I should've been. Because of what had already started between Dean and I.

"Did you?" I asked, not looking at him. The tracing from cheek to thigh and back up continued, meandering a bit to my inner thigh on the next pass.

"Mmm-hmmm."

"Do you think I should feel embarrassed?"

"No."

Sam's fingers pushed the hem of his shirt a little higher, exposing more of my ass. I glanced over at him. He was watching his fingers.Up, over, down, up, over, down.

"Do you think you should be embarrassed?"

A tiny smile and chuckle. "I don't know."

"Are you?"

"No." The smile faded. The shirt hem got pushed a little higher. The fingers drifted a little further. "I got so hard," he whispered, still watching his fingers.

I wanted to hear more. "Tell me."

"The sounds the two of you were making..."

Sam's fingertips pressed a little harder, no longer on the back of my thigh, only going from my cheek to my inner thigh now.

"...how Dean's hand was moving in your pants..."

The shirt hem was resting on my lower back, my ass completely exposed now.

"...how you were grinding your pussy."

My eyes fell closed briefly, and I shivered when, on that last word, Sam's fingertips barely grazed that very area. A glance downwards showed me perhaps Sam did know what Dean saw in me. And I tilted my head towards him again. "Were you as hard as you are now?" I asked.

He met my eye, his hand still moving, though not as quickly, the fingers lingering as they moved to the center, drifting up between my cheeks then slowly moving back down. "Harder."

"What did you do?"

"Went back to my room." Another pause at my ever-dampening entrance, then back up, over my taint, over my asshole, back down.

"Then what?"

"Thought about the two of you fucking."

"While you stroked it?"

"Til I came."

The corners of my mouth went up. "But you just can't figure out what he sees in me."

Sam's eyes flashed and a wicked little grin came to his face. "I know you wouldn't kiss him, he told me. And that you didn't fuck him."

I narrowed my eyes. "Then I guess you know all there is to know. Sammy."

Sam's grin disappeared, but his touches continued, albeit more firmly, more the pads of his fingers than just the tips.

"Why'd you come down here?" I asked, trying to take a little edge off my tone.

"Why didn't you kiss him?"

"Why'd you come down here?" I asked again, harshly, because fuck my tone.

"Why didn't you fuck him?"

I rolled my eyes, sighed, then began to move to sit up when suddenly Sam came forward, pressing his lips into mine. Though he'd made the bold move, he suddenly hesitated. And I immediately got annoyed at this boy and whatever game he was trying to play.

I pushed my lips back against his, deepening the kiss. Sam responded in kind, and I opened my mouth, letting his tongue in to wrestle with mine. I pivoted, bringing my body around, one knee on either side of his thighs. He gripped my bare ass in his huge hands, squeezing with every thrust of our tongues.

"You're a good kisser," I breathed out when he moved his lips down my neck. Sam licked his way back up, bringing his mouth to mine again. I sucked on his bottom lip. A small groan emerged from his throat. As I pulled away, letting my teeth pull on the lip a bit as I did, I whispered, "I didn't kiss Dean because I didn't want to. I'm kissing you because I do want to."

Sam looked at me with hooded eyes. I felt his erection pulse beneath me. I leaned in for another round of kisses, and this time they were deeper, rougher, more tangled than before. He wrapped his arms completely around me, pulling in tightly, pushing my naked pussy directly against the rock-hard bulge.

"Ask me," I whispered when we pulled back from the kiss and were each catching our breath.

Sam didn't hesitate. "Do you want to fuck me?"

I looked at him seriously. "Will you promise to put it all the way inside of me?" I pushed my pelvis into him and his eyelids fluttered.

"Yes," he gasped.

"Will you pound me til I come?"

"Oh god yes," Sam practically moaned, gripping my ass so tight I knew I'd have bruises.

"Stand up."

I moved off of his lap, raising back up on my knees as he stood. The tip of his cock was peeking above the waistband of the track pants. I gently pulled the pants down, licking my lips, getting wetter and wetter in anticipation. Sam's cock was thick, and while it wasn't the girth of Dean's - because, fuck, whose was? - it was easily an inch longer. I knew immediately it would hit me in every conceivable spot.

While I briefly contemplated attempting a blow job, I just couldn't wait any longer. I felt slick drops beginning to run out of me at just the sight. So I gently gave the tip a little lick and a tiny kiss. And then I turned around, still kneeling on the mattress, raising my ass and presenting my wet pussy to him. I heard an audible gasp, but then Sam seemed to recover quickly because the next thing I knew, he had entered me.

"Oh, fuuuuck," I groaned at that first long stroke, willing myself not to push back into him, wanting him to take the lead, see what the younger Winchester would be bringing to the table.

"Holy shit," Sam gasped, gripping my hips as I felt him adjust his stance. He began to pull back but paused before he got a rhythm going. I glanced over my shoulder. "Did you mean it?" he asked in the lowest register I think I'd ever heard his voice take.

"Mean what?"

"Pounding?"

I grinned, and then turned away from him once more, this time extending my arms in front of me and grabbing up two fistfuls of bedding, preparing to brace myself. "Sam. I don't say anything I don't mean."

The next thrust was deeper, and on the third, he was completely ensheathed, those luscious hip bones grinding into me. "Oh yessss," I heard him hiss, just as he ramped up the speed.

Before long, my entire body was being jolted as Sam took my instruction to heart, pounding, swiveling every now and then so he made sure his dick hit every square inch. He was back to kneading my ass cheeks, pulling them apart, squeezing them back together, thumbs running over and pressing around my asshole.

I leaned down more, resting on my forearms and arching my back, now unable to resist pushing myself back onto him, matching his thrusts. Better braced, I used one hand to unbutton the borrowed shirt, letting it fall open so my breasts could move freely, and my erect, sensitive nipples wouldn't keep scraping across the fabric. Then I moved my hand lower.

Sam moaned as I made a V with my index and middle finger, placing them so he felt an extra bit of pressure with every pump. "Stop, I don't want to come yet," he managed, and then he pulled out, grabbed me by the waist, turning me around and pulling me up to face him.

As Sam crushed his mouth to mine again, our tongues angrily battling each other, he slid his shirt off of me, throwing it away, then wrapped his muscled arms around me, smashing our naked bodies together. I put my hands on either side of his face then drug them down, pressing into his pecs, over his nipples, over every taut ab. Right as I was about to stroke his cock, he looked at me and spoke.

"Did you do this with Dean?" Sam asked, his voice husky, his eyes seeming almost angry as he pulled me closer, running the fingers of one hand between my ass cheeks again, pulling moisture from my pussy to my taint and asshole, letting his finger linger there, stroking over it.

And though he knew the answer, I confirmed it for him. "No."

Another quick trip, gliding down, returning with more wetness, pressing his middle finger more firmly to my asshole. "Did Dean touch you here?"

"No."

Now pinning my body against his with his left arm, Sam reached between my legs from the front with his right hand, jamming his first three fingers inside my cunt all the way to the knuckles, making me yelp in surprise. He brought the dripping fingers out, up and over my hip, smearing the wetness down my crack, swirling his middle finger on my asshole, pushing in with every rotation til he was slowly fingering my ass, in and out, increasing the speed.

I clutched onto his shoulders, as he let my torso go. I was groaning into his neck as he grabbed my right cheek with his now free left hand, pulling it to the side, opening me more, gliding another finger inside, scissoring, up, down, side to side, fast and rough.

"Did you let Dean stretch your asshole?" he asked, pumping and pumping, his cock even harder between us.

"No!" I gasped, digging my fingers into his shoulders, and he captured my mouth in another wild kiss.

He eased his fingers out gently, but then clamped down on my hips as he ended the kiss to look at me dead in the eye. "I'm going to fuck you so hard," he stated, then pushed me backwards.

Leaning back on my elbows now, I looked up to him with a cheshire grin. His face was set in such an authoritative mode, he looked nothing like the little brother I'd associated him with in my mind. He stared down at me, eyes roaming over my breasts, then to my crotch, then back to my eyes as he gave his cock several fierce tugs. He grabbed a pillow from the head of the bed, doubled it over.

"Raise your hips," he ordered.

"Yes, sir," I replied, and he stuffed the pillow under me, tilting my pelvis completely off the bed. I let my knees fall open, the cool air hitting my hot core and making me shiver.

He gave his cock another few strokes, eyes never leaving my crotch. "Spread your legs."

I complied.

"Wider."

I did as I was told.

Sam reached down with both hands, studying every fold intensely, running his thumbs over, around, then between the puffy outer lips, pointedly ignoring my huge, engorged clit. He ultimately planted his knuckles on either side of my entrance, his thumbs continuing to keep my folds and lips to the side, pushing my hips even wider, opening me completely.

"Fuck, you've got a pretty pussy," he muttered. Then he met my eye."Did Dean go down on you?"

"He licked me clean after I made myself come," I replied with a raised eyebrow, fully aware that I was taunting him. "Does that count?"

The side of Sam's mouth twitched up briefly before he broke eye contact and practically dove between my legs, thrusting his tongue in-and-out of my cunt, dragging it up and finally, blessedly, paying much-needed attention to my clit.

I sighed, letting my head fall back as he suckled at it, his lips as delicate as his thrusts were rough, thumbs still keeping my swollen lips to the side so he could occasionally run the tip of his tongue over and between every fold, swirling it around my entrance before plunging it in again.

And then Sam moved to a kneeling position beside the bed, putting my boosted pelvis more on his eye-level. I missed his face and his mouth, wanted it back in my pussy, and made a little whimper sound involuntarily. He didn't make me wait. Returning his lips to my clit, he again sucked at it, then up, over, under with his tongue, though when he moved down, he changed his pattern, going further, spreading my cheeks, running his warm tongue over my tender asshole for several moments then moving back up, kissing along my inner thighs til he stood. Then there was one last order as he moved to kneeling in front of me on the mattress:

"Put my cock in your cunt."

I reached down, barely had the tip in my entrance when Sam shoved it completely inside of me. I had no footing, nothing to brace myself with, so I extended my arms up and behind me, grateful I was close enough for my palms to make contact with the headboard. I was practically seeing stars, my breaths coming in ragged pants now. I was so sore already, and all I wanted was more.

Every pump was rapid, and every third or fourth, Sam would pull almost all the way out before slamming in deeper, jack-hammering my core relentlessly. My breasts were bouncing wildly and suddenly his huge hands were on them, squeezing, pulling, catching my nipples between his fingers, pinching, twisting. Nothing was gentle, nothing was tender, and I was grunting, craving more.

The pillow was yanked away and I felt Sam's body press down on top of me, felt his hands snake up, pull mine away from the headboard, wind his fingers through mine, his grip tight, felt his mouth crush into mine, his hips continuing their work. I wrapped my legs around him, dug my heels in below his ass and he moaned into my mouth as the shift in position let him sink even deeper.

Our eyes locked as I began to match his rhythm, the pace slowing a bit as I clenched purposefully around his cock every now and then, delighting in how it would take his breath away. A tiny bead of sweat ran from his hairline down to the tip of his nose. I grinned, and his stoic expression wavered as he grinned back.

"What?" he asked.

"You need a break."

Sam shook his head. "No way," he replied, nearly completely breathless, but increasing the speed of his thrusts as if to prove me wrong.

"Mmmmm," I hummed in pleasure, but I had a request. "Let me ride you?"

For his answer, Sam let go of my hands, putting his arms underneath me, then flipping us over so I was on top. Sitting up, he scooted us down to the end of the bed, planting his feet on the floor, keeping his arms around me and his cock inside me the entire time. We kissed like maniacs again, then just as I was beginning to find a rhythm, Sam whispered in my ear.

"What else can we do?"

I chuckled, swirling my hips, and replied, "This not doing it for you?"

"I just..."

I stopped. What the fuck was it about me riding either of these men that seemed to bring things to a weird halt? I was going to get a complex at this rate. "What?" I demanded, looking him dead in the eye.

"I.. I... I want to do things with you that... that..."

Shit. The return of the Aw, Shucks Sam.

"That's different than what Dean and I did?" I finished for him.

A timid nod.

I climbed off of him.

"Wait, no--" Sam began.

"Here's one thing that's different: Dean and I didn't talk this much about Dean when I was naked with Dean and playing with Dean's cock and grinding on Dean's fingers - get it, Sam?"

Sam seemed dejected, and I was so angry at myself for thinking I could fuck my way out of feeling... feeling...

Feeling so helpless seeing Dean so hurt.

Because I did ask the eighth goon why Dean was taken. Assured him I'd let him go if he was honest. He told me they were hired to take him and rough him up because he'd been asking around about me in all the wrong circles. That Dean was bringing attention to me, and there were other parties who did not appreciate it. The crew would get a bonus if they drew Sam out too, triple pay if they brought back proof of death on both Winchesters. I told the goon I believed him before I pulled the trigger.

So, yeah. It was me. Dean was hurt because of me.

And now I felt like seeing Sam hurt more.

"As a matter of fact - how many times have you said my name tonight, hmmm? Because I lost count of how many times you've said your brother's name about five or six 'Deans' ago."

Sam remained completely quiet, looking at me with glassy eyes.

I picked his shirt up off the floor and tossed it to him. "Thanks," I said flatly, then went to the bathroom and turned on the water.

I heard the door close a few moments later.

I climbed in the shower and burst into tears.

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#Supernatural Fanfiction #SPN Fanfic #Dean x Reader #Sam x Reader #as Chuck as my witness #unless I get a hella good crossroads deal #I shall never go smuttin' again!

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plsinsertcoinz · 8 years ago

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RWBABIES: Xiao Long-Belladonna Family.

Hello again! I’m finally getting around to sharing some info on the Bumbleby fam! I promise that I’ll try and get the next few RWBABIES posts out much quicker! Once again I’d like to remind everyone that everything here is susceptible to change and this is just what I have so far!

Previous Post: Rose-Polendina Family.

Once again let’s start with the parents, before getting into the kiddos!

1) Yang Xiao Long.

She’s currently 47 years old.

She’s working as a part time huntress and is also a teacher at Beacon Academy. She’s the combat instructor.

2) Blake Belladonna.

She’s currently 47 years old.

She’s working as a part time huntress. She’s also an advocacy journalist (focusing on faunus rights), as well as a novelist (mainly writes for the mystery and thriller genres). She mostly works at home, but sometimes for her journalism career she’ll have to head over to her office in Vale.

They have three pets:

There’s Bluebell, a 4 year old Budgie Bird (she’s blue and white, with black stripes).

There’s Daffodil, a 3 year old Canary (she’s yellow).

Finally there’s Layla, a 2 year old German Shepard Labrador Mix.

Now I’ll move onto talking about their kids: Nariko Xiao Long, Ryley Belladonna and Lanfen Xiao Long. More info will of course be under the cut!

So starting off we have:

Nariko Xiao Long:

Nickname(s): Nari (pretty much used by everyone), Lightening Dolt (mostly by Rodrick), Lil’ Lightening Dragon (mostly by Yang), The Dragon in Human Form (term coined by mostly the students of Beacon, but it’s been spread to the other academies as well).

Name Meaning: Japanese origin – meaning, “thunder child”, “humble child”, or, “child who climbs high.”

Age: 17.

Gender: Cis Female.

Race: Half-faunus (species: cat/she has an almost panther like black tail, abnormally sharp canines and can see very well in the dark).

Birthday: March 10th.

Star Sign: Pisces.

Sexuality: Lesbian.

Handedness: Right.

Complexion: Pale White.

Height: 5′11.

Hairstyle: Pixie undercut.

Hair Colour: Charcoal black (on the top) and platinum blonde (at the sides and at the back of the head).

Eye Colour: Lilac (natural), her eyes go another colour when her semblance is activated, but I won’t say what it is...yet..

Symbol: A Chinese dragon head, with an electric aura surrounding it and encased in an octagon. The dragon head and the octagon’s colour is charcoal black, the electric aura colour is bright yellow.

Weapon(s): Rairyū no Kagizume/Lightening Dragon’s Claws – Dragon claw gauntlets, which are black and golden yellow in colour. Tips on the claws are incredibly sharp. Dragon Grimm wing blades can pop out at the side, mostly red and black in colour. Turns into thick wristbands when not in use.

Aura Colour: Golden Yellow.

Semblance: Last Revolt - Increases the user’s physical strength/aura and dust related attacks immensely, but only when she’s in a pinch. There’s a little bit more to it, but I don’t want to share that...yet..as well..

Current Affiliation: Beacon Academy.

Previous Affiliation: Signal Academy.

Occupation(s): Student.

Team: GRNT (pronounced garnet).

Team Members: Gwendolyn/Gwen Schnee (Leader), Rhea Adel, Nariko Xiao Long and Tyson Valkyrie-Ren.

Partner: Gwendolyn/Gwen Schnee.

Personality: Kind hearted, very caring, will always make sure that everyone is doing okay, gentle, loyal to her friends, very determined, tends to put other’s needs before her own, bottles up her emotions, a bit of a glutton.

Likes: Anything chicken related, reading (especially fantasy stories), the forest/nature in general, mixed martial arts, fighting in general, sparring, combat boots, tea (her favourites are oolong tea and green tea), hanging out with friends, eating, napping, rainstorms.

Dislikes: Mushrooms, celery, waking up early (except for training), people who are cruel to their loved ones.

Primary Casual Attire: Leather jacket (dark brown/unzipped, most of the time/zipped up halfway, when it’s cold out/sleeves rolled up halfway/symbol is on the right shoulder), baseball t-shirts (grey at the base, with charcoal black sleeves/sleeves end at the wrist), baggy jeans (navy blue/pant legs tucked into her boots), combat boots (black).

Primary Huntress Attire: Long leather jacket (dark brown/reaches to her knees roughly/unzipped/sleeves rolled up halfway/symbol is located on the right shoulder), plain t-shirt (charcoal black/sleeves cut off at the elbows/covers half of the neck), loose pants (beige/tucked inside boots), combat boots (charcoal black).

Accessories: Infinity scarf (dark purple/scale pattern/in the same style as yang’s old scarf), fingerless gloves (black), belt (dark brown/silver buckle).

Tattoos, Piercings and Scars: Has a three-ring band tattoo (black outer rings/purple middle ring/wrapped around her left middle forearm), doesn’t have any piercings (for now), has a huge gash, starting at her left shoulder and ending at her right hip (received it when she protected someone she loved from an attack), has a couple of smaller scars, on her right arm (collected from a couple of fights).

Theme Song: Lightning Fire Dragon's Firing Hammer (from the Fairy Tail OST).

If I had to pick a voice for them, I’d pick: Brina Palencia for EN and Yuu Asakawa for JP.

Next up is...

Ryley Belladonna/Pyla:

Nickname(s): Rye (pretty much used by everyone), short stuff (mostly used by those trying to piss him off), Lil’ Baby Boy or Special Lil’ Guy (mostly by Yang).

Name Meaning: English or Irish origin – meaning either, “island meadow”, or “rye meadow.”

Age: 15.

Gender: Cis male.

Race: Faunus (species: mongoose/has light brown mongoose ears and can see incredibly well in the dark).

Birthday: August 28th.

Star Sign: Virgo.

Sexuality: Bisexual.

Handedness: Left.

Complexion: Tan.

Height: 5′2 (he’ll be 5′4 when fully grown).

Hairstyle: Crew cut.

Hair Colour: Dusty blonde.

Eye Colour: Hazel.

Symbol: An angry mongoose head, with a fist throwing a punch in the background. The mongoose head and the fist is a dusty blonde colour and the eyes of the mongoose glow a light red.

Weapon(s): Dozer Dusters – Boxing gloves with two spiked claws on each knuckle and it’s crimson red, dark grey and white in colour. A silver barrel is concealed at the front of the gloves. Ammo is stored around the cuffs; mostly uses earth dust. The spiked claws can also be used to dig far underground.

Aura Colour: Burnt Orange.

Semblance: Immunity – Makes the user immune to toxic substances; therefore, cannot die if poisoned. Outside of battle, this semblance makes it so that the user doesn’t get sick very often.

Current Affiliation: Signal Academy.

Future Affiliation: Beacon Academy.

Occupation(s): Student.

Team: CNRS (pronounced Cinereous).

Team Members: Colt Blackwood (leader), Nutmeg Ayana, Reilly Belladonna and Sterling Polendina.

Partner: Nutmeg Ayana.

Personality: Very headstrong, short tempered, can be impulsive, is insecure about his appearance, which contributes to his low self esteem (that he hides well), deep down he has a pure heart, can also be very loyal to the people that he’s close to.

Likes: Tangerines, mountain climbing, hiking, watching cheesy soap operas with Mama Blake (the only people that know this are his family, his cousins Beryl and Sterling and Nutmeg), video games (he gets quite competitive when playing).

Dislikes: Milk (he’s lactose intolerant), people who tease about his height/appearance, snakes (hates them due to an experience when he was 8 years old. Also, because he thinks they’re so creepy).

Primary Casual Appearance: Suit shirts (Usually dark brown or purple/3/4’s buttoned up/ends tucked in/sleeves rolled up halfway/symbol is in the top left corner), tank tops (usually white or black), cargo pants (tan/pant legs tucked into shoes), doc martens (dark brown or black).

Primary Hunter Appearance: Jean jacket (dark brown/unbuttoned/sleeves ripped off, so it looks like a vest), suit shirts (usually tan/3/4’s buttoned up/sleeves rolled up halfway/symbol is in the bottom left corner), cargo shorts (brown/cuts off at the knees), doc Martens (dark brown).

Accessories: Bandanna (orange/tied around his right arm), wrist tape (white/on both wrists/only when he’s wearing his hunter attire), belt (brown/with a gold buckle).

Tattoos, Piercings, Facial Hair and Scars: Has a three-ring band tattoo (black outer rings/orange yellow middle ring/wrapped around his right ankle), doesn’t have any piercings, he gets a soul patch when he’s a bit older, but currently he only has short sideburns, has a scar above his left eyebrow (received from an incident as a toddler), has what others call a, “baby face.”

Theme Song: Season of the Samurai (Shinobu Jacob’s boss them from the No More Heroes OST).

If I had to pick a voice for them, I’d pick: Derek Stephen Prince for EN and Romi Park for JP.

Another thing worth noting is that Ryley was adopted by Yang and Blake when he was around 6 years old. His original parents died of an unnamed illness at age 2 and he lived in two different homes, before finally finding a permanent home in the Xiao Long-Belladonna household.

The youngest child is still in a WIP stage, so she doesn’t have as much info about her yet as her siblings do.

Finally, there’s...

Lanfen Xiao Long:

Name Meaning: Chinese origin – meaning, “orchid fragrance.”

Age: 10.

Gender: Cis female.

Race: Half-faunus (species: cat/she has blonde cat ears, abnormally sharp canines and can see well in the dark).

Birthday: February 14th.

Star Sign: Aquarius.

Sexuality: Pansexual.

Handedness: Ambidextrous.

Complexion: Pale White.

Height: 4’8 (will be 5’8 when fully grown).

Hairstyle: Short, with two long bangs that frame the side of her head.

Hair Colour: Black.

Eye Colour: Lilac

Aura Colour: Lavender.

Personality: Incredibly curious, very energetic, always up for an adventure, loves to talk, can be boisterous, isn’t that good at keeping secrets, can be clever, is always willing to help others.

Likes: Grapefruit, anything with eggplant in it, anything purple or pink, hanging out by the lake, training with her siblings, animals (anything reptilian is her favourite), puns.

Dislikes: Anything related to peanuts (she’s allergic), taking tests, when people talk bad about her family (especially her siblings).

Primary Casual Attire: Graphic T-Shirts (her favourite now is a purple shirt, with a lion’s paw/it has the phrase, “I’m Pawsitively Cute”, on it), zip up hoodies (sky blue/unzipped), jean shorts (navy blue), sandals (brown).

So that’s all that I have so far for the Xiao Long-Belladonna family! If you guys have any questions about them or if you want to share your thoughts, you can leave a reply and my askbox is always open! I’ll probably share what I have for the Schneekos family next, which will be out as soon as possible!

#bumbleby #nariko xiao long #ryley belladonna #lanfen xiao long #rwbabies #rwby #these kiddos were my faves to make!#love them so much!#I'll get working on the schneekos fam right away!#if you guys have any questions or comments #my askbox is always open!

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