#this night is just fan fucking tastic

[are-we-really-doing-this]

ooo self indulgent stuff is my jam do tell

Brrrrrr ohhhkay

SO

I got shadow banned this past winter for a couple weeks, it was a very weird time for me because I did not go onto my dash essentially for the whole ban, and I started having these very weird dreams. One of them was this one:

https://www.tumblr.com/are-we-really-doing-this/737838688702169088/guys-i-had-the-best-fucking-half-asleep-half-awake

So basically I wanna make that into a workable xReader fic. Because like, why not.

Also really wanna do some xReader involving Samoa Joe wearing a dress again because like, why the hell not.

[babyleostuff]

today was (not) a fairytale

fluff (+ a bit of angst) 𐙚 established relationship 𐙚 idol!mingyu x fem!reader 𐙚 wc: 1.6k

. . . mingyu forgets about your anniversary

mingyu was a busy guy, that was obvious. but one thing he was never too busy for was you. it didn’t matter if it was just a can you couldn’t open, or a spider that had to be killed - mingyu was always there for you, no questions asked. to be honest, you could call him and tell him you wanted a hug, and he’d drop whatever he was doing just so he could trap you in a bear hug for the rest of the evening. that was how whipped he was. 

and now he was late. two hours. 

at first you thought something had happened - you texted some of the boys to ask if they knew where he was, you called his mom - you even checked the latest news, worried to see any updates about a car accident. 

nothing. 

sitting at an expensive restaurant full of people by yourself was humiliating enough, but what bothered you even more was that it was supposed to be your anniversary dinner. mingyu never missed any milestones of your relationship, he even bought you small gifts on the date you had your first kiss. 

then it hit you - his location. quickly pulling your phone out of your bag, you couldn’t believe your eyes.

he was at seungcheol’s place. 

not bothering to call your boyfriend - it wasn’t like he was answering any of your calls before, so why bother - you called the oldest boy, fiddling with your napkin that you wouldn’t be probably using tonight either way. 

“hey, is everything okay?” seungcheol asked immediately. it wasn’t often that you called him, especially at such a late hour, so he figured something must have happened. 

“is mingyu with you?” you heard some shuffling in the background, and noises that sounded a lot like your boyfriend and hoshi. 

“um, yeah. you want me to pass him the phone?” you could clearly hear seungcheol’s confusion in his voice, but you weren’t in the “shitting rainbows and unicorns” mood, so you didn’t even bother with hiding your annoyance. 

“fan-fucking-tastic.” 

you couldn’t believe he actually forgot about your anniversary. you had been planning this date for such a long time now. getting a reservation at this restaurant wasn’t easy, even mingyu had to pull a few strings and flash a couple of polite smiles, so you could come here on the exact day of your milestone. you prepared matching outfits for god’s sake. how could have he forgotten? 

“tell him not to come back home tonight,” you said, and hung up the phone before seungcheol could say anything. 

you spend the whole ride home trying to keep your tears from falling. you didn’t know what was worse - sitting in a restaurant for two hours waiting for someone who was over at his friend’s house drinking soju, or that the love of your life forgot about something so important. 

the second you got inside your apartment you practically ripped off the dress you were wearing, suddenly almost disgusted by the feel of it on your skin. your shoes joined soon after, and not even five minutes after getting back home you got changed into PJs (for once not being mingyu’s shirt), and poured yourself a glass of wine. 

“happy anniversary i quess.” 

when you were about to turn off all of the lights in the living room for the night, you heard the door open and close with much more force than needed. 

“baby? baby, where ar-,” he emerged from around the corner, stopping right in front of you. you took in his form - hair tousled from the wind, his shirt from practice still on, and shoes on his feet, which never happened - mingyu never wore shoes inside the house. huh, he must’ve been in a real hurry to get here. 

“i’m so sorry, i got here as quickly as possible,” he said, a little out of breath. you had to stop the urge to laugh in his face because what the hell? 

“too bad you didn’t bother to show up where you really were supposed to be, mingyu,” you snickered, anger radiating off of you. your boyfriend knew he was in deep shit the second seungcheol shot him a worried look, and how he would make it up to you, he had no idea. 

“i know, baby-,” 

“don’t call me that. you don’t deserve it mingyu,” you pointed a finger at his chest. just then he noticed you got your nails done to match the design on his tie, and he could swear he died a little bit at that moment. “do you have any idea how humiliated i felt sitting there like an idiot, waiting for my fucking boyfriend who decided to go out with his friends on our anniversary?” 

“i called your friends, your family. i thought you got into an accident for fucks sake,” your voice cracked at the end of the sentence, as you finally felt something else than just anger. the thought of losing mingyu wasn’t something you wanted to think about on your anniversary night. “i was so excited for this, and you knew it,” you took in a shaky inhale, once again feeling the tears brimming in your eyes.  

it took everything from you not to hug mingyu, he looked so… sad, and just so defeated, and that wasn’t something you were used to seeing on your boyfriend’s face. 

“there are a thousand excuses on my mind right now, but none of them will excuse my behaviour,” he sighed, his lower lip trembling. please don't cry, please don’t cry. “i forgot,” he said, straightening his back a little. “i simply forgot, and nothing i do will make up for it.” 

tears clouded your eyes, and you couldn’t help when they started falling down your cheeks, probably ruining the makeup you put so much effort into. if you knew you’d end up crying on your anniversary night you’d use a waterproof mascara. mingyu hesitantly raised his hand, as if he was afraid you’d run away from him, but when he saw you didn’t move an inch, he started wiping off the tears of your face with a gentle swipe of his thumb, almost as if you were about to fall apart. 

“say something. no, yell at me,” he said, and put your hand against his chest. “you can even hit me,” mingyu said, pleading in his eyes. “please, just do something.” 

“i don’t want to yell at you,” you sniffled, wiping off the rest of the tears yourself. “and i definitely don’t want to hit you. i just-,” you looked at him and only then noticed the dark circles under his eyes. did his face get slimmer too? “when was the last time you slept?”

he looked a bit taken aback by your question, considering he was begging you to hit him like a second ago. “to be honest, i don’t know, but i took some naps in the practice room. that’s not import-,”  

“when was the last time you ate?” you interrupted him again. 

his eyes softened because there was no way he just stood you up on one of the most important days of the year, and you were asking him about his well being. “i don't know.” 

i don’t know. hearing those words from a person who inhaled food like a vacuum, and could never say no to a snack broke your heart. how did you not notice how exhausted he was before? 

“oh, mingyu,” you said, tearing up again. “why didn’t you tell me, i would’ve brought you some food.” 

“i know, but i didn’t want to burden you. i knew i’d be fine,” he said, voice gentle. “besides, that’s not important now. let’s talk about how big of an asshole i am,” he grabbed your face in both of his hands, tilting it more upwards. 

“how can you say it’s not important?” you murmured, nuzzling your face further into his palm. “i don’t think i’ve ever seen you without food for longer than an hour.” 

“hey, i don’t eat that much,” you couldn’t help but giggle at his words, and seeing mingyu’s face lit up at your, albeit quiet, laughter, you felt the anger leaving you for good.  

maybe you were too selfish? all you lived for for the past week was the date, but in the process you managed to somehow miss how exhausted your boyfriend was. yes, he did forget, but he was so overworked lately, you couldn’t really blame him, right? and it wasn’t like you were a saint either, you missed some dates in the past too. 

“whatever you’re thinking, drop it,” he said sternly. “don’t try to make any excuses for me. i forgot, okay? it’s all my fault.” 

technically you knew you had every right to be furious at him, hell - an hour you cursed him out with every curse word you knew, but maybe it wasn't the time to think straight, and just give the light of your life a second chance. “i don’t want to fight,” you said, wrapping your hands around his wrists. “and we still have,” you looked over at the clock, “two hours before midnight. we have the wine, and i think i have a pizza in the freezer.” 

mingyu shook his head in disbelief. “there’s no way you’re real.” leaning in, he placed a peck on your cheek, filling your chest with a warm, fuzzy feeling. “you look beautiful by the way,” he whispered, and put his forehead against yours. “i’m really sorry.” 

“i know, gyu. i know,” you whispered. “and mingyu?” 

“yeah?” 

“you can call me “baby” again.”

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[wttcsms]

baby, oh baby ; satoru gojo

pairing satoru gojo x f!reader word count 1.2k synopsis gojo is surprisingly good at caring. (or: he comforts you while you get morning sickness and start spiraling). content contains thr*wing up (morning sickness), pregnancy, pregnant!reader, domestic fluff, soft!gojo, reassurance

Satoru Gojo knows he’s a dead man from the minute he swings open the bathroom door and finds you curled up by the toilet. 

Even in his shirt and a pair of sweatpants that have clearly seen better days, with your hair all messed up and your lips chapped, Gojo thinks you are absolutely adorable. Beautiful, even. 

He tells you this, thinking it’ll cheer you up, but all you do is narrow your pretty little eyes at him.

“You,” you practically snarl at him. “You did this to me!”

He raises his hands in mock surrender. “Now, honey, I know it’s been a while since you took a biology class, but it takes two of us to, you know—” He gestures to your stomach, which still isn’t showing much of a bump since it’s only the first trimester, but you get the message. He decides he should have just shut up whenever you send him an absolutely scathing glare.

“It’s all my fault.” He immediately changes his tune. “You’re right, honey, I am an awful person for getting you pregnant. You should kill me for my transgressions.” 

“You want to make me a single mother now?” You snap at him.

“Okay, I see that that was the wrong thing to say.” Gojo tries to give you a soothing smile to calm you down, but it comes off as more of a nervous grimace. “I would never die early and let you raise our wonderful child alone. As a matter of fact, I refuse to die only until you tell me it’s okay to do so!” 

“Satoru.” You close your eyes, opening the toilet lid, anticipating another bout of morning sickness to come spilling out your mouth. “Get out.” 

“Nah. That’s the one thing I can’t do.” He dares to take another step into the bathroom, frowning at how cold the marble tiles are. It can’t possibly be comfortable for you to be kneeling on the floor like this, especially since you’re throwing up last night’s dinner. 

“Satoru, I’m not being funny right now. I’m seriously about to vomit, and you won’t want to be here.”

He kneels down by your side, gathering your hair in his hand and pulling it all behind your shoulders. “I’m not being funny, either. I’ll stay by your side no matter what.” 

You don’t reply to his sweet comment, even though you really want to. Instead, you actually do make good on your word, and only after you flush the toilet does he bother saying anything else.

“Do you feel a bit better now?” 

“Yes. No. I don’t know!” You shut your eyes, leaning against him, your back pressed against the warmth of his chest. Being pregnant sounded hot during the heat of the moment when the baby was being made, but now reality is hitting, and you’re already crying about how ugly maternity clothes are. You look like a wreck right now, and you’re barely nine weeks in with the pregnancy. Meanwhile, Satoru looks fan-fucking-tastic, as he always does. 

His hand finds yours easily, and he intertwines your fingers together. He starts to absentmindedly fiddle with your wedding ring as he talks. 

“What’s bothering you?” 

You know that while Satoru was pursuing you, there was a long line of women all excited and ready to be the one by his side. You know that Satoru sometimes is a certified flight risk, running away from intimacy when the feeling gets too overwhelming for him. You know that Satoru is the only man capable of breaking your heart, and he’s subsequently the only man who would be able to piece it back together. Even with a ring and a legal certificate binding you two together, there are still annoying little doubts running in the back of your mind that has only worsened through your anxiety of life literally being grown inside of you and unbalanced hormones. 

“Everything.” You tell him, and it’s not even a joke or an exaggeration. 

“Well, tell me something that’s bothering you now. Something I can solve.” He adds on this last sentence, already knowing that you would most likely ask him for the impossible just to be funny. As conceited as he acts to the outside world, Satoru is surprisingly caring and observant towards others. 

“What if our baby is ugly?” You look up at him, gauging his reaction.

At first, his eyes widen, and then he laughs. You can tell it’s genuine because you can feel the way it comes from his chest. 

“It has us as its parents. With both our genes combined, it won’t have much to worry about.”

“No! I’m serious! Haven’t you heard the saying that two pretty people make an ugly baby?” 

“Well, we’ll be the exception.”

“I’m being serious, Satoru! Your eyes are kinda scary to look at sometimes. Our baby will need brown contacts if it inherits your eyes.” 

Oh, so because you’re emotionally fragile, you’re allowed to make comments about his eyes? Satoru snorts. You better be lucky he loves you so much. 

“Why does it matter if our baby is ugly? Why is our baby being ugly even a thought in your mind?”

“This world sucks. Looking good is key to having an enjoyable experience on earth. You should start worrying about our child’s future, too, you know!” 

“I would fight the entire world if it mistreated our baby.” Satoru presses a reassuring kiss to the top of your head. “And I know you would, too. So who cares if our baby is ugly?”

“That’s not the point, Satoru!” You frown, knowing that you’re being ridiculous right now, but who else could handle you in this state if not him? There’s a reason why he’s the one you call your husband, and he’s the one who put the aforementioned potentially-ugly baby inside of you. 

“Fine. If our baby is ugly, let’s leave it on Kento’s doorsteps and let it be his problem for the next eighteen years. Then, we can get started on the next and hope the second time’s the charm. Sounds like a solid plan?” He doesn’t mean it, but he knows it’s best to just try and nip these hypotheticals in the bud. 

You’re silent for a moment. Then, “You’re awful! I would love our baby, even if it had your eyes and crazy ass hair.” 

“I would love our baby, too. Ugly or not. You know why?”

“You’re going to say something corny.” 

“I was going to say that I would love our baby because it came from you. Nothing ugly is coming out of your body, babe. And anyway, I love you so much, how could I hate anything that’s literally half you?” 

Even if you’re in the mood to be annoying and insecure, and your brain is telling you to argue some more with your husband, you can’t help but relax after hearing this. 

(Nine months later, all your worries seem to be all for naught; your son is the cutest thing to be born.)

[daycourtofficial]

Deceptive Domestication

Pairing: Azriel x reader | WC: 7.7k | Warnings: sexism, misogyny

Summary: The two of you have to pretend to be a married couple for a mission. Can you live with this false reality? Or will your feelings for Azriel eat you alive when it’s over?

Author’s note: started making it, had a breakdown, bon apetit

“Angel, where are you?”

Azriel’s deep voice moves on the wind, finding you at the back of your cottage. You twist the new ring adorning your fourth finger, the skin beneath it showing no tan lines, “I’m back here, just one second!”

Azriel laughs, his voice sweet and full of honey, “the wife’s an avid gardener. When we were first considering moving here, she insisted we check the soil to make sure she would be able to have her prized blackberries.”

You appear from the side of the house, wiping your hands on the apron around your dress. Azriel’s arm reaches around you, clasping you on your shoulder as you get next to him. 

“He’s right, I love my blackberries greatly,” you say, reaching out to shake hands with your new neighbors. They lived in the house closest to yours, a red thatched roof adorning the black building. Delicious smells came from it, and judging by the smoke from the chimney, they were likely preparing dinner when they saw you two.

“We just wanted to come by and meet the two of you, we saw you come in last night and wanted to introduce ourselves. I’m Arben,” the male points to himself, “and this is my wife, Alija.”

You nod to both of them - they looked to be a good bit older than you and Azriel, wrinkles adorning their tanned faces. “Thank you, this used to be my Uncle Sal’s home. Since he passed away recently, he left the home to us and we wanted to leave our home village.”

“I’m so sorry about Sal, sweetheart,” he says, a sympathetic look in his eye, “he was a nice male, talked about you all of the time. Alija has to finish dinner, but we’ll see the two of you around, yeah?”

You press your lips into a firm smile, nodding before pressing into Azriel’s side and turning back to the house. His arm on your back guides you to the door of your new home, his touch a familiar warmth amidst all of the new. Once you cross the threshold, shutting the door behind yourselves, Azriel’s hand falls from your back and he immediately puts distance between you two, walking towards the bedroom he was staying in. His smile drops, the air in the room frigid. Rhys’s words clang through you, a shock to your senses.

Go to this village as a married couple. I’m unsure how long it will take.

You jolted as Azriel slammed the door behind him. Sighing, you move to your own room, taking in the bags left to unpack. You had taken great care to pack enough to last you as the season changes. The two of you were here indefinitely, marooned in a quaint village of about forty-three people.

Move in, become friends with the neighbors, find out what you can.

There was a circle of villages in the western part of the Night Court where females kept disappearing - six had gone missing in the last month. The villagers were not speaking to outsiders, but Rhysand thought a long term mission might allow the spies to get close enough to get some questions answered.

So he decided on you and Azriel.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

It had been strange seeing Azriel play this version of a spy, even if it had only been a day. You were so used to him lurking in the shadows, it felt so strange to watch him play the part of a doting husband, and to do it well. Introducing you to the neighbors and random villagers, a hand kept on your skin at all times - on your lower back, your waist, your shoulders. It was so easy to get swept up in the illusion you two were selling - even you were convinced you were newlyweds, moving for a fresh start.

Until he slammed his door, reminding you it was all fake, a farse for information.

Things between you and Azriel have always been easy. You two were the best of friends, most of your free time being spent with him since joining the Inner Circle two years ago. The two of you spent countless nights sitting together when sleep wouldn’t find you, you two had even developed a code - open bedroom doors at night were a silent invitation for the other to come in, spending most nights in each other’s rooms, wrapped up in sheets that smelled of the two of you.

All of that ended very suddenly a few months ago. Suddenly his door was always closed to you, your own cracked every night. A call to him, begging him to acknowledge you.

You started keeping your door closed a month ago. It didn’t feel right, shutting him out, but clearly you had done something wrong. Your entrance into a room would cause him to leave immediately, changes in his training schedule to avoid you, abruptly turning around when he saw you.

It was all pissing you off.

The rest of the Inner Circle were just as clueless as you were as to what happened to cause Azriel’s sudden distance. Cassian tried to interfere - making plans with both of you for dinner at a restaurant and ditching, trying to force you two to spend time together.

Azriel just left once he caught sight of you.

That was your tipping point. You stopped going to training, you pulled back from family dinners. They were his family first, and you wanted to give him whatever space he needed. Everyone protested, telling you it was his problem, and in Cassian’s words “if he’s going to be a jackass, I don’t want him around anyway.”

Still, you retreated, hardly seeing much of the family you had forged over the past few years. No matter how much it hurts you to do so.

Once you began accepting this new Azriel-less reality, Rhys had called you into his office. The high lord looked almost conflicted, your entire family aware that something weird was happening between you and Azriel. None of them dared to ask Azriel, his darkened mood making it incredibly easy to anger him, and anytime they asked you they were met with a shrug and a soft, “I don’t know.”

All of them had been scratching their heads, desperate for an explanation for the sudden iciness between you two. It had been weeks of this, and everyone missed seeing the two of you exchanging whispers in the corner or watching Azriel’s shadows wind through your hair.

Which was why Rhysand decided to insert himself into the situation. He called you into his office, and after asking you to take a seat, he began asking after your week. Your eyebrows knitted, confused about the formality of it all, when you realized you haven’t actually seen Rhysand in almost a month. 

You had taken up residence in the House of Wind - since you were a scholar it lended easy access to your work, and whenever you wanted to leave, you asked Azriel to ferry you around. You tried to remember the last time you saw anyone in the inner circle that wasn't Cassian or Nesta, and it was when Cassian offered to fly you into town to get lunch with Feyre three weeks ago.

You’re not certain how to tell Rhysand the past few weeks had been filled with silence, whatever happened between you and the shadowsinger led you to avoid Cassian and Nesta, avoid training, avoid anything that wasn’t being buried in your work in the library.

You look into violet eyes, and you check your mental shields because he’s looking at you as if he already knows how sad this whole situation has made you.

You take a deep breath, shrugging. “Time is passing, I suppose.”

Rhys’s face falls a bit at just how dejected you sounded. It wasn’t supposed to be like this - they all knew there was something between you and Azriel, they all saw how you two gravitated towards each other. Neither of you would open up about whatever it was that shifted things so quickly and easily and it was pissing all of them off.

“I need your help with something.”

It was the best plan they could come up with to try to salvage things.

-

You woke up early the next morning, determined to tend to the garden before the sun reached its peak in the sky. You had plans later in the afternoon to meet with a few of the women of the village, but you had to get to working on this garden. There was no time table on this mission, and the two of you only had food stores to last you a few months.

If you were to be stuck in this purgatory that long, you needed new food to replenish whatever you use.

Your story to tell the villagers was that the two of you were quite young from the other end of Illyria. The two of you were extraordinarily lucky that one of the older fae males in this village happened to pass away a few weeks ago, allowing the two of you an easy in. You merely reviewed some family records, and were posing as his beloved niece, here to lead a new life with her husband.

You tended to the garden behind the house - the weeds had grown wildly in the previous owner’s absence. Your ‘uncle's absence, that is.

You spent all morning pulling weeds, making quite an improvement to the garden before you decided to go in and make yourself lunch. You came in, rinsing the dirt from your fingers, the water feeling nice against some of the minor cuts you acquired outside. After drying off, you pulled out a loaf of bread, slicing the bread to prepare some sandwiches. 

You hummed to yourself, trying to fill the silence of the house. It wasn’t large - a quaint two bedroom house with two bathrooms, a nice little kitchen, and a sitting room. You were a bit surprised at how well the interior of the house had been maintained by your ‘uncle’. 

Azriel was headed with the rest of the males to the war camp, spending his day training as a lesser ranked Illyrian. He was glamoured to look enough not like himself to the other Illyrians that they wouldn’t think anything of him. You had also glamoured some of Azriel’s siphons, only allowing one on his chest to remain. He was not happy about it, not wanting to seem so much weaker than he truly was. He wouldn’t listen to any of your points about it, but Rhys eventually convinced him to allow your glamour to cover six of his siphons because “it’s quite obvious who you are”.

Azriel’s refusal to listen to even your opinions on the mission was grating. You wanted to get to know the local females, and Rhys agreed with you, but Azriel kept arguing that ‘it wasn’t safe’.

Stupid Illyrians and their stupid pigheadedness, you suppose. If you’re not supposed to speak with the other females, why were you even here?

You knew this mission would be difficult for Azriel - his hatred for his own people fueling centuries of anger and resentment. You thought being trapped here was an appropriate punishment for how he had iced you out of his life.

You had just finished making your sandwich when there was a knock at the door. You brushed your hands down your dress, glamouring wings back to life behind you, breathing deeply before you answered the door.

An Illyrian woman stood in your doorway, her dark curls slightly hiding her tanned face that was turned down. She was taller and broader than you, but still small for an Illyrian. Her demeanor told you they treated her that way as well. Her wings were tucked in tight behind her and her shoulders shook lightly before you.

Her voice was weak as she told you, “we go every day, bringing lunch to the males, if you wish to accompany us.”

Wish.

You knew the reality of coming here - you knew they would give a few days of grace to settle in, set up your garden, bereave your uncle before they assigned you to a chore rotation. In communities like this one, everyone had to pull their weight.

It was just astonishing how ‘pulling your own weight’ made the females seem two to three times heavier than the males.

You nod your head to the female, closing the door behind you as you meet her outside. You had no idea where the war camp was, knowing it mustn’t be too far from the village. You vaguely remember Azriel and Rhys discussing the three villages that filtered into the camp, how all three were short walks from the villages.

Dirt crunches beneath your boots as you walk alongside the female, her deep brown eyes downcast towards the ground, shoulders hunched to make herself as small as possible as you walk. “What’s your name?” You ask, your voice causing her to flinch. Her eyes were wide as they looked at you, shock at being addressed you presumed. It was astonishing how awfully they must treat her, because her face resembled a wounded dog’s.

“Kaltrina.” Her words are mumbled, and you have to strain your ears a little to hear her. 

“Kaltrina - it’s nice to meet you. Um, are you married?”

Not your usual first question, but around these parts marriage was as good as social standing. Also any unwed women over the age of 24 were considered ‘unwanted’ or ‘untameable’. This village was harsh on women - even by Illyrian standards. The males of this village made Devlon look forward and free-thinking.

“No, not married. I live with my brother, Dardan.”

Her tone didn’t suggest anything about him, but you weren’t sure exactly what it meant. She offers you a smile and a soft nod, “is your husband nice?”

You offer the same soft nod before you hear her say, “he’s quite good looking, too.”

You pause, trying to remember everything Cassian and Rhysand had told you about Illyrians to prepare for this - they told you males were incredibly territorial, treating their wives more like trophies and laborers rather than spouses. A male would take this as a compliment - one mention of a good-looking wife would be something to boast about, mentioning it more than once would be an offense.

But how did the females treat their husbands, how did they speak to each other about them? It was the biggest gap in your knowledge, but you suppose you can explain away any discrepancies on how far away the two of you came from.

“Yes, he’s quite pretty.”

She giggles at your words, and you feel a swell of pride at getting it right. She walks next to you, standing a little straighter for the rest of the walk.

The two of you made it to the war camp, joining the other females to distribute food to the males. The males look at you like you’re not much more than a piece of meat or some dirt on their boots, but your eyes scanned the crowd for Azriel, not finding him the entire time you’re there.

You do get a chance to speak with a few of the females as you all head back to the village, carrying leftover food with you. Most of them seem to welcome you - suggesting what crops grow best in the area, telling you to reach out if you need any help with anything.

The other females head off at the fork in the road, telling you and Kaltrina they would see you the next day. You breathe deeply, looking to Kaltrina once more. She hardly spoke once the two of you had met up with the other females at the war camp, keeping her distance from them the entire time.

“How’s your brother?” You ask, the innocent question causing Kaltrina to flinch. 

“He’s a fine male.”

Her answer feels so dry, so rehearsed. You don’t press the issue, changing topics instead. “How will you spend the rest of the afternoon?”

“Chores.”

You listen to the birds singing around the both of you, their song a beautiful melody across the skies. You eventually pass a house similar to your own, but a bit smaller, the roof not well cared for. Kaltrina gives you a small wave before turning down the path to her house, disappearing behind the door. 

You kept walking towards your own house, but you did see her appear in the window briefly, watching you walk down the road. It made the hairs on your neck stand up, but you quickly looked forward again, making your way back to the house, determined to finish unpacking this afternoon.

-

You had finished unpacking by the time you heard the door open, Azriel traipsing through the house. 

“Hello my loving husb-“

Your sarcastic words die as you turn to see his face, a cut on his lip and a black eye. He shakes his head, trying to tell you it’s nothing, and he starts moving to just head to his room, but you’re not having it.

“We have some bandages in the bathroom.” Your words don’t have a command in them, but he heads towards the bathroom. You pick up a bottle of alcohol, dabbing some on a rag. You motion for him to sit on the edge of the tub, and he goes.

You’re a few inches from his face, the closest you’ve been in months. His scent was so comforting, you just wanted to wrap yourself in it and stay for a while. He stays silent, his face a blank slate you could slap any emotion to. 

His shadows have been having fun whizzing around the house. He had told them they had to stay completely hidden if they were to come to the war camp with him, otherwise they had to stay in the house or go off wherever they wanted. They didn’t like the options, but most of them stayed with him, tucked into his boots, his pants, the hilt of his sword. Now that he was back, they scattered across the house, energetic wisps of darkness moving through the house, through your hair, against your skin.

“What happened?”

He huffed, his fingers dancing on his thighs in irritation. “I’m a new male, they’re just seeing if I can take it.”

You nod, and from the irritation in his voice, you know he’s shutting you back out. You hold the alcohol covered rag up to his lip, cleaning the blood from his face. He had healed a good bit since he received the beating, and you notice his knuckles are bloody. 

Hopefully he put up a good enough fight. 

“I went with some of the women to the war camp to distribute food.”

His eyes snap to yours, his wings rustling behind him. His eyes were dark, a look to them you’ve never seen directed at you. He reaches his hand up to your wrist, his grip tight but not uncomfortable.

“Why the fuck would you do that?”

You’re taken aback by his tone - even if your relationship was tenuous, he never took such an aggressive tone with you. In all your years of friendship, the most strain in his voice you had heard directed at you was when you were free climbing up the cabinets of the kitchen to get to the top shelf for some cookies.

“Because Rhys thinks-”

“I don’t give a damn what Rhys thinks when it comes to you, I said it was a bad idea and to stay away from them.”

“They’re battered females, Azriel! The males treat them like dirt! And their friends and sisters and mothers have gone missing. I can help them, I know I can - that’s why we’re here!”

His hand tensed around you before he pulled his hand away from you. He looks away from you, his harsh breathing echoing through the small bathroom.

“You’ll only get yourself hurt by talking to them.”

He snatched the rag from your hand, pushing past you out the bathroom and into his room, slamming the door on your once again. You want to scream or stomp your feet at how ridiculous he was being.

“I’m not a kid you can boss around, Azriel.”

His silence didn’t make you so certain about that.

-

The next week goes by much like your first full day in the village - you wake up after Azriel’s gone, tend to the house (your ‘uncle’ left it in semi-decent shape, but it did need a few repairs), head with Kaltrina to the war camp to feed the males (where you were even able to meet Kaltrina’s brother and several of the female’s husbands), and spend your afternoon preparing dinner for the two of you.

You’re not on speaking terms with Azriel after his outburst while you cleaned him up - every day he’s returned with some minor cut and scrape, and all you do is point to the alcohol and provide him with fresh rags. You won’t clean him up yourself, you’re too pissed at him for that, but you still urge him to do it himself

You still care, despite it all. 

Despite the ice between you and Azriel, the females of the village began opening up to you, accepting you as one of their own. You join them every day to serve lunches to the males, and several of them even invited you to their homes to help teach you how to cook with the regional vegetables. 

“Your husband’s too skinny,” one said, “I’ll teach you how to cook.”

You weren’t sure if it was a compliment or an insult, but you took it for what it was - an offering. You spent the afternoon with her, learning how to smoke pig ‘the correct way’. She had told you her name was Bora, she and her husband have lived in this village for several centuries, and she has had many, many smoked pigs.

“None compare to my family recipe.”

She was quite intimidating, and you could tell she took shit from no one, not even her husband. You were touched that she would share her family recipe with you so readily, thinking perhaps she took a special interest in you until another female stopped by and, after telling her Bora was teaching you her family recipe, she told you, “it’s how she inaugurates new females to the village’.

You were less touched and your ego deflated a bit, but you were still grateful she would spend so much time with you. The afternoon flew by, time not registering as you helped Bora peel her vegetables while the pork cooked. 

You looked up, noting the dark sky through the window, dropping the zucchini. “Oh no,” you mutter, running out of the house to the road, eyes wide to find Azriel running up the road, blades drawn. His siphon was glowing in the dark, it’s cobalt blue blazing with intensity.

He was frantic, and you could have sworn you saw his shadows frantically zipping around him, moving in and out of houses. His body visibly relaxes as he spots you, rushing towards you. His arms wrap around you, crushing you into an embrace. His breathing is ragged, “I thought- I thought- you-”

His words come out choppy, but he pulls back, his hands on your face. He’s breathing hard, trying to string words together. He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing with the movement.

“Is everything alright?”

Bora’s voice startles Az, and one of his shadows whips into a defensive position before you shoo it away. He quickly collects himself, moving one of his hands to the back of your head, pulling you to his chest.

“Sorry, I got worried when I got home and my wife wasn’t there.”

He pats your hair, his hands combing through them softly. “Just need her to be safe, s’all.”

Bora nods, perhaps more understanding than she should be of Azriel’s concern. “Ah, to be newly married again. She was safe,” she turns away before adding, “she’s always safe here with Bora.” 

The older female waddles back inside for a moment before coming back out to the two of you, the tray of pork and vegetables on it. “Here’s dinner tonight - Bora’s family recipe.” She winks at you, and the two of you politely thank her before heading back to your house. You carried the tray, but Azriel kept both of his hands on you the entire walk back.

The walk back is mostly quiet, Azriel’s heartbeat slowing as the adrenaline leaves his body. You swivel your head around, noticing no one out in the village at this hour.

“Why were you being so nice and touchy to me out there and anytime we see the neighbors?” Your words come out barely more than a whisper, but you knew he heard them. “The men in this village hardly view their wives as more than livestock, it might be more suspicious for you to be so nice to me.”

He turned, just enough for you to see the side of his face, to watch his mouth as he said, “I could never do that to you.”

You spent the rest of the walk in silence, spending the entire time dissecting the way he said “you”.

-

Your house with Azriel is still quiet, the two of you living separate lives behind the oak door. Sleeping apart, eating dinner in different rooms. You two only spoke when you were outside of the house. 

A few days after cooking with Bora, you and Kaltrina were headed back to the village from the camps for lunch when she offered to help you make dinner. 

“I want to say thanks, for being my friend.”

Her words make you feel terrible over how strange you had found her. Maybe she was just awkward. You weren’t sure, but you knew you’d be safe inside your own home, so you agreed to let her stay. 

The two of you prepare dinner, Kaltrina seeming a bit nervous as she skitters about your kitchen. You make idle small talk, but the air in the room seems so off you can’t put your finger on it.

“What will your brother be doing for dinner tonight?” 

She looks a bit downcast as she tells you, “he has plans tonight, he’s eating at his friend’s house.”

Her tone tells you not to ask anymore, and you don’t press the issue any further. 

The two of you eat in silence, Kaltrina’s eyes moving around your house, taking in every detail. She excuses herself to the bathroom, and you show her where it is. 

In Kaltrina’s absence, Azriel makes his way through the front door, his shadows beginning to spread throughout the house in contentment. You quickly shake your head at the tiny wisps that come to you, sending them back to Azriel. You point towards the bathroom, jerking your head at the noises from behind the door trying to tell him someone was here.

The water runs, and Azriel quickly moves across the room, his arms circling your waist. Your eyebrows pinch, but you quickly relax them as Kaltrina leaves the bathroom. Her steps halt at seeing Azriel, her eyes wide at his sudden appearance.

“Kaltrina, this is my husband. Valon, this is my friend, Kaltrina.”

He nods to her before squeezing your waist and giving a swift kiss to your temple. Kaltrina’s eyes linger on the display of affection, not breaking contact even moments later. Azriel rubs your back, eyes fond as he looks to you, “I’m going to head to bed, take your time with your friend, but don’t leave me waiting too long.”

Was that a signal? You two slept in separate rooms - what did his words mean? You lean up, kissing his cheek before rubbing at his jaw and nodding. He turns his attention towards Kaltrina, “it was nice meeting you Kaltrina, my wife is quite fond of you. Have a good night.”

Her mouth is slightly ajar, her cheeks a harsh shade of red as she squeaks, “good night.”

Azriel nods at her and he slips into your bedroom, a sight that doesn’t go unnoticed by you. You turn back to Kaltrina, her eyes lingering on the door to your bedroom, and you could almost feel the yearning radiating from her. 

“Come on, we should clean up a bit.” The two of you head into the kitchen, cleaning and scraping the dirty dishes from earlier. You two work in silence, the only sounds in the room are the scrubbing of pots.

“Your husband seems quite nice.”

Her voice is full of want and yearning. You stop cleaning pots before you, Kaltrina’s eyes fixed on you until you look. She turns her eyes away, looking back to the pots.

“Yes, he is very kind.”

“He’s unlike any of the males around here.”

This conversation felt a bit dangerous. Azriel said it was fine, that he couldn’t treat you the way any of these males treat their wives - like servants, like cattle, like nothing. But you knew the females of the village would notice how he treated you, if they haven’t already. You start to wonder if they had noticed, discussing the odd outsiders, figuring the two of you out, getting you-

“He’s very good-looking.”

Kaltrina’s voice startles you, and you look to find her not even looking at you, gazing off to some point on the wall. Had she meant to say that out loud? The two of you finish up cleaning, although it is mostly you doing the work, Kaltrina’s gaze is lost somewhere on your kitchen wall. You quickly escort her out, wishing her a good night. You offer to walk her home, but she declines, saying she’ll be fine on her own. 

You close the door behind her, taking a deep breath. Azriel was in your room - your room - the one with the unmade bed, clothes haphazard around the space. You two used to frequent each other’s private chambers, but now you can’t recall the last time he laid in your bed, perused the books on your shelves, or sat in the chair in the corner of your room at the House of Wind.

You push open the door to find him pacing in front of your bed, his shadows lounging lazily on your bed. You nod to him, picking at your fingernails.

“I think it’s Kaltrina. I think she’s the one doing this.”

“Kaltrina?” His voice is full of surprise and misunderstanding. “You think Kaltrina, that little thing is behind all of this?”

“Yes! I just.. Don’t know why.. The way she talks about you…”

“We can’t go off of silly little feelings when convicting someone of a crime, you know.” He stands in front of you, his wings blocking the light from the candles, casting shadows across his face.

“I’m well aware-”

“You have to think - where would she keep them? How could she overpower so many Illyrian women? And besides, why does it matter what she thinks of me?”

Your anger was bubbling to the surface, his condescending tone leading you to yell out, “what the fuck is your problem, Azriel?”

He looks at you, turning away quickly while muttering, “we are not doing this here.” His shadows are ever so slightly trying to push him back towards you, but he ignores their attempts, plowing through them to your kitchen.

“No, I think we are doing this right here, right now. I’ve let too much shit go by and I can’t keep acting like everything’s okay anymore.” You take in a shaky breath. “I’m tired of pretending. Just tell me whatever it was that I did that made you hate me and we can move on!”

“No.”

His curt reply annoys you even more, and you’re directly in front of him poking his chest.

“Just tell me what I did!”

“You didn’t do anything.”

“That’s clearly not the case.”

He groans in frustration, running a hand down his face, but you are unrelenting in your pursuit for the truth.

“We were friends, you used to like spending time with me. I don’t know what happened that made you hate me-”

“I don’t hate you.”

You laugh, “well you could have fooled me. For months everyone’s been asking me what happened between us, and I have no clue! It’s like you woke up one day and decided we couldn’t be friends anymore!”

“That’s not what happened-”

“Oh, it’s not? So you were pretending to be my friend while you secretly hated me before cutting me off one day?”

“I HAD TO.”

His eyes were wide with an almost feral-like look to them. He looked almost more beast than fae.

“I had to. Those fae that were trafficking females and males, they… “ His hand shakes as he curls and uncurls it, his scarred fingers twitching with the motion. “One of my spies found your name in one of their notebooks, reported it to me immediately.”

His ferocity is turned on you, hazel eyes looking into your own, as if he was searching through your soul. “Don’t you get it? They know you, they know who you are.” His voice raised an octave, squeaking, “because of me.”

“So, what? Because someone knew that I was important to you, you cut me off?”

“No it wasn’t-“

“Oh, no, was it that someone pointed out to you that I was important to you and you didn’t like that?” Your voice was raising, getting louder, but you couldn’t care. 

“That’s not-“

“I’m a big girl, Az, I deserve to know everything before making decisions. I don’t deserve my decisions to be taken from me.”

“Will you let me speak?”

His shadows were covering the windows, the doors, the walls. His chest was heaving as he tried to get the words out, tried to make you see.

“I couldn’t let anything happen to you.”

“So instead of explaining this to me, you cut me off like I meant nothing to you? Why couldn’t you just tell me that? Why couldn’t you tell me-”

“You would talk me out of it! Convince me it was in my head. I needed you to be safe, for cauldron’s sake!”

You sniffle, eyes catching on the door. “I have a lot to think about,” is all you say before storming out, closing the door behind you. You walk from the house, your boots sinking into the grass at your feet as you walk aimlessly around the village. Your thoughts whirled and swirled of Azriel’s words, your hands pulling at your hair in frustration.

“Hey, there.”

You whip around, fist raised, to find Dardan looking back at you. You quickly drop your fist - he could still tell the others you showed defiance towards him and you’d be in a lot of trouble. 

“Oh, hey, Dardan, right? I must not have heard you. How are you tonight?”

You try to make your voice sound as pleasant as possible, as feminine as possible. 

“Just taking an afternoon stroll,” he muses, “care to join me?”

You look around, noticing you’re much further from the village than you intended. Even though you were a married female to the rest of the village, it was still disrespectful towards your husband to be seen on the outskirts of town with an unmarried male. 

“Um,” you start turning around, your gut trying to tell you this was wrong, wrong, wrong. “Actually, I should get back to my husband. I need to start working on dinner soon.”

You turned your head just in time for something hard and metal to make contact with it, the last thing in your vision was the ground before complete darkness.

-

Your head was killing you, your neck at an unnatural angle as you opened your eyes. The room was dark, but still too bright for the pounding of your head. You take a deep breath, trying to note your surroundings. 

Your hands were bound behind you, some fabric you should be able to easily pull apart. You were on the ground, some dirt beneath your body as you laid on the cold ground. You began tugging on the fabric, trying to maneuver your hands to slip through the knot.

“Tug all you want, we got a talented witch in these parts.”

Your body goes cold at the voice.

Dardan.

Fuck.

You want to slam your head on something, but there’s nothing. Your breathing speeds up, your mind moving through all your interactions with Dardan.

You thought he was nice. He had been amicable to you at the war camp, you barely even thought of him during this mission. You thought it was Kaltrina. How could you have gotten things so wrong? 

He smiles as he watches your brain try to figure things out. His smugness was a new look for Lee - one that made him look very unattractive. “We knew one of Rhysand’s dogs was bound to show up at some point, just didn’t think they’d bring a pretty bitch like you with ‘em. Color me surprised when my little sister brought you around.”

You snap at his words, “bitches bite.”

He goes by to sharpen whatever knife he was wielding before replying. “We got big plans.”

Dardan wouldn’t say more than that, continuing to sharpen his blade before inspecting it. Once it was to his satisfaction, he grabbed you by the hair, yanking you from the ground. You scramble, trying to get your feet on the ground, kicking at the dirt he was dragging you across to gain some footing. His pull on your hair was unrelenting, even as your arms flailed back trying to hit him.

Eventually you’re able to get your feet beneath you, trying to keep up with his steps. He opens the doors to the structure you were kept in, the light of dusk surprising you. There was no way to tell time in that barn.

“It’s almost sunset, girl.”

You have no idea what he’s talking about, trying to take a big inhale so you can scream. The sound was piercing - a loud screech coming from you. Dardan just laughed. “Screech all you want, no one’s around for miles.”

Rhys’s words echo in your mind.

Stay close to Azriel.

A warning you had forgotten when you stormed off. Dardan’s tight grip brings you towards a clearing full of other Illyrians from the village you had been staying in and several of the nearby villages. You’re about to call, to beg them for help, when you notice six of the males are each dragging a female in some way towards the center of the clearing. You can’t see over the wings and heads in front of you, but the crowd parts for your eyes to land on a stone altar with ancient languages carved into it.

The crowd gave enough space for the six Illyrians to stand in a circle around the altar, each one cradling a woman by their neck with a blade pressed to it. You start fighting back against Dardan, trying to scratch him, hit him, but he throws you towards the altar where two winged males stand, catching you in their arms easily. You throw out your hand, making contact with one of their jaws, a soft “bitch” hissed at you. 

You throw your bound hands into the other one’s gut, but the first one grabs your elbow, twisting harshly. You struggle in the hold, winding your head back to headbutt him, but the other one grabs your head, holding it in place. You start kicking your legs out, hoping for any kind of contact, but a male from the crowd comes up and catches your ankles. 

The three males hold onto you, moving you on top of the altar. Your movements do nothing to stop them as they clamp down your feet, moving towards your hands, shackling them to the altar as well. Your pleas to be let go fell on deaf ears.

You turn your head to the left, two of the females coming into your view. Their wings twitched as their captors held them, not much fight in them. You yell to them, begging for them to fight back against the males at their backs. Tears stream down the side of your face, leaking into your ears as you watch their complacency, what they’ve been conditioned for. 

Nausea rolled in your stomach at the idea of how long they’ve been aware of this fate. These girls have been missing for weeks and months of their lives, kept Mother knows where to beat them into compliance. 

They stood at attention, knives to their throats, unmoving. 

Your eyes water seeing Kaltrina amongst them, her eyes downcast.

It was sickening.

Dardan comes from the crowd, looking down at you over the crook of his nose. He raises a knife to your throat, your skin nicking on the blade as your breathing quickened. 

“Any last words?”

You look up at Dardan, mustering every ounce of defiance onto your face as you pull back, spitting into his smug face. His face falls for a moment before wiping the saliva off. Dardan looks towards the sky, “just a moment until sundown. If only your pretty little shadowsinger could be here now, to watch you become the ultimate sacrifice.”

Breathing gets harder as the seconds tick by, knowing the sun will set at any second. You felt a cool breeze blow over you. 

Not a breeze.

A shadow.

“Get your fucking hands off of my mate.”

Your heart stops in your chest, something sparking deep within you at Azriel’s growl of warning in a tone you’ve never heard from him before. Dardan’s knife is still pressed to your neck, but you’re able to move your eyes enough to see wisps of shadow pulling the knives away from the necks of the other females in the circle. 

You tilt your head back, barely able to make out Azriel standing behind Dardan, his shadows angrily darting all around him. Several more of them make their way to you, almost cloaking you in the scent of their master.

Dardan’s arrogance doesn’t balk at the sight of Azriel, his grip on the knife tightening. 

“You can drop the ‘mate’ act, freak,” Dardan spat out, his words causing the shadows to whirl in agitation. “We need her-”

In a flash the shadows coating you slithered up your torso, slithering around the wrist that held the blade. They pulled the wrist away, the knife narrowly avoiding slicing your throat. At the same time, Azriel moved for Dardan, his fist connecting with Dardan’s jaw causing a crack across the clearing. Dardan hit the ground, but Azriel dove after him, landing punch after punch.

In the chaos of the fight breaking out, the crowd was in hysterics, all of the males attempting to fly or flee, pools of shadows surfaced at their feet, tripping them up, their bodies slowly disappearing into the darkness. Some of them tried to crawl from the darkness, but to no avail. The crowd quickly went from about 30 males to just the six females left, all unharmed, huddling together for some form of protection.

Azriel was choking Dardan out, scarred fingers forcing the breath from Dardan’s lungs. “I will enjoy taking my time with you.” Azriel’s words hung in the air as Dardan slowly slipped into the shadows underneath him, but Azriel remained on the grass. He quickly got to this feet, most of his shadows gone, likely to keep the Illyrian prisoners in check.

He stumbles over to you, quickly undoing your binds before wrapping you in his arms, pulling you from the altar.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” are all he says, his words repeating as you feel tears fall onto your shirt. You gripped him just as tightly, finding it easier to breathe in his presence for the first time in ages. 

“I can’t live in fear anymore.”

He lunged for you, capturing your lips in a kiss. It’s rushed, full of fear and trepidation. 

But by the cauldron was it warm and full of life. 

He pulled back, wiping spit from his mouth, his fingers covered in blood pushing the hair out of your face. “When I heard that your name was on one of those books, the bond snapped for me. I flew in a rage, killing all those traffickers. But I knew there were more like them out there.”

His eyes were full of regret, “I should have told you, but I thought you’d be safer not knowing. Then I figured this mission was my last time to actually have you, to play pretend.”

You laugh at the ridiculousness of it, pulling him in closer to you. You bury your face in his neck, inhaling that deep smell of cedar that you adored more than anything. It felt like coming home.

“I’m still pissed at you for not telling me.”

He chuckles, a deep, warm sound you haven’t truly heard in ages, “can I make it up to you? I won’t keep secrets from you ever again.”

He holds your face in his hands, his own eyes wet with tears. One of his hands pulls away, his tan skin radiant in the moonlight. You bring up your hand, interlocking your fingers with his. You keep your eyes on his, “no more secrets. From either of us.”

He nods, a bargain tattoo beginning to snake its way on your skin. 

“No more running.”

The tattoo wove its way on your skin, dark tendrils solidifying where your forearms meet. When you pull your hand away, the tattoo is incomplete, missing the gaps where Azriel’s arm belongs.

Much like a one-sided duet, your tattoos look empty without the other there to complete the song that echoed in your chest, the song that hummed at the sight of him. The bond didn’t feel so much like a snap as a slow sinking, as if you had finally opened your eyes after so long. 

Wrapped in his arms, the two of you had a lot to figure out - the females, what to do with the strange occult Illyrians, but the two of you could do it.

He promised - no more running.

Permanent taglist: @vanilla-seabass @cyrygher @lees-chaotic-brain @topaz125 @chessebookgirl @fides25 @lady-of-tearshed @ashbatz @fxckmiup @lilah-asteria @justvibbinghere @daughterofthemoons-stuff @mybestfriendmademe @heartless-tate @tsunami-of-tears @idrkwhatthisisimsorry @olive-main @azrielsmate3 @pit-and-the-pen @durgenyx

Azriel taglist: @brieflyclassymortal @thisiskaylin

Thanks for reading 💕

[voxsremotec0ck]

𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞.ᐟ

ᝰ Blitzø x Fem!reader

ᝰ NSFW, oral (fem receiving), fingering, degrading names (slut), tail play??

wc - 1.4k

˗ˏˋ Blitzø does return the favor in the bedroom, and he’s going to prove it ˎˊ˗

Your lazy night in was interrupted by a loud banging on your door, making you jump and pause your TV. Checking your phone, you see that it's just after midnight, and you frown; who the fuck would be knocking on your door this late?

Whoever it was loudly knocked again before yelling through the door, “It’s Blitz open up!”

You sigh in frustration at the familiar name and voice of your frequent booty call. Of course, it was Blitzø. The man would never call or text; instead, he would just show up at random and expect you to rework your plans for him. You get up and drag yourself to the door, opening it and fully prepared to cuss him out, “Blitz, what-”

You barely got the door open before the imp was storming inside your apartment and slamming it shut behind him, “Listen, I’ve had a long and shitty night, and now I need to prove something to myself, so if you could get naked and in bed that would be fan-fucking-tastic.”

Blitzø walked around you and made his way to your bedroom, taking his leather jacket off and tossing it on the couch in the process. You stood there dumbfounded for a moment before taking off after him, “What?”

“Oh my fucking Satan, can you just take your fucking pants off.” Blitzø snapped, standing at the foot of your bed with his arms crossed. You could tell something was wrong, even if he hadn’t told you he had a shitty night; it was obvious from his expression alone.

The two of you weren’t exactly the ‘talk about your feelings’ type, but you’ve never seen Blitzo this bothered before. Something really fucked up must’ve happened for him to be this visibly upset, “What happened?”

“Maybe I’ll tell you after I’m done with you.” Blitzø tried to flirt, and you only glared at him in response. He huffed in annoyance, “A lot of shit that I don’t want to talk about happened, okay? But one thing that did happen is that my ex said I don’t reciprocate in bed, and I know that shit is a lie.”

“So that’s what you need to prove to yourself? That you can please your bedmate?” you asked, rolling your eyes and leaning on the doorframe.

“Not just any bedmate!” Blitzø yelled, obviously getting worked up at the memory of whatever happened, “I need to prove that I can pleasure a pussy haver! That bitch made it seem like I don’t know where the clit is, and I cannot have that!”

Your eye twitched at the term ‘pussy haver,’ but still, you sighed and walked over towards the bed, “Yaknow, I don’t think you’ve ever eaten me out before.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve never sucked me off either. We’re more of the quick fuck type of booty call.” Blitzø rolled his eyes, “Now, am I gonna have to cut your stupid sleep shorts off or what?”

You stood silently in front of him for a moment, looking him up and down, trying to decide if you were really going to do this. The assassin seemed almost desperate for you to agree, and honestly, you did kind of want to see if he actually was good at eating pussy or not.

With a tired sigh, you slip out of your shorts and panties before climbing up onto your bed. Blitzø smirks at you before clapping his hands together and rubbing them, “You should also take your top off; I’m about to give you some real underboob sweat.”

“Literally, what the fuck?” You snap, glaring at him as he pushes your legs apart. The feeling of the cool air on your exposed core makes you shiver, and you quickly pull off your t-shirt.

Blitzø pulls your folds apart with his thumbs, exposing you even more, and spits on your pussy. You jump at the suddenness of his action and open your mouth to yell at him before he moves one of his thumbs, sliding it between your folds to spread his spit. You moan softly when he just barely brushes your clit, and you hear him mumble, “See, you fucking skank, I know exactly where the clit is.”

“Yep, you sure showed her. Now, why don’t you rub it or something.” You whined when his thumb only grazed the sensitive nub again.

“Oh no, I’m gonna do this right,” Blitzø said and began circling your entrance with his middle finger. “Which means I’m gonna draw it out as long as possible.”

You moan loudly when he slides his finger inside of you; your legs fall open impossibly wider as you glare down at him, “You’re an ass.”

“It’s your fault for thinking otherwise, sweetheart.” Blitzø meets your glare with a smirk before leaning down and flicking his forked tongue against your clit. Your hips buck up at the small bit of friction, pushing his finger deeper inside of you and making you grip the sheets tightly.

Using his free hand to hold your hips down against the bed, Blitzø started to pump his finger in and out of you slowly as he dragged his tongue between your folds. Every time the forked tip of his tongue cradled your clit, your hips jerked, and you moaned, no doubt alerting your neighbors to what you were up to.

After a few minutes of this slow torture, Blitzø finally pushed a second finger inside of you, making your back arch, “Oh fuck, Blitz.”

“Yeah, that's right,” Blitzø grunted against your mound, his fingers moving faster inside of you, “You better remember who’s making you feel this good.”

“Blitz your tongue-” You whine, missing the feeling of his mouth on you.

“What about it, sugar?” Blitzø asked, bringing this thumb up to rub agonizingly slow circles against your clit as his fingers continued to fuck into you, curling up just right and hitting your sweet spot. “Awe, does the dumb slut want my tongue on her clit? Are you gonna beg for it?”

You let out a frustrated groan, not wanting to give in to this stupid game but also needing his stupidly long tongue to cum, “Please, Blitz, fuck! Please use your tongue!”

“Well, when you ask so nicely.” You didn’t have to look at the imp to know he was smirking as he said that before he sucked your clit into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the small nub and making you all but scream.

You couldn’t help yourself anymore and reached down, grabbing Blitzø’s horns and pulling his face closer. You felt more than heard his muffled grunt of surprise, the noise vibrating against your sensitive skin and making your legs shake. That all-too-familiar heat began coiling in your abdomen, and you started rocking your hips against him as you moaned, “I’m so close!”

Something suddenly brushing against your left breast, pushing against your neglected nipple, and sending a shiver up your spine caught your attention. You pried your eyes open to see Blitzø had snaked his tail up your body, the flat end of it pressing against your tit until it lifted and came back down with a hard smack.

“Blitz fuck!” You cried out as you came, body overwhelmed with the amount of stimulation.

Blitzø continued his brutal pace as you soaked his face. His fingers still fucked against your g-spot, his tongue still circled your swollen clit, and his tail still smacked against your nipple until you were begging him to stop. He finally pulled away from you with a wet pop and leaned over you with a smirk while he licked his lips.

“So?” He asked, sounding out of breath but looking way more smug than when he showed up, “How was that?”

You panted, completely slumped against your bed, and getting pissed off at the sweaty feeling under your boobs, “That was-”

The sound of a high-pitched barking started blaring from Blitzø’s pocket, and you tilted your head to watch as he quickly pulled his phone out. You knew that was his daughter Loona’s ringtone, so when the imp’s eyes widened impossibly large before he scurried off the bed, you became nervous. “Blitz? Everything okay?”

“Yeah- shit!” Blitzø cursed as he fell off your bed, and you just rolled your eyes, “Yeah, Looney just needs me to pick her up!”

You just sat on your bed and listened as Blitzo ran out of your room and grabbed his jacket, “Okay, well-”

The sound of your front door opening and slamming shut cut you off, leaving you alone again. Looking at the clock on your nightstand, you saw time as a little past one in the morning and sighed. If it weren’t for the wet feeling between your legs and the satisfied ach in your body, it would almost feel like he’d never been at all.

You flopped back down on your bed with a huff, “Asshole.”

I did it guys I finished the fic high me decided I was gonna write😌

[uncouth-the-fifth]

click, p.2 - Sam Winchester/Reader

read it on ao3.

Pairing: Sam Winchester/Reader (late s5) Tags/Warnings: angst, love confessions, romantic sex, oral sex/cunnilingus, (aka, Sam pussy addiction: the shequel), Sam is Lucifer's vessel, reader is AFAB. Word Count: ~11k. Notes: i was commissioned for the second time by the lovely @daffodil-mania, who wanted a continuation of her last fic set during the "say yes" era of s5. (sooooo dangerous to let me put my grubby hands on this version of Sam, btw). i cannot express how BUCK FUCKING WILD uncouth-nation went for the first part of this fic, so this is for all the wonderful people who gushed over click, commented, threw me some kudos, or even just read it and liked it. lots of love, and i hope you enjoy <3 i did my best to rip out your soul as best i could. THIS CAN STAND ON IT'S OWNNN AHHH. i mean. if u wanna read it <3 Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!

FIVE YEARS LATER

The walk from the bus stop to your apartment is a safe and easy seven minutes. If you were any other person in any other world, you’d glide onto the bus after your night shift at the university, hop off at your stop, and bumble toward your apartment without a single care in the world. Maybe stare at your phone the whole walk back. Text a hot guy who isn’t the physical manifestation of the devil on earth. Normal stuff.

But this is your life, so you sit front seat on the bus, hands in your lap, tapping a nervous beat against the angel blade hidden in your book bag. The windows rattle in their frames and gleam with rain. You could get off at your stop and take those easy seven minutes home—but the bus driver could also be a demon, so.

Since you aren’t in the mood to die a slow death tonight, walking a few extra blocks to keep anybody from knowing where you live will have to work.

On day two of this, you’d called Dean and asked if you were being extra paranoid. He’d kindly pointed out: Extra-paranoid is just extra-survival. I dunno about you, but survivin’ a lil’ extra sounds fan-fuckin-tastic to me right about now.

He’s right. You know he’s right. But it still doesn’t feel like a good answer, and that makes you picture Sam, twenty-three and still bright-eyed, running his fingers down your bare back and scowling. I’m sick of surviving. One of these days, I want to actually live my life.

But that had been before the apocalypse, before Dean’s deal, before everything. Sam was a different man now. Hunting had reached into all three of you and ripped all sorts of things out, but you would never forgive it for taking Sam’s hope for something better. God, you missed that Sam. You missed him more than anything.

The city bus lumbers up to the curb and spits you out onto the sidewalk, where you superstitiously hover, waiting for the other passengers crawling away from their night shifts to scatter. It’s only when the bus is a dark spot in the mist down the street that you start to walk, your whole body caked head to toe with oily rain. 

This time, you take a random left toward your apartment and serpentine street-to-street, never walking the exact same way the same week. By the time you’re closer to where the bus could’ve actually dropped you off, the lingering smell of old research books has been practically power-washed out of your clothes. You try to think of anything but the freezing, biting, face-stinging rain… and, like a moth to a flame, your mind floats back to Sam.

It’s been over two weeks since he dropped the nuclear option. Over two weeks ago, Sam wanted to say yes to Lucifer, and over two weeks have passed since the massive, unstoppable-force-meets-immovable-object fight that’d erupted as a result.

Dean had blown up. Sam had pushed. You’d burst into tears and clawed into Sam just as deep, because why, why would he ever go there—why would that even be a fathomable possibility in his mind? Did he really think so low of himself? How could he ever give up like that? How could he leave you—?

The worst part was easily the way Sam had reacted. With Dean or John, he could yell himself hoarse, but when it came to fighting you all he could do was sit and take it. He put his head down and nodded at everything you said, even the cruel things. In some ways it made you angrier, but also inconceivably, cosmically guilty. This was Sam’s choice. And of course, because this was Sam, his choice was to save the whole goddamn world. Not a single bone in your body carried that level of selflessness, yet Sam bled the stuff.

You were still furious with him, but only because being mad at him was the only option you had left. The right thing to do would be to tell Sam, I trust you to make this decision, this is your life, and let him take that jump… But you didn’t have it in you. Saying that felt like pushing him over the ledge yourself, or telling him you’d never cared about him in the first place. If you were angry at least you were still fighting for him in some way.

You’d been on board for everything—trying to find a way out of Dean’s deal, trying to kill Lilith, everything. But the argument with Sam had torn out the final piece of you that could stand this, so you packed a bag, told Dean you’d be in a strict research-only role, and booked it back to your hometown. It was cowardly and stupid and beyond selfish, but you knew your stance. The hunt had taken everything from you. You refused to let it take Sam, too.

Maybe, Sam would take you stepping away as a serious sign to change his mind. You couldn’t imagine a world where Sam and his Winchester stubbornness would ever do that, but. It was a nice wish to hold onto.

By the time you make it up the steps to your apartment building, you’re soaked to the bone and audibly making pathetic shivering sounds. Your bookbag feels heavier than ever, digging a trench into your shoulder as you fish around for your keys. The second your apartment door is open the true weight of your exhaustion hits you—

—and then utterly disappears, replaced by a shock of pure adrenaline.

There’s a new pair of boots by your front door.

You catch the heavy door before it goes swinging against the doorjamb, straining your ears against the ringing silence. The bedside lamp is on in your room.

On dead-quiet feet, you slip in, click the door shut behind you, and slip off your bookbag. Your angel blade is in your hand in a second, but you risk a few extra steps toward your kitchen table to wiggle loose the pistol you taped underneath. Just the weight of your weapons in your hands flicks the hunter muscle memory back on in your body, and before you can think you’re hiding in the shadow beside your bedroom door. Listening.

Soft breathing. The pages of a book turning.

You know, instinctively, who it is—you would know him dumb and blind and dead. But these days, anybody could be piloting his body around.

You suck in a deep breath through your nose, heart throbbing in your ears. You wait until the fingers on your gun aren’t shaking anymore, then burst inside the room, slamming the door into the wall and whipping your pistol up to eye level.

Sam’s head flinches towards you. He is exactly as you saw him two weeks ago; solemn, determined, and open, the air around him practically steaming with safety and goodness. He’s sat comfortably on your bed, reading a book he brought with him. Despite everything, your belly still curls with butterflies when you lay eyes on him. Sam. Definitely Sam, and no one else.

Still, your paranoia has gotten you this far. You both stare at each other for a beat, equal parts scared out of your minds and relieved. Without a word, you keep your gun trained on him, and Sam lets you, his eyes big and understanding. You shuffle sideways to your dresser, and without turning away from him, pop open the top drawer and toss him the silver flask of holy water you keep hidden inside. 

He catches it. So, not a shapeshifter, then. Sam takes a drink of the holy water, even turning to the side so you can see the water go into his mouth. (A demon in Missouri had slipped past the three of you by pretending to sip—only Sam would know that.) You’re still a little terrified, but you manage to pull your weapons back down to your sides. You still don’t know what to say.

He’s really here. The part of you that had worried the argument with Sam would be your last wails with joy. He’s here, alive and in front of you. No matter how awkward you feel you can’t bring yourself to stop staring at him. By the buttery light of your bedside lamp, he literally glows with beauty, and you realize he’d scrubbed his boots off on your welcome mat to not track mud in, and he’d hung up his rain-soaked jacket in your shower to dry. Stupid polite Sam things.

You dare to glance back at your kitchen, then swivel to squint at him. “Did you… do my dishes?”

Sam lets his hands relax into his lap and nods, shy. He’s looking at you in a way he never really has before, eyes big and soul-rending. “…Yeah. I used the key you gave me to get in… Hope that’s okay.”

There’s another long pause. Usually when you stare at Sam, he doesn’t stare so intensely back, but you share a weird mutual moment where you just stand there and take each other in. It’s so obvious it’s painful, but if he’s doing it then you feel entitled to devour him with your eyes too.

“I got, uh, bored. Waiting for you,” Sam clarifies. “Thought I’d make myself useful.”

Sam stands from the bed. For a second you think he’s heading straight for you, but he moves toward the dresser behind you, kindly tucking the holy water back where it was stowed. You flit out of his way as fast as you can and set your weapons down on the closest available surface, feeling off-kilter. Why would he come here? Is he going to tell you that he changed his mind?

You hold onto the question, but you know it’s too out of character to hope for. Despair sinks into your gut like a rock in a pond. You know why Sam’s here. He would never make this decision without telling you first—without at least saying goodbye in person.

Your throat locks up with tears.

Behind you, Sam hums, “You changed your hair.”

Right. You’d altered it to be more undercover. You resist the urge to reach up and play with your hair, or give in to any of the fluttery feelings you always feel around Sam. “It’s safer.” Tightly, you ask him, “What are you doing here?”

Sam drags a long breath through his nose. You clutch the end of your bookshelf, your chest crumpling with misery. Please don’t say it. Please, please, lie to me if you have to.

“...I’m not taking the jump,” Sam breathes.

There’s more that he says after that. He talks about how you and Dean are right, and how, surely, after everything that the three of you have been through, there’s got to be another way to end this. You’ve always found another way in the past. Sam explains all this to you in a sure, quiet voice, like this is something he’s thought about for a long time, but you barely hear him after those first words. There’s this persistent tension in your chest that’s telling you that there’s something wrong here, but you don’t care—you don’t give a single fucking shit, because Sam—Sam isn’t saying yes. Sam’s staying.

“…are other ways I can make up for the mistakes I made,” he’s telling you, scrambling to fill the nagging silence.

You take a moment to force back your tears, and Sam, nervously, keeps talking.

He swallows, trying to smile. “I-I would’ve called and told you, but something tells me you wouldn’t have picked up.”

When you’ve got your bearings back, you push away from your bookshelf and turn to face him. Your legs are so leaden that you feel as if you have to physically pick up your body and drop it down the other direction, but you manage it. “What… what made you change your mind?”

Sam gets one look at your face and wilts with guilt. He doesn’t answer your question in words—just shoves his hands in his pockets and stares down at his feet, then around your room, as if his reason was in the air with the two of you. In the apartment. His eyes flicker over you just once, and you understand. Seeing you leave really had scared him.

“Be careful,” you start to joke with him, “you start validating my childish reactions and we’re gonna have a whole new set of problems on our hands.”

Sam scoffs. “It wasn’t childish to run away.”

You raise an eyebrow at his word choice, which gets an honest-to-god laugh out of him. A real good Sam Winchester laugh, dimples and all. The last dregs of anxiety in your gut melt at the sound, and Sam reassures you, shrugging, “You needed to get out. In case you forgot, I kind of invented wanting to get out. I understand. I really do.”

You know that he does. That’s not exactly going to stop you from feeling guilty about ditching them, but at least it kicked some sense into him. God. For the last five or six years, your every moment had been spent with Sam and his brother. Even just a couple weeks without him had drained you, and having him back only makes those feelings more clear. Sam’s presence commands the space in a way that turns your shitty, undecorated bedroom into someplace magical, someplace good and safe and warm, and just seeing him standing there draws the ache out of your spine.

Your reach out for his sleeve. Somehow, he’s more real than ever, a tangible person instead of the memory you’ve chased for so long.

“You’re really not saying yes?”

Sam unwinds your hand from the fabric so he can hold it instead, your fingers scooped in his fingers. You’re given a firm squeeze and are hypnotized by him in an instant, the world narrowing down to this moment between just him and just you.

Sam looks into your eyes when he promises, “I’m not going anywhere.”

The tears you’d resisted before return in one big, merciless wave. You’re so tired and the rain was so fucking cold and you’re so sick of being scared that Sam, thank god, Sam, is everything you could possibly need. He’s not going anywhere. Before you can stop yourself you’re clutching him for dear life, shoving your face in his shirt and crushing his body against yours. These last few weeks have submerged you in survival mode, and you don’t realize how deep until Sam pulls you out of the current. He’s warm and dry, and when you inhale to sob he smells like a 24-hour-laundromat, the Impala, and home home home. You could’ve lost that. You could’ve lost him.

“Th-thank you,” you choke out at nothing in particular, “thank you.”

You’ve cried a lot this week, so there are not many tears left to shed. Still, Sam holds you through all of them, swaying back and forth with you and cooing in your ear. You hear him sniffling too. When you’re both all sobbed out, you pull back to tell him you love him, to remind him of all the things he needs to hear, but Sam strangely doesn’t let you. The second he feels you pull away he clutches you back against him, and you get the uneasy impression that you’ve been comforting him more than he’s been comforting you. His whole body’s shaking.

Sam hugs you for longer than he ever has before. It’s a little worrying, but you’ve both needed it so much that you don’t even complain.

After a while, Sam slips back, and in traditional Winchester fashion tries to play off his vulnerability. He’s always been a dead-silent crier, so you have zero way to gauge how bad things are until you see his face. He looks like he’d sobbed his heart out. Your shirt is still wet from the rain, but even then you can feel Sam’s tears soaking your shoulder. Saying anything about it will just embarrass him, though.

“...I-I, uh,” you lick the tears off your lips, mumbling, “I don’t know bout’ you, but I’m beat. Do you have somewhere you gotta be, or,” you add hopefully, “or can you stick around?”

This is the part where Sam will start coaxing you to drive back with him to where he and Dean are holed up, you’re sure of it. You’re already plotting in your head what to pack and what to take, but Sam never brings it up. He doesn’t worry about tomorrow yet.

He presses his lips together. “I was hoping I could stay here tonight, actually.”

This is an even better answer. You’re nodding before he’s even finished the thought, stroking your hand down his chest. It twists your gut in knots to see him like this, so you start to steer the conversation toward something more playful, something less daunting to think about.

“You’re lucky I like you then,” you smirk. Somehow, you manage to peel yourself out of his bubble and teeter toward your dresser, scrubbing the tears off your face. “Make yourself comfortable. I dunno about you, but I’m getting the fuck out of these work clothes, I’m freezing. Do you need anything to sleep in? I’ve got at least five years of your stolen shirts in here.”

You hear him ease himself down on the end of your bed again, but there’s no sassy retort, sly comment, or any sort of line about you and your stealing habits. Instead, sweet and simple, he says, “I’ll just sleep in this. You can have them.”

Okay. Weird.

Since he didn’t take the bait, you throw out another line and try again. This time, you kick off your shoes, open a drawer, and turn back to him with two of his shirts in hand. “Really?” You wave them teasingly in the air. “You sure?”

They are some of his best shirts, easy. You’re not a cheap thief. The first is a holey, feather-soft Red Hot Chili Peppers tee, and the second is a deep maroon Stanford sweater. He has so few artifacts from that time in his life that there’s no way he won’t want this one back. Right?

But Sam just gazes at you, his whole face soft and loving as he says, “You should wear the Stanford one. It looks good on you.”

Those old hot-shivery feelings for him seep down your spine, and you feel in real-time how your cheeks flood with heat. Damn, okay. Consider yourself wooed.

You’ve been down this road with Sam many, many times—enough to know when he’s flirting with you. The forbidden labels had never been thrown around, but. Well. Sam had been your first time, as well as the many other times after that.

He’s usually leagues more subtle than his brother, but for whatever reason he’s pouring it on by the truckload tonight. When you turn around he’s nothing but big, happy puppy eyes, waiting patiently for you at the end of the bed. (Like you’re his girlfriend. Like anything about this is normal at all, and you and Sam are going to tuck into bed together like it’s any other night). Fuck, you missed him.

The bathroom is only a few steps away, but this is Sam, so you decide to just throw on your pajamas right here. Your shirt is so wet that it hits the floor with a slap. It also takes some experience to wring yourself out of your denim-turned-cement jeans, so it’s not the sexiest show in the entire world. Still, Sam’s gaze traces sensual lines down your back. You would rather go to literal, actual hell than wear your bra for a minute longer, so the second you’re free of its death grip, a long happy sigh drains out of you. A similar dreamy sigh drains out of Sam. Dork.

“I will never get tired of that,” Sam murmurs. You expect to hear some kind of hunger there, but the timber of his voice bleeds with admiration and fondness.

There are very few ways to be a normal human being while Sam Winchester adores your nude body with his eyes. The best you can do is burst into flustered, giggly laughter and give him a good eyeroll, your entire face cooking like a stove burner.

“Alright, loverboy,” you scoff, “I’m gonna go brush my teeth and take my makeup off—”

“Can I help?” Sam asks.

You sputter out another laugh, confused. “You wanna brush my teeth for me?”

“No,” Sam shakes his head, smiling big, “Lemme take your makeup off for you.”

Okay. Weirder. But it’s sweet, and you like this side of him, so you decide to indulge his mood. “...Sure.”

You go about your night-time routine. Sam continues to be a weirdo, trailing you into the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe, and blinking slow endearing blinks at you as he… watches you brush your teeth. Just. Stands there, watching, utterly enamored with this little moment of domesticity with you. On the surface level you’re a little thrown off, but it falls under the category of Freaky Sam Things that made you catch feelings for him in the first place, so. You grin into your toothbrush the whole time.

When he’s satisfied by his little ogling fest, he drifts off to hunt around for your makeup wipes. Either you’re predictable or he knows you too well, because he finds them within seconds, and patiently sits back as you finish up your routine, watching you like you’ll disappear on him the moment he turns away. Click click, you feel inside you.

“Okay,” he says when you’re done. “Close your eyes.”

You do. You wait for the cool touch of the wipe on your face, but instead, Sam’s big, rough fingers find your chin and hold you still. It takes conscience effort to not melt into his touch like a cat in a square of sunlight. Your willpower is nothing on Sam’s, though, so you give in quickly, sinking into his hand and sighing through your nose. In gentle swipes, he cleans your face. It must be a nightmare of smeared mascara considering how you’d cried earlier… And yet Sam had still been so transfixed by you. He’s the fucking best.

Sam’s hand tilts your head from side to side to survey his handiwork. Pleased, he tosses the wipe in the trash and says, “There you go.”

You open your eyes and go to double-check his work in the mirror, but Sam hasn’t removed his hand from your chin, and you really, really don’t want him to. His thick thumb comes up and caresses under your lips. He looks at you like he loves you, and with all the honesty in the world, he utters, “...You are so pretty.”

…The only way for you to survive this is by throwing him a dry look. “You’re full of shit. What’s your game, Winchester?”

That earns you another authentic Sam laugh, along with a handsome boyish smile. “There’s no game. What are you talking about?”

You squint at him. Liar.

“This.” You gestured between the two of you, suspicious. “You’re mooning over me. Why are you mooning? Are you planning something?”

A ripple of discomfort rolls across Sam’s face, but it passes too fast for you to read. His hands go right back in his pockets and he leans into the doorframe again. “I’m just… happy we’re not fighting,” he confesses.

Oh. That makes sense. Sam hasn’t exactly made up with you like that before, but. These times change everyone. You ease up on your teasing and admit, “Me too.”

“I’m sorry for scaring you away,” Sam says, and far, far too seriously for your liking, he whispers, “I’m sorry for everything.”

Your answer slips right out of your mouth without hesitation. “I forgive you, stupid,” your brows furrow together. “And I’m sorry, too. I said some pretty shitty stuff back there.”

Sam wilts against the doorframe a little. “Nothing I didn’t deserve.”

A dull pulse of anger flares in your chest, which flickers out and dies not a second later. There’s so much you want to say to that.

It is so fucking unfair—biblically, cosmically unfair—that Sam, the good guy to end all good guys, thinks of himself this way. He is the kind of righteous they make saints out of. And yet he sits in your silly little bathroom in your shitty little apartment and gives you that look, the look that says, I deserve this and so much more. I deserve to rot in hell for all eternity. He gave you that exact look when he brought up saying yes. He gives it to you now, because Sam sees everything as a sin to serve penance for—freeing Lucifer from the cage and making you a little worried. He thinks he’s so evil, so beyond saving. It makes you want to get your fists in your shirt and just shake him. 

You’re good! You want to scream. Just for once in your life, listen to me! None of this is your fault!

There’s nothing you could say to him that would ever make him let go of his guilt. But, at the very least, you could help him forget about it for a while.

“You beat yourself up too much,” you scold. Then, softer, you add, “C’mere, Sammy.”

Sam does as told, planting himself right in front of you. God, he’s changed. You look him over with a bittersweet smile. He used to be so spindly. The last few years have filled him out, forcing his body into something ready for war. The hunt reached in and tore all sorts of things out of people, but you’d been wrong about what it’d ripped out of Sam. His optimism was still there, warm and humming in the tissue of his body, and just seeing it fills you with hope. He looks so different from the man you’d had all to yourself in that cabin, but you can feel that he’s still in there. He’s still your Sam.

You take his face in your hands, smoothing your thumbs into his dimples and quietly, needily rasping, “...Can I take care of you?”

Sam’s whole body shudders with relief. “Please, yes.”

The next few beats of this dance haven’t changed. Like always, Sam comes flying in with a big, smashing kiss that shatters any leftover barriers between you. You’re not Sam’s girlfriend and he’s not your boyfriend, but Sam makes you his with this kiss. (If only for a little while). Your noses mash together and his eyes squeeze shut and then everything is just Sam, Sam, Sam at every angle. His hands are at his sides then suddenly they’re all over you, taking two greedy handfuls of your waist under the Stanford sweater. He jams your hips against his and kisses you senseless, towering over you, surrounding you, so that when you pull back to gasp for breath your lungs are flooded with his familiar heady love potion.

Either he’s giving off some Poison Ivy-level pheromones, or your body is so familiar with these steps that it knows what comes after this kiss… because you’re instantly wet.

You realized a long time ago that you and Sam have sex a bit too often for it to be considered “casual,” but even if it was, Sam is not a casual kind of lay. After that first soul-stealing kiss, Sam stares you down like a four-course meal, spins you around, pushes you down chest-first onto the bathroom counter, drops to his knees—

—and shoves his face between your legs like it’s his goddamn job.

In the middle of all your surprised shrieking and squirming, Sam nuzzles his face into your panties and moans deep and bassy in his throat, “Yes.”

Like he’s won something. Like he’s been waiting weeks to do this. Holy fuck, you’ll never get tired of that.

The second you have even an atom of your reason back, you slap a hand over your mouth. Neighbors! Sam has already forgotten what neighbors are, and is holy-mission-from-god-determined to make you noisy. He’s extra hungry for it tonight, too. You squeak out his name, not so much in shock, but more because having those huge hands squeezing where your ass starts to round out tends to produce a reaction, and Sam rumbles like a lawnmower in approval. Holy fuck.

He doesn’t have to ask you to spread your legs. One of the hands appreciating your ass slides between your thighs, cupping you through your underwear, and you have to try not to squeal when the meaty pad of Sam’s thumb swipes across your clothed folds. He presses a big kiss in that exact spot as he drags your panties down your legs, and it’s a weirdly sweet gesture that makes your heart and your belly flutter with shivery heat. Fuck. Fuck, you missed him so much.

The first few times Sam had sprung this move on you, you hadn’t exactly had enough time to fully rev up. But Sam is deadly efficient in and out of the bedroom, so he makes a point to get you extra wet (for him) with his spit, laving his hot, slippery tongue over you in one long swipe. He eats you out with all the obscene, noisy enjoyment of somebody gorging on the juiciest fruit they’ve ever tasted. Even you are scandalized.

It becomes embarrassingly clear that covering your mouth isn’t going to keep Sam from what he wants. The high, desperate moan you try to stifle only makes him work harder. You press an arm flat to the counter and bury your face in it for strength, since you’re weak and whimpering for him already. 

Sam was good in bed when you met him. But, by nature, he is a relentless and avid learner, and it’s been five whole years since he put his mouth on you for the first time. Now, Sam is a certified pussy-eating weapon. He knows your body better than anyone possibly could. You’re over the edge in a minute flat.

Your climax flies through you in one whizzing, sparking rush, then keeps flying, until your body’s squeezing out little squeaky pleas for mercy of its own accord. This is his favorite part. You claw into the countertop and wail for it, pushing at the floor in your socks to gain any sort of leverage. To press closer? To squirm away? You have zero fucking clue, since the thought part of your brain has been blasted into a smoking crater. Sam wraps a big arm around your spasming thigh to pin you open, and holy fucking shit, could that man suck the chrome off a tailpipe. His mouth is a whirlwind of licking and suction just on the right side of oh fuck too much that makes your skin feel like it’s fizzing. You are a thread that he’s just pulling and pulling until you’re so thin you could snap into nothing—

You wait for the moment when Sam pops off you, stands up, and goes for his zipper, but he never does. He remains on the floor, determined to lick you through overstimulation and straight into round two. But that’s a whole minute you could spend with his dick inside you instead, and there’s no fucking way you’re wasting that. Not when he’s here and real and not going to say yes. Sam’s not going anywhere. He’s staying, he’s alive, and the world isn’t going to end tomorrow.

“No no no,” you bite out in one short, rattling breath. “S-Suh—Sam, please please—” An unexpected sob shreds out of you. “Miss you. Need you.”

You’re actually, genuinely crying, and not entirely in the fun sexed-out way. Sam backs up. He’s not even halfway standing when you wrench him up the rest of the way, straight into a desperate, maddening kiss. It’s a brutal cross of teeth and tongue. The need for body heat and skin and him burns through you like genuine bloodlust, so you cram yourself up against him with life-or-death urgency. You get your nails into him until you feel something like shirt fabric and viciously yank it over his head, waiting for the moment when he grabs your wrists or shoves you onto the bed o-or—or starts to blow off steam. Cause’ that’s what this is all about, right?

He drags your mouths apart. Sam pants, “Slow down.”

You stop.

This is. This is new.

There’s no slowing, with this. You both go and you keep going until there’s no more fuel in your tanks, and you crawl out of bed the next day feeling like you’ve beaten the rot out of each other. You’ve never once slowed down during this before, and as your wheels spin to a halt for the first time, reality filters back in around you.

Sam stares at you. His hair is all over the place. A patchy blush speckles up his heaving chest, burning in his ears and in his cheeks. Your slick shines on his lips and the bulb of his nose. He’s just standing there and fucking looking at you, but for whatever reason it feels like the color has seeped back into the world.

“S’okay. Gonna be okay,” Sam hushes, bleeding with sweetness.

He picks up your hands, moving you as if you were a delicate glass he was turning over in each palm. Each of your hands are kissed in the center (oh my fucking god) then wrapped around his neck, and when he has you in his bubble he scoops up your face and kisses you.

It’s a boyfriend kiss. Not a blowing off steam thing, or any other excuse the two of you have used to feel each other. A genuine, I’m your boyfriend and I love you sort of kiss, foreheads pressed together, noses touching, the whole nine yards. It’s the kind of kiss that’s meant to say something. Every inch of what he’s trying to tell you echoes through your body in one ringing smash, like you’re a big cymbal he’s taken a mallet to. 

He slips off your lips and hovers, bracing himself for impact. You suck in a rattling breath.

…Then you press up onto your tiptoes to give him a kiss of your own, just pressing your lips against his, unmoving. It’s undemanding; an answer. You try to find the words to describe the shift that’s occurred between you, and end up feeling stuttery and shivery and fucking elated. Romantic. It’s fucking romantic.

“Sammy,” you sob out.

“Shhh. C’mere,” Sam whispers, his voice throaty and whiskey smooth. “Lemme make it better.”

He tries to walk you straight back out of the bathroom and towards the bed, he really does, but you stop Sam every other step to overwhelm him with obsessed, affectionate kisses. God. His chapstick is all over your fucking mouth (along with your slick) and his hands are everywhere else, feeling instead of grabbing.

“You always do,” you breathe, and that might be the most honest thing you’ve ever said to him in bed.

Sam gets this quiet, pleased smile on his face. No matter how naked and turned-on you are, you’ve always got a snappy reply ready, and you’re about to throw one at him—until you’re fucking obliterated. He smoothes his palms down your arms. Your wrists are scooped up again. With all the tenderness on the planet, Sam slides in close, kisses your throat, and places both of your hands firmly on his belt.

“Take it off,” he rasps.

This. This isn’t the first time he’s given you that order. But knowing, feeling that he’s playing this all out like it’s more than a fling to him… that Sam’s gonna fuck you like you’re someone special to him… sweet jesus, it makes you lightheaded.

“Bossy,” your murmur, grinning.

You’re downright feverish going in to kiss him next. Sam parts your lips with a slow, sinful swipe of his tongue, and there must be a drop of psychic still in him, because suddenly you’re flooded with visions of that filthy mouth between your legs. You can still feel the ghost of him there, keeping you open with his thumbs as the blunt tip of his tongue pushes you somewhere vast and sparkly and wonderful. This is going to be even better.

He sounds like he’s praying when he says, “I just like to watch you.”

Muscle memory serves. You work his clasp open without peeking down and let it hang in his belt loops, mostly because it lets his jeans sling low on his hips in the most enticing way. His belly twitches at even the slightest touch of your hands; always so responsive. Sam drops his forehead on your shoulder to watch you work, and you take the rare opportunity to kiss the top of his head. This is one of your favorite parts. When his button is undone and his zipper’s down, you’re free to smooth your hand under his waistband and take a big handful of him.

You reach in and—squeeze. Sam’s hand snaps up to clutch your arm. His nails dig in, and he rocks forward onto his tiptoes to really dig into your touch. “Yes.”

It’s the kind of soft, needy sound that makes you want to smother him with kisses and hug him until he suffocates. Instead, you cooly purr into his hair, “So sensitive, Sammy.”

A hoarse, sharp laugh snaps out of him, which dissolves into a shuddering groan. You tug at his jeans until they’re somewhere you don’t care about anymore, and forget about everything else entirely at the sight of his cock. All these years of sneaking around with him have conditioned you. Just seeing the pretty speckling of dark hair that leads to it, then the real deal, hanging blood-hot and heavy between his legs, makes your tummy flip and your mouth water. One of a million embarrassing Sam-reactions you’ll have to bring to your grave.

You take his cock in your hand, trying to swallow back the slutty amount of saliva in your mouth. Sam whimpers. A real, desperate sound, with his nails stinging down your arms and everything.

“Know you wanted to slow down,” you struggle between open-mouthed pants, “b-but—can’t—don’t wanna wait—”

Sam physically curls towards you, his hips seizing into your hand and his arms hooking around your shoulders. You’re dragged in for a sloppy kiss so deep you swear it melds your souls together. Sam is just as affected, rumbling like a racecar in approval.

“Then don’t.” He begs.

If this was any other night, Sam would just take. You’d be face down and drilled halfway through the mattress by now, no preamble, all business. He got off and you got off and everyone was happy that way. Sam would want the room dark and you would hide your face in the bedding, the two of you eager to touch and experience but terrified of breaking the illusion. He’s so generous that you suppose he’s got to have at least one place in life where he’s selfish, and you’re happy to be his outlet for it, but.

You’ve never seen him take this way before.

He looks at you and he never really stops, transfixed. You don’t doubt you could walk in a circle around him and Sam’s eyes would follow you the whole way, his gaze oozing with longing and something else—resolution? Faith? You push him onto the bed, and he drops down as if hobbling into a pew for the first time, unsure how to clasp his hands in prayer because it’s only ever been something done in his head before.

You stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do next.

“God,” Sam utters, spellbound. 

You’re blushing so hard that you forget to be sexy as you crawl into his lap, but Sam doesn’t care, still giving you those big slow doe blinks to express his love. It’s so different from the Sam you know (yet also so deeply, deeply him) that you forget what it means to be sexy entirely. He coaxes you closer to plant tender kisses under your chin, and the plan to seductively peel off your sweater for him and flash him your tits blips out of existence.

You wait for the moment when Sam shreds the Stanford sweater off you. Instead, those wonderful fucking hands tease under the hem to squeeze your waist, and Sam croaks out between kisses, “Should wear this all the time. You’re beautiful in anything, but this… you’re… mmn.”

Your heart gives a pathetic flutter. You press mindless kisses against his mouth and rock your bare core down on his lap, because he’s never acted this way before and you don’t know how else to return the favor. “Not nearly as beautiful as you, Sammy.”

The only reaction you get from him is a single huff out of his nose, like it’s something he can’t commit a whole laugh to. Like none of that matters anymore, like it would never matter for Sam, because his body may be beautiful, but it hardly belongs to him anymore. God, you’re shitty at compliments.

You’re fucking wonderful, you suddenly want to tell him. A whole swarm of little truths and sweet nothings roars straight up to the surface of your mind, a whole sea of better things you could say to him, but then one of those perfect hands is slipping between your legs and Sam’s asking you in that perfect, tinted glass voice, “You still on the pill?”

“Yes, doctor,” you tease.

Another flood of sticky heat rushes between your legs, because that question is always a precursor to being pressed into and filled and stuffed end-to-end by Sam’s dick. The one barrier that doesn’t—didn’t exist between you.

“Good,” Sam sighs, relieved, grateful. He never turned down going raw in the past, but he’s downright starved for it right now. Closer closer closer, his whole body begs.

You’re tugged in by a big hand hooked around your back, and you fall right into Sam’s summer-warm, sweat-sticky chest, giggling. He loops both arms around your middle and teddy-bear squeezes even more laughter out of you. The only way to hold yourself up is by planting two hands on his shoulders… which turns into his cupping his neck… then caressing his face, because it’s impossible to be witness to that quiet boyish grin and not shower him in affection. There’s all these little freckles on him that you can only see up close. He feels good, mystical good, prophetic-chosen-one type good.

This is the moment. You can feel the blood in your body pounding between your legs, and Sam’s cock bumps not-so-innocently against your core as you kiss one another. Every shift of his hands sends your muscles clenching tight, bracing for impact, but Sam doesn’t push into you just yet.

Your confusion must be clear on your face, because he says, “Just let me feel you for a second.”

And, obviously, you’re not an idiot, so you let Sam feel you for as long as he pleases. For the next ten uninterrupted minutes, you makeout like lovesick teenagers, whimpering and sighing and swallowing every sound the other makes. You’d always pegged him as a romantic. But seeing it, feeling it, adds a whole new dimension to him you hadn’t realized you’d been craving.

By the time the pool of need in your gut has opened up into a blackhole, Sam has caressed or squeezed or kissed every part of you ten times over. He continues to be weird and obsessed with you. (So still in character, then). Sam even pinches the ends of your ears and smooths his thumbs over the bumps of your ankles, being sexy about it but also a little terrifying. He touches you like he’s never gonna see you again.

Around the time that Sam starts suckling marks into your neck and trying to tickle you under your arms, you giggle out, “O-Okay—okay! Enough—!”

“Enough what?” Sam cocks his head. His hand makes another dive for your belly, making you shriek and squirm with more giggles. You try to wriggle away to protect your tickling sides, but Sam’s too strong and you’re a little in love with him, so it’s easy for him to pull you flush against him and blow tingly-warm breaths beside your ear. He purrs, “You need it that badly?”

“Fucking yes! So quit torturing me,” you pant, and you’re pretty sure this grin is going to get stuck on your face.

Sam’s smile gets even bigger. “Only if you say please.”

Your attitude slips from your grip like water. Next time, you’ll play push and pull with him, but right now there needs to be a lot more pushing and pulling in a different context.

The words are out of your mouth in an instant. “Please, Sam.”

As reluctant as he is to stop teasing you, Sam’s a little in love, too. He leans back enough to fist his cock in one hand, and you can’t help how your breath hitches when Sam’s touch follows the curve of your ass to where you’re soaked and sensitive for him. Those thick, maddening fingers spread you open. The velvety tip of his cock finds your hole right away, and your legs nearly give out when Sam starts to swipe himself up and down your folds one dizzying stroke at a time. Back…. and forth. Up… and down. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Okay, fine…” He concedes, his eyes glittering with joy. “You’re just so cute when you act all tough.”

Maybe not all of your attitude is gone. You bark out a laugh, telling him, “I hate you.”

Sam presses down for the last time, then presses in. You don’t mean to look into his eyes when he fills you up, and that’s probably what does you in. Sam’s rosy face flutters and twists with pleasure, but he never stops looking at you, not even once, terrified to miss even a small moment. The long hitching moan that slips out of you makes his whole face darken with desire. You’re pulled onto him deeper and deeper and deeper until—click. Cue the angel choir.

Your fingers dig desperately into his hair. Sam curls into you in one slow pulling movement, a thread pulled taut, until his face is stuffed in your neck and his hands are mindlessly scrabbling down your back.

“God, I love you,” he moans.

Soon your pussy feels achy and hair-trigger-sensitive and beyond full, which could mean that you’re all the way on him. It’s impossible to tell, since the first full minute of having Sam’s dick inside you sends you straight to the moon every time, where everything falls in peaceful slow-motion and the whole world hums with cosmic, sparkling pressure. You shove your face into him and nuzzle in a daze, little ripples of electricity sparking up your spine.

…Wait.

“What?” You register, slow.

Sam is still clutching you for dear life, even if the moment’s slowed and you’re both comfortable. He hugs you full-bodied, nose in your neck, tilted forward, the kind of hug where he sways you side to side with joy. Sam sucks in a harsh breath. Can’t hold back anymore.

“I love you,” he gushes. The words burn out of him, declarative, overjoyed.

There’s so much you want to say to that. But then Sam digs his fingers into your ass and pulls you off his lap, only to gloriously sink you down the rest of the way, and. Fuck fuck fuck. His cock drags thick and hot against the pliant walls of your pussy. You couldn’t be any more full if you tried, clamping down on him with long, silky ripples of pressure that outline the shape of him inside you in obscene detail. It’s the kind of mind-blowing that’s beyond comprehension, beyond feeble human understanding. Your eyes squeeze shut and you whimper into his hair.

“God, I love you,” he chants again through grit teeth. “So much. So fucking much.”

You find his face with your hands and kiss him quiet, tasting the promise in his mouth. When you part and the two of you really start to move, you kiss him again, and again, whispering where only he can hear, “I-I love you too.”

It should scare you how easily the confession slips out. You should be terrified, because even if you live to see next week, or next month, or next year, even if Sam isn’t saying yes to Lucifer, those words are a death sentence. And yet.

“I-I miss you,” you choke out, “I need you.”

“Me too. So much,” Sam soothes, his voice tight and sharp with restraint. You know his instinct is to jackhammer up into you and never stop, but he puts in effort to resist, letting you both marinate in the wonderful, glistening, twitchy feeling of each other. His hands are rubbing your back and he is so fucking warm, turning the rain outside to steam.

He doesn’t bounce you on his dick. It’s more of a slow, cresting drag, waves stroking a beach. You don’t think you could handle much more than that, anyway—sometimes these positions make him feel big enough to pop you like a balloon. What you can’t fit on your own, your weight pushes you down onto anyway, turning your whole body into a big expanding bubble of pressure ready to burst at any moment. You clutch at his shoulders and just throb around him for a second.

“Nuh-uh,” Sam leans away, not letting you shove your face in him like you want. Instead, a big hand cups one side of your neck and keeps you in front of him. “Wanna see your face. Look at me. Look at me,” he insists, genuinely pleading.

When your eyes find his, that’s when he decides to snap up into you for real. You don’t even get a full look at him. The arm slung around your waist drags you up off your wobbling knees, then slams you down into a beautiful, endless white space popping with color.

“Sammy!” You choke.

That’s the magic word. You’re instantly thrust up into four more lightning-fast times, one-two-three-four, and hitch out four squeaky gasps to match. Sam’s eyes bore into yours with every beat, blazing with liquid love. For a second you wonder if you’ve fallen back into your rough routine again. But then words and thoughts melt out of your brain altogether, because Sam draws you into the tenderest, sweetest kiss human beings are capable of, fucking into you deep and smooth with that deeper, smoother voice, “Keep saying that.”

Sammy Sammy Sammy, you rattle out under your breath. Sam hisses out your name the exact same way.

You do your best to help him out a little, bobbing up and down in his lap, but’s a drop of water in the ocean for him. All Sam cares about is seeing your reaction. He soaks up everything you do like a sponge, moaning when you moan, gritting his teeth when you bite your lip, grinding up as you stir down. The weight of his eyes on you is so heavy that your skin stings in its wake. Again, it’s Sam’s brand of freak-sweetness that makes you get stupid notions in your head about wedding rings and anniversary presents. But that’s—

…something he knows about. Something he just said to you five minutes ago. Above the haze of bouncing, rhythmic pleasure, you’re flooded with relief. You can tell him! Holy fuck, you can tell him!

“I love you,” you gasp out again, and just saying it feels like it could save the world. “O-oh, god, Sam—”

The breath you have left is stolen from you by another fierce kiss from him, so passionate it lets you taste the bassy, happy hum that rumbles in Sam’s throat. You’re devoured by feverish kisses for a full minute, then Sam pops off you to sob, “So much—so fucking much, yes.”

He slips a hand between the two of you to thumb your clit, stirring in and never once stopping. Every so often he’ll brush up against where you’re hot and filled to the hilt with him, your bodies sliding together with slick, filthy noises that are so—so fucking much that your thighs cramp up, protesting the constant pistoning. But the pleasure is easily worth the burn. Your core booms with long echoes of pleasure that shudder through the trembling spiderwebs that make up your nerves. You make a move to lean back on your hands and switch up the angle, (since you’re a damn good cowgirl, thank you very much), but Sam refuses to stop kissing you. He physically pulls you back in with a hand fished around your neck and kisses you breathless, determined to pound you to your climax one thorough snap of his hips at a time.

“So beautiful,” Sam gushes. His voice is hoarse and thready, like he’s moments away from bursting into tears of pure desire.

You smooth your hands down his flushed cheeks, telling him between huffy moans, “It’s okay, s’ okay, Sammy… so pretty… love you so much…”

You feel him pull the Stanford sweater up over your ass and out of his way, exposing more, more, more of your bare skin for him to touch. Sam palms the slope of your back and your belly in a daze, but that’s still not enough—he’ll never be satisfied with how little of you he’s had. He wants more. He wants forever. You embrace each other to the fullest, cheeks smushed together, chests flush, his parted lips claiming your throat, making you his—but. Sam’s breath ratchets up. Not enough not enough not enough—

In one ragged motion, Sam rolls you both over, tossing you back-first onto the bedding and smothering you with his weight.

A squeal of delight jumps out of you. “Hey!”

If Sam wasn’t all over you before, then he literally is now, dropping onto his elbows so he can cup your face in both hands and surround you completely. “Sorry,” he croaks, “need you. Need to fill you up.”

You whisper against his lips, “Then fill me up already.”

His thumbs press into your cheeks a little. Sam’s breath fans across your face, throttled by the lump in his throat.

“Tell me you love me again.”

Um. You don’t exactly have the sexy heat of the moment to hide behind this time, but you still want to say it for him. His eyes swim with something unreadable. Desire and love, enough love to put a lump in your throat too, but a third thing also. It worries you.

You bring your hands up to stroke his wrists, and give a bit too much of your soul to him when you promise, “...I love you, Sam.”

The words hit him like a bullet. Sam shudders from head to toe, unable to reign himself in any longer, and plants a long, surging kiss on your mouth that makes your belly flash with nuclear levels of lust. He squirms his hands underneath your body so he can cradle you against him—genuinely cradling, one palm cupping the back of your neck—and then burrows into you face-first, groaning your name as his cock nestles itself as deep as it can go.

With all of his weight on top of you, you couldn’t move if you wanted to. You caress and kiss and dig your nails into him, and somewhere along the way you’re given a dose of whatever has made him fucking insane for you right now. It fogs your head and turns your reason to ash, so when Sam returns to ruining you for any other man, you whimper, “Please don’t leave me.”

“Oh, baby,” Sam hiccups out, and something strange hangs in his voice.

You would ask him what’s wrong, but the shuddering, flimsy scraps left of your brain are busy being blasted all over by white-hot pleasure. Everything scorches. Sam’s bare skin and his breath and his hands feel fucking molten, melting you down like hot glass. You’re pinned down in every possible way, and it pushes the sinking, gorgeous pressure inside you all over your body, like it’s not just Sam’s cock filling you up, but him, just him, the source of all good in the world. Holy fucking fuck. His hips glide back and then thud back into you again and again and again. You get why it’s called making love, now. You can taste your love for him in the back of your throat, feel it sitting in a sticky film on your skin. It hangs like humidity in the air of your apartment. And jesus christ, it bleeds from Sam, glowing off him like fucking radiation.

When you’re shamelessly wailing gut-deep in ecstasy, Sam peels himself off you. He forces himself to sit up. His chest putters up and down with desperate little breaths, and a gloriously big hand scoops under your thigh and welds it against your chest. Whatever he sees from this new angle—probably your wet, abused pussy stretched tight around the full base of his cock—makes Sam gape, utterly transfixed. You watch as his mouth falls open, and then those dark, soul-swallowing eyes crawl up your body to meet yours.

“Keep lookin’ at me,” Sam rasps.

Even if he doesn’t sway your opinion with a few dizzying, stomach-deep drags of his cock, (which he does), you’re convinced. You lock eyes with him—and then suddenly feel stupid for not watching him the whole time. A long curl of hair hangs in his eyes and sways as he fucks into you. His expression flutters with these sinful little giveaways, exposing just how starved he is for you, how in love. Maybe if you’d looked back sometime in the past five years, that’s what you would’ve seen: how much this has always meant to him. He searches your face for the same pleasure, obsessed with his effect on you. 

“Fuck,” you shudder out. “C-could cum just watchin’ you, Sammy.”

“That’s right,” he hisses, and you’ve never heard him sound so damn happy. “Cum for me. Please. Look so pretty when you do.”

Usually, when he makes you cum, it’s the roughest part of the whole act. He’d get both your wrists pretzeled behind your back and pinned viciously in one of his hands, and that’s when you’d know the big finish was coming. His pace would go from bouncing to bruising. But this Sam, your Sam, would stop time if he could, so he slows down even further, winding you closer and closer to the top of the mountain with little figure-eights of his hips. He gazes down at you the same way you’re sure you must gaze up at him. Beautiful, he murmurs under his breath.

You utter another, tight, almost-sob of, “love you so much, Sammy,” and his dick twitches wildly shoved in you to the hilt.

“Ohh—shit,” he chokes out, and his other hand snaps desperately towards yours on the bed. They find each other easily, and you squeeze his hand with everything you’ve got, infusing in him all the love he’s infused in you.

The slow, mounting tsunami of perfection you’ve been moving towards finally overcomes you, and in one long gorgeous slippery rush you cum for Sam. And because your life is a movie—he cums for you too. He rocks faster and falls forward to kiss you, your faces pressed together, your mouths slotting against each other, your pussy squeezing down on him in golden rippling strokes. Sam hisses your name out between his teeth as he cums. You’re lanced straight through by a whole fucking universe of fluttering, flickering pleasure. To be honest, you’re a little pissed about it—because it’s the best fucking orgasm you’ve had in your entire life, and it’s all because Sam raggedly chants those words to you again and again, laying sloppy, obsessive, head-over-heel kisses all over your face. Love you love you so much baby you feel so good squeezin’ down on me.

You could’ve had this ages ago. How much more time could you have had with him, if you had just stopped being stupid?

Sam’s crazed, sobbing, hitching I love yous somehow become, in true Sam fashion, a low spiral of thank yous. He lays there and clutches you until there’s a Sam-shaped imprint in your body. You’re pretty sure he would stay inside you all night if he could, but you coax him into some cuddling instead, since you both are in desperate need. It’s. It’s new, but it feels cleansing in the holy way.

What feels like hours later, your brain dimly connects to the rest of your body. You’re halfway through detangling Sam’s hair with your fingers as he hides face-first in your chest, pretending he’s not embarrassed that he cried. At least, that’s what you assume. The Winchester mind is a mysterious one, and as much as you would hope to know what Sam’s thinking, the slow hand drawing circles on your hip tells you nothing. Is he shy that he got emotional? That seems silly, since you both sobbed into each other earlier. Is he embarrassed about everything he confessed? Does he regret it?

Just when your train of thought really starts to take the curves of your spiral hard, Sam tiredly croaks into your neck, “I meant what I said, y’know.”

He draws in a lungful of your perfume through his nose, soaking up as much of you as he can possibly get. His hands smooth over your body, innocent and loving, caressing you, memorizing you, begging silently for forgiveness. 

Sam is a dead-silent crier. But you hear him sniffle as he gushes, “God, I love you.”

Maybe if you hadn’t been so tired, you would’ve picked up on it. Or maybe you’d heard it in his voice, seen it, something, and ignored it, hoping it was something else. Everything he felt, he put into a teeny, unmarked box that he’d bury god knows where, far from where anybody could be hurt by it. Sam didn’t—he wouldn’t say that to you. Not unless it was the last time he ever could. He would feel it, but it’d go right into that box where it couldn’t hurt you. You should’ve known.

Lie to me, you’d begged him. 

…And Sam had.

_

The dull realization that you are awake sets in around noon. Noon as in after-noon, well past when you’re normally up and at em’. When you wonder why the hell you slept in so late, you remember last night’s rain, thrashing against the windows all night, and Sam, his face haloed by lamplight and bleeding with quiet resolution.

Sam. Alive, and not going to say yes.

He’d been the one to keep you up all night. With his mouth and his hands, yes, but then afterward he’d been hellbent on talking. Just… talking. You’d been sluggish and cozy and sated after having sex, but no matter how close you came to falling asleep, Sam wouldn’t let it happen. For two straight hours he asked you every question he could come up with to keep you up with him.

Do you remember when we met? Cause’ I do. Do you remember what I said to you? Do you remember what you thought about me? I remember thinking how similar we were, y’know, how much we’d get along. You were so pretty… my whole face went red every time you looked at me. Do you remember…?

Being cuddled, kissed, and protected by the man you love really tempts a girl to doze off, too, so this was not an easy battle. But Sam persisted. He studied your face intently, uttering I love yous even when sleep started to pull you under. Hearing any Winchester drop those words on you still blew your fucking mind, to be honest. Sam especially. But it was romantic as it was worrying, so you’d shut him up with a kiss goodnight and echoed it back to him. Love you, Sammy. It was probably just an anxiety thing, you assumed—Sam, for some fucking reason, was a pretty insecure guy, so you imagined that was his way of making sure you wanted all of this. He seemed… scared. He wasn’t used to being wanted.

The apocalypse was still on. Maybe the world would end tomorrow, or maybe you’d get lucky and live a whole lifetime with Sam. Regardless, he’s never saying yes to Lucifer, and that alone means that there’s still hope for the future. You’re going to spend every second of it making Sam feel wanted.

Sitting up in bed, you scrubbed at your sleepy face with the heel of your hand and stared around the room. Sam was physically incapable of staying asleep after five in the morning, so the familiar evidence of his military-efficient morning routine was all over the place. You smiled to yourself. He’d picked up after the two of you, and had tucked another blanket over you in your sleep. Stupid chivalrous dumbass.

To think, you’d been terrified you’d never see him again just last night.

You push out of bed, only to almost buckle onto the carpet rag-doll style. Even being torturously gentle, that man manages to make you sore. With a very, very happy groan, you hop (and wince) into some clean underwear, then traipse out into your kitchen to show that dork who’s boss.

“Dammit, Samuel, you’re not my maid—” you start to say, but of course, this is Sam, who wouldn’t miss a morning run for anything. Right. That explains your empty kitchen.

…But it’s afternoon. Sam would be back by now. Your gut prickles with a bad feeling, and you superstitiously sweep your apartment, looking for him. His clothes from last night are still sitting in your hamper, his shirt folded neatly in your dresser and his watch on your nightstand. A spike of nausea rolls through you seeing that his jacket is gone—and his boots. But his duffle—it’s. It’s still on your kitchen table. It looks a little smaller than usual, but his books and his laptop are still inside. He probably just ran out to run some silly errand for you, determined to make up for worrying you so much. Yeah.

You force your hunter’s paranoia down to a simmer, padding over to your breakfast table. There’s a big ol’ note smack dab in the center of it, perched on his half-open duffle bag, and you start to play with one of the bracelets Sam left behind as you pick it up.

You cross your fingers, smiling ear-to-ear. “C’mon. All bets on breakfast. Please be getting me breakfast, please be getting me breakfast—”

…That’s not what the note says.

You read it.

Then you read it again, and the hammer falls, crushing the breath out of you and doubling you over the kitchen table. You read the note for the third time, needing to be sure, and the thin sliver of hope you had—maybe you��d just read it wrong, m-maybe he was fine—turns to ash. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

You’re fighting back a surge of ugly, choking tears in an instant. He’s… Sam… he…

Your whole apartment lingers with the heat and goodness of him, like he’d been here just minutes ago. Just seconds. Even your clothes still smell like Sam. Just inhaling it tears chunks out of your reason, like—like you’d just missed him. Clawing around for something to do, you pace in a daze between your bedroom and the front door, desperate to recreate the moment you realized he was gone. You’re still just in the Stanford sweater and your underwear, but you don’t give a single shit and go careening out into the hall, stalking up and down your floor for him—because, b-because Sam wouldn’t, he wouldn’t do that to you—he would tell you first, he would never leave you in the dark like this—

…But you know Sam. And if it meant fixing his mistakes, saving you, saving everyone… Then he’d say yes in a heartbeat.

“These belong to you. You deserve a world to live in. I’m sorry - Sam.”

- tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1@lacilou@cevans-winchester @leigh70@ seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration @stoneyggirl2 @urm0mmmbbg @mulattomoon @poeticsorcery @deansapplepie @rennydenny @babydollfoster @badlandsbrunette @hallecarey1

[fcthots]

Hiii:3 I rlly love ur stuff!!

Anyhow, how do you think Jason would act with a gf who doesn’t like giving bjs? I feel weird about it and i get mocked sometimes for it

Ilyyyy

SAME ANON SAME. my autism does not let me put anything in my mouth, even food half the time, idk how I’m supposed to put a dick in there (especially his massive dick). No thanks.

Jason is such a pleasure top, I feel like he wouldn’t want you to suck his dick anyway. He’s only into what you’re into bc he wants you to feel good. He wants it to be about you.

Like if you want to suck his dick, he’d absolutely incorporate into the bedroom for you. But if you don’t? He’d be like “good. why have your mouth choking on my dick when it could be screaming my name? Wanna hear those pretty little sounds, baby.”

Your pleasure is what gets Jason off. If you don’t like sucking dick? Cool. He still wants to eat you out though.

He’ll do whatever you’re into really. If you want to be spanked and that brings you pleasure? Fan-fucking-tastic, he’ll start tonight. But whatever you don’t like is not a huge obstacle for him because he’s into whatever makes you feel good. He just wants to see the fucked out look in your eyes by the end of the night so he knows he did a good job.

[madameminor]

Fox Fire - Commander Fox x f!reader - Chapter 1

Summary: In an effort to forget your on-again-off-again, you head out with your friends - and they're determined for you to meet one Commander Fox. After all, the quickest way to get over someone is to get under someone else.

Commander Fox x f!reader

Tags: Smutty mcsmutterson. 18+. NSFW. "Basically, all the good stuff."

Warnings: Nothing this round. Just build up.

Notes: Ok hi! Dunno why I wanted to do this, but I did. I'm excited for the story. Post-war, everyone's ok, that sort of thing. Thank you so much to @dumfanting and @rains-on-kamino for beta-ing and keeping my creative juices flowing. I've tagged all the people on my IMWTO list, JIC you're interested in following this story too. If you are, comment. If you don't, I'll remove you for next chapter. Thank yoooou. Let's get this party started!

-----------------------------------------------------------------

You have to hand it to Chrisa. If her significant other didn’t work here, you would never have thought of coming to the Clone Bar for your night out - but it is PERFECT for what you need.

All the clones made it easy to clock strangers.

The entire vibe of the place is all about coming in and forgetting the world outside.

None of your or Marco’s mutuals would EVER just happen to be here.

AND

You have a bartender on your side, so if anyone gets too handsy or in your face - insta-boot.

The anger from earlier has simmered into resolve, and any excess is going to be worked out on the dance floor. You’d had enough to drink before coming out to loosen you up, but not to spiral you down. You. Look. FAN-TASTIC. Nothing pumps you up like looking your absolute best - and knowing it.

Damn right. It was time to have some fucking fun.

Your gaggle stride up to the front doors, Chrisa flashing the front doorman a smile and a kiss on the cheek before sliding on in. The thick togruta grins as he waves you all in, the lively music thrumming up through your shoes. OOooooo YES! Here we GO!

Lights, bass, people, ALL of it. You’ve missed it. Your spirits lift at the beautiful sight of fun.

Chrisa leads you past the first few bars, piled up with people, making her way towards a third bar closer to the back. You all follow, chatting away excitedly and looking out over the writhing sea of people. Your smile is genuine. You missed this. You missed them. 

“Baaaaaabyyyyy!” your friend croons, leaning over the somewhat busy bar to kiss the bartender. The rest of you sidle up to the 3 empty seats between two groups of clones, offering your hellos.

“Well, look at this attractive group coming up to my bar,” the bartender, Ceese, says with a grin. Their eyes land on you. “Heard we’re celebrating tonight,” they say with a wink. “So let’s get you all started off on the right foot.”

Your girls cheer and you grin as Ceese sets out 6 double shots, filling them to the brim with your favorite alcohol. You laugh as each of your friends and Ceese all take a shot glass, gathering in close around you. 

“To taking out ta poodoo!” Lehla toasts, holding out her shot.

“KRIFF TA POODOO!” Five clinks as you all cheers and down your shots. The liquid comfort slithers through your body, and you breathe a bit easier. THIS is fun. You’re safe here. You slink your arms around Freen and Sizie and hug them close. They smile and hold you tight while Ceese pours out your drinks.

“There you are, drinks are up, get out there!”

You all cheer and grab your drinks, Chrisa leaning up to kiss them thanks for all of you as your crew saunters off to the dance floor. 

Lehla dives right into the center, turning to all of you, and, holding up her drink, proclaims with the gravity of a general headed into battle “Behbies, lets DANCE!!”

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pulsing, beating, swaying, living. You laugh and twirl and thoroughly lose yourself in the pleasure of being out with your friends. This was amazing. This was life as it ought to be. 

Only exhaustion and the need for another drink eventually pulls you off the floor, plunking you and your friends down into an open booth.

“More drinks, more drinks!” Sizie chants.

“Oh gods I can’t MOVE,” Freen whines as she leans back. She makes begging eyes at Lehla. Well, the Rodian equivalent. “Lehlaaaaa…”

Lehla good naturedly rolls her eyes. “ALright, alright. Chrisa, that's you and me. Lets go get the goods.” 

Chrisa laughs and loops arms with hers, the two heading back to the bar.

You fan yourself, glancing over your two friends as they gab away with each other, taking a second to get your bearings. The anger is burning off now, leaving just the sadness, the hurt… but its nice to remember everything you gain by… well, by things changing. Change is good. You take a deep breath, letting the comfort settle back in.

“Why do they keep looking over here?” Sizie’s voice cuts through, curious.

You look over towards the bar and see Chrisa and Lehla chatting with Ceese and a few troopers - commanders by their pauldrons. Of course Chrisa knew the regulars, probably catching up. And, uh, they all keep looking over. At you. Specifically at you.

Uh oh. “Oh Mother, what are they up to…”

Freen laughs. “Knowing them, something AMAZING.”

Chrisa and Lehla hurry over, both with a mysterious glint in their eye. Chrisa plops down next to you while Lehla leans in with a smirk, hand on the table.

“Soooooo,” Chris says with a sly grin, “do you think that clones are attractive?”

You side-eye her suspiciously. “Why?”

“Weeeeell,” Chrisa tilts her head to the side, letting you see past her, “one of my ‘friends’ over there happens to be Commander Fox of the Coruscant Guard.”

Your stomach tightens with regret.

You sigh, your forehead in your hand. “Chris, you know I don’t-”

She waves her hand at you. “-get on with law enforcement, I know I know. BUT,” she grins, holding a finger up to halt interruptions, “that’s long term. Fox is usually super busy, so he doesn’t really have much time for women in his life. Like, EVER.” She smirks with a small eye roll. “His team almost has to blackmail him to go out with them and relax - and that almost NEVER involves a woman. But that doesn't mean he hasn’t had off-ers,” she says in a sing-song voice. The others giggle as they glance off towards where the Commander sits.

Chris continues. “SO. It wouldn’t be for long- a fling, a jaunt, a roll in the hay, something cas-u-al-and-FUN!” She emphasizes each syllable to get her point across. “You need this. Something different to show you that you can actually be HAPPY in bed, with someone who actually CARES.” 

You raise an eyebrow. “How the heck do you know he ‘cares’?”

She grins again. “I’ve known him for a loooong time. And on the rare occasion that he’s drunk enough to loosen up and actually go home with someone, they ALWAYS come in again talking about how GOOD he is.”

You blink in surprise, and a little shock. “People talk about that?

She shrugs good-naturedly. “Bunker bunnies do. No judgement, they just like to try ‘all the clone flavors’.” She winks. “And I love to hear the gos about the regulars.”

You smirk as the others laugh. Trust Chrisa to be the bar gossip gatherer.

“So, what, you want me to hope he gets drunk, present myself to him and say ‘hi, my ex is an ass and I broke up with him today. Wanna fuck?’”

“Oh NO,” Chrisa pulls a face, “I wouldn’t suggest it if it was that impersonal. See, apparently…” she leans her cheek on one hand, grin glistening with mischief. “He’s been looking over at you all night.”

You blink. You try to sneak a look over to the bar to try and catch a glimpse of this Commander Fox. Two of the red and white clad clones start waving and pointing excitedly between them at the seated one beside them, facing away with what looks like his forehead in his hand. You’re sad you can’t see his face, but you can’t help but smile to yourself. You kind of know how he feels.

“And he’s… cute?” You say hesitantly.

Chrisa perks up and grins. “Oh YEAH. I’ve definitely glanced at him a time or two, don’t tell Ceese.”

“And… safe?” 

“YES,” Chris almost huffs a whine in exasperation. “Who do you think I am??”

Well…

It’s not what you normally do…

…but you ARE trying to do things differently this time…

Just one conversation? You didn’t even have to say yes…

He could be cute…

You look around at your friends' faces. Are any of them unsure about this? Would any advise you that this wasn’t a good idea?

Nope. All of their eyes are excited, almost pleading.

“...ok. I’ll at least talk to him.”

You friends all burst out with a “YES!” You smirk and shake your head. Jeez, you didn’t think you needed it THAT bad.

Chrisa stands and gives a thumbs up to the two clones waiting at the bar. They both pump fists in the air before leaning down to talk to the hunched Commander- who simply punches one of them in the arm without looking over at him. You laugh to yourself. Yeah, you definitely know THAT feeling. The poor guy.

Whatever they say to him, it apparently seems to work. He begrudgingly turns around on his stool and stands, grabbing his helmet. One of his men claps him on the shoulder, which he pushes off angrily before taking a deep breath, turning, and starting his way over to where you and your friends sit. 

You feel your breath catch a bit in your chest, something your girls notice with a smirk. He’s GORGEOUS. His hair isn’t standard clone cut - its a bit longer on top and down the back, the sides cropped short. You can see whisps of gray at the side of his temples, almost looking like highlights, making him seem more mature. He has a scar across one cheekbone adding to an authoritative air - but not oppressive or dismissive. His eyes are a beautiful amber brown, serious, but not cynical. And, you notice with a small smile, right now he looks just a little bit… sheepish. 

A man like this has been watching you? A trooper who doesn’t normally take girls home had seen you and not been able to disguise it from his overeager companions? You feel yourself preen internally as he finishes making his way over. 

“Commander Fox, meet the rest of my besties - Freen (she waves), Sizie (a nod and smile), and of course, The-woman-you’ve-been-staring-at-all-night.”

He glances at her with annoyance as your friends laugh. You extend a hand out to shake his hand with your introduction.

“Its… very nice to meet you.” He nods, resigning to the awkwardness of being caught.

“Well, we’ll get out of your hair so you two can get acquainted,” Chrisa simpers. You give her a ‘stop that’ look as she and the girls all file out with winks and excited grins. Sizie even seems to shake little pom poms, mouthing “go, girl, go!”

You play a bit with one earring as you look back at him.

“Sorry about them,” you smile. “Teasing is their love language.”

He snorts with a glance back at them, relaxing a bit. “I know the feeling.”

You chuckle despite yourself. He seems to relax a bit, a smirk playing on his authoritative features.

“Would you care to step into my office, Mr. Fox?” 

He chuckles this time, giving you a quick appreciative glance before sitting down across from you, placing his helmet by his side.

“Excuse me.” A service droid waddles up with two drinks - one your usual, the other looks like a whisky neat for him. You look at it, confused, while it sets them on the table.

“Compliments of the bartender, with the accompanying message-” says the matter of fact tinny voice. “‘-Make out already-’.”  You look up to the crowd of onlookers from the bar giving you both a thumbs up. 

You show them a different finger. 

They all burst out laughing, but get the hint and go back to each other.

You turn back, catching an impressed smirk while he gazes at you.

“You sure showed them.”

 You chuckle while you take a sip of your drink.

“So,” you smile, “come here often?”

He snorts an appreciative chuckle before shaking his head and indicating the two Corries at the bar. “Enough. Though not as much as my men would like.”

You chuckle, glancing over at the excited huddle. “I didn’t know the men of the Coruscant guard were so invested in their Commander’s R&R.”

A sigh and an eye roll, another sip of his drink. “Apparently getting away from work is ‘necessary’ for a healthy, ungrumpy lifestyle.” You nod sagely, indicating you see the sarcasm. “Just my luck to have the subordinates that actually care about my work-life balance.”

“Luck seldom has anything to do with things like that,” you smile, leaning your cheek on your hand. You know what garners unerring loyalty and hard work. You know the kind of leader it takes to make men march into danger- just to drag that S.O. to the bar afterwards - the kind who men take care of, because he took care of his men. “You must be a great commander if they worry about you so much.” And smart, and firm, but kind under it all, and… hoo, slow down honey. 

For some reason, looking at him, knowing what it takes to be a leader, to be someone who watches out for others, you feel compelled to say something you’ve never said before.

“Thank you. For your service.”

His head quirks to the side, eyes interested as they take you in. “I can’t really take much credit for that… it wasn’t entirely my choice, you know.”

You chuckle. “Perhaps not. But I’ve heard of clones who have sought other lives now that the war is over and your rights have been won - can’t blame them at all. I understand not wanting to do what you’re ‘born for’.” You unconsciously watch the bubbles in your drink for a moment before realizing your thoughts are straying, looking back into his intrigued eyes. “So you did have a choice. And you chose to help the people of Coruscant.” You smile, and shrug.  “So, for whatever it's worth, thank you.”

“Hm.” He smiles thoughtfully, regarding you for a moment while he takes a sip of his drink. “Actually, coming from you, it means a lot more,” his eyes take you in again, admiring, intrigued, inviting.

It sends a happy warmth through your insides.

He sets his drink down again, folding his arms and leaning in on his elbows. “So. Born for, huh? Tell me, what were you ‘born for’?”

You smirk, waving a hand in dismissal. Definitely a cop. “Nothing that I’m doing. But I’m an event planner.” You shrug, knowing it doesn’t sound like much to someone who regularly risks their life.

“Hm,” he answers, intrigued. Like actually intrigued. “Can’t say I’ve ever met someone in that field before. What’s your favorite part of the job?”

Hm. You can’t help your smile. No one ever really cares to hear about this part. “Well,” you think, having a genuine look at your chosen profession, “I meet a fair amount of different, interesting people. I'm more active and involved than other jobs, I get to create something, after a fashion, get to create beauty and harmony for people to celebrate or commemorate something.” And you do it well, you know you do. You’re proud of the work you do. “Its satisfying. Like I’m doing good in my own way.”

He smiles at that. 

“‘Interesting people’, huh? Have any good stories?”

“Hah,” you chuckle. “Oh do I.” You perk up, leaning in conspiratorially. “And in your line of work, you probably know some of the main antagonists.” 

His eyes definitely light up with interest. 

Pulling no punches, you dive into tales about Senators, big wigs, their staff, their relatives, the drama before, during, and after. His laughter is all the more hearty knowing who you're talking about. He even thanks you once for making him laugh so hard he cries about a particular Senator from Naboo and a Jedi getting told off for inappropriate use of an ice sculpture.

Knowing you know the main players, he pays you back 10 fold with his own stories- ridiculous requests, entitled children put in their place, the shenanigans his men pull when they think he isn't aware. You swap stories back and forth, relaxing in each others company, unwittingly moving closer together.

He’s nice, you keep thinking. He’s cute. He’s serious, but can laugh. You wonder… what he’s like when he’s alone, in the dark, laying in his own bed...

You only realize how long its been when you take a sip of your drink only to find the cold, watery dregs of melted ice. As you glance into your glass, with a small curse, you hear him say quietly, almost like he’s talking to himself:

“How anyone could do something stupid enough to lose a woman like you is beyond me.” He says quietly, almost to himself. You duck your head, a bit bashful, but keep your eyes up. So he’s feeling it too. He still wants you. He… he likes you. 

Maybe its knowing that, or maybe its the drinks. Or both. But suddenly you feel… sexier.

You look up at him through your eye lashes. 

“Is it alright if I… get more comfortable?”

His eyes spark with excitement and intrigue. “Of course,” he says quietly.

You close the small distance and slide into his lap, your back to the (you are totally sure) excited onlookers. 

You feel your heart pounding at the closeness, skin electric at your own daring.

“Is this alright?”

“Yes.” His voice is much deeper than it was. “More than alright.”

“Good,” you smile, one hand tracing behind his neck, lightly trailing through his curls. He gently places his hand on your leg, his coarse gloves ticking along your thigh, bewitched eyes starting to turn ravenous. 

‘You are absolutely stunning,” he breathes, voice low and serious.

You smile bashfully. “Thank you, its true.”

He lifts his hand and cups your neck, thumb tracing the length of your throat.

“I definitely, definitely want to kiss you right now.”

You place a finger against his lips. He smirks, slowly opening his mouth to lightly bite your fingertip. You breath catches at the small, sensual gesture. His eyes darken at the sound, his teeth releasing you.

“Kriff, mesh’la. I’m going to take such good care of you tonight.”

He kisses you. 

It's like a fire has started in your blood, burning away anything that isn’t this moment right here. You want him. You want him so badly, with his locks between your fingers and his teeth on your throat and his cock in your-

And you can. Because there is absolutely nothing holding you back.

You pull away just enough that your words ghost against his lips. “Do you want to get out of here… Commander?

His kiss is more insistent this time, ending with a small bite pulling your lower lip.

“More than anything.”

You slide off of him before taking him by the hand. He barely looks away from you as he grabs his helmet and dutifully follows you out of the club.

----------------------------------------------------

Just-this-once taglist:

@ladykatakuri @ben-is-a-hoe @klay97 @kaitou2417 @dumfanting @kuromisheart @koifish08 @echo-is-worth-more-than-2000 @badbatch-simp24 @pointy-sharp @rainytears2 @gabile18 @nedxwynert @chopper-witch @nexxxxxxxxx @nightscissor @corona-one @babypandasugar22 @pumpkinkpatch @oohyesplease @princessclaire2 @just-a-shit-ton-of-trama @badbatch-simp24 @foreverhockeytrash @unholy-t-rin-ity @reeny26 @smurderous @xxeiraxx @discarded-beskar @just-an-anxious-ball-of-flesh @mybigfatspoonielife @whore4rex @andyoufollowyourheart @lokigirlszendaya @captain-splock-you @darkangel4121

@gluwu @stormweather99 @redpool @mysanityleaving @alwayssnivellus @chickentenderx @scioness-7 @moniicarlo @nekotaetae @cjoftheriver @ladykagewaki @charlie-boo @aconstructofamind @pb-jellybeans @burningfieldof-clover @thegirlwholovedblackholes

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

Hellooo! Can you please help me find some fics where Derek Bullies Stiles but has a happy ending? I need zhe angstt

For sure.

Mark me by SterekLirryOmega

(1/1 I 3,537 I Teen)

"Mate?" Stiles sounded a bit breathless and when Derek looked up he saw the whiskey coloured eyes big with shock

"It's that ok? You'll be my mate?" And damn he sounded pleading but he didn't care he needed Stiles to say yes to this, to be his forever

Or

The one were Derek is a bully, stiles is oblivious and Jackson still an asshole.

Oh everyone is in High School.

A Serendipitous Occurance by DominikaDecember

(11/11 I 29,529 I Mature)

Derek is living at home with his two annoying siblings, his mother who is killing herself at work and he's stuck in a crappy job with friends who are just as lost as him. Nothing really changes. Especially not when Derek realizes that he has a crush on his little brother's best friend

You Don't Always Get What You Want by deadly_nightshade, Nerdy_fangirl_57

(7/? I 63,150 I Mature)

Stiles doesn't understand what he could have done to deserve this. Not only has the entire student body been out to get him since he first stepped foot into Beacon Hills High, but now he has to endure the constant bullying without his best friend Scott by his side. All in all school is survivable, even with all the harassment. That is until he finds out that Derek Hale, basketball superstar and Stiles' most persistent bully, is apparently his soulmate. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Derek can't believe this. It has to be a joke, it has to, because there is no way in hell that a freak like Stilinski could ever be his soulmate. He despises him more than anyone in the universe. So what if Derek thinks he has a cute nose, no one needs to know. Besides it doesn't matter anyway, he still hates Stilinski with every fiber of his being, his cute nose doesn't change a thing.

He's My Best Friend; Also My Tormentor by TheRoaringWolf

(31/? I 88,526 I Explicit)

Stiles and Derek were best friends. Growing up next door neighbours to each other they did everything together. They watched their first R rated movie together, drank their first stolen beer together, they were always at each others side. Then out of blue Derek turned on Stiles. He shut him out of his life and began to torment him; shoved him against the lockers in the hall, spread humiliating lies about him to the school, Derek made it his mission to make Stiles' life a living Hell.

Why? Stiles would ask himself that question everyday for the last three years. He had done nothing to cause this. He had loved Derek when all of a sudden he was pushed out of his life.

One night, years later, Stiles is sitting by his bedroom window watching Derek's silent house, remembering the days of their friendship, when one mistake will cause everything in Stiles' life to be turned upside down and can only watch helplessly as everything falls apart.

Blue Monday by ExpectNothingGainEverything

(18/? I 511,316 I Explicit)

Stiles would have never guessed that the star player of the lacrosse team and presumably the hottest guy in school who everyone wanted a piece of and one of his most hated bullies would turn out to be his soulmate.

Derek would never have dreamed that fate would be so cruel to pair him up with a freak like Stilinski.

[babytarttdoodoo]

The team somehow find out about what Jamie’s dad did in Amsterdam and are horrified/furious.

I’m skipping ahead to write this one because it won’t leave my brain alone. I apologise to all readers for the pain this is about to inflict.

If it makes you feel better, I am not okay after writing it.

It will also be in multiple parts since I really feel like the Reveal and the Reaction are things that need separate room to breathe.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 (pending)

(Prompt Fill Masterpost)

—

It came down to the timing, really.

Every locker room Jamie had ever been in had worked its way around to this topic sooner or later. Especially in the Academy, where the typical teenaged obsession with ‘who had done it’ reigned supreme.

Jamie had never had a problem with it. He’d shrugged or laughed or lied and no one ever called him out. He was Jamie Fucking Tartt, after all.

He’d never had to breathe a word about Amsterdam.

Telling Roy had been a spur of the moment decision, and one that hadn’t really bothered him at the time. It hadn’t fundamentally altered their friendship or made Roy tiptoe around him (thank fuck).

But his reaction - Jesus. Must have been traumatising. - had played on Jamie’s mind. So much so that when his talks with Dr Sharon had broached the subject of ‘intimacy’, he thought it was probably worth bringing up.

Yeah. That conversation had gone a bit differently.

And now, here Jamie was, two days into processing his freshly unpacked trauma and his teammates were cheerfully regaling each other with stories about losing their virginity.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

“It was my last night before flying out here.” Sam was telling the group, a sweet, bashful smile on his face.

“Didn’t know you’d had a girlfriend back home.” Isaac chimed in.

“We had already decided to break up, instead of doing the whole long-distance thing,” Sam explained. “It was a nice way to say goodbye, though.”

There was a general sound of agreement and Richard took the opportunity to launch into a questionable story about charming a runway model at the ripe age of 17.

Jamie just continued getting changed in silence, letting the voices wash over him and trying not to let the sudden nausea show on his face. Removing his jersey felt like a Herculean task when all he wanted to do was get the fuck out of here.

Sam’s experience sounded like something out of one of Ted’s rom-coms. That was good. That’s what someone as nice as Sam deserved.

What had Jamie deserved, then?

He quickly cut off that line of thought. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to think about it. Not here. Not now.

It was like trying to cover up an open wound when everyone else had a morbid impulse to poke at it.

A ripple of laughter pulled him back to the room and set his teeth on edge. He pulled a fresh shirt over his head and tried to breathe through the swelling, pulsating anger and shame that threatened to surface.

It was utter bullshit. He hadn’t thought about what had happened with anything more than vague disgust and detachment for years. A whole decade, even. Fuck Dr Sharon and Roy and all these giggling idiots for changing that.

“Oi, you’ve gone quiet, Jamie.”

A few curious eyes turned in his direction and the only thing that stopped him from shrinking away was years of playing at being untouchable.

Instead, Jamie scoffed and plastered on a smile, hiding his fists in his clothes and digging his nails as deep into his palms as they would go. “Eh, a gentleman never tells, mate.”

But he had hesitated a second too long and he saw the potential for mischief light up in a few faces. They knew him too well, he realised, the knowledge churning in his gut.

He wasn’t Jamie Fucking Tartt here. He was just Jamie.

“You are not a gentleman.” Richard stated bluntly, eyebrows raised and a grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

“That is true.” Jan agreed, because of course he fucking did. “You have bragged many times about being with women.”

“What happened, amigo?” It wasn’t fucking fair that Dani sounded so genuinely interested.

“Maybe she didn’t like his pink pants.” Isaac threw in and it drew another round of laughter. The noise echoed in Jamie’s head.

He knew, he knew they were just teasing because they didn’t know better. They were being dickheads because they were always kind of dickheads to each other. It was banter. On any other day it would be fine.

His neon underwear had nearly caused a riot the week before and it had been hilarious.

Why couldn’t he just act like it was funny now?

“It’s none of your fucking business.” he finally managed, not quite keeping the harsh edge out of his tone. He turned away and pretended to be looking for something in his bag so he wouldn’t have to meet anyone’s eyes.

“C’mon, mate, can’t be more embarrassing than mine.” Colin added easily, utterly comfortable with the conversation, in spite of all the implications it had for him specifically. Jamie really fucking admired that.

He was ridiculously, fiercely envious of it.

“Guys, he doesn’t have to talk about it if he doesn’t want to.” Sam admonished lightly. He was offering him a liferaft and it rankled at Jamie in all the wrong ways.

He didn’t need fucking saving. He wasn’t some soft, delicate little thing that needed Sam Obisanya of all people rushing to his rescue.

Suddenly, he was speaking without having made any conscious decision to do so.

“14.” Jamie’s voice was too loud, too sharp in this safe space that on any other day felt like home. But his fingers were clenching and unclenching, and his shoulders were coiled tight, and there was a rushing in his ears.

The vitriol pooled like acid on his tongue and Jamie couldn’t help but spew it out before it began to eat him away.

“I were 14.” He smirked and it felt wrong. It felt cruel and bitter. He rounded on Colin and relished in the flicker of unease that crossed his face. “No fucking idea how old she were but I can tell you how much my dad paid for her to fuck me straight.”

The silence should have been oppressive, he thought distantly. The way the air stilled should have made it hard to breathe. The colour leaching from not just Colin’s face, but Jan’s and Richard’s on either side, should have been concerning.

It just felt freeing, in a twisted, emptying sort of way.

“Jamie-”

“No! No, it’s alright!” Jamie turned wild eyes and a manic grin on Sam, finding it abstractly funny that the younger player took a step back. “You wanted details, right?”

He shrugged, looking around at the slack faces of his teammates. He’d moved forward, he realised, making himself the centre of attention. Typical.

“Tell you what, yeah? Next time we’re in Amsterdam, I’ll take you all on a little tour. Don’t remember her name but I’m pretty sure I could find the place again, no problem.”

And he probably could. He remembered his dad talking to some bloke smoking in a doorway while Jamie stood in the rain, confused. He remembered loud people and neon lights all around. He remembered how the place had smelled when he’d been pulled inside…

Someone else was saying his name now. He didn’t care. He just got louder.

“You wanted a show, didn’t you Thierry? We could put on a repeat performance. Play-by-play reenactment, ‘cept you’ve got to think I can do better now, right? Better with age and all that.”

Arms closed around him from behind and whatever vile shit he was about to spray out into the atmosphere died in his throat. Jamie’s entire body bucked, trying to break away.

“Fuck off!”

It didn’t sound like his voice, a screeching snarl that cracked partway through.

“Jamie.” Roy’s voice in his ear. Roy’s arms around his chest. “Jamie. Stop. Don’t make it worse.”

And what response was there to that except to laugh? Fucking hilarious, that one. Too little too fucking late.

Jamie only registered that he was being half pulled, half carried out of the locker room when the laughter started to hitch in his chest. When the air wasn’t coming like it was supposed to. When Roy manhandled him into an office chair and the tears started in earnest.

All the fight went out of him like a marionette with its strings cut and he just cried.

(TBC)

[schmem14]

It’s my birthday! Celebrate with me by reading my top favorite fanfic discoveries this past year. (Feel free to flail with me in DM’s!) I feel so lucky to have found so many wonderful talented friends and amazing stories! 

1. flour and flesh by foxglovetonic (nocturn) Hermione x Pansy, wc: 666 rating: M

(Mind the tags) This sapphic horror fic gripped my soul from the moment I read it and it lives rent-free in my head because of its amazing imagery and masterful use of unreliable narrator. I’ll be forever creeped out by carving pumpkins and pie (but in the BEST way, I swear!) This is the #1 reason Halloween is my fav. 

2. Usually by @lumosatnight Percy x Oliver, wc: 1k, rating: E

What’s not to love about banter, chess as foreplay, and stripping down until there’s nothing left but heart-pounding hot AF sex? This pairing is fantastic, and Lani’s writing is on point, as always, and I was incredibly impressed by the real live chess match taking place in the background. Read it, you won’t regret it! 

3. drink up, boys by @emilyrickman gen work featuring Parvati Patil, wc: 1.5k, rating: M

(Mind the tags) I URGE you give this gripping revenge story a chance! Between Parvati’s confidence and the absolute heartbreaking and empowering ode to sisterly love, this story gave me goosebumps. Emily is such a great writer, and I can’t stress enough how well the feels come through on this one. Also, give the song What It Means To Be a Girl by EMELINE a listen as you read, it will elevate the whole experience! 

4. One Woman’s Trash by @nanneramma Lavender x Hermione wc: 2k, rating: T

My friend Nan can do it all, and I don’t care that coffee shop AU has been done a thousand and one times before, THIS is the one to read! Lavender is to die for in this, and the fluff is pure, gourmet sweetness. It will have you kicking your feet and squealing by the end. 

5. Head Over Heels by @vdoshu Narcissa x Mrs. Zabini, wc: 575, Rating: M

This itty bitty fic is singlehandedly feeding my Narcissa Mommy delusion. I want her to step on me SO BAD! Ugh. Doshu packs a punch with every story, and the punchline of this one is sure to have you gasping like a beached fish. Please come scream at me about it if and when you know what I mean. 

6. Welcome, Peasants by @fluxweeed Draco x Ron x Harry, wc: 15k, Rating: E

It was nearly impossible for me to pick just ONE of my favorite fics from Dronarry fest this year, but I narrowed it down to two. Strap in for an hour and immerse yourself because the payoff is WORTH IT!  This one blends the juicy polyjuice trope with a healthy dollop of mistaken identity and a pinch of jealousy. Better yet is the twisty reveal and the absolutely smut-tastic finale that follows.

7. For I Have Found Salvation by @lumosatnight Severus x Harry, wc: 7k, Rating: E

Yes Lani, I couldn’t resist another! I feel like I have to preface this by saying I’m not usually a Snarry fan, but this filthy Priest AU fic is EVERYTHING. The dynamic of guilt and forbidden church sex (while church is IN SESSION) is so fucking delectable. I’m going to just say it and embarrass myself: Insta-Wank Bank. Yep. 

8. Nightswimming by @sweet-s0rr0w Draco x Ron (x Harry), wc: 5k, Rating: M

…Which brings me to my SECOND Dronarry fest pick from this year, and I love it so much because it’s all banter and hypotheticals. Draco and Harry are a couple, but Draco and Ron share a car ride where it comes out that maybe they’ve been considering a three-way with Ron. They don’t even fuck, but the tension of them just talking about it is too hot to handle. Bonus: There’s art at the end! 

9. Mistletoe Mojito by @amethystheart2421 Sybill x Severus, wc: 3k, Rating: E

This fic knocked me flat on my ass. This lust potion fueled one-night stand fic had me laughing and crying (from hilarity and absurdity and sadness) all at once. Such delightful writing, and the perfect example of crack taken seriously. 

10. All That Is Beautiful, Burns In The Making by @sailtomarina Narcissa x Bill, wc: 8k, Rating: E

Narcissa is hot. Bill is hot. We all know this from canon, but imagine they get together and how much hotter they are as a couple! This fic contains such delights as werewolf Bill, seduction, forbidden love, infidelity, knotting, endless refractory periods, voyeurism, rough sex, and mating. It’s not quite A/B/O but it has a lot of the elements that make it such a juicy AU.

11. A Perfect Answer by @p1013 Draco x Harry wc: 9k, Rating: E

Downton Abbey AU. Harry is Draco’s valet and the love is very much forbidden. Contains: pining, jealousy, decorum, emerald cufflinks that Draco favours, and BATHS. Something about it reminds me of Jane Eyre, though I know that’s a different time period and there’s no crazy wife in the attic. I loved this fic so much because it was a well-written AU and it brought a breath of fresh air to an old favorite otp. The angst is divine, and the ending is such a lovely payoff. Enjoy! 

[zaebeecee]

To Sever a Loveless Bond

••RadioDust Soulmate AU••

Part 6/?

First chapter | Previous chapter | Next chapter

Read on AO3

Chapter 6 art by @fletchingbrilliant here

•••

Mild CW for sexist/abusive language and general Vee interpersonal bullshit.

•••

“Vox.”

Fuck off.

“Vox, I know you can hear me.”

Yes. I can. I’m busy, Val, go away.

“Vox!”

With the smallest mechanical whir, the screen on Vox’s head lit up. It displayed the VoxTek logo and the little jingle that went with their commercials, with the word ‘Initializing…’ displayed beneath it. The logo vanished and was replaced with a simple, solid blue background, on which two black lines appeared. Those lines split, and Vox opened his eyes, blinking a couple of times before he managed to bring the room into focus.

He was still in his office, on the opposite side of the room from his desk, stretched out on his black chaise and hooked up to a thick black cable that ran down into a socket on the floor. Vox looked up at the form of Valentino hovering over him, his face furious, and consulted his internal clock with a sigh.

“Val,” he began in the most measured voice he could, “I am currently updating my local information, which you know I do every morning. It is not even nine yet, and most of my day relies on the fact that you sleep until two. With both of these things in mind, whatever you want had better be good.”

“It’s Velvette,” Val snarled, stomping away now that he had Vox’s attention and beginning to pace back and forth like a caged animal.

Vox sighed, paused his update, and unplugged the cable. “Really,” he said, uninterested. He released the cable and it retracted into the floor with the whir of nylon quickly pulled along metal. “That’s new.”

His sarcasm was lost on the angry moth. “She sent me this,” Valentino spat, doing something on his phone with one hand. Vox’s phone vibrated, and he withdrew it, opening the message to see a screenshot of Val and Velvette’s texts. The last one, which he presumed was the most relevant, just had the following words:

< You don’t keep a very good leash on your little boy toy. Bet you wish you knew what I know. Can’t even train a subby little whore who’s begging for it? >

“…uh-huh,” Vox said, eyebrow arching. He looked at Val again. “…and…? What did Angel Dust do this time?”

“I don’t fucking know! He won’t answer my calls, again, and Velvette won’t text me back!”

Vox clenched his jaw against the headache threatening to form, willing it away before he spoke. “It’s basically the middle of the night for him, of course he isn’t answering your calls. And Velvette is working.”

Valentino wasn’t listening. “If that bitch doesn’t give me an answer in the next ten minutes I’m going to rip her fucking hair out!”

“No, you’re not,” Vox said firmly, getting to his feet and intercepting Val’s pacing. “What, precisely, did you come to me for?”

“I want you to get it out of her!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Vox groaned.

Val threw his hands up. “She’s trying to piss me off! I don’t see why it’s only a problem if it works!”

“Val,” Vox snapped, reaching up and grabbing the other overlord by the chin to force him to look down. The moment their skin made contact, Vox felt the same little twinge on the back of his calf that he always did, like the mutilated little moth on his flesh was fluttering in a plea for Vox to tell Valentino, or anyone else, that it was there.

Just as Vox had since the first time he and Valentino had shaken hands, he ignored it.

Vox took a slow breath, but didn’t release Valentino. “Do you want me to bring her up for a meeting?”

Val, much more calmly and with wide eyes behind his heart-shaped glasses, nodded once. “That would be fine.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic.” Vox stepped away and sat on the chaise again, tapping his phone and dialing Velvette. Her contact briefly flashed across his face before his features returned, and he waited.

She picked up on the third ring. “Whatcha want? I’m busy.”

To her credit, that sounded true. “Velvette! So sorry to interrupt you, but we need to have a meeting.”

“Not a chance,” Velvette answered instantly. “I know that this is about your boy toy, and he can wait until I’ve got a free mo’ in my schedule. Let it eat at him.”

“He is currently in my office making it my problem,” Vox said; he didn’t look at Val, but he could feel the blind moth staring daggers at him. “Get up here. Now.”

“No can do, sorry! Gotta go, kisses, bye luv.” She made kissy noises at her phone, then hung up.

Vox sighed. “Why do I put up with this?”

“Did she hang up on you?!” Val demanded.

“Shut up. I’ll handle this.” Vox went to his desk and picked up the cable for the intercom system, hooking it into one of his audio jacks and activating only the speakers in areas not accessible to the public. Vox took a breath and then put on his game show announcer voice. “Attention, VoxTek! Contest time! The first employee to find Velvette and break both of her kneecaps before she can make it to my office will be given two weeks paid vacation!”

He unplugged the cable as Valentino cackled. “Oh, that’s good.”

“Happy now?” Vox asked dryly.

“Delirious, mi amor.”

Minutes later, the door of the office slammed open and Velvette stomped in, her hair and clothes more than slightly out of sorts. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” she screamed, getting in Vox’s face. “I had Killjoy’s lighting crew come at me with spotlight housing!”

Vox smiled at her. “It was as motivational as I hoped it would be! So good you found time to join us, Velvette.”

“Fuck you, Vox,” she said, then spun on Valentino. “And double fuck you because I know this is your fault!”

“Me?!” Valentino leaned down to get eye level with her, probably so he could see her. “What the hell did I do?”

“Don’t think I don’t know you ran off to get your master to solve your problems like the little bitch you are!”

“You filthy little cunt—”

“SHUT UP!” Vox bellowed over both of them, his left eye spasming uncontrollably for a split second until he forced it to calm down. It did the trick, however, as both of his compatriots spun their heads to stare at him. Vox drew a breath. “You, sit there,” he said, pointing to Velvette and a nearby chair. “You, there,” he added, pointing to Valentino and the couch. Once they were settled, he stood at an angle to both of them to permit him to observe them simultaneously while keeping them far enough apart that they wouldn’t attempt to claw each other’s eyes out. “Now. Velvette. Valentino informed me of your… correspondence this morning.”

“Of course he did,” Velvette said with a dramatic roll of her eyes, one that carried her entire head in a slow roll with them. “It isn’t ready to be posted yet. I thought he would appreciate a little taste of what was going to be running in celebrity gossip soon.”

“If it’s about Angel Dust, it’s my business,” Val countered sharply. “He is my property and whatever concerns him also concerns me!”

Vox held his hand up to silence Valentino, looking at Velvette. “I wasn’t aware there was anything of particular interest that had happened lately.”

“Well, that’s because it came in late last night and the proofs aren’t ready for you yet,” Velvette said, like it was obvious.

Vox took a moment to keep his calm, because he really couldn’t argue with either point. It wasn’t unusual for him to be temporarily out of the loop where lowbrow gossip was concerned, and truth be told, he didn’t pay all that much attention when he was told.

Velvette took advantage of his quiet to add, “Besides, I knew it would make you mad.”

Vox’s eyes snapped to her. “Mad?” He pulled himself together and put his smile back on. “What in the world has Angel Dust done this time that could make me mad?”

“Alright, alright, fuck’s sake,” Velvette muttered under her breath as she pulled something up on her phone. Vox received her request to connect to the projector, and the moment he granted it, the stretch of wall that bore no art or other decor lit up with a crisp image of Velvette’s files. “I’m still trying to get eye witness statements from the location last night. Lots of people are too scared to talk.”

Vox frowned, watching her navigate through folders. “Well, you have my attention, at least.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Velvette said, just before she opened an image file. Immediately, the wall was filled with the image of a jazz club interior. The photograph had been taken straight across the aisle from the table that was the obvious subject, centered and framed quite well.

Angel Dust sat on one side, dressed in rather tasteful nightlife attire that blended feminine and masculine with no care for how he was perceived. He was laughing, one of his hands holding a noxiously pink martini, another hand gesturing animatedly. And his companion on the other side of the table… was Alastor.

Alastor was smiling as well, but Vox knew the Radio Demon too well to believe that this was one of his usual smiles. No, this one appeared to reach his eyes, the entirety of his attention on Angel Dust as he cradled a glass of rye and appeared to be listening quite raptly. There was no evidence that anyone else was with them.

“Took a while to get all of these through the compositor,” Velvette was saying, but Vox barely heard her, watching unblinkingly as she flipped through images. There was one of Alastor reluctantly accepting Angel Dust’s martini, followed by Alastor on his feet, offering his hand to Angel, and Angel taking it.

The two of them on the dance floor, Alastor holding Angel Dust, cradling the spider in his arms as he supported Angel’s head with his hand, Angel’s leg kicked up into the air.

Another of them dancing, Angel’s arms around Alastor’s shoulders and one knee hooked up to press against his waist, both of them laughing.

Alastor lighting a cigarette for Angel.

“…where was this?” Vox finally asked, his voice low, as he focused on the way Alastor was looking at that… at that whore.

“Eternal Triangle. Some shitty jazz dive,” Velvette said. “From what I’ve gathered, they showed up together, drank, danced, and left together. Didn’t meet anyone else.”

Vox placed his hand on the side table next to him and slowly clenched his fist, dragging his nails through the table top and pulling up ribbons of shredded wood. “Do you expect me to believe that the Radio Demon was on a date with that prostitute?”

“I don’t expect you to believe anything, babes,” Velvette shrugged. “These are just the pictures. Not my fault.”

“…this is fucking insanity,” Vox said, a slightly hysterical laugh bubbling up in his throat as he spoke. “I don’t fucking believe it. The Radio Demon, cavorting around in jazz clubs with a hooker like some teenager. Oh, this is…”

infuriating

insulting

baffling

unbelievable

“…fucking hilarious,” Vox finally said, his laughter turning into a full blown cackle. “Oh, shit, if we get enough dirt on this we could ruin him.”

“You having some kind of moment here, luv?” Velvette asked with a raised eyebrow.

Vox managed to get his laughter under control, but he could barely begin to tame the mania in his smile. “Oh, I’m just reveling, darling. I can’t believe this. It’s too funny. It’s fucking guaranteed gangbusters. Alastor, showing even a modicum of softness to that…” He didn’t finish, instead shifting his gaze to Valentino. He meant to ask something, but whatever it was flew right out of his head.

He realized, suddenly, that Valentino hadn’t said a damn thing for a while. Normally he would have completely flown off the handle by now, but he still sat on the couch, squinting at the images in his effort to make out as many details as he could. But he could see them. Vox knew he could, because his fists were clenched so tightly that all of his knuckles were turning white and little beads of black blood were leaking out between his fingers.

The sick mirth, and whatever else Vox was feeling, bled out of him quickly. “…Val?”

Immediately, the moth stood up to his full height, towering over everything else in the room. “I have business to tend to,” he said, his voice as cold and furious as Vox had ever heard it. Valentino didn’t wait for a response, storming out of the office and slamming the door so hard the walls shook.

The other two Vees watched him go, Velvette clearly as puzzled as Vox was himself. “…I at least expected some good Spanish ranting for a few minutes,” she said, blinking twice.

“Yeah. So did I,” Vox admitted. Val knew something, which was obvious; the fact that he hadn’t elected to share it with them told Vox that it was probably something he wasn’t going to like. “Whatever. We’ll worry about Val later.” He looked at Velvette. “How far do you think you can take this story?”

“Depends,” she said with a shrug. “Unless they did something particularly scandalous last night, nothing much. But if they go out together again…” She grinned. “Now that’s a story.”

Vox nodded. “Get our paparazzo department to put someone good but expendable on it. If either of them catch that they’re being watched, they’ll obliterate whoever’s doing it. But I want to know everything the two of them do outside this hotel. Until we have something good, sit on this. We can’t do anything about gossip, but I don’t want the story leaking before we really have something.”

“You got it,” Velvette said, hopping to her feet. “Anything else?”

“Just keep me in the loop.” Once she was gone, Vox looked up at the wall, where the image of Alastor lighting Angel Dust’s cigarette still lit the room. Angel’s eyes were half open, and he was smiling in a quite intoxicated manner as he leaned across the table. Alastor looked a little far gone himself, and his coldness was slipping into something a little more… fond.

Vox closed his eyes and withdrew Velvette’s sharing permissions, and immediately, the wall went blank. The office seemed darker when his eyes opened again, and he stared at the blank wall. It felt like the image was burned into the wood.

Calmly, Vox turned on his heel, walked to the other side of his office, wrenched one of his televisions off the wall, and flung it through the window.

•••

Angel Dust woke late the next morning feeling terribly hung over. He winced as he tried to turn his head, mostly because it made the room spin, and he abruptly stopped doing that and took stock of his situation while he waited for the room to calm its tits.

He was still dressed, so that was just great. He’d at least managed to kick his shoes off, but he definitely hadn’t cleaned his makeup or put his jewelry anywhere. His mouth tasted terrible, the ghost of alcohol mixing with the remnants of an unfamiliar smoke, and he was stiff like he’d done a lot of physical activity he wasn’t used to.

Unbidden, the memory of Alastor kissing his hand returned to him, and with it the rest of the night came flooding back. Angel sat up in bed immediately, his eyes wide and staring at nothing, Fat Nuggets oinking in tired concern next to him. “…holy shit,” he rasped, looking at his pig. “I wasn’t dreaming.”

Nuggets blinked soft, warm eyes at him.

“You don’t have a single thought in that round little body of yours, do ya, baby?”

Blink, blink.

“Thought so. Fuck, I’m gonna die,” Angel groaned, nearly throwing himself back into his bed. If he did that, though, he would spend all day feeling like shit. Reluctantly, he dragged himself out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom, cleaning his face of smudged eye liner and mascara, checking to make sure he didn’t look too awful outside of that. Muttering to himself, he dragged his Walk of Shame outfit off and threw it haphazardly into his hamper as he went to his closet to find something that wouldn’t feel like it was suffocating him.

He opted for a slouchy off-the-shoulder black and pink sweater with thin, white linen pants, pulling on a pair of bulky black socks and scooping Fat Nuggets up to hold him in his lower set of arms. He didn’t have anywhere to be today, what was the harm of looking less like he was ready to make a buck for sucking a dick?

Angel was almost to the door when he remembered his phone, and he swore, heading back to his side table. His phone was almost dead (because of course his dumb drunk ass hadn’t plugger it in), and he had twenty missed calls from Valentino. Twenty missed calls… and no voice mails.

“Fuck.”

Angel quickly found Val’s contact and called him back, raising his phone and doing his best not to squeeze Fat Nuggets too tightly. It rang… and it rang… and it rang…

“You know who it is.”

Angel frowned and hung up. Valentino always answered his calls when there was something wrong. He tried again, but the result was the same, ringing a few times before kicking over. There was something wrong, Angel was positive of it, but short of trying to contact Vox or actually going to VoxTek, there wasn’t a lot Angel could do about it. He hesitated, then plugged his phone in and turned it off, laying it on the table. If anything happened, he couldn’t pretend his phone died, and Val couldn’t say he hadn’t tried to call him back.

Angel plodded downstairs and found his target pretty easily. Husk was sitting in the lounge with Niffty, the two of them playing cards, Husk leaning over in a chair he’d pulled up to the coffee table and Niffty sitting up on her knees on the floor; by the look on their respective faces, Niffty was making up rules again. Angel approached and slouched onto the floor next to the low table roughly between the two, Nuggets settling into his lap.

“Morning,” Husk said unenthusiastically, picking a card out of his hand and tossing it down.

“Is it still morning?” Angel asked.

“Technically, for another ten minutes or so.”

“Angel had a fun night,” Niffty said with her particular brand of crazed enthusiasm, picking up Husk’s discarded card and then discarding two of her own. Angel noticed their hands varied wildly in number of cards, because Niffty looked like she had half the deck and Husk had, like, four.

“Did I?”

Niffty grinned at him. “You came back long past curfew and you look hung over, and you could have cleaned up the blood. That’s a fun night.”

Angel laughed weakly. “Surprisingly, no blood, but… yeah. I did.” He turned his head. “Husk. Husky. Huskarino. Huskatorium. My pal. My buddy. My bro. My—”

“The fuck do you want, Angel?” Husk grumbled with no anger, staring at his cards.

“I will trade you an entire week of absolutely zero comments or speculation on your appearance, demeanor, sensitive areas of your anatomy, or vocal timbre whatsoever for one of your hangover cures.”

Husk actually smirked at that. “I thought you said it tastes the way you imagine Mammon smells.”

“Oh, it’s fuckin’ awful, that’s how you know I’m serious.” He raised Nuggets up next to his face so that they could both stare at Husk with big eyes. “Pleeeaaase?”

“Better not throw it up this time,” Husk said, almost putting his cards down before glancing at Niffty, thinking better of it, and tucking them into his vest pocket as he got up and headed to the bar.

“Hey, hey, Angel,” Niffty said in a conspiratorial voice, tugging on his sleeve. Angel looked down at her and placed Nuggets in his lap, where he immediately rolled off and waddled two steps over to the little maid. Niffty wrapped her arms around him, but he was too big to sit in her lap, so she just leaned on him. “Did you and Alastor hang out last night?”

Angel smirked at her. “Where’d you hear that, Niff?”

“Charlie.” Niffty’s one eye was wide and unblinking as she stared up at him. “She said that Alastor offered to chaperone you. And I know you didn’t get home until late, and I know he didn’t get home until late, because I was cleaning the chandeliers and heard him come down the hall.”

“…why were you cleanin’ the chandeliers in the middle of the night?”

“It had to be done. So did you?”

Angel smiled just a bit at her. “Yeah. S’that a problem?”

Niffty actually squinted at him. “…did he have fun?”

“I dunno,” Angel said honestly. “I think so. Hard to tell with him. Still got all my limbs, tho.”

At that, Niffty perked up again. “Good! I hoped he would. He doesn’t have enough fun anymore, except when people to eat show up at the hotel.”

“Well, he didn’t eat anyone, but I think he had fun anyway.”

Husk set a glass on the table in front of Angel, full of a foul-looking concoction that he couldn’t look at too long without his stomach clenching. “Drink it,” Husk said as he sank back into his chair with a classic older man grunt. He gestured at the glass with one claw, retrieving his cards from his pocket. “Won’t keep its potency long. And stop grilling him, Niff.”

“Yeah, that’s your job,” Niffty giggled.

“Shut up.”

Angel picked up the glass, frowned at it, then drew a deep breath and downed it. It burned like hell, just like it did every time, and the moment he managed to swallow all of it he was pretty sure it was desperate to come back up. Like it was alive or something. He leaned forward, focusing on not throwing up, as Niffty patted his back with cheerful sympathy.

“Well, well, well! Looks like quite the little party you’re having here!”

Angel raised his head when he heard Alastor’s voice, turning to look over his shoulder. The Radio Demon looked as though he had been standing there for several minutes, but he had definitely just arrived. Angel noted that he was, once again, five feet from all of them.

“Hey, Smiles,” he greeted in a weak voice. “Husk is tryin’ to kill me.”

“You quite literally requested it,” Husk said, drawing four cards from the remaining deck and discarding two.

Alastor laughed. “I’m sure you’ve been through worse than whatever Husker can dole out.”

“Look!” Niffty said happily, holding her hand up for Alastor to see. “I’m winning!”

“Is that so, my dear?” Alastor leaned forward dramatically at the waist, his head just as upright as when he had been standing straight. “I will take your word for it. Congratulations!” A tinny and invisible crowd of radio people gave Niffty an enthusiastic but polite round of applause.

“She cheats,” Husk said, as Niffty drew a random card from the middle of the deck.

“Even better! I’m so proud of you, Niffty darling.” Alastor straightened again and turned his head strangely to look at Angel. “Now, please do expound on this attempt on your life. I’m always looking for new inspiration.”

Angel picked up the glass and held it to Alastor. “This.”

Alastor took the glass from him, and apparently the smell that remained hit him the next moment, judging by the curl of his lip. “Oh, Husker, this is cruel even by my standards.”

“You’d think he’d learn to stop drinking so much, then,” Husk said, his eyes narrowed.

Angel looked between the two of them before he turned his whole attention to Alastor, leaning back on one hand. “It’s fine, Al. It’s a hangover cure, and it works real good.”

“I see,” Alastor said, delicately passing the glass back. “You did imbibe rather a lot last night.”

Angel shrugged. “It was a good martini, what can I say?”

Alastor chuckled softly, but he didn’t answer. He looked a bit like he was trying to work up to something. “…Angel Dust, may I speak with you for a moment?”

Husk froze, and Niffty made a tiny squeak, but other than that there was no reaction. “Uh, yeah, sure,” Angel said. “Niff, watch the lil’ orb for me, huh?”

“On it,” Niffty said, returning to her usual manic sort of intensity. “Husk, look, I’ve become a mother.”

“I see the resemblance.”

Angel got to his feet and looked at Alastor expectantly; he nodded once, then turned on his heel, walking off with all the confidence of someone who knew Angel would follow him. Arrogant prick, he thought, lips quirking into a tiny smile before he hurried to catch up.

Alastor opened the door to the private lounge with a wave of his hand and stepped aside. Angel went in first, growing more curious as he heard the door shut. What could Alastor have to talk to him about that needed this level of privacy?

He turned and clasped all four of his hands behind his back. “Okay, I’m your captive audience. What’s up, Al?”

“It’s nothing serious,” Alastor said, hands on his staff. He had only taken a couple of steps into the room, and was almost hovering near the door. Angel was reminded of an animal preparing to bolt.

“…alright,” Angel said, before he flopped backwards onto the couch and draped his upper set of arms across the back. With a third hand, he gestured to Alastor’s usual chair. “If it ain’t serious, then siddown, I don’t wanna feel like I’m gettin’ some kinda talkin’ to.”

Alastor chuckled. “Yes. Of course.” Just as he had a few nights prior, he vanished into his shadows, reappearing in the chair. Angel rolled his eyes, which made Alastor’s grin widen, but Angel couldn’t help noticing that the other sinner was sitting much closer to the edge of his seat than he usually did. He really was ready to bolt, Angel was sure of it now, which made him wonder what could put him so on edge that he would still say wasn’t serious. “I… forgive how dramatic this may seem. I had something I wanted to ask you, and I was… disinclined… to do so in front of others.”

Angel gave him an exasperated smile. “Al, it’s fine. Really.”

Alastor nodded. “I wondered— hm. Are you busy tonight? Or, if you are, tomorrow night?”

Angel blinked twice. “Uh… nope,” he said. “Not due back at work for a couplea days. You wanna do somethin’?”

“I thought, if you were free, you might want to come to my room and have dinner. I think I would like to cook for you.”

Of all the things Angel might have anticipated, this was not one of them. “Oh,” he said, surprised, and immediately took note of the way Alastor twitched a little. “Yeah, sure, Smiles. That sounds great.”

“It does?” Alastor asked with what seemed to be genuine curiosity and no small amount of surprise. “Well, then, excellent! Shall we say eight?”

“Eight’s fine with me,” Angel said. “Should I… I dunno, bring somethin’?”

“Your rapier wit will be enough,” Alastor said. “However, if you were to bring a bottle of pinot noir, it would hardly be refused.”

“Noted,” Angel said, grinning. “I know my way around wine well enough, don’t worry.”

Alastor clapped his hands together. “Very well, then! I must prepare. I only ask that you keep an open mind, sha.”

“That’s a nervewrackin’ sentence, comin’ from you.”

“It is, isn’t it?” With a grin that was almost manic and a voice already growing distorted by his shadows, he said, “See you tonight.” The darkness swallowed him up, and he was gone.

It was only then that Angel realized… Alastor had been nervous. And not just nervous in general, but nervous about asking Angel to spend time with him. That meant he actually cared whether or not Angel wanted to, which meant that he wanted to, which meant—

Oh holy fucking shitballs Alastor just asked me out on a date and I don’t think he even realizes he did it.

Angel didn’t return to the table immediately. Niffty was always happy to look after Fat Nuggets, and as long as he made sure to ask, he was positive that wouldn’t change. Instead, he went back upstairs and turned his phone on, his heartbeat quickening while it booted up.

The VoxTek logo lit up the black screen—Trust us with your communication!—and then his lock screen with the selfie he, Cherri, and Niffty had taken after their last mani pedi lit up.

Zero notifications loaded. Val hadn’t called him back.

Angel felt a horrible sinking feeling in his gut as he sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his phone screen. Never, in all the years since he had sold his soul, had Val not responded to Angel within the hour. That used to scare him. Now, he realized that the lack of communication was much, much worse.

He had nearly eight hours before dinner. Angel unlocked his phone and quickly dialed a number, and only had to wait through two rings before he heard the click.

“Hey, slut!”

Angel grinned. “Hey Cherri. Good, I caught you awake. I wanna get lunch. Come with me.”

“Oh, I know that tone. You got shit to talk about,” Cherri said, and he could hear the grin in her voice. “Fun gossip, icky gossip, both?”

“Maybe both,” Angel said. “Guillermo’s in twenty?”

“See you there.”

Cherri hung up, and Angel lowered his phone before hurrying to change clothes. He needed to talk to someone, someone who wasn’t in the hotel or a friend of Alastor’s, and he needed to do it now. Before he saw the Radio Demon again.

He needed perspective, because he was positive he was losing his.

•••

[therealdeathoracle]

Since people seemed to like my incorrect bsd quotes from my coworkers I decided to do another one with quotes from my friends

Atsushi: “Been ignored so much bitches call me terms and conditions.”

Akutagawa: “At least you get accepted no matter what.”

——————————————————————————

Kunikida: “Bitchboys! Wait what are they called? Dazai! Yes!”

Ranpo: “I'm going to start calling him that.”

Dazai: “You want to see the real bitch come out?”

——————————————————————————

Chuuya: “Ok I think I have a solution.”

*Explosion in the distance*

Chuuya: “Don’t worry about that.”

——————————————————————————

Atsushi: “That was before I realized he was my dad.”

——————————————————————————

Chuuya: “Fan-fucking-tastic just trying to enjoy my meal and god decides to show up!”

——————————————————————————

Ranpo to Fukuzawa: “Hey look! An old gay white man! That's better than an old white straight man!”

——————————————————————————

Kyouka: “Murder is fun, cool, and hip!”

——————————————————————————

Jouno: "I am going... to hurt something."

——————————————————————————

Akutagawa: "Don't tell me how to breathe!"

——————————————————————————

Dazai: "Want to know what they called me in college? Application Denied!"

——————————————————————————

Kenji: "Mom says its my turn with the brain cell"

——————————————————————————

Sigma: “Fyodor! Nikolai is grave robbing again!”

Nikolai: “Well it’s not like they need this stuff anymore!”

Fyodor: “He has a solid point, do you need help?”

——————————————————————————

Kenji: "This thanksgiving I’m thankful for Fukuzawa, Ranpo, Kunikida, Yosano, Atsushi, and uh... Kyouka. Yeah that’s everyone."

Dazai: "I really appreciate how I’m not on that list."

——————————————————————————

Chuuya: *Attacks someone for picking a flower off a bush*

Chuuya handing the flower to Dazai: “Here’s your flower back, freaking freeloaders.”

——————————————————————————

Jouno: “Hold that thought, it’s time for me to beat up Tecchou.”

——————————————————————————

Jouno: “Well time for me to fight Tecchou and kill some bad guys, and I’m all out of bad guys.”

Tecchou: “Oh shit!”

——————————————————————————

*During the ADA’s DnD game night* 

Kunikida: “Dazai, you can’t play a bard. We all know you’re just gonna fuck everything.”

Dazai: "THAT’S A LIE! I just want to hit someone over the head with a lute! Then I’ll fuck someone!"

——————————————————————————

Akutagawa: “Dazai is my personal favorite swear word.”

——————————————————————————

Akutagawa: “I’m like a battery, I’m never included in anything.”

——————————————————————————

Fukuzawa talking to himself when Ranpo is refusing to do work and Dazai hasn’t shown up yet: “Am I surprised? No of course I’m not I bet on it!”

——————————————————————————

Yosano: “Oh you don’t feel so good? I have a fix for that!”

Yosano: *Pulls out a gun*

——————————————————————————

Jouno: "I am very angry- *notices Tecchou nearby* HEY HE’S THE ONE WHO STOLE MY PANTS!"

——————————————————————————

Atsushi: *Panicking running through the ADA with a trash can that he accidentally set on fire* “NO ONE SAW THIS!”

Kunikida, Dazai, Yosano: “WE SAW THAT!”

——————————————————————————

Yosano: *Listing off what she ate today* “I’ve had cheese, crackers, vodka, and egg salad.”

——————————————————————————

Kenji: “I’m gonna do this all on my own!” *turns to Ranpo* “Help me.”

——————————————————————————

Yosano: “You son of a bitch!”

Ranpo: “HEY! DON’T CALL FUKUZAWA A BITCH!”

Yosano: “No I’m calling you a son of a bitch! YOU ARE ADOPTED!”

——————————————————————————

Kenji: *Angrily muttering affirmations to himself*

Yosano: “Is this toxic positivity?”

——————————————————————————

Dazai seeing Chuuya using corruption: “This is what gay panic is mothers and fuckers.”

——————————————————————————

Dazai: *Hands Akutagawa 4 cents he found on the ground*

Akutagawa: “I get to eat tonight!”

Dazai: *Takes back 1 cent* “No you don’t.”

——————————————————————————

Chuuya: *Sees Dazai flirt with some girl*

(What he tried to say) “Great now I’m sad and lonely.”

(What he said) Chuuya: “Great now I’m gay.”

——————————————————————————

Chuuya: “That’s kinda gay, not gonna lie.”

Dazai: “You sound kinda gay, not gonna lie.”

Akutagawa: “I have cheese, not gonna lie.”

——————————————————————————

Dazai: “This is not gonna go well.”

*2 minutes later*

Dazai sprinting down the street: “OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT!”

*2 minutes later*

Dazai: “I LOST MY KNIFE!”

——————————————————————————

Dazai: “What gender am I today?”

Atsushi: “12.”

Akutagawa: “32.”

——————————————————————————

Chuuya to Akutagawa: “What’s your opinion on the plan?”

Akutagawa: “Cheese is good.”

Chuuya: “That wasn’t the question.”

Gin: “But it’s the answer.”

——————————————————————————

Akutagawa trying to flirt with Atsushi after getting advice from Kenji on what he likes: “ONION! I HAVE AN ONION FOR YOU! TAKE THE ONION!”

——————————————————————————

Akutagawa: *Trying to show Dazai the new nice outfit Chuuya bought him*

Dazai: *Not even looking at him* “Nice.”

Chuuya: *Angrily* “It’s ok, we all know you hate poor Aku.”

Dazai: *Starts fake crying*

Chuuya: *Sarcastically* “Awww you gonna cry?” *Seriously* “GOOD!” *Leads Akutagawa away while telling him he looks great*

——————————————————————————

Chuuya: “Nothing says pride like dick.”

——————————————————————————

Akutagawa after someone was mean to Atsushi: “You don’t think you’ll end up in hell for what you’ve done, but sweetheart I’ll be seeing you there soon.”

——————————————————————————

Dazai: “I don’t care if you have a cunt or a dick, either way I’m gonna fuck both your mom and dad.”

——————————————————————————

Ranpo giving directions to Kunikida after he got Fukuzawa and himself lost: “Look for someone dressed like it’s Halloween and someone dressed like a single dad.”

——————————————————————————

Kunikida: *Referring to Chuuya being drunk* “I think he’s in denial.”

Dazai: *Also drunk* “Nah he’s in da Amazon!”

Chuuya: *Absolutely wasted using his ability* “I am in da air!”

——————————————————————————

Akutagawa about Atsushi: “I love his heterophobia.”

Akutagawa: “I meant to say heterochromia.”

@stinkyme

[outsideratheart]

Could I get 91,92, and 93 with Alexia Putellas? Maybe where Alexia is going on a date with other people but is secretly only doing it so she gets R jealous?

91 “Don’t go on that date.” “Why?” “You know why.” “Say it.” 92 “ i think i might be in some kind of love with you.” 93 “say you want me, and i’m yours.”

Alexia had been avoiding you or more appropriately choosing not to spend time with you for the past couple of weeks and it hurt you more than you like to admit.

At first she would tell you she had appearances or plans with her family but then you found out she has been going on a dates. You wanted Alexia to be happy but you truly hoped that you would be the person to do that.

Walking down the halls at Joan Camper you hear the discussion currently being held in the locker room and your pace slows down. You were in a fairly good mood and you knew that it would soon change when enter the locker room.

You sat there and listened to the team discuss Alexia’s latest string of dates. They tried to include you in the conversation but you didn’t have the energy in you to lie so you chose to stay silent. Ever so often you would see Alexia glance over at you like she was hoping you would have something to say but you remained quiet.

It is only when Mapi asks Alexia if she plans on bringing one of the girls to a game and possibly meet the her family do you react.

Up until now your head has been in control on your body but now your heart takes the reigns. You stand to your feet and make a bee line for the door. You refuse to sit there and listen any longer.

“Y/N” Alexia grabs you hand just as you pass her “are you ok?”

You find her concern ironic. She worries for your feelings when she is one that is tearing you down.

“Fan-fucking-tastic. Now let me go”

Alexia watches you walk away from her.

“I can’t let you go that’s the problem” she mumbles to herself.

“I told you guys that this was a bad idea. Instead of getting the girl, I am losing her” Alexia says before running after you.

You are quiet for the whole of the training session, only speaking when spoken to and you made the extra effort not to be near Alexia.

Once again the topic of conversation in the locker room was that Alexia had yet another date that night. The difference this time being that you didn’t stick around to hear the details, you couldn’t, your heart couldn’t take it.

“Y/N” hearing that the voice didn’t belong to a spaniard you stop so Frido can catch up.

“Make it quick Frido. I really have I go, I have to”

“Not sit around and hear Alexia talk about her dates because you like her” 

You cannot help but scoff at the Swedes bluntness.

“We don’t have to talk about it but I do think you should talk to her. You don’t want to look back at this moment and think ‘what if?”

You begin walking to your car only for her to shout again.

“For what it’s worth I think she feels the same way. When I first moved here I saw the way you two looked at each other and the way you acted. I thought you together”

Was Fridolina right? Could Alexia have feelings for you?

You spend the rest of the afternoon and some of the evening thinking about what you should do and what you would say? After pacing your living in attempt to burn off your anxious energy you bite the bullet and decide to go to Alexia’s, hoping that when you see her you will know what to say. That is if she hasn’t already left for her date.

You drive to her apartment and run up the stairs before the devil on your shoulder could talk you out of it, whatever it is.

You knock rapidly on Alexia’s door.

“Don’t go on that date.” you say the words as soon as she opens the door.

“Why?” There is a smile on her face, almost like she was expecting you to turn up.

“You know why.” You decide to be confident in hopes that Frido’s prediction was right.

“Say it.” 

Alexia called your bluff, of course she did.

“I think I might be in some kind of love with you.” you blurted out then shook your head. It wasn’t what you wanted to say, there must have been a miscommunication between your brain and your mouth.

“You think?” Alexia cannot help but laugh at your uncertainty.

“This isn’t easy for me Alexia. You know that I am good at talking about things, especially my feelings” you try to defend your declaration of love for her.

“I know. It’s something we have in common. It is why it took us this long to get to this moment” 

“So what happens now?” you were in foreign territory.

“Say you want me, and i’m yours.”

You look at her with your brows furrowed. 

“Just like that?” you ask in disbelief, it cannot be that easy can it?

Alexia nods her head. 

“I want you Alexia” 

“Then I am all yours Y/N but then again I always have been”

[reallygroovyninja]

Fan-fuckin-tastic 🤣🤣🤣🤣 Oh Everly I hope you never change and continue driving your mommies crazy

Clarke and Lexa were sitting at the kitchen table, sipping on their morning coffee. They had just finished discussing with Everly about not using certain words after her latest outburst of colorful language. Both were trying to figure out where their daughter had picked up certain words.

Clarke sighed, running a hand through her hair. “I still can’t believe she knows all those words. We don’t even use half of them.”

Lexa chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Well, we’ve got quite a diverse group of friends. It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“Yeah, but still… We need to know who’s responsible for what,” Clarke said, smirking. “So we can properly blame them at the next gathering.”

“Let’s see… Raven was definitely the first one. Remember when she babysat Everly for us?” Lexa started, a smile tugging at her lips. “I think fuck was the first word out of Everly's mouth before Raven even left that night.”

Clarke nodded. “Oh yeah. Raven doesn’t even try to censor herself.”

Lexa took a sip of her coffee, thinking. “Anya’s next. She said shit when she spilled coffee on her new shirt. She was furious about the stain.”

Clarke laughed. “Of course. Anya always did have a thing about keeping her clothes looking brand new. And then there’s Lincoln. Everly picked up asshole from him when he was ranting about some jerk who cut him off in traffic. He went on and on about how only an asshole would drive like that.”

Lexa raised an eyebrow. “Really? I thought Lincoln was more careful with his words around the kids.”

“He usually is,” Clarke replied. “But that day, he was just having none of it.”

“Alright, and Octavia? What’s her excuse?” Lexa asked, curious.

Clarke rolled her eyes. “Octavia was in the middle of one of her rants about the PTA. She called one of the more annoying members a cock blocker because she was frustrated with their constant interference.”

Lexa burst out laughing. “Of course, it had to be the PTA. One of the few times Octavia ever curses is when it involves them.”

Clarke suddenly snapped her fingers. “Oh, and we can’t forget Monty. Remember the night we were all at the barbecue?”

Lexa’s eyes lit up with recognition. “Right! He was trying to start the grill, and it wouldn’t light. After about ten tries, he threw the lighter on the ground and shouted son of a bitch!’”

Clarke grinned. “Yeah, and Everly was right there, watching him intently. She’s like a sponge with this stuff.”

Clarke joined in the laughter. “Yeah, we should probably have a talk with our friends about watching their language around Everly.”

Lexa nodded, still chuckling. “Definitely. But at least now we know who to blame for each word.”

[rizlowwritessortof]

What Happens In Vegas Stays Doesn't Always Stay in Vegas

I was challenged by @deandoesthingstome to join the Halloween-Kinktober Challenge, and I had a little story idea in my mind, so I thought - what the hell! Thanks, Charlie! And thank you so much to @firefly-graphics for the dividers!

Sam and Dean head to Vegas, this time for Halloween. Dean's pumped about the huge Halloween costume party being held at their hotel, and he can't wait to dress up as his favorite superhero.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x his Batman fantasy girl

Word Count: 4140

Warnings: Smut, just the usual 😉

“Sammy, come on, man! Once in a lifetime chance to live out a fantasy! And you’re just gonna sit in the room and… read or some shit?”

Sam leveled a deadpan stare at Dean with a long-suffering sigh. “Dean. For the millionth time. I. Don’t. Like. Halloween. It sucks. I’m gonna take this vacation and relax. If I do decide to go out, I’ll hit the casino. But I’m not going to that ridiculous costume party.”

Dean frowned in frustration. “You are such a cranky old man. I thought maybe my brother would be the Robin to my Batman. But fine. I guess I’ll go by myself and have a fan-fucking-tastic time.”

Sam shot a bitch face his direction. “Good. Go hook up with Poison Ivy or something and have a blast. May the force be with you, or whatever.”

Dean’s eye roll practically turned him inside out, and he stormed into the bathroom to change into his costume. His epic, fucking awesome costume. He couldn’t not smile when he looked at it. He was gonna look amazing. And everyone knows the ladies love Batman. For tonight, he was going all out. For one night, he was gonna forget he was Dean Winchester and he was gonna be Batman.

He strolled into the gigantic room where the costume party was in full swing, heading straight for the large, round bar in the center and ordering a shot and a beer. He let his eyes roam over the crowd, trying not to let a grin ruin the image of his Dark Knight, but – this was awesome. And he was the only Batman – at least so far. Several other superheros were scattered through the room, along with monsters, movie characters, and a lot of sexy women in even sexier costumes.

It didn’t take long before he was flanked on either side by a couple of those tempting women, thoroughly enjoying the flirting and the way they giggled when he talked in his Batman voice. He was in the middle of a sentence when he felt someone’s hand on his shoulder. He glanced down to see a black glove, each finger tipped with a vicious-looking little claw.

Slowly he turned around, his lips pursed in a Batman-worthy contemplative frown as he took in the woman standing before him. “Catwoman,” he growled, and she smiled, bowing slightly.

“Batman. I was so hoping to rub shoulders with you tonight. Among other things,” she replied, her voice sultry and taunting. She was dressed in a skin-tight body suit, the gloves encasing her hands reaching midway on her biceps, her lips blood red and her eyes a stunning blue. Her shapely legs were encased in thigh-high black stockings, shining black stiletto heels on her feet. Perky little cat ears were perched atop her black hood, complete with mask. She was stunning.

“Well, I’d be happy to… rub something for you. What did you have in mind?” Dean answered, thinking to himself just exactly how much fun Sam was missing tonight. I mean, Batman and Catwoman? Not in his most porn-filled dreams had he imagined this little scenario, but he was in full Vegas mode and he was gonna go for it.

She moved closer, close enough that he could smell her perfume, and it made his mouth water. She leaned up, stretching to put her lips as close to his ear as she could reach. “Well, do you want to stay here and drink and flirt, or do you want to come to my room and pet the pussy?”

She moved back a step, watching as his tongue peeked out to run across his delicious, full lower lip before he smirked, and it was so sinful she felt her nipples tingle. Oh, he was going to be fun.

“Lead the way, beautiful,” he answered, and she allowed herself a triumphant little smile, crooking her finger to lure him along as she turned to slink out of the room. Dean was right behind her, his very large hand on her back, and she fought back a shiver at the thought of the things those hands could do.

Dean’s cock was already twitching as he watched her walk, every move deliberate and seductive. He couldn’t wait to explore those curves, make her lose her cool, controlled demeanor. Get those luscious legs wrapped around his head while he drove her crazy, watch her fall apart while she rode his cock. His hands were itching to touch her, and it hadn’t been fifteen minutes since he met her.

They arrived at the elevator, and he was happy to see it was empty. She entered, pushing the button for her floor, and he walked towards her slowly, crowding her until she was up against the wall, bracing one hand beside her head as he began to speak. “So, my name is…”

She placed one gloved finger over his lips. “Rule number one – we stay in character. You are Batman, I am Catwoman.”

“Oh, there are rules.”

“Only a few.”

“I can work with that,” he responded, goosebumps skittering up his spine as she lightly dragged her claws down the chest of his suit. A soft ‘ding’ sounded as they reached her floor, and he moved aside to let her lead the way again. He didn’t mind following. The view was amazing.

He followed her swaying hips to the door of her room, waiting for her to swipe the key, then escorting her in with a hand on her back. “Drink?” she asked, walking towards the bar in the middle of the room. Dean looked around, nodding in approval.

“Nice digs.”

“When I come to Vegas, I like to splurge.” She watched him silently for a few seconds, tilting her head slightly. “Can you remove the cape?” He shrugged, undoing the fastenings on his shoulders and turning to toss the cape into a nearby chair. She stood still, eyes gliding appreciatively over his obviously muscular back and the lovely round globes of his ass that his costume did nothing to disguise. He turned back towards her, accepting the tumbler of whiskey that she handed him, then sipping from her own as her eyes met his.

Dean took a swallow, watching her gaze move to his lips for a moment, and he smiled at her slowly. “So… tell me about these rules.”

She pulled out one of the bar stools and perched on it, crossing those gorgeous legs before she answered. The bulge beneath his costume was magnetic, and she deliberately forced her eyes to stay focused on his. “Second rule – costumes stay on. Except for the parts we need access to, obviously.”

“Okay.” He took another drink, running his tongue very slowly over his lips after he swallowed.

“Last rule – you have to make me come before you get to touch me with anything but that absolutely sinful mouth of yours.” She slid off of the stool and approached him, reaching to run a delicate knuckle over his bottom lip. “I want to ride that cowl.”

He took her knuckle between his teeth, biting down gently, then stepping back, downing the last of his whiskey and setting the glass down on the bedside table. Then he moved to the foot of the bed, sitting down and then laying back, his arms spread out, the wicked smile on his face sending a throbbing ache between her thighs. “Here, kitty, kitty,” he teased, his smile growing a little wider at the soft noise she couldn’t quite suppress.

She dropped her glass to the top of the bar, moving towards the bed, anticipation making it hard to breathe. When she reached the foot of the bed, she reached down between her legs and undid the hidden snaps, lifting the fabric out of the way as she crawled over him. His fingers twitched with the urge to touch her, but he kept them at his sides, letting her make her way up his body to hover above his face.

She was already wet and glistening, and the twinkle of a piercing made him swear in a low growl. “Fuck me, get down here.”

She lowered herself, gasping as he nudged at her piercing with his agile tongue, then trapped it between his teeth to give a gentle tug. Her helpless moan made him smile, and he lowered his chin to his chest to run the flat of his tongue from her entrance to her clit, ending with a little flick. The vibrations of the appreciative noises he made sent a shudder through her, and when he speared his tongue inside her, she gave in and began to ride his jaw. He licked and sucked at her lower lips until she was whining and writhing over him, and then moved up to her clit, manipulating the metal with his tongue as he sucked hard on the pulsing little nub. Her orgasm was intense, a loud cry forced from her throat as she rode him desperately until she fell to the bed beside him, completely spent.

Dean sat up, wiping his face on the sheet and flexing his aching jaw, turning to watch her panting, lying limp on the bed beside him. “Think we covered that last rule,” he smirked, and she smiled weakly, nodding.

“That was – exquisite,” she whispered. “I can’t wait to see what you can do with the rest of your body.”

“Another drink first?” he asked, and she nodded.

“Not whiskey. Water.”

He laughed softly. “Good idea.” He went to the mini-fridge and grabbed a bottle of water, sitting down on the bed beside her and taking off the cap as she sat up and took it from him gratefully. After downing half the bottle, she handed it back to him and licked her lips. Dean put the cap back on and leaned in to kiss her, forcing her to lay back down as he moved to hover over her. She reached for his belt, looking up at him hungrily as he pulled back.

“Tell me this suit has a zipper. Or do I need to cut it to ribbons with my claws?”

“Easy, kitten,” he grinned, removing the belt from his costume and working the fastenings loose, then lowering the zipper. She stared as he freed himself, her claws digging into the mattress on either side of her as he stroked himself slowly with his gloved hand.

“Condom, top drawer,” she directed, watching as he put it on and then shifted his hips down, nudging the head of his cock against her entrance before pushing slowly forward. Her thighs trembled around him as he buried himself deep, then rose to his knees, pulling her hips up snug against him.

She shifted her body, arching her back as she adjusted to his size, her mouth open and eyes half-closed in blissful appreciation as she moaned, low and throaty, her head thrown back into the pillow.

Dean pulled back and drove back inside her, forcing a garbled cry from her throat. Her eyes rolled back and closed as he began to rock into her hard and fast, his hands gripping her hips. After a few strokes, she opened her eyes, rasping out breathlessly, “Don’t hold back.”

He stared down at her, but her unflinching gaze told him all he needed to know. He pulled out and flipped her over, manhandling her into position on her knees, one hand on her back as he slammed back inside to the hilt. He fucked into her hard, his other hand moving down between her legs to flick and tug at her clit and piercing, and she began to wail, her cunt clenching around his cock.

Her cries got louder and longer until she finally screamed, “Fuck, YES!!!”, coming hard, and Dean’s low growl morphed into a shout as he followed her over the edge, pulsing hot and thick inside her. She went limp beneath him seconds before he fell forward, catching himself on his hands and panting hard.

After a moment, he pulled out gingerly, dropping down and rolling to his back beside her. She turned her head, eyes half-focused, a satisfied smile on her lips. “That was – energetic,” she managed, and Dean laughed softly.

“You told me not to hold back.” He blew out a breath. “So – now what?”

She rolled to her back, then sat up on the edge of the bed for a moment before standing, grabbing tissues from beside the bed to clean up a little and then fastening the snaps between her legs again. “Now – it’s time to go.”

He watched her for a moment, admiring her curves from his vantage point before getting to his feet and putting himself back together. “If that’s what you want.”

She sounded slightly unsure of herself for the first time as she replied. “I – I just have other things to take care of. You understand.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Well… it’s been fun, kitten.”

She nodded, taking several swallows of water before answering. “Yes, it has.” She still wasn’t looking at him, so he grabbed his cape from the chair and headed for the door. He opened it, glancing over his shoulder, and she looked towards him, finally. “Good night, Batman.”

“’Night, Catwoman. Take care of yourself.”

The door closed behind him, and she dropped down onto the bar stool, her entire body trembling. Hard to believe she had actually followed through – that she had actually pulled it off. She finally rose to her feet to slip the heels off and begin gathering her things. It was a long drive home.

Dean paused outside the door, thoughtfully gnawing at his bottom lip. Something was nagging at him, but he couldn’t nail it down. He finally sighed and headed for the elevators, more than ready to get out of his costume and into a shower.

Two days later, Sam and Dean dragged their Vegas-weary selves into the bunker, Dean calling out as they headed down the stairs. “Hi, honey, we’re home!”

“Where is she?” Sam asked, and Dean shrugged, dropping his duffle and heading for the kitchen and a beer. There she was, earbuds in, singing along, dancing a little as she stirred something on the counter.

He grinned, sneaking up behind her and bending close.

“We’re home,” he said loudly, and she screeched, whirling around, her eyes wide and the spoon held out in front of her like a weapon. He burst into laughter, almost bent over double, her blow to his shoulder not even registering. “Oh my god, your face!”

“You fucking asshole! I almost had a heart attack, you… fucking jerk!” She took out her earbuds and tossed them to the table, finally unable to completely smother her smile.

“I’m sorry,” he managed, still cracking up.

“You are so not,” she argued, turning to look at Sam as he entered the room. “Your brother is a jerk.”

“Not news to me,” Sam grinned. “I’ve been calling him a jerk for years.”

“Bitch,” Dean fired back at him, tossing him a beer and raising an eyebrow at her. “Want one?”

“Yes. Please.” She took a swallow and sat down at the table. “So tell me all the things. What craziness happened in Vegas?”

Sam smirked, glancing at Dean, and she raised an eyebrow, turning that direction. “Okay, Winchester, spill. From the look on Sam’s face, it must be good.”

“Like you wanna hear about my – what do you call ‘em? ‘Fuck ‘em and leave ‘em’s’?”

“Well, that’s what they are… but if it’s a good story, yeah, I wanna hear! Not, like, the dirty details…”

“That’s the best part,” he retorted, and she shook her head.

“He hooked up with Catwoman. In his Batman suit,” Sam shared, still smirking at his brother.

She grinned. “Impressive.”

Dean nodded. “Pretty awesome. And the best – or the weirdest – part was, we stayed in costume the whole time. Her rule.”

She laughed, taking another drink of her beer. “That’s amazing. Probably never top that, huh?”

Dean wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Oh, I topped it, I bottomed it…”

“Ewwww, no,” she choked, shaking her head. “TMI, dude. Get outta my kitchen and let me finish cooking.” She looked Sam’s direction. “Unless you have an awesome story to share?”

Dean snorted. “Captain Snooze over there barely left the room.”

“I had a great time, very relaxing, thank you very much,” Sam snarked back as the two of them headed out of the room.

She took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly before getting up to finish mixing the pie filling she was making for dessert. So far, so good…

The table was the scene of the absolute destruction of the dish of lasagna she had made, only crumbs left of the garlic bread. “Didn’t you guys eat in Vegas?” she asked, laughing.

“Not like this,” Dean responded, his mouth still half full of his last bite. “I know you made pie. Right? Because you love me?”

“Yes, I made pie, and yes, I love you guys, and yes – you are spoiled rotten.” She stood up, reaching for dishes. “And you can actually have some if you help clean up this mess.”

They both scrambled to their feet to help, and then all three came back to the table with a huge slice of chocolate cream pie topped with fluffy meringue. Dean was making love to it with his eyes, and Sam just shook his head and dug in, a newspaper spread out on the table beside him.

“God, this is good,” Dean mushed out around a mouthful of pie filling, and she smiled at him happily before taking a bite herself. The sound that came out of her mouth bordered on pornographic, and Dean felt his body flush hot as he swallowed hard.

Sam glanced up to see his brother’s face, frowning in concern. “Dean, you okay?”

Dean pushed back from the table, tossing a ‘Yeah’ over his shoulder as he left the room. Sam looked at her, confused. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s sick? He left his pie. He never leaves pie.”

Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll go check on him later.”

She nodded, continuing on her dessert. “Can I have the crossword puzzle?”

A couple of hours later, dishes washed and crossword puzzle done, she said goodnight to Sam and headed for her room. She debated knocking on Dean’s door to make sure he was all right, but maybe he was sleeping, and she didn’t want to disturb him. So weird how he had just run out of the room and never come back, though. Hopefully he was okay.

She opened her door and reached for the desk lamp, swinging the door shut quietly and walking towards the dresser. She turned slowly as her brain finally registered what her peripheral vision had picked up on, and she went pale as she finally faced him.

Dean was in the chair in the corner of the room, her black cat ears and hood dangling from his fingers, one eyebrow cocked as he stared her down. “Hello, kitten,” he said, his voice low.

“Oh, fuck.” She hesitated for a second, then made a beeline for the door, but he moved fast, bracing his hand on the door to prevent her from opening it. She began to stammer, not able to string together a coherent sentence as she tried to explain. “I didn’t mean… I mean, I did, but you… it wasn’t supposed to…”

She kept stuttering and babbling as he took her by the shoulder and turned her around to face him,

staring down at her until she finally trailed off into silence. He drew closer, leaning his forehead against hers. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I… I don’t know. I guess I was afraid... That you wouldn’t want me...”

His lips moved close to hers, his breath warm as he spoke softly. “I’ve wanted you for a long time.” She watched his eyes close, and hers followed suit as he kissed her, his tongue sweeping over her lips. She melted into him as she responded, losing herself in the taste and feel of him, handfuls of his shirt in her fists as he crowded her against the door.

When they finally paused again, she looked up at him, her feelings evident in her eyes. “Dean – me, too.” He smiled, and it was contagious, her eyes shining up at him as he guided her towards the bed, sitting down and pulling her to stand between his knees.

“You know, I didn’t really get to see all of you the other night,” he hinted, and she ducked her head, blushing a little but still smiling. She grabbed the hem of her shirt and lifted it over her head, tossing it back behind her before unfastening her bra and letting it fall to the floor. Dean’s smile faded as he took in the sight before him, reaching up to glide his fingertips almost reverently over her soft curves. “So much better than I imagined,” he whispered, then leaned in to place a gentle kiss on her nipple before using his tongue to guide it between his lips.

She inhaled, long and slow, her knees going weak as he surrounded her with one arm and pulled her close. She clung to him, moaning softly as he cupped her other breast in his hand, kneading at it as he sucked and teased at its twin. She was trembling when he stopped, looking up at her as he laid back on the bed, pulling her down with him.

“So, no rules this time?” Dean teased, and she shook her head.

“No rules.” She kissed him, then looked down at him, her lip between her teeth. “Except maybe, less clothes?”

“Now that’s a rule I can get behind,” Dean grinned.

Dean dragged himself to the shower a little while later, leaving her still asleep in her bed. He yawned his way into the kitchen, grabbing a beer from the fridge, then heading to the library where Sam sat with his laptop open. He shot his big brother a sidelong glance, a smirk on his face, resisting the urge to say something.

“What?” Dean asked, unable to let it slide.

“So I guess Vegas followed you home?”

Dean raised an eyebrow with a sheepish little smile. “How did you know?”

“Guessed. Between the noises I’ve been hearing all afternoon and the way you hot-footed it out of here and left your pie on the table… So, was she your Catwoman?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t supposed to figure it out, I guess – but as soon as she made that sexy little noise when she took a bite of her pie, I knew.” Sam laughed softly, nodding.

“So that’s what happened.”

“I don’t know why she never said anything to me…”

“Same reason you never said anything to her. You’ve been drooling over her for a while now, dude, admit it.”

Dean frowned. “I wasn’t drooling. I was… I dunno, but it wasn’t drooling.”

“Whatever, Dean. It’s good, however it happened. I think she’s good for you.”

Dean grinned. “Sooooo good.”

“Okay, we’re done now,” Sam shook his head and Dean took another drink, still smiling.

She finally appeared a couple of hours later, fresh from the shower, a little shy about showing her face. Dean rose to his feet and approached her, slipping an arm around her waist and kissing her softly. She glanced towards Sam, who studiously avoided looking, and Dean leaned close to her ear. “He knows.”

She nodded, blushing a little and settled into Dean’s warmth for a moment before speaking up. “Are you guys hungry? I’m starving.”

Sam spoke up. “Yeah, I thought I’d run to town and grab some pizzas, if that sounds okay to you guys.”

After a quick discussion on what kind of pizza he should bring home, Sam headed out and Dean plopped down on the sofa, waving her over with tip of his head. “C’mere, beautiful.”

She came close, and he grabbed her, pulling her onto his lap as she squeaked in surprise. “Don’t be starting anything, I’m starving. I might take a bite out of something I shouldn’t.”

His eyebrows shot up, and he looked up at her, eyes hopeful. “So, does that mean you wanna…?”

“Well, I didn’t get the chance to do that the other night, either,” she teased back, and Dean groaned a little at the thought of her lips on his cock.

“That sounds fucking amazing. But can you do me a favor first?”

She leaned down to kiss him, making him forget everything else for a moment before she pulled back and asked, “What?”

“Can you maybe put on some of that red lipstick first?”

She smiled seductively, speaking in her sultry Catwoman voice. “Anything for you, Bats.”

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