#love the petulant way he grabs his coffee (also in a way that screams 'I drink take out coffee a lot' - which probably is just dunk) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yeojaa · 4 years

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in the night, ii.

read part one! dedicated to my beloved wofe @periminkle because she loves assassin!kook and so do i. i honestly dunno how many parts to this non-couple couple i’ll do but ... i cannot resist them. oops.

pairing. jjk x reader. rating. ... general? tags. soft romance in the form of: pining, cuddling, playing chess like losers, using a hotel room for the lamest reasons. maybe a very lil bit of angst if you squint at the right times. it’s just them being... them? ig. wc. 1.8k. beta reader. @hobi-gif 💛

“You know, when you asked me to meet you here, this isn’t what I had in mind.”

He can’t help but laugh, the sound teetering off his tongue into the tepid lake of espresso sitting in his cup. You’re glaring down at the board, hand poised at your side. You’re so focused - more so than when you’re stitching him up.

He wonders, idly, whether that should worry him. It won’t.

“You’re not having fun?” He hums, the slyest smile passing over the rim of ceramic, a certain twinkle in his stare. It’s possible he’s overtired - he hasn’t slept in what feels like ages - but there’s something awfully amusing about the sight of you, brow knit and mouth pursed into a grimace he seldom sees. “Got something else in mind, Doc?”

You don’t humour him with a response, advancing your king to C7.

“You sure about that one?”

“Yes.” It snaps past your lips like cinnamon bubble gum.

Seeing you so riled up - not quite irritated but overly competitive - makes Jungkook snort, setting his cup down with a soft, drawn out sigh.

“Come here.” It isn’t readily clear where he means but he leaves it up to you, watching you keenly.

You’re having none of it. “Make your move.”

“Come here,” he repeats, just that bit harder. The edge doesn’t reach anywhere but his words; his eyes are still a little tired, half-lidded and dreamy. They pair nicely with the full of his cheek, how it ticks rounder and reveals a singular dimple. Your weakness - or so he’d like to think.

It’s with a surprising amount of dramatics that you remove yourself from the opposite seat, folding yourself into his lap with only a handful of movements. He welcomes your weight, curling an exhausted arm around the shape of your waist.

With your back to the arm rest, you settle with your head against his shoulder, nose cold against the column of his throat. He can even feel the steel of your glasses, gold-rimmed and delicate.

“Bored?” The tone of his voice is lilting, teasing, dressed up with laughter. It disappears into your crown of velvet, loosely braided and knotted behind your ear in your signature no-fuss fashion.

“No.” But it isn’t very believable because you certainly sound unenthused.

He tries again, with fingers that flex into the soft, bare flesh of your thigh; his other hand guides your chin, drawing your attention fully from the abandoned chess set. “Want to order room service?”

It’s the least he can do, he figures. Something to ease whatever mocking resentment seeps out of your skin - much like his had only hours earlier.

Note to himself: pick up some new clothes.

“I want every dessert on the menu,” you finally relent, with a terribly serious set of your jaw and intensity in your eyes.

He snorts, again, squeezing the yielding softness of your hip in his broad palms. “I’ll call down and order. You go take a shower or something.” It’s not as dismissive as he means; the blouse you’d worn over is stained red, the colour bleeding garishly over cream silk. It even marks your skin now, caught beneath your nails and over your wrists.

“What - it’s not a good look on me?”

Your feigned affront is addictive, coaxing in a way he’s utterly defenceless against. Still, Jungkook rolls his eyes - an exaggerated reveal of bright white sclera - and levels you with a look that might serve him better than the gun that rests on the coffee table. “Don’t ask stupid questions, Doc.”

“But you do stupid things all the time.” You’re not wrong and if there’s anyone worthy of calling him out in this same way, it’s you. Doesn’t mean he takes it any more kindly, glowering at you so heavily he thinks you might be enjoying it.

“Name one time,” he retorts, fully on the defensive. Even though he knows you’re right. Even though he could list off just five things since last night.

Getting ambushed in his own home

Cracking some not-so-poor guy’s skull on the corner of his Nakashima dining table

Asking for you to make a home (or rather, hotel) call

Asking for you at all

Asking you to stay

He hopes you won’t catch onto the last three.

“That time I told you to not overextend yourself after you cracked three ribs and you came back the next day complaining because you’d piledrived a guy through some scaffolding but, and I quote, ‘it wasn’t a big deal’?” Okay, you have him there. “Or the time I told you to take the pills in the left drawer and you took the ones from the right and ended up passed out on my floor for twelve hours?” Another solid and mildly embarrassing example. “Or—”

“Okay, okay.” A single hand held aloft in the universal sign of stop; the other remains comfortable around your waist, digits tracing figure eights over the porcelain skin beneath your top. “I get it.”

You’re undeterred, pushing forward with abandon. “Or inviting me to a hotel to not only stitch you back together but also play silly children’s games?”

“Hey - chess is fun!” And so were Gin Rummy and Speed, the other two activities he’d foisted upon you post-sewing session.

“You’re an idiot,” you state, with a surprising amount of affection. He doesn’t mind when it comes like this, dipped in honey and rolled in fairy floss. It satisfies his sugar craving, filling the spaces between his molars with cavities.

“You still came,” he challenges.

“Just adding it to the dozens of favours you already owe me.”

He grins, roguish and far too handsome for his own good. Even tired, with lurking shadows beneath his eyes, he’s unbelievably bright - like it’s radiating out of him. It’s quite funny when he’s speckled in gore, blood tainting tanned skin and reminding you that he’s not all sunshine and rainbows.

“How will I ever pay you back?”

You’re close - far too close, even sat in his lap. Jungkook can see every freckle on your face, every lash that frames the prettiest stare he’s ever seen. He has to remind himself he’s waiting for an answer; it’s hard when all he wants to do is kiss you.

He thinks you must want it too, by how the silence stretches on, catching the pair of you like a Chinese finger trap.

“Doc?” Barely a word, made in a whisper.

Can you feel how his heart beats, trips and fails to right itself when you’re so close he can smell the coffee on your breath? Is it your medical training that gives him away? Or maybe just the fact that you’re attuned to everything about him because he’s, well, him?

Your big stupid idiot, for all intents and purposes.

He wants to ask. He wants to kiss you. He wants a hundred mundane things (like playing cards and eating sweet treats) only with you.

You tear it all away with a pat to his head and a wicked smile. “With all the dessert in the world.”

He scowls then, the expression wolfish and touched with agitation. It presents in the narrowing of his stare, his sharply set jaw. “Sounds like pretty lame payback to me.” Can you hear the edge of petulance, how it colours syllables the faintest shade of goblin green?

“Got something else in mind, Jeon?”

Having his words thrown back at him only makes him laugh. It reverberates out of his bare chest, filling the quiet of the luxury suite; it bounces around just as you do, leaping to your feet with a grace he can’t mimic. He’s mesmerised, as he always is, gaze trained on you - your loosened bun, the curves of your back, how you look in the jeans that look nearly painted on they fit you so well.

“Grab a bath, Doc,” he returns - less of a suggestion and more of a demand.

“Better have those desserts once I’m out.” A threat rather than a joke, though you’re far too unassuming with your old lady glasses and wide, expressive stare. For your sake, Jungkook crosses a heart across his chest and nods solemnly, earning him a devastating grin that works far better than your intimidation.

“Have I ever let you down?”

You’re already gone, a trail of your clothes left like breadcrumbs. He still hears you. “I mean - you did bring a knife fight to my door.”

“We don’t talk about that!” He calls back before the sound of running water takes over, distorting your laughter. Neroli and cedar wood comes - your signature scent. He can’t help the way he inhales deeply, satisfied, as he plucks the room phone from its holder. It’s an addiction, a second nature action that he can’t help, whether you’re curled in his arms or tending to his broken, bleeding body.

It’s dangerous, he knows.

His old mentor would tell him don’t get involved, Jeon. That living a life like this came with sacrifices. Things he’d never really cared for - at first. But now?

He daydreamt about them more often than he should, in all the quiet moments in between. They painted the prettiest pictures in his mind, wishful thinking in the form of everyday occurrences: coffee in the morning, you in his (unstained) clothes, drives in the countryside, a bed shared at night.

All because of you and your healing hands. He’d never thought you’d be so good at your job, stitching him up inside and out.

It’d be better if he left, packed his ruined clothing and stopped appearing on your doorstep. It’d keep you safe - and him, too. Relationships meant weakness and in his line of work, weakness was something to be exploited, like an open wound with a thumb pressed into it.

Instead, he waits until the cart of desserts appears - lemon tarts and basque cheesecake and a dozen other things that scream diabetes! - and wheels it right into the bathroom, closer to you, because he always wants to be closer to you.

“These don’t look like apples, Doc,” he hums, settling himself on the back edge of the tub, careful not to dislodge the towel that’s folded beneath your neck. The wet of your hair seeps into the material of his pants, sticking cloth to sinew and brawn.

“An apple a day keeps the doctor away but a tray of desserts will keep me here forever.”

“You planning on living here?” Quipped with an offering - a cocoa masterpiece of four layers, held gingerly between his thumb and forefinger.

“Might as well milk it,” you tease, accepting the bite with love in your eyes and a tongue that sweeps, just barely, over his suddenly electrified skin. He knows what you’re doing just as well as you do; it’s next to impossible not to lean into the desire, slide the digit home and press down into muscle until you’re drooling around it.

“Might as well,” he echoes, those same fluttering pink hearts reflected in his stare.

tag list. @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound

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subtlereferencetomyinterests · 3 years

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I Taste Honey but I Haven’t Seen the Hive - Chapter Six

Ao3, Masterpost, C.1 C.2 C.3 C.4 C.5

Relationships: eventual queer-platonic intruality. platonic dukeceit, creativitwins, and dlampr.

Yet again there are no italics. its new years eve sue me. oh also happy 2021 nobody question my priorities thanks <3

Warnings: so much softness, implications of self-isolation, swearing, Lots of Feelings, sympathetic everybody, descriptions of the sides having non-human features.

Word Count: 3,962

Something Remus came to realize was that he, a bit paradoxically, was not used to people being in his space.

It was weird. Not weird in the way that people usually felt when he was the one interrupting- he wasn’t scared by it, or disgusted, or even really annoyed. It was just… surprising, to have somebody else hanging around him, unprompted by anything.

Remus wasn’t known for having boundaries- or respecting them, for that matter- but he’d at least been attempting to restrain himself just a bit after being accepted by the others. Out of courtesy, if nothing else.

And apparently he didn’t need to. Not after what happened with Patton, anyway. Now that Patton had deemed the two of them ‘close’- something he was absolutely happy to agree with, for the record- Remus’ world had flipped sort of around. Back to no boundaries, only he wasn’t the one crossing those lines, and nobody was running screaming. Least of all Patton!

Remus ran the thoughts over in his head, feeling like that day was shaping up to be a great example of the change:

He and Patton were sitting side-by-side in the living room, content, with the rest of the sides spread around in different seats and configurations just the same. The unlikely pair were at the fringe of the circle, close enough to be part of things but far enough to zone in and out at will (as both were prone to do). It was nice, amiable.

But minutes before- forty of them at most- Remus had been up in his own room, happily dissecting some gooish creations and only vaguely aware that there was a meeting that day. His attendance to group meetings varied from week to week- sometimes he was bored and could use an argument, and other times he was having fun on his own and knew that it wouldn’t be all that important if he ditched. He joined more often than he used to, sometimes he was even asked for, but he was optional still. A favored option, suggestions taken now, sure- but still not mandatory.

He was going to stay upstairs for that one, but Patton had come to get him. Had dragged him down in that sweet, puppy-dog way of convincing that worked so well and, knowing him, was totally unintentional. And even if Remus didn’t care about arguing his way through content production right then, Patton had promised that it was important for him to be there.

That was the word he’d used for Remus. Important.

How the hell could Remus say no to that?

At least the meeting was going by without a hitch, for once. He assumed it was- Remus was honestly paying very little attention- but the lack of anger or tension was practically palpable. These things were usually so spiteful that even Remus, renowned lover of chaos, could almost taste his headache when everybody started shouting and hissing and fighting. It just got sad.

But not that time, apparently.

As Logan went on his third ramble of the evening, smiling widely at a surprising lack of interruption, Remus turned to Patton. He whispered:

“Okay, when are they gonna snap? Did they all finally get lobotomized?”

Patton frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean where’s all the screaming and crying? Specs and Prince Priss haven’t had a single one of their horny yelling matches, what gives?”

Patton smiled in a way that said he was trying very hard not to laugh, rolling his eyes.

“These meetings have calmed down a bit, I guess,” he shrugged.

Remus glanced around the room with narrowed eyes. While that certainly seemed like the truth, he couldn’t buy it.

“Yeah, I give it until one of them vaguely insults the others, and then everybody’s gonna shut down for the next week. That kinda tension doesn’t just go.”

Patton didn’t say anything. Half-gazing at the carpet, he didn’t look like he’d even heard. He was smiling, but it was one of those jumbled up expressions, the type that tried to span a hundred different feelings. He had so many expressions like that, that seemed bottomless and swirling and so intricate on a humanoid face that, in reality, wasn’t built to display something like that. It was uncanny- not like an eerie doll, but like something with unearthly beauty. This face, though, had tones of upset.

“It’s been a while since you’ve been around everybody,” Patton said.

It wasn’t a question and it didn’t need to be. While Remus wasn’t exactly known for keeping to himself, he couldn't be called sociable either. He dropped in to say something, usually random, and then he was gone as soon as he’d visited. Even before the first Patton incident, fuck, it had been weeks since he’d actually stuck around through something.

Since The Acceptance, now that Remus thought of it, he’d been spending more time alone than ever. Not all of his time- he remembered being surprised at Logan talking to him, willingly, like friends, and after that had even come Virgil and Roman. He saw people, talked to them, yeah. The time spent was friendlier, more welcoming, but it was so much less.

Well, it was obvious why: they visited him, but- like he’d mentioned, he’d been trying to give them some space.

“Sure, it's been awhile,” Remus admitted, “But I never expected shit to change so much around here, still.”

The haze on Patton’s face thickened like fog on the moors, a soft and sympathetic mist over his eyes that Remus knew was aimed at him (even if it was pointed more to a sort of middle distance).

“I don’t think I did, either,” Patton’s mouth barely moved, his voice less of a whisper and moreso a fragile breath. “I was hoping for it, but… I’m still trying to get used to stuff being allowed to change, you know?” He picked at a loose thread along the seam of the couch. “I haven’t done this stuff in a while, either.”

Remus’ head shot up, and he almost forgot that they weren’t the only two in the room. Somehow, he stopped himself from shouting:

“You- it has?”

A tiny smile. Something built up behind Patton’s eyes; a wave, dark and lonely and filling his bright blues with cloudy gray. “I just needed some alone time, after everything changed so much so fast. I still feel, I dunno, weird. I don’t know what’s wrong with me- but…” he swallowed, his head lifting. “I’m really happy for them,” he was staring- so very loving- first at Logan, then Roman, then Virgil and Janus. It was a wonder none of them felt his gaze on them, Remus thought, because he was sure if anyone looked at him that way, he’d burn up like a fae upon iron. “They deserve it so much. I know that not everything is perfect still, but, I’m just so proud of us anyways. I- I think maybe-”

He cut himself off, blinking rapidly. Remus gave the room a quick once over to make sure nobody was looking their way- and nobody was: Virgil was very resolutely trying to get everyone to stay on topic despite Janus and Logan’s continued tangenting, and Roman was scribing furiously on several different pieces of paper- before he inched close enough to curve his arm around Patton. Touching like that had steadily become familiar to both of them, and it didn’t take long for Patton to fall untense against his side. He leaned into him, muttering: “I mean, they’re all doing a lot better than me, that’s for sure. I- I don’t even know what I’m for anymore. Maybe that’s why I’ve been… ditching, really.”

Remus squeezed his shoulder. There were so many things he could’ve said and done, but all of them loud and fervent and definitely not subtle enough to go unnoticed by everyone. So, for the sake of Patton’s privacy, he settled on this:

“That makes two of us, Morey.”

The meeting that was planned to take two or three hours took the entire day, just as always. Hours and hours were spent in a room filled with excited conversation, of which the subject oscillated wildly between relevant topics and complete nonsense- which Remus and Patton did, eventually, tune back into (and contribute to as well, mainly in the nonsense department). Eventually, even Virgil gave up on trying to keep anything in order.

But the meeting ended on a good note anyway. Lots of good notes, actually, if the stacks upon stacks of paper they’d scribbled up were any indication. Mess, the sides had come to believe, was usually a measure of their productivity: if crumpled pages were strayed across the room, if forgotten pens and pencils balanced on every surface from coffee table to TV stand, and if- in the process of snacking- they’d accumulated enough dishes to fill the sink for days on end? Shit. Got. Done.

Remus stared over the chaos with unfocused eyes. He felt distantly proud of the stormish state the living room was in. Draped over the back of the sectional, he gnawed idly on a wood pencil, stripping its yellow into beige. The paint fell off in bitter chunks, and the taste made him think of grabbing some non-acrylic dinner before closing the night off. Maybe he’d steal some of whatever saccharine sweet Patton usually made in the late evenings, and then spend the rest of the night with him, anyway. Remus debated what would be the most fun (or if he was tired enough to sleep yet), partially aware as he did so that he’d chewed and swallowed the metal-eraser end of his pencil.

“Ugh,” a drawn out groan broke his thoughts, petulant and whiny. “Do you have any intention of helping us clean up this, the common area?”

Roman was kneeling beside Janus on the carpet, the pair surrounded by papers and binders and trashbags, the former of which they were sorting into either of the latter two, depending on how useful each page was. Roman had stopped working, however, to stare up at Remus indignantly. Remus glared right back.

“I’ve never had an intention in my life,” he answered.

Janus shrugged, smiling in that I-told-you-so way at Roman. But Roman, ever the nuisance, wasn’t letting it go.

“Come on! It’s not like you’re even doing anything!”

“I’m doing something,” Remus’ words were wide and wobbly as he stripped another line of paint off the pencil, breaking some splinters off into his teeth.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes,” another chunk of wood, down the hatch. “I’m flaying all these leftover pencils until they’re lead-sticks.”

Roman hopped up from the floor and dropped himself onto the couch, shoving himself into the way so jarringly that it reminded Remus of himself.

“Well, now you’re going to help us clean.”

Janus rolled his eyes, not even glancing up. “Roman, just leave it alone, we-”

“We are all parts of this whole now, including him! Remus-” Roman rounded on him again, “If you’re going to come down here and help us make all this mess, with all of your numerous contributions that we have to write down, you’ll help clean it like anybody else. Do you think that I like any of- of-” he gestured, flamboyantly, at the room, “This? Ugh, please, I’m a prince! But, fair is fair, and fair means everybody.”

And that was the point of the conversation in which Remus would cackle, push Roman backwards off the couch, and proclaim how much it’d go against his very being to clean a mess instead of cause it. He’d tell Roman how funny it was that he thought he could boss him around, because it always had been- that full-of-it Older Brother kind of attitude that had never worked. The Prince had never once managed to get him to do anything, and each attempt only got funnier than the last.

He didn’t say any of that, though.

Roman was bitching at him, not to go away this time, but to stay. Stay and help the group, because he was a part of said group. So he was asked to help them, the group that he was a part of, because he was part of it. That group.

“Okay,” he blurted, “Okay, I’ll- alright.”

Roman blinked at him, a look of disbelief spreading across his face. “You- oh!” he smiled, utterly baffled. “That was- very easy?”

Janus, too, was looking up at Remus with bewilderment, his task of paper-sorting all but forgotten. Remus couldn’t blame either of them, but he still huffed, trying very hard not to be embarrassed by that whole… moment.

He shook it off, rolling off the couch and standing up, jittery.

“Whatever, just- tell me what to pick up, okay?”

They seemed not to hear him, the gawking continuing on until he started working unprompted, and longer than that still. Each time he (begrudgingly) shoved something into a trashbag, it earned him another Exchange of Glances from the pair.

They got over it eventually, though, because there was a fuck-load more to clean than there was room to stare. So they cleaned.

Remus thought it would get old after a minute, and he’d finally gather up the guts to bail on them, but it just… never happened. It felt unnatural to be getting rid of a mess- like an animal having its fur brushed the wrong way, continuously- but by some point the sensation was distant. The rest of him was still busy processing, experiencing, maybe possibly overthinking this kind of recognition he’d never gotten before. It was handed to him now like it was something normal. The three of them worked together, and it was normal.

Acceptance, as it turned out, wasn’t synonymous with ‘soulless assimilation’. In fact, it was pretty fucking great, getting to watch his brother and best friend find documents from the floor with his ideas on them, then tucking them into a binder marked important, instead of a trashcan marked to burn. It was… surreal.

But the tidying was over in just an hour and a half- oh wow, never in a million years would Remus have thought an hour and a half of cleaning would be too little for him. He made a note to absolutely destroy something big and important later, to balance the universe out again.

Roman sank through the floor as soon as they were done, complaining loudly about how very exhausted he was. Remus teased him on his way out, but it was just for the habit- he was way too mushy to think of anything properly mean at the moment.

Janus watched him go, silent. He sat beside Remus on the couch, and despite his obvious tiredness, he waited a good few minutes before saying anything.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Remus shivered. Janus pulled him up into a hug (one that maybe dragged on for a little too long, but who was counting?), and it spelled out all the pride and care that he’d never been good at verbalizing. With that, he gave Remus a short nod, and then was gone as well.

Which made everyone else upstairs, probably in their rooms and halfway asleep. Then there was Remus, antsy in the living room, itchy with feelings.

Everyone but Patton, of course, who could still be heard humming in the kitchen; who never went up until he knew everyone else was in their rooms, true to the protective parent persona. Remus suddenly didn’t think he wanted anything else but to see Patton after what had happened, to talk to him, to…

He walked to the kitchen.

“Pat.”

Patton looked over his shoulder at Remus, up to his elbow in sudsy sink water. A smile fell naturally across his face.

“Hi,” his voice was low, delicate. “You about to head up?”

Remus watched his friend work, trailing into the room slowly. He grinned, “Are you kidding? I could stay up all night, if I wanted.”

“Do you want to?” Patton asked him.

Remus thought on it for a moment. He shrugged, iunno, leaned against the counter by the sink. Patton turned away again.

It was so quiet. No wind. No footsteps. Not a muffled voice upstairs, even- just the sound of water and ceramic hitting ceramic. Everything was still.

Remus hated it. Silence was fragile, and he crawled with the need to break it. He felt it get tense as it stretched out, and he just wanted to tear the air apart with sound. It felt like nothing mattered anymore, when peace was so easily able to drown it all out. Cold and alone. He hated it.

Sometimes, Remus imagined that if the silence went too long, he’d never be able to make a noise again. There were few things that made him so unhappy, but the quiet…

“What’s on your mind?” Patton asked.

Remus jolted. Patton was staring, concern gathering in his eyes the longer he did. Remus took a deep breath- he remembered something, something small and unimportant that Janus had told him once.

When one is so intensely happy, they can fall to agonizing upset even quicker than if they’d been mildly perturbed in the first place, because of the ferocity of the feelings. Something like that.

“A lot more than I’m willing to throw on your shoulders, Pops.”

Patton pouted. Actually. Fucken. Pouted. The worst part was, his puppy-face was actually working.

“Ugh,” Remus rolled his eyes, “Just- could I- I dunno, have a hug, or some shit?”

If Patton was surprised, he hid it well. God knew, that wasn’t exactly the kind of thing Remus would ask for. He almost never asked to get attention- taking it was much easier, and much more entertaining. Besides, if he’d ever asked before that point… well, he already knew what answer he would’ve gotten.

Patton’s smile only widened, until it was positively melting. “Of course you can,” he shut the sink off. “Of course.”

He reached haphazardly for a hand towel, to dry his arms. Remus, riding the high of that enthusiastic permission, absolutely could not wait that long. He latched his arms around Patton’s middle before the side had even finished talking, burying his face between his shoulder blades and hugging tight.

Patton went still, like he didn’t know what to do. After it became clear that Remus had no intention to move, Patton laughed, dreamy and soft, and shook his hands as dry as he could. He patted Remus’ forearm; bead-bracelets clattered under the Duke’s sleeves.

“Hey,” Patton said.

“Mmh?”

“Not that this isn’t lovely,” he laced his fingers with Remus’, squeezed them, “But I’d like it better if I could hug you back, ya know?”

Remus let go, reluctantly. In the true fashion of intrusive thoughts, there was a second he was so convinced Patton would run, now that he was freed. Make an escape from him, an escape from his claws.

He didn’t. He spun right around and pulled Remus against his chest- one arm linked around his torso, the other winding into his tangled hair. Anyone, at a glance, could see that Patton was huge- but up close the difference was dizzying: his wide chest, encircling arms that seemed to be made of nothing but muscle and padding, and that height, all made him so… comforting. Big and strong, a body that disguised power in soft edges and fat. If he squeezed just a little too tight, in fact, Remus wouldn’t be surprised if Patton could make splinters out of his bones. Which Remus definitely, definitely wouldn’t mind, but the knowledge that Patton not only could do that but also wouldn’t ever do that- that was what really did him in.

And he’d hugged Patton before- months ago, and somehow Patton had seemed so small then, when everything had started- but being hugged? Properly, too, not underwater while one of them was drowning- it was a world of difference. No panic, no breakdowns, just a real, solid hug.

He could just ask for this and then have it. He could smell sugar cookies and candle wax, and feel somebody- a willing body- pressing in. It was weird. He thought that someday, he might get used to it. He wanted a chance to get used to it.

“Do you wanna talk now?” Patton prompted, forcibly reminding Remus that he had a bloodhound’s nose for emotional distress.

“I don’t know.”

Patton hummed, his fingers scratching through Remus’ hair. “Today went better than I thought it would.”

“You didn’t have to bring me, if you thought it was gonna be bad.”

“I wasn’t worried because of you! I was worried because of me. Things have been… a lot for me, lately.”

“Oh,” Remus angled his head to the side, looking up at him. “Yeah. I feel ya.”

“But they were all so much more patient, weren’t they,” Patton’s eyes went a little misty, the way they always did when he talked about his family. “Everything’s different now, and I guess that scared me, but I think that now… it’s a good different, you know?”

“Like us, right?” Remus laughed, “This is the craziest difference, if ya think about it.”

Patton chuckled, the sound reverberating in his chest so that Remus felt it more than heard it.

“I don’t think I would’ve gotten through with today without you, you know that?”

It was deeply honest. There was a beat.

“I-” Oh fuck, Remus was choked up, when did that happen? “I wouldn’t have even had a day like today, without you, so. Do with that what you want.”

Remus buried his face in Patton’s sternum, just to avoid the sad understanding in his eyes.

He- he wasn’t exactly made for the care he was getting, not the kind of softness in that face. Not when Patton was still patiently untangling his matt of hair while they hovered in the stillness of the dark, empty kitchen, and Remus desperately didn’t want to cry.

Patton gave him a minute to breathe, at the very least, before:

“They like you, though. Janus loves you.”

“Yeah, okay, but it’s not-”

“I know how you feel,” said Patton, and did. “Like they couldn’t actually care about us, even though it doesn’t make sense for them not to. It’s one of those things that’s easy to forget,” Remus could hear the smile in his voice. “So it’s good we have each other, when we need to get out of our own heads. At least, it’s like that for me, I don’t know if you even-”

“No,” Remus curled his claws in the back of Patton’s shirt, something dark and emotional flooding like tar through his chest. “Nah, you’re right, Morey. This is good for us.”

Remus shook his head at nothing in particular. He forced his hands unballed, pulled back, and wormed his way out of Patton’s hug after way too long.

His skin felt like paper from the affection, like he’d been electrocuted, and while that was fun- was amazing- for a while, he didn’t think he could handle much more in one sitting.

Patton let him go, smiling warmly, leaning back against the counter. His eyes were shiny and wet, but he was content.

“Thanks,” Remus said.

“What for? The hug?”

“No- I mean, that too, but I was saying ‘thanks, for caring’. For giving enough of a shit about me to try and help.”

Patton smiled, solemnly.

“I told you so,” he breathed, “I promised I would like you when I got to know you, and then I did. I do!”

Remus felt a grin returning to his face, sliding across his lips more naturally than anything else he’d had to deal with that night.

“Yeah. You aren’t too bad yourself, Pat.”

Chapter Seven

Taglist: @shrimp-crockpot @glitter-skeleton-uwu @donnieluvsthings @intruxiety @thefivecalls @did-he-just-hiss-at-me @gayformlessblob

#sanders sides #ts #fanfiction #fanfic #sanders sides fanfiction #ts fanfic #intruality #qpr intruality #platonic intruality #remus #patton

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deejadabbles · 4 years

Text

Crime and Consequence (Atem x Reader) Chapter 1

One: The Affects

One //// Two //// Three //// Four //// [Five coming soon]

Summary: Years have passed since Atem's crimes came to light. Years have passed, but in some cases the wounds of that time were still fresh. Despite that, however, you've done your best to rebuild your life for you...and for your son. So, when Atem's crimes come back to hurt you and your boy, how will you survive and protect what little you have left?

Years have passed since Atem last saw you. Years have passed, and he had never been able to meet his son. Despite that, Atem carried on with his life, as limited and meaningless as it was, locked away for his crimes. So, when a threat is made against the only ones he still holds dear, how will he defend the love of his life and his boy?

(Modern, season 0 inspired AU. Contains some disturbing themes, depictions of violence, cursing/vulgar language, and sexual content.)

A.N. So just a warning to those familiar with my other reader insert work, this is a lot darker than anything I've written before. Honestly, I'm not sure where this darker series came from, but it was a story in me that needed to be told. This is also a much darker version of Atem that I don't tend to write, but don't worry, he isn't Yandere or anything like that towards the reader. If you're worried about content you're uncomfortable with being present in this fic but are still interested in reading it, feel free to drop me a message asking if said content will be in the story and I will be happy to tell you/give you a warning!

The clock on the wall was too loud as it ticked for every second that passed. Your hands were tight on your lap as you waited for those across from you to look up and finally say what they wanted to- damn it, couldn’t they have read on their little papers before you came in? Why were they stalling?

Finally, the one in the middle, the headmistress of the school, looked up and curled her lips into a smile. It wasn’t a pleasant smile, it was the practiced, stale kind that was meant to smooth over something offensive or controversial.

“Is there something wrong with his application?” you cut in, before the woman could start pussyfooting around.

The headmistress faltered for a moment, “...Not exactly. But... We did find something of concern in the background check.”

That made your skin prickle with an anxious air. But of course, you should have expected this. It had been a long while since his actions crept up from the past to haunt you; you should have known that peace wouldn’t last long. You had just hoped the school board would find it in their hearts to not blame your son for the sins of his father.

“You must understand how concerned we are, about Yugi’s….questionable parentage.” That was said by the stern-looking woman on the headmistress’ right.

You had to take a deep breath to keep your tone even and free of any bitter retort, lashing out would do no good here. You still made your tone very firm and clear, however. “Yugi has never shown any violent tendencies, if that’s what you’re concerned about. He isn’t his father.” The two women exchanged a look but before they could say anything you continued. “His tuition was set up by his great grandfather five years ago, surely those ties have to count for something. Surely you’re not going to punish a child for something his father did, a father he’s never even met.”

You needed to stop, you were sounding too hostile, too accusatory- but damn it you were sick of your sweet little Yugi for paying for things that happened before he was even born!

The last of this stuck-up yuppy trio sighed and leaned forward in his chair to address you. “Let me put this bluntly, ma'am, your ex-fiance is a notorious serial killer. We will not tolerate such a bloody past tarnishing our school’s reputation.”

“And how well will your school handle the bad press of being sued for discrimination?” you snapped, knuckles turning white against the black of your dress pants.

The blunt man actually had the gall to smirk at you. “Save your breath in making empty threats. You’re a nurse who’s up to her neck in debt, who had to rely on her murderous ex’s relatives to even afford tuition to this school in the first place. You would only hurt yourself and your son if you tried to take legal action.”

“Enough,” the headmistress said, giving her colleague a side-eye, before returning their gaze to you. “Please understand the hard position we’re in, we simply-”

“I understand perfectly,” you hissed and rose from your seat with as much dignity as you could muster. “I expect the money we’ve already given for his tuition to be paid back in full.”

And with that you stormed out, taking a bit of petulant gratification in slamming the stained glass door shut in your wake. After taking a step away so they couldn’t see you through the colored glass, you made yourself take a deep breath to calm your shaken nerves. You wanted to scream, to throw something, to punch a wall, to-

“Mommy?”

The low hesitant voice calling out to you made your lids snap open, and when you met eyes with the center of your world, the boiling emotions started to calm. He was sitting on the waiting bench along the wall, his legs, which were short even for a five-year-old, were hovering above the polished marble floor. His eyes were full of worry, their lavender depts specked in crimson asking a silent question.

“Hey, sweetie,” you said, forcing any anger away from your tone, never wanting him to think it was directed at him, even for a second. “Mommy’s just a little upset, that’s all.” You held your hand out and he instantly jumped down, sneakers squeaking along the polished floor as he ran to you. When he bypassed your hand and instead wrapped his arms around your waist in a tight hug, your heart melted.

“Can we go home now, mommy? I don’t like it when people make you upset,” he said, still holding you tight.

His concern nearly made you break right there. How could a boy as sweet as this be dealt such an awful hand in life? When you didn’t reply instantly, Yugi looked up at you but didn’t dare let you go. He looked so much like his father, with his angular face, sharp eyes, and hair that stuck up anyway it pleased in a multitude of colors. But thankfully, he had the kind and gentle nature of his uncle, his namesake. You had been right to name him after your sweet, caring Yugi, even if it did add another unnecessary thread leading back to his father.

“How about we grab some ice cream before we go home, hm?” you said eventually, and your son’s face lit up with excitement. The look was so familiar somehow, uniquely his in a way, but so similar to his father’s in another.

“Don’t tease me like that, kitten,” the love of your life said, his eye’s flashing with that special brand of excitement he always had when challenged. He set his cards down on the table, never letting his eyes leave yours, that cocky smirk playing on his lips. He had a pair of aces, which beat your kings by a fraction. “You know how I get when you tease me.”

You let out a huff of laughter, playfully tossing your cards at him across the coffee table. “Yeah yeah, I know. Thought for sure I had you beat that time, roll up your sleeves I wanna make sure you don’t have spare aces up there!”

He raised a brow at you, that smirk still firm on his face. “Calling me a cheater now, are you? I’m offended.” He got to his feet then and walked the few steps it took to get behind you. “But, I’ll forgive you if you let me claim my prize now,” he mumbled before kissing your cheek.

You giggled as his fingers ever so lightly tickled your sides and he only held you tighter as you squirmed in his grip. “Atem stop you’re tickling me!”

In response he only hummed and smooched your cheek again, fingers ghosting over your ribs to prolong your giggles. “Never,” he whispered, chuckling a bit himself now, “not until I get my kiss, kitten.”

When you finally obliged and turned to give him his prize, he hummed in delight, a hand moving from your side to cup your cheek. It was light and chaste, simple but holding all his adoration for you in the contact.

“I love you.”

You snapped out of the memory when you felt a tiny hand grab yours and start pulling you down the hallway. Yugi still looked delighted, saying that ice cream always put a smile on your face as well as his; and despite the fresh ache in your chest, you managed a small giggle at his innocence.

Days like this were far from easy, but your little boy made every second worth fighting for.

“You’ve gotta be kidding,” Jonouchi scoffed, crossing his arms and letting a curse fall from under his breath as he looked back at you.

He already looked tired after his ten-hour shift, still dressed in his uniform, badge and all. You hadn’t wanted to burden him with your news, but when he saw the frustration radiating off of you the moment he stepped in the door, you couldn’t hide it.

You shook your head, “ ‘Fraid not. They made it very clear we weren’t welcomed at that school.” You let out a tired sigh as you took the dinner dishes to the sink to let them soak. “Sugoroku gave that money because he was worried how public school would be for Yugi. We thought that maybe a private school would be better, that it would- I don’t know, shield him somehow?” You waved your hands helplessly for a moment, before dumping the plates in the sink with a clatter. Running a hand over your face with a sigh, you finally turned back to your old friend, hating how lost you must look. “I’m just scared that his classmates will find out and they’ll shun him for it. I don’t want that for him, hell I’ll find a way to homeschool him before I let that happen.”

“Hey,” Jonouchi’s tone was gentle as he stepped forward and put a hand on your shoulder, “if you ask me, it wouldn’t have mattered if he went to a public school or that fancy ass private school, kids can be assholes no matter what class they’re in. He’s a good kid, like our Yugi was, and if he’s anything like his uncle, then he’ll find some great friends who won’t care about stupid rumors or anything.” He tilted his head to make sure you were looking fully in his eyes. “He’s gonna be okay. It may not be easy for him, but he’s got a great mom who’ll help him get through any shit life throws at him.”

You gave him a thankful half-smile, “He has some other great adults in his life too, you know.”

Jonouchi smirked and leaned back, “Yeah, I know.”

You chuckled as he walked back over to the now empty bags on the kitchen counter, his whole reason for originally being there this late. “Thanks again for dropping those by,” you said, “he keeps begging me to find more old Nintendo games for him to play.”

“No problem, haven’t owned an original console in forever, plus you know we like spoiling him,” he cast a glance at the shut door leading to Yugi’s room, and you saw a thought playing behind your friend’s eyes. You could tell he wanted to breach a certain topic, but didn’t seem to know how- or maybe if he even should. “...You know you’re gonna have to tell him, right?” Jonouchi said eventually. “If you’re really that worried about kids at his school making a big deal out of it, you’re gonna have to tell him soon.”

You let out a defeated breath and answered in a low tone so your words wouldn’t carry. “I know. I just...I wanted to wait a little longer. I’ve spent five years agonizing over the day that he starts asking more questions about his father and how and what I should tell him. How do I tell him his father was a monster who murdered over thirty people?”

Monster, was that the right word? Some would say yes, that anyone who took a life outside of war or self-defence was a monster. Still, others would say no, that the people he killed were monsters themselves and deserved to be punished, to be wiped from the world like the scum they were. And what did you think? Five years since the truth about the man you loved was revealed, and you still couldn't answer that question.

“How much have you told him already? Surely he’s asked about Atem,” Jonouchi asked, voice as quiet as yours.

“A few years ago he asked where his daddy was, and I just told him that his dad wasn’t with us anymore. Nice and vague.” You very deliberately omitted the other time Yugi asked something about his father, considering the question had been ‘did you and daddy love each other’. That was still a raw memory. “I think he’ll start asking questions when he hangs around other kids more. They’ll ask questions and he’ll come home and ask me, you know?”

Jonouchi let out a sigh and nodded in understanding. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but when a bit of silence passed you decided to spare him.

“You should get going, Jou, you had a long shift at the precinct. I know Mai’s waiting for you and I don’t want to keep you too long.”

The blonde flashed you a smile and straightened a bit. “Well, first I gotta keep my title as favorite Uncle and tuck the little guy into bed!”

You chuckled as he started towards Yugi’s door, “Good luck, you giving him the first two Zelda games is sure to keep him up half the night.”

“In that case, I’ll just take a hug, remind him who gave him the games and leave the half nighter to you!”

“Gee, thanks,” you scoffed.

As you moved to finish the dishes, your attention was drawn by a gentle call of your name. When you looked up you saw Jonouchi standing with his hand on the bedroom door’s knob, looking back at you with an almost serious expression.

“You know if you two need anything, you got us, right?”

The smile you gave him was soft and genuine. Many had shunned you after everything came to light, but your true friends, the few who truly mattered, stuck by you through it all.

“I know.”

Flashing a smile of his own he, finally turned and entered Yugi’s room, and your smile widened when you heard your son instantly start babbling and thanking Jou for the ‘awesome old games’ he had given him.

With those two occupied, you went back to your chore, first removing the few choice pieces of jewelry you wore lest they get wet. Perhaps it had been the day’s hardships, having all those only wounds reopened, but your eyes lingered on one piece of jewelry you wore most often. It was a simple silver band on your left ring finger, a simple fake, worn to ward off the flirtatious doctors at work who wanted to swoop in and pretend to fix all your problems. Some knew it was only fake and tried anyway, but you refused to wear the real engagement ring that once decorated your finger.

The door clicked shut and you looked up from your textbook, immediately smiling when your eyes landed on a very excited looking Atem. He set his backpack aside and waved a velvet box with a bright smile on his face.

“I finally got it back!”

You almost squealed in delight as you jumped up from the dining room table and ran to him. He caught you in his arms and held you tight, only lingering in the embrace for a moment before pulling back just enough to show you the ring box.

“Can’t believe it took them three weeks to resize it,” you said with a disbelieving breath, one that turned into an adoring sigh when he opened the lid.

It wasn’t an expensive thing, a silver band holding a stone of your favorite color surrounded by teeny tiny diamonds on either side. When he had proposed he told you that he didn’t want a diamond to be the centerpiece, that diamonds were too cold and commonplace for you. That he wanted a stone as warm and bright as you were, with the more standard gems to surround it- ‘bowing to its beauty’ as he had so poetically put it.

You reached to take the ring from the box, but he pulled it back, “No, let me, just like when you said yes,” he whispered and took the ring in his own hand. He held the ring at your waiting fingertip, and said, voice still low and intimate- desperate, almost, “I never want this to come off again. I want everyone to know the most amazing woman in Domino chose me.”

Then he slipped the ring on your finger and it felt like the act brightened your whole future together, like everything was going to be okay.

Atem took your hand in his and pressed his lips to your fingers, to the ring. "Mine, forever," he whispered, then put his hand over yours so his own ring was on full display, "just as I'm forever yours."

You copied his act of affection, kissing his hand and humming contently. "I can't wait to be your wife."

"Say it again," his tone was even deeper, now, husky as he leaned forward to ghost his lips over yours.

"I can't wait to be your wife-"

The last word was barely out before he pressed his lips to yours. Your knees felt weak as he moaned into the kiss, as if your lips intoxicated him. Then he moved to gently but firmly press you against the wall, pinning you with his body as his lips moved to trail down your neck.

You let out a breathy laugh that turned into a quiet moan, "I should be studying for my finals…" It sounded weak and unconvinced even to your own ears.

"You can study after I’m done making love to you," his voice was almost a growl as he slipped his hands under your shirt, but he paused just short of gliding his fingers over your breasts, "Do you want me to stop?"

Oh, he knew how to play you; lips pressed against your ears, already sinfully sexy voice as low and alluring as he could manage, hands teasing and ready to work their magic.

"No, please don't stop," you whispered and he chucked.

"As you wish, my love."

A bitter taste was climbing up your throat and you had to swallow it down before it turned into tears. Too late. You sniffled and ran the heel of your hand across your eyes to wipe away the few tears that were gathering on your lashes. Another deep breath, another forceful attempt to shove the painful memories back where they belonged; in a dark lockbox at the back of your mind. Instead, you focused on the sound of your boy giggling with Jonouchi in the other room. Despite everything, you had tried to provide a good life for him, and as happy as he was, it seemed to be working so far.

Best not to dwell on the past.

#atem x reader #yami x reader #Atem #yami #yami yugi #yugioh x reader #reader insert #Yu-Gi-Oh #yu-gi-oh reader insert #series: crime and consequence

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andrea-lyn · 4 years

Note

Holiday prompt! Michael's a single dad (mother didn't want the kid so he raises her all on his own.) And he's the cutest fluffiest daddy to his little princess. But he's lonely. Alex has his little princess, his beagle Buffy. But he's lonely too. Michael and Alex have some kind of meet-cute and fall in love. Alex bonds with Michael's daughter and Michael/his daughter bond with Buffy. And they become a sweet little family in time for Xmas! (I loooooooove your writing btw!!!!)

what are you doing new year’s eve?michael/alex, pg-13

“Buffy! Hey! Whoa! Easy,”Alex pleads when Buffy takes off through the park, hellbent on gettingsomewhere, yanking on Alex’s arm as she bolts.

Usually, she’s a great dog, but when there’s a lot of commotion going on, shecan get excitable. It’s probably Alex’s fault for bringing her to the fall fairlike this, but it’s one of Roswell’s few events – not to mention that Kyle hadtexted him that if he didn’t attend and kept sitting alone in his cabin, therewould be consequences. So here he is, out at the fair, while Buffy tries tomake him lose yet another limb because she wants him to go somewhere.He’s almost got her under control when the toe of his prosthetic digs into adivot in the ground and sends him flying. Alex hears someone’s shout of alarm nearby.He braces himself for the impact, but then it … never comes.Instead, he’s face-first in someone’s chest, hearing a high-pitched giggle nearhim. “Hi doggy!” a little girl says to Buffy, and Alex grabs at a pair ofshoulders (very nice, very strong, very handsome shoulders) to pull himself outof whoever’s chest he’s gone right into. When he looks down, he sees Buffy licking the girl’s cotton candy (she can’t bemore than four and she’s also very easygoing, because she clearly doesn’tmind). Alex stares up nervously to find himself in the arms of a handsome man,which is usually the kind of thing that only happens in his dreams.“Buffy, stop it,” he manages to eke out, even if he’s not looking at the dog. “Tori, don’t let the dog get your cotton candy,” the man says, and he sounds alittle like he’s echoing Alex’s tone. “Hi,” he says, breathless and a littlestunned as he looks at Alex. “You always meet new people like this?”“I think my dog had some designs on your daughter’s cotton candy.”

Alex collects himself and steps back, running through the list of likelypossibilities why this handsome man isn’t a prospect for Alex. Even thoughthere’s no ring on the man’s finger, there’s a daughter, which means that thewife is somewhere around here and though his dog may be trying to be amatchmaking little fiend, even she can’t know about the complications that hehas to face in a town like Roswell where his prospects can be counted on asingle hand. “She’s cute,” the man promises, and ducks down to haul Tori up by the waistinto a flying position. She screams happily and peers upside-down at Alex witha head of blonde curls bouncing. “I’m Michael and this is Tori,” he introducesthem, while Tori waves at them.“I’m Alex,” he says, tugging on the leash to get control, “and this is Buffy,”he says, bending to try and get some of the cotton candy out of Buffy’s mouth.“Sorry, I should let you get back to your family, your wife must be waiting forthe both of you.”It’s the wrong thing to say from the way Michael looks hurt, echoed on Tori’sface.“I don’t have a Mommy,” she says quietly. “Daddy says that she has importantbusiness somewhere else, but one day he’s gonna fall in love with someone elseand I’ll get a new Mommy or Daddy then.”“Tor,” Michael hisses.Alex blinks as he tries to rapidly process all of that. He can’t imaginethat Michael had intended for his daughter to out him like that. “Sorry, I’doffer to unhear that, but…”“It’s fine,” Michael says, even if he looks a little uneasy. “Her Mom and Igrew up together in a group home and a while ago we tried to have something.She got pregnant and she didn’t want the baby, but she had some pretty strictviews on that, so I offered.” His smile softens as he stares at her withadoration. “Best decision I ever made.”“She’s pretty cute.”“So’s your girl,” Michael replies, and when Alex gives a confused look, Michaelgestures to the dog. “Buffy, huh? You must’ve been a big fan.”“Or just a really big nerd,” Alex clarifies. “Are you new to Roswell? I feellike I haven’t seen you around, because I would’ve noticed…” He trails off, hiseyes widening before he admits something really stupid like ‘I would’ve noticedsomeone as hot as you’.“I lived here for a while when I was a kid, but then I got moved to a fosterparent in Albuquerque. Only came back for a job recently, but it’s funny howmuch the town hasn’t changed.” Michael hasn’t shifted his gaze from Alex’smouth the whole time he speaks. “At least, in some ways. I don’t remember ithaving someone as handsome as you around.”Alex glances to the side and blushes, wondering why he’s ignoring the pick upline.“It, um…I…” He’s not used to people flirting with him, so he thinks he’sallowed to be somewhat off balance. “Thanks?”“Yeah, no problem,” Michael replies with amusement. “Listen, Tori dragged meout to this thing because she said I was being Mr. Sad Dad sitting all aloneand working on the car, but I don’t really know what you do at a fall fair. Youwanna…explore with me?” he asks, biting his lip and arching his brow in a waythat has Alex reading all the way between the lines into the other thingsMichael might be asking with a question like that.“Yes!” Tori says, jumping up and down excitedly, already coming over to try andtake the leash. “Please? Please, please? I can hold Buffy,” she says veryseriously. Alex is still stunned that he literally fell head-first into this man’s chest,who happens to be bisexual, and wants to explore the fair with him. His luck isn’tusually this amazing, and yet, here he is, looking down the barrel of an offerhe can’t refuse.“Yeah,” he says. “I think I owe someone a cotton candy replacement.”“Yes!” Tori squeals. “And then we’ll play games, and ride the ferris wheel,”she lists, sliding her hand along the leash that Alex is holding to help, whileMichael falls into step at his side, casually bumping his shoulder ever once ina while, “and we’ll get pictures drawn and go pet the sheep…!”“All that, huh?” Alex teases.“Maybe even more,” Michael agrees, and leads them off into the fair. His dog is a remorseless matchmaker, he decides, but seeing as Michael keepstouching him in all these small little ways, keeps feeding him fair food, keepsgrinning in that sweet and overly perfect way, it’s not like he minds. When the night’s over and they’re parting ways in the parking lot, Michael’sgot a sleeping Tori in his arms, giving Alex an apologetic look.“I’d give you my number, but my hands are kind of full…”“It’s okay,” Alex rushes to insist, not wanting to put expectations on Michaelfor one good afternoon. “I’m Alex Manes, I’m out at a hunting cabin justoutside of town, but maybe I’ll drive in sometime and visit the both of you. Iknow Buffy would love to see you again.” He breathes in and decides to go forbroke. “I know I would, too.”“Okay,” Michael replies, with a considerate nod. “Michael and Victoria Guerin,”he says. “Look us up or we might just have to come find you.”Alex waves them off, thinking about how that threat had sounded far toogood. Maybe Alex will have to hold off on the finding, just to see what happens next.*On Thursday evenings, Alex attends the local library with Buffy for a sessionin the kids’ section. Buffy mills around the kids to soak up affection whileAlex reads stories, plays his guitar, and sings. It's something he’d picked uprecently when the weight of being alone at home had begun to crush him. Hehasn’t really had anyone for years and it’s not like he and his family getalong, which means that other than his dog, he doesn’t really have anyone inRoswell.He used to have Kyle, but then he’d picked up that doctors without bordersrotation last month and Jenna’s off on another tour, so here he is.The kids are great, though. They love hugging and cuddling Buffy (and his dogis an absolute terror who preens as she encourages it) and Alex likes having anaudience, even if it’s children. His day job involves programming, which ispretty lonely in itself, so getting out and doing this is a godsend. He makes it through the first story and song before he looks into the crowd ofkids and sees a familiar head of curls and a beaming gap-toothed grin directedback at him.Tori waves eagerly at him, bouncing in her seat. Alex laughs as he waves back,noticing that Buffy’s decided where she’s going to stay, which happens to be inTori’s lap. Alex pushes that thought out of his mind that where Tori goes,Michael is also probably there. It still affects his next song choice, pickingsomething closer to a ballad than a happy upbeat song.When story time is over, Tori jumps up. “Come on Buffy!” she whistles andclaps. “You gotta go back to Mr. Alex, now,” she says.“Alex is okay,” he says with a laugh and a warm smile for the girl. He digsinto his bag for a treat to get Buffy at his side, patting her head when shereturns to him. “Hey Tori,” he greets her. “You liked story time?” “I did!” Tori agrees. “I never got to do this, but then Daddy found out thatyou were here and he said we should come, cuz you never called us.” It’spetulant and she’s got her hand on her hip, like Alex is in trouble, which he’scertainly feeling even though it’s all turned out for the best.His favorite people in the world have come to see him play music and sing andread stories. Even Tori’s stomping mad mock-fit can’t change that.“I definitely made a mistake,” Alex promises, hand over his heart. “How about Ipromise to take your Daddy out for coffee and bring you, and then I can make itup to you?”Tori squints at him, like she’s thinking about it, but then nods. “Okay, butyou gotta guess what I’m gonna be for Halloween, Alex!” Tori demands, jumpingup and down a little. Alex laughs as he keeps her in, a hand gently on her shoulder to prevent herfrom drifting too much. “What are you gonna be?” he asks, her energy just alittle overwhelming, and he wonders how the hell Michael does this on his own.“An alien!” she says loudly. “I’m gonna have antenna and green skin and…”“Tori, volume,” comes her father’s voice.Alex blushes slightly, knowing that he’s probably been lurking around, butstill, glancing up to see Michael in a soft-looking sweater is enough to catchhim off guard. Alex wants to wrap his hands up in it and tug Michael towardshim, bury his face in his shoulder, and kiss his way up his neck before…He’s in a children’s library section. He should not be having these thoughts.“Hi,” Alex says, staring at him. “Hey,” Michael replies, coming to stand behind Tori. “You never called.”“You said you’d come find me if I didn’t,” Alex replies, heart pounding in hischest. “I figured if you were actually interested, you would.” And here he is. “So,if Tori’s dressing up as an alien for Halloween, what’s her Dad going as?”Michael lets his gaze slide over Alex and shrugs, like he’s not so sure hewants to give it away so easily. “I mean, you could always come with us,” hesays, which makes Tori’s face light up with delight, whispering ‘yes, yes, yes’and tugging on Alex’s hand, even though Halloween isn’t for another week andchange. “Then you could see what I’m dressed up as.”So they’re doing this, are they?“Okay,” Alex hears himself agreeing, because he’d be an idiot not to. “I guessI’ll see the both of you on Halloween.”On trick-or-treating night, Alex shows up in town with Buffy. She’s wearing littlealien antennae to match Tori and Alex has dressed up in his very finest vampirefangs and contacts (mostly because his go-to costume from Rocky Horror PictureShow probably isn’t appropriate for public consumption). Tori is, as expected, an adorable little alien. Her father is dressed up as acowboy, with that black hat looking way too good to be true. The pantsalso happen to be a little too tight and look like a strange material that hasAlex questioning them.While Tori is off collecting candy, Michael fills him in on why that is. “Theyran out of the normal cop costume for adults, so uh, this is the stripperversion from online.”Alex gapes at him as he wanders up to collect Tori, wondering if he’s going tobe able to test out those pants and see how easily they come away. His heartpounds in his chest as he thinks about it, hoping against hope that maybehe’ll get that. For now, he’ll enjoy the view. *It's the day.Today’s the day Alex has to decide if he’s going to attend the family Christmasparty or whether he’s going to turn it down another year in a row. On the onehand, he loathes his father and he knows the feeling is mutual, so the lastplace he wants to be is under his roof. On the other, it’s going to be a lonelyChristmas otherwise. It’s the thought he’d been debating while standing in theliquor store for the last thirty minutes mulling over the same bottle ofwhiskey.“I know it can’t be that complicated to decide on the booze, so whatever’s onyour mind must really be weighing youdown.”Alex startles, glancing to the side to see Michael standing there with abasket. “It’s not Sunday,” Alex jokes, which is when they meet up to go groceryshopping together. He hugs the bottle of whiskey a little tighter against hischest to try and dispel the way he feels so unsure, wishing that he could makethis decision easily, but he can’t. Obligation and hope that his awful familywill decide this is the year they stop being terrible looms. “What, I can’t stalk you on Fridays, too?”“I would’ve picked a nice restaurant for dinner if that was the case,” Alexjokes, but it feels empty. “What’s up?” Michael asks. “Man staring at liquor like that for as long as heis, it’s never a good thing.”“I have to tell my family today if I’m going for Christmas dinner or not,” Alexsays. “I keep waiting until the last minute and that’s today.” With only a weekto go, they want to know how many places to set and Alex knows that he alwaysputs it off because of his indecision, but he usually folds and goes, only toregret it.“What happens if you don’t go?”Alex shrugs and puts the bottle in his basket. “The same thing that always happens.Buffy and I have a night in where I make something for dinner that she eats offmy plate, I get stupidly drunk, and then I wish I’d gone. It’s why the last fewyears, I do go, and then they call me names, ask me if I’ve thought aboutconversion camps, and are total assholes for the whole night.”It’s a lose-lose situation, basically.“You’re ignoring the very good third option here,” Michael says, his facestormy the moment Alex mentions the conversion came. “Come spend the day andevening with us,” Michael says.Alex had never counted on there being a possibility of a win in thissituation. Yet, it catches him off guard. Even though he and Michael have beenspending a lot of time together over the last three months, it had neveroccurred to him to even ask to spend the holiday with Michael and Tori, but nowthat he’s brought it up, it’s the only Christmas gift he actually wants. He’s sure that his face is filled with a desperate longing (something else hefeels around Michael all the time, which means it’s a normal look for him thesedays).“It’s Christmas,” Alex hears himself protesting, instead of screaming yesthe way he wants to. “I don’t want to intrude.”“My foster siblings are all out of town and you’re Alex,” Michael says, shakinghis head like he can’t believe Alex thinks he’d be intruding. “You’re basicallypart of our family already. Tori adores you, and she loves Buffy. Sometimes, Ithink she loves your dog more than she loves me, it’s causing some realemotional issues…” he deadpans, but he’s still smiling. “Alex,” he says andreaches out to rest his hand on top of Alex’s. “Can you please let me have whatI want for Christmas and come spend the day with us?”He wouldn’t be alone. He wouldn’t be at his awful family’s house.Instead, Alex would get to indulge in the third option, one that he’s neverconsidered until this very moment. “We’ll be there,” he hears himself saying.Suddenly, the whiskey in his basket doesn’t seem half as necessary because there’sgoing to be an air of celebration instead of doomed certainty about what hisfuture holds.“I can’t wait,” Michael says. “Neither of us can. You’re family, Alex,” hesays, before heading to check out.Alex watches him go, fighting that desperate urge to grab Michael by the collarso he can kiss him and tell Michael that maybe they’re family, but Alex wants tobe so much more. He’d be family and partner and boyfriend and lover. He’d beeverything, even a second father to Tori, if she’d have him. By the time he resolves to do something about it, Michael’s out of the store,but with the holidays looming near, Alex knows that he’s going to get hischance. *“There’s only a minute left! Sixty!” Tori begins the countdown, her armswrapped around Buffy as she lies on the floor, watching the television. She’shyperactive on the chocolate that she’s been snacking on all night to stayawake, much to Michael’s chagrin (and Alex’s guilt, seeing as he’s been the onefeeding it to her). She keeps counting down, even as Alex shifts on the couch,staring at Michael.It’s been such an incredible back half to the year. Ever since they met at thefall fair, Alex can’t imagine his life without Michael. Every Thursday he has adedicated fan in Tori in the front row at the library, with Michael lurkingnearby. The Christmas they’d spent together had been perfect in all the mostsurprising of ways, and on a regular basis, Michael had started to take Alexout for coffee once a week on top of their usual grocery store date.Alex’s loneliness has begun to ebb away, almost like it had never existed inthe first place.“So, new year coming up,” Alex says, adjusting the blanket they’re under asTori jumps back and forth with Buffy trying to paw at her feet. “You got anyresolutions you planning on making?”Michael’s attention is fixed on Alex, reaching up to adjust the glittery silverparty hat that he’s wearing. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he admits, “andyeah, I think maybe there’s one that I’m meaning to take on.” Alex absently rubs his fingers over Michael’s hand, massaging out the cramphe’d gotten when he’d been opening up the champagne bottle to have it ready togo. “Yeah?” he murmurs.“Yeah,” Michael says softly.“…five! Four!”“You gonna tell me?” Alex asks, heart pounding in his chest.Tori screams one and the television goes wild wishing everyone a new year, butAlex barely hears any of it because Michael leans in and cups his cheeks tobear him to the back of the couch with the kiss that Alex has been dreaming ofsince they first met. It takes him all of a frantic half-second before Alexremembers to kiss back, parting his lips to deepen it while tangling hisfingers in Michael’s curls to tip his head to the side, pushing back to makethis more equal.Breathing heavily by the time he eases back, Alex sags back in happy disbeliefto see Tori grinning at them, jumping up and down and wriggling withexcitement.He’s fed her way too much chocolate.“Happy new year!” she announces and throws herself into a hug in Alex’s arms,snuggling in and yanking on Michael to pull him in. “Does this mean that I’m gonnaget Buffy at our house too?” Alex should feel like his emotions have been wounded what with Tori only caringabout Buffy’s presence and not Alex’s, but he closes his eyes to feel Michaelpressing his temple to Alex’s head, adjusting the blanket to curl all three ofthem under it. “We’ll see, okay?” Michael murmurs. “I gotta make sure I keep my resolution tokiss Alex every day for the next year going, so maybe if he says yes to usmoving in with him, I can do it.” He grins at Alex hopefully, raising bothbrows. “I know it’s fast, but I also think you know that we’re both lonely onour own and this thing, us? It’s working,” he guarantees. “So…what do youthink?”Alex, who’s already been thinking about them as his family for ages, knows deepdown that it could be too fast. And yet, at the same time, they’ve gone monthswithout a kiss as they built a foundation together that could support this asthey try. The worst that can happen is that it falls apart and Alex loses it. No, that’s not it.The worst is that he never tries and doesn’t get it at all. For that,Alex is willing to take the risk. He cups Michael’s cheek as he leans in tokiss him again the way he’s been wanting to for ages, pressing soft kisses tohis lower lip as he eases back to stare dreamily at Michael. “Your daughter’son a sugar high, so I’m gonna say this real quietly,” he murmurs. “But yeah,you can move in with us,” he whispers, and seals that promise with a kiss.He can feel Michael’s grin against his lips, and the little sound of victoriousdelight sends frissons of pleasure through Alex. He has to let them movein, though. After all, Michael has a resolution to keep and Alex feels verystrongly about making sure that you keep to your word, especially when thereare kisses at stake.

#malex #michael/alex #2019 holiday gifts #single father michael #dog father alex #ofc child #holiday fluff #with a meddling child #roswell new mexico #Anonymous

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kiruuuuu · 5 years

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Doc/Lion oneshot in which Lion can’t keep his fingers off Doc, and Doc can’t keep his feet off Lion ;) (Rating E, pure PWP, ~4.3k words) - written for @icezero09!! Thank you again for commissioning me, I’m always stoked to be able to write for you :) Your prompts are a real treat 💖💖

Doc never looks more enticing than after a long day. There’s just – there’s something in his features, a softness where others might look haggard, and it must be his love for the job, his endeavours to help and protect his colleagues, his friends, the general populace. Instead of allowing the everyday stress to wear him down, he often takes moments to remind himself of the good he’s doing. The good he’s done. And so, his slightly sluggish movements carry a gentle quality, his rare smiles are full of gratitude and his aura one of grace, poise, even dignity. He relishes his time to himself, prefers drinking coffee or tea and reading over de-stressing with others, stretched out on the bed, bedside lamp casting warm shadows.

Lion stares at this beautiful man and all he wants to do is fuck him until he screams.

Listen.

He’s drawn to competence and authority already, and encountered a few nearly embarrassing moments when he and Doc were still at odds – the other Frenchman hissed a sharp command and Lion’s first instinct was to roll over, present his belly. Doc is overflowing with life experience and knowledge, and paired with his regular no-nonsense attitude, he’s so perfectly Lion’s type that if he were asked to describe his ideal husband, all he’d do is point at the other man. He oozes attractiveness in a way it makes Lion’s brain short-circuit, and it does things to other parts of his body he has trouble hiding more often than not.

It might be his lower brain speaking right now, however. The same brain which takes note of the sliver of skin visible between Doc’s boxers and his loose shirt, allowing for a few salt and pepper hairs to peek through, the brain which pays close attention to long legs and beautiful fingers, to the juicy-looking bulge, the prominent nose and the fierce scowl -

“No”, says Doc not for the first time.

“Please”, replies Lion, also not for the first time. His breathy pleas have turned into petulant whines but he doesn’t care – all he can focus on is Doc, Doc, in the perfect position to squirm around Lion kneeling between his legs, or maybe swallow Lion’s cock lazily while pretending to read, or get edged to oblivion and back, sweat beading up on his forehead and desperation rising -

“I’m tired. We can do it tomorrow, Olivier.”

He might as well postpone it to the next century. Need has replaced all the blood in Lion’s body, thrumming through his veins and setting him alight for no other reason than Doc being here, in front of him, waiting for Lion to shatter his composure in the most elating way. So far, he hasn’t even touched the object of his desire, merely kneeled down next to him on the mattress, bathing in his lover’s presence; but his body betrays his thoughts. His large erection is painfully visible in his underwear, straining to be set free, twitching now and then, whenever Lion briefly obsesses about one of the things he wants to do to Doc. “Please, Gustave”, he whispers, full of emotion.

It strikes a chord. Doc pauses, book sinking, frown softening. No victory yet, but he’s got his attention. When an attentive and appreciative gaze rakes over Lion’s mostly bare form, he stiffens, holds his breath, allows for his lover to take him all in and judge him – it’s something he found terrifying in the beginning and oddly reassuring now: Doc seems to constantly re-evaluate him and always decides he’s worth it. “Tomorrow”, his lover echoes, sounding weaker than before. He must’ve seen something he liked.

On instinct, Lion sways towards him, following breadcrumbs in the shape of an unconscious lip bite, a gaze flitting to and fro, dropping down to his boner repeatedly. He’s stopped by a foot on his naked chest, a warm sole obstructing him. He breathes against it, makes it rise in time with his inhales, and tentatively brushes over the calf with his fingertips.

They’re staring at each other, hypnotised. The air thickens around them, plump with implications and silent dares.

Doc indubitably meant it as a sign to leave him alone, but when Lion’s dick jumps once more, he seems to understand he’s achieving the exact opposite. His foot twitches, then wanders upwards. “You’re so needy, Olivier.” His voice is low and full of hesitant promises.

The slide of skin on skin drastically increases the temperature in the room. “I am”, he confirms quietly and tilts his head towards the questing limb. Their eyes are glued to each other and neither of them blinks; for once, Lion feels like the prey and not the predator. He’s not surprised he likes it, not when Doc fixes him with a look this intense.

“If I let you, you’d fuck me all night.” A toe drags down Lion’s lower lip and his breath hitches. “Every night.”

He’s never been this fucking aroused in his entire life. “I would”, he agrees and closes his lips around Doc’s big toe. The embers glowing brighter and brighter in coffee brown eyes now ignite with a flash, rising and rising the longer Lion sucks without breaking eye contact. He’s got him now. He sees Doc’s boxers swell in his peripheral vision.

“You’re indecent.” It’s not an insult. Doc pulls his foot free and travels back down, his wet skin leaving behind a cool trace doing nothing to calm the roaring inside Lion. “Utterly obscene.”

The moment Lion feels pressure against his rock hard cock, his eyelids flutter powerlessly. He resists the urge to falter, to fold, and remains perfectly upright despite the foot exploring his crotch roughly, yet his face heats up even more. It’s a mixture of normal stimulation and feeling stepped on, which is thrilling in its almost-humiliation, but since it’s Doc, there’s a warm security behind it too. Doc loves him. And right now, he’s in charge for once. Lion’s lips part in preparation of a moan which never comes, because when toes finally rub over his cockhead, the resulting desire exploding outwards closes up his throat.

Doc is electric and electrifying, even the lightest touch causes muscles to tense and passion to skyrocket – he contours Lion’s balls with the back of his foot, then drags the heel over his aching erection and elicits half-strangled gasps of disbelief. Lion wants him so much and yet is frozen in the moment, held at bay by the promise of more teasing. “You like this.” Not a question. Doc seems gleeful, filled with delight over having discovered something about Lion all by himself, something of which he likely wasn’t aware himself or else he would’ve divulged it readily, hoping for Doc to exploit his knowledge.

And he’s correct. Lion never knew how fucking sexy being touched like this could be, but he’s beginning to suspect that anything Doc does to him is the epitome of desirable as long as Lion’s in the mood. And is he ever.

“Please”, he repeats, the phrase empty but the intention clear as day. He needs more.

Displaying a smug smile, Doc discards the book fully and settles in more comfortably in the cushions, all without moving the leg connecting him to Lion. “What am I supposed to do with you, Olivier?”, he mutters, self-satisfied, and rubs over the entire length of Lion’s cock, making him shudder. He looks like a benevolent monarch, regal in his generosity, curious gaze leaving burning hot trails on Lion’s skin.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous”, he can’t help but choke out and Doc’s cool façade breaks to reveal a bright, genuine smile. Once again, the atmosphere shifts, Doc gives up some of his power despite still being mostly in control, and Lion understands they’re on one page now. They both want satisfaction. He’s already planning ahead, wondering in which position he should take Doc, how long he’ll spoil him before burying himself deep, and he can already see this helpless, devoted expression Doc always gets when he’s being invaded, so full of wonder and -

“Can you get off like this?”

His thoughts screech to a halt when his glans slips between Doc’s big toe and the second one. The sound he produces is ungraceful but Doc’s interest is piqued nonetheless – he massages his lover’s shaft with his sole, pressing down on all the right spots and, well, Lion figures the answer to his question is a resounding yes. He can basically feel the precum oozing out.

“Take off your underwear.”

The brief respite he gets while shedding the last piece of clothing does nothing to calm his blazing need, not when Doc mirrors him and reveals his own swollen cock, resting heavy on his belly and calling to Lion. He wants to taste it, touch it, worship it, but when he reaches out, he’s stopped by a playful: “Don’t touch me.” So he sits back, almost drooling, and eyes Doc’s nearly naked form longingly. His shirt rode up even more, putting his toned abdomen on display, and Lion would sacrifice a few fingers to be able to swirl his tongue through Doc’s navel right now.

When his lover grabs the lube from the nightstand, Lion experiences an almost Pavlovian reaction: lust shoots through him, white hot and blinding and all he can think about is how he’ll sink into delicious heat soon. He barely manages to get out a quiet yes before noticing Doc’s lifted eyebrow. Seems like it won’t be that easy after all.

“Needy”, Doc repeats and returns his foot, touching the tip of his toe to the glistening head quietly leaking in neglect and alright, they’re back to this – not that Lion is complaining, finally there’s skin on skin contact and the way his foreskin rolls over all the sensitive spots is addicting, but he still hasn’t taken his eyes off Doc’s proud erection. Testament of his attraction to Lion. It’s this thick and dark only because of him, only because he’s letting Doc give him a footjob and loving it.

Finally, he picks up on the expectant air around the other Frenchman and it clicks. So they’re playing a game today. “I’m a horny dog”, he breathes, voice breaking when the pressure increases to an almost unbearable level just for a second. “I should be punished.”

Doc’s grin is brilliant. “You should”, he concurs and spreads his legs. Fucking Christ. Lion’s gaze is glued to the entrance now visible, taunting, inviting. He can’t reach out and brush his fingertips over the rim, can’t lie down to lick over it like a kitten, can’t glide inside to unload deep, deep inside Doc – but he wants to. Dear God does he want to.

“Please, Gustave.” He’s a broken record at this point. Hips are starting to move, pushing back against the warm limb slowly driving him insane, seeking to increase the friction, wring every bit of pleasure out of the sensation he can, and the result is better, a lot better, but not good enough. His breath is stuttery and the small thrusts aborted; he’s trying hard to hold himself back.

“Is this what you want?” Doc reaches down and pulls a cheek apart, exposing himself even more obscenely and fucking hell, he’s cocky. Lion isn’t sure where Doc got this sudden boost of confidence but it’s blisteringly hot to see him sprawl like this, put himself on a silver platter. He does look delicious. Lion wants to devour him whole. “Hm? Is this it?”

A thumb touches the pink hole which pulses in return, constricts, and Lion can feel it around the base of his cock, the phantom sensation impossibly strong as his hips strain forwards against the unwavering resistance. “Yes. Fuck yes.” Words largely elude him over the sensual sight right before his nose.

And then he has to watch, frozen in disbelief, as Doc pours lube over his own fingers before returning them to their previous place; and with Lion staring, open-mouthed, Doc rubs over the rim slowly, coating it, and eventually pushes one digit inside.

Lion’s brain malfunctions.

This is too much to handle, Doc is too much to handle, and he just can’t. Following a moan, a muffled, despairing sound, Lion wraps a hand around Doc’s calf and keeps it in place as he thrusts his entire length along the soft sole, never once taking his eyes off the finger pushing in and out steadily. He needs this stimulation and so he takes it for himself, humps Doc’s foot like a drowning man and whimpers when the toes curl around his glans on every upstroke. The lazy smile on his true love’s face, the way Doc’s body accommodates all, his own finger and Lion’s sudden outburst, it’s exhilarating.

“Slow down”, Doc requests gently. “You’re meant to enjoy this.” But it’s impossible, how can he expect Lion not to run wild when he adds another finger so casually as if he’s used to it – and he can’t be, not like this, not when Lion insists on being the one to prepare him every time they have sex. He relishes in the noises he tickles out of his significant other, works him open with patience and adoration each time, teases and rubs and thrusts until Doc is red-faced from the effort of holding still, from slight embarrassment and love and anticipation. Doc is used to Lion’s fingers, not his own, so how can he smirk like the cat that ate the cream when he’s -

Doc moans, cock twitching.

And Lion fucking loses it.

He wasn’t even aware of how his pleasure spiked the moment Doc started fingering himself, didn’t really notice how fucking primed and ready he was, how affected by the consistent teasing – and if he’s honest, he doubted that a foot alone would turn him on this much. But the friction was delectable, and paired with the shapely leg attached to it, the entirety that is Doc lounging on the mattress, all honeyed words and fiery looks, it was entirely too much.

With a high-pitched whine, he zooms past the point of no return before he realises what’s happening and when he does, he’s horrified. He’s not going to shoot inside Doc if he comes now, he’ll just ejaculate all over his leg and shit, that’s embarrassing really. Scrambling to stop the process, he pushes the offending foot away, ceases all stimulation trying to prevent his climax, but it’s too late.

Or is it?

Because all that happens is his cock pulsing and sperm leaking out weakly, so instead of the usual fountain it’s nothing more than a sad dribble down his shaft as he shakes from suppressed need – it flows over his balls and drips down right onto Doc’s foot.

“I’m sorry”, Lion mutters, not only for the shitty orgasm but also for making a mess, and he wants to continue by offering compensation when Doc rumbles: “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

And this is when Lion realises that he’s still painfully hard. That his lust hasn’t disappeared. He raises his gaze to meet Doc’s and is shocked at its intensity, amazed when he sees his lover reflect the same amount of desire he’s projecting. They still want the same thing, if Doc’s scissoring fingers are anything to go by, but Lion feels raw and overstimulated after the not-quite orgasm, so he does the first thing that comes to mind.

He begins licking Doc’s foot clean. Simply raises it to his face, noting as his lover’s stormy eyes darken, and pushes his tongue between the wet toes. If his heartbeat wasn’t already going a mile a minute, it certainly does upon Doc adding a third finger inside himself. Even so, Lion dedicates himself to his task, lavishes the flesh before him in attention and enjoys every second of it. His fingertips dig into muscle and massage the arch dutifully while his mouth takes care of the rest: sloppily slurping up the mess he made, lapping at each toe individually and sucking on them in succession – he doesn’t stop until it’s clean again, and even then he keeps going. Doc watches him, grateful, entranced, and when Lion finishes by placing a soft kiss on every toe, some of the tension in his features melts into appreciation again.

“I love every part of you”, Lion says, because it’s true, and smiles when Doc’s cheeks deepen in colour. Finally, finally, his lover pulls his fingers free and motions for him to come closer, and Lion wastes no time practically diving on top of the other man to smash their lips against each other. The entire length of their bodies slots together like two puzzle pieces interlocking, and all this contact is the best kind of overwhelming after having been touched so little previously – they’re constantly in motion, rubbing their legs over each other, pressing their chests closer, running hands over every bit of skin they can find, and all the while Lion slowly takes Doc apart with his tongue. He explores Doc’s mouth as if it was the first time, ravishes it with abandon and swallows all the groans coming from their stiff cocks dragging over each other.

“Come on, Olivier”, wet lips mumble against his between mind-numbing kisses, “I want you inside.”

And fuck he does not need to say this twice. Lion wrestles his better half out of his shirt and longingly eyes the sculpted chest which he’d normally lavish in attention, but with the way his dick is thrumming impatiently, he simply doesn’t have the nerve. Before he can begin to look for the lube, Doc has already slicked up his hand again and wrapped it around Lion’s shaft, making him flinch momentarily. He’s sensitive, overly so, the pressure from before and the not-quite orgasm left it raw and throbbing, yet the callouses on Doc’s fingers feel heavenly despite the slight discomfort.

It feels like an eternity with Doc letting his fist glide up and down in a pace so slow it does nothing but heighten Lion’s arousal, and the entire time they keep making out deeply, tongues dancing, lips sucking on any piece of flesh before them. This is one of Lion’s favourite pastimes – just kissing, without any specific intentions. Kissing for the sake of kissing. They’ve started a few days off by just locking lips for an hour and seeing where it gets them, and more often than not both of them end up short of breath, vibrating with anticipation and hungry for more.

Doc’s hands are even more skilful than his feet in getting Lion off, and so he actually has to grab his lover’s wrist to prevent another too-soon climax, especially when deft fingers begin massaging the underside of his head, sending jolts of pleasure through his body. They separate just long enough to hold eye contact when Lion enters him, and he’ll never get enough of watching Doc’s eyelids flutter shut when the thick head breaches him fully, of the way his mouth falls open on a silent moan. Muscles relax, features go slack, and he’s Lion’s. Wholly his. This is the moment in which Doc gives himself up, hands himself over to his lover.

He’s incredibly hot and tight, welcoming the flesh pushing inside by clenching down on it in waves and prolonging the initial slide in – not that either of them mind. Lion buries his face in the crook of Doc’s neck and just breathes, focuses on the soothing smell, the blissful feeling of becoming one with the one he loves and the aimless patterns Doc draws on his back as they both bask in each other’s presence.

“You feel good”, Doc murmurs and it’s all the encouragement Lion needed. He latches on to the skin of his lover’s neck, sucking a bruise onto darker skin, and grinds against him with deliberate motions, rubbing deep. The resulting noise is music to his ears.

For a bit, he concentrates on shallow, hard thrusts while marking Doc all over, claiming him with light bites and more hickeys, but it doesn’t satisfy either of them. Lion’s cock is aching, rearing to be put to good use, and so he gives in to the primal urge.

Rising up, he fixes Doc with a sweltering gaze and plants a last sloppy kiss on his mouth before he does the very thing he’s been wanting to do every since he stumbled over Doc all spread out on their shared bed: fuck him until he forgets which day it is.

Their moans mingle in the space between them and all Doc can do, helplessly, is scramble for purchase, hold on to Lion’s sides as he’s rocked by every brutal thrust into his welcoming hole – he looks adorable, in a way, all caught up in the ecstasy of having his sweet spot hammered. Lion drags him onto his cock by the hips, meeting him halfway with his own and slams home mercilessly, bathing in the uninterrupted stream of noises Doc creates as usual: muffled groans, disbelieving gasps, throaty moans. Lion absorbs it all, lets it fuel the pulsating desire driving him.

“Hold your feet”, he demands in between sharp snaps of his hips eliciting strangled sounds, “yes. Just like that. Fuck yes.” And there’s another spike caused by the view in front of him, by Doc grabbing his own soles and holding his legs up and apart, pink skin turned towards Lion and his heavy dick beautifully showcased again. He’s lost in the moment, in the sensations – they both are, and Lion briefly has to struggle to keep up his brutal tempo.

Since he half-came earlier, his stamina is impressive, but it doesn’t only have advantages: he’s struggling to climb, trapped in perpetual stimulation which only just isn’t enough even though Doc clamps down on him so marvellously every time he rubs over his prostate, even though Lion can feel his glans getting caught on Doc’s rim on every thrust. His hair is sweat-soaked, Doc’s skin is shiny and despite the fast movements, he’s not quite there.

Seeking that last bit of pleasure which will push him over the edge, Lion begins worshipping Doc’s body as hardly anything turns him on more quickly than being allowed to explore, adore, map out his lover’s skin. Doc stretches towards his touch, melts below his fingertips and just won’t stop growling in satisfaction while Lion strokes over the expanse of his chest, teases the erect nipples and pushes a thumb between reddened lips. But even when Lion reaches between their legs and starts jerking the bone hard cock so familiar to him, even when Doc whines and tosses his head to the side and nearly loses grip of his feet, even when he’s shuddering in overstimulation, even when Lion’s heart is so full of devotion, he can’t come yet, can’t -

In frustration, he leans in and trails his lips along the pretty feet displayed for his pleasure, captures cute toes in his mouth and wraps his tongue around them, and in return, Doc produces the most desperate keen Lion has ever witnessed him make. With the next breath, he moans out Lion’s name, and holy fuck that’s it.

Bent over the love of his life, Lion almost collapses when the first wave of pleasure races through him like a truck. He goes blind for a second, clawing at anything in reach, probably leaving more bruises, and stutters out a loud groan as his climax ripples through him with so much intensity he briefly loses himself. At the edge of his consciousness, he registers Doc writhing under him, caught up in his own orgasm, and the realisation that they’re coming together has Lion’s abdomen tense up almost painfully, heightening the relief shooting through his system as he comes deep inside. They pant together, hold on to each other as they ride it out, moving in unison and relishing their release.

They keep moving slightly while coming down, cause gentle friction and reassure each other with soft touches, and it helps ground them. Lion trusts his lover fully and so he lets loose, allows for the post-orgasmic afterglow and exhaustion to settle in comfortably without having to worry about anything. Once their breaths and heartbeats have normalised, they exchange a grin and disentangle themselves: Doc lets his legs fall, Lion pulls out and gives Doc’s spent cock a last tug, and then they stretch out next to each other, sighing and interlacing their fingers.

A minute is spent in warm silence during which they both savour their bodies’ memories, and then Doc scoots closer to nuzzle Lion’s ear, his body probably cooling down and the milky stripes covering his chest aren’t helping. “So”, he purrs, sounding smug again, “you have a foot thing, hm?”

“I didn’t even know”, Lion laughs and kisses Doc’s nose. “But I’m fairly sure it’s just your feet.”

“Flatterer.”

“As if you mind.”

“You know I don’t.” Doc seems extremely pleased with himself. “Is this going to happen every time I just want to read after babysitting our co-workers all day?”

Lion snorts and gathers the other Frenchman into a tight embrace until their hearts beat against each other and their limbs are intertwined in a way they won’t unravel even when they sleep. “Are you implying you wouldn’t want that to happen?”

And the only reply he receives is an amused grin. Which, he notes not without significant self-satisfaction, is not a no.

#rainbow six siege #doc/lion #doc #lion #fanfic #oneshot #commissions #you've made a grave mistake in indulging him doc #wait until he asks for footsie during a meeting

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jungshookz · 5 years

Note

You know what would be great???? Culinary student! Jin and a hopeless y/n who eats ramen out of coffee pots and eats cool whip straight out of the can. Also ily and I hope you know that

→ pairing: kim seokjin x reader

→ genre: what a surprise it’s bratty!y/n, culinarystudent!jin and his fancy pasta, humour, a touch of nsfw because i’m obsessed with jin’s broAd shoulders it’s almost ridiculous

→ wordcount: 3.4k

→ note: i hope i did ur request justice also i love u more :~)))

(gif isn’t mine!) ((also i was going to use a gif of him actually cooking but tumblr refusEd to accept it so i’m sorry))

listen

being completely honest

jin thinks you’re really cute

like SUPER cute

like he’s really REALLy frickin attracted to you because you’re just so??? yOU and somehow it works and it gets his gears GRINDING okay

you were the one who moved in right next door and you greeted him with a friendly smile and a ‘here, i baked cookies!’ and of course he accepted the cookie because he’s not a complete monster

but good GOD

that cookie was awful

and to be fair he’s a culinary student so it makes sense that he has high standards but even a fOOL would know that your cookies were god-awful

before you got the chance to distribute your nasty cookies out to the rest of the people on your floor jin was like hEY hEY how about you give me.,.,,. all of your cookies,.,.. because i,.,. really like them.,.,., and.,., i want to eat.,.,. all of them.,., thank u., yes,.

anyways

you’ve known each other for almost eight months?

and nothing has happened because let’s be real

you’re both wussies

and no one’s admitting anything to anyone so you’re kind of in this flirty-friendly space and you’re both FULLY aware that there’s like.,.,. a sprinkle of flirting going on.,,

but you know what

that’s beside the point

he doesn’t even know why he’s thinking about his undeniable crusH on you

because right now all jin can focus on is the fact that you’re eating ramen out of a coffee pot

let him repeat himself

you’re eating ramen

out of a

a COFFEE pot

you’re in the middle of rambling to him about your day and he’s trying to pay attention to what you’re saying but he wants to scream every time to pause to sluRP out of the coffee pot

laundry room gossip is a pretty normal thing for you two

you’re both so busy during the day

you with your classes and jin with his culinary classes

so once or twice a week you’ll both coordinate a time to come down and do your laundry together (you guys usually shove all your clothes in together because u end up saving some $$ too) and you’ll both end up sitting there for a couple hours just talking to each other while waiting for your clothes

jin raises a brow before pressing his lips together

his mother raised him not to be judgemental but COME ON

RAMEN

out of a COFEE POT??????

out of all the things he’s seen you done this has to be the absolute worst

here are a couple of examples as to what monstrosities you’ve exposed him to:

a cold pizza sandwich (two slices of cold pizza with a drizzle of ranch and crunched up cheetos as the filling)

cereal eaten out of the baG ITSELF (u poured the milk in and everything)

chicken pancakes?? aka shredded deep fried chicken and shredded cheese mixed inTO pancake batter and panfried and then topped with a dollop of sour cream and a sprinkle of green onions

one time you made scrambled eggs in a mug and dat shit looked nasty

but this

this doesn’t even make sense

disrespecting what looks like a pretty high-quality coffee pot (he remembers you got it for christmas or something) by using it as a holder for $1 ramen

it’s probably going to stink up the coffee pot and every time you make coffee it’s always going to have that faint aftertaste of chicken broth

a shudder goes down his spine and he winces

you perk up when the drying machine suddenly beeps and stops rumbling “god finaLLy”

jin keeps his eyes glued on the damn coffee pot as you set it down next to your basket and go to retrieve your freshly-dried clothes

you bend down and pop open the dryer and the loud hiss makes jin look over

“jin?” he glances away quickly and looks up at the ceiling as a poor attempt to conceal the fact that he was totally just checking u out just now

“hm, what?” he clears his throat

“aren’t you going to come and get your clothes?”

“oh, right.” jin pushes himself up off the ground and grabs his basket

he props it up on his hip and starts picking out his clothes from the pile

“hey, these are cute.” jin can’t help but smirk as he twirls a burgundy thong around his finger

your cheeks flame up immediately

“cut it out, you perv” you scowl playfully and grab it from him quickly

the little voice in the back of your mind can’t help but wonder if perhaps jin would be interested in seeing you wear the thong

it comes with a matching bralette

“ya-“ jin pokes your arm and you look over at him “was that your dinner?” he points to the coffee pot and you glance over at it “didn’t you have ramen yesterday?”

“…yeah. instant ramen has been my dinner every day for the past week. why?” you hum nonchalantly and continue picking through the pile

you help jin out and toss one of his white t-shirts into his basket

jin can’t help but let his jaw drop

you’ve been eating processed garBAGe for the past weEK

how???????????

“it’s never enough for me tho so i usually eat a bag of chips too. i might have a frozen mac n’ cheese thingy in the freezer so that’s an option too.” you gasp excitedly “ooh i can crumble the chips over the mac n’ chee-“

“oh my god.” all of a sudden jin reaches over and puShes the rest of the clothes into his basket before grabbing your wrist and dragging you towards the door

“hey, we haven’t finished sorting out the-“

“we’ll do it later i just need to get some actual foOD into your system before all the MSG and sodium starts breakING down your internal organs”

as he’s dragging you up the stairs (the elevator is broken again what a surprise) you can’t help but admire how b r o a d his shoulders are

the cotton shirt he’s wearing is kinda thin and u swear u can see his back muscles flexing slightly

you can’t help but wonder what it’d feel like

running your hands all along his back

digging your nails into his shoulders as he,.,,., y’know

wrapping your legs around his tapered waist as he.,,.,.,. y’knOW

s i g h

you purposely pull back a little so jin slows down and gives u more time to ogle him

are you a pervert for doing that

you might be

“let me see what’s in your fridge so i can work my magic”

he’s never actually been in your apartment before

well

he’s never had a reaSon to

(you always wanna invite him in to watch a movie or something but u get shy and shrivel up immediately)

he has a good idea of the layout because his place is exactly the same as yours

he’s not surprised to see that your place is relatively neat and organised besides a couple scattered markers on the coffee table and a throw blanket tossed haphazardly over the couch

there’s a candle burning away in the middle of the coffee table that makes your place smell like warm vanilla

but then

he enters the war zone

the kitchen

oh my god

this is a living nightmare

this is HIS living nightmare

there’s just

he sees all the takeout boxes in the bin and the pizza box sitting on your kitchen island and the- well that must’ve been your breakfast or something because you sprinkled cinnamon toast crunch on a bagel smeared with waY too much cream cheese

“oh hey i forgot about this” a piece of jin’s soul dies and floats up to heaven when you pop the rest of your cinnamon-cream-cheese-bagel monstrosity into your mouth and chew thoughtfully

why does he like you

“ah, i probably should’ve offered you a bite… i’ll make one for you tomorrow if you want!”

whY DOES HE LIKE U

“i’m… good. i think i’m more than good.” he shudders before nudging past you heading to your fridge “lemme see what we’re working with here…”

“you know you really don’t have to make anything for me. i told you i had a frozen mac and cheese…” you’re rambling and jin is most certainly not paying attention to you mainly because he’s shocked becAUSE you have like NOTHING in your fridge

a bottle of three-cheese ranch

a couple oranges, an avocado, and one red apple

a half-eaten sandwich?? it looks like turkey and a shitload of mayo

a takeout box with…,,. three pieces of orange chicken and a piece of broccoli that you’ve taken a bite out of

a baby carton of chocolate milk and a regular sized carton of milk

and a can of cool whip

unless he makes an orange-chicken-turkey-avocado sandwich with ranch on the side accompanied with a glass of chocolate milk with a dollop of whipped cream on top there’s not a lot he can do here

is thiS how you live

“you know what, maybe you should just come over to my place!” jin closes the fridge and clasps his hands together “yeah, let’s do that.”

“what do you mean?? i have plenTy of food in my fridg- okAy” you stumble over your feet when jin grabs your wrist and drags you away from the fridge

when you enter jin’s place he pushes you down on the couch and you nearly bounce off of it “you stay here, and i’ll whip something up for us.”

as he turns to head towards his kitchen he hears a vioLent schrrr

he turns back around and your finger freezes on the nozzle on the whipped cream canister

“wha- where did you even hiDe that” jin furrows his brows and you shrug before squirting some more into your mouth

“you sure you don’t need any help??” you’re already bored and you’ve only been here for less than a minute

“i don’t want you burning down my kitchen, so i’m good.”

“but i’m boRed and i’m hunGRY” you whine and flop back against the couch

jin raises a brow before bending down and grabbing the remote

he turns the tv on and it just so happens to be playing the late-night cartoons

perfect for a petulant child like you

miraculously jin gets 20 minutes of peace and quiet until he hears you whining again about how hunGry again

that’s what happens when you eat nothing but empty calorie foods

your eyes light up with excitement when jin emerges from the kitchen

he has a rag tossed over his shoulder and a grey apron hanging around him that you assume is from his culinary school

his cheeks are kinda pink from the heat of the kitchen which is adorable

he sits down next to you and you turn to fully face him while crossing your legs

he hands you the plate

wow

“….do you go to culinary school or something?” you tease and jin snorts

the pasta’s been plated into a loose nest and there’s a pretty little basil leaf sitting on top

“chicken, bacon, and spinach spaghetti. and since you’re a whipped cream freak we can have assorted berries and whipped cream for dessert.”

“assorted berries.” you mock quietly and jin scowls playfully before handing you a fork

he doesn’t know why but he’s a little bit nervous lol

like he KNOWS he’s good at cooking but for some reason he feels like he’s presenting a dish to gordon ramsay or someone of that calibre

you twirl a bit of pasta around the fork and shove it into your mouth

and you didn’t think it was possible

but you’re pretty sure your mouth is having an orgasm

HOLy shit

fireworks are going OFF

the bacon has retained its crisp

the spinach is wilted but not toO wilted that it’s falling apart

the chicken is so soft and tender

the spaghetti is cooked *ahem* al dente

and the sauce!!!!

it’s so creamy

so flavourful

you swallow your bite and blink down at the plate of pasta

“what’s wrong?”

“this is…. almost too good.” you mutter and poke at a piece of perfectly cooked chicken before stabbing into it and popping it into your mouth

jin’s cheeks warm with pride as he watches you continue to eat

“it’s almost as good as my frozen mac n cheese meals.” you joke and jin resists the urge to smack you with his rag

it doesn’t matter if you’ve eaten 20 pounds of food for dinner because you’ll always aLWAys have room for dessert

especially if dessert involves whipped cream

it’s healthy-ish!! it’s basically dairy and don’t u need dairy for strong bones or something

and strawberries and blueberries are fruit

and fruit is healthy

so if you really think about it assorted berries and whipped cream is the ideal combo if u wanna get in shape

jin doesn’t trust you with the canister of whipped cream (because he’s 100% sure you’re just going to hog all the cream and squirt all of it into your mouth) so he’s squirting some out onto a particularly juicy looking strawberry that he knoWS you want to devour

he turns and offers it to you and your mouth opens automatically as you lean forward to take it into your mouth

“hold on now.” your brows immediately knit together when he pulls away juSt as you’re about to take a bite “admit it. my spaghetti is much better than your stupid mac n cheese meals.” there’s a glint of playfulness in his eyes as he points to his ear and waits for your response

“i dunno. i get the mac n cheese from whole foods so you know it’s good.” you tsk but keep your eyes right on the berry hovering in front of you

“huh. i guess i’ll be enjoying this seasonal japanese strawberry for myself, then.” jin pouts mockingly

“nO i WANT IT“ jin yelps when you’re suddenly clambering over and grabbing his wrist so that you can shoVe the berry right into your mouth

now

a normal person would eat the berry and then return to their seat

unsurprisingly

you are far from a normal person

you keep your hold on his wrist and suck the whipped cream off his thumb after swallowing the strawberry

god have mercy

your eyes flicker up and you see jin staring right at you with parted lips

“…something the matter?”

and within one second

the berries and your trusty canister of whipped cream have both been abandoned in favour for

well

“can’t believe it took you thiS long to make a move” you murmur against jin’s mouth and he responds by nipping at your bottom lip

“says you!” he gawks before proceeding to press kisses down your neck

and you finALLY get to feel his muscles rippLe underneath the soft cotton of his shirt as you slide your hands from his waist to his back

meanwhile jin’s hand has found its home in between your legs and your eyes flutter shut “god, jin…”

“something the matter?” he mocks before pressing a chaste kiss to your mouth “you gonna admit it now?”

“admit wha- oh, jin - admit whaT”

“that my food is better than your frozen TV dinners” you would’ve burst out laughing if it weren’t for the shocks of electricity tingling up your spine

“n-no way-“ your back arches against his chest and your mouth falls open in a silent moan

and suddenly

you let out a pathetic whine when jin’s hand pulls away from in between your legs “fine. i guess we’re done here!” he sits up but keeps your legs wrapped around his waist

god

you are just a vision aren’t you

you’re flopped back against the arm of the couch

your chest is heaving slightly

your cheeks and nice n rosy

“you are the absolute worst.”

“c’mon… say it…” he hums and slides a finger from your knee cap to your inner thigh

you know for a fact you two aren’t done here because jin’s already hooked a finger into the waistband of your shorts but you’re naturally a veRy impatient person and so-

“fine, you idiot. your food is significantly better than my frozen TV dinners. happy?”

“…i’ll take it.”

((spoiler alert: you are rewarded with not one not two but thREE mind-blowing orgasms for admitting it))

((maybe you should learn to be less stubborn))

“good morning!” jin is startled awake when you plop on top of him with your legs on either side of him “it’s 10 o’clock and i made us some food”

“christ, don’t scare me like that!” jin scolds you playfully and reaches up to pinch the side of your bare thigh

you’re wearing the shirt he had on last night and it’s starting to droop off your shoulder

“good morning indeed.” his voice is thick with sleep and his hand slides up from your thigh to grasp at your waist “whatcha got there?”

“cinnamon toast crunch bagel” you murmur with a mouthful of bagel and swipe at a lil chunk of cream cheese on the corner of your mouth “my wonderful creation that i made fresh for you”

you’re getting crumbs all over jin but he can’t seem to care because the idea of a cinnamon toast crunch bagel makes him want to throW YOU ouT THE WINDOW

he sits up slowly and wraps an arm around your waist before nuzzling into the crook of your neck “you’re lucky i like you otherwise i would throw your wonderful creation righT into the garbage bin right about now.”

you scoff in mock offence and pull away from him before jabbing a sticky finger into his bare (b r o a d) chest

“don’t knock it til you try it!!”

“the day i try one of your inventions is the day i- mmph!” you shut him up and shove the last bite of your bagel into his mouth before clasping your hand over his mouth so he can’t spit it out

jin chews slowly

and swallows

what the hell

that actually..,,. that tasted good

“that was okay, i suppose. kinda sweet. but i can think of something that might taste a little sweeter.” before you know it jin is flipPing you over and you find yourself pinned underneath him

you’re a giggling mess because you’re trying to get the cream cheese and sugar particles off your fingers but jin is being very vEry distracting

“hOLd on a second sir i have breakfast waiting for us in the living room!” jin’s already made his way down your chest and is about to set up shop in between your legs

he looks up at you before offering you a cheeky grin “…i’m in the mood for breakfast in bed, aren’t you?”

help me help you make your wishes come tru (aka send me a request)

masterlist

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creacherkeeper · 5 years

Text

Familiar Weight

If Aziraphale didn't want a relationship with him, well that was fine, really it was, Crowley could deal with that. He would mope, it's what he did. But he'd get over it, as he had in the past, and they'd continue on with their friendship as they always had.

He just ... needed some time. Because it was fine, but it also hurt, and he needed to sit with that alone.

'Alone' being the key word. Which can't exactly be accomplished by Aziraphale turning up at his doorstep with a fluffy blanket and ice cream and a horribly out-of-date VHS copy of The Princess Bride.

some angst, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, & friendship

~4000 words

read on AO3

Moping wasn’t technically one of the seven sins, but Crowley could do it better than anyone. He didn’t need demonic intervention to get that sense of deep existential angst one feels when one is heartbroken. If he could’ve gotten a commendation for “best at feeling absolutely anguished and doing nothing productive about it”, he would’ve applied ages ago. Or … at least before all this. Before the Apocalypse that wasn’t.

He didn’t think he’d be getting any sort of commendations now. He was no longer on Downstairs’ “worst in the best way” list. Just the worst. Bottom of the barrel.

He rolled over in bed, using a minor miracle to fill up his glass on the nightstand with water, specifically so he could not drink it. Just so the water felt ignored. His body was physical, no matter his state of immortality, and lying in bed for days on end had left him with aches and pains. His wings were out so they could become messed and ruffled and tangled in the sheets. He was doing a very good job of this moping business, he thought. It was a shame no one was around to witness it. If a tree falls in the forest, and all that.

Of course, just to add to the irony of the thought, that’s when he heard a knock on the door. He was used to missionaries coming knocking—he encouraged it, actually. He loved inviting them in and leading the conversation in circles until they left feeling confused and dismayed.

He wasn’t up for it today, though. He didn’t want the satisfying thrill of the minor inconveniences he could cause. He didn’t want any sort of thrill at all. He rather did just want to be glum, with an upset feeling in the pit of his stomach.

His fingers waved, and the raving bark of large dogs sounded by the entrance—snarling and snapping of foaming jowls.

Even from his bedroom, he could hear the sigh.

“You don’t have dogs, Crowley. I’d like to come in now.”

Crowley sat up, heart beating an uncomfortable thud. Aziraphale was at once the last person on the Earth he wanted to talk to right now (minus all the other celestial creatures who might be out and about) and the only person he desperately craved to see. Once they’d gotten past the initial high of saving the world and saving each other, things had gotten … awkward. Strained. At least on Crowley’s end, they had. Aziraphale didn’t seem to have gotten the memo.

“Go away, angel,” Crowley grumbled, knowing his muffled voice would carry perfectly well to the angel’s ears. “I’m sick.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “You are not.”

“I am,” he protested. “Horrible demon flu. Coughing up frogs and all that.”

The door unlocked, and in the few seconds before it was opened, Crowley had half a mind to lock him back out. It was a battle of wills at that point, and Crowley didn’t have it in him to put up much of a fight.

“I’m coming in,” Aziraphale said, unnecessarily.

Crowley sighed to himself, as dramatic as he could, and pulled his blanket back around his shoulders. He shuffled into the open doorway, facing Aziraphale as he shut the front door and turned.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “Your wings look terrible. Maybe you really are sick.”

“What do you want?” Crowley croaked.

Aziraphale flashed him a strained smile. “Well, you hadn’t returned my calls. Bit worried Downstairs had gotten you after all. But it seems, uh …” He gave a little wave at the mussed wings and the blanket. “You’ve been keeping yourself occupied.”

Crowley swallowed, not deigning to comment.

“That’s quite alright, though,” Aziraphale continued. “I’ve brought supplies for just the occasion.”

And he tapped on the briefcase he’d held by his side, and crossed into the living room.

“Supplies?” Crowley muttered. His head tipped back and forth while he wondered if it was worth it. His chest already felt lighter, even as his stomach turned to knots, and frankly, he’d rather go back to the achy, empty feeling of a few minutes ago. He was quite good at that feeling. He’d taken 6,000 years to master it. “Ugh, blast him,” he finally growled, and followed.

Aziraphale was standing and waiting for him, hands crossed, smiling pleasantly when the demon joined him. The briefcase was sat on the coffee table, unopened.

Crowley eyed it with suspicion. “Scotch?” he asked.

“Not quite.” He leaned down to click the latches open, clearly taking his time. “You know, for a demon, you’re quite bad at indulging yourself.”

“Bad at a lot of things,” Crowley shot back, and Aziraphale’s eyes glanced to his for only a second.

“But, no matter,” he continued, as if the comment hadn’t been made, “for I’ve brought just the things.”

Crowley didn’t want to be curious. He didn’t even want Aziraphale to be here. He didn’t want anything except a restless sleep and perhaps some sporadically noisy neighbors. Just to really make the experience worthwhile.

But, he was. Heaven be damned, he was.

He crossed over to examine the objects Aziraphale was pulling out of the briefcase. A thick, knit blanket. Some mugs. A pack of cocoa. A few cartons of ice cream—cookie dough flavor—still frozen. Some very fuzzy socks. And a copy of The Princess Bride, on VHS of all things.

“It’s a miracle that all fit in there,” Crowley muttered, and Aziraphale shot him a smile.

“What, are you going to tattle on me?”

The “maybe I will” was on the tip of his tongue, but in his mind’s eye he could feel the hot sting of hellfire, and Gabriel’s grimace of a smile, and he let the comment die.

Aziraphale shook out the blanket, lying it on the leather couch.

“Where are your spoons?” he asked, moving into the open kitchen, and then proceeded to open the exact right drawer.

“Aziraphale—”

“Ah,” he said, grinning. “I found them.”

He returned with two spoons, and set them down next to the ice cream as he picked up the VHS.

The TV, Crowley thought with a tinge of bittersweet victory, had no port for it.

“Hm. This won’t do,” the angel muttered to himself. He held up the VHS, one hand to his lips as he thought, and then just … pushed it into the TV screen. Crowley opened his mouth to protest, but the TV clicked on obediently, and the advertisements began to play. His mouth clamped shut.

Aziraphale moved back over to him, where Crowley was standing dumbly by the coffee table.

“Well? Sit.”

He waved to the couch. Crowley did nothing but stare.

“I didn’t bring any, um … ‘Snuggies’. Those were one of yours, weren’t they? I thought that might be pushing it.”

Crowley could feel his days without drinking in the dryness of his tongue. He struggled to swallow, closing his eyes for a moment. He wished he had his glasses, but didn’t feel like using the energy to call up a pair.

“Aziraphale …” he finally managed. Aziraphale stared at him patiently. “What are you doing?”

It looked like it took an effort for the smile to cross Aziraphale’s face. Perhaps the angel had finally gotten the memo on the ‘strained and awkward’ thing.

“Well,” he started, “usually when you disappear like this, it’s because you’re moping over something. But you’re rather terrible at it, dear boy, and I thought this time I would intervene.”

Crowley’s jaw worked as he thought of an answer. He wanted to scream, to give into the deadly sin of wrath and yell, yes! yes, you stupid angel, of course I’m moping—it’s because of you! but he didn’t. That would lead to a productive conversation, which was far beyond Crowley’s capabilities at the moment. So he twitched his lips and replied, “I like to think I’m good at it.”

“Mm. Quite,” Aziraphale responded, squinting his eyes in a faux smile. “Well, are you going to stand there all day?”

Somewhat petulant, Crowley plopped back onto the couch, wings draping over the back, and snatched up the blanket Aziraphale had brought. It was … heavenly soft, if you’ll pardon the phrase, and his fingers stilled in appreciation of it.

Aziraphale hummed in contentment and sat down next to him, leaning forward to grab one ice cream carton and the spoons.

“Not hungry,” Crowley muttered.

“That isn’t the point,” Aziraphale informed him, “drowning your sorrows in—well—ungodly amounts of sugar is the point. And if you share the carton instead of having your own, you can pretend you haven’t eaten as much as you have. Little trick I’ve picked up on.”

The carton was shoved into his hands, and the chill of it raised bumps on his arms. The spoon was offered next, and Crowley glumly took it and began to eat.

It … wasn’t bad. He didn’t usually go for food, and tended to like savory over sweet when he did. But the texture of the cookie dough chunks was pleasant, and the ice cream was cold and smooth.

“Now, this movie,” Aziraphale started, hands rising to gesture, “was originally a book, you see. Penned by William Goldman and published in 1973. It found its own success, but the film, well it really was a hit. It’s now considered to be a ‘cult classic’ and has quite the following. It’s the perfect film for a gloomy-hearted day.”

Crowley shoved another spoonful of ice cream into his mouth in lieu of responding, glad that it was good at least for that purpose.

The movie started to play, and the lights in the flat seemed to, almost by themselves, dim to the perfect degree. It was with a bitter taste on his tongue that Crowley noted the almost cavalier way the angel was using his miracles. They may have scared off Heaven and Hell for the moment, but Aziraphale wasn’t even trying to be cautious.

Cough cough. Baseball noises. The movie was drowned out by the sudden wash of Crowley’s thoughts. Why was Aziraphale even here, sitting not six inches from him, acting like nothing was wrong? Was he really that obtuse? He’d hoped the angel would get the hint and leave him alone, at least for a while, at least until Crowley could carefully shove down all his feelings and get on with the whole friendship thing, as he’d done in the past. He only needed to mope for … oh, maybe a good month or so. They’d gone much longer without seeing each other. It’s not like this hadn’t happened before.

He was startled from his thoughts as Aziraphale reached over and took the carton, taking a few spoonfulls himself before putting it back in Crowley’s frozen hands.

Crowley stared at Aziraphale’s mouth as he sucked the last of the ice cream from the curved metal surface.

“That day she was amazed to discover that when he was saying ‘As you wish’, what he meant was, ‘I love you.’ And even more amazing was the day she realized she truly loved him back.”

The ice cream carton clunked onto the table, and Crowley let the blanket slip from him as he stood.

“I’m going back to bed.”

Aziraphale huffed behind him. “Oh, don’t be so difficult, Crowley.”

The demon spun with vengeance, wings puffing and feathers standing on end. “Me? I’m the one being difficult? You’re the one who’s broken into my house and forced all this on me.”

Aziraphale’s lips pulled taught. “Yes. Perhaps that was unfair.”

“I mean- Why are you even here, really? What is all this?”

His hand waved half-heartedly at the briefcase and its supplies. “I just wanted to help you feel better.”

“Well, it’s not.”

His hand dropped. His mouth opened and closed as he looked away. “Well,” he said, voice quiet. “Is it too much, then, that I just wanted to see you?”

Crowley’s wings dropped. The fight left his body, and he looked away. “A bit.”

“Look, I know I- that I had a hand in—” His hand rose to motion towards Crowley. “-all this. I just … Well, forgive me, but I didn’t want to stay away.”

Crowley sighed, rubbing at his eyes. “I just need some time.”

“Well, this time, I don’t want to give it to you.”

Frustration bubbled up in Crowley’s chest. “You can’t just pick and choose. You can’t—” His teeth ground shut.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and the way his voice broke on the name forced the demon to look back. “I understand you’ve had a hard week, and some of that was because of me. But I’ve had quite the go of it too, and right now all I want is to be with my best friend.”

Crowley bit his tongue. Because that was the problem, wasn’t it? Or at least part of it. Best friend. It had taken him almost 6,000 years to admit it, but that wasn’t what he wanted out of their relationship. Maybe actually saying that would’ve been helpful, but he felt like he couldn’t have been more clear with his intentions. And that’s how it always went. Crowley would put out the feelers, make a suggestion, an offer, and Aziraphale would shut it down. And he could live with that, he could. It hurt like anything, but he was coping. He’d respect Aziraphale’s wishes and his boundaries and anything else. He just needed time. All he wanted was a little time.

“I asked you—” Crowley started, and then had to stop, as his voice had taken on a choked quality. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I asked you to go away with me. We would’ve had all the time in the world. And you said no. You did. So I waited. I asked again. You said no. I just need a little space.”

The smile that rose to Aziraphale’s face was too watery to even be considered a smile at all. “The world was ending, Crowley. And we stopped it, the two of us. If we’d left, only She knows what would’ve happened.”

“And after, I- After it was over, I thought … Maybe now.”

“Crowley—”

“But the thing is, Aziraphale, that I shouldn’t have thought- I shouldn’t have hoped, because you always say no. And that’s—it’s fine! It is! I just … it hurts, too. Maybe that’s … maybe that’s not on your radar, one of your heavenly senses, but …” He looked down. “It just hurts. And you have to let me deal with that.”

When he looked back up, he was ashamed to find tears in Aziraphale’s eyes.

“Do you think it doesn’t hurt me, too?” Aziraphale stared at him, a little fire in his eyes. The breath stilled in Crowley’s lungs. “That I—Heaven forbid—that I get anything out of it but pain? Do you think it doesn’t kill me to say no, every time? The last thing on this world I want to do is hurt you, Crowley, and I hate myself, truly, when I do.”

Crowley’s wings shook, and he pulled them back into his shoulder blades, afraid of what they’d show. The coffee table met his backside a little too hard, and he wrung his hands together.

“My dear, do you think I don’t want to say yes?”

His yellow eyes shot up, locking onto Aziraphale’s. He knew they were yellow all through where the white was supposed to be, and he’d be embarrassed about it if he had the focus.

But he didn’t, because the only thing he was thinking about was the wetness of the angel’s eyes and the wobble of his lips.

“Then why—” His voice rasped, and he swallowed and started again, “Then why didn’t you say yes?”

Aziraphale’s breath huffed out of him, sad and wet. He looked away for a moment before patting the couch cushion beside him.

Cautiously, Crowley moved beside him. His body was taught, only growing stiffer as Aziraphale reached over and took his hand.

“I had a dream once,” he started, both of his hands wrapped around Crowley’s, thumbs working over his knuckles and fingers skirting over his palm. “You were always talking about sleeping, and dreaming, and, well, I wanted to try it. This must have been, oh, I don’t know, decades ago, now. There was a war on, and I was so tired. All I wanted to do was sleep.”

He swallowed, and Crowley watched the movement of his throat.

“And so I did. I slept, and I dreamt. And I had a dream that we were together, you and I, in- Well, you know what way. But we were caught, you see. Heaven found us.” His lips pressed together, and his eyes pinched, and Crowley wanted to shush him, and tell him it was okay, that he didn’t have to continue. It wasn’t like Crowley didn’t know where this was going. “Well, they … They killed you, Crowley, to put it bluntly. Not temporarily discorporated, or put at a desk job Downstairs, just- You know. That was it. You were gone, and it was my fault, and I’d never see you again.

“And I woke up, and at first I thought it was the most horrible dream. And then I had the even more horrible thought that perhaps it wasn’t a dream at all, but a premonition. You know I love my books of prophecy, and, well, I’m an angel after all, so I thought … what if it was true? What if, should I go down that path, that’s what would become of you?”

His fingers stilled over Crowley’s, like he’d lost himself in thought and had forgotten to keep the movement up. Crowley squeezed his fingers, and the angel shook his head.

“Because, well, this thing we had … It worked, didn’t it? Up until now. Because, angels and demons, we were meant to thwart each other, that’s what we do. And Heaven was fine with me, being here, and you, being here, as long as they thought that’s what was happening. Me, the good and obedient angel, making sure you didn’t stir up trouble. Well, it’s just natural, isn’t it? That’s the way of things. But—think of it, Crowley. What would happen if they thought … if they thought we were happy? It’s just not natural. Not to them.”

Crowley didn’t want to think what would’ve happened had they been caught sooner. His mind flashed again to Gabriel’s disdain, for the easy way they’d led him to the fire.

“Why do you care what Upstairs thinks of you?” Crowley whispered, already knowing, and not wanting to hear the answer even as he wanted to hear it all the same. “They … They don’t even like you, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale’s breath stuttered, and a pinch of guilt rose in Crowley’s stomach at causing it. “Yes, well … I’ve come to realize that, now, but … Well, they were supposed to love me, weren’t they? We’re angels, and I thought, well, that that’s rather the point. I suppose you’ll think it’s silly, but … part of me was terrified to lose that.”

Crowley’s eyes stung, and he looked down as he willed the feeling away. He squeezed as Aziraphale’s fingers again. “It’s not silly.”

“No, it was.” The breath came from Aziraphale in a sad little laugh. “Can’t lose what was never yours.”

His eyes drew back up as Aziraphale extracted a hand, wiping at his cheek.

“Did you know that, um, when they found out, Michael and the others, they, um … Well, they hit me, and pushed me against a wall.”

All of Crowley’s hairs stood on end, and he sprung from his usual slouch. “They what?”

“No, no.” Aziraphale pulled him back down, patting his hand. “Don’t be angry, it’s fine, really, it, uh … Well, it was good, I think, in the end. It adjusted my priorities, you might say.”

Slowly, Crowley sunk back down. But he could feel the anger dance across his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he managed.

Aziraphale nodded, blinking a few times. “What I’m trying to say is … It’s not that I didn’t want to say yes. I was … I was just scared, Crowley. And it was easier to hold you at arms’ length than to confront that.”

Crowley nodded back, staring at his knees. “I’m sorry if I pushed you.”

“No, it … I think I needed the push, the push was necessary. I just wasn’t ready.”

Crowley squinted across the room, trying not to put too much focus on him. The movie had quieted, almost imperceptible, though neither of them had moved to turn it down.

“They’re not watching us, anymore,” Crowley said, and he hated in part how light and hopeful his voice was. “We’re … well, we’re free of them, for the moment. We don’t have to hide, anymore.”

Aziraphale nodded, not looking at him.

“We could—”

“Not today,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley stopped short.

Something rumbled in his chest, some ancient and fresh frustration. “Why?” is all he could ask.

“It’s not the right time.”

Crowley huffed, but didn’t pull his hand away. “It’s been 6,000 years, Azira—”

“It’s not the time,” he said again. “I think,” he continued, “that we’ve gained a lot. But we’ve lost a lot, too. And it’s okay to be sad about that. I think we both need a little time to be sad. I know I do, at least.”

And that was when Crowley understood. It’s not that they didn’t want each other, mutually, it was just … Aziraphale was mourning. He was mourning what he thought he had.

Maybe the blanket and the ice cream and the fuzzy socks weren’t for Crowley, after all.

He let the silence sit between them for a few moments, and then the sound of the movie faded back in.

“What’s this movie about, anyway?” he asked.

Aziraphale smiled at him, grateful. “Well, it’s a love story,” he said, voice soft. “But it’s more than that, too. There are fights and adventures, and good friends, and cunning wit. And laughs. There are a lot of laughs, as well.”

“It sounds good,” Crowley said.

“Oh, it is,” Aziraphale agreed, leaning forward to pick up the remote. “I’ll show you my favorite part.”

“Hey,” Crowley protested. “You can’t just go to the good part. It’s all the things leading up that make it good.”

Aziraphale didn’t respond, but his smirk did.

Crowley frowned. “You did that on purpose.”

“Perhaps.”

His eyes rolled, though Aziraphale wasn’t looking at him, and he plucked the ice cream carton back off the table. “Wily,” he muttered, holding the carton between them, and Aziraphale hummed in contentment as he took a big bite.

Their hands left each other as Crowley pulled the blanket tighter around the two of them. His wings stretched back out of him, and he let one drop around Aziraphale’s shoulders. Not asking anything, not inviting. Just a familiar weight.

“Oh, this is a good part,” Aziraphale said, thoroughly distracted by the screen.

Crowley watched him, and smiled. He didn’t take any more ice cream, just held it for Aziraphale so he felt like they were sharing. And that’s all it was. Familiar and comfortable. And, Crowley could finally admit, that’s all it needed to be.

Tomorrow might be different. And if it was, they would come to that then, together, as it should be. But for now, they had this, they had each other. If this was what Aziraphale needed from him, not a great love, not right now, just a friend—his best friend—then that’s what Crowley would give him. Things were different now, but some things had stayed the same. And, finally, Crowley was okay with that.

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #this one was just so easy and natural to write for some reason #the words were just FLOWING #i hope you guys like it!!#my gomens #my go fic

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buckysforeverprincess · 5 years

Text

Switch -Part 2

Bucky Barnes x Reader, Avengers

Words: 2097

Warnings: Language, female presenting nipples, sexual situations

A/N: I decided to make this a 3 part thing, because part 2 was extremely long and I wanted this to have it’s own moment. The smut comes in part 3. Enjoy.

No one knew what to say. Everything screamed Y/N! The voice, the body all of it. Nothing outwardly had changed. Steve and Sam just thought Y/N had gone crazy, and Wanda and Nat both crossed their arms and smirked. You decided to take a seat on the counter and wait for the fireworks to really begin.

“Morning all-what the hell, Y/N?!” Tony has finally made his way to the common area to join everyone for breakfast. He missed the initial scream but is now here for the show that is the now ‘The Winter Soldier: Body Snatcher’. “Have too much fun with the playboy last night and forget your clothes?!” The genius goes straight for the coffee maker deciding he needed more of it before having to deal with the events unfolding in the kitchen.

“Morning Barnes!” Tony gives a casual nod to you sitting on the counter. You take a sip of the liquid in the cup, and immediately Tony notices something is off.

“Since when do you drink coffee, ice king...and in Y/N’s cup, no less?”

The only thing you can do is shrug and wait for the others to catch on.

“You!” Bucky turns his direction to the Scarlet Witch, “you did this to me, didn't you?!” Bucky's in her face at this point, but it's not as intimidating as it would be if he was in his super soldier body. She can't help but laugh at his efforts.

“I have no idea what you're talking about!” Wanda laughs in his face, repeating the same words he has said to her many times after playing one of his jokes on her.

“Don't lie to me you witch! This is payback for yesterday isn't it?”

“Wait…” Sam stops Wanda from answering, having questions of his own, “Y/N...what could she have possibly done to you? I mean...did she make you hotter? Because damn girl! That ass though!!”

“Did you just fucking objectify my girlfriends body?” Bucky moves and is now in Sam’s face pointing a finger at him.

“I mean-you are, ya know wearing a thong and I'm a man that loves ass dimples!”

Steve has now started laughing hysterically and has doubled over from laughing so hard. Tony makes his way from the coffee to check out the look Bucky is sporting so he's not left out.

“Those are really nice. Perfect for hand placement-”

“Don't fucking finish that thought, tin man, so help me God!” Bucky has directed his finger Tony’s way.

The whole group is laughing sans Bucky. He's getting more and more pissed off with each passing moment, and you're just sitting there…on the counter, enjoying your coffee. No need to get involved quite yet. This is way too much fun.

“Someone needs to explain what the hell is going on!” Bucky demands, crossing his arms to his chest and covering your exposed breasts, standing like a petulant child. Thank god you don't have issues with your body, because this could've become awkward real fast.

“Y/N…why don't you tell us what it is you remember.” Nat says very calmly, not giving away how much she already knows.

Bucky scans the room taking in all the faces looking at him obviously thinking he was crazy, before he starts to recant what he can recall. “I remember going to bed with Y/N, in my body! James Buchanan Barnes, aka Winter Soldier, me! This morning, I wake up and I'm her! This is not my body!” He pointing to himself trying to emphasize the point.

“Definitely a nice ass body!” Sam says, and Steve gives him an elbow to the gut.

“So, someone switched your body?” Steve questions, not sure if he believes what he's hearing.

They've been pranked by Bucky too many times to count, so this could be just another of one his tricks having his girlfriend in on it. There's going to have to be a lot more convincing than just his word.

“Ugh! I don't understand how I'm in a room full of people who continually save the world, but all of you are way too fucking stupid to see what's in front of you!”

You bust out laughing like a damn hyena from the counter. Everyone has now directed their looks to you and Wanda does a faceplant with her hand. Everything had been going so well.

“Baby, do you realize what you just said?” You say in between laughs. “You're what's in front of them...you! They can clearly see you!”

If looks could kill, you'd be dead. James/you is glaring hard at you/him. He has your face so bunched up, you're pretty sure he's going to give you permanent wrinkles on your forehead.

Bucky stalks up to you, paying no mind to everyone else in the room. “You're being unsarcastically hyper nonverbal!” He yells at you with fire in his eyes. “What is it that you know?”

This is where the fun begins, and payback becomes the worst bitch imaginable. You hop off the counter and stand over Bucky. You can see what it looks like when roles are reversed and he's towering over you. Let the games commence.

“Well, I know that right now…your tits are showing because you chose to wear that ridiculous quarter of a shirt to bed. I'm also aware of the fact that Sam had begun sexualizing you since the moment he saw you in that thong. How did you seriously let me buy that for you, you hate thongs?! But I will agree with him...that ASS though! The suddenness of the amount of crazy you've displayed here this morning can only mean one thing…...you're due to start your period any second now. I'm sorry sweetie, I'll make sure I run out and get your favorite kind of ice cream. Other than that,…good morning my love. Coffee?” You give him a grin, but this just upsets him even more.

Bucky laughs at you, but there's an intense amount of anger in his eyes. You watch him continue to laugh as he walks over to Wanda and gets back in her face.

“I don't know what you did, but it somehow involved my girlfriend over there!” Bucky’s pointing at you now. “I will find out the truth…but for now...I really have to go pee!”

Bucky turns and stomps back to your room.

“Sweetheart!” You yell out before he makes it through the threshold, making him stop and look over his shoulder waiting for you to speak. “Always overnight or extra heavy? Oh, how about tampons this time, I can get those?”

Bucky inhales a deep breath and throws up a middle finger at you without even batting an eye, and continues into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

“So, spill ice age...what'd you do to our sweet Y/N?” Tony’s grabbed a bagel and is spreading cream cheese on it.

“I really have no idea what's going on!” You're trying to look as puzzled as possible to avoid further questioning.

“I hate to admit this, but I have to go with Tony on this one…,” Sam has made his way into the center of the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of juice, “you're both acting crazy this morning. Did something happen between you two?”

The door to the bedroom opens and once again Bucky/you comes out, but this time he's managed to find your extremely short black mini skirt, and blue midriff shirt. Oh, looks like he found a bra…but what about...oh you dirty asshole!

“Baby?” Bucky walks over and places his/your ass right up against the shorts he slept in last night and rubs himself up and down the front of you. “I'm so sorry for the way I behaved.” His movements becoming hotter by the second. “I didn't mean to cause a scene. I promise to do better daddy!”

The last words were all it took, and you were now fully turned on, Bucky's cock standing at attention. How in the fuck did that happen? God damn him for being an expert in kinky fuckery!

“Oh daddy…did I do that?!” Bucky turns around and faces you, taking his hand and rubbing the hard member through your shorts.

“Fuck…” It comes out as a whisper, but Bucky hears it and keeps rubbing you with his hands.

No one was moving. They're all stuck in place watching what's happening between the two of you. Normally, you guys would disappear at this point, so no one was traumatized by your actions, but today Bucky didn't care and everyone else was fully intent on watching the show Bucky was attempting to put on. Well played, asshole…well played.

“Let me take care of you…”

Bucky reaches into the shorts and starts rubbing your hand on his cock. You close your eyes and a shiver runs through your body. The hand on what is now your dick feels so fucking good. You’re pretty sure Bucky’s trying to get you to come in front of everyone, and that has your brain come back to reality.

“Sweetie, what are you doing? This is bedroom activity, you know that.”

Bucky stops suddenly and begins glaring at you. He lets out a huff and removes his hand from your shorts. Bucky starts to walk away again but stops right at the threshold of your room just like before. This time, Bucky/you turns around and faces the entire group. He looks directly at you and gives you a huge smirk.

“Should’ve known you wouldn't cave that easy. I know you’re aware what’s going on, so….” Bucky pauses and lifts the midriff over his head and undoes the bra, exposing your breasts to every single person in the room.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y. Record this!” Tony demands of the A.I., while Steve covers his eyes, and Sam crosses his arms and nods in approval.

“Take a good hard look!” You watch him grab at your nipples, pinching at them hard and moaning something loud and pornographic. “You now have to live with the fact that every single one of them have seen your perfect breasts and watched me touch your perky tight nipples. Once you see, you can't unsee!” Bucky blows you one last kiss and enters your bedroom shutting the door.

“You're fucked!” Nat looks over at you with an amused smile and begins to laugh at what just took place.

“This ain't over, darlin’…I got all day!” Your run your hands through the long brown hair, figuring out your next step.

“Buck, what did you do?” Steve walks over to the island and gives you his best Captain America stance.

“I woke up, Steve. I woke up.”

Tony continues to look at the door of the bedroom Bucky and you occupy, waiting for another show. When he realizes it's not happening he decides it’s time for real talk. “For some reason, ice capades, I don't believe you. She just let us see her boobs….and you're ok with it? I mean, I'm all for it, she has a great rack…but any other time you'd beat the living hell out of us for even thinking about looking. What's up?” You remain silent as you shrug your shoulders at Tony, not knowing what to say.

“I'm calling bull shit as well…” Sam starts to chime in “I've seen her in more and you've threatened to rearrange my face via that arm! What gives?”

Jesus, they're calling you out. They know something’s not right, and you have no idea how to get yourself out of this one.

“Hold on everyone!” Nat speaks up, coming to your defense. “Y/N is my best friend. I'd be the first to know if something was wrong. Trust me…that's normal Y/N when she's about to go on a mission. She's just never let you see that side of her.”

Tony starts shaking his head, “nope, don't buy it! Boobs, Nat! Boobs!” Tony exclaims, and Steve palms his face.

“Can we not point out one of my best friends boobs to the world?” Cap asks while rubbing his face.

“Why? I mean-you can't not look.”

Wanda rolls her eyes at your comment and shakes her head. “You should go get dressed Bucky. Go talk to your girlfriend.” She gives you a stern look and you sigh heavily, accepting defeat and make your way to the bedroom door.

You pause before entry, taking one last look at your friends trying to commit their faces to memory before walking in to face a very pissed off Bucky Barnes/you. They all wave to you, and you give a two-finger salute before opening the door and walking into certain death.

#bucky #bucky barnes #winter soldier #james barnes #james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #winter soldier x reader #james bucky barnes x reader #james barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes x reader

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echoes-of-realities · 5 years

Text

be my fire in the cold (and I'll be waiting by the mistletoe) - 9/25

* * *

[From the Start] // [Fanfiction] // [ao3]

[Previous Chapter] // [Next Chapter]

Chapter Summary: Santana learns that Brittany’s not just a ballerina; more than one person kind of has a crush on the Sugar Plum Fairy, but luckily for Santana there’s only one person the Sugar Plum Fairy kind of has a crush on in return.

Notes: The song mentioned is “Dance” by DNCE, and this choreography is honestly just so fun and I watch it a lot tbh. ALSO we’re going to pretend that a mostly filler chapter didn’t end up being almost 4000 words.

Chapter 9: it wasn’t much but it would do

///

Santana arrives at the theatre long before anyone has any right to be awake. There’s many things she loves about her job, arriving at the theatre before the sun has even peaked above the horizon and without coffee is definitely not one of them. She kind of wishes she had ignored her phone going off before six this morning, but when Karofsky’s name flashed across the top of the screen Santana knew there was a serious problem.

Karofsky greets her at the front door with a coffee, and Santana manages to mumble a greeting at him as she wraps her ice cold fingers around the warmth of the cup. It’s a far more bitter than she prefers, but just the scent of coffee as she raises it to her lips starts to ease the over-tired prickling behind her eyes. They make it almost backstage before Santana feels like she’s functioning enough for human interaction, and she finally turns to Karofsky with a yawn. “So remind me again why you called me in at the ass crack of dawn?”

Karofsky gives Santana a small smirk but is wise enough not to comment on Santana’s grumpiness; he may find her early morning grumbling amusing, but he doesn’t have a death wish. “Maintenance called me about an hour ago,” he explains, “Power outage reset the fly system and they need me to reconnect them because they don’t know how, and I need you because you have the show bible.”

Santana grunts and takes another sip of her coffee. “This is going to be a long day, isn’t it?”

///

It’s after eleven by the time Santana and Karofsky emerge from the dusty recesses of the farthest backstage crawlspaces, sneezing and sniffling from all the dust they’ve disturbed and inhaled over the past four hours. Santana’s coffee is long gone and the strands of her hair that have escaped her ponytail stick uncomfortably to her neck. “Ew,” she says as she grabs the back of her shirt and peels it from her skin, shaking it a little to let the cool air of the theatre dry the sweat at the small of her back. She retrieves her jacket and sweater from the chair her and Karofsky had been using to collect layers of clothes and their empty coffee cups.

Karofsky pulls his baseball cap off to run his hand through his short hair, quickly shoving his cap back onto his head to take his jacket and the empty coffee cups as Santana passes them to him. “Jesus,” he mutters, “That took way longer than it should have.”

“Your department is incompetent,” Santana comments mildly.

Karofsky sighs. “Yeah, I know.”

“Brody should never have been hired as head of maintenance.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Azimio is a fucking dumbass.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I’m going to go and scream for a while before the show starts.”

Karofsky laughs and gives Santana an awkward little wave as she trudges through the theatre and he heads towards the front. Santana digs her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans, frustrated and in desperate need of a shower to wash the dust and sweat from her body. There’s a text from Brittany asking her if she wants a ride to the theatre this morning, and with a small pang of regret, she quickly unlocks her phone to send an apologetic text. She scrolls down to Tina next and quickly asks her if she can use the bathroom in her dressing room. She’ll have to change back into her sweaty, dusty clothes after, but she needs to feel at least a little human again before the matinee at one, and she just knows that the hot water will wash away the irritation she can feel bubbling beneath her skin.

Tina doesn’t answer her message, she just calls her instead. Santana brings her phone to her ear as she dodges a couple people from the props department, eyeing them with disdain as their gazes linger on her and make her skin crawl. Puck and Finn have about three braincells to share between the two of them, and she’s already resolved to make their lives a living hell for outing her like the fucking dumbasses they are.

“Why do you need my bathroom?” Tina greets.

“Because I’ve been crawling around since before seven and trying to get maintenance and the automaton department to cooperate long enough for the show to actually have backdrops and not completely suck today.”

“Yikes,” Tina laughs, “Yeah, go ahead and commandeer my bathroom then. I don’t need Ms. Grumpy-Pants Santana snapping at me all day.”

Santana rolls her eyes and digs around in her front pocket for her set of master keys. “I would say thank you, but this is really me doing you a favour,” she says. Tina snorts and Santana mumbles a curse under her breath once she confirms that her keys are not in any of her jean pockets; and, she soon finds, they’re not in her jacket pocket either. “Fuck,” she mutters again, Tina’s muffled giggles filling her ears. “Can I borrow your keys?” Santana whines, allowing herself to feel petulant because this morning has just been one awful thing after another. “I think I left mine at home and I won’t have time to get them before the show.”

Tina doesn’t say anything about the whine in Santana’s voice, but Santana can hear the amused smirk in her response anyways. “I’m just in the smaller rehearsal room warming up, you can grab them on your way past.”

Santana will actually have to backtrack through the theatre to get to the rehearsal rooms, but she doesn’t complain as she spins on her heel and heads in the direction she just came from; the comfort of a hot shower on her aching shoulders is too tempting to even risk Tina revoking her offer. “I’ll be there in, like, three minutes,” she says, barely waiting for Tina to respond before she hangs up and shoves her phone back in her pocket.

She makes it to the hallway of rehearsal rooms in a minute and a half, heading for the farthest, and smallest, one. All the doors are still closed, but she can hear the pounding of a steady, energetic beat echoing towards her, the words of the song indecipherable until she’s almost at the door.

“—with me. Go to France with me. Beating heart, racing in my chest.”

She slows a little as she approaches the room, peeking in the door and instantly grinning at the sight that greets her. Tina, Jane, Mason, and Jake are standing in a loose semicircle, cheering on Brittany and Mike as they effortlessly spin to the beat; everyone dressed in loose sweats and sneakers. Brittany and Mike both have the snap of a softened rubber band, liquid and strong as they jerk their limbs together as if they were actually programmed to move in perfect sync. Brittany grabs Mike’s hand and quickly spins him into an improvised waltz, falling slightly out of rhythm as they start giggling. They quickly drop back into the beat as if it’s nothing and Santana’s smile widens, leaning against the doorway as her stress from the morning fades away at the pure joy on Brittany and Mike’s faces, their grins bright and carefree and happy. Of course everyone in the company is an amazing dancer, but there’s something about Brittany and Mike that is unparalleled, whether they’re doing choreographed ballet on stage or dancing freestyle in a tiny rehearsal room, they both move like they were born with music in their bones.

“‘Cause I can’t stop thinking about you. No I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Blue eyes meet hers across the room, and Brittany misses half a beat to smile widely at Santana, her hand lifting in an enthusiastic wave, before she falls back in step with Mike as if she hadn’t paused at all, her movements somehow even sharper and smoother than they were just a few seconds ago.

“You should close your mouth,” Tina says idly from right beside her, and Santana jumps and snaps her eyes to her best friend who has, apparently, materialized out of thin air, “You’ll catch flies.”

“She can dance,” Santana says dumbly, her eyes drifting back to watch Brittany. Her crop top reveals pale, freckled skin as she moves with a slow ripple of her entire body, and it makes Santana more than a little dizzy.

Tina smirks and taps Santana’s chin, urging her mouth closed. “Duh,” she smirks. “Try not to drool too much.”

Santana turns distressed eyes on her best friend. “No, I mean she can dance,” she repeats. Tina just smiles knowingly. “She’s perfect and amazing and hilarious and sweet and snarky and smart,” Santana whines, “I’m literally so screwed.”

Tina presses the keys to her dressing room into Santana’s hands with a smirk. “For cold water, use the tap on the right,” she teases.

“Tina,” Santana groans, “How am I going to survive tomorrow, let alone this whole month?”

“Try a date,” Tina suggests easily, shoving Santana out the door. “Now go, you smell like old books and gym class.”

“Be my only one, and only for me. I’ll be your amor, be my Mon Chéri.”

Santana groans as she trudges back down the hallway, the lyrics fading to incoherence long before the beat fades; Santana’s pretty sure she feels it in her chest all the way back to Tina’s dressing room anyways.

///

Santana is pretty sure two two-show days in a row should be illegal, and she’s more than a little exhausted as she trudges around backstage, occasionally mumbling into her headset to direct Zizes or Quinn. Despite her earlier shower, she still feels gross and sweaty, and all she wants is to go home and collapse into her bed and sleep for about seven days, the evening show today be damned.

Zizes and Quinn finally finish up their stuff, and Santana turns her headset off, revelling in the blessed silence for about two seconds before someone calls her name, and Santana would feel irritated if said someone wasn’t about four feet tall and calling her Ms. Lopez.

Backstage is pretty deserted already, everyone running off to shove lunch down their throats before warmup for the evening show starts, so Santana easily spots the party girl trying to get her attention, a thick winter jacket making her look like a tiny purple Michelin Man, the tightly coiled curls of her dark hair in wildly bouncing pigtails as she chases Santana down. Santana crouches down with only slight protests from her knees, until she’s eye level with the girl. Quinn mostly manages the children, so she doesn’t really know any of them all that well, but she finds them pretty cute—that is, when they aren’t being little brats and siccing their dance moms on her.

“Ms. Lopez,” the girl says breathlessly as she reaches Santana, a shy smile on her face, her hands tucked behind her back as she leans back on her heels.

Santana’s heart clenches a little at the name; her mom was always Ms. Lopez to all of Santana’s friends when she was little, and it makes Santana more than a little nostalgic. “You can call me Santana,” she says quietly.

The girl bites her lip for a moment before offering Santana another shy smile. “Okay, Santana,” she says, eyes wide and nervous like she’ll get in trouble for calling an adult by their first name even though Santana told her to, “I’m Freddie.”

“Nice to meet you Freddie,” Santana smiles. Freddie nods but doesn’t say anything else, just sways back and forth nervously. “What’s up?” Santana finally says when Freddie just continues to stare wide eyed at Santana.

She sucks in a sharp breath and glances away, breathless and glowing as she nervously pulls one hand from behind her back and shoves it under Santana’s nose. Santana goes a little cross-eyed and pulls back so she can actually see, feeling her heart melt when she realizes that it’s a small daisy under her nose.

“Is this for me?” Santana asks softly.

Freddie won’t meet her eyes but nods, almost violently, and shoves the flower a little further.

Santana takes the flower and traces the petals delicately before smiling at Freddie, who still refuses to look at her. “What’s it for?” Santana prompts gently.

Freddie shrugs and finally meets Santana’s eyes for about a millisecond before she looks down and studies her shoes, tapping the toes of her winter boots together. “I heard the snow corps leader talking about you,” she mumbles into the collar of her Michelin Man jacket, and Santana clenches her notebook in her hand, purposefully focusing her anger there so she doesn’t crush the flower. She’s pretty sure she’s going to actually kill that snowflake bitch before the end of the show’s run. “And I didn’t know what she meant,” Freddie continues, “so I asked my moms last night and they said she was just being a bully and then they told me why everyone’s been talking about you like how they talk about my moms and it made them sad, and I always give my moms flowers when they’re feeling sad until they’re happy again, and then I was worried that you would feel sad too so I asked if I could bring you a flower and give to you too and make you happy again.”

Santana sucks in a deep breath and shakes her head a little, her chest bursting with warmth. “That’s very sweet of you, Freddie,” Santana says, and the little girl grows flustered and ducks her head even further down, “Thank you.”

Freddie shrugs one shoulder a little, more twitch than actual shrug. “You’re welcome,” she mumbles.

Santana’s smile widens as she thumbs the stem of the flower. “I’d love to stay, but I’ve still got to work while the rest of you eat,” she says, “You make sure your moms buy you something as sweet as you are.” Freddie giggles and blushes a little, looking up at Santana with bright eyes. Santana stands and pokes Freddie in the shoulder. “If they don’t you come straight to me and I’ll make sure you get your dessert fix,” she promises, and Freddie giggles again and nods quickly as Santana turns to leave.

She only makes it about three steps before Freddie’s voice stops her again. “Wait, Santana!” she calls, tugging at Santana’s hand before Santana had even heard her move.

Santana glances down at the girl attached to her arm and smiles a little, humming in question.

“I was also wondering, I mean, if you could, would you?” Freddie stutters.

Santana smiles and crouches back down. Freddie reminds her of her little cousins, back when she was still welcome at her abuela’s house, and even if it brings a pang to her chest to remember that, she can’t help the smile she manages to give Freddie because Freddie is too sweet and adorable not to. “You can tell me,” she says, “I won’t laugh, I promise.”

Freddie takes a deep breath and looks up at Santana, blushing furiously if her breathless, flustered expression is anything to go by. “You’re friends with the Sugar Plum Fairy, right?” she whispers.

Santana can’t help it when she feels her smile soften into something she knows is entirely too fond. “Yeah, I am.”

Freddie’s eyes widen and she leans forward a little. “Really?” she gasps as if she can’t quite believe it.

Santana grins. “Really, really,” she promises.

“She’s really pretty,” Freddie whispers shyly, and Santana finds her smile widening easily.

“She is, isn’t she?”

“Like— Like— Like fairy pretty!”

Blue eyes and blonde hair and fading freckles and soft pink lips fill Santana’s mind and she slowly twirls the daisy between her thumb and forefinger. “Yeah,” she agrees with a soft smile, “But she’s prettier than any fairy I know.”

Freddie agrees with a serious nod, before pulling out a second daisy and offering it to Santana. “Would you give this to her for me?” she whispers, her eyes wide and guileless and pleading.

Santana takes the flower from the girl with gentle seriousness. “Of course I would,” she says.

Freddie’s face breaks into an awed smile and she throws herself at Santana for a fumbling hug before taking off, throwing an excited wave over her shoulder. Santana smiles as she carefully presses the two daisies together, their stems twining and curling against each other, before she tucks them carefully into her pocket.

Santana shakes her head, standing with a small groan as she makes her way to the principal hallway, practically begging the universe to give her at least a couple minutes of peace. She makes it safely to Brittany’s dressing room, only having to duck into the shadows to avoid Blaine once on her way; he looks like she’s looking for her, but she can’t bring herself to care because if she doesn’t get some peace she’s going to end up shoving that bowtie down his throat. She pulls the daisies out of her pocket before knocking on Brittany’s door, only waiting a moment for Brittany’s invitation in before she pushes the door open.

Brittany’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, her back against the couch and her legs tucked under the coffee table and a spread of food in front of her.

Santana pauses in the doorway, her eyes darting all over the coffee table, taking in the cups of coffee and containers of food, before landing on Brittany’s face; her pale skin is splotched with pink on the peak of her cheeks, her blue eyes bright and glowing, and a tiny, almost sheepish, smile tugging at her lips. “What’s all this?” Santana manages.

Brittany shrugs one shoulder, her eyes falling away for a moment before darting back up to meet Santana’s eyes, the pretty blush on her cheeks darkening. “Tina said you had a rough day,” she explains, gesturing at the coffee table, “And I still owe you supper, so.”

Santana feels a little bit like she might just melt right into the floor, something deep in her chest spasming at the nervously hopeful look on Brittany’s face. “Britt,” she sighs, unable to keep the soft smile off her face.

“I just—” Brittany shrugs again. “Wanted to see you smile,” she mumbles.

Santana’s breath catches in her chest, and she realizes that it’s getting more and more impossible to ignore that she’s definitely falling hard for Brittany. “Thank you,” she murmurs.

“You’re welcome,” Brittany whispers, just as soft, her eyes caught on Santana’s for a long moment before she clears her throat and glances away. “I, uh, I got— What’s that?”

Santana blinks and glances at where Brittany’s pointing, her eyes landing on the daisies in her hand. She smiles and finally steps fully into the room, closing the door behind her and kicking off her shoes before Brittany can even say anything. She tosses her notebook and phone on the couch behind them and sinks down beside Brittany, misjudging the distance a little bit and ending up with her knee pressed against Brittany’s; Brittany doesn’t move away, so Santana lets their knees remain pressed together, warmth radiating from the spot. She turns to Brittany, holding up the daisies for her inspection.

“Do you know Freddie? One of the party girls?”

Brittany nods with a small smile. “Yeah! She’s so sweet. And her moms are really chill and so unlike every other dance mom I’ve ever met.”

Santana giggles, knowing exactly what Brittany means. “Well, she caught me on my way here. She heard about, you know, everything, and wanted to give me a flower to make me feel better.”

“Aww,” Brittany coos, “That’s so cute.”

Santana smiles, carefully untangling the stems of the daisies and setting her own on the coffee table before angling herself towards Brittany. “What’s even cuter is the massive crush she has on the Sugar Plum Fairy,” she says, handing the remaining daisy to Brittany.

“Really?” Brittany brightens as she takes the daisy, her fingers brushing Santana’s and sending goosebumps racing along Santana’s arm. “That is even cuter,” she agrees, twirling the stem between her fingers.

“So, Sugar Plum Fairy,” Santana teases, nudging Brittany with her elbow, “Does she have a chance?”

Brittany smirks, but it fades into something much softer when she meets Santana’s eyes, so soft that Santana suddenly becomes aware of how loud her heartbeat pounds throughout her body; Santana falls into the clearest pool of blue she’s ever seen, and the moment suddenly feels so much bigger and brighter than it did a second ago.

“I don’t think so,” Brittany finally whispers, her blue eyes glowing with nerves and something brighter, almost hopeful, “The Sugar Plum Fairy kinda already likes someone else.”

Santana’s breath catches sharply; she can’t quite squash the hope blooming and fluttering in every nerve ending of her body. “Oh yeah?”

Brittany nods slowly, her eyes never leaving Santana’s. “Yeah,” she breathes.

Santana feels like she’s barely breathing as Brittany’s eyes remain locked on hers, everything Santana’s ever hoped for flickering across her face, and she’s about to answer when her phone rings right beside her head and makes both of them jump.

They glance away sheepishly, both blushing and bashful, as Santana reaches around to grab her phone. Brittany places her daisy beside Santana’s and starts digging into the food, dividing it up and pushing different containers towards each of them, while Santana fumbles with her phone until she manages to swipe her thumb across the bottom and answer it. Santana sighs once she realizes she should have checked the caller ID first, because the only acceptable reason for interrupting her time with Brittany is a major emergency, and whatever Blaine is whining about in her ear is not anywhere near important enough to warrant cutting into her Brittany time.

Brittany’s waiting patiently, but Santana waves her towards the food with an eye roll. She covers the speaker and tucks it against the hinge of her jaw. “Go ahead and eat,” she whispers, “It’s just the Chia Pet with that poor butterfly stitched to his neck, not important at all.”

Brittany giggles too loud and Santana quickly hushes her around her own smile. She turns back and cracks open a container and starts eating while Santana half-listens to Blaine complain in her ear; admiring exactly how adorable Brittany is takes up most of her attention, and she really can’t bring herself to care at all. She reaches forwards and grabs the coffee Brittany had placed in front of her, and when she takes a sip she’s pleasantly surprised to find that it tastes perfect, exactly the way she prefers it. She glances at Brittany, who’s currently chewing on a couple fries and smiles a little, warmth ballooning up in her chest. Brittany catches her staring and flushes a little, motioning towards the coffee cup with a fry, one brow quirked in question.

Santana feels her smile soften, and Brittany’s softens in turn, like the faint streams of sunbeams through the curtains on a Sunday morning, as she nods. “It’s perfect,” she breathes, answering Brittany’s unspoken question but meaning something much more important.

Brittany bites down on her lip, white teeth sinking into perfect pink, and flushes, laughing lightly as she turns back to her lunch. Blaine shrieks something in Santana’s ear, but her all of her attention remains focused on Brittany’s pretty blush as she absently responds to Blaine.

Santana kind of can’t wait for the show to end tonight, because once the show ends she can go home and go to bed, and that means she’s that much closer to tomorrow; she doesn’t think she’s ever been this excited to wake up before nine on a Monday morning in her entire life.

#brittana #brittany pierce #santana lopez #glee #brittana fanfiction #glee fanfiction #tina cohen chang #santina #my writing #story: be my fire in the cold (and I'll be waiting by the mistletoe)

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taevren-blog · 6 years

Text

Intermission

“You glance at the lit up screen, visibly wincing at the sight of Jungkook’s triple chin behind a contact name littered with a bunch of emojis. JGAY, it says, with an unsettling number of pink hearts next to it.”

➤ The producer in charge of mixing the track for your team in the upcoming dance competition turns out to be Hot Stranger who saved you in a dingy bathroom. No thanks to your sorry excuse for best friends and Jimin’s intolerable dependence on alcohol.

• pairing: yoongi / reader

• genre: teeth rotting fluff, eventual smut, 80% crack

• count: 3.5K

• tags: dancer!reader, producer!yoongi, established jikook, pining taejin

• note: this is my first ever attempt at writing so do let me know if this is your cup of tea

prologue >

There is a familiar sense of dread and an inkling of impending doom that settles in the pit of your stomach when you hear and physically feel the kitchen counter shake with the vibrations of your phone.

You glance at the lit up screen, visibly wincing at the sight of Jungkook’s triple chin behind a contact name littered with a bunch of emojis. JGAY, it says, with an unsettling number of pink hearts next to it.

It takes the shrill beeping of your digital kitchen timer for you to press on the glaring red button to reject the call, and you press it with a lot more pressure than required. No one is going to ruin your one day off. Not when you just purchased the most expensive – and pretentious – of ingredients to satisfy your cravings for a nice dinner and some alone time.

You move to unwrap the steak you bought, letting out a satisfied sigh as you place it on the cutting board. The R&B playlist you put on shuffles to play one of your all-time favourites, and you’re just about to break out into a horrible rendition of the first verse when the front door swings open.

“I LOVE THIS FUCKING SONG!”

Jungkook comes barrelling into the apartment, skidding to a halt to kick his shoes off to the side before resuming his Naruto run to the kitchen. A dissatisfied groan leaves your lips when you see that he has company.

“Wow.” Taehyung rounds the counter, peering at the boiling pot of vegetables. “Having an expensive dinner all by yourself and you didn’t even think about inviting us?”

You’re about to tell him to screw off when Jimin nudges you aside with his hip, opening the freezer and pulling out a tub of ice cream. Your tub of chocolate cookie dough ice cream.

“May I ask who invited the three of you?” There is a loud bang as you shut the overhead cupboard. “Last time I checked, I rejected the call.”

“Aw, don’t be so grumpy, we know you secretly want us here,” Jimin coos with a gentle pinch of your cheek before shoving a spoon into the tub of untouched ice cream.

Jungkook pokes at the piece of steak you were about to attend to.

“We’re like… Your best friends.”

“Don’t fucking touch the meat with your filthy hands!”

“I swear I washed them before I touched it-“

You whirl around and menacingly point the kitchen tool at him. “Before I swing this meat tenderiser mallet into your disgustingly proportionate face, you better get the hell out of my kitchen, Jeon.”

He raises both hands up in an act of surrender before darting behind a chuckling Jimin, who is now almost half done with your ice cream thanks to the help of Taehyung.

It’s not as if you didn’t enjoy their company. The thing is that you rarely give yourself day offs, and the last time you invited them over to one, it was an absolute nightmare.

“I know you’re thinking about the disaster that was movie night but I swear we’ll behave this time,” Jungkook promises, waving his pinky finger in the air.

You send him a pointed glare before turning to look at a gigantic hole in the wall where your clock is hung, the ever so present piece of evidence that reminds you of what went down that night.

An iron blade gets ripped out of its former place in the armour – the distinctive sound of metal slicing through the room – before stabbing into flesh at the same time clammy hands grip the leather of your jacket.

“You have my respect, Stark.”

There is a dramatic gasp and a ‘no! not iron man!’ to your right as you slam the glass of wine in your hand onto the coffee table. You then squirm in your seat, a hand raised up to push a sobbing Jimin away from your shoulder. It works for a wondrous two seconds before he lets out a loud sniffle and plops his head back down on it again.

“Fuck this.” You lean forward in your seat and shove a hand in the popcorn bucket sitting on the floor, still filled with the caramel coated treats abandoned halfway through the movie. Carelessly picking up a handful of what is left, you aim the popcorn in the direction of Jimin’s useless boyfriend and let them fly. “Can you please, for the love of God, get Jimin off my damn shoulder.”

Jungkook’s eyes are trained on the screen and he is so deeply engrossed in the movie that he doesn’t even look away when he pulls on Jimin’s arm to get the older man lying against him instead.

You stretch your neck towards the left to relieve yourself of the strain that came with holding it at an uncomfortable angle for so long before settling back into your seat. It is then, however, that the peace is shattered again by the last of three idiots.

“Don’t hate me,” a voice on your left mumbles, “but can you please hold my hand?”

An exasperated sigh leaves your lips and you turn to look at Taehyung, whose lips are pulled down in a pout, eyes glistening with unshed tears. You then lightly pat his head in an act of comfort before reaching down to take his hand in yours.

You grumble under your breath just as the final scene starts to play, “Never watching a movie with any of you idiots again.”

“That was too much, I need a drink,” Jimin sniffles, shifting from his compromising position on Jungkook’s lap to grab the cheap vodka Taehyung bought at the nearby mart, downing it in one shot.

Needless to say, that was the start of what became a gigantic hole in your wall and one of many noise complaint letters found at your doorstep the next day.

“Alright, so maybe we are a mess,” Taehyung begins, but you’re already turned away from the three of them and rubbing kosher salt into your steak that should have been seared and plated half an hour ago, “but we came here to take you out!”

“Do you not see the kitchen apron that I am wearing and the uncooked meal that I am supposed to be having before the three of you so rudely interrupted me?”

A pregnant pause.

“Well, we just want to have a night out,” Jimin tries. He seals the empty tub now devoid of ice cream with the lid and slides it to the side. “You haven’t been out in weeks, Y/N. You’re always in the studio doing the same routines over and over again. It’s time to take a break, don’t you think?”

Jungkook takes the opportunity to chip in with a meaningless comment, “Yeah, and you seriously need to get laid- Oof!”

He almost slides off his seat after Jimin elbows him in the ribs but quickly grips onto the edge of the counter to pull himself back, a petulant pout on his lips.

“Kook’s not wrong-“ Taehyung laughs only to be cut off by thunderous bangs as you hammer the meat with your tenderiser mallet.

“Come out with us, please-“

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Jungkook pulls off one of his socks and throws them in your direction, aiming for the back of your head.

He misses.

A look of sheer terror and unmitigated fear takes over his face and he’s out of his seat in an instant the moment he sees his iron man sock land onto the stove.

“Oh my fucking- Kook!” Jimin yells, when he sees the sock catch fire.

You’re still aggressively pounding the meat, meat that now looks way too deformed to even look mildly palatable.

“Y/N, there’s a problem!”

“Maybe the three of you are the- OH MY GOD!”

You pause mid-whirl, almost dropping the metal hammer in your hands when you see the still burning sock get waved around in the air by a screaming Taehyung. He tries to hit it against the side of the table and panics when the fire still doesn’t go out.

“Sink!” Jimin grabs Taehyung’s arm and shoves it towards the tap. Water rushes out and Jungkook makes himself useful by manically smacking the sock with your dishwashing sponge.

It takes a full minute for everyone to register the fact that the sock is no longer on fire, and another thirty seconds before you rip your apron off and pounce for the muscled pig, who squeaks in surprise and takes off in the opposite direction.

Jimin plops down on the couch in exhaustion.

“At least dinner can no longer be used as an excuse?”

“I guess.” Taehyung reaches up to wipe at his forehead. “We’re still getting our asses beat but it’ll be worth it. What else can go wrong?”

Apparently everything else can.

This is a bad idea, you repeat to yourself each time you down a shot, every single one a different colour of the rainbow, and every single time you slam the empty glass on the bar counter, a chorus of cheers erupt around you.

To be fair, it’s not as if you wanted to come, but Jungkook promised to pay for two weeks’ worth of lunches and you can never say no to free food. Not to mention Jimin repeatedly whined about how he wanted to get so drunk he forgets the burning sock saga. Which is what brought the four of you to Trick Shots, the new bar that opened ten minutes away from your apartment.

“I can’t believe you made alcohol your go-to coping mechanism,” Taehyung laughs, slapping Jimin on the back.

The smaller man swats his hand away, turning to Jungkook with reddened cheeks and crescent moon eyes. “This is why I only love you,” he sings, cupping the younger man’s cheeks and squishing them, before whisking him away from the counter and you assume, the dance floor.

You shut your eyes to get away from the coloured lights flashing every second, leaving you feeling not only disoriented, but also contributing to the dizzying headache that came with the endless shots of alcohol.

“Here.” A hand on your shoulder gently shakes you. “Drink some water. You look like you need it.”

With an eye half open to slowly get used to the obnoxiously glaring neon lights, you thank Taehyung with a smile and a raise of your glass before downing it like someone who hasn’t had a sip of water in days.

As you slowly begin to sober up, you glance around the bar in search of Jimin and Jungkook, slightly panicking when they are nowhere to be found. That is, until you hear a familiar screech from the other side of the room, and you whip your head around to spot a wobbly Jimin on one of the pool tables with an incredibly frustrated Jungkook helplessly grabbing at his sleeves to get him to come down.

Your eyes widen and you slide the now empty glass you were holding across the counter, muttering a quick thank you to the bartender before pushing past the crowd in order to save your best friends from any more trouble – also to prevent severe second hand embarrassment on your end.

With a speed you never knew you possessed, you reach the pool table in no time, of which a small crowd has started to form around it. Random requests are shouted at an intoxicated Jimin, who is now body rolling to a remixed song you can’t remember the title of, and you can see the visible plea for help in Jungkook’s eyes as he gets pushed against the side of the table by everyone else.

“Alright! Show’s over!” You squeeze through the gaps between sticky and relentless human beings, climbing onto the pool table and grabbing Jimin by the collar of his shirt.

He giggles and a stream of unidentified words leave his mouth but you smack him on the back of his head, voice taking on a murderous tone, “One more word from you and I will personally toss you into a pit of flames and then you will disintegrate into ashes, you hear me?”

You tug him down towards Taehyung and Jungkook, both looking stressed beyond belief. Everything goes perfectly fine until Jimin steps into one of the holes at the corner of the pool table and falls forward, sending him flying straight into the two men.

Jungkook grabs him by the waist just in time to prevent him from falling right onto the floor but he stumbles backwards due to the impact and bumps into a neighbouring table. You watch as beer gets spilled onto a group of men and if you thought it was chaotic before, this whole new situation makes you want to crawl into a hole and bury yourself alive.

“What the fuck!” One of them slams his hand on the table, the growling face of a tattooed tiger head staring right at you, and before you can even try to make amends, the man punches Jungkook across the face.

He crashes to the floor with Jimin being additional weight, and the latter starts to yell at the man. “You fucking – ngh – buffoon! How dare you!”

You rush forward and wedge yourself between them, Taehyung pulling your two other friends to their feet. Apology after apology tumbles out of your mouth and you nudge Jungkook once he gains his footing, using your head to gesture at an unplanned escape route.

“Sorry,’ you nervously glance around the table, “kind gentlemen! I’m sure you’re all very nice people, but my friend here is both drunk and extremely stupid because we all collectively share one brain cell so please accept my sincere apologies and spare us from your wrath?” The last part of your sentence comes out as a question, the whole thing rushed out in one breath.

The man snarls and you squeak out a quick ‘bye’ before scrambling away from the table, anxiously pushing all of your friends away from it. You vaguely register the angry shouts behind you over the ridiculously loud music but you steer your friends into the direction of what looks like a narrow hallway.

A neon pink toilet sign hammered into a wall catches your attention and you don’t even bother to check which one you’re going into before you’re running into the safety of the bathroom.

When you successfully slip inside, you turn to close the door after your friends only to realise that they’re nowhere to be found. You’re just about to head out to look for them until the voices of the men after the four of you increase in volume, sounding like they’re just around the corner.

Immediately slamming the bathroom door shut, you spin around before an unidentifiable noise of surprise tears from your throat and you slap a hand across your mouth to silence it.

The bathroom is empty save for the man standing in front of you, donning a loose, midnight dress shirt half tucked into a pair of jeans ripped at the knees. If this was any other situation and you were as intoxicated as before, you’d be making mental notes of how his collar bones peak out from behind the almost sheer fabric and how soft his hair looks, but you are an escapee about to be slaughtered by angry men.

A muffled shout to check the bathroom immediately snaps you back to reality and a stream of muttered apologies leave your mouth as you dart into the only empty stall. You barely get the door shut and you’re still fumbling with the lock when the door to the bathroom swings open, revealing the worst of the lot; tiger tattoo guy.

“Did you see anyone come in?” He gruffly asks, and you’re clambering onto the toilet seat with your heart pounding against your chest at an alarming rate.

There’s a slight crack in the door due to your previous failure to lock it and you have your head in your hands when Hot Stranger you caught mid-piss responds.

“I just came in so I wouldn’t know.”

You physically give yourself a good pinch when you find yourself thinking about how nice his voice sounds.

“Fucking twats ruined my night. I’ll be damned if I let them leave unscathed.”

A part of you tells yourself that the best thing to do now is to attempt to shut the door even though it might risk catching Tiger Guy’s attention, but the fearful part of you keeps you squatting on the toilet seat mouthing prayers to yourself.

“I’ll leave you to it, man. Sounds rough.” Hot Stranger clears his throat. “You can check the bathroom stalls if you want, I need to take a shit.”

You’re angrily deducting points from your imaginary scoreboard when the door to your cubicle opens slightly, and then Hot Stranger slips in. He turns to lock the door and puts a finger to his lips before shuffling closer to you.

The creaking coming from the cubicle next to yours signalling the opening of its door and Tiger Guy grunting in acknowledgement keeps the both of you silent for a short while. You think about shooting him a thumbs up but decide against it, nervously running a hand through your hair instead.

“You know, this is the men’s bathroom,” Hot Stranger whispers, lips pulling into a mind-blowingly attractive smile as he shuffles closer to you.

With a roll of your eyes, you whisper back, “I am aware. Thank you for your pointless input, Hot Stranger.”

This earns you a raise of his brow and he tilts his head to the side in interest. You watch as his tongue darts out to wet his lips before he’s leaning in close to you.

“Giving pet names to someone you just met… Interesting.” He fingers the collar of his shirt, and you purposefully look down to stare at your shoes in an attempt to not think about how perfect his hands are and how they would feel on you.

“Then what the fuck am I supposed to call you, oh kind sir,” you snap back as best as you can in a whispered voice, hoping you look a lot more menacing than you actually sound.

His eyes light up in amusement. “Got quite a mouth on you, huh.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you respond, a hint of a smile threatening to pull at your lips.

There’s a few seconds of the both of you just staring at each other. You’re trying to keep up the unwavering gaze but your eyes betray you and they flicker down to his lips. He seems to notice that, and takes another step into your space, shaking his head in faux disapproval.

It’s when he tucks a stray hair behind your ear and you unconsciously lean into his touch that you hear a familiar voice calling out your name in the bathroom.

“Y/N? Are you here?” Jimin’s voice is easily recognisable.

A throat clears and Hot Stranger steps aside so you can hop down from the toilet seat.

You cautiously swing the door open. “Hey Chim, glad to see that you’re… Alive.”

“Christ, I’m glad you’re not dead. I almost- Who’s that?”

Shoes scuffle against the floor and you’re about to answer with ‘hot stranger’ when the man in question shrugs and goes, “Yoongi.”

Jimin’s eyes narrow in suspicion before they widen to the size of saucers.

“Did you seriously get some in this… This dingy toilet in a shady bar? I thought you had standards! Not that this,” he gestures at Yoongi, “guy isn’t hot but what the fuck? We almost died and you went to hop on a dick?”

The only reason why you took so long to cut Jimin off is because your mind is a constant repeat of the name you just learnt. Yoongi, Yoongi, Yoongi, playing like a broken record in your head.

“Chim, for God’s sake. He saved my ass from that demonic, tiger tattoo bearing, meathead.” You settle for that explanation, mind still reeling from the events that happened just minutes ago. “That you are to blame for, by the way. Now that you’re sober, I hope you’re ready for the ass whooping of a lifetime.”

“Kinky,” Yoongi chuckles next to you.

You feel heat rise up to your cheeks and ears at his close proximity and immediately step away so you can formulate a proper sentence.

“Thanks for helping me out back there, I really owe you one,” you tell him, hands smoothing down the sides of your shorts. A nervous habit.

He hums in acknowledgement and moves to exit the bathroom, but not before patting the top of your head and ruffling your hair. “Guess this is a debt you’ll have to repay someday.”

Jimin elbows you when you just stand there, frozen in place, so you recover as best as you can and try to emulate the face of a confident individual who did not just reach a whole new level of embarrassment in front of a ridiculously attractive man.

“We’ll see.” You give him a playful salute. “Thanks again, Yoongi.”

He’s one foot out of the door when he turns back, gummy smile back on that beautiful, beautiful face.

“The pleasure is mine, sweetheart.”

#bts #bts scenarios #bts reactions #yoongi scenarios #bts smut

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singingunderthecurtain · 6 years

Text

Thunderclap (M) | Chanyeol & Sehun

Author: @julietsoddeye AU: Canon Genre: Smut Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader x Sehun Trigger Warning: Nothing triggering, really? I’m pretty sure people on this site are used to smut by now. BUT IF YOU’RE UNDER 18, DO NOT READ THIS! TURN AROUND AND WALK AWAY!!! Word Count: 2,190

Summary: Sehun caught you and Chanyeol doing things and now he’s mad. You have to do something to try and appease him.

A/N: Just PWP (with a little backstory lmfao), I guess. My first nasty ass scenario in a long time. Also we do love writing about threesome stuff in this blog, don’t judge us!!! 😂😂😂

— — — — —

“Chanyeol, don’t stop I’m almost there.”

You sigh out in Chanyeol’s ear, your left arm looped around his back, your nails clawing his skin there and the other up his neck with you fisting his hair in your right palm as he continues thrusting his hips. Both of you are chasing your high.

You can feel your shirt getting crumpled and wet, collecting both of your sweat on it as your chest is plush against Chanyeol’s unclothed one.

You didn’t even bother removing your shirt because Chanyeol went straight ahead to eating you out. He said tonight is your night, that you will be spoiled and pleasured until it hurts and he wasn’t wrong. He only stopped wrecking your pussy after you literally have tears roll down your cheeks from cumming for the nth time. You were aching for him to be inside of you and you almost pluck all his hair out after your last climax.

You never planned on sleeping with a coworker, let alone with one of the boys. You’ve known all of them since you’ve got the internship at SM in 2011 and they eventually take you in because they were impressed by your dedication and ideas. You were one of the few people responsible for EXO’s extraordinary and immensely loved concept, that’s what got you in, in the first place.

Chanyeol was overseas for his solo activity when you had a meeting about their next comeback last week and today was his only free day. So you told him to just stay put and relax at the dorms and you will be coming to him instead after your meeting with a producer from a broadcasting company SM is tied up with to discuss what he missed on the meeting a week prior.

You thought he would be home with one or two other members, but as it turns out he was alone. They were all out doing solo activities and that’s when he acted upon and advanced on you.

He wasn’t an asshole about it, in fact, he was quite the gentleman. You’ve always known there was a little something, something because every time you and your team arrives in every meeting, Chanyeol and a few of the younger members would start whispering among themselves. You always ignored them, thinking it was just inside jokes among them.

But today, he confessed that he has always been curious about you. Because even though you’re pretty close with all nine of them, you never shared anything passed common courtesy and little jokes outside work-related stuff.

He wasn’t sure if you were single because there never was any indication that you were. You never show or tell anything related to your personal issues. He admires your professionalism and said he finds it (you especially) very sexy.

And now, here you are, fucking each other’s brains out on his bed.

Chanyeol props himself up and grabs the headboard of the bed, and you clutch both of the edge of Chanyeol’s bed on either side of you to prepare for the impact. Your moans and Chanyeol’s grunts counter each other as he pushes deep inside of you.

“Chanyeolie Hyungie, I…”

The both of you were too occupied and too drunk in the moment, you didn’t even hear that someone came in the house and suddenly barge open Chanyeol’s bedroom door.

“What the fuc—”

You scream and pull your shirt down to cover what was happening in between you and Chanyeol. Chanyeol then grabs his comforter to cover the both of you with, him still inside of you.

“Hyung???”

“Sehun!!!”

“Noona??!”

“Se-Sehunnie?!?!?!”

“Hyuuung!!!”

“CHANYEOL???!!!”

“HYUNG!!!”

The three of you exchanges. You can feel your cheeks flush with embarrassment so you cover your face with your hands.

“Hyung!!! This is so unfair!!!”

You hear the whine in Sehun’s voice.

“Sehun-ah…”

“You knew I always liked Noona! And this is what I came home to?!”

“Sehun, listen to m—”

“No Hyung!!! I thought we promised no one will make a move on Noona!!!”

With the way Sehun is acting, he sounded like a petulant child who didn’t get what he wanted.

“What the hell?”

You speak out suddenly, making Sehun look at you and his cheeks flush with your current awkward position.

“Look, Sehun. I am balls deep inside Noona right now, are you really gonna yell at me?”

You almost chuckled at what Chanyeol said, but you stopped it and purse your lips tight to suppress your laughter.

“Sehun, please get out.”

You said calmly after a while of just watching the both of them stare each other out as if it’s gonna make things better for all of you.

“Fine!”

Sehun storms out and chucks the door close with a loud bang. Both you and Chanyeol grimace with how the sound of the door blows into your ears.

“I’m so sorry, Noona...”

Chanyeol apologized and he swallowed the lump that formed in his throat before continuing.

“I didn’t know he’d be home early.”

“What does he mean when he said ‘no one will make a move on Noona’? Does all of you talk about me like that behind my back?”

You start pushing Chanyeol off of you and he panics so he grabs your cheeks and showers your face with rueful kisses.

“No, no, Noona, no. Please, please let me explain. It’s just…”

“Okay, I’m listening.”

You said as you relax your face, Chanyeol sigh in relief and gave you a very wet smack on your mouth before speaking.

“It’s only between Sehun and I. I found out both of us likes you and now I feel like shit because I broke my promise.”

You didn’t exactly know what to do now. It has been a couple of weeks since that incident and Sehun has been dead ass ignoring not only you but also Chanyeol. Sehun gets away with it because he became busy with movie and drama shoots all of a sudden.

During meetings though, Sehun has been nothing but a condescending little butthole who keeps sarcastically countering whatever you put on the table as a joke. The other members, especially Baekhyun and some people in your department, find it funny and thought Sehun’s only being a prankster.

It is normal, after all, that you bicker like best friends during these meetings. A lot of times you would just brush off his being snooty, but sometimes his minuscule jeer would get to you and actually hurt your feelings. Chanyeol can only scowl at Sehun and send flowers or food your way as a form of apology.

That’s why you made Chanyeol convince Sehun to ‘go with him somewhere’, but the truth was you just wanted them to go to your apartment and make peace with the younger man. You don’t know how exactly you’re gonna do it, but you are committed on striking the happy medium with Sehun.

Sehun, before the circumstance happened, was a very sweet guy. He was fun to be with and very accommodating with not only you but also to your whole team.

The seven knocks you specifically asked Chanyeol to do to let you know it’s them indicates their arrival. You lowered the volume of your blasting television and unhurriedly make your way to your door, smoothing out your hair and clothes before opening the door wide.

“Hi,”

You greeted and Sehun’s face soured up immediately right after he saw it was you. A stark contrast of Chanyeol’s wide and happy beam, telling you that he succeeded in delivering Sehun to you.

“Ah, Hyung I thought we’re grocery shopping, why did you bring me here? Where even are we?”

Sehun glares at Chanyeol, with you facing his side profile. Chanyeol didn’t respond or even move, just continued smiling like a robot programmed to just hand over things to you.

“This is my home, Sehun. Come in both of you.”

You stepped aside and motions your hand for them to enter, Chanyeol started moving but was stopped when Sehun stomped his foot like a spoiled brat that he is.

“No, I don’t want to!”

He protested and you sigh out your frustration. Is he going to continue acting like a cranky jerk, God why is this so difficult?!

“Do you wanna cause a scene here, Sehun? Wanna get caught by fans because I am one-hundred percent sure some of my neighbors are EXO fans.”

You lied, mumbling your words through gritted teeth. You’re not angry, you just wanted to make your voice sound low. With what you said, Chanyeol’s already big eyes widen, grabs Sehun by his shoulders and proceeded to push the younger male inside your home. You look around outside just to make sure no one saw or followed them here before closing the door. You went straight to your kitchen to grab a few bottles of different drinks for them to consume.

“What is this, what is happening?”

Sehun snapped as you make your way to them in your living room. Chanyeol was already seated on your sofa and Sehun was just awkwardly standing there beside the coffee table.

“I just wanna talk, Sehun, please sit down.”

With a scowl on his face, Sehun complied and sat down on the couch a few feet away from Chanyeol. He crosses his legs and grabs one of the chilled coffee drink you placed on the coffee table in front of them.

Sehun was pretending to watch the television while drinking his coffee and Chanyeol was just seated there, staring at you like a little puppy waiting for commands. You offered him a sweet smile before squeezing yourself on the couch in between them.

Sehun glared at you as if you did something really bad and when he was about to stand up, you grabbed his thigh to stop him from going anywhere. He immediately froze and gulped strongly, you can see his Adam’s apple bobs up and down.

“Sehun, please don’t be mad at Noona anymore. I hate it when you’re mad at me.”

You say in a sickly candied voice as you rub the inside of his thigh soothingly, making sure not to touch his groin.

Sehun purses his lips and his eyes rolls at the back of his head, letting go of his opened bottle of drink. It almost spilled on your sofa but you caught it just in time with your other hand. You put the bottle aside on the table and turned your whole body towards Sehun who was now looking at you with hooded eyes and very flushed cheeks.

“Are you still mad at Noona, Sehunnie~”

You made sure you say his name very suggestively. Sehun nods his head like an obedient puppy and you gave him a teasing smile.

“I need to hear words, Sehun. Are you still mad at Noona?”

“N-No, I’m no-not mad at Noona.”

Sehun’s breath hitched when he felt the pointer finger of your other hand outline his shard jaw.

“Now, what do you want Noona to do for you to forgive her?”

You lean over him to whisper in his ear softly, making sure your breath lingers over his skin. Sehun closes his eyes shivered slightly.

“Kiss me, Noona… Please.”

The pleading of his last words sends a wave of want down your spine. You then grab the collar of his shirt so you can pull him down on your level and you allow a small smirk before crashing your lips onto his.

Kissing Sehun for the first time is like a breath of fresh air. Unlike Chanyeol who was very soft and gentle with you, Sehun is a different story. He was full of passion, but not rushing and he knows exactly what he’s doing. Not that Chanyeol doesn’t, he’s just sure and is not afraid to match your pace.

Sehun grabs your waist and made you mount his lap. You can tell Sehun’s already super affected because of the tent on his pants that’s thumping on your clothed heat.

You push Sehun off after a while and grabs Chanyeol’s shirt and tug him closer to you.

“Come here.”

You say before capturing his lips with yours. Sehun then pulls your loose sweater down, exposing your neck for him to start sucking bruises with his mouth.

“Let’s go to my room, yeah? My bed is much bigger than this couch.”

Both Sehun and Chanyeol nod their head and you get off Sehun, grabbing them both by their hands to lead them to your bedroom.

You dog finally decides to show itself and you stopped midway when you see it standing in front of your bedroom door.

“Oh, a puppy!”

Chanyeol gushes, actually screeched, when he saw your two-year-old Golden Retriever, its tail wagging like crazy when it saw that it has visitors.

Aikie Masterlist | Michiko Masterlist | FIC RECS | FIC REC SIDEBLOG

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peachyteabuck · 6 years

Text

loving him was red

summary: you’ve never had sex on your period, but when you find yourself heated during aunt flow’s visit while at an event with steve, the perfect opportunity arises for you to try it out.

pairing: steve rogers x reader

words: 2381

trigger warnings: menstruation mention, some graphic descriptions of blood, smut (oral, fingering, vaginal sex), lots of swearing, the lords name in vain a few times

notes/other: HI PLS READ THIS ESP IF YOU NORMALLY DO NOT i based this p heavily on my own experiences with menstruation + other accounts i’ve heard. it is very important to remember that there is never one singular way to experience a period NOR is there a WRONG way!! all ppl who have periods are individuals with intersecting health/economic/work statuses. this has been ur daily menstrual health psa from lukis peachyteabuck.tumblr.com

ask box / masterlist / faq / ko-fi

Pro: you currently look fine as fuck, and are on a date to some Very Important Thing with Captain freaking America.

Con: He’s horny (because you look so hot) and won’t leave you alone about it.

Pro: He’s horny (because you look so hot), and you’re horny (because he looks so hot).

Con: You’re currently on your period. Not only that, but the heaviest day of it is today, meaning your current tampon is acting as a floodgate to the Red Sea. Aunt Flow. Blood Moon. Red Scare. Hellstorm. Bitch in Red. Crimson Tide. Shark Week.

You get the picture.

When he thinks no one’s looking, Steve slides his hands down to your ass. You tense and squeeze your eyes shut.

“Babe, stop,” you hiss through your teeth, but you don’t sound very convincing. A waiter comes by with glasses of champagne and you grab two. You’re gonna need them to get through the next few hours, both because the...whatever you’re at is boring as hell and because all you want to do is jump your boyfriend’s bones.

“Why?” Steve says lowly into your ear. You take another sip of champagne, trying to quell the desire in your stomach. “You look so hot, your tits and ass look so good. Can’t wait to get home and give you all the bruises you want. Can’t wait to make you cum under me. Just wanna fuck you until you can’t remember you own name, until you’re begging me to stop.”

You grab the table in front of you and moan, other patrons be damned.

“Babe,” you whimper. “Stop, seriously.”

He laughs a little. “What? Can’t take the heat, should’ve expected this. In that dress? You know, I can’t tell what’s hotter, you in or you wi-”

You take a large drink from one of the glasses and turn to face him. You use your babysitting voice, the one you use with Peter when he pulls some dumb shit and no one has the courage to shame him. Damn Tony, doesn’t want to grow a spine and discipline Peter for fear of making him hate the man. “Steven Grant Rogers, I am on my period, and unless you want to beat your meat on the couch tonight, I’d recommend you cut it out.”

He’s stunned, a little. You snapping at him is extremely uncommon, you’re normally a total sweetheart with him (Who wouldn’t be?). Steve’s mouth hangs open a little as you turn back to face the crowd.

You engage with the rest of the Avengers who came - Sam, Tony, Pepper, and a few other people who you’d been wanting to talk to. A designer, some singers, a movie producer. You have lively conversations and Steve’s hand stays safely above your waist the whole time.

This time, it feels awkward. Not...sexual, like usual.

Now it’s just supportive, a way to tell you know he’s there. That’s it.

You feel bad, so bad. He was just telling you how attracted he was to you and you literally snapped at him like he was a petulant child! God, what’s wrong with you? Why were you so angry out of nowhere!

Oh, you’re in your period.

Right.

Once you’re too tired to stand in your heels, Steve moves you into the limo that’ll take you back to Stark tower. He holds your hand the entire way back, even carries your heels for you once you make it through the entrance.

He’s so amazing. And sweet. And kind. You want him to rearrange your guts.

You’ve been together long enough that he knows the minute you get into your shared apartment you want your dress unzipped so you can hunch over a take a deep breath. He guesses (correctly) that you need it undone even more so now that you’re bloated. When comes behind you to grab at it, you sigh.

“I’m so sorry for losing my self control earlier this evening...it’s just…”

You turn around, facing him. He looks so sad and you feel like you’ve kicked a puppy. Or stepped on a flower. Or thrown a fire blanket over the sun. Or slammed a baby’s hand in a car door.

In short, you’re a horrible person and all you want to do right now is cry dramatically surrounded by roses and candles. Or maybe while you stress eat banana bread.

“I’m so fucking horny when I’m on my period, and I’ve always just...I know guys find it so gross and frankly, I guess I unders-”

Steve tilts your chin up with his knuckles. It’s a sweet gesture, grounding. You stop talking, enchanted by his beautiful eyes. “I don’t find it gross at all.”

You gulp, remaining silent as he spoke. What?

“Let me fuck you, please. I find you so beautiful, and a natural and healthy body function isn’t going to change that.” The dress slips down your body and he first kisses down your chest, then your stomach, then lands on his knees right in front of your pussy. The dress, with its deep, wide neckline didn’t allow for a bra, so he skips right down to your panties. Menstruating had made your lips extra sensitive, so you told your stylist specifically to give you a simply black cotton panty.

Steve, someone who has seen you in much fancier, much more expensive, and/or much sexier lingerie, doesn’t seem to mind. He still pulls them down with his teeth, and massages your inner thighs. You want to look away so badly, so worried about what he’ll say when he finds the string of your tampon, or if he sees your more pronounced belly due to bloating.

When the panties hit the floor, you want to scream. Why is he doing this? Why does he find you sexy?

“Okay,” you finally get out. You immediately regret your response. Okay!? What was he asking you, what he was getting for dinner? You could at least say please!

You try to breathe, to calm down. But you can’t. You absolutely cannot calm the fuck down.

“Open your legs a little for me, babe,” he whispers. It’s low, calm. The kind of voice you’d use if you’re trying to pet a stray cat on the street. He’s trying to get your heart to stop racing, for your palms stop sweating.

You follow his orders, opening your knees a little bit, attempting to relax your muscles in the process. He coaxes the tampon string down from where you tucked it in, pulling it out slowly.

When he pulls it away, it’s a deep, ugly brown. Not earthy, or some deep coffee-like brown, or a beautiful oak in a desk at Ikea.

It’s gross. Just plain gross.

You wince a little at the sight, and he tosses it into the trash can under your desk.

“Now that we have that out of the way,” he inches his strong hands back up your legs, digging a little into the sore muscles.

Right before they can ghost your clit, you sigh.

“Wait,” you say. Steve hands stop and you close your eyes.

You can’t look at him, you’re so embarrassed.

But you want to do this, and you want to feel good while it happens. “Lean me against a wall, it feels better on my lower back if I have something to lean against...also I’m really sensitive right now, so going slow would be appreciated.”

Steve nods, standing up and pressing you into the closest wall. “Anything else, darling?”

He’s eye-level with you now, and fuck you love him so much.

You shake your head. “No...just, thank you...for this.”

He descends again and smiles. “Anything for you, my love.”

First he circles a thumb around your clit, inserting some of his middle finger into you. It feels so good, especially since you haven’t gotten off at all this week.

You blame it on being too busy, but you know why.

It’s never something you could understand, why you were always so ashamed of being on your period. Maybe it was societal influence, maybe it was because once a kid pulled a tampon out of your purse in high school and called you a she-demon, maybe it was because once your period started while having sex with your most recent ex-boyfriend and he called you a nasty bitch and then broke up with you...while you were both still naked.

Whatever it was, you knew three things:

One, you have the best boyfriend in the world.

Nope, scratch that, the universe.

Two, your boyfriend cares for you a lot and wants you to be happy.

Three, whatever he’s doing is incredibly erotic and you love it.

It’s absolute ecstasy, the way he pumps his fingers in and out of you in rhythm with circles around your clit. You knead your breasts and moan lewdly, and it only drives Steve to work harder.

When you cum, you cum hard. He fucks you through it with his fingers, smiling at the amount of pleasure coursing through your veins.

“Fuck,” you mumble. “That was so good.”

He chuckles. “Glad I could be of service.”

You laugh a little, running your hands through his hair. It’s thick, golden, warm. He’s like the sun.

You bite your lip, preparing to speak.

But he does so before you can. “Want to go to the bed?”

It’s sounds like such an innocent question, but you know better.

You nod, letting out a deep exhale. “Just be warned, changing my center of gravity is gonna...it’s gonna be weird...”

Steve laughs a little again. “Babe, I know what I’m getting into.”

He then picks you up and carries you to the bed. The second he lays you down, you start to feel that familiar feeling you can only describe as a stomach ache, but if it was also a waterfall.

The second you start to look how you feel, Steve becomes concerned.

“You okay?” he asks, eyeing you up and down to look for injury.

You squeeze your eyes together. “Yeah...just feeling weird.”

Steve laughs a little. His hands were stained with your blood, and since he had picked you up, smudged handprints riddled your body. You thought you might be disgusted, or he might be disgusted.

But it was beautiful, art. A painting made with you, by Steve, on you.

A masterpiece.

Steve seems to have the same thought. “Should draw this and sell it to that damned museum we were just at...hang it up for all the world to see just how beautiful you are…”

You think Steve is about to just fuck you, and you’re totally okay with that.

Not expecting to get fucked and then getting fucked is a wonderful surprise, one you welcome.

But then he kisses down your navel again, and lightly licks and nips at your clit.

The minitrations illicit loud and broken moans out of you. Your fingers fly to the back of his head, pulling him impossibly closer to you. His blood-stained hands hold you hips up, keeping them from bucking. It’s good, it’s so good.

He removes one, and begins to fuck his fingers in and out you. It’s good, your clit in his mouth, his fingers in your cunt.

You cum with a cry. If the first time made you see stars, this time you’re able to identify the Big Dipper. Before the orgasm was surprising, almost juvenile. It reminded you of getting fingered on the bleachers, or in a bathroom.

This one makes you feel like an adult. An actual, real life adult woman with actual, real life adult woman desires.

“Fuck,” is all you can muster.

Steve crawls up to you, resting part of his body on your chest, which is still heaving. He places a hand on your hip, his thumb rubbing supportively.

“Was hoping you’d say that,” he says, smiling. God, you want to hit him.

Not in a sexual way, though. Not right now, at least.

You groan a little at his gloating. He looks like a cheshire cat. “Shut up and fuck me, you insolent bastard.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says before positioning himself at your entrance.

Despite his sarcastic nature, he watches you for any sign of discomfort while he slowly enters you. It’s sweet, and sickeningly slow.

You moan, wrapping your legs around his waist to give him a better angle. This is exactly what you needed to make you feel less shitty, some good ole fuckin’ with your exceptionally attractive boyfriend.

By the end, you two are a moaning mess. You finish again, your hand on your clit and Steve kissing your neck. This time, the crystal clear pleasure is gone, and you feel like a giant fuzzy cloud of “holy fucking Jesus H Christ that was amazing.”

While your pussy pulses around him, Steve cums inside you. When he pulls out and collapses next to you, you’re finally clear-headed enough to take in the scene around you.

It looks like you should section off the bed with caution tape. Steve’s dick, hands, and face are absolutely covered in blood, as is the bed.

That’s when it hits you. White sheets. Deep red and brown clumps of your uterine lining. An absolutely perfect but sometimes forgetful boyfriend.

“Steve, babe?” you question, attempting to pry him away from the edge of sleep.

“Mmmrf,” is all he says, face down, head resting between your breasts.

“Did you forget to pull a towel down before we fucked?”

He lifts his head, smile sated. “Maybe.”

You sigh, and let his head fall back down. Finding a way to non-suspiciously change your blood sheets is a problem for tomorrow-you. Right-now-you just wants to run your fingers through Steve’s hair, his light snores filling your room and giving you something to fall asleep to.

“You know I’m gonna make you do this next time, too, right?” You ask, suddenly just as tired as Steve looks.

He nods a little, then turns his head so you can hear him. He kisses your breast before he speaks. “Of course, baby. Would do anything for you, especially when it comes you makin’ love to ya.”

You smile. “Good. Because after that, there’s no way I’m ever letting you go.”

Steve chuckles. “Ditto, babe.”

#steve rogers x reader #captain america #marvel fanfiction #marvel fanfic #steve rogers fanfic #captain american fanfic #lukis writes stuff #captain america x reader

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katarinahime · 6 years

Text

You Don’t Love Me

Her eyes were red rimmed and puffy. Her breathing came in uneven gasps. She was holding herself, arms griped around her so tight her knuckles were white. The blanket that Sasuke had retrieved for her had fallen from her shoulders and pooled loosely around her waist, giving her no comfort. Though Sasuke was sure nothing would now. The glass of water he had grabbed her sat undrank of the coffee table, condensation droplets making a little puddle on the glass surface.

He thought about grabbing a coaster, but didn’t want to appear anymore insensitive then his reputation stated already.

Instead, he sat with a couch cushion between them, giving her a wide berth. He had his elbow propped on his knee, head resting on his fist, idly watching her lips quiver. Tears were forming and pouring down her cheeks now as she stared at his TV, obviously not taking in this evening's news.

“Hinata,” Sasuke started carefully.

She turned her head, slowly to look at him, and not the first time, Sasuke wished that Hinata saw what all the other girls did.

But she didn’t. She never cared about his looks or his wealth or almost him as a person, even. She seemed almost entirely blasé about him, first only tolerating him because of Naruto and Sakura and only later joining him in a reluctant friendship through close proximity. She was also the only one in friend group who seemed to still have a problem with his ‘minor’ drug problem.

She said nothing, waiting for him to continue. Her little, button nose was turning red now as well, and she had to bite her lip to stop their quivering.

Sasuke regretted getting her attention. He could now feel the full force of his guilt crush him, stomping his heart into his stomach. Knowing full well that every prick of her pain was his fault.

He didn’t directly make Naruto break up with her, but it was his words that drove him to it.

He knew.

And her broken gasp meant she knew too.

He had never been able to hide from her.

“Sasuke, please don’t tell me-” Her voice was gravely and broken.

Because of him.

He took in a slow breath, looking away from her, leaning back into his couch. Rubbing his hands on his pants, licking his lips, trying to look as non incriminating as possible.

It never worked.

She saw everything.

“How could you?” He could hear the fresh tears.

He never had to look to see her. She was always there, surrounding him, whether he liked it or not.

“Hinata.” He tried to stop her, but it was weak, even to himself.

“You did. You made Naruto do this. Didn’t you?”

He still couldn’t look at her.

She stood up, knocking the blanket to the ground, leaving it cold and alone.

“You are such a child.”

Hinata isn’t one to shout. Or swear.

But he wishes she would. Her dangerous, even tenor cuts worse than her screaming could. And she can only speak the truth if she leaves out expletives.

Sasuke swallows.

“Do you think I care about Naruto’s job? Or how big his apartment is? Or what kind of car he drives?”

He doesn't even have a fucking car! He bites back the retort, begrudgingly. It really wouldn’t be helpful.

“Do you think I care about his hair?”

She takes a step closer, where she standing over Sasuke and he can feel her shaking right next to him.

Sasuke rubs his hands down his face and turns to look at her. She still holding herself and Sasuke can’t even put his eyes on her face.

“Do you think I care about if he has a nice watch? Or cufflinks?”

He finally sets down his clasped hands out of her line of view, a not so subconscious, vain attempt to hide said gold watch and matching cufflinks.

“I love him.” She finally chokes out in a strangled sob.

“I love you.”

That’s the only thing Sasuke can say in defense of his actions.

She snorts.

He wasn’t expecting that.

“No. You don’t. You’re a angry, jealous little boy that can’t stand the happiness of others.”

She brushed past him, knocking into his knees and makes a b-line to the front door and gently closes it behind her.

She can’t even slam the door when she leaves his life.

It wasn’t even five minutes after she had left him that he was back on his couch. A pile of cocaine getting measure out by Platinum Visa Card. He didn’t have any hundreds on him to truly feel like Scarface, but he figured that the twenties and $300 bottle of scotch was good enough. Though he had discarded his watch and cufflinks on the glass next to the pile of white, and rolled his sleeves halfway up his forearms.

Switching the channel to one of the porn ones in the 900 range, he set to work on the lines. Doing two and leaning back, rubbing his nose in a vain attempt to lessen the pain and feeling the sludge burn down to his throat, letting his body set fire. Taking his tumbler of scotch and downing half of it in one gulp, mixing the burning in his throat, knowing full well house dangerous snorting and drinking could be together.

Not bringing himself to care anymore.

Hinata left him.

The things she had called him.

How he hurt her.

He didn’t know if she would ever talk to him again. If he would see her again.

The train of thought had him measuring out another line far too soon. His vision blurred as he tried to lean his head back onto the couch. His heart started to pound, he could feel his veins burning into his hands and feet. He felt like he could flip a truck.

Finishing off his drink, he slammed the cup down, clinking glass against glass.

Hinata had left him, feeling lonelier than usual.

He could call anyone. A multitude of women would be here within minutes, but that thought was hollow. The only one that gave him any flicker of hope was perhaps Sakura. Naruto was probably with her right now.

Would he be just as broken up as Hinata?

Pleasure filled Sasuke with thoughts of snatching away Naruto’s solace with a single text message but he drowning that thought with another burning drink of scotch, this time from the bottle. It would be a shallow victory.

Because that’s not the women he wanted.

The women he wanted would look at him right now with a mixture of disgust, disdain, disappointment.

But she had already done that today, hadn’t she?

Sasuke’s fingers gripped his hair, willing himself not to rip out tufts of it.

He was below forgiving, even for her, in her infinite grace. Could he really let that be the last things she said to him? The last way she looked at him?

Sasuke always counted on Hinata being his absolution

He never considered her to be his damnation.

His heartbeat thundered again, and in the next second he was standing, screaming, and violently kicking over his glass table.

His watch, cufflinks, leftover pile of blow, his tumbler, and wallet lay strewn across his rug in shards of glass. The iron frame laying unceremoniously on top of the rubble.

He yelled again.

She was wrong.

Because he did love her. Not in the way you were suppose to love someone. Not that way she deserved. But in the only way he knew how, he loved her.

After looking down at the shattered glass, listening to the outrageous moaning of loveless sex, holding a bottle of $300 scotch when he left like a $6 bottle of vodka, he realized she had been right.

He was a petulant, spoiled child that lashed out and broke things when he didn’t get his way.

But he was right too.

Because he loved her.

#sasuhina #fanfic #katarinahime #slight naruhina #just a snippet

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doctor--idiot · 7 years

Text

A Season For Everything

Written for the @spnkinkbingo square: Mpreg. [AO3]

For the purpose of this fic, let’s imagine a world where male pregnancies are fairly rare but not unheard of. This fic has been a long time coming and it got so disgustingly long, I don’t even have an excuse.

Has Dean ever mentioned he hates witches?

He really fucking hates them.

But right now, he also kind of loves them. Because Sam’s hands on his skin feel insanely good and his mouth—god, his mouth.

“This is ridiculous,” Dean manages to pant when Sam backs him against the wall, just barely remembering to kick the motel room door shut behind them. “We’re brothers.”

“Doesn’t feel ridiculous to me,” Sam says between kisses and Dean has to concede that he’s right. The next kiss, complete with a bite to his lip, makes Dean moan embarrassingly loud. The way Sam’s body presses against him definitely helps, too.

He breathes, “Jesus, fuck,” and tilts his head to the side when Sam starts biting along his throat. “Okay, okay, bed.”

Sam hums but it doesn’t look like he’s going to move any time soon. He tugs Dean’s T-shirt up over his head and then sets to work on his belt and fly.

“Sam!”

Sam grunts, “Fine,” and turns them around, holding onto Dean just as tightly as he has been doing, and Dean soon feels the edge of the bed against the back of his knees. He lets himself fall, taking Sam with him and tugging him on top of him. “Jesus, get naked already,” he demands and Sam grins down at him.

He rids himself of his own clothes while Dean wriggles out of his jeans, and they throw it all to the floor in a heap.

Dean has never even had sex with a guy and now he’s about to fuck his brother. How did his day get derailed this fast?

He remembers the witch’s muttered words right before he blasted her between the eyes, remembers how heat spread through him, how Sam asked, “Dean?” small and confused sounding, and Dean instantly cursed every supernatural being to Hell and back.

Sam feels fever-hot against him and he supposes he’s not much better, the blood rushing in his ears, his pulse pounding, and they’re taking it as slow as either of them can stand.

When Sam finally, fucking finally, sinks his cock into Dean, pressing him down into the mattress, Dean wants to sob with relief. He pushed his hips back into the pleasure-pain of it and Sam makes a choked noise. His arms come around Dean’s torso, tugging him onto his knees, and he rasps right next to Dean’s ear, “God, been wanting to do this for so long. Jesus, this is—“

He breaks off but Dean nods, “Yeah, it is,” and then, “Fucking move.”

Sam obliges instantly. Pulls his hips back and slams back in, rocking Dean forward on his knees, and Dean shoots his hands out to steady himself. Sparks shiver all the way down his spine and he hangs his head, taking everything that Sam’s giving him.

It’s glorious and too much and not enough. And it’s over too quickly.

Soon, they collapse in a tangled mess of sweaty limbs and the restlessness has seeped from Dean’s body. He’s got his cheek pressed against the pillow, eyes closed, and Sam’s hand rests loosely on the small of his back. Now that it’s quiet again and his heartbeat has slowed, the panic rises.

“You’re freaking out. Stop it,” Sam says quietly but firmly and Dean’s freakout is momentarily postponed as he gapes at his brother.

“How—Quit it with your psychic shit,” he griped. The smell of sex and Sam still surrounds him and he shifts on top of the blanket.

Sam’s hand pushes down onto his back as if he is worried that Dean will jump up and bolt any second. “Please don’t run from this.”

Dean has half a mind to do exactly that. But he stays. Shuddering and breathing through his panic, but he stays.

In the morning, Dean has showered and gone out to get coffee before Sam even wakes up. They eat breakfast in silence and they don’t talk about it, not for lack of trying on Sam’s part.

The drive back to the bunker is quiet and uncomfortable but Dean can’t do what Sam wants him to do. He can’t talk about it, can hardly even think about it, and it’s going to take a while for them go back to their normal routine but it’s for the best if they just forget the incident altogether.

It takes Dean approximately two months to notice that something is wrong.

It isn’t unusual for him to be on edge, especially during slow-going hunts, and he and Sam have always had their occasional bouts of pointed glances and snapped insults. It comes with being in each other’s pockets 24/7.

But when he clashes with Sam over the fact that the coffee he brought back from his morning run has too much sugar in it, Sam actually stops and stares. He dry-drawls, “Thank god Dean Winchester never makes mistakes,” and Dean instantly feels like shit.

A week later, he nearly bursts into tears because Sam left a dirty mug on the kitchen counter after Dean has just finished cleaning the dishes. He tried to hide it, entirely confused at his own body’s reactions, sniffling into the back of his hand, and Sam blurts out, “What is the matter with you?”

Dean bolts from the room, shaking his head. He feels like he desperately wants to scream.

He has gained weight.

It’s not very noticeable, not at first, the only reason Dean is even remotely aware of how much he weighs are police records. It’s not exactly something he’s ever paid much attention to and he figures as long he can still outrun ghosts and kick monster ass he’s golden.

Until it becomes actually visible a couple of months later and even his brother notices. Sam would probably prefer to cut out his own tongue before he mentioned it to Dean but he doesn’t stop looking. And he secretly smiles when Dean, for once, opts for the salad instead of the burger option.

Problem is, Dean doesn’t understand what he’s doing wrong. He isn’t eating more than usual, hasn’t had more booze, he’s even gone along with Sam on a few runs.

He feels heavy and tired and he doesn’t mention it to Sam when he goes out to buy new jeans.

When he gets chained to the bed by a vicious stomach flu two weeks later he finally decides to swallow his pride and seek a professional’s opinion. He stares down at the test results with complete and utter incomprehension.

“A fucking what?” he demands from the doctor, who jumps at his tone.

Sam shushes him, “Dean, Christ, calm down,” but Dean has never been farther from calming down and he pushes up into a sitting position and the physician’s assistant that’s in the room with them actually takes a step back from him.

“A baby,” the doctor informs him again, regarding him with something that might be confusion, or distain, or simple frustration over a patient who’s making her day more difficult than it has to be. Dean can’t find it in him to care.

He has heard correctly the first time then. His last tiny glimmer of hope that his hearing might have momentarily played tricks on him is snuffed out in an instant. The fight leaves him and he slumps forward, shoulders hunching. Sam’s hand grabs him by the neck, keeping him anchored in the here and now, and he is fucking grateful because his head is swimming.

He hears a clearing of the throat, then the doctor’s voice. “Would you like a minute?”

Sam’s low baritone follows, “Yes, please,” and then a door snicks shut. Sam drops onto the couch next to Dean.

There is a beat of silence. Then Sam says quietly but with emphasis, “Fuck.”

For some inexplicable reason it makes Dean burst out laughing. It’s too high-pitched and slightly deranged-sounding but it takes some of the tension away and once he’s gotten himself under control against, he leans against Sam’s shoulder. Sam leans right back. Magnets.

“How could this happen?” Sam asks.

Dean returns drily, “You really want me to explain that to you?”

“No.”

Dean sighs, looks up. “What now?”

Sam swallows. Breathes. Coughs, “I have absolutely no idea.”

Dean nods. Yeah, that’s pretty much what he figured.

“Hey, Sam, I found us a job,” Dean says a few days later. It’s been too quiet recently and he’s restless, itching to make himself useful. Sam’s expression quickly makes him reconsider that choice, though.

He looks absolutely livid. “What the hell, Dean? Are you out of your mind?”

Dean sits up straighter. “In general or—?”

“You can’t hunt!”

“The fuck?” he shoots back, “Why not?”

It should really be obvious and apparently Sam thinks so, too, because he is staring at Dean with blank features, mouth hanging open. “You—“ He shakes his head. “I can’t believe you really just ask me that.”

Dean’s voice sounds petulant even to himself when he repeats, “Why not?” but he knows the answer already.

And it scares the living shit out of him.

“Don’t make me,” he says, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut, “Don’t make me give up hunting.”

Sam’s anger seems to drain from him. His shoulders slump and he collapsed heavily to the mattress next to Dean. He touches his arm, curling his long fingers around Dean’s elbow. “I don’t know what to tell you. It’s too dangerous right now, this isn’t just about the two of us anymore. I suppose, eventually when she is older—”

Dean interrupts him, his hands fisted tight. “I haven’t even decided that I wanna keep it.”

He immediately regrets the words when Sam’s face falls and pain overtakes it. “What?”

Looking down, plucking at the seam of his jeans, Dean says, “I don’t know if I can do this. If I wanna do this.”

“You can’t make that decision alone,” Sam returns stiffly and it’s clear what he’s saying. I want this. Don’t take this from me. “I thought it was clear but … apparently we need to talk about this.”

Dean sighs and closes his eyes. “I know.”

“I don’t understand,” Sam says, “You’ve always wanted to be—“

“A father?” Dean gives a humorless laugh. “Yeah, but not like this. Not now. Not…” He falls silent. He’s exhausted and it’s too much to process.

“I know it’s weird but this is our chance to get out, Dean. Without dying.” Sam nudges him and gives him a tiny smile. “Which would be nice, you know.”

Dean smiles back, can’t help himself, and for once, it’s genuine. “Yeah. It’s just … I think I need some time to,” he makes a motion with his hand, “wrap my head around it all.”

Sam nods. “Yeah, me too.”

Sam, in that annoying habit of his, hit the nail right on the head when he said that this was their golden ticket out of the world of blood and gore, because that is exactly what terrifies Dean the most. The prospect of not hunting, not being allowed to do what he’s good at, the only thing he’s good at, is enough to make his chest feel tight enough to take away his breath for a moment. He can almost feel the panic rising, bubbling up from his stomach and singeing his insides, and he instinctively wraps his arms around his midsection, protection against what will undeniably come.

“What is it?” Sam asks, alarmed, but all Dean can do is shake his head. “I don’t—I can’t—“

“Hey,” Sam shushes him gently and reaches out, “Come here, it’s okay.”

Dean wants to tell him that he doesn’t need to be babied, that Sam can shove that where the sun don’t shine, but he still can’t fucking string together a coherent sentence. He doesn’t move when Sam wraps his arms around him, tugs Dean into his own body, and presses soft lips into his hair. “You’re okay. We can do this, I know we can. I’m with you all the way, you hear me?”

Dean digs his own thumbs into his eye sockets, ashamed of his reaction to Sam’s body heat and the feeling of comfort surrounding him. He presses the back of his hand against his mouth to prevent any embarrassing sounds from spilling.

Jesus, he’s not just pregnant, he’s actually turning into a chick.

After awhile of calming his breath and his pulse, listening to the beat of Sam’s heart against his ear, he heaves a sigh and mutters, “‘m still not giving up hunting.”

The chest he’s leaning against vibrates with silent laughter. “Okay,” Sam says, audibly amused but Dean is too tired to call him on it.

“Wanna sleep,” Dean mumbles, more to himself, but Sam hears anyway and strokes a hand through his hair. It feels really fucking good.

“Okay,” Sam says again and shifts until he’s lying down on the bed with Dean against his front. This isn’t quite what Dean meant, he imagined that Sam would retreat to his own room and that they both would regroup in the morning, but he isn’t about to complain. Isn’t about to pull away from Sam’s warmth, from the comfort of steady breaths against the back of his neck.

He must have dozed off eventually because when he comes back around the mattress next to him is cold. He’s still in pretty much the same position he fell asleep in, on his side, stretched out diagonally across the bed. The blanket is bunched up somewhere around his knees and apparently Sam took his jeans off him during the night.

Speaking of.

“Hey there, Sleeping Beauty,” Sam says as he enters the room again, rubbing a towel through his damp hair.

Dean snorts and turns onto his back, splaying a hand over his belly. “You can joke but you wish you looked this good.”

Sam rolls his eyes and flips him off and it’s so familiar, so normal, that Dean laughs out loud.

Dean plops down next to Sam on his brother’s bed and holds out a bag of chips to him. “Wanna watch a movie?”

Sam takes the bag and rips it open. “Sure. What do you feel like? What to Expect When You’re Expecting?”

The quip is so entirely out of the blue that a surprised laugh bubbles out of Dean’s mouth before he can stop it. Giggling, he digs his elbow into Sam’s ribs.

“No, asshole,” he snorts, “Liz Banks is smoking and all but I don’t really go for the whole pregnant look.”

He shoots Sam a sideward glance, expecting him to make a crack about how Dean knows who plays in the movie. He channel-surfs. Sue him.

But his brother is worlds away from joking. Isn’t even smiling. Dean is about to ask what’s wrong when Sam says without inflection, “I think I do.”

It takes Dean a second but when the meaning sinks in, he makes a shocked noise, his mouth half-open but he doesn’t have the words. “You—“ he starts but swallows the rest, not sure if he even knows what he meant to say. Sam is still looking at him, face honest and open, and Dean doesn’t think he can move.

He never thought—

It was a fluke. A stupid spell that nearly ruined their relationship. Nothing more, nothing less.

Suddenly, he remembers the night from two weeks ago, only days after they found out. He remembers being so scared, feeling so vulnerable. And he remembers how fucking good it felt to be held by Sam and to fall asleep right next to him with his warm breaths brushing Dean’s skin.

He hasn’t really given it much thought but maybe he should have. Because the way Sam is looking at him right now makes him feel like the biggest idiot for taking so long to understand, for not realizing sooner.

“Okay,” he says, breathless, “Okay,” and then they’re kissing and Dean doesn’t know who moved first but it doesn’t matter because it’s been five long months, but god, he remembers this. He remembers Sam’s taste, his smell that’s always there, always familiar, but never like this, never this close, and he remembers the way Sam felt against him when he pulls him into his lap, Dean’s thighs on either side of Sam’s legs.

Dean licks into his brother’s mouth and the moan he elicits from Sam burns all the way down his spine. Large palms are resting on his sides, gripping him tight, making him shiver, and Sam kisses him back just as fiercely.

He wants—God, he wants. And this time there isn’t even a spell he can blame for it.

He grips the hem of Sam’s T-shirt and quickly whips it over his head, carelessly throwing it to the floor. He can barely suppress a needy sound at the feel of all that naked skin, solid muscles moving under his hands.

“Shit, Dean,” Sam gasps, “Shoulda done this again months ago.”

The words settle hot in Dean’s stomach and he has to swallow before replying, “Probably wouldn’t’ve let you.” His voice has already gone rough even though they’ve barely done anything and it gives him more than a little thrill that Sam is the one who can do this to him.

Maybe this was inevitable, spell or not. Maybe they would have ended up here sooner or later either way.

Dean’s head is spinning. He asks, “So you didn’t just say that? When we first … you know.” He pulls back a little. “About wanting this, I mean. Wanting me.” He sounds incredulous even to himself.

Sam gives a short laugh. “No, I didn’t just say that.”

It’s an unfamiliar, slightly scary, incredibly exhilarating feeling to be wanted. Dean is throughly acquainted with being an object of someone’s sexual desire and he certainly knows what it feels like to look for someone, to sink into a warm body for one night in the pretense of companionship. Even with Cassie and Lisa, whom he even thought about marrying at some point, it never felt right, always slightly off.

But it’s all there, in this very moment, right there on Sam’s face and Dean stops breathing for a second. Maybe this is what he has been looking for. Something to hold on to that would give him hope that they can actually do this. Together.

The Winchesters raising a fucking child. Ain’t that something.

But right here, right now, Dean wants it. All of it.

He kisses Sam again because he doesn’t know what to do with himself, with all the emotions swirling around inside of him, and it’s all he can do to keep from crying. Sam’s huge hands splay over his back under his T-shirt, callouses rough against his skin.

“I’ve got you.”

The words nearly get swallowed between their mouths but Dean catches them. He shudders, a foreign feeling of safety washing over him, because maybe, just maybe, Sam’s right for once.

Suddenly, Sam chuckles and Dean pulls back. “What?”

“I think she’s kicking me.” Sam says it with this huge, dopey grin on his face but Dean can’t bring himself to make fun of his little brother.

He gestures between them, says, “That’s what you get for invading her space.”

Sam laughs and smooths his hands over Dean’s sides to his belly, slowly as if he’s asking for permission, and Dean does his best not to squirm against the tickling sensation. The touch does something to him and he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s just wired that way now, or if it’s because it’s Sam, or because something has changed between them. He just knows that it feels illegally good to have his brother’s hands on him and that Sam’s awed expression upon feeling the tiny movements against his palms are something Dean doesn’t ever want to miss again.

He reaches out automatically to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Sam’s ear. Sam probably isn’t even aware of how he turns his head into the touch. Dean leans forward again, wrapping his fingers around Sam’s wrists, and kisses him once more. Sam opens up to him, responding instantly, and trails his hands down to Dean’s thighs, leaving a slight shiver in their wake.

It’s ridiculous how easily Sam can make him fall apart like this, make him moan shamelessly into his brother’s mouth while those deft fingers slip into the waistband of his sweatpants, stroking the sensitive skin there.

“What do you want?” Dean asks because he’s pretty sure he’s good with anything right now as long as Sam never stops touching him.

Sam gently bites his lower lip. Smiles, “Anything and everything you’re up for.”

The next day, Sam freezes in the door frame on his way into the kitchen.

“Um,” he says, “What are you doing?”

Dean turns around, the knife in his hand part-way through slicing a pear in half. “What’s it look like? I was hungry.”

There is a beat of silence, followed by Sam’s tentative “Yes,” a drawn-out sound, “Pears. They’re fruit. They’re healthy. You’re eating them.”

“Hilarious. Really, Sam, I wish I was half as funny as you think you are.”

Dean watches a grin spread on Sam’s face as if he’s just had some kind of revelation, and honestly, Dean has long given up trying to understand the kid. He turns back around and finishes cutting the pear before popping the pieces into his mouth.

“You think you wanna go back to law school?” Dean asks one day, “Because we could make that work. We could try to find something in Palo Alto, or we could—“

“What?”

“—fly or drive or—“

Sam cocks an eyebrow. “You hate flying.”

“I’m just saying,” Dean huffs, exasperated, “If you—“

“No.”

“Would you let me fin—“ Dean’s eyes widen. “No?”

“No. Jody’s here. Alex and Claire are here. Most of the time anyway. It makes sense to stay. You’ve basically already got a job here.”

“I’m sure I could find something else. Not many mechanics that know how to work classic cars.”

Sam is shaking his head before Dean can finish. “This isn’t even a possibility. Besides,” he gives Dean a side-smile, “I like it here.”

Dean snorts, “South Dakota? Why? It’s boring,” making sure to have his voice translate that he doesn’t mind ‘boring’ at all.

As always, Sam immediately picks up on it. “Boring’s fine by me. Although I’m not sure our lives are ever going to be boring again.”

Dean’s hand automatically migrates to his own stomach, palm fitting over the round of it. He hums, more acknowledgement than agreement.

“It’s what you’ve always wanted.” He isn’t talking about boring lives, and he doesn’t quite know why he keeps insisting.

Sam smiles at him again, in that weird lop-sided way. “Yeah, well. I don’t think I want that anymore. I wouldn’t have made a good lawyer anyway.”

“Sure you would’ve.” Dean perches on the edge of the table, picking at some lint on his sweatpants. He feels a little raggedy, always dressed in either pajama bottoms or sweats these days, but it’s simply the most comfortable thing to wear. “You’d make a good anything if you put your mind to it.”

Sam gently smacks his knee, then lets his hand linger. “I wouldn’t go into law again, even if I went back to school. I only chose it because I wanted to help people.” He looks up, pushes his hair out of his eyes. “But that’s not the right way for me. I was actually thinking about looking into online courses for clinical psychology or nursing. I’ve already checked out some History lessons and that sounds interesting, too. If there’s a teaching position somewhere.” He shrugs his shoulders, letting it hang there.

“Nerd,” Dean says immediately because it’s expected of him. Then, “Yeah, I can see that. Any of it. I meant it when I said you’d make a good anything.”

Sam looks up at him from under his bangs, suddenly appearing shy. Then he rises from his chair and leans forward, caging Dean between his hands as he braces them on the table. The kiss that follows is as much appreciation as it is a strategy to make Dean shut the hell up and Dean is, for once, absolutely okay with that.

Sam steps up behind Dean and sets his hands lightly on Dean’s hips. Dean jumps at the initial contact, then sighs and melts against the support of his brother’s solid body behind him. His spine feels ready to snap in two. He kind of has to pee but it’s not urgent and he couldn’t move if his life depended on it.

“How’re you doing?” comes Sam’s soft-low voice.

Dean lets his head fall back against Sam’s shoulder, breathes in deep, smell of day-old cologne and soap in his nose. “I’m okay.” It’s close enough to the truth that he might just get away with it. He has gotten fairly used to the constant aching.

Sam’s lips find his temple. “Try again.”

Dean chuckles mirthlessly. “How d’you think I’m doing?” He leans back a little farther, letting Sam take a more of his weight. “I can’t breathe right, my back hurts, my head hurts, my feet hurt. I’ve got heartburn from hell and I need to piss like a horse every ten minutes. Anything else you wanna know?”

Sam’s nose pushes into his hair. “I’m sorry you feel like shit.”

He sounds so genuine it momentarily throws Dean for a loop. He anticipated mockery, or at the very least, some sort of amused comeback, but Sam simply holds him, providing silent comfort. Dean isn’t sure how he is supposed to feel about that.

He says, “This is your fault.”

“It is?”

“The guy always gets the blame, Sammy.”

“Okay.” He feels Sam nod. “Wifey.”

Dean can breathe again. Jokes are easier, safer. He doesn’t know what to do with all those emotion he finds himself battling whenever Sam is around. It’s all too much to handle sometimes. He smacks Sam aside the head, more a gentle tap than anything, and Sam chuckles, doesn’t even flinch.

“What’s funny?”

Sam says, “We’re having a baby.”

“Would you stop saying that?” Dean groans, “Believe me, I’m very much aware.”

“I don’t wanna stop.”

Dean shakes his head. He still hasn’t wrapped his mind completely around the fact that soon there would be an actual honest-to-God baby coming out of him. He has barely made his peace with being pregnant and now he already had to think about … that.

Sam nudges him. “You need anything?”

“‘m fine.”

He can’t see but he knows Sam is rolling his eyes. “Yeah, I know. You said. I just don’t believe you.”

Dean is too tired to fight with him about it. “You know, I might not be able to get out of a chair without help but I sure as shit can still shoot you in the foot.”

Sam’s answering chuckle is low and breathy, right next to Dean’s ear, and Dean’s stomach does a flip. Or it would, if there was any goddamn room for his stomach to move. “You wouldn’t, though.”

Dean turns his head as much as he can to look at his brother. “And why’s that?”

Sam’s eyes darkening is the only warning he gets before Sam’s mouth is on his and he has to grab onto Sam’s shoulder to keep his balance. The kiss isn’t a desperate one but still forceful, slightly messy, and utterly perfect. Dean might actually develop an addiction. Not that he’s going to tell Sam that.

He says, “Smooth, Sammy, real smooth,” and Sam licks the words right off his tongue.

“I ain’t changing my last name!”

“Well, neither am I.”

Dean breaks their stare-down and huffs a frustrated breath. “What then?”

Sam sighs, sits down. “We could both change it so it’d be fair,” he says but his heart clearly isn’t in it. It’s a ridiculously ordinary detail but lately, it’s all been about hashing out the details.

It definitely beats having to think about how, in just a few weeks, Dean will be in the hospital for the delivery of the tiny human growing inside of him, and he knows realistically that a C-section is one of the lesser pains he’s been through in his life but he still isn’t particularly keen on it. He crosses his arms over his chest protectively.

They are actually settling down, getting out, and as much as that still scares him, it’s too important to do it under a fake name.

“We could just say it’s a coincidence. Winchester’s gotta be a common name.”

Sam doesn’t look convinced.

Dean throws his hands, giving up. “Well, that’s me all outta ideas. So unless there’s anything else banging around in that clever head of yours…” He winces and sits down on the edge of Jody’s couch. His back is currently trying to kill him, he’s sure of it, but he doesn’t want to give Sam the opportunity to mother-hen him. He’s had enough of that over the past months.

But of course his little brother is too observant for his own good. “You okay?” he asks, eyebrows drawn tight.

“‘m fine, Sam.” Dean waves him away. “I’m not actually your wife so you can stop with your coddling.”

Exhaustion takes him suddenly, as it has been doing for a few weeks, and he rubs his eyes. He’s tense, waiting for Sam to keep pushing until he snaps and yells at him.

Turns out they’re both still capable of learning because Sam stays quiet, simply gets up and slots himself behind Dean on the couch, thighs warm on either side of Dean’s hips.

“I’m not coddling you, I just can’t help worrying sometimes. Sue me.” Sam’s fingers find the knotted muscles on either side of Dean’s spine, digging in and massaging, and Dean can barely suppress an embarrassingly loud moan. Sam has precisely until never to stop doing what he’s doing.

He lets his head fall back in bliss. “Keep doin’ that.”

Sam chuckles, the vibration of his chest against Dean’s back, and then he drops a brief kiss to Dean’s clothed shoulder. “What would you think about marrying me?”

Dean splutters, “Excuse me?” which only serves to make Sam laugh.

“Not for real, idiot,” he says, his hands never stopping, “Just on paper. That way we’d both get to keep our name.”

Dean is about to shake his head, demand ‘What the ever-loving fuck, Sam?’ but then he just sighs, because honestly? It ain’t the strangest thing to have happened by a long shot. After the year he’s had Dean needs a completely new definition of ‘strange’.

“Fine,” he says, “Whatever.”

In for a penny, in for a pound, right?

Dean hates hospitals. He’s used to pain and exhaustion and he doesn’t see the point in staying. But Sam isn’t budging on the subject so he grudgingly lies back down because to be honest, he is too tired to argue with his stubborn little brother—pardon, husband.

Ain’t that still freaky as fuck.

He sighs and closes his eyes, and before he knows it he’s back asleep.

“You can’t name her ‘Mary’,” Claire exclaims, then catches herself and lowers her voice, hissing, “Are you insane?”

“Yeah, I vote a definite no on this one,” Jody chimes in. Behind her, Alex looks confused and stays quiet.

Dean huffs. “’s just an idea.” He’s got his legs thrown up onto the couch, leaning back against Sam’s side who’s got their little girl in his arms. She squirms occasionally in her sleep, eyes firmly shut and tiny hands curled into fists. Dean sort of has the instinct to reach out, to touch her, and it’s been that way ever since he has seen her for the first time in the hospital. He figures it’s natural but it’s going to take some getting used to, feeling this connected to another human being, especially one that’s this helpless.

“Well, our grandparents’ name are out of the question,” Sam says without looking up from the sleeping girl’s face.

“Why?” Alex asks but falls silent again when Jody shakes her head, conveying, ‘You don’t wanna know.’

“You’re really not very good at this, huh?” Claire remarks with a raised eyebrow and catches Dean’s gaze. He scoffs at her. “Yeah, thanks for pointing that out.”

Jody rolls her eyes. “Who wants some coffee?”

“Oh yeah,” Dean instantly brightens up, “Me, please.”

“I was thinking ‘Charlie’,” Sam says quietly, still caught in the first part of the conversation, “Kind of reminds me of her. If the hair stays that way, that is.”

Dean looks down at the baby, who’s scrunching up her nose in her sleep. Her hair does have a red tint to it but that might change. “Not sure that’s a good idea, either.”

Sam grins up at him, taking his eyes of their daughter for the first time in half an hour. “Yeah, I figured.”

“Why can we only come up with names of dead people? That’s … morbid.”

Sam chuckles, taking care not to jostle the bundle in his arms. “Our whole lives are morbid.”

Dean sighs and slowly turns toward him, still sore from the C-section, slinging one leg over Sam’s knee comfortably. “We’re really not very good at this.”

“What about ‘Stacy’?” Alex says quietly as she shuffles back into the living room, carrying two steaming mugs. Dean didn’t even notice she followed Jody into the kitchen.

Sam looks up, exchanges a look with Dean. “I like it,” he says and it sounds like he means it.

Dean looks down at the baby girl, then reaches out to stroke her little fist. In her sleep, she curls her stubby fingers around the tip of his, holding on. He nods. “Yeah. Stacy. Okay.”

Dean feels groggy. It’s been almost been two weeks since he was discharged from the hospital but the exhaustion hasn’t vanished. And on top of everything else, he thinks he might be coming down with a cold.

He feels like an asshole for snapping at Sam all morning but his headache hasn’t allowed for anything else. And the worst thing about it is that Sam is always so nerve-gratingly understanding. Dean wishes he would just push back, get mad for once, and stop being so goddamned collected all the time.

“Dean, what do you think?”

Dean grunts, “I wanna sleep, that’s what I think.”

He mentally kicks himself when Sam raises an eyebrow and the blonde woman with the clipboard in front of her breasts who has been nothing but nice while showing them around the house that’s for sale, shifts her weight, confused and visibly uncomfortable.

Sam gives her a smile and it only looks forced to Dean, who has catalogued every single one of his brother’s expressions. “Would you excuse us for a minute?”

The woman seems only to happy to oblige and her high-heeled shoes make clicking noises on the tiled kitchen floor as she retreats.

Sam faces Dean. Sighs, “Would it kill you to be polite for once?”

“You know,” Dean shoots back, “It just might.”

Sam ignores him, lowering his voice. “You haven’t had anything nice to say about any of the houses we’ve looked at so far. Are they really all that horrible or are you just being a jerk on principle?”

A crease has appeared between Sam’s eyebrows and Dean can’t help the inappropriate excitement he feels at finally having managed to make Sam lose at least some of his cool.

“I’m being a jerk because I don’t wanna buy a house, Sam. I don’t wanna live in a house. It’s … weird.” He’s vaguely aware of his childish behavior and the realization does not improve his mood at all. “I get it, okay? We need to get a house. So pick whichever one you like. I’ll deal.”

Sam sighs, obviously tired of the conversation but unwilling to let it go. Neither of them has gotten much sleep lately. “I like the one with the front porch. The yard’s pretty small but it’s not like we’re gonna gonna plant flower beds anyway.”

Dean nods, “Okay, we’ll call ‘em up and sign the lease as soon as we can.”

“Dean.” There is audible frustrating in that one word. “There’s no point if you’re not going to like it.”

“I have to get used to it,” Dean settles on.

Sam finally seems to be giving up. “If you say so.”

There is a knock, bony knuckles against the wooden door frame. The realtor is fiddling with the hem of her blouse. “Gentlemen? I’m so sorry but I’ve got another couple coming to look at the house, so if you’re not—“

Sam interrupts her gently, “Of course. Thank you very much but we don’t think this is the right fit for us.”

The way he is speaking for the both of them makes Dean grit his teeth but he stays silent.

She smiles at them. “I’m sure you’ll find the place for you.”

They shake hands and Dean exhales in relief when they step through the front door. He can’t say why this whole house-hunting thing is bothering him so much, apart from the obvious reason. Maybe it’s just the headache.

Sam’s hand comes down on his shoulder, squeezing for a moment before loosening his grip but letting his palm linger. The heat radiating from it spreads all the way down Dean’s back and he can’t help the small shiver.

“You’re exhausted,” Sam states and Dean’s first impulse is to deny it. He relents, “I feel like I haven’t slept in weeks, I don’t know what it is.”

There’s a half-smile in the corner of Sam’s mouth. “You don’t need to be okay 24/7, you know? No one expects you to be. Least of all me.”

“It shouldn’t always be you who’s the one … comforting me. That’s—“

“Your job?” Sam finishes for him, his tone revealing nothing. Dean looks down at his shoes, staying quiet, letting Sam know he’s right without so many words.

It is his job, it’s always been his job. And now he can’t do it. And he can’t hunt, either, which is usually his outlet when things aren’t going the way he wants them to. That or alcohol. Which is also not really an option right now. What kind of father would he be if we were to get drunk while having to care for a baby who’s barely three weeks old?

“How about,” Sam begins, “we go back to Jody’s, take Stacy off Alex’s hands, and lie down for a bit? Provided we can get her to sleep.” He grimaces and it almost makes Dean laugh despite everything.

Stacy has been rather agreeable — remind him to thank every available deity for that blessing — but sleep hasn’t come easy for the three of them.

“You think it was okay to leave her with Claire and Alex?”

Sam’s face stretches into a grin. “I don’t think they can do more harm than we can.”

Dean hums. “Yeah, no, I know. Never mind. Let’s go.”

“Actually,” Sam says, “I was under the impression that we might not get her back now that Alex has taken a liking to her.”

Dean vividly remembers the disgusting cooing sounds both girls made upon seeing the little bundle when they brought her back from the hospital. Shoot him if he ever resigns himself to that. Not that he thought that Alex — and Claire especially — would be the type to make cooing sounds. It was an odd picture to behold.

“I’m just saying,” he slides himself behind the wheel of the Impala, “we should get back. Which is what we’re doing, so everything’s peachy.”

Sam is staring at him while he peels out of the driveway, past the ‘for sale’ sign.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Sam says and it’s a big old lie, “Just … you’re protective. It’s good. It’s cute.”

“Okay, first off, I’m not cute.” Dean whips the wheel around little too hard and the car skids for a moment until it rights itself again. “And second, I’m not protective, I’m—“

“Chill,” Sam laughs with a hand braced against the dashboard, well-used to Dean’s driving, “Yes, you are. That wasn’t supposed to be an insult, idiot. I’d be concerned if you weren’t protective.”

Dean shrugs and smoothly pulls around the next curve. “I guess. Still weird, though.”

“What is?”

“Fuck, everything.” He sneaks a glance at Sam out of the corner of his eye. His brother looks relaxed in the passenger seat, one elbow propped up against the door, using his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. “Yeah,” he agrees, “I’m kinda glad things turned out the way they did, though, y’know?”

Dean isn’t sure he does, in fact, know. But Sam does look weirdly happy, lighter somehow, and Dean is willing to take it for the miracle that it is.

“And the house is gonna be fine, too,” Sam continues, “We just have to get used to it. I’ll even let you pick out the curtains.”

The joke is unexpected but welcome and it makes Dean snort. “You better ‘cause we both know you got no taste, Sammy.”

They have mostly finished outfitting their new home with furniture and Sam is reading the morning paper at the kitchen table. Disgustingly domestic. Almost too normal for Dean’s comfort.

“We should get a dog,” Dean says into the familiar silence between them.

Sam’s head jerks up. “What?”

“Yeah,” Dean shrugs, “I’s thinking it might be good for a kid, y’know?”

He tries not to let it get to him how Sam’s eyes light up ridiculously bright. Tries not to let the guilt take him over how their childhood — their entire life — has always demanded so many sacrifices from his brother.

“But,” Sam starts, visibly reluctant, “you don’t like dogs.” His voice rises on the end syllable as if it’s a question but there is no hiding his excitement.

Dean is going to have to bite the bullet on this one, and looking at Sam’s openly happy face, he doesn’t think he minds all that much.

“I like dogs fine,” he says, “I just don’t want them in the car. Or anywhere near it.”

Sam is already nodding, giddy like a child, “Deal. I’ll keep him away from your car. I promise.”

Dean grins, and a muffled “You better,” is all he can get out before he finds himself with an armful of not-so-little brother.

“You think we’ll ever tell her?” Dean asks one evening as they’re lying in bed, Stacy making little snuffling sounds in her sleep in the crib nearby.

Sam’s hand comes to a stop on Dean’s back as if his motor skills aren’t good enough to trace random symbols onto Dean’s skin and process information at the same time. “Tell her what?”

“Any of it,” Dean sighs with his eyes closed. He’s got his head resting on Sam’s shoulder and he’s been in and out of a doze with Sam’s fingers caressing his skin. “What we used to do. What the world is really like, that monsters are real. And that—“

He hesitates but Sam has already caught on. “That we’re brothers.”

“Yeah.”

“I have no idea.”

The no-nonsense admission makes Dean snort. “Very helpful.”

“I’m serious,” Sam says, splaying his palm over Dean’s flank, thumb stroking back and forth over his hipbone, “I say we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Now you’re just stealing my lines.”

Dean can feel Sam smiling into his hair. “Borrowing.”

Nothing is certain right now, they’re making it up as they go along. Some days it terrifies Dean so much he can barely breathe. He looks over at their daughter, this small bundle of helplessness and he feels powerless. Feels like his hands are made up of ruin and he’s doomed to mess up badly sooner or later. From what he gathered from all those not-so-helpful parenting books Jody dug up for them, this is exactly what parenthood is supposed to feel like.

So maybe he’s on the right track. And he figures, as long as he and Sam mess up together, he’s okay with it.

“If she gets anything from you,” he mutters tiredly, “she’s got it all figured out before she hits double digits.”

He barely hears Sam’s laugh before he slides back into sleep.

“No,” Sam shakes his head, “No way,” while Dean is trying to breathe through his laughter.

“She can’t name the dog ‘Sammy’, that’s just—“ He looks at Dean, imploring and clearly unamused, but the laughter continues to pour out of Dean with no way of stopping it.

“Hilarious,” he finishes, breathless, “That’s hilarious, Sam. Besides, she’s right, y’know, he does kind of look like you.”

Both Stacy and the puppy are staring up at them with similar expressions, heads cocked to the side in confusion. The dog makes a quiet whining sound and Stacy asks, “Papa?”

Sam takes his eyes off Dean and responds absent-mindedly, “Yes, baby?”

Her eyes are glued to Dean, who is now trying to suppress his laughter, red in the face with the effort. “Is Daddy okay?”

Sam sighs. “Not when I’m done with him.”

Her blonde eyebrows rise even higher and Dean lightly smacks Sam’s arm. “Don’t scare her,” he says, pulling himself together.

He kneels down, assures, “I’m fine, monkey.” With an upward glance at Sam, he adds, grinning, “And I think ‘Sammy’ is a great name for a dog.”

Sam groans above him but Dean manages to swallow his laughter this time. His daughter is still looking between them somewhat confused but she seems happy enough to have successfully named the newest addition to their family.

April is melting into May as they’re standing on the front porch that Dean’s grown to like more and more, squinting against a cloudless sunny sky, when Sam says, “Our daughter.”

Dean barks a laugh at the awe in Sam’s voice. “You’re never gonna get tired of sayin’ that, are you?”

His brother’s eyes are fixed on Stacy, chasing Dog Sammy through the front yard. The Golden Retriever has grown into his clumsy paws over the last year and a half, right along with their baby girl, who will be starting kindergarten in a week and is currently shrieking with laughter and paying neither Dean nor Sam any mind.

Sam shakes his head. “Never.”

Dean leans back against the pillar that is holding the porch’s roof. He pushes his sunglasses up onto his head. “Say it again.”

Sam turns, grinning right at him, and it’s entirely cheesy but Dean reaches for him on instinct, curls his fingers around his brother’s wrist and tugs. Sam goes willingly, grin sliding into a soft smile. “Our daughter.”

Tags: @ghivasheluh @cupcaketimelord @runtosleepdreamer @jem-carstairs-is-perfection @princessmoonspunky @moonlightrat (Anyone else wants to be tagged, let me know.)

#spnkinkbingo #spn kink bingo #wincest #mpreg #r: mature #top!sam #bottom!dean #fluff #domestic winchesters #kid fic #a curse made them do it #supernatural #spn fanfic #my writing #first time

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