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lightofthemoonglow · 1 year

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𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚rter ficlet dump part one Featuring: Marty Mikalski, Milton Dammers and Vincent Sinclair

❛ what are you looking at? (Marty Mikalski)

It’s really hard to not look. Which is a terrible defense, and you know this, because it’s just so weird. Like, you do have impulse control even though you joke about not having any. You can look anywhere else, you’re out in the woods, which are really nice. There are trees, there’s probably birds somewhere and there’s the lake itself. Marty is just one thing in the lake. One shirtless, surprisingly ripped…person. Not a thing.

The two of you had been the last ones to leave the lake. The others were in town, killing time before it was dark enough to start a bonfire. You and Marty were all alone now, in the outdoor showers that had no curtains to separate the two showerheads. You’re doing your best to not look too hard at him as you rinse off the nasty lake water.

But his voice breaks the silence and you kick yourself.

“What are you looking at?”

Those five words are a knife to the chest, it just comes out of nowhere. At least to you. Your face feels like it’s on fire as you try and figure out what to say. The truth just slips out instead.

“You.”

Marty pauses for a long time. A really long time. It feels like the moment goes on for lifetimes. “Is it weird that I want to kiss you?” He sounds unsure, it’s so unlike him that it almost breaks your heart for a moment. Instead, you finally close the gap.

It’s warm outside, so it’s like you’re indoors instead of being exposed to the natural elements. Marty tastes like weed, faint and smoky as his lips part for your tongue. The breeze that nips at your bodies is just enough to make you shudder in his arms and it breaks the spell just long enough for you to pull back.

“Maybe we should take this inside.”

There’s a rug on the floor of the cabin that serves your purposes nicely. You can’t make it to the bedroom, not when the tension has finally reached its peak after waiting for so long. You smile wolfishly as you straddle Marty, running your hands over his shockingly toned bod. Marty is looking up at you in what feels like awe, his eyes unable to focus on one place for very long. “You’re fucking unreal,” he whispers, a trembling hand finding your breast. He’s hard, you can feel him. “I don’t know what to do with you…”

“Then let me take the lead.” You wrap your hand around him, feeling him pulse in your palm and Marty moans and it’s so sweet and pretty. You don’t even mind when he comes all over you, streaks of white on your stomach and thighs. There’ll be time for more later.

❛ you know where to find me. ❜ (Milton dammers)

It only happens a few times a year. The two of you try not to cross paths intentionally. It makes things easier. Neither of you are in a place to have a relationship, both emotionally and practically. So, this is what you do.

As you finish packing up your temporary workstation, another case solved with the combined forces of the BSU and the Unexplained Phenomena Unit, you walk past Milton’s desk. It’s pure organized chaos, much like the man himself. “You know where to find me, Agent Dammers,” you murmur as you stand as close as you dare.

That night, once he’s confirmed his transport home, Milton finds himself at the local motel, on floor three, in front of room seven. He doesn’t always show up. Some days after more difficult than others. You understand and it’s never an issue when the two of you meet again. It’s why he keeps going back to you when those needs arise.

You’re in bed already, wearing nothing but a large t-shirt and underwear, your hair free around your face instead of tied up in a severe bun. Your jewelry is on the nightstand, neatly organized for you to put on in the morning.

“Do you want some water?”

“No. Maybe…after.”

Sometimes he stays. Usually he goes, but it never feels like he is abandoning you. But every time feels like a reunion, a borderline holy homecoming. When you reach for the hem of your shirt, Milton stops you. “Let me do it.” You nod and lay back, sprawled on the cheap motel bedsheets, legs opening for him as Milton finally joins you on the bed, a gloved hand resting on your thigh for a moment. The gloves stay on, and you know why. But maybe one day, they won’t.

You’re soon completely naked, bared to that dark gaze that holds a lot more pain than he deserves. All you can do is hope that this eases it somewhat. Milton crouches down, staring at the apex of your spread open thighs. “May I?”

“Yes. Of course.” He asks every time for a reason, and you don’t mind giving him permission every time. Milton nods and you gasp softly as his tongue drags across your core. It’s his way of showing you that this isn’t one-sided, that even though he may leave immediately after. He knows your body well at this point, knows where to lick, where his fingers need to go to make you moan in pleasure, coaxing pleasure out of you until you need to muffle your cries into the pillow.

“Do you want to see me this time?”

Milton hesitates, truly mulling it over. “Yes. Thank you.”

“You don’t have to take me every time.”

His lips are shiny, and he licks them without a second thought. “But I want to.”

You nod and watch as Milton unzips his pants and rolls on the condom. While you don’t know exactly why he never takes off his clothes, but you know enough about him to have a good idea. The scar by his eye says more than one would think. You wonder what it would feel like to have his bare chest pressed against yours, to feel his whole self pressing against your body as he pushes inside. Instead, you hold onto his shoulders as he enters you, filling you up just right. Milton’s face is a mask of concentration as he precisely thrusts into you, eyes only fluttering closed every once in a while.

There’s something right about this. You want to hold onto him forever, his cock feels so good and you feel safe. Milton makes you feel safe, because you know that despite how fragmented he is on the outside and on the inside, he’s not the sort of man to turn it on you. Not even right now, as you move your hips to meet his motions, he’s holding onto you for dear life and you’re holding him, warning him you’re going to come. He kisses you for the first time as you do, swallowing the sounds that accompany your climax.

Milton opens his mouth, as if to say something, but his own orgasm cuts him off and he’s lost for a few moments, coming back to himself only after it is done.

The condom is quickly disposed of and he just looks at you, still sprawled on the bed. “I can’t stay.” Milton lingers by the bed, watching you, unable to move just yet.

“I thought so.” You smile sadly and sit up, looking for your underwear.

“Maybe next time.”

“I’d like that.”

❛ i’ll be good, i promise. ❜ (Vincent)

[warning: bit of a dark!Vincent vibe going on here. Or a lot. It does border on dub-con so read at your own risk!]

You can feel the pounding of your heart against your chest, a steady, frantic beat that never seems to end. You don’t want it to, you want to feel this for as long as possible. The wood of the table you’re laid out on is smooth, but a splinter would be a welcome distraction from the all consuming terror that is threatening to overtake you as you look up at the man looming over you.

“Please, Vincent.” Your lips are so dry that they practically crack after you utter your first words in what feels like days. “Please.”

It had started with your car breaking down. A true accident, honest to God, Bo had claimed. You had needed to walk a few hours to get to Ambrose, not noticing anything odd due to the heat sickness. And by the time you had been given water and time to rest, they had been able to cover everything up. It was just a dying town to you by the time you had been able to ask questions.

Vincent had been the most elusive of the three brothers during your time here. Lurking in the shadows, never speaking. Only listening to your chatter as you had remained a respectful distance away. You liked him the best, even if the occasions where he would sign a response were rare.

But then you had gone into the theater.

And now you were on the table, straps digging into the soft flesh of your wrists and ankles. Totally helpless, at his mercy. Your dress is hiked up, exposing your thighs, the rumpled straps doing the same to your shoulders.

Vincent gazes down at you, the mask hiding his expression. You don’t know what he’s thinking, what he wants, but his hesitation to do anything gives you hope. Slowly, he reaches out, trailing a finger along your face, following the dark streaks left behind by a mix of tears and mascara. He takes your chin in hand, his thumb brushing over your lower lip.

“I’ll be good. I promise.”

The lips of the mask press against your own and you kiss back, despite…everything that’s going on right now. “I’ll be good, so good, just for you.” It’s all you can say as Vincent takes a knife to your dress, slicing it off. The halves fall to the floor, and you nod when he pauses, giving him permission for whatever he wants to do.

When the straps are undone, you sob in relief, about to babble your thanks, tears beginning to roll down your cheeks. Before you can get the first word out, Vincent has you in his arms, he’s bending you over the table. Your body practically slamming against the wood knocks every word and thought out of your head. A hand goes to your head, strong fingers weaving into your hair and then he gently presses it down, indicating he wants you to remain still.

It's dimly lit, he can barely see you. So the first attempt just slides between your thighs and Vincent keeps thrusting, rubbing against your center as he grunts, still holding your head down. You can smell him, musky and something else, something familiar yet elusive. You clench your thighs, shivering in the cold air of the workroom as Vincent fucks between your thighs, never quite giving you enough to feel something. At some point, he lets go of your hair to grip both hips hard enough to bruise, fucking your thighs hard enough to make it sound like he’s spanking you, the room filling with the sound of flesh against flesh. It shouldn’t be enough, but it turns you into a mess anyway, you’re shaking and crying, tears flowing freely by the time the tip finally finds its way inside of you.

It's just the tip, but it’s enough to make you wail out of sheer want. Vincent comes before he’s even a quarter of the way inside, most of his seed landing on the floor. You’re left unfulfilled but at least you can feel the pain of denial.

Even though you know that you’re free, you don’t move. Not yet. Instead you wait, wait until Vincent turns you around to face him. The relief finally comes when he signs one word.

Home.

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