#and she mocks him for good measure lol | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

uncouth-the-fifth · 2 years

Text

baby i'll stay (heaven can wait) - Sam Winchester/Reader

read it on ao3.

Pairing: Sam Winchester/Reader (vaguely s8). Tags/Warnings: not-too-graphic smut, hunting-typical violence, witches using glamors, soft, loving, childhood friends-to-lovers, glass injuries. Word Count: 14,729 (hence why it took so damn long lol) Notes: howdyyyy. sorry for the brief absence, i was packing up some end-of-the-year things at home, finals, etc. this is for my dear friend and ultimate supporter @lacilou, who requested something that was so up my alley that i just HAD to write it. here ya goooo! Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!

You had never seen Dean grovel before.

It started with some gentle offers, and then his pride caved, and he really started to dig in. If you played bait for the witch the three of you were currently hunting, Dean would, (in order), clean your weapons himself for a month, buy you dinner from your favorite place, and let you do at least one donut with Baby in the nearest empty lot. You planned to say yes either way, seeing as people were dying here—and it’s not like the three of you had any other options. But the longer you held out the more Dean added. You stewed on it, until even Sam offered up the passenger’s seat for two weeks. Once you’d amassed a good collection of favors the night before your hunt—

“Fine. I’ll do it,” you crossed your arms.

“God,” Dean cursed, and slumped forward against the table of your motel room in mock-exhaustion. “Only took you two fuckin’ days.”

Sam, who was leaning against the counter of your kitchenette, cooly twisted off the cap of his bottle and smirked around it. “You’re just mad cause’ she played you. Donuts in the Impala? Really?”

“I think that’s fair,” you spoke up, “What’s our witch’s name again?”

“Hermes,” Sam and Dean said, rolling their eyes in unison.

“Well—I’m the one who’s gonna have to be touched by this creep. That’s worth wheelies in the Impala, if you ask me,” you argued. On the motel bed in front of you, you were sorting through the suitcase that carried your entire life in it. There was supposed to be a nice night-out dress in here somewhere, but it’d probably been ruined by monster blood a millennia ago.

“Don’t even joke,” Dean warned, but he hesitated, like he’d been considering the Impala doing wheelies and mentally measuring how cool it’d be.

“You know…” Sam trailed off, and in the corner of your eye you watched him straighten up. “If this really bothers you, you don’t have to do it. We’ve found other outlets before—this one just so happens to be the easiest one. A harder solution never scared us off before.”

“Exactly,” you snapped the lid of your suitcase shut. “So I can handle an easy one, like you said. I’m complaining for the fun of it, I promise. A witch killing and robbing people is nothing new, and neither are creeps—so I’m not exactly intimidated.”

Stepping away from the bed, you presented your dress to the two. It was almost a little too plain, but you got out so little lately that anything, even willfully being seduced by a witch in a sleazy bar, sounded fun. Little things like that reminded you that the hunt was an adventure as much as it was a job. A pretty shitty adventure, maybe, but after the apocalypse optimism had become a need as much as it was a balm. You were stuck in another lousy motel room in another city you’d never seen. Yet, sometime in the next week you’d be terrifying Dean out of his skin doing donuts in his car, and Sam had been happy lately. You hoped it was your influence.

His concern for you, as usual, boosted your optimism well into next week. You were more of a realist by nature. But if your positive outlook was waking him up and following him to bed every night, yet again, you and Sam Winchester had established another unspoken cycle. You watched his back and he watched yours. Sam talked to you about how he felt and you talked to him, both out of fear of burdening Dean. He gushed about the books he liked and the science articles he read, you fell in love with him every time, and together you relied so heavily on the other that you doubted Sam could breathe if your lungs weren’t working. You saved him and he saved you until you owed each other eternally. It’d been that way since the first time your parents had dropped you off at Bobby Singer’s, when you’d befriended the only other hunter-kids you’d ever met.

A few years back, the horseman Death had called your relationship uniquely symbiotic. To this day, you still wondered what he’d really meant. Feeling Sam’s warm eyes catch yours over his drink almost gave you your answer. But like always, your train of thought chased the soft line of his bicep against his shirt sleeve or the dimple of his cheek instead. This time, Sam was comparing the neckline of the dress to your shirt, imagining you in it. Flushed, you folded it against your stomach and set it on top of your suitcase. You played with a hair tie on your wrist and reminded yourself that Sam wasn’t looking at you that way.

Dean whistled at the dress. “Man. Maybe we don’t even need the witch-killing spell,” he gave you an appreciative smile, “this guy’ll explode the minute he sees you.”

“That better be a compliment,” you glared at him, and for good measure, Sam swatted him on the back of the head.

“You’ll look just fine,” Sam assured, sounding unenthused.

It was your God-given job to keep him on his toes, so you flicked the bottom of his beer as you passed him and warned with a smile, “That better be a compliment too, Winchester, or you’re both in trouble.”

“Mom, Dad,” Dean whined, “please don’t flirt in front of me.”

In an instant, Sam slipped his bottlecap off the counter and you rolled your hairtie off your wrist. Dean had just collapsed face-first into his bed when both projectiles whizzed off him, ricocheting onto the carpet. You hadn’t realized Sam had moved at the same time until his bottlecap had popped off Dean’s head, startling you into bubbly, shoulder-shaking laughter. Sam didn’t laugh—he rarely did, not since he was a kid—but he smiled, and for now that worked for you.

“Tomorrow, you’ll get some kind of DNA off of our witch at the bar, we’ll do our spell, and we’ll follow you in the car to make sure you’re safe,” Sam decided, softening his voice. He said this mostly to himself, and you indulged him even if you knew your game plan, just because you knew it was a comfort to him to list it out for himself. Years of staying home while Dean and John were off hunting had narrowed his life into lists—of school assignments, of tasks to handle while they were gone—and he’d never grown out of it. You imagined it was why he was so meticulous. “Then, we’re clear.”

“People saved, things hunted,” you drawled, listing each on one hand, “family business—”

“—done,” Dean finished, giving a thumbs up where he was faceplanted in his bed. With that, he rolled over, turned off the bedside lamp, and flushed your room into cool darkness. “Night’.”

You and Sam chorused your goodnights to him. Then, Sam turned toward the window over the kitchenette, adjusted the salt there with the back of his hand, and closed the curtains to cut off the last slivers of moonlight.

As a hunter, it was in the job description that you had some precautions about the dark. With Sam there, across from you, you forgot all notions about being afraid. You enjoyed looking at him even more than the next girl did, but with darkness came a new depth of intimacy. Without sight, you could only collect context from the low timbre of his voice or his presence next to you. It was about feeling instead of seeing. And Sam, with the sweet way he said things and the gentle way he navigated the dark, was nothing but feeling.

The moment was brief, but Sam found your shoulder and followed it up to your temple, which he kissed. Like the lists, it was a ritual he’d never grown out of. And you never wanted him to. You could feel the warmth of his breath, of his hand, flushing through your whole body like the sweet-tasting humidity before a healthy storm.

“Goodnight, ____,” Sam murmured near your face. He was like you, so if the dark made you more honest then it made him more honest; Sam sounded like he loved you.

You leaned into the brief contact, squeezed his wrist, and resisted the surge of hope pressing up your throat. “Goodnight, Sam.”

It should’ve been sad, how happy you were to be out despite the circumstances, but you knew even the best covers had a sliver of truth to them—and tonight, you wanted to flirt, to feel pretty flirting, and to kill some damn witches. Being covered in monster grime didn’t make anybody feel beautiful, and suiting up in a skirt and wedges to masquerade as a fed didn’t count. The hunt rarely gave you an excuse for self-confidence. If this was one of those times, you weren’t about to let it pass by.

And truth be told, you’d been under fire for so long that one witch didn’t feel like much of a threat. You weren’t so stupid that you neglected to realize what Hermes was capable of. But after your five-hundredth witch in over fifteen years of hunting, the fear of danger was nothing more than a wisp of tension floating at your shoulder. If it bleeds, you can kill it, Dean always said. And witches definitely bled.

Knowing that Sam and Dean were watching your six, that wisp of anxiety disintegrated entirely. It was so natural to have them there, Sam on your right and Dean on your left, that you usually dreamt with each brother somewhere in your peripherals. Hazy flying dreams and late-to-school nightmares included. Well, the school nightmares were less strange—once upon a time, you’d really gone to school with Sam and Dean.

Your parents were hunters. That made you like any other sullen, directionless hunter kid in the business, desperate to follow in their parent’s footsteps but terrified of becoming anything like them. Most pure-bred hunters like you didn’t have the fortune of an Uncle Bobby, though. Looking back, you wished you’d had more time with your parents—but you were grateful for the days they dumped you on him. Around when you’d entered middle school, Bobby’s house had become something of a hunter daycare. He wasn’t big on the idea. Obviously. But Bobby melted like all grouchy old men inevitably did, and soon your days spent racing to get him books and spell ingredients overlapped with his days babysitting Sam and Dean.

Dean was two years your senior, and had usually been the bane of your existence. But you’d both existed in the strange place between a hunter and a liability for your parents, so together, you were eager to please, learn, and emulate. Dean had done this because he’d wanted to graduate to a full-on hunter, but you were content with bringing phones to Bobby and helping without being in the way. Sam was much of the same. He was… He was quiet and sweet and he’d cut out the gum Dean had put in your hair without wrecking it. He wrote school essays that were cool instead of boring, and made everything seem interesting and beautiful. Dean had embodied hunting to you, then, and Sam was the breathable living space between.

You loved Dean, and you’d learned a lot from him. But you lived and breathed Sam—and the new, exciting proposition of a home somewhere else—because of the ideas he represented. Being a hunter so young had gutted your faith, and Sam, somehow, had rerouted it all. He’d shown you that there were seams between hunts that you could use to find your footing. Bobby had taught you how to be smart, Dean had taught you how to be practical, and Sam had promised you that all of this wasn’t for nothing. You figured that was why all of the hunters you met were weapons more than people; Sam Winchester hadn’t cupped their face on Bobby Singer’s porch and kissed them like they were still human.

That’d been more than a decade ago, and you could still feel how the rain had made your hair cling to your face, how the shoulders of Sam’s sweater were damp from the weather. The kiss had been brief and childish and a little unmoored. And yet it’d carried you through everything, even the literal end of the world, Sam going in the cage… all of it. He’d been your living space.

That had been built on the rare weekends you happened to be at Bobby’s at the same time, so having a few months of school together bonded you for life. They purposefully forgot to mention that John was settling them in your town and your school, hoping to surprise you. In hindsight, it was a sweet gesture, but there was a bold line between your hunting life and your school life for a reason. High school was awful for you. Your parents’ deaths had left you as exposed as a bloody nerve. With no one else around, your foster family unaware of… the real world, and a valley between you and the life you used to know, hunting was all you’d had. You’d spiraled into it deeper than you ever had before. One misstep in the hallway had spilled all of your research books and spell ingredients out of your backpack, immediately casting you as your school’s new resident freak.

Neither of the boys knew about… the bullying. It was such a pathetic word. You never told them, probably because school was as much of a sore a subject for them as it was for you. So they’d turned up, gleaming with excitement, only for whatever image they had of you as some tough, unflinchable hunter to shatter.

You’d been eating lunch comfortably alone, fork in one hand and research book under the other. All at once your table was crowded with your grade’s most self-absorbed clique, all of them probing you, asking you questions, and giggling amongst each other even at your innocent answers. They stole your book and read it out loud to each other. They prodded at your backpack, searching for more joke material. It happened so often that you knew better than to lash out, as you’d done before—or react at all, as you’d done before—and resigned yourself to another ruined day.

Then, Dean’s hands had cooly landed on your shoulders. Hey, ____, Sam had greeted warmly from your right, and you remembered how he hadn’t bothered to hide his scowl. Are these jokers bothering you?

It was such a movie moment, a book moment, that the only thing you could call it was wish fulfillment. There’d been plenty of times when you’d wished they’d been there, or wished you could tell them about something that’d happened to you. But actually having it happen—Dean swooping in with that suave grin, Sam refusing to let you carry your own backpack…

You felt like you owed them. It was a small, easy kindness for them to pay, but after months of loneliness and alienation and absolute, incomprehensible loss, it’d been a surge of heat in an ocean of ice. Sudden and unexpected and life-giving.

Since then, you couldn’t remember a single time you hadn’t been in that same position. Standing there, with Sam and Dean on either side of you. As the Impala pulled up to the bar your witch often skulked, you looked reflexively to your left, and there was Dean in the driver’s seat. For once, you were upfront with him—Sam needed room in the back to perform the witch-killing spell.

“And you’re sure you can… hook him in?” Dean asked, gesturing blandly with one hand.

You bolstered yourself, so the smile you gave Dean was a bit more confident than you felt. “Well, his past victims have all looked like me. And, no offense, but I’ve been swindling guys like this since I was sixteen. I’m not too worried about that part.”

Sam sighed so deeply that you and Dean twisted to look at him. Realizing he’d done that out loud, he bumbled awkwardly over his own reaction and coughed. “Uh, yeah. But, uh, I’ll have to do the ingredients in order, so it might take a second after we get his DNA for the spell to go through. You’ll have to… to distract him, until then.” Sam flashed you a tight smile. “I’ll be fast, I promise. You won’t be stuck with that guy for long.”

“Good,” you said. The eye contact you were sharing suddenly felt purposeful. You eased yourself away from his gaze, though it was more of a lurch than a very casual, not-at-all tension-filled turn.

There was a brief lapse in the conversation that made your skin prickle from your spine to your neck. You could feel Dean’s smug amusement from behind his binoculars, simmering, which didn’t help. The focussed silence that usually settled over the three of you on stake-outs never came, so you rushed to fill it.

“...So,” you opened, “if our witch uses a glamor to make himself appear more enticing to each of his victims, then how can I be sure it’s him?”

“He’s gonna be the best-looking guy in the place,” Sam explained. He’d reined in whatever had bothered him earlier, apparently, because his tone became halted and professional.

Dean sprung up, whistling. “That’s how—there ya go, he’s right there.”

You leaned around Dean, trying to get some idea of what you were hunting, but his big ass binoculars were in the way. The witch was only just across the street, yet Dean adjusted the focus on the lenses, apparently aiming for a microscopic look. You lowered them from his face so you could see past them, and behind the eyepieces he was so flushed his freckles had disappeared.

“I mean…” Dean cleared his throat, but his blush only spread further. “Wow. Just. Wow, that’s a good-looking dude.”

You were already opening your mouth to tease him, but everything you’d planned to say, along with any idea of what your name was, where you were, and what you were doing, drained from your grip like a fistful of sand.

Wow. That was the only word you could remember. It occurred to you that Dean was seeing a totally different man because of the witch’s magic, and christ, were you thankful for it. You’d never hear the end of it if they saw what you were… enjoying. The witch pulled up the curb in a glittering white muscle car—which definitely added to whatever Dean was going through. But for you, it wasn’t the vintage Challenger or the shiny loafers, or… or the, um… the white blazer… or the crisp button-up under, uh, underneath… Or the witch’s face. Which was Sam’s face. No little changes to support your preferences in men. No beautification, supernatural glow or… anything else. Just Sam. Sam as he was right now, sitting in your backseat. Sam with his, uh… his face clean and happy… with… w-with his hair styled all nice, like he always styles it when you dress up…

He emerged from the car, facing away from you. He waved a hand at the parking meter and it fizzed out. The broad shape of his back rolled under his suit, panther muscle moving under pelt, and he turned toward the bar with the same grace. His movements were vaguely not-Sam, if you squinted. It was all too sly, and he walked like he wasn’t as tall as he was. But something in the glamor kept you from pressing that idea in your head. Your mind wanted to indulge the parts of him that did look like Sam much more, so any bumps in his mirage smoothed themselves over, perfecting the look. It was clever. Clever… and… and, um… wow…

You had a thought. “The, um…” you tried, “we…”

“Y/N,” the real Sam chided.

The binoculars you’d pulled away from Dean fumbled out of your hand at the closeness of his voice, and you scrambled to catch it, and so did Dean, but neither of you took your eyes away from the street. You ended up weirdly clutching it together, like the two of you were going to wrestle for the right to see the witch through the binoculars. If you were any more focused, you might have.

“Guys,” Sam said, unimpressed. “It’s just a glamor. Pull it together, please?”

“...Sam,” you tested the name in your mouth, “um, witch glamors, how do they work?”

“They’re projections of power. They make each person who looks at them see their ideal partner. Didn’t I tell you this already?”

“I-I know. Just.” You swallowed. “Do they, like, pull from people the person’s already met, or do they, uh… make it up? To suit the person.”

“Both. But it’s easier magic to just use people the victim already loves.” He stressed victim as pointedly as he could, reminding you of the role you’d be playing.

Dean pried his eyes away from the street. They slid over to you, and you immediately did not like the suspicious gleam waiting for you there. “Why? You see somebody you know?” He bounced his eyebrows.

“What? You? Oh, please,” you laughed. You blurted out the first person you could come up with. “He’s ...Leo. In Titanic. Who do you see?”

“Another time,” Dean dodged. You usually would never let him get away with a blatant conversation shift like that, but he was grinning to himself like he could see you bullshitting too. It made you nervous. “Go on and get in there so we can gank this chump.”

“Good luck,” Sam wished you from the backseat, sounding blunter than usual. “And remember—underneath all that, he’s a decaying, millennia-old skeleton murdering innocent women.”

“Got it. Reality check received,” you said. Taking the door’s handle, you shot the boys one last look to confirm they’d have your back, and ducked out of the Impala.

The bar was of a higher-end than you were used to, so it took some mental adjustment to prepare for your role. Usually, the barflies you tricked preferred rougher, meaner girls, and you got the feeling that wasn’t what fake-Sam—Hermes, you reminded yourself—was into. If he was going after married unfaithfuls, he probably enjoyed mature, deceptive women who talked a lot about all the money they had. It was weird to think of someone with Sam’s face being into that.

The few pieces of gold jewelry you owned rattled on your wrists as you approached the bar. It was eight, prime drinking time, so everyone who’d had a long day at work or a date filled every inch of the place. Anyone who could afford the obscene prices, at least. A few minutes after you entered, you glimpsed Dean dissolving into the crowd. Hermes immediately took an isolated booth in the corner, where it would be easiest for him to scope out women at the bar. You only caught a glimpse of him. He lounged back, ankle on his knee, the low whiskey-hued light stroking one side of his face. It was… very Sam. He could’ve been on the couch at home, sunk into the cushions and reading a book by lamplight. You tried to reign in the confusing elixir of anxiety and attraction brewing in your stomach.

So far, he’d already begun to sort his targets. His honed-in look was unmistakable on Sam’s face. You made sure to pass in front of the women he was eyeing, and silently applauded yourself when his gaze was hooked on your figure. He trailed your slow saunter over to the bar with those intense, paletted eyes, lingering on the wedding band you wore. Knowing it was Sam—thinking it was Sam both helped and made things a million times worse. Your thoughts wandered like they never did on hunts, heart pounding.

Focus, you hissed to yourself. You needed to get him to drink something, so Sam, your Sam, could use the DNA on the glass in his spell. After setting up your act with a few coy glances, you suppressed the sickness rolling in your gut and summoned the bartender. “Two drinks—one for me, and another for the gentleman in the booth there.”

You almost ordered him Sam’s favorite beer, then felt supremely weird about it when deciding on a pricey whiskey instead. Man, was this place just begging for you to blow some cash. And this hunt… was really begging you to look some unspoken feelings in the face. As you waited for the drink to be delivered, it settled on you what Sam had said before—that this witch was wearing the body of your ideal partner. You weren’t stupid, you knew that’s what this was, but the confirmation from magic of all things…

It’s easier to just use people the victim already loves, Sam had explained.

You knew you loved him. You’d known since you were kids. But that was only ever something you told to yourself—now, the universe was shouting it back to you. It’s not like this witch reached into your mind and knew to choose Sam to get under your skin the most. The glamor was an automatic sort of magic, that you could tell. And if it was automatic… then it was all real. Your ideal partner really was Sam. Not even some dramatized, romantic version of him. The authentic article. It welled up inside you right there in that stupid-expensive bar on your stupid-expensive stool, a surging flood of emotion that seized you and tethered you to the floor.

Those feelings were always followed by the phantom pressure of Sam’s broad, gentle hands on your face. Your first kiss with him must’ve been more than a decade ago. He’d been so nervous that his hands shook, and he hadn’t taken up bow-hunting yet so the pads of his fingers were still soft. You’d held his wrists and trembled too, but you were relieved and excited and warm with wild summer liking, face tacky with dried tears. The last day had been spent weapon training. You’d shot a gun for the first time, and it’d stabbed the reality of your life right through your ribs. You were gonna kill things. It was going to be your job to kill things. Sam had sat with you while you’d sobbed on Bobby’s porch, squeezing you against him even though it was storming like hell. He’d sat there until your sides ached from laughing and you weren’t so worried about everything.

Sam promised you’d go through all this together, and he’d been right. Of course you were in love with him.

Okay. Hunt. Danger. Witch. Focus. He’s a decaying, millennia-old skeleton, you reminded yourself.

But the hand brushing your bare shoulder was young, healthy, and familiar. Down to the bow-hunting callouses.

“Excuse me,” he greeted. His voice wasn’t purring with seduction or intent, as you’d imagined. It was just light, easy Sam. Like it’d been a bit since he’d seen you, and he’d just climbed out of the car to give you a secure hug and a kiss on the hair. The witch settled his glass on the bar between you, expression glittering with feigned curiosity. “I’m sorry to bother you, but it was kind of you to send over the drink. I wanted to say thank you.”

Maybe he was reaching into your mind to emulate Sam. Why would a thieving, money-hungry witch be so polite?

“Anytime,” you said, and found yourself responding like you were really talking to Sam. The witch’s smile broadened into his dimples; he wanted familiarity. “It’d be rude to leave such a cute guy without a drink on such a nice evening, don’t you think?”

“I think it’d be rude to leave a beautiful woman without company,” he agreed, eyes twinkling.

Unfortunately, your body wasn’t in hunting mode, as it should be. It was in act-normal-around-Sam mode, but “Sam” was actively flirting with you—so all of your nerves were going haywire. Your skin warmed in ways it never did for the men you won your dinner money from. Or any other man but one, period. An embarrassing, genuine giggle burst out of your chest. “I-I don’t mind,” you beamed.

“Hermes,” he said, offering you one giant hand to shake.

You gave it to him, and immediately he turned it over in his palm, lowered his face to your knuckles, and kissed them appreciatively.

“Y-Y/N,” you blurted, instead of your alias.

Dear god. Jesus Christ. What the fuck.

“Y/N. Really.” The witch repeated. Now he was turning up the sultriness. His voice was so nice and his hand was just like Sam’s and he—he even smelled like Sam.

“No. Uh. Y/N L/N, not Y/N Really,” you joked. Your full name. Out loud. Instead of your alias.

What the actual fuck.

“Forgive my asking,” and fake-Sam ran his thumb over your wedding band, his lips parted and his breath lingering on your hand. His voice was coated with want and humor. “But is there a Mr. Really?”

Fuck. Wait, yes. This was good. This was what you wanted.

You gathered yourself, but not too much, cause he seemed to like your clumsiness. Or maybe it gave him more incentive to kill you. “Yes,” you said, tip-toeing with your wording, “...does that bother you?”

Hermes just grinned and shook his head.

The witch gestured to the stool beside yours, and you nodded maybe a little too much. He claimed it, folding his legs uncomfortably because he was a bit too tall. It made you realize that the glamor worked even better (and harder) up close. All of the little details you loved about Sam—the slight crook of his left incisor where it’d almost been punched out a million times, the freckles under his collar and sleeves—loaded in. You swore they hadn’t been there before.

But, you still haven’t seen him drink from the cup. He wraps his hand loosely around the glass on the illuminated bartop, but otherwise doesn’t make a move, brushing his thigh against yours. You make up bland conversation about a long, arduous day at the wealthy company you work for. You complain a little bit about the doggy daycare your pure-bred Pomeranian goes to. When the bartender comes by, you tip him a good chunk of money right in front of Hermes. And if none of that is working, you bait him with the wedding ring and the cut of your dress.

It’s weird. It’s so fucking weird. But that’s kind of your life, so you’ve learned to accept the strangeness, and you enjoy the surface flirting with this millennia-year-old man who’s planning to kill you. While wearing the face of the love of your life.

You realize that you’ll probably never have this with the real Sam. Not the murder part, but the easy date night flirting—not without the cost of your friendship, or testing Sam’s feelings about relationships.

When you’re satisfied that he’s hooked, as Dean put it, you raise your second round of drinks together and toast to them. You make something up about good company, and Hermes drinks. He lets his hand cover your bare knee, drawing circles that set every hair on your body on end. After what feels like hours, you brush your nails against the hair at the base of his neck, lean in, and whisper in his ear, “Do you wanna get out of here?”

And with that sly, clever Sam smile, he agrees. But— “My place is close. May I walk you?”

“You may,” you reply, even if it’s a complete deviation from his M.O. The witch always takes his victims back to their own homes, that’s how he robs them. What, was he genuinely attracted to you? Was this a real hookup thing? Or, did he recognize your real name and planned to kill you? Knowing your luck, you’d put money on murder.

Instead of offering you his arm, the witch is gentle and sweet as he gives you his hand. Just before you slip away from your seats, you put his whiskey on the stool, away from the well-meaning bartender who might clean it. The second you make it out the door with Hermes, Dean skulks out of the crowd and drops the empty glass in a plastic bag. Now you’re on the clock. Either the boys get Hermes first, or Hermes gets you. No pressure.

When you get outside, the Impala’s parked elsewhere. You’re both bothered and comforted by that, because while it may mean that the boys are out of sight, your spell is being performed where prying eyes can’t see. That’s good.

Hermes gives your hand a playful squeeze. While you’ve held Sam’s hand before, those moments were always too fleeting for you to take in much. You imagine your mind, or Hermes’ glamor, is filling in the blanks for you. His fingers are long and his hold is encompassing, swallowing almost the whole of yours. You talk for the two of you, since it’s a part of his act to give as little information about himself as possible. He pretends to enjoy your conversation. It’s your mind’s greatest impression of an interested Sam, his brow furrowed, his head ducked in thought, his focus honed in on only what you have to say. The witch leans in close when he does speak, murmuring into your ear. He loves to touch your bare skin, so his hands linger on your shoulders and the exposed portion of your back. It’s all a tactic to win over your suspicion, you know that, but it’s Sam’s hands. It’s his hands and his voice and his face.

“You know what?” Hermes surveys the street, and peaks into the alleyway nearest you, weighing your options like it’s not obvious where he’s going to drag you. Come on. “Let’s take this shortcut here.” He gives you a devouring look, “I don’t want us to wait any longer than we have to.”

“The suspicious, dark alleyway?” You joke. Just a few more minutes. Almost there. It’s gotta be.

Fake-Sam’s smile is fond, and with the same quiet resolution that Sam brings to everything, he parts from your hand to wrap his arm around your waist. He cups your side and brings you against him. His arm is the perfect shelter from the chilly night, bleeding with body heat and the homey scent of the man you love.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he purrs, and admittedly, that’s when you start to panic.

Not because he was edging you into a creepy alley—alleys, in the hunting life, were familiar territory. Or because you realized you were about to fight him. That was more than routine to hunting; it was hunting itself. What made you panic was your own willpower here. You could cut down a thousand evil witches a day, but nothing in this world could make you put that knife to Sam’s throat. Not death, not hell, not heaven. All of them had tried. Every one of them had failed.

This wasn’t Sam. You knew that. The difference was palpable. But it was close enough to make you hesitate, and you were dreading what that could mean.

“Alright, hero,” you flirted. “Lead the way.”

He teased your waist with a squeeze, then began the slow, intimate walk he imagined you were hoping for. The witch started to chat about how much he loved the city, how lively the people were. Bullshitting. Trying to settle your anxiety—so you were open to attack. Well. If he was so hellbent on cornering you now, all you could do was drag it out for as long as you could. You snuggled close to him, and pretended to admire the night sky between the towering downtown buildings.

The two of you passed the back end of a business’s warehouse. Its windows were thin-paned and close by, shimmering with neon light the closer you came to it. You made bubbly, flirty conversation, and calculated in your head when would be the perfect time to smash the glass and attack him with it.

He must’ve had the same idea.

You woke up two seconds later, glass in your hair, in your dress, and prickling painfully between you and the icy concrete floor. The warehouse ceiling floated overhead. Streams of moonlight poured through the uneven shape of the now-destroyed window. It took you but a breath to register this, then you were rolling onto your hands and snatching up the biggest shard that had survived your crash. In an instant you were heaving yourself to your feet and plotting: just a little more time, they just need a little more time, all you had to do was distract.

A long shadow fell over the glass debris. This was the part where your adrenaline would kick in, but a hot, ugly dose of fear joined it. That was Sam. You were fighting Sam. No, y-you—you weren’t—

“Well, isn’t this special,” Hermes cooed. He strolled toward you, the glass crunching under his loafers to the beat of his lazy walk. Everything but his smile was obscured by the dark. “The Winchester whore. I’ve heard of you. I have to say, I’m a little—”

“—disappointed? Let me guess: I’m shorter than you thought, prettier than expected, yadda yadda,” you filled in for him. “G-god, can’t any of you losers find different scripts?”

You knew the shard wouldn’t do much, but you’d hoped having it out in front of you would make you feel better. It didn’t. Hermes stepped into a shaft of light, illuminating Sam, with his hair in his eyes and a curious, calculating turn to his lip. It was straight out of any pink-hued day of your teenage years. Like he’d just found something fascinating in a book he was reading, and was beckoning you over to share it with you. And if it came down to it, you’d have to make him bleed if you wanted out of here.

“Fine. We’ll skip the pretense, then,” Hermes bargained, and with a wave of his hand you were slammed back-first into the nearest product shelves.

Pain exploded across your back, whiting out all else. You dropped a whole foot to the floor and collapsed there, pathetically gripping the closest table to find the courage to stand up. You couldn’t. Every deep breath you took seized your ribcage like a snapped trap. Shuddering in place there, you heard Hermes step across the glass, coming closer. Closer. Come on, Sam, you thought. For a moment, just a moment, you were truly afraid of him.

But this was Sam’s face. Out of all the faces you could see the moment before it all went dark, you’d be glad if it was his. The fear lightened. You lifted your face to meet his, snarling. Hermes waved his hand, and in one great cacophony, like a chandelier dragging itself across the floor, the broken glass fluttered up in a swirling cloud and hung in the air around you like stars. Deadly, jagged stars.

“One less thorn in my side,” he decided, and the hand—a copy of the love of your life’s hand, closed into a vicious fist. The shards whistled.

Hermes exploded into smoke.

The glass hung in the air for a moment more, then rained down on the floor again, shattering into powder. You flinched away and jerked to cover your head, and when all was quiet, and Hermes’ smoke was dissolved in the wind, you rolled onto your side and let out the breath you’d been holding.

People saved. Things hunted. Fuck, your back hurt.

You laid there for a moment longer, having fun pitying yourself, when a sharp cry of your name echoed down the alley outside. It took you a second to gather enough breath to holler back, “In here, Dean!”

Dean sprinted clear past the window, then backtracked so hard he almost tripped. “Y/N,” he sighed. Relief could’ve bowled him over at that moment.

As he charged through the broken window and swung his gun at the dark, you sat up, aiming to smile. You couldn’t really do it. “The witch is dead. Sam got him. High five?”

Dean hesitated, but after stashing his pistol in his waistband and taking stock of your injuries, he gave your raised hand a light smack and opened his arms. The gesture alone made all your injuries feel numbed. “Alright. Up and attem’. Let’s get you some Barbie bandaids and a big dinner, huh? You deserve it.”

“Hell yeah,” you breathed. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Without hesitation, Dean scooped you onto your feet, brushed the hair stuck to your bloody forehead aside, and started to guide you toward your exit. After a long beat of you laying your head on him and soaking in everything that's happened, Dean murmured, “The witch didn’t look a thing like DiCaprio, did he?”

You watched your footing instead of Dean’s face. “No. No, he didn’t.”

After the bigger chunks of glass were taken out of your skin, you took a quick, wince-filled shower, and toweled your hair on the motel bed you shared with Sam. The glass was surprisingly the least annoying part of fighting the witch; what had really fucked you up were the bruises, which were blooming all along your back in shelf-shaped rectangles. Your injuries were pretty light for a witch hunt, though, so you contented yourself with being alive in a pair of snuggly pajamas.

It was well past eight by now, so the rooms adjacent to yours were quiet, and the road outside threw occasional beams of light across your bedspreads. You always loved the motels on the outskirts of town more than their inner-city counterparts. Though they were usually more run-down, the sounds of tires whisking on asphalt and frogs croaking in the weeds comforted you. Dean rarely let you keep the windows open, but he wasn’t about to snipe at his poor, injured best friend, so you arranged the salt on the sill in neat lines and soaked in the midnight breeze. In safer times, you and the boys might’ve had a bonfire at Bobby’s on a night like this.

Dean left the bathroom light on and propped it open enough to see by. He lapsed into his post-hunt ritual in the half-dark, chattering about your success, while Sam perched in a chair and didn’t speak.

He’d succumbed to an unnerved, unbroken silence once you promised him on the drive back that you’d live. A couple of throws and one window weren’t going to kill you. There was no chance in hell that he couldn’t sense that the witch was eating at you for different reasons, though. If he could tell the route a car had taken while blindfolded, then honing his sensitivities to the daily shifts in your mood was child’s play. But if you pushed him to let it go, he would, because he respected your limits—you just weren’t looking forward to having that conversation.

Dean chattered constantly, like he usually did when something was wrong in the air between the three of you. He’d even tried to hold a conversation with you through the bathroom door while you showered, for god’s sake. When you emerged, hissing at every pinch in your back tissue, Dean was waiting with clothes, a careful smile, and a medkit. His brother was still silent, though he’d jumped up from his seat.

“Sam?” You worked up the courage to say. “Could—would you mind, uh, helping me with my back? There’s… still a lot of pieces I couldn’t get.”

“Uh… Dean can.” Sam drilled his eyes through your room’s door, hunching into the collar of the jacket he hadn’t removed yet. “M’ gonna walk. I need to clear my head,” he sighed, snappishly, and poured all his willpower into not scrambling out the door as fast as he could. It whipped shut behind him too quickly for you to say anything back.

“...Okay. Well. Sucky job, huh?” Dean said. You heard him pop open the medkit and dip the mattress behind you, so you shuffled back a bit and carefully lifted the fabric of your shirt covering your back.

“Yeah,” you muttered. Sam’s shadow flew past your window and disappeared in long, curt steps towards the cicadas chirping by the roadside. You leaned further and further to chase his figure by the porch lights, but Dean gently reeled you back so he could start in on the tinier fragments.

“You helped a lot of people today,” Dean said, trying to goad you back to the conversation. You could hear in his pauses how worried he was about his brother, but you both knew that it was better to give Sam time to simmer, then return.

“Oh, just women willing to cheat on their husbands,” you rolled your eyes.

Dean braced his hand on your shoulder, and gave you a little warning squeeze every time he was going to pull one of the pieces out. The bloody glass tinking into the tin and your sharp winces soon formed a shaky rhythm. “Still people,” he pointed out. You didn’t reply, simmering in the thrum of his voice and the burn of your bruises.

When Dean started putting antibiotics on the cuts and loading them up with Barbie bandaids, as promised, you blurted out: “You think I upset Sam?”

You were hoping for a doubtful laugh or even some kind of scoff, like Dean found it hard that Sam could ever be mad at you, because that’s how his world worked. He needled the two of you all the time for how inseparable you were. You were you and Sam was Sam, mingled too closely for anyone else to squeeze in the middle. Usually, if you asked Dean something like that, he’d shrug. You’d know better than me, pal.

Instead, Dean released a deep breath from his nose. He did it like that so often now that you could recognize it, which unsettled you, since it was Dean’s withholding-sigh. You could usually pry just about anything out of him, but he had this wall that he hit sometimes with Sam. Brother confidentiality or whatever. You could respect that—when things didn’t involve you potentially upsetting Sam.

“Dean,” you tried again, “did I do something wrong? I feel like you’re not telling me everything here.”

He tore open another bandaid with his teeth and choose not to speak. It was enough to tell you that Dean knew he shouldn’t intervene, even if he wanted to.

You glanced over your shoulder to look at him. “Dean. C’mon. How many favors do you two knuckleheads owe me after today?”

Dean counted them in his head, closed his eyes, and cursed. “Don’t make me say it, Y/N. You’re a smart girl. You can’t be this blind.”

“Dean.”

“You don’t get it. Sam will be pissed with me.” He snapped the med-kit closed.

“If he gives you shit for it, you know I’ll cover for you. I’ll tell him that I coerced you and everything, that I cornered you,” you goaded. To make your argument even harder to ignore, you whipped down your shirt and rolled around to face him, your eyes big and bleeding with heart. “Sam is clearly upset. All I want to do is help him.”

Dean’s arms hung at his sides. His tells were small, but for a second there, you could’ve sworn you’d loosened his resolve enough. Instead, he shut you down with a short glare. “...Show me your shoulder.”

You held there for a moment, unmoving and stern, just to press how serious this was to you. If you’d done something to hurt Sam’s feelings, all three of you knew the lengths you’d go to make it up to him. And Dean keeping the reason why so close to his chest could only go two ways—either it was so light and petty that it wasn’t worth mentioning, or it was too terrible to voice. Only one of those ended with Sam nursing an infected wound for months. Few emotional appeals would reach Dean’s ears, but you thought he and his brother deserved someone who fought to right any grievances made against them.

With two fingers, you yanked your collar to one side. Sitting in the meat at the curve of your neck was a fat gauze bandage as wide as three fingers. Dean tested the edges with his thumb while you jabbed, “It’s fine. The stitches didn’t get messed up in the shower.”

“And the painkillers?” Dean checked.

“Working,” you answered. “Now, tell me what’s up. You can’t lie to me for shit.”

Again, you expected an awkward wince or a reluctant grimace from him. And again, Dean surprised you. He sighed deep into his shoulders, cupped the unmarred side of your neck, and shocked you into place with a burning, deathly serious look. “...Son of a bitch, fine! This is a big deal to me, okay? I’m breaking my brother’s trust here—but only because I think it’ll be better for the both of you, capiche?”

You nodded just as gravely. “What is it?”

“Sam…” Dean held you in place for a second more, then drifted out of your orbit, following his thoughts and hesitation in a circle around your hotel room. You let him think, a slow ugly sickness building in your throat. “Sam has feelings for you, okay? He’s—he’s had them for a while. So long that it’s insane to me that you haven’t noticed it yet—”

“Shut the fuck up,” you laughed. “Dean, please, I’m really worried about him. I don’t have time to mess around right now.”

Dean’s flailing arms dropped to his sides. He just stood there looking helpless, waiting. Waiting more.

“...Dean.” The name tasted like oncoming tears. You straightened up and steeled yourself, pressing into every new, stinging wound at your posture’s disposal. “This is… now y-you’re just being mean. You know how I feel about this.”

“I’m…” his hand fumbled upwards, like he thought about calling upon a higher power for help here, then remembered how that’d turned out last time. “Y/N, I’m not messing with you here. Sam has been crazy about you since we were kids.”

You believed him. It took some pacing, some crazed muttering, and some hard, labored breaths, but eventually you broke out of your trance and realized you believed him.

Dean nudged his chin at you, waiting for a response.

Pathetically, you said: “W-why?”

“Pardon?”

You summoned your best glare. “Level with me here. Just. Why?”

“Why the hell would I know?” Dean sputtered. He shrugged up to his ears, smiling a bit, like this was as grand a mystery to him as it was to you. “All I know is that he’d burn this world to the ground for you. Everything today… with you playing bait, and everything… It freaks him out, your scrapes. I mean, it freaks me out too, but I know you can handle yourself. It’s… I dunno, he’s mushier. It’s more personal to him.”

You thunked down on the closest surface, which could've been a hot stove for all you cared; numbing tingles rolled all the way up your arms and legs. Usually, you had a good reign on your own feelings, but now they galloped free too fast for you to catch. Exhaustion’s sweeter cousin barrelled you over. Shock and relief and love and terror each took their own swing at you, until you sat there with your hands limp in your lap, feeling like you’d laid down on the sidewalk and all of your feelings had lined up to kick you around. For the first time in your life you sat down and cried at the drop of a hat. It was fucking awesome.

A bubbly laugh rolled out of you. “Me too. I-I do too. Holy shit, am I over-reacting or what?”

Dean’s warm hand rubbed a spot on your arm the glass hadn’t touched. “Uh, maybe a bit. But I guess you’ve both waited a long time, so Sam’ll probably think it’s… sweet, or some bullshit like that.”

Another laugh surprised its way out of you. “Shut the hell up. God, you were right—I’m so blind. Do you think… Should I…? Sam, he’s still mad.”

Dean paused, enjoying how panic and delight warred on your face. “Not mad. More like…” he searched for the word, beaming slyly, “...jealous.”

Sam returned to a buzzing, eager silence in the motel. The second he had inched the door shut behind him, sheepish and looking like it, Dean shoved on his driving boots. You noticed how Sam was careful to catch your eye just once, otherwise entertaining himself with the pattern of the carpet. He at least seemed a touch more clear-headed. Sam had always loved a good, breezy walk; one of a million of his quirks that you loved too much to forget.

“Alright,” Dean scooped up the Impala’s keys, flicking the lapels of his jacket. “I owe Y/N her favorite dinner, like I promised. You want anything while I’m out?”

Sam’s brow furrowed. “Her favorite place is at least an hour and a half from here,” he said, because of course he remembered that.

His brother shrugged. “I’m in the mood to drive. Cabin fever n’ all. See you nerds in,” he was not at all subtle when checking the clock in your room, or smiling about his results: “...three hours. Ciao.”

“It’ll be cold by—” Sam started, but Dean had already sauntered passed him, swinging his keyring in one hand. His whistling carried all the way out to the lot, and quietly you wondered how long he’d been wanting to tell you what he had.

Sam was forced to turn to you. His displeasure from before had slowly melted into embarrassment, but he wasn’t about to show it. He made a helpless gesture at the door like, welp, there goes that, and the elixir of liking in your chest shook loose a giggle. A real giggle. At least you could be embarrassed together.

Since sleeping on your back was off the table for the next week of your life, you’d gotten comfy on your stomach. With Sam gone, you had the room go completely diagonal on your shared bed, angling toward the dingy colored light of the TV. Dean had put on some random soap opera you weren’t a fan of, but tonight you thought of nothing but one thing. Sam has feelings for you, Dean had said. He’d burn this world to the ground for you, Dean had said.

Repeating them to yourself felt like writing the words down and holding up the paper by Sam’s face—weighing those images against the man you knew. You’d… guessed. Hoped is more accurate. But to see those words in action, moving and breathing in a person, totally blew you out of the water. Dean was right; you were dumb as hell for not seeing it before. Sam teetered on his heels in front of you. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, hiding behind his bangs and forcing himself to stand still. When you shied away to look at the TV, you could feel his gaze devouring you in every dose he could manage. Searching and memorizing. Every time you were occupied, Sam admired the soft curve of your back in your sleep shirt, your swept hair, your shorts, the exposed skin of your neck, your face.

Still, you’d hoped and only hoped for so long. You believed Dean. But you couldn’t bring yourself to understand that it was possible in the first place.

While you watched the television and panicked over what to say to him, Sam toed off his shoes and hung his jacket on the nearest chair. After a moment of hanging in the middle of your room, directionless, he followed his heart to your bedside.

“You feelin’ better?” He dipped the mattress just beside you, your side pressed against his night-chilled back.

You shuffled up onto your elbows, smiling at him with such vibrancy and realness that Sam flushed up to his ears. “I’m all good,” you promised, and it was the truth. “Happy to rid the world of another tie-wearing evil.”

That earned a dry smile. You carried through it, buoyed by everything except thought. “Only got three stitches this time,” you told him, sounding smug, and pulled down your collar to show him the bandage.

All your mind wanted to do was take a shovel out of the Impala and bury yourself off the edge of the highway, but the unbridled joy in your body didn’t care. It brimmed over everything else. The heady, healthy foam of it conquered every other feeling. Your nervousness, your terror, your anxiety. You couldn’t believe that you were just sitting here and talking about nothing. The truth was giddy in your ribcage, like good news you couldn’t keep from him any longer. Sam recieved it so rarely.

Sam just stared at you. You could only make out one side of his face in the dark, the cheek painted with the waltzing colors of the soap opera on the screen. Blues and peaches and warm grays. He was bent so close to you that you could keep your head comfortably sunk into your pillow, and you did, studying him as he studied you. The longer he took you in the more he seemed to relax. One of his hands flexed against the mattress, bringing him back to the world the two of you shared. Your exchange went on for so long that the hand on your open collar went slack, and so did Sam’s jaw. Dean was gone and the two of you were in the safe realm of the dark again—usually, Sam would reach out and brush his hand down your back, squeeze your arm, or kiss your forehead.

“If you’re good, then… good,” he said, distantly. “I’m beat. Let me help you move, huh?”

“Okay,” you hummed.

Even as Sam stood, his face chased yours, one side of a magnet seeking its counterpart. He hovered as you shuffled onto your calves, then pulled back the covers for you to worm under without disturbing your torn skin. You only had so much time to say something—and after so long, nothing could keep you from telling him. Not if you were sure he still felt the same way. You hesitated to lay down, and Sam, sensing your need to speak, paused too.

“Oh,” Sam realized. “I’d almost… forgot. Can I…?”

He waved to your forehead, and before he could retreat out of awkwardness, you convinced yourself to nod. Sam went as far as cupping your arm, then wavered. It was just cute, now. “You can,” you murmured between you, “go ahead.”

Sam dropped a brief kiss on the side of your face, then turned tail for the bathroom to get ready for bed. You had this whole fantasy in your mind of Sam letting his lips linger, burning the shape and feel of them into your soul like you wanted him to, but the two of you hadn’t breached this territory in years. Both of you were terrified of it. Before you could let that fear control you, you blurted out:

“He looked like you.”

Sam’s figure twisted toward you in the dark. “Huh?”

You cleared your throat, which burned front to back with need and apprehension. “The witch, Sam. He looked like you. To me.”

Sam couldn’t look at you dead-on without light, but he tried. Those hungry eyes, hungry for safety and closeness, scraped down your outline. Then again, testing the groves they’d dug. Sam was reminding himself of all the blood he’d seen before, driving back in the Impala and pulling glass out of your jacket with slippery, trembling hands. He deflated. He started toward you, then deflated again.

“He did that to you, with my face—” Sam bleeds.

Before he can start to spiral, you rope in his hand and squeeze it through his sleeve. It’s big and enveloping, just like Hermes’ was, but there’s so much more that the magic just couldn’t replicate. He has a mole on his wrist you’d forgotten about and these subtle veins that bump under your thumbs. His knuckles are strong and feel almost welded, but underneath all that you can feel how gentle he’s worked to be. How much he’s still scared of himself. His mind may be enclosed with good intentions, but Sam had always thought of his body as something that didn’t fully belong to him. Even if the witch didn’t possess him, to Sam, the used goods, the meat suit, it feels like it. And the last thing he’d want his possessed body to do is hurt you. Manipulate you.

“Shh,” you soothed. “No. You’re missing what I’m trying to say. The witch… his glamor made me see the most p-perfect—the best man my mind would come up with.”

Sam just stared. You squeezed his fingers, willing him to understand. His other hand, chilled by his walk, wound slowly over your shoulder. His two leading fingertips lingered over the square white bandage at the junction of your neck. Though he was repulsed by what he thought was his own handiwork, you pressed closer, chasing the rough pads of his bowhunting calluses no matter how much it stung.

“Sam,” you said, sternly.

He just shook his head, ripping his free hand back. Sam pressed: “When he hit you, he looked like me.”

You wound your tether to him ever closer, growing bolder, bringing his hand into the warmth of your chest, entwined against your collarbones. The tears surged into your lashes, but you resisted them with a shake of your head. “It made it easier,” you laughed without mirth. “When he was flirting with me, but at the end, too, yeah. Is that fucked up?”

Sam breathed short from his nose. “Yeah, a bit. But you know I’d never—”

“That’s not even a question. Of course you wouldn’t,” you swore to him. Since the humor was teasing into his voice again, you joined it with your own, pressing your face into his arm. “But, um. If you were jealous of him, well. You should know that there’s really no contest.”

Another long, draining silence haunted you from overhead for a moment, and Sam swayed in place, his hand dropping suddenly on your shoulder. For balance? Was he really… winded? Floored? The show on beside you faded to black, submerging you both in inky, sightless dark. You could feel it in his hands now—Sam was quivering with disbelief. His broad palm scoped up your neck. His hand parted from yours between you, palming across your shoulder. They joined seamlessly together on each of your cheeks, cupping your face just like they had before. You rose into the touch, following him up, until you were standing between his socks at your bedside with your face in his hands. They were still pretty cold; but warming up, and fast. Just like before, you softened all over and held steady to his wrists.

Sam swallowed. “Dean told you?”

“Yeah,” you choked, afraid of what your voice was capable of. “Don’t be mad at him. Or jealous of some stupid witch. There’s… you have to know by now, that nobody even holds a candle to you, right?”

Sam laughed breathlessly. His long thumbs caressed your skin, your under-eyes, weighing the feel of you and your closeness like it’d be taken from him any minute. His left hand pressed even closer, and you met the scar there with your cheekbone. This is real, you promised him.

“Me too,” he gushed, and the sound poured right out of him just as yours did, overboiling with joy. “For you. Nobody, Y/N, this whole time, nobody compares.”

Real happiness was so new to you that the two of you hovered there, waiting for it to be ripped away. Your face ached, from smiling, from crying, from bruising, and it strained your chest a bit to laugh. You surged into Sam and let it all go anyway. Giggling uncomfortably rattled the injuries on your back, but any ache you felt was soothed by Sam's broad hand in your hair, stroking it away from your face. He was still chilly from his walk. There was a small building heat in the middle of his chest, so you squeezed even closer to meet it and found a leaching embrace instead. The pressure of him all around you could’ve put you in tears again. It hadn’t been long since you’d hugged him, but you could feel that love this time—the way Sam swayed with you in his arms, the way he kept pawing your neck to bring you closer and closer. Like the feeling of you laughing in tandem with him wasn’t enough. He needed to absorb you, be you, for you to be close enough to satisfy him.

He was careful to watch the injuries on your back, but you didn’t care. You wanted him to palm your bruised shoulder blades, to drag his nails down your glass-pocked spine, to squeeze you as close as possible no matter how much your material body hurt. A button on his shirt was digging into your cheek and his chin was poking your head. But it didn’t matter—he was the real deal, imperfections and all, just how you liked him. Loved him.

“Nobody?” You murmured, in disbelief.

Sam shook his head. “Nobody, Y/N. Not anyone.”

Nothing could pull you away from him then, so you didn’t bother to arrange yourself comfortably to kiss him. His face was so close to yours that you could breathe only him and the old books he smelled like. You knew that the second you kissed him that it’d be all over—forever marrying your visions of living to him, and giving your lifeblood a name. It was dangerous in this business to give your reason for living legs and a heart. But Sam’s sleepy eyes had closed and his pulsed swished under your hand, and you knew it was decades too late for that.

Your palms dropped to his chest, and Sam pinned them between you, ducking his head low enough to ache and searing you hard against him. It should’ve been awkward and cramped. You forgot that as you melted into the smell of him, a slab of chocolate in the sun. The kiss should’ve been cursed, since the angels swore he was, that you would be too. If it was, then cursed was warmth and love and closeness. Safe at last! Your body sobbed into the kiss. It all felt silly; like you could’ve done this ages ago.

Sam burst into snickers. You did too, against his mouth, and between peals of laughter you tried to scold him, “Shhh, you big idiot—” but Sam just shushed you back and kissed you again.

He dipped his head like actors in the movies did, intense-eyed and deeply fond, which made you flush and giggle harder. You both gave lose attempts at more sweet pecks, only to absolutely lose it when Sam almost knocked the lamp off the bedside table. Eventually, you were giggling too hard and stumbling too much to kiss properly at all. This didn’t intimidate Sam, who cleverly angled your cheek with his thumbs and kissed where you weren’t laughing. You squealed and wiggled for an escape that wasn’t actually alluring to you at all. Each time Sam caught you on the brow or the corner of your lip, you’d giggle and squirm away, only to float back into his orbit again. Parallelling the millions of games you’d played together as kids; tag, hide and seek, marco polo. Just another chase. Just another step in your infinite cycle.

“Really,” you said, eventually. An embarrassed heat prickled through your entire face. “Nobody compares to me. You really think that?”

“How many more times would you like me to say it?” Sam asked. He did this with both of your hands closed in one of his, his tone clever and sincere. “Not anyone.”

“You… you cheeseball,” you accused, and Sam’s mouth snapped closed to suppress another bubbly chuckle. It’d been ages since you’d gotten him to laugh so hard, so you were gluttonous off it and determined to steal more. “This whole time, you’ve been running around with this schoolyard crush on me… Man, this is quality blackmail material. Did you gush about me in your diary? Write Mr. Sam L/N in all of your notebooks?”

In the stark darkness, Sam again inclined his face over yours. “Did you?”

“No,” you blurted, a little too fast. “...It was Mrs. Y/N Winchester, obviously. It’s different.”

Sam just shook his head, charmed. You could feel him standing there across from you, admiring you in the silence, and it slammed on you like a ton of bricks that Sam must’ve done that before. A couple of times, at least. Just looked at you because he liked you so much. Any flirty confidence you’d built up was overpowered by a wave of shyness.

You rushed to fill the loving silence. “But. About the comparison thing… Good. I-I’m, I’m happy. I always wanted… I always wanted to be your… your first choice, I guess. Is that selfish?”

Sam hummed a no, and again his hand floated up to your face to warm your cheek. It filled you with so much want that your knees nearly buckled. Flustered out of your mind, you rambled: “I wasn’t a fan of Ruby, or, uh, that Becky girl from the convention, or the doctor chick in Iowa…”

He rumbled your name. “I don’t want to talk about them,” he murmured, amused, and kissed you once. When Sam parted from you, the silky lilt of his whisper in your ear flushed your belly with need. “I want to talk about you. And I definitely want to kiss you.”

“Sam…” you murmured. He dipped in for another warm, wet kiss, that instantly wiped your ability to create thought. You had to hold onto his shirt to steady yourself, and by then Sam had paused to not interrupt you. “I-I just…” you scrambled for anything to say, made honest by the dark, “I remember how you looked at them. I imagined how your hands must’ve felt on them… how theirs felt on you. I-I know I’m killing the moment here, but I need you to know—I was, I was out of my mind with jealousy, Sam. I—yeah.”

The hold on him grounded you, and again a second time when his hand settled over yours. Sam brought his arm around your waist, which made you realize how much he’d held you versus how much you’d held him. It was a disappointing ratio, so you welded him closer and snuggled your arms under his shoulders, letting your hands praise the unwinding slopes of his back.

A pleasant sigh seeped out of him, which broke into a careful chuckle. “I’m gonna be honest with you—pretty much nothing could ruin this for me right now,” Sam admitted. Which really meant something, because the chances of this being ruined by just about anything were 80-20. “I’ve wanted this since I was like, twelve. I guess you could say I wasn’t a fan of that waiter in Kansas, or your date to junior prom, or even Dean.”

You choked on your own laugh. “C’mon. You’ve got to be kidding me. Your brother, Sam? That man does not wash his underwear.”

Sam’s weighty shoulders shrugged against your cheek. You could feel his smile against your hair, that slight dimple in his cheek…“He always gets the girl. N’ the others… I don’t know.” Plainly and clearly, he turned into your embrace to speak face to face, “It’s you. It’s always been you. But I’ve never been brave enough to say it.”

You had no clue how to respond to that. A winning lottery ticket could be dropped in your lap, hell could close its gates forever, the angels could finally decide to leave you alone, and you’d know exactly what to say. Holy shit, maybe. Or even a tasteful, what the fuck. But what was good enough for Sam? What words could you say to make him happier than he just made you? You’d never been as sincere or as well-spoken as him, but he deserved that and more.

“I’m just glad we’re saying it now,” you murmured, your throat tight with building tears. Whatever channel was playing illuminated more of your face to him in a frame of white, and there Sam seemed to absorb everything you couldn’t put into words.

His thumb brushed your cheekbone. “How long have you been sitting on this?”

“Since our first kiss,” you flushed. “So, uh, fifteen years?”

You could sense Sam’s smug grin coming from a mile away. He always glanced aside beforehand, like he knew he was about deliver a clever blow. “Sixteen,” he boasted. “When we almost shocked ourselves to death taking apart that old Ford in Bobby’s salvage yard—you taught me what an intercooler was, and I was so impressed I wanted you to be my girlfriend.”

“Sixteen whole years,” you scoffed. Just for emphasis, you gave Sam a little push, and he dropped down to sit on your mattress. Without question, he left room for you between his legs and you flushed down to your toes taking up that space. “You gotta beat me at everything, don’t you?”

“Maybe. But I hear it’s gentlemanly to let your girlfriend win every once in a while,” Sam hummed.

That was an obvious challenge put down just for you. It was all too easy for you to rise to the bait and fluster all at once, since Sam knew how to engineer his bets just for you. The divide between your friendship before and your relationship now was a web more than it was a line, so dipping a knee in his lap on the bed was easier than you would’ve thought. Leaning in and smoothing your hands around his neck was not. Sam’s breath hitched in his chest, which you relished in. All these little reactions he always had—they were all because of you. His shyness, his cute hesitation, his miserable attempts at being neutral.

“Well, I,” you clarified, walking two of your fingers up his collar, “hear that it’s gentlemanly to ask her out first.”

Sam really was a dork, because just a little physical flirting had his hands flitting without direction around your middle. Every time your fingers took a further step up his neck, his breathing grew deeper, straining for composure he wouldn’t ever find. Not on your watch. When you finally stole the kiss you’d been itching to take, Sam’s eyes fluttered shut and his hands scuttled to find a place on your waist, wracked with shyness. He really didn’t want to mess this up. It was a sweet notion, if it was even possible in the first place.

Eventually, they found their hold on your hips. You hovered in his space, soaking up the feel of him in the dark as his fingertips memorized you, cataloged you, admired you. Sam’s chin tilted up, silently asking for permission as his hands hovered at the edge of your shirt. Your kiss was all the answer he needed. Gently, his fingers slid under your shirt, where they stoked the sensitive skin of your belly just for the sake of feeling you.

“Would you be my girlfriend?” Sam whispered. He was nervous and everything, as if there was a universe where you would ever turn him down.

The hands you’d braced on Sam’s shoulders pressed closer, taking in the texture of his shirt and the muscle underneath it, until one of your warm palms had snuck underneath his collar to press flat to his back. Sam released a low hissing breath. You met him with a deep, meaningful, possessive kiss, tickling your nails against the top of his spine.

“I’m all yours,” you promised, and Sam’s whole body sunk in relief.

He made a desperate sort of gesture along the bottom of your back, avoiding your bandages but wanting you closer, deeper, nearer to him. Emboldened by his obvious yearning, you offered your knee over his thigh. Sam invited you closer. Anxiety swirled in your gut, but the touch of him was merciful and yielding; he’d do only what you wanted to do. This was Sam. You’d never felt safer, so you sunk comfortably into the bowl of his lap.

You kissed him in long pecks at first, the soft bulb of your nose pressing into his cheek. His lips were soft and plush and warm, and the deeper you tasted them the more they drove from you. Any rigid fear left in your chest dissolved at his touch. That’s what he must’ve been waiting for, because he put his arms around you only once you untensed, and with all the urgency of too-in-love teenagers, you embraced. Sam slotted your chests together. You cupped his neck and roamed his hair, crushing him closer until you could feel his firm middle flatten to yours. A low wanting sigh rattled out of him. It was so authentic and distinctly Sam that you felt foolish for ever seeing a thing in the witch’s glamor. This was Sam, with his gentleness, his fear of his strength, his hesitation to take what he wanted. You were proud of your choice of words: you were all his, because this Sam was definitely all yours. This was the Sam you knew.

It occurred to you just how much you’d dreamed of this before. Reality surpassed expectation with ease, purely because there was so much you hadn’t considered. Often, you’d dissolve into gooey daydreams of kissing him or making him happy, only to come out of them scolding yourself for feeding your feelings. Your unreciprocated feelings. But there were dreams you couldn’t control and times where you’d indulged yourself more than usual. Even then, though, you always kept Sam’s emotions out of the way. You’d dream of getting home late from work—in the “normal” world you’d never share—and crawling into his arms, sleepy, or vice versa. You’d dream of going for long drives with him and snuggling with him in the Impala. But you were always the one who said those three scary words to him, while he simply existed as he always did. If you puppeteered Sam into saying it, then you were taking a machete to any notion that your fantasies could be real—and making Sam lie in order to please you.

What you hadn’t considered was what would happen if Sam did say I love you, and, even better: if he meant it.

Sam murmurs it as you’re admiring him in the dark. His eyes had fallen closed and his head had tilted back, receptive to your touch. You loved to touch his face; you warmed his lap, cupped his cheeks, stroked the smooth back of your hand against his temple, and pushed the hair from his forehead in the cool motel darkness. Every once in a while the headlights of a car would give you a glimpse at him, and each time Sam’s gaze would almost be too much.

You whisper it back, thankful for the boldness the dark gives you, and feel something blaze hot inside you when his mouth drags down your cheek to your jaw. They’re deep and punctuating kisses. You’re reminded again of the sinking acceptance you’d felt when Hermes’ shadow had fallen over you. For a second, you’d thought that was gonna be it. Sam would’ve never known the truth, and would’ve ended up in that warehouse instead, picking the glass out of unresponsive skin. And though you’d survived today… Tomorrow, a reaper would have a million opportunities to take what had only just been sown.

You bunched your hands in Sam’s shirt, sounding urgent. “...Let me show you how much.”

Sam hung there for a moment, weighing the silence between your bodies. Weighing the space between them, and how much of it left there was. “You want that?” He asked. Sam made it sound like you were asking to stick your hand in a shark tank. “You’re… you’re sure?”

Your hand on Sam’s cheek turned over, so you were stroking your softer knuckles against his skin. You nodded, realized he couldn’t see it, and pressed in to brush your noses together. Sam’s head tilted all the way back to meet yours when you prayed: “I’m sure. I… I waited a long time to be close to you, so… I’m not gonna waste a second more.”

A breath rasped out of him in understanding. Like everything else in your life, this could be taken from you. Sam’s fingers crept up the back of your shirt, sliding around for where the bandages began and ended. He confessed, “Me either.”

His kiss drew deeper, more lovesick, chasing each one to their full depth. Your hands shyly migrated to the buttons of his flannel and smoothed there. He nodded, flattening his hand to the small of your back, and after that you didn’t have to wonder once how Sam felt about you. It was outlined clearly for you in Sam’s handwriting. He showed it in the absorbing nature of each of his kisses; how he nosed every new inch of your skin, taking care to declothe you the right and patient way; how aware he was of your bruises and bites. When you’re clothesless, he runs both of his hands down your arms and just feels you in the dark. Sam gives you the same courtesy. When you help him out of his last layer, your hands smooth against his chest, his arms, his shoulders, his neck, but the contact still isn’t enough—you need to be closer. You drag him into another gapless embrace, and Sam is already there, eager to pull you in. His hands knead you with purpose. Your hips, your waist, your stomach, are squeezed until every part of you feels raw and achy and alive. She’s real, Sam’s body sighs. Another surging, dizzying kiss has you dragging your nails down his back, tasting every puckered scar and raised laceration from his shoulders to his obliques. He’s plush and warm and firm and right, a missing piece finally filled.

With his arms around you, you kiss him breathless and thumb open the button of his jeans. Your spine tingles in delight the second your fingers are hooked in his belt loops. The butterflies in your belly are birds by the time his jeans are past his hips, and when you’re on your knees in front of him, Sam’s calloused palms exploring your neck and your hair, the bruises and cuts on your back are just a memory.

“You don’t have to—” Sam starts.

The smile on your face is a bit too clever. “I know.” You frame his waist in your hands, pressing both thumbs into the divots of his hips. Sliding downward to find his boxers, you can feel his legs trembling at your touch, the skin there prickling as it’s exposed inch by inch. You press a lingering kiss to his waistband that makes Sam’s breath hitch in his throat. “Just helping you out of these,” you smile innocently, plucking the edge of his boxers. “I’ll have my fun with you like this when your brother isn’t coming back in an hour.”

“O-okay,” Sam agrees, and even in the dark you can tell he’s grinning.

When he’s nude, Sam finds your hand in the dark and brings you to stand with him. Again, you’re slotted into place in his arms, skin tacky with building sweat and cooled by the open window. His face and neck are blazing with a blush. You push the back of your hand against it, feeling him, all of him, in the honesty of the dark. His face lowers to yours, and again you’re met with the impression that the moment he kisses you, you’re his—curse and angels and demons and all.

You accept it with nothing but bliss.

He guides your knees back to the bed again, this time supporting your thighs as you lift yourself up. Your whole body reacts like before, surging into him and purring deep in your throat. You loop your arms around his shoulders in a claiming sort of way, and where your skin meets it sticks and melts together. Dragging you in around the middle, Sam hoisted you into his lap and moaned into your kiss; you slot right onto him, knees tight to his thighs and your chest pressed to his. You have the slightest advantage over him like this, your shadow falling on him. Sam’s eyes flutter shut and he sucks down breath after breath, his hair in his eyes, illuminated in slivers by the television. Something about it just makes you wetter. When you push further into him, there’s a glide between your bodies that makes Sam groan.

“Sh, sh, be careful of your back,” he warns. “Could you—could you hand me my wallet?”

You pat his chest, forehead pressed to his, and answer with a laugh instead: “I’ve got the pill?”

A shift goes through Sam’s entire body, radiating up from his lap. He shuffles his hips, lips parted, and you can feel his excitement pounding in his chest. “Atta girl,” he decides, smirking. “That’s good too.”

Flushed from head-to-toe with heat, you cup Sam’s neck and meet him kiss for kiss. During, you find him between you and tilt in your hips, finally asking the silent question. Sam’s fingers scramble across your thighs, your sides, and around your back. He hangs there, trying to pin down how real this is. This is really happening, his heaving chest says. She’s right here in front of me. A wet, passionate kiss balms his worries. He gives you the littlest nod. That's all it takes for Sam to be met with new, plush territory. You pant into each other’s mouths, fingers digging into flesh, hips dying to sink further in, hanging on the precipice, and when Sam’s certain that you’re ready, that this is really what you want, he presses your thighs down.

A desperate sigh seeps from his mouth to yours, like there's no better place to be in the world than inside you. Something needy and high slips from your lips. For a long time, all either of you can do is bask in it, in each other, breathing hard and shivering. Sam hugs you—genuinely hugs you—against him. There’s a thought somewhere in your mind that you should be nervous at all the lines you’re crossing here, but… Any day of the week you could rub your cheek into Sam’s shoulder like this. It’s a new song, but familiar notes dance all the way through it. The motel room is silent but for the barely-there hum of the TV and the crickets outside, so Sam’s heart under your ear booms. You soak in the familiar sound of it.

“I love you,” you tell him, and Sam hushes it back so fast your voices overlap, then again, “so much—so, so much—” as he starts to move.

Your whole lower half rolls with him, a boat on a wave. An urgent, keening yes squeals out of you the second Sam encourages you down again. It's more than good, than perfect, and entwined so closely like this, you can hear every thought and whim swirling around his mind—can read him better than you ever could before. You feel foolish. How much earlier could you have had this, if you hadn’t been so afraid? There were a million times in your life where you could’ve told Sam. Before the cage, when the apocalypse started, when Dean died and you were stranded with only each other. You latch onto him as you find your rhythm, a hand in his hair, nails in his shoulders, seared as close to him as you can be. Sam gasps your name; happy.

I have him now, you remind yourself. And I’m more than happy with that.

tags: @lacilou

#sam winchester imagine #sam winchester x y/n #sam winchester x you #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester #uncouthspn #supernatural #spn #user uncouth

981 notes · View notes

amazingmsme · 3 months

Note

Okay but what about some of your favorite headcanons that aren’t tickle related? For Curt and Owen, or any of Hatchetfield, whatever you wish. Just curious to hear what you’re thinkin’! 🎤

Think I’ll stick to the spy boys for now just so it won’t get too long cause I already know I’m gonna get carried away lol

So just like we see at the beginning, Curt & Owen love fucking around with the bad guys they find on their missions & “use them for sport” as Owen says. & they love to rub it in their faces just how damn good they are that they can just use them for fun in their own little games

Sometimes they get more roughed up if the other is the one interrogating them. They’re both masochists who never want to admit defeat, so yeah they’ve walked away with blood & broken bones (only minor breaks but STILL)

Curt loves playing with the spy gadgets regardless of how many times Barb tries to warn him, or how many times he ends up hurting himself with them zksvksjaz. He never tells her when he does it tho because that will just end up in a lecture

Curt & Owen will mock each other’s bosses to make each other laugh after they get chewed out for being dumb & reckless

They have to share hotel rooms quite often to “save the agencies money” & before they actually got together it was just straight up torture for them

The first time they had to share a bed on one of these missions, they were both freaking out internally & trying to play it cool. But then Owen found out Curt hogs all the blankets & suddenly he wasn’t feeling so smitten, just pissed off & cold

They flirt in the job soooo much it should be obvious at this point

One of the first epiphanies that Owen has about his partner comes when Curt fixed his tie for him & Owen was a little off his game for the rest of the night because he kept thinking about Curt’s hands so close to his throat & his lips in perfect kissing distance

They absolutely help each other pick out their outfits when they go undercover

After they get together, they play a game where they talk about what their lives would be like if they weren’t spies & they just make up a whole ass fake domestic life for them where they adopt a dog, then a cat (as practice) & when they’re “ready” they adopt a kid & have a happy lil family

They also play this game where they pretend they went into different professions & make up different ways they met each other

Curt is great at poker & wins most of the time they play

Before they met, Curt really wasn’t a tea guy, but Owen makes him “real” tea & makes him realize he actually likes it as long as it’s made right. Perks of dating a Brit

They have matching daggers carved with the other’s name. The height of romance

Cynthia has her suspicions about them, but they work so well together she couldn’t care less. That’s none of her business & tbh she couldn’t care less

Curt is actually a pretty good cook because he’s a momma’s boy & helped out in the kitchen any chance he got. But once they got together, he wanted to blow Owen away with his skills & made a candlelit romantic dinner with garlic bread & spaghetti & meatballs & a huge salad & Owen was literally speechless. YES they did the lady & the tramp thing where they kiss on the same noodle & they kept trying until they got it right!

Ok I held off long enough, here’s a few nsfw headcanons. No minors beyond this point, I’ll kick your ass

Ok but they’ve LITERALLY had a dick measuring contest. Like, they got out the tape measure to see whose is bigger. & no I’m not gonna say, y’all decide for yourselves. There’s no WAY I’m sparking that kind of debate

They legit take turns on who tops & bottoms

You’d expect it to be rough kinky sex, but it’s actually the most tender lovemaking ever ok they love each other more than anyone & they take their time exploring each other’s bodies

Of course when the time is right they absolutely get kinky with it

Their fake interrogations take a turn like 50% of the time (only after they’ve killed everyone in the building)

Even the interrogations that don’t end like that still get them both all hot & bothered. Owen especially loves the roleplay element

They kinda really like the thrill of almost getting caught so they’ve definitely hooked up when others are around

Ok that’s all I got. If you stuck around this long congrats, here’s your prize ⭐️

#asks #spyrucealt #saf headcanons #spies are forever headcanons #curtwen #special agent curt mega #curt mega #owen carvour #spies are forever #saf

15 notes · View notes

musette22 · 2 years

Text

Heat Wave

Pairing: Chris Evans x Sebastian Stan (Evanstan)

Word count: 2.5k

A/N: Like every single person in this fandom I’ve been replaying Chris’s Buzzfeed puppy interview non-stop in my mind (and also on youtube) since it came out last week, and giving too much thought to his flirty thot behavior during the Lightyear press tour, so my brain said “do the thing” and I did.

Also, you guys are familiar with the concept of ‘more cake’ right? ‘Cause that’s all this is lol. This is either very fun or very weird, so... enjoy?

Beta'd by my best boo, @rainbowsandcoconut 😘

Read on AO3

*******************

"Oh, shut up.”

Chris grabs his bare chest in pretend affront. “Shut up? That’s what I get for telling my dear friend she looks nice in a bikini?”

Scarlett rolls her eyes. “You know it weirds me out when you say stuff like that.” She drops her chin, lowering her voice into a mocking imitation of Chris’s. “‘I swear, if you weren’t like a sister to me…’ Like, what does that even mean?”

“It’s meant to be a compliment!”

“It’s a weird ass compliment. Go flirt with someone who isn’t like a sister to you and is also, you know, not married.”

“Ew.” Chris pulls a face. “I’m not flirting with you.”

Scarlett gives him a deadpan look. “You’re like the biggest flirt I know, Chris. You flirt with anything that moves.”

“’Scuse you,” Chris huffs. “Just because you can’t take a compliment doesn’t mean I’m hitting on you, alright? You think that’s flirting? I hate to break it to you, sis, but you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

Scarlett snorts, hitching her bikini top up a little higher. “That so? Well, go subject someone else to it, is all I’m saying.”

Repeating Scarlett’s words in a high-pitched, whiny voice, because he’s mature like that, Chris turns away, towards the pool. Hands on his hips, his eyes scan the gaggle of assorted co-stars and crew members seeking refuge from today's searing heat by the poolside. It’s so hot that the Civil War producers decided to give everyone a day off from filming, and people are taking full advantage of it.

He considers his options. There’s Lizzie, maybe – but no, taken. Emily's just gotten engaged. Maybe Tina from costume..? Wait no, she’s married.

“Nobody here’s single, though,” Chris pouts.

Scarlett hums thoughtfully, looking around as well. “Well... what about Sebastian?”

Chris barks out a surprised laugh. “Seb? But he’s –”

“A guy?” Scarlett shrugs. “So what? Surely a minor issue like gender isn't going to be a problem for someone as confident in their flirting skills as you are? Or were you just bluffing?”

They stare at each other for a long moment, locked in a battle of wills that Chris is very familiar with, after over a decade of friendship with the woman in front of him.

He takes a moment to consider Scarlett’s point. He doesn't usually come on to guys, at least not with any sort of intent, but he thinks he could be persuaded. He's mostly straight, sure, but he's not entirely immune to male good looks, nor is he averse to broadening his horizons a little. And Sebastian... Well, Sebastian is Sebastian, and Chris has a soft spot, alright?

It’s true that Sebastian is newly single. From what Chris had heard, it’d been an amicable split, just two people deciding it would be better to go their separate ways. Sebastian hasn’t seemed all that torn up about it these past few weeks, and if he had been, maybe Chris’s reply would’ve been different.

But as it is, he makes up his mind, and nods. “Ok, you know what? Fine.” He runs a hand through his damp hair, cracking his neck, and then his fingers for good measure. “Watch and learn.”

Scarlett merely quirks a sardonic eyebrow.

Taking a bolstering breath, Chris hones in on Sebastian, who’s standing by himself at the other end of the pool, frantically trying to finish his ice pop before it melts all over his hand, with limited success. By the time Chris reaches him, he’s just dropped the stick into a nearby bin and is licking his fingers to rid them of any remaining stickiness.

When he turns around and finds Chris suddenly standing in front of him, he starts. “Oh, hey.”

Chris dives straight in. “Hi, baby,” he winks. “You havin’ a good time?”

For a long second, Sebastian stares back at him with his mouth hanging slightly open. “Huh?”

“You havin’ fun?” Chris repeats, flashing Seb his most winsome smile.

“I’m-” Sebastian blinks, wiping his hands on his swimming trunks. “I- yeah, it’s, it’s really hot, but nice?”

“Good, good. You here with someone?”

A small frown appears between Sebastian’s eyebrows. His eyes dart over Chris’s right shoulder, presumably at Scarlett, before turning back to Chris. “Yeah, I mean, I’m here with you guys?”

“Sure,” Chris nods, “’course y’are. But you’re not here with anyone… special?”

“Um…” Sebastian frown deepens, making him look thoroughly nonplussed. “No?”

Chris tssk’s, shaking his head. “Well, that just won’t do. Sweet guy like you, all by himself?”

“What?" Sebastian chokes out a startled laugh. "I’m- Chris, what-?”

“What’s your name?” Chris interrupts, determined to keep up his charade, especially now that he can see how flustered it’s making Sebastian. It’s pretty cute, if he’s being honest.

Suddenly, Sebastian’s expression clears, the furrow on his brow smoothing out and his mouth forming a little ‘o’ of understanding as the penny finally drops. He chuckles, bringing a hand up to the back of his neck before glancing up at Chris through his lashes with a look that can only be described as ‘coy’. “I’m, uh- Sebastian?��

Chris breaks out into a grin, giddy with the realization that Sebastian is game to play along.

“Sebastian, huh,” he repeats, tilting his head a fraction. “That’s a cute name. Suits you. Pretty name for a pretty guy.”

Sebastian bites his lip around a smile. “Ah, thank you.”

“And he’s polite,” Chris exclaims. “Aren’t you a doll. Where have you been all my life?”

Slowly, Sebastian shakes his head from side to side, like he can’t believe Chris’s antics but he’s entertained despite himself. “I was right here,” he replies, a little smirk tucked away in the corner of his ice pop-reddened mouth. “Where were you?”

“Oh,” Chris gasps, clutching his chest, “oh no, see, you can’t do that. You can’t smile at me like that and expect me not to throw you over my shoulder and carry you right outta here, pal.”

“Jesus Christ,” Sebastian mumbles, more to himself than to Chris, smiling so wide now it makes his nose wrinkle and his eyes nearly close.

Unexpectedly, Sebastian’s bashfulness sparks an eagerness inside of Chris; a desire to keep it up, to push the limits and see how far he can take this thing. It spurs him into taking a step closer, crowding into Sebastian’s personal space.

“Would you like that, Sebastian?” He reaches out to carefully tuck a stray strand of hair behind Sebastian’s left ear. “If I picked you up and swept you away, took you somewhere private, maybe?”

It’s barely audible, but Chris still catches the hitch in Sebastian’s breath. It makes his own breathing speed up in response, his heart rate ticking up ever so slightly.

“C’mon, honey, whaddaya say?” Chris coaxes, ducking his head to try and catch Sebastian’s downcast eyes. “You trust me?”

Letting out a slow breath, Sebastian looks up. His gray-blue eyes are arresting as ever, though the look in them is new, unfamiliar – thrilling. “Yeah,” Sebastian says, voice low. “Yeah, I trust you.”

Something in Chris’s chest clenches, his heart thumping heavily. He takes a slow, measured breath in an attempt to rein in his emotions before he answers, “Good. That’s real good. Thanks for trustin’ me, baby.”

A small, involuntary sound escapes Sebastian. It seems to startle him, making him avert his gaze and cast his eyes back down at the ground.

“No, don’t hide,” Chris murmurs, lifting a hand and hooking his index finger under Sebastian’s chin to tilt it up. “God, look at that face. You look a lil nervous, huh?” He smiles gently. ‘S okay, pal. Got nothin’ to worry about. I’ll take care of you.”

Chris doesn’t miss the way Sebastian’s jaw slackens, or the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. Slowly dragging his gaze from Sebastian’s throat up to his face, Chris notices Sebastian’s usually almost translucent eyes have gone dark, pupils dilated so far the black has all but swallowed up his irises. “Oh,” he says softly, gently taunting. “Did I strike a chord? There somethin’ you need, sweetheart?”

Sebastian doesn’t reply, just breathes out shakily, his eyelashes fluttering in time with Chris’s eager heart.

Around them, everything has slowed down; gone quiet. There’s a hushed quality to the previously boisterous poolside hubbub, nothing registering in Chris’s consciousness aside from Sebastian’s shallow breathing and the heat radiating from his smooth, toned torso, noticeable even in the sweltering weather.

“What is it?” Chris’s eyes roam over Sebastian’s face, cataloguing his every blink and breath. In the back of his head, a little voice is shouting at him about danger, and lines that can't be uncrossed, and stop, retreat, abort mission. It’s remarkably easy to ignore. “Tell me what you want. Lemme me help you out."

Sebastian’s back hits the wall – Chris hadn’t even noticed they’d been moving. When Sebastian licks his lips, Chris’s eyes follow the pink tip of his tongue, running along his glistening bottom lip before disappearing inside again.

Suddenly, Chris is hit with a wave of want so strong that, had he been wearing socks, would’ve knocked them clean off.

Fuck, but he wants to kiss Sebastian. He wants to kiss him bad.

Distantly, he thinks that realization should scare him more than it does. He half expects anxiety to kick in any moment now, forcing him to laugh this off as a joke while he still can, but as the seconds tick by, all that happens is that the coil of yearning in the pit of his stomach pulls tighter and tighter, until he's just about ready to jump out of his skin with it. He feels lightheaded, drunk on desire – and that’s all he’s drunk on. He hasn’t had so much as a beer all day, just water and a can or two of coke, so it's not alcohol making him feel the way he does.

This is all natural. This is real. What started off as a joke has very quickly transformed into something else entirely, and Sebastian – sweet, obliging Sebastian who played along like a good sport – likewise doesn’t look like he’s playing anymore.

Trapped under Chris’s gaze as he is, Sebastian’s expression is flayed open, trusting, needing –

“Please,” Sebastian breathes.

The sound lures Chris in like a siren call. “Yeah,” he whispers, leaning in. “I got you.”

There’s no cautious start, no tentative softness: the moment their lips touch, Sebastian moans and opens his mouth, and Chris takes the unspoken invitation with both hands, plunging in and kissing him hard. Bare chest pressed to bare chest, Chris’s hands reach up to cup Sebastian’s face while Sebastian’s settle on Chris’s waist, fingers gripping tightly as if trying to anchor himself.

Chris gets it. He feels a little like he’s lost at sea himself, like he’s halfway to drowning in Sebastian already, and they’ve been kissing for all of five seconds. Fuck.

Sebastian tastes sweet, like the strawberry ice pop he just had, though Chris wouldn't be surprised if it was just his natural sweetness coming through. Whatever it is, Chris takes great pleasure in licking the taste right out of his mouth and off his lips, too. Sebastian seems to like that, judging by the sounds he’s making; a soft groan at the back of his throat, a small sigh, a tiny whimper that stirs the fire burning in Chris’s gut up higher, blazing hotter.

Teeth scrape lightly at Chris’s bottom lip, making him growl and tilt Sebastian’s head back a fraction so he can kiss him deeper, delving his tongue into Sebastian’s mouth and claiming him. Sebastian whimpers again, hands now straying all over Chris’s back and sides, and Chris wants to feel them everywhere.

Without conscious thought, Chris tilts his hips, pressing into Sebastian and groaning when he meets a telling hardness there. Fucking hell, that feels good.

“Chris,” Sebastian gasps wetly against his mouth.

Chris hums, rolling his hips and changing the angle of the kiss.

“Chris,” Sebastian repeats again, the word muffled but urgent. “Chris, please.”

“Yeah. Whatever you need, baby. Come get it.”

“No- Chris, we’re in public.”

Quite suddenly, Chris stills.

Oh. Right.

He pulls back a little, looking down at Sebastian’s flustered face, gaze lingering on his thoroughly ravaged mouth for a second before meeting his eyes again. “Um. Oops?”

Sebastian chokes out a breathless laugh. “Uh huh.” He bites his lip in a way that's entirely too enticing and greatly tests Chris’s restraint. “You, uh. You were saying something about taking me someplace private?”

“Jesus.” Chris blows out a sharp breath, followed by a breathless laugh if his own. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. Want me to throw you over my shoulder, too?”

Despite the state he's in, Sebastian snorts and quirks an eyebrow. “I mean, you can try, but you forget I’m up to about two-hundred pounds, now.”

“You are? Jesus Christ, Seb. That’s hot.”

“Oh, god,” Sebastian mutters, ducking his head to hide his blush.

Chris leans in, pressing his lips to Sebastian’s flaming cheeks. “Hey. You know you’re gorgeous when you’re flustered?”

Sebastian swears, letting his head thunk against the wall behind him. “Okay, you gotta stop that right now.”

“Oh, yeah?” Chris smirks. “Or what?”

“Or I’m gonna stop caring we’re in public and drop to my knees right here, right now.”

Well. That certainly wipes the smirk right off Chris’s face.

He swallows hard, nodding like one of those toy dogs on a car dashboard. “Alright, okay. Let’s go.” Reaching down to grab Sebastian’s hand, he squeezes it lightly before starting to lead him away to a chorus of wolf-whistles and catcalls that follows them all the way back to the changing rooms.

“Thank me later,” Scarlett yells after them, sounding horribly smug about it.

When Chris flips her the bird over his shoulder, Sebastian makes an inquiring sound. "Thank her? What does she mean?"

"Who cares?" Chris shrugs, looping his arm around Sebastian's neck and pulling him back in for another kiss. "What I wanna know is, are we actually going to make it all the way back to the hotel, because I kind of just wanna have my way with you right here in the hallway." Sebastian laughs softly, back to being bashful, and Chris groans. "This is impossible."

"So dramatic," Sebastian teases. "Tell you what, if you manage to hold back until we're in a decently private cab, I promise I will..." he leans in, whispering the rest of his words right into Chris's ear.

Chris exhales heavily. "Fuckin’ hell, Seb. Shoulda known you'd be a little trouble maker."

Sebastian bites his lip again, but this time there's a nervous edge to it. "Sorry," he says sheepishly. "Too much? We don't have to do anything, you know, if you don't feel like-"

Chris stops walking abruptly, turning towards Sebastian and taking his face between his palms. "Sebastian. This is the best afternoon of my life. I want this. Do you want this?"

"Yeah," Sebastian smiles, eyes soft and radiant. "Yeah, I want this."

"Good," Chris nods, and kisses him.

*************

READ ON AO3

#more cake!!!#original thoughts will be had again eventually I'm sure #evanstan #rpf #my fic #my writing #chris evans x sebastian stan #buzzfeed puppy interview #ao3

185 notes · View notes

a-boca-do-inferno · 2 years

Text

good girl (john milton x reader) [request]

summary: He was obviously, impertinently handsome, and you were pretty sure it only made him more dangerous.

warnings: light smut, dubcon-ish

words: 1.2k

notes: heads up: dubcon warning is annoyingly subjective and up to your interpretation im sorry. i mean the guy is literally the devil what else could i do lol anyways. its a bit confusing but nsfw so im excused <3 enjoy!

You blinked once, trying to grasp what was going on. Suddenly everything around you was blurry and big, dark orbs were all you could see, piercing through your soul as they scanned you up and down. You felt long, thick fingers travel to the hem of your skirt, threatening to get under it. As John took a step closer, wetness greeted your underwear and you blushed terribly. His scent was strong, intoxicating, like some sort of pheromone. It pushed you to the edge, literally; causing you to stumble backwards slightly, leaning against the table behind you both.

“Careful there, sweetheart”, he coos and you let your eyes fall shut, feeling overwhelmed by his tight grip on your body. John smirks, noticing his striking effect on you. “You like that, huh?”

Your flustered cheeks get even hotter. “Hmm, yes...”, it’s all you can master with words.

The air was getting into your lungs with some difficulty now, as your breathing cut off at the smallest movement of his fingertips on your skin. You opened your eyes again and suddenly the whole room was dim with only his figure visible to you, as if a spotlight was pointed at him from above. You felt somewhat dizzy and the heat on your face grew stronger by the minute, enough to form the sweat dripping off your neck. Despite your confounded state, you lifted your hand to try and clean it, but John caught your wrist mid-air, going at the salty liquid to lick it off, his cold tongue causing your hairs to stand on end.

You blinked shocked and aroused, pressing your lips when he made a trail with his tongue all the way up to your jaw, biting at it for good measure. His calloused hands went up to cup your breasts next, squeezing them ever so slightly, and you couldn’t help but blurt out a loud moan. He let out a deep, satisfied chuckle at your response, putting you closer to him so your mouths were almost brushing against one another.

“Good girl”, he mocked, slowly unbuttoning your shirt.

“(y/n), will you take this to Kevin?”, you jumped a little when your coworker approached your desk, handing you an envelope. You stared at her with a light blush on your face, trying to forget the torrid thoughts you were having just then. With a nod, you took the document, already getting up from your seat. She looked sternly at you, “don’t take too long, we have another case in a few hours.”

“Alright.”

Taking a deep breath, you made your way to Kevin’s office, hugging the document against you protectively. It was only your second month working for Milton, Chadwick & Waters, so you couldn’t deny you still felt a little nervous from time to time. You were competent and did your work very well, however, because of the huge prestige the company held, you couldn’t help but feel a bit inadequate in that environment.

Maybe it was due to your humble roots, as you had to struggle and really persist to follow into the law career; all you knew is that you’d probably be forever grateful for John Milton’s faith in your skills. As a young attorney with little experience, you were used to big law firms’ rejection, despite your flawless record, so of course getting this job was a pleasant surprise. High pressure as well, sure, but you could get used to it, too. You’d already been through much worse, arguably.

“Come in, (y/n)”, Kevin waves at your head peeking out the door. He is talking to someone on the telephone, but his eyes are on you for the rest of his conversation. “Okay, we can talk about that in person. I can’t really understand anything you’re saying right now. Talk to my secretary and she’ll schedule you. Bye”, he puts the phone down, then points to the envelope still pressed close to your chest. He smiles a bit, “is that for me?”

“Yes, sorry”, you come to him, feeling embarrassed at your sheepish behaviour. Something about the men in this place just got you really uneasy and self-conscious, you didn’t quite know why. “Here you go”, you hand him the document.

“Thank you.”

You turned to leave, walking back to your own office. The giant windows to your side caught your eye and you contemplated the great view of New York City, completely immersed in your thoughts. When you stared ahead again, your steps came to a screeching halt before you almost bumped into John Milton. His shoulder still briefly made contact with yours, making him stop in his own tracks to take a look at you with his signature charming smirk.

“You look spooked there, sweetheart”, he states visibly amused, holding you by the shoulders in a surprisingly gentle manner. His warm gaze hovered your features intently for a moment as he continued, “you okay?”

“Yeah!”, you replied instantly, a little taken aback by the kindness in his tone. He wasn’t exactly cold with you, but that was probably the first time he ever actually acknowledged your existence after hiring you. With a shy smile, you added, “I’m sorry. I’ve just been a bit distracted lately, it seems.”

“Oh, forget it”, he waved dismissively, patting at your arms afterwards. “Just be careful not to trip and fall, you never know who may be around to catch you”, his voice sounded light-hearted, yet the look in his eyes was strangely malicious.

Sly.

It was somewhat disturbing. Underneath all the charisma, John often came off as borderline haunting to you, even though you’d only really held a conversation with him twice. You just couldn’t help but feel a slight shiver whenever he was around, as if his presence itself changed the whole atmosphere. He had a dense, intense personality. You supposed that came with money and power, although you couldn’t imagine John Milton any other way, even when — or if ever — he was poor.

Perhaps men like him simply had this frighteningly authority about them, you mused to yourself, choosing to believe it wasn’t anything orchestrated on his part. He was never offensive or unpleasant with you or anyone else, it seemed, as everyone in the firm loved him, so maybe it was nothing but a misconception of yours. Still, you shuddered under his almost forceful glance, deep brown eyes as dark as they ever were. Adding to his magnetism, he was also obviously, impertinently handsome, and you were pretty sure it only made him more dangerous.

You couldn’t avoid the heat on your face at these observations, immediately staring at the floor to escape his engulfing presence. Suddenly your whole body was boiling hot and his touch somehow burned at your skin as his hands remained on your shoulders, a sudden urge of arousal coming over you at that simple contact.

“I...”, you gulped, smiling sheepishly as you got out of his grasp. If John noticed your silent distancing, he either didn’t care or didn’t show it, remaining with his agonizingly constant stare at your every movement. You cleared your throat, finally regaining your posture. “I better go now, still have some work for the day.”

“Don’t let me stop you”, he hums, going to the side to make way for you to pass, and you only nod in response. As you took the first step to walk off, John whispered close to your ear, “good girl.”

#the devil's advocate #the devil's advocate x reader #john milton #john milton x reader #al pacino x reader #al pacino imagine #al pacino

103 notes · View notes

rarepears · 2 years

Note

Based on what I've read, is it safe to assume that a wen sect is a place that is open to lgbtq+ community?

On Ao3, I got asked "How are cutsleeves thought of in this society?", so I'm going to copy and paste the answer here:

Okay, so what sets this apart is that Wen Ruohan was already sect leader when he met Jinwoo; Wen Ruohan is well respected and regarded for his cultivation prowess and he's considered a genius. He's the top boss and there aren't Wen elders who have the power to stop Wen Ruohan. Who will have the guts to mock or disdain Wen Ruohan (and by proxy, his male lover) as a result?

Plus, with China's emphasis about continuing the family line, Wen Ruohan just has to be willing to take in a female concubine or two to produce children sometime in the future and no one will really care that his main lover is male. Given that cultivators have longer lifespans (since they have stronger immune systems and all that good stuff), Wen Ruohan doesn't have to rush to have kids either. It's not like anyone is strong enough to kill him anytime soon, especially given Jinwoo's shadow summons are protecting him in the shadows as an extra precautionary measure to his safety.

Other male couples aren't willing to involve female concubines into the relationship, but this is the benefit of Jinwoo coming from modern Earth. He sees the concubines as just surrogates (who need to be married in as concubines so the children are seen as legitimate) AND there's no actual sex involved between Wen Ruohan and the concubines. Hana was very confused why Jinwoo needed a turkey baster. Just one turkey baster. 😉 (Hana: you sure you don't need a dozen turkey basters? I thought you had over a dozen cooks in the kitchen??)

Each sect will have different thoughts about homosexuality, but the Wen sect is a-okay with it coming from Wen Ruohan

-o-o-o-

So the answer here about the Wen Sect's views on homosexuality is very confusing.

Gay marriage is fine as long as the men involved still continue their family lines - and the children would be considered legitimate enough as long as the mother of the children are official concubines. Jinwoo has introduces a method of artificial insemination which makes it even easier for gay men to deal with their duties of continuing family line.

Unless the men in the gay relationship are of high status (in terms of wealth, noble background, whatever), not many women would be willing to marry in as a concubine instead of wife. Being a concubine is like being a second class citizen - it's not that great in terms of prestige, so there better be enough benefits for it to be worthwhile.

Of course, each person's level of what is considered enough as "worthwhile" varies. A commoner woman (or her family) in a desperate enough situation might be happy enough with guaranteed food and shelter. (Or maybe the family doesn't care about their female children that they just want to get rid of said female children because that means less mouths to feed.)

-o-o-o-

As for sapphic relationships, they have no hopes of being officially acknowledged. This is still modern China with strong patriarchal system.

But you know, if a woman finds a gay couple and volunteers to be their concubine, once they finish popping out a couple babies, she's basically done her job and the gay couple should (theoretically) not care if she starts sleeping with other women. It's not like she's going to get pregnant lol. Would be extra great if her female lover ends up in the same harem that she is.

(What also works is if there’s a class difference so that one is the lady and the other is her maid. Not great to have such imbalanced power dynamics for a romantic relationship, let’s be real, and I personally think private shouldn’t mix with business relationships, but hey, they don’t have many options.)

Wen Sect still has a lot to improve on in LGBTQ+ policies and societal views.

Read more worldbuilding notes in #the married life of sung jinwoo and wen ruohan au

#the married life of sung jinwoo and wen ruohan au #mdzs #mdzs ideas #world building #worldbuilding #wen sect #wen ruohan

68 notes · View notes

bachanaliabutforfandom · 2 years

Text

DELETED SCENE CH 3 - TWBU

struggling with chapter 3 when I decided to do a whole pivot but I figured, people, can have the deleted scene if they want? lol

Blue text is my comments to myself

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

Orochimaru wakes up knowing that today will be a test of his will. Every bit of superiority he has earned over the years will be measured, his worth weighed. He grins. It’s been a while since he’s experienced a challenge.

A gentle smile graces his face as he walks into the kitchen. Anko’s cooking breakfast. A large part of him wants to wince at the future state of this room. Anko’s more than adequate at preparing meals. She just uses too many utensils and refuses to clean as she goes. It can be aggravating.

[change it, change it, change it, doesn't feel right]

“Good morning Anko.”

“Mornin’ Sensei!” She turns, lips already curved into her signature smirk but then she freezes.

“Anko?” She claps both hands to her mouth and squeezes her eyes shut for just a moment, before hesitantly peeking again. He feels concerned, but also vaguely offended. “Mitarashi Anko, is there a problem?” She straightens up, inhales deeply, and then bursts into laughter.

“Really Anko, a lesser nin would feel-” she doesn’t stay to listen, “-mocked.” runs down the hallway and bursts into Kabuto’s room. He hears a startled yelp and decides to take a seat. Kabuto will avenge him. They may both not understand why exactly vengeance is on the table, but even he wouldn’t go after a sleep-deprived medic-nin without every weapon in his arsenal. Especially not his youngest.

There’s a thump, a muffled shriek, and the sound of a drawn blade. Most probably a kunai, unless they’ve decided to break the “no large weapons in the house” rule. And so, early in the morning. He feels like a Nara, but his children really can be troublesome.

“Wait!” That’s Anko

“What!” Kabuto hisses back. Mm. Definitely sleep deprived. May not even have had three hours before Anko insisted on whatever this is.

“Sensei’s eyes are gold!”

A stilted silence before, “Yes? They always have been? Did you wake me up to-”

“Eyelids. The gold eyeshadow’s out!”

“...eyeliner?”

“Darker than Tenzo-nii’s eyes.”

A shuffle, two pairs of feet stomping in a run because apparently he’s raised elephants and not nin. Then Kabuto - hair a mess, dark circles ringing his almost manic eyes - vaults into the chair nearest to him and, for lack of a better word, examines him. Anko, close behind, leans over Kabuto’s shoulder and now two beloved but unnecessarily inquisitive faces are attempting to stare him down.

“May I help you?”

“Who?” both of them ask, in sync.

Tenzo, because his eldest always has the best or worst timing, takes that moment to walk in through the front door. Must have just gotten off-duty then. He makes a face at his siblings for acting weird before moving to greet Orochimaru. He too freezes. He narrows his eyes, blinks several times, then turns right round and is almost at the door when Orochimaru has had enough.

“Tenzo, sit. Anko, dish out breakfast - like you were supposed to be doing, Kabuto, go to bed or eat with us. The choice is yours.” They all hop to carry out their orders, Kabuto setting the table before slumping into his seat, his exhaustion catching up with him.

Anko, still plating food, seems ready to start interrogating him immediately. She’s been spending too much time with Ibiki again. “You can question me when we’re all seated, but breakfast Anko. Spill anything because you aren’t focused and I’ll sacrifice you to Manda.”

She narrows her eyes, “You wouldn’t.”

“I’ll mourn you and then I’ll grab another child. An even younger one. We’ll even name her Anko in your memory. Clearly, I have no trouble finding children.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Kabuto murmurs a little too loudly. At the black look he receives, he cackles. “I’m just saying, ‘find’ is a term for polite company. More like, ‘staked your claim and dared anyone to refute it’. Speaking of,”

He turns his head towards the hallway, where Naruto is rubbing his eyes and failing to swallow back a yawn. Orochimaru opens his arms and the rest of his children watch as the four-year-old stumbles into his arms enthusiastically but with little grace.

“Did we wake you, kit?”

Naruto nods his head slowly, yawns again, and then mumbles, “Loud.”

“Yes, they are loud. You’d think they were civilians.” Kabuto straightens from his slouch in offense, while Anko, finally sitting down, squawks. Tenzo, who is amused if Orochimaru is reading the slight shake in his shoulders correctly, pours himself a cup of tea and like any smart eldest child, refuses to get involved.

Naruto, now firmly in Orochimaru’s lap and a bit more awake, ignores the circus in his periphery. “Oro looks pretty. Doing something?”

“Council meeting?” all heads turn to Tenzo. “No one else in-village is enough of a threat for this particular intimidation tactic.”

[add something additional here]

“Naruto, do you remember Tenzo?” he gestures at him, “and Anko, and Kabuto? You met when I took you to the other house.”

Naruto perks up.

“Y’smell like one of the masks, ‘ttebayo! And you!” He points at Anko. He then narrows his eyes at Kabuto. “You smell like doctors smell. Are you mean like them too?”

Kabuto blinks. “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me how mean they are after breakfast, and I’ll tell you if I’m anything like them. Deal?”

“Good, then you can watch him today whilst I remind the council that my actions are not their concern. I shouldn’t be long.”

“Sensei-”

“Kabuto. Eat breakfast, have a nap with the clearly tired child, and then entertain them with stories of how you regularly terrorise jounin who don’t know how to behave in a hospital.”

Yes, Sensei.”

[SOMETHING IS MISSING. EDIT THIS ENTIRE SECTION HARD]

#That Which Binds Us #Deleted scene #Fanfic #Fanfiction #Fanfic writing #Ao3

4 notes · View notes

wolfram-kun · 4 years

Photo

Conan lending something of his and putting Haibara at ease.

#coai #detective conan #meitantei conan #edogawa conan #haibara ai #putting his own blood on her #the lengths Conan can go to give her a sense of security is admirable!#and I love how gradually Haibara grows accepting of having a piece of him for comfort #in the last one it's like: you know the drill put the hat on #and she mocks him for good measure lol

107 notes · View notes

daydreamtofiction · 2 years

Text

The Feature: Part I // Benedict Cumberbatch x Reader

Entire series summary, warnings and author’s note.

Part II

Part I Summary: You’re fed up of not being taken seriously in your job. So when an opportunity arises that could finally put your journalism career on the map, you go to extreme measures to make it happen, no matter the consequences.

Part I Word Count: 3k

Part I Warnings: Morally-grey reader, mentions of sexual favours/weaponised sex, feelings of guilt/shame, strong language, readers must be 18+

A/N: I’m weirdly nervous about this miniseries and just really hope people give it a chance (and like it lol). Updates for this will be quite regular (fingers crossed) so if you do enjoy it, there shouldn’t be too long of a wait between parts.

"Good morning, all!" shouted Dan, clapping his hands together with a large white smile.

"Morning," everyone replied unenthusiastically, their voices muddled and out-of-sync with one another as they shuffled to sit down at the table.

You didn't say anything, opting instead for a sip of coffee and wincing as it burned the roof of your mouth.

"Oh come on." He laughed, waving his arms like he was hyping up an audience. "We can do better than that. Good morning, all!"

The same lacklustre response rippled around the room, no one making any effort to lighten their tone, except for your friend Nick who was sitting beside you.

"Good morning, Mr Daniel, sir!" he shouted, giving a sarcastic salute, like a soldier addressing his captain.

You chuckled to yourself, elbowing him gently in his side.

You always loathed Dan's monthly meetings; the laborious discussions around the long table that probably cost more than your yearly salary, the favouritism, the backhanded compliments, the asking for suggestions but never taking any of them on board. It was the perfect example of something that could have just been an email, the only positive being the surprisingly good coffee they brought up from the canteen.

Dan cleared his throat. "Right, well... Let's get straight into it, shall we?" He pressed a button, bringing up his presentation on the screen behind him. "So the March issue! Very exciting, lots of great things in store for the mag. The whole concept is going to be about welcoming in Spring; so think fresh starts, new opportunities, positivity and wellness, all that shite."

"All that shite," Nick muttered under his breath.

You smirked.

"We've got some pretty big celeb interviews which I'll be assigning today hopefully. Also some exciting features, some opportunities for you guys to think outside the box on what you want to write about."

A woman across the table from you raised her hand. "Dan, sorry, I was just wondering how we're going to factor in the coverage of London Fashion Week?"

He stared down at her blankly.

"Well, you see we're currently in November and fashion week's not until Feb, so it will fall into the March issue. I was just wondering if you had any plans to assign us to..."

She kept talking, but you found yourself zoning out, your eyes fixed on the mock-up magazine cover on the screen. You tilted your head as you stared at the name in its soft grey lettering and distinctive calligraphy: Draft - one of the biggest magazines in the world, the magazine you'd dreamed of writing for since the moment you picked up your first copy as a teenager.

You would sit in your journalism lectures at university and daydream about the groundbreaking articles you could write, the intimate interviews and hard-hitting stories. You would fantasise about awards you could win, the money you could make. But in the year you'd actually been on the writing staff, it had become clear that the only things Dan wanted to assign you to were fluff pieces and filler stories.

You were bored, frustrated, wondering what lengths you would have to go to for him to take you seriously, to trust you with something big.

"Okay so that's that on the March issue for now," he said, his voice snapping you back to reality. "We'll circle back on it in a moment, but I just have to quickly touch on the upcoming issue." He pressed his clicker again, bringing up a picture of the December cover. "Good news, our Editor Ms Ford has approved everything; all your pieces and articles and interviews are done, formatted and ready to print. However, we've had a sudden change of plan for our feature story. So Nick, your interview with whats-her-face is being moved to January."

"Whats-her-face..." Nick replied. "Did you just call Kiera fucking Knightly 'whats-her-face'?"

"Yeah, sorry. Head's all over the place."

"What news story could possibly be important enough to push the biggest interview of my career off the cover?"

"Well... don't ask me how she's done it, but Ellen- Ms Ford- she's managed to secure an exclusive with your man Cumber fella about his split from that other whats-her-face."

"How the fuck is he Editorial Assistant?" Nick whispered to you, leaning back in his chair, arms folded in a sulk.

"Are you talking about Benedict Cumberbatch and Faye Dennehy?" asked one of the other writers.

"That's the one." Dan snapped his fingers. "Yeah apparently they announced their divorce last week, refused to comment beyond their official joint-statement. But now he's agreed to talk to Draft in a one-off interview. Total exclusive, only one he's willing to do."

The room filled with soft gasps and open mouths, people turning to each other and whispering excitedly. Your back straightened, your throat turning dry with a thirst that couldn't be quenched by the coffee in your hands.

"Who gets to do it?" you asked, sending the room plummeting into silence.

"Hm? Sorry, what was that, Quinn?"

"Who gets to do the interview?" you asked again, maintaining a fierce eye contact you could have sworn made him blush.

"Well, I er, I haven't decided yet. But I'll be thinking it over and should have an answer by the end of the day. Anyway! Back to the March issue..."

You could barely concentrate for the rest of the meeting, your mind whirring with plans and ideas of how to get that interview. You knew you were the least likely candidate; probably not even an option in Dan's mind. But if there was ever an assignment that would put your journalism career on the map, it was this one. You needed it, and you were going to do whatever it took to get it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You curled your fist and tapped it against the door, waiting a moment before opening it and peering inside.

"Quinn, hi," said Dan with a smile. He always seemed excited to see you, you could tell in the way his face changed, how he sat up straighter behind his desk. "What can I do for you?"

You stepped into the office and closed the door behind you. "Do you have a few minutes?"

He nodded, gesturing for you to sit in the armchair near the window.

You obliged and made your way across the room, sitting down and crossing one leg over the other. He joined you, taking a seat in the other armchair at your side.

You cleared your throat. "I was just wondering if you'd given any thought to the Cumberbatch feature?"

He leaned back slightly and let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. "You know, I think I'm going to go with Anna."

"Anna?" Your lip curled with a disdainful grimace.

"Yeah, I mean, it's a sensitive one, and she's a veteran interviewer. It's the safest choice."

"Safest, maybe. But smartest? Most innovative?"

He laughed. "I don't think this is the time for innovation."

You rolled your eyes, turning your body slightly away from him.

He leaned forward, placing a hand on your thigh. "Quinn, your time will come. You've barely been with us a year."

Your eyes flitted down to his hand. He noticed and pulled away quickly, shifting awkwardly in his seat. It was then that the cogs began to turn in your head, the sharp, rusted cogs you wished didn't exist, because nothing good ever came when they sprung to life.

"Do you not like me, Dan? Is that it? Have I done something to upset you?"

"Don't be silly, of course not."

"Really? Because Nick only started here two months before I did, and he just got to do the December feature- well, I suppose it's the January feature now." You turned back towards him, switching your crossed legs, your heel grazing his shin.

"He only got that interview because he filled in for Charlie at the last minute," he said.

"So let me fill in for Anna at the last minute..."

"Anna's not busy," he laughed. "I haven't even asked her yet."

You took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "So what's it going to take then? To get you to... not ask her?"

His eyes fell to your foot as it lightly stroked his leg. "You really want this, don't you."

"Desperately," you whispered.

God, you hated yourself. You hated how easy it seemed to be for you to ignore your moral compass; to stoop far below south even when it firmly pointed you north. It was as if your conscience had made friends with your Id, so instead of guiding it towards virtue, it simply turned a blind eye to all of its bad decisions.

"You know," said Dan, lowering his voice. "It would be a serious breach of my power as Editorial Assistant, to... pull strings like that."

"So how about I pull the strings?" you replied, making a conscious effort to glance down to his lips as you spoke. "You can just sit back, relax and be rewarded for giving me what I want."

He didn't answer, running his fingers over his smoothly shaven chin as he contemplated your offer.

"Come on, you think I haven't noticed the way you look at me?" You leaned back, gripping the armrests with a smile. "Be honest, how many times have you fantasised about bending me over that desk?"

His eyes flitted to the desk and he shifted in his seat. You looked down to see what was making him so uncomfortable, immediately noticing the obvious erection beneath his ridiculously tight trousers.

"I can't lie," you said. "I've thought about it too."

No you hadn't.

Though he was handsome enough, relatively well-intentioned, and quite obviously well-endowed judging by the size of the bulge in his trousers, Dan just wasn't your type. He was groomed to within an inch of his life; not a hair out of place, not a crease in his suit. He wore obnoxiously pointed shoes and tie clips and pocket squares, he would listen to motivational speeches as he did push-ups in his office at lunch, and he hardly ever got people's names right.

"What was it you told me when I first started working here?" you said. "The only way to make it in this industry is if you're ambitious and hungry for it." You paused, leaning forward and brazenly placing a hand on his crotch. "I'm starving, Dan."

You were making yourself cringe, so much so that you couldn't believe he was actually buying into it. He tipped his head back and inhaled sharply before glancing over at the door, turning to look at you with a smile.

"Come here then and show me," he said.

You laughed, taking your hand away and shaking your head. "Do you think I'm stupid? I'm not fucking you until my end of this bargain is set in stone."

"Well surely you understand why I'd need some sort of advance on my end? A gesture of intent, a... promise to fulfil the agreement."

You stifled a snarl. Had he seriously just asked you for a deposit on the sex you offered him?

"I reckon a blowjob should seal the deal nicely," he finished.

"Go fuck yourself," you whispered with a smile, before standing up and straightening out your shirt. "The offer's on the table, Dan."

He remained seated as you made your way to the door, watching as you opened it before glancing back over your shoulder.

"Just know that I'd do a really, really good job," you said.

"With the feature or the...?" He gestured to his crotch.

You rolled your eyes. "The feature."

You stepped out into the corridor and shut the door behind you, exhaling a shaking breath, a shudder rolling down your spine.

"You, Quinn, are an awful person," you muttered to yourself.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Plumes of steam rose from the hot bath water, the scent of your favourite bubblebath enveloping you in a comforting, familiar hug. You lay back, pulling the heavy wooden tray closer to you, slowly and carefully, trying very hard not to send your laptop for a swim in the water.

It was dark outside, the wind howling in the cold November evening as you soaked in the warmth, trying to write, research, anything to take your mind off the events of the day you'd had; the regret seeping in every time you thought about the conversation in Dan's office.

But you couldn't help wondering about the man you'd suddenly become so desperate to meet, and soon found yourself searching him on Google:

Benedict Cumberbatch and

Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman

Benedict Cumberbatch and Claire Foy movie

Benedict Cumberbatch and Tom Hardy

Benedict Cumberbatch and Tom Hiddleston

Benedict Cumberbatch and wife

Benedict Cumberbatch and Faye Dennehy

"Wow," you muttered. "Poor Faye, autocomplete did you dirty putting you sixth."

You clicked on their names and began to scroll; looking at pictures of them on red carpets, how they smiled and waved as they walked hand-in-hand, how they shared small glances and kisses on cheeks as they posed for the cameras. You moved to a string of paparazzi shots of the couple talking intimately in an LA café, your eyes narrowing when you looked at the date on the photos.

"Hm," you murmured.

You somehow ended up on an interview from October, pressing your lips together as your eyes trailed the text.

'And of course my lovely wife,' Benedict begins to gush. 'She's just a really special person and I always feel safe and at home when I'm with her. Our relationship is an immensely special and sacred thing, it's what keeps me grounded.'

"How the hell do you go from 'special and sacred' to divorced in the space of weeks?" you said.

You brought up an article on their split, sitting up and bringing your knees to your chest as you began to read:

BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH & FAYE DENNEHY DIVORCE AFTER TWO YEARS OF MARRIAGE.

"We have not taken this decision lightly, but it is ultimately the right one to make," the pair wrote in a joint statement released on Tuesday evening.

After tying the knot just two years ago, actor Benedict Cumberbatch and fashion designer Faye Dennehy have called it quits on their marriage. The couple announced their decision in a joint statement via their separate PR teams on Tuesday. "We are eternally grateful to have had the privilege of loving, supporting and sharing our lives with one another over the past two years, and so it is with heavy hearts we announce our decision to part ways. We have not taken this decision lightly, but it is ultimately the right one to make, for us as individuals and as lifelong friends, which we are certain we will be. We ask for privacy during this time as we navigate this separation, but please be assured we are ending this marriage without malice or hostility, only joy, fond memories, and the upmost respect for one another.”

"Mhm," you said sceptically. "Sure you are."

You zoomed in on a picture of him; on his piercing blue eyes and strong bone structure hidden behind a scruff of dark facial hair. How had you never noticed how attractive he was before? You bit your lip as you plummeted further down the rabbit hole; the photoshoots, the press junkets, the red carpet appearances. It was only when your phone buzzed against the tiled floor that you realised you’d been practically salivating over him.

You leaned over the edge of the bath for your phone, sighing when you saw the text waiting for you.

Dan: Quinn, are you free on Saturday?

You: Depends...

Dan: Well Sat is the only day he can do so I need to know.

You sat up, the light of the phone screen reflecting in your wide, excited eyes.

You: Are you being serious? I have the feature?

Dan: Depends...

You rolled your eyes.

You: Very funny.

Dan: Thanks. You can expect an email with his PR briefing, off limits questions etc. & they want you to sign an NDA for his home address. Obviously.

You: Wait, it's happening at his house??

Dan: Yep. Problem?

You: No.

Dan: Great. I expect the full feature written and on the Editor's desk by Monday morning.

Dan: and I expect you on my desk by Monday afternoon.

You grimaced as you read over his final message several times, before putting your phone back on the bathroom floor and holding your breath as everything suddenly hit you; the euphoria, the complete and utter dread, somehow all at once.

You finally did it, your 'big break', the chance to write something important, something interesting, something no other journalist in the world would ever get the chance to write. But how you got it, that's where the dread came in; the sick, sludgy pit in the bottom of your stomach that made you feel dirty, guilty. Because, if you were truly honest with yourself, this wasn't the first time you'd done something like this.

As you thought about the deal you made with Dan, memories of university came pouring back; the sight of the 'fail' on your final essay, the measly amount of credits stopping you from passing an entire module. You remembered how you stormed into your tutor's office and demanded he change your grade, how your fighting turned into flirting, which turned into sex, which resulted in you walking out with the grade you wanted but never truly earned.

You sank down beneath the water with a groan, disgusted with yourself, with the realisation that almost every success you'd ever had was earned through sex and manipulation. But perhaps you weren't the one that should be disgusted - the world was built on sexualising women, you thought, were you really the villain for using that to your advantage? For playing men at a game they created?

Your laptop made a noise, pulling you back from the depths of your own guilty mind. You wiped the water out of your face and slid closer, clicking on the new email in your inbox, the terms of Mr Cumberbatch’s interview as detailed by his publicist.

Oh my god, you thought. This is real, this is actually happening.

#benedict cumberbatch #fanfic #fanfiction #smut writing #fanfic writing #smut #benedict cumberbatch imagine #benedict cumberbatch smut #benedict cumberbatch fanfic #benedict cumberbatch x reader #benedict cumberbatch x you #lemon #eventual smut #miniseries

160 notes · View notes

haetzro · 3 years

Text

.moonlit pussy

genre: smut

word count: 1.6k

warnings: smut, edging, unprotected sex (always wear protection!!!), explicit.

you knew what you were getting yourself into. renjun rarely got mad, always keeping his aggression at bay, not wanting to do anything brash, so you knew what you were getting into.

yeah maybe it’s a bit petty to make renjun jealous cause he was paying less attention to you, but desperate times cause for desperate measures, no?

you had spent the day with renjun and his friends and let's just say he wasn’t happy. With you being overly sweet to jeno and cooing at jaemin second to start was a bit of an irritance, but renjun wouldn't be angry at that. you knew he wouldn’t. so that’s why you and chenle were flirting with each other, your best friend catching on quickly to your goal and immediately helping you, a smile quirking onto your face when you caught renjun sucking in a breath or poking his tongue on his cheek. he was sure to catch onto your goal, and you both knew the outcome of this.

he finally reached his limit when you sat on chenle’s lap for the movie, not taking his eyes off you for five minutes.

“yeah, i think it’s time for me and y/n go. it’s getting late, and we have classes tomorrow. right babe?”

you send renjun a small smile, biting your tongue from screaming out a loud yes. “yeah, just gimmie a second i forgot my coat in the kitchen.” renjun’s smile is stiff as you and him say bye to the guys, chenle sending you a large grin which you reciprocated behind renjun’s back.

as you were walking into the kitchen, you feel renjun’s intense gaze on your back, making you smile in anticipation.

“uh, hold on i can’t find my—”

“coat?”

you look back at your boyfriend, who is holding up your fur coat in between his two fingers.

“babe, if you had it the whole time why wouldn’t you just give it to me.”

you cross your arms as renjun walks towards you, feigning annoyance. your boyfriend gives you a small smile, handing you your jacket, while leaning into you.

“you may think i’m stupid my love, but i’m far from that. when we get home, i pray you realize we’re doing anything but sleeping, for tonight i’m putting a whore like you in your fucking place.” you squirm as you feel renjun’s hot breath on your ear, looking back at him as you bite your bottom lip, a gentle smile on his face yet his eyes way darker thank you remember last.

“now, let’s go home.”

“no!”

you cry for what feels like the hundredth time that night, your cunt pulsing harshly as your boyfriend rips yet another orgasm from you.

his eyes are heavy with darkness as he watches you sob and whine, feeling heavily pleased with your current situation. “what’s the matter, my love? what’s with the aggression?” you whimper pathetically, body shivering from renjun’s fingers stroking your stomach and thighs, obviously ignoring the burning heat between your legs.

“please...please.”

renjun quirks an eyebrow at your pleas, hair falling in front of his moonlit face, most certainly amused at you.

“what’s with the sudden change of attitude, bub? from what i remember you were being a pathetic slut whoring around with all my friends.” he chuckles in between, before shoving his three fingers into your soaking cunt, earning a loud squeal from you “see i knew you were a cock loving whore, but wow, that was quite a lot. i’m sure you must be satisfied by now. i mean, you got what you wanted, am i wrong?”

a sob rips from your throat, as you feel your orgasm building up harshly.

“no, no! please, only want your cock. just wanted attention! please don’t—” you wail as you feel renjun pull his fingers out of cunt once more, making you thrash around while you sob.

“you don’t fucking tell me what i can or can’t do to you, am i clear?” you could only cry more, feeling at loss with your building orgasm, breath ragged making you feel out of loop.

renjun only watched silently, before getting off the bed to look for something. he brings back his belt, while looking at your tear ridden face. “hands up, don’t try any funny business.” you weakly bring your hands up above your head, letting out small sniffles.

renjun wraps his belt around your wrists harshly, checking to see any uncomfort in your face.

“remember your safe word?” you nod meekly, staring up at your the man above you.

renjun scowls slightly, before asking with more force, pulling at the belt.

“do you remember or not?”

“yes sir.”

“good. spread your legs.”

you spread your legs, slightly wincing as you take in the sticky slick between your legs. you don’t have enough time to think about the mess between your legs, before you catch renjun putting your vibrator between your legs. your eyes widen before looking up at your boyfriend before you, who only gives you a small smirk.

“any complaints, baby, and you won’t be cumming at all”

before you can even process his words, renjun presses the vibrators remote, obviously putting it on the third highest.

“oh fuck.”

the lower half of your body trembles, and you can feel the tears in your eyes build up once more. you bite your lip, trying to process the overwhelming amount of pleasure.

renjun, who was watching from across the bed, notices. he scoffs before turning up the vibrator once more, smirking as he hears the high squeal you let out, even more pleased at your trembling legs.

“renjun please, please!”

he doesn’t move from his space for a few moments, taking in your sobs and gasps, before getting up from his space and moving in between your thighs, watching as you were practically gushing from your heat.

“look at how wet you are baby. it’s so pretty.”

it was pretty. with the moon being the only light source in you and renjun’s room, it made your pussy look sparkly.

you could only whine, as you were a blubbering mess over the fascinated man. your breath is stuck in your throat as you feel renjun move the vibrator up and down your folds, occasionally pressing against your clit.

the burn in your stomach was becoming to much to bear, and you didn’t think you could go through another ripped off orgasm.

“renjun! i can’t, please, i need to— oh!”

renjun still keeps moving the vibrator for the next two seconds, before he removes it once more.

you tremble violently, while you let out a cry.

renjun turns off the vibrator, while you sob underneath him, before holding his dick at your entrance. he rubs your folds with his dick teasingly, earning some mewls from you. you look back up at him with your teary eyes, and see your boyfriends eyes darken more than they did last.

“please…”

he smiles at you sinisterly, almost as though he’s mocking you.

“you’re so fucking pathetic. you put an act up because, what, you couldn’t handle having the attention you get? you’re such a fucking slut. can’t go on without getting cock, can she?” you shake your head with the little strength you had “only wan’ your cock.”

he cocks an eyebrow up, an amused glint in his eyes.

“my cock, huh. do you even fucking deserve it, kitten?”

you mewl at the pet name, before nodding your head enthusiastically, the leftover tears in your falling down your cheeks.

“please. promise i’ll be a good girl.”

renjun smiles at you, before easing into you gently, causing you to gasp. fuck he could’ve given you a warning. you both groan as renjun bottoms out, taking time to adjust to one another.

“you ok?” you nod at him, moaning lightly as you feel him twitch in you.

renjun moves back, the tip of his dick being the only thing inside you, before he rams back into you roughly, removing any air you had left in you.

you squeal and sob, letting out little yelps here and there, renjun cursing from above you, obviously just as affected as you were, your walls pulsing repeatedly on his cock, not relenting at all.

“can any of the boys fuck you this good, huh? can they make you feel as good as i fucking do?”

you could barely answer, loud cries escaping your throat as renjun fucks you with absolute vigor, hitting every type of spot in you. he was so deep, you were sure you could feel his dick in your stomach if you were coherent enough to look down and not just think about his cock and his name only.

you could feel the same burn building inside you, except it was different and more urgent.

“oh fuck fuck fuck.”

you let out, squeezing harshly on your boyfriends cock, who only groans loudly above you.

you wail, squeezing your hands into fists as you feel yourself teetering over an edge.

“renjun, i— fuck.”

“wanna cum baby? go on.”

you scream as you let go on renjun’s command, and squirt uncontrollably over his cock, back arching off the bed.

“fuck.” you squeeze on renjun’s dick so hard, causing him to cum right after you, painting your walls with his semen, making you let out a broken cry, squirting a bit more at the feeling of renjun’s warm cum.

you both pause for a few moments, renjun squeezing your waist occasionally, trying to calm down your trembling figure.

he drops to the side of you, careful to not remove his dick from your heat.

“you ok baby?” you nod at him tiredly, melting into the feeling of his hands in your hair.

“let’s sleep yeah? we both won’t have classes until later in the day bub. i’ll clean you up before i wake up, hm?” you smile at him, feeling warm from your boyfriends overwhelming affection.

“love you.”

“love you more, baby.”

you both cuddle against each other, before drifting into an empty sleep.

.note: i hope y’all liked it. i’m actually scared that y’all won’t, lol. anyways. goodnight, it’s like 1:04 in the uk so, bye my loves.

#renjun smut #huang renjun smut #renjun #huang renjun #huang renjun nct smut #renjun nct smut #nct #nct dream #nct dream smut #nct smut #nct hard hours

571 notes · View notes

sarahjtv · 3 years

Text

BNHA Chapter 319 Spoiler Analysis: Found Family

Holy crap what a phenomenal chapter! This arc in general has been great, but this chapter might be one of my favorites of the arc. Not just because it focuses on Class 1-A (I’m so glad to see the kids again), but because of the growth we see in these kids in general especially Bakugo and Shoto IMO. Like, holy shit ESPECIALLY BAKUGO! I stand by my opinion that Bakugo is one of the best developed characters in the series. There’s so much I want to say about this chapter and I’ll try my best to do so if my poor injured left hand will let me 😭:

The chapter starts off with the first of 3 colored pages we’re going to get over the next few weeks to celebrate 7 YEARS OF MY HERO ACADEMIA!!! CONGRATS, HORIKOSHI-SENSEI!!! This series revived my love of anime/manga and really helped me in some really rough spots in my life. I will forever be grateful towards Horikoshi for bringing this series to life and blessing us with such an incredible story full of beautiful characters. MHA may be a little overrated, but I still think it deserves all the love it can get.

Anyway, the color page. It shows Uraraka, Iida (who has red eyes here, so IDK why the anime gives him blue eyes though I do think they work better for him personally *shrugs*), Shoto, Tokoyami, and Bakugo after basically figuring out where Deku went. Bakugo is shown tearing up his letter (which says something like “Thank you for being there, Kacchan”; there’s more but I can’t translate it 😭) and you can kinda see some bandage wrap around his arm where he was stabbed. Also, both Bakugo and Shoto still have some visible injuries on their faces and Bakugo’s hands, so they’re still recovering from the War. It’s a really pretty page in general and I can’t wait to see what the next 2 color pages are going to look like. I also kinda want Horikoshi to take a break after this too again so he doesn’t overwork himself. Maybe he’ll treat himself to the MHA: World Heroes Mission movie 🍿.

So, Shoto and Bakugo have figured out that Deku is most likely with Endeavor, Hawks, and Best Jeanist. Problem is that none of them are answering their phones. I like that Bakugo calls Best Jeanist “Pair of Denim Pants” 😂 and Shoto’s image of Endeavor is still a very angry version of his old man. Shoto’s still making amends with his father, but he’s still not THERE yet. Regardless, these kids are smart enough to know that something’s up. Especially since All Might hasn’t returned to UA either.

It’s basically confirmed by Ojiro that because classes have been suspended, our Class 1-A kids are still 1-A; they haven’t moved into their second year yet. That clears up the confusion on whether we should still refer these group of kids as 1-A still or not.

Now Bakugo’s showing how much of a genius he really is despite his personality. Bakugo figures out that the Top 3 and All Might are working together as a group based on how they all connected with each other back at Central Hospital. Also, Bakugo concludes that All Might snuck Deku’s letters under their doors while Deku started running. Ultimately, Bakugo does know more about Deku and All Might more than anyone else does. He’s been around his childhood friend and he’s admired his idol longer than most people have. Bakugo understands how bad the situation is and he’s ready to take action.

As are the other kids. You can see how determined they are and you can see Kirishima’s black roots coming in 🥺! Even Uraraka gets some shine here by bringing up the idea to trick Endeavor to come via getting help from Principle Nezu as Endeavor was a UA student. It’s really interesting to see Ochako in a more serious roll than usual, but I actually like it. I hope she’s still as bubbly as she always was at the end of the day, but she’s definitely matured and grown a lot over the corse of the series. Even the simple things like her hair show it as it’s not as floaty as it was before. I love it when Horikoshi shows small details like this. It adds to the characters and stories a lot. Also, the art in this chapter is amazing.

And now it’s Endeavor vs. Class 1-A in a much needed conversation. All the kids are wearing their school uniforms to make this as formal and serious as they can. EVEN BAKUGO IS PROPERLY WEARING HIS TIE YOU KNOW SHIT’S ABOUT TO GO DOWN!!! And, I must say, Bakugo looks damn good with a tie 😳. You can also get a decent height measurement on the kids here if you want. Ngl, sometimes I forget that Shoto’s about 2 inches taller than Bakugo. It’s definitely the hair.

Shoto’s the first to step up and he scolds the hell out of his old man. Rightfully so tbh. Endeavor shouldn’t have ignored Shoto’s calls even though I kind of understood why. Shoto reminds Endeavor of their plan to stop Dabi though thankfully that’s what’s pushing Endeavor forward so he hasn’t forgotten. Shoto calls his father “Endeavor” and gets mad at him fro leaving Deku and All Might alone. The rough translations say he called Izuku “Deku” here too btw. Endeavor has no response. I think this anger Shoto’s unleashing is very justified and has been burning inside him since Deku left UA. His best friend just up and left him and his friends with nothing but a letter to kinda explain things. Also, Shoto and the rest of 1-A (minus Bakugo) have basically been lied to for about a year. I’d want answers too if someone did that to me.

Bakugo steps in by putting a hand on Shoto’s shoulder (🥺) to calm him down a bit and to say his piece. Ultimately, he thinks what Deku is doing is right, but that the way they’re all doing it is wrong. I love Deku and All Might, but they’re sacrificial idiots. They care more about others than they probably ever will themselves. That’s how All Might lost his OFA in the first place. It’s because of that that All Might doesn’t have it in him to stop Deku from going down this path. They shouldn’t have been left alone. Someone should’ve kept a closer eye on them. I know the Top 3 were all worried about getting too close to Deku before, but really, someone should’ve been watching them closer on the sidelines.

The next page is a really cool drawing of Endeavor flinging his phone to the kids to catch. The previous panels showed Endeavor with this face that’s regretful and I think he realized something: That Bakugo is right and that the kids might be better off finding Deku than he is. So he basically gives the kids his GPS on his phone. Those are just my thoughts, but it does look like that. I don't think Endeavor’s just going to up and give up though. He’s probably going to start rethinking things though.

As Sero manages to catch Endeavor’s phone, he and the rest of the kids think about how even though they’ve only known Deku for a year, they still think of him as family and cannot let him go down this thorny path alone. They’ll carry the OFA burden with him if they have to. They can’t smile without Deku around. These kids truly have become a family over the year. It’s amazing to see. Everyone’s like a brother and sister and it’s really nice to see. I just love Found Family stories, guys 😭❤️

And really quick, I want to focus on my ❄️🔥 boy, Shoto, really quick. As he’s thinking about Deku, he mentions how shocked he still is about Deku keeping OFA from them and how Deku thought just a letter would suffice. He has this sad look on his face like he’s trying to say: “I still can’t believe my best friend hid this from me for so long. Why? Did he not trust me?” That’s just my interpretation. Still, I can’t imagine how upset Shoto must feel. I think he still cares a lot about Deku enough to go out and find him, but he’s gotta feel some sort of betrayal. More so than the other students outside of Bakugo because, again, Deku was essentially Shoto’s best and closest friend 💙😭

Endeavor is rightfully worried about letting the kids out in the state of Japan right now, but now Principle Nezu speaks up and praises the kids on growing up so well. He’s also took into account Deku's feelings about his mission which is why he agreed to the team up. Also, Deku’s still welcome back to UA whenever he wants thank god ☺️. He’s a student who has to be protected. There’s a cute panel of Uraraka and her mom crying happily after getting her acceptance letter too. Not 100% why this is shown other than Acceptance Letter part, but it’s cute to see. Maybe Ochako realizes how much Deku needs to be protected or something.

As for the refugees, Nezu had the security system strengthened in time for the Cultural Festival earlier, but they never used it before. It’s call The UA Barrier. God, how strong is this thing? Is it strong enough to stop Shigaraki who was able to Decay the last barrier? This seems like something that’ll be used in the final battle TBH.

So, Nezu trust the 1-A kids to bring Deku back home. Which is exactly what they plan to do as all 19 of them enter Kamino in a badass full page. I actually wasn’t sure if all 19 of them were there at first since I couldn’t find Shoto for the life of me, but then my eyes saw the BIG-ASS ICE WALL IN THE BACK AND I THOUGHT “OH THERE HE IS!!!” LOL 😂

The next panel actually does show Shoto with Momo as they capture the villain from the last chapter. Momo politely calls Bakugo “Bakugo-san”, but Bakugo demands that he be called his insane hero name: “GREAT EXPLOSION MURDER GOD DYNAMIGHT”! I CAN’T WITH THIS DUDE SOMETIMES WHY DO I LOVE HIM SO MUCH 💥🧡

Deku sees his friend and wonders why they came. Ochako answers because that they were worried about him, but Deku tries to convince everyone (including himself) that he’s fine. He’s obviously not and Bakugo calls TF out on him! He even drops a good F-bomb for good measure. Bakugo mocks Deku for trying to act like All Might and asks Deku if he can even smile right now. I actually really like it that Bakugo’s calling Deku out on his shit. I think Deku needs some good tough love right now to knock some sense into him. Who would be better to do that than Katsuki Bakugo himself?

As Deku is trying to convince everyone that’s he’s fine (while still looking like a demon btw), there’s a small focus on Iida. Actually, a few panels this chapter have focused on Iida. Maybe he’s remembering the time Deku saved him back when they went up against Stain. Deku saved him then so it’s now Iida’s turn to save Deku. Also, Iida hasn’t gotten much focus lately and I really like his character, so I’m glad he’s being brought back to the forefront again. Also, I like hearing Kaito-san’s voice in general so I’d be happy to hear him again (thanks for that one, Haikyuu).

The final spread shows Deku telling everyone to move away while Bakugo, Iida, and Ochako get ready to stop him. IT’S DEKU VS. CLASS 1-A!!! WE’RE ENTERING CIVIL WAR FOLKS!!! Seriously, though, this is great. I was thinking that it would be just Bakugo and a few other students finding Deku. Instead we got the whole class. And looks like that “helping hand” thing will happen later because we got a battle to fight first.

Bakugo’s become a damn fine leader and I love to see his growth every freaking time🧡! I like how Iida has his hand on Bakugo’s back to support him btw. It’s weird that Shoto’s not in this page though. He’s one of Deku’s best friends, so I would think he would be in this page along with Bakugo and his first 2 friends (Ochako and Iida). Maybe Horikoshi’s saving Shoto for a more 1-on-1 conversation with Deku. God, I hope that happens because I think along with Bakugo, Shoto deserves a good talk with Deku the most.

Honestly, I’m not sure who would win this battle. I’ve been going through scenarios in my head on who would win, but I can’t come to a solid answer. Class 1-A has 19 versatile Quirks under their belt and they have more energy than Deku to fight, but Deku still has 6 insanely powerful Quirks that he’s been practicing for a while. The kids could probably win if they strategize enough and use Deku’s exhaustion against him, but again, Deku has OFA and multiple other Quirks. If he could beat Lady Nagant, one of the best snipers around, he might be able to beat the 1-A kids. He could just escape with Smoakscreen, Black Whip, and Float if he wants to really. That would put 1-A on another wild goose chase. There’s also Deku’s Danger Sense which will be a pain to deal with. Also, Deku said that he’s as strong as All Might was in his prime with Fa-Jin and OFA combined. Only AFO and Shigaraki were strong enough to take on THAT. Plus, we still don’t know what the 2nd OFA Holder’s Quirk is yet. Deku might use it in this battle. God, I have so many theories in my head now. I think this battle will be awesome, but ultimately, I want Deku to come home 😭💚

Me reading and loving My Hero Academia:

47 notes · View notes

eutaerpe · 4 years

Text

the escapades (m)

pairing — jimin x reader

genre/warnings— smut (oral, fingering, orgasm denial) & college!au, fratboy!jimin, brief e2l, brief ewb, acr universe

summary — the one where there’s a lot of unresolved sexual tension, until there isn’t.

notes — 8.3k words of the happiness before the storm i couldn’t write. i realised halfway through this there’s a slight plotwise change in comparison to what i wrote in acr so. yeah. sorry. kudos to you if you find it lol

The first time it happens, you’re pretending to be someone you’re not.

You’re sitting near the end of the table, crossing your legs and playing with the hem of your dress, your lips twisted into a frown. The real reason lying behind the simple decision of having a single, almost infinite table of guests doesn’t, in the slightest, cross your mind; why your idiotic brother would see this as a delightful idea really is above you, but you suppose the valuable genes in the family runs all in your DNA.

You’re playing with the table decorations while waiting for the guests to come, and it’s so fucking boring you regret telling Seulgi no, babe, what the fuck - you even shook your head and decided to sound extra mad at the idea - I won’t sneak in weed.

Too bad for you, she had answered, a cute pout on her lips, I’ll give you an hour before you’re bored out of your mind.

The truth hangs above your head, with a sheepish grin: you just needed ten minutes to be absolutely, drastically bored.

In hindsight, sneaking in weed wouldn’t have been the worst idea: your mother is talking to the in laws, gesticulating excitedly at the idea of kids right after marriage. What the fuck, you text Seulgi, at home trying to get out of bed, my brother has been married for an hour and there’s already baby talk going on at the table.

Seulgi

[12.49]

With the baby talk comes the dick talk

You

[12.49]

Oh no the dick talk

Seulgi

[12.50]

man how can you survive your relatives talking about nonexistent boyfriends without my weed, damn???

You

[12.50]

option a: I’ll tell them I’m dating you

Seulgi

[12.50]

we kissed ONE time

You

[12.50]

option b: I’ll tell them I’m in a relationship with Jeon jungkook

Seulgi

[12.50]

bitch we both know you’re not in a relationship with the hottest guy on campus. he has dimples and long hair and piercings. my sources can even confirm he has a big dick. what do U Have

You

[12.51]

i was talking about my vibrator but go off lmao

anyway I’ve had that D ;)

Seulgi

[12.51]

you’re officially cancelled

when did this happen? I can’t believe you’re telling me over text!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You

[12.51]

last semester!!!!! why do you think I’ve named my vib after him!!!!!!

Seulgi

[12.52]

because you’re lusting after him like the rest of us mortals!!!!!!!!!!

You

[12.52]

I’ve upgraded since then. I’ve leveled up. I’ve seen things People Can’t Even Imagine

Seulgi

[12.52]

just say he got u off and go

You

[12.52]

anyway option c: I scare them away by saying controversial things. Id est: I don’t believe in love. I am choosing my partner solely judging their abilities to finger me under a table when people are around. I am secretly lusting after my brother’s wife. I am trying to get impregnated like in The Sims 2 aka I am waiting for that alien dick.

Seulgi

[12.52]

hate to break it to you babe but that’s literally who you are

You

[12.52]

I literally compliment joohyun’s boobs once and this is the treatment I get

Seulgi

[12.52]

are we not gonna talk about your alien dick kink

You

[12.52]

no kink shaming in this house lady

option d: I listen to their complaints and run

Seulgi

[12.53]

option dick

man sorry I meant option d

You

[12.53]

you didn’t

Seulgi

[12.54]

ur right I didn’t

Option e, also known as I’ll entertain the other guests so I don’t have to talk to you, presents itself in the form of one very hot, very ripped young man sporting the most expensive shirt in the room. You’re only human when you admit to yourself, mental sigh, that he ticked all the let’s get y/n horny requirements in less than fifteen seconds.

You can’t believe Joohyun has kept him hidden for so long from you. Such betrayal ends when your brother, Kim fucking Seokjin, hugs him tight and brushes with utter affection the nape of his neck, gracing him with a warm smile and a heartfelt laugh.

You can’t believe Seokjin has kept him hidden for so long from you.

Well. Scratch that. You can.

Suddenly, the ticked requirements disappear and a giant neon sentence with a very cheap background music impose themselves in your head. WHAT A TURN OFF! they read, the neon red words mocking you; you steal a glance at your brother’s acquaintance one more time - one last time - before slipping your phone in your hands and dedicating yourself one more time at your Instagram feed, scrolling through the most recent pics.

(You stumble upon an extremely rare Jungkook selfie, and you hate to admit you spend the following thirty seconds admiring him before tapping twice on the quality content you’ve signed up for when you joined the social)

You suppose that, even though your brother’s friends with fuckboy tendencies are signed off your let’s get to know each other better ;) list, it doesn’t mean the same goes for them.

So, when the dark-haired young man with a jawline sharper than Seulgi’s retorts after her third beer sits next to you, you reckon you shouldn’t be that surprised.

He acts all casual, you notice while discreetly looking at him; he’s busy taking off his jacket and flexing his muscles, all of this while pretending not to notice you, and you find it immensely cute.

Ah, fuckboys.

“Fuck,” he rasps, lips twisted in a crooked smile, “I didn’t think it would be this hot today.”

“Yeah, sorry, the heat is on me.”

He chuckles in disbelief at your words, eyes turning into crescents.

“Right, there’s always the girl stealing the bride’s spotlight at weddings.”

“Oh! That’s me,” you nod enthusiastically, “That’s one hundred percent me.”

“Groom or bride?” He asks, pointing at the couple with his chin.

“What do you think?”

He looks at you funny, pressing his back on the seat, pondering in silence. Cute.

“Bride. One of Bae’s sorority sisters, maybe? You seem too young to be her age, though.”

“Damn,” you exhale, crossing your arms under your chest, “I can’t believe you got it all wrong. The expectations were low, but I’m still disappointed.”

He ducks his head, still smiling. “Then it’s the groom. How do you know Seokjin?”

Your eyes twinkle with excitement at your next words, but honestly, who can blame you? You’re having fun with this lost, cute chick.

“What’s your take, officer?”

He erupts into a laugh, and you drink in his handsome features; fuck you, Seokjin, for being friends with fuckboys only.

“Alright,” he punches the bridge of his nose, scanning the room, which is slowly filling with other guests. “I’m his friend, and I know all of his friends, which can only mean one thing: option a, you’re one of his ex-girlfriends; option b, you’re one of his secret hook-ups; option c, you’re an old friend from high school.”

“Oooh,” you beam, unrealistically intrigued, “You really suck at guessing, don’t you?”

He laughs, passing a hand through his dark locks, messing his perfectly styled hair. “Ok, fair. Which one was the closest, then?”

“Option d, of course.” You nod, relaxing your features into a sheepish grin, “I’m his much more beautiful and smarter sister.”

You exam his face, now twisting into some sort of what the fuck, such betrayal look, and you take in, for the last time – really the last, this time – his attractive, sculptured face, his full lips, the smoothness of his skin. It’s awful and unfair knowing you two won’t cross paths ever again in your lives, but at least you had some fun messing with him before things could worsen.

“I’ll be sitting in the middle of the table, with my family, if you want to avoid me.”

You wink at him for good measure, and you swear to god he blushes.

Half a wine bottle and two flutes of prosecco down, you realise you underestimated your resident fuckboy.

It happens when you’re grabbing your napkin and channelling your dreamy, happy looks towards the newlyweds, dancing in the middle of the room, their eyes gravitating only towards the love of their lives.

You sigh, pouting for the smallest of fractions, when you feel someone sitting at your side.

“You know,” Fuckboy begins, and you picture him licking his lips as he pauses, “Now I get why he never told us anything more than: I’m not an only child.”

“I know,” you exhale, turning to face him, “Seokwon is the real catch of our family. We’re really protective of him.”

“He’s married. With kids.”

“I was there when the twins opened their eyes, thank you.”

“We thought you were either a small kid or a forty years old woman.”

“Wait,” you tilt your head, “How did you know about us then? And who’s we?”

“We dug into his stuff and he caved in, admitting he had a brother and a sister.” Fuckboy looks at you, eyes dark but reflecting the dim lights of the function room, “Us. The frat guys.”

“Right, the fuckboys.”

He looks taken aback by your statement, bewildered, and you take advantage of his reaction to stand up and head away from him. It’s his words that stop you from doing so, though.

“You don’t know us—”

“—except I do know your pledges and your brothers.”

“But you don’t know me.”

“Maybe,” you shrug, “I prefer to steer away from my brother’s friends, though.”

“Right,” he says, tightening his lips in a hard line, almost hurt, “So, who am I to interfere with your judgmental thinking?” He clicks his tongue, then, a resolute exhale slipping past his lips, smothered by his own tingling despair.

The words hurt.

You don’t know what exactly pinched your senses hard, if the tone or the wallowing sadness swimming in his expression, but, as he stands up and leaves, you’re left facing the cold, hard truth.

The words hurt, you hurt, and you feel guilty.

You say nothing, glancing in the direction of the first alcoholic beverage around, and you fill yourself a glass.

Had it been someone else – had it been another sentence, another less sickening scenario, you would’ve felt proud, righteous. You’re, instead, on the other side of the feelings spectrum, all filled with crippling guilt and a nauseous, pervasive feeling you can’t quite name and pin down.

The guests are dancing around you, moving hand in hand to the rhythm of the pop love song now playing; the ballroom is packed when you let your impulsive side make a choice, eyes following the guy’s composed figure. You can drastically feel the sweat, and the heat the people are radiating, when you stand up and move towards him, the only smiling boy passing his glass from a hand to the other.

You’re close enough to tap his wrist and brush your fingers, which you do; it elicits a gasp from him, all soft, not scathing around the edges yet able to bite you, anyway. It’s the guilt, you remind yourself, looking for a sign of some sort of inclination to accept your apologies between the crease of his brows and tight jaw, and everywhere in between.

It’s sickening—this boy didn’t exist four fucking hours ago. It didn’t even cross your wildest dreams, someone like him. His shape – his silhouette – has left a print in your mind, and no matter how hard you try focusing on something else, someone else, your mind keeps going back to the shape itself.

But you’re a coward, so, while he lets you intertwine your fingers, you admit, voice loud: “I wanna dance.”

He handles you properly, kindly, before pushing you in the crowd and brushing your hips with his hands, all rings and jewellery adorning them.

He blinks twice, biting the insides of his mouth, but he manages,

“Who says I wanna dance?”

Which is a bit stupid, or hypocritic if you might, because he’s swaying you to the rhythm of a ballad the pop love song turned into. You break into the smallest of smiles.

“I want to apologize.”

He scoffs. “I don’t know you,” he says, funnily enough, “But that seems almost unlikely, coming from you.”

“Yeah, you got me there, officer. I was, uhm,” you stare blatantly at his neck, and you suppress the desire to stroke your fingers’ pads on his soft skin, “I was out of line. I’m sorry. You were right, I don’t know you. I do know your frat brothers, my own brother, but that doesn’t mean I know you.”

He hums, moving for a small fraction of instants his thumbs on your hips and it’s enough for your breath to catch into your own throat. He nods, which could mean anything, from I accept your apology to go fuck yourself, this is bullshit. You prefer the former option, if you’re being honest, which is the answer you settle for in your head, hazed and absolutely hazed and madly hazed because of his small physical contact.

To put this into the simplest terms, Seulgi’s words, you don’t like this.

“I like dancing,” his eyes tower you and gaze at the other people dancing; you wonder if he’s thinking about them, who they are to you, what role they played in Seokjin’s life, if they’ll show up to your wedding, too. These thoughts popped into your mind unannounced, before, at the table, before the not-really-fuckboy sat next to you and made you feel guilty. Such absurdity; yet here you are, in his arms. Oh god, what would Seulgi think of you if she saw you?

“Good to know, I’m awful at shoulder-hips coordination.”

“Shoulder-hips coordination?” he inquiries, lips parted.

“Uh, body rolls?”

“Oh,” he chuckles, “I see, you mean classy grinding.”

“I don’t do classy grinding, sorry,” you retort, head tilted to a side.

His smile his amused. “Too bad, shoulder-hips coordination is a nice trait to exhibit sometimes.”

“I prefer hips coordination. Well, hips rotation.”

“Hips rotation?”

“Riding? Is the term somehow unfamiliar to you?”

He flushes, biting back a grin and fixing his gaze somewhere in the crowd. How cute.

“Not at all, it’s nice to meet a hips rotation enthusiast here, though.”

“Statistics say at least a member in each family is a riding enthusiast, did you know?”

“Shit, talk dirty to me,” he licks his lips, pointing at Jin with his chin, “Didn’t peg him for a rider, though. Not at all.”

“I’m starting to think you’re not a STEM major, are you? You’re lacking basic intuition, my friend.”

“Is this your attempt of discovering my major?” – he eyes you, a flick of amusement burning in his orbs – “You’re not very smooth, you know?”

“I have my moments.”

He snorts, placing both hands on the small of your back. You’re at height level with the base of his neck, and it’s fun how your mind betrays you in such moments, providing mental images of your nose brushing against his skin, and you nuzzling in the crook of his neck. Such taunting, invasive pictures. Fuck off, you reprimand your own mind, fuck off.

“I’m Jimin.”

“Jimin,” you taste the name on your tongue, hitting the back of your front teeth. “Jin never talked about you. I’m Y/N.”

“Jin never talked about you either.”

“Of course he never did, I’m prettier than he is.”

His little dimples make an appearance. “You know, you could really steal the bride’s spotlight.”

“That was my ultimate goal all along, even though I prefer the dark side.”

“I,” he licks his lips, and you don’t know why you’re following the gesture, “I meant to say you’re beautiful.”

“Oh my god,” you whisper, eyebrows raising, “Are you a charmer?”

“I mean,” he begins, sheepish smile on display, “I never kiss and tell.”

“Touching.” He smirks. “How sweet of you.”

“You know what else is sweet?”

“Please,” you beg, meeting his eyes, “Don’t say my pussy.”

“Please,” he repeats, same mocking tone, “The possibilities are endless. Your mouth,” he scoots closer, words whispered on the shell of your ear, “Your mouth around my dick,” he almost nibbles your ear, “Your mouth screaming my name.”

“My pussy,” you add, trying not to lose your mind.

“I would never call sweet something I’ve not tasted.”

He raises a brow.

“Are you offering? You’re not very smooth, you know?”

He ignores the last question, tightening his grip. “In the middle of your brother’s wedding? Seokjin’s wedding? I’m not a dick, even though you sitting on my face would be a sight to see.”

“Right?” your voice doesn’t falter for a second, “That’s what I always say”

“Nice to see how we’ve got much in common. But I was thinking of something else, actually—” His face is once again inches away from yours, ear to mouth, hot breath fanning over you bare neck. “I wanna finger you.”

Oh.

“Under the table. Right behind you. Wanna make you whimper.”

It’s almost like being tongue-tied, fumbling for words, body flushing, but you gather somewhere the strength to form an actual sentence, which makes him smirk devilishly.

“I can be very quiet.”

He pokes his tongue into his cheek. “Bet you can’t keep your pretty mouth shut.”

“When I win,” you say, lying your words on an unrealistically high vote of confidence, even for yourself, “What do I get?”

He licks his lips, slow, savouring the moment. “You get to ride my face.”

“Not your dick?”

“I’m not a fuckboy, baby.”

A comeback of some kind is already on your tongue, but – there’s a kiss somewhere in the following seconds, all wet and tingling and perhaps filled with too many lip bites, but he can’t really blame you when you’ve been brushing your thighs together for the past minute, heat pooling down your belly. It’s enough for you to silently pledge for more, and for him to tease, because he takes a step back, smirk in place and lips reddened, and guides you towards his seat at the end of the table with a hand on the small of your back.

Downhill begins as soon as you sit down, legs barely parted, a minimum space not fitting for his plans, apparently, because the crease between Jimin’s eyebrows grows when he nudges them apart with his hand, the cold metal of his rings cooling down your flushed state. You want to gasp at the sudden intrusion, but the sound is swallowed entirely by his hot mouth on yours, distracting once again, incredibly soft and alluring. This kiss is slow, this time, like he’s taking his time tasting you and learning about the hums he draws out of you, the shyness of your previously biting tongue, and how fast you get lost in the kiss itself. You press a chaste kiss on his mouth, before creaking a space between you.

“I’m starting to think you’re all bark and no bite”

He doesn’t answer, but stares into your eyes with his hooded gaze, and he manages to sneak a hand furtively under your dress not breaking the contact. His skin is warm, but you’re warmer, and his destination is even hotter. He cocks his head, fingers brushing against the soaked, sticking material you used to call panties up until fifteen minutes ago, and he must notice—his eyes grow wider, his jaw tightens and his hand gains courage.

Fuck. This should be embarrassing, getting worked up over dirty innuendos and a kiss or two, but you’re instead feeling flushed and more. More sensitive. More open to the idea of him ruining you, even though that’s not what he’s offering. Or— is he?

The question lies unanswered when his digits rub with a sparkled intensity over both your clothed sex and your inner thighs. It’s a continuous, mellifluous melody, his fingers dancing between the two until he settles on your panties only, and that’s when you almost let out a soft moan; you don’t, he raises his brow, challenging, but you don’t, and instead glance around to notice if someone has his eyes on the both of you, sitting in the furthest region of the fucking smart, endless table.

He raises the stake, flushed: Jimin pushes your panties on one side, petting with his index your exposed self, and you suck in a breath. He continues to do so, face still, closing the distance between you two.

You don’t question the sudden kiss, instead you angle your face and close your eyes and let him press his lips on you. This feels like being drunk, or high, stretching underneath a sky dripping with stars. You cup his face with your hands, his lips so terribly soft and inviting, the smallest of smiles meeting your own chapped and curved upwards lips.

It’s when you’re merely inches away from him that he thumbs at your clit, sensitive and tingling, circling with utmost peace and no speed whatsoever. You pout at little, you realize, which makes him melt either cause of your cute frown -oh, how the tables have turned- or simply because he’s the devil himself, pressing a finger against your entrance and delving it into your heat.

“Cute,” he purrs, kissing you, “Is this okay?”

The crude, hot, nerve-wracking fingering has begun, which makes you, quickly enough, putty in his hands and ablaze with ardour for this man whose rasping voice could kill you.

“Yeah,” you breathe on his mouth, eyelids drooping closed, “Yeah, all good.”

You hum to yourself as he starts pressing kisses on your jaw and your neck, a trail of treacherous flames lighting up your skin, and you have the audacity to sigh under his ministrations, a tiny, strained sound not quite a mewl.

If he hears, he doesn’t show it. You’re biting your own lip when he enters a second finger, filling your searing emptiness.

“Want three?” he asks, voice husky and as desperate as you are under his touch. He adds it when you nod, the squelch louder than before, and you moan, rocking your hips against his fingers.

“Shh, baby,” he coos, placing his other hand on your hips, slowing your movements, “Be a good girl.”

He fucks you deep, fast, fingers clashing against the silky dress you’re wearing and sweat sparkling on his forehead. He swallows another moans of yours, sucking your bottom lip and tugging it between his teeth. You’re close. You’re so close, and it’s only been a couple minutes. You can’t hear anything that isn’t your wet pussy clenching around his fingers, his rhythm ruthless and burning.

“Too bad you’re not coming on my fingers, today,” he says before kissing your neck and emptying your dripping pussy, then proceeding to taste and lick his own fingers in his mouth. He lets them out with a small pop, and it’s the most terrifying sight you’ve ever had in front of your almost watering eyes. “I’m sorry I won the bet, though, your pussy is the sweetest I’ve ever tasted.”

That’s the high and dry story of how you first met Jimin.

The second time it happens, it’s under completely different circumstances, and, substantially, against your every predictions, it really happens. It takes place, like a once in a lifetime event: there’s an orgasm involved, not due to the very charming and never disappointing Jeon jungkook the robotic version, and instead it involves a rather attractive asshole with a persistent smirk plastered on his face.

Except it’s a lot more complicated than what it sounds, and most of it is Seulgi’s fault.

Your roommate had pouted all evening, because that’s what semi adults do when they’re denied a companion for the night.

“I just wanna get wasted. It’s been one hell of a month, and you know how I get when I’m stressed.”

“I can suggest you a vibrator and a bottle of vodka. Do you settle for that, your honor?”

“The more you talk like this,” all self-absorbed and assertive and cautiously, like when talking to a kid, she begins, hands in her long, mahogany hair, “the more I just wanna push you up against the wall.”

“Sounds to me you just wanna get laid.”

“Maybe I do,” she huffs, hands on her hips, the light of your abat-jour highlighting her golden skin. “Maybe I don’t. What I know is that I wanna get wasted. Come with me, pretty please?”

“Look,” you raise your eyes from the book you’ve been holding, stretching a leg onto the unmade bed of yours, “I just wanna get this fucking paper done. I need,” you grip the phone on the bed table, checking for the white, large numbers on your lock screen, “an hour. An hour and half to edit it and I’m all yours.”

“This paper is due on Thursday, though.”

“Yeah, but I have a reputation to uphold in the family. Have to be the most beautiful and successful.”

“You’re full of shit,” are her last words, muttered with a smile as she grabs her jacket.

“Hey,” you call, stretching your neck towards her, “I don’t care if it’s two am and you’re already wasted. Call me and I’ll come to you with a whole bottle of vodka to make it up to you. Hell, I’ll even kiss you goodnight.”

“I don’t wanna make out with you, you freak.”

“You didn’t say that last time, baby!”

Seulgi

[2.13]

wassup bitch

make out with meeeeeeeeeeeeee

[location shared]

com n get me littl nuggrt

Not Sober Seulgi is probably the worst Seulgi you have ever dealt with. You let out a sigh, eyeing the frat dorm all lit up and vibrating to the trashy trap music the insiders are jamming to.

Of course, when it comes to Not Sober Seulgi, there’s boys involved. Frat boys involved. At first, you don’t pay attention to the details, the signs, surrounding you like blinding traffic lights signalling stop stop stop, all red and striking. The thought doesn’t cross your mind, the dots connecting in some hidden part of your brain not making your insides short circuit—instead you’re knocking on the door, then banging on the very wooden entrance until a face shows up; the dorm is dimly lit, and the face is partially lightened by a soft, hued red and, that, too, Future You pinpoints, should have been a sign.

It’s useless, anyway, because you hear the insider talk and you’re burning instantly, like after touching a steaming, hot cup of coffee, except that bitter coffee is still good coffee. Smug Jimin plus bitter you isn’t really sweet, nor a match made in heaven. It’s chaotic, a caustic explosion, and you both know it, judging from the sharp smile he offers you, after blinking lazily at your figure.

“This is a mixer party only,” his soothing voice welcomes you, “Do you have an invite?”

You press your tongue on your teeth, mouth carefully closed.

“Yeah, from Hell, I’ve come to take a fallen angel.”

“Sorry to break it to you, oh-kind-lady, but we didn’t give any invite to poor, damned souls.”

“Too bad I don’t give a fuck about your policies, then,” you move towards the small space between the door and Jimin’s body, but he interferes, placing himself right between the two. “Look, I don’t give a single fuck about this party.”

“Yeah, it sure looks like it.”

You roll your eyes. “My friend is here. She’s most certainly not sober and I’ve come to pick her up. That’s it. Do you think I want to be here, among these drunk, perverted jocks?”

He turns around, stretching his neck, his eyes darting through the crowd, inhibited by alcohol, smelling like cheap beer and weed. The moment his eyes bore into yours, though, it’s terrifying; it’s a rustled reminder of Seokjin’s wedding Jimin, and you don’t like it. You loathe it. You dread it.

“Maybe only some of us.”

He tips his head, lips curving into a timid, small smile, and you tear your gaze from his lips in a heartbeat.

“Yeah, keep dreaming of it. I just want my friend back.” You point your chin towards the amalgam of drunk party animals, “I’ll leave you to your immensely interesting activities, then.”

“What if,” he begins, “You don’t. Or—even better scenario, you leave with me.”

“Best case scenario, I leave with my friend. You stay here.”

“What’s the worst-case scenario, then?”

You cock a brow at him, crossing your arms on your chest. “I leave with my friend, you stay here. Sometime before me leaving, you’re punched. Or kicked. I don’t know. There’s a high chance I’ll throw a drink on you.”

“That implies you’ll be here long enough to grab a drink, doesn’t it? And you don’t have to ruin my shirt to get me naked, babe. Just ask nicely.”

You huff, and you’re mildly tempted to shove him against a wall. Or ruin him. Not in the funny way. More like the high and dry way, the one he knows so well. “I changed my mind, I’ll kick you.”

“Ask nicely?” His teasing tone makes your cheeks flush, and you hope the shitplace with subdued lightening can cover it. His expression shifts into an arrogant one, full smirk and little dimples out, so your cute guess is that he can see. He sees his effect on you, albeit completely unwanted and full of hatred from your side, and he enjoys it. Actually lulls in it, letting out a small laugh which, in turn, makes his eyes turn into crescents, all warm and cute—all things he’s not. All things you know he’s not.

“Ask nicely,” you repeat, rolling the words on your tongue, “Okay, babe. Let’s do this, babe. What do you want from me, babe?”

“Has it ever crossed your mind that maybe the answer is you?”

“Yes, actually,” you sigh, fingers brushing his neck, face comically close to his perfect, chiselled one, “That’s exactly what I thought when you stopped fingering me.”

“Right,” Jimin has the audacity to smile, craning his neck as if to close the distance between you in order to meet you for a kiss, “I’m a man of word, thought. You should be impressed.”

“I’m pretty sure the only thing that’s impressed is your face under the orgasm denial definition. Google it, babe, I guarantee you the meaning comes with your name and a brilliant review of one star.”

“Unlike you.” He licks his lips, eyes on your pretty pink ones, smeared with venom, “You’re not coming.” He explains, to further ignite your rage.

“And whose fault is that, babe?”

Jimin nuzzles into your neck, cupping your other cheek with his rough palm, and his thumb stills on your throat, right where your breath is stuck. He adds pressure on it, lips fondling your burning skin, his usual smirk plastered on them.

“Let me make it up to you.”

“You’re not fucking me,” you spit back, mouth now millimetres away from his, gently inviting you to kiss it, and cherish it, and biting it until you’re satisfied with the hot result.

“I’ll eat you out? Until you come.” He hums. “You’ll come.”

His voice is a mere strangled sound, wanting and dripping with need, and you snap out of it with a small smile.

“Nice offer,” your smile is wicked as you scrape his nape with a feathery touch, the slow movement rousing a flutter in your lower belly. “But get in line, babe.”

His shell-shocked face is the last thing you see before you fulfil the let’s rescue Seulgi! party.

(“Why do you smell like softener?” Seulgi sniffs you, arms looped loosely around your neck, eyes completely shut down. It’s a nice sight, all things considered. You’re no angel, no saint, no perfect person, but you’re a nice friend, and that’s probably the most Seokjin trait you recognize in yourself. It’s your shared apartment, and it’s past 3 am and you’re the one good friend who keeps her promises. “It’s strawberry vodka, you heathen.”)

The line turns out to be a real line, queue line, let’s get this coffee line, which, well. How can one word it, how can one phrase it fully catching the irony of it all, the distinctive je ne sais quoi of life without—

“Nice to see you here.”

It’s the perfect set for a rom-com, you notice, taking in the warm scenery around you. What else can one dream of, right? The campus coffee shop, the campus hot not-really-but-also-kinda fuckboy Jimin, partial jock to give him credit, full time attractive idiot with a tendency for orgasm denial. Really.

“What are the chances?” You exhale, voice devoid of emotions. For the sake of your parents’ integrity, you suppose, because they raised no impolite woman, of course, you turn around to face the angel-like human being, black hair partially covering his forehead, little dimples on full display. That’s—that is lack of integrity, or indecency or au-fucking-dacity. It might as well be a mix of the above-mentioned possibilities, all fitting and nurturing you because he’s gorgeous. He’s handsome. Jimin’s the most attractive human being you’ve ever seen in your life, and it’s not fair.

(Beside the fact that you’ve lived with Kim Seokjin, for fuck’s sake)

He pokes his own cheek, and you bask into the otherworldly scenario that takes place right in front of your caffeine deprived eyes. It’s a sight for sore, soft eyes, and it’s the end of the world as you know it, because it’s morning, too early to properly function like a normal human being, but there he is. There he is, Jimin, channelling his inner boyfriend material aura, oozing off boyfriend smell, nice, fresh, aftershave smell, rocking a stupid sweater and the messiest black mop of hair.

It’s honestly a tragedy, and you won’t stand for it. You will make a move—

“You’re squinting your eyes, like, real tight. Are you alright?”

Just ogling you, your drowsy mind offers, the fucking cheater.

“Yeah,” you reply, swallowing a lump in your dry throat, “Just need coffee. A latte. Anything.”

You move forward in the queue, and as you blink you realize it’s your turn, until it’s not anymore. Jimin carefully and gently moves you out of the way, brushing with the softest touch your side.

“A latte and an iced americano, please.”

The sweetened order for two turns into a hushed thank you, a tipped smile, a flutter of you heart. It’s drinks still half full, his curious gaze darting on your lips, your defences down. It’s unfair, because in a hot second all this pent-up tension shifts into a light, chaste kiss, your back pressed against the coffee shop’s restroom; your chest heaves under his tantalizing make-out session with your neck, followed by his frantic lips pressing on yours, his tongue licking lazily into your mouth, a gasp easing its way out of your warm and eager mouth. It’s a hot-blooded supercut, each frame announced by a starving moan, a content sigh, and, before you realise it, you’re on your bed, Jimin hovering on top of you.

It’s Saturday morning, you hum to yourself, fingers sliding into his hair, all’s in check. There’s a warm body slumped on yours, his tongue swerving on your lower lip and his hips shyly bucking between your open legs. Your panties are drenched, you can feel his hard on through the jeans and, really, all’s in check.

He nudges your nose with his. “Lemme eat you out.”

The answer lies sitting on the tip of your tongue, right next to an obnoxious remark that you hope will rile him up enough for him to rip your underwear, which you definitely won’t complain about. However, the words don’t come out, they slur in your craving mouth the second he gets up and shoves you toward the end of your unmade bed, spreading your naked legs open with his calloused palms.

“Nice skirt,” he comments, voice a rasp, eyeing the drenched, lilac underwear, skirt at this point gone up to cover your stomach. “I just want…”

He shuffles closer, enough for you to feel his hot breath on your core, and that’s when Jimin pulls the panties on a side, teasing you with little licks to your entrance. You’re responsive, too eager for anything to quench your thirst that you sigh happily at the barest of actions, gripping strands of his hair. Jimin chuckles, engulfing the throbbing clit in his mouth in one go and drawing desperate moans out of your cute, devilish mouth.

“Fuckboy move,” you emit, voice cracking at the pressure of his warm mouth, “Oh, oh. Fuck…”

He replies flattening his tongue on your core, then licking and lapping against your dripping folds. Jimin positively glows at the cries you let out, face slobbering with your arousal while driving you insane, fucking with his tongue like his life depended on it. It’s almost a spiritual experience, a crescendo of wails and sobs, his face drown in your pussy and his tongue paying reverence to your approaching orgasm. He can feel it in the way you writhe, in his hand splaying over your stomach, keeping you still while he eats you religiously, forehead beaded with sweat.

You come with a trembling hand in his hair, the other flicking your bare nipple, back slightly arched and a lewd mewl; Jimin takes in the way your body trembles, your breath all staggered because of him, and the sight alone is enough for him to cum in his pants with a grunt, completely untouched.

The second time it happens is, coincidentally, the first time Jimin knows there’s no turning back from this.

Complicated is a big word when it comes to relationship, you reckon, emitting something akin to a gasp, truly soap operas worthy material, but, for the first time in your life, you decide to name it this way.

Being with Jimin is… complicated, for starters. Especially because you’re not with Jimin, in the strict, relationship-wise meaning. He knows your favourite colour (“Why the fuck you only own purple underwear?” “It’s lilac, dick, watch your mouth.” “Watch your own mouth, babe. You’re the one on your knees.”), your favourite food (“But you like having your mouth stuffed with my cock, honey.” You sigh, blushing. “First of all, I’m talking about real food. That amazing steak kind of food—“

“I’ll show you real meat, babe.”

“Gross. Gross. How can I cancel the last five seconds of my life?”

“Come here, Jared, nineteen,” he half smiles, tilting his head, “I’ll get us fries.”), your favourite movie (“We can’t get each other off every time your ugly paper cap fits—oh,” you suck in a breath, Jimin flicking his tongue on your turgid nipple, “oh, god, don’t stop.”), your best friend’s name (“I condone you dicking her so good she sometimes cries, you know, I just don’t when I’m in the room next to hers and all I can hear is my best friend trying to formulate a single coherent word but failing because you’re pounding her mercilessly into the mattress.” Jimin chuckles, grabbing his jacket before holding the doorknob. “She begged, Seulgi.”)—so what? It’s not like you sat down and decided not to ask each other dumb questions, so that you could find out in the funny, kinky way. For fuck’s sake, you didn’t even decide on anything, didn’t even talk about talking, because the relationship related shit didn’t even cross your mind.

It’s even quite fucking hard for it to cross it, because half the time you’re together you’re either both naked – except for the time he pleaded for the tartan mini to stay – or stuffing your mouth with food—because, if there’s something you’ve learned after one too many hook-ups with him is that this kind of sex requires strength. Like, actual, physical strength, if we’re not talking about the this test is draining me please fuck me until I can’t walk sex. Which, yeah, 10/10 would recommend. That was the day Seulgi decided to invest in ear plugs while muttering capitalism, here I come.

You also came.

Funnily enough, guess who also came. Not in the funny, kinky way. Think about the grossest thing, imagine the beyond the bounds of possibility, sprinkle it with Jimin earnestly shoving his dick down your throat, stir it with a poor Taehyung brushing his teeth next to the both of you, a step away from the shower, and serve it on the most expensive plate in the kitchen, a recipe not approved by Kim Seokjin.

Yeah, you mentally roll your eyes, licking your lips clean, at eye-level with your sorta enemy with benefits’ pretty dick: the married brother of yours, former fratboy, taller than your current will to live.

In hindsight, maybe it is Seokjin’s fault. Once you’re married, you’re supposed to be committed to the cause, and sometimes, an angry little crumb in you finds the audacity to speak, the cause is made up of your four walls: ergo home, ergo your married life, miles away from the absurdity that once filled his university days. You’re being hypocritical, you realize, skin wet, body trembling. In the simplest, most hedonistic terms, you’re done with the chaos in this fraternity and just wished that hooking up was easier. It’s more than a stolen orgasm, a random spur of pleasure and free de-stresser; it’s also something not quite like art but just as peculiar. Sex with Jimin is more than nice, more than a fast rummage of clothes on the floor and panties teared, or condoms stuffed in every single pocket of his jacket.

It should also be noticed that it’s been one hell of a stressful week, okay, which means that it’s one of those times you seek for naked intimacy, in its least literal meaning. You’re looking for something sure, something silent, something earnest. Jimin gives you that in the simplest of forms, in the easiest of ways. It’s not fair for your brother to come unannounced and burst into the house with his adorable laugh and love for his own brothers. Way to ruin the moment, bro.

Jimin blinks attentively when Taehyung laughs, clapping his hands all happy and following the elder’s voice outside the bathroom.

“I’m getting you my clothes.”

“Wait, what?”

His lips part just enough for his tongue to wet them, and your eyes follow in silence the gesture.

“I mean,” he starts, grabbing a towel, “You either come out with me from this bathroom or you don’t.”

He’s concise, yet harsh, words uttered with those soft lips yet are just as hot as a slap in your face. He’s telling the truth, but you soon find out you don’t really like it.

There’s something abrupt and severe in those chosen words, so well picked out because they’re not meant to hurt, but at the same time they’re so worrying. So terrible, practically as hard as a punch in your guts.

You either come out of the bathroom with him — you had been blowing minutes before, hadn’t you? Quite the intimacy, huh? — or you don’t. You stay behind. Different rooms, a whole door to separate you while he’s out with the people he cares about.

Seems legit, but. It’s unfair. You know Jimin isn’t choosing for you, but it’s obvious he’s inclined towards an option between the two, and you’re terrified to discover whether it’s his own desire pushing or what he thinks you want.

You, instead, push the thought aside when you nod, taking the towel from his hands and covering your body from this terrific half hook-up.

Because that’s what it is—that’s what you are.

It dawns upon you like a cold breeze hitting your face in full December, suddenly, and that’s when you realize winter is near. In your mind, this hooking up scenario seemed nicer. Sounded softer, a cute bubble moving slowly in the air.

But now—well, now the bubble has burst, and it feels wrong, and this unexpected wrong doesn’t feel right in your chest, and that’s the story of how you leave the house escaping from his window, in his clothes, with vision blurred by hot, stupid, idiotic tears.

Seulgi is the first one to notice, and, obviously, the first one to speak.

“Something’s been bothering you,” she says, head tilted in a way that’s supposed to be emphatic and worried but comes off as stiff and terrified. “Care to share?”

It’s just a wholesome amount of terrifying stuff, isn’t it? First the shower incident, now Seulgi’s ways not working around you anymore. What’s next? Avoiding Jimin for a whole week? Blocking his number? Losing the smart and beautiful title to your obnoxious brother?

You wouldn’t be surprised, really. Shit like this always happens at the same fucking time.

“It’s nothing. A stressful couple days, maybe? Or maybe I’m getting sick. There’s a guy always coughing during Physics. Maybe it’s his fault, who knows.”

Seulgi unlocks her phone, an unreadable gaze studying you. She gives up a second later, though, her weak maybe reaching your ears when you’ve already looked down on your book.

One simply cannot be annoyed because of a half hook up. Christ. You deserve better than that. You have some dignity left, tainted by everything that’s not Jimin and his harsh, stupid words.

So, your mind offers, while you squint your eyes, I suppose there’s nothing else you could do about it.

Nothing else besides acknowledging it and moving on.

Sounds like a plan. A fireproof plan, an escape plan, something detailed and precise. Planned to work out smoothly; planned to be executed without pain or mistakes.

It’s seven sharp when he knocks, takeout in his left hand, eyes bulging because it’s fucking freezing outside.

“It’s fucking freezing, what the fuck.” He says out loud, indeed. What he receives as an answer is the sound of your tongue clicking, the biggest amount of interest you’ve shown towards him the whole week. He would finally exhale, weren’t it for the fact that this is still pretty traumatic, because if there’s something he’s learned while orbiting around you, is that you’re constantly awake and aware of your surroundings. Your body language says that you pay attention to him, or Seulgi, or whoever you’re talking to. You follow the guy with your eyes, and you listen and nod in all the right places during a conversation, and you search for his dark gaze when he’s fucking you in the dimly lit bedroom, the bed creaking under your sweaty sex making. He’s not admitting it, he never will, and he’ll pretty much deny this to everyone who will ask but: there’s something hot about it. Something burning with the way your body reacts to him, when your eyes follow his actions, while your voice falters when he fucks you right, and it somehow pushes him to the edge every time. It’s the equivalent of Jungkook getting a boner in the gym while catching girls and boys drooling at him, except he’s talking about you and your crazy moans, your magic aura.

And yes, okay, fucking blame him, the realization alone made him jerk off in his room like a teen, twice, yesterday. That’s a fact. That’s barely a fact, alright? This is a truth; a statement soon forgot by the knowers. Obviously.

You look spent, he thinks, if he had to choose a word, dared by some arrogant deity to define the current mess you were. He glances at your barely done ponytail, at the tiredness written all over your face. He takes in your baggy sweater, your quiet beauty, knowing this is gonna be one of those nights you take a step back.

He doesn’t say anything though, instead he brushes the hair on your forehead, not even making contact with your skin.

You grab the bag from his hands, shivering instantly and hoping he doesn’t read the signs. They’re—they’re there, you know, you’re collecting them slowly, one after another, grabbing one and looking cautiously for the following one, hoping it’s not there. Hoping it doesn’t exist.

You exhale a sigh, disguising it as cough, a noise, something distracting Jimin from his silent staring, which is, funnily enough, loud and cacophonic.

“Hungry,” you state, the single word weighting more because of the soft pout on your lips. Jimin hates that he knows what it means, that it’s gonna be just the two of you this time, no chill whatsoever, no bodies touching and melting against each-other. He’s not complaining, what the fuck, he’s not an idiot. He’s not even mad, he’s just—accepting, on a level. This is the point of no return, he guesses, following you on the couch and admiring the laptop’s screen reflected on your face.

He doesn’t say anything when you search for Brooklyn 99 on Netflix, because he’d say everything, otherwise. He’d mumble something along the lines of this feels real, we could do this all the time, or, worst of all: I like this. I like you.

So, in order: he tugs at your sleeves and scoots you closer to him, and you say absolutely nothing at the gesture. He’s ecstatic on the inside, partially terrified, mostly delusional. He pretends he’s something more when you lean on him, the slightest pressure of your head on his shoulder. He cares zero fucks about the show when he’s breathing your scent in and feels how warm you are and shuts his eyelids down when he pictures you adoring him. Liking him. Liking him a whole lot more—

He’s fucked, he realises, hours later, when you doze off and he has to carry you to bed, something you claim of loathing, which—what on earth. It’s an unfathomable absurdity, that’s what it is.

“You can stay.”

His voice falters. “What?”

You cough, eyes closed as you speak sinful words: “The night, I mean. It’s fucking freezing outside.”

His lips form a small o, and it’s hot all of a sudden. “Alright,” he manages, staring at you on your bed, hands fidgety and heartbeat accelerated for some reason, “Make space for me. Hey, fucker. I’m serious. Let me in.”

You do.

(to be continued. ily)

#BTS jimin #bts #bts fic #bts fluff #bts fanfic #bts scenarios #bts scenario #bts smut #bts social media au #bts imagine #bts imagines #jimin imagine #jimin #jimin smut #jimin bts #jimin x reader

414 notes · View notes

thirstyforcharacters · 4 years

Text

Hands (Obi-Wan Kenobi x Jedi! Reader)

Summary: You've never had a thing for hands until you started dating Obi-Wan. Then it became a bit of a problem.

Notes: Hello! This is my first attempt at smut, so I'm a little nervous about this. But, hopefully, you end up enjoying it! It's 1.5 k words, I got a little carried away... but I love me some Obi-Wan Kenobi, so I have absolutely no regrets lol. (no she/her pronouns, no y/n)

Warnings: smuttttt, 18+ only! a little degradation (but not much), vaginal fingering, Master Kink (oops)

WC: 1.5k

You had never really thought about hands being attractive before. You thought of them more as vessels for more important things, so to speak. They were to greet others with a handshake, lift a forkful of your favorite dish to your lips, or swing your lightsaber in graceful arcs while cutting down battle droids. They were functional, not sexual.

But then you started (secretly) dating Obi-Wan Kenobi. And suddenly, hands were the sexiest things on the planet. There were many times you would catch yourself staring at them; whether that was while he happened to be using his own lightsaber, wrapping them for a quick sparring match, making tea with them, and especially when your hands were linked together. You’ve memorized the calluses, ran your fingers over the softer palms, and pressed more kisses than you can count to his knuckles. And most importantly, he knows how to use them when you’re alone; whether that’s pinning your hands above your head, wrapping them around your throat, or using them to coax countless orgasms out of you before he was even truly inside of you.

But sometimes, your love of Obi-Wan’s hands can backfire on you, like it is right now. You’re supposed to be negotiating with the leaders of Ryloth, but all you can do is focus on Obi-Wan’s hands. His left is softly drumming on the table, which is his only tell that he is somewhat disinterested in the conversation occurring around him, and his right is fiddling with his holo, pulling up some information to show the planet’s figureheads. You were there to discuss protective measure for their people during the Clone Wars, but all you could think about is how Obi-Wan’s hands would feel running up and down your body right now, cupping your breasts and tweaking at your nipples, tracing teasing patterns into your thighs, and then slowly moving upward to finally-

“Are you alright, Master Jedi? You look awfully flushed,” one of the Twi’leks asked gently, “if you’re feeling ill, we can always resume the negotiations at a later time.”

You sat up immediately, flushing a little darker at being caught, “Oh, no, I’m fine. Sorry to worry you.”

The others at the table nodded and resumed their conversation, but Obi-Wan’s eyes were still on you. When you made eye contact, he quirked up a brow, as if to ask you if you really were okay. You smiled at him bashfully and nodded, but you knew he didn’t quite believe you. You tried to pay better attention, you really did. But all your mind could drift to is the possibilities of what could happen after the meeting. And how much better his hands would look winding around your waist instead of the goblet in front of him.

Finally, the negotiations had finished for the day, and you and Obi-Wan were led back to your shared quarters for the evening. You had removed your outer robe and obi and had removed your left book when Obi-Wan kneeled on the ground in front of you, gently cupping your face with concern in his eyes.

“Are you sure you’re alright, my love?”

You swallowed hard and nodded, “I’m fine, Obi, I promise.”

“You don’t seem like it, love,” he removed the boot that you hadn’t taken off already, “you’re still quite flushed.”

You didn’t answer. Your eyes were trained on his fingers removing the shoe from your foot. When you finally looked back up, he was smirking at you. You knew you were caught.

“I see. You’ve been concentrating on other things, have you?”

You nodded sheepishly, “It’s… all I could think about.”

You hated how small your voice sounded, but you couldn’t help being a little bit embarrassed by the fact that he had caught you. You had always had trouble asking for what you wanted, given that as a Jedi, you had never had sexual experience before you started dating Obi-Wan. You figured that he wold be the same way, but he put on a bit more of a dominant persona in the bedroom. Not that you were complaining, of course.

“Really?” his hand trailed up your leg teasingly, “and what exactly were you thinking about? I won’t know exactly what you want unless you tell me, love.”

“I-I was thinking about… about your hands…” you trailed off. He nodded for you to continue, “um, and about how good they make me feel.”

“Hmm, how good they make you feel? Does it feel good when I do this?”

His right hand rubbed circles into your thigh, and his left snuck underneath your tunic to massage your breast.

“Y-yes,” you stammered, somewhat bewildered by how gone you already were. But it was him. He always knew exactly what you needed, sometimes even before you did.

“Keep going, love. I still don’t know what you want.” His voice was almost mocking, but also dripping with lust. And you wanted to be the mop that sopped it up.

“I-I was thinking about how good it feels when you use them to-to hold me down. When they...they’re around my neck. When they’re inside of me.” You whispered the last part, still rather embarrassed to say such filthy things.

“Inside you where? Here?” he murmured, moving the hand massaging your breast to slide two of his fingers between your lips. You moaned softly and sucked on his fingers gratefully, but shook your head.

“Where then, darling? Where do you need me?” He removed his fingers so you could respond

“In-in my pussy, Master. Please.”

“Ah, so my pretty girl needs me to fuck her with my fingers? So filthy for me, thinking about getting finger-fucked when you’re supposed to be paying attention. Don’t know if you quite deserve it.” He drew back the hand that was on your clothed thigh.

You cried out in protest, “No! Please, Master, I’ll be good for you, I promise. Please.”

His smirk widened, “You always are, aren’t you, darling? Alright then, I’ll give you what you need.”

He stripped you down gently, worshipping every bit of your body with his hands and lips as new skin is revealed. Soon, you were nude and laying on the bed, legs spread wide open. Obi-Wan was shirtless, kneeling between your spread thighs. He had gone back to teasingly rubbing your thighs, which was making your already wet pussy even slicker.

“Please, Master. Need your fingers inside of me so bad.” All traces of shyness were gone from your voice now. Your neediness overpowered any embarrassment.

He leaned down and licked the shell of your ear, making you shiver.

“I know you do, love,” he whispered, sliding one of his fingers through your dripping folds, “so wet for me already, aren’t you?”

“Y-yes. Only for you.”

Seeming rather pleased with your reply, he slicked up his fingers with lube (you certainly weren’t questioning why he brought it with him at the moment, though he would tell you later that it was “just in case”), and finally pushed one inside of you.

You moaned in relief. You had been needing this almost all day, and you were finally getting it.

“Does my girl like it when I finger-fuck her, hmm?” he questioned, while crooking his finger inside of you.

“Yes, Master. I-I like it so much,” was your stammered reply.

“Good.” He rubbed his thumb over your clit suddenly, making you jump in both surprise and pleasure.

You glanced at his other hand, which was currently braced on the bed to give him more leverage.

He noticed you look, “Need that hand somewhere else, darling?”

“Yes, please, Master. Need it here,” you begged softly, gesturing to your throat.

He smirked, “Whatever my girl wants,” and simultaneously wrapped his free hand around your neck while adding a second finger in your pussy. You cried out in pleasure. You could already feel yourself getting close, though Obi-Wan tended to have a knack for having you cum faster than what you thought was possible. He knew exactly how to play with your body to have you writhing in seconds. It was absolutely intoxicating.

“Please, Master.”

He knew exactly what you were begging for. He scissored his fingers in you while rubbing your clit with renowned purpose.

“My girl is close, isn’t she? Wants to cum all over my fingers?”

“Yes,” you whined, “please!”

He winked at you, squeezed your throat tighter, and added a third finger.

Finally, you snapped. You were seeing stars as Obi-Wan coaxed your orgasm out of you, and continued to finger you through it to help you ride it out. You gently tapped his arm when you were finished, and he removed his hands, bringing the fingers coated in your release to his lips. You watched, entranced, as his tongue swirled around the digits, cleaning them of your release.

You smiled bashfully, “Thank you, Obi.”

He grinned, tracing your jaw with one of his fingers, “Of course, love. You know I’ll give you anything you need. But I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”

Your eyes widened. You were in for a long night.

#Obi-Wan Kenobi #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi wan kenobi one shot #obi wan kenobi smut #obi-wan #fic #smut #obi wan smut #obi wan oneshot #oneshots

244 notes · View notes

blodreina-noumou · 3 years

Text

The 100: One Final Rewatch

This is it. My send-off to The 100. One full, complete rewatch. Season one to season seven. Episode 1 to episode 100. Every cringeworthy, beautiful, brutal, heartwarming moment. Every chopped plot thread, every inspiring character arc, every sailing and sunken ship. Every gut-wrenching death and every narrow escape. The best, the worst, the utterly mediocre.

All of it, in order, one last time.

Unfortunately, we’re not starting off on a strong foot.

Episode 1x01: “Pilot”

(Fun fact! I totally watched the pilot last night and wrote up almost this entire post, and then I forgot to save it in my drafts. In that post I was like “I’m never watching the pilot again after this, lol!” but now I have to so I can remember my notes. I’m mad.)

Highlights

Best quotes:

“Looks like your dad floated me after all.”

“No one has a brother!”

“Let’s give them something else to remember you by. ... Like being the first person on the ground in 100 years.”

Best moments:

1 - Getting to see our first glimpses of most of the major players of The Hundred. Octavia cheering on Finn’s rebelliousness, when he starts floating around the chamber. Monty and Jasper sitting together on the dropship. Murphy standing behind Octavia as she steps out onto the ground. Bellamy and Clarke sure are...there.

2 - Octavia stepping off the dropship and screaming, “We’re back, bitches!” Fucking “Radioactive” playing as the kids run screaming out of the dropship. Everyone experiencing sunlight and fresh air for the first time in the entire lives. It’s cheesy, exciting, and on-the-nose. I love it.

3 - The final moment almost makes up for the rest of the episode. Watching under the impression that these kids are alone on the planet, and basically just running wild without supervision because they feel relatively safe, and for some of them, free for the first time in their lives - the whole thing is charming, but feels a little too juvenile. Then, right in the midst of a fun, summer camp moment, - swinging across a river on a vine, complete with indie pop rock soundtrack - Jasper gets speared right in the fucking chest!! The music cuts, the remaining kids scream and run, and Clarke gasps out that succinct and game-changing line: “We’re not alone.”

Lowlights

Worst quotes:

“Hey spacewalker! Rescue me next.”

“Note to self: next time, save the girl.”

“We have to warn them.” .. “That’s what my father said.”

Worst moments:

There is SO much that I hate about the pilot. So much. It’s hard for me to pin down the worst moments, because I think it’s most of the episode. Here’s my Top 3, to keep it short.

1. Bellamy. Just all of Bellamy in this episode. It took me a long time to warm up to Bellamy, and this season really reminds me why. He’s pulling all of this alpha male posturing that makes me want to mock him relentlessly. He causes chaos and postpones very vital and obvious measures for their survival just to cover his own ass. He might’ve gone to the ground to protect Octavia, but once he’s there, most of his decisions are about making sure he never has to face the consequences of that choice. He does grow a lot from here, but it’s hard not to hate him in the first episode. His hair doesn’t help. Thank god they let that one go quick.

2. Clarke and Finn are supposed to be these super smart, master survivalists, but they drink river water without boiling it or purifying it in any way. Hello giardia! Just one example of bad world-building and inconsistent realism in this universe.

3. Murphy being like, “Leave Jasper alone, he’s with us.” Only because in like, two episodes, he’s going to be ready to kill Jasper. Murphy is a dick in the first season, lmao. It works well, though, because his heel turn is one of the best I’ve ever seen on television. And it’s fun to watch Richard Harmon play around with being a total asshole.

Small Things

Things I Never Noticed Until Now:

1. Finn’s foolishness, and the boys who followed suit, is what breaks the dropship communication systems. I don’t know how I missed that in my half dozen viewings, but here we are.

2. Clarke goes from a very practical braid to a much less practical half-ponytail in the space of five minutes and no one comments on it.

3. Finn is actually the very first person to call Clarke “princess.” I’d always thought it was Octavia. Fun fact - so many people call Clarke “princess” in this episode/season, I spent my very first viewing back in 2015 convinced she was literally descended from royalty.

MVP of the Episode:

Wells Jaha. He tries really hard to counter Bellamy’s ego trip. In the beginning, he’s one of the only people, besides Clarke, who is focused on trying to keep everyone alive. They had to kill him in episode 1x04 because he would’ve solved everything if he stuck around. There’d be no drama, just Wells running shit.

Overall Impression

The premise of this episode had so much potential. But a clunky script with too much exposition and some very awkward performances makes it fall very short. Maybe it actually stands as a chilling portent of a pattern we’d come to know too well in this series - incredible potential, very little satisfying follow-through.

Episode Rating: 1/10.

This is one of the worst episodes in the entire series. A feat that wouldn’t be achieved again until at least s6.

The good news is, we’ve got nowhere to go but up!

#steph rewatches the 100 #the 100 1x01 #the 100 rewatch #saltblogging

30 notes · View notes

ptersparkers · 4 years

Text

truth or dare

summary: you’re the new girl moving in between the cut and figure eight, and sarah wants nothing to do with you. at least, not at first.

warnings: mentions of alcohol, swearing, and typos, probably.

notes: omg i’m so happy you guys like what i write for sarah and i read all of your requests! i’ll get to them at some point, promise.

add yourself to my taglist!

Rumor has it that there was a new girl moving onto the Outer Banks for the summer. The only reason why this was special news is because the newcomer lived on the cusp of The Cut and Figure Eight. If Sarah was being honest, she didn’t care about anyone other than the friends she called her family. To watch them “freak out” over someone new who’d be staying in between the two sides of the island made her even less excited for the summer. She had just gotten comfortable with the Pogues - why was something threatening that?

“Maybe we should see if she comes to The Wreck,” JJ proposed one late Friday morning. “You know, see what she looks like.”

“How do you know this person is a ‘she’?” Pope asked.

“Call it me being hopeful,” JJ replied, winking at the boy. Sarah rolled her eyes.

“That’s gross,” Kiara said, scoffing as she took a seat in the hammock next to Sarah. “Why don’t we just leave this family alone and not do anything stupid this summer?”

“I agree with Kie,” Sarah said, high-fiving the girl next to her. “You all sound so desperate.”

“Can’t argue with the Kook,” John B. joked. Sarah gave him a playful glare and bothered him for a bottle of water.

“Whatever,” JJ said nonchalantly. “It’s all fun and games, really. Summer’s here and I don’t want to do anything that’s not having fun.”

“I’m gonna head home,” Sarah announced, standing up. “Dad wanted me back for lunch but I’ll be free after one. Meet back at the Chateau?”

“See ya later,” Pope said, giving her a mock salute as Sarah exited the living space.

When Sarah walked outside to where her car was parked, she saw you looking down at your phone with a confused expression. What you wore was definitely not appropriate for a summer in the Outer Banks - a long sleeved turtleneck with white tapered pants. Your hair was slicked back in a low ponytail and gold jewelry littered your hands and fingers.

“Hey,” you said, looking up. Sarah’s attention snapped out of her thoughts and she looked at you, trying to act as if she hadn’t been checking you out. “Can you tell me where The Wreck is?”

“The Wreck?” Sarah asked, clearing her throat. “Uh, yeah, if you walk down the block and make a right, The Wreck should be on your left.” You took the black sunglasses off of your eyes and looked at her for a brief moment before putting them back on.

“Thanks, uh...,” you trailed off.

“Sarah,” she replied.

“Sarah,” you repeated. “I’m Y/N. I just moved here, if you couldn’t tell.” You gestured at your outfit and laughed at yourself. Oh boy.

“I can tell,” Sarah said, laughing.

“Sorry, I don’t wanna keep you if you’re going somewhere,” you said, lazily pointing at her car keys.

“Oh!” Sarah said, momentarily forgetting that she was going home to meet her family for lunch. “I could give you a ride, if you want?”

“What about the whole ‘stranger danger’ rule?”

“I’m not an axe murderer,” Sarah said, laughing.

“Maybe, but you don’t know if I’m one,” you said, matching her stance with a smirk. Sarah chuckled. “Kidding. I’d love a ride.” Sarah knew she’d be a few minutes late with the time you two had spent talking and the detour she’d have to take. Whatever, she thought. I’ll just say I lost track of time.

“So, where are you from?” Sarah asked, turning on the engine and leaving the Chateau.

“New York,” you replied. “My mom’s from the Outer Banks originally and this is the first time we’re staying here for an entire summer.”

“You’ve never visited before?”

“A few times,” you said. “It was when I was much younger and we didn’t stay for very long. I can’t really remember much, if I’m being honest.”

“I’ve lived here all my life,” Sarah said with a quiet sigh. “It’s nice when there’s no weather storms.”

“I’ll bet. The snow can be deadly in New York when it’s wintertime,” you said dramatically. “But I love it. It’s home, you know?”

“Yeah,” Sarah said, unsure of what to say. Her car had approached The Wreck and you smiled gratefully at her before unbuckling your seatbelt.

“Thanks, Sarah. I owe you one,” you said.

She waved you off. “Nah, it’s not a problem.” You stayed put for a moment before grabbing a sharpie from your bag and holding your hand out for Sarah. She raised an eyebrow and gave you her hand to which you wrote your phone number on it.

“Here. Don’t be afraid to use it.” You capped the sharpie and put it back in your bag, a satisfied smile on your lips.

“How will you get home?” Sarah asked.

“My parents are meeting me here,” you explained. “I’ll be fine. See you around?”

Sarah smiled. “Yeah, see you around.”

***

“She’s hot,” JJ yelled from outside of the Chateau a week after Sarah had first met you. “And I mean like hot, hot.”

“Who are you talking about?” John B. asked, quirking his eyebrow from the book he was currently reading.

“The new girl,” he replied.

“How do you know she’s not a Touron?” Kie inferred.

“Heard her talking while I was at the surf shop,” he said, sitting next to John B. “She was telling the cashier about moving here for the summer while he rang her up. Something about moving from New York?”

“New York?” said Kie. “Damn. That’s a whole different lifestyle.”

“I can’t even begin to explain what she looks like,” JJ retorted. “Like, Kook meets Pogue.”

“That doesn’t help,” Pope said, throwing a pillow at him. It hit JJ on the side of the head and Sarah laughed.

“I can, um, ask her to hang out with us this afternoon,” Sarah said timidly. All eyes turned on her. “What?”

“You mean you’ve met her and had her number this entire time?” JJ asked.

“Um, yes?”

He scoffed. “You’d keep me from meeting my one true love?”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “I met her last week before I went home for lunch. She needed directions to The Wreck and I gave her a ride.” Sarah swore JJ’s eyes were going to pop out of his sockets.

“And you’re telling us this now?”

“Jesus, JJ,” John B. said. “Calm down, would you?”

“All I’m saying is Sarah’s keeping me from meeting my future wife and I think that’s a felony.”

“So fucking dramatic,” Kiara said, rubbing her templed.

“She gave me her number after I dropped her off but I haven’t texted her yet,” Sarah explained.

“Well what are you waiting for?” JJ asked, standing up from his spot to stand next to Sarah. “Text her, woman!”

Sarah pulled out her phone from her back pocket, rolling her eyes at JJ’s eagerness. When she hovered over your contact and was about to type a message, she started at the blank text box.

“What do I even say?”

“Here,” JJ said, taking the phone from Sarah. The blonde tried to fight for her phone but JJ’s height allowed him to raise her phone over his head. “Would love to see you again, come meet me at The Wreck,” JJ said. “Let me add a wink emoji for good measure.”

“Don’t you dare!” Sarah exclaimed, trying to run after JJ.

“Too late!” he said, handing the phone back to the petite blond. Sarah groaned when she saw the message had delivered and furiously typed another message.

“Jeez, you’re making it sound like I want a second date,” she said, huffing.

“Well I want a first date,” JJ replied.

sarah: sorry about that message. my friend stole my phone

She waited anxiously for you to reply.

y/n: lol, it’s okay. you sure that wasn’t coming from you?

Sarah tried her best to not get flustered in front of her friends.

sarah: i mean, i really want you to come hang out with me and my friends

You didn’t miss a beat.

y/n: i’d love that! and this time i’ll wear proper clothing lmao

sarah: we’re gonna be there later this afternoon, is that okay with you?

y/n: be there or be square!!

Sarah giggled and the Pogues looked at one another, confused as to what had pulled out such a high-pitched laugh from the blonde.

“Okay,” Sarah said, looking up. “Y/N’s gonna meet us at The Wreck.”

“Y/N,” JJ said, letting your name slip off of his tongue. “I like it. Easy to say, but I can’t wait to hear her say my name.”

“Jesus,” Kiara said, playfully banging her head on the side of John B’s arm. “Can you stop being weird for just one second?”

“Nope,” he said, winking at her. “I’m gonna get her to go on a date with me by the end of the month. If it happens, it happens.”

“And if it doesn’t happen?” Pope asked.

JJ shrugged. “I’ll shut up about girls for the rest of the summer.”

John B. snorted. “Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.”

“I swear,” he said, crossing his heart. “You guys can call me out on it and I won’t argue with you.”

“Okay,” Kiara spoke. “I can get behind this.”

“So, do we have a deal?” JJ looked around the room and stuck his hands out, waiting for an answer.

“We have a deal,” said John B and the rest of the group agreed.

Sarah didn’t know how she felt at that moment. While the rest of the Pogues sat around and laughed at whatever Pope had just said, she couldn’t help but replay the conversation that just occurred in her head. There was no way she actually had some feelings for you, a stranger she had met a week ago, right? Besides, did you even like girls?

All she knew was she couldn’t wait until this afternoon.

***

The Pogues had gotten to The Wreck ten minutes earlier and Sarah didn’t know why she was so anxious. You were just someone she met so why was her leg bouncing up and down?

“Tell me why I’m kind of nervous,” said JJ.

“You’re acting like you’ve in love with her,” Pope said.

“I mean, basically.”

Kiara rolled her eyes. “You haven’t even spoken to this girl. What if she’s an absolute nut job and ends up getting all of us arrested?”

“She’s not a nut job,” Sarah said.

JJ shrugged. “I don’t know about the rest of you but I’m excited to convince someone to ditch the Kook lifestyle.”

“I don’t think Y/N knows what that means,” Sarah replied. “She’s just gonna be here for the summer.”

“Still,” he said, taking a french fry from the center of the table. Kiara’s father had graciously provided the group with a free lunch, thanks to Kiara’s insistence and promising him that they would help him build the shed he had in his backyard.

“Sarah?” you said. Your voice rang through her head and she whipped her head around at the sound of her name coming from your mouth. Her lips lifted upwards and drank in your appearance - high waisted mom jeans, a black tank top, and a loose linen button down shirt draped over your shoulders.

“Y/N,” Sarah said, standing up from the table she sat at. You met her halfway and gave her a squeeze, looking over her shoulder to see four pairs of eyes on you.

“Hi,” you said, offering a small wave and a genuine smile.

“Woah,” Sarah heard from behind her. She looked at the boys and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. JJ was obviously starstruck and John B’s mouth was hanging slightly ajar. Pope was the only smart one; he hadn’t bothered to send a wink you way or made any attempt to make it seem like he was gawking at you.

“This is Y/N,” she introduced. “She just moved from New York last week.”

“JJ,” said the blond, standing up and almost tripping over himself. You chuckled at his antics and held your hand out for him. JJ, being the flirt he was, pressed a kiss to the back of your hand and Sarah let out an audible groan.

“Stop being weird,” she muttered.

“I guess chivalry isn’t dead,” you commented as JJ held your hand limp in his. JJ winked.

“Never, Y/N.”

“This is Kiara,” Sarah said, pointing at the only other girl at the table. Kiara grinned and waved at you from where she sat. “That’s Pope.” Pope awkwardly waved and stood up to shake your hand, which you did. “And that’s John B.” Sarah could see the hint of pink appear on John B’s cheeks. The boy, who had never really paid much attention to girls, was flustered over someone he had never spoken to before.

“Nice to meet you all,” you said. “ So do you go by John or John B?”

“The ‘B’ stands for Booker,” he explained. “But everybody just calls me ‘John B.’”

“That’s unique,” you commented. “I can’t say that I’ve ever known anyone who refers to themselves with an initial.”

“What about me?” JJ asked.

“Well yours like a nickname,” you said. “I feel like JJ might be pretty common.” JJ didn’t respond and Sarah chuckled. “Anyway, I’m starving.”

“Whatever you want is in the house,” Kiara explained. “My dad owns The Wreck and everything’s on us.”

“Oh, no,” you combated, pulling your wallet out. “Absolutely not. I’m more than happy to pay for my meal.”

“Chivalry isn’t dead,” JJ mocked, winking at you.

“Seriously,” Kiara said, pushing your hand back. “Don’t sweat it.”

“You guys,” you said, jutting your bottom lip out. “I haven’t even known you for ten minutes and you’re gonna make me cry.”

The Pogues laughed and Sarah was glad that you all had gotten along so nicely.

As the weeks went by, Sarah hid in the shadows when it came to you. Whenever you went to parties at The Boneyard, you were constantly surrounded by Kooks, Tourons, and other Pogues alike. When you were with her friends, JJ and John B. hadn’t stopped pestering you about life in New York and it was almost as if they were in a silent competition of who could take you on a date first.

But whenever Sarah could get you alone, it was like no one in the world mattered. You were more open, honest about how you felt about moving to the Outer Banks and what you missed about New York. She could feel her heart continuously growing whenever you spoke about things you didn’t say whenever John B. or JJ were around.

It was Pope who had noticed Sarah’s feelings for you and encouraged her to go for it. Sarah hadn’t considered the idea of falling for a girl but that changed the second she saw you wear a long sleeve on the hottest day of the summer. She just didn’t know if you felt the same.

***

“Okay, truth or dare,” Kiara said as you all sat on Sarah’s boat in the middle of the bank. It was a fairly warm night and Sarah had offered to use her boat, equipped with fairy lights, snacks, and refreshments.

“I’m far past the point of telling you we aren’t in middle school because we’re just gonna play it,” JJ said, shrugging. He took a seat next to Kiara while you sat in front of him, Sarah to your left, John B. to your right, and Pope on the other side of Kiara.

“I haven’t played this in ages,” you said, laughing. You had one beer earlier that night but decided to stay sober for the rest of the night and fostered a bottle of cold apple juice.

“John B,” Kiara said. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” he replied.

“I dare you to raise your hand for the next three rounds every time you want to say something.”

“Are you being serious?” he said, deadpanning.

“John B. didn’t raise his hand!” JJ exclaimed. John B. raised his hand reluctantly and you all took turns making fun of his predicament.

“Sarah, truth or dare?” Pope asked.

“Truth.”

“Out of everyone here, who would you date if you had to?” Sarah stared at Pope and wanted to wipe that smirk off of his face.

“I’m not answering that,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You have to!” JJ exclaimed. “You answer or I throw you overboard.”

“You wouldn’t,” she said. “Actually, don’t answer that.”

“So who’s it gonna be?” JJ wiggled his eyebrows, taunting the blonde who wanted nothing more than to turn the boat around and crawl in a hole.

“Y/N,” she mumbled.

“I’m sorry?” Pope teased, cupping his ear with his hand.

“Y/N,” she said a little louder. “She’s the only one of us who isn’t a complete dumbass.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” you said while the Pogues laughed.

“Y/N,” JJ said, turning his body to look at you. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” you said with a shrug.

“I dare you to kiss the hottest person on this boat.”

Sarah’s stomach filled with dread. She was overcoming the embarrassment of Pope’s question but couldn’t bear to watch you kiss her friends and, again, seriously thought about cutting the game short and driving back to the dock. But what would only look weird.

You weren’t stupid. You knew JJ and John B. hadn’t been shy about their infatuation with the new girl who would be staying in the Outer Banks for the summertime. JJ had been over flirtatious with you that you had grown accustomed to his behavior and it didn’t bother you as much when Kiara told you that’s how he behaved around every girl he hadn’t known for a long time.

When JJ asked the question, you looked around the group and made sure to keep lingering eye contact with the two boys who looked like they were trying hard to seem more attractive in that very moment. You bit your lip, taking your sweet time choosing the person you’d kiss to fulfill the dare. You locked eyes with JJ and he licked his lips. Sarah felt her stomach drop.

But before JJ could do anything, you turned to your left, cupped Sarah’s jaw, and pressed your lips against hers.

Sarah paid no mind to the gasps of her friends and, instead, relished the feeling of your ultra soft lips moving against hers. She didn’t know what to do with her hands because her mind was wrapped around the fact that the girl she liked was kissing her, really kissing her, in front of her friends unapologetically.

“Okay,” Kiara said, coughing. You broke apart and there was an audible “pop,” Sarah’s lip gloss shining apparent on yours. You turned to look at JJ, who sat with his mouth wide open, speechless. The boy sat with stars in his eyes and he couldn’t help but feel flustered at the fact that all this time he had been hitting on someone who didn’t swing his way. Or at least, not this time.

“I’m shook,” Kiara said. “But I totally saw that coming.”

“I second that,” Pope said, pointing at you both.

“Hold up,” John B. said, scratching the back of his head. “Now I feel like an idiot.”

“I bet JJ feels like a bigger idiot,” Pope said, not bothering to hide his laughter.

“Shut up,” he said, shaking his head in an attempt to get rid of the blush on his cheeks.

“You poor baby,” you said, standing up. You walked behind JJ, who you had grown comfortable enough around, and hugged him from behind. “Your efforts were really sweet.” You pressed a kiss to his cheek and he laughed, squirming to get out of your grasp as the group began to laugh at your antics.

“Chivalry still isn’t dead,” he said. “I’m just not gonna hit on you anymore.” You let go of JJ and returned back to your seat, looking at Sarah.

“You good, Cameron?” you asked, quirking your head to the side.

“Perfect,” she said, her confidence building. “You?” You bit your lip and nodded.

“Almost. I think I need another kiss.”

***

taglist:

@princessdolan @ashyramblings-ficrecs @fanficscuziranout @caswinchester2000 @jellyfishbeansontoast @karleeluv @briannarto @pogue-h @hyluas @angelic-ashleyaileen @mfmaddyperez.

yall i do not know why tumblr is letting me tag some of you im so sorry

#sarah cameron x reader #sarah cameron #sarah cameron imagines #sarah cameron blurb #obx #obx x reader #outer banks #outer banks x reader #madelyn cline #madelyn cline x reader #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank #my writing #truth or dare

460 notes · View notes