#The bottom half of Chamber’s face was blown off by his powers
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The other day an online friend asked me why so many people are attracted to Dabi when he has a “fucked up face”. And I can’t speak for anyone else but these are two of the characters I had the biggest crushes on growing up so….
#Dabi#touya todoroki#i have a scar kink okay?#these two guys are Chamber from Generation X#and Half-life from Superboy and the Ravers#The bottom half of Chamber’s face was blown off by his powers#still fine as hell though
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Envy For The Solid Ground
This is a fic about drowning but only for @genevievedarcygranger. So if you're not them don't read this. It's a waste of your time. It's not very good.
Childabuse and drowning oh my
--
To an untrained eye, Aaron Hotchner is the sort of man you look at and assume he’s just been big and powerful his entire life. There’s too much edge to him, effortless control. As most adult things go it’s impossible to imagine it in reverse. To dwindle suit and tie to dirty bare-feet playing in the yard and toy cars. But beneath the illusion he’s spent forty-years perfecting, there’s an eight-year-old boy hiccuping on his bed with welts from his father’s belt bleeding through his t-shirt. There's a twelve-year-old who had his father’s daily routine memorized down to the second who grew into the fourteen-year-old who gave himself a buzz cut in the bathroom mirror.
That stupid haircut saved his life. His father had nothing to hold onto, nothing to hold him still with. No one could grab him from behind, use the impossible bend of his neck to manipulate him backwards. His mother hated it, got this soft sadness from running her fingers over it and saying “it makes you look sick, like you’re dying”. Sean said he was just missing overalls, he’d be a perfect extra on the TV adaptation of “One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest”. But it hadn’t mattered to him that it made his mother dream of him at war, wading through bullets and being blown to bits. If the kids at school took one look at him and chose to ignore him then fantastic. That’s two things going his way but it only matters that he lives.
He stopped cutting it that short at twenty - even after not having lived with his father for four years. After knowing the solace of Haley’s family for two. He just couldn’t do it. There was a constant fear around him, always looking over his shoulder expecting someone to reach out and pull him back. Expecting the pain to come pouring down without hesitation, as if it never stopped.
His hair is the longest it’s ever been. A thought that nearly seems silly, nothing about his hair is long. Even after all this time he’s hardly strayed from a hairstyle not “okayed” by the military. Still hardly any length at all.
But not too short to hold. Not too short to manipulate.
“Hotch!”
The sun shines down into his eyes, blood trailing down his chin. It stings, the place at the curve of his throat where the knife rests. The first time he ever saw someone like this he thought, foolishly, that it wouldn’t hurt. Adrenaline and fear and surely everything else would prevent that knife biting edge from really hurting. But he can feel each bump. The way the Unsub’s hand jerks when he speaks, digging the knife into his flesh that much deeper. The way his own flinches and breaths pull the cut longer.
“Let him go!”
He can see the water from here, dangling halfway off… Actually, he’s not too sure where he is right now.
A foot chase. He remembers Reid yelling after him, thought he saw a trail up ahead. Thought he could get to the Unsub another way. He can hear Reid now, the snapping of the branches and leaves under his feet as he shifts. He’s afraid.
“Matthew.”
The good old emotional appeal.
It’s Emily standing there with her arms at her sides and her voice soft.
Which means Morgan isn’t too far off, gun pointed at the Unsub’s head.
“Matthew, please, you don’t have to do this.”
The knife jerks, more blood running down his chest. It’s soaking through his clothes.
“You’re hurting my friend, Matthew.”
The knife slips, digs in too much and he tries to move. Instincts pull him, urge him to move out of the way. He can’t get away, though, and ends up gurgling. Ends up choking and sputtering up blood.
Derek shoots, a judgment call he has to make. One he can’t stand as the bullet leaves his chamber.
“No!”
They fall. The Unsubs’ weight pulling Hotch down with him. His back hits the water first. Blacks out.
Derek rushes to the edge, pulling Emily back. They don’t come back up to the surface. Only blood. Hotch’s blood tangling with the mud they kick up. They hold their breath. Waiting. For something. For nothing.
It’s immediate, white shirt bubbling back up and Hotch’s head breaking the surface. His eyes wide and his face pale. He stutters out something, confused and shivering. “D-D-” his head goes under again. His fingers reach up until they’re gone too.
He’s panicking. Going to get himself killed.
He spits the water from his face, trying to shake it away but he’s slipping. His feet no longer sitting in the mud, his body being dragged alongside the Unsubs down into the current. He feels himself being drawn back and he panics, eyes widening as he realizes he has to get away. He’s nearly there, free from the grasp of the dead weight of the Unsub when he slips. “Dere--”
As he’s pulled under the current of the river he thinks about Jack. The winter that he got the croup and Haley couldn’t stop blaming herself, no matter how many times Hotch reasoned it was no more her fault than his. Even if it was no one’s fault. He’d spent so many hours rocking Jack in the bathroom. Him in his boxers and Jack in his diaper, the steam from the shower leaving their skin slick. For three days the house splintered with the sound of Jack’s crying, only ever falling silent when he grew too hoarse. Even then he was so congested each of his little breaths were still audible. Hotch would still wake in the middle of the night, heart hammering in his chest, and find himself standing over Jack. Placing his hand over the baby’s chest to convince himself his ears weren’t betraying, Jack was still breathing.
The rocks underneath his feet shift uncertainty as he pushes off them, trying to force his way back to the surface. Kicking madly and hands cutting through the water as quickly as he can. His head breaks through and he sucks greedily for air, knows what happens when he’s pulled back down. The water falls down his face into his mouth, the nearly salty taste of the river water turning his stomach. As he reaches up, attempting to grab onto one of the dried, gnarled branches reaching down towards him from the bank. The river pushes him too quickly and he can’t reach, his fingertips brushing against the wood teasingly. His hip hits a rock and he’s spun outwards. Pulled once again by the current.
The sun streaks through the water, brightening the murky water as his eyes open and he sees his own hand reaching up for the air.
It reminds him of Emily reaching for the blinds high above her head, cursing under her breath each time the broken string evaded her grasp. She’d never admit it but she’d been terrified of losing him after Foyet, of what might happen if he was left alone in his apartment. So she and Reid just didn’t leave. He woke from drugged slumber to them playing poker on his bed beside him. To a pillow half over his face where Emily mindlessly dropped it - conjuring a slight smirk at the thought of her smothering him while trying to keep him alive. The caught look on Reid’s face every time Hotch woke up and saw him, youthfully guilty of something. Wedged between Reid’s propped up knee, his voice steady as he read aloud from his book, and Emily’s face smushed into his shoulder he didn’t have a single nightmare.
His back hits the bottom of the river and he thrashes, panicking to pull himself up. He’s thrown against a rock by the current. Grunting as his temple cracks against a rock and going listlessly with the current. A ragdoll.
“You can’t go in!”
One time there was these double-booked out of town meetings. Hotch was supposed to go for the brass, the pure intent of just following orders. At the same time, headed in the same direction, Emily and Derek went off for interviews. The day before Hotch left he was informed that they’d all be taking one car, together. Four days. One car. Two grueling meetings. It was the worst four days of his life, honestly. Worse than being stabbed. Being shot has nothing on listening to Derek and Emily fight in the car for three days over everything and anything.
He never did that again.
Now Reid takes those trips with them.
It’s only fitting, it’s that awful trio that drags him out of the water.
Derek spitting river water out of his mouth as frequently as curses. “Just tell me where you see him goddammit!” He’s swimming against the current, fighting how quickly it pulls him away from where he needs to be. Tries to deny the fear in his stomach. For fear of what’s in this water. He saw the blood. Can still sees wisps of it now drifting around him.
Emily stands on the shore, out in the water to her shins trying to see. Above her Reid calls out but it’s just another branch, not Hotch. She knows it’s going to have to be her. It makes her chest ache, more than it does to see tendrils of dark blood marking Hotch’s path. But it’s her. She’s the one that’s going to have to call Derek out of the water. To tell him it’s pointless. That… That this time they’re not all coming home.
“I see him!” Reid has binoculars up to his face but he’s pointing out. “Morgan turn around!”
She searches where he points, eyes scanning up and down the bank. Looking for a head of black hair or his bright white t-shirt.
“I see him!”
She doesn’t. She doesn’t see him.
Morgan tears off through the water. He’s lost the ease in which he worked through the water upon first getting in. When Reid first pointed to where he thought he saw Hotch. His muscle scream, agony flicking through each movement but he has to move. He has to get there.
Emily’s heart drops when she sees Derek’s head go under the water. One. Two. Three-- How long does it take to find a grown man in a river? She puts her hand over her eyes, looking up to Reid. “Where are they!” she shouts .
Reid keeps scanning, keeps looking up and down the water. “I don’t--” Derek comes up, gasping but with a second head. Hotch. Bleeding, limp, but there. Found. “I see them! He’s up!” He points out into the water, stepping closer to the edge.
Emily runs through the water, ignores the chill until she’s in to her hips and wading through to get to Morgan. Hotch is passed between them, his cold skin pressed against her. His head rocks when Morgan lays him against her shoulder, moves him until his cold wet temple rests against face. What startles her the most as the river’s current tries to rip him from her arms is when she realizes she can’t feel him breathing.
She trips, falls hard on her ass. The rocks just slipping out from underneath her until she’s trying to grab at one to keep herself rooted here at the bank. He nearly slips away.
“Emily!” Derek has him. She looks up, blinking river water from her eyes, and Morgan’s got him. One arm around his hips, just barely keeping him there.
“He’s not breathing,” she manages. “I couldn’t-- He’s not. He’s not breathing.”
Reid meets them at the bank, hands going everywhere but not managing a thing. “Set him down gently--” he grimaces at how hard Hotch lands out on his back. Derek only guarantees that he doesn’t smack his head on any rock, just a wet hard fall into the mud. Reid leans over Hotch, ear to his chest as waits for something. All he hears is a bird in the trees mocking sounds and the rush of the river behind them.
“Is he--” Derek falls down beside him squeezing Hotch’s fingers. “Is he dead?”
Reid leans closer, presses down harder. “No, he’s--” Reid sits up, “Hotch?” He rubs his fist up and down Hotch’s sternum, patting Hotch's face with the other. “Hotch! Hotch get up!”
Faintly, Hotch’s lip part, slowly pulling down into a grimace until he can push at Reid’s hand. He gags, choking on water as he struggles to breathe. He’s hauled upright, Derek grabbing him by fistfuls of his shirt until he’s laying on his side. Sputtering and coughing water-- it burns his nose, nearly comes back in around each inhale he’s forced to take.
“Son of a bitch.”
Hotch falls back, kept up by Derek’s hand pulling him in and the knees Emily places at his back.
His blood has spread out onto the mud, and he hisses, groans in pain when Reid places his fingers against the bleeding wound on his neck. Watered down it slips between Reid’s fingers, hardly crimson at all. “Wa-- Waters freezing,” he rasps.
Derek chuckles, shaking his head. With a sigh he falls back into the mud, laying there as he struggles to catch his breath. “It was.” He looks over at the others, at Reid's worry-pinched face and Emily’s smile and relaxes. The sun will have them warmed up in no time. They’ll be fine.
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cocky. beautiful. bastard. - chapter 2
Read on AO3.
Part 1 here.
Part 3 here.
Summary: It's time for you to learn the rules.
Words: 7500
Warnings: more delayed orgasm, cum eating, mando’a
Characters: Kylo Ren x Reader
A/N: Hello! I know I mentioned this would be expanded to three parts, but I actually decided to crank it up to five, oops. I have some shit planned for this fic--I needed a break, needed to write something fun and hot, haha.
I have been blown away by the feedback on this fic!! THANK YOU SO MUCH! I really really hope you like this installment, it's literally 7500 words and 6000 of it is porn. ToT LMAO. Let me know what you think!! I love y'all so very very much.
This morning, you’d woken up on your half-stuffed mattress, rolled onto your cracked stone floor, and bathed yourself in the kitchen basin, scrubbed your skin with the ratty sponge. You’d stuffed your face with the stale roll you’d made for your stew the previous night and shoved the bowls in the conservator before tugging on underwear and tossing your robe over it. In your tote, you’d carted your usual: a jar of lotion, mint cologne, and the little case that stored your identification and tip portions, and when you left your flat, you’d slipped on a pair of sandals and locked the door.
As you followed the Supreme Leader of the First Order onto the ramp of his sleek, knife-wing shuttle, you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d ever cross that threshold again.
He had been silent since the moment you’d left the brothel, and when you boarded the ship, you glanced around the empty hull, discovering that the both of you were alone. Before you could question it, he was in the cockpit, the ramp was whirring, and your mind was spinning, elated and confused.
Counting the handful of seats, your mouth screwed in consideration. Your eyes crept to the front, spying a pilot’s seat--occupied--and a co-pilot’s seat, invitingly empty. With a shrug, you strode over to it and plopped down, stowing your belongings on your lap. He did not address you, did not even acknowledge the weight of your stare as he fiddled with the controls, engine roaring to life.
Kylo Ren was not only beautiful. He was huge. Of course, by now, you knew he had a massive cock, equally large hands--but the rest of him was just as proportional, just as hypnotizing. His shoulders were broad, even swathed under his cloak, his arms thick, his whole torso wide and solid with muscle. In a flash, you pictured him naked, a little thrill shooting through your spine. He’d said you were his, whatever that meant, and in comparison to what you’d woken up to this morning, the idea was more and more inviting.
He stole a glance--his gaze arrested your breath--and gripped the controls; in seconds, the ship was hovering, screaming, shooting into the sky.
You watched, speechless, as the pane of transparisteel was swallowed by white yellow blue black starlight, and then you were careening through space, hurtling out of the atmosphere and toward an unknown destination. The vastness of it mesmerized you, an echo of this man’s own engulfing perpetuity--both of them equally perplexing, equally captivating.
Maybe that was a little dramatic, but to be fair, despite the sore throb between your legs and the ache at your ass, just being this close to him buzzed your skin.
He guided the ship toward another, larger vessel--a Star Destroyer, you knew that much--and as he docked it in the hangar, the reality of your arrangement descended upon you. Hordes of Stormtroopers marched across ebony tile, cut through by officers in black uniforms, all of them with duty, all of them striding with purpose. Meanwhile, you’d just been plucked from a brothel on Nevarro, clad in your skivvies and a chemise cover-up. There was no shame in that admission, but more so the recognition that you were now far from home, in the company of a total stranger--a total stranger with the power to crush you between his palms without blinking.
Said stranger went through a sequence on the dash--the engine died, the ramp lowered to the ground. He stood, a towering dark wall, and studied the bay before turning his eyes to you. They flicked over your figure for a moment--appraising--and without a word, he turned, marching off the ship. You scrambled to your feet and followed, walking in double-time to match his pace.
When you entered the bay, dozens of faces snapped to you, and then shot to the floor, perhaps due to your attire and with whom you’d arrived. It was strange, to be important enough to not only warrant a glance, but to warrant its immediate aversion. As you walked, the masses parted for their Supreme Leader, and you trailed in his wake, feeling altogether powerful and powerless, an ember wisp to his raging inferno.
The Star Destroyer itself was repetitive and long, but while you followed your new leader, you took in every detail. To you, it might as well have been a palace, some sort of opulent, obsidian cavern, with floors clean enough to reflect your anxious face. Not anxious out of fear, of course--if the chakaar wanted to kill you, he could’ve done so when you’d mouthed off to him in the brothel--but anticipation. How this had happened to you, you weren’t sure, but a portion of you hoped the arrangement wouldn’t be temporary.
Supreme Leader Kylo Ren stopped in front of a blast door, passing a hand over a sensor--it opened for him, and he stood to the side, observing you in expectation. The intensity of his gaze rippled heat through your thighs, and you entered, shoulders squared, ignoring the irritating thump of your heart. He stalked behind you, a heavy shadow, his presence both looming and lascivious as you glanced around his quarters. The ceilings soared high, stark white floors sweeping to white walls, a set of stairs descending in front of you, spilling out into an empty, bright floorspace.
You turned to him, gripping your bag. “Welcome home?”
He sniffed. “If you learn the rules. Earn your place.”
“My place?” A hand rested on your hip, and you cocked a playful brow. “And what exactly is my place?”
“It’s simple.” He stepped toward you, scorching you in his stare--your chest tightened. “Your place is wherever I direct you. Doing whatever I’ve ordered.”
You swallowed. His. “Mm. Okay. And what might you order me to do?”
Another long stride, and he circled you, skating a leather finger down your arm as his mouth swooped to your ear. “Bid etyc, kih tracinya,” he murmured. “You know very well why I brought you here.”
Though his release was dripping down your thighs, it was difficult to resist the urge to spin around and hop on top of him. How could you possibly help yourself? He was the most beautiful man you’d ever seen, and he’d made you cum hard on his enormous cock. Twice.
“Me? Dirty?” You went to lean into him, and he stepped back, making you stumble. You pouted. “Hey!”
He huffed, crossing away from you, and you turned to follow him down the steps, grumbling to yourself. His chambers were huge, at least twice or maybe three times the size of the entirety of your efficiency--so large you couldn’t identify the location of the refresher, or the food storage, or even the bedroom.
“So,” you said, still scanning your surroundings, “where do you expect me to eat and sleep? What am I supposed to wear?”
“I don’t care.”
You balked, staring at his back. “You don’t care?”
He opened a door, gazing over something, not bothering to look at you. “No.”
“Okay.” You snorted, rolling your eyes. “Chakaar.”
At this, Kylo Ren spun, cloak whirling at his ankles, stalking to you in long strides. The thump of his boots rattled your bones, his size consumed your sight. You didn’t flinch--only stuck your chin out with a smirk. He stopped inches from you, chest rising, eyes glittering under the searing light of his quarters, vestiges of a beast.
He took your chin between gloved fingers. “This nasty little mouth is going to be my first project,” he purred, and tugged you flush to his solid frame. “When you speak to me, you will address me as Supreme Leader. Do you understand?”
You didn’t reply--you were too busy trying to pull your brain from a sea of lust. Ren pinched your jaw, and you whimpered, your thighs pressing together, skin flush with heat.
“Say it.”
A slow breath left your nose, warmth washing over his hand. Despite your desire to antagonize him, there was a deeper, greater desire to please him--to earn your place.
“Yes,” you replied, “Supreme Leader.”
“Hm.” He thumbed your lower lip, his voice black smoke. “Good girl.”
Two words, but still you clenched. “I might not be good all the time, you know.”
“Don’t worry.” A tiny smirk on Ren’s pretty mouth, and he leaned to your ear again. “I’m counting on it.”
The Supreme Leader released you, your skin frosting in his absence, and he moved past you, up the steps. You tracked him, shrinking in the enormity of the strange, soulless room where he apparently meant to abandon you. Frowning, you crossed your arms.
“Where are you going?” you asked, fumbling with your belongings. “Uh, Supreme Leader.”
“I’m departing.” Ren didn’t even bother to peer over his shoulder. “Remain here until I return.” In a flourish, he disappeared through the blast door.
You sighed, deflating. Nothing to do but become more familiar with what the Supreme Fucking Leader of the First Fucking Order had determined to be your new home.
If you earned your place.
You were alone for hours. After a bit of exploring, you’d located the food storage (a bunch of military rations, which you ate anyway), the refresher (replete with a tall standing shower), and the bedroom, at the bottom of another set of stairs--the most impressive to you. The Supreme Leader of the First Order slept on a wide mattress built into a nook, its supporting wall replaced with a massive pane of transparisteel. Beyond it, the galaxy floated by, a nebulous nightlight and blanket to his slumber.
You shrugged off your robe and underwear and climbed on top of the rumpled, soft sheets, curling on your side to watch ships wink in and out of existence. Nevarro was a tiny sphere in the darkness, everything and everyone you’d known shrinking to a speckle in the sky. Despite all of this newness, nestled in the bed of Kylo Ren, you were not afraid--you were exhilarated. You’d forgotten to contact Cerra, but in the moment, you didn’t particularly care. A sunshine vibration settled in your chest. At some point, your lids fell closed.
Thwack.
A sharp thigh smack ripped you to consciousness, and you squealed, whirling to face your attacker. At the edge of the bed stood the Supreme Leader, hair caked with sweat and filth, face smattered with dark red crust. You screamed, skittering back, until you realized he’d come from battle. This was his normal. And even as the stench of rotting copper filled your nose, when his gaze skimmed your naked body, you fought the urge to shiver.
“Uh, hello,” you said. “What was that for?”
“Come.” He gave no further instruction, and spun on his heel to climb the stairs.
The rules. You didn’t need to be told twice.
Kylo Ren led you into the refresher--a spark lighting between your legs at your impending reality--and activated the shower before peeling off his gloves. This was casual, emotionless to him, as if he was not the most powerful man in the universe, as if you, a former brothel wench, were not about to see him entirely naked. You could only stare, entranced, while he moved to his tunic hook by hook before shucking it to the floor, then pulled his undershirt free, revealing to you his thick, muscled torso. Carmine mud had soaked through his clothing, a mist over his skin.
The rest of his disrobing was similar--the removal of his boots, his pants and undergarments, until he was bare, human and ethereal, a deity decorated in blood and dirt. He gazed at you, face blank, urging you into the water with a nod of his head. Hiding your joy, you obliged, and stepped under the spray.
The moment the water hit you, Ren’s grip was at your shoulder, whipping you around and shoving your back to the chilly tile. You released a breath, staring at him, and his hand drifted to your neck, thumb rising to pry open your mouth.
“You will bathe me,” he said, tracing the line of your lower lip, “get me hard, and suck me off.” His thumb slid past your teeth, depressed your tongue. “And if you can make me cum, I might reward you.”
Heat--whether it was from the shower or your mind--rushed your flesh. You liked the idea of a challenge. You nodded, and he released your tongue.
“Yes, Supreme Leader.”
He gave your throat a warning squeeze. “Don’t make me wait.”
Biting your lip, you sought out the shampoo, finding it within an assortment of plain, regulation-type bottles. Everything you’d come across in his quarters had been quite plain, considering he had the opportunity to access the best of everything. Shrugging, you popped the top, squirted some in your palms before returning it, and lathered it between them. Turning to face him, your jaw dropped when you took in the enormity of his form. The Supreme Leader of the First Order was a molded machine, as gorgeous as he was terrifying. And you couldn’t wait to put your hands on him.
You crossed behind him, inspecting the collection of white scars that had faded across his skin before reaching to massage the shampoo into his hair. He was so tall, you had to stand on the tips of your toes to meet the top of his head, but you managed, working your fingers through the knotted tresses, freeing it of mud and blood. The water ran an eerie crimson as you combed through his dark locks, and when your nails scritched his scalp, you felt him tense, felt him fight a shiver from his spine. Hiding a grin, you did it again, drawing lines across his head, and you heard it--a soft, satisfied moan, caught in his chest. You swallowed, cunt throbbing.
“Do you like that?” you asked. “Supreme Leader?”
He only hummed, non-committal. You were determined to make him make that noise again.
Having finished with his hair, you let the water clear the soap from his head until his locks laid flat on his face, exposing his wide, rounded ears, flushed red from the shower. A devious little thought flicked in your brain--you grabbed the soap (also plain, a boring yellow bar) and made some lather, circled to face him.
The shampoo had loosened most of the muck from his face, but you decided to clean the rest, swirling tiny circles across his forehead, his cheeks, staring into his eyes. He stared back, watching you from behind an invisible barrier--and when you rubbed the shell of his ears, his gaze broke, lids fluttering in delight before he caught himself, lip curling in a hint of irritation. You smirked, another clench between your legs.
“What about that?” you murmured, ghosting your thumbs over the helix--another groan trapped in his throat. “You like that, sir?”
Ren stiffened his jaw, but didn’t move, almost daring you to continue. But you decided to move on with your task--there would be plenty more opportunities to tease him.
You cleared his face of debris before standing back to admire his body. To your disappointment, his cock was still soft, but you knew this was through sheer effort, through a determination to make you earn it.
Starting with his shoulders, you ran your soapy hands down his strong neck, skimming across the long scar that arced over his eye, a pretty crevice in his flesh. You were close enough now that you realized he was covered in scars, marring his arms, his torso, his abdomen. Rather than repel you, they drew you closer--the evidence of his survival, the physical remnants of his conquests made your mouth water.
Stepping into him, you massaged the soap into his flesh, working it into his muscles, down his biceps, glancing at him when you did, a spark of excitement in his gaze. You kept his attention while you washed over his hands, circling each of his fingers with your fist, pumping them like you might his cock. They were thick, rigid in your palms as you cleaned them free of grime. His eye twitched.
Grinning, you gathered more soap, swirling large loops over his broad, solid chest. His firmness made you throb, made you want to step even closer--but you focused on your duty, reminded of your mystery reward. You kneaded over his pectorals, flicking his nipples with your thumbs before dropping lower, smoothing soap across his abdomen. Kylo Ren tensed when you cleansed his stomach, and you glanced at him again. His pupils dilated--your fingers followed the line of his hip bones, inching toward his thighs, and he swallowed, shifting on his feet. You were getting close.
Licking your lips, you foamed more lather and shifted behind him, caressing suds into the powerful planes of his back. Here, you could see more scars, more war-made muscle, and you cleansed it all, digging into his shoulder blades, down his spine to his ass, squeezing handfuls of it--he tensed again. Keeping a giggle to yourself, you returned to face him, still juggling suds, and finally, finally dropped to your knees.
Kylo Ren’s thighs were just as large as the rest of him, big slabs of muscle smooth to your touch. He stared down at you, observing you with restrained desire, and you coasted over his quadriceps, the backs of his knees, his calves, rubbing up and down his flesh, all the while avoiding his cock. You marveled at him, at this marble-carved man, at the ripples under his skin as you kneaded over hard ridges of strength. Around you, the water faded to a translucent pink, filtering clear--you took the bar of soap a last time between your palms, placed it on the floor, and massaged a wide circle around his dick.
His legs and stomach tightened, and you smirked, keeping his focus and beginning at his hips, mouthing open, soft kisses to the inside of his thighs, moving closer while your soapy hand slipped over his length. Ren’s lips parted, and you did it again--a gentle graze of his shaft--and kissed his pubic bone, licking a stripe to the base of his cock. When you took it in your lathered fist, he gasped--you grinned, and started pumping it long, slow strokes.
A shuddered exhale escaped him, and you were spurred on, spreading your knees and continuing to kiss around the root, reveling when you felt him swelling and pulsing against your palm. You rolled your fingers around his shaft, cupped his balls, water washing bubbles to his feet, and you tickled the underside of his dick, making it twitch. With a grin, you wrapped him in your fist again, increasing your pace, letting him grow even harder in your hand--and Ren released a shaky, blissful breath. Celebrating an internal triumph, you peppered tiny kisses around the hilt of his cock before circling your thumb around the head, smearing precum into his skin.
“Don’t be coy, Supreme Leader,” you said. “I know you like that.”
He snatched your scalp, cranked your neck back into the water. “I don’t remember asking for your commentary.”
Wincing, you obliged him with a tight, languid stroke. “You’re right.” You squeezed his fully erect cock, wet and clean. He was even bigger up close. “I have a better idea.”
In one motion, you took the head in your mouth, dropping your jaw to seal your lips around it with a lewd moan. Ren strangled a gasp--you curled your fingers around the base of his dick, eyes trained on his while you swallowed his length inch by inch. He was thick, throbbing on your tongue, and you pressed it to his shaft as you pulled back, fist following your mouth’s lead. The dry rub of water scraped your grip, so you released him for a moment, locking with his gaze and dribbling a long line of saliva onto his dick. Ren gulped again, his amber irises hazy with lust, and you slicked him in preparation before sucking on the head of his cock.
Big hands coiled in your hair, and you groaned, pleased, twisting your wrist and bobbing back and forth on his length. His breath quickened, his grip tightened, and you whimpered, the ache between your legs burning you with desperation. But you were learning the rules--you already knew he would be serious about making you earn it. So you pressed your thighs together, another hand curving to grip his ass while you drooled and gagged on his cock.
“Fuck,” he hissed. “Can you handle all of me in that little mouth?”
You hummed in agreement, taking him deeper, driving him into the wet heat of your throat--you wheezed, but fought through the tears, your gaze on his own, even as the spray of the shower fuzzed your sight. Fist moving faster, slippery with spit, you suckled in another inch, jaw sore from his size. You could only imagine how obscene you looked--dripping with water, salivating down your chin, tears stinging your eyes as you swallowed his dick.
It was incredible, getting to please him like this; since the very first time he’d fucked you, before you even knew his face, you’d dreamed of making his massive dick twitch and cum in your mouth. But now with the knowledge that this dick belonged to the Supreme Leader--you were intoxicated, your clit stiff and screaming for attention, your skin crackling with need. Yes, you needed to make this bastard cum, because you just as badly needed him to return the favor.
You tightened your fist, jerking him faster, and he yanked your hair, pushing your nose against the patch of hair at his groin. Ren fucked hard into your throat, and you heaved, writhed, sobbing onto his cock, both hands burrowing into his thighs as he pistoned his hips against your face. He panted through hoarse groans, his face flush, cheeks red, cock pulsing with an impending climax. Between clenched teeth, he growled, thrusting deep, gaze black and feral.
“That’s it,” he breathed, “that’s it…” He snapped his pelvis, and you retched, slobbering around his cock, clinging to his flesh. “Take my cum down your throat, tracinya. Fuck, take it--”
Kylo Ren suppressed a groan, rocked into your face, heavy cock throbbing and spilling the hot, salty loads of his release. You moaned, sucking it down, watching his chin tremble as you drained him through his climax, humming until he started to soften. Grunting, he slid out, untangled his fingers from your hair, and ruffled the wet fringe from his face before focusing on you. He scanned you: skin soaked, jaw sore, smugly satisfied. You’d certainly earned your reward, now.
“Good girl.” He pinched your chin, thumbed your swollen lip. “Come.”
He turned off the water and exited the shower, leaving you needy and clenching in the dewy air. Frowning, you stood, seething from the ache at your knees, and peered through the fog to spy the Supreme Leader toweling himself off before exiting the refresher. You mimicked him, drying yourself too, and trailed him with a grumble as he strode through his quarters, still entirely naked. A glimmer of hope when he arrived at his bed--until he reached into one of the closets at the side and started pulling on a pair of compression garments. You paused, folded your arms over your chest.
“Uh. Excuse me. Supreme Leader?”
“Hm.”
“Aren’t you. Y’know. Gonna make me cum?”
He huffed. “No.”
You gawked. “I’m sorry, what?” You paced over to him, feet sticky on the cold white floors. “You said you’d reward me.”
“No.” Ren was impassive. “I said I might reward you.” He grabbed a pair of pants, pulled those on, too. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck in the future.”
Gaping, you blinked, laughing in disbelief. You’d played by his stupid rules, worked to earn your place. Had you seriously done all of that just to have him deny you? Whatever game he was playing, it was frying your patience. He’d had you convinced from your trysts at work that he’d want you to have a good time, too--but perhaps he was just like every other man. A whirlwind of curses flew through your mind, in Basic and Mando’a, but you settled on a language that he didn’t understand.
“Ugh! Doompa wermo nek!” you snarled, stomping past him and flopping on his bed. “Oto to crispo chuba!”
For a moment, Ren did not respond, his silence a thickening cloud in the room. For that moment--that short, foolish moment--you felt as if you’d finally gotten one over on him, and a smile snuck onto your face. But it was only a moment.
“You want to kill me, hm?”
“Oh.” He spoke Huttese, too. Your heart sank. “Fuck.”
The Supreme Leader clucked his tongue--you could feel him behind you, footsteps drawing closer. Squealing, you hid your face in his sheets, moving to crawl away, but he seized your ankle and tore you from the mattress, flipping you onto your back. A burgeoning brute, he pounced, palms on either side of your head, wet hair flinging droplets onto your face. His eyes were simmering honey, prepared to boil, igniting a clamor between your thighs.
“Look at what we have here,” he murmured. “A schutta of many talents.”
You sighed. “What language don’t you speak?” you asked. “Di’kutla chakaar.”
Ren hovered closer, placed a knee on the mattress. “Mm, don’t think I heard you, tracinya.” A warm, strong hand moved to your throat, thumb pressing into the divot under your trachea. “What was that?”
His touch stoked the fire in your belly, the greed in his gaze inciting your own. Whatever game indeed. This was a revelation--the Supreme Leader hadn’t lied to you about there being rules. You had just misunderstood them. Certainly, there was a part of him that enjoyed your obedience. But there was clearly another, greater part that craved your defiance.
“I called you,” you replied, peeling the words from your teeth, “a stupid bastard.”
Kylo Ren smirked.
In a single breath, your wrists were gathered and tacked above your head, your legs spread open. And when you tried to move, you found you couldn’t, held by invisible bondage, paralyzed by the air. You thrashed, to no avail, pulse skipping in your veins--he observed you in satisfaction, attention wandering your vulnerable body. It was the same magic he’d used to make you cum, you were sure of it.
“What is this?” You tried to wriggle again, but it was useless.
Ren leaned back, smoothing his palms over your thighs. “This,” he said, “is how I get you to do whatever I want.”
“Oh?” An eager flicker in your chest. “And what exactly do you want?”
“You.” A hand stroked up, over the roll of your belly and down your hip, painting goosebumps across your skin. “Begging for my cock.”
You snorted. “After the stunt you just pulled?” you asked. “I’ve had enough of your cock. It won’t be that easy.”
Delight flashed over his face. “You’re right, kih tracinya.” A snap of his wrist, and your knees were thrown toward your stomach. “It’ll be even easier.”
Ren bent forward, palms gliding up and down your sides, and pressed a hot, wet kiss to your throat. You shuddered, a groan escaping, head rolling onto his sheets, and he growled, nipping at the thin tissue, mouthing more nibbles along your neck. His lips were soft--softer than you remembered when they’d been at your cunt--his tongue laving at every tiny mark he left behind, his hands gripping, squeezing at your stomach, drifting to your hips and to your thighs. The heat of his bare skin inspired your own, pleasure quaking through you, a building fissure in your flesh--when he dragged his teeth across your collarbone, you whimpered in need.
A hand left your hip, curled in your hair and tugged your head back. “Poor thing. Listen to you whine.” Ren peppered heated kisses along your jaw. “When was the last time you fucked a man who wasn’t behind a screen?”
It was difficult to speak through trembling breath. But you managed. “When was the last time you fucked a woman without using magic?”
Face still buried in your neck, he huffed--a low, dark sound in his chest. “You think I can’t break you without the Force?” Kylo Ren sank his teeth into the exposed column of your throat, and you wailed in pain. He dug in, forcing a shriek before he released you, speaking into your ear. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”
The Force--you’d heard it referenced before, in passing. You’d just had no idea it was a real thing. And that this man was someone who could control it. As you’d thought it, he released you from its hold, but the ache at your neck had stymied any snark in your mind for the moment. He took the opportunity to bind your wrists with his sheets before standing back, admiring his handiwork. You gazed at him--your chakaar was wild with lust.
He grappled an ankle in each hand and tossed them over his shoulders. “This should be a familiar position for you,” he muttered, before attacking your neck again.
This time, he was savage, groaning as he sucked welts into your skin, grazing his teeth over your shoulder, biting mark after mark into the muscle. Though you squealed, yelped with pain, you relished it, ecstatic at the show of possession, impatient to see the patchwork of bruises gifted to you by the Supreme Leader of the First Order. Ren hunched over you, finding your breasts, crushing them in his grip--you gasped, but he continued, punishing your tits under his palms. Voracious, he moved to your sternum in a streak of saliva, thumb and forefinger tweaking your nipples in pinching bolts of pleasure.
“Ka’ra,” you gasped. “You’re a dirty bastard, aren--mmf!”
Ren had crammed two fingers in your mouth, shoving them to the back of your tongue. “Come again?”
Before you could protest, he took a nipple in his lips, the other still battered by his thumb, and suckled, tongue swirling around it, gentle moans escaping him. You whinged, trying to buck your hips, finding yourself pinned by his weight--arousal controlled you, your core contracting in a cry for something to fill it. He must have known this, too, from the way his hand floated across your belly and between your thighs, petting your folds with a tender touch.
You moaned onto him, eyes lolling back, overwhelmed; Ren was in your mouth, at your tits, teasing your pussy--he may as well have been in your head, hijacking your mind, making you yearn for his cock. He sucked your nipple fat between his teeth, and you returned the favor, wrapping your lips around his fingers; he rewarded you with a slight spread of your pussy, earning a squeak, tempting you to crack.
“Ready to beg?” A quick bite to your nipple, and you released a muffled squeal, shaking your head. “No?” He stroked your engorged clit--you howled. “Are you sure?”
Without giving you a chance to respond, he wiggled his hand further into your throat while he stroked your clit again, and again, thumb catching on the hood, slipping to your entrance before teasing more. You writhed, lids squeezing shut as you fought his hold, but his natural strength rivaled the Force--he caged you, a warden to your orgasm. He tapped your swollen nub, testing a tiny circle around it, and you sobbed, bounced your wrists against the bed, staving the urge to bite his fucking fingers.
“Needy slut,” he muttered. “I can feel how wet you are. How badly this cunt needs to get fucked.”
He continued to glance over your clit, making you throb, making your pussy scream for more. Another swift circle, and another, flooding you with bliss--and he stopped, back to feather-light touches. You wanted to burst, you sucked hard on his hand, skating your teeth over his knuckles in complaint. Growling, he relieved your clit for a split-second, only to spank your pussy with his palm. Pain and pleasure ruptured through your thighs, and you shrieked, gagged around him.
“You can’t help yourself,” he said, and spanked your cunt again. “You’re dripping for my cock.”
Perhaps it was the delirium--the potent cocktail of your need, his torture, the extended denial--but you fractured. And you nodded, agreeing with him.
A grunt of approval. “There we go.” His voice was filthy with victory.
You loved it.
“Dush, etyc kih tracinya.” Ren shifted, pulled his fingers from your mouth to splay your legs wide with his hands, dipping between them to kiss down your belly. “Sucking me off made you want to cum. Didn’t it?”
You nodded again. “Yes…”
“Yes?”
The bloated, heavy ache between your legs took rein of your tongue. “Yes, Supreme Leader.”
“Mm. Good girl.”
The very same Supreme Leader rose to his feet, looming over you, displaying the huge, straining erection behind his pants. His eyes glued to yours while he pulled it free, circled his hand around its massive length, and you gazed at it, still agog. You supposed you’d never get used to how big he really was. Ren pumped himself once, twice, drinking you in, before shoving you further onto the bed and climbing over you.
His lips found your throat again, sucking softly at it. “Do you remember how I had to stuff myself in that little cunt?” he murmured. “How tight you were around me?”
Mouth dry, you replied, “Yes, Supreme Leader.”
“Good girl.” He propped your calves up on his shoulders, lowering himself to your entrance, taunting you with it. “And do you remember how good it felt to cum on me?”
“Yes,” you sputtered, growing frustrated, “yes, Supreme Leader.”
“And do you remember…” another false-thrust, another anticipatory clench. “... how you begged for me like a filthy little bitch?”
It took all of your power not to crack wise. “Yes, Supreme Leader.”
Humming, he nipped your ear. “Then beg for my cock.”
“Ka’ra!” You lost it. “Shut up and fuck me, chakaar!”
He clucked his tongue. “You were doing so well.”
Kylo Ren slicked the head of his dick on your juices before pushing in just an inch, sucking in air through his teeth as he enticed you with a hint of stretch. Staring at himself throbbing inside of you, he held it, and eased out, then driving back in by centimeters--prying into your cunt, giving you only a bit of bliss before stealing it away. He shook with self-control, drawing in more oxygen, hissing in pleasure at even the slightest squeeze from your core.
Whinging, you tried to jerk your hips to take more, but found it difficult with your ankles at his ears. Hair tumbling into his face, he slipped out, slid in again, giving you an inch each time, letting your walls clamp around the length that wasn’t there. Ren leaned up, allowing the both of you watch his hips roll, watch his thick, heavy cock push you open with its head and pull back out. Frustration turned to tears--the sight alone was enough to splinter you, but his steady breath, the agony of being empty, the twitching of your clit, all of it compounded. It made you break.
“Please,” you whispered, “please, Supreme Leader, please fuck me, please give me your cock.”
It was impossible to miss the arrogant shimmer in his eyes. “No.”
Your face fell. “What?”
“You’ll take what I give you,” he said, “and if you behave, I will make you cum.”
Hundreds, thousands of thoughts raced through your mind in that moment, most of them profane, all of them capable of getting you in trouble. Yes, you were learning the rules. And you knew the only way you’d be sated is if you played by them. Steeling your jaw, you met his gaze.
“Yes,” you mumbled. “Supreme Leader.”
Ren settled over you, nuzzling into your neck. “Jate, little flame,” he rasped. “Now take my cock.”
With a slow rock of his hips, he pushed in--millimeter by millimeter, digging you open, in and out, in and out, letting you feel every vein of his cock, every thump of his pulse as he drove deeper inside of you. You stilled your chest, trembling with blissful, beautiful pain, the sweet sting of being full, the addiction of being stretched. Kylo Ren seated himself, fully sheathed in your tight, slick cunt, exhaling as you clenched around him. Gritting his teeth, he dragged out, deserting you in the same, torturous fashion.
This was, you realized, your consequence. He was going to make you beg for him until the very end.
“Supreme Leader,” you said, grinding your wrists together. “Please, fuck me.”
He huffed. “No.” Another slow thrust in, stretching you again, and he caught a groan in his chest.
“Please,” you gasped. “Please, I want your cock.”
Leaning closer, smothering you with his frame, he glided out. “Too bad.”
“Please,” you said, as he stroked into you, wet and hot around his dick. “Please.”
“Beg all you want.” He shuddered when you squeezed him, his hips twisting into you. “Fuck.”
Sex with the Supreme Leader before had been incredible, sure. But the warmth, the strength, the size of his body over yours, the ability to feel his breath, his heartbeat, the rumble of his voice--incredible became inconceivable. Never had you imagined that you could ever be so aroused, so desperate. Never had you considered pleading and squirming through tears for the fill of cock. Never, through any of your antics, had you been this entranced by any single man.
But Kylo Ren truly was not just a man, you were learning.
He was also an utter bastard.
He was also still, despite it all, a corporeal god.
Ren’s rhythm continued to torment you, pumping slowly in and out of your pussy. You could only wince, inhale, and clench around his girth with each thrust--a strategy that seemed to work. Though his hips kept their pace, his breath quickened, his heart pounded, another groan stopped in his throat. Spurred on, you continued, constricting him, walls milking his dick, working him to his peak inside of your pussy.
“Fuck,” he growled. “Nasty fucking whore. You want me to cum in this cunt, don’t you?”
Lust tore through you. “Yes, Supreme Leader, yes, I want you to cum in me, please, please…”
“Fuck.” Ren slammed into you, jerked out, slammed in again. “Yes.” Another hard, brutal thrust, piercing your cervix, and you quailed. “Fuck. Watch me.” He panted, propped himself onto his palms, sliding out until just the head of his dick was buried in your core. “Watch me fill you.” A quick snap of his hips, and he choked, trapped a deep groan--and came.
His cock, swollen and flush and veiny with the promise of orgasm, jumped and twitched inside of you, a climax so intense it pulsed to his groin. He gasped, tensing with every wave of pleasure as he poured hot cum inside of you, a rapid throb of release. A few aftershock ripples, and it dissipated, his cock softening.
“That’s right.” Ren’s chin dropped to his chest, his lungs filled with satisfied air. Exhaling, he glanced at you, a mischievous glint in his gaze. “I think you’ve earned it.”
In a smooth motion, he pulled out of you and tugged your ass to the edge of the mattress while he dropped to his knees on the ground. Sweat was a second skin, your arms strained, your heart ramming against your ribs. And you gaped, a mere spectator to two large hands wrenching your knees wide before the Supreme Leader dove face-first into your abused pussy.
The words that left you were nonsense, a multilingual damnation of his soft, skilled mouth. Ren devoured your cunt, staring into your eyes while he gathered his cum and your own on his tongue, gulping it down, his lips brushing your neglected clit. A feral, anguished cry escaped you, an appeal for mercy--you were so stirred, so edged that even the slightest attention to the nub hurled you near-orgasm.
“Fuck.” No other words would come to you. “Please. Fuck.”
Finally, benevolent god he was, Ren sucked your clit between his teeth. You screeched in ecstasy, head thrown back on the bed as he licked, lapped, suckled at it, humming at your flesh. He flicked the tip with his tongue, traced tight circles around it, and when your breath picked up in expectation of orgasm, a hand left your thigh, two fingers gliding easily into your core. You moaned, writhed in delight, and Ren crooked them inside of you, the intrusion forcing his cum and your own to drip onto the sheets. Like a starved animal, he abandoned your clit for only a minute to gather the creamy globs with his mouth.
“Supreme Leader,” you groaned, “ka’ra…”
Smirking, he swallowed, sealed his plush lips around your throbbing clit, and sucked. Pleasure commandeered your brain, shutting out rationality, logic, reality itself. Thick fingers curled in your pussy, and you spasmed around him while he groaned against you. The vibration of his voice ricocheted to your thighs, and you cried out, soaring higher, higher, until you were at the peak, a witless body suspended in space. A twist of his hand, a lave of his tongue, and you ascended.
A scream shredded your throat, submerged in a storm of euphoria, sight whiter than the walls of Ren’s quarters. Convulsions wracked you, quaked to your bones, and you heaved, hunted for air while he suckled you through the receding tide of your release. You felt your cunt quivering at his face, felt the mixture of cum at his chin, and you drifted to full consciousness, lids flitting open.
Ren smacked his lips, standing and wiping his face. At some point, he’d tucked himself away. He scanned your panting, exhausted figure before reaching over you and freeing your wrists from his sheets. A groan of relief fled you, and you winced when you dragged your arms down to rub away the fatigue.
Seeing this, the Supreme Leader took your wrists in his own hands, encircling them with ease, and massaged his thumbs where you’d been bound. Your breath skipped, your eyes widened--he did not look at you, did not acknowledge this gesture was his own, even as he adjusted his grip to rub the opposite side of your joints. When he was finished, he glimpsed you for a shooting-star-second--and released you, letting all of you sink into his bed as he paced to his closet.
“You are mine.” He said this while he clothed himself. “Expect to travel with me. Expect to serve me.” His voice was empty. Dead. “Expect me to use you however I please.”
You arched your head back and gazed through the transparisteel, the galaxy appearing just as infinite and enigmatic from this angle as it did from any other. This view, a comfortable bed, a real refresher, and the attention of the Supreme Leader of the First Order? You could be fine with that.
More than fine with that.
“Tracinya.”
“Yes, Supreme Leader,” you said. “I understand.”
As Ren continued to dress, you hoisted yourself onto a pillow, pulled the covers over you. He still hadn’t told you if you could sleep there, but he hadn’t stopped you, either. After a moment, he crossed to you, boots striking the floor, and a gloved grip pinched your shoulder like a handle, turning you to face him. His hair was still half-dry.
“You’re learning the rules well.” He thumbed your lip.
For some strange reason, you blushed. “Only the most sincere effort for you, chakaar.”
He huffed. “Good girl,” he said. “Welcome home.”
Then he turned and left you there, climbing the steps, his footfalls disappearing into the air.
Four words this time, fizzing your blood with glee--home. You wanted to encapsulate this feeling, inject it daily, like a drug. Sighing, content, you stared into the stars, your sterling sentinels. Nevarro was as distant in your memory as it was in space. For now, you belonged to the Supreme Leader. For now, you’d never felt more pleased.
#kylo ren smut#kylo ren x reader#kylo x reader#kylo ren imagine#kylo ren#cocky. beautiful. bastard.#fanfiction problems#just a meanie
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Cathartic Arrest
Rating: Mature
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Characters: Michael (Supernatural), Minor Characters
Additional Tags: Post-Hell Dean Winchester, Post-Lucifer’s Cage Sam Winchester, Dubious Consent, Caning, Codependent Winchesters (Supernatural), It’s all about inflicting and receiving punishment, Jealousy
Summary: ”Sam needs to cope with memories of Lucifer’s abuse. Dean is still trying to cope with this time as torture Master in Hell.
And he’s JEALOUS.”
Word Count 1,793
READ HERE OR ON AO3
Sam was still shaking when he got back to the bunker. He had taken his time before he came back home, but still. This time, it had all been different. She had to help him back into his pants, his shirt, even tuck his shirt in, help him ground himself; when he still didn’t come down from what just happened, she made him sit in her “calm room” as she called it.
She gave him food, good food. Fruits. Pineapple, strawberries, vanilla infused yoghurt. Juices of passion fruit and apples, bread with butter and some lean chicken tenders. He could choose whatever music he wanted, but all he ever would choose was hard rock – the music of his childhood, part of his youth and part of Dean. The music in his ears, usually is of a different, much more intense nature. He’d tried pop. One Direction. Too happy. He’d tried Nu Metal. He was too old to bounce back into his emo stage, also known as his years at Stanford. He had tried all kinds of metal. Trash, Death, Melodic, Symphonic. Nightwish. Later Aesthetic Perfection. All good music, quality wise. But nothing was ever louder than the noises in his head. The crying of baby Sam Winchester, inner-child Sam Winchester. Traumatized and angry and helpless.
Only the noise of a cane meeting his skin, his ass, his legs, even his feet, his own painful cries, the muffled grunts, the thank you’s and the yes'es, the reenactment of his shame, would silence the child. It’d been rough today. The wax on his chest left pink swollen spots, the cane beat him bloody this time.
“I can stop, aye?” she said.
“No, Mistress. Don’t. I want it to bleed.”
She’s not his Domme and he’s not her slave. He isn’t that twisted in his mind to reenact the power exchange, his own powerlessness. Michael watching. Michael. That god forsaken coward.
Sam was still shaking when he started Baby’s engine, slowly rolling away from the place he visits when pressing on his scar stops working. And it’s been working less and less and less. Until nothing else will help but being beaten up by someone to finally overcome the pain, the helplessness, the feeling of being weak and useless. Sam Winchester might be broken, but he still can take a beating without crying.
Dean hates liars. Which is kind of, let’s say hypocritical, given his nature, his past. He lied to Sam about hell, he lied about the deal, he constantly lies to the only person who will probably never leave him. Because even if Sam does leave, he always comes back. He won’t even die for good. Dean doesn’t, Sam doesn’t. They’re here, two moons in this earth’s gravitational pull, doomed to circle each other; the forces of nature keeping them in place but always keeping them apart.
It's one of those days when Sam says he’s about to go jogging, but since when does he have to drive fifty miles to some secluded forest area to jog when they're in the literal middle of nowhere? Dean has seen Sam in the showers. They have their privacy here, both want that or pretend to, but the showers are group showers, long lines of shower heads like in school gyms. They usually lock the doors, so why, this one time, does Sam not lock himself up like he used to? Dean knows about the nightmares, the triggers, the sudden flashbacks and the pressing of Sam’s thumb against the palm of his cut hand. He noticed cuts, deep cuts around Sam’s wrists, that never heal because he keeps on scratching off the scab. The bleeding never stops.
Dean decides that today, enough is enough. He knows this trauma, he was in Hell too. He tortured innocent people, he tortured Bela fucking Talbot. A woman he really respected in the end, though he sugar coated it with cunt-y behaviour. He’s seen so many faces twisted in pain and agony – and all they do in the end? – cry for mama. They cry for their fucking mother, and Sam? Dean wonders who he cried for in the Cage?
Sam is packed up in his “jogging outfit” and he’s about to leave, when Dean gets up from his armchair in the library.
“Where ya goin’, Sammy?”
He jumps.
“Jesus, don’t scare me, man. Really? I’m going jogging.”
“There’s a whole ass forest in front of the batcave, Sam. Why not go there?”
Sam looks down and Dean knows, he’s angry. He’s angry because Dean caught him in his damn lie and there’s no good way out of it.
“I have a jogging buddy over there,” Sam clears his throat, his whole body is tense. Ready to run. Wherever.
“Ah, jogging buddy, I see. Lemme guess, their name is Mistress Lana and he looks bomb in tracksuits.”
Sam is about to erupt and he grows, his posture straightens and he yells. “This is private Dean, you have no, absolutely NO right to spy after me like a--”
“Like a what?”
“Like a fucking jealous wife who caught me in an affair?”
Dean falls silent, but his body, pure, condensed power, anger, fear, slams his arm against Sam’s throat and presses him to the wall.
“It is exactly like that. You drive an hour to see a dominatrix, to what? You become a subby bootlicker all of a sudden? You like that?”
Sam’s nostrils flare and damn, now Dean is on freakin’ thin ice. He is so goddamn jealous of this woman giving Sam something that Dean would give him freely. And happily. He would give him the relief he needs.
“Don’t talk like that!” Sam hisses, trying to wind himself out of Dean’s grip but he’s still sore from the last time Lana tied him up like a Christmas present and hung him on the wall like a pig-half at the butcher’s. Sam loved the marks of the rough rope, loved the feeling of just hanging there, floating, the ground beneath him so far away, the rock bottom so far…“You have no idea how I feel!”
Dean’s head tilts to the side. “I tortured people in Hell, Sam. I know how to make you feel the worst pain of your life – but I can also give you the greatest relief. I can show you mercy, because that’s what you really want. Isn’t it?”
Sam finally breaks free and attacks Dean, one hit after another, breaks Dean’s nose, gives him a black eye, and it only stops when Dean lands a blow right over Sam’s kidney – he staggers back.
“I deserve the pain,” Sam wheezes. “I don’t rely on anyone’s mercy.”
Dean drags him up and brings Sam, who is suddenly so pliant, to his room. What no one has ever known about is the secret door. Dean’s not a witch, Sam would be a great one, but Dean managed to hide a tiny little torture chamber behind his room. Sam fights, he insults Dean. Dean knows, yes he knows, it’s Sam’s way of provoking him and, kind of, making Dean stop.
Sam knows that, when he came back from Hell, Dean fucked around even more than before he’d died –but no one ever saw him with the girls, the submissive ones, the broken little dolls he found. This is Deam’s coping. Reenacting Hell.
Sam clings on to Dean when he’s tied to the bench, naked. Sam is still black and blue, some of his bruises had turned green-yellowish already but no one should hurt him there again. These bruises would take ages to heal, if they’re lucky, without a doctor needed. Sam isn’t fighting anymore, he’s crying.
“Please Dean, take it off of me. Please… I can’t… Take it OFF!”
“I can’t”, Dean says, gently, brushing away Sam’s tears.“Does she fuck you?”
A gasp. “What? Why--?”
“Simple question, Sammy. Does. She. Fuck you?”
Sam nods, hiding his face in his hair and pressing his forehead against the padding.
“I can’t spank you in this condition. You have to heal. Why would you go to that woman when you’re still so roughed up?”
“Why do you care?”Sam’s voice is so thin. Little, scared Sammy, and there was no one in the Cage to save him from what happened.
“Sammy.” Is all Dean says.
“My Sammy.”
Dean is not like that. He loves Sammy, and he would do a lot, but he won’t do That.
Dean’s favorite is his cane. Rattan. Unpeeled. Sam endures several hard blows, in a staccato, a rhythm other people would faint from. But Sammy is strong, and he wants to be broken.
HE
WANTS
TO
BE
BROKEN
And Dean is giving him that. He can think of the girls and boys in Hell while doing it, like he’s not the one inflicting this pain on Sam, but it feels so damn good. Purging. Sam’s cries and whimpers, his yells and finally, finally, when Dean is about to lose control and maul Sam alive – there’s the one Sammy would cry for.
“Dean.”
A gasp. The blows stop. Blood dripping down Sam’s legs.
“Dean.”
Again.
“Sammy..”
So gentle. So tender. So silent.
“Dean, I want to go home….” and that is truly when Sam is broken, the last bastion of his mind, his pride, his goddamn pride is stripped from him. He babbles, he cries, snot and tears and gulps, he even chokes on his cries. “I want to be home with Dean, please hold me, Dean, take me home, Dean…”
Dean dissolves. His own trauma resolves for a minute. He knows, it will never fully go away, he will never heal. But.
“Sammy. I’m here, Sammy. Come here. I’ll take you home, my baby brother. I’m here.”
“Dean, I love you”, Sam chokes out. It could be anything. It could be nothing.
“Sammy, I love you more.”
Dean leans onto Sam’s heaving, still tied up body, sweat and blood, tears, the sobs. When Dean releases Sam from the restraints and carries him to a sofa, he huddles up in Dean's lap. Like a newborn. Overwhelmed with the world outside, sobbing and crying for Dean. Dean is here, holding him tight. Offering him water and more blankets.
Lucifer has never been closer, but Dean has blown him away from Sam. He made Sam just forget for a while. It’s so fucked up, but he can live with fucked up. As long as it’s with Sam and Sam never, fucking never, goes to a whore again when he can have everything from Dean.
Dean will do anything for Sam.
“Dean…”
“I’m here. You’re home.”
»And I will never let you go.«
@laxe-chester67 @deanking @vulgar-library @writethelifeyouwant @itsabookishblog @schaefchenherde @sacrificialtendencies @cloudesworld @all-4-wincest @ohnoitsthebat @rpsocsandcanonohmy @stemroses @nightmarecait @lostmykiliel @alexa-alcantara @wincestismyheart @closetedshippers @dragonardhill @alex-is-a-gay-human
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M.I.A. Part One
The sounds of gunfire filled the night as a lone woman fought against a squad of Sentinel operatives that guarded a special facility. The facility in question experimented with portal technology, which would make transporting supplies all across the Auroa Archipelago simple and quick for Sentinel. The company had taken Skell Tech hostage, which was the company that they were forcing to make their drones, weapons, and now these portals. And numerous private operatives were hired to stop it.
One such operative was a lavender-eyed woman codenamed "Viper", and she was currently fighting her way into the main facility where the portal experimentation was taking place. She was a very fit woman that stood at five feet and eight inches tall. Her hair was semi-bright red, drawn up in a tight ponytail with a bit of her bangs hanging down over the right side of her face and eye. She wore a black half face mask covering her mouth and nose, with some black face paint over her eyes and forehead but not completely covering her skin. She wore gear that was all black, with a black magazine harness that held a few spare dual-magazines for the gun she was using which was a mainly matte black, classic MP5A4 chambered in 9mm. The gun was complete with a red dot sight, a flashlight integrated in the front of the handguard under the barrel, and a folding stock that could fold to the left side of the gun. The barrel, flashlight, magazines and sight were all a dark purple color. On the right side of her harness were three spare magazines for her DMR on her back. Under the harness she wore a simple black combat jacket, and along with that she wore black military cargo pants with armored thighs and knees that led into black combat boots. Over her hands she wore a pair of armored gloves, with black metal over the tops of them and along the knuckles.
Lastly on her back, she wore a black military backpack with clips on both sides of it for her two longer-range guns. One was a designated marksman rifle for medium to long range firing, which was an MK14 EBR that was fully matte black with a dual-range sight, and a foldable grip on the bottom rail. It was custom chambered in .458 Socom rounds to deliver a massive punch when needed. On the opposite side was her sniper rifle, a Barrett MRAD bolt-action sniper rifle chambered in .338 Lapua Magnum. On the bottom rail of her sniper rifle was a bipod, and on the right rail was a range finder that was linked to her rifle's large scope which told her the exact range of her targets in her crosshairs The stocks of both her rifles were folded against the bases of them to make them a bit more compact for carrying. Lastly on her right hip was the holster that held her custom .50 AE Desert Eagle, which had a black frame and slide with black grips and silver barrel. Being trained as she was, she can carry all of these weapons easily with little restrictions, but her ammunition stores for each weapon on her person was limited.
Viper brought down two of her target in the facility before she ran inside, taking a few grazes from bullets fired after her along her arms and her sides. She ran into a door that led to lower levels and closed it behind her, locking it with a hacking device she held up to the digital lock of the door. She quickly began to walk down the stairs and descended deeper into the facility, and she eventually found her target.
She quickly attached her silencer back onto her MP5, and she began to go to work in the shadows of the large room. Thanks to her taking out the alarm system before her move on the facility, no one was alerted to her presence this deep underground. Viper worked through the room she was in and put down all the guards she saw, each being taken down with a bullet right to their heads. One by one their bodies slumped to the metal floor, and Viper was soon left as the only one in the room with the experimental technology.
"I'm in," She spoke quietly into her earpiece to her commanding officer, "Time to take this thing out."
"Good work, Viper. Report back to me once you're clear." Came her commander's reply, and she took her finger from her earpiece.
Viper then plugged her hacking device up to the console in the middle of the room, and she began to upload the program that she was given that would make the experimental portal self destruct, along with the entire facility. But, things had not gone exactly to plan. When Viper began to run that program, the portal activated and lit up the room in a bright light. Viper shielded her eyes from it with one hand, and she went to contact her commander once more.
"Commander, something with the program activated the portal!" She was met with static, which turned into a high-pitched sound that began to turn painful before she pulled the earpiece out.
"Attention Personnel. Facility will self destruct in one minute. Please vacate the premises."
The automated voice came through the speakers of the facility, and then the portal's light began to pulsate and the entire thing started to shake wildly. The entire facility began to shake with tremors as well, and many of the shelves and walkways hanging above the edges of the room began to fall down to the ground. Viper began to feel herself being pulled toward the portal soon after, and she began to try to run and escape the area. But, the pull only got stronger and stronger and she found herself unable to resist being sucked toward the portal. Soon, she was pulled off her feet, and with a final scream she disappeared into the portal, just before the self destruct sequence completed and the facility, and the portal, were destroyed.
Officially, Viper had been declared M.I.A. by her commanding officer. Eventually after that, after search parties had been sent out for days, weeks, and months and even up to five years later after Sentinel's downfall, she had been declared K.I.A..
But she wasn't killed.
Almost as soon as Viper had been pulled into the portal, she had ended up in a forest she didn't recognize. She fell to her knees, feeling her stomach lurching within her, and she pulled her mask down just before she began to vomit profusely after she had been pulled through God-knows-what, all the way to what she assumed was some remote part of Auroa. She soon stopped vomiting, and she folded her MP5's stock to put on her left hip, and she took her backpack and rifles off her body so she could lean her back against a tree, breathing deeply as she stared up into the... bright blue sky.
It was nighttime when she last checked. She checked her watch and saw that it said it should have been just past midnight, and she began to grow extremely confused. She put her earpiece back into the ear and pressed her finger against the button. "Commander Black, respond. This is Viper. The portal sucked me into it, and it transported me to some... unknown location during the daytime."
After several moments of radio silence, Viper tried again. "Commander Black, respond. I'm stranded in a forest and I have no idea where I am. I-"
Viper began to hear a growl behind the tree she was leaned up against, and she stopped talking immediately. She slowly glanced around the tree to where the growl came from, and her eyes went wide as she saw some... black-furred werewolf covered in bone plating, and it had glowing red eyes. She jumped to her feet and rolled away from the tree just before it struck, and she pulled her MP5 from her waist and opened fire on the creature's head. In a few shots, the strange beast went down and began to evaporate into the air, and that just confused her even more.
Before she knew it, she noticed more of the creatures surrounding her from all sides. She had no idea what they were at all, but she did her best to fight them off as they came. The 9mm rounds tore into the hide of the beasts but with their attacks, reloading was hard even with dual mags like she had. She ducked out of the way of a strike from one and fired into its face with the last rounds of one magazine before she was struck in the side, knocking her MP5 out of her hands and sending her to the ground with a gash in her arm.
She rolled to her back and quickly pulled out her Desert Eagle, and she blasted one of the beasts in the head. One powerful shot put it down, and then another came at her and she shot and killed it as well. As its evaporating body came down on her, she began to hear gunfire from another source, and she could tell it was a very big gun that was being used. When the beast evaporated fully, she could see each of the others that surrounded her were going down with their heads being blown to bits or their chests were blown out. She glanced around to see who had come to her rescue, and her eyes widened even further when she saw a huge man dressed like someone from a western movie.
She aimed her pistol at him at him trying to determine whether he was friend or foe, and he just looked at her in shock. She soon lowered her gun and nodded to him, and then she saw another of the beasts appear from the bushes behind the man. Before she could give him a warning, the man's weapon transformed into a claymore right before her eyes and with one hard swing and a pull of the trigger, the recoil of the gunshot send the blade straight through the beast's body.
He then put the blade on his back and turned back toward her. "Hey there. You don't look like you're from around here." His deep voice came to her a moment later.
"Where am I? Who are you?" Viper replied, her hands still gripping her pistol.
"Well first off, I should be askin' you that since you brought some Grimm near my property," The man replied to her, crossing his arms over his chest, "My name's Auron. Auron Karmine. What about you?"
"My... codename is Viper. Thank you for helping me."
Auron stepped forward and reached his hand down to her. "I get the feelin' you got a story to tell about why you're here on Remnant. You seem like you're like my daughter's fiance."
"...Rem...nant?" Viper replied in confusion before slowly taking his hand.
Auron chuckled a bit and pulled her to her feet. "That tells me all I need to know. Get your gear, an' I'll take you to my home an' you can explain everything."
"Oh god, this has to be a weird dream..." Viper remarked and went to gather her backpack and her Vector, "What you're suggesting is fucking crazy."
"I wish I could tell ya it was an' you could wake up in your own world, but..." Auron shook his head, "It's as real as that cut on your arm. I know a few more people that came from another universe or world or whatever, an' one of 'em is set to marry my oldest daughter. You got a lot to learn about Remnant here, an' the Grimm. We need to see if we can get your aura unlocked."
"My fucking what?"
Auron took in a deep breath and let it out evenly. "This is gonna be a long day."
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Now Where Will You Be - 1
I’m starting a new series :O
Basically I really liked the dynamic between the characters in “One Chance” so I’m writing some more stuff in a slight AU of that universe. The only important thing is that instead of the reader only being there for a few days, she’s there with him indefinitely, and this will of course never be addressed.
Chapter 1: Featuring a descriptive fight with blood and gore, gun play, blood kink.
It’s a full blown miracle when some random, well dressed man walks into the Devil May Cry office and asks Dante to kill some hellish creatures for him. Dante can’t believe that his half-assed advertising actually worked. If the man had come in just a few days ago then he would have said no, but he’s feeling a little bit better now, a little bit less depressed. He turns to the source of his sudden personality change to find her standing there beside him and he finds that he can’t resist the way that her face lights up when he agrees to it.
Dante puts on a shirt this time, he’s not sure why he’s bothered because he knows it’s just going to end up getting destroyed anyway. She insists on coming with him, insists that she can handle herself and while he’s a little bit concerned, he can’t really do much but believe her. He has no idea where she keeps getting all of these clothes from, but she ends up dressed in a dark coloured tank top and black jeans with a large belt. His heart leaps into his throat when he sees she’s got thigh holsters on, and it leaps again once more when she turns to him and ever so sweetly asks if she can borrow some guns.
He’s even more concerned when she immediately gravitates towards a shotgun, holding it in her hands with glee. He warns her about the kickback but she just shrugs, says “I know,” and straps it against her leg along with a pistol and some small blades. She winks when she notices that he’s watching her twirl them in her hands and lifts it up, running her tongue against the flat side of the blade. Dante gulps and averts his eyes while she laughs.
She stands in the doorway waiting for him, all loaded up. She cocks her hip and stares at him and he just can’t help but think that he’s going to be very distracted during this job. Then she’s smiling and taking all of it off and shoving it into her bag, because obviously you can’t just wander the streets fully loaded.
It’s a pretty leisurely walk because he doesn’t have a car. She points out all of the things that are different than she’s used to, and what’s going to change. She points out a few places that she wants to visit later and Dante sighs now realising that he’s going to have to play tour guide.
Eventually they reach the abandoned warehouse, well it’s abandoned because of the infestation. Apparently there’s a nest of gross things crawling around inside, the guy wasn’t too specific about what they actually were. She straps her arsenal back to her body and then pulls out a pair of what looks like heavy duty walkman headphones, but with no wires. “In case they’re loud,” she says and he shrugs, throwing his sword on his back and holstering his guns.
She gestures for him to enter first and he’s still unsure about her tagging alone. “You don’t need to watch out for me,” she smiles, “but if I need you, you’ll know. Alright?”
Dante nods even though he’s not sure at all.
He walks through the door first, because he’s basically bulletproof. There’s a reasonable sized nest of grotesque creatures, writhing and crawling over each other. They shriek at him, inhuman screams echoing so heavily off the walls that it makes even his ears ring, he realises that maybe she does know what she’s doing.
The creatures start limping towards him, their gait is wobbly, unsteady. They drag themselves along the floor using their disgustingly long claws. The sound is like nails on a chalkboard and it grates deep inside his skull.
Dante takes in a deep breath and draws his sword. He moves forward with speed and cleaves the heads off four of the creatures with one fluid slice of his weapon. Their too hot blood gushes from their empty necks and rains down on him. He thinks he probably should have thought that through a little bit better.
They’re not difficult to defeat but there’s a lot of them. He fights through as many as he can while she takes up the rear, the ones that he misses. He slices through more and then turns to make sure she’s okay, and then finds himself utterly distracted.
He watches as she plants her feet on the ground, lifts up his shotgun and double taps two rounds right into the face of his horrific abomination, already mangled from his sword. Her arms shake from the recoil but she holds steady as the creature screams and falls to the floor in a twitching heap. She cocks the gun again, turns to him and grins. Fuck his pants get so tight suddenly that he can hardly move. Not that he needs to because he’s almost immediately skewered through the chest by a wicked scythed claw. Dante grunts and shoots the damn thing in the face without even looking behind him. The claw drags sticky against his insides as the weight of the creatures drags on it as it falls to the floor. He pulls the thing out from his back with a squelch and a spray of blood. He turns to find her staring at him, giggling, like she knows she’s the reason he got stabbed.
He finds he’s more motivated then, covered in their blood and his own. He goes after the remaining creatures while his skin itches as it knits back together. He notices that they don’t attack her like they attack him, they approach her like they’re curious, like she’s not a threat even though she’s ripping them apart. Damn they go for him through like he’s personally fucked and then murdered their parents.
Suddenly they’re all dead, heaped in sizzling, rotting piles of flesh on the bloody warehouse floor. He turns and finds her blowing on the steam that billows from the muzzle of her shotgun. There’s demon blood and guts streaked across her ripped shirt, he can see parts of her coloured bra peeking through and even covered in guts he’s never seen anything so alluring.
He stalks towards her like a predator and the creature inside of him purrs when she doesn’t back down. She digs her nails into his chest and pulls him to her lips while he walks her backwards. He crowds her against the shitty, blood stained brick wall, caging her in. Dust falls from the bricks as he puts his hands through them in his desperation to keep her in his grasp. She pulls away and stares directly into his eyes, “not enough carnage for you huh?”
“Not enough carnage,” he growls, “not enough payoff.”
She digs her nails hard into his skin, through the holes in his shirt where the sythe stabbed him through. The skin is already healed but she digs into it like the wound might just open up again. “I call it your horny energy,” she laughs, “when you rile yourself up and the fight just isn’t enough to disperse all the adrenaline. The air around you goes hazy, like looking at a fire. Sometimes you get too eager, and then it’s not just demon blood covering the floor afterwards, if you catch my drift. Powerful devil pheromones are enough to drive even a human mad.” She bites her lip, leaves him to ponder her words and then she’s on him.
He doesn’t even know why he let her talk, why he didn’t just pull her body to him because now she’s biting at his collarbones while playing with his belt and it’s amazing. She undoes it carelessly, yanking his pants barely down enough to free what she wants. She plays with his cock, squeezing at it roughly while Dante tries his best not to shred her pants in his haste to have her.
He lifts her up while she puts her legs around his waist and his dick almost instantly finds the already wet entrance of her cunt. She bites down on his bottom lip and digs her nails into his shoulder, rocking her hips until he can’t help but press inside of her.
He fucks her roughly, because he really doesn’t know how to do it any other way. She takes everything he gives her and begs for more. She cries out his name and claws at his skin.
She reaches behind him and he thinks she’s just feeling him up, but then there’s a click and her hand is coming back with one of his guns. He hears the clip fall to the ground as she uploads it, and he pulls away from her lips as his cock throbs inside her. He opens his eyes to find her pointing the gun straight at his face, still with a bullet in the chamber.
He leans forwards and bites down on the cold steel, the metal creaking against the force of his fangs. He feels her cunt tighten around his cock.
“Can I shoot you?” she asks, and then seems taken back by the way his eyes blow wide open. “No, you’re not ready,” she murmurs and then pulls the slide back as more bullets fall to the ground.
She brings it to his temple, presses the cool metal to his skin. “Fuck me harder Baby,” she whispers and suddenly he finds that he can’t stop.
She keeps the gun at this temple as he fucks her, as he thrusts hard and fast into her tight, willing body. He can’t say the feel of the metal doesn’t spur him on. He licks the remnants of blood from her neck and chest while she bites at his jaw and uses her free hand to claw lines upon lines of marks against his chest.
He struggles to keep it together as she starts biting at his throat. Because that’s her cue to him that she’s close, and because she knows that once she digs her teeth in and draws blood, he won’t be able to help spilling inside of her.
Her body spasms around him, and her arm holding the gun is shaking as she comes. She calls out his name and the wall behind her back turns to dust as he starts to come. She fires the gun just as the pleasure gets too much and even though it’s empty, even though the only reaction is the soft click of the empty chamber. The anticipation of more is enough to send him over the edge.
The warehouse is an even worse state once he’s had his fill of her. She just holds onto his arm for support so she can stand, nuzzling at his shoulder and smiling.
“Guns huh?” he asks later, once they’ve got their clothes back on and they’re walking back to the office.
“Don’t knock it until you try it,” she grins, “give it a little bit and soon you’ll be begging for me to blow your brains out when you come.” She laughs when her words make him stumble and make a slight moan escape from his lips. “Don’t worry,” she smirks, “just you wait and maybe I’ll give you a demonstration after the next job.”
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idk about you but horny/needy Michael has me 🥵 like teasing him until he can’t take it anymore is the absolute dream
…Nice.
(as always, thanks to @divinelangdon for the idea while we were talking about subjects that shall remain nameless)
You had the idea in mind for quite some time, but had to be careful on when to execute the plan, lest Michael get suspicious or decide to punish you. Although he’s a very dominant man (we’re talking Outpost!Michael here), he has his periods of softness. After a long day of interviews–listening to various residents complain about their living conditions when they should be grateful for even surviving nuclear Armageddon, as well as spurning the laughable attempts at seduction–Michael was more than ready to lay in bed with you and refuse to leave his chambers until it was absolutely necessary.
Sensing the palpable resignation when Michael walks in, as well as seeing how tight his shoulders are, you realize that now is the time to strike. He gives you a half-hearted smile before sitting on the bed, watching with weary eyes as you move to sit on your knees below him. Taking off Michael’s leather riding boots is a normal part of your daily routine, as regular as brushing your teeth or eating lunch.
“Long day?” you ask, undoing the top buckle on his left boot before sliding the zipper delicately down the length of his calf.
“You have no idea.”
You frown. “We could just kill them and end this little trip now. We’d be back at the Sanctuary in time for breakfast.”
“While that sounds appealing,” Michael flexes his foot once it’s free of the confines of his shoe as you work on the other boot, “the plan is already set in motion. The apples should arrive in the morning, and the snakes–”
“I should hope that you won’t have to conjure up more of them?” Slowly, you begin to massage Michael’s feet and legs, partially to actually help him relax and partially to catch him off guard for what you’re about to do. “Everything you’ve done since the bombs dropped is for your father. The least he can do is drop a few venomous snakes in this Outpost.”
“That’s nothing you need concern yourself with.”
“I just think you work too hard.” He doesn’t notice when your hand starts to rise just above his knee, movements becoming softer than the deep massage you were focusing on earlier.
“It will all be worth it when the world is truly cleansed.”
Sick of the Satan talk, you look up at Michael through your eyelashes as your hand moves higher once more. You’re nearly to the middle of his thigh, but Michael is so wrapped up in his thoughts that he doesn’t realize that your hands are even still on him.
“It’s all worth it now,” you lower your voice to little more than a murmur. Michael’s breath hitches imperceptibly when your nails begin to trace his upper thigh, just barely grazing the side of his cock. “Michael?”
“Hmm?”
“I really think you should take some time for yourself.”
Pouting, you apply more pressure as you begin to directly stroke his hardening length. Michael bites his bottom lip as he gazes down at you, bracing both hands on the bed for leverage. The candlelight creates a backlight for his long golden hair, making it look as if a halo is behind his head. You relish the irony of the thought as you trail your hand back down to the middle of his thigh.
“I-I can’t, (Y/N). There’s emails to be sent to Cooperative members, plans to be finalized–” he cuts himself off with a choked gasp when you suddenly squeeze his cock through his black leather pants.
“Now, that’s not what I wanted to hear.” Raising yourself up from your knees, you hike one leg around Michael’s waist to straddle his lap. His eyes are wide, nearly blown out as he stares at you like you’re the goddess he claims you to be.
“(Y/N),” he stutters your name, shakily placing his hands on your hips. You toss your head back, basking in the power that you hold over the most dangerous being to walk the Earth. Oh, you could get used to this.
“Think of all that you’ll miss,” you begin to roll your hips against his, punctuating your sentence with a dramatically breathy moan for Michael’s enhanced pleasure. “You’re gone all day, leaving me here all alone…”
“Is this what you do when you’re alone? Scheme?” He attempts to sound threatening, but the feeling of your clothed cunt thrusting against his constrained length evaporates any sort of ferocity in his tone.
“Well, when you leave me no choice, what else am I supposed to do?” Kissing his nose, you abruptly stand from his lap. Michael lets out a loud, dejected groan, his face red from the restraint.
“(Y/N), please,” you almost grin at the whiny sound of his voice, but contain yourself.
“I’m sorry, what is it that you want?” You smile wickedly at him, and you can see the appreciation in Michael’s eyes at the page you’ve taken from his playbook.
“Come back here and finish what you’ve started.”
You lean down so your face is mere inches from his, grabbing his jaw with your hand and enjoying how his eyes flutter from the pain. “Then beg.”
#michael langdon#michael langdon imagine#michael langdon x reader#michael langdon x you#american horror story#american horror story imagine#american horror story apocalypse#american horror story imagines#AHS#ahs imagine#ahs imagines#ahs apocalypse
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Is It Sacrilegious to Hate the Classics Still?
Okay, hate’s a strong word. I mean, I’m an English major after all.
It’s just...haven’t we praised the genius of all this old literature enough yet? Isn’t it time we used their writing more as a jumping off point rather than the highest standard? Can we even say “T.S. Eliot does it best”, or “The Wanderer is the epitome of monologue” anymore? (Did anyone ever say that?) I mean some of these writings are over 400 years old.
Look at this:
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets...
Tell me that wasn’t SO boring. Clearly on the page the word drama means something different, am I right? Oh, you were still reading? Really? Well I’ll put the rest of the monologue at the end of this post for you, but I’m certainly not going to read it.
See, I know that a classic monologue, when performed or read aloud, is powerful, witty and beautiful. I’m not immune to the charms of great classic writing, contrary to how it may seem. I get drawn to the edge of my seat just like the rest, and I know the hush that falls over we who are in the audience. BUT, that doesn’t mean The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock packs the ultimate punch for a modern audience anymore. Especially if it stays on the page.
So get with the times or move over Mr. Classic Literature, dramatic monologue has made it’s way to television and it’s doing better than ever!
(Here’s your poem you literature buffs!)
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old ... I grow old ...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
Source: Collected Poems 1909-1962 (1963)
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how bittersweet this would taste
Rating: T
Fandom: Merlin (TV)
Word Count: 1536
Summary: “No…” Arthur fumbled, the words falling heavy from his lips. “Not sleepy. Stay?” He peers at Merlin with wide blue eyes, his face open and hopeful, and damn— as if Merlin could ever resist Arthur like this, with walls down and posture loose and pretense dropped. As if he’d want to.
-
OR: It's the night before Gwen and Arthur's marriage, and Arthur has a bit too much to drink. As always, Merlin's there for him.
[read on ao3]
“Jusff—” Arthur pauses to let out a belch, sagging bodily onto Merlin’s thin frame. Raising up a limp arm in a half-hearted gesture, he swings it around jerkily and nearly clocks Merlin’s head in the process.
“Justtt that way Merlin.” Satisfied that he had managed the words, Arthur abruptly lets his arm drop, leaning against Merlin’s shoulder with a dopey grin. Merlin only sighs, readjusting his grip around Arthur’s waist and shifting his dead weight into a more comfortable position.
“I know where your chambers are, Arthur.” Merlin allows himself a brief eye roll, secure in the knowledge that Arthur was too far gone to notice. “But I can’t carry you up the stairs. You’ve got to help me out, okay?” Arthur gave no indication that he had heard Merlin, instead lolling his head around to wave sloppily at a guard who had just walked past.
“Hey!” Merlin tugs sharply at the arm Arthur has slung around his shoulders. “Prat. Are you listening?”
“Yes. Climb stairs. Got it.” Arthur grins, squeezing Merlin’s shoulder. “You’re so…tense. Cheer up!” He pats Merlin’s cheek, eliciting a grunt of frustration and resignation. “Tomorrow, Camelot will finally have a Queen.” Arthur pronounces the words with rounded lips, his features settling into a blissed-out expression.
“Gods, I really am going to have to haul you up the stairs.” Merlin pokes Arthur’s stomach. “You’re not light, you know.” At that, Arthur looks at Merlin, his face twisted in confusion.
“Are you calling me fat?”
And Merlin surmises that if Arthur could still recognize an insult to his royal person, then he was damn well enough to get up the stairs.
*
Arthur clutches at the back of his chair for support as Merlin pushes him out of his grip.
Merlin didn’t know Arthur as the type to overindulge, especially at court feasts, but he supposes that the current circumstances justified any excessive celebration well enough. Morgana hadn’t been seen for months, not after she’d fled from the castle in defeat. And in peace, Camelot had flourished and flowered. Day by day, Merlin had watched as the poor and powerful alike turned towards Arthur with bright smiles and eyes full of stars, and he thinks there’s something seriously wrong in how swollen his heart grows with pride.
And tomorrow, a wedding revived, a coronation far too long delayed. He grows soft at the thought of Gwen, all dark eyes and full curls and patience and kindness, taking her destined place next to Arthur on the throne. Gwen, the stammering, shy girl Merlin had flirted with on the stocks and sent to the cells and saved from the stake. No one could hope to make a better queen, and if a tiny bit of him aches—the part that knows a piece of Arthur would belong only to Gwen and never to Merlin—well, he steadfastly ignores it.
Arthur stumbles again, sending papers flying to the floor as he sweeps clumsy hands across his desk in search of purchase. Finally grabbing onto a corner and steadying himself, he looks to Merlin with a happy smile, as if expecting a compliment. Merlin snorts.
“I’d normally draw a bath for you, but with the state you’re in, I don’t trust you not to drown.” Merlin pauses, assessing the situation. “Shall I help you into your bedclothes? Sire?” Standing with one hip cocked and arms crossed, Merlin glares down at Arthur, looking the picture of an annoyed nanny.
“No…” Arthur fumbled, the words falling heavy from his lips. “Not sleepy. Stay?” He peers at Merlin with wide blue eyes, his face open and hopeful, and damn— as if Merlin could ever resist Arthur like this, with walls down and posture loose and pretense dropped. As if he’d want to.
“Alright,” Merlin concedes, placing a steadying hand on Arthur’s shoulder and lowering him down on his chair. “Have any chores for me? The sword? The floors? The hearth?”
“Juuust. Sit.” Arthur commands, putting on a face of fond exasperation that may have been a tad adorable. Holding back another eye roll, Merlin obediently perches down on the floor and waits, wondering what an inebriated Arthur could want with Merlin.
Seeing that Merlin had followed his direction, Arthur quiets, settling into a hazy silence as his eyes turn glassy, lips curling into a soft smile. Merlin taps his fingers against his knee, waiting for Arthur to address him, but Arthur just relaxes into his daze, resting his chin on his palm. Seconds blend into minutes, the two men sitting across one another, only the occasional croak and chirp of wildlife sounding out as background.
With Arthur lost in his head, Merlin takes the rare opportunity to observe. He covers Arthur with his gaze, tracing the golden fringes of his hair, the regal bridge of his nose, the slight pout of his lips. And with every sweep of his eyes, he sends Arthur, husband-to-be, bittersweet well wishes.
You’d better live long and travel far with Gwen, Arthur. Tomorrow, you’ll be hers. And after that, I promise, I swear, that I’ll never again look at you and think thoughts only Gwen should. You have my word.
And Merlin’s quite adamant, even if he’s not sure who he’s swearing to— Arthur or himself.
The moments stretch like molasses, Arthur off in his own world, Merlin letting himself, for one last time, look at Arthur as a lover would.
Arthur’s voice breaks the silence, and Merlin snaps back into focus.
“Gwen’s so beautiful, don’t you think, Merlin?” Arthur’s face looks cracked open with joy, happiness sparking out in rays, and Merlin’s heart lurches in acceptance. No doubt what Arthur had reminisced about in his earlier stupor.
“Yes. She is a remarkable woman, and you are a lucky man,” Merlin allows, careful to agree without offending.
“She’s pretty, she’s strong, she’s… perfect.” Arthur continues, his brightness suddenly subdued as he looks at Merlin. “But why- ?” Abruptly, he cuts off, squinting at Merlin like a particularly hard to solve problem.
“Yes, sire?”
“It’s nothing,” Arthur snaps, but his words lacked bite. “You can prepare me for bed.” He sounded suddenly a bit more sober.
*
“Raise your hands a bit higher— there we go.” Merlin expertly pulls the tunic atop Arthur’s frame, tugging at the bottom to smooth out wrinkles. He secretly thinks that Arthur makes Merlin help dress him just so he can laugh when Merlin struggles, but Merlin likes this sometimes, likes preening Arthur like a proud mother hen.
When he looks down, Arthur’s already staring at him from where he sits on the edge of his mattress, an odd expression on his face.
“You’re pretty.” The words seem to slip out without Arthur’s notice, and he immediately reels back, sputtering. “I meant— I—”
Merlin’s heart, gone still at the sudden admission, picks up double speed. What if— maybe— was it possible? That maybe sometimes, Arthur too saw Merlin with eyes tinted gold? But— and Merlin steels himself— what good were useless words from an intoxicated king?
“Arthur,” Merlin says slowly. “It’s okay. You’re drunk. You didn’t mean it.” Arthur’s face looked pinched, but he nods mutely.
“Just go to sleep, okay? Big day tomorrow.” He stoops down, lays his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, meaning to help ease him into bed.
And suddenly, they’re face to face, nose to nose, blue clashing on blue. If he wanted to, Merlin could count the freckles on Arthur’s nose, name each individual eyelash from where they fan out against his skin. Arthur’s breath eddies out in a wisp, and Merlin’s tongue unconsciously darts across his bottom lip, wetting a trail across the pink flesh. Arthur’s gaze drops, and he leans in, almost spellbound.
Merlin knows that he could. They’re close enough that their breath mingles in the space between them, rising in warmth and heating their faces. Arthur and Merlin. Merlin and Arthur. Even the air seems to announce it, trumpeting the words and flowing out to leave only vacuum separating their lips. He could let Arthur chase away the last bit of distance with his mouth, could bring his hands up to clutch at Arthur’s stupid blonde hair when they kissed.
Arthur brings himself in further, pupils blown wide and heartbeat heavy in anticipation.
And his lips make contact with Merlin’s cheek.
The unexpected feel of skin seems to jolt Arthur back to reality, and he wrenches himself backward, flushed red and panting.
“Merlin! I’m sorry—” Arthur gasps out, eyes widening in panic.
Spots of pink decorate Merlin’s cheekbones and the tips of his ears. He places a hand back on Arthur’s shoulder.
“Remember what I said? You’re drunk. You need sleep.” Nodding firmly, Merlin guides a still mortified Arthur back down onto the bed. Sighing, he lifts the edge of the sheets, gently placing them over Arthur's body, vulnerable in the moonlight.
Arthur watches Merlin, brows crinkled and face still tinted with color.
Knowing he would regret it come morning, Merlin runs a hand softly through Arthur’s hair, giving him a small smile that seemed far too sad.
“Goodnight, Arthur. Sleep well.” He brings his hand down, fingertips lingering for a moment on Arthur’s cheek, then stands.
Arthur’s eyes are still on him when he leaves.
#merlin#merlin bbc#bbc merlin#arthur pendragon#king arthur#arthur#prince arthur#pendragon#merthur#excalibur#gwen#guinevere#morgana#camelot#merlin emrys#emrys#merlin fic#*merlin#*goswrites#*ficmerlin
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just a kiss on your lips (in the moonlight) 3/6
After months on the road in search for his future husband, Kurt Hummel has finally found somebody he can see himself spending the rest of his life with. The only problem? Blaine isn’t the one being presented to Kurt; it’s his older brother.
A love story told in stolen moments.
Here is chapter three! There’s some smut in this one ;) I’m hoping to get chapter four out soon, but I’m not 100% sure of when “soon” will be. Sorry about that :/ Hope you guys enjoy!
Read on AO3 | Read Chapter One | Read Chapter Two
Kurt knows he just made a terrible, impulsive decision. He knows that he’ll have to do damage control tomorrow. He knows that Mercedes is going to kill him. He knows all this.
Right now, though, he doesn’t care. Right now he is frustrated, hands clenched at his sides, muttering under his breath as he stalks through the halls of Castle Westerville.
The night had been going well. Kurt had only danced with each of his suitors once, and he’d managed to keep his eye on Blaine for most of the evening. Then, he was able to escape Baron Kiehl and Prince Cooper, finding solace with Princess Sunshine, second in line to the Westerville throne.
The conversation was flowing easily. He wanted to make a good impression on the Princess, as he knew they would be ruling simultaneously at some point in the future. Any precautions he could take to avoid a war with Westerville, he would take. It also helped that Princess Sunshine seemed far closer to Blaine, personality-wise, than she did to Cooper.
Then, of course, everything fell apart. Prince Cooper approached Kurt and Princess Sunshine, wrapping a far too possessive arm around Kurt’s waist.
“I’m surprised you’re smiling so much, Sunshine,” he said, a bite in his voice that Kurt didn’t like one bit. “I would have thought it would be absolutely destroying you, knowing that your silly cousin, eighth in line for the throne, is soon going to have more monarchical power than you could even imagine having.”
Sunshine’s eyes widened in shock, and Kurt turned to Prince Cooper, jaw already dropped. “Excuse me?”
“She’s always thought she was better than me, because she’s going to be queen and I’ll never be king,” Prince Cooper says to Kurt, loud enough for Princess Sunshine to hear. “Must be unbearable to have the tables turned, eh, Sunshine?”
“I have never thought I was better than you,” Princess Sunshine said through clenched teeth, at the same time as Kurt pulled himself out of Prince Cooper’s hold.
“You presume too much, Prince Cooper,” Kurt said, voice cold. “I can assure you that I have not made a decision yet on who will be my groom, and this display of pettiness has done you no favours. You would do well to apologize to your cousin for your rudeness, and to myself for your presumption.”
With that, he turned and stormed out of the ballroom, fully aware of the sheer number of eyes watching him.
Kurt shakes his head as he reaches his guest quarters, throwing the door open and then slamming it shut once more with far more strength than necessary.
“Your Highness,” his personal servant, Mike, stands from where he’d been eating a bowl of soup. “I’m surprised you have returned so early.”
“I’d had enough for the night,” he says, hands clenching into fists. “The nerve of some people… to be so bold as to presume…” he shakes his head as he starts to pace.
There’s a knock on the door, and Mike hurries over, though not before sparing Kurt a worried glance.
“Hello,” the voice is Blaine’s, and Kurt toward the door in an instant. “I’m… I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that-”
“Mike,” Kurt says, cutting Blaine off. Mike turns to him, a questioning look on his face. “Please go to the ball and inform Mercedes that I do not wish to be disturbed, no matter how angry she is at me. There will be no need for you to return with haste, so please, enjoy the ball. You’ve been cooped up in this room for too long anyhow.”
Mike simply nods, though he does smirk as Blaine passes him. Kurt knows that he will be in for one hell of a teasing later, but for now, he just wants to be alone with Blaine.
“Kurt,” Blaine says, shutting the door behind Mike quickly. “Are you alright? I saw what happened.”
“Your brother is a buffoon,” Kurt spits out. “To be so bold as to presume to know my heart, especially when he has been nothing but obnoxious since I met him.” He shakes his head. “The utter audacity…”
“Please, don’t hold it against him,” Blaine says. “He’s rash and impulsive, and rarely thinks before he speaks, but he means well. He just… he wants to be king. Always has. I think his ambition has blinded him.”
Kurt stares at Blaine for several moments, trying to process his words.
“Why are you defending him?” he asks, eyes narrowing. “Do you… do you want me to marry your brother?”
He must admit, the thought hurts. He thought they’d had a connection, the previous night. To have it flipped so soon, for Blaine to practically beg Kurt to give Prince Cooper a second chance…
Blaine glances down at his feet. He is quiet for several moments, and then, quietly, says, “If you married Cooper I would get to see you on occasion. You would not disappear from my life forever when the festival ends.”
Kurt hurries to Blaine’s side, wrapping the man in his arms. Blaine melts into his embrace, and they hold each other for several moments.
“I will not disappear from your life,” Kurt promises. “Not unless you wish me to.”
“I could never wish that,” Blaine whispers.
“Then I never shall,” Kurt replies.
Blaine stares up at him, lips slightly parted. He is far too tempting, and Kurt cannot help but lean down and press their lips together, remembering how wonderful it felt the previous night.
Blaine kisses back for a second, then pulls away. “We shouldn’t,” he says quietly.
“Why not?” Kurt asks, remaining close, but keeping a safe distance.
“My reputation,” Blaine whispers. “I told you yesterday, I may not be marriageable, but it still matters. The southerners won’t respect me if they see me as a hussy.” He blushes as he looks away. “Besides, you’re here to find a husband. Is it really wise for you to be… philandering with me?”
Kurt presses his lips together, trying not to laugh. “Philandering?”
“You know what I mean,” Blaine says, still not meeting his eye.
Kurt smiles at the blush on Blaine’s cheeks. “Blaine,” he says, squeezing Blaine’s shoulder lightly. “I have not met a single man on this entire journey that has captivated me even half as much as you do.” Blaine glances at him, and Kurt can see the hint of a smile at the corner of his lips. “I would much rather spend the remaining three evenings philandering,” he rolls his eyes as he says it, and Blaine chuckles, ducking his head, “with you, then out there with them.”
Blaine chuckles again, looking up at Kurt from under his eyelashes. “Prince Kurt, you sure know how to sweet talk a man,” his tone is teasing, and it makes Kurt grin.
“Well, what can I say. I’m a philanderer, apparently,” he winks, and Blaine laughs.
This time, when Kurt leans in to kiss him, Blaine doesn’t pull away. Instead he kisses back, softly at first, but slowly becoming more assertive.
Kurt drapes his arms over Blaine’s shoulders as they trade lazy kisses, heart pounding quickly in his chest. He clasps his hands together behind Blaine’s neck, pulling the man closer. Blaine tilts his head up to kiss Kurt better, slipping his tongue into Kurt’s mouth and making Kurt moan.
Kurt can feel himself becoming aroused, but he doesn’t want to push Blaine into anything. He pushes Blaine away carefully, and quietly says, “We can stop, if you’d like.”
“Why would we stop?” Blaine asks, breathless.
Kurt raises an eyebrow, then rolls his hips forward, his erection meeting Blaine’s thigh. He bites down on his bottom lip to stop from moaning at the contact, especially when he feels Blaine’s erection against his own thigh.
“Oh,” Blaine whispers, eyelids fluttering shut. His lips part, and his head tilts back slightly. “That’s, um. Not a problem.”
“Really?” Kurt asks, tightening his hold around Blaine’s neck.
Blaine shakes his head, opening his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, and Kurt’s heart skips a beat. “Just… we can go slow, right? It’s been a while.”
Kurt smiles, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to Blaine’s lips. “We can go as slow or as fast as you want. You set the pace.”
“That’s not a very philanderer thing to say,” Blaine says, and Kurt chuckles.
“What can I say, I’m a new type of philanderer. The type that respects the desires of my partner.”
“Me,” Blaine whispers, a breathless awe in his voice. Kurt knows exactly how he feels.
“You,” he repeats, just as breathless as Blaine had been.
They move to Kurt’s bedroom, which makes them both blush. Kissing on Kurt’s bed feels different than kissing in the common area of the guest chambers, and it barely takes any time at all before Kurt’s erection begins to grow desperate in his breeches.
He rolls his hips against Blaine’s, and Blaine moans. “Can we…” Blaine rolls them over, so that he is straddling Kurt’s lap. He moves his hips down into Kurt’s, and Kurt’s eyes roll back. “Just like this?”
“Of course,” Kurt says. He leans his head up and kisses Blaine again. They find an easy rhythm, and even though Kurt knows this would feel much better without their trousers in the way, he doesn’t want to push Blaine into more than he’s ready for. Although he still thinks it absurd that Blaine does not feel as though he should be allowed to indulge in this type of pleasure, he also wants to be respectful of Blaine. As far as he knows, the last man Blaine did this with betrayed him and ruined his reputation throughout the kingdom of Westerville.
Kurt refuses to repeat Prince Sebastian’s mistake.
“I know I’ve already said this,” Kurt whispers against Blaine’s lips. “But you are unlike any man I’ve ever met.”
Blaine blushes, though his hips never stop moving. “The implications of that statement better not be that no other man would do this with you only three days after meeting.”
Kurt’s hands fly down to Blaine’s hips, stopping their movements. “Blaine,” he says, voice soft despite his desire. “You are unlike any man I’ve ever met because you are kind, and honest, and you don’t treat me like a gateway to the crown of Lima. I feel closer to you after only three days than I have with any of the men I’ve met on this journey after two weeks.” He tilts his head up to kiss Blaine gently on the lips.
“Oh,” Blaine replies. “You… oh.”
Kurt smiles, bringing Blaine’s hips down against his. “It was a compliment. I promise.”
“I believe you,” Blaine says, kissing Kurt.
Kurt wants to keep talking. He wants to tell Blaine about how he hasn’t stopped thinking about him since they met. He wants to tell Blaine about how desperately he wants to reject all his other suitors and beg Blaine to be his husband. He wants to promise Blaine that sexual impurity means nothing, literally, and that if he married Kurt, nobody would ever look down on him for doing something as common as sleeping with his fiancé ever again.
He doesn’t, though. Not yet. Instead he starts moving his hips in tandem with Blaine’s, creating the most delicious friction.
Blaine moans into his mouth, grinding down quicker, more erratically. “I’m not going to last long,” he whispers. “It’s… it’s been a while.”
“I won’t last long either,” Kurt admits. “It’s okay.”
Blaine’s entire face goes lax, and he rolls his hips down one, two, three more times, and then he’s coming against Kurt.
The pleasure written all over his face makes Kurt’s cock throb, and it isn’t long before he is coming as well, all over the inside of his breeches.
Blaine manages to roll over so that he falls onto his face next to Kurt instead of on top of him. He sighs, and Kurt hopes he isn’t just imagining how pleased he sounds.
“That was wonderful,” Blaine says, turning his head so that his cheek rests against the pillow. He smiles at Kurt, who shifts closer to him, moving to his side.
“It was more than wonderful,” Kurt replies. He stares at Blaine, at this wonderful man who has come into his life so unexpectedly, and knows he never wants to let him go.
“What are you thinking?” Blaine asks, running his fingers over Kurt’s cheek.
Kurt’s eyes flutter closed at the action. “About you,” he whispers. “How I want you to be in my life forever.”
“So… you’ll marry Cooper?” Blaine asks. Kurt can’t tell if he looks hopeful, or worried. There is yearning written in his eyes.
Kurt bites down on his bottom lip. “You… you don’t wish to marry? Ever?”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” Blaine replies.
“I know,” Kurt says, looking deep into Blaine’s eyes. He imagines them being the first thing he sees in the morning, and his heart skips a beat. “Answer mine, and then I’ll answer yours?”
Blaine exhales deeply. “No. I don’t wish to marry.” He removes his hand from Kurt’s cheek, letting it fall to his side. “After everything that happened with Sebastian I knew nobody would want me. It was hard, at first, but I eventually grew accustomed to the idea. I don’t need a spouse to run the Southern estates, as Santana has been trained her whole life to run them as well as I have. It’s better like this.”
Kurt swallows thickly. Blaine is staring at him, clearly wanting him to answer the question he posed him. “I don’t know if I’ll marry Cooper,” he says. “I want you in my life but… Blaine, I know he’s your brother, but he’s not really…” He thinks of the scene Prince Cooper caused earlier and cringes. Could he marry a man like that just to ensure that Blaine would remain in his life?
“I understand,” Blaine says. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to do something you don’t want to just for me.”
His heart aches as he says, “I would do anything for you.”
They lean in for a soft kiss, and Kurt wishes he could stay in this moment forever.
He can’t, of course. Reality comes knocking on his door, literally, making him pull away from Blaine.
“Um, Your Highness?” It’s Mike, and Kurt sighs.
“Yes, Mike?”
“Several people have mentioned Prince Blaine’s disappearance,” Mike’s voice comes through the door. “And Mercedes desperately wants to speak with you.”
“Of course she does,” Kurt grumbles.
“I should return,” Blaine says, sitting up. He glances down at his lap and pulls a face. “Maybe I should change first, though.”
“I should do the same,” Kurt says, registering the disgusting mess in his trousers.
“I’ll… I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” Blaine asks.
Kurt smiles. “Nothing could keep me away from you.”
They share one final kiss before Blaine scurries from the room, bidding Mike a soft goodbye.
Kurt looks up to the door to see Mike leaning in the doorway. “Thank you for your discretion,” he says.
“You know I’d do anything for you,” Mike replies. “But, Your Highness, are you sure you’re being wise? I mean, sleeping with the brother of one of your suitors…”
“I know,” Kurt says, rubbing a hand over his face. “I know.”
Mike winces, and Kurt sighs.
“Mercedes is waiting for you. She’s on the warpath.”
“Right,” Kurt says. “Just… let me change first. Send her in in five minutes.”
Mike raises an eyebrow, then smirks. “Yes, Your Highness,” he says, exiting the room and shutting the door behind him quietly.
As Kurt changes, he thinks of Blaine. It is just his luck that the only man he wishes to be his husband doesn’t want to marry anybody, ever.
Next Chapter
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A Blue CatAstrophe Ch.7
AHAHAHAHA I LIVE!!!! Thanks to all the nice people who encouraged me during my little writers block/motivation slump period! Have a chapter with plenty of Shance and Pidge being a geek! :)
Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.6
Shiro was internally screaming. Very loudly. His head was actually ringing at this point, with Black laughing like crazy in the back of his mind. He was currently pacing his room, face redder than Keith's Lion. Lance was Azul. Lance was a cat. The very same cat that had calmed him from a nightmare and slept in his bed on his chest. Black very kindly told him that he should calm himself before he overheated and fainted. He kept pacing, half sure there were marks from his shoes on the ground from the rate at which he was going, back and forth in an oval. He stopped pacing and hid his face in his hands with a groan.
He was not handling this crush well at all. At first, during the whole Balmera incident, he'd just been worried over a teammate, but then he'd felt something flutter in his heart when Lance had come out of that coma to shoot Sendak. And then it slowly evolved from there into a full blown crush with every laugh, every smile, and though he'd tried to push it down, it never worked, and eventually he'd wanted to start pulling a Keith and punch every alien Lance flirted with in the face out of pure impulse and spite. Which was why he hadn't wanted Lance on Kolkar at the alliance meeting, because he didn't know if he could handle seeing Lance flirt with another alien again. He didn't think he'd be able to stop himelf from bitch-slapping someone with his activated arm if he saw one more damn sentient being actually flirting back with the gorgeous Blue Paladin.
He smacked his head into the wall at his own thoughts. With a sigh, he decided to go work off some of these emotions at the training deck, then go check on Pidge. He rubbed his forehead, and headed out.
Pidge dashed about the room, setting up testing areas and hooking up wires to Green, her laptop running a hundred codes a minute as she processed the pollen, and Lance was exhausted just watching her. So, he settled for sprawling lazily across the warm keyboard of the laptop and purred at the heat spreading through his fur, and fell into a sort of half-asleep state, ears pricked and listening to Pidge babble to herself in Science mumbo-jumbo.
“Okay Lance! I need you to step into this scanner real quick.” Pidge explained, motioning to one of the weird metal boxes that were open at both ends, and was hooked up to the computer. Lance grumbled and got up from his napping spot, moving towards the box and stepping through, moving slowly as Pidge instructed him. Pidge hummed and sent the results to Coran, who was using a tablet to communicate with the youngest Paladin from down on Kolkar, and began flipping through a microscope with the pollen on a slide. Lance stood nearby, ready to shove Pidge aside in she accidentally breathed it in. Wait, hold on a minute. Lance jumped down, padded over to where she'd left her packet of surgical masks with Green, and started nudging it towards his tiny teammate.
Pidge looked up, and grinned. “Oh yeah! Thanks Lance. I almost forgot to put one of those on. Good thing Coran worked it out when I told him I needed something like this. The replication part of the ship is fascinating! I'll have to see how that works later...” She said cheerfully, then slid on a mask over her mouth and nose, testing her breathing for a minute before nodding and going back to the slide, Lance staying close by on the little table.
“Hmm… yeah, looks like this was made to specifically alter genetic structures into it's most primitive form, and I guess the most primitive form on Kolkar is some sort of feline-esque creature.” Pidge muttered, stepping back from the microscope and beginning to pace back and forth in front of Lance, who was now lying on the table, tail twitching idly as he watched her move back and forth.
“But, thanks to Blue and her Quintessence, plus you not being from Kolkar, it just edited you into a cat by tearing apart your current- at the time, at least- cellular structure and rebuilt it from scratch… Lance, dude, holy shit. How are you even alive?!?” Pidge yelped, turning to her fluffy companion and scooping him up, shaking him in astonishment. Lance hissed, disliking the sudden movement. His ears pricked up when he heard the door slide open and Shiro walked in.
Pidge whirled on him, trapping Lance in her arms and leaving his hind legs and tail to dangle free, the cat himself looking very uncomfortable by this. “Shiro! Man, you won't believe this! Lance shouldn't even be alive! The pollen doesn't just change your DNA, it completely strips it down and rebuilds everything from scratch!!! His entire cellular structure was rearranged in less than an hour 'cuz he got covered in so much pollen! Blue's Quintessence merely made the change happen faster because he couldn't feel it, which I guess was Blue's primary objective when she did it, but it also kept him alive! If a normal human went through that, they'd be dead!” Pidge trilled, as Shiro steadily got paler and paler at the news.
“Uh… lucky Lance, I guess?” The Black Paliadin asked, somehow keeping the shudder out of his voice. Pidge let Lance go and turned back to her computer, quickly typing out notes. Lance grumbled at her and trotted over to where Shiro had slid against the wall to sit down and process the information. He jumped into Shiro's lap and mewed questioningly, worried at Shiro's pale face and shaky breaths. He was immediately cradled in two arms, and a face was buried into his fur, again. They really had a thing for his fur, didn't they?
“So I pretty much almost got you killed.” The words that were muttered into his back had his ears flicking back to make sure he had heard correctly. “I am so sorry, Lance. This is all my fault… I made you feel bad enough that you ran off and got caught up in all of this… I should have tried to be more considerate of your feelings and listened and been more encouraging… maybe then you'd still be human and not...” The leader of Voltron let out a shaky breath. Lance mewed and wriggled until he could nuzzle Shiro's face, purring up a storm and trying to convey that it wasn't his fault.
Blue rumbled in agreement, though she did also add that he should have included Lance in more missions than he did. Overprotective much? He huffed at her for that. There was no way in Hell, Heaven or high water that Shiro felt the same as Lance. Nope. Nu-uh. No way. Blue laughed, saying that he was certainly funny if he believed that. Lance lashed his tail and told her to hush, grumbling under his mental breath.
Suddenly, Coran burst into the room, half dragging Allura and a vial of purple shimmery liquid. “We've figured it out! Pidge! I need some help with this, but I believe that if we create a batch of this that's diluted for human use, we can cure Lance! If we manage to figure that out, then Allura can use her ability of Quintessence manipulation and reverse the change!” The excited Altean trilled loudly, Allura nodding in agreement as she pulled out of her Advisor's grasp. Pidge looked up and nodded excitedly. “Perfect! I was just running calculations on what exactly would be needed to dull down any pain felt during the reversal process.” She chirped, pushing up her glasses and grinning. She looked over at Shiro, who was looking much better now. “Shiro, hold onto Lance for a minute while we set everything up?” She asked, smiling at the nod the Black Paladin gave her in response.
Both man and cat watched in fascination as Pidge and Coran talked biology and schematics for diluting the antidote, as apparently that plant, called Felisiviny, had turned plenty of unwary Kolkarians into a cat like creature called a devecias, which were like a cross between a lynx and a tiger and a German Shepherd with scarlet macaw feathers along its ears and tail, along the jaw fringe too. Then, Shiro and Lance were dragged to the med pods, where Coran programed one to the proper dilution percentage, fed in half the vial, and pulled Lance from a reluctant Shiro's arms and started up the med pod.
Allura got ready, as the antidote had to be breathed in, and Lance was set at the bottom of the pod. He looked up, mewing in concern. “We'll see you soon, buddy. Don't be afraid. Allura will fix you right up, okay?” Shiro soothed, giving Lance one last head rub before standing back and letting the pod seal shut. Lance yowled and put his paws up on the glass, panicking as purple mist flooded the chamber.
“Allura, now! For as long as you can, just picture Lance as his normal human self.” Coran instructed, as Allura glowed with the golden light of Quintessence. She held out her hands, and focused on Lance. Pidge secretly hit the mute button on the pod, because she knew this was gonna hurt, and she didn't want to be haunted by Lance's screams. Shiro tapped his metal fingers against his arm, worried and pale again.
It was a mere 12 hours before Allura gave out, her powers still relatively new. She panted and slumped to the ground, wheezing and exhausted. “I- I have done what I could, but manipulating two similar streams of Quintessence that are deeply entertwined is harder than it first seems.” She explained, as Coran helped her to her feet. Keith and Hunk had wandered down during this, and everyone waited with baited breath (and Hunk with an extra pair of boxers for Lance) as the pod opened up and spilled purple mist.
Shiro was the first one forward as a human shape fell out of the pod and into his arms, Hunk right next to him and draping a blanket over the shaking form that was clutching onto Shiro like a lifeline. Shiro inhaled sharply as a soft, fluffy shorthaired chocolate colored tail with lighter brown stripes brushed against his leg, and pointy cat ears flicked up and heard the noise he made. Lance, human yet with cat ears and a tail, who stopped shaking and went limp, unconscious. Shiro really hoped he wasn't blushing right now, because if it wasn't the cutest thing he'd ever seen in his life then he might as well shoot himself out into space this very second.
“Oh dear. Perhaps I did not untangle the knot of energy as well as I thought I did.” Allura murmured from the back. The shocked silence was broken by Pidge and Hunk's twin cooing noises and Keith's “Holy quiznak, what the hell-”. Shiro really wished the universe would give him a break here.
Black laughed.
// *RISES FROM THE ASHES OF WRITERS BLOCK LIKE A PROUD AND BLOODSTAINED WARRIOR* I LIVE~! Also I come bearing Shance and cat eared Lance :) So uh, how is Lance gonna react to all of this? I dunno, you'll have to wait and see ;)
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Cathartic Arrest
Part one of ‘the fortress that is your soul’
Rating: Mature
Pairing: Sam/Dean [neither romantic nor sexual; yet]
Tags: Jealousy, Post-Hell Dean Winchester, Post-Lucifer’s Cage Sam Winchester, Dubious Consent, Codependent Winchesters, Punishment, Caning
Summary: Sam needs to cope with memories of Lucifer's abuse. Dean is still trying to cope with this time as torture Master in Hell.
And he's JEALOUS.
Word count: 1.7k
Read under the cut or on AO3
Sam was still shaking when he got back to the bunker. He had taken his time before he came back home, but still. This time, it had all been different. She had to help him back into his pants, his shirt, even tuck his shirt in, help him ground himself; when he still didn’t come down from what just happened, she made him sit in her “calm room” as she called it.
She gave him food, good food. Fruits. Pineapple, strawberries, vanilla infused yoghurt. Juices of passion fruit and apples, bread with butter and some lean chicken tenders. He could choose whatever music he wanted, but all he ever would choose was hard rock – the music of his childhood, part of his youth and part of Dean. The music in his ears, usually is of a different, much more intense nature. He’d tried pop. One Direction. Too happy. He’d tried Nu Metal. He was too old to bounce back into his emo stage, also known as his years at Stanford. He had tried all kinds of metal. Trash, Death, Melodic, Symphonic. Nightwish. Later Aesthetic Perfection. All good music, quality wise. But nothing was ever louder than the noises in his head. The crying of baby Sam Winchester, inner-child Sam Winchester. Traumatized and angry and helpless.
Only the noise of a cane meeting his skin, his ass, his legs, even his feet, his own painful cries, the muffled grunts, the thank you’s and the yes'es, the reenactment of his shame, would silence the child. It’d been rough today. The wax on his chest left pink swollen spots, the cane beat him bloody this time.
“I can stop, aye?” she said.
“No, Mistress. Don’t. I want it to bleed.”
She’s not his Domme and he’s not her Slave. It's all about pain. He isn’t that twisted in his mind to reenact the power exchange, his own powerlessness. Michael watching. Michael. That god forsaken coward.
Sam was still shaking when he started Baby’s engine, slowly rolling away from the place he visits when pressing on his scar stops working. And it’s been working less and less and less. Until nothing else will help but being beaten up by someone to finally overcome the pain, the helplessness, the feeling of being weak and useless. Sam Winchester might be broken, but he still can take a beating without crying.
Dean hates liars. Which is kind of, let’s say hypocritical, given his nature, his past. He lied to Sam about hell, he lied about the deal, he constantly lies to the only person who will probably never leave him. Because even if Sam does leave, he always comes back. He won’t even die for good. Dean doesn’t, Sam doesn’t. They’re here, two moons in this earth’s gravitational pull, doomed to circle each other; the forces of nature keeping them in place but always keeping them apart.
It's one of those days when Sam says he’s about to go jogging, but since when does he have to drive fifty miles to some secluded forest area to jog when they're in the literal middle of nowhere? Dean has seen Sam in the showers. They have their privacy here, both want that or pretend to, but the showers are group showers, long lines of shower heads like in school gyms. They usually lock the doors, so why, this one time, does Sam not lock himself up like he used to? Dean knows about the nightmares, the triggers, the sudden flashbacks and the pressing of Sam’s thumb against the palm of his cut hand. He noticed cuts, deep cuts around Sam’s wrists, that never heal because he keeps on scratching off the scab. The bleeding never stops.
Dean decides that today, enough is enough. He knows this trauma, he was in Hell too. He tortured innocent people, he tortured Bela fucking Talbot. A woman he really respected in the end, though he sugar coated it with cunt-y behaviour. He’s seen so many faces twisted in pain and agony – and all they do in the end? – cry for mama. They cry for their fucking mother, and Sam? Dean wonders who he cried for in the Cage?
Sam is packed up in his “jogging outfit” and he’s about to leave, when Dean gets up from his armchair in the library.
“Where ya goin’, Sammy?”
He jumps.
“Jesus, don’t scare me, man. Really? I’m going jogging.”
“There’s a whole ass forest in front of the batcave, Sam. Why not go there?”
Sam looks down and Dean knows, he’s angry. He’s angry because Dean caught him in his damn lie and there’s no good way out of it.
“I have a jogging buddy over there,” Sam clears his throat, his whole body is tense. Ready to run. Wherever.
“Ah, jogging buddy, I see. Lemme guess, their name is Mistress Lana and he looks bomb in tracksuits.”
Sam is about to erupt and he grows, his posture straightens and he yells. “This is private Dean, you have no, absolutely NO right to spy after me like a--”
“Like a what?”
“Like a fucking jealous wife who caught me in an affair?”
Dean falls silent, but his body, pure, condensed power, anger, fear, slams his arm against Sam’s throat and presses him to the wall.
“It is exactly like that. You drive an hour to see a dominatrix, to what? You become a subby bootlicker all of a sudden? You like that?”
Sam’s nostrils flare and damn, now Dean is on freakin’ thin ice. He is so goddamn jealous of this woman giving Sam something that Dean would give him freely. And happily. He would give him the relief he needs.
“Don’t talk like that!” Sam hisses, trying to wind himself out of Dean’s grip but he’s still sore from the last time Lana tied him up like a Christmas present and hung him on the wall like a pig-half at the butcher’s. Sam loved the marks of the rough rope, loved the feeling of just hanging there, floating, the ground beneath him so far away, the rock bottom so far…“You have no idea how I feel!”
Dean’s head tilts to the side. “I tortured people in Hell, Sam. I know how to make you feel the worst pain of your life – but I can also give you the greatest relief. I can show you mercy, because that’s what you really want. Isn’t it?”
Sam finally breaks free and attacks Dean, one hit after another, breaks Dean’s nose, gives him a black eye, and it only stops when Dean lands a blow right over Sam’s kidney – he staggers back.
“I deserve the pain,” Sam wheezes. “I don’t rely on anyone’s mercy.”
Dean drags him up and brings Sam, who is suddenly so pliant, to his room. What no one has ever known about is the secret door. Dean’s not a witch, Sam would be a great one, but Dean managed to hide a tiny little torture chamber behind his room. Sam fights, he insults Dean. Dean knows, yes he knows, it’s Sam’s way of provoking him and, kind of, making Dean stop.
Sam knows that, when he came back from Hell, Dean fucked around even more than before he’d died –but no one ever saw him with the girls, the submissive ones, the broken little dolls he found. This is Deam’s coping. Reenacting Hell.
Sam clings on to Dean when he’s tied to the bench, naked. Sam is still black and blue, some of his bruises had turned green-yellowish already but no one should hurt him there again. These bruises would take ages to heal, if they’re lucky, without a doctor needed. Sam isn’t fighting anymore, he’s crying.
“Please Dean, take it off of me. Please… I can’t… Take it OFF!”
“I can’t”, Dean says, gently, brushing away Sam’s tears.“Does she fuck you?”
A gasp. “What? Why--?”
“Simple question, Sammy. Does. She. Fuck you?”
Sam nods, hiding his face in his hair and pressing his forehead against the padding. Dean is on fire, barely holding on. He let her. He really let her!
“I can’t spank you in this condition. You have to heal. Why would you go to that woman when you’re still so roughed up?”
“Why do you care?”Sam’s voice is so thin. Little, scared Sammy, and there was no one in the Cage to save him from what happened.
“Sammy.” Is all Dean says.
“My Sammy.”
Dean is not like that. He loves Sammy, and he would do a lot, but he won’t do That.
Dean’s favorite is his cane. Rattan. Unpeeled. Sam endures several hard blows, in a staccato, a rhythm other people would faint from. But Sammy is strong, and he wants to be broken.
HE
WANTS
TO
BE
BROKEN
And Dean is giving him that. He can think of the girls and boys in Hell while doing it, like he’s not the one inflicting this pain on Sam, but it feels so damn good. Purging. Sam’s cries and whimpers, his yells and finally, finally, when Dean is about to lose control and maul Sam alive – there’s the one Sammy would cry for.
“Dean.”
A gasp. The blows stop. Blood dripping down Sam’s legs.
“Dean.”
Again.
“Sammy..”
So gentle. So tender. So silent.
“Dean, I want to go home….” and that is truly when Sam is broken, the last bastion of his mind, his pride, his goddamn pride is stripped from him. He babbles, he cries, snot and tears and gulps, he even chokes on his cries. “I want to be home with Dean, please hold me, Dean, take me home, Dean…”
Dean dissolves. His own trauma resolves for a minute. He knows, it will never fully go away, he will never heal. But.
“Sammy. I’m here, Sammy. Come here. I’ll take you home, my baby brother. I’m here.”
“Dean, I love you”, Sam chokes out. It could be anything. It could be nothing.
“Sammy, I love you more.”
Dean leans onto Sam’s heaving, still tied up body, sweat and blood, tears, the sobs. When Dean releases Sam from the restraints and carries him to a sofa, he huddles up in Dean's lap. Like a newborn. Overwhelmed with the world outside, sobbing and crying for Dean. Dean is here, holding him tight. Offering him water and more blankets.
Lucifer has never been closer, but Dean has blown him away from Sam. He made Sam just forget for a while. It’s so fucked up, but he can live with fucked up. As long as it’s with Sam and Sam never, fucking never, goes to a whore again when he can have everything from Dean.
Dean will do anything for Sam.
“Dean…”
“I’m here. You’re home.”
»And I will never let you go.«
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