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stareyeddistinguishment · 2 years

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Crash Landing On You (But Not Into the Zombie Horde)

Thanks for the prompt, @nalivaa. This turned into a bit of a crack fic lol. Hope you enjoy!

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Chuck stumbled wearily into the dimly lit, dingy apartment. Without even pausing to switch on the light — what was the point? It's not like he needed it on anyway — he made for the tiny living room, plopping down onto the gray, threadbare sofa.

God only knew Chuck was bored. (Pun intended.)

Everything was just so ... uneventful lately. Sam and Dean were stuck in solitary confinement in Rocky Mountain National Park, and the waiting for the Winchesters to escape so that they could do something interesting again — well, it was downright annoying. While his favorite characters were on extended "leave," what was Chuck supposed to do for entertainment?

Staring irritably about the living room at the off-white blinds and the faded tan side chair, the stain on the beige carpet — he couldn't remember what that stain was from; it had happened last time he'd been black-out drunk — his gaze landed on the TV. He could watch some of his other universes, he supposed. That might alleviate some of the boredom.

Shrugging, Chuck snapped his fingers, and the crappy CRT television unit flickered on. Absently, Chuck snapped his fingers a second time, and the unopened bottle of 110-proof whiskey he'd left in the kitchen appeared. (Yeah, so he was drinking straight from the bottle again. But it wasn't like the bottle was still in the paper bag he'd purchased it in from the liquor store, so this didn't count as day drinking.)

As the TV buzzed to life in front of him, Chuck raced through the available programming on TV Universe, what he referred to as his collection of universes when they appeared on his TV screen. The television channels flipped through rapidly, displaying one universe and then another.

Garbage.

Trash.

Boooooring.

Ugh.

Why did he think it was a good idea to make the Teletubby universe again?

Uninspiring- wait! Go back.

Ah, yes. The Douche-bros Inc. universe. That was a fun one. The universe featured Samuel Winchester, Deanweather Winchester, and their father Jonathon Winchester as a father-son team running a global hunting enterprise, HunterCorp. Private jets, legions of loyal hunter employees, Samuel's man-bun. It was the best mockumentary that Chuck had ever devised.

And yet, as Deanweather carefully parallel-parked his beloved "Baby" Volkswagen Beetle outside of Trader Joe's, ("Samuel, I know you prefer Whole Foods for the organic microgreens, but Trader Joe's has a fresh shipment of organic wheatgrass that is just delightful."), Chuck couldn't help but think something was missing from the show. Yes, Deanweather's yellow cardigan looked dashing against his lavender polo shirt, and yes, Samuel's lustrous locks were a walking advert for L'Oreal (of which Samuel Winchester was a contracted spokesperson because his hair was definitely "worth it"). But there was still something missing from the show. But what?

Chuck uncapped the whiskey bottle and took a hearty swig. The amber liquid burned going down his throat. He took a second drink and then a third for good measure.

"Deanweather, my older brother, don't forget to charge your Baby," Samuel tittered onscreen. Looming on the curb beside the dinky lime-green car with a frappuccino clutched in his right hand and his Glock slung against his right hip in its eco-friendly hemp holster, Samuel Winchester was a giant of a man, a yuppie-cum-hunter. Tossing his head (and artfully tousling waves of shining hair in the process), the youngest Winchester nodded indicatively at the electric charging station.

Deanweather smiled fondly at his brother and clapped Samuel affectionately on the shoulder. (Deanweather took care not to dishevel the cobolt blue cravat that Samuel had styled just so around Samuel’s neck.) "Why, I'd plum forgotten! Samuel, you are the best brother a guy could ask for," Deanweather exclaimed.

Samuel sniffled delicately. "Golly, thanks, Dean." Samuel blinked rapidly against eyes suddenly made glassy. "I love you too, brother-mine," he returned tightly.

Chuck grimaced. What was he watching???

"Ugh, can we say co-dependent, boys?" God sneered, regarding the television screen with disgust.

Chuck had finally figured out what was missing from the Douche-bros Inc. show. Maybe a plot? (True, Chuck had written the universe as a PWP/Crack story, but it wasn't as inspiring as Chuck remembered when he'd first drafted that story.)

Whatever. He'd watch something else.

The television channels of TV Universe raced forward.

"Suck. Sucks even more. Sucks so much, I'm ashamed to have created it. Shit, what was I thinking?" Chuck pulled back another swig from the whiskey bottle, settling deeper into the threadbare couch cushions. Three more mouthfuls and he could feel his vessel slowly responding with a low-level buzz. Good. He was God — if he couldn't get his vessel drunk not-drunk, then what was even the point of being omnipotent? (He wasn't day drinking. He wasn't.)

"Suck."

New channel.

"Suck."

New channel.

"Suck."

New channel.

"Goose!"

He stopped channel surfing. Ah, it was an oldie but goodie universe, Camp Chitaqua. (Well, Camp Chitaqua v 2.0 — Chuck had had to reboot the universe after Commander Dean suicided during the show's first run. God didn't cameo in the reboot — he'd found hoarding toilet paper to be just too ... wait for it ... wait for it ... chafing.)

Chuck scooted up higher against the couch cushions, spirits considerably lightened. Camp Chitaqua was one of his favorites.

"I wonder what Commander Dean and the reboot troops are up to?" Chuck mused aloud.

Not a whole lot, as it turned out. Commander Dean was sitting on the plain white coverlet of his rickety twin bed. He stared mindlessly at the unpainted walls of his empty cabin, a deep frown intruding upon his practiced indifference. Perched atop the crude bedside table were a glass bottle of clear liquid and a half-filled cup. It was obvious that Commander Dean was day drinking. The good-for-nothing lout! (This was vastly different than what Chuck was doing. Chuck was not-day drinking to wile away his boredom. But Commander Dean was supposed to be doing ... commandery stuff. Fighting infected Croatoans. Planning raids. Going after Lucifer-who-walked-the-Earth-as-Sam-Winchester. Not sitting in his cabin muttering defeatist bullshit to himself!)

And the rest of the camp was little better. Soldiers just standing around on guard duty or peeling potatoes. Smoking cigarettes. (Where was the action? The adventure? The drama?) Disgruntled, Chunk directed the TV Universe to pan the camera — Castiel the Fallen angel might be worth watching. Except after eight minutes of viewing that nihilistic bastard popping pills and waxing pathetically about his upcoming orgy that night, even Chuck was starting to feel depressed.

The problem was that Commander Dean and Castiel-the-Fallen were so damned despairing. Camp Chitaqua v 2.0 needed better leads! The show needed someone who wouldn't ever give up.

"Someone who'd keep going," swig, "despi- desparate- desperate? Desperate the odds." Chuck's speech was starting to slur.

"Anyways, this show is- stupid," Chuck decided. "Crappy reboot. Weak leads. I want something with a stronger lead."

Yeah, that's what he wanted to watch! A strong lead! Someone who always kept going. Kept trying. Someone heroic and inspiring.

"Someone like Michael."

The TV flipped rapidly forward until settling on — there!

"Apocalypse Now!" Chuck crowed, leaning back into the lumpy couch in satisfaction.

Except, this wasn't as satisfying as Chuck had expected. Michael never gave up, desperate the odds. Which meant, in the Apocalypse Now! universe Michael had defeated Lucifer — and then promptly gone insane as a result. (Understandable, but still.) And while Chuck liked his homicidal maniacs as much as the next viewer, from the author's standpoint, this version of Michael was a failed character. Here was the hero who'd achieved his purpose only to fall so low as to negate the heroic journey entirely. Chuck didn't want to see Michael like this, fallen so far. (It made God feel like a failure of an author.)

"But this happens in every single story Michael stars in," Chuck muttered sourly. (Yeah, he was a bit of an angry drunk, sometimes. Not that he was drunk.) "There's only one version of Michael that never goes cra- craze- insane, and that's the story where Michael doesn't win."

But it was more than that, wasn't it? It wasn't just that Michael didn't win in that universe (which just-so-happened to be the universe with Chuck's favorite Sam and Dean characters), it was that Michael had a meet-cute in Hell with that bastard-Winchester, Adam what-was-his-last-name-again? Adam was that plot device character Chuck had whipped up just to keep the story rolling after Chuck's best boy Dean had refused Michael's possession. And, unexpectedly, that version of Michael had fallen hard for Adam whatever-his-last-name-was.

It was pretty weird, come to think.

"Why did Michael's impri- impress- impressment?" Chuck winced in his not-drunken stupor. Words were hard. "Since when did being locked in a burning cage within Hell turn into a rom-com?" Chuck whined. "Hell was slotted as a horror story."

The TV responded to God's whims, and then, there was the Michael x Adam Not-a-Horror Hour.

Adam smiled brightly. "Thank you, Michael."

"You are welcomed, Adam," Michael returned. The corners of the Archangel's eyes crinkled happily. "After all, what are best friends for?"

"Best everything," Adam corrected fondly. The camera shifted to display a close-up of heartfelt blue eyes. "Best friend. Best guy I know. Best-" he paused, and the camera panned out to display both Adam and Michael in the frame "-lover," Adam offered coyly.

Michael smiled darkly, a small pulling of the lips. "Indeed," he agreed, surging forward. In a swift movement, the Archangel captured the human's lips with his own. Hands drifted beneath Adam's shirt, pulling the wayward fabric up and over the human's head, exposing a bare chest.

"Michael," Adam moaned, tugging at the Archangel's clothing and—

"NO! NO! NO! BURNING OUT MY EYES!" The television channel was wretched forward, TV Universe landing safely on the Teletubby universe. "There is no way I'm watching a porno starring MY OLDEST SON!"

The very thought of Michael doing that was just- It was- Four large gulps of the whiskey, and then Chuck's throat was burning as strongly as his poor, scarred mind.

And that was only thing that Michael x Adam seemed to do in that Hellscape after they'd completed their strangers-to-best-friends and later best-friends-to-romantic-leads arcs. Midam were those two a couple of horn dogs!

Well, after the Michael x Adam Yeah-It-Was-Actually-a-Horror Hour, Chuck really wasn't in the mood for watching more TV Universe. But he was still bored, dammit. Netflix, it seemed, would be providing the rest of his afternoon entertainment.

Chuck had already tapped out most of the programming in his Netflix account. He was now wandering through the Korean dramas — Move to Heaven and Come and Hug Me. He also had a K-drama rom-com called Crash Landing On You in his watchlist. Since he was kind of in the mood for trying something new, Chuck queued up the rom-com.

Almost five hours in and Crash Landing On You was enough to sustain his day drinking buzz. (Yeah, so he'd admitted it; he was day drinking. But he was buzzed. He wasn't drunk.) However, the K-drama rom-com just wasn't enough somehow. The premise of the show was about a South Korean businesswoman who accidentally landed in North Korea during a paragliding incident gone wrong. As the woman tried to leave the militarized country, she was apprehended by a North Korean soldier who then aided her in her escape. The pair fell in love.

The problem was that the characters were just so ... vanilla? They weren't nearly as interesting as Chuck's reoccurring troupe of characters (the Winchesters, the Campbells, the Archangels and the Heavenly Host, the demons of Hell). And although there was chemistry between the leads of the Korean drama, there weren't sparks. (Actually, it wasn't even as endearing as Midam — well, Midam before it devolved into all the steamy stuff that made Chuck want to bleach out his eyes.)

"I could-" Chuck took another draw from the whiskey bottle. (How was the bottle almost empty? Had his cat gotten into it? Wait — did Chuck even own a cat? Possibly?) He shook his head, dazedly. "I could do this story better," Chuck continued, observing the K-drama rom-com thoughtfully. "My characters but this premise. So much good." That wasn't right. "So much gooder," he tried again. Still off. Why were words so hard? "So much more gooder." Nailed it.

And here, at the bottom of the bottle (damned cat?), Chuck was filled with a sudden flash of inspiration. With startling speed, God The Author could see the plots and sub-plots forming inside his head, twisting and weaving into an ever more fanciful storyline of the Carver Edlund’s Supernatural-inspired version of Crash Landing On You. The scene: Camp Chitaqua on the side of the border with the infected Croatoans. The cast of characters: the camp Commander played by Michael the Archangel. (The Viceroy of Heaven was a shoo-in for the North Korean soldier role). The human who somehow crash-landed onto the infected side of the border played by Adam what-was-his-last-name?

But Chuck still needed more for the derivative storyline. In the K-drama rom-com, the North Korean soldier had a plucky team of North Korean soldiers as his supporting cast.

"Let's see supporting cast of angelic soldiers for Camp Chitaqua: Karael, Michael's second-in-command. And, of course, Samandrial because his vessel has such a cute baby-face. We'd also need Balthazar for comedic relief. And Metatron for his snark? Or would it be better to have Gadreel for his willingness to take orders?" How about Metatron could snark at Gadreel who could follow Michael's orders. Perfect. "I'll cast them both,” Chuck decided.

There was no way God was casting Castiel as an angel of Camp Chitaqua v 3.0. The only thing that smug, mercurial bastard would likely do was get the unsuspecting Samandrial hooked on opioids. No, Castiel was not welcomed in the reboot of the reboot of Camp Chitaqua. Castiel could stay locked up in Heaven.

Heaven, huh. That was something to think about.

If Michael, as the temporary Ruler of Heaven, was now grounded in Camp Chitaqua, then who was watching over Heaven? Obviously, for Camp Chitaqua and the Croatoan virus to exist, Lucifer had to be walking the Earth. And Heaven would need to be barred shut against Lucifer's advances, or the whole story would devolve. Wait, Raphael was in Heaven. Maybe Raphael could hold down the fort?

"But Raphael's no good." Chuck shook his head dismissively. Out of all God's Archangelic sons, Raphael was the most disappointing. Passive. Unimaginative. And he popped like a blister under pressure. No, Raphael could not be trusted to keep Heaven safe. "That just leaves-?" Wait, the solution was obvious! Gabriel. "Gabriel's supposed to be ruling Heaven as my proxy, anyway."

How Chuck was going to get Gabriel into Heaven didn't really matter. God was free-writing right now. Brainstorming cats and dogs! Or actually, just dogs (damned cats drinking his liquor). And besides, all good stories had a few plot holes that were resolved by the catch-all phrase "mysterious circumstances." It was what writers did, for God's sake! (And he was God, so he should know.)

Okay, the premise of Camp Chitaqua v 3.0 was all set up, the “North Korean” side of Chuck’s story. But what about the uninfected side of the border — the "South Korean" side? Adam what-was-his-last-name needed to come from a wealthy background if Chuck's new universe was going to be inspired by Crash Landing On You.

"Looks like the co-dependent HunterCorp boys are making an appearance," Chuck sneered.

Ugh. Deanweather Winchester and Samuel Winchester, the pretentious, douche-bro sons of world-renowned hunters, Jonathon and Mary Winchester.

"Since the world was overrun with zombies, the HunterCorp expertise would be highly sought after," Chuck deliberated. "Oh, and, since Mary is the best hunter, in this case she'd be the head of the company.” It worked. “But then, gasp: Mary was killed on mission, and so the CEO title needs to be handed to one of Jonathon's sons, Deanweather or Samuel." Okay, it was all coming together now! "But Adam what-the-fuck-is-his-last-name? is Johnathon's bastard son who was trained in hunting during childhood, so he'd also be in the running for CEO."

Chuck frowned. "Okay, so thinking up Adam's backstory. So, after Adam's mom dies, Adam moves in with the Winchesters in their ritzy mansion-slash-training-compound. Mary, but especially the snooty Deanweather and peacock-vain Samuel, would despise Adam because the bastard-kid represents Jonathon's infidelity. And since everyone hates him, when Adam leaves for college and later med school, Adam has no contact with the Winchester family." Chuck paused, collecting his thoughts. "But when the world goes to Hell and the Croatoan infections start, Adam leaves med school for the safety of the Winchester estate." Chuck rubbed his hands together, sloshing the contents of the whiskey bottle. The backstory was getting really good. "Seeing Adam all grown up, a hunter and a medic, Jonathon says that Adam is the most skilled of all his sons and decides Adam should be the next CEO. Deanweather and Samuel are pisssed," Chuck hooted. (He didn’t mind seeing the hunter-bros knocked down a notch.) "And that means that when Adam gets stuck on the infected side of the border, Deanweather and Samuel want Adam to stay there. The douche-bros will do everything to stop Adam's return, just like the unctuous siblings of the Korean business woman in Crash Landing On You."

It was a perfect adaption of the K-drama, only better! Really, Chuck had outdone himself. He laughed in delight.

Now, to put it all together.

God commanded the TV, "Play me the trailer for-" Chuck pursed his lips in drunken not-drunken thought. What was he going to call this new universe? "Crash Landing On You (But Not Into the Zombie Horde)."

In response, the TV screen went dark. Then, an image of Adam appeared on the screen.

A deep voice, reminiscent of James Earl Jones (Chuck liked his voice, okay?) started a narration of the TV Universe trailer. "Adam Milligan led a simple life. He was a med student, a trained hunter, and the bastard son of Jonathon Winchester, the co-founder of the global hunter empire, HunterCorp, one of the world’s wealthiest, most influential companies."

Adam Milligan — that was the kid's last name. Milligan.

"In a world where the Croatoan virus has ravaged 78.91% of the global population, Adam remains infection-free. But then, one fateful day, Adam's parachute crash-landed him into the infected zone because of a plot hole."

"Act of God," Chuck corrected. "Adam ends up in the infected zone by an Act of God, not a plot hole!"

"But then, one fateful day, Adam's parachute crash-landed him into the infected zone because of an Act of God," the TV resumed its narration, updating per Chuck’s direction. A tornado now displayed on the CRT display, spinning across the television screen to roil Adam Milligan's parachute. "Why Adam Milligan was parachuting over the infected zone-"

"Is not important," Chuck heaved impatiently. He didn't have to cover all the loose ends right now. He was still free-writing here!

"Why Adam Milligan was parachuting over the infected zone was not important," the James Earl Jone's voice parroted back.

“That’s what I said.”

Now Michael's face appeared on the TV screen.

"Michael was the Viceroy of Heaven, an Archangel, and someone who always kept going. After Michael abandoned his post as temporary Ruler of Heaven because of plot hole-"

"Mysterious circumstances," Chuck testily supplied.

"After Michael abandoned his post as temporary Ruler of Heaven because of mysterious circumstances, the First Archangel became the angelic commander of Camp Chitaqua." The television screen flashed to display Adam Milligan's parachute crashing into Michael in a rom-com inspired catch. Surrounding Midam is a rabid zombie horde. "On that fateful day when Adam's parachute crash-landed into the infected zone because of an Act of God, Adam also crash-landed into Michael's heart. But all Adam wants is to return to his life on the uninfected side of the border." Cue Adam smiling shyly at Michael, and Michael cocking his head dopily back. "And yet, love blossoms in times of adversity." Michael was kissing Adam in the next frame.

"It'd better not blossom beyond that," Chuck noted irritably. "There's much more to do in Camp Chitaqua than in the Cage; they'd better not be having any sexcapades on this show. Not to mention that I'm sick of all the orgies in Camp Chitaqua! Didn't anyone get the memo? It’s a zombie apocalypse? You know, guns blazing? Explosions? More explosions?"

"Featuring a loveable supporting cast of characters-" a crowd scene displaying Karael, Samandrial, Balthazar, Gadreel, and Metatron. "And the dastardly duo-" Deanweather and Samuel Winchester sporting foppish pastel sweater vests and clutching tennis rackets "-intent on keeping Adam Milligan, one of the only hunters still alive in a world on the brink of total collapse, in the infected zone and out of the running as the next CEO of HunterCorp due to their plot hole motivations."

"That's not a plot hole!" Chuck argued, drunkenly belligerent. (He wasn’t drunk!) "The Winchester boys are pretentious douche-bags! They’re- They’re ... Douchesters! What other motivation do you need than that!?!"

The TV flashed forward, displaying a picture of Lucifer in his Nick-vessel. "Meanwhile, the world is menaced by Lucifer, newly risen from the lowest circle of Hell because of an Act of God."

"Try again. I don't want anyone praying for Divine Intervention in this universe."

"Lucifer, newly risen from the lowest circle of Hell because of mysterious circumstances."

"Better."

"With Heaven barred shut and now run by the Archangel Gabriel — due to mysterious circumstances — all that stands between Earth and total darkness is the Archangel Michael, Michael’s motley band of angelic soldiers, and the world’s ever-dwindling supply of hunters." The backdrop of Camp Chitaqua transitioned to a tender Midam scene. "But love conquers all." A display of the Douchesters looking conniving. "Or does it?" A scene of an infected horde rampaging across a field. "You'll only find out by watching-" guns blazing, explosions, more explosions, even more explosions. (yes, Yes, YES!) "-Crash Landing On You (But Not Into the Zombie Horde)."

And then the TV screen went dark.

Immediately Chuck was on his feet. "Yes!" He crowded triumphantly, wobbling unsteadily. "That's it! It's gold! Gold!"

As a victory salute to his genius — really, Chuck couldn't be modest where his art was concerned — he downed the last of the whiskey bottle before tossing the empty onto the ground. Maybe he was a little too victorious because the bottle shattered?

But that didn't matter. Because the new show needed to start. Right now.

"Play the full season," God commanded the TV.

Then, Chuck felt the expenditure of Divine grace flowing out from his vessel and into the ether. The Crash Landing On You (But Not Into the Zombie Horde) universe was rapidly coming into being. It was going to be a rare thing of beauty, it was.

And then, Episode 1 was playing, and Chuck settled deeply onto the threadbare gray sofa, the shattered bottle of whiskey forgotten on the floor before him. (The cat could deal with it — if he owned a cat, that was.)

The expenditure of Divine grace to create the new universe had taken more out of Chuck than he'd expected. He was just going to close his eyes for a moment while the opening credits to the new TV Universe show were rolling. He already knew all the characters in the show, after all. Just close his eyes for a moment. And then he'd...

As Episode 1 completed and Episode 2 auto-started immediately after, God was not awake to monitor the story or to make the minor adjustments that made sure the story didn't run completely off the rails. Chuck had passed into a drunken slumber.

#chuck shirley #midam #midam spn #adam milligan x michael #adam milligan #michael #dean winchester #Sam Winchester #castiel #supernatural #spn #AU #Crash Landing On You #crack fic #humor #prompts #one-shot #Crash Landing On You (But Not Into The Zombie Horde) AU

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lycankeyy · 2 years

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Girl there are pokespe aus in my head people would kill me over

#💛#^ basically trying to communicate that im nervous and insecure abt my weird fic concepts #at least the 'horror' one is like. MOSTLY a jokeDJSKDJSJ #the 'Green trains under Pryce instead of Chuck' one that borders on grimdark isnt unfortunately #you can kill me over that one if you want #i just think 'what if spe was as fucked up and evil as people act like it is' is a fun prompt HDJSHDJSHD #like as someone who likes to write angst and psychological horror

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quietwings-fics · 15 days

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babysitter

Rating: General Audiences Archive Warning: N/A Fandom: Supernatural Ship: Gen (Death & God | Chuck) Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Humor, 3 Sentence Fiction, Depowered God | Chuck Shurley Wordcount: 97 Prompt:

"God (Chuck) and Death (OG), post canon."

“I don’t need a babysitter,” the once and definitely not future God snaps at the once and most certainly still Death (because Billie did not replace It, They only became another facet, whether She has or will figure this out.)

“Think of me as encouragement,” Death says, unbothered, “as most humans do.”

Chuck glowers at It, turning away from the microwave he is trying to reheat leftovers in to do so, and Death looks past him to the sparking insides to say, “like encouragement to stop forgetting to take your fork out before you heat your food.”

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

#fanfiction #prompt fic #0-99 #general audiences #spn #genfic #death & god | chuck #god | chuck shurley #death spn #post-canon #humor #depowered!chuck

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honestsycrets · 1 year

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Stung | [Miguel O'Hara x Reader]

❛ pairing | miguel o'hara x reader

❛ type | oneshot

❛ summary | after a discus malfunction, you're bitten by an anomaly and refuse medical attention. you're in a state that you refuse to show to miguel-- at all costs.

❛ tags | NSFW, sex pollen, mention of a wound, slight chase, miguel o'hara doesn't like to be ignored, cum eating, creampies, abnormal amount of fluid, venom bite, slapping, some insecurity, spanish is not translated, sexual memories.

❛ sy’s notes | my obligatory ABO-sex pollen fic for ATSV. i usually make a ABO/Sex Pollen piece per fandom I write in, so here's one for Miggy 🐝

“All done!”

You slipped out of HQ’s packed infirmary with a jaunty bounce in your step. Crispy, coppery blood was matted onto your forearm concealed behind a hastily tied bandage. You weren't concerned about it. It would resolve within the hour. Likely less. As would your elevated body temperature. Despite the doctor's prattle about the benefit of further testing, you found their concern to be a non-issue. These things were virtual non-issues, even if the doctor and your man thought otherwise.

The hallways at HQ were like any other day in your city. Congested with the coming and going of spiders in their daily lives. A glimpse at any group might reveal decadent flirting and haughty laughter. Some were in a rush to their own worlds, but most were completing work assigned by the Spider Society. The one you were looking for reclined against a wall with his arms interlocked one over the other. His displeased rumble prompted you to his presence above all other voices in the crowd.

“You should have let them run the tests.” His voice was teased with concern but became mild, little more than a drab sigh at your refusal. You blew off his concern with a shake of your hand, gone yellow and bubbly behind a bit of ineffectual gauze. His eye glazed over the wound. You couldn't tell what he was thinking behind his mask, but you didn't need to. You only needed to convince him you were right.

“It’s stopped bleeding, Miggy. It’s just a scratch,” You held up your arm, flicking it with emphasis. His eyebrows raised for a moment, then flattened, staring at you with a dull rictus. “It was just a brief malfunction of the discus.”

Technically it was more of an impalement, but if Miguel wasn’t going to ask, you weren’t going to invite him to delve deeper. Otherwise, you might spend the next few hours of your life fixing a wound that surely would have closed up by the time results were back. The injury site mildly itched. That was all. Never mind, the slight, honey-colored rash migrating from the puncture site to your elbow. Or the referred pain. Minor things.

“You’re being stubborn.”

“You’re the one to talk.” You snapped the discus free from your sash and chucked it toward Miguel. He caught it with an unsurprising amount of ease, claws clicking in unison against the ineffectual metal.

“¡Qué problema!” he mocked, his voice dry and absent of discernible emotion.

You closed the distance between your bodies to slide your arms around his broad neck. His other hand came to your lower back. It was warm, the way he touched you, from the bundles of affection that fluttered in your belly to the heat dappling across your chest. You missed this every day. It made fleeing the infirmary all the more worth it.

“I put the anomaly in another discus. One that actually works, no thanks to your programming.”

“That’s what happens when you take things without asking.” He flicked the discus between his thumb and index finger, waggling it for emphasis. It was true that there had been nights that went with banging, clacks, clatters, and the occasional outburst when things weren’t quite going his way. There were a few discuses on his desk. You just so happened to take the one that malfunctioned. “I was working on it. ¿Qué era?”

“Oh,” you mumbled. “Just some stingy bees. What harm could they do?”

His eyes roamed your wound. You couldn't help but look down too, both horrified and fascinated by the way the rash had moved in just a brief few minutes. The colour had begun to fade. You glanced up, flattening your mouth into a slight, forced smile.

“Fine. If you're sure.”

To be fair, you secured many anomalies with and without the help of others. They all went into their cozy, temporary forcefield homes until they could be fairly redirected to their appropriate dimensions. In the downtime, you could help or hinder Miguel's progress. Then, your watch would alert you to another disturbance and the cycle would continue.

Until that morning.

Your watch blared, and blared, and blared some more. The early morning sun began to rise and cast offensive beams of light into your room. Usually, it didn’t bother you. But this morning, everything offended you from the scratch of silky sheets on your naked body to Lyla illuminating what darkness was left, all golden and cute. You wondered if that was how Miguel felt when you forgot to pull the curtains, strung out on the bed after he finished with you.

“Woah! Oops!” she turned, covering her eyes with her spindly fingers. A growing ache throbbed between your legs. It wasn’t quite the same dull soreness from Miguel’s late-night visit last night, either. “Sorry, sorry. Miguel--”

“He can handle it,” you bit out, snappier than you intended. It wasn't like you. “Or-- Jess. No, Gwen. Gwen can do it, she loves--”

“He asked for you.”

Of course, he did. You scrunched a pillow over your head. Your Miguel couldn’t see you this. Absolutely not. You debated getting up, ignoring what you called a negligible ache that was quickly morphing into a terrible pounding. You can't believe how quickly the thought fell apart, pushing yourself to sit up in bed. The ghost of his scent floods your nose, flashing memories of the night before.

Something at work set him off. Something that commanded no intimacy, but the mechanical release of his rage that wouldn't destroy precious resources. He sat on the edge of the bed, driving your mouth onto his cock with the aid of your hair bundled around his fist. You recalled the shakiness of his thighs under your fingers, his firm legs spread wide fucking your mouth with cold abandon. He chased his own orgasm selfishly, needing the release, needing to see your body painted by whips of his cum sprayed across your exposed breasts. He pulled you off in silence, inspecting the drool and cum that spilled down your chin and throat in rivulets. "What--"

Your face tightened, glancing down at the growing tension in your belly. Everything began to annoy you, especially the scratch of the sheets against your skin, your bed empty of his presence. How could you tolerate that uniform plastered to your ass? You buried into the offensive bed. This was fine. This was normal, recalling what you'd done last night. Surely, the burn had to do with the whole being launched through not one, but two crumbling buildings the day before. The dust and rubble. Were you close to your cycle?

“Tell him I’m dead,” and without another word, you resolved the call. Within seconds she popped up again, bent at the waist because this was your life now. Never could you just… take a day off. There was always something. You muffled your screams of protest into the mattress and dug your feet in, kicking off the sheets, the blankets, the pillows, all of it.

“Is this a fit? You’ve never had a fit before,” Lyla noticed. A fit? She thought the burning of your body was a fit? Damn AI. Resolve.

Resolve. Resolve. Resolve.

It became cathartic after a good while. Or it would have been if not for your senses hyper-fixating on every minor change in your body. Despite your apprehension, you knew. What was once a dull pain radiating from your forearm morphed into something much worse. Something you couldn’t blame on the rather average experience of being pelted through the average event of windows and concrete. It was more than a tingle. It burned as it coursed through your body.

You stumbled over the bundle of bedding into the bathroom. It was there that you realized that to your horror, you weren’t just lubricated, now you were soaked. Your fluids coursed down your thighs as you dabbed the region clean with a bundle of tissues. It did little good. Touching the area exasperated the issue. Maybe you needed an orgasm, maybe ten. An hour or so later, you slammed the heel of your palm into the mirror, fracturing it into shards of terrible glass that crumbled onto the countertop. Beads of blood dabbled onto your reflection.

“If you d--” resolve.

So not a reaction to your average bee sting. Correction. A great, big, fat colony of hissing, buzzing bees. The act of recalling information was like jamming your hand into fluid water to snatch a tiny hair tie. No matter how many times you tried to recall the information, you couldn’t quite grasp it. It was there, floating around your head, but inaccessible. Your mind traveled back to Miguel. How gentle his lips could be, trailing soft kisses along your neck and shoulder when you rode him in reverse. How deep he'd go.

"Fuck off!" Your watch blared again. Its beeping filled your bathroom, echoing over and over. You reached behind the door to pluck a silky white slip from its hook and dragged it over your head. You were about to resolve the call again when the hot timbre in his warm voice saying your name gave you pause. Your Miguel, popping up in a golden haze. You found yourself gazing at his full lips, full and plump. If only he was here. He could have his lips on your--

“What are you doing?”

Lost in thought, you failed to realize that Miguel had been calling you by name again. You shook your hazy mind free of the thoughts that formed a swirling cloud over your head. You slumped down the wall and onto the floor.

Help was what you failed to say. As your mouth opened, nothing came out. The words were not wording. The vulnerability of asking for help was palpable. You soothed yourself by shifting your hands underneath your skirt. What would he think if he saw you here-- ripped asunder by your own biology? Whore. Miguel lowered his gaze, his eyes squinting at the sweat dabbling down your neckline as he looked you over. He wouldn't want you anymore.

“Are you listening? ¡Coño! What is wrong with you!?”

Resolve.

You resolved him. Your Miggy-- resolved. Oh, you swallowed dryly. He wasn’t going to be happy about that. It wasn’t a matter of if Miguel would come for you. It was a matter of when. When he had time to separate himself from trashing-- whatever was the closest object to him in the lab-- to take out his rage on you. You reached for your medicine cabinet. You had more important things to worry about. First on the list? The searing heat.

Your watch was better off tucked away in a chest in the closet.

Night came with no solutions. You crouched on your window sill, chest rising and falling. You sought to stare at anything but the mindless buzz of the tv screen inside. Even with light pollution, some stars winked in the distance. Your body was a bundle of warm heat, buzzing with irritation after a fruitless day of soothing your body. You grew accustomed to your pert nipples against your silky slip, the lubricant coursing down your leg. At first, denial. Now, acceptance. You thought tomorrow might be better.

You felt his presence before you heard, smelled, or saw him. Through the sea of scorched sensations battering your senses, there was one that stood apart. A tickle that niggled at the back of your head. It could have been anyone, but you didn’t have to guess to know who it was. “Lyla."

“You haven’t called him all day,” Lyla squeaked.

“Called all-- I answered his call!” Your dress was matted to your body, cloaked in an abhorrent amount of sweat. It was only minutes ago that you retrieved your watch confident that you could bullshit something, anything, for a few days of reprieve. You jammed your shaking finger to resolve the call.

“Not all of them. Miguel was worried.”

“Worried! Lyla, that is not worried,” you spat. That was your Miguel, scaling the side of your apartment. His talons cracking the siding of your apartment. The reverberations spiraled up your legs, sending waves of anticipation lapping at your core. After your long day, you weren't sure how you were still somehow upright. With every crack of his talon into the brick siding, you were running out of time to come up with an excuse.

In a bid to escape, you fell into your room. The hard floor knocked the breath out of your dry lips. You stumbled onto your feet and supported yourself with a bookcase of less than half-read books. “Lyla, he can’t see me like this!”

“Then tell me what’s going on,” she popped back up. “C’mon, you can tell me, it can’t be that bad.”

If her tone was playful in some half-baked attempt to neutralize your fight, the threat was imminent. Your hand connected with the top of the window, applying pressure to close the window. A hair too late. At the same time, Miguel’s clawed hand curled around the bottom of the window sash. You were too slow for the man who excelled with power, speed, and efficiency. You weren't going to win this fight. Not with your body threatening to crack at the very sight of your man's strength.

Though you saw him nearly daily, he always took your breath away. His sinewy body was always a sight, his suit accentuated his thick and fine cut. You moistened your lips, longing to run your fingers through his thick dark brown hair as you did every night. You caught his sharp gaze a second longer than you should have.

“Open up,” he whispered coolly.

He was a distraction. The wind was not on your side either, blowing wisps of his scent into your overwrought senses. His natural musk mixed with the sweat of a hard day's work. Somewhere in there, bitter blood. You could smell the caramelized scent of the flaky, buttery empanadas and hot coffee you shared the day before. It gave you pause, his intoxicating smell and the sultry trill of his voice. But you couldn’t let him see you, not like this.

“Oop, there he is. Just checking on you,” Lyla chittered. Resolve.

“Miggy, please go away,” you sobbed in frustration, shifting to shoulder the window. “Why are you so stubborn!?”

“It’s who I am.”

The window cracked all at once. With mere milliseconds to respond to the sash careening into the upper rail, you whirled past the bedroom door. Miguel broke into a run behind you with long strokes of his legs. He made contact, sending you barreling into your lazy sapphire couch from the impact. You saw stars for a fraction of a second before you lurched on your palms and elbows, scrambling off of the couch and across the floor. His hand caught your ankle and dragged you underneath his body.

“¡Ay!” you bit out. “No, no no no. Miggy!”

“¡Callate!”

His hand wrapped tightly around your throat to force complacency, pinning you back to the hardwood floor. Your palms slammed onto his chest, drawing lines down his chest. Bits of pathetic electricity fizzled on his broad, muscular chest, a consequence of your fading focus. That focus was eviscerated when Miguel threw his hips flat against your core. Your frantic fidgeting against Miguel soothed some of the terrible, buzzing pressure rattling between your legs like warm honey on a sore wound. The ache for his relief became more important than the impulse for substantial breaths.

“Don’t move. Why are you--”

“I can’t help it,” you cut him off, straining against his large palm to stare at his crotch. His gaze fell on yours, following the path to his soft cock. His eyes widened with the sudden attention. Tears threatened to spill over from your eyes, pricked with spikes of pain. "It's too much!"

You ate your shame with his body crouched between your legs and his large palm choking the air out of your throat. The influx of air not only brought your scent, but your day-long desperation to fix what you believed was wrong. He could smell it now. He could see it now. He could hear it in your voice. He knew why you failed to answer his calls. The violent jabbing of the resolve button. Throwing your watch into your cramped closet to ignore the calls. The pheromones that soaked your apartment. It was unavoidable.

“You can’t help it,” he repeated. Miguel considered you with razor-sharp eyes, nearly as sharp as the talons that rescinded into his arms.

"I'll see about that." His hand left your neck to reveal bundles of bumpy shivers that soared across your skin. He raised his finger to wipe away the wet tears that fell from your flushed cheeks. Then dropping lower, Miguel chased the thin straps of your gown with his claw and slid the offending fabric off of your breast. The nub was as hard as it had been hours ago when you twerked the nipple between your fingertips and dreamed of Miguel.

“You’re...” he cupped your breast in your palm and massaged your nipple with one sharp twist of his thumb. The gasp that left your lips wasn’t one you were proud of. Your undulating hips that ground down on his cock weren’t entirely unwarranted. You needed it. "Hot. As if you're in heat."

This couldn’t be happening. From a ball of rage to one of arousal, he released a tiny amused chuckle. You spent much of the day in different parts of the apartment with your hand, toy, ice, and water into your body to soothe this terrible ache. So Miguel wouldn't see you like this. It was this moment you sought to avoid after your long day: The moment of Miguel's disapproval. Now he laughed at you.

“Happy?” you sobbed into the forearm that kept Miguel stable. “Go away, someone else could use your stupid help.”

“Don’t you need me?” Miguel dipped his head down. Strands of his dark hair tickled your hypersensitive skin. With the lightweight fabric of his suit, pressing your cunt back against his clothed bulge felt wonderful. You bit your lower lip and watched his cock jut against its fabric. You lifted your puffy eyes to his gaze and found a wicked gleam there. He knew it wasn’t enough contact for the pressure and painful spasms to abate. Deep down, you knew that Miguel was your only hope for relief. Who else could, or would, you call in this condition? Mostly because Miguel always fixed everything.

"Miggy," you murmured. After this pitiful display, he wasn't rejecting you? Your mind flowed weightless and light. The terror of your day faded under his careful caress. In its place, comfort that he would take care of you.

“Don’t you?” His hand snaked between your folds and found it soaked wet, the low throbbing of your pussy palpable. He retracted his fingers and spread the sticky fluid between his thumb and middle finger. At some point, silence became better than an answer. Miguel brought his hand down on your cunt for a sharp slap. Bundles of nerves cried out under the abuse. It shook free a squeal from your lips, bitten raw by the pressure of the day. Your head bobbed into a mechanical nod as to save yourself from another slap.

“You know how to ask. It’s si Miguel, por favor Miguel.”

You needed the warm sensation of his cum. But making those words proved too difficult. Your canines pierced bloody holes in your lower lip. You clawed up his forearms, trying to leverage and force him closer. Miguel grabbed your shoulders and thrashed them back down onto the floor. You felt bad for the downstairs neighbors.

“Say it.”

“Miggy,” you looked into his eyes. They were blown wide, nearly fully black with a thin outline of scarlet, chasing the outline of your exposed breast. For all his talk, you realized he wasn't immune. Even with his face tight, his eyes focused on the same thing you needed. Maybe, all this time, you were baiting Miguel with half-assed answers. They were invitations. Invitations to come to fill this need you had. You would be lying if you said that wasn’t what you wanted this whole time. Finally, you had him where you wanted him.

Miguel broke eye contact first. He cupped his plush lips around your nipple, suckling the breast taut and wet. You cried out in surprise and arched into Miguel’s mouth, enticed by the fangs that grazed your nipple. As quickly as he came, he was gone.

You lurched up, palming Miguel's dick through his pants. His hips bucked into your palm. He refused to make any sound as he considered your next movements, releasing Miguel’s cock from his suit. Impatience and need coalesced into your brave movements, sliding your palm against him. He was impossibly thick and hard, dribbling at the tip. Miguel huffed a small noise as your palm ran over him. You dared to call it a moan.

Miguel sneered and shoved you back onto the floorboards. “I’ll only tell you one more time. Ask me properly.”

"You do too, don't you?" You giggled. A noise that grated his ear. With the belief you wouldn’t bolt, Miguel shifted back onto his knees. You wouldn’t. There was nowhere left to run. Not that you even wanted to, fat and hungry off Miguel's growing desperation.

"Come here." He snaked his hands underneath your knees, dragged you close, and pushed them to your chest. Your eyes fluttered shut. Moments later, the sensation of his thick dick sliding against your engorged folds forced them back open. It gave you just enough relief through the pulsing pain to look at him with your hazy eyes. From this angle, you appreciated how large Miguel had gotten. His round cock-head bobbed and crested over your mound as it rubbed against your aching clit. His face was trained, focused. He wasn't going to relent first.

The nagging pressure never abated. You sought something more, something better, the sensation of being filled. With every glide, you squeezed your walls in protest to his absence. Your hips protested the restriction of your movement, shimmying against the firm hold he had that kept you in place. You wanted more than that. You wanted true relief from his teasing. Miguel drew back to inspect the fluid over his fat shaft as held you down. You gave in, whining at him like a brat.

“Por,” you scratched his forearms. “Por favor, Miggy. You don’t know what it's like.”

“All fours-- face down.”

The cacophony of desire battered and overcame any other human emotion you could have. You complied, crawling onto your fuzzy indigo rug for what came next. Miguel’s gloved hand skimmed across your ass, middle finger skimming toward the center. He followed up his gentle touch by reeling back his hand and cracking it across your ass, searing the nerves alive. Once, twice, and then a third. Tears pricked your cheeks again, a consequence of your nerves being overwrought and now assailed.

“Miggy!”

He shushed you with fervor, another thwack beating the jiggling flesh hot and red. Your legs trembled under the weight of his slaps. “Ignore my calls again and you’ll get much worse.”

“I didn’t-- you wouldn't want me,” your lips parted in defense of what you’d done. Miguel dipped down to spread your folds, rolling his index finger along your pulsing walls. Your body drew him in, squeezing and urging him forward. Your swollen walls were impossibly tight, straining to bring him in more and more.

"You know I do."

The need for more devoured any other thought, any threats of what he’d do next time. You rolled your hips to ride his hand. In place of a slap, Miguel slid another finger slid in beside the first to stretch your walls open. He faltered at your next words and slid his fingers free.

“Not like… not like I need you.”

“Who decides that?” he pressed on your upper back to force it down. You complied. Miguel stumbled forward, finally pressing his thick head to your pulsing entrance. His round head pressed, just barely, into your wet hole. You clenched down, inviting him into your warmth. You weren’t sure he’d actually give it to you. It was so damn close.

“You do, Miggy,” you murmured, pushing back. He watched as his shaft slowly disappeared into your body, your apprehension of retaliation rendered you too slow to finish.

Miguel snatched your waist and forced you to take the rest, a soppy squelch lubricating his shaft. The sound that slipped from your lips was entirely uncouth, punctuated by his unforgiving thrusts. Your walls strained around his cock. No matter how many times you took him, the drag of his cock and slap of balls against your body always felt somehow like the first. It filled that ache-- the consistent burning need to have him here, inside of your greedy body, scratching something that you could not itch all day. It’s what you wanted.

“That’s right, I do.” Miguel rumbled, short, punctuated thrusts beating your clenching cunt into complacency. The pleasure ruptured through your cunt-- battering his dick in response. He let loose a sharp grunt followed by a string of curses. Your sweet release spilled over his dick and balls, dripping down your thighs. Your legs threatened to shook, but Miguel was unwilling to allow your trembling legs to give out.

"Ah! Miggy!" His fangs punctured your shoulder to force you to stay in position, his pelvis stuttering against yours. His growl punctuated the warm, soothing cum that soothed your walls like warm honey over a wound. Your walls milked him free of his cum, spasming in response to his orgasm. He pieced himself together against your back, pulling his fangs free and settling a soft kiss over the burning wound on your shoulder. As if he hadn't been the one to tear his fangs into the crook of your neck.

“You’re not letting go,” he hummed in annoyance. He turned his attention down to your ass, ghosting his fingers over the healing bruises over your backside. You squealed, jerking forward. He followed you forward, punching a hole in the floor by your side. “Fuck, don’t move!”

You cast your attention back toward Miguel. He huffed forcefully out of his nostrils. He motioned toward your ass as if it were obvious-- your walls were clamped over his cock, unwilling or otherwise unable to let him go, as if he had any more cum to give in that current moment. You took it all.

“I. I didn't-- I can’t--”

“Yeah, I know. That Bee venom does that. Mine should neutralize it.”

At some point, you murmured. It sure as hell wasn’t doing it now, keeping him seated into your cunt that bubbled with the mixture of his and your release. “You knew about it? I could have died!”

Miguel chuckled.

“You wouldn’t. You’re too stubborn to die,” he sighed, fiddling with his watch. The tests-- that you never had ran. Ones that he suggested. Ones that you refused quite openly. “Why would I deny myself the fun?”

His cock slipped free. Your hips dropped and fell slack against the floor. You weren’t proud of the cum that oozed out of your ass over your decimated room, nor the fact that your useless neighbors hadn’t called for help once. Not that you needed it-- but still. You palpated your stomach, slightly distended. Miguel bent down and gathered the mixture of your bodily fluids on his fingers, suckling his own fingers dry. You watched his wet tongue swirl around his fingertips. It wasn't fair.

“Fun? What fun!? Do you know how long I-- You’re a mean man, Miguel O’Hara.”

He lurched over, his breath tickling your lips. He kissed you, salty and sweet. Your nose scrunched up, pouting against his lips. He left the room for the kitchen, fetching a wet cloth to clean his body with. He zipped himself back into his suit shortly after and dropped the sodden cloth by the cum puddling under your ass.

“Never said I wasn’t.”

#miguel ohara oneshot #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara oneshot #miguel x reader #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o'hara/reader #Miguel ohara/reader #atsv imagine #atsv x you #atsv x reader #atsv imagines #miguel o'hara imagine #miguel o'hara x y/n #across the spiderverse imagine #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o’hara smut

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ff7-has-taken-me-over · 10 months

Text

The Hansen lads looking after Raleigh after he comes back for the final battle. Feeding him, helping him through nightmares or sleepless nights, etc.

Her’s the gentle words and firm encouragement where Chuck’s the silent support and constant affection. Herc gives his shoulder to hold Raleigh up when he feels like he’s about to collapse from exhaustion and Chuck has his back whenever someone picks a fight.

They help him through it all and allow him the time to grieve that he had never given himself in five years of living. It’s a weird little partnership they agreed on, one born from attraction old and new, one that - more often than not - sparks pointless pissing contests and dick measurings. More literal than Raleigh was ever prepared for.

The amount of times Raleigh ended up between the two of them, out of his mind with pleasure and hazing out their constant bickering is much more than he’s managed to count.

<><><><><><>

“Come back to us yeah? Don’t you dare leave us behind.”

Chuck huffed a laugh, kissing Raleigh’s cheek while ruffling his hair, “Should be telling you that darling. You’re the one with no self preservation.”

Raleigh let out a laugh of his own, nuzzling into the hand before turning toward a stoic Herc. Well… if you ignored the tears sitting in the corners of his eyes, “You both better come back to me. I will not lose a son and a partner in the same day.”

#fic prompt #prompt #fic #pacific rim #Chuck Hansen #Herc Hansen #Raleigh becket #Chuck x raleigh #Herc x raleigh #Chuck x raleigh x Herc #no incest!#just sharing a partner #weirder things happen in this fandom honestly #established relationship #Raleigh grieving like he deserves!#Hansen guys looking after him #Raleigh’s a hot mess

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quietwingsinthesky · 1 year

Note

God (Chuck) and Death (OG), post canon.

|| AO3 || DW || FFNet || PF || SW || WC: 97

“Think of me as encouragement,” Death says, unbothered, “as most humans do.”

(Enjoyed it? Any interaction is welcomed. You can even support me on Ko-Fi <3)

#they are going to be horrible roommates now #(slips in a little death headcanoning) don’t mind me what I’m not doing anything #fic: spn #ask #fic: chuck shurley #fic: death spn #fanfiction #prompt fic #fic: genfic #fic: post-canon #fic: chuck & death #fic: g #fic: <100 #fic: depowered!chuck

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murdrdocs · 1 year

Text

saber tooth | f. odair

description. just two days out from the Games, your mentor and best friend, finnick odair, comes to your room late at night in a mutual fit of insomnia to fulfill your (potentially) dying wish

includes. SMUT 16+, fem!reader, oral f!receiving, fingering, loss of virginity sans p in v, canon-complicit angst, mentions of finnick’s trafficking, best friends to lovers, reader’s a tribute, finnick’s her mentor, extremely brief misunderstandings, soft dom finnick, pleasure dom finnick, brief mention of drug use (one line), finnick and annie were never together but he mentored her, he rlly cares abt r :((, giggly sex (sometimes), throw away line abt lack of body hair but i rlly like body hair

a/n: whaddup whaddup! this started as a blurb but it um ,,, clearly expanded. there’s no p in v simply bc im so tired rn however i would like to continue this in the future if my mind would allow it :) also the title has nothing to do with the fic i was just listening to easily by chuck inglish

word count: 4k+

part 2

A week of anticipation, festivities, and celebration for the Capitol, was a week of anxiety, tears muffled into pillows, and wishing to be somewhere else for you.

The week leading up to the 72nd Hunger Games.

The Reaping, Opening Ceremony, and the three days of training that followed were mostly a blur. Your body picked up on the techniques you would need to survive, and with the help of Finnick, you’d managed to commit them to memory. You remembered the way you’d been trained to sit and talk and the jokes you should slip into conversation with Caesar tomorrow night.

All of their training was working, and Finnick had told you that you had a high chance of making it out of that area. A high chance. Nothing was guaranteed at this point in your life. Which is why you needed to do a few final things.

The door to your bedroom slides open. You lift your head from the pillow and squint. There’s a little light coming from the hallway, and it backlit the figure. But even without it, you would know who was coming to see you. The only person who’d been coming to see you since the arrival at the Tribute Center.

“Hey, Finn,” you mumble, resting your head back against the pillow that’s always cool.

Finnick takes a few steps into your room, stopping to flick a switch that only turns on the lamps beside your bed, and the two ambient ones in the corners.

“Hey, sweetheart,” his voice is raspy, as if he’s tired, but not to the point of already greeting sleep. It’s a little later than it should be, you were recommended to have gone to sleep two hours ago but you couldn’t. There was too much going on in your head, too many unsaid words and undone actions. You couldn’t sleep with your consciousness this awake.

Finnick voices the matter. “You can’t sleep, can you?”

You shake your head, deciding to sit up a little, your bare lower half still secure underneath the thick comforter. Your room was always cold, and the silk sheets mirrored the temperature. Physically, you were the most comfortable you’d ever been, wearing the softest cotton undergarments, and a silk button up nightshirt, your toes warm beneath fuzzy socks. But the weight on your mind was the complete opposite.

With the way Finnick looks at your face, he can tell just how exhausted you are.

“Want something to help with that?” He asks as he sits at the edge of the bed, close but entirely too far from you. “A drink? Pills? The Capitol has it all, you know.” The way he says it is the opposite of marveling, the words laced with annoyance and frustration. His tone prompts a small smile from you.

“‘M okay. I trust my body to do what it’s supposed to.” Finnick’s head is turned down, but you see the way the corner of his lip curls up.

He lifts his head to fully smile at you, one of sympathy and pity and sadness. His hand reaches out and his palm rests over the outline of your shin. Far too many layers are between the bare skin on both of you, but you don’t say so. You just give Finnick an equally sad smile, expressing your dismay for your situation, and you begin to pick at your nails in your lap.

“What’re you doing in here? Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

Finnick shakes his head. “No such luck for me either.” He shrugs as if he’s used to it and you remember that he’s been in this position too. Just a few years ago, a young boy, your best friend, was sitting in this bed, with similar thoughts weighing on his mind. And now his best friend was in that position.

You push the sheets back, exposing the beginnings of the skin on your thigh, and you pat the space beside you. “C’mon,” you encourage, not ceasing your patting until Finnick scoffs and slides his slippers off, crawling up to slip under the covers with you.

The bed is larger than you’d ever seen, something your escort called a ‘bed fit for a king’, but Finnick chooses to sit right beside you, the heat of his body warming yours.

“We could watch something. What plays on the television in the Capitol?” Finnick’s sitting so close to you that you can feel him shrug. Whenever you reach over to the bedside table, pulling the drawer open to grab the remote, you come back to sit even closer to him, where your arms are pressed flush against each other.

“Mostly shows about the lives of celebrities here.”

You gasp, turning to face him. “Is that rumor about you appearing on some reality show true?” Finnick’s ears redden and that’s enough confirmation that you need. Your head throws back with a hearty laugh, and you click on the TV with hopes of finding an episode.

Finnick sits quietly beside you as you click through the channels, reading the titles and watching maybe a second or two of content before you decide to try the next thing. When you’ve gone through most channels, you land on the one that will play the Games.

He says your name, as a warning perhaps, but you click it anyway, seeing that they’re talking about you.

“Now the odds of this one making it out are pretty high. She’s pretty, smart, and trained by the Finnick Odair,” a clip of you and Finnick appears, one that must’ve been taken backstage during the Opening Ceremony. He’s standing close to you, crouched down just enough to meet your eye level. You’re obviously nervous, and he’s obviously attempting to soothe those nerves, cracking jokes with a hand held to your heart, both of yours over it. “The Capitol’s Prince.” The announcer pronounces those words clearly, enunciated, making sure every late night viewer understands Finnick’s alternate title.

Clips of Finnick throughout the years show and you grow silent, watching how he commands a room better than you ever could.

“If she were to make it out, I’m sure she could become the Capitol’s Princess, right?” The announcer smiles just as the remote is snatched from your hands and the TV is clicked off, ridding the bedroom of the colorful hues and leaving you and Finnick with the yellow light from your lamps.

“Why did you–?” Finnick’s interrupting. He’s thrown the remote to the side of him and he’s turned to face you.

“I want you to make it out of the Games, I really do.” You nod, watching the way his chest rises and falls with breaths that fill the hesitant silence. “But, I don’t want what happened to me to happen to you.”

“What do you mean? You don’t want me to be loved and adored by the Capitol?” You say it a tad bit sarcastically, but your tone dulls down when you notice how serious his face is.

He shakes his head. “No, I really don't.” You scoff, beginning to get upset over the idea that a night that was turning peaceful, began to turn on its head. “Because everything comes with a price here,” he says your name, making sure you’re listening. “The ‘love’ the Capitol has for me is ingenuine, they love me like I’m an object. Not a person with thoughts and feelings.”

“Finnick, I don’t think I understand.” But you do, you really do.

He tells you as much, that same sad smile from earlier on his lips.

Before you can speak, he does. “Look, I came in here to ask you what you want.”

Your eyebrows furrow.

“Before the Tributes I mentor get sent off, I like to fulfill their wish. In case they don’t…”

“In case they don’t make it back.” He nods. “So a dying wish?” Another nod.

“So, what d’you want?”

You know what you want. You’ve wanted it since you were a teenager, watching Finnick, the most loved victor, leave for the Capitol and come back weeks later. Since you watched him train Annie Cresta and everyone, including yourself, believed there to have been something between them. Since he walked into your room just 20 minutes ago.

“What I want, I don’t think I can ask you for.” You speak low, your voice a whisper. Your head rests on the headboard behind you, turned to face Finnicks.

He shakes his head gently. “I have connections. I can guarantee almost anything.”

“No, Finn.” You don’t think you can ask him for this. Especially with what he’s essentially just told you. It would be selfish, it would be insincere, it would ruin the friendship you have between you two.

“I can’t.”

His head’s already facing yours, and he brings one of his hands up to cup your cheek, his thumb caressing the skin.

“Yes, you can.”

“No, Finn, I can’t.” Your eyes sting, as does your nose, and you know there’s no use in pretending the tears aren’t there. He’s seen them, he’s acknowledged them by swiping his thumb under your eye, catching the first drop.

“I would do anything for you. Just say the word.”

You search his eyes, his face, the tip of his ears, his Adam’s Apple. You’re looking for his tell. But it’s not there. It’s just Finnick. Your Finnick. And he wants the best for you.

You’re the most vulnerable you’ve ever been at this moment; sitting in a bed in the Tribute Center, just two days out from the Hunger Games, a period of uncertainty that is life or death; your best friend, and unrequited crush, as your mentor, having to hold your pieces together at least until the end of this.

There’s no point in hiding anything. You know you need to lay it all out. So you do.

“Even take my virginity?”

The air is still. Stiff. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t breathe. His thumb halts. He doesn’t blink.

You sit there, watching him, holding in the sob that threatens to wrack across your body.

“Forget it. I’m sor–”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Yes.”

There’s a moment where you don’t act. A moment where disbelief trickles down your body like the tears from your eyes do on your face.

“Finn…”

“I would do anything for you. I have wanted you since we were young, but I thought…”

“Doesn’t matter what you thought then. Not anymore. We go from here now.”

And there is the nagging possibility that all of this could be because of your potential fate. Maybe he’s humoring you, or letting you in on that final step of human intimacy before your life ends. You prefer not to think about it. Especially whenever Finnick’s moving closer to you and you can feel his breath on your lips.

Your lips are almost touching, the tanned skin of his face is right in front of you, the same goes for the pink of his lips. He’s almost there, then he says, “Are you sure?”

“‘M sure.” And Finnick is kissing you. Finnick Odair is finally kissing you.

He kisses you softly, sweetly, with precision and a gentle nature. As if he’s afraid that he’ll do something wrong and hurt you.

You kiss him back in a similar fashion, just with added timidness that Finnick doesn’t possess.��

Your hands raise slowly, in choppy motions that are both due to your uncertainty, and the distraction of finally having the man of your dreams kiss you like you’re made of porcelain. But you manage to get your hands to Finnicks torso, palms pressed flat against his thin shirt so that you can feel the abs along his torso.

You’ve felt them before, in time of play fighting, or whenever he would have you replicate his breathing or form. But touching along his torso in this circumstance is different. Now, your touch ignites a fire within you. It makes Finnick grip the back of your neck and pull you closer with one hand, the other sliding the covers away and hooking his hand at the back of your thigh, pulling your left leg over your right.

Your hands slide down to the hem of his shirt, slowly starting to slide it up until he gets the hint and pulls away just enough for you to slide the shirt between you two, up and over his head. Then he’s back on you.

When you sigh blissfully into his mouth, he starts to kiss you like he’s desperate to have you close. Like he wants to engulf your entire being until you’re intertwined.

The best you can do is physically move closer to him, letting the hand on the back of your thigh guide you to straddling his lap.

It’s then that Finnick pulls away from you. Your hands trail up to cup his cheeks, moving back to play with the golden blonde locks that seemed to never be out of place.

He stares up at you, sea-green eyes pulling you even further into a state of enchantment. Whenever he tilts his head, eyes stuck on you, and kisses into your palm, you melt. His hand lifts to gently circle around your wrist, nimble fingers rubbing little circles into the skin.

After a few moments of comfortable silence, Finnick speaks. “I need you to remember that even if I’m doing the work, you set the pace. You tell me what you like and don’t like. You tell me when to go and when to stop. Okay?”

“Okay.”

And then you’re back at it. His hands circle around to your lower back, pushing into the curvature to bring your chest closer to him. He uses the position to his advantage, dipping his head to kiss at the exposed bits of your skin; your neck, collarbone, the starts of your cleavage. He quickly becomes frustrated with the lack of skin, and you bite back a smile as you gently nudge his head back and begin to undo the buttons.

He watches you in a trance-like state with a look that seems akin to awe. You can’t help but tease him just a bit, shifting in your position atop his crotch and slowing your work on the buttons.

Finnick groans and his hands leave your lower back to push your own hands away, deciding to undo your buttons himself, grumbling something under his breath about you being a tease.

When you giggle above him, Finnick has you pushed onto your back in what seems like the blink of an eye. Really, it did happen quick, but your eyes were already closed from giggling so hard, so reopening them to Finnick above you, your shirt opened and your barely confined tits in Finnick’s eyeline, is disorienting.

“Jesus, look at you,” Finnick mumbles. And he is. His eyes are hungirly skirting over your figure, taking it all in. From your eyes, to the bra that you wear, all the way to the cotton panties that hug your hips.

His gaze stops at your lower half for a while, watching your stomach rise and fall with your breaths and the way there’s definitely a little wet patch on your panties.

“What am I gonna do with you?” He mumbles under his breath. The question is rhetorical, and meant only for him. But, in a fit of nerves, you answer anyway, needing to do something other than lay there.

“I don’t know, Finn, there’s a lot that you can do. You can go down on me, give me your fingers, your cock.”

His eyes lift to yours, shock evident within them. “Did you just say the word ‘cock’?” He laughs between the words, that perfectly pearly white smile greeting you.

“Yeah,” you say, laughing through the syllables too.

Finnick shakes his head with that smile still present.

He swears under his breath but then his fingers are playing with the hem of your panties and you’re back under, focused on what he could possibly plan to do next. He hums, eyes on you, eyebrows raised.

It takes you a second to realize what his intentions were, but you do soon enough. “Keep going. Please.”

The tips of his fingers reach below the band of your panties. He begins to pull them down, just until your hip bones and the start of your mound becomes visible. At first, you disgraced the Capitols groomers' work of ridding your entire body of hair, but you can’t help but feel a little grateful that they did. You knew that Finnick wouldn’t care either way.

You lift your hips, letting Finnick pull your panties over the curve of your ass. When they sit at the halfway point of your thighs, he lowers his head and presses his lips to the area right above the waistband. And he continues to do so, sliding your underwear down and kissing through the journey.

The last kiss he gives you is on the arch of your foot, right before he guides the garment over the remaining part of your body, throwing them off to the side of the bed.

Finnick sits back on his heels then, just looking at you, looking at your legs which are just almost crossed at the knee, your ankles together and one knee raised slightly above the other. You’re shielding the most vulnerable part of you, hiding it almost. But when his green eyes meet your center, briefly meeting your eyes, you slowly part your legs, allowing him to see you in all of your glory.

Finnick sucks in a sharp breath of air, his chest rising with it. He doesn’t let it out until your legs are completely opened and bent at the knee, inviting him in. You sit halfway up on your elbows, watching him, waiting for him.

It’s not long until he makes a move, just a few tense moments and then Finnick’s kicked into action.

His calloused hands on your knees, sliding around to the back of your thighs as he lays on his stomach, directly facing your cunt.

When he speaks, you can feel his breath on you. “I wanna taste you, sweetheart. Just for a bit. Is that alright?”

His eyes are visible over your mound, but they’re not focused on you just this once. They’re focused on your cunt, scanning it, taking it all in almost as if he’s committing this moment to his very strong memory.

You’re a little starstruck, reckoning with the notion that Finnick wants to give you head. Therefore, you sit there in stunned silence, attempting to find the words to deliver your over enthusiastic agreement. But Finnick takes your silence negatively.

“You don’t have to say yes if you don’t want to, honey. Just wanna make you feel good. That’s what I’m here for.” And there are those eyes again. They’re pleading, but also making you feel comfortable, reminding you that you’re in charge.

You smile gently, nodding. “Yes.”

And the first lick has your head spinning. His tongue is warm, and wet, and he licks a long stripe from your leaking entrance to your clit. It’s slow, and methodical. He licks your juices up, but they’re coming back tenfold by the time he’s pressed a kiss to your clit.

A surprised moan pushes up your throat. The feeling has your hips pushing into his face on their own accord, your elbows slipping out from under you and your head throwing back onto the mattress.

Finnick disconnects from you for just a second to let out a pleased groan, but the absence is too much for you already. You’re wiggling your hips, searching for him.

Finnick laughs and the sound has heat rising through you. “‘M still here. Not leaving this pussy anytime soon.”

He lives up to his promise immediately. His mouth’s back on you, licking and sucking on your most sensitive parts.

It’s now that you remember how experienced Finnick is. How knowledgeable he is about the general spots of someone’s body. And he’s able to apply that knowledge to your body, with the help of your zealous responses.

You’re moaning, your back arching, your hands gripping the sheets. Your knees bend more, your legs spread more, it’s all more and more and more. You want more from Finnick. You need more.

You’re communicating that fact when you finally have enough courage to fist a hand into Finnick’s hair, and it’s like he’s rewarding you when he slyly begins to probe a finger at your tight entrance.

You’re clenched, far from relaxed, but with a deep breath, you’re loose enough for him to slide in to the first knuckle, then the second, then all the way, his single digit comfortable within your walls.

Finnick fucks you with his finger, aiding the penetration with his pretty pink lips around your pink nub. He sucks, the pressure making your head spin, your consciousness in the clouds to the point where you don’t notice another of Finnick’s deft fingers teasing your entrance.

“Another?” he asks, voice barely able to be heard due to his proximity to your cunt.

“Uh-huh,” is all the affirmation you can give.

It’s a little tight and uncomfortable at first, but once his digits are evened out and curling in you, and his tongue is lapping up your juices like it’s water, you’re riding so high in a blissed out state that discomfort is the last thing on your mind.

Your approaching orgasm becomes known to you quicker than you can anticipate. It’s like all of a sudden there’s tension in your lower abdomen, begging for your attention, begging to be released.

“Finnick, Finn,” he hums, not stopping any of his ministrations. “‘M so close. Almost there.”

You hadn’t thought it to be possible but Finnick gives you more. His fingers fuck you faster and harder, his cheeks hollow as he alternates between sucking along your nerves and stroking his tongue is the areas that you’re most sensitive.

It feels so fucking good, a pleasure you’d never experienced in your life. You couldn’t imagine being in this position with anyone other than your best friend, someone you trusted with your entire being. It’s as if he knows your body better than you do, because sooner than you would’ve liked, your back is arching and your legs are lifting off the bed and your nails are digging into Finnick’s scalp, all signs that your orgasm is right there and you cum with a loud cry that melts into breathy moans.

Finnick pulls his fingers out of your cunt but his mouth stays on you, placing gentle kisses and kitten licks along the slicked area. When your legs have lowered and your breath has evened out, he pulls his head away from you, a wince leaving his lips.

“Darling,” he starts, receiving an affirmative hum in response. “You’re pulling my hair out.”

“Oh, shit, sorry.” Your hand lets go of his hair, your body burning with embarrassment. But Finnick’s bright laugh and content smile soothes you.

“‘S okay,” he mumbles as he leans up and presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips. Your lips mold to his like they were created for each other, and the kiss is slow, methodical, loving.

You whine when he pulls away, but his hands have already hooked under your thighs and he’s pulling you with him as he starts to sit back.

You end up in the position you started in, sitting on Finnick’s lap, your hands on his shoulders.

Under you, you can feel his bulge confined in his pants. You shift a little over it, your throat beating with your heart rate due to the anticipation.

Finnick’s eyes close softly and his head throws back. Your hand rises to push back the bangs of his hair which lay on his forehead, in favor of resting your skin against his.

“Sweetheart,” he groans. “We …. We can’t.”

Your heart drops.

“Huh?”

“I wanna feel you, sweetheart, I swear.” His eyes open to stare at yours and you notice the sincerity in them. It doesn’t do much to lift your spirits, though. “But we can’t. Not yet.”

Your eyebrows furrow, waiting for further explanation. It comes from him quickly.

“I need you in your right mind in the Games. You need to be focused, and only thinking about survival. Nothing else.”

“You’re so full of yourself.”

He chuckles. “Maybe. But we have to play it safe.” A beat. “You trust me, right?”

And you do. Wholeheartedly.

#finnicksworld!#celeste writes thg #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair smut #the hunger games smut #finnick odair x you #finnick odair #the hunger games

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ace-spades-1 · 4 months

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Orange Peel Theory

Clarisse La Rue x fem!reader

Summary: A daughter of Aphrodite wanted to see if an Ares girl reciprocated her sister’s love for her.

a/n: Sorry for any grammar mistakes and please correct me if I’m wrong about the orange peel theory. This is my first fic so please be nice. Also, credits to @marvelsmylife for the inspiration and to @star-girl69 for giving me confidence. Sorry that it's short.

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The orange peel theory is a test a person does to see how much their partner loves them by doing something as small as peeling an orange for them. A test that Faith had tried with her boyfriend but failed. When given the orange he gave her a confused look and refused resulting in the orange getting chucked at his head and being ignored for the rest of the day.

However, the test prompted an idea in her head. Earlier that week she had found out that her dear sister Y/N had been crushing on a certain Ares girl but afraid of telling her how she feels in fear of rejection. For a daughter of Aphrodite, she sure is dense.

Making her way to the Dining Pavilion her eyes spotted her sister and Clarisse, who was also making her way over there. Faith quickly ran to the Dining Pavilion grabbing an orange and plopping herself next to Y/N.

“Hey, sis! Want an orange?”

She stretched her hand towards Y/N, orange in hand. Y/N smiled and nodded, grabbing the orange and right on queue Clarisse entered the Dining Pavilion. Just as Y/N started to peel the fruit Clarisse walked up to the Aphrodite table hand stretching out towards Y/N.

“Give it here, Y/N”

She was met with a curious look.

“The orange, give it.”

Y/N sighed and gave Clarisse the orange who started to peel it. Once done the Ares girl gave the orange back,

“I know you don’t like the smell of orange on your fingers.”

Y/N smiled and thanked the girl, eating a slice of orange missing the small tint of pink that formed on Clarisse’s cheek. Watching the girl walking to the Ares table a mischievous smile started to form on Faith’s face. Her eyes went back and forth to her sister and Clarisse. The girl was definitely in love.

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Thank you for reading!!!

#clarisse la rue x reader #clarisse la rue x y/n #clarisse la rue x fem reader #clarisse pjo #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo x reader #pjo tv show

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 6 months

Text

Let the Light In

Pairing: Tom Bennett (World on Fire) x f!reader Warnings: Fingering, male masturbation, smut. Word count: ~1.6k

Summary: Having stumbled back too late from the pub, Tom finds Lois and Douglas have locked him out for the night. Thankfully, the girl across the road takes pity on him.

Author's note: Day ten of the Smuffmas prompts - "bed sharing and accidental stimulation". No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

“Lois! Lois! Come on, let me up, don’t be tight!”

The shouting filters through to her subconscious, and she grumbles, slowly blinking her eyes open, mind foggy with sleep.

“Lois! It’s freezing out here!”

She flicks on the lamp on the bedside table, lifting her watch to look at the time.

Almost 1am. Bloody pillock.

She has lived opposite the Bennett family her entire life, and though she doesn’t know them well, they’re neighbourly, exchanging polite “hellos” when they pass in the street. Though Tom’s is usually accompanied by a wink that makes her skin feel too hot.

Over the last year or so, she’s grown used to being woken up by Tom stumbling back home at some ungodly hour, waking her up as he shouts for his sister, Lois, to open the window and let him up into their shared bedroom. He knows he’ll cop an earful from their dad, Douglas, if he comes in through the front door. It’s usually double locked anyway, so his key wouldn’t work even if he were to try.

Lois has never left him out on the street for this long though, but she can’t blame her, she’s probably sick of it by now.

“Lois!”

Fuck’s sake.

There’s no point in leaving him out there, his shouting will wake up half the street. She considers it a good job that her own dad works nights, and that her mum has taken to wearing earplugs to bed so that he doesn’t wake her when he returns in the early hours of the morning.

She sighs, throwing off the duvet and stepping out of bed. She parts the curtains, lifting the sash window and shivers as the coldness of the air outside chills her skin through her nightdress as she leans out.

Tom stands outside of his house, leaning back with a lit cigarette between his lips as he stares up at his bedroom window. He’s about to shout again, when she interrupts.

“You’re gonna wake the whole bloody street if you keep on!” She hisses.

He turns, plucking the cigarette from his mouth and exhales a tight line of smoke through pursed lips.

“She won’t let me up,” he calls back. “don’t s’pose there’s any room at your inn? It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow, after all.”

“It’s Christmas Eve right now. Have you got any idea what the time is?!”

“Tomorrow doesn’t start ‘til I wake up, sweetheart.”

He flashes a lopsided grin up at her, and she has to fight the urge to smile back as she feels familiar flutters in her stomach.

Cheeky git.

“Wait there,” she sighs, sliding the window closed.

She wraps herself in her dressing gown, picking her way carefully down the stairs, before switching on the hallway light and opening the front door.

Tom is there already, leaning against the doorframe, the crushed butt of his cigarette inches away from his feet.

“You’re a star. Shall I take the sofa then?” He asks, crowding the small space in which her family hangs their coats as she closes the door behind him.

“Absolutely not. Last thing I need is dad coming back from work and seeing you sprawled out in the living room, he’ll throw a fit. Shoes off.”

Tom bends down, unlacing and kicking off his shoes. “Where you putting me?”

“You can kip in my room. Bring those with you.”

“Oh,” he smirks, “if you insist.”

She rolls her eyes, making her way back upstairs, with Tom following close behind.

“You can sleep on the floor,” she tells him, chucking him the knitted blanket from the end of her bed, and the extra pillow she sleeps with.

“Thanks,” he sounds almost disappointed as he catches them, setting them down and busying himself with shrugging out of his jacket and leaving it on a heap on the floor with his shoes.

She had expected him to sleep fully clothed, so she is shocked when she hears the metallic clink of him opening his belt as he lowers his trousers. Feeling her skin prickle with heat, and her heartbeat begin to race, she quickly turns away, shedding her dressing gown and climbing into bed.

She pulls the duvet up around herself, remaining facing away as she listens to the rustle of clothing as he pulls off his jumper, and arranges his bedding.

When it finally grows quiet, she leans over to turn the lamp off and lays back down.

“Night then,” Tom says quietly.

“Night.”

She lays there in the darkness, eyes closed, willing herself to fall asleep and yet it won’t seem to pull her under. It isn’t helped by the relentless shifting around and sighing she can hear coming from the floor beside the bed.

After five minutes of listening to Tom toss and turn, and grumble to himself, she groans and finally switches the lamp back on, leaning down to look at him.

“Can you not just go to sleep?!” She whispers in frustration.

He pulls himself to sit up, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s uncomfortable down here. And I’m cold.”

She presses her lips into a tight line, before exhaling loudly through her nose. “Fine. Come on then.”

Shuffling to the far side of the mattress, she throws the duvet back for Tom and he climbs in eagerly.

“Smashing,” he says with a wink, before turning the lamp off.

They lay back to back and, in her tiny single bed, the angle pushes both of them to the far edges of the mattress, neither one of them comfortably having enough space to stretch out and go to sleep.

“This is awful,” she complains quietly.

“Mmm,” he agrees. “Let me just…”

Tom rolls over and her breath catches in her throat as she feels his chest press against her back, his body slotting itself against hers.

Admittedly, it’s comfier like this, they both have more room, and yet she is certain she won’t sleep a wink with the heat of his body so close to hers. He must be able to feel the way her heart thuds in her ribcage.

He shifts slightly and she feels the press of a bulge against her backside, she knows precisely what it is, and it sets her pulse racing. Instinctively, without thinking, she presses back and his breath shudders hotly against the shell of her ear, his nose pressed into her hair.

Tentatively, his fingertips spread out over her hip, pulling her back against him as he rolls his hips forward, and she feels sticky heat pool between her legs as he hardens against her.

She’s not entirely sure why she’s allowing this, just knows that it feels good and she doesn’t want it to stop as they move rhythmically together, both chasing a friction that neither can quite achieve.

“Have…have you ever…” he whispers, trailing off.

She swallows thickly, afraid to disappoint him, but wanting to be honest. “No.”

“Can I touch you?”

His hand tightens on her hip and she nods. “Yes.”

Slowly, his fingers trail down her thigh, until he reaches the hem of her nightgown. His hand travels the same path again, only this time upwards and against her bare skin.

She whimpers as he cups her mound through the cotton of her knickers, the pads of his fingers pressing against the dampness of the gusset.

“Christ, you’re soaked,” he breathes shakily.

“Sorry,” she whispers back, feeling her cheeks grow warm.

“Not a bad thing, darlin’,” she can hear the smile in his voice, “nothin’ to be sorry for at all.”

His hand slides upwards, pressing flat against her lower abdomen, and then slides down again, creeping beneath the waistband of her underwear.

“Fuck,” Tom grits out, as his index finger slides between her folds, gathering her wetness before circling her pearl.

She buries her face into the pillow, to stifle the moan that leaves her. She has touched herself before, but it has always been hesitant, secretive, just enough to feel nice. This makes her feel as though her body is on fire.

Tom shuffles behind her, and for a moment she wonders what he is up to, until she feels the brush of his knuckles against her back. She doesn’t need to look to know that he’s pulled his cock out and is stroking himself. The idea makes her throat run dry.

His breaths come in hot puffs, the slick sound of him pleasuring himself, coupled with the squelch of his fingers as they slide and circle against her is lewd, and she knows she ought to feel ashamed, but she is desperate to fall from the edge that he’s eagerly pushing her towards.

She screws her eyes shut when his digit slides inside of her, her walls clenching around him as he curls his finger upwards, dragging against her and making her thighs shake.

“So tight,” he groans, before withdrawing, circling faster against her sensitive bundle of nerves with newly applied arousal.

She whines, arching against him and she feels the movement of the hand he has on himself speed up, as quiet grunts escape him.

“You’re close, aren’t ya?”

“Please…”

“Let go. Come for me.”

She bites down on the pillow, muffling the squeal that bursts out of her as her thighs clamp around Tom’s wrist, and her entire body shudders with the force of her peak. She feels like a bottle of pop that someone has shaken too hard, every part of her body coming apart in tiny bubbles.

Tom presses his face harder into her hair, his nose touching her scalp as he groans low in relief, his hips stuttering against hers as he finds his own release.

Slowly she turns to face him. His blue eyes shine in the moonlight, his full lips slightly parted as he breathes raggedly. He leans in, brushing his lips against hers, but not quite kissing her as they lay there together in blissful, tired silence.

“You’ll let me in next time, won’t you?” He rasps.

The double meaning is not lost on her, and yet it does nothing to affect her answer.

“Yes.”

#tom bennett x reader #ewan mitchell #tom bennett x you #tom bennett x y/n #tom bennett smut #tom bennet world on fire #world on fire tom bennett #tom bennett #tom bennett fan fiction #tom bennett fanfiction #tom bennett fanfic #tom bennett fan fic #world on fire #world on fire fan fiction #world on fire fanfiction #world on fire fan fic #world on fire fanfic

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mxlti-fand0m-imaginess · 6 months

Text

Samantha // Sam Carpenter

request: none!

prompts: none!

summary: being with sam has brought you nothing but happiness, and these memories with her only prove how perfect the two of you are for each other.

warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, brief allusions to smut, language, mentions of roachie kirsch

word count: 1.9k

a/n: fem!reader, i was gonna make it gn!reader but the song this fic is based on is sapphic so i felt like i should keep it that way, no ghostface au

join my taglist! album masterlist!

I think I've been yours since 4th grade

We met in 5th, you corrected me

From my bed, and I said

Technically since 2nd but I reckon the time has just flown by and my

Memory's shit, so

You smiled to yourself as you gazed at your girlfriend, Sam, who was currently asleep beside you. Despite your protests, she had claimed that she wasn’t too tired to watch a movie like the two of you had been planning. And yet, not even half an hour in, she was fast asleep on the couch, her head resting on your shoulder as she curled up beside you. No matter how many times you looked at her, you could never get over how beautiful she was.

For as long as you could remember, Sam was always there. You had gone to elementary school together, and finally became friends during middle school. High school and college came and went, and the two of you continued to grow impossibly closer. Sometimes it was hard to tell where you ended and where she began. And as time went on, feelings began to change, and the friendship between the two of you started to become something more.

Falling in love with someone that you had known for so long was indescribable. There was no awkward talking stage or embarrassing first dates. Everything just felt so natural. So right. Like she was the only person you would ever need, and she had already been there the whole time. You draped your arm over her shoulders and pulled her closer to you, taking the blanket that was lying on your lap and placing it over her.

You grabbed the remote and turned the movie off. You could always just finish it some other time. You leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, before resting your head on top of hers.

“Goodnight, my love.”

But all I ever remember is you

And all I ever say is "I miss you more"

You're everything that I ever knew

You're the only girl that I am for

“I’m the first girl you’ve ever been with, right? Is it any different from being with a guy?” you asked, tilting your head slightly as you looked over at Sam.

She nodded, a smile breaking out on her face. “It’s so different. And so much better. You actually know how to listen and you’re so much more affectionate.” The smile on her face turned into a teasing smirk. “Plus, you actually know how to make me cum.”

Your face heated up in a blush, her comment flustering you instantly. You grabbed a pillow from beside you on the couch, chucking it at her as an embarrassed laugh fell from your lips.

“Sam!” you scolded, giggles still spilling from your mouth in disbelief.

She shrugged before throwing the pillow right back at you. “What? It’s true! I’m pretty sure Richie didn’t even think the clit was real.”

You let out another snort of laughter. “God, I still can’t believe you ever even dated him. You can do so much better than that… thing.”

“I am doing better. I have you.”

Samantha, I'm in love with you

I'll do anything you ask me to

You're the reason that I dyed my hair blue

Samantha, I'm in love with you

And I'll sing it again and again

“Oh my god! What did you do to your hair?!” Sam asked, a disbelieving smile on her face as she struggled to hold back her laughter.

You had attempted to dye your hair blue to surprise her, since she had always been very fond of the color. You thought it might’ve made her happy, to have another one of her favorite things to associate with you. Unfortunately, you hadn’t been the best in picking the color. You were hoping for something more subtle, the kind of blue that looked black, with the colorful hue only visible in the light. What you ended up with was a bright and vibrant color, bordering on neon. You were upset, understandably so, and Sam’s joyful laughter at your predicament did nothing to ease your frustration.

“It was supposed to be a surprise. You said that blue was your favorite color, so I thought I’d dye my hair blue. It wasn’t supposed to be this bright!” you huffed, leaning back against the bathroom counter as you pouted.

“You look like a smurf threw up on you!”

You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. “Ha ha. Very funny. Can you help me? There’s gotta be some way to fix this.”

She nodded, walking over to you. “Alright, let’s see what I can do. This color is probably not gonna come out, so we’re gonna have to dye it black.”

You frowned as you looked at your reflection in the mirror. “At least we can match.”

She smiled, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Or, we could always just shave it off.”

The look on your face alone was enough to send Sam into another fit of laughter. You glared at her, trying to seem angry or at least even a little bit annoyed, but you couldn’t ever hold it together around her that long. Her smile was contagious and her laughter was infectious. Just being around her had a way of lifting your mood. But you wouldn’t want it any other way.

There aren't words to describe

The way I feel about your eyes

And everything I write sounds cliche, but

I can't help that I think about you every day

“Why’re you staring at me? Is there something on my face?” Sam asked, reaching up to her mouth to see if some of her lunch was still left on her skin.

You simply smiled and shook your head. “No, nothing’s there. You’re just so beautiful. How could I not stare at you?”

Though she tried to hide it, you could see the faint blush spreading on her cheeks and that flustered smile of hers that never failed to fill your insides with a swarm of butterflies. You reached out and took her hand in yours, intertwining your fingers as you smiled over at her. You pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, causing the faint blush on her cheeks to deepen ever so slightly, filling you with a sense of pride.

“I love you. You know that, right?” you asked, your smile never once faltering.

“Of course I do. You only tell me like every five seconds.” She smiled over at you. “Not that I mind it in the slightest.”

“I just still can’t believe that I’m with you. That we’re together. It feels like a dream. You’re just so perfect. Like every single thing I could’ve ever wanted in a partner, all rolled up into one person.”

She rolled her eyes, her smile never leaving her face. “Oh please. I am far from perfect. If anything, you’re the perfect one here. I mean you put up with all my shit. Just being able to do that is perfect enough.”

“I do not put up with you. I love everything about you and I love being with you. Despite what you may think about yourself, you are not difficult to be with. Richie just couldn’t handle all your perfectness and awesomemazingness.”

She raised an eyebrow at you. “That’s not a word”

You shrugged, smiling defiantly. “Well, it should be. Because it describes you perfectly.”

“Oh does it now?”

“It does.”

Before Sam could respond, you leaned in and pulled her into a kiss, silencing any other protests about to leave her lips. You knew she was perfect, and even if she didn’t agree with you, you could damn well at least stop her from voicing those thoughts. And you knew that one day, you would convince her.

And every night

And every morning

And afternoon

And all the time

Sam laughed in disbelief as she looked down at her phone, scrolling through all of the messages you had sent her in the past hour.

“Baby, I told you I wasn't going to be gone long. I was just down the street getting groceries. Did you really need to text me that many times?”

Most people would be annoyed with your clinginess, but not Sam. She liked how clingy you were, how obsessed you were with her. It’s harder to doubt someone’s feelings for you when they never leave you alone long enough to get lost in spiraling thoughts. She had been gone for an hour to go get groceries, and you had texted her almost fifty times during your time apart.

“Yes. I really did need to. How else would you know about everything you missed while you were gone?”

She sighed in faux exasperation, her smile giving away her true feelings. “You sent me ‘bird in tree chirped’ like five times!”

“Six, actually. And I thought you should know, because that happened to be a very cute bird. I wouldn’t text you if I didn’t think it was important.”

She let out a huff of laughter as she walked over to you, pulling you into a hug and kissing the top of your head. You melted into the embrace, wrapping your arms around her waist and pulling her closer.

“You’re lucky you’re so adorable.”

“Oh, please. You love me and you know it.”

But all I ever remember is you

And all I ever say is "I miss you more"

You're everything that I ever knew

You're the only girl that I am for

“Can’t you just call in sick today?” you whined as you clutched onto Sam, preventing her from getting out of bed to get ready for work.

“Baby, you know I can’t. We need the money. And since you decided you wanted to be the housewife, I’m the one who has to go to work. But if you want to swap, I’d be more than happy to,” she smiled, a teasing lilt to her voice.

You huffed, a slight pout forming on your face. “No…”

“Then you have to let me get up. I can’t exactly get ready for work if I’m still stuck in bed.”

“Do you have to get up right now? Can’t you wait just a little longer? Maybe spend an extra few minutes paying attention to your oh-so amazing girlfriend?” You looked at her pleadingly, using your best puppy dog eyes to persuade her.

“Y/n…” Sam started, only for all her rebuttals to wash away the second you started pressing gentle kisses to her neck.

“You know you want to…” you said, your hands slipping beneath her shirt.

“You know what? I think I have a flat tire. How unfortunate that I’m gonna be late to work since I had to get it fixed.”

You smiled triumphantly, rolling onto your back and pulling Sam on top of you. Even though she puts in effort to try to deny you, droning on and on about work and responsibilities, she can never say no to you. You had the ability to make her resolve crumble with just one look, and she couldn’t find it in her to deny you when all you ever really wanted was more time with her. And so, another morning was spent fooling around in bed before Sam rushed off to work, yet another excuse for her lateness at the ready. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Samantha, I'm in love with you

I'll do anything you ask me to

You're the reason that I dyed my hair blue

Samantha, I'm in love with you

And I'll sing it again and again

tags: @Hocksetterrs

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