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sprout-fics · 5 months

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Homecoming

(Simon 'Ghost' Riley x OFC 'Fix')

Snowblind Masterlist

Rating: M Wordcount: 3.8k Tags: Whump, Angst, Fluff, Post-torture, Post-rescue, Established relationship, Living together, Domesticity, Non sexual intimacy Warnings: References of torture, starvation, captivity A/N: Part of 'For Once In Our Lives' on AO3

It’s five in the morning when Simon pulls the car up to his flat.

Your flat too, but still his, technically. Your name, like his, isn’t on the lease. If anything it’s Price’s, his official signature on the document so as to avoid collecting a paper trail for his lieutenant. Despite that, it’s been your space together for most of the year now. Your presence is written in the curtains that hang neatly in the front window, the pitcher of kitchen utensils on the counter behind the coffee maker. You’ve staked you claim on a section of the bathroom counter upstairs, taken advantage of the corners of the shower to deposit half empty bottles of shower supplies you hardly ever get use with the amount of time you’re deployed. The couch in the living room was your idea, a replacement for the terrible worn thing that had tormented your spine in the evenings you’d spent sleeping on it, before you were allowed in his bedroom.

You left traces of yourself, whispers, small hushed murmurs that cling to his skin in the weeks you were gone. In your absence Simon had sought you there, had waited and prayed for the smallest blip of life on a radio that had long gone silent.

Eighteen days. Two weeks and roughly one hundred hours from the time you went dark to the time you’d been rescued.

Your captors had starved you, tortured you, beaten you bloody and left you to fester before returning for more. You’d gone through interrogation training with Price’s supervision, and you had been prepared from the moment you’d stepped off the plane for no man’s land for the capture that might, and did, ensue.

Nothing had prepared you for the return home.

Simon exits the driver’s side door fluidly just as you stir from your drowsy state, blinking wearily up at the flat beyond the garden gate. The windows are dark and shuttered, closed off, and it feels aching somehow, lonely. The dim, hazy light of dawn tucks dusky shadows around the corners of the townhouse, softly blue and patient, waiting for your return.

You open the door to your side, withholding a wince at the motion of your torn shoulder. Yet Simon is already there, hands reaching for you before you can protest. Normally you would, too stubborn to allow anyone else, especially him, to do things for you. Now, when Simon lifts you into his arms you say not a word. The walk to his car from the infirmary had been exhausting enough, atrophied muscles screaming with each step, too weak from the weeks you’d spent in hospital care. So you lift your good arm around his neck, brace yourself there and tuck the crown of your head under his jaw in a silent gesture of comfort to you both.

Simon is quiet as he walks up the steps, chest rising with slow, measured breaths as he balances the weight of you in his arms. You’re not sure how he manages to get the front door open, and if you weren’t...as you are now you probably would have made a wry comment about his dexterous hands. Instead it’s silent between you both, with the weight of the things that have happened weighing too heavy on your fraught souls.

You’re deposited on the couch that no longer smells like you while Simon fetches your bag from the car. In the time it takes him you manage to look around the apartment, witness the devastation your absence has caused.

Half eaten MRE foils litter the dusty coffee table. Beneath them are maps of Serbia, and you trace the marked coordinates of your last known location, notes scribbled in slanting writing that indicates sleeplessness. An empty tumbler sits to the far edge, a thin circle of amber at the bottom betraying his taste for bourbon. The room is unkempt, like he’d bumped into things and never bothered to pick them up. In the far corner: A knife wedged into the wall. The spare one you’d left behind.

The front door closes, and in the echo heavy bootsteps draw your attention to the large, looming figure that enters your line of view.

“How’s the pain?” Simon asks, and when you look up to his eyes you can’t tell the shadows there apart from his war paint.

You catalog the various aches and pains left even after your medical discharge. A broken shoulder that’s still mending. Stitches on the meat of your upper thigh, a dark slice across your collarbone above your two broken ribs, a fractured fibula that may leave you with a permanent limp unless you adhere to the PT instructions sternly given to you.

Yet the look in Simon’s eyes is different as it plucks a tender, grieving chord inside your chest. Tired, blank, hiding the rot you know is there, the rot he refuses to show you.

“It’s fine.” You almost say on instinct, but catch yourself before you can. It’s a lie, one he won’t appreciate, not here. Not now.

“How much more am I allowed to have?” You ask, and before you can finish the words Simon is fishing through your bag for the discharge papers, scanning them with his back turned before reaching back inside for a small orange canister. He vanishes in the direction of the kitchen and reappears just as swiftly with a tall glass of water that you finish along with the medication.

There’s a pause then, and once more your eyes look up to peer at him under his mask. There’s a sunkenness to his gaze that whispers of the dark grip of insomnia, a gaunt sort of coloring that you’re able to see despite the ink around his eyes.

“Is there anything in the cabinets?” You ask, and your voice seems so loud in the silence between you. “To eat?”

Once more he’s off, striding in the direction of the kitchen without a word. You hear the click of the stove, the cabinets being rifled through, and then quiet as Simon sets about making something.

After several minutes you get up to follow him, mouth parting in a silent, wheezing cry as the pain of putting pressure down on your booted calf. Yet you bite down on any wounded noises, clutching the wall and crossing the foyer to come stand on the threshold of the kitchen.

He didn’t even turn the lights on.

You do, and it makes him cast a small glance over his shoulder, the sturdy frame of him obscuring whatever he’s making on the stove.

“You shouldn’t be standing.” He tells you, voice low in his chest with a familiar rumble. “Sit.”

“You left me alone.” You try to joke, but it has no effect. He doesn’t even seem to register it, acting automatically in cooking whatever it is he’s poking at with a wooden spoon.

So you see yourself to the tiny kitchen table beneath the front window with the curtains still closed. As you wait, you study his back, the way Simon is postured. There’s a tightness to his shoulders, a coiled uncertainty that’s weighed down only by fatigue. The soft, dark, familiar cloth of his hoodie stretches across the planes of his shoulders, having shrunk from one too many times in the wash. The sleeves are rolled up halfway, exposing the dark swirling ink of his forearm on his left side. You trace the images there, of bombs and broken bones and viscera that you thought yourself would be a part of weeks ago in the dark shed they’d kept you in.

It’s similar, in a way. The slant of light that cuts through the curtains reminds you of the pale illumination that peeked between the gaps of wood of your cold cell with the dirt floor and the cold, cold earth beneath your exposed form. In the silence between you both, it feels like a different sort of prison, both of you captive to your own thoughts of the things that happened, and that which didn’t.

Simon turns at last with something red and simmering in a bowl- tomato soup, by the smell. It instantly makes your mouth water, pallet tired of the bland hospital food served to you for weeks now, interrupted only by the snacks Gaz and Soap had smuggled past your nurse. It takes restraint to allow it to cool, and as it does Simon slides into the chair across from you, his side of the table noticeable empty.

“You’re not going to eat?” You ask quietly.

“No.” Comes the almost instant reply.

You feel your expression fall as he watches you before he adds on: “Later.”

It’s as good as you’re going to get for now, and you’re much too tired to press him on it. So you set about slowly sipping your soup, letting the warmth curl in your empty belly. There’s an anxious sort of grumble there, body still too taxed to have anything more complicated than this you think. He knows, you’re sure, has been in the same chair you’re in trying to take care of himself in the aftermath of it all.

Alone.

The warmth sours in your stomach.

Simon watches the expression pass over your face silently, observing. Watching, as he always does, taking in every minute detail and storing it for some unknown study in his thoughts you’re rarely privy to.

You finish the soup despite the lingering bitterness at the back of your senses, swallowing down the touch of nausea from your painkillers and looking to the man across from you.

Silent. Still. Unmoving, like the dead.

You reach out across the table, set your hand atop his gloved one, and Simon startles.

There’s a glazed look in his eyes that doesn’t fully dissipate as he looks at you, and in return you offer him a shaky sort of smile.

“Simon.” You whisper, and it draws him back just a little more, eyes unblinking but still something a little less than empty. Not fully here with you, caught in the tormentous spiral of what if’s that settle heavy over you both.

“Where are you?” You ask, voice a breathy murmur.

It seems to shake something loose from him, your hushed inquiry, drawing him back to himself and out of the coffin of his mind. He’s silent for a few moments, just staring back at you, and you watch as his eyes clear, as he’s able to see you again.

“Not goin’ anywhere.” He tells you, and overturns his hand to gently clasp at your hand atop his. “Fix.”

You smile, finally, feeling some of the weight ease from your shoulders, and you squeeze his hand back in reassurance.

“Still with me?” You ask quietly in the dim morning light of your apartment, and Simon blinks slow before offering a little nod.

“Always.”

Always. With you.

Simon leaves the dishes in the sink as he helps you up the stairs one step at a time, gingerly making your way to the bathroom adjacent to the bedroom. He sits you atop the toilet seat as he runs the bath, and when you grumble about lifting your sore arm he merely grunts in reply, acknowledging of your griping in a gruff, familiar way that eases the bitterness lingering on your tongue.

He helps divest you of your clothes, and you try not to feel self conscious of the new scars that litter your skin. He traces them with nimble fingers and glancing touches, hovering over each one meaningfully and with great purpose. It’s as if he’s re-memorizing the shape of you, the touch of your skin with freshly healed lacerations and trials of stitches that embark a pathway under his hands.

“Fix.” He says again, softly, and it sounds reverent somehow, worshiping a cracked altar damaged by those who sought your demise. He remains at the foot of it, face upturned into the light that streams through the slats of the broken shed that held you captive and allowing the glow of revelation to stream onto his open eyes.

Later, once you two have mended yourself to each other once more, you’ll ask him if you’re still beautiful. He’ll say yes without question, fervent with a desire so raw it peels marrow away from his bones, strips the sinew bare from his flesh just so he has one more thing to offer you. You’ll get the same answer every time you ask him, and each time the silent question of “Do you still love me despite everything?” will echo soundlessly in your chest.

To which he too, answers: Yes.

He settles into the too-small bathtub behind you, and you shudder at the skin to skin contact that feels so foreign after being so far away from him for so long. The broad drum of his chest braces against your back as he takes his time bathing your tired, weary limbs. You settle into him easily with a sigh, allow him to scrub you free of the sterile touch of the hospital wing, the smell of antiseptic vanishing beyond a haze of fragrant bubbles from your too many bottles of soap. Beneath it is the smell of him, the thick and heavy weight of his musk that you crane towards with a small groan, bumping your nose under his jaw to drag in a breath of him.

“Alright?” He asks, pausing, and you nod into his collarbone, dopey and sated. It releases a little bit more tension from his shoulders, and you feel it in the way his chest depresses, burying yourself there in all the space he’ll allow you.

Which is, to say, all of him.

“I dreamt of you.” You say suddenly, and he pauses as he bends over you, one strong hand grasping the underside of your thigh to haul it upwards to wash. You almost don’t realize you spoke, eyes closed and body loose in the warm, sudsy water.

“I dreamt we went back to the states.” You go on, voice a soft murmur, slurred with fatigue now that you unwind softly into his arms. “We bought a big plot of land in the mountains where nobody could find us, with an old cabin and a fireplace.”

Simon pauses a moment longer before giving an answering hum, resuming his task and minding your stitches with gentle precision.

“Would have to chop a lot of wood.” He offers mildly.

“We took turns.” You reply, head lolling against his chest. You slip just an inch down, and one strong arm loops around your middle to keep you from descending further. “We got chickens too, and a cranky old barncat. I planted tomatoes in the vegetable garden.”

Simon is quiet as you ramble, allowing your thoughts to trickle free like the gentle loosening of a stream after a winter’s frost. He envelops you, warms you through, and in the beautiful blossom of your mind you allow the inside of your heart to be laid bare to him.

“Price and the boys came to visit. I made chicken soup.”

“With our chickens?”

You make a wounded little noise at that, and you feel him almost mistake it for a sound of pain.

“We watched the fireflies in the summertime.” You go on. “Stayed up to watch the sunrise just because. I can still see the colors beyond the trees.”

Pale pink and blue. The same colors that bleed through your curtains, the same colors that had slanted over your face in your would be tomb, allowing you the barest glimpse of freedom.

You swallow then, throat suddenly thick with tears. Like the trickle of a stream, your words pour gently out of you until they flood your eyes all at once, chest seizing with a pained breath as you shudder.

“Every day.” You croak, and he’s stopped now, bent over you as you tremble against him, hot tears seeping into the bath water. “Every day I dreamt of you. The whole time I was there. From the moment I fell asleep until the moment I woke up.”

Simon is silent, tucking you to him, stroking a heavy hand over the chilling flesh of your upper arms, allowing you to dig deep into him like he’s the only thing that will hold you.

“I knew you’d come for me. I never once thought you wouldn’t. The whole time I couldn’t stop thinking of you because I knew you’d come find me. I knew you wouldn’t let me go.”

He whispers your name then, your real name, and you hear in his voice the way he trembles through it, as if he’s somehow not allowed. Simon whispers your name like a hymn he’s unfamiliar with, a grace given to him by your endless adoration. You feel it crack in your chest with a cry, swallow down the pain just so the despair, the hurt, the relief surges through you in wet, broken gasps. There’s no longer any words. Instead there’s the shudder of you both as you fold into each other, as he holds you like he can never bear to part from you in his arms again.

There’s so many things you want to say, so many things you wish you could tell him. You want to say you were so scared he’d find your body, that you wouldn’t survive the trip back to base, that he wouldn’t recognize the person that came back to him. You want to tell him that you were scared he’d be so terrified of how deeply you’d consumed his soul that he’d leave you, that losing you that way was better than losing the whole of you to something he couldn’t stop.

You want to tell him you felt the same, that you almost wish he had left you so that someday, should you lose each other, it would somehow hurt less.

Instead now, you cry into his arms and silently beg for him to hold you just a little longer.

You’re not sure how or when you get to the bed, wrapped up in a towel and bare as you lay on your side quietly crying. He doesn’t disappear from you, merely takes you against him and tucks himself impossibly further around you, as if shielding you from your own fears and phantoms.

“Fix.” He whispers, a hand roaming your back as your breathing eventually evens out.

You cling to him, wet skin and all, drinking in his scent, leeching off his warmth and imbuing it in your wounded form. He shifts, tilts you up so you look into his face, free of his mask, wet blonde lashes clinging to his cheeks with every flutter of his eyes. The full range of grief plays out clearly on his face, a despair and a longing so deep that you feel dirt pour over the coffin where both of you are entwined.

“I’ll come for you.” He tells you, voice dark, an ominous, dangerous rumble of a distant storm threatening to consume the horizon. “Every time. There’s nothing in the whole fucking world that can keep me from finding you, Fix.”

You nod wordlessly at him, face scrunching with unshed tears, breath shuddering in the hollow of your chest where he resides.

He takes a breath of his own then, eyes wide before he speaks.

“When they took you to the chopper, I went back.” He confesses. “Price tried to stop me, but I couldn’t leave after what they did to you.”

You shudder to think of the sight that must have been- with Ghost as a wild, feral animal seeking blood, unable to be tamed by the man he trusted the most, seeking out vengeance just to cool the bloodlust raging beneath his skin. Disregarding your injured state at the hands of the other medics, instead taking one look at your crumpled form and feeling a fury so violent it clouded his unwavering judgment in the field.

“I killed all of them.” Simon tells you, and there’s no regret in his voice, no horror at his own actions. A cold, calculating killer fueled by the most terrifying of motivations. “I felt their bones break beneath my hands, how hot and wet their blood was. I carved out their brains and left them for the vultures but it wasn’t enough. I’d kill them a hundred times over if I had the chance.”

You know he would. It should scare you, the lengths this man has gone through to keep you here in his arms. It should terrify you, should make you reconsider all viable possibility of being with him. Yet you fail to even feign shock at the devotion he has for you, laying skulls at your feet just so you can tell him how much you trust him, how much he deserves you- as if you somehow deserve him too.

“When I saw you on that hospital bed...” He goes on, voice softer now, a tone reserved just for you. “The only thing I could think was that I...I could never lose you again.”

“Never.” You tell him, clutching at the arm encircling you to him with ardent fixation. “You’re not going to lose me. I’m going to wait for you each time because I know you’ll come. Even if it means going through it all again, I’ll stay alive just to come back to you.”

You kiss him then, slow and tender, and he shivers bodily into you before surging forward, lips catching yours, body pressing into you as he kisses you like he’d forgotten the taste. Simon kisses you like its the last thing he’ll ever do, like he want to carry the touch of you from one afterlife into the next, like he’s trying to ingrain the sensation of you against his scarred flesh in case you’re ever taken from him again.

“Simon...” You sigh, and he swallows the sound like he’s trying to drink in every breath, as if it’s just one more taste of you.

“I’ll kill anyone who tries to keep you away from me.” He swears coarsely into your mouth. “I can’t- can’t do this without you. You make it all so fucking bearable, Fix. Nobody else can have you.”

You don’t want anyone else. You want him.

“I love you, Simon.” You manage between kisses, the naked, damp planes of your bodies stuck together as he tangles himself inside of you further, so that you’ll never be able ti dislodge him even if you wanted to. “I love you.”

“You’re mine, Fix.” He tells you in return, and you know what it means even though he won’t say it. “I won’t let them take you.”

You know he won’t. In this lifetime, in the next, you’ll stand by his side. You’ll bathe in the darkness of him so ichor drips from your lips, so that your name is seared across his tongue as if it’s the last word he’ll ever speak. You’ll echo a prayer unto his violence and he will kneel at the altar of you once more and ask for a redemption you can’t offer. Instead, you’ll tumble down into the grave together, caught in each other’s arms just like this, the world be damned.

You’ll wait. He’ll come for you. Then you’ll go home and watch the sun rise.

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#simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x oc #simon ghost riley x oc #simon ghost riley #ignore how unbetad this is #and also not entirely satisfied with the way I wrote Simon but hey #I'm getting back into the groove of things so I'm cutting myself some slack #Also credit to that one anon from a while back with the 'you make it all so bearable' line #I haven't forgotten and ily

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ma1dita · 3 months

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a wish your heart makes

a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader

words: 1.4k

summary: (established relationship) The one where you share dreams, burn cookies, and it still reminds him of home. You try to do something nice for your boyfriend and everything goes wrong, or so you think. Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader

a/n: I thought about May Castellan, alone in her kitchen, baking cookies and making sandwiches for a son who would never come ho—OH FUCK OFF, UNCLE RICK. sidenote this haunted me.

(posted 1/26/24 unbetad)

—

Luke’s dreams were always different from yours.

Both when he’s awake and holding your hand up until sleep finally rips him away from your earthly embrace, he’s always been certain of who he was and what he wants to achieve. To be a hero providing salvation for the needy, to be a half-blood son worth the love of a god, and to be a fierce soldier, leading his troop into battle for glory. These are the thoughts he routinely pounds into his brain, so much so that anyone who knows him knows of his aspirations.

You don’t think you’ve ever met anyone so insistent on wanting to be remembered. Luke wants to leave a legacy worth dying for, worth talking about for millenia to come. And your boy persists, despite the trials of life, the ignorance of his father, and the strings of the Fates.

Your dreams, however, were always much simpler.

Cuddled under your covers and brushing your lips against Luke’s forehead to quell the growing unease that occupies his brain, you whisper what you deeply wish for.

“We’re getting old,” you mumble, and the breath of his laugh tickles your ear. He lazily runs his nose against the slope of your collarbone, sighing when he finally hears the steady beat of your chest, “We’ve definitely surpassed the average life expectancy of a typical demigod. Look at us…” he jests.

Your breath jumps in amusement as you feel his lips against your sternum, and then your boyfriend is smiling against your heart, using you for comfort as you both pass the time waiting for Hypnos to come calling.

“In a year, we’ll be nineteen…And I know you never wanted to stay here forever, so… What’s next?”

You hold in a bated breath, always unsure of where to place yourself in rank of his priorities. Who were you if not his biggest supporter?

Luke contemplates for a moment in the silence of your bedroom. It’s much easier to think and have more adult… conversations… without the many meddling children of cabin 11 always asking for one more lullaby, one more glass of water, and one more tuck-in goodnight. Here in the privacy of your room, he gets to be a boy void of his responsibilities besides hiding under his girlfriend’s duvet, giving her another shirt of his to wear, and kissing her until Apollo’s rays of light gently help you wake.

“You tell me, trouble. What does the future have in store for us?”

Us.

He’s sweet to indulge in your fantasies like this, and you stroke your fingers through his curls as you speak, ‘I think it’d be nice to go to college. Made it this far, so maybe being normal won’t be so hard…”

A soft noise leaves his throat, urging you to continue as you bite your lip and smile.

“Maybe someday, we could get a house. One on top of a hill. I don’t need much, something like the Big House, but one we can call home.”

You can feel the teeth of his sleepy grin against your skin as he whispers the next words into your heart.

“We could do that. House with big bay windows, and the smell of my mom’s chocolate chip cookies in the air. Sounds nice, baby.”

And it does.

Luke’s eyes flutter shut shortly after, but your mind is awake with how to make the dream you now share a reality. Perhaps you couldn’t give him glory, or pray hard enough to Hermes so that he’d talk to his son, but you reckon that chocolate chip cookies would be easy enough.

—

At least, it was supposed to be—until you set off the smoke alarm again.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!”

Clouds of grey are billowing from the communal kitchen oven after your multiple attempts of trying to get this right. The dryads had both partially given up on the havoc you wrecked upon their workspace as well as your increasing frustration towards them. It wasn’t their fault, you knew that—but as a perfectionist who followed the recipe to a t, how was it possible that everything was still going wrong? The first batch, you got too excited and mixed all the ingredients together, making them lumpy and inconsistent. The second batch was over-creamed, and you had to scrape them off the tray, and with this one… well you had the oven setting on a bit too high.

You sigh deeply, pressing the palms of your hands into your eyes as you try to will away the mania creeping up your neck. Being the daughter of the god of insanity was hard, having to consistently control your emotions for the sake of others. Taking a shaky breath, you stare blankly at the darkened cookies, close to being burned to a crisp. The jingle of the windchime against the door rings across the room and you barely hear it until you feel Luke’s hands skate past your waist to go open a window.

“What’d you get into now, trouble? Been looking for you,” he says, coughing lightly from the smoke.

You groan, trying to cover the mess behind you on the counter and accidentally catching your arm on the hot tray, making you flinch.

“Ow! Ugh, babe, you’re not supposed to be here yet! I thought you were still sparring…”

Your boyfriend approaches you, squeezing your arm to examine if you’ve gotten hurt and tugging you towards him.

“That was an hour ago—how long have you been here, baby?” Luke pulls you into his arms, placing a kiss on your warm wrist, instantly soothing your anxiety until you see his eyes meet your latest failure.

“You bake now?”

“Clearly not, Luke, I’m sorry…I tried but I kept getting it wrong and then I got mad at myself for fucking up something so…” your voice weakens, tears welling in your eyes again thinking you’ve disappointed him.

Luke steps away from you and towards the kitchen counter, warm cookies browned to a crisp. He reaches out to pick one up before you can stop him, crunching down on it, the bittersweet taste filling his mouth as he sniffs.

Just like his mother would make them, through her madness and all.

He’s transported back to a memory of a house with big bay windows, kind of like the one you two dreamt up last night, but he’s nine and sitting at the kitchen table drinking Kool-Aid while his mom makes peanut butter sandwiches. May Castellan forgets the cookies in the oven again, and for a moment, Luke forgets that the last time he saw his mother was a lifetime ago.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he feels your fingertips brushing away the saltwater from his cheeks.

“Didn’t mean to make you cry, angelface, I’m sorry…” you mumble, but stop speaking when you see him take another bite.

“They’re great.”

“What?”

He chomps on another singed cookie, his lips quirking into a soft smile. Luke’s not going to let you throw the rest of this batch out. Chuckling weakly, he lifts you onto the kitchen counter as he slots himself between your legs, rough hands patting your thighs.

“Well, they’re not great. But they’re perfect. Just the way I remember them,” he smiles, kissing the furrow in your brow. You don’t bother trying to comprehend his statement, happy that you didn’t mess up a memory he holds dear.

Luke wonders if maybe he’s been blessed by his father after all, to have such extreme luck to exist at the same time as you. He doesn’t answer to the gods, to fate, but he does answer when you call his name, and settles into your arms. Love is an action after all, uncontained by just words, and he knows you tried your best, which makes it more than enough.

“She would’ve loved you, I’m sure of it,” he says rubbing his nose against yours before you can interject again, “I love you, so I know she would’ve too.”

Luke presses a tender kiss against the palm that caresses his jaw, before meeting you in the middle and finding your lips. It’s a dance you two have memorized, sweet and breathless as you meld both of your grins together. To him, you taste like chocolate chips and feel like home.

“I love you too, angelface. Almost burned the kitchen down for you,” your chuckle is cut off when he goes to press against your pout again hungrily, tracing patterns against the soft skin of your thighs as he just eats you up. The sound of your moans escapes between kisses as you wind your legs around his waist and it dampens the sound of the kitchen timer when it goes off.

(You forcibly have to detach from Luke’s embrace, much to his displeasure so that you don’t burn the next batch too.)

—

"Your name is humming inside my chest. I think this is what it means to love. I think this is what it means to be living." -Emma Bleker

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luke taglist (some won't let me tag, turn on my post notifs?): @kissingyourgrl @dorcas4meadowes @lorarri @andrewgarfldsgf @noodlesketchbook @10ava01 @poppysrin @ashisabitgay @timhalamet @liv1104 @leeknows-wife @mxtokko @bugcuti3 @luvvfromme @midmourn @2hiigh2cry @yuminako @niktwazny303 @lukecastellandefender @intergalactic-padawan @iliketopgun @annybah @dangelnleif @thegrinningghost @alyssajunelle @obxstiles @m00ng4z3r @visndcaitswhore @b0ok-lover @elegant-face-tree @this-barbie-is-having-breakdowns @amortencjja @idonevenknow1359 @maliaaaa @targaryenluvs @sakyira @dhdjdjjdhsjdiri @number-onekidqueen @nininehaaa @bradynoonswife @stevenknightmarc @hoodedhavok @happy-mushrooms @homebyeleven @anotherblackreader @too-deviant @liviessun @lilacspider @theadventuresofanartist @sucker4seresin @simpforsunwoo @zanzie @starrystormwritings

#luke castellan x dionysus!reader #luke castellan x reader fanfic #luke castellan x reader #pjo x reader #percy jackon and the olympians #luke castellan fluff #made by ma1dita ♥︎#trouble!verse #thank you for reading my love ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

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loupetlapinn · 8 days

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𝟐:𝟑𝟕 𝐚𝐦

t/w: intox, dubcon, noncon, coercion, forced breeding if you squint kinda maybe idk, unprotected sex. a/n: MDNI. basically a continuation of my drunk post lmao. this is Also unbetad. also i may be delirious. felt cute might delete later. synopsis: just a . . . casual drink with cheol pt 2. w/c: don't ask. feel free to block me.

His breath on your neck has you squirming in place, the humidity spreading over the expanse of exposed skin.

“It’s like this is what you wanted all along,” his condescending voice echoing in your ear.

Your reply nothing but a whimper as his fingers slip over slick folds, teasing.

“You poor thing.”

Every syllable sliding off his tongue seeps their way into your ears, numbing your senses further. You offer a small whimper in your current state but it does nothing but encourage his attentions. Firm hands soothing over bare skin, tracing over curves and slopes as your chest rises and falls.

“That's it, baby,” he purrs, bulbous head of his cock teasing your quivering entrance. “Taking me so nicely.”

Your breath stuttering, eyes rolling back as your clumsy limbs arrange themselves. Desperately grasping at the closest pillows, knuckles blanching with the stretch of every inch sinking into your barely prepped heat.

“So fucking wet,” he muses, the pad of his thumb circling your hypersensitive clit as you jump at the sensation. “I’ve barely touched you . . . That’s all it takes? A few drinks and you’re drenched and spreading your legs so easily for me?”

“Cheol . . .” mumbled words and muffled noises follow, slurred “mphm’s” and short little gasps following as your eyes roll back. Repeating his name until you’re able to do so with a hint of coherence rather than a jumble of noises strewn together. “Cheol . . . I-I’m not—” you hiccup your words, trying to keep your train of thought. Which was practically impossible from the warmth of alcohol thrumming through your veins and the incessant throb of Seungcheol’s cock as he bullies his way further inside of your fluttering cunt.

“Not what?” he coos. If you had any presence of mind, you might’ve noticed the condescending tone that laces his every word. The smug grin that pulls lazily at the corners of plush lips, dark gaze hooded and hungry as he takes in every minuscule reaction you have to offer through your thick haze. “Big girl words, c’mon.”

He can’t help but snicker as your mouth opens but nothing intelligible follows.

“You know how long I’ve been thinking of this?” he grunts with a rough snap of his hips slapping against the flushed skin of your thighs, earning himself yet another pitched mewl from your lips. “This pretty little cunt wrapped around me— Fuck. Gonna cry for me this time, mhm? Or will I have to try a little harder?”

“Seungcheol ‘m not . . .” you fist at his shirt, eyes screwed shut as you can’t handle the way the room spins as you squirm beneath his broad frame, “. . . n-not— can’t . . .please, Cheol, please.”

“Not what, baby, mhm? Can’t what?” he mocks, eyes transfixed on the swell of your breasts as they jostle with every move, “It seems like you can. Look at you, greedy, taking my cock like this.”

“H-hurts, Cheol, it hurts.” Your hand haphazardly slapping around to find his hips, trying to push at him. If anything, it only encourages his ruthless pace.

“Hurts?” A thick brow arches, a firm hand snatching your jaw as he peers through dark lashes, scrutinizing you. “You want it to hurt?”

Glassy eyes that peer back at him only make his dick twitch in your vice like grip. Watching as you attempt to shake your head as his grasp is nearly bruising, squishing your cheeks to pout your moistened and bruised lips. Lips he can’t help but smash his own against, ignoring your noises of disapproval as his tongue intrudes past the seam of those lips of yours. His hips as relentless as his mouth as he drills you into the bed. A considerably violent slam eliciting a rather loud cry from you that he hungrily swallows down between your sloppy lip lock.

He only pulls away to mouth his way along your jawline, dipping lower and lower with every lave of his tongue and graze of his teeth. A hand coming palm over your breasts, squeezing, guiding a pert mound into his mouth to suction lewdly around it. The filthy noise almost rivals the debauched squelch of where your bodies fused together.

Your body felt like a live wire. Everything was happening too quickly all at once. Even you couldn’t believe the noises that only continued to fall from your lips.

“Fuck . . .” A finger of his once again snakes down between the both of you, finding your sensitive clit, “Want you to cum on my cock, I know you can.”

The noises you make as he pushes you closer to climax only drags him along with you. Your writhing beneath him pouring fuel on the fire. “Don’t fight it, baby. You’re squeezing so tight, I know you want it.”

“Cheol— Cheol, please!”

He’s enraptured with the way your body trembles and quakes beneath him as your orgasm crashes over you. Choking out a few grunts at the way you seize around him so drastically.

“Fuck, you’re fucking soaked,” he hisses, fucking you through your release without remorse. “Gonna make a mess of this cunt.”

It was almost as if he plows forward with renewed energy, determined to follow through on his word.

“W-wait . . . Wait, Cheol, pull out. I’m not on birth control. Please.” There they were, those pretty tears, Seungcheol knew you had it in you. Crystalline as they begin to trickle down blotchy cheeks. “Pull out! Cheol, please, I can’t . . . I can’t!”

“You can,” he insists, “but, you are.” Between your tears, your pleas and the cry of his name as it sounds from your mouth. There isn’t an inkling of a chance Seungcheol was pulling out, definitely not now. “I’ll show you.”

His release spills past your entrance with the sheer amount that floods your abused walls, quivering weakly around him as he catches his breath above you. Rocking his hips gingerly into as he gives himself time to come down, feeling him gradually soften before he’s slowly dragging his length from your core.

“See,” his fingers root in your hair, guiding your face to look downwards. Your eyes following his blearily as his cum leaks from your puffy cunt.

“You can after all.”

#cheol #tw: intoxication #tw: dubcon #tw: coercion #tw: noncon #tw: forced breeding #scoups smut #seungcheol smut #svt hard hours #svt hard thoughts #svt smut #seventeen smut #dark!svt

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whiskey-tango-matcha · 1 year

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Go Home

I’m back with more snide restaurant coworker bullshit. No plot, just vibes - I used 3 different prompt posts in this, this one, this one, and this one, which are all just *chefs kiss*. Unbetad, unedited, just a big pile of garbage I threw together and shamelessly present unto you all. Hope you guys enjoy :)

In case you didn’t read my first story posted here, Elijah is a restaurant owner/General Manager and Greyson is a chef. That’s all you really need to follow along lmao.

Go Home

“Greyson. Go home.”

Greyson’s head snapped up and his eyes locked with his boss’s as Elijah breezed out of the office and into the kitchen. “Why would I go home?”

“You’re sick. You have a cold.”

Greyson let his jaw fall open in mock aghast, put down his knife and placed a hand on his chest as if he needs to center himself after such an indoctrination. “I do not. How dare you. Why would you say that?”

Elijah rolled his eyes at the chef’s theatrics and placed his phone and laptop on the prep table where Greyson was working. “I say it because I’ve been here not even three minutes and the only things I’ve heard out of your mouth are sneezes and coughs.” He picked his things back up and poked the chef in the chest. “Go home.”

“That’s not even true, we just had a full conversa- HFTSHH-uhh!” Greyson caught the sneeze in an elbow, hastily brought to his face at the last moment. Elijah bleated out a laugh as he pushed through the kitchen doors and into the server’s station. “Bad timing!” Greyson called behind him.

“Go home!”

***

Greyson wasn’t about to just go home.

It was January, which meant it was painfully slow in the restaurant, but that didn’t mean he had nothing to do. They had a few big events coming up, and his team was only just recovering from some nasty bug that had taken them down one by one through the busy holidays. The guys needed the support of their chef, and Greyson certainly wasn’t one to take a sick day when his team needed him – especially when he wasn’t even sick.

“Huhh...huhETSHH-ue! Fuck me,” Greyson said, turning away from his prep station to sneeze into his shoulder for what felt like the millionth time that day. He walked to the sink nearest to him, pulled out a paper towel, and wiped his nose before washing his hands. He definitely wasn’t sick, but whatever was making him sneeze like it was his job was really starting to piss him off.

There were still several hours til service began, so Greyson decided to work on some new menu recon while he had a few moments of down time. The mushroom risotto dish he’d spent some time on still wasn’t quite there yet, but he’d tasted it so many times it had turned to mush in his mouth. Greyson scooped the less-than-perfect dish into a deli container and went out in search of his boss.

He knocked on the open office door at the front of the kitchen, where Elijah was seated and working on a schedule. Greyson scooped a bit of risotto onto a spoon and held it out. “Hey, boss, can you give this a taste?”

“I most certainly cannot,” Elijah said, not looking away from his work. Greyson couldn’t help but laugh.

“Uh...any particular reason why?”

Elijah raised his eyebrows and lolled his head to the side to look at the chef. “Two reasons, actually. One, you aren’t supposed to be here, so I’m ignoring you. And two -”

“Onesec – HGSTHH-ue! HRSHH-uh! Shit, sorry, ’scuse me, go on,” Greyson rubbed his nose on his shoulder and Elijah gave him a look of revulsion.

“Two,” he continued, pointedly placing a box of tissues at the end of the desk, facing Greyson, “I’m not eating off of your spoon because, as I have said, you are sick.”

Greyson rolled his eyes and held the spoon closer to Elijah’s face. “C’mon, man, I need some feedback.” He sniffled, trying not to sound pathetic. “Please?”

“If I try it, will you go home?”

“Probably not.”

Huffing exasperatedly, Elijah grabbed a fork off of the plate that had held his lunch earlier and stuck it pointedly into the deli container Greyson was holding. He took a bite while looking into Greyson’s red-rimmed eyes. “More parmesan,” he said, putting the fork back on the used plate beside him. “And too much truffle oil. Now go home.”

Greyson smiled and grabbed a tissue from the box Elijah had placed before him. “Thanks, boss,” he said, shoving the tissue in his pants pocket. “Can always count on y-yuhh...HGTSHH-uhh! Snf. Coundt ond you,” he finished, stuffily. Elijah glanced at the chef, eyebrows raised as if to say, you ready to admit defeat yet? Greyson just shrugged.

“I’ll take sombe claritin,” Greyson said lamely, pulling the tissue back out of his pocket and wiping his nose. “I’mb ndot sick.”

Elijah looked back at his computer. “Whatever you say, Grey.”

***

Whoever the fuck had given him this shit was about to feel his wrath.

...not that he was sick or anything.

It was four pm and the cooks were all sitting at the back of the kitchen eating staff meal before the restaurant opened. Alternatively, Greyson was crouched on hands and knees in his office, cursing under his breath while he searched for the ibuprofen he and Elijah kept in one of these drawers.

He figured it was most likely his sous chef, Matt who was the culprit. Kid couldn’t cover his mouth if you forced him with a gun to his head, and he’d been so sick on New Year’s that Greyson forced him to go to urgent care at the end of the night. Fucking Matt. Didn’t he know better than to come to work si -

“HuhETSHHue! GTSHH-uh! HRRSTCHH-oo! Fuck.”

Greyson abandoned his search for ibuprofen in lieu of the rapidly depleting tissue box on the desk. He pulled himself back into his desk chair and reached for the box -

Only to see Elijah holding it hostage at the entrance to their office.

“You’re not going to eat?” Elijah asked. Greyson, whose nose had begun running in earnest post-sneezing, gave a lame eye roll from behind his hand.

“Ndot hungry. Give mbe the tissues, please.”

“Oh, these?” Elijah asked, holding up the box theatrically. “Why ever would you need these? I mean, you’re so clearly well and spry. Healthy as a horse as they say.”

“Dude, just give them to mbe. Shouldn’t you be in pre-shift?”

“I was coming to get you for pre-shift, you bozo,” Elijah said, tossing the tissues at Greyson. “But now I’m beginning to question if the servers would even be able to understand what you’re saying.”

Greyson gratefully blew his nose facing away from Elijah and tossed the tissues in the trash. “Fuck directly off, Lij,” he said, the words punctuated with a hoarse cough. “I’m coming. Give me two minutes.”

“I’ll give you two days, how about that?” Elijah said, turning to leave the kitchen. “Go. Home.”

Greyson stood, reinvigorated by fury. “Fuck. Off,” he said in the same cadence as his boss. “I’m fine.”

Elijah threw his arms up in defeat and held the swinging door open for the chef. “C’mon, then,” he said, gesturing Greyson towards the dining room. “Let’s go infect my entire staff.”

***

An hour into service, Greyson felt his phone buzz. Twice.

It wasn’t a busy service – people were out of money post-holiday it seemed – so Greyson was working on menu ideas and scheduling in the office while Matt held down the line and his cooks did some deep cleaning. Or, he was attempting to do scheduling between bouts of -

“Huhhh...HGTSSHH-ue! HRRSHH! HPTSSH-oo!”

“Bless, Chef,” Matt called to him from the line. Greyson flipped him the bird and pulled his once-again-vibrating phone from his pocket. Who the fuck was blowing him up? Everyone he knew was here.

Greyson wiped under his nose with a tissue and unlocked his phone. Eight new messages – all from Elijah. Jesus Christ. Was his boss really that lazy that he couldn’t walk the twenty steps from the dining room to the kitchen?

Greyson opened their text thread and immediately rolled his eyes.

5:21PM

Bless you.

5:46PM

Bless you.

You know everyone out here can hear you.

5:59PM

Bless you.

6:12PM

Bless.

Ok, seriously you sound like fuckin shit.

Greyson felt his face go hot as he typed out and sent his response.

6:15PM

Fuck off, Lij.

“HTSHHH-uhhh. Godammit.”

Greyson pulled the last tissue out of the box and blew his nose. So maybe he was kind of sick. A little bit. Nothing he couldn’t handle. He was a grown man for God’s sake, he couldn’t deal with a little cold at work?

The chef rubbed a hand down his face and used all his willpower not to groan. A little cold. A few hours left of work. A slow evening. If anyone could handle it, it was him.

***

Greyson was fairly sure he’d never been more miserable in his entire life.

It was ten pm, and the last table had finally cleared the building; not that Greyson would’ve known it. The chef was holed up in the employee bathroom, finally taking a minute to himself to blow his nose and wash his hands. What was supposed to have been a quiet night had suddenly picked up around seven – and with it, so did his cold.

He wasn’t sure how it worked out this way, but the moment five tickets printed at the same time on the line, Greyson felt the first whisper of a fever slither up his neck and make itself home behind both of his eyes. The tickets had continued to print, much to his chagrin, and after a few moments Matt had turned to his boss with panic in his eyes and frantically called, “Chef?!”

Greyson did what he was trained to; he pulled it together and hopped on the line to help his guys. He cooked and shouted orders and garnished and sent food out. He remade steaks when they came back overcooked, and he apologized when he yelled at his grill cook, who was new and clearly petrified. He ignored the massive headache blooming in his temples, and his cooks ignored the near-constant volley of sneezes he smothered into the inside collar of his chef coat. It was a rough one. Ticket times weren’t what they should’ve been, and he definitely screamed at his cooks more times than they deserved.

But it was over. And now, hours later, he stumbled out of the employee bathroom and into the office and slammed his ass into the chair, fully and completely spent. To his left, he felt Elijah’s hand firmly place itself on his shoulder.

“You killed it tonight. Truly,” Elijah said, his voice low. “We’re lucky to have you.”

Greyson looked at his boss, defeated. “I was an ass,” he said, his voice congested and hoarse. “I’m a dick. I yelled at Juan, and it wasn’t even his fault. Ticket times were trash. I wasn’t on top of it the way I should’ve been and I – huh…HUGTSSH-uhh! HUHESHHHOO!” Greyson swiped angrily under his nose and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “And I have a fuckigg cold.”

Elijah sat silently for a moment, and Greyson figured he was getting ready to gloat or make some sort of snide comment about how he knew Greyson was sick, and Greyson was an idiot for being there at all, but instead he heard his boss get up and leave the office. Greyson looked up from his hands after a few minutes of silence to see Elijah standing over him with a new box of tissues and a bottle of whiskey.

“I know,” he said, sitting down and pushing both of his peace offerings towards Greyson. “But you did it anyway. And that’s badass.”

Greyson had to swallow the lump in his throat before he could look his boss in the eye again. “You’re a kndow-it-all prick,” he said, taking a tissue and unscrewing the whiskey cap. He took a swig, and blew his nose, unsure what else to say.

“I’m aware,” Elijah replied. “But I’m right.”

Greyson looked at his boss and managed a smile. “I thindk…I mbay have to call out tomorrow.”

Elijah couldn’t help but laugh. “Grey,” he said, “if I see your ass in this building anytime before the weekend, I’ll send you home in a bodybag.”

This time, it was Greyson’s turn to laugh. “Honestly...body bag doesn’t sound too bad at this poindt.”

Elijah smiled and pushed the whiskey towards the chef once more. “Get yourself nice and drunk, chef. I’ll drive you home.”

#snz #snz kink #sneezeblr #sneezefic #sickfic #male sneeze #cold #snz fic #snzfic #male cold #coldfic #original character #snez #snzblr #whiskeyswriting

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yourlocalsmutwriter · 2 years

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Meet him on the main line - Murray Bauman x reader

A/ N : I love this lil bald man and it's a crime there isn't a bunch of more content for him. Also, this was written on crunch time, cause season 4, so it's short and unbetad. Enjoy nonetheless.

You were typing up the perfect scene, your fingers moving rapidly over the keys, when you heard a sharp knock. With a groan you tried to ignore it, not needing whatever distraction was on the other side of your door. And besides, wasn't it a little late for visitors? Whoever it was, it was incessant. Opening the door, you said

"Look I really don't wanna learn more about our lord and savior, thank you.".

But instead of Mormon leaders, you came face to face with a man you've never seen before.

"Murray Bauman, private investigator", he introduced himself, also adding "and I'm not here to tell you about Jesus."

"Well, why are you here, Mr. Bauman? I don't suppose you were just passing by the neighborhood?" You said, playing on the fact that you lived just on the edge of town.

"I have a few questions, regarding the disappearance of Barbara Holland."

"Well, then come on in. I'd be happy to help, it's terrible, what happened to the poor girl." After inviting him in, you fretted around, added a few throw pillows to the couch and fixed two cups of coffee. You blamed all those boring etiquette books you were forced to read back in the day. That and your inability to mask how nervous you were to meet his gaze. Nonetheless you sat on the other side of the investigator and motioned him to start. "How does a previously well known journalist from the Hawkins Post end up writing cheap romance novels? " he said, taking out one of your paperbacks from his pocket.

"And how does that tie-in with a missing teenager?", you asked.

"Well, you see, when I was inspecting missis Holland's room I found quite a few of your titles in there. So I began to wonder how she got a hold of them." he persisted.

"There's a thing called a bookstore, I believe there's your answer. I mean, a teenage girl with a few romance books, I wouldn't say it's groundbreaking."

"There were additional books that she was keeping under her mattress. Barbara was reading The first thrill, The friendship agreement and Confusion." "These are particularly steamy. I don't know how she got away with buying them."

"I don't know how you got away with publishing them."

"It wasn't easy, let me tell you. At first they refused to print what they called "worthless smut". So I began to send out the manuscripts to housewives. I had to cut the pages and bind them into old cookbooks, home decor guides, sewing pattern books. And on the last page I had written down the number of the publishing house, urging the readers to phone them to ask about the book. So everytime those suburban moms received a package from me, my publicist received a call from them. The rest was easy. "

" The more time I spend here, the more I realize how fascinating you are."

Even though you were blushing, you said "Flattery won't get you far, Murray."

"You're right. I should go, sorry for interrupting." He replied, motioning to the page still sitting in your typewriter.

You wanted to see him leave, just to make sure that he wouldn't do something insane like rummage trough your trash. So you sat on your porch, watching him start the car. He turned the key a couple times, but it only made screeching sounds. You continued to stare as he got out, popped the hood, swore and even kicked the front bumper. "Guess you still haven't bled the Hollands dry, judging by that fiasco. Come on, I'll be a good Samaritan and let you spend the night. The couch you interrogated me better be comfy enough for you."

You tried to pretend he wasn't there tried to write, despite him turning on the TV, playing music, calling the police station with his hottest "tips". At some point you noticed that the same sentence was written 3 consecutive times. That's when you gave up and sat next to him.

"In the mood to talk, are we?" Murray asked.

" No. But I'm in the mood to draw some inspiration from myself. So which book did you like the most?"

"The first thrill. It seemed the most realistic."

"That's because it was somewhat based on my college experience. It's the right amount of fact and fantasy."

"I bet I can guess which is which."

"You're on, Bauman. In fact, we can make it a game and get a little drunk. I don't know about you, but I won't be able to sleep tonight, thanks to that coffee I served us."

You quickly zipped to the fridge and brought out 4 mini vodka bottles.

"What did you do, raid a hotel mini bar?"

"It's research, my main character drinks vodka and I'm trying to find out which one tastes the best."

"Stolichnaya. Now, are there any rules I should know?"

"I quote a passage. You tell me if it's fact or fantasy. You get it right- I drink. You mess up- you drink. First up, is the "loosing her virginity in a dorm room bed." from page 89."

"Fantasy, it's too cliché to be true."

"You're right. I got my first kiss in a dorm room bed and lost my virginity in the guy's off campus apartment. Next up, sleeping with a teacher, page 137."

"I can already see it, you an ex-high school nerd, wanting to prove yourself. But the difference is, these people are actually smart. After all it isn't easy to be an English literature major. Assignments keep pilling up. Life on your own is tough. You need a deadline extension. Your professor is really strict. Maybe he's just pent up? And you can help with that. All for a few days more on that George Orwell paper."

"Unfortunately, its just a fantasy. But you're surprisingly good at this. Wanna be my co-author for the next one?"

"I prefer to be the muse." He said, cockily.

"Oh." Was all you could muster.

Following that was a question about you liking glasses, which he got wrong and one about getting caught in public, which he got correct.

"Well, a draw is a nice way to end the evening, isn't it? Now get off the couch, I wanna sleep." Murray said.

"Draw? I beat you. You drank your vodka first."

"We never set any rules. I drank 2, you drank 2. So, it's a draw."

"Okay, let's continue this. Strip poker style. As an incentive to keep playing."

"And is that supposed to motivate me or you?" He asked. After muttering something about him being too cocky and asking if he wanted to keep playing, you finally started the game.

After a few rounds about spanking, speaking foreign languages during sex, multiple orgasms and petnames, you were down to your bra and underwear. Murray wasn't in a better position, sitting opposite you in a tank top and boxers combo. But fate was not on your side. You asked about the sleeping with a stranger scene near the end of the book. Judging by what was happening right now, you hoped that he would get it wrong. But to your surprise he guessed that it was a fantasy. You unhooked your bra and briefly let the cold air envelop you, before crossing your arms in front of your chest.

"You've gotten yourself in quite the predicament, любимая. What will you do to get yourself out of this one?" He asked, triumphantly. Despite his tone, you could see his erection. Feeling frisky, you decided to make your fantasy a reality.

"I forfeit. You win." You said, as you walked over to him, gently lowered yourself just inches shy from his lap and pressed your forehead against his.

"Can I claim you as my prize?" He asked.

"Yes." With that he kissed you passionately. Wasting no time, you slid your tongue in his mouth and grinded on his lap. Feeling the hardness of his member, you remembered that you still had a lot to do. Breaking the kiss, you led him to the bedroom, where he began leaving love bites down your neck. He then swirled his tongue around your nipples, sucking and fondling your breasts.

"You know, our little game also left me with a few questions. We didn't discuss how you like to be touched. I'll have to guess then. I bet you'll enjoy this. " he said before slowly circling your clit with his finger. He continued, pressing down a bit more, so he was rubbing harder. Seeing that you were getting wetter, he decided to tease you a little bit.

"Let's see how many fingers your pretty little cunt can take. Is it one?" He said, as he slid one finger inside of you. God, you were so warm. And apparently impatient, because you were already moving your hips towards him, practically fucking yourself on his fingers.

"Greedy little pussy. Guess this isn't enough. You gotta let me know if I'm right, that's the rules.’’

"Yes, give me more, please." With that he slid a second finger in, slightly upping his pace. Curling them inside you, he asked:

"Is that how many you use when you touch yourself?"

"I use three." You admitted shyly.

"Can I try that?" A nod from you was he needed. He added a third finger, keeping a slow, but consistent pace. Watching you quiet down for a moment, then starting to moan, he asked:

"It's not too much, is it красавице?"

"No, I want your cock inside of me, now."

"Patience, дорогоя. Let me see you cum first. Then you'll get everything you want." After a few more thrusts, you were coming undone.

As you were panting and trying to shimmy yourself out of your underwear in a graceful way, Murray was putting on a condom from the ones on your bedside drawer.

"Well, you wore me out, сладкая. So do me a favor and ride me for a bit." You complied and positioned him at your entrance. When you lowered yourself on his cock, you could hear him mutter "сука блят". His hands were on your breasts, kneading them softly. Then he slowly moved them to your hips, guiding you on how to take more of him in. Thrusting up and deeper into you almost made you loose your balance. He spanked you for that, the slap on your ass making both of you groan in tandem. You leaned more into him, to scratch his chest in retaliation and he kissed you. He enjoyed how you moaned into his mouth every time he moved his hips up. He felt his climax, approaching, so he had to delay it a little bit. After all, what kind of gentleman would he be if he didn't make his partner come more than once.

"Кукла, let's switch. I wanna see how you like the next one. After all, I learned it from one of your books.". Confusion washed over you, as you obliged. Then it all became clear as he pulled your hips high to meet with his dick. The mating press. You bent your knees to allow him to fully sink into you. After a few thrusts you were coming again, tightening against him. He quickened his pace and spurred on by your orgasm and your desperate moans, he came too. After you freshened up and laid next to each other, he said:

"When you write about this I want 40 percent of the rights."

"How about I pay you in this way, loverboy."

"That sounds like an even better deal, любов."

#stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things one shot #stranger things x reader #stranger things x you #murray #murray bauman #murray bauman x reader #stranger things smut

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drarry-fic-rambling · 2 years

Note

Hi Phoebe, I don't know if your followers are interested for some humor, fluff, time-travel Drarry, but I sure hope they do. I just read a very flavorful and ridiculously entertaining one. It is a fic from Time Turner MisAdventures 2022 challenge, called "Something Unpredictable" by Klari. Here is the summary from on AO3:

If Hermione has had enough after third year and decides to avenge herself upon careless headmasters and willfully ignorant ministers by keeping the time turner, and then if that time turner is destroyed— what will happen when Harry gets involved in his parents’ love lives? How will Draco Malfoy save the Wizarding World from old men? What if Hermione never discovers the evils of House Elf Enslavement and starts the Societly Promoting Equality for Werewolves instead? And really… does Harry have a gambling problem?

You see, the summary gives you the what-ifs scenarios and the story certainly delivers it. It is not quite your fix-it sort and it is, imo, light-hearted and fun. The main pairings are Drarry, Romione, side ones are wolfstar, james/severus, lucius/lily. That prolly tells which era they time-traveled to :).

The author said it was unbetad, but I think everything seems to work out great even tho a bit fast pace. It was approx. 19k+ long.

Thank you as always,

Wish you well.

Hello! @handmeyours, thanks so much for submitting this!

I haven't read this fic, but I think your rec says it all.

(I couldn't find a Tumblr for this author, but if they're on here someone please tag them so they can see the love!)

Read "Something Unpredictable" by Klari on AO3!

Hey guys! It's @phoebe-delia, and I've created a little side blog!

The purpose of this blog is for people who might not want to have a full-on Drarry or fic rec blog but who have a favorite fic or piece of art that they're so passionate about that they want to write a rec. As always, remember to check the tags & leave comments and kudos!

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galacticcannibalism · 2 years

Text

Sneak Peek at my untitled work

So this is what I've been working on the past few days. I couldn't separate a bit for your viewing pleasure but this is my favorite part. Unedited Unbetad Unhinged okay mildly hinged. It's below the cut. Tea is my new OC I love her. The players of this blurb Jonathan Pangborn, Karl Mordo, Stephen Strange, Tea, and Christine Palmer.

Stephen left the chair he was in and had his hand around her throat in a second.

“Oh kinky I didn’t know you were into that,” Téa teased, but the words held the undercurrent of anger.

“People have died because of you,” He hissed at her.

Téa summoned her xiphos tip flush to his throat, she didn’t speak, but the threat was implied. He quickly considered his options, and dropped his hand from her throat, the blade at his throat didn’t waver. He turned and walked back to his chair and sat down calmly clearing his throat. Téa followed and sat across from him, laying her xiphos across the table in an obvious threat of what would happen if he pushed his luck again.

“Pangborn told me you were Mordo’s concubine,” Stephen started.

Téa snorted. “I’m certain Jon said I was Karl’s whore.”

“He said Mordo taught you the mystic arts and that when he left your village, you destroyed it in a fit of rage,” Stephen continued, ignoring the word whore. “He said you want to kill Mordo because you are a woman scorned.”

Téa laughed, the suddenness of it made Stephen flinch.

“After everything I’ve told Jon that’s what he tells you?” Téa said breathlessly. “I’m a woman scorned? That’s rich. And I tell you I’m here to murder him and you think that’s why?”

Téa laughed until tears ran down her face, making Stephen uncomfortable. He failed to see the hilarity in the situation. Stephen didn’t understand what he missed that made her laugh like this. He watched her until she was done.

“Do you care to tell me what it is I’m missing that’s so damn funny?”

“No.” Téa told him, she stood up and turned her back to him.

Stephen, infuriated again, launched himself out of his chair and grabbed her shoulders, turning her to face him.

“Careful Sorcerer I’m starting to think you like me.”

“I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what the hell is going on,” he hissed at her, tightening his grip.

“Who said I want your help? The last person I accepted help from was Karl and we both know how that's going to end.”

“It doesn’t have to end badly if you let me help you dammit,” he growled at her anger coloring the words.

Téa looked at him like he’d grown two heads. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words died when the door swung open. Christine Palmer stood there looking between the two of them.

#Doctor Strange #Doctor Strange x OC #Doctor Strange Fanfic #i don't know what i'm doing #yes sword to the throat #need to be done

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tommydoesntpayforsuits · 2 years

Text

Among the Whisperings and the Champagne and the Stars

Summary: Ella goes to one of Mr. Shelby's famous Poughkeepsie parties. Safe to say she's not enjoying herself. Someone turns the night around.

Word Count: 5491 words

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x OC

Warnings: season 3 spoilers, sex references, drinking, fluff, unbetad.

Author’s Note: I really love these little celebrations Sophie does, they’re so nice and they bring the community together. I chose The Great Gatsby. I made Tommy a little bit more cheeky for no particular reason. He’s obviously not always like that, but I imagine that, like Gatsby, he would have to act a little charismatic.

I tried imitating F. Scott Fitzgerald’s style, but I think I failed miserably. Which is actually embarrassing, because I had to study his entire writing style for a year.

Posting this before I lose my mind editing.

MASTERLIST

Tommy Shelby SFW Taglist

“Do you think we’ll meet him?”

Clutching Sarah's hand, I helped her out of the cab. She had on the tallest heels I’ve ever seen, and goddamn her for it. Now I have to steer her around. If she could walk by herself, I wouldn’t care what she wore.

I rolled my eyes. “Who cares?!”

Sarah hadn’t stopped talking incessantly about the mysterious Mr. Shelby. How he was so rich, how handsome he was rumoured to be, how he donates so much for charity. I did wonder where she got all this information from, but Sarah is probably connected to some grape vine somewhere. At this point, I felt like I knew more about Mr. Shelby than Mr. Shelby himself.

“—And, supposedly, he was a spy in the war!” she added, leaning in conspiratorially as if it was some grand secret.

“Really?” I rose a sceptical brow. “And who did you hear this from?”

Sarah ignored me, and gasped. “Oh, my God…” Her eyes grew wide.

I followed her eyeline— and my jaw went slack.

Tall fountains in manicured gardens with cobblestoned pathways lead to a beautiful, modern mansion. A palace. With high towers, gold adornments and decorative vines clinging to stone walls— putting Buckingham to shame. Outside was relatively quiet, only a few people keeping out of the way. But the doorway shone like gold, music drawing us in, the beat thumping like a heart beat. The night was alive, and it was calling.

Sarah and I gaped at each other, starry-eyed. With a squeal, we scuttled inside, gripping each other’s hands and ignoring the curious stares of the loiterers, skirts billowing after us and heels clicking clumsily through the dark.

Inside was bouncing with energy and excitement. The arch doorway led to an unlit hallway, packed with people drinking and chatting boisterously. Through there opened a grand, luscious ballroom— completely paved with marble floors, high walls held up by golden pillars, the ceiling painted with swirling gold patterns. Round tables with white table cloths were stationed around the first half of the room, leaving space for dancing. There was a gold-adorned staircase where men chased giggling women up and down like teasing children. At the very top, a gentleman popped a bottle of champagne so loudly, everyone’s heads whipped to look. He roared as he sprayed it, hands dripping with foam. A few ladies around him laughed as they got soaked, defending themselves with their arms. Only a couple moved away, but one moved closer and deliberately standing in the way and opening her mouth. He directed the spray to her mouth, and she stuck her tongue out as if she was catching snowflakes.

On the other side of the hall, there was a jazz band performing. The saxophonist had a solo at that moment. I gasped as he made the most amazing trills, baffled by his talent, before the trumpeter cut in to flex his own moves. Handsome waiters sped around the room, balancing trays of drinks and cigars and snacks. One of them brushed past Sara, giving her a generous eye and slanted smirk. Her eyes followed him, evidently spellbound.

We took everything in with such wonder and astonishment. Sarah would have surely tripped and fallen on her face had she not be clinging to my arm. Not that I could talk, I was behaving like an idiot myself. It’s one thing to see it in the newspapers and hear of past visitors fantastical tales, but to be standing before it, to behold all this wealth, all this luxury— it was a spectacle one surely wasn’t to miss.

My cheeks began to ache from my wide grin.

Sarah looked back at me, a mischievous glimmer in her eye. “Let’s have some fun.”

Fifteen minutes into dancing, Sarah had vanished with nothing more than a “Don’t wait for me.” Dragging the very same waiter down a hidden corridor by his wrist— what they do is between them and God alone. I wondered momentarily if Mr. Shelby would be blessing us with his presence this evening. From what I’d heard around the mill, he didn’t attend his own parties— which would lead one to question why he’s even hosting them in the first place. Why would anyone subject themselves — every weekend, might I add — to strangers waltzing into his house to eat him out of house and home, and to perform lewd acts in shadowed corners, only for him to not benefit the pleasure of their company? I rarely have any parties even on holidays, solely because it’s so much work. Though, I suppose a man who sits in these types of luxuries wouldn’t be cleaning after himself.

As a curious stranger standing in a shadowed corner of my own, sipping my drink, I felt like the most boring person in the room (which, I probably was).

Why was I here? Sarah was gone— well, surely I should wait for her, even though she insisted I didn’t. Although, I would never advise anyone to defy Sarah’s orders. Besides, she’d only been gone twenty minutes, and I imagine she hasn’t finished her– I choked on my drink— activities.

Sarah did this regularly, and every time I fell for it— like the idiot I was. She demands I go to this party, or festival, or whatever of the like, with her; and then proceeds to leave me, in a room full of people, whilst she goes off with some man or some woman (or sometimes both). I’ve tried to confront her about it, but she’s only insisted that I need to just mingle amongst the crowds alone (“You know, crawl out of your shell, a little!”).

I liked my shell. I don’t mind if Sarah wanted to have adventures of her own, but I just didn’t understand why she had to drag me with her, why she had to ignore me standing my ground because I knew how the night was going to end. For some reason, I always seem to forget how much I hate going to these things whenever she begs me.

I leaned against the wall, nestling against a pillar for my only company. Maybe I should just go home, this clearly isn’t for me. Just get into my pyjamas and read that book I was trying to get through earlier. Maybe open a bottle of wine.

A curious, almost wet sound caught my attention, followed by what appeared to be heavy breathing. I craned my head to a dark, empty hallway, where there were two dark figures. At the sight of one of them lowering themselves to their knees. For a moment, I thought that I was watching a proposal. Only when I heard what was unmistakeably a moan, did I realise what was happening.

A gasp caught in my throat. I pushed away from the pillar and rushed away before I knew where I was off to. Whatever enchantment this place put on me, the magic had long worn off.

Once the cold, fresh air hit my skin. It was stuffy and suffocating in there. My head was pounding so hard from the music and my flesh was crawling with disgust. The cold air reached my lungs. I shivered the tenseness away.

Of all the things to witness, that wasn’t what I was expecting. This undoubtedly happened in the other parties Sarah dragged me to, but I never saw it myself. I was either extremely lucky or the couples went about their business privately. Honestly, I’m surprised I went this long without seeing something like that.

I rushed down the steps, unsure where I was already. The Shelby gardens were large and abstract, almost like a labyrinth. Wandering through it, I found the deeper I went, the fewer people I found— so I went deeper. I couldn’t ignore the growing anger in my stomach with every step. Unbelievable. I swear this is the last time I let Sarah do this— and this time I meant it. I’m not falling for her begging or her demands or her incessant picking—

“Good evening.”

I jumped, snapping out of my head. I seemed to have stepped onto a little clearing between the twists and turns in the maze. There was a man in a tuxedo, siting on a wide stone bench, alone. He was limply holding a glass of whiskey (I didn’t remember that being offered at the party) in one hand and a dimly lit cigarette in the other. I couldn’t see his face very well, the only light available were the small decorative bulbs around the gardens, but I could tell he had dark hair and pale skin.

My feet were already retreating. “Oh. I’m sorry.” I said. “I didn’t realise anyone was here.”

Before I could flee into the maze once more, the man spoke again: “It’s alright. You don’t need to leave.” His words were slightly muffled, but there was a clear midland, English accent. When I looked at him again, he pinched a cigarette from his lips. “I don’t mind the company.”

I smiled politely, wandering back to my initial spot, feet planted in the middle of the little clearing. I swallowed, eyes fluttering to every bush, every twig, every tile on the ground instead of meeting his gaze. It was too quiet. As if every forest animal that must inhabit these bushes decided to unanimously stop existing, just to toy with us. My muscles ached with tension.

The man rose to hit feet, cigarette dangling from his lips as he buttoned his suit jacket. I was grateful for the rustling. “Unless you’d prefer to be alone,” amended the same muffled voice. His eyebrows were drawn, a permanent frown surrounded was clouded by a puff of smoke.

I could see him more clearly, as he stepped into a warm glow. Smooth dark locks fell attractively over his head; cheekbones, and jaw were cut cleanly by shadows; a small button nose, that almost felt out of place, but somehow worked in his favour; lips perfectly shaped and plump. He was dressed in a tuxedo, complete with the bow tie and handkerchief. His ice-blue eyes shone like stars in the darkness. He was handsome. My goodness, was he handsome.

I’d been alone all night. Why did it have to end that way?

The man cocked an elegant brow.

“Uh,” I faltered, casting my gaze away. Not that it was of any use, he absolutely knew I was staring. “Yes— I mean no. You don’t have to go.”

His eyebrow merely quirked, but there was an atmosphere of mild amusement radiating off him. “Alright.”

A plume of smoke escaped his lips. The ice-blue eyes were fixed on me, like he was waiting for whatever trick I would do next. My feet shuffled, scuffing the ground just to make any noise possible. Not knowing what else to do, really, I sat on the bench, smoothing my dress down the back of my thighs. Still, he watched me. I smiled at him. He didn’t smile back. I regarded my shoes.

Now what? Oh, god, it was even more awkward. He must think me terribly rude, sitting without conversation, without anything to say. I should’ve taken my leave when I had the chance instead of making a right fool of myself.

Unnoticing (or unbothered) by my discomfort, he reclaimed his spot on the other end of the bench, resting his smoking arm on his knee and placing his whiskey glass between us.

We listened to the crickets gossip amongst themselves, masking the silence. The man reached into his internal breast pocket and pulled out a flask, topping up his glass. He extended the flask to me, but I waved it away.

“Headache?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No, I’m fine. It’s just...” I huffed a long sigh.

He nodded slowly. “Overwhelming?”

“Yes,” I breathed, shoulders dropping free from tension. “I just don’t think parties are for me. Let alone these,” I gestured in the general direction of the mansion, “kind of parties.”

“Why?” he said brashly— though I sensed no rudeness from his tone, only general inquisitiveness.

I shrugged. “My friend made me come. She insisted it would be the best night of our lives.” Chuckling, I added, “Though, I think it’s the best night of her life, seeing as she ran off with a very good-looking waiter.”

“Is that so?” The corner of his mouth jumped; almost a smirk, not really. “Lucky girl.”

“Quite.”

I kicked my legs from the bench with a childish leisure, my heels swinging by my toes, catching them before they slung across the clearing. The man gulped at his whiskey.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

His voice didn’t have much intonation, sounding perpetually exhausted with a hint of irritation. I decided not to take it personally, it didn’t seem directed at me specifically.

“Ella,” I replied, with a polite smile. “Yours?”

“Tommy.” Tommy stuck his hand out.

I took it. “Hello, Tommy.”

He bowed his head, what seems to be a ghost of an unfeeling smile pulling at his mouth— more of an involuntary twitch, really. Like it was a habit he was conscious to break. The light caught in his eyes. They glittered, stunning blue shinning a brilliant gold. I couldn’t take my eyes away, my grip going limp in his hand.

He let go. I let it drop.

Clearing my throat, I found myself at a loss of what to say. But if I left now, I’d be ridiculously rude. Clasping the hem of my dress awkwardly, I attempted, “So, are you enjoying the party?”

Tommy sucked on his cigarette. “Can’t say it’s my cup of tea.”

His shoulders were tense, eyes fixed in front of him with a misplaced determination. Tommy seemed like he was only looking at me when absolutely necessary, and I wasn’t sure how to take that.

“Ah.” I nodded understandingly. “I seemed to have found the other introvert.”

As if he were reading my mind, Tommy turned his head to look at me with his staple risen eyebrow, and the same, microscopic quirk in his lips returned. He didn’t say anything, waiting for me to continue.

“At a party,” I clarified, “there’s always at least two introverts. We rarely find each other, though.”

He exhaled a light laugh, and my ears perked with surprise. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Not sure. Maybe it’s nature. We always seem to find somewhere to hide, don’t we?” I shrugged, letting my fists relax.

He didn’t reply. I wondered if maybe I’d offended him. It would be just like me to be unable to keep my mouth shut. Tommy silently sipped at his drink. Oh, no, I must have offended him.

Sighing, annoyed at my own idiocy, I pushed myself to stand on my feet.

“I suppose you have a point. Not exactly makin’ friends in a clearin’ on me own.” He flicked a hand to nowhere in particular, indicating to nothing at all.

I relaxed in my seat. “Well, you must’ve done something to give me a reason to stay.” I flashed him a playful grin, hoping I’d lessen the moody gloom around the both of us.

He lolled his head lazily at me, staring at me with hooded eyes, eyes sparkling with a starry quality. I didn’t— couldn’t say anything else. He must’ve known something I didn’t. I met his gaze, until he looked back to his fixed spot in the distance. Embarrassment stirred in my gut; I pulled at my lip.

“Seems like us introverts had some good luck tonight.” He threw the butt of his cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his toe. “What are the chances that you wander into a maze and find me here, ay?”

I looked pointedly at the litter on the concrete. “I don’t suppose the owner of the estate would much like that.”

I frowned to myself. Fuck. I let my eyes flutter closed for a moment, suppressing the urge to groan.

However, to my surprise, he smiled. Not a twitch, but more like a genuine tight-lipped one. It suited him, strangely. Somehow, that made my chest swell. He didn’t seem like a man who gave out smiles for free.

Tommy turned his head, as if searching for Mr. Shelby in the bushes. “Oh, I promise you, he doesn’t mind what I do.”

“Sorry,” I said, meekly, already feeling my cheeks heat up. “Always been a goody-two-shoes. And they’re never fun, are they?” I laughed awkwardly.

“So, why did you come?” he asked, not unkindly. “If you don’t like it?”

I snorted. “I could ask you that very same question.”

He bit his cheek, but I could tell he was trying not to smile. Nodding, Tommy said, “Touché.”

Oh, this was better. This was a lot better. Finally, Tommy, this very handsome stranger, was meeting the articulate, coherent Ella that had some semblance of control over her tongue. I flashed him my teeth quickly with a shy smile. “Where are you from?”

“Birmingham.”

“Ah.” I nodded. “That would be the accent.”

“It would,” he agreed, nodding. “And you?”

“Oh, I’m not from here,” I said quickly.

Tommy smacked his lips, raising his eyes brows as a small smirk stretched his lips. He turned his head to look at me, and there was a mild humour in his eyes. The way he looked at me— it felt like a reward.

“I can hear as much, you certainly don’t sound like an American.” His gaze was piercing. “Still didn’t answer me question.”

“My speciality,” I teased.

Tommy’s eyes sparked with a light humour about them. He looked at me like he was challenging me, so I returned the favour and challenged him right back.

Shrugged haughtily, I sung, “You started it.”

Hiding his cheeky smile, Tommy reached into his jacket, fetching a silver cigarette case and lighter and fumbling around with them as he lit his cigarette. He offered me one, but I declined.

“I have an idea.” I perked up. “How about we each ask each other a question, and the other has to answer.”

At the sight of his slow, interested nod and impish raised brows, I showed him my palm.

“Within reason.”

“Alright.” Tommy nodded. “Sounds fair. Who begins?”

“I will.” I cleared my throat. “Hmm. Let me think… Did you like Birmingham?”

He snorted. “Boring question, try again.”

“Maybe boring, but I want to know.”

Tommy stared at me pointedly. Somehow, I got the feeling he was holding back how frightening he could really look, if he wanted to. That was a good thing, because I probably would turn right around.

“It’s my question!”

He sighed, reluctantly. “Birmingham is a shithole full of poor men desperate to make a living.”

“That’s not what I asked. Do you like it?”

He inhaled his cigarette. “It’s all I knew,” He blew the smoke from the corner of his mouth, away from me. “I suppose in the sense that it was a world I understood how to navigate: yes.” He looked at me for approval.

I nodded, satisfied. “Fair enough.”

“I believe it’s my turn.”

Motioning for him to continue, I leaned back on my arms. I didn’t believe he even cared about knowing anything about me, or even about playing the game. He probably only wanted to ask an equally personal question, to return the favour of me doing the same. To not be the only one who said something vulnerable. Regardless, I let him.

"What do you do?"

I sighed. It was his question, I guess. "I'm a secretary for Ashford and Sons." I shrugged, sorry I didn’t have something better to say. "Pays my rent. Do you have any siblings?”

“Yes,” he grumbled. “My older brother Arthur lives in England, in the countryside. My sister Ada and my youngest brother Finn live in Boston, and my younger brother John died.”

My back straightened, and my breath caught in my throat. Fuck. Fuck. “Oh. I’m… so sorry.”

He nods. “Yes, everybody is.”

“I— I shouldn’t have asked,” I said— just when Tommy said, “It was a long time ago. Don’t worry about it, love.”

I picked at my lips with nails. What do I do? I’ve made it awkward, just my luck. He tipped his head back, drinking the dregs of his glass and set it down between us with an audible clunk.

“What did you do in Birmingham?” I blurted. I didn’t know what else to do. I don’t even know if that was appropriate.

“I was a businessman,” Tommy drawled. “I owned Shelby Company Limited and I expanded here when I moved.”

“Shelby Company…” My mouth fell open. “Wait. Tommy as in...”

Tommy’s eyebrows jumped.

I gasped. “Thomas Shelby?”.

He spread his arms grandiosely, and almost welcomingly. “The very same.”

I scoffed, shocked. Through my fit of giggles, I forced, “My god— Sarah would lose her mind.”

“I would appreciate if you didn’t go announcing it. I don’t hide it, but I’m not interested in the press hounding me.”

“Of course,” I said, soberly. “Of course.” After a moment of silence, I pressed, “So. Are you really a spy?”

He grinned a beautiful, dimpled smile. I didn’t even realise he was capable of smiling like that. It suit him so well, made his eyes brighter. “Depends who you ask.”

I couldn’t help the breathy laugh that left me. “That was evasive.”

He smiled, wide and true. “My speciality.”

Several cigarette butts surrounded our feet. Speaking with Tommy was an experience in itself. At times, he was charming. With funny one liners, and cheeky smirks. Others he stared off into the distance, not answering for a few beats too long. If he wasn’t answering adequately, I would’ve thought he wasn’t listening to a single word I was saying. Some questions he answered short and quickly, with a somewhat rude tone; others he answered calmly, with thoughtful answers. I had no reason to believe he wasn’t telling the truth, which is why I found his occasional smarty behaviour forgivable. There were things he simply didn’t want to say, and I certainly wasn’t going to push him. I generally tried to avoid harmful topics like war (men nowadays can turn in a blink of an eye at simply the mention). However, there were some things I was too curious about.

“How come you throw these parties, anyway?” I asked, after a particularly successful flare of good humour.

Tommy cleared his throat. “Well,” he said. “Why does any man do anything of this degree?” He swept a lazy arm to indicate to his booming mansion. “A woman.”

My shoulders dropped slightly. I stubbed a cigarette I had finally accepted from him. “Oh. So you have a sweetheart?”

“I did. Once.” Tommy nodded. “A very long time ago.”

“What happened?” left my mouth before I had the chance to stop it. Immediately, I slapped a hand over my mouth. “I’m sorry, Mr. Shelby, you don’t have to answe—”

“It’s no trouble.” Once again, he looked at me without anger, which I think was almost the furthest he could reach to kindliness. It was obvious I pried too much, though. But Tommy didn’t seem upset. “She was rich. I was not. Simple as that.”

“Ah.” I nodded as if I understood even a semblance of wealth. “Well... you’re rich now?” I offered, unsure.

“Yes, I suppose I am,” he said matter-of-factly. “But I can’t find her, see. We were planning to run away. Her parents didn’t approve of her affair with the stable boy. A couple of days before we planned to escape, she called everything off. Said she couldn’t live without her comfort. All I know is that she married some banker and moved to Poughkeepsie.” He shook his head before placing his cigarette between his lips. “Not sure why I told you that.”

“Is that why you’re here?” I pressed again. “In Poughkeepsie?”

He blew a long sigh, running his tongue over his bottom lip. “Yes. I am. Came here three years ago.”

“From Birmingham?”

He nodded, nonchalantly.

My eyebrows jumped. “Wow. So soon.”

Tommy shrugged. “I don’t know if she’s even here anymore. I have these parties. Hoping she’ll come one night. She never does,” he clarified casually, “but there’s always… hope, I suppose.”

“Hope is a great trait to have,” I said gently. “After the war, I find no one seems to have any, anymore.”

I tested my luck. Carefully, I placed my hand directly on his. It felt a little awkward, but he didn’t move away from me, so I didn’t move either. Tommy didn't say anything for a while.

“How come you’re alone now?” He demanded, suddenly.

I blinked, startled. “I said earlier, my friend is very convincing—”

“That doesn’t answer my question. Your friend left you, yes, but that doesn’t mean you should be alone.”

Why was he so invested in why Sarah…

Oh.

“You mean…”

He rose an eyebrow.

“I see.” I pulled at my lip with fingers. “Well, I didn’t come with a fella. And I didn’t speak to anyone after Sarah left.”

“Hm. Unusual.”

Would it kill him to present any sort of feeling in his voice?

“Girls like you always have a chap on their arm.”

I huffed a laugh, eyebrows drawing together in confusion and amusement. “Girls like me? What’s that supposed to mean?” I was ready to be insulted. At least back-handedly.

Without an ounce of shame, he replied: “Pretty ones.” He gulped the rest of his whiskey.

I scoffed. “It’s a good thing you’re handsome, because that was a poor attempt at flirting.”

Tommy pulled his lips into a wide, closed smile. “We persevere.”

I snickered, crossing my ankles, leaning back to gaze at the sky, full of stars. The moon nowhere in sight.

“Do you have a man?” he asked abruptly.

“It’s not your turn,” I chastised, not bothering to hide my smirk.

He shrugged. “Answer it, anyway.”

I breathed a laugh. “No. I don’t have anyone, Mr. Shelby.”

“Good.”

I blinked. “How so?”

He didn’t reply. “Come, take a walk with me.”

“That doesn’t sound ominous,” I teased. “Where?”

“I want to show you something,” he said. “Something pretty.”

Tommy seemed to soften as we made our way through the grounds. He walked confidently, with his back straight and his chin up, observing the grounds like a general observing his troops. But there was also this sense of leisure: he had his arms behind his back, and he stepped lazily and slowly, as if making an effort to keep up with me rather than just letting me trail behind him.

We chatted, asking questions back and forth. He participated more voluntarily now, asking question he appeared to want answers to. Tommy had a permanent smirk now, too, which made me feel very proud of myself, if I do say so myself.

A boisterous laugh caught our attention. A very short man with a pretentious moustache stood amongst a group smoking Tommy’s cigars, drinking Tommy’s champagne, talking through their stuffed mouths full of Tommy’s hors d’oeuvres.

“What does Mr. Shelby do, anyway?”

Our eyebrows jump at the same time, we stopped near them, facing each other away from them to not seem like we’re eavesdropping. Tommy glanced at me with mischievous humour. His eyes seemed to say, watch this.

“I hear he’s the great, great nephew of the Kaiser,” added the woman next to the short man.

Tommy turns and leans in. With total severity, and a gossiping, whispering tone, he said: “I hear he murdered a man who threatened to reveal his relation.”

The short man visibly paled, gulping. Tommy leaned beck to me, bright eyes and pursed lips and if he was trying not to laugh. He placed his cigarette between his lips, smiling around it. I was gawking at him, mouth hanging open and wide-eyed— and he could tell, and he enjoyed it. The cheek of his smile was blinding.

I leaned in, almost pressing my lips to his ear — ignoring the feel of his breath on my neck — and demanded, “So, it’s you!”

He sipped his champagne.

“You make up all the rumours,” I insisted.

Tommy’s eyes glittered like before. “Possibly.”

“Oh my god.” I couldn’t help but cackle. Tommy snickered with visible surprise. “Sarah is missing out.”

“Marie told me he’s a Stanford graduate,” cut in the boisterous little man again.

Tommy’s eyebrows jumped, giving me boyish smirk only meant for me, like he was letting me in on the joke. I couldn’t help but release the grin I was trying to hide.

“Is that where he gets his wealth, then? A nice job for an IV League man.”

“Must be.”

“It can’t be, I heard from John that he’s a war hero.”

His smile fell. The playful air that hung in the atmosphere suddenly seemed suffocating. For the first time that night, this mischievous, charming man had turned to stone. My smile melted, too.

“Really? Although admirable, a war hero doesn’t necessarily mean he’s this well-off.”

“No, I didn’t think so either, but apparently he was so brave he received a nice sum from the King for gallantry!”

“Do they even give money prizes for gallantry?”

Before anyone could dispute, another man arrived, apologising for being late, insisting on the height of traffic. Nevertheless, the guests cheered, clapping the man on the back with cheery greetings— any matter of Tommy long forgotten.

Tommy’s expression was nothing less than furious. Not knowing what else to do, I slipped my hand into his palm. He startled, almost going to recoil, but changing his mind. I started tugging. I didn’t know where I was taking him— this is very much his home — but he just needed to be away from there. Before the rest of the life bled from him.

I had no idea why I wasn’t afraid. Maybe I should’ve been, but Tommy didn’t make alarm bells ring in my head, and my gut didn’t have a funny feeling. He had reasonably calm down, cracked a couple of jokes, even resorted to tugging my hand slightly when I went the wrong way. There might have been a ghost of a smile.

I hadn’t let go of Tommy’s hand since we left those people. He was in no rush to let mine go, either. His vice grip almost hurt, but he seemed like he needed it. A left turn through some cut of hedges led us to a brilliant, white gazebo, fairy lights wrapped around the banisters and poles.

“Oh, wow.”

Still grasping my hand, he helped me up the gazebo stairs. Inside was even better. The ceiling of the gazebo was painted a dark blue, almost as blue as the night sky, with little white dots glimmering from the darkness. In the very centre, a lamp shade shone. Printed on it, was a child like illustration of a moon, with a couple of stars to keep it company. Somehow, it all worked together.

I looked at him. “It looks like something out of a fairy tale,” I breathed.

He looked like he wanted to smirk, but he was stopping himself. Some lovers passed the gazebo and had a stroll on the moonlit pathway; escaped the fray to have a moment to themselves in the night— an innocent one, thank heavens. There were no blushing noises I could hear. I couldn’t bear to stand here, in front of Tommy— looking so handsome and boyish under the golden lights— and have to listen to a couple do what they should do in private, right in his manicured garden.

“I love it. It’s very romantic.”

Tommy didn’t say anything. Only looked at me, again, like he knew something.

I gave him my most brilliant grin. “Would you care to dance?”

He stared at me for a moment. “There’s no music.”

“Would dancing to the tune of silence be so wrong?”

I pulled him to me lightly. He cooperated, stepping toward me. I put my hand on his shoulder, and he put his on my waist. Our hands were still joined, though, and I know he noticed too.

At that moment, we were alone. It was just two strangers dancing. Dancing. Among the whisperings. And the Champagne. And the stars.

He gazed at me with the same hooded eyes, the same tight smile, the same starry quality.

“You know exactly what you’re doing when you look at me like that,” I breathed.

His smirk pulled wider and a deep chuckle rumped from his chest.

I caught a glimpse of his watch. “I think it’s time I leave. I’ve got work in the morning.”

He stopped swaying. "When do you get off work?"

My cheeks grew warm. "Are we still doing the questions?"

He smiled, but he said nothing, waiting expectantly.

I gave in. "At five."

“Do you like horses?” Tommy asked.

“Um. Yes?” My heart was racing.

“Would you like to go horse riding?"

I grinned.

#tommy shelby #tommy shelby x oc #peaky blinders

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aftergloom · 2 years

Text

Rogue/Gambit (X-Men) Archival Works

For @aya97, who requested my Romy archive. Much of this dates back to about 2010 or so (ancient, in other words) and remains untouched and unbetad. I didn't even shake off the dust, I only uploaded them to Drive, so proceed at your own risk.

All of this was posted under the Lucia de'Medici or Carmine LaCroix pseuds on ffnet or LiveJournal at some point or another.

With the exception of The Ante (which was a consumptive experience to work on since it was 300k+ words) everything else is a one shot or less.

PDFs are below the cut (616, Ultimateverse, and Evo.) Comment if the links don't work, but they should be accessible.

Still Live Works

The Ante at Ao3 (Reboot) When Gambit left Rogue on the shores of Blood Moon Bayou, he slipped a playing card into her hand. More than a conciliatory gesture, it signaled the start of something that carried the understanding: Never bet more than you are willing to lose.

Deuces Wild at Ao3 In which Gambit finally manages to get into Rogue's head, but at a cost. A different take on Ultimate X-Men Annual, "Date Night", featuring Rogue/Gambit

The Old Stuff

Can't Touch This (PDF) Stop! Hammer time! (A scrap of stupid humour courtesy of Rogue and Gambit.)

Fifty-Two Yards of White Satin (PDF) It’s a live or die scenario at the Xavier Institute for Gifted Children when it comes to Jean’s wedding dress, but that doesn’t stop certain individuals from tempting fate.

Death's Head Hawk Moth (PDF) Our actions are felt across the world, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. Hollows (PDF) It’s a long way to fall. Negev (PDF) No summary. This was written in two parts, and I can't find part II for some reason. Sandcastles (PDF) Define for yourself the limits of your own self-delusion, and then surpass them once you can bear ignoring the line diving right and wrong. This Twilight (PDF) The voice of Rogue’s conscious sounds surprisingly like mom.

There are two other incomplete multi-chapters in my possession but I'm not re-releasing them, sorry. Southern Gothic was an 18th century New Orleans-centric historical AU, and The Patron Saint of Liars and Fakes was a movieverse solution post X3 that might actually be worth taking off the shelf someday. I wrote it in 2010 and... it's actually pretty good by the standards I hold myself to now, so. Those won't be shared again unless I rework them.

As a final note, @nxctuaryninetythree is foremost a Star Wars blog and it's 18+. The vast majority of the content you'll find here is geared towards that. If you're looking for Rogue & Gambit specifically, I run @fuckyeahroguegambit to that ends (and you won't get bombarded with my current hyperfixations.)

Cheers, and thanks for reaching out.

#Rogue/Gambit #Rogue #Gambit #Remy LeBeau #fanfic archives #lucia de'medici #carmine lacroix #the ante #romy #X-Men #X-Men Evolution #XME #x men movies

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lokidiabolus · 3 years

Text

Last Resort - chapter 1

Fandom: The Maze Runner

Pairing: Thomas x Newt

Warnings: ex boyfriends, AU

Summary: Three years after breaking up with Thomas, Newt finally thought the past of hating each other was behind them, until Thomas asked him for a favour - pretend they got back together for a week while staying at his parents' home. Because it was an absolutely dumb idea, Newt was inclined to refuse, but then found himself in the house he used to visit when he was in love and happy and the bitter reality of only pretending for people he always liked made him miserable. But it was nothing against dealing with Thomas himself for a week straight and trying not to fall back in love that hurt them both.

Or: Prompt ch. 192 with added spice. Or something. I just needed to write for a while :')

Can be found on Ao3.

Notes: Hi! I was really into writing something, like really, really hyped, but then couldn't find anything that would make me go "yaaas!". So I thought of just giving up, until I somehow vaguely recalled I wrote this small one shot about two exes falling back in love in parents' house, and just sort of thought: oh yeah. Angst, good. Could add some horny. Good. Let's try. So here we are. Trying. It's not exactly deep or anything. I just needed to get this out of my system :') And it's not like I can't write anything else but AUs... ha.

Unbetad!

Sometimes Newt felt like the world was against him in literally any kind of situation. Once he decided to commit to something, a sudden force worked against him immediately, completely ruining the plan, or at least derailing his confidence in it. For about a year he thought that maybe it was the Universe giving him signs, for another year it felt like a karmic backslash and this year he settled on the fact he was just being despised by whatever higher force was in charge.

Although last year wasn’t as bad, really, until November 12th on dot. If it was about to be documented anywhere, he was just getting out of his shower, quite sleepy already, in rather calm, peaceful mood, once his phone dinged with a new message and he, without knowing the consequences of reading it, opened it. Even though it had Thomas as a sender - he thought later it should have deterred him from ruining the night for himself. Yet, his stupid lizard brain just clicked on it, blissfully unaware.

ThomAss - [23:14] – This is a life-or-death matter, you HAVE TO help me out D:

Newt - [23:15] – HAVE TO even.

ThomAss - [23:16] – YES. Please. I’m ready to beg too, that’s how desperate I am!

Newt - [23:17] – Hmm. Tempting. On your knees?

ThomAss - [23:18] – It’s negotiable.

Newt - [23:19] – Might think about it. Go on.

ThomAss - [23:20] – I need you to come home with me. I mean to my parents’ home.

Newt - [23:21] – What…?

ThomAss - [23:22] – It’s an emergency. They’re being persistent, so I need to bring somebody over.

Newt - [23:24] – I don’t follow?

ThomAss - [23:25] – Somebody I’m dating, that is.

Newt - [23:26] – Yeah, no.

ThomAss - [23:27] – Pleaaaaaaaaaase! T^T

He refused to admit he was fuming when he tossed his phone on the mattress and ignored how it beeped several times with new messages. There was no bloody way he’d go all smiling into Thomas’ parent’s house and pretend they were dating when they broke up three years ago in bad blood and it took them over two years to recover enough to be able to at least talk in a civil way. Sure, these past few months were sort of… better than the rest, though Newt didn’t really know if there was a reason, or they just let go of the grudge.

Well, partially let go, at least Newt’s was still lightly festering sometimes, on bad days when he was stupid enough to let his guard down and remind himself of it.

His phone beeped three more times and then the silence of his flat got sliced to pieces by the obnoxious ringtone he put in spite to Thomas’ contact two years ago. They weren’t calling each other, so there was no way he’d hear it at any point back then, but now, when the sound filled his home, he had a fleeting thought of smashing the phone to pieces instead.

“I said no,” he answered anyway, cold enough for Thomas to definitely get shivers on the other side of the line.

“Newt, please, I beg you,” Thomas didn’t even bother with greetings and whined like a five-year-old. “You can’t possibly be that cruel, can you?”

“Minho,” Newt gritted out. “Why not him?”

“He’s in England! Drinking tea! He’d throw me off the Big Ben if I interrupted his super-secret-date-everybody-knows-about!” Thomas responded frantically and Newt pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

Fine, he had a point, probably, Minho would rage at him if he tried to drag him back shit like this. He planned the totally-not-a-date for months, never introduced the person and then disappeared. Everyone knew why, but they didn’t know to who.

“Teresa.” Another possibility, and Thomas’ groaned into the speaker.

Oh, so he already asked her, and she turned him down. Not to mention…

“Brenda?”

Another groan.

“For fuck’s sake,” Newt had to force himself not to throw the phone against the wall. “Have you literally asked everyone and I’m the bloody last resort?”

“Sort of?” Thomas piped and Newt refused to acknowledge how it stung weirdly.

Am I being hypocritical?

It wasn’t like he was willing to go anyway, but somehow his pride didn’t like it. And his pride was a bitch, he knew, and had the power to overwrite his common sense.

“Look, it’s just…” Thomas sighed into the phone. “…embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?” the blond repeated. He would say uncomfortable maybe, but embarrassing? “What is bloody embarrassing about it? I’ve heard you snore and fart and throw up and come, and you think this is embarrassing?”

“This is embarrassing!” Thomas whined like couldn’t hear the naked truth and Newt shook his head. They had their history, and it wasn’t just a week short fling. They lived together for three years and dated for seven, there honestly couldn’t be much of an embarrassment present anymore.

Although maybe yes, after three years of barely talking.

“You’re ridiculous,” he mumbled after, dropping a towel he was drying his hair with on the bed. “How’s this even a question, can you just tell them you’re single? Or. I don’t know, that the person you date had other business to attend to?”

“No,” Thomas answered immediately. “I can’t and I won’t. You act like you don’t know them, they’re onto me.”

“Cuz you’re a liar?” Newt tilted his head to the side and Thomas grumbled.

“Am not, okay.”

“So where’s your significant other that can’t attend?”

“On the phone right now, being difficult. Obviously,” Thomas delivered without ounce of shame and if he was standing right in front of Newt, he would have one in his face. “Look, I didn’t want to ask you, cuz of course it’s kinda weird, since my parents already know you and all.”

Of course he would rather bring Teresa or Brenda over, Newt thought and the bitterness surprised him.

“Well, at least they wouldn’t be as shocked,” he said in response, pushing the wave of reminiscing back down. “Imagine Minho, he would probably tear the place apart.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t break up with Minho,” Thomas reminded him, keeping the sombre tone despite Newt trying to lighten the situation.

“You don’t say,” he said instead. “And?”

“And they know we did,” Thomas continued. “So it’s gonna be awkward, you know.”

“Can imagine, yes,” Newt didn’t want to play dumb. “I already told you no though, so there’s no reason to torture yourself with the what if.”

“When did I ever want anything this important from you though!” The whine was back, and Newt sucked in a sharp breath.

“You want me to make you a list? Or would a text suffice.”

“I told you I’d beg on my knees, right? I will. I’m ready to go to your place right now and kneel for the whole night if that’d please you,” Thomas shot back, sounding too serious for Newt’s liking. His neighbours would hate him if Thomas spent the night in front of his door on his knees, serenading him just to make him cave in.

“For fuck’s sake, for how long am I going to be pretending I love your stupid face again then?” he growled unhappily and Thomas on the other side let out a small laugh.

“Well, mum said a weeklong vacation, but I’m sure like three days would be enough to sate her craving for whatever she actually craves when she forces me to do this,” he dropped like a week wasn’t a death sentence or could pose an actual problem with Newt’s remaining vacation days. Which was not. But Thomas didn’t know that.

“I know you have vacation days left, since you always hoard them,” Thomas immediately added like he could read his mind and Newt couldn’t stop the curse leaving his mouth. “It’s not so bad, right? Countryside, fresh air, great food and for free.”

“For the cost of my sanity, but sure, for free,” Newt grumbled and padded to the table to boot up his notebook. “When?”

“I’d pick you up on this Friday at 3? Work or home, your pick.” There was an obvious relief in Thomas’ voice and Newt kind of wanted to remind him they still broke up and barely talked to each other for two and half years, so it was not going to be a walk in a park at any point, but he kept his mouth shut.

“I work till 4,” he uttered while opening his e-mail and started to write a request for vacation. “So something past 4 in front of my workplace should be fine.”

“Four? Since when?” came a question and Newt rolled his eyes. “It used to be 3 max.”

“Three years ago, sure,” Newt decided to overlook Thomas’ weird habit of keeping shit like this memorized. “Things changed.”

“You work longer for the same pay?” Thomas guessed and Newt scoffed.

“I’m not an idiot, okay,” he commented sternly. “I got promoted. So I go to work a bit later, but work till later too.”

“Aaah,” Thomas voiced. “That’s pretty cool. Congratz.”

Year and half late, but I guess it’s the thought that counts. He just hummed.

“Then four it is,” Thomas got back on track easily. “Thanks, Newt. You’re a lifesaver.”

“You don’t know what it will cost ya yet, don’t be so happy about it,” Newt said grumpily. “I don’t work for free.”

“How’s pleasant company and free accommodation and full inclusive not enough for you? You spoiled little bitch,” Thomas faked an offended tone and Newt rolled his eyes.

“Pleasant company is questionable, since you’re going to be there,” he shot back, more out of habit than with an actual spiteful intent. “But I guess your family will do.”

“Oof, alright,” it didn’t take anything from the cheerful tone of his, “you can send me a bill after. Fucking high maintenance as always, aren’t you.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Newt chirped and hung up. The moment he sent the mail to his boss he immediately regretted it.

***

Friday came so fast Newt barely noticed the week whooshing past him, and suddenly it was 3:50, he was basically done with his workload for the day, his weeklong vacation got a green light and a bag with his things was sitting mockingly on his table, reminding him he was an idiot who just liked to make himself miserable.

Thomas was already texting him since morning to not forget to pack undies like he was a mastermind of great humour and Newt’s eyes lingered a bit too long on a kitchen knife when he was packing yesterday.

But then again, Thomas’ mum definitely had much better cutlery, so the variety of murder weapons just multiplied.

He pointedly ignored how his stomach lurched at the sight of Thomas at his car in casual clothes and unzipped jacket like it was spring (the -4 degrees disagreed with him, and especially with Newt’s complete lack of proper thermoregulation), actually having a pleasant expression on his face Newt last seen… well, long time ago. He took Newt’s bag and put it in the boot of the car with such nonchalance Newt almost believed his parents might be tricked into thinking they really got back together, how smooth and easy he made it look. Newt refused to ruin it with sarcasm, so he just got into the passenger seat and let Thomas get them on the road.

“You know Christmas is still a month away, right?” Thomas commented once Newt got rid of his coat and scarf, since the car was warm inside, and tossed it onto the back seat, before putting on the seatbelt.

“Yeah?” he raised an eyebrow at him and didn’t like the smile Thomas had on his lips. He was going to nag, for sure.

“Just that you’re wrapped like a present,” came an expected comeback. “How many layers you even have? You took all of your winter clothes on?”

“Stuff it,” the blond glared at him. “It’s cold outside.”

“It’s not that cold though?” Of course Thomas wouldn’t let it go.

“Just cuz you circulate lava and not blood doesn’t mean others do too,” Newt’s glare intensified. “Like it’s something bloody new I’m cold as fuck all the time.”

“Yeah, it’s really not,” his companion shrugged with self-satisfied smirk and Newt wanted to stomp on the brake and just get out of the car. Why did he agree again?

Prick.

What even made him so happy? Still didn’t realize how many faked smiles he’s going plaster on his face through the stay? Or he didn’t care?

“What are we going to tell them?” he asked instead to bring them closer to the problem, since the resolution was only three hours’ drive away. He wouldn’t admit it, but since he agreed to help with this clownery, he couldn’t stop thinking about what to tell the people he genuinely liked and didn’t want to lie to. He could almost forget how rare it was to stay alone with Thomas these days – or months – or years – without an urge to strangle the brunet every time he got close and opened his mouth, when they were sitting in the car so peacefully now.

It was calm but utterly bitter.

The bitterness, Newt thought, was probably still the remnant from three years ago. Maybe not as vicious, but still accompanying him after all these years, every time they saw each other. The first year was catastrophic, the second they both calmed down a bit, and the third they actually managed to lead a normal, reasonable conversation with minimum insults.

Newt wasn’t shy to admit he missed his ex during quiet moments of his life; somehow. He was especially prone to it during his birthday, somehow spending the passing years without Thomas’ company hurt, despite the bad parting. Talking with Thomas with more ease was nostalgic. But his brain always helpfully supplied it was not going to last because they were still the stupid, broken up them deep down.

Not to mention pretending to be lovers just to get Thomas’ parents off his back was lame as fuck. He had no idea why he agreed. Maybe he was lame too.

“I don’t know. We bumped into each other on a party and made out in a closet,” Thomas responded, the smile finally falling off, his eyes glued to the road before him. “And decided to try it again.”

“Ugh.”

“What, you have a better idea?” Thomas shot him a look and Newt snorted.

“We managed to talk normally again and realized we’re still in love with each other?” he offered, just to piss him off. “Since, you know, it happens to normal people?”

“What, sex in the closet does not?” There was that annoyance in Thomas’ voice again Newt knew so well. They usually talked to each other like that – annoyed, nagging, angry, and it wasn’t hard to fall back into it.

“Probably to you,” he averted his eyes from his companion and watched the passing scenery instead. “But I’m not that easy.”

“That’s true,” he heard Thomas whisper, more to himself, and rather buried himself lower into the seat. The fact their intimate life sucked the last month they were together hadn’t been a secret and Newt was very much aware it just sped up the fall of their relationship. But at that point it all felt wrong, and the last thing Newt had wanted was having angry sex, or sex out of obligation, or basically anything intimate without enjoying the other person’s company. Because they sure weren’t enjoying each other for some time already.

Thomas didn’t like it. And he was pretty open about not liking it. But then again, so was Newt.

And then they broke up. It was outside during Christmas, under the lit-up tree on the city square, and Newt still considered it the most unpleasant memory of his life. They were furious, both of them, and the breakup was inevitable, but when it finally came, it wasn’t an explosion full of shouting or accusing as he expected.

Nope, it was quiet, cold and devastating. Seven years down the drain, just like that.

“Let’s go with your version,” he heard Thomas saying roughly. “It happens.”

“Yeah,” he piped, closing his eyes.

In fairy tales.

***

“Oh my god, I knew it!”

It was the first thing that hit them both when the door to the house opened and Thomas’ mother ran out, shrieking like a siren while going straight to Newt and almost suffocated him in an embrace. “I knew you two would get back together, I knew it!”

“There goes the surprise,” Newt managed from the rest of his breath and when she finally released him just to run back to the house to tell the rest of the family the big news, he gasped like he was drowning.

“Good to know she’s as strong as ever,” he croaked, and Thomas hummed and took both of their bags to carry it inside. He had gotten visibly darker and grumpier the closer they got to his hometown and now he almost visibly carried a dark, raining cloud above his head, looking like he just arrived at his own funeral.

Newt followed him inside with surprising ease though, like returning to this place somewhat negated everything Thomas tried to spoil. He had only nice, pleasant memories of this house, and those people, so even if Thomas ought to be a dickhead, he could always enjoy himself here.

“Newt!” a roaring voice welcomed him next, and another crushing hug lifted him from the floor. Thomas’ father was a big, broad guy who could probably lift the house itself, and his jolly personality apparently remained untouched as well.

“Hi there,” the blond greeted him right the moment he got back to the ground, trying to withstand the bear pat that followed. “Haven’t seen you in forever.”

“Likewise!” the big guy cheerily replied. “Glad to see he came back to his senses! Was seriously afraid he’d bring that gloomy goth girl here, I don’t think we have enough black around for that.”

Teresa or Brenda.

“Nah, he still has a thing for blonds,” he replied with a smile and immediately heard Thomas’ scoffing from the living room. The fact that both Teresa and Brenda turned him down must have scarred his ego a lot.

The jab was worth it though.

***

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Anna (Thomas’ mum) patted his arm for about fourth time already since they arrived, her face fond and eyes happy, and it made Newt guilty as hell. They all gathered in the kitchen, which smelled like fantastic food and happy memories. “I swear the breakup was so shocking, we didn’t want to believe it. Tom took it so badly too, I-,”

“Mum,” Thomas’ voice sounded threatening from behind them. “Stop feeding him useless stuff. He just got off work and spent three hours in the car, let him breathe a little.”

She made a face at him but sent Newt an apologetic smile and gave him a muffin. Still tasted as he remembered, and he had to admit those small welcoming bits were the only brakes he had from running away. It wasn’t like Thomas was nasty towards him or anything – he wouldn’t dare since they’d call him out on it – but since they had the talk in the car Newt could feel the uncomfortable tension between them that always ended in an argument.

“You want coffee?” Newt realized Thomas was looking at him now, eyebrows raised, and he just nodded, not trusting himself to say anything.

“I’ll bring it to you, you can go sit with others,” Thomas added as if he couldn’t get rid of him fast enough and Newt didn’t argue with that logic. The moment he left the kitchen and sat between Thomas’ dad and sister, relief washed over him, and he could finally breathe a little easier.

“I thought you’d already be married to somebody decent,” Hannah (Thomas’ little sister) commented while she plastered herself against Newt’s side like she used to do when she was little. Newt haven’t seen her for about four years, give or take, and now she was 14 and apparently full of opinions. “And not wasting your time with him again.”

Him, pointedly looking at her brother who was sneering at her while entering the living room with Newt’s coffee, was seemingly normal occurrence lately, judging from zero reactions from the parents.

“I know, I’ll never learn,” Newt piped in anyway, which made Thomas sneer at him for a change, and almost spilling the coffee on him, not even trying to mask it as an accident.

“Do I have to be the target of your bad jokes?” he glared at them collectively and when Anna arrived after him with dinner, Newt felt nostalgic, like literally nothing changed, and he relaxed into it with more ease than he expected.

He was just glad Thomas was sitting further from him and didn’t need to force himself to act natural. When he reached for the coffee, his favourite taste of it surprised him, but he didn’t meet Thomas’ eyes.

***

“I have to say, you got even cuter,” Anna suddenly said once they were past dinner, Newt couldn’t eat or drink anymore or he would explode and decided to walk it out while helping her bringing dishes to the kitchen and putting them in a dishwasher.

“Anna,” he chuckled. “That’s not what a guy wants to hear.”

“I’m just saying,” she had a genuine smile on her face. “I feared I’d never get to see you here ever again. I know you don’t really want to talk about the breakup and all…”

She stopped for a second, her eyes searching, and Newt hated how strangely painful it made him feel. He sincerely hoped it didn’t show on his face.

“I just want you to know I’m happy you two got back together,” she concluded, which meant it definitely showed on Newt’s face and she saw it. “I know you must have your reasons back then and everything, but I’m just… so glad for you two. And I wish you’d visit more often as well.”

Newt’s chest tightened like he was about to have a heart-attack and he had to push the guilt back down with the power of his sheer will alone, right in front of her trusting, hopeful eyes, like he was disarming a ticking bomb with 10 seconds on the countdown. He expected maybe some initial awkwardness, or some of them poke fun at how they finally got their shit back together after three years, but this wasn’t the plan and he hated how he wanted to hide behind Thomas’ back and just push him to deal with this instead.

“Yeah,” he gulped down the rising agony. “We absolutely should.”

Liar.

“You were always such a great kid,” she pushed herself from the kitchen counter and pulled him into a tight, heartfelt hug. Tears almost spilled out of Newt’s eyes when she squeezed him with loving gentleness he didn’t want to feel again to know what he was missing. “We all love you so much. Thank you for coming back.”

He couldn’t stop the guilt anymore and quietly wept into her shoulder, praying to any higher power for her not to notice.

***

It wasn’t an escape. He did not run away like a coward the moment he could. He didn’t light up his cigarette outside on a porch with trembling hands because he couldn’t get his nerves under control. It just happened. He just felt like it. He just needed the fresh air, nothing else.

He thought, maybe if he kept telling himself that, the tears would eventually stop and he wouldn’t be sniffling anymore into the night, with sky sprinkled with stars and air cold enough to make his face feel like ice.

He heard the door opening only vaguely, his eyes stinging, until the automatic light flashed above him, signalizing a movement nearby. He noticed Thomas too late, he realized when he started pathetically wiping away tears into his sleeve.

“You okay?” Thomas asked a bit abundantly, seeing the state of his, but Newt had to admit there weren’t many other questions to ask anyway.

“Yeah,” Newt sniffled, trying to get his feelings under control, but failing miserably. “Sorry… just. Give me a few, I’ll be fine.”

Thomas took a step closer, and Newt hated how he flinched at that.

“Mum told you something?”

He had an unreadable face, Newt thought. Neutral and careful and Newt couldn’t say what he was thinking. He hated how the ability of reading this man just disappeared like the rest of their history.

“Nothing bad,” he shook his head and brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaling shortly. His hands still trembled but not as badly anymore. “Are they worried?”

“Not yet, I think,” Thomas replied quietly, glancing towards the door, then sighed. “I guess it’s… kind of painful.”

“Kind of,” Newt agreed softly. “But it reminds me how nice it was when it lasted.”

“Yeah,” Thomas finally glanced at him, his eyes a bit warmer. “It was amazing.”

Newt felt a lump in his throat forming, and the more Thomas was looking at him, the worse it got, until he couldn’t really stand it. So he offered a small, apologetic smile, put the cigarette out and returned back to the house with buzzing in his head and weird pressure in his chest.

The mischievous grins Thomas’ family gave him once he reappeared in the living room never felt so wrong.

***

Newt didn’t really plan on it, but since the night progressed and his company slowly started leaving for the night, he eventually fell asleep on the couch in the living room. He thought he heard somebody trying to wake him while softly saying his name, but he was too exhausted to rise to the challenge and just let his eyes close shut.

The last thing he noticed was sudden warmth engulfing him, like being hugged by a fluffy animal and then he was out like a light.

He dreamed of first loves and heartbreaks.

***

“You’re being 17 only once in your life, man, cheer up a little!”

Newt grumpily looked at the shot he was given with liquid of unknown origin and then back at Minho, who was grinning at him encouragingly, already drunk enough to be considered not the most reliable source of what fun is. Newt couldn’t say he liked the taste of any alcohol he tried so far, and even though Minho made it look like it’s the most delicious thing he ever had, every cup tasted like spirit and burned unpleasantly.

Sure, he was 17 today. Sure, he tried alcohol because everybody did to celebrate, but every time they looked away, he just poured the rest of his cup into something that could hold it (the cactus probably wasn’t happy about it and Newt mentally apologized to the plant when he disposed of the rest of his beer in its pot).

“Lemme take that from you,” a sudden movement on his side caused the small glass to be taken from his hand, and then a brown-haired boy downed the drink like it was water. Newt had no idea who he was, but since he saved him from possible vomit-inducing moments, he immediately liked him.

“My saviour,” he grinned once the boy tossed the empty glass back to Minho who barely caught it. The boy smiled back at him, his big, brown eyes warm and honestly really pretty.

“Thomas,” he introduced himself. “I take it you’re the birthday boy. Newt, right?”

“Right,” the blond nodded in agreement. “You here with Ben?”

It was just a guess, but he vaguely remembered Ben mentioned something about bringing friends over and Newt didn’t mind. The more people present, the easier would it be for him to disappear at some point to avoid being cornered with other alcoholic beverages.

“Yep,” Thomas nodded with a cute smile. Newt wondered if he was already at least a little drunk to be so easily charmed. “I know I should have brought a gift, since it’s your b-day and all, but I kinda came empty handed. Sorry about that.”

“Preposterous,” Newt faked a shock, hand on his chest and laughter bubbling in his throat, but Thomas was already fishing through his pockets as if he was searching for something to give, and that made him laugh for real. “It’s fine, Tommy. You saved me from alcohol poisoning, you have a free pass.”

“That’s lame though,” Thomas objected unhappily and then finally found his phone in his back pocket, looking at Newt expectantly. “Can I at least get your number? I swear I will make it up to you.”

Normally Newt would argue he didn’t need anything, for real, don’t sweat it, but the more he was looking into Thomas’ eyes, the more his common sense refused to work, and caving in was so, so easy.

“Sweet,” Thomas smiled happily when he saved the contact and then slung his arm around Newt’s shoulders, leaned close and took a quick photo of them both on his phone. “You won’t regret it.”

“I know I won’t,” Newt said, and he meant it.

***

He woke up with his head painfully pounding, like he slept too long or too short. In a moment of confusion of his whereabouts one glance across the empty but messy living room from yesterday’s festivities gave him the answer he sought – he was in hell and it smelled like pancakes.

He gingerly sat up, analysing the situation carefully, until his eyes stopped at the clock showing 12:04 and Newt refused to believe them. He couldn’t have possibly slept till noon, right? Thomas was playing a prank at him by rewinding the clock or something, there was simply no way. He usually woke up at 7, if he really had a deficit then 9 the latest and felt guilty about it. Twelve sounded like a bad joke.

Then again, his body was so sore it made sense. He had a crick in his neck, his legs felt wooden and stiff and there were creases from the couch everywhere on his naked skin. He had a soft, fluffy blanket draped around his body he didn’t remember even seeing yesterday but was grateful for anyway.

“Fuck,” he breathed out in mortification. “What am I even doing?”

“Having a zombie march, I’d say,” a voice interrupted his inner freak out mercilessly and he turned around too fast for his poor head to comprehend and world spun for a moment. “Thought you died or something, geez. Since when you sleep so long?”

Thomas was slowly walking towards him with a tray, trying to balance the cups with coffee on it, and once he successfully set it down, there was only a small puddle under one, so still a success. He brought pancakes and muffins Anna baked and Newt didn’t feel like his appetite was up to this.

“I dunno,” the blond rubbed his eyes sleepily. “I guess I wasn’t really sleeping as much these past few days…”

“Your back must hate you though,” Thomas glanced at the sofa pointedly. “Only sitting for too long on this torture device is painful.”

“Eh,” Newt shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

“Well, you look like shit, so not much worse,” Thomas didn’t spare him, smirking at Newt’s apparently dishevelled appearance and he just flipped him off.

“Have a pancake, you’ll feel better,” Thomas pushed the tray closer.

“Maybe later,” Newt untangled himself from the blanked instead. “I need a bath.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

Newt mentally slapped Thomas so hard his face landed in the pancake cushion. In reality he just scoffed and wobbled out of the living room at the sound of his ex’ snickering.

***

Nobody really commented on Newt’s faux pas of passing out on the couch until it was time for lunch, but they did comment on his food habits (or better on having none). He barely ever ate breakfast in the morning, so he didn’t eat the fluffy pancakes, or the muffins Thomas brought him, but he did drink the coffee. Before he could even properly digest that Anna was already serving lunch and he had no way how to wiggle himself out of that one.

The rest of the day passed like a blur and when the evening came Anna was chasing him to the bed the first moment he yawned.

“You’re not going to ruin your back on this monstrosity!” she was pushing him up the stairs with Thomas behind her, laughing at them. “I don’t understand how we didn’t buy a new one yet, but now we have to, or you’d wreck yourself on it!”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Newt tried to argue, but she was having none of it and finally stopped in front of Thomas’ room, which… was an obvious choice, but Newt felt his blood running cold at the sight of the familiar area.

“I prepared clean towels and everything,” she pointed at a fluffy pile on Thomas’ desk. “Good night!”

“Yeah…” the blond barely got that out and she was already leaving, calling to others downstairs to help her choose a new couch so she could immediately order it online.

“Well, at least we’ll get rid of that relic,” Thomas commented while entering the bedroom as well, all smiles like he didn’t realize there was one bed, them broken up and Newt’s absolute horror.

“We’re not sleeping in the same bed, are we,” Newt ignored him with eyes fixed at the lodging in the room and Thomas crossed his arms on his chest, his lips in a wide grin.

“What, I clearly remember you saying there is nothing embarrassing about me anymore, since you heard me fart and all.”

“Oh god, shut up,” Newt wished his words were a spell and came true, but of course they didn’t work on Thomas, since he started laughing like a hyena. Anna naturally would let them both sleep in Thomas’ room, it was an obvious choice, but he sure hated it.

Thomas’ room was the same as Newt remembered it, but it made sense, since Thomas had his own place in the city for years. His family had no reason to change it, let it be the queen-sized bed, the blue-ish walls and sleek black furniture hugging the place. It had no sofa, which was the core of the problem for one of them and Newt’s regret of saying yes returned in full force.

“It’s not like it’s a small bed,” Thomas commented matter-of-factly once he had his fill of fun and sat at the edge of the incriminated furniture, obviously taunting him.

“It’s not like I care,” Newt bit out and circled the bed in disdain. “Sleep on the floor for what I care.”

“But it’s my bed,” Thomas argued with badly concealed glee. Newt guessed it was because now he could make fun of him now, which must have made him feel good after being a target of little quips from his family for two days. “If you don’t like me in it, you go sleep on the floor.”

“I’m a guest in here,” Newt crossed his arms on his chest. “Don’t you have any manners? Not to mention you owe me for coming here and playing your lying game.”

“It has nothing to do with manners or me owing you, you’re just being a stubborn ass as always,” Thomas corrected him and clearly didn’t feel like being merciful, especially when he just flopped onto the mattress and looked at Newt expectantly. “So, let’s calm down and get some sleep. I promise I won’t attack you until you’re awake again.”

“Shut up, jerk face,” Newt barked at him and grabbed the towel Anna left there, turning to leave for the bathroom, definitely not running away. “As if I’d bloody let you.”

“Mhmmm.” Thomas’ face was grinning, and Newt wanted to set his guts on fire.

Goddamn, fuck this all.

***

Of course Thomas already laid under the covers, one arm under his head, other holding his phone and leisurely scrolling through it. The room was bathing in darkness, outside of the small lamp on the bedside table. Newt still remember that lamp from years ago, and how they almost broke it when Newt accidentally knocked it over when they were having sex… here… okay, that particular memory really didn’t need to resurface right now.

“I know right,” Thomas suddenly spoke, looking at Newt pointedly. “I was surprised that thing still works too. Got banged so badly.”

“Hmm…”

“Not the only thing that got banged though,” of course the fucker had to add, and Newt tossed his shirt he was holding at him. Only got small laugh in response and then his shirt got dropped carelessly on the floor, left crumpled there like trash. Newt wanted to kick Thomas’ ass so bad he almost reached for his whole bag to hit him with it.

“Going to stand there whole night?” Thomas was acting smugly because he had an upper hand for now, the blond knew the tactics very well. Just milking the moment until one of them snap, he sure hadn’t changed. Newt seriously considered to just leave and sleep in the car if he had to.

“Are you going to be this insufferable the whole week?” he seethed, and Thomas shrugged.

“Define insufferable. Don’t feel like I am any of that.”

“Alright, then I’ll leave tomorrow,” Newt countered him, because he was honestly too tired already and couldn’t think of anything that would make Thomas to fall from his high horse for just one second. Or just show some understanding, because the moment they got in his room he made sure to make Newt as uncomfortable as possible. “You can tell your parents whatever you want, I don’t care.”

“Are you seriously throwing a tantrum over us sleeping in one bed?” Thomas sat up while putting his phone away and he had this old Star Wars shirt Newt got him for his 20th birthday and it was like a punch in his gut.

“Yes,” Newt just said and the warmth from the bath was slowly dissipating from his body, leaving him chilled and miserable.

“We slept together for 7 years,” Thomas objected with a small frown. “It’s not like you don’t know me. Or how I sleep.”

“It’s not like it matters in this situation.”

“I told you I won’t do anything,” another argument and Newt shook his head. He wasn’t even worried he would try anything; they were way past that phase anyway. It was just… so uncomfortable. “Jesus, Newt, please be reasonable. It’s cold, you’re shivering like a wet dog over there, I have perfectly normal, warm bed and we won’t even be touching. I don’t know what kind of block you have in your head, but can you just let it go for tonight and come here before you catch a cold and blame it on me too?”

“I-,” Newt couldn’t even start when a soft knock stopped him mid speech and the door opened few seconds later with Anna between them, smiling. Probably chaperoning, he would guess if he had a coherent thought.

“Just wanted to ask if you want chicken or steak for tomorrow lunch,” she chirped and Newt could almost see the loading screen in front of his eyes, for how much he couldn’t comprehend the sudden topic change.

“Go lie down, you’ll freeze out here,” she immediately noticed him standing there barefooted and pushed him gently towards the bed. “Do you want another blanket? I know you’re always cold. Thomas brought the fluffy one downstairs yesterday, should I fetch it?”

“It’s fine, I have two in here already,” Thomas interjected immediately and before Newt could react anyhow, Thomas reached for his hand and pulled him onto the mattress. “Will warm him up if that wouldn’t be enough.”

“Just try to be quiet, will you,” Anna seized them both in disapproving stare and Newt felt sick in his stomach. “So what. Chicken or steak?”

“I vote for steaks!” Thomas immediately shot out and Newt still didn’t understand what was even important about food in this situation, so he just nodded dumbly, and then Anna was leaving with good night and disappeared behind the door again, plunging the room into silence.

He could hear Thomas’ breathing close to his own and finally understood he lost this fight without much of a battle happening.

“Can we sleep now?” he heard Thomas ask, so he just slinked under covers and turned his back towards the man, feeling vulnerable and stupid at the same time.

***

They didn’t talk about the night. They didn’t really talk at all during the day, since when Newt woke up, Thomas was already gone, and Hannah mentioned something about him and his dad leaving early in the morning for whatever reason.

Newt hated how relieved he felt.

He spent most of the day with Anna making lunch and dodging questions about him and Thomas’ breakup and reconciliation. Anna didn’t pry as much as he feared she would, but she obviously wanted to know what happened three years ago and he had no nice answer for her, so he just kept it vague.

We stopped talking to each other properly.

We felt like we needed a break.

No, there was no bad blood between us, really. Absolutely no arguments that would cut too deep, I assure you. We just needed some time. We’re back together now after all, right.

The lies twisted so painfully on his tongue he was grateful when Thomas finally got back at 4PM and Anna’s attention turned to him instead. When the day progressed, Brian (Thomas’ dad) sat them all in the living room in the evening and opened his favourite bottle of whiskey he kept for special occasions.

They lit up fire in the fireplace and Anna brought over snacks, and just sitting there and chilling felt soothing to Newt’s guiltiness eating him up from within.

“We just sealed the deal with a new partner today,” Brian said in a booming voice when he was pouring a glass to Newt who was sincerely relieved his special occasion wasn’t Thomas and him dating again. Because that sure would send him out of the room quick, he could handle only that much before snapping.

“That’s fantastic,” he gingerly accepted the glass and watched Thomas doing to same when offered, wondering if he could somehow dump his own drink into his glass without being suspicious. They sat too wide apart though, with Thomas between his parents and Newt felt the gap deeply.

“That’s right! It means more work, but it’s going to be worth it!” Brian nodded happily and poured glass to Anna as well. When Hannah came with her own, he shooed at her to get juice instead, at which she pouted. “We were dealing with them on and off for about a year, so when they agreed to be a permanent supplier, it’s gonna make a difference.”

“You should invite the CEO for dinner,” Anna added to it and Brian immediately agreed. “But for now, cheers!”

Newt smiled and raised his glass as well, but his throat already hated it in advance. Once he sipped the wood-scented drink, he forced himself to remain passive and not make a disgusted face that was forcing its way up, grateful Anna and Brian were too busy planning what food to choose for the business dinner.

“Oh my god, can you stop shouting in my ear?” Thomas suddenly stood up when his dad leaned over him to his mum for umpteenth time. “Go sit next to her! Geez. I’m not a cushion you can bulldozer over.”

Brian laughed and pushed himself towards his wife on Thomas’ spot, which left Thomas to sit next to Newt with an unceremonious plop.

“I thought maybe cream cake for dessert?” Anna was brainstorming loudly in meantime. “Right, Newt? You always liked the cake.”

“Oh yeah, loved it,” Newt quickly switched his attention to her from Thomas’ sudden warmth next to him. “Think it’s a great idea for the dessert.”

“See!” Anna beamed at Brian happily and Newt flinched when his glass got bumped suddenly and he almost dropped it before he realized it was Thomas’ own glass touching it now.

“Pour some over,” he mumbled towards the blond quietly. “Before they notice and start pestering you about quality of well-aged alcohol.”

“Thanks…” he piped gratefully and hastily splashed most of his glass’ contents away. He noticed Hannah was looking at them, but she only rolled her eyes and started arguing with the parents that beef was no better than pork for the main dish.

“She’d drink it instead if she had a chance,” Thomas whispered towards him. “Going to be a fucking alcoholic before she reaches twenty.”

“Weren’t you the same though,” Newt objected automatically, and Thomas sipped his now almost full glass with a smirk.

“Never minded the taste, yeah,” he shrugged while licking his lips. Newt would believe from his expression the drink tasted good, if he didn’t know better. “I still like beer more though. This can easily knock me out of my socks if I’m not careful.”

“Mm.”

“You slept well?”

Newt stiffed at the question, as he expected he would if Thomas was going to breach it, and then forced his body to relax again while gripping his almost empty glass firmly.

“Fine,” he only uttered.

“Are we going to have a problem again tonight then or is it fine?” he heard Thomas asking in low voice and refused to meet his eyes. The night was alright, he slept more or less okay too, but that didn’t pose a problem in the first place, and Thomas knew it. Newt couldn’t say if it was Thomas’ way of being petty or getting revenge, but it sure bothered Newt like a thorn in his side.

“Can’t possibly kick you off, when your mum likes to check up on us,” he mumbled with a quick glance towards Anna, still in heated debate over food with the rest of the family. “So let’s pretend it’s fine.”

“I’m not pretending anything,” Thomas scoffed. “I don’t mind sharing a bed. It’s not like you’re a stranger.”

“Sure.”

“Hmm,” Thomas let out and then moved again, lifting his legs and deposited them rudely on Newt’s lap while leaning against the side of his dad who barely even noticed.

“Sure then,” he was grinning when Newt shot him a glare. “Love of my life.”

“I swear I’ll murder you,” Newt gritted through his teeth and refused to acknowledge how his heart thumped when Thomas smiled at him like he just said something overly sweet.

“Looking forward to it,” the brunet responded instead while sipping their shared drink and Newt twisted his big toe in revenge. Sadly, it didn’t have much of an effect.

***

“What the fuck happened to you over those years, jesus fuck!” If anybody asked, Newt didn’t sound like a naggy wife scolding her husband, no sir. “You can’t hold your liquor for shit!”

“Whaaa-,” Thomas’ attempt to sound offended interrupted a loud burp and then fit of laughter, all that when he was plastered over Newt’s back who was unceremoniously dragging him back to his room.

“If you throw up over my back, you’re dead,” he warned the drunkard coldly and Thomas let out hehehe but didn’t deny it. Newt suspected him he could walk just fine but wanted to be as obnoxious as possible, so Newt would have to take care of him in front of his amused parents who left them to it. Newt would be much happier if Thomas’ dad would toss his son to the bed one armed, because he definitely could, and wouldn’t leave Newt to fight with the deadweight all alone, but then again maybe it was for the best.

True enough, Thomas had in total of four and half glasses full of whiskey, even though Brian laughed at him to get drunk after three shots. Naturally didn’t know every time he poured Newt a fresh batch, even though Newt tried to tell him no thanks, he secretly dumped it into Thomas’ glass who drank it, just to get refilled from Brian again as well, and that went until the bottle was empty and Thomas started giggling.

Which led them to the situation at hand – with Newt dragging his ex up the stairs and to his room – their room – while swearing like a sailor, and then just dumping him onto the bed like a sack of potatoes where Thomas landed with soft oof.

“Why’s the room sp’nning…?” he heard the muffled question shortly after, looking at Thomas’ boneless form of a dead drunk with his face half buried in covers. “Make it stooop~.”

“You feel like barfing?” he asked instead of reacting to the drunk observation and Thomas groaned, then tried to push himself up, just to fail miserably. He tried two more times until he realized he really couldn’t get up because his arms wouldn’t support him, and just had to worm his way up to the pillow by crawling. Which was almost painful to watch, honestly.

“Neeeewt.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” the blond buried his face to his hands until another whine of his name came and he walked to the bed and pushed Thomas on his back instead. That got him a sloppy grin in return in a drunk haze.

“Hi,” the drunkard slurred. “How’re ya?”

“Sucky,” Newt answered while crossing his arms on his chest.

“Oh noooo…” another whine. “Whyyy?”

“Have to take care of one smashed idiot,” Newt nudged Thomas’ side with his knee, earning another giggle. He couldn’t say he had experience with drunk Thomas – or at least with this much drunk Thomas. If he ever got inebriated enough to be considered wasted, he just passed out, usually. But today’s drunk Thomas sure had some annoying stamina and kept himself awake for too long.

“I’ll protect you from ‘im,” Thomas managed to reach out with his hand, grabbing at Newt’s sweater. “C’me to the bed.”

“I think you need a bucket first,” Newt let him pawn his sweater with a sigh.

“Mkay.” The hand on his sweater stayed, grabbing randomly, until it dropped to Newt’s thigh where it lightly squeezed, and Thomas let an appraising hum. “You got thinner.”

“It’s just your imagination,” Newt pushed the hand away and it bounced back onto the mattress. “Get changed, I’ll be right back.”

“Nooo…”

He ignored the whine and left the bedroom with a lump in his throat. Drunk Thomas could be bad for his conscience.

***

He got back half an hour later, after a bath and finding a bucket he could deposit at the edge of the bed, in hope Thomas didn’t manage to throw up in meantime. He found him sleeping sprawled over the mattress, right in the middle, still in the same clothes and smelling like a liquor store. There was no barf anywhere at least.

“Sweet,” he sighed while putting the bucket near Thomas’ possible trajectory of his head if he felt like bending over and vomiting. “Glad we had this talk about sleeping together, huh.”

He slowly crawled onto the bed, careful not to wake Thomas up (though judging by his occasional snores it wasn’t happening) and slid under the blanket as much as Thomas’ weight allowed him.

In hindsight… there was no way he could be mad at him anyway, for today. No matter how drunk the man got, he still remembered how Newt didn’t like alcohol and Newt hated how it warmed his jaded heart.

He fell asleep eventually, dreaming of grabby hands and sad smiles.

***

“Your mum is going to hear us, you ass!”

“Don’t care.”

“Tommy!”

No response, only hot lips on his neck, licking and biting and pampering it with kisses and Newt just remained pinned against the door of Thomas’ room, taking the weight of his boyfriend against his body and roaming hands grabbing at his butt and then traveling to his thigh, hiking it up to settle against Thomas’s hip. His heart was beating so loud he couldn’t hear anything else, just thump thump thump of his blood roaring, and Thomas’s sweet nothings he was murmuring to Newt’s ear in a rough voice.

“I want you so much,” Thomas whispered when unbuckling Newt’s pants, sliding his hand under them against hot, naked skin, and Newt couldn’t hold back a moan, he just needed him closer, he needed to kiss him, to touch him, to get him inside-

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” Thomas bit out, voice strained, and Newt let him to lift him up and carry him towards the bed, their lips meeting in a messy, frantic kiss. It was painful, it was rushed, but it was what Newt needed, the brutal strength of Thomas’ body pushing into him and his own breathy moans coming out when their lips parted, and he heard a dull thud at some point when he was trying to hold onto the bedpost once Thomas thrusted into him so strong it made him see stars, but he didn’t care about anything else but pleasure and pain and adoration he felt when he was with him-

Newt woke up with a start, his body hot and aroused, and he felt on fire and caged and painfully hard. He could barely catch a breath when he noticed arms slung possessively around his torso and waist pushing him insistently against warm body behind him, waking up all his senses one by one like Christmas lights.

It took him a moment, the initial confusion clearing like a fog from his mind, making him realize Thomas was cuddling him from behind, one of his hands got under Newt’s shirt and was spread across his naked belly possessively.

“Shit,” he couldn’t stop himself from cursing and attempted to disentangle, but it only made Thomas to clutch to him harder, like a defence mechanism, unwilling to let go. He tried to push away one of the arms holding him, but Thomas slung a leg over his hips in response, trapping him even more.

“Don’t leave,” a sleepy voice sliced the silence and Newt stiffened once he felt hot lips on the back of his neck, mouthing there persistently.

“Thomas-.” He tried to turn around but couldn’t move an inch and Thomas bit down slightly, sending shivers down Newt’s spine.

“Mmm…” he heard the hum, and then the tense weight relaxed once Thomas fell asleep again, and Newt didn’t dare to move anymore.

It was going to be a long night and Newt refused to acknowledge the little voice in the back of his head screaming for relief by Thomas’ hand.

#newtmas #tmr #the maze runner #Last Resort series #newmas

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justanother-unluckysoul · 3 years

Text

Working My Way Back To You 10/11

Killian gets captured. When Emma finally rescues him, he’s traumatized and nearly broken from the torture he endured. Thankfully Emma is close at hand to help him through it.

Heavy on the hurt/comfort, with some whump because I couldn't help myself lol

A/N: Some fluffy comfort for the prompts “hugs” and “kisses.” Short and (hopefully) sweet! We are almost at the end of this story, just a quick epilogue to go. I can’t believe it! Thank you, all my lovely readers, for giving my little story so much support! Epilogue will be up early next week. It’s all finished so there’s no point in making you wait a whole week for it.

Warnings for this chapter: brief and vague mention of rape (though i’m sure if you’re still reading this story you don’t mind that)

Unbetad as always so mistakes are all mine.

Tagging @cocohook38 as requested.

Read this chapter on AO3

Working My Way Back To You

Hugs + Kisses

After their wonderful time together in the forest, the complete bliss and contentment Killian felt while cuddling with Emma under the blankets lingers for some time. He makes the most of his rediscovered confidence with her at night, making love until they are both exhausted and sated (and gods he missed this; the feel of her around him, the expression on her face when he begins to thrust into her, and the way she can take him apart and put him back together so easily, leaving him worn out and absolutely satisfied). And Killian assumes – he hopes – that his mind has finally given up on tormenting him with the memories of his torture. Perhaps he’s even cured of that PTSD thing. He’s certainly less jumpy now, less prone to startling and he hasn’t had a nightmare in a while. His broken hand has healed – Stacy’s not-so-gentle methods have helped return the strength to it, so Killian is able to spend some more time on the Jolly Roger with Henry, properly preparing the ship for a much-needed day out on the water.

“A family outing?” Emma asks with a smile.

Killian’s heart soars and his stomach does a strange sort of flip at her casual use of the word family in this context. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it.

“Aye, we’ll take her out far enough that it’s just us and the sea,” he says.

Henry is practically bouncing up and down in excitement as they make their plans. It’s been too long since they’ve done this. Emma checks the weather forecast and they schedule a sailing day. Killian tries to conceal the fact that he’s just as excited about it as Henry is, but the way Emma’s smirking at him in that way makes him think he’s not doing a good job of doing so. So he gives up on hiding it at all. It doesn’t matter anyway, because they both already know how much he loves sailing his ship. There’s just something about being on the water that is both exhilarating and calming. And to be out there with Emma and Henry? Even better.

-\-

A few nights before their planned outing, Killian’s nightmares return. And it’s as bad as ever. He’s not sure what triggered it, but it’s nasty combination of what was and what could have been, and he’s vaguely aware that he’s dreaming but he can’t seem to wake up. He tries to call out to Emma so she can help him. The words stick in his throat. He can’t move. His captor has Pan’s face, which seems wrong because Killian knows this setting isn’t Neverland, but he doesn’t have time to contemplate that because Pan is grinning evilly and pushing him back against the wall, and Killian knows what will happen next.

“This isn’t real,” Killian tells himself, desperately trying to wake up. His voice trembles and breaks.

“Are you sure about that, Killian?” asks Pan, his childlike voice sickeningly sweet in Killian’s ear, too close, too much, “Does this not feel real to you?”

Killian’s breath catches in barely concealed dread, gooseflesh breaking out across his skin at Pan’s unwanted touch. And it does feel real, terribly so, and Killian wants to fight, wants to resist, wants to wake the hell up, but his limbs stubbornly ignore his commands. He squeezes his eyes closed tight instead and braces himself for what’s coming, but then Pan is Rumpelstiltskin, and Killian’s on the Jolly Roger, lashed to the mast with ropes that are squeezing the breath from his lungs. The crocodile cackles at him, holding Killian’s heart in his hand.

“No,” Killian whispers, “Please.”

“Reduced to begging so soon, Captain? I thought you were stronger than that.” His hand tightens around Killian’s heart, the agony of it blacking out everything but the crocodile’s next taunt. “But it seems you are a coward after all.”

When the pain in his chest abates Killian finds himself back in the cellar, bent over a table, trying to support himself on his elbows because his hook is gone and his hand is broken and everything hurts and his captors are laughing and he can barely keep his feet from the rough thrusts of the man behind him. Tears roll down Killian’s cheeks but that’s wrong, he didn’t cry, he wouldn’t…

Killian, wake up.

The fingers on his skin feel different suddenly, skittering light and gentle across his forehead and dragging a little heavier across his chest and now that is real. Movement returns to his frozen limbs in a rush. And then he’s falling, and the landing is hard, rattling his bones, and he’s nearly choking on his own breaths in his panic as his stomach strongly suggests it might like to purge itself. He’s shaking violently, his skin crawling, and it’s so bloody dark he can’t orient himself.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m- Damn it. Killian, are you okay?” Emma.

At least he assumes it’s Emma, and not another trick of his mind. He is awake now, right? Emma switches on the light while Killian’s swallowing against the nausea between his ragged gasps, knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around himself, rocking slowly back and forth, trying to calm down – the way his body is trembling, he doubts he has the strength to get to the bathroom in time if his gut really rebels. The sudden brightness burns his eyes but he doesn’t dare close them lest he find himself back in the dreamscape.

“Hey, it’s okay, Killian, you’re safe,” Emma says, and she slowly kneels on the bedroom floor in front of him and doesn’t touch him, “I’m right here.”

“S-swan.” He meant sorry, but her name is apparently the only word he’s capable of saying right now.

He forces himself to reach out and lay his hand on her arm, just to reassure himself that he’s actually awake. That she’s really here. That he’s not alone.

“I’m here,” she repeats, “Let me help you, Killian.”

She always moves slowly when he’s like this, waits for his permission to touch, always careful not to startle him and scared she’ll make things worse. But Killian’s teeth chatter when he tries to speak, so he clenches his jaw and nods instead. With careful, deliberate movements Emma shuffles closer and lifts her hands to his cheeks. His face is wet. It seems he had been crying in the real world too.

“That’s it. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

She wipes the tears away gently as Killian sniffles and swallows and tries to pull himself together.

“Do we need to move to the bathroom?” she asks softly, knowing him so well.

But thankfully, the rolling of his stomach has begun to settle, and he’s quite certain he will not actually vomit. Not this time. He shakes his head, shifts his legs to a more comfortable position away from his chest and runs his unsteady hand through his hair.

“M-my apologies,” he mumbles, embarrassed by his reaction, “I’m…” He swallows hard. “I didn’t…”

Gathering the correct words and ordering them out of his mouth is a challenge, and he decides to give up on it for the moment. Bloody hell, he is pathetic. It’s been a while since his nightmares were this intense. At least this time it seems he’ll be able to find calm before his panicking turns into an actual attack, his breaths already starting to slow down as Emma moves closer to hug him.

“Shhh. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I w-woke you,” Killian points out.

He’s clinging onto Emma now, curled close against her with his head on her shoulder, and even with how ashamed he feels for this blatant show of weakness, he can’t bring himself to let go. She’s rubbing his back soothingly, cradling his head against her, her embrace comforting him, pushing away the remnants of his dream.

“Yeah, you did,” she says softly, “But it’s okay, I don’t mind. I just wish I’d woken up sooner, really. I tried to wake you up, but I guess I was a bit late. That was a bad one, huh?”

There is no point in lying to her.

“Aye.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. His heart is still beating too fast, his throat dry from his gasping.

“Do you want some water?” Emma asks, as if she can hear his thoughts, “I can just… magic a glass up here. We won’t have to move.”

“That would b-be nice.”

Emma moves one hand off him to use her magic and momentarily she’s holding a glass of water, which she carefully passes to Killian. His hand trembles a little, but he’s able to bring it to his lips and quench his thirst without spilling any.

“Feeling better?”

Killian nods.

“Thank you, love. But perhaps…” He winces at the thought but presses on anyway. “Perhaps I should sleep on the couch for a while. So I don’t disturb your rest again.”

“Absolutely not,” Emma says, a bit severely, though still hushed so she doesn’t wake Henry who is sleeping in his room just down the hall, “I’m not letting you deal with these nightmares on your own.”

Killian pretends he’s not relieved about that.

“Now, let’s get back into bed, okay?”

“Okay.”

They untangle from each other and climb back into the bed, where Killian immediately pulls Emma close again to keep his anxiety at bay. The light is still on, and that helps too. He hopes Emma won’t turn it off yet.

“You okay?” she murmurs, settling with her head on his shoulder and her hand over his heart.

“I just…” Killian sighs deeply, his frustration coming to the forefront now that he’s less frightened. “I hate this. I hate that I can’t… I can’t move past it. It’s been months, Emma.”

He doesn’t know why it affected him so much – Archie said it’s likely a culmination of the burden of unresolved trauma he’s been through in the past, this most recent simply one too much for his mind to handle. And that’s also why his nightmares often included such old events along with the new. Pan and Rumpelstiltskin featured tonight, but sometimes Hades makes an appearance, mutilating him with his own hook and threatening to drop him in that accursed river.

“You are doing better though. This is the first time you’ve had a nightmare in a while. And the flashbacks aren’t happening very often anymore either, are they?”

“No, they’re not. But it’s not good enough,” Killian says bitterly, and the disgust he feels for his continued cowardice is so strong it could drown him. I’m not good enough.

He should be the one protecting Emma, comforting her, not the other way around all the bloody time. He’s so tired of it. He can feel himself retreating, if not physically then at least in his mind, the terrible weight of not good enough pulling him down, down, down…

“Hey, stop it.” Emma props herself on her elbow so she can plant the softest of kisses on the furrow between his brows, pulling him back to himself and to her. “You’re healing. It’s a process.”

His hand may be healed now, only the scars remaining that will fade even further with time, but at times like this Killian fears his mind may be beyond repair, despite the assurances from both Emma and from Archie that he’s healing. But Emma continues to pull him out of his morbid thoughts, kissing the scar on his cheek next.

“I never want you to think you aren’t good enough, Killian,” because of course she heard the true meaning behind his words, and there’s a feather-light kiss for a faint line of scarring on his shoulder, his eyes fluttering shut and his lips parting on a quiet gasp, “You’ve been through…” Emma’s lips find another old injury. “…so much. You just need some time.”

Killian thinks this would probably be arousing if it wasn’t so soothing. He can feel how much love she has for him – she’s pouring it into every touch, every word, every press of her lips. Perhaps she’s using a little of her magic to do it, or perhaps it’s simply because he’s still fragile from his nightmare, but the sensation is powerful and wonderful, his very nerves seeming to hum happily under his skin in response.

“Emma.” It’s little more than a helpless whimper. Desperate. Though for what, he can’t be certain. It’s not that he wants her to stop. “What are you doing to me?”

“Loving you,” Emma says, in a voice that means he has no choice but to lie back and take it, “Now sshh, I’m not finished.” She curls her fingers gently but firmly around his bicep, anchoring him in place.

She’s slowly kissing a path across the scars on his body between sentences, the knots and lines and hollows that map out a lifetime of surviving, too many lifetimes really. Her tender affections feel like they’re filling a void inside his soul with warmth and love and it’s almost too much to handle. All he can do is keep his eyes closed and wrap his arm around Emma’s waist as she continues.

“You take all the time you need to heal, and I’ll be with you all the way,” she takes his left arm in her gentle hand, and he knows where she’s going next, “However long this takes. However many bad days, or nights, that you have. You just need to…” Her lips brush against his sensitive inner wrist, just beside the ugly and numb scar tissue that covers the blunted end of it. “…to let me help you. I love you, Killian. Please, don’t pull away from me.”

“I won’t,” his voice breaks, and if she doesn’t stop smothering him with all this kindness soon, he’s going to start crying. Again. “I promise I won’t. Emma, I…”

She moves and takes his right hand from around her waist and softly kisses the scars on his fingers and across the back of his hand, and there’s a feeling of all the broken pieces of him being drawn together, sharp edges smoothed over by Emma’s love and it’s too much. A tear slips from under Killian’s lashes and his breath shudders, his heightened emotions too intense to be contained any longer.

“I love you,” he breathes, looking up to see Emma’s own eyes glassy with tears as well.

“I know.” She smiles down at him, raw and open and honest as her thumb brushes the tear from his face. “And I mean what I said. I’m with you, Killian.”

Her next and final kiss is granted to his lips, and she takes her time there, her palm resting against his cheek while his fingers tangle in her hair, allowing him to reciprocate before she settles down into his arms again, and Killian wants to stay in this moment forever. Comfortable and safe, basking in the wonderful feeling of being so wholly loved. How does his Swan always know what he needs?

“What have I done to deserve you, Emma?” he asks once he’s regained control of his emotions.

“What have I done to deserve you?” she counters.

He smiles, and lets the silence stretch on, his limbs feeling heavy and his thoughts turning sluggish as sleep pulls him away. It almost claims him, his eyes closed and his breathing even, when the light he could still just barely see behind closed lids suddenly goes out and he startles, eyes flying open as he pulls himself back to reality with a jolt. He’d turned over onto his side in his almost-sleep, and now Emma’s pressed against his back with her arm around his torso, squeezing a little tighter to combat his flinch. She’s switched the light off, he realizes, plunging the room back into darkness.

“Sorry, I thought you’d gone back to sleep,” she whispers, “Is it too dark?” She doesn’t wait for his response. “Hang on a second, I’ve got an idea.”

She moves her hand, a casual flick of her wrist in a way that Killian recognizes – so at ease with using magic these days – and the curtains glide open, letting the nearly full moon cast its light into the room. The tension flows out of him almost instantly, coaxed away by pleasant memories of nights aboard the Jolly Roger with the bright moon shining through the windows of his quarters.

“Better?”

“Aye, that’s perfect. Thank you.”

He can’t find the words to convey just how thankful he is for her, for everything she does for him. He hopes she knows. She probably does. She’s quite perceptive, he thinks with a smile. He closes his eyes again and sleep finds him quickly. When he dreams again, it’s of the sea, and of Emma, and of the moon shining down upon the deck of the Jolly Roger where they’re lying entwined in peaceful respite.

#comfortember 2020 #cs ff #cs fic #hurt/comfort #nightmares #killian jones #emma swan #captain swan #my fanfics

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loupetlapinn · 6 days

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𝟐:𝟓𝟔 𝐩𝐦.

t/w: free use, maybe slight dubcon, fingering. a/n: MDNI. woke up to thinking of nothing else but this today. unbetad as usual. synopsis: just cheol things. feel free to block me.

Seungcheol would be a very big fan of surprise inspections. Bending you over the nearest surface, fingers slipping under your skirt, flipping it up as he ignores your noises of protest.

“Spread,” he says after he has you drop your panties to the floor.

If you hesitate too long for his liking, he doesn't like to wait, his hand comes down against the pert of your ass harsh enough to leave a sting and faint outline of where he struck. You keen but he pays no mind to it as those pretty thighs of yours part for him— “As you're supposed to.” Or so he has said countless of times before.

Seungcheol is a man of action, that much you're aware of as his fingers plunge into your unsuspecting heat. Pulling a soft mewl from your lips, you know not to pull away. In fact, you know to arch your back, displaying your cunt for his perusal just as he trained you to all the while his fingers scissor you open.

All the while your face grows a rosie hue, hands grasping at the surface before you or pressing against your lips to quiet any small noises he manages to draw out of you. You didn’t have to see him to know just how intently he was gazing at your now glistening folds and the way his fingers glide so well between them.

“Clean up your mess,” he tells you as those same fingers push past the seam of your lips, tasting yourself on his digits as your tongue swirls obediently around him.

Just little things like that to remind you that you’ll always be his perfect little plaything. That no matter what, he’ll always be able to use you as he pleases.

“Remember that.”

#cheol #tw: free use #tw: dubcon #svt hard hours #svt hard thoughts #scoups smut #seungcheol smut #svt smut #seventeen smut #dark!svt

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therealsaintscully · 3 years

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saintscully’s WIP Wed - Some XF and some Johnlock

These are unbetad, be warned.

From an upcoming chapter of Turned (Johnlock):

“Have you watched the video in the memory stick?” Sherlock's voice comes through softly, almost a whisper.

And it’s like magic, how that voice of his controls the state of John’s heart; back and forth between steely unease and grounding comfort. He clings to the fluttering thought that maybe he’s got it all wrong. That maybe, maybe, he’s overreacting.

John sighs again, looks unseeing down at the table. How do you do that? He wants to ask the man on the other side of the call. Is there nothing I won’t forgive you for?

“I will now,” is all he says instead.

From an upcoming X-Files ficlet, Paper Thin (Post ‘Paper Hearts’):

She jogs up the few stairs to her apartment the next morning, the early sky still gray. The dark and heavy lump that settled in her stomach the previous night hadn’t disappeared like they usually do after a very long, very early run. It’s there, and it’s nameless, and she wonders if it’s guilt haunting her for not staying with him last night.

She sees the answering machine’s light blinking furiously and ignores it for an hour, then another, restlessness taking over. Stares out the window unseeing as she finally pushes the play button, her breath held during the split second of static before she hears his voice.

First few lines in another Johnlock fic, Lemonade (set sometime before John and Mary’s wedding, I think, might change):

“Sherlock?” John tries again when he gets no response, looking over his shoulder.

“Yes?” Sherlock tears his eyes away and looks at him, preoccupied and surprised.

“I asked, do you want to-” John says turning his eyes at the general direction Sherlock had been staring at. What he finds there is the contractor they’ve had around for the day, installing new wall panels. More precisely, the contractor’s arse, up in the air and ensconced in a very tight pair of denims.

“Erm…” John starts and his eyes narrow as he looks at Sherlock again, very closely, because what he thinks just happened couldn’t have really happened.

#wip wednesday

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thewhiterabbit42 · 5 years

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Undisclosed Desires

Chapter Pairing: Dean x reader, Dean x reader x Gabriel overtones

Series Pairing: Dean x reader x Gabriel

Summary: No strings attached isn’t supposed to be complicated, but when is anything simple when a Winchester and archangel are involved?

Word Count: 3350ish

Chapter Tags/Warnings: smut, friends with benefits, voyeurism, unprotected sex, oral sex (female receiving), touch of angst

Series Tags/Warnings: all of the above plus - friends with benefits to lovers, realized feelings, angst, intimacy issues, eventual threesome, polyfic

A/N: Takes place between Unfinished Business and Beat the Devil. Written for @spnkinkbingo

Kink Bingo Square: Voyeurism

Special thanks to @revwinchester for taking an initial look at this. A good part of this ended up being unbetad, and all mistakes are mine.

“Dean.” His name spills from your lips in a pleasant moan as his mouth hungrily descends along your neck. Your eyes slide shut and you sink beneath the sensations he’s creating, all of which are heightened by the recent hunt you’re still coming down from.

This is usually how it happens; impulsively, riding the wave of an emotion, whether it’s drenched in an adrenaline high or laden with the respective weight each of you carry.

Tonight it’s mostly the former with a splash of good old-fashioned shamelessness.

You all have a routine. Head straight from the garage to the laundry room, soak your clothes, and grab a fresh change there or continue down to the showers. With Sam and Cas gone, there’d been no need for modesty, and you didn’t say a word when Dean simply followed you in instead of giving you the usual ten minute head start.

You’ve barely stripped, and the moment you turn to throw them in the washer he’s on you, hands as hungry as his lips.

“Been thinking about this--” he grabs himself a generous handful of your backside and squeezes, “--that whole time you were walking in front of me.”

You hope he’s talking about the walk in considering he was supposed to be keeping his eyes peeled for that werewolf earlier. It does help nurture the little kernel of pride you’ve tucked away, knowing that someone like him is even distracted by someone like you.

“Get out of those filthy jeans, Winchester, and maybe we’ll talk.”

“Oh, I’ve got something filthy for you.”

He goes back to nibbling along your pulse, and something tingles across your senses. Something other than what Dean’s doing to you. It’s interrupted by a jarring clang as one of his boots goes flying in haste, colliding with the nearby storage shelves The other clatters against the wall before his pants fall solidly to the floor, aided by the heaviness of his belt.

His arm snakes around your waist, drawing you back against him where he nestles his growing erection against your ass.

“In the washer,” you clarify because, at this rate, the laundry’s going to be the last thing on either of your minds.

“Mmmmm,” his mouth breaks free to graze along your ear. “I love it when you get bossy.”

You turn your head to shoot him a withering look, but it’s all playfulness and want, the heat of your desire burning bright within your gaze as your lips twitch.

He bends down and the doorway appears in his absence. For a moment you think you see something, the shadow of a figure slipping back into the hall, and that previous sensation blossoms across your awareness anew. You spin around to get a better look, only to come face to face with Dean’s broad chest as he tosses his pants into the machine.

Without a word, he pushes you up against the washer, the cold metal sending chills across your skin. His lips capture yours, stealing your breath as he kisses you like you’re the only thing in this world he could possibly want. It’s heady, thoroughly distracting, blotting out your previous misgivings as his tongue pushes insistently into your mouth.

He fumbles for something above you, and the spell is shattered as he nearly drops a box of laundry soap on you head.

“Fuck,” he mutters, leaning into you to grab it.

It’s still there, that feeling of being watched, but when you glance over his shoulder there’s nothing there.

“Gotcha!” His hand emerges victorious, the item in question held up to the heavens as if gloating to Chuck himself. He looks down at you, a ridiculously debonair smile stretching across his face, and somehow he makes adding laundry soap look sexy as he tips the box and smolders away at you.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, instead grabbing the container and tossing it haphazardly aside, a burst of white powder sprinkling along the surface of the dryer where it lands. He slams the lid to the machine down, hands at your waist as he eagerly hoists you on top of it.

You manage to get out half a reminder to use the hot water before he’s on you again, stealing tastes from your tongue and thoroughly ignoring the task to run his hands along your thighs. He takes several moments to explore every inch of exposed skin he can reach, fingers digging into your flesh, needy and voracious.

He eventually reaches behind you, not even paying attention to what buttons he’s hitting as he plants his face in your chest. He’s just twisting knobs and pushing things, too busy worshipping the soft swells spilling out of your bra.

By the time he finally gets the damn thing started, he’s started teasing your nipples through the fabric, and you’re wishing you’d just thrown everything in so you could skip right to the good part.

He eventually moves on, as much to your relief as your dismay, burning a painfully slow trail down the length of your stomach. He likes to make you squirm, to bring you to the brink of begging before giving you what you need. He avoids anything covered by your panties, warming you up by focusing solely on the inside of your leg

As if you aren’t already dripping wet for him.

“You know, some people say sex on a washing machine can be life changing… if you time it right.” He pauses a moment, peering up at you beneath those long lashes.

You breath catches in your throat. He has no business looking that good between your thighs, and the bastard knows it. Smugness tugs at his lips, a devious glint brightening his gaze before he pulls the edge of your underwear down, just an inch, and begins lavishing the skin beneath it.

You lean back, trying to find a comfortable position as your fingers slide into his hair. The extra presence resurfaces, overlaying the desire blanketing your mind.

“Dean.” Your eyes flash up to the doorway, sweeping wide around the room to each empty corner. You remain tense, knowing all too well that just because you can’t see anything, doesn’t mean there’s nothing there.

“Dean wait.” You grab onto him, forcing him to stop. You’re about to tell him someone’s there, when you feel it; the way the hair along his arms is standing on end, goosebumps prickling along his skin.

Your eyes widen. You don’t have to say a thing, and by the knowing look Dean sends your way, you both know who it is.

The first time was an accident.

You almost hadn’t made it into the bunker. The moment Dean had shut off Baby, he went straight to turning you on. Not that that had taken much on his part.

In your defense, you’d intended to make it to an actual bed, but the kitchen table was as far as he’d had been willing to go. You’d challenged him on it, but then he’d put that expert tongue of his to better use and any arguments quickly faded.

That’s how Gabriel had found you, with your legs locked around Dean’s head and coming harder than you had in weeks, thanks to the thrill of being so exposed, and then caught.

The second time, however, and the third (fourth, fifth, and what you suspected might have been at least half a dozen other times) had been a little more deliberate on the archangel’s part.

Dean’s smart, and his instincts are sharp. If he’s noticing it tonight, there’s a good chance he has all the other times as well.

He pauses, drawing back just enough to look you in the eye. “Does it bother you?”

You know what your answer should be. Embarrassment. Shame. Some small smidgeon of modesty. But the extra rush of heat you get has nothing to do with any of those sentiments.

If you really want privacy, you know where to find it. As much as Gabriel likes to watch, he has yet to show up anywhere considered off limits; bedrooms, motels, when Dean drives you both to the middle of nowhere so he can jump your bones in peace.

However, acknowledging that to yourself and saying it aloud to… whatever Dean is, are two different things.

Your silence speaks for itself, and he shrugs, the message so clear you can hear his voice in your mind: then let ‘im.

You gasp, elastic snapping against your skin as he rips your underwear from your body. It goes sailing over his shoulder, and as he drags you toward the edge of the machine there isn’t much else to say, other than oh god and right there and the occasional expletive as his tongue dives straight for your clit.

He's just as worked up as you are if he's not bothering to leave his mark on your thighs, one if his favorite places to claim. He waits for the sign, the one that tells him he's found the technique you need at that moment.

Right now, it doesn't matter how he does it. Everything feels good, to the point you almost wonder if he’s got what you like down to a science.

“Fuck,” your breathy moan spills across the silence. You’re so close, suddenly hovering at the edge in wait of freefall. The third to your party re-emerges from the background, subtly flowing into what little space in your awareness isn’t occupied by Dean.

Your hips rock forward as if drawn to the archangel, only it’s Dean’s face you push up against. He moans, loving your enthusiasm, letting it feed his own until he’s eating you like he’s on the verge of starvation and only your nectar can sustain him. Between both their attention, the hot band of desire finally snaps, and you bite down on your lip, muffling your cry.

Dean adjusts his pace to the one he knows let's you ride out your orgasm the longest. It ends in tingling fingers gripping his hair tight and wobbling legs as you begin to move into the realm of being oversensitive.

He leans back, wiping your juices from his face as he stands. His eyes glitter with satisfaction, lips deliciously rosy as they pull into a grin.

“No need to be quiet,” he teases. “S’no one here but us, sweetheart.” He pauses, clearly rethinking that statement, and even swimming in endorphins your brain knows enough to stop him there.

You grab behind his head, drawing his mouth to yours. You can taste yourself on him, and you eagerly slip your hands into his boxers, relishing the way he thrusts into you the moment you take hold of him. You begin to pump him, thumb brushing over his tip and a spot just below you know drives him wild.

“God, I need to be inside you,” he growls, hooking his fingers beneath his underwear and letting them pool at his feet. He doesn't bother stepping out of them, and there's a heady something entering the air as he lines himself up with you.

For a moment you forget how to breathe, watching the look of pure ecstasy on Dean's face as he eases inside you, sensing that otherworldly energy ratchet even higher with every inch of Dean's cock that disappears, feeling the burning stretch and fullness as he sheaths himself within you.

You hook your legs up around him, feet digging into his ass, urging him to move. He starts with slow, even strokes, giving you time to adjust to him, waiting for your impatience to bleed through before he pounds away at you in earnest.

He's long, and even from this angle he's hitting deep enough to make you whine with every thrust. He reaches up to cup a breast, thumb teasing over a pebbled peak. He pauses, dipping down to catch the other briefly in his mouth before slamming back into you.

It never occurs to either of you that you’ve had a little extra help getting out of your bra.

Dean draws things out, changing the pace and then the position when he puts your foot up on his shoulder.

“How are you this flexible?” He marvels.

You’re not. The back of your thigh already burns and you can tell you’re going to regret this tomorrow, but there’s nothing you’re lamenting about the angle this gives him or the jolt of sensation you get when he bottoms out with every thrust.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he continues. “I could stay in you for hours…”

You close your eyes, focusing more on the way he makes you feel than the sweet nothings that continue to tumble from his mouth. Normally, his compliments are like gasoline, igniting your flames in unstable ways, but tonight they’re a distraction as you try to quiet your mind of death and killing and the sheer emptiness that follows when you think about how you’re all just living on borrowed time.

Only you can’t. Not enough to fully enjoy what he’s doing to you, and you stall halfway back up that peak.

Your fingers rake through his hair, and for the second time you find yourself smothering his lips to shut him up. You suck in his bottom one, and all gentleness melts away between your teeth as you bite down. There’s always a residual primal edge that follows you after a hunt, one that Dean has no problem rolling with, perhaps even shares himself.

He grunts, taking the hint, breaking your kiss to nip his way down the side of your neck. When he hits skin that’s certain to hide beneath your clothing, he switches, sucking hard. The ensuing stings refocus you as he throws teeth into the mix, marking the length of your shoulder, and this time when your eyes slide shut there is nothing but his body and yours…

...and the silent partner who’s not so silent this evening. It feels like Gabriel’s practically on top of you, and an additional thrill races through you at the thought of him ever being.

Dean’s got a sixth sense for these things, and his hand possessively grabs one of your breasts, taking your nipple between his fingers and pinching rougher than he usually would. It brings him back to the forefront of your mind, and it’s exactly what you need to get you past that plateau.

As your climax rushes through you, you feel the wires in your brain crossing, a surge of gibberish pouring out of your mouth. At least it sounds like utter nonsense, but later, when your wits return, you’ll recognize every partial word and syllable that sneaks out.

You clench around Dean, pulling a deep rumble from his chest as he fucks you through your orgasm, and the way his pace turns frantic you’ve brought him that much closer to his. It doesn’t take him much longer before his hips are stuttering, a booming expletive filling the room as he fills you with his seed.

He stands there a moment, allowing you both a moment to catch your breath, and you become aware of just how sweltering it is in there, which is odd considering the entire place tends to run cold.

Thankfully, Dean pulls out, giving you some space before the silence becomes as stifling as the room. No matter how many times you guys do this, you’re never sure what to say afterwards.

Acting like it’s business as usual tends to put you both at ease.

He walks over to the shelf, tossing a clean hand towel at you before grabbing one for himself.

“Good?” He asks, giving himself a quick wipe down before glancing up at you. There’s an unusual reticence to him and his question, and it’s as endearing as it is mind blowing that he doesn’t just assume he’s rocked your world, given his talents.

“Really good,” you assure him. It’s a lie. It was fucking fantastic. It always is, though not as life altering tonight as he’d alluded to. Not that you’re complaining.

The washing machine gives a slight shudder, the entire thing rocking unsteadily as it begins to spin out the water. For some reason it draws his attention, and his lips unexpectedly purse.

You hop down off of it, making sure not to leave behind any evidence of your activities before regarding him. “What?”

“I was - it wasn’t --”

You resist the urge to tell him to spit it out because whatever it is has him frowning which is unheard of after sex.

“I was supposed to make it to the spin cycle,” he finally says.

He was supposed to what now?

He gestures to the machine as if it’s somehow at fault.

“Oh.” Is that how it worked? You’re admittedly not the sexpert in this equation, so you simply shrug. “Guess you’ll just have to show me some other time.”

“Yeah?” His face brightens so fast it’s like he’s forgotten the whole friends with benefits thing you have going on. Maybe there is such a thing as fucking one’s brains out?

Though if that were true, Dean would have been a vegetable long before you got your hands on him.

“I mean…” He tamps down on the response, looking far more casual. “Yeah. Some other time.”

Your brow creeps up at his strange behavior, and you’re beginning to rethink whether or not he hit his head when the werewolf tackled him down that embankment.

“Now that you mention it, it is pretty shameful, fucking me for only a solid half hour.” You can’t help the sarcasm from splashing through your words. As good natured as it is, it isn’t until he whips his towel at you that you realize how much this actually bothers him. It hits you square in the chest, and you reflexively reach up to grab it before it clicks where it’s just been.

You both freeze, and you might feign being grossed out, except you both know you’ve been hit with far more than a few drops of his cum before. Besides, the look on his face when he realizes what he’s done is well worth it.

Something shifts in the atmosphere, the sweltering warmth dissipating. For a moment everything feels lighter, invigorating, brighter in ways you can’t explain, other than it has nothing to do with what you can see with your eyes. Whatever happens is fleeting, and as it fades, a chill descends, the dampness of the bunker returning in full force.

Your own awkward moment passes as all tension seems to vanish with the archangel.

“He’s such a weirdo,” Dean mutters, goosebumps breaking out along his skin. He grabs a towel, wrapping it around his waist before he scoops up an extra set of clothes.

“You’re welcome to join me.” He thumbs in the direction of the men’s showers, though he doesn’t really give you time to answer before he walks out the door.

The offer is tempting, and it would be slightly confusing if you didn’t immediately feel Gabriel’s absence. Everything feels more spacious, deserted now that you’re alone, and the contrast is so stark it makes you want to follow him.

You don’t. Last you checked, that didn’t fall under the category of no strings attached, and you’re assuming Dean’s only offering because he notices the difference too.

Besides, now that they’ve cleared out the master suite for you, there’s no reason for you to use the showers when you have your own bathtub.

You snag yourself a few towels, wrapping both around yourself so only your calves and head aren’t covered. It helps shield you from the chill, but it doesn’t prevent a different kind from worming its way into your mind.

You wonder about Gabriel. How he’s doing, really doing, beneath the guarded fortress he erects when he’s visible. Where he goes when he’s not there. But mostly you wonder if it’s as lonely as these walls are for you when neither of them are around.

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wigglebox · 5 years

Text

Frozen

Anonymous requested #1 and #41 from the smut prompt list (send me some!)

“Don’t make me take you home and punish you.” “You make a sound and its game over.”

They were in a church, of all places.

The Lutheran church in Downs, Kansas had a nest of particularly nasty but stupid vampires. The group had just moved into town, and took up residence under the floorboards in spaces once used in the Underground Railroad. They were a new and sloppy, sending out the obvious clues that something was wrong with the sleepy little town.

Dean and Cas traveled down. It was only a thirty minute drive down 181. They wound up going alone since Sam and Eileen extended their Montana ‘fishing’ trip by a week.

It was easy to sneak in and take them out while they were sleeping in the mid-afternoon Kansas heat. Dean and Cas wanted one last sweep of the place before they waited for dark to burn off the bodies.

Cas was checking the back room where the pastors prepared for mass while Dean went up and down the pews, checking for any more hollow spaces. He was bored. Bored and hot.

Dean kicked a piece of paper that fell from a dilapidated hymnal tucked behind one of the seats. He was more annoyed that Sam and Eileen got to go off to some remote cabin for two weeks while he and Cas had to keep working. It had been case after case recently, and Dean was getting tired of it. They all decided to keep doing hunts, but he still wanted a break every now and then.

Cas reemerged from the backroom, looking up at the walls next to crucified Jesus, knocking on the wood to make sure there was no hideout.

Dean sat down in a back pew, confident they covered every inch of this place. He watched in silence as Cas finish investigating the atrium up front. They were barely into suppertime. They had nearly four hours to kill before they could finish the job.

Sensing he was being watched, Cas turned and faced the nave, staring intently at Dean from across the space. Dean shifted in his seat, uncomfortable under his gaze.

He wouldn’t dare. Not in a church.

Would he? Why would he, or you care?

True, but Dean was still sitting on top of seven dead vampires. That was pretty twisted.

But still, Cas kept is gaze at Dean, now leaning against the altar. Dean had to look away, feeling himself grow hot under the collar.

“You feeling okay?” Cas’s voice drifted over to him. Dean closed his eyes, trying to not rise to the bait.

One thing Dean didn’t expect but should have seen coming was just how much control Cas had over him during times like these. Angel or not, it didn’t matter. If anything, being human made it worse. There were no cosmic forces justifying his intimidation. They were on the same level now.

Sometimes, Dean had a hard time giving up that power.

He forced himself to keep looking out the window, trying to ignore Cas.

They were in a goddamn church.

Footsteps echoed in the empty space, going from carpet to hardwood, creeping closer. Dean could still feel Cas’s eyes on him, drilling holes in the back of his head.

The wooden pew creaked with a new visitor, and Dean felt the man slide closer, inch by inch.. It was so dramatic, Dean had to smile.

“What’s so funny?” The question so close it sounded like it was in his own head. He still wouldn’t look.

“At this point? Everything.”

What were they supposed to do with their free time? It’s not like they brought a gameboy. There was no motel. They could make a run back to the bunker, fuck a couple screws loose, then come back, but Dean knew well enough that they’d be too exhausted to even think about getting back in the car.

Dean felt a heavy hand on his upper thigh, finger tips digging into the denim just below where they should have been.

“This is a church,” he muttered, still looking out the window.

“And your name is Dean, what does that matter?”

Dean finally turned around to see Cas’s grinning, challenging face. Dean sighed, trying to regain some seriousness.

“It’s sacreligious. Aren’t you afraid of going to hell?” Dean asked, batting his eyelashes.

They both paused before erupted into laughter, the noise echoing into the fathers.

“There are dead things under us, you do understand that right?” Dean eventually ask, bringing himself back under control. He stomped the floorboard for good measure.

Cas glanced down at the floor and then back up at Dean, still smirking in a way that signaled to Dean that he was no longer in control of whatever happened next.

“It’s not like they can hear us.”

Heat started to trickle over Dean as Cas cupped the back of his head with his free hand and pulled him forward into a scorching kiss.

Cas’s other hand on Dean’s thigh started to move higher and higher, but still staying away from its intended destination. Dean shifted his hips, trying to chase the pressure. Cas evaded.

Dean, wanting to play as well, ripped his mouth away and moved his head back.

“Wait. Stop.”

Cas moved away as well, a look of concern falling over his face.

“Was that too much? Do you want to just go wait outside?” Cas sounded so sincere and so attentive Dean almost forgot where he wanted to go with this. It was amazing the switch that could happen with Cas. Most times, he stayed quiet when around other people but could flip in an instant and have Dean literally on his knees with two words as soon as the door closed behind them.

Dean always trusted Cas in situations like this, and wanted him to realize it was all part of the game.

“We should pray first,” Dean stated, a serious as he could.

In a flash, Cas’s face went from caring and concern to hot, dark - completely wanton. He caught on in an instant. It was a look that always shook Dean to his core, instantly flushing his body with hot fire and ready to let Cas do whatever he wanted to him.

Instinctively, Dean moved back along the pew until it met the wall next to the window. He dropped one of his legs to the floor and moved the other knee up, inviting and enticing. He still had jeans on and the stretch of the fabric pulled tight over his groin, pressing down on the hardness there. It hurt, but in the best ways.

Caswatched Dean take up his position, taking it all in with a straight face.

“Don’t make me take you home and punish you.”

Dean’s eyes widened. That was a new word added to their repertoire.

Punish.

His heart rate picked up as images flashed through his mind of what possible ‘punishment’ Cas was thinking of. Every single thing that came to mind would definitely make Jesus up there in the atrium blush.

Dean wanted to investigate Cas’s claim, but he also didn’t think he could stand any more teasing. Besides, deep down he knew Cas wouldn’t tell him. He’d want to keep that a surprise.

Cas watched the range of emotions cascade over Dean’s face with a grin. The words had the desired effect. Dean felt himself starting to sweat through his shirt and suddenly felt constricted in every piece of fabric encasing his skin.

Without a word, Cas took the calf of Dean’s propped up leg and gently tugged, indicating he wanted Dean on his back.

The pew slanted slightly to where it met with the vertical back and Dean found himself shimmying all the way down so his head rested on the wood, his body leaning inwards. It wasn’t that comfortable, and Cas noticed. He took off the light jacket he had been wearing and tossed it over, letting Dean use it as a small pillow.

Quick handiwork by Cas had Dean’s belt off in a flash and his fly wide open. Dean almost sighed with relief as the zipper and button no longer dug into his cock, now hard as a god damn rock. Cas tugged at the belt loops, and Dean lifted his hips obediently, but still tempted to stir the pot just a little more.

“You could use your words you know,” he suggested, shrugging his shoulders against the hard surface, looking up at the ceiling. He didn’t want to see Cas’s reaction. He knew he was pushing it. Whatever happened when they got back to the bunker was going to be amazing.

Cas pulled at Dean’s pants a little more aggressively, sliding them down as far as he could with Dean’s position.

As Cas thumbed the elastic of Dean’s boxer-briefs, a heavy door somewhere by the atrium opened.

Before Dean could blink, or even think about moving, Cas had slid down to the floor wooden floor without a sound. He may not have any Angel grace left in him but he still had those reflexes. Good thing too because Dean almost sat bolt upright at the noise had it not been for the hand pressed into his chest.

Dean stayed laying on the pew, staring up at the rafters as he heard muted footsteps over the carpet by the altar. A man started to whistle, and what Dean figured was a book hit the lectern, pages rustling.

The pastor came back.

He wasn’t supposed to be back until morning. The congregation didn’t have a Wednesday mass. For some reason, the damn man decided that now was a great time to catch up on bible study.

Dean held his breath.

The altar wasn’t raised high, and they were far back in the church, hidden by the high backs of the pews. They were safe for now, but what if Pastor McJesus decided to wander? Check the seats to make sure everyone had their hymnals --

Dean’s thoughts came to a screeching halt when he felt a wet, tight heat slide down his cock. Whatever breath he held he exhaled as quietly as he could in his state of shock.

He didn’t want to risk moving his head in case the pastor had eyes like a hawk. Dean’s breath began again, but shallower.

The heat was gone as soon as it came, making Dean almost cry out. Before he could, a hand slid over his mouth, and Cas moved right next to his ear.

“You make a sound, and it’s game over,” he whispered, masked in a quiet exhale. Dean nodded, still not able to turn his head. He wanted to so bad but he just couldn’t.

Public sex wasn’t new to Dean. Bars, parks, even a warehouse at some point -- he was experienced and bold enough to try it with a lot of people, including the man right next to him. But this really did feel more sacrilege, not that any of them cared about churches. They knew too much to hold any value to the things. However, the man at the altar of a small church in a small town in the middle of Kansas might have something to say if he caught the two of them. People had deep convictions, tempers, and guns here.

And besides, Dean and Cas still had work to do at the church.

The hot, wet suction dove down again, all the way. A white hot lightning bolt ripped through Dean again and he couldn’t help but move his arm up to his mouth and bite down.

Blowjobs weren’t out of the ordinary but the situation added the excitement. The fear was the x factor, and damn if Cas didn’t know that.

Dean didn’t need much at this point, but Cas seemed to want to go the extra mile. When he ascended, he created as much pressure as he could. Once at the top, his tongue did a wonder all on it’s own for a few moments before going back down so far, that Dean could feel the back of Cas’s throat.

He wanted to scream.

All Dean could do was squeeze his eyes shut until little stars exploded behind them and leave his arm in his mouth.

It didn’t help that Cas’s hands began to wander. He dragged his fingers lightly over the sensitive crease that joined leg to hip, making Dean’s leg twitch, wanting to squirm. Another hand found its way up Dean’s shirt, sliding up and up until fingertips danced across his chest. When one circled an already taught nipple, Dean almost bucked his hips straight up into Cas’s face. He was too sensitive.

Up, swirl, down -- up, swirl, down --

At one point, Cas stayed at the top for so long, Dean was scared he’d be left with blue balls as a sick joke. But, the tease ended and Cas sank back down. Dean craved movement. He wanted to move his hips, grip Cas’s hair -- something.

But he stayed frozen. All he could do was lay there, and feel.

The pastor was still whistling, a sound that every so often made it past the blood rushing in Dean’s ears. It was surreal.

Dean could only imagine the look Cas was giving him the entire time, eyes watching every expression closely, analyzing Dean’s reaction to everything.

It took almost no time for Dean to reach the edge.

His arm’s moved automatically before he could stop them, one hand gripping the top of the pew, and the other hanging onto the edge of the seat as tight as he could.

Cas withdrew to the tip-top again, holding his lips there. Dean moved his head now, Pastor be damned. The sight before him was one he wished he could have burned into his mind until the day he died.

Even without Dean’s help, Cas looked disheveled. His hair wasn’t wild but his face was red, lips swollen and cheeks hollowed. But it was his eyes that made Dean completely tumble over. They were so dark, so intense -- almost threatening.

Dominating.

He couldn’t hold on anymore.

Dean, by some miracle, managed to stay quiet, whines and cries coming out in short bursts of breath. But, he couldn’t help but move. He bucked his hips up as he felt like his entire lower half was melting into the wood he laid out on. The lack of oxygen triggered black spots in his vision as he felt Cas swallow around him. It was way too much.

His hips automatically moved in every which way as he came down, needing to spend his energy in some way. Dean draped the arm gripping onto the back of the pew over his eyes, drawing in deep, long breaths of air as the tried to regain control of himself. He was dimly aware of Cas’s lips wandering all over whatever exposed skin was available. Everything felt raw, even though he was mostly still clothed.

A sudden panic rose in Dean when he remembered the whole damn reason why he had to stay quiet and still.

But --

The whistling was gone, and the church stood quiet again. Dean expected to sit fully up and see the pastor just staring at them in abject horror. But when Dean summoned the strength to lift himself up on one elbow, he didn’t see the Pastor anywhere. The atrium only contained Jesus up on his cross and the book still at the lectern. The Pastor was gone.

Dean looked back down at Cas who wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, also trying to catch his breath.

“Where did he go?” Dean asked, his voice a harsh whisper from all the cries that died in his throat.

Cas shrugged, lifting himself up on his knees and looking around.

“Maybe to the back. We should get out of here while we can.”

Dean scoffed as he drew his pants up, wincing when he closed the zipper, “Do you think I can possibly stand right now?”

Cas shrugged again and knocked on the wood floor, “You’re going to have to eventually. We still have vampires to burn.”re.

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